Firstly, I want to say thank you so much, all of you, for over 50 reviews! I honestly can't believe it. I have a special surprise in store for you as a token of my gratitude. I have a couple prompts to get through first though, and then you all shall receive my special surprise:)
Secondly, I think I have outdone myself with this chapter. I literally spent more than 15 hours writing it, trying to make it perfect. It's the longest chapter I've ever written. I certainly hope it's as fluffy as everyone wanted - I had more than three people request this chapter, and I hope it lives up to your expectations.
Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. Now let the Whouffaldi fluff begin!
Clara sighed and rested her aching head against the mirror, smushing her chocolatey bangs against the glass and not even caring that her hair resembled a cat's tail that had been stuck in an electrical socket.
She'd woken up that morning with a pounding head, a severely dripping nose, and an extremely sore throat. Her thermometer had been lost ages ago when the Doctor had used it to make cocoa (long story), so she had no way of checking her temperature, but she guessed that it was high. It was early afternoon now, but her symptoms had been growing progressively worse all day, and she now had chills and a raging stomachache on top of her earlier afflictions. Probably the same mystery bug that her friend Bill had told her about last week - it had already affected one-tenth of the population of London.
Clara groaned again and pushed herself off of the mirror with some effort. There were bags under her eyes, which were red and bloodshot, and her nose was dripping again. Too weary and miserable to attempt to be hygienic, she rubbed it exhaustedly before shuffling out of the bathroom, taking slow, measured steps.
Normally, she'd be teaching English at Coal Hill by now, but her sickness had obviously prevented her from doing so. Unfortunately, Clara had been feeling far too ill all day to call the school and tell them she was taking a sick day. She hoped they didn't think she'd died in her sleep or something.
Her fluffy bunny rabbit house slippers squeaked underfoot as she finally reached her bedroom and threw herself down on her bed with a simultaneous sigh of relief and moan of pain. It took forever, but she finally managed to worm under her sheets and pull them over her head, cocooning herself in a nest of warm blankets and crimson satin pajamas.
Clara's thoughts were moving rather sluggishly, so it took her a while to realize that she should probably call the Doctor. She debated it for a while, but the agony of actually getting up and moving was too terrible to contemplate, so she fell back against her pillows again.
A hacking cough suddenly rose in her throat, racking her small frame until she was shuddering from the agony. When it had subsided, Clara's thoughts and movements were so hazy that she wondered in the back of her mind if she were about to pass out. A jumble of tangled thoughts bounced in her brain: water... Doctor... phone ... school...
She lay in a sort of stupor for a while, which was only broken by a particularly ferocious lance of pain in her stomach. Beneath her bed sheets, her whole body seemed to droop like a wilting flower.
And then, a few minutes later, just as she was mercifully beginning to doze off, a familiar grating noise pulsed into existence outside the bedroom.
Clara's first thoughts were of annoyance - she had just been falling asleep!
But then the sound settled in her ears as it grew ever louder, and a torrent of hope roared through her. It was the TARDIS. The Doctor was here. He'd somehow heard her frantic mental pleas for help, and here he was.
"Doctor," she croaked, feebly extending a hand, too weak to actually get up. After a few seconds, the effort became too much, and she collapsed against her pillows once more. But that curly grey hair, those flashing blue eyes, that reserved but gentle smile, those ridiculous eyebrows... they were all she could think about. "Doctor..."
The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS into Clara's living room, expecting to see her familiar broad grin as she curled up on her sofa watching the telly.
She wasn't there.
"Clara, I'm here!" he called, just in case she was in the kitchen, burning yet another soufflé.
He thought he heard some sort of muffled response, so he tried again. "Clara, you haven't got yourself trapped under your couch again, have you? Or locked in your bedroom?"
Now he was beginning to worry. Where could she be? He peered into the kitchen, but it was so spotless that he knew at once she hadn't been in it for quite some time; otherwise there would have been a huge mess. It took only a few seconds to check the guest bedroom and the dining room. No one was there.
Finally he crossed over to Clara's bedroom and rapped tentatively on the closed door. This time, the Doctor distinctly heard a muffled groan in response. Suddenly worried, he swung open the door and shot inside.
A cold hand of anger and fear clutched his heart. Clara's exhausted face was peeking over the tops of the blankets, which she'd drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen and her hair was utterly disheveled, sticking up in all directions. It was this last feature that worried him most - in all the time he had known her, she had never allowed her hair to be anything other than perfect. "Clara! You're hurt!" the Doctor cried, rushing to the bed. "Who did this to you? I'll destroy them." His voice - loud, brusque, and very angry - did not help her aching head.
"No destroying," she mumbled deliriously, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. "Just sick."
He hesitated. The anger melted away into embarrassment. "Oh."
