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Chapter Text

Clara was putting the last touches of her makeup in front of her vanity.  She was dressed in a lovely royal-blue dress made of silk and taffeta with a full skirt and bustle, a low round neckline emphasized by pretty lace on the throat, and a V-shaped bodice.   Crinolines under the skirt gave her an hourglass figure and a tiny waist.  She’d put her hair up in an elaborate braid wound around her head held in place with faux sapphire barrettes, with mahogany curls fringing her forehead.  Her shoes were dancing pumps with two-inch heels and black bows.  A glittery half-mask with a black elastic band to hold it in place, an enormous frilly fan, and a purse matching her dress lay ready on her bed.  The entire look (except for the mask) was emphatically prim and Victorian and wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Paternoster gang’s house (although Madame Vastra might have just asked her to take most of it back off, much to Jenny’s consternation.) 

A quiet buzzing sound came at regular intervals from somewhere behind her.  Frowning, she homed in on her purse, where she’d tucked the mobile phone she’d inadvertently switched to silent.

It was the Doctor.

Frowning, Clara pushed the green call button.  “Doctor.”

“Clara.  I need someone to go with me to the swamp planet of the Artax system.  I want to talk to a species of sentient turtle there that’s as big as an island and thousands of years old.  Lots of quicksand and sinkholes, though.  Might need help getting out if I fall in.”

Clara grimaced.  “This isn’t really a good time.  And we didn’t have anything scheduled today.”

There was a pause.  The Doctor must have known perfectly well that he was calling on a day she’d reserved for herself, but she’d gone with him so often anyway on unexpected calls that he’d taken it for granted that she always would.

“Why isn’t it a good time?”

“I’m on my way to a party.  “

“You didn’t mention you were going to a party yesterday.”

“Well, I didn’t know yesterday.  My friend Edna only called after you dropped me off.  A masked ball, she said.  She even had a dress and all the accessories delivered to me.  I couldn’t very well say no.”

“What’s…what’s a masked ball?”

Clara chuckled as she applied mascara. “You know, when you all wear outrageous period clothing and masks so that no one knows who everyone else is.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“You must have attended one at least once in your life.”

“Never.”

“Of course not,” Clara muttered, “it’s not like you walk around looking like you’re already in one, except for the mask.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”  Clara exhaled.  “Look.  It’s not like you can’t just flick a few switches and come back tomorrow, right? You don’t even have to wait.  I promise tomorrow I’ll be in a waterproof coat with wellingtons up to my thighs and lots of rope so I can pull you out of your swampy sinkholes.”

“Fine.”  The Doctor sounded a little sulky.  “Where is this stupid ball going to be held, anyway?

Clara blinked at her reflection on her mirrors, checking if she’d done everything evenly.  “Edna—who’s my fellow teacher at Coal Hill—reserved a venue on Beech Street.  She sent me pictures.  Apparently, there’s this gorgeous old mansion there that’s perfect for stuff like this.  The furnishings look like they’re from the nineteenth century.  We should go there one time.”

She overheard some irritable grumbling, like why he’d want to go to a make-believe nineteenth-century house when he could just as easily go to one in the real nineteenth century.

Clara sighed, although he did have a point. “Whatever.  We can go wherever you want.  Just not tonight, okay?  Promise you won’t bug me until tomorrow?”

Her exasperation must have carried over more than she’d intended because the Doctor’s voice became oddly formal.  “I promise I won’t come unless you ask me to, Clara.”

“Alright.  Thank you.” Clara had the sudden urge to apologize or take back everything she’d said, but she restrained herself.  The Doctor had to learn that she had boundaries, that he couldn’t just turn up whenever he wanted and expect her to drop everything for him.  It was easy for him, not having a social life or real-world responsibilities (except for occasionally saving the universe), but she did.  He had almost infinite time on his hands, but she didn’t.  She was in her mid-thirties now, having been the Doctor’s companion for the past eight years.  Their adventures couldn’t last forever. It was time they both learned that, and this was her way of slowly weaning him away from her or her weaning herself away from him.

“Four p.m. tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, boss.”  And with that, the Doctor signed off without even saying goodbye.

Clara stared at her phone before putting it back in her bag.  Yup, he was definitely vexed at her refusal.  Well, too bad, Time Lord.  He had to start getting used to that, now.

Feeling a hint of excitement, Clara picked up her mask, fan, and purse so she could go downstairs and call a cab.  What she hadn’t told the Doctor was that she wasn’t just going to any masked ball.  It was a singles masked ball. A marriage market, as it were.  Thirty men and thirty women from all walks of life, ranging from their late twenties to their late forties, all with the intent of finding a lifetime partner.  The reason for the mask and the prescribed costumes was so that everyone could get to know each other without the barrier of outward appearances. 

Clara wasn’t particularly keen on the prospect of dating a younger man—she found a lot of them immature and infantile even when they were the same age as her—but she wasn’t against the idea of being with someone older.  Even much older. There was a certain appeal to having a partner with much more experience in life, who could teach her about things she didn’t even know existed.

She hadn’t always thought like this—certainly Danny Pink hadn’t fit that description, at least age-wise, but her preferences had been shifting lately.  She wasn’t dense enough not to realize why, but that didn’t matter.  The only one who could live up to Danny was not just out of her league but out of her solar system and oblivious, to boot.  There was no use pining after him.

