A/n: Sorry for the wait! I had to rewrite a couple of times. Thank you so, so much for the follows, favorites, and of course the reviews. You're the greatest and I hope you continue to enjoy.
In all honesty, she'd forgotten about the annual corporate dinner.
If John were still alive, they would have been planning it and working on it together for months and months, but he was not. And she had not. Between her power struggle with the CEO, her sleepless nights righting his wrongs, her triggered sorrow in the face of his, and her ever-growing drug dependence, she hadn't even noticed that it was sneaking up on her until it was too late.
She usually walked past her house when taking Noel on walks, just to make sure it hadn't been broken into in her absence, but this time when she approached it she noticed something was out of the ordinary. A car that belonged to the woman she thought of as her sister.
She stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, immediately thinking of the pills tucked in her purse and her missing fifteen pounds and her limp hair and every other thing her sister would pick up on the minute she saw her. She considered running in the opposite direction, but like most things in her life, it was too late. Her sister's blonde head had swiveled to the sidewalk and she'd seen her.
"Clara!" She called loudly, her face split in her typical jaw-dropping smile. This is the real face that launched a thousand ships, her brother-in-law always said. Clara had always thought that true. Her sister's innate goodness had a way of radiating outward until she herself appeared to be purely beautiful in a way only nature could be. Because of that, her name had always been fitting.
She weighed her options (deception and honesty) as her sister sprinted towards her, face still stretched with a smile. It was when she got close enough to see Clara—really see her—that her running dwindled down to a slow walk, her smile twisting down to a quizzical look. By the time she was right in front of Clara, her lips were slightly parted and her eyebrows furrowed.
"Hi, Rose—" Clara started, but Noel cut her off with an excited whine. She hurried over to Rose's legs and nudged her nose against her hip, her tail wagging so frantically that it was slapping Clara hard in the thigh. Rose would normally kneel down and hug the dog, but this time, she didn't move except to passively pat the dog's head.
"What's happened to you?" Rose blurted out.
Clara chose deception out of fear, not the wisest choice, but things chosen out of fear often weren't.
"Nothing." She said defensively. "What are you doing here?"
It sounded snappy in a way she hadn't meant for it to. Rose lifted an eyebrow.
"I drive all the way from Minnesota and you want to know what I'm doing here?" She demanded.
Clara shut her eyes briefly, her mind struggling to find the words she needed, the words that said it's not that I don't want to see you, it's just that I don't want you to see me.
"Well, yeah." She finally said. "It's far. What's the occasion?"
Rose looked at her with even more confusion. "Are you joking? The annual dinner is this Friday. I know you didn't say anything about it, but you and John always used your plus-ones to let David and I come, and I figured this year you might want to have someone there since..."
She stopped sharply, her words tumbling into each other. She cleared her throat lightly.
"David's back home. He's got this lobster thing in Maryland on Sunday so I figured I'd go to the dinner with you and then head out there Saturday morning and meet him." She finished. She flashed a hesitant smile. "I'm your plus one."
Under any other circumstance, Clara would have been so relieved to see her that she would have cried on her shoulder. But today she couldn't do anything but stare at her in horror, the implications of this flying into her face. She'd have to stay in her house. She'd have to either tell Rose about the drugs or find a way to hide it, but hiding it would prove to be near impossible. And she'd have to pretend that everything was okay with someone who had seen her at her worst many, many times. There would be no fooling Rose, and for that, Clara felt the extreme need to tell her to go home.
"It's really sweet of you," Clara started slowly, "but—"
Rose reached down and pulled Noel's leash from Clara's hand, stilling her objection as she began walking towards the house. Clara struggled to match her pace, her objection lodged in her throat.
"I don't want your buts, Clara." Rose said firmly. "Your mommy's gone crazy, hasn't she, Noel?"
Noel jumped and wagged her tail even harder, looking up at Rose with the happiest eyes. Clara felt helpless as she followed Rose up to the front door of her house, her heart sinking hard into her stomach. She'd doped up right before the walk and had been feeling all right, but she wasn't even going to get to enjoy the sparse moments of comfort now, because her distress was making her nauseated despite. Rose gave the doorknob a turn and then looked to Clara, obviously waiting for her to open it. Clara burst.
"You can't go in. You can't stay. You can't come to the dinner. You have to go."
She thought being blunt would get the job done, but it had the opposite effect. Rose turned her attention fully on Clara.
"Tough. I can go in and I will. I'm your sister." Rose argued back.
Clara's eyes were burning and she was feeling the itchy sensation of desperation.
"You aren't my sister." Clara snapped automatically. Even though she was in every way that mattered. Clara's parents died when she was only sixteen and Rose's mother had been her foster mom for the two years until she turned eighteen. Jackie Tyler wasn't the best foster parent by any means, but she cared for Clara like her own.
"Yeah? Prove that I'm not." Rose challenged, but Clara couldn't. They both knew genetics meant nothing. Rose held out her hand and gave her fingers a commanding wiggle. "Where's the key?"
Clara averted her eyes. The silence was long and draining.
"Back at the hotel I've been staying at." She finally muttered.
Rose sighed deeply and Clara didn't have to look at her to know she was frustrated. She automatically took a slight step back, wanting to put as much distance between herself and her sister's disappointment as possible.
"What else?" Rose asked tiredly. Clara looked up at her hesitantly, unsure exactly what Rose was asking. "You've spilled one thing on the front stoop, might as well spill the rest in one go, that way we don't have to spend the entire night playing keep-away with your secrets."
Clara couldn't look her in the eye. "Nothing else. I'm fine."
She thought Rose would fight her on that, but she was surprised when she felt her looping her arm with hers. She gave her a gentle tug towards her car.
"Come on, then. I'll drive us to the hotel."
Clara glanced up at Rose in surprise, her heart slowly unknotting. When she didn't feel exposed, she could feel genuine joy at seeing her sister. She smiled softly and found the words she wished she could have given Rose the minute she saw her.
"It's good to see you, Rose." She admitted. Even if the circumstances weren't ideal.
Rose smiled back at her and laughed a bit. "It's great to see you, little sis!"
