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The Doctor was puttering around the console room, strumming out various chords and riffs as he pondered this, that, and some other thing Clara struggled to understand. In her own defense she was feeling more than a little beat. They were trying to catch their breaths after extracting her from a Dalek, running for their lives, escaping from Skaro and, if Clara was perfectly honest with herself, she needed some mindless comfort.
She hadn’t expected it to come from The Doctor’s new guitar, but she wasn’t complaining. She secretly quite liked it.
The Doctor must have sensed how fragile she felt, because not only had he not offered to take her home just yet, he had begun playing “Pretty Woman” again.
Clara smirked. “Doctor,” she called from her seat on the stairs, “Haven’t you ever heard flattery gets you nowhere?” Teasing always made her feel more in control.
The Doctor quirked an eyebrow. “And you assume I’m playing it for you,” he answered just as quickly. She’d almost assume he’d meant that, if it wasn’t for a barely concealed grin.
“Yeah, well, I think I speak for the TARDIS when I say we both know your game.” The Doctor looked ready to reply, when the TARDIS hummed in agreement.
The Doctor rolled his eyes and mumbled something about, “traitors” under his breath, but kept playing none the less.
Clara was slowly beginning to drift off to sleep, or possibly unconsciousness. Her eyelids were heavy and her ability to rattle off something else clever to keep the banter going had vanished. She was almost at peace when.
EXTERMINATE
Clara shot awake with a start and a barely contained shout.
“Clara.” Suddenly the Doctor was there, cradling her face like he had when he had pulled her out of the Dalek casing.
“Doctor! Doctor, it’s me, I swear,” she said, her voice cracking. “Doctor Please.”
“Shh,” the Doctor whispered. “Clara, you’re in the TARDIS,” He insisted. She sensed him gently poking at her mind, trying to calm her down from her panicked state as he brushed away a few tears that leaked out. “You’re safe.” As the tears an exhaustion overwhelmed her he repeated. “You’re safe.”
Clara pulled him into a tighter hug. She hated when he was right about certain things, but she did appreciate the ability to hide her face. The Doctor went still, but continued his efforts to calm her. It took Clara a minute to attempt to compose herself, or some approximation thereof. “Sorry, I just- I—“
“It‘s fine,” The Doctor replied. “You’re fine.” He backed up just slightly to look her in the eye, but never breaking physical contact. “But you should get some rest.”
“ ‘m not tired,” Clara insisted barely containing a yawn.
“Yeah,” The Doctor scoffed, “sure, and I’m...” The Doctor paused. “You know, I’ve done so much there’s nothing ridiculous I can come up with to complete this metaphor.” Both he and Clara chuckled at that. “But,” the Doctor he continued in earnest, “I like to think you’re smart enough to understand my point.”
“I do, really, I do.” Clara sighed and rested her forehead against the Doctor’s. “But I just…” She bit her lip. “Well, how?” her voice cracked.
She felt the Doctor’s frown. There was a long silence as the Doctor contemplated a new puzzle. It took the Doctor enough time that he shifted from his crouched position, to sitting on the stair next to her. He had begun plucking at the strings of his guitar again, not playing anything in particular, at least nothing Clara could identify. She rested her head on his shoulder. Clara briefly wondered if it was some kind of Gallifreyan sleep melody, as her eyelids felt heavy again, but her heart had also began racing again, scared of another nightmare.
The Doctor chuckled. “On Gallifrey, typically children were frightened to sleep, though I suppose music may have worked better.”
“You know I hate when you do that,” she mumbled.
“And you know it’s inevitable with touch.”
“I know.” Clara could tell the Doctor was studying her face intently so she slowly opened her eyes and sat up. “But you’re thinking something and I can’t tell what. What are you thinking?”
“I think,” The Doctor began very slowly, “I can solve your sleeping problem.”
“Sensing a ‘but’ there.”
“But you may not like it.”
Clara took a stabilizing breath. “At this point, I’ll try anything.” The Doctor went to open his mouth, but she continued. “Except the finger thing. I will not be knocked out like that.”
A shy, yet manic grin crossed his features. “Well, I hadn’t actually considered that.” The Doctor stood abruptly and crossed the room to rest his guitar back in its stand. “Although really it’s not unconsciousness, and I think it could be beneficial.”
“Doctor,” Clara interrupted, unamused and verging on cranky.
“Clara,” The Doctor parroted in the same tone. He walked back to where Clara was sitting and offered her a hand. “If you’d come with me.” Clara took the offered hand and found herself, gently, pulled to standing. She followed the Doctor through the corridors of the TARDIS, until they were outside her bedroom. “Get ready for bed and open the door when you are and I’ll come back in.”
Clara was too tired, and a little too desperate to question anything. When she finished her, abbreviated, nightly rituals she pulled on a pair of athletic shorts and a long sleeve shirt. Feeling ready enough for whatever the Doctor schemed up she opened her bedroom door.
At first she thought The Doctor hadn’t done anything at all, but then her mind caught up to her eyes. The Doctor stood there in flannel pajama bottoms, indistinguishable from his new plaid trousers except for the material, his hoodie and t-shirt. Only his lack of coat and boots made her realize he had actually changed for bed as well, and he was holding a pillow.
The Doctor stepped inside quickly. “You, into bed now,” he ordered. “And get comfortable.” Clara couldn’t argue with that.
However, she did find something to argue with shortly thereafter.
“Doctor, what are you doing?” The Doctor was kneeling on the bed behind her. She tried to flip around to glare at him properly but he stopped her from rolling over completely.
“Relax,” the Doctor replied gruffly as he climbed into bed. “You were nearly asleep earlier. It’s because your body is in a fight or flight response still and you’ll never fall asleep on your own. Well, not for long, and not peacefully.” The Doctor deposited his pillow right behind her head. “However, you also associate safety in those kind of situations with me.” The Doctor laid down beside her. “You can fall asleep on your own, but it won’t be restful. Or I can stay here and we can both get a decent night’s sleep.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “I’m here to help make sure you get what you need.”
Clara didn’t know what to say to that. Her lips quivered slightly as she was truly touched. Really, it meant a lot. However, there was a stubborn part of Clara that wanted to object, but she was tired and it made sense in an odd way. She compromised with herself and managed, “But you don’t need that much sleep.”
“Clara, I nearly killed you today because I thought you were a Dalek, again,” The Doctor explained, his voice incredibly dark. “I think we could both do with some comfort and sleep.”
“But-“
“Just let me take care of you,” The Doctor seemed to be begging. “Please.”
Clara sighed, too tired to argue, and a little too happy with the prospect of sharing a bed with the Doctor than she’d admit if she was not anymore tired. She was far too tired to process the Doctor’s tone and what any of it meant. It was that same confusing track they’d always been on since he regenerated. It wasn’t the right time to try to figure it out now. And frankly she didn’t even care if he was getting a sense of her jumble of emotions and thoughts right now, because she was beginning to suspect he had them as well. “Alright. Alright. Fine.” She adjusted herself as the Doctor slung an arm around her waist. “Fine.”
“Good, now, shut up and go to sleep.”
“Good night Doctor.”
“Good night Clara,” he replied, his tone infinitely lighter. “Sleep well.”
Clara, for once, did as she was told, all night long.