"People are screwed up in this world. I'd rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and ready to explode."
Ned Vizzini | It's Kind of A Funny Story
Chapter Four: "Body Language" Isn't Their Best Work.
The Doctor
It never bothered him when the dreams started. They almost weren't dreams anyway. They plunged into his subconscious as if he were reliving the moments from afar - watching himself, his memories, play on a screen. Perfect rendition of actual events.
Amy told him they were his sixth sense, the dreams. They were his mind giving him the right tools to write a perfect article, because he could remember everything exactly the way it happened the same way a dancer remembered their steps.
But these dreams were different. They haunted him.
He knew they would. The Torchwood assignment screamed 'dangerous' and 'different' from the beginning.
Amy, sweet Amy.
She insisted he go through with it, that it would change him from being a nobody to a somebody over night. People would remember The Doctor not because he was that guy who wrote that really compelling story on Egypt or that bloke who charmed women into his bed because he was secretly very very lonely. He would be the guy who changed the world as the world knew it. He would bring it out of its old-fashioned ways and bring new light into a darkened age.
The Doctor never could say no to Amelia Pond.
"Doctor." Amelia Pond sat at the edge of her desk. It was wooden, mahogany he thought absently. New. Her face was stern, it always was when she had a new assignment for him. "Sit." She commanded, pointing to the chair right in front of her legs.
If this were a porno, she'd tell him be still and then start dancing around his chair, touching his chest, his hair, his face, berating him for being such a moron. Then she'd stand right in front of him and slap him, then bring his chin forward and whisper some dirty secret in his ear before turning his head and kissing him, all while pulling at his trousers.
As usual, this was not one of his sick fantasies.
Amelia, always the professional. Always forgetting that they grew up together. That he used to kiss her cuts and hold her hand when she got scared.
She sat at the edge of her desk, legs crossed at the ankles, heels so high and pointy she could shove them down his throat and they'd reach his lung, killing him instantly. Eyebrows pinched together, anger following her around like a lost puppy dog. People feared her. Rory feared her. The Doctor? He indulged in her.
Amy wore glasses today, her red hair pulled back into a tight bun that stretched her face. Derek Zoolander would not be impressed. She never wore pantsuits, said they made her look old and fat. Dresses were more her thing, and today was no different. A tight blue dress cut off just before reaching her knee and winding up to reveal a generous amount of cleavage (not that The Doctor was looking). Beautiful. Stunning. Seductress. Or assassin.
Lights blinked in The Doctor's eyes as Amy started walking away from her desk, the heels of her shoes clicking like a gas stove that couldn't catch fire. He turned his head to watch her as she went to her filing cabinet and gathered a few files. Thick files.
When she returned, she went back to sitting on the edge of her desk, leaving her ankles uncrossed this time. She nudged The Doctor's foot with her own and cleared her throat. "Right, it seems I've got a new assignment for you, Doctor. It's been a couple of months since that one on the oil spill and I think you're going to love this one." She started flipping through the files while speaking to him, pretending he wasn't there.
Looking up, she frowned. "Aren't you going to ask what it is?"
The Doctor smiled a wide smile, showing off his almost not crooked teeth. "What is it, Amelia?"
Amy rolled her eyes. "God, you know I hate it when you call me that."
A giggle, a stupid and childlike giggle, erupted from The Doctor's mouth. She frowned deeper. "You used to love it when we were children, Amelia." He mocked, waggling his eyebrows.
Her face remained stone cold and angry. "Well, we aren't children anymore, Doctor. I'm your boss and this is a business meeting."
"Yes, yes, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Just explain," he submitted, throwing his arms up and letting them slap down on his lap.
"Ever heard of Torchwood?" She asked, knowing The Doctor had never heard of Torchwood.
"Well, you wouldn't be asking me that with that smile if you knew I had, Amelia."
The smile swiped off her face as soon as it appeared, returning her face to the ever-present frown. "They're a secret branch of the government. Prime minister doesn't even know they exist."
"If he doesn't know then how are we supposed to know?"
"Because I'm good at my job and my job is to know things other people don't."
"Right, that's your job. Okay, what's the assignment?" He questioned, sitting up straighter to seem more interested. He kept his eyes trained on the papers in Amy's hands as she handed them to him.
"Open and let your mind be amazed," she whispered delicately. The noises were so soft he needed to rethink them twice before his mind properly comprehended what she had said.
The files were heavy in his hands and he used his blocky thumb to read through them. Three people were the subject of the files, all scientists and inventors. Hired by the government in secret to create the things no one wanted created. The things no one wanted to know could be created.
Jack Harkness, Harold Saxon, and River Song.
He flitted through them, scanning birth dates, supposed death dates, birthplaces, aliases, and special skills. River Song appeared to run the whole shebang with Jack Harkness as her second in command.
The Doctor's brain didn't have the capacity to understand what toys they'd created.
"Okay," he said finally. Amy cleared her throat and looked down at him through her glasses. "What do you want me to do?"
Her lips curled into a sinister smile and The Doctor gulped, suddenly afraid for his future. "I need you to infiltrate their system. Get close. Find out what they're doing."
Lifting an eyebrow, the Doctor set down the files on Amy's desk and leaned back in the chair, clasping his fingers together. "Why do I have the feeling you already know what they're doing?"
Amy's lips pulled even wider. It looked uncomfortable. She twisted and grabbed a thin manilla folder, handing to The Doctor and motioning that he should open it. He obliged, coughing a bit before reading out loud.
"The TARDIS?" He said, but it came out as more of a question. He stared at the single paged file. It said nothing more than 'The TARDIS' and listed various nonessential facts about who seemed to have invented it and a random guess at what it did. He scoffed at what it suggested.
The women grabbed back the folder and gripped it hard enough that her knuckles started whitening, her freckled fingers popping with colour. She leaned forward so that her nose was level with The Doctor's and he had to fight the urge to pull her close and finish her off with his tongue. With her teeth bared, her canines looking more like vampire teeth than actual teeth, she spoke the words that he knew would be the death of him:
"The TARDIS. Or, in other words, your biggest bust yet."
The Doctor sputtered and sat up so fast his head started spinning, the room doing funny, green circles like he'd been put on a zero gravity machine. He lifted shaking hands to his face and rubbed furiously at the memory that decided to capture him in the night. An ache had settled in his heart, the thoughts of Amelia Pond ripping at his hair.
Regret was not something The Doctor liked to indulge in. It hurt to regret, so he tried to always do what he wanted to do without being told to do it. This attitude got him through school and beyond, until Amelia Pond settled back into his life.
