Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.

Rumi

I will always remember when the Doctor was me.

But it's like he's already forgotten. One minute he was there and in a blink of an eye, someone else was staring back at me; just as wide-eyed and confused as I was. Those were different eyes boring into mine and before I knew it, he was going on about his kidneys and apparently had no idea how to drive his own bloody spaceship.

I'd only ever asked one thing of the Doctor, and that was not to lie to me. He did it to me twice in one day. And then he died and had someone else take his place.

So now we're not speaking. He's figured it out on his own – how to fly the TARDIS, I mean – or at least I think he has. We've not crash landed somewhere. We're not spinning out of control into some vortex into the unknown. The floor feels relatively stable, and the TARDIS isn't heaving uncomfortably the way she sometimes does when he's done something like overheat her flux capacitors. Or so he says.

"Isn't that right, old girl?" I whisper, walking towards one of the cold silver walls and pressing my face against it. If you listen closely, you can hear her heartbeat, and it's like she's dying too. Ever since I did that invariably stupid thing of jumping into the Doctor's time stream to save the universe (and him), the TARDIS and I have gotten along a bit better. Well, she still doesn't listen to me without the Doctor's instructions, and sometimes I think if she had a corporeal body and a voice, we'd argue ourselves something furious. But it's times like this when I think we share something in common. We both love the Doctor, and he's gone.

I'd just walked away from him. I don't know if his other companions ever did that; at least right at a regeneration. Me personally though, I couldn't stand it. Looking at this new man in my Doctor's suit sans bowtie, grey eyes bulging curiously as he gazed around the control room in wonder, and looking almost— almost young again. I've seen all the Doctor's faces. I've saved him. But I somehow can't deal with this.

I've just never seen him die before. I've prevented him from that fate countless times over but I couldn't do it this time. I'd slap myself for thinking I'm really invincible but that's the beauty of being with him; he makes you feel ten times— one hundred times better about your abilities than you ever could. I've always been a mother; not of my own children but of surrogates. I like tending to children, binding their wounds and making them feel better. I'm still hopeless at making soufflés but can bake a mean apple and cherry pie. Most of all, I can say I'm empathetic to kids. Maybe it's me losing my childhood so young after my mother died, but I wouldn't give up this trait for anything in the world. In the universe. Because not only does it bring me closer to human beings, it brings me closer to people like the Doctor.

I'd only ever said no to travelling with him twice. The first time was pretty straight forward. Sure, he'd just saved my life, but I also needed time to think. I wasn't really lying about that when I told him.

You're returning the favour, he'd said to me about my mother. Why I wouldn't travel the world and see the stars; that was his guess.

I keep the book, because I'm still going, I'd said back, my hands running over the TARDIS's mainframe, silently contemplating.

But you don't run out on the people you care about. I wish I was more like that.

No one had ever said that to me before. I mean, it's in the nature of working with kids. They're not always discerning of your feelings. Some of them are, god bless them. But a lot of them have their own agendas; their friends, schoolwork, family. To them, I'm just the day nanny, being a bit of a party pooper and making sure they don't wrestle each other for the TV control too violently and that they study when they should. I've constantly been rebuked for 'not being their mother, so why should you care?!'

It doesn't stop me from doing it, even without outright verbal gratification. I think it's even worse when adults tell me that I'm essentially wasting my time doing what I do. I've got friends and relatives who hear about it and ask me why I don't go and get a 'proper' job. Why I don't use the smarts I have to be a lawyer or a surgeon or a professor somewhere. They indirectly put down what I've worked so hard to build up. They didn't accept the fact that it was in my principles to stay.

Which is why – I suppose – he struck me as being someone I could give some things up for. This man (alien) understood my reasons for being here and never reprimanded me for it. In fact, he did the exact opposite and gave me hope that I didn't have to constantly worry about things.

The thing about a time machine though, he'd then said to me, hoisting himself up by the railings of the staircase he was sitting on and coming to meet in the control room, is that you can run away all you like and still be home in time for tea, so what do you say?

Run away. I didn't like that phrase. I didn't like to think I was running away from anything and that if I'd left, it was because I'd put things in order first. I'd settled what I needed to before leaving, so there wouldn't be (as much) baggage.

Come back tomorrow. Ask me again.

