Chapter Text
Not for the first time that evening, Clara Oswald wished for a Dalek to come along and exterminate her. Anything to take her mind off what she faced now.
Ever since that morning, years ago now, when the Doctor turned up on her doorstep wearing a monk’s habit, the two of them had stared down danger for breakfast, survived countless perils for lunch, survived catastrophes that would make Bear Grylls run crying home to Mummy for supper …
...but nothing terrified Clara as much as parent-teacher interview night at Coal Hill School.
And nothing was more frightening than a parent or two who had the wind at their sails as they tore a strip off Ms. Oswald because their little darling wasn’t getting the grades they were promised. The fact their little darling spent most of their time staring out the window, giggling with friends, or sneaking a peek at their mobiles instead of paying attention to the lesson, obviously meant no never mind to these folks. Clara tried to see potential in every student—and, most of the time, she was successful—but some students did need attitude readjustments, and more support at home. It was Clara’s job to say so.
“Young lady, we don’t feel teaching Pride and Prejudice is appropriate for our son,” said one irate mother. “What can Robbie possibly learn from a bunch of hoity-toity women from centuries ago drinking tea? He’s going to be a doctor. You should be teaching him science.”
“Mrs. Johnson, Robert is being taught science, in another class,” Clara said, trying to keep the exasperation—and swear words—out of her voice. “English enhances students’ ability to express themselves creatively and come up with out-of-the-box solutions to problems. Literature broadens the mind because it doesn’t always offer easy answers. There’s no fundamental difference between a student today trying to get their head around Shakespeare and an adult deciphering a medical journal.”
“Then why can’t you at least get them to read something from this generation? Harry Potter, maybe?”
And so it went. To be fair, not every parent was a horror. Some were very nice—and not just the ones whose little darlings legitimately did deserve the A they got. There were even a few who felt their child deserved a close-to-fail grade in English and wanted to know how they could help their child do better. Ironically, Clara felt more exhausted after those encounters because she knew her advice would be making a difference and she didn’t want to screw it up.
There were a few occasions where Clara’s other life, as it were, created some awkward moments. One particularly astute parent made Clara choke on her water when she asked her how she could have been spotted in Bristol the same day she was supposed to be giving a final at Coal Hill in London. (That was the time Clara and Rigsy had squared off against the Boneless in the tunnels under Bristol, with Clara doing her best Doctor impersonation while he was … indisposed.) Another, out of the blue, asked why she looked so much like that actress, Jenna-something, from Emmerdale Farm.
“I get that a lot,” Clara said, with a sigh. She did, actually, get that a lot, especially since that same actress had started appearing in some popular sci-fi show all the kids liked.
Midway through the evening, the head called for a break to allow the teachers to freshen up, have a coffee (and maybe run away screaming into the night, Clara silently added). Smiling at the next group of parents who looked like they were ready to spit lead her way, Clara exited the auditorium and headed down the corridor to a quiet corner.
Even though she felt confident in her skills, and knew her job at Coal Hill as quite safe (the fact she’d recently discovered the chairman of the board was one of the Doctor’s very first companions didn’t hurt in that regard and probably explained why she still had a paycheque after taking off for Spain—not to mention medieval England—in the middle of a lecture on Jane Austen a few months earlier), parent-teacher night was like a job-performance review: you trundle along at your work, quite happy and thinking you’re doing well, and then the review comes along and you’re told how badly you’re actually doing and how everyone secretly hates you.
Clara wished she had a real friend at Coal Hill. Oh, she had colleagues, and people who she went for coffee with. And she knew both Mr. Dunlop and Adrian harboured crushes for her. But there was no Danny Pink for her to turn to anymore. There was just one man who could rescue her from her torment, and he’d turned in his caretaker uniform some time before, after saving the school (and the world) from a deadly robot called the Skovox Blitzer.
“Doctor, please take me away from all of this,” Clara whispered, as if it was a prayer. But she knew it was a lost cause. It was a Monday, for one thing, and they’d long ago agreed that they’d still get together on Wednesday for their adventures. Of course, Wednesday, on occasion, could last for a long, long time from her perspective if there were … complications. (Clara was no longer able to actually gauge her true age after one adventure that saw her frozen in stasis for a hundred years. At least, her body was frozen for a hundred years. After the Doctor had rescued her and thawed her out, he’d taken her home, returning her a mere twenty minutes after she’d left. You try finishing exam marking after that experience, knowing you technically needed to add a hundred candles to your next birthday cake. And then, of course, the Doctor just had to raise the ante by freezing himself for a hundred and fifty years during the thing with the Fisher King.)