He remembered when she cornered him after he'd gotten his Masters. We could be a team, she'd said. And a team they were. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was married, but he never could forget how helplessly in love with her he'd been throughout his entire existence. Excluding those two glorious years he collapsed into another human being. But that was even more painful to remember than Amelia Pond not being his.
He'd met Amy at a park when he was nine. She'd fallen down in a puddle and he helped her up, taken her home. She lived three doors down from him and was two years younger. After that, they went to the park a lot until it became too uncool, and even then they still went there at night to drink and smoke the cigarettes she always liked more than him. He swore that's why she constantly had bags around her eyes now. Even though she'd given them up when she and Rory got married.
Life is a difficult thing to go through without people to help drag you along. When he lost her to university, to Rory Williams, he almost couldn't survive anymore. It'd been years since they spoke when she propositioned him for a partnership and since then he'd never regretted a thing.
Until the Torchwood assignment.
Something sighed next to him, pulling him cruelly from his devastating thoughts. A small brunette turned to face him in bed, a worn book tumbling off her stomach, trapping itself between her side and the mattress. She was still asleep, her bow lips parted ever so slightly as air whistled through.
Sharing a bed for the past few nights with Clara had been tough to get used to. He would wake up in the middle night, quite like this, and look over and try not to scream because a stranger was asleep next to him. He'd stare at her for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through her mind as she slept, and then decide it was really creepy to watch a girl sleep. Clara looked relentlessly beautiful when she was asleep, all soft and warm. Like nothing could touch her as she dreamed.
Stupidly, because he was stupid and secretly drawn to her, The Doctor carefully slid a few feet so he cowered over her sleeping form. She was enough to make him forget his nightmares. As long as he overlooked the Twilightness of this new pastime, he could reach out a large hand and discreetly graze her face with his fingers, trace her lips with the pad of his thumb, brush her eyelids, sticky with sleep, with a torn fingernail. Occasionally she'd mumble some words or release a breath contentedly and he'd be seriously tempted to wake her up by pressing a kiss to her lips.
That would be taking it too far, though. To an extra creepy level. One he'd regret.
Although, nothing truly stopped his mind from wondering. Wondering what would happen if he were to throw caution to the wind with a lousy arm and kiss her. Not when she was asleep, but when she was awake and willing. There had been four close calls since they'd met, close calls that wound their way into his daily thought process and had recently begun taking his daydreams hostage.
Every time The Doctor got close to her, his mind did this funny thing where it closed off all the rational parts of his brain. Tied the logical side of him up with police tape and pass codes so he couldn't get to it. He'd stare blankly at her, able to only gape at her marvelousness until she quipped something at him. His snark never got shut down, so he'd bite back and then she'd tear at him so he'd rip her to shreds. He enjoyed the wordplay as much as the next guy, but he was slowly losing patience. With what, he had yet to discover.
Nothing about her made sense, nor did his obvious attraction to her. Did she realise it? That he was so obviously attracted to her? Amy recognised it straight away and he'd only spoken to her on the phone. Sally saw it. Even Rory somehow ended up figuring it out in his own little way.
The Doctor didn't like it, whatever it was. He was a bachelor. Always. On the run, always. He liked chasing things, liked things chasing him. He didn't need something dragging on his arm, bringing him further and further from the high he'd created for himself.
He stopped caressing her face and his heart clinched at the whimper that fell from her lips when he did. Deciding to brush just a few strands of hair that had made their way on her cheek to mark his last creepy moment for the evening, he went back to his side. The book she'd fallen asleep reading still poked out underneath her ribcage. The Doctor contemplated for a moment whether he should remove it or not. Clara had yet to fully stir even as he (creepily) touched her face and the book probably digging its edges into her skin didn't appear to phase the young sleeper.
To hell with contemplation.
He reached over with one hand and snagged the book, sliding it slowly out from its manmade cage. She rolled over again, onto her stomach, when he pulled the last edge and he flinched, hoping and praying she wouldn't wake up. They had yet to wake up at the same time in the middle of the night and he was not prepared at all for what would happen if they did. It was awkward enough in the morning and he had that particular problem hiding not exactly well under the covers.
Clara remained asleep, thankfully, and The Doctor took his time to observe what she had been reading. It didn't take long to recognise the old cover. She'd stolen his copy of Frankenstein, the little Devil. He smiled despite himself as he thumbed through the worn pages, remembering when he'd been forced to read the book back when he was nineteen for a literature class at Oxford. He made sure he knew nothing of the book before delving deep within its hidden passageways.
For all he knew, Frankenstein was the monster and not the monster's creator. Quickly, he devoured the words, ate them up. His professor was impressed with how much he got from it. None of the symbolism nor any of the themes went unnoticed by the young scholar. The rest of the class hated him for the rest of the semester.
Almost to spite her, The Doctor hopped out of bed and went in search of her copy of The Great Gatsby. He hadn't read the book in years and if it was her favourite, he could probably figure some more out about his Lancashire lady by speed reading it before she woke up.
Wait. . .his Lancashire? When did Clara become his?
The Doctor shook his head vigorously and looked over at Clara as he blindly searched through her bag for the book. Would she mind?
That he was violating her privacy, not that he'd called her his in his head.
Probably. She'd probably mind both.
Gatsby's cover caught his eye easily and he strolled back to the bed, sinking down onto the warm mattress and not making a sound as he began reading. He glanced at the clock before flipping the first page and saw the alarm clock blinking 2:19. He had time to finish before the sun came up.
..1..1..
Clara
Clara had woken up that morning lying on her stomach with her (well, The Doctor's) book sitting on The Doctor's bedside table. He had already risen and she could hear the shower running as she escaped out the bedroom with Frankenstein to get some breakfast.
As she sat eating, she read and read until the shower turned off. Hearing The Doctor whistling, Clara smiled at how laid back he'd seemed in the past couple of days since they'd arrived. There was no talk of men with fucking guns.
No, now it was all sexual tension and awkwardness.
Two glorious days of awkwardness. Of catching each other in towels or accidentally stepping on toes. That one time she swore something had been touching her face in her dream and she was pretty sure it was The Doctor. Yeah, she couldn't bear to look at him that morning.
Maybe it wasn't as awkward as she thought. Or maybe it was just her. The Doctor didn't seem like one caught up too much in these types of situations, but he oozed calm like she oozed sweat.
"You could've just asked," a voice sounded next to Clara and she dropped her fork. It clanged loudly on her plate and she cringed away from the noise.