When Clara entered the designated ballroom thirty minutes later, she couldn’t help gasping in delight.  Edna had done a bang-up job with the decorations. The walls were draped with luxurious gold fabric, and there were gigantic bouquets of flowers everywhere.  The wooden floor had been waxed to a sheen (although she hoped it wasn’t too slippery to dance on), and the chandeliers had been fitted with hundreds of electric candles that flickered yellow like the real thing.  There was a musical quartet in one corner, composed of musicians wearing appropriate clothing and playing soft classical music on a piano, a cornet, a violin, and a cello.  Servers strolled around the dance floor, offering wine, punch, and finger food to the masked and richly attired figures, both male and female, who milled around in small groups.  Clara estimated that at least two-thirds of the estimated guest list had arrived already. 

She fanned herself giddily. It was like stumbling into a taping of the Netflix series Bridgerton. 

“Clara! Is that you?”

“Edna!”  Clara turned to greet a tall, curvaceous woman in an emerald-green dress and mask like hers.  “This—this is incredible!  How did you afford all this?  You didn’t even ask me to pay an entrance fee! The rental and the decorations alone must have cost thousands of pounds! And then there’s the matter of this dress, which you just sent me…”

Edna hurried her to a corner of the room where they could talk privately. “Clara, I wasn’t the one who sent you your dress,” she said breathlessly. “But the person who did sent costumes for everyone, including the men.”

Clara just gaped at her.

Edna laughed.  “There’s this eccentric millionaire who somehow found out that I was setting this up last week.  My plan wasn’t nearly this grand.  I only rented out a plain hall with aluminium chairs and a simple sound system.  The food was beer and junk food.  Nothing fancy. I was going to ask the attendees for no more than a few pounds.  It was a chance for singles like us to mingle without spending a fortune.  Then I got this call the day before yesterday from some big tycoon who wouldn’t introduce himself except by the pseudonym “Mr. Silver.”  He said he was willing to fund a much more extravagant masked party, including the venue, costumes, food, music--the works.  But he had two conditions.”  Edna grinned.  “The first was that he wanted to include his son among the guests.”

“Oooh.” Clara eyed the males in their period-appropriate calf-length frock coats, waistcoats, high-waisted trousers, and cravats, wondering which one of them was the heir Edna was talking about.  “Why, what’s wrong with him? Shy?  Anti-social? Really unlucky with girls?”

“No idea.  I asked that too, but my benefactor insisted that his son was smart, well-spoken, mature, responsible, and self-made.  Wouldn’t accept his father’s money.”

Clara gave her friend a disbelieving glance.  “That sounds like a fantasy.”

“Yeah, I know.  I thought Mr. Silver was having me on, too.  But he told me to call the proprietor of this place, Mrs. Chimney, and she confirmed everything, at least about the arrangements.  All the guests had to do was show up.  So, I thought, if Mr. Silver was telling the truth about one thing…”

Clara looked down at her obviously expensive dress.  “And the clothes?”

“Mrs. Chimney asked me for a list of the names of the people who’d RSVP'd and said she’d take care of everything.  I’ve worked with her before—I already knew she was honest.  So, I gave her what she wanted, and everyone got their updated invitations and costumes in the mail, just as she’d promised. It was amazing.”

“Wait.  “Clara turned to face her friend.  “You said two conditions.  What was the other one?"

“Well, here’s where it gets interesting.”  Edna rubbed her hands gleefully.  “Mr. Silver also said that I had to make sure you came, too.”

Chapter Text

Clara stared at Edna.  “Me? Why me? I don’t know any eccentric millionaires!”

Edna shrugged.  “Well, you may not know him, but he knows you.  He asked for you by your full name, even gave a capsule description of you.”

Clara folded her hands.  “I’m not sure I like this.  I feel like you’re setting me up here, Edna.”

Her friend flapped her hands placatingly.  “No, no, you misunderstand me.  Only your attendance tonight was mandatory.  Nothing else.  Whether you want to pair up with anyone or not is up to you.  And if you do, it doesn’t even have to be with Mr. Silver’s son, whoever he is.  I don’t even know his name or what he looks like. And everyone came in here already with their masks on, like you.  All I know is that he’s here somewhere, and maybe his father is just hoping you’ll hit it off.”

Clara frowned. “I still don’t like it. Don’t you have any idea who Mr. Silver really is and how he knew about us in the first place?  What is he, a parent of one of our school kids?  One of the school administrative board?  One of our donors?”

Edna shook her head.  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.  I asked, but all he would say was that he’s been observing us for some time, and he just wants to see us happy.” 

Clara looked at her skeptically. “So…his idea for our happiness was to throw a masked singles ball and make sure to invite me and his son?”

Edna grinned.  “Maybe you impressed him so much in some way that he picked you to be his daughter-in-law? That’s rather sweet if you think about it, isn’t it?”

“It’s rather creepy, that’s what it is,” Clara muttered.

Edna linked her arm around Clara’s and smiled at her appeasingly. “You know I and the rest of your friends just want you to put yourself out there again, don’t you?” she said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Coz it seems like you stopped trying completely after Danny Pi—” Clara shot her a warning look, and Edna stopped.  “Fine, that’s none of my business.  Just talk to some of the guys here, okay?  Just talk.  That’s all. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Clara was quiet for a moment.  It wasn’t that she hadn’t been trying.  It was that she’d already found someone she clicked with, genuinely connected with, who challenged her, annoyed her, and made her want to snog his gigantic brains out.  The problem was, he probably didn’t know, probably didn’t reciprocate, was way too old (like that wasn’t the understatement of the year), and wasn’t the type she could talk about or show off to her family and friends (Hello everybody, this is my boyfriend, the two-thousand-year-old alien who turns into a completely different person when he dies, fixes things with a light-up wand that makes a weird trilling sound and lives in a spaceship-slash-time machine that’s semi-sentient and pretends to be a blue police box.  Anybody want some tea?). 

