Chapter Sixteen: Windfall

A piece of unexpected good fortune, typically one that involves receiving a large amount of money.

"Hello! Hellooo? Hello...hah! Just kidding! I'm not actually here right now—speak if you must."

BEEP!

"Can you change your voicemail, Pond? It's severely misleading and in no way funny," The Doctor spat. "Has Rory taken my suggestion of buying twenty-five candles for the cake? He said it was hazardous, so I promised to stay in the back so I wouldn't set the tablecloth on fire. Again." He let out a slow exhale, trying not to let the inevitable disappointment seep into his tone. "Happy birthday, Pond. I wish I could be there to say it in person. Call me back if you get the chance."

He couldn't bring himself to reveal what had happened last night. Amy didn't deserve that kind of news over voicemail, especially not today. Especially not when she was expecting him to walk through her front door in a matter of hours. Perhaps if he kept it to himself, the reality of his circumstance would feel less real. Less consequential.

Morning dew curled around his ankles as he went back inside and slid the parlor door shut. Guests had sleepily trickled in from their upstairs rooms in various stages of undress: businessmen in stiff-collared shirts, families in their pajamas, hikers in worn-out athletic garb. The Doctor shouldered his way through the busy dining room and into the kitchen, where David sat at the Palmers' breakfast table, squinting at the newspaper.

"What's a three-letter word for a Scottish prick in a fast car?"

The Doctor furrowed his brow, leaning over the man's shoulder to get a better look. The follow-up was brief; David recited a series of commands, such as "Follow the penlight with your eyes," or, "Can you walk to the door and back?" Only after The Doctor struggled to touch his toes was he officially cleared, but not without a few humored looks from the family physician himself. Since then, the daily cross-word puzzle had become their new center of focus.

"Can't say that I know," The Doctor murmured.

"Well, that makes two of us. And I was born in Scotland," David mused, tucking his yellow pencil behind an ear. He cocked his head to the right. "Emma left you that so you can ice your wrist. Keep it elevated on the table to reduce the swelling."

The Doctor frowned, picking up the package of frozen peas. "Do I need to carry this around with me all day?"

"It's a bag of frozen vegetables, John, not an ankle monitor," he teased. "I'll get you a compression bandage to immobilize it."

Clara crossed the threshold not a minute later, having showered and changed into one of Emma's floral jumpers, a pretty article of clothing she adored but had no intention of keeping. The Doctor's heart swelled with endearment just as it had when he'd awoken beside her earlier that morning. The writer herself now exchanged an intimate glance with him from across the room, her lips perking into a soft smile as she approached the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Miss Oswald!" David exclaimed from behind his paper as she sat down at the breakfast table. He'd traded in his pinstripe suit for a more casual attire, a cotton shirt and pair of jeans. "Glad to see you up and about. How're the ribs feeling? Still twenty-four of them?"

"All twenty-four present and accounted for," she informed him, cradling her mug in her lap. "Don't you have work this morning, Dr. Docherty? It's nearly eight."

"You two are my work, as far as I'm concerned," he joked, pointed the pencil between the two travelers. "No, I'm on call for the next two days."

"Why isn't the rest of your family here, then?" Emma quipped from her place by the stove. David grimaced.

"I swear, I extended the invite! The missus has copy-edits due today—I've got a temporary eviction notice and everything," he declared ruefully. "In the meantime, I've been brushing up on the old vocabulary. Do you happen to know a three-letter word for a Scottish prick in a fast car?"

Clara frowned and took a brief sip of her coffee. "Isn't 'jag' another word for 'prick?'"

"Of course!" The Doctor exclaimed, dropping his fork on his plate with a loud clang. He promptly winced as a jolt of pain shot through his wrist. "Jag as in Jaguar! Blimey, that's clever."

"Not exactly my train of thought," Clara said, nudging the bag of peas closer to him. "But whatever suits you."

David peered over the top of his glasses and filled in the corresponding letters. "Brilliant. Thank you, Clara."

The Doctor leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, the gesture so quick and unanticipated that she hadn't the time to formally react. His green eyes twinkled with pride as he announced to the table, "She memorizes the answers to Trivial Pursuit questions."

