The word should have sounded strange. It should have sounded shocking. It should have evoked a sense of fear, or of doubt, and it should have come with blame. They imagined that the man who'd uttered it was waiting to see which one of them looked to the other first to question the inheritance, but the man never imagined they'd simply smile. And maybe he thought they were in denial, many parents were. A misdiagnosis, they'd tell him; they'd seek a second opinion, they'd assert. But the Doctor brushed a hand over the thick head of dark hair that sat disheveled atop his son's head and he kissed Clara's temple as she held firmly to the toddler in her lap.
He was just a little boy.
Two and a half years old.
And maybe he was a bit distant; maybe his eyes didn't meet theirs the way they did when he'd first been born. And maybe sometimes the silence would alarm him and he would rock gently in place, staring wide eyed at a wall. And sometimes he'd be entirely still, focused so acutely on an object – a blinking light, or a swinging wire – that he wouldn't respond at all when called and he'd scream when it was taken out of his line of sight.
But he was just a little boy.
Just their little boy.
Who pointed at flowers, mouth open to say their names while no words emerged. Who sometimes sat in his mother's lap longer than he needed to take long breaths of her perfume, eyes closed as he immersed himself in the smell. Who listened to his father ramble endlessly about the inner workings of the Tardis and how he was going to teach him to fly one day. Who spent countless time with an old piece of console, flicking a lever back and forth to soothe his mind.
"It's understandable," the man before them started, "If you'd like some time to process…"
Raising a hand, the Doctor nodded and repeated, "Autistic."
And Clara gave the child a gentle hug, whispering, "Nothing wrong with that."