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When the Doctor complained he was tired and had a headache, Clara initially didn't think anything of it. They'd been running nearly nonstop for a week, and he refused to rest as often she did. It was only natural he would feel rundown. The next day his complaints included a sore throat and he wasn't eating. Clara tried to take his temperature, but he batted her hands away, claiming the differences in their internal body heats meant she wouldn't be able to tell if he was warmer than usual. It wasn't until he announced he was going to sleep and padded down the corridor to his bedroom of his own accord in what could be considered the middle of the afternoon that Clara began to worry in earnest.
She was flipping through a book in the TARDIS library when the Doctor finally reappeared two days later looking like hell. He hadn't bothered to change out of his pajamas, opting instead to just pulling on a hoodie over them. His hair stuck up every which way, and Clara wasn't entirely positive he had bathed in those two days. Seeing him, Clara felt guilty for not taking care of him the last two days, but every time she went to check on him, he locked the door and the TARDIS wouldn't let her in his room.
“Come sit down,” she said, patting the empty cushion next to her. “Are you feeling any- what the hell is that?” Clara exclaimed when she caught sight of his face and neck.
The Doctor's skin was an angry red and raw, and Clara could see small bumps forming. She tilted his chin up, grey stubble prickling her fingers, and used her other hand to carefully tug at the collar of his T-shirt. She saw more spots at the top of his chest. “How far down does the rash go?”
He tugged his hoodie sleeves to cover his hands and batted hers away, careful not to inadvertently touch her skin. “It's everywhere.” He shifted uncomfortably on the cushion.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, but it itches.” He scratched at his arm. “A lot.”
Clara smacked his hand, and he stopped his movements long enough to glare at her. “Quit scratching. We don't know what this is yet, but you can't be doing any good doing that.” She tugged his sleeve. “C'mon, sickbay. Let's get you scanned.”
“Too tired.” The Doctor pulled his sonic screwdriver out of his trouser pocket and held it out to her. “Just do the scan with this.”
Clara scanned him carefully and handed the screwdriver back. “Well? What do you have?"
“Varicella. Also known as chicken pox.”
She worried her bottom lip. “Shouldn't we take you to a clinic or something? Chicken pox can be dangerous in adults.” She smacked the hand he was using to scratch his thigh. “What did I just tell you not to do?”
“I can't help it,” he groused. “And no on the clinic. Two hearts.”
She sighed. “Okay, we'll do this the old-fashioned way.” Clara tugged his sleeves again, and this time he moved. “I'll raid the sickbay for supplies. You wait here."
She eased him into taking a horizontal position on the couch once she convinced him she couldn't catch it from him. Clara made a quick detour into one of the TARDIS kitchens, loading up a bag and returning to the Doctor's side.
“What's in the bag?”
“Just some things you'll need while I'm gone.” She opened the cap on a juice bottle and stuck a straw in before placing it on the small table next to the sofa.
Eyebrows knit together, the Doctor looked at Clara in confusion. “I don't understand why I need the straw. My hands aren't faulty.” He wiggled his fingers.
“Yeah about that... you're actually not going to be able to use them.”
Two minutes later the TARDIS Clara stepped back from the Doctor to inspect her handiwork. He glowered at her and gripped the cushion beneath him as best as he could. The was impeded, however, by the oven mitts Clara had duct taped over his hands.
“Is this really necessary?”
“I have to make sure you don't scratch. All you're going to do is pop the blisters and then they'll scar over.” Her right hand found its way into his silver curls. “I promise I'll be back as soon as I can."
“Fine, go.”
Clara closed the door behind herself, and the Doctor wondered how he could entertain himself until she got back.
*
The TARDIS anticipated her arrival, and Clara found several boxes and bottles on a countertop in the sickbay. She picked them up and read the labels before adding them to a bag, making a mental note of which order to give him the treatments. Clara moved swiftly through the ship back to the library and stopped in her tracks at the scene in front of her.
The Doctor was on his feet and he was using a fireplace poker to scrape at his back- Clara made a mental note to toss it in the bin later. He leaned against the back of a chair and grunted. “Just a little more... oh that's good.”
“Doctor! What do you think you're doing?” Clara marched over to him and snatched the utensil.
