Puncture Repair

I leaned on you today

I regularly hurt but never say

I nearly wore the window through

Where was air-sea rescue?

The cavalry with tea and sympathy

You were there, puncture repair

(Elbow, Leaders of the Free World)

He'd had another nightmare. As usual, he couldn't remember most of it. But the cold sweat on his back and his breathlessness told him it was a bad one. He got out of bed on shaky legs and scratched his scalp energetically with both his hands. He could still hear River's voice, a distant echo now, begging him in a broken voice to "save Sammy". Funny, because he'd never heard River begging for anything. In fact, she'd been the opposite of broken when she brought him Sam two months ago. He didn't know yet if today would be a day he would hate her memory or just pity it. Hate was a strong word, perhaps. But not strong enough for their son, apparently, who'd had no qualms about hurling the word at him on a regular basis ever since he'd arrived in his home.

The Doctor sighed, but couldn't stop himself from looking in on Sam as he made his way to the kitchen. The dream had rattled him, and seeing the small bundle under the covers put his mind at ease. For now, anyway.

The green clock on the microwave showed 4.44. He smiled slightly at this simple coincidence and poured himself a glass of cold water. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep, and actually had some files to review, but he chose not to turn on the light, yet. He wanted to enjoy the darkness a little longer, and admire the reflection of the moon on the canal outside. He hoped this week would prove better than the last, but somehow doubted it. The Doctor knew it was still too recent for the young boy. It was easier all around to take things one day at a time, and it helped him stay sane as well. He didn't want to look too closely at the near future. His recurring nightmares were proof enough of how scared he actually was deep inside. Out of sheer necessity, the Doctor had always been very good at hiding his feelings, but he had to admit that he would soon be at his wit's end.

He walked towards his desk and set the glass down. He was now facing the pitch dark garden, and wasn't surprised to see a fox scampering away as soon as he switched on the light. The neighbourhood was full of them at night. He didn't mind. He liked how the most adventurous ones sometimes came very close to the glass window when he worked late into the nights. They had the most amazing eyes: fear and restlessness hidden behind yellow orbs. He always got distracted by listing all the attributes that likened them to dogs, and all the attributes that didn't, and made them their very own animal. The Doctor often wondered what made him his own person. He had never met his parents, and thus had had to rely on his imagination to guess what traits, physical or otherwise, he had inherited from them. He wanted to believe that in the end, the person he'd become was entirely his own, and no one else's.

He could see a lot of himself in Sam, and that realisation troubled him. He'd barely got to know River before she'd left unexpectedly, and he guessed the boy looked like his mother as well, but what he saw in his son's eyes was the same as what he saw when he looked in the mirror: fear and restlessness hidden behind grey orbs.

The Doctor eventually settled at his desk, booted up his computer, and started typing his latest patients' notes. He also needed to review some scans for his two o'clock elective surgery. He was still typing away when he heard Sam come downstairs shortly before seven. He closed all his documents, and then began the morning routine that had started almost as soon as Sam had arrived. The boy would eat cereals and a slice of toast with raspberry jam, drink a glass of orange juice, and refuse to be helped in any way in his preparations. The Doctor would eat a banana, drink coffee, and refrain from saying anything. The last part was fine by him, he wasn't much of a talker in the morning, especially after he'd spent the last few hours on tedious work. At least, the boy didn't seem to mind that they both sat next to each other at the kitchen bar. The Doctor saw it as a positive sign: he could have sat anywhere else in the house and eat on his own.

They would then each get ready. Sam would change and get his school things whilst the Doctor showered, then they would meet again downstairs and walk towards the car. Sometimes they would talk a little whilst he was driving: Sam about the classes he'd have that day, the Doctor about when he would be home that night. But most times they didn't, and the Doctor put on the radio to fill the silence. This was a quite morning, but at least Sam said goodbye to him before softly closing the car door.

Doing his rounds at the hospital's ITU still felt like part of this morning ritual, but his dreariness was eventually dispelled by his colleagues.

"Doctor, how are you? How's Sam?" his registrar, Martha Jones, almost always greeted him the same way. And every time, it felt as though someone had taken virtual headphones from his ears and he could finally join the outside world.

"Good morning, Miss Jones. Sam's okay. Didn't speak much this morning, but he seemed fine."

Martha didn't comment on the fact that he hadn't answered her first question, but she was used to it and didn't press him.

"Are Amy and Rory still making eyes at each other or are they going to join us soon?" he asked her, checking the board to see if any new patients had been admitted to the ward during the night.

"They're still in A&E, possible acoustic neuroma. But they haven't paged me yet, so we'll see."

"Right, let's go and see Mr Cole, then. Who needs surgical trainees anyway? Since you'll be doing most of the operation."

"You think I can manage on my own?" asked Martha, who was visibly excited but still cautious.

"I wouldn't offer it to you if I didn't. And I'll be there next to you. Mr Cole, good morning."

Mr. Cole was their two o'clock elective. He suffered from a small temporal lobe tumour and had agreed to have surgery in order to remove it only recently.

"Today's the day, then? You're getting it out?" the older man grumbled. The Doctor could see he was still unsure about the operation.

"Yes, we are. The fits are getting more and more serious, you said so yourself." He then turned to Martha, knowing that she was actually better at this part of the job. And he hadn't missed the look of keen interest on Mr Cole's eyes every time his young registrar came in the room, and Martha hadn't either.

"The Doctor's right. Your life will finally get back to normal when the fits stop, I'm sure that's what you want," she told him, moving closer to the bed.

"Doctor? I thought you surgeons were called 'Misters' and such."

