Gravity – Chapter 13

A/N: I'm so sorry it took me so long to post the last chapter of this story. What can I say, I don't like endings. Hate them so much in fact that the third installment will soon(ish) be started. I can already reveal its name - "Heredity".

Enjoy, and thanks again for reading. Don't hesitate to leave a comment - they mean the world to me. :)

Clara wanted to believe that she was a patient woman.

She wasn't.

Come Thursday evening and she couldn't stay in place. Her flat felt too small and suffocating. She wanted to call Malcolm and ask him stupid things. Things like, did the dog flap turn out okay? Did you have time to finish setting it up? By the way, how is the Doctor? Does he miss me? Did you remember my advice to scratch him behind his ears when he looks sad? Do you know that he does look sad sometimes? But she would be lying if she said that those were the only questions she wanted to ask him. Did you manage to sleep at all these last few days? Because you looked positively dreadful when I saw you on Tuesday, even if I was only able to glance at you for a second. Did you remember to eat at least? You're still too thin. The most important question being: when can I see you? Because I miss you.

Knowing that there was still a good chance he wouldn't be home, she eventually decided to listen to her – impulse? heart? - and exited her flat to walk the small distance to Elephant & Castle station to hail a cab. It was close to midnight and she was tired of doing nothing.

Once faced with his door though, she realised that she hadn't come up with a suitable excuse during the taxi ride. Too late to back down, now. The cabbie was already gone and she could see light behind the curtains, downstairs – Malcolm was home.

Just knock, Oswald.

She did.

Malcolm seemed less frightfully sleep deprived than on Tuesday. Good. The look he gave her was difficult to read – was he pleased to see her? Surprised?

"Did I wake you?" she asked stupidly, given that he was still in his shirt sleeves.

"No."

No inflexion. No way to know what he felt.

"Did you take a cab?"

"Yes."

He still hadn't invited her in. The ridiculousness of the situation hit them both at the same time. Clara tried to suppress her nervous laugh and Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest, leaning over the door jamb.

"Did you miss your dog, perhaps?" he asked with a small smile, offering her an enviable exit.

"Yes," she rushed in to say. "Terribly so," she added, her gaze roaming over his features to put her point across.

"That's what I thought," he replied seriously, although his ears had visibly pinked up. Dead giveaway.

"Can I come in, then?"

"Sure."

Clara waited until the door was closed to pull him towards her and start kissing him.

She couldn't move. Well, more like wouldn't, really. The bed was warm, the pillow was soft and the slow exhale she could feel against her neck was reassuring. And why would she move? Clara was entitled to some rest after all. It was... What day was it? The weekend, surely. Either Saturday or Sunday. Otherwise, Malcolm wouldn't be next to her. Otherwise, she wouldn't have knocked on his door the previous night. Otherwise... Wait.

What day was it, again? She was now pretty sure that yesterday had been a Thursday because she'd eaten sushi last night, and she only ate sushis on Thursdays, which meant today was...

Shit.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, alertness coming slower than she would have liked.

Given the answering groan she received, it was either still early or she'd slurred her words so badly that her companion hadn't understood her.

"Check the clock," came the answer.

The clock. Right. This probably meant that she should open her eyes, then. The both of them. And figure out on which side of the bed it was. Malcolm must have been more aware of his bearings, because it turned out to be situated on her bedside table. Clara half crawled, half dragged herself to the edge of the mattress then blinked. And blinked again, several times, just to make sure.

Shit.

"Malcolm, it's almost nine!"

She was now mostly awake and kneeling on the bed, frantically looking for clothes to wear while going over Friday morning's schedule in her head. How big of a disaster was it? Did she have anything planned at nine?

"What do you mean, it's almost nine? It can't be, the alarm is supposed to ring every ten minutes from 6 onwards."

Trust Malcolm to focus on the finer – though useless – details.

"Well, it didn't. Or if it did, we clearly didn't hear it."

"That's impossible!" he professed, now at her side and looking at the alarm clock for himself. Then at his watch.

"Shit!"

Shit, indeed. At least they were on the same page, now.

The next 10 minutes were a mad dash to Malcolm's car, preceded by impossibly quick pit stops to the bathroom, grumbled curses and various wordless pleas to the unknown deity who would temporarily render Clara's colleagues blind to the fact that she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

The conversation in the car was nonexistent. Malcolm had given a powerful soliloquy on the reliability of his alarm clock which hadn't shown any sign of weakness in almost a decade. So why, o why, had it suddenly decided to refuse to work? Clara kept her mouth resolutely shut, given that, as her senses were slowly but surely coming back to her, she dimly came to realise that there was a good chance she was the alarm's clock sign of weakness. She had two alarms at home – one by her bed, and one on the other side of the room. She had a black belt in snoozing and forgetting, and had therefore deemed it safer years ago to rely on this strategy. Clearly, Malcolm didn't need to know this little tidbit about her. No.

