A/N: This is a direct sequel to "Who's on First?", a three-part fic I wrote last summer, pre-s8 (and rated M purely due to language because Twelve really starts to channel Malcolm Tucker in some spots). It exists to be the most random Whouffaldi AU you'll probably read: Twelve and Clara help run a Major League Baseball team. Yup. This sequel happened because I got a few prompts for it on my writing tumblr recently and all of a sudden oops I had enough interest in a sequel to justify it. You can try reading this without reading the original if you want, but reading in-order is recommended for full effect.

Who Came Out of Left Field?

One

"So… you two are now a thing?" Jack asked, leaning on the doorjamb to Clara's office. The marketing guru, while not surprised by any means, had certainly expected it to take a bit longer than half a season for the two to "hook up", as he put it. "Do you realize what sort of trouble this puts me into?"

"What John and I do shouldn't be of any concern to you," Clara said flatly, attempting to ignore her visitor. She had to get back on the ball, and quickly, if she wanted to make sure she cleared the trade deadline at the end of the month. All she wanted to do was make sure she didn't cock up her first official season as a general manager and it was becoming increasingly difficult with all the curious coworkers popping in on her.

"Let me think about that for a second: it does." He folded his arms, as if to emphasize his point. "I've got an entire persona for John centered around a grumpy, aloof, dark and brooding man, but add a cute and tiny girlfriend such as yourself and the menace is suddenly gone." He exhaled, not noticing the tall, lanky figure that snuck up behind him.

"Harkness, don't you have an intern to shag?" the Doctor scowled. The other man jumped in surprise.

"Aren't you a riot at parties?" Jack frowned. He then turned to Clara before heading out. "Still not sure if the personality is outweighed by the looks, but your choice, not mine." Slinking off down the hall, he attempted to put as much distance between himself and the manager as possible; he wouldn't risk being a fly on their wall for anything.

Once Jack was out of earshot, the Doctor stepped into Clara's office and closed the door nearly all the way. "How are you coming along? Coordinating any trades I should know about?"

"Not really—everyone's been doing well enough, and if they haven't then the farm system gave us good replacements," she replied. "I think after the deadline and things have settled down, I might shuffle around some players in the minors, but not now. We're doing alright for a first-year team. I don't think anyone's expecting another Diamondbacks out of us, but things are looking up."

"I love it when you talk baseball like you've grown up around it," he smirked, sitting down in the chair across from her. "It's incredibly attractive, I hope you know."

"Save your pleasantries for the press tonight; we've got a couple bats that aren't producing and if you go off in the middle of a game again it won't be pretty." Clara chuckled at the man sitting in front of her; with his two-day beard and uncombed hair, he seemed a scruffy, fluffy, stick-like hobo of a man that she… honestly wanted to shut the door and then slam him up against the wooden surface. Pretending to cough, she shook the thought from her mind. It's time for business, Clara Oswald. Pleasure came after the season closed.

"Well, now that depends on whether or not the bats wake up in time or not," he replied, seemingly ignoring the eyes that had just been made at him. "Alright, going to start lurking in the dungeon and earn my keep. Need me to keep my eye on anyone?"

"Me," she smirked. The smallest smile appeared on his face before he stood up and leaned over the desk. Planting his hands on either side of her notebook computer, he kissed her steadily, chuckling when he finally pulled back.

"Don't wait up for me—I think it's going to be a long day at the office," he joked. He wiggled his eyebrows and left the office, allowing his girlfriend of all of three days to wonder if she was even going to make it to the end of the season.

It was a sweep. The Gallifreyans had their first sweep of the season, the first sweep of their existence. For other teams, winning three games in a row against the same team should not have been much cause to celebrate, but considering it was well after the All-Star Break and the Yankees weren't even having a bad stretch, they would gladly take it. The bats were alive, fielding was solid, a couple runners were picked off, and pitching was amazingly on-point. There hadn't even been any no-decisions, which was good on the individual records, and the only way it could have been better is with a no-hitter or two. Maybe a perfect game, but they weren't particularly greedy.

The media had all left and the players were mostly gone for the night when Clara knocked softly on the open door to the Doctor's office, leaning up against the painted-blue surface to look at him.

"Hey," she said. He glanced up from his computer and gave her a short smile.