Holding a hand to her chest, she saw The Doctor smirking. Naked. Except for, you know, the towel tied at his waist.
"What?" She breathed in confusion.
He pointed to the book in her hand. "It's mine, but it's not like you had to steal it. I would've willingly given it to you."
Clara smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow. "Why don't I believe you?"
"Maybe because we've not known each other very long. Most of my friends know how easily I rent out books. I'm like a library."
"You have friends?" She asked incredulously, cupping a hand over her mouth when she realised how cruel her words sounded.
The Doctor laughed, "ouch, Lancashire. That kind of hurt. You met one the other day."
"Sorry," Clara stood up and grabbed her plate to put it in the sink. "And that was one friend. I have got one friend. You said 'most of my friends'. Like there's more out there." She started scrubbing the pan she'd used to make her scrambled egg in, sudsying up her hands in the process.
She looked over her shoulder to find The Doctor staring at her intently, a hollow look in his eye. "Sorry," she repeated, scraping egg into the sink. "I'm not a nice person, it seems." Turning back to her cleaning job, she felt the presence of someone immediately behind her and ceased all movement.
Breath tickled her ear, fingers danced at her waist. She tried to hide her gasp, but it sounded loud even to her own deafening ears. Leaving her hands in the sink, she remained completely still.
"Tell me about your friend. Craig," The Doctor whispered, his words sending tickling goosebumps along her chest. A furious blush followed their path and her knees started wobbling uncontrollably.
His large hands gripped at her waist and pulled her towards him so that her shoulders slammed into his bare chest. Arms encircled her and she finally just gave in, letting her body relax against The Doctor's.
"Tell me," he said again, quieter, softer.
Moments passed before Clara realised he was speaking to her, and asking her about Craig Owens. She ignored the boiling in her belly and tried to think of something to say. To describe Craig when all her thoughts were crowded by The Doctor and how close she was to him and how good he smelled and how tight he had her strapped to him.
She hiccuped, a trait she'd come to associate with anxiety in the past, and then cleared her throat, hoping that would somehow clear away both the phlegm and her dirtying mind.
"He, uh, he's my best friend," she began and felt The Doctor nod, his chin just bopping the top of her head slightly. Trying not to shiver, she continued on, "we've known each other for about four years. Met in uni. I was his twin sister's roommate. He's always been like a big bear, you know, in more ways than the obvious one. He gives the best cuddles when you're scared or lonely. He sleeps a lot, too. That's why in the flat he's got the room without a window. . ." Clara trailed off, her voice dying on her as she felt The Doctor breathing behind her. She trained her eyes open, refusing to give in too much to his skin.
Clara's body was unfamiliar with the certain sensations running all about her at the moment. It was as if she'd melded with The Doctor. His heart beat erratically into her back and it pulsed her skin. She could almost see her body vibrating.
The Doctor inhaled and Clara turned her head a little bit, trying to see him over her shoulder. He stared at her blankly, like he was unaware of what they were doing. But there was something else hidden behind his murky eyes, something Clara couldn't name but had a feeling it was reflected in her own gaze.
Just as soon as he'd wrapped himself around her, The Doctor stepped back, wobbling a bit. She turned around and watching him recover with a shake and a cough before looking her in the eye again. She felt her cheeks redden severely under his watchful eyes.
"You can call him," he said gruffly, like he had molasses stuck in his throat. He coughed again.
"Uh, who?" She asked after a moment of mutual silence, of staring and glaring and lustful intakes of sharp breaths.
The Doctor smiled and Clara's heart danced. "Your friend. The burly one who's more of a bear than anything?"
"Craig?"
"That'd be the one."
"But I thought I couldn't contact him. Too dangerous or something?" Clara went back to washing her dishes, twisting her neck again to get a better view at the half-naked man in her kitchen.
"Untraceable phones are handy. I've got a bunch. It's just after the breakdown earlier this week and stuff, I thought maybe you'd like to talk to him. Tell him your safe?" His eyebrows went up in question and he put his hands on his hips.
Clara looked away from his intense, sheepish gaze and smiled to herself. She knew if she talked right then, the grin would be evident in her voice, so she waited a few seconds before opening her mouth. "Yes. I'd love to speak to him. Give me a second and I'll be right through."
She could almost hear The Doctor nod his head and definitely felt it when he disappeared. Shuffling from the room over told her he was getting dressed and she tried not to imagine what he looked like unraveling the towel from his waist.
A moment later, The Doctor came back. Clara finished drying her hands and moved to sit at the table, quickly giving the mysterious man a once-over. He was dressed in his normal attire: tweed jacket, bow tie, suspenders, slacks. No doubt he had put shoes on and everything despite the fact that they were inside.
"Never know when we're gonna need to run, Lancashire." He'd told her the other day when she asked about that particular quirk. She had shrugged it off and smiled at him. He had grinned back.
"Okay, so here is the phone. Call Craig and Craig alone." He handed her the black, bulky phone with shiny buttons and pressed it to her palm. She thought maybe he held his hand against her a little longer than necessary, but it was gone in a flash and she shook the odd feeling from her bones.
He got up to leave, but Clara reached out and tugged on his coat sleeve. He abruptly stopped all movement. "Thanks, Doctor. For doing this."
She let go and he continued to exit the kitchen, but turned around at the last second and gave Clara a warning smile. "Don't tell him where you are or who you're with. Just tell him you're okay. Do you understand? No other information is to leave your mouth."
The Doctor's harsh words were met with a gaping mouth and a scared nod. His face hadn't hardened at all, but Clara had definitely heard the undertones of a threat. With a smile, Mystery Man left her with the untraceable phone and an unhinged jaw.
Clara shook away the shivers and started dialing Craig's number. Her blood started shaking in her veins as she got more nervous. What would she say? How would she convince him that everything was okay?
It rang a few times before a click sounded in Clara's ear and she heard the shallow breathing of her not-so-fit friend. "Hullo?"
Tears sparked in Clara's eyes and she let out a strange guffaw-like noise, clamping her hand over her mouth. "Craig," she breathed, a wide grin settling in place of her earlier nervous gaping hole.
