Hello everyone, here's chapter ten. I gave you all an extra long chapter this week. It might be the longest one I've ever written. To be honest, I think it's one of my better ones, but I don't know - you'll have to tell me! :) Hope you enjoy. (Don't worry, Whouffaldi fans - Danny does make an appearance in this chapter, but that does not mean this will not later be a Whouffaldi story.)

This chapter is dedicated to TheFezWearer15, who gave me part of the idea for this chapter. Thanks for all your friendly reviews:)

Let me know what you guys think. And give me some ideas for one-shots I can write next - I'm totally brain dead! :)

"Right, Harrison. Take that pencil out of your nose right now or you're off to detention, d'you hear? Harrison, right now." Clara gave her class the evil eye until they quieted down and pretended to be listening attentively. "Alright. What can you all tell me about Charlotte Brontë?"

There was an expectant silence as everyone fidgeted and shuffled their feet, waiting for someone else to answer. Finally a broad-chested boy with a military haircut and a footballer's build took it upon himself to attempt a response. "She was... a lady," he mumbled reluctantly. "From a long time ago."

Clara stared at her students in disbelief, waiting for someone to provide a more detailed response. No one did. "Is that really all you know about Charlotte Brontë?" she demanded. "That's really it? She was a woman from a long time ago? That's all you can tell me?"

"Isn't it your job to teach us, and not the other way around, Miss?" Harrison snickered. The class erupted into a fit of giggles.

"Right, you're in charge of reading all the passages for today's class," Clara snapped, not in a mood to be trifled with. She normally made her students take turns reading the passages that she wanted to discuss with them. However, if a student behaved particularly badly, she made the culprit stand at the front of the class and read every single one of the assigned passages. The punishment was more embarrassing than it was taxing - Clara had found that her students were more motivated by the threat of being humiliated in front of their peers than of detention.

Even Harrison wasn't foolish enough to keep talking, so he contented himself by slouching in his seat and muttering under his breath. Clara eyed the class to make sure that everyone was paying attention and then continued her lesson, shooting a brief glance at her notes. "Right, keep quiet or you're all getting a test on today's material. Charlotte Brontë was the author of Jane Eyre... which just happens to be the required reading for next week," she added with a grin.

A few muted groans were audible, but no one dared to speak. "She was born in 1816 in Yorkshire. She had five siblings, but two of them died when they were young. So it was just Charlotte, her sisters, Emily and Anne; her brother, Branwell; and her dad, Patrick. S'pose you haven't heard of any of them either."

"Wot about 'er mum, Miss?" a thin, bespectacled boy piped up.

"Died of tuberculosis with her two sisters," Clara answered, flashing him an approving smile. "Actually, most of her family died before she did. Emily and Anne also died of tuberculosis, in their thirties. Branwell died 'cos he was an alcoholic. Pity, Branny was kind of cute."

The class was plenty used to these sorts of disjointed remarks, so no one commented, although they all wondered why their teacher often spoke as though she had personally known the people that she was discussing with them.

"Anyway, when Charlotte was eight, her dad packed her off to -"

The door to the classroom swung open and crashed against the wall, sending a slight tremor throughout the entire room.

Clara guessed who it was even before he entered the room. Only the Doctor felt the need to always make a dramatic entrance.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around so that she was facing the doorway. She found herself staring into the familiar, hedgy-eyebrowed face of the Doctor. "Clara, I need you," he breathed, his penetrating blue gaze focused on her face.

Whispers permeated the air. "That's him... the caretaker guy... what's he doing here?" Fortunately, Courtney, the only student who knew the Doctor's true identity, had called in sick that day.

At least he came by the door this time and not the window. "Why do you need me? Can you please just not need me for two seconds? I am in the middle of teaching a class!"

"It's been an hour," the Doctor argued. "I haven't needed you for a whole entire hour! What makes you think I always need you, anyway? You need egomania treatment."

Several of her students had to smother giggles. Clara's cheeks flushed. "Shut up. And you just admitted that you always need me except for during the last hour."

"Besides the point. But look, can't you come with me? I really need to ask you something."

"Well, you're going to have to wait for another forty-seven minutes until this class is over,"Clara informed him, turning back around to face her students. "Go back to your snogbox." At the word 'snogbox', most of the students erupted into muffled giggles.

"You're not even supposed to be teaching class! You should be -" Clara silenced the Doctor with a glare before he could say anything that would make her students suspicious.