With a supreme effort, Clara struggled into a sitting position. The Doctor stared, fascinated, at her dribbling nose - it was a rather new experience for him seeing her so disheveled. "Water," Clara grunted, sniffling. "Please."
He pursed his lips concernedly and went to fetch her a glass of tap water, which Clara downed in a single gulp. The water wrought an instant change in her condition; her beautiful eyes brightened, her throat felt less sore, and her cheeks went from an unhealthy flush to a more normal pale. But it also set off a coughing fit. Clara leaned forwards, hacking and choking, her petite frame rocked by shudders.
The Doctor patted her on the back. "Come on, keep coughing," he told her encouragingly,"get that hairball out."
The shock of those words, more than anything else, caused her to stop coughing. Clara settled back on her pillow and frowned at the Doctor. "Get the what out?" She could speak without feeling dizzy and achey now.
"The hairball," he repeated.
"Only cats have hairballs..."
"Oh." He paused. "Same difference." The Doctor shrugged and sat down on the bed next to her legs.
Clara was still feeling too exhausted to point out the many differences between cats and humans. "You know -" she sniffed again "-I need something."
The Doctor traced his finger along the small ridge between her middle and index fingers. "What do you need?"
"I need a Doctor."
His eyes flicked upwards. He hadn't been expecting that. Clara's eyes were brighter and clear than normal, but they were staring at him in that usual way that made him feel as if she could see into his very soul. "Well," he answered, raising his eyebrows and turning away,"the Doctor is in. What can I do for you?"
A flicker of Clara's regular smile appeared on her lips. "First of all, you can tone down your voice. The Scottish brogue isn't helping my head."
The Doctor's graying hedgy eyebrows drew together. "Now, don't go abusing your privileges of being sick, Clara."
She laughed. The sound was throaty and hoarse, but it gave the Doctor hope - at least she was well enough to attempt laughing. "I wouldn't dream of it. And secondly, you can get me some miracle Time Lord medicine."
"Sorry, no can do," the Doctor replied, staring fixedly at the wall so he didn't have to see her look of annoyance that he knew would follow his statement. "There's no such thing. We're lords of time, not medicine."
"Some doctor you are," Clara pouted, throwing her sheets off and rubbing her hair. "Can you at least tell me what I'm sick with? It's like some sort of mystery bug." Her head pounded sharply and she winced; clearly she wasn't going to get better just yet.
The Doctor produced his sonic screwdriver, scanned her entire body, and held it up to his face to view the readings. "I know exactly what it is," he declared.
"And?" she prompted eagerly.
"It's some kind of mystery bug," he finished, beaming proudly as though he were immensely satisfied with this answer.
Clara'a eyes glinted. "How clever of you," she snapped acidly. "Considering I just said that."
The Doctor smiled to himself - he knew Clara would be fine if she had enough energy to taunt him. "I don't know what it is," he told her,"but I can still take care of you."
"No, no, you don't have to," she answered. "I'll get better eventually."
He cupped her cheek, which felt much warmer than usual, in his hand. "Duty of care, remember? Now wait here. I'll be right back. Just have to fetch the tools of my trade."
"If you mean stupidity, an overinflated ego, and neediness, you've already got them."
"Very funny, Clara," the Doctor called as he stood up, his velvety waistcoat flapping around his knees. "Just brilliant."
Clara sighed with relief as her head prickled one last time and then stopped aching. Perhaps the headache was gone for good. She carefully extracted herself from the mound of blankets so that her legs were stretched out across the bed. She still felt drippy and sniffly, but somehow, now that her Doctor was here, everything would be alright.
Even as she completed this thought, the Doctor rushed back inside the room. There was a jug of water and a mug in his right hand, and several washcloths were draped over his maroon jacket. Also, he was somehow balancing a stack of books on his elbow.
"Alright," the Doctor began, carefully depositing the books on Clara's bedside table,"let me just - You've got fluffy bunny slippers."
At first, the sudden change of subject took Clara by surprise. Then her gaze flickered towards her feet, and she felt her face burning. "So what?" she shot back, mainly to hide her embarrassment. "I know for a fact that you still have four bow ties in your closet." The bunnies' whiskers seemed to stand more erect as she said this, as though they were cheering at her defense of her slippers.
The Doctor flushed and glanced away. "Those are just memories. I don't wear them anymore."
"And yet," Clara smirked,"I saw you trying them on in front of a mirror."
He studiously stared at the wall.
Clara decided to let him off the hook. "Fine, no more teasing. I'll stop."
The Doctor, seeming relieved, dragged a chair over to the bedside. "Good. Then I can start..." he waved a hand vaguely at the items he had brought into the bedroom,"caring."
"Must be a new concept for you," Clara couldn't resist commenting.
He raised his head so that he was looking directly into her eyes. "No. No, it's not. I've been caring for you for a very, very long time, Clara Oswald. I will always care for you."
