A/N: Twelfth Doctor/Missy (The Master) + Clara AU. For the lolz.
Clara Oswald was the chief legal counsel to The Right Honourable The Lord Provost of the City of Edinburgh. The Doctor. At least, that's what he called himself. His real name was John Smith, which he hated (and stated every chance he got), and only his mother called him John.
Clara tapped her foot outside his office door, trying hard not to listen to the Lord-Provost's telephone rant. She could hear him pacing across the hardwood in his office. He was probably spitting. She really, really did not want to have this meeting. As much of an adventure as it was to work for The Doctor, she just wanted a cuppa and a nap and not another scandal.
She checked her phone. 15:00 on the dot. Tirade or not, she expected her meetings to start on time. Clara moved her hand to the doorframe and knocked, hard.
"Just a minute!"
Rolling her eyes, she called back, "I've got another meeting in exactly half an hour. We need to get started!"
His favorite sign-off echoed into the hallway. "Fine! Fuckity bye!"
Moments later, the door opened. The Doctor was a tall man, with curly gray hair, and permanent scowl on his face. Even when he smiled it was like a grimace, like he wanted to eat your insides. But Clara felt affection for this gruff man, even though he was a complete menace to her and the rest of his staff.
"Ah, Clara." He swept to the side, and invited her into the office with a wide gesture.
"All right, Doctor. We need to get down to business."
"Always chop-chop with you. Right down to business. Fancy a drink?" He brandished a very expensive bottle of scotch in her direction.
"Right, no. On the job, Lord-Provost."
"Sure." He opened the bottle and took a swig right from it. Clara cringed. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?
"We had a complaint filed with the office from one Missy Saxon, who claims that during one of the council meetings, you told her you wanted to, and I quote, 'Slap your arse.'"
"Bah." He drug out the 'a' like a sheep and scrunched his face up. "It's not harassment if I only said I'd slap her arse."
"Actually, sir, it is. And she's threatening a suit."
"Look, Clara, I know you're young and idealistic and a worrywart and rather a bit stupid, but Missy is nothing to worry about."
Rather than letting his grumpiness get to her, Clara just looked at him like he was a spoilt child. "It's enough to worry a good number of the councilors, since she is the president of that bioengineering company that's anchoring the new north area industrial development. Important stakeholder and all."
He laughed—a sort of wheezing sneer.
"Clara, Clara, Clara. Do I need to repeat myself? Nothing. To. Worry. About. I'm fucking her on the side. We do this thing where we roleplay as wolves. She is absolutely bloody bonkers. Ow-woo!" He mimicked a wolf's howl and took another swig of scotch.
"Yeah, thanks, Doctor. That's too much information. As long as you can promise me I won't have a suit on my desk tomorrow …."
He waved her off. "Go chatter at someone else."
"It's still a conflict of interest …," she sing-songed as she backed her way toward the door.
"Wolves, Clara. Untamed wolves."
"Going, Doctor!"
When Clara arrived back in her office, her assistant pulled her aside, pointing at a video on her computer screen.
"What's this then?"
"It's the Lord-Provost!" Her assistant turned up the volume.
And there was The Doctor, on the screen, naked as a newborn and howling like a deranged wolf.
"Where'd this come from?"
"It's all over. I saw it on Twitter. It's even on The Telegaph and The Guardian."
"Oh, God. Why." Clara rubbed her hands over eyes. It was going to be a long afternoon, a long evening, and a long, long night.