A/N: Ana (oswinwaled), I hope this pleases you. Thanks for giving me this prompt.
The Doctor stood in the middle of the stage, higher than his already tall stature given the few inches the rainbowed platform underneath his feet provided him. As the Master of Ceremonies, it was his job to assure that everything went smoothly and perfectly.
The futile jokes told by his covered in face ink clown, Nardole, who offered some good laughs to the public.
The illusion acts performed by his magician, Missy, who received prolonged ohs at each trick.
The incredible good balance his tightrope walker, Jack Harkness, had, leaving the audience anxious in fright he might fall off. He never did.
The skills provided by his juggler, Amy, always contradicted by her husband's bad skills, Rory – she had asked him to cast him in the show as a favor, even though he struggled to juggle more than two objects at a time. Fortunately, people had a good laugh from it.
The sweet and alluring movements his ballerina, Bill, danced, providing acts with her legs that he felt his own thighs aching at the mere thought of performing like that.
The elegance and boldness his acrobat had. Clara Oswald. Although she only intended to pleasure the audience, the way she worked with her balance, agility and motor coordination, all together, all in a perfect act, was like art to him. The gestures she did with her body did things to his body, even though his heart skipped several beats each time she acted in a dangerous way – and Clara Oswald lacked the humbleness to perform in any act that didn't endanger herself.
Her very beautiful and unique self.
No, the Doctor did not waste too much of his time thinking about her.
Thinking of her.
Or that was what he tried to convince himself.
"And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Clara Oswald."
And she freed herself from her aerial pole and landed in the floor with dignity – the act didn't end until the red curtains closed on her.
Although she worked in a circus that didn't have the luxury of having curtains and she had to walk out of stage with her own raggedy steps. It was hard to normally walk with all the sweat and adrenaline running through her veins – but she wouldn't admit it just like that.
Not even to the circus manager, who oddly called himself as The Doctor, and never failed to ask how she was handling at least three times a day.
Clara tiredly dropped to the couch inside her trailer. Her so called home. Some days, she would perform so many shows in a single day only that she didn't have the strength to remove her own makeup or get herself out of those tight colored leotards. She would just fall asleep like that, curled in a ball in attempts to hide her body from the chilly breeze of the night that came in from a broken window that just refused to close.
And yet, somehow, she would always wake up in her bed, body strongly wrapped with a soft brown duvet that never failed to keep her warm.
How did she always get there? She had no idea.
Although she was starting to guess.
Four knocks echoed through the narrow walls of her trailer and she rose her chin high in the air, startled.
She cleared her throat to speak, even though her voice still came out hoarse and raspy, "Come in."
The door shyly opened itself, making way to a grey-haired head. The only grey-haired head they had lurking around. Mimicking her action without any knowledge, the Doctor eliminated his throat from the lump forming in it. "Is this a bad time? I was afraid I'd catch you already asleep."
"You almost did, actually," she confessed, smiling condescendingly with her lips and her eyes. She would never willingly admit it either, but she didn't mind his company. "Is everything alright?"
"Oh, yes—" he clumsily made his way inside, tripping on his own feet from the lack of space. Although he gave her a fair salary – he wasn't about to say out loud he paid her more than his other employees – she never made an effort to get herself a bigger trailer. This one was surely smaller on the inside. "I've brought you tea. I was going to bring you coffee, but I concluded that mustn't be your beverage of choice when you're about to doze off."
Awkwardly, she welcomed the cup into her hands; it warmed her skin. She really should spend some of her savings to fix that stupid broken window. "It's more like alcohol, actually."
He clearly missed her innuendo, his eyes becoming unusually large. "I'm sorry?!"
Oh God. She wanted to hide her face away in shame. "My beverage of choice, I mean—" her cheeks were gradually turning redder. "Never mind."
Did he just shiver at the idea of bringing her booze? Neither of them could tell.
Scratching his nails against his jawline, the Doctor forced a smile upon his face. "Well, I'll keep that in mind. Miss Oswald."
Clara offered him the hint of a beam as he made his way out. The door slammed closed and she groaned through her teeth.
It was all so wrong.
The Doctor threw his body across his soft mattress. Pitifully. Exhaustedly. Hoping to be swallowed in and extracted from his own very wrong life.
From all the people he could have fancied, he had to have fallen in love with her.
His fucking acrobat.
It was all so wrong.
When the morning came, Clara's entire body ached.
Although she had woken up with a mascara free face and some comfy pjs, she definitely wasn't on her bed.
She had fallen asleep in her couch. Again.
And that time, there wasn't anybody to carry her dormant corpse back to her bed.
Perhaps because she hadn't been asleep by the time she received a visitor the previous night.
She tried to move and regretted it instantaneously. She should get herself a better couch.
Or a romantic partner who never allowed her to fall asleep there.
Or both.
The Doctor had woken up long before his alarm went off, but only the loud buzzing forced him to find the courage to get up.
He cleaned his eyes from the dust formed in the corner of them, had a wash and changed into his magician clothes; a long black coat with a red lining inside of them. He wasn't a magician – god, he despised the idea – but he surely as hell dressed up as one.
