So. I can explain myself I promise. (That's a lie. I absolutely cannot, I just suffer from a disorder called laziness)
I basically backed myself into a corner with my overwhelming dramatics from last time (that I am genuinely coming to dislike to that if I ever rewrite this story I'd probably fix last chapter the most but I digress) that I struggled to write anymore without it seeming just weird?
So I did my best, I Incorporated a classic fanfic trope for all you shippers out there as apology- please take my gift
Clara was vaguely aware that she was in the bath. She wasn't entirely sure how she'd gotten there, and she wasn't entirely sure why she was still in her underwear, but she assumed the really nice person massaging her head knew and she was happy to leave it at that.
The water lapped around her almost painfully warm in contrast to the Baltic outdoors and she would have slipped down into it, down and down and down, submerging her head if only the hands would let her.
She had a weird thought about a bruise; a vice like grip that had made its mark in the form of a purple stamp across her pale skin. For some reason when she let herself drift like she was floating, she was at a lake with the moonlight pouring down on her and the water splashing against her, washing away the vicious bruise.
Then her thoughts would snap, bending and breaking, and the moonlit water became icy cold and Harold Saxon's face appeared and she was drowning as he held her under, creating the bruise on her arm as she screamed for the air to return.
"What the hell are you doing in there!?" A muffled voice entered her void, panic clinging to it as it clung to her whole body.
"Relax Doctor, we're just trying to wash the shampoo off, she had a bit of a panic when her head went under that's all." A Scottish voice replied equally panicked but at least trying to pretend otherwise.
"Oh, is that all?" The voice returned snarkier than before with a small kick to the door.
"Clara listen to me, it's Amy. Rory says you've had a bit of a shock what with the cold and everything, I don't really understand a word he says but I trust him on it, which is why we are trying to get you warm. Once we've done that we are all going to go murder Harold Saxon, how does that sound?" The voice continued on and Clara found it almost as soothing as the water.
"Come on Clara I need you to be a little cognitive here, I've got a pacing Doctor on my hands and I'd really like to spare the carpet the holes he's trying to wear into it." Clara felt herself smile.
"There we go, come on a little smile I'll take that- oi you two she smiled!"
Clara murmured something although she wasn't entirely sure what.
"Ah so talking about John is rather helpful in keeping Clara Oswald conscious, isn't that convenient and not at all surprising." Amy muttered into her ear.
"Uh Doctor could you go and get Clara a hot chocolate or something?" A scramble could be heard from somewhere like an Olympic sprinter taking off and a slight snigger came from Amy…and Rory… and Gwyneth.
"Had to get rid of him, he gets terribly embarrassed when you talk about him liking someone, and his ego inflates enormously if you even remotely mention one of his good qualities."
"So, here we go Clara your daily dose of John to keep you alive."
"Tad dramatic Amy, she's not on the brink of death." Rory called through what Clara assumed was a door.
"Shush. Well Clara, let me fill you in on the gaps in your knowledge with a story of sorts. I always liked a good story when I was younger, but I think yours might be a bit more realistic than a time travelling face changing alien," Amy sighed before continuing on.
"You see there's a man out there, behind that door, that wears ridiculous bowties, that names his dog Sonic and has a very real fear of growing old. There's a man out there that goes weak at the knees when you walk down the stairs in a pretty dress, who just punched a relative for hurting you and who is very stubborn about how he feels. There's a man out there who would cross galaxies and harness the power of the universe in his hands to be by your side. And if you asked that man about the beauty of everything he saw while he was out there, the birth of a star, the decay of planets and the burning of a supernova he would look at you without an ounce of dishonesty and say that it was nothing compared to you. You see Clara, this strange and wild man I have the pleasure of calling a best friend is rather smitten with you in an almost fairy tale manner like a daring knight or the foretold hero and I know him well enough to know this will be your only chance to hear the extent of the devotion that man can and will give to you. Clara, that man needs you to wake up and be slightly more normal, please I am begging you."
