Chapter 14: The Caretaker
The next hour passed with the Doctor recounting the harrowing tale of his survival in the wilderness. Clara and Missy sat next to the bed, listening with rapt attention. They could hardly believe what they were hearing. Clara shook her head in disbelief. Nobody should have survived what he did.
"But how did you find the Tardis?" Clara wondered aloud.
"Yeah that's the thing," he shrugged. "I just felt something in my gut. It was probably my residual psychic link with the Tardis, or both of you, I don't know. It left me a trail to follow."
"It's lucky you found us when you did," Missy quipped. "Another hour or two and you would have been a goner."
"I've been nothing but lucky," he chuckled wryly. "I guess the universe wants me to stick around."
"Speaking of which," he started, gently raising the central line tubing. "Who was the doctor that saved me? I'd like to meet them."
Missy cocked her head in Clara's direction. "You're lookin' at her."
He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Clara did this? But how–?"
"The Tardis taught me." Clara piped up. She smiled to herself proudly. She had done a damn good job.
"Taught you?" He questioned, incredulous.
"Yeah, the telepathic circuits," she nodded excitedly. "I stuck my hands in like you showed me and just asked."
"But Clara, that is a Tardis consciousness we're talking about," he gestured wildly, more than a little freaked out. "Your brain should be fried!"
Clara smirked. Her characteristic little dimples appeared on her face. God, he loved those dimples.
He smiled back with affection. He was always amazed by her. His expression softened. "Impossible Girl," he breathed.
"Anyway," Missy interrupted, "I procured the evidence from the case." The Doctor's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. She held up a palm before he could respond. "Don't ask."
He shut his mouth and looked to Clara for answers. She shook her head. She didn't know how either.
"Clara and I ran all the evidence through the Tardis laboratory and could not find anything that wasn't already in the case report."
The Doctor's face fell. He averted his eyes with shame, fiddling with the sheets nervously.
"But don't worry, Doctor," Clara soothed, laying a hand on his shoulder. "We know you're innocent."
"Clara, I'm not so sure about that," he winced. "I can't remember anything except feeling an enormous amount of rage and then standing over that woman with the bloody crystal in my hand. My mind is blank in between those two moments."
"There must be an explanation," she reassured.
"I don't have one," he mumbled. "All the evidence suggests–"
"Damn the evidence!" Clara shouted, taking both the Doctor and Missy by surprise. She gripped the bed railing with white knuckles. "One way or another, I will find the truth."
"Feisty one, isn't she?" Missy cocked her head with a grin.
He chuffed. "Tell me about it."
"Enough about that," Clara dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Doctor, let's get you out of that bed. If you feel well enough, of course."
"Yes, quite right you are," he scratched at his bushy face. "I could use a shave."
Clara giggled. "I don't know, I kind of like it. Makes you look distinguished."
He glared at her, unamused. "It's coming off."
Missy retrieved a wheelchair from the corner while Clara lowered the bed. She took down the railing and retrieved the bags from the IV pole. She hooked them onto the pole jutting up from the back of the chair. He was still weak and needed continuous support. He may be out of the woods, but he still had a long road to recovery.
"Come on, I'll help you up," Clara coaxed. He sat up slowly. She placed a hand on his back for support, feeling his spine sticking out. She frowned. He was skin and bones.
He scooched to the edge of the bed and hesitated. He was not sure if his legs were strong enough to stand up. Clara reached under his arms and made eye contact with him. "Doctor, you're going to stand up and I'm going to hold you. Then we'll pivot and sit you down in the wheelchair. Sounds good?"
"Yes, boss," he drawled in that deep Caledonian accent she loved so much.
Clara quirked her lip smugly. She liked when he called her that. "Alright," she lifted him up by the armpits. Her chest pressed into his and he couldn't help it when his cheeks flushed red. "Up we go, come on."
As she had described, he shakily placed his feet on the ground and then pivoted. She gently lowered him onto the chair until he was sitting comfortably. He had to admit, he kind of liked being mother-henned.
Missy released the brakes. Turning the corner, she wheeled him into the bathroom. She shut the door and walked back outside to give him his privacy. The Tardis automatically moved the sink and mirror lower so he could access them. He used the restroom and then gripped the sink.
He faced the mirror, finally getting a proper look at himself for the first time in weeks. His cheeks were sunken in, and he still sported some bruises, but at least the jaundice and sunburn had subsided.
He washed his hands and reached for the razor that had appeared on the edge of the wash basin. He thanked the Old Girl mentally. She was just as bad of a mother hen as Clara. He applied shaving cream to his cheeks and carefully went to work on shaving the scruffy beard on his face. It didn't look bad on him, but it was a reminder of his torment. He couldn't stand to look at it. Besides, it was itchy.
Clean-shaven, he applied some aftershave and sighed. It felt good to be smooth-faced again. Picking up a toothbrush, he brushed his teeth thoroughly. His mouth felt gross after so much time without a proper brushing. Satisfied, there was one more thing he wanted to do. He needed a bath.
