DAY 18,200

Ordinary World

Clara

"Rise and shine, Oswald, the time to celebrate fake consumerist holidays is upon us," the Doctor said very loudly in Clara's ear. It was lucky Clara was already awake, already trying to forget about the fact her alarm had gone off fifteen minutes ago and she was very dedicatedly attempting to ignore it. The Doctor had coffee with her, Clara could smell it, and she continued to talk away quite happily as Clara stuck her head underneath her pillow, groaning. "You know what they say, the early bird catches the worm. And we're up plenty early. So early, in fact, that I've had time to go about making this latte. Funny thing, I'm not actually in the mood for a latte, so I don't know what I'm gonna do with this one right here. Maybe I oughta just pour it away…"

"Don't you dare," Clara lifted the pillow to scowl at her. The Doctor smiled back sweetly. Clara hated the Doctor's smile, it was too perfect. She was sitting on the carpet next to the bed, fully dressed, trying to wake Clara up early. Ordinarily, this would not happen. Clara would get herself out of bed, with or without her wife, and would trudge downstairs at the usual time of quarter to seven in the morning, half asleep, where she would make her own coffee. Then she would make her own breakfast, too – that is, she would eat a yoghurt.

"Are you gonna drink your coffee?" she asked pleadingly, leaning forwards to rest her chin on the mattress in front of Clara, giving her puppy eyes, "I made it so lovingly, too. Check it out, I made a heart in the foam." She sat back and lifted the mug to show Clara. Clara saw the chocolate-coloured, milky heart swimming there on top of the latte.

"How many tries did it take you to get it right?" Clara pushed the pillow away and met Thirteen's gaze. Clara had been the one to teach Thirteen how to make shapes in coffee, but Thirteen had never had much of a talent for it.

"Only three this time." She smiled. Thirteen held up the steaming mug. "Are you gonna come get it?" Clara sat up a little and reached out her hand to take the mug, at which point Thirteen leant away and pulled it out of her grasp. "Uh-uh, you don't get anything until you kiss me good morning."

"You drive a hard bargain," Clara said, reaching her hand towards Thirteen's cheek instead of the coffee, bringing her close enough to give her the kiss she so craved. Clara paused after she broke away, frowning, "Those other three cups of coffee – did you drink them? It's all I can taste."

"Well I wasn't very well gonna pour them away," Thirteen said.

"God, I'm glad I don't have to spend the majority of this morning with you if you're going to be on a caffeine high the whole time," Clara said, then she slumped back down again with her hand over the edge of the bed, fingertips brushing the carpet, and the Doctor stood up and put the coffee down on the bedside table. "You're going to need the toilet."

"Needing the toilet is an inevitability of life, Coo. Now go and brush your teeth, you're disgusting. And more importantly, you're missing out on all of the capitalist festivities of St Valentine's Day," she said, "You never know, you might get a Valentine's card."

"The only person I want to get a card from today is the only person too stubborn and blindly proud to give me one," Clara said pointedly, dragging herself out of bed. Getting up on time was a real chore. In her fifty years aboard the TARDIS, she had somehow managed to romanticise schedules and alarm clocks. It didn't take more than a few weeks of normality to remember why the lack of these things seemed so appealing to everybody else.

"It's not a real holiday, Clara, it's made up, by corporations," Thirteen said knowingly.

"I know that, but cards are still cute," Clara argued with the Doctor. As she picked up the coffee and walked past the Doctor, she remarked in the doorway, "All of my love poems are made up as well, but you still seem to find them pretty interesting."

"Hey!" Thirteen objected as Clara chortled to herself, heading towards the bathroom, bleary eyed. It was mid-February and the night sky still shone through the windows. "Here I thought I was your muse." While Clara brushed her teeth, the mint waking her up quite effectively, they continued to have a half-gargled argument about poetry and Valentine's cards, looking at one another in the bathroom mirror as they did so. In typical fashion, the Doctor was already dressed. Clara preferred the mornings when she wasn't, the ones after she had slept, and she was the one of them who resembled a zombie as she ambled around in the early dawn.

"You complain about Valentine's Day," Clara said, then she paused and had to spit her toothpaste out in the sink, "But you've woken me up early to eat some fancy breakfast you've prepared."