Clara wasn't entirely sure she was listening anymore. She was back in the lake except now the moon was met with stars that glittered and shone amongst a newly colourful sky. A sky exploding with variety and constellations that warmed her heart. A man floated amongst them and he called to her asking her to join him up there and she wanted nothing more than to escape with him away from Harry's clutches.
She thinks Amy was telling her something important. In fact, she knows Amy was telling her something important and yet the more she tried to grab for the words the better they alluded her and the mistier they became as if they were breath on a mirror, destined to be wiped away.
Clara groaned then, aching to understand what was happening around her, to shake the disorientating veil shrouding her.
"I really hope you were listening to all that, the pair of you need a shove in the right direction…"
"Amy, I'm back I've got the hot chocolate!"
"Great pop it on her bedside table we're gonna bring her out and hope she's warm enough, that ok Rory?" Amy called, gently easing Clara up as she spoke.
"Yeah that's fine. Need any help?"
"No, I think we've got her, maybe just clear off for now, we've gotta figure out how to get her into these pyjamas."
"Has she got any big shirts? I always put you in those when you're ill…or too drunk to figure out sleeves." Rory suggested.
"I dunno, Gwyneth? See any big shirts when you unpacked?"
"No sorry, all her night things were rather fancy," the maid finally spoke, a thick Welsh accent bleeding through.
"She can have one of mine." A very familiar voice called through the panelled door.
"Should have seen that one coming." Murmured Amy.
Clara felt her arms being gently pulled through a shirt that was much too large for her. It was soft and warm and safe. It smelled in a way that was entirely unfamiliar and intoxicating yet almost known in a way she couldn't escape.
The bed covers were pulled up around her and they finally let her sleep without interruptions of lakes or planets or dazzling, boundless men in bowties.
"So…you punched him then."
"I thought the situation called for it."
"In your book the situation always calls for it."
"Perhaps that's due to the villain of the book."
"Clever."
"I thought so."
The voices filled the room lulling Clara out of a sleep she wasn't aware she had had. The absence of dreams had led her to believe for however long she was out for that the world, and she along with it, had ceased to exist.
She sat up groggily, stretching as she went.
"Oh, good you're awake." John called lazily from the floor where he was leaning half up against the wall.
"I see now you choose to act all calm and unbothered, since Clara's awake. Do you really think we are going to let you forget your meltdown?" Rory was teasing. It was far too early for teasing.
"Shut up Rory." Rory gave him a mock salute.
"W'as happening?" Real words weren't necessary.
"You had a bit of an incident with the rain and Harold, you were rather dramatic about it." John sniffed but quickly amended when Rory raised an eyebrow "but I'm sure you were well within your rights; it must have been terrible."
"Oh. That."
"We can leave you to it, if you want? Probably need to get your head around things?" Rory had a very calming bedside manner. Clara appreciated that about him.
"Yeah if you don't mind. That would be great." John looked like he did mind, very much indeed, but he gave no fight when Rory ushered him out.
Clara felt like she had been hit by a truck. A very big, yellow truck if she was going to be specific about her melodrama.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the lights making her skin appear paler and more ghostly than usual. Maybe that was just her. A cotton shirt clung to her. She breathed in the scent from the collar, her nose becoming stuffy and she knew a cold was coming.
Great.
She wondered what it was that made Harold do it. Delusions? Insanity? Genuine belief that she could ever be with him?
It made her head spin trying to cope with the logic of a madman. She turned her thoughts elsewhere.
The whole event was rather vague. A mixture of leather seats and the warm air of a car heater that progresses to safe arms and a worried face and eventually ends with the same face looking over her as the hand it owns strokes her hair.
She suspected most of it was accurate, that she wasn't entirely deranged with false memories but then some of it had to be a product of her imagination. It must be.