Guffawing, Clara swiped a grape from his plate and popped it into her mouth. "I also have a degree in English. Though I do consider my mastery at Trivial Pursuit a note-worthy achievement."

Her breakfast arrived not a moment later, the young writer thanking Emma as she picked up her fork and dug in. Clara hadn't realized how much she needed a home-cooked meal until now, the culmination of savory and sweet lingering on her tongue with every bite. It was heavenly.

"So, have you got any plans for today?" the woman asked as she came and sat down. Clara pretended not to notice The Doctor's pressing stare against her cheek as she nodded and wiped her mouth with her napkin. Optimism was the only way she would get through today. Even if it meant omitting the importance of the interview she would be missing.

"Well, seeming as though we'll be staying here longer than anticipated, I tried to coming up with things to do," the young writer said as cheerily as she could, recalling the research she had conducted earlier that morning. "For one, we could go to Hamlin Lake Park, get our steps in. There's also a quaint coffee joint called the Country Porch, or—! If you fancy a day trip, I hear Kinzua Sky Walk is lovely this time of year. I read that there's a section made of only glass, so if you look down, you can see the ravine below. Which, come to think of it, is only a little bit terrifying."

She stopped her rambling to catch her breath, her audience blinking back at her with stunned expressions.

"What?" she asked them, fork poised in mid-air. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Emma said a second too soon. "It's just...I didn't know anyone actually read those brochures I put out on the front desk."

"You've been here less than twenty-four hours and you're already capable of giving tours," remarked David. Meanwhile, The Doctor's green eyes had returned to her, his stare now pleading. She merely shook her head.

"Well, I have to keep myself occupied somehow. Anything is better than making that phone call to Wayfarer Industries and telling them that I can't make it today," she admitted with a pained laugh. "The moment I do is the moment it's really over. And I don't know if I'm ready for that yet."

Emma reached across the table for her hand. The four of them remained quiet for a moment, chatter from the dining room cushioning the silence. They might not have known one another for that long, but in that moment, a sense of understanding resonated between them. Because at one point or another, all of them knew what it felt like when plans—important plans—didn't work out.

"What if...you didn't have to make that call?" The Doctor said abruptly.

Clara lifted her head, confusion clear as day on her face. "What?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, you see. I put up a rather, erm, compelling argument—"

"That he did," David input.

"...in favor of us making it to New York," The Doctor finished, watching as the young writer's expression went from puzzled to astonished to slightly vexed. He raised his hands to defend himself. "And before you go on saying that I'm mad—!"

"Oh, I think we're far past that," she breathed in disbelief.

David was paged not a second later, the cheery jingle a stark contrast to the tension now forming in the room. Seeing this as a prime opportunity to give the two some privacy, Emma retrieved a pitcher of water for the guests and ushered the family physician out into the dining room. Clara sighed, shooting The Doctor a grave look before asking, "What on earth are you thinking?"

"You're better. I'm better. David cleared me! I did everything he told me to do—well, except touch my toes. But I'll tackle that another day."

"Doctor, we've discussed this already. I don't feel comfortable traveling having not fully recovered yet. I already made that mistake once and I'm not making it again."

"But I made a promise to you—"

"You didn't promise me a thing," she reassured him. Taking his uninjured hand, she looked at him sternly, and said, "You are not responsible for what happens today. I am so grateful for what you've done for me Doctor, but please don't blame yourself for this. Nobody should have to carry that kind of guilt."

He quieted suddenly, turning away. He was certain that she could read every emotion on his face. How she was able to do so in such a short amount of time was unbeknownst to him.

"I can't help it," he admitted with a frustrated breath. "I can't help but feel as if I've hurt you in some way."

Clara scoffed, her lips curving into an amused smile. "Are you kidding me? Doctor, I've never felt more like myself than I am with you. You make things look easy; you reach for things like they're possible. Ever since my mum passed away, I haven't returned to that way of thinking. You've reminded me that the world isn't as bloody terrifying as I once saw it."

Despite himself, he laughed at that. She'd hoped he would.

"I am fine. Plans change. I can't count on everything in my life working out the way I wanted it to, but I can count on it working the way that it should." Eyes softening, she added, "But I don't want to be the one keeping you here, either. If you want to drive up to New York this afternoon, then you should. You deserve to see Amy and Rory, and they deserve to see you."

