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No one else is around, now. It’s just Clara Oswald and The Doctor, safe, in the TARDIS. There is simultaneously both a relief and an apprehension that comes with this.
It’s on his way back from the library that he hears it. The TARDIS must have put her bedroom closer to the library than he remembers it being. Is the ship doing that on purpose? Trying to send-
His train of thought comes to a sudden and unpleasant halt. Clara is crying.
He’s hearing her sniffles and sobs. He stops dead in his tracks when he hears the sounds. The Doctor lingers outside her door, contemplating seriously whether he should just turn around and go back to the library for now. Or even pretend he hadn’t heard her at all and just keep walking on to the console room. Maybe, that's even what Clara would prefer?
But, the last time he’d heard her―seen her, even―crying was when the Dalek casing opened and he’d found her inside, hooked up to the wiring inside. Both his hearts seem to clench at the recent memory unbidden.
The TARDIS lets him easily into Clara’s room, he walks in and can see her form under the blankets, surrounded by pillows. She’s not only crying, but she’s shaking, too.
She gasps and jolts awake, still shaking.
“Clara?” He rushes over to her side, concerned for his companion.
The look in her eyes can only be described as terrified, and shocked. “Doctor?” She clutches at the blanket, before yanking it off her.
She’s had some kind of nightmare, he can see that now. Must’ve been a bad one if she’s reacting this way. The fear in her eyes pains him.
“It’s okay, It’s alright. You’re safe.” He attempts to console her. Maybe he’s doing this wrong, doing it badly. He doesn’t know how to do this anymore, without her teaching him. “Safe, and, it was just a nightmare.”
“I can’t even tell the difference anymore between my nightmares and what happens in my real life.” She admits quietly, her shaking beginning to ebb away. “Can you blame me?”
“No.”
His previous self would probably kiss her forehead at a time like this, but he’s not that self anymore. He hasn't been for a long, long while now. He’s this body, this face, this self. He’s different now, and even after all that he and Clara have been through, he’s still not quite sure what the boundaries of their relationship are anymore.
She grabs a pillow, covering her face with it. Another sob breaks free from her.
“I’m sorry.” She says. It’s slightly muffled by the pillow and the sobbing.
“For? What could you possibly be apologizing for right now?”
“I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine, I swear.”
“Clara… I’m going to worry about you even if you prefer I didn’t.”
5 foot 1 and crying, she looks at him again, big round eyes inflated and seems to be weighing something in her mind. It’s a long quiet moment before she speaks again, her voice more measured than it was before.
“I was really scared today.”
“Me, too." The Doctor admits, "Really scared.”
“You do a good job of handling it, though.” There’s some admiration in her tone, and envy, even. It doesn’t sit well with him at all.
He recalls falling to his knees before one of his archenemies, begging for Clara's life. Yelling at all of Skaro, demanding that she be brought back, returned to him safe, unharmed, alive.
“I don’t think I do.” He tells her, looking at her gravely.
“Why’re you here?”
“Well, I- Heard you crying.”
“Nightmares.”
She doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it. “Right. Yes. Do you want me to stay?” He avoids her eyes, wringing his hands together somewhat nervously. “I could get you back to sleep. Good sleep this time, no more nightmares.”
Please. Don’t you dare even argue, Clara.
Just let me do this for you, He silently begs. It's the least I could do, after everything that's happened.
“Doctor, I don’t need- it was just a silly nightmare, right?” She sounds torn even as she tries to reassure. “I don’t need you to-” She gestures vaguely and he doesn’t understand at all what she means by this. She takes an exaggerated inhale of breath, her shoulders relaxing on the exhale. “No more nightmares?”
He’s staying, then. A nod. “Promise you.”
“Fine.” She moves some pillows around on the bed, making room for him. “Come on, then.” She lies back down, some kind of smile just beginning to form on her face. A hesitant smile, he realizes after a moment. “In you get, yeah?”
This hasn’t happened before. He’s never gotten in her bed, he would never do that. Except that he’s doing it now. He grasps desperately for something familiar, mumbling, “Yes, ma’am.”