"You're right, although the Doctor here actually has a doctorate of neurology as well as being a neurosurgeon. So I guess the name stuck." Martha had simplified matters for the patient, who didn't need to know exactly how many doctorates the Doctor had, or that he was called the Doctor because nobody knew what else to call him and was too respectful to actually ask him. Except for Donna of course, but then he'd never given her a satisfactory answer either.

"Guess I'm in safe hands, then," acknowledged Mr Cole.

They left him and Martha went to check on their other patients in the ward whilst the Doctor went looking for his trainees who had eventually deemed safer to page him from A&E to get his input for the diagnosis. With his help, they established that his high frequency hearing loss required an urgent MRI, which indeed eventually showed quite a large acoustic neuroma. They admitted the patient and the Doctor spent time with Amy and Rory to discuss the possible courses of actions. Both his trainees were smart, but he couldn't help thinking that they would be a lot more efficient if they didn't spend so much time bickering. Martha had wisely remarked that they were too stubborn to admit that they were meant for each other. The Doctor trusted Martha on such matters, since they were definitely beyond his realm, as it had been made painfully clear to him many times in the past.

It was nearing one when he got a page. He worried it might be another specialist in the hospital asking for his opinion - he often got such pages - given that he would soon need to get ready for Mr Cole's surgery. But it came from Donna, at the surgery ward reception. He quickened his steps, fearing it might be a patient crashing, but Donna was holding a phone for him when he arrived.

"It's the school, they want to speak to you about Sam," she told him in a calm tone that only worried him more, especially since she wouldn't relinquish the phone.

"Is he okay? What happened?" The Doctor couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking. His hands never shook, even during the most delicate of brain surgeries.

"He's fine, Doctor, don't worry, I asked them. He just got into a bit of trouble apparently." He wasn't surprised Donna had gotten all the information she needed - he knew she could be persuasive. He breathed a sigh of relief, felt his heart-beat slowing to a less alarming tempo, and then and only then she handed him the phone, as though she'd been paying attention to his symptoms as well.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Samuel Song's father?"

"Yes, sorry, I was with a patient."

"I understand, Doctor Song." He didn't correct the man. Sam hadn't changed his name, and the Doctor didn't have any to give him in the first place anyway. "This is head teacher Ryan Miller speaking, at St Matthews."

"Is he alright? What happened?"

"I'm afraid there's been a bit of an altercation involving your son. He was fighting with an older boy and we had to separate them. Samuel broke his nose, you see."

"He broke his...? Right. And you're calling me because you want me to..."

"This is very serious, Doctor Song. We do not allow such behaviour at our school," the man interrupted him.

"Of course sir, I understand," the Doctor answered in the most contrite voice he could muster.

"We know Samuel's home-life is a bit...difficult at the moment, and we certainly feel sympathetic. But we cannot let this go unpunished. I'm afraid we're going to have to exclude him for a little while, and give him time to think about his actions."

"Exclude him?"

"You should come over to discuss this matter more privately. But yes, I think it might be best. For a couple of weeks, say." The man sounded very reasonable, but to the Doctor his words didn't make much sense.

"A couple of weeks? He's only nine, for heaven's sake. I'm sure it can't be that bad, really."

"As I said, he broke the other boy's nose. A boy two years older than him, I might add. I would really prefer it if we could discuss this in private, but I think this attitude should be dealt with as quickly as possible. It could be the symptom of much more serious problems. We can certainly refer you to some very capable psycholog..."

This time, the Doctor was the one who interrupted the head teacher: "There's nothing wrong with my son, I'll come and pick him up now. I don't want any psychologist talking to him in my absence."

"Of course, I was only..." but the Doctor had already hung up, fuming. He closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the bank and scratched his scalp energetically and somewhat compulsively.

"Doctor? Is Sam alright?" Donna asked in a much quieter voice than usual. He had almost forgotten she was there.

"Yes. But I have to go and pick him up. Shit, the two o'clock elective..." he realised quickly, feeling more guilt for Martha's sake than for Mr Cole's. She'd been excited about performing the surgery virtually on her own. She had earned that privilege. But he still needed to be present, she was only starting as a registrar.

"I'm sure it can be rescheduled. And Martha and your trainees can deal with everything until you sort this out. Your son's more important," as was often the case, Donna went straight to the point.

"Right. Yes. You're right. I should go. Could you..."

"I'll page Martha and explain where you are."

"Thanks. Tell her I'll call as soon as I can, and tell her..."

"Yes, yes, you're sorry about the surgery. Now, go!" she all but dismissed him.

The Doctor dropped his white coat and picked up his wallet and keys, glad that he hadn't scrubbed in for the surgery yet. The drive to the school took more time than it usually did because of the midday traffic, and he silently - and not so silently - cursed at a few other drivers. He remembered the way to the head teacher's office from less than two months ago when he'd accompanied Sam on his first day. It felt like such a long time ago already.

He found his son sitting on an uncomfortable looking couch with his head down low and his right hand cradled carefully in his left. He barely acknowledged the presence of the head teacher and another boy with a bloody nose who was comforted by a plump woman - his mum, probably - before kneeling in front of Sam.

"Are you alright? Look at me," he asked in a quiet voice. Perhaps surprised by his tone, Sam raised his eyes to him. They were red, but he wasn't crying. And he could read defiance in them. Good, the Doctor thought, somewhat reassured.

"Does your hand hurt?"

"No."

"Can you make a fist with it?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

The boy obliged, but the Doctor could see he was in pain.

"Can I see, please?"

He took his son's hand and observed it carefully, trying to be as gentle as possible in his ministrations. The knuckles were bloodied and it was a bit swollen.

"I don't think it's broken, but we'll have to make sure later, okay?" Sam nodded, looking subdued but responsive, at least. The Doctor gave him a small smile, and finally rose up to turn and speak to the others.

"You could have given him some ice for his hand," he told the head teacher.