"Where do I drop you off?" he asked, as they were approaching Piccadilly Circus.

"I actually had a meeting at Downing Street, this morning. Hopefully, I'll catch the end of it."

"Oh, yeah. Post Select Committee talks for the Special Needs bill, right? Probably boring. Drop by my office afterwards, I'll give you the important bits. I've got Ballentine's report."

"Thanks."

Silence, once more. But at least Clara didn't hear anything else regarding Malcolm's precious alarm clock.

"I hope Sarah's waited for me," he mumbled as they were parking.

Of course – he would give out the most important information just as they were splitting in different directions.

"Sarah? Does she have something regarding your case?" she asked, not caring if she was too inquisitive – Clara had already proven how invested she was in the matter, and Malcolm knew it.

"It's about my directives if we go to court."

It wasn't hard to see that he wasn't too thrilled about that prospect – big surprise. She barely restrained herself from offering to be there for him. Just barely. That was a sobering moment. She had to be more careful or else he would start thinking she was smothering him. But then, she could tell that her suggestion wouldn't have been automatically rejected. The concealed yearning in his eyes spoke volumes. Oh, dear. Something else to watch out for.

"What time should I meet you in your office?" Clara settled on saying, having chosen her words carefully so that he could read in them what he wanted.

"When's your thing supposed to end?"

She looked at her watch, wincing at how much she'd already missed.

"In about half an hour."

"Then come after that."

She smiled, realising that he had also sidestepped the issue and wouldn't give her a straight answer regarding her presence during his meeting with his barrister. They went their separate way, the hectic beginning of their day forgotten and their minds focused on the present.

Sarah was still there when he finally reached his office – bless her. He must be a valuable client, then. Ten minutes into the conversation, he understood just how valid that assessment was. His mind was still reeling from the numbers she had disclosed. Malcolm wasn't poor by any stretch of the imagination and led a very comfortable life. He had savings and both his house and car were almost paid off. He had expected to pay his lawyers quite a substantial amount, but as it turned out not only would all his costs be covered, but the punitive damages he would receive for having been framed - by journalists working for quite famous newspapers, no less – would prove stupidly lucrative. This wasn't just about getting compensations. This was making sure said newspapers would be forced to downsize considerably. And sack a few hacks along the way.

He was still trying to figure out what he would do with all that money when Clara came in, closely followed by Jamie, who had no doubt invited himself. He had a knowing look in his eyes, and Malcolm was quite sure and this didn't have anything to do with his meeting with Sarah but rather Clara's creased shirt and less than perfectly applied makeup. As if he somehow knew how it had come to be. Let's be honest, he had probably guessed. This was Jamie, after all, who could smell an extra-marital affair 10 miles away, let alone a late night that had turned into a late morning.

They had just sat down – Malcolm still blissfully lost on what he was supposed to tell Clara…something about an Education thing? - when another person showed up.

Nicholson. Who else could it be at a time like this?

The tosser brought a chair along and placed it right in front of him, bang on facing the middle of his desk so that when he looked up, Malcolm could do nothing but stare at him. Jamie had rolled his eyes and started making rude gestures behind his back, while Clara had visibly retreated.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure yet… Clara Oswald, correct? The new wonder over at DfES?"

Fake smile firmly planted, she managed not to shudder when he cupped her hand and limply shook it.

"And you are?" Bless her, she knew perfectly well who he was – thanks to his numerous rants on the subject - but hadn't been properly introduced, yet.

Nicholson flustered, the concept of not being recognised and idolised quite foreign to him.

"Julius Nicholson, you might have heard my name mentioned in passing," he replied, a vain and insipid laugh coming out of him in small bursts.

The poor sod received Clara's inimitable Gallic shrug. A shrug so potent that it probably even smelled of French cheese if you were close enough. A shrug that could therefore not be ignored.

A miracle then happened – Nicholson had nothing to say. Absolutely fucking nothing. Struck dumb.

"So, Malcolm, the Select Committee? What did Claire Ballentine have to say on the subject?"

As it were, Malcolm had to say that he was also struck dumb. And shit out of luck – Baldymort was recovering faster than him and would soon find something annoying to say. Better be quicker about it.

"The bill will be good to go, given a couple of adjustments that we are working on directly with her. Your Minister should know everything by this afternoon."

Blatant lie, there. Oh well... Just one more phone call to add to his already over-inflated list. He knew Clara would want to start working on said adjustments right away, but he had to make sure the bill would follow the line they had agreed on with the PM first.

"What do you think about the Special Needs bill, by the way, Clara? Who best to ask than a former teacher like yourself?" voiced out Nicholson, satisfaction at his own wording written on his face.

