Underneath the console used to feel safe to him. He remembers that. He remembers the way he'd often bring down a swing he still knows the exact placement of and sometimes he'd sit there in contemplation. Of his companions; of himself; of the universe around him. He remembers because it feels juvenile now and the space underneath the console no longer offers a release from the heaviness of his thoughts.
Now he sits in a chair on the upper level of the cockpit, as it were. He sits in a comfortable chair and he stares at the roundels on the wall and he tries to ignore that she's in that swing and she's thinking of the Doctor. Not him – not the man with his elbows planted in the armrests and his fingers pressed into one another in a space in front of his chest – but the man he'd been. The foolish man with the boyish face and the quiff. And the bowtie.
He can see it in her hands; the one he'd dropped on the floor.
The Doctor had known then; he'd known who was coming. He never knows what he's going to look like, but he can feel the new man emerging. For a time after the regeneration, his old self lingers too, until he settles. Almost like a handshake, a kiss-off, a baton pass. He sighs as he watches her rub at the fabric as she pushes herself back and forth ever so gently, her mind working over memories and wishes and broken promises.
She's told him on too many occasions that she accepted him as the Doctor. She's told him how she understands it's the same man, just underneath a new casing. She's smiled and she's gone through the motions and she's saved the day with him, but he knows that as much as she accepts him, there's something not the same. And it sits in her hands; it swims in her memories; it lingers in her heart.
He hates that man for that; he hates himself. What she must think of him, he ponders as he rises. Standoffish and brazen and downright rude at times. Almost two thousand years – there's no time for hand holding, he scoffs, taking a step towards the ladder that would take him to the console; that much closer to her. And he realizes it bothers him for a reason that rattles his mind.
She could see him, deep down. He knew that, knew it with both of his hearts and yet... he thought maybe she'd loved him, loved him just enough that this new face with its harshness; this new head with its grey; this new mind with its impatience wouldn't make a difference. Maybe he'd imagined it all, all of that time. All of those smiles and all of her teases and all of her...
It hadn't meant what he thought it'd meant.
"I can feel your eyes on me," she calls out sadly.
"I can feel your thoughts on me," he responds quickly, "I was merely anticipating the verbal confrontation – you're quite good at those."
He sees her shoulders lift and drop with a sigh and he closes his eyes, nose wrinkling in frustration at himself for being incapable of holding back those impulsive slips of an aggressive tongue. Why had he been given such a tongue, he thinks as he bites it just enough to sting before he slips down the steps quickly and rounds the entranceway to a hall, rushing towards a wardrobe.
When he returns, she's in the same spot and he slowly moves down the steps to her, looking to his right hand as it slides over the railing, the unfamiliar purple of his old suit hanging comfortably on his skin. He can see the goggles sitting atop her head, the straps pushing her ears aside awkwardly and flipping her hair outward at her shoulders. She'd cut it recently, shortened it and trimmed her bangs and he rather liked it, but he couldn't figure out how to tell her, so he'd asked if she'd enjoyed her shearing. Like a sheep. He'd told her it made her face rounder. Like a moon.
He bit his lip at the memory of her reaction, the confusion that had overtaken those wide eyes, and the way she'd looked away and run a hand through her hair. Now he approaches her cautiously and he watches as she wraps the bow tie and hides it in the right pocket of her pants like a secret, her hands coming back up to grip the swing on either side of her as he rounds her to stand before her, blocking her escape.
"Would it make a difference," he states softly, arms coming up slowly before falling back as he closes his eyes to ask again, "Would it make a difference if I wore this old thing?"
The swing squeaks pathetically and he looks at her, sees the tears perched at the edges of her eyelids, held there only by her refusal to blink. "Why would you think that?"
He gestures, "The bowtie." Then adds quickly, "Do you really think I haven't noticed?" On a crooked smile, he points out, "You offer it more affection than you do me. I thought maybe if I completed the ensemble, it might have a positive effect on you that the rest of me doesn't seem to have."
"I'm sorry," Clara tells him.
She blinks and takes a long breath as those heavy tears splash down onto her knees and when her head bows, he bends, falling to his knees before her, hands hovering just over her knees before he pulls them away and grips his own. Incapable of the affection she longs for, he understands; incapable of being the man she had expected him to be.
