The Doctor slept fitfully in the console chair. It was, he mused later, uncomfortable, but since the absense of his bedroom (the TARDIS was still miffed about the destruction of her console) it was the only place he could rest. It wasn't a peaceful rest, and he twisted and turned and muttered and cried and whispered, Clara's words replaying over and over again in his mind, his dreams, his nightmares. Every second of every day.

"Danny and I will be just fine."

"Go and be a king or something"

"Or a queen."

At that, he had laughed. They had laughed. Her laugh was light, low and soft, like a symphony of angels all singing in sychronisation. His was amused, tense. His mouth felt wrong and his cheeks were too tight and every note was a punch to the stomach.

And then he had left. He couldn't stand the atmosphere, the tension between them, the holes in his hearts. She hugged him so tightly, standing on tiptoes to bury her face into the crook of his neck. He hesitantly rested his hands on her back, scared to do anything more in case he couldn't stop himself. He had felt a tear, a burning splash against his neck, and it scorched a hole through his skin, to his hearts and then right through his soul.

He retracted his hands immediately, because oh God, he'd wanted to tell her about Gallifrey, tell her lies and secrets and hopes. Wanted to fall to his knees and beg.

Clara, my Clara, please, come with me. All of time and space in a little blue box. Come with me.

Clara, I love you.

But words had crept into his mind, unbidden, unwanted.

"Danny and I will be just fine. Go and be a king or something."

Danny Pink. Soldier. Maths teacher. (Of course he knew P.E. was a math teacher, but he wouldn't ever admit it. His pride had taken too many hits already). Clara deserved Danny Pink more than she would ever know, and damn him to Hell if he was the one to ruin dreams of a little Pink family.

"Go and be a king or something."

So he'd walked to the TARDIS, committed every detail of her to his memory, and dematerialised, not realising till moments later that he'd left his hearts in a cafe in London.

Sitting in his chair, having woken from his disturbed sleep, thoughts of a wide-eyed, brown-haired, impossible, impossible woman running through his head, grabbing his hand and laughing with a perfect smile, a suppressed and buried dream came to his mind.

Clara Oswald.

What a queen you would have made.