"He broke my son's nose!" the woman interrupted, as though it was sufficient an explanation for his son's lack of medical treatment. He noted that the other boy, who actually looked much older than a mere eleven, had at least been given cotton pads.

"You shouldn't have him tilt his head back like that, he could choke on the blood," the Doctor told the mother. The nose did look broken from where he was standing, but he resisted offering to diagnose the boy, knowing it would be a painful process he might take worrying pleasure in. Also, he doubted the mother would agree, given how murderous she looked.

"Is there anything I need to sign before I can take my son home? Does he have all his stuff with him?" he then asked the head teacher as calmly and reasonably as he could.

"Huh, yes actually. A couple of things to sign, and..."

"I'm sure we can agree on a meeting tomorrow or later this week to discuss things?"

"Y...Yes, good idea, I'm sure cooler heads are what we need in this situation," the head teacher seemed glad that someone else was taking charge of said situation. He seemed utterly out of his depths.

"Cooler heads?" the plump mother said in an angry tone. She now looked as red as her son, noted the Doctor who stared at her intently. This stopped her from saying whatever she'd meant to say next.

The Doctor signed the two sheets of paper the head teacher handed him, making sure that none of them actually stipulated that his son was expelled permanently from the school and gestured for him to follow him out. Seeing that he had a hard time lifting his backpack, he took it from him. Once outside, he didn't realise that the boy hadn't followed him all the way to the car and was lagging behind.

"What's wrong? Is your hand hurting badly?" he asked, walking closer.

"I didn't think you would come," Sam muttered in a small voice.

"What are you talking about? Of course I was going to come."

"You came really quickly," the boy added, now looking at his shoes. The Doctor didn't think he'd arrived quickly. There'd been traffic, and the mother of the other boy had already been there as well. She'd managed a lot better. That probably made her a better parent than him, the Doctor thought.

"I wasn't going to leave you there, was I? Come on, we should get home and put some ice on that hand," the Doctor didn't wait for an answer and once again walked resolutely to the car. This time, he heard Sam's small steps following behind him.

The ride home was quiet, as usual. As soon as they arrived, the Doctor took Sam to the kitchen to put some ice on his hand. He advised him to keep it as long as possible and to refrain from using his hand. He knew his son wouldn't be happy about that, since he seemed to be spending his time drawing or reading old and heavy ancient history books he had brought with him.

"Why don't you go and watch some telly in the other room? I have to call the hospital."

Sam looked surprised, but did as he was told. It seemed to the Doctor that television hadn't played a great part in his son's life until now, which didn't surprise him given all the time he had apparently spent travelling around the world with his mum. He certainly preferred that he spent as little time watching it as possible, and guessed it was one less worry for him, but it meant that he was also at a loss when it came to punishing him. He knew he'd probably have to do something, but he didn't know what exactly. He wasn't going to take away his books or his pencils, was he? But here he was, his son excluded from school, and he was telling him to go and watch telly.

Seeing that he had settled on a documentary on the Pharaohs - obviously - he went back to the living room and called the surgery ward to speak to Martha. Two o'clock had gone and past. She answered promptly.

"Doctor, is everything alright? Is Sam okay?" she sounded genuinely worried, even though Donna had in all likelihood told her what had happened.

"Yes, he's okay. He hurt his hand a little, but it's not broken. I don't think so, anyway. But he's been excluded for two weeks and I'll have to go and talk to his head teacher at some point."

"It was that bad?"

"He broke another kid's nose. But the boy looked like a bully to me, I don't know."

"You haven't asked him?" He could hear the surprise in his young registrar tone. But the Doctor had always thought it best to let Sam tell him what was wrong, since he would simply shut down when he tried to ask him questions. He had learned quickly that it was the only way to prevent him from hurling "I hate you" at him. Granted, the house was thus very quite. But he believed the young boy would eventually come out of his shell. He didn't know exactly whose sanity he was preserving by doing that. He hoped both of theirs.

"No, but I will," he answered, even though he probably wouldn't. Martha seemed to see through his words. After all, she was starting to know him fairly well, and was aware that he wasn't much of a talker either.

"You should. And Doctor, what are you going to do with him for the next two weeks?"

He admitted silently to himself that he hadn't really thought about that yet. The hospital had been really understanding for the past two months, and had allowed the Doctor to have a more flexible schedule which involved less paging in the middle of the night. It was in their best interest to keep the Doctor on their payroll - since he could probably get a job in any hospital or clinic he wanted, given his reputation - but it didn't mean they wouldn't bat an eyelid if he were to ask for more days off. He knew his new home-life was putting a strain on the whole surgical ward. His reputation would only get him so far in the compassion department. Was that the end? Was he going to retire? He certainly had enough money and he could still publish. He'd miss the challenges of the operating theatre, though.

"Doctor? You still there?"

And yes, he would miss Martha, his promising registrar in neurosurgery. And his trainees Amy and Rory who would certainly make great surgeons as well one day if they stayed focused. He didn't think he was that great a teacher, but the hospital still pressured him to keep on taking new trainees every year. And he'd been told that being trained by him was a coveted spot among medical students.

"Doctor?"

No. He couldn't abandon Martha, she was so close to her goal. And he couldn't abandon all his other colleagues who counted on him. All the other doctors and surgeons at the hospital who would swallow their pride and ask for his help, every so often. He'd have to figure something out with Sam, and quick. He feared it would soon be too late and the boy would become so closed off no one would manage to pull him out.

"Yes, sorry. I was just... thinking."

"Well, I do have an idea, but I don't know if you'll like it." He could tell from her tone that she had actually been thinking about this idea for a while, and was only now putting it forward to him.

"I'm listening," if he were completely honest, the Doctor was ready to agree to pretty much anything when it came to Sam.