He had aimed to look like a minimalist, he had explained to Clara when she dared to ask his choice of outfit, many moons before, and clearly failed miserably.
He reached the stage a few minutes past seven o'clock. To his dismay – but not to his surprise – there was somebody already practicing there.
Nobody other than his favorite human being in the whole entire universe.
Quietly, he took a seat in the front roll. Although he knew he was invading her privacy, he didn't have it in him to turn his glare away. Clara looked so utterly magical, flying around, like a magical fairy. God, he was so fucking fucked.
He only couldn't tell what had been the greater scare; when she finally noticed him or what happened afterwards.
Clara's eyes wandered towards the non-existent audience from the ropes she was clung to, a few feet higher than the floor. The serenity in her face was replaced by a stun at the sight that she wasn't alone, her heart rate noticeable accelerating from the scare.
His presence there, added to the reactions of her physique, was enough to cause her to lose her grip over the thread and gravity to pull her down, in a nasty unpleasant fall – to be experienced and/or witnessed.
"Jesus fucking Christ—"
Her vocabulary no longer consisted of words and expressions that weren't profanities. Her whole body trembled, although she couldn't tell if its origins were from the adrenaline throbbing through her veins or from her legs twisted and tangled underneath her. She was shaking so badly she didn't have the strength – or the bravery – to unravel her limbs from beneath her arse.
She didn't even notice how the Doctor, her boss, had emerged from the public seats to her side.
"Fucking hell, Clara," he cried, dropped to his knees next to her. He was uncertain whether to touch her or to simply scream for help, even if he still didn't know the extend to her injuries. "Are you alright?!"
It was a stupid question – he knew that –, but he was uncertain of what else he should say to her. The subtleness of his question wasn't met by any tameness in her behavior, obviously. "No, I am not alright."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Was he apologizing for his dumb question? For the accident? For being the reason she had probably hurt herself? He had no idea. "Let me help you."
He chose to believe her head was nodding in approval rather than shaking in despair. Carefully, he aided her by raising her in the air, by the armpits, and freeing her legs from the trap of her own butt. Clara had her eyes closed; too scared to open them and see the damage done to her limbs, too afraid that she would be ripped of her life in the circus because of her clumsiness.
Landing her back to the floor, he didn't retreat right away. Instead, he pressed his forehead to her own; sweat meeting sweat. "You're okay, Clara."
"Am I?" she pondered in a whisper, one he could only hear because of their proximity, "Because I can't feel anything from below my waist and I'm scared to find out if it's just the shock or if I've gone paraplegic."
Although there was a hint of amusement to her voice, the worry she tried to hide could still be heard. And he shared her anguish to his heart. Offering her shoulders some light squeezes, he backed away with the intention of analyzing the state of her injuries – should he have even moved her without the presence of medical professionals? It was too late, anyway.
His tongue traveled the border of his lips as his hands made their way to her right ankle; it was swollen and gradually increasing in shades of purple. It certainly didn't look good, but it didn't seem like the end of the world. Not to him, at least. He placed his fingertips across the fragile skin and Clara hissed and shielded back immediately.
"See?" he tried to comfort her with a halting smile, "Not paraplegic."
Despite of her nod, he assumed his words had fallen in deaf ears. Stealing her a glance, she still had her eyes closed, in spite of the tears that freely descended her apple cheeks. Was she in pain? Was she scared? Was she lost inside of herself?
Cautious not to distress her even further, the Doctor slipped on his arms underneath the curve between her legs and thighs, whilst the other accommodated itself on her waist. Even though she should have understood the meaning behind his actions, Clara was surprised when her body was suddenly lifted from the ground.
Afraid to fall from his grip and cause herself even more harm, she locked her wrists together behind his neck, her head inevitably resting against his shoulder. The sound of her voice was no different than the plead of a child, "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere we can take proper care of you and your wound," he was direct, trying to diverge his mind from how perfectly the shape of her body fitted into his. "I'll take care of you, I promise."
Clara agreed with her head, the truth she was sure he wouldn't just bluntly admit; he was only tending her because he felt guilty for causing her to hurt herself.
However, she was keen on denying the truth, as well. She would never blame him for that.
The Doctor gently laid Clara in bed, as her eyes wandered all around them, studying everything about their new whereabouts. She had no idea where to she had been taken – the walls were all white, there wasn't that many furniture, the bed was big and soft, there was a big window that provided enough light from the sun to scare her soul away.
Oh god—had she been taken to an infirmary of some sort inside the circus that she didn't know about?
"This is my place, in case you're wondering," he spoke up, clearly paying too much attention to her baffled face expressions. "I might have failed to bring myself a minimalist appearance, but I'm pretty sure I succeeded a minimalist décor, don't you think?"
She embraced his pep talk to get her mind away from the excruciating pain of her ankle. "Yeah, I mean… You don't even have chairs."
The smile that took over his lips was wicked and twisted and wrong, "Who needs chairs when you can stand?"
Regardless of his protests, Clara leaned on her elbows until she reached a seating position. "I know my foot wouldn't mind a few places to sit down."
