"You can't say it? All they want is to hear you say that you love me. We disrespected their Gods, Doctor. They wanted us to get married because they… they thought we were in love. And you were rude. Now they'll kill us if we don't say it. I don't want to die because you hate saying the stupid words. You hate telling people you love them. Or, at least, this you does. It's no big deal. Look, see? I love you, I love you, I love you. Not so hard. Stupid Doctor."
He visibly withdrew from her. It was written all over his face, despite her obvious aggravation. He felt small, he felt vulnerable, and he wanted to disappear.
"Say something," she barked at him angrily.
He looked positively appalled at her behavior for a moment. Then he told her firmly, "No."
If her hands weren't bound, oh — she would have up and slapped him. But then he continued and all she could even do was stare at him, utterly aghast.
"Because," he suddenly declared, "I can't say that. I can't. Because I would mean it. Because I really do mean it. If this is the last chance I ever get to say it, I can't. Not like this. Not here. I can't, Clara. They're going to kill us anyway. Might even torture us. Why bother?"
Their day spent in captivity didn't last very long. They were soon escaping before they knew it. Running, running, and running, thanks to his sonic glasses. Yes, and more running. Just running. For their lives. As fast as their feet would carry them.
And to think he'd honestly given consideration to a wild, absurd notion that they might not have made it back to his TARDIS this time.
The Doctor busied himself almost immediately. He typed wildly, one-handed on the console and primed the navigation system. Sparks flew and his beloved ship jostled around as they were shot with plasma-blasters from outside. But the old girl was strong, strong enough to withstand much more if need-be. He set his hand on the levers and yanked them down with a hurried desperation, pulling them off to head home. Home. Her flat. Bleak little London's safety.
His refuge. And hers.
She was fighting to catch her breath, collapsed into a chair by the control panel. Her eyes lingered on the rotor, glossy and emotion-filled. For a short while there, she never thought she'd return to this lovely, wonderful, frustrating ship. She never thought she'd see home again. She patted the paneling fondly, giving the old girl an affectionate smile afterward.
"Thank you," she whispered to her.
And in that moment, something occurred to her. Home wasn't London. Home wasn't where she lived with her textbooks for teaching, her teacup collection, her flatscreen telly, or her favorite reading chair. Home was here. With him. With the madman in his box.
Quite stricken, as if he could hear her very thoughts, which he certainly may have, he turned round to face her. His curls were hanging over his forehead, eyes alight with something she couldn't quite place, yet made her heart race.
"I think you're a better telepath than you let on," she teased him, slowly rising from her chair. He met her halfway, tugging her right into his arms and kissing her with a fierce tenderness and a love that she now knew existed.
Her hand found his cheek, stroking along his warm skin as she murmured, "I love you, too." He didn't even need to say it back. Maybe later. For right now, at least, words were superfluous and nonessential. Besides, his tongue was far too busy.