"I have this friend. Close friend. Clara Oswald, she's my age, and... Have you thought about getting an au pair or a nanny? She would be perfect for Sam."

"An au pair?"

"Yes, you know. Someone living with you and taking care of Sam when you're not there, helping him with his homework and things around the house if necessary..."

"I know what an au pair is, I just..."

"I know you value your privacy and that it would be a big step. But think about it: Sam is only nine, you can't have him spend too much time by himself at home. And given what happened at the school, he might need some help with his classes."

"Right, but..."

"She's studying to be a university teacher, writing her thesis for her Ph.D and all that. But I know she has a lot of free time, and well... Her living arrangements at the moment aren't the best. She's great with kids, I actually got to know her because she used to babysit my cousins, Angie and Artie, a few years ago."

The Doctor knew Martha tended to speak very quickly when she was nervous. But he also knew she was very good at convincing him.

"And Doctor... She lost her mum when she was a kid. She doesn't talk much about it, but I think she would be great for Sam."

This last argument was what clinched it for the Doctor, but he wouldn't admit it to her yet.

"Have you spoken to her about it? Do you think she would agree to all that? It's... I know the situation at the moment is far from ideal."

"She actually thrives in difficult situations and trust me, I know I can convince her." He admired how Martha could be confident both inside and outside the hospital, something the Doctor was quite incapable of copying.

"Right."

"I'll call you back tonight, there's no need to come back to work, really. I've postponed Mr Cole's surgery for the end of the week to give us time, and Amy and Rory's acoustic neuroma can wait for a while as well. Especially since the patient will need convincing. He doesn't want surgery, says he likes hearing music."

"Music?"

"Yeah, the ringing is music to him. And anyway, you said so yourself, it isn't likely to grow. But we're still keeping him in the ward, you'll have time to review his case."

"You page me if anything changes."

"Of course. And I'll call you tonight once I've spoken to Clara. Say hi to Sam for me and tell me if you need me to bring anything from the hospital for his hand."

"Thank you, I will. Talk to you later."

He walked back to the living room to sit on the couch with Sam, who was still watching TV but didn't seem to be paying much attention to it. He didn't know if he should tell him about Clara, yet. Or at least the possibility of there being someone else taking care of him. The Doctor didn't like that idea very much, even though he knew he was probably terrible at being a parent. He'd never really thought about having children. No, that wasn't quite right, he had thought about it, back when he was not much older than Sam, actually. After another failed adoption. He remembered quite clearly how he pledged that when or if he ever had children, he would do it right. He would be a great father. He would be attentive and loving. He would be there no matter what.

Not knowing what to do, he silently gestured for Sam to hold out his right hand for him so that he could examine it once again. It was less swollen, and he seemed to be moving it more easily. Definitely not broken, but he'd have to keep on checking on it. When all else failed, he guessed he was still a doctor.

Back at the hospital, Martha finally found the time to take a small break to call Clara. She hadn't heard from her in the last few weeks, and hadn't been lying to the Doctor when she told him that her living arrangements weren't the best. She had repeatedly offered her to come and live with her and Mickey for a while, but Clara had always valued her self-respect, and could also be a bit stubborn. Nevertheless, she knew she couldn't write her thesis and study in such conditions.

"Hello?"

"Clara? It's Martha. Is it a bad time? Can you talk?"

"Hey, Marth. No, it's fine. And it's good to hear from you, how are you?" Martha could hear that Clara had moved from the noisy room she'd been in when she first picked up the phone. And her friend sounded genuinely glad to be hearing from her.

"Not bad. You know, busy like hell, but it's worth it. What about you? Still in Kentish Town?"

"Yeah, I'm getting used to it. The place is quiet during the day and I can work. The guys can get a bit noisy during the night, playing music and stuff, but as I said: getting used to it." Clara was living with three other students from her university. But she was the eldest of the lot by quite a few years, and the only one who actually had real studying and working to do. Knowing that her thesis was a sore subject, she decided to go straight to the point and not waste her friend's time.

"Do you remember me telling you about the Doctor?"

"Your boss right? Well, more like your mentor if I remember correctly."

"Right, I'm his registrar. And he's the most gifted surgeon I've ever seen or heard of. And I'm far from being the only one to think that."

"Impressive, then?" Clara joked.

"You could say that. Anyway, remember I told you he had a son?"

"Yeah, you told me this bizarre story of how his kid just turned up out of the blue one day and he had to take care of him because his mother had to leave or something."

"Yes. Well, the kid's in trouble, he's been excluded from his school for two weeks and the Doctor, as you can imagine, is at a bit of a loss. I don't think he ever thought he would have to take care of a nine year old child on his own. And... I kind of thought you'd be perfect."

"Perfect for what?"

"For him. I mean, for the kid, to help." Martha had a harder time convincing Clara than she had had convincing the Doctor, but she wouldn't give up.

"Help how? Martha, what are you talking about? What have you done?"

"Nothing! It's just... I know you've always loved children, and you were great with my cousins and they adore you. And the Doctor's really nice. A bit... weird sometimes, in the way that super-smart people can be. He knows millions of stuff about millions of things and I'm sure he could even help you with your thesis."

"Back up a few steps, there. What have you told him? Have you gotten me a job without my permission?" Clara didn't sound pissed off, but it was close, and Martha knew she'd have to thread very carefully now.

"I haven't gotten you anything, yet. I just mentioned you to him and told him you might be interested. Maybe you should meet him and see what you think. I'm not forcing you into anything." Clara sighed, but she wasn't yelling or saying no, at least.

"What would this job entail, exactly? Babysitting the kid? Picking him up from school? Helping him with his homework? What?"

"Actually, the Doctor would consider taking you as an au pair."

