Archive of Our Own

The TARDIS had randomly dumped them right in the middle of a bustling train station—only to vanish into thin air a single second later.

Clara spun around, wide-eyed. "What just happened?!"

The Doctor straightened his dark velvet coat, trying his absolute best not to look like he was inwardly panicking. "The TARDIS has... run off."

"Run off?!" Clara’s voice pitched higher with growing panic as she caught the exact expression he was trying to hide. "Well, can you get it back?"

Trying to be as subtle as possible given the hundreds of people bustling around them, the Doctor whipped out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the air. He glanced down at the reading, then back up at Clara.

"Nothing," he muttered, turning his attention to a huge wooden timetable board, annoying himself as he read through every single departure time.

Clara scoffed in sheer disbelief. "I cannot believe this is happening! I mean, it’s your TARDIS! It’s supposed to listen to you! You’re supposed to be in control of—"

Right in the middle of her sentence, the Doctor caught sight of whatever he was looking for. Without a word of warning, he bolted across the platform and leapt onto a train that was already chugging away, a giant number 60 painted on its side.

Without the TARDIS translation matrix working properly, Clara had no idea what any of the signs around her said.

"I’m going to Zugunglück! Don’t follow me!" he yelled back at her over the roar of the engine, hanging out of the carriage door as the train gained speed.

"Doctor!" Clara yelled after him, throwing her hands up in utter disbelief.

Unbelievable. Then again, she was getting far too used to his sudden departures. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled a stunt like this, but that didn’t make her any less furious. Just as she was mentally calculating the most painful way to hunt him down and kill him, her thoughts were interrupted by another steam train pulling up to the platform.

On the front was another giant number 60.

Clara’s lips twitched into a smirk. Two can play at this game. She sprinted forward, boarded the carriage, and hoped for the best.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

Slagging back yet another shot, Clara stared miserably into the crowded bar.

God. One would think that after being the top student at the academy, graduating with honors, and having glowing recommendations from the best instructors in the country, finding an actual job would be easier.

Yet here she was, getting wasted after another disastrous interview. The boss had spent the entire time looking at her suspiciously, making her feel like she had zero real-world experience (which, okay, fine, she did) and that even walking through the door to ask for the position was completely outrageous (which maybe it was). Either way, she didn't think his brisk "We’ll get back to you" held much promise. She felt entirely entitled to come to this highly recommended pub and get thoroughly drunk.

Granted, the place was a little too crowded. She already had to send three pushy louts on their merry way. It wasn’t that she was against having a good time, but those guys were distinctly not her type.

To pass the time, she engaged in small talk with the bartender, waited a painful half-hour in line for the restroom, and met a girl who was half-crying, half-laughing about a recent breakup. Within five minutes, Clara knew every single detail about the girl's ex-boyfriend, Rory—how she was still deeply in love with him, and how impossible it felt to walk away when they’d known each other since kindergarten. (Not that Clara had asked; the girl simply had zero filter and kept talking).

When Clara finally escaped the bathroom, the loud, resonant crunch of an electric guitar echoed through the pub. She instantly smiled; it was finally loud enough to drown out her spiraling thoughts.

She waded back toward the main stage, where a full band was performing. They were actually pretty decent, and the crowd was loving it. But Clara’s attention wasn't on the band as a whole.

It was entirely locked on the man playing the guitar.

He was striking—tall and sharp-edged, dressed in a long, dark velvet frock coat worn casually over a black tee, looking equal parts distinguished and rebellious. His long, calloused fingers moved across the guitar strings with effortless, dizzying speed, so fluidly it was as if he and the instrument were one. His eyes were closed, completely lost in his own world as he rode the rhythm, the heavy stage lights catching the wild silver curls of his hair.

He certainly knew what he was doing. His posture exuded pure, unadulterated confidence. When he pulled a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes, spun on his heel across the stage, and threw one hand up in the air, the crowd went wild. He had them utterly enchanted, and he knew it.

To Clara’s immense annoyance, it was working on her, too.

Suddenly, his head turned in her direction. He lowered the sunglasses just enough to peer over the top of the frames, as though he could somehow see better into the dim, flashing lights of the crowd. Clara glanced around, but there was no mistaking it—he was staring directly at her.

A murmur rippled through the audience as he abruptly stopped playing mid-song. The rest of the band looked just as baffled as the crowd, completely thrown off.

Without breaking eye contact with Clara, he struck a heavy riff on his guitar—the unmistakable opening crunch of Pretty Woman, electric and electric-charged, ringing out through the pub.

His performance was mesmerizing, but what left Clara breathless was that his dark, intense eyes never once strayed from hers. No matter how hard she tried to play it cool, she couldn't stop a wide, helpless smile from tugging at her lips.

Noticing her reaction, the guitarist smirked. He sauntered right to the very edge of the stage, leaning low over the barrier as his fingers flew across the neck of the guitar, serenading her directly.

Then, as fast as a snap of fingers, the spell broke. He finished with a flourish, offered a swift bow to the roaring crowd, and walked off the stage, leaving his stunned bandmates scrambling to follow.

Clara scoffed, though the grin refused to leave her face. Shaking her head, she turned back toward the bar—only to find him standing right in front of her.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

She had no idea how much time had passed, or if this train was ever going to stop.

She kept frantically checking the signs at every station, but nothing sounded or looked like the stop the Doctor had yelled about. Zun- Zugli- something. She was right on the verge of regretting her entire life choices, ready to admit she’d made a massive mistake, get off, and find a cab to take her to the familiar comfort of home.

Then, two seats down, she caught the sound of two young men speaking English.

Relief flooded through her. She quickly moved over to them, doing her best to sound far less panicked than she actually felt. "Hey! Hi—where are you guys traveling?"

Their answer didn’t do much to help her situation, so she just nodded along. After a beat, she pressed on. "Right, well... do you happen to know when we’ll be in Zugalück?"

"Do you mean Zugunglück?" one of them asked with a friendly smile. "I think in about fifteen minutes."

"Thank you!" Clara breathed.

She took a seat close by so she wouldn't look too suspicious if she needed to ask again, especially since none of the train staff seemed to speak a word of English.

Twenty-six painful minutes later, the train finally began to slow down. The illuminated board announced something that looked like her stop, so she gave a firm shake to the young man—who was currently nodding off in his seat. Once he sleepily confirmed it was the right place, Clara scrambled off the carriage and onto the platform.

Thankfully, finding the Doctor wasn't hard. He had just stepped off the front of the train and was scanning his surroundings with his sonic screwdriver.

Clara let out a long sigh of relief—which instantly curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. She stormed angrily in his direction.

"Clara? What are you doing here? I told you not to follo—"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before her palm cracked hard across his cheek.

"Do not do that ever again! You understand me?!"

"Clara!" he gasped, completely shocked. He cupped his cheek, staring at her as if he couldn't possibly fathom what about this situation had made her so upset.

"Now, where the hell are we?" she demanded, blatantly ignoring his protests about how she shouldn't be here and how she really needed to calm down because her round face was flushing so red she looked as if she were about to spontaneously combust.

Their bickering was abruptly cut short by a booming voice with a heavy German accent:

"Herr Ritter! Oh, it is such an honor to meet you!"

A man in his late forties or early fifties bounced over and enthusiastically grabbed the Doctor’s hand. The Doctor stared at Clara in absolute confusion, then back at the stranger, who kept vigorously shaking his arm.

"I have read all of your books!" the man gushed. "You are simply one of the greatest literary minds of our generation!"

The Doctor nodded slowly, his thick brows drawn together in deep bewilderment. As he looked around the foggy station, his eyes stopped short on a large advertisement pasted against the brick wall.

It announced the brilliant work of a world-famous author: Viktor Ritter. Beneath the bold German lettering was a portrait.

What was interesting about this author though was the fact that whoever Viktor Ritter was... he looked identical to the Doctor. It was uncanny. Eerie, even.

The Doctor tried to squeeze a word in, but the fan kept rambling on. Finally tuning back into the conversation, the Doctor caught the tail end of his sentence:

"—and if I may be so bold, allow me to offer my warmest congratulations on your engagement!"

Seeing the Doctor's completely baffled look, the man chuckled merrily. "Oh, do not look so surprised, Herr Ritter! Good news travels fast, as they say. And is this the lucky lady?"

His attention snapped straight to Clara. She was already shaking her head, opening her mouth to set the record straight, but the Doctor acted fast.

Driven by the overwhelming need to figure out why they were stuck in 1926, why the TARDIS had dragged them to Zugunglück, and why on earth there was a famous German writer walking around with his face, he grabbed Clara by the waist and hauled her close to his side.

"Yes! Yes, indeed," the Doctor declared grandly, finally getting a word in. "This is my fiancée, Clara."

He completely ignored the pointed eyebrow she shot him. Clara, despite herself, couldn't help finding the sheer absurdity of it somewhat hilarious.

The man rattled on for a moment longer, gushing about how he absolutely had to see "Herr Ritter" again soon to get his book signed, before finally taking his leave.

Once they were alone on the dim, foggy platform, the Doctor immediately turned back to business. "The TARDIS has to be somewhere close, given that the language is being translated again."

Clara leveled a glare at him that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"What?" he asked, blinking.

"Seriously? Doctor, where are we? What on earth is going on? And why did that man think you’re a world-famous writer?"

The Doctor took a deep breath, running a hand through his messy silver hair. "We’re in Germany. 1926. The TARDIS felt a connection—whatever it is. That’s why it flew here."

"'Flew here?'" Clara repeated in a mocking tone.

The Doctor ignored her sarcasm and pointed at the poster pasted to the brick wall a few feet away. Clara followed his gaze, and her mouth dropped open.

"Oh my god," she burst out laughing, staring at the uncanny resemblance. "You are a writer!"

"We need to find out what’s happening here," he pressed on, staring into the distance as his mind clearly raced three steps ahead. "The TARDIS obviously brought us here for a reason."

Clara restrained herself from pointing out that the TARDIS hadn't brought them so much as abandoned them, and instead, a dangerous smirk spread across her face.

"So..." She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "Since I'm supposed to be your fiancée... where’s my ring?"

The Doctor froze. He looked at her, completely puzzled, as if the concept of actual engagement etiquette hadn't even crossed his massive alien brain. He opened his mouth to object, closed it again, and looked around the deserted station.

Turning his back to her, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver. Clara heard the familiar high-pitched whir and buzzing chime of the device working its magic.

A second later, he turned back around.

"Clara Oswald," he began solemnly, dropping down onto one knee.

He held out his hand—and resting in his palm was a massive, glittering, actual diamond ring.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Clara gasped, her hands flying to her face.

Because—hello?! An actual diamond ring?!

Between the sheer ridiculousness of being fake-proposed to by her alien best friend, and the undeniable, lingering romance of standing under the dim gas lamps of a quiet 1920s German street... Clara’s heart skipped a beat.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

"Hello," he smiled, all polite charm, though his chest was still heaving slightly from the performance. "Enjoying the show?"

Clara tried to keep a cool head and, more importantly, a bulletproof poker face. "It was... okay."

He raised an eyebrow at her, pretending to be utterly outraged. "Okay?!" he scoffed.

Clara couldn't stop a light laugh from escaping, though she quickly pulled her composure back together. "Yeah. I've seen better."

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head as she took a seat at the bar.

He slid smoothly onto the stool right beside her and signaled the bartender. "Patrick, bring a Dark ’n’ Stormy for the lady, and another single malt Scotch for me, please."

"Of course, mate. Fantastic set tonight, by the way!" Patrick said warmly before turning away to mix the drinks.

"See?" The guitarist gestured pointedly at the bartender, shooting Clara a triumphant grin. "Now he has taste."

"Well," Clara conceded, leaning her chin on her hand with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "I suppose the ending was nice."

"Yeah?" he murmured, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping an octave.

The bartender set down their glasses, and Clara took a generous sip of hers without breaking eye contact. If he expected her to wince or sip timidly, he was sorely mistaken. She downed half the drink like it was water, setting the glass down with a satisfied hum.

His eyebrows shot up, a look of genuine surprise and reluctant respect washing over his face. "Well, well. Look at you. Holding your own."

