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Chapter Text

After five days of being stuck in a submarine - much of that time spent holed up in the captain's quarters, with no stimulation except her own thoughts and a pitiful library occupying half of a shelf on the far wall - cabin fever has Clara's very bones aching with restlessness. Staring at the same four, dull gray walls for hours on end is not how she expected to pass her time with the Doctor. She should be seeing the farthest reaches of the galaxies, observing alien cultures, partying it up in Las Vegas. . .anywhere but trapped inside of a metal fish.

Not that she's complaining. Meeting the Doctor is, by far, the most interesting, wonderful thing that has ever happened to her, even if adventuring with him occasionally leads to some rough spots and the sporadic tricky situation. They always make it out though, by working together.

That's one of the reasons she's regretting her promise to stay shut up in the tiny room they share - Captain Zhukov's gift to them for preventing the Cold War from becoming a hot one. While she knows the repair work the Doctor executes every day is single-handedly keeping the vessel together, Clara finds it hard to follow a request she feels is ridiculous. Surely she could be lending a hand somewhere aboard the submarine?

"I don't see why I can't help you," she told him earlier this morning, finally voicing her thoughts. Up until then, she'd simply followed orders without question. If he was putting her patience to the test, she would receive failing marks.

His answer was simple and direct, to the point of being evasive: "Only one sonic."

She tried a different approach. "I could keep you company?"

That pained him a little. Clara saw it in his eyes. He always got that look when she did or said something he considered 'human.' But wanting companionship wasn't inherently human - it was one of those universal truths: everybody needs somebody. After all, he hadn't invited her aboard the TARDIS because he wanted to remain alone.

The tone of his voice told her how hard it was for him to deny her, but still he insisted. "Clara, the captain himself has asked me to - how do I put this delicately? - keep you out of sight."

She quirked an eyebrow at his inept, blunt wording. "That's being delicate?"

"You're a distraction to his men," he added.

Her finger poked into the middle of his chest, mouth ready to issue a protest, but the Doctor placed his own finger against her lips to silence her. He had more to say.

"I think he has a point," he revealed, effectively squashing any hope of escaping the boredom awaiting her - reading nautical charts and histories. "No good will come of provoking the crew with a temptation like you."

He tapped the end of her nose with affection and a note of dismissiveness.

Temptation? Clara pondered over his word choice. Was that a compliment or insult? Either way, he made it sound like the crew manning the submarine couldn't behave themselves. Sure, she'd felt a few of the men's eyes on her, even in the presence of the Doctor, but Clara refused to believe they were incapable of controlling certain urges.

He continuously readjusted his clothes - tightening his braces to keep his borrowed trousers from falling, twisting his bow tie to the perfect angle under the collar of the captain's spare shirt, and pulling at the panels of his cherished tweed jacket - antsy to get to work and out of their conversation. Clara wasn't about to let him off that easily. She wanted justification for his demonizing of the crew.

Grasping his arm, she physically turned him back to the conversation. "Doctor, give these sailors a little credit. They aren't mindless animals."

At her insistence, the warmth left his expression. "Oh, Clara. They are the exact opposite of 'mindless animals.' They are very mindful ones. They're humans. Far worse."

"Doctor - "

"I want you safe."

"But - "

"Promise me, Clara. Promise me you won't put yourself in unnecessary danger."

It was useless. He'd just keep talking over her until she agreed. He could be a real bully when it came to protecting her; it's just that she'd never been on the receiving end of the bullying before now.

"Fine," she acquiesced, but reiterated her opinion on the matter, "though I think you and the captain are both overreacting."

He kissed the top of her head briefly, then vanished in a flurry of tweed and green light.

For two or three hours after his departure, she kept herself occupied with her own daily activities: reading, tidying the room, braiding and unbraiding her hair, reading some more, and trying to sleep. After laying on the bed for twenty minutes, however, she can't take it any more. She's simply not tired enough to fall asleep. She has entirely too much energy to stay confined to a single room.

Clara fidgets on the end of the mattress, swinging her legs in agitation. Though her promise is fresh on her tongue, she's reaching the end of her patience. Every person has her limits, and Clara is reaching hers fast on this slow journey to the South Pole to chase after the TARDIS. And it isn't over yet. Their estimated date of arrival to the other end of the Earth is still two days out, and that isn't taking into account that they don't exactly have a fixed location on the renegade space-time ship.

"Just one short stroll," she plans out loud, thinking that if she can poke her head out for a few minutes, she'll be more content to follow the Doctor's request. "Just to the galley and back. I'll say I wanted a snack. He can't be mad at me for being hungry."

With a decision made, she bounces off of the mattress, slips into her shoes, then leaves the room, already feeling the first thrill of free will.

Outside, in the officer's corridor, she's surprised to find she's not alone. A young sailor with a mesh bag full of clothing has just exited the adjoining room.

Of course there are other people on the submarine, but the Doctor's done a pretty thorough job of scaring everyone away from the area. She's not sure how he manages to intimidate so many people when he has only wisps for eyebrows.

