A/N: A quick guide for those who aren't as well versed with professional photography! These are mostly from personal experience, though.
MCU means Medium Close Up and ELS stands for Extreme Long Shot. Yes, there are other acceptable terms for these shots but these are the terms I went by in my own shoots. Back in my photographer days, at least. Also, double exposures are super neat. Google them if you don't know what they are. They're bloody beautiful.
A secondary photographer, I used Journey for this, is a bit like a protégée. (Sometimes, however, they're just a second pair of hands with one of the primary's spare cameras.) They're there for the detail shots in most weddings these days like reactions from family members during the first kiss or during the vows and whathaveyou. The primary's job is to focus on the bride and groom.
True enough that a regular photographer's entourage isn't this packed – as assistants and extra gear cost a lot of money – but as someone who has done this before, and as someone who is almost as much of a control freak as Clara is, I would have killed for this much help so please do allow me to live vicariously through Clara.
"Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty."
- Don Pedro to Benedick, Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare
"No, no— don't put her there," so said the unwanted rasp of flippant Scottish whinging that she has, unfortunately, grown all too accustomed to in just these last few hours.
Her shoulders were already stiffly kept — and anyone who knew what was best for them and knew her for any length of time would know well enough to keep away — and her teeth, her poor teeth, have been ground together too many times today.
Clara Oswald has had a grand total of 12 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours.
As much as this certainly wasn't her first time, nor would it be her last (given the nature of the profession), the symptoms of sleep deprivation remained constant.
A headache was starting to build from the very centre of her forehead— a pulsing, crushing one that made her feel as if it were going to implode at any minute. She could feel the next twenty years of her life slipping away from her body like smoke. Quite frankly, she wouldn't be too surprised if by the next time she looked at a mirror, her dark brown hair would have shriveled to wisps of grey— or, worse, she'd have pulled all of it out too much in her frustration. 5'2" of Mother-bloody-Mercy, sans the cut throat but still on her feet even after she'd been dead for three whole days. Or she might as well have been.
What is dead may never die but will need copious amounts of caffeine. Cue the theme music.
Her mouth tasted of strong, dark coffee. Already, it felt dry. There lingered a feeling of hot, building acid in the pits of her stomach. She could feel sand in her socks — she made a mental note to never do another beach wedding ever again — as the thick heels of her boots sank into the ground under her weight. Her teeth ached and, not for the first time, she feared that they felt like they were just about to fall off but that may have just been the lack of sleep, the gratuitous caffeine intake, and the fact that she was seriously quasi-contemplating if she could actually get away with first degree murder.
Starting with the grey-haired stick insect who couldn't seem to mind his own bloody business.
She'd known that he would be trouble from the pre-ceremony shots alone and she thanked all her mother's stars that the groom's entourage took significantly less time than the bride's. Yet still, throughout the time that she took shots of the men, he was there. Half a mind, she'd had, to tell him that if he knew how to do her job so much better than she did then they ought to have hired him instead.
Even when she was working the ground during the ceremony, she could see him at the corner of her eye just leering at her whenever he thought he could get away with it. She'd bit her tongue instead of his and counted to ten. Twelve. More than once had the thought of just closing her eyes and thinking of England seeped in to her head but there were moments to immortalise.
No rest for the wicked; beggars can't be choosy— artists included.
Clara, being a professional, swallowed it down as best she could— but, dear God forgive her, even she had her limits.
"I'm sorry?" she spat back at him. It was an insult wrapped in a forcibly polite apology. This was a skill that had taken years to perfect, of course.
Her assistants exchanged a look with one another. Shona grimaced as the man hovered behind her; she was holding the iPad, wirelessly tethered to Clara's cameras. Psi, reflector at hand, and Saibra, with crossed arms and a utility belt for makeup wrapped around her waist, snickered at each other; both amusedly lamenting at what was soon to become of the unassuming Glaswegian if he didn't stop pushing the Lancastrian's buttons. Like they'd only seen it too many times before— and they have. Journey could not be bothered and gave nothing but a roll of her eyes, like a good secondary would, with her finger firmly on the trigger.
