Prologue
London, 2017. Spring.
Clara fought back a wave of nerves as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed out her skirt. Silly girl, it doesn't matter what you look like, she chided herself. It wasn't that he couldn't understand attractiveness or appreciate a nice outfit, of course. He'd never fooled her with that old bit! It was quite simply the absurdity of thinking he would care what Clara looked like when to him, she was no longer Clara.
And he didn't love her anymore because he couldn't remember her.
She pushed open the dark cherrywood door of the old-fashioned pub, the green stained glass windows casting dim flickers of emerald light randomly around the crowded establishment. Though it was packed, the regulars spoke in quiet tones, like a steady symphony of soothing background noise. She saw the appeal of the place. A safe haven, a pleasant enough place to tuck into a beer and a cottage pie.
Clara didn't have to let her eyes scan the room to find him. Instinctively, she knew where he was, and she was so used to his magnetic pull on her that it didn't surprise her anymore. It enticed her, and she welcomed the sensation she'd denied herself for so long.
Out of everyone there, he was the only silent person, sitting before a tall, dark glass of beer that he clearly hadn't touched. The expression on the Doctor's face was distant and melancholy. His hair was slightly disheveled, stubble dotting his face as though he hadn't looked in a mirror lately. Clad in a black t-shirt, black jacket and jeans, he could have been any middle-aged Scotsman in any pub anywhere but he wasn't; instead, he was everything. The center of her universe.
"This seat taken?" Clara asked casually, knocking on the table lightly as if it were a door. The Doctor's eyes flitted up and met hers inquisitively, surprised. He was taken aback, and straightened in his chair. Her appearance had broken him out of a contemplative trance.
"Oh, it's you," The Doctor said finally. Had it been able to, her heart would certainly have skipped a beat at the glimmer of recognition that lit up his pale blue eyes. As it was, she felt it do that anyway, a crazy ghost of her former physiology Clara had become accustomed to since she'd cheated death. It wasn't real, but it was. Like Clara herself, she supposed.
They were lovely eyes, she'd thought since the first time she'd seen them. Back then, after the regeneration, he thought she'd resented the difference in his face, his age. She could tell. Overcome by confusion at the change, she'd tried to take a seemingly golden opportunity to break away from her love for him. To protect herself from an emotion too overwhelming to fathom surrendering to.
"I'm not your boyfriend, Clara," he'd drawled huskily in that gorgeous new voice, cutting through her heart like a cruel blade. Was he defending himself from a rejection he felt was inevitable, or did he just want to stop her from falling further before she got hurt? Whatever the case, she decided to be done with that dimension of their relationship, undeveloped and unexplored though it had been, of course. Fine, he was different now, and whatever romantic feelings she'd felt between them had ended. So she found Danny, found normalcy, longed for the strangeness she'd cast aside, lost Danny, and blamed herself for dragging him into a world never meant for nice, normal men.
She then accepted that the man she loved was neither nice nor normal. He was extraordinary, brave, brilliant and true. He was fiercely loyal and craved companionship and friendship at the same time he kept it at arms' length in the implicit knowledge that it always had to end, and sometimes the endings were too tragic to justify the beginnings.
But if anything, sitting there in front of him now after months traveling without him felt like… a new beginning.
Funny how life works that way, Clara thought with stunning clarity that raised goosebumps on her flesh. She pulled the sleeves of her black cardigan down to her wrists and rubbed her hands together. His eyes followed the motion curiously.
Clever boy.
She knew what his recognition of her referred to, even if she wished it carried a different meaning.
"It's you," The Doctor said again, slightly astonished. He managed a friendly smile, but it was haunted. "From the diner! I told you my whole story, and you listened. You were very kind. Hard to find good listeners, you know."
"I do know," Clara agreed, playing with a napkin, twirling it around the table.
"You're quite the mysterious one, aren't you?" The Doctor said thoughtfully. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side, examining her.
She tilted her head up and met his gaze again, electricity surging through her veins. She'd missed him so much.
"What'd you mean?" Clara asked, slightly playfully.
"Well, you just appear here, out of nowhere, without any opening explanation on your part, I might add, when I happen to be in the depths of despair, and could really use a friend. Not that I deserve one, but I could definitely use one. We're a long way from Nevada, don't forget. And there you are, whoever you are. Again. Now, you've got to admit, that is mysterious."
"Ah, I suppose it is, then, when you put it like that." Clara grinned proudly. "Mysterious. Hmm! I like the sound of that."
"Would you like to hear another story?" The Doctor proposed. His voice was heavy and profoundly sad. She wanted to leap across the table and throw her arms around her neck. She clasped the sides of her chair to still the instinct. "It's not a happy story, not a hopeful tale. It's rather depressing. I had a chance to save people but I had to make a choice. Those people's lives depended on me and I failed them. And there's nothing whatsoever I can do now to make it right. This time, there can be no redemption."
"I'll be the judge of time," Clara said significantly. "Please, tell me your story."
The Doctor rewarded her with an exhausted half smile and threw his hand up in the air, gesturing to the bartender. "Hello! Get this young lady whatever she wants, please. It's going to be a long night."