"Please. I can out-drink anyone in this room," she teased, swirling the ice in her glass.

That launched them into a surprisingly heated—and hilarious—debate over the geography of alcohol. They traded opinions on everything from cheap tequila to over-aged scotch, eventually agreeing that cheap sambuca was an absolute abomination that ought to be deleted from the collective memory of humanity. Four and half hours later, Clara had completely forgotten about the terrible, exhausting day she'd had before walking into the pub.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he said, resting his elbow on the counter and tilting his head as he looked at her. The bright stage lights were gone, replaced by the soft glow of the bar, making his dark eyes seem impossibly deep. "A tough crowd, a brilliant smile, and an absolute nightmare for my bar tab."

Clara just looked at him for a long, quiet second. The banter melted away, replaced by an intense heat humming between them.

Before he could say another word, Clara leaned in, closed the distance, and pressed a quick, heady kiss to his lips.

It was over in a heartbeat—she pulled back just as quickly, leaving him utterly frozen in place.

He stared at her, stunned, and she stared right back, the rest of the crowded, noisy pub completely fading into background noise. The universe had shrunk down to just the two of them on a couple of wooden bar stools.

After a beat, he let out a low breath, his voice taking on a raspy, husky tone. "Don't I at least get a name first?"

Clara smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "No."

They both let out a low laugh, and he reached over, slipping his fingers through hers. They didn't know a single thing about each other—not where they worked, not where they came from, not even their names—but in this moment, none of it mattered.

His gaze darkened with clear intent. "In that case... do you wanna get out of here?"

Clara couldn't stop laughing as her guitarist struggled to unlock the door to his apartment. He apparently lacked the willpower to let go of her for even a second, pressing frantic, searing kisses everywhere his lips could reach—her jaw, her neck, the line of her collarbone.

He had already discarded her blouse right there in the dimly lit hallway, leaving her in just her lace bra, but neither of them cared. It was well past midnight anyway.

With a satisfying click, the key finally turned. He shoved the door open, scooped Clara up into his arms, and kicked the heavy wood shut behind them, pinning her against it. His kisses were intoxicating—far more potent than any alcohol she’d downed at the bar.

When his hands slid down to tug at the hem of her skirt, Clara pulled back just an inch, a breathy realization striking her. "Why are you still fully dressed?"

He chuckled against her throat, his breath hot against her skin. "Wanna do the honors?"

She let out a soft laugh, sliding down his body until her feet touched the floor. She crossed her arms, tilting her head playfully. "Don't I get a room tour first?"

He stared at her hungrily, his dark eyes ablaze. For a beat, the only sound in the dark hallway was the heavy, ragged rhythm of their breathing.

"Later," he decided, his voice raspy.

He immediately attacked her lips again, burning away any further objections. Clara laughed into the kiss, her hands finally slipping under his heavy velvet coat and pushing it off his shoulders, letting it pool forgotten on the floor.

Keeping fixed, thrilling eye contact with him, she took three slow steps backward toward a nearby door, reaching behind herself to turn the knob and push it open.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Oh, would you look at that... the bedroom."

"That was supposed to be at the very end of the tour," she teased.

"Plans change," he murmured, following her inside.

Clara caught him by the collar, shoving him back onto the mattress and stranding him beneath her as she climbed onto his lap. From there, everything escalated into a blur of heat, frantic touches, and discarded clothing.

When his long, calloused fingers slid lower, coaxing a soft whimper from her throat, Clara’s gaze briefly flicked to the acoustic and electric guitars mounted on the bedroom wall. A hazy, absurd thought flashed through her mind—she was genuinely jealous of those instruments, knowing those incredibly skilled fingers played them with such devotion every night.

In one swift, fluid movement, he flipped their positions, pinning her beneath him. Before leaning down to capture her lips again, he paused, gazing down at her in absolute awe.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

Normally, Clara would have fired back with a witty deflection or an argument. But he said it with such raw, unfiltered honesty that it left zero room for debate.

And then his mouth was on hers again—and it felt so intense, so deeply familiar, as if it had been an eternity since she’d last felt a kiss like this.

It turned out to be an impossibly hot, delightfully endless night.

For all of Clara’s pride and fierce composure, she couldn't keep her walls up for long. When a thrust hit especially right, she instinctively bit her lower lip to stifle her reaction—but he saw right through her.

Catching her chin, he forced her lips open with his, kissing her deeply and stealing her breathless moans straight out of her throat. Ever the musician, he extracted every sound from her like a melody, breathing her in as if he needed the oxygen to survive.

When Clara finally drifted back to full consciousness, early morning light was filtering softly through the blinds. Her head throbbed with a dull hangover, but her mind was crystal clear. She remembered every single, electric detail of their night together.

Rolling over, she glanced at his sleeping figure. All she could see was his bare back and his wild silver curls—which were even messier now from sleep, and from her spending half the night gripping them tightly. (And shut up, he absolutely loved it.)

Actually, scratch that—she remembered everything except where her clothes had ended up.

Flushing red, she quietly slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the dark hallway. She retrieved her blouse from where it lay outside his front door, threw her outfit back together, and quietly slipped out into the morning chill—leaving her mysterious guitarist fast asleep, fully aware that he was, without a shadow of a doubt, the best one-night stand she had ever had.

Then came the turn of luck she’d been desperately waiting for.

Against all odds, she got the job. Clara had been convinced she’d completely blown the interview, but three days later, the official offer arrived. She was officially a Junior Handler at one of the most elite intelligence agencies in the country.

Her first day flew by in a blur of crisp ID badges, sleek glass offices, and surprisingly friendly colleagues. For once in her life, Clara actually thought her streak of chaotic bad luck had broken. Everything was going perfectly.

"Right then, Clara," her department head smiled, gesturing toward a set of heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall. "Time to meet your Senior Field Agent. You'll be partnered with him on all high-level ops, so I hope you two can get along. He can be a bit... precise."

"I'm sure we'll manage fine," Clara said confidently, smoothing down her pencil skirt as she stepped through the door alongside another agent.

The other agent leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Don't get too optimistic. Off the record? He’s a total grump. He'll disappear for days on end without calling in or checking with headquarters, and he drives management completely insane. But... he’s also one of the absolute best sons-of-bitches this agency has ever seen."

Before Clara could digest that, the division chief walked back into the main office, gesturing toward a tall man standing by the window with his back to them, holding a cup of black coffee.

"Ah, excellent, you're both here," the chief said briskly.

Then, Clara heard it. A dry, unmistakable Scottish voice rumbled—a voice she had spent the last month desperately trying to get out of her head.

"Clara," the chief introduced smoothly, "this is your senior field handler and partner, John Smith. Though pretty much everyone around here just calls him 'The Doctor.'"

Clara’s breath hitched, her eyes going wide as he finally turned around to face her.

Gone was the wild rocker in the leather and dark sunglasses. Standing before her was a man in an immaculate, sharp suit. His face was a picture of professional indifference, a blank mask that betrayed absolutely nothing.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Oswald," he said calmly, extending a hand.

Clara stood frozen for a second before numbly reaching out to shake his hand. As the chief turned away to check a file, continuing to talk about mission protocols, the Doctor’s stoic expression cracked for a split second—and he shot her a subtle wink.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" Clara hissed, dragging him by his expensive suit jacket into an empty briefing room and slamming the heavy door shut.

The Doctor looked around the room, completely unfazed, a terribly amused smirk playing on his lips. He spread his arms wide and answered in a pitched-up tone, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: "I’m working here."

Clara rolled her eyes so hard it practically hurt. "No, John—or Doctor, or whatever your name is—that... thing between us was a mistake!” She gesticulated wildly. “A very delicious, utterly unforgettable mistake,” she added in a low murmur, like she hadn't even intended for him to hear it, “but a mistake nonetheless! It will never, ever happen again, do you understand me? We are partners now. Strictly professional." She finished her breathy speech, her tone final.

And while she was mid-panic, breathlessly laying down the law, the Doctor wasn't listening to a word. His eyes lazily drifted down, blatantly checking her out—mentally undressing her right there in her skirt.

"Doctor?!" Clara gasped, her face flushing crimson as she caught him in the act.

He offered an innocent, playful twitch of his eyebrows, looking utterly unrepentant.

Clara turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. The Doctor watched her walk away, his smirk widening as he murmured under his breath, "Oh, this is going to be fun," before casually sauntering after her.

Minutes later, they were gathered around the central glass intelligence table as the division chief pulled up a series of encrypted files.

Clara tried her absolute best to pay attention as the chief outlined their next operation. They were trying to gather enough hard evidence to take down a massive, dramatically theatrical international syndicate run by a woman known as Missy.

"She operates out of the Italian Riviera," the chief explained, flicking a photo of a striking woman in a velvet dress onto the screen. "High-ranking, ruthless, and entirely unhinged."

"I’ve been on her trail for many years now," the Doctor interjected, leaning against the table with a dark, heavy edge returning to his voice, his grumpiness and stern professionalism snapping fully back into place. "She’s precise, she’s deadly, and she makes it personal."

Clara glanced over at him, catching the subtle tighten of his jaw. "Personal?"

The Doctor didn't elaborate.

"Let's just say Missy used to sit in the exact seat you're sitting in now, Agent Oswald. It ended... poorly. And now, whenever he’s on a case, she makes a point of coming straight for him," whispered the agent sitting next to her. Clara gave him a polite nod—he certainly seemed to know a lot about the elusive senior agent.

Before she could digest that chilling bit of cryptic history, the chief dismissed them for a short coffee break to prepare their deployment gear.

As they stood by the breakroom counter, the Doctor—now once again his carefree self, the very picture of subtlety—casually leaned in close to Clara while pouring his coffee.

"You know, red really is your color, Agent Oswald," he murmured in a low Scottish rumble, his arm subtly brushing hers. "Though I prefer the outfit you were wearing on my floor a month ago."

Clara’s eyes went wide as saucers. She whipped her head around, terrified another agent might hear him. "Are you crazy?!" she whispered furiously, smacking his elbow.

The Doctor took a slow sip of his black coffee, shooting her a wink over the rim of his mug. Her hit had the force of a kitten's paw. For a fleeting second, he thought about leaning down to kiss her burning red cheek, but decided against rattling her any further. Turning on his heel, he casually strolled over to chat with another agent, leaving her fuming.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

Clara stood on a low wooden pedestal, smothered in an absurd amount of white lace, while a flurry of chatter echoed around the room.

She was surrounded by a small crowd of gushing young women—"Viktor’s" high-society friends—who were currently squealing over her hand. The massive, glittering diamond ring the Doctor had soniced into existence was practically blinding them, drawing endless Oohs and Aahs.

Stepping up beside her was Viktor’s supposed mother, adjusting the veil over Clara’s hair. Clara was currently clad in an exquisite, vintage 1920s gown—a delicate floor-length dress made of tiered lace, with long sheer sleeves, a dropped waist, and a flowing, airy veil anchored by a pearl-embroidered Juliet cap headband.

"You look breathtaking, my dear," Viktor’s mother gushed, patting Clara’s arm. "Viktor is a lucky man."

Clara forced a polite smile, trying to subtly fish for information without blowing her cover. "Thank you. He’s... such a mystery sometimes, isn't he? Viktor, I mean. He rarely talks about his past."

"Oh, you know how writers are!" his mother laughed softly, turning toward a polished mahogany side table. She picked up a thick, leather-bound volume and handed it to Clara. "He wrote it all down in his autobiography years ago. Though he always was quite private about his earliest days."

Clara took the book, flipping it open. She skimmed the introduction, looking for details about his childhood or his parents.

She turned a page. Then another. And another.

Brows furling, she started flipping faster. No matter how many pages she turned, the text just seemed to endlessly loop back to his adult accomplishments—or worse, the beginning of the book remained physically impossible to reach. It was an infinite paper trap.

Clara froze. The lace dress, the gushing friends, the wedding—none of it mattered. This book was wrong.

Right in the middle of trying on yet another astronomically expensive veil, Clara gathered the heavy lace skirt in her hands, turned on her heel, and bolted out the room, leaving the entire parlor of women completely stunned.

"Clara! Where are you going?!" his mother called out.

