A/N: I'm sorry. I don't really know where this came from except for listening to too much pop music and thinking of Eleven/Clara and body shots. This is very AU, and edges on some dark themes for the Doctor.

He stumbles back into the TARDIS; he can't feel anything. If he lets himself feel anything, he will be lost.

He lost her. Again.

The TARDIS pilots herself, really; all he does is flick a switch or two here and there and asks her to take him somewhere that he won't feel anything. She jolts and he lands on the squishy couch, sinking into the cushions and running his fingers over the slight stain on the material from a splash of tea out of Clara's mug when they were mid-flight. It seems like the trip takes forever and no time at all; he is lost tracing the lines of a stain from a girl he could never keep.

He finds himself on the cold metal flooring of the console room as the TARDIS lands, and he can feel her scolding him. Get up, Doctor. You have to move on. It's what you do. I know it hurts, but I will always be here for you. So he pulls himself up by the console and makes his way out of the blue box, stepping out into an alley. The building he faces is brick and covered in graffiti, some tasteful, but mostly tasteless scrawlings of profanities in neon or white spray paint. The bass pounding from inside the brick walls resonates in his chest, and he barges through the first door he finds, into the back room of what appears to be a discotheque..

The bass feels good. The force of it pushes the ball of emotions lodged halfway between his stomach and his throat back until he can no longer feel it. He straightens up more-the grief dragged his shoulders down a good three inches-and walks into the club itself.

The flashing lights assault his vision and the music is even louder here, the smell of whiskeys and rum and tequila overloading his sense of smell. The dance floor is a veritable maelstrom of bodies, girls dancing with boys and boys dancing with boys and girls dancing with girls and none of them paying attention to anything but the rhythm of the music and the person who has the privilege of grinding their hips in time with their own. He is no stranger to dancing and certainly no stranger to the way human bodies (or human and Time Lord bodies) can move together; it had been less than forty-eight hours since the last time he had felt the crescents of Clara's fingernails trailing down his bare back as her ankles hooked around behind his knees and her stomach pressed against his in an arch to feel him all over her, to feel his skin against her skin. His breath catches as he remembers how, after, she had curled against him, still naked, trailing her fingers along his collarbone, tapping her fingers in the hollow and chuckling deeply in her chest. For a Time Lord, you certainly know how to move like a human. He had propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at her, his hair falling into his eyes, a half-smirk resting across his lips. It's not rocket science, Clara, he'd said. It's a basic biological function. If humans can do it, Time Lords can improve upon it tenfold. It's proven. And as a way to prove his point, he had shifted to slip two digits inside of her and curled them upwards, and her resulting gasp had made him chuckle.

He looks around, looking for a way to run out, a way to stop remembering because the memories are sending waves of shock through his hearts; he would do anything to run and find her waiting at the end of the path, with that crooked smile and the tilt of her head that gives her eye a certain gleam of mischief that had been distinctly Clara. He turns around to run back the way he'd come, starting off at a jog, and he runs into someone a head and a half shorter than him.

"Ow, fuck!" He positively has bowled her over, and they lay on the floor of the club, which is slightly sticky with some substances that he'd rather not pull out his sonic to analyze.

"I am so sorry, I didn't see you-" he starts, pushing himself off the floor and pulling her up with him. "Should've known better than to run in a dance club, eh?"

The short girl pulls her head back in confusion. "That better have not been a short joke, or I'll punch you on the nose, I'm not even joking," she says, and the lights flash across her face, and he stops. "Or maybe your chin."

"Clara?" he says, his hearts beating erratically within his chest. But as he squints through the dim lighting, he can tell it's not his Clara. She's got a small hoop around her nostril and her hair is pulled back messily, and a set of headphones rests around her neck; she's in jeans rather than the dresses and tights Clara would wear, and-probably what is the most deciding factor in this analysis-her accent is definitely not English. It sounds more American than anything.

"No..." she trails off. "Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost." She reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. "Look. Didn't you hear? I introduced myself not even ten minutes ago over the sound system. I'm Jas." She pauses. "Jasmine. And if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the soundboard."

"Right. Well, good luck, Jasmine." He gives her a quick smile and she melts back into the crowd, appearing moments later at the sound booth. She announces her return and the crowd cheers, and it makes him smile, albeit wearily. He makes his way to the bar and orders whatever the drink special is for the night. It sits on the bar and he watches the crowd, how they move to the sound of the intricate remixes of three and four songs that the-girl-who-is-not-Clara is producing for their entertainment.

The music swells and ebbs and flows in intensity; people come back and forth from the bar, clutching drinks and sometimes taking shots. He sips at the drink he ordered-it tastes minty-to fit in. Briefly he wonders why he doesn't like alcohol in this regeneration-blimey, he'd created the banana daquiri!-but it's nothing he dwells on, remembering the many drinks of wine he'd spat out, on the beach in Utah, in the sitting room of Craig's flat-it all makes his hearts burn.

