A/N: Here we are friends, at the end of the road! In all honesty, I need to pinch myself to believe it. This story is truly a labor of love; it's the first one in years I've been able to write from start to finish, and I'm grateful to have experienced it with such a lovely group of readers. I made sure to tie up all loose ends in this chapter and, just for fun, included a quote/passage that I think sums up The Doctor and Clara's relationship rather nicely. Again, thank you for your patience, encouragement, and kind words, and I hope you enjoy!

"Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.

Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over after being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident."

— Lois de Bernières, Corelli's Mandolin

Chapter Twenty: Ready As I'll Ever Be

"Our luggage is here!" Clara cried, stepping out onto the front porch and stretching her limbs towards the cloudless sky. Three days had passed since Amy's birthday party, and while she was grateful the former model had extended her closet to her for the time being, she was happy to have her own clothes back. Three full days of long-legged pants had made her the center of good-humored pity in the Pond household. Dragging the blade of her scissors down the smaller of the two UPS boxes, she was relieved to find her red suitcase stored safely inside.

She grabbed the handle and lifted it from the package, a soft thud landing to her immediate left. Eyes drifting downwards, she was surprised to find that a daily newspaper had fallen from the box and onto the wooden floorboards. The front page headline had her leaning in closer.

'A RACE AGAINST TIME: ILENE TOWERS HELPS YOUNG OUT-OF-TOWNERS BACK ON THEIR FEET!'

The photograph, a grainy image of the car mechanic leaning smugly on the hood of the TARDIS, put a wide smile on Clara's face as she picked up the newspaper and scanned the lines of the endearing piece.

'As of now, I don't know if they got to where they needed to be,' Towers said when asked of the traveler's cross-country endeavors. 'But I like to think that they did. And I like to think that I was a part of that story.'

"...Doctor, you have to read this. We made the front page!" she said upon entering the house, The Doctor indulging in his own reading at the kitchen table. He was quick to lower the screen of Amy's laptop, flashing her an unconcerned smile like a child caught with a jar of sweets. She lowered the paper in cautious distrust.

"What are you doing?"

"Who, me?" he asked her innocently, removing his round spectacles. "Hardly anything—just a bit of light reading to jog the brain."

Circling the table and nudging his hip with her own, Clara planted herself halfway on The Doctor's chair and lifted the computer screen. The soft colors and clean graphics of '101 Places to See' greeted her like an old friend. It startled her. She studied the screen for several seconds, somewhat unconvinced that it was still on the Internet for all to see. To her, Oswin—and all her familiarity—had disappeared with the pieces of her broken laptop. Now, everything came flooding back in the form of widgets and witty titles. The entry he was currently reading was one of her favorites. 'Junior Entertainment Manager: Star-Ship Alaska!'

"I loved that gig," she said with a light laugh. "Nina and I worked a children's theater on a summer cruise-line. We basically babysat for five hours while the parents tested their fate on the casino deck."

"You said here that one of the kids contracted a respiratory infection."

"Did I?" She squinted at the screen. "Oh, that's right. Poor Timothy. He still managed to hit the high notes, though."

The Doctor's eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Was it pride, awe, or a mixture of the two? He gazed at her like one might a book they'd fallen in love with upon only reading the first chapter, fingers turning page-by-page in a quest to reveal the unknown. Seconds passed before he realized he'd been staring for too long, and chuckling nervously to himself, he said, "I thought I'd, uh...see what Tasha Lem was missing out on."

Gratitude crossed Clara's face as she looked to her lap and fiddled with her mother's ring. The scrapes on her fingers were patching together slowly. "No one really knows I'm Oswin except my dad and Nina. And you, of course. They think it's fascinating that I lead this sort of double-life."

"What made you decide to do it?"

"Write under a pseudonym, you mean?" The Doctor nodded. "Privacy, at first. I didn't want any of my schoolmates finding out what I did with my free time. As Oswin, I could say what I wanted to without worrying what other people thought of me. Now, I think I keep it because it's a brand I've made for myself."

The more she thought about it, the more she felt it was time for a change. Oswin provided her with strength, something she needed at the age of sixteen. But since then, and most especially throughout this trip, she'd discovered that she had plenty of strength herself. The strides she'd taken since San Francisco were evidence of that. Perhaps wiping the slate clean and just being Clara was enough for her.

"Morning," Rory yawned as he descended the stairs in his robe and slippers. He snorted upon seeing the two travelers in such close proximity to one another; it reminded him of when he and Amy were teenagers. Tottering over to the fridge, he stared at his limited options in disdain and asked, "Omelets and coffee for the third time this week?"

