The Doctor leaves Clara in the TARDIS for a minute, but when he finds her, she’s become a child. She’s lost and tired, and she just wants to find her way back home.
Warnings: abandonment, childhood
“Clara?” The Doctor nudged the TARDIS door shut with his foot and peered around the console. “You there?” He bounced the cupcakes lightly in his hands. They were perfect, double chocolate with pink icing, complete with white sprinkles on top. And there was a candle somewhere in his bigger-on-the-inside pockets. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he set up the treats on napkins. Now he just needed to find the birthday girl.
A bang sounded just out of sight, followed by a small “ouch!” He walked around the corner, busy licking icing from his fingertips, and found a girl. She was tiny, seven, maybe, her hair folded in a French braid. She bunched the fabric of her dress in her hands as she saw the Doctor. He squatted, hoping she wouldn’t run away.
“Hello,” he spoke, almost whispering. “What’s your name? I’m the Doctor.”
“I’m Clara,” she said back, her eyes focused on his own. “I want to go home.” She said it softly, but the Doctor knew how to read her voice. So often was his companion energetic and enthusiastic to cover up her doubt.
He took her hand and led her to a free bedroom. He wanted to pick her up, to set her down on the oversized bed and let her stay here forever, but this was Clara before their lives intersected. Clara didn’t even know him.
“Clara,” he looked at the girl sitting stiffly between the pillows. “Clara, I can take you anywhere you need to go.” He paused. “How old are you?” He paused again, trying to remember his companion’s birth year. “When were you born?”
“Are you my dad? I can’t remember anything.” The Doctor swallowed hard. He looked at the little girl and wished he could say yes.
“I’m not,” he said, quietly, swallowing his tears. The girl sniffled. “No, no, please—please don’t cry.” He fiddled with his hands behind his back before putting one on her head. At that, she stopped crying. Her eyes closed as if she were remembering.
“You did what Dad does.” She kept her eyes closed. “Can I go home?”
“Please, tell me how old you are.” He turned to the doorway, his hands stiffening into fists. He swallowed.
“Can I go home?” She asked again. She had crept off the bed and stood by his hand, hesitant to touch him.
“Please, Clara, tell me how old you are.” I can’t help you unless I know, please, please don’t take too long. But he didn’t want to know, either. Knowing would mean having no excuse to keep her.
“I’m seven. Is this your house?” She let go of her dress, looking up at him with questions swirling in her eyes. The Doctor closed his. Now he’d have to give her back.
“Is this my house?” At that, he smiled. “Where am I, The Doctor?”
“No, Clara, just ‘Doctor,’ you call me Doctor, please.” Remember! He shouted in his head. But there was nothing in her to remember.
“Are you OK?” The Doctor looked down at her.
“I’m losing someone,” he said, the weight of it pressing down on his hearts. Like, Rose, Jack, Donna, Amy, Rory, not you. You got me out of my rut, took me out of myself, not you!
“We can find them. Can’t we?” She took his hand. For a moment, he believed it was that simple.
“Oh! Clara!” He jumped back, pulling his hand from hers. “It’s your birthday today, isn’t it?” Her eyes grew wide.
“How did you know?”
“I’m magic.” Her smile teased a response out of him, and he forgot for a moment, beaming at her. “I’ll be right back.” He scampered out the door. Clara took a look at the door.
“Why isn’t there a box? My room has a box on the door.” The TARDIS hummed and gave her a small nameplate on the door. Clara bent down to pick up a crayon from the floor, her dress bunching around her legs, and scrawled her name in the space.
“Here, Clara.” The Doctor had come back. He sat her down and revealed a cupcake on a pale blue napkin. Her mouth opened in a smile as he nudged a candle into place and lit it with a match hidden between his fingers. “Make a wish.” She closed her eyes and blew out the candle nosily.
Then she began to glow. Soft light fluttered out of the candle and enveloped her, twisting around her arms and turning her hair into a mane. Clara grew older, barely moving as the changes brought back the companion he knew. She looked at him, stretching.