Even if time travel was just going to be a holiday, I needed to plan. It didn't matter that I probably wouldn't have to bring money or clothes or food or anything like that with me, but getting to a state of emotional readiness would take some time. I'd seen everything that I thought never existed and more in just one day. I flew a plane to safety, I'd been the target of evil AI, and I even had a handsome stranger from outer space up in my bedroom. (Well, almost.)

I chuckle at the thought before tears fill my eyes to the brim, my face still pressed against the wall of my bedroom in the TARDIS. The Doctor had, in his own words, done a bit of a rehaul of certain rooms on the ship when I'd considered coming along with him, and had it made for me. I move away from her slow, steady heartbeat and fall on my featherbed, closing my eyes and letting sobs wrack my body. Being in a time machine had its perks and its weaknesses, and I'd say having a stronger awareness of time streams is a big weakness. My memories of the Doctor are stronger than ever, flashing through my mind as though they'd only happened seconds before.

The TARDIS can switch rooms just like that? I could hear myself ask, snapping my fingers for emphasis. My eyes were wide with amazement as he led me through the labyrinth of hallways in his wonderful spaceship until he led me to my room and that was when I'm sure my eyeballs almost popped right out of my head.

But in an attempt to direct the conversation away from my embarrassing schoolgirl fascination, I'd asked, So do you have a room?

He thought I didn't notice his frame stiffen slightly, and his eyes close in an expression that said he'd been asked something like that before. It was somehow a touchy subject.

Ahh, well Time Lords don't have to sleep so much as rest for a couple of hours every day, he'd said airily. And even then – there was a twinkle in his eye when he said this – 'day' is relative.

I should have trusted my instincts then and there that told me he was a liar. Not the worst of the worst on his best days, but he wasn't infallible. He'd just made everything seem that way.

The second and only other time I'd refuse to go away with him was, in hindsight, just a way for me to win at an argument.

I can't just drop everything and come along with you, you know, I sighed. Billy and Mandy – two new kids I was sitting for – were coming home in five minutes and their parents had a very strict diet schedule which meant 'healthy snacks' once they were home from school. Needless to say, the pantry seemed a bit empty on that front, and I was feeling a bit stressed out.

It's a time machine, he'd said, rolling his eyes and mimicking my frantic hand gestures as he watched me bustle around the kitchen from the Simmons' large living room. You can come back within those five minutes if we leave now.

It's the principle of things, I replied grumpily. You can't just leave me alone for four months and then drop back in whenever you fancy and think I'm going to magically run off with you again! I don't care if it worked for whoever it was you were travelling with before, but it doesn't for me.

Again, I'd said something wrong and this time, the Doctor took no pains in hiding it from me. I definitely hit a nerve with him. His eyes – a sparkly blue when excitable and happy – had turned a dark grey in melancholy and...anger. His thin lips formed a grim line as his eyebrows pressed together, and he turned away from me and walked out the door.

He does – did – that sometimes, shut down completely. I don't know if this was how he treated other companions because he never talks to me about them. He liked our adventures to be light and fluffy, and maybe with more than a touch of save-the-day involved in them, but at that point in our relationship, he never spoke about the people he travelled with. He never spoke about himself and kept a lot of things in the dark, but expected me to trust him. I'd been ready to accept that as being part of his character for awhile, but it had to stop. So in this instance, just as he left and even though I knew I was probably wrong for wrenching open a wound and having it bleed again, I didn't go after him.

I didn't really feel like I'd won that argument.

I saw him two days later – going by my time of course; god knows how long it took him – when he turned up at my front door and apologised. It was a proper apology too, and I could see that he meant every word of it. It wasn't unlike the first time I laid eyes on him, only back then he was animated, inquisitive, and very endearing in a slightly mad way.

But on the day he arrived contritely on my porch, he'd looked a bit more worn, possibly older. Then again, I can never tell. I know he lies about his age so much that in truth, even he probably lost count. It's easy to say that most of the things the Doctor tells you are never proper, full lies; they're half-truths and things left unsaid. He makes up facts and figures because he can; he's seen it all, lived through more than a vast majority, and continues to tell the tales and give people hope. Because if the greater good is achieved, isn't that worth a little minuscule suffering?

I believed that at the time. Back then, I hadn't seen the universe. I'd seen the parts that the Doctor was willing to show me, his heroics and my own. Yet, there came a time when the minority had to win and he couldn't give it to them. That created a massive grey area even the last Time Lord couldn't explain away.