The parts where she was walking amongst the stars hand in hand with John. That fading image was most likely made up or else Clara had a whole new set of space related problems to deal with. Amy's voice echoed in her head like a narrator with words made of stardust and life itself and Clara almost wished those ones were true.
Harness the power of the universe in his hands.
Something about that sounded especially delightful to Clara and she could almost wish it into existence given half the chance. It isn't fair when your dreams are more compelling than reality, but she supposed that was what made dreams so special- they were unobtainable.
She knew she should shower. Wash away the whole ridiculous night and the wasted day but she didn't particularly feel like taking off the shirt that dwarfed her.
When she finally parted with it, trading it off for the hot spray she began to think about where it was exactly she had gotten it from.
John and Harry sat in front of the desk as if it was not Smith Sr they were waiting on but an overly strict headmaster who thought medieval torture was proper practise and mourned its loss from society.
Harry nursed his bruised face with an ice pack and whimpered every time John so much as looked at him. He assumed it was an act. Afterall, how much can one man fear a bruise when his own wife was sat upstairs with a matching one he himself gave her?
On second thought that's probably all the more reason Harry hit her. Because he feared the punches himself, he knew she would fear them too and they would work to his sinister advantage.
John bristled over his own thoughts, determined to fight back against his father if he even so much as dared to grant Harold any sympathy.
As it happened, he didn't have to this time.
"Harold." Harry stopped groaning at the sharp tone. "If you ever treat one of my guests like that again, so help me God boy you'll know the meaning of a punch." He pulled out two crystal glasses.
"I think it's for the best that you return to the city tonight, I don't particularly wish to see you right now." Harry's face fell like he had been pushed from Mount Olympus rather than the Smith Mansion. John thought it sounded like he was getting a reward.
"Off you go." He was shooed from the room.
His father picked up a decanter and poured two generous glasses of scotch. He wordlessly passed one to John and sipped.
"You punched him in the face?" His father's face was blank, refusing to reveal any emotion. John knew that he was most likely angry with him and when the time came to grovel he would refuse. That was until his father started laughing.
He bent over double, tears forming in his eyes as he cackled. John had never been more confused and terrified in his life. Perhaps this was a sign of madness? Perhaps he had pushed him a step too far and this was the resulting spiral?
"Oh, good Lord I can't believe you punched him!" He breathed out between gasps.
John started laughing too, almost stopping as soon as he started when he realised this was the first time he had ever truly laughed with his father.
They both sighed and swallowed their drinks in unison and even the casual observer would have raised an eyebrow at the bizarreness of the similarity.
"I thought you'd be angry." John said.
"No, no it was the honourable thing to do after the way he treated Miss Clara. No, no you were right on. Right on."
"If you think what he did was wrong why didn't you punish him further?"
"What can I do to him? He's a grown man who did nothing illegal, that I'm aware of, and he's not my son. I can't do anything but remove him from my house. I don't really have the energy to scream at him and it isn't my place- and if it were my place, I rather expect that from him." John nodded a vague understanding although he was still entertaining thoughts of Harry being strung up by his toes with various fruits and vegetables being thrown at his body by Olympic shot-putters. Hell, he'd let them use the actual shotput.
"I punched a man once." John's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"Just some societal idiot who believed himself to be a big shot, he had made an awful comment towards your mother when we were dating, and I don't know what came over me I just…swung."
John couldn't believe his ears. He wished he had a witness to this miracle, to his father opening up with a story that related to him. Maybe he had fallen asleep against Clara's mattress again, it wasn't comfy, but he found himself slipping away every now and then. He was most likely still there.
Instead his father carried on.
"She thought I was rather brave, your mother, called me her hero before my own mother whacked me across the back of the head. It was worth it though. Every ounce of pain."
His father seemed to soften all at once. A stoic man melting before his very eyes. In an instant it stopped, and he righted himself once more as if the mask had never slipped.
