Work Text:
317 voicemail messages.
Most days she’d turn her phone off when she walked into Coal Hill, turn it back on when she got back to her apartment, and find nothing. Maybe a text or two from a friend or another teacher. Occasionally a voicemail message from her Gran. But mostly nothing.
And then there were the days where…well.
She’d tried to convince the Doctor to not travel without her, as it never seemed to end well for him.
“I get bored,” he’d told her in response to her suggestion, picking at his fingers.
“You have a time machine. You can literally pop from one Wednesday to the next.”
“No,” the Doctor shook his head like this was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard. “I’d still get bored.”
So she was resigned to days where she had hundreds of voice mails, which she had to wade through to figure out what was going on, and whether or not it was an emergency, or whether the situation had been diffused. And of course, she also spent a bit of time laughing at the Doctor because for an incredibly smart, incredibly long-lived space alien, he was capable of immense stupidity.
Clara flopped down on the couch, and began the laborious process of trying to figure out what the Doctor was up to.
“Clara! It’s me. The Doctor. And I—“ The message cut off abruptly.
Message deleted. Clara strongly suspected the Doctor had accidentally hung up on her.
“Clara, Clara. Yes. It’s the Doctor. Again. What do you know about slugs?”
Message deleted.
“Okay, belay the slug question. They’re not slugs.”
Message deleted.
“Okay, they might be slugs again. Or rather, they were always slugs. But they changed their mind. Well, they didn’t change their mind. I just changed my hypothesis.”
Message deleted.
“You haven’t answered my question about slugs, Clara. Can you answer my question, Clara?”
Message deleted.
What followed were 30+ messages that were just her name said in an increasingly whiny tone.
“All of these messages have been from me. The Doctor. In case you didn’t realize. I know how humans can forget these things. But I’m your…Doctor. The Doctor. So, yes. Call me.”
Message deleted.
“What are you doing? It can’t be interesting. You don’t do interesting things without me.”
Message deleted.
“Wait, you’re not doing interesting things without me, are you?”
Message deleted.
“Have you texted me? Because I don’t know if SMS works on this space station. So, if you have texted me, please call me.”
Message deleted.
“Re: re: re: my previous message, if you haven’t texted me, but are planning to text me, don’t send me the emojis. I hate the emojis.”
Message deleted.
“I hate the emojis. It’s bad enough that you insist upon making expressions with your face, but now you’ve got these strange featureless creatures you keep texting me. Like pictograms. Didn’t you lot move past pictograms after the Egyptians?”
Message deleted. Clara paused, opened a draft text addressed to the Doctor, spammed a few emojis, saved the draft, then returned to her systematic poring over voicemails.
“All the Egyptian gods were aliens.”
Message deleted.
“Do you remember why I originally called you, Clara? I don't. I deleted that bit from my mind. What with the running. These slug things are chasing me through a space station. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that. But even if I have, you’ve probably forgotten because of your laughably tiny working memory.”
Message deleted.
“Salt! Clara! Salt!”
Message deleted.
More messages than Clara could count followed that had some variation of her name and salt. In the background there was the sound of guns and running.
“I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but the snails have guns now. So if you could salt, that’d be really helpful.”
Message deleted.
“I just realized I used salt as a verb in the wrong context. So you probably haven’t figured out what I wanted there.”
Message deleted.
“I wanted you to bring me salt. If you have any salt. Or if you don’t have salt, buy some. But check your kitchen first. This whole thing is rather urgent, and if you’ve already got salt, no use popping out to the shops.”
Message deleted.
“If you haven’t got salt, go to the shop near your flat with the nice Asian man in it. Not Tesco’s. Tesco’s wouldn’t take my money that one time, and the nice Asian man gives me free ice lollies.”
Message deleted.
“Of course, my money was from the 19th century. Still, they could be accommodating like what’s-his-name. Ice lollies.”
Message deleted.
“Do you think if you tell him it’s for the Doctor that he’d give you an ice lolly to bring?”
Message deleted.
“No, belay the ice lolly request. Too hard to manage the eating of the lolly with the running and the being shot at.”
Message deleted.
“Why’ve you not answered my calls yet, Clara?”
Message deleted.
“Are you teaching?”
Message deleted.
“Why do you do that? I try to teach people all the time, and I’ve discovered that no one ever listens to me. And they certainly don’t learn.”
Message deleted.
“How long does that teaching bit you do last?”
Message deleted.
“Actually, what time is it where you are?”
Message deleted.
“Actually, what year is it where you are? I forget.”
Message deleted.
“Because I’m near 26th century New Pluto.”
Message deleted.
“It’s like old Pluto, but bigger. It’s a concession to the ‘Pluto as Planet’ movement.”
Message deleted.
“Google it.”
Message deleted.
“Clara—rather urgent now. Trapped in a cupboard. Lots of shooting. Would really appreciate some salt.”
Message deleted.
“You’ve not got the TARDIS, have you?”
Message deleted.
“Never mind. Just remembered. I’ve got the TARDIS. I left the TARDIS on deck 12.”
Message deleted.
“You can’t bring me salt. Well, you could. It’s just going to be a bit tricky. Think on it a bit, maybe you’ll find a solution.”
