Chapter Eight: Dr. and Mrs. Smith

"HELLOO SALT LAAKE!" The Doctor hollered when he got out of the car, the sun warming his face as he beheld their new surroundings with a weary yet optimistic smile. Clara got out beside him, peering over at the man over the top of the car. She eyed him warily.

"You need sleep."

"I've never been to Utah before," he continued, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "Maybe we'll get to meet a Mormon on a missionary! Do you think we'll meet a Mormon here, Clara?"

Perhaps it was his blue-stained lips from the blueberry limeade he was drinking, or the fact that he'd been driving for five hours straight, but Clara suggested they stop at a motel for a few hours to crash. The Doctor was clearly growing delirious with each passing second he spent staring out at the open road, his hands fidgeting from sugar-rush since they'd crossed the state border, eyes turning glassy with fatigue. Clara began to worry that he wouldn't make it another mile, let alone eight more states. She was seriously considering driving for him, which, on any other occasion, would be completely out of the question.

They gathered up their necessities and ambled into the small lobby, where an elderly woman with gentle white curls and an amiable disposition looked up at them from her cross-word puzzle. Clara drew up her luggage to the front counter and smiled, while The Doctor plucked a services pamphlet from the stack on the coffee table and began to toddle around like a child about to pass out from exhilaration. Her smile only tightened in concern.

"Hello!" she greeted, folding her hands on the counter politely. "We'd like to book a room for a few hours."

The woman's eyes only crinkled with an expression she couldn't quite place as she replied, "Of course! Are you two celebrating your honeymoon with us this evening?"

The Doctor stopped pacing.

Clara blinked, her smile faltering as she looked from the woman to the ring situated on her fourth finger. It was an easy mistake, but it didn't make the situation any less difficult to navigate as she tried to formulate a response around her sleep-deprived brain. "Uh..."

She heard The Doctor come up beside her, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "We get forty percent off our total charge at checkout."

"Yes we are!" Clara exclaimed enthusiastically, her eyes darting to his as he gave her his best thumbs-up and pointed to the pamphlet in reassurance. She was so going to kill him for this, discount or not.

"Lovely!" the woman gleamed, setting her newspaper aside and shaking her desktop mouse to wake up the computer. "I just need a valid ID and a credit card number..."

The Doctor supplied this easily, leaning against the counter and answering the hostess's burning questions regarding the marriage Clara hadn't realized she'd agreed to until now.

The ceremony was small, no more than their intimate friends and family, held in the backyard of Clara's childhood home back in Blackpool. He had cried, obviously, but she held him together in the end, the two sharing teary smiles as they agreed to spend the rest of their lives together. Every elaborate question the old woman had was provided with an equally as elaborate of a response, The Doctor's performance so convincing that Clara was almost beginning to believe him.

"Beautiful. Just beautiful," the woman crooned as she handed him back his belongings and a room key (it was actually a silver key, attached to a tag that read Room 11 in red script). "Well, I hope you have a fantastic time here in Salt Lake, Dr. and Mrs. Smith."

"Oswald-Smith," Clara corrected her without thinking. The grin on The Doctor's face was unbearable.

"Of course," the old woman smiled, nodding in empathy as the waved them off. "You two have a nice evening, now!"

They carted their luggage into the cramped lift, Clara squeezing herself into the corner as the doors slid closed right behind The Doctor's back. He jabbed the button for the second floor and she sighed, tilting her head back to stare at her muggy reflection in the ceiling. The dark circles around her eyes were growing more and more visible by the second.

"How did you know I was from Blackpool?" she asked, feeling the lift shudder and shake as it ascended. The Doctor gave her a sidelong glance.

"It says so on your luggage tag," he replied.

Frowning, Clara reached down and turned over the card fastened around the handle of her luggage, and to her surprise, he was right. In her sixteen year-old handwriting she had scrawled down her old phone number and address; she'd had this red suitcase for years and didn't even think to change it when she moved. She really ought to do something about that.

"That woman probably thinks we're crazy," she prompted tiredly, massaging the inner corners of her eyes. "What couple from London has their honeymoon in Salt Lake City, Utah?"

"Come on, there's loads of romantic things to do here in Salt Lake!" The Doctor defended, looking down at his pamphlet for reference. "We could visit the Pony Express trail, or the Beehive House—mid-19th century home of Brigham Young. Or—! Or, we could visit the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, according to this, they have an organ with 11, 623 pipes—that'll be sure to convince her."

