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Chapter Text

/part one

She’s stood in Waitrose examining kumquats when she gets the call.

“Martha! Hi,” Clara wedges the phone between her shoulder and her ear; Martha Jones is her agent at UNIT – its unique investors in talent or something. She’s been with them so long that the acronym got lost within her years ago.

“Hey, Clara – ”

She swiftly cuts in before Martha can reply. “What’s your opinion on kumquats?”

She can hear Martha sigh on the other end of the receiver. “Kum-what now?”

“Kumquats,” she replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “They’re sort of like oranges. But smaller. And narrower. Do you reckon they’d taste like oranges?”

“Clara, I have absolutely no idea, and if you’re planning to cook with them I’d strongly suggest you decide against it.”

Clara frowns, but she supposes she has a point. Baking is hardly her forte; most of the agents at UNIT could back her up on that one, especially Martha, who she vaguely remembers vomiting in her toilet the time she cooked cottage pie for her. “I wouldn’t call it cooking. More – an experiment. If kumquats are like oranges, they might go well in a soufflé.”

“It’s not the ingredients that are the problem. It’s you,” Martha assures, “And anyway, forget the kumquats. Believe it or not, I actually called you for a reason.”

Clara tosses the fruit in her empty basket anyway. Her heart instantly feels heavy. She can’t remember a professional call with Martha that’s gone well, recently, and if it does it’s usually for some shitty, badly-paid advert work that she has no choice to accept because she’s broke.

“Fire away,” she says reluctantly, taking her phone in her palm, “Who has rejected me this time?”

“Dear God, Oswald, you’re such a pessimist,” Martha iterates disapprovingly, “Where’s your Northern grit gone?”

Clara snorts. She’s wandered into the dairy aisle, reading the sell-by dates on yoghurt. “That disappeared the twenty-sixth time someone told me I wasn’t good enough.”

“That’s show business, honey,” she says in a deliberate American drawl, “And I have information regarding your Hell Bent audition.”

Clara automatically rolls her eyes. She can feel her mood quickly decelerating, her heart dropping from her chest to her stomach. That’s what repeated rejection does to you. You forget every outcome other than the one that’s sorry, you’re not what we’re looking for.

Hell Bent was one hell of a leap. It’s the biggest cult TV show in the UK – she only managed to hitch an audition last minute because Martha pulled some very serious strings. Clara’s never had an opportunity like this one, and she never will again, she can feel it well within her bones. She felt the audition scripts in her hands two and a half weeks ago for the role of Jenna and honestly, she’s never felt so attached to a character before. Jenna is her in another life. And she doesn’t get that feeling for one-off soap appearances and extra work in Casualty.

Her heart still pumps harder when she remembers saying those lines, quickly ingrained into her soul, when she had to act alongside the Doctor himself. She felt something, then. But everyone must feel like that when put next to the Doctor – he’s like that, sharp and edgy and electric. He’s irreplaceable. There’s hundreds like her.

She doesn’t realise that she’s crushing a carton of Greek yoghurt in her hands.

“Go on, then. Constructive criticism, please, brutal can come later. I’d rather not hear it in the middle of the supermarket.”

Martha sighs, not for the first time in the conversation. It’s not the most reassuring sound. Clara prepares to build up the defences that have evolved over time. She’s an actress – well, trying to be. She knows how to assemble protection otherwise she’d have crumbled years ago.

“Clara, I…” – a pause envelopes her heartbeat - “Clara, they fucking adored you!”

 She almost drops her basket.

“They what?!”

“I’ve just had Jack Harkness on the phone now. Jenna is yours, if you want it. I said absolutely.”

She can feel her chest going into override. Her face is overcome in a hot flush, but a good kind, like the sun has broken into her veins. She feels a smile on her lips but she can’t remember how it got there.

“You’re serious,” she breathes, “Actually, properly serious.”

Martha laughs. She’s as ecstatic as Clara is. “Actually, properly serious, my darling. You’ve made it. This time, you’ve made it.”

Clara begins to grin uncontrollably. She suddenly feels completely out of place in the middle of the supermarket; she’s stood in the dairy aisle holding a basket full of kumquats and yoghurt but now, it’s all irrelevant. She’s going to be an actress and she’s going to be on BBC One and it all feels like such a long time coming, and she knows that this moment is the point in her life that everything changes. In another life, she’s stood in the same supermarket, disappointed. She’s just glad it isn’t this one.

“What happens now?” she asks, her tone easy, “What do – I do?”

“You’re going to dinner with the cast tonight, you go to the read-through of the first episode next week,” Martha reveals, “And you be what you’ve always wanted. An actress.”

She abandons her shopping, handing her basket to a bemused shop assistant who doesn’t ask why she’s laughing. She’s going to be an actress. An actual, proper actress in an actual, proper show that people watch religiously. But, funnily enough, Hell Bent isn’t the thing that changes her life. It does, but it’s not monumental. If we’re talking monumental, alterations in the tilt of the Earth and fractured constellations in the night sky, that’s not Hell Bent.