"I—I have to make a call! Urgent author business!" Clara shouted over her shoulder, sprinting down the grand hallway until she found the Doctor pacing in the library.

"Doctor!" she panted, skidding to a halt.

The Doctor turned around, taking one look at her and stopping dead in his tracks. His thick eyebrows knitted together in supreme, painful confusion as his eyes darted up and down her outfit. He stood there for a long, agonizing beat, visibly straining his brain to figure out what had changed.

"What?" he asked blankly, staring at her. "Did you... change your hair? Get shorter?"

Clara stared at him in utter disbelief. "It's a wedding dress, Doctor!”

"Oh..." he blinked, his mind finally catching up. "Right. Yes. White. Very fluffy."

An awkward, heavy silence settled over the room. His eyes lingered on her in the intricate, flowing gown for a second longer than necessary, his stoic expression softening just a fraction before he snapped back to attention.

"Right," Clara cleared her throat, shaking off the sudden tension. "Look at this."

She thrust the autobiography into his hands. "His mother gave it to me. Try to read the beginning."

The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, the tip whirring with a high-pitched buzz as he scanned the yellowed pages. He flipped through them rapidly, his eyes narrowing. "It's a psychic loop. An infinite recursive text. No matter how far back you flip, the origin point doesn't exist. It’s like Viktor Ritter wasn't born but... created."

Before they could dig any deeper, the library doors flew open.

"Viktor!" Viktor's mother gasped, clutching her chest in fake scandal as she caught sight of them. "What are you doing in here?! It is terrible luck to see the bride in her gown before the ceremony!"

She bustled into the room, shooing the Doctor away with a wave of her hands.

"Out, out! You lovebirds will have plenty of time for each other at the engagement party tonight!" she chided with a fond smile, seizing Clara by the arm to drag her back to the fitting room.

The Doctor shot Clara a desperate, wide-eyed look as she was dragged away, left holding the infinite book as the doors clicked shut.

While Clara was trapped back in the dressing room with Viktor's mother, the Doctor used the opportunity to prowl the grand estate looking for clues.

Naturally, he bumped right into Viktor’s father.

The elder Ritter was a cold, imposing man with an icy glare. He looked at the Doctor with contempt, sneering, "I see you're finally doing as you're told, Viktor. A man of your standing cannot spend his life scribbling fantasy in notebook pages. I expect you not to disappoint me tonight."

The Doctor folded his arms and raised a thick silver eyebrow. "Disappoint you? I’m the most disappointing thing to happen to this family since whatever tailored suit you’re currently suffocating in."

The father stood frozen, utterly stunned. His son had never talked back to him in his life. Before the old man could process the cheek, the Doctor swept past him with a flourish of his velvet coat.

Later that evening, the engagement party was in full swing.

As Clara and the Doctor navigated the grand ballroom, they picked up on an odd dynamic. Most of the family members looked almost too thrilled—gossiping excited whispers about how Viktor hadn't run off like they'd all secretly predicted. Viktor's father, on the other hand, stood by the bar looking miserable, sipping his drink with a dark scowl. He couldn’t quite figure out one thing: he had forced his creative, free-spirited son into a contract marriage with a high-society girl to keep him controlled. Everyone expected Viktor to flee. Nobody expected him to show up looking thrilled and completely wrapped around his new bride's finger!

As the night went on, the Doctor caught a phrase floating across the room that made his alien heart stutter. His eyes went wide, and he immediately spun toward the exit, ready to dash out of the establishment to find out more.

Clara caught him by the sleeve, hauling him backward. "Oh, no you don't! This ridiculous cover was your idea, Doctor. You are not abandoning me on the dance floor!"

She dragged him right into the middle of the crowded floor, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Up on the small stage, a female jazz singer was crooning softly into a vintage brass microphone.

„Pretty woman walkin' down the street. Pretty woman, the kind I'd like to meet“

"Clara, listen to me," the Doctor tried to argue, leaning down so only she could hear, his hands settling instinctively on her waist. "You need to go. I just overheard—"

"I don't care what you overheard, you're explaining it right here. And I’m not leaving you. You’re stuck with me, no matter what," Clara insisted, refusing to let him wiggle out of it.

„Pretty woman, talk awhile. Pretty woman, give your smile to me.“

The Doctor let out a defeated sigh, a soft, fond smile breaking through his serious expression. "Fine. His father... he didn't just write that infinite biography. He used a psychic trap to suppress Viktor's mind. The real Viktor ran away weeks ago, but the father created a psychic projection to take his place—and the TARDIS somehow accidentally locked onto that psychic bleed! It's the only explanation that makes sense!"

Before Clara could digest the terrifying reality of what he’d just said, a wealthy woman with a heavy brass camera bustled up to them, gasping in delight.

"Oh, look at you two!" she swooned. "Kiss for the photograph! Please!"

"What? No, we're busy—" the Doctor started, but the surrounding crowd instantly caught on.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" the guests chanted, clapping their hands in a loud, roaring rhythm.

The Doctor looked utterly conflicted, his eyes darting around the circle of cheering high-society guests. But Clara didn't give him time to overthink it.

Reaching up, she caught his lapels, pulled him down, and pressed her lips to his.

It was supposed to be a quick show for the crowd—a bit of clever cover-work. But the moment their lips met, the rest of the room melted away into static.

“'Cause I need you, I'll treat you right. Come with me, baby, be mine tonight.“

It was soft, intoxicating, and dangerously real. The Doctor’s large hand pressed firmly into the small of her back, the only anchor keeping her grounded in reality as the world spun around them. Neither of them broke away. They completely lost themselves in the kiss, forgetting the party, forgetting the case, forgetting the cover story entirely.

"I say, old chap! We're all still standing here, you know!" a jovial voice called out, breaking the spell.

The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers.

Clara and the Doctor snapped apart, both of them flushing bright red. The Doctor cleared his throat violently, suddenly finding the ceiling architecture fascinating, while Clara bit her lip, trying—and failing—to compose herself.

Once the party finally wound down and the deep chill of late night set in, the last of the high-society guests began to depart. It was time for the Ritter family to leave as well.

As they walked toward the waiting motorcar, Clara felt the edges of her vision blur. A sudden, dizzying wave crashed over her, making her mind spin. She stumbled, her fingers desperately gripping the Doctor’s hand.

"Clara?"

She heard his voice break—panicked and sharp, yet sounding like he was shouting at her from underwater.

Before her knees could hit the cold pavement, the Doctor swept her up into his arms, pulling her tightly against his chest. He pressed a warm hand against her porcelain cheek, his eyes wide with a rare, naked fear. "Clara! What’s wrong? Can you hear me?"

A heavy hand landed on his velvet shoulder. The Doctor snapped his head up, his guarded gaze locking onto Viktor’s mother.

"Take her straight to our house, dear," the woman urged softly. "I'll call our local doctor. He'll look after her."

Decision made, they rode back in the dark, pristine motorcar. Clara remained semi-conscious, painfully pale. The Doctor tried speaking to her in low, urgent whispers, but she just burrowed her face deeper into the crook of his neck, mumbling something completely unrecognizable against his collarbone.

Neither of them noticed elder Ritter staring at them through the car's small rearview mirror, his dark eyes cold, calculating, and unblinking.

"How do you feel?"

The Doctor closed the heavy bedroom door behind him, the local physician having finally departed.

Clara sat on the edge of the plush bed. She had changed out of the elaborate dress and into a soft, white nightgown, her hair loose and spilling over her shoulders. A bit of pink had finally returned to her cheeks.

"Better," she replied in a tiny, quiet voice.

The Doctor let out a long, shuddering exhale. He walked over and sat down beside her on the mattress, his broad shoulders slumping just a bit.

"The local doctor said you were fine," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "Attributed it to 'wedding excitement' and 'the vapors.' Idiots, the lot of them." He looked over at her, his dark brows knitting together. "It's the psychic field. It's straining you. Combined with the stress of the travel... I shouldn't have brought you into this. I have a duty of care, Clara. It is my job to keep you safe, and I—

Clara smiled fondly, rolling her eyes at his predictable Time Lord lecture. Reaching out, she gently placed her hand right over his, silencing him.

"Doctor," she murmured, looking straight into his eyes. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: this is what I want. The crazy, the dangerous, the impossible. Being right here, by your side... it's where I belong. So don't you dare try to leave me behind."

A quiet, heavy silence settled over the room. His thumb gently brushed the back of her hand. Looking at her sitting there in the dim candlelight, both of them suddenly felt a sharp, magnetic pull—an overwhelming surge of longing to taste the other's lips again, just like they had on the dance floor.

The Doctor froze, catching the sudden shift in the air. Terrified of where that impulse might lead, he abruptly reached out, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into a tight, fierce hug.

He held her for a long second, burying his face near her neck, before pulling back and speaking in a stern, velvet voice that left absolutely no room for argument.

"You're getting rest," he commanded softly. "And we are leaving first thing in the morning. No excuses."

Hours later, the room was shrouded in pitch blackness.

Clara only began to stir when she felt the Doctor's body shift beside her. Suddenly, he was moving over her—his weight hovering close, his broad frame almost completely shielding her body as his arms wrapped around her protectively, pinning her softly to the mattress.

Clara’s eyes flew open in confusion. Her heart hammered against her ribs at their close proximity, his warmth pressed against her in the dark.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the Doctor caught her eye. In the shadows, his face was mere inches from hers. The intense, laser-like focus in his gaze gave her a clear, unspoken order: Keep quiet.

She held her breath.

A floorboard creaked near the wardrobe. Through the sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains, Clara saw a dark silhouette moving through the bedroom.

It was Viktor's father.

He was silently rifling through their belongings, opening drawers and patting down the Doctor’s coat hung over a chair. Beneath the covers, the Doctor held his sonic screwdriver tightly in his palm, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike the second the man made a dangerous move.

The old man searched in silence for a few gruelling minutes. Apparently not finding whatever he was looking for, he turned on his heel, and slipped back out into the hallway, clicking the door shut behind him.

"What was he looking for?" Clara whispered softly, her face still dangerously close to his in the dark.

The Doctor was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked onto hers, before he murmured, "Whatever it was, he didn't find it. Don't worry. Go back to sleep, and I'll keep watch until morning. We'll leave before anyone else wakes up."

Clara gave a faint nod. Unable to resist the sudden, overwhelming urge, the Doctor leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. A tiny smile touched Clara's lips as she curled herself closer against his warmth, letting her heavy eyelids flutter closed.

Exhausted by the whirlwind of the night, they were both sound asleep in exactly sixteen minutes.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

Clara’s first months working with the Doctor were both a blessing and a curse.

Every single day, her heart wrestled with whether to kiss the living daylights out of him whenever he stood up for her—like the time she felt terribly sorry for a man Missy had dragged into her mess. His name was Danny Pink. He was innocent; his only misfortune was meeting Missy during a desperate time when he was in dire need of money, having no clue that the job she’d hired him for would end in someone's death.

Clara had interviewed him in the holding room, and it was a heartbreaking sight. Danny just kept crying, still deeply shocked by what had happened, repeating over and over that he never meant for anyone to get hurt and knew nothing about the woman they were hunting. Clara trusted him. She saw that despite being a soldier, he had a good heart.

Their boss, however, didn't agree. He insisted on using Danny's situation—the man would either help them track down Missy, or he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. Given that Danny had a three-year-old boy waiting for him at home, Clara wasn't about to stand by and let that happen. She was never one to hold back.

The moment she learned of the plan from the Doctor, she stormed into the chief's office, half-shouting, half-squeaking in disbelief that he would even consider using an innocent man as bait. The Doctor stood right beside her in total silence while she gesticulated dramatically, her face flushed red.

The boss just kept waving it off, talking about necessary sacrifices. "Once you've been with us longer, Clara, you'll understand."

What a load of bullshit, Clara thought.

"What I understand now and always is that this is wrong!" she yelled, her voice echoing down the hall. "And I will have no part in it!"

When the boss tried to threaten her with termination, Clara made it clear he could fire her all he liked—she still wouldn't participate. The chief turned to the Doctor, expecting him to talk some sense into his junior agent.

