A/N: I got a prompt about Clara finding out she was pregnant, so I jumped on it.

Nine

It had all started one day when Clara came out of the bathroom in a panic. She'd found grey hairs after she had gotten out of the shower and blown her hair dry, which was something that had never occurred in multiples before. The Doctor, who was picking up his clothes from around the room, was utterly confused at the entire situation. So what if she had a couple of greys sprout up? His hair was perfectly grey and he felt fine; if anything, they were now closer to matching. There was a point he made about wanting to match Clara somehow—he liked to choose his socks to match her outfit for that particular day, and sometimes even asked the TARDIS for question-mark pants to match her nighties—and soon it would be easier. What was so wrong about things being easier?

She was getting older, that was what. The grey hairs sent a shock through Clara's system, reminding her that there were still things she wanted to do, still things she wanted to have. She sat in the Doctor's wingback chair in the console room, worrying her hands as she fretted her situation. There was no way she wanted to stop traveling with the Doctor—they had been at things for years at that point, running about whenever and wherever Wednesdays wanted to take them—but she also began thinking about the things she had wanted to do on Earth that were going to slip away from her… things she had been planning on doing with Danny. She didn't want to admit it, but she was scared of it all. There were such things as single mums and women who adopted or had sperm donors in order to fulfill their maternal potential, but she really didn't know if that was for her. Should she find a new human man? No, that would be using him… it hurt to even think about it.

Standing by the console, the Doctor pretended to tinker while he watched over her from afar. He didn't need to pry into her mind to know what she was thinking about; the signals were being broadcast loud and clear, despite the fact he had long ago taught her how to shut out her surroundings and close her thoughts to others. Whenever he could read her without entering her consciousness, he knew something was wrong. He went up the stairs to the observation deck and leaned against the back of the chair, resting his chin and folded forearms on it.

"I thought you decided last week you weren't ready to have kids yet," he mentioned, recalling their conversation after babysitting for Rigsy. They were going to raise a child together, just the two of them, but she still wanted to do some running about first, going where toddlers can't crawl around and choke on small bits. He had thought that meant that one day soon they would go into the TARDIS's medical bay and tinker with some machines-that-went-ping and cobble together their DNA before transplanting a zygote in her womb. Yes, they used condoms, but it was more of a comforting habit of hers than anything else. Gallifreyans and Humans didn't reproduce easily, though they made Time Lords and Humans successfully breeding look like a walk in the park.

"I didn't think I did then, but we don't have all of time and space like we thought," she said. "We're losing valuable time that I don't have. The time for me to be a mum is running out."

"Oh," he replied. The Doctor walked around to the front of the chair and sat in front of it, placing his head in her lap and wrapping his arms around her waist. "You don't even have to carry the child if you don't want to—the TARDIS does—"

"No, I don't want that stuff if we don't need it," she insisted. "I highly doubt either one of us is sterile…"

"Maybe not within our own species, but you and I could be too different to create a child naturally." He frowned at the armrest, disappointed in the universe for putting them in such a position. "You know… you're not any less a woman if you're not a mother…"

"I know," Clara said. She played gently with his hair, twirling the strands around her fingers. "A childless woman is still worthwhile, but it's something I want, and I've always wanted, more so since my own mum died."

The Doctor lifted his head and looked at her face, his brow furrowing questioningly. "How come?"

"I was robbed of my mum early; she didn't get to see me graduate secondary school, or university, or get a job. She couldn't meet you or Danny—I want to give a child that sort of life, a life where the ones that matter to them are always there." Tears began to fall from her eyes as she mentally went back to her mum's funeral and the heartbreak that she had endured for the years afterward. "I want a child, your child if we can manage it, and I want to raise them the entire way a parent should."

"Would you like to start trying then?" he wondered. He lifted his hand and pressed it against the side of her face, feeling the connection between them heighten as skin met skin. "I am all yours, Clara Oswald. The only thing you need to do is say when."

