A/N: Hello! This story is a sequel to its prequel, Even Such Is Time. (Does that sentence even make sense? I don't know) So please read the other story first, if you haven't. I mean… Are you the type of person who would pass up an opportunity to read about an axe-wielding cat? I think based on that even less sensical* sentence—I've probably really sold you on it. Nice. I should work in marketing.

*Not even a real word! I've done really well with this author's note.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Midnight Friends

"I need to you to put Margaret Thatcher in a cage."

The words were spoken aloud to no one but herself and the subject involved. A test for the ridiculous, a sentence uttered to see if it sounded just as bad audibly shared with the real world as she was hearing it in her head.

Turns out, it did.

Clara closed her eyes, feeling amusement rush through her as she focused on the equivocal implications of the request. Aptly named, this cat. This cat in regard, or more accurately, demon reincarnate—directly birthed from the infernal core of the fiery pits of Hell—stared back at her with complete impassivity.

"Please," Clara stressed, directly addressing her once again. "For once, can you just do something for me?"

The clock on the wall had just passed eleven in the evening. Five minutes ago, she had deliberately and painstakingly watched the second hand tick around to the number twelve and pass this dark winter's night into a new, later hour.

"I'm not going to lock you in it," she explained with exasperation for the third—possibly tenth—time. "I just need you to prove to me that you'll go inside. So we can do this again on Tuesday. Okay?"

Margaret Thatcher 2.0 stared back at her with what could only be recognised as complete disregard or complete contempt. Both, she supposed.

"I buy you the second most expensive cat biscuits from Tesco," Clara tried again, reasoning. "I don't have to do that. I could get you the worst ones. Cardboard biscuits. Is that what you want?"

Her track record on responding to a potential threat remained at an all time low—which continued to be exactly zero. The biscuits Clara had placed within the plastic catbox to lure her in hadn't been given a moment of consideration. Unable to go anywhere within the vicinity that violated a three meter radius unless she was willing to become a victim of physical assault, Clara was now trying to force rational through the English language. Her linguistic skills in the native tongue of Hell were lacking. She made a mental note to ask her stepmother for a few key phrases next time she saw her.

"If you don't get in the cage, I will buy you cardboard biscuits."

The resulting threat was met once again with no active response. The worst part about this whole scenario, really, was that Clara was one hundred percent sure this animal had a brain capacity rivalling that of a human. The intelligence of a human but the soul of a satanic monster. Margaret Thatcher knew exactly what she was doing. Purposely lying on top of the cage, flicking her tail in a slow and goading taunt.

"I won't buy you any biscuits," Clara amended, scowling. "You can live off the neighbourhood children alone."

Nothing.

Clara groaned, helpless. "Please, please, don't make me do this."

In a moment that made her seriously consider using her camera to start filming the scene for reincarnation evidence, Margaret Thatcher opened her mouth and proceeded to express what was absolutely and without doubt, a smirk.

"Fuck," she breathed, exhaling and running a hand through the back of her hair.

Clara took her phone from the kitchen bench, tapping her thumb over the screen. "You've just lost your Christmas present," she muttered in the cat's direction. She looked up at the analogue clock on the wall, watching further seconds tick by and then took a deep breath so she could groan out in frustration. This was her own fault. Which annoyed her, because usually this sort of thing would have never slipped past her avid attention to detail. The only reason she could think to explain the oversight was her insistent denial to accept that this particular animal was her responsibility now.

The longer she hesitated, the more inconvenient it was going to be. The only person she had ever met that had a chance of persuading Margaret Thatcher to reason was leaving London in the morning and she had only just realised now, at the most inconvenient of times, that if he left before she could ask him to do this, then she would literally have to risk the life of some sort of animal control employee to come around to her house, no doubt destroying her furniture and smashing some of the living room windows in the attempt to put this irascible cat in this fucking cage.

Text. She could text instead. That way if he was out, or busy, or already asleep, it wouldn't be so intrusive. An illusion of non-intrusion. She typed out the words, sent one final and scathing look towards the smug animal, and pressed send.

I need to you to put Margaret Thatcher in a cage.