His smirk dropped almost immediately. "Right, about that—" he barely found the time to excuse himself, disappearing from her vision range in a second and reappearing in another, carrying a few things in his arms like one would carry a baby. He cleared his throat to get her attention, although he already had it. "You sure you don't want to go to a hospital?"
"I'm sure."
He could only sigh from the single millisecond it took her to provide an answer. "I'm just asking because… Even though I call myself the Doctor, I really am no doctor."
Her eyes descended from his tall body to her wounded limb; it was turning into shades of purple she didn't even know existed. "I just twisted it, okay? It's no big deal. A few days of rest and it'll be as good as new."
Knowing he stood no chance against her stubbornness, the Doctor sighed and handed her a bottle of vodka. "I know it might be too early for your beverage of choice, but it'll help distract your brain from the pain. Like an anesthetic."
She failed to acknowledge his reference to their conversation from their previous night, clumsily throwing away the bottle cap and drinking directly from the mouth, disconsidering how many other people might have already drunk from there and how many people might still drink from there. The hot liquid burned down her throat. "It's fine."
He took a seat by her side on the edge of the bed and—did she flinch from the simple swing of the mattress? Cautiously, he wrapped several ice cubes in a cloth, before tying it to her ankle; he didn't doubt no further of the shiver of her body. "Leave it there, it'll help with the swollenness."
Clara barely nodded, smashing her inner lip tightly between her teeth, attempting to keep her throat from forming groans of pain. Regardless if he could see right past her strong façade, she was too proud to simply admit agony.
Using some gauze, the Doctor fixed them strongly around her ankle, serving as some sort of cast. It was a lousy job, but it was still the best he could do next to taking her to the hospital. "There you go."
"Thanks," she said amidst quick breathes, pulling her unharmed leg to near her chest. "I guess I should go, then."
"Go, where?" his eyes were suddenly big and spooked, "You're not intending to go back to practicing like that, are you?!"
A chuckle escaped her lips; a soundless one, but it was enough to force the slight hint of delight upon her traits. "No, I… Go back to my trailer, I mean."
"That tiny cramped place where you can't walk without hitting your head into something from its lack of space that you dare to call a home, parked underneath the burning sun of our parking lot?" he gesticulated widely with his hands to prove his point. "No, I'm not going to let you hurt yourself even more. You're staying."
"Doctor—" her cheeks instantaneously blushed from the idea, "I-I don't want to be a burden."
"You aren't," he strongly argued, his tone harsher than he had originally intended. "The bed isn't that bad. You could use some rest."
The more he talked, the redder her faces became. "I don't think I would be comfortable being here on my own."
"And I didn't think you would be comfortable with my presence here," he quipped, resting the weight of his body on his palms pressed against the mattress. "I'll stay here with you."
Although every fiber of her being begged her to diverge her eyes away from his, Clara was somehow allured to them. "I'm sure you have better places to be. Better things to do. You still run this circus, after all."
"The circus can run itself for a couple of hours," he blithely asserted, giving the mattress a few smacks, indicating she should lie back down.
Hesitantly, she followed his command, her head falling into the sea of petals that his pillow felt like – it was almost comfortable enough to make her forget about the soreness of her ankle.
And she was almost too happy to be there.
"Are you going to fire me?"
The Doctor was certainly taken aback by her sudden question – he assumed she had fallen asleep after over thirty minutes of excruciating silence. But now, daring to look in her way, he found her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if she could make stars and form constellations from the random spots of dirt.
Apart from the rise and fall of her chest, Clara remained perfectly still. She was no longer wearing her white with rainbow straps leotard, but instead a gigantic black tee of his he had offered so she'd be more comfortable; it was big enough to suit her as a dress. She had one arm working as a pillow underneath her head – despite of the actual cushion beneath her –, whilst the other gently rested against her belly, following the up and down path that her stomach traveled amongst her breathing.
She was so quiet that he even questioned if his brain were just playing tricks on him and she hadn't spoken at all. Still, he cleared his throat to clear the course of his voice. "Where did that come from?"
Her chin slightly bent sideways, and she pecked the corner of her inner lip. "I'm disabled now. Handicapped. I bring nothing but misfortune to your circus."
Adjusting himself so she would take over the entirety of his vision range, the Doctor tried to knock some sense into her, "You suffered an accident, Clara. One that wasn't even your fault. I'm not going to just fire you. Besides, I'm pretty sure that are plenty of laws out there that protect you from that."
Had she noticed the hint of amusement in his last sentence, she failed to acknowledge it. "I wouldn't sue you."
"Good," he blithely commented, "I wouldn't want to go bankrupt from all the money your lawyer would yank from me."
At last, she matched his jokingly features with a half smile. "I'm not that evil, I wouldn't cost you that much money, no. Perhaps, just enough to get myself a proper home."
The Doctor scoffed, "Come on now, you still live there from your own volition."
Clara merely shrugged, her lips wrinkling in the slightest laughter, "I like it there. It's cozy."
"You have windows that refuse to shut, Clara," he fairly argued, "I would say it's anything but cozy."