Something in his tone told Clara that he meant 'care' in every sense of the word. But, not wanting to embarrass him, she leaned forward with some effort and tapped his nose. "Well, get started then."
The Doctor poured some water from the jug into the glass she'd used earlier, just in case she wanted another drink. Then he dipped one of the washcloths into the jug and squeezed it out, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. As he leaned closer to her, having draped the cloth over his hand, Clara grabbed his wrist - she had suddenly been struck by a worrisome thought. "Hang on - what if you get sick after taking care of me?"
The Doctor frowned. "Get sick? Me? I'm a Time Lord. I have much better resistance to disease than you pudding-brained, weak, frail -" He caught a glimpse of Clara's eyes and his voice died. "Um, people," he concluded weakly. "Anyway. I'll be fine."
Reassured, Clara let go of his wrist. The Doctor took the soaked cloth and tenderly pressed it to her forehead, wiping away the droplets of water that ran down towards her eyes. "Does your head feel better now?" he asked.
Clara grinned to herself at his boyish enthusiasm to make her feel better. "It's getting there," she promised encouragingly.
Biting his lip, the Doctor scanned her with his screwdriver again. "Looks like you have a mild headache and stomachache, chills, a sore throat, a drippy nose, and a cough. I don't really know what to do about those, except -" he paused and his face lit up. "Hang on, I'll be right back." He shot up and practically flew to the bathroom that adjoined Clara's bedroom.
The Doctor repeated a few seconds later, carrying what appeared to be the entire contents of Clara's medicine cabinet in his arms. He dumped the jumble of bottles into her lap, and she stared at it, nonplussed. "There," he announced proudly. "I have no idea what these are, but they look like they'll help. Normally I'd choose a couple using Eeeny Meeny Miny Mo -" he hesitated, and Clara knew exactly what he was thinking: but not when your health is at stake. "But not this time," he finished. "So, erm, it's up to you."
Touched and amused, Clara selected a couple medicines that she knew would help her current symptoms while the Doctor hovered anxiously around her bedside. After she'd downed the pills, the Doctor seemed relieved. He sat down again and wet more of the washcloths. As gently and softly as he could, he wiped her face and neck with them in an attempt to cool her skin.
Clara sniffled loudly, wishing that she had thought to keep a box of tissues by her bed. As if he'd read her mind, the Doctor fumbled around in his pockets for a minute and procured a couple of rumpled handkerchiefs. "They're clean," he assured her as she eyed them doubtfully. "Don't worry."
Still nervous, but touched all the same, Clara wiped her nose and instantly felt much better. Her condition had improved so much that she actually debated getting out of bed, but then she realized that she was quite enjoying having the Doctor take care of her and opted not to.
Eventually the Doctor peeled the cloths off her face and dumped then unceremoniously on the bedside table. "Are you feeling any better?" he inquired hesitantly.
"Yes, thanks, but not well enough to get out of bed," Clara answered, feeling a tiny bit guilty as she delivered this blatant lie, and then justifying it by telling herself that this was the first and probably last time the Doctor would ever take care of her like this.
To her surprise, the Doctor seemed a little bit... relieved. Perhaps he was enjoying caring for her as much as she was enjoying being cared for. "Well, since you can't get out of bed, I can read to you for a bit, if you want. It's a Gallifreyan tradition - when any member of your family falls ill it's your duty to entertain them as much as possible, and reading is a popular pastime on my planet."
"I'd like that," Clara told him gratefully. "Reading is good."
The Doctor held up each book as he named it. "There's Time Lord Fairy Tales, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Oliver Twist, A Comprehensive History of Gallifrey, TARDIS Instruction Manual - wait, another one? I thought I chucked this into a supernova! Oh well, I'll have to throw it out - anyway, there's also Music Through the Universe, How to Charm a Human for Beginners-" His face suddenly flushed. "What? What's this? Don't know why I picked this up..." He cleared his throat and casually tossed it over his shoulder.
Clara's heart soared - it was the companion guide to the book she'd been reading earlier, How to Charm an Alien for Beginners, and there had been a bookmark in it; the Doctor had actually been reading it!
"Anyway - I think that's it. Which one do you want to read?"
"Time Lord Fairy Tales," Clara responded without hesitation. "I don't know anything about Gallifrey... and the best way to find out is to listen to the stories told there."
"Well said, Clara. Time Lord Fairy Tales it is."
The Doctor flipped the book open, and Clara caught sight of jumbled sections of Gallifreyan text. As he was about to start reading, an idea suddenly struck her and she interrupted him. "Wait. Doctor, can you come sit by me? Since you won't get sick and all. It would be nice."
"You mean... on the bed?"
"Well... yes."
The Doctor closed his eyes, contemplating the issue. Finally he sighed and nodded wearily. "Yes. Yes, alright. But no hugs," he added, suddenly stern. "Not even one."
"Deal," Clara agreed.
