King and Lionheart Chapter 4: Lakehouse, a doctor who fanfic

A/N hi guys! Thanks for reviewing all of you. It seriously brightness my sometimes dull and dreary days. This one is an AU, where they are both human and the Doctor is about the same age as he looks. The song is Lakehouse by Of Monsters and Men. Sorry. I just love them.

Also, I'm thinking of changing my pen name? I don't know, my current one is based on my favourite book, but it seems a bit boring...ugh. I want something doctor who related I think. Ugh. I don't know. Anyway, no one wants to listen to me and my rambling. Enjoy :)

•••

Oh, I miss the comfort of this house.
Where we are, where we are.
Where we are, where we are.

The floor under our feet whispers out,
"Come on in, come on in, where it all begins."

Can you chase this fire away?

The tallest man I've ever seen afloat,
On a boat, on a boat.
On a boat, on a boat.

He keeps his only son close by.
In a bag, in a bag.
In a bag on his back.

Can you chase this fire away?

In the fire we sleep all day

Where we are, where we are

Can you chase the fire away?

In the fire we sleep all day

•••

The Doctor's house was a big old thing. A classic two-storey weatherboard, it stood, creaking and groaning, in the middle of a huge mess of a garden which stretched out for hundreds of metres around before it reached the property borderline.

The house was cracked and spiderwebbed, floorboards worn dark in the path of all its previous inhabitants, and orchestrated a symphony of moans and protestations whenever the slightest wind blew through its doors. The garden could previously have been quite well-kept, Clara thought the Doctor's father had been a gardener, in fact. But now the once carefully trimmed hedges and well watered bulbs had seeded among each other, other plants she could not describe nor name had settled in the roots of the wrinkled old oaks, and the whole thing was a maze of life and death alike.

There was even a clear, fish-glistening lake nestled in this botanical labyrinth, or really more of a large pond. On a good night, you could see the moon and stars reflected on its surface.

The house itself boasted room upon room upon room. A library, two sprawling studies, five luxurious bedrooms with ensuites to match, one and a half kitchens, and more that had no use nor purpose at all that she knew of.

Impossible things stood on forgotten shelves. Books that told stories to capture your heart rested on dusty coffee tables. Maps, of places that didn't exist now but might have in the past or might do sometime in the future, were rolled up behind wardrobes. Ancient looking stone artifacts were stuck under couches to compensate for that missing fourth leg. Items of furniture that could have existed from the beginning of time and survived well until the end of it crouched in shadowy corners. Oddiments of cultures and countries from all corners of the world, and some that crossed over those lines, sat in every little nook and cranny, gathering dust and time.

Also, the entire exterior of the house was painted a very particular shade of blue.

Clara had once asked him why it was that colour, and he had answered that usually people asked him that incredulously, not curiously. He had gone on to say, in a low voice, that it was on the ten year anniversary of his parents' deaths that he had done it. She had hurriedly apologised, of course, not having known at that point of the Doctor's familiar history with death.

But he had waved her off, explaining that it was because the colour looked like the sky at dusk, when you thought you could look up and see into whole other worlds. That it was deep and swallowing, the kind of colour that could consume you in unknown emotion. It was a longing colour, a wishing colour, a hoping colour, a dreaming colour. It was sadness, and grief, and sorrow so penetrating it was like a void inside you. It was a promise of adventure, of things to be discovered in the peaceful blue. It was the sea and the sky and whales with their mournful songs. It was loss and regret and a resentment of hate that was always there, never fading, always constant. It was the blue of thoughts, the whispers in minds, the calling in souls.

It was also, he'd added, eyes twinkling, his favourite colour.

One particular evening in a smattering of evenings just like it, Clara parked her rickety three-door car by the path that led up to the house. The Doctor didn't like such things taking up space in the driveway, and she agreed. There was something quite special about sitting on the veranda of that old house, with the company of naught but herself and her unforgettable friend, not a sound but the flitter of night birds, not a light but the pinpricks of stars, and not a man-made thing in sight, but for the house, which strictly did not count.

The Doctor loved his house, it had been owned by his parents, his grand-parents, his great-grandparents, and probably even further back. The house was everything to him. He'd even named it; the TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. When asked, he'd said he'd named it that because it was like another world, the house, another dimension in which time and space was nothing and everything and all of the universe was possible. He talked like that a lot.

Clara began up the gravel path that wound, a clear line in all the chaos, up to the front steps. The front lights of the house were on, and the swinging bench that stood on the front veranda tipping slowly back and forth with regular creaks. As she got closer, she could see clearly the man who sat on the bench, and the two curls of steam issuing from respective mugs on the table in front of him. She smiled- he had been waiting for her.

