A/N: This is going to be less a chaptered fic with a plot and more of a series of shamelessly and unapologetically fluffy, loosely connected domestic oneshots. Because how else am I supposed to get through a six month hiatus? Rating will almost definitely go up in later chapters.

Clara's not particularly surprised when she returns home from her usual Wednesday out with the Doctor to find that Mr. Maitland has found a new nanny.

"I haven't officially offered her the job yet, mind," he tells Clara as she prepares dinner. "I wanted to run it by you first. Make sure you don't feel like I'm trying to… kick you out, or that I haven't appreciated your help…."

She laughs and waves off his concerns as she carefully fishes a piece of pasta from the boiling pot with a large spoon in order to test it. It was only ever supposed to be a temporary thing anyway, her being there, and she knows he's felt guilty about keeping her on as long as he has, even though she's the one who offered to stay.

"You're absolutely free to stay as long as you need," he continues. "While you're looking for a new place or a new job or any of that."

The pasta seems done, so she dumps it into the colander waiting in the sink. "Thanks. I shouldn't be too long, I don't think. Flats in London aren't terribly hard to come by, and I've got some savings. I'll be okay for a bit between jobs."

"Angie and Artie will miss you, you know."

She smiles, a bit wistfully, because the Maitlands have become a family of sorts to her over the past year or so. "I know. I'll miss them, too."

"Don't be a stranger, okay? Come 'round for dinner sometimes. Maybe bring that boyfriend of yours – he seems a nice sort, and the kids are rather fond of him."

"I'm not entirely sure sit-down dinners are really his thing," Clara says evasively, stifling a giggle at the thought of the Doctor, in his purple tweed and bowtie, sitting at a table like a normal bloke, making awkward small talk on things that are either hopelessly out of date or won't happen for another twenty years. "But I'll run it by him, anyway."

There's a lot to get done, and the week passes quickly. By Tuesday she's already signed for a rental flat, and on her way back to the Maitlands' she drops off her resume at a couple different travel agencies that are hiring (might as well put her geography degree to some use, she figures). Then it's nothing but packing up her room – her new flat is furnished at least, so she doesn't have to worry about shopping for armchairs or a new bed, but she still has a room full of stuff and only a few days to pack it all up. She's supposed to move in on the first of the month.

With everything a whirlwind around her, it comes as a surprise when the Doctor is suddenly standing at the top of the stairs into her room, looking a bit bewildered as his gaze sweeps the half-empty area.

"Oh, it's Wednesday, isn't it?" she says, carefully placing the rest of a stack of books into a box. She pushes hair out of her face as she straightens up and turns to him.

"What are you doing?" the Doctor asks, brow furrowed in confusion.

She waves a hand vaguely at the various boxes stacked around the room. "Packing."

"Well, yes, I can see that. But why?"

Shrugging, she reaches for the packing tape. "It's what one generally does when one is moving."

"Moving?! What d'ya mean, moving?"

His rather vehement exclamation surprises her a bit until she realizes he's been gone the entire week and doesn't know she's no longer nannying for the Maitlands'. "Mr. Maitland found a new nanny," she tells him as she seals off the box and uses a marker to scrawl 'BOOKS' across the top in bold letters. "He's been looking for a while, so it's not really a surprise. Meant I needed to find a new place to live, though, so I got a little flat."

"But why?" he repeats.

Clara rolls her eyes at him; for a twelve-hundred year old alien, he sure can sound like a two year old sometimes. "Can't very well stay here if I'm not nannying anymore, can I?"

"That's not what I meant."

Setting the box of books aside in one of the piles (with some difficulty; maybe she should've put a few less books in that one), she looks at him and folds her arms across her chest. Clearly he's got some sort of problem that he's not sharing with her. "Okay. Then what did you mean?"

The Doctor fidgets with the watch hanging from his waistcoat, looking agitated. Finally he bursts, "Why are you moving into a flat? What about the TARDIS?"