The bride, glowing in the miracle that was the light that only this kind of sunset could provide, tucked her full lips in and tried to hide her smile. The newly wed Rose Tyler-Smith, after all, could find no fault in this day. In fact, she was rather more charmed by the spectacle than she was put off by it. As if she had been expecting this all along. Clara could not, of course, say the same. She lacked the carefree privilege that bridal bliss provided as her dark eyes, usually so warm, might as well have been the weathered, jagged rocks where the sirens of old would rest, just waiting for their next ship to wreck with sailors to drown as she glared at the Scotsman.
"It's against the light," he gestured at the setting sun with his long, spindly fingers — all immovable object to her unstoppable force — and Clara could not help but roll her eyes at him for that. She grit her teeth, strained smile still in place.
"So can I see a bloody church by daylight, mister; what's your point?" Her primary camera hung on her neck as she cracked her fingers on both hands with her thumbs. She threw him a look, every ounce of exasperation quirking both her tended brows upward. Her cheeks ached.
"Doctor, you might want to let the woman do her job—" said the groom as he attempted to take his best man by the arm. This, of course, was Sisyphean as the Doctor only shrugged him off.
"Look at that, your exposure's all wrong; here, let me—" he countered.
Clara closed her eyes and held her breath.
"Oh, just stop it, for Pete's sake—!" John tried, again.
She bit her tongue. Tapped her feet on the soft, sabulous ground. She swallowed.
"I know what I'm doin—!"
"OH, WILL THE PAIR OF YOU JUST SHUT UUUUUUUP?!"
A seagull squawked in the distance.
No one moved.
The only sound that broke the silence was the sound of waves, rolling sweetly and serenely. Truly, if framed just right, it was a picture perfect moment. And anyone who knew the Doctor would pay good money to have that face of his, all wide owlish eyes, blinking at the tiny woman who raised her voice at him with all the command of a thousand boarding school headmistresses.
Her breaths came in heavily as she looked towards the heavens. She raised a hand to her head—her thumb against her temple, fingers rubbing her forehead. The divine silence lasted and when she found no one had dared to dispute her command, she composed herself. Clara spoke with a clear, concise authority amongst the lot of them as the sun, ever uncaring for the frivolities of human patience (and breaking of it, thereof), still continued to set at thousands of miles per hour.
"Could you please just let the professionally hired photographer among the lot of you to actually do her bloody job in peace? Especially you—" she glared at the Doctor, hiding none of her vindictive bite as she did, to which the look he gave her in return could only be described as utterly flabbergasted "—shut it with the backseat directing! I am serious. If someone wanted your blasted opinion, they would've bloody asked for it! Not everyone is as in love with the sound of your own voice as you seem to be.
"Okay?" she looked all around her, her wide eyes sparing no one in attendance though her rebuke was meant for one person in particular. When no one contested, she let out a long, slow exhale. She put her smile back on as if the earlier outburst had never happened, camera in hand and hid her ever-so wide face behind it.
"Rose, stay right there. You're golden," she cried out to the bride who had not moved from the pose she'd directed. The bride held her head high, nose towards the heavens, with her full lips just that side of parted. The camera clicks followed in quick succession. Clara's commanded silence remained.
"Beauuuutiful! We're done with those ones. Touch up for the bride and groom, Saibra! Psi, gather the rest of the entourage now. Quickly! Before the tide washes in! Journey, new battery. Mark III. Shona, be a love. Refill."
Like clockwork, her team moved and dashed about without needing to be instructed twice. Shona did not actually need to get her a refill but it would be the only plausible way to get her out of the best man's grip for a while yet.