"Hey. How were the boys tonight from your angle?"

"It's looks like they've been taking Dad's vague threats seriously." She sat down in the spare chair he kept in the office and crossed her legs, folding her hands over her knees. "Anything I need to know about amongst the ranks as the deadline's coming up?"

"Can we trade Harkness?" the Doctor asked, his face one of dead-seriousness. Clara burst into laughter and nearly doubled-over.

"No, I don't think we can trade our marketing guru," she giggled. "I meant the players. Anyone itching to go?"

"Not really—you don't really know, but the end of July makes players, managers, and fans alike rather skittish." After locking his eyes on his work, he tapped a couple keys and began clicking through stuff on the unseen computer monitor screen rapidly. "This is your time to essentially make or break the team. Whatever you do, there will have been worse deadline deals."

"You're just saying that…"

"You've got a brain and it's not made of pudding, so therefore, I can assure you that there have been worse moves, even if you make no move at all." The Doctor then stopped with his obsessive clicking and glanced over at Clara. "Hey, it's Wednesday."

"Yeah, and…?"

"You eaten yet?"

"Of course I have!" she frowned. "I'm not some kid you have to look after."

"Well, it is Wednesday, and I don't have any cookies or a pantry of stuff to make," he replied. As if almost on-cue, Clara's grumbling stomach cut her off from arguing against him. She closed her mouth and scrunched her nose in embarrassment. "Don't worry—I've got you." The Doctor whipped out his cell phone and dialed a number, applying a flat Midwestern American accent to his voice as the other end picked up. "Hey, Mike? It's Johnny—yeah, Johnny Fever. Listen, can I have the usual, but make it a double order? I got company at the office." He paused and nodded in affirmation, even if the Mike fellow couldn't see. "In twenty? Thanks—same spot." He then swiped the phone off and dropped it down triumphantly on the desk.

"What did you get?" she wondered.

"Food," he stated in full-Scots, twitching his mouth into a grin. "I'd suggest going up to your office to eat it, but there conveniently aren't any cameras in this area."

"John! What is wrong with you?!" Clara laughed, too amused to be offended. The tips of the Doctor's ears went red and he stood up to roll his desk chair over to the other side so that he was next to her.

"Thought that, maybe, we could make it a date," he explained. "You know… our first official one. It's not Wrigley, but will the inner bowels of the TARDIS do?"

"I think that'd be nice," she answered. "Question though: do you want to keep work out of date-time discussion completely or only when we're in the TARDIS or only during the season?"

"That seems to be a situational bylaw," the Doctor chuckled. "So, tell me, how are you liking the banks of the Mississippi compared those of the Thames and the Wyre? Able to find things to your liking?"

"I didn't grow up near the Wyre—you just found the nearest river to Blackpool on Wikipedia," Clara deadpanned.

"Well, you know, close enough for a school trip, yeah?"

"I think you've forgotten how things are sized in the UK, Mister 'I Haven't Been Back Home Since the Seventies'. You really need to work on that, or next time you go back Susan will be carrying you in a jar."

"Och, ouch," he cringed, knowing full-well she was mostly correct. "Do you treat all your dates like this?"

"Only the dense ones," she replied.

The Doctor put the radio on and they talked over his favorite country-western station for a while ("there's too much Scots in rural Americana for that fiddling to have come from nowhere") and eventually he went to collect their dinner whilst flinging a variety of choice phrases, such as "go the fuck home" and "one word out of you Kurt and you'll be begging to get optioned for your birthday". He returned not too long after with two Styrofoam carry-out containers and two large paper cups filled with coffee.

"Here you are," he said, putting their late-night dinner down on the desk and pecking her on the cheek. "A farmer's omelette, French fries instead of hash browns, and a generous helping of coffee to wash it down."

Opening up her container, Clara found a lump of grey, gooey, gravy smothering what she assumed was her omelette. She took the plastic fork and knife that the Doctor had passed her way and cut into the mass—that was fluffy egg alright, with all sorts of bits of things in it. Ham, bacon, onion, green peppers, sausage crumbles, mushrooms, and a cheese that was a violent shade of yellow-orange.

"This is an omelette?" she asked her date. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and nodded.

"Go ahead—try it."

"I'm never going to be able to finish all of it."

