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Clara was woken by a painfully bright light and birds. Birds who seemed to be hell bent on tormenting her at a ridiculous time in the morning. She groaned and sunk further into her bed. Then about thirty seconds later, snapped her eyes open when she realised with a sickening jolt, this was definitely not her bed. Not her quilt, not her mattress, and definitely not her pillows. Really the birds should have been an indicator; the only kind of squawking she normally heard from her bedroom were from pigeons, small children, or the occasional and vastly annoying crow. These were not any of the above. These were Snow White type blue birds and songbirds, green finch and bloody linnett birds which were infinitely more annoying.
The light poured in, maddeningly cheerful and causing her to immediately regret opening her eyes in the first place as it sent a bolt of pain straight behind them. She threw her arm over her face and groaned. Her head throbbed mercilessly.
So. Not in her own her bed. Also hungover. Really hungover.
She made a checklist with an acute awareness of everything rushing at her body at once:
- Throbbing head
- Dry mouth
- Dizziness
- Slight nausea
- Mysterious pain in her left knee
- Aching feet
- Definitely naked
- Even more mysterious pain in the middle of her right forearm (???)
- A definite (but quite nice) ache all over that she absolutely knew was from one thing and one thing only
- Something tangled between her legs
- And a strange but comfortable weight across her waist
In conclusion: shamefully hungover, very confused, and slightly smug at having evidently had (good) sex last night. 10 points to me.
And since she was so busy trying to remember whoever it was that had taken her fancy (did he have blue eyes? possibly grey hair? a red coat?), that she hadn’t thought about anything else on her mental last bar the sex bit, so when she heard a muffled groan next to her she went rigid and rewent over her list. Something between tangled in my legs, something across my waist. She’d been so distracted trying to remember who she’d shagged that she’d kind of foregone the last items on the list, which were arguably the most important and notable (well, after the stinking headache).
She turned slowly to find a man (handsome, actually really good looking), blearily blinking at her in confusion. She had a feeling he was mirroring her own expression. They stared silently at each other for a long time. He was grey, but undoubtedly categorised under silver fox, quite bony, and apparently rather long. Absurdly long actually, easily a foot on her meagre height.
“Birds are loud,” she said eventually, jerking her head towards the window and immediately regretting the decision.
“Agreed.” Blimey he had a deep throaty voice. Granted it was who knows what time, he’d just woken up, and by the looks of it was suffering the same rotten hangover. Still. Very well done me.
The nameless handsome stranger stirred, grumbling and finally lifting his arm off her waist. She lamented the loss but said nothing lest he remove his leg which was still delightfully tangled between hers. He rubbed his temples, grimacing.
“Yeah, me too,” She dropped back onto the pillow, having unintentionally sat up to get a better look at him.
“What the hell did we drink?” He had a lovely rolling Scottish lilt in his voice she was pleased to discovered. She could only imagine what her name would sound like coming from that mouth. Then, with a snag of regret, she realised she probably had, several times, but she couldn’t bloody remember. Bugger.
“I have no idea, but going from my head I reckon it was a bad idea."
"I think… I think there was Andronian Whisky somewhere along the night.”
“What whisky? Is it Scottish?”
“Whisky from Andronia. Obviously. Why would it be Scottish?"
"Because you’re Scottish I don’t know,” she thought this was a fairly obvious point, easily more obvious than Andronia, wherever the hell that was. Didn’t Scots tend to swear by Scottish whiskey anyway?
“I’m not Scottish."
Though, apparently not as obvious as she’d thought. She blinked at him, frowning.
"Are you still drunk? ‘Cause I hate to be the one to tell you, mate, but you’re definitely Scottish.”
“No. Yes,” he proceeded to suck his thumb briefly, thoughtfully, something that made Clara’s spine tingle as she was blinded by a rather colourful memory, “No, not drunk. Not, Scottish, no. Not actually.” He focused his gaze on her face again, and she could feel his roaming eyes, smirk building on his lips. This was getting out of hand.
“So, you’re not drunk and you’re not Scottish apparently. I’ll tell you one thing about you, though.”
“What’s that?” Jesus his eyes were intense.
“Pretty sure you’re naked.”
He opened his mouth, wiggled a bit (seriously?), closed it again. A peculiar look washed over his face and Clara giggled, breaking off into a half groan as she felt a rush of nausea.
“I’d laugh if I didn’t feel exactly the same."
She took a moment to breath. Breath until her the waves in her head subsided a little, until she didn’t think she was going to vomit over this gorgeous stranger next to her. Stretched and wiggled her toes.
"What do you remember about last night?” He asked cautiously. Now, there was a question. What did she remember?