The Doctor stared at her with unblinking eyes. There was a ferocity there, an intensity that was then hyper-focused on her. She did not cower from it; on the contrary, she responded in kind. He eyed her from head to toe, she saw the way his eyes traveled as he assessed her person, all until Psi collected him and he had to break away first.
Clara couldn't help the hint of a smirk on her face as he ducked away and was called to leave; it felt only too much like winning.
He didn't speak to her for the remainder of the shoot— happy to ignore her for a while and she regarded him only as a wedding photographer would notice the best man, which was only when she needed to— during his speech, of course, which he so diligently gave.
Funny and serious at the same time, a dry sort of wit and humour about him with his anecdotes that were so naturally given with timing so perfect; he had the whole room bursting with laughter, despite the simplicity of it all and the brevity of his punch lines.
The bride and groom looked to him with fondness, hands held, and permanent grins etched on their faces. Clara had several shots long shots of them like that—portrait, them at the bottom-most part of the rule of thirds, with the starlit sky and the evening-coloured sea just behind them. It was a brilliant shot, if she did say so herself.
All the while, the Doctor gave his speech, holding cards that he clearly did not need. He wasn't sugarcoated. He gave heartfelt without frivolous flourish or copied cliché, which was a nice change from all the ones she'd heard before.
He wouldn't be able to see her smile or laugh behind her cameras but she did sometimes, though she didn't know the couple quite as well as she would have now liked to. He was funny, she couldn't quite help herself. And it was dark when night fell and there was nothing else to light them but the luau lights and torches that were strewn about the reception area—she doubted he could see her. That was the role of the photographer, after all; an omnipresent shadow, capturing every candid moment (ever so fleeting, in retrospect, but the emotion so perfectly preserved) in a way only an artist can.
There was dancing after that, of course, around the then-massive bonfire with the band of acoustic guitars strumming about as people ate and celebrated and laughed as if tomorrow would never come. She took photos of the details – wedding rings bathed in the light of bonfires with the glass sea reflecting the refracted light of the stars and moon above it as the backdrop; the cake and buffet, for the caterer's sake – and the people all around. She and her team did their jobs, as was expected, and Clara could say that despite the pressures of the planning being so last minute—this was a good one to remember.
Even if it didn't last, like most ones she'd ever known.
Whether it was by broken promises or politics or death or the ever uncaring circumstances of the cosmos, it was a constant. This, she knew.
Everything always ends.
Even love.
Especially love.
"Have you backed your cards yet?" came the dry, hoarse burr that, if she were honest with herself, she'd been expecting since her humbling of him just a few hours prior.
If she were really honest (and maybe just a tiny bit up herself), she would say that he sounded even shy just about then. Apologetic, even. It was almost adorable.
"I'm sorry?" she echoed, though she was in a significantly better mood than she had been.
The stars above them twinkled against the black canvas of sweet evening sky. There wasn't a cloud in attendance—not a single threat of storm or shadow. There were more stars out here than there would have been all the way back in the city.
There were small bonfires all around this beach now where guests settled on blankets; they looked up, serenaded by the soft swish of sea against the shoreline and the strumming of the few guitarists who were left. Soon, they would have to retire back to the hotels. Some might copulate on the sand – Clara would have been very surprised come morning if there wasn't at least one couple amongst present company that wouldn't, really – or in shared hotel rooms, as was what happened in weddings.
She really had been to too many of them by now.
It was quieter now and the party was just about to die down. She'd already sent Journey and Shona back to their rooms to start on the prep for post-production (couples these days demanded at least two or three shots to be ready for Instagram purposes by the time they settled into bed that same night; Clara liked to be prepared) while the other two were, well—she didn't have a thought about couples copulating during weddings for nothing.
What they did off hours was entirely their business.
All the while, she was not completely off the clock just yet. She was just about dead tired after being on her high-heeled feet for over ten hours straight (she would joke that there was far, far too much blood in her caffeine stream at this point). However, she still found her attention captured by one last memory for the night.
