All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.
Peter Pan | J.M. Barrie
Chapter Two: Interchangeable Interrogative Pronouns.
Clara
A thump echoed behind her and Clara turned around, fascinated by this untouchable man who was asking her to run away with him. He crouched down for a second, clearly attempting to gain back his balance, but Clara could only stare. His face glistened in the moonlight as it cast shadows across his features, one of his eyes getting the benefit of the moon's position and the other hidden by malicious secrets.
He spared no moment to watch her as well. Nearly tripping forward, he grabbed her hand and Clara refused to acknowledge the immediate flaring of heat that spread as a result of the contacting flesh. He blared ahead of her and she found herself picking up her pace behind him, watching his body bob up and down as his lanky, too-tall legs travelled too fast.
Narrowly avoiding catching her feet on various stones and twigs, Mystery Man took Clara through the stony pathway that connected her house with the beach. She was confused for a moment, wondering why they were going out into the open if men with fucking guns were chasing them and briefly thought about a good way to escape from this self-proclaimed madman, but when her feet hit the soft sand and it began gritting underneath her socks she decided to trust him.
And she didn't have any clue why.
Not once did he look at her while they dodged various beach huts and scattered animals. His grip was firm on her hand, sweat building up from the closeness of skin, and he dragged her like she was a broken down car and he was her life saving tow-truck. Clara thought, in the way back of her mind, that maybe that analogy wasn't so far off.
As they neared the middle of the wide-stretched beach Clara had a fleeting memory spark in her brain. She remembered her grandmother and grandfather taking her to this exact spot just after her parents passed. They were old and still fairly new to the orphan situation. It'd been years since they had to be parents, but Clara, even at age eight, knew that the people with her then had both lost someone they loved dearly.
Grandfather Oswald took her down here as the tide was going out with a bucket and they built sandcastles. Higher and higher they went, sand crumbling and getting stuck in places grandmother would chastise her for later. Some turned out great, with perfectly shaped pillars and seashells lining the perimeter. Others were not so fortunate, being knocked down by Clara in a huff of anger because one side tumbled down, or the wind blowing over and sending sand in the dear Clara's brown eyes.
The last one their hands created before the sun began its descent was the best. Clara wished she'd grabbed that photograph. The castle was large in diameter, but fairly short. Four towers, crafted by the hands of an old man; outlines of windows and a drawbridge, of square stones and cracks. A moat, deep and filled with sea water, filled with a crab Grandfather Oswald had caught. He brought his shaky, aching finger to the front of their creation and signed his name, gesturing to Clara to do the same. Her finger was less developed, her signature still in practice, but it was clear who this masterpiece belonged to.
Grandmother forced them side by side behind the castle and took a picture, the flash burning Clara's eyes. When they went home, Clara spent the night worrying about the castle, about the thing she had created with her grandfather so soon after her parents death. The next day, she begged and begged Grandfather Oswald to take her back. He begrudgingly put his shoes on and wrapped her warm, walking with her to the place where their hands had met the wet sand.
When Clara got a good look at what had become of the castle, when she saw that all that remained of it was literally nothing but perhaps the few remnants of original sand grains, she realised what life was. You spent your entire lifespan worrying and creating, loving and devoting time to things, only to have them all destroyed while you're not looking, while you're not paying enough attention to recognise how futile living actually is. After that, Clara gave up on the world. Pity that, an eight-year-old deciding that the world had nothing to offer except heartache and destruction.
"Come on, Lancashire." The muffled voice of Mystery Man dragged Clara's mind of her memory and she nearly bashed into him when he stopped moving. Stopping just short of her feet hitting his, Clara took a moment to catch her breath, pretending to not notice his stare.
A cooling breeze blew over them and Clara shivered in her hoodie, reluctantly releasing Mystery Man's hand from her own. She folded her arms to her chest, feeling the pattering of her heart hum in her chest, convincing herself halfheartedly that it was just the running causing the erratic beat and not the mysterious stranger trying to drink her in with his eyes. She stepped back briefly only to have him take one step toward her. She did it again and again just to see if he'd follow. And without pause, every time she moved, he moved. In perfect synchronization as if it were a practiced dance between two old overs. Clara had to shake that comparison from her head, the unbidden image of him and her sweating for entirely different reasons blasting her brain.
Gathering her head, Clara finally met Mystery Man's attentive gaze. "Care to tell me where we're going?" She asked confidently, surprised at the lack of nervous twittering her voice usually held when speaking to people other than her grandparents and Craig.
Mystery Man shrugged casually and shot her a half smirk. Despite the adrenaline pumping through her and the questions clouding her brain, Clara still found it possible to go weak in the knees at the sight of his upturned lips.
"I figured we'd wait for them to find us." He whispered finally, his breath tickling her skin with its closeness.
Clara scoffed and Mystery Man looked at her with confusion. "I'd rather not die tonight, sir. Could you please either take us wherever we're going or let me leave?"
Mystery Man dropped his playful smirk but refused to look away. "I'm waiting for something," he said slowly, his smooth voice gruffer all of a sudden.
"I don't think an alien spaceship is coming tonight. They'll have to beam you back up tomorrow," Clara muttered lightly, but her nerves tingled when Mystery Man looked at her with newfound appreciation. "What?" She asked, a breathy moan if nothing more.
"Nothing, nothing. You're right. We must hide." His words came out quick and he reached for her again, his hand squabbling in midair as Clara's arms were still wrapped around her own body. Sighing, she let him take her hand again and felt the whoosh of elation pulse through her as he picked up speed.
They passed several more beach huts before Mystery Man stopped almost as abruptly as last time, with Clara still finding herself seconds away from crashing into his tall body.
Skidding, Clara frowned at him. "Warn me next time, please. I'd rather not risk breaking anything with my supposedly pointy chin again."
