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Clara's feet were swollen and aching. The boots that she had thought looked so cute in the shop window really weren't made for scrambling over rock-covered hillsides, trying to evade yet another batch of Cybermen.
The Doctor, the new Doctor, was deceptively spritely, given his appearance. But he had the benefit over her of far longer limbs and more sensible shoes, and so she struggled to keep up. But even then, he would never let her fall behind for long. Sometimes it would be a rough hand settling between her shoulder blades, propelling her forward, or on other occasions it was a well-timed tug on the arm, enough to hurt a little but not enough to bruise.
But he never held her hand any more.
Although perhaps she was being unfair. It hadn't been that long after all, barely two weeks by Clara's time, since it had happened. But two weeks was two weeks, and what had she learnt in that time about this new face, this new man?
Very little.
Oh, he was sharp - much sharper than her previous boyish Doctor. His movements were severe, deliberate, no hesitation, no second guesses. It unnerved her as much as it thrilled her. His face had the ability to look simultaneously angular and soft, depending on his mood. He didn't smile a lot.
Clara had figured out that he liked tea, appeared to scorn her regular schedule of Wednesdays only, and tinkered with the TARDIS as much as ever. His fingers were long and lean, rather beautiful, more precise. There were no bow-ties.
But despite all her noticing, they hadn't really talked. If anything, he seemed to be avoiding any real, meaningful conversation. Everything out of his mouth was direct and forward-moving. The past, his past, her past, were like foam in the surf, quickly disappearing before her eyes. He was always scanning the horizon, the vortex, for what was next, never looking back at what had just been left behind.
She knew it had been tough on him, certainly. She, along with Vastra, Jenny and Strax, had witnessed how not easy it had been. Regeneration sickness was no myth, she realised, but in this case, it would have been more appropriately called regeneration madness. On some days Clara still wondered whether it had completely dissipated or if it had somehow left its scars on that clever clever brain of his.
Nevertheless, he troubled her, like something was out of place, out of sync. Nothing was easy any more and his eyes held a wariness that she hadn't seen in the past. And despite the new face, the new but older face, Clara wanted nothing more to be held close to him, to seek some sort of reassurance that he still needed her, wanted her there. She was unable to ignore the pressing curiosity of how she would fit into his arms, how his craggy face would feel under her fingers. But at the moment, Clara felt more like a child's rag doll, clung to for nostalgia, pushed limblessly around the place with no opinion of her own. The younger Doctor who had been so easy to read was suddenly lost to her and the new face, with its furrowed brows and alarming eyes, gave away nothing. Strangely handsome, yes, but nevertheless emotionally closed to her.
In the past she would have just been blunt with him, voiced her opinion and been done with it. Her Doctor, the last Doctor, would never have taken offence. But this man she was still trying to figure out. What if she asked him to take her home and he never came back? She wasn't willing to take that sort of risk right now, not until she was sure of him. Of how he felt about her.
He was ahead of her now, dark-jacketed shoulders facing her, pushing open the TARDIS door, and stepping aside to let her stumble through after him, half hobbling. Clara swears she hears him scoff at her choice of footwear before he slams the door.
"You didn't tell me we'd be running today," she asserts, pulling her boots off as she makes her way gingerly towards the console. She discards them on the floor where they land, and the Doctor steps purposefully over them with pointed strides.
"When aren't we running?" he retorts drolly, without even a backward glance over at her as Clara flops onto the console seat. Carefully she pulls a knee to her chest and starts massaging her tired left foot. "Even when we don't plan to be running, we always end up running," he finishes, pressing a series of buttons just out of her eyeline.
She tries to catch his gaze, but his head is down in concentration, soft silver curls ruffled as usual. He barely seems out of breath, but he's got two hearts to her one so perhaps it is an unfair comparison.
"So I should know better?" Clara questions with a huff, propping her chin atop her tucked up knee.
He looks at her then, eyes wide and pale. "Well... yes," he answers simply, as if the question is beneath him. She supposes he thinks it is so she doesn't respond.
There is no more conversation, and instead Clara listens to the hum of the machine and then the later sound of the engines as they launch into the vortex. His hands are steady on the console, gripping the edge with concentration, and she wants to know what is on his mind, but doesn't dare ask. Clara hardly feels it is her place anymore, not like it used to be, when her Doctor would find any excuse to be close to her, press his hands to her face, her shoulders, her palms.