“Am I safe?”
“You’re safe. So safe.” He scooped her into his arms and hugged her. “Clara, what did you wish for?” He leaned in and gave her a kiss on her head.
“For you to find he person you’d lost,” she muttered before falling asleep in his arms. The TARDIS hummed again, faintly, erasing the child’s signature on the door and replacing it with a name in Clara’s adult hand. She slipped into a deeper sleep, nuzzling the crook of his elbow.
The Doctor wasn't good at waiting, but never, that night, did he let go.
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The first snow of the winter falls on Clara and The Doctor, and playing in it gets a little out of hand.
Warnings: Close quarters
“Still think you’re the best snowball fighter in the universe?” She dodged a wad of powdery snow and ducked to her knees, laughing.
“A fort! We need forts!” Clara called to her Doctor.
“Only losers need forts!” She scraped together a snowball and lobbed it at his hair. It scuffed his shoulder, leaving a cloud of fluffy white around his face. Like a halo.
“Fine then! The loser builds a fort.” Clara smacked him in the nose with a well-aimed cluster of snowflakes.
“I ain’t buildin’ no fort,” he shot back, tipping an imaginary hat to his dearest Clara as he brushed the snow from his face. “Sorry, ma’am, but it looks like you’ll be makin’ me a home.” Clara ducked behind a tree, her heart hammering with the giddiness of the snowball fight—and perhaps a little something else. She gathered as much snow as she could fit between her hands and packed it together. “No cheating!” He yelled.
“Not cheating!” She ran from the hideout, clutching her weapon between her arms. Ready, aim—she imagined a cannon, its weaponry shooting through the sky, always hitting its mark. Fire! She lobbed the cannon ball and it hit him smack dab on the bow tie.
“Oh! The lady got me!” He spiraled down, falling flat on his face dramatically, flinging up his legs behind him to create two delayed thumps. “Just you wait, Clara,” he told her, his eyes sparkling, after he’d dusted himself off. “I’m gonna build you a fort you’ll never forget.”
-
“This is a little tight, isn’t it?” Clara examined the “fort” with her hands on her hips. It would barely fit the two of them, she guessed, and there was only one small opening.
“I prefer the term ‘cozy,’” he replied. He straightened his bow tie. “After you.” Clara tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. Could be nice, being that close to him, she thought, a cheeky smile working its way onto her face. She pushed herself into the tiny room and slid to the side. Her breath come out in small pillows against the snow wall, and she laughed, watching the atmosphere vaporize. “See, nice and cozy.” The Doctor sighed as he shuffled in his half of the snowbank. He reached to the ceiling, well within his arm span, and drew a light.
“It’s the TARDIS light, Clara,” he said softly. She pointed a finger into the snow and drew an outline of their blue box.
“And that’s what it looks like.” She spoke as if exhaling, like the air would shatter if she raised her voice louder than a whisper. He traced a stick figure by the rectangle. “That’s me.” He added suspenders, and Clara topped it off with a bow tie.
“Draw me,” she requested, her voice muffled by the snow. He wrapped his arm awkwardly around her head, fingers burrowing into her hair. With his free hand he added a girl in a dress by his side.
“That’s you, Clara.”
“Almost,” she whispered, her breath catching as his fingers worked their way to the nape of her neck. She added a sloppy chef’s hat to the drawing and exhaled softly. His hand slipped from her neck to her collar. Clara turned fully on her side, facing him. She reached out to trail a finger on his cheek, around the curve of his lips, past the roundness of his chin. He pushed himself closer, his hands still working their way downwards. She inhaled, her heart hammering under his palm. She shifted, stretching out both her arms to meet his hearts, the animated rhythm of his hearts matching the pounding in hers. He took her hands carefully between his. Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t enough, Clara thought, kissing back, wishing there was more room so she could push her hands through his hair, hold his face, something. Anything with more contact, more heat.
