.
.
After all of this time, and so much of it graciously spared for them, Clara remembers saying numerous things about being with the Doctor. While running alongside him, through eras, through the cosmos. In warfare and heavenly bodies, in euphoria and despair and a livid, unshakable grief. It's the kind of reckless, life-changing thrill that keeps your mum up at night and it's wonderful and awful.
Utterly and completely bonkers to the ordinary mind.
Ordinary would have been staying behind at Coal Hill School as a daytime teacher, after Trenzalore and after the Doctor regenerated into the same but different person that he always, truly was.
A tad more erratic, cold and calculating. Bitter. Overjoyed by the simplest things like Clara not burning the pancakes in her apartment's kitchen nook or discovering a litter of CatKind outside during a visit 3 billion years into the present New New York. Generous. Brave and kind. That's the most important.
She never wanted any form of ordinary in her entire damn life. And absolutely not when it begins again.
Little did Clara know, there was an undiscovered planet beyond Pluto in her star system, and the Doctor eagerly dragged them to it, babbling on about exploring the touchable and untouchable reaches of the Milk Way for a trillionth or so opportunity and for Clara to "get a move on! hurry up! we haven't got all century!" find her pair of galoshes in the TARDIS's endless closet-space, snapping his fingers.
(There were no galoshes. Clara doesn't mind him insisting about it later, and playfully arguing, but does poke him in extra-sensitive bit of his elbow at his terse and know-it-all tone with her.)
Cassius — a small, unremarkable island of a world, drifting in the abyssal portions of space, covered in a pale aquamarine that seems nearly luminescent. A transparently and magnificently state of blue that Clara has to squint her eyes to glimpse properly, as she hangs her head out of the TARDIS's entrance-door. "Don't do that," the Doctor warns her grimly, suddenly emerging into view. He waves a hand over her face quickly until she blinks, dazed, furrowing her brow. "Keep your wits about you, Clara, you hear?"
He fails to mention that it rains as they descend, leaping out and parading around their surroundings.
Continuously rains.
Every moment since setting a foot on this planet has been Clara's socks within her flats drenched and squishing audibly. She tears them off with a frustrated, loud cry, abandoning them by the waterlogged grass. No creatures or signs of life appear to her, as the hours go on, besides the Doctor previously.
Clara has no idea where he vanishes, yelling and thrusting his arm out, chasing the horizon with a whirring, yellow-glowing sonic, and is not in the mood to follow him. The ground, no matter if she's pacing the stone-grey floors of a once gigantic castle or stumbling precariously down a hill… well… on the ground, there's at least half a meter of lukewarm water to it, swirling around Clara's ankles.
She locates a patch of higher ground, with rushing, aquamarine water, and plops herself down. Clara floats on her back, giving up and feeling this lukewarm water patter from the sky, hitting the tip of her nose.
Everything has a faint odor like newly washed glass. And brine. Sour.
The planet's water sloshes around her, getting noisier in her ears, as the Doctor strolls over wordlessly, putting his hands on his hips and gazing down on her. His greenish-grey eyes sweep to the dark, runny lines of mascara all on Clara's face, to her dark blue blouse threaded with gilded comets and stars and then, to Clara's pillowy, lipstick-smudged lips flashing a semi-devious grin up at him before relaxing.
"What are you doing?" the Doctor asks.
His voice goes low and rumbling, like a comforting hint of a thunderstorm. Clara likes it best when she can hear it pressed against her ear, palming benevolently over the Doctor's naked, silvery-haired chest.
She likes everything best when it's skin-to-skin, collecting heat, aching and wanting.
"Oh… you know…" Clara hums out pensively, watching him impatiently shift and fiddle with his jacket-sleeves before pretending to be more interested in the lack of clouds. She moves her arms and legs underneath the water to keep herself from sinking. "Taking a rain check on your mushroom hunting."
"Udshorrums, Clara. Microscopic, organic probes hidden within the foundation of these ruins capable of imprinting subtemporal data and correlating with billions of ion-fraught particles—"
His old, weathered expression brightens like he's aged down by a thousand more years. The Doctor wiggles his fingers as he tells her more about this scientific observation or discovery, Clara supposes, looping his wrists and arms, raising them high, shouting then whispering, turning around in a circle elegantly.
But really, Clara cannot help but tease him.
