Chapter Nineteen: From Here On Out

Clara soon discovered that Amy was an agent for a modeling company, and Rory was an emergency room nurse at New York Presbyterian. She also discovered that she really liked fruity cocktails.

It wasn't intentional. She grabbed a glass of what looked to be iced tea and kept the straw between her lips throughout most of her conversations. Sulfurous with a hint of lemon, she enjoyed it so much as to procure a second one within minutes of finishing the first. It wasn't until she laughed rather loudly at one of Rory's puns that The Doctor grew suspicious.

"May I?" he asked, plucking the glass from Clara's hands and taking a sip. The verdict immediately registered on his tongue as he said, "There's alcohol in that, love."

The fact that she was more focused on The Doctor calling her 'love' than the presence of alcohol in her system was indication enough.

"No," she drawled, surprised to find her voice more exaggerated than usual. "It can't be!"

His eyes lit up in astonishment. "You like it!"

"No, no—" she started, swiping the glass from him and staring at its contents with wide eyes. "Oh, god."

"You do, you really like it!" The Doctor beamed.

"I haven't eaten anything since this morning."

"Last time we were at a bar, you ordered a shot of espresso. My, how the tables have turned."

"Doctor, I'm serious!" she reprimanded, though a smile played fondly on her lips. She hated herself all the more for it. "I don't fare well with alcohol. I get all soppy and spontaneous; it's not a good look on me."

"That's not true," he promised. "If there's anyone in this room that deserves to unwind, it's you. Anything is okay in moderation. Think of it as your one for the road!"

"My what?"

"Have you not heard that saying?" She shook her head. "One for the road. A final drink—most especially an alcoholic one—before leaving for home. A last hoorah before returning to the mundane predictability of everyday life."

"Well in that case, I think I may need more than one."

She just rejected a lucrative business offer from the company of her dreams. How does one recover from such a move? How could she—as The Doctor said—return to normal life without feeling the need to prove to herself why she did it? Oswin and '101 Places to See' had been her entire life for eight years. And while she was proud of everything she'd accomplished, she doubted her ability to follow the exact same routine for another eight, despite everything she'd told Tasha Lem. Clara Oswald would never be sixteen again; she needed to venture into new things in order to grow, a process as meaningful as it was scary. The idea that the things she cherished now might be completely different in eight years was terrifying to her.

Which is why, when The Doctor mentioned going home, she cast her eyes downward so he couldn't see the disappointment that lingered there. She soon became aware of every square inch in which her body pressed against his, a culmination of longing and grief swelling in her chest like a balloon. It's cause: the thought of never being able to feel like this again. Sitting next to a man who'd made more of an impression on her in two days than most people did in two years. Being certain that the Wayfarer Partnership was not meant for her. She wanted nothing more than to bottle up that comfort, that confidence, and keep it with her forever.

Clara knew her heart could never actually ache, but that was what it felt like. The Doctor would probably go off on a medical tangent to explain the phenomenon, but instead of asking him about it, she instead craned her neck to look at him, absorbing every detail she could find. The traces of stubble on his jawline. The smile that rested naturally on his face.

The Doctor caught her staring, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks as he asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like you're concentrating. Have I got something in my teeth?"

"No, no," she told him, dimples deepening on either side of her lips as she smiled. Settling back down again, she took another sip of her drink and said, "You're perfectly fine."

The words of a familiar fictional character resurfaced, the one with blonde hair and suggestive eyes, realistic even in dreams. "He said so himself. You shouldn't have to miss out on anything just because you're afraid to try something new."

Oh, Rose, Clara thought to herself in dismay. It was easier to blame the figment of imagination instead of actually blaming herself. She was sure she was about to do it—ask The Doctor the one question she'd been meaning to ask ever since she'd snogged him somewhere in Midwestern America. Resolving on it before she could think twice, she opened her mouth to speak just as Rory cleared his throat from the microphone across the yard.

"May I have everyone's attention please?" Clara swallowed her words faster than she could her own drink. "As per the birthday girl's request, we're about to kick off our karaoke for the night! A few ground rules before we begin..."

She turned to The Doctor in surprise, the two sharing a small laugh from their spot on the porch sofa. "You're not gonna break anything this time, are you?" she asked.