Mystery Man grinned at her, eliciting a hot flash so intense Clara worried for a second that she was either six months pregnant or menopause was hitting early. "This is it," he said through the smile on his face, pulling a key from his pocket and walking up the hut steps. He twisted the key in the lock for a moment, jiggling it left and right, and the padlock clicked open. He pulled it off, pushing the door open all the way and leading Clara inside. Turning back around, Mystery Man bolted the door shut from the inside, pulling the door a bit to presumably check it was properly locked.
Clara turned and saw that the place was spacious with no signs of anyone actually having used it before. It smelled like chemicals and aftershave. The black and white tiled floor was spotless, no sand or dirt anywhere in sight. There was a curtain hiding the kitchen portion of the hut and Mystery Man spared no time with showing her around before he pushed it aside and went in. Beyond the curtain stood at least an entire beach hut worth of more space.
Blinking profusely while pinching herself painfully on the back of her hand, Clara entered the extra room and turned around to face her captor.
"What is this?" She asked. He didn't answer, he was fiddling with the curtain. It'd caught on one of the rods and wouldn't budge. Clara moved toward him and as if he could sense her behind him, he turned abruptly and looked down at her. Fighting off the swarm of unrecognizable emotions whirring within her, Clara frowned. "I can help with that."
Mystery Man eyed her curiously. "How?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Clara rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Lift me up and I can help. You're no tall enough and I'm definitely not tall enough," he sniggered at that, but she ignored him and went on talking. "So, put your hands on my waist, lift my feet off the ground, and together we can pull the damn curtain from the rod."
Seemingly mulling over the idea, Mystery Man shrugged his shoulders all noncommittal-like and motioned for Clara to go in front of him. She obliged his request and braced herself for the feel of his large hands encasing her tiny waist. She knew the moment he touched her not from the indent in her skin, but from the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and gooseflesh made its way down her arms and legs. Shivering slightly, and praying he didn't notice, Clara's feet left the ground and she reached up to yank the curtain closed. It took less than ten seconds and before she knew it, Mystery Man was plumping her back on the ground, his hands leaving her clothing in fear of catching fire.
"Teamwork. I like it," was all he said as he turned away from her. Clara saw a flicker of something in his eye, something that looked a lot like when her father would look at her mother when they were younger and thought Clara didn't know anything, but he moved so fast that she could only think she was dreaming it up.
"Well," Clara began in a low voice. "I figure if we're going to be on the run together we should establish some sort of trust in each other."
She heard a mumbled 'yes' as Mystery Man occupied himself with clanging and banging in the too large beach hut. Clara watched him unabashed as he reached into cupboards and pulled out random things like a few old looking mobiles and some stacks of paper. Nothing that belonged in cupboards. Keys sprinkled the countertop and Clara wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.
Deciding to break the not awkward silence he seemed content to keep, Clara went up to him again and tapped his shoulder. His body twisted at lightning speed and he turned his eyebrows up. Clara laughed, embarrassed at interrupting him, but he didn't move a muscle, he just continued staring at her, waiting for her to speak. "Right," Clara sighed, putting one hand on a counter and the other on her hip. She closed her eyes, willing to get a grip on the situation at hand. "Speaking of being a team," she continued, not looking him in the eye but rather following every other inch of his face, "can you tell me what we're doing?"
No sooner had the words left her mouth when Mystery Man smirked and blindly pulled one final thing out of the cupboard. The ground magically, or maybe not so magically, disappeared from under their feet. Clara's scream got lost somewhere in her throat and before she could comprehend what was happening, she slammed into some hard surface. Her eyes watered from the amount of dust particles in the air, but it only took a small moment to realise nothing had broken. It wasn't that far of a fall.
She looked around curiously, chiding herself for not being more frightened but not able to force herself to feel fear. "Where is this?" She asked, her voice croaking in desperate need of water.
Something moved in the shadows, approaching her quickly. "Drink this," it said, handing her a water bottle. Mystery Man. "You probably inhaled some sand on the way down." He plopped down next to her and Clara could feel his body heat radiating off him. "Are you hurt?" He sounded genuinely concerned and Clara smiled, shaking her head to indicate that 'no, I have not been hurt.' She gulped at the water and gave it back to him.
"Are you?" Clara asked in return, looking him up and down. His trouser leg looked a little ripped and there was sand covering most of his body. His eyes locked on hers when she wasn't paying much attention and she lost herself in the darkness of them. He bore into her, searching her soul for something. She could almost feel him nudging her heart.
But then he turned away and laughed numbly. "Just my ego. I've never been so disarrayed in front of a woman before. I always wanted to try that, though." He craned his neck and stared up at the closed ceiling. It must've been some sort of trapdoor.
Fumbling for the right words, Clara stood up and brushed the sand off her clothes. Mystery Man followed her up, wobbling a bit on his legs and leaning in her direction. He stumbled back a few steps and Clara couldn't help the giggle that escaped her throat.
He frowned playfully and Clara smiled back. "Sorry," she said, trying to gather the courage to ask some questions. Taking a deep breath, she decided to just shoot off everything in her head. "So, who are you? Are you a spy? A wanted man? Because I wouldn't put it past you to be some sort of criminal. Or are you an alien? What are you doing? Why's the government chasing you? Why did I run away with you? Are you going to kill me? Are they going to kill me? Why was the hutch two times the size of a normal beach. . ." Clara didn't get to finish her last question because in all the daze of words spilling out her mouth, Mystery Man had swiftly stepped in front of her and was currently cupping her mouth with his hand, muffling any sound she might attempt to make, words dying on the tip of her tongue.
A shiver tingled her spine and she caught Mystery Man smirking. She pulled away from him and he held his arms up in defense, still smirking. "I'm serious," she said weakly, clutching her hips.
"You're seriously asking if I'm an alien?" Clara looked at him, her face morphed into one of confusion. Had she asked him if he was an alien? His laughter disturbed her uncertainty and she felt anger begin to boil in her blood. "No, Lancashire, I'm not an alien."