“Well,” she rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, “I think I was out with friends. Pub crawl round London. I don’t remember where you came in but I definitely remember–” she remembered drinking, a lot, not where or what. She remembered smacking her knee, but not how. Possibly a bunch of bananas. Vaguely an aardvark? More notably what she remembered however, was the majority of her night with him, which was where her mouth stopped despite her brain helpfully (debatable) carrying on the exciting montage.
“Yeah, me too.” He had the grace to look a little embarrassed, though she thought she caught a slight far off gaze in his eyes for moment that made her clamp down on the grin that threatened to make an appearance. Then, t entatively, because she was not sure she was remembering right, because she curious, and because she didn’t know when to let it lie, she asked, “Did we have sex in the kitchen?”
He paused, “Yes. Although I think we got distracted on the stairs going from the state of my back.”
“Oh, that I remember. That was nice. And then the bedroom. Was there a… no, never mind,” she shook her head; now that idea really was ridiculous. They both fell quiet in reminiscence. After a while, the noise of the birds bringing her back to reality, she shook herself. “Nice flat.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He frowned at her.
“Been here long?”
“Only since last night I’d imagine…”
Clara frowned. What? “You’ve only been here one night?”
“Well I’m certain I haven’t been here before.”
“Didn’t you even come to look at it first?”
“Wouldn’t that be a bit…” he narrowed his eyes at her and paused, elongating his words and now Clara was well and truly lost, “Odd? Pretty sure you would have called the police first. Or you’d probably have knocked me out, you’ve got a lot of vigour for your size.”
“Why the hell would I have called the police?” She steadfastly ignored the latter comment.
“So,” he sat up a little, frowning with those strangely fascinating eyebrows of his, “what you’re saying is, if I turned up at your flat before we’d met, on the basis that I’d decided to sleep with you, in the future, and wanted to check the place out, you wouldn’t have called the police?”
Really, just… what?
“My flat? This isn’t my flat,” she sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. His eyes widened and he sat up fully to face her, “this is your place. Isn’t it?” She added hopefully.
“Of course it’s yours, how can you not recognise your own home? That hypothetical hypothesis wouldn't remotely work if it was mine. I don’t even have a place.”
“You’re kidding aren’t you? It’s not my flat! There’s no way I could ever afford somewhere this size. I’m only on a teacher's wage, for christ’s sake.”
“Ah. That explains things.” He said, as she said “What do you mean you don’t have your own place?”
There was a long silence. So. Not her flat, not his, he didn’t even have one (whatever the hell that meant), and it was definitely no one she knew… and what did he mean that explains things?
“So if this isn’t my flat which I’m pretty sure it’s not and–”
“How sure?”
“One hundred percentage sure, you git. Unless I’ve been drugged and living in some kind of hallucinogenic bubble for the past several years of my life–”
“How likely is that to happen?” Here he leaned forward inches away from her face and scrutinised her.
“Very bloody unlikely. What kind of people do you hang around with? Actually don’t answer that. Besides you’re missing the point!”
“What point is that then?” His eyes fell to her lips and she sucked in a breath, stealing herself. Game face on, Clara.
“That if this isn’t my place, which it definitely is not, and it apparently isn’t yours,” he opened he mouth so she hurried on loudly, “then who’s is it?”
His mouth snapped closed and he sat back. “Ah,” then, “ah,” again.
“Did we… break into someone’s house?”
“It appears so.”
“Fuck.”
“Agreed.”
Fuck. Fucking pissing bollocks. Fuck.
“We need to leave. Probably soon.”
He nodded and they both moved, awkwardly untangling from each other and gathering what clothes they could find on the floor. She scrambled together several items but she was noticeably some sort.
“Where are my knickers?” So far she’d found a skirt, her shoes (one of which was in a lampshade), and a belt.
“I think they’re under the doormat. Or that could have been a postcard from Bogart…”
She turned to find him scratching his head and looking under a pillow. Seriously? Where did she find this idiot?
“I can’t find my bra either. Or my shirt. Fuck.”
“Just,” his hand waggled towards the wall, “get something out the wardrobe.” She stared at him until he turned to her. “What?”
“We’ve broken into someone’s house, and you’re telling me to steal their underwear?” He looked at her, nonplussed. She swore under her breath. “This is a new low.” She moved over and pulled across a sliding door, simultaneously impressed at the contents inside and painfully ashamed at what she was doing in there in the first place. Apologising profusely in her head to whoever lived here, she riffled threw some draws until she found some underwear, pulling out some that looked the closest fit. She slid the door closed and moved back to him, whoever he was, uncomfortably aware she was only wearing a skirt and knickers.
