From what we cannot hold the stars are made.

[makemeasong]

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[twelfthsong]

[The Doctor doesn't know when he dozed off but Clara's voice calls to him like an echo through his slumber.

If he dreams he doesn't remember it and he blinks blearily, seeing her in bed.]

Clara? Did you sleep okay?

[makemeasong]

[ Rubbing her forehead she remembers the bandages too late and winces a little, dropping her hand. But she does look at him, still warm and soft with sleep as she stretches out her legs. ]

No nightmares. You stayed the entire time?

[ Her voice is still soft and a little husky from sleeping as she looks at him, holding his gaze. ]

[twelfthsong]

GOod. Good. And of course I stayed.

[Something else hangs in the air unsaid; that he was afraid she wouldn't be there if he left or that something else would snatch her away in the night.

He holds her gaze. Seeing her there wonderfully soft and tussled in the moments after waking stirs something in his hearts. It dawns on him that Clara has always been brilliant even in this unmade state. She always would be and he was going to hold onto her as long as he could.

After making sure Clara is fine and her bandages are clean, he all but flies off to the kitchen. Clara is right in reminding him that any moment is never guaranteed but for now he'll hold this one close to his chest.

For now their only immediate concern is breakfast.]