I'm sorry, he'd said quietly. I was making us tea in the kitchen and observing at him intently. He was sat on my sofa, his hands clasped together in front of him and his eyes downcast. It wasn't fair of me. I mean, it isn't. It's just been a long time since I was open with anybody. A very long time.

I'd already started feeling sorry for him, but steeled myself and kept silent as the kettle whistled on the stove. That silence stretched and accommodated both of us as I busied myself with the teapot, biscuit tin and mugs. The smell of tea always calms me down if I've been having a particularly stressful or upsetting day, and I pick a variety of flavours for different occasions. Right then, it happened to be rosemary.

I set everything on the low, glass coffee table in front of him and perched myself on the armchair opposite him. I took his hands in mine, causing him to jerk his head upwards, startled at the sudden physical contact. Our eyes met and there they were; those big, sad, puppy eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts. I'm proud to say I stayed strong.

I've told you before, I whispered. I'm not here to compete with ghosts and if that's what you want, I'm leaving. You have to listen to me, and I mean really listen. I don't expect you to read my mind but it's not just about what I say. What I do matters too. What I want and need from you. That's how relationships work, but you can't shut me out. And honestly, a good bit of common sense wouldn't hurt either. I mean you say you're over a thousand years old!

He chuckled at that, and so did I. We were getting there again; common ground. Understanding.

I'm sorry too, I continued. About what happened the other day. It's not fair of me to pry. You've seen and done more than any other man that I've met; any other man in the universe. I don't need your sob stories and you don't need mine. Some things are just ours to keep, okay?

The Doctor nodded, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. The look on his face was a mixture of gratitude and confused awe; it was the kind of face he turned to a lot of humankind when they do something he doesn't understand but appreciates. I shifted from the armchair to the sofa next to him, our eyes never leaving one another, and put an arm across his shoulder.

I then leant towards him and whispered in his ear. But can you promise me one thing?

Anything.

You don't even know what I'm going to say, so don't say 'anything' like it doesn't matter, I chided playfully, tugging at his enormous chin.

But I mean it, he murmured. It's time I made it up to you. You deserve it, my impossible girl.

I smiled, and rested my head on his chest while he pulled me into a one-armed hug. I could hear both his hearts beating; one clearer than the other. I closed my eyes and slowed my heart rate to match one of them.

No lies. I'm going to try to stop caring about secrets you have to keep. But don't lie to me. Ever again.

I open my eyes and take a moment to register my surroundings. I didn't mean to fall asleep and now my eyes feel puffy and swollen from all the crying. I sit up in my bed and walk over to the bathroom next door. Splashing cold water on my face, I take a look at my reflection and laugh humourlessly. I look like such a wreck and feel even worse. If I was on Earth on a day like this, I would probably call up a friend and have a good long rant about how awful people – men – are. How we can never trust them to keep any promises. And how in the long run, everybody fails you sometime.

I slip off my dirty clothes and run myself a hot bath, but am interrupted when I hear soft clinking coming from my room. Whoever it was had been quick on their feet, and by the time I'd put on a bathrobe and returned to the bedroom, they had already left. Instead, on my bedside table sits a small tray with an intricate, dainty teapot and matching china, the unmistakable aroma of rosemary wafting from the spout. There is a small card attached to the teapot's handle and as I rip it off and unfold it, it's like a new sense of hope is bubbling. Not completely renewed, but it's there. With bated breath, I open the note:

So, my impossible girl. Where to next?

A/N: Well, this is quite exciting!

This is my first complete one-shot in something like five or six years. I've been away from writing fanfiction for that long, and it's also my first time writing Doctor Who. I've always liked the idea of characterising someone like Clara as darker than one would expect, and have done so in the past in the form of videos rather than words. Hopefully I'm successful in that regard here, and also that I haven't made her OOC. I find it personally difficult to pin down what her characterisation should be just from the show, especially when it comes to more intimate moments like this, so I just obviously put my own spin on what my ideal Clara would be like.

I've got nothing much else to say except I do ask that you please leave feedback; I've love to hear what you think! It's a solid way to grow as a writer, and as I'm antsy enough as it is about publishing this, it's probably a sign that I should get some opinions. This was betaed by my wonderful friend, Nightmaric - who isn't a DW watcher but is very helpful when it comes to structuring a good story with decent flow. I hope to write more DW fanfiction because of the potential these characters have, and I hope not to be so anxious about uploading my next piece if there happens to be one. Thank you for reading. :)