They’re both lying down on her bed now, facing each other.
He raises his hands, bringing them toward her temples. He isn’t even touching her yet when her own hand raises, primed to defensively bat him away.
“What are you doing?” She says, her body tensing even more with apprehension and nervousness. Her nerves must be especially bad right now, no thanks to the nightmares she’s had tonight.
“I’m trying to help you.” He tells her vaguely and defensively.
“What? By getting inside my head?”
“No, not by getting inside your head, necessarily. I can’t- I’m not going to go inside your head. I’m simply creating a… simple link between our minds, so I can give you, some calming thoughts. It will help with the nightmares, and you will be able to sleep.”
She just stares at him for a moment.
“Okay?” He says with irritation he only barely is trying to contain.
“Okay. Fine.” She’s still looking at him apprehensively, “But don’t knock me out, and be careful, don’t go snooping or anything.”
He huffs out a grumble, muttering about how he just said he wouldn’t do that.
He can’t exactly judge her for being wary, though. If honest, he’s wary about this too. It’s going to take a lot of focus on his part to control what she receives from himself.
All that he feels for her, all of those emotions that he stores inside of this body, it is too much, too intense, for even himself to bear. If he were to show that to her, she would be wholly overwhelmed by it, and that was the complete opposite of his aim with this gesture.
The rather obvious problem is that he keeps worrying about it, keeps worrying about her. It’s a rather difficult habit to kick, but he has to at least try to, or this is never going to work the way he needs it to. Control yourself. Control. Focus. Control. Duty of care.
The tips of his fingers are starting to brush against her temples now instead of the merely hovering―the stalling―he’s been doing for what has been probably only a few measly seconds but feels like much longer.
Fingers he’s willed to be steady now gently press into her temples. “Do you feel anything or see anything new in your mind, Clara?”
His touch is so gentle at the skin of her temples. It’s still a sensitive area, he can recall sharply and unpleasantly, the wires that had been stuck in them.
Clara closes her eyes. “Skies. Beautiful skies, I’ve never seen before, that I couldn’t have even imagined. Incredible landscapes, and oceans in the sky.” She sighs, and yawns. A small smile on her face.
He doesn’t go far into her mind. Only brushing at it, really. All he does is give her those calming, beautiful mental images, and push her fears away from the forefront of her mind.
It doesn't take long after that for her to fall back to sleep. She curls up at his side, and he smooths the top of her hair in an attempt to further soothe her as she drifts off into the realm of what is hopefully only pleasant and calming dreams. He'd always found this gesture to be soothing for himself―including back when he was a boy, terrified of what monsters could be lurking in the dark and under the bed―so he hopes that it will comfort her as well.
“Sleep, now, my dear Clara.” He whispers to her in the darkness of her room which is only being slightly illuminated by a lamp.
Then, still whispering, he addresses the darkness, “My Clara. Understand? She is under my protection, I am going to keep her safe.”
A mantra. A promise. A vow. He repeats it over and over in his head: I will keep you safe. I promise you. I have to. Trust me, Clara. You’re safe, you’re safe now. Safe with me. Safe.
He brushes away a stray hair from her forehead, contemplating this moment of closeness. As she sleeps, he lies on his side, awake and wondering. How long has he known for certain just how far he would be willing to go for Clara Oswald?
Regardless of when he first knew it, he knows it now, deep in his bones. It’s undeniable and obvious and it terrifies him like few things ever have before.
The adrenaline of adventure is gone, in the quiet only fear―the oldest and constant companion of us all―remains, thrumming through his veins.
He didn’t lose her today, but he will lose her one day. There’s a voice in his head that sounds exactly like Missy; You will lose her, and my dear, what will become of you, then?
