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The damage had been done, and the Doctor was dying.
Several lives back, the Doctor had joked that he didn’t want any of his regenerations to happen because he tripped over a brick. A brick might have been preferable to the senseless death his twelfth life had caused for himself. Idiot.
He’d faced down Cybermen, Sontarans, Daleks, Slitheen, Derren Brown, yet of all things to get him in the end, it had to be a tiny, cute-as-a-button-but-armed-with-an-equally-tiny-and-cute-as-a-button-poison-dart-blowgun Adipose.
Here lies the Doctor, killed by a reject from Pokemon, he thought. If his chest wasn’t hurting so much, he’d have laughed.
He’d managed to drag himself back to the TARDIS. He always liked to regenerate within her, if possible; it made it easier — easier being a relative term.
He could feel the poison coursing through his veins, but knew it would take a while before he felt the swell of energy that meant the end of one life and the start of the next. It was slow-acting poison harvested from Metebelis II. No known antidote. Which is the only reason anyone ever bothered to go to bloody Metebelis II.
So the Doctor dragged himself into a chair and slumped into it, exhausted and sweating.
And depressed. Not that he was about to regenerate. He’d done it a dozen times before and still managed to put his socks on the right feet every morning afterwards.
He was depressed that these eyes would never see her again.
Clara Oswald had been a very special companion. In fact, she was closer to a soulmate, a word he’d only ascribed to a very few of the people he’d befriended and travelled with over the millennia. But Clara had been there for him for billions of years of his own subjective time. And he later learned she was even there from the beginning: it was Clara, or rather one of her timestream echoes, who’d pointed him towards his TARDIS. It was Clara who stroked his young brow as a child and told him to be strong with words he’d live by for millennia. It was Clara who convinced him not to destroy billions of lives to end the Time War when the Moment had failed to do so.
He’d allowed himself to commit a fatal mistake: he’d fallen in love with her.
By the end, she’d fallen in love with him too — she’d admitted it both indirectly, by telling him once how he’d become essential to her, and then she’d looked at him in the Cloisters after learning about his 4.5 billion-year sojourn in a personal hell, and he saw the look in her eyes. Sadly, he was too preoccupied with breaking Time to save her to pay much heed.
The Doctor was thankful to have her memories back. He’d had to block them after her resurrection (or, rather, stay of execution) in order to protect her. But over the years the neuroblock had faded; it hadn’t been designed for a Gallifreyan, not even a half-Gallifreyan, to use.
One morning, like a dam bursting or an aneurysm erupting, the memories all came flooding back. It nearly killed him and for weeks after he’d been incapacitated with a mixture of intense memory and grief. Mad ideas had almost overtaken him a few times. Fortunately, he’d picked up a new companion who learned of Clara and who understood and lent a comforting ear. Eventually, he’d calmed down and moved on. Clara was in his past. She was gone. Just like Rose. Just like River. Everyone blows away like smoke in the end, and he came to accept this — the curse of the Time Lords. Yes, Clara had died on Trap Street, yet at the same time she was still so very much alive. And that thought gave him comfort.
Eventually, his new companion had blown away like smoke, too — fortunately, at least, she’d had a happy ending — and the Doctor found himself alone again.
And it was while he was alone that he made stupid mistakes, like antagonizing a warrior faction of Adipose and getting shot with a poison dart containing a venom for which there was no cure.
The Doctor figured he had about a half hour left. Not much time to do anything. When Sandshoes had regenerated, it was due to another slow-acting poison — radiation that took weeks to kill him. Enough time to visit all the friends he’d made.
But who could the Doctor visit in a half hour? Not many people. No, this time he’d just sit quietly and let it happen. No melodramatics, no grandiose speeches. He’d all but sneezed into existence the last time; this time, maybe he’d yawn his way into his next life. That would be a change, he mused. Maybe an indication that my thirteenth life might be unlucky in adventure and lucky in the quiet life.
Momentarily woozy, the Doctor pushed back into the chair and closed his eyes.
A smiling, dimpled face under two of the most expressive eyes he’d ever encountered — framed by eyebrows as mighty as his own, yet far more beautiful — filled his thoughts. Petite of stature, but with a force of will and a personality that made Draconians look like mewling kittens. No, it wouldn’t be fair to her, he thought. But what if she’s alone too? He knew she’d gone on to travel with Ashildr … but were they still together? Was she lonely?
Had she changed? The Doctor frowned as he recalled how being rendered immortal had led Ashildr to become distant and cold-blooded — the Doctor felt immense guilt for the many souls who had died at her hands. Had the same happened to Clara? Was she all right?