“We should take this inside,” he gasped. He tried to stand up, forgetting where he was, and broke through the snow fort. “Ah, sunlight!” He exclaimed with relish. He picked up Clara and took long strides toward the house. Clara slid her hands into his hair, damp with melting snow. She laughed.
“Hm?” He asked, surprised, not before giving her a quick, deep kiss. She looked at him adoringly as he broke away.
Clara and The Doctor bake muffins for a school event. He enjoys it a little more than expected.
Warnings: Food mention
“But don’t we always make souffles?”
“That is an absolutely unfounded accusation.” She pushed a baking pan across the counter to where he was sitting, his nose barely above the laminate surface. “Besides. The school requires muffins.”
“This is for a school event?” He got up, an eyebrow raised. “Since when do you do school events?”
“Since I got a job, numbskull.” She swatted him lightly with a spatula. “Come on, let’s get to it! Flour,” she added, pointing at The Doctor. “Go get.”
“Of course, a job… You see me every Wednesday, but I see you every day,” he said, mostly to himself, as he reached for the top shelf of the cupboard. “I keep forgetting.”
“Forgetting what?”
That I’m not your whole life, he thought, but he kept his mouth shut and gave her a signature smile.
“How to bake! You’ll need to teach me.” He plopped the flower next to her line of ingredients and beamed at her.
“Well…alright.” She reached to the nook below the cutting board and pulled out a cookbook. “I thought we’d use this recipe, but remember—” She cued him. “The muffin isn’t the muffin.”
“The muffin is the recipe,” they said together.
“Whatever that means,” The Doctor added, putting a hand on her head before she could retaliate. “In addition to problem solving and saving people’s lives, of course.” His hand slipped over her hair to the nape of her neck. “Right, baking!” He clapped his hands. “What’s this thing for?”
“That’s for measuring things. Here, give me three cups of flour.” He tipped the bag and watched the power flutter out. Like snow, he thought, his mind conjuring images of the first battle they fought together. Snow aware of more than just its surroundings. He shook the thoughts away and pushed the bowl to Clara.
“This is quaint, isn’t it?” She said, pleased. She looked up from her minuscule bowls of spices and powders, her hands clasped in front of her chest.
“I don’t do quaint,” he replied, but both of them knew he had a secret fondness for adopting mundane roles with Clara. It was like almost like playing house.
“But you’re doing such a good job!” She dumped the ingredients in the bowl containing the eggs and poured in the flour. “Now mix.”
“It says ‘stir in,’ not ‘dump like the TARDIS is exploding.’”
“Mix!” She repeated, laughing. “These are gonna come out great, I swear.”
-
Clara woke up from her nap and checked her watch.
“Doctor… The muffins should be about done.” She started, fully awake in an instant. “Doctor?” Rule number five, Clara—don’t leave him alone with baked goods!
“Mm?” He walked into the room, a half-eaten muffin in his hand. Crumbs stuck to his lip, and he brushed them away. “What?”
“They’re for school, Doctor. School! Think of the children.” He said nothing, just polished off the muffin. “How many did you eat, anyway?” He swallowed.
“Hm…well. I think…” he inched closer to her until he was on the bed. “I think we’re going to need to make some more.” His eyes glinted with—what was it? Eagerness?
“Doctor, you…” Understanding dawned on her. “You want to make more, don’t you? You like baking!”
“C’mon, Clara, we’ve got muffins to bake!” He left the room, rubbing his hands together. Clara shook her head. She never knew what to expect with her Doctor, but she knew enough to foresee another tray of muffins. You never know, Clara mused. Maybe he’ll even help me clean up.
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“’Ack!’ he cried, ‘This is my favourite vest.’ He wiped his cake-covered hands on her sleeve, leaving spongy residue. ‘How do you like getting slimed?’
‘Hey!’ she cried, grinning, ‘If it’s a fight you’re looking for, you’re in way over your head.’”
Clara prepares to celebrate Artie’s birthday, nervously trying her best to make it the perfect. The Doctor tries to help, but accidentally blows up the cake. Tension quickly deflates into silliness, and a food fight ensues.