He clambered onto the bed and gingerly settled himself next to her, brushing his feet against her bunny slippers. Clara smiled up at him and leaned her head onto his shoulder, placing a hand on top of his riotous hair. Her other hand rested against the elbow of his jacket, tracing out irregular patterns on it. She breathed in the Doctor's distinctive, comforting scent: machine oil, lavender, old parchment, clear, fresh mountain air, vanilla, and many more things she couldn't name. Those smells should have been awful when mixed together, but in reality they combined to make the best smell in the whole entire universe: the smell of hope, of love, of the Doctor.
The Doctor gave in to his own desires and rested his chin on top of Clara's head, breathing in the raspberries-and-vanilla scent of her mahogany-colored hair. Tracing his fingers along the old Gallifreyan lettering, he began to read out loudly to his companion, his musical accent rising and falling as he spoke. "On a faraway planet, there was a garden. But not a garden of flowers and fields. It was a garden of shadows..."
The Doctor read for hours, alighting upon tales of statues that moved and metal men; of death and sadness, and of hope and joy. He delighted in watching Clara's facial expressions change as he progressed through the book; sometimes tears stood in her beautiful wise eyes, elicited into existence by the plight of some unfortunate character, and at other times satisfied smiles played on her lips as heroes triumphed and villains were destroyed. She was a fantastic audience - she reacted, she asked questions, she loved the stories as though she had penned them herself. With every word that he allowed to fall from his tongue, the Doctor felt his love for the woman beside him growing and growing until he felt that his hearts could no longer contain his feelings.
All too soon, the last page of the book was upon them. "He took her in her arms and she took him in hers, and thus they were destroyed while they held each other," the Doctor read. "But they were happy, for they would rather die together than live alone. And so unfolded their happy ending." With an air of finality, he shut the book and laid it aside.
Clara was gazing at him in rapture, having became so caught up in the events of the book that her eyes were dreamy and unfocused. The sound of the book closing seemed to bring herself back to reality; she shook herself and frowned. "Wait, that's it?" She coughed into her elbow - her throat had grown sore again.
"That's it," the Doctor confirmed simply.
"But - they died!"
"They died together," he corrected. "That's all they wanted."
"I know," she murmured, subsiding. "Still. It was really sudden."
"What did you think of the book though?" the Doctor asked, suddenly anxious. He realized that he wanted Clara to approve of his heritage.
"It was really interesting. But I think that story about the Weeping Angels scarred me for life; I'll be staring at all the statues now," Clara replied, grinning, as she snuggled even closer to the Doctor.
As he stared down at her, her eyes flashed, and he knew with certainty that she was about to ask a question. She always got that look in her eyes when she had just thought of a question. Sure enough, a moment later, she asked,"What do you think was the moral of that last story?"
"I think," he replied, choosing his words carefully,"I think it was saying that love - in any form - is eternal... and everyone succumbs to it. There is always someone you love." His eyes lingered on Clara's small form, her square nose, her rosy cheeks, her kind eyes. He hastily looked away, but not before he had noticed in Clara's eyes the same expression that he felt must be in his own.
Clara tentatively laced her fingers into his, and after a moment's hesitation, the Doctor squeezed them tightly. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to set; the sky had lost some of its brightness. Clara appeared to notice this as well, because she inquired,"Doctor, can you tell me the time?"
With some annoyance he discovered that he had neglected to put on his watch, and there was no clock in Clara's bedroom. "Haven't you got a phone?" he demanded, somewhat irritably, his beetling eyebrows drawing together as he frowned.
Her eyes widened. "Oh my stars. My phone -" the worry in her voice set off yet another coughing fit. When Clara had recovered, she continued,"I have no idea where it went; I might have run it through the wash again. Would you mind looking for it?"
"Yes, Your Highness," he answered drily, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and bounding to his feet. "Shall I get you a coffee while I'm at it?"
"That would be great," Clara called after him, a slight smirk lurking in her voice, as he left the room.
It took the Doctor a few minutes, but he eventually found her phone in the laundry machine. His harebrained companion had evidently been Snapchatting while unloading the dryer (for the second time now) and had accidentally left the phone behind. The laundry machine had been eleventh on his list of places to check - he knew Clara well enough by now to know the places where she most often lost her phone. Other possible candidates had included underneath the coffee maker (it had happened before), beneath the couch, and inside the oven.
The Doctor hopefully pressed one of the two buttons on the side of the phone, but nothing happened. These little human devices were so stupid; where was the on button? It took him a few more seconds to find it. He turned the phone on and discovered that it was past five o'clock. Also, Clara's apparent boyfriend, P.E. - even the thought of him made the Doctor's hearts flare with jealousy - had sent her several rather clingy and sappy texts. The Doctor resolved not to tell Clara about them.
