WHO: Clara Oswald, The Doctor (10) WHEN: After this 8th November WHERE: Clara and the Doctor's room. WHAT: Clara tries to comfort the Doctor after everyone finds out. WARNINGS: There's some kissing. Gasp. (AND I AM NOT OKAY AFTER TONIGHT'S DOCTOR WHO)
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In his attempt to run and hide from what he’d done in the eye of the evidently watchful public, the Doctor had gotten more than he bargained for. He should have known better, but it felt more like he’d burned bridges. With Rose upset, rightfully so, Donna angry and hurt, also rightfully so, and what felt like the loss of a friend tucked under his belt, he trudged slowly back to the space he shared with himself and Clara.
Relieved, at least, to have things settled between them, he couldn’t dredge up a smile upon entering the quiet residence. The door sounded awfully loud as it closed behind him, so much so it caused him to flinch and glare at it briefly from over his shoulder. The impulse to run still burned at his feet, but when his eyes swiveled back to the woman he’d taken up with, it crumbled under the weight of simple anxiety.
He hated every bit of what he’d put his friends through. Guilt should’ve driven him right back out that door, instead it compelled him toward her. He felt heavy as his arms wrapped about her, a tiny piece of him daring to believe the burdens would melt through them both and be forgotten.
“I’m still sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t want me to say that, but I am. Not without a silver lining to offer now that I’m here though…” He shifted for the sake of her comfort, but didn’t appear to want to budge from his spot. “Made it without a shiner!”
Twelve wasn't fond of hugs. He'd always said they were just a way to hide your face, your intentions, your truth. Clara didn't believe that. Particularly since Danny Pink, she'd taken to hugging more often than she had before. It was her way of showing her feelings, even if she couldn't always say them. Her motor-mouth often got away from her, and then how fast it seemed to work always took her far away from saying what she wanted to. She wondered if that's how the Doctor(s) felt.
Eleven. She and Eleven, after a certain point, invaded one another's personal space all the time. Hell, she'd jumped into his time stream; that was about as invasive as you could get. He was fond of hugs and touching, and Clara had gotten used to it. It had taken her a while to get used to the new Doctor, with his grouchy, inappropriate comments. It would have been whiplash, if she hadn't hop through time, being torn apart and remembering bits and pieces from all over his time stream. She'd convinced him to take that particular TARDIS, even. You could argue that Clara was in his blood.
Her arms wrapped around him, and for the moment, she stood as tall as she could (not very) and as sturdy as she could. He clearly needed to know that he could count on her, even when things were rough. He hated hurting people; didn't they understand that? How many I'm sorrys did they have to hear over his timeline to understand that? Rose couldn't help falling for the Doctor anymore than Martha, River, or she could. Yes, Rose had every right to be upset, she wasn't from a place where she'd gotten to deal with this. Timelines were all screwed here.
"You can be sorry, Doctor, and I'm sorry that Rose is hurting. I truly am. That's the last thing I wanted — for her or for you —" She hugged him tighter, leaning the side of her face against his and cradling the back of his head with her hand. "But I won't be sorry for kissing you."
It wasn’t a terribly commonplace scenario for the Doctor. He hadn’t gone around kissing his companions, and generally for good reason. No matter what it was he felt, he knew they wouldn’t be with him forever. It was, in a way, better that they couldn’t be by his side for all of time. Eternity took a toll on someone, and he didn’t want to see that much time written on someone’s face, not one that he--well, that feeling he couldn’t place into words.
Rose’s disappearance had reminded him that she was in a better place. Donna having Eddie reminded him that she’d be better off without him. Clara, though, Clara understood him. She’d been the first person he saw here, not that it mattered specifically, but the bond it created did. When Rose had disappeared and they were both on their own again, she’d been the only person he could talk to that hadn’t been hurt by him, but grasped the damage he’d done all the same.
He’d let go of that rage he’d experienced on Mars and the fear he’d felt facing down the Time Lords as his last hoorah. More than anything else, he didn’t want to be sorry for that. The thought struck him almost in sync with her similar assurances, prompted his eyes to pop open and somehow grip her tighter. It didn’t altogether make sense, his feelings, but he liked that. He needed it.
“That’s a relief,” he said, voice shaky in spite of the humor he tried to project. “Can’t pop back in the TARDIS and have ourselves a redo. Not that I would. I wouldn’t. You know that.” It was gutting, the feeling that he had to be mindful of his words. They’d been awfully destructive that day. She wouldn’t have that though, so he remembered, at least, not to apologize for it this time.
Eventually, he slackened his embrace and slid his hand around to tilt her chin up so that he could see her face. He knew he must have looked run down, but somehow she looked radiant. For a human, of course. Though the Doctor tried to smile, only a long frown remained.
“Won’t be sorry for that,” he asserted. “Blimey, I’m knackered. Emotions are work, Clara Oswald.”