Wheeling himself to the clawfoot bathtub, he locked the brakes and attempted to stand up. His legs trembled violently. He gripped the armrests of the chair for support, but his knees buckled beneath him. Clearly, that wasn't happening. He huffed in frustration. He hated having to rely on others.
"Clara!" he called, hoping she could hear him beyond the closed door.
Within moments, she cracked open the door. "What is it, Doctor?"
"I would like to take a bath," he gestured to the raised tub, demonstrating the issue at hand. "But I cannot get into the tub."
"Oh, no problem." She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "You could use one," she grinned cheekily.
He raised an eyebrow in warning, grumbling under his breath. She turned on the faucet and ran the bath. She then plugged up the drain and dumped a capful of bubble bath into the warm water. Bubbles quickly consumed the surface of the water, obscuring it from view. A heady fragrance like vanilla filled the air. Steam fogged up the mirror.
"Now," she wagged a finger at him sternly and pointed to the taped up catheter above his collarbone, "try not to get that wet."
He acknowledged her with a tilt of his head. That shouldn't be too hard. It was high enough on his chest. She unscrewed the IV line capped it off the port to keep it sterile. She capped the IV line too and wrapped it back up onto the pole. She would put it back once he was finished.
Now for the tricky part. She looked him straight in the eyes and he knew what she was going to say. Blushing, he started to untie his hospital gown. He did not want to expose himself further, but he did not have much of a choice.
She blushed back. "I won't look." He pursed his lips incredulously. "I promise," she reassured. Deciding to trust her, he dropped the gown.
Keeping her eyes focused on his face, she helped him up and pivoted him towards the tub. His legs wobbled beneath him, but it wasn't so bad if he could hold his balance on the edge of the tub. With deceptive strength, she carefully lowered him into the suds. The hot water touched his skin and he could not resist a groan of delight. She lowered him fully into the water until just his head and the tops of his shoulders were sticking out. Thick layers of bubbles covered him up. He sighed contentedly. The warm water felt heavenly to his achy body.
Clara placed bottles of body wash and shampoo within reach. She stood up straight and leaned against the doorway. "Holler if you need anything."
He gave a thumbs-up absentmindedly, too distracted by the wonderful feeling of the hot water to speak. She chuckled to herself and shut the door.
While he was occupied, Clara made herself busy by moving the monitors and IV pole to his bedroom. She figured that he did not need to be in that dreary sickbay anymore. She made the bed with fresh sheets and set out a pair of his favorite pajamas.
Missy excused herself to bed. She wanted to open the diner early tomorrow. The sooner they made money, the sooner they'd be out of this hellhole. She also could not stand to watch the Doctor and Clara acting so lovey-dovey with each other. She felt a small pang of jealousy in her heart. She craved the attention he gave her. She saved him too, didn't she?
Pouting slightly, she disappeared into her room for the night.
After an hour of soaking, the Doctor's fingers started to get pruney. He frowned. He wished he could stay here forever. His stomach growled, giving him another incentive to finish up. He could hardly wait to eat his first proper meal in ages.
Reluctantly, he reached for the shampoo. He sprayed his hair with the detachable showerhead, taking care to not get the IV port too wet. He clicked open the bottle. A fragrance like sandalwood and sea salt swirled into his nose. He poured some onto his hands and lathered the suds into his hair.
He practically moaned with pleasure. He would never take being clean for granted again. He was a fairly neat person; he could not stand to be so grubby. He soaped up the rest of his body with the body wash. He massaged it into his sore muscles in lazy circles. His hearts continued to ache in his chest a little bit, and his kidneys still cramped, but physically he was feeling relatively well. He allowed himself a small indulgent smile. He was safe in his Tardis, and finally clean.
He rinsed off and unplugged the drain. He watched the water swirl away in a little tornado, vanishing into the dark hole. Stubborn as always, he tried to lift himself up from the tub to the wheelchair. His feet slipped uselessly against the porcelain. He grumbled under his breath. He could not wait until his legs decided to work again.
He called for Clara. Within minutes, she stood outside the door and knocked. "Doctor, do you need my help in there?"
He pulled a blue cotton towel over himself, preserving at least some of his dignity. "Come in!" he answered.
She opened the door and out flew a great cloud of steam. The whole bathroom swam with a warm haze. The air was so humid it was almost hard to breathe. "Had a good bath?" she smiled, perching on the edge of the clawfoot tub.
"Yes, but I need help getting out," he admitted sheepishly. Water dripped from his curls down to his nose. He blew away the droplets, annoyed.
"Don't be embarrassed," she comforted him. "You just came out of a near-death experience. Well, twice. Don't be so hard on yourself. You'll walk again soon."
"Yes, I suppose," he muttered.
Clara held out her arms, bracing them under his. In one fluid motion, she helped him up from the tub and swung him into the chair. He chuffed to himself, mildly impressed. She was stronger than her delicate frame suggested. She retrieved another towel and started to dry his hair.
