A/N: Happy holidays! Just a little twelveclara domestic oneshot to celebrate the festivities :)
Clara had her eyes narrow as she stood on her back to him, picking item by item from a brown cardboard box that had been rotting in her closet for the past eleven months or so and hanging them to the Christmas tree; carefully, meticulously, overthinking too much where she should place each one.
Because that's who she was. A control freak who couldn't stand the idea of her tree looking like a mixture of careless and irrelevance.
The Doctor watched her carefully, sitting at her couch. Studying the movement of each of her back muscles, analyzing as they would tense and as they would relax. She wore a jeans jumpsuit with no blouse underneath, the shoulder straps crossing in an X at the center of her spine, alluring his vision to her and only her. Sometimes, he was sure she chose the entirety of her outfits only to entice him.
Because that's who she was. A control freak who would make sure he knew that she had him at her mercy.
And did she have him.
Neither of them had uttered a word for the past two hours, seven minutes and twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four seconds – he had been counting. Every time she was bound to turn her face to him, she would change her mind midway through and disguise herself by picking something from the box by her feet. Every time he was bound to force a sound out of his throat through his already slightly departed lips, she would cross her arms almost like she knew and shut him up.
Silence was the deepest form of intimacy, but that wasn't that. That was a torturing game in which whoever spoke first would lose. And they were both too draw to power play to be the one to easily admit defeat and call it a truce.
Around two hours and twelve minutes before – one could always rely on a Time Lord for the precision of time passing – Clara had stormed out from the TARDIS, angrily fuming and steps heavy from her mood; the mood he had caused her to be, she would argue. Her lips were frowned in a beak as he joined her in the living room.
Clara, then, eyed him suspiciously, "What are you doing in my flat?"
The Doctor, clearly at loss, looked from her to the TARDIS several times, trying to sense whatever was wrong. "Are you banishing me from your home? Forever? When I let you hang at mine whenever you want?"
She exhaled through her mouth as she rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry if you're not the most enjoyable company as a matter of now. Just—go back inside and jump forwards in time to a time that I'm less angry with you!"
"But then you'll be angry on your own," he patronized her, innocently, "I really need to be here, so you'll have someone to yell at, Clara."
His calming tone was only infuriating her even further. "I really am this close to throwing something at you, Doctor."
He grabbed the first object he saw laying nearby and handed it to her. "Please do. Just careful not to hit me in the head or something – I would hate to get a blow to the head so hard that I'll die before I start regenerating."
She took a step back to restrain herself from actually hitting him – object or no object in hand. Instead, a high-pitched groan was forced out of her throat. "Could you please take this seriously? For once in your life?"
"I am taking it seriously, Clara," he seemed offended by her accusation, tilting his head sideways as he spoke, "I just don't understand why you're so mad at me."
Clara bit down on her tongue, shooting him eyes that could kill. "You called Christmas a dull event, saying it was nothing more than a holiday created by the romans to stop pagan festivities in the Middle Age—"
"—I could take you there and show it to you myself—"
"—and, to quote, 'being the smart and traveled woman that I am, I shouldn't take part in such activities'"
He nodded, missing her point completely, "Yes, you really are a smart and well traveled woman, Clara. That was a compliment, in case you didn't get it."
If she hadn't, she showed no indications. "Next time you don't want to help me put up Christmas decoration, just say so, Doctor. There's no need to bash entire centuries—millenniums of human tradition!"
"Clara, I never said I wouldn't help you," he gesticulated with his hands, "I just don't see what's the point!"
She raised her index finger in the air as an authority manner, "You know what, you don't get to talk anymore. If I can't get you to leave, then you're going to silently sit in the corner. It's December 23th and my father's coming over in little over a day and I need to make this place Christmas acceptable."
"Clara—"
She shushed him with the hardening of her finger and the angry lines written all over her face. After that, neither of them dared to speak again.
And as much as the Doctor enjoyed sculpturing each of her vertebras with his eyes, he was too easily bored. Not in fully redemption, he quietly rose from his seat and walked up to her, not saying a single word as he went. Instead, he picked a red sparkly ball ornament from the box and randomly chose a branch to put it in.
Taking a long breath in order not to lose her patience – or whatever was left of it – Clara moved the ball to a different branch. Only then the Doctor realized there was some sort of pattern only she could tell and he was obviously disturbing in, consequently making her madder than before; his plan of lighting up her mood clearly gone the opposite way.
Harshly, she shoved the white lights thread onto his hand, trusting him enough to be able to perform the only task she had given him. She returned to placing golden bows to the tree, however still had him in the corner of her eyes, observing as he made a mess of the thread until finally succeeding to unknot it.
It took him a path of several minutes to completely wrap the tree with the lights, for he was extra careful – he would hate if his only job failed to amuse her. He plugged it in and the tree lit like fire. He smiled at the sight.
By the time he returned to her side, the box of ornaments was empty. He just couldn't understand why Clara had her arms crossed against her chest, a sparkly star held by her palms and her face showed a permanent frown that didn't show any signs of fading away anytime soon.
But, as the obedient follower of her commands that he was, the Doctor simply watched her, patiently waiting for her to end the silence. Although she didn't have her eyes at him, he knew she could very well see him there, standing perfectly still. Just waiting for her accept the fate of redemption.
Each second felt as an eternity until she dared to emit any sort of sound. "I can't place the star at the top of the tree."
He pouted, studying the start at her hand and the top of the tree itself and failing to see whatever was wrong with them. He didn't wait for her permission to start talking again, "Why can't you?"
