Title: True Love Lies
Author: Welshwitch1011 and Silverspoon
Rating: T
Pairing: Eleventh Doctor/Clara, Amy/Rory
Disclaimer: Here is the part where we point out that we own nothing except for a splendid array of Eleventh Doctor merchandise, and a deep, abiding love for Clara/Eleven and the glorious Ponds.
We don't approve of the new Doctor. Not in the slightest. Not even a little bit.
Therefore, this fic is AU from 'Time of The Doctor' - because don't forget, time lines can be rewritten. ;)
Chapter One
Driving Home for Christmas
Clara Oswald had become obsessed with time.
Not the non-linear, wibbly wobbly kind she frequently found herself travelling through, but the kind that involved cooking instructions and food preparation.
Minutes per pound, chilling time, par-boiling and other similarly foreign phrases filled her head, and the self-confessed control freak found herself unwillingly flirting with the idea of a panic attack.
At least Clara assumed that this was what a panic attack felt like, if the frantic beating of her heart, sweaty palms and feelings of intermittent nausea were anything to go by.
Steadying herself with a deep breath, Clara peered down at the oven, hands on either side of the counter.
"Right. Sprouts are boiling, pigs are in their blankets..." she bent to open the oven door and cast a quick glance inside, "potatoes are roasting..."
She lifted the lid on a small saucepan, sarcasm creeping into her voice as she added,"And the gravy's... congealing nicely. Brilliant."
A metal pan containing an unnatural number of sprouts hissed and spat as it bubbled furiously on the stove top, sending wafts of steam up into the air that gently persuaded the line of yellow post-it notes stuck to the cabinet door above to come unstuck. Clara watched her cooking instructions drift to the ground with an exasperated sigh, plucking the remaining papers from their make-shift perch whilst trying not to scald her hand.
The prospect of the local A&E on Christmas Day was distinctly unappealing, although she suspected third degree burns might be slightly less painful than the afternoon that lay ahead of her.
Clara checked the kitchen clock yet again, grimacing as her temples began to throb dully, a tell tale sign that a migraine was brewing.
"Doctor, where are you?!" she muttered to herself, lifting a glass of sherry from the counter and taking a liberal swig of the too-sweet liquid that had been a special festive purchase for her grandmother.
She was sure that Christmas dinner was not meant to be this stressful a proposition, yet as she listened to the gentle chatter of her father, grandmother and loathed step-mother drift in from the living room, her stomach lunged once more in dread.
Hurrying over to the window, she cast a glance over the fields surrounding her block of flats, and her annoyance piqued as she saw no sign of the errant Doctor or the turkey he had promised to salvage.
In some respects she considered him the saviour of this dinner; not only rescuing her diners from a date with salmonella, but also keeping her from a plethora of questions about her flagging love life.
Her step-mother loved nothing more than to interrogate the young woman about her dating prospects, and so Clara had hoped that having the Doctor pose as her boyfriend would silence her on the subject - temporarily at least.
Besides, Clara was secretly thrilled at the prospect of spending Christmas with her beloved Doctor; not that she'd tell him that. There'd be no living with him if he realised the extent of her affections.
Although sometimes, she suspected his adoration exceeded hers.
A telling smile tugged at her lips, but before Clara could descend any further into a day-dream comprised of languid kisses and declarations of love, the doorbell promptly brought her to her senses.
"Don't worry, I'll go!"
Dashing from the kitchen, holding her green paper crown in place with one hand, Clara rushed to the front door and threw it open.
"Did somebody order a turkey?" the Doctor whispered, grinning lopsidedly at his assistant, who grabbed the lapels of his jacket and hauled him rather unceremoniously over the threshold of the doorway.
"You! Where have you been?" Clara demanded in a hiss, letting go of the Doctor with one hand and using the other to propel him at speed through the hallway and towards the kitchen, where he could deposit the turkey without being seen.
"Everything alright in there, C lara dear?" a high, grating feminine voice trilled from the lounge, where the sound of the television was not nearly loud enough to drown out her stepmother.
Clara knocked back another generous slug of sherry and gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to grind them.
"Absolutely fine, thanks Linda," she called back with forced cheer that elicited a knowing smirk from the Doctor. Clara simply pointed one finger at him in warning and the Time Lord's smile faltered.
"How many times have I told you, darling? Call me Mum!" Linda replied in a sing song voice. Clara's hand tightened around the handle of the kitchen knife resting on the nearby counter top and the Doctor took a subconscious step backwards, before folding his arms and leaning against the cupboard.
"Well, what do you think?" he inquired, beaming at Clara who frowned in confusion, evidently missing the point. For a moment, the Doctor appeared faintly hurt, his eyebrows knitting together as he touched the corners of his bow tie. He glanced down at the turkey, perfectly golden brown and lightly steaming upon the kitchen table, and Clara's eyes widened.
"Oh that... yeah, thanks..." she recovered, her voice distinctly lacking a note of enthusiasm as she added, "that's a... erm... handsome turkey."
