Fic I wrote: Clara + RTD era edition
So I had a sudden urge to put Clara into all the episodes, but only got through some of the RTD era.
take the words. PG. Clara/Rose. For the prompt: Clara/Rose; one’s the Bad Wolf, one’s the Impossible Girl -- they fight time!
[Oh, she likes the Bad Wolf, who burns and scatters her words just as Clara scatters herself.]Clara Oswald uses the tip of her tongue to write two words inside the mouth of a peroxide blonde in a Punky Fish hoodie, not because they mean anything in particular, but because it feels like they’re Important. She can’t say them out loud, because the other girl would think she was silly. Because the only thing they have in common is snogging and sass and chips and not going to the same school. They were both too old for fairytales, technically.
She was the Impossible Girl, breaking through time, having everything but purpose torn out of her. She knows the Doctor, always, and every now and then she catches glimpses of others - the man who couldn’t die, the boy who waited, the girl who remembered, the Bad Wolf.
Oh, she likes the Bad Wolf, who burns and scatters her words just as Clara scatters herself. The girl with the burning eyes and the white hair who wants to save the Doctor.
Clara wills some of her echoes to find her and help her write herself across the Universe. Clara brings the words with her in the cradle and scratches them onto blackboards and traces them onto foggy car windows. She shouts them after two Doctors, shouts till her throat is raw, but he never hears.
It doesn’t matter, really - she knows the Wolf will keep him safe.
And when Clara Oswin gets voted off her show and off the Game Station much too early (for hitting someone with a chair) the Doctor lives.
loose connection. G. Clara + Reinette. Doctor/everyone, I guess. The plot is probably heavily reliant on having seen Girl in the Fireplace not too long ago. For the prompt: Time Agent!Clara using her Vortex Manipulator to travel through time and help out during any of Nine, Ten or Eleven's adventures (before Clara became the Companion).
[In which Clara is a Time Agent who also repairs fireplaces.]She’s the last one standing, running from the droids on what’s been her ship for almost a year. She’s bleeding, her jumpsuit is torn, but she’s still got her vortex manipulator. Thank the stars. She gulps down some precious air while matching the co-ordinates to those of the closest open time window (she wouldn’t step through one unless she absolutely had to, not when she had a perfectly good manipulator). An undercover time agent wasn’t supposed to abandon her mission for something like this, but she was not really in the mood to become spare parts.
She presses the button and melts into the vortex.
*
18th century France, Earth, though. She’s certainly not staying. There are a lot of time windows open, and her manipulator isn’t faring well in the turbulence; its power is fluctuating. It should have one trip in it, at least. She just has to decide where to jump. Maybe she’d dare steal some vacation?
Then she catches a glimpse of dirty trainer and pinstriped trouser leg, and her plans aren’t so important anymore.
It can’t be love at first sight. She’s taken too many “learning to not fall in love” classes. Lust at first sight, maybe? Destiny? He’s in danger, in any case, and that’s all that matters.
*
She’s a stable boy at first. She’s tiny and short-haired and keeps her head down, and nobody looks further.
Next, she grows her hair five feet or so, has some wide dresses made - her favourite is silk and the colour of blood - and minds the scores of children. As for spare time; she’s a 51st century girl, easy to please. These people are much more open minded than she thought, if a little grubby; the food is plentiful, if gruesome; and court intrigue was better than most holo-soaps.
She has really, really fun, until Madame de Pompadour notices her. “I am no fool. Like the Doctor, you are from this vessel where my life is on display.”
Clara gasps; suddenly the corset feels even tighter and the scent of her own perfume seems much more cloying. There was no point in denying it. “That’s right. I think... he needs help.”
“That much is clear, and we shall help him.”
*
The Doctor visits many times. He only sees Reinette.
*
Reinette’s holding her elbow and marching her down the corridors, the clicking of their heels echoing over and over; the rustle of fabric nearly drowning their voices. “Now is the time,” Reinette shouts. “I shall entrust something in your care.”
They don’t stop till they’re in her bedroom, where the time window fireplace is always in the centre.