"You'd think we'd have ran out of eggs," The Doctor muttered.

"Omelets sound perfect Rory, thank you," Clara replied. She stood from the chair and stretched again. "As for the coffee, I think I'll pass."

The Doctor was stunned by her response, a faint smile appearing on his lips as she warned him, "Don't look impressed yet. I'm expecting symptoms of withdrawal by noon."

"I'll make you a tea," Rory offered instead, fetching the kettle from the cupboard just as his wife walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, your luggage finally came in!" Amy exclaimed when she saw the giant UPS packages stationed by the front door. Her disheveled appearance was no less relaxed than her husband's; dressed in a silky pink robe and striped pajama bottoms, she hid her yawn behind the back of her hand and murmured, "Thank goodness. I'm all for you borrowing my clothes, Clara, but the height disparity is just ridiculous."

"Agreed. I don't intend to wear your clothes ever again." Even now, in one of The Doctor's spare t-shirts with 'Oxford University' screened onto the front, she looked to be donning a caftan. "Or anyone else's, for that matter."

"I thought you liked wearing my shirt," The Doctor said in disappointment.

"I do like it," she defended, folding her knees beneath the fabric. It hardly even stretched. "I can use it as my own personal parachute. Hibernate in it during the winter."

"Did anything else come in the mail?" Amy called from her place by the Keurig.

"A few bills, I think," Clara replied. "I put them on the counter."

Amy began brewing a fresh cup of coffee and padded over to the stack of mail, flipping through a series of bills and gardening catalogs before a creamy white envelope caught her attention. She read the return address and felt her heart skip a single, skeptical beat.

"Did you see this?" she asked her husband. Rory confirmed that he hadn't. "It's from Monica and the agency."

Amy explained to The Doctor and Clara that Monica was their adoption social worker whom they've been in contact with for the past three years. She managed to keep her expectations at bay whenever they corresponded with her—usually it was an email thanking them for their patience, or a phone call reassuring them that their efforts were not ignored—but it seldom came in the form of a letter. She swiped her nail across the top of the envelope and tore the letter out.

The others must have detected a change in the air, for they all quieted to watch Amy's procession back and forth the kitchen tiles. Her voice was trembling but discernible as she read aloud, "'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Williams, I am pleased to inform you that we have found a potential match for your family and are willing to take the next step in the adoption process..."

"Oh my god," Clara breathed.

The Doctor was grinning from ear to ear. "It's about time."

"I have attached a letter from the expecting mother and encourage you to contact me as soon as possible—" Amy flipped to the next page, the steady hand of her husband now kneading at the tension that suddenly formed between her shoulder and neck. She announced the information as it presented itself. "The mother's name is Louisa Bennett...she's due in February with a baby boy...and she saw our video profile and would love to meet with us!"

Amy's elated scream had The Doctor and Clara on their feet in an instant. Rory cried in triumph as he pulled his wife into his arms, shocked and teary-eyed that their prayers were finally answered. Three years they had waited for this, their hopes of becoming parents a quiet yet burning flame in the midst of their hearts. They attended conference upon conference, pored over parenting books left and right, and constantly worked to improve and prepare their home for a family. Now, a new road stood before them—and judging by the enthusiasm of a Miss Louisa Bennett—the journey looked to be quite promising.

"Wait!" Amy yelped, retracting herself from the celebration that had formed in her kitchen. She held the letter close to her chest and winced. After all, nothing was set in stone, and she was willing to tread carefully if it meant readying herself for any potential disappointment. "I will not get my hopes up, you hear me? No hopes are going up today! There are still a lot of interviews to be had and paperwork to do, and decisions. Big, scary, life-altering decisions. What if she decides on another couple? What if things don't work out in the end? Or...or..."

Clara stopped her with a stern look, the expression parallel to the one Amy held a few days ago in this very spot. It was a reminder to take a deep breath. To listen to her own advice. "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."

"Oh, what the hell! We're having a baby!" she shouted into the ether, grabbing her husband and planting a firm kiss on his lips. "I need to call my parents."

With that, she dashed upstairs to retrieve her cell phone, her giddy laughter trailing behind her as she went. Clara embraced Rory as he tried to compose himself, The Doctor's arms encircling them both as they allowed the unending joy to overcome them. The man at the center of their group hug was going to be a father, and a great one at that. In fact, The Doctor believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that his best friends would only be the best of parents. The way they looked after him, even from thousands of miles away, was a testament to that.