She aches for his presence, although is not blind enough to think it will change things. That face is gone, and really, it was only a face. The Doctor is still here, still in front of her, but the reality is that she can't unlock this verison of him. She's lost the key to him, to his heart, his way with her. Perhaps he does not want her to be able to any more.
"How are you feeling?" Clara finds herself asking suddenly. "You know, since..." Her voice trails off from saying the precise words: since you changed, since your regeneration, since. But he knows what she means; she can tell by the stricken look on his face, like she has punched him the stomach.
He swallows, shifts his eyes away from her, focuses on the monitor. "I'm fine, Clara. Absolutely fine." He clips the words sharply in that accent of his, as if cutting them off will end the conversation, banish the topic that he clearly finds so uncomfortable. She doesn't know why she asked, not really, but it is out there now, floating around their heads and for once she wants an honest answer.
"Are you really?" she pushes, uncurling herself from her seat, and moving towards him. The floor feels funny underneath her stockinged feet, although strangely cool. Her arms wrap around herself, like a reassurance.
The Doctor keeps looking at the monitor: it's covered in numbers, symbols. They mean nothing to her, nothing that the TARDIS wants to translate for her at any rate. He seems to find them intensely fascinating.
"I said I was fine," he responds eventually, when he realises that she is hovering at his side, still awaiting his answer. Clara lets the silence linger a fraction longer, expectantly circling. The Doctor finally glances down to meet her eyes. Without her shoes she feels even smaller than normal next to him, and although he is lean, he seems more substantial than he ever has to her before. She is very conscious of the way his shoulders hunch towards her, as if trying to minimise the difference in height between them. Like somehow his body still wants to be close to her even if his mind resists.
"You don't believe me," he accuses, but for once it isn't sharp or jagged. It sounds resigned, like he expected it of her. When did this mistrust grow between them? Maybe it has always been there and she just never noticed. The thought hurts her heart, and perhaps this pain crosses her face, because his hand is suddenly on her arm. The pressure is slight and gentle, barely felt, but most definitely present. Clara immediately feels a fire rise in her cheeks, and hopes he can't see it. It won't do for her to become so sensitive to his presence, his touch. But his skin is warm, softer than expected. But she already knows by his uneasy stance that this situation is making him extremely uncomfortable.
"I... I don't know," she replies truthfully. "I don't know what to think of you yet."
Her words clearly wound, even though that isn't her intention. But she can't lie, she won't pretend any longer that she doesn't understand this new him. They clash, they bicker, and the air is always thick with tension. Things aren't the same, and won't be the same again, but there has to be another way through this. Nevertheless, it still hurts her when he withdraws his hand, turns away, his feet already guiding him out of her proximity. But she sees it still, quick as though it may be, a flicker of sadness, his disappointment. In himself? In her? Perhaps.
"Go change your shoes," the Doctor instructs gruffly, voice edged with caution. He feels a million miles away, even though they are in the same room. "We've got somewhere else to go yet."
Yes, she thinks. Always somewhere else to go because he doesn't want to stay here, alone with her.
---
It goes on for weeks like this, and in any other situation Clara would have given up a long time ago. But this is the Doctor and he is the most extraordinary man in the universe, the most extraordinary person she has ever known and will ever know, and so she stays.
Clara wants to think it is because he needs her. Because under his sharp tongue and sharper eyes there is a desperation to him sometimes, although she can't quite decipher the reasons behind it. At times she thinks that he is trying to prove (to her? to himself?) that she can't love him, that he too harsh or too different to deserve it. It is like he wants to push her away by still holding her close. Clara would feel confused by it if she didn't feel the same way herself a lot of the time.
There is a moment, somewhere in New New New York ("the second one was a shambles, but that was not my fault that time,"), when she gets cornered in a jazz club by a broad shouldered tough, and it is only with the Doctor's intervention that she gets free of the man's stinging grasp. As the culprit makes a hasty exit, Clara feels herself being swiftly enveloped in the Doctor's arms, a new sensation although not an unwelcome one. He is startlingly warm against her, her face pressed solidly against the lapels of his coat, the thrum of his rapid double heartbeats strong in the shell of her ear. His hold is tight, almost to the point of pressing the air out of her lungs, but in that moment she'd rather die than have him let her go. A sliver of guilt slides through her for thinking it, for being so easily won over, but she pushes it aside. Clara hates to do it, but she can only acknowledge that she finally feels safe again for the first time in a long time.
