i.

There might be words to say — no might about it, no, there definitely must be something said, and said fast, and said now — but the silence continued. It reigned, it fell, it occupied the surprisingly narrow space that separated his face, this new face, from hers. If he got any closer he'd be behind her.

And the silence continued, stretching on while the ground beneath them trembled and the awful shakes moved through his bones and rattled him up and through the roots of his teeth. But the Doctor wasn't moving, he wasn't blinking, because she wasn't doing either.

He heard a soft sputter for air and this act, however gentle, was enough to break his trance. Breathless and not quite a gasp, but it was coming from her. And there went an awful panging in his hearts, two hearts, thundering fast, three if he counted hers (and he does, then, and he decided to from here on until always) because he's realized that there are tears in her eyes.

There are words to be said but the Doctor won't phrase them quite yet. He knew how the tears got there, though he decided quite brutally, suddenly, with all the sliding, divisive force of guillotine meets neck that he wouldn't apologize for what the other man did. It wasn't me. I did it but it wasn't me. Even if the guilt is mine now.

But those weren't the words that should be said. They smacked of cowardice, and he remembered — oh the things he remembered, he remembered more than he ever aught to — he remembered the promise that now stopped his mouth from forming the pitiful excuse. Never cruel nor cowardly.

I did it, Clara, but it wasn't this me.

He remembered, as through a glass foggy, how the old eyes saw her just moments ago and what those eyes transferred up into the old mind. A hefty amount of guilt, yes, but that wasn't new — he had guilt enough to found whole religions and branching sects that even the Papal Mainframe would admire. What was new was the form of the guilt, the residual rue from the other man clinging to him, the new one, like grasping, clutching claws. Never cruel nor cowardly, and to her I was nothing but.

But this was no time for memory, no, not when the present was so keen and burning and alive, almost shrieking, demanding his full attention. Her wild, wide eyes were still painted with so much pain, even as her face revealed nothing but absolute shock, and the Doctor didn't want to think too long on why the pain was there, or why the tears were still burning in her eyes, but he wanted it to stop.

There were words to say to make that happen, but he couldn't for the life of him think of what they might be.

He had a brief, fleeting, barely-there spark of a thought that he hoped he doesn't look as bad as her face seemed to indicate. For all the Doctor knew, Clara could be in tears at his wretched hideousness — but no, that was the vain one popping up again for a quick hello. I'm not him now, either. I don't know who I am yet, I just know that I'm —

"I'm sorry." There were the words at last. He knew at once that it was not enough; the biggest library in the universe with every tome and their every page filled cover to cover with apologies in every alphabet from every form of life would not be enough to make up for what the he-who-wasn't-him had done. But he hoped it was a start.

ii.

The Doctor got an idea as he watched Clara, waiting at the TARDIS doors for her to follow. Clara wasn't looking at him. She hadn't looked at him since the apology, the words, his very first, shutting her wild, wide eyes and sealing away the tears. Her hair fell then, as it still was now, like a dark curtain around her face, shutting out the expression, blocking what had for the first moments of his life been everything in the world to him. Clara kept swinging her hair down over her shoulder now, combing her fingers through it to complete the obstruction. Her movements were slow, every gesture writ with sorrow.

He got the idea from watching not her hand moving through her hair — which he found very distracting, the way the light of the TARDIS caught all the shades mixed up in, not just brown but bits of gold and he thought there may be some red — but her other hand, the one that was still on the console. She was stroking it gently with her fingertips, soothing herself or the ship or no one, really, because what could ever make this day all right? Again there were no words. He wanted to apologize again but the moment passed and he was silent, his tongue thick in his mouth and filling it with bitterness.

The idea helped chase both back.

"Clara?" He liked the way the name sounded with this mouth, with this voice, the way this, at least, felt familiar when everything else was so strange. Stranger still, but more importantly sweet, how a name can make one all right when everything else was so certainly not. The Doctor wanted to say it again, an impish little impulse he did not quell, though he whispered her name this time. "Clara." Just for himself, you see. A little treat he savoured.

But the pleasure was gone when he saw her go still, stony, her hands frozen on the console and in her hair. He could not see her face and he thought of moving forward, catching an angle where he can, but before the thought could process into action Clara walked towards him. Her hair was pushed back, her face revealed, and the expression — the expression he cannot place. It's not shock, he knew that. And her eyes were hard chips, dark and tearless, and that's almost worse than the grief.

She looked at him briefly before taking hold of the TARDIS doors and opening them onto the familiar lawn. Clara stopped and smiled. He smiled in turn until he realized, all the old hims chiming in with commentary that no, that was not a real smile. It was hard and small, like a wound twisting her little face.