Actually, he was right. Clara's two-week stay on the TARDIS was nearly over, and she should have been spending her last few days with the Doctor on some obscure planet. Instead, she was teaching English to a group of insolent high schoolers. The only reason for this was that Clara didn't want to forget her ties to earth in her haste to travel the universe. Lately, she'd found herself wanting to spend more and more time aboard the TARDIS, and it scared her. What if, one day, she went with the Doctor and never came back to Earth? What if she spent the rest of her life with him, and forgot all about her life on Earth?

Clara knew that it was a silly fear, but the idea that she might someday feel no desire to live on Earth scared her. That was why she'd asked the Doctor if she could come back for a day, just to teach a class and go shopping and buy chips and do other normal Earth things. To help herself remember what living a normal life was like.

A gentle voice that most definitely did not belong to the Doctor roused Clara from her musings. "Um... Clara? Can I have a word?"

The class roared with laughter.

Danny Pink was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes fixated on Clara. "Can I talk to you?" he repeated, when Clara didn't respond.

She blinked. "Oh! Yes! Danny, hi!"

Several of her students snickered at her sudden awkwardness. Whispers of "Ozzie loves the Squaddie" and "She can't even think right, look at her" circulated throughout the room.

Clara's heartbeat was pounding in her ears. "Erm... yes. Yeah, 'course you can have a word. Erm - right now?"

"Yep." He tipped her a wink that was so cute it almost gave her a heart attack.

"Ozzie's infatuated," Harrison whispered to the rest of the class, sending everyone into hysterics once more.

Both Clara and Danny were completely oblivious to the uproar. The Doctor, for his part, was absolutely disgusted by the sappy looks the two were sending each other. He waved a hand in front of Clara's face. "I think you'd better go have your word, Miss Oswald," he told her firmly. "Right now. Before I vomit. Go on. I can handle this lot," he assured her, gesturing to the students.

Danny's gaze flicked to the Doctor and his eyes widened. "You?" he yelped. "What are you doing here?"

Clara cleared her throat, having recovered a fragment of her composure. "Danny. Outside. Now. Doctor, watch the kids and don't destroy anything. Actually, don't do anything at all. Just sit at my desk or something." She strode towards Danny, placed a gentle hand on his back, and steered him out of the classroom, hooking her foot around the door and closing it behind her.

Even through the walls, the uproarious laughter of the students was quite distinct. "I thought she was gonna faint into his arms for a bit there!" one of the teenagers crowed gleefully. "Did you see her eyes?"

Clara ignored the jeers that followed this remark, focusing instead on the warmth of Danny's arm as he slid it around her waist. Her brain was muddled by the close contact, and it took her several seconds to regain enough sense to be able to speak. "So," she started, reluctant to tear herself away from the warm, lazy feeling that enveloped her mind whenever she was with Danny, "what did you need to see me about?"

Danny turned into a deserted corridor and stopped walking. He turned so that he was facing Clara and wrapped his other arm around her back. "Well," he murmured in his deep, comforting voice that she had come to adore,"I was going to hand you this note from the principal." He slipped the said note into her hand. "And then I was going to ask you to come with me for lunch."

God, those eyes. Danny had this maddeningly charming way of smiling not just with his mouth, but with his eyes as well.

Clara managed to clear her head enough to ask, "But why did you need to ask me that in the middle of class?"

"I didn't. I just wanted to see you," he admitted.

"Well, that's the best reason you could possibly have."

Danny chuckled. "I know." His smile faded a little bit. "But Clara - what's he doing here? Why's the Doctor back? And I want the truth," he added, eyeing her searchingly.

Clara leaned against his chest. "I don't know," she admitted, feeling relived that, for once, she didn't have to lie to him - this time, she really didn't know why he needed her. "He just burst in. I've no idea why."

Danny nodded. "Okay. Fair enough. But tell me one more thing. How long has it been for you?"

Clara glanced up at him. "What? How long has what been?" Her heart sank - she knew exactly what he meant.

"How long has it been since you were on Earth before today?" Danny's eyes were gentle, but sad.

Clara debated lying or coming up with a hasty distraction so that she didn't have to answer, but she knew she couldn't do that. She'd already lied to him too many times. "Ten days," she finally murmured, pressing her face against his chest. "It's been ten days."