No.  The Doctor would never be the husband she could return to with the picket fence house and the kids; he would always be looking for trouble, and he would never ever settle down.

Clara wasn’t the impossible girl.  The Doctor was the impossible man.  And she had, stupidly, irrevocably fallen in love with him.

Clara finally sighed.  “Fine.  I’ll give this ball of yours a shot.  But no promises.”

“I know that. I didn’t ask for any. By the way, here.”  Edna attached a small card with ten printed lines and a tiny pencil around Clara’s wrist using a piece of gold elastic cord. 

“What’s this?”

“It’s a dance card.  Any guy who wants to reserve a dance with you must write their name there first.  Once your card’s full, you can’t dance or talk to any other man.”

Clara looked at the object askance.  “I think you’re taking this Victorian theme too seriously.”

“Silly girl, it’s supposed to impart a sense of competition,” Edna said wisely.  “If the guys know they can interact with anyone anytime, they won’t have any initiative.  But if they think the girl of their choice might be running out of blanks on her card, then they’ll try to make a move early on.  See?”

Clara chuckled in amusement.  “How did you learn so much about these things?”

“I love Victorian romances.”  Edna winked.  “Don’t worry about it.  I don’t think you’ll have any trouble filling your card up with eligible gentlemen.”

Edna was right.  Even with her beautiful face concealed, Clara was a hit with her darting intelligence, varied talents, and witty repartee.  It also didn’t hurt that her sapphire dress made the most of her already lovely figure. Her dance card was filled in no time, to the point that several men complained that they hadn’t gotten a chance to even come near her.  A few tried to negotiate with Edna, but her friend was strict about the rules she’d instituted.  Clara didn’t mind; she didn’t want to talk to more than ten men, anyway.  It would be like having ten speed dates all in one night. She knew there were such things now, but she wasn’t a fan of them.  Speed dating sounded exhausting.  Besides, if the ones who’d lost out really wanted to get to know her, they could always find another way to run into her again. Edna, for example.

The next three hours seemed to fly by, with Clara waltzing gracefully around the room in the arms of ten masked strangers, chatting amiably with other women during dancing breaks, drinking fruit punch, and eating dainty finger foods like crab-stuffed mushrooms, cucumber sandwiches, and mini quiches.  She laughed, talked, joked, and tried to be as scintillating as possible.  There was no doubt that she was the belle of the ball, which made Edna absolutely rapturous. 

Clara was actually enjoying herself, which surprised her a little.  She’d thought that social interactions like this would seem boring and dull after her escapades with the Doctor.  It was gratifying to learn that she could still function like a normal human being, after all.

Now and then, Clara would unconsciously scan the crowd with tense anticipation, as if she were breathlessly waiting for someone to appear.  After a while, she realized that she was looking for the Doctor.  He shouldn’t be too hard to find since the masks and suits all the men wore wouldn’t be able to hide the grey hair, lanky frame, and gravelly voice she’d come to know so well.  She couldn’t help imagining him in period costume, maybe even wearing a top hat, his anachronistic sunglasses instead of the mask, and a sonic cane or some such nonsense.  He’d look drop-your-knickers stunning in it, like a steampunk Duke.

Despite all her protestations of boundaries and me-time and all that, Clara had half-expected, maybe even wanted him to ignore his promise completely and come anyway.  But as she slowly flirted her way through the men at the party, she became convinced that he wasn’t there after all.  She sometimes got the strange feeling that she was being watched, but whenever she turned in the direction of the heated gaze she’d felt, there’d be no one there.

Soon, Clara accepted the surprising conclusion that, for once, the Doctor had actually done what he’d said and stayed away. 

She didn’t know how to feel about that.  On one hand, she was glad he’d stayed true to his word.  Lying when it suited his ends was one of the things he was notorious for.  On the other hand, she was also disappointed that he could force himself to stay away from her when she was with many people her age and quite obviously looking for a partner.  Did he no longer find her interesting? Had he started looking for her replacement? Maybe he didn’t…what? Like her anymore? Love her anymore?  She didn’t even know how he felt about her.  It was so frustrating, yet she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Clara told herself sternly that the Doctor’s unpredictability was precisely why she was here. This was right.  This was good.

By the end of the night, Clara had gravitated to the sixth guy she’d danced with.  He was a man who, even with a half-mask, looked attractive, with dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, and a cleft chin.  He was almost a foot taller than her, stocky but not fat. He seemed kind, funny, well-educated, considerate, and genuinely fascinated by her. He had her giggling about the ridiculousness of British politics and deploring the vagaries of wokeness and modern social mores. He brought her glass after glass of champagne, held her fan when she went to the bathroom, and escorted her to a seat when her feet started to hurt.    He mentioned that he was a businessman with a stable and steadily increasing income and wanted to settle down.

He seemed almost too good to be true.  Clara realized that he fit the description of their mysterious benefactor’s son perfectly.  And when she asked him his name, he answered with a grin, “Arthur.  Arthur Silver.”

