It finishes against my will
The light goes out, my heart goes still
And just like that, I believe in ghosts
Time and space are at my back
Performing disappearing acts
Now I can escape the smell of smoke
"Smell" - Sleeping At Last
He is not used to good things lasting in his life. Everything that is good always seems to end far too quickly for someone who has lived as long as he has. There is also this thing that most of the time the Universe seems always to want prices too high for any amount of happiness it gives to him.
So he knows that this, this emptiness and this dull ache in his hearts, can only mean that he is once more paying for something that must've been genuinely good. And he can't even remember why or how or who.
There is a name. It's almost everything he has. Clara Oswald.
The words curls in his tongue like a sacred promise, a forbidden incantation and it is one of the few things that remains of the past that doesn't seem to belong to him. It bypasses the neural block. Endures. Like some of the fragmented memories of all the adventures that they had lived together, bits that emerge from time to time, fighting their way among the cracks to get free, to keep her alive somewhere inside of him.
Sometimes, there is something else that tries very hard to last, like the faint memories of a dream you can almost grasp in the very moment you wake up but that fade away in the second you open your eyes.
When something goes missing, you can always recreate it by the hole it leaves. And the space of her absence seems to want to consume him. This is how he knows that she had been someone important in his life.
And then, he is unable to forget that he can't remember her.
So he sulks, trying to reach for memories that must still be there, inside, because he needs to understand the mystery that is Clara Oswald. He needs to figure out who she was and what she meant, for him.
He doesn't know how long he has been in that gloomy mood, floating in the time vortex without enough willpower to go anywhere. He buries his nose in books or tinkers around his ship to occupy his mind, but most of the times, he loses himself in thought, trying to understand why he feels like is grieving for someone he doesn't know anymore.
The TARDIS tries to cheer him up and takes him to places on her own, ignoring his pleads to be left alone, always knowing where he is needed, to save a planet, a village, a child. But most of all, to save him from himself. He finally understands it at the exact moment he sees River walking out of that ridiculously enormous ship making his hearts leap inside his chest.
It is painfully ironic that, after all, he and River end up into Darillium, the one place in all space-time he had always avoided, always dreaded. As much as Trenzalore. And for an instant, he is angry and torn because how does the Universe dare to play with his hearts like that, bringing her back to take her away from him forever, once again? How does it dare to force him into another goodbye so soon?
But then, he finally understands that there is no forever, only time. Always time. And he decides to take what the Universe is giving him. If this is a goodbye, he will make it as good as he can so it will be something them both, he and River, will cherish in the days that will follow, when they will be apart.
So, for once, he doesn't run. He stays, with River, and tries his best to show her his love, tries his best to be the man she needs him to be. When their time together finally comes to an end, he knows that they, but especially River, have been happy.
It comforts him and makes him come back to who he once had been: a madman in a blue box.
#
He travels through space and time but remains alone, unable to find a reason to have permanent company aboard the TARDIS anymore, his faded memories about Clara Oswald a constant reminder of his past failures. He tries to forget about it, to keep going with his life, but he is not that strong.
He has this notion that Clara must be out there, living her adventures on her TARDIS, writing a story of her own now. Sometimes, he wonders if she thinks about him as much as he thinks about her or if she fights over and over against the urge of looking for him, as he does on a daily basis. It is so frustrating, almost to the point of madness, that he can't just let go of someone he doesn't know, of a name with no face, no feelings attached to, no life in his heart or mind. It's as if he is obsessed with the idea of her. But he can't help himself because there are those memories that persisted.
He remembers punching a wall for billions of years, keeping himself imprisoned inside his confession dial for a chance to save her; he remembers breaking every single rule he had stood for his entire life to bring her back. And he knows enough about himself to understand what she should've meant for him, even if he can't find those feelings inside of him anymore.
Sometimes, when the urge is too strong and the black hole that lives inside of him seems to want to drag him, he remembers about something else. Words. Written in a tidy handwriting in one of the chalkboards. Her last request to him. Lately, it is what keeps him going on and stops him from searching for her.
Be a Doctor, she had asked him. And it is like a renewed promise, this time not only his but theirs, a sacred vow from one to another of staying apart to keep the Universe safe.
But then, the Universe has always seemed to be too happy in disagreeing with him.
#
He is running through the dark corridors of a stone labyrinth with a bunch of enraged orange skinned warriors pursuing him, which is certainly not a first. Not the orange skinned warriors, he is pretty sure he has never met them before, but the running and the dark corridors. It's basically the story of his life.
The narrow corridors make his escape more complicated, the uneven ground causing him to lose his balance with an annoying frequency. His body aches in several different places, but he can't rest, not if he wants to leave this planet alive. Regeneration isn't also in his plans for today, so he keeps running, ignoring the limits of his body.
He takes a right turn and, for his surprise, collides with someone with so much force that it makes both of them to fall in opposite directions and hit the ground. He groans in pain, one of his hands comes to rub his shoulder where he has shocked against a wall. But, ignoring the pain and still high on adrenaline, he quickly gets back to his feet, completely conscious that they are not out of danger yet. The woman that bumped into him is lying flat on her back and a pair of big brown eyes stare at him with a mix of surprise and terror. It's quite offensive, really, but he has no time to explain to her that staring is not polite in most parts of the Universe.
"Are you hurt?" He asks her and offers a hand after a quick glance over his shoulder to calculate how long they still have before his persecutors can reach them.
She shakes her head. "You?"