"Your memory cards," he amended.
Clara turned to look at him only to see that he was holding a glass in his hand and he was holding it out to her. Champagne. He had another at hand and it was for himself, she supposed. She eyed him from head to toe – mirroring what he had done to her. He raised his brows in echoed retaliation.
"You are seriously getting on my nerves now, mister, did you know?" she said, though spoken with a sweetness that can only come when spoken with a smile. And she was smiling. Playful, practically.
He didn't take back the offer; she accepted.
It was her first glass of anything that wasn't coffee or Redbull or water all day. In hindsight, accepting a drink from a strange man she'd just loudly chastised at a wedding wasn't, exactly, the smartest thing to do—but she was tired and a gut instinct besides told her that this man would be the last man who would try anything funny with her. Besides—her team was expecting her back in half an hour and Journey would probably kill him if he did (and, no, that wasn't a metaphor).
She was fine, she told herself. She'll be fine.
"The photographer at the last wedding I'd attended lost half his drives. Corrupted RAW files, the lot. Didn't even salvage the first kiss," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't quite look at her then.
Definitely shy, she thought, which was sweet; he didn't seem the type to be shy.
"Ooh, the money shot," she said. Her bottom lip was pressed against the rim of the glass and the look she gave him could only be described as coy. Flirtatious. He swallowed and took another drink of the bubbly. She smiled again, shrugged her shoulders, and continued with an air of nonchalance. "That happens. We're only human, you know. Anyway, that's what the videographer's for. Bit of magic in Lightroom on a decent screenshot and they're good."
"They didn't have a videographer."
"That's usually part of the package," she told him, brows furrowed.
"Bride's family handled it." He was staring rather intently at his champagne glass. "Well— the bride's stepmother."
"Why the hell would they get the bride's stepmother to do anything?" she asked, grinning up at him now. She could see a hint of a smile on those thin lips of his that he was trying to suppress and she made it her mission now to make him smile for her at least once.
"Bride's dad insisted," he answered after he cleared his throat to retain his composure. "To help make her feel like she's part of the family, apparently."
Clara scoffed. "Rubbish."
"Just telling you what happened," he said and gave her a pointed look. Again, never did she cower away from it and met him look for look. "She was in charge of the documentation. Things you can't really get wrong since it's just hiring a videographer and photographer—"
"'Cause we're so easy to come by, yeah?" She raised a defiant brow.
"Any twelve-year-old can own a DSLR these days—" he sneered but she cut him off.
"A fancy, expensive camera bought with daddy's money does not a wedding photographer make, mister."
There was that look again from him. Almost lost, almost bewildered, and definitely stunned. Two-nil.
"Anyway, go on," she urged, smile on her face still withstanding. "How come there was no videographer?"
"Annalise — Martha's stepmother — thought that photographer and videographer meant the same thing."
"Dear God," Clara laughed and shook her head. "Nobody thought to check up on that?"
"They did. She booked a proper photographer with editorial spreads in magazines and everything—"
She laughed again, champagne sloshing in the glass, and there were almost tears in her eyes. Honestly, it would probably not have been as funny as it was if she weren't as exhausted as she was, but the thought of what he was saying sounded so ridiculous that it was next to impossible to refrain from laughing. And he spoke with such an insistent honesty that it had to be true, which endeared him to her all the more— though that, she will not admit.
"It was very posh and all," he continued, "but she didn't think to hire the team's videographer as well."
"Well thank your lucky stars you've got a proper team for this one. And at last minute, no less. Only a photographer with a death wish would've taken a job this rushed."
"And do you have one?"
"Do I have what?"
"A death wish."
"Yeah," she said, suddenly solemn. She looked away. He was just about to apologise for bringing it up when she shrugged and added, "She's called Linda."
The Doctor choked back a laugh and pursed his lips just to keep it in. She snuck a glance up at him just to witness it and she grinned as she took another sip of her champagne. Three-nil.