"What, and leave you here? You know I would never do that, Clara. We're in this together."

"I know," she said. Her hands retreated back into her lap, fingers twisting nervously at her mother's silver band. "I know."

They hadn't meant to put the other in such difficult positions. For one, The Doctor was not, under any circumstances, leaving this town without her. And Clara was firmly intent on staying put, for reasons he couldn't completely understand. Yes, they'd both lost about a year's worth of sleep in the span of two days. But judging by her extensive research on a town that was merely a street on a hill, she was clearly willing to leave the house. It didn't sit well with him.

This was the woman who'd held her ground while having a bullet aimed between her eyes. This was the woman who'd insisted they keep going even when her well-being was at stake. Why now was she so reluctant to leave?

"Hang on," he said, narrowing his gaze. "This isn't about bed-rest at all, is it?"

"Of course it is," she replied, a little more quickly than she'd have liked. "I told you, I don't feel ready to travel to another state."

"You don't feel ready to travel? Or you don't feel ready...period?"

Her face blanched as soon as the words fell from his mouth. The Doctor's eyes softened.

"Clara, I think the world of you. You know I do. Blimey, I thought it was impossible to fall in love with someone as quickly as I did with you."

She paused. "You...you're in love with me?"

"You sound surprised," he chuckled, reaching up to cup her cheek. "Yes, Clara Oswald. I am positively sure that I'm in love with you. That said, I'm only saying these things out of love."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "God, okay."

"I know you're recovering, and I'm sorry that you are in the first place. But I don't think that's the reason you don't want to go." Hesitating a moment, he lifted her injured elbow, running a gentle thumb over the bandage. "You shouldn't have to use this as an excuse for not taking that interview. You shouldn't have to miss out on opportunities because you're scared. What kind of a person would I be to you if I let you do that?"

It would've been easier to deny it, to deflect his accusation with another argument. But it wouldn't be enough to convince him. In fact, as The Doctor studied her carefully, she wasn't sure she could convince herself anymore. She'd spent years taking the easy route, blaming her faults on parts of herself she believed couldn't be changed. Her reserved nature was due to the loss she had endured as a teenager. Her refusal to sleep was a product of the lifestyle she chose. Were those valid justifications, or had they turned into excuses? Denying her fear was always the easy part. It was owning up to it that was the most difficult.

Which is why, instead of actually admitting that, she blurted, "I don't have any clothes."

The Doctor blinked back in surprise. "Is that why you don't want to go to your interview today? Because you don't have any clothes?"

"Yes. I mean, no. No as in that's not the only reason, but yes as in...you're right. I am scared. Because a part of me still thinks the world is bloody terrifying, and I just realized that all of my clothes are being shipped to New York. I've only got this jumper, which I'm pretty sure is two sizes too large."

Lips twitching into a smile, The Doctor let out an amused breath before drawling out, "You're truly something else, Clara Oswald."

"...thank you?" It was hard to meet his stare without the heat rushing towards her face. "Seriously, though. What am I going to do? I didn't even think to pack a spare change of clothes."

"I've got a solution for that," Emma chimed in as soon as she entered the kitchen, several empty plates balanced on her arms. "Sorry, sorry—I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear!"

Clara only nodded absentmindedly, her gaze falling to her stack of half-eaten pancakes. She couldn't imagine the entire course of one's life being decided in a day, or in her case, a matter of hours. She couldn't envision sitting before the CEO of Wayfarer Industries in clothes she had yet to buy. This wasn't the way things were supposed to play out; she was supposed to have time to prepare, plan an outfit, and soak in a bath. But then again, when had life ever lived up to her expectations?

"Oh my stars," she breathed. "I'm going to that interview, aren't I?"

The flutter of excitement that bloomed in her chest was answer enough. Because while life may have never lived up to her expectations, it always found a way of exceeding them. Time and time again. The reassuring smiles she received from the people around her were proof of that.

"What about this one?" David asked from behind the rack. He parted the curtains of patterned dresses and corduroy pants to offer Clara a suit, which held an uncanny resemblance to the one he was wearing earlier. "The stripes will make you look taller."

She furrowed her brow. "What's wrong with my height?"

