Chapter Twelve: Bonnie and Clyde
If there was anything Clara identified with in regards to American pop culture, it was her crush on James Dean.
It began when she was thirteen. She sat beside her mum on the couch while she popped in her VHS of 'Rebel Without A Cause,' heart softening at the notorious nature of Jim Stark, a performance of Dean's that was so profound it made her lightheaded once the credits rolled onscreen. She was sure she had watched the film at least three more times that weekend. It didn't matter that he had died in a traffic collision over half a century ago, or that most of his costars had suffered a similarly disturbing fate (the drowning of Natalie Wood, for starters); she dreamt of starring alongside him in a feature Hollywood film.
"He was a cultural icon of teenage disillusionment—in the fifties," Nina observed dryly as she beheld the photos of him Clara had tacked up on her wall, back when the young writer had worn her outdated infatuation like a patch on her sleeve. "I'm pretty sure my gran had a crush on him. And she died ten years ago."
"So what if I'm a bit late to the party?" Clara bit back, hunched over her keyboard as she tried to unfurl sections of her term paper without being rudely interrupted. "James isn't a legend for nothing. Legends are meant to have fans that exceed far past the span of their lifetimes."
"The fact that you're on a first-name basis with him is a testament to how delusional you are," her flatmate drawled from her own bed, pretending to answer a call as she held her cell phone up to her ear.
"It's my gran calling me from the grave," she informed Clara, extending the phone out to her. "She wants her posters back."
The young writer swatted her friend's arm away and ignored her from that moment forward. It wasn't the first time she had been teased because she had fancied someone who was popularized alongside color television. In fact, it took every ounce of self-control not to react each time her father played The Eagle's 'James Dean' in the car on the way to school. The lyrics still haunted her till this day.
"You were too fast to live, too young to die."
Her mother would simply smile at her over her mug of tea, glad her daughter had taken an interest in retro films. On multiple occasions, she would even contribute to the craze, driving Clara to Blockbuster so they could rent his other works and watch it over hot chocolate and salted popcorn. She always predicted that her daughter would find herself drawn to the adventurous type.
And in a way, Clara found that to be true.
She sat in the passenger seat of the TARDIS with the windows rolled down, damp hair flying away from her face as they drove down the highway with the air conditioner turned all the way up. The roaring wind made it difficult to maintain conversation, so she tried to make herself useful, whether by reading her novel, or mapping out the route to their next city. If everything went according to plan, they should arrive in New York City around lunch, with plenty of time to spare before her interview. Her feelings towards the event were similar to that of a student's towards their graduation—it didn't feel real enough to actually be happening. The fact that they were progressing further eastward on the map was enough to make her head spin.
She distracted herself from these impending doubts by debating whether or not to write a series of articles based on the road trip. Names would be changed, of course, specific locations omitted for privacy's sake. But she wanted to remember these past two days without having to rely on memory alone. She wanted to show her readers that Oswin was capable of being spontaneous alongside being responsible. Her blog always had an underlying tone of safety. Perhaps it was time she took it in a new direction.
It wasn't until she dozed off, her notepad in her lap, when her thoughts took another interesting turn.
"Well this is new," a familiar female voice purred from the back of the TARDIS, Rose peeking over Clara's shoulder when she opened her eyes. "A thousand miles ago you were like a cat afraid to take a bath! Now look at you—you're sopping wet."
The noise that escaped her was a mix between a yelp and a shriek. Clara swiveled in her seat, her eyes growing wide as she beheld the time traveler for a second time. She must have been dreaming again, for the air had thickened considerably, while The Doctor just sat there, completely unbeknownst to the extra passenger that had materialized out of thin air. Waving a hand in front of his face, the young writer wasn't surprised to find that he was utterly unresponsive, as if she were trapped in some alternate universe.
"You can say that again," Rose snorted from behind her. Clara turned and shot her a glare.
"Quit rummaging through my thoughts!"
"I am your thoughts," the character reminded her, feigning a wounded look. "The practical ones, at least. Insecurities are stored somewhere in the back, I try not to let them see the light of day." She wrinkled her nose as her gaze flitted over the array of suitcases toppled around her. "Have you ever considered a capsule wardrobe? I hear they're very trendy nowadays."
"What are you here for this time?" Clara asked, feeling slightly exasperated. Was it possible to maintain a headache in your dreams? She thought sleep was a way to escape pain.
"Getting right to it, then. Okay," Rose conceded, draping an arm over her red suitcase. "You're less than twenty-four hours to New York. Have you thought about what you're going to tell The Doctor yet?"