That’s the Doctor.

---

/two weeks ago

“This is an absolute nightmare.”

Jack declares this dramatically, poring over file upon file attached to numerous girls that are not quite Jenna. The Doctor grimaces. He hates auditioning even more than Jack does, but understands it’s a necessity. His throat is surviving on cold black coffee and scraps of adrenaline.

“None of these girls are what I had in mind,” Jack states pointlessly. They both knew that already. “Number Twelve was okay, Sally something…”

The Doctor shakes his head resolutely. “She’s not Jenna at all. Too tall, for starters.”

“I thought she was perfectly tall,” says Jack, but the grin on his lips reveals his true intentions, “Anyway, we’ve got a few more to go. The pessimist within me is screaming to abandon this and do something way more fun.”

“We both have very different concepts of fun,” the Doctor murmurs quietly – almost too quiet for Jack, who laughs anyway. “Let’s do the next couple then pack it in.”

“Agreed.”

He calls for the next actress to be shown in, and number eighteen is exactly what the Doctor isn’t expecting.

She’s tiny – couldn’t be more than five foot two – and she’s got a perpetually curved smile and a small turned-up nose. She’s wearing a dress that’s exactly what he’d picture Jenna wearing; floral, navy, resting just above her knees. A leather jacket covers her shoulders.

“Hi,” she says a little nervously, and she catches his eye and it’s like she just realises it’s him, the Doctor, but her expression doesn’t waver. She isn’t the star-struck type, thank goodness. “I’m Clara Oswald.”

She wanders over to where they’re sitting. Jack looks at her approvingly, extending his arm. “Jack Harkness – lead writer, producer and casting director.” She shakes his hand and it’s surprisingly sturdy for someone so small. “And this is John Smith. Well, the Doctor.”

“You might recognise me,” he says, staring her straight in the eyes. They’re a warm brown colour. He thinks of autumn leaves and petrichor. Her hands are swallowed by his.

“Of course,” she says confidently, “I’m a fan.”

He gets that a lot, nearly every day, in the street or on social media or by a television interviewer. For some reason it feels a lot more important, more special, when it comes from her. He let’s go of her hand. She doesn’t have to say a word for him to know that she’s Jenna. It’s like the character jumped out of Jack’s scripts into the room in front of them.

Jack notices their automatic chemistry. He almost doesn’t want to disturb them. He claps his hands together. “Right. Let’s get started, shall we? Miss Oswald – I believe you have already received the script?”

“Yep,” she pops the ‘p’, “Whenever you’re ready.”

The Doctor rises from his chair, slowly walking to the centre of the room alongside Clara. He’s about to spout the same words he’s being saying all day: varying degrees of emotion and prosodic emphasis, all situated around Jenna, a character that doesn’t officially exist yet. He’s played Peter for such a long time now that it feels strange introducing a new fictional entity into his fictional life. Peter has always been lonely. The next series of Hell Bent is supposed to be about how it doesn’t always have to be that way.

“Okay guys, we’re going to start with scene three,” Jack initiates. He leans forward over the table. His hands are clasped together as he looks up at his latest hopeful. “Let me picture the setting for you, Clara. You’ve seen Hell Bent before, right?”

Clara nods as if to say obviously, who hasn’t? The Doctor half-smiles. She’s done her research – he appreciates preparedness.   

“Then you’ll know about the rest of the main team – Karen and David. Essentially, within this scene, it’s just Jenna and Peter left in the aftermath of a massive explosion. Karen and David are lost somewhere,” Jack pauses for a second. He glances at the Doctor. “And basically, Peter is the one who has picked Jenna up. He’s obsessed with keeping her safe, even though he knows fine well she can handle herself. Jenna finds herself fighting him as well as an other-worldly force in order to regain control.”

Clara is taking it all in, listening carefully, letting the information settle in her brain. The Doctor’s heard it all before. He knows the idea of Jenna, how much she’s supposed to mean to his own character. He’s never actually associated the concept to a face until now.

“You have to show you care but at the same time you’re your own person,” Jack instructs, “You have to push Peter away with the emotion of a girl who has lost everything but doesn’t need looking after. And obviously, I want a little of your own interpretation too. Think you can do that?”

It’s strange that Clara doesn’t look at Jack. She looks at the Doctor, half a smirk on her face, her eyes assessing him like he’s a puzzle waiting to be solved.

(It takes him a while to realise why she does that, but he finds out eventually. It’s a good day.)

“I think so,” she says. And she does.

-

“I have a duty of care!”

“No you don’t, because I never asked for that.”

-

If there’s one thing the Doctor knows after acting alongside Clara, it’s that she pours her whole soul into her performance. They’re talking about supernovas and black holes and strings of constellations but when she talks he can see them in her eyes, in the way her lips curve round words. She doesn’t talk like she’s acting: in this moment, she is Jenna, and he is Peter, and nothing else matters. It’s tangible, what they have between them. He definitely did not feel like this with the other potentials. Like the atmosphere between them could be set on fire and they just wouldn’t notice and they’d just keep talking and talking until the whole city burnt to the ground.