John Smith. Clara hadn't seen John Smith in eight days. Somewhere bordering in the realms of one hundred and ninety two hours. The two of them had agreed, at three in the morning during the aftermath of her best friends' wedding to spend a week apart. Well, ten days, to be more accurate. For space. For breathing room and thinking time, and whatever else they had honourably decided would be an appropriate next step for the absolute mess that they had landed themselves in.

Clara knew it was the right thing to have done, yet she had long started questioning what the hell the morally righteous point of it all was. One hundred and ninety two hours had gone by, and she was rather sure by this stage, she'd spent at least one hundred and ninety two of those hours thinking about him.

Friends. They had agreed they were going to be friends—friends that who after three weeks of being aware each other existed, were quietly adamant to embark on a trip to a very-modern-with-four-walls cottage on the western reaches of Scotland, situated somewhere within the Isle of Skye. Ten days. Seven of stasis and a combined three of travel time. That had seemed reasonable when asked how long she would like to accompany him on whatever they were intent to label this trip. Holiday? Retreat? Literal Escape From The British Media?

He was driving up earlier, with the request of needing to spend a full day in Glasgow, and Clara had suggested she could just fly up the following day. She outright refused to let him buy her a plane ticket and was grateful that he easily conceded on the matter when he told her he would pay for it. The flight would arrive at ten in the morning and he would meet her at the airport.

Simple. Except for the cat. She'd forgotten about the cat. Amy and Rory were going to look after the cat, a request that had been first met with outright horror, followed by an automatic—you are fucking kidding me, absolutely not, what sort of friend would do something like this to us—before finally conceding with a begrudging acceptance.

Doorbell. Her elusive and meandering thoughts interrupted, Clara rose from the couch, heart leaping immediately to her throat. She brushed down her hair as nerves washed through her body, prickling her skin and sending tendrils of heat and apprehension to tighten around her veins. She wiped her palms on her shirt, trying to calm down as she made her way to the door.

This image of him she'd had in her head for one hundred and ninety two hours was rendered utterly obsolete in the following second she saw him.

John.

The man forever written into this country. The face that everyone knew, the voice that everyone recognised, the songs that everyone could sing. John Smith, the Doctor. The Doctor, John Smith. The man who just over one week ago had caused utter havoc live on national radio. Who she had admitted her consuming and early grief to. Who liked arcane science and could do a very convincing American accent. Writer of Britain's most popular love anthem, only to confess solely to her that—actually, Clara, it's about a dog called Winston—and then had proceeded to confess to the nation that he was rather, well, in his opinion—fucked.

Dressed in his customary black jumper with the sporadic holes. Black jeans and boots. Grey coat. Silver hair speckled through with further black, piled as messy curls upon a recent haircut. Dark eyes that glittered in the yellow light from the hallway. Hands by his sides.

Her resolve failed her completely in the actuality of his presence and she found herself paralysed. She didn't know what to do. Her decisiveness froze. Hug. She wanted to hug him. Put her arms around his shoulders and her head on his chest, and breathe in the ceaseless warmth he emitted. She wanted his hands on her skin, trailing heat and pleasure and care. She never wanted to let him out of her sight again.

And all of that, all of whatever that was—wasn't what she had agreed to. Friends. They were going to be friends.

Friends.

It was a fucking joke, she mused almost bitterly as she stared at him. How the fuck was she supposed to be just friends with this man. When he made her feel like this. When she had spent one hundred and ninety two hours regretting ever having suggested the idea. And of course he had accepted it, and would adhere to her wishes, and would probably do absolutely anything she asked of him. Including driving across the city and showing up at her house at a time that ticked ever closer to midnight just to put a cat in a cage.

"Hi," John greeted quietly, raising his hand a little awkwardly as she continued her ceaseless stare.

"Hi," she repeated automatically, and then exhaled a discreet sigh of defeat as she blinked her way back into reality.

"Animal Control at your service," he murmured, touching a hand to his temple in salute.

"I'm going—I'm going to need a discount." Clara forced herself to focus on creating proper sentences. "I only have about five quid in cash on me."

"I take credit."

A smile extended on his lips. Oh, she had missed this expression. No one smiled like he did. The rare curve that he expressed around her. Lines that pushed on his eyes, touch of a dimple in his cheeks. Distracted again, her heart raced and she had to swallow down her familiar reaction.

"I should warn you I'm very expensive after hours," he was explaining. "Fifty pounds a minute."