"I'm fine," he helps her to stand up and tries to ignore the sharp pain in his shoulder as much as the strange look in her eyes. He is rubbish at reading people, so he may probably be wrong, but he thinks that she looks at him like she has just seen a ghost. All facts considered, he can only hope that he isn't crossing his timeline or causing another fracture in time, but he has no time to elaborate, angry shouts and laser guns shots coming from closer now.
Without hesitation he grabs her hand, pulling her with him and they run like hell for their lives. He is happy that she isn't willing to become the next ceremonial meal of the orange warriors as much as him.
"What have you done this time?" She shouts from his back a second before they have to duck their heads to dodge the laser shots.
"I may or may not have offended their King and possibly their main deity too," he shouts back almost out of breath.
He thinks he hears a laugh. But she can't be laughing when their lives are in so much danger.
"Oh, 'course you did!"
And there it is. Laughter. He should be offended, but somehow the sound of her laughter makes his lips curl up a little. He is surprised with the feeling of how right her hand seems to fit into his, warm and soft and, for once in a lifetime, he thinks that the fast beats of his hearts are not exclusively because he keeps running.
He finally finds a place to hide and impulsively pushes her inside a cave that in the end is nothing more than a crack in the wall, though he only realises how narrow it is when he feels her body very close to his. It is a ridiculous situation or it must be if anyone could see them right now. He, the oncoming storm, with burning cheeks and arms awkwardly raised up to avoid any unrequested touch and this tiny woman, who evidently doesn't seem to care a bit about their closeness, with her head resting comfortably on his chest and her body practically leaning against his.
He needs to focus on something else, anything but her, but how can he when her scent fills his nostrils? His treacherous eyes peek down at her and, as if she can feel it, she looks up and smiles. And he can swear that his left heart just stops.
She is short and has this round face, adorably round actually. Pretty. Usually, he doesn't notice things like that but she is so close. And he has eyes. He suppresses a sigh. Maybe he is sleep deprived. Lack of sleep sometimes does strange things to him.
As soon as the warriors disappear into the depths of the labyrinth, they leave their shelter and this time she is the one who pulls him by the hand, leading them to the exit. He should ask her to stop because people don't do this to him. He is the one who usually does the grabbing hand and running thing, though he quite doesn't like the first anymore. Strangely, with her, it doesn't feel awkward or wrong.
They keep running, getting deep into the forest, until they think they are far enough to be safe.
He is breathless and tired, his sweaty shirt clings to his body under all the layers he wears. But strangely, she seems almost unaffected and, disregarding the state of her clothes, her messy hair and the slight blush on her cheeks, no one would say that she had run for so long.
She shows him a smile that he reciprocates, forgetting everything else but the feeling of contentment that runs through his veins. Letting himself fall into the ground, he rests his back against a tree, needing some time to catch his breath while his eyes seem unable to move away from her. She intrigues him, not only because she keeps breathing regularly as if all the running had been nothing, but also because of her eyes; big doe eyes of a peculiar shade of brown, like melted chocolate.
Her perfect eyebrows furrow slightly, her smile faltering a little on her lips when she approaches him. Kneeling by his side, she pulls an immaculate white handkerchief from inside her pocket. He watches her with wary eyes when she lifts one hand and delicately presses the piece of fabric against his right cheek. He feels a sting but doesn't give it away, the big bad Time Lord he is.
"Here," her voice is kind but there is a hint of something else in her eyes that he can't quite understand. "You've got a small cut on your face."
He can't take his eyes away from hers, and it is funny because he usually isn't so open like this around people, especially the ones he doesn't know. But she looks away and places the handkerchief in his hand.
"I must go," she closes his fingers around it and stands, giving a couple of steps away from him, eyes cast down on the ground for a moment before she looks at him again. "You take care."
"Wait," he doesn't want her to go. Not yet. "Your handkerchief."
"Keep it," she smiles. But it is sad one that stings at his hearts. Confused, he just nods and mutters a weak 'thank you' to her retreating back, his eyes following her until she disappears into the forest while something twitches painfully inside his chest.
#
He is wandering around a street market in the fifth moon of New Mars V, hands inside his trouser pockets, eyes in nowhere special, just thinking about what he is looking for exactly because, honestly, someone must be looking for something to be in a place like this for this long.
It is basically a dump; too hot, too smelly, excessively noisy and completely crowded with the most exotic beings from that part of the galaxy. And this is telling, considering that he has already been in too many strange markets along his life.
A man with five tentacles and head covered in bright blue scales bumps into him and immediately shows him his pair of pointy fangs with an angry hiss that makes the Doctor raise his hands in a silent apology, even if it hasn't been really his fault. But he is really in no mood to argue with a man with fangs. And tentacles.
After the blue skinned man goes back to his own affairs, he dusts the sleeve of his velvety coat from a string of sticky golden particles that he refuses to wonder what it must be. So, with a resigned sigh, he decides that it is time to go before real trouble finds him. But then something catches his eye. Someone, actually.
A short and dark haired woman stands in front of a stall of a Corellian merchant. Her face is partially hidden behind a pair of black shades that remarkably reminded him of his own, though he doubts hers are sonic. She is talking with the merchant like she is negotiating something, which makes total sense since they are in a market.
But the man doesn't seem to be taking it well. Or woman. One can never be sure with Corellians. They are certainly strange beings, usually pacific fellas, though the one who is talking with her looks like everything but. Maybe he or she is just half Corellian, a hybrid of some sort. The word tastes bitter at his tongue, even if it has been just a thought.
