Five More Minutes

When the Doctor burst into Clara's flat, bounding from the TARDIS doorway like a frightened cat, the first thing he noticed was how unlike Clara's flat it was. The schoolteacher usually kept an immaculate household: Plates were washed just after supper; shoes were slipped into designated cubbies; pillows were fluffed and set onto the couch as neatly as one would find in a magazine.

But today, as the Doctor shut the door slowly behind him, his eye caught many troubling little things that sent alarms blaring. Dishes sat out, half of the food uneaten; clothes lay scattered across the floor and on top of furniture.

The most troubling thing of all, however, was the state in which the Doctor found Clara herself.

Her eyes stared blankly at the wall as she unconsciously swirled the cold tea in her cup. She was curled up on the sofa when the Doctor found her, wearing joggers and an empty look. When he came blundering into the room, knocking the cluttered coffee table with a clumsy knee, she hardly even looked up.

"Clara?" He asked, his muscles turning to stone.

He'd worked hard in the past few months to be better at this; more open, more vulnerable, more ready to hug and be hugged. But she was scaring him. His brave companion, usually made of optimism and light, seemed utterly deflated.

Her head turned up to him, holding his stare at last. She gave him a fraction of a smile before she looked down at the floor. The Doctor stepped forward, and then hesitated.

"Are you okay?"

Her eyes brightened at his question, perhaps happy that he had asked her at all.

"I…" she started. "I need more than five minutes today."

Her voice, so small, so unsure, so...un-Clara, froze the Doctor to the spot.

He shuffled from foot to foot.

"Danny," he said; a statement and a question.

Clara blinked and turned back to the floor. The Doctor registered a small nod from her head.

Her fingers picked at the cushions, lips trembling just slightly.

"Tea!"

The word burst from his lips before he could stop it.

"What?" Clara's jaw dropped dumbly, eyes sparkling as they met the Doctor's. His face turned pink.

"You need some fresh tea. Hold on."

He held up a finger and dashed into the kitchen as Clara tried not to roll her eyes.

"Doctor…"

She stopped herself, unsure of what she even wanted to tell him. He was trying, at least. That was all she could ask for. So instead, she shut her eyes and leaned back on her pillows, letting out a deep sigh.

Five minutes later, the Doctor came back into the room balancing two mugs and a tin of biscuits in his hands. Clara shoved a few books off of the coffee table to make room and then sat up, straightening out her black tank top.

"Thank you," she said with a quick smile. Her eyes met his for just a moment before he held up another finger.

"Forgot something."

He hurried back into the kitchen, spinning around the tiny space. "Where is it, where is it…?"

His eye caught a box of Cheerios and he smiled. "Ah."

The Doctor pulled the box out of the way and reached back until his hand found a small rectangle, well wrapped up. He brought the chocolate bar out with a smile and went back into the lounge.

Clara was seated upright now, her hands wrapped around her steaming mug. He held up the chocolate bar with a smirk.

"Brought you a present."

Clara gave him her first genuine smile of the night and patted the spot beside her.

"Have a seat."

The Doctor sat beside her, still a little stiff and uncomfortable. Clara picked up her mug and chuckled. "I promise I don't bite."

"I know," he said simply, watching her with a careful eye. When she next set down her mug, he picked up his.

They stayed silent for a few minutes, drinking their tea, before Clara set hers back on the coffee table again and leaned back into the sofa. Her eyes held that darkness that made them look older than the rest of her body. Carefully, the Doctor put his mug on the table beside hers.

"Clara?" He asked in a timid voice.

Suddenly the floodgates open. Clara shut her eyes as the tears fell down her cheeks. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

A moment later, she swallowed and took in a shaky breath.

"Sorry. Sorry."

"No, Clara," the Doctor said, shifting closer to her. Without any hesitation or awkwardness, he rubbed her upper arm. "Don't apologize."

Clara touched a small hand to his arm and he couldn't stop himself anymore. The Doctor wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his chest, letting her head rest against his shoulder.