Clara narrowed her eyes playfully. "You're a year older than me. A measly year!"
Rose reached across them and hovered her hand above Clara's head. "And about…three inches taller. Maybe four. Have you been shrinking?"
Clara gave her arm a hard tug, sending her off balance and causing her to lower her arm to right her equilibrium. Clara's laughter sounded a little weak, but it filled her chest with warmth and ease. This she liked. She liked being allowed to pretend everything was all right. She hadn't laughed in a very long time.
They had to pet Noel for no less than three minutes before she'd climb into Rose's car. She wasn't a fan of car rides in the slightest and kept giving the seats vaguely distrustful looks, her black nose tilted up into the air like some spoiled rich child. Clara climbed into the front seat once her dog was in the back, and immediately her nose was assaulted by a familiar scent.
Rose held the folded-over paper bag out to her, half her mouth quirked up in a grin.
"These are for you." She said.
Even the smell made Clara's stomach clench painfully, but she reached out and took the bag anyway. She set it carefully on her legs and stared at the greasy paper, her lips holding a smile that was both small and huge all at once. Small in size, huge in meaning. The first time Rose and Clara had ever talked it was over fries. Jackie had applied to be a foster parent for the extra money, and it was true that when they received Clara—fresh from her three week stay in the hospital and trembling—it was more than Jackie or Rose had anticipated. What was there to say to a sixteen year old girl who seemed unable to say anything at all? Who looked at everything the same way she'd gazed up from the wreckage at her parents' mangled bodies? Neither knew and for the first week nobody said much of anything. Jackie talked at Clara, explaining where the towels were and how often they did laundry and any other thing she could think of, but Clara said nothing at all. It was at the start of the second week that Rose had stuck her head in Clara's bedroom and attempted to bridge the gap. She'd awkwardly held out a huge bag of fries and said: "Want some? I asked my boyfriend to bring me some and he went a little overboard. I definitely can't finish these alone and, well, they say it's awful to waste food." Clara knew it was awful to waste food—her family was far from living in poverty but they couldn't afford to waste anything either—but it was really Rose's nervousness that won her over. She felt in that moment that there must be something in her worth fighting for if this girl she didn't even know was trying to cheer her up. She'd nodded and uttered her first word ("Sure.") and Rose had grinned widely in victory and hurried over, plopping right down beside her. In her other hand she had a DVD. "Ever seen Moulin Rouge?" She'd asked. And the two spent that night working their way through the fries and watching the movie twice and Clara remembered feeling that things might be okay. She was certain then that she'd never be truly happy again, but things might be manageable. And for such a small gesture on Rose's part, it had meant such a huge deal to Clara.
It was once they got on the road that Rose turned the stereo on, and immediately Clara was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes as the first few notes of "Lady Marmalade" filled the car. She looked at the window, biting back her smile.
"You're trying too hard," she said.
"You're worth it." Rose replied.
It was sweet, but it left Clara with such twisting sadness that it felt a bit like it was constricting her heart. She wished selfishly that everyone would just leave her alone and let her self-destruct. They made it all so complicated.
Rose walked Noel up to the room Clara had been staying in, Clara guiding not too far behind them. Clara walked into the kitchen once Rose set her stuff down in the living area. She dumped most of her fries into the trashcan while Rose was "touring" the hotel suite. She quickly dropped the trashcan lid shut when she heard Rose's footsteps approaching.
Rose's expression was an unsettling mixture of concern and anger.
"Who the hell's in your bed, Clara?" She demanded.
That would be Clara's other complication. She couldn't help but laugh at what Rose obviously assumed, because it couldn't be anymore off base.
"It's just Jack." She hurriedly explained.
Rose's shoulders lowered with relief and she was off, screaming Jack's name excitedly. Clara heard the bed squeak and Jack groan as Rose presumably pounced onto him. They'd always gotten along well.
After the two said hello, Rose walked back into the kitchen, this time suspicious again.
"Wait. Why exactly is Jack in your bed?" She wanted to know.
Because I cried on his shoulder so long yesterday that I fell asleep in his arms and he offered to help take me home and then I started crying again and I took too much medicine and got really dizzy and he stayed because he was worried and he's my best friend and…
"I was out drinking last night and I didn't want to risk a subway ride home," Jack lied from the doorway. "She said I could stay here. We had a slumber party." Jack heaved a dramatic sigh. "I tried to protect her honor. I said 'where do you want me to sleep?' and this vixen said 'my bed, of course'. But don't worry, we only talked about poetry all night."
Rose accepted that lie easily, as it was definitely something Jack would do. She smiled again and leaned over, looping an arm around Jack's shoulders.
"Cute and sensible," she teased. "You're going to make some man or woman really happy one day, Jack."
"Oh, trust me, I already do."
Clara dumped the rest of the food into the trashcan while they were teasing each other and then set the empty bag onto the counter, wiping her hands with a paper towel like she'd been eating them all along. Rose beamed at her and then took Jack's hand and began pulling him to the living room, intent on catching up. They hadn't seen each other since John's funeral, but they hadn't exactly talked much then either.
Before he left the room, Jack gave her a reassuring nod, his way of wordlessly promising her he wouldn't say anything to Rose. Clara smiled back weakly, her shaking hands tucked away behind the counter. She and Jack had only grown closer since his discovery in the men's bathroom almost three months ago now. He was the only one who knew (other than the CEO, but he didn't count as he only used that knowledge to threaten her) and he was solid in a way she'd never known he could be. They were good friends before, but their relationship was formed through John, as Jack was his friend first. Now they were forced to become friends on their own terms. Jack was hedonistic and selfish on the outside, but Clara had come to realize in the past few weeks that he could be wholly selfless and compassionate if only the person earned his love. And somehow, she'd earned it. And his concern. She got a lot of that. Sometimes she wondered if he only stuck around because he felt bad for her, but then he'd do things like go out of his way to hunt down the blandest soup he could find on his lunch break so Clara would actually eat something with him, and she'd remember. There was golden lace inside Jack Harkness, delicately spun to lie on an altar table, and she could see it clearly now, even if it was hidden just beneath the black fishnet and leather that the world saw.