Clara sleeps peacefully beside him, wrapped up in the soft safety of her blankets, and the Doctor is wide awake to be relentlessly tormented by the thoughts of how close he came to losing her. It’s all that he can think about, now. How it had almost been his fault, the gun was in his hand and he was going to kill her then believing she was already dead and he would’ve… he would’ve―
He has the oh so familiar urge to run. Run. Run and go anywhere, do anything, that could get rid of this feeling. But, he cannot bring himself to leave her side, he can’t even look away from her form in rest. He is not stupid enough to believe that running could ever rid himself of this feeling. Sure, it hurts when he's near her, but it hurts so much more viscerally when she's not here and he's alone. The Doctor learned that the hard way when he spent 900 years on Trenzalore, wanting her there and not wanting her there at the same time, writing letters to her that he never sent. (He still does that sometimes when he doesn't see her for a while, those dark moments where he writes down the things he'll never say to her. He's even tried his hand at poetry a few times.)
There’s something so strange about being so close to her after what happened on Skaro. It feels like he’s right where he should be, at her side, protecting her, keeping her safe. Yet, it also feels like this is the last place he should be. How can Clara stand to be so close to him, and in such a defenseless state, while his stomach twists and burns with self-hatred?
Calm yourself. He didn’t do it. She’s alive. She's safe.
He shouldn't want this much to hold her, it doesn't bode well for the future for when he will inevitably have to let go, but he wants... he always wants.
He puts an arm around her small frame, his hand resting on her back as he brings himself closer to her and in the process brings her closer to his chest. His other hand cradles her hand in his. She is soft, her pulse beats at a steady rhythm under her skin and she is alive.
She would probably call this cuddling, not that much different than hugging. He tries to not think about it too much, seeing this instead as a protective gesture. She wouldn’t appreciate him being this protective, though he can’t find it in himself to care. Even if she yells at him, it doesn’t matter. He will try to protect her no matter what she says or does in objection. That’s how this goes, now. She’s just going to have to deal with it.
She wakes. It's only a few hours later. He’s been keeping track, which he normally never bothers to do, but figures he’s already made a number of exceptions today (tonight?) so they might as well make another.
“It hasn’t been 8 hours.”
“You’re still here.” She says at the same time that he speaks.
“…Yes.”
“You didn’t sleep, did you?”
“No. I did not.”
“Did you watch me sleep?” She asks, clearly already knowing the answer as she wrinkles her nose. These rhetorical questions are really getting on his nerves now.
“Quit asking rhetorical questions.”
“Why’re you still here? Not being rhetorical.”
“Why do you think?”
She’s giving it some thought. Well, either that or just being completely silent again for no reason. Has she fallen asleep again? No, no, she hasn’t. She’s still got her eyes open ― her big bug eyes. Many species sleep with their eyes open, but not his Clara.
“I think that secretly you like this, and that’s why you really decided to stay.”
“Ooh, really? Yes you would like that, wouldn’t you, Miss Oswald?” the Doctor accuses with a low but teasing lilt. Taking a small exhale, he says “What if you had woken up from another nightmare?” Of course, he hoped she would only have pleasant dreams now or even no dreams at all, but he did not have full control of her mind in the slightest and so he couldn’t be sure of that.
“You don't have to be cuddling me just 'cause my nightmares are making me feel kind of bad.” She’s majorly downplaying it, they both know. Oh, they know.
“I’m taking care… just taking care.” He reassures, a bit flustered maybe. He’d never in a billion years admit to being flustered by this woman. “Of you.”
“Aw, d’you like me then, Doctor?” She asks lightheartedly, teasing him just as he’d done earlier.
She’s teasing but… that word. Stupid word. Like, what a simple, meaningless word to use. Meaningless because it comes nowhere near to how just much he feels for her. Though, alright, yes, fine, let’s put it that way, then. I’ve been cataloging your every expression, every minute shift of your features that creates one, even though I don’t understand them at all. Does that mean I like you, Clara?
“Clara.” Is all that comes out of his mouth - just her name, despite the many thoughts swimming about in his head.
She smiles at him. What smile is it this time? Content? Amused? Or another one, one of the ones he clearly has not figured out yet, one of many that continue to elude him? Her eyes don’t look sad right now, so it’s not a sad smile, he doesn’t think so.
Here they are again ― where they always are. On the precipice, of something. Standing on the edge, what seems to be the only one they’ll never jump off. That’s him and his Clara, always leaping headfirst into trouble and yet backing away from… from this. The greatest danger of them all, wasn’t it? They always come back here. Staring this never spoken, but simple truth in the face, as they look at each other.