Or had she already returned to Trap Street, her song finally ended?
There was still time, dammit.
The Doctor made his decision and staggered over to the console. He had no coordinate numbers to enter and he doubted he could just pick up the phone and call her after all these years. So he tore open the console panel to reveal the sponge-like telepathic interface and drove both hands into it.
He closed his eyes and tried to compartmentalize the fear, the pain, the encroaching regeneration. None of that was important now. Only two words that he spoke aloud into the console room.
“Find her.”
The thump of the TARDIS arriving somewhere thirty seconds later was followed by another thump as the Doctor hit the floor, unconscious.
***
“Doctor? Doctor, please wake up,” a soft, lilting voice was calling to him and he felt himself cradled awkwardly on the floor. “Please — wake up.”
The Doctor’s eyes snapped open so quickly, and she gave a little squeak of startlement.
The Doctor was looking up into the most welcome face he’d ever imagined.
“Clara? I found you!”
“How?”
The Doctor raised a weak hand and pointed towards the telepathic interface.
“Oh.”
“Where are we?” he asked.
Clara smiled. “Earth’s moon, about 2075. I come here every so often to keep her company.”
“Of course,” the Doctor said. Since Clara had played such a major role in the creation of the entity that inhabited the egg that was Earth’s moon — Earth’s second moon, rather — he wasn’t surprised she’d come back here.
“My TARDIS is just over the hill. I was sitting outside watching the stars when I saw you arrive.”
The Doctor looked around. “Where’s your spacesuit?”
“Don’t need one. One of the benefits of being Clara two-point-zero.”
Suddenly, the Doctor, who was still reclining on the floor, reached up and cupped Clara’s cheek with his right hand — much like Clara did before the raven took her away. She leaned into it and closed her eyes.
“Clara, I missed you.”
“Me, too.” She took his hand off her cheek and held it. “What’s happened, Doctor?”
“Took one too many risks. Got reckless. I wanted to see you one last time with these eyes.”
Clara tried to speak, but couldn’t as her eyes began to moisten. She knew regeneration was part of the Doctor’s life. She, or her echoes, had at one point or another seen them all — except for his future selves; she’d never allowed herself to seek them out. Knowing about a thing, however, is not the same as experiencing a thing — and Clara was grief-stricken that this Doctor she had come to know, better than he knew himself in some ways, was going to leave her.
The Doctor’s voice sounded weak, foggy. “Help me up, I’m supposed to be the tall one.”
Clara chuckled as she shouldered the Doctor to his feet. He leaned somewhat unsteadily against the console.
“What happened to the neuroblock?” she asked.
The Doctor told Clara about it wearing off … and he headed off the angry look he saw forming by explaining in broad strokes why he hadn’t sought her out until now.
“I know I was being selfish,” the Doctor started.
“No, Doctor, you were right. We needed to be separated. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to stop myself from saying to hell with everything and coming to find – ”
The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her. “Clara, how long has it been for you since you last saw me?”
Clara debated whether to tell him the truth. It wasn’t on the same scale as 4.5 billion years, but she knew how it had felt to learn that particular truth in the Cloisters. She wrapped him in a hug — and felt his arms go around her back. Just like old times.
“About three thousand years,” she said.
The Doctor gaped at her. “My god. You’re technically older than I am. That explains the wrinkles.”
Clara thumped him playfully on the chest as she pulled out of the hug. Despite the growing pain in his lower extremities, the Doctor winked. He'd never been serious in insulting her, though he'd stopped a long time ago when he realized he might have been hurting her feelings.
As the Doctor looked down into the first face his face ever saw, another of those mad ideas emerged. It would be something for the next man to take care of; he just had to trust that, after the change, he would still want it.
But first, he needed to do something else. “I need to confess about a thing.”
“Confess? I don’t like the sound of that.” Clara wasn’t being facetious. The last time the Doctor thought about confessing something related to her, he’d spent eternity in hell.
“Not that kind of confession. At least, I hope not. Clara, do you remember that time we had to pretend to be married?”
Clara’s eyes widened a little. Sort of an odd thing to bring up at a time like this, but okay. She was heartened by the fact he seemed to gain added strength as he asked this. Maybe the change didn’t have to happen. Just keep him talking, remembering.
“Of course,” she said. “That was when you took me to the Second Most Beautiful Garden in All of Time and Space. Just before Rigsy called us,” Clara’s face darkened a bit at the memory. “Yeah, it was the only way we could be admitted, because unattached people weren’t allowed in, right?”