Instead, the Doctor folded his arms, his stone-cold poker face unbroken. "Clara’s no means no. I agree with every word she said. You can either find another option, or you can fire us both, because this isn't happening. You're always telling us there’s another way." He leaned over the desk, coming face-to-face with the seated chief. "Well, find one."

Without waiting for a reply, the Doctor grabbed Clara by the hand and pulled her out of the room. He marched her out to his car and drove off.

He took her to a quiet diner, ordered them both milkshakes along with a surprisingly massive mountain of chips, and ate them in complete silence. Clara was utterly grateful, utterly charmed, and had to exert every ounce of her willpower to resist the urge to kiss him right then and there.

Other days, they would spend agonizing hours stuck on a case that seemed to go nowhere. Every lead that looked promising turned out to be a dead end. It was an excruciating sixteen days of spending day and night in the office, searching for a way in.

Missy had left yet another body behind, carving an ancient symbol with the number 3 into the victim's chest. Nobody knew what it meant. No witnesses helped.

Late one night while they were both stirring their coffees, the conversation somehow drifted to relationships. Clara, who wasn't looking for one, raised an eyebrow when the Doctor casually remarked that people always went crazy over romance, writing songs and making fools of themselves.

She smirked. "And do you?" she asked, knowing that when he wasn't playing grumpy agent Mr. Smith, he played guitar at a local pub.

He gave her a look. Another agent standing nearby overheard and chimed in, "I didn't know you played!"

"I don't," the Doctor shot back—the fastest denial you'd ever hear in your life.

Then, as the discussion about songwriting continued, a sudden, electric shift came over his face—that exact look he got whenever he realized he'd been the biggest idiot in the universe.

"She's been laughing in our faces," he blurted out, his eyes wide with wild realization. "Can't you see?!"

Before Clara could even blink, he dumped his un-drunk coffee straight into the sink and sprinted for the door.

"Doctor?!" Clara yelled, running after him. "What's obvious?! Wait!"

"Sorry, Agent Oswald! This one's my solo!" he shouted, rolling down his car window as he tore out of the parking lot, leaving her stranded to explain his sudden disappearance to the rest of the team.

He returned nine and a half hours later, offering zero explanation as to what he’d found or where he’d been. Oh, she really, really wanted to hurt him.

In short: working with him was great.

Nothing, however, protected her from his out-of-nowhere flirting. It escalated over time, and she was immensely proud of herself for staying strong and not succumbing to his charms. But god, it was difficult when he kept haunting her dreams.

The Doctor was a man of pure logic (and sometimes pure chaos). Cool-headed. Driven by his brain, never his heart. On every mission they ran, he put the objective first, calculating variables, ignoring collateral damage. Clara was the very opposite, every decision she made was because her heart was telling it to her. It's fair to say she got into a lot of trouble over the short time she was in. Doctor began to repeat his favorite catchphrase whenever anyone commented on their dynamic: "You care so I don't have to."

It drove her completely mad. She hated how he could shut off his emotions at the flick of a switch—especially when it came to Missy—and yet, she was falling for him anyway. Falling for the way his eyes tracked her when he thought she wasn't looking. Falling for the sheer, terrifying brilliance of his mind.

Later that evening back at headquarters, the case board was covered in red string, photos, and intel. Clara stood by the central map table, laughing softly at a joke made by Agent Miller—a handsome handler from Sector 4 who had been making his crush on Clara painfully obvious for weeks.

Across the room, the Doctor was watching.

On the outside, his face was a blank, unreadable mask. On the inside, he was violently, utterly fuming.

The absolute nerve of this idiot, the Doctor thought, his thick eyebrows pulling down so hard they practically vanished into his hairline. Doesn't he know the rules? You don't date colleagues. It's unprofessional. It's dangerous. He completely ignored the hypocritical fact that he had spent the last few months fantasizing about said colleague.

Miller leaned in close, touching her arm lightly as he kept rambling on about something.

The Doctor rolled his eyes so hard they nearly rolled back into his head.

When Clara happened to look up, her eyes caught his. Ignoring Miller entirely, the Doctor turned on his heel and retreated straight into the secure tactical review room.

Curious—but knowing exactly what this was about—Clara excused herself from Miller and followed him.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the glowing glass intelligence boards. The Doctor had his back to the door, hunched over the desk with his broad hands planted flat against the mahogany, his shoulders tense as he tried—and failed—to calm his racing mind.

Clara stepped inside silently. She turned and quietly clicked the heavy lock into place, not quite wanting to admit why, before stepping up behind his arched back. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Doctor?" she called softly.

He spun around, his eyes flashing with angry, sharp accusations. "What are you doing in here? You're the one who always goes on about protocol and not looking for a relationship, so how come you're cozying up with that idiot? Do you genuinely think Miller has any actual field experience to pass on, or—"

Clara shook her head, a tiny, knowing smile touching her lips. Taking a slow step toward him, she interrupted, "I don't feel anything for him."

The Doctor kept rambling for a second longer before the words finally registered. He went entirely still. The tactical room fell dead silent. His heavy gaze searched her face, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register.

"Do you feel something for me?"

Before she could answer, their lips crashed together. She had no idea who started it, but god damn.

His hand caught the back of her neck, pulling her in. It wasn't like their hazy first night—it was sharp, clear, sober, and a thousand times more addicting. Good lord, why hadn't they been doing this all along?!

The Doctor, driven by a wave of raw, dark jealousy, seized her by the hips and lifted her effortlessly, setting her right onto the edge of the glass intelligence board, scattering files across the floor. He pressed into her, his body pinning hers against the wall of maps and photos. Every hard, desperate thrust was a punishment and a claim wrapped into one, driving the breath straight out of her lungs and making her legs quiver around him.

"Oh, Clara... my Clara," he growled against her skin, his Scottish accent thick and dark, sending a shiver down her spine.

Clara gasped, her hands digging into his shoulders, her head tilting back as she tried desperately to keep her whimpers quiet. They were still at work, but right now, she found it hard to care.

"Imagine if he came in right now and saw you like this," the Doctor dark-whispered into the shell of her ear, his hand sliding up her thigh. "Falling apart at my mere touch. Flushed so gorgeously red when I have you like this. Me. Only I get to make you feel like this." He leaned in closer, his hot breath brushing her cheek. "What do you think, Clara? Should we let him see? See that you're mine?"

A helpless moan escaped her lips. She knew the heavy door was locked—nobody was getting in—but the possessive edge in his voice made the whole thing agonizingly hot.

The Doctor gently brushed her short, wavy hair over her shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her neck. He pressed a soft, delicate kiss to her skin—before suddenly sinking his teeth in, biting down just hard enough to make her whine and pull at his hair, begging him to bite harder.

Minutes later, when the only sound left in the room was the sound of their breathless lungs trying to catch up, Clara adjusted her clothes. She bit back a triumphant smirk as she looked up at the formidable, logical Senior Field Agent standing beside her.

"So," Clara whispered teasingly, her voice still raspy. "How does it feel? For once letting your heart win over your head?"

The Doctor let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. He turned back to her, planting one large hand on the glass board on either side of her head, trapping her effectively in his space.

"Clara Oswald," he murmured, a dangerous, beautiful warmth in his eyes as he leaned down. "You'll be the absolute death of me."

Days later, once Clara had finally cooled down, the stark reality of what they were doing set in. They had completely surrendered to the irresistible pull between them, plummeting straight into the exact complication they were supposed to avoid.

It was worst during the morning briefing.

While the team stood gathered around the primary holo-table, the Doctor’s hand casually found its way to Clara’s thigh under the dark lip of the desk. Nobody else noticed a thing. His long fingers traced lazy, invisible constellations against her skin through the fabric of her trousers. It was utterly, unbearably distracting.

Clara shot him a fierce, warning glare, silently commanding him to stop.

The Doctor, a master of sheer audacity, pretended not to notice her look at all. Instead, he kept his sharp, icy gaze locked onto the tactical display as another agent droned on about how their latest field operation had gone sideways.

Then his hand drifted just a fraction higher.

Clara bolted out of her chair so fast it screeched harshly against the floor, drawing every single pair of eyes in the room straight to her.

"Bathroom!" she squealed, her face burning as she turned on her heel and fled down the corridor.

The second the briefing ended, Clara waited outside, grabbed the Doctor by the lapel of his jacket, and dragged him straight into their shared office, slamming the door.

He offered no resistance, looking utterly pleased with himself, thoroughly enjoying how rattled she was.

"You need to stop doing that!" Clara snapped, rounding on him. "The flirting! The touching me when no one's looking, and that... that thing your eyes do—"

"What do my eyes do?" he asked, a faint, infuriating smirk touching his lips.

"They—you know what they do!" Clara gesticulated wildly, pacing the small space. "This is a mistake, John. It’s a massive mistake, and we cannot keep doing this, we have to stop right now—"

Before she could finish the sentence, he stepped in, caught her face in his hands, and pressed a deep, searing kiss against her lips.

Clara let out a muffled noise against his mouth, making a half-hearted attempt to push his shoulders back. She was top of her class in close-quarters combat—she could drop a man twice his size before he could blink. But she didn't hit him. She didn't push him away. She wanted this just as desperately as he did.

"Doctor... please..." she murmured weakly against his lips.

Instead of pulling back, he gathered her into his chest, trapping her hands between them as he backed her up against the wall. He groaned softly as she made a breathless sound in her throat.

Finally, he broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead against hers.

"Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara," he spoke rapidly, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, lecturing tone he used. "If this is a mistake..." He leaned in, his lips brushing hers once more, "...then you are one I intend to keep making."

He stole one last, lingering kiss that left her knees weak, then slipped out the door before she could even catch her breath.

Yet somehow, they made it work. They became an unstoppable force in the field, pulling off brilliant assignments while keeping their dirty little secret somehow completely hidden from the rest of the agency.

Until the afternoon the entire operation fell apart.

It had been a disaster. The Doctor had tried to smoke Missy out of a front company in Paris, but the trap had collapsed. Civilians were hurt, assets were compromised, and the agency was in full damage control.

Clara stood in the corner of the Director’s office, watching in uncomfortable silence as the chief screamed at him. The Doctor, who usually shouted back twice as loud, stood there taking it.

"She is your responsibility, Smith!" the Director roared, slamming a thick file onto the mahogany desk. "Every body she drops, every operation she burns—it's on you! You let her walk right under our noses!"

At those words, the Doctor went utterly, eerily silent. His jaw tightened, but he didn't utter another word.

When the Director dismissed them, the Doctor marched straight down to the parking garage without saying a word to anyone. Clara ran after him, sliding into the passenger seat just as he slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

He didn't take her back to her apartment. He drove straight to his own.

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind them, he pulled her into his arms, burying his face into the crook of her neck, taking a deep, ragged breath as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Don't even argue," he rasped quietly into her hair and kissed her desperately.

She didn't.

Hours later, the storm had passed.

The bedroom was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below. Clara’s apartment had slowly been merging with his over the last few months—her books stacked on his bedside table, her jacket hanging over his chair, the kitchen now stocked with eggs, butter, milk, sugar and all the other things you need to make an excellent soufflé she was determined on achieving one day and hey – he encouraged her to keep on trying somehow still eating her failed attempts – and the extra toothbrush right next to his.

They were naked under the dark sheets, the cool air brushing against her skin as the Doctor slowly traced gentle circles into the curve of her shoulder, holding her close.

"You're going to tell me now," Clara murmured softly into the dark, resting her chin on his chest. "What happened in there. What the chief meant."

The Doctor didn't answer right away. He stared up at the ceiling, his thumb continuing its slow rhythm against her skin. When he finally spoke, his Scottish accent was quiet, stripped of all its usual bravado and banter.

"We were kids," he said softly. "Growing up on the same rough streets. I didn't have friends. Most of the other children thought I was... strange. Arrogant. Unbearable. But she didn't."

He quieted for a moment, his eyes dark with old memories.

"We had nothing, Clara. Absolutely nothing. We saw the worst of humanity before we were even old enough to understand it. And we used to sit on the fire escapes at night, looking down at the city, promising each other that when we grew up, we were going to fix it. We were going to make it better."

He let out a low, humorless breath.