Clara let out an amused laugh, watching as The Doctor stumbled backwards upon the doors opening up to their designated floor. "At this point, I think all we need is a good nap. Though 11, 623 pipes does sound alluring," she said, pushing forwards her suitcase into the dimly-lit hallway.

They located their room without difficulty, Clara inserting the key into the lock and opening the door. The place was barely big enough for a bed, a side table, and a scratched-up desk with some paper and a table lamp. The two travelers started at the single mattress in dubiety.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offered. She balked at him.

"Don't be ridiculous, you're the one driving us. We can share the bed," she decided, crossing the threshold and setting her hands on her hips. Peeling wallpaper. Ruddy carpet. The vague scent of cheese (the place was situated beside a pizzeria). It would have to do. They were only napping, anyway. "Unless you think I'm a rubbish sleeper, because I swear, I haven't kicked in my sleep since I was nine."

"No, no," The Doctor said, his face growing hot. "T-That's not a problem."

He tentatively entered the room once all of their luggage was piled into the corner, Clara kicking off her boots and collapsing down onto the bed without a moment's hesitation. "Do you ever miss home, Doctor?" she asked, starting at her socked feet as he made his way over to the thick curtains and opened them slightly. Their view was of the other adjacent building, what looked to be a two-story pharmacy. He let the curtains fall and eased himself down at the foot of the bed.

"Not really," he admit, untying his shoelaces. "Well, I've been living in a dorm for the past four years, so what do I know? I suppose it's up to me to find a new one." A new home, he thought to himself, lying down beside Clara as she stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach.

"I hope you do, Doctor," she said after a while, crawling under the sheets and pulling the duvet up to her chin. He closed his eyes, finding sleep an easy companion as he began to drift off into delirium.

"Thank you." His voice hid behind a yawn as he added, "Goodnight, Mrs. Oswald-Smith."

Clara laughed quietly. He heard the sheets rustle next to him.

"It isn't nighttime."

"Still."

He didn't need to see her to know that she was smiling. It was the last thing he thought of before falling asleep.

Her voice barely caught him as she murmured,"Goodnight to you too, Dr. Smith."

Sleep ended almost as abruptly as it began.

Sometimes, she'd wake up with her face pressed against the pillow, limbs paralyzed in fear of crossing the invisible line that had divided the bed into two equal halves. Other times, her eyes would snap open, and she would be a mere few inches from him, having to adjust to the darkness as his heavy breathing aligned with the rise and fall of his chest under his t-shirt. In those instances she would immediately turn around, shutting her eyes tight as if she could somehow extinguish the warmth she felt in those moments.

This time, she awoke, and felt her bladder pulse with an immediate urge to piss. She swallowed the stale taste in her mouth as she carefully peeled the covers from herself and got out, The Doctor's still-sleeping figure curled up on his side of the bed as she padded over to the bathroom and located the light. There was an eerie feeling that coursed through her body as she entered the tiny cell and turned the faucet on; it was as if everything was partially numb, her movements slowed as if she were moving underwater. She convinced herself it was due to her lack of sleep as she splashed water into her face.

"I'm surprised you haven't seen a doctor about this," an unfamiliar voice clipped from beside her.

Clara yelped, backing away from the sink as beads of water ran down her neck and soaked the hem of her blouse. There was a woman standing in the doorway, a blonde woman, with concerned eyes and a set jaw and a hardy enough disposition that Clara couldn't even begin to question what on Earth she was doing there.

"Well, then again," the stranger drawled, leaning against the door-frame and peering out into the open motel room. "I suppose you've already met one."

"Who the hell are you?" Clara asked, not even bothering to dry her face. The young woman across from her frowned, as if she had expected them to be on the same page by now.

"Don't you recognize me?" she said, running her fingers through a single lock of hair. "A blonde shopkeeper from the Powell Estate? Has a soft spot for reality television and spicy chips? Bad Wolf—?" Her fingertips immediately pressed against her lips, though a gasp escaped from them anyhow. "Have you gotten to that part yet? The last thing I want to do is to spoil you."

Pieces of the impossible began to thread themselves together in Clara's head, and it was almost too absurd to handle as she settled herself down on the toilet seat and leaned her elbows against her knees. She hid her damp face in her hands and tried to keep herself from panicking.