Yup, it was him.  What were the odds? Was Arthur’s choosing her from a pool of thirty ostensibly pretty, accomplished women simply an enormous coincidence? Had Mr. Silver given his son a picture or a description that made him home in on her despite her disguise?

Did it matter? 

Clara thought about asking Arthur outright, but she realized a definitive answer would influence the favorable impression she already had of him.  If it were the first one, she’d be okay with it.  But if it were the second…  

Being a supreme control freak, Clara hated being manipulated. She didn’t like anything in her life being controlled by anyone else.  It had happened once before when Missy had given her the TARDIS’ phone number to bring her together with the Doctor, but that had been a miraculous exception--the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She didn’t think it could happen to her again. 

The not knowing was infuriating.

However, she wasn’t infuriated enough, even if their entire encounter had been orchestrated, to immediately decline when Arthur offered to drive her home after the party, a glint in his eye that suggested he might want to take the night further if she was willing. 

It had been so long since she’d been with someone.

Maybe it was time to turn her back on the Doctor for good and give someone else a try.

Chapter Text

Something didn’t make sense.

Clara was a clever girl. People had always told her so.  Even the Doctor.

That time when she’d realized Daleks were capable of becoming good before he did:

“Clara Oswald, do I really not pay you?”

“You couldn’t afford me.”

And the time when he’d said, “I think you’re probably an amazing teacher.”

His words had warmed her heart more than she’d dared show.

All these external affirmations from the smartest person she knew had made her trust her instincts, especially her ability to see when something didn’t quite fit the available facts.  And her intuition was tingling faintly now.  She was missing something. Something that was right in front of her.

The problem was that the feeling was tantalizingly nonspecific.  She had no idea where, what, or who it was coming from—if it was something concerning the Doctor and his stupid turtle island, Mr. Silver with the son he was inexplicably pimping out, or Edna and the masked ball.  She didn’t know if her senses were being dulled by the champagne, the heady feeling of being liked and desired, or the general unfamiliarity of the situation she was in.  Slightly disturbed, she put it at the back of her mind for the meantime.  It would come to her.  It always did.

Arthur was just as physically dreamy as Clara had imagined when they finally walked out of the mansion together and removed their respective masks. Clara hadn’t noticed that he had a bit of a mustache that served to accent his facial features. Edna waved to her excitedly—and perhaps even a little jealously—when they drove away.

Arthur drove Clara to her flat well below the speed limit, then walked her up the flight of stairs, making corny Dad jokes all the while.  They stopped in front of her door and faced each other, Arthur with a small smile, and Clara with nervous anticipation.  After a beat, Arthur stepped closer.

Oh, God, he’s going to do it.

Arthur bent down.  Clara closed her eyes as his mouth closed completely over hers.

Hair, a little bristly, over his warm and moist upper lip—

Soft lips, a little papery, skin several degrees below normal human temperature--

Cigarette smoke, leather, coffee, and patchouli—

The smell of old books, tea, chalk powder, and sandalwood—

Strength, masculinity, authority, confidence—

Kindness, loyalty, selflessness, courage—

Clara broke free with a gasp, staggering backward a step.

Arthur laughed a little, his face flushed.  “Well, that was something.”

Clara just stared at Arthur, her fingers over her mouth.  She’d never kissed the Doctor; there had never been anything explicitly romantic between them, so why did she feel as if she were cheating on him? Why was he insinuating himself in her imagination, a living ghost standing between her and the possibility of happiness?

Arthur misconstrued her expression.  “Sorry.  Didn’t you like that?”

“No, I did!”  Clara grasped Arthur by the arm before he could think of leaving, grinning weakly. “I just haven’t done it in a while.”

“Oh.” He scratched his head.  “Well—”

“Would you like to come in for a spot of tea?” Clara followed up quickly.  “It’s not too late yet, we can—we can talk some more.  If you’d like.”

Arthur’s expression lightened.  “Sure.  I’d love that.”

He followed her into the flat, making appreciative noises at her vintage furniture and eclectic color combinations.  Clara installed him on the living room couch, turned on the telly, handed him the remote, and then hurried to the kitchen to put on the kettle.  She stayed there, her back braced against the wall for a few minutes, her heart pounding. 

How far was she willing to take this? Why was she doing this? Even her own inward protestations of finding a lifetime partner sounded hollow now.  Could it be for so shallow a reason as spite?

When the kettle boiled, she poured out two cups of hot water and piled all the boxes of herbal tea she had available on a tray.

“I have peppermint, chamomile with lavender, and ginger with honey,” she announced, gingerly walking in with the tray and setting it on the table.  “Take your pick.”

Arthur picked out peppermint and plunked the bag into one of the cups. “It makes for good breath,” he remarked with a suggestive wink.

Clara blinked, her hand poised above the chamomile lavender blend that she liked to drink when she wanted to sleep well. Slowly, with a boldness she didn’t know she had, her hand drifted to the box of peppermint, too, and chose one bag of that instead.  “That’s useful,” she answered, trying her best to sound flirtatious.

Arthur took note of her choice, his eyes darkening.  He’d made a subtle move, and Clara had answered, more out of the sense that she shouldn't instead of that she should.

Take that, Doctor.

