In an attempt to save the Doctor one of Clara's echoes faces a Weeping Angel that transports her back to Glasgow in 1981. Lost and lonely she encounters Dr Pete, a man who seems just as lost and just a lonely. With nowhere else to go Clara decides to stick around because misery always loves company. Doctor Who / Field of Blood crossover. Echo!Clara/Dr Pete.
Empire of Dust
Chapter 1: Prologue
Clara took a deep breath, the cold air stinging in her lungs. Her hands instinctively wandered to her upper arms, attempting to protect the bare skin against the cold. She had to open her eyes and she knew it, only she was afraid of what she would find. Less than a minute ago Clara Oswin Oswald had been standing in her warm classroom in Cardiff, 2078, fighting against creatures of stone along with a mysterious, young man called the Doctor, who had appeared out of nowhere. He had told her what the creatures did and despite his warnings she had closed her eyes eventually, hoping she had given the man enough time to escape. Clara had made a decision, knowing the stranger would not be able to save her, but she felt that it had been the right thing to do. Only now she got scared.
A car horn and the sound of an approaching engine forced her to finally open her eyes and Clara jumped out of the way at the last moment. Cars. That was a good sign. Wherever - or rather whenever - she was, cars already existed but when Clara started to look around she found that nothing else looked familiar. The city seemed as strange to her as the almost empty streets. The worst part however was that she was wearing a summer dress and it was starting to snow. The few people that were passing her barely granted her a glance and Clara knew that if she couldn't find someone to help her she would freeze to death before the night was over.
A few houses ahead of her a pub door opened and Clara watched a man, obviously drunk, stagger outside. She soon realized that this pub might be her last resort. It definitely looked warm enough. But how long would they let her stay when they learned that she had no money on her?
"Hey, lassie!" a gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts. Lassie? The man sounded Scottish. Did she end up in Scotland?
Clara turned to look at the man who had just left the bar. By the way he clung to the wall he was definitely drunk. She should just ignore him and head for the inside of the pub. The last thing she needed right now was being harassed by an intoxicated stranger.
"Do you have a death wish?" he proceeded to ask, his words nothing but a slur, "Put some clothes on or you'll freeze to death!"
Clara approached him carefully. In his state he seemed harmless enough for her to walk past him.
"I was just about to go inside," she replied.
The man leaned his back against the wall and snorted.
"In that dress? They'll tear you apart. Here," he clumsily stripped out of his own coat and handed it to Clara, "Put that on."
"But then you'll be cold," she countered, hesitant to take it.
"I'm half dead anyway. And not far from home. Put it on, lassie."
Clara finally accepted the coat and put it on. She instantly felt better and warmer, although it smelled of smoke and alcohol and a heavy aftershave.
"Thank you," Clara uttered shyly, wondering what she should do next. Leaving him now seemed like an extremely rude thing to do.
"You're welcome," the man uttered but as soon as he had finished his sentence, he seemed to be bothered by a sharp pain and Clara watched him convulse and reach for his side.
"Are you alright?" she asked immediately.
The man looked back at her, attempting a smile, but the pain was audible in his voice. "Nothing either you or I could do about it. I'm going home. You go wherever."
He turned around and attempted to walk away, but stopped after a few metres and crouched down against the wall. Clara was suddenly overrun by a guilty conscience. She felt pity for the man who had helped her and who was obviously not feeling well. She would be a poor excuse of a good human being if she didn't at least try to help him in return.
"Sir, you're not feeling well. Do you want me to call you a cab?" Clara asked, bending down to his level.
"No, I live around the corner. I can walk," he replied stubbornly.
Clara put her arms akimbo. She wasn't exactly keen on arguing with him, God knows she's had enough of that with her pupils this morning so Clara went straight into teacher-mode.
"Clearly you can't," she said in the strictest voice she could muster, "If that's the speed you'll be going it's you who's going to freeze to death."
The stranger stared back at her, a sad smile forming on his lips.
"Give me back my coat then."
"I've got a better idea. I'll take you home," she said determinedly, reaching under the man's arms to pull him up with all the strength she had, "Come on, lean on me."
"I can walk," he claimed, but Clara cut him off.
"No, you can't. Now shut up and do as you're told!"
Clara was glad that the man had finally stopped arguing. Propped up against her he slowly made his way along the pavement and for a while neither of them said anything. When they had reached a crossroad he told her to turn left.
"You're very kind," he said suddenly, "What's your name?"
"Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald," she replied, "And yours?"
"Everyone just calls me Dr Pete," he explained.
"Let's drop the title, the name's enough for me."
Clara was surprised when Pete suddenly stopped, but assumed that they had reached his apartment.
"Is this where you live?" Clara asked, giving the building a disdainful look. It wasn't exactly the nicest of neighbourhoods, but then again: what had she expected from a man who had broken down drunk in front of a pub?
"Yeah, top floor," Pete replied, taking in a lungful of air as if to brace himself for a long climb.
"I'll help you," Clara said before he had to ask. She knew he wouldn't be able to do it on his own and probably end up sleeping in the hallway.
"Thank you," he said kindly.
Even with Clara's help it wasn't easy to reach the top floor. Pete seemed to be in agony and it got worse with every step. She practically had to carry him up the last flight of stairs until they finally stopped in front of a door.
It opened to a small, dusty apartment that seemed too dark despite the light and that probably hadn't been properly cleaned in 10 years. Books and newspapers piled up everywhere and the floor was hardly visible under all of them. Clara spotted an old couch, a crowded desk and a sort of kitchen at the opposite end of the room. Two doors were leading out of the room, one probably to the bedroom and the other to the bathroom. Everything seemed to reek of smoke and liquor and Clara had to refrain from wrinkling her nose.
Pete cleared his throat.
"Well, thank you. It was very kind of you to take me home. If I can make it up to you somehow you know where to find me," he said, kicking off his shoes and making his way to one of the doors.
"Actually," Clara started and waited for him to turn around, "Would you mind if I slept on your couch tonight? I don't know where else to go."
Pete gave her a long, inquiring look, obviously too drunk or too tired to argue and finally shrugged. "Fine by me."
Before Clara could thank him Pete had closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving her alone in a strange apartment. In a strange city. In a strange time.