“Shouldn’t you…” He trailed off gesturing to her chest.
“For crying out loud, I’m not stealing any more clothes if that’s what you think. It’s bad enough nicking someone’s underwear.” She was annoyed to see he’d found not only his own underwear, but his trousers, and his jumper. Enough clothing that he was decent for public anyway, which she was decidedly not. He, meanwhile, looked baffled. Then after half a minute, picked up a black coat (flash of red with a flash of memories enough to stutter her breath) and handed it to her.
Wordlessly she took it while he moved to the door. She slipped her arms against the silky satin lining, shivering and silently berating herself for the wave of arousal that filled her. It was bloody pornographic this coat. No wonder she hadn’t been able to resist him. She pushed up the sleeves, and fastened most of the buttons, feeling like she could accomplish pretty much anything, despite the fact she was wearing no bra, stolen knickers and a stranger’s weirdly erotic coat. She heard him mutter something but was so distracted by the feel of the silk against her skin, and the smell of the coat that surrounded her that she didn’t realise he’d come over until she heard a very loud and shaky “Oh” directly in front of her. She looked up with a smirk which wavered at the intensity of the look on his face.
“Did you say something?” She purred, putting on the best alluring smile she could, relishing in the feeling of power she had in his coat.
“Cat. Can’t use door.”
It took a moment for the absurdity of the statement to sink in. “What?”
“I don’t like cats.” He said with a face, eyes still focused not remotely on hers. That was a look she could definitely get used to. Sighing at the lost moment, she squared her shoulders and walked to the door.
“It’s only a cat, don’t be such a–” she cut herself off with a shriek as she opened the door and slammed it immediately shut again. She hadn’t been that imagining before. Somehow, somehow, she actually hadn’t.
“When you said cat,” she said turning and pointing her finger, “you could have said bloody great big tiger!”
“That’s what I said. A cat. I don’t like cats. I’ve met them.”
She stared, mouth gaping at the absurdity of this man.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Doctor, who are you?”
“Clara Oswald,” she barely refrained from sticking out her hand, “doctor who?”
“Just the Doctor.”
She clenched her jaw. “Fine. Just the Doctor, what the hell do you do that you don’t differentiate between cat and fucking tiger?”
“You’ve got a mouth on you haven’t you?”
“I’ll bloody show you what sort of mouth I’ve got,” and then just as quickly because he was smirking and she wasn’t having any of that, “shut up! Answer the question.”
“I’m a handy man.”
“A handy man.”
“Of sorts. Of space. And things. Well…"
Clara stared at him. She wasn’t going to bite. She was going to figure out how the hell to get out of here, and then she might bite and possibly punch him. Twice.
"Fine. If we can’t leave thanks to the tiger, how precisely do we get out? And how do we do it without waking the bloody thing.”
Here he opened his mouth, and closed it again. He was good at that it seemed. He grinned, "Got any balls of string?" But then seeing the look on her face, he swiftly added, “Out the window. Naturally.”
“Have you looked out the window?” She’d glanced out the nearest when attempting to find her clothes. It wasn’t their most hopeful option, even in light of the actual-man-eating-tiger-next-door option.
He frowned and walked over to the window. He did a lot of frowning, too. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Although, I mean if we didn’t wake it last night surely we can sneak past…” almost before the words had left her mouth there was a crash in the next room and a low growl, “or maybe not. So. Options?”
“Eaten by a tiger.”
“Or caught by whoever owns this place for breaking and entering, hopefully before being eaten by the tiger, and then going to jail. Fantastic options. Got any more?”
“Or,” he raised his hands defensively when she raised her eyebrows, “we could go out the window.”
“You’re joking.”
“The ledge isn’t that far, and after that it’s not too bad.”
“For you maybe! It's five floors up. Look at the bloody size of you! You’re like a sodding stick insect. You could probably just float down.”
“It’s not my fault you need stilts to look like the average sized human.”
“Stilts? They’re heels! Why do you talk like you’re a bloody alien? Where are you from?” Then, because she was getting frustrated and struggling to believe she’d actually had sex with this idiot, “What kind of life do you lead where a tiger in the next room isn’t making you panic!”
“Clara!”
“What.”
“Go into my coat pocket. Left pocket. My left."
Exasperated she reached into the pocket of his coat, and marvelled at the seemingly huge depth to them. She rummaged until her hands closed around a long, cool metal object. She raised an eyebrow at him as she lifted it out.
"It’s a screwdriver,” his cheeks flushed just enough to be noticeable and she grinned, “it’s sonic. Oh, never mind.” He held out his hand and she passed it over.