He turns his attention back to the argument unfolding in front of his eyes. He knows that is none of his business, he should just turn around and go back to his TARDIS, but he just can't. There is something familiar in the way that short human pulls a strand of dark hair behind her ear and folds her arms in front of her chest. It is like she is challenging the Corellian with a cold glare that reminds him of a teacher he had once.
He thinks that he should tell her that the glasses always ruin the effect of a good glare if he has an opportunity but he is distracted by the threatening look the merchant gives her back. So probably the glare hadn't been a good idea, shades on or not. If the aggressiveness with the Corellian pulls to inside his pocket the purple gemstone that has been lying on the counter is any indication, she is very close to big trouble.
The woman, although, doesn't seem to feel the danger, but the Doctor knows better than to ignore the signs, so he decides to approach them. Maybe he can help. He speaks a very good Corellian as well as eighty-three other dialects of the nearest planets, though he thinks more than half of them wouldn't be very helpful.
But then, everything seems to happen just too fast.
The merchant pulls a gun from inside his robes and the Doctor knows that negotiation is now a forgotten idea. But none of them is able to do anything else when a loud roar followed by the cries and shouts of the people and sounds of broken things comes from the middle of the market.
The Doctor knows the sound of an angry herd of Green Buffalos of Bri when he hears one and knows better than to challenge the moody six-legged creatures and their big pointy horns. They will take down everyone and everything in their desperate runaway, so they need to get out of there before they reach them.
He grabs the short woman's hand and pulls her with him while he runs through the market, feeling the chaos exploding in their heels. There is no awkwardness in the way her fingers tightly curl around his and no hesitation when she follows his lead among the sea of terrified running people, the sounds of the angry animals and the destruction they leave in their awakening follows them from close behind.
He knows that right now he should be thinking more in a plan to take them out of that mess, keeping them alive and unharmed, and less in the feel of her hand in his. So he shakes away the thought, finding a way out of the market and through a straight path that leads them into a beach, surprisingly deserted. They run until the sounds of the commotion in the market are far behind them.
"What the hell had happened back there?" She asks him pocketing her shades and tying up her short hair as if she hadn't just run a mile.
"Have no idea," he breathes out. They are under a tree that he is not completely sure it belongs to this planet and, after he sonics it to be sure that it is really just a tree, he let himself fall heavily on the sand. He is breathless, but she is not, which is odd. "Thought you would tell me."
She blinks at him, mouth half open as if she doesn't know what to say, which he guesses is not a frequent occurrence. After a moment of hesitancy, she sits next to him, actually very close to him, closer than he usually would think comfortable. But strangely, her closeness doesn't make him uneasy.
He notices how beautiful she is, even in her state of complete disarray, cheeks slightly flushed, messy hair and rosy... lips.
He feels himself blushing and averts his eyes without understanding what has got into him. He has this strange feeling like he knows her. Maybe he does because when he looks back at her there is an undisguised intimacy in the way her eyes sparkle while she watches him watching her.
"What were those creatures anyway?" she asks, brushing a stubborn strand of dark hair from her forehead.
"Green Buffaloes of Bri," he finds a small stick and starts to draw symbols in the sand, needing some distraction from her beautiful eyes. "Very moody creatures, easily irritated. But it made a great steak, you should taste it when you have a chance."
She almost smiles, watching carefully what he is scribbling in the sand. But then, she does something with her face, tilting her head, eyebrows slightly knitted together, eyes squinted just a tad. And it is just lovely.
"I was just this close of making a deal with that merchant," she puts her forefinger and thumb very close together to emphasise her point before she gives him a soft punch on his forearm. "And you just ruined everything! Do you know how long it took me to find that stone?"
He rubs his arm as if he has been mortally wounded and she rolls her eyes at him, though he sees a playful glint in them.
"You was just this close of being killed," he mimics her gesture with his own bony fingers but abstains himself from punching her. It isn't a very gentlemanly thing to do, even if he knows that he is no gentleman at all. So he snorts, pretending he is offended, which he really should be, but how can he be while she keeps looking at him like that? "If not by the Corellian merchant," he continues, "by all the commotion that exploded at our backs. Have you ever noticed how short you are? You could've been easy- Ouch!"
That earns him another punch, making him rub his arm again and scold at her. She is remarkably strong for someone of her height, but that he keeps to himself, grumbling at her with a furrow of his thick eyebrows. "You should be thanking me right now."
She tilts her head slowly with just a hint of a smile on her lips as if she doesn't want to give herself away, though he can see it dancing around her eyes. If he already knows her, has he ever told her how beautiful her eyes are? Because, if he was someone who noticed such things, which he isn't by the way, he could so easily lose himself in them.
"Thank you," her soft voice brings him back and he watches her stand up and dust the sand off her dark jeans.
For some reason he can't quite grasp, she can't sustain his gaze anymore and her beautiful eyes abandon him to look at the ocean of purple waves that extends in front of them. A familiar pain stirs inside him and he catches himself asking her.
"Do I know you?"
For a second she seems to freeze, but then, she closes her eyes and her teeth come out to graze her lower lip slightly, something she probably does because she thinks he can't see her properly from where he sits.
All he can think is that he is missing something really important because, even if the tremble in her hand is very subtle, practically imperceptible, it breaks his hearts nonetheless.
"Do you?" She asks him back in an almost whisper, eyes now lost at some point in the distance before she starts to walk away without any other word. No goodbye, no go to hell, nothing. He wants to stop her, wants to make her stay, but he has no strength, her broken tone saddening him much more than it should for someone he hadn't even properly met.
He stays on the beach, sulking, trying to find answers for questions he doesn't know, trying to reconcile the unsteady beats of his hearts with everything that had just happened until the sunset catches up with him and he decides that it is time to go.