Run down or not, Clara knew that look. He needed a brace, someone to hold him up. They couldn't pop back in the TARDIS to change it anyway. They'd still be there, the warm glow of the bonfire. They'd just be helpless to watch it all play all over again. Paradox. She'd learned that lesson when she'd tossed the keys to the TARDIS into a volcano. She'd known — known — that he couldn't, but Clara's grief couldn't be controlled. She and the Doctor shared that much. Their pain could bring down mountains.
She cupped the side of his face, her fingers ghosting over the tips of the hair under his ear. It was a gesture she often did with Eleven, the Doctor who needed the comfort more than he let on. The Doctor who was so angry at how things had turned out. Ten was the Doctor who had so much pain that Eleven carried it inside him, and instead of apologies, he vowed never again. Clara gently kissed his cheek before slipping her hands into his and inching him toward the bed.
No, she had no desire to hop into it, randy and naked; there was just no other seating in the room. Her class work and papers and grading book were stretched out across in a sort of fan shape where one could see exactly where she'd been sitting, and she made no move to get rid of any of it.
"Here. Have a sit down." Pain in the arse, she'd have to get out and get a cup of tea for either of them. Back home, she'd already have the electric kettle on, ready to make a cup at a moment's notice. There were a few of those in the TARDIS, if the old girl would just grow enough that maybe Clara could climb in. Clara climbed into the bed, scooting all over the way over to give him and his long legs the most space. "But don't mess that up. It doesn't look like it, but it's got an order to it."
Anything suggestive in nature about the scenario went well over his head. Lethargy had attached itself to his every muscle, though he doubted sleep would drag him down any time soon. Following along where she led, expression somewhat in a daze, the Doctor hardly acknowledged anything at all save for the girl in his sights. Only when she mentioned the papers did he shift his gaze to them, dumbly nodding some semblance of acknowledgment.
“Right, no mucking up the papers,” he repeated.
No stranger to sharing a bed with his companions, he thought nothing of it. Sometimes lodging was sorely lacking, species often made assumptions, and he rarely did anything to argue. Not needing sleep in the same humans did meant he spent very little time in a bed as a rule. Beds were for thinking, reflection, and a kip when necessary.
Now he was finding another reason.
Once she was situated, he dropped down carefully, certainly not about to incite any of her ire over those papers. He’d seen her stern faces and elected not to be on the receiving end of them if he could help it. It took some maneuvering, but he found a comfortable enough position against the headboard next to her. Withdrawing his glasses from his front pocket, he squinted at the so-called organized pile.
“What’s all this, then? Lesson planning? Need a hand?” Distractions were best, maybe for them both.
"It's not quite the same as teaching English at Coal Hill, but… there's a bit more hands on. More one-on-one." Which was really sad when Clara thought about it. It meant there was a severe lack of children to teach. The future. It struck her that without more babies, this population may not survive past another generation or two, not without defects. Clara frowned at the thought, but reached down to grab the papers she'd been grading.
Then she was struck with a thought. She settled against his side, flipping through pages and snuggled in. Being tiny had its advantages. "I've got an idea, but it involves one very important person in my life to be there. Think you can manage? A lesson on the stars and galaxies and universes might break up some of the tedium." Clara glanced up. "You up for it?"
“Bit like tutoring, isn’t it?” He reasoned, but that was sad, wasn’t it? The lack of youth running around, it didn’t bode well, no. There needed to be a great deal of change within Mount Weather, and the outside world, too. Perhaps it was time he got more involved with it all. That was a thought for another time. “Not so bad though, more of a chance to reach them, eh?” At least he wasn’t completely at a loss for the upside of a situation.
Surprise at her closer proximity managed to light up his otherwise tired features. Coaxing an arm around her, he arched a brow at her implications. This wasn’t quite like being volunteered, not that he minded (no matter how he might pout aloud).
“That me, then?” He asked, nudging her a bit playfully. Slowly but surely, he would regain his energy. “Right. Well. Suppose I could do that, yeah. Of course. Ah! They could call me Professor Doctor. Hold on. No. Just the Doctor. Professor Doctor, it’s rather stuffy, isn’t it? I’m hip, can’t have a ridiculous moniker.” Never mind that he was a man who ran around calling himself simply… The Doctor.
"Most of these kids were up there, orbiting the Earth, but they don't really know much about what's beyond that." Maybe they hadn't taught them what stars were which. Maybe when survival was on the line, they felt it wasn't necessary. Or maybe these kids were just too young to really understand. Whatever it was, Clara wanted them to see the wonder in the world, beyond just mere survival. This world reminded her of so many worlds they'd visited which were all about making it from day to day; they needed to have something to live for.
"Professor Doctor." She snorted laughter, covering her mouth and nose out of some weird automatic reaction. "Just Doctor will be fine with them. Most of them haven't a clue who you are, mind you, so you'll probably need to learn to speak quite slower." Eyebrows went up at him, knowing full well that every version of the Doctor she'd met had a habit of talking way, way too fast sometimes even for her to understand. "They're only in the eight to ten bracket."