"Au pair? As in living with them in their house? Are you mad?" The yelling part had then started.

"Listen to me, it would be perfect! He works all day, he can even get called back during the night. His kid is at school most of the time as well and you'd have the whole house to yourself to work! I've been there, it's actually really nice, and quiet. With a garden. And tons of books everywhere."

"Where is it?"

"Maida Vale, by the canal."

"Mmh. Nice. Posh."

"Yes, very." Martha had known the neighbourhood would definitely help. Clara would never admit to it, but she liked creature comforts. And she loved taking walks along leafy, quiet streets.

"And this Doctor guy, he's not a creep or anything?"

"Of course not! He's wonderful. He just needs help. He's not doing too good at the moment, I think his son doesn't really like him. But I know he wants things to be better and he's doing his best. I guess he's not wired up like most people, and things we find simple are really tricky for him. And as I said, he's really bright, if a bit stand-offish." Clara had always had a thing for different people, interesting people. And Martha couldn't think of anyone better fitting that description than the Doctor.

"Right. So... What do you suggest I shall be doing then?"

"Well, I said I would call him back tonight to tell him if you were interested. I guess you should all meet, and see what you think. But you'd have to decide pretty quickly, with Sam being excluded from school, it's going to be difficult for the Doctor with work at the hospital and all that."

"I get it, you need your mentor, and for that to happen I have to watch over his kid."

"I didn't say that!"

"I was joking, don't worry. And I understand. I know what your work means to you. It certainly means a lot more than my bloody thesis does to me. And I respect that, really. I'm in awe of your work and dedication. If I can help, I will." Martha almost had tears in her eyes, which made her decision to tell her something she had omitted all the more difficult.

"Thank you. And just so you know... The kid's mother, she didn't just leave, she's dead." She hated herself for having to do that, and hoped Clara wouldn't think that she was using her and her own grief. But she also needed to be told the truth, lest she messed things up with Sam.

"Are you... Can I give him your number? Or would you rather I let you call him?"

"It's fine, you can give him my number. Tell him he can call whenever he wants and we'll agree on a time to meet." Her friend sounded a lot more subdued, and Martha did feel guilty about that. She'd have to find a way to apologise to her. And she promised herself she would do it no matter what, even if she decided not to go and help the Doctor. She couldn't blame her if she refused, it had to be her decision in the end, even though she was pretty sure the situation would work for the best for all parties involved.

"Okay, thank you so much, Clara. We'll speak soon, yeah? And if that makes you more comfortable, we can meet him together."

"Thanks, but I think I should do it on my own, you know?"

"Right, I'd be less likely to influence you that way, that's true," she joked, even though that would probably be the case. They hung up soon after that, and Martha breathed a sigh of relief. She hoped things turned out okay and that she hadn't made a mistake with Clara. Only time would tell, she guessed. She'd have to call the Doctor tonight at the end of her shift to let him know and give him Clara's number, in any case. For now, she still had patients to see and trainees to torture - slightly - it was part of her job, after all.

That evening, just as Clara was contemplating how wonderful it would actually be to leave this place - one of her roommates had decided that blasting techno in the small, echoey bathroom was actually a really good idea - she got a call from a number she didn't recognise, and guessed this must be the elusive Doctor.

"Clara Oswald speaking," she introduced herself, thinking a good impression wouldn't go amiss.

"Miss Oswald? Good evening, I'm huh... I work with Martha Jones, I don't know exactly what she told you..."

She didn't tell me you were Scottish, for one thing.

"You're the Doctor, right?"

"That's right. She gave me your number so that we could...What did she tell you exactly? I don't want to assume anything."

"Only that you might need help with your son, and the possibility of it being an au pair thing. Or a nanny or whatever the term actually is in that case."

"Yes, I also thought au pair meant that you had to be foreign and studying the host country language or something. But apparently not. Well, the agency didn't seem to imply it was compulsory."

"You contacted an au pair agency?"

"No no, I just checked a few websites that's all." Clara could hear that the man was a bit nervous. But at least he seemed serious about finding someone for his son.

"Oh, okay. So..." she was interrupted by a particularly loud sound coming from the bathroom. She actually hoped her roommate had dropped his stereo in the bath and electrocuted himself. But unfortunately, the music - if she could call it that - started again seconds later.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry. That was my roommate. He's... I don't know what he's doing. So, huh, your son. Samuel, right?"

"Right. He's nine, he's in Year 4 at primary school. And he's only been living with me for the past two months so... Well, I guess he's having a hard time adjusting, but that's probably to be expected."

"And Martha told me he's been excluded for a couple of weeks?"

"Yes, it just happened today, I haven't really had time to..." but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by her roommate singing - singing! - in the bathroom next door. How was it possible to sing over techno music?

"Listen, maybe we should discuss all that face to face?" she all but yelled in the receiver.

"Sorry, yes, I seem to have caught you at a bad time."

"No, not at all... Tell you what, how about tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, to discuss things in more detail. Martha implied that you might need help sooner rather than later." Clara had moved to the kitchen, hoping it would be easier for her to hear the Doctor over there.

"Right. Well, yes, you can certainly come over tonight. But Sam might be in bed by the time you arrive, and I'm guessing you'd like to meet him. But sure, if it's no trouble, that would be great."

"Perfect. Could you text me the address? I'll be there as soon as possible. I mean, if texting is something..." Clara had never asked Martha how old the Doctor actually was. He didn't sound ancient over the phone, and he did have a nine year old kid, but who knew?

"Yeah, yeah, I know how to text." That was the first time she heard a semblance of mirth in his voice.

"Good, sorry if I seem so hasty..." The kitchen wasn't proving such a great place to talk, since one of her other roommates had apparently deemed it the best place to make out with his girlfriend.

