Work Text:
Clara leans back against her headboard and frowns, squinting at the book in her hands. She turns the page with one hand, reaching for the light with the other—it’s getting dark, maybe if she—
Vworp vworp.
She jumps—the book falls to her lap—the TARDIS materializes a few feet from her bed. She sighs, closing her eyes briefly, then picks up her book again and resumes reading, reaching once again for the light.
It clicks on just in time for her to see the TARDIS doors open, out of the corner of her eye. The Doctor pokes their head out, opens their mouth—
“No,” Clara says, without looking up.
They frown. “I haven’t said anything!”
“No,” she repeats.
“But—”
“I’ve said no.”
“You’re just reading a book! I’ve got something much more exciting, c—”
“I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Clara says offhandedly, gripping her book tighter and trying not to think about the mess with the year tens, or the administrative errors, or the network issues, or—
“Impossible,” the Doctor scoffs.
“Very possible.” She shoves the last catastrophe in a mental drawer and locks it with three separate keys.
“I could read the book for you,” they offer, tapping their fingers on the side of their leg.
“…I’d rather find out what happens for myself.”
“Telepathic transfer!” the Doctor says. “It’d be just like reading it yourself, only faster.”
Clara considers the offer a few moments too long—it’s more tempting than it should be—then shakes her head minutely, goes back to reading. “No, thanks. Don’t want your embellishments.”
The Doctor narrows their eyebrows, but doesn’t argue the point. “Well, could you hurry up, then?”
She moves the book up higher, hiding her face so they won’t see her glaring. “No.”
“Why not? I’d be done in about two seconds!”
“Well not all of us have super Time Lord reading powers!” she snaps.
“I don’t—”
“Yes you do. Now shove off.”
The Doctor frowns. “…Look, if you just want to read, that’s fine—but does it have to be here?”
Clara looks up in time to see them glance round the apartment with obvious distaste. “Well I’m not reading on Metepelis E,” she says scathingly.
“Metebelis 3,” they correct her, still frowning round at the walls.
“Whatever!” Her grip on the book tightens; she’s only ever seen the name written down, and of course she flipped the letters, and of course they corrected her—it’s just that kind of day. She should’ve known better than to even try saying an alien word she hasn’t heard aloud before.
She can feel their eyes on her now, and ignores them more pointedly than before, trying to dive back into the story. It’s impossibly difficult—their eyes are boring a hole in her forehead—and she ends up having to reread the same sentence three times, because the words make sense individually, but not together. She slows down, pretends the Doctor isn’t there, focuses—and has to stop herself from mouthing the words as she goes, force herself to keep her hands still at her sides instead of letting them follow along.
It works, but it takes everything she has to keep ignoring the Doctor’s staring, to keep her face blank and not snap at them to leave, or chuck the book at their face—why are they still here, can’t they see she’s busy, she’s not going to break this time, no matter how long they wait.
The silence drags on, broken only by the occasional turning of pages, the occasional creak of an old floorboard as the Doctor shifts on the spot, rocking back and forth on their feet and alternating between glaring at the walls and glaring at her. Finally Clara drops her book and hauls herself to her feet, fed up with both the author and the alien.
“Fine. You want to go off chasing monsters? Fine. I’ll come.”
The Doctor raises their eyebrows, gestures shortly to the TARDIS. Clara stalks over to it, pushes her way inside, heads for the console. A long, long beat later, the Doctor joins her.
“Where to?” she asks, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. A moment later, she realizes she’s just used her teacher voice on the Doctor, and can’t decide whether she ought to be mortified or amused.
“Library. Biggest in the universe!” They gesture dramatically with one hand, the other tucked in their jacket. “Grand reopening!”
Clara collapses into the nearest chair, massages her temples. “Great.”
The Doctor frowns. “Look, if you want to stay home, that’s fine. I’ll just—”
She looks up through her fingers. “What? Find someone else? Fat chance.”
“—go alone,” they finish, frown deepening.
Clara rolls her eyes. “I’m already here. Save the guilt trip for another day.”
“…Fine.” They turn away, and Clara closes her eyes. She hears the familiar clicks and beeps of the Doctor working on the console, the whir of their screwdriver, and then a loud smack that echoes once, followed by a quiet scraping. She leans back in the chair, fights a smile as they start muttering under their breath. They can’t go more than a few weeks without picking fights with their timeship—though they claim she always starts them—and it never fails to amuse her, even on a day as infuriating as today.
She opens her eyes to see them scowling at the console, running their fingers over a set of switches without flicking any of them. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Shut up. No. I’m just—” They flick a switch, and the TARDIS whirs. “There.”