"That's a bit… extortionist."

"Non-competitive rates. You'll be hard pushed to find anyone else in this city willing to deal with Margaret Thatcher. I might be your only option."

"I can't afford you," she murmured, playing along and watching him take off his coat.

"Complementary service then. Just once."

She found his eyes difficult to read, not always being a reflection of his expression. Now was one of those times. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. Grey with the secondary shifting colours, blues and greens in their swirling pools, fixing her with the type of intensity that made her both want to look away and never take her eyes off him again.

You're so beautiful—

She had said that to him. A sentiment that could have sounded superficial but she barely meant it about his appearance. He was, but he just felt beautiful. The words lingered in her mouth, asking to be repeated. She bit into her tongue and escorted him into the living room as he tilted his head and smiled curiously at her suspended silent and watchful state.

Margaret Thatcher twisted her head as she was greeted by her visitor.

"Hello, Maggie," John murmured, crouching in front of the cage. His smile extended to the cat, genuine in the soft expression as he gave her his fixated attention. He held his hand carefully out in front of her and let his fingers be inspected. Her tail flicked and then she opened her mouth in a wide and carefree yawn, flashing every single one of her sharp teeth. With calm control, John slid fingers into her grey fur, scratching the side of her face. Margaret Thatcher growled with disgruntled pleasure and began nudging and leaning into hand.

Clara sighed, annoyed. The cat who hated every living creature she had ever met with the exception of John Smith. The sight was disconcerting.

"Has Clara been annoying you?" he asked in a voice loud enough for her to hear. He leant his ear down towards the cat's mouth and began nodding. "Mmm. I know. She does do that. Awful. I don't know how you put up with it."

Clara frowned and crossed her arms, trying to look unimpressed. A grin pressed on his mouth and he turned away to hide it. His voice dropped and he began whispering indistinct speech into Margaret Thatcher's ear. John slid his hands under her body, lifting her gently and without resistance from the sprawled position and carefully escorted her into the cage. He kept his hand inside, patting with reassurance and then slowly shut and locked the bars. Margaret Thatcher gave a mournful yowl but seemed to accept the situation. Astonished, Clara raised her eyebrows and exhaled a breath of disbelieving amusement. John gave her a wide and rather pleased grin.

"In the words of Kanye," he said seriously, "I am a God."

Clara blinked twice. "Okay. There's a lot going on with that sentence. I don't even know where to start."

He smiled, pushing fingers through his curls. "Considering a genre change," he muttered with a smile, standing and yawning, hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she frowned, guilty again at how late it was. "I didn't think this through."

He shook his head quickly, smiling. "Please don't apologise. I'm not really that tired. After ten o'clock reflex." His gaze shifted back to the box. "I guess… we need to go and drop her off now? Can't leave a grumpy cat in a cage."

"Yeah," she sighed with a helpless smile, another glance at the clock. "Oh my god. They're quite literally going to kill me."

"I'm probably higher up Amy's list than you."

"Mmm. I'll do my best to protect you."

December had begun, the usual operation of continuing to be unnecessarily merciless and harsh. Air that was a sear across her lungs, cold that didn't seem to care if she was wearing extra layers of material. It seeped through the fibres, clawing at her skin, desperate and adamant to find bones to wrap its frozen grip around.

John strapped the cage into the backseat and climbed in the driver side as Clara put her seatbelt on. He started the ignition and familiar voices filled the car. She had no idea who was talking but the tone was instantly recognisable.

"You traitor," Clara grinned, pointing at the stereo. "Radio 4?"

"I had it on Radio X before that, too," he admitted, smiling as he pulled out from the curb. "Someone started talking about me so I had to switch."

Clara gave him the directions to Amy and Rory's house. A quick drive, ten minutes at the most. Behind her, Margaret Thatcher yowled and Clara twisted to check she was all right. "Road trip," she explained through the bars.

"We could always take her with us instead, Clara," John suggested, lifting his shoulders. "To Skye?"

"You can only take one of us."

"I'd get a lot less derision with Margaret Thatcher, I think."

"I'm nice to you," Clara contended in a murmur. "Sort of."

He flashed her a quick smile and turned his silent response back to the road. She couldn't recall a time listening to Radio 4 this late at night. She assumed with a small smile that the shipping forecast would begin shortly, probably followed by a loud ringing of bells from a parish church.

