"Dinner at the End of the Universe"

11th Doctor/ Clara

Summary: The Doctor takes Clara to dinner at a famous intergalactic restaurant, with some very surprising after-effects. Set after "The Day of the Doctor."

UPDATED A/N: Soooo, it occurred to me that I really needed to update this note at the beginning. Because when I started this fic, as you'll see in the first chapter, it all began as something happy, funny and light, inspired by the Doctor's line to Clara in "Time of the Doctor" about using the TARDIS for dinner reservations. I always thought it would just be about four chapters, max.

And then... the more I watched S8 (even though this story is almost entirely 11/Clara), the more I got the sense that what was going on between the characters had never been just flirty banter, but the foundation of a seriously epic love story. By the end of the season, and halfway through writing the story, I think I was determined to find a way to give them a happy ending that could be my new head-canon, because they, and those who shipped them, deserve it.

Lastly, I want to reiterate that this is an 11/Clara fic. There is some (non-M rated) whoffaldi in a later chapter, but on the whole, this is 11/Clara's story, from start to finish.

Many thanks again to all the amazing reviews, follows, and faves. You are all awesome!

"Wow, this really is some view," he hears her saying, and the Doctor smiles to himself.

All around them, a million stars are blinking, and the silver light of four nearby moons is shining down on the balcony where he's standing beside Clara. He feels her tiny height beside him, but doesn't bother to check how close she actually is. He's almost afraid to glance at her, because he knows she looks all-too-lovely even in the light of one moon, let alone four.

And considering what looking at her normally does to his hands, giving them a mind of their own, he's a little unsure that he should risk it. So he takes another sip of his drink, then sets it down on the rail of the balcony, watching her from the corner of his eye as she mimics his action with her own drink.

Clara lets out a contented sigh, and he knows he should at least tell her how glad he is that she came with him tonight, of all nights, when there's so much to celebrate. He turns towards her, but before he can open his mouth, he catches sight of her eyes and something within in him goes strangely blank.

It's a moment later that he's dimly aware of something.. different. Clara's eyes, already large and lovely, have just about doubled in size, they're open so wide.

"Doctor?"

"That's me, yes."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing, I'm doing nothing."

"Your hands are… sort of… somewhere new."

They both look down and the Doctor notices that his hands are firmly cupping Clara's breasts, right through her jumper.

"Er, yes, so they are. I didn't notice that until you pointed it out," he says, his hands firmly staying put.

Clara nods, as though agreeing about the weather. "And why are they there?" she asks him casually.

"No idea, best not to notice."

She pauses another moment. "Couldn't be the cocktails we just had, could it?"

He swallows. "That might be a working hypothesis."

"I see."

"Yes."

"So we should just not notice the effects until they wear off?" She asks, and they both look down at his hands for the second time, still stuck to her breasts as though glued to them.

"I'm going to go with yes."

"Should I also not notice that now they're somewhere else?"

The Doctor closes his eyes, because now he's not noticing that his hands have slid down to grab her from behind. He yanks her closer, and she yelps.

"No, definitely we shouldn't notice that," he says, his voice a bit high-pitched.

"Um," she says, and he's determined not to compute the fact that her breath is now coming a bit faster, or that the beat of his hearts has significantly elevated, or that his trousers are suddenly uncomfortably tight.

"Is there a reason we're not noticing this?" she asks.

He gives her a manic, fear-struck sort of smile. "What's to notice? I'm not doing a thing," he says, his eyes wide.

"So to be clear," she says, and she seems to have suddenly developed a difficulty with swallowing, which is safe for him to notice, so he concentrates on that. Until she says, "what you're doing is not holding my arse?"

His mouth twitches and he tries to mentally look away from the fact that, out of every blissful experience in the universe, there's none he wants more than the one that's inches away from him. "No," he says. "And I'm definitely, definitely not about to kiss you, either."

He says it just as his mouth descends on hers, and the feel of her lips against his, the sweet taste of her tongue when his delves in to seek it, makes his ancient brain short-circuit. He's never died in a way that stuck, but he's fairly sure this is what heaven will be like if he ever makes it there. He gasps into Clara's open mouth. When he pulls back, his forehead falls against hers.

"Oh, good," she says breathlessly. "I was a bit worried there for a minute." And then she pulls him even closer.

- TWO HOURS EARLIER -

Oh, you have a lot to do…..

The mysterious curator's words are still ringing in his ears. They dance around the one phrase that is now etched across his consciousness, changing the whole of the universe, changing him.

Gallifrey Falls No More.

He bursts into the TARDIS where Clara is already waiting, and then nearly loses his breath at the sight of her.

The impossible girl, who had not only saved his body a million ways, but who had now saved everything on the inside, as well.

"Big day," she says, smiling at him.

Does she know? Can she possibly know what she's done for him, what today has meant?

"Big day," he agrees, because there are hardly any words that are adequate enough to thank a person for saving your entire planet, your species, your soul.

"We're going home, now, yeah?" she asks, as if she hadn't just been the savior of several billion lives on Gallifrey.

