#i do sincerely appreciate all the twelvedole prompts

[whifferdills]

Twelve is Wrecked™ physically and mentally on an adventure and when asked/interrogated afterwards by nardole he decides to go down the 'I'm fine' route. This insistence continues even as he reluctantly allows the help/cuddles/stitching up.

Twelvedole, gen, ~550 words, h/c cuddlecore

It was a mistake and a shitshow and an absolute crescendo of bad decisions and it’s over, now. The TARDIS grumbling as she lands home, her doors opening reluctantly for them. Stumbling over the threshold, back into everyday life. Jobs, responsibilities, a set schedule. Tea time, laundry day, lectures at 2 PM, a Netflix queue.

The sun is shining, for once: it’s a beautiful clear summer day that greets them. The Doctor’s arm over Nardole’s shoulder, the Doctor only kind of sorta supporting their own weight. Mostly just flopping around uselessly, and they’re heavier than they look. Nardole readjusts them, clenches his jaw, and soldiers on.

The TARDIS whines, and quiets, doors closing. He pours the Doctor onto the sofa, and stretches, flexing out the muscle kinks and ground gears. “You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. They have a glazed, dazed look in their eyes, and they’re bruised, bleeding.

“You need fixing,” Nardole replies. Full mother-hen mode.

“I’m okay.”

“You’ve got - ” Nardole swipes some of the blood off of the Doctor’s forehead, briefly revealing a gash before the blood wells back up. “I’m getting the first-aid kit. Don’t die before I get back, okay?”

Tape and gauze and antiseptic and a shock-blanket and individually-wrapped paracetamol. Nardole rips open the antiseptic wipette packet and carefully cleans the Doctor’s face off. The smell of alcohol and blood; he bravely does not pass out.

“It’s fine. It’ll heal itself. Stop fussing.” The Doctor, swaying woozily.

“I’m not driving you to hospital to get stitches, this is my minimum level of fuss. So shush.” He peels a sticky-strip-thing off its paper, pinches the cut on the Doctor’s forehead together and then tapes over it. Gauze pad over that, more tape. He resists the impulse to kiss it all better.

“There you go. Job done. You can leave, now.”

“What you saw, what you went through -”

“Don’t want to talk about it. But I’m fine. You can go.”

“Can do, yeah,” Nardole says. “Won’t, though.” He sits next to the Doctor, careful to not jostle anything injured, which is currently most of them.

“Seriously. I don’t need coddling, this is pointless, I don’t want - ” They break off, eyes bright and wet, red-rimmed.

“Shut up. And even if you are fine, which you aren’t, fuck off; even if you are perfectly lovely and happy and great I am not, okay? I’m not fine. So.” Nardole leans gently against the Doctor’s side, finds their hand, holds it carefully.

“We’re alright now,” the Doctor says quietly. “Hey? It worked out. Nothing to worry about.” To themself as much as to Nardole.

Nardole gently, delicately maneuvers the two of them around, trying to find somewhere where no one is in any more pain than they have to be. He winds up with the Doctor on his lap, cradled in his arms, head resting against his chest. Still bleeding, but hey, that’s what dry cleaning is for.

“This is stupid. Waste of time,” the Doctor mumbles, muffled, mouth against Nardole’s jumper.

“If saying that helps, then fine. But I’m not leaving you alone. And you’re gonna like it. Right?”

“Right,” the Doctor says. They squirm closer, then relax, eyes closing.

Nardole brushes their hair back, shifts to find a comfortable spot under all their pointy elbows, then settles into the groove of the sofa, closing his eyes too.