"Clara?" He sounded exasperated. "Clara, oh my God, where the hell are you? Do you know how worried I've been? I mean, what the fuck? You can't do this to me! Tell me where you are, Clara. Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? Did someone take you? Did they force you to write that letter? Are they holding you at gun—"
Clara cut him off with an angry huff. Craig did always like to get dramatic. "Craig, shut the hell up and let me talk." She bellowed, loud enough that she heard The Doctor stop whatever he was doing. Craig went silent. "Good, are you willing to listen?" She didn't need to be in front of Craig to know he was currently nodding his head like a scared child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. "I'm fine, clearly, as I'm talking to you right now. And I can't tell you where I am, which I know sounds absolutely terrifying, but I promise you Craig, I'm okay. He's taking very good care of me."
She flinched. She'd said 'he'.
"Who's he?" Craig's voice grew considerably louder.
Clara held back a sigh and rubbed her temple. A knock next to her made her jump and she looked up to see The Doctor looking at her smugly, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb.
"Need help?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow like the cock he was.
A small giggle dripped from Clara's lips and she shook her head.
"Clara, I can hear another man there. Who is he?"
"Craig, he's no one. Just some bloke," she said, sticking her tongue out at The Doctor when he morphed his face into a look of mock hurt. He even placed his hand over his heart. "I'm okay, I told you that already."
"I haven't phoned the police. Should I?" Craig's words shook through Clara and she started viciously shaking her head.
"No, no, no, no, Craig. You just need to calm down. I'm perfectly healthy. Just had breakfast, actually. Eggs. You'd've liked 'em. I made them the way you taught me," she mentioned, trying to get Craig to see she was fine. The Doctor chuckled in front of her and she sent a death glare his way.
"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled through fits of laughter.
"You're sure you're okay?" Craig asked finally, all challenge gone.
Clara smiled at the man currently choking on his own saliva and felt her heart tug. "Yeah, Craig. I'm okay. Are you?"
"Um, just been a bit worried. Patsy doesn't like me so much anymore. I bet she thinks I kicked you out or something."
"She would never think that. She's smart enough to know I'd get her. It's in our contract, remember?"
"That sloppy piece of paper we scribbled on when we were drunk? I don't think that's legally binding," Craig laughed. The sound warmed Clara's heart even more. She was becoming sappy.
"I'll bet you anything it is. We signed it in blood and everything."
"No, you cut your hand with a letter opener and then smeared it all over the paper. By accident." Craig reminded her and Clara flinched away from the drunken memory.
"Okay, but then I cut you too and rubbed your bleeding wound on the page. Therefore, it's legally binding."
"Whatever, you weirdo," Craig muttered teasingly. Clara almost believed she were with him at the moment.
"Hey, I'm not the weirdo in this relationship. That's you, Mr. "Body Language"-is-the-greatest-Queen-song-ever," Clara reprimanded, remembering one of their earliest conversations involving music. Craig had insisted it was the most wonderful song Mercury ever wrote, hands down. She'd been tempted to squash their budding friendship right then, but decided she needed at least one person by her side. She could look past that particular flaw.
"Oh, it always has to come back to Queen with you, doesn't it? I said that one time!"
"You said it 'one time' in a very serious voice and then proceeded to sing it, word for word, breathy moan for breathy moan. Not your finest hour, I must admit." Clara saw The Doctor looking at her suspiciously and she waved her hand at him. He must have taken it as an invitation because he strode into the room and sat down next to her, leaning his chin against his palm.
"I was trying to make you laugh," he defended. "And if I remember correctly, you almost pissed your pants."
Clara sighed in defeat. "Okay, you got me there. But seriously, that's not their best song. And neither is "Bohemian Rhapsody" so don't go pulling that shit with me again."
"Ha ha," he deadpanned. "Uh, look, Clara, I've gotta be off to work now. Strax's opening the place up earlier today 'cause of the game on. He's expecting a lot of drunken bar fights. Apparently that's good for the business, I dunno." Craig sounded sad all of a sudden and Clara wished she were currently getting ready for work too.
"Okay," she said, attempting to clear all worry from her voice. "I'll speak to you soon. Be good, Owens. No more punching customers."
"I've been warned. Clara?"
"Mm?"
"I love you, you know that, right?"
"Of course. I love you too," she replied, touching her hand to her chest. Something tugged at her hair and she saw The Doctor's hands currently twisting her strands into random plaited patterns.
"Good." And then Craig hung up, leaving Clara alone with The Doctor and his hands and his chin once more.
She whipped her head around, forcing his fingers away. "What are you doing?" She asked, letting her fingers thread through her hair and unraveling his hard work.
"What is Queen's greatest song, then?" He asked, avoiding her question.
"What?"
"Queen, you said "Bohemian Rhapsody" wasn't their best, so which one is it?" Clara couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not. He motioned a hand to her shirt and she saw that she had worn her "News of the World" shirt again.
"Oh, um, I don't know. "We Will Rock You" always gets the blood pumping," she said, immediately regretting her suggestive words when they were met with the equally suggestive raised eyebrows of The Doctor. "Oh, put those away. You're such a dirty man."
He put his hands up resignation. "You're the one who said it, Lancashire, not me."
"Well," she huffed in annoyance. "I just meant that it always makes me wanna dance. Not have sex."
The Doctor leaned in very close, getting their eyes level. A wolfish grin had overtaken his face. "What songs get you in the mood for sex then?"
Clara stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before coming to her senses and shoving him away from her. With red cheeks, she answered, "nothing."
"Nothing?" He asked incredulously.
She nodded. "Nothing."
"You aren't a virgin, are you?" He asked.
Without thinking, Clara gasped. Of its own volition, her hand moved up and slapped its way across The Doctor's cheek. She stood up, her hand aching and red (she hoped his face was the same way), and walked out of the room.
"Even if I were, do you really think it's appropriate to ask me that? I mean, we did only just meet, you insufferable asshole!" She spat as she slammed the bedroom door closed.
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Harry?"
Clara heard voices through her murky haze. Sharp pains were shooting down her body, her brain pulsing like she'd been hit with something blunt. Blood tickled her neck and the coppery scent wafted into her nostrils, dizzying her even more. The thickness surrounding her thoughts only deepened when she heard the door creak open. Shadows of men danced around her, she could feel their lust.
"I'm sure," a voice replied. The man's hand reached out and touched Clara's hair. She tried to get away from him, from all of these people, but the man, the boy, Harry, snapped at her head and kept her in place.
"Just keep her mouth shut. I don't want everyone else to hear. We'll lock the door behind us," one of the bodies spoke, his arm reaching out and slapping Harry on the back. He turned around and the other shadows followed, disappearing out the door like smoke up a vacuum.
