A/N: I'm tentatively placing this sometime post-'Under the Lake,' but I think it could probably work even a bit later than that.
He's so tired of death. His, hers - it doesn't matter which, he just wants to stop thinking about it. Imagining a world without one of them in it, without both of them together and spinning through the universe at breakneck speed is impossible. It hurts.
He thinks that her death will probably ruin him.
She's teaching Hamlet to a room full of Year Tens when he shows up, hair ruffled boyishly and leaning against the door of her classroom. Some of the students notice him, but she's too busy talking and gesturing, trying to get her point across, to notice the gangly alien suddenly standing in her doorway.
"So, you see," she's explaining, "we don't have to argue over whether or not the ghost of Hamlet's father is real. Within the realm of this play we just have to accept that ghosts exist and that one night we too might bump into the ghost of old Aunt Edna or somebody, who's completely preoccupied with scaring the servants and begging us to seek revenge."
He watches her watch her students laugh, the afternoon sunlight catching the slant of her jaw, lighting up her hair. He's never much liked standing still, but here, in this moment, he's never been more content to stop running.
"What we can debate, though," Clara admits once the class has quieted again, "is the nature of the ghost. Is he a demon come from hell just to damn Hamlet, or is he a genuinely good spirit who wishes to set Elsinore straight?"
More of her students have noticed him now, and they've taken to staring and whispering, surreptitiously poking one another and then glancing toward him with questioning looks. The Doctor pulls a face, hoping to scare them all back into attentiveness.
Somewhere from the sea of little pudding brains a voice finally ventures, "Miss?"
"Yes?"
"There's a strange man in your doorway."
She shoos him away, telling him to come back in ten minutes when she's not, you know, doing her job. He struggles not to jump straight into the TARDIS and just cheat away the time, and, as a result, he's antsy and unbearable - even to himself.
Somehow he ends up spending six of his ten minutes locked in a dark supply closet, bumping into things and falling over until he finally manages to find a way to pry the door open with a stick of gum and a ruler. Once he's out, he finds his way into a copy room and takes it upon himself to upgrade the printer so that not only can it print twice as fast, but it can also print sideways and backwards and occasionally, when the right buttons are pressed all together, in invisible ink.
Even then, after all of that, he still manages to show up outside Clara's classroom right on time and only slightly more disheveled than he was when he first arrived.
She's waiting for him, arms crossed, leaning back against her chalkboard.
"Doctor," she says. She sounds exactly like a teacher.
"Clara."
"It's Monday."
Oh. He pretends not to hear her, gaze trailing off and away. The sloping curve of her handwriting on the chalkboard reminds him distantly of an ancient alien calligraphy, delicate and otherworldly. "I've met Shakespeare," he says, offhanded. "There were witches."
Clara pushes herself forward until she's practically standing toe to toe with him. Her eyes narrow. She knows what he's doing. "Sounds very Macbeth."
He shrugs. "Kind of, I suppose."
"Could we go visit him?"
"Who, Macbeth?"
"No, I can only handle so many angsty Scots at once." She smiles up at him charmingly when he makes a noise of protest. "I actually meant Shakespeare."
He considers it. Imagines the unending flirting and the treacly verses dedicated to her dark eyes and the funny upturn of her nose. "No," he decides, "I know a much better place we could go."
He takes her someplace that is alive.
When they step out of the TARDIS they find themselves in a quiet meadow filled with sunlight. The grass isn't the green that Clara expects but rather a bluish-green that reminds her of the sea, and everywhere she looks there are flowers, coral pink and bright orange.
"Where are we?" She runs a hand experimentally through the grass, laughs when it whispers back to her. "There's no way this is Earth."
The Doctor places a finger to his lips, cocking his head toward the horizon. In the distance, song. It sounds very vaguely like wind chimes, if wind chimes had a voice to sing with. The words themselves are foreign, delivered in a clear and lilting tongue, but they give Clara a sense of contentment, peace.
She slips a hand into the Doctor's. "No running here?" she asks, just to be sure.