She skipped up the front steps- deep blue, of course- making sure to hop over the third one. It had collapsed under her feet one time, even though she was much smaller and lighter than the Doctor and most other people who entered the house. He seemed to see the TARDIS as a living thing, and, if it was, Clara was convinced it didn't like her.

The Doctor gave her a smile and a mug of tea- English Breakfast, no milk, one and a half sugars- and she took both happily, taking a seat beside him on the swinging bench. He stirred his own tea distractedly, munching on a biscuit.

"Had a good day?" she asked, though she had a hunch that he hadn't.

"Mmm." Okay, not a good day then. Usually he would launch into a dramatic and detailed explanation of all the just as eccentric and strange people as him who he had met that day, and all the interesting things he had done. The Doctor didn't strictly have an occupation, he mostly did things around the place. He was a genius, truly, and sometimes even government organisations hired him to solve one problem or another of theirs, or he took a plane to the Amazon on a whim to find a previously unknown species of beetle, or he went and stopped some humanitarian injustice all on his own with just his quick mind and a couple of his invented tools. Clara was pretty sure he had broken the law dozens of times, all in the name of these remarkable exploits, but the higher authorities saw fit to overlook them due to his being both cleverer and more strong-minded than anyone, and a valuable asset to them.

"How was work?" he questioned, still intent on his tea (cream and six sugars, of course).

Ugh. Boring question. Almost as boring as work itself. It was a temporary job, really, that she had taken after the kids she was looking after had grown too old. She wanted to travel, do amazing things like the Doctor did every day. But she was far from rich, and stuck in a job at the town bookshop. Yes, the boring, cliche bookshop job. There was one plus side though, being that she got free books once in a blue moon.

"Same as always," she replied, taking another sip of tea. He nodded, scuffing his shoes against the veranda, sending the seat swinging again.

He didn't say anything else. That was unlike him. Where were the jokes, the childlike exclamations of pride and wonder? Where was the normal Doctor?

"You miss them," she observed, immediately regretting the words once they had slipped her lips. Mention of the Doctor's parents, or River, or Amy and Rory, was her own unspoken taboo.

He surprised her by actually answering. "I always miss them."

"So do I," Clara sighed, meaning her own mother. "I can't imagine what you feel."

He kicked the table, jolting the bench into a dizzying movement.

"Sometimes," he murmured. "Sometimes...I wonder why I'm here."

Clara looked at him, looking up at the stars. She knew the Doctor, and could see that this wasn't some shrouded pondering of suicide, or anything of the like. This was something different, a true, heartfelt wondering.

"Why you're here?"

"Why you're here. Why we're here. Why...why they were here. Why they're not, anymore. Why anyone is here...simply, why."

"Well...well," she followed his gaze up to the sky. "Depends what you mean. Spiritually? Physically? Philosophically? Emotionally?"

"All of them, I suppose. Or none of them. Just...don't worry. I'm just a mad man and his thoughts."

She was used to these answerless questions now, they were a main characteristic of the Doctor as she had come to know him. She responded likewise, "Well, why do you wear bow ties? Why did you paint the TARDIS blue? Why do you passionately hate yoghurt?"

He smiled a little at this. "Clever one, you are."

"You wanna know why I'm here?"

"Yes. Enlighten me."

"Hmm..." she pretended to think about it, but there were a few things she would rather not say. Not now, at least. "So many little things. How about...tea! Tea, with no milk and one and a half sugars!" She decided he needed some humour more than anything.

He smiled properly now. "And jammy dodgers!" he took one from the table and took a bite.

"Don't forget to mention those little chocolates with caramel inside. They're my favourite. Little things like that." She was sort of joking now.

"And Crunchie bars! Best invention in the history of mankind."

"The strawberry gelato from that place next to the post office. Heaven," she mused.

"My home made vegetarian omelettes."

"Beef Wellington and gravy."

"Fish fingers and custard!"

She smirked. "Pork vindaloo."

"White chocolate and raspberry muffin tops. Not the bottom bits. Those are yuck."

"Hot chocolate and marshmallows at dusk when it's storming."

"Cereal and hot fudge at midnight in winter."

"Waking up early in spring when the birds sing through your window."

"Really strong wind in a storm that makes all the windows shake and rattles the foundations."

"Watching an entire tv series alone in one sitting because there's no one to stop you."

"Smart-mouthing the leader of the British Intelligence and not getting arrested."

"Finishing a really good book at three in the morning."

"Finding a lost map of the Himalayas from the fourth century behind the kitchen fridge."