After a moment, he seems to recover himself, untangling his limbs from where they have encircled her. She feels cold as he steps away. He looks contrite.
"You could have handled it, probably," the Doctor says, his hand rubbing tiredly down his face. The dim lighting casts shadows under his eyes, but the eyes themselves focus wide and clear as ever on her.
She must frown because he elaborates. "Tae kwan do, and all that," he says, opening his palms in front of him.
Clara registers the comment, but doesn't have the heart to tell him he is grossly overestimating her experience and skills. The man had been at least three times her size, after all.
"Of course," she lies. "But thank you anyway."
He shrugs dismissively, shaking off the praise.
"Let's go," she says stretching out her hand for him to take. It is an offering, a turning of a corner, she hopes.
"Yes," the Doctor nods distractedly, already looking for the nearest exit. He ignores her outstretched hand as he turns to go.
---
They are in a crowded marketplace on some constellation planet she can't pronounce when it happens. The air smells like saffron and it is unbearably hot. It reminds her of the summer holiday that she and her parents took when she was ten, a Spanish resort town, where all they could do all day was alternatively swim and seek out the nearest shade or air-conditioned building. Clara feels overdressed but the Doctor seems unperturbed despite his heavy coat.
"It's around here somewhere," he mutters, whether to her or to himself, she can't really tell. He's looking for parts for the TARDIS which to him may be an inconvenient errand, but for her it is still a new and exciting experience when taking into account the sheer number and variety of creatures and wares on display.
"Are you sure it wasn't the one back there?" she queries, gesturing back in the direction they just came. There had been some rather lovely jewellery that she wouldn't have minded taking a second look at.
"No, no, no," the Doctor shakes his head furiously, impatient. "I've been here before, quite a few hundred years and a couple of bodies ago, mind you. But we're close."
Clara watches his face turn from frown to muted delight when he finally remembers. "I recognise that shop. It's around here to the left." He is off again, long strides meaning she has to take two steps to his one to keep up.
"Ah-ha!" He pronounces triumphantly as they round the corner, clapping his hands together. "Just down this way."
"What do you need anyway?" she asks, trying her best not to trip over her feet while still keeping him within arm's length.
But just then, he abruptly slams to a halt, leaving Clara to unceremoniously collide into his back, shoulder first.
"Ouch," she grumbles, rubbing her upper arm. "What's the hold up?"
Her question is met with silence, and despite her previous reluctance, she reaches out to press her hand over his, hanging limply by his side. "Doctor?"
She feels him stiffen slightly under her touch, but it is faint, like an echo rather than anything real. "Are you okay?"
Clara moves around to his side, trying to meet his eyes, but sees that he is staring off into the distance. His face holds an expression she has never seen before, not this him anyway, perhaps the previous him. It is one of loss, of grief, of pure shock. He looks as if he might shatter under the weight of it.
Looking up, Clara tries to find the source of this change in him. Is it River Song? She knows this face hasn't encountered her yet, wasn't even sure if this face ever would, but it could only be something serious to evoke this sort of response in his usually stoic façade.
But what she sees is entirely different. In fact, she sees a face that she even recognises. It's him. It's the Doctor.
But it is not this Doctor, or even the last Doctor. It is the skinny one in the pinstripes with the great hair. He is smiling broadly, his teeth showing clearly even from this distance. He is wearing a bizarrely long brown overcoat, also seemingly immune to the insufferable heat. He is with someone, a girl. Blonde, pretty, even rather dazzling in a way - like the sun has lit her on fire from the inside. She is grinning too, giggling at him, clutching at his wrist with unrestrained affection. But what Clara notices most is the way that the pinstriped Doctor stares at this girl. It is with such uncompromising and unabashed love, like she hung the moon and stars for him and without her he would be nothing.
"Who is that?" Clara asks, because she instinctively knows that her Doctor's shock is nothing to do with seeing himself. After all, running into his previous faces had lately become rather a habit. No, this was nothing to do with him and everything to do with the girl.