_________
“You are not using the sonic,” Clara said.
“Why not?”
“This needs to be perfect,” she said, crossing her arms, “Your fancy high-tech shortcuts end up getting us worse off than we started. This is Artie’s birthday. We’re making a boring vanilla cake, and we’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”
The Doctor looked like he was about to retort, but she put on her serious face, and he let it be.
_______
Clara chattered nervously, carefully measuring ingredients into a red mixing bowl. “Artie’s had a really bad go of it this year, and I want to make sure his birthday is perfect to make up for it all. Give him hope, you know? Sugar?”
The Doctor wordlessly passed her the sugar. She poured some into a measuring cup, talking all the while.
“And his mum’s not around to celebrate, so I’ve got to do it instead. I just can’t let him-it’s two cups, right?”
The Doctor leaned over to check the recipe book and nodded.
“I just can’t let him be deprived of a proper adolescence. It’s not fair.” She looked at the bowl. “This should be right. Help me pour the batter.”
_______
The Doctor had no idea how to help her, but he let her hash out her feelings as she talked; he could listen, at least. After a long bout of waiting, the cake was done. Clara, of course, had shooed him away as soon as it was time for the delicate work of icing. He’d even kept from rolling his eyes when she said to wait half an hour for the icing to dry before starting the second later. (Second layer? How much time was she planning on putting into this thing?) At this rate, they’d be here all day, and she had a party to plan. Surely he could lend a hand.
He turned around. Clara was hunched over the sink, scrubbing dishes as she talked. He took the sonic out of his pocket, and blocked the cake from her view. Now was the perfect time.
“And I thought we’d just make it a family party, not worry about the kids from school. That’s a good plan, right? Makes things simpler, and I’m not about to-”
SPLAT!
She spun around. “Doctor!” she shouted. Bits of cake had exploded across the counter.
“What did you do?!” she cried.
Oh no oh no oh no, it was ruined. She’d failed; all her planning would go to-
Just then, the Doctor turned around, and she saw his face.
He looked, frankly, ridiculous. His entire face was covered in bits of soggy cake. His eyes were wide open, eyelashes coated in green. He opened his mouth to apologize, and had to spit out a bit of icing.
“Clara,” he said, “I’m so sorry, I was trying to help.”
Clara sat stunned for a second, then burst out laughing.
“Oh my stars,” she said, through fits of giggles, “Your face is totally white! You look like frosty the snowman with green eyelashes.” She felt the tension leave her as she laughed, and she thought she saw the Doctor relax his shoulders.
“How much of the cake is even left?” she said, walking toward him. As she leaned over the counter to look at the remains, the Doctor wiped his icing-coated sonic on her apron.
“Doctor!” she shrieked. She grabbed a handful of cake and threw it at him playfully. The blob hit him square in the chest.
“Ack!” he cried, “This is my favourite vest.” He wiped his cake-covered hands on her sleeve, leaving spongy residue. “How do you like getting slimed?”
“Hey!” she cried, grinning, “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, you’re in way over your head.”
It was an all out food fight. Their hair was coated in icing, cake mashed into their clothes and faces. Once they ran out of cake, the Doctor grabbed the eggs carton, throwing eggs at her as she tried in vain to swat them away.
“Alright, you got me!” she shouted, “Truce?”
“Never!” he said, pelting her with more eggs, “Only surrender.”
“Fine,” she said, and he stopped with the eggs. “I’ll surrender…when pigs fly!” She grabbed a jug of milk and splashed it down his front. As he scrambled for something to defend himself, she dumped flour over his head. He flung the rest of the eggs at her, wiped the mess from his eyes, and twisted the cap off a creamer carton, emptying it over her head.
Artie chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw the chaos inside. Eggs dripped down the walls, flour coated the counter and floor, and the two giggling figuress were barely recognizable under layers of powder and dough.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Artie, come with me” said Clara, laughing, “We’re getting you a cake from the store.”
