She was sitting on a bloody, tiled floor in Suffolk. Sobs were gushing from her quicker than the blood was.
"Oswald! One minute!"
One minute. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight—she set her palms on the slick floor. Fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five—she braced her weight against them and made to stand, but the motion made the skin on her knees pull apart farther. She felt beads of blood skating down her muddy calves, and the time kept passing. Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight— she fell back hard on her bottom as the pain in her legs grew unbearable.
"Fuck," she hissed. She breathed hard through her mouth and cupped her dirty palms over her knees. She pressed down hard, gasping around the pain that caused. She had to make the bleeding stop. It was only her tenth week of Initial and Specialist Training. She had twenty-two more to go. She couldn't fall apart, not now, not here. Not this way.
She choked back a sob as she lowered her hands. She set them on the floor behind her and breathed hard through her mouth, trying to counteract the nausea rising within her. She was in so much pain that she was certain she was close to vomiting. She slowly—and shakily—rose to her feet. She stayed stooped over, with her knees bent, afraid to fully straighten them. She had shredded the skin. She couldn't even see any certain slice; her knees were a mess of torn flesh, blood, and a whiteness she feared was bone. They were so dismantled she wasn't even sure if sutures could mend it. There didn't seem to be enough in-place skin to sew back together. And she was an idiot for the way it'd happened.
"Time's up! Out. Now." Her trainer barked.
Her vision swam as she took a jerky step forward. She let out an involuntary cry as the skin ripped further.
"Fuck," she hissed under her breath. She gasped shallow breaths through her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut. Fuck.
And then she heard a vaguely familiar voice from outside the door.
"Give her a moment. She fell down on the—"
The trainer cut him off.
"Get back in line, Smith. You're out of bounds." He bit.
Smith. Clara was able to place him after a moment. He was the new one who'd just joined the program two weeks prior. He had a funny chin. She'd never spoken to him, but he had caused quite a ruckus on his first day when he refused to take off his bulky wristwatch. It had been his granddad's, he'd said, and Clara remembered he had his hand locked over it as he did. She recalled feeling an odd mixture of affection and pity for him.
"But she was bleeding," she heard him say, and she was surprised at how pleading he sounded. Like her wellbeing genuinely mattered to him.
"Get back in line!" The trainer shrieked. Clara flinched. She gritted her teeth and tried for the door again, not wanting him to get in trouble on her behalf, but it was too late. She looked at the red streaks on the floor and realized it was too deep for her to ignore or patch up herself. She was going to need to see the doctor. She felt tears burn hotly in her eyes. She'd be sent home over this. She'd have to restart the entire program. That was ten weeks for nothing. She'd been a fool for thinking she could do this. She should've known she'd never make it through the bombing course. She still couldn't even light a candle without her hands shaking.
She was preparing herself for the fallout as she limped towards the door, but it opened before she could even touch the handle. She looked up in surprise. It was a young, handsome man. He couldn't have been older than Clara, but she knew from his uniform that he was a group captain. She braced herself for conflict. She squared her shoulders and averted her eyes. But what happened was not what she was prepared for.
"Oh, no," he whispered, horrified. Softly. Clara had been braced for yelling. She glanced up at him hesitantly and watched in disbelief as he lowered down. He kneeled so he was eyelevel with her knees. Clara stared at his dark fingers as they lightly fluttered just over her wounds, never touching, but obviously wanting to. "What's happened?"
Her mouth was dry and her words were thick.
"I—it happened during the exercise. I fell onto the fencing." She stuttered. What she hoped he thought was that she was clumsy and incapable. It was better than him knowing the sight of the roaring flames had knocked the breath from her frame. She was trying so hard to not be that person any longer.
He looked up at her from his lowered position. His eyes were wide and aching.
"This is very bad. You'll be dismissed if they see this." He shared gently. Clara noticed he'd lowered his voice to a whisper.
She shut her eyes. She pursed her shaking lips.
"Christ," she murmured. She felt shame settling in her bones. "God dammit."
He rose to his feet. He peered at her sadly.
"Come on. I'll help you to the infirmary." He offered. He extended a strong hand.
Clara stared. She could feel her heart pounding away in her ears.
"I can't," she realized. She looked from his hand to his eyes. He grew hazy as tears swelled in her eyes. "I can't go home. Please. It was such a stupid mistake. I'm better than this, honest. I can do so much better. I just need the chance. I can't lose this chance."
I can't lose anything else to fire, she wanted to weep. But he wouldn't understand.
He examined her face. She looked down and away as the tears capsized. And then she heard something she never would've expected.
"Are you wearing anything underneath your clothing?"
Her spine straightened, affronted. He was quick to continue. She watched in something close to fascination as he flushed. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
"I-I mean, not like—I'm not trying to—" he broke off, flustered. It took him a moment to regain composure. "I need some fabric to wrap around your knees. If we can get the bleeding controlled just long enough to get you to my office, I might be able to help you. Without anyone knowing."
Clara's heart rose dangerously.
"You mean—I wouldn't have to go home?"
He looked back down at her knees.
"I can't promise that, but that's certainly what I'm hoping for."
That morning, she never would've guessed she'd be removing her camisole in a bloody bathroom with a commander. She never would've guessed she'd be looking down at the top of his head as he carefully ripped the fabric in half and tied them tightly around her pulsating wounds. But then again, there were a lot of things in her life lately that she never would've foreseen.