"I wasn't aware I had to tell him anything."
"Oh, don't play daft with me," the time traveler scoffed. "You can't just snog him and leave it at that—look at what's on the table now! Aren't you curious to see what he thinks?"
"I have a few ideas as to what he's thinking about, Rose, and I'm pretty sure a relationship isn't one of them," Clara assured her, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "He has the rest of his career to think about! Residency can't be an easy decision, I'm sure. This trip is more like a...speed bump, than a romantic getaway."
She turned towards the man in the driver's seat, surprised to find how vividly her memory had captured him. From his gravitational hair to the strong jawline and protruding chin, it was if this wraith-like image was really her friend, and not some recreation her mind had conjured of him. His face was expressionless, eyes trained on the illusive road. She was secretly glad she could observe him from the safety of her own dreams. Licking her lips, she continued.
"So what if he—he pushes me out of my comfort zone? Or sees me as a legitimate writer? This is a temporary arrangement, and I would completely understand if he'd like to keep it that way."
She'd had momentary flings before—one of them even sent her a Christmas card once. She just couldn't see how two people from completely different spheres of life could stay in touch over long periods of time, especially when both upheld such busy schedules. When you traveled as much as Clara did, you learned to compartmentalize. To leave things in their proper place. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and whatnot.
"I don't buy it," Rose said, wrinkling her brow. "I mean, who just invites a complete stranger to travel along with them?"
"I can think of a few people," Clara told her bluntly, thinking pointedly to the time traveler and the entire story-line she belonged to. She slumped in her seat. "The Doctor, he's...he's bigger than life. He's brilliant, and funny, and mad. I don't know what I would've done had he not offered to help me in San Francisco. And while these past two days have been incredible, I have to remind myself that two days is all I have. Can you really know someone in such a short amount of time?"
"Have you ever liked anyone as much in such a short amount of time?"
The young writer grew quiet, unable to argue against her.
"I think the fact that you've only just met him scares you, but it should count for something, too," Rose said, looking at her earnestly through the rear-view mirror. "He said so himself. You shouldn't have to miss out on anything just because you're afraid to try something new."
Clara suppressed a small groan, hiding her face in her hands. She hated not knowing what was going to happen when they reached New York. She hated knowing that Rose was right.
"I just don't want to set myself up for that kind of separation. I don't want him to mean something to me only to have it taken away."
Clara had first-hand experience with that already, and made it a point to never go through that kind of loss again. The kind that took pieces of you with it. It was why she became so reserved after her mother passed away; she didn't want to give people the power to hurt her. Often times, it felt like the only thing she had under control about herself.
"Oh Clara," Rose said under her breath, resting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it comfortingly. Offering her a small smile, she said, "I think he means something to you already, whether you like it or not."
The young writer let out an amused breath, for if there was anything she couldn't do, it was lie to herself. Lifting her head from her hands, she asked, "Next time, can I get your alien boyfriend instead? He's much less straightforward than you are."
"And what, have him lecture you on quantum physics? I'm doing you a favor, trust me," she joked, the two travelers sharing a small laugh. Rose reached over and tucked a strand of Clara's damp hair away from her face. "New York will be lucky to have you."
"I do hope so. Although I'm sure New New York is a far more interesting city." Grinning, she recalled the vivid depictions of the world that only existed between the pages of her book. The world that Rose came from. "You know, that scene where you both fell down the hospital elevator shaft? Absolutely brilliant."
"Easy for you to say, you're not the one that had to fall from ten stories high!" Rose balked, shuddering from the memory. "I think I got tinnitus on the way down. It was terrible—"
A car honked somewhere in the distance. Clara glanced out the window, but could see no other vehicles surrounding them. The Doctor still sat to her left, impassive as ever. As if the young writer having a discussion with the protagonist of a fictional world was a completely normal thing. But then again, when had her life ever been conventional? The nonexistent car honked three more times.
"I'll keep your request in mind, though I can't make any promises," the time traveler drawled, sitting back from her place in the TARDIS and winking at Clara through the rear-view mirror. It wasn't long before she would become nothing but distant memory to her, as most dreams typically did. "Catch you later, Soufflé Girl."
And with that, she was gone.
Waking up from such a lively dream was like drawing your head from a body of water. It left you breathing unevenly, with your limbs suddenly unused to the wide range of movement. Everything became much clearer. At least, in Clara's experience it did. Her eyes snapped open, and pieces of reality pooled all around her, most notably the relentless honking she now pinned on the red pickup truck behind them. Her voice was groggy as she spoke.
"What's he going on about?"
