You've awoken a creative flow. Set after "Name of the Doctor". Eleven pulls Clara out of his timestream, and as she recuperates, Eleven ponders the meaning of what she did. Having been in love with her since the monk outfit, he wonders if what she did had more meaning than just saving him. That maybe more than Rose or even Sarah Jane, maybe this is the one who might just be his soulmate. When Clara awakens, she says she has feelings, but doesn't know if it's love per se. 11 accepts that for now.
Clara is warm and heavy in his arms, but that’s not a complaint. If anything, it’s quite the opposite: a reassurance, an affirmation that she’s still alive. She’s as limp as a rag doll, sure, but he can feel the soft huffs of her breath ghosting over the fabric of his shirt as he carries her out of his own personal hell, past River’s world-weary data ghost, and back to the TARDIS. His muscles scream and his arms complain that they weren’t cut out for carrying nannies across battle-torn planets, but then he reaches the medbay and sets her down on a bed, and his own discomfort is forgotten at once as she becomes his priority.
It’s been a while since he’s needed to do this, to medically treat a companion, but he remembers the motions of it. Check her vitals. Connect her to an IV drip to try and energise her, apologising as the needle breaks her skin. Wrap her up warm, tucking the blanket around her with the utmost tenderness. He’s done that part before, back in her house so many months ago, and he remembers how she’d smiled shyly at the biscuits and flowers he’d left at her bedside, so he fetches those and arranges them on the table next to her bunk. The bright, lurid pink of the flowers is a stark contrast to the cool, clinical white of the medbay and the pallor of Clara’s skin, but he tries not to think about how ill she looks; how she limped towards him; how she fell into his arms, overwhelmed. Instead he cups her cheek in his palm, smiling sadly as he skims his thumb over the arc of her cheekbone.
“My Clara,” he hums, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe. You saved me, and I saved you.”
What she did… there is no doubt she has saved him, in every possible sense of the words. She acted without concern for herself, diving into the timestream with the intent on saving him from a million deaths at the hands of the Great Intelligence. She had been willing to give up everything she had to save him, and he can’t help but feel his hearts clench a little at the implications of her actions. What they could mean. Because although he can scarcely admit it to himself, he loves her. When she steps into the TARDIS and smiles at him, it’s like nothing else matters: not Gallifrey, not his past bereavements, not anything outside those doors. The universe narrows down to Clara Oswald: making her smile; making her happy; holding her in his arms. And maybe flirting, not that he’d ever admit to that, but it’s something that he does sometimes, and he wonders if she notices.
He sighs, sinking into a chair that the TARDIS has helpfully materialised next to Clara, and he takes her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “Be OK,” he half-prays, half-asks. “Please.”
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he realises he must’ve, because someone is squeezing his hand and saying his name weakly.
He remembers where he is and whose hand is in his and snaps to attention at once, opening his eyes and smiling at her with tearful relief. “Hello,” he tells Clara, who looks exhausted but somewhat more human. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she mumbles, looking down at where their hands are still linked. “That’s…”
“Sorry,” he says at once, and goes to let go, but she shakes her head. “Is that… OK?”
“Of course it’s OK,” she assures him, closing her eyes and curling up on the bed, whimpering as she does so. “Ow. Everything hurts, Doctor.”
“The Time Winds can do that,” he tells her, getting to his feet and fumbling for the sonic with his free hand, scanning her apprehensively. “You’re on the mend, though. Thank Rassilon. You gave me quite the scare.”
“Don’t be daft,” she looks up at him and arches an eyebrow in defiance, but he can see the fear in her eyes. “Big scary Time Lord worried about one tiny human?”
“Very worried,” he admits, and the teasing look on her face dies in an instant. “Terrified, in fact. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”
“You’re not going to.”
“I almost did,” his voice cracks, and he looks away in embarrassment. “And it…”
“Doctor, what aren’t you telling me?”
“How do you…”
“I always know.”
“Clara,” he sighs, knowing he needs to be honest. “Clara, I just… I can’t lose you because I care about you very deeply. In a way that is more than friendly. And I suppose I hoped that because of what you did… that maybe…”
“I do,” she interjects. “Oh, I do, I just…” she yawns, and he understands at once. “This might be a conversation to have another time.”
He can’t think of a coherent response, because his hearts are racing out of control, and she’s smiling at him exhaustedly.
“Can you…” she looks a touch embarrassed as she scoots carefully over in the medical bed, patting the space beside her. “Could you just lie here with me for a bit?”
“Yeah,” he manages, after a moment, clambering up and arranging himself beside her, feeling her cuddle into him and lay her head on his chest. “Comfortable?”