Message deleted.
“Hiiiiii, Clara! It’s Linda—“
Message deleted.
“Out of the cupboard. In case you were wondering. Have you figured something out, yet?”
Message deleted.
“Clara. Have you finished the school thing? You’re not doing the eating thing or the sleeping thing now, are you? Because you lot spend a ridiculous amount of time doing all that. This is significantly more important. I could be dying here. I’m not, currently, but I could be. It’s a very real con—“
Message deleted.
“There’s a canteen! A space canteen! I love you humans and your always doing the eating thing!”
Message deleted.
“Clara, it’s Dad. I know you probably just deleted your step-mother’s message, but we haven’t seen you in a month, and—“
Message deleted.
“LITERAL BARRELS OF SALT, CLARA!”
Message deleted.
The next few messages Clara was fairly sure were butt dials. The next few after that were just the sound of the sonic screwdriver (which she suspected was also accidentally dialing her number).
“Who deadlock seals barrels? It’s salt, not gold. I hate humans.”
Message deleted.
“I found a fire axe!”
Message deleted.
“I’ve hurt myself with a fire axe.”
Clara had to take a break, laughing too hard to possibly listen to the rest of the messages.
Message deleted.
Clara took a deep breath and continued.
“I’ve triumphed over both fire axe and barrel. Next step is to down these space slugs. If you have any idea of how I can ambush them with the salt, based on the layout of the ship, please advise.”
Message deleted.
"You don't know the layout of the ship, do you?"
Message deleted.
“Hiiii, Clara! It’s Linda! Just checking to see if you got my message. I keep texting you too, and I tried to get you on Facebook chat, but—“
Message deleted.
“Clara! Was wondering if you could help me with some of the extra-curricular activities for the year fives? You’d be saving my—“
Message saved.
“Your phone was busy just then. Are you talking to other people? Why would you talk to other people when I need you? That seems very silly.”
Message deleted.
“’That was very inconsiderate of me,’ and ‘I understand that you have a life that does not involve aliens/danger/me and/or Clara.’ Wait. Damnit! Slugs.”
Message deleted.
“I’VE DONE IT, CLARA!”
Message deleted.
“Okay, space slugs explode when you put salt on them. So, when I come to your flat, you should be warned, I am very sticky.”
Message deleted.
“I got you an ice lolly, though.”
Message deleted.
“I ate your ice lolly.”
Message deleted.
“’May I come to see you, or is this an inconvenient time?’ I, um, I eagerly await your phonecall. I adlibbed that last bit. Thought it sounded pretty good. Score one for the Doctor, eh?”
Message deleted.
Clara sighed, and hit send on her emoji-filled draft.
Almost instantaneously her phone rang, “Clara! There you are. Why are so many of these tiny people yellow? You lot don’t come in yellow. Or at least, last I checked, you didn’t. Have you turned yellow?”
“No, I haven’t turned yellow, Doctor,” Clara said with a sigh, “Where are you?”
“At the tiny shop near your flat.”
“What are you doing there?” Clara frowned.
“Getting an ice lolly. And I thought you might need some salt as it’s quite handy, so I’m getting you some of that. Is there anything else you need?”
Clara opened and closed her mouth a few times, then decided to give up on trying to question the Doctor. “I actually do need some eggs.”
There was a rustling noise for a bit before the Doctor asked again, “Do you want six of them or 12? For some reason they don’t sell them individually, which I think is an oversight. I told Patel this, for future reference.”
“Leave Patel alone. Six will do.”
“Alright. Anything else?”
“Doctor, you do know it’s not Wednesday, right?”
“Is it not?” the Doctor asked.
“No. It’s not.”
“I still deserve something. Clara! I almost died today.”
Clara very much doubted that, or at the very least, thought it was such a frequent occurrence that it didn’t matter.
“Fine, you can come over, but we’re not adventuring. We can get takeaway if you want.” Clara had hoped this would scare him off, but perhaps his adventure today had been the equivalent of a long day out for a child or a trip to the dog park for a very excitable dog, because he surprised Clara by agreeing. He was increasingly agreeing to spend non-adventure time with her. It was unsettling. Pleasant, but unsettling.
“Pizza Hut?” the Doctor asked.
Clara groaned. “Why do you always want Pizza Hut? It’s disgusting, it’s not even real pizza, and the curry place down the road is infinitely better.”
“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” the Doctor replied earnestly.
“Not necessarily a good thing—“
“And besides, they won the Franchise Wars. At least outside of the States.”
“That’s not a real thing. That’s Demolition Man.”
“That’s just what you think,” the Doctor said, tone enigmatic.
“Well, take me to the Franchise Wars on Wednesday, then.”
“Alright, but Pizza Hut now?”
“You can get Pizza Hut. You’re an independent, adult alien. Theoretically. You can eat whatever you want. I’m getting curry.”
The Doctor huffed, and Clara could hear the sound of a till ringing him up. “Then I’m not going to give you a slice if you ask from one.”
“You so would. I’m not going to ask for one, though. Now get over here you daft alien. The last time you tried to access the Pizza Hut app on the TARDIS you summoned space aliens by accident, so you’re going to need to use my phone.”