He help up his oven mitt-clad hands. “The itching is unbearable, Clara. I was going bananas here.”
She shook the bag in her hands. “Come on then. I got some stuff that should help.” Clara left the way down the corridor.
He looked at the bag curiously but did not argue with her. At least not until they were standing in the bathroom together, and she was filling the large tub. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of the powder she put in the water hit his senses. “What is it?”
“Oatmeal.”
The Doctor looked disgusted. “I eat this?”
Clara laughed and cut the duct tape off his mitts. “No, you muppet, you bathe in it.”
“Seriously?” He looked dubious.
“Seriously. Haven't you ever heard of an oatmeal bath? It's a famous thing for chicken pox or any kind of rash really.” She unzipped his hoodie.
He swatted at her hands. “What are you doing, Clara?” His face was red.
“You need to take your clothes off. Or have you forgotten that part of bathing?”
He cleared his throat. “I can do that myself, thank you very much.”
“I'm going to get you something clean to wear. Strip and get in the tub while I'm gone, okay?”
He didn't reply, but he also didn't argue, so Clara took it as an acquiescence. She took her time picking his clothes, choosing between T-shirts and shorts. He would hate not having his usual layers, but right now those layers were agitating the rash. For underwear Clara stuck her hand in the drawer blindly and chose the first pair she touched. She folded everything into a nice bundle and knocked on the door. “Doctor, can I come in?”
No answer.
She knocked again. “Doctor?”
“I heard you the first time. I just hadn't decided if I wanted you in here.”
At that Clara rolled her eyes and let herself in. She deposited his clothes on the counter next to a stack of towels and shoved her sleeves up. The Doctor had closed the shower curtain to block himself from view, and Clara pulled it back. His arms were crossed over his chest, but she could still see spots everywhere and winced in sympathy. She vividly remembered having chicken pox as a little girl and how uncomfortable she had been for days. Oatmeal baths were the only things to soothe, and Clara knelt down next to the tub.
The Doctor looked at her over his shoulder, eyes wide with a hint of terror. “What are you doing?”
She scooped up a handful of the oatmeal bathwater and let it trickle down his back. “Helping. You're not able to reach back here.” She rest her hands on his shoulders lightly and frowned when he tensed. A glance at his hands confirmed he was hugging himself tighter. “It's okay, just relax.”
Clara kept her ministrations slow, getting him used to her presence and applying extra water to the parts of his back that looked particularly inflamed. Probably where he had scratched himself with the poker, she mused. Eventually the Doctor relaxed enough to unclench his fists. He mirrored her movements on his chest and arms, humming thoughtfully.
“Is it helping at all?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, and he tried again. “Most of the itching is gone.”
“Good.” She laid a palm on his cheek. “Turn towards me. I want to get your face.”
He shifted slowly before following her instructions. The Doctor clutched the edge of the tub in tight fists and closed his eyes.
Clara touched his hands. “Listen, just trust me, okay? We're almost done.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded, not willing to speak.
She treated his face thoroughly, taking full advantage of the fact that he couldn't see her study him as she did so. She started at his neck and worked her way up. Her fingers traced over his cheeks affectionately and up to his forehead, willing away the tension there. When Clara was satisfied with her work, she reluctantly pulled away, and the Doctor's eyes fluttered open.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Clara.”
She smiled. “You're welcome. Rinse yourself off with tepid water and get dressed. I'll wait for you outside, yeah? Oh, and pat yourself down with the towel. If you rub you'll just undo all that work.”
His lips quirked up. “Do I have to wear the oven mitts again?”
Clara leaned forward and nuzzled her cheek against his hair before pressing a kiss to it. “Only if you're going to scratch.”
“I won't,” he quickly promised.
“Okay then. I'm going to make lunch. Soup and sandwich sound good?” She pulled the shower curtain closed again to give him privacy.
He stuck his head out. “Nothing with chicken.”
“You know you probably caught this from a kid somewhere and not from an actual chicken right?”
“Nothing with chicken,” the Doctor repeated firmly.
“Fine, nothing with chicken.” With that, Clara made her way to the kitchen to wash up and figure out what to make now that the Doctor was apparently swearing off chicken.