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Their journey to the planet Arinquo had been quite a success for them. After saving the day they had been invited as honourable guests to that evening's ball—a voluptuous festivity open only for the most glamorous Arinquonians. The species was human-like, except most notably in skin color and number of horns, and their culture similar to that of 19th century Earth, and so Clara could easily score a slew of enamoured glances from the crowd as she emerged from the Tardis in her best ball gown—an original piece the Doctor had gifted her one day after a short trip to Marseille. The dress was neither lurid nor bulky, but silky with a thin silhouette and muted colour. All the sparkle came from Clara's earrings, which were imitation gold, purchased for less than seven pounds more than seven years ago, and a bangle on her wrist. The jewelry fit nicely, and had even earned her a look-over by the Doctor. She was sure that he was not aware of this, however, as he had not come up with a light, bantering comment at the sight of her.
She liked to believe that she cleaned up this prettily to impress the Arinquonians. In truth, she did not care about them. Her attention was solely on the hair at the back of her neck, which was continually standing up as if someone was watching her. It just so happened to be that the Doctor followed her around wherever she went, being quite lost in the celebration. He had dressed up only a little, but his hair was combed and subdued as well as it was possible, and his shoes were particularly shiny. The effect of this small effort was not lost on her. She had to work hard to try to enjoy the evening without her thoughts wandering to places they weren't allowed to wander; places in which the pieces of the Doctor's suit slowly diminished, and his gentle hands tugged on the laces of her dress.
They had just endured a polite conversation, when Ti-Kngn, the second officer, mistakenly referred to the Doctor as Clara's father. The error was quickly remedied by Clara clarifying that they were, in fact, not related, but a completely different species. Ti-Kngn apologised with a nod of the head and a click of the tongue, as was the Arinquonian way. The Doctor seemed fully uncomfortable throughout this, and though he assured Clara that the comment had not affected him she sensed that his spirits were considerably lower after this whole affair. Clara was nothing if not his ever-loyal carer. Putting on a sanguine smile, she grabbed the Doctor's hand and implored him to dance.
"Clara, nobody wants to see you dance with an old man like me," he protested. They were on the edge of the dancing floor, on which blue-skinned couples seemed to fly swiftly about.
"Don't talk nonsense!" As she spoke, the unearthly music changed, and a slower song started. "Why would they care?"
The Doctor raised an eyebrow as if she was playing dumb. "They all want to dance with you," he said.
He was right, she supposed. All around them, eyes were on her, and she could hear anxious whispers from a few pubescent Arinquonians next to a stone column in their vicinity. Their small button noses twitched excitedly.
"I'm flattered, but I want to dance with you."
"By dancing with me you will tell them that you are not allowed to court yet. It is in their culture." He hesitated almost imperceptibly before continuing, "Dancing with a parent is the signal for it."
"I don't see how that's relevant, seeing as you're not my father." She was growing impatient with the Doctor's determination. The song that was playing, though played with instruments unknown to her, was hauntingly beautiful, and she wanted to spend it in the Doctor's arms. She had to be quick.
"But they will all think it, as was just proven by the lovely conversation we had," he persisted wryly.
"I'll make sure they realise their mistake." She waited no longer. Unstoppable, she forced the Doctor to follow her onto the floor. They did not know any dances from this planet, but the rhythm of the song was close enough to a waltz that they could make do with that. As they started some Arinquonians around them peeked at them in interest, some shook their heads indignantly.
"See?" The Doctor said. His hand was burning hot against Clara's waist, even through the layers of fabric.
"They're just interested in waltzing," Clara said. "That's all."
"They're disappointed because I am dancing with you," the Doctor objected.
She sighed. "You're being ridiculous."
A few steps more, and her heart beat more rapidly. She could feel the Doctor's fingers tightening around her waist. He seemed closer to her now than a second before.
"They have no concept of human appearances or genetics," he continued, voice low, "and so every reason to believe we are related."
She wanted to ask him why he was behaving so obstinately when it came to this, but she had an inkling. No matter how much the Doctor acted as if he was unaffected by the change of his apparent age, it was clear that he was struggling to come to terms with it. Though the affair was wholly unrelatable to Clara—who aged very linearly (as one should)—she still felt for him. At the same time, however, she was of the opinion that the Doctor was making a bigger deal out if it than necessary. It wasn't as if he looked like elderly. And he was still more than attractive to Clara in a physical sense, and though she was aware of her rather odd fondness for older men she figured that it still counted for something. She wanted to prove this to him, in a matter he could not misunderstand. And, after all, she had promised him to make it very clear to the Arinquonians that they were indeed not related.
So she kissed him.
He froze, his lips unyielding. It was dry, and stiff, and even though his lips were warm Clara shivered and recoiled. What kept her from breaking down in embarrassed tears was the fact that the Doctor looked at her as if in shock, but not angry, or disappointed, or disgusted, or whatever else Clara had feared to see in his face.
"Now they know better," she pressed out. It was all she could do to act utterly unaffected.
The Doctor's face changed into an expression that Clara hadn't seen before and therefore could not interpret. He stayed silent for the rest of the dance, and when the song ended Clara let go of his hand, and he led her to the Tardis in tacit understanding: Their adventure was over. It was time to retire for the night.