But it was Clara's lock screen picture that really stood out. His eyes softened as he stared at it. There was Clara, laughing, her head turned to the side as she kissed the Doctor's cheek, displaying the mischievous dimple in her cheek. And there was the Doctor next to her, his mouth puckered in surprise, his eyebrows drawn together, and his forehead crinkled. One of Clara's hands was wrapped around his head, resting on the side of his curly grey hair. He remembered the exact day this had happened; they'd been on Xaphorious-2B, a planet known for its rocks and minerals, and Clara had decided to snap a selfie next to a mountain made entirely of amethyst. At the last minute, she'd sneakily changed the camera angle so that the Doctor was also included in the picture. He had had to bribe her with ten pounds of chocolate in order to make her promise not to post the photo on Instagram.
Suddenly, the Doctor heard a shout from the bedroom. "Doctor? Oi! I've called you six times!"
He shook himself out of his memory-induced reverie. "I wasn't listening."
"Well, obviously! Did you find my phone? What time is it?" Her words were punctuated by a loud sniffle, and the Doctor heard her mutter a curse word under her breath. There was a shifting sort of sound as though she had dived out of her covers. Perhaps she had had a snot emergency.
The Doctor's lips twitched in a smile at the thought of Clara Oswald having a snot emergency. "It's 5:27," he called back. "Dinner time."
"Are you staying for dinner then?"
The Doctor could tell Clara was trying to disguise the pleasure in her voice. "As long as it's not one of your soufflés," he answered.
A muffled sigh came from the bedroom. "My soufflés are delicious."
"I'm sure they are, when you haven't burned, dropped, or otherwise mutilated them. Oh wait - that's happened every time."
The Doctor could practically hear Clara's teeth gritting together.
"Okay, look," he sighed in an attempt to placate her,"I'll root around in your fridge for a bit. There might be something there." The Doctor entered her abnormally pristine kitchen and cautiously opened the fridge, suddenly entertaining dreams (more like nightmares) of finding it full of soufflé attempts. To his surprise, the contents were much more edible: an assortment of fruits, vegetables, and dairy products, along with some cold turkey, a package of fish fingers, and a random slice of cake. The freezer contained nothing but dessert: ice cream, frozen cheesecake, macaroons, and even something that looked suspiciously like a store bought soufflé (the poor girl was so bad at making them herself she had to buy them at the store). The pantry was slightly less appealing: there were, of course, all of the usual contents one would expect to find in a pantry, such as flour and crackers, but there was a to-do list on one of the shelves that was unfinished, but was still terrifying. It read:
1) Buy ingredients for more soufflés.
The Doctor shuddered and scooted away. An idea suddenly began to boil in his mind. What if... what if I make Clara dinner? I couldn't possibly make it worse than she does. It's worth a try. To be honest, he had been excited to try his hand at cooking ever since he'd come up with fish fingers and custard all those years ago. What other creations of culinary genius could he come up with?
The matter was settled. "Lasagna, fish fingers, and... hmm, why not a soufflé," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands together. "And to challenge myself, I won't even use my sonic screwdriver." (The screwdriver had many settings which could come in use in the kitchen, including Whisk, Bake, and Stir.)
He determinedly opened a cupboard, removed a metal mixing bowl, and promptly dropped it.
"Doctor?" Clara shouted from the kitchen, as the echoes of the sound reverberated throughout the flat. "What was that? Do I need to get out of bed? Are you destroying my kitchen again?"
Her voice still sounded thick and stuffy, but he was glad to hear that she sounded mostly normal again. "No to the first question," he replied, picking up the bowl as quietly as he could. "And probably not to the second. I'm just... doing a thing."
There was a rather drawn-out pause, and the Doctor knew that Clara was contemplating ways to threaten him. He hastily continued,"Don't worry. I'll try not to burn anything."
He could hear the smile in her voice as she answered. Clara's smiles were always audible; it was an aspect of hers that the Doctor loved more than he cared to admit. "You'd better not, Mister."
The Doctor beamed - that was the equivalent of a certificate of approval, for Clara - and got to work.
It had now been two hours, and Clara was two hundred percent sure that the Doctor was making her dinner.
The smells wafting in through the open doorway had made that obvious. Also the loud crashes and clangs and the muttered curses in Gallifreyan.
She knew that the Doctor was trying to surprise her, though, so she had spent the last two hours pretending to be completely oblivious. Every time the Doctor popped in to check in on her, she made sure to ask what exactly he was doing outside. It amused her greatly to watch him adopt what he thought was a mysterious smile and exit dramatically without answering.
