Family Tree

"You can't keep me under forever." The Doctor said, pulling himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the railings.

He was thousands of years old, and right then, he was feeling every single minute of it in all of his bones. Lying on the floor of the TARDIS was fucking terrible.

"You're forgetting something." The Dream Lord said, circling around from the other side of the console. "I am as much you, as you are me. I exist because you exist. Ergo, I'm here…because on some deep level you want me here."

The Dream Lord was looking a lot less like a lump of lard.

The Doctor couldn't help but notice that the other man's physical appearance changed every time he regained consciousness in the TARDIS – which was a lot less often than he preferred. Where before, the manifestation had been fat and pasty, he was growing thinner all the time. His hair seemed to be graying rapidly, and his wardrobe steadily became darker and darker. The Dream Lord's eyes had turned obsidian, which was an extremely disconcerting development.

The Time Lord hated to admit it, but the Dream Lord wasn't wrong – they were two sides of the same coin.

"Of course I'm not wrong," the other him scoffed, his accent as Scottish as Amy Pond's. "But I can't understand why you're fighting me. This is what you secretly want isn't it? A life where Danny Pink is nothing but a nasty memory; Clara, in your bed, bound only to you."

"She's miserable." The Doctor spat. "You've given her a man too self-involved to give her the love she craves, too old to give her a real life and too selfish to give her up."

"How's that different from this reality?" the Dream Lord laughed, walking closer.

"And why Toronto?" The Doctor demanded testily. "I hate that city. It's cold, and the people are pretentious. The food is middling at best."

"I only show up when you're trying to punish yourself," the Dream Lord squatted in front of the reclining Time Lord, drawing his face close, so close, the Doctor could smell the other man. He had a faint sickly sweet odour about him, not unlike the smell of old rot. "And boy, you sure know how to do it,"

As the Doctor drifted back into unconsciousness against his will, he heard his alter-ego say,

"Try to enjoy it a little. Consider it a gift to yourself."

"John, come to bed." He heard Clara say. "You're going to hurt your neck sleeping here."

John's eyelids fluttered open. He felt rather than saw his wife prise the whiskey glass out of his hand. They were sitting in what was supposed to be their study, although it was mostly unpacked boxes of things waiting to be put on empty shelves.

"I'm still drinking that," he said instinctively, sitting up.

"No you're not. It's empty." She sounded a little amused. "Come on, let's go."

"No, wait…" pulling at her hand, he became more awake with each second. She didn't resist, letting him tug her onto his lap. "I'm still sorry. About earlier."

"Yeah well…I am too." She said, brushing her hair out of her face and looking down at him.

"Perfect. We agree on something." He let his fingers drift over her cheek. Unbidden, an image of her lying unconscious on the ground suddenly flashed through his mind. He jerked in shock, suddenly completely lucid.

"John?" Clara sounded worried. "Are you ok?"

"I…" he held on to her tightly, burying his forehead into her upper arm. "Yes. I think so. Sorry."

"You're killing yourself at work." She tsked.

"Maybe. Maybe that's it." He said.

That close to Clara, surrounded by her smell, John found himself intoxicated by more than just the scotch. Pressing kisses up her arm, he pulled her down towards him, pressing his mouth against hers.

Encouraged by the sounds she made at the back of her throat, he let one hand wander over her breasts, caressing each gently at first, and then squeezing them with firmer intent.

The kisses themselves had changed; while it had started out fairly chaste and sweet, he was now aggressively nudging her lips open with his own, fiercely plundering her mouth with his tongue.

She shifted against his lap, and he let own a gasp of his own. One hand reached upwards to her hair, and guided her down between his legs, until she was on all fours facing him.

"You know what to do," he said, leaning back and watching her. Wide eyed, mouth parted in a restless pant, she reached up and undid his fly. Careful hands pulled his clothing away.

Her small pink tongue flicked out and gave the tip of his cock a few laps. Impatiently, he reached for her hair again. Pulling her head back, he commanded, "Open."

So she did.

Slowly, he pushed his cock into her waiting mouth, allowing himself to revel in the warm softness that was Clara. He pushed until he could see that she could barely breathe, and pulled out again, before shoving his cock deeper back in.