When they finish, she looks temporarily agape, like she’s spent minutes in another room. It doesn’t take her long to remember where she is, though. She combs through her hair with her hand.

“Was that okay?” she asks, but she’s not looking for reassurance. She doesn’t need it.

He’s about to reply, but Jack cuts in first, like he rightfully should –

“We’ll get back to your agency on that one Miss Oswald,” Jack says, coy as ever, “Thank you for coming along.”

Clara breathes out, slowly and steadily. He almost says shut up, don’t worry, you are fantastic. He almost says that out of everyone in this universe, you were the one who stepped into this room, and I’m not half glad of that. He almost tells her a hundred million things that people like him do not say, especially on first meetings, so he just raises his eyebrows and shrugs a little. It seems enough for Clara, who smirks as she turns her back.

“Thank you,” she’s left her satchel at the door so she slings it over her shoulder, “Hopefully I’ll hear from you soon.”

The look Jack gives him as soon as she closes the door is she’s It.

Chapter Text

/part two

Dinner with the cast is notably less extravagant than Clara initially anticipates. She’s picturing a posh restaurant, right in the centre of London, with unsatisfyingly small portions and incredibly expensive champagne. They’re world-renown, the Hell Bent cast; she figures they are entitled indulgence. Instead she’s given the name of a Mexican restaurant somewhere near Victoria. Not that she’s complaining: she’s becoming a part of this exclusive clique now, somehow, and just because she’s got a role in the biggest show on television does not mean she wants to alter her lifestyle. She’s really not classy enough for Michelin stars.

This Mexican place turns out to be some indie thing that only people in the know actually know, so she ends up tracing her footsteps along streets once she gets off the Tube, her mobile phone haphazardly giving her directions. She’s almost half an hour late before she finds it, hidden down some side-street she doesn’t notice the four times she passes. She quickly checks her face in a mirror in her handbag before going in. Her hair is a mess, and her eyeshadow’s smudged, but she doesn’t find herself caring. There’s more imminent things to worry about.

She exhales deeply before pushing both hands on the door and going inside.

The interior is warm, cosy and smells amazing. The walls are persimmon and dark brown, reminding Clara of embers in the aftermath of a forest fire. Tables are scattered around the wooden floor, some of them full, some of them empty. Booths line the perimeter – away from prying eyes. Well, mostly, other than the couple snogging near the front window.

A waiter intercepts her before she can take more than two steps in. She’s about to indicate that she’s supposed to be meeting someone, but the waiter is roughly pushed aside by a hefty, handsome guy with an American accent who she immediately recognises as Jack Harkness.

“Clara Oswald!” he yells, gesturing towards her, “You finally made it!”

She thinks that’s a dig at her inability to follow directions, but she smiles anyway. This is the guy who has her job in his hands after all. “That I did.”

He laughs and when he does, it seems to ricochet around the restaurant. She doesn’t remember him being this loud back at the audition.

“I don’t know about you, but we’re all starving,” Jack says, “We’re just at the back. You really need to meet Amy and Ten before the read-through and I thought what better than over Mexican food.”

Ah, a man who associates food with productivity. That’s a concept she can adapt to.

The waiter scarpers off and Clara follows Jack to the back of the restaurant. It’s much more private and less exposed, and it takes a good few seconds to spot their booth behind an unprotected brick-wall. It’s logical, actually, to have a table this far back. She doesn’t know what a group of deranged Hell Bent fans would do if they spotted the cast of their favourite TV show just sitting together in the restaurant window. That being said, finding the place was a mystery itself – and she was looking for it. She hardly expects anyone to stumble across it by accident.

It’s there that she settles her eyes on Amy and Ten for the first time, as well as Rose Tyler. The Doctor – well, she’s met the Doctor before, back in the audition room. Her heart unexpectedly flutters at the palpable atmosphere that for one shining moment was between them. But that’s the Doctor, right? He’s that good of an actor.

Jack pulls out a chair for her round the table and the occupants instantly turn to look, their faces varying in surprise, genuine interest and natural inquisitiveness towards their new colleague. Jack clamps his hands on her shoulders.

“Say hello to Miss Clara Oswald,” he states excitedly, “She’s our Jenna.”

Clara says hello quietly, paired with a slightly nervous wave, which is relatively unusual for her – she’s usually confident, all quick quips and light flirtation. There’s just something so incredibly surreal being sat on a table with people she’s only seen on magazine covers and on her television screen. Amy’s even more beautiful in real life; her skin is so clear and pale it could be porcelain, unbroken by freckles and blemishes which Clara covers with makeup. And Christ, that hair – she’d always thought they did miraculous things with Photoshop to make it that colour but no, really, it is an alarmingly bright shade of natural crimson. Ten on the other hand is a really humbling presence to be in; he’s welcoming and funny and inherently comforting, with a lopsided smile and gelled-up hair and a laugh that tilts his whole head back.

