Thanks to misswinterseat. Without her help this story will be a nightmare of verbal tenses and mixed prepositions!
The title of the first chapter comes from the song 'I do' from Susie Suh, which by the way suits this story very well.
As usual, send me your comments! Thank you all.
Chapter 1 - There is a shadow in my place
He lifts his eyes to peek once more through the window. Outside, the shadow of the big oak tree is almost touching the road and he feels that strange feeling on the pitch of his stomach. She will be home very soon.
From inside the bowl with fresh water, a pair of tired eyes stare back at him for a quick moment, before they vanish behind his hands. Slowly, he removes the dark charcoal stains from his fingers and cleans the spots of dust on his trousers. But there is still the problem of putting or not his shirt inside his trousers and he finally decides for the last. If it won't do much to improve his appearance, at least it will hide better the fact that he keeps losing weight. This will certainly sadden her and, though he suspects that his little trick won't fool her watchful eyes, he can't refrain himself of doing everything he can to save her from more worries.
Slowly, he rolls down the sleeves of his shirt and buttons it at the cuffs, checking the window once more. It won't take long now.
He sits back at his worktable and opens his sketchbook, carefully flipping through the pages filled with his drawings. She is everywhere, on every single page; her adorable face and the things that make him think she's so beautiful – the delicate curve of her chin and the fullness of her perfect lips; that funny but undeniable lovely little nose and the way it wrinkles when she smiles; the way her soft dark hair rest on the crook of her neck; her magnificent big brow eyes and the spark that lights them up sometimes, but also the shadow of sadness in them when she thinks nobody is looking (and that never fails to break his hearts). Every little detail captured with the careful and attention of an unuttered emotion, a mute confession, that aches at his hearts.
The door opens with a creak and he quickly closes the sketchbook, crossing his hands over it when Clara takes the sit in front of him with a smile. It is a sad one. And it always confuses him because part of him knows that it shouldn't be like that. It should be bright and broad and light up the entire room. Even though, he silently accepts it for what it is, like a gift, from her to him, because he knows how hard all that is for her.
"Hey," her voice sounds tired and his hearts sink heavily but he tries to show her his best smile despite himself. It does little to cheer her up, though. Maybe he doesn't know how to do that anymore. Has he ever? "Feeling better today?"
There is so many things concealed in her question, but he chooses not to think about them. He knows he doesn't have the answers, at least not the ones she wishes to hear the most. And that pains him.
"My knee is much better," he finally says and stretches his leg to prove his point. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
"That's good," her smile widens just a little bit, but enough for him to notice the small movement on the corner of her lips. "I brought you something," she places a bag over the table in front of him.
Clara is always bringing him stuff from the village; food, books, new pencils, brushes and notebooks. Once she brought him a new shirt, beautiful shade of purple, that he keeps carefully inside the wardrobe waiting for a special occasion to wear it for her.
"What is it?" He opens the bag with curiosity to peek inside.
"Apples," her eyes are on his face, studying him. "And a new book. I hope you will like it."
He smiles. He doesn't know many things these days. But he knows that he loves books. And apples. He picks two from inside the bag and hands one to her. Her fingers brush his lightly and he feels a jolt of warmth running through his hand. This is another thing he knows: he likes her touch too.
He finally pulls out of the bag a big volume with "The History of the Universe" written in stylish silver letters on the bright blue cover. Inside, the pages are covered with colored images from stars, nebulas, planets and galaxies, telling amazing stories of old legends and impossible heroes.
"Thank you," he looks at her with a grin and she smiles back, her eyes moving to the sketchbook still under his arms.
"So, when will you show me your drawings?" Clara looks at him and he sustains her gaze for a moment longer. He knows that he probably never will. How can he show her such a confession?
"Tomorrow. Maybe."
"You said this yesterday, and the day before, and before," her teasing tone soothes him but isn't enough to make him change his mind. There is too much inside his sketchbook to show her.
"Yeah. But I said maybe," he lifts one eyebrow and she laughs. It isn't her best laughter; it doesn't erase the hint of sadness from her eyes, but it is still a beautiful sound that puts a smile on his face. They look at each other for a long moment and he feels something shifting inside him.
There is a knock on the door and a second later the smiling face of a young man pops up through it. Jamie. He knows him, knows his name, but can't remember who told him that. Maybe she did.
"Dinner is ready and granny is waiting for you," he opens the door and walks inside. "Both of you."
His beaming face is still dusty from work, but he doesn't seem to care about it. Clara smiles at the lad. She seems to be very fond of Jamie and he can't blame her, most of the time the boy is a nice fellow to have around.
"Hello, Doctor! How was your day?"
Not when Jamie does that. Definitely never when he does that. That always distresses him and he can't stop himself of jumping on his feet and pointing his forefinger at the boy.
"Don't ever call me that!" He practically growls prompting Jamie to give a step back. "I'm not this... Doctor!" He turns around and walks to the back of the room, clenching his fists and closing
his eyes. Maybe he overreacted, but now it is too late.
The young man opens his mouth to speak but Clara prevents him with a shake of her head and silently asks him to leave them alone. Jamie nods and she shows him an apologetic smile before he closes the door behind him.
The wooden floor creaks under her footsteps, until he finally feels the warm touch of her fingers on his forearm, gently coercing him to turn around. But he doesn't move, still not prepared to face her.
"I'm not him," he whispers, all his frustration very clear on the trembling of his hands. "I'm sorry, Clara."
"It's ok," her soft voice soothes him and her delicate fingers slide along his arm until she finds his larger hand to hold. "You just need some more time."
He accepts her nearness in a defeated silence and her words cut his skin and burn inside his hearts.
"Look at me, please," she tugs at his hand gently and he finally turns around, raising his eyes to face her warm brown ones. "It's not your fault," she reassures him. "Ok?"