A beeping erupted from somewhere in the room and his father took another red pill like the one he had seen him take at Gallifrey industries.
"Right then you best be off I have a lot of work to do." John simply nodded thankful for once that his father had been, for the lack of a better word, kind.
"Oh, and John, I'm p-" He stopped and sighed as he uncapped his fountain pen. "It doesn't matter son."
With that John turned to go.
As Harry and Lucy drove away from the grey, stone mansion, silence enveloped the car. Their bags were tucked away in the boot and their ATMOS satnav was marked for home. Every so often Lucy wiped a salty tear away from her cheek before the makeup could run and before Harry could find another reason to shout.
As Harold seethed behind the wheel, jerking violently around country roads in frustration at being cast out by the Smith's once again, Harry couldn't help but think about the unfairness of it all. John would always be seen as the golden boy while Harry was forgotten, a reject. He had everything handed to him. John simply always got his own way and nothing Harry could do would ever change that.
Well, almost nothing.
Harry wasn't stupid. He had seen the way the press had been dealt with following the events of the theme park. He knew fine well nicely his uncle wanted John to fall in love with Clara Oswald and he knew he was manipulating the press into believing that was the case.
It was a shame for Smith Sr that he didn't have quite as strong connection to the press as Harold did.
It was also a shame that none of the Smith's ever foresaw a fallback plan.
"Simeon, it's Harold. I need you to release those pictures from last night. Mhm. Any with a clear shot of her face. Make sure everyone knows that the 'mystery man' isn't John."
He barely waited for a response before hanging up the call and fixating his steely glare back on the road, except this time his anger was morphing into victory.
John was rather sick of the press. They never took a day off. Sure, that's cause news never stopped but he didn't really think that the lives of him and his friends qualified as news. Especially not when the news was entirely falsified.
Clara was now completely fine after her strange stint of cold that Rory had explained a thousand times, but John still didn't fully understand. He was far too worried about what would happen to Clara- in a completely platonic and friendly way- to focus on the details.
He did remember the bit where Rory said she would be fine after being warmed up, but he wasn't a medicaldoctor, so he was allowed to panic, just a little bit.
However, even if Clara was physically fine and back to reading her books- John's books- in the library, that didn't mean she was mentally fine; especially when grainy photos of her dinner with Harold were splashed across the front of 'The Great intelligence' for the whole world to see. Photos that suspiciously focused on her and claimed to not know for certain the identity of the man beyond the fact that it certainly was not John Smith.
John wasn't entirely sure how Harold had wrangled this, but he was sure he had. Gut feelings about his cousin were very rarely wrong.
Suddenly, the press had become even more vicious about Clara, claiming she was breaking his heart- or as 'the Kovarian chapter' had said, she would be if he had a heart- and gave a few choice nicknames that he was surprised were allowed to be used in mass media.
Clara had instantly retreated into herself at the sight of the headlines and after last time John knew she would speak when she was ready. That didn't change the fact that he abhorred the silence that followed.
His father, on the other hand, didn't know the meaning of the word retreat. He was furious for some reason beyond his guest being insulted and instantly sprang into action booking restaurants and shows and ordering the penthouse to be prepared.
John was rather angry himself, but he wasn't sure how West End tickets were going to help the situation.
When his father finally told him to pack a bag he didn't know if he was a genius or evil. Maybe both. An evil genius.
That was how he found himself behind the wheel of his beloved TARDIS, with Clara in the passenger seat once more, on the drive back to London with specific instructions to act like they were on a date.
He hadn't been to the penthouse since his father had called him home following his mother's death. He didn't realise how much he had missed it, the glass windows that covered every inch of wall, the view of the other skyscrapers and the lights flashing in the night.
He swung his small bag onto the couch and gestured for Clara to do the same. He smiled only slightly when she looked at him and placed it gently on the floor by her feet.
He wrung his hands suddenly awkward.