"You may be five-foot-one, but you can pack away more food than a lard-ass closer," he snickered. Clara lightly punched him on the arm and took a French fry instead; not bad for some late-night (and presumably) greasy spoon diner. Not bad for a first date either.

"You took off your ring."

"Hmm?"

Clara picked up the Doctor's left hand and examined it in the fading evening light. They were sitting in her office, eating a different meal of omelettes and French fries, and going over the game they had just played earlier in the day. "I don't think I've ever seen you without your ring. Is it being cleaned?"

"No… I took it off when we decided to date—thought it was a bit more appropriate to be seen with you if I don't have a ring on," he explained. "Don't want nasty rumors flying around about us that aren't true. We are both rather on the virtuous side of things."

"I think as long as we're not having a rough shag during the seventh inning stretch, things will be fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes. The Doctor gently removed his hand from hers and cupped her jaw, bringing her in for a kiss.

"They'd need proof," he chortled once they parted.

"Is that a challenge?" Clara asked, lips curling into a grin.

"No—I'm just saying they'd need proof to accuse us of something, and if I'm not wearing a ring, then the divorce papers look a bit more legitimate."

"You've been divorced for decades and there's photographic evidence you've been wearing the ring since," she noted. "What happens if that's brought up?"

"I tell the truth: it kept distractions away. You're not a distraction, Clara," he said lowly. "Trust me, I've had distractions and you're far from them."

"I'm honored," she replied. Taking a fry, she did her best to eat it seductively, though poked herself in the nose with it instead. "Oh, cock."

"Oooh, say that again," the Doctor laughed. "You make the English sound so good."

She shoved a French fry in his face instead.

Public. Clara found herself out in public with the Doctor doing something not related to work for the first time, well, ever. They were simply shopping for groceries, but it seemed almost scandalous.

"This feels weird," she said as she edged the cart over to the side of the aisle so others could get through. "I never thought you didn't go shopping, because otherwise you'd just have takeaway all the time, but seeing you in a store is just…"

"Oh for fuck's sake they're out of digestives," the Doctor growled at the empty space on the shelf. "I find them here once and each time I come back there's always an empty space. Why do I even bother?"

"I thought you got digestive biscuits shipped to you," Clara deadpanned, the nervousness melting away into exasperation as per usual. "Isn't that the point? Not needing to look for them in the store?"

"You're missing the point—it's the principle of the thing. Why have a spot on the shelf that says 'digestive biscuits' when you never have them in-stock?"

"How about this: you keep on mourning your lack of digestives, which are frankly the third-most disgusting biscuit to ever come out of Scotland, and I'll go look for actually-palatable things… such as the steak you promised to grill for dinner two weeks ago."

"That was Jones-Mackey's fault for twisting his ankle and me needing to go in to rework the lineup for the road trip and you know it," he scowled as she walked away, taking the cart with her.

Walking up to the cold case with the meats, Clara began to compare the prices of the various cuts of steak that laid before her. With the various price points and thicknesses and types, she wasn't sure what to get. The market had been the closest one to the Doctor's house, therefore not the one she usually frequented, so her instincts were all off. She held two different packages and scrunched her nose, thinking her choices through.

"We'll get this one," the Doctor said from behind her. He reached around and plucked a package off the shelf, holding it in front of the other two. "This is the kind I grilled the last time."

"…but those are so big."

"Welcome to America, my dear, where the stomachs are bred to be as vast as the skies above." Clara shifted slightly and found her shoulder pressing against his chest. She turned her head slightly, discovering that she could smell his cologne.

"Can you put it in the cart, please?" she asked. The Doctor quickly stepped away and she was able to put the other steaks back before turning so that she could push the shopping cart again. Clara smirked at her boyfriend—which was still a really weird thing to think of him as, all things considered—and allowed him to follow as she went towards the chicken. "What about tomorrow? It's a day game, so we can have another nice night in."

"With you, Clara, every night in is a nice one," he replied. She bit her bottom lip and attempted not to blush. Being out in public was dangerous.

"Okay, so what on Earth possessed you to think this is a viable situation?" the Doctor asked, completely baffled. Wind howled outside and he and Clara were curled up side-by-side on the couch, her statistics binder sitting on both their laps. "There's no way we can make it to the playoffs, even in a Wild Card slot. It can't be done."