"Because I know you, Clara, and otherwise you'll get on your high horse and start complaining to everybody about how I'm a terrible wife. Now, you go get dressed and sort out this mess," Thirteen began, lifting a few strands of Clara's unkempt, tangled hair in the mirror, "And if you're not downstairs within ten minutes I'm going to feed your pancakes to Captain Nemo."

"Sweetheart, you can't feed Captain Nemo soggy pancakes, please don't," Clara said, but the Doctor was already going down the stairs. Clara knew full-well that Thirteen probably would start feeding Captain Nemo bits of pancake if she didn't hurry up and go stop her, so she really had to rush. By the time she got downstairs, she wasn't one-hundred percent sure her shoes matched her dress, and she also couldn't remember if the dress was hers or the Doctor's. Being as she could remember seeing Thirteen in it before, and Thirteen never borrowed any of Clara's clothes because she apparently had 'terrible dress sense,' Clara figured it must actually be property of her wife. It was a good thing her wife didn't mind her stealing her stuff.

Immediately upon cutting through the living room Clara checked Captain Nemo, but the large, electric blue lobster just sat there in his tank, on his rock, bubbling away under the water, no pancake shreds in sight. He was not the most interesting of pets, but Clara was not keen on animals, so it didn't bother her. Stealing a lobster was Thirteen's idea, anyway. The most interesting thing Captain Nemo ever did was shuffle over to the other side of his aquarium, or snap his claws meekly at Ravenwood whenever she was dragged over by Jenny for dinner. He was cute though, in a weird way, so Clara would prefer if the Doctor did not poison him with sweet foods like pancakes. He reminded her of home by the seaside – not because there had always been an abundance of lobsters crawling around Blackpool Pier, but because of the smell of the saltwater that emanated from his dwelling.

"Y'know, I get to do all about capitalist vs communist ideologies today, Clara," the Doctor started saying as soon as Clara went into the kitchen, carrying her latte and closing the door behind her. Thirteen had already made a pretty hefty amount of pancakes. "Development of the Cold War – my favourite."

"I dread to think," Clara commented.

"So, darling, what do you want on your pancakes? I'm having hot sauce."

"You are vile, woman. Chocolate sauce, please, and make it snappy."

"Gosh, the nerve of you."

"Less lollygagging and more breakfast. Chop, chop," Clara ordered. Thirteen made clear by her disgruntled expression that she didn't appreciate Clara bossing her around. She even more didn't appreciate the way Clara smiled smugly at her when she looked over, sitting there at their wonky wooden table (a copy of Ulysses propped up one of the broken legs to make it level) with her coffee between her hands.

"Is that my dress?"

"Think so."

"Looks better on you than most of your own clothes," Thirteen quipped, a predictable but fair remark to make when contrasted with Clara's ordering her about.

"So what's the deal with the pancakes if you hate Valentine's Day so much?" Clara asked once her plate of pancakes was set down in front of her by the Doctor. What a funny thing, having an alien wrapped so tightly around your finger that they made breakfast like this totally off their own back, with all of your favourite toppings laid out in separate little bowls. The bowl-thing was just because Thirteen was a bit weird, though.

"I hate the way the modern marketplace has jumped on a bandwagon of falsified romantic ideals, that's all," Thirteen shrugged, coming to sit down herself on the edge of the table next to Clara. She hadn't been lying about the hot sauce.

"Oh, that's all?"

"I will, of course, be nice to you, and do nice things, but I'm not going to give my hard-earned money to these damned companies who are preying on susceptible couples who want an excuse to say they make an effort with their relationships. I do make an effort, we both do, which is exactly why we live here now instead of out in space," the Doctor explained. Most of this she explained with her mouth full of spicy, red-dripping pancakes, which smelt pretty rank. "Why does it all rest on me, anyway? What have you done for Valentine's Day, Oswald? All you've done so far is lazed about the place and stolen my clothes."

"I'm romantic all year round," Clara said firmly. The Doctor burst out laughing. "Hey! I am!"

"Are not! Oh my god, you are totally delusional. Maybe once in a blue moon you go pretty amazingly overboard, but most of the time? Nuh-uh. No way. I can't believe you're getting on at me when you haven't done anything yourself!"