"What's your employment status?" John asked quietly, hesitant as he glanced at her.

Clara inhaled and then let her breath out slowly, enjoying the warmth from the heaters. "Let's not talk about it," she sighed. "It's complicated. I'll tell you when it's not midnight."

He nodded slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. Outside, the endless rows of brick housing slid past in a repetitive, hypnotic blur, illuminated briefly under the dispersed streetlamps.

"What time are you leaving in the morning?" she questioned, tearing her gaze away.

He glanced at the dash clock. "Eight? I wanted to see Chloe in the afternoon. She has school the next day." His fingers tapped over the wheel. "If you were looking to recruit new members for our criminal enterprise, this kid should be on the consideration list." John shook his head, smiling slightly to himself. "She's crazy."

"I'll keep it in mind. Suppose I'll need a replacement XO once you have your inevitable downfall."

He mumbled a low response. "Thought I might have already done that."

Clara directed him through a set of lights and a right turn. His left hand rested on his thigh, drawing small lines on his jeans; the right with fingers curled around the bottom of the steering wheel. Far from the standard practice in terms of health and safety. She smiled and switched her gaze back to watch the blurring houses.

"I'm meeting Hamish on Tuesday," John swallowed, interrupting her vacant stare and scrubbing fingers quickly through the side of his hair. "I haven't seen him in about six months."

Clara nodded, partly already having assumed that would be something he may have been doing when he had told her he needed an extended day in Glasgow.

"Eddie," he continued. "I saw Ed on Wednesday."

The others. His best friends. The other two who joined him on stage. She had spent a lot of time over the last week schooling herself on the band.

"Okay?" she murmured, watching him.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "Everyone's been very…" He trailed off and gave her a small smile. Blinking. He turned his eyes back to the road.

Radio 4 filled the gap and Clara listened absently to the midnight news, the distant, significant or fleeting events that might or might not have been affecting her immediate life as the illusionary lines of Sunday transformed into Monday.

The return of the cold snapped Clara out of the drifting state and she pressed purposely and repetitively on the doorbell to make the sound even more annoying to her sleeping friends inside. She was already amused about the reaction she was about to get.

Rory, in only pants and a t-shirt, eventually opened the door, mouth in the final stages of a yawn as he squinted suspiciously at her. "Clara?"

"Evening."

Her friend blinked through blurry eyes, clearly having just been dragged from unconsciousness, and then realised she wasn't alone. "Oh, hi. It's the Doctor. Hello."

"Morning."

"Right. Hi. I'm in my pants. Ah… Are you two all right?" he asked in confusion, concern starting to cross over his sleepy expression as he became a little more alert.

"Fine," Clara explained with a careful smile. "We're just here to drop off… a cat." She pointed slowly at the plastic catbox beside John's feet.

Rory's gaze drifted to down to the indicated direction. He stared blankly for a few seconds and then his eyes widened with realisation. "Clara," he murmured, beginning to shake his head in horror. "Clara… Oh, no. It's Sunday. You said Tuesday. Tuesday."

"It's technically Monday now," John corrected unhelpfully as Rory continued in his growing understanding to what was happening.

"No, no, no. Come back on Tuesday with it." His face began shifting into something that was a little more representative of disgusted dismay. "We're not prepared yet. We haven't finished getting emotionally prepared. Clara. Seriously. No."

Amy appeared suddenly at Rory's shoulder, leaning against the doorframe. "Huh?" she greeted with tired and disgruntled eyes before she noted who had woken her up. "Oswald. Everything okay?"

"Ah…" Clara trailed, smiling. "Yes. Just a casual visit. To say hello. Haven't seen you in awhile. You know how it is."

"It's three in the morning."

"It's actually only just past twelve," John amended, frowning.

Amy shifted her sleepy gaze to stare at him. "Hi."

"Hello."

"Why're you here?"

"You're going to love this, Amy," Rory said blankly. "Look what they've brought us."

Amy stared down to the catbox. She blinked slowly and then raised her eyes to fix Clara with a pleasant smile. "Well. Lovely to see you both. Thanks for stopping by."

She pulled Rory backwards and the door was slammed in their faces.

