The dancers twirl, wrapping paper pieces caught in the wind. He stands on the edge of the dancefloor with glass in hand. Bubbles fizz-pop as he watches. The steps are simple enough; in and out they go; ebb and flow. Like waves on the shore. Like breathing.
The music changes and dancers unspool outwards in jagged fractals, spinning, spinning. He takes a sip of sweet champagne. Their pace has quickened. Eyes unfocussed and they become the spiral arms of a galaxy; a waltz of stars.
He wishes she'd hurry up.
Somewhere, somewhen, Kate Stewart is probably biting her lip and shouting orders and almost covering up her terrible fear that this time the Doctor really is dead.
Somewhere her class of Year Ten students are probably too distracted by the consuming drama of their own lives to worry too much about why Miss Oswald went mad in the middle of English and motorcycled off. Hopefully they remember the homework, anyway.
And somewhere a psychopathic Time Lady licks her wounds and plots her next piece of diabolic viciousness. One day I'm really going to have to do something about that.
But it isn't this day.
Today she brushes out her hair, tucking an errant strand behind her ear. She catches sight of the little gold stud on her reflection, still new enough to warrant surprise when she sees it. Her colleagues think it's an ordinary thing, a youthful whim, easily bought. And it was, but not on Earth, and not by her. A piece of a dying star; a sun that winked out of existence when her planet was still a mere puff of superheated gas. An unexpected gift he gave her, with his usual gruff avoidance of the obvious question of why. She hasn't taken it out since.
The marks on her head have almost disappeared. He offered to remove them, of course, make further use of the dermal regenerator he picked up for a bargain price on some junkyard moon. Couldn't understand why she wants to wear them out, the brand on her skin that says: yes it happened but I survived.
She adjusts her rings, gives herself an appraising nod, and sweeps out of the TARDIS to find him.
He finishes his second glass without much enthusiasm, considering heading back to the TARDIS to drag her out here regardless of her state of undress−
And of course on that thought she appears. Standing at the top of the ballroom stairs in a red dress that could be a wicked corruption of Time Lord robes, all open sleeves and triangular outlines, cut devilishly short. How such a confection has found its way into the TARDIS wardrobe he can't possibly imagine; perhaps they're conspiring together now to make him feel uncomfortable. She'll fit right in amongst the dancers here, skirt unfurling slightly as she moves.
Perhaps she doesn't see him, clad in sombre black and white in the shadows on the edge of the dancefloor. She turns her head, seeking him, and he almost steps back; almost hides from that searchlight stare. Sometimes she is simply too incandescent to tolerate. When it isn't a good day; when he doesn't feel very much like the Doctor at all. Because that's who Clara Oswald belongs with, after all.
But it's too late and she's caught sight of him; she is smiling as she descends the stairs.
"You saw me," he says.
"When do I not see you?" she offers in return, smile quirking. Her hands are warm in his as she leads him onto the dancefloor.
She doesn't know the steps, but she can follow his lead well enough, revolving with the rest of the paper wrapper galaxy. He lets the seconds stretch out, as long as he can, bending time around them until it slows to a crawl. Her pulse under his fingers is the heartbeat of a forest and she leans into him, glacier slow. He doesn't resist, these days, the comfort of her embrace. Pathetic old fool, some part of him chides, but he hardly hears the sneer. He will not squander her short life at speed just because the Universe deems it suitable.
"Does this make it up to you?" he checks.
"It's a start."