"No way," she murmured to herself through jagged breaths. Because there was no way Rose Tyler, a fictional character, was standing in this rubbish motel bathroom with her right now. "I must be hallucinating."

"Nope! Just dreaming," Rose supplied helpfully, crossing the threshold and hitching herself up onto the counter. "But if it'll make you to go back to bed, then yes, you are hallucinating. I'm just a big, scary, unexplainable side-effect of your chronic refusal to sleep."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Clara insisted, lowering her hands to peer up at the woman, with her blue jacket and bell-bottoms and muddy running trainers. She was especially bothered by the latter, surprisingly more than anything else she had just experienced in the past minute or so. "You only exist in a book. I bought you in a San Francisco 7-Eleven!"

"No need to stir up painful memories," Rose mumbled, leaning back against the mirror. "I'll have you know that I was stuck on that shelf for three years before you picked me up. Easily one of the better days of my life," she mused, plucking a complimentary shampoo from the lot and inspecting it under the dim light. "You'd know about the rest of them if only you read a little faster."

"What are you doing here?" Clara urged, still unable to meet her eye without feeling as though she'd gone insane. "Why have you got any business wandering about in my head?"

"Because your dreams are the only place I can come and talk to you without following a script," Rose retorted mournfully, dropping the bottle into the sink and picking up another. "And Lord knows how rarely you have them—tell me, how many caffeinated beverages have you had in the past twenty-four hours?"

No, Clara thought to herself, trying to will herself into waking up like one might try to pass a kidney stone. She would not be taking self-interventions from her own subconscious. She'd always wished fictional characters were real, but she didn't think they'd have the actual audacity to call her out like this.

"I dunno," she said, only after her attempts to break free of this horrifying dream had turned futile. "Eight, nine? I lost track."

"Exactly, because your brain's short-circuiting and you're ignoring it like it's nothing," Rose stated flatly, rolling the tube of conditioner between her fingertips. "Clara, you can't keep going on like this and expect to yield the same results as you do when you've slept. It's not healthy."

"Says you and literally everyone else," Clara shot back tiredly, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "My therapist. My dad. Psychology majors who think they know all that. What makes you think you can help me?" It was unnaturally cruel of her to talk this way, even if it was in front of someone who technically didn't exist. But she was swimming in her own mind, where all of her thoughts and feelings were floating around, where she could pick up on any of them and it wouldn't have mattered.

"Because you know I'm not actually real, and that this must be a very strange encounter for you, so maybe you'll remember it and listen," Rose said, setting down the product and pushing off the counter to squat down in front of her. There was a smile on her face. "Plus, I'm objective. I don't really know much about you other than the fact that you don't sleep and your decisions are nearly parallel to mine."

Clara's lips pulled into a frown as she lifted her head from her hands. "In what way?"

Rose grinned, her shoulders shrugging as she said, "We've both agreed to travel with uncharacteristically strange people."

The young writer groaned, leaning back on the toilet as a breathy laugh escaped her. "The Doctor has nothing to do with this."

"The Doctor has everything to do with this!" she argued, grabbing onto Clara's wrists and pulling them away from her face. The time-traveler's brown eyes were fixed with determination, as if it were her sole purpose to stare at her until she understood. "You can reach out to him, Clara. He can help."

"Ugh, no," she droned, hands balling into fists as if she wanted to crush the mere idea into pieces. "I am not asking him to write me a prescription—that's properly weird."

"Not as your doctor, silly." Rose's frown deepened. "As your friend. You've been traveling on your own for so long that you've forgotten how to confide in others." Her fingers tightened their grip, as if she could somehow influence her by cutting off the blood circulation to her fingers. "Like you said, you trusted him from the get-go. I'm more than positive you can trust him with this. He's a good person, Clara."

She didn't need Rose to tell her that The Doctor was a good person, because she knew that from the beginning. In fact, she didn't even need to be told that she could trust him with anything, because she knew that no matter how much of herself she opened up to him, it would be treated with the same kindness and understanding that had gotten her here in the first place. Clara was picky, not in the way a child was with their palate, but in the people she chose to surround herself with. And the amount of time it took to trust The Doctor didn't devalue the carefulness in which she made that decision.

