He's not quite sure why he's left her asleep on the console floor while he wakes the others with small shakes or taps – little shoves of their shoulders that seem to prick at his fingers and palms, leaving him standing awkwardly with a wince on his face and his hands grasped together as they pull themselves off the ground. They thank him and they marvel at what had just occurred and then they step outside into the blinding sun cheerfully, chattering away as they leave and when the doors close, he looks down at her.
"So peaceful," he mutters to himself, "Be a shame to wake you now."
The Doctor knows it's not her peace that keeps him from leaning over her to call her name and give her a gentle prod, at least that's not it entirely. It's an odd tugging at his hearts and a solid thought in his mind – a reminder: this is their last hurrah and when she wakes, she departs. And selfishly, he's not ready.
He shifts the Tardis a few miles off, to a beach away from the city, and he stands still a moment, refusing to glance over as she exhales a long sigh that ends with a small satisfied moan. One that sends a shiver over his body and lifts the corners of his lips before he walks away, towards a wardrobe where he plucks up a few blankets and heads back.
The wind blows the speckles of sea mist over his skin and his lungs fill with the overtly saline scent of this planet's ocean. He knows the salt content is ten percent higher than it is on Earth; he knows the wildlife that lives underneath the waves here are drastically different and he steps back inside to tell Clara, "There's a species of shark on this planet that grows to over thirty two feet in length at full size, but while their teeth are as sharp as razors, and they have a salacious appetite, they're more likely to be found scavenging the muck in depths that would implode your simple human body." His hand waves in her direction, "It would actually be repulsed by your imploded body, Clara. Turned away and scampering off into the darkness while a smaller fish – one barely the size of your pinkie – would ravage your remains. Would ravage you alive if it came across you actually."
His head is bowed and his hands are pushed deeply into his pockets as he considers how she would take the information. The Doctor knows a few years ago she might have stared at him, wide eyes going even wider at the prospect, wondering just how they'll see them – because he wouldn't tell her about these things if he hadn't devised a way to see them – but now? Now she would simply give him a sad smile knowing they never would.
"Not the best of last hurrah's," he whispers to himself, forcing himself towards her to bend and lift her into his arms.
He'd done it enough times to know how little she weighs, and how heavily that tiny bit of weight would distribute itself against his torso comfortably. Familiarly. Her head would lob onto his chest, ear automatically pressed there to listen to one of his hearts steadily pounding away. She'd told him once it was comforting, the beating of his hearts. She'd been sick then and he'd been his former self, prancing about to take care of her because she'd done the same for him. He smiled; she would always do the same for him if given the chance.
And he knew that was part of the problem.
"I've not been as good a companion to you, have I," he sighed, stepping out into the breeze to lay her carefully on the blanket he'd laid out before pulling another over her, tucking it around her tenderly. For a moment he indulges in the feel of her cheek, knuckles barely grazing its surface as he considers the way it sends a shock through his body.
With her it's never like it is with the others.
It's a comforting touch that inexplicably resets his pulse in rhythm with hers.
It's a soothing sensation that calms the manic distress of his mind.
Clara's skin warms him and as he sits, cross-legged in the sand, he finds himself laying his palm against her face, thumb stroking slowly through the wig she's wearing and over the edge of her ear, tucking itself just beneath the lobe to give it a small flick. The Doctor smiles a moment because he sees the minute smirk on her lips and he considers just how much he'd missed her in the weeks between their last adventure and this one. He considers, hand slipping back to ball against his thigh, how much he would miss her when she was gone.
"Could be worse, I suppose," he utters quietly, watching the hollow of her neck throb slowly with life.
His head toggles and he pushes off the sand, dusting his palms against his pants before searching out a long stick lying against the rocks. With a glance back at her, he begins drawing, shrugging occasionally. The Doctor taps at his circles and then scratches them out, looking back to Clara when she shifts on her side and he shakes his head, moving towards her to cover her legs.