They started talking about trivial, inconsequential things: the weather, the terrible traffic, and even the latest movies in the theaters. Arthur inched nearer during the entire time.  They’d started with around a foot and a half of space between them, but he casually traversed it like a master; first, by laying his arm across the back of the sofa, then sitting back on a slightly different spot after putting his cup back on its saucer, then crossing and uncrossing his legs in such a way that each change in position somehow narrowed their proximity.

For some reason, Clara had to fight the urge to edge away every time Arthur did something that closed the distance between them.  She didn’t know why.  Arthur Silver seemed like a perfectly decent man, and they were engaging in a perfectly normal social interaction that could end in a perfectly acceptable way.  Their courtship might be a little fast, even for the times, but this was what Edna and the rest of her friends wanted, not to mention the enigmatic Mr. Silver, and for the first time, Clara wondered if it was time she stopped discounting the viability of an idea just because she hadn’t come up with it herself.

Clara was startled by the sensation of Arthur’s knee bumping into hers. 

“Tea’s gone,” he commented, showing her his empty cup. 

Clara took it automatically and stood, intending to head for the kitchen.  “I’ll boil some more water.”

Arthur got up and followed her, clasping her right wrist before she could go a few meters. “I’m not really here for your tea.”

“Oh.” Clara faced him, clutching his cup tightly.  “What are you here for, then?”

Arthur took the cup from her and set it gently on the table behind him.  “I think you know.”

And then, without further ado, he swooped down on her. They stumbled backward, aiming vaguely for Clara’s bedroom as they kissed. Arthur was ravenously hungry, his hands roaming over every inch of Clara’s body he could reach that wasn’t protected by multiple layers of apparel, while she was more hesitant, not quite believing that she was participating in what could turn out to be a one-night stand. Fortunately or unfortunately, no matter how many hooks Arthur unfastened or buttons he unbuttoned, there always seemed to be more.

“This Victorian costume was a bad idea,” Arthur complained in a bass growl, trying to figure out the next stage of undressing Clara so that he could see and touch more of her skin.

“Blame your father,” Clara said breathlessly, not really helping him, but not resisting either.  They sank onto her bed with her on the bottom, Arthur starting to kiss his way down her throat while his hand crept up her leg.

“Blame him? I’m thanking him.  He was the one who put the two of us together.” Arthur released the last fastening of Clara's bodice and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor. He went to work on the next part of her costume that he could remove.

“Spent a lot of money just to make it happen,” Clara continued, not sure why she was babbling when Arthur so clearly wanted to do something else rather than talk. She’d made no move to undress him back.  Instead of the pent-up passion she should be feeling by now, she was instead consumed by a very Doctor-y need for more information. “He said a lot of nice things about you, as well.”

“Yeah, ’smart, well-spoken, mature, responsible, and self-made.’ Not bad for the crazy old codger.”

Okay, that wasn’t a nice way to refer to one’s father, Clara thought uncomfortably, especially someone with obviously good intentions. Also, the adjectives Arthur had used to describe himself sounded very specific.  Too specific.  Clara tried to remember where she’d heard them before.

“He never did tell Edna his real name,” she said, craning her torso away when he tried to access her cleavage with his mouth. “Can you enlighten me?”

“Denton,” Arthur answered impatiently, all but ripping her outer skirt and crinolines off.  “Denton Silver.”

I got this call the day before yesterday from some big tycoon who wouldn’t introduce himself except by the pseudonym ‘Mr. Silver.’

Edna’s voice seemed to ring in Clara’s ears as the sensation of wrongness she’d been feeling since Arthur told her his name graduated to a clamorous warning.

Pseudonym.

“Mr. Silver” was a false name, which meant that his real son shouldn't have that surname. 

Clara rolled off the bed just as Arthur tried to remove her last remaining coverings.  “You heard us,” she accused him breathlessly, backing away now dressed in nothing more than a corset, petticoats, and her knickers.  “Somehow, you heard Edna and me talking at the party. Even the words you just used to describe yourself were her exact words.  You’ve been trying to live up to them all night.  You introduced yourself as Arthur Silver, but you forgot that Edna said Mr. Silver was a pseudonym.  You’re not his son at all!”

Arthur stood up and followed her, his hair askew, his eyes wild with lust.  “So I cheated a bit,” he said, moving toward her.  “What difference does it make if I’m the son of this lunatic or not?  You like me, don’t you? You invited me into your home, didn’t you? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Clara backed away from him, swallowing.  She suddenly realized how big he was in relation to her petite frame.  He easily weighed twice as much as she did.  If he wanted to force himself on her, there wasn’t much he could do about it.  “You invited yourself here under false pretenses,” she said loudly, stalling while she tried to figure out what to do.  They were in her room, which was tiny, but fortunately, she was the one nearest the door. She edged towards it. “I’ll call the police and tell them everything.”

Arthur grinned cunningly, sweat beading on his upper lip, and Clara wondered how she could have ever found him handsome or charming. “I’ll make sure you won’t be in any position to call anyone, little princess,” he breathed.  “And by the time anyone finds you, it won’t matter.”

He made a grab for her.  Clara dodged him with a gasp and dove for the hallway.  She tried to run to the front door, heedless of her state of undress, but Arthur was too fast for her.  He barricaded the way,  still cackling like a maniac, and Clara was forced to back away, panting, back to her living room.  Her mind whirled with feverish intensity as she swiftly examined and discarded her options.  Her bag!  She’d left it on the coffee table.  She leapt for it, scrabbling desperately for her phone.  Instinct was shouting for her to dial emergency services, but she knew they’d never get there in time. Instead, she forced her shaking fingers to input a much longer number. 