Clara exhaled in weary amusement before giving John an apologetic smile. "Sorry," she sighed, slowly bending her knees to take a seat on the doorstep. The outside light flared in her eyes as she looked up.

"Are they… Are they coming back?"

Clara grinned at his rippling confusion, sighing again and pulling her coat a little tighter around her neck, annoyed now she hadn't brought a scarf. "Yeah. Give it a few minutes."

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm. Just me and Amy's silly game. She had this boyfriend I didn't like when we lived together, and I used to answer the door to him like that." Clara smiled weakly. "We've continued to do it to each other ever since. The longest I've ever had to wait is two hours. Although, in that situation, we were actually angry at each other and so I just waited out of stubbornness. You might want to sit down."

"Right." John joined her and pulled the catbox a little closer. "Well, we'd probably die of exposure before then anyway."

"At least we get the moral high ground."

John nodded slowly and gave her a tiny smile. He peered into the cage, pressing fingers through the bars. Clara could see Margaret Thatcher's shadow press against them as she expressed a quiet meow.

"The collective noun for cats is clowder," John told her slowly. "A clowder of cats."

Clara wiped a hand over her mouth, smiling. Interesting. "I don't think I knew that." She hummed. "You don't really see a group of cats together. What constitutes a group?"

"By definition—two."

"Okay. So, next time I see a pair of cats, I can say, 'there's a clowder of cats'."

"Yeah," he smiled.

"I am never going to say that."

"What if there's three cats?"

"Wow, look, there's three cats," she grinned, pressing down the following smirk.

"Four?"

"Cat army."

"Five?"

"The Planet of the Apes plotline, but instead with cats."

A small laugh escaped his lips. "Six—"

"Okay, stop," she cut in with a grin. "I can't do this all night."

He matched her smile, ducking his head. "I was in Malta once. There was a park by the water full of cats. I sat in the middle of the grass and they all surrounded me. Seriously—about fifteen of them. I was the cat God. The feline population exceeds the human in that country, I think."

"Would Margaret Thatcher be their ruler if I deported her?"

"Mmm. Probably. But she'd just end up privatising everything and doubling the poverty rate. Nobody wants a nineteenth century liberal in charge." He grinned. "Best to keep her in England and regulate the hell out her."

"Not possible. The hell is inherent."

He exhaled laughter and pushed his fingers back through the bars. "Don't listen to her," he whispered quietly to the growling animal. "You're lovely."

Clara scanned fond eyes over his profile and then turned her head to gaze at the door. His proximity made her heart beat at a quicker rate than what it might have been doing otherwise. "Rory must be really holding out on this one," she frowned. "He usually concedes pretty fast."

She hoped her friends were fully aware it was December and probably below zero degrees. They wouldn't last very long out here. On the plus side, any wind was completely non existent. She pulled her coat tighter at the lapels, breathing out what she could summon of warm air over her hands.

"I'm divorced," John said suddenly, breaking their extended moment of silence.

Clara turned to look at him. He glanced to her before flicking his eyes back to the cage. She nodded slowly as she took in this new bit of information.

"Officially. Legally. Last Friday."

She blinked as it sunk in. "Good," she murmured finally. "I'm glad. All… okay?" She swallowed, hesitant. "With River?"

John hummed, brows creasing for a moment. His hands twisted between his knees. "She's been… incredible." A slow exhale escaped his mouth, pushing an expansion of air in front of him.

"Have you had a bad week?" Clara asked quietly, watching his shifting expression.

He gave fractional nod before pulling his coat sleeve down over his free hand. "Everyone is… rather lovely."

"You didn't expect that?"

Looking toward the road, he shook his head quickly. "No. And I don't know how to—" He stopped and swallowed, discontinuing his sentence.

She reached out instinctively for his hand before she even knew she was doing it. Her fingers pressed into the grey sleeve. "Honesty can be funny like that," she said gently. "Even if what you're saying is something they already knew, or suspected, or didn't want to hear, just the… action of speaking truth is appreciated."

John gave her another tiny, weak smile before letting his eyes fall back on the cage. Clara pulled her hand away and trapped her fingers between her knees. It was freezing.

Behind them, the door reopened and yellow light washed across the porch. Margaret Thatcher growled and put a swiping paw through the bars.

"Damn it, Clara," Amy sighed. "We honestly thought you might have left. Get the hell in here."