Her first instinct upon waking was to move her aching leg and she winced against her growing awareness of the pain just underneath her knee and the odd sensation of sheets that seemed to lie inside of the limb. Clara opened her eyes, looking to the ceiling as she grimaced and shifted the leg again, nodding slowly as the beeping beside her quickened and she felt a hand settle on her shoulder, knew immediately who it was and she smiled before turning to meet his concerned gaze. One that shifted quickly into an appreciative stare as his fingers massaged at her.
"Good morning, Clara," the Doctor whispered. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm sorry," she immediately responded, frowning and adding, "I'm sorry, I should have talked to you before and I didn't realize. Didn't even think," her hand came up to touch her head before falling away as she closed her eyes and moved again, hissing and admitting, "I feel strange," and then her eyes teared up, "And it really hurts."
Her left leg lifted and she slapped her foot to the bed, which sent a jolt to the other leg and the Doctor watched her grip at the sheets, teeth gritting as he explained, "Clara, it's going to hurt for a few days, it's a massive trauma to your body, your mind. I know how impossible it sounds, but you have to try and relax."
Shaking her head, she looked up at him again and Clara wanted to ask for her mum before remembering her mum wasn't around. She'd died. Clara pushed herself up and collapsed back onto the pillow, her right arm now on fire from all of her unconscious movements and she could feel the warmth of tears rolling over her temples, soaking into the gauze still wrapped around her head.
The Doctor moved to the other side of the bed and he clasped onto her left hand, telling her calmly, "Squeeze my hand, Clara," and she understood – he wanted to share her pain, but also remind her he was still with her though it and her cool fingers held tightly to him as she let out her sobs against the agony she was feeling.
A nurse entered, looking concerned, and she checked on Clara's medications and immediately began administering more pain meds with a sympathetic glance at her closed eyes and her hand, ghostly white and gripping the Doctor's reddened palm. "I know, sweetheart," the woman uttered as Clara moaned. "Just give it a moment, it'll ease up."
The woman waited, typing at a screen beside Clara, as she slowly stopped crying aloud and was reduced to whimpers. Her head turned towards the Doctor on her left just as the door across the room at her right opened again and Dave entered; face immediately going pale at the sight of his daughter's knotted brow and ragged breaths. The Doctor shifted forward, touching his forehead to hers and he nodded slowly against her.
"It's going to be alright Clara, I'm right here."
Dave watched her nod into him, the smallest hint of a smile lifting the corners of her lips and he stepped forward, nodding to the nurse who looked to Clara one last time and then exited the room with a simple, "I'll be back to check on you in a little while, Clara."
"Doctor," Clara uttered quietly, "My leg really hurts."
"I know, darling, I know," he sniffled hard and explained, "You have to heal and healing sometimes, well, sometimes it seems worse than the injury." They shared a quiet chuckle as Dave settled his jacket lightly on the back of a chair, continuing to watch them from across the room. He'd rarely had the chance to and it comforted him to see how easily she relied on the Doctor, even without her memory of him, and how readily he calmed her. "A few days, Clara, just a few days and it'll be alright, I promise." She nodded and moped and he laughed, "Hey, hey, you know what happened once? You, you and I, we were having one of our grand adventures and you managed to dislocate your thumb. You screamed so loud I'm fairly sure you stopped my hearts a moment," they laughed quietly together before he continued, "And I had to jam it back into place and at first, you told me not to. Said you wanted a professional to set it, but I assured you everything would be alright – Doctor and all – and then I pulled it back and you punched me. Square in the shoulder, bruised me for days, but you know what?"
He stopped, waiting until her dark eyes came open and she mouthed a quiet, "What?"
With a smile, he tilted his head, "You complained about it for a while, said I'd done something wrong because it was sore and then it was fine. It healed," he finished with a rise of his eyebrows as he watched her smile and then wince.
"Clara, sweetheart," Dave called and he held his breath a moment, watching how they stared into each other before she finally turned, as though his voice had finally reached her. "How are you?"
She gave him a tight lipped smile, one he could see was filled with the remnants of pain – pain they'd explained post-surgery would slowly fade over time – and she sighed, "I'll be better."
"Quite right you will," he laughed through his tears.
"Seems it's your shift," the Doctor told him, standing straight while keeping his hand firmly in Clara's. "I've got some cleaning up at home to attend to," he said softly, shifting his gaze to Clara as she looked up at him and he smiled, "You'd kill me if you came home and it weren't in tip-top shape."
"I can go home?" Clara asked hesitantly, looking from the Doctor to her father.
Dave took a step forward and he frowned, "Not just yet, Clara. You'll need to be here another week or two."
"Two weeks," she gasped, "I did this so I could go home sooner," she argued.
Dave shook his head, "You did this because it had to be done."
Her eyes closed and the Doctor knew it was more out of pain than frustration and he looked to Dave as he explained, "Clara, you've had part of a limb removed, they couldn't – in good conscience – send you home to take care of yourself."
