Wow, I'm proud of myself. I wrote this whole thing in about half an hour. I have no idea how I did it.

On a side note, I've had more than one request for a fluffy sickfic, so that will be the next chapter! It may take a while to write, since I want to make it as good as possible. Just letting you know.

Thank you for reading. Reviews/constructive criticism appreciated.

PROMPT FROM HAMSTER THE ANGEL: DANCE (thanks so much for giving me the opportunity to write this, it was great fun. Probably not historically accurate though. I have no idea what New York was like in 1926, I just wanted to write about it since I used to live near there.)

"How do I look?"

"Cute as a button," Clara grinned, her cheeks dimpling as her smile broadened. The Doctor did look rather dapper in his emerald green waistcoat and black pants. He'd even made an effort to comb his curly silver locks. Even more adorably, he was wearing a crimson bow tie - perhaps he'd wanted to pay homage to his previous self.

"What does that even mean?" the Doctor protested, irritably shoving a stray curl of hair behind his ear. "Humans are so stupid. Cute as a button, really? Why do you people even say that?"

She frowned, considering the question. "I don't know," she answered with some surprise. "I never really thought about it."

"Well, you should think more often," he snapped.

"Alright, no need to get tetchy," she scolded him, reaching up and rapping his forehead with her knuckles. She wasn't really mad - she knew that he became even more irritable than usual when he was nervous that she would disapprove of something he did or said.

There was a short silence during which the Doctor looked like he wanted to protest at being called 'tetchy', but it was broken by Clara. She twirled around in a slow circle, wearing a broad grin. "So, how do I look?" she asked.

Actually, she was quite a sight. She was wearing a knee-length, rich crimson dress which revealed her shapely, albeit extremely short, legs. Her arms were sheathed in white elbow-length gloves. Her head actually reached the Doctor's chin tonight, because she was wearing black heels that gave her an extra few inches of elevation. She'd trimmed her dark hair so that it just brushed the tops of her shoulders, pinned her bangs back so that they framed her face, and added a slight touch of golden eye shadow around her mahogany eyes.

"Your eyes are too big," the Doctor answered, "and you're too tall - and -" he hesitated, unable to find anything else wrong with her appearance (well, he actually couldn't find anything wrong with her appearance, but he couldn't pretend to find anything else wrong with it.)

"So I look good then," Clara concluded, raising her eyebrow.

He mumbled something that could have been 'yes' and shuffled his feet embarrassedly.

"Well, I suppose I'm ready to go then," Clara smiled happily. "Come on, I want to find out where we are."

A few hours earlier, the Doctor had sought her out (she had been reading a book entitled How to Charm an Alien for Beginners when he'd found her, and had had to quickly hide it) and told her to get dressed. When she'd asked for what, he had simply replied,"for something nice". It had taken Clara a while to figure out what that meant, since the Doctor didn't really have a concept of 'nice', in any of its many senses. Eventually she decided that it meant she needed to look fancy for some reason or other, so she'd returned to her bedroom, chosen the nicest outfit she could find, and dressed herself up like there was no tomorrow. The Doctor had refused to breath a word to Clara about their destination, and now she was desperate to find out what it was.

The Doctor's mouth twitched in a smile at her impatience. He jerked his head towards the TARDIS door. "What are you waiting for?"

"You," Clara replied, hooking an arm around his green coat and dragging him towards the door, practically bouncing up and down in her excitement.

She gasped as she stepped outside; even she knew where the Doctor had taken her. Everyone knew this place.

The flickering lights of the Plaza Hotel rose up in front of her, silhouetted against a starry night sky. Clara turned in a slow circle, taking in the New York skyline. The TARDIS was parked right next to a fountain just outside of the Plaza. Old-fashioned automobiles roared to a stop in front of it, depositing people in vivid dresses and smart suits. Central Park, the corner of which stood right next to the Plaza, stretched into the distance, lit by street-lamps.

"New York, 1926," the Doctor commented, shutting the TARDIS door behind him. So that explained the cars as big as boats, and the apparent smallness of the skyline. "There's a ball going on at the Plaza tonight."

Clara's eyes were shining. "No way."

"Way." After unobtrusively glancing around to make sure that no one had noticed the TARDIS, the Doctor crossed the road with Clara at his heels and scaled the steps two at a time. There was a man standing at the door with his hands crossed, who smiled at them as they approached.