Just as she was about to press send, two immensely strong, muscled arms circled around her midsection, crushing her and impeding her ability to breathe.  Clara tried to flail and scream, but one massive gloved hand snaked up to cover her nose and mouth.  She couldn’t breathe.  Couldn’t.  Her vision was starting to dim. Her struggles weakened.   Doctor, where are you?!

And then blackness.

Chapter Text

Clara slowly swam back to consciousness.  She was lying in her bed, all the lights off except for one lamp.  She was still in the corset and petticoats she’d been wearing earlier but seemingly covered to her chin by all the blankets she possessed.  Her whole body ached.  She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten back into her room.  She remembered being driven home by Arthur and then—

She gasped, sitting up, clutching the covers to her chest as her memories came flooding back.  Her exclamation must have alerted someone outside because the door flew open, and a tall black figure burst in, switching on the lights.

Clara started to shout in terror, but her vision mercifully adjusted to the sudden brightness, and the sound died in her throat.

It was the Doctor.  But he was dressed like Arthur, in a black Victorian coat, waistcoat, trousers, and cravat.  A black half-mask was even tucked into one of his coat pockets.  Weirdly, even his gorgeous grey hair had been dyed black, which meant that his physical appearance looked about ten years younger.

Clara absently registered that his cheek was bruised, his lower lip was split, and he was developing a black eye on the left side.

“What—what—” Clara stuttered, shrinking back in denial. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Clara, Clara…calm down…” The Doctor approached her slowly, his black-gloved hand held out reassuringly. Clara stared at it in unconscious fright, visions of another such hand suffocating her. He immediately removed the glove, stuffing it deep into his other pocket. 

“Why are you dressed like that? Why’s your hair like that?”

The Doctor sank on the end of Clara’s bed, well away from her feet, giving her space.    “I think…you already know.”

Clara released a mirthless half-laugh, shaking her head in incredulity.  “Oh, God.  I’m an idiot.  You’re Mr. Silver.”

The Doctor gave a tiny smile, inclining his head in confirmation.  “Well, I don't look it now, obviously, but yes.”

Clara stared at him.  “It was you.  You contacted Edna.  You set up the ball.  You made her send me an offer so enticing I couldn’t refuse.”

“Yes.”

“Your invitation to find that giant turtle wasn’t real; it was a fakeout, so I wouldn’t suspect that you were behind everything.”

“There’s really a giant turtle in Artax, but yes, it was a fakeout.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed.  “You don’t have a son.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why did you say you did?”

“I didn’t.  I said Mr. Silver did.  A smart, well-spoken, mature, responsible, and self-made’ man.  Most of the qualities a modern woman would want.  Edna must be a superb teacher; she relayed that quite accurately.”

Clara threw up her hands.  “But he never existed!”

The Doctor shrugged.  “There were thirty young men there.  I thought at least one of them would fit the bill.”

Clara glared at him.  “Yeah, and of course, someone overheard my conversation with Edna, someone who turned out to be a raging psychopath.”

The Doctor flushed guiltily.  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that; he fooled me too.  I was observing you at the party, watching everyone you danced with, trying to keep you away from the wankers.  But I should have realized you’d be intelligent enough to spot them.  It was the less obvious ones I should have watched out for.”

The obscenity from his mouth, someone she’d never heard swear even mildly, showed just how much the whole incident had affected him.  As it bloody well should have, Clara thought viciously.  He’d been trying to protect her—she’d sensed him do it—but he’d almost failed, anyway.

“What happened after Arthur and I left the house?”

The Doctor loosened his collar.  “I—I followed you, but high above the sky so you wouldn’t see me.  When you arrived, I parked the TARDIS outside and listened through the front door to make sure you were safe.”

Clara groaned as she remembered all the embarrassingly heated sounds he must have heard. “I’d kill you for invading my privacy if you hadn’t saved my life, but…then what?”

The Doctor cleared his throat.  “It sounded like you were happy with what was happening, so I turned to leave,” he whispered.   “And that’s when I heard the struggle; things overturning, feet pounding, and you trying to scream.”

Clara shuddered in remembrance.  “I lost consciousness.  I don’t know what happened next.”

The Doctor exhaled.  “I sonicked the lock and kicked the door open.  That bastard was throttling you on the sofa.  I wrenched him away and threw him to the floor. We brawled for a few minutes and broke quite a few things around your flat; I’m sorry, you’ll need to replace your coffee table and your tea set—”

Clara focused on the Doctor's injuries and suddenly noticed that the sleeve of his jacket was ripped, and he was hitching his breath every time he breathed.  Arthur was a big man, not quite as tall as the Doctor but easily twice as wide.  Arthur may have been subdued but at a terrible price. There was no telltale sign of golden regeneration energy glimmering from the Doctor’s hands, but he could be suppressing it.  She clenched her fists in fear for his safety, but she controlled herself. 

She would see to his injuries later, but not yet.

“What.  Happened. Doctor?”

The Doctor closed his eyes. “He tripped over my leg.  Bashed his head against the wall.”

Clara gasped.  “Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. I dropped him off at a hospital.  They should take care of him there.”

Clara started to rise.  “Oh, my God.  People saw him leaving with me.  They’ll think I’ve done something—”

“He wasn’t even registered in the list of attendees.  That’s the problem with masked parties like that; it's hard to keep count.”