"Perhaps it's best if we end this amicably," he tells her softly, turning away to look at the compartments at his side, knowing the insanity of objects in each; knowing which is hers and filled with an assortment of her things – things she'd have to remove if she left. "Perhaps it's not the suit that fails to fit."
He can hear her take a breath and he closes his eyes as the tenderness of her hands settle over each of his cheeks, turning his face towards her. For a moment he's afraid to see the rejection in her eyes, and then he feels her lips at his forehead and the way she drops to press her head to his.
"I'm not sorry that the suit doesn't fit, Doctor," she whispers. "I'm sorry I've been an arse to you when I promised myself I wouldn't be." There's a small chuckle and he sighs against her breath, rolling warmly over his nose. "Do you remember what I first saw you in – that ridiculous monk costume?" She laughs as he nods slowly. "You did a dance at my doorstep looking foolish and young and then you thought you had to change for me – you went and found this suit and I've always wanted to ask: why purple?"
"I thought you'd like the color," he tells her honestly, shoulders shrugging gently as he listens to her laugh. He couldn't tell her why he thought that then, but he could remember the thought floating through his head as he weighed the coat against his brown one in his other hand before tossing it aside. "Perhaps I thought it was brighter, less fairy tale than my previous." He laughed as she sighed. "More real, for you."
Clara inches back slowly and she gives his shoulder a rub before sliding her hands down to find his, tugging him up to stand and watch his eyes focus back on her. The Doctor could see something in those eyes he'd been missing; something he thought he might never see again – a spark of something more than admiration, maybe something like adoration. Could she, he considered… was he deserving of those eyes?
"It was never," she began softly before giggling to herself, turning her eyes away to sniffle a moment before closing them and turning back, blinking up at him, "It was never about the clothes, Doctor. The bowtie is a memory – you've said yourself, each regeneration is like a death." On a shrug she admits, "I suppose I'd hoped I wouldn't see yours so soon."
The Doctor sees the nostalgia in her eyes and he understands, this place is like a grave to her. He grips at her hands and he begins to walk back towards the stairs, telling her softly, "Dry those enormous eyes of yours, Clara, for in that death there is also rebirth."
She laughs easily at his words; words she should have considered insulting. And he finds himself offering a smile, one she seems to enjoy because the pulse he can feel at her wrist quickens just a bit. Just enough. Enough to light a fire inside his own hearts as he reaches to take hold of a lever, watching her move towards a set of buttons he nods to press and send them spinning into the vortex.
"I'm not, perhaps, the most gentle of newborns, as you can attest," he teases as she grins, "But, fortunately for us both, I'm still learning," he gestures, "From you."
Bowing her head a moment, she nods and then allows, "And much to learn you have, Doctor." Clara inches forward and gives the lapels of his jacket a tug before whispering, "But not in this suit."
"Why not?" He asks her curiously, arms coming out, "Don't you like the color?" He raises his eyebrows slightly and he watches her laugh and shake her head – not at the question, but at him. The way she used to. He smiles as she waves him towards the hallway that leads to the wardrobe, and he trails behind her just enough to reach the doorway to find her standing with his jacket over her shoulders and a small smile on her lips.
"I like this one," she tells him, "Red lining," she begins, glancing down as she raises her right hand to display a sliver of the bright color, "Does something for you; for this version of you."
He shrugs out of the purple and drops it aside, seeing the way she smiles sadly at it, and then he moves towards her, hands reaching up to her shoulders to hold them a moment, nodding and explaining, "I suppose you and I, we just need a bit of tailoring."
Clara simply sighs as he swings the coat off her shoulders and thrusts his arms through quickly, pulling it tight at his chest and looking down at it to examine that lining she mentioned. The one, he remembers, that had matched the color of her skirt on that first adventure they'd had. He glances up when he feels her move forward and he looks to her hands as they rise and straighten the lapels over his chest, just before she lands a palm to each of his hearts.
"I think," she breathes, "I think we'll find our way, Doctor – like you said, just a bit of tailoring."
"And we'll get there in the end," he states softly, watching her eyes rise.
Eyes brightened with new hope as she smiles and responds, "We'll get there in the end."