The Hybrid - Doctor Who Fanfiction

4

She isn't really a flower type of girl, the Doctor realizes as he reaches the farmers market on one of Clara's favorite planets, Weyun. They have the most lovely flower hybrids and he wanted to get her some, knowing how pretty she thought they were the last time the two traveled to the planet's capital city for a flower parade that lasted three days straight. There were entire floats and balloons made of plants, and everyone wore floral patterns on the clothes, their faces brightly painted with rosy pinks and rich purples. Clara loved the tulip-daffodil hybrid especially, and was utterly fascinated by the way in which the two smells had been successfully combined and amplified to create an entirely new aroma that she swore she would make into an air freshener on Earth some day. Of course, unbeknownst to him at the time, she tried to smuggle a few of the seeds in her purse on their way through customs, but was then arrested by the city's militia for the kidnapping of sentient plant beings. Only after a bit of groveling on the Doctor's part to the Queen of Weyun was Clara Oswald pardoned but politely asked to never again return.

But she had told him recently--or had it been recently? He couldn't remember--anyway. She had mentioned something in passing about hating the visual of physical flowers in physical vases around her home. They didn't remind her of life, or of spring or of a fresh start. But of death and the crushing sympathy from others that did not know her or the deceased; of dark mourning clothes worn by somber, dazed individuals-- of a solider named Pink. So she, like many who had lost a person they loved, hated the sight of freshly cut flowers in a beautifully crafted vase.

Besides, Clara had gone on to say. I've never liked flowers as presents to begin with.

Why?  He'd asked her.

They're so boring, so pointless. I mean, they don't really do anything, do they? They just sort of sit there, these once-upon-a-time living plants that are now slowly rotting away because people want to display them like exhibits in a kitchen's windowsill. They're depressing without even being linked to funerals, if you ask me.

That was an incredibly melancholy speech, Clara, he had narrowed his eyes in her direction. Do you really think all that?

I do.

Sounds a bit--cynical for you, the Doctor remembers telling her with a critical frown. And, you shouldn't say all flowers are boring. I know a few sentient plant beings from the planet Weyun that would be quite offended if they knew a pudding brain from Earth thought all flowers were boring based on the relatively basic choice of bouquets you have on this blue planet!

But his companion had only laughed. Well, space man, if you ever want to bring me some flying flowers, or talking roses as a present--or whatever--then I'm game.

The Doctor, standing in front of the kiosk, ran a hair through his messy gray hair with a soft groan. As usual, when it came to Clara, he didn't have any idea what he was doing.

It was meant to be an apology, the flowers. He was supposed to be making up for leaving her alone on one of the most exciting nights of her life. Well, that, and he wanted to apologize for cutting her hair, keeping secrets from her, his general grumpiness--there was a pretty long of things to be sorry for, actually. He wanted to say a lot of things about how horrible it had all been, however unintentional it was. He took no joy in hurting her. But, of course, he couldn't actually say any of that. Because he was the Doctor, and as soon as he needed to tell someone he did actually care about them--that he'd never leave them (intentionally) and he'd be there for as long as they'd have him around-- weird things started to happen, like buying them houses and cars and moving in with them to keep them safe. As soon as he needed to say those special words to special people, his superior Time Lord communication abilities and processes flew right out into the Vortex, and he was left with the sentence structure capabilities of your average human toddler.