“Fair enough,” he nodded, cheek resting against her hair as he reached over to pass his free hand over a leaflet of paper. “Loads to say about the universe, good thing this one is similar enough that I wouldn’t be blowing hot air. Cold air’s nicer, soothing. Well. Maybe not in this temperature,” and he’d gotten lost somewhere in that point, hadn’t he?
He huffed indignantly at her laughter, though cracked a grin anyway. Hardly offended, it was nice to hear her laugh even just a tiny bit. After the day they’d had, sharing in one seemed like a pipe dream.
“Speak slower and use simpler jargon,” he noted aloud. “You’ll be there, won’t you? Just toss me a scowl whenever I get ahead of myself.”
Rather used to his fits of running off the track, Clara stuck to the topic at hand, glancing up at him so she could see her face for the gestures.
"No scowling. I'll just give you some other sign, like —" She held her and out in front of her, making a small sweeping motion downward. "— or maybe something more like —" A small flailing of a hand. "— or maybe just… this." She gently tapped her pointer to his lips. It was a subtle movement that the kids likely wouldn't notice it, but it had an ulterior motive in the here and now. Now to see if the Doctor got it.
Watching her avidly as though he were a proper pupil, he committed the gestures to memory until she sent it to a screeching halt. He could almost hear the sounds of collision in his head, his widening eyes were reflective of as much. Had she? No… But, then… maybe? He fastened her with a quizzical stare before leaning toward her. Deftly plucking the pointer from her grasp, he mimicked the action she’d made on her.
“This?” He questioned, attempting to sound somewhat scandalized. Whether he genuinely got it remained to be seen, of course. He was practically an expert at acting thick, never mind that he was when it came to what he classified as human constructs. “They might think you want me to zip it altogether. Or look for a lolli. That what that’s for? Do you want some candy, Clara Oswald?”
"Doctor." Clara's smile was a shade mischievous as one of her eyebrows arched upwards. There were so many things that should say here. That she was so sorry for causing such a stir between his companions. If Clara had been thinking about herself, she might have realized that she drove a wedge between herself and those very same companions with one kiss.
But Clara had a few defects of character, and one of those was act first, think later, and it often had intense consequences. Her mouth also got ahead of her, and in point of fact, it was in danger of doing so here. "You really do run off at the mouth, don't you? And you can be incredibly bad when it comes to flirting."
He was rubbish at managing a proper flirt. Dishing it out came easily, but when it went reciprocated and craftily executed? He floundered, a pathetic fish out of water. Other times, the innuendo went sailing over his head until too late. Cheekiness could only get him so far with an interested party. His confidence was starting to unravel, but he tried valiantly to keep his wits at least semi-about him.
“Clara Oswald, are you trying to make a pass at me by making comments on my remarkable gob?” He questioned, not sounding nearly as cool as he’d hoped, but sold it well enough. He tossed her pointer onto the now seemingly forgotten stash of schoolwork, leaving that hand free to seek out one of her own and clasp it tight. They had a great deal to work through, friendships in desperate need of mending, but he needed this reprieve.
She had no clue that any of the Doctor's had this side to them. It made her more than a little giddy, honestly, and of course, there was that ever present chemistry between them. She remembered way back in the museum when he'd kissed her hand, and her heart had fluttered just the slightest. Here, now, though, he was holding her and they were doing more than just touching. He was holding her hand.
A bubble of panic welled up inside her. She had to push it down, down, down before she could open her mouth to utter another word. Danny Pink, you would be so ashamed of me. But Danny Pink was no longer, and she couldn't live her life that way. Her heart raced, but instead of saying a word, she simply bumped her nose against his as she leaned in to kiss him.
It was, by all accounts, a side of him that seldom had the chance to arise. Life in the TARDIS was brisk, planets and time itself always in need of a helping hand. His tendency to avoid intimacy at all didn’t help things, particularly when it came to humans. When it came to this face, he’d somewhat fared poorly in that department. Fairly certain he’d been kissed the most with this guise, time hadn’t permitted anything to come of any of it.
Here, now, stuck in a post-apocalyptic Earth and the bleakest fate ahead of him, running from the domestics didn’t seem all that important. Maybe his own loneliness had finally caught up to him, too. He hadn’t been a stranger to the dance necessarily, but this was new; this was human.
The first two kisses had been inevitably treacherous. Words of anger and hurt had been dealt, and yet more guilt filtered him the moment their lips connected again. It would be a very long time before anyone in their circle deemed this thing brewing between them as acceptable. Outside of that burgeoning fire of guilt, there was a minute sense of hope. The sensation was enough that he broke off the kiss abruptly just to cup her face between both his hands.
“I don’t know how long it will be before this is alright with everyone, Clara Oswald,” he began. “But, you’re right, I think. We’ll get there. Together.”