Still, he can exude authority when he wants. Maybe he accomplishes the task by jutting out his chin to compensate for the lack of eyebrow furrowing?

"Hello." She greets the sailor with a smile.

He nods his head in acknowledgement and grins in return. "Hello, miss."

"Dropping off the laundry?" she asks hopefully. She tugs at the fabric of the utility jumpsuit that hangs loosely on her small frame. It is the smallest uniform on the submarine, yet it still engulfs her in surplus cotton. She'd much rather have the dress - not to mention the knickers - she was wearing when she arrived. "I'd love to get back in my own things."

"I bet you would," the sailor agrees, a pink tint coloring his cheeks.

What an odd thing to blush over.

He's impossibly young, far too young to be a soldier at war. But the way he holds himself - back straight, shoulders squared, chin out - suggests that maybe he's more ready for battle than his baby face lets on. Fleetingly, she thinks of the Doctor, of his goofy smile and floppy hair; though he presents himself as unthreatening and cheerful, Clara knows that he keeps the anger and scars hidden deep within.

Appearances are most definitely deceiving.

The sailor hitches the laundry sack over his shoulder and queries, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Just out for a walk," Clara volunteers. "On the search for food."

"I could take you down - "

"No need for an escort," she interrupts his offer. Waving in farewell, she starts down the corridor at a brisk pace.

The young man calls after her. "The galley's straight below! You're going out of the way!"

She glances over her shoulder with a mischievous smile. A tiny thrill of rebellion flares up in her chest. Breaking the rules is more fun than she thought, even when the rules are silly and a result of a certain Time Lord's overprotective streak.

"I'm taking the scenic route," she returns, barely containing a wink, then disappears into the bowels of the submarine.

A bowl of canned fruit cocktail and one hand of gin with the chef later, Clara climbs back up from the belly of the submarine to the captain's quarters. She feels refreshed and relaxed, having proven that she can move about freely without endangering her life. More importantly, she managed to avoid bumping into the Doctor and having to explain herself.

He's not going to like the fact that he isn't always right, she prophesizes, though she's still unsure of how to bring up the topic without making the Doctor worry. Clara doesn't want him to lose his trust in her over something as trivial as proving a point.

Clara goes inside, closes the door, then almost jumps out of her skin. The sailor she'd met in the corridor half an hour ago is standing beside the bed with his body turned away from her. Spread across the bed is her blue dress, while the rest of the laundry is heaped at the end of the mattress in haphazard disarray.

"Didn't expect you in here," she announces loudly as she inches forward, in a voice that is guarded but not unfriendly.

Her words startle him, leading the sailor to pivot in her direction. That's when Clara takes in the rest of the picture, a very unsettling scenario forming in her head. Over the course of a few flicks of her eyes - to the sailor's face, to his hands, to the bed, and back - she gathers all of the visual cues her instincts need to send a kick of adrenaline through her system.

In his left hand he grips a ball of intimately familiar pink satin, while he uses his other hand to grasp a bit of himself. Though he promptly lets go of the latter, it's clear he has yet to finish what he started. Clara's stomach lurches, as though she might become sick. It's one thing to walk in on Artie in an innocent moment of teenage "self-discovery," but quite another to find a stranger handling himself in her room, using herclothes as stimuli.

Clara catches herself back-peddling, stumbling toward the door, and stops. Why should she flee? This sailor is intruding on her territory. She's not about to let him get away with his disrespectful treatment of her belongings and personal space without objection.

Clara crosses her arms, then tries to sound stern when she asks, "Just what are you on about?"

"I was delivering the laundry," he explains without any hint that he's embarrassed by her interruption, "and then I came across these."

He lifts her satin bottoms, momentarily distracted by the soft fabric. Coming back to the point, his gaze refocuses on her. He takes his time performing a skin-crawl-inducing once-over. A frown of distaste pulls at the corners of his mouth as he considers the unflattering jumpsuit she's wearing. "You'd look much better in these."

Clara cringes. Yuck. Her knickers are going to need a thorough scrubbing before she'll even consider putting them on her body again.

"Time to give them back," she states as firmly as she can under his full-on leer. She loathes how her voice comes out sounding like a scared little girl. She shouldn't be intimidated. After all, this is the same sailor who blushed over the mere mention of her unmentionables a short time ago. Plus, she's at least a few years older than this kid.

To her increasing dismay, the sailor does not relinquish her stolen underwear. He rubs them between his fingertips as he devours her with his hungry, lustful stare. Taking a step forward, he halves the distance between them in the already claustrophobic space.

Clara struggles with the urge to retreat, desperately fighting to maintain her composure at the crisis moment. She only hopes he can't hear how her heart slams against her ribcage as a violent swell of terror washes over her.

She thrusts out her arm, palm up. Giving him her most disapproving pout - the one that tells her teenage charges that she's not messing around - she gestures with her hand, silently instructing him to turn over the goods.

Mustering the last of her remaining false bravado, she asserts, "It's time for you to go."

