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“So, it’s a date?” Clara asked, telling the squirrels in her stomach to give it a rest, already. With the Doctor, one could never be quite sure.
“Yes, the 10th of June, to be exact.” He replied over the phone, something making a whirring noise in the background.
Clara made a noise of frustration. “Doctor, you know what I mean. Should I dress up? Will there be dancing? A space restaurant, for real this time?”
“Dancing maybe. You can dance if you feel so inclined. Dressing up, down, however one dresses for the 10th of June. And absolutely no space restaurant. But we do have a reservation so I’ll try to land on the right day, yeah?” The noise in the background was getting louder, nearly drowning out the Doctor’s voice
“Wait! What year?” Clara shouted into the phone.
“Great! See you in an hour!” The Doctor shouted back.
The call dropped or else he ended it. Either way, Clara had to fight the urge to throw the mobile against a wall. Okay, fine. She had this. She’d just wear something that could be adaptable to just about any time period.
Easier said than done, she realized, staring at her wardrobe. She had her hair up in a twist and half her makeup done when she heard the familiar whoosh of the Tardis landing. She half turned in her chair, mouth agape as the Doctor swung open his door.
She shot up from her chair. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t even know where you’re taking me but I know that outfit can’t be right.”
The Doctor’s mouth twisted, plucking at the shiny track suit jacket. “The Tardis picked it out based on an amalgam of men’s fashion at the time.”
Clara rolled her eyes “What? The 1980’s on Earth? Should I just tease up my fringe, throw on a tutu and call it a day?”
The Doctor shrugged. “If you like.”
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Right, okay. So, we’re headed to the 80’s for God knows what reason. Let me onboard and I’ll dress you.” She reached for him.
The Doctor made a noise at the back of his throat and evaded her grasp “Worry about yourself, Miss Oswald. Come on, where’s that tutu?”
“You haven’t got any idea what a tutu is, have you?” She tilted her head to one side.
“No. But it sounds very… repetitive.”
Clara laughed, despite herself. “Look, go back in there and tell her you need a…” she thought back to her earliest film crushes. “Tell her to look up Pretty In Pink. Duckie. I think that ought to suit just fine for wherever this is. I’ll go look for something with shoulder pads.”
***
Even with a time machine, they managed to be late for the reservation. The Doctor flashed his psychic paper and got them seated anyway. At the table, he immediately slid into the seat with his back to the window, leaving Clara with her back to the rest of the diners.
It was… an odd choice for a first date. Just a slightly more formal version of the French bistro ‘round the corner from her flat. Clara took a deep breath, telling herself to make the most of it. The fact the Doctor had agreed to a “special dinner” for just the two of them was an accomplishment all on it’s own. For such a clever alien bloke, he was remarkably thick on the concept of romance.
Still, there was gentle music playing and linen napkins. The waiter arrived and served them a decent red wine. For having gotten to a rocky start, the evening was shaping up alright.
Except that then, the waiter got their order wrong, twice. The air conditioning vent, just above their heads, seemed set to sub-zero and the Doctor would not switch tables. They talked a bit but he seemed twitchy and inattentive - even moreso than usual. He kept glancing past her, just over her shoulder, in a really less than subtle way.
“Should I be worried, Doctor?” she asked, at last, putting down the cheese knife.
“Worried? What? Why?” He twisted in his chair and glanced out the window, “Is there something to be worried about?” He blinked at her, turning back to face the table.
Clara exhaled loudly. “You tell me! You’re the one who hasn’t heard a word I said for the last half hour.”
“That’s hardly unusual. Just because you’re always talking doesn’t mean you can expect that people are always listening,” he said, matter of factly.
Fuming, Clara pursed her lips. “Alright, that’s it. I’m done with this. Doctor, please take me home and then fly off to whatever it is that has you so incapable of even making decent conversation.” She went to stand up and flounce out but the Doctor reached across the table and caught her wrist.
“Wait, please. Just, eh, just look behind you, alright?”
“Why? Is it a cyberman? A dalek? Is Missy holding up a big sign that says ‘got ya’?”Clara replied flippantly, too vexed to even feel apprehensive.
“No, but it’s the thing that has me so incapable of making decent conversation,” he parroted her words back in an almost identical tone, nodding his head toward whatever was behind her. “It’s happening now and I thought you might… like to see.” His hand dropped from her wrist to the table.
With another glare at him for good measure, Clara turned in her seat. And her breath stopped.
There, on bended knee was her very young father, extending a ring to her very young mother. Her mother exclaimed in joy, wrapping both arms around Clara’s father and saying ‘yes’ over and over. Around them the other diners clapped and offered congratulations. Clara watched her father put the ring on her mother’s hand and they kissed gently.
There was a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes as she turned around to face the Doctor. He was looking at her rather intently, with an expression that could have been either concern or contrition.
“That… that was why you brought me here? To see… ?” Clara grabbed her napkin to dab at her running mascara.
His voice, when he spoke, was gentler than usual. “I thought… well, you’d never have gotten to see it and I thought it might be… “ he shook his head, “nevermind.”
“Might be what?” Clara asked, her tears slowly drying. Her makeup was sure to be a mess but the Doctor had never noticed things like that, anyway. He shook his head again so Clara leaned forward, placing her hand over his on the table. “Might be what?” she prompted.
His eyes rolled skyward and despite his older face, for a moment he looked for all the world like a petulant schoolboy. “Might be.. romantic,” he finished lamely, not quite meeting her eye.
Clara felt herself laughing, the pieces finally fitting together. He’d brought her here, to the time and place of her parent’s most romantic moment because it was what he knew of her past. How she would wax rhapsodic about her mother, her parent’s seemingly idyllic meet-cute and subsequent marriage. And he’d been keeping an eye out for the big moment, at the expense of everything else. She scrubbed at her face with the hand not resting on his.
Looking at him fondly, she shook her head. “You are such an idiot.” His gaze dropped to his lap and she squeezed his hand. “And thank you.” Scooting her chair closer, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, lingering just long enough to belie any sense of just a friendly peck.
He looked up at last, eyes wide and cheeks slightly pinker than they’d been before. “Not… so bad, then?”
Clara gave him a half-smile. “Not the worst first date I’ve ever had. And certainly the most unique.”
“How about a nebula for an aftershow?” He perked up, curling his fingers around hers.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “that sounds perfect.”