"This again." Clara glanced back to the console, her hair whipping around, grazing his chest, as she gazed fondly at the ship. "Third time's a charm?"

The TARDIS beeped once, a frosty little sound. Then it beeped three times more, slower. In the same rhythm as the pats she gave the console. It sounded almost sympathetic.

Clara shrugged, rolling her shoulders so her hair shielded her again. She stepped forward once more, one arm trailing behind her as she strode.

It was then the idea came back again. Her whole arm was in reach but it was her fingertips the Doctor sought. He wanted just the lightest of touches with the new hands, bit of a test run, see, to see how it felt to this new him. He marveled both at the bones and veins of his hands as he reached out to her, both features so prominent now, and how she felt warm but rough like a callous under this new skin. The Doctor's idea took flight and he reached out, impishly impulsive again, wanting to hold her hand in both of his, just to see, but Clara has stepped out of his reach.

She stood on the grass outside of her home, the tall stretch of a building he remembered but no, he won't think about that, not now that she's finally facing him again. And her eyes were wide once more, wide and hard and tearless and terrible as she said her first words to him. "Don't."

He's in agony to see hers, but she nodded at him once, as inviting a gesture as he was like to get, and the Doctor followed behind Clara as she stomped her way towards home. Her head was held high and her back was rigid, the shoulders shaking but trying so very, very hard to be straight and strong. Clara's eyes were fixed on home but the Doctor saw nothing but her, still.

iii.

There's a note on the table that Clara read briefly before crumpling to a ball in her shaking fist. Whatever was written upon it made her smile once, a hint of a true smile this time, but faded when she looked at him.

"They all left," she said, her voice flat and cold. It's unnatural for her and he doesn't like it, but he cherished the words because they were hers, and despite the dissonance to it now he enjoyed every uttered word she makes. He always had.

Clara rubbed her nose with the back of her hand still holding the crumpled note. "They got tired of waiting for me."

"That's not very nice," he said. But Clara shrugged again and he feels more than just his words are being dismissed.

"They cleaned up after me. That's nice of them. Less of a mess for me to deal with." Clara squeezed the note in her fist, making it crinkle harder into a knot. "Gran did the cleaning, I mean." She's grasping at words from the jumble of thoughts he knows are churning away in her brain; he can almost see every gear and cog turning but it's awful, it's wretched, the way he could not see her face clearly despite it being bared right there before him. He wondered if there was something wrong with his eyes — old eyes now older still — and thought for a second he might really need glasses now.

"Let's not talk for a while," she said quietly, as if he had been rattling off in the silence of the last few moments and she had about enough of it. They were moments that he spent gazing at her and they were moments she spent gazing at nothing, locked in memories, the words and thoughts moving behind her eyes and inside a mind that for all the Doctor knew was screaming something awful.

"Alright," he said, and then he caught himself. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

Clara shifted her eyes onto his face. She moved her gaze from his forehead to his eyebrows — he's got them now, he wanted to make a joke but he knew it might not be the best time — and from his eyebrows she skipped his eyes completely to survey the rest of him. Her focus was as gentle as the touch she had given to the console, as gentle as the sigh that had broken the silence of his first seconds of life, but every shift of her eyes burned the Doctor. Now, finally now, in the room lit from without by streetlamps and garish red Christmas lights, in a room full of looming shadows and two people burning in silence, Clara was really seeing him for the first time.

He wondered if she'd finally start to cry and he hated the thought, hated the expectation of her grief. I did it but it wasn't me. He hated the sound of her tears from his memory, the mournful, heart-heavy sobs that called out through every withered path of his time. The Doctor quickly calculated how much he would give up, how many stars he would burn up this time to never have to hear such a sound come from Clara ever again. He wondered if he'll have to sacrifice himself in the bargain, to never be the cause of those dreaded tears again. Impossible, he thinks. There will never be enough of everything, not enough in the universe, this or any other, to be a worthy sacrifice.

"At least the clothes fit," she teased, and for a beautiful moment Clara was smiling at him. It was a little smirk this time, but enough to cause her cheeks to crease and reveal the dimples he never quite knew he loved as much as he did now. He wanted to trace the lips and the smile and that bright little face with his fingers, and for an instant the Doctor's hands were raised to do just that. Stepping forward so that he was as close to her as he was in his first waking moments of life, the Doctor hunched just so slightly so the height difference wasn't as drastic as it would be otherwise. And he ignored the sudden pain that moved through his back from the movement, as well as the irritable suggestion it brought of him being ironically so new in a body now so old, because it's Clara's pain he was seeing.