A deep scowl darkens his face as he seems to consider his options. His expression makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. He shuffles forward, growing larger and more threatening with every inch.

He's a trained soldier. I'm no match for him, Clara realizes a mite too late. While the sailor may be her junior in age, he's her superior in three key areas: height, weight, and muscle mass. It would take minimal effort for him to overpower her. What was I thinking?

Clara has no chance to try to stave off his attack. In the span of a breath, the sailor snatches the wrist of her outstretched arm, turning it up and behind her sharply. With an audible "umph" he crushes her against the door, using his body weight to pin her in place.

His free arm hooks around her throat and closes off her windpipe, making it impossible for her to breathe or cry out.

"If you call for help, I'll snap this pretty neck of yours," he threatens. "Got it?"

Unable to vocalize her understanding, Clara nods furiously in assent.

Happy with her answer, the pressure around her throat ceases, and his free hand goes on an exploration of her body, groping and prodding and fondling with clumsy, brutal strength.

"Why?" Clara squeaks. Maybe there's a slim chance she can still talk him out of this. Slim is minutely better than none.

Pink satin rubs against her cheek as he rasps his motives into her ear, "Simple. You see, I started thinking. . ..If I've got your panties, you probably aren't wearing any."

To prove his point, the sailor fingers the snaps on the front of her jumpsuit, getting a good handle on the fabric, and yanks it harshly, exposing the flesh beneath. She's bared from hipbone to collarbone, with only her bra for cover. Thank the stars she hadn't washed it too.

While Clara wriggles helplessly beneath him, the sailor's hand continues touching where he has no right to touch. His breathing is heavy and thick, rustling the hair at the nape of her neck with damp heat.

"You could play nice," he suggests. "It doesn't have to be like this."

Her response is to ram her heel, as hard as she can, on top of the sailor's toes. He grunts, but doesn't relinquish his hold. "Steel-toed boots, sweetheart," he sneers as he works the fabric of her jumpsuit down one shoulder, then the other.

Fear rapidly chases out the adrenaline in her bloodstream. She's running out of time, out of options.

While her hands and feet may be worthless as weapons against her captor's strength, there is one vulnerable area she can reach without the use of her limbs. Waiting until she can feel his nose rooting into her loose curls, Clara pulls away, then throws her head back with a guttural exclamation. A sickening crack accompanies a sharp pain in her head, but all Clara can focus on is that her arms are free. Her captor stumbles away, clutching at his nose. A red stream has erupted from his nostrils.

Clara doesn't hesitate and hurriedly opens the door. "Doctor!" she yells in an unusual pitch, voice colored with the fear sprouting in the middle of her chest. "Doctor! Help!"

Halfway down the corridor, she hears footsteps racing toward her. Glancing over her shoulder, she has just enough time to prepare herself for impact as the sailor tackles her from behind. Her wrist hits the ground at an awkward angle; Clara feels it crumple beneath the weight of two people.

Her cry of pain is muffled by a sweaty, bloody hand covering her mouth. Somehow the sailor has managed to flip her on her back and is now looming over her.

"You're in for it now," he snarls as he works on restraining her flailing limbs. He pins her legs beneath his own and swats away her uninjured hand - which Clara uses to scratch and punch whatever is in her reach - as though it is a pesky insect. Whipping her head from side to side, she tries to shake off the suffocating appendage. She succeeds in sinking her teeth into the side of his hand, filling her mouth with the taste of blood.

With a roar, her assailant recoils, but not long enough for Clara to cry out again. An open-palmed slap sears across her cheek; a fiery sensation lingers on her skin as tears leak from her eyes. The force of the hit produces dots of black across her vision. Even lying on the floor, she feels dizzy.

Now he's angry; the fury is there in his eyes. She can feel it in the way his hands encircle her neck and squeeze, both thumbs pressing on her windpipe. Clara barely has the wherewithal to struggle against her own strangulation. She manages to open her mouth, but doesn't take in any air.

The black dots in her vision grow to become dark clouds. The lights of the corridor dim, and the face of the sailor blurs above her. A terrible numbness settles into her chest, blocking out the panic that drives her to continue struggling to her last breath. Once it grabs hold, Clara no longer feels the need to fight back.

Just as night falls within her mind, the grated floor rumbles beneath her, as though trembling from the thunder of an oncoming storm.

Chapter Text

Her name rips from his mouth like an explosion. Clarrraaaa!

As he barrels toward the beast straddling the impossible girl - his impossible girl - the Doctor's vision tunnels until all he can see are the eyes of Clara's attacker. Large, terrified eyes.

Hundreds of years ago, the Doctor vowed never to use unhindered violence against those who are not his equals. He's incorporated it into his ever-growing list of rules. Of course, there is one rule that trumps all others: the very first. And, sometimes - only when absolutely necessary to justify the means to a particularly unpleasant end - the Doctor lies, even to himself.

