Chapter Text
MERRY CHRISTMAS, DOCTOR
Ypres, Belgium, 1914. Christmas Day.
Clara.
He smiles, his face shatters into a thousand little pieces, an open wound. Through the crack: all his faces, smiling too. Young and old, dark and wiry, light and oily. All the little pieces of him, together in ecstasy.
Her eyes are dark. Dark, how could he have forgotten? Her smile wide like a pink scar. Her eyes.
He stumbles back in, the kiss on his cheek, her on his mind. His whole being vibrating with all the new-old memories being brought back home. His girl, his being, his ship waits for him, smiling gently, waiting.
Enough waiting now.
Hate is always foolish. Love...
Love is always wise.
His phantom fingers stretch and find hers, somewhere out there in space, holding, cupping, intertwining. The feel of her skin on his. How could he have forgotten? How could he have touched anything else. He puts his hands on the cool metal of her console, holds her, holds Clara. Lets his smallest finger caress her index, the metal of the TARDIS console, the metal of his ring against her fragile, human, parchment skin. My wife, he thinks, holding the TARDIS, remembering all the times he held Clara’s hand.
His hand finds hers. He lets go.
He is splintering, he is whole, he is dying, he is alive. He is orgasmic. He is a bright light. He is a burst. He is holding Clara Oswald’s hand.