A/N I'm almost done my other story, but couldn't help but start this one. Never hurts to have a bit of fluff.

Chapter One - Wednesdays

"See you on Wednesday, Doctor," Clara called out as she made her way to the door. "And try to aim for next Wednesday and not last Wednesday. The time that two of you showed up at the same time was a little hard to explain."

"No it's not, twins are perfectly ordinary," he said with a casual wave of his hand.

"Yes, but if you get it wrong again and there are three of you, what do I say then?"

"Well if we've already done twins then... he can be the illegitimate brother I never knew about."

Clara laugh to herself, imaging the Doctor in his awkward way trying to spin that story. He really was a terrible liar. "Goodbye Doctor. Have a good week," and with that she was gone.

The Doctor's eyes followed after her until she was out of view. He then turned his attention back to the console and set a course for next Wednesday. He had begun to think of the other days of the week in the same way he thought of Sundays: boring and skippable.

He landed the TARDIS in exactly the same spot, what he'd started to think of as his spot, and walked up to the front door. Today the sky was overcast and it had clearly been raining, for the ground was wet and there was what remained of a soggy newspaper on the small front lawn. The Doctor rang the doorbell and then after a few seconds he rang it again. He waited as patiently as he could (Clara had had to explain to him that it look rather strange for a grown man to ring the doorbell fifteen times in the 20 seconds it took Mr. Maitland to walk from the kitchen to the door). The Doctor's patience was running out. Instead he tried the knob and much to his delight it was unlocked (apparently unlocking the door from the outside with a sonic screwdriver is also not an acceptable thing to do, particularly if the owner of the house is home). The Doctor stepped inside and instantly knew why no one had heard him. There was music blaring in the living room and it seemed to drown out all other sounds. He walked into the room to tell the children that if they didn't turn down the music they'd lose their hearing and he'd have to take them to Septar II for an ear transplant (and the Septians were not known for the attractiveness of their ears), but was surprised to find the room empty. There was something about Wednesdays he was suppose to remember. School. That was it, the children were at school, and judging by the missing car in the driveway Mr. Maitland had already left for work. Which left only Clara. The Doctor couldn't help but smile as he thought of her up in her room, unaware of his entrance. He was about to turn off the music when suddenly he had a better idea. She had said something to him on their last adventure that had worried him a bit. She said that after thousands of lives and thousands of deaths nothing really scared her anymore. Not being scared was dreadfully boring (not to mention more than the tiniest bit unsafe) so the Doctor came to the conclusion any millennia's old man would: he was going to sneak up on her and scare her. The music should mask his approach, she'd jump right out of her skin, and once he'd teased her sufficiently (and she'd denied ever being scared) they could set off for the day.

The Doctor crept up the stairs, nearly knocking a lamp over on route. The Doctor excelled at many things, being stealth wasn't one of them. He was pleased to note that the sound of the stereo was still oppressive up here and unless Clara was looking at her door, she shouldn't be able to hear him enter. As swiftly as he could he opened her bedroom door, snuck inside, and quickly shut it behind him. He spun around and stopped dead, his mouth hanging open in surprise. There was Clara, his Clara, in bed with a man.

He was right in guessing she hadn't heard the door, although he suspected it was because she was otherwise engaged. Her back was to him, the pale, perfect skin completely bare and in beautiful contrast to the chestnut coloured hair that fell against it. He couldn't help but stare at the beads of sweat that ran down and collected in her lower back. From where he stood he could barely see the man, Clara was straddling him and his face was blocked from the Doctor's view. What the Doctor could see was the man's large hands gripping onto Clara's hips-far too roughly in the Doctor's estimation. She moved up and down in slow, controlled strokes, alternating between running her fingers over her companions chest and gripping her hair in ecstasy. His Clara. No, not his, clearly.

The Doctor knew he should go. That he had no right to be here, and yet he felt mesmerized, the more he saw, the more raw the pain in his chest got, and yet the less he felt capable of leaving. Jealousy cascaded through him and he tried to convince himself it wasn't because of the man, or sounds that he was eliciting from Clara (the Doctor cursed his finely tuned Time Lord senses for allowing him to hear her moans over the downstairs music). He told himself he was jealous because this was his day. It was Wednesday after all. He was pretty sure he'd landed on the right Wednesday... and then it occurred to him why they had this ridiculous set up to begin with. What if this man was the reason Clara only ever traveled with him on Wednesdays? What if he was the one that got her Thursday through Tuesday? That thought ignited the jealousy coursing through the Doctor. Every other day and now his day. It was time for him to go. Long since time, and in that moment he really wasn't sure if he would ever be back. He reached for the doorknob, but turned back when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. The man, with his large hands, had flipped Clara over and was now positioned above her. The Doctor froze, but was relieved to find that the man's back seemed to block the Doctor from Clara's view. There was something familiar about the man, about the shape of him, but the Doctor tried not to dwell on it. He thought it was better for everyone involved if he never discovered who he was. It was time to go. His brain knew that but his eyes couldn't seem to look away. He took a step back in the direction of the door, and bumped into it with a crash just loud enough to cut through the music. In an instant the man stopped and looked behind him, and for the second time that day the Doctor merely stared, eyes wide, mouth open. The man in Clara's bed, that familiar shape and large hands, was him.