"No, no, that's fine. On the contrary, you're actually doing me a favour, my schedule can get pretty hectic. If you're sure meeting at my home won't make you uncomfortable or..."

"Don't worry. And I guess I should see the place where I might move in, right? I mean, it that's still..."

"Yes, of course."

"Good, I will meet you soon then, Mr..."

"The Doctor. Just the Doctor is fine."

"Right. The Doctor."

Clara wondered if she hadn't been too presumptuous in inviting herself tonight at his place. But after all, Martha had said it was pretty urgent. And the Doctor hadn't seemed to mind. She knew her decision had been influenced by her roommates - she had to get out tonight or she would go mad - and this had been a great opportunity. Also, she had to admit that underneath his nervousness, the Doctor had sounded like someone she wanted to meet face to face. She didn't know why exactly. Who knew, maybe it was only the Scottish accent. She promptly received a text with his address and how to get to his place from the nearest tube station. The text was concise and well-written, and she mentally kicked herself once again for having doubted his ability to do such a simple task. But then, she knew people who couldn't work a toaster, so really... And no, she wasn't speaking about herself.

It only took her about 30 minutes to reach Warwick Avenue tube station, even though she'd had to use three different lines. She then found the Doctor's house very easily thanks to his text. He lived in a white, stucco fronted house in Little Venice which must cost a fortune in the current market. He faced the canal directly, which was as quiet and peaceful as she remembered with its colourful houseboats. She noticed a blue one right across from his door that she rather liked. She knocked, seeing a doorbell but fearing she might wake the boy, since it was close to nine. She had a flash of terror, just before the Doctor answered: was it safe for her to be here at a stranger's house so late at night? But the flash passed just as quickly as it took said stranger to answer the door.

He didn't look like she'd expected. Both younger and older all at once. She guessed he was around fifty, with a full head of curly and slightly tousled greying hair, grey eyes, distinctive nose and eyebrows and a thin face to go with his thin and elegant figure.

"Miss Oswald?"

"Clara is fine," she answered, copying his parting words on the phone. He smiled, nodded, and let her in. He was also quite tall, but then most people were quite tall to her. The house looked just as beautiful from the inside as it did from the outside. Airy, white, with large windows opening on the back garden and book cases apparently on every wall, Martha hadn't lied about that.

"Would you like some tea, or...?"

"Tea would be fine, thank you." She went to the first room she saw to the left of the kitchen. It was apparently used as both dining room and living room. A big table was placed directly against the bay window which faced the canal. The walls were covered with books, old and new, some written in languages she recognised and others in languages she didn't, but a concession had been made so that there was room against the wall for a fireplace, which was apparently used often. She sat on a comfortable white couch across from it, and admired how inviting all the other armchairs in the room looked. This was definitely a nice place to read, with the plush grey carpet under her feet.

The Doctor appeared with a plate he set on the round coffee table. She could see he only had socks on his feet - stripy ones - and wondered if she should have taken her shoes off at the door. He seemed to understand her predicament and quickly set her mind at ease:

"Oh, don't worry about your shoes, it's fine. I just... like to wear socks around the house, but it's not compulsory." She found this little personally trait amusing, but didn't comment on it.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just sugar, please." Clara let him fix her tea, and watched him add milk - but no sugar - to his. The opposite, then. Typical.

He sat in an armchair on the right-side of the couch, and let her have a sip of tea before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sam went to bed. He usually reads for a while before falling asleep, but I think the day drained him, and his hand was still probably a bit painful."

"That's alright, I'm sure we can find another time for me to meet him. What happened at the school? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."

"Not at all, you have the right to know. As I had started to tell you on the phone, he got excluded because he punched a kid. An older kid. For whatever reason, the head teacher seemed to think that was the crux of the matter. That and the fact that he broke his nose, I guess."

"Wow," Clara couldn't help uttering, "no wonder he hurt his hand. But what happened? I mean, does he often get into fights, or..."

At that, the Doctor had set his mug back on the table, and started ruffling his hair with both his hands.

"I don't know. I mean, I don't think so. Surely the head teacher would have mentioned something. Sam didn't say anything, but then he's not saying much to me at the moment."

"You didn't ask him about the fight today?" pressed Clara, which only made the Doctor scratch his scalp with more vigour. She guessed it was a nervous habit.

"No, I thought... I thought he'd tell me if it was really serious. And I know this doesn't sound very responsible..."

"I'm not here to judge you or your parenting," she interrupted him, hoping to reassure him, or at least make him stop torturing his poor hair.

"Well, maybe you should," he answered truthfully, finally dropping his hands.

"I'm not a specialist. I mean, if that's what you're looking for, I'm really not in a position to..."

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I don't want a specialist. The head teacher wanted me to get him to a psychologist, but I definitely want to avoid that if I can." She found that interesting, especially coming from a doctor, but she guessed he had his reasons.

"I just meant... I know parenting is not an exact science and I'm pretty new at it, but the best thing... Well, the only thing that seems to be working for the both of us is to take things one day at a time. I let him come to me with his problems. Pressing him only resulted in shouting on his part."

"I don't think there's a good or a bad strategy when it comes to parenting, and as I said I'm certainly no expert. I guess I'll have more to tell you on that subject once I've met him. How has he been getting on at school apart from that?" The Doctor seemed more calm now, and he had taken his cup back. She observed his long-fingered hands as he answered.

"Pretty well, I think. The few notes I got from his teachers were encouraging. He accepted some of my help with Maths. I guess he didn't have too much schooling on that. But he's doing fine in English and thriving in History and Geography, obviously. His mother was an archeologist, she travelled to many places with him: Egypt, India, South America...He's very passionate about all that, which I can understand."

"He must have had an interesting childhood, that's for sure."

"Yes, I imagine." His answer surprised her, but once again, she didn't comment.

