Author's Note: This is going to be a three-part fic (that's the plan, anyway) that starts here, with Eleven's regeneration, and then continues with Clara struggling to adjust to Twelve. It serves the dual purpose of helping to mend my broken heart over Matt Smith's departure and promoting Andrew-Lee Potts as my personal preference for the Twelfth Doctor. Please, read/review/follow/enjoy!
She's expecting him for Christmas, but when he hasn't turned up at the Maitlands' doorstep in time for dinner, she figures he (or, more accurately, the TARDIS) must have overshot. She quells the disappointment nagging at the back of her mind with an extra glass of eggnog, and after her father leaves she offers to wash the dishes while Mr. Maitland tucks in an exhausted Artie and a petulant Angie.
At eleven o'clock on the dot, the doorbell rings. Clara barely has time to scrunch up her nose before a series of impatient knocks echo through the hallway. A grin engulfs her entire face in response, until she's all shiny teeth and dimples. She forgets to dry her hands properly in her mad dash to the front door. By the time the door swings open to reveal the Doctor on the other end, however, she's already trained her features into a mildly entertained scowl.
"You could've woken the whole neighborhood, y'know," she quips. "And on Christmas, no less." She mockingly shakes her head.
The Doctor studies her oddly for a long moment, as if she hadn't spoken at all. Clara has half a mind to wave a hand in front of his face, but then he suddenly snaps to attention and grins. "Yes, well, I'm very late to an important date. Late is all relative, of course, because of the time-travelling alien component, but even so, Christmas is important to you humans."
Clara's caught somewhere between flattered and offended, choosing to offer a wry smile as she reaches on tiptoes to adjust his crooked bowtie. She leaves a smudge of soapy water in her wake because her hands are still damp, but she decides not to bring that to the Doctor's attention. The Doctor immediately flushes scarlet and trips over his next words.
"How late am I, then? Did I miss the fruit cake? I do love a good fruit cake," he trails off.
"Missed the fruit cake and the father, I'm afraid," Clara answers, rocking back onto the heels of her feet. "But just in time for clean-up duty," she grins mischievously.
The Doctor visibly refrains from sighing, instead seeming to resign to his fate before that same strange look crosses his features. His eyes truly reflect his ancient age as they sag at the corners, but just as concern flashes in Clara's own eyes, the Doctor is grinning again. "Cleaning is for the boring," he proclaims, "and it can wait. How about we go on an adventure, ey? A quick Christmas trip?"
Clara studies the Doctor closely instead of replying, and he fidgets uncomfortably under her gaze as she does so. His smile wavers, and she finally registers that he's hunched over awkwardly, like one shoulder is somehow carrying more of the weight of the world than the other. Clara raises a skeptical eyebrow in an attempt to conceal her alarm - an emotion that accompanies her suddenly gut feeling that something is very, very wrong.
"Maybe we should just stay inside for the night," she suggests quietly. "You look knackered."
"Nonsense! You know I hardly need sleep, Clara." Though his voice has taken on a casual affectation, Clara can't help but note the urgency creeping in at the edges.
She unsuccessfully attempts to swallow the lump in her throat. "And where would you propose we go?" she prompts, crossing her arms.
"Anywhere! All of time and space at our fingertips!" he exclaims, holding up both hands for emphasis. One look at Clara's widening eyes tells him that that was a great mistake. He attempts to retract his arms, return them to his sides and pretend nothing happened, but Clara grabs hold of his wrists and twists them so that both of his palms are upturned. He resists the urge to wince.
There, in the palms of his hands, are black markings that appear almost ink-like in nature, forming lines like veins that curl around his hands and creep up his wrists. The edges of the markings are tainted pink and give his skin a flimsy appearance. Clara gasps, her face now a mask of horror.
"Doctor?" she whispers, though her voice sounds more like a terrified plea than anything else.
"I just ingested a little Silurian poison, that's all," he replies just as quietly.
"And what will it do to you?" she prompts, her voice now dangerously low. One look in her eyes tells him that beyond the worry and the horror and the anger, there's an element of hurt there, as if trying to keep this information from her is a grave betrayal. The Doctor must admit, he feels downright dastardly.
"Slow, painful death." The Doctor raises a finger in consideration, "Well, first my entire body will go into paralysis, limb by limb, and then when I am completely immobile, I'll likely suffocate. And then die."
Tears prick at the corners of Clara's eyes, so she casts her gaze downwards and away from his scrutiny. "How could you be so stupid?" She means to sound furious - Lord knows she wants nothing more than to pound her fists against his chest and that ridiculous chin of his - but the words come out in a bit of a choked sob.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, finally letting go of his cheery facade. "I saved a village," he adds, as if that will somehow dissipate her tears. She looks up, at least, and releases a humorless chuckle at the hope shining in his eyes.
"But you won't actually-" she cuts herself off before her voice can break. She's been through his timestream; she knows what regeneration is. Hell, she'd even been a time lady in one life. She understands the semantics - and yet, still, it feels like her chest is too heavy for her body. It feels like the world is imploding and gravity is somehow stronger because of it, pulling her down by her rock-filled chest and the crumbling tips of her fingers. It feels how it felt when her mom died. Her lip trembles, so she resolutely bites down on it.
"No, the process is plenty slow enough for me to regenerate," he's quick to reassure her. "But I still have to endure the paralysis before it'll kick in."
"And has that started yet?" she asks when she's finally found her voice. "The paralysis?"
He looks downright apologetic, and it suddenly hits her how ludicrous it is that he's dying and still comforting her. It's wrong, it's all wrong.
"Just in the tips of my fingers," he says, like a promise. He reaches for her hands again, taking hold of her palms and holding them to his chest. She feels the double beat of his two hearts against her hands and draws in a shaky breath as her heartbeat speeds up in a vain attempt to match.
