Hello all! This is an old snippet I was working on, set just after Kill the Moon, when Clara has finally had enough of the Doctor's abusive attitudes and sends him away, possibly for good. Clara/12.
Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any portion of Doctor Who, I just play with these characters in my head. A little obsessively perhaps.
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1
Rule 713, draft: Time Lords do not apologize
I am done with companions, the Doctor thought as he quickly typed some coordinates into the console and slammed a lever home to take off. Of all the nerve. Telling me to take off and not come back.
He tried to ignore the little jab he felt somewhere beneath his leftmost heart on thinking of that. Absolutely it was indigestion and not emotional pain. Emotional pain was his previous incarnation's bailiwick, not his. "I don't do pain," he muttered.
The rotors wheezed to life – apparently this incarnation didn't like to set the brakes either, he noted wryly – and off they went to Gallifrey-knows-where. He honestly didn't care as long as there weren't pesky little humans there staring at him with their big tearful eyes and trying to make him feel bad about helping them.
He laid a hand on his sternum without even really being aware of it. There it was again.
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2
Several galaxies away, the Doctor lounged at the bar of a particularly seedy watering hole full of reptilians. Reptilians weren't so bad, he thought, once you got used to them. For one thing, not one of them had a poker face worth a damn. It was quite easy to clean up at cards whenever your opponent couldn't help flicking their tongue in and out nervously whenever they were holding a particularly good hand. He had a pocket full of the local currency to prove it, and was now determinedly putting his gains to use purchasing the closest local equivalent of a good whiskey.
Whiskey, unfortunately, was made a lot less diverting by his superior Time Lord biology. He wasn't drunk, not really. He was just enjoying cycling it through his system, and of course using that to his advantage. If his partners at cards thought he was wasted, it would be even easier to put one over on them. He was thinking of trying his hand at hustling some intergalactic billiards in a bit.
"The magician at the end of the bar needs another bottle," the bartender hissed to his replacement as he went off shift.
"Not a magician," the Doctor muttered, his Scottish brogue thickening in irritation. But he accepted the bottle, carefully measuring out another handful of square plastic pieces in payment, and started in on another four minutes of blissful oblivion.
He was surprised to find himself in the alleyway behind the bar a little while later. He shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. He had a vague memory of doing some kind of a dance up on the bar, and using his sonic to cheat at a darts-like game. At which he was caught. And ejected forcefully. Having come almost to the end of his pile of credits, though, it was just as well.
She wouldn't have liked it, this whole evening, he thought. She would've wagged her finger and sounded off at him for being generally irresponsible and hauled him back to the ship early. Clara Oswald, he thought, was no fun at all. Just a tiny little bundle of tightly wound bossiness. Who needed it? Not him.
He breathed in deeply to clear the last of the fifth bottle from his thoughts, and brushed the dirt off of his clothes. Back to the TARDIS.
Rule number 713, revision: People apologize to Time Lords, not the other way around.
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3
The TARDIS, when he got there, was in what could only be described as a strop. Sparking when he touched the console, hissing dramatic from various vents. After reassuring himself with a quick scan and systems check that nothing was wrong, he was forced to consider the fact that the TARDIS was not happy with him.
"What?" he cried, arms out, circling dramatically. "What could I possibly have done?"
A gentle hum in his mind sounded almost but not quite like the scolding he had imagined receiving from his erstwhile companion.
"Is it Clara?" he shouted. "You don't even like her!" The lights flickered disapprovingly. "What? You think we need to go back for her?" He huffed dramatically.
Rule number 713, revision: Time Lords are never wrong enough to need to apologize.
"We're going to Pralaxis 4," he informed the ship, pulling the lever and spinning the rotor and setting the purple handle to just the right angle. "It's the second-best bazaar in the Leonine system, and I've got a little shopping to take care of. Clara can wait." He pounded the last dial into place emphatically. Best to show the old girl who's boss. "That's right," he announced archly. "I do not take my orders from you. I am Scottish, and you are not the boss of me."
The TARDIS landed with its usual wheeziness, then fell silent. He headed for the door with what he considered an insouciant strut, turned to salute the console, and opened the door behind him with a flourish, stepping out without even looking ahead of himself.
He was immediately hit in the face by a broom handle.
Or rather, a number of broom handles. Accompanied by the clatter of a bucket which he appeared to have stepped into.
He swore he heard the equivalent of a titter from the console behind him as he realized he was once again in the maintenance closet at Coal Hill School.
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4
She was, of course, in her classroom. It appeared to be after hours, as she was sitting at her desk marking papers, one hand entangled in her hair. He watched her quietly from the dark recess of the hallway, spellbound in spite of himself. This new self retained entirely too much emotional attachment from his former incarnation. Sometimes it was all he could do to retain the appropriate level of crankiness.
"Well," she announced without even looking up, "are you going to stand there staring at me or are you going to come in and say hello properly?"
He guffawed. "You knew I was here?"
She looked up, eyes wary. "I heard the general commotion in the supply closet down the hall. And I thought I heard a distinct echo of a time rotor. Leave the brakes off again?"
"Well yes," he said, "but it's more fun that way."
She smiled, then reverted back to a serious expression. "So?" she said, all school marmish, laying down her red marking pen. "What do you want, then?"
He paused for a moment, considering. "Dinner?"
"Is that an apology?"
"No." he said quickly. Yes.
"Well then no," she said, picking up her pen again.
"Ok, ok," he sighed dramatically. "Perhaps a little bit of one."
"I'm sorry I abandoned you on the moon, Clara" she suggested helpfully.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, what you said, ok? That's what I meant." They blinked at each other for a moment and he all but willed her to let it go. "Let's go, then, can we go? I'm famished."
She looked at him consideringly, and he braced himself for rejection, onslaught, something, anything, but suddenly her gaze softened just a bit and a tiny corner of her mouth quirked just slightly. He was irritated to find that he could just see the slight tinge of humor working its way back into her eyes. Seriously, he was much too invested in this girl. He'd have to put a stop to it, soon.
But first, dinner.
He held out his hand to her and, to his surprise, she took it. It was warm and small and fit his in a way he couldn't explain. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and smiled as he pulled her out into the night.
Rule number 713, revision: Time Lords can learn to new things, once in a while, if they try.