"I didn't say it was bankable, but it's a possibility," Clara huffed. "A lot would have to happen—the division would essentially have to disintegrate, but we're still not completely locked out."

"I'll give you that we're not locked out, but it's a long shot and the boys all know it." He scowled down his nose and looked at his general manager. "Don't sugar-coat it; does more harm than good in this line of work. These are grown men, not kids."

"I understand that, just… forget it," she muttered. She was about to continue when the lights flickered and died. "Umm… what was that?"

"The storm," the Doctor grumbled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stood up and fumbled around until he found a kitchen cupboard that contained a flashlight. Shining it around, he began unplugging various devices in the house. "Generators were on back-order last time I checked so unfortunately we're done for the night—don't know how long it'll be out."

Lightning flashed and a clap of thunder boomed overhead, making the house shake. "Oh!" Clara gasped. "Are storms usually this bad?"

"They can be." Once he was done unplugging his television, the Doctor held out the flashlight towards Clara. "Go on; you can have the bed."

"…but shouldn't I go before the storm gets worse?"

"It'll likely get all sorts of things during your drive, so I feel better knowing you're in a safe place," he replied. From the glow of the storm, she could see that the tips of his ears were red. "It's fine—the couch is good enough for me."

"We're adults though… adults who are seeing one another… I don't think anyone would blame us for sharing a bed."

"I just…" The Doctor frowned, trying to formulate how to phrase things. "I didn't realize I was on the market—gotta work my way up to those sorts of things, you know?"

"It's sleeping, nothing more," Clara insisted. She held out her hand and waited for him to take it. "I don't want to be up there alone."

"That's a bald-faced fucking lie and you know it," he scoffed. He took her hand, however, allowing her to lead him through his own house. They went up the stairs and to his bedroom, which was just as sparse and gloomy as the rest of the place. After fetching another flashlight from the closet, the Doctor gave Clara one so she could change into a spare set of his pajamas in the bathroom while he continued his unplugging electronics agenda. When he came back, he found her standing by the bed in the oversized Gallifreyans t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts he loaned her, looking terribly lopsided.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"Yeah. Just get comfortable, okay?" The Doctor retreated to the bathroom, changed out of his own day clothes, and left them on the tile floor as he tried to sneak out the bedroom without Clara seeing him. He was nearly at the hallway when her flashlight shone on him.

"Nuh-uh; get back here," she ordered. "There's less of a chance an axe murder will get us if we stick together. That's what the weather's perfect for."

"Do I need to tell Foreman he was forced to hire a control freak?"

"I'm fairly certain he's figured that out by now." She pat the empty part of the bed and waited for him to come over. Once he was under the covers and laying down, Clara turned her flashlight off and latched onto the Doctor, pressing up against his back.

"Do we have to do this?" he murmured into his pillow.

"Yes, now shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

Scribbling on her printout, Clara made an adjustment to her stats page for a pitcher before replacing it in her binder. With a couple more seasons under her belt, she could ask Susan if there would be a way for her to hire an assistant, to help streamline the process, but for now she was content with doing everything on her own. It helped her to become as familiar with the game as possible in the short amount of time she had. There were sometimes weeks where she felt like she knew everything, then some where it was as if she was still fresh from Heathrow and couldn't tell a home run from a ground rule double.

As soon as her papers were in order the computer made a noise that prompted her to check her email. While doing so, Clara noticed that the door to her office opened slightly. She glanced out the corner of her eye, pretending to not notice, and saw a tiny figure bounce his way over to her desk. The little boy hid in front of her, right out of her line of vision, giggling triumphantly.

"Hmm… I wonder what that noise is," Clara chuckled. Another giggle and she stood up, tip-toeing her way around her desk. "Is… it… Ricardo?" She finally caught the child, who had sat down so he faced the door, with his smile hiding behind his hands. When he saw her, he scrambled to his feet and ran to give her a hug. "Now why aren't you with your dad?"

"He wanted me to stay with Sammy and Maya, but they're not very fun," he said. "I tried to go visit Work Grandpa, but he's still busy and shouty and shakes me off his leg."

