Hello, everyone! I know it's been about two and a half months since I've last updated but on my train ride home from DC, I finally put together the productivity to write this chapter. (Also, my laptop is still dead. I'm getting a new one awfully soon, though - THANK HEAVENS - but of course, the school year is coming around. So. I'm in a sticky situation, but hopefully, updates will be faster once I get my laptop. I can probably write on the weekends, just like how I used to.)
Enjoy!
Chapter Ten. Twisted Confusions
Clara wrung her hair out in a towel. She watched as the wet drops of shower water dropped to her bathroom tiles – inspected them for a moment – and then heard the Doctor's voice say through her phone, "Are you finished yet?" Clara tossed her hair over her toweled-shoulders and picked up her phone. "Am now," she responded, stepping out of the bathroom. She circled her couch for a few moments before plopping down on it.
"I still don't understand why you thought it was a good idea to keep me on the line," the Doctor muttered from the other end. Clara examined her nails. One of them was chipped. Clearing her throat, she responded, "It's always good to have a backup plan in case something wrong happens."
There was a silence.
And then, the Doctor asked in a low voice, "Did you think you were going to be attacked in the shower? Is that it?"
Clara swung her legs off the couch so she'd be sitting up straight, even though she knew the Doctor wasn't watching her. Gripping the phone a bit tighter, she replied in a leveled tone, "All I know is that we got attacked by a droid-thing last night and it wasn't friendly. It was rambling about something known as the Promised Land, and it's still being hacked into. I would think that the creators of our little friend is less than pleased with whatever happened." Something caught the corner of Clara's eyes – her apartment keys, which usually hung at the hook by her door, were placed on the coffee table. Frowning, the young woman leaned over to pick it up. She fingered one of the keys, her eyes tracing over them before the Doctor asked, "Clara? Are you still there?"
"Mm-hm," Clara replied, putting her keys on her lap. She looked around her apartment room. A chill ran up her back – she knew she wouldn't leave her keys on the table. Why were they there?
"I think we should be more careful," Clara said at last. She stood and her fingers still running over her keys, she placed it on its designated hook. She let her hand stay on them for a few moments and added, "I take it that you'll be just fine on your own as well."
"That wasn't my first night on a dangerous mission, if that's what you're implying."
"Hm. Good." Clara paced the front of her couch. "We'll be receiving updates from the tech department with news about our droid friend. Until then."
"Until then," the Doctor agreed. There was a quick click on the line and with a sigh, Clara tossed her phone on the couch. She ran a hand through her still-damp hair and walked into her bedroom. The minute she was inside, her arms reached for her laptop and she sat down on her bed, already opening up search tabs. "When in doubt," she muttered under her breath, "Google is your best friend."
("What are you doing?" Clara asked, sitting down next to John. She frowned at his laptop. "Google? Seriously?"
"We might be spies, Clara, but I'll tell you one thing – we need to use all of our sources, and Google…" John's voice drifted as he typed a few words into the search engine. "Just happens to be one of them." He swung his chair around so he'd be facing Clara. With a sly grin pulling at his lips, he asked almost mischievously, "What, were you expecting some top-secret website?"
"No," Clara replied indignantly. At John's lifted eyebrows, she sighed, "Maybe. But that's beside the point."
"It's the little things, Clara," John murmured, his smile still on his face. "You'd be surprised.")
Clara typed in a series of different combinations of 'the' and 'Promised' and 'land', but nothing interesting popped up except dozens of links directing her to theology websites. Somehow, Clara decided that those websites wouldn't provide much insight. She pushed her laptop off her legs and flung herself back into her pillows, her mind running over the events of the day instead of analyzing the actual droid-situation. (She really needed to come up with a different name. She was starting to grow tired of calling the last mission a droid situation.)
The debriefing had been fast – Madame Vastra had taken care of everything quickly and precisely, as she always seemed to. One hell of a woman, she is, Clara thought appreciatively to herself.
And everyone had gotten out without too much of an injury, either, which Clara figured was something of a success. Besides a few bruises and cuts herself, Clara was feeling rather triumphant over the fact that she didn't need any major patching-up. (This had happened more often than Clara would prefer.)