He stayed for dinner that night, somehow sensing the nervous fluttering of Clara's heart when she thought about being alone with Rose's questions. The three had an almost normal meal, and if Clara hadn't spend the entire hour nervously trying to figure out how she could get the bottle of pills from her purse on the counter to the bathroom without Rose noticing, she might have enjoyed it more. Jack didn't like what she did, and he didn't respect it, but he at least understood. And that was why he pulled Rose into the bedroom to show her the "window view" while Clara quickly pulled the bottle from her purse and pushed it down into her pocket, her stomach and head pains battling to be her number one ache. In the end, her head won, and she sat behind the counter as she took another pill.
She was skittish the rest of the night, somehow convinced that Rose could smell the lies on her skin. They sat beside each other on the couch—Noel curled up between them—and watched television, but neither of them seemed to be in it. Rose kept shooting glances towards Clara every few moments and Clara couldn't even look her way at all, afraid eye contact would open the door for a conversation.
The question came an hour into their TV-watching marathon, and Clara wished she was dead.
"Are you doing it on purpose?"
Clara's eyes drifted shut with chagrin as her stomach jolted at the question. Her instinct was to play dumb and in her startled state, that was what she did.
"Doing what on purpose?"
Rose's touch was light and hardly noticeable as she touched Clara's collarbone, jutting sharply up from her shoulder. Clara comprehended the question but she couldn't burden Rose with the answer.
"This," Rose finally said, after a too-long silence on Clara's part. "How much weight have you lost?"
The topic made Clara's skin crawl because Rose didn't understand. It felt like she was a child who had just fallen down and slammed her head hard into the concrete all because of a leg cramp, but when she went to the doctor's office, all they did was treat her cramp. And blood kept pouring down her face, soaking her collar, sliding down between her breasts and down to her navel. And no one saw, no one cared. Or maybe she just didn't want them to.
She stared at Rose's wedding ring. She swallowed thickly and thought to the ring at her house, the ring John had picked so carefully. The ring she'd hardly ever worn.
She often thought there needed to be a word for the sickening desperation for days past. It was more than an emotion. It was a solid thing. There was so much she would have changed if she could just go back in time, so much she would have righted. But she couldn't and she wouldn't. And Rose's question was still hanging in the air like the blade of a guillotine.
"I don't know." She lied. "I've been stressed."
Rose studied her face intently and the gaze was so probing that Clara felt a sudden lick of anger towards her foster sibling. She wanted to yell at her, to force her from the hotel, to tell her she wasn't welcome. Because she didn't want help, she was sure...but somewhere inside of her there was a voice and it was saying: yes I do. Please, I'm here. I'm still alive. I didn't die with him even though I wish I had. I need help, please. How do I live on my own again? I never wore his ring. He went to three states and thirty-three stores to find it and I never wore it. I never wore it. I think it's closed around my heart.
"You're upset." Rose started gently. "And you have every reason to be. But, Clara…we all knew this was coming. We knew it for a very long time. You promised him you'd be okay, you had time to prepare."
Blame. Rose was giving her blame, as if she didn't have enough of it already. She stood up in one quick motion, suddenly certain she couldn't stay in the room any longer. Rose meant the best, she always did, but sometimes…sometimes the things she said were choking in their honesty.
"I know I did. It was a lie I told the dying man that I loved." Clara snapped. Her voice was weathered through. "And I'm sorry, but until you know what this feels like, until you've felt your husband's hand go slack in yours—you have no idea. There is no preparation for this. And I'm doing the best I can."
The realization hit her hard, her knees weakening. The cruel honesty of it, the disgusting disappointment—it all blinded her for a moment. She was doing the best she could. And it was so fucking awful.
She lifted a hand to her mouth and turned her back to Rose, closing her eyes against this all once again. Sometimes she wished she'd never open them.
"I'm sorry you came all this way," she finally muttered, and then she disappeared into her bedroom, her body aching deep down in her bones.
She took twice the normal nighttime dosage because her muscles were stinging and her heart was pounding out of her chest with crushing anxiety. She was high when Rose carefully knocked on the door, or as high as the drug could get her- it left her woozy and delirious more than anything now. In the beginning there'd been brief rushes of euphoria, but that had long drained, like the end to a couple's honeymoon phase. Now she was taking it to make it through the days, like a beaten down wife sleeping with her husband just to maintain peace. Nothing was ever the way it should have been.
Rose's voice was far above her, around her—Clara stared at her tiredly and watched her spin counterclockwise, and then clockwise, and then she was still. Clara was too dizzy to sit up, too dizzy to even speak. She simply watched as Rose sat down on the edge of the bed and slid across the sheets, taking her little foster sister into her arms without any chance to second guess.
"I'm so sorry, Clara." Rose whispered into her hair. She clutched her closely and Clara breathed in the scent of her shirt, the scent of Minnesota, the scent of David. Rose still had a home. Rose had two homes. Clara had…oh, they all knew. Clara had nothing. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just worried, is all. You know? You have that look in your eyes. The look you had when we picked you up from the hospital. You look so small to me and I'm afraid you're going to disappear." Rose paused, her words stuttering some as she fought back whatever emotion was trying to dominate her words. "I'm afraid you want to."
Clara thought of the apartment they lived in in the Bronx, of the dark subway rides and dinners of boxed mac and cheese and the dreamy when I'm rich, I'm going to…
What? Clara couldn't remember now. When she was rich she was going to do what?
She'd hit adulthood with crushing medical bills from her three week stay in the hospital, a poor life insurance claim that only just covered the cost of the funerals, no home, no family, and few friends. She worked so hard then, convinced that if she only worked hard enough and got enough money she'd be happy. That she could replace what she'd lost somehow with things. All the glittering things that she thought she wanted: the crystal chandeliers, the Chanel jackets, the emotional security of a substantial paycheck. But she had all of that and she was poorer than she'd ever been.
It accumulated slowly, building up like snowflakes amount to drifts. She opened her front door and collapsed underneath the weight of it.
"When I'm rich, I'm going to bury my husband." She told Rose. She found herself laughing, the force of it sending tears from her eyes. "When I'm rich, I'm going to bury my husband."
