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Sneaking through the dark halls of Jantün’s royal palace, Clara realizes she should probably be feeling some sort of guilt. After all, it’s her fault that she and the Master are currently fugitives in the eyes of the Queen and every guard searching the area. Moments ago she’d been sipping on some delicious cocktail, and then—history caught up to her, the power went out, and she ran off to avoid being executed for high treason.
Moving further into the hallway—she’s pretty sure this is the direction of her TARDIS, and the Master hasn’t said anything to contradict her—she walks with a fun blend of confidence and trepidation, because the floor-plan of this place is borderline ridiculous. Unexpected twists and sudden staircases make for a baffling exercise in the light, but submerged in total darkness just means she has more things to worry about tripping over, or worse, missing her exit. They’re at least another level down, she knows that. If only she could remember which exact staircase she’d taken…
“You’ve a remarkably fortunate sense of timing, Clara,” the Master says to her, “a minute longer and I was certain we’d get an ‘off with their heads!’”
“Well, honestly, they’re idiots for planning the largest gala of the year on the day of a solar flare and not rescheduling.” She shakes her head, still unable to contain her grin. In a way, the whole thing is very funny. Perhaps a little more research on local lifespan would have done her a bit of good, but the event was getting boring anyways. More emphasis on politics than partying, and she could sense both her and the Master’s interests waning. Nothing quicker to jumpstart excitement than threats to her life.
“And what does that make you for coming? Considering we’re now both wanted criminals…”
As if that weren’t true before. Clara trails the wall to the left with her fingertips, mentally taking inventory of all the turns and stairs they pass. It’s a rare day she’s truly lost and it takes a lot more than a simple power outage to genuinely disorient her.
“How was I to know they’d recognize me? I courted the monarch’s daughter once. Realized it wasn’t going to work out and left—guess she took it harder than I imagined. Six hundred years ago. That is a serious blacklist.”
They pass another staircase—stars, this place is absurd. That’s the seventh so far, and if she recalls there’s another four to go before they descend.
The Master follows close by, seemingly unconcerned with the idea that once the confusion of the solar flare dies down, guards will be sent to hunt them. “Once is fine, twice is unlucky, but this is the third time your heartbreaking has put us into genuine legal danger. I’m sensing a pattern,”
She looks over, unable to see his face—or anything else—in the darkness. “What pattern?”
The smirk is evident in his voice. “Commitment issues.”
“Not fair,” she protests, “we’ve been travelling, what, five months?”
“Hardly an anniversary, love. Get back to me once we’ve hit a real milestone.”
“What’s a milestone to a Time Lord?” she asks, noting that they’ve reached the eighth staircase. The panicked noise from the gala is fading further into the background, but with the dying of the guests’ alarm comes the awareness that crowd control might lose priority, and finding them will be next.
He considers the question. “At the very least, one decade. It’s centuries from there,”
They reach a bend. Mapping the space out leads to the comfort that oh yes, this is recognizable. “On Earth,” she begins, “six months usually warrants some sort of night out, or perhaps a cake, or if you’re really into it slash insecure, a social media post designed to make everyone jealous. So, if we survive this, and we will, in one month we’ll celebrate.”
“Celebrate… what, exactly?”
Her fingers find a corner. “Oh, you know. Friendship. Six months of not dying together.”
“Friendship,” he hums contemplatively, “sure, Clara.”
There’s an interesting edge to his tone. She wishes she could see his expression. Something in these past couple months seems to have heated between them… moments that spark, a touch or dark look that warms her or gives rise to tension in the air. Unmentioned but not unnoticed, and her cheeks flush at the implications of his doubtful echo. And—not the time. She shakes her head, and startles when his hand closes around her wrist.
“Listen,” he whispers.
Behind them, faint footsteps of six-footed guards scuttle from down the hall, and with them will surely come torches and weapons. She doesn’t fancy being found, blasted, or beheaded, so she relinquishes the lead and lets him pull ahead.
He drags her into one of the alcoves, a space carved out of the wall. Pressing flat against it, the angle seems just right so that anyone running by would need to turn sharply to see them. Clara shifts closer to the Master, holding still against his side and quieting her breathing.
“You’d think a solar flare might hold more precedence…” she murmurs.
“Over avenging your jilted princess? That’s a six century long grudge… she wants you dead, dear.”
“Brilliant,” she mutters, “final bit of proof that we were never a match.”