"What about the TARDIS?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at him. He looks even more at a loss than usual. It's incredible, really, how he can face down Ice Warriors and ghosts and gods the size of a planet without batting an eyelid, but somehow facing her down seems to turn him into a bundle of nervous energy, ready to bolt at any second. She's not entirely sure what that says about their relationship.

He keeps staring at her, his expression somewhere between expectant and afraid. It takes her a moment to connect the dots, but she's helped along by flashes of memory surfacing in her subconscious – a loud redhead with a hatbox, a very pink bedroom just down the hall from the Doctor's own. "You wanted me to move into the TARDIS."

Almost instantly the Doctor looks away; her near-empty bookshelf has become inexplicably fascinating to him. "Well… I just thought…."

"Didn't I warn you about being too keen?" she asks with a chuckle as she moves to her bed to fold the pile of freshly-laundered clothes atop it.

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that, I just-" He cuts off as she laughs harder.

"God, you're so easy."

"Shut up," he grumbles, almost more out of habit than anything else. She's not looking at him anymore, but she can imagine the characteristic flush of his cheeks.

Truth be told, the thought of moving into the TARDIS hadn't even occurred to her, and she's not sure why. It makes a degree of sense. Now that she's not beholden to the Maitlands', there's no real reason not to, and she knows that most of his past companions have lived there. And the idea of not having to pay rent does hold appeal. Still, though…. "I'm not moving into your box, Doctor," she says decisively, sorting her clothing into piles as she folds. "I already signed the paperwork, and anyway I'd like to have a bedroom that stays put. Thought maybe she'd be a bit nicer to me now, all things considered, but she's just as grumpy as ever."

"I'll ask her to stop," he offers, but Clara shakes her head.

"It's not just that. I need an address, you know. I don't think the post delivers to the Time Vortex. And what if some mates want to drop by? Or my dad?" She's not sure, at this point, if she's making excuses or telling the truth. Somewhere in the middle, probably. They're all legitimate reasons, but none of them would really be enough to prevent her if she really wanted to move in. (Which then, of course, begged the question of why she didn't want to, the answer to which was something she couldn't quite put her finger on but likely had something to do with the way her stomach did a certain funny turn at the idea of living in close quarters with the Doctor. Not that an infinite ship was exactly close quarters, but it was the principle of the thing.)

"You could bring your dad by the TARDIS."

She rolls her eyes. "Please. My dad has enough government conspiracy theories. I don't need to add to them with a bigger-on-the-inside phone box. He might have a stroke." When the Doctor doesn't respond, she looks back over her shoulder at him. He appears almost dejected, and she feels a little bad; clearly he was taking this harder than she would've expected (and her stomach does that funny turn again). But maybe she could soften what appeared to be something of a blow for him. "Hey," she begins, and he looks up at her, "you know, now that I won't have Artie and Angie to worry about you'll probably be able to pick me up more than once a week. If you like."

It's like flipping a lightswitch – he's suddenly beaming away at her, and she feels the corners of her mouth tugging upward, too; like always, his enthusiasm is infectious. "But," she continues, holding up a finger, "only if you promise to help me move, and you don't give me a rough time about the flat. Deal?"

"Yes," he says quickly. "Wonderful. Brilliant, even."

"Good." The situation diffused, she turns back to her laundry.

"But, um…."

"What?"

"Well, it's just that today is sort of Wednesday, and I thought we were going to… I mean, we usually…."

She laughs. "You really don't have any patience, do you? Fine, fine, we'll go as soon as I finish folding these."

She hears footsteps behind her and suddenly the Doctor is at her side, pulling a dress off the top of the pile. "It'll go faster with two of us," he says, by way of explanation.

(It actually takes twice as long because she has to show him the proper way to fold her dresses and then she has to quickly shove all her knickers out of sight before he'll remove his hand from over his eyes, but she appreciates the sentiment, anyway.)

When he brings her back to the Maitlands' they've been gone for two days (accidentally got caught up in some sort of slave rebellion, a rather nasty business) but it's only been a few hours – dusk is just starting to fall, muting everything. It used to disorient her a lot, when she first started traveling with him. Now, though, with a thousand lives running through her head, it hardly even registers; just one more disparity to add to the list.

