a/n: for samkate, who suggested this two months ago. (!) first time writing second person, let's go!
she takes your hand and drags you through the gates, impatient to run through the maddening throng of people, past the stands of candy floss and caramel-covered apples and fried confectionaries and popcorn, towards the rides. she reminds you of how she grew up fifteen minutes from blackpool (which of course, you haven't forgotten; you don't forget anything about her), which-obviously, she says-means she is meant to ride the rides at carnivals. you wonder what the rides are like here; new new los angeles, on the second reboot of earth, hundreds of thousands of years from when clara rode the rides at blackpool pleasure beach.
you stop at a booth selling fried everything and she orders a funnel cake; you laugh at her. we're in new new los angeles and you order a funnel cake? and she lifts the plate to her mouth and blows powdered sugar into your face. you splutter and wipe your face down, and she laughs at you. you rub your hands together and then take her face in your hands, and the white handprints you leave on her skin remind you of the time you walked into the TARDIS kitchen and she had messed up another souffle, and flour was in her hair and streaked across her cheeks. she lets out an indignant squeal, turns around, and walks towards a table to eat the confection before she decides to blow the rest of the powdered sugar all over your face.
you stop at a ticket printer and wave your sonic screwdriver at it; it spits out a thick booklet of tickets that you think will keep her happy. the booklet slaps down on the table when you sit down across from her and tear off a piece of dough; she grabs it and flips through the tickets, and you can't help but smile at the way her eyes light up.
you sit for a while, watching her as she watches the vast variety of people walk through the carnival grounds; humans and many other races-some that even you aren't sure you're familiar with, you with your thousand-odd years in this universe. but you're not surprised, not when you extend the airfield of your magnificent blue box and open the doors and stare into the black, black skies, dotted with distant stars and blotted with the gases of faraway nebulae and see galaxies you've never been to, speckled with planets you may never see.
the booklet of tickets strikes you on your nose and you jump, falling out of your thoughts with an indignant groan.
her laughter is a melody you always want in your memory.
she grabs your hand and drags you to the nearest roller coaster; after two minutes in line, you pull her to the front of the line, flashing the psychic paper to get on the ride. she berates you the entire time you wait for the ride to fill-what'd you do that for? waiting for the ride is half the fun!-but as soon as the ride takes off, she places both of her hands on the bar in front of them, and you place one of your hands atop of hers. when you meet her eyes, you grin, and she returns it, just as the roller coaster reaches the summit. you're not sure whether the drop of your stomach is from the look on her face or the gravity, or a mixture of both, but her smile has lit a fire in you.
you hop from ride to ride, shouting when the rides command, stumbling around when you're left dizzy from the anti-gravity swings, and all the while holding her hand. despite all of the pain and loss and suffering in your life, or perhaps because of it, you feel alive when you feel her small hand in yours, her fingers linked with yours and her rings rubbing against your skin. hers feels like silk against the calluses of yours, and absentmindedly you wonder what the rest of her skin will feel like beneath your touch, the skin that isn't on her face or her neck or her hands. the skin she keeps hidden beneath tights and pretty frocks.
the park nears its closing hours and your last tickets are spent on the ferris wheel. it's an interactive ride that leads both of you through the history of the ferris wheel and where they've been found through the centuries, and by the end of the show, her head is nestled on your shoulder and her eyes are closed, her breath steady. she stirs to your voice-clara, come on, it's time to go-and she stumbles as she steps out of the seat onto the platform. you steady her, and she graces you with another smile that sends your heart to the bottom of your stomach.
as soon as you're back to the TARDIS, you pull her to a halt beside you before walking through the doors. her expression shows confusion until you take her face in your hands and crouch down, pressing your lips to hers in a kiss that sends a wave of heat through you, from your lips to the tips of your toes and ears. when you feel her hands link around your neck and her fingertips play through the hair at the nape of your neck, your hands find their way to her waist and you draw her flush against you.
she breaks away, looking up at you through hooded lids, and reaches behind her to push the door to the TARDIS open. her hands take yours from her waist and she pulls you inside, and the doors shut behind you as she reels you in.
she's caught you, alright; and you're not wont to fighting it.