A/N: After the frenzy of fic-writing that last season induced in me, this past episode is the first one of season nine that actually made me feel like writing something. (Wow, just wow. Give PCap all the awards.) So, based on my own speculation and a few hints from the creative team, here's a short one-shot about the goodbye.
"This, then," she says, and she's humming with something; he can hear her blood pumping through her veins, katoush. Never the same cells for two days together, he thinks, always getting older, always moving on.
Always moving on.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, lifts his shoulders in a shrug.
"This," he says. "Is. Not what I had in mind."
She bites her lip and tries to smile.
"Could be worse," she says. She lifts her eyes skyward for a moment. "Could be raining."
He joins her in looking up; everything she does is contagious. They stand together for a moment with their heads lifted, and let the sun shine on them.
"What'll you do?" she says, still looking up.
"Same as ever, I expect," he says. "Flailing around saving planets and getting shot at. You know me. Terrible rut."
"You're so predictable, Doctor," she says, softly but wryly, and he's learned a trick or two from her: he smiles at the sun, but his eyes are sad.
"What'll you do?" he says, as though he's asking the air.
Clara looks down, looks away from him, examines the brand-new world around her.
"Think I'll take up knitting," she says.
He scoffs, and laughs, and chokes, and mindful of the time, he says, "I'll miss you, Clara Oswald" and stops and thinks and breathes; says, "I love you," in a kind of wonder.
"Oh, no," she says, "no, no, I can't, Doctor— I can't say it, I promised—"
And he's making excuses for her, he shakes his head, he looks away from her— what has she promised, he has no idea, she never said anything to him about any promises on this subject— but she pushes her smooth soft hands upwards, towards the sun, towards him, cups his face and draws him back towards her, down and open, and kisses him instead; which is better than words, which warms him like the sun, which he has always wanted, which he was born wanting. She kisses him in the sunlight, and he can hear her blood pumping through her veins, katoush katoush.
She lets him go when the time is right; she can taste it on him, the goodbye.
"Not forever," she whispers to him, while he is still kissingclose. "Don't you dare."
"I can't promise you anything," he whispers back, voice low and rough. "It's out of my hands, Clara. My Clara. I can't do anything here."
"You can't," she says, and she strengthens, straightens, lifts her chin and lets her eyelashes flutter low; a look of determination. He's seen grown men run from that look. He's been one of them. He watches her in frank admiration, glowing with it. "Let's just see about that, shall we."
"Let's," he says, not laughing, not smiling, but with the glow still in his eyes. If anything it grows stronger. "Let's find out what you're made of, hm, Clara Oswald?"
She meets his eyes, and the corner of her mouth quirks in a smile.
"I'm gonna knit you a scarf," she says, and the buzzer sounds with a discreet little noise, hardly anything, like a bee in the distance, and she disappears, or he disappears, or they both disappear: and he's home, he's home, the TARDIS humming around him. He can feel the sunlight still.