A/N: This was based from the little scene in The Girl Who Died where Twelve and Clara are the only ones to have ever handled a sword. Pure fluff and domestic twelveclara. I hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it :)
"Okay, tell me this. How many people here have actually held a sword in battle? By a show of hands?"
The Doctor looked unsurprised as he circled around himself and saw all the Vikings with their hands down. Every fiber of his being destined to fight his urge of forming a victorious smirk with his lips – he was right, as always.
Until he spotted a petite brunette from the corner of his eyes, a face that didn't match the time or the space. A face too much like his. Her petite hand bravely rose in the air, attracting his attention towards her.
That was when the smirk took over his face, mimicking the very same grin across her lips.
"No, I am not teaching you how to use a sword!"
Clara offered him the biggest eyes she had, her pupils narrow from the amount of light surrounding them. Her lower lip bent and showed the inner flesh of her mouth, her nose wrinkled in the air. She knew him enough; he could never resist her under normal circumstances, let alone when she begged him.
Offended by her actions, he pointed his index at her. "No. This is my final answer, Clara. You're not going anywhere near a sword. It's already bad enough I've taught you how to fish. I don't feel comfortable enough giving you yet another stick."
She crossed her arms, slightly weighing on her right foot. "First of all, you didn't teach me how to fish. You gave me a fishing rod and said, 'you're clever, you'll figure out the rest'. Lucky for both of us, I am clever, otherwise we would have starved to death in that boat in the middle of the Amazon River. Second of all, you're not giving me a stick. You're giving me a sword. Although I see why you'd mistake one for the other, they're very much different things."
In order to protect himself from her facial attacks, he paced away from her. "I don't care if they're different kind of sticks, Clara, they both could be used as a weapon. I'm not deliberately handing you a weapon. End of story."
"Why not?" she chased after him, "You know how to use a sword, why can't I?"
"Because it's dangerous," he strongly emphasized his last word, "Because you could get hurt!"
She did her best to suppress a forming beam in the corner of her lips – he was so cute when trying to hide how much he actually cared for her. "I'm not going to hurt myself. A sword is, in fact, an artifact of protection, I'll have you know."
He scoffed, "And who do you need protection from?"
"Alien men who impersonate themselves as Scots," she stated flat and calmly, finally causing him to stop dead on his tracks. She laughed at how buffeted his expressions became from her allegations. "Also, from our enemies that are bond to attack us tomorrow at the battle."
He seemed to consider her statement briefly, until he understood the meaning behind her words. "Now you've certainly gone bonkers, Clara. You're not fighting in the battle tomorrow!"
"Why not?!" her voice was full of anger, "Don't tell me it's because I'm a girl, or I'm going to bloody—"
He held his palms in the air to shush her, "You're not going to fight because it's not safe, because you could get seriously and fatally wounded. Honestly, I couldn't care less about your gender. We both well know there's no alien and no human who would stand a chance against you, Clara Oswald."
Her satisfaction from his sentence was evident, but she didn't allow him no rest, "Then why can't I be there at your side tomorrow? Come on, Doctor, you know how great of an asset I can be."
Sighing loudly, the Doctor placed both his hands on her shoulder pads. "Clara, Clara, Clara… Clara—"
"—that's enough Clara in one sentence—"
"—Clara," he looked directly into her eyes, being swallowed by the blackhole inside of them, "I have a duty of care, I can't just let you march in to a battle I have no control over. If you end up hurt, even if the slightest of scratches, Clara, I would never…"
His voice got stuck in his throat and he never managed to finish the words in his mind. He wouldn't have to, for Clara gently cupped his jawline with her hand. "I'm not going to get hurt, because you're going to teach me how to handle a sword."
The exhale that escaped his nostrils was desperate, but he knew he was fighting a preestablished defeat. He himself had just admitted that no man, himself included, didn't stand a chance against her. "You really are maddening, I hope you're aware of that."
She merely shuddered. "Two birds of a feather. Fetch me the sword, will you?"
Without much of a choice, the Doctor picked up two metal swords. One of them was dropped to the floor in front of her, whilst he walked to behind her. She didn't turn around to face him. "It's all a matter of posture, Clara."
Delicately, the Doctor entranced his back with the tip of his fingers, pathing down all her vertebras, until her spine was completely straight. He pulled her hair behind, bringing static to the hair in the back of her neck, and her head became level. He tapped her feet with his own, so they would grow perfectly parallel between one another.
His torso was then glued to her back, so close they could feel their body energies flowing from one body to the other. Her elbow dovetailed perfectly in the curve between his arm and forearm, and the sword reached her vision range.
"Can you hold it?" he pondered.
Enchanted by the silver blade in front of her, she nodded. "Of course I can."
He chuckled against her hair, her fingers meeting his around the grip. "It's very heavy and you're extremely petite, Clara. I wouldn't be surprised if it somehow overweighed you."
To prove him wrong, she tightened her grip around the object. "I can handle myself, thank you."