Don't. She didn't have to say it this time. He can hear every part of her screaming it.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quicker this time, and because if he didn't start talking about something else he would never stop apologizing, the Doctor continued, "Just — get comfortable. Sit down somewhere, I think there's a comfy chair in the corner, that — that should be fine. Just rest a little, Clara. I can make… tea?" He latched onto the one little scrap of comfort that he hoped like hell would work. He remembered the old, other him marveling at how determinedly she held onto her mug of tea when they first met. A security blanket of porcelain that she clung to, full of liquid amber, dark, with no milk, just a little bit of sugar if olfactory memory served.

"Yes, tea," he said again, because she was smiling at him still, but not saying another word and he took strength from gazing into her face.

Clara didn't move from the spot as he stepped around her, careful not to let himself touch her, and strode towards the kitchen. Her silence followed him like a ghost into the new room, and the Doctor was tremendously grateful when she stuck her head into the room to let him know just where the tea could be found. And the mugs. And the kettle. And —

"No milk, just a small bit of sugar. Yes?" he said before she can.

Clara nodded, clearly surprised. She disappeared for a moment but he waited, knowing, expecting. And she reappeared, as he knew she would, but he cherished her return as if it had been years and not seconds, and she said, "How did you know?"

"I always knew," he responded, slightly offended.

"No, I meant —," but she snatched the words back before they could be said. And she smiled once, quickly, politely, and disappeared again.

The Doctor knew what she meant. How did you know? This you, the new you. If she had finished the question the Doctor would have been forced to repeat himself. It was really the only answer that suited, and an honest one at that. She deserved honesty, however convoluted it came out of him. I always knew, the other me and this one, too.

iv.

He has measured and remeasured in his mind over a dozen times just how much space lay between where she satand where he is, and he knows it's really not so wide a gap but it felt like worlds. And he didn't like it.

But he didn't have to like it. Carry on, brave hearts. He wouldn't get any closer until Clara said he could. But she wasn't saying anything.

She said thank you for the tea and she murmured appreciatively at the taste, clearly just as she liked it, but that was all. She even tried to tease him at how long it took for the drink to arrive. "Did you mess up a bit the first five times?"

"Well I had to get it right," he protested, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt. Was this a new thing of his now, this temper? Not towards her, no, that was clear, but it was the doggedly persistent presence of inadequacy, recompenses to pay and mistakes to make right again, somehow, impossibly. More importantly, it was absolutely vital that she understand the significance of that damnably difficult cup of tea. "It was for you."

The words had driven her to silence, so the Doctor took to measuring the space between where he sat on the far side of the couch — "Not quite a comfy chair," he'd reasoned, sighing happily as he stretched out his legs and stopped his arms before they could reach her, "but good enough." And he took to focusing on her little sips and the awkwardly pleasant sound of her rings clinking against the mug as she shifted it from one hand to the next. Even if she wasn't going to talk that did not mean he wouldn't be listening.

But once the tea was done it was back to silence again, silence and staring, silence and measuring, silence and the steady motion of his eyes moving from her face down to her hands. Because sometimes he could swear he saw Clara start to reach for him, or that her shoulders would shift as if she were about to turn and face him. But the gestures stopped when he was certain they'd appear, and he wondered if this was a new thing for him, too. Expectation meeting delusion. There was a word for that. Hope.

Clara leaned forward to place the empty mug on the floor, her hands free now, but they came to rest limp and quite determinedly not moving towards him, sitting in a little heap on her lap. She cleared her throat and he was sure that yes, now, finally, she'd start talking — but she only shifted in her seat so that her legs were tucked beneath her, folding herself tighter and further away from him as much as the couch would allow. And there was a word for how the Doctor felt then, too. Hopeless.

"Are you going to keep staring at me all night?" she asked, her voice low and wet.

"You know, I just might." He paused, knowing it wasn't quite the moment for humor. "Unless you'd rather I not."

Clara shook her head, her hair falling over her face and his hearts cringed wretchedly, a spasm like a wounded beast. But she brushed the hair back and in that motion turned to look at him, and the shudder of pain became one of relief. "I'm used to it."

"Already?"

"No, I mean from before."

The Doctor stayed very calm and impressively still as he remembered the other him and Clara on the nights to which she referenced. He wouldn't be envious of that man — I did it but it wasn't me — but he wouldn't quite treat the memories as his own, either. It was an irreconcilable tug and pull. The memories were there but they were like a story in his head, whispering to him like echoes and fading songs. Their echoes and songs, but not his. Not yet.

"Thank you for the tea," Clara said.

"Thank you for helping me."