"Still going to help me move?" she asks as they say goodnight, leaning against the outside of the TARDIS, and his head bobs up and down eagerly.

"Yes. Of course."

"See you Saturday, then. It's not one of our normal days, so don't forget." She shakes a finger at him, grinning teasingly.

"I would never," he says, and there's an earnestness in his voice and on his face that almost startles her. She feels her grin falter slightly as her heart rate picks up.

"Right," she says quickly, pushing off from the TARDIS and starting her walk to the Maitlands' front door. "Goodnight, Doctor," she calls over her shoulder.

"Clara!"

Clara spins around, walking backwards. "Yes?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, hands fidgeting nervously. "Goodnight," he finally calls back.

She fights a smile.

The Doctor gets rather put out when he turns up Saturday morning to find that Clara's rented a moving truck and refuses to even entertain the idea of using the TARDIS instead.

"The Maitlands are helping me move," she tells him as he pouts. "And Mr. Maitland still thinks you're a relatively normal bloke, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Don't need him knowing I've been exposing his kids to an alien, and I definitely don't want that Cybermen story ever coming out. So no spaceships today. Sorry."

Everything goes about as smoothly as she could've hoped considering that the moving party includes two children and an ancient alien with fairly limited control over his limbs. Only two boxes get dropped, neither of which contain anything fragile, so she considers that a win (though one is the box of books she packed, which falls right on the Doctor's foot and causes him to limp around looking a bit pathetic for the next twenty minutes).

Once she gets everything into the flat and generally sorted by room, it occurs to her there's not actually any food in the place, so they all pile into the Maitlands' car to go to the grocer and pick up some essentials – milk, eggs, bread, some produce. She suppresses a sigh at the realization that she's now going to have to build back up her kitchen stock of spices and baking supplies and makes a mental note to ask the Doctor later if she can raid the TARDIS pantry.

Then it's time for the Maitlands to take their leave – it's getting late, and everyone is tired and hungry. George invites the Doctor and Clara back for dinner, but Clara declines with a worn smile. "Think I'd rather just settle in tonight, but I appreciate the offer," she says. "I'll come 'round soon though, promise."

"The kids and I will hold you to that." They shake on it, and then he turns to the Doctor. "You're welcome too, of course," he adds. "And take good care of her." He nods in Clara's direction and she raises an eyebrow.

"She's the one who takes care of me, actually," the Doctor admits, and Clara feels a grin tug at the corners of her mouth.

Artie hugs her goodbye, so tightly she nearly can't breathe, and then does the same to the Doctor, mumbling "bye, Clara's boyfriend" into his coat. For all her eye-rolling, even Angie looks a little down as her father herds them out the door, and she waves goodbye over her shoulder. Then it's just the two of them, listening as the Maitlands' car starts up and drives off, the sound of the engine eventually fading into nothing. It's a strange feeling, knowing she won't be on Angie about her homework or reading over Artie's essays or making dinner for anyone other than herself most nights. It'll take some adjustment.

Sighing, she glances around the living room, piled high with boxes, and instantly decides unpacking can wait until tomorrow. At the exact same moment, the Doctor grabs her hand and pulls her toward the door.

"Hey, hold on a mo'! What're you doing?" she protests, digging her heels into the carpet.

He stops in his tracks, giving her a slightly dumbfounded look. "Well, the kids are gone. And you said we could go out more often."

"Doctor, I just spent the entire day on my feet moving boxes. I am completely knackered. I'm not going anywhere tonight. I am calling the Chinese place down the street for delivery and watching a movie and you are more than welcome to join me if you want but otherwise you'll have to come back later."

She knows the domestic scene isn't really his thing; a thousand years of watching him painted that for her in very vivid detail. Honestly, she's surprised he stuck around as long as he did today. She'd been expecting him to duck out around the time of the grocery run. The invitation had been offhand, more done out of politeness than any actual expectation he'd want to stay. Which is why the way his brow furrows, like he's considering it, surprises her.

"What movie?" he asks finally, and she has to press her lips together to suppress a grin.

