meadow.
Clara felt bonelessly languid. She was full. She was warm. The dark squares on her dress were scorching the skin beneath… the light ones were getting there.
Meadow planet would definitely get a thumbs up in the mental journal she'd started keeping. Or, not a journal… more like a twitter feed. Wednesday again, Doctor came as usual. Went for other planet take away. "Food you dip other food in". Bouncing Doctor orders chilli breadsticks and porridge for two. Cute waitress changes mine to see through grapes with silver seeds and chocolate pudding. Going to meadow planet to eat. Remember to ask him about sunblock.
Her left side was pressed against the Doctor's right – arms, legs, everything in between; temple to temple. Their shirt sleeves were rolled up, their boots lined up a bit away. Her back was against the TARDIS, but she could ignore it (her) and the way her hair caught on the wood far too often for it to be just accidental.
The grass was thick and springy and so bright green it hurt her eyes, and it bent like rolling waves. The day was warm, properly hot, and they were lounging like they were on an actual beach, soaking in the warmth like her Dad's cats the first day of Spring.
And the Doctor… she might actually catch him sleeping. She moved as much as she could be bothered to check. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open and with a speck of oatmeal just at one corner… not surpringly the way he'd eaten, but chilli breadsticks and porridge, no thank you. She poked at his knee with a toe – no reaction.
You're the Impossible Girl. Maybe impossible meant… something good? Everything sounded wrong with the Cyberplanner's infliction. Maybe the Doctor refused to answer because it was something good? Maybe she should ask him now, slip the question into some dream of his, prompt him to bring it up later? "Why am I Impossible?" she whispered in his ear.
He flinched – knocked their heads together and tore their underarms apart – and Clara flinched, and her hair snagged on the TARDIS door and she used five of the words she had forbidden Artie to use.
The Doctor, suddenly wide awake, snuffled happily and curled his toes in his mismatched socks – one pink, one yellow – as if he'd just had a good stretch and woken normally. "I hope that's you tickling my knee, Clara, and not one of the flesh-eating hypersnails."
Clara let her eyes sag shut, but she could still see the brightness of the grass as shaky, growing dots. "One of the what?"
"It's their meadow. I snuck us in while they were sleeping."
She opened her eyes to glare at him. It was hard; he looked as dazed as she felt and she melted a little.
"Do I have something on my face?" he asked, making the most ridiculous faces in quick succession in an attempt to get rid of the speck of porridge.
"You kind of do." She took her chance, leaned in and kissed the porridge away, felt the corner of his mouth move under her lips. She closed her eyes like she was making a wish and thought about all her plans and dreams, pressing them to his skin.