A/N: This takes place immediately after Clara passes out in "The Name of the Doctor," but I wrote it to connect several dots between "The Name of the Doctor," "The Day of the Doctor," "The Time of the Doctor," and all the way through to "Deep Breath." But as I kept writing, it evolved into something more, and it now ends well past Clara's time stuck in her final heartbeat. Basically, in my latest rewatch of the show, I found a way for Clara and the Eleventh Doctor to see each other again, and I exploited it to every bit of potential. But to get there, Clara has to face down a lot of her decisions—and a lot of the resulting regrets. My goal was to keep it as canonical as possible while also allowing Clara to fully develop like a properly written female character.
That being said, this fic does not look well upon River's relationship with the Doctor. You've been warned. In addition, I haven't read Doctor Who fan fiction in years; this came to me as I was rewatching, and I just jumped right in. I'm sure there's something out there that attempts to accomplish what I'm trying to do here. Regardless, I hope I'm able to put my own spin on it that makes it unique and that you are still able to enjoy it!
Chapter 1: A Favor
Having finally reached the safety of the TARDIS after exiting his own timestream, the Doctor did all that he could manage in the moment: release a deep breath and tighten his hold on the still-sleeping form of Clara that was cradled in his arms. With determination, he took his first steps, walking through the console room with a sense of purpose; he had a different destination in mind.
The architecture of the TARDIS was always in flux. The rooms frequently moved or disappeared, but there were several that could be consistently counted on: the engine room, the black hole that powered said engine, and two bedrooms, one for himself and one for his companion.
Amy and Rory Pond had occupied this room. Donna Noble had occupied this room. Sarah Jane Smith had occupied this room. Rose Tyler had occupied this room—well, some nights, anyway.
But some companions had chosen not to occupy this room. They had, instead, chosen to retain their own residence, outside of the TARDIS. Martha Jones had never chosen to move into the TARDIS, and, of course, Rory and Amy had moved out, once the Doctor had purchased a house for them.
Thus far, Clara Oswald had never occupied the TARDIS. He had extended the offer, of course, with impeccable frequency, he could note—privately, at least. But, instead, she had elected to retain their standing Wednesday traveling date.
The Doctor had respected her wishes, but frankly, when she wasn't here, he thought of little else but her. But, still, she had remained adamant, and the Doctor, despite his impatience and his occasional lack of sensitivity on the matter, had remained respectful of her opinions.
All this meant one very crucial thing: Clara did not have a bedroom aboard the TARDIS. Not yet, anyway. And now, on the mend from her extraordinarily taxing trip through his timestream, she needed nothing more than rest, and the Doctor knew just what he had to do to procure that for her.
After a few stumbling minutes spent attempting to navigate the shifted structure of the TARDIS, he found the two rooms he had been looking for. The rooms moved, of course, but they always moved as a pair: no matter how the other rooms moved around on the TARDIS, and no matter where these two rooms found themselves located, they were always across the hall from each other; something deep within the TARDIS knew that the Doctor liked to keep his companion close.
With Clara, it would be no exception, of course. He released another deep breath, as the weight of this moment—the importance of getting things right—hit him. He had waited so long for this moment—the moment. He approached the door and leaned his back against the soft yet sturdy wood of the surface, with Clara still resting silently against his chest.
"Hello, old girl," he started, only to scoff, as he realized Clara, had she been conscious, likely would've feigned offense at this remark; she likely would've facetiously accused him of addressing her, not the TARDIS. He nearly laughed as he pondered the bantering that would result: her calling him old, her calling him on his penchant for young traveling companions. She would've given him hell for it, and he kind of loved her for it.
Even now, he missed her. She was right here—literally cradled in his arms. And, still, he felt she wasn't close enough.
He fought to focus. He could enjoy their bantering in real time, later, after she got some rest, but there were steps that needed to be taken to allow that to happen, and those steps would never occur if he couldn't find some form of focus right here, right now. "I need a favor, I'm afraid—one you might be hesitant to grant," he started, cautiously. He didn't wish to poke a sleeping bear.
"I know you and Clara haven't gotten on in the past," he continued, his hand moving from its previously held post at Clara's back to run a finger through several strands of her hair. "I understand that now. I should've understood it earlier, of course," he berated himself, his eyes moving to address the ceiling, as if he could almost feel the soul of his ship swooping down to give him her full attention. "But I wasn't thinking—distracted, I was," he continued, with an endearing smile, as his eyes moved back to Clara.