She listened as he spoke to her trainer and made up an excuse for her to come back with him. She zoned in on the warmth of his broad arm around her waist as he helped her limp painstakingly to his office. He helped her up onto his desk without a moment's hesitation. She cleared her throat and looked politely at the ceiling as he rolled her trouser legs up to her thighs. His touch was soft against the tender flesh above her wound.
"Wow," he murmured. He winced. "You did a number on yourself. What's your name?"
She bit down on her bottom lip as he flushed her right knee with antiseptic.
"Clara Oswald."
He set the bottle down. He reached for the first aid container and rummaged through it as he spoke.
"Clara. I'm Group Captain Danny Pink." He introduced. He turned back towards her once he'd located the cloth he'd been searching for. Clara hissed in pain as he pressed it firmly to her knee.
"Nice name." She managed through gritted teeth. She exhaled slowly as he moved on to her left. "How did you know I was in there?"
"Your friend Smith found me. Said you were hurt." He shared. He moved a clean cloth to her left knee after flushing the wound. Clara grabbed onto the edge of his desk. "He seems to really care about you."
She could only briefly register her confusion.
"He's not my friend," she admitted. "I don't even know him."
When she looked at Danny, he appeared surprised.
"Oh? He seemed very concerned about you. Though he is quite the bleeding heart. Hopeless, too. He's been sent to see me three times already. Never a good sign." He set the soiled cloth to the side. Clara cringed back when he lifted an aerosol bottle.
"What's that?" She asked warily.
He grimaced. "Intense spray plaster. It's going to hurt like hell. But it's your only chance."
Clara eyed it guardedly for a moment longer, and then she nodded.
"Okay then. Do it."
He stared at her. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
It was later, after quite a few muffled screams and curses, that he thought to ask.
"How did you manage to fall onto that fencing?" He wanted to know. He extended his hand for her for the second time that day. Clara settled her hand in his immediately. He helped her from his desk slowly and motioned for her to take a few experimental steps around his office. They had to make sure her wound stayed sealed.
"Dunno." She lied. She looked up from her knees and locked eyes with him. Her face opened with a wide, relieved grin. "It's not opening!"
He beamed back.
"You'll need to come by at least twice a day to let me check it from this point on." He told her. "As long as we keep it sealed and healing, you should be all right. You'll have to thank Smith. He was kind to have found me."
Clara felt a surge of affection. She swallowed her large heart and smiled tentatively at Danny.
"And you were kind to have helped me." She said. She felt all the loneliness from the past few years swell inside of her chest. It was a heavy, empty feeling. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."
He smiled kindly.
"Well," he began. "I know goodness when I see it. It's not something you let slip away."
For the first time in a long while, Clara felt protected. She felt safe. She knew then that she would do anything to continue feeling that way.
Because down at the root of it all, safety was just another manifestation of control.
She had frantic, twisted dreams that night.
In the beginning, it was the same as it always was. She saw two sets of flames and lost someone she loved in both. She screamed until her throat ached. She woke up for brief moments of time, her heart racing and her stomach churning, with no thought but how much she missed and needed Danny.
But there was a strange deviation this time: there was an addition to the cast. She told herself it was because she'd fallen asleep talking to him (it must have been); that's why the Doctor had a starring role in her jumbled up nightmare-dreams. It didn't mean anything, it was just that he'd been on her mind. And she could've believed that completely…if it wasn't for the precision of the dream.
In them, he was hot and swollen. He consumed her.
She writhed, gasped, moaned. He was buried deep inside of her and the room around them was burning. She could feel the blinding heat from the flames, and she felt deep terror and panic, and she kept thinking that she needed to run—but his body was moving into hers with such delicious precision that she was tipping her head back towards the flames, oblivious in moments to how close her hair was to catching fire, obscenely loud moans spilling from her lips.
It was a disturbing tangle of arousal and horror. She dug her nails into his skin and pleaded for him to keep going, to not stop, because she was so close, so close, so close—
So close to catching flame. She felt the explosion of pleasure as she came in the dream. And terribly, it woke her mid-cry.
The plastic material of the bedsheet was slick with sweat. She blinked up at the dark ceiling and panted, sucking in shallow gasps of moldy air. She reached up and pressed her hands to her flushed face, equal parts terrified and aroused. Even her erotic dreams were nightmares.
"God," she murmured underneath her breath. She sat up shakily and reached up, pushing her sweaty hair back. "Christ."
Her legs felt weak as she crossed over to the sink. She turned the leaking faucet on and listened to the grinding of the pipes, waiting for the gush of cold water. When it finally arrived, she cupped her hands underneath it and splashed the water onto her face. She gripped the sides of the sink and bowed her head as she tried to calm her breathing.
"You alright?"
She winced in chagrin. She had hoped terribly that he was asleep. For the first time, she was certain the adjoining cells were a curse and not a blessing.
"Yeah. Sort of." She croaked. She leaned down and drank from the faucet. She'd woken up with a raw throat, though she wasn't sure if it was from dehydration, screaming, or the mold. It was likely a combination.
"That was either a really horrifying dream or a really good one." She could hear the smirk in his voice. She wasn't in the mood.
"Shut up." She snapped. She padded back over to her bed. It didn't even take her the entire trip before she regretted her words. "Sorry. I just feel ill."
His tone was reserved, curt. She didn't hear any exhaustion at all.
"Right. I won't bother you. Sleep well."
