The Defender of Time

Twenty

Clara dropped her pamphlet on the bed and scoffed. "They got me all wrong!" She whined.

The pamphlets, which were each titled with 'Did we get you wrong, _____?', with a name filled in with black ink, detailed the life of whoever it belonged to. Rose's, as she'd whined over, said "rather bitey blonde".

Clara's Doctor (in the bow-tie) furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?" He asked. He leaned over to look at her papers, but she snatched them up again.

With a look at him, she read, "Clara Oswin Oswald, 1868-1892. They made up a middle name and have me slated ninety years before I was even born, and then, here I am, being born again in '86."

Rose hummed. "1886, eh? You're old."

Clara gaped in offense. "No! 1986!"

"Okay, well how can you live for twenty-four years, die, and then be born again?" The other-Doctor raked a hand through his hair and shrugged aimlessly. "We're giving these kids more credit than they deserve, apparently." He looked back down at the bed, shaking his head, and muttered, "Dead and born again? Ridiculous."

The bow-tie bearing Doctor pursed his lips. "Yeah. Ridiculous."

Scrutinizingly, Clara squinted at the former. "You're lying," she said flatly. "Spill."

"It's nothing!" He exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders with an accompanying hand gesture. "It's just Alessia's Mum back from London, they must've mucked up the name and put you in the same category."

"And put her in my little biography? There's something you're not telling me, Doctor, and I strongly urge you to spit it out right now before I come over there and--"

"FINE!" The Doctor yelled. He took a deep breath and spoke with one, long word. "Alessia's-mum-was-also-you-but-I-don't-know-how-and-I'm-still-trying-to-figure-it-out."

Clara's eyebrows climbed up her forehead. "Was also me?" She repeated. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know! She just looked and sounded and... acted exactly like you! Same name, too, that's why Alessia's--"

"That's why her last name is Oswald." Clara licked her lips and looked down at the paper; the other-Doctor and Rose remained silent. "Okay. Maybe she was just my... my great-great-great-grandmother or something like that." Even she didn't sound convinced.

Silence hung heavily around the four for a long moment, before the older Doctor stood up abruptly. "It's quite late," he said nervously. "We should really get to bed. Clara?

Clara pursed her lips. "Yeah. Probably." She stood up and turned to the silent couple, waving awkwardly. "Goodnight!" She exclaimed shrilly. She turned on her heel and sped out of the room, and the Doctor was soon on her heels; they crossed the hallway to the opposite bedroom and slammed the door shut behind them. Almost instantly, Clara was fuming. "What aren't you telling me?" She yelled. "What is all this? Are you really telling me that you don't know how you met me in 1892, you don't know how Alessia turned out to be a part of some... some weird kid Power Rangers group? You expect me to believe you don't know anything, Doctor?"

"Yes!" He replied. "Because I don't know anything, Clara, I don't know what to tell you."

After a long glare, Clara turned around to look out the dark window. "I don't even have a change of clothes. How long will we be here anyway?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Dunno. You can check the closet, though. They could've moved the clothes from your closet on the TARDIS."

"That's ridiculous. There's no way--" When Clara arrived at the closet, she tore open the door. Her entire wardrobe was neatly hanging and folded inside. She ripped a pair of pajamas from their spot on a shelf and stormed off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.