All the places to go, all the things to see, and yet he always wants to run back to her. He wonders if he’ll ever, ever stop. He has this suspicion that even once she’s gone, he’s going to keep trying to find her. It’s just what he does, he runs to Clara. It’s all that he knows. Clara runs after the Doctor, and he runs after her. But, it means that they’re only ever going around in circles. Round and round.
In the back of his mind, he thinks bitterly about how little time he has with her, his beautiful Clara. How much time he’d already wasted post-regeneration pretending―trying to pretend―that she wasn’t more marvelous than the universe in his old, old eyes.
He knows now that nothing less than an eternity with her would suffice, nothing less than that―the impossible―would ever be enough. Not for him. He’ll always be longing and yearning, for the thing he cannot have. This, is his curse. No matter what happens, he will always be left, alone and wanting. The universe is cruel for dooming him this way, making him feel so much for someone who will only be with him for such a short amount of time.
Clara is looking into his eyes now, exhaling a small sigh at whatever she's found there. Love? Grief? Pain? Sorrow? All of that, and more, maybe. Clara Oswald, she could always see straight through and into him, couldn’t she? Except when she couldn’t. Maybe somehow she still even now wasn’t seeing the love in these eyes of his, but it seemed far too clear to him that it was there, for her to see. It had been there all along. If she’d been looking for it, truly looking for it. Just see me, Clara. Just see me. Love is a promise, and he’d chosen to make this promise to her, long long ago. He’d regenerated not only completely trusting, but loving the impossible girl, and somewhere deep down he’d felt that love the very moment he looked at her with this new face. Her face, her round, wide face, with those big brown eyes ― oh, the first thing and the most beautiful thing this body had ever seen. Nothing at all could compare since. Why had he ever tried to deny it? Hopeless. Doomed from the start. 5'1 and crying and he'd never stood a chance.
But then she is lifting her hand to touch his face, putting her palm to his cheek, and- the world stops again. It goes quiet, but this time not a bad quiet. He can’t even pay attention to thoughts, the thoughts aren’t coming now, he’s completely focused in on her. Tuned into the sensation of her heart beating steady in her chest, and her every intake of breath, and the thumb stroking along his cheekbone. All of his persistent neverending thinking comes at once to a blissful standstill, and he is allowed to bask in her Clara-ness, and the gentle care she’s showing him.
He could sink into it. Just, sink beneath her tide and never come up for air again. Let her take him down, for all he cares.
But then her hand slips away, Clara slips away, breaking their physical link and their prolonged eye contact.
“This isn’t like you.” She says quietly.
He blinks. “What isn’t?”
“This. It’s not like you at all.” She repeats, tilting her head as she stares at him again. “You never concern yourself with this, these things. Normal things.”
“Maybe, I’m, not feeling like myself.” He replies, unsure if it’s at all the thing he should be saying.
“Me neither,” She hesitantly admits in a delicate whisper. “I think. But, thank you.”
He says nothing and a silence falls over the pair of them once again. The quiet, it comes and it goes, as is inevitable.
“You were in my dream. The one I just woke up from.” She tells him.
A dream and not a nightmare, he thinks with relief.
“Was I…” He struggles once again to find the right words, glancing around the room as if he'll somehow find the perfect words to say somewhere in a corner of this bedroom, maybe. “Was I kind, to you?”
She gives a brilliant, bright smile, but this time he can see some sadness in her eyes. It’s a sad smile.
“Yeah, Doctor. You were.” and ‘of course you were’ goes unsaid, but he hears it in her voice somehow anyway and it puts a calmness in his hearts. What has he done to earn this kind of blind faith?
Perhaps he can allow himself just this one more, bonus moment of tenderness.
Stolen time ― is there any better kind of time?
He hesitates for a moment, and from his perspective it’s a moment that feels like it stretches on for way longer ― good. Then, he tentatively presses his lips to her cheek. Soft but affectionate like he used to do when he was a different man who spent his time wearing a bowtie and cleverly, a happy and youthful mask.
“Good.”