It is a lie that he will always take the moral high ground and solve an injustice peacefully. It is a lie that he can control the rage he feels at the sight of Clara's unmoving body. It is a lie that he can keep himself from inflicting pain to the person responsible for his companion's current state.

No force in all the galaxies across the universe could stop him now. All logic and mercy have deserted him, seeking shelter in the recesses of his mind from the surge of red that has taken over his frontal lobe.

Even as the sailor pushes himself away from Clara in an attempt to escape, the Doctor launches himself at the young man. They both topple to the ground next to her supine body - a pile of limbs and cold sweat and heavy breathing.

Suddenly there is flesh beneath the Doctor's hands - soft, vulnerable human flesh that bruises and bleeds so easily. Forsaking the definition behind his name, the Doctor uses his fists as weapons, pummeling the sailor's face over and over.

Two pairs of hands take hold of his arms, yanking him back, stopping him just short of beating the young sailor into unconsciousness. Whimpers of agony and pain roll up from the floor, but do not elicit any sympathy or regret from the Time Lord. If anything, the Doctor is sorry that he didn't hit the sailor where it would have really hurt.

"Let me go!" the Doctor bellows in demand, squirming for freedom. "I'm not finished with him!"

A stern face materializes before him, effectively blocking his line of sight to the bloodied sailor. "Oh yes, you are," Captain Zhukov informs him firmly. "I will not tolerate such behavior on my vessel."

A dark, stormy glower moves across the Doctor's features at the implied challenge. "You think you can stop me?"

"You will not harm anyone under my command," the captain declares.

"He hurt someone under my protection! He answers to me." Spit flies from the Doctor's mouth as he roars. With frantic jerks, he once again struggles to break free, but the iron grips around his biceps tighten, practically lifting him off the ground. These guards are more powerful than his first impression. Or maybe his strength is simply failing him in his middle age.

"You will cease your attempts, or I will keep you restrained," the captain warns, adding, "Violence doesn't end violence, Doctor. It extends it."

Captain Zhukov's final words echo through the Doctor's mind like they've come from another life. They make him pause. They make him listen. The submarine's leader is presenting his argument so calmly, so rationally, that the Doctor's rage tempers from a boil to a simmer.

Maybe I've been around humans for too long, he thinks, to let my emotions get the better of me.

While the Doctor sifts through his thoughts, Captain Zhukov announces the next steps for all to hear: "This young man will be punished justly for his actions. But such punishment will only be determined once everyone has calmed down. Until then, he'll be secured in the control room. Understood?"

The last is directed at the Doctor alone. A reluctant, unspoken agreement exchanges between the two captains as they stare each other down. After a moment, the Doctor nods slightly to signify his acceptance of the terms. With an approving incline of Captain Zhukov's head to the two crewmen gripping his arms, the Doctor is finally released.

"Sir, I don't think she's breathing."

The Doctor whips around in true panic. In his fit of rage for revenge, he cast aside the most important fact: Clara is injured. Immediately, he pivots and drops to one knee beside her inanimate form.

"Get away from her!" he orders of the attentive sailor who is stooped over her body.

Like a bird defending a hatchling in the nest, he strikes out at the snakes that have gathered around. Perhaps these sailors are a different breed than the one who attacked Clara, but he's not willing to take the risk that even one of the assembled sailors holds ill intentions for the girl in his care. From this moment until they leave the submarine, no one is coming within a fifteen foot radius of Clara except himself.

Maybe it is his tone, or the brute vehemence behind his order - or the bloodied, swollen face of the transgressor being carried off to the control room, slung limply between the guards who had their hands around the Doctor's arms not thirty seconds ago - but the rest of the crew are quick to obey. They hover in quiet observation as the Doctor ministers to his companion.

He puts his ear to her mouth briefly while removing his sonic from his jacket's inner pocket. In one sweep of green light, he completes a scan of her entire body. He reads the data and exhales a short breath in overwhelming relief. "Unconscious."

The readout indicates she has other injuries too, but she's still breathing. Really, that's the only thing that matters. All the rest will be addressed once he has her secluded and safe.

It takes longer than it should to register that Clara's torso is close to being fully exposed to the half-dozen men loitering in the corridor. With deft movements, he shrugs out of his tweed jacket and covers her body from view. Then, mindful of her head, the Doctor lifts Clara into his arms, cradling her against his chest, and transports her back to their shared quarters.

Crossing the threshold into their room, he steps on a wad of pink. On the mattress, he spies Clara's dress spread out in an uncharacteristic fashion. It is strangely separated from the other clothing - his trousers and shirt, which he had laundered - lumped at the end of the bed, wrinkled and discarded.

His stomach is seized by a wave of nausea. An all too accurate reenactment of what transpired here forms in his mind. There's no need to imagine the fear and panic Clara must have felt during the attack; those feelings linger in the stale air, resound off of the steel walls, and fill his ears with the sounds of her distress. It's a sound he's become uncomfortably familiar with over their multiple adventures.

Lifting her higher in his arms, he brushes his nose against the top of her head and murmurs into her hair, "Clara. . ..Why does this keep happening to you?"

