The Hybrid - Doctor Who Fanfiction

6

"What is this?"

The question was met with a confused glance towards the full plate.

"Food." A nervous cough. "It's breakfast."

A dubious stare is thrown down at the plate and then, ultimately, a frown followed by a pushing away of said plate.

"No." A deep sigh. "Thanks, though."

Grey eyebrows on a wrinkled face also twist. "No?"

"Yes, no," she clarifies, nudging the plate further away for emphasis. "I don't want any. Not hungry."

"Really?" The grey furrowed brows lift, mocking her almost. "Doesn't your particular... situation lend itself to eating for two now?"

Clara, whose just about had it with this man--this alien who claims to be a hero, who says he'll do more good than harm as he sets fire to everything within three feet of him--crosses her arms over her chest with a scoff.

"I'm not sure what it is you're implying, Doctor, but--"

"I've cooked your breakfast," he nearly pouts. "The least you could do is take a bite."

"You can't cook," Clara challenges, staring him down. "How'd you make this?"

"I learned." The Doctor mumbles, fidgeting with the TARDIS blue apron he wears, picking at invisible lint.

"Really?"

"I've always known how."

"No," Clara presses, tapping her small petulant finger against her thinning arm. "Wrong. This regeneration of yours is rubbish at cooking, and you know it. So try again. Don't lie."

The older man's eyes shift from her glowering gaze to the floor for a bit before he finally heaves out a disgruntled noise.

"Fine! Fine," he surrenders speedily, if not grudgingly. "I... borrowed it. A sample of some infamous brunch or other from the late 1950s in France."

"You brought me breakfast from 1950s France?" Clara can't help the small smile on her face when she remembers his promise to take her someday for breakfast in Paris. But the memory seems to be hurriedly rushed out of her mind when the rich aromas rising from the decadent food makes her mouth water dangerously in a warning.

"I can't-I can't eat this," she whispers, shutting her eyes to try in hopes to placate her rolling stomach. "I can't even... smell it. How the bloody hell am I supposed to eat it?"

"Lang--"

But the hand she throws up silences him effectively. "Don't."

She's frustrated--but that's an understatement. She's livid and hungry and angry and-and she wants to sleep, but the Doctor has her on a bloody regimen now. He's made her a schedule of sorts, and her next nap isn't due for another hour or so.

"It's been a week," she bites out after her most of her pent up anger has left her feeling drained and empty. "It's been a solid week of tasting nearly everything known to man, and we still haven't--"

"Stop whining," the Doctor snaps, tossing the plate of food out the window carelessly. He doesn't flinch at the sound it makes on the pavement below, nor at the adamant swearing from a neighbor that follows.