"Right. It's dinner and a show then." John never struggled with words. In fact, words were one of his strong points, funny words, clever words, especially long and convoluted words- he used them all. Somehow words weren't being his best friend right now.
"We can do that right? Get through one night of pretending to be romantically attracted to each other?" He really hoped he wasn't looking too much like a lost puppy. One glance in the mirror would have disappointed him.
"Yeah sure." Clara clearly wasn't struggling as much as he was. She had absolutely no worries about actual romantic attraction.
He led her to one of the guest rooms so they could each get ready without staring each other down. Well. John may have been staring- in a totally not creepy but complimentary way! Yeah maybe he should just stick to his separate room to avoid being a total freak.
John flopped onto the bed and groaned. Ever since he had met Clara it had been one thing after another, the pair of them just couldn't seem to catch a break and he was starting to think they were cursed…or she was cursed. Either way there must be some form of curse or malevolent force sending them into the most bizarre and unwarranted situations.
He wrapped a bow tie around his neck and sniffed as he looked in the mirror.
Not bad.
He thumbed the tickets for the show in his hand and waited nervously for Clara.
He wasn't entirely sure whyhe was nervous; he'd been on plenty of dates in his life and some very not important ones and this wasn't even a real date. That didn't stop the way his throat bobbed when she walked out in red- it was getting to the point where he needed a seat every time she wore a dress and he wasn't entirely sure why.
He also wasn't sure whether he liked it or not.
"You look nice." Her face contorted as if he had said something wrong. He had said something wrong. "Better than nice!" Super! Fantastic! Pretty!" Stammering out a list of adjectives was not how he imagined this going.
"Uh thanks John." She smoothed down her dress as he mentally kicked himself. Again.
"I mean it. You look beautiful." John hoped he'd gotten it right that time. When she smiled at him in that way that could convince move mountains if she just asked them, he knew he had.
He offered his suit covered arm. "Well Miss Oswald, will you accompany me to dinner?"
The restaurant was classy and upscale. Modern and white much like John's penthouse and a far cry from the intimate restaurant Harold had taken her to. Despite the much better company, Clara was grateful that it wasn't some sort of seductive and cosy date spot because that would have just made the whole night a hell of a lot harder.
She knew Smith Sr had arranged pictures to be taken of the two of them to uphold Clara's public image, to show that she wasn't two timing John even though she wasn't even one timing John. That didn't change the fact that even though she had only known him for a very short while some small, unashamed part of her mind would have sold her left arm to be on a real date rather than this pretence.
That's why when the lights were bright and the whole place was extraordinarily cleanClara was glad. Seeing John in romantic candlelight is really not something she could handle right now. It was a crush. A silly crush. If it even was a crush because at this point Clara wasn't certain what it was.
She knew he was attractive, sure, in a strange, big-chinned, floppy-haired, bowtie-wearing way but he was still him. He was ridiculous; he flirted with anything that moved; he did stupid things in limos and he wasn't her boyfriend nor was he interested in being her boyfriend.
No, she hissed to herself, the constantly warring voices in her mind were starting up again. We are not going down that route, he is a friend- barely a friend- and it doesn't matter if he smells nice or if he pulled your chair out- that's it.
He smiled at her from over the menus and made what she hoped was a joke about asking the chef for fish fingers in custard. Clara had never been so boring in her life. She had nothing to say, no conversation pieces or witty comebacks every other word was "sure" or "yeah".
It's not a real date. Get a grip.
"Are you ok?" He was looking at her with concern. Concern was not good. Concern led to feelings and a psyche ward.
"Yeah I'm fine, just thinking about the last fake date I had." He smiled and Clara shouldn't have felt so triumphant about being a normal human.
"Ah so there's a long list of men you have tricked into buying you dinner?"
"Naturally. A girl like me can't be seen going on real dates, that's just absurd."
"Isn't it just." For some reason he looked sad and Clara didn't dare question it.