She could hear his bed springs creaking as he presumably settled back down. Clara had thought that was what she wanted. Until that's what she had.
"Wait—I mean—well," she stopped. "Are you tired?"
"Not really. I catnap." He commented drily. Clara wasn't certain he was serious, but she decided to go with it.
"Oh. That doesn't sound very healthy." Her tone was trying too hard for conversational. She ended up sounding a bit desperate.
"Eh, probably not." He dismissed. "Do you want to talk about your dream?"
"No." Clara said quickly. Her mind focused on the first part mostly. Talking about her nightmares never helped anything.
"Okay." He said.
She bowed her head and pressed her forehead against her palm. She fought against images that wanted to resurface. After pushing away a lot of images from the first part of her dreams, she settled by letting latter images through. The sensation of him buried inside of her still felt so real that it made her shiver. She felt her thighs clench automatically. The cool air chilled her naked skin that was quickly growing damp, and not for the first time, she thought about it. Her fingers inched to her stomach. She set her palm over her bellybutton and realized she could very easily come right now. She could've thought about the forceful strokes of his cock and brought herself there in a matter of moments. But that would require silence, and he thought they were still talking.
"Did you hear the commotion upstairs earlier?" He wondered.
Clara swallowed hard. She tried to ignore the growing throbbing between her legs.
"No," she muttered distractedly, without even thinking. She had heard it. It'd sounded like someone dropping metal weights onto the floor above them. Probably a fight. "What was it?"
Don't think about it, she scolded herself. She screwed her eyes shut. She squirmed. In her mind, she could hear him panting in her ear. He had gone so deeply in her, had hit so many places she'd never—
"A fight would be my guess. I'm surprised you slept through it." He commented lightly.
Her fingers were traitors. Her mind was weak. How long had it been? She couldn't remember. Her mind was tangled. She stroked over herself once. It sent waves of pleasure down her spine, her legs, to her toes. She shut her eyes and stopped.
"Me too." She commented absentmindedly. She slowly lowered back onto her back, her knees falling open. God, she thought. Why am I doing this?
She rubbed slow, gentle circles over herself. She was so focused on replaying the memories of her dream that she forgot herself. It only took one breathy gasp.
"Clara."
She was too far gone. She didn't care anymore.
"Doctor?" She inquired, her voice a pitch too high.
She could hear the wry smile. "What are you doing?"
Thinking about your cock—"I'm…uh…thinking, and…" Oh, sod it. Maybe I'll at least be able to get back to sleep afterwards. "Getting myself off."
He hummed thoughtfully. Clara didn't have to try very hard to ignore him. She was getting close in no time at all, her body burning and throbbing and so acutely needy that she didn't even know if this would be enough. It was still a better outcome than sobbing herself back to sleep (which was what her nightmares caused), but she could already feel frustration blooming.
"Must've been a good dream then." He commented. And then, lightly, casually: "Stop."
Her breaths were coming quickly. Her hand stopped automatically, more out of surprise then compliance. She relaxed back against the pillows, intent on demanding answers for his sudden command. But she didn't have to wonder much longer.
"What are you thinking about?" He wanted to know. His voice was deep, velvety. It sent another throb down her core. She could've ignored him and finished it—but she was suddenly wondering if there was something better to get out of this.
"You." She admitted. She let her eyes close as the images returned. "In my dream, you fucked me and it was fabulous."
Short and to the point. No need to mention the rest. No need to add that even her subconscious pleasure had torment weaved in.
"Why was it fabulous?" His voice was carefully measured, but she could hear a tightening beginning between his syllables. The thought that maybe he had his hand down his trousers made not touching herself even more unbearable.
"Because—because it was hard, and deep, and your cock felt so—" she stopped, her words getting too crude too quickly. Her next words were blunt. "I wish it was real."
The thread of frustration was pulled tight around his next sentence. Some words bunched together tightly, crowded and snug, while others had too long of a gap between them.
"I want you to touch yourself again. But slowly, so you last. So you can listen to me."
She felt chills overtake her for a moment. She inched her hand back down and wondered how that could be the most erotic thing she'd ever heard. There'd been other words, other situations, other times that must've been more erotic objectively. But to her, in that moment—nothing had ever set her so alight.
"Are you?"
Her eyes fluttered shut at the first careful, slow stroke. She resisted the urge to moan.
"Yes."
"Good." He commented. "Now. I want you to move your other hand to your breast. Let's say…the right one." Her hand followed the path he would've taken easily. "If I were there, I would rub your nipple between my thumb and forefinger."
She nearly didn't do it, because John had fondled roughly before and it'd done next to nothing for her, but she was desperate for more pleasure. She cupped underneath her breast and experimentally did as he'd suggested. The responding pulsation of pleasure down her body made her gasp softly.
"Oh," she allowed, without even meaning to.
His voice was more aroused after that.
"I would rub harder after that, hard enough to make my wrist cramp. I'd keep my other hand at your breast, even though you would probably want those fingers elsewhere."
And she did. She wanted to fuck herself terribly, because it all felt good but not good enough, but she was intent on letting him fuck her with words.
She did as suggested and increased the pace, but it was too much too quickly. She cried out and stopped. She let her hand on her breast lower to her ribs.
"Too much," she breathed. "Oh, God,"
The moan was breezy and did something to the Doctor. When he spoke, he sounded more lust-ridden than she'd ever heard.
"I would keep at it. What would happen if I did?"
She swallowed hard. Her fingers moved back of their own accord.