"I just didn't want to mess things up for Sandshoes and Rose is all."
"How could you mess anything up? Mrs Tyler's the one who hired us."
"Who do you think managed to get her to change her mind to convince her that she did, actually, need the help?"
"You like cutting it close, do you?"
"I wasn't going to get involved," he said. He licked his lips. "But it's Rose," he added by way of explanation, continuing with, "John too, I suppose, but there's no accounting for taste, poor lass."
She laughed again. It was a tittered giggle, even, stars help her. He looked quite pleased with himself for that.
Silence settled upon the unlikely pair — a companionable silence — before he asked again, "So have you backed up your cards?"
Clara rolled her eyes. "Yes, I've backed up my bloody cards. And I've got backups for the backups; and backups for those as well. I am a professional, mister...?"
"Doctor."
"I caught that, yeah, but I— no name that goes along with the title?"
"The title is my name. I'm the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
He shrugged.
"Just the Doctor."
"Okay then. I'm, uh— Clara. Just Clara Oswald, mind. No titles, prefixes, or determiners."
"Not even a Ms or Mrs?"
"Down, boy." The tip of her tongue made an appearance as it sat between her teeth as she grinned up at him. Even in the low light, she would know the look of a warm, rising blush anywhere.
"I didn't mean it like tha—"
"Yeah, you did," she said as she shook her head. She reached for a business card in a sleeve attached to one of her cameras and handed it to him. He pocketed it without question.
"It's rather sweet of you, actually. Irritating as hell, yes... but sort of sweet," she told him. She wasn't looking at him then but at the distance, towards the pinpricks that were the bonfires that were starting to dim down—matching the shining stars above them. He was looking at her but Clara raised her camera to take a few photos of the sight before she added, "To care so much about them. In your own way. Must be nerve-wrecking."
"What is?"
"The whole best man— ... ing ... thing. Once in a lifetime gig, right?"
"I wish." She could practically hear him roll his eyes. His tone made her whip her head back up to look at him again.
"Meaning?" she pressed.
"It's my tenth time."
"Tenth wedding to go to?"
"Tenth time with the best man-ing thing, as you said."
"The tenth time? Christ," she was looking up at him with wide eyes. Mouth, agape. "Didn't peg you as mister popular."
He looked away, a hand reaching to scratch the nape of his neck. Almost ashamed. A beat followed.
"Kind of do, now," she added. Wistful. The Doctor turned his head back down towards her so swiftly that he might have given himself whiplash. She took the rest of the champagne in one go and handed him back the glass. "Anyway… thanks for the drink."
Clara offered him one last smile before she started to walk away but the Doctor spoke up.
"That photo—"
"Hmm?" she turned her head. "Which one?"
"The one from earlier, I— I saw the preview in your assistant's iPad."
"So?"
"The framing's all wrong and the aperture was too high so why were you—"
"I wasn't trying to do a silhouette, Doctor, if that's what you're thinking," she told him, exhausted and worn but smiling now despite the exasperation. "It was an MCU of her, yeah? I've got one of him just a few hours ago, before the ceremony. ELS. Slightly overexposed but the spot was more or less the same. It'll be a double exposure with him facing one way; her, the other. Desaturated to the point of almost black and white, retaining the magic light that comes with sunsets and sunrises. Primarily white backdrop. Blown up. Printed on aluminium. It's romantic. It'll make a great living room piece."
He blinked at her. She gave him one last tired smile.
"I do know what I'm doing, you know," she chided gently.
"I think you're probably an amazing photographer," he admitted, hiding none of his awe.
"I think I'd better be." They looked at each other for a moment. A poignant one, with neither of them really knowing what to say. She pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'll see you around, Doctor."
Clara walked away and she did not look back. The Doctor watched her go and above her, a falling star shot across the sky, as her figure was absorbed by both darkness and distance.
Under no one's lens, he smiled and said to no one:
"If I'm lucky."