They ended up speaking about anything and everything and the more time passed and the more he told her about his favourite books and films- time travel or actual travel, either category would work- the more Clara was beginning to blur the line between fiction and reality.
In the small part of her head that wasn't focused on proving herself to her father and his stupid board and just getting through tonight, she was dancing in the moonlight with this man who could only be described as a drunk giraffe and she was believing in the bloody power of sunsets and true love. God she was being ridiculous.
When he took her to the show, his hand on the small of her back Clara thought she had been launched into outer space. This could not be happening. He infuriated her. He was impossible to understand with a hundred different moods and silly thoughts and crazy schemes.
He also challenged her and pushed her and cared for her much more than he should considering the time period they had known each other.
The shows premise was interesting, it was all set in one location: a tour bus taking a group of people across a planet called midnight that led to disaster. The reviews were amazing, and Clara had genuinely been looking forward to it.
It was a shame she missed everything beyond the first ten minutes because John's hand had somehow rested against her knee and everything after that had short circuited.
When they left the theatre, the cool air of the night hit her, she let out an involuntary shiver- really they should make these dresses insulated, with the tiny amount of fabric it's the least they could do.
She wasn't expecting John to immediately shrug his jacket off and wrap it around her, letting his arm linger a little longer than necessary. It smelled intoxicating and rather like that shirt she had woken up in yesterday. Despite her immediate and almost primal response to shrug further into it and allow it to envelope her, she also had the overwhelming urge to scream at him.
Why, oh why, did he have to do one of the single most romantic gestures known to man? She was trying not to develop feelings; she was trying very hard actually and she was doing an amazing job if she said so herself. Sort of amazing.
Yet here he was; undermining all of her hard work. Filling her with the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of being cared about- it just wasn't fair.
This whole night was like a great big test. 'Hey Clara while you're busy pretending for the cameras can you also fend off all of these incredibly sweet and kind gestures from a man who is the dictionary's definition of perfect and probably your soulm-'
If it was a test, Clara was averaging at a C.
They rounded the corner onto the street where his building was, laughing as they walked about the character played by Catherine Tate who was a bit too similar to the sassy secretary at Gallifrey Industries.
That was when they saw the swarm.
If England had a set number of cameras in the country, they were all outside of the building they wanted to be in at this very moment. Every reporter that ever reported seemed to be waiting for them, clashing and clamouring against each other as they waited for the not-quite-a-couple.
"Ah." John gripped Clara's hand in his. "Well, I wouldn't call that ideal."
"What would you call it then?"
"A gentleman shouldn't use such foul language."
"Good thing you aren't a gentleman then." Clara raised an eyebrow at him, almost daringly.
"Touché. Well then with my newly dubbed not gentleman status, that's a fucking shitshow."
"How eloquent."
"Hmm yes I thought so.'
"What do you want to do about it then?" Clara began nervously chewing at a bit of skin of her thumb, it was hardly dignified, but the cameras hadn't noticed them yet.
"Well since we aren't on a bear hunt we have no obligation to go through them."
"Still can't go over them or under them."
"There's a hotel, two streets away. Bit of a cop out except I really can't be bothered to fight our way through that mob." Clara's whole body violently protested the hotel idea. Hotels never lead anywhere good.
"Seems a bit of an exaggeration doesn't it? Spending the money on a hotel when we would only be inconvenienced for maximum five minutes."
"Yeah, you're right." He seemed disappointed, Clara wasn't sure why he was or why it made her heart sink. "Braveheart Clara." He breathed as he took a step forward. That was when they were spotted.
It was like a thousand bulbs bursting at once as cameras flashed and people hollered and moved towards them. With every passing second the hotel idea seemed nicer and nicer. John gripped her hand tighter before turning and sprinting in the opposite direction of the penthouse.
They ducked down every street imaginable with a hundred and one twists and turns as if they were in a maze or escaping a predator. Clara supposed they were.