After a particularly loud burst of noise had ensued from the kitchen, Clara had taken the opportunity to creep out of bed and retrieve How to Charm a Human for Beginners from the floor. It was really quite an odd book. Some of the tips it mentioned made it seem as though the author had never even met a human. On the other hand, some of them were immensely insightful. Clara felt a rush of joy every time she read a suggestion and realized that the Doctor had actually tried it out on her. (For example, "Any human - at least a female one - loves to be given flowers." She lovingly recalled the time that the Doctor had turned up at her doorstep with a bouquet of roses. They'd been half-wilted, but she'd given him points for effort anyway. Back then, Clara had thought he'd been trying to make up for ditching her in Germany for three days without any means of communication, but... perhaps there'd been more to it than that.)
There was a loud ding from the oven and the Doctor gave a triumphant shout. Clara hastily tossed the book back on the floor and gathered her blankets around her, not wanting to be discovered reading the book that had made him so embarrassed.
A few minutes later the Doctor shuffled into view, carrying a large red tray and walking very slowly so as not to spill anything. "Can I come in?" he called. The grin on his face was wider than Clara had ever seen it before. His face was flushed from working in the heat of the kitchen, and his curly hair was a mess, but his lined face was shining with happiness.
Clara hastily arranged her features into an expression of pleasant surprise. "Of course you can. What have you got on that tray?"
"I made you dinner!" The Doctor beamed proudly and deposited the tray on Clara's lap with a flourish. "Surprise!" He sat down on her bed next to her feet.
She pretended to be surprised. "Doctor, you shouldn't have!"
He attempted and failed to look modest. "Oh, I know. But I did."
"Well, thank you," Clara smiled, running her hands through his thick hair and then tweaking his nose. "That was really sweet of you."
Clara examined the contents of the tray one by one. There was a plate full of a shriveled, blackened mass that had been burned behind recognition. She tried to figure out what it was, but was forced to admit defeat after a few minutes. "Erm... what was that?" she asked the Doctor as politely as she could. He had evidently let it sit in the oven too long, whatever it was.
He adopted a look of indignation. "What do you mean, what was that?" he demanded. "It's still here, isn't it?"
"I say 'what was that' because... well, it looks sort of... dead," she explained apologetically.
"Well, you would know what dead cooking looks like," the Doctor shot back rudely. "It's lasagna."
"Ah... I see." She prodded it with her finger and flakes of carbon fell off of it. "Is it... edible?"
"Well, I'll admit it came out a bit odd," the Doctor answered. "All that black, and whatnot. But I think you can still eat it. I've put the rest in your fridge for leftovers."
Clara silently vowed to scrape it into the bin as soon as she could. "It looks delicious," she promised, lying through her teeth.
There was also a bowlful of custard (which the Doctor proudly declared he had made himself) and a napkin covered with fish fingers. Clara had to laugh. "Fish fingers and custard. Remembering the good old days, eh?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Well, I haven't had it in a while. I thought it would be nice to make it again."
Clara felt her jaw drop as she stared at the final dish on the tray. It was a soufflé - a perfect soufflé. Clara vaguely knew what a perfect soufflé looked like; she remembered that one of her soufflés had turned out looking perfect once. But she hadn't seen one in such a long time that it was quite a shock seeing one in front of her (especially considering that it had been made by the Doctor). Most of her soufflés had to be taken to the Dumpster as soon as they came out of the oven, because they smelled so burnt that it was impossible to keep them in the house. So it was a pleasant surprise seeing a whole and unburnt one, waiting for her to eat it.
She sneezed and cleared her throat. "You made this?" she managed to croak, her eyes watering from the sneeze.
"Pretty sure I did," the Doctor replied. "It was my first try. I thought I'd have a go."
"I'm impressed. It looks amazing. But I have to taste it before I can pass judgement," she added, grinning mischievously. She took the proffered fork and promptly dropped it as chills raced through her arm.
"Are you alright?" the Doctor questioned, taking hold of her hand and pressing the fingers of his other hand over hers. "What happened?"
"I'm fine," she muttered, suppressing with a supreme effort the tickle in her throat that signified the beginning of another coughing fit - she didn't want to worry him. "Just chills."
The Doctor set his jaw determinedly, picked up the fork, and stabbed it into the lasagna, still holding one of her small hands. Then he held up the fork. "Open your mouth."
She did, and he carefully and tenderly slid the fork inside. Clara chewed the lasagna and swallowed it as quickly as she could. It wasn't terrible, once you got past the burned-beyond-recognition outer shell. At least she could still taste; she'd been worried that her sickness had taken her taste as well. The Doctor had already prepared the next bite, and she allowed him (with some reluctance) to feed it to her.
Finally, mercifully, the lasagna was all gone. The Doctor stared deeply into Clara's eyes as he dipped one of the fish fingers into the custard and held it up to her mouth. No words needed to be said; they could read everything they needed to in each other's eyes.
A wave of memories surged over Clara as the first taste of the custard hit her mouth: a gaudy red bowtie, floppy hair, a jammy dodger with a bite already taken out of it, deep green eyes and a soft smile, a kiss shared when they thought no one was looking... For a brief second, she remembered the Doctor, her first Doctor, and felt a storm of inexplicable sadness crash over her. He was lost now; gone forever. She could never see him again.
