The following has already been posted on my writing tumblr. It started out introspective but then got away from me and I went "whoops".
Don't own Doctor Who, blah, blah. You know the drill.
Before, he had been distant on purpose.
It didn't stop them—oh no, it hadn't stopped them in the slightest—but at least with his previous face he knew he was on his last go-around. What does one do when they know they are reaching their twilight years? They reconcile themselves with the fact they've been a terrible person and find something to occupy themselves with as they journey towards the end. For some, it is gardening. For others, it is community work. For the Doctor, it was Clara.
Yes, Clara. At first she was such an enigma, but as time wore on the puzzle merely became his own overcomplicated thinking making things more complex than they really were. Clara was nothing more than an ordinary girl. She was a very brave and selfless girl, but ordinary all the same. He liked ordinary. There was a certain air about ordinary that always appealed to him. He humored her, indulged her, made her feel so much more than ordinary. It gave him purpose.
Then it all changed. He changed. Greyer, ganglier, gruffer… he went in the opposite direction a man with the capability to change his entire outward appearance should go. Hell, he could have stayed the same, as he had with his eleventh and twelfth faces. He almost did too, but new regeneration cycle meant a new face. Everyone knew that.
The Doctor had feared that, with the new face, Clara would be the one to become more distant. He was still the Doctor—the man she shattered herself into a million pieces for, the one whom she had turned into her boyfriend all but officially, the person she most trusted with her life. So what if there were now wrinkles and eyebrows and lidded eyes that popped when he was startled?
He was still the same… right…?
Clara did indeed grow distant, but only if to observe his new quirks. New regeneration cycle meant a new face and a new face meant new quirks and tricks. Everyone knew that. Now he climbed more, shouted a bit more, and wore many more cardigans (how incapable was this new body at retaining heat). She still held his arm and smiled for him, but the Doctor could see the uneasiness that was there. He was still the Doctor and she was still Clara… so what was the matter?
Then it happened, one evening as they took a stroll along a lakeside in pre-Columbian Argentina. With the air so crisp and clear and the nearest settlement close to a hundred miles away, the only thing that was really rooting him in place was Clara. The Doctor stopped walking and bent down to kiss her, softly and cautiously. She froze, clearly debating her next course of action as he pulled back.
Swallowing hard, Clara took a deep breath and threw her arms around the Doctor's neck to return the kiss. He stumbled backwards into the tall grass at the surprise. Had she always been like this? Soft and warm and feisty? Was he allowed to call her feisty? Whether he was allowed to or not, she was making it very difficult to not use words like feisty and spunk and moxie and lustful to describe her. Clara tugged at his shoulder as she rolled into the grass, pulling him on top of her. The Doctor paused to look at the woman's breathless expression before licking his teeth and descending upon her throat with a sense of carnal euphoria that he had almost forgotten.
(Later on he had said she tasted sweet and tart, like lemon-flavored icing. She quipped back with how he tasted sharp, like too much cinnamon on a slice of bread. They argued about it for a while. Nothing ever came of it though.)
He bit and clawed and kissed her sloppily, forgetting that she needed to be mark-free upon her return to the sweltering London summer. Sweat began to pour off them as he went further down towards her collarbone and chest. She hitched her hips, knocking against his. Something in him knew that she was just as swept up in the mess of pheromones and impulses as he was, and that her head was spinning too, and that this was them controlling themselves.
(Later on he had lain there in embarrassment, at how incredibly lost and childish he had become. His face burned, his chest burned, everything burned, and the blood rushing to his head made him feel light and dizzy as he used Clara's chest for a pillow and she traced her fingers through his hair.)
…but it did not make sense, really. He didn't look younger or prettier. If anything he was more beaten and showed his age easier. He looked older than her dad… but then again, he was always older than her dad, wasn't he? Older than anyone, he was, and both of them stopped caring about that even before Christmas. It was not the shell or the trappings that made him, but that it was still the Doctor. Really now… everyone knew that.
Humans were odd beings, so delightful and full of surprises. Just when he thought he figured them out, that he knew he could predict them, one turned around and was completely extraordinary while still being, well, extra-ordinary. Clara was all of the above and she knew it; the way she moaned into his mouth and dug her nails into his shoulders made it very clear she was aware. She moved her body with the understanding that he may have been hers at that very moment, but that their very nature ensured that they would not be with one another forever. She was the closest thing he had to a ghost and if it was not then, when would they?
It was a great release for them both, rolling in the grass and dirt as they laughed and held one another close. When they finally tired, they looked at the stars and tried to plan on where to go next while waiting for the tell-tale bruises on Clara's jaw and neck to fade and they could practice being discreet. Clara almost even fell asleep there, feeling comfortable and safe and warm enough with the Doctor's jacket draped across her. The Doctor wasn't going to carry her back to the TARDIS, not this time around, and instead woke her with a gentle shake of her shoulder and a kiss behind the ear. She turned to look at him, hazy and smiling and still a little pink-cheeked, and the Doctor knew then that whatever distance there had been was there no more.