Up ahead there was a cherry red phonebooth. Hopelessly out of date, completely pointless in today's society but a convenient hiding place. (Note to self: ask to play hide and seek in that massive house- if they like tig they can stomach that).
John pulled her in behind him, the door swinging shut with a clang. Their bodies were pressed firmly together, and Clara couldn't deny how wonderfully warm he was or how soft his shirt felt when it brushed against her cheek.
"Of all the places you pick a phone box."
"These are classic, and don't you forget it." Clara tried not to laugh. The friction it created was a little too pleasant.
"Oh look, someone's graffitied 'snogging booth' on the wall there, just above your head. Is that what you think this is? There is such a thing as too keen." Her voice lilted, threatening the balance between teasing and hope.
A crimson blush spread up his ears and across his cheeks as he started stammering.
"It is not a snogging booth!" He tried to lift a hand to his hair, but it ended up brushing her hip and he instantly snapped it back to his side again. "Well it might be but not for us, of course not for us." Clara wasn't particularly enjoying this kick in the teeth.
"Ok what's the plan batman?" She swiftly changed the subject hoping to ease the crippling rejection she should not be feeling.
"Ooh I'm batman."
"It's a figure of speech and you know it."
"Don't be salty just because you're Robin."
"I am not Robin!"
"You're so totally Robin." She glared at him although it wasn't as effective with her chin basically resting on his chest.
"Ok, how's the hotel sounding to you now?"
Clara considered for a moment. The reporters likely would have returned to their spot outside the building after they had made their great escape so if they tried to get in it was likely to be a repeated process. On the other hand, being in a hotel room with John was not an option.
"Clara, I can see you doing mental gymnastics even in the dark. Relax. Stop weighing up the pros and cons."
"I just don't know how I feel about sharing a room." God she sounded like a child.
"We can get sperate rooms remember." She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or not.
Of course. How could she have forgotten? She was worrying this whole time for no reason; he didn't even want to share a room with her.
Of course, he did but that wasn't something John was likely to admit.
They finally left the phone box/snogging booth and headed down a warren of alleys to come out at the Savoy Hotel, ready to book their separaterooms.
"What do you mean there's only one room!" This could not possibly get any worse, then again this was Clara- of course it could get worse.
"I'm sorry Miss but with everyone coming to see the show and the platform 5 convention, we're booked solid."
"This is the Savoy for crying out loud!" Clara wanted to scream or cry or maybe jump for joy.
John had his head bent against the sleek receptionist's desk.
"I'm sorry Miss Oswald, I can only offer you the one room." The receptionist didn't look too sorry. In fact, she looked positively gleeful.
That was until John raised his head and said they wanted the room. The receptionist took one look at his face and, oh boy, then she was glowering. Her fingertips slammed the keys on her computer rather than tapped and Clara received a withering glare.
Well if that was how customer service was, Clara was going to revel in it. She slipped her arm through John's as they walked to the lift giving her hair a slight flick as she went. If the bitch behind the desk had felt a twinge of jealousy well now she would be drowning in it.
She tried not to meet his eye when he gave her an amused look, his eyes almost twinkling.
"What?" She dared him to comment.
"Nothing, nothing." He smirked.
The room had one bed. One singular, lonely, double bed. Clara had no clue what the protocol was here.
"Right."
"Right."
Silence surrounded them.
"Well since it was my brilliant idea to get the hotel room, I can crash on the floor." John offered, his hand scrubbing at the nape of his neck.
"Don't be silly you're paying for it, the least I can do is offer you a round of rock, paper, scissors." She meant it as a joke, she wasn't expecting him to take it literally. "Put your fist down idiot, we can share it. It won't be the end of the world."
"Knowing our luck, it will be." That was a fair point, but Clara was trying to think positively.