Clara hasn’t heard of Rose until now, but Jack introduces her as his right-hand woman. She’s vital behind the scenes, producing and editing Jack’s texts. She’s partially responsible for bringing Jenna from concept to paper.

And then there’s the Doctor. She withholds a smirk at his remarkably sullen stature. His eyes totally give away that he isn’t completely indifferent to her presence – they’re brighter, somehow.

“I have been so excited to meet you!” Amy assures her, leaning forward in her seat, “I love my boys, but it’ll be so refreshing to have another woman in the cast.”

Ten clicks his tongue, unconvinced. “You just want someone to scheme with, Pond.”

Amy hides her grin behind her menu. Clara laughs. She’s more than willing to go ahead with anything Amy has planned behind the scenes.

“If Amy Pond is going to be scheming with anyone, it’s going to me,” Jack announces brashly. He drops the menu flat on the table, knocking over a bowl of chips. Ten’s arm darts in, grabbing one, earning a filthy look from Rose. “And I’m going with the tacos.”

Clara forgets for a moment that it’s common courtesy to actually order food when at a restaurant, so quickly picks up her menu and desperately scans it for something she can stomach. There’s something about being in the company of movie stars that’s strangely unsettled her, even though they are completely, perfectly normal. Maybe that’s what’s so unsettling about it; she feels she could deal with divas better than Ten flicking salsa off his chip at Rose and Amy raucously laughing at Jack’s ridiculous jokes.

“I wouldn’t recommend the enchiladas,” the Doctor suddenly says from beside her, “The stuff here is usually pretty good, but I had a pork one a couple of weeks back and it’s like chewing plimsolls.”

She laughs at that. She quickly realises that the Doctor is funny in that dry, sarcastic way she’s instantly attracted to in a person. When he laughs, it’s not a booming projection like Jack. It’s more private, more contained, in a way she wholeheartedly appreciates.

“What would you recommend, then?”

“Oh,” he scrunches his nose, “Probably not the best person to ask. If this was up to me, it’d be a Chinese.”

Clara hums. “Can’t say I don’t agree with you.” Her finger skims the menu, stopping on a section. “How about we get one of these platter things. Bit of everything.”

He raises an eyebrow, like he’s impressed with her forwardness. He gives a brief roll of the shoulders. “Not a bad idea. You always this resourceful?”

“Always,” she replies, “Call it one of many talents.”

She gets a well-deserved eye roll for that remark, but he’s got to say he likes it. She’s straight-talking and savvy and funny and he can tell she’s the kind of person Hell Bent cast needs to keep them in line. He can see elements of control-freak under there too, and he’s the kind of person who doesn’t get controlled. Ever. He’s curious to see how that plays out: whether it’ll ever affect their dynamic on screen. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

The waiter comes back over a few minutes later and takes the menus with him. As soon as he disappears to the kitchen everyone round the table leans in, and suddenly Clara feels like she’s on an episode of Mastermind.

“You’re exactly how the Doctor described you,” Amy muses and Clara tries not to flinch as Amy scans her face. She’s intrigued by the comment – she almost grins when she sees how uncomfortable the Doctor looks in the corner of her eye. “Wouldn’t stop going on about how good you are.”

She raises an eyebrow and automatically turns to the Doctor. “This true?”

“All I said is that you were more tolerable than any of the others,” the Doctor murmurs, chin in hand. She’s not buying it, and neither is Amy.

“Praise indeed,” Clara says sarcastically. But it is, really. She’s memorable.

“It’s not really my area,” he interjects, “If you are good, you shouldn’t need to be told. You need that sort of confidence in this industry otherwise you’d be crushed at the first obstacle in your way.”

Jack elbows in, keen to add his two cents. “It’s a good thing I am so overwhelmed with enthusiasm. Trust me; he’s not always this melancholic and brooding. It’s an act.”

“I am an actor, Jack. It’s what I do.”

Clara finds her eyebrows knitting neatly together. Jack is quickly distracted by a conversation Ten and Rose are having and Amy is tapping out a text on her phone under the table.

“You say that like it’s from experience,” Clara says, catching his attention, “When have you been rejected?”

He laughs bitterly. His smile is broken and she misjudges it at first, mistaking it for something less personal. “Seriously? Probably more times than you can count.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re the Doctor.”

“I haven’t always been the Doctor.  I haven’t always been in demand. And, probably most importantly, just because I am the Doctor does not mean that everybody likes or even wants me for that.”

He’s more honest than she expects. His words find a way to her heart, somehow, through layers of muscle and bone and skin, making her pulse flicker in her wrist. She could say a number of things – like I want to know what shattered you – but she’s known him for less than half an hour and she doesn’t want to hedge her bets. “I’ve been rejected a grand total of fifty-eight times over the last three years.”

He smiles slightly. His eyes suggest she’s missed the bulk of the truth in his statement, but he’s not the type to explain. “That’s nothing. After I finished university, two years of my life were spent working in a supermarket and having no work at all. Even then, my first role was in a musical.”