A sneer dripped from her mouth and she had no time to bother apologizing for it. "Well, thanks for clearing that up, Mystery Man. Could you tell me what you are instead? Or maybe promise me that you're not going to murder me in this creepy underground cave? Or, perhaps, because I'm feeling lucky, could you tell me what the hell we're doing?"
"I like angry Lancashire. She's sexy," Mystery Man bit out between clenched teeth. The words he used and the manner he said them in puzzled Clara, but she couldn't deny that they still propelled an unfamiliar, wanton-like fire through her veins.
Pushing any impure thoughts away, like Mystery Man pushing her against the wall and having his way, Clara cleared her throat. "I don't like being angry at strangers. Just tell me what we're doing, please. I literally abandoned my life, my only friend, my job, everything, just to follow you. And now we're in some underground cave with barely any light and it's late and I'm tired."
Mystery Man started walking her way, a menacing smile playing at his lips. Clara gulped back her words and shuffled back and back and back until she hit the sandy wall. Mystery Man stood in front of her, his body curving against hers like it did in the pub, his flesh so close to touching hers that every nerve ending in her entire body ignited and sparked.
"You're not tired, Lancashire. Don't lie to me. That wouldn't be getting off to a very good start, would it?" He asked, his nose brushing against her collarbone, breath leaking beneath her shirt. She couldn't say anything back. All she could do was pray that her body stopped reacting to his like it was, but she knew that request was futile. "You're thrumming with adrenaline. You love that I took you away, swept you off your small feet. You're tired of living here, in this place day after day. You need an adventure. And I'm giving you the opportunity to go on one." His lips grazed the base of her throat and she could tell he heard her whimper because those same lips curved into a smile that ghosted her flesh.
"Tell me you trust me," he said. It was no question, he was telling her, warning her, forcing her, to trust him. To admit it, to just spill the truth; no matter what, and for some unknown reason, she trusted this man.
She groaned in frustration (but also in overwhelming excitement) and turned her neck which was a bad idea because it gave his lips the perfect opportunity to press against the tight skin of her pulse point. Clara could feel her heart rate pick up against his rough mouth and she heard the smacking sound of his lips leaving her neck. He grabbed her chin delicately and turned her head to look at him. He captured her gaze and refused to back down until she said something.
"Answer me this, Mystery Man," she mumbled, wishing he weren't standing so close. "Why me?"
He chuckled, the sweetest sound Clara had ever heard. "Why not?"
Clara exhaled and placed a gentle hand on his scruffy cheek, the needles of hair pricking against her palm. If she weren't so preoccupied with getting her thoughts in order she might have recognized the slight shift in his head as he leaned against her hand. "I trust you."
Mystery Man didn't smile this time, instead he just stood there, looking at her with beautiful eyes that seemed so lost and bewildered and hurt. Her voice caught in her throat when he leaned in closer, his breath escaping his lungs and dancing around her lips. She tingled with anticipation, sure that he was two seconds away from kissing her. Her eyes closed on instinct, her pulse quickening dramatically and sweat leaking from her pores, as she braced herself for the touching of flesh that never came.
A shrill buzz destroyed the connection with harshness and cruelty and Clara literally could not stop the small cry that escaped her when he pulled his body away. His cheek left her hand and she finally got an opportunity to breathe.
The buzz still sounded off, hitting the walls and vibrating Clara's bones. It was a phone. How'd they get service down here?
Mystery Man closed his eyes momentarily and Clara jumped when he bashed his fist into the wall. He immediately pulled it back and flexed his knuckles, looking at Clara and then to his bloodying hand in shock. Clara rushed to him and took his hand, watching his mouth open and close repeatedly.
"I did not think it would hurt that much," he said when Clara brushed her fingers against the scuffed knuckles.
Smiling, Clara looked at his pocket. "You gonna answer that?"
Nodding his head, his mouth still hanging open, Mystery Man pulled the phone out of his pocket and pressed the ANSWER button. He held the mobile to his ear and Clara could hear the muffled voice of someone screaming.
..1..1..
The Doctor
The Doctor, who usually appeared more than capable of everything and anything, stood next to Lancashire with a bloodied fist and an Oscar-worthy expression of pain on his face, listening to Amy prattle on and on about how utterly stupid he was for bringing a civvy into this.
He held the phone away from his ear, delighting in the feel of Lancashire softly rubbing at his cuts, and tried thinking of a good excuse. He could go the easy route and say he just wanted to fuck her, but that's no real reason because he didn't have to run away with women to get them in bed. He could use the excuse he did with Lancashire, tell her without a doubt that the Torchwood team was chasing her too, but Amy would never believe that.
His brain stopped working momentarily when Lancashire's finger grazed a sandy cut and he flinched, watching her lips mouth 'first aid kit' and her eyebrows go up in question. He pointed to the chair in the corner and whispered, "Under the chair."
She nodded, letting go of him and going to grab the kit. Without the distraction of the wonderful woman he'd stolen he turned his attention back to Amy. "I'm a civilian too, Pond." Might as well go with the obvious truth here. The Doctor was no special agent, despite what Lancashire might believe. That did sound a hell of a lot sexier than freelance journalist though. Maybe he'd just never tell her who he was. But he had a feeling if he wanted her to follow him the whole way he'd need to at least not lie.
"Maybe so, Doctor, but you're a trained civilian. This is a girl from a pub with no life experience to her name. A rich kid who left her grandparents for the real world and ended up getting nothing in return. Leave her there, Raggedy Man." Amy sounded angry. Usually The Doctor liked getting her pissed off, but right now she was trying to ruin his plans. Even if he didn't know what plans he had.
"She's staying," he mumbled quietly when Lancashire returned with some rubbing alcohol, germolene, and gauze. He gasped when the alcohol hit his skin and didn't miss the small smirk on Lancashire's face.