"I would come." She admitted. "Too quickly."
"So you'd be wet and swollen when we fucked. Don't see the problem with that. I would make you come again."
He sounded a bit out of breath. She hoped he was touching himself. Just the thought made her lose even more control.
"Okay." She allowed, though in her lust she wasn't really even sure what she was saying. She just knew she needed to feel as good as she had before. She picked up where she'd left off. It didn't take long for a gasp to spill from her lips.
"That's good, perfect," he hummed. "You sound as beautiful as you look. As you taste."
She sped up of her own accord, further aroused by his words. She could feel herself getting closer. She hardly registered the slight whine of the bed springs. She let herself moan audibly between gasps.
"Oh, God, Christ, Fuck," she panted. "Doctor."
"Yes?"
But whatever she'd been about to say, it was lost to her. Her hips thrust up towards her hand. Her back was arching. She wanted to hold it off, wanted to draw it out further—and then she heard a groan from the other side of the wall. Her hips lifted from the bed as her back arched, her pelvic muscles grew painfully tight, and she was there. She cried out loudly, embarrassingly, her muscles clenching as she came hard and wonderfully. She didn't let her hand fall away from her body until she was a shaking heap.
"Oh my god," she gasped out. She could hear her heartbeat racing madly. The throbbing was beginning to pander off perfectly. And her wits were returning to her. Oh.
The wall was back again. She had felt so close to him during it, so involved, that it was almost depressing to look towards his voice and see that same wall, sink, and door. So depressing to regain her sense and remember how alone she was.
She wasn't sure what to say. She hoped she hadn't just ruined things between them somehow.
"How do you feel?" He asked. He sounded a bit out of breath. She hoped he'd come, too.
"Sleepy." She admitted. "Really good."
"I'm glad." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll let you go back to sleep. Goodnight, Clara."
She wanted to cross over and see if her clothing was finally dry, but her legs were gelatin. She turned over onto her side and curled up instead.
"If you fuck with your body as well as you fuck with your words, we're going to have an okay time in prison." She commented tiredly.
His laughter sounded almost proud. It made Clara smile.
For the first night in a long time, she didn't even dream at all.
She woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. She blinked tiredly and watched the metal tray sliding through the hatch.
"Breakfast." The screw outside declared gruffly. Clara listened to the squeaking of the cart as they pushed it away.
Her eyes snagged the mug of tea immediately. She used the toilet quickly, rinsed her mouth out with water quickly, dressed quickly. All in her haste to hold that mug between her palms. She carried the tray carefully over onto her bed and sank down. It was cold and heavy on her thighs, even through the thick cotton of her trousers. She inhaled the smell of the tea and smiled.
"What the—is this supposed to be a scone? Or some sort of…flattened raw potato?"
Clara looked down at her tray. She picked up the triangular object. She tapped it against the metal tray. It didn't even dent.
"I'm going to guess it's a really, really, really old scone." She responded. She lifted it up and peered at the black dots. "With either mold or really tiny flecks of blackcurrants."
"Rubbish." He snapped, his words muffled around a bite of what must've been that rubbish scone. Clara laughed without meaning to.
"I'm not eating it." She decided. She grabbed the slimy, watery porridge instead. "I'll give this porridge a go."
"Braveheart Clara. I wouldn't." He commented. "Ugh, this "scone" is sticking to my tongue like sawdust."
Clara grimaced. "Yeah, no, I'm sticking with the porridge."
A silence lapsed over them as they ate. The porridge was appalling in both texture and taste, but it would keep the hunger pains away until lunchtime. Clara ate out of nervousness more than anything and wondered if they should speak about what happened last night. She was beginning to wonder if she'd dreamed it all up.
"Should we…talk about last night?" She asked tentatively. She took a long sip of her lukewarm tea. It was oversteeped and sharp, but she didn't care. "I mean. I hope you don't think I'm—"
"Clara. I don't think anything negative about you. I enjoyed myself and it seemed like you did, too. It was a nice reprieve from this shit norm."
She let out a relieved breath. She pressed her palm to her cheek.
"Good." She didn't ask if it would happen again, or mention that she really hoped it would. She just took another sip of her tea. He was quiet for a while. Clara wondered what he was thinking about. She finished her breakfast and then stretched out on her bed. She laced her fingers atop her stomach and rested. Her peaceful silence was broken by the Doctor's curious voice.
"Do you miss the army?"
It seemed like a spontaneous question to Clara, but she assumed it somehow tied into whatever he was thinking about. It was likely she'd been mumbling about the army in her sleep.
"Every day." She admitted. She cleared her throat quietly and stared hard at a crack in the ceiling.
He hummed with interest, like that wasn't the answer he'd expected.
"What did you love about it?" He wondered. He sounded a bit confused, like he was having a difficult time understanding why she felt that way. She supposed it might've seemed odd to him. In a way, she'd gone from one prison to another.
It was automatic.
"John and Danny." They were first, always. "And the familial aspect of it. And the control." She paused. She thought to the dining hall. "Also, there was some really great onion soup on Wednesdays."
He laughed. She smiled up at the ceiling, pleased.
"That does sound pleasant." He admitted. "What did you hate about it?"
That was automatic, too.