"Well, sometimes he's not the easiest person to deal with," she replied, eternally amused at the Doctor's unofficial title. She offered him a candy from the dish on her desk and sat down on the floor next to him while he ate it. "All you need to do is figure out what makes people listen to you. Everyone responds to something different, and someone can live to be eighty and still not understand how to do that."

"Wow… okay." Ricardo balled up his candy wrapper and stuffed it in his pants pocket. "I heard that you make him listen by kissing him now. Do you think that'd make him listen to me?"

"No, I think it might make him a little bit skittish," Clara laughed. "He doesn't have kids, so he doesn't understand."

"If he's Work Grandpa though, does that make you Work Grandma?" the boy asked. He scrunched his face in thought, pondering particularly hard on the notion. "You're kinda young to be a grandma."

"This is true, but I'm not too young to be an aunt," she offered. "We can be your Work Aunt and Uncle."

"…but grandpas are older than uncles, and the guys that play with dad are Work Uncles," he reasoned. "This is all very confusing." To emphasize his point, he folded his arms and nodded resolutely—his logic was sound.

"…but what if you had a great-uncle?" she asked. "Those can be as old as a grandpa, but they're still called 'uncle'."

"Yes! That's it!" Ricardo gasped happily. "He's my Work Grunkle!"

Clara simply shrugged in reply. "Sure…? I guess, if the term 'grunkle' is a thing." The boy hugged her and dashed out of the room, suddenly full of energy again. Clara then went back to her chair and began scrolling through her email again. She wasn't too far along when suddenly she heard a familiar grumble at her opened office door.

"Clara, help," the Doctor muttered. She glanced up and saw him slouching in the doorway, Ricardo having catapulted himself up to the man's waist and latched on for dear life. Snickering, she came over and gently removed the overly-affectionate child and brought her boyfriend's face down for a light kiss.

"Ahh, Work Aunt and Grunkle," Ricardo sighed. He spread his arms wide and grabbed onto an arm from each adult, bringing them in for a hug. Clara beamed, while the Doctor, well, he only hugged Clara back, and that was it.

"Would you like to come up?"

The Doctor almost white-knuckled the steering wheel, unsure of how to answer. They were currently idling in an empty space in the parking lot of Clara's apartment building, the night game the Gallifreyans just got demolished in having run longer than normal thanks to a rain delay that affected the start time. It was beginning to sprinkle again, water dotting the windshield of the car.

"…but I don't have anything with me," he said, hoping it would be a solid-enough argument. When it came to Clara Oswald, however, it was not.

"I have a bunch of team apparel that Susan sent my way and in a couple cases it's a bit bigger than a true fit," she said. "Come on—it won't be that bad. I'll feel better knowing you're not driving out in the rain on unlit roads"

"You got me there," he admitted. The Doctor turned off the car and the two of them entered the building together. It was eight units, modest, and cheerfully decorated on the inside in the halls. Clara lived in number four, on the second floor, where there was the Blackpool F.C. crest hanging by a nail on the door.

Walking into the apartment, the Doctor wasn't sure if there was any place more suited to Clara in the entire world. Unlike his house, which felt sparse in some parts even after he settled in, this was cozy and warm and packed with things that made it feel lived in. Her dining area was more a library, with second-hand bookcases lining the walls that were filled to the brim with everything from Victorian literature to baseball encyclopedias. Her living room was similarly set up, with DVDs and Blurays taking the place of paperbacks and heavy tomes. Slipping out of her shoes, Clara went over to the kitchen area, still visible over the serving bar.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked. "I have some nice chamomile that usually hits the spot."

"I don't want to be trouble," he replied as he took his own shoes off.

"You're not, really. If you can make me dinner, then I think I can at least make you some tea." She had a point—twice in a row now. Hopefully she wasn't keeping track.

"Chamomile sounds nice then," he said. Clara put the water on to boil and went down the short hallway, vanishing behind a door. She came back shortly after, holding a bundle of clothes that she offered to the Doctor.

"Here, put these on and by the time you're done the kettle should be done. Would you rather shower tonight or in the morning?"

"Uhh…" That felt an awful lot like a trick question. "Morning."

"Then I'll shower tonight," she said, returning to the kitchen.