The words made no sense to Rose, but if she suspected something wasn't right with Clara, she didn't say. Clara gripped the material of her shirt in her hands and squeezed, thinking things that came and went with no sense. David's got a lobster thing, Rose lives in Minnesota and not with me, Rose never belonged to me, nothing ever belonged to me, someone stole it all away. I let them take it.
And then, finally: if this is my best, what is my worst?
His first lunch with Andrew Dalek was rushed and strange, but he left it feeling like they understood one other.
Dalek had a blunt outlook on life that the Doctor understood and a work ethic he respected. He seemed trustworthy in his transparency and didn't exude too much dominance, and all of that made him an ideal lunch partner. They talked about their investments mostly, and the few times they strayed off that topic, it was Dalek who was speaking of his personal life. He admitted personal tragedies that made the Doctor's throat thicken and ache, and by the second week of their acquaintanceship, the Doctor found himself beginning to talk about himself too. He talked about London generally, and then about the rocky time he was having as CEO. When Dalek admitted he'd never liked Clara Oswald to begin with, the Doctor wanted so much to believe it that he forced himself to. He ignored the voice inside his head that insisted that didn't seem quite right, that reminded him that he'd yet to meet someone who didn't like her. He wanted to believe that he'd found a friend in Dalek, a friend who was made from the same stuff he was, who could see past youthful beauty to dangerous souls. So he did.
The week of the annual dinner arrived far too quickly. Donna had to do three times the amount of work she normally did to keep everything on schedule, but by the time Friday arrived, everything was right on track. His speech writer had already prepared and left a polished speech for him to give at the start of the dinner, his blue suit was freshly dry cleaned and pressed, and his shoes were polished to the point of giving off a reflection. And true he felt terrible, with wobbly legs and a chastised heart, but he would make it through. He always did. As long as he was busy, he could forget. And he needed to forget.
Donna was so swamped that she was forced to get ready for the dinner while at work. The Doctor stopped dead in his tracks at the end of the day, staring as she twirled a strand of hair around the curling iron she had plugged up to the wall. He watched her hold it, humming underneath her breath, and then he watched her let up on the curling iron. The spring popped into place and there were memories stirring in him, memories of his fingers pulling back curls not unlike that-
She caught his movement from the corner of her eye as he moved quickly to his office.
"You look sharp," she complimented. Her voice was a bit curt, due to her extreme irritation with him shoving so much work onto her lap when he "had a more than capable COO", but he could tell it was sincere. He inclined his head.
"Thank you." He was halfway in his office when it occurred to him that maybe she deserved something back. She'd been put through the wringer this week. He looked back at her. "Erm, purple. It's a great color on you."
Donna beamed, but the sight of her curls pushed him back through his door. He shut it tightly like someone on the other side was aiming to hurt him.
The dinner was hosted in the ballroom of one of New York City's finest event locations and they'd spared no money. The tablecloths were starched white with Everest, Inc. embroidered in silver thread and many professional photographs of the world's best outdoor athletes using their products were framed in sterling silver on the wall. The stage ran the entire length of the far wall, the curtains a heavy red velvet that gave the impression that some sort of performance was about to begin. The guests were the richest, the food was the best, and he was certain they'd gain many new clients and sponsors from the night.
As the CEO, he had the seat closest to the stage. Each table seated eight, and only because there was no way around it, he was seated beside the COO with only one empty chair as a buffer. His plus one was no one, and so at least that earned him a bit of space from his COO, who hadn't said a word to him since that day she ran from his office. The day he found out his ex-wife died. Donna had informed her that she was no longer allowed to receive any updates, but she'd yet to say anything to him about it. And he watched her sometimes, questions burning hot on the roof of his mouth. There was such confusion, curiosity, and anger mingled together that he was never sure which to start with, so he said nothing. They said nothing. They, very easily, became nothing. Oddly, it didn't feel quite like he thought it would.
She arrived only minutes after him tonight, a sight in red satin. Her plus one was a blonde woman, almost as stunning in a pink gown, and they didn't force any awkward introductions. She immediately began walking around, checking that everything was in order, and when the guests arrived, he was too busy chatting to let her even cross his mind. It was welcomed, as her actions had shaken him up, and it hadn't been often that she wasn't on his mind. He hated her more for it.
The gap at their table was glaring. It was a strange circle: the Doctor, his empty space, Clara, the blonde woman, Jack, his partner Ianto, Rory, and his wife Amelia. The conversation was lively between Clara, Jack, and Rory, but this dinner wasn't really for them. It was for their guests. They all had work to do.
Once everyone arrived, the Doctor made his way to the podium on the stage. His speech was sitting there waiting for him, freshly printed and enlarged to the exact font sized he'd asked for. He lifted his eyes and stared out into the sea of people, thinking with a hint of something like pride that this was his corporation. And then he realized what most his speech was about.
In retrospect, he should have read the speech over first. He had faith in his speech writer (Rory's wife) and had assumed it'd just be another vanilla, boring affair, where he summarized the growth of the corporation and toasted to another great year. But of course it wasn't. He'd forgotten the tragedy that had led him to that stage.
The silence was prickling. When the projector clicked on, he turned around briefly, caught off guard to find himself staring at a collage of pictures of the late John Smith. It was the first annual dinner without him. And the Doctor was the last person on the earth qualified to speak of him.
He couldn't look at his table. He was too ashamed to find Clara's eyes, and he wasn't sure why that was. Perhaps because he knew, if she'd stood on a stage and started robotically reading off words someone else had written about his deceased ex-wife, he'd want her dead.
He cleared his throat and he lacked his usual nerve. He lacked his usual everything and had for a while now.
"It is with a conflicted heart that I speak with you all tonight," he began. His voice rang out clear and true, but his eyes wouldn't lift from the paper. He knew somewhere his speech teacher was cringing. "I am overjoyed at how far our corporation has come in the past few months and I feel honored to be leading it. Running a corporation has always been my dream since I was a young boy, and I hope I'm making my younger self proud." Each word he read had him blushing and simultaneously plotting Amelia's departure from the company. (But there was a terrible reflective truth to it too, one that made his palms sweat anxiously).