When Harry heard the click of the door locking, he moved his hand away from Clara's head. She mumbled something unintelligible and he cupped his fingers around her mouth. A thought sparked in her head. This shouldn't be happening. Warning signs, flashing red, blinked in front of her. Wrong wrong wrong. She started squirming, but Harry held her down with his other hand.
"Shh, darling, you're okay. It'll be over soon. I promise I won't hurt you," he whispered eerily and Clara writhed beneath him again, feeling his hand clamp heavier over her mouth. "Stop that, or I can promise you it will hurt."
The pounding in her head got louder and louder as he started unbuttoning her fancy new blouse she'd gotten specifically for her first university party. They popped one by one, revealing more of her pale skin to the darkness of the room. She felt a cold breeze drift across her chest when he yanked the garment off and—
"Clara?"
The Doctor's voice snapped Clara awake. She sat up in bed, not realising she'd even fallen asleep. The dream, or the memory rather, hung heavy in her mind as she tried to remember why she'd locked the bedroom door in the first place.
Then she remembered.
"I'm not speaking to you." She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest despite him not being able to see her. She just hoped her anger radiated far enough that he felt it.
"You just did, darling."
"Don't call me that," Clara whispered, bringing her legs up and hugging them.
"I have a key, I could break in."
"Then go ahead," she mumbled.
The Doctor took her invitation and she faintly registered the opening of the door, the quiet gasp, the running footsteps, and the questions tumbling out of his mouth.
"I'm fine," she insisted, not believing herself. It'd been months, almost a year in fact, since she'd thought of that night. Now all of her thrown away anger, fear, and depression were crashing into her like freight trains, one by one.
"Did I upset you?" The Doctor's quiet voice asked. He'd sat on the bed next to her, his hand hovering over her knee.
She shook her head.
"I triggered something?"
Damn him and his psychology degree.
"Clara, I—" he had reached out and finally pressed his hand to her knee. She jerked away as if she were possessed and he had just doused her in holy water.
"Don't touch me," she hissed. She knew he saw the absolute terror in her eyes and then she saw the exact moment it all clicked.
"Clara," he choked on the word, on her name. Clara could sense a panic attack coming on, everything about the last week catching up with her finally.
She was on the run with a practical stranger who went by "The Doctor", she was being chased by men with fucking guns because of something he did to them, they were in bloody Frinton and this would not be their last stop, and now he knew. Now he knew her dirty little secret. It was written all over his face. The anger in his eyes, the sneer of his lip, the growl in his throat.
"Who?" He asked—no, demanded. Revulsion was present in his voice.
Clara shook her head and buried in her hands, silent sobs quickly turning into struggling gasps. She blocked everything out, trying to remember how to come out of one of these. Shaking hands met her hair as she started panicking and her insides began twisting, grinding themselves together until her belly filled with acid.
Someone was telling her to calm down, that everything was okay, that everything was going to be okay, but she couldn't concentrate on anything right now. Stars started blurring her vision and a black wave washed over her so strongly that when she stood up to find the bathroom she stumbled to the left as if she'd had too much to drink. Hands gripped her elbows and held her upright, the touch clearing away some of the fog, and guided her to the toilet.
The large hands unclasped from her elbows and pulled the toilet seat up. Her hair got pulled back and suddenly everything that had ever been inside of her came up her throat in a stream of bile and acid, burning her mouth and spilling out, ridding her of nutrients and nightmares.
It was done soon enough and she sat back on her heels, watching the stars continue to blink in front of her. Someone shoved a glass of water in front of her face and she gladly took it, pressing her lips to the cool edge of the cup.
"Take small sips, Lancashire," The Doctor soothed and her shoulders slumped as his voice erased even more of the tension.
She obliged, sipping the water and letting it wash away the excess bile from her burning throat. The Doctor stood behind her as she continued sitting on the floor. Eventually his feet must have gotten tired, or maybe he was just tired of looking at her vomit, and he sat down with his shins pressing against Clara's toes, closing the lid and flushing the toilet.
A part of her, a deep rooted part of her, wanted to escape. Whenever she'd had panic attacks during school, when stress got too much or one of her professors yelled too loudly, everyone would stare and point and whisper behind her back. No one except Craig helped her, and even his help wasn't super great. But The Doctor aided her much more than she thought anyone ever could. He didn't touch her too much, and he knew what to do.
She supposed he was a psychologist before a journalist, so maybe it had something to do with that, but either way, she was calmer now because of him.
Exhaustion decided to replace the stars and she sort of fell back into The Doctor who in turn pulled her into his lap, allowing her to cling to him. Her arms went around his neck and his encircled her waist, keeping them locked together.
Clara didn't cry. She had been done sobbing about it for a year and wasn't going to get started again now. The Doctor kept saying 'it's okay' in her ear and after the first few times, she started believing him, letting the warmth of his breath and the calm possessiveness of his voice rock her gently to sleep.
..1..1..
The Doctor
He needed to find out who.
Would she have told Craig?
He could have Amy grab some police files to see if Clara had contacted them. But he knew she wouldn't have. That panic attack made it clear whoever touched her was still roaming the streets.
A sick feeling rumbled through him and he felt the sudden urge to pass out. Who could touch such a small girl like that? What vile creature could put their slimy hands on her body and not crush it completely? He wanted to kill him, there was no other thought going in and out of his mind. He just wanted to kill the monster, the fucked-up bastard.
He'd deposited Clara in their bed and returned to the kitchen, picking up his routine of pacing around and around when his anger started getting to be too much. He knew Clara was against people, he could tell that much when he first met her. She was closed off and looked at people as if they were these aliens that had suddenly dropped down from space. After reading The Great Gatsby and remembering how much she despised Nick and adored Gatsby, she became almost like an open book to him.
But nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing. He'd seen a lot of messed up things in his lifetime, no thanks to Amelia Pond, but this was a first. He was shocked by the amount of hatred coursing through him. Of course, he would never in a million years wish that sort of thing on anyone, but he never got this angry. What was it about her that made him so crazy?
Before he knew what he was doing, Amy had answered the phone with an annoyed puff of breath. "What do you want, Doctor?"
He blinked, not sure how he'd phoned her. Never before had he believed in blind rage, but he supposed he believed in it now.
"Doctor?" Amy asked, agitated. He heard the click, click, click of her heels as she tapped her foot. The sound sent shivers down his spine.
"Change of plans, Pond. I'm done with Torchwood. I've got a new assignment for myself," he said, his voice strangely calm.
Amy laughed disbelievingly. "What?"
"You heard me," he said through gritted teeth.