While she milled about, the Doctor timidly began to explore the doors in the inner hallway of the apartment. One was a closet, the one she came out of was assumed to be her bedroom, and the third door was the bathroom. He went in and did his business, changing into the blue Gallifreyans-emblazoned t-shirt and shorts afterwards. The entire bathroom smelled heavily of citrusy… something and powder and other girly things. After investigating the shower stall (the citrus was her body wash and shampoo-conditioner), he folded his clothes and brought them out to the living room, where Clara was curled up on the couch with a mug of steaming tea in-hand.

"Took you long enough," she teased. "Come on—have a seat." The Doctor set his clothes down on the couch arm and picked up the spare mug sitting on the coffee table before sitting down. It was extra-sweet, as he liked it, and had a bit of milk in it as well.

"I haven't had milk in my tea in ages," he chuckled. "I used to have this all the time as a kid." Taking a second sip, he leaned back and sighed, nodding slightly. "Tastes the same."

"Is it a good taste or a bad taste?" she wondered.

"Good, definitely," he replied. He left it at that, knowing he didn't want to get into a long, complicated story with Clara that night. "I'm sorry, but this old man feels a bit sore after all that walking to the mound I had to do, so I'm probably not good company."

"It was the tracks you dug walking to the mound or the theatrical flailing during one of your patented bollockings?"

"A bit of both." They finished their tea and Clara showed the Doctor to her room. She fished some pajamas of her own out of the dresser and pecked her boyfriend on the cheek before going into the bathroom herself, the water turning on not too long after.

'Do I wait up, or go to sleep?' he wondered. The Doctor pulled back the bedding—flower-print sheets and a knit bedspread—and settled himself in. Clara had a lot of pillows, so he took one and set his head on it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply—this was the most Clara-space out of the entire apartment. It was comforting, inviting, and, though it was an odd thing to think, smelled the most like her. The citrus was there, yeah, but there was also books, papers, the smell of peanuts and roasted almonds. Something else was there that he tried concentrating on as he relaxed into the mattress… Earl Grey tea. Of course; she did like to have that at teatime.

He was almost asleep, sound of the rain beating down on the metal awnings lulling him gently, when the bedroom door opened and closed, the bed soon shifting and a pair of arms sliding around him. "You alright?"

"Yeah. See you in the morning."

"Okay."

The Doctor knew that Jaime, as well as no less than eleven players, would tease him the following day for coming into work smelling like Clara, but for once, he really didn't care.

It was an average afternoon at the clubhouse, with things having a general air of normalcy as various players were there for their pre-game workouts and for the most part hanging out. The peace was disrupted, however, when their tiny general manager burst through the doors, sending more than a couple of the athletes scrambling for cover (and to cover themselves).

"John Why-Weren't-You-Given-A-Bloody-Middle-Name Smith, have you gone daft?!" Clara snarled. She stormed over to his office, where he was talking with the bench coach, and stood lividly in the doorway. "How come I go online to look something up and I find several articles saying that you've gone on-record saying that I manage better than I kiss?!"

"Okay, first off: my middle name is Shea. Second: I never said anything of the sort," he defended. "I might have said something about how my girlfriend can manage like nobody's damn business and she can kiss to boot, but consider that a fuck-up on the journalists' behalf."

"You're a load of crock and fix this!" she demanded. "I don't care if you have to address it after tonight's game or get Jaime to do something or what, but set it straight! And to think we were supposed to be discreet about this! Discreet but not hiding, that's what you said, so now you fix it!" She then stomped out of the clubhouse as angrily as she arrived.

"…your middle name is Shea…?" Jimmy marveled. The Doctor rolled his eyes and groaned, drawing his hands over his face.

"No; it's a nigh-pronounceable Scottish name that's merely spelled 'Shea'," he lied. He then leaned back in his chair, projecting his voice into the main of the clubhouse. "Alright, which one of you pudding-brains did it?"

"It was Kanzaka!" laughed a voice.

"No it wasn't! It was Marc! Don't listen! I've said nothing but good about Miss Oswald!"

The Doctor slumped in his chair and took a deep breath—it was really like managing a team full of children, or at least that's what he figured.

"Will you stop preening over me?" the Doctor growled. He slouched within Clara's grasp while they watched a movie at her place. With her sitting up and he leaned into her with his feet on the cushions, they took up the entire couch easily. Now she had one hand playing with his hair and the other resting on his chest.

