How To Say Goodbye
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Doctor Who
Copyright: BBC
"Just look at me," said Clara. "Look at me with those big, sad eyes so I know you're telling me the truth. Promise me you'll never send me away again."
The Doctor gazed down at her with something much deeper than sadness. He seemed to be looking through her to some infinite distance of space and time. The otherworldly chill of the Time Vortex seemed to grip her again out of her memories, as it had when she had clung to the outside of the TARDIS the last time he'd tricked her into leaving. It had been agony, but she would do it again if she had to. And she knew he could see that in her eyes.
He looked at her with compassion, even pain, but no remorse. "My Clara. You know I can't promise that."
"Why not?" Tears rose to form a lump in her throat.
"You know why."
I would have buried you a long time ago, he'd told her, as they watched the sun rise and fall together on his balcony. Her tears escaped to stream down her face, even as she wiped them away. She understood now. He felt responsible for the planet Christmas, caught between the Time Lords behind the crack in the universe and their countless enemies waiting to destroy them. He could not leave them, not while there was anything he could do to protect them. That was what the Doctor did; he protected people. Sometimes even against their will.
"What if I wanted to be buried here?" she asked. "If it were up to me … I'd rather grow old and die in this place than leave you."
She blushed hotly, even through her tears. It was the closest she'd ever come to admitting how much she loved him. It was undignified, saying this now of all times, knowing that even if he did feel the same way (which she sometimes thought he might), his own particular sense of honor would never allow him to be with her. But if this was to be the last time she saw him, dignity was irrelevant. Before all those battles finally wore him down and the TARDIS became his grave, she wanted him to know.
Even as she spoke, though, she knew what his answer would be. If it were up to me … She looked down at the turkey sitting in its pan on the console, smelling of sage and warm gravy, perfectly if unconventionally roasted inside the TARDIS. Ready to be eaten for Christmas dinner by her father, aunt and grandmother, who were waiting for her return.
"It's not entirely up to you, though," said the Doctor. "Is it?"
He was right. Of course he was right. No doubt Aunt Linda was wondering by now what was taking her so long in the kitchen, Dad was good-naturedly teasing his sister about her own lack of cooking skills, and Gran was on her way to telling that joke about the pigeon at the restaurant. Just like every year. And when Clara came back, they would light the candles and sing carols, and Gran would croak her way through the songs deliberately off-key, and they'd laugh so hard …
When Clara came back?
If.
When.
Oh, God.
"Do you remember River Song? I travelled with her parents once, a long time ago. They were more than friends to me, they were family. And thanks to me, they died a continent and sixty years away from home. Their loved ones were left behind to water the plants." His eyes grew hard with self-recrimination, hard and flat as beryls. Clara drew a deep breath.
"I watched your mother's funeral, did I ever tell you that? I was trying to make sure that you were human – which, beyond a doubt, you are. I owe you an apology for that." He smiled bitterly. Clara knew she should be offended by the invasion of her privacy, but couldn't bring herself to feel anything but sorrow.
"I saw the way your father held on to you as you stood beside her grave. I know you, Clara Oswald. You don't run out on the people you care about."
He had said the same thing to her the very first time they met. She'd been so innocent then, teasing him about his flirting with him as if he were just any fascinating young man. Never dreaming that what they had together would be less, and yet so very much more, than an ordinary human love affair could ever be.
"You say that," she whispered. "And then you expect me to run out on you."
"I'm giving you up," he replied, just as softly. "It's not the same thing. "
Giving her up. A sacrifice. Every Christmas service she had ever attended came back to her, and every Easter service too. Greater love has no man than this.
She understood.
"If you'd only said that to me the first time around," she said, "I would have listened."
"Oh, come on," he said, with a brave attempt at his usual bluster in the face of criticism. "Firstly, I was in a hurry. Secondly, when have you ever followed my orders?"
"Only when they make sense," she retorted.
"There you go. I never make sense. Never knowingly, at least."
They shared a wistful little laugh amid the humming of the TARDIS.
Hedgewick's, the submarine; she could recall at least two occasions she had stayed behind in safety at the Doctor's orders, even when her heart screamed to follow him. She was no coward, but she would not throw her life away (and the happiness of those who loved her along with it) for any but the best of reasons. Growing old with the Doctor, no matter how much she loved him, was not the best of reasons.
He would have hundreds of years to get over missing her. Her family would not.
With shaking hands, she picked up the heavy turkey in its pan and breathed in the smell of home. She wanted desperately to hug the Doctor goodbye, but she was afraid that, if she touched him, she'd never want to let go. Instead she called on the strength of a million lives to stand up straight, toss back her hair and smile.
"Well, in that case," she forced some lightness into her tear-worn voice, "Perhaps we'd better get on with it. This bird's getting cold."
"I don't suppose your guests would mind if it did, eh, Soufflé Girl? I'm sure they've learned to lower their expectations when it comes to your cooking."
"Said the man who warned me that it might start laying eggs."
Those green eyes overflowed, and suddenly, inevitably, he limped forward to throw his arms around her, turkey and all. It was awkward, off-balance and over much too soon, and she felt a tingling warmth on her forehead that might have been either a teardrop or a kiss.
The TARDIS churned loudly, the floor dipped like a car driving over a pothole, and the doors flung themselves open to admit a cold rush of Terran winter air.
She could not say goodbye. It froze on her tongue like a block of ice.
"Send the TARDIS back for me," she said instead. "Please. If anything happens … if there's any change … I need to be there."
I love you. Don't die alone.
"You can count on her," said the Doctor, patting the doorframe. "Merry Christmas, impossible girl."
I love you too. I will see you again.