Danny signed deeply. "Clara, I'm worried about you. What if -" his voice broke. "What if you go up there and never come back? The Doctor doesn't take care of you, Clara. He's too reckless. He's too carefree. Instead of taking you by the hand and guiding you, he lets you run free. And up there, if you run free... you're going to get lost."

The words chilled her, but she didn't show it. Clara chose not to respond to his warning. "Danny, I'll always come back to you, I promise." She stood on her tiptoes and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Danny smiled bitterly. "The Doctor doesn't think I'm good enough for you."

And that, Clara knew, was the heart of the problem. Apart from worrying about her well-being, Danny was also scared that the Doctor would convince her that she deserved more than Danny could give her.

"I don't care what the Doctor thinks," Clara told him firmly. "You're more than I deserve. Now shut up and stop worrying."

"Yes ma'am." Danny touched his hand to his forehead in a casual salute.

"Alright, Mr. Pink, that's enough. I have to get back to my class."

"Are we on for lunch then?" Danny inquired hopefully as Clara turned to leave.

"Sure, why not? Meet me in 45 minutes at the pub down the road?"

"Sure thing, Clars."

"You're buying," she called over her shoulder, smirking as Danny groaned good-naturedly.

Clara spent the walk back to her classroom in a daze, not really paying attention to where she was going. After taking two wrong turns and bumping into several people, she finally made it back.

Humming to herself, she opened the door. "... and that is what really happened to Charlotte Brontë," the Doctor finished.

Clara's good mood vanished in an instant. "Doctor? What are you doing?" she hissed.

Silence hung in the air as the Doctor started guiltily and spun to face Clara. "I'm... teaching," he explained awkwardly.

Clara slammed the principal's note onto her desk. "Teaching what?" she questioned through gritted teeth. The Doctor's lessons were usually much more educational than necessary. "I said not to do anything while I was gone!"

"Miss, we got bored while you were off snogging Mr. Pink," one of the students jumped in, clearly repressing a giggle. "He had to entertain us somehow."

"Exactly!" the Doctor agreed. "Wait - snogging?"

"I was not snogging Mr. Pink!" Clara hissed. "He gave me a note from the principal to read. That's all."

"Must've been a really long note," the same student mumbled under her breath, eliciting some snorts from the rest of the class. "Took you ages to get back."

"Leah, that's enough," Clara snapped. "Doctor, what have you been telling them?"

The Doctor gestured to the blackboard, on which 'CHARLOTTE BRONTË' was written in Clara's curly handwriting. "I was telling them about Charlotte Brontë."

"His lessons are way cooler than yours, Miss," Harrison announced.

Clara frowned. "Oi!"

"But it's true though," one of the girls piped up. "He said she didn't die of tuberculosis like it says on her death certificate. She faked her death an' ran off with some guy cos she knew her dad wouldn't approve."

"Yeah, well, he's making it all up," Clara declared vehemently, shooting the Doctor a murderous glare that said stop it right now or I will destroy you.

As per usual, he ignored it. "I am not making it up!" he replied indignantly. "I was there! I should know what happened! That was back during one of my handsomer, and, er... more impulsive selves," he aded with a faint smile.

Clara groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Oh my stars, no." She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to silently communicate her thoughts. Please tell me you did not run off with Charlotte Brontë.

The Doctor read the disgust in her eyes and responded with a wink. It was all the answer she needed. "Alright, class, don't listen to anything this man says. He's a liar." The last word was directed to the Doctor. "We're getting back to English now. Caretaker, go and sit in the corner. Right now."

The Doctor didn't move, so Clara prodded him with her clipboard. "I said now."

"But Miss, how come he knows all that stuff he told us if he's only the caretaker?" a red-haired girl asked.

The Doctor's eyebrows drew together indignantly. "So that's the way the wind blows, is it?" he demanded incredulously. "You judge people's intelligence by what job they've got, eh? Well, we'll see about that. Go on, ask me something. Anything you like, come on."

Clara groaned again and slumped into the chair behind her desk. When the Doctor was on a roll, there was no stopping him.

"Did Richard III really murder his two nephews and stuff them in the Tower?" a heavyset boy near the back of the room asked.

"No, that was a Zygon's work. Richard was sick that day. Ask me something else."

"How many planets are there in the Solar System?" Harrison wanted to know, intending to make the Doctor look bad by asking him silly questions. Laughter rippled through the classroom.

