A/N: So I was going to save this for a little bit, but since I'm behind in other things I'm gonna post this now (it's already on my writing tumblr). The inspiration for this story came from a couple different sketches a friend did. Links will be put on my profile.

A Wash

Clara hadn't been sure precisely how long they had been running, but she had decided that it was long enough to need some time to recoup.

It had been nearly adventure after adventure since they made up on Christmas, with a stop only long enough for her to go back to her wardrobe and find something that wasn't her nightgown to change into, and she could definitely tell. As the Doctor flipped switches and fiddled with whatzits, she looked at the state of them and nearly sighed aloud. She was a wreck with torn leggings and mud and bits of blue alien foliage stuck to her and sweat in places she'd rather not think about… though it's not like he was faring any better. He had already shed his jacket, though his shirt had been soaked through with his own sweat and some sort of intergalactic mucus, so it hadn't done anything for him. His hair was a goopy mess and one of his shoes was missing—things were desperate.

"I don't know about you, but I need a wash," she announced.

The Doctor blinked and glanced over at her. "Do you? Well, I guess you are used to the more frequent social convention. Don't let me stop you."

Sighing, Clara trudged her way through the TARDIS to the bedroom that had materialized for her one day a while back when she was nearly ready to fall over from exhaustion. She grabbed some of the more comfortable clothes she had—a camisole and flannel pajama bottoms—and went into the attached bathroom. There she peeled off her soiled clothes and took great pleasure in the fact that the hot water was bottomless. Everything was soothing as her muscles relaxed and all the bits of gunk went down the drain that never seemed to clog. The smell of the soap, however, brought back a memory that made her lean against the tile wall for five solid minutes. It was his soap, and the TARDIS must have picked up on that the couple times he had been there. Whether or not that was to be petty or comforting was something Clara knew she'd rather not find out.

After getting out of the steamy shower and finding that her old clothes were missing ("Sentient space-time ship, Clara Oswald"), she dried off and dressed and blew her hair dry. She finally looked somewhat humanoid again, thank goodness, and examined herself in the mirror as it defogged. A few hours of sleep would help as well, definitely, but before she could wobble off towards the bed, a thought crossed her mind.

Doctor.

Going out to the control room, Clara went to check on her grey-haired stick insect only to find that he had sat down in her favorite wingback chair without having cleaned up himself. She put her hands on her waist and shifted her hips and put on the sternest teacher glare she could manage. The Doctor looked up from the book he was reading and raised one bushy brow.

"What…?"

"You're filthy."

"No, I am not," he insisted. Clara did not want to hear any of it and instead held out her hand. He stared at it hesitantly. "What's that about?"

"If you're not going to do it on your own, then I'm going to have to help you."

"Clara, it's not really necessary…"

"Yes, it is necessary; you spent nearly five hours being digested earlier," she fired back. "Now come on, before all that stuff dries and suddenly you're stuck to the chair."

The Doctor snapped his book shut in a pout—he didn't need her lecturing him about his appearance. Didn't she not care about his appearance? It was all very confusing sometimes, traveling with this woman who was too wide in the face for her height and rather unpredictable in her reactions to historical figures (Pliny the Elder? Bored out of her skull. Robin Hood? She played dress-up). Looking at her hand, then her very cross mouth, then back to her hand again, he pondered before putting his own hand in her grasp and allowing her to give him a boost up.

"You can let go now—I think I can wash up on my own," he said as she dragged him through the TARDIS. "I'm not some teenager denying secreting excess hormones and whatnot. Making sure I get there is not that important."

"It clearly is important since you didn't clean yourself without my prompting," she replied. Clara pulled him into her bedroom and pushed him into the bathroom, the door to which she left open. "Strip."

"Pardon me?" Both eyebrows shot up in shock.

"Take off your clothes; you can't shower while wearing your clothes, unless you forgot that step in the process between regenerations."