The Doctor, who looked particularly fed up by it all, gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He really hoped all the commotion wouldn't wake her, as she needed her sleep.
"I don't know, but he's clearly an imbecile who can't read the speed limit! I swear, if he honks one more time—" The truck blared twice in return, for a grand total of six. The Doctor threw his hands up in the air, clearly having been pushed beyond his boundaries. "Blimey, I'm sorry, hold on."
He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. Clara was severely unprepared for what followed.
"IT'S A SCHOOL ZONE, MATE! I'M GOING AS FAST AS I CAN!" he hollered, her eyes growing comically wide as he continued to hang out the window like a dog. She wondered whether or not he was going to lecture the poor man on the importance of traffic control. "AND WOULD YOU KINDLY STOP MAKING SUCH A RUCKUS? MY FRIEND HERE IS TRYING TO SLEEP!"
Slumping far into her seat, Clara tried not to notice as the driver she spotted in her side mirror gave them a particularly obscene gesture. In a way, it was sweet of The Doctor to ask on her behalf, even if everyone within a five-mile radius could hear them. She tried not to dwell on it too much as they continued to travel down the one-way street at a tortoise-like pace, ramshackle houses of pink and yellow on their left, a dilapidated swing-set belonging to the school yard on their right. Having only seen America at face-value, with its bustling cities and rolling plains, the young writer was unaccustomed to its smaller, more intimate towns.
"Oh stars," she said to herself, realization dawning on her as her face reddened. The Doctor had retracted his head back into the car. "Do I talk in my sleep?"
"You said something about elevator shafts...and aliens," he offered helpfully, dialing down the air conditioner. "Weird dream?"
"Something like that."
He had pulled into town because they were running low on fuel, which Clara insisted she pay for this time when they pulled into a gas station minutes later. Pressing her card into his hand before exiting the TARDIS, she reached her hands up to the afternoon sky and stretched, feeling the tension in her shoulders and legs alleviate into the summer heat. The Doctor fueled the vehicle while she tidied up, tossing cups of diluted coffee-water into the waste and wiping down the windshield. The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them.
"I'm considering writing about our road trip," she said, eyeing the abandoned notepad she had left on her seat. "For the blog, I mean."
He peered at her over the top of the car. "I think that's a great idea! Will I be in it?"
"Well, I certainly can't take all the credit. I'd change your name of course, for privacy's sake."
"Like a pseudonym?" he asked, nearly dropping the gas pump from excitement. "I've never had a pseudonym before! What would you change it to?"
"I dunno. Is there a word for total screaming genius that sounds modest and a tiny bit sexy?"
It was clear her words had struck him hard, because he smiled blithely at her and asked, "You think I'm sexy?"
"Don't push it," she warned. It was bad enough knowing they were going to be apart in less than a day, she didn't need him looking at her like that, too. Like there was no one else in the world he'd rather hear those words from. Circling around the car, she was caught by surprise when he placed his hands on her hips and pulled her towards him. She cocked an eyebrow and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"We could have a theme," he suggested, realizing just how much he liked being close to her. The Doctor enjoyed getting to know her alongside this country he always visited but never explored. He was glad he was finally doing it, and with her of all people. "You could be Bonnie, I'd be Clyde. We could rob a bank together, just to make it more interesting."
"Didn't they murder like, several people?" He winced.
"You're right. That's not very nice, is it? Okay, backtracking here: Simon and Garfunkel. Lennon and McCartney? Or! Or—I know! Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!"
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? I don't see how that's any better!" Clara protested as they burst into a fit of laughter. The kind of laughter that equivocated to warm sun, or a huge sigh of relief. They couldn't get a word out to each other until they settled down. And when they finally did, she shook her head at his infectious smile, and said, "I think 'The Doctor' will do just fine."
Reaching up on her tiptoes, Clara brushed her nose against his, their breath mingling before she eventually closed the space between them in a kiss. And despite the pressure on her waist, or the feeling of his soft hair between her fingertips, the one thought that emerged among those that were otherwise of him was, Don't fall in love. She did that trick quite a lot, twice today even. She needed to remind herself that Wednesday would end whatever this was between them, and begin whatever she was headed towards in New York. This was a temporary arrangement.
"I don't think Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ever did that," she told him afterwards.
The laughter that escaped him was almost enough to contradict everything she believed to be true. And despite the potential goodbye that awaited them just five hundred miles away, she didn't want these memories of him to be tainted by the possibility of it ending. They had been too good for that.
Holding her hand out, she chuckled as he took it and squeezed it twice. No, she thought to herself as she returned to her rightful place in the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Nothing could ever ruin this.