The Doctor scoffed. "You must think I'm stupid. Thirteen, obviously."

The laughter fizzled out as everyone realized that he wasn't joking. "Prove it," Harrison challenged, his lips quirking in a sneer.

Even Clara glanced up, interested despite herself to see what the Doctor's response would be.

The Doctor shrugged. "Alright." He spun around, grabbed a piece of chalk, and held it up to the blackboard. "Proposition: there are thirteen planets in your Solar System." As he spoke, he copied his words into the blackboard in fluid but uneven lettering. "You humans just haven't discovered them yet."

Murmurs raced through the room at the words 'you humans', but the Doctor paid them no mind. "Particles in the Kuiper Belt are, as we speak, victims of a gravitational force that's forcing them to align themselves facing away from the Solar System. Conclusion: there's at least one planet out there, and it's drawing the particles to it. But there's not just one. There are three, as proven by the Gallifreyan Gravitational Laws. I'll show you." He began frantically scribbling mathematical formulae on the board, performing complex calculations in seconds and noting the results. Finally he threw down the chalk and stood back, dusting his hands off. "There! Three planets; what did I tell you!"

Everyone gaped at the blackboard in slack-jawed amazement. It was a mess of scrawled diagrams and barely legible numbers, and no one understood one whit of it, but it was impressive all the same.

Well, it was impressive to all of the children except Harrison. "I don't believe you," he announced, rising to his feet and narrowing his eyes. "Looks to me like you made all that up. If there was three planets, we'd know about it."

"Were three planets, Harrison," Clara snapped. "It's were, not was. Seriously, why are you in this class?"

He glared at her. "If there were three planets, we'd know about it," he repeated stubbornly.

In one quick movement, the Doctor advanced until he was standing directly in front of Harrison. "So," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "you think you're so clever? Well, answer me this then: what's the purpose of a rubber duck?"

Clara closed her eyes. Oh Lord.

After a long period of silence, everyone burst out laughing. "Did you hear 'im?" Harrison cried gleefully. "What's the purpose of a rubber duck, he says!"

"Why are you all laughing? It's a valid question!" the Doctor snapped, eliciting even more laughter. "They're absolutely senseless! Why would anyone want to own a squishy, tubby little duck that smiles at you? It's just creepy! They don't do anything! They don't talk, or help you with homework, or tell you jokes, they just sit there, grinning at you! And they've got your massive eyes," he added to Clara.

Fists clenched, she shot out of her chair and crossed the room. "No, they've got the massive eyes that you're going to get after I slug you," she hissed. "Doctor, it's a bath toy! Rubber ducks are bath toys!"

"They're not bath toys, they can't be bath toys; that's ridiculous," he argued. "That's absurd."

"They're bath toys!"

"They are not!"

"Are too!"

"Are not!"

"Oh my stars, they're bath toys!" Clara shouted. Her students were watching the proceedings with interest.

"No they're not; bath toys are things like - like boats, and - and whatnot," he finished lamely.

"Doctor, they are flipping bath toys!" Clara screamed, at the end of her tether. First he had given her students way more information than they needed to know about Charlotte Brontë, then he insulted her eyes, and now he was arguing with her about rubber ducks, of all things.

The Doctor seemed to deflate. "Are - are you sure?"

"Yes, I am quite sure," she answered sardonically, struggling to regain her temper.

"Oh," he muttered. "Bath toys."

"Bath toys," she snapped. "Are you done now?"

"Yes... I'm done," he murmured.

The students began to snicker at his embarrassment, but Clara silenced them with a cold glare. "Right, that's enough. We're getting back to class now. Right now. Doctor, back outside."

"Clara, I'm not leaving. I need you."

Clara sighed. Either she went with him and found out why she was needed, or she was forced to put up with him for another twenty-five minutes while she tried to teach a class.

She sighed again. "Fine, I'm coming." She cast a glance at her students. "Class is out. Read Jane Eyre for next time."

"But what do we say if someone sees us out early?" someone wanted to know.

She shrugged carelessly. "Say whatever you like."

"So we can say our teacher ran off with some strange man on a date?"

Clara frowned, mulling over the possibility that someone might tell on her. Then her face cleared as a solution presented itself to her. "No homework for two weeks if you say I went home sick," she promised.

"Done," the students chorused, smiles lighting up their faces.

Clara winked and exited the classroom, hand-in-hand with the Doctor.