"I've got you," he murmured.

Clara gripped his sleeve and cried softly against his chest. He felt the fabric of his shirt dampen near her face, but didn't shy away from her. Instead, he sank deeper into the sofa and adjusted their positions to be more comfortable.

They sat like that for many minutes, Clara's face nuzzled up to the Doctor's chest. Her fingers grabbed weakly at his jacket lapel like a small child. The Doctor rubbed her back and didn't dare let go until she did first.

When they next were seated upright, Clara wiped at her eyes in vain. Her face was bright pink, eyes red, nose still watering. The mascara she had applied so carefully that morning was washed down her face in thick rivers.

The Doctor thought she looked beautiful.

"Clara," he said, unsure how he wanted to continue. He swallowed when she looked up.

"You don't have to...you can take more than five minutes sometimes. For as long as you need to."

Clara sniffed and cleared her throat. "I promised him I wouldn't."

The Doctor's lip quirked into a sad smile. "Did I ever tell you about River Song?"

Clara sat up straighter, leaning her head on her hand with her elbow propped up on the sofa.

"Not properly."

The Doctor bit his lip. "I've...I've been mourning her ever since I met her. Time travel…it's fantastic. But sometimes it contains spoilers."

He paused at that word, a sadness entering his eyes that made Clara pay close attention.

"The day we met was the day she…" He looked at the floor. "Was the day she died. And then we met again, only she was younger. We keep seeing each other in the wrong order."

Clara opened her mouth to make a comment, but the look on the Doctor's face took the words out of her mouth.

"She's...she's one of the best friends I've ever had. And she's, well, my wife. But she's also a ghost to me. And a reminder that I failed to save her. It could be any day now. The next time I see her will probably be the...last."

The Doctor's eyes were red now, bright with tears. He took in a shaky breath and then looked up and shook his head.

"Look at me, making this all about me. Sorry."

Clara put a hand on his arm.

"No, Doctor, don't be sorry. God," she breathed. "Come here."

This time, the tables turned. Clara cradled his head in her hand and pulled him toward herself, holding him close. She heard him sniff a few times beside her ear, cold droplets of tears falling onto her neck.

"Don't you dare blame yourself," she said, rocking him back and forth.

"She died to save me." His voice was thick and watery.

Clara shushed him gently.

"Then she's a brave woman and I thank her a million times. But you do not blame yourself. What she did, she did because of who she is and what she chose to do. Not because of who you are or what you chose to do."

Clara pulled away so that she could see his face. Soft lines of tears tracked down his cheeks. His eyes still shined, red-rimmed, but he seemed like he was calming.

Clara held his face in between her hands.

"Doctor, look at me. You are every bit worth saving. You don't have to feel guilty anymore."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. Clara let her lips start the beginnings of a smile. When he looked like he wasn't about to break down again, Clara let go of him.

"Okay. Now I'm going to go make us some more tea and we're going to sit here and read Jane Austen together, alright?"

The Doctor nodded silently, wiping at his eyes. His face already looked much lighter; like he wasn't carrying the weight of the world anymore.

"And maybe later we'll watch a sappy romantic comedy and eat some popcorn. How does that sound?"

"Good," the Doctor murmured.

Clara squeezed his knee one last time and then went to the kitchen, cleaning herself up before getting their night-in set up.

Meanwhile, the Doctor sat stunned on the sofa, tears dried and chest much lighter. While Clara was in the other room fixing he tea, he wiped his face in his sleeve.

. . .

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife," the Doctor read aloud. He peered over the old copy of Pride and Prejudice to look at Clara, seated on the other end of the sofa. She had set her legs up beside her and held the mug in both of her hands.

They shared a smile.

And two grieving people spent the rest of the evening not shouldering heavy burdens, but acting out scenes from a nineteenth century novel and sipping tea and wine.

And it was one of the best nights either of them had ever enjoyed together.