Work Text:
He’d appeared in her flat, as he so often did these days, early one morning before school. She stepped into the lounge in search of her mark book and there he was, legs propped up on her coffee table in feigned nonchalance as he skimmed through a copy of Glamour she hadn’t yet got around to reading.
“Morning,” he said brightly, as though it weren’t five minutes before she had to leave for school. “Thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
“You never just pop in,” Clara accused, reaching for the offending book and shoving it into her bag with a scowl. “This is going to end with us running off somewhere, and me turning up at school looking five shades more tanned or one hundred percent more damp than I am now, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” the Doctor acquiesced, setting the magazine down and beaming up at her with the kind of look she knew she could never say no to. “So…”
“So I’m assuming the question is, do you want me to have the token ‘no Doctor I’m busy’ argument with you and then give in and come anyway, or should we just skip that business altogether and run for it now?” she asked, rolling her eyes in an affectionate manner, already mostly decided on her choice.
“That is the general question, yep,” he popped his lips on the ‘p’ and held out his hand to her invitingly. “Come on. I’ll have you back five minutes from now. Can even drop you off at the school on the way back if you want.”
“Doctor…”
“Go on.”
“Fine!” she’d pretended to be annoyed for appearance’s sake, but she reached for his hand nonetheless, feeling a small thrill at the prospect of putting off going to work for a few more hours. “So, where were you thinking?”
“I was thinking Novachia. Lovely little planet, looks a bit like Hampshire, but with flowers the size of footballs and a purple sky. Three suns, and the water there is pink.”
“Sounds… surprisingly tranquil. For you. Well, for us.”
“I can do tranquil, you know,” he poked his tongue out at her, getting to his feet and leading her into the TARDIS as he continued: “Sometimes tranquil is… relaxing.”
“Sometimes tranquil is boring, you mean,” she corrected, grimacing at his words. “I know that face. That’s your fibbing face. What’s the real story here?”
“Nothing!”
“Come on. Spit it out.”
“I just thought you might like to go somewhere that doesn’t involve getting shot at. Because running away is great and all, but not always. You need to breathe. You need time to be human and to relax and all of those things that your magazine said.” he mumbled, fiddling with the console to avoid having to look at her.
“Hang on,” she held up one finger warningly. “Are you giving me this lecture and being all weird because you read my trashy magazines and now you’re following their advice?”
“Maybe,” he muttered, turning a deep shade of red. “Not completely. I’ve got a duty of care, so…”
“Look, are you going to take us to Novachia, or just keep talking about it? Push the button, space man.”
“Yes boss,” he grumbled, programming coordinates and disengaging the handbrake as Clara threw her satchel onto the reading chair, before pacing around the console and wrapping her arms around him, her head buried in his shoulder. “Urm…”
“You don’t need to worry about me so much, you know,” she assured him, voice only somewhat muffled by his jacket. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“You’re human.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You’re more fragile than I am,” he reminded her, then realised in the frosty silence that followed that he may have put his foot in it. “I didn’t… I don’t mean…”
“I know,” she said tightly, sighing and pulling away from him to circle around the console. “So. Have we landed or what? You want me to relax and be human, I can do that.”
“We’ve landed,” he informed her, gesturing to the doors and trying to work out how to thaw her cool demeanour. “It’s all out there waiting for you. Us. That.”
Clara grinned then, her irritation dissipating as she danced outside and took in the sight of Novachia, hills undulating into the distance as far as the eye could see. He watched the fascination and the wonder in her eyes, feeling a sense of contentment at having made her happy, before stepping outside and linking his arm through hers in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture.
“Someone’s cheerful,” she teased, and he blushed, casting his gaze down to his feet as they began to traverse the landscape via a worn footpath, pausing every few metres so that she could stop to admire the bulbous flowers he had promised her. She drew a blue one to her face and sniffed delicately. “These are incredible.”
“They’ve actually evolved to…” he fell silent mid-sentence, his eyes locked on the path ahead of them. “Clara. Stop sniffing that and come here.”
“Why?” she asked, turning to look first at him and then at what his gaze was fixed upon: five heavily-armed humanoids blocked the path ahead, each clad in scarred, black armour and holding aloft large, lethal-looking guns. “Ah.”