"No running here."
"Excellent," she says, and tugs him down. He falls into an inelegant pile of limbs on the grass next to her, and she laughs at him. "Clumsy."
There are flower petals caught in his curls, so his glare as he rearranges himself and straightens his coat is not nearly as effective as it could be. "Would have appreciated a warning," he grouses, but she's learned by now that he's all bark and no bite, especially when it comes to her.
She brushes a hand over his hair in apology, collecting most of the wayward petals and letting the wind carry them away. His fingers then, pressing into hers. A warm and reassuring weight. She stretches out onto her back and watches as he follows suit beside her, his gaze fixed on the clouds overhead rather than on the affectionate look she's giving him.
"This is Lumosorious," he explains to the air, "a perpetually peaceful planet that never experiences winter. It's basically spring all year 'round actually. Very temperate. They've an excellent farming system."
He's still holding her hand. Still holding her hand and very much not looking at her. "And the singing?"
The corner of his mouth quirks up. A smile. He likes this planet, she realizes, thinks it's something to be treasured, something to be held tenderly in both hands and looked after. "They're singing to the stars," he says. "The newest ones. The baby stars. Every time one is born the Lumosorians gather together and sing."
She hums. "That's lovely."
He doesn't reply, just nods and tightens his grip on her hand.
"Doctor?"
There's something in her voice that finally makes him turn toward her, rolling onto his side so that he can see her fully. He raises his eyebrows at her.
"It's Monday."
"Not here. Not technically. Technically it's not even any day of the week that you have a name for right now."
Clara squashes the urge to smack him upside the head. "You know what I mean. Why did you come and get me today?"
What he says is only half of an answer. "Things don't die here," he explains roughly. "Not really. Not for the Lumosorians. They're constantly celebrating life."
For a split second, she can see everything behind his eyes played out across his face. All of his fear and sadness and longing. He doesn't want to lose her, but he's afraid he already has. Time is ruthless, cruel, and there is no end to this story where she does not leave him. But he can't bear the thought, wants to take up arms against it and beat it back.
That's a feeling she can understand.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" It's not quite a change in topic, but a small shift, like a train turning onto a new piece of track. She lets go of his hand and reaches up toward the sky, traces the outline of a cloud. "Do you?"
If he looks closely, he can see the universe stretched out between her fingers and there is so, so much. He blinks and it's gone. The right words settle in his chest, heavy and true; he unwinds them slowly. "If I could haunt anyone, Clara Oswald, I would choose you."
Everything tumbles out. She says, "The base. Under the lake. With Cass and Lunn. I thought you were dead."
Something in his hearts falls rather painfully into place. "I know." He can still hear her voice over the phone, the raw desperation. If you love me in any way...
"I saw your ghost and - "
He's quick to correct her. "Well it wasn't really - "
"No, hush." A deep breath, and then she inches forward, taking courage from the way he does the same, drawn in toward her. She admits, "For a moment, for one long, terrible moment, I had to deal with the fact that you - the real you - might never be coming back to me."
Her name sounds like a sigh in his mouth. "Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara." The Doctor shakes his head at her. Silly human. "I will always come back to you."
The noise she makes is torn somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Again with the charm," she murmurs. "I don't know how to cope."
He gives her a crooked smile. "I'm charming now. Charming is cool."
She laughs fully at that, which is good because then her eyes are less sad and he can look at her without feeling like he's drowning.
Slowly, giving him enough time to stop her if he wants, Clara shifts the rest of the way forward, coming to rest against his chest. An arm around him, her head tucked under his chin; he's rather comfortable, when he wants to be. "This is not a hug," she whispers, smiling into the faded fabric of his t-shirt.
"I know." His hand finds one of her shoulder blades and presses, pulling her that much closer. "I don't do hugs."
"So I've heard."
Within a matter of minutes, she's asleep, warmed by the sun and his close proximity. He focuses on her breathing, the reassuring beat of her single heart. They are safe, both of them. Alive. And somewhere, close by, someone is singing the stars into light.