Soufflés and Stars [Whouffle/Whouffaldi One-Shots]

Four Times a Charm [Whouffle-ish]

In a way, imagine Clara Oswald, back at the same point yet again. 

I credit a lot to this shipping, along with one of my old friends to the reason why I started writing. With a poetry book of my own publishing in my hands, I felt like returning back into the realm for a brief moment. Plus, the drought disappointed me. 11/Clara deserve more. If I finish this in time, it'll coincide with the 6 years since Peter Capaldi started his venture with Doctor Who.

I apologize if it isn't to the par of my previous stories. I say now that it's not intentional, it has just been awhile.

Roughly between Nightmare in Silver and Time of the Doctor, though it is a considerable time between, enough for them to have gained a sense of proper understanding between them. You can see it as whouffle if you want.

I also want to clarify: I am not shaming sex work. It's not the goal. Claire here was stuck in a situation that she was forced upon, something she couldn't have helped because of what was given to her. I apologize if you are offended in advance.

—

"You're in the wrong place, you are aware of that, yes?"

Oh, no.

He looked up at the voice slowly, finding his thought process had accidentally brought him in a shady alley, where a woman stood under the lamplight. It was her.

"Clara." He whispered, more to himself than to her.

Yes, he intended to come to Victorian London for a bit of a change of pace from the feeling of modernity. It was one of his favorite Earth time periods. He originally had plans to go see Paternoster Gang that he was ever so acquainted with, but everything was derailed at the sound of her voice. Instead, he was getting a strange sense of deja vu at who he was looking at. A woman stood in front of him, hands on her hips and a frown tugging at her features at his stumbling into the alley.

Yet her voice, her face, her...well, everything, certainly changed the situation for him once again. For the fourth time in his time, he found himself face to face with the impossible girl, Clara Oswald (yet if he considered the Dalek Asylum, he supposed it was only three face-to-face meetups). The Clara he had grown to know, modern one with the skirts that were too tight and a smile that brightened the room was back in her time, safe at the Maitlands, far from this period.

Yet why was there another Clara here?

Clara Oswald.

Clara Oswin Oswald.

The impossible girl.

When he gave no answer, her frown deepened and her face became quite cross. Glad to see that was generally still the same in each reincarnation he seemed to meet.

"Wrong name, though it's quite the nice one." She quirked a small smile, though it was gone as quick as it came.

"Sorry. I thought you were someone else." He said, shaking his head. "What are you doing in an alley?"

"Better question, what are you doing here? Are you one of those lads that preys on women? The strange kind? The ones who do it for assault rather than paying for a service?" She stepped closer and jabbed a finger at him, "I know this is a brothel, but the entrance is over there, sir." He glanced at her clothing. It was low cut, protruding her bust line, the skirt was most definitely shorter than normal, and her ankles were even showing. The only bit of coverage she had around herself was a ragged shawl, barely covering her on this winter day. Definitely a prostitute. 

His Clara, a prostitute in this rendition. He felt his cheeks blush deep red when he spent a tad bit longer looking at her cleavage than normal. Instead, he shook his head and forced his eyes to stare back at her very cross ones.