The blue box stands at the distance, his safe heaven, but somewhat now the vision of his home makes him sad. And then it hits him, his long fingers instinctively digging into his pocket in search for the white handkerchief he keeps with him since that day. Her handkerchief. It was the same woman he had met in the labyrinth, he is sure about that and he hadn't recognised her. Why not?
He gets into the TARDIS thinking that maybe he should go looking for her but the thought itself hurts him. The last person he had gone looking for had been Clara and somehow it doesn't seem right, so he doesn't.
Instead, he searches for the Corellian merchant, hoping to get a good trade for the gemstone the woman wanted so badly. Maybe then, he can hope that she can find him.
#
There is this ball in Earth 5.204, a masquerade of all things, the last kind of party he wants to be in the entire Universe. But he has befriended the King and somewhat everyone in the King's court seems to think it is a kind of deadly offence not to attend to it. And it is funny because, if he doesn't go, he will be the one dead while the King will be barely offended. Anyway, the argument is strong enough to change his mind.
He has this fantastic idea and decides to go as himself, ignoring the TARDIS' annoyed beeps while he adjusts the sleeves of his red velvet coat in front of the mirror. Good thing that this incarnation has a more reasonable sense of fashion. He gives a satisfied smile at his reflection in the mirror. If he is forced to go to this pointless gathering, at least he won't wear any ridiculous fancy costume, end of the story.
It turns out that the King doesn't seem to be very keen in agreeing with him today and then the Doctor sees himself walking back to his TARDIS to search for, in the King's words, a proper and real costume to a Royal Masquerade Ball, whatever that was supposed to mean.
So, if he can't go like himself, which is a perfect nonsense and a complete injustice with his favourite coat, he decides to dress up as a rock star. Somehow to everybody else he looks like a pirate and he just can't understand why no one seems to get it right. Maybe it is the eyeliner. He considers for a moment going back to the TARDIS to pick his guitar. Maybe that can be clue enough for all those pudding brains.
But then the King is walking towards him like a predator, a grin that shows too many teeth under a look that he can only think about as too greedy. It reminds him faintly of how Jack Harkness used to look at his arse, back when he had spiky hair and wore sandshoes, and he feels almost indecently naked inside his tight black jeans. Fortunately, the King has plans that don't include hanging out with him and he finds himself alone and safe soon enough.
After twenty minutes in the ball, he thinks he will die of sheer boredom. He still doesn't get why people seem to find so very amusing to twirl around a dance floor overdressed in heavy frocks and uncomfortable shoes, all of them resembling luxurious versions of the seventeenth century Earth French nobility. With much more feathers. And glitter. And obscene amounts of alcohol in their blood streams.
Someone leans against the opposite side of the column he has chosen as company for the last ten minutes and he feels a pair of eyes carefully observing him.
"Where is your eye patch?"
He groans and rolls his eyes, impatiently. This is just getting ridiculous.
"I'm not a pirate," he turns his head to look at her, but his furrowed eyebrows stop in the middle of the way. A woman, short, with a dazzling smile and the half top of her face hidden under a dark red mask, watches him with something he thinks to be curiosity. He can't see her eyes behind the mask, but he guesses they are curious and dark, just like the hair she has arranged in a gracious pile on the top of her head.
She is dressed in an elegant frock of the same shade of red than her mask and which adjusts perfectly to her body. When he finally tears his eyes away from her, the cocked eyebrow that rises from behind her mask makes him blush. Furiously. He silently scolds at himself for that.
"I'm a rock star," he finally adds trying to recover a little of his dignity, still unsure of what has gotten into him to do such a thing. Maybe he is drunk. One can never be sure of what there really is inside a fruit punch these days.
"'Course you are," she giggles. And the sound makes strange things to his hearts.
She seems to study him for a moment and he wishes that she could take off her mask, revealing her face. And her eyes. He wants to see her eyes so badly.
"You should at least wear a mask. It's masquerade after all," the hint of a dimple on her cheek puts a smile on his face.
"I don't need one," he cocks one eyebrow throwing a too obvious bait at her and waits while she watches him, probably considering if she will humour him and ask the question, which she does for his delight.
"Why?"
His eyes peer through her face, trying to get a grasp on this game they seem to be playing with each other, though he can't say it makes him uneasy. On the contrary, he likes it a bit too much.
"Masks are for keeping the mystery." Her eyes shine even from behind the mask and he is thrilled.
"And?"
"I'm already a man of mystery," he smirks, somewhat grateful that she is indulging him.
She giggles. "So now that's what you say to all the girls?"
Now that is a bit unexpected and he doesn't now quite how to answer it because, honestly, he never speaks with anyone like that. He is usually rude and gruff and his mouth sometimes doesn't work in consonance with his mind making the words go out all wrong. But there is something about her that puts him at ease and makes him say and do things that are not quite like him. He opens his mouth to explain to her that he is not this kind of man but then, something tugs in the back of his mind when he looks at her again.
"Take off your mask."
That seems to throw her off balance and her smile falters in her face for a quick second that is long enough for him to notice it. She turns around with the clear intention of leaving him but he prevents her, gently holding her wrist.
"Please," he pleads, voice soft and hoarse.
It takes her a moment, but she attends his request, though she keeps her back at him as if she has no courage to reveal herself just yet. He waits, in silent expectation, his long fingers still curled around her wrist until she finally turns around.
Big brown eyes stare into his, openly and unafraid, but he can see the shadow of pain that crosses them.