She was surprised by the loud giggle that escaped her mouth at his statement, and she couldn't deny his argument. Perhaps, he would suggest she should remain at his place, that she was welcome in the comfortableness of his soft and delicate mattress until she had recovered from her fall, that she was the rightful person to make his home a little homier, that—
"How's your ankle?"
Clara's chin instantaneously pressed itself against her collar bones, trying to see her injury without the effort to move. "It's alright, I guess. It doesn't hurt, it's just sore, so long as I remain forever still."
Getting her by surprise, he placed his hand on her upper arm, condescendingly. "You don't have to move. You can stay here for as long as you need. As long as you want."
He previous flux of thinking simply disappeared into thin air. "No. I'm already getting enough on your way. I don't want to be any more of a bother. In fact, I think I should go—"
Clara was already halfway to a sitting position by the time he realized her intentions. Her lips were flat and her eyes were startled, but she still did her best to hide her discomfort from him.
"Clara."
The hollowness of his voice was enough to sent chills down her spine and freeze her within her own body.
"I worry about you, Clara."
Her eyes were attracted by his sentence until they had established eye contact. She felt herself disintegrating under his stare, but she was unable to glance away. She found herself completely at his mercy. "Don't."
"Clara," the way he pronounced her name was borderline unnerving, and yet she was almost as addicted to it as she was addicted to oxygen to breathe. "Look at you, with your eyes, and your never giving up, and your anger, and your kindness. You work so hard, you aim to reach a perfection that you'll never be able to achieve, because you've already earned it, even though you fail to see it."
"Stop," her only word cried so softly that it barely made it past the lips that formed it.
"And you treat yourself like you're not worthy, Clara, and that is not true. You think you're deserving of all the bad things that happen to you and you allow the universe to destroy you, mercilessly, when you've already conquered so many good things in life. You deny yourself the small luxuries of a comfortable life, locking yourself inside that junky motor home of yours."
"Stop," she repeated, her eyes burning like flares of her soul trying to escape.
"And you punish yourself for what happened such a long time ago. You punish yourself for something you had no control over. You blame yourself for that unfortunate event and you have no one to tell you this: it wasn't your fault, Clara."
"Stop…!" her loud scream echoed through the narrow walls and it was finally enough to silence him. Clara had her eyeballs wide and puffy, single lines descending from each of them, the vein in her forehead pulsing harder than ever before, whilst the Doctor just glanced at her perplexed, unable to tell how harsh his words had been until then. His jaw fell the slightest and opened a gap between his lips, and his own eyes were close to mimicking the tears in hers.
For a brief second, time seemed to have frozen on them.
Until he blinked, and she was no longer there.
Struggling with her own legs, Clara lumbered out of bed and she stumbled her way out of his home, unable to tell whether her tears originated from his words or from the pain in her ankle. Regardless, she fastened her pace, terribly desiring to get away from him before she gave herself in to him.
It was midnight, and the rain poured heavily outside.
Which was why a sleepless Doctor almost had a heart attack when an incessant pounding came from his door, forcing him to leave his bed of regrets and sorrow to find out what was going on outside.
His surprise was only growing by the second. At his front steps, stood a drenched Clara, hair and clothes and skin and soul all wet from the rainfall. She had her arms strongly wrapped around herself, either trying to defend herself from the droplets or from the cold of the night.
The Doctor immediately stepped aside, silently requesting – demanding? – for her to leave the frigidness of the early hours of dawn and come inside, where he would be able to keep her warm. Unlike his expectations, Clara instead stepped back, furthering herself into the storm. He saw himself with no other alternative than to tread into the rain as well, although he still kept his distance.
It had been over a week since he had last seen her. Ever since his mouth had talked ahead of his brain, ever since he had acted with no knowledge of the consequences, Clara had locked herself away in her trailer and refused to come out; at least, not to him. And did he try to get her to him, especially for the first few days, until he realized he had wronged and he wasn't entitled of her forgiveness.
Clara had every reason never to speak to him again, and yet there she was. Standing in the rain because of him. Her ankle had clearly healed during her week of absence, although he could still notice she was weighing her body weight onto her good leg.
And when she started talking, he finally understood how broken she was.
"I didn't love him, alright?" her words were harsh on herself, almost as hard as the raindrops falling upon them. "I didn't love him."
The Doctor was completely at loss at the meaning behind her sentence. He had to squeeze his eyes in order to properly see her amidst the fog, "Clara?"
"Danny," she clarified, although his name had gotten stuck in her throat. She shook her head several times, "I didn't love him. Not the way he deserved. Neither did he love me the way I needed."
His expressions had become blank from her confessions.
"His death was only the quickest way to bring us apart."
Hesitantly, the Doctor took cautious steps nearer her. She didn't back away, as he thought she would. "Then why do you blame yourself for everything that happened?"
Clara lowered her gaze, strengthening the grip around herself. "He didn't deserve to die."
"He is, however, dead, Clara," he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his embrace, and it required him all of his stamina to keep his arms to himself. "You can't change that. Your self-blame won't bring him back."
She could no longer tell if her cheeks were wet from the tears of the sky or from the droplets of her own soul. She repeated, "He didn't deserve to die."
"Clara."