Clara waits a few moments, but nothing happens. “Impressive,” she says dryly, and stands—nearly trips. She scowls down at her feet. “Doctor, you really need to—” She breaks off. She didn’t trip over a spanner, or one of their thousand manuals—it looks like—she bends down, picks it up, and yes, it’s her book.
When had she brought it on the TARDIS? She could’ve sworn—well, obviously, if it’s here, then—
She frowns, blames the forgetfulness on lingering exhaustion, and sinks back into the chair with her book. After a moment’s hesitation, she cracks it open again—the way today’s going, the Doctor will get the TARDIS working in the next few seconds and she won’t get to read more than a word or two, but if she doesn’t try to read it’ll probably be hours, so…
She opens it to roughly the place she’d left off on—she hadn’t bothered marking it, she’d been too angry—and frowns.
This isn’t her book.
She flips through the pages, confirms that the font’s weird on all of them. Definitely not her book. But—she flips it over to the back—no, there's this morning’s coffee stain, courtesy of Danny. And—she opens the front cover—there's her name, in the blue pen he’d bought her, the one with the feathers.
It's her book. But the font—?
“Doctor,” she says.
Their head jerks up. “Yes? What?”
“Your ship’s ruined my book.”
“No she hasn’t.”
“She’s changed the font.”
“Has she?” They sound disinterested, turn back to the console.
“Yes.” She looks up at the ceiling. “You might’ve asked!”
“She probably thought she was helping.”
“How?” Clara snaps. “It was a gift, and she’s changed it!”
They shrug, but she sees irritation beneath the indifference, hidden in the set of their jaw, the shift of their shoulders. “It’ll change back eventually. It’s still readable, isn’t it?”
Clara glances back down at the book, and has to admit that it is. A few more moments’ reading reveals that it is, in fact, more readable than before. The letters don’t shift around as much. “…Yes,” she says at last.
“Good,” they say vaguely, some of the tension winding out of their shoulders. “Now, if we just…” They press some more switches, turn a few dials, and then head for a doorway that hadn’t been there a few seconds before, and walk through without another word.
Clara frowns after them—all this fuss about leaving, and they haven’t even taken off yet, much less arrived and started saving the library or whatever it is they’re supposed to do there—anything but read, she’s sure. She turns back to the book and starts reading, falling into the story much more easily than before, losing herself in it until—
“Clara?”
She looks up, blinking. “Have we landed?”
“Yes, come on.” They head for the door and she follows a half-step behind, leaving her book behind on a chair.
-
“—amazing,” she says. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Didn’t even have to save anyone,” they say, and she isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a good thing or a bad one—they’ve been a bit quiet for the last few hours. At first she thought it was out of respect for the institution, but then dismissed the possibility—the Doctor, respect an institution? Never. Then she thought it might be that they were absorbed in the books—but no, looking at them now, they just seem…tired.
She resists the urge to ask if they’re okay. They don’t seem to want her to; they’ve busied themself at the console, avoiding her gaze.
She picks her book up from where she left it, and sits back, losing herself in the story again. It occurs to her that the font is very similar to the one the library books had used. It must be standard in the future—is that why the TARDIS chose it?
The Doctor clears their throat. “I can change that back for you, if you like.”
“Hm?” She looks up, meets their eyes.
They look away after a few moments, then look back. “The font. I can change it back.” They hold up the screwdriver, gesture with it.
“…It’s fine,” she says, reluctant to let it go, but not wanting to let it show on her face or in her voice. “I’ll wait for it to wear off on its own.”
“I thought you didn’t like it?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. I just wish she’d asked first.”
“She could hardly—”
“We’ve spoken before. And she could’ve asked you if nothing else.”
“…Right.” They pause. “I’m sure she’ll remember in the future.” They pause again, rock back on their heels. “…Has it helped, then?”
“Sorry?” Clara frowns. Do they know—?
“You looked like you had a headache. The font’s easier on the eyes–or at least it was last time…”
Clara resists the urge to frown more, as part of her wonders how to respond to that, and another notes that she had been squinting and rubbing her temples, and it’s not an unreasonable conclusion to reach. “…Last time?” she asks.
They shrug, look a little uncomfortable. “It’s not the first time the TARDIS has ruined someone’s book.”
“Oh?”
“She did it to another friend of mine. Very good friend. Very good accent. Very good skirt.”
“Amy?” Clara guesses, thinking of the woman the TARDIS had shown her once—from what she understood, she’d been Scottish, and Clara knew she’d had a fairly short skirt to go along with her outrageously long legs—though why the Doctor would consider a short skirt “very good” was beyond her; they didn’t even seem to notice things like that, much less actively like them.
