Gravity – Chapter 11

Blue dawn was barely filtering through her blinds. A noise outside must have woken her and the man shifting and groaning beside her. Well, more like beneath her. Clara was practically draped over him. Given that the few times they had slept together had been in a tiny bed, perhaps they had unconsciously gravitated towards the other during the night, fearing they would somehow lack room on her bigger mattress. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind – there were worse ways to wake up than pressed against the warm body of Malcolm Tucker, despite his angular features and pointy bones.

Clara burrowed against him, hoping sleep would welcome her once more. It was Saturday, she was allowed a few more hours. She hoped her companion thought the same. When she felt his arm close around her protectively she smiled, sighed, and was soon back in dreamland.

The next time she woke up, Malcolm was moving more purposefully against her.

"Don't tell me you have to go to the office?" she grumbled, knowing this was a very real possibility after all.

"Going to the office when you're right there next to me all warm and naked? Are you joking?" he asked, sounding far too awake, "I would be fucking mad."

"Speaking of..." she pointed out, slowly opening her eyes and curling up against his front until she could feel him. All of him.

They took things much slower this time – it was nice to be able to make it last as long as possible, something they hadn't been able to do much until now, too focussed on reaching their peaks as pleasure crashed over them like a tidal wave. It was more like a languid electrical current, this morning – slow coming, but just as swift. Their kisses were unhurried and easy. As though they'd been lovers for years instead of days.

In the end, his clever (very clever) fingers took her there earlier than she had expected and he was quick to follow with a relieved and prolonged groan against her neck. Clara kept him where he was for a while, her hands stroking his shoulders and back. When he rolled over she went with him and pressed her forehead to his.

"So what do you want to do, today?"

A pointed look in the direction of her barely covered self. She sniggered unashamedly.

"I mean, apart from what you just did."

Malcolm shrugged, his eyes not leaving her. He clearly didn't feel like leaving the bed anytime soon, that was for sure.

"You don't have to go to Number 10, then?" she asked, surprised.

"I don't feel like it after this fucking never-ending week," he admitted. "And I can't do anything about the sodding Super School Bill until the Select Committee gives its verdict on Wednesday."

Not wanting to have their morning spoiled by one Hugh Abbott, Clara quickly changed tracks.

"I'll have to move at some point. The fridge's empty and you drunk all my beer."

"You helped," he retorted, his right hand finding its way to her lower back.

"What about your dog?" he added a little while later.

"My dog?"

"Yeah, aren't you going to get him for the weekend or something?"

"You're really missing him," she marvelled, smiling.

Malcolm frowned, as though he was about to rebuff her, then pulled her closer.

"So what if I am?"

"It doesn't matter," she sighed. "I can't ask Mickey to drive him back here again. And he's usually busy on weekends with work."

"You've lost me, love."

Clara pinked up at his words – it was the first time he called her that. And even though she knew it wasn't necessarily an actual term of endearment, it still made her heart beat faster.

"I left him at my friend Martha's. She's a Health junior advisor, you might have come across her – Martha Jones. But her boyfriend Mickey is the one who's mostly taking care of the Doctor since he works from home. I had him pick my dog up on Tuesday. I can't ask him to drive all the way from Kidbrooke on a Saturday."

"Why would he be the one making the journey?"

"Because my car's still in the shop and I can't ride the train with a dog."

"Oh." A guilty expression. A pause. "What about my car?"

"What about it?"

"We can go and pick him up if you want. I don't mind."

"My dog." A nod. "In your car." Another nod. "Your very expensive, very leather-seats car."

"Sure, why not? It's just a car."

He was completely serious. As serious as he had been the previous evening about them going to the restaurant.

"But we'd have to drive him back there on Sunday, that seems to be a bit of a waste, even if I do miss him as well," she reasoned. "I'm pretty sure he's not going to be 'cured' of his dislike of imposed restrictions in my flat after only a couple of days with access to a garden on the other side of London. A tiny garden, as it is."

"I have a garden," he announced, "Relatively big. Away from the road. With high edges on every side."

Clara raised her head to look at him more closely.

"What are you saying?" she asked, not wanting to misunderstand him.

"I'm saying if it's extra space and outside air your dog needs, I can provide that. And he'd be closer to you than in bloody Kidbrooke."