"Oh, don't tell me she's doing something to you while you're speaking to me, Doctor. I thought I told you not to do that. I do not want to hear you getting sucked off again. It was bad enough the last time."
The Doctor could imagine Amy's scrunched face, her left hand rubbing at her tired face, the wedding band constricting her finger sliding painfully against her soft skin. "Oh, yes. She's got her mouth around me and I'm getting there quick, Amy, so tell me what you want me to do before you end up hearing some more obscenities." Lancashire glared at him and opened her mouth to speak, to tell him off, but The Doctor shook his head and she surprisingly didn't say anything. She just stared daggers at his dick instead. Or maybe it was his feet.
"You are a disgusting man."
The Doctor let out a high pitched laugh. "Relax, Amelia, she's tending to my wounded hand. I had a bit of an accident with a wall." Lancashire glanced up at him and blushed, a rosy glimmer of powder on her perfect porcelain face.
"Did it insult your hair?" Amy asked, all the mock present in her tone.
"Will you just tell me what you want me to do, Amy?" He blatantly ignored her comment and continued to stare in amazement as Lancashire smoothed some pink cream on his skin. All the pain was gone.
Amy sighed very loud in his ear. "Fine. She can stay." The Doctor was about to thank her kindly, but she interrupted any words he might have said, "But remember," she said in a low voice, her accent becoming more pronounced the angrier she got, "if she dies, it'll be a lot more than some sandy cuts on your hands."
The Doctor's breath gushed out in a billowing smoke, Lancashire's hair flowing away from her face. All these questions started in his mind and he couldn't finish thinking one before another made its way along.
One stood out from the rest, though. One scared him more than anything else on the planet. More than if he had a thousand River Song's chasing him down with guns and spooky technology. What if he got her killed?
Could he ruin her like this? Take her perfectly normal life away just for his own pleasure? What did he even want from her? Why did she excite him the way that she did?
It took him a moment to realise Lancashire had stopped touching his hand. What was once covered in grit and blood was now bandaged up perfectly by dainty hands that had moments ago been holding his face.
Without thinking, he spoke, breaking the precious silence with his question. "Run away with me," he breathed, pain engulfing him for unknown reasons.
Shock plastered itself on her face; her eyes widened, her mouth dropped, her pulse quickened against her throat. Her gaze switched between his eyes, popping from one to other at lightning speed. She was holding her breath and he was getting worried.
He shouldn't have brought her. It was stupid. Hormones or something were fueling his brain when he asked her to follow him. Maybe it was the alcohol. But that didn't make sense because he hadn't actually gotten the opportunity to order anything that night. Yesterday night. It was well past midnight now. He started to frown and look away, but Lancashire's hand shot out and braced against his chest, right over his thumping heart.
"I thought I already said yes." Her call was sweet, sweet music. It calmed him, soothing over his broken heart and aged face. Gone were his worries. He shoved the thought of anything happening to this wonderful woman before him and brought his hand up to clutch hers.
More now than ever he wished he'd never gotten involved with Torchwood. He wanted to stop running, to tell this girl all of his deadly, dark secrets. The Doctor wanted to stop moving for five seconds so he could enjoy the warmth in her beautiful melted chocolate eyes, the smoothness of her hand, the trust in her voice.
"It'll be dangerous," he said softly, lacing his fingers with hers.
She smiled coyly and laughed a playful laugh. "I've been safe all my life, Mystery Man. Take me away with you."
Lancashire was begging him. He didn't even try to fight off the ridiculous grin that threatened to tear his mouth apart. "Okay," he said quickly, removing his hand from hers and going over to his map. "First order of business, you can stop calling me 'Mystery Man.' The Doctor, nice to meet you," he held out a hand to her and she willingly took it. He reveled in the way her soft skin slid around his calloused flesh.
"Doctor what?"
The Doctor stopped dancing around his map and looked at her magnificently, dropping her hand. "Okay, that's a. . .first." He rubbed his forehead and frowned. "No matter. Doctor nothing. Just, The Doctor."
Lancashire kinked an eyebrow. "Just 'The Doctor'?" She asked using air quotes.
Scoffing, The Doctor folded his arms. "Not 'just The Doctor', Lancashire. The Doctor." He dragged his name out, trying to see if she'd get it. If she'd understand. She stared blankly. "Do you not know who I am?" He asked, mock hurt lacing his voice.
"Should I? Seems awfully forward. I know you come to the pub a lot," she said thoughtfully, shrugging her shoulders.
"But you've never heard my name before?" He asked more clearly, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Never. Are you a spy? Some MI6 member who took down some powerful terrorist or something? Like Deepthroat? Wait, he was CIA, wasn't he?"
The Doctor couldn't be sure if she was messing with him or not, but decided to interrupt her before she got too carried away again. "Have you ever read a newspaper? A magazine?" His eyebrows were to his hairline in disbelief. This girl, this spitfire of glory, had never heard of him.
She laughed a little, her hands landing on her hips in defiance. "No, I've never done such a thing. I like to stay incredibly ignorant." The words splattered out like fire and he felt himself catch the flames.
After a moment of mutual silence, both parties just staring at each other with wide eyes, The Doctor decided the truth was better than nothing. "I'm a freelance journalist. One of the best, actually."
"Oh, a freelance journalist? Interesting." She brought a hand up to rub her chin as if she were thinking over his words, digesting them and whatnot. "And you're being chased by the government? You must have really pissed them off."
The Doctor liked - no, loved - the way she made everything into a joke. Never had he met anyone who so easily captured the seriousness of a situation but who pressed all the worry away in place of a bit of humour. It was a refreshing change.
"You've no idea, Lancashire. And it's more of just a branch of the government. Well, a branch the government doesn't really know exists." He laughed, an embarrassed sound, and rubbed the back of his neck. The Doctor didn't understand his actions. When the hell did he get nervous? Never. Well, maybe once. But that was a long time ago.