"The deaths. Especially the senseless ones." The back of her throat ached. For a moment, she saw the face of the young boy that had been lost. The young boy that haunted Danny every single night. She was quick to try and bury the thought. "The mattresses were rubbish, too. Though not nearly as bad as these. And most of the tours were absolutely horrible. The sun in the deserts was boiling. My face used to get so sunburned it blistered and bled, no matter what I did." She paused. She fought back a shudder. "And you don't even want to know about the spiders."
His tone was mischievous. "I think I do. Tell me all about them, with minute detail. How long were the legs?"
"Ugh!" Clara groaned. She shivered. "That's something I will not talk about."
"Were they in the beds? Were they huge and massive, like moon spiders?"
"Shut up!" She stopped. "Wait, what the hell is a moon spider? No—nevermind. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."
"Okay, okay," he chuckled. Clara listened to his laughter pander off with a wide smile, despite her torment. She figured it was possible he'd laughed more that day than he had in twenty years. It was a powerful, encouraging thought.
"Doctor?" She asked.
"Clara?"
"What was it like for you? The past twenty years?" She asked tentatively.
It wasn't as automatic for him. His silence drew on, punctured only by contemplative exhalations from his side of the wall.
"Well," he began. He stopped. "I guess it was like Hell. That's what I think Hell must be like. I don't think it's flashy torture. I think it's quiet and it's secluded. Like not talking for two decades to anyone but yourself."
Her pity was choking. She didn't know what to say.
"It's odd," he began. "You forget how to talk in a way. Those first few times I spoke to you, it was like I couldn't get my mouth and my words to match up right. In my mind, it's like I knew what I should've said. I could remember what was polite. But I guess it was just so nice to talk to someone…it all came out without a filter."
She honestly couldn't even imagine what it would be like. How frightening it would be. Vastra and Jenny were the main reasons she'd survived at first.
"Like right now." He continued. "In my head, I know you probably don't care. But my mouth is just glad to be talking."
"Of course I care. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." She reassured him quickly. She realized he was every bit as damaged by the last series of years as Clara was. "It's so…screwed up that I'm about to say this. But I kind of feel like the worst has passed for both of us." She laughed sourly. "God, never thought I'd be saying that in the prison I'm probably going to die in. Really goes to show how shit things have been in my life."
She took it as a good omen, or maybe even a validation of her statement, when the door to her cell opened only a few seconds after that comment. She stared at the dingy towel.
"Shower time. Let's go."
She never thought she'd grin so hugely because of a shower. She was at the door in only a moment, indifferent to everything else but washing her hair and getting a clean change of clothing. She trailed obediently after the screw, pausing momentarily in front of the shut cell door she knew was the Doctor's. She was about to ask if he was going to get to shower when another screw rounded the corner and stopped at his door, a towel in hand.
"RY2227. Move it!" The screw ordered. Clara shot one more quick, distracted look at the Doctor's door and hurried after her.
They wouldn't let us shower together, she told herself. She paced outside the closed door the screw had disappeared into, nude except for the towel around her body. Her heart was thrumming with excitement that she wanted to quell (because she didn't want to have to feel it sink with disappointment). But this is the end of the hall. Where else would another shower be?
"In." The screw appeared through the door. Clara caught a glimpse of three cement stalls.
"How long do I get? Is there soap in there?" She asked.
"Ten minutes. Soap is on the bench beside your new clothing issue." The screw replied. Clara had never seen anyone who looked quite as bored as that screw did. She wondered if she was having them shower at the same time to speed up her shift, so she could go home earlier. If so, she was indebted to that woman's parents for making her so lazy.
Clara stepped into the shower room and waited. She was sure the screw would have to come in to supervise. She watched in disbelief as the screw leaned against the wall, her mobile phone already in her hand. After a moment of observation, Clara lifted her eyebrows. Well then. She had already checked out.
Regardless of whether or not the Doctor would be joining in the adjoining stall, Clara had to get her shower started. She couldn't wait around for him. She felt it was probably better that he didn't show up. She didn't know if she could keep from initiating something, and she desperately needed to use her ten minutes to bathe. She grabbed her bar of soap off the top of her new uniform and stepped into the stall on the far left. She set the soap down and then turned, slowly swinging the door shut behind her. She jumped when she heard a loud click. She reached down and tugged on the handle. Of course.
"Um," she called loudly. "The stall locked."
"Yep. I'll unlock it after ten minutes." The screw responded dully.
Of course she knew they wouldn't have let her and the Doctor roam about free…but she still felt disappointed. She walked to the far end of the stall and turned the water on. She had prepared herself for freezing cold water, but blessedly, lukewarm water sputtered out. She stepped underneath the erratic spray immediately and turned her back to the shower head. Facing that direction, she noticed something she hadn't before. The short wall between herself and the neighboring stall—and the man stepping into it.
He didn't miss her. He locked eyes with her immediately. He stopped in place and stood straighter, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
"Get in there! What are you looking at?" His screw barked. Clara couldn't see him, but she assumed he was a bit more involved than Clara's had been. And that he probably didn't realize the two stalls weren't entirely separate.
The Doctor followed the order quickly. The wall was just up to Clara's collarbones, but it was only up to the Doctor's chest. There always seemed to be a wall between them, but at least this one was shorter.
"Hello," the Doctor said, surprised. He kept a respectful distance from the wall, obviously realizing he was tall enough to see straight into her side if he approached. Clara, on the other hand, moved as far over as she could without getting out of the shower spray.
"Hi." She called over the water. She hoped the screws couldn't hear them, but judging by the muffled sound of their laughter, they were too busy chatting to care. "Didn't expect this."