"So, tell me. What would that entail if I were to work as an au pair for you? What did you have in mind exactly?" The Doctor seemed glad she had changed the subject.

"Well, the house is pretty big, I'll show you around if you want. You could have the guest room upstairs - it's never really been used - the window looks onto the garden so it's really quite. You'd have room to work there or anywhere else in the house, or even the houseboat if you ever want more privacy."

"The houseboat?"

"Yes, I have one on the canal."

"The blue one right across from your house?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes," he answered, surprised "I used to spend time tweaking and repairing it during the weekend, but not so much lately. It has electricity and running water and everything. But I don't keep any valuable stuff there, it's mostly books."

"I'm not surprised, you seem to be running out of room, here."

"You haven't seen the rest of the house, yet," he answered, smiling, and Clara decided she quite liked his smile, crooked as it was.

"Up until now, I've been taking Sam to school every morning and picking him up at the end of the afternoon. I often had to go back to the hospital for a couple of hours after that, but the staff's been very understanding. They changed my schedule so that I didn't have to be on call at night, except when there was an emergency. It actually only happened once these past two months, which is a miracle. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't mind me switching back to my old schedule," he finished, grimacing slightly.

"You told me it was pretty hectic."

"Well, not as bad as Martha's, actually. I'm often only called at the last minute or when there's no one else. She basically has to be there the rest of the time, except when it's my turn to be on call. I'm quite senior over there now, and neurosurgeons don't usually get as many operations as other surgeons, but I think I'd still need to be on night call two nights a week. The rest of the week would be pretty normal, except if I get a page for an emergency, of course."

Martha seemed to be spending her life at the hospital, it was true. But she knew how much she loved her job, and she still managed to make it work with her boyfriend Mickey. She was wonder-woman, really, as far as Clara was concerned. She was pretty sure the Doctor was downplaying his role at the hospital and his actual work-hours so as not to scare her, but she knew what she was getting into, and she knew a workaholic when she saw one.

"So, maybe on the days you have a day shift you could take Sam to school in the morning and I could pick him up at four, and on the days you have a night shift we'd work the other way around? I mean, unless you'd want me to deal with both everyday, I don't mind."

"No, that seems like a good plan. I think I should still do as many school runs as I can, they're important. I mean, I think."

"Yeah, they are," Clara smiled, happy to see that he wanted to be involved in his son's life as much as possible. She'd babysat children parents just weren't much interested in, especially when it came to school things.

"The school's really close by, actually. Just a 10 minute walk. We take the car because it's easier for me, since the hospital's quite a bit further away, but I think Sam would enjoy walking more. I'm not sure he likes traveling by car, he's even quieter than usual when we drive."

They spent some more time planning a schedule for Sam and how Clara would fit in it. And she had to agree it seemed quite reasonable to her, and she could definitely see herself working and living here. He told her she didn't need to do any of the housework - news she gratefully welcomed - since a cleaning lady came every Friday morning to help around. She added that she loved cooking and didn't mind making dinner every so often. At that, the Doctor replied that he quite liked cooking, too, when he had the time. Although the results weren't always the best. Thankfully, Sam seemed to like eating almost anything, and was only specific about his breakfast.

He eventually showed her around the house, which was indeed quite spacious. The room across the kitchen was apparently used as an office. It had a big desk with a recent desktop computer, and all the books covering the walls seemed to relate to medicine. The desk was facing large glass windows which opened on the garden, and Clara agreed that this too seemed like a great space to work in. The last room downstairs was apparently another living room with two big couches, a TV, and still many books. Upstairs, the space was as big as downstairs, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. He showed her briefly the room she might call her own if she accepted to come and work here, and Clara was tempted to say yes on the spot. The large bed with white covers looked more inviting than she could possibly say, and it made her realise how tired she actually was. It wasn't really late, but she'd been sleeping piteously the last few weeks. She also noted enviously how quiet the house was.

They walked back downstairs where the Doctor made her another cup of tea, and she tried to stop herself from yawning too often. The Doctor didn't look tired, but she guessed that given his job, he was more used to dealing with it or at least hiding it.

"Am I keeping you from any work tonight by the way? Did you have things to review or..."

"No, don't worry, I'm up to date. Martha is being a huge help. How did you meet, actually?"

"I used to be an au pair for her uncle, Mr Maitland. I was just starting university and I guess I felt a bit homesick, and liked living among a family."

"Where's home for you?"

"My dad's in Liverpool. I don't think I'll ever get him to move anywhere else, but I still go quite often when I have the time. It's a nice city once you get to know it. Although I could do with a little less rain. Speaking of rain, where are you from originally in Scotland?" The Doctor smiled slightly at that, and took a sip of tea before answering.

"I was born in Glasgow. I spent most of my childhood thereabouts. I moved south to England in my teens."

"You still have family over there?"

"Maybe," he answered, evasively.

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, puzzled.

"I'm an orphan. I never knew my parents and never really had anything close to what you would call a family. There's nothing left for me back in Scotland, but I guess I still kept the accent for nostalgia's sake. And I quite like the way it sounds."

"Yeah, I... I've always liked Scottish accents," Clara answered in a quiet, subdued voice. The Doctor had told her all that in a matter of fact tone, and she could see his past was, on the surface at least, not something he often dwelled on. She imagined he wouldn't entrust people with his life story very often. Clara felt quite special, but also quite overcome by the profound sadness of his words.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

"That's fine, don't worry. I thought it'd be best if you knew. I mean, if you decide to stay with us. It might perhaps help you understand some of my... shortcomings, I guess, when it comes to Sam. I don't advertise my life very easily, and I'd really rather you didn't..."

"I won't tell a soul, this is private, I understand." They were both quiet for a little while, until the Doctor spoke again, in a soft tone.