He cleared his throat again and risked a glance up, but the eyes were too many. He continued. "However, it would be foolish of me to speak of the present and the future without acknowledging the successes of the past. Dr. John Smith was a—a caring and innovative team player. He raised the corporation's profits tenfold in the too few years he was with us. The way in which he ran his business was close to the way in which he ran his heart: intimately, compassionately, and without limits."
The Doctor stopped speaking, taking a moment to scan over the words before he read them, because with each word he said he felt worse and worse. His skin was crawling, his body revolting against the sheer cruelty of the things he was saying. Knowing the man's widow was in the audience. Knowing he'd done anything and everything he could to make her work life a living hell. Standing on stage, under the scrutiny of thousands of eyes, it was easy to feel guilty.
I thank John Smith for all his contributions and I hope that, wherever he is, he's taking a much deserved vacation. As always, a world of thanks to him for leaving behind my greatest asset—Ms. Clara Oswald, COO and friend. Without her—
He looked up. Those words he couldn't (and he wouldn't) say. And it was because he wasn't cruel enough.
"He is greatly missed." The Doctor found himself saying instead. He looked away from the speech for good. "By so many and so much." The back of his throat burned. The skin on his neck itched. He wanted to run somewhere, but he didn't know where. He could feel their eyes on his skin. "This dinner is in memory of John Smith. Thank you."
He couldn't get off the stage quickly enough. When he sat back down, sweat cooling on the back of his neck and his armpits damp, he was at first relieved when he saw Clara rising from her chair. Maybe she was leaving. Maybe he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore. But then she started making her way to the stage.
"The COO gives a speech?" He hissed to Amelia, who was sitting to his left. Amelia gave him an odd look and a curt nod, his butchering of her speech not overlooked. He turned his focus back to the stage.
It was odd to see her up there with the collage right behind her. She was in a couple of them, always standing the correct and polite distance away from John, all except for one. It was tucked in the bottom left corner, right above the podium, and he had his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Truthfully, they were smiling like no one in the world had ever been happier than them. Even the Doctor could see it.
Clara was immediately and effortlessly more charming in her first seconds on stage than he'd managed during his entire speech. She approached the podium only to find herself a few inches too short to reach the microphone, even when she angled it down. She lifted high up onto her tip toes so she could speak into it.
"Looks like they forgot my personal step stool," she teased. When someone quickly carried one out from behind stage—much to the audience's amusement—she quickly stepped up onto it and offered them all a bright smile. "Ah! So that's what it's like this high up."
The Doctor looked around as everyone laughed, their eyes trained to her with a smile. She was beloved here. He wondered if she knew that.
Of course, her bubbly personality could only carry her so far. She smiled for a few moments and then he spotted her swallowing hard, her hands shaking a bit as she rested them on top of the podium. She had no speech prepared. She had no notecards. And yet it seemed that to her the scariest thing was the collage behind her. She didn't even turn her head to shake the loose pieces of hair back that'd fallen into her face from her updo, as if she might catch a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye if she did. He glanced around, but no one else seemed to see what he did. No one else saw the heavy fractures running up and down her body.
"I didn't want to speak today, to be honest." She finally began. Her voice was teetering. "And trust me—I'm not up here because I had a change of heart and decided to be brave. I was absolutely going to back out, only I waited too long, so here I am."
The laughter was less amused and gentler this time. The audience was going easy on her. Watching her up there, her eyes sparkling behind what must have been a film of unshed tears, her hair shining and revealing a multitude of shades of brown and red, her dress smoothing perfectly over her skin—he understood why they were.
"John and I were always a source of gossip," she started carefully. The Doctor spotted Jack and Rory shoot each other startled looks, quickly turning their eyes back up to Clara. "I know a lot of people thought I only got the job because of my relationship with him. And well, I did. So you were all right about that."
Jack leaned halfway across the table towards Rory, his face contorted.
"What the hell is she doing?" He hissed at him. "Is she drunk?" Rory gave a slightly frantic shrug.
"But there was more to it. I got the job because of the way we worked together, and I think it's something you had to see to understand. John was my counterpart. And I told myself that when I got up here today, I'd talk about his business skills and his business skills only, but I can't do that. Because he would have hated it. He would have hated me for it. I didn't say anything at his funeral. I let them bury him without saying a word, all because I'd been so trained to keeping it all a secret, for fear of losing it all. He was my husband and I didn't say a thing."
The sound of an entire audience gasping and murmuring was just as annoying in reality as it was in TV dramas. The Doctor felt the need to knead at his forehead. What the fuck was she doing indeed.
"And I know this isn't really a funeral service, but it is his dinner, as our new CEO pointed out," the Doctor looked up quickly at that, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Clara wasn't looking towards him though. "So I wanted to say something about him. Just something small that everyone can have, because he was more than just a CEO. He was a man, and a damn good one at that."
When the Doctor scanned his table again, he was surprised to see that both Rory and Rose were crying. He had a hard time imagining anyone crying if he'd been the CEO that died. Would they even throw a dinner for him? Suddenly, he doubted it. And he tried to tell himself that he didn't care, but he wondered for a moment if he had it all twisted.
Clara lifted up her finger. "We got into one—one fight. In our entire six year relationship. And it was over something so stupid. Sometimes I still think about it and I wish I could go back and just…erase it. Because I didn't know then that our time was running out. John was so eager to please, but he was also ruthlessly stubborn when it came to things he was passionate about, and he lost it over a painting. Can you believe that? We worked together for six years, professionally and intimately, and we worked out huge problems that would have made the best of partners split with no sweat—and our one fight was over a painting. It was this…eclectic thing, a painting of an old royal blue phone box from Britain. John had visited there as a kid and he'd seen it in this tea shop. And it wasn't too bad in theory, of course, but our living room was orange. And I don't mean melon-orange, the kind your grandma paints her kitchen. It was electric orange."
The Doctor glanced around him when she paused, a bit stunned (but not as much as he should have been) to see everyone watching her attentively, drinking in every word that left her full lips. And he understood what was different between them. She was real and he was not, even as she hid a huge secret and he made his faults known. He wondered how that worked.