"But what are you going to do with him all day? You're not going to let him roam freely in your house, right?" Clara was trying to cover all possibilities. Simply to show him that he was being unreasonable and hadn't thought this through.

"Why not?" he repeated plainly. "And he could go in the garden as he pleases. I could fit out one of those dog-flap thing on the back door. You know, one that activates when the dog gets near. You put a chip in their collar or something. I think I saw an infomercial at fuck me o'clock in the morning for that."

"You've really taken time to think about it, haven't you?" she realised.

Malcolm raised his head to mirror her position on the bed, his hand supporting his chin.

"I was thinking about getting a dog, actually." Raised eyebrows from her. "I know! I guess your enforced dog sitting rubbed off on me."

Clara smiled, aware that it wouldn't be necessary to prove him wrong after all. Well, not yet anyway.

"It's a deal, then," she voiced out, settling her body over his once more. "We'll go and get the Doctor then head to your place."

With legs on either side of him and her hands casually sliding to his abdomen and beyond, she added one last thing.

"Oh, and you were right about something else: I do like being on top."

When they finally managed to exit her flat later that morning, Clara had armed herself with several old blankets to protect Malcolm's leather seats from her dog. When he commented on her slightly over the top cautiousness, she simply glared. Still, she had accepted his offer to carry her bag which held – according to what she had told him – the Doctor's things. He wasn't to know that all his stuff was already at Martha's and that her bag held a change of clothes and some toiletries in case she ended up staying at his place. After all, there was no reason why she wouldn't be allowed to behave sneakily as well.

The drive took less time than she had expected – even though she got them lost twice. She had called Martha before leaving to warn her of their arrival. The young Health advisor had sounded surprised at her insistence that yes, she had found a friend to drive her, and no, they wouldn't be staying for lunch. When she had asked whether she knew that particular friend, Clara had quickly wrapped up the call, evading her question.

Once they had arrived, Clara turned towards Malcolm and told him that he didn't have to go in with her. He merely shrugged, and she took his answer as acquiescence. Martha must have been looking out the window because the door opened before she even had the time to ring.

"Doctor, back!" her friend yelled amidst the loud barking of the border collie.

He had clearly smelled or heard Clara coming and couldn't resist launching himself excitedly at her as soon as the door was ajar. She laughed heartily, her dog giving her hands warm licks and happy sniffs as she tried to pet him unsuccessfully. Shortly though, the Doctor seemed to pick up another scent, and rushed between her legs.

"Traitor," she whispered, but fondly, when she turned to see who had captivated her dog's attention.

Malcolm had apparently not agreed to remain in the car, and was currently kneeling in the grass, playfully wrestling with her pet.

"Clara, is that really Malcolm Tucker playing with your dog? Wearing jeans? That can't be right, surely."

"How much of a bribe do you want not to repeat what you've seen to anyone?" she replied, only half joking.

As he had expected, the mutt was perfectly well behaved and no problem at all in the car. Malcolm wasn't sure why Clara had been so nervous about the whole thing. He absolutely loved his car – which was a good thing, given its eye boggling price – but that didn't mean it should be considered as a collection piece that could only be gazed at from a distance. Leather seats or no leather seats, it was still just a fucking car.

Once home, he showed Clara and her dog around, since the last (and only) time she had been there the garden had been bathed in darkness. The black and white dog seemed happy enough with his bigger space, and the January air was warm enough that day to keep the glass door opened to allow him to come in and out at ease.

After a light lunch, they both wordlessly agreed to work for a bit, as though they were used to spend all their weekends together. Clara with her laptop on a sofa, him on his phone in the front room. Malcolm had consciously omitted to answer any call, email or text until then, and they had piled up quite alarmingly. Yet he felt hard-pressed to deal with any but the most urgent ones. Well, the ones he knew were actually urgent, since everything that was sent to him was always 'rush' and 'super important' and 'extra sensitive'. He was slowly coming up with a strategy to get Nicholson off his (and his party's) back once and for all, but he knew that he had to bide his time and not precipitate anything.

When he finally emerged from the room to check how Clara was faring, he expected her to be either still working or bored and wishing to leave. As it turned out, she had made herself so comfortable on his couch that she had promptly fallen asleep at one point, her laptop discarded on the coffee table and her socked feet against the armrest. Malcolm smiled, then quickly checked himself.

Don't get used to this.