"I'm fine with it," she replied, non plussed, not giving him an inch.

Would the man try for a third time? Or was he fed up with being rejected yet? Jesus.

Looking done for the count, Julius turned towards him, knowing from experience that it was no use trying to have a conversation with Jamie – he neither had the stomach nor the stamina for it.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Malcolm," – oh, how he hated it when he called him by his first name – "but you have an Aston Martin, right? A DB9? Fantastic car, I know. I just got a Vanquish S myself. Smaller, yes. But newer. And faster." A pointed look towards Clara.

What, he couldn't impress her with his brain, so he was going to impress her with how fast his bloody car was? That was low, even for a despicable twat like him. Buying the next model! How old was he, twelve? Were they going to compare the size of their dicks next? Right there on his desk? Because…

"Bigger is better," Clara interjected primly.

Malcolm felt his face heat up as the same time as Jamie let out an unmistakable guffaw.

"Why buy smaller when you can have bigger – and better - at a less expensive price? The Vanquish S is just silly."

"My dear Ms. Oswald" – good start, he couldn't wait to hear the rest of that sentence – "you should probably leave cars to connoisseurs. That's French, by the way, is it not?"

"No, it's not. It's old French. We've been saying 'connaisseur' for two centuries in France, you haven't caught up yet." A beat. "But going back to the Vanquish S it is silly. Why pay 60,000 extra quid for a Vanquish S rather than go for a DB9?"

"This is where us 'connaisseurs', as you say, know best. You see, in sports car, the engine is what really matters... And the Vanquish S..."

"... has the exact same engine as the DB9, a 6 litre V12."

He had really pissed her off, now. And dear Lord, what a spectacle it was. What a delight to his and Jamie's eyes.

"And yes, I know what you are going to say", she quickly added, "'But, clueless girl, it develops 520 break horse-power, when the DB9 only develops 460' To which I would reply, 'Good for you, I guess 40 extra horse-power is really the thing I was lacking while crawling my way to work on a Monday morning on the M1."

Scratch his previous thought – this was a turn on, that's what it was. And he'd probably kiss her until they both forgot how to breathe if they were alone.

Instead of backing down and finally admitting defeat – where the fuck had she gotten to know so much about cars anyway? - Nicholson threw one last, pitiful punch.

"It's red."

Clara's eyes flashed in victory as she stood up.

"Well, it's alright, then. It will match the colour on your face when you realise that you made the right choice to buy a more expensive car with two seats missing and a stupid flappy paddle gearbox that makes you look like an amateur. And that's French as well, by the way."

And then, with a cursory nod and an impish smile in his direction, she left.

The following minute of complete silence was painful. Painful in the sense that Malcolm had the hard task of restraining himself from jumping over his desk, running over to Clara and spin her around madly in a circle. Then presumably find the first empty room/closet to let her know in great lengths and quite thoroughly just how much he adored her right now.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried to imprint upon his face a mask of surprise and compassion at the dejected reaction Nicholson was clearly failing at hiding. An undertaking made that much harder by the tears of repressed laughter appearing at the corner of Jamie's eyes.

They quickly wrapped up their meeting - a meeting that was never supposed to happen in the first place – Malcolm voicing his stupor at Clara's outburst while Julius tried to vainly reclaim his dignity by saying that it was 'quite alright' and that he had probably 'insulted the poor girl' in some unknown way. It was probably unwise to point out to him that his very existence was what had insulted her. Malcolm wasn't known to kick people when they were already down, after all. Well, most of the time.

"Guess I'll see your new acquisition in the car park, then Julius. Oh no, wait – they probably haven't given you a spot. The whole not having a proper role here, and such. Pity."

Once Jamie was forcefully pushed out the door with a muttered 'we'll talk about this fucking later', Malcolm sat back and started thinking. He now had a very clear idea of what he wanted to do with part of his soon-to-be acquired money.

It took a little over a month to get everything ready. The first item on his agenda was to take Clara to the River Café. They both laughed at how long it had been since they said they'd eat there, but Malcolm wasn't disappointed. In fact, when he saw that she was wearing that dress, the red dress that had turned his head several months ago during the Treasury party, he realised just how lucky he was. How lucky he was to have that beautiful woman in his life. To still have his job. To have friends who looked out for him like Jamie and Sarah.

After dinner – just as pleasant and as overpriced as he had expected – he took Clara home. This wasn't a surprise, since she had spent most of her weekends at his place during the past month. And a few extra week nights along the way. More than a few, really. Thankfully, neither had used the poor excuse that she was missing her dog again. They had simply wordlessly agreed that their off time, as limited as it was, was better spent in each other's company.

The real surprise came when instead of opening the front door and lead her inside, he took her hand and walked with her a small distance.