"I say we propose a toast!" The Doctor said, well-aware that eight o'clock in the morning was far too early for champagne but too buoyant enough to care. The rest of the party posed no further argument.

"You know what? I'll do you one better," Rory proposed when they released one another. He returned to the fridge, and standing on his tip-toes, retrieved from the top of it a wicker basket with a blanket tucked beneath the handle. He looked to his two guests with a bright smile. "Anyone up for a picnic?"

"'She pulled the man into a passionate kiss, knowing very well he might never be the one she fell in love with years ago, but cherishing the one she stood with now on the dusty sands of Bad Wolf Bay. Wind roared in her ears as he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. It would be years before she stopped mistaking that wind for the wheezing and groaning of the time machine. But as she parted from him, her hand pressed beneath the layers of his coat, Rose Tyler felt the steady beating of a heart nestled beneath her palm. Singular, loving, but most of all, human.'"

The spine of her book cracked shut. Clara dabbed a napkin beneath her eyes and turned to face her audience of one. "Stars, are you crying too?"

Rory wiped his face with the heel of his palm. "What? No. No, I'm not crying."

"It's okay to cry over this sort of thing, you know," she offered, setting the novel down on the picnic blanket. "I cry whenever I watch 'Pride and Prejudice.'"

"The one with Keira Knightley? God, that's such a good movie."

The group had sprawled their picnic blanket across a rocky clearing of Central Park for brunch, chicken salad sandwiches, apples, and a bottle of champagne being passed between them as the sun warmed their skin. The Doctor and Amy had since abandoned their partners to feed the ducks, Clara and Rory staying behind in the comfortable company of one another. Clara asked if it was okay that she read the last chapter of 'Withering Rose,' and Rory suggested she read it aloud, listening quietly to her impassioned narration whilst keeping an eye on the two misfits as they toddled on the bridge ahead.

"Do you remember, Doctor," Amy said, tearing off a piece of bread and tossing it into the water below. "When you'd run away for weekends at a time in medical school?"

"I wasn't running away. You knew exactly where I was at all times."

"Yes, through very cryptic and indiscernible voicemail messages. 'I fell into a fire-fall today. All is well!' What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The Doctor pouted at her substandard impression of him.

"I didn't mean to fall in, I only wanted a closer look. It's one of nature's greatest phenomenons! When the setting sun hits the water just right, it illuminates the waterfall's upper reaches. Not to be mistaken with the 1872 Yosemite Fire-Fall, where burning hot embers poured from Glacier Point—now that would've been disastrous."

"That's not the point I'm trying to make," Amy said, however amused. "You were always restless whenever you stayed in one place for too long. You couldn't stand it. You were a graduate student with the attention span of a five year-old."

"Well, of course. There's no point in being grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes." The remainder of his bread plunked into the lake, casting water rings in every direction. Two ducks swam up to the morsel curiously. "Why? Have I changed in any way?"

"Not in the slightest. Even if you did, I wouldn't have wanted you to." Resting her elbows on the parapet, Amy trained her eyes on the curve of the creek as it disappeared beyond the bend and into the sun-soaked trees. She eventually cast a glance to her left, where Rory and Clara were engaged in quiet, amiable conversation. Was it strange of her to think that the two were alike in more ways than one? "It's just that...for the past four years, you looked as if you were just sort of wandering about. Now, you look like you finally know where you're going."

The Doctor must have met her line of vision, for his expression dissolved into one of complete and unmistakable adoration. How easily Clara fit into the puzzle of his friends, his family. How mind-boggling it was that some people spent years searching for the surety he felt in being with her. The Doctor wasn't certain about a lot of things. But he was certain about Clara, however closely he kept that thought to himself. His only hope was that a small part of her thought the same.

"When you and Rory moved here, you told me to never travel alone," he said.

"I did. See what happens when you take my advice?"

The Doctor smiled, prying his gaze away from Clara and focusing it on the patches of trees that revealed bits and pieces of the New York City skyline. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pleated dockers. They were olive green, and paired nicely with a button-up and pair of oxfords. He felt it necessary to dress up for Amy and Rory's occasion, and—on a more personal level—the question which he was to ask Clara when the right moment arose.

"I think I'm going to ask her out on a date."

Amy startled. It wasn't often those words left his lips. In fact, it was the most serious she'd ever seen him in regards to the subject. She couldn't help but laugh. "Was the whole of America not a good enough first date for you?"