"I...I don't know if I can. If I want to," she admitted, trying to explain herself as best she could. "The Doctor is the first person I've grown accustomed to in a long while. He seems to fit, even if he doesn't know everything about me. He's unafraid to question my fears and he laughs at my jokes, and I feel as if I tell him about this—" She gestured to the space in between them, as if their conversation was a testament to her ever-growing plight. "—he won't be able to look past it. I just don't want him to see me with this problem on my back."

A part of her knew that he would never think of her that way, but after years of being seen through pitiful eyes, of receiving countless tidbits of advice that ultimately did nothing but agonize her, Clara wasn't about to take any chances. She had grown so close to him these past twelve hours. And she liked the way she was with him. There was no need to augment to that something bad, something that would turn her into a burden. It was the last thing she wished to be.

"Clara," Rose said, eyes filled with concern. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

She merely shrugged, unsure of what else to say. "When you agreed to become a time-traveler, was it difficult for you to admit why?"

She didn't need a response to know the answer, because she had read it in the book. She had seen Rose struggling to admit to the man she was steadily growing more fond of that she had no plans beyond working in a retail shop, that her life was ordinary and couldn't hold a candle to the one he lived. She didn't want his perspective of her to be tainted, didn't want her vivacious spirit and curiosity to be devalued by her lack of real-life, goal-oriented ambition. When you met someone like him, you wanted to put your best foot forward. You wanted to hide all of your flaws and accentuate the good parts.

"Yes," Rose admitted, her voice low as she spoke. "But it made me realize that there was nothing to be afraid of. Because he never saw me any differently."

She let go of her wrists then, standing up only to perch herself on the lip of the bath tub as the sound of running water filled Clara's ears. The young writer's eyes darted to the faucet, but it wasn't on. The sound seemed to be seeping through the walls, becoming louder and louder with each passing second as she felt herself being slowly drawn out of her own body.

"You'd be surprised," Rose said to her before she wiped out completely. "Sometimes showing your weakness to somebody doesn't earn you distance, but rather a chance to bring you closer together."

And with that, the walls of Clara's dream drained like water spiraling down a faucet, her vision beginning to tunnel as she awoke with her face against the pillow, her hair askew as if she had been tossing in her sleep. The Doctor poked his head from the bathroom she had just escaped, a toothbrush in his mouth and his hair fluffed in all directions. He looked as if he'd just showered.

"Is the water too loud?" he asked behind a mouthful of toothpaste. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You're fine," Clara said, sitting up and leaned against the headboard. Her clothes were unnaturally stiff as she rubbed her eyes and asked, "What time is it?"

"Nearly eight-thirty," he replied, the water only intensifying as he began to rinse. "Thought we could go out on the town for a bit. Indulge ourselves in the city-life before we pull another all-nighter."

He emerged from the bathroom only partially-clothed, his blue-collared shirt only halfway done as he rushed to the closet mirror to finish buttoning it. He wore not much else but a pair of argyle socks and boxer briefs. It was more than Clara had expected to see of him. He caught her staring in the mirror's reflection and was quick to shoot her a grin as she immediately blushed.

"And by that you mean?" She glared at him. Embarrassed as she might have been, it didn't reach her voice as The Doctor finished buttoning his collar and reached for the pants he'd draped over the back of the desk chair.

"Karaoke and drinks?" he suggested sheepishly, shoving his legs into each pant leg as Clara laid back down and groaned. So he had spotted the karaoke bar just two blocks down their motel. "I think it only necessary that I redeem your first experience!" he added frenetically, circling around several times trying to locate his braces.

Her voice was barely audible as she spoke into her pillow. "I appreciate the thought, but Jesus could show up and sing gospel music and it still wouldn't compensate for that horrid night." If she thought hard enough, she could still smell the reek of wine. The fact she had brought up Jesus didn't help much, either.

The Doctor only laughed, squatting down beside her and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it reassuringly. "Then I won't even come near you with my horrible Jesus impression, and I promise not to call you Clarissa." Clara grimaced as she pulled the pillow from her face and smacked him with it accordingly. "You don't even have to sing anything! Just come with me. I promise you'll have a good time."

She eyed him warily, trying to locate the doubt in his voice, but she found none. He was fully confident that he could make her think differently of a place she had dreaded once before—he could've picked anywhere else to go tonight, but no. He just had to challenge her, to push her out of her comfort zone. And she didn't know how to feel about it.