Her breasts traveled up and down in a frantic rhythm, her own lungs drowning in the air they were offered. If it were enough, the Doctor would allow her to take the oxygen straight out of his own chest. Her lips trembled as she struggled to find her words. "I… I killed him."
"Clara," the urge to feel her closer to him was only increasing. She sounded so lifeless beneath her revelations of guilt, she looked so vulnerable once the walls she had built around herself had fallen down. "You didn't kill him. He is dead, and it is not your fault. His actions and his stubbornness led him to his death, not you."
Clara closed her eyelids tightly, in failed attempts of easing the burning fire inside of them. "I didn't catch him. All I had to do was catch him, and I didn't. Now he's suffering the consequences of my failures."
"It was a risky performance he wanted to pull," he declared, wishing he could take the weight off of her shoulders more than anything. "Everybody told him how dangerous it was. You told him how dangerous it was. He refused to listen, he wanted to prove himself when there was nothing and no one to prove himself to. Danny bluffed with his own life, Clara. Just because you couldn't catch him after his jump, it doesn't mean that you killed him. It doesn't mean you're a bad acrobat, or, for what it's worth, that you're a bad person."
He was uncertain if her head was simply shaking or nodding. Her face expressions screamed how much effort it required her to simply stand there and open her heart to him. How much energy it drained her to finally accept his gentle and forgiving and kind truth. Through her eyes escaped the remaining will of hers to fight, and she soon would collapse.
And the Doctor would be sure to be there to catch her once she was no longer able to hold it together and fell. "There's only one thing that still matters, Clara. We're still here. Against all odds, we're still here. Still here."
He would never admit it aloud; he was somehow relieved that she had failed to catch him, for there was a great risk that, if she did, his weight would be too much for her to bear and both would end up falling. Both would end up dead.
Shyly and reluctantly, he opened his arms for her. He assumed she would fail to notice his gestures; instead, Clara cautiously walked towards him, resting her head against his chest, in the perfect position to listen to the music of his heartbeats contrasted to the noise of the rain, her arms wrapping around his waistband.
The Doctor buried his chin amidst the wet roots of her dark chocolate hair, his own hands closing together by the fragileness of her spine. A coy indication of a smile dared to shape his lips; they finally were where they belonged.
Somehow, the rain didn't bother them anymore.
They were curled in bed together, both having discarded their drenched clothes. The Doctor had changed into some silk silver pjs, whilst Clara had stolen yet another tee of his – she still hadn't returned the previous one, neither did she have any intentions to.
After the Doctor had taken Clara inside his embrace, their proximity allowed him to hear quiet sobs coming from her, amidst the falling rain. Delicately, he raised her from her feet and rushed her inside, finally escaping the cold exterior and being welcomed by a warm and dry environment.
And he just held her. For minutes, hours perhaps, he just built her a home inside of his arms, a home that she owned as her own. Until the trembling of her soul turned into shaking of cold. He was forced to warily break their contact and fetch her some clean clothes and a blanket, which she gladly put on as he made them both some tea.
"Doctor," she called for him, her lips remaining half open after the last syllable. She had a duvet tangled around her body and her head was resting across his thighs, where he traveled his hands through her still moist hair, wrapping locks around his fingers and unwrapping them right after. Two cups of tea sat silently in the nightstand. "Do you… think I'm broken?"
His thumbs dug deeper into her scalp and he searched for her gaze with his eyes – which, of course, she was hiding from him. Her heart was slowly lowering its fences and seeking out for him for help, and he could only assume how hard it was for her. "I think… That brokenness is a form of art, and you are its masterpiece."
Her cheeks rouged instantaneously, although she couldn't deny the forming of a beam in the corner of her mouth at his allegation. Clumsily, her arm pathed atop of her head until her fingers found his. "Why are you so good to me?"
Because I'm in love with you; because you're the only person I care for; because you're the solemn reason why I get out of bed every day, just to see the warmth in your smile and the strength in your eyes. Of course, he crossed out all the alternatives. "Because, despite of everything that you might think, you are a good person. You're a good man in the storm, Clara."
A loud thunder stroke outside and she merely chuckled, "Are we speaking literally, now?"
"No, Clara," he met her features with a soft snigger, tightening the grip around her hand. "You're strong, and you're brave, and you're honorable. You fight to make it right for your mistakes and you care, so deeply, even if that means you'll forget to take care of your own self. You put others first, Clara, even though you shouldn't, and for that, you are a good person."
"It's exhausting," she whispered, expecting her words to fade into the echoes of the rain. "I don't know for how much more I'm going to be able to hold it together."
His spine bent forward and his lips pressed against her forehead, a pledge of his love for her. "You don't have to, Clara. Not on your own. Not anymore. You can lean on me, for support, for anything. You can count on me."
Clara raised herself from her lying position until their eyes almost conquered the same height – she still was fair inches shorter. She found herself drowning inside his ocean eyes, slowly and gradually becoming out of breath.
The only oxygen that would suffice her was the one coming directly from his own lungs.