“Is it not working?” Reinette asks.
“No,” says Clara, on her knees half-inside it. “It is broken.”
“Need to get a man in”, Reinette states somberly. Something in her voice tells Clara she means her. “You will repair it?”
“Yes.” Whatever it takes, Clara will fix this.
“I shall be grateful.”
“You think he’ll stay here? If the fireplace’s working?”
“I must hope.”
The fireplace is really broken. There is soot everywhere. Clara takes a second to resign herself before reaching into her cleavage and withdrawing the vortex manipulator. She hadn’t really believed she’d ever leave, had she? Not since she ran into the Doctor.
She makes sure the manipulator is ready, that the co-ordinates are correct, and then she jams it as far up the chimney as her hand and arm allows her, till it catches on some sharp edge and is stuck up there. It would open the time window when the fireplace was activated, and take the Doctor back to the ship.
If she was lucky, it had enough power for two trips.
*
She’s running from the same droids again, leading them as far away from Reinette’s bedroom as possible.
In 1913. A Human Nature/Family of Blood AU. T, Clara/John Smith. 600 words. Clara instead of Joan. For the prompt: any version of Clara in Human Nature/Family of Blood. Clara could either replace Joan Redfern and the whole would be completely AU, or Clara could befriend Martha and help out in any way she can.
[Spoiler (click to open)]“Mrrrrr,” said Clara, her forehead against the fan of inky papers on her desk, her hair splayed all over. As much as she loved all her children, there were only so many splinters, sprains and bouts of homesickness she could deal with in a row before needing a break. She reached out and fumbled blindly for John’s journal and a bit of escapism, and then remembered that it wasn’t there anymore. He’d taken it back. He’d had more dreams, supposedly, and needed to record them. Or Martha had made him.
She’d just have to see the man himself, then. Almost as good. They had something going, but stars knew what -- the very youngest boys were less shy than Mr Smith. They were both widowed, and she was only 26 and bolder now... she’d make her intentions known step by step. Small steps, that was - she had Invited him to play nurse last week, and he still hadn’t shown.
She’d barely managed to twist her hair into a passable chignon and hope there wasn’t ink on her face when he tore his door open. She’d have to learn to knock after her hair was done. “Matron!” he exclaimed, making a face somewhere between joy and terror. “Uh, Clara. What brings you here at this hour?”
Clara straightened her apron and slipped past him, into his rooms. “Only curious to hear about your fantastic dreams. What’s the Doctor been doing, that sort. What else could I possible be here for?”
“Oh, I only had the lizard people again, nothing else.” He scratched his head, mussing his untameable hair futher. “They were living under water, this time.”
“I like the lizard people.”
“Me too! Haven’t had time to add it to the journal, which brings me to a point I should like to discuss. In short, I’d like to...”
She raised a brow.
“Might I draw you? In the journal?”
“I thought that was only for dreams. You’ve dreamt about me?”
“That is... no, nothing, nothing. I tend to not draw the faces of women very well, I should practice, need to practice. If you’d sit down, please, the sofa, I’ll get my pencils.”
He sketched quietly, intensely, and with the tip of his tongue sticking out.
“Does my nose really look like that?” she asked when he finally angled the book toward her. On the page was the dark of her eyes and hair, the grey of the dress and the stark white of the apron. He’d captured the shape of her lips and dimples perfectly. Even the watch pinned to her chest was perfect. Her face, in his book of wonders. In a journal of impossible things.
“Yes. I never lie about noses.” His face softened into what was almost a different visage entirely. “Yours is, by the by... perfect.”
She shifted on the sofa, until she could just feel the heat from his leg against her own. “You should see me stumbling out of bed at four in the morning, stubbing my toes and trying to get out of my gown... I assure you I do not look like that. Except, of course, the nose.”
Five or ten very quiet seconds followed, during which he stared, mouth half-open, at her. He finally closed the distance between them and gave her a kiss, brushing his lips tentatively and eagerly against hers - till she moved even closer, and the journal landed on the floor with that flat noise only books could make. John slid away till his armrest stopped him, staring at the hand in which the book had been.
take the words. PG. Clara/Rose. For the prompt: Clara/Rose; one’s the Bad Wolf, one’s the Impossible Girl -- they fight time!