Clara let off a small smile and it shone like glory in The Doctor's eyes. She was shy. Good, that made two of them. "Clara Oswald, Doctor. You don't have to call me Lancashire."
There she went again, completely ignoring the fact that he was being chased by a secret government organization. "Clara. I like that name. It suits you. Do you know what it means?" She shook her head slowly. "Bright and clear. Like the sun." Now it was his turn to blush furiously when Clara's giggle hit his ears.
"Now that we've got the formalities out of the way, Doctor, mind telling me where we're going?" Clara pointed at the map by their feet and followed The Doctor's movements when he sat down on the sandy ground.
He spread his hands along the paper, tracing the red X that marked where they were right then, Hunstanton, and a trail in blue lead the way to Frinton-On-Sea. "Frinton," he said, smiling when Clara's face brightened.
"I've never been," she admitted, touching the map and dragging her finger against the blue line.
"You'd love it, I'm sure. I've got a safe house above a shop there. That's our first stop. It should take them a little while to figure out where we're headed, so maybe we'll have three or so days to relax." He smiled confidently at his plan and imagined what it would be like to spend more time with this wonderful girl.
Clara dipped her head low and stared at the map, her lips mouthing whatever county she saw. The Doctor's breathing went ragged and he tried taking deep breaths to help calm himself down.
He was just watching her lips open in breathy whispers when she actually spoke aloud. "Who were you talking to?" Clara looked at him from underneath her eyelashes. "On the phone, earlier." She clarified, looking back down at the map and waiting.
"My boss, Amy Pond," he replied after a loud silence.
She peeked up again, only this time she brought her entire head and stared at him shamelessly. "Just your boss?"
The Doctor frowned, a crease that would soon become permanent marring his forehead. "Just my boss," he confirmed, a gruffness added to his voice.
"Does she know you're in love with her?" The Doctor choked on nothing, his eyebrows flying to his hairline. He bashed his heart several times, fearing that it had stopped working. "Or," Clara continued, clearly unfazed by The Doctor's uncomfortableness. "Does she at least know you think you're in love with her?"
As a journalist, someone whose job it was to write with eloquent, endearing words, The Doctor was not a man who lost the ability to speak often. During his time with Clara Oswald he would have enough of these moments to last him a few hundred lifetimes. This marked number one.
He spluttered incoherent mumbles for a minute before frowning again. Clara didn't look smug, just curious. Genuine curiosity as to his relationship with Amelia Pond. His boss, his creator, and, once upon a time, his everything.
"You don't have to tell me. I already know the answer," She said in the friendliest, most understanding tone he'd ever heard.
The Doctor huffed and finally found his voice. "You already know? How? I was on the phone for two minutes. And she was yelling at me." He had gotten up and was pacing, his arms flying every which way, the pain from his fight with the wall gone.
Clara got to her feet and sighed. "You talked to her like you lost her. Even though she was just on the other line. She yelled at you, but you liked it. You like it, love it even, because it gets some emotion out of her. And anger is better than nothing, right? If you can't get her to love you, might as well get her to hate you."
The Doctor laughed scornfully and shook his head, tapping his foot against the sand until it blew up in a dusty cloud. "And here I thought I was the one with a degree in psychology." Without meaning to, The Doctor, who made it a point to never ever share intimate details about himself, had just told a girl he'd known for less than a day, despite their month of flirtatious glances, something intimate about himself.
But Clara didn't start asking him questions, she just smiled sweetly and said, "You don't need a degree in psychology to read people. You just need to be alone long enough."
Those words, they sounded so incredibly sad. He wanted to run to Clara, hug her, kiss her, squeeze all those thoughts from her head. He knew that she'd never had anyone outside of family and that burly man Craig love her, but he didn't realise just how alone she was.
Of course, though. He saw it all now. The shyness, the trembling. It wasn't him. Well, it was, but not really him. Just people in general. She was afraid of them because they'd never been a big part of her world. She seemed to take it with stride, focusing more on the ability to watch people instead of wishing to be them.
"Astronomy."
Clara's voice disturbed The Doctor's thoughts and he raised his eyebrows in her direction, waiting for clarification.
"I have a degree in astronomy. The stars, gotta love 'em."
An eye for an eye, The Doctor mused. He'd shared something, she'd shared something.
"Why are you working at a pub?" He asked the obvious question without his filter on, regretting the words as soon as they abandoned his mouth.
No hurt flashed in her eyes as she answered and The Doctor could breathe again. "I only just graduated this month. That's probably it." The Doctor smirked a little. Now he knew her age as well.
There was no way he was going to tell her how old he was. No way.
"If we make it out of this, I'm sure you'll get the greatest job in astronomy." The Doctor heard Clara's breath stop its trek out of her lungs and immediately chastised himself for saying that.
"Do you think we won't make it?" She asked quietly as if her voice were going to break.
He strode over to her and grabbed her hands, placing them either side of his face. He bent so he was level with her and bunched their noses together. "Listen to me, Clara," he begged, willing for her eyes to catch his. When they did, after what seemed like an eon of waiting, The Doctor exhaled slowly. "You and me, we will get out alive. You're strong, I can tell."
"You only just met me, Doctor," she said, but he could hear the doubt in her own words as they tumbled out her head.
"You don't believe that, Clara. And besides, I've got the degree in psychology. I can read people ten times better than you."
"You don't strike me as someone who's been alone for too long. I've seen you pick a new girl at the pub almost every night," she teased and The Doctor smiled despite the heavy nature of their talk.
"I've been alone longer than you, Clara. Add a psychology degree and a masters in journalism and you've got a bona fide mind reader." He laughed at his own joke to clear away the tension and his heart fluttered in his chest when Clara's giggle was not far behind.
Pulling away from her, The Doctor bent down and started refolding his map, making sure to rub all the sand off. He could see her moving around the space from his peripheral and decided to indulge himself by getting a good look at her. Knowing she was carefully watching him as well did nothing to stop him.
