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"Y’know you look like you’ve been attacked by a swarm of hungry moths," she said.
They were nestled in the low fork of a huge silver birch, with four thick, white-papered boles. It was one of the new ones, one he assured her was unlikely to be around much longer. They still had some time before then, he claimed, sunset most likely, and she had been keen to spend a little time with the trees that had saved all their lives before they packed up shop.
And yet somehow it was him she kept looking at.
The Doctor sat slumped next to her, his feet tangling with hers in a hollow of fallen leaves and debris, staring up into the boughs with an almost dreamy expression. He hadn’t heard her, but she didn’t mind. It was good enough to look on him like this, in a moment of calm, of peace, and for once not see worry or fear or pain etched in the lines on his face. To see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth and sunlight turning his eyes the pale and faded blue of a hazy summer sky.
Patience, however, was not always a virtue of hers, and Clara plucked up a little twig from the hollow and poked gently at a tiny patch of pale skin under the black jumper.
The Doctor gave an appreciable yelp, swatting at his side, and muttered a few choice words when he saw the stick in her hand. “Oh that’s nice, that’s really nice,” he said, plucking it from her fingers and tossing it aside. “For a minute there I thought maybe the trees had changed their minds and were attacking after all.”
Clara giggled. “Don’t you worry, I know every word of Tom Bombadil’s song to Old Man Willow. If the big bad tree starts getting handsy I’ll sort it.”
He gave her an appraising look, still rubbing at his side. “What’d you do that for anyway?”
"Your jumper is full of holes," she said slowly, and wiggled a fingertip into one of them for emphasis.
The Doctor squirmed. “Oi! I don’t poke at you when I see holes in your clothing.”
Grinning, she poked at him again, a little lighter this time. “Never said you couldn’t. Why’s it full of holes?”
"I don’t know! I didn’t make the thing myself, did I? Do I look like I knit?"
"A little bit, yeah. Doilies probably. The occasional tea-cozy. Sweater for the TARDIS."
"Charming, you are, Miss Oswald."
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Why thank you, Doctor.”
A slight rolling of his eyes, and then he frowned. “What do you mean you never said I couldn’t?”
There was little she could do to stop from laughing at that, the look on his face was too much. The Doctor and Clara, sittin’ in a tree, she thought, and laughed a little harder. “Oh my god you weren’t kidding when you said you needed to glance at a manual, were you?”
"I’m sorry, you’re confusing, this is confusing," he muttered as she nudged closer to him. "I think you do this on purpose. ‘Look isn’t he funny when he’s confused, his eyebrows do a thing, yes let’s make that happen again.’"
She giggled, laying her head on his shoulder. His jumper was sun-warmed and smelled faintly of fallen leaves. Up close the contrast between the dark knit and his skin was even more pronounced. Clara brushed a fingertip over a tiny patch of exposed skin on his arm. The Doctor didn’t squirm this time, but she thought she felt goosebumps rise under her touch.
"Clara, we are sitting in a forest that sprung up overnight to protect the human race from annihilation. A forest that is probably only going to remain standing for a few more hours at best, and you’re more interested in poking me through my frock. What could possibly be so fascinating about my jumper?" he asked.
It’s on you, she thought.
"It. Is. Full. Of. Holes," she said, as if speaking to a small child. "Seriously, imagine your face if I walked out wearing it."
The sudden rush of color to his cheeks suggested he was doing just that. “You want to borrow my clothes now?” he asked. A sidestep and a dodge.
Another poke, this one strategically aimed between his ribs, and the Doctor yelped and squirmed again. This time, though, he was laughing.
She gawked a little. “Oh my god you are ticklish!" Clara said, and she was laughing too.
"I most certainly am not!" he insisted, trying to scoot away, and impeded by the boles of the tree and Clara’s tangling limbs.
"You most certainly are, Doctor!” she cried, and turned on him with wriggling fingers.
He flapped at her, trying to roll out of her reach, but she was too determined to yield so easily and rolled with him, sitting on his knees and pinning him to the tree, tickling him relentlessly.
Tears leaked from the crinkled-up corners of his eyes. The Doctor was laughing. It was a hoarse laugh, rusty and unpracticed, but to Clara’s ears it may well have been the best sound to ever grace the cosmos. It was infectious, resonating in her chest and filling it up with an expanding, dizzying lightness. She was afraid to give name to the feeling, though she knew it for what it was, what it meant for her, and for him, and for the both them together.
She was struck by the feeling now, as if she were being blown open, because a few short hours ago she would not have believed they could have this moment. The only thing that had seemed sure was fire and the following dark. Fire she could stand, and darkness too, knowing he would’ve still been striding among the stars. Her brave Doctor. Her impossible hero.
She realized there were tears streaming from her own eyes, too, but with an altogether different cause. They were alive. Alive and together, with his rare and precious laughter echoing through a temporary forest. Relief overwhelmed her, and she curled against his chest, feeling the rasping rumble of his laughter and the sudden quickening of his hearts.
"That," he said breathlessly, "was not fair."
Clara padded her fingers against his chest. “Doctor,” she said, trying to control the quiver in her voice, “just this once, just this one time, shut up and put your arms around me.”
He tensed, his laughter draining away, and she felt worry begin needle at her as it departed. He brought his arms up hesitantly. “Are you ok?”
She nodded against his chest. “Yeah, yeah I am. This is the most ok I’ve been in a long time, I think. I just…need this right now. Ok?”
"Ok," he whispered, his breath stirring her hair. Clara’s eyes slipped gratefully closed as his arms wrapped around her, straw-thin but warm and strong. "Whatever you say, boss."