"Can you unzip me?" She gestured towards her dress, "I don't think I can get the zipper back down again on my own." He hesitated before moving forward agonisingly slowly. His fingers traced the top of her bare back before moving to unzip and Clara nearly physically melted. This was going to be brutal.
"Oh my god!" He nearly leapt away from her in shock, the dress half undone.
"What!? What?! Did I do something?" His eyes were filled with panic.
"No! No, god no. I just remembered all of our clothes are at the penthouse. I have no pjs." John's shoulders seemed to deflate at this as if the tension or fear of having done something had drained away like water in an unplugged sink.
"Right, ok. Don't do that ok? Nearly gave me the fright of my life."
"Sorry," Clara shrugged.
"You can have my shirt for the night." Clara thinks she heard him mutter 'again' but she didn't want to press the issue.
"What are you going to sleep in then?"
"And you say I'm too keen," he started laughing at her widened eyes. "I'll sleep in my underwear Clara; I hope you can deal with that." He was teasing her, and she was the blushing mess. This wasn't how this worked- he's the one who blushes!
"Fine. Pop your shirt off quick as you like." At this he went a vicious scarlet. Now that'smore like it.
When she came out of the bathroom he was lounging on the bed completely at ease and shirtless. His shirt grazed against her thighs and for once she didn't miss the way his eyes noticed it.
She pulled back the stark, white bed sheets and crawled under suddenly desperate for sleep, or just anything that qualified as a distraction really.
She forced her eyes shut and turned herself away from him. It was like torture and bliss and confusion rolled into one big, problematic ball.
She couldn't decide what she was feeling, annoyance or some sort of weird alien attraction- that was the confusion.
It was torturous because being in such close quarters with someone you didn't know how you felt about and weren't supposed to feel anything for was pure hell.
On the other hand, his body heat was right there, and he smelled really nice and in a strange way it was bliss.
He was under the covers as well now and she was doing her very best to stay far, far away. She didn't need any further reason to complicate her already complicated situation. Eventually, she forced herself to sleep with the help of counting sheep and a very impressive conversation with herself. John of course had fallen asleep straight away without a care in the world.
When she woke up, sunlight streaming onto her pillow through the weak hotel blinds she was even warmer than before. Her nose nuzzled into something firm and warm and oh so safe and her hand gripped onto a shoulder…a shoulder.
Clara's eyes shot open when she finally realised that her hand was clinging to John's shoulder as if it were a matter of life and death. He was closer than ever before. Even when he was hugging her or leaning down to tease her in that way their height difference called for, he had never been this close. This was not platonic close this was deeply romantic close which made it all the worse.
His own hand was gripping at her waist which was thankfully covered by his shirt and it seemed as if he were instinctively pulling her closer or guarding her in his sleep. His head was buried in her hair and Clara didn't know if she could ever escape this tight hold, or if she even wanted to.
All in all, it was painfully domestic and served only to worsen Clara's current mental crisis.
He shifted and murmured something about hot chocolate getting cold and Clara instantly stiffened. She knew she had to extract herself without waking him up. Imagine if he knew how she was feeling? He'd be freaked for a start not to mention how guilty he'd feel about holding her like this when she couldn't even make her mind whether she loved or hated him.
Clara closed her eyes and tried to think of a plan.
1) I'm slipping with the references I really think I am
2) I just watched press gang for the first time and oh my god I would lie down in traffic if Spike asked me to- thank you again Steven Moffat
3) I have a whole new series planned out it's ten parts, it's heavily influenced by press gang so if anyone is interested in that let me know (it's coming either way so you could pretend to be excited)
4) that blocky bit of text at the beginning when Amy is telling her story is based on the last page in 'Angels take Manhattan' I wanted to take that style of story telling and incorporate it into a semi confession of someone's feelings cause spoiler alert these two idiots are never saying how they feel
5) I genuinely have nothing to say beyond sorry and thank you to everyone who asked me to update it meant a lot
6) leave a review or favourite if you liked or if you despised it
