It was simple.
One second, he'd be standing; the next he was on the floor.
Well, maybe not that simple.
He'd gone to put his hand on the sofa (Because he needed some sort of physical support in that moment) and his hand had slid right over the top of it, failing to grip it completely and the rest of his body decided to follow that course of action; his feet caved out from under him, and he collapsed.
And it would have been simple if he was alone – but he wasn't, Clara was there (More specifically, she was on, well by, his left shoulder; her hand on his face, the other on said shoulder, shaking him gently and calling his name; which was a muffled and drained out noise to his ears) and she was the cause of his location; having fallen, and landed on the floor between the kitchen and living room of the Maitland's house.
"Doctor," It's a muddled; high pitch string of different octaves, drawn out and low.
"Doctor." Something snaps inside his ear and crackles; and suddenly it's clear, the noise bubbles and fills his head; the low growl of his name, filled with desperation and frustration, followed by a repeat a few seconds later; this time, a little more desperate.
"I'm alright." He manages to choke out after a few seconds; and this admission is followed by a soft sigh of relief on her part; and underneath him the floor creaks slightly as she draws back and sits up, her hand trailing along his face for a few seconds before vanishing completely, have retreated to her lap; but it's twin remains lightly on his shoulder.
He swallows and something churns in his throat – his thoughts are spinning; and the floor, even though he's lying on it, threatens to vanish completely at any moment; feeling as though it's curving underneath his weight.
Like jelly.
He inhales – and his stomach gets a little tighter; forming little knots, that loosen just as quickly a few seconds later it's enough to make him nauseas, which doesn't help with the head spinning and the newly quick-sand floor.
"You're sure?" He finds himself asking – and then, finds himself imidetly de-rating himself for asking in the first place because of course she's sure, he's sure and undoubtedly the TARDIS will be just as confident.
That is, if Clara ever sets foot in the TARDIS again – which, she may, or may not; it's completely up to her.
Even if the latter one makes him certain that he's going to need to find the nearest bin, because he's going to vomit.
The floor shifts again, followed by the gentle brush of fabric as she goes to stand. "Of course I'm sure," She admits after a few seconds of hesitation and he doesn't miss the way her voice is laced with hurt; just the barest hint, with a flickering flame of anger underneath; because, he had no right to ask – he should have trusted her judgment; and he does, trust her judgment – on this, on anything.
"Clara," He begins after a few seconds – a few seconds being closer to imidetly after the words leave her mouth, speaking as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, drawing his legs up and preparing to stand; all the while tilting his head up to look at her – shaking slightly, the barest hint of vibration in her shoulders; her arms crossed, fingers digging like talons into her elbows, a light frown etched into her features as she stares at the wall across from them.
She doesn't answer at first – she blinks instead, clears her throat softly; a noise that crackles and ends half way, and afterwards she blinks again; and he can see the flare in her eyes even from where he lays on the floor; the way they gloss over, and a light flickers and blazes in the deep; she's preparing herself, he realizes.
She thinks he's going to leave her – and if he's honest with himself; completely, and truly honest with himself – stripping down every layer of everything that makes up who and what he is; he had considered it, just for the barest hint of time; the beginning of a second, in the darkest and disgusting part of his mind; he had considered it, turning around, away from her and walking out the door; and of course, he had loathed himself by the time said second ended.
He pushes himself up; gripping the edge of the sofa with one hand for support as he does; because that's what got him here in the first place, and on slightly shaking legs, he stands; turning to face her, even if she won't face him.
"Clara." He repeats – this time, more softly; a lighter tone than the one he had used on the floor, it's slightly tucked away and careful as it moves, gliding through the air and around it. She blinks before him; something happens in her eyes – expressions, in different shades of brown live and die; she blinks again, and with slightly glossy eyes she looks at him, and he doesn't miss the way her jaw clenches when she does so.
Her jaw unlocks before he goes to speak again – letting out a sigh, and pulling in more air; and then locks up again, and by then he's speaking; softly once more – a light and gentle tone, as though she might go running away any moment; and he wouldn't be surprised if she did, and of course he knows he'll follow her if she bolts for the stairs; and in the same hand, give her space if she needs it. "I'm not going anywhere," It leaves his mouth slowly; uncurling and fading into the surrounding atmosphere.
Her face is a clean slate – carefully blank, scrapped free of the barest hint of emotion; features sharp, eyes no longer glossy when she blinks again, finally forming little orbs of salt at the edges of her eyes. "You don't have to stay." She tells him with a slightly scratching tone, a voice that threatens to cave and break at any moment, and one hand uncurls from her elbow and flutters upwards; thumb pressing to the edges of her eyes – moving to the next, but he beats her too it; lifting a hand and whipping away the unshed tear, before dropping his hand; and she does the same, only after a few seconds to lift it again and return it to her elbow, it curls around it again; only this time a little more looser.