"I heard you, Doctor, but did you hear yourself? We've been on this case for over a year now, you're not giving it up."
"I have to."
"Why? Did that girl talk you out of it. I told you not to bring her, Doctor, but you refused to listen to me. As always." Click, click, click.
"Don't talk about her, don't. Something came up. Something more important." He almost couldn't believe the words he was spurting. They came on their own, just trailing out his mouth.
"Something more important! Who the hell do you think you are, Doctor, telling me what's more important than Torchwood. One year, Doctor! One year of our lives has been spent on this. I will not let you throw it away!" Amy had taken to shouting, but The Doctor could barely hear her through the blood pounding in his ears. He was getting angry again.
"You do not control me, Amy. I know you like to think that you do, but you don't," he growled.
"I am your boss, I do control you." Click, click, click.
"Maybe before, but not today."
"What did she say, Doctor? What did she say to make you change your mind about Torchwood? Did you go and tell her your secrets to get her knickers off? Was that what it took with her? And now she's all 'oh, doctor, don't do it, don't risk your life for something so trivial'." Click, click, click.
"I told you to stop talking about her!" The Doctor boomed, slamming his hand down on the kitchen table.
"Something happened to her, didn't it." It wasn't a question and the Doctor didn't need to answer. "What happened to her, Doctor?" Click, click, click. "Did someone hurt her?" Click, click, click. "Someone hurt her, didn't they?" Click, click, click. "And now you want to exact revenge." Click, click, click. "You like her, don't you? You actually have feelings for her. I thought I'd never see the day after Rose—"
The Doctor's breath caught and he yelled, "Get off your fucking high horse, Amelia Pond and stop talking to me like that."
Click, click, click, click. She was angry at him now.
"Don't use such fowl language with me, Doctor. I've been in charge of this operation since the beginning. I'm the ringleader. You're my carney. You do as I say," her voice dripped with venom and The Doctor choked back his fear.
"None of this stress can be good for the baby, Amelia."
"Then stop stressing me out. Call me in an hour when you've calmed down and we'll talk some more. But be warned, Doctor, you are not changing our plans." He imagined her standing before him now, pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail at his chest painted blood red.
"It was never our anything, Amy. It was always yours," he said in a last ditch effort to keep her talking. It was a lame attempt, he knew.
"Then we both understand that I am the only one who can change anything." She hung up the phone before he could utter another word.
The Doctor went back to fuming, letting his revulsion and anger build up until he could taste them on his tongue. Amy was right. He cared about Clara. He didn't know why or when it happened. He supposed it didn't matter now, the feeling was there despite his attempts at pushing it down.
He wanted to destroy whoever did this to Clara. He needed them caught so he could twist their body inside and out, torturing them until they bled out on the floor.
Men with fucking guns didn't scare her and he got that now. What could scare her after what had happened?
Letting himself remember for a second, The Doctor recalled when he'd been thrown into the world of customer service because apparently it was important for the whole of England to understand the hardships that accompanied the shop boys and girls. Amy had told him it was going to be a slow start getting into the business of freelance journalism and they all needed something to get bread on the table. Who was he to say no?
He saw her first when he went in to get an application. She'd smiled and shaken his hand, her big teeth and blonde hair making him wish he'd already gotten the job. Then it turned out she was his supervisor. She ruled him in the little shop and he spent half as much time taking notes as he did staring mindlessly at her.
It took him a little while to figure out she had a boyfriend, but it didn't deter him as much as it probably should have. When she'd asked him out he thought it was because she had finally given into his charm. He didn't realise until he'd already started saying how much he liked her that her boyfriend was right behind him. He'd remember the painful black eye forever.
Creaking footsteps yanked him away from memory lane and he saw Clara staring at him with a worried expression etched on her face. His anger shot through the roof when he saw her hands still shaking, but one look in her eyes and everything calmed down immediately.
He reprimand himself for being so easily manipulated by a women, but then she stared walking toward him and he forgot all about how much of an alpha male he was. "Are you okay?" He asked, knowing how stupid of a question it was.
She nodded anyway and he had to commend her for her refusal to let this get to her anymore than it already had. "Thanks for letting me sleep." She said quietly, her fingers knotting together nervously.
"Of course," The Doctor sighed, trying his best to give a reassuring smile.
A silence trapped them both and they stood there, staring at each other, until they both opened their mouths at once.
"I'm sor—"
"Who tou—"
They giggled. They had to, otherwise all they were left with was anger and sadness.
"You go first," he said, motioning to Clara. She smiled the smallest smile he'd ever seen and exhaled.
"I'm sorry, Doctor."
"What? Why?" He asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "I should be apologising to you." His voice shot up an octave.
"Why?" She asked sincerely.
The Doctor tried not to growl at himself. "Because," he began, moving closer to her. He saw her flinch and he stopped, closing his eyes. "I triggered this." He opened his eyes when he felt hands rest on his face and saw Clara in front of him, a wistful gleam in her rosy cheeks.
"You didn't know."
An overwhelming emotion, something akin to sorrow, blew up inside of him and he blinked back a sudden well of tears. "I'm so sorry I didn't know." He got out through gasps. "If I had. . ."
Clara started caressing the skin beneath his eye and he melted into her touch. "You did not know, Doctor. I did not tell you." She insisted.
"Who?"
"Why do you want to know?" She asked, genuine curiosity lacing in her words.
"So I can kill him." He answered seriously, watching Clara's eyes bulge. Her hands left his face in anger.
"Great idea, Doctor. Let's just kill the bastard," she mocked, throwing her hands up in the air.
"He is a bastard," he argued.
"I'm not saying he isn't, Doctor, but that doesn't mean I want the man dead."
"How can you not want to hurt him?"
"Fighting fire with fire only leads to getting burned, Doctor. I've been burned enough as it is." She glared at him.
"What's his name?" He asked again, taking a small step in her direction and watching her do the same, only hers were to get away from him.
"Don't do this to me, Doctor. It happened four years ago, I've had plenty of time to get over it."
The Doctor laughed, an ugly sound resonating around the dancing wolves in the kitchen. "Get over it?" He cried hysterically. "You don't just get over something like this, Lancashire!"
"Stop shouting at me!"
"What is his name!"
"I don't fucking know! We weren't really on a last name basis when he was ripping the clothes of my semi-unconscious body!" She cowered away from The Doctor when she saw his mouth open to scream some more. He closed it after a moment, words dying on his tongue.