But then Clara stared into the eyes of the man in front of her, that old, gray, beautiful man, and her heart surged with love. Her first Doctor may be gone, but her Doctor was still here, and she loved him more than ever. She thought that he knew what she was thinking - maybe she imagined it - but she thought she saw a tear glistening in his wise blue eyes, gone as quickly as it had come.
Clara brushed her thumb along the Doctor's hand, trying to communicate what she couldn't say in words. I see you. I love you. I still love you and I always will, I promise.
This time she was sure she saw the Doctor nod. She squeezed his hand once more, and he smiled a tiny smile as he placed the last bite of fish finger in her mouth.
Only the soufflé was left, little wisps of steam still rising from it. The warm scent of vanilla filled the air. "You should test it to make sure it isn't poisoned before you give it to me," Clara joked.
"Only your soufflés need poison testing," the Doctor teased her in response, slicing off a small portion of the soufflé. "Here goes."
Clara's taste buds tingled as the sweet vanilla flavor and flaky crust entered her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring every last morsel until it was gone. Then her eyes popped open. "How is it," she demanded, feeling a tiny glare of jealousy ,"that you manage to make a perfect soufflé on your first go, and I still haven't got the hang of it?"
The Doctor's face seemed to relax. "So - so it's good then?" he asked, almost anxiously.
"Are you joking? It's amazing! Where did you get this recipe?"
He smiled shyly. "I've watched you making them often enough. I just did it from memory... with a few tweaks."
"You should be a baker," Clara told him, her voice slightly muffled, as the Doctor had just given her the next bite. "You really should." She shook her head in disbelief.
"Would you like me to teach you?" the Doctor asked, his Scottish accent hesitant and faltering. "I could, you know. If you want."
She met his gaze. "I would like that."
A comfortable silence hung over them as the Doctor fed her the rest of the soufflé. At the last bite, however, Clara reached out and placed a hand on his wrist. "I want you to try it."
The Doctor frowned and shook her arm off. "Don't be silly. I made it for you."
He tried to lift the fork up, but Clara grabbed his wrist again. "It's the last bite. I want you to have it."
This time, when the Doctor opened his mouth to protest, Clara leaned forward and gently placed a finger on his lips. He was too surprised to react, so she tenderly slid the fork from his grasp and speared the last portion of soufflé. Before he could do anything about it, she removed her finger and slid the fork into his slightly open mouth.
The Doctor chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed, realizing that he couldn't really complain anymore - what was done was done. "It's not bad," he mused. "Better than yours, that's for sure."
"You really know how to compliment a girl," Clara giggled, settling herself back on her pillows.
"It's my specialty." The Doctor offered her a half-smile and stood up, gathering the tray and dishes in his arms. "I'm going to clear this up."
"Don't worry about doing the dishes," Clara called after his retreating figure. "I'll do them when I'm better." She sneezed very loudly six times in succession. "Even though it might be a while."
The Doctor turned around and eyed her incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous. You're sick. I'm taking care of you, so I'll take care of the dishes too. May as well. I can do them without breaking them, if that's what you're worried about."
Since there was nothing she could do to stop him, Clara subsided into silence while the Doctor did the dishes. When he came back, he crouched down, fished out his sonic screwdriver, and scanned her forehead. "Your temperature is 38.2 degrees Celsius," he told her. "You're still running a slight fever. Rest should fix you up. In fact, I want you to start sleeping now. The more you sleep, the sooner you'll recover."
"Yes, Mother," Clara replied drowsily, already feeling her eyes drooping. She lay down with the covers tucked under her arms.
The Doctor felt an unnameable emotion pounding in his chest as he watched his companion. Not sure entirely why he was doing it, he maneuvered himself onto the bed and adopted the same position that he had when he'd been reading earlier that day.
Clara, in a rush of affection, scooted upwards and rested her head on the Doctor's lap. She reached upwards and pressed a warmer-than-usual hand to his face, caressing his weathered skin. "Are you staying?"
It took him only a split second to make his decision. "Yes," the Doctor responded simply. "Yes. I'll stay with you tonight."
She allowed her fingers to dance over every inch of his skin, tracing the lines that framed his mouth and stroking the edges of his curly hair. "You know," she murmured sleepily, her soulful eyes half-closed,"I just realized something." The Doctor inclined his head so that he could stare Clara in the eye. "You used to have a young face and old eyes," she whispered, her breathing short and uneven. "But now you have an old face... and young eyes..."
The Doctor began to lovingly stroke her hair, brushing her bangs behind her ears. Clara sleepily curled a hand around his wrist, and he slowly and hesitantly bent down and planted a soft kiss on her uniquely square nose, nothing somewhere in the back of his mind that her breath was warm and fresh even while she was sick. "Clara," he murmured in a hoarse, choked voice.
