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“Nope. Not today.” Clara’s voice is hoarse and muffled as she calls out.
The Doctor freezes. His fist is raised, two centimeters away from the wood of the bedroom door upon which he was about to knock. Two things are very, very wrong.
The first is that Clara never turns down an adventure. Halfway through a school day, the middle of the night, even that one time she had a date scheduled with a Human Boy. (It was entirely coincidental that he’d whisked her away for dinner at the highest-rated restaurant in the galaxy, and a complete accident that after dealing with the self-aware automatic sporks who were attempting to rise up against their biological oppressors, he’d dropped her home several hours too late. Definitely not jealous sabotage.) And it’s definitely Wednesday, they always do this on Wednesdays- in fact he doesn’t know how to spend one without her.
The second thing is the smell. His olfactory system passes the combination of sickly sweet overtones and musky undercurrent further back into his brain for analysis. A virus, reports his disquaerial lobe after almost four seconds, a virus in the bedroom.
“Clara!” He calls through the door. “You need to leave the room, there’s something infectious in there.”
“Yeah.” Comes the weak reply. “Me.” Then she breaks into a coughing fit.
Instant panic- elevating heart rates in preparation for rapid response to the perceived threat, respiratory stasis as his lungs refuse to take in tainted air. But his leukocytes are entirely unconcerned and his skin isn’t hardening.
“No immune response.” He says out loud, for his own benefit. “Human contagion only.” And he pushes open the door.
Clara half-lying, half-sitting in the bed, propped up by what had always seemed like an excessive amount of pillows for one person but is now convenient. She’s wearing a grey hooded jumper pulled up and drawn tight over her head, and her round face is a similar colour to the fabric surrounding it. The bed is strewn with tissues and foil medication packets. Along with the virus, the air is thick with the scent of human sweat and mucus. Yuck.
He frowns. “Why are you all wallow-y?”
“Because I’m sick.”
“Yeah, but that won’t cure it.”
She almost burns a hole in him with a red-eyed scowl, which he dodges by looking down while rummaging in his pocket. Even though he’s immune he can’t bring himself to touch her right now (probably because of all the smells but possibly for a more complicated and less logical reason), and so he uses the sonic to take her vitals.
“Body temperature of thirty-eight degrees. Heart rate one-twenty, slightly elevated but that’s probably just the coughing. Any other symptoms?”
He stares slightly harder than necessary at the read-out as Clara reaches for a wad of tissue and blows her nose. Given how humans build whole separate rooms in their houses purely for excreting waste in, an expulsion of bodily fluids such as this definitely feels as though it should be a private thing.
There’s also the fact that seeing her in such a pitiful state causes An Emotion, which his disquaerial lobe is trying to analyse- he instructs it to stick to the science it's designed for, and resolves to simply continue not looking at Clara.
“Well,” she sniffs, “There’s that, and the general feeling of having been hit by a train.”
Hyperbole, she definitely hasn’t been hit by a train. But the Doctor holds back from pointing this out because she’s still clutching the wet tissues, and he doesn’t trust her not to throw them at him.
“I have something on the TARDIS that’ll be more effective than those,” he gestures at the assorted analgesic and decongestant products scattered across the bed, still not meeting her eyes. “Can’t be certain what the side effects would be though, so it's up to you whether you want to risk it over a bit of a cold.”
Yes, Clara does throw a ball of tissues at him and yes, he probably does deserve it. Was it the words, or the tone, or perhaps the body language? He’s sure that he’s about to find out.
“Look at me.” She demands.
Rassilon, it's impossible to say no to her. Reluctantly he fixes his gaze on Clara. Had they not been inside the digestive tract of a Dalek only a few days ago, then he would say she’s never looked less aesthetically pleasing. As it is, he manages to fashion that observation into what he hopes is a reassuring statement. “You’ve looked worse.”
Clara sort of laughs, but with no humour. Then she descends into more hacking coughs.
“Maybe it’s just a bit of a cold,” she rasps when the episode has subsided, “But I feel like shit right now. So-” and the next words seem to come out somewhat reluctantly- “I’d appreciate some sympathy if at all possible, Doctor.”
Well why couldn’t she have said that in the first place?
Perhaps fifty-one percent of him finds her stubbornness endearing and her strong will admirable, but the significant remaining minority thinks it’s all just annoying, and frankly insulting, given that the only thing that’s changed is him.
Back when she’d met him for the first time as her true iteration, she’d been only too happy to play the damsel in distress and let him take up vigil outside her house and save her from the scary monsters. Because he’d looked like a dashing young hero, handsome and chivalrous and entirely un-threatening. And he’s been in her thoughts, knows that she was never one to swoon for pretty boys and is (inexplicably) attracted to the face and body he wears now, but it hurts all the same.
That’s the one, the Emotion that he’s been trying not to process. Sad, he is sad because she is suffering and doesn’t want to be vulnerable around him. He’s learning to bare his soul for her when she asks but she still keeps her own walls up.
“You don’t want me to take care of you now that I’ve regenerated.” He says quietly. It’s just a factual statement, but it comes out like an accusation.
“I never did.” Clara’s hoarse voice is equally quiet, and she’s reaching out a hand now, slightly shaking. “When we met, it seemed like you needed to be strong and brave to distract yourself from all the loss. And you saved my life, so many times, so it was easy to fill that role for you. But I stopped being that naive little earth girl a long time ago, after everything we’ve seen and done. And I hate anyone making a fuss, not just you. Which is why it’s hard to ask but I genuinely need your help right now.”
