A/N: The words I have borrowed belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and of course the characters I have borrowed belong to the BBC and friends.
When it came down to it, could you really boil life down to nothing more than a series of 'what ifs?'
If Clara hadn't bought a new computer last year, she wouldn't have met a time traveling alien who called himself the Doctor.
If she hadn't met the Doctor, she wouldn't have scattered echoes of herself across time and space to save his life.
If she hadn't saved his life, he wouldn't have been able to accidentally drop her off almost an hour earlier than they'd left – though in fairness she had been insistent on getting home in good time.
If she hadn't had that extra hour, she wouldn't have pressed her skirt before going to bed.
If she hadn't already ironed her clothes, she wouldn't have been able to leave her flat earlier than she'd planned to.
If she hadn't left early, she wouldn't have had time to stop for coffee.
If she hadn't been holding a coffee cup, she wouldn't have had to worry about spilling on herself when she tripped.
If she hadn't been worried about spilling, she wouldn't have had to stumble in the awkward manner that caused a button on her blouse to catch in her jacket zipper.
If the button hadn't caught, it wouldn't have torn off when she righted herself.
And if all that hadn't happened, she wouldn't be sitting in the reception area of Coal Hill School, heart hammering and sweat clinging because she was waiting for an interview, wearing a blouse that showed off more than a fair bit of skin and the bottom of her bra if she shifted so much as an inch.
The school's middle-aged secretary, who introduced herself as Mrs. Barcroft, had sounded so cheerful and welcoming when she pointed to the coat rack, "You can hang your jacket up there, Miss Oswald, and take a seat. Headmaster Coburn and the members from the Board of Governors will be ready for you shortly. Make yourself comfortable in the time being." It was only with great regret and hesitation that Clara had unzipped her coat, hand pausing as the tines sprang free where her blouse now gaped open. "Thanks," she said weakly.
"Try not to worry, dear," Mrs. Barcroft encouraged. "I'm sure you'll do splendidly."
Clara eyed what felt like a yawning chasm of exposure, fidgeting with the material to try to make it sit properly. "Thanks," she managed again.
This is one way to make an impression on them… She thought ruefully. A bunch of old men will certainly remember me looking like this. When my Dad told me to "flash my personality at them" I doubt this was what he meant…
"I'm just going to nip down to the staff room to make myself a cuppa, Miss Oswald." Clara nodded with what she hoped was an agreeable smile as Mrs. Barcroft headed towards the glass door. When it shut behind her with a slight shudder, Clara let out a frustrated groan and clenched her fists before burying her face in her hands.
She nearly jumped out of her chair when she heard what sounded like Mrs. Barcroft squeal from down the hall. A second later when her mind kicked in, she did leap to her feet. She only just reached for the door handle when she had to lurch back out of the way as it swung open.
"Ah, Clara! There you are." The Doctor beamed at her, sliding around the narrow gap and letting the door fall shut behind him.
"What – no, how did you find your way in here?" She half hissed in a whisper. Not that keeping her voice down was going to do them much good. She dragged him farther in from the door, panic flaring up at his untimely arrival. Of all the places in time and space, of course he had to be in the one place that could land her in the most trouble. What, exactly, did he think would happen if some faculty member walked in, and found a wannabe-teacher had brought a friend to her interview?
"There was a very kind woman who pointed me to this room when I asked where reception was and explained that I am a– " he flipped the psychic paper and craned his neck so he could look at it – "a delivery man for Fukushima Florists, looking for somebody called Coburn apparently."
"Why would you be delivering flowers to the headmaster?"
"I don't know – why was I the King of Belgium once?" He returned with a quirk of his lips and a slight waggle of his nearly nonexistent eyebrows.
"I dunno, your majesty." Clara couldn't help the snicker that escaped her.
"You're okay then?"
"Why wouldn't I be okay?"
He raised his hand carefully and used the back of one finger to wipe away a single tear that must have escaped along with her groan.