Dirt and sand covered bits of her clothing, but other than that she was fairly clean. Her wet hair was still drying, the dark brown waves cementing themselves. A Reading Festival sweater hung off one shoulder and he saw the creamy skin underneath shining in the dim room. Her lips were perfection, he had no other word for them. They were the description of bow lips. Unbidden images of him kissing those lips made their way to his head, but he didn't will them away. Looking at her, studying her, it was doing funny things to his head. Only once before had he gotten so carried away by simply looking at a woman. He needed to stop now before his want got too out of control.
"Reading Festival. Did you go?" He was surprised by the sound of his own voice. The words had been playing in his head and he didn't realise he'd spoken until Clara answered.
"I'm not one of those girls who buys things with words on them just to look cool," she retorted smoothly.
The Doctor smiled at her snappiness. "I'll take that as a yes." He got up from the floor and put the map back in his briefcase. "We should probably go back up. I don't know about you, but I don't want to sleep down here tonight."
Clara lifted one side of her mouth and nodded her head, coming towards The Doctor with her duffel bag slug over one shoulder. "Will they get us while we're up there?" She asked, her voice showing no signs of fear.
"Um, nah. I shouldn't think so. They don't know where I am just yet." The Doctor went underneath the trapdoor and jumped until he hit the ceiling, pressing down on the button that released the ladder and opened the door. He motioned for Clara, whose look was molded into one of astonishment, to go up first and waited until she'd made it all the way to start his journey.
He shut the door and turned on the little battery powered lamps that lit up the entire space. Pulling out the sexy screwdriver, The Doctor locked the trapdoor and headed to where Clara was exploring the extra space of the beach hut. He'd tell her later why it was so big. For now she seemed content to just observe everything, her fingers grazing the surfaces. It was nearly three times the size of a normal hutch, with enough room to fit one twin sized air mattress and the smallest "love seat" in the world.
"You can grab the mattress. I'll snuggle on the sofa," The Doctor mentioned when he saw Clara glancing between the two. She turned to him and bit her lip. Oh, God, she was torturing him.
"I'm smaller than you," she glanced him up and down, her eyes trailing a path from his head to his toes. "Much smaller. I'll take the sofa." There was no room for argument in her statement and The Doctor told himself he'd have to get used to having another person with him again. Her personality was something entirely different that he figured he'd never get used to it, but, then again, he didn't want to get used to it. It was nice never knowing what she was going to do or say.
Resigning himself to her demand, The Doctor plopped his briefcase on the chair and went to find his own duffel bag. He'd turned his head for what could only have been ten seconds, but when he got back Clara had changed into sweatpants and had removed her sweater. Damn, she was quiet. He'd have to keep that in mind. A book nestled between her hands, he watched her eyes fly over the words, her mouth absently moving along with them.
"Do you make it a habit of staring?" She asked, looking up from the book. The Doctor, whose arm was on the side of the hutch, stumbled when she spoke. He tripped on nothing and landed on the sofa in a pile of limbs.
"That was elegant," he mumbled, tasting blood. He had bitten his tongue.
He looked at Clara from under his mussed hair and saw her snickering. He frowned and sat up, challenging her with his eyes.
"Sorry," she said breathlessly and The Doctor immediately forgave her. "It wasn't that bad. I'd give it at least a seven."
"A seven?" He asked, touching his chest and scowled teasingly. "I'd give it a nine."
"I subtract points for feeling sorry for yourself. I trip over my own feet all the time, it's nothing to blush about."
Little did she know that's not why he was blushing. No, he was blushing because right in front of him was literally the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he'd ever met in his entire life and he could do nothing but stare. Her body was tight and tense, either from the book she was reading or the predicament he'd put her in, but she still found it in her to smile.
"Ah, yes, sorry. I'm not the manliest man in the world, I must admit. A blush is never too far from my face," he joked, enjoying the scoffing sound that erupted from Clara.
"Says the man with lunatics trying to kill him."
The Doctor pondered over what to say next. Tell the truth or let her think whatever the hell she wanted. When he'd bed girls before and they asked what he did in the line of duty, because Clara was the only one other than that other one who'd had no idea who he was, he just said something cheesy to shut them up so he could fuck them.
Tell the truth. Why not.
"They're not trying to kill me per say. They want me captured, not dead," he said the words slowly, watching Clara drink them in.
"They've got guns, though," she reminded him as she bit her lip again. The Doctor's tongue swiped across his lips.
"Right, yeah, but that's to injure me. They're under orders not to go for the kill shot. They're not really like an army or anything. It's a group of a few people, just parading around with guns."
"Why do they want you alive? Do you have something they want?" She asked, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them. He watched her tear skin off her lips but not wince at the pain.
"I think it's bedtime. I've already said way too much." The Doctor shrugged his shoes off and disappeared behind the curtain to change into some pajamas.
Through the cloth separating him and the damsel, he could hear her still talking. "I've got one of those faces."
The Doctor scrunched his face in confusion. Yes, she had one of those faces. The one face he feared might be the death of him. "What kind of face would that be?"
"People can't stop spilling their secrets when I'm around. It's like Nick from The Great Gatsby. I don't say much and people think it's an open invite." She sounded relaxed, comparing herself to Nick Carraway. The Doctor wondered if she often thought of herself like that.
He peeked out from behind the curtain and saw Clara's eyes widen when she saw he wasn't wearing a shirt. He wasn't too ripped, but he did have something to show off. Deciding not to flaunt anything, he moved back so only his face could be seen while he struggled to remove his trousers.
"I think you're just Clara Oswald and for some reason, I find it incredibly easy to speak to you," he said, narrowly avoiding slipping again. He saw Clara blush and look down at her book.
"What're you reading?" He inquired when he had changed fully into a plain white t-shirt and shorts, moving out from behind the curtain.