The minute the debriefing had ended – in one of the rooms that Madame Vastra usually met with fellow agents – what comfortable atmosphere Clara and the Doctor had beforehand had shattered. Snapped. Faded. It was all adrenaline. Adrenaline after facing what seemed to be the impossible – adrenaline after escaping near death – adrenaline was all there was to it.
It was a bit awkward, too – because Clara knew that she wasn't the only one who felt the sudden change in mood. She had left the Doctor with a small nod – he mimicked her movements – and the two stayed in the hallway only for a few seconds before quickly departing, with Clara murmuring that she needed to go home and the Doctor saying that he needed to do the same as well.
And then there was the phone call. So quick, so clipped, so finished.
Clara made an annoyed sound from the back of her throat. This constant pulling and pushing was growing bothersome and bewildering for her – partnership was essential. That was what Madame Vastra had told her, when Clara was first assigned to John. Those were the words that were drilled into every agent's head before having a partner – that having a strong, steady relationship was necessary to success. That yes, sometimes detachment worked in certain missions, but partnership was what kept a society together.
Joking around – making stupid puns and later standing together in the hallway – as casual as it seemed, it wasn't partnership. It wasn't even close to it.
With John, it was easy. Everything was easy. John was a likable person – he had charisma, a natural energy around him that attracted people for miles. He knew how to make everyone feel something. With the Doctor, it's difficult. Everything goes from cold stares to grudging acknowledgements and warmth only being shared due to the excuse of too much adrenaline.
"Never mind that, Oswald," Clara muttered to herself, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Mission first. Partnership later. Figure it out at a different time."
xXx
The next day was a Saturday, and Clara almost considered letting herself sleep in – but at exactly seven forty-five, she decided to get up and take another shower. Still feeling the same cold, unsettled sensation in the pit of her stomach, Clara was quick to wash herself. She blindly grabbed at the first change of clothes in her dresser – and quickly made it to her living room.
After another few minutes, Clara headed into the kitchenette section of her flat and started to make herself a small breakfast. She didn't feel like eating in the little dining area she had in her flat, either, so again, Clara found herself moving back to her living room. She spooned some oatmeal into her mouth and with the other hand, she reached for the television remote.
She flicked it on – and instantly, she was looking at the news channel.
For a few minutes, the young woman stared blankly at a handsome news reporter saying into the camera, "There have been more missing person cases all around. Scotland Yard had promised to take care of matters, although they haven't offered too much information out to the public –" Clara's mind briefly snapped over to the image of how the droid had mismatched hands, eyes, legs…she shuddered, quickly flicking the channel to a cooking show instead.
Clara watched that for some time – and after finishing her breakfast, she turned the television off and instead reached for her laptop. She had nothing better to do.
xXx
But that was a lie.
As the sun started to set, Clara bundled herself up in a coat and a scarf to battle against the autumn winds. She stepped outside of her apartment building and hailed a cab. "Trenzalore Graveyards, please," she instructed simply. The cab driver only gave Clara a small nod through the mirror – and then Clara was being driven away from her flat. She pressed herself into the black seat of the car, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.
She could feel the dying warmth of the sun through the window. Lights fluttered underneath her eyelids – she could hear distant shouts of children and parents.
(People used to tell Clara that when she'd hold hands with someone who she truly loved, she'd feel electric sparks. Fireworks. She'd hear her favorite love song playing in her head. She'd feel as though her heart would jump out of her chest. People used to tell Clara that when she'd hold hands with someone who she truly loved, she would be elated beyond meaning.
But as Clara felt John's hand skim over hers, she didn't feel any fireworks or electric sparks. She felt…as though she was holding something precious. Something that would disappear in a second if she didn't keep holding on. Something airy and light, which was ironic, especially since John's hand was so much bigger than hers. It practically closed around Clara's, as though it was nothing at all.
And she loved the exhilaration she felt when having John's hand over hers. She loved how her heart pounded and how she felt as though she should just lean over and kiss him full on the lips, with her hair falling over her cheek. She wanted that very, very much.