"You're right, Clara," he tells her, "Always right, aren't you – at least about me," he laughs weakly, softly, and it tapers off quickly. "The boyfriend, not so right, but eventually you'll get there. Maybe," he glances at her. "Possibly." He frowns, straightening and plucking the stick back into his hands. "I don't understand that and do you know why it bothers me, Clara?"
He waits and she wrinkles her nose with a sniffle.
"You," he gestures, "You, look at you." He turns away. "Could have anyone in the world; anyone in the universe, and you pick a PE teacher who used to be a soldier." The Doctor cocks his head slightly to stare at the bright sun overhead, "A soldier." He snorts and scratches his drawings out of the sand. "He's not…" he begins.
Good enough for you.
"You'll shape him up," he nods back at her, "Tip top." Then he teases, "Did wonders for me."
You did.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
It never quite makes it to the surface.
"It's just all got a bit confusing. I get that – new face; new me." He shrugs and looks to the sand as he begins to draw again. "Bit rougher around the edges; bit newer." He chuckles. "Ironic, isn't it, teach." Then he repeats sadly, "Teach."
The Doctor stops drawing equations and he pokes at the sand as he watches her sleep. Humans need far too much sleep; could get so much more done if they could just live with a few less hours sleep – or if they found more efficient ways to get their sleep in. Clara rubs at her nose and then her hand drops to rest underneath her chin. The stick snaps and he jerks away, looking down at the jagged edge in the sand, the half foot that sits just next to it, and the splinters in between.
"Everything breaks eventually," he groans. "When you put enough stress on it." He smiles up at her, "That what we did, Clara? Good strong sturdy stick," he raises his own. "And we put too much pressure," he touches the broken bit. "Would it be too late to apologize for being…" he drags the toe of his shoe across the sand to find the stone just below, "Too thick, just beneath the surface, to appreciate…"
He lets the thought drift away as he shakes his head and glances up at her. Swinging the stick through the air, he turns his back to her to look out at the ocean. The Doctor frowns and drops his head, touching his chin to his chest a moment before raising it up, squinting at the grey waters churning over the horizon. His whole body longs to turn – ordered by the hearts thumping in his chest – and continue watching her, knowing this might be his last chance, but his stubbornness keeps his eyes on the white caps of waves in the distance.
"I still had so much to show you," he tells the water. "So much to say..."
So much I'm incapable of telling you...
Reluctantly, he turns and he looks over her sleeping form. He wonders what she dreams about and he wonders why he'd never asked. Clara Oswald, he knows, would have fantastic dreams and he smiles because maybe leaving him would allow her to live those dreams. Maybe, his smile drops, leaving him would allow her the opportunity to have children to share those dreams with. Because he knows how dangerous his travels are and he knows how much she'd already sacrificed for him.
Scratching at his head awkwardly, he grimaces against the notion of Clara Oswald and Danny Pink welcoming a small bundle and the thought makes him do another half turn away from her, stick tapping against the sand, before he swings back to begin drawing again.
"Choices," he sighs, "The universe revolves around them and sometimes, Clara, there is no right one," his hand comes up in a half shrug, "Sometimes there is no wrong one. There's just a choice. Between worlds, between men, between life and death and good and bad and white and rye." He makes a circle, and then another within it, and he pokes at it. He burrows the stick several times and stares down at the word he's made.
The choice he would make if it were up to him.
The Doctor frowns as he slowly drags the stick through her name several times to erase it from the sand and each stroke scars his hearts equally as he avoids looking at her. He can feel the slight quickening of her pulse in the air, the deeper breaths she's taking; blood flowing through her faster to increase the oxygen to her mind to ignite a slow sizzle of brain activity that signals her imminent waking. Smoothing the sand, he begins a new drawing with ragged wide strokes and he clenches his jaw as her eyes flutter open.
He tucks his feelings further into himself and calls, "Oh hello, again. Sleep well?"