She moaned piteously, but didn't indicate that he should stop.

Fucking her face, he couldn't help grow harder as he saw the tears seeping out at the corners of her eyes.

When it got too much for him, when he needed to be buried in her hot, tight cunt, he murmured,

"Turn around."

Still on all fours, she complied.

Crouching down, he flipped her skirt up and stroked her bottom through her cotton underpants. When his fingers reached the apex between her legs, he pushed the cotton aside and shoved two fingers in her.

"Only whores like being used." He smirked. "Tell me Clara, are you my whore?"

"Yes sir," she breathed as he moved his fingers within her.

"I can tell. You're dripping."

"Only for you sir…"

He fingered her until she was close to coming, before he moved behind her and rammed his cock into her eager channel.

Morning arrived.

She was brushing her hair, getting ready for her assignment when John said,

"I think maybe we should talk about it. Talk about him. About Danny Pink."

Clara carefully put the brush down on the dresser, turning to look at her husband who continued putting on his shirt nonchalantly. The way he refused to look at her though, told her that he was anything but comfortable.

"I agree." She said carefully.

She really did. This was the first time John had said his name without flying into a rage.

"I don't…blame you. For what happened. I blame me." He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his wingtips out of the closet in front of him.

"Why?" she sounded incredulous.

"Because…because I don't think it would have happened if I'd been a better man." He bent down and tied his shoelaces. "If I'd been around more."

"That's stupid." She stood up and walked over to sit next to him. "I mean, yes, we could have spent more time together in the last couple of years. But I shouldn't have played along with Dan…Daniel. I shouldn't have let it get as far as it did. I should have tried to talk to you about how I felt, instead of…instead of what I did."

He reached over and grasped her clasped hands.

"We're talking now." He said, looking her in the eye. "I want you to know, I'm not angry at you. Not anymore, anyway. Or at least, I'm very close to being not angry."

"Good," she smiled. It was a genuine smile.

"We do need to talk about that other thing though." He said, standing up and pulling away.

"Huh?" she sounded confused.

"Kids. Children." John picked out a tie. "How I'm not interested in having those, and how I think you are, even if you say you're not."

"Christ, John." That old irritation started to flare up deep in her belly. "We finally have a good talk and you go and ruin it…"

"I'm not saying I want to talk about it now. I have a meeting in an hour," he bent down and kissed her forehead. "But we should. Soon."

"Do you want to talk about our age difference and how one of us will die before the other?" Clara asked sarcastically.

"Not particularly, no." John said, walking out the bedroom door.

"I hate you." She snapped, and immediately, immediately regretted that lie spoken in her rage. John stopped in his tracks.

"Well, I on the other hand, love you so much, I would do just about anything to make you happy," He bit out after a while.

Clara wanted very much to shriek in despair, and to take back the last three words she said.

"Smith." The CEO said as he walked past John's desk. "My office. Now."

John sighed, leaning back in his seat. As if his morning wasn't bad enough, what with the fight with Clara and all.

"John," the CEO's new assistant Martha poked her head into his office. "He's serious. He's not in a good mood this morning."

"I'm not budging until he says please," John snapped.

"He's not going to." Martha sounded a little offended at the Scottish man's tone.

"Then I guess I'm not going in there."

Rolling her eyes, the Executive Assistant walked away, the tapping of her heels fading.

Looking at the empty doorway, he wondered where he had met Martha before. There was something painfully familiar in her sharp features and dark eyes, her clipped speech and precise manners. It couldn't have been back in London.

"Mr. Smith," a young man John didn't know appeared where Martha had stood. He seemed extremely nervous. "My name is Rory - HR sent me over because your assistant called in sick today."

"Rory," John repeated, staring at the newcomer. Maybe he was getting a stroke. Why were all these new faces so familiar? Was the stress finally getting to him or was he was going completely bonkers?

"Rory Williams-Pond, sir," he said.

"What kind of name is that?"

The poor boy looked at a loss for words.

"Go…fetch me a coffee or something. I have work to do." John turned back to his computer screen. He wasn't lying when he told Martha that there were no circumstances under which he was going to answer his manager's rude summons, unless the other man started treating him with some respect.