He remembers her. She is the same woman that gave him a handkerchief he still carries in his pocket; she is the same woman for whom he acquired a purple gemstone some time ago with the hope that she could find him. But there is this strange tingling in his mind as if he is missing something big. He quickly dismisses the feeling, searching his pockets for the stone, a smile tugging at his lips when he finds it and turns her hand up to place it in her palm.
Her magnificent brown eyes widen almost impossibly, some indistinct emotion crossing them when she sees the stone and looks up to face him.
"It was you! I should've known! I came back for the merchant and he told me he had sold the stone to an eccentric man."
He huffs.
"I'm not eccentric! Why people insist in label me of such things!"
"Says the man who calls himself mysterious."
"Mysterious is a way much better than eccentric," he quirks an eyebrow at her and her lips twitch in a small smile.
"True," her hand then closes around the stone and she seems to consider her next question for a long moment. "Why did you get it?"
"To give it to you," he says, simply. But it must've been the wrong answer because her eyes are suddenly glistening with tears. He fights the urge of dry up a stubborn one that rolls down her face. Instead, he offers her a handkerchief, his own, not hers, that one he prefers to keep safe in his pocket even if he can't understand exactly why. She accepts it, with a sniff, before she dries her eyes.
Then, it finally hits him. Stupid, stupid Doctor...
He has felt it, or better, he hasn't. Just a moment before, when his fingers curled around her wrist. There is a twinge of pain coming from inside his head that he accepts as just one more sign that he must have found much more that he has been looking for.
"You've never told me your name," his voice is low and hoarse but gentle nonetheless.
Slowly, her eyes come back to his, those beautiful dark pools, and he feels his hearts racing against each other, chest too tight for his lungs.
"You've never asked me," she whispers.
"True," he nods slowly, eyes peering her face. "It's you, isn't it? I felt it. No pulse."
She swallows hard, more tears spilling from her eyes and it is all the answer he needs. His hand covers hers, hesitantly but gently.
"I'm sorry, Clara," the feeling of her name on his tongue still hurts him even if he isn't sure exactly why. "I'm so very sorry."
She shakes her head, drying her tears with the back of her hand, his handkerchief now forgotten. "You shouldn't. It's not your fault."
He can't quite agree with that. He can't remember many things about her, but he is completely sure about one thing; he failed her in many ways. He couldn't prevent her death in Trap Street and his attempt to bring her back had backfired, freezing her between one heartbeat and the last and wiping her from his memories. He is about to protest because he has not only failed her, he has also brought her pain, the pain he can see in her eyes now.
He opens his mouth but she places her fingers over his lips to prevent him.
"You still can't remember, can you?"
Her touch is warm and tingles his skin and he finds out that he can't let it go, so he just shakes his head, eyes fixed on hers.
"But you can learn, about me, again?"
He nods and she let out a low sigh.
"So please, learn that what happened to me was my choice. You showed me unimaginable wonders, taught me about the infinite of time and the beauty of the universe. You made someone special of me and I will be forever grateful to you for this. I can't regret not even one moment that I spent with you. But it was always my choice stay with you and I did it willingly and happily," her voice trembles a bit before she continues. "And what we did, in the end, we did it together, as everything else. Because you and I, we..."
Her voice breaks, her lip trembles and he wishes to be brave enough to take her into his arms and learn how to take away her pain. But he knows that he can't. Not right now. Not while he can't remember her. Not while he can't feel her again.
"Please, listen," she continues then, her voice in a whisper, lips forcing a smile that is the saddest one he has ever seen. "Learn that I'm doing fine, still knocking about in my own TARDIS, running like hell, laughing at everything and, the most important, still avoiding pears."
He faintly remembers the words, his farewell to her before the neural block took her away from him. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze and gives a couple of steps away, but he doesn't let go of her hand.
"Don't go," he pleads, his voice barely a whisper.
Stay with me. The words echo in his mind, bringing with them a sharp pain in his head that he struggles to not show her.
"I wish I could," she looks at her shoes for one moment before her eyes come back to his once more. "Goodbye, Doctor. Take care. And thank you."
She has only given a couple of steps away when he asks her, trying to keep her with him a little longer.
"Why do you need the stone for anyway?"
"To save some lives, what else?" she smiles at him before she turns around and goes away.
She has already vanished among the crowd when he finally lets himself succumb to the sharp pain that threatens to shatter his head. Stumbling into a more secluded place, he finally falls on his knees with his head between his hands in despair, a cry of pain stuck in his throat.
It must be the neural block doing its thing like the blasted thing is punishing him for being too close to memories that don't belong to him anymore.
#
It is always the same with them, he realises after some time, a dream and yet sometimes a painful pattern that keeps them running into each other in different places, different times. He never recognises her immediately, it always takes him some time to figure out who she is and he always forgets most of the things about her after they part ways, his head in pain and hearts shattered.
But he knows she is real, she exists in the same Universe as he does and mysteriously, they always find each other. He starts to expect to meet her every time he steps outside his TARDIS and his eyes are always looking for her, even when he doesn't know exactly what to look for.
#
"Do you have your name on the list, sir?" the security guard asks him once again, a clear threat in his thunderous voice that he can't ignore.
"Well, you'll see that I don't need to be on the list," he tries to add a certain gravitas to his voice and pulls his psychic paper in front of the man's face, watching him carefully while he mentally identifies the probable route escapes. Just in case. There is no good reason to challenge a man that has the physical constitution of a Judoon. And, apparently, the same sense of humour too.