"Do you want me to stay?" He asks in the same tone that she had used, and he shifts slightly in his stance, partly away; partly closer in her general direction, and his feet do the same. He clears his throat and speaks again before she gets the chance to answer. "Because, Clara Oswald. I'd like to stay."
Her eyes flutter and something of a squeak escapes her mouth through slightly parted lips, which she can't seem to shut. She clears her throat; and blinks, one slow, almost thought out movement. She inhales, and opens her mouth again. "Really?" She breathes, and she clears her throat again after – a clip of noise. "Because if you're just saying that –" Her face contorts, eyes flicking to the right; to the same photograph covered wall, and a frown begins to etch into her features almost violently, eyes narrowing slightly as she rambles; also glossing over.
"I'm not just saying that," The words leave on the same breeze, and slowly he lifts a hand; going to cup her face, his thumb returning to the edge of her eye; after a few seconds her gaze returns to him – just a flicker of movement as he continues speaking. "I'd really like to stay, if you'll have me." She inhales again once he's finished speaking, a soft shaky movement, her eyes fluttering as she does so; and in the same heartbeat she lifts one hand from her side, wrapping it around the wrist that's connected to the hand on her face; cupping and rubbing the exposed skin with the edges of her fingertips, little back and forth movements; a nervous fidget.
His eyes flick to her hand; which is hardly big enough to make it all around his wrist, and he's completely silent as he watches the movement for a few drawn out seconds; seconds that could be counted as years as time stretches on, but he doesn't look at her as she makes up her mind; only returning his gaze after she clears her throat, again, another clip of noise that this time around doesn't break.
"Alright," She whispers; this is followed by a cracked and broken chuckle, one without much humor; nothing more than puffs of air, free of sound as it leaves her lips; laced with hysteria and a dash of excitement that bleeds into her voice when she speaks again. "I'll have you." Her lips turn and curve around the sentence into a blinding smile, which curves again around another broken burst of laughter; and before her, a grin etches its way onto his features and a light flickers and sparks in his eyes.
And without warning he steps forward; the same smile on his face as he pulls her too him; wrapping his arms around her frame, one around her lower back and one that spreads across her shoulders; pulling her even closer, chest to chest, for a hug.
She wiggles, and then sinks against him; melting against him, slotting into his frame with ease and her arms snake their way through the gaps made by his and come too wrap their way around his upper shoulders, and then she's returning the hug for everything she's worth, her head falling into the curve of his neck and shoulder; breath tickling the base of his throat, while the side of his head presses against the top of hers – his face contorts, and something deep inside of him clicks.
The reality of the situation clicks – she's pregnant – and it clicks deep inside his chest, deep within the cresives of scars, wrapped in barb wire and thorns; it's incredibly small, it's scraped and cracked and scarred by the surrounding objects; but it's real; and some sort of sick realization coats over him in that same second, spreading over his skin like sweat; something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck arch up, the single thought that this new family, won't replace his old one; but he'll love them just the same, if not more.
He exhales and the realization hits him again – she's pregnant - with his child. And it forces him to draw back, arms bending and curving around her; still supporting her, and she's happy to sink against them as he does so, leaning back into his grasp with an echo of a smile on her face that shines as they come face to face. "Clara," He sighs and the smile returns; blossoming slowly, pulling and uplifting the edges of her lips. "My Clara!" A strangled sigh escapes his lips at the end of her name; he pulls her in again for another hug, a flicker of soul wrecking emotion passing through him, that threatens to crack his spine and bend his knees; shaking his frame as though he's standing in the center of a thunder storm and the ground is caving in underneath his feet – joy, nervousness, excitement – before withdrawing again, and pressing their foreheads together; and then kissing her.
She tilts her head forward slightly; eyes fluttering shut a few seconds later; it's a slow slide of lips, bridging and tinkling on the edge of warmth, slowly little movements of unadulterated love and affection; and then, as the kiss continues she slowly comes to smile against his lips; a mirror image forming on his in the following seconds, followed by sharp little inhales and exhales that are laced with humor and giggles, pure and laced with excitement; before they fade into the surrounding silence.
Behind them, the door clicks and unlocks and the echo of noise fills their world, their soft, delicate and newly formed world; brimming with a sort of explosive light on the edge– the shuffle of footsteps, muddled out and faded voices, trapped behind the glass door. It's pushed open then, and the noise bleeds and thrives and fills the hall way; brushing against the walls, smashing down to them and where they stand in the living room, slightly into the kitchen, tucked away from sight until the Maitland's come stumbling, well Angie and Artie come stumbling, Mr. Maitland slowly follows; feet dragging along the floor, the brush of something against the wall that he follows in the wake of.
