It was all the Doctor could do to bite back his delighted smile as Clara twirled about the console to the Glenn Miller music he had playing. Her dress was cranberry red, the height of nineteen-forties fashion, with absurd shoulder pads and a skirt that whispered around her calves. Her shining, dark hair was in curls that bounced around her shoulders, and there was a red rose pinned behind one ear. He'd never seen anything more delightful in all his lives.
"Dance with me," she invited, holding out her hands.
"When we get there," he said, tolerantly. He ran a hand rather self consciously through his silver hair as he watched her. A selfish and greedy part of his soul didn't want to land, wanted to keep her here, all to himself. Once they landed, there would be dashing military officers, and they'd be sure to have eyes for this exquisite creature who traveled with him.
The touch of a soft hand to his cheek interrupted his thoughts. "Doctor? Tell me what's wrong?"
"You can still always tell, can't you?" he half-asked whimsically.
"Yeah. I don't care if we go to the concert, you know. I don't care what we do, as long as we do it together. All right?"
"More than," he replied with a gentle smile. "But I promised you we'd see Glenn Miller, and here we are."
"Where, exactly?" Clara asked excitedly.
"London. December 1944. We're going to see one of Glenn Miller's final performances, entertaining Allied troops. In a few days time, he'll board a plane to take him to Paris, to entertain the troops there."
"But he never arrived."
"No, he didn't. Rather extraordinary chap. He was too old to serve as a soldier, but he wanted to make a contribution."
"It's what was done, back then."
"I know. A friend tried to explain it to me, once. He was too young for most of the war, but he went anyway. Because it's what was done."
"When the whole world is falling apart around you, you do what you can," Clara said softly. "I don't think you need anyone to explain that to you." She gently extricated the Doctor's hands from the levers he had a death grip on, and tugged him towards the doors.
The city was battered and a bit grimy, as she'd expected, but a few of the landmarks made Clara reasonably sure that the Doctor's driving skills still hadn't improved. She turned to him with one eyebrow quirked.
"Well, er…perhaps it's Paris, December 1944," he admitted, seeing a newspaper scudding along the pavement. The headline proclaimed that the famous American bandleader had been declared missing in action. "I'm sorry," he muttered.
"I'm not," Clara replied, wrapping both arms around his.
"I wanted to take you someplace wonderful."
"Paris, at Christmas."
"Paris, after years of wartime devastation."
"Paris, newly liberated, and full of hope."
"You astonish me, Clara Oswald."
She glanced up at him through her eyelashes, and the Doctor wondered, yet again, what he'd ever done to deserve her. "I can't help but wonder why the TARDIS brought us here."
"Does there have to be a reason?" Clara asked curiously.
"Oh, she's always got a reason."
"Maybe it's just this," Clara said, glancing around at the street they were strolling down. People were out and about, struggling to make repairs, or at least get things cleaned up. "Maybe she wanted you to see how resilient people can be. When we find Gallifrey, this is what it will be like. It won't all be magically fixed over night; it'll take a lot of hard work. But they'll have the chance now, because of you."
"Because of us," the Doctor countered, leaning down to drop a light kiss on the top of her head. Clara shivered slightly, and the Doctor immediately shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
"But you'll be cold," she protested.
"Not as long as you're beside me."