[Oh, she likes the Bad Wolf, who burns and scatters her words just as Clara scatters herself.]Clara Oswald uses the tip of her tongue to write two words inside the mouth of a peroxide blonde in a Punky Fish hoodie, not because they mean anything in particular, but because it feels like they’re Important. She can’t say them out loud, because the other girl would think she was silly. Because the only thing they have in common is snogging and sass and chips and not going to the same school. They were both too old for fairytales, technically.
She was the Impossible Girl, breaking through time, having everything but purpose torn out of her. She knows the Doctor, always, and every now and then she catches glimpses of others - the man who couldn’t die, the boy who waited, the girl who remembered, the Bad Wolf.
Oh, she likes the Bad Wolf, who burns and scatters her words just as Clara scatters herself. The girl with the burning eyes and the white hair who wants to save the Doctor.
Clara wills some of her echoes to find her and help her write herself across the Universe. Clara brings the words with her in the cradle and scratches them onto blackboards and traces them onto foggy car windows. She shouts them after two Doctors, shouts till her throat is raw, but he never hears.
It doesn’t matter, really - she knows the Wolf will keep him safe.
And when Clara Oswin gets voted off her show and off the Game Station much too early (for hitting someone with a chair) the Doctor lives.
loose connection. G. Clara + Reinette. Doctor/everyone, I guess. The plot is probably heavily reliant on having seen Girl in the Fireplace not too long ago. For the prompt: Time Agent!Clara using her Vortex Manipulator to travel through time and help out during any of Nine, Ten or Eleven's adventures (before Clara became the Companion).
[In which Clara is a Time Agent who also repairs fireplaces.]She’s the last one standing, running from the droids on what’s been her ship for almost a year. She’s bleeding, her jumpsuit is torn, but she’s still got her vortex manipulator. Thank the stars. She gulps down some precious air while matching the co-ordinates to those of the closest open time window (she wouldn’t step through one unless she absolutely had to, not when she had a perfectly good manipulator). An undercover time agent wasn’t supposed to abandon her mission for something like this, but she was not really in the mood to become spare parts.
She presses the button and melts into the vortex.
*
18th century France, Earth, though. She’s certainly not staying. There are a lot of time windows open, and her manipulator isn’t faring well in the turbulence; its power is fluctuating. It should have one trip in it, at least. She just has to decide where to jump. Maybe she’d dare steal some vacation?
Then she catches a glimpse of dirty trainer and pinstriped trouser leg, and her plans aren’t so important anymore.
It can’t be love at first sight. She’s taken too many “learning to not fall in love” classes. Lust at first sight, maybe? Destiny? He’s in danger, in any case, and that’s all that matters.
*
She’s a stable boy at first. She’s tiny and short-haired and keeps her head down, and nobody looks further.
Next, she grows her hair five feet or so, has some wide dresses made - her favourite is silk and the colour of blood - and minds the scores of children. As for spare time; she’s a 51st century girl, easy to please. These people are much more open minded than she thought, if a little grubby; the food is plentiful, if gruesome; and court intrigue was better than most holo-soaps.
She has really, really fun, until Madame de Pompadour notices her. “I am no fool. Like the Doctor, you are from this vessel where my life is on display.”
Clara gasps; suddenly the corset feels even tighter and the scent of her own perfume seems much more cloying. There was no point in denying it. “That’s right. I think... he needs help.”
“That much is clear, and we shall help him.”
*
The Doctor visits many times. He only sees Reinette.
*
Reinette’s holding her elbow and marching her down the corridors, the clicking of their heels echoing over and over; the rustle of fabric nearly drowning their voices. “Now is the time,” Reinette shouts. “I shall entrust something in your care.”
They don’t stop till they’re in her bedroom, where the time window fireplace is always in the centre.
“Is it not working?” Reinette asks.