"This one goes out to my British friend who knocked me over twenty minutes ago!" Her voice cuts through his memories and he smiles as the first notes of "Across the Universe" play through the mix. He sees her look over to him and he raises his drink to her.

"So, what do you think?" a voice pops up at his elbow and he jumps, spinning around on his barstool and looking into the face of Cl-Jasmine.

"I think a lot of things," he replies.

"Come dance with me. The music won't be as good, but I promise you I'm a great dancer." She doesn't take no for an answer as she grabs his hand and drags him into the still pulsing crowd of people. A different crowd has filtered in, a few hours after he initially arrived, but it's always the same: grinding hips and groping fingertips, sighs and exclamations. She gives him a grin that reminds him of the same grin that Clara would give him right before she started to slide the vest off his shoulders and undo the knot of his bowtie and she turns around, and before he knows it, they fit into the crowd around him, and his eyes close as his hands rest on her waist.

He's not sure what to do with his hips other than mimic that of what he's seen the other males doing in the mix tonight, and he supposes it's working-she's not ducking out of the dance with a pity smile and a squeeze of his hand. On the contrary, she takes his hands and puts hers over them, linking her fingers through his and pulling his hands down to her hips. The particular swivel of her hips causes her to brush against him and his breath hitches, fingertips digging into the soft skin that peeks out from where her shirt rides up as she dances.

He knows it's wrong to imagine this girl is Clara, knows it is, but she is in front of him, and dancing with him, and his hearts are still searing for a need to be near her in any way. He had considered crossing his own timeline to save her, sitting at the bar, three dreadful sips into the minty beverage that left leaf particles in his mouth, and the thought nearly consumed him before he remembers the Reapers and how his existence had blinked out into nothingness, for a few moments, until his pink and yellow girl had righted the timeline. It wouldn't be safe.

She even moves like Clara; one of her arms snakes up and her hand gently rests against the nape of his neck, pulling him down. Her hair tickles his face and he knows he's breathing hard very close to her ear, and he'd be embarrassed by this, but the way she is moving her hips against him pushes his embarrassment away.

He's not sure how they move from the dance floor to the darkened area of the club, where they had initially collided, but suddenly they're there and she's got her hands in his hair, pulling him down to meet her lips. They fall through the swinging door to the back room and she's pushing the vest off his shoulders and he's sliding the hairtie out of her hair, his fingers tangling in the mess it becomes.

"I feel like I know you," she gasps into his ear as he sucks at a particularly sensitive spot beneath her ear.

He could say something. He could. But the heady sense of lust keeps him from saying anything about his past; the feeling of nothingness has been replaced, and even though it will be temporary, even though she isn't Clara, he will gladly take the damnation for this chance to be close to her and deal with the consequences later. "I've got one of those faces," he replies, his voice almost a growl in her ear.

She pushes him to rest against the wall, and he just as quickly flips it so she is against the wall, one of his hands resting against the wall as the other makes its way under the fabric of her shirt. He pushes aside the cloth of her bra, his fingers finding her nipple and rolling it in his fingertips. She gasps in a delightful way that sends heat through his veins and she fumbles with his pants, the buttons coming undone and her hand sliding under the fabric within to grip him. His hand leaves the warmth under her shirt and go to work on her jeans, and though it's difficult to push her jeans down with one hand, he manages. Her panties slide down with her jeans to rest beneath her knees and he feels her tugging his down; he lifts her against the wall and positions himself, and she slides onto him, gloriously warm and wet. His thumb finds the bundle of nerves where they meet and she moans, her hips twitching involuntarily. This is something he's used to. Each thrust seems in time with the pounding of the bass, each gasp and whimper next to his ear tuning out whatever the artist is singing in the song. He feels her muscles begin to tighten around him and he presses against the bundle of nerves again, his thumb grazing it a few times, and she comes undone around him, her breath coming in small gasps mixed with profanities and the slightest giggle. He's not long after, and once they are disentangled, she looks at him, pulling her jeans up as he buttons his trousers.

"Are you-" he starts, his eyes nervous.

"On the pill? Yeah."

"Okay."

"You're clean?"

"Most definitely."

She looks up at him and begins to laugh, a glorious sound that he never wants to lose again. "You never told me your name."

"I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor what?"

"Just the Doctor."

"Is that some sort of creepy pseudonym?" She suddenly looks wary and nervously fixes her shirt, pulling her hair back up. He can see the darkened skin at the base of her ear that will remind her of the dark room in the back of the club, and in that instant, he makes up his mind. The echoes of the TARDIS as he had slumped against the cold floor fill his head. You have to move on. It's what you do.

"No." He smiles and extends his hand to her. "Come with me. I'll explain everything."

He's not sure whether it's the sincerity in his voice or the smile but she takes his hand with an incredulous smile of her own. "I can't believe I'm going to go along with this."

"Well, let me ask you a question. Have you ever wanted to see the stars?"

A/N: screeches and runs away while whispering [i hope you liked it]!