"Better now." Her response brought a glowing smile to the Doctor's face, which infectiously spread across her own as well.
"Excellent, now let's see about fixing that button!"
"What?" She blushed, hands flying to try to conceal the problem she'd momentarily forgotten.
"You've got an interview in a couple minutes."
"Yes but how are we going to fix it?"
"You think I travel time and space without carrying a few essentials?" He asked indignantly. He waggled his fingers before dipping his hand far further into his pocket than the outline of the material should have allowed. Smaller on the outside, she thought with a wry smile.
"Aha!" He exclaimed triumphantly. His hand flew from the depths of his inter-dimensional pockets, though his fingers remained closed over whatever he was holding. He grinned before extending his arm across the small space between them, rolling his fingers open like a magician finishing a trick. Instead of a white rabbit, though, he produced a needle, thread and one shimmering button.
She examined the button carefully before flicking back to the pearly red buttons on her blouse. "Umm..."
"Chameleon button: it'll mimic whatever you already have on." He explained, seeing her hesitation. "Trust me, it's pretty difficult to match buttons off a frock coat you had tailored in 18th century Paris whilst undercover on the Second Moon of Samathrice. Since then, I always carry proper spares." The grimace on his face clearly indicated that that lesson had come hard learned.
The clicking of heels down the hallway brought Clara's attention back to the reality of her ever-shortening timeframe.
"Okay, give it here," she instructed, holding out her hand.
"It would be a lot easier for me to do it, Clara."
She stared at him blankly for a moment.
"I'll have a better angle for it. Unless you take your shirt off, of course, but while I can lock the door with the sonic, I can't do much about the glass," he gestured to the clear view from the hall, "so someone else might see you."
"Right." She agreed, swallowing hard. Did the Doctor really just suggest that the issue at hand wasn't that he would see her stripping off – but that other people might?
He was nodding contentedly. "So pull up a seat, that way I won't put a crick in my neck while I'm looking down your shirt." Clara gaped at him for a moment, but he just stared at her with oblivious expectation, waiting for her to sit.
Her legs followed his instructions without seeking final approval from her brain. Before she knew it, she was sitting in the chair with the Doctor kneeling between her legs and focusing very intently on a rather awkward area of her shirt. She watched his hands, impressed at how his larger digits fed the thread through the tiny eye of the needle, tying the ends after he bit it off the spool with his teeth. She looked away as he raised a hand to tug the edge of her blouse flat, and didn't see it coming when the pad of one long finger grazed her skin, just skimming a rib.
"Clara, you don't have to quit breathing."
"Right."
"I'm better with my hands than you might think." He chided with a voice that could only have left his lips in a smirk.
"Right." She agreed again – damn it. She was going to have to manage a lot more than one word answers for her interview...
His finger curled around the edge of her blouse, lifting it while he plucked the broken threads with his other hand.
"How did you know I had an interview today?" She asked quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth. But they tumbled in the right order at least, and they were all there. She was going to count that as improvement.
"You told me about it yesterday." He answered matter-of-factly, gently sliding the needle into the fabric for the first time.
"Oh..."
"And I figured you were nervous about it. So I planned to be here after you were done and take you somewhere nice as a break. I seem to be a bit early, but I think that's worked out well for once."
He fell silent as he held the needle between his teeth, using both hands to make sure the button – which shimmered even brighter for a second before morphing to match the rest – was sitting exactly where he wanted it before setting it in with a first stitch, finger gently grazing her again. She shivered sharply at the contact before forcefully stilling herself.
"You cold, Clara?" He flicked his eyes off his task to ask her, gaze locking on to hers.
His tone was light. The look he was giving her was anything but.
She opened her mouth a fraction only to find that even a one word answer might be a bit much to expect at the moment so she bit her lip and shook her head.
She sat silently for a moment, watching as he returned to work, the needle weaving in and out of the button holes, dancing as a puppet on the Doctor's string."What made you think I was nervous about today?"