The shriek of laughter comes with the children; the stumble of feet as they stop in their tracks and retort slightly backwards; unsure of what to do with the situation before them, broken off little giggles floating up into the air in the newly found stillness of the room. Giggles that continue until the sound of Mr. Maitland's footsteps travel down from the hall; the floors creaking underneath his weight, and after a few seconds he clears his throat – the Doctor's eyes flick open and widen, and imidetly he's wiggling, squirming, stepping back from Clara with tainted cheeks; the barest hint of pink, dusting over normally light skin.
Clara's reluctant as she draws away from him; turning around slightly before stepping back and turning around completely, coming to stand at his side, close – shoulder to shoulder, hands fidgeting at her sides, going to grab and grasp one of his from where they hang, limp and useless at his side, the barest hint of color, more than that on his face, bleeding into her cheeks; and after that the moment surrounding them is cradled.
Smirks on the child's faces, and amusement, with something else on Mr. Maitland's; silence begins to blossom at the corners and edges of the room, thriving and floating into the air, broken when the Doctor speaks.
"She's pregnant." It's a breath of a sentence; filled with surprise, true and raw; excitement lacing his words as he speaks, he squirms slightly in his spot; feet shuffling against the floor, his hand twitching around Clara's smaller one.
And just like that – the silence changes, from free and misty, bubbling to sharp and slightly cracked, vivid and so very noticeable; losing it's comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, which is peeled back to reveal something sharp and steady and solid, clear underneath – and the bags, which had been the something to brush against the wall, in Mr. Maitland's arms crumple and slide from his grip, dropping on to the floor in the following seconds; before him, Artie and Angie are stark silent, Angie's face a mixture of her own surprise, and laced with an oncoming remark, Artie's on the other hand is more relaxed, mixed with a bit of confusion and what appears to be a sort of comfort.
And of course, the man in question turns scarlet as soon as he notices what he's said; his frame snapping up, slightly bent in shoulders now completely straight and stressed, strained; a shocked expression etching its way into his features in a few seconds as the small smile that had remained on his features drops imidetly; his eyes dash in Clara's direction, who looks just as shocked – if not more so, color steadily bleeding into her features.
"Did you just – oh my god," It's a broken whisper; a shocked and drawn out sentences on the breeze of an exhale; a frown slowly drawing itself together on her forehead before falling apart completely, her lips curl around the sentences; as though it's stuck between a smirk and smile; hinted with amusement and the horror is being pulled away; slowly removed and unpeeled from the words as she continues to speak and of course the color only continues to bleed into his face, despite her obvious relaxed posture; his shuffling gets a bit more noticeable, his gaze continues to flick across her face – a little bit of horror bleeding into his expression; making up for the horror and terror she's letting go of.
She eventually decides on a smile; the same hand that had wrapped around his wrist earlier lifts, and comes to cup his face; the barest hint of touch, remaining there for a fraction of a second, fluttering to his neck and shoulder, curling around the skin, patting it and then falling off completely. "Relax, Doctor. Breathe." She tells him with the same continued smile; taking in his rigid stance; shoulders taunt and tight, skin flushed.
His shoulders sag after a few more seconds; caving in on themselves, and underneath him his feet continue to shift, half away, half towards Clara; and around them all, the room begins to hum; it thrives, the silence losing its edge and lifting slightly; becoming almost warm, words and different phrases on the edges of tongues.
The color of his face retracts slightly, he pales noticeably as his stance becomes more relaxed; his chest suddenly seems free – he can breathe again, if he wished; but he doesn't, he's still holding his breath, still shocked and appalled with himself, despite Clara's and everyone else's obvious amusement with the situation.
And of course, it's him again who breaks the silence; feet lurching forward as he steps in that direction, a nervous and broken sentence on his lips; "I'll just – show myself out then." It's terribly stuttered, and he's almost reeling; desperately trying to flee from the situation – a bird, frantically flapping it's wings but unable to go anywhere; not realizing the window isn't open, so it continues to smack against the glass.
Artie moves next; snaking away from his father and sisters side, taking a few sharp, confidant steps in the Doctor's direction, who for whatever reason has become frozen in place; or at least, stopped any effort of moving all together as the younger boy's arms wrap around his waist in the fluid movement of a hug.
And across the room, Angie gives a snarky reply, something that leaves and rolls off her tongue just as easy and fluid as her brother's movement, something along the lines of; "About time, now you can have your own kids." Followed by Clara's defiant and humor laced tone, "I never treated you guys like my kids – and besides, Angie it's not like you ever would have let me and it's not like I wanted to." The girl in question lets out a snort, a riled up and excited noise, followed by another slick reply coated with sass. "Close enough," She clips.