Prompt: Baking + Sexual Tension
Words (so far): 6k+
Characters: 11/Clara
Type: Oneshot series
A million emotions pumped through her veins. Shock, confusion, doubt, pride, relief, puzzlement, excitement and joy. "Oh my stars . . . I've done it. I've actually properly done it."
"Get in here now!" she screeched giddily. "Come on quickly - I've done it!"
"I can't believe it," she murmured to herself. After all her years of failures she hadn't given up. Sometimes people questioned why she persisted the craft she'd been infamously known for but she had determinedly ignored them or aggressively forced them to shut up; because she knew she would get there in the end. "I got it right. I am Soufflé Girl."
The Doctor made a mad dash from the console room - where he'd been fiddling with some settings that really didn't need fiddling with - into the kitchen. Had Clara finally set the place on fire? There'd been a lot of near misses. So many that the Doctor had taken to not leaving her side as she 'baked'. But after several smoke free attempts he thought he could probably risk leaving her to bake alone for once. Won't be doing that again, he thought to himself, expecting to see the short brunette in a coughing fit and covered in soot.
The Doctor takes Clara on a date to the playground. Stumbles, laughter, and hand holding ensue.
Rating: K
Warnings: none
“I’m taking you out on a date, Clara.” The Doctor kept his eyes on the console, checking the oxygen levels for the seventh time. A smile rewrote his companion’s face.
“Alright,” she said slowly. “Where?”
“Well…I’m letting the TARDIS decide.” He fiddled with a cream-colored knob.
“Really! Are you?” She asked quickly. “Doesn’t sound like—”
“Nah, but I don’t want you to blame me if you don’t like it.” He tore his eyes from the controls. “Are you…are you ready to go?”
“Yeah! If you are,” she added, her hands flinging themselves into her hair. Relax, she told herself. It’s not your first first date. She swallowed and faced the door. He pushed a button, and the TARDIS opened, revealing a magnificent playground.
Its greenery stretched farther than Clara could see, speckled with the multi-colored t-shirts of roaming children and leashes knotted to the fence. The creaks of the equipment blended into children’s shouts, the sound surprisingly pleasant. Clara thought she caught a whiff of corndogs against the aftertaste of humidity.
With the TARDIS doors framing it like a painting, it was rather picturesque, Clara noted to herself. Not a bad choice at all.
“Do you like it?” He took a few cautious steps. “We can always go somewhere else.” She took his hand.
“Not a chance, clever boy.” She grinned, and he couldn’t help but mirror her excitement. She likes it, he barely had a chance to think as he found himself getting pulled to the heart of the park. She likes it!
“Where to first?” He asked, and she jumped on a carousel-like object. “The spinny thing! Excellent choice.” She clung to the bars, laughing, and jumped off after a few turns, landing neatly on her feet. The Doctor had no such luck, stumbling after he landed.
“OK, OK,” she said between gasps of laughter. “Now try to walk in a straight line.” He took the opportunity to trip, and Clara caught him by the shoulders.
“I got to you. Is that close enough?” She smiled at him and kissed his forehead.
“Let’s go to the swings next, OK?” He nodded, taking her hand just before she walked out of reach. She looked back at him, but he averted his gaze to the sky. She squeezed his hand.
“I propose a challenge,” he announced once they’d reached an empty pair of swings. He put his hands on his hips and dug his shoes into the woodchips. “We race.”
“Race where?” He just pointed to the sky, and a slow smile spread over Clara’s face. “You are on, Doctor.” They stood two feet from their swings, and The Doctor counted down.
“Three…two…one!” They jumped into the swings and reached for the stars the old-fashioned way.
///
“Hey, Clara?” She leaned against his shoulder on the park bench.
“Hey.” She reached out her hand, and he took it.
“Pretty good first date, huh?” She looked into his earnest face, his open eyes.
“Yeah, ya goofball,” she replied, leaning back to smack him on the shoulder. “Pretty good first date.”