"Martha told me..."

"She told you about my mum, that she died." Clara interrupted him.

"Yes. She seemed to think that it would make a difference with Sam. I don't know if it will, or rather if it might. But what I mean is, you don't have to feel compelled to... use your grief or your emotions about your own mum with him, or with me. It would be utterly unfair to ask you that, and I won't."

Clara looked straight into his grey eyes, eyes that she had seen turn blue sometimes. But now they looked almost transparent, as though he was baring his very soul. She could see how scared he was for his son. How much getting things right meant to him. How far he would go. But he wouldn't let his beliefs be destroyed in the process.

"Thank you, that's... Thank you," Clara pondered her answer some more, playing with her empty cup, "I guess it happened so long ago now that I no longer know if what I do, say, or feel has anything to do with her death. I've now spent half my life without her. But it's still so fresh for your son, and he's younger than I was when it happened for me. What... What can you tell me about her? His mum?"

Clara had finally arrived at the question she had wanted to ask all night long. The question about the ghost she was now meant to replace in some small way. She wasn't surprised to see the Doctor back at ruffling his grey curls, but he seemed to have come to the same realisation as her, and looked resigned.

"I met River Song ten years ago at a conference. I'd written a paper on the analysis of bone fragments to determine a relatively precise time of death for very old bodies - don't ask, I was into pathology at the time."

Clara smiled for his sake, knowing the story was hard for him to tell.

"Anyway, we'd barely been together for two months when she up and left without a word or a card or whatever. Fast-forward nine and a half years later and here she was, on my actual doorstep with a young boy looking a hell of a lot like me. Once inside, she told me she was dying and that there was nothing I could do about it and that I had to take care of our son. She could't bear to have him near her in the last stages of her illness and off she went again, back to Alexandria and its precious library. Because books are apparently the only worthy witnesses to our shuffling off this mortal coil. Well, I guess I could talk..." he added, gesturing to the bookcases. He waited for her to comment, and sipped some more tea.

"She just...left? And you're sure that, I mean, I don't want to insult you or..."

"Am I sure that she's dead? I thought it might have indeed been a trick at some point, too. But yes, she died barely two weeks after she'd dropped Sam off, and her cancer had been incurable, I checked all the reports."

"I'm sorry," she said with sincerity, but knowing it didn't mean much. The Doctor shrugged.

"As I said, I barely knew her. But I can't blame her for what she did, for Sam's sake at least."

"You said Sam hated you, earlier."

"He says so, sometimes."

"That's quite a harsh thing to say, especially to someone he's never known until two months ago."

"Well, he does feel like I've abandoned him and his mum to their fates all those years, and that when the time came, I couldn't even save her, genius doctor that I am. So I guess I understand where it's coming from, I would hate myself too."

"But you didn't know about his existence up until two months ago, right?"

"Right, I never knew. But that doesn't mean he didn't."

"What?"

"I guess River told him some stuff about me, he must have asked at some point. And he seemed to know what I looked like, perhaps she'd found some pictures of me to show him, I don't know."

"So your son believes that in the same way that he knew about you all those years...you did too?"

"I guess."

"You guess? And it doesn't bother you that your son believes a lie? No wonder he hates you, if he believes you've never wanted him all those years. Why don't you tell him the truth? Why don't you tell him you didn't know about him? That doesn't make any sense!"

"Because I would rather he hates me, than his dead mother's memory." Clara was struck dumb by his sentence. She didn't know what to say. It seemed like the best reason in the world for him. And she did admire his resilience. And his devotion. She didn't think she'd ever heard something so desperately sad done in the name of a parent's love for one's child. And Sam had only been his child for two months. But this didn't mean he was right, far from it. She could see it would take a while for her to make him see things differently, but she knew what she was meant to do now, she knew what obstacles she was facing. Sam was not the only one who needed her help in this household, and she dearly hoped she'd make a difference.

"Doctor, I don't think you're right about this," she boldly told him. And she could tell it wasn't something that people often dared to say in his face. Or probably needed to say, given what she'd been told about his reputation.

"If I tell him his mum lied to him by implying I knew about him all along, that will make him hate her. And I'm pretty sure that he won't suddenly change his mind about me either."

"You really think he hates you?" she repeated her earlier question.

"I don't know. He's been less... vocal about it, lately. And he doesn't seem to really mind my presence most of the time. We do talk, sometimes. About small things. My work. School stuff. What's for dinner. But he never talks about his mum."

"You should tell him. Tell the truth. It's important for kids, even at that age. He will hate you even more if he finds out later."

"Maybe you're right." Clara knew she hadn't convinced him yet, far from it. He was probably just humouring her. She felt desperately tired, all of a sudden, probably realising all the work it would require to make him see that he was wrong. Call Clara Oswald, she'll fix all your problems right up. This time, she couldn't hide her yawn.

"It's late, I'm sorry. Let me call you a cab, I'll pay for it," said the Doctor, rising from his seat.

"No no, it's fine," she called him back from the couch, "I'll take the job. I'll be your au pair, I mean."

"Right," he said, unsure, turning back towards her. He probably didn't see how it related to her not needing a taxi.

"Thanks," he added, surprised that she had accepted, given the turn their conversation had taken in the end.

"Also, would it be possible if I started immediately?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I might commit a triple murder tonight if I head back to my flat. And your guest room bed already looked just about perfect an hour ago. Do you mind if I stay? I can meet Sam tomorrow morning and move my stuff whenever's convenient."

She could see that the Doctor had a hard time reconciling his logical mind with the fact that she'd just agreed to take on a job without having met the main object of said job. She was pretty forward, she had to admit. But she could also see that he knew he didn't have the luxury of time to make a decision.

"Okay."