Grumbling at the voice of reason inside his head, he summoned it to kindly fuck off and put a warm blanket over the young woman's still form. He then checked that the mutt was fine and wrote Clara a quick note before heading out.

The Cricklewood Lane B&Q was strangely deserted for a Saturday afternoon. But Malcolm guessed that few people had DIY projects in the middle of bloody January. He picked up some food on the way back so that he wouldn't have to go out the next day and managed to be home less than two hours after he had left. Clara wasn't sleeping anymore, although he could tell that she hadn't been awake long. Wisely, he chose not to comment on her disarrayed state and accepted her offer to make tea.

"So what have you been up to?" she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter and eyeing the brimming plastic bags he had placed against the back door.

"You'll see," he replied, keeping his cards close to his chest.

Clara raised an eyebrow but didn't press him.

"Your dog seems okay with his new surroundings," he noted.

Said dog was currently sniffing the various pieces of furniture. Malcolm remembered that he had behaved similarly in Brightstone – he would probably soon pick a favourite spot somewhere to lie down.

"He is. And he's glad to see you, I can tell."

Malcolm thought that she was somehow startled by this realisation. Misreading her reaction, he quickly added, "Do you want me to drive you home? I don't mind keeping your dog for a few days, as I said, but if you're not comfortable with..."

"No!" she cut in, loudly.

Then, more softly, "That's fine, I'm not in a hurry to leave. I mean, if you're not fed up with having me around or..."

"Of course not!"

"...need the place to yourself to work or whatever or..."

"Stay as long as you want. Fuck, stay the whole weekend."

Silence. That might have been a bit too forward. God, did he completely fuck...

"Okay." Simple as that. Her expression open and confident.

"Right."

Maybe not, then.

They made dinner together, a record of Sonny Rollins playing in the background, and all the while Malcolm kept wondering where they stood exactly. What Clara expected of him, now. Were they together together? A proper couple? With serious intentions and even more serious decisions to make? He knew he had reached the age where those decisions were made. On life, who he was living it with if he was lucky, and stuff. But that didn't make it any less bloody terrifying.

No need to feel like such a pansy about it, and he knew that it was probably best if they didn't put an actual label on things right now, but he wondered how Clara felt. And yes, okay, he had been in enough relationships to realise that what they had was strong – as recent as it was. For fuck's sake, she had stayed with him even when he was suspected of being a horrible monster. Not only that, she had believed in him and defended him when he had felt like a fucking piece of worthless shite. Yet there was still that niggling voice at the back of his head warning him that this was all too good to be true. A beautiful, smart young lass who put up with him and his awful behaviour and inhumanely demanding job. Something had to give.

Malcolm was pretty sure that there was nothing wrong or off about her – she was too genuine and honest for that. Nothing big anyway. Sure, she might have secrets she wasn't comfortable sharing. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't a vain man – not when it really mattered, at least – and he didn't need anyone to stroke his fucking ego. And yet... Jesus Christ, he wasn't blind. He was 48. She was 29. It was easy to do the maths. Then start to worry.

"You're thinking too much," Clara said, stopping the endless loop of self-doubt and wonder that circled around his mind.

They had finished eating, the last record was spinning idly on his turntable, and he hadn't even noticed. He didn't remember setting his empty plate on the coffee table either.

"Sorry," he said, stupidly.

Maybe you should start showing your appreciation by at least not fucking ignoring her when she was there.

"Are you okay?"

He gave a start. Shouldn't he be the one asking that question? But then all thoughts or answers left him when she primly climbed onto his lap.

"Do you remember the night I spent here? Sleeping on this very sofa?" she quizzed, her hands gently framing his face.

"Sure."

"I woke up at one point. And I started wondering whether I could go upstairs to you. Whether I should."

"I wouldn't have slammed the door in your face," he supplied as his arms encircled her, the brashness of his words softened by his gesture.

"I'm not sure what stopped me, exactly," she confessed, as the distance between their bodies was slowly but surely erased.

Malcolm felt a rush of very welcome self-satisfaction flow through him. So he hadn't been the only one hoping for something more that night, then. Emboldened by that discovery, he pressed her closer and let his fingers roam against her spine.

"And do you know what's stopping me now?" she whispered in his ear, "Absolutely nothing."

The rasp of her teeth against his neck and her warm, hurried, breath.

"So take me to your bed, Malcolm Tucker."

And so he did.