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She always did this. Sat, or stood, or walked in that way that seemed particularly designed to drive him to distraction. He worshipped her, really, he knew it. There was no other word for this feeling that rocked his world, destabilising his already chaotic existence past the point of reason. He wouldn't let her know, of course, that would leave him too raw, too vulnerable, putty in her hands. But who was he kidding, in her hands was just where he wanted to be, flayed bare, on his knees, admitting he didn't deserve her, could never deserve her, but all the same he needed her like a moth needed the flame. He could no more stop loving her than he could stop his own hearts beating.
She glanced up at him, her eyes pulling him, sucking him in past some hypothetical event horizon he'd been orbiting for years. Decades, eons, all his lives, hovering at the edge of Clara Oswald.
"What's wrong?" she asked him, for the hundredth time.
"Nothing," he replied. Nothing's wrong when you are here, and nothing's right when you're gone.
What would it take, he wondered, for her to stay? What if he closed the doors and begged her? Told her right now she was the only thing he wanted, all he wanted, and he couldn't breathe when she was gone. You're my hobby, she told him once, and he'd thought, that's funny, because you are my life.
That smile. He was sure she did it on purpose, just to make him crazy. Looking like that, really, there should be a law against it. There probably was, somewhere. Perhaps they should go there, he thought, slightly deliriously, go there and get locked up forever in a small cell. Just me and you.
Stop it, you daft old man. She's a living breathing women, not a plaything for your 2000 year old adolescent fantasies.
He sulked then, the better angels of his nature having thoroughly chastised him for his rambling, ego-driven waking dreams.
She was sitting right there, reading in that chair in the console room, as if in no hurry to leave, go back to her ordinary life. Perhaps she'd stay, if he asked her. The way she looked at him, sometimes, it was like she was flirting, all eyes and coy smiles, like she didn't know what that does to a man. Well, that's probably the point, she doesn't see a man, does she? She see a Time Lord, a madman with a box, some heroic, untouchable figure who sweeps her away on fairy tale adventures. Almost gets her killed on a regular basis.
When he really thought about it, why did she keep coming back? He'd ask her one day. If he ever worked up the nerve. Face down a horde of Daleks, no problem. Ask one small school teacher a question? No, not a chance. She might say she just loved the adventure. Yes, that would be it, adrenaline junkie, risk taker, cosmic searcher Clara Oswald, off for a trip of a lifetime with an idiot in his box, tearing across the universe, taking her where no one else could.
Okay, Doctor idiot, you are making yourself crazy.
She's watching, he can see from the corner of his eye she's tracking his every move. She hasn't turned a page in half an hour.
He paced the console room.
"Honestly, you're like a caged animal tonight. Something bothering you?"
"Me, bothered? I'm never bothered. being bothered is for--"
"Pudding brains?" she added with an amused smile.
"Why do you keep coming away with me?"
"What?" She looked sharply up over the copy of Jane Eyre.
"Simple question. Why?"
"Don't you know?"
"Clearly I don't know. There are somethings, rarely, that I actualy dont know. That's why I'm asking."
"Idiot'" She sniffed.
"Yes. Answer the question."
She put the book down. Narrowed her eyes. "Because I love you. I'm crazy about you. There, happy?"
He stared at her. That was just typical Clara, come out with something to completely blind-side him. What was he supposed to say to that?
"Are you just going to stare at me, or are you going to say something?" she demanded. "You asked, I answered. Your turn."
"Alright." He strode up the stairs, took the book from her hands, pulled her to her feet. "Never say that to me again unless you mean it," he growled.
"I. Love. You," she whispered, deliberately, staring him down, making each word count.
He pulled her to him, until they were so close he could see her pupils blown large, the flush in her cheeks, and, he fancied, the spike in her respiratory rate. He was done. Done playing, done running, done for.
He kissed her, burried his hands in her hair and his hearts in her hands, and she kissed him back like she'd never meant anything more.
"Stay with me," he whispered, breathless.
"Always," she replied