"Life happened. We drifted apart. I joined the service, went into tactical intelligence. Years later, she contacted me out of nowhere. Said she was desperate, looking for a way out of the dirt, looking for a job. Something about her felt... off. Twisted, somehow. But I felt I owed her the chance. I brought her in. Made her my very first junior handler."

Clara remained still, listening intently.

"She was brilliant, but she was power-hungry. Always pushing, always demanding more authority. And then... three years in, I found out what she was actually doing on her solo runs."

The Doctor’s hand stilled against Clara’s shoulder.

"She wasn't serving the law. She was executing people. Criminals, informants, civilians who got in her way—it didn't matter. She was doing it simply because she could. Because she enjoyed the power of deciding who lived and who died."

His voice dropped into a dark, haunted whisper.

"When I confronted her in private, expecting her to deny it... she just smiled at me. That terrible, brilliant, utterly unhinged smile. She told me to keep my mouth shut. Said we were partners, street kids who made it out together."

"But you didn't," Clara murmured softly.

"Of course I didn't," he scoffed, shaking his head. "I reported her immediately. The agency didn't have enough solid evidence to put her in a cell, so they quietly terminated her contract. And as she was packing her desk, she stood in front of the entire floor and blamed me."

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"She told everyone I drove her insane. That I was a control freak who never gave her room to breathe, never saw her as an equal. She swore that if I wouldn't let her burn the world from the inside, she would burn my life down from the outside."

Silence settled back over the dimly lit bedroom. The Doctor finally shifted his gaze down from the ceiling, his eyes searching Clara's face. The heavy weight of his past seemed to linger in the air between them, raw and exposed.

A faint, dry smirk suddenly tugged at the corner of his lips.

"So," he murmured softly, his thumb gently smoothing over her cheekbone. "I really hope our relationship turns out better."

Clara couldn't help the soft, affectionate smile that spread across her face. She leaned up, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against his lips.

"I'm not going anywhere, Doctor," she whispered against his mouth. "And I'm certainly not Missy."

"Good," he growled lightly, flipping them over until she was pinned beneath him in the dark, his hands tangled in her hair. "Because I don't think my heart could take another one of you."

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

Clara’s first thought was that she never wanted to fully wake up.

She burrowed deeper into the solid, comforting heat of his chest, surrounded by the quiet rise and fall of his breathing. When her mind finally caught up with where she was, she blinked her eyes open to find herself tightly wrapped in the Doctor’s arms. She stared at his face—his dark brows unknotted, his sharp jaw relaxed—for once looking entirely devoid of worry.

She smiled at the rare sight of him sleeping. Even though he always insisted he slept, she’d never actually caught him doing it. She let out a quiet chuckle and made a slight move to shift away, but he let out a deep, grumbling noise of protest in his sleep, tightening his grip and pulling her right back against his chest.

Who knew he was a cuddler? she thought, biting back a grin.

Then, like the sharp snap of a finger, reality crashed back in.

Heavy velvet curtains kept the morning sun from blinding them, but bright rays were still streaming through the cracks—bright enough for Clara to realize that the early morning hour they’d agreed on was long gone.

"Doctor!" She shook his shoulder.

His blue eyes blinked open, hazy and uncomprehending. He lazily looked at her, then down at the way they were tangled together, before his gaze snapped to the sunlit room.

He bolted upright. "What time is it?!"

He scrambled out of the bed, throwing on his velvet coat in one swift motion. The soft, sleepy haze disappeared in a split second, replaced by his usual hyperactive, wildly erratic energy.

"You fell asleep," Clara breathed, the realization washing over her as she remembered him explicitly promising he’d keep watch through the night while she rested.

The Doctor opened his mouth, clearly preparing some absurd, grandiloquent excuse, but with his silvery, unruly curls completely sticking up on one side, he had absolutely no defense. Before he could utter a single word, a blood-curdling scream echoed down the grand corridor.

They froze, locked eyes, and a second later sprinted out the door—their grand plan of sneaking away before the household woke officially shattered.

Other members of the house were already tumbling out of their rooms, lured by the commotion. A small crowd gathered at the doorway of a guest room on the west wing, where a collective gasp rippled through the air.

On the four-poster bed lay a woman, her eyes wide, unfocused, and unnervingly lifeless. Blood was pooled heavily across the white silk sheets. There was no doubt about it—she was gone.

"Who is she?" Clara whispered to the trembling maid who had discovered the body, currently pressing a handkerchief to her mouth.

"The... the wife of the eldest Ritter brother, miss," the maid choked out through stifled tears.

Clara nodded her thanks. Being the newest addition to this bizarre, pretend family, no one questioned her ignorance of the Ritter family tree. She slipped back to the Doctor’s side.

"Do you think 'your father' did this after he tried to break into our room last night?" she whispered softly.

They exchanged a dark look before turning their gazes toward the corner of the room. The patriarch stood there, his expression a completely blank, impassive mask.

"I wouldn't put it past him," the Doctor murmured under his breath, his eyes fixed on the man.

Suddenly, Viktor’s mother threw her arms around the Doctor, weeping hysterically against his chest. "Oh, Viktor! My boy, what a nightmare!"

The Doctor went entirely rigid. He looked utterly horrified, his hands awkwardly hovering in mid-air as he tried to endure the affection without causing a scene. Clara had to bite her lip hard to suppress a snort of laughter.

After the Doctor managed to gently pry the weeping woman off him and usher the onlookers into the hallway, he motioned for Clara to stay near the door to keep watch while he inspected the crime scene.

Her death was unmistakably unnatural. Glancing down at the hem of the woman's nightgown, the Doctor noted that her bare feet were caked in dry dirt. She hadn't died in this bed; a lady of her social standing would never have wandered outdoors barefoot or crawled into bed without washing.

Even stranger were the wounds. Deep, jagged lacerations crisscrossed her sternum—not made by any conventional blade, but forming strange, deliberate geometric markings against her skin.

When the local constabulary arrived, everyone was ushered into the grand library to be interviewed one by one. Viktor’s mother was taken in first, leaving the rest of the family standing in tense, suffocating silence.

It didn't take long for the pressure to burst.

"You shouldn't even be standing in this room, Viktor," the eldest brother spat suddenly, rounding on the Doctor with fists clenched. "We all know how she looked at you! She pined after you for years before Father forced her hand into marrying me!"

The second brother chimed in, glaring bitterly. "She threw herself at you at every turn, brother! And you simply sat there with your head in the clouds, reading your absurd books, entirely unbothered! Did she finally break? Did she take her own life because you refused her? Or did you finally try to take what was offered, only for her to fight back?!"

The Doctor slowly turned his head toward the brothers, his eyebrows drawing down into a sharp, incredulous V. He looked entirely unimpressed.

"Are you an idiot?" the Doctor said flatly, his voice dripping with utter exasperation. "Have you looked at the state of her? Do books usually inflict deep, ritualistic lacerations? Honestly, the level of cognitive function in this room is appalling."

"Enough!" the father’s sharp, commanding tone cut through the room like a whip. He stepped between them, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Leave him be. Your brother is innocent. He has no reason to stray—he is devoted entirely to his fiancée."

The father turned his heavy gaze toward Clara and the Doctor. Every head in the library followed, staring at them expectantly. Clara stiffened, the sudden weight of the room pressing down on her as she tried to look like a woman deeply in love, while the Doctor merely looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.

Before the tension could explode again, the library door opened, and Viktor’s mother walked out, dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief.

Determined to end this farce, the Doctor immediately marched past the constable into the study. Pulling out his psychic paper, he held it up with practiced authority.

"Senior Inspector, Scotland Yard," the Doctor announced smoothly. "I'm taking over this investigation. I suggest you step aside and let me—"

He stopped cold.

The two officers stared at the leather wallet, then up at him, entirely unbothered.

"Is this some kind of joke, Mr. Ritter?" the lead constable said with a patronizing sigh. "We know who you are. You're Viktor Ritter. Now please sit down until we call for you."

The Doctor stared at the paper. It was blank. Or rather, to them, it simply read Viktor Ritter. His psychic leverage was completely gone. The illusion was solidifying around him, locking the door from the outside.

He slowly backed out of the study, his face pale, his eyes wide with a rare, cold dread.

Clara rushed over to his side the second the door clicked shut. "What happened? Did it work?"

The Doctor stared straight ahead, his voice dropping into a haunted whisper.

"Clara..." he murmured, his breath catching in his throat. "I think I’m stuck in Viktor Ritter’s life."

Escaping the suffocating library, the Doctor marched straight out into the manicured estate gardens, pulling out his sonic screwdriver. The blue light whirred furiously as he scanned the muddy soil, searching for any trace of blood, footprints, or psychic residue left behind by the murdered woman.

"Doctor! Over here!" Clara called out from near the edge of the rose garden.

He trotted over to find her standing over a violently trampled rosebush. Broken stems and crushed crimson petals lay scattered across the mud.

"Do you think she fell here?" Clara asked, nudging a snapped branch with the toe of her shoe. "Look at the angle. It looks severely broken."

The Doctor looked thoroughly puzzled. He fished a pair of thin leather gloves from his coat pocket, pulled them on, and carefully snipped one of the snapped roses with a small pocket knife. He held the flower up to his sonic screwdriver.

"Never assume, Clara," he murmured, his brows furrowing as the sonic emitted a high-pitched warble. "A woman with jagged markings on her chest doesn't just wander out here to crush flora. Unless, of course, the flora is laced with a paralyzing neurotoxin." He sniffed the stem cautiously. "Not poisoned... but definitely crushed by someone running for their life."

Despite a murder having occurred mere hours ago, the Ritter family dynamic reached a whole new level of absurd high-society ridiculousness that evening.

"We cannot simply skip supper, Viktor," his 'mother' had declared, adjusting her pearl necklace with trembling, blood-stained-hand-washed fingers. "What would the servants think? What would the local paper say? The Ritter estate always dines at seven!"

And so, there they were: sitting at a thirty-foot mahogany dining table, awkwardly chewing on dry roast beef in absolute, deafening silence while a dead body lay in the west wing. Clara had to bite her lip until it bled just to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter at the sheer, ridiculous snobbery of it all.

Right after dinner, she noticed a shadowy figure being quietly ushered into the father's private study by the butler. It was an unannounced visitor—and far too late in the evening for polite society.

Catching the Doctor's eye, Clara gave a subtle nod toward the hallway. They slipped away from the table and crept down the dimly lit corridor, pressing their backs against the heavy oak doors of the study to eavesdrop.

Inside, two voices were arguing heatedly.

"...I told you I wanted no part in this once the device was delivered!" a nervous, raspy male voice insisted. "I heard what happened to the girl, Ritter! The psychic trap—it’s malfunctioning! It’s out of control!"

"It is working precisely as intended!" the father’s cold, booming voice shot back.

"No, it isn't!" the man argued, his voice rising in panic. "The construct wasn't designed to handle a mind as vast as his! It isn't just enforcing your will to keep your son here—the machine is amplifying your darkest, unexpressed thoughts! Every petty grudge, every subconscious wish you have, the device is making real! You have to give it back to me before it tears this entire estate apart!"

"I am giving you nothing," the father hissed darkly.

Suddenly, heavy, rapid footsteps echoed from inside the room, moving straight toward the doors.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The handle began to turn.

Clara’s eyes went wide. They were trapped in a narrow hallway with nowhere to hide. Panic spiked—until a flash of brilliant 1920s improvisation hit her.

They were engaged, weren't they?

Before the Doctor could even process the sudden shift in her posture, Clara grabbed him by the lapels of his velvet coat and slammed him back against the nearest wall. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips firmly against his.

The Doctor went completely, utterly rigid. His brain hit a massive Error 404. His arms hovered awkwardly in the air, his eyes wide open and staring at her in sheer, unadulterated shock.

A split second later, the heavy oak door swung wide open. The father stepped out into the hall, stopping dead in his tracks, his brow twisting in absolute bewilderment.

The instant the door creaked, Clara melted into the kiss, deepening it with a soft, breathless gasp. And as her lips moved against his, a quiet, dizzying realization hit them both through the psychic bleed: this didn't feel like pretend anymore. Despite the costumes, the fake names, and the absurdity of the estate, the electric, possessive spark between them felt terrifyingly, beautifully familiar.