"Depends," he answered, scratching his chin in thought. "If Rory revisits his Bonnie Tyler impression, I may be tempted to."

Clara sang in a low, sultry voice, "Turn around...every now and then I get a little bit lonely—"

"Dear god," The Doctor said with a chuckle. "There's a reason we didn't play it in the TARDIS. I get flashbacks."

"...and no dropping the mic! We don't need another broken windscreen. I'm looking at you, Caesar," Rory continued, trying his best to look stern. "Okay! That is all; I'll be opening the floor to requests now. Who wants to be the first one up? I'm sure we have a few brave souls in the audience tonight."

The guests murmured among themselves in hesitation. Clara didn't know what made her do it—the cocktail that allowed her instinct to pilot her actions, or regret of not climbing up on stage with The Doctor in Salt Lake City—but her hand shot up before she could give it a second thought.

A few people whooped, sparse applause careening her to her feet as she tried to locate the rationale behind this. The Doctor gave her a baffled smile as she downed the rest of her drink and handed him the empty glass. She was bound to throw her caution to the wind at some point. Better to do it now, before she seriously considered expanding her career and asking the man beside her to come along for the ride.

She would later recognize this as her method of stalling.

"There you go ladies and gentleman!" Rory exclaimed. Dust swirled around the lens of the projector machine, its pale light shining into Clara's eyes as she approached. "Please help me welcome to the floor Miss Clara Oswald, all the way from..." He covered the microphone with a hand and lowered his voice. "Where are you from?"

"London," she supplied.

"Clara Oswald from London everybody! And what will you be singing for us this evening?"

Twisting her mother's ring around her finger, she felt as if she were on a televised talent competition instead of a twenty-fifth birthday party. Leave it to her to over-complicate things. Nevertheless, she pushed aside her doubt as best she could and tried to focus. She and The Doctor had listened to music for hours in the TARDIS. There had to be one song that she knew well enough to perform half-decently for a backyard of strangers.

Several pairs of eyes awaited her response. The Doctor gave her an encouraging thumbs-up from the sofa. Suddenly, she had her answer.

What else? she thought to herself in amusement as she leaned towards the microphone and said, "'Dancing Queen' by Abba?"

The cheers that erupted from the party put her more at ease, Clara relieving Rory of the microphone and fiddling with the chord.

"Oh, so you know that, then? Good, good. Forgive me, I don't really do this sort of thing. Feel free to sing along—actually—please sing along, else I'll be regretting this decision tomorrow morning alongside a potential hangover."

Humored laughs arose from her audience, The Doctor's included. He wasn't surprised by her charisma up there—he'd been on the receiving end of that charisma since Monday morning, but he was proud of her, even for something as minuscule as singing karaoke. In fact, as the music began to pour from the speakers, Clara grimacing at him comically from behind the microphone, he reminded himself how lucky he was to have fallen behind her in line at the airport. The way she conquered her fears was something even he couldn't emulate.

"You can dance...you can ji-ive, having the time of your life—" Stars, she couldn't believe she was doing this. "Ooh, see that girl, watch that scene, digging the dancing queen!"

Her voice was breathy and by no means capital, but that wasn't the point of karaoke. In fact, the more she channeled her seventeen year-old self, prancing around her room and belting into a hairbrush, the more people joined in on the antic. A few of Amy's colleagues from work began singing along. A couple moved to the rhythm in one another's arms. The time she had now, on this unpredictable American trip, was short-lived, and she had no intention of regretting anything from here on out.

Amy shared the microphone with her on the second verse, soon pulling her husband into the mix. And it wasn't long before The Doctor grabbed Clara's hand and spun her around, wrapping his arms around her from behind as they swayed to and fro. The four of them shouted the lyrics into the skies, their dance moves unrefined and hilarious, but what other people thought of them mattered little in comparison to the joy they felt in being with another.

That kind of joy was invaluable, and Clara was intent on holding onto it for as long as she possibly could.

