Two and a half Eleven/Clara ficlets
Here's a fic dump because... finale approaching. Eleven/Clara. G-ish. Previous batch.
real.
He had a whole brainlist of things that she was not: Flesh, human plus, a hologram, a Tesselecta, a slug in a human suit; dozens, hundreds more. And one list of things that she was: (pretty) (clever) (dozens, hundreds more) and real. To quote herself, she was actually real.
He poked her every once in a while to make sure. Well, poked and hugged and tickled and twirled and stroked.
He was the dreamer of improbable dreams, he’d kept a journal of impossible things, he was the expert on this sort of thing and… nothing. He wasn’t dreaming her and he wasn’t writing her, he was sure of that much. It was a hang-head moment, a scratch-neck moment, a swear-silently-in-Gallifreyan-moment.
She was just Clara, but she couldn’t be. Could she?
meadow.
Clara felt bonelessly languid. She was full. She was warm. The dark squares on her dress were scorching the skin beneath… the light ones were getting there.
Meadow planet would definitely get a thumbs up in the mental journal she’d started keeping. Or, not a journal… more like a twitter feed. Wednesday again, Doctor came as usual. Went for other planet take away. “Food you dip other food in”. Bouncing Doctor orders chilli breadsticks and porridge for two. Cute waitress changes mine to see through grapes with silver seeds and chocolate pudding. Going to meadow planet to eat. Remember to ask him about sunblock.
Her left side was pressed against the Doctor’s right - arms, legs, everything in between; temple to temple. Their shirt sleeves were rolled up, their boots lined up a bit away. Her back was against the TARDIS, but she could ignore it (her) and the way her hair caught on the wood far too often for it to be just accidental.
The grass was thick and springy and so bright green it hurt her eyes, and it bent like rolling waves. The day was warm, properly hot, and they were lounging like they were on an actual beach, soaking in the warmth like her Dad’s cats the first day of Spring.
And the Doctor… she might actually catch him sleeping. She moved as much as she could be bothered to check. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open and with a speck of oatmeal just at one corner… not surpringly the way he’d eaten, but chilli breadsticks and porridge, no thank you. She poked at his knee with a toe - no reaction.
You’re the Impossible Girl. Maybe impossible meant… something good? Everything sounded wrong with the Cyberplanner’s infliction. Maybe the Doctor refused to answer because it was something good? Maybe she should ask him now, slip the question into some dream of his, prompt him to bring it up later? “Why am I Impossible?” she whispered in his ear.
He flinched - knocked their heads together and tore their underarms apart - and Clara flinched, and her hair snagged on the TARDIS door and she used five of the words she had forbidden Artie to use.
The Doctor, suddenly wide awake, snuffled happily and curled his toes in his mismatched socks - one pink, one yellow - as if he’d just had a good stretch and woken normally. “I hope that’s you tickling my knee, Clara, and not one of the flesh-eating hypersnails.”
Clara let her eyes sag shut, but she could still see the brightness of the grass as shaky, growing dots. “One of the what?”
“It’s their meadow. I snuck us in while they were sleeping.”
She opened her eyes to glare at him. It was hard; he looked as dazed as she felt and she melted a little.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, making the most ridiculous faces in quick succession in an attempt to get rid of the speck of porridge.
“You kind of do.” She took her chance, leaned in and kissed the porridge away, felt the corner of his mouth move under her lips. She closed her eyes like she was making a wish and thought about all her plans and dreams, pressing them to his skin.
And here’s a Clara + Eleven fic snippet because reasons (unfinished) There was supposed to be a part about them getting a giant egg in a papoose. And lots of eggs-ter-mi-nate puns. I never got that far.
Sometimes he almost forgot to ponder whether they were puppets caught in each other’s strings or puppeteers knocking elbows behind the curtains… and then Clara, unfailingly, announced that she wanted to make another soufflé.
He might be taking them back to basics - but what was the harm in basic? Their basics just happened to be ladders and eggs. And Clara brought her own eggs in Tesco bags, so that left… ladders.
Which was why they were here, in a damp and drippy cave, folding their arms at each other on opposite sides of a ladder that was… a bit more on the frail side than he’d planned. Still, maybe the presence of one - the ambiance - would make Clara blurt out who she really was. “It’s just like climbing into a dark hole, except you’re climbing up a dark hole!” He rattled the wooden ladder, and immediatedly got five and a half splinters in terribly uncomfortable bendy hand places.
“That is very reassuring. As are your badly disguised moans of pain.” Clara brushed past him and tested the strength of the ladder with a boot and a tug. (It held, thank the stars.) “Here we go… ” She gave him the face that liquified all his concerns, climbed a bit and stuck her head up into the darkness. “Can’t see anything.”
“Thought not.”
“We don’t know where we’re going.”
“No idea.”
“It’s drafty. Smells kinda death-y.”
“I’ll go first if you want,” he said, moving around the ladder until he could see her face. Well, what he could actually see was the shape of her mouth and the tiny, pointy chin. And about a foot of hair.
“Not a chance.” She held out her dirty hands, and yet somehow she balanced on the ladder and didn’t fall down and on top of him. “Touch my rings for me. Tap a little tune, please. No Carmen.”
real.
