There's a fleeting feeling in her chest; a star has burst - the lights are dying, trailing off and bumping against her bones. The final glimmers of something have gone up in smoke, which now wraps around her lungs and clogs her chest.
So, she just stands there.
She hadn't expected him to do the same. By now she expected a bouncing five year old, desperate for excuse; for an escape, something to lessen the intensity of the situation. But no, instead, he stands there just as still. She hasn't seen his shoulders shift yet, he's holding his breathe, staring down at her. The solemn man that rarely makes an appearance - preferring to lurk around the edges of the room, past glances about and make small talk with himself - is now standing before her.
Waiting for her to move.
But she can't. She's stuck in the smoke screen of a dying star. Can't speak, can't see, can't move. But she can feel the heat from the blast creeping up the back of her neck, prickling at the edges of her skin - pulling it taunt and rubbing against it. She curls her hands into a fist, presses the edges of her fingers into her palm, tries to ignore the way her stomach starts to tie itself in knots, tries to ignore the way the heat grows; climbing up her neck, holding ice to her lower back.
Her eyes flick up, skip around the dangle of deep green leaves and snow white berries above their heads. She uncurls her hands and lets them hang at her sides; words begin to arise, tumbling and falling through the tendrils in her chest, climbing towards her throat. She blinks and the mistletoe above them sways as some stranger whittles his way around the Doctor and herself, mumbling excuses as he passes.
Her eyes flick back to him, he blinks and stares back. A smile blossoms at the edges of his lips.
That could have been an out - he could have excused himself in wake of the other man, shuffled himself amongst other guests and slipped outside, unnoticed and gone.
But he didn't.
"So -" She begins, words clinging to the top of her mouth. "Listen -" She continues, pausing now to watch as something splinters across his features; cracking underneath the surface and bleeding through. She frowns, eyes flicking across his face - trying to pin down a name for the changes; not remorse -
"If you don't want too," His voice is careful, low and soft; earnest. He swallows, the smile dragging up again from the edges of his lips, it's a bit more empty this time around, but still there. "I will walk away, Clara. And we won't ever have to talk about this if you don't want too."
She blinks and the frown fades; the heat in her cheeks grows, spirals in on itself and drips, in thick, languid waves, down the back of her neck, lapping at the ice taped to her skin below that.
She steps forward, heat fading and blossoming, heart hammering in her chest; sending out waves - giving the last few remaining fragments of energy to the star that exploded moments before. Her hands start to shake. The heels and toes of her shoes scrape against the floor.
One hand to his shoulder, the other to the side of his face.
She rises slowly, grinding the carpet underneath her feet to steady herself. Her hand curls around the fabric of his shirt; nails drifting over the surface of skin.
She kisses him.
Soft and chaste; and less than a second after the first touch down, he returns. Shifting to raise his arms, one hand falls against her waist and the other hovers - unsure, unsure and unsure until it finally settles on the back of her neck; the pads of his fingertips skipping over her vertebrae, nails tracing the edges of her skin.
She presses her toes against the floor; balance wavering, and deepens the kiss. Sighs against him. The heat in her cheeks simmers, bubbles and deludes - fading into deeper parts of flesh. Replacing itself with a strange feeling of peace - of coming home; a mixed, washed out sense of nostalgia. Except the peace stems from that, spirals out of it; a split second fracture of the loss, because the thing she's been longing for is now before her.
She's home; one of many. One she hasn't been to in a long time.
He smiles against her lips; just the barest hint of a curl.
But the occupant inside had been waiting faithfully; knowing she'd be back, even if she left again afterwards. She deepens the kiss just a fraction, his hands get a little tighter - lukewarm heat beginning to spill from them. In her minds eye, she can see it; a rusted, fractured home with chipped white paint, bags weighing down her grip. The night sky lounges, slowly engulfing everything, stars begin to chip they're way into the far distant. The house before her is a beacon - the lights are on, open smiles on the faces of the people inside.
Somewhere a camera clicks and shutters - light flashes over them.
She pulls back, steps forward again; they're chests brush togther.
His smile grows, winding across his face, and she returns it.
His thumb skips over the vertebrae in her neck, it twists and bends, rubbing small circles in either direction. "Oh," He sighs, his smile bending around the word. "Clara."