“Yes, ah. Come here,” he repeated, and for once she obeyed him, returning to his side while he appraised the new arrivals. He held his hands up in a pacifistic gesture, adopting his most polite tone: “We, ah, come in peace.”
“You are not of this world,” one of them snarled, hostility exuding from its very manner. “You are not of this system, even. You come to visit and treat our planet as a commodity, like the others.”
“What others?” the Doctor asked in bewilderment, not understanding. “We’re just popping by, taking things in, having a nice time…”
“You all visit, with your sickness and your hatred and your carelessness. This world is failing, as if you did not know or heed our warnings. You have come to bring your germs to us, admit it. You have come to decimate what little we have left.”
“Doctor,” Clara asked under her breath, side-eyeing him and trying to quell her fear. “What are they talking about, ‘the world is failing’?”
“Ah,” he said, comprehension dawning on him as he realised what they were referring to. “The plague? We don’t bring the plague, but we can leave now if you like. We’re just passing through, really. I wanted to show Novachia to my er, companion. I didn’t realise the plague had already come. Muddled up the dates, that’s all. Happens all the time to me.”
“Plague?!” she asked him, more panicked than before at the thought of contracting an alien virus. “Are we safe?”
“We’re quite safe,” he assured her, keeping his attention studiously focused on the humanoids. “Just-”
“Billions of our people have suffered due to the carelessness of others. The price for intruding upon our world is execution and incineration. You will be killed in the name of Novachian purity.”
“You can’t just do that,” Clara squeaked as defiantly as she was able, her eyes widening in fear even as her hand found the Doctor’s. “We deserve a trial.”
“You deserve nothing except death for defiling our planet with your filth. We must keep our planet pure.”
“Clara,” the Doctor said calmly, squeezing her hand in readiness. “I think we should run.”
“I concur,” she agreed, following his lead as he turned and ran, stumbling only slightly in the wake of his much-longer legs. “Doc-”
The blast ripped through her before she could finish shouting a warning, pitching her forwards into the Doctor’s back and bringing them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs, dust and blood.
“Clara?” he said at once, scrambling to help her as he got to his feet, dragging her upwards expectantly but eliciting only a scream of pain in response. “Clara?” he asked again, looking down at her chest and noticing a spreading crimson stain across her blouse, feeling his stomach drop before scooping her into his arms, more shots missing him by millimetres. “You’re going to be OK,” he promised as he started to run, tears dripping down his cheeks as he cradled her against his chest. “Clara. Stay with me. My Clara, come on, it’s alright.”
“Hurts,” she mumbled, fighting for breath, one hand holding loosely onto his lapel as they tumbled through the TARDIS doors and into safety. “Hu-“
“Shh,” he soothed, throwing them back into the vortex one handed and staggering towards the medical bay, laying her down and ripping open her blouse to inspect the damage. He felt his hearts sink in unison at what he found: a jagged hole, almost as large as his fist, punched through her upper abdomen, the ribs below shattered and the lung they had once protected now punctured and struggling to inflate. Blood was slicked across her pale skin, and he placed his hands on the wound reflexively, applying careful pressure to stem the flow. “Oh gods. Oh gods, Clara, please, stay calm for me, OK? I can fix this, I can try to fix this, I just need you to be calm.”
“I’m calm,” she rasped, closing her eyes against the pain and biting back another scream, attempting humour to distract herself: “You’re not.”
He swore under his breath, his face streaked with dust as he pressed down on her abdomen. He fought to remember what to do, remembering something about taking a pulse, and he moved one hand to her neck, finding a faint but discernible rhythm there and relaxing fractionally. He tried to ignore the blood oozing wetly down her side, the edges of what remained of her ribs starkly white against it, and instead focused on her face, her skin clammy and white as she stared up at him with wide, panicked eyes and a forced smile.
“Language,” she chided, her voice little more than a terrified wheeze, and she would have chuckled had she had the breath to spare. “How’s it looking, doc?”
He grimaced, wiping one hand across his face and streaking her blood across his forehead, the jagged wound beginning to pulse in response to the lessened pressure. He swore again more loudly and returned to his previous position, forcing a smile and attempting levity.
“Good,” he lied through gritted teeth, watching Clara struggle for breath and knowing he needed to fetch her oxygen, but painfully aware he couldn’t move his hands for fear of the consequences. “Good, so good.”