He doesn't want to keep her here, in the room where it all started. But what choice does he have? There's no formal infirmary on board, and they are already in the most private room on the submarine. The best he can do is remove potential triggers - the clothing strewn around the room and the traces of blood dotted along the floor - set things in proper order, and hope that she doesn't wake up terrified.

After scooping up her dress with the tips of his fingers, he lays Clara on the mattress gently. He adjusts his jacket to ensure she is adequately covered, then sets about tidying the small room. First, he folds her dress and the rest of his clothing, placing them at the end of the bed. At his feet rests a sack of clean clothing. He rummages around, then pulls out another jumpsuit, thinking Clara may want to change once she's cleaned up.

The wad of pink fabric near the door draws his attention. What does he do about the knickers? He suspects she won't want to wear them anytime soon, if ever again. In fact, just seeing them may bring her the stress of frightening memories.

Better to do away with them completely.

The Doctor readies the sonic, then picks up her panties and transfers them to the small sink in the corner of the room. With a press of a button, the sonic emits a green spark, and the fabric catches fire. It burns quickly and doesn't give off much smoke. Turning on the faucet, he washes away the evidence.

Still standing at the sink, the Doctor fills a bowl with warm water, then carries it to a small shelf at the side of the bed. Next, he commences a search for a sponge and other necessary supplies - wiping up the scattered drops of blood with a handkerchief as he goes along - before finally taking up a seat near Clara's head. It's time to have a better look at her injuries.

He starts at the top and works his way down. The back of her head sports a crescent shaped contusion that was likely caused by the sailor's teeth. Though there's no trace of blood, there is a significant bump. The Doctor takes note and moves on.

Another large bruise has changed the usual rosy color of her cheek to a mottled purpley-yellow. Blood covers her chin and throat. He takes the sponge, dips it in the warm water, and dabs at her skin, looking for any open cuts that may still be bleeding. To his surprise, he doesn't find any. That can only mean that none of the blood belongs to her; it all belonged to her attacker.

She's a fighter, he thinks with a flash of pride. Impulsively, he brushes her hair from her forehead and plants a kiss there. "That's my girl."

After wiping away the evidence of her struggle, the Doctor sets the bowl aside, then peels away his jacket to examine the rest of her. He sees a few more marks of black and blue, but his eyes focus on her left wrist. It rests at an awkward angle.

Just as he starts to sonic her wrist, to clarify exactly which bones are broken or sprained, Clara stirs. He immediately pulls the jacket up to her chin, and returns his attention to her face as she rouses.

"Doctor," she rasps, voice hoarse from the manipulation of her windpipe.

As he expects, she tries to rise, but he gently denies her by placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm right here, Clara. You're safe."

It takes her a full moment to gather her whereabouts, to comprehend why she's laying in the captain's quarters with the Doctor assuring her she's safe. Her eyes widen when she comes around to remembering what he's sure she'd rather forget.

"Oh."

It troubles him that her reaction is so mild. She should be crying or screaming or displaying other signs of emotional disturbance. . ..Shouldn't she? Of course, she's probably in shock. That would numb her immediate response to the attack, but only for a short time.

The Doctor decides to let her process her dawning realizations uninterrupted. While he waits, his fingers lazily twirl the ends of her hair, caressing the silky strands with tender affection.

Clara systematically flexes her limbs, rotates her shoulders, and wiggles her toes and fingers. A twinge of discomfort passes over her expression when she stretches her neck from side to side. An audible hiss escapes her when she tests out her left wrist.

"I think it's broken," she remarks calmly.

Shock, then. He's certain of it now.

But Clara's tough. The Doctor remembers how she volunteered to speak to Skaldak when others lacked the courage. She's not the type to become hysterical over a broken bone. Though not invincible, the word fragile would never come to mind to describe her. Tenacious, perhaps, or resilient. Resilient to the point of being impossible.

"I'm certain it is," he tells her in a hushed voice, explaining, "The sonic can't mend bone properly, but I have other instruments in the TARDIS infirmary. For now, a splint will have to do."

He waits for her nod of understanding, then sets about splinting her wrist with utmost care with his impromptu supplies, trying to minimize any pain. While he works on setting the bone in place, he queries, "Anything else feel out of sorts?"

Clara takes a moment to perform another mental inventory of herself. "My neck," she adds softly. "I remember he had his hands around my throat."

"Yes," he confirms.

"He was on top of me," she remembers next, gaining momentum as the memories flood into her awareness.

The Doctor predicts where her thoughts are headed, can hear the panic creeping into her voice. She doesn't know what happened after that.

He can't let her imagination take her to that dark place; can't let her mind run wild with nightmares.

Before he can say anything to ease her fears, her face pales, and she mumbles, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Chapter Text

He steps out of the line of fire just in time as the contents of her stomach spew onto the floor. In a quick glance he identifies chunks of pineapple, peach, and. . .