"Why'd you get your hair cut so short?" she asked. "It looks much nicer when it's a little longer."

"I was risking needing a bigger cap size based on my hair alone, so it was time for a trim," he argued grumpily. There was something about Clara's apartment that made him always on-edge, like he couldn't truly be at home there. He turned his face, squishing his nose against her midsection, and mumbled.

"Pardon?" she teased.

"It's just hair," he repeated into her stomach, raising his voice.

"Heh; how about if we get some sleep then, yeah? We can't let ourselves get lazy because we're in the home stretch."

Reluctantly agreeing, the Doctor turned the movie off and they both went to Clara's bedroom. There she changed into her pajamas and he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Climbing into bed, he laid down so that she could contour along his back, wrapping her arms around his middle and leaving a light kiss on his neck.

"Goodnight, John," she murmured.

"Night," he echoed, touching the hands clasped around him. The Doctor allowed himself to slip towards abstract dreams of people and places from far away and long ago… or was it far ago and long away? Either way, it seemed as just as he was getting started, he was awoken as Clara was rubbing her face in his hair, half-awake and humming contently.

"Nice…" she repeated, over and over again.

"What's nice?" he asked, looking out the window. Daytime, but overcast.

"When it's messy like this," she replied. "Short has its perks."

"I'd be willing to say that about someone I know," he chuckled. Rolling them both over, the Doctor rested his head on her shoulder, carefully listening to the heartbeat not that far from him. "I'm in the same bed as a five-foot-one, monomaniacal control freak, and I don't want to leave."

"I am not a monomaniacal control freak," she insisted, instantly waking up. "I'll have you know that I delegate plenty of decisions to others."

"Of course you do," he agreed. Carefully letting one hand rest along the curve of her waist, he closed his eyes and took in the moment.

It was a week after the Gallifreyans' inaugural season came to a close. While they weren't "closing up shop" so to speak, the offices were winding down and cutting back to just the skeleton crew that would be needed in the off-season, leaving much of the suites empty. The season had been a general success: a couple of games above .500 and respectable attendance numbers had been more than the staff had hoped for their first year out. Clara was inspecting her office, attempting to figure out what to leave and what to take back to her apartment, when the Doctor snuck in behind her, scooping her up in his arms and twirling around as he gave her a hug.

"Oh!" she gasped, half giggling. "Put me down!"

"I just wanted to let you know that I booked our tickets and we're headed off to Scotland in one week," he murmured into her hair. The Doctor put Clara down and let her turn to face him.

"We're going during the playoffs? What about watching all the player footage? Our jobs aren't done-done," she asked, boggled out of her mind. "I thought you said we were going to spend two weeks there!"

"That we are—I'm not worried, Clara. They make highlight reels for a reason," he replied. "There's highlight reels, and access to video of every game that gets played, without commercials, and if we're lucky every series will be decided in four or five games."

"That would depend on an enormous amount of luck that I think ran dry when we finished the season with a winning record and you staying in more games than I first expected," she snarked. She chuckled happily as he held her face and bent down for a kiss, which she reciprocated while trailing her arms across his chest. Months ago she had come to the conclusion that he was just waiting for the end of the season to get overtly physical, and taking a vacation together would be the perfect opportunity to begin. They then parted, causing her to switch back subjects. "So, where do you have planned for us to go?"

"I was thinking Edinburgh, the Highlands, some castles, wherever they have the best haggis, you know, be proper tourists and get in all that sort of shit."

"Not Glasgow?" she chuckled. "Isn't that where you're from?"

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. At least two days, got it?" She flicked his nose and carefully left his grasp, heading over to her desk. "I know you get mail from around there, so don't even try to argue otherwise."

The Doctor was quiet, almost afraid, as he stood there awkwardly. "You go through my mail?"

"I don't read your mail—that's illegal and wrong—but I do sort through it to find the rubbish and coupons. Haven't you noticed that I get hold of the coupons and you never have anything to throw away without opening it?"

He paused and thought on that. "Oh, thanks." Attempting to think quickly, he brushed it aside and continued on. "Is there anything you want to do while we're in Scotland? I'm not a good tour guide anymore, but I can research what I can."

"Just make it good, and I don't care if we go searching for Nessie or toss cabers."

"Deal."