He was barring the doorway. The Doctor attempted to sidle around him, but the man wasn't moving. Finally, he tapped Clara's arm. "Why isn't he moving?" he hissed into her air, as quietly as possible (which really meant everyone in the vicinity heard). "How are we supposed to get by?"

Clara smiled at the man as politely as possible before leaning towards the Doctor. "I think he needs identification," she murmured in his ear as casually as she could. "He can't let just anyone in."

"Well, why didn't he say so?" the Doctor scoffed, pulling out his psychic paper, flipping it open, and thrusting it in the man's face. "Identification. Read it right now and let us get through."

Clara cringed. Really, the Doctor would never learn how to interact with people. The man looked startled at being spoken to so rudely, but it wasn't his job to complain. He leaned forward and scanned the crinkled paper. "Everything seems to be in order," he announced hesitantly. "Mr. and Mrs. Oswald. Enjoy your evening."

Clara grabbed the Doctor's arm and propelled him through the door, shooting the doorman an apologetic smile as she passed. The Plaza was twinkling with light from the countless chandeliers and lanterns that bedecked the walls and ceilings. "So where do we go?" she asked, her gaze darting around the magnificent interior.

The Doctor was still focused on their exchange with the doorman. "Hang on, did he say Mr. and Mrs. Oswald? Mr. and Mrs. Oswald? What? Do I look like a Mr. Oswald?"

Clara cleared her throat, avoiding the Doctor's gaze. "Erm... I may have hacked the physic waves."

The Doctor looked extremely disgruntled. "This is ridiculous."

"Oh, shut up, it's not that bad," Clara smirked, playfully punching his arm. "At least I didn't get the paper to say 'Doctor Oswald' like that time on the Hindenburg."

"Well, that's a relief," he scowled, still looking positively furious with his thick eyebrows drawn in a cloud of annoyance over his eyes.

His petite companion grinned. "Come on, Mr. Oswald," she declared formally. "We have a ball to find. That nickname's sticking, by the way," she added, laughing when he groaned loudly.

It took them a while, as the hotel staff were extremely unhelpful, but they finally found the ballroom. Just as they were about to enter, a thought suddenly struck Clara, and she frowned. "Wait, Doctor, what sort of dancing is this going to be?"

"What - there's more than one kind?" he demanded in surprise.

She stared at him. "Yes! What did you think?"

The faintest of flushed tinged his cheeks. "Well... I thought... dancing is dancing," he muttered, looking down embarrassedly. "You just sort of do whatever you want."

Clara's eyes glinted murderously. "Are you telling me," she began, in a scarily calm voice that made the Doctor shiver,"that you brought me to a fancy ball, and you dressed up, and asked me to dress up, and you can't actually dance? What sort of date night is this?"

"Date night? This isn't a date night... I just wanted to take you dancing since I know you like it..." His voice faltered. "No dating. Not ever. Never. No."

She looked unconvinced. "Okay. Fine. But my question still stands."

"I can too dance," he shot back in an injured tone of voice. "I danced fine at that ball -"

"Which was in the 1800's," she finished in the same calm voice. "You danced fine at a ball in the 1800's. We are now in the twentieth century."

The Doctor looked like he wanted to say 'so what?', but he knew that would be dangerous for his face. Instead he shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "Can't be that hard to figure out... it's just sort of wiggling your feet..."

"Doctor, I really can't understand how you've managed two thousand years without learning how to dance."

He croaked something that sounded like 'not a necessary skill'. Clara leaned closer to him, smiled benignly, and said, "If you step on my feet even once, I will skin you."

The Doctor wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he wisely kept his mouth shut. Clara's good mood returned, now that she had threatened him. She slipped her small fingers into his and stepped into the ballroom as slowly and gracefully as possible.

They were not a second too soon: as they walked in, the groups of dancers clustered around the room migrated to the center, laughing and talking. Upbeat, jazzy music began playing from the corner, and the couples began to dance.

"I know this dance, it's the Charleston," Clara hissed to the Doctor. "Follow everything I do." She began to move in step with the other dancers, stepping forwards and backwards. Everyone else looked ridiculous, but Clara somehow managed to make the dancing look smooth and graceful.

The Doctor was definitely blushing now, but he complied, albeit rather halfheartedly. None of his companions had made him dance like this before... it was even more humiliating than what he had christened the Drunk Giraffe dance. "Where did you learn this... thing?" he called to Clara, over the noise of the music.