Instead of saying anything or removing her eyes from the book, she lifted it up so he could see the title. The Great Gatsby.
"Favourite," she said, her eyes still following every word on the page.
The Doctor grabbed a spare blanket from his bed and tossed it to Clara who shrieked and glared at him but huffed a thank you regardless.
"You're welcome," he sneered playfully. He cleared his throat and Clara somehow got the hint and removed her gaze from Jay's story. "Now, getting down to business, we are going to need to leave in the morning at seven. We've got a train to catch at seven-thirty and it'll take us all the way to Frinton. Travel should be about an hour maybe two and then we'll settle into the loft. Goodnight, Lancashire." He said quickly and quietly, the plans he'd only just manufactured spilling from his mouth.
Clara yawned and nodded her head. "Do you wanna sleep with the lights on?" She questioned, motioning her hand toward the two lamps. The Doctor shook his head and got up to turn them off being careful not to trip on anything on his way back to the mattress.
After he had been down for what felt like hours, sleep finally getting its grip on his mind, Clara's voice wafted to him like smoke, pushing into his eardrums with all the elegance of faery dust. "Goodnight, Doctor."
Clara
The first thing Clara was aware of when she awoke was the crick in her neck. She lifted her head from its painfully stiff perch with her eyes still closed and stretched, massaging smooth circles over the bunched muscles. Blinking a few times, Clara saw that she was not sleeping on her bed. Far from it. It was a red sofa.
It wasn't a dream. She had really been taken by a man called The Doctor. Spinning her head, the crick still there but just a dull nuisance now, Clara saw The Doctor was nowhere in sight. Frowning, she stood up and checked to see there was enough room before bending backward to loosen her limbs.
Her hands touched the clean floor smoothly and she enjoyed the painful burn of her stomach muscles stretching. Just as she was about to come back up, the door to the hutch opened. Clara fell down in shock, her spine hitting the ground. She winced, bringing a hand to her back and rubbing at her skin.
The Doctor waltzed in holding a brown paper bag and looking like he'd just stepped out of a fifties magazine catalogue with his tweed jacket, spotted bow tie, and suspenders. Clara stood up and brushed invisible dirt off her clothes. She approached The Doctor, who had yet to acknowledge her, and grabbed the bag out of his hands.
"Hey!" He exclaimed, reaching out to take it away. Clara lurched out of the way, giggling foolishly, and brought it to the sofa she'd slept on last night.
Rummaging through it, she saw he'd gotten them breakfast. "How'd you know I like cheesy scones?" Clara took the container full of scones and picked apart one of them, plopping the crumbling pastry in her mouth.
The Doctor grabbed the bag and got himself a scone, tearing at it much less elegantly than Clara. "Who doesn't?"
Quirking an eyebrow, not believing him at all, Clara continued to eat in silence. The savory treat was the perfect combination of ingredients. They must have been from the local baker. She finished hers rather quick and reached for her book when she noticed The Doctor gulping down his third scone; she didn't try to hide the disgusted look on her face.
"What's the appeal with Gatsby, Lancashire?" She heard him ask through the haze of Fitzgerald's words.
Flicking her eyes from the page, she looked at The Doctor's mouth as she tried to come up with an answer. She saw those same lips move into a smirk. He must have noticed where her gaze landed. A blush crept to her cheeks, but she stared without break.
Sucking in a breath, she spoke. "Fitzgerald writes like music. Like the saddest, most hopeless music I've ever heard."
The Doctor's lips moved back into a straight line and she moved her concentrated stare to his forehead and watched as it creased in thought. "Who's your favourite character?"
Clara wondered why he was asking her these questions, but then she remembered that while he was a journalist, his first degree was in psychology. He was trying to get a profile of her.
Deciding honesty was the best thing in a situation like this, because she needed him to trust her as well, she gave her answer, "Gatsby." The Doctor didn't say anything and Clara knew he wanted her to elaborate. She sighed, but continued on. "He's alone. Nick refuses to admit he's a friend, Daisy leaves him. He dies with nothing. I root for the underdog, and James Gatz is the epitome of underdog."
What looked at her was not the womanizing Mystery Man, but a man who seemed to understand. His features went soft and he rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. "He's my favourite character as well." Was all he said.
Clara looked around for a clock and saw The Doctor's watch lying on the blow up mattress. She reached down and picked it up. It was heavy and cold against her weak hand. An inscription caught her eye as curiosity took over: Every rose has its thorn.
"Checking the time?"
Clara jumped when The Doctor slumped next to her, the watch flying out of her hand and landing on her toe. She yelped and could feel a bit of blood dripping from her skin where the watch must've scraped her. Red droplets formed on the white tile beneath her foot and she lifted her legs up to inspect the cut. It stung, but she ignored it and went looking for a cloth of some sort, taking no notice of The Doctor's worried expression.
She dabbed at the small laceration to her toe several times with a paper towel dipped in water and eventually it stopped bleeding. The Doctor was still sitting down when she asked where the bandages were kept and he held a stern face when he pointed to a random cupboard. Ignoring his look she taped her wound and went to sit back down.
The Doctor's body turned in the seat and he held his watch up to her. She took it cautiously, not able to read what his eyes were saying. A small smile played at his lips when he let go of the watch, their hands grazing just barely, but enough to get Clara's blood pumping quicker.
"I assume you didn't get a chance to get the time before I so carelessly startled you into injuring yourself."
Clara tried to hide the blush his voice spread along her cheeks, but she could tell he saw it when he brushed a thumb along the heated pink. Everything stood still as he looked at her, observed her, obviously trying to figure her out with that amazing psychologist brain. She wondered for a scared moment what he might find in her. Would it be good?
Stop it, Clara. You don't care. She tried to convince herself, but the way he was intensely scanning her, holding her hostage with just the pad of his square thumb, threatened to throw that whole 'I don't care' attitude away.