Clara slowly pulled back, her cheeks flushed high with color (half fake, half painfully real) while the Doctor remained pinned to the wall, looking entirely rebooted, his mouth slightly open as his eyes darted from Clara to his 'father'.

"Oh!" Clara squealed softly, pressing a hand to her chest and playing the blushing, scandalous 1920s maiden to perfection. "We... we are so terribly sorry, Mr. Ritter! We thought the corridor was empty... we just couldn't help ourselves..."

The father stared at them, his disgust temporarily overruling his suspicion. "Reframe your impulses, Miss Oswald. You are not wedded yet. Go to your quarters. Both of you."

"Right away, sir," Clara chirped, catching the Doctor by the wrist and dragging his completely shell-shocked, silent body down the hall before he could ruin the cover.

The second they turned the corner into safety, she whirled around to face him, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"So, what do you think?" she whispered urgently. "He killed her with that device, didn't he? He's using it to cover his tracks!"

The Doctor stared at her, looking offended—and suddenly, shockingly, hurt.

Clara raised an eyebrow in complete confusion. "What?"

"My father may be a complicated man, Clara, but he wouldn't do that," the Doctor snapped defensively, his posture stiffening. He sounded genuinely distressed, as if the mere suggestion was an insult to his bloodline. "I know him. He... he just wants what's best for this family!"

"Doctor?" Clara grabbed the sleeve of his velvet coat, pulling him to a dead stop as he began fidgeting with his cuffs. Confusion was a weak word for what she was feeling. "What do you mean, 'my father'? You heard what that man said in there, didn't you?!"

The Doctor shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes. "Let's go to my study," he murmured, his voice sounding oddly detached. "I'll look for the truth. There must be a reasonable explanation for all of this."

Before Clara could ask which way his "study" was, he led her straight down a maze of grand corridors, turning left and right without a single second of hesitation, until he pushed open a set of heavy doors.

It was a sprawling private library with a massive mahogany desk sitting right in the center.

Clara looked around, her stomach dropping. Something wasn't adding up. How did he know where this room was? They had never stepped foot in this wing of the estate, and the mansion was a labyrinth. Yet he had walked here like he had done it a thousand times before.

He paced nervously behind the desk, his long fingers trailing over the leather-bound books, avoiding her gaze entirely.

Walking to the doorway, he pulled the heavy brass bell-rope and called out into the hall: "Patrick!"

A middle-aged butler immediately hurried to his side. "Yes, Mr. Ritter?"

"Please bring me a pot of chamomile tea," the Doctor said, his voice entirely natural, polite, and familiar. "It calms my nerves."

"Right away, sir," Patrick bowed and hurried off.

Clara stared at the exchange with her mouth hanging open. The slip-up of 'my father'. The sudden, fierce defense of the patriarch. Knowing the exact layout of the house. Knowing the head butler's name when this very morning he hadn't bothered to learn a single one of "his" family members' names. Asking for calming tea...

"Doctor." Clara marched over, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat and forcing him to stand still. "Hey! Look at me!"

She shook him hard. "What are you doing?! Snap out of it!"

For a long, agonizing second, the Doctor just stared at her, his expression vacant, looking at her as if she were the one acting utterly insane.

Then, like a dark fog suddenly lifting from his blue eyes, he blinked rapidly. The glassy haze vanished.

"Clara," he choked out, his arms instantly wrapping tightly around her, pulling her into a desperate, crushing hug. "This is bad. This is very, very bad."

He pulled back, his hands gripping her shoulders, his voice rattling with a rare, naked terror. "We need to go."

At that exact moment, Patrick re-entered the room, quietly placing a silver tray with a steaming teapot onto the desk before slipping back out. The Doctor instinctively reached for the cup, poured a splash of tea, and lifted it to his lips—before suddenly realizing what he was doing.

He slammed the teacup down onto the saucer with a sharp clatter, staring at it with utter revulsion.

"What is happening to you?" Clara demanded, her voice trembling.

"I'm not just stuck living his life, Clara," he whispered, staring at his own hands in horror as conflicting memories fought for control inside his head. "I'm becoming him. Wherever the real Viktor Ritter is, my mind is linking with the construct his father created. His childhood, his home, his habits... it's overwriting me. It feels like watching an old movie, only... I can't tell which memories are mine."

A sudden realization struck Clara. She spun around and sprinted to the library shelves, pulling down the strange, blank leather book they had discovered days ago.

The Doctor followed her, standing close as she flipped it open.

The pages were now holding something else.

Ink had bled across the paper, starting right from the beginning—telling the detailed life story of Viktor Ritter. Flipping a page, they found a beautifully painted portrait of the patriarch, his wife, and a twelve-year-old boy standing between them.

The boy had unruly curls, sharp features, and deep, sorrowful blue eyes. He looked suspiciously like the Doctor.

"How is that possible?" Clara muttered under her breath, a chill running down her spine.

The Doctor snapped the book shut with a loud thud. "No. We're leaving. Now."

He grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight, and dragged her out of the library.

They marched down the grand staircase and straight out the heavy front doors. Miraculously, no one tried to stop them—the house was deathly quiet, as if the estate itself were holding its breath.

Outside, the night air was biting and cold. The sky was pitch black, and the dim lanterns lining the estate driveway cast long, distorted shadows across the stone paths, making the entire place feel infinitely creepier than before.

"What now?" Clara asked, looking around the eerie, empty street.

The Doctor pulled her along, his hand trembling slightly as he used his free hand to fish into his coat pocket, pulling out a familiar piece of silver metal. He fought with everything he had to keep the fog from creeping back into his mind.

"Now," the Doctor rasped, clicking the button as the blue light whirred to life, "we find the TARDIS."

The sonic screwdriver whirred furiously in the Doctor’s trembling hand, its blue light cutting through the thick, creeping mist of the estate grounds.

"It has to be right here, Clara," he muttered, his jaw tight as he fought against the lingering fog in his own head. "The translation matrix has been working this whole time. She couldn't have gone far—"

He stopped dead in his tracks. Tucked away behind a row of overgrown rhododendron bushes, completely camouflaged in the shadows of an abandoned greenhouse, stood the tall, blue wooden box.

"There!" Clara gasped, taking a step toward it. "Doctor, look—!"

"Doctor!"

Before she could take another step, a sudden, violent movement lunged out of the fog behind her. A heavy leather glove slammed over Clara’s mouth, smothering her shout into a muffled gasp.

The Doctor whirled around just in time to see a dark figure in a heavy wool coat drag Clara backward, hauling her kicking and fighting toward a vintage black sedan idling in the shadows with its headlights doused.

"Clara!" the Doctor yelled, sprinting forward.

The vehicle's engine roared to life with a mechanical rattle. The back door slammed shut, and the heavy tires tore into the gravel driveway. The Doctor threw everything he had into the chase, his long velvet coat flying behind him as he bolted down the dark lane after the car.

He ran until his lungs burned, his eyes locked onto the faint, flickering red glow of the car's taillights. But the distance only widened, and a second later, the red lights vanished entirely into the thick, swirling German fog.

He skidded to a halt in the middle of the empty road, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. The terror of losing his identity was instantly replaced by a far more lethal, terrifying thought: losing Clara.

He turned on his heel and sprinted back toward the greenhouse. He didn't take a single second to appreciate the familiar hum of the TARDIS, nor the warm golden light welcoming him home into his console room. His mind was sharper and clearer than it had been all day.

Get Clara. Get her to safety. Get the hell out of here.

Slamming the door behind him, he threw the main time-rotor lever. The TARDIS materialized a mile up, scanning the dark roads below for the unique energy signature of the motorcar.

Within minutes, the scanner locked onto the target. The car had pulled up outside an old, derelict brick coach house at the edge of the estate limits.

The Doctor dematerialized the ship, landing her quietly in a grove of dense trees nearby. He patted the wooden door frame softly as he stepped out into the night. "Stay put," he whispered under his breath, his eyes darkening as he looked toward the target. "I'm not willing to lose you again..."

He paused, a strange, fleeting phantom of a thought crossing his mind—wondering if he was speaking to the TARDIS, or to the girl currently in danger.

As he slipped through a side door into the dark garage, he stayed low, keeping close to the shadows—feeling absurdly like an agent out of one of those dramatic action movies Clara had forced him to watch. And then he saw her.

Clara was sitting on the cold concrete floor in the corner of the garage, tied securely to a rusted iron pipe running down the wall. A thick cloth rag was bound tightly over her mouth.

His eyes went wide, his stomach dropping at the sight of her.

Clara’s head snapped up. The moment their eyes locked, relief flashed in her eyes—followed immediately by pure, frantic panic.

She began wildly shaking her head, her brown eyes practically screaming at him to turn around. She shifted her gaze frantically toward the dark shadow of a high wooden loft directly above the doorway he was approaching. The kidnapper was standing up there in the dark, holding a heavy iron wrench, just waiting to spring a trap.

Go away! Wait! It's a trap! her eyes frantically signaled.

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, catching her subtle head nods and eye movements instantly.

Ever the brave, arrogant hero, he didn't run. Instead, he met her panicked gaze, offered her a calm, reassuring smile, and gave her a cocky, confident wink. I've got this, the wink said. Watch a master at work.

He puffed out his chest, took one grand, dramatic step straight through the doorway—

CLANG.

The iron wrench came down hard against the back of his head.

The Doctor’s eyes rolled back, his confident smile instantly melting away as his knees buckled and he crumpled straight to the floor in a pathetic, motionless heap.

Bound to the wall, Clara closed her eyes, let out a massive, muffled sigh through her gag, and rolled her eyes so hard it practically hurt.

So much for the grand rescue.

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

The agency’s briefing room felt too small for the sheer weight of Clara’s conviction. She paced in front of the glass display board, a red dry-erase marker tapped impatiently against her chin.

"She’s here, Doctor," Clara said, her voice dropping into that quiet, absolute tone that usually meant she was right. "Missy isn't in Tuscany. The encrypted ping on the server this morning—it was routed through a proxy, but the signature matches her personal sequence. She's in the city. She’s taunting us because she thinks she's untouchable."

The Doctor didn't look up from his tablet. His expression was a stone wall, his jaw set in a tight, stubborn line.

"She is monitored twenty-four hours a day in a high-security villa in Florence, Clara," he said coldly, his Scottish accent laced with an icy, dismissive authority. "Her comms are scrambled, her guards are elite, and her tea is brought to her at four o'clock sharp. She is not in London."

"It's a decoy!" Clara snapped, tossing the marker onto the table. "Look at the telemetry! It's absurd, I know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense! Let me take a unit to the docklands. Two hours. Just to clear the parameter—"

"No."

"Doctor—"

"I said no, Agent Oswald." He finally looked up, his dark eyes burning with a sudden, sharp intensity.

To Clara, that cold wall felt like a slap in the face. She was relatively new to his division, and every time she pushed, he pulled back behind rank and protocol. He didn’t trust her. Anger flaring bright in her chest at that thought.

What she couldn't see—what he was fighting with every ounce of his stubborn soul to hide—was the sheer, suffocating terror rising in his chest. Missy wasn't just a threat; she was a butcher. The thought of Clara walking into an ambush, the thought of losing her, of watching those bright, impossible eyes go dark... it made his blood run cold.

"Fine," Clara spat, grabbing her leather jacket off the back of her chair. "If you won't clear the op, I'll review the server logs myself."

She turned on her heel and stormed out the heavy double doors.

„Clara, my Clara, where are you going?“ he called out, pushing back his chair so hard it skidded across the floor.

He marched out into the main atrium—a massive, polished-concrete hall filled with glass offices, bustling analysts, and armed transit guards.

"Clara!" he barked again, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

Clara stopped halfway across the catwalk, spinning around to face him.

"What?!" she shouted back, twice as angry, her cheeks flushed, her hands resting firmly on her hips.

A quiet hush instantly washed over the floor below.

Agents stopped mid-stride. Senior analysts slowly lowered their coffee mugs. People in the glass-walled conference rooms turned around. In the ten years John "Doctor" Smith had run field operations, he was a ghost. A legend. Always cool-headed, dangerously calm, aloof, and utterly unshakeable. Nobody raised their voice at him. And he certainly never yelled back.