"What is it?" she asked, her walk slow and her high heels clearly begging to be taken off already.

"Come and see," he replied, and finally stopped.

"See what?"

Malcolm pointed.

"That's a car," she uttered, non-plussed.

"I know you can do better than that. What kind of car?" he pressed, a small smile on his lips he tried to hide.

Clara knocked her head to the side and studied the vehicle, her curiosity piqued.

"A Cooper S. With a John Cooper Works GP kit, I think."

"And?"

"And one of your neighbours clearly has both money and taste. It's supposed to be a very fun car to drive. What's this all about, Malcolm?"

"And you're forgetting the most important part – it's yours."

"It's what?"

"Yours, I bought it. It's a gift, I mean. For you."

He was flustering. Why was he flustering? Hadn't he rehearsed that part?

Clara stopped looking at the car and turned towards him. She had forgotten all about her painful feet. About the cold February air. And her wish to go to bed.

"Come again, you did what?"

His shoulders drooped and his smile faded. It was too much, wasn't it? He had gone too far. She was angry. Well, he thought she was, he couldn't quite tell despite the artificially illuminated street.

"Well, you needed a new car, didn't you?" he started, "And I thought, since I got some money from the libel suit, and you've been so..." he stopped.

"So what?"

He couldn't say it without sounding condescending.

"So what, Malcolm?" she pressed, her brow knit.

"So brilliant and...and nice and..." but his ineptitude at finding the right words was thankfully cut short by her small hand coming to rest over his mouth.

"Shut up, I wasn't," she admonished with a tiny smile, her cheeks tinted red.

He nodded to press his point since she hadn't freed his mouth and she let out a chuckle.

"So because I was brilliant and nice and I don't know what else when I've only behaved like a human being, you decided to buy me a car."

Another nod.

"Well, a human being who's into you, I'll grant you that," she added, removing her hand and stroking his cheek before lowering her arm.

Still unsure on which foot to dance, Malcolm looked into her eyes for guidance.

"Tell me again," she said, turning back towards the car and leaning over his chest for warmth.

"What?" he asked, frowning.

"Just how brilliant I am, exactly," she replied, forcing his arms to encircle her waist.

He breathed a relieved laugh against her hair and smiled.

"I forgot," he answered in jest.

"Maybe I should remind you," Clara offered, her behind starting to work devilishly against his groin.

"Maybe," he agreed, biting back a groan.

She turned quickly towards him once more, his hands tightly held in hers.

"Is it really a Works GP model?" she queried, her eyes shining with barely suppressed glee.

"It is."

"218 break horse-power, 0 to 60 in 6.5 seconds, top speed 149mph."

"Jesus, you're scary when you do that."

"You weren't complaining before," she pointed out smartly, one eyebrow raised.

"Certainly not. And I'm still not complaining now. How come you know that much about cars, anyway?" he asked, curious.

"Simple, really," she replied, shrugging. "I'm good with remembering numbers. And my insomnia only got cured by Dave."

"Dave? Who's Dave?" he inquired, the name sounding like an insult in his mouth.

Clara laughed good heartedly at his jealous streak.

"The channel, you idiot. I became addicted to reruns of Top Gear."

Malcolm shook his head in dismay.

"It's entertaining!" she defended herself. "And the young one is cute," she added, just to push his buttons.

"The short one, you mean?"

She nodded, surprised once more at how well she could read him, now. That man who used to be such a mystery to her.

Clara let go of his hands and started circling the car. She resisted touching it then realised how silly she was – the car was hers after all.

"You're completely mad, you know that? You really shouldn't have."

At the uncertainty on his face, she quickly reassured him - "But I love it, it's beautiful. I can't wait to drive it."

Malcolm walked around the Mini with her.

"The wheel is on the right side, I thought it would be easier to drive around here. But if you'd rather have it on the left side, they said you could easily exchange it."

Clara shook her head.

"I'm not planing on driving anywhere but around here, it's perfect like that."

Malcolm smiled, the small part of him that had been anxious at the life she had left behind in France relieved.

"So, where are we going?" she asked seriously, crossing her arms over her chest.

He produced two sets of keys from his pockets, throwing the car keys to her. She caught them deftly and inquired silently about the other set.

"Jamie gave me the keys to the cabin. Good first test drive, I think. I mean, if you feel like going back there, of course."

"I'd love to go back," she said, her voice warm.

"But tomorrow, yeah? I just want a bed with you in it tonight, and the one in the cabin is just too far away."

"Yes, m'am," he agreed quickly.

As they were walking the small distance back to his door, Malcolm's arm draped over her shoulders, he added one last thing, smirk firmly in place.

"By the way, you didn't notice the most important thing about the car."

"What is it?" Clara asked, playing his game.

"It's fucking red."