The low hum of the Tardis interior was the only sound once the door clicked closed and the hubbub of the festivities outside was shut out. Usually, it was a reassuring noise, one that promised a comfortable evening and a safe return to Earth. Now it seemed to render the absence of other sounds impossibly loud. It was the kind of silence you had to break with a casual statement, something like 'Wow, what a day'. Clara, however, said nothing and simply watched the Doctor as he pulled his tie loose with a tired groan and checked the readings on the screens in the centre of the ship.
He was so beautiful, illuminated by the colourful lights. His hair begged to be pulled, his sunken cheeks to be kissed. A peculiar, unreadable sullenness was laid over his eyelids, which drooped low as he switched some buttons on the console.
She couldn't just leave him.
"Can you help me open the dress?"
The Doctor looked up. Words were clearly lying on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. "Yes."
Clara turned around.
Earlier, when she had put on the dress the Doctor had helped her tie it in the back, but that was when they were running late for the reception at the ball, so it was rushed and she had no time to enjoy it. Now she felt the tug of his strength pull her back, and finally his knuckles on her underdress—an off-white, short dress that looked like something between prosaic lingerie and that one old pyjama your grandma bequeathed to you. Not particularly flattering, but racy if you considered the time it had been in style.
Before she could lose the necessary courage, Clara slipped out of the sleeves of her gown and let it fall to the ground. She stepped out, now dressed in the underdress only, and picked up the gown without turning back to the Doctor. He remained silent as she hung the clothing over a small beam of the Tardis.
The hem of the underdress tickled her knees as she finally turned. The Doctor was looking at her, the console forgotten. Pained distress stirred his features.
"Doctor?" Clara asked carefully.
"Go to bed, Clara."
She shook her head vehemently. "Not until you tell me what's the problem."
He held his breath as he thought of a reply.
Finally, he said, "You look beautiful." It was harsh, and sounded a lot like Do not do this to me— but Clara had exactly that in mind.
She didn't say thank you. She knew she was beautiful, because he always looked at her like that when she made an effort to be. Instead, she said, "That doesn't sound like a problem to me."
"It is, though."
"If it is," she indulged him, "then solve it." And she took a bold step towards him.
He stared to the roof of the Tardis as if to pray to a deity. His hands were tensed, angled at his hips.
Clara wondered why he made everything so complicated for them. He seemed afraid, almost, of showing any affection since he had gotten this body. Clara, however, was not afraid, taking his hands in her own and petting them softly until they slackened. She had always loved his hands, but especially this pair. They were thin, but not bony. The veins were visible, but alive and strong, not weak as they looked in hands of the elderly. She traced them with her fingers.
When she looked up, her eyes met the Doctor's.
"Don't let me," he said. He did not elaborate.
"I want you to," Clara replied. It was true, even if she didn't know exactly what. But she could guess.
"I'd ruin you." The Doctor's voice wavered.
"I'm not some object that can be broken."
He began to pull his hands out of hers, but she was too fast for him, holding tightly.
"Doctor," she said. It was an invitation.
His gaze flickered to the Tardis door, behind which the ball was presumably still going on, as they hadn't left their spot. Why would they? It was perfectly safe here, they were in no hurry to leave.
"Clara," he replied. He tipped his head gently, his forehead close to hers. "I know what you are thinking. But you deserve better."
"Better than you?" she asked lightly. "I don't believe in fairytales anymore, Doctor."
"Someone your own a—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" Clara interjected. "There's been enough self-deprecation for today. Besides, you've always been hundreds of years older than me."
"Exactly," he said.
She noticed that despite the Doctor's protests he was now closer to her than ever. She could feel the breath from his words on her face.
Boldly, she reached up to him, cupping his cheek. "You stupid man," she said, putting as much love in her voice as she could.
"Stupid girl," he replied, kissing her. She was surprised, but melted into the warmth of it, kissing back with fervour and bringing her second hand up to his face. He pulled her closer, hugging her to himself as he allowed her to deepen the kiss.
When they parted for air—foreheads against one another—Clara was astounded to see that no stars had exploded around them. Same old Tardis, and her sweet hum, and mix of warm and cool lights.
The Doctor's eyes were still closed, his lips parted. She wished that he would look at her.
"Doctor."
His eyes opened and met hers, and it was as if the universe was floating in them. She was reminded of his other body, the one she met him in, and how his eyes had regarded her the same. How many times had he looked at her like that, but had forbidden himself to be with her? And now, finally, he had surrendered.
"I love you," she admitted, though she was sure he had known for a long time now.
A sort of whining sound escaped him, as if the words had stabbed through his hearts.
"Tell me you love me too," she said, "if you do."
"Of course I love you." It sounded almost angry, cross at her for suggesting otherwise. His furrowed brows made her smile.
"Good." She pecked him on the cheek, and petted the spot with her thumb. "Then you're not upset?"
He didn't answer, but kissed her again. He was still holding back, kissing her earnestly but not wildly. Clara, wanting to change this, guided his hands to her waist. Immediately, the Doctor was lost. He began touching her, running his fingers over the satin that covered her stomach, then up to her collarbone.
"Never leave me," he said weakly, then moved from her lips to her neck, placing gentle kisses there.
"Never," Clara promised. Her arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close. "Not in a million years."
He breathed into her neck, his lips and against her delicate skin, and the tickle made Clara laugh. Unmistakably, she could feel the doctor's own smile.
"My impossible girl," he murmured, and she grabbed his chin and made him kiss her on the lips again.
It's always been you, she was thinking. And through a warm fog in her mind, she felt the Doctor's thoughts:
It will always be you.