"Five-foot-one is a perfectly capable height!" he argued. "It's John that's the anomaly."

"Oi!" The Doctor snapped, poking his head out from around the aisle. Tufts of his fringe stuck out beneath the rim of a fez. "You're a fine one to talk! Six-foot-one and pinstripes—you're a walking optical illusion!"

"Careful now. Shall I immobilize your other wrist?"

The Doctor glared at him, readjusting the hat with as much dignity as he could with the bag of frozen vegetables strapped onto him like a watch. He'd never been to a charity shop before, but was enamored by the potential history behind every article of clothing he laid eyes on. From a wide-brimmed Stetson to a pair of brainy-looking spectacles, it wasn't surprising that he'd garnered more in his shopping basket than Clara and David combined.

"I love Dr. Docherty, I really do," Emma whispered in her ear as she sifted through a bin of blouses. "But pay no heed to his advice. His wife does all the shopping for him."

"I heard that! I'll have you know I bought this t-shirt myself at The Proclaimers' 1994 tour—what a night that was! Don't remember half of it."

It was odd enough that facets of Dr. Docherty's personality were reflected in the male protagonist of the book she'd been reading, his uncanny wit and august sense of style almost parallel to that of the fictional character's. But it was even stranger that he was now handing her outfits in a charity shop as if he'd known her for years now. She briefly remembered the conversation she had with Rose in the murky waters of her own dream.

"Next time, can I get your alien boyfriend instead? He's much less straightforward than you are."

Clara stifled a laugh. The irony of it all was too impossible for her to comprehend.

Returning to her conversation with Emma, she whispered back, "Don't worry. I've had my fair share of eccentric fashion choices with this one over here." Cocking her head to the right, the two women turned to spectate The Doctor admiring himself in the mirror, a monocle on his left eye. "I'll be surprised if we make it out of here at all."

After minutes of searching, Emma dug out a white blouse with a beaded collar from the bottom of the clearance bins. Holding it up to the young writer's petite frame, she nodded her head in approval. "It's got a few wrinkles, but nothing a bit of spray can't fix."

"As long as the bandages are hidden, I'm all for it," Clara agreed, taking the button-up and draping it over an arm. "I don't need the first question they ask me to be if I engage in some sort of mixed martial arts."

"You'd certainly leave an impression on them if you did."

They paired their find with an intricately threaded black-and-white blazer and a sharp pair of mid-rise slacks, the outfit itself totaling to just under thirty dollars. Inspecting her reflection in the grimy mirror of the fitting room, Clara stuck her hands into the pockets and beamed. It wasn't what she'd planned, but somehow, it was better. The Doctor seemed to think so, too.

"By god," he breathed when she pulled back the curtain, his arm stuck in the sleeve of another tweed coat. "Is it strange that I'm ridiculously attracted to you in business casual?"

They left the charity shop with armfuls of bags in tow, David leading the way as he gave the two visitors a tour of the sparsely-populated borough. From the ornate manors of the downtown district to the rundown businesses lining main street, the family physician always had a story to tell about each and every location they passed.

"Is that your practice?" The Doctor asked, pointing to a ramshackle office perched along an uphill street. The words 'SMETHPORT MEDICAL ASSOCIATES' whispered from a sign staked into the grass, the painted letters bleached from the sun. David nodded.

"There she is," he announced proudly. "Nothing much, but she'll do until next year."

"Next year?" Clara asked. "What happens next year?"

"This town can't afford to keep their own doctor's office afloat," Emma supplied mournfully, squinting up at the place as if it were already disappearing. "By next September, the closest place you can go to get a flu shot will be the hospital in Bradford."

"That's terrible," the young writer murmured.

"And you're sure there's nothing you can do to save it?" The Doctor asked, his face adopting a deep frown.

"We've already requested St. Elizabeth's parish to collect monthly donations on our behalf, but insurance has increased massively this past month," David explained. Clara could suddenly see the distress settled into the lines on his face. Not only was he a doctor responsible for the lives of an entire town, but a businessman and father, too. Carrying all of that weight on his shoulders must exhaust him. And yet he was kind enough to provide care for two strangers in the dead of night.