But her Doctor just stares, silent, as if Clara had never spoken, and she's starting to feel a bit annoyed.
"Doctor?" she prompts, grasping his hand tighter, as if it might throw him out of this trance.
"We can't be here," is all he mutters, shaking his head frantically, panic on the edge of his voice. She's never seen him at such a loss, so unsure of himself. He is usually so collected, calm.
"Doctor! What is this about? I know that this is nothing to do with your fear of crossing your own timeline. This is about her, isn't it? Tell me...who is she?" Clara feels guilty for asking, like she is prying into what is clearly a very personal situation, but something in her gut knows that this is important.
Just then a laugh echoes through the marketplace, her laugh, the blonde's laugh. Clara can't help but find her eyes drawn to this girl. She has a power to her, a magnetic quality that turned heads, catches attention. The pinstriped Doctor is laughing too, has turned to take her hand, pulling her towards where Clara and the Doctor were standing. Clara can see this girl smile wolfishly, tongue caught between her teeth, and she knows for all the world that this was no ordinary girl.
But Clara had met the pinstriped Doctor, and he hadn't had anyone with him then. Where had the girl been? When were they in that Doctor's timeline? What was going to happen to him next? It is the answers to these questions that could really only explain her own Doctor's shock.
The couple were rapidly approaching, almost bouncing on their heels with joy, their eyes never far from each others. Clara finds herself smiling softly too, as if their happiness was infectious, transmitted through the stifling air to all those around them.
Glancing up, her Doctor hasn't moved a muscle, still has the same haunted expression set across his features. He is seeing a ghost from his past, Clara now knows, reliving a moment that clearly had been one of great contentment. It must be bizarre, she thinks, to see yourself, your past, reflected back at you, knowing that it had been you once, a long time ago, in a moment that can't be reclaimed.
Knowing she has to do something with the pair heading directly for them, Clara quickly tugs her Doctor out of the way, pulling him down a nearby side alley. He follows her bonelessly, like a child. The small street is cluttered with seller's boxes, but quieter, out of the way.
The Doctor says nothing as he watches himself and the girl walk by, doesn't break his stare until they turn the corner and are out of sight. Then and only then does he slump bodily against the nearest wall.
"Go back to the TARDIS." His voice is rough and low, as if the forming of every word is an insurmountable effort. He presses the heels of his hands tightly to his eyes, hunches his shoulders until he's almost doubled over, practically her own height.
"I'm not leaving you!" Clara feels insulted that he thinks she would, that whatever is going on here is something that doesn't require her.
He peers up at her with a look that she can only describe as lost. He looks so tired, so worn around the edges, like all his severity has been rubbed away and seems ashamed of it. He drops his head again.
Clara makes a decision, moves towards him, and stands so her legs are resting between his slightly parted ones. Her knees press the insides of his, and she thinks that at any point he may try and stop her but he never does. She knows that this way he can't ignore her, even though she can tell by his body language that he wants to try. Instead, she lifts her hands to cup his face, and raises it until his eyes meet her own. Clara can tell that this action pains him, like he knows he is letting her overstep all boundaries he has carefully constructed. But he also has no energy to stop her. Instead, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him into her, until his face is pressed into her shoulder, until she can feel his warm exhale against her neck.
"I'm not leaving you," she says again, moving her hands to smooth through his hair. It is as soft as he is barbed, but slowly it seems to calm him. She begins to feel like he needs her.
"Clara, Clara, Clara," he speaks eventually, after long silent minutes. His heart rate has slowed again, and in the shadows Clara feels a chill creep into her bones despite the warmth of him pressed against her. "Clara, you don't understand."
"Then make me understand."
"You all leave me eventually. All of you. Every time."
---
They get back to the TARDIS but it is awkward. The Doctor is cold, distant, like he is ashamed of what he has revealed to her. What Clara had thought had been a turning point has turned out to be a stumbling block, and for the next few days he just hides away, tinkering with things, reading, ignoring her.
She furiously makes soufflés in the kitchen, but burns them all.
She wants to go home.
---
Eventually she turns to the TARDIS for help, for a way to understand.
She learns about Rose.