Like magnets, their heads were drawing closer until their lips met. Timidly at first, simply brushing against the other, just before the rims of her mouth slightly departed and opened a passage for his tongue to invade her. She felt like a teenager in love at the sensation of him exploring her palate and her teeth and her tonsils and her lips and her tongue.
And then he abruptly pulled apart, confusion written all over the lines of his face. "Clara—"
She placed her index on his mouth, in a quiet request for his silence. "You said I could lean on you. This is me not only leaning on you, but trusting you with my entire life. This is me giving myself to you."
With his hand at the back of her neck, he pulled her head closer once more, resting his forehead against hers, allowing himself to be swallowed by the black holes her eyes held inside. The tip of his fingers traced lines across her skin, until they reached her heart, still covered by the cotton fabric. "I just want you to tell me where it hurts, so I can build you up until you're good as new. I want to love you and show you how rare and beautiful it is to be loved and to be in love. And what a privilege it is to love you. A great honor to hold you up."
The heat of his breath against her faces was enough to keep her warm. She shivered at his words and at his touch, "Love me, then. Show me the beauty of finding love."
Faithful to his request, the Doctor returned his lips to the corner of her mouth, providing soft kisses to the flesh of her face. She had her eyes tight; not because she didn't want to see him, but because she desired to savor each sensation as she boarded the dream and let her darker side give in.
The Doctor gently laid her back against the mattress, trapping her beneath his body, each of his arms placed between the curves of her shoulders and her head. His gaze studied each and every single of her traits, memorizing how beautiful she looked just there; her hair wasn't fixed, her makeup wasn't applied, her senses had abandoned their defenses.
He was so allured to her that he could no more tell her apart from art.
Clara pulled his shirt out of his head, revealing his body worn of age. She laid her hands across his chest, bringing static to the hair there. If she concentrated enough, she could feel his heartbeat underneath his skin, beating in a remarkably increased speed.
Unable to hold himself back, the Doctor released her from the tee of his she wore, revealing breasts that weren't covered by a piece of underwear. He pecked the skin of her torso, creating a wet path of his own saliva from the crook of her neck to the base of her chest. His tongue sketched around the areola of her nipple like a brush painted on canvas.
"Doctor," she gasped his name, her voice dark and hollow from lust. She encouraged him to follow his needs and instincts by digging her nails into his scalp and pressuring his head nearer to the beak of her tit.
As devoted as he was to her, he obeyed, craving his teeth around her nipple and extracting sharp breaths from her throat in return, whilst he blandly squeezed and cupped her other bosom. Her back slightly arched forward to allow him further access to her body, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist in desperate attempts of being in control of him.
Little did she know that she had him completely under her spell.
"Doctor," she cried once more, twitching her hips and gridding against the growing bump between his legs. She could wait no longer as her hands shakenly pulled his trousers down, alongside his underwear. He still had his mouth enfolding her breasts when she wrapped her thin fingers around the aching of his erection and offered it slow rubs, up and down.
"Clara," it was his turn to beg, finally breaking the link between the two bodies with the only intention of forming another. Like he was touching a masterpiece, the Doctor released her hips from the piece of clothing they held and, at last, they were both standing naked. Both trusting one another with the most fragile work of sculpting: themselves.
The Doctor adjusted himself between her legs, diving himself into her eyes once more to guarantee she was still okay with everything. The blaze ignited inside of them was all it took him to stroke a few times against her entrance, before sinking into her with one smooth swing.
Her inner walls were tight and warm and choking, forcing him to push back and push forth again. At each movement, Clara's moans and groans became more constant and louder, compelling her to lurch her body against him in a steady rhythm, while holding onto him by his neck, her erratic breath tickling the hair of his nape.
Their pace rapidly escalated and it wasn't long until they both reached their climax, their lungs urging for oxygen as their cheeks strongly pressed one against the other. The Doctor collapsed above her, Clara weak underneath him. Perhaps, the peak of their intimacy wasn't the sex itself, but the way their bodies were complete, built as one only in its aftermath.
Perhaps, the deepest form of intimacy was the way he fell from her to the mattress, although his hold around her brought her along and assembled her the most honest form of home in his arms, one of her legs still thrown around him and her ear pressed to his chest, using his muscles as a pillow.
The Doctor planted a kiss to her skull and then one more to her forehead, leaving his lips glued to her skin. Clara smiled with her mouth closed together, tightening her grip around his neck and allowing herself to be her most vulnerable self, still and naked next to him.
"I think," Clara claimed his attention, not only by the sound of her voice but by the air of her vocal chords landing against his collar bones, "If love is elastic, then we were born to discover its reach."
He tried to follow her line of thinking, "And how far away do you think it is able to reach?"
"Right now?" her tone was quieter than the break of dawn, "I think that we're building something so rare and beautiful that love won't be able to travel farther away than you and I."
The Doctor quietly walked up the hill behind the circus site, its earth colored in the brownish green of the autumn grass. As he reached the top, his eyes made the figure of Clara, standing on her back to him, her arms swinging next to her waist whilst her hands were buried in the pockets of the coat she wore.
The wind howled loudly and blew the big brown blocks of her hair, trying to make her fly along - lift her weight off the floor and have her dance in the air like a feather of the rare bird she was. He ran his fingers through the sea of silver curls of his hair, flattening his lips in a line as he approached her.