“You’re lying,” she accused, clenching her teeth and barely suppressing a scream as the pain threatened to pull her under. “To keep…”
“Clara,” the Doctor instructed, as firmly as he was able, barely keeping the tremor from his voice as he attempted to be pragmatic. “I mean this in an entirely nice way: if you want to live, stop talking.”
“You say that a lot,” she whispered, her eyes glassy and her temperature rocketing under his hands. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No,” he denied, pressing down on the wound again, shaking his head as he did so. “Clara, please, come on, just work with me here. That’s all I ask.”
“Silence,” she repeated in a small voice, her mouth twisting into a sad smile. “Silence is golden.”
Her eyes closed, and under the Doctor’s palms he felt her heartbeat stutter and then fade.
“Clara?” he asked urgently, his eyes wide and afraid as he lifted one hand from the wound and placed it over her heart, working to shock it back into beating. “Clara, no, I’m sorry… silence… silence is bad, silence is the worst thing, I swear to you if you come back to me then you need never be silent again, I’ll never complain about you chattering again, just please, don’t you dare leave me… Clara…”
He pulled his hand away from her side, reaching towards a breathing tube the TARDIS had placed at his side while the other remained over her heart, the Doctor willing enough regeneration energy through his palm to stimulate it back into a rhythm. “Come on, dammit,” he muttered, fighting back tears as he worked, knowing he needed to keep his composure and treat her. “Come on, don’t you dare die on me, please don’t die on me…”
Below his palm, he felt her heart jump, settling back into a rhythm as he waited in anxious trepidation, and he silently thanked the gods, returning one hand to her wound while slipping the tube down her throat to keep her breathing regular and even. “Right,” he said aloud, determined to stay calm, watching the ventilator beside Clara take over her breathing for her. “That’s breathing sorted. Need to patch the lung… heal the ribs… mend the skin… and the blood…”
He paused, swallowing with difficulty. Her blood was everywhere already: his hands, his face and the bed she lay on. Looking around, he realised it was streaked across the walls by the door, on Clara’s face and staining both their clothes. Everywhere except where it was needed. The Doctor took a fortifying breath, and then broke away from Clara for long enough to grab what he required, setting to work stemming the incessant, sluggish flow from the wound with the utmost care. When he was satisfied that blood loss no longer posed a threat, he turned his attention to patching her lung, and when that too was done, he searched through cupboards until he found the IV drips and transfusion bags he required, setting them up with fumbling hands and sliding needles into Clara’s arm with silent, remorseful apologies.
“There,” he observed, taking her pulse again and finding it stronger, allowing the discovery to bolster his mood. “Much better. So much better, Clara. Now those ribs. They’re a mess, and your skin is all a mess too. You’re going to have a scar. Sorry about that, I know it’ll probably bother your narcissism, but it’s better than being dead, right?”
As he worked on her, he murmured under his breath in Gallifreyan, silent prayers offered to gods he half-believed in, bartering anything he could think of in exchange for her life. When he had done all he could, he reached for a flannel and began to painstakingly wipe the dried blood away from her torso and her face, until he was satisfied with his efforts and sank into a chair beside her, his head cradled in his hands.
“I can’t lose you,” he confessed hoarsely, voice little more than an exhausted whisper. “Clara, I can’t lose you, so you need to fight. You need to beat this and get better so you can stay with me. You’re essential to me, you’re part of who I am, and I need you by my side because you make everything better.”
He slipped his hand into hers then, squeezing gently. “Fight this for me, my impossible girl. Heal.”
He fell asleep with their hands entwined, an exhausted smile etched on his face.
Clara couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were open and her fists were clenching but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do so much as draw breath, let alone cry out to alert anyone of the problem. She raised her hands to her face, scrabbling at the thick tube that was invading her mouth and throat, before firm hands wrapped around hers and pulled them insistently back to her sides.
“Clara?” the Doctor said, leaning into her field of vision, and she felt her panic subside at the sight of his face. “Shh. You’re alright, don’t panic. You lost a fight with a Novachian weapon, so the TARDIS is helping you breathe. That’s what the tube is doing. You have to leave it be.”
She whimpered, trying to reach for her face again.
“No, no, no. You can’t take it out yet. Your lung is still healing. It’s okay, though. You’re going to be OK, I’ll take it out as soon as I can. I promise you that.”
She looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes, trying to wordlessly ask the question she needed answering.
“You were shot,” he explained, understanding at once. “My fault entirely. I didn’t know… I forgot about the plague that struck Novachia, and their quarantine rules. I’m so sorry, Clara, this could have been avoided if I’d only thought… this is all my fault…”
She shook her head as emphatically as she was able, indicating her disagreement, and he chuckled softly.
“So you’re feeling up to arguing?” he asked, and she scowled, although without real malice. “You’re healing well. I promise that the tube can come out soon. You might stop breathing otherwise.”
Her scowl, if anything, only intensified.
“Fine,” he concurred, holding up his hands in defeat. “Fine, you can try. But if I take it out and you can’t breathe, I’ll have to put it back in and it won’t feel pleasant. Not even slightly.” He stood over her and removed the tube with the utmost care, watching her catch her breath and adjust to the new feeling of breathing with a damaged lung. “How’s that?”
“Weird,” she confessed, her voice hoarse from lack of use. “Sore.”
“You’re breathing.”
“Well done,” she barbed, wincing slightly as she took a rattling breath in, guilt settling over her as she realised he had worked to heal her and she was repaying him with catty comments. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he assured her, checking her over with a practiced eye and then nodding in satisfaction. “You’re looking better too. Colour’s coming back to your cheeks.”
She smiled at him then, and his hearts soared in relief at the small action. “How bad was it?” she asked, with blissful ignorance, and he closed his eyes, turning away from her before she could see the unshed tears that clouded his vision. “That bad?”
“Yeah,” he managed after a moment, his voice strangled with emotion. “That bad.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, slipping her hand into his and squeezing reassuringly. “For scaring you.”
“You’re sorry?” he asked with incredulity, turning to face her and frowning at her misplaced sense of blame. “I should have taken care of you, I should have thought ahead and known to avoid the place…”
“You can’t know everything,” she said with a nonchalant shrug, determined to allay his fears and soothe his troubled mind. “I don’t expect you to.” She paused for a beat, her brow furrowing. “Sore.”
“You need to rest,” the Doctor said at once, placing a hand to her forehead, and she smiled up at him drowsily. “Rest, OK?”
He watched as she slipped back under, kissing her hair and feeling relief ebb at his consciousness. She was alive. That was what counted.
When she next awoke, she was in her own room on the TARDIS, tucked carefully up in bed and propped up by a mound of pillows. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she took in the sleeping form of the Doctor sprawled over the covers beside her, her surprise giving way to affection for the worried Time Lord as she realised he must have fallen asleep while tending to her.
“Hey,” she said quietly, and when no response was forthcoming she reached over and shook him by the arm, feeling only a slight sense of guilt for interrupting his rest. “Doctor?”
“Mmmmpf?”
“Doctor, why are you asleep on my bed?”
“M’not,” he mumbled into the pillow, snuggling into it more comfortably. “M’keeping watch.”
“I was in the medbay before. How come I’m here now?”
“Medbay’s cold. Medbay’s not nice. Your room’s nice.”
She jabbed him in the shoulder, noticing for the first time the dull ache in her side and grimacing. “Still sore. Wake up, you daft Time Lord.”
“M’awake.”
“Oh no, my heart is giving out…”
The Doctor bolted upright immediately, leaning over her with concern, reaching for her wrist to take a pulse before noticing her chuckles. “Not funny,” he muttered in a sulky tone, pulling away from her with a hurt look before continuing in a petulant tone: “Look, I’m up. Happy?”
“Sorry. I’m happier, yeah,” she said quietly, taking his hand and tugging him back towards her in search of physical reassurance. “Why are you keeping watch? And why am I here?”
“You’re hurt,” he rolled his eyes as he stressed the obvious, then added in a gentler tone: “Your room is nicer than the medbay. More homely; less clinical and cold. You don’t need any of those tubes or wires anymore, so I brought you here to rest. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re very sweet,” Clara said after a moment, edging closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “And very kind.”
“Just doing my duty,” he mumbled and she laughed softly, nuzzling into him. “What?”
“Yeah, sure,” she teased, resting one hand on his sternum to feel the beat of both his hearts. “Look, I need rest. That’s what you said. So lie here and rest with me, yeah? And make me a promise.”
“Anything.”
“No more relaxing planets.”
“Deal.”