"Do you think she'll say yes?"

"Are you kidding me? What makes you think she'll say no?"

"I dunno. Her common sense. My inability to read her mind."

"She's in love with you, you poor fool. Anyone with eyes can see it."

His mind returned to what Clara had told him at Wayfarer Industries. "I think it's safe to say that I'm in love with you, too." That sentence alone lingered in his memory until it no longer sounded normal. It kept him up at night, sufficed him with hope like a lighthouse did a sailor. He knew no sane person could ever love somebody in a week. He knew that Clara, with her desire to travel and continue writing, might venture into a future without him in it. Being in love and actually loving someone were two entirely different things. Whether or not they could do both was up for them to decide.

"Ask her, Doctor. Or else I'll be tempted to do it for you," Amy said with a reassuring smile, dropping the rest of her bread into the lake and slinging an arm around his shoulders. They walked back towards the picnic in the silence, the sound of Clara and Rory's laughter carried to them by a phantom wind.

"I have something for you."

The Doctor turned from his place by the stove, a wooden spoon stuck between his lips. He'd promised to keep an eye on the pasta sauce while Amy and Rory were upstairs, breaking the news to their relatives over Skype. Clara's hands were behind her back.

"For me?" She nodded. "Is it your famous soufflé recipe? Because I'd never do it justice."

He'd bragged about her soufflé all morning to his two friends, leaving her in no other position but to make it for them on the night of their celebration as future parents.

"As if I'd ever tell you," she said with a smirk. "A baker never reveals their secrets."

She brought forth a small box and placed it into his hands, color warming her cheeks as he beheld the present with a child-like curiosity. Walking to the sink and turning on the faucet, she scrubbed her hands and tried to recite the ingredients she needed to begin baking. Butter. Eggs. Salt. Vanilla.

"I found it at Westroads but forgot to give it to you. I know it's not much—in fact, it's a bit cheesy—but I thought it was as good a thank-you gift as any."

The Doctor watched as she tried to act nonchalantly about the entire thing, like it was anything but a big deal. But it was, at least to him. Seldom was he given anything of sentimental value—unless expensive liquor from former classmates counted as sentimental. His Christmas for the past four years consisted of non-denominational greeting cards from Oxford and the traditional crew-neck sweater from Amy and Rory. Needless to say, he was touched by the kind gesture, and lifting the lid off the top of the box, peeked inside. His eyes brightened in delight. "An American bow-tie!"

He grinned like an idiot as he ran his fingers across the crisp fabric. Everything—from the neat rows of stars on one side to the iconic red and white stripes on the other—made him want to put it on immediately. Unfolding his collar and removing the accessory from its box, he exclaimed, "It's a real bow-tie, too!"

"Do you like it?" Clara asked, wringing her hands together as she approached. He gaped.

"Like it? I love it—this is amazing! Thank you."

His broad smile filled his face and instantly put her worries to rest. She'd spotted the bow-tie in a department store window and stared at it for several moments before being asked if she needed assistance. Walking out with a shopping bag not a minute later, she wondered whether or not it was a good decision, if The Doctor would even wear it at all. She now bore a demure smile as he tied the accessory around his collar with ease, his fingers working swiftly as he pulled both ends of the tie into snug, even wings.

"Not bad, eh? What do you think?"

Pursing her lips to one side, she reached up on her tip-toes and readjusted the bow-tie, hands smoothing down his shirt until eventually coming to a stop at the place where his heart sat. The little distance between them made her lightheaded; she thought she would be used to it by now.

"Doctor..." Clara began, her voice quiet. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

He looked down to meet her gaze, a tinge of color appearing on his cheeks. "Yes?"

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she tried to focus on his eyes. A siren wailed from a nearby street.

"Do you remember when I agreed to go on this road trip with you?" He nodded. "Well, when I did, I thought, 'Dear God, what did I get myself into?' I like being in control, or at least pretending that I am. I like knowing what comes next so I have enough time to avoid it if necessary. And you promised me none of that."

The Doctor let out an amused breath as he tucked back a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. She leaned into his touch with a small smile and continued. "I was afraid we'd get lost, or break down in the middle of nowhere. I was afraid we were too dissimilar of people to ever find common ground. But most of all, I think I was afraid I'd end up liking the way I was around you."