Their voices are muffled and so very vivid – bright, in his ears when they speak; a steady, solid, beautiful and dazzling background noise. He's so focused on their conversation that by the time his arms begin to fold and return the embrace around Artie; the boy is already gone, having withdrawn and slid around him without another word, and what he didn't say, goes spoken by his sister – who says it with the same comfortable expression her brother had worn earlier, and she means it with genuine compassion as she says it.
"Congratulations, Clara." Followed by another small snort and a gentle tiny smile – even though he can't see it with his back turned, "And Clara's boyfriend."
Just like that, he's pulled back into the moment; no longer observing, nor simply listening to their conversations but now a part of them – he blinks, and the world regains just as much life and color before him as their conversations had held in his head, and he turns around; going to face Angie and Clara with a mixture of a smile and grin on his face. "It's the Doctor, Angie." He says and the girl before him and she snorts again, shaking her head with a smile on her face and a roll of her eyes when she looks back in his direction – and then, she's gone; parting and sliding past them, leaving the room in the same trail her brother took.
It's the three of them after that, although Mr. Maitland – George, is now in the kitchen, having picked up the formally abandoned bags from the floor, now putting away their contents in the cabinets. As the pair realizes this – slowly drifting together, towards each other; eventually slipping hand in hand - they walk from the living room and into the kitchen, where they pause and drift near the table.
But they drift together.
George casts a glance in their direction, a flicker; a smile on his face, before he pushes back a can out of view, deeper into the wooden cradle; and as he picks up another one from deep within the contents of the clear white plastic bag on the floor, he looks at them again. "Congratulations, you two." He says and his voice rings in the room – loud and clear, with an undercurrent of real happiness for the pair across from him. One hand comes up and gently brushes past the cabinet, fingers curling around the small circular knob on its corner; and as he shuts the panel, he continues to speak. "Do you two want something to drink, or eat?"
It's an invitation; a chance for a deeper conversation, they both can see it before them.
And they don't need to look at each other to know the other's decision, it had already been made before this after all; on the split second of possibility of confrontation, when the door clicked as it popped open, and the brimming noise had floated down to them.
The Doctor shakes his head, an echo of a smile on his face. "No thank you, George." And for further explanation; he continues speak. "We've got places to be, and I'd like to run a few tests – and I'm sure Clara would like to tell Dave," At his side Clara nods; as far as places to go resigns – places will wait for them, all of time and space will wait for them; locations will remain in place and years will continue to tick but can also be rewound. Tests – he will run a few, and many; just not now, and Dave, her father, he resigns in a different sort of time completely.
George bids them a grin, and nods; hands curling around the counter as he turns to face them. "Well good luck with that," He smiles at Clara, and as his eyes flicker in the direction of the Doctor, they gain a new sort of edge. "I wish you well with informing Dave," And at his side, Clara laughs softly.
"My father isn't that bad."
George is silent – an eyebrow rising slightly; and with that, they bid their final goodbyes and head for the door.
The door slides open with a gentle pop, she brushes past it and he follows, shutting it with a click behind him; and their striding across the lawn, sun glinting in the sky – which is a pale, light baby blue and free of clouds; dew covered grass bending underneath their feet; soft and silent as they go – the only noise breaking the silence as their feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk and she begins to speak.
"Hey, chin boy."
He stops, just a few inches short of her; and turns, half way, glancing over his shoulder and then around completely; taking in the sight of the gentle smile on her face and sun splattered hair, and she takes the half-step to meet him, one hand coming up to rest on his shoulder; the other on the back of his neck, and the words that had been building on the edge of his tongue melt away completely at the contact; and she's rising up, shifting onto the edges of her toes and unconsciously his lips part, just a fraction as she gets closer.
"I love you," She breaths against his lips – his eyes slide shut as she closes the centimeter gap, pressing their lips together; and almost imidetly his arms move; one hand and arm brandishing itself across her waist, the other settling a few inches above its companion; and his fingers curl around her sides, he pulls her a bit closer in a chaste way; gently, not slammed chest to chest but the gentle brush, the suggestion of it. One arm uncurls then and slides upwards, brushing past her folded in arm; the one that holds a hand on his left shoulder, curling around her shoulders and continuing, the hand of that arm brushing past her neck and fingers coming to brush against her jaw; an easy movement given the small structure of her frame.
After a few seconds, the gentle slide of lips – filled to the brim with warmth, they part.
"Clara," It escapes without his permission – the gentle sigh of her name, followed by a confession on air.
"I love you too."
Her lips bend and curve around his as she kisses him again, a slightly disfigured kiss going by the large smile on her face; one that she struggles too, and eventually gives up; trying to control. His are the mirror image; two impossibly large smiles on their faces.