"She was my impossible girl," he continued, his eyes now fully locked back on his companion. "Sprinkled, in violation of all the rules of time travel, throughout my timestream, in different variations, while also coexisting on the TARDIS in present day." He tisked.
"That upset you, understandably," he conceded, with a nod and a quickly parted glance back to the ceiling. "But that's all done now, for the most part, anyway, and you can make it up to Clara—and me," he hesitated, knowing it was a dangerous proposition: asking the TARDIS for a favor that involved so many of her previously pent-up prejudices. "By making a room for Clara: a room that really, truly reflects Clara, in her soul."
He could picture it: the room he'd make for her, if he was the one in control. But he had a feeling that, whatever the TARDIS came up with, it would be perfect.
"She needs rest, you see," he continued, his smile coming back to him. "She saved me," he confessed, his tone becoming more wistful and distracted by the second. "And she needs a safe space to recover—a place I can keep an eye on her."
He paused. He had said all that he could think to say on the matter. He had made his argument—a pretty convincing one, if he did say so himself—and now, all that remained was to attempt to open the door and see if the TARDIS had come through for him, for Clara.
Releasing one last deep breath, he knew he had given her all the time he could. With a fumbling flourish, he shifted his hold on Clara, reached for the door handle, turned it, and pushed open the door to enter the room.
The TARDIS, relievingly, did not disappoint. Everywhere he looked, the room reeked of Clara. Vibrant, bright reds and startling shades of black were pervasive. The furniture—a massive bookshelf, a quaint desk, and a four-poster bed—was made of the darkest brown wood he had ever seen, making it appear, for all intents and purposes, as black.
The bookshelf drew his attention first. He saw some familiar titles there—Jane Austen's entire library, and 101 Places to See, Clara's copy, naturally—but there were also some new titles, some of which even surprised him—101 Places to See, the 140 Millionth Edition: This Time, with Gallifrey!
The desk was perfectly quaint, but it was what was strewn about the top of the surface that impressed the Doctor the most. Chalk and an accompanying easeled chalkboard were propped next to the desk, and common texts read by children in school featured prominently.
What was most impressive, though, to the Doctor, was the how-to book on using basic computer programs needed for creating lessons—PowerPoint, Word: it was all in there. With a chuckle, the Doctor couldn't help admiring that the TARDIS had accounted for Clara's still-lacking computer knowledge.
The last item he took in before heading towards the bed to give Clara her much-needed rest was of the utmost importance. Above the bookshelf, framed, was the most important leaf in the universe.
The Doctor could only reckon that perhaps the TARDIS had somehow collected it from him as he had left his timestream. Or perhaps it had gone further, he mused; he had thought that he had been the one to reach back through his timestream and reassemble it from the fragments that had saved Merry on Akhaten, but, perhaps, he now couldn't help thinking, it had been the TARDIS all along.
Regardless of how it had gotten here, he was happy it had.
The bed—the Doctor couldn't help it; he released a whistle of appreciation at the TARDIS' work. The comforter was a beautiful autumnal pattern, an interwoven web of leaves, all in that warm, bright red color that Clara seemed to love. The four-poster, equally as immaculate, was in that same dark brown color to match the rest of the furniture.
It was as if one of her ever-so-slightly too tight skirts had been dispersed and expanded to furnish the entire room but, in particular, the bed.
It was a work of art, in the Doctor's opinion. It was as if the TARDIS knew Clara was in desperate need of some rest, and that, therefore, the bed needed to be correspondingly up to the task.
In the weeks since they had faced the Crimson Horror—where she had been trapped in a literal bubble of supposed perfection—he had often contemplated what Clara's room in the TARDIS would look like when she decided to move in, and this, he had to admit, matched the image he had held in his mind perfectly.
The Doctor placed Clara on the bed, taking great care to remove her shoes and tuck her in. On the way out the door, he had a thought—an echo of a time gone by. Just as he had done so many months ago, after he had finally found her when the bells of St. John's had rang, he ran to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea, and grabbed a roll of Jammie Dodgers. He ran back to Clara's room—noticing as he did so that the TARDIS' internal architecture had changed in the time he had spent in the kitchen; he had to take a different route back to the room than he had taken to reach the kitchen—and got everything set up for her.
It wasn't complete, though—there was still something missing. With a smile, he knew what it was, and he knew that he simply could not resist; he took his own small, satisfying bite of one of the Jammie Dodgers before placing it, cheekily, back on the plate with the others.