Shrugging to himself, the Doctor gradually let go of the sword. Not to his bewilderment, the gravity pulled it down, but Clara did a fine job in steadying it in the air. He dreadfully stepped away from her. "That's good. You must find your balance."
As he made his way back to the front of her, Clara didn't dare to move. Her chest sharply rose and fell from her anxious breathing, and she eventually had to blow away a lock of her hair that the wind had howled into her face. She never dropped her posture.
The Doctor placed his hands on her hips, for several moments not daring to move or say anything. Expecting her to grow tired from the position, but she never did. "Now, you must hold the pummel right above your bellybutton, just a little far away from your stomach," he stood just a few inches away from her, "Point the tip to somewhere between my sternum and my throat. If I dare to attack you, I'll impale myself at your sword."
A daring smirk took over the corner of her lips, "Don't give me ideas. Snatch that Scottish accent right out of you."
He ignored her. "When you're going to strike, you must bring the grip right past your eye, gaining force so you'll come down on me. Remember, your dominant hand always guides the blade, whereas the other one sets force in to the blade."
She did exactly as she was told, forcing him to dodge himself quickly in order not to get hit. "Like this?"
"Yes, very well," he congratulated her, "Bring your left foot behind the right one. Always keep balanced, Clara. Push your left foot when you're about to attack, slide your right foot on the ground and raise your sword. Bring back your left foot and strike."
And she did, aiming her sword to an inexistent point right above his shoulder. The Doctor gulped hard from the sensation of the cold metal so near his throat. She could only laugh at him, "Don't worry, you stupid old man, I'm not going to hurt you. I know what I'm doing."
"Whatever you say," he mumbled, "When striking, keep your arm straight – but not locked, we don't want you to end up breaking it; we've already got enough problems as it is. Bend it when it reaches your head. Then, reverse all of that to strike."
Clara followed each of his commands, this time landing her sword in the opposite shoulder pad of his. "I don't know about you but I'm actually quite good at this, I must say."
"Perhaps you'll even be as good as me, one day soon," he teased, actually forgotten she had a weapon in her possess and could easily overthrow him. "Don't weaken your strikes, keep each of your swings full and powerful – yell while doing so, it helps."
Watching as she practiced her moves, the Doctor picked up the other sword from the ground. He held it in one hand only, whilst his other arm was locked behind his back, with the only purpose of showing his skills off, but to his dismay, Clara didn't seem to give much thought into it.
"En garde," Clara alerted him, her blade hanging just a few inches away from his neck.
He ignored her, careless swinging his sword in the air. "You know, in the battle field, your enemies don't put much effort into saying politeness such as en garde."
Catching him off guard, Clara harshly threw her blade against his, startling him as she went. "We're not in the battle field, however. The mastering of swords demands respect, therefore, I demand it from you. En garde."
Straightening his back, he moved into position. It was a matter of seconds until their fight began; metal ranging against metal, blades howling as they cut through the air, muscles rigid in tension, gasps of both relief and despair as they succeeded and as they failed in dominating the other.
Until Clara blew a hard strike just next to his neck and caused him to lose his balance. The Doctor tripped on his own feet and landed to the floor on his back, out of breath. He only didn't expect the sharp tip from her sword to dig right between his chests.
"Surrender, peasant," she demanded, her head tipping into his vision and blocking the sun in the sky, obscuring her face traits. "Admit defeat."
"Clara…?" his voice was raspy and struggling to depart his throat, "You still remember that I'm not your actual enemy, or has the competitiveness taken over sanity?"
All his words got lost in the wind. "Say it. Say that I'm better than you and I shall let you live."
He chuckled, "In case you've forgotten, I still have two hearts, Clara. Stabbing me right in the middle of my chest will be a terrible miss."
She dunked the tip deeper into his skin, although still far from drawing blood. "Say it."
Raising both his hands up in redemption, he cried, "Fine. You win, Clara. You're better at playing with swords than I am."
With a victorious smile written all over her face, Clara threw her sword aside, offering her hand to help him up. "It didn't hurt, did it?"
"A tiny little bit, yeah," he confessed, voice high pitched from his drama act, finally back on his feet. Although he dreaded to look at her eyes and see her overinflated ego showing, he didn't have any other alternative to stare at.
Boldly, Clara wrapped herself around one his arms, hugging it tightly. Their walk back towards the tent at where they were camped slowly gained speed. "Personally, I don't think the Druds stand a chance against me tomorrow."
The Doctor giggled to himself, planting a soft wet kiss to the top of her head. "Personally, I think they will be sorry they dared to disturb our little trip here."
She consented with a nod, "Indeed. You still owe me a picnic, by the way. One that preferably isn't located somewhere between two rival tribes."
"Tell you what," he began, tracing lines with his thumbs across the bare skin of her hand, "It'll be our first destination if we manage to escape the battle alive."
"You don't need to worry," she argued, playfully and yet seriously at the same time, "You have me in your team."
The Doctor agreed with a smile, one that their positions combined with their height difference didn't allow her to see. "And for that, Clara Oswald, I am forever thankful."
A/N: Any feedback here or on twitter (dutiesofcare) is much appreciated :)