"Nor I." He agreed. He looked around himself almost nervously. He lifted his right hand, brandishing the bar of soap. "Got soap. Yay."
It was unexpected and terribly endearing. Clara stared at him for a beat and then burst into laughter, her face split wide with a grin. He grinned back tentatively. She took a step towards the wall.
"We should probably wash," she said, as if she wasn't moving closer to him as she said it.
A similar tether was hooked to him, too. He approached the wall slowly.
"Yeah." He agreed. He set his forearms on top of the short wall. His casual posture brought Clara closer. She'd never been one for modesty, and especially not now, because she wanted to be naked around him. He seemed to notice that confidence and surety. His eyes traced down her face, her neck. She didn't even know how much he could see of her from where he was, but she wished she could see more of him. She eyed him greedily and then reached up. She met his eyes as she rose up onto her tiptoes and settled her forearms down right beside his on the wall ledge. The feeling of his skin against hers was lovely, even if it was just their arms. She didn't break her eyes from his until she felt his fingers touch her wrists. She looked down and watched as he grasped her hands. He stepped back, pulling her hands with him so her arms were extended straight out with her palms facing up. She could feel the skin of his chest against her fingertips.
"What are you doing?" She asked him quietly. Her elbows were resting on the rough cement ledge. Her breasts pressed into her side of the wall.
"Feeling you." He responded simply. She watched the path his palms took as they slid up the smooth skin of her inner forearms. He backtracked back down to her wrists after that, stroking gently, his brow furrowed with concentration. He still puzzled over her and she didn't understand it. He extended his index finger and pressed the tip of it lightly to the most prominent vein in her inner wrist. He followed up it, eventually stopping at her inner elbow. She swallowed hard as he reached up. He grasped her upper arms. His large hands wrapped nearly completely around them. He moved his hands up, and then down, that befuddled expression still in place. He tugged carefully, inadvertently pulling Clara further against the wall. The cold, rough texture was alarmingly nice against her chest. She went to lift her arms slightly—just enough to wrap her hands around his forearms, but she stopped when he snapped his eyes to her, surprised.
"You're very strong," he realized. He looked back down at her biceps. She watched his expression as he slid his hands up and down them again. "I can feel your muscles."
She didn't know why he was surprised.
"RAF officer, remember?" She reminded him.
"You could probably kill me."
"Oh, easily," she agreed. She paused. "No offense."
He met her eyes, his owlish and wide. "None taken. I haven't so much as lifted a weight in twenty years." He looked down at her collarbones, which was as far as he could currently see with her body pressed into the wall. "Are you this strong all over?"
She blinked up at him. "Come over here and find out."
His eyes bore into hers. She watched them fill slowly with desire.
"If I could, Clara, I would." He murmured. He licked his lips. "I've been thinking about it all day."
"Me too." She admitted.
He looked back down. He patted her upper arms. "But this is nice, too. Touching you is nice. Doesn't matter where."
"RY227, KI369—five minutes left."
Clara grimaced. When she looked back at the Doctor, he was wearing an identical expression.
"We should wash." She repeated reluctantly.
"Yes, probably." He agreed. But he didn't let go of her and she didn't back up. After a long moment, she took a half-step back, and he unfurled his fingers. They repeated those small steps until they were no longer touching. Clara tried to ignore the way her throat narrowed.
She rubbed the thin bar of soap between her palms and quickly soaped down her body. She rubbed the bar of soap over her wet hair after that, and as she was in the process of turning around to push her soapy head under the spray, she caught a glance of the Doctor through the corner of her eye. He had his head tipped back underneath the facet, his eyes shut. He looked a lot less frantic than Clara felt. Suds fell from his hair (it was curly when wet) and slid down his back. She followed the path until she couldn't anymore.
Stop. She obeyed herself for once. She washed the soap from her hair until it made that terrible squeaking sound—she missed shampoo and conditioner—and then she used the last few minutes to rewash her skin and make sure she was fully rinsed. She'd only just finished rinsing the bottom of her right foot when knuckles rasped against her stall door.
"Let's go." Her screw ordered, bored. She flung her towel over the door a moment later. "Quickly."
Clara wrapped the towel around herself and shivered, waiting for the stall to open. Once out in the main room, she took her time gathering her new set of clothes, hoping the Doctor would come out. But his screw didn't seem to be in any rush. Clara followed hers back to her temporary cell.
"How much longer do I have?" Clara risked asking.
Her cell door was promptly slammed in her face. She sighed.
The Doctor returned ten minutes later. Clara could hear the muffled sound of his screw saying something as he locked him back in, but she couldn't decipher much of it.
"They're definitely fucking." The Doctor greeted her. She heard him sink down on the bed. She crawled up to the top of hers, so she was closer to the wall. She sat with her legs folded underneath her.
"Who?" She asked. "Our screws?"
"Absolutely and without question." He affirmed. "Which is great news for us. They're going to be even more irresponsible now." He let out a sigh. Judging by the slight knock Clara heard against the wall, he'd leaned his head back against it. "Up to talk or should I nap?"
"Talk." Clara said quickly. She was afraid to sleep. It had been that way for a very long time. "You know, I think I'd actually kill a man for a book."
The Doctor hummed in agreement.
"Books would be lovely." He said wistfully.
Clara thought about Meditations. She missed the weight of it on her pillow.