"Well, that's where you're wrong, because I have," Clara argued, then she stopped arguing for a second as the Doctor looked at her with smarmy expectancy so that she could eat another of her multitude of pancakes, before continuing, "I have done something super romantic."

"Oh, really?"

"Yep. But you'll have to wait and see. And you, you ingrate, are married to a pretty phenomenal poet," Clara pointed out. That was always her trump card, her poems. Many arguments she had won by reciting poetry she had written about the Doctor back at her. She had to change the subject though, before Thirteen questioned her too much about these romantic evening plans she had talked about. Mainly because these plans did not exist, she had just made them up then. Not that she hadn't been trying to come up with something to do for Valentine's Day, she had just been unsuccessful. "I've spent months painstakingly making you a present."

"Present…?"

"Yeah, it's a collage."

"Of?"

"Pictures of you sleeping, over the last four decades since you regenerated, loads of them. They all come together to make, like, this giant image of you naked," Clara explained, trying to stay serious while she did. Thirteen raised an eyebrow while Clara said all of these things, "It's a pretty generous image, too, I kind of prefer it to the original model."

"I'll cherish it forever. I can see it already, hanging on the ceiling over our bed," Thirteen joined in with the imaginary nude collage, "I'll have to make one of you to join it. We'll put them on this year's Christmas cards."

"Oh, so you'll get Christmas cards but not Valentine's cards?" Clara questioned.

"It's not the same thing! And I don't see a card from you, so you're being a hypocrite."

"That's where you're wrong, I actually do have a card, I swear down. I'm just not going to give you it until tonight, because it has some pretty racy things written in it and I don't want you getting all hot and bothered for nothing," Clara said. That was all true. That was the only Valentine's related thing she had managed to succeed in, because she was pretty good at turning a phrase. Especially if the phrase was dirty.

"Hoping to get lucky later, are you?"

"Relying on it," Clara smirked. Thirteen went to change the subject.

"On a different note – and because we have to leave soon – I've decided that in the spirit of romance and generosity today, I'll volunteer to drive us to work. Simply because I love you so much," Thirteen reached over to play with Clara's hair while she declared this.

"Wow," Clara leant close to her, "You are doing a really terrible job of buttering me up enough to let you drive the car."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," Clara said, taking the Doctor's hand so that she would have the advantage, "There's not a chance in hell I'm letting you drive that thing. You don't actually have a driver's license, for a start, just that psychic paper, and-"

"I never had a license for the TARDIS, either, I failed the test."

"That means nothing to me, you're a terrible pilot and you crash all the time. You're not driving the car," Clara said definitively, "Not after what you did to the last one. It was really good of Adam to lend me this one, anyway."

"What happened to the last one wasn't my fault! And he's lending it to both of us!" the Doctor protested.

"It was your fault, and we aren't discussing it anymore. I'm driving, like always, end of story. Now go feed Captain Nemo his shrimp pellets before we leave," Clara said.

"Fine. But only because I love him more than I love you."

"Well, you just let me know as soon as the lobster learns how to give head and I'll be straight out of that door, sweetheart," Clara smiled at Thirteen as she stood up, going to put her breakfast plate in the sink. Undoubtedly, she would make Clara wash up later, as punishment for not letting her drive their borrowed car. Anybody who knew what had happened over the weekend would agree with Clara, though.

"Well you better be straight out the door," Thirteen said, walking past Clara to get into the living room, "Because we have to leave in ten minutes, no matter who drives the car." Clara finished her last pancake, wiping up the dabs of chocolate spread that remained, and ditched her plate the same way the Doctor had.

"These were some pretty good pancakes, by the way," Clara called back through, looking for her keys where she had left them. She picked up her wife's keys, too, because Thirteen would forget them otherwise. Not that she really needed them, it wasn't like they went anywhere without each other, or that Thirteen would be able to get home on her own. She would not dare drive the car without Clara's permission.

"Thanks, they were really complicated. They have three entire ingredients, and you have to whisk. I think I've surpassed myself as far as cooking goes," she said sarcastically.