She reached for his hand splayed across her cheek and inspected the shallow scrapes that remained. There was one near his wrist that was nearly healed. Another ran the length of his index finger. There was no doubt it would scar over. Bringing his hand to her lips, she pressed a kiss to the skin of his palm and folded over his fingers into a fist. Emma's words echoed in her mind. "Hold on to what's good, Clara. Whatever that is to you."

"I know this isn't how real life works," she admitted. "You and I lead entirely different lives outside of this, and I've been trying to prepare myself to go back to mine. But then you tell me how you want to rent out your own place and practice medicine, and I can't help but want to be there for you when that happens. I want to know if you're okay and help you when you're not. I want to sing with you in the car and listen to you ramble. Because I care about you, Doctor. And if there's even the slightest chance that you might feel the same, then—"

He closed the space between them and kissed her. But unlike all the other times, there was no underlying question lingering in the air, no doubt over what the other wanted or how long this relationship would last. Because if there was anything they'd gathered in the two days they'd spent traveling to New York City, it was that time was too valuable, too fleeting, to leave unsaid unspoken. And Clara was fully intent on letting The Doctor know just how much she meant what she said.

The Doctor rested his forehead on hers, his voice breathless as he asked, "Clara Oswald, will you go on a date with me?"

Upon seeing the surprised look in her eyes, he added, "Not to imply that karaoke and drinks wasn't a date, but I want to take you on a proper one. One where we sit across from one another in a dimly lit restaurant and make fun of the menu. Or one where we go watch a film, though I'd probably talk to you the entire time. That's not to say that you can't decide, in fact, it's probably better that you do. That is, if you say yes. If not, then that's completely fine—"

She interrupted him with a kiss, the rest of his words disappearing into thin air. He couldn't even remember them by the time she pulled away.

"Does that answer your question?"

The Doctor let out a low laugh, bending down and placing his hands on either side of her face as he pressed his lips against hers. It was as if a veil had been lifted, the sure promise of seeing him tomorrow and the day afterwards sparking an indescribable joy within her. A thrill of anticipation poured down Clara's spine. I'm in love with you.

Parting his lips with her own, her pulse quickened as he moved his hands down to grip her waist, the skin beneath her dress burning with the instant need for his touch, this want for him that had been building inside of her for days. All of her indecision on whether or not to give in, to allow The Doctor into her heart, came tumbling down, and she was wonderfully content with it. Clara let out a faint whimper as they staggered backwards, the backs of her knees hitting the kitchen cabinet. She was hoisted onto the counter not a moment later, a groan escaping The Doctor as she clasped her arms around his neck and allowed his tongue to caress hers in soft, gentle strokes. The pot on the stove-top continued to simmer.

"Mm, Doctor..." Clara murmured, pulling away from his kiss and staring at the stove-top in alarm. "You're going to burn it."

He spared a brief, if not unwilling, glance over his shoulder before grabbing the cooking timer to his immediate left. She shook her head in humored disbelief.

"Eh, still got ten minutes," he said, tossing the timer aside and meeting her lips once more.

It was Clara's last day in New York City, and she was spending it in an open café with a notebook open before her. It was no Espresso Express, but it would do for the time being.

Her morning was full of tearful goodbyes and warm embraces. Delighted to hear of The Doctor and Clara's confirmed relationship, Amy and Rory had outdone themselves in welcoming her to the family, going so far as to organize a 'bring-your-girlfriend-to-dinner' night, in which they prepared a roast and pored over their best friend's childhood photographs on the living room sofa. The Doctor was both grateful and mortified by the display.

"If they're treating me as one of their own," he joked with Clara after they'd gone to bed. "Then God knows what they'll do when their son is of age."

The terminal of John F. Kennedy International Airport was bustling with caffeinated flight attendants, dreary travelers, and the occasional electric cart. Clara observed the spectrum in silence, the edge of her pen tapping against her bottom lip in careful deliberation. She had since handwritten five more articles for '101 Places to See,' and was impatient to buy a new laptop so she could publish them. Her travels with The Doctor had ignited her inspiration, the young man quite giddy to learn that he'd become her new muse. She advised him to get over himself, but hid her grin when watching him read her first drafts. She was particularly fond of the comments he penciled into the margins of her notebook, suggesting places where she should elaborate, reacting to her words in the form of underlines and lopsided smiley faces.

"Clara, look what I found!" The Doctor exclaimed upon returning to their table, the young writer lifting her head to see a white t-shirt splayed across his chest. It had a yellow taxi-cab screened onto the front beneath the words, 'I SURVIVED MY TRIP TO NYC.' She bit down her laughter as he did a twirl.