“I remember you were a bit upset at that. I wasn’t sure if I should have taken that personally,” the Doctor smiled, and then looked as if he was going to fall down. Clara leaned in and steadied him into a chair and she scrambled to grab another from the opposite side of the console. His eyes seemed to be staring right through her as she brought it up so she could sit right next to him. She took both his hands in hers, just as she’d done when his memories faded back in her TARDIS. A place, she suddenly realized, she never wanted to see again. Not by herself.
“Hold on — come on,” she pleaded as his eyes refocused on hers. “Listen to my voice, concentrate, yeah?”
The Doctor nodded. He was back, for now.
“You know, I never got the chance to tell you how much I enjoyed pretending I was Mrs. Basil Funkenstein.” Clara nearly broke into laughter as she said the ridiculous name, one of several aliases the Doctor test-drove during their final months together as he’d grown tired of “John Smith.” She wasn’t sure of the Funkenstein part, but she felt Basil was a perfect name for him.
“And being Mr. Clara Oswald was fun too, too. I guess I’m old-fashioned…” the Doctor said, the last word dissolving into a coughing fit. “Not long now.”
“I don’t want to lose you. Not after we finally found each other again.”
“I remember … I remember you put a pan-galactic rose above your ear and looked like something out of Carmen — minus the red dress,” the Doctor said. “And then a few other couples came by and one of them started to look suspicious at us because we weren’t holding hands and hugging.”
“So we hugged up a storm. I remember. And then I had to spoil it by stepping on the wrong grass.”
“And while you were talking to the garden police, that giant sentient plant assumed you were going to be taken away for life and laid claim on me has his/her/its next spouse! And you were going to be the wedding cake!”
The two laughed at the memory. The experience had been hairy — they treated horticulture deadly seriously on that planet — but it was also the last time they were truly together, just the two of them, before the raven. The Doctor grimly reminded himself that Clara died only about nine hours after they’d returned to the TARDIS. It had gone by so quickly.
“Do you ever wish it was real?” Clara asked softly, her hand finding itself giving the Doctor a comforting light stroke on the cheek again.
“What?”
“Our ‘marriage.’ We never had the chance to talk about it. I know you were technically married to River Song, but I thought maybe Time Lords play by different rules.”
“We do, I guess,” the Doctor said. And then … it was time to put his mad idea into motion. He hoped he wouldn’t regret what he was about to say. But, dammit, he was dying. The next man might not have a head, or might be a bastard who drives Clara away. No, say it now. While you can.
“Clara, I didn’t always act like I did, but I always cherished you,” the Doctor said. “And I loved you as a friend, someone I could always trust and would always forgive.” He remembered the dream-state volcano, and the TARDIS keys. Her betrayal. His forgiveness. Looking into her eyes the Doctor knew she was remembering the same thing. “But that night when Santa or whatever the hell he was zapped us out of the dream state … looking at you … Clara, that’s when I fell in love with you.”
Clara stared at the Doctor for a long moment, her eyes moist.
“I was just too stupid to say anything,” he added.
“You didn’t have to. I knew. And I felt exactly the same. I loved Danny too, I did — and at the time I meant everything I said when we tried to save him — but my heart belonged to you. I couldn’t give you up. Especially after Santa. What a matchmaker he turned out to be.” She chuckled.
Her face turned serious. She leaned in closer to the Doctor as she noticed his concentration wavering. “Was that your confession?” It would be so easy to close the inches and kiss him.
“What? No. My confession is that I lied to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The garden. There was no ‘marriage rule.’ I lied because I just wanted to feel what it was like to be your husband. Even if only for a little while. I just made that up on the spot.”
Clara’s mouth held firm for a second and then she smiled and kissed the Doctor softly. Although this wasn’t the first time they’d kissed — his previous incarnation kissed her on the forehead regularly and she’d returned the favour on the cheek a few times, and the current Doctor and she had exchanged a few chaste cheek kisses and she’d risked a brief lip peck once when she threw him a surprise birthday party — this time it was different. When she pulled away, the Doctor’s eyes were wide open. Did that just happen?
“You could have just asked, you know,” she said.
A small smile broke the shocked look on the Doctor’s face. She could see his eyes drift down to her lips. But then they shot back up and looked right into hers.
“I can’t move my legs.”
“I didn’t know I was that good a kisser,” Clara said.