"So you'll... change," she breathes, suddenly needing him to keep talking and never stop, to force these last moments into a prolonged state just by sheer force of will.
"Yes," he draws out the word carefully. This time, a tear escapes from her right eye. The Doctor catches it with his left hand, his right now holding both of her hands to his chest. He cradles her face one-handedly. "Hey, I'll still be the Doctor," he offers.
"I know," she nods unconvincingly. "But you won't be you."
"No," he agrees. "I suppose I won't."
An actual sob breaks free from her mouth at that admission, and the tips of her fingers curl until his vest is bunched in her hands. The material is soft and smooth, and it suits him. Suited him.
"I don't want you to go," Clara admits. Logically, she knows the next Doctor will be just as magnificent and larger than life as this one. But his quirks won't be the same, and his chin probably will not threaten to poke her eye out, and when she flirts with him, he might not even blush.
The Doctor's hand is beginning to stiffen against her cheek, the temperature of his digits dropping significantly. She frees one of her hands to grasp at it.
"I'm not going anywhere," he swears. She's almost sure she could slap him, but she holds his hand tighter instead.
"Don't do that thing where you lie to comfort me," she warns. "There's no big friendly button this time." At any other moment, her voice would be wistful. Not now.
"Of course there is!" he exclaims. Clara raises her eyebrows. "I'm the big friendly button, Clara. Because the next guy will be right here, and he'll have a chance to be better. Yes, a better me. Less... prideful."
The intensity of his eyes renders her silent for a long moment. Then, "You don't need to improve. Your big ego gives me a chance to knock you down a peg every once in a while." She tries for humor.
He looks as if he'd slam the heel of his palm into his forehead in frustration if he still could. "Clara, that's not what I meant," he says, shaking his head.
"Then what'd you mean? Because it sounds like you want me to be happy about this, or at least perfectly alright with it, and I'm simply not," she throws up her hands, stepping away from him. His arm remains exactly where it was, his hand formed to fit her face, and the image would be hilarious if it wasn't busy tearing her insides apart. "I don't want anyone but you," she says, and it's the closest to a real admission either of them has ever come. She returns to biting her lip.
"Oh, Clara," the Doctor returns; it sounds like a prayer. He was never a devout man, but he certainly believes in Clara Oswald. "So many chances missed. So slow - I am so slow. It's always been my problem."
She shoots him an odd look. "I don't understand."
He sighs, a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. "It's why you deserve a better me. One who will admit how he's feeling when he's feeling it."
Her breath catches at that, and though another tear slips down her cheek, her eyes feel dry. She's about to insist he continue, but his legs suddenly give out and he stumbles forward. Clara barely catches his stiff but lanky form with both arms around his midsection; hauling him to the sofa would be nearly impossible.
"What should I do?" she asks, straining under his weight. Her voice rises frantically when she repeats, "Doctor, what should I do?"
"Just lay me down, Clara," he insists, his voice muffled against her neck. She carefully twists their positions and then lays the Doctor on the floor of the Maitlands' foyer. One of her hands immediately clutches the hand on his chest while the other caresses his cheek.
"Are you..." she trails off. She'd started to ask if he was comfortable, but the question was probably moot considering his condition.
He smiles ruefully. "Perfectly alright. But I should finish." He can tell by the relief on her face that she'd been waiting for him to volunteer as much.
"You see, I've never been entirely honest with you. Mostly to protect you, mind, but the fact remains that - wow, the paralysis is progressing much quicker than I anticipated. I was so sure we'd have more time."
Clara is inclined to agree, but life has never been fair. All of time and space at their disposal; they were bound to waste it dancing around feelings.
"Time that you are now currently wasting?" she teases hollowly.
"Right, yes," the Doctor agrees. His cheekbones are shaded a light pink. He shudders violently then, his shoulders and waist vibrating as if there's an earthquake only he's experiencing. Clara helplessly tugs at his frozen hand, attempting to provide some kind of comfort. When he finally stills, his eyes are glistening.
"I don't want to leave you either," he admits. "This me. This me is selfish."
"Maybe we both are," Clara muses.
"No," the Doctor says, "Not you. Not my impossible girl."
She suddenly feels incredibly young and small in comparison to his hundreds of years and various forms, even with the knowledge that she had also lived several times over hundreds of years. While he could recall the exact color of Gallifrey's leaves and the way each of his companions' eyebrows furrowed when he revealed a particularly ludicrous plan, Clara's memories of past lives were hazy at best.
A golden mist swirls around his fingers now, distorting the image of her holding his hand.
"It's starting."
Clara wants to scream no, but she bites the inside of her cheek instead.
"Clara," he starts, and his voice is so painfully slow that she can't help but shudder; she's almost certain she died the same way in one of her lives. She can't decide if that makes her feel better or worse.
"I love you." It's her that speaks first, one step ahead of him even now.
His features pull into a smile, and because he can't physically beckon her, he says, "Come here."
Tears stream freely down her cheeks as she's no longer able to conceal how distraught she is. She leans down until they are nose to nose, and when a tear drops from her face to his, he closes his eyes like he's wishing on it.
"I love you too," he whispers, and the words don't have time to settle in the air around them because her lips are suddenly on his. The kiss is desperate but gentle all the same, and the Doctor is filled to the brim with regret at the fact that he can't hold her against him.
His lips turn from cold to burning hot against hers, and when she finally pulls back his entire face is swallowed by gold. Wisps of particles swirl between them, and the Doctor licks his lips before ordering that she back away. Clara hesitates for a moment before kissing him one last time and then standing up. She backs all the way up the stairs, fumbling on the last few because she cannot stand that he has to endure this alone.
He whispers Geronimo and she muffles a sob against her arms just as blinding light shoots from his limbs and he's no longer there.