He didn't want to think about it anymore, about some creep doing something so horrible to her. He shook his head multiple times and started ripping at his hair. "Ugh!" He cried to the floor, crouching down and slapping himself across the cheek once, twice.
"Doctor, you're scaring me," Clara's shaky voice stopped him from slapping himself a third time. He got up and tried to take a deep breath.
"You said last name basis," he said. Clara raised her eyebrows. "That means you know his first name."
"I hate how observant you are," she mumbled. "Harry."
"Harry." The Doctor spat the name. He couldn't do much with Harry. At all.
"Maybe it was the prince," Clara piped and it took The Doctor a moment, a moment in which he felt utterly stupid for thinking she was being serious, to recognise her joke.
"Funny," he deadpanned.
"Can we not have a serious talk right now? All I know is 'Harry' and that isn't much. I don't want you out there murdering all the Harry's in the world."
"Don't be silly, Lancashire," The Doctor chided, then leaned in close, noting how she didn't flinch away. "I'd stick with the one's in Great Britain."
Clara was on the verge of laughing when The Doctor suddenly threw his arms around her in a hug. He felt her tense for a split second before relaxing and getting her own arms around his waist.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"I know."
The Doctor breathed in the scent of her hair the same time he swore she sniffed him and allowed himself to smile. Being in her arms like this was good. It was needed.
They broke apart minutes later and he told Clara to hop in the shower. She agreed silently, leaving the kitchen with a indisputably happy smirk.
He lifted his wrist and turned it so he could examine his watch. It had been an hour. Reluctantly, he twisted his thoughts off how much he now hated every Harry known to man and dialed Amy's number.
"Are we calmer now?" She asked smugly.
The Doctor decided not to bait her. He was done with emotions for today. "Yes."
"Good. Then you understand that we're sticking with the original plans?"
"Yes."
"Phone me tomorrow and I'll have your next location then. I'm thinking Devon." There was a click followed by immediate silence. She never did like to dwell on things.
He threw the phone on the table and started rummaging through his brain for things he and Clara could do their last day here. It was barely one o'clock, they had time before they needed to worry about moving on. The Doctor wanted to treat the poor girl, make her feel special. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to do such a thing.
An idea popped in his brain and he immediately picked his phone back up. He punched some numbers and pressed the mobile to his ear, listening to it ring and ring and ring until an unfamiliar voice answered.
"Lock and Barrel pub, how can I help?"
"Sally, I never noticed you were a man before."
"Is this The Doctor?" The man asked and The Doctor had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Could Sally not keep her mouth shut?
"And who's this exactly?" He drew out the words, stringing the man along.
"Larry Nightingale. I'll take that a yes, then?"
The Doctor's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"You're The Doctor?"
"I'm The Doctor. You must be Sally's doting husband."
"That's me."
"Great, I've got a request."
"I've been told by my wife to give you anything you want—" there was a pause. "Except her. She said I couldn't give you her."
The Doctor laughed lightly. "Of course. No worries, mate. I'm not phoning for her. Just the pub."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll need to rent out the pub tonight. Eight to nine thirty?"
"Done." Larry said quickly, almost afraid. The Doctor's arrogant smile found its place.
"Excellent. See you tonight, Larry Boy." The Doctor hung up, glad to be the one clicking end instead of the other person for a change, and went into the bedroom.
Tonight would be interesting.
..1..
"Where are you taking me?" Clara asked, tugging on The Doctor's sleeve.
He bent his neck to look at her. She'd thrown on a The Joshua Tree t-shirt over black jeans despite him telling her she should dress up. Not that she looked bad, he realised. She looked surprisingly fantastic in her worn band t-shirts. But he'd expected a little more skin.
"It's not that difficult to deduce where we're going, Lancashire. We're not exactly in New York City." He tapped her head and she glared up at him.
"The pub, then?" The Doctor just stared forward, refusing to answer. "The pub." Clara said again, mostly to herself this time.
When they reached their destination, he again put his hand on Clara's back as he knocked on the door.
"Closed tonight," a man smoking a cigarette told him.
"Is it?" The Doctor asked, faking disappointment.
Clara laughed a little. She sounded like a bird. Stop it, Doctor. Get a fucking grip. "It's fine, Doctor. I don't need a drink anyways." Just then a man appeared at the door. Clara jumped back a bit and further into The Doctor's hold.
The Doctor couldn't hold back a smile.
So this is Sally's husband. "Larry!" He hollered through the glass. The man the other side nodded and began unlocking the door.
"How'd you do that?" Cigarette Man asked, his eyebrows forming a perfect V.
"He used to fuck the owner," Clara replied with ease as the door was pushed open.
"Way to put it eloquently, Clara," The Doctor playfully chastised, enjoying the elbow to the side he got in return.
Larry seated them at a table in the back, handing them menus and stating he'd be back with some water and their finest bottle of red wine. The Doctor watched Clara look around the quiet pub. Soft music wafted through the speakers. Her skin glowed in the dim lights, her doe eyes soft and warm. A stark contrast to how they were earlier.
Between now and before when he'd rented out the pub, The Doctor and Clara had relaxed into the afternoon, watching old Disney movies stored at the house and talking the entire time throughout them about how stupid every character seemed to be. It was easy, The Doctor noticed, him and Clara. They fit well.
"It's nice in here when there isn't anyone else," Clara said softly like she was afraid of breaking something with her voice.
"Mm," The Doctor agreed. "I used to spend nights here when it was like this. Wonderful memories."
Clara's face transformed into one of disgust. "Which surfaces do I have to be afraid of to touch then?"
"Ha," he laughed monosyllabically. "I don't mean like that, Clara. Get your head out of the gutter. Sally would let me come here and write articles. She'd kick everyone out, much to their chagrin, and I'd grab my laptop and start writing. Sometime's it'd be days before the pub opened up again."
Larry returned with their water and wine, popping the bottle open and pouring the blood-red stuff into glasses as Clara spoke, "She wasn't afraid of customers abandoning her business?"
Larry asked if they'd made any decisions yet and The Doctor shooed him away. "They're not gonna leave Sally Sparrow."
"Nightingale!" Larry called.
"Shut up, Larry!" The Doctor called back. Clara sniggered in front of him.
"Thanks for taking me out, Doctor," Clara sighed, taking a small sip of wine.
"Go easy on the alcohol, Lancashire. Don't want a repeat of last time."
"That was gin. This is wine. Much less alcohol," she told him, snapping him a teasing glare.
They were engulfed in silence again, listening to Billy Joel serenade them with "She's Always A Woman".