"I can do that myself, you know," he complained half-heartedly, secretly loving all the doting.
"I know," she shrugged. She did not provide further explanation. He relaxed into the chair, leaning back. He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling. Once finished, she draped the wet towel around his shoulders and wheeled him into his room. He peered up at her, confusion in his big blue eyes. He had thought they were going back to the sickbay.
"I think you're well enough to sleep in your own bed," she answered the unsaid question. She held up the pajamas which consisted of an old graphic t-shirt and plaid gray drawstring pants. "Come on, let's get you dressed."
She helped him into the loose flannel. He was not used to such close contact, especially in this regeneration. He had to fight the instinct to bristle with every touch. Why did he bristle anyway? Clara was nothing but kind to him. He trusted her with every fiber of his being. He did not need to be afraid of her touch. He looked down, crestfallen. He did not deserve her. He was nothing but a cold-blooded killer.
Now dressed, Clara hoisted him up onto the bed. He sat on the edge patiently while she slipped a pair of bright red non-slip socks over his feet. Afterwards, she picked up his bony legs by the ankles and slung them onto the sheets. Pulling down the collar of his shirt slightly to access the IV port, she flushed the line and screwed the IV back into place. She transferred the bags back from the wheelchair to the pole. With the press of a button, she turned on the pumps. Finished, she tucked him in under a mountain of blankets. She knew how cold he always got. Satisfied, she sat in the vacated wheelchair, folding her hands together. "So, what would you like to eat?"
'A steak dinner' he thought. His mouth watered at the idea. Figuring he needed something gentler on his stomach, he decided to choose something milder. "Chicken and rice," he replied.
"Chicken and rice it is then." She stood up and padded barefoot into the kitchen. She punched the description into the replicator and out popped a steaming hot meal. After making one for herself too, she slid the plates onto a large plastic tray. From the refrigerator, she got him a Sprite to soothe his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything solid in almost a week, supplemented only by IV nutrition. She didn't want to overload his system.
Returning to the room, she put the tray down on the nightstand. Inviting herself, she climbed up onto the other side of the large bed, sitting up with her legs criss-crossed. She gently set his plate onto his belly and handed him a fork.
"Now, eat slowly, Doctor," she urged. "We don't want to mess up your stomach."
"Yes, mum," he teased.
She flicked his shoulder. "Behave," she warned, a badly-concealed grin on her face.
Without further hesitation, he tucked in. He groaned when the first bite hit his tongue. It was delicious. The chicken was perfectly cooked with a crispy sear and seasoned with a lemon butter sauce. White Jasmine rice steamed enticingly. The Tardis really was an excellent chef. He had to force himself to chew slowly. He was hungry enough to wolf the whole thing down.
Pleased, Clara took a bite of her own meal. She pried opened the can of Sprite with a hiss and held it out to him insistently. He made a face.
"For your belly. Drink it."
"Clara, I think that's a myth."
He took one look at her nonplussed face and knew she wasn't taking any of his nonsense. Sighing, he took the can from her. Arguing with her was a futile venture. She always won.
He watched her eat. So many things he wanted to say to her. Things he thought he would never get to tell her. His thoughts jumbled themselves into an incoherent mess. He could not think of the right words. He blushed and looked away. "Th-thank you for your help, Clara," he stammered.
"No problem, Doctor." She answered with that beautiful lilt in her voice. "I know you'd do the same for me."
He nodded thoughtfully. He would without hesitation. He would do anything for her.
Once he finished his food, Clara took the plates and placed them back on the tray. She set it aside on the nightstand. Clambering off the bed, she pulled the sheets up to his neck. With one hand, she took the plastic tray and rested it against her hip. With the other, she squeezed his hand.
"Doctor, I am going to bed. If you need something, just shout. Is there anything I can get you?"
Unable to think of anything, he shook his head. He focused on the warm sensation of her hand over his. So tiny and soft. Almost imperceptibly, he could feel her heartbeat thumping through her fingers. With her mental defenses still down, her thoughts fluttered into his head. He smiled bashfully. She loved him so much. He gently shifted his hand out from under hers and laced their fingers together. Lifting her hand up to his mouth, he kissed her knuckles softly in thanks. She blushed slightly. Her heart tingled in her chest. Such a display of affection from him was rare and to be cherished.
He let her go reluctantly. A small voice in his head wished for her to stay. He would never admit it, but he was afraid to sleep alone. His nightmares had been relentless.
She patted his shoulder before clicking off the lamp on the night table. "Goodnight, Doctor," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Clara."
With that, she picked up the tray and left the room. The Doctor settled in. It felt so good to lay in his own bed again. No more cold nights alone in his jail cell. No more sleeping on the hard forest floor. The sheets were warm and silky against his skin.
With a full belly and a clean body, the Doctor slipped his eyes shut. Within moments, he drifted off into a deep sleep.
A/N: Please leave a review if you like the story! 3