"Books would be better than lovely. It would change everything." She felt silly for it, but she could have easily cried over it. Books had been her protection since she was sixteen. She had never been without one. Even on her tours, she kept a miniature copy of Northanger Abbey tucked in her inner coat pocket. There was a comfort in dog-eared pages that she couldn't describe to anyone.
"You'll get to have your books again soon. I think they're going to let us out early. You know the commotion we heard earlier? Turns out there was a really violent fight. I have a feeling they're going to want to free up these cells for the instigators."
Clara perked up. Her pulse jumped. "God I hope you're right."
Before, her cell had seemed terribly small and suffocating. But now, when she thought of Vastra, and her books, and her things, it made her feel safe and comforted. She never thought she could get so much security from paper and socks and every other mundane thing in that cell, but she did. She couldn't wait to be back in her bed. Sometime during her absence, it had become impossibly comfortable in her mind.
He didn't sound as excited as she'd assumed he'd be.
"Yeah. Hopefully." He muttered.
It only took her a moment. She put herself in his shoes to understand his tone, and as soon as she did, her heart sank to her toes.
This was an improvement for him. This set up, in this solitary cell, was world's better than what he'd had for the past twenty years (what he'd have for the next twenty to come). It was better simply because he could talk to Clara. He lived in solitary every day of his entire life.
Her eyes burned. She struggled to find a bright side for him.
"We'll be able to be together face-to-face during rec." She reminded him. She thought to the location she'd picked in the exercise yard her first day. The cozy spot between the garbage bin and the fence. "I know a spot."
"If they let us." He murmured. His tone was depressed now. "I'm sure there are orders to keep us apart."
Clara thought to the meeting she'd had with the SPO. "I dunno. I convinced the SPO a while back that it was in his best interest to let us entertain each other." She paused. "Between the two of us, I think someone could manipulate the system enough to get around it."
There was a fairly good chance of it, but that didn't seem to matter to him. He was surly the rest of the day. Clara picked at her lunch, but she was too uneasy to eat. By the time dinner rolled around, she was nauseated and tired, but her appetite was still suffering. She listened to the lovebird screws arguing with each other as they dropped the food off.
Finally, the Doctor spoke again.
"I dunno. Maybe they aren't together. They don't sound very in love to me." He commented.
It wasn't what she was hoping to talk about, but Clara was glad he was speaking. She would've gossiped about anything with him.
"Hmm, I disagree. It sounded very bantery to me." She decided. She paused. "Didn't you ever argue with your ex?"
His laughter was dark.
"Not at the start, no. We were childhood sweethearts. Everything was perfect until it wasn't, and as soon as it turned sour, it got very ugly very quickly." He was quiet for a moment. "What about you and John? Were things as lovely as he made them sound?"
A small, sad smile worked its way onto her face. She folded and unfolded her napkin idly.
"Yes and no. We got along wonderfully. But I almost killed him the first time we properly met." She went to laugh, but then she stopped. What a prophetic meeting that turned out to be. She didn't kill him on their first day together, but she did on their last.
Her appetite was definitely gone.
"How did you—"
She blinked rapidly against the tears forming in her eyes. She winced against the vivid images that were beginning to assault her. Of coordinates and weaving clouds and spiraling smoke and a body lost in twisting metal and flickering flames— she wanted them to go away. She wanted to stay here. She didn't want to see those things anymore.
She was breaking out in a cold sweat. She tried to breathe around her pounding heartbeat. It was as quick and all-consuming as it always was.
"I can't talk about it." She whispered. She pressed her shaking hands to her face. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Shouldn't've mentioned it."
Off all the things on her mental blacklist, John's death was still the most malicious.
She was sixty pages in and running on a solid two hours of sleep. It could've been university if it weren't for the deep ache in her muscles and the Kandahar sun on the back of her burnt neck.
Danny said the first tour was always the hardest. But sometimes she caught a look in his eye that made her think it never got much better. When thoughts that like crept into her, she crept away. She had one day to herself every week, and even though she preferred to spend it safely in her bunk, it had been nice to get away from the leers and the immature jokes for a bit. Even if she was putting herself in probably dire danger by walking from base alone. Never separate from your squadron. It was a rule Danny repeated daily.
She was halfway through with her book when she felt the back of her neck tingle. She looked up—never moving her face, just her eyes—and became aware of someone's presence. She could feel them approaching her from behind. She went against her first instinct (to rise, to run) and shut her eyes. She listened and counted the shifting sound of sand against boot sole as each foot fell. When she'd counted ten steps—the number she'd estimated for the distance between them—she jumped right up and spun. She had her weapon up in two seconds. She'd released the safety in one.
Thank God he was wearing his uniform.
She lowered her arms immediately. She stared at the man in furious disbelief.
"You idiot!" She shrieked. Her heart was still hammering from her fear. Her palms were slick with sweat. She lowered the rifle and let it hang from the strap around her upper body. She wiped her palms on her canvas trousers. "I could've killed you! Don't you ever sneak up on me or anybody else like that!"
She couldn't tell for sure who it was (he still had his sunglasses and helmet on), but she knew he was her comrade from the uniform. At that moment, it didn't matter. She wanted to punch him square in the face. When he peered at her in confusion, it only made her angrier.
"Sorry, I didn't think—"
"You're right. You didn't." Clara snapped. She stared towards him coldly until he averted his gaze.