The word summed up everything that the Doctor's brain was screaming at him to say, and Clara knew it. "Doctor," she breathed back, affectionately snuggling into his velvety waistcoat. And as she drifted off to sleep, the last thing she felt was the gentle touch of the Doctor's hand on her hair, and the last thing she saw was the tear of pure happiness that dripped from his eye and splashed on her cheek...
Long after Clara had fallen asleep, the Doctor ran his calloused fingers over the smooth, pencil-thin curves of her eyebrows, staring at her bedroom wall without really seeing it. Her slow, even breathing filled his ears, more soothing than any other sound he knew. Every one of her breaths confirmed that she was alive and well, and that was more important to him than anything else in the world.
But her last words to him before she had fallen asleep had kindled a flash of memory in the deepest, most untouched recesses of the Doctor's mind. "Clara," he mused, tapping out a uneven pattern on her pale cheek with his fingers, talking out loudly to her even though he knew she was sleeping. "Clara, Clara, Clara. Where did you hear those words? They're from an old Time Lord saying... but how could you possibly know that? Perhaps your brain picked up the memories of your Time Lady echo..." He paused, idly twirling his fingers in her French-toast colored hair. "Do you know what they say on Gallifrey? They say, 'A young face and old eyes, you choose your friends to make them wise. But an old face and young eyes... Upon your friends' wisdom your life relies.'"
Slowly and carefully, the Doctor maneuvered Clara's still prone figure onto his chest, cradling her head against his neck and smiling adoringly at her as she mumbled something in her sleep. The sound of her heartbeat, so frail compared to his two powerful ones, pounded in his ears almost as loudly as his own. He grinned fondly at the sound of her gentle snoring - Clara Oswald, the woman who swore she never snored.
The Doctor pondered the Time Lord saying and realized that it fit his own life perfectly. He'd been younger, more confident, more charming when he'd chosen Clara to travel with him. Yes, a part of him had wanted to unravel the mystery of his Impossible Girl. But he knew that he had also wanted someone new to teach and impress, someone who would be awed and inspired by him. And Clara perfectly fit the bill. He had, in a sense, chosen Clara to make her wise. But now the Doctor was older, more experienced; he had taken Clara on a mad dance through the stars, and she was wise because of it, wise beyond her years. Yes, he still knew things she didn't; yes, there was still more to teach her, but he found himself relying more and more on her ability to solve every problem and to use her wisdom to make decisions and judgements. The Doctor would go so far as to admit that she was now wiser than he had ever been. Perhaps that was the main difference between humans and Time Lords - Time Lords grew set in their ways after living for so long; they grew used to depending on experience rather than wisdom. But humans had such short lives that experience counted for practically nothing. They were all forced to develop some form of wisdom to survive, and traveling the universe gave you a wisdom you could never hope to gain anywhere else.
The Doctor gave a heavy sigh, fraught with all the pain and misery of his years. Then he glanced down to behold the sleeping woman curled against his chest and felt a pang of embarrassment. "What am I doing feeling sorry for myself when I've got you right here, eh?" he murmured gently. "My Clara Oswald. I'm just being a silly old man. Don't mind me. I've got no reason to be sad, not when I've got you."
And yet his eyes were more watery than normal as he bent down and pressed a tender kiss to her feverish brow.
The Doctor stayed in that position for a while, his nose pressed against Clara's, his arms wrapped around her small frame. And then, all of a sudden, his eyes closed and he was asleep, quicker than he had ever fallen asleep in his life, because Clara's warm presence was so comforting and soothing that it allowed him to truly forget all his worries and sink into a dreamland free of pain and heartbreak.
So the Doctor and his companion slept on, subconsciously soothed by each other. Eventually, Clara was awoken in the morning by the dull pounding of the Doctor's twin heartbeats, beating a constant rhythm against her chest. She cracked her sore eyelids open and stared at the Doctor's wrinkled and familiar face. His forehead was still pressed to hers, and his mouth was slightly open. All in all, an endearing picture, accompanied by some markedly less endearing snores. Clara chuckled under her breath. Forgetting, for a blessed moment, her current illness, she lovingly brushed her small nose against his large one, entwining her hands in his hair. And then she smiled drowsily and lowered her head once more, allowing the Doctor's familiar heartbeats to lull her back to sleep...
Yes, that was a shameless reference to the new companion:) Also, there really is a book called Time Lord Fairy Tales, and it's brilliant! I highly recommend it.
I would really lune to write a companion fic to this where the Doctor becomes sick and Clara has to take care of him. Does anyone else want that? Please let me know in the comments; if you think it's a good idea, I would really love to do it. (Also if the person who gave me the two prompts after this one agrees to let me postpone writing her prompts:D)
Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and for sticking with this story. See you next time.