The TARDIS unwinds the memories, curls them in and around and through her. Clara learns about how he, with another face, found her and how he started to exist again. How she had burnt up for him and how he had changed and how he had still loved her. She learns how they had loved each other, promised each other eternity. Then Clara learns about how he had lost her, not once, but twice, and how she was gone from him now forever. It haunts Clara to know that how despite half of his lifetime having passed since, he always would still be burdened by her, by his Bad Wolf, no matter his face, no matter his age.
Clara cries. She cries for herself but mostly for Rose and her Doctor and for their loss of each other. But she understands. She understands that he loses everyone, in the end and that he knows he will eventually lose Clara too. She may have echo after echo out there in the universe, out there saving him, but he will lose all of those that he loves eventually, no matter how hard he tries.
What is better? - that he loses her now, or loses her later? He is clearly debating this but Clara already knows her answer.
---
He pushes her away, and now that Clara has figured out why, the more she notices him doing it. It isn't that he is spiky and difficult (although perhaps it is some of that), it is that he changes his face, and thinks she longs for his previous one. It is that she will grow old, and he will not and what is the point anymore? He has walked this path so many times over the centuries, but the outcome never changes.
Clara finds herself jealous of Rose, which is ridiculous considering the circumstances. But Rose had known that she was loved and appreciated, and that is all Clara wants really. She feels greedy and selfish for needing that from him, the most extraordinary man in the universe. He could do anything, could be anything and why would he need her? But Clara can't help but want it because she knows he is capable of it.
---
He takes her back to her flat eventually, just one day out of the blue.
"I thought you might need a break," he says, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket and then shoving his hands deep in his trouser pockets. She wants to tease him for the habit, the flash of red lining, the only non-austere thing about him, but it doesn't feel like the time. It hasn't felt like the time in a while.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," she responds, and although she tries to keep it from her voice, she can't help the sound of mistrust that must sneak in. He picks up on it immediately, because this face is much more observant than the last face, and he can sense her concern.
"I'll come back," he assures her. His tone is hardly persuasive, but this Doctor never says things he doesn't mean, and as far as she knows he hasn't outright lied to her. But he hasn't been the same since he saw Rose, and although Clara was more than willing to give him the space, she eventually knows that this situation between them will have to be sorted out, whatever that may mean.
"Why don't you stay for a bit?" She is nervous as the words slip out of her mouth. "I'd like that."
"You would?" The Doctor seems genuinely surprised that she might want his company outside his time machine, and another piece of the jigsaw puzzle sinks into place.
"Of course. I'm sure London can keep you entertained for a while," Clara says. It is a bit odd to see the TARDIS parked in the middle of her living room, almost scraping the ceiling, but there is something comforting about the whole situation really. Very domestic. Him and her and his magical box, eating breakfast across her kitchen table each morning, a cup of tea.
"You wouldn't mind?"
"I offered, didn't I?"
He frowns, then nods, presses his lips together tightly.
"You think I only want to spend time with you because of the things you can show me, don't you Doctor?"
"Things?" An arch of an eyebrow is enough to tell her that he opposes to her use of the word 'things' to describe their journeys.
"The stars, planets, you know." Clara waves her hands around her, trying to encompass all that they have shared within them. "The travelling."
He doesn't say a word, but she doesn't need him to.
"But it is you, Doctor. Not just your flying box, or the stars." Clara feels like she has said too much, is rather glad that there is half a room length between them. "It's you. It has always been you."
He stares sadly at her. Somehow in doing so, his face loses its harshness and it is like he has regressed back to confused boyishness. The Doctor removes his hands from his pockets and wrings them together in front of him.
"The old me, yes. I know how you felt about him, and it's fine - I don't expect the same, never have."
She's momentarily thrown by his honesty. Even though she has suspected it, Clara has always thought that such an admission from him would be like getting blood from a stone. He's clearly been more shaken lately than she ever thought. His feet shuffle against her carpet.
"You may not expect the same, but you have it anyway." Now that the floodgates are ajar, she can feel it all bursting forth. With a deep breath, Clara powers on bravely, stupidly. "I'm not going to pretend that it has been easy. I loved him - you, him - you know what I mean. But I love you too, just as much, if you'd let me. I know that losing people is hard, Doctor. People you have loved, like River, like Rose-"
"-please, don't," he interjects, as if the names are too much, too far over the line.
