Chapter Text
The TARDIS console room hummed with its usual rhythmic, golden heartbeat, but tonight the sound was a stark contrast to the heavy, ragged breathing of its passengers. They had barely made it out. The dust of the collapsed Citadel still clung to the Doctor’s tweed jacket and coated Clara’s dark hair.
The Doctor dropped his sonic screwdriver onto the console with a metallic clatter. He winced, gripping his side where a blunt-force blow had cracked at least one rib. His own vision danced with a faint, adrenaline-fueled haze, but his eyes automatically tracked Clara.
She hadn't moved from the jump seat.
Through the fog of his own pain, the Doctor frowned. Her posture was completely wrong. Her shoulders were bunched all the way up to her ears, tense as iron rods. Her head hung low, chin pressed near her collarbone. Her eyes were squeezed shut—not in the peaceful way of someone drifting off to sleep, but tight, strained, and deeply unrelaxed. Every breath she took was a shallow, labored rattle.
"Clara?" he murmured, his voice cracking.
She didn't answer, her fingers twitching against her denim skirt.
The Doctor bypassed his own agony, stepping across the grating. He knelt in front of her, his long fingers gently reaching out. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe, Clara, just breathe."
He carefully brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, but her head just rolled forward. His frown deepened. Gently, deliberately, he reached for the collar of her blouse, shifting the fabric aside just a fraction to check her collarbone.
The breath caught in his throat.
Spreading across her sternum and running up toward her shoulder was a massive, angry bruise. It was already turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple and mottled black. The impact must have been direct, compressing her chest and stealing her ability to expand her lungs.
Instantly, the Doctor’s frantic, chaotic energy burned away, replaced by the terrifyingly focused precision of a Time Lord who had seen too many battlefields. He fully engaged.
"Okay. Okay, no, you don't," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave into absolute authority.
He didn't let her head drop any further. Sliding one large, warm hand behind her skull, he cradled her head and supported her neck with practiced ease. His other arm slid firmly but gingerly behind her back, avoiding the worst of the bruising.
"Stay with me, Clara. Open your eyes for me," he commanded softly, lifting her into his arms.
She let out a weak, broken whimper as he hoisted her up, but he moved with fluid, desperate gentleness, carrying her straight toward the TARDIS medical bay. The console room shifted around them, corridors shortening to bring the sterile, white-lit room immediately to his doorstep.
He laid her down on the central medical table, ensuring her neck remained perfectly aligned.
"Look at the lights, Clara. Look at me," he insisted, leaning over her so his face filled her vision as her eyelids fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. He grabbed a localized cellular regenerator from the wall, his hands flying across the medical controls. "Don't you dare close your eyes. Talk to me. Tell me where we were. What was the name of the planet?"
"A... Aridius..." she choked out, her fingers weakly grasping at his sleeve.
"Exactly. Terrible place, awful souvenirs," he muttered, his heart hammering a frantic double-beat against his ribs as he set the scanner over her chest to soothe the deep tissue trauma. "Keep talking, Clara. Keep your eyes on me."