"With all respect, sir, it really doesn't matter who you are," the guard's face is unmovable, cold dark eyes stare at him while he gives one step forward, towering over him. "I have strict orders to only allow passage to the ones whose names are on the list. I'll ask you again, sir, is it your name on the list?"
He glances at the psychic paper before he folds it back into his pocket. So this man is not even impressed by a surprise visit from his commander. Blimey. And of course his name is not on the list. He doesn't even know what is this blasted list the guard keeps talking about meaning that he needs to come up with a plan. The press of a cold metal gun into his ribs just reinforces the urgency of the matter. And it better be a good one.
With one hand, he gently pushes the gun aside and forces a smile on his lips, trying to look clever. Once, he found a collection of cards with phrases in the pockets of his velvet coat. Maybe there is a phrase for this situation in there, but he can't remember where he left them. So, he will have to come up with something new.
"I won't take that as an offence, soldier. I won't make any charges against you to our superiors either. And, as proof of my good faith, I am releasing you from your duties for today. You can go now," he is pretty sure that a salute will come right for the moment but he hates those things, so he just makes a large gesture with his arm, indicating that the guard can walk freely through the corridor.
"You're not serious," the guard eyes him suspiciously, pointing his gun once more at him and making the Doctor give a couple of steps away. If this is not a man totally committed to a mission, he doesn't know who is it. That calls for a change of plans. He swirls around, making the red lining of his coat flash.
"I am many things," he makes a flourish with his hand. "But I am never that. The Doctor laughs in the face of all."
He tries to sound dramatic and funny at the same time, but that still doesn't impress the guard. Well, it hadn't worked on him when Hoddie had said it, though he must admit that it was a little funny. The guard has his gun firmly pointed to his chest now and he is about to try a different approach when, coming from nowhere, a woman place herself in between them. She gives the guard a glare that would certainly be menacing if she weren't so short.
"Of course his name is on the list," she says with all the authority of her five feet and two.
The Doctor stares at her, out of words for once, and she lifts one eyebrow urging him to just go on with her plan.
"Yes! My name is indeed on the list," he finally declares, trying to sound as convincing as possible. From the corner of his eye, he watches her and is completely sure that he would do so much better if he weren't so distracted by her eyes.
"And so is mine," the woman adds, keeping a menacing tone and a cold glare at the guard. It would be funny if they weren't under the aiming of a gun, that tiny woman threatening a giant almost two times her size. She was brave, he has to concede her that.
The security guard looks from one to another as if considering whether or not they are telling the true and, miraculously, nods his head and steps away to open the heavy metal door and let them in.
The Doctor blinks because, frankly, that is just ridiculous. But she pulls him by the hand inside and he stands there, in the dimly lighted corridor looking open-mouthed to that small human while the door is closed behind them with a loud noise.
"So that was all?" He snorts. "We just have to tell him that our names were on this list and it was done?"
She starts to walk and casts him a glance from over her shoulder. "You should've made your homework before coming down here," she is amused and there is a smile on her tone. "And did you just quoted Robin Hood back there?"
He catches up with her with three long strides and opens his mouth to answer her but she cuts him through.
"Besides," she looks at him with a hint of concern in her dark eyes, "What have gotten into you? Entering into an argument with a man that looks like a Judoon with the sense of humour of a Dalek?"
He can barely conceal a smile at her statement though it only increases his curiosity about her. How can she possibly know about all that? Unless... But he doesn't dare to hope. Not yet. He needs to be careful, needs to be sure first.
She never tells him who she is because she knows that she can't force his memories out. It hurts him. It hurts them both. So, they just wait until he will finally know.
They stop in front of another metal door. There is no doorknob, no indication of how this one can be open. Maybe there is another security guard on the other side and he watches her while she presses her ear against the cold metal to check for any sounds on the other side.
"Care to help me here?" She glances at him, her small hands sliding through the metal surface, trying to find a way of opening it. He pulls his sonic from inside his coat pocket pointing it to the door and she smiles.
"Wow, you are back with the sonic now. What did happen with the glasses?"
He frowns a little and scans the door with the sonic, giving her a quick glance.
Maybe. Please let be she.
"They're off. I'm working on some new settings," he changes the setting of the sonic and points it at the door again, swallowing hard. His hearts race.
"Oh. Well, the sonic is a classic and I liked the new one."
They hear a low click and look at each other, both of them lifting their eyebrows at the same time. She pushes the door open very carefully, peeking through the opening to look at the other side.
"It's clear," she whispers before she crosses it into another dark corridor and he follows her, his hand instinctively searching for hers, making her stop in her track. Slowly, she looks up to meet his eyes and he smiles at her.
"Hello," his voice is a whisper and he can barely breathe.
"Hello, Doctor," she says quietly, a smile on her lips and a solitary tear running down her cheek.
#
He decides to start a journal about their encounters and fills the pages of an old sketchbook with notes and drawings, trying to keep safe the new memories they are building, trying to put together the pieces of their stolen past through the little bits she lets escape from time to time in their conversations. Little by little, he starts to learn her all over again and finds other ways to see her. And then he begins to hope.
#
He is sitting under a tree at Hyde Park, watching the ducks at the Serpentine and sketching in his old Moleskine when someone sits next to him, a rustle of skirts while she finds a more comfortable position over the blanket he has extended next to him earlier. Her knee brushes lightly against his thigh and the birds chirp happily in the trees behind them while his pencil moves incessantly over the paper.
He knows that is she. He still doesn't remember her face or her voice or her laughter; he still can't commit to his memory most of the things that make Clara his Clara. But, after so long, so many encounters, he learned other ways to recognise her when he can't trust his eyes to see her.