“A musical? You?” she can’t help but laugh at that – she looks at the soft look on his face and his edgy smile and a gruff Scottish baritone and thinks he should belong anywhere but The Wizard of Oz. “How’d you manage that one?”

“One thing you have to understand, Clara Oswald, is that I was incredibly desperate,” he leans in, “And when you’re desperate you’ll accept anything for a pay cheque. Even if that’s being a bloody chimney sweep in Mary Poppins.”

She laughs at the mental image. The Doctor, dressed up in white breeches and holding a broom, dancing his way across centre stage in the West End. A life time away from the dark and deceiving alien hunter in Hell Bent. How did he get here?

“Well, my first role wasn’t much better,” she admits, “I did an advertisement for breakfast cereal. I think that experience undoubtedly converted me to a black-coffee-and-nothing-else kind of morning person.”

“Ah. At least I’ve never resorted to advertisement work. I’ve still got some of my dignity.”

She throws him a look, but seeing his smile makes her supposed annoyed look crumble into nothing. It’s then that their food arrives and surprisingly, the platter looks good, and the two of them might as well be on a completely different table they’re that absorbed in one another. She breaks into hysterics every time she grimaces at the taste of avocado – he can’t stomach pears, apparently, and avocados are close enough – and the chilli makes her cheeks flush along with the outrageous amount of vodka in the cocktails. He drinks the same amount as her but isn’t half as tipsy as she is. He puts it down to height and her inability to not know when enough is enough.

(She ends up royally embarrassing herself when she goes on about being in a James Bond movie, about being a girl Bond saves from a collapsing building, when she slowly realises that the Doctor was the villain in the same movie. Being an unnamed extra doesn’t sound half as impressive.)

“We’ve already co-starred and we never even noticed,” he says. He picks up a chip slathered in salsa but Clara snatches it off him in a drunken stupor and eats it herself. Oh. It’s turning into that sort of night.

“Seems like destiny to me,” she says in between mouthfuls. He tries to hide his grimace – it’s kind of funny, though. He pulls her fourth cocktail out of her reach.

“Seems like you can’t handle your drink,” he dodges the subject.

Clara harrumphs. A hand loosely rests on his shoulder. He’s wearing a red velvet coat. She loves the red velvet coat. “I can handle my drink perfectly well, thank you very much. Back in university I was the best for downing tequila shots.” She pauses for a moment, and the Doctor recognises a look. “We should get tequila!”

He shakes his head decidedly. No matter how fun that sounds, watching a very small woman vomit at the end of an otherwise enjoyable evening is not something he wants to indulge in. “I think we should probably get you home.”

She tries to prod his shoulder, but she accidentally leans too far left and almost falls off her stool. His arms manage to steady her just in time and her vision is too jaunty for her to see his laugh. “Okay. Fine. We’ll do the tequila another night.”

“Yes, another night. But not tonight.”

“This is a promise. You can’t back out of a promise.” She frowns and her eyes widen like an animal in an old Disney cartoon. Christ, he’s going to be on the receiving end of a lot of those looks, isn’t he? And he’s going to give in to them way too easily.

She even goes to the extent of extending her little – extremely little – finger out to him. He looks at her like she’s mad but then again, she probably is. With a reluctant sigh, he reaches out his own, and she shakes it affirmatively.

“See? Can’t break that promise now,” she adds, “Its binding.”

“Something like that,” Ah, well, she’ll be too hungover in the morning to remember anyway. It’s for the best. She’ll probably not want the first time they’ve properly met to be the time she got so utterly inebriated she made him swear on tequila. “Can I take you home now?”

She raises an eyebrow clumsily. “You’re a keen one.”

“And you’re absolutely ridiculous.”

He lets the rest of their group know that he’s going to get Clara into a cab before she embarrasses herself in public. Jack indicates that it’s a good idea – surprisingly, he’s the only one that isn’t that tipsy. He’s in all probability immune to the effects of alcohol, the Doctor reasons. He certainly drinks enough of it. Ten, on the other hand, is happily drunk, and sat so close to Rose that she might as well be on his lap. Amy is still texting and doesn’t even notice them leave.

The cold late evening air doesn’t seem to do anything to sober Clara up. She’s still staggering around, clutching clumsily onto his arm. The constant hum of London traffic surrounds them. People clatter around, some drunk and some not, but no-one seems to recognise or come up to him. Maybe the twenty-something attached to his arm laughing like a loon acts like an unexpected guard dog. Or repellent.

“If I was sober, I wouldn’t need you,” she reassures, “I can handle myself.”

“The conjunction here being if,” He goes into the pocket of his jeans for his phone and dials the number of a cab firm he trusts. It’ll be here in five minutes. “Where do you live?”

She waves a hand frivolously. “Somewhere in London. Near that tall shiny building.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s very helpful. I’ll just tell that to the taxi driver, shall I? Big shiny building. Somewhere within a 600 mile radius. You don’t know where I mean? Well, neither do I, pal.”

“Don’t be all snappy with me. I don’t like it.”