"Maraschino cherries?" he questions as he throws a towel over the substance, then turns his attention back to her. "You didn't have fruit cocktail at breakfast?"

Immediately, her eyes glaze over and shut out everything around her. Her body seems to curl into itself - as though she's shrinking into a protective ball - though she never actually moves. Even her mouth flattens into a silent, lifeless line. It's as though she's experiencing total system shutdown. It's such an instant and complete change that the Doctor is, for once, truly puzzled by how to proceed. He's never had to deal with a situation quite like this, but he supposes that he should use a delicate approach. He just hopes he doesn't botch it up as badly as he did this morning when he called her a temptation.

"Clara," he whispers.

Tilting her delicate chin up with a single fingertip, he glimpses the frightened confusion surfacing in her expression as the initial shock of the attack starts to wear off. Her beautiful eyes are drowning in fresh tears, yet none spill out over her lashes. His hearts ache for her at the sight.

He never likes to see any of his friends in pain, but with Clara it hurts even more. She's already sacrificed herself for him - twice - and he still can't keep her from harm. He's failed her again, and he feels utterly powerless to stop it from happening over and over.

"Talk to me," he prompts, but he's certain that it sounds more like a plea than a casual request.

"I only wanted a snack," she offers in a ghostly impression of her normal tone. Her special spark has been stolen away.

A fresh flare of anger tears through the Doctor as he thinks of the sailor who did this, who took what he had no claim to.

Oblivious to his sudden agitation, Clara continues: "I went to the galley. When I came back. . .he was in the room. I-I confronted him. That's when he. . .w-when he. . ."

She sputters to a stop and retreats into herself again, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to share any further details. Instead of pushing her to reveal more of what happened, he lets the seconds tick by in silence.

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

His jaw drops at her unexpected apology. She has no reason to feel guilty. She's the victim here. He can't help but sound perplexed when he asks, "Sorry for what?"

"Wandering off," she confesses. "I should have listened to you."

He barely contains himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake. He settles for taking hold of her un-splinted hand and pressing his lips to the skin of her knuckles, massaging her fingers with his own.

Thick emotion clogs his throat when he responds, "My clever girl. I'm so very glad you didn't."

Whether it is his words or his delivery, she's caught by surprise, saying, "I don't understand. You instructed me to stay here, I didn't listen, and now you're happy? Am I missing something?"

Naturally, she'd be the only companion who's ever expressed guilt over not listening to his instructions, contrary thing that she is. He never expects anyone to actually abide by his rules - though it would make his life less chaotic if his companions heeded his cautionary words every once in a while.

This time, it's different. Clara did the right thing, yet she's punishing herself for it. She thinks she's done something to betray him, which is completely wrong. Such thoughts just won't do.

Capturing her eyes with his own, he illustrates, "If you'd been here when he came in, think of how things may have escalated. What if you'd been asleep? He would have had you at a total disadvantage."

He waits as her mind drinks in that bit of explanation, feels her swallow the possibility that he could be right, that she is lucky to have wandered off to the galley when she did.

Maybe Clara takes his suggestion that she imagine what could have happened too literally, because the color suddenly drains from her face. The hand he's holding clenches around his fingers as she considers the worst possible scenario.

"Doctor - ?"

"He didn't," the Doctor states resolutely, wanting to make it unquestioningly clear that the sailor didn't violate her in the most despicable of ways. She regards him skeptically - perhaps doubting he knew what she was going to ask, perhaps in his answer - so the Doctor adds, "He didn't have the chance."

"I passed out. How could you know how long I was unconscious?"

"He still had his hands around your throat when I came from the control room," he explains."He hadn't gotten to anything else."

If he'd been two minutes later, this would be an entirely different discussion - a thought that injects immeasurable terror straight to his hearts.

Minding the jacket covering her chest, Clara shifts into a sitting position. "So, nothing happened?"

He holds up the sonic. "Scan says you're fine. Nothing happened," he assures her, then adds, "And nothing will happen. I'm going to make quite sure of that."

Suddenly - and to the Doctor's intense discomfort - more tears well in her ducts. This time one escapes, hurdling over her lash line and dropping straight to her lap, not a streak of water left behind. If he would have blinked, he'd have missed it.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she apologizes again, directing her gaze down, allowing her hair to cascade over her face and hide the display of weakness until she regains control. Though she's fighting against it, her defenses are finally breaking down.

"I should've run," she critiques. "My instincts said, 'Clara, get out of there.' Did I listen? No."

"Sometimes you can't run," he counsels with empathetic sensitivity. "Sometimes the universe has nothing to offer except the short straw. You have no choice but to take it."

It's a harsh, awful truth, but a fact nonetheless.

He wishes - as he always does - that the carefree adventuring could have lasted a little longer. He fools himself into believing it can happen every time, but it never lasts. Bad things happen to the people around him. People die. Clara's done it twice already, though she doesn't know that yet - and never will, if he can help it. The Doctor does his best to protect the people in his care, but there are times when he's utterly useless. Like today.