“Aren’t you listening? People will connect his injuries with me!”

“Clara, I dropped him off at a hospital…in New Zealand.”

Clara stared at him in disbelief, her frenzy screeching to a halt. “you…what?”

“Yes.  I don’t think anyone will believe him if he says he was assaulted by a five-foot woman and an old man in a flat in London, on the other side of the world.” The Doctor gave her a wan smile. 

Clara slumped back on her bed and covered her face with her hands.  “You’re unbelievable.”

“I try to think of everything.” 

She peeked at him incredulously from between her fingers, she with her clothing ripped down to her underwear, and he looking like a heavyweight wrestler had mauled him.

He hastily amended his statement. “I mean, most of the time.”

Clara was quiet for a few minutes, watching him squirm.  Finally, she decided to release him from his misery.

“Just tell me one more thing, Doctor.  Why? Why do all this?”

He looked almost relieved at her question.  “I wanted to make it easier for you to leave me. That’s what you wanted, wasn't it?”

Clara frowned. If she’d thought he was done pulling surprises on her, she was wrong. “Excuse me?”

The Doctor sighed.  “I could feel it.  You thought you were hiding it from me, but…you really weren’t.  You were thinking that the lifestyle you were leading wasn’t sustainable.  That you couldn’t do this forever—teaching at Coal Hill, pretending to be happy all by yourself in your little flat so your friends and family wouldn’t ask questions, and then whisking away with me to some alien planet in the TARDIS.  Being a companion is a young person’s game, and I’d already robbed you of too much of your youth.”

Clara tried to speak, but the Doctor held up a hand to stop her.

“You were right, Clara; your concerns were justified.  It’s just that…” his voice broke, and he averted his gaze to somewhere beyond her head, his eyes red.  “I.  Couldn’t.  Let you.  Go.”

Clara felt a lump in her throat as she observed the obviously real pain in his features.

“I knew that if I didn’t do or say anything, you’d just keep traveling with me out of pity.  I couldn’t let you do that.  Even though I would have gladly let you stay with me for the rest of your life, it wouldn’t have been fair to expect it if you didn’t really want to.”  He stood up and started pacing in front of her.  “I could have done what I have with other companions before—simply left you here in your flat one day and never come back.  I did that with Sarah Jane; though I accidentally dropped her off in Aberdeen, Scotland, instead of South Croyden.  She never saw me again.”

Clara felt her heart skip a beat in horror that he’d been contemplating doing this with her.

The Doctor must have registered her emotion because he turned to her, finally meeting her gaze.  “But I couldn’t.  Not with you.  I wasn’t strong enough.  So, I had to find a way to make you leave me. And it may have been a foolish plan, but that was the only thing that occurred to me at the time: to set up a singles ball where you could possibly meet someone nice enough who could convince you to stay here, on Earth. Because as you’ve told me before, Clara,” He smiled sadly, wryly.  “I don’t know if I’m a good man.  At least, not good enough for you.”

He loved her.  He hadn’t said it yet, but that was what he was implying.

Clara stood, letting the blankets fall so that her body was bare, clothed only in her underthings.  The Doctor politely averted his eyes.

“And I went straight for the bad boy, the rebel, the gatecrasher with a false name,” she breathed, walking toward him slowly.  The Doctor backed up in confusion and hit the wall.

“Do you know what the main difference between you and Arthur whatever-his-real-name is?”

"He's young, handsome, and built like an ox?"

Clara's hand shot out and slammed against the Doctor's chest, pinning him in place.  The Doctor grimaced as if she’d hurt him with her action, which didn’t make sense because she was tiny.

“You are both capable of so much,” Clara whispered. “But Arthur uses his gifts to satisfy his own ends.  You use yours to help others.  You may not be a good man yet, but you try to be.  And like I've also told you before, that’s all that matters.”  Just tell him, Clara. Do it first.  “That’s why I...I love you.”

Scorching silence. They stared at each other from one foot away.

“So, you don’t…don’t really want to leave me?” the Doctor stammered.

Clara rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to leave you, but it’s hard to stay when the other person has the lifespan of a god and the attention span of a gnat.  I’ll devote my whole life to you; you’ll mourn me for a little while after I die, and then you’ll move on and find somebody else.  The thought hurts.  It hurts so much that I’d rather go on my own terms before letting it happen.” 

“But it doesn’t have to happen, Clara.”  The Doctor’s tone was suddenly intense as he moved forward so that they were only a few inches apart.  “I didn’t offer you this before because I didn’t know you reciprocated my feelings.”

Clara gasped, her heart seeming to beat double time at his admission.  He loved her. “Offer—offer me what?”

The Doctor cupped her cheek.  “I can make you immortal.”

Chapter Text

Clara stared at the Doctor.  “How? How can you make me immortal?”

“It’s simple.”  He rummaged inside one inner jacket pocket and brought out something very familiar: a small, white, squarish wafer with gold circuitry running through it.

Clara recognized it instantly.  “It’s a Mire repair kit.  Like the one you gave Ashildr.”

The Doctor nodded.  “Yes.”

“I thought you gave her both of them!”

The Doctor cleared his throat sheepishly.  “Actually, I was able to get more.  I just didn’t tell you.”

“How many more?”

The Doctor bit his lip.  “Two.”