He feels her.
He senses the slight changes in the air when she walks into a place, the warmth that surrounds him when she is close, the presence of a conscious that unaware brushes his with fondness and a dozen of other emotions, the silence of a non-beaten heart that makes his two beat faster and louder. It's like the neural block can trick his mind, but not his hearts.
They stay like that for a long moment, sitting side by side, sharing a comforting silence. It's unusual for them to meet like this, in a quiet and peaceful moment. More common reunions are those that involve one or both of them in some sort of danger, almost impossible quests to solve and lots of running, though peace and quiet have already happened a handful of times by now. And even if he craves for the adventure, he can't deny that he loves their quiet moments, when it's only the two of them and the rest of the Universe ceases to exist for a while.
He asks himself if there used to be moments like this, back in the time she travelled with him and he still remembered her smiles. He asks himself a lot of things about those times lately, hoping that he can understand why he feels the way he feels about her inside his hearts.
She pokes his foot with her boot and he pushes back a smile. He missed her, more than he would ever admit and wonders how long it has been for her since the last time she has seen him. Maybe she has missed him too.
"Are you stalking me?" he asks her, never moving his eyes from his sketchbook or stopping drawing.
She instantly answers the hint of amusement in his tone with a small laugh that brings now familiar warmth inside him.
"Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you, Doctor?"
He fights the urge to look at her, but the corners of his mouth twitch up just a bit. "Why? Are you?" He insists and prevents a laugh when she huffs in annoyance.
"No! I was just passing by!"
"Here? Today? Of all days?" he is teasing her now. He likes to tease her.
"And why not? It will be Victoria's wedding in a couple of days and I just want to take a look. Not my fault that we keep bumping into each other all the time these days." She tilts her head, and he can feel her intent gaze studying him. "And you? Why the blanket? Were you expecting company?"
He watches her from the corner of his eye, erasing a wrong line from the paper and brushing the dust from it before he redoes it in the right way this time.
Of course, it isn't her fault, he would never think such a thing. It isn't anybody's fault really. There is something very different about them, he realises after so many unplanned encounters. It is a like a force, like gravity, this that keeps pulling one to another, as if they were two separate parts of the same whole.
He may have known it by another word, a feeling, that pulses through his veins at each pump of his hearts, but he doesn't dare to name it because this is he learning it all over again, but not remembering, not yet. So, yes, this must be something like a force of nature, inevitable and impossible to fight that brings them together against all the odds. Sometimes, he thinks that maybe it is just the Universe making amends for having been cruel.
"I wasn't expecting," he suppresses a sigh. "But I was certainly hoping for."
He doesn't dare to look at her afraid of what he can find in her eyes. He wishes so hard that he could remember everything and stop to wonder if things were always like this between them, this infinite of deep emotions spoken in loud silences. And sometimes, he wishes that he could simply remember her, all of her because he knows that it will be all the answer he needs.
"So, Victoria? A friend of yours?"
She rolls her eyes at him. "Queen Victoria."
"Ah," he adjusts the sketchbook on his lap and looks at her for the first time since she came. And there it is, that fluttering sensation in the pitch of his stomach when their eyes met. Does she feel the same, this spiralling vertigo that threatens to steal the air from her lungs just looking into his eyes? "Were you invited?"
She giggles and once again he can't prevent his lips to curl up, treacherous things that have a mind of their own when she is close to him like this.
"To the Royal Wedding? In my dreams!" Then she eyes him suspiciously. "Were you?"
"'Course not, don't be ridiculous," he scoffs.
"Why not? You married a Queen of England once, so being invited to another one's wedding wouldn't be so unbelievable."
He doesn't dignify her with an answer even if he is itching for the banter. He would never admit it, but he loves their bantering. And once more, he wonders if they did it before.
"I was made a knight by Queen Victoria once."
She looks at him with a knowing smirk and lifts her eyebrows to make her point, prompting him to roll his eyes.
"Sir Doctor, huh?"
"Shut up."
She grins. "Which one of you?"
"Sandshoes."
"Hmm," she nods appreciatively and he stares at her for a long moment until her smile falters, unsure.
"What?"
How ridiculous is it to feel jealous from yourself? She would probably laugh her head off if he tells her, and that's why he doesn't.
"Nothing," he mumbles, standing up to shove his pencil and sketchbook inside his coat pocket and straighten his clothes. "Come on, since you're properly dressed for the occasion, I'll take you for a stroll in the park. My lady?" He bows his head a little and makes a flourish offering his hand to her, prompting her to giggle.
She accepts his boost to stand up with a smile and her hand easily slides to rest in the crook of his arm. It is an oddly familiar sensation that he can't exactly place as an old or recent memory.
"Where is your parasol? A lady needs a parasol these days," he asks, his boots resounding over the gravel path that surrounds the pond while they walk. They are not alone, elegantly dressed couples, families with children are also enjoying this pleasant sunny afternoon.
"I...err... lost it," she clears her throat prompting him to cock up an eyebrow. And then, she blushes. Adorably. He hasn't the faintest idea how she can do it since her heart doesn't pump blood through her veins anymore. Not that he is complaining, the pink of her cheeks is one of his favourite colours, even more if he is the one causing it. But he can't avoid thinking that this is odd. This and the tears, though he would happily eliminate the last ones if he could. The truth is he doesn't know that much about time-looped bodies to be sure that this is not just one more thing that her human body can do out of habit, like breathing. She has never stopped breathing after all.
"Don't ask," her voice brings him back and, considering the way her eyes avoid his, he knows that she is hiding something she is not very proud of.