Despite of his silence, Clara knew of his presence there. Perhaps because he shielded her from the chill breeze, perhaps because he provided her a shadow from the hazy rays of sunlight. Still, she didn't gaze up to him; instead, her eyes remained glued to the white cross stuck to the ground in front of them.
It was a beautiful site to finally rest in peace; a tree providing constant shadows, birds singing in its branches, the sun setting in the horizon and painting the sky with the most beautiful palette, the nightly sky providing a view of planets and constellations that had long died in the universe, but whose light carried on traveling across time and space.
At least, that was what she'd told herself, watching from the distance as her friends lowered a coffin down the earth, the coffin of the man she had killed. She didn't cry that day – she wasn't entitled of tears, not after everything she had done. Not after being the reason they were all there.
Coming to visit his grave, she still didn't cry. Her eyes were dry and dark, but she didn't even want to cry. Not anymore. Not when she had finally accepted that she hadn't killed him. Not when she had comprehended it wasn't her who built him his grave.
There was a gentle brush against the fabric that clothed her elbow, and she eased down. She didn't know if he had accidentally or purposefully rubbed his arm against hers, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Clara turned her head to face him, finding a shy smile stamped on his lips – not a condescending smile, but a smile that said how content he was just to coexist.
Without waiting – or expecting – an invitation, Clara hugged his arm sideways, resting her head on his shoulder pad. Surprised, he quivered at her approach, but allowed his jawline to lean on her skull. "Are you alright?"
She simply nodded, puffs of air escaping her slimly departed lips until they disappeared in the atmosphere.
He wished he could look at her in the eyes and learn the truth she held in them. "I'm just asking because, um, you're here, and—"
Her grip around him only strengthened, seeking something – someone – to lean on. "I'm here to say goodbye, Doctor. I will always hold him close, but I've learned to let him go. It's time to let him go."
Not giving him the chance to reply, Clara pressed her pointy chin against his clavicle, not surprised to find him already glancing down on her. She stood on her tiptoes and urged her lips on his, her kiss a seal of her thankfulness. "Life is a gorgeous and broken gift."
The Doctor dived inside her eyes, their spark gradually returning the life to them. "Life, Clara, is handcrafted by confusing love."
Her fingers gently caressed the crook of his neck, sending palpitations all the way to his heart. "And death puts an emphasis on how we should live. I now understand the meaning behind Danny's death. It weighs on the significance of everything and it teaches how we mustn't take anything for granted, or the universe will take us for granted and destroy ourselves before we've had the chance to build our stories."
He tilted his head in the slightest; for someone who was wealth in youth, he found her the wisest. The tip of his thumbs traced motions on the skin of her cheeks. "Is that your way of telling me you'll go on a date with me?"
She probed him with her stare, before finally cracking the brightest grin, "Is that your way of asking?"
Not giving in to her question, the Doctor simply twistedly smiled and flecked the tip of her nose. "I'll pick you up at eight. Don't be late."
"You stupid old man," she breathed in, unable to suppress the growing bliss traversing the lines of her face, before sending her lips back to his.
When he saw her, his mind bent and he was no longer able to form any words – he was sure his eyes had suddenly shaped into heart figures.
Clara welcomed him with the warmest smile, closing the door behind her to meet him. She had her hair messily fallen down to her shoulders, brushing the straps of the black dress she wore, alongside a silver cardigan that she hadn't properly fixed around herself and hang by her elbows. Her heels were loud on the floor, and even though they provided her a few extra inches, she still was remarkably smaller than him. Her lips were painted in red and the mascara she had on her eyelashes brought out the constellations inside of her eyes.
Even though he hadn't fallen in love with her looks, she was so beautiful she made his heart flutter.
She pressed her mouth to the space between the corner of his mouth and his cheek, purposefully leaving a red mark from the color of her kiss – it soon would fade away into the already redness of his apple cheeks. "Hi."
He felt weak to his knees at the sound of her raspy voice, like she hadn't talked in a long time and was saving him all her words – god knew he was. Apart from the incapableness of his deteriorating mind at the sight of her, he brought a grin to his own lips, flecking the dimples of his faces. "You look beautiful."
She bickered her lower lip in consent. "You're not so bad yourself."
The Doctor chuckled loudly, at last kicking himself out of his own daze and locking hands with her. "Next to you, I don't stand a chance."
He took her to a restaurant in the outsides of the city, where moonlight bathed them in its glory and the stars dotted the nightly sky like an artwork lost to time. He held her hand all the way to their table, even so subsequently, thinking to himself how her bones so sharply, yet so delicately, pathed underneath her skin and tried to break free.
He chose the most exquisite wine they had to offer – but not before asking her three times that was her beverage of choice –, but he got drunk from her glare, instead. They had dinner, talked about frivolous things that somehow were the only things that mattered.
They were themselves.
He took her for a walk afterwards, holding her steady by the waist due to alcohol running through her veins – or was it just an excuse to pull her so close until no space lied in between? –, trailing across gardens that most likely burst into life during the day but calmly rested during the absence of light.