The Doctor straightened up and immediately his demeanour altered, his lips curving into a pleased smile and his eyes sparkling in the florescent kitchen light.
"Well, it's all in the seasoning," he admitted, cocking his head. Clara nodded, making soft sounds of affirmation as she squinted at his bow tie.
"Are those Christmas puddings on your bow tie?" she demanded, suddenly all business, "I mean, I thought we agreed smart-casual."
"Bow ties are smart-casual," the Doctor defended, pouting just a little as he regarded Clara, who crossed her arms.
"Maybe if you're at clown school," Clara retorted. "Novelty bow ties were not part of the deal. I'd have remembered that."
"Oi! Bow ties are..." the Doctor began, wrinkling his nose as he suddenly detected a faintly offensive aroma. "Burning!"
Clara peered up at him askance as he sniffed at the air, "Yeah, I'd totally burn that thing. Someone needs to put it out of its misery."
The Doctor deflected her barb by holding up a finger in a bid to silence her.
"The gravy is burning."
He directed her gaze to the small saucepan and failed to conceal a slightly smug grin as her mouth opened into a wide 'o' and her eyes widened in abject horror.
Clara leapt toward the stove, grabbing at the pan handle and wrenching it from the hob.
"What? No! No, no, no, no! Doctor, what am I going to do? This is a disaster!" she howled, trying determinedly to scrape at the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. The distinct smell of charcoal wafted up to her nostrils and Clara flung the spoon into the offending pan in defeat.
The Doctor watched her fondly, his eyes alive with a sentiment that even a casual onlooker would have easily identified as adoration. He cleared his throat, mindful of the altogether romantic direction his thoughts had seemed to have taken as of late.
No, actually. That wasn't strictly true. He feared he'd been having those sorts of thoughts about Clara Oswald ever since a pretty young governess had pressed her lips to his. Or maybe it had been their first encounter in the Dalek asylum, although he couldn't be entirely sure.
One thing he was sure about, however, was that this was neither the place nor time for self-reflection. A Christmas dinner needed saving, and he wasn't about to stand by and watch a culinary disaster unfold before him.
Sighing for effect, the Doctor shrugged out of his jacket before draping it on the kitchen counter. He opened the buttons on his shirt cuffs and began to roll his sleeves up to his elbows with a little more haste, before his hands finally came to land on Clara's shoulders.
His fingers curled around the tops of her arms gently and he gave them a reassuring squeeze, noticing their proximity to each other only when Clara glanced up to meet his gaze. They were almost standing toe to toe and the apples of Clara's cheeks flushed pink as she peered up into his face.
Smiling at her gently, the Doctor directed her to one of the chairs arranged around the kitchen table with a mischievous wink, "Step aside, Clara. I'm a professional!"
She shot him a withering yet wholly grateful look, and scooted into the chair to allow the Doctor to stand over the oven.
"Clara? Love, can I smell something burning?"
Clara groaned, inclining her head toward the closed kitchen door as she shouted back, "No Gran, everything's fine!"
Rubbing his hands together, the Doctor discarded the charred saucepan and deposited it in the sink, before he turned his attention back to the task at hand.
"Right then. I'm going to need another saucepan, a whisk, gravy granules, a dash of port, a teaspoon of sugar, and... ooh, some of those rum balls with the chocolate sprinkles on the outside!"
Clara emerged from digging through her cupboard with a perplexed and wholly apprehensive look on her face that the Doctor instantly deflected with a warm smile that practically defied her to argue with him.
Arching an eyebrow, Clara folded her arms across her chest.
"I'm sorry... Rum balls?" she checked, wondering if she had indeed heard his request correctly.
She sincerely hoped this wasn't a recipe to rival fish fingers and custard.
Her paper crown chose that moment to descend over her eyes and she shoved roughly at it as her annoyance mounted. The Doctor eyed her closely, reaching out and lifting the offending item back into place, letting his fingers crest across her skin and his thumb brush against her cheek as he did so.
Clara felt a shiver ascend her spine. She hoped the almost unbearable heat in the kitchen would excuse the blush she was sure coloured her face in a very festive shade of red. If the Doctor had noticed, he hadn't let on - much to her relief.
"Eh, I like this!" he nodded toward her crown with obvious approval, "I do enjoy a good hat, you know. You haven't got a spare fez have you? I feel practically under-dressed here."
"Oddly enough, no," Clara replied, smiling briefly at the disappointed 'oh' that left his lips.
Hurriedly passing him the ingredients he had requested - with the obvious exception of the rum balls - Clara gestured toward the clock with the whisk in her hand, a heartfelt plea poised on her lips that was never permitted to escape.
Because at that moment, the kitchen door swung open suddenly and her father poked his head into the room.
"Clara, have you got any more lemonade? Your Gran wants a Snowball and..." he paused mid-sentence, drawing himself up to his full height as his eyes shifted from his daughter to the man beside her.