"Haven't decided," she says, reaching for her bag to dig for her mobile. "There's a box marked DVDs somewhere over by the armchair, I think. Pick something and hook up the telly and I'll make an order." She pauses. "You can hook up a television, right?"

The Doctor puffs up indignantly. "Clara Oswald, I have been millions of years in your future. I think I can handle basic human technology, thank you very much."

She sighs as she scrolls through her contacts for the number. "Just don't break anything, please."

"Oi, I'm not going to-" he begins, but she ignores him as dials the Chinese place and wanders into the kitchen.

By the time she places the order and walks back out into the living room, the Doctor has managed to hook up the television but has also managed to litter the area with half the DVDs she owns. "Found one!" he says triumphantly, holding something up.

Upon closer inspection it turns out to be an old Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn movie from the forties – a favorite of her mum's. She'd forgotten she had it; it hadn't caught her attention while she was packing. For a moment, she considers asking him to pick a different movie, but decides against it in the end. Today can be a day for new beginnings.

They start up the movie before the food gets there; Clara moves boxes off of the sofa so that there's room enough for both of them. The television is small, a relic from her days at uni, but it has a built-in DVD player and it works and in any case the living room isn't that big either, so they're not far from it. They both settle awkwardly into opposite ends of the sofa, the Doctor fidgeting restlessly. It isn't like they haven't spent plenty of time alone together, but it's usually on board the TARDIS or in the future or on alien worlds. Quite a different feeling than something as ordinary as dinner and a movie. Clara realizes that if she feels a little out of her element, it must be a hundred times harder for the Doctor. She's legitimately amazed he hasn't changed his mind and bolted yet.

"Katharine Hepburn," the Doctor says admiringly, a few minutes into the movie. "You know, I met her once. We played tennis. Fascinating woman. Did you know she-"

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Shush. You're talking over the movie. I can't hear."

"Oh. Sorry."

Without his rambling to distract him his restlessness increases, and when the doorbell rings he practically flies off the sofa to answer the door; Clara pauses the film before following along behind him to pay the delivery man. She pulls the lid off of a box packed with blankets to make a makeshift tray and sets it between them on the sofa, placing the various boxes of food inside. The Doctor is so delighted by the fortune cookies that Clara lets him have both on condition that he reads his fortunes out loud. He cracks open the first one and pulls out his fortune with a flourish.

"'The night life is for you,'" he reads dramatically, and then frowns. "What sort of fortune is that?"

"Clearly they've never met you. I've seen you try to dance. It's not pretty."

"Oi!"

"I'm just saying." Clara shrugs. "Try the next one."

There's a crunching sound as he breaks the second cookie in half. "Stop searching forever, happiness is just next to you." He starts with the same dramatic flair as he read the first one, but his voice fades out as he reaches the end of the fortune, and when Clara glances over at him there's a faint flush to his cheeks.

"Let's start up the movie again, yeah?" she says, reaching for the remote, and he nods wordlessly.

The combination of a long day and a full stomach means that Clara passes out before the end of the movie. She's not sure how long she's out, but when she wakes up she finds herself in her bed; the Doctor must've put her there, again. With a groan, she sits up and swings her legs over the side. She should probably change into pyjamas, and she should also probably go check the living room, because knowing the Doctor he just left the food out on the sofa. If she hurries, she might still be able to put it in the fridge before it goes bad.

She makes her way down the hall to the living room, feet padding quietly against the carpet. In the dark, she feels along the wall for the lightswitch; she's not used to the layout yet, and curses when she stubs her toe on a piece of furniture she wasn't expecting. Finally her fingers fumble across the switch, jutting out from the wall, and she flips it on, blinking rapidly at the brightness.

Once her eyes adjust to the light, she realizes that not only did the Doctor put away the leftovers and clean up the DVDs he'd previously made a mess of, he'd stacked and sorted all of the boxes – they still need to be unpacked, but everything suddenly looks much less cluttered than it had a few hours ago, less overwhelming. A glance over at the dining room reveals that he'd done the same thing there.

Maybe he wasn't as bad at domestics as she'd thought.