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For every 💬 I get in my inbox, I’ll post a quote from my own writing that I’m proud of!
(( A little while back I joined in with @doctorwhofemslash for #dwfemslashweek, and of my contributions this was, I think, the best received. I’m really proud of basically making it an “author episode,” weaving in turns of phrase from the writer’s literary canon the way that “Who” tends to do with Shakespeare and Agatha Christie and Dickens.
And of course, I was glad to fill in some blanks on a ship that more or less played out entirely offscreen, particularly as that underserved Who’s wlw fandom. ))
Chawton, Hampshire, England.February 1817.
“You should have seen the look on your face, though!” Clara exulted with an utterly unrepentant grin.
“Honestly,” Jane tutted, delicately mending a seam, the needle flourishing in and out of the fabric, “who would think to throw an egg in jest! Such a waste!”
“Oohoo, you can talk,” Clara teased delightedly, “leaving bags of flour atop half-open doors!”
Jane smirked a bit at the memory. “And between us we could bake a cake or make a hearty breakfast with the ingredients expended on ‘pranks.’“
“Worth it,” Clara insisted, brown eyes dancing with glee. “Totally worth it. Feeding the sense of humor is easily as important as feeding the stomach, ask anyone.”
Jane Austen arched an eyebrow up at Clara Oswald, and instead of replying simply commanded, “Stand up and let me look at you.”
And so Clara did, the dress she wore rippling down around her feet as she turned this way and that for Jane’s observation. “Oh, look at it flow!”
“I must say,” Jane decided, with a nod, holding her wrist in one hand and flexing her fingers, “that while I have sometimes enjoyed the work of a seamstress, I have never had such a muse as yourself. You positively glow in the fashions of the day, such a royal air!”
“Oh, now,” Clara tsked. “Credit where credit’s due. I like to be a fashion plate, it’s true, but this is a work of art. Look, this dress just begs to be moved in. This is a dress for a dance!”
With that, she swept her hand out to the seated Jane, and grinned brightly at her. “C’mon. Up you pop. Dance with me!”
Jane blinked, eyes wide, her cheeks coloring like one of her sister Cassandra’s drawings. “What on Earth–?”
“You can’t deny what this dress was meant for!” Clara insisted, and beckoned with her fingers.
Smiling wryly, tolerantly, and a bit shyly, Jane slipped her hand into Clara’s, and stood. And then they swayed, there in that little cottage room, turning together. And in that moment, arms around waists and fingers interwoven, there hung a kind of wonder.
As they danced, there with nothing but the music of their own breathing and the swish of the dresses, no rhythm but their own footbeats, Jane had a curious look upon her face, and Clara could only beam the brighter.
“It is… funny,” Jane murmured, after a moment or two. “I have written– ‘To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards–’” but she cut herself off, and shook her head– and then stumbled with a startled cry. Clara managed to catch her in time, and helped lower her back to her seat, staring at her in worry and panic.
“Are you– are you all right? Jane?” Clara searched Jane’s face, crouching low before her.
Jane shook her head dismissively, though one of her hands fell to her knee. “It is– it is a trifle. My rheumatism flaring up. It makes my joints ache so.”
“Yes, of course,” Clara nodded, her expression guarded, carefully illegible, though agony danced behind her luminous eyes. “Your… rheumatism. I’m sorry for… exacerbating it.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Oh, don’t dare blame yourself, dear Clara. If anything, you cause me to feel more well than I have in a year. And, if I can confess… more well than I have in far longer than that.”
Clara’s eyebrows arched gently. “Oh?”
Jane quested inwardly for a moment, trying to find the words– not an unfamiliar feeling for her, especially these days, even writing was a struggle for her now. “I have not had the loneliest of lives. I love my family dearly, and passing time with them has been a boon. But I have been refused a relationship of affection because it was not advantageous… and I have turned away proposals of marriage that were bereft of affection, though they might have proven advantageous indeed. Anything is to be preferred or endured rather than marrying without affection. And yet– and yet– I find there is no charm equal to the tenderness of your heart.”
Clara’s smile wobbled, her eyes soft, her fingers resting gently on Jane’s shoulder, then touching Jane’s cheek. “Jane. You– we– I– God, my heart is leaping in my chest, it’s actually leaping, I didn’t expect– is this what it’s like to have two hearts?”
Clutching at the skirts of her dress, kneading them in anxious hands, Jane shook her head. “I am sorry if– if I’ve caught you off your guard. If I have overstepped my bounds. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”
Clara gazed at her with all the tenderness Jane had just praised. “Then don’t talk about it.”
And she leaned in and kissed Jane Austen with a sweetness and a warmth.
Jane made a noise against Clara’s mouth, a muffled cry of surprise and incredulity and– agonized awareness that such joy could not possibly be meant to last– and then she took Clara’s face in both of her hands and kissed her beyond all first impressions.
Clara gasped softly as she settled back a moment later, eyes doe-wide. “Oh my God.”
Jane hesitated, looking stricken, panicked for a moment. “Was it– was it not good?”
“It was phenomenal,” Clara shook her head, breathless, and then grinned lopsidedly. “Ehn’t half funny, though, The Doctor said you weren’t that good of a kisser.”
Jane’s eyes widened and then she smirked. “Such cheek, Doctor! Well, as I have many times in my life, I shall take a certain pride in proving a man wrong.”
She leaned in again, and Clara moved to meet her with parted lips and a gleeful delight.