Well, it was not as if she had never seen his body before—once in his previous self and once while they were captives of the Hittites, which they both vowed to never speak of again—so he grumpily complied and took off his clothes. Once it was all on the floor, from his shirt to his blue-and-white striped socks, Clara shoved him into the shower and made a point of scowling as she watched him clean off his body. When he was done he turned the water off and faced her.

"Okay, I'm clean, can I go now?"

"You missed a spot—kneel," she ordered. The Doctor did so and before he realized it the water was back on, dousing his head, and Clara's fingertips were working something white and foamy into his scalp.

"What are you doing?!" he growled. "That part of me is fine!"

"No, it's not, and it's called 'shampoo'. Now close your eyes and hold still. He obeyed and the water dumped over him again, the shampoo stuff stinging the corners of his shut eyes. When everything felt clear and not-biting again, he looked back up at Clara, only for her to start working yet another thing into his hair, this one slick and sweet-smelling.

"You already shampooed my hair—now what are you putting in it?"

"Conditioner, which I'm pretty sure you must have last used three faces ago," she said plainly. Clara stopped running her hands along his scalp to rinse them off and pushed him back down by the shoulders when he tried to stand. "Nope, we have to let it set. Give me two minutes, yeah?" She vanished from the bathroom and returned with a pile of his clothes that she plopped down on the sink. The Doctor's calves were on-fire, since he was more squatting than kneeling, and with one more rinse he had a towel around his waist and was sitting on the closed toilet lid as another attacked his head.

"I think I can take it from here, Clara," he grumbled. She ignored him and continued, drying his hair the best she could.

"Two thousand years old and you still need help with washing up," she chuckled. "Hold still and… there. You're done." The strands were somewhat damp, but they were as dry as they were going to get without her breaking out the handheld hair dryer. She ran her fingers through the soft fluff of hair and smiled; it was silky and smooth and bounced back no matter how much she stroked and tugged at it.

"Uh… Clara…? May I have my hair back now?" The Doctor's words brought her back and suddenly she found herself with her nose in his hair and her fingers grasping at the sides of his head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized. She let go and stumbled over towards the door. "I'm going to go sleep now. It's been a long trip."

"Sounds good," he said. Once the door was closed, the Doctor dried the rest of himself off and dressed—his favorite jumper and hooded sweatshirt—and quietly crept out of the bathroom. He saw Clara fidgeting in the bed as she tried to get comfortable and went to her side. He watched her curiously until she opened one eye to glare up at him.

"What, haven't you seen someone go to sleep before?"

"You look restless, which is the direct opposite of tired. Do you want me to do anything, since you helped me so selflessly earlier?"

Clara thought for a moment and held out her arm. "Lay down with me, please? I haven't had anyone to lie down with in ages."

"Okay, if that's all," he shrugged.

The Doctor laid down with his back to her, arms immediately wrapping around his middle and a face rubbing into the back of his head. With a content hum Clara went to sleep, her breathing slowed and steady. Whole minutes passed and soon it was the Doctor who was restless.

"You can let go now," he whispered, trying to look over his shoulder. She didn't answer and kept on holding him. "Clara? I want to leave. Clara? It's boring here. Clara?"

She slept away, grip remaining firm. Sighing in defeat, the Doctor began to talk aloud in an effort to pass the time.

"Well, I guess it's alright," he supposed. "This is what you call being the 'little spoon', correct? It makes one feel safe, apparently, and it can be seen as a show of affection. That's not bad, affection… just as long as you're not somewhere where it isn't."

She slept on soundly, her nose digging its way further into his hair. He sighed and looked at his hands, first the palms and then the backs, attempting to figure out what else to say. "You know, I went to a planet ruled by a civilization that banned all forms of affection under the penalty of death. It was a few faces ago, when I was a bit more touchy at a quicker pace, but yeah… I'm never bringing you there." No response—this was why he took standing catnaps. "C'rizz, Charley, and I barely made it out alive, so I can only imagine us being executed on the spot…"

Clara's grip tightened slightly as she snuggled in to the alien form at her side. It was comforting and smelled sweet and was very fluffy and cozy—she couldn't ask for much else and be happier.