The Doctor furrows their eyebrows, frowning. “What? No. Jamie. James McCrimmon.”
“Did he have headaches, then?”
The Doctor shakes their head, doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “No, dyslexia.”
Clara feels herself flush. “…Oh,” she says at last, pieces slowly falling into place.
“I was teaching him to read—eighteenth century native, no schooling,” the Doctor continues, smiling faintly, “—and he said the letters kept moving round, so the TARDIS weighed them down.”
“Did it work?” she asks carefully.
The Doctor shrugs. “Seemed to. And he said it did.”
“But you don’t know?”
“The TARDIS kept tweaking the font, but he left before she perfected it.” They shrug again, turn to the console, fiddle with a few dials.
“Oh.” She doesn’t ask why Jamie left. It’s obviously a sensitive topic, and she isn’t sure she wants to know, anyway.
One thing’s for sure, though—she was right, the TARDIS didn’t change anything about her book. She wonders how long the Doctor’s known she’s dyslexic, wonders if they figured it out in her bedroom, watching her reread the same sentence three times, or if it was earlier, when she mixed up Austen’s publication dates while they were playing caretaker, or even earlier—did they flip through 101 Places to See and find the notes scribbled in the corners, with their backwards b’s and upside down n’s? Or had it been before they even met her—had one of her echoes told them?
There's no way to know, and she isn't going to ask, not now--but she does wish she’d been able to tell them herself. It’s always better—everything is always better—on her own terms. But this isn’t bad.
It’s even sweet, if a little awkward and roundabout—but awkward and roundabout is how they do affection. She smiles, closes her book, and stands, overwhelmed with the desire to hug them. “Hey.”
They turn around. “Yeah?”
“Do you mind if I…?” She extends an arm.
They take a step back, shoulders drawing inward, a crease forming between their brows.
“...I’m not going to hug you,” she says, and their shoulders relax, but they take another step back, bumping into the console, and the crease settles deeper. “I promise.” She drops her arm to her side.
They nod fractionally, but don’t move.
She thinks quickly, then says, on impulse, “Do you mind if I hold your hand?”
They frown deeply. “Why?”
“No reason—just something my mum used to do, thought I’d share.”
The frown deepens, but they hold their arm out stiffly. She takes their hand, threads her fingers through theirs, and squeezes twice.
“What are you doing that for?”
“It’s a code,” she says, extricating herself. “Two squeezes—for thank you.”
They raise an eyebrow. “What for?”
“For taking me to the library, and not a desert planet under siege,” she lies dryly, and she knows they see right through it, but all they ask is—
“No, what was the code for?”
“Oh,” she says, and shrugs uncomfortably—the story was a bit embarrassing, really, she hadn't thought this through. “It’s—did I ever tell you about the time I got lost?”
They nod. “After Uvalt.”
She’s surprised they remember. She barely remembers Uvalt herself, much less what they talked about afterward—it’s probably for the best. “Well, before it happened I used to worry about getting lost, so my mum came up with a code system. A single squeeze from her meant I’m here, and two from me meant Thank you. I didn’t need it afterward, but we kept using it anyway, out of habit.” She pauses. “It’s a bit silly, but—”
The Doctor shakes their head. “No.”
Silence falls. After a long moment, the Doctor breaks the spell, taking them somewhere new with wild eyes and a wide grin.
-
If the Doctor squeezes Clara’s hand once a few harrowing adventures later—if she squeezes back once in response—neither of them mentions it when they’re safe on the TARDIS again.
-
If Clara squeezes their hand once after a prolonged separation—if the Doctor squeezes back twice, unsteadily, instead of their usual once—neither of them says a word.
-
If Clara, one day, unthinkingly, squeezes their hand three times—if the Doctor hesitates and responds in kind—if Clara realizes, too late, that she never explained the third code signal, the most-used signal, the one that meant I love you—well. It doesn’t seem to matter—she doesn’t seem to need to explain—and so they don’t seem to need to discuss that, either.
-
If Clara and the Doctor begin to use the third signal more often—if Clara reverts to it every time she has the urge to hug them—if the Doctor finds themself doing it while walking with her through alien cities—if they finally have a somewhat stilted conversation, a clarification, an emphatic platonic, yes—if they exchange a relieved set of three afterward—well. They’ve discussed it, now. There’s no more need for if’s, or pretending it isn’t happening.
-
They keep using the signals long after the Doctor becomes comfortable with her hugs.
-
Long after they forget the hugs—long after they forget her—they remember the code.
Muscle memory.
-
They squeeze River’s hand tight three times, without thinking. She looks sad, but won’t tell them why.
-
They never lose the habit, not quite.