"Uhm..." Dave Oswald began uncertainly, his gaze sweeping the bizarrely dressed stranger, who promptly abandoned the bottle of port he held in exchange for Clara's hand.
"Could someone please tell me what's going on here?"
"He's my boyfriend," Clara blurted out, raising their interlocked hands and forcing a smile as she stared at her father, her expression half way to terrified. Dave regarded his daughter and one eyebrow immediately shot up. He leaned back against the door frame and folded his arms, empty glass still in hand.
"Yep, that's me... the 'boyfriend'," the Doctor declared, letting out a chuckle that did little to lighten the tense atmosphere that had descended. "The old 'ball and chain'."
"That's husband," Clara whispered, shooting a glare at the Doctor, "slow down there, chin boy, you're getting ahead of yourself."
"Dave Oswald," the older man (by appearances at least) stated as he stepped forward and extended his hand. The Doctor accepted the handshake with his usual degree of overenthusiastic vigour, shaking so hard that Dave struggled to remain upright for a moment.
"I'm the Doctor," he replied through his still too wide smile, seemingly oblivious to the confused look Dave directed at him.
"Doctor what?" he inquired, his expression betraying his bemusement.
"Brown... Doctor Brown," Clara blurted out, wincing as she hoped her father would not notice the pop-culture reference that had tumbled from her lips before she had properly thought it through.
"Yes, er... Doctor Marty Brown," the Doctor instantly agreed, taking a moment to adjust his bow tie and unfortunately succeeding in drawing Dave's gaze to it. His eyes locked on the tiny, round puddings decorating the crimson fabric and the creases in his forehead deepened as his brow furrowed.
"Doc Brown?" he repeated, unable to suspend his disbelief even for his beloved only daughter.
"Particularly cruel parents, big sci-fi fans" the Doctor supplied helpfully, feigning a distraught expression as he peered back at Clara's father.
"He makes a mean gravy?" Clara added weakly, allowing her statement to slip out as more of a question, much to her own chagrin. She swallowed hard, wondering if the constricting feeling she was currently experiencing in her chest could possibly be the beginnings of a heart attack.
The Doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling the intensity of Dave Oswald's stare almost bore a hole through his skull. He hadn't expected quite such a degree of hostility when he had accepted Clara's invitation, but then he supposed a father had every right to be protective of his little girl. After all, he had been a father once himself.
"Lemonade," the Doctor said through a tight smile, turning to Clara only to discover that she had made no attempt to move and had instead adopted a 'deer in the headlights' expression, which was affording little credibility to their already flimsy story.
"Lemonade?" Clara repeated, suddenly blinking rapidly as she recalled the purpose of her father's visit, "right, yeah! Lemonade!"
Throwing open the fridge, Clara wheeled around and practically flung the bottle at her father, letting go of the Doctor's hand in order to then shepherd Dave towards the kitchen door.
"Dinner's almost ready so you go and sit back down, yeah? We'll be right with you."
"Absolutely. Right with you," the Doctor echoed, throwing his arm around Clara's shoulders and pulling her against his side in what he hoped resembled a sign of togetherness.
Dave nodded and wrapped his hand around the doorknob but at the last moment, he froze, turning to regard the younger man with a confused frown, "Have we met before? You just... you look familiar."
The Doctor shook his head, "Oh, I shouldn't think so, no. I've just got one of those faces."
Mustering her most persuasive smile, Clara leant into the Doctor's side - both in an attempt to keep up their rouse and to draw some comfort.
Obviously sceptical, Dave offered the Doctor a hesitant nod before he made his way back to the living room, casting a backwards glance at the couple as he did so.
Clara watched the door swing closed with a sinking feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, and she turned and leant her forehead against the Doctor's shoulder with an audible groan that she hoped accurately expressed her misery.
"Well, that wasn't too bad!" the Doctor enthused jovially, "could have been much, much worse."
Shaking her head, Clara straightened up and affixed the Doctor with an almost accusatory stare.
"You need to work on your definition of 'worse', sunshine," she growled, poking him sharply in the centre of his chest with one manicured fingernail as she added as an afterthought, "and your people skills."
"I've always thought I had very good people skills," the Doctor countered quietly, his eyes suddenly ticking to the finger still jabbing his chest with merciless abandon.
He struggled to thwart the smile that twitched at his lips as he gently but firmly seized Clara's hand in his own, and rotated it so that her fingers were splayed out almost in front of his nose. As he took in the sight of the tiny red and green bow ties painted on her lacquered fingernails, he felt his two hearts flutter in perfect synchronisation in his chest. The apples of Clara's cheeks grew pink again and she tilted her chin downwards but did not attempt to extract her hand.
Slowly and gently, the Doctor brushed the pad of his thumb over her skin.
"See, bow ties are cool," he insisted, his grin infectious as he added, "now, let's see if we can salvage that gravy, eh?"