And then the TARDIS wouldn't start.
Ilene Towers was a simple woman. She attended church every Sunday with her kids, bought the daily paper for her husband to snooze on at the breakfast table, and repaired vehicles at the local shop every other day of the week. There was little else to do in Sherrodsville, Ohio but to stick to a routine and anticipate nothing more than what it entailed. Because with a population of less than three hundred, you hadn't any other choice.
So when two strangers with foreign accents trudged up the road and begged for their flashy automobile to be towed, she considered it an exciting day.
"Engine failure," she concluded, emerging from the car's cavity of steel-wire veins and mechanic organs. "You two are lucky you broke down when you did. There's nothing in either direction of this place for miles."
The girl, who wore a breezy cotton dress and a deeply troubled expression, appeared faint. "I-Is there anything you can do?"
"Failure seems like a harsh word," the one next to her said. He was clearly the more optimistic of the two, for his face was pulled into an unconcerned smile, the kind she'd only seen children wear. "Are you sure it isn't just a momentary setback? A tiny scratch?"
"If you call an overheated engine a 'tiny scratch,' then by all means," Ilene replied. Perhaps the more appropriate term to describe him was 'in denial.' "When was the last time you flushed the engine coolant?"
"The engine coolant—?" he laughed lightly, exerting a great deal of effort to show that he knew exactly what she was talking about. The car mechanic didn't look impressed. His shoulders fell. "It's a universally neglected practice! Like choosing grains, or…flossing every day."
"We're from London," the girl explained, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on her brow. "The TARDIS is a rental car we borrowed back in San Francisco; we weren't aware we had to check for anything."
"San Francisco?" Ilene's dark eyebrows shot up. "Why the hell are you two driving all the way out here, then?"
The travelers exchanged glances, about a million words contained in each of their troubled expressions. Something told her that there was more than just one explanation as to how they ended up in this tiny gathering of a town.
"It's kind of a long story," the boy said with a wince. "All we're hoping for to make it to New York by tomorrow; it's very important. Is there anything you can do to help us out?"
"That's a rather large request," she admitted, resting a hand on the hood of the vehicle. It was a beauty, the TARDIS. She'd never seen one up close before. An insanely high mileage, all-season tire set, and apt horsepower were just a few of its admirable qualities, but nothing was more enticing than its rich shade of blue. The car was but a jewel in the midst of the dusty garage. It was a shame it was broken in the first place.
"The logical option is to have the engine rebuilt," she started, readjusting her bandana so to further inspect the hub. "But that in itself could take weeks, two at the least. And you sure can't rely on Sherrodsville alone to provide you the parts. We'd have to get them shipped in."
"We don't have that kind of time," he insisted. She ducked her head out from under the hood and wondered if he understood her inability to perform miracles. She dusted her hands on her jumpsuit, which was already covered in suit and grime from the day's work, and sighed.
"Then I don't know what else to tell you."
The girl's face had gone pallor, and she began gnawing her thumbnail with a startling ferocity. What occasion was so significant as to warrant such dread? It seemed to be eating at the young woman from the inside out. Not to mention the fact that they both looked restless and fidgety from travel. Ilene couldn't blame them; two-thousand miles of continuous countryside would drive anyone insane.
"Is there a place nearby where I can buy water?" she asked, running a hand over her face. She looked in dire need of something stronger, Ilene thought to herself. A nice cold Heineken and some fresh air. Or maybe a ventilator.
"There's a restaurant just across the street."
"Perfect, thanks."
Murmuring something to her boyfriend before leaving, the young woman continued chewing on her thumbnail like it was a piece of gum. At this rate, she wouldn't have a finger by the time she reached the crossroad. The young man's eyes didn't leave her until she was out the door.
"I understand that an engine rebuild is out of the question," he began, licking his lips as he approached. "But there has to be some other way. Money isn't an issue, or luxury, for that matter. I just… I promised Clara we'd get to New York City on time, and if we don't…if she doesn't…"
The Doctor had been so sure of himself this entire time that it left him completely unprepared for the doubt he now felt. Why hadn't he flushed the engine coolant? Why hadn't he known about it until now? He could have glanced at a manual, surely. In his right mind, he knew he needn't be so hard on himself, but they were so close, and had traveled so far, to have reached a dead end.
"This girl must mean a lot to you, then?" Ilene asked, sensing his distress. He let out what she could only assume was a laugh.
"She does."
The car mechanic nodded, her arms folded across her chest. The expression she had on told him that she was developing either a genius escape plan or a possibly regrettable one. He would take anything at this point.
"I have an idea, then. Follow me."