The party continued in a similar fashion. Karaoke transformed into a tour of the decades, The Doctor's homage to Elvis a stark contrast to Amy's brazen rendition of 'Fergaligious.' Clara ended up with two more drinks in her hand before capping off her quota entirely, as it was becoming harder and harder to filter herself. The wall that usually stood between her mind and her mouth was now semi-permeable, thoughts coming and going as they pleased. The last thing she needed was to say something she didn't mean to—especially in regards to her relationship with The Doctor and the direction it was heading, whatever direction that was.

In search of a glass of water, the young writer stumbled into the kitchen, where she found Amy staring at her birthday cake with a troubled expression. The red-head had disappeared into the house a few minutes ago, insisting everyone that she was fine, though now she looked anything but. Clara remained in the entryway for a moment.

"Thinking of keeping it all for yourself?" she asked gently, nodding towards the cake. Amy started. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, that's alright. I didn't see you there," Amy replied. Her smile lacked its usual luster. "Did you need anything?"

"A glass of water, please. I think I've had a bit too much to drink."

"It happens to the best of us," she conceded, and reached towards the kitchen cupboard.

Clara approached the sink, where a window provided ample view of the party outside. The Doctor had treated himself to three Michelob Ultras in the past hour (he'd opened all of them using his sonic, much to the chagrin of his friends) and was now with Rory in a half-circle of people, flailing his arms above his head in a manic dance move of his own invention. She chuckled at the sight of him, wondering how on earth she'd been lucky enough to meet such a spectacle of a human being.

"I think it's safe to say that everyone's having a good time," she observed as Amy handed her the glass, giving a pointed look towards The Doctor.

"Thank you, though I can't take the credit for it," she said with a laugh. "It's my husband that does all the planning."

The two women watched Rory dance. His method mainly consisted of snapping whilst stepping side-to-side. "How long have you two been married?"

Amy let out a labored sigh, her face scrunching in deep concentration. "Well, we officially tied the knot when we were twenty-one, but I've seen him almost every day since primary school. Can you imagine? You think you'd grow tired of a person after nineteen years."

Clara chuckled. "And did you always know he was the one for you?"

"God, no. Up until sixth form, I could've sworn he was gay. He never sought other girls, and I was too daft to notice him paying any attention to me." Grinning to herself, she said, "It's funny. I made this pact with him when I was thirteen. I said that if I was still single by the time I turned twenty, I'd marry him and have his babies on the spot. Course, that was back when I thought twenty meant you were ancient."

"Well, you have the first half of the pact down, which is the most important half," Clara pointed out.

Amy gave her another smile, but this time it felt forced, pained even. Unsure of what she said to trigger such a response, Clara watched as the red-haired woman turned away from the counter and back towards the cake. 'Happy 25th Birthday, Amy!' was written in sugary pink frosting, the cheery message an antithesis to the anguish now twisting on her face.

"...is something wrong?"

It was as if Amy were trying to hold herself together for the sake of being a good host. Sucking in a breath, she rearranged her expression into one of mild but unconvincing composure.

"Nothing. It's not important, really."

Clara fought the urge to prod. She really did. But it was difficult to move past the pain Amy was evidently going through without doing anything at all. What if The Doctor just walked past her that night in the airport? What if Emma just drove past them on the highway without looking back? What would be of her now if everyone just moved past? The thought didn't sit well with her.

"Perhaps it's not my place," she began. "But I just want you to know that I'm here if you need someone to listen. And just because something is sad or unwanted doesn't mean it's not important."

In any other instance, she'd have kept her mouth shut. But this was the birthday girl, the one person in the entire room who deserved to be happy in this instance. That, and Clara was sufficiently drunk.

Amy nodded, as if expecting her to say as much. Plopping down on a bar-stool, she raked her fingers through her long hair and exhaled. "Rory and The Doctor have been teasing me for weeks now because I've been dreading turning twenty-five. They think it's because I'm scared of growing up. Getting tired. Or whatever you do when you become actually, properly ancient. I haven't told them the real reason yet. I know I'm still young. And I know that age is just a number, but..."

"...but?" Clara leaned forwards, her mind trying to connect the dots with little to no avail. Amy's eyes darted around the room as if in search of something to better illustrate her thoughts, but was met with only dirty dishes and abandoned solo cups. She pursed her lips to one side and tried to explain herself.