"Running in the rain without an umbrella."

"Playing the organ, the trumpet, the cello and the accordion all at the same time. Very badly."

"Making someone laugh so hard they can't stop."

"Calling the Prime Minister a log-headed clotpole for his ignorant use of new military technology."

"Planning out all the places and towns you want to travel to some day."

"Traveling wherever you want, whenever you want."

"Wishing you could." Damn. Shut up.

He's not going to travel with you, you know that, you've always known that. You have a life here. He doesn't have space for anyone in his.

"Wishing someone would travel with you," he responded quickly, clinking his mug against hers.

Did he just...

"Sitting out in the garden in July," she added hurriedly.

"The sound the TARDIS makes when there's thunder."

"Finding a long forgotten book in the back room that no one's ever heard of."

"The jokes in Christmas crackers!"

"The silver coins in Christmas pudding."

"Christmas in general and totality."

"Looking at the stars."

"My TARDIS."

"Drinking tea on the veranda."

"Pondering life."

"Sitting here with..." he started enthusiastically, before mumbling off, nibbling the last of his Jammy Dodger and looking away again.

"Didn't catch that."

"With you. Sitting here with you."

"Oh, I suppose you do enjoy my company."

"Of course I do! You're Clara."

"And here I was thinking you just liked a pretty face. I'm joking," she added, after seeing his expression.

"But-no-you do have a pretty face. I mean, I mean, that's not why I like you, you're also clever and funny and caring and- and curious...and...who said I liked you?"

"You did."

"When?"

"Just then."

It was starting to rain, now, drops pattering on the iron covering that hung over the veranda. Clara tried to convince herself that the Doctor hadn't just said that, said she was funny and pretty and...well, she bit her lip and smiled into her tea anyway. His wide, shocked eyes and stuttering was quite hilarious.

He set down his tea, leaning back on the seat as the rain began to intensify into a pour. She could tell he was trying not to look at her, and not to smile.

She put her mug down beside his, and he took her hand as soon as it was free, swinging it between them. His eyes were darting everywhere, the sky, the roof, his shoes, the tea, his hand, and Clara herself.

Every little thing.

So she kissed him.

Despite all her fears. Despite all that told this was wrong, it was dangerous, it could not end well.

But she did.

A little thing.

Another little thing.

Corner of the mouth.

As she expected, he jumped in his seat.

"Why'd you do that?!" he spluttered.

"Why'd you paint the TARDIS blue?"

He was still looking at her with complete incredulity, blushing.

She looked back up at the sky, no stars to be seen now. Just clouds. And rain.

She drank the last of her tea, listening to the sky's tears and the Doctor's loud, long breaths.

And then he lifted her hand in his, and softly kissed the back of it. He was smiling now, like it was a game.

Fine. Clara Oswald would never let herself lose a game.

She waited until the rain was an irregular roar, before turning, taking the collar of his coat, and kissing him properly.

Of course, he jolted back, arms flailing. It tool a while for him to recover himself, but was it her imagination or was he not just not protesting, but clumsily, tentatively...kissing back?

Next moment, there was a resounding crack from above and a barreling of water, collected from the waterfall of rain, came crashing down upon her head.

The Doctor recoiled, the bench went swinging again, and Clara was nothing but soaked.

"I told you your house doesn't like me!" she said through gritted teeth, blinking away water and looking down at herself in shock.

"Do you want a towel?" the Doctor asked sheepishly.

"No, I want to sit here and catch pneumonia! I think your house is jealous."

"Jealous? What-but..." he leapt up and disappeared inside while Clara glared at the bent metal awning above her, wringing her hair out in the deck.

When he returned with a towel, she snatched it from him and wrapped it around herself, moving across to his dry spot on the seat. "Stupid house," she muttered, angry not just for her saturated state, but also the fact that the deluge had interrupted something she was very much enjoying.

He squeezed onto the bit of dry bench next to her, rubbing her arms. Well, at least that felt nice.

"Is that what you meant?" he said suddenly.

"What?" she snapped, still rather irritated.

"About the things you live for. Was that you meant?"

"What do you mean?"

"I think it was."

"You think what was?" now she was really annoyed with him and his cryptic questions and answers.

"The little things." His eyes were sparkling.

"Maybe."

He smiled, brushed the strands of wet hair from her forehead. "Maybe."

And then the awning groaned even louder than before, and the rest of the panel came lose from its fixing, sending a lake full of water down upon both of them.

•••

A/N i dont know what i just wrote...meh. if you leave a review I will scream and jump up and down on the bus in public and not care what weird looks people give me.