The Doctor clears his throat, needing to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Would you care to change? There's a fresh jumpsuit. A bit big, I'm afraid, but - "

He's cut off by her silent nod. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

The Doctor picks up the folded jumpsuit and deposits it in her uninjured hand. Several questions leap to the forefront of his mind: Does she have the ability to climb out of the bed herself? Can she manage to shrug out of the blood-stained jumpsuit she's in now, and pull on the other? How will she get the splint through the arm?

A wisp of a blush skirts across her cheeks. "Doctor, I'd rather not have an audience."

It's her sincere request that keeps him from coloring in embarrassment. She's not teasing him. The tone's all wrong for teasing. There is a vulnerability about her now that persuades him to keep his expressions and gestures in check; this is not the time to display the characteristics of the eleven-year-old he usually strives to be.

He stands and turns away, perusing the books on the far wall, trying his hardest not to appear that he's listening for the smallest sign Clara is struggling with the task of dressing herself.

She had to put up with this rubbish every day? he thinks as he scans the book titles. No wonder she felt the need for escape.

He's felt it too. He's never liked enclosed spaces or long stays. It's not in his biology. But at least he's had the run of the submarine, tinkering and fixing to pass the time. Clara's been stuck inside of a windowless cell with nothing but Derevko's Guide to Nautical Navigation.

There's plenty of rustling going on behind him. The ruined jumpsuit falls to the floor with an airy plop, then he hears her shake out the freshly laundered uniform. That's when he realizes she's having trouble catching her breath. Is it due to pain? Effort?

As she slips into the clean jumpsuit, a muffled whimper escapes her. It is all he can do to not turn around while she's in the middle of changing. He rocks on the balls of his feet and thumbs the underside of his braces. Time slugs by.

"Doctor?" She punctuates his name with a sniffle.

Clara is sniffling, and still he doesn't turn around. Not until she asks.

"I can't button the snaps," she reveals. "My hand won't stop shaking."

Her comment may not technically count as a request, but her tone implies the need for help. He peeks over his shoulder. Clara holds the neck of the jumpsuit closed with her good hand, her left still missing in the fabric of the suit's arm. Her eyes are downcast, as though she's ashamed to ask him for assistance with such a simple task.

I won't steal her pride too, he resolves, pivoting to face her and closing the distance between them with a single step. Slowly, he extends his fingers, hovering just out of reach of the fabric, waiting for expressed permission.

"Please."

Before proceeding, he leans forward and kisses the top of her head, avoiding the goose egg he found earlier. His lips linger on her roots as his nimble fingers press the snaps together in rapid succession, starting with the one directly below her navel and working his way up by touch instead of sight. When he reaches her chest, she tilts her head up to look at him. He never breaks his gaze away from her eyes.

Her question whispers across the bottom of his chin. "What did you run away from?"

He can't conceal the twinge of emotion that question evokes. It's reflected in his eyes, in the way his fingers fumble with the final snap above her collarbone, in the choking sound he makes before he answers her.

"Everything."

It takes a moment for her to process and accept his truthful, yet evasively vague, answer. Then she pitches forward, crashing against his chest and burying her nose into the fabric that covers the vulnerable space right between his hearts. Instead of wrapping around him, her hands - one still lost in fabric - rest against his torso, each one placed over a heart. The Doctor doesn't hesitate to cocoon her within his arms.

As he squeezes, she releases her first sob. He doesn't hear it as much as he feels it. A silent, aching sob that shakes her small body but doesn't vibrate through her vocal cords. It's incredibly strange, to think that his impossible girl, who never fails to share her opinion or voice whatever is on her mind, cries silently. Even in her most vulnerable moments, she surprises him with her strength.

"Clara. . ." He starts to sway them back and forth, just slightly, repeating her name in a soft voice he hopes she finds soothing. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't reconfigured the HADs, if I'd just left the TARDIS well enough alone. . . ." He releases a truly apologetic sigh. "I am sorry. I am so, so sorry."

Her uncovered hand snakes down to his middle back, fingers spreading and pressing against his spine. The Doctor takes it as an acceptance of his apology.

Once she's past the height of her tears, he feels her slump, leaning even more against his frame. Gently he maneuvers her to the cot and lowers her to a sitting position. Instead of taking a place beside her, he kneels on the floor so that Clara can't tuck her chin to her chest and hide from him again.

She is a sight to behold. Her bruised face has acquired another color - red, in this case - from crying against his shirt. Curves of puffy skin have swelled under her eyes. With his thumbs, and a tremblingly light touch, he wipes away the remaining tears and waits for her to compose herself. Finally, Clara returns to a relatively calm state, with no indication that she's going to relapse. Still, the Doctor marks a level of hesitance lurking in her features.

"What is it?" he asks, wanting to dispel any other worrisome thoughts swirling in her mind.

"Is. . .is this something I should expect? Traveling with you, I mean." He opens his mouth to respond, but she plows over him: "Because on this trip, I've been locked in a room with a vengeful Ice Warrior, I've seen bodies dismembered and strewn about like pieces of meat, I almost blew up in a nuclear explosion that would have changed the course of history entirely, and now. . .this."