"My aunt—Sharon. God, I despise her—told me the prime age to conceive is twenty-five to thirty. And me, being antagonistic as always, thought it was complete bullshit. But there was always that one part my brain that believed her," she said. Her voice lowered. "Course, there's no point in counting my age anyways; several trips to the fertility clinic have already confirmed me of that."

It was her subtle yet emphatic way of getting her point across. And once Clara understood, her expression couldn't help but fall. Amy gave her a warning stare; the last thing she needed was one shred of pity from the pretty stranger. A thin layer of it was already wedged between her and everyone else she knew. It thickened each time one of her coworkers talked about their children, or pulled out photographs of their most recent sonogram. She might as well have had 'INFERTILE' stamped across her forehead.

"It's just...whenever I think about the age I am now, it's like this constant reminder of what I'll be missing out on," she continued, frustrated with herself. "I will have to watch that window between twenty-five and thirty close without ever going through it. And that really gets to me sometimes."

Clara looked down at her shoes, keeping her consolations on a tight leash as per Amy's unspoken entreaty. "How long have you known?"

"I found out when we moved here. Rory and The Doctor have been the best throughout all of it, but I think it bothers me more than I let on." She shrugged her shoulders with a helpless sort of smile. "I grew up with two boys. I don't readily reveal these kinds of things."

"There must be other options, though. A surrogate, adoption maybe?"

"We've completed home study, actually. Been on our agency's waiting list for about three years," Amy replied. It was more of a fact than a complaint. "Is it crazy of me to think that I'm the one to blame for those three years?"

"I would say yes, but I'd be the biggest hypocrite if I said I didn't get wrapped in my own head sometimes," Clara sympathized. "How so?"

"I keep thinking that maybe I should've picked a more respectable career. You know, to make ourselves more appealing to expecting parents. I could've at least done that for Rory. I mean, what else am I supposed to do when I can't give the person I love most the one thing he's wanted all his life?"

"Okay. I'm by no means close enough to you to say this," Clara forewarned, alcohol presiding over her better judgement. "But I think the one thing he's wanted all his life is you. You wouldn't be Amy Pond if you were a doctor, or a lawyer. Nineteen years you've spent together! That has to count for something."

Amy smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks. I know you'd much rather be enjoying the party than comforting the strange lady moping over her own birthday cake. I'll be fine, I promise. I'm probably just tired, or worse, hormonal." Frowning, she added, "That's not something you say to someone you just met, is it?"

They stared out the window as The Doctor began gyrating to the beat of a song Clara heard on the radio but never paid attention to.

"At this point, I don't think there are any guidelines."

"God, I need more female friends," Amy groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "You know, when every little girl knew the words to 'Beauty and the Beast,' you want to know what I knew? 'Bohemian Rhapsody.'"

"It's a good skill to have."

"Not as a seven year-old!"

The two women began to laugh, The Doctor and Rory's ridiculous dance moves only amplifying their good spirits. Clara was glad, and maybe even a little stunned, that Amy chose to confide in her. She could tell that she trusted whomever The Doctor invited into her home, and suddenly wondered if he'd invited anyone else before. Surely The Doctor had attracted many a stranger along his travels; she'd be a fool to think otherwise.

"Okay," Amy began, turning towards Clara with an impish look in her eye. "You have to tell me what's going on between you and The Doctor. Don't think I've forgotten, despite your impressive ability to comfort me when you're drunk."

Clara figured her mere presence here would be the cause of some bewilderment for The Doctor's two close friends. "Honestly, your guess is as good as mine. This whole thing started as a ploy to get to New York, but it ended as something completely different."

She recounted to Amy of that night he approached her in the airport café, of how her pulse spiked as he facetiously bantered with two criminals in Reno, Nevada. She told her of their ongoing inside joke of being a newlywed couple to get discounts at their rest stops and the instinctive urge to snog him appearing somewhere down the line. She even told her of their incident on the Interstate, how seeing The Doctor injured and passed out was the most terrifying thing she'd ever faced on a trip.

"That man," Amy said under her breath. "He could break a limb and pass it off as a mere scratch."

"All I know is that I don't want to let go of this, ever. My worst fear is that we'll both walk away from this and forget. He'll become the doctor he's always meant to be, I'll keep writing and go on to do God-knows-what—I'm having a bit of a crisis at the moment—we'll send each other Christmas cards, and that'll be the end of it."