"It's nearly seven." The Doctor said suddenly, removing his hand and snapping Clara back to reality. She tried to squash the things his touch made her body do. Her belly quake, her heart race, her toes curl. All those foreign feelings.
Getting up, Clara moved to grab her duffel bag. "I'm going to need to change," she told him as calmly as she was capable of at that current moment in time. The Doctor nodded his head slowly, his eyes once again scanning her entire body. They landed on her breasts for a moment longer than she thought necessary and she was glad her shirt covered her chest because a swoosh of blood rushed to her pale upper torso.
He swung around and hid behind the curtain giving Clara the privacy she requested. She pulled off her clothes and folded them neatly in a pile while simultaneously grabbing at fresh things to wear. Deciding that plane-Jane was a good look when you're on the run, she placed her favourite The Killers t-shirt over her head and slipped some straggly jeans up her legs.
When The Doctor requested to open the curtain, Clara was just buttoning her jeans, not able to see that The Doctor had already poked his head through. "Do you like The Killers then?"
His voice startled her severely, her body convulsing unattractively (she would later find out that The Doctor actually found it very attractive) with the rush of adrenaline.
"Jesus, could you not just pop out of nowhere? You're going to kill me before this secret government agency gets the chance," she said breathlessly, pressing a palm against her heart and feeling it pulse out a beat similar to a heavy metal song.
The Doctor's look went solemn and he whispered in a low voice, "They won't kill you. I promise."
"Hey," Clara cooed, approaching him. When she reached him she daringly put her fingers against his scruff. "I trust you, Doctor. I don't know why or how or anything, but I do." She felt it this time when he leaned into her touch and she fought against the sudden urge to close her eyes and savor the sensations racing in her bones. "Come on then. We've got a train to catch."
The Doctor retreated from Clara's hold on his skin and held up a finger, stopping her from moving anywhere as if she were his dog and he her trainer. "Not until you tell me if you like The Killers."
Clara groaned. "I told you last night that I'm not the type to wear shirts for the hell of it. Day and Age is a spectacular album. Of course I like The Killers," she said motioning to the Day and Age moon emblem on the mostly black shirt.
"I've always thought Hot Fuss was the best."
Startled by his confession (if she remembered correctly, no one actually knew this guys name, so why is he telling her all this stuff about him?), Clara recovered quickly and rolled her eyes. "Well, of course. But they were out of Hot Fuss shirts when I went shopping and I'm not one to buy online because I'm so small and nothing ever fits."
Making an understanding 'ahh' noise, The Doctor turned around and grabbed his stuff. "Ready to head out, oh small Lancashire?"
Clara couldn't help the stupid grin that spread or the subsequent guffaw that followed. She'd never admit it, but she liked it when he called her Lancashire. No one had ever given her a nickname before.
She said that word again, the one she would end up saying a lot more with The Doctor than she ever had in her entire life, "Yes."
..1..1..
The train was rumbling over a bridge and Clara found herself captivated by the scenery below: water glistening in the sunshine, swishing back and forth, carried by the current, crushing over rocks and guiding fish; boats scattered, men standing with rods and bait, throwing their lines into the water, watching the thin, almost invisible thread fly through the air and plop into the water, disturbing the critters underneath the cold water; the sun reflected in the calm portions of the lake, glaring at Clara and making her see stars.
Clara watched the trees sway in the May breeze, the birds floating with the wind, gliding with the clouds. She'd never been on a proper train before. It was always the underground during university and before that she got taken everywhere in a town car driven by a chauffeur. Heights never frightened her and watching the world pass by, craning her neck to catch the most amazing sights, it was spectacular. The train shook on the tracks and Clara wondered idly if she should be worried. Who knew being on the run would be such an experience?
". . .and we can shower when we get there, don't worry. Oh, and I was planning on throwing you off the tracks, just in case you were wondering."
Snapping her head away from the window, Clara gaped at The Doctor, her ears picking up the word "shower". The Doctor smirked at her, clasping his hands under his chin and staring down at her. She straightened herself and pushed her chest out to get her posture just right. Her grandmother always did chastise her for her inability to stay upright.
"I was definitely listening, Doctor, don't look at me like that."
The Doctor, if possible, widened his smirk. "And what exactly did I say?"
"That I can shower when we get to Frinton."
Rolling his eyes The Doctor replied, "That's all you got from my entire speech about Frinton? That there are showers?"
Clara crossed her arms, pretending not to notice The Doctor's eyes flip to her squished breasts before meeting her eyes again. "I also heard you threaten to kill me."
"But you focused on the shower part?"
"Well I know you're not going to kill me."
"Such trust in a man you only just met."
"It's your fuzzy personality, trust me."
"Oh, I do."
They stopped talking then, just stared at each other instead. His eyes quivered and she could tell that he wanted to explore her body. She saw when he noticed the blood blush spread along her cheeks because his smirk became a full out grin.
Just as she was about to ask what he was staring at, the train squealed and then stopped. Clara looked around her, her heart unnecessarily speeding up. A hand gently grasped at her wrist and she turned to look at The Doctor, his calm eyes immediately soothing her worried bones.
He eyed her carefully, his smirk switching into a serious look, but Clara could see the mischievousness behind his eyes as he spoke. "We're here."
A/N: Still just setup. Sorry, but it may be a couple more chapters until we get to action sequences. But hey, I refuse to sleep until I got this thing done, and now the chapter is complete. As mentioned before, everyone is OOC and the story is AU. I'm not working too hard to keep up with Doctor Who, because who can really do that, but rather I want to tell a story using these two characters who have some of the greatest chemistry I've ever seen. And I watch t.v. too much to be considered healthy, so I like to think I know a bit about chemistry on film.
Who else doesn't like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby? It can't just be me...
Thanks for reading and stuff. If you liked it, favourite it and follow it and review it. If you didn't, then I am sorry to have wasted your time. Sincerely.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Until next time - LoveIsATemple