"The two colors looked…God, I can't even explain how tacky they looked together. It was truly atrocious. And looking back, I feel sick, because why didn't I just let him put the painting up? It wouldn't have hurt anything. It was just a painting. And we screamed over this painting for a good hour, slinging awful words at each other—and it of course got out of hand and turned into a fight of who loves who more, who sacrifices the most, and on and on it went. We said things that we didn't even feel because we were so mad. So he stormed from the house, which absolutely destroyed me, and he lied and said he'd be back in the morning, but he wasn't, and I was of course hysterical. I hung his painting up on the wall and I called his phone at least a dozen times. I called the police and the neighbors and I was certain something terrible had happened to him. I went out myself and searched all of his favorite places for him, and when I got home hours later, the idiot was standing in our living room." Clara paused, the corners of her mouth quirking up. "Our cream living room."
The audience laughed a bit at that, watching Clara with that same soft look. She shook her head in tired amusement.
"And it—that was John Smith. In his anger, in his injury, he left and he didn't decide to stay gone. He came home and painted over electric orange with cream—which is no easy feat if you know anything about painting walls- and the first thing he said to me when I walked through the door was: you put my painting up. And he said it with this huge, soft smile…like nothing had happened. Like we hadn't been so nasty to each other. And I loved him. With everything I had, constantly, forever. I lost something integral that day, but you know, standing up here tonight, I think we all agree that our company lost something integral too."
She took a deep breath, the kind that expanded out her stomach and made her appear taller for just a second. And then she smiled.
"Thank you all for coming to his dinner and paying tribute to our corporation and my late husband. He would have loved it. He loved all of you. I hope you enjoy your meal."
The applause was more a beacon of support than a signal of enjoyment and the Doctor was certain the pictures were shaking on the walls. He was like everyone else: he couldn't take his eyes from her as she walked back to her seat and sat down. He saw the blonde woman lean over and take her hand, holding tight to it. And Clara shut her eyes.
He ordered the poached salmon, but he didn't eat much of it. Clara ordered the same and she didn't even touch her fork. Or her glass of wine. Or her water.
He listened to the easy conversation that fell over their table, not adding input unless directly spoken to, discreetly watching and trying to make sense of everyone. Halfway through he realized the blonde woman was Clara's sister, although his knowledge of genetics disagreed with that.
He was trying hard to not cause any problems, partly from exhaustion and partly from the uneasiness that came from his uncertainty about Clara, but it happened without him even trying.
"You butchered my speech." Amelia accused him loudly. She'd had five glasses of wine, so he supposed it wasn't really her fault, but he hated it all the same.
"You butchered it all on your own. It was awful." The Doctor accused. He took a long gulp of his wine, foreseeing the need for more alcohol in his immediate future.
Amelia glowered darkly, her fingers curling tightly around the stem of her wine glass. He thought she might break it.
"I did not. I gave it life, a heart. I tried to make you sound relatable and kind. You managed to get up there and sound just like a machine." She said honestly.
She wasn't really employed by Everest and therefore seemed to take that as an invitation to say whatever she felt. Rory floundered, tugging gently on his wife's arm to shush her.
"Sorry, sir, she's drunk." Rory defended quickly.
"And honest!" Amy tagged on. She hiccupped and then she glanced towards Clara, who was staring unseeingly at her full wine glass. "What's your problem with Clara, anyway? Why cut the bit about her? You didn't know John, okay, whatever, sure, whoopity-fucking-do. But you're supposed to say something nice about your COO. It's the rules."
He and Clara met eyes quickly. The glance was hot with tense grudges, but for once, their hearts were not in it. Perhaps because people with large parts of their hearts were now in the ground.
"Now is not the time to discuss this, Amelia." The Doctor said lowly.
Amy rolled her eyes. "Now's the best time. Isn't it, Rory? The best time. Right now. So tell me, Doctor. Why didn't you say Clara was the greatest asset that John left behind?"
He could see Clara's fidgeting growing from the corner of his eye. He looked back at Amy.
"Because it isn't true." He said honestly.
When Clara rose abruptly from the table, he knew what everyone else didn't, somehow. That it was Amy's words that had hurt her more than his. He thought the fact that John left her behind must have hurt her worse than any of his opinions ever could.
Rose stood up to follow her, but before she did, she turned and looked at the Doctor. Her expression was one of offended surprise, like he'd just dared to do something to cross her.
"You upset my sister." She stated. She stared at him, her lips parted. She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "No one upsets my sister."
It was a threat, but it wasn't a very good one. He watched her turn and hurry on after her, his stomach sick. He cursed underneath his breath and spent the rest of the night kneading the back of his neck and drinking wine.
If the after party wasn't necessary, he wouldn't have stayed.
Half of the tables were moved away to clear space in the ballroom for dancing, a bar was opened, and a DJ set up his things on the stage they'd just held a memorial service on. The music was pounding hard in his chest as he sat in the back corner, crossly watching everyone dancing. He only got up to socialize when he had to.
It wasn't long before he had a visitor. Andrew Dalek sat down in the chair beside him, tipping his beer towards the party.
"Businessmen. Always the biggest partiers." He observed. He nodded towards the Doctor. "Good speech. Strong. Your COO's was a bit stuffy."
The Doctor looked at him differently than he normally did this time, because of all the negative adjectives he would have used to describe Clara's speech, stuffy wouldn't have been one of them. He suddenly wondered if Dalek had even heard it at all or if he was just saying what he thought the Doctor wanted to hear.
They chatted idly about a business deal, but when Dalek's beer was gone, he was weaving his way back to the bar.
The Doctor made his way into the crowd of people about twenty minutes later because the CEO of Urban Outfitters wanted to talk to him, but it ended up being a proposal for a date, so he ended the conversation as quickly as possible. Jack made him jump when he suddenly appeared, settling his hand on his shoulder.
"How's it going?" He called loudly.
The Doctor shrugged. "Not the biggest fan of this part."
Jack shrugged at that. He seemed to be lacking his usual spunk and every few moments he'd turn and glance in the opposite direction, his teeth biting into his lower lip. The Doctor followed his gaze the third time he did it, surprised to find where it led to.