Only they were in a cab, and Clara was too tired to move. She instead rested her head on John's chest, tracing over small patterns on his thigh with the fingers from her other hand. She felt John's chest rise and fall a little underneath her. She could hear his heartbeat, so relaxed. "Tired?" Clara murmured, her voice just barely over a whisper. She tilted her head up to meet John's eyes. They were kaleidoscope-colored, always seeming to switch between green and brown and hazel. In the fading light of the sun, they seemed to shine in more colors.
"Mm-hm," John murmured, running a thumb over Clara's hand. "Long day at work, don't you think?"
"Very," Clara agreed. She gave him a smile. "But at least it's over now."
"It's never over, Clara."
Clara rolled her eyes and tilted her head up to give him a kiss on the chin. "It's over now," she repeated. "Okay? Time to unwind." She heard John laugh. "Fine, Clara," he replied, resting his chin on top of her head. "Wouldn't know how to live without you.")
After Clara paid and stepped out of the cab, she could only stand at the very front of the graveyard. She hadn't even called Amelia or Rory – and this wasn't going to be one of their little reunions, either. This was just something that she wanted to – had to do – needed to do.
Moving like a ghost, Clara drifted through the paths snaking around the graves until she came to the familiar one.
She crouched in front of John's gravestone, clearing up some dead leaves that had fallen in front of it. She wished she had brought some actual cleaning supplies – she'd need to clean up the stone soon – but when realizing that there was nothing else she could do, Clara resorted to just sitting down on the wet grass and staring at the engraved words.
And as Clara sat there, she became aware of the families and other visitors in the graveyard. She spotted a couple sobbing in front of what seemed to be a new grave – and Clara felt a sympathetic pang for them. Judging by the small decorations left on the grave (a small, stuffed doll and music boxes), she knew it had to have been a child that was lost. Amelia and Rory instantly cropped up in Clara's mind, leaving her feeling sadder and lonelier than ever. The two had tried so hard for children – Clara knew that much from her talks with John. The doctor had told Amelia that it'd be hard to give birth…and though she and Rory had tried, there was nothing to be done. Clara vaguely remembered hearing from John that there was a time in which Amelia had been pregnant with a child, and she was born, though she died a few days later.
Clara spotted another family – complete with a father, a mother, and two little boys – standing in front of a different gravestone. The boys were sitting in front of the stone, their hands pressed against the cold surface and their heads bowed. The father kept patting the boys' shoulders; the mother kept swatting away at small bugs that were undoubtedly crawling up the sides of the stone. It was a pointless effort, but the mother didn't stop.
And as Clara sat there in front of John's gravestone, she wondered if there was perhaps another person thinking just like her – observing the mourners, the grievers, the ones with people lost to the icy hands of death. She would be seen as the young woman sitting in front of her boyfriend's grave – another sad tale to tell, another poor soul who had a person taken away from her too soon.
Letting out a long sigh, Clara tore her eyes away from the gravestone and turned around instead.
And then she saw a familiar, tall figure standing in front of a different gravestone, perhaps only a few paths away from Clara. The young woman stopped short, her arms dangling limply at her sides and her feet quite glued to the ground. She stared at the back of the Doctor's curly head, frozen in silence.
Clara could walk away. She could turn around, catch a cab, and go back home to do something else. Watch re-runs of a show; pretend that she had never seen the Doctor outside of working hours. That this never happened, that she had never entertained the idea that maybe, the Doctor had lost someone as well. Then again, the Doctor was older than Clara – there must have been someone he lost.
Clara was ready to turn and leave – she had her hands shoved deeply into her pockets and her collar turned up when suddenly, the Doctor looked away from the gravestone. His eyes – Clara had always assumed they were a pale blue color – were grey in the light, his features tired and drawn. And then he was looking up at Clara.
At first, the two didn't say anything. Clara stood in front of John's grave, not daring to move away.