"Anyway, enough about finances! They're a direct route to grey hairs, so do allow me to maintain my youth—or what's left of it, that is," David said with a cheeky wink. "Still want to stop by the Country Porch on our way home, Clara? If we speed-walk, we might be able to catch one of their blueberry scones."

Half an hour later, Clara nibbled on the buttery delicacy and watched as The Doctor tried to fit his new belongings into his backpack. ("The tag said it was 'bigger on the inside!' Bigger on the inside, my arse.") She was sitting cross-legged on the bed they'd shared the night before, a series of potential interview questions written on the notebook in her lap. It bothered her to no end that she couldn't open her laptop to search up a few more.

"You have that look on your face," she told The Doctor without looking up from her questions.

"What look?"

"That look you have when you're planning something clever. Is this about David's family practice? You've been quiet ever since he told us about it."

He dropped the tweed coat he'd been attempting to fold for the past several minutes. "I just can't accept the fact that I'm going to go on to residency knowing he won't even have a place to work next year. I've always assumed physicians had secured jobs, but you could tell that he loves that practice. This town is a home to very few, yet important people; they deserve a doctor they can depend upon."

"I agree," Clara nodded, taking the coat and folding it with minimal effort. Stuffing it into the compartment and wrestling the zipper closed, she extended the backpack out to him and asked, "So what are you going to do about it?"

A smile broke out onto his face, like the sun did on a cloudy day. It was as if he'd finally found the answer to a question he'd been asking himself for years.

He merely shrugged. "The only thing I can do."

"I rang up your friend—Ilene, was it? Told her I'd repair the motorbike in three days, tops. She said she'd pick it up on her way to Princeton," Alan said upon entering the kitchen. "She sends you her best, but wasn't surprised when I told her what had happened to you. Should I be worried?"

"Best not to," Clara replied. "Ilene was our car mechanic when we broke down in Ohio. I doubt we came across as the most reliable drivers."

"Look at you, abandoning vehicles across the United States," David remarked with an arched eyebrow. "Alan, are you sure you aren't harboring fugitives?"

Clara chortled. "Funnily enough, that's not the first time someone's asked that."

"Okay, I packed iced teas and sandwiches in the convertible, and the GPS is set for New York," Emma announced, clapping her hands together. "Is everyone ready to go?"

"Almost!" The Doctor's footsteps clamored down the staircase as he burst into the kitchen, his sunglasses askew on the bridge of his nose. "Emma, I know you told me not to, but I paid the front desk for the guest room. Couldn't help myself. And David, this is for you. Don't open it until I'm gone." He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and extended it out to the physician, who beheld the offering with a stunned expression before taking it.

"Well, what are we waiting for, Christmas?" The Doctor snapped suddenly. "We've got a city to take by storm!"

Following the young man out into the driveway, the group packed their belongings into the Palmer's automobile and exchanged their goodbyes with David, who would be staying behind to attend to the calls of his patients. He embraced The Doctor briefly before holding up the envelope, lips pursed into a slight frown.

"I have a feeling that I know what's in this envelope, John. And I'm tempted to give it back to you."

"Don't," The Doctor insisted, his tone firm. "Consider it a thank-you. You've ensured my hand's continued attachment to the rest of my arm."

"Be careful out there. I don't need you coming back here to see me," David joked. "Keep him in line, won't you Clara?"

"On it," the young writer said as she approached, smiling when he pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. The hardest part about meeting people was knowing she'd have to say goodbye to them. No matter how many times she'd done it already. "Genevieve is lucky to have you as a father."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," he replied with sincerity. "Let me know how the interview goes."

"I will," she promised him, turning towards the car. It wasn't until she wrenched the door open that she remembered. "Oh, and David?"

"Yes?"

"Just out of curiosity, what does your wife do?"

He shot her a baffled, if not amused, smile. It didn't make the pride that shone in his eyes any less noticeable.

"She's a writer."

David,

You might be wondering if I robbed a bank on your behalf. I swear, I didn't. The amount written comes from the remaining profit of my parents' business I sold a few years ago. People said I gained a financial windfall, but I am in no need of a windfall more so an opportunity to make it purposeful. I hope it will be enough to keep the doors of your practice open for longer, and that I'll grow to be half a good a doctor as you are in the near future.

Best regards,

John Smith