They sat by a bench and Clara freed herself of her heels, her bare feet touching and exchanging energy with the ground. She wrapped herself around his arm, her body perfectly fitting the curves of his torso. Sparks of oxygen that escaped their lungs floated out in the air, dancing to the songs howled by the wind.
The Doctor accommodated her in his hold, setting his eyes in the universe above them, and Clara soon followed the course of his gaze. Feeding her soul with the sound of his voice, he told her the names of the stars and told her their stories, tales that happened long before their birth and fables that would still happen long after their deaths.
The night sky ruled his imagination and she was lost within his vocables. He counted constellations and made a map of their stars, feeling her body grow heavier above his, because she had given herself to him.
And he was the poet that wrote the poetry she was made of, "You're the universe I'm helpless in."
Their relationship grew in a slow pace, and yet so rapidly they soon couldn't bear the idea of being away from one another.
She would crash at his place after a work day rather than her own. They would take a shower together – even though the bathroom was too small to properly fit them simultaneously – and they would follow straight to bed, not even bothering to find themselves some clothes, knowing they would soon be discarded anyway.
Or they would sit on his comfortable couch and watch whatever romcom was in the telly, and she would always fall asleep on his shoulder before the movie was over, not that he minded. He would stare at the peace reigning her features for the remaining of film, only after gently raising from the sofa and taking her to bed, laying her on her pre-stablished side of the bed and lying next to her, working himself as an extra duvet.
Or they would stay put in a showless night, Clara focusing on her Jane Austen books whilst the Doctor played random chords on his guitar.
Until he finally found his melody and achieved her attention. She raised her eyes from the yellowish pages and looked at him with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, "What are you playing?"
A smile emerged across his lips, although his glance remained down to the instrument on his lap. "Do you like it?"
She nodded within seconds, delicately putting down her book. "I think it's beautiful. What is it called?"
His tongue traveled the corners of his mouth, his brain overthinking to give her answer, and it came in the humblest manner, "I think… I think it's called Clara."
Her expression instantaneously dropped, the color perishing from her faces. Her eyes were bigger than ever and her heart was beating so fast inside her chest she was on the verge of exploding. She couldn't control the tears piling up in the corners of her eyelids. "You've… You've wrote me a song?"
The Doctor was scared to peer up at her and see her expression, terrified his actions would be too much and he would scare her away. Hence why his chin remained glued to in between his collar bones. "It's just a tune."
With shaky limbs, Clara crawled closer to him and placed her flat hands on his, impeding him from playing any further. Shyly, she interlaced her fingers around his, her voice hoarse and stuck on her throat, "No one has ever done something like this for me."
"It's cheesy," he commented, at last acknowledging her presence and falling into her eyes, "And everybody else is a fool."
She planted her lips strongly in his temples, for several moments, before bringing his head to the crook of her neck and hiding his face on her chest, her own chin and nose drowning inside the silver ocean of his hair. In a cried whisper that wasn't entitled to anybody else, not ever, not anywhere else in time and space, she confessed for the first time, "I love you."
Forgotten about the guitar that separated their bodies, the Doctor pressed his hands to the line of her spine, holding her like he held his entire life – to him, she was life herself. He would never let go of her.
"I love you, too."
"You're selling the circus?" Jack Harkness was borderline speechless, even though he still had plenty to say, "As in, receiving actual proper money so someone will take your place?"
"Yes, Jack," the Doctor annoyedly agreed, his foot tapping the floor in an infuriating rhythm, "That's what the concept of selling something means. In fact, I've already sold it."
Amy shook her head several times, a very terrified Rory standing right behind her. "I don't understand. Why are you selling it? Selling us?"
"It comes a point in life, Amy, where it's time to search for new adventures," he explained, his eyes unconsciously searching for Clara next to him, both already standing outside the circus tent, underneath the burning sun.
Nardole gulped hard, his bald head shining from the rays of sunlight reflected on them. "What's going to happen to us now, sir?"
"I think you'll be in safe hands," he shifted his head towards a man a few feet away, taking wide steps around himself and calculating with his hands all the improvements he was ought to give the place, "He wears a bowtie, for heaven's sake."
They all made faces, looking at the childish human that their new boss was. All clearly in denial.
Understanding of where their fears and anger came from – she had felt the exact same way when the Doctor told her about his decision –, Clara approached the Doctor and entwined their arms in a link perfectly built for them. "I know this is a lot to process, but, please. Be happy for us. We're about to aboard a fresh start, and as frightening as it is, we're excited. We're together, and that's all that matters."
Their displeasure soon faded away in the air and they all hugged the couple, sending their love and best wishes for their new life. A few tears and a few words were exchanged, until the new Master of Ceremonies called the whole gang to gather up with claps and raggedy smiles, forcing goodbyes to be said.
Until the Doctor and Clara were completely alone and nothing else mattered. He delicately brought her knuckles to his mouth and offered them soft kisses, before opening his arm to the horizon. "Ready, my love?"
Granting him the smile she only ever smiled for him, Clara assented.
"Ready."
A/N: Any feedback here or on twitter (dutiesofcare) is much appreciated :)