Amy snorted. "Christmas cards?"

"Flings send each other Christmas cards," she reasoned.

"Is that what you think it is?" Amy asked, doubtful. "A fling?"

"To me, it's anything but," Clara countered. "But what if it doesn't work out? What if this thing between us can only exist now? There's little else for two strangers to do in a car for two days except drive, snack and, if you're smitten, occasionally snog."

"Well, you won't know unless you try," Amy said in amusement, gazing out the window at the friend whose happiness she worried about from time to time. "And judging by the way he introduced you, I think your chances are rather good."

"You think so?"

"The Doctor won't introduce anyone to us unless they matter to him in some way, shape, or form. I hardly got a word out of him in med-school. Rory and I were frustrated about it for years, but it's made us realize that when someone does come along, to pay attention." She gave Clara a reassuring smile. "I know you're worried about the future and things not working out, but you shouldn't fret over things that haven't happened yet."

Funnily enough, she remembered The Doctor telling her something similar. It was why they had a checks and balances system put in place. To intervene each other when it was necessary.

"I needed that. Thank you."

"Anytime," she promised.

Clara finished off the rest of her water and placed her glass in the sink. "Okay. No more doubting ourselves about waiting lists and prolonged relationships. You have a birthday cake to devour. And I'm fully intent on helping you out."

"Agreed," Amy said with a sigh of relief, glad to have made a friend in the young traveler. Rory would always be the one she turned to when she needed to vent or have a good cry, but it was nice to have a new perspective. It reminded her not to take for granted the strength that kept them together for nineteen years. "Fetch the candles for me, will you Clara? They're in the drawer right next to you."

Pulling the drawer open, Clara retrieved the zip-lock bag and frowned at the twenty-five individual sparklers inside.

"Are you really going to light all of these at the same time?"

"Risky, I know. You wouldn't believe what The Doctor did at my twenty-first birthday."

Closer to midnight, guests began trickling out the front door, and by two in the morning, the last of them had ordered a cab home. Clara retreated into the house sometime around one, Amy insisting her that she needn't tidy up despite her efforts of doing so. Three-thousand miles hadn't lessened the young woman's hospitality, but her tendency to stare off into space told Amy that she was in dire need of a good night's sleep. Settling her in the guest bedroom, she was out like a light before Amy even closed the door.

"I set up the futon next to the bed," she said quietly as The Doctor came through the back door with a black trash bag in hand. "I figured it'd be more comfortable than the couch, and since I didn't really know what the sleeping arrangement was between you two—"

"The futon's fine, Pond," he reassured her with a tired smile. "At this point, we're used to sharing small spaces."

Upon a suggestive eyebrow raise, he sputtered, "I mean, since we were in the TARDIS for two days, and didn't think it practical to rent separate rooms wherever we went, I just—we—oh, shut up."

Amy only smirked, gathering an armful of plates and plastic cups and tossing them into the bag. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, clearing the living area of the party that had ended only minutes before. It wasn't until they stacked the board games back onto the shelves when she said, "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," he replied, pulling her into a hug. The thing about lifelong friends was that it was so easy to be around them. There was no pretense, no formalities, just the comfortable familiarity that was comparable to climbing beneath the covers after a long day, or feeling the sun on your skin after being inside for too long. The Doctor wished he could keep that familiarity with him forever, but thought better of it. He needed to grow from his younger self, and plus, reuniting with his best friends was always more gratifying this way.

They helped Rory disassemble the projector outside and called it a day, the couple bidding The Doctor goodnight as he retreated into the hallway where the guest bedroom was. Creaking the door open, he was amused to find that Clara kept to one side of the bed, as if expecting him to occupy the other. Prying his shoes off, he walked sock-footed into the room, the gentle glow from the bedside lamp spilling over her hair, her slightly parted lips. Placing a gentle hand atop of her head, The Doctor ran an affectionate thumb over her forehead before lying down next to her. They were still in the same clothes from that morning.

Letting out an amused breath, The Doctor retrieved a pillow from the futon, tucked it beneath his head, and turned off the lamp.

It was the best sleep they'd gotten in a long time.