He rolls his eyes and tugs on her arm. There only seems to be one other option. “I’ve got a spare room. It’ll be hilarious for me in the morning for you to wake up and realise where you are.”

He looks down and finds that somehow, she’s fallen asleep standing up. Fucking impossible.

Chapter Text

/part three

When Clara wakes the next morning, it’s in an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar sheets and a headache that feels like a tsunami pounding against the constraints of her skull. It takes a few minutes for the events of last night to unfold inside her head, but they come together slowly but surely; she remembers an arm loosely round her shoulders and the back of a cab and way too much vodka. Way too much vodka.

She sits bolt upright and runs a hand across her face. Fuck. This was the Doctor’s house. She was sleeping in the Doctor’s house, in one of the Doctor’s beds, after making a fucking atrocity of herself in public. God, she’s barely known the man for five minutes – he must think she’s a complete and utter twat.

It takes another few minutes for her to collect her bearings. The room is big and airy, with white and slate-grey walls and sunlight gently bleaching through the curtains. The bed is much bigger and softer than hers; she’d consider going back to sleep if she wasn’t in someone else’s house pretty much uninvited. Odd, abstract artwork is spattered across the wall. Her bag lies neatly by the door and her shoes are lined up by the side of her bed.

Well, she obviously didn’t do that. She considers its sweet, really, but also kind of embarrassing. The Doctor is her colleague – a world famous colleague at that, not that that bothers her – and he should not have put her up like this. She’s ridiculous and inept and she should have at least some sort of self-control.

With a groan she tosses off the duvet and pads across the cool wooden floor to her handbag. Last night’s dress sticks to her curves and is creased in awkward places. She’s going to have to get the Tube back to her own flat in this and she’s already dreading the pointed disgusted glares in her direction. She’s really not in the mood for good comebacks.

She rummages amongst makeup products and old receipts to find her mobile phone. She grimaces at the outrageous amount of missed calls from Martha clogging up her notifications – it’s half past nine, and she’s pretty sure she has to go into the Torchwood offices to sign contracts for the show today. She’s fucked if it was supposed to happen early this morning.

A knock on the door causes her to jump backwards and the Doctor is revealed in the crack of light bleeding through. Clara jolts upwards, brushing non-existent dust off her knees, flashing him a very, very weak smile.

“Morning,” he says in his gruff, Scottish tone, a singular razor-sharp eyebrow raised. He hands her a mug of coffee—black as he can get it, like something she mentioned last night. She’s touched he remembers.

“Hey,” she replies, her mouth already stuffed with apologies. “Listen, I’m really not…”

“I get it.” He throws her a towel. “Bathroom is just along the corridor if you want a shower. I’ve got to head off, but the door auto-locks so just leave whenever you like.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Some of us have jobs, you know,” he smirks, running a hand through that impressive mane of hair of his. Clara’s heart shifts in her chest ever so slightly. How exactly has her life got her here? “I’ll see you. Clara Oswald.”

He darts out from behind the door and it’s barely moments before she hears the front door loudly slam shut, leaving her in complete silence in the Doctor’s flat. It’s so surreal she ends up smothering a laugh with the back of her hand. His coffee is bitter and rich, burning the back of her throat; her brain is a little less fuzzy and the feeling of nausea vanishes. She should get a shower and ring back Martha but really, she can’t stop thinking about the way the Doctor says her name.

“Get a grip, Oswald,” Clara mutters vehemently to herself. Memories of last night are coming back to her in painfully embarrassing bursts. It’s been a seriously long time since she’s been that drunk. There’s probably a reason for that, and the Doctor has seen every single one of them.

In the end, she peels off her dress and heads for the aforementioned bathroom. Like the rest of the flat, its cool and chrome and contemporary, but oddly unlived in. Like it’s not a home, but rather a place the Doctor just happens to be in—there’s no photographs, no grinning polaroids with family and friends, no ticket stubs wedged to corkboards or keepsakes from travels. It’s odd how someone who she can see feels so profoundly and deeply is not sentimental in the slightest.

Oh. Clara’s breath hitches. Perhaps that’s why.

The steaming hot water seems to wash away everything. There’s a posh tea-tree shampoo on the shelf and yes, she remembers him smelling like tea-tree, the kind of scent that reawakens every pore in your body. There’s hundreds of fans of the Doctor out there who would do anything just to know what shampoo uses, which is a peculiar thought, her lips curling into a bemused grin. And here she is. Moments later, she raps a slate-grey towel round her naked body—she catches her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Big, brown eyes blink back at her and she notices a spot developing on her chin. Great, considering she’s just been cast in the biggest show on television. There’s no room for imperfections now.

(Her life is changing, but it’s not the show that does that. Hell Bent is perhaps the catalyst, the force behind it all, but it’s him. It’s only the beginning, but it’s definitely him. It’s him that turns her inside out. It’s him that ruins everything.)

