The Hybrid - Doctor Who Fanfiction

10

Clara has fallen asleep again when the Doctor begins shaking her shoulder gently. She opens her eyes slowly, raising a groggy eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"Just finished drawing your bath. It's ready," the Doctor says, leaving the statement somewhat open ended. A silent request dangles at the end of it, like a white flag of surrender.

In preparation for her bath, he's removed his hoodie and his jumper, which leaves him in his trousers and a thin white t-shirt that lets Clara catch glimpses of the pale skin beneath it. His socks and boots have disappeared as well, and human-looking feet and toes replace them.

Clara can only stare at him, unwilling to move.

Each time it gets a little easier to swallow her pride, to shove down the embarrassment that always surfaces when he comes for her. She's nearly used to this little routine of theirs, so she doesn't understand why she still gets so nervous. Besides, he's probably seen worse.

A simple "oh" is all Clara manages to say to the Doctor. She nearly opens her mouth again to argue. Maybe something about how she can wait another day, or how she feels well enough to do it herself. But both of those are lies.

"Come on, Clara," he almost smiles at her, trying to ease her hesitation away. All he does is offer her his hands, waiting.

Tossing away her apprehension and reservations, Clara takes the Doctor's hands that are still damp from testing the water and allows him lift her to her feet. Then, as per the usual, he hooks one arm securely around her back before bending to lock another arm under her knees. He then scoops her up, letting her adjust herself in his hold, and when she nods, he starts forward to her bathroom.

Several minutes later, Clara finds herself nearly finished with her bath as the Doctor rinses the soap from her body carefully. His touch is dutiful and soft, but almost never apologetic or shy. The pads of his fingers brush up against the sides of her breasts occasionally, but he never blushes or looks away in shame. Calculated and sure movements while he rubs the rag gently over and under the swell of her stomach, as heavily weighed and considered as battle strategy. And he never stares at her; there's no lust lingering in his blue eyes when she disrobes. Her nakedness doesn't seem to affect him, and part of Clara resents that.

There was a time before this living nightmare when desire would flicker mischievously in those bright eyes of his when they fell on her body. It would happen when he thought she wasn't looking, but she could always feel his heavy gaze raking across her feminine curves with a vengeance. And she'd spin around to catch his mouth slightly agape with surprise at being caught. Clara would always take her own pleasure in the deep coloring of his cheeks, the tell-tell tent forming in his trousers.

And on the rare occasion that he did touch her, he'd leave fire in his wake, scorching her skin and leaving gooseflesh behind as he set her aflame. Clara would always have hope that his fleeting caresses would blossom into more, that the two of them would someday give into each other's unsaid wishes. But then his eyes would darken with consternation, and his fire would be cooled to ash. It was then Clara would be reminded that she hadn't fallen in love with an ordinary man.

But now, she lies before him in a tub completely exposed-- a scenario which could only have existed in the heated imagination reserved only for her dreams--and it is so painfully obvious that he doesn't want her.

Skin and bones on a string, he once described her, and she hadn't believed he meant it at first. Thought it was just something cruel to say to her in the heat of an argument. Some hyperbolic exaggeration to make her change her mind about keeping her baby. But as she looks into his eyes now, her heart breaks to know he truly meant it.