Impossible girl- only one language and barely a quarter of a century speaking it, but somehow she can articulate so perfectly. He takes a deep breath and tells his brain firmly to stop freaking out about microbes and bodily fluids and the terrifying concept of vulnerability, then crosses the small room in three steps to place his hand over Clara’s.
A sour cocktail of hormones prickles his skin, biomarkers of both physical pain and emotional distress. Primitive immune system in confused overdrive as it tries to simultaneously repel the invasive substance and study it closely enough to formulate appropriate antibodies. And cold, so cold despite the fever. He doesn’t need touch telepathy to notice how clammy her skin is, but beyond that he’s overwhelmed by the realisation of how fragile humans are. Their bones break like twigs and their organs fail so easily, that he knows, but the knowledge that a simple infection can leave them feeling like this makes his hand on hers feel suddenly heavy with guilt.
His Clara is hurting and he needs to fix it.
“Can you walk to the med bay?”
She shakes her head, and then lets out a surprised yelp as he picks her up. She weighs nothing really, slung over his shoulder as he takes her through to the lounge, into the TARDIS and down the corridor to the med bay. Another Emotion is occurring, warmth in his chest accompanied by an unfathomable trickle of testosterone from his pesky endocrine system. Whatever, he’ll deal with that later.
He deposits her into the reclined chair which immediately starts running diagnostic analysis, and rummages through the cabinets. Away from the warmth of the overloaded bed, Clara shivers.
“Here.” The pre-loaded syringe is helpfully labelled with ‘Earth RTI 21st c’ and five green question marks in his own handwriting from several hands ago, indicating that it’s never actually been tested but is most likely effective. Come to think of it, he should probably spend a bit more time in the lab in preparation for this sort of thing- all manner of fantastic medicine exists in the future, but designed to combat highly evolved pathogens which barely resemble those of the present.
Clara is eyeing the syringe wearily. “Where does that go?”
“Any mucous membrane will suffice, do you have a preference?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been asked that.”
He shakes the syringe and pops the cap off. “We’ll go with oral then, but it probably won’t taste good.”
She smirks. “That one I’ve heard once or twice.”
With no idea what she’s referring to, he ignores the comment, and squeezes the syringe into her mouth. Clara gags as the gelatinous orange contents adhere to the roof of her mouth, but the rapid absorption is hopefully worth it.
With a smug chime, the chair announces its results, a list of the required supplements and hydration appearing on the monitor. He opens another cabinet housing a rack of nutri-cubes, dispenses the appropriate colour-coded blocks into a cup, and passes it to Clara.
“Eat.” He instructs.
Maybe she tries to make another witty remark, but her mouth is still full of congealing goop and all that comes out is a mumble. She grimaces, but then her face lights up as she chews the first couple of nutri-cubes. They come in multiple flavours, but the only one he keeps in stock is the one that’s most similar to the taste of jelly babies.
“You’re probably going to want to pay a visit to the decontamination pod when you’re done with those. Any remaining infection is going to leave your body but I’m not sure which… route.” He shudders at the thought.
Clara nods, and swallows audibly. “Thank you.”
Two very simple words, but he knows they represent something much bigger, and nods in return.
She’s well enough to bear her own weight now, but still unsteady, so he helps her to the sanitation room and then leaves her to it. While waiting he returns to her flat, opening the windows to let in some fresh air.
There’s a convenient roll of small plastic bags on the kitchen counter so he puts one over his hand like a glove to pick up all the tissues and put them in a second bag, then puts both into the bin and thoroughly washes his hands with the overpoweringly floral-scented soap she insists on buying. He makes the bed too, just for something to do. The kettle is just boiling when Clara steps out of the TARDIS.
She’s clean now, and a much healthier colour. She gives him a smile that makes him wonder if she too struggles for the right words sometimes.
He smiles too. “Better?”
“Yeah. Better.”
“Good. You just need to rest now. I could… stay if you like. To monitor for side effects.” He finishes with a non-committal shrug.
Clara takes two mugs off the rack and starts making tea. “I’d like that very much, Doctor.” She says.
His disquaerial lobe is churning away at that warmth in his chest, dissecting what seems akin to pride, or possibly relief. Perhaps he’s no handsome young hero anymore, but he still wears the same title- healer, person of wisdom and compassion.
Clara carries the two mugs of tea over the sofa and puts them down on the table, picking up the TV remote and holds it out. “I usually watch period dramas when I feel sorry for myself, but I’ll let you choose.”
He’s delighted to discover that there’s a channel broadcasting nothing but historical documentaries, endless opportunities to point out everything they get wrong. And Clara lets him, her way of expressing the gratitude that ‘thank you’ doesn’t quite convey. At some point her body rests against his and her breathing slows. She’s pleasantly warm now. Gently he prises the half-drunk tea from her hands before disaster strikes.
He doesn’t even mind the physical proximity. An understatement really, as he tastes oxytocin in the back of his throat. It’s good, good because Clara trusts him and feels safe with him, and good that she struggles to admit it because it means she can understand that he’s just the same. Equally imperfect. Compatible.
He lets his breathing and heart rates synchronise with hers. Maybe it’s not so bad to be so much alike.