The Doctor broke the stillness, cracking it open and spilling it out. "You're welcome, by the way."
..1..
"I thought I told you to go easy on the alcohol, Lancashire."
"I'm not drunk, asshole. I tripped."
"On what?" The Doctor unlocked the front door to the flat and let Clara go in first. She seemed to be walking fine.
They got up the stairs and made their way to the bedroom. Clara kicked off her shoes, flopping on the bed with a sigh. "That was the most amazing meal I've had in forever." She said touching her belly, the smallest sliver of creamy skin visible. The Doctor swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Yeah, I definitely agree. Those chefs know how to cook." He laid down next to her, toeing his shoes and socks off. He turned his head to face her in the bed, but her gaze remained on the ceiling.
"I feel almost fat," she groaned, her hand disappearing up her clothing.
Don't look, don't look, don't look.
He thought as he stared a hole through the fabric covering her skin. "You're not fat," he insisted.
She moved her neck, their gazes locked. "I said almost, mister. But thank you," she said smugly, closing her eyes.
That same warmth that had followed him ever since he spoke to Clara back in Hunstanton swallowed him whole, blinding him with a fuzziness he didn't recognise. She was pulling him to her without even knowing it and it was killing him slowly. From the inside out. His heart was having a field day, pumping quicker than it needed to. He was afraid he had some problem, but then Clara would sigh and he remembered that, oh yeah, he liked her.
He didn't like that he liked her. Liking someone usually resulted in more bad than good. But he couldn't help it. Everything about her suddenly seemed to make his heart sing quicker than a hummingbird's. He guessed it made it easier knowing this was why he'd dragged her with him. It also made it more difficult, because while they were safe now, there were men with fucking guns out there. Looking for him. And now, he presumed, her.
"Hey," Clara called him out of his darkening thoughts. He felt one of her fingers press against his forehead. "Are you okay?"
He opened the eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed. "Of course I am."
"You're lying." She ran her finger along his forehead until he pushed his eyebrows down.
"How do you know?"
"Because you get these little creases here," she said, pressing further into his skin.
"You've known me for less than a week."
"Mm, but it feels like a lifetime already."
"Is that bad?"
"I have yet to figure that out, Mystery Man," she answered honestly and he admired her for it, hoping it would end up being a good thing.
He felt her breath on his skin and he noticed that she'd crept toward him. Their noses almost touched. Her eyes were trained on his lips.
She'd rolled onto her side, her free hand curling underneath her chin. She looked so small.
The Doctor looked at her eyes again, but they remained plastered to his mouth. His heart started up again, pumppumppump. Breathing became a task. He had to remind himself to swallow the saliva building up in his cheeks.
"What are you looking at?" He asked moments later, his voice husky and rugged. He was tempted to cough.
"You." He waited for her to elaborate. He hoped she would elaborate. "You are something else, Doctor. Something else entirely."
He nearly swallowed his tongue. "Good something else?" He asked hopefully, sounding childish even to himself. He forced himself not to flinch.
"Great something else."
And then she rolled away, saying incoherent words about needing to get ready for bed.
The Doctor turned on his back and let out a breath. His pants felt tight all of a sudden. Foregoing pajamas, The Doctor simply threw off his coat, tie, and suspenders, lying back down and trying to calm himself down.
Clara had been about to kiss him, he was sure of it. Or maybe he was about to kiss her. Oh, he was too old for these games, too unprepared.
He turned off his light and sunk into darkness, sleep finding him before Clara came back.
"What's the TARDIS?" He repeated.
"It says it right here, Doctor. Don't you pay attention?" Amy waved the folder in front of his face.
The Doctor scoffed again. "I don't know what you've been drinking, Amy, but this is all nonsense."
Amy smacked him over the head with the manilla folder and grinned viciously. "Don't toy with me, Doctor. I hold your life in my hands. What it says is true."
Rubbing his head, The Doctor grabbed at the folder again and smirked. "Amelia Pond, I never took you for one to believe in time travel."
"Dreams are only dreams until you wake up and make them real." It's Kind of A Funny Story
A/N: Wow, so this kind of attacked me. Over ten thousand words of pure plot. I know there's a lot of stuff going on (I barely can keep up with it and I wrote it), so I hope you understand where everything is and what it all means. Please leave a review if you liked it! It gives me so much strength to write. I was fueled by just one comment on this chapter, so imagine what more could do. . .
I knew that this was going to happen to Clara from the beginning. I understand it may have just sort of jumped out at people, but I sincerely am rooting for you all to grasp that this is why Clara distances herself from people. This is why they all repulse her and why she's so confused as to why she somehow finds this Doctor character so alluring. (Did anyone catch my allusion to the summary?) Keep the name in mind, though. It'll come to head in later chapters.
And now we get to see The Doctor's more possessive/soft/angry/murderous/confused side. Do you think he'll listen to Amy and stay on track or will he start looking for answers regarding Clara's attacker? Are people getting the idea that maybe The Doctor is falling for Clara quicker than she's falling for him? Tell me what you think about that! Can anyone guess who this blonde with big teeth is? If anyone's wondering, I imagine the Doctor to be somewhere in his mid thirties. A little older than Matt Smith. Yes, that means he's a good ten + years older than Clara.
I titled this chapter what I did because 1) the conversation on Queen gets to the big blow out scene, and 2) I like to think of it as a double meaning because of how horribly Clara and The Doc are doing with their body language. It's all confusing and muddled up. And who doesn't like Queen? I mean, seriously?
The Larry Boy nickname! Anyone recognise that? Please tell me at least one person recognised that!
I know that I'm totally changing the people in Torchwood, but please trust me. I've never been a huge fan of that show anyway, but for this story, it'll make sense that those are the only people a part of it.
Okay, one more thing: I like Amelia Pond. A lot. She's one of my favourite characters to ever grace The Doctor who franchise, I think she was a perfect fit for not only The Doctor but for Matt Smith as The Doctor. I know I kind of make you hate her in this, but I assure you, I love her. And I love Rory. We all know she's actually the bestest. But I've always seen her as The Doctor's weakness (hello "Amy's Choice"), so that's what she is. The one thing he can't say no to. Until maybe Clara. And you read correctly, Amelia is pregnant with Rory's baby.
I really don't think the next chapter will come out as quickly as this one did, sorry. But until then, thank you so much if you enjoy this story. It's getting crazier now, and it's nice to think of random people I don't know liking something I'm putting out. Keep up the good work! You rock!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Until next time - LoveIsATemple