A faint smile curls the corner of her lips when he finally nods, reducing the tension on the air around them. Her small hands hold both of his now and she gently pulls him towards the door.
"Now, come on. Dinner is waiting." He opens his mouth to protest, but she doesn't give him a chance. "Maya told me that you haven't eaten a thing since breakfast. It is no wonder that you are just skin and bones."
He makes a face that Clara ignores while she opens the door and steps outside to wait for him. He stares at her for a brief moment and she quirks an eyebrow, letting him know that he doesn't have a vote on this matter. With a dramatic sigh, he finally walks outside, like a child ready to put a tantrum, making her roll her eyes at him when he walks past her. But when she isn't looking, he almost smiles.
Dinner is a pleasant affair as always, and Clara feels part of her tensions vanishing while the three of them chat happily. The Doctor is silent, only speaking when someone asks him a direct question. His answers are short and dismissive even for her.
At least he is eating and she sees the satisfied smile that crosses Maya's face while the older woman watches her grumpy guest eating with unusual appetite.
Life chooses strange paths sometimes, but Clara can't be more grateful in finding this kind woman and her grandson on theirs.
After the crashing, she had found herself with a barely conscious and badly wounded Time Lord inside an inoperative TARDIS, which had left her without any other option than to look for help outside. The place where they had fallen seemed to have come out of a science fiction movie from the eighties, a peaceful planet inhabited mainly by humanoids with very similar habits to those from the Earth she knows.
Fortunately, the first ones to find them had been Maya and Jamie, kind and warm people that immediately had offered them shelter and had taken care of their wounds without any questions.
Maya's eyes meet hers and the two women exchange a knowing smile. Clara doesn't know if one day she will be able to properly thank them for everything they are doing for her and the Doctor.
She can only hope.
Her gaze comes back to the Doctor. His eyes are lost at some distant point and she suppresses a sigh. She misses his ramblings, his breathless speeches about everything and nothing, even his tactless observations about her humanity. But the Time Lord has been like that since the crashing, always silent and most of the time lost in his own world. She knows he is lost, she can see the hopeless in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking, and that terrifies her.
Since the first day, when she had noticed he had lost his memory, she tries to help him the best she can. But without the TARDIS, that has supposedly locked herself into a self-repair mode (which is carefully hidden on Maya's backyard at the exactly same place of the crash) and the very limited medical knowledge at the planet, there is little she can do.
Even then, she tries to rebuild his memories through hers own, day after day, telling him everything she knows about his past, about Gallifrey and the Time Lords, about the TARDIS and their adventures together across time and space. She tells him about the great things he did, people he knows and all the incredible places he saw.
And she also tells him about the man her heart knows so well, the Doctor, her Doctor, her dear best friend and his clever mind, his brave heart and his rebellious soul.
At the beginning, he listens to her in silence, sometimes confused, sometimes focused, but she can say that he is trying hard to solve the puzzle of his own existence.
But then, as days become weeks and weeks sum up into months with no sign of healing, his distress becomes more and more palpable, visible at his pained features and at his angry behavior. Until she eventually stops to tell him stories about him and starts to pray in secret. She prays that time can heal his mind or the TARDIS can finally let them back inside, whichever comes first.
Lately, she started to pray for a miracle because she is his impossible girl and he is her impossible man and they always do impossible things for each other.
After dinner, Clara walks to the kitchen to help Maya with the dishes while he and Jamie go outside and sit at the porch to observe the starry sky.
Clara shows up some time later, carrying a tray with tea mugs that she places at the small table near her favorite armchair. He picks two and hands one to Jamie in a silent apology for his harsh behavior from earlier and the boy smiles his acknowledgement. The mug warms his hands and he sits at the front step, leaning against the rail to look at the sky, purposely turning his back at Clara.
"You should pick a name, you know," Jamie says after a long silence. The two of them look at the young man in surprise and the lad shifts uncomfortably at his chair. "One that you like, at least," Jamie adds with a shrug.
He takes a deep breath and avoids Clara's eyes, trained at him with concern.
The Doctor. His name. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it became. Not because he doesn't like it. True that it sounds a little presumptuous, but that isn't the point. It is everything that that name holds, all the memories that doesn't belong to him anymore, all the promises to the Universe he is no longer able to keep. But more important than that, all the faith she has on him, all she hopes him to be, everything she wants him to be and that he knows he can't be anymore.
"John," his own voice catches him by surprise, but he remains still at his place and watches Clara from the corner of his eyes.
"What?" She sits up straight at her chair, her arm frozen in the middle of the movement of taking her tea mug to her lips.
"John," he repeats. "It is a name, isn't it?"
"It is," she looks at him a moment longer. "Why John?"
Her eyes are wide and he can see something like hope inside them. He bites his lip, knowing that he is about to disappoint her once more because the reason his mind chose that name isn't any of the possible ones she expects it to be.
"It's the name of the author of the book," he takes a long sip from his mug, hiding his face to not see his own pain reflected on her eyes. "The one you gave me," he adds and clears his throat, dry even after he had drank.
Clara nods and slowly sinks back at her chair, moving her face to the shadows and making his hearts constrict inside his chest.
"It is a good name," Maya's voice breaks the heavy silence and the older woman smiles at them, taking the seat next to Clara. "And it suits you, if you want my opinion. What do you think, Clara?"
Clara's face reemerges from the shadows, her sad eyes gently searching for his for a moment before she turns to face the older woman.
"I think it is a good choice."
She is clearly hiding something, he can tell. Probably he should know about this name too, but he simply doesn't have the courage to ask her. Even then, he will keep it. John. It is simple and short and as good as any other name he knows. Except for his own. The name he had chosen, she had told him once, along with a promise to the Universe. Sadly, now a broken promise.