As the footsteps near, her heartbeat quickens. The Master tenses beside her. This close, she can feel the heat emanating from his body. Colder than her, but in the chill of the air, the warmth draws out a wash of pleasure and she can’t help the small shiver that passes through her. Always, even in the darkness—perhaps especially in the darkness—she feels captivated, lured in by some magnetic pull. A mesmerizing force, the appeal of the edge and the void; he doesn’t refuse her, not often, and she’s very careful with boundaries but she likes to touch—to grasp his hand or bump shoulders or in times like this where there’s no choice but to stay near. There’s a thrill to the contact, satisfying some inner desire; it’s the same urge that pushes her to seek out danger, abandon the pretense of normal outings or attraction, and stick her hands into whatever flame, assured that she’s clever and her skin will be fine.
Despite the looming, constant understanding that pride and risk is what killed her in the first place, she verges that line and toes it cautiously. She won’t die again, not with the foolish naivety of the first time. But—she can have a bit of fun, can’t she?
“Clara,” the Master says softly,
“Yes?”
“I could just use this,”
She felt him shifting, reaching into his inner pocket and she doesn’t have to see to know exactly what he means. “No, we don’t use your TCE unless absolutely necessary.”
“Surely the threat of decapitation qualifies…”
That’s one thing—she doesn’t like to be someone who restricts but more often than she ever would, his suggestions for solutions include murder. It’s not that they never resort to violence, she just prefers not to. More or less over the years that moral has kept its shape. Don’t kill unless you have to. And she has had to, undoubtedly, in ways she knows would disappoint the Doctor but delight the Master.
“We can evade this,” she insists, “just—hush.”
A flash of light appears from the hallways. Their search party has arrived, and she wonders how they determined not to diverge into the many confusing halls and stairs. Perhaps a testament to just how many are looking for them.
Light scans the floor and walls, and she holds her breath. Any moment now. The sound of scuttling grows louder and Clara suddenly remembers another reason why she reconsidered her engagement. All those legs—fun at times, too much at others. Not that she’s judging, she’s truly not someone in the universe fit to appraise and reject a person just by anatomy. Still… it didn’t offer any persuasion for her to stay.
The guards are almost upon them, lights growing brighter and she braces, prepared to jump into action if necessary—whether that means running down that staircase now illuminated across the hall, or indulging the Master isn’t yet decided.
Closer, closer, and the Master tenses and she knows he’s itching for a chance. She tries to sate the urge in less ethically dubious approaches; plenty of ways to get your kicks for chaos without killing. She has noticed a recovery of energy, something to match her own excitement and wanderlust—not exactly a healthy resurgence, sometimes it resembles more mania than rested. But she manages—they manage.
Her breath catches. The light hits the other end of the alcove, illuminating the wall, but doesn’t pass over her and the Master. Footsteps pound and the masses of several bodies flit by. Nobody sees them, and none of them stop. She waits until the sound is faded ahead of them and then exhales.
“Told you,” she says, grinning.
He turns toward her, and the hall is completely obscured in darkness once again. “Shame,” he murmurs. “I was so looking forward to adding to my collection,”
For the unlucky few that she couldn’t save and honestly didn’t want to—well. She couldn’t exactly refuse him, as horrible as it is to keep them. And—and. If she’s being very honest with herself, it is a little funny to see how he’s arranged them. But mostly awful. Still, there’s compromise in any relationship.
She shakes her head. “We agreed not to go looking for opportunities.”
“I recall you saying only in the most dire circumstances… which we would agree upon at the time.”
“Flexible conditions, I know. Let’s get out of here while our necks are still intact, yeah?”
He stays still, so she doesn’t move either. His breath stirs her hair, and she has the sudden urge to lean into it. They’re so close… stars, for a blinding moment, in the midst of relief and a perpetuating time limit, she wants. She feels held in orbit, waiting on a tipping point. To break away or give in to… whatever this is. Before thinking about it, she reaches out, taking his hand.
His fingers close around hers and it’s a subtle confirmation. An acknowledgement, and she doesn’t feel so absurd for reading into the almost heated looks he gives her. It sparks a warmth inside, and as much as she’d like to close in on it, again—time limit. Besides, she wants to see his face.
“We should go,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” he agrees, still unmoving.
“Really,” she presses in with more urgency.
His thumb brushes over her hand, and this is what convinces her. She pushes off the wall, pulling him with her. Reluctantly, because part of her wants to shove him back against the alcove and feed the growing, vague warning of danger, not safe yet Clara but also the other rising, equally pressing awareness.
It’s the kind of feeling that might honestly kill her, so she grips his hand and steps further away. “Three more staircases, and a bit to the left. I remember now. Ought to hurry,”
“Lead on, love,” he says, “wouldn’t want to be caught after all this…”
There’s something to his voice; she files it away for later, as well as the heat still tingling despite the cold air. His hand is cool but grounding, and after five months of pulling each other along, familiar.
As always, she wants to hold onto the moment a little longer. So, even though it isn’t strictly necessary, she keeps their hands clasped together as they walk through the darkness.