"You are ignoring a direct order from your lead agent!" the Doctor growled, striding down the ramp toward her, his long coat billowing behind him.

"I am questioning a blind spot from a lead agent who is too stubborn to look at the bloody data!" Clara yelled right back, not backing up a single inch as he towered over her.

"The data is a ghost-trace designed to waste agency resources!" He stopped a foot away, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching. He was losing his mind. He was losing the fight and it was all her fault because

A) She was so stubborn it was infuriating.

B) Her angry posture made her ten kinds of hot and he struggled not to kiss her right in front of everyone.

And most importantly D) – no – C) She was incredibly smart. Smarter than anyone he met in a long time. So why couldn’t she see the reason? Why was she so damn difficult about this? Why couldn't she see that if she went down to those docks, she might not come back?!

"It is not a ghost-trace!" Clara argued, stepping straight into his personal space, pointing a finger at his chest. "I built the diagnostic sequence! I know my own code, Doctor! You're dismissing it because you think I haven't been in the field long enough to know the difference between a trap and a trail!"

"I am dismissing it because I am responsible for your—" He cut himself off sharply, the words your life, your safety, you nearly spilling out in front of fifty staring operatives.

"For my what?" she challenged, her dark eyes flashing. "Go on. Say it."

The Doctor opened his mouth, but looking at her—so close he could smell the faint scent of jasmine on her skin, her posture daring him to step across the line—his brain went completely deadlock.

A beat passed.

Then he just glared, his jaw grinding until it ached.

"The op is denied," he gritted out, his voice dangerously low. "Go back to your desk, Agent Oswald."

Clara stared at him, hurt and furious, and stormed off opposite direction disappearing through the security turnstiles without looking back.

The Doctor stood alone on the elevated catwalk, his chest rising and falling as he stared at the empty doorway.

Then, he slowly became aware of the dead silence hanging over the entire building.

He turned his head slightly. Down on the main floor, dozens of agents, technicians, and guards were staring up at him in absolute, wide-eyed shock, mouths practically agape.

The Doctor didn't blink. He carefully reached up, smoothed the lapels of his dark jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and cleared his throat with smooth, effortless elegance.

"Back to work," he commanded softly.

The entire atrium instantly burst into a flurry of panicked activity—keyboard clacking, paper shuffling, people rushing down hallways—as if a bomb had just gone off.

The Doctor turned on his heel and walked back toward his office, head held high, looking completely calm, perfectly composed, and definitely not like a man who was in desperate need of hard liquor. Now.

The next day, the Doctor walked into the main atrium, and the usual roar of morning activity instantly quieted to a low, nervous buzz. Everyone who had missed the catastrophic shouting match the day before was being brought up to speed by wide-eyed witnesses.

He ignored the stares, keeping his head up as he walked straight into the office he shared with Clara. He had a witty remark lined up about her finally seeing reason. He hadn't fully thought it through, but he was certain the words would come the second he saw her face.

He opened the door. Her desk was empty.

It looked exactly as she had left it yesterday evening—and he had been the last person in the building. His brows furrowed. Clara had worked at the agency for 304 days. In all that time, she had never skipped a day, never called in sick, and never arrived a minute late.

He sat at his desk. He waited twenty minutes. Then he pushed himself up and stormed straight into Miller’s office without knocking.

"Where’s Clara?" he demanded, bypassing any greeting.

Miller looked up from his tablet, staring at the Doctor as if he were the idiot in the room. "Isn't she in the office?"

The Doctor stood there, cold and unimpressed, not bothering to answer.

"Maybe she’s still cooling down from the fight you two had," Miller added after a beat, his voice betraying the smirk he was trying very hard to suppress. "Give her a minute, mate. She probably just went to get coffee to avoid glaring at you."

The Doctor spun on his heel, retreated to his desk, and dropped into his chair with an exasperated sigh. He tried to focus on his work, knowing Miller was probably right. She’d get over it quickly. She always had. By tomorrow she’d be back, he’d bring her the Freddie’s milkshake she loved so much, and she’d be back to chattering his ears off. Everything back to normal.

Only on the second day, she still hadn't appeared.

He subtly asked about her after the morning briefing with the Chief, but the man knew nothing about her whereabouts. "She's probably taking a personal day after the scene you two caused on the catwalk," the Chief chuckled, clapping the Doctor on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, John. She'll show."

The Doctor gave a stiff nod and left, trying to fight the uneasy feeling washing over him. No matter how many times they bickered, it wasn't like Clara to just skip work.

He called her—no answer. He went back to Miller, who insisted she was just making a point. Giving his theory one last chance, he went to Kate Stewart's office.

"Ring Clara," he ordered curtly.

Kate frowned, setting her pen down. "What? Why?"

"Just ring her!"

Kate sighed, dialing Clara’s secure line. It rang five times before going straight to voicemail. She tried her personal mobile. Nothing.

Ignoring Kate’s sudden barrage of questions, the Doctor turned and walked out. He got straight into his car and sped to her apartment.

He breached the lock in seconds. The flat was empty, but the case papers regarding Missy were scattered across her coffee table, the room looking like a tornado had hit it. She had left in a hurry. He called her again and again—nothing.

When three full days passed without a single word from her, the Doctor officially raised the alarm, putting the entire agency on red status.

As the hours dragged into four agonizing, crushing days of zero leads, the agency stopped telling him "she's fine." The silence in the war room grew suffocating. And the Doctor, operating completely without his anchor, unspooled into pure, razor-edged venom.

"I asked for a traffic grid sweep from the Southwark sector forty minutes ago!" the Doctor barked, slamming both palms down onto the central terminal so hard the glass display rattled.

An analyst winced. "Sir, the encryption on those municipal servers is heavy, it takes time—"

"It takes time if you operate with the intellectual capacity of a sea sponge!" the Doctor spat, leaning over the console, his Scottish accent laced with terrifying fury. "If Agent Oswald were sitting in that chair, she’d have bypassed the firewall, mapped the telemetry, and brewed a pot of tea by now! Out of the chair. Move!"

He shoved the technician aside and started furiously clacking away at the keys himself.

Miller stepped into the glass room, looking paler than usual. "Doctor... you need to sleep. You've been up for seventy-two hours. We have teams—"

"Your 'teams' couldn't find a double-decker bus if it ran them over on Regent Street!" he snarled, not even looking up from the screen. "Do not speak to me about sleep while she is out there!"

"John, listen to yourself," Kate tried gently, stepping up beside Miller. "We're all worried—"

"You are concerned," the Doctor corrected coldly, his dark eyes snapping up to drill into hers. "I am surrounded by incompetent fools while my partner is missing because I... because I sent her away! So unless you have a location, Stewart, take your sympathy and clear out of my sight!"

Unable to breathe under the stifling air of the war room, he stormed out into the alleyway behind the building for a breath of cold night air. His hands were shaking violently as he dragged them through his messy grey hair.

His phone lit up in his palm.

Incoming Call: Clara

His thumb swiped the screen so fast he nearly dropped the device. He pressed it to his ear, taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force his voice back into its rigid armor.

"Agent Oswald, you better have a exceptionally good explanation for this—"

Silence. Just the faint, ragged sound of heavy breathing on the other end.

For a beat, he stood frozen. The harsh edge in his voice instantly dissolved, and the faint, desperate smile he had tried so hard to keep tucked away slipped out completely—because something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Clara?" his voice cracked, reeking of absolute terror. "Clara, what's wrong? Where are you?"

Then came a low, musical chuckle in the background—a sound that turned the blood in his veins to solid ice.

"She's been asking for you..."

Then:

"Oh, Doctor," a terrifyingly familiar, posh voice purred into the receiver. "You still haven't changed, have you? Always carrying your heart on a plate. I've got your precious little Clara. And if you want her back, you're going to have to find me first. Tick-tock, Doctor. Her life is running out."

A manic laugh echoed through the speaker before the line went dead.

The cat-and-mouse game was a psychological nightmare.

Missy wasn't just hiding; she was taunting him with pieces of their shared past, completely unraveling the Doctor's usual cool, calculating mind.

The first clue arrived at the agency front desk in a pristine velvet box labeled Happy Valentine’s Day. Inside was a square of white cardstock with a heart drawn in dark, dried blood. Laboratory analysis confirmed it within ten minutes after scraping it off: Clara Oswald. Doctor’s own blood froze upon the viewing the results.

The second clue arrived six hours later—a plain glass vial delivered directly to his desk. Inside was coarse, yellow sand.

No note. No address. Just sand.

The Doctor sat at his desk, staring at the small bottle in the harsh fluorescent light. His hands were shaking so violently he had to lace his fingers together to hide it. Sand. What did sand mean? London had a thousand construction sites, riverbanks, and industrial yards. He ran every algorithmic permutation through the agency mainframe, frantically cross-referencing high-silica soil samples against known terrorist safehouses, but the data yielded nothing. He was losing his mind. Every second that ticked by was a second Clara might be bleeding out in the dark.

He picked up the vial, uncapping it with a jerk, and poured a few grains into his palm. He rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The texture. It wasn't coarse river silt or fine crushed limestone. It was soft, ocean-washed beach sand mixed with tiny, microscopic specks of rusted iron filings.

The Doctor's breath hitched. His eyes went wide.

The playground.

Decades ago, when they were both young, brilliant and arrogant teenagers, they used to break curfew and sneak out past the perimeter fence to an abandoned, derelict park near the old industrial harbor. The park had a cracked concrete pit filled with imported beach sand, right next to the abandoned ironworks. It was the only place in the city where they could sit on top of the rusted climbing frame, argue about anything and everything, and look at the stars without anyone else watching.

He bolted out of his chair, knocking his mug to the floor, and sprinted for the garage.

He drove like a lunatic, careening through London's narrow streets, his mind racing. But as he tore down the dark, deserted highway leading toward the harbor, his dashboard display chimed.

A high-frequency transmission flashed across his encrypted comms screen. No text—just an image file uploading automatically from an untraceable IP address.

The Doctor slammed his foot on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt in the middle of an empty intersection. He stared at the screen.

It was a photograph of a worn, silver pocket watch sitting on a steel ledge. The casing was scratched, etched with a crude, hand-carved symbol they had made together as children: two overlapping circles with a line struck through the center.

His stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

It was his old watch. The antique silver timepiece Missy had stolen from his desk during their third year at the Academy—the one he had spent months searching for, the one she had laughed about losing in the harbor.

She hadn't lost it. She had kept it for decades.

And in the background of the photograph, barely visible behind the silver casing, was a massive, rusted brass gear—part of the giant clock tower attached to the derelict sugar refinery adjacent to the playground.

She wasn't at the playground itself. She was inside the old refinery's primary storage tower, directly beneath the massive overhead silos.

"I'm coming, Clara," he choked out, his voice cracking in the quiet cabin of the car. "Hold on. Please, just hold on."

He slammed his foot back onto the accelerator, the engine roaring as he tore through the iron gates of the abandoned industrial district.

When he kicked open the heavy steel doors of the tower beneath the clock face, a horrific, deafening cascade hit his ears.

THRRRRRRRRRRR.

The door's motion breached a delicate pressure seal. Millions of tons of fine, golden sand poured down from the overhead silo, cascading through the shattered ceiling and flooding the entire lower room in a blinding, suffocating tidal wave.

The Doctor dropped to his knees in the doorway, staring in absolute, paralyzed horror as the room filled to the brim, a billion pieces of sand falling all around him, spilling over his boots and burying the floor.

It was a kill-box. She had been buried alive under tons of suffocating pressure. No one could survive that—not even his brilliant, impossible Clara.

The realization robbed his body of the ability to stand on his own two feet. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, the sand grinding beneath his palms, a single, broken word managing to choke out past the agonizing lump in his throat.

"Clara..."

Hot, unbidden tears finally spilled from his eyes, dripping into the dust.

He was still on his knees in the sand, utterly defeated, when a slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the dark catwalk above.

"Oh, look at you," Missy cooed, stepping into the dim light, her heels clicking softly on the metal. "The great John Smith. Broken over a girl. It took you years to replace me with another junior agent, and look how quickly she broke."