"Don't make me say it," she asked, even if it sounded more like an order. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, each word spoken being a fight on its own.
He narrowed his eyes in return, "But I don't understand, Clara."
Allowing her tongue to travel the boarders of her lips, a huff of air was heard to escape her lungs. She lowered her head, to ashamed to admit, "I'm too small to reach it."
The Doctor had to fight everything inside of him to stop himself from breaking into laughter. Although he was sure she could see the growing formation of a smirk in the corner of his lips. "You can't fight genetics."
"Yes, but I can fight this stupid tree for being to tall," she snapped, and he could no longer tell whether her anger was directed at him or at the height of the forest. "Will you please put it for me?"
He knew it was taking every fiber of her being to request his help. He didn't budge, however. "I can't, I'm sorry."
"Why not?!"
He cleared his throat from the lump beginning to grow at it, "Because if anything goes wrong, you're holding it against me for the rest of my life."
Clara rolled her eyes, "What could possibly go wrong with placing a star in a tree?"
"Who knows," he shot his shoulders up and down, before unexpectedly dropping down to his knees, "Come on, climb over my shoulders."
Her eyes enlarged at the idea. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Am not," he grunted, balancing himself on his four limbs as he waited for her to climb over. "Besides, do you have a better idea?"
"Several, actually!" she squinted, "And none of them risks failure as much as yours."
"Clara, shut up and do it."
Hesitantly, she did as she was instructed. She sat across his shoulders pads and yelped when he grabbed a hold of her legs to keep her from falling as he slowly made his way up. At each movement, her voice would tremble in horror of being throw to the floor, forcing her to clutch tightly to his hair curls to the point she was sure she would rip them off his head. The star was being smashed under her armpit.
"How's the view from up there?" he teased, working his knees until they lost the angle formed between his legs and tights.
"Ouch, you just made me hit my head on the ceiling!" she yelled, bending her torso a little forward to prevent herself from any further injuries.
He made a face, crawling towards the tree. "Right, sorry."
Once he stood next to the tree, Clara clumsily stretched her arm to place the star atop the tree. The disturbance in the center of their gravity caused the Doctor to stumble from one side to another, and she was forced to lean back. "Doctor, if you let me fall, I swear to god."
"I won't, relax," he guaranteed, although the shakiness in his voice from the scare of almost dropping her clearly betrayed him. He tightened the grip around her ankles, "Alright, go."
Still clinging one of her arms to him, she tried again. She was about to perfectly place the golden star it its place when the world suddenly spun around her. Her brain didn't even process the falling until the Christmas tree was thrown to the floor and she landed amidst the branches, the Doctor inevitably being trapped underneath her.
Clara made several faces of pain and discomfort, unable – unwilling – to move. Her breaths were sharp and rapid, her back was sore. She surely regretted wearing nothing underneath her jumpsuit because she knew her bare skin to now be filled with scratches from the pointing branches rubbing against her.
"Clara, your buttocks are suffocating me," his muffed voice echoed through the room and she was kicked out of her daze. All her muscles hurt as she untangled herself from above her, reaching the concrete floor and resting in a sitting position. Sighing loudly when she saw the destruction caused to the Christmas tree she dedicated the last two hours of her life.
Eventually, the Doctor emerge into her vision field, freeing himself from the attacks of the green of the tree. Were he in pain, she couldn't tell, for she couldn't see past the desperation of her upcoming scolding.
Breaking all the expectations, Clara brought the palm of her hand against her mouth, trying to suppress her laugh. The Doctor couldn't absolutely understand her. "What's so funny?"
Giving up, she busted into laughter, her lips curving into the most genuine and innocent smile. "Your hair," she clarified, "Somehow you managed to trap the Christmas lights in your curls. You're literally on fire, Doctor."
Directing his eyes up, he could see the faint of a white illumination coming from up his head. Understanding it was alright to smile, he opened a bright grin. "A Christmas miracle."
"Shut up," she demanded, although her voice was full of amusing. "You've still ruined my perfect Christmas tree."
Shrugging it off, the Doctor wrapped his big fingers around her tiny wrists and brought her close, regardless of how sore both their bodies felt. Somehow, he managed to uncling more of the lighting thread and brought it to her, making circles with it around her head until they fell to the crook of her neck.
"Now we're the Christmas decoration," he prompted, eyebrows high, his happy smile taking over almost the entirety of his face.
Smirking, she embraced the idea, "Do you think my father will like it? It did, after all, take us a long time to put it together."
The Doctor couldn't tell if her eyes were brighter because of the Christmas lightening around them or for the sparkle she held inside of her soul. He settled on the second option. "I think he'll love it."
Clara scoffed, "FYI, I am holding this incident against you for the rest of your life."
He chuckled, trying to lean forward but the thread through his hair held him back. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll forgive me once you see what I've got you for Christmas."
She made a face, "Doctor, didn't we agree against Christmas gifts? It was your idea, after all."
He wrinkled his nose, "What can I say, I suck at following orders. Besides, it's not like I don't already know you have gotten me something as well."
Her grin betrayed her, "Yeah, I guess I did. Too bad we don't have a tree to put it under anymore."
He brought her hand to his lips and place the sweetest of pecks against it. "I'll fetch you a hologram tree from the TARDIS. You can decorate it as you please, and it doesn't risk falling over."
She agreed, "And the TARDIS saves Christmas once again."
The Doctor laughed. Neither of them dared to untangle themselves from the lighting thread, and respectfully, from one another.
A/N: Any feedback here or on twitter (dutiesofcare) is much appreciated :)