More than once, she’d considered asking the Doctor to take her away forever. Earth didn’t really feel like home anymore. The TARDIS … it felt like home. He felt like home. She’d actually told him so, but the one time she had asked to, for all intents and purposes, move in with him, he’d insisted that they were better off sticking to the arrangement they’d enjoyed for years. He’d told her that he’d seen the impact of cutting ties with home on some of his other companions and, in his words, it didn’t end well for some of them.
Still, that didn’t mean she gave up hope. Maybe one day he’d drop his defences and realize what she was really asking for.
Clara took a deep breath. She hated Mondays, and she hated them even more because the Doctor wasn’t there. And he wasn’t going to bail her out of this one.
But then, she saw a flashing light in the window of the supply room from where she and the Doctor had launched so many adventures together. The telltale wheezing, groaning sound—which, to Clara’s ears, was the softest, sweetest symphony ever composed—was muffled by the thick oak door; anyone hearing it would just dismiss it as the building’s antiquated furnace acting up again, and fortunately there were few people in this part of the school at this time of night, anyway.
Smiling broadly, and with her heart pounding, if a little concerned at the fact the Doctor was making an off-schedule arrival, which usually meant something big was going down, she raced down the hall and slipped through the doorway.
The tall blue box filled the back of the supply room and the doorway to adventure (or, in this case, escape) beckoned. She wasn’t planning to abandon her duties as a teacher, you understand, but, if the Doctor could just take her away for a few hours, days, months, years, that’s all she’d need to recharge her batteries to be able to face the rest of the night. Hell, if she turned up with a head full of grey hair, maybe the remaining parents would give her a bit more respect. Smiling broadly, Clara pushed at the TARDIS’ door and was surprised to find it locked.
That’s odd, she thought—the Doctor usually leaves the door unlocked when he parks here.
Shrugging, Clara held up her hand and snapped her fingers. Still nothing. Oh, you’re going to be like that are you? Clara had long ago been granted the ability to open the TARDIS by snapping her fingers—the Doctor had explained that it was a gift from the ship in gratitude for having thrown herself into his timestream and saving his lives countless times. Clara felt hurt; what had she done to lose the privilege? Or had the TARDIS been hijacked? Again?
Frowning, she reached into her blouse and pulled out the simple string she always wore around her neck that was connected to what was, for all intents and purposes, a standard Yale lock key. “The key to his heart…” Clara said to herself as she unlocked the door and went inside.
It took a moment to notice something wasn’t right with the TARDIS. No, actually it looked fine, just … older. As in the interior of the ship was back to the way it was when Clara first met the Doctor; it was bluer, more stark and cooler in appearance than she had become accustomed to. And the bookcases with their wonderful selection of volumes were gone, along with the Doctor’s blackboards. Even the cute Beethoven bust she occasionally caught the Doctor talking to was nowhere to be found.
“You’ve been redecorating,” she said aloud. “I really don’t like it this time. Where are all the books? And what have I done to upset the TARDIS? She wouldn’t open for me properly.”
There was no answer.
“Hello?” she asked. “Anybody home?”
She heard clomping footsteps coming from down one of the corridors that led off into the bowels of the TARDIS. The footsteps came from a pair of feet attached to black-trousered legs that were attached to a torso that was completely obscured by various bits of metal, pipes, and, of all things, a stainless-steel kitchen sink.
The legs started up the steps to the central platform where the control console sat, but their owner clearly had forgotten how many steps there were as he made to climb one last nonexistent step and started to fall over. His reflexes took over to catch himself and the pipes, metal, and kitchen sink landed with a crash on the deck.
Clara quickly bent down to pick up some of the debris. “Well, that was silly,” she said. “I could have helped you carry this stuff if you’d waited a minute.” She hoisted the surprisingly heavy sink up and held it in front of her as she turned…
… and saw a ghost.
“Clara, what are you doing here?” said the Doctor, his mop of unruly dark hair curling above a young-old face anointed with a truly impressive chin (to make up for a rather delicate set of eyebrows). Under the chin rested a dull-red bow tie.
Clara dropped the sink to the floor with a clatter.
“Oh boy,” she said.