She steals some deodorant and pulls last night’s dress back over her head. Her toes are swallowed by the soft, cream carpet lining the hall and there’s a note pinned to the fridge, catching her eyes when she stacks her now empty mug into his dishwasher. I still owe you tequila.

A laugh erupts from her throat. So he’s the kind to keep his promises, then, which is something.

They’re going to get on just fine, she decides. This job won’t be as scary as she thinks.

It just so happens that that is the understatement of the century.

Chapter Text

/part four

The Torchwood offices are located in a converted townhouse near Westminster, made up of white brick and black panelling and a securely locked front door. Clara’s finger hovers tentatively over the intercom for a couple of seconds, her stomach bursting with butterflies. After today, there’s no going back. Once she signs the show’s contract she’s tied to Hell Bent indefinitely and she steps into a world that will completely eclipse her old life, the one that was full of uncertainty and shitty extra work and constantly phoning Martha to see if anything new had come her way.

When the door opens a receptionist gestures towards the stairs, stating that she needs to be on the second floor. Along the bannister are framed magazine covers—The Radio Times, Amy splayed across various editions of Vogue, Ten and the Doctor brooding on GQ—and photographs from awards ceremonies where Hell Bent and its cast have stolen the show. Torchwood manages other shows, too, but it’s impossible to tell from what they have on display. It’s Hell Bent that they really care about.

At the top of the stairs, Clara instantly recognises Martha talking in the hallway alongside a red-haired woman she’s yet to become acquainted with. The pair lock eyes with her upon entering, Martha grinning and the other woman narrowing her eyes slightly with a bemused smile.

 “Clara!” Martha greets enthusiastically before pointing to who she has beside her. “This is Donna Noble—she manages all the PR for the show, including the contracts.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Donna smiles, a hint of mischief in her green eyes as Clara shakes her hand. “Jack has told me a lot about you. He seems to think you’re the real deal.”

Clara’s not sure what to make of that. No-one has ever thought of her as the real deal before, not even her own dad, who’d tried so hard to force her down a more stable route once she left university. Teaching, perhaps. Or marketing. She doesn’t really like doing as she’s told. “I like to think so.”

Donna hums contemplatively. She’s a woman that’s hard to impress; she has to see it to believe it. “If you’d like to follow me.”

Donna takes them through a labyrinth of interconnected offices—Rose is tapping away on a laptop in one of them, but Jack is nowhere to be seen—before they reach her own, possibly the biggest of the lot but ridiculously disorganised. A large cheeseplant sits brown and wilting by the window and her desk is spattered with miscellaneous stationary, like she’s purposely collecting it rather than using anything.  The opposite of the Doctor’s flat, she thinks idly. Donna has definitely made this space her own.

She offers both Martha and Clara a leather retractable seat set up squarely in front of her desk. “Tea? Coffee?”

Clara shakes her head (she’s drank enough coffee today already) but Martha asks for a tea, milk and two sugars, so Donna shouts at some office junior in the other room to come and bring it through to them. She messily brushes what appears to be three staplers to the side so she can rummage through her desk draws, eventually coming out with quite a hefty document entitled HELL BENT: ACTOR CONTRACT.

“Do I have to read all this?” Clara asks, verging on exasperation – she’s read enough books at university, and this is approaching on a fucking epic novel. Fortunately, Martha calms her anxieties.

“I took the liberty. Donna emailed me the whole thing a couple of days ago so I got Mickey to help me go through it all.”

Donna nods. “It’s mostly just standard terms of agreement, wages and the like, but we’re forced to include it all for legal reasons. Lawsuits can be pretty messy and something we’d rather stay out of. More or less, it’s just you agreeing to play the part for the next series and attending all the related promotional events, unless something major arises of course. Currently, you’re down for one series – it’s ultimately up to Jack if we renew your contract for the next one.”

One series is more than enough for now. She’s grateful for the opportunity as it is. “So I sign this and everything’s official?”

“Yep,” Donna states confidently, turning the document to face her. “Have a flick through if you like, but Martha, if you say everything is satisfactory…”

“I’ve done this hundreds of times and everything seems to add up.” Martha smiles at Clara, wise and thoughtful. “Nothing unusual.”

Nothing unusual. Not that Clara would know what she’s looking for, but she knows this is everything she’s ever wanted and she’s going to sign the damn contract no matter what. Donna hands her a pen and it doesn’t take her long to scrawl her signature along the dotted line, sealing her fate (and her wages) for at least the next year of her life.

“Perfect,” Donna murmurs. The intern making their drinks timidly enters, dropping the tray on Donna’s desk and leaving just as quickly. Donna rolls her eyes when he doesn’t close the door, sighing loudly when she has to go up and do it herself. “Anyway – that’s the formal stuff all sorted, but there was something Jack wanted to bring up with you. Your living arrangements.”

“Living arrangements?” Clara lives in a tiny one-bedroom flat a hell of a long tube journey away, but it’s the only thing she can afford on a frequently unemployed actor’s wage in London. It’s nothing like the Doctor’s modern masterpiece, less like a home and more like a work of art: it’s often damp and has ugly seventies wallpaper in the front lounge and a landlord that might as well be in the secret police, he’s that sinister. But she’s never really minded. “What about them?”