"—like I said," she trills out, going upright with her hands submerged and pressing on the underwater stone-ground and sitting, looking up at the Doctor and beaming irresistibly. "Mushrooms."
He makes a bleeh! dismissive sound, flapping his hands in her direction, realizing Clara's intentions. After the silence between them lengthens, the Doctor grumbles, rolling his eyes and motioning out for her hands, to apparently pick her up. Clara humors him for this, slippery-wet against his powerful, too-hot grip, heaving and exhaling and using her bent knees for leverage. Her neutral-colored hose sags and drips the lukewarm, strange-smelling water on Clara's legs, her bright white, dirndl skirt clinging.
"Oi," she murmurs, snapping her fingers in a eerily similiar rhythm to the Doctor's own. "Eyes here."
"Yes, ma'am."
.
.
The only place that doesn't seem flooded to high hell is a building far, far off from where they originally are. Clara gladly rides in the TARDIS for the trip, shivering and jumping in place, popping her lips distractedly.
How did it get so cold like this? It feels like she's stepped right into an icebox.
Clara eeps quietly when one of the Doctor's hand lunges out, firmly holding over her mouth. "Shush," he says, just as distracted, twirling and spinning his metallic dials on his console with his other hand.
Her lips widen open.
"Dwwh hhh hhuusttt—" she muffles out, staring in mild, frantic outrage as the Doctor ignores her, removing his hand and hurrying down the interior-ramp, opening the doors with a celebratory flourish.
For a split-second, Clara almost believes that they both materialized onto an entirely separate planet. Or perhaps even Earth itself. It's dry but every corner is a stark white. It looks like a museum exhibit, huge and roomy, with various statues and busts and sculptures.
The likeness is astonishingly human by nature with serene, marble-carved features by the dozens.
The Doctor whirls around, like a dot of blackness, examining the displays and shouting nonsensically ahead of her. She half-listens to his sonic screwdriver activate, whirring and cataloguing their immediate surroundings. It still feels bleedin' cold wherever Clara goes at this point.
Clara wrings out her straight, dark brown hair absently, observing the conjoined statues in front of her. Pastel flowers, yellow and lilac and rose-colored, blossomed onto the head of the male statue, and the shorter, more delicate female statue has her mouth attached to him, connecting them in a divine kiss. Flower-petals budded over her lips and nose, and traveled down her jaw-line, to her neckline.
"It's quite lovely," the Doctor speaks up from behind her, draping his jacket around her and rubbing his fingers across Clara's shoulders. The fabric lingers with his body-heat and has warmth. Thank god.
"… I hate it," Clara declares, making a quirk of a frown and glimpsing the Doctor's amused look.
"You would say that, wouldn't you?"
"Definitely yes, I would," she repeats back, this time facing him and offering a slow, suggestive smile. Clara's deep-scarlet fingernails touch against the charcoal, button-up shirt, dragging and rucking up the finely stitched hem, exposing his bellybutton. He doesn't yank away from her grip or protest, but inhales a trembling, almost moaning note as the heel of Clara's palm grinds against him. "Because that's how I feel about it when I see the bloody damn thing… and I thought you valued my opinion, Doctor…"
His great, silver-furry eyebrows twitch, despite his arousal heightening. "Language," he scolds gently, gazing into Clara's much lovelier eyes and she can watch herself in his, lifting her chin and chuckling, bell-like and enchanting. One of the Doctor's hands brushes over the side of her face admiringly.
The way he touches her is… is like the Doctor knows he's going to lose her. One day.
Clara swallows down her doubts and fear, leaning in and kissing him with open-mouthed gasps. She unbuckles his trousers, feeling the Doctor hard and wanting, stroking him off until he quivers.
Her name falls off the Doctor's lips, rumbling like the thunder she hears so profoundly between them. His hearts race against Clara. She embraces the Doctor's neck and breathing heavily into his ear, shutting her eyes, wishing, hoping.
There's a one day coming. But it's not today.
She's sure of that.
.
.
Doctor Who isn't mine. HmmmmMMMMMMMMMM anyway HIII it is time for some Doctor Who Secret Santa 2018 posting! My giftee lostiesgirl from Tumblr wanted some domestic and sexy Twelve/Clara! I am here to deliver it! Thanks for reading yall and please if you took the time to read, leave a nice word or two! It means a lot!