"You promise?" she asked him, her voice strangely child-like. The Doctor nodded, tracing an X over the front of his shirt.

"Cross my heart," he told her, giving her a reaffirming smile. "We have a checks and balances system in place, remember? If I start gyrating like a lunatic, you have every right to tell me to stop."

Despite herself, Clara laughed. Because the thought of him dancing was enough to make her want to get up and go.

"Yeah yeah, I get it, you're an American government buff," she pushed him gently aside, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Seriously, you could pass a citizenship test if you wanted to."

She pushed herself up from the bed and promised to be ready in fifteen minutes, dragging her suitcase into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She stared at the tiny cell in apprehension and thought back to the conversation she'd had just minutes before, with the main protagonist from 'Withering Rose,' of all people. She pulled at her ragged locks of hair and chuckled quietly to herself, thinking that if she got more sleep now, she'd never get to experience that kind of dream ever again. Perhaps if she kept her poor habits up, other fictional characters might visit her. Like Jamie from 'Outlander.' Or Darcy from 'Pride and Prejudice.'

She brushed her teeth and redid her makeup in the mirror, pulling her hair into a sleek ponytail as she then turned to her suitcase in search of something to wear. She definitely avoided all of her white shirts, and didn't want to look preppy at a bar, so she opted for a satin blue dress she hadn't worn in ages, with blue buttons fastening the top and a cream-colored clutch purse to match. Fastening on a pair of sparkly Mary Jane pumps, Clara looked at herself in the mirror, and wondered if she was overdressed. Despite this, she was pleased with her work, and collected her things before opening the bathroom door.

The Doctor had just finished securing the purple bow-tie around his neck when he latched onto her eyes in the mirror. Slightly dazed, he swiveled around to face her fully, as if the reflection didn't do her justice as he stared with his mouth slightly agape. Clara suppressed a smile as he tried to find his words.

"I, uh..." he stammered, adjusting the accessory at his collar. "Wow," was all that followed. Say something else, you idiot. "You look good. Better than good. Blimey, you look beautiful." His cheeks flushed as he said this, wondering if he'd said the right thing or not as he anxiously awaited her reaction. The tension immediately left him as her face broke out into a wide smile, Clara's eyes fixed upon her shoes as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and blushed.

"Thank you," she told him, readjusting the strap of her purse. "You don't look too shabby yourself."

He gleamed at that, wanting so desperately to keep complimenting her just so that her smile could remain a constant on her face, but he wasn't about to embarrass himself further as he instead decided to start packing up, as their three-hour stay was indeed coming to a close. Clara followed his lead and began tidying up, redoing the bed and collecting her boots off the floor, and once they had finished, they stared at the small space in a quiet sort of reflection. Not much had happened in the past three hours, but it felt oddly sentimental to them, as if their departure from the room was another indicator that their trip was slowly ending before it even got the chance to fully begin.

In less than fifty hours, Clara would be in New York, entering Wayfarer Industries with her every hope pinned on the success of a future partnership with the renowned travel media company. And The Doctor would be off with his friends. They would cherish the time they spent together, and diverge into the two separate lives they'd always intended to live. Separate. Detached. Independent from one another.

She didn't quite know what to make of it just yet.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind, Clara did a self-evaluation of herself, using the checks-and-balances method The Doctor had suggested they use. Was she thinking too far ahead of herself? Yes (but not really). Was she worrying about things that hadn't happened? (Yet, but yes again.) She thought back to what he had told her this morning in San Francisco. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"I would think it nice for you to live in the moment. We're gallivanting across America here, Clara Oswald!"

So she was. And so she would continue to, with an open and fully-present state of mind. And perhaps, once it was the right time, she'd take the advice of a fictional character. It certainly wouldn't be the first time literature had made an impression on her.

"Ready to go?" The Doctor asked, holding his arm out for her once their belongings were relocated into the hallway, where they would be rolled off to the next place they ended up. Clara nodded, wrapping her arm firmly around his as she closed the door and locked it behind them.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she smiled, and walked alongside him down the corridor.

A/N: Okay, so I ended up having to divide this chapter into two because it was getting too long, so the other half of The Doctor and Clara's endeavors in Utah is in the works! Who knew I was capable of consecutive updates? I sure didn't. Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites—you all are truly amazing!