Clara leaned forward and pressed her lips against the Doctor's, projecting her consent in his mind if her actions were not loud enough. He kissed back, bringing his other hand to her face in order to hold her steady and in place. She pushed his shoulders and suddenly he was on his back, the floor grating creasing ridges into his clothes, and he had to scoot away.

"Bed, please," he said, trying to avoid Clara's mouth reconnecting with his. She didn't even need two seconds before she was on her feet, pulling him up. She had long ago shown him the advantage to having a room just for sleeping, in that it could also conveniently double as a comfortable place for exploring one another's bodies, placing them in a position that they didn't need to move all that much to go to sleep afterwards. Well, Clara slept, but the Doctor closed his eyes and did equations as he was cuddled from behind. Yes, it was a trance-like state and that was why sometimes it seemed as if he was sleeping—anyone could make that mistake.

Pulling her Time Beau through the corridors, Clara led the Doctor to her bedroom. Once the door was closed behind them she began to tug at his clothes. She started planting kisses soon as she saw skin; neck, arms, stomach, shoulders, chest. He was more careful with her clothes, tenderly peeling them off one by one, tasting her skin as he went. Her wrists and fingertips sent as much of a jolt through his system as her lips and it was barely any time at all before they were both scrambling into bed and shoving the blankets and pillows aside.

Off and on all night, or at least Clara's approximation of it, the two made love the best they could. Sometimes it was tender and sensual, while other times it was wild, desperate, and overflowing in lust. The Doctor murmured Gallifreyan oaths into her hair, swearing that he would be there for her as long as she needed him. Clara poured all her heart and soul into their lovemaking, wanting to make sure that the night was at least memorable even if it wasn't fruitful.

A month passed in that fashion, with them having sex at every opportunity as they went along in time and space. Clara would throw herself headlong into their adventures, living as recklessly as she could while there was not a tiny life that depended on her safety. The Doctor, however, began fussing over her more, tending to her desires attentively. While she slept off the sex, he'd trail his fingers over her bare skin, taking in and mapping her curves, noting her figure so he could detect any slight changes. Eventually he began concealing a medical scanner in his pocket, leaving his hoodie close enough so that he could pull it out and inspect her hormone levels as they laid in bed, skin flush against skin from head to toe.

One Wednesday, a wee bit later than usual, the TARDIS materialized in Clara's tiny flat. He was dressed in the red velvet jacket this time, the one that made her really lose control, holding a bouquet of the Venusian lilies that she liked. The flat seemed quiet and empty—it was Wednesday, it was after school, it was time for them to make love on the beach of a primordial sea and watch the sun set.

"Clara…?" he called out. "Are you there?" He heard her weakly call out his name from the bathroom and he rushed over, dropping the lilies on the rug. Throwing open the door, he saw her hunched over the sink, a tiny plastic stick clutched in one hand. His eyebrows arched as he wrapped himself around her and asked "What's going on?"

"I… we did it," she breathed into his jacket. "I'm about five weeks gone; I'm pregnant."

"Wait; but I checked you last week—the scanners would have picked up if you were four weeks along."

"You've been away for six, idiot," she chuckled weakly. "You're gonna be a dad again."

The Doctor silently picked Clara up, one arm around her waist and one tucked under her knees, and brought her into the TARDIS. He put her down in the medical bay, setting her gently on the bed. It took some rummaging around for him to find the necessary device, and in the meantime the TARDIS interface materialized into a young gentleman, bowing politely towards the patient.

"If you could please lay down, miss," the interface requested. Clara did so, allowing the Doctor to place the device on her midsection, low enough to be over her child… their child. It beeped and whirred and a holographic readout appeared in High Gallifreyan.

"What does it say?" she wondered. Both the Doctor and interface stayed silent. "Doctor…?"

"You are pregnant," the Doctor affirmed, his eyes growing wide and red-rimmed. He took her hand in his and kissed it, voice cracking. "Twins."

It was some of the best news either one of them could have heard. The next few days were spent in bliss, bursting into happy tears and hugs and sweet kisses. It wasn't until later did the panic begin to set in.

Clara was pregnant. With the Doctor's half-alien babies. She was going to go insane.