"How are you finding the assignment?" Trisa asked, sipping on her cup of tea. Today, she wore a bright blue dress, though she continued to match that with her signature combat boots. Clara secretly wondered if perhaps she only owned a single pair of shoes.

"Angie and Artie are such sweethearts," Clara stirred her own drink idly with a wooden stick.

They were sitting in a place called Tealish, where skinny, disaffected girls behind the counter made perfect cups of tea.

"Good!" Trisa sounded pleased. "I'm glad I helped."

"Glad you did too." Clara smiled wanly. "I was starting to really hate sitting at home all day not doing very much."

"Are you still feeling uneasy about the house?"

"I…don't know." Clara confessed. "I've had other things to think about lately. Bit distracting."

Her friend peered at her over the lid of her paper cup.

"Is everything alright?" Trisa asked curiously. "It's not John is it? He can be an idiot."

"No, of course not." Clara lied, then shook her head. "Actually…yes it is."

Trisa looked at her expectantly.

"He's not really over…over something I did back in England. Something awful." Clara sighed. "And he's now starting on about children…he's insisting I want them. I don't know why. "

"Perfectly natural. You're so much younger than him." Trisa leaned forwards sympathetically. "Anyone would expect that you might want children."

"Right, except for the part where I don't," Clara said. "Doesn't my opinion count for something?"

"He's just worried you'll regret it." Trisa said, reaching out to touch Clara with her cool, smooth hand. "He's old, he thinks he knows everything."

"I don't know how to reassure him any more than I have." Clara said glumly.

"Give him time love." Her friend patted her comfortingly. "It's something you both have; albeit, one of you has more of that than the other."

"Sir?" Rory asked from the door as the lunch hour approached.

John grunted a non-committal response from his desk; his brows were furrowed in consternation as he stared at his screen. He'd worked on the document in front of him before, he was sure of it.

"Sir, Mr. Cunningham is requesting some of your time." the younger man said. "He says 'please'."

Looking away from his monitor, John narrowed his eyes, doubting very much that the CEO had used that particular word. With a resigned air, he stood up and unplugged his laptop.

"Have we met before? Today that is. Before today." John asked, stopping in front of Rory.

"No sir, I don't think so." the temporary assistant said.

"No really, where were you before this gig?" John pressed on.

"I was a nurse. The hospital I worked at shut down, and I needed something to do for the time being so…" Rory shrugged.

"A nurse?" John's brow furrowed further.

"Yes sir, a nurse."

John walked away, something niggling at the back of his brain like an itch that needed badly to be scratched.

"Go right in Mr. Smith," Martha said from her desk, never looking up as she typed diligently at her computer. He considered stopping to ask her where he had met her before as well, but decided against it.

"John. Glad to see you've deigned to grace me with your presence," his boss said the moment John stepped in.

"Glad to see you're not attempting to summon me like I'm your pet," John replied. There was something odd about this picture – something strange about the man in front of him. Odder than usual anyway.

"We need to talk about the report you sent me," the CEO did not respond to John's not so subtle jab.

"And here I thought this was a social call." John sounded irritable.

"Your work is fine, but it's not going fast enough. You need to pick up the pace a bit. There's a board meeting in two weeks."

The financial expert counted to ten silently, closing his eyes and breathing slowly.

"You're asking me to hide evidence of all finances that have gone missing over the last ten years, without the process slipping into illegal territory." He said. "James, they say that out of quick, cheap and good, you can only pick two."

"You're not bloody cheap. You're charging me three thousand a day," Mr. Cunningham scowled.

"Cheaper than a prison term for you, and certainly cheaper than millions of dollars owed to the stakeholders."

Out of nowhere, a slender hand set a coffee cup on the desk in front of him. John saw Mr. Cunningham rise out of his seat, a look of fury crossing his pudgy features.

"We didn't ask for coffee,"

"It isn't for you," a painfully familiar voice said. John looked up.

"Hello sweetie," the intruder offered him a brilliant smile. "My god but you can be stubborn can't you."

She picked up the cup of steaming liquid and before John could duck, River Song threw the contents in his face.