He had a whole brainlist of things that she was not: Flesh, human plus, a hologram, a Tesselecta, a slug in a human suit; dozens, hundreds more. And one list of things that she was: (pretty) (clever) (dozens, hundreds more) and real. To quote herself, she was actually real.
He poked her every once in a while to make sure. Well, poked and hugged and tickled and twirled and stroked.
He was the dreamer of improbable dreams, he’d kept a journal of impossible things, he was the expert on this sort of thing and… nothing. He wasn’t dreaming her and he wasn’t writing her, he was sure of that much. It was a hang-head moment, a scratch-neck moment, a swear-silently-in-Gallifreyan-moment.
She was just Clara, but she couldn’t be. Could she?
meadow.
Clara felt bonelessly languid. She was full. She was warm. The dark squares on her dress were scorching the skin beneath… the light ones were getting there.
Meadow planet would definitely get a thumbs up in the mental journal she’d started keeping. Or, not a journal… more like a twitter feed. Wednesday again, Doctor came as usual. Went for other planet take away. “Food you dip other food in”. Bouncing Doctor orders chilli breadsticks and porridge for two. Cute waitress changes mine to see through grapes with silver seeds and chocolate pudding. Going to meadow planet to eat. Remember to ask him about sunblock.
Her left side was pressed against the Doctor’s right - arms, legs, everything in between; temple to temple. Their shirt sleeves were rolled up, their boots lined up a bit away. Her back was against the TARDIS, but she could ignore it (her) and the way her hair caught on the wood far too often for it to be just accidental.
The grass was thick and springy and so bright green it hurt her eyes, and it bent like rolling waves. The day was warm, properly hot, and they were lounging like they were on an actual beach, soaking in the warmth like her Dad’s cats the first day of Spring.
And the Doctor… she might actually catch him sleeping. She moved as much as she could be bothered to check. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open and with a speck of oatmeal just at one corner… not surpringly the way he’d eaten, but chilli breadsticks and porridge, no thank you. She poked at his knee with a toe - no reaction.
You’re the Impossible Girl. Maybe impossible meant… something good? Everything sounded wrong with the Cyberplanner’s infliction. Maybe the Doctor refused to answer because it was something good? Maybe she should ask him now, slip the question into some dream of his, prompt him to bring it up later? “Why am I Impossible?” she whispered in his ear.
He flinched - knocked their heads together and tore their underarms apart - and Clara flinched, and her hair snagged on the TARDIS door and she used five of the words she had forbidden Artie to use.
The Doctor, suddenly wide awake, snuffled happily and curled his toes in his mismatched socks - one pink, one yellow - as if he’d just had a good stretch and woken normally. “I hope that’s you tickling my knee, Clara, and not one of the flesh-eating hypersnails.”
Clara let her eyes sag shut, but she could still see the brightness of the grass as shaky, growing dots. “One of the what?”
“It’s their meadow. I snuck us in while they were sleeping.”
She opened her eyes to glare at him. It was hard; he looked as dazed as she felt and she melted a little.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, making the most ridiculous faces in quick succession in an attempt to get rid of the speck of porridge.
“You kind of do.” She took her chance, leaned in and kissed the porridge away, felt the corner of his mouth move under her lips. She closed her eyes like she was making a wish and thought about all her plans and dreams, pressing them to his skin.
And here’s a Clara + Eleven fic snippet because reasons (unfinished) There was supposed to be a part about them getting a giant egg in a papoose. And lots of eggs-ter-mi-nate puns. I never got that far.
Sometimes he almost forgot to ponder whether they were puppets caught in each other’s strings or puppeteers knocking elbows behind the curtains… and then Clara, unfailingly, announced that she wanted to make another soufflé.
He might be taking them back to basics - but what was the harm in basic? Their basics just happened to be ladders and eggs. And Clara brought her own eggs in Tesco bags, so that left… ladders.
Which was why they were here, in a damp and drippy cave, folding their arms at each other on opposite sides of a ladder that was… a bit more on the frail side than he’d planned. Still, maybe the presence of one - the ambiance - would make Clara blurt out who she really was. “It’s just like climbing into a dark hole, except you’re climbing up a dark hole!” He rattled the wooden ladder, and immediatedly got five and a half splinters in terribly uncomfortable bendy hand places.
“That is very reassuring. As are your badly disguised moans of pain.” Clara brushed past him and tested the strength of the ladder with a boot and a tug. (It held, thank the stars.) “Here we go… ” She gave him the face that liquified all his concerns, climbed a bit and stuck her head up into the darkness. “Can’t see anything.”
“Thought not.”
“We don’t know where we’re going.”
“No idea.”
“It’s drafty. Smells kinda death-y.”
“I’ll go first if you want,” he said, moving around the ladder until he could see her face. Well, what he could actually see was the shape of her mouth and the tiny, pointy chin. And about a foot of hair.
“Not a chance.” She held out her dirty hands, and yet somehow she balanced on the ladder and didn’t fall down and on top of him. “Touch my rings for me. Tap a little tune, please. No Carmen.”