The Doctor had agreed to one film. One evening in and one dinner of cheese pizza and wine and one film to prove to Clara he could sit still for a total of four hours. Four hours, twenty two minutes and fifteen seconds was the estimation he'd given her. Why, he questioned, should it take any longer? And why, he questioned, was he being questioned?
She hadn't answered him; had simply smirked and walked away, cell phone held to her ear, listening for the voice on the line to ask her for her order. Of course she wouldn't, he thought as he dropped heavily into her couch, looking around the room for the vaguest signs of change.
It never changed much, he knew, probably because she hadn't the time to change it.
The thought made him grin, looking to hallway and knowing his Tardis was parked in her bedroom – because she made him move it as there wasn't a television in her bedroom. She made a whispered crack about them never using her bedroom anyways that left him staring with his head tilted and his mind abuzz. What would they use her bedroom for? Staring into her three mirrors?
He was still pondering the answer to that question when she emerged from her kitchen to drop her cell phone on the coffee table and smile down at him as he lifted his hands slightly and dropped them back into his lap.
"Pizza?" He asked.
"Thirty minutes."
He grimaced and spat, "For a pizza?"
"Be thankful if it's not longer."
The Doctor frowned and turned away, then gestured at the television, "Shall we start the film?"
"Nope," she told him, a giggle escaping gleefully. He turned his eyes carefully back to her to take in the long shirt she wore over the flannel pants. Her jammies, he knew, and he glanced at his slacks and the thin hoodie that sat underneath his jacket. "And yes," she told him on a nod, "You're overdressed."
"I didn't know it was a nightie party," he teased, standing to pull his jacket off and drop it on the armrest of the couch before kicking off his shoes as he looked to her socks. "Remember, I'd arrived with the intentions of taking you to Rome, but you wanted to watch a film." He groaned, "Please tell me this won't be the one with the legions of men who are not Romans."
Clara's brow came together tightly as her body twisted and she asked, "Legions of men who are not Romans?"
"Yes," he gasped, "Yes," he gestured to his torso, "The ones with too many abs you not so discretely fawned over that time we had to get Angie a last minute gift for her birthday."
Mouth coming open in remembrance, Clara stated, "Ah, yes, when you handed me Veggie Tales and told me it was more age appropriate." She watched him scowl and she laughed, "No, Doctor, we're not watching the 300." Then she moved to sit on the couch to tell him, "But I have no doubts you'll find ten reasons in ten minutes for why the film we are going to watch is biologically and historically inaccurate."
He turned, intrigued. "Is it a boring film?"
Shaking her head, Clara pulled her legs up underneath her and stated, "Nope."
The Doctor dropped into the couch beside her. "Is it a biography – I hate biographies, they're always exaggerated, when they're not outright wrong."
She laughed lightly, head bowing as she answered, "No, Doctor, it's not a biography or a memoir."
He suddenly didn't care, seeing her sitting there, relaxed and still chuckling at his antics. He understood why she'd wanted the night in and he calmed in that knowledge: she needed to feel normal for just a few hours. For four hours and twenty two minutes and fifteen seconds Clara needed to pretend he was just a man and they could eat a meal and take in a film and she could sit by his side without anything exploding or anyone dying.
Reaching out to touch the back of her hand, he sighed, "Let's watch the film, Clara."
Her laughter tapered off and she stated calmly, "You're hurrying the time."
He smiled – she didn't want to rush their night – and he asked on a nod, "What would you like to do, until the food arrives and we start this secretive film of yours?"
Clara took a breath and she hesitated, lip shifting between her teeth to shrug, and then she plucked up her remote and moved, curling into his side, her head resting into his shoulder. "Danny and I used to watch the telly, just random stuff, thought maybe you'd like to do the same."
"Is this about Danny, Clara?" He asked softly.
Her fingers came up to play with the metal buckle on the zipper that ran over his body. He felt her shake her head before she admitted, "This is about me missing having somebody to watch junk on the telly with after a long day, Doctor; this is about me needing you to not be the Doctor for a few hours..."
"And be your boyfriend?" He finished lightly, sympathetically.
Her eyes came up to look to him for his answer. And he knew that was absolutely the question – the question she didn't want to have to ask him. So instead she'd simply asked him to watch a movie with her and she'd manipulate the rest, he knew. So very like Clara. He sighed and watched her look away, caught and embarrassed by the fact. Thinking he would reject her.
Un-wedging his arm from underneath her as she began to lift herself up, he draped it over her shoulder, pulling her back closer, feeling the small tremor her body gave just before it relaxed. Before the fear subsided and the understanding dawned: she didn't have to ask him to comfort her – he simply would.
Her hand came up and she switched on her television, and he looked to the canned laughter and the odd jokes. He waited when she went to retrieve the pizza and for a few moments they ate together in silence, sneaking peeks at each other before she finally declared it was time to watch the movie.
Clara giggled when he jumped at a crow's foot, smashing heavily into pristine snow. A trick to frighten the viewer, a cheap one, he'd scoffed, and then he'd turned and asked, voice breaking, "Dinosaurs. You're making me watch rubbish about a dinosaur park?"
"It's not rubbish," she'd countered softly, nestling herself back into his side.
"It's complete rubbish – I saw the other three."
She smiled, telling him quietly, "And you told me you enjoyed them."
He chuckled then, hand gripping her shoulder as he nodded and admitted, "Rubbish can be enjoyable." He looked down at the satisfied smile she offered, at the knowledge that to him this was absolute rubbish, but that he wouldn't have it any other way, and the Doctor sighed down at her, listening to children squealing their excitement on the screen. "What do you say, Clara, tomorrow we see the feathers of a real velociraptor?"
She patted his stomach lightly and nodded, "Tomorrow."
"Ah," he breathed, "That's right, not the Doctor right now, am I?"
"Shut up," she laughed, laying her head back down and the Doctor watched her as she became engrossed in the fantasy, fingertips lazily grazing the material of his hoodie. He sighed and looked to the screen, and he knew he'd give her so much more than four hours, twenty two minutes and fifteen seconds. She merely had to ask.