“Weirdest looking screwdriver I’ve ever seen. You use that line on all the girls?”
“I don’t use that line on any girls,” he snapped, “Don’t be so boring, Clara. But that’s not what I wanted.” He strode over and thrust his hand into the pocket, half knocking her and causing her to wobble.
“God you’re rude.”
He scowled but kept rummaging, to the point where it honestly became awkward and Clara became accurately aware of the view he’d be getting from his looming height, until finally he shouted “Ah!” and started pulling.
“Seriously?”
From her pocket, or his realistically, he was pulling a length of rope with an honest to god grappling hook at the end. Maybe she was still drunk. She’d considered this option in the back of her mind, but now it was looking more and more likely.
“Are a magician?” She asked suspiciously, eying the length of rope in his hand. “How did you fit that in there?”
“Big pockets,” he waggled his fingers in front of her face and despite herself found she was mirroring his smile. There was a moment when she thought they might kiss, but then he’d moved to secure the hook on the windowsill and looked up expectantly.
“You’re not honestly expecting me to clamber down there.”
“Of course. Come on, Clara, we haven’t got time! Well, relatively speaking time’s irrelevant, not so much with the tiger though I wonder how they got it in here in the–”
“Doctor?” He looked at her expectantly, “Shut up.” He nodded sagely, and started to climb out the window. “Wait! What are you doing?”
“I’m…” he frowned, looking from her to the rope in his hands, “I’m climbing out the window, Clara.”
“Yes but you’re not going first, sod off!”
“Half a second ago you didn’t even want to climb out the window!”
“Well it’s our only option isn't it? Besides, I’m wearing a skirt. Eyes front, soldier,” she nodded, crossing her arms.
“If you fall I can catch you.”
“How noble of you.”
He huffed out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair, “Clara, we’ve already established that we’ve had sex, which means I’ve seen everything already.”
She stood for a moment, eyeing him up: he had a point. It was a growl that sounded suspiciously close to the door that finally made the decision for her. “Okay, fine. But you’re going to be no help if I fall anyway; you’re all legs and no cushion.”
“Better not fall then,” he mumbled, lifting his other leg out the window.
Somehow, she’s not quite sure how, they managed to climb down the five stories of the building on what felt like a very snap-able rope. In central London. In the late morning, apparently. She only swore a little, and fell only once but that was practically at the bottom and she ended up dropping only about a foot or so, and landed half on him anyway.
“Well. That was an adventure,” she said as she brushed herself off. She noticed he was without shoes as she straightened her skirt, “Nice socks.”
He grinned and wiggled his toes. “Thanks.”
They stood, looking at each other. Clara felt she could finally get a good look at him, and he really was tall. Offensively tall compared to her, even in heels. Stood in socks, with black trousers and a jumper with more holes than sense in (and nothing underneath she was happy to spot), she couldn’t help but laugh at how even now, she still thought he was painfully gorgeous. Despite the breaking into someone’s house and subsequently climbing out a fucking window, not knowing who he was, the tiger, she’d absolutely sleep with him again. In a heartbeat.
“It’s been a pleasure. Very nice to meet you, Doctor,” she smiled, and stuck out her hand. He laughed and shook it.
“Likewise, Clara Oswald.”
Their hands lingered, neither quite willing to let go. She could feel his finger stroking the inside of her wrist, and sucked in a breath. Time to go, Clara. Reluctantly, and after letting her own fingers linger on his skin, she let go and dropped her arm. Nodded and stepped back.
“Right. I better…” she jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the universal gesture of I bet bugger off but nice to see you, yeah?
“Right. Well,” he seemed to hesitate, then lamely finished with, “goodbye, then.”
“Take care, now. No more tigers, right?” She pointed in warning, and started to walk backwards (ask him).
“Yes, boss.” He saluted her with two fingers to the forehead and she laughed, drinking in as much of his face as she could before she turned. Ask him.
She was several yards down the road, debating with herself. She’d already made and remade and unmade, tens of decisions in the twelve seconds it took for him to shout after her.
“Do you want to go for a drink?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the smile showing on her face as turned back around, “After all the trouble that’s caused, after breaking into someone’s house and waking up next to a stranger, after having to climb out the window and climb down five stories because of a tiger? And you want to go for a drink?” He shrugged and she could see the disappointment rolling off him even from this distance. She couldn’t help herself. “Unbelievable.”
She started walking back down the road, but turned again after more seconds than she could stand, to see his back almost disappearing round a corner. “Oy!” He turned and she smirked, “Thought you were buying me a drink?”