"Seriously? You bought one of those?"

"No, silly. I bought two," he said, reaching into the plastic bag slung around his arm. "I got you an extra small."

"Bless your heart," she replied earnestly, taking the souvenir and holding it up to her petite figure. "I love it. Thank you."

A waitress approached them and asked if they needed anything. The Doctor ordered a coffee with creamer; Clara asked for a refill on her tea.

"How's the caffeine embargo treating you?" he asked as she poured hot water into her mug, a fresh bag of camomile bashing about inside. She watched her beverage brew for a moment before giving him a reassuring nod.

"It's going well. I've been feeling less jittery, which is good. And who knew the benefits of an eight-hour sleep?"

The Doctor gave her a wry smile. "You need to help me get my sleeping schedule back on track when we return home; I have my first meeting with King's College Hospital in a week. I'd die of embarrassment if my consultant walked in on me dozing against a wall, or worse, on a gurney."

"That's right, you start your specialty training a week from now," Clara said, pride gleaming in her eyes. When The Doctor revealed to her that he'd chosen a London hospital to specialize in emergency medicine, she was skeptical at first. After all, the reason she'd met him in the first place was because he had his eyes on other places. But he'd reassured her that he was happy with his decision, that out of all the places he'd considered, London was the only one that gave him a reason to stay. Clara had turned a fine shade of red by that point. "Are you ready to go back to work?"

"In all honesty, I didn't think I was," he admitted, lifting his mug to his lips and taking a sip. "A small part of me just wanted to leg it."

"Leg it where, exactly?"

"I dunno, Lake District? They do great scones in the Lake District."

"I'll add it to the list," she noted, flipping to a yellow post-it note stuck on the inside cover of her notebook. It was where they recorded a list of places they wanted to visit in the future, given they had the time and invested wisely. Cebu's Sinulog Festival and Miami's Little Havana were already at the top of the list. "So, why did you decide against it? According to Amy, you're infamous for your spontaneity."

He propped his ankle on a knee and considered her question carefully. "I think a part of me is eager to finish out what I started. I've had my fun, enjoyed my time off. And seeing you work so passionately with your writing has reminded me of what I have to look forward to. I love being able to make quick decisions and work on my feet. I love knowing that the things I've studied have the potential to help people. And as of next week, I'll finally be able to just that."

It's a doctor's job to give people the chance at being happy.

"I'm proud of you," Clara said, trying to fend off her sentimental tears as she reached for his hand across the table. "I don't have a doubt in my mind that you're going to be brilliant."

The intercom chimed above them not a minute later, the voice of a woman echoing down the noisy terminal. "Attention all passengers. We are now boarding flight number 6130 service to London. All passengers, please make your way to gate B-11. Again, all passengers for flight 6130 service to London, please make your way to gate B-11 at this time."

"What do you think?" The Doctor asked. "Will they cancel on us again?"

"Better not," Clara warned, shooting daggers towards the ceiling. She closed her notebook and slid it into her backpack. "I may be able to handle America, but I'm not about to cross the Atlantic on anything other than that plane."

The Doctor stood up from his chair and lifted the handle of his carry-on. "Who knows? It might be fun. We can hitch a cruise-line, graduate to a cargo ship along the way. We can sing 'Castaways' by the Zac Brown Band!"

"We don't need to get lost at sea to sing 'Castaways,' Doctor."

Clara and The Doctor made sure to leave a tip for their waitress before departing for their gate, tickets at hand and luggage in tow. When they boarded their flight, they found a vacant row near the back, buckled themselves in, and listened quietly to the flight attendants' perfunctory safety demonstration. Clara knew this procedure like the back of their hand—they both did. But as she wrestled open the window to watch the airplane lurch forwards onto the runway, she couldn't help but see it through a new light. She knew The Doctor felt the same way when he interlaced his fingers through hers upon the arm rest. He squeezed once. Twice.

"Ready to go home?" he asked. She nodded, gazing out the window as the airplane began to pick up speed. That split-second feeling of weightlessness greeted her like an old friend when they finally lifted from the ground, and when it was over, gravity pressed her back into her seat.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Clara "Oswin" Oswald is a British author, English teacher, and travel blogger. She began writing under a pseudonym at the age of sixteen, her mother's travel guide "101 Places to See" the integral inspiration for her blog of the same name. She has since found success in baking soufflés. "One For The Road" is her debut novel. Clara currently lives in the London area with her husband and two children.