Chapter Text
She was going to kill Joyce for taking her into this. Clara sat nursing a drink at the bar while the underdressed and overstyled man beside her talked on and on about his many accomplishments, waving his hands and startling her every time he touched her arm to punctuate something he found particularly funny. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand Joyce’s intent—it had been a year since she’d lost her fiancée, a year since she’d had a real connection with someone. Her friends were worried about her. But as she sat and pretended to be interested in the goings-on behind the bar so that this dim-witted cousin of Joyce’s could maybe take a hint, she had to think that there was a better way. Behind him, the bartender caught her eye, rolled his eyes as if to say check this guy out, amirite? And made the universal “blah blah blah” symbol with the hand that wasn’t busy wiping down the bar. Clara stifled a smile and let her gaze flit briefly to her date’s—Brandon, if she remembered right. She took another sip of her drink and nodded encouragingly, wondering how long it was socially obligating to drag this out before she could go home and crash. The thought made her want to yawn, and she stifled that too. Nine thirty PM, said the neon clock. She sighed.
When Brandon got decked, it was nothing short of a relief.
The man had come from nowhere—well, somewhere around her third drink— tall and wiry, commanding and a bit familiar, Clara noted. There’d almost no warning—a rumbling “You bastard,” in an accent that sounded just a bit more…wet than normal, and then a right hook to the jaw. The crowd around them grew quiet, and then erupted into a mixture of drunken cheering and swearing. Clara blinked stupidly as Brandon sprawled in an ungainly heap on the ground, moaning and rubbing his jaw. The gray-haired man placed a foot on his ribs and shoved, knocking him into a nearby barstool. “You stay down,” he said, pointing with one long and elegant finger. He turned to Clara, who was still processing what had just happened, and leaned in close to her face. His eyes, she noticed, were a bright, electric blue, and she’d definitely seen them before. They also seemed to be blurring, like she couldn’t look close enough to bring them into focus. “I’m sorry you had to see that, lass.” His voice was mesmerizing and disturbingly distant.
“S’okay,” she slurred, and then frowned. She sounded drunk. She wasn’t drunk. She knew she wasn’t. The evening would have been going a lot more pleasantly if she had been, and it hadn’t so she wasn’t. So why was everything looking like it was being funneled through the wrong end of a telescope suddenly?
“Hey,” the man said. He tapped her cheek gently to get her attention. The tentative touch didn’t bother her nearly as much as Brandon’s casual intrusion of her space had. “I know I’m a stranger, but it looks like you’re here alone and I need to get you out of here— before your boyfriend gets any more fine ideas.”
“’M fine,” Clara said, and stood to leave. “Jus’ got…a headache.” A distant part of her was growing concerned. She’d missed something along the way. She needed to get home. She lifted a foot to take a step, and then the world tilted sideways as she neatly lost consciousness.
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Clara awoke with the immediate understanding that something was not right. She sat straight up, dislodging the duvet that had been pulled up and tucked under her chin. She was in her room and—she looked down—still in last night’s clothes. She wiggled her toes. No shoes though. She glanced down—her heels were laid neatly beside her bed. A noise from the kitchen area of her flat made her freeze, and she looked towards the door. Something bright pink caught her eye—one of her post-it notes was stuck to her alarm clock. She tugged it off and squinted at it by the dim light of the glowing numbers—3:07. The writing was sharp and looked like calligraphy. “Please don’t be alarmed. I’m only staying here until I know you’re alert and safe. Signed, The Doctor.” She frowned. A doctor? Here? Why? What had happened last night? Clara slid off of her bed and smoothed the wrinkles in her blouse and skirt before nudging her door all the way open and stepping out into the living room. When she saw the gray head and the collar of the man poking above the sofa, hazy memories resurfaced and she gasped. Startled, the man turned around. He quickly assessed Clara’s face and stood to move to her.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I left a note…” Clara waved him off and he hovered uncertainly.
“He drugged me,” she said dumbly.
“Yes,” the Doctor said. “And there were three witnesses that got him a stay in the local jail. I was staying here to make sure you didn’t accidentally ingest too much of the GHB. I used your key to open the door…I hope that’s alright. I can leave now if you like.” Clara blinked up at him, noted how the lines in his face and the slant of his eyebrows all seemed to draw attention straight to those eyes.
“You’re my neighbor,” she said suddenly.
“I, ah…yes,” the Doctor said. “I moved in last week.”
Clara nodded. “Well,” she said. The fridge clicked, an encouragement. “It’s three AM and I’m not going back to sleep anytime soon, so if you want to start some tea, we can watch some crap telly if you like. There’s ice cream in the freezer. Double chocolate,” she added.
The Doctor considered, stared at her for a long moment, and she got the inexplicable feeling that at another point in his life, the man would have breezed out with a grumpy “no thanks,” but lines that were hard and softened and areas that had been soft were sharper and he simply said “I’m guessing two sugars?” and smiled when she blinked at him, surprised.