Author's Note: Originally the first chapter was going to be a one-shot fluff, but as you can see things have changed. Instead of helping me out with the Supernatural fanfiction I am currently writing (it's called Patterns if you want to check it out, there are three chapters up already) my brain decided to supply me some more Doctor+Clara fluff. This story takes place the morning after the first chapter. I think I might keep going with these short fluffs, I enjoy writing them. This story might ramble a bit and change topics suddenly but overall I'm quite happy with the results, even if the end is a tad cheesy. I DON'T OWN CLARA AND THE DOCTOR! They belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat and such. As always, please leave helpful comments and favorite this story if you like. Thanks!
" Rise and shine, Doctor dearest," Clara chirped, shaking the Doctor awake.
He wore a disgruntled expression as he rubbed his bleary eyes. Clara mumbled something about it "being no way to look at someone who's fixing your breakfast," and stalked off to the kitchen.
"Oh dear, what happened?" The Doctor muttered as he rose slowly from Clara's sofa.
"You got absolutely smashed is what happened," Clara replied, glancing back at the Doctor.
" Now why would I do that? I've never been one for drinking, I can't say I see the appeal."
The Doctor walked over and stood by Clara, looking into the oven where two little souffles sat baking.
"You seemed like one for drinking last night, Doctor." Clara grimaced. "Contrary to popular belief, you aren't exactly a happy drunk. Very argumentative and rude, if you ask me." She gave him an amused look.
"My apologies. Now tell me, did I have a banana daiquiri? I do love a good banana daiquiri."
He stared into Clara's eyes as if the fate of the universe rested on what alcohol he consumed. And, perhaps, it did. You could never be too sure with the Doctor.
"Yes, I do believe you had one or two," Clara replied, biting her cheek to keep from laughing.
"Good, good!' The Doctor clapped his hands. " I invented the banana daiquiri, you know. Quite a lovely drink, really."
" Why am I not surprised. When exactly did you invent it?" Clara asked, unable to tell if he was joking.
" 18th century France, I believe at a party in Versailles. About a century too early, I'm afraid. Madame de Pompadour, what a woman!" He whistled and waggled his eyebrows.
"Wow, Doctor, Madame de Pompadour? For a freaky spaceman with two hears, you sure get around!"
Clara winked flirtatiously at the Doctor, causing him to blush. There was an awkward moment of silence as the Doctor glanced around the room.
"So," he clapped his hands once more, "shall we have those souffles now?'
"Oh, no…. nonononononono…. They've been in there much too long!" Clara cried, just as thick smoke began issuing from the oven. She fanned at the smoke with a hand towel, coughing, before pulling the blackened pastries from the oven. "They're ruined. Again." She huffed.
The Doctor cleared his throat from behind her. "Do you have any fish fingers? And custard?"
"What?" Clara raised her eyebrows as she turned around and leaned against the counter, looking put off and defeated.
"Oh just you wait!" The Doctor laughed and began rummaging through the cupboards. "Lucky day!" He grinned as he found the ingredients.
Clara sat at her little kitchen table, looking down skeptically at the meal before her.
" Go on, give it ago!" The Doctor encouraged. He sat across from her, watching expectantly. Clara couldn't resist those puppy dog eyes.
I'm going to regret this, she thought. Slowly she dipped a fish finger into the custard and hesitantly took a bite.
"Not bad," she admitted, smiling.
The Doctor's face broke into a grin. He was glad Clara liked it. He wouldn't share this treasured memory with just anyone. Because that is what fish fingers and custard was to him. A memory of times gone by and those dear to him, those he let down. Deep within his hearts he believed he was to blame. But Clara saved him. She was his light when the whole universe went dark and he loathed himself so much it hurt to breathe. Clara had pulled him back to his feet. She was his impossible girl.