The Doctor didn't move. He didn't speak.

Slowly, agonizingly, he stood up. When his head finally lifted, his dark eyes were no longer blue-grey—they were several shades darker, burning with the absolute, terrifying definition of pure wrath.

"You took her," he said softly.

"She was a distraction, darling!" Missy laughed, tossing her hair back. "A noisy, mediocre little insect!"

"She was mine!" he roared.

The fight that followed was brutal, visceral, and tragic—two former best friends, two brilliant minds who had once shared everything, now destroying each other in the dark. Fists slammed into steel railings; knives flashed in the shadows. They traded devastating blows, their history hanging heavy between every strike.

"We could have owned this world!" Missy screamed, her lip bleeding as he pinned her against the railing.

"You killed the only thing that mattered!" the Doctor hissed, his knuckles white as he drove a heavy right hook into her jaw, knocking her cold.

Clara was currently running as fast as her legs carried her: she wasn't dead.

She was bruised, exhausted, and severely dehydrated after five days without proper food or water, but her mind was still razor-sharp.

Missy had held her chained in an upper control room overlooking the silo, keeping her tied up while she monitored the Doctor's frantic movements.

"Three years," Missy had sneered, pacing in front of Clara while holding a silver blade. "Three years I spent at this agency proving I was clever enough. Proving I was his equal. And then you waltz in..." She leaned down, grabbing Clara’s chin, her eyes flashing with wild, jealous malice. "...and suddenly he smiles."

Missy scoffed, dropping Clara's face. "He got a total downgrade with you, sweetie. A little junior agent. But don't worry—once he watches this room fill with sand, I'll let him grieve. He’ll know what true loss feels like."

Missy had walked out to trigger the trap, locking the heavy steel door behind her.

What Missy hadn't accounted for was the brutal, agonizing tactical escape training the Doctor had forced Clara through six months ago—the training she had hated him for at the time.

"Thank you, you arrogant old man," Clara rasped through cracked lips, thanking her lucky stars and everyone up in heaven that her bad luck was finally turning around.

Using a hidden tension wrench she’d slipped into her boot lining during their initial struggle, she picked the lock on her hand restraints, slipped out of the room through an upper ventilation duct, and slid down the building's exterior drainage pipe.

Exhausted, stumbling, and operating purely on survival instinct, she didn't wait for him at the warehouse. She knew Missy’s entire blueprint. Missy had spent her time bragging about her master plan to wipe out the agency's upper management using a back-door virus uploaded directly from the Doctor's terminal.

Clara flagged down a passing delivery van, hijacked it at gunpoint using her agency badge, and tore back toward headquarters to warn them.

Twenty minutes later, the main doors of the agency war room flew open.

The Doctor walked in, dragging an unconscious, zip-tied Missy across the floor by her collar. He dumped her at Kate Stewart's feet like a sack of lead. He didn't say a word. He just turned, his eyes dead and hollow, heading toward his shared office to drown in the dark.

"Doctor!" Kate called out, her voice trembling slightly. "Doctor, wait!"

He stopped, not turning around. "Put her in deep storage. I'm done."

"Doctor... I think you wanna see Clara now," Kate said softly.

The Doctor froze.

Slowly, looking like he couldn't believe what his ears were clearly hearing, he turned his head. "What did you say?"

"She hijacked a delivery van, came in through the back gate, and handed us Missy's entire server override," Kate smiled softly. "She's dehydrated and battered, but she's alive."

The Doctor didn't run. He walked—moving almost in slow motion, in absolute, stunned disbelief—toward the medical wing.

He pushed open the door to Bay 3.

Clara was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, an IV drip hooked into her arm, a paper cup of water in her hand. She looked exhausted, pale, and covered in bruises—but her brown eyes were bright and whole.

The moment she saw him, a soft, tearful smile broke across her face.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice raspy. "I... I know I should have listened to you about the data. I'm sorry—"

He didn't let her finish.

The man who hated hugging crossed the room in two massive strides, pulling her tightly against his chest. Clara gasped softly before burying her face in his neck, her hands clutching at the back of his dark jacket.

The Doctor closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar, lingering scent of jasmine beneath the dust and grime. He exhaled a long, trembling breath, letting out all the terror of the last five days.

"Clara," he whispered softly into her hair, thanking everything and everyone up there for bringing her back to him. "My Clara..."

--------------------------------------**------------------------------------

When the Doctor’s eyes blinked open, the head-splitting throb at the back of his skull was the least of his problems.

His wrist bones burned against heavy iron restrains. Across a small wooden table, the sonic screwdriver sat just out of reach, its silver casing mocking him under the dim hanging bulb. His mind was a muddy, treacherous swamp—half modern agency tactics, half a centuries-old alien consciousness, and half... Viktor.

A soft, warm touch found his fingers. He snapped his head sideways, discovering Clara tied back-to-back with him, her fingers desperately twisting around his to offer whatever comfort she could.

A footstep crunched on the stone floor. Out of the shadows stepped Viktor’s father.

"So. Who are you? Or should we just call you a fraud?" The older man leaned in close, his voice dripping with an annoying, smug satisfaction.

"What are you talking about?" the Doctor managed to rasp out, his voice thick with exhaustion. Clara tightened her grip on his hand, feeling the tremors running through him.

"My son never wanted this marriage," the father snorted, pacing the room. "I expected him to run. So I bought that artifact—that little device—to make him obedient. A genie-in-a-bottle sort of thing. Except it didn't just force his obedience. It reshaped reality to give me everything I wanted. But then the local police mentioned your ridiculous little leather wallet... 'Scotland Yard.' That’s when I knew."

"The real Viktor ran weeks ago," the Doctor pointed out weakly. "He broke your spell."

"I know that!" the father hissed, his composure instantly snapping into rage. "What I can't figure out is how he broke it, and why every fiber, every fiber of my being, every cell in my body keeps telling me you are my son when I know you're not!"

The Doctor managed a weak, painfully sassy eye-roll. "That’s what happens when an idiot plays with a dark, ancient device he doesn't understand."

"If everyone in this town sees him as Viktor Ritter," Clara added, her voice sharp despite her pale face, "how do you know he's not?"

The father stepped up to Clara, brutally grabbing her jaw in his hand to force her to look at him.

"Let her go!" the Doctor snarled, violently rattling his heavy iron chains until the wooden chair creaked under the strain.

"Because of you, dear Clara," the father sneered, ignoring the Doctor's rage. "Or whatever your real name is. I can barely remember the name of the girl Viktor was supposed to marry. But then again, every woman who comes near this family is a gold-digger looking to bleed us dry. Just like poor Rita."

"You mean the girl you murdered?" the Doctor spat.

"I didn't mean to!" the father snapped, letting go of Clara and walking around the room in agitated circles. "Not at first! She caught me coming out of your room that night and accused me of meddling in my son's life! As if she didn't have her own ulterior motives," he scowled, clearly hinting at the maid's forbidden love for the real Viktor. "But that was the moment I realized the power of the device. I can do whatever I like—all I have to do is picture it in my mind."

He dragged a single finger through the empty air.

A sharp, invisible blade sliced across the Doctor's cheek. The Doctor hissed in pain as a bead of dark red blood trickled down his jaw.

"You killed that girl just because she told you to let your son be?" Clara’s voice bled with utter horror and disbelief.

"She was annoying!" the father snapped defensively. "We got into a fight, she followed me outside, and I just wished she would be quiet forever. And... well. That's what happened." He waved a dismissive hand, referring to the dark magic that had driven the poor girl to collapse dead into the thorny rose bushes.

He leaned against the edge of the table, sounding utterly unhinged. "Imagine my surprise when my 'son' tells the police he's from Scotland Yard. The hints were all there. You stayed, you obeyed, you agreed to marry the girl... but then dear Clara got sick."

The Doctor perked up, a sharp spike of adrenaline cutting through the fog in his brain. It hadn't been psychic bleed making Clara nauseous back at the estate. "What did you do to her?" he growled, pulling hard against his bindings once more.

The father hovered over him, a dark, wicked smile playing on his lips. "Just a few drops in her drink. Nothing too serious. But then again, nothing is more serious than love. Nothing exposes your true feelings quite like the fear of losing someone. The way you cared for her... never denying that you love her... the very fact that you came charging after her like a tragic hero tells me everything I need to know. You are not Viktor Ritter."

The father grabbed Clara by the arm, pulling her roughly away from the Doctor. "Now tell me. Where is my real son?"

The Doctor looked up. The disorientation in his eyes suddenly vanished, replaced by an icy, ancient deadpan. "I don't know."

"Tell me!"

"I told you," the Doctor repeated softly, his eyes dead serious. "I don't know."

Before the father could strike him, Clara took advantage of his distraction. With a burst of desperate energy, she twisted her wrist, slipping her small hand entirely out of the hastily tied rope. She slammed her elbow directly into the father's ribs. He gasped, stumbling back into the table and knocking the psychic artifact to the stone floor.

"Doctor, now!" Clara yelled, diving to untie his hands.

The Doctor snatched his sonic screwdriver off the table, buzzing their bindings free in a flash of blue light. Clara scooped the golden, thrumming psychic device off the floor, and together they bolted out the side door into the freezing night.

The retreat to the TARDIS was a nightmare.

The moment they stepped onto the forest path, the psychic device in Clara’s hands began to thrum frantically, fighting to retain its hold over its host. The Doctor collapsed sideways, his heavy weight crashing into Clara. She threw his arm over her shoulder, half-carrying, half-dragging him through the dark woods.

"Clara..." the Doctor gasped, his eyes wild, shifting rapidly between brilliant alien light and terrifying, blank submission. "It's... it's taking over..."

"Hold on! We’re almost at the ship!" she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes as she hauled him up the TARDIS steps and slammed the blue doors shut behind them.

The Doctor slid down the side of the central console, collapsing onto the metal grating. His breath hitched violently.

"It's too late," he whispered, his voice trembling as he looked up at her with terrifying finality. "I'm too far gone, Clara. The psychic feedback... the next time I wake up, the illusion will win. I'll take over Viktor's life completely. The Doctor won't exist."

Clara dropped to her knees beside him, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. She grabbed his lapels, looking down at the man who had burned through time and space just to save her. In the face of losing him forever, the most important question tumbled out of her chest.

"Is it true?" she sobbed softly, her hand trembling on his shoulder. "What he said... about you loving me?"

The Doctor looked up at her. For a fraction of a second, the ancient, fiercely protective Time Lord stared back through the haze of Viktor Ritter. He opened his mouth, his lips parting to answer, then... his eyes went unfocused. The spark vanished. He blinked, staring at her face as if looking at a complete stranger, no longer recognizing who she was.

No.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear spilling over her lashes. She braced herself for the heartbreak, but when her eyes blinked open again...

She was lying on a soft mattress, staring up at the bare wall of a high-rise London flat. Across the room, mounted neatly, hung a pair of electric guitars. Warm morning sunlight filtered softly through the blinds.

Feeling a strange dampness on her skin, she lifted a hand and wiped a fresh tear off her cheek.

Beside her, a heavy arm was wrapped comfortably around her waist, and soft, familiar kisses were being pressed gently against the curve of her bare shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he muttered softly, his thick Scottish accent heavy with sleep.

Clara turned onto her side to face him, her eyes blinking unfocused as her brain scrambled to catch the fading thread of her thoughts. The 1920s estate, the psychic device, the kidnapper, the TARDIS... it was slipping away like sand through her fingers.

He reached up, gently taking her face in his warm hands. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

"Clara," he asked softly when she just kept staring at him in quiet disbelief, "bad dream?"

She shook her head no. Then yes. Then stopped, looking completely unsure.

"You... you didn't feel it?" she whispered.

He just raised one gray eyebrow at her, a sleepy, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Clara looked around the room, taking in the familiar clutter of their agency life, the sunlight, the electric guitars.

"Wanna tell me what it was about?" he murmured, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone.

She stayed quiet for a long moment, carefully putting her thoughts back together. Finally, she lifted her head and stared directly into those sharp, familiar eyes.

A small, secret smile touched her lips.

Then:

"We got married."