"I won't," he pushes back a smile and let it be.
She seems to observe a couple that passes them by before her eyes move back to him.
"Shouldn't you be wearing a top hat?"
He snorts.
"Ties and hats are definitely not me," he points a bony finger to his own chest. "Not this me, anyway."
She lifts one eyebrow and he follows her gaze at the piece of fabric he has around his neck.
"This? Oh, please, this is not a tie!" He says with feigned impatience. "It's a cravat," he rolls the "r" purposefully and she shakes her head, amused.
"Well, whatever it is, it makes you look dapper." He can't avoid his chest of puffing out at her unexpected compliment and his cheeks are the ones that blush now. Especially because she tightens her grip on his arm, her body coming a little bit closer, probably more than it is acceptable for this period of time, but he can't care less about it. The warmth of her presence next to him makes him realise how much he always craves for her closeness.
"We could just break in."
He frowns at her, momentarily lost.
"Break into what?"
"The Royal wedding. We could go," she motions her hand in the air slightly before she snaps her fingers with a big smile, "you know, in deep cover, or whatever you call it these days."
He stops to look at her as if she has just become insane but the smile on her lips keeps distracting him. If she keeps doing that for a little longer he will do anything she asks. He shakes the feeling out and tries to be the wiser one, his more than two thousand years have to be good for something.
"And spend the night in prison? No, thank you," he starts to walk again and she keeps accompanying him, hand still on his arm.
"Come on! You do things like this all the time."
"No, I don't," he tries to keep a straight face at his own lie but she obviously knows him too damn well, big brown eyes staring into his with undisguised mischief. "No!" he insists when she lifts an incredulous eyebrow. "Only if you tell me you're sure Prince Albert has been replaced by a Zygon doppelganger."
"Prince Albert has been replaced by a Zygon doppelganger."
And then she does a thing with her eyes, those magnificent eyes of hers that shine like they are made of entire constellations, a challenge in them while they stare into his. And he has to gather all of his willpower to not kiss her right now. Has he ever kissed her?
"Ha-ha, quite charming," his eyes soften a little, his hearts melting inside him, knowing that she is just this close from convincing him. When did she get him wrapped around her finger like that? "But no."
"Oh, you used to be so much more fun!" She stops in her tracks at her own words, eyes widen in regret of what has just escaped her lips. "I'm sorry, I really... I just..." she seems to be more hurt than him. "I didn't mean to-"
He gives a soft squeeze on her hand, his voice tender when he speaks. "I know you didn't," he brings her hand to his lips to kiss it gently, eyes never leaving hers while his lips linger on her skin for longer than it should. It stirs something else inside of him like he had done this before, but it is a faint memory surrounded by so much pain and angst that he needs to push it back quickly. So, he reluctantly let it go of her hand, breaking eye contact and clearing his throat.
"But," he licks his dry lips, "I know another Queen that has actually invited me to her wedding," his eyes search for hers once more, unable to stay away for longer. He already suspected that he was a fool for her, but he is completely sure when he feels his hearts racing at the first sign of a dimple on her cheek. "So, what do you say, Miss Oswald? Fancy a little trip in my TARDIS?"
He is aware of the silly grin on his face while his eyes peer into hers carefully, trying not to give away the turmoil of emotions running inside of him. And not for the first time, he wishes to be able to read her better because he has no clue about why she has a smile on her lips and the glint of tears in her eyes.
"It would be lovely," she sighs, her hand coming to take his. "But we can't, not after all we've been through. It's too risky."
He understands what she is afraid of, that once they set foot inside his ship together again, they will start to run and won't be able to stop. There is a big chance that she can be right. But he also understands that there is no point in fighting the inevitable, her hand in his right now, after all, is the biggest proof that there is no Universe, no timeline, no life in which they won't be permanently gravitating around each other.
"Do you ever wonder why we keep running into each other?" His eyes are fixed in their united hands. "Why do we keep meeting even when none of us is trying to track the other, even when I keep forgetting most of the things about you after we do part?" He slowly entwines their fingers, feeling her small hand trembling inside his larger one. His hearts beat out of his chest. Maybe he is just going mad.
She remains silent for a long moment in which he can barely breathe until her voice sounds, uncertain, choked by tears that don't fall.
"How do you do it?" Her eyes, as his, are also in their hands, also drawn by the miracle concealed in them. "How do you know who I am if you still can't remember me?"
Her questions are different from his and, yet, have the same answer. Something that could be explained by a single word in English but that somehow he feels it isn't able to convey everything he feels, everything he knows that they are. Perhaps, such a word still has to be invented, even in the infinitude of languages that he knows.
"Well, this face is not exactly that easy to put up with," he tries a smile, his eyes gently peering through her face. "So who else could you be?"
"True," she almost smiles.
They look at each other for a long moment. She bites her lower lip, eyes watering and a nervous smile curls her mouth.
"Please, just don't tell me this is Missy's doing."
"No," a small laugh escapes his lips. "She certainly would like to take the credits for it, but no." He lifts his hand to touch her face, but has no courage, so he places it over their joined hands. "I don't know what it is," he decides not tell her his theory because it can be too much for her to take. "But, you know-"
"The Universe hasn't exploded."
"No, it hasn't," he says quietly.
"Nor the time has fractured."
He nods almost imperceptibly, eyes locked on hers trying to tell her everything he has no voice to right now.
"So, maybe..." She can't go on as if afraid that putting the idea into words might break the spell.
"Yeah," his thumb strokes her hand lightly, eyes shining with hope. "Maybe."