Home. She's given him back his home, and one day he'll be able to say those words again. Going home. Because Gallifrey Falls No More!

He almost laughs out loud with giddiness, but instead he runs to her, sweeps her in his arms and swings her around the control room, delighting in hearing her shriek with laughter.

"Oh no," he says, "not on a big day like this." He sets her down and feels a rush of joy, looking at her flushed cheeks and hair slightly disheveled from his swinging her about.

"We have too much to do," he tells her. Oh, we have a lot to do…

"We, Clara Oswald, are going," he smiles and flips three levers on the TARDIS in rapid succession, "To. Celebrate!"

"There isn't," Clara says, laughing, even though she's looking right at it. "There really is a Restaurant at the End of the Universe?"

"Of course there is, it's the most famous restaurant anywhere," the Doctor tells her proudly, pointing at the lavish-looking white stuccoed building, it's pathway flanked with palm trees that sway gently in the night air.

It looks oddly Hollywood, except that the color on her tv's been adjusted, and the palm trees are gold, and the people standing at the entrance are pink-skinned with orange hair and blazing golden eyes. They look like humanoid versions of a sunset. She gazes at the restaurant again and shakes her head in wonder.

"And here I thought it was just a book by Douglas Adams," she says in awe.

"Oh, Douglas Adams!" the Doctor exclaims. "Lovely chap, I took him here once. He had the Improbability Wontons, if I recall correctly. Very attached to towels, for some reason, I suspect because they came in handy cleaning up the sick after flying the TARDIS, which is why, really, he only came with me that one time." He grins at her and Clara realizes her mouth is hanging open. The Doctor's eyes soften. "I was sorry to hear he passed away. I did send a card."

Clara blinks at him. "In a million years, I don't think I'll ever get used to half the things you tell me."

He beams at her, as though this is the nicest compliment she's ever given him. "Well, then we came to the perfect place. The Parisians make the best food in the universe."

She does a double take. "Wait, Parisians as in from Paris?"

"Yes, but the real Paris, this one, the planet."

"This planet is named Paris," she says, doubtfully.

"Of course, their entire civilization is centered around gastronomy. It's quite fascinating, really."

She feels slightly light-headed, so asks the only logical thing she can think of. "How is that any different from, you know, our Paris?"

"Ah," he says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Because these Parisians have developed food that's not only delicious, it's telepathic."

"It's what?"

"Telepathic gastronomy!" he announces happily. "And not just telepathic, but empathic, as well. Food that lets you not only smell and taste and touch, but actually feel and experience new thoughts."

"What kind of new thoughts?"

"Well, there's all sorts of things you can choose. Say the chef was particularly happy the morning he made your crème brulee, you'll feel his happiness. Or if maybe you want a salad that can make you feel what it is to be a flower, turning to soak up the sun and pumping oxygen out of your leaves." He rocks on his heels, wearing that expression of wonder that she loves. "Most expensive food in the universe, actually, which is why their economy has been booming for four million years. It's quite a record."

Clara mouths approval, but then her brows furrow slightly. "If it's so popular, won't we have a hard time getting in?"

Now the Doctor frowns, as well. "That's a fair point. Hold on a minute." He leaps back into the TARDIS, disappears, and re-emerges a moment later, only now his clothes are smoking slightly.

"What happened?" she cries in alarm.

The Doctor waves a hand in the direction of the orange-haired reception host standing at a podium near the door. "Well," he says, patting out the smoke coming from his lapels, "apparently trying to get a reservation only three months in advance is considered a bit insulting." He lets out an exasperated breath. "It was, ah, suggested with a taser gun that I go back a bit further."

"How far?" she asks, her eyes round.

"Three years," he says indignantly, patting his clothes some more. "On the bright side," he says, smiling suddenly, "I did get us a table with a view."

And she has to remind herself that this isn't a date. It's not. He's just taking her to dinner to say thank you. Not for romance. She drills it into her brain, and tries not to notice how very, terribly romantic the restaurant looks. Not a date.

She sighs just a little. "I don't suppose they have a cocktail bar, do they?" A glass of wine might be just what she needs to remember that this is just a friendly outing, celebrating a win.

But the Doctor only becomes more animated, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect. "Oh yes, indeed. The cocktails are a bit ingenious, in fact. They lower your inhibitions without actually making you drunk."

She frowns slightly. "How does that work, then?"

"They make your body do all the things it wants to do, but is usually held back by your brain. Last time I had one, I tried doing a cartwheel. Didn't quite make it, though," he sighs, but then brightens. "But I was in a much older body that time, so maybe this time it'll work without spraining anything."

His enthusiasm is so adorable, she can hardly contain her grin. "Well, then, you know what I think?"

He's grinning right back at her. "What?"

"I think it's been a long time since I did a cartwheel, too."

If possible, his smile gets even wider. "That's the brave-heart Clara I was waiting for."

He grabs her hand, and they nearly run into the restaurant, the TARDIS standing guard behind them. And Clara thinks that for a not-date, it's amazing how much she's willing to follow him anywhere.

- to be continued in Chapter 2