She stooped over and angrily snatched her book up from the sand. She shook it to get the sand out, not thinking about her bookmark in place. It fluttered from the pages and went spiraling out. Clara lunged forward to catch it at the same moment the soldier did. His helmet and her head slammed hard against each other. Clara's teeth clanked together and the pain bloomed down her neck, to her shoulders. She reached up and cradled her head.
"Shit, shit," the man exclaimed. He immediately reached over to touch Clara, but she smacked a hand forward and swatted his hand away.
"Don't touch me!" She ordered. She straightened and prodded gently at the top of her head where their heads had made contact. "Christ. What are you doing out here, anyway?!"
"It-it's my day off," he sputtered. He fluttered his hands nervously. "I'm so sorry. Really. So, so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you or frighten you. Are you okay?"
She lowered her hand. She watched him suspiciously before bending down to get her bookmark, lest he did the same thing as before. When she'd successfully retrieved it and placed it back into her book, she turned back to him.
"Fine." She bit. Even though her vision was still a bit wonky. She tucked her book back into her pocket. "See you."
She made it perhaps five steps before she heard him hurrying after her.
"Wait!" He called. "Um. Well. I actually came to see you."
Clara sighed. She turned back around slowly, already thinking up ways to tell him she wasn't interested—and then she saw who it was. He'd removed his glasses. There was no mistaking that funny chin and peculiar lack of eyebrows.
"Oh." She said. She straightened. "Smith."
He blinked at her, surprised.
"I didn't think you remembered me."
Clara thought back to that day he had saved her. He and Danny both. She hadn't talked to him or really seen much of him since then, but she never forgot it.
"You were in Suffolk with me. I remember." She stepped closer. "I didn't realize you were stationed here, too. Whose squadron are you on?"
His cheeks were turning an adorable shade of pink, like he was flustered to hear she'd remembered him. He stuttered around his words.
"I-I'm with Rand. What about you?"
"Pink." She reached up and tightened her ponytail, intent on keeping her hair off her already hot neck. "What did you need? Let's walk."
She set back towards base. He quickly sped up and matched her pace. She kept her eyes on the hot ground as she waited for him to speak.
"I was hoping you could help me." He began. He fiddled nervously with his hands again. "I'm…uh. Okay. I'm…I've got this…" He bowed his head and huffed in frustration. "I'm scared of heights."
Clara didn't mean to stop walking. He stopped a bit after her and turned back, embarrassed. She stared.
"You're scared of heights?" She repeated, incredulous. "You're in the RAF!"
"Yeah, it hasn't been very enjoyable." He muttered.
Clara eyed him curiously. "What do you need from me?"
She set back towards base. He followed again.
"I thought maybe you could help me, seeing as though you've got a phobia of fire and you do all right."
This time, when she stopped, he crashed right into her back. She spun around to face him once she regained her balance.
"Who told you that?" She asked sharply.
He faltered. He leaned back from her, as if frightened.
"…No one? It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, that day, when the demonstration set caught flame, you collapsed. And every other time you shook for a long time afterwards. I was worried about you, but you're doing so well now, so I figured you must've figured out how to overcome it—"
Clara pressed her finger into Smith's chest.
"I do not have a fire phobia." She said lowly. She stared him in the eye. His eyes widened.
"O…kay." He allowed. She turned away from him. "But will you help me?"
"Oh, my God," she groaned underneath her breath. She could hear him trailing along behind her.
"I'm not trying to be thrilled with high places. I just don't want to feel sick every time I'm up there." He continued. "So I want to be as comfortable as you'd need to be to light birthday candles, but not as comfortable as you'd have to be to go to a bonfire. Like that."
Clara looked back at him.
"I'm not frightened of fire!" She yelped. It was important that no one knew that she was. Because if they knew she was, they might ask her why.
"Sure, sure," he agreed. He paused. "So how about we meet in the lounge at three on Wednesdays? Yeah? Okay, I'll be waiting for you by the door."
"Look, I really don't—"
"Please, Oswald." He interrupted. He cast his green eyes up at her. He pushed his lower lip out in a pout. "I'll bring you tea."
Clara groaned underneath her breath. She shut her eyes and sighed deeply.
"Fine. But I really don't think I'm the right person for—."
His arms latched around her before she could say a thing. He crushed her to his body in a warm, exuberant hug.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he gushed. He pulled her back and then leaned down, pressing a loud kiss to her forehead. He beamed afterwards. "I'm so glad we're friends."
"We're not friends." Clara said flatly.
"Not yet. But we're close. We're like…buds."
"No."
"Okay. Maybe not buds. Acquaintances."
"Um."
He looked down at her. "Clara Oswald. There's no way we're strangers."
"This is the first conversation we've ever had."
"But I already feel so close to you." He said cheerfully.
Clara looked up at the hot sun. What have I done, she thought to herself. There will be no ridding myself of him now. As if there weren't enough pests out there.
"You'll see, Clara," he continued. His tone was happy, light. Indifferent to Clara's annoyance. "We'll be best mates before the season changes."
She rolled her eyes theatrically.
He was wrong, like she'd known he'd be.
They were lovers by the time the season changed.
"I'm sorry for earlier." Clara said. It was late. She wasn't sure if the Doctor was even awake. "I get these memories. Flashbacks, I guess. Some things are too consuming to think about."
"It's all right." He said. "I understand."
He probably did.
"I meant what I said earlier. About us spending outdoor hour and recreation together." She commented. You're being a pest, she told herself. She didn't care. "I'll be waiting for you by the door."
She hoped he fell asleep feeling less alone.