"Yeah," she snapped, "And there's more therapy, and then I have to learn how to work a prosthetic. I know," she growled, before adding silently, "I know." And then her eyes came open as she looked from one man to the other and repeated apologetically, "I'm sorry, I know. I get it, I do."
Bringing her hand up, the Doctor kissed it gently and promised, "I'll be back in a few hours."
She managed a small laugh as she refused to release him to ask, "Don't you ever sleep?"
He shook his head, "Not while I have you to look over."
"Oh, go on," Dave groaned, feigning disgust and waiting as the two lowered their heads slightly to smile at his comment before simultaneously raising their eyes to one another again.
For a moment the Doctor bent towards her to kiss her lips, but he stopped himself short, placing his free hand at her head instead, thumb rubbing the bit of forehead exposed before dropping his lips to that space and lifting up to look down at her reddened cheeks to whisper, "Right back," and he watched her nod before he turned and left.
Clara brought her fingers together atop her stomach and she listened to the door close, looking up when her father approached and she questioned lightly, "Don't suppose I could ask you to go get me a burger, maybe some chips? Diet Coke?" Her eyebrows rose slightly and then they dropped as she grimaced in discomfort and glanced down beyond the mass of fingers crumpled into one another at her midsection. "What's it look like, dad?"
He peered down where the shape of her leg against the sheets abruptly ended and he swallowed his anger and told her honestly, "Well, sweetpea, it looks like you're missin' half a leg."
Laughing mutedly, she nodded and pushed her lips together to admit, "Feels like it's still there."
Dave pulled the chair next to her bed closer and he sat, taking a long breath and looking up into her waiting eyes. He smiled, shakily and shortly, and told her, "I'm gonna lift the bed up, so you can get a look."
She nodded quickly and he pressed a button at the side of the bed, listening to the hum as it slowly rose and Clara closed her eyes a moment. He could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, could hear the steady beeping of her heart and when he finally released the button so she sat upright just enough, he waited, reaching out to gently take her injured hand, mindful of the tubes trailing from it. Clara opened her eyes and glanced down and gave herself a small nod.
She could feel herself trembling as she uttered, "It's just gone."
"We could talk…" he began.
"No," she interrupted, "No, I just need to absorb it a moment."
Her face seemed to contort in confusion and then in pain and he understood – she was trying to move her leg, to move the part that was no longer there – and he frowned, turning away because he couldn't look at the disappointment in her eyes. She let out a small shout as her right thigh lifted and dropped back down awkwardly, slightly bent and pressing into the bed painfully, and she gripped his hand tightly, sending another jolt up through the arm.
"Dad, dad!" She managed and he stood quickly, moving to throw back the sheets to straighten her leg down against the bedding before he stared down at the bandaged stump and then looked up at her, gaping down at it, head slowly moving up and down in a sort of acceptance. "Cover it," she ordered lightly before shouting at his immobility, "Cover it!"
He brought the sheets back over her leg, his hand landing atop her thigh and giving it a light reassuring squeeze as he told her, "Clara, it will be alright."
"I know," she whispered, voice choking on tears she was holding back. She laid back down against the bed and let her eyes drift to the ceiling. Dave watched her relax, watched her eyes close as she did her best to control her breathing and he leaned against the bed, pressing the button to take her back do a reclined position and when she was flat again, he watched her begin to cry.
It wasn't from her pain, but from her acknowledgment of situation – something she'd been denying herself from the moment she'd woken. Clara didn't remember what had happened, but she had seen the extent of the damage to her right arm, knew it would be scarred forever, and knew she was lucky it hadn't broken like her leg had. She'd seen the pins set into her swollen mess of a leg when they'd changed the bandages, had been told at the time she'd need several surgeries to get back on her feet.
Now she'd need a hunk of plastic, or a bendable metal contraption – apparently, she thought to herself, she had options now. Options, they had told her, that hadn't been available not so long ago. She was lucky. It was something she'd heard so many times in the past two weeks, but she couldn't shake the reality that she wasn't. She was broken and missing pieces; pieces her father and the Doctor refused to tell her and as she quieted, seeing her father drop back into the chair beside her, Clara pushed aside all thoughts of luck and she concentrated on what she knew.
She wasn't lucky; she was tough.
She wasn't fortunate; she was brave.
Clara was better than crying over a missing limb or the pain the accident was causing her. She was hopeful and optimistic and she stared at the ceiling making a list of things she had to accomplish. First would be getting herself out of the hospital. She knew she had to steel herself against what she knew was going to be a long and torturous process and she set her mind to holding her head up. Second was regaining her memories and she knew that would be difficult. She'd already regained a few, bits of her mother's funeral, the last years of her primary schooling, something about blue police that didn't quite make sense.
Third was the Doctor.
She reached out for the drawer beside her with a small squeak of pain after her father had fallen asleep with his face in his palm and she retrieved the small plastic bag. Thumbing over the jewelry inside, she located the ring – her wedding ring – and she popped the bag open to drop it into her hand. She eyed the writing on it, absolutely certain that it was some sort of writing and not merely a random combination of circles and dots, and she slipped it onto the ring finger of her left hand with an exhale because it finally fit.
Third, she corrected, was her husband.