She is silenced, skilfully reprimanded.
Eventually he breaks the quiet. "Clara, I don't know what to do. I don't know. And I hate not knowing." He swallows, voice strained and it is heartbreaking. "I can't be alone, but I can't keep losing everyone all the time. It is on my mind, every day, all those people who are lost to me, who have broken my hearts, who I have done wrong by. And there is you, you, Clara, and I don't think I could bear it from you, above all-"
His words break and he turns away from her, towards the window, anything so he doesn't have to see her. She feels tears threatening, but she won't let them fall, not now.
"To lose me?" She feels selfish, but she needs to hear him say it.
He doesn't turn, stays facing away from her, like he is ashamed of the way his words give away his weaknesses.
"You're my impossible girl, Clara. You've saved me so many times, and I can't bear it. Seeing... seeing Rose made me realise that to me losing you would be like losing her all over again. And I'm a selfish old, old man, Clara. I want you to stay but I can't bear the thought of ever having to say goodbye."
"And so you are cold and distant to me?"
This gets his attention, and he pivots to face her, brows furrowed. "Am I? I... I suppose I am. Getting too close to people, Clara... it's a curse."
"It's life, Doctor. Whether your life or mine, we all lose people. We all get our heart broken." She thinks of her mother, the way it felt like she would never heal, never be okay again. Clara finds herself stepping towards him, needing him closer, needing to feel his reassuring warmth. He watches her warily, like a skittish animal, easily spooked. Her hand touches his arm, grips gently, but it grounds her and she lets out a sigh.
"Neither of us know what will happen, but we can only be here now. Together."
He swallows. "Together?"
"Always."
He smiles at that, and although it isn't broad, isn't dramatic, it is enough. It is the most she has ever got from him, and she'll take it happily, gratefully. She'll tuck it away in her heart, like something precious.
"Always," he repeats quietly, his eyes sharp and steady on hers. She can tell that while the Doctor may still be difficult to know, more difficult than his past self, he is with her finally and that they understand each other. She squeezes his arm again in agreement.
"Well-" he clears his throat, "in that case then-"
His hands move to cup her cheeks, and she is about to open her mouth and say something, but then he kisses her.
Clara starts in surprise, may even let out a squeak of shock at the pressure of his lips on hers. The sound makes him pull back, face remaining inches away, so she can see each line, each detail of him so perfectly. His thumbs are idly stroking her cheekbones, and oh god, she can't think, can't think when his eyes look at her like that.
"Sorry," he says, hushed, although he doesn't particularly sound sorry at all. "I had to, just once."
He's already stepping back before Clara manages to pull herself together, jolt herself back into the reality where this was happening. She's quickly beginning to realise that if she doesn't do something, say something, right now then this will have all been futile. He will think that she doesn't want him, doesn't love him, when nothing could be further from the truth.
His hands are about to slide away from her cheeks, when she manages to grab him by the wrists, her small hands still managing to encircle them. Clara feels his rapid pulse slide underneath her fingertips, her thumb resting in the hollow between the veins.
Then she starts to laugh, the sensation bubbling up and unable to be suppressed. The Doctor looks alarmed, as if she's lost her mind, as if she's laughing at him, and the thought makes her finally stop, smile. She moves her head slightly, enough so that she can press a soft kiss into the palm of his hand, worn but still smooth. He exhales loudly, a puff of air in the quiet of her living room, hitching in his throat.
"Clara, Clara, my Clara," he murmurs, hand snaking down towards her chin, tilting it upwards. Her feet move forward, purposefully, into his space. A hint, a clue, a request.
"Doctor, Doctor, my Doctor," she echoes, and barely managing to catch the way his mouth curves bemusedly at one corner, and then the way her own does the same to match.
They stand, they stare. She wants him to kiss her again, wants him to do it properly this time, but he waits, looks. Clara is smart enough to realise that he is probably already trying to excuse his actions, justify why everything that has just happened is a bad idea. It quite possibly is, she knows. But she didn't plan for her life to crash into his, and it is too late to untangle it now. Clara understands that it isn't the face that matters, the body, the personality, it is the man, it is everything. It is her heart to give away, after all, and who better to give it to than him? She knows that his heart is more fractured than hers, more scarred, wounded, broken. But that is why he has two, and why any happiness that they can have now is more than enough to let him endure through the loss of her, one day, some day, in what she hopes will be the far distant future.