“You live a bit further away from the studios than is convenient, and the job means you have to travel a lot – it’s easier if you’re closer to us.”

She disguises a derisive snort into a cough. When Donna raises her eyebrows, she feels the need to elaborate. “I’m skint. Ridiculously skint. There’s no way I can afford to move here right now – I couldn’t scrape enough even for the deposit out of my savings.”

Donna waves a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll be earning soon enough; we can take care of the rest. Amy has a spare room in her flat at the moment – it’s about ten minutes in a cab from the main studio – and she’s offered to have you, if you’d like, until you feel like you can get your own place.”

The amount of ridiculously good offers she’s receiving at the moment is frankly absurd. A flat in central London – it’s stuff she’s never even dreamed about because its sounded so farfetched and unbelievable. She ignores the little voice in her head urging her for this to be too good to be the true. It always has to ruin the fucking party.

“That’s brilliant,” she grins, clasping her hands together. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“I’ll let Amy know,” Donna agrees. She stands up, pushing her chair out, clearly indicating that it’s time to go and she’s got more important things to be getting on with. “Well, it’s been lovely meeting you both. I’ll get in contact within the next couple of days about the itinerary for the next few weeks, but I’m sure Jack will get in there before me.”

Clara thinks of the brash, tall American man with no filter and yeah, she’s probably right. Both her and Martha shake hands before they’re ushered out into the hall, Donna already having a phone pressed to her ear. It’s then that she sees him, again, for the first time since he left her in his flat alone yesterday morning.

(It had turned out that she hadn’t missed a meeting, thank god, but Martha was wondering how the meal had got on and what she was up to for the rest of the day. She’d decided to miss out the part about being hungover and waking up in the Doctor’s flat, her shoes lined up neatly against her handbag.)

But fucking hell, he looks good. His shirt is untucked messily from his jeans and his hair is wild, unruly, glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looks up from the wad of files he’s glancing over when she walks through, coy smile curling on the lower half of his jaw. She’s never been one for fantasising about the rich and the famous – teeny bopper boybands have ever been plastered across her bedroom wall, thank you very much – but when she sees him she can instantly see why so many people have blogs dedicated to him and his photograph in their Twitter icon. He’s not a blackhole to her, not yet, but it’s the beginning of one, because her heart is starting to feel like vacuum whenever he’s around.

“Clara,” he says and shit – now she can’t stop thinking about the way he says her name, again. She really needs to get over that. “Long time no see.”

“Something like that,” she replies. She notices him glance over at Martha but Martha’s blinking back, dumbly, like she’s lost the ability to talk to people – a bit strange for someone who manages actors for a living. “Oh, yeah, this is Martha, my manager. Martha, this is the Doctor.”

“I can see that,” Martha says breathlessly, before embarrassingly realising where she is and what she’s doing. She bites her lip and Clara can’t help but laugh. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“I’m uh – I’m going to go,” Martha gestures towards the door, eager to get away. “I’ll give you a ring Clara.”

They wait for her to disappear down the stairs before continuing on with the conversation. The Doctor takes off his glasses, letting them hang loosely in his grip. “She seems nice.”

“She is. Believed in me when a lot less wouldn’t, so I’ve got to thank her for that.” She still remembers the day well when she first got a call from Martha, back in the cornflakes advertising days, and she’d done all she could to try and get auditions for the roles that mattered. If it wasn’t Martha she wouldn’t be here, now, feeling the rotate of the earth beneath her feet in front of one of the most popular actor’s in the UK. “How come you’re here?”

“I’m always here unless we’re filming.” He tucks the file he’s reading neatly beneath his shoulder. “You left your tights at my flat, by the way.”

Oh, bloody hell. She doesn’t even remember wearing tights, let alone leaving them strewn across his carpet. She tries her best to disguise the flush surging through her cheeks. He’s enjoying this way too much. “As well as most of my dignity, I expect.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. You left most of that at the restaurant.”

She supposes she had that one coming, but he’s not going to let him get away with the big shit-eating smirk he has on his face. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” he says, reasonably, “But there’s time for that.”

Something about that sends a shiver down her spine, like it’s a promise, not just a statement of fact. She tries her best to brush it off. Insignificant. “I’ll drop by and pick up my tights, if that’s alright. They’re expensive.”

“What if I told you it wasn’t alright?”

“I’d drop by and pick them up anyway. I’m not letting you keep my expensive tights for whatever seedy purpose you intend.”

He rolls his eyes so violently it could reach a high number Richter scale, the building in the vicinity shaking and crumbling with the force of it. She grins – she’s not going to let him win, not now, not ever.

“Is eight o’clock okay?”

“Whatever,” he insists nonchalantly, “I’ll remember the tequila.”

She can feel his eyes burning into her back as she turns and walks out of the office. To be fair, it’s not really her fault she’s already got him wrapped round her little finger. There’s just something about her.