She began to step from side to side, enthusiastically swinging her arms, her dark hair shining a rich red in the lantern light. "My Dad taught me when I was sixteen," she answered. "He said... he said that Mum would've wanted me to learn if she was still alive." Her face crumpled suddenly.

The Doctor felt a pang of regret and sadness, but he had no time to do anything about it, as the next stage of the dance had arrived. Clara put her gloved hands on his shoulders. Even with her high heels (how on earth was she managing to dance in those?) she had to stretch her arms upwards to reach them. "Okay, put your hands on my shoulders - no, not there, there - and follow my footsteps." The Doctor's heartbeats sped up as his hands came into contact with Clara's shoulders. There was a scary moment during which he got distracted staring into her beautiful eyes, and almost squished her toes.

But finally, blessedly, the dance was over, and the dancers gave themselves a round of applause. The Doctor couldn't resist letting out a sigh of relief. Clara placed her hands on her hope and eyed him appraisingly. "You're not a bad dancer," she told him thoughtfully. "I could give you lessons."

"No," he responded firmly. "I can drop you off back at your flat any time."

"Mr. Grumpy," she teased him. "Oh, sorry, I forgot - Mr. Oswald -"

But just then, to his relief (and also to his dismay) the next dance started, and he was forced to follow along as Clara dragged him onto the dance floor.

The next couple of hours passed in a blur, and the Doctor was later very glad that he couldn't remember most of it, because from what he did remember he had been forced to participate in some extremely embarrassing dances. Clara, naturally, had been brilliant at every one. It was rather amazing how her coordination, grace, and poise vanished whenever she woke up in the morning looking like something the cat had dragged in.

The Doctor checked his watch impatiently; it was already eleven o'clock. Surely the dance party was almost over? His feet were aching.

An announcer's voice suddenly cut over the conversation of the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen," a smooth male voice declared smoothly,"I hope you will join us in dancing the final dance of the evening: a waltz."

The Doctor felt a surge of relief. This was one dance he actually knew. As the music started, he slipped a hand around Clara's tiny waist and grabbed her shoulder with his hand. Smiling at each other, they spun off through the crowd, a blur of green and gold floating in a sea of color.

The two of them maintained eye contact as they bobbed and whirled. In that precious moment, each of them knew exactly what the other was thinking. Knowing what that look in the Doctor's eyes meant, Clara squeezed his hand and nodded. Just a slight nod, but enough for him to see it. Their silent conversation spoke volumes, more than they could ever say out loudly.

She allowed herself to be carried away by the music. The Doctor lifted his arm and she twirled in a full circle beneath it, coming to rest on his shoulder as he supported her with his other arm. He stared down at his petite companion and smiled fondly to himself.

Finally, the dance ended, and Clara sank into a short curtsy as the Doctor bowed, still gripping each other's hands. Driven by some impulse, he drew her close and rested his chin on top of her hair, which smelled faintly of raspberries and vanilla.

They stood like that for a while, the Doctor holding Clara tightly while she rested her head on his chest. As the rest of the dancers begin to exit, laughing and talking excitedly, the Doctor reluctantly broke the moment by stepping back. "I suppose we should go," he announced gruffly. "They'll have to clean up. And whatnot."

Clara nodded. In silence, they backtracked their steps from earlier that evening and left the Plaza. All too soon they were standing in front of the TARDIS again.

The Doctor seemed to be working up the courage to say something, but as it happened, he was saved from having to speak. For just then, Clara stood on her tiptoes and planted a firm but gentle kiss on his weathered cheek. "Thank you," she breathed softly, her breath misting against his skin. "Thank you for everything."

The Doctor held a hand to his cheek as she slipped inside the TARDIS. His whole body felt like it was short circuiting, and it was a very new feeling for him. He'd felt like that before, of course - with Rose, with River - but never in this body, with these thoughts. It was a very unsettling feeling.

But he liked it.

Smiling to himself, the Twelfth Doctor followed his companion. The TARDIS hummed amusedly as he entered, and the Doctor knew exactly what she was saying. "Be quiet," he told his time machine. "One kiss on the cheek, that's all. Not a big deal. Doesn't mean anything."

Rule number one: the Doctor lies.

Let me know what you think!