"I never used to be this melodramatic until I met you," she smiles, letting go of his wrists, and instead smoothing down the lapels on his coat. With nimble fingers she undoes the top button, the only one he ever does up, and presses her hands to his chest, over his hearts.
He huffs both at the feeling of her touch and at her comment.
"Saving the world is a melodramatic business," his accent curls around the syllables, but its a tease, and it is so new from him.
"You'd know," Clara replies, before deciding she was sick of waiting for him any more. Now that she knows he can have him, that he wants her, needs her, and that she wants all those same things, there seems little point in wasting time. She has to stand on her tiptoes, but it is enough to thread her hands around his neck and tug him down towards her. This time she's ready.
---
"Are you sure?" he says, although in her view, it is probably a bit late for all that. But it is gentlemanly, rather sweet, of him to ask.
"If you stop, I will personally ensure your next regeneration," Clara mutters, as his thumb strokes the inside of her thigh. She's still practically fully dressed so she really shouldn't be feeling so unhinged, but it's him, of course, and he has rather a lot of skills besides saving the universe.
"You're so bossy," he responds with annoyance, and she'd be put out if it weren't for the fact that she's straddled across his lap and his mouth is preoccupied with the space just under her ear.
"You like it." With her retort she shifts slightly and feels him arch beneath her. Humans and Time Lords really weren't all that different, she's learning.
"I do," he admits, managing to simultaneously unzip the back of her dress with one hand while lifting the hem up with the other. The garment is discarded, and it seems unfair when all she's managed to remove in return his his coat, still puddled on the floor.
"Should we go upstairs?" she asks, not really even sure if her sofa is large enough for the two of them.
He shakes his head, his mouth tracing the corners of her own. "Here is fine. More than fine."
So Clara concentrates on evening the score, but her hands are fumbling gracelessly with his buttons, and she’s sure it would be easier on them both if she could just stop kissing him for half a minute, but she lacks the resolve to pull away. He really is rather good at multitasking, as her bra falls away and from there everything gets rather cloudy.
Eventually she gets there, manages to peel his shirt away from his shoulders, part way down his arms. He looks surprisingly strong underneath, nothing like the lanky boyishness that she expected. His collarbone is razor sharp, and the need is almost painful when skin meets skin for the first time – jarring and startling.
She wishes that she could take her time, but it is clear that that isn't going to happen. Even if she had the self control, it doesn't appear that he does either. It's been a while for her, probably a while for him too. Clara tries not to think about River Song, about Rose, about any others, because he is here with her now, and this face is hers, her Doctor, always.
Last remaining clothes are cast aside, and it is done. She slides down onto him, still curled in his lap and it all feels so unbearably human in that moment. He may be the most extraordinary man in the universe, but right now, she is still able to make him gasp, moan low in his throat, arch against her. As she moves, fingernails making crescent marks in his skin, he is mumbling something into the crook of her neck and shoulder that she can’t make out, but it doesn't matter – maybe she'll ask him later.
It doesn't take long for her. She is too eager, too filled with urgency to take her time. She needs this, needs him, needs to feel this way, and everything he does only brings her closer and closer to the edge. He is a surprise to her, nothing like she anticipated, and it is so odd to see him undone like this, by her. His usual mask of seriousness is gone, replaced by adoration and desire and it is that which brings her to her peak, along with the way his hands know where to press her, just so, to leave her quivering and shaking against him.
Clara tries to catch her breath, slumped against him, his body warm and solid. He kisses her, again and again and again, his nose sliding beside hers, and there are those muttered words again, something in a language she doesn't understand, but she knows it is good, that it is loving and that is enough.
---
They continue running through the universe. There are good days and bad, and he is still spiky and ill tempered, but this time Clara does not take offence, and he learns to apologise. She discovers where to touch him to have him fall apart with her, and he smiles more.
But now she knows what it is like to have his hand pressed into hers, tugging and guiding and safe. No, it may not be forever, but it is right now, and that is time enough.