“No, I really can’t move my legs.” A growing look of panic from him made her instantly regret her joke.
The regeneration energy was already travelling up his body. Soon it would hit his heart, his brain. And a new man would walk away. “Clara, it’s started. You know what’s going to happen.”
“I don’t care. I’m staying with you.”
“I’ll be different when it’s done.”
“No. You will be the Doctor. And I will stay with you. I’m making you a promise. You don’t need to be alone.”
“Clara…”
“Think about it … I can’t age. I’m also indestructible — the universe needs me to die on Trap Street, but until then nothing harms me. I’ve walked away from things that would make your hair unfloof. There are a few things I can’t do anymore, like eat solid food or get a tattoo, but you’d never have to worry about my safety … not ever again.”
“Clara, it’s not fair to you.”
“Doctor, I have been travelling on my own for centuries. Ashildr gave her life to save a planet — she finally found a way to die, but she did so to save billions.” The Doctor’s face fell as he heard this. He wasn’t aware and he’d long forgiven Ashildr for Trap Street. Clara stroked the Doctor’s face. “Ever since, I’ve been alone, more or less. I know it won’t be the same, but I know that you are always going to be the Doctor, no matter what. I loved you when you wore a bowtie and had a fez fetish” — the Doctor smiled at that – “and I love you now as a grey haired stick insect” — the Doctor laughed weakly — “and I loved Captain Grumpy and even the pretty one with the sand shoes.”
“They weren’t sand shoes.”
Clara laughed. “Says the man who thought he was wearing Doc Martens for months before he finally read the label. And, Doctor, regardless what you look like when you change … I’m not the same woman I was who had the problem with it the last time.”
“What if I have two heads? Could happen.”
“More to kiss.”
“What if what happened to Missy happens to me and I come back as, you know…”
“I’ll cope.”
“I could be even older-looking than I am now.”
“Don’t care.”
“Younger.”
“Don’t care.”
Everything below the Doctor’s mid-chest was numb. Seconds, not minutes. The mad idea. Yes, the mad idea. Now, do it …
“If … if I come through this with everything in the right place, if I am a good man when I regenerate … marry me?”
“No pretending?”
“No pretending.”
“But what about the Hybrid? The prophecy.”
“To hell with the prophecy. Be with me. The Doctor, Clara Oswald. Let’s raise some hell together.”
“Yes, Doctor." Clara kissed his forehead. "Of course I will marry you."
“Call me Basil.”
“That is not your name,” she teased in a whisper.
“Remind me later to tell you … no more sec…secrets…” He slid off the chair to the deck, Clara catching him and preventing his head from hitting the metal.
Suddenly the Doctor’s hearts began racing at ten times their normal pace. “Y-you’re too close. Get away. The regen- … the energy…”
Instead, Clara hugged him even tighter.
“No, Doctor. If anyone needs a hug right now, it’s you. And no, you don’t get a vote.”
Clara and the Doctor locked eyes as his breathing suddenly stopped.
“Let go, Doctor,” she whispered. “I’ll still be here.”
She felt his presence in her mind. One word forming itself in the Scottish mood-lighting accent she’d loved for so long, that she had replayed in her mind countless times to bring herself comfort during the loneliness of an immortal life.
Clara.
And then the Doctor’s extremities exploded into dazzling golden light. Clara felt the energy shooting through her and realized that, if she could still feel pain, she would probably be in agony, maybe dead. Instead, she felt nothing but beautiful warmth — something she also normally couldn’t feel in her timelocked state — and she let the energy envelop her.
And then she felt him inside her mind, saw the universe through his eyes. Felt what he felt as he spent billions of years grieving her and desperately plotting to save her. And she felt what he felt as he looked at her in the Second Most Beautiful Garden in All of Time and Space. As he saw her from a distance in that castle where he’d played “Pretty Woman” for her. As she poured her heart out to him in the Cloisters. As they clinked glasses aboard the Orient Express (He’d lied, Clara realized. He was already in love with me, even then.). Looking at her as she gazed up at the rotor after they’d agreed to fly somewhere magical.
Her Doctor. His Clara.
She hugged the Doctor tightly and felt, rather than saw, her Scottish gentleman fade away.
After a few moments, the energy dissipated. The body on her lap felt slightly heavier now. She stroked his new cheeks and found to her relief that her palm still fit perfectly.
She looked down at the new, dark-skinned face, staring up with the fresh eyes of a newborn, smiling. She smiled back.
“Hello,” the new Doctor said quietly.
“Hello,” said Clara.