Jack looked back at him.
"I'm just watching." He explained. He glanced back and visibly tensed when the man chatting up Clara reached over and ran a hand down her slick side, fingers digging possessively into the side of her hip. And maybe it was because he was standing so close to Jack and his distress was rubbing off, but the Doctor felt something tense up inside of him at the sight.
Jack looked back at the Doctor, sensing the thought that crossed his mind the moment it did.
"It's not like that." He hurriedly explained. "I'm just very protective over Clara. She's vulnerable right now and this kind of company worries me."
The words left his mouth without much thought.
"I don't think she needs a babysitter." He said sourly.
Jack's head swiveled back around immediately, his eyebrows pursing down. For the first time, Jack looked genuinely angry.
"You don't have any idea what she needs." Jack said coldly. "You don't even know her."
He found himself opening his mouth to protest, but whatever words he would have said were lost to him. Because Jack was right. He had no idea who she was beyond the angry assumptions he made about her every day.
He retreated to the corner after that. He watched as people left—sometime during the night Clara's sister left, and then Jack (stumbling out with his mouth locked on Ianto's and his hand gripping some random woman's), and then Rory and Amy. Eventually it was just a few of the lower down employees, him and Clara, and all their guests. There were still far too many people for his liking.
At eleven the party was still loud and pulsing. He walked to the bar to get a glass of water, surprised to see Clara sitting in the corner, lips on the rim of a shot glass. It was odd only because he'd seen her push away alcohol the entire night. She hadn't touched her wine at dinner and, as far as he knew, she'd been drinkless the entire party. He waited for his water and watched her carefully, hoping she wouldn't look up and catch him. It was the man she was sitting beside that got his attention more than anything else. It was the CEO of Calvin Klein and the Doctor was sure he wasn't tracing his fingers up her dress to get underwear inspiration.
At first his stomach knotted again, in that same tense way it had before, but then he realized it was more than that. He felt uneasy because, as he studied her face, he got the impression she didn't even realize his hand was plotting its way up her dress. She was leaning slightly into his side, eyelids heavy, breaths weak, and the bad feeling grew almost to paranoia.
Perhaps it was the values his mother had worked so hard to instill (if someone helps you, you help them back) that had him walking over, fists clenched and anger crawling up his throat. He stopped in front of them, unsure why he was so furious, just knowing that he suddenly wanted to grab the CEO by the collar and toss him out of the room.
"As I was saying, we've got a position opening up for COO, and I think—"
The man's words were low and sticky. The Doctor experienced a nasty surge of possessiveness, one he couldn't (and wouldn't) define.
"She's already got a job." He said.
Both of them glanced up, the CEO's with an irritated expression at the obvious cockblock and Clara with an almost absent one. Something wasn't right and he could sense it sharply in the air now. It had him on edge, jittery, like he'd had too much to drink himself.
"Clara," he began, and her name fell oddly from his lips when he wasn't saying it mockingly, "could I speak with you for a moment?"
He expected her to tell him to fuck off. He expected her to turn to the CEO and say "yes, I'd love to join your team". So it frightened him more than anything when she extended a meek hand immediately.
He looked at it uneasily for a moment, his skin crawling at the very idea, but then he leaned forward and took it. He squeezed her fingers and pulled, helping her to her feet. She didn't say a word as he slowly pulled them away, and he didn't either. It wasn't until they were away from the CEO that she began gasping.
"I need the—bathroom," she told him, her eyes wild. She was quivering like a frightened animal, and when he slid his hand up just enough to feel the fluttering of her pulse, he was shocked to find it racing like she was running full speed.
"Okay." He said, mostly because he was horrified of the idea that she might die right here, and who'd be their number one suspect if something like that happened?
He steeled himself for it and then looped an arm around her waist, but it was difficult with her satin gown. He tried to walk forward, but his hand lacked the proper grip and it slid up without his permission, grazing the underside of her breast. And the worst thing was that she didn't even notice at all.
That locked something into place inside of him. He reached over and curled his fingers around the side of her waist for purchase and began hurrying them through the crowd towards the women's toilets, stepping through the door without even thinking about it. Once they were in the bathroom, she jerked away from him and staggered towards a stall. He hovered back uneasily as she fell to her knees on the tile and immediately shoved her index and middle finger down her throat, enticing the worst gagging sounds he'd ever heard. He heard her gasping when it didn't work and then she tried again, and again, until finally he heard the sound of her retching.
He wasn't sure what to do or what to say. He stepped to the right so her back was in view, and then he stepped closer out of instinctive curiosity, staring at something he hadn't expected to see. The right sleeve of her dress had slide down her arm, revealing the start of a deep, horrid scar between her shoulder blades.
He'd only stared at it for maybe a moment before she felt his eyes. She sat back and then reached up weakly, her hands shaking worse than he'd ever seen, and dragged the sleeve back up over her. Like a forgotten secret, it was hidden away, leaving him to focus on the biggest issue.
"What the fuck?" He finally said. His words were angry even though his anger was suspended somewhere above him. "What the fuck, Oswald?"
Clara was still sitting on the floor, her back to him, her breaths coming quickly. He had just made up his mind to flee, to escape the mess that she was, when she spoke up.
"It's not that." She said weakly. She was so beaten down that she didn't even try to justify or explain anything. She offered him the basic facts. "I've been taking John's hydromorphone. You're not…supposed to drink alcohol with it. I thought that I...wanted…"
She stopped and didn't clarify, didn't explain what exactly she wanted, but it didn't take the Doctor much to understand the gist of what had just happened. She wouldn't say it, but it was staring him in the face. She had tried to kill herself. Suddenly her words on the stage were colder, darker, and he found it horrifying when he thought of everyone's naive, contented laughter.
"You're a fucking mess," he told her uneasily. His own hands were shaking and he tucked them into his pockets. He looked away from her. "A goddamned mess. You need to be somewhere. Somewhere where they can help you."
He heard her wince slightly as she set her forearms on the toilet seat, pushing on it to lift herself up into a straighter sitting position. She turned her head and gazed at him blurrily.