Clara looked down.  It was hard to believe that immortality was right there on his palm.

“Where’s the other one?”

The Doctor wordlessly retrieved a second wafer and put it beside the first.

“Why are you carrying these around in your pocket?”

“Too dangerous to leave in the TARDIS.”

Clara could understand that.  The ability to live forever was a very dangerous thing if given to the wrong people.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had them?”

“I—” The Doctor scratched the back of his head.  “I was waiting for the right time.”

“What right time?”

“For you to say what you just said.”

“Which was—?”

“That you’d be willing to stay with me forever.”  He lifted the wafer slightly.  “This is forever.  Literally.  So be very sure of your decision because there’s no going back.”

Clara touched the first kit.  “Is it already modified for a human?”

“It’s already modified for you.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“No, Clara.” The Doctor lifted her chin so she could meet his gaze and understand precisely what I meant.  “I mean, I modified this for you. And only you.  No one else can use it.”

Clara exhaled slowly, her mind blown.  “Since when?”

The Doctor smiled faintly.  “Since I first got it.”

“But didn’t you consider that you might want to use it on someone else?”

He shook his head slowly.  “No.”

“And what if I’d never said those words?”

His smile turned sad.  “Then I would have thrown it away.”

She searched his expression to see if he was joking, but no.  He really meant it.

“Think hard, Clara,” he urged her.  “Immortality doesn’t just mean living forever.  It also means watching everyone else around you die.”

Clara closed her eyes.  She had parents and a grandmother.  But they were all older than her.  She was always going to outlive them. They would never even know that something about her had changed.  She had no siblings and no other close relations. All she had were friends, but she’d been slowly moving away from them for a long time.  No one would really miss her.

She opened her eyes and touched the second kit.  “Who is this for?”

“For me.”

Clara frowned. “But why would you need it? Aren’t you already immortal?”

The Doctor exhaled. “I can live a very long time, yes, but I’m not immortal.  If I’m fatally injured, I can regenerate, but as you know, I can only do that eleven more times. After that…well, you’ve already seen what comes after that in Trenzalore. I don’t think I’m lucky enough to get a third set of regenerations. If I’m injured too badly even for regeneration to fix me, I can die for good at any time.” The Doctor took a deep breath.  “If I use this kit, I won’t even need to regenerate.  It will just keep repairing me endlessly.  It also means I can keep this face.”  Her eyes searched hers apprehensively.  “Unless you don’t like it and you want me to change it first—”

“No!”  Clara interrupted, putting her hand over his mouth before he could continue with the dreadful idea of hurting himself severely enough to regenerate.  She’d been badly disoriented and uncertain about his appearance the first time she’d seen him like this—older, grey-haired, gaunt, full of lines—but as weeks, months, and then years passed, she’d warmed up more and more to him until she couldn’t imagine her Doctor any other way. 

Yes, her Doctor.  She hadn’t been able to think possessively about him when there didn’t seem to be any chance they could be together, but now that he’d given her a way, she was determined to take it with both hands. 

She put her hand on his sunken cheek.  “I want you just like this, Doctor.  Just like this.”

The Doctor kissed her fingers.  “Alright.  If that’s settled, then…Can I go first?”

Clara frowned.  “Why?”

The Doctor grunted, and just as she’d initially feared, his hand, the one holding the wafers, began to luminesce a deadly yellow.  “Because your boyfriend had a knife.” He slid painfully to his knees, his back leaving a grisly trail of bright red blood on the wall.

Clara gasped and grabbed him by either arm.  “You idiot! We’ve been talking for half an hour! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Thought I had it under control.”  He held up the repair kits to her with visible effort.  “If you please, Clara.”

Her hand shaking, Clara picked up the second wafer and pressed it onto the Doctor’s forehead.  He rocked back on his haunches, grimacing as the object melted into his skin.  His muscles spasmed as the kit did its work, Clara grimly holding on so he wouldn’t fall on the floor and hit his head.  She watched as his injuries started to fade: the black eye, the split lip, the bruised cheek, and most importantly, the deep stab wound on the back he hadn’t even indicated he had.  A little too slowly for her liking, the golden radiance on his hands faded, finally taking away the chance that he might suddenly change again into a whole different person in front of her. 

The Doctor hung his head, panting.  “Whew.  That was tiring.”  But his eyes were sparkling again when he looked up at her.  “Thank you.”

Clara promptly slapped him with all her strength.

“Ow! Clara!”

The Doctor looked back at her in bewilderment, the redness on his cheek already fading. 

“That was for scaring me half to death!”

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, still rubbing his cheek ruefully. 

“I love this; I can slap you all I want, and it’ll barely show.”

“Clara.”

“Just kidding.”

The Doctor held up the repair kit.  “Your turn?”

Clara nodded and knelt in a more comfortable position in front of him.

The Doctor paused.  “Last chance, Clara,” he said.  “Last chance for you to change your mind.  If you do this, you’ll outlast the galaxies themselves.  Are you sure you want to do that?  To travel through the universe in the TARDIS until the end of creation?”

Clara grasped his wrist.  “Can you promise that you’ll always be there with me?”

The Doctor smiled down at her with the wafer in his hand, stars in his eyes like he was proposing.  “Through every second of forever.”

Clara leaned forward so that the wafer in the Doctor’s hand touched her skin, instantly dissolving into her system.  “Then, Doctor, there’s nothing else I’d want more.”

-THE END-