"You know, Doctor, sometimes I kind of wish you didn't pick up all my sarcasm when you regenerated," Clara told her, watching her close the lid on Captain Nemo's aquarium, making sure it was locked. You wouldn't think lobsters were very adept climbers, or very adept anythings, but once he had escaped, and for a few days Clara had adamantly argued they change his name to Houdini. Thank god for the Doctor's tracking device, that battered old thing had a queer knack for crustaceans.

"Oh, I picked it up long before that, don't you worry. Now where's my coat?" she wondered, looking around, "Have you moved it again? You know I hate when you move it and put it away…" she complained. Clara watched her fruitlessly search the living room. Said coat was hanging up in the hallway, but Thirteen didn't search the coatrack, despite it being the most obvious place for a coat to be. Well, it was if Clara had anything to do with it, otherwise she left it draped over the back of her chair, along with a dozen other coats, jackets and scarves she was too lazy to move elsewhere.

This house they lived in was full of knick-knacks and gizmos and trinkets. Things the Doctor had brought with them from the TARDIS, the majority of their possessions which spanned fifty years. There were their two fancy old chairs, sitting in front of the ornate fireplace, a television hanging above that, bookshelves on one side, Captain Nemo's large tank on the other. Upstairs were many more books, their house was filled with them, they stacked up everywhere. In their bedroom was a funny old full-length mirror the Doctor had been given as a gift from someone in pre-revolutionary France, there was a sleek armoire from the distant future, their bed itself was salvaged from the 38th Century.

There were all sorts of photos up, too, to Clara's delight (though the Doctor was ambivalent.) Photos of the two of them and then an odd assortment of 'family photos' usually consisting of the pair of them, Adam, Oswin and Jenny. Those ones were always taken by Ravenwood, who didn't show up, and so it was pointless to try and include her. The Doctor always said she didn't like the photos much because it was impossible to tell how old any of them were in them. There were none of Eleven, though. If Clara were to hang pictures of him, she would feel like a widow, and no doubt Thirteen would find it unpleasant (there were still a lot of pictures of him in an old wedding album Clara kept stashed under the bed, though.)

Clara adored having these things around them, these tokens that proved they had lived, souvenirs from all of time and space. In the house, her marriage was reflected at her in a way that it normally wasn't in the dateless photographs and ageless mirrors. It was tangible proof of their experiences and commitment, just like their house itself, which was relatively small and semi-detached. Sitting around there, with time passing by visibly through the windows, with the clocks ticking away actually meaning something again, was peaceful. There was a solace in the sounds of birds and wind that just wasn't there in dull silence and the hum of distant engines. The floor not moving around unpredictably left Clara understandably grounded, and she had never appreciated the joys of standing still before she put her foot down about their unequal relationship. Every day, Clara remained surprised that Thirteen had agreed to this quaint life, that she had given over the TARDIS to her daughter while they played house back in England.

"Seriously, stop moving my stuff. You know this coat is mafia-made, and mobsters always have excellent dress sense," the Doctor whinged. Clara had stopped paying attention to her wife's quest for her missing coat, she had been leaning on the back of her own chair, which did not have a selection of old rags adorning it. Thirteen was putting on that long coat when she came back into the room, and Clara was looking at the dusty lumps of coal sitting in the fireplace. "Coo? Whatcha thinking about?"

"Just you," she replied with a smile, moving. The Doctor had brought Clara her coat, too, "What's say we light the fire later?"

"Whatever you like."

"It'd be romantic."

"Is that the entirety of the evening you had planned?" She handed Clara her coat and then went to fetch whatever exercise books she needed to take, picking them up where they were usually left, on the floor by the stairs. Clara didn't answer, not wanting to give away that she had planned nothing. Perhaps she would think of something during the day, anyway, and wouldn't need to come clean.

Clara went to open the door, the Doctor being chivalrous and carrying all of their things – their things just being a stack of thin books. But as she headed past, Clara stopped her.

"Hey," she said, putting a hand on the Doctor's cheek.

"Uh, hey?" Thirteen puzzled. Bitter, February air rushing in from outside, the front door ajar, Clara leant in and kissed her.

"Happy consumerist-capitalist-fake-romance day, or whatever it was you called it," Clara told her, moving away only a little, still touching Thirteen's face.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Oswald."

AN: Feel free to review, also. I thrive on feedback of all persuasions.