"And you're not?" She finally said. She lifted a hand and rubbed her face, her words unwell. She was unwell. "You look just as bad as me all the time."
The answer was quick. "I'm not a fucking drug addict."
"We're all addicted to something. Yours is control." She shot right back.
He realized now might be the only time he could get himself to ask it, because now was the only time she was going to be more vulnerable than the topic made him feel. He stared hard at her.
"Why were you fixing my mistakes?"
She didn't lift her head. She was breathing rapidly, as if against nausea.
"Because it's my job to," she bit out impatiently.
He wouldn't let it go that easily. "You were dismissed from that duty. Why use your own time to do that? And then not even…tell me? What are you planning?"
She lifted her head, her eyes filled with disbelief.
"Tell you?!" She demanded with a shaky bark of laughter. "What, so you could scream at me and ban me from helping ever again? I knew if I asked your permission to help you'd never let me. So I just did it. And I'm not planning anything. I was just helping, okay? God damn, you make everything so nasty. Why can't it just be like that?"
"Because the world isn't like that!" He snapped in frustration. "No one does things just to help. It's always because they're trying to get something for themselves."
She shook her head, and for a moment, he saw a glimpse in his mind of the beginnings of that scar. But then she rubbed her eyes and it was gone.
"You know, it actually makes me sad that you think that." She admitted. She met his eyes after that, hers red-rimmed. She looked so bad that he wanted to call for an ambulance. "I saw you crying over your wife. Okay? I saw it and I know what that feels like. I know how—crushing it is. I know how it destroys you and I know how hard it is to do even the most basic of things. I just wanted to help."
He stared at her eyes for a long, tense moment. He looked down at the tiles.
"I don't believe you." He said angrily. He felt furious at her for trying this act on him. He hated that she wasn't screaming at him and being mean. He wanted her to make him hate her so he felt justified to do so. "You're trying to become CEO yourself. You're trying to do something."
Clara's laugh was full of bitter surrender.
"Think whatever you want, Doctor." She finally said tiredly. "You can spend months watching over your shoulder for a villain that doesn't even exist if you want. But I'm not trying to do anything. I was just trying to help someone who went through something I did too."
He watched as she reached up and grabbed the toilet paper dispenser, slowly and painstakingly pulling herself to her feet. He wasn't sure what was wrong with her and he felt that same feeling in his chest he'd felt before, the feeling akin to his muscles knitting together with anxiety.
"I'm phoning for an ambulance." He said gruffly.
Her head flew to him, her eyes wide.
"No, don't," she said. "I'll be fine. I threw it up almost immediately. It might not have killed me anyway. Don't call an ambulance."
He shook his head, his fingers touching the phone in his pocket. "If you die in here, the last thing people saw was me helping you in. I'll get blamed for it."
She was frustrated. "I'm not going to die in here!"
But right as she said it, she stumbled slightly, her head knocking hard into the stall wall. She grimaced.
"They can't refuse you treatment or tell on you." He said impatiently. "But you're unwell."
Clara set her hands on her hip bones and doubled over, her breaths coming erratically.
"If you want to make sure you don't get blamed for my murder, help me get out front so I can get a cab back to the office," she finally said. It seemed to take all her strength to force the words from her lips. It was obvious he was the last person she'd want helping her anywhere, but Jack and Rory were gone. And he was certain she'd rather him than the CEO of Calvin Klein. At least she knew the Doctor wanted to be as far from her as possible, not as close.
"Where will you go after that?" He demanded. "If people see me walking you outside and then you die on the curb waiting, I'm still in the same boat."
"Oh for Christ's sake—then drive me to the office! Wait with me while I hail a cab! I don't care!" She snapped. "Just…I need to get to my office."
When he met her eyes, she seemed to be debating something. When her eyes met his, she gave in.
"Please."
She was softer than he'd imagined, gentler—her brows knit together and a sickly sheen of sweat on her face. And for a moment he realized just how small she really was. She could be as bitchy as she liked, but really she was just a person. As easy to die as anyone (as River, as John, as his parents).
He swallowed hard against his pent up anger towards her and all the dislike he had stored up.
He extended his hand. "I'll help you, and then we're even. You helped me and I help you and then this can be over with."
Something passed over her eyes—dark and soaking—but it was gone a minute later. She nodded firmly and then he walked over, resuming the previous position they were in.
She was able to almost walk by herself to his car and she was fine the ride to the office, but by the time they parked, she was having difficulties getting out the car. By the time they got to floor eleven she was quivering again. He was starting to realize it was withdrawal more than anything. He watched her stumble towards her office door, his mind quick to replay the image of her slamming her head against the stall wall, and he cursed silently. He hurried over just as she began tilting towards the floor. His arm looped around her waist in one quick movement, catching her right before she slammed hard into the ground, and when he looked down at her hazy eyes, they were filled with horror.
She cringed out his arms violently, her arm accidentally smacking him in the face as she did. Her shaking seemed more out of distress now than withdrawal.
"Don't catch me!" She gasped out, her voice high and pinched. She looked away from him, her shoulders pushed forward. He gaped at her as she cowered slightly, like he'd just slapped her across the face.
He was edging towards her, confused and thinking the ambulance was a good idea once more, when he heard another voice.
"Put a group of businessmen in a room with free alcohol and it's always the same outcome. You're all so predictable."
The Doctor looked up slowly, turning his attention from Clara to the dark room behind him. He supposed he should have felt surprised when he saw Andrew Dalek, but oddly, he didn't. There was a part of him that knew it was coming. He must have known John Smith was right all along, but he'd been so bitter and angry that he didn't want to admit it. Perhaps Clara was right. Perhaps control was his addiction.
Dalek's voice was clinical, calm. The whites of his eyes were bright like skeletal remains and he was smiling.
"It's Friday. The hour is 11:58. No one will be in the building until Monday morning around 7:15. Everyone at the party assumes you two have pissed off together. Your sister is leaving for Maryland in the morning and will be all-too understanding when she gets your note about going home with Jack. I've got people guarding the stairwells and the power has been cut. And you're going to listen to exactly what I say."