"You looked in need of helping. Couldn't stand to see you suffer."

"I didn't mean the tea."

"Funny, I don't think I was talking about the tea, either."

But since they were on the subject: "I could make you another one?" And the Doctor pushed himself to his feet in expectation of her answer, his back twinging at the movement, and he grimaced and tried not to groan because really now, this was getting a bit ridiculous.

"No, don't," Clara said, and she nearly jumped in her haste to reach out for him. Her hands moved closer to him, one set of fingers curling around his wrist and squeezing him tight, while the other hovered awkwardly in the air between. If she leaned any closer she'd be touching his face, but the movement she made to move towards him seemed to have drained Clara of any energy she might have. She had strength only to speak, and even then the words were faint, breathless, that mournful little sigh again. "Don't go."

Her hold on him was sending trembles up his arm, and the Doctor soon realized that it was her hand that was shaking not just from the force of the grip, but the grief that was still so raw and writ all over her face. The other hand was still hovering there before him, and he could see the fingers curling down, the nails scratching over her palm as Clara prepared to draw it back. The Doctor tilted his head just so, slightly, hardly a twitch, until his skin met hers, nails and cold rings and all.

Clara's eyes were misty with tears as she straightened out her fingers and slowly began to trace them down the side of the Doctor's face. It was lighter than the touch she'd given to the console, exploratory, cautious. The shaking in her hands meant that her nails prodded at him sharply despite whatever she may or may not have intended to do with them. But the Doctor cherished these little agonies. He found them to be something almost dear and near to joy, at least when it came from her. That was new, too.

One large tear fell from her eye and trailed down her cheek, plopping onto the couch cushion and followed closely thereafter by several others of its kinds. She was still holding his one arm captive, though he felt no discomfort at being so tenderly shackled. The Doctor reached over with the one hand he still had free and used the tip of his thumb to wipe away every tear that appeared. He had to move quickly for she was weeping in earnest now, but in absolute silence. The Doctor had to respect her for that, awed as much as he was seething to see her look so wretchedly calm while on the inside he knew she was still screaming, her heart still burning.

He knew she had to be, because he was, too.

Would the discoveries never end? The Doctor wondered as he stroked her face if he now quite literally possessed empathy. He could barely consider the other him sympathetic, a brutal judgment, yes, but one he felt justified in executing at the moment. He didn't like endings. He didn't want to see the damage. But he was seeing the damage now, seeing a wound that was a person, and not just any person but Clara. His Clara, both the old him and this new one. If she'll still have me.

Lies and secrets, the old, tried and true rules. Fitting that he would now have to feel just every bit of what he inflicted. This newfound empathy was different from sympathies and understanding, neither of which could be properly faked but had to come from experience. And he remembered, sitting there gazing still at Clara's face even after she'd shut her eyes and pulled back her hand, that awful moment before the change. The burning light of his hand he had tried to hold out to hers, how the light had seemed to stretch itself for an instant across her fingers as if sensing what he sought and knowing it couldn't he had. Perhaps a bit of Clara had come along for the ride. That was different.

But the Doctor rather liked it.

Clara took hold of the Doctor's hand so near to her face and stretched out his fingers as if she were examining for a thorn stuck in a beast's paw. She fit her own in between the spaces of his, lining them up and laughing once, wet and tearful, as she compared the sizes and found herself wanting. He folded his fingers over hers and gave her hand a tight squeeze, feeling the bones shift beneath his grasp and stopping just short of hurting though he would have held on tighter if she wouldn't mind it. Clara reached for the other hand and he met her half way. It was her turn to cling tightly now and he didn't let on how much it actually hurt to be on the receiving end. Carry on, brave hearts. For Clara he would carry the weight of whole worlds.

She cleared her throat again and lifted her chin, her lips pulling back into a wide, true, full smile. Through the tears and the silence and the awful agonies of the day — just one day for her, he had to remember that, in comparison to his countless ones on Trenzalore — Clara smiled at him. "Hello, Doctor," she said, as if they were meeting for the first time.

"Hello, Clara."

She seemed unable to help herself. No need for the truth field now, not when it came pouring so freely from her mouth of her own will. "Can you keep on talking for a while? It's just that you have this new accent now to go with the new everything else and — you know, I think I like it. I'm learning to like it."

There might be words to say — no might about it, no, there definitely must be something said, and said fast, and said now — and the Doctor made sure to say them. Any little thing that crossed his mind in the hours that passed, snatches of song or stories or dreams (because he knew how much she liked to hear those) he said out loud to break the silence from ever growing between them. He had to learn to like this new voice, too. It certainly helped that every word uttered made Clara smile.