"Your heart rate flared up when you mentioned it, and again when you hugged me goodbye. It was higher both times than when we were sneaking through Topkapi Palace trying to find the Sultan's belt before he realised the Groocket had stolen it."
"Oh..." Was all she could mange.
"It's even higher right now." He told her almost too casually.
Yeah, of course it is. Look at where your hands keep dancing around. Think about how that feels! An inner voice growled at him, though it declined to let the sentiment become real words.
"It's quite something, considering now you are sitting in a relatively safe office, and then we were being chased by a Janissary." The Doctor's brow furrowed in thought. "Or was it one of the Groockets? – doesn't matter... either way you were less worried– "
"Wait."
He stopped talking and stitching immediately, hands frozen and curled close to her body.
"You remember my offhanded comment about having an interview, but you don't remember that it was a big bloke with a sword combing the corridors for us?"
"They were all big blokes with swords, the Groockets were trying to blend in aft–"
"Not what I meant." She cut him off again, shaking her head. His thumb ran a tiny stoke where it was resting. She could feel the heat of his skin through the smooth material of her shirt. He inhaled sharply and caught her gaze with worry filling his own when she shuddered again. Whatever he saw in her face eased the tension out of his body while at the same time lighting up his eyes.
She looked away first.
A second later he dropped a hand away from his work to rest just above her knee. "What did you mean, Clara?"
"I meant... you remember some little thing I mentioned, but not what was chasing us through the Ottoman Sultan's palace in Istanbul last night."
"Clara, of course I remember what you said! It's the little things that matter most of all."
She stared at him, an eyebrow raising itself in mild disbelief.
"If we didn't manage to do the little things, none of the big things would ever happen. If Napoleon hadn't made it out of bed one morning, he'd never have escaped from Elba. If Alexander Fleming hadn't done his own dishes, he wouldn't have made the discovery that led to penicillin. It's all the little things that come together to make big things, which makes little things all the more important." He smiled. "Besides, this job isn't a little thing to you, and your worrying isn't a little thing to me. Don't make the important things in your life seem small compared to someone else's, no matter who they are."
Clara stared at him, she had no idea when she'd begun staring, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. Her jaw quivered slightly with the desire to say something in reply, but she couldn't imagine how to put what she wanted to say into the words she was allowed to use with him, or at least the words she allowedherself to use with him…
"This little thing," he grinned at the button as he shanked it, "is back the way it should be." He bit the thread and tied off his work. Some noise of agreement escaped her throat. He did the button up, before standing and offering her a hand up, too. She kept a hold of his hand, and pulled him closer to wrap her arms around his middle.
"I should probably go. I'll come find you once you've stunned them with your brilliance, eh?" She nodded into his chest. Neither of them moved, though, until the echoing of footsteps off the empty hallway made them both jump back.
"Doctor?" She called as he turned to leave. He twirled back around with an open expression.
"Thank you."
He beamed at her once more before sliding quietly out of the door. She may have only used a grand total of two words in that answer, but they were all she had needed. He understood.
Clara shook out the umbrella – "borrowed" from someone who looked a lot like a young Julie Andrews when it unexpectedly started pouring after the Doctor had taken her to dinner – on the stairwell before fumbling for her key and stepping into her flat. She hesitated when she saw a pulsing glow coming from her kitchen. Readjusting her hold on the umbrella to something that might have been more menacing with a sturdier object, she crept around the corner, but there was neither intruder nor sign of alien invasion.
Not an invasion, that is, because this particular alien had a key to her flat.
A large vase full of delicate golden flowers sat on her counter. The petals of the flowers glowed with a light that seemed almost alive, which was what was illuminating her kitchen. They smelled like something otherworldly – which Clara guessed they probably were.
There was a note by the vase, written in a hand she immediately recognized, even if the words didn't belong to him.
It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.