“No,” says Clara, on her knees half-inside it. “It is broken.”
“Need to get a man in”, Reinette states somberly. Something in her voice tells Clara she means her. “You will repair it?”
“Yes.” Whatever it takes, Clara will fix this.
“I shall be grateful.”
“You think he’ll stay here? If the fireplace’s working?”
“I must hope.”
The fireplace is really broken. There is soot everywhere. Clara takes a second to resign herself before reaching into her cleavage and withdrawing the vortex manipulator. She hadn’t really believed she’d ever leave, had she? Not since she ran into the Doctor.
She makes sure the manipulator is ready, that the co-ordinates are correct, and then she jams it as far up the chimney as her hand and arm allows her, till it catches on some sharp edge and is stuck up there. It would open the time window when the fireplace was activated, and take the Doctor back to the ship.
If she was lucky, it had enough power for two trips.
*
She’s running from the same droids again, leading them as far away from Reinette’s bedroom as possible.
In 1913. A Human Nature/Family of Blood AU. T, Clara/John Smith. 600 words. Clara instead of Joan. For the prompt: any version of Clara in Human Nature/Family of Blood. Clara could either replace Joan Redfern and the whole would be completely AU, or Clara could befriend Martha and help out in any way she can.
[Spoiler (click to open)]“Mrrrrr,” said Clara, her forehead against the fan of inky papers on her desk, her hair splayed all over. As much as she loved all her children, there were only so many splinters, sprains and bouts of homesickness she could deal with in a row before needing a break. She reached out and fumbled blindly for John’s journal and a bit of escapism, and then remembered that it wasn’t there anymore. He’d taken it back. He’d had more dreams, supposedly, and needed to record them. Or Martha had made him.
She’d just have to see the man himself, then. Almost as good. They had something going, but stars knew what -- the very youngest boys were less shy than Mr Smith. They were both widowed, and she was only 26 and bolder now... she’d make her intentions known step by step. Small steps, that was - she had Invited him to play nurse last week, and he still hadn’t shown.
She’d barely managed to twist her hair into a passable chignon and hope there wasn’t ink on her face when he tore his door open. She’d have to learn to knock after her hair was done. “Matron!” he exclaimed, making a face somewhere between joy and terror. “Uh, Clara. What brings you here at this hour?”
Clara straightened her apron and slipped past him, into his rooms. “Only curious to hear about your fantastic dreams. What’s the Doctor been doing, that sort. What else could I possible be here for?”
“Oh, I only had the lizard people again, nothing else.” He scratched his head, mussing his untameable hair futher. “They were living under water, this time.”
“I like the lizard people.”
“Me too! Haven’t had time to add it to the journal, which brings me to a point I should like to discuss. In short, I’d like to...”
She raised a brow.
“Might I draw you? In the journal?”
“I thought that was only for dreams. You’ve dreamt about me?”
“That is... no, nothing, nothing. I tend to not draw the faces of women very well, I should practice, need to practice. If you’d sit down, please, the sofa, I’ll get my pencils.”
He sketched quietly, intensely, and with the tip of his tongue sticking out.
“Does my nose really look like that?” she asked when he finally angled the book toward her. On the page was the dark of her eyes and hair, the grey of the dress and the stark white of the apron. He’d captured the shape of her lips and dimples perfectly. Even the watch pinned to her chest was perfect. Her face, in his book of wonders. In a journal of impossible things.
“Yes. I never lie about noses.” His face softened into what was almost a different visage entirely. “Yours is, by the by... perfect.”
She shifted on the sofa, until she could just feel the heat from his leg against her own. “You should see me stumbling out of bed at four in the morning, stubbing my toes and trying to get out of my gown... I assure you I do not look like that. Except, of course, the nose.”
Five or ten very quiet seconds followed, during which he stared, mouth half-open, at her. He finally closed the distance between them and gave her a kiss, brushing his lips tentatively and eagerly against hers - till she moved even closer, and the journal landed on the floor with that flat noise only books could make. John slid away till his armrest stopped him, staring at the hand in which the book had been.