December 4th

"Oh, that was a mistake." The Doctor very slowly forced himself onto his back, shoulders aching and head throbbing. There was a growing pressure in his temples and directly behind his eyes, the pain finding its way to words as he emitted a little groan. The whole left side of his face seemed to throb and the simple action placing his fingers on his cheek resulted in a wince. "Wow," he muttered, quite astonishingly quietly, and amazed himself at how such a light comment could be accompanied by so much discomfort.

He rolled himself to the side the bed and lowered his feet tentatively to the floor. He sat there on the edge for a minute, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered before finally convincing himself to stand.

The Doctor met Clara in the kitchen, who already had fresh tea brewed and ready for consuming on the counter. She smiled a greeting in his direction, handing him the warm mug and seating both him and herself down at the table.

Clara's fingertips drummed against the wood for a few moments of only slightly awkward silence, her gaze fixed on the swirling liquid under her nose. "How'd you sleep?" She asked quietly, doing her best not to disturb the almost visible headache beating away at his skull.

"Don't remember." He replied simply, voice low. He considered the drink in his hand for a moment, then dismissed it with an almost angered shrug and disposed of it in the sink. He returned to the table a moment later with steaming black coffee, making a soft noise of acceptance as he slowly sipped away.

"What happened last night? Where'd you go?"

"Some pub 'round the corner." He muttered. "You Londoners are quite rude late at night."

"Hey, you're the one that was drunk." She noted halfway through a sip of her tea. "What exactly did you get into a fight over?"

"I was drunk..."

"Yes, I got that. So what did you fight over?"

He was hesitant to reply. "Just as I told you, Clara. He made fun of my shoes." He frowned as he saw her lips hitching up in a slight smile, his own face hardening into a scowl as she burst into laughter. "I was drunk! I wasn't thinking straight." He defended sourly.

"Oh, whatever. Even in your right mind you'd attack a guy if he made fun of your eyebrows, let alone your shoes." She giggled. "Admit it."

"Shut up." He hissed back. And somehow, that was the end of the conversation.

The rest of the day was slow and drug out. The Doctor spent most of his time sprawled out lazily on the sofa, oddly much more quieter than his usual rambunctious self. Clara remained on standby, not too eager to venture beyond hearing distance in case he needed anything. But he never asked. Each offer of more coffee or tea was denied, each attempt at a beginning conversation was ignored, each offered assistance during his many vomiting spells were shut down, even Clara's 'wary' questions of that certain squirrel were shunned. Eventually she gave up, but kept herself close.

When she heard him groaning in his sleep, she simply couldn't take it anymore.

"Doctor." She sighed, rocking her chair back and forth until she gained enough momentum to rise to her feet. She lowered herself to her knees beside the couch, hunching over a bit so that her face was level with his. "Oi." She poked his forehead repeatedly. "Wake up, Time Lord."

His eyes shot open and he flew backwards with a gasp, pressing himself against the back of the sofa and flinching like he'd been burned. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Relax." She muttered, rising back to her feet. "Listen, just let me get you an Aspirin or something. It's pitiful seeing you like this."

"I'm fine, Clara." He insisted gruffly, shifting into an awkward half-sitting position. "I'm allergic to Aspirin, anyways."

"What kind of person is allergic to Aspirin?"

"Time Lords."

"Ah."

The Doctor lowered his feet to the floor and propped his elbows on his knees, face in his hands and fingertips rubbing his temples. "This is ridiculous." He mumbled with barely existent coherence. "Its usually not this bad."

"What, you've been hungover before?" She clarified. "You?"

"I am over two thousand years old, you know. Yes, I've been hungover." He retorted.

"Just don't really seem the sort to overindulge, I suppose." She mused with a lighthearted shrug.

There was that gaping silence again.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked eventually.

"No."

"Can I do anything for you?" She prompted.

"Go away, Clara." He sighed and closed his eyes, wincing during the aftermath of the sharp tone. "Sorry."

"You're fine." She whispered lightly, giving his knee a soft pat as she rose to her feet. The Doctor's eyes widened a hair as Clara gripped his wrist, sending his head lulling forward and shooting back up again. "Come on." She demanded.

"Where?" He allowed her to help him to his feet, but each step was reluctant.

"My bedroom." She continued before he could make any type of snarky comment. "Sofa's far too uncomfortable. You can sleep in here again."

"I'm fine on the couch." He yanked his hand free from her grasp, but she snatched it back.

"Never said it was your choice." She shoved him down face-first into the pillows, laughing a bit when he made no attempt to move from there. "Get comfortable." She commanded, her tone demanding yet gentle in a way. She gave a satisfactory nod as he rolled up his sleeves and brought his legs onto the bed with him, but argued as soon as Clara began pulling the duvet up to his shoulders.

"You know, this was much simpler when you were drunk." She noted, settling for pinning his weak hands down and shoving the blanket up around him despite the many protests.

"You don't need to do this." He whispered, his tone not as frustrated as Clara would have assumed. More, concerned, she decided to put it.

"I know that." She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her fingers over his cheek. "Doesn't mean that I'm not gonna do it." She was surprised when he didn't flinch. In fact, he made zero attempts to even remove her hand from where it was now stroking the side of his face. Instead, his eyes just fluttered closed, and he leaned into the touch.

Clara blamed the alcohol for what he said next. "I don't deserve a friend like you." There it was. The exact words she'd spoken to him just months before. She couldn't hold back a smile as she leaned close to his ear, and whispered wholeheartedly,

"Doctor, I'm sorry, but I'm exactly what you deserve."