"Would it help, if I pointed out, that you also saved the world a number of times?"

She continues, ignoring his tangential comment. "Doctor, if this is normal for you. . ..I need to know."

He doesn't respond immediately because doesn't want to lose her. Not yet. It's inevitable that she will leave him, now or in the future - but he'd rather it be her decision than a result of his actions.

I can't avoid this conversation any longer.

If he owes anything to anyone, it's Clara. He owes her his life. He owes her the lives of Amelia Pond and Rory, not to mention countless others. Without Clara Oswald - or any variation thereof - his list of victories would be much shorter, the death toll even higher. After all she's done for him, the least she deserves is the truth about traveling with a madman.

"Nothing like this has ever happened before. Clara, I swear it," he admits quietly, working his fingers under the elastic of the jumpsuit's left arm and slowly pushing it over the splint. "But, I can't guarantee that you'll be safe. Time travel is dangerous business."

"People have died."

She's talking about the sailors, he supposes. "Many people have lost their lives. Some were very close to me."

Clara judges the lines of guilt and regret furrowed across his brow, then questions his motives: "And yet you go about? Galavanting across all of time and space?"

He frowns. "It's not a choice I make willingly. I drew the short straw many years ago, Clara. And I've been living with the consequences ever since."

There have been so very many losses. Each and every one has cost him dearly. It was never his intention to make this a pattern.

He frames her face with his hands and coaxes her to look him in the eyes. Now for the hardest part of all. It needs to be said.

"But you have a choice, Clara. You don't have to continue on with me. I can take you back to the Maitlands. I'll drop you off and you can forget all about me, and the TARDIS, and the adventures. All of it. You only have to ask, to say the word."

He takes in a deep, steadying breath. It hurts to give her up, this impossible girl he knows so little about, who continues to present so many unanswered questions and unique mysteries.

Her right hand touches his face as though he is the fragile one - and maybe he is. He finds himself unable to keep his gaze locked on hers. Now he is the one that's afraid.

Truly, he has always been a coward - a daring, brilliant one, no doubt, but a coward nonetheless. Always running.

"Thank you, Doctor," she states. "Thank you for being honest."

That's it then. She's going to ask him to take her home and never come back. No more Wednesdays in the TARDIS. No more unexplored galaxies or alien festivals.

Her fingers thread through his hair and tug until he tilts his head to an angle of her liking. "You're pouting," she accuses.

He's sure he looks perplexed at that. "Of course I'm pouting. I have every right to pout."

"Have I given you an answer?"

"Well, not exactly. No," he stammers, hearts daring to flutter with hope as he watches her dimples concave ever so slightly.

"Exactly: no," she echoes, but the way she says it twists his meaning around to fit her own.

"No?" he repeats. "You don't want to go home?"

"I don't want to stay home," she clarifies. "Have to pop in every now and again. I'm not giving up my job, you know."

Searching her eyes to validate the sincerity of her words, he finds something even more precious: a flicker of that characteristic Clara Oswald spark. It's back; the fire has been reignited within her. Going forward, the Doctor knows he must tend this flame with extreme caution. If it gets doused again, it may be smothered forever.

Without a word, he slides his arms around her middle in an awkward half-kneeling, half-standing hug. Her chin rests on the hump of his shoulder, her fingers twisting into the hair at the nape of his neck.

I'll never get enough of you, he thinks, but can't bring himself to disclose such a confession out loud. The words are too eloquent for these bumbling lips.

"My beautiful, impossible Clara," he whispers into her hair instead, gripping her even closer. They embrace long enough to experience a release of endorphins, then he reluctantly pulls away and provides her with some rather doctor-ly advice. "You need rest."

"I'm not tired," she protests. "Wired, actually."

He makes a "hmm" sound and regards her very carefully. "You look exhausted."

"I said I'm not," she reiterates.

When did he become the nanny, and she the obstinate teenager? He doesn't believe for a instant that she isn't tired, that she isn't afraid to shut her eyes. Maybe she's worried that today's events will plague her dreams, not that she'll ever admit it.

"Tea then," he prescribes in place of sleep. Nothing like a good cuppa to calm the nerves.

It appears in her eyes first. Her lips - a little unsure - take a beat to catch up. But there it is, inching its way up the sides of her bruised face, the most beautiful sight in the world: a smile. In another heartbeat, it spreads from her face to his.

"Tea would be quite lovely," Clara agrees. "But where - ?"

He's already up and hovering at the sink, fetching mugs and filling them with hot water. He heats them to a near-boil with the sonic. "Emergency stash in the left inner pocket of my jacket."

"'Emergency stash'?"

And then he hears it: a warm tickle at the back of her throat, a quavering vibration of humor that is so much more than a hint of a laugh. In that quiet hum blooms the best medicine - even more restorative than tea or sleep or sonic technology.

And, oh, what a marvelous sound it is.