"What are you doing here?" the Doctor finally asked, taking a few steps near Clara. She waited patiently as the Doctor crossed the paths before replying, "Same as you, I would think." Her words didn't have its usual bite – and Clara knew that the Doctor had noticed. Well, she was too tired to play this game, anyways.
The Doctor flicked his eyes at the gravestone behind Clara. Unexpectedly, his eyes softened. "You were John Smith's partner," he said quietly. "I knew about that."
"He and I were close," Clara responded, digging her hands deeper into her pockets.
"Close?"
Clara didn't even try to hold herself back. "We weren't just partners in work," she said flatly. She lifted her chin a little, almost daring the Doctor to say something – react somehow, maybe give her a disapproving look or something else of the sort. She was certainly used to it.
Instead, the Doctor only nodded. "I see," he murmured. "I'm sorry for your loss – I never knew John personally, though I had always heard he was a…good man."
("You're fantastic," Clara sighed, slipping her hands around John's waist. She heard him laugh as he flipped something in the pan. "You're fantastic," he replied, giving her arms a quick squeeze. Clara propped her chin up on John's shoulder, adding, "No, wait a minute – you're excellent. You're wonderful. You are absolutely, one hundred percent, amazing."
"Just amazing?" John teased, turning around. He had a bit of pancake mix stuck on the side of his face. Clara grinned, lifting a hand to wipe it away. "Come on, Clara," John said with a laugh, "you read books – isn't there any other word you can come up with?"
Licking the pancake mix off her finger, Clara tilted her head to the side. She narrowed her eyes at John, pretending to think hard. "Hm," she murmured. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers, not even caring that she had now gotten her thumb with pancake mix. "I know – you're good. You, John Smith, are one hundred percent good."
John's smile slowly faded from cheerful to contemplative. Quiet. Sad.
"What's wrong?" Clara asked, her brows knitting together.
"I just…" John turned back to the pan. Clara watched as he flipped the pancake over again. His hands were steady, but John's voice was much softer than usual as he said, "I'm not a good man, Clara. I never was."
"What are you talking about? You help people. Last I checked, that's what makes a person good," Clara said gently, resting a hand on John's arm. He didn't pull away, to her relief – though his sad smile remained.)
"He never thought that of himself," Clara found herself saying. She dropped her hands out of her pockets. "John – he was always…well. He had a hard time believing anything related to himself." She pressed her lips together, and for a horrifying second, she was almost sure that she'd begin crying. Instead, Clara blinked a few times. Control. "Thank you for the comment, though," she said, brushing a strand of hair aside. She lowered her gaze, looking over the Doctor's shoulder to avoid his gaze. "But – um. You lost someone, too."
"Yes," the Doctor replied, turning away to follow Clara's eyes. "She was a…special friend."
"Partner?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
A silence hung between them.
Finally, the Doctor asked, "Do you still think you're being watched?"
"I always do."
The Doctor lifted his eyebrows. Clara lifted her shoulders. "It'll be fine," she said. "I know how to fend for myself." The corner of the Doctor's lips twitched into a rare smile. "That, I don't have a doubt about," he told Clara. She managed a small smile back. "Right – I better get going, then," she replied, patting her pockets. "Don't want to stay out too late."
"Of course," the Doctor said, taking a few steps back as Clara headed for the path.
"Right," Clara repeated, and started to head down when the Doctor called after her, "Stay safe."
Clara almost stopped. Instead, she looked over her shoulder, mouth open to reply – but found that the man was already walking in the opposite direction.
A/N - So hey, I got through this chapter. This was quite the hurdle to jump, but it took a few new songs to get this chapter through. (Thank you, MusicKeeper, for recommending Halsey. I do not understand why I've been ignoring her songs for so long.) And I might have also given into the quirks of this show called Ed (full episodes on YouTube, if anyone is interested) - it aired in 2000 - 2004, but it's great. (Plus, who can resist Tom Cavanagh?)
And who else is excited for season nine? Because I am! (The hug(s). The handholding. The Doctor and Clara looking lovingly into each other's eyes.)
As always, reviews would be fantastic! Reviews always boost me to write more - constructive criticism is alright, but flames are not!