A/N: Spoilers for The Name of the Doctor. I'm running on the assumption here that Clara at least retains some knowledge of her echo lives, because she seemed to remember all the Doctor's incarnations ("I never saw that one. I saw all of you.").
It's the orange sky that does it this time, she thinks.
It was just supposed to be a lunch stop on an uninhabited planet before continuing on to the market system of Trypora. But they step out into the meadow and a vast orange sky stretches in front of them, seeming almost limitless, and even though there's only one sun and even though the grass is a sort of pale peach rather than red and even though the few trees just visible in the difference are definitely not silver it's enough to make the Doctor spin on his heel and walk right back into the TARDIS, Clara close at his heels.
He heads for the TARDIS console, jaw clenched, punching in new coordinates. "Sorry," he says tersely, as Clara comes up behind him, "I'll find us another planet, give me two ticks, I just… I didn't expect to see…."
She knows that before Trenzalore he wouldn't have reacted, would've put on a smile and his best cosmic five year old act and leapt around like nothing was wrong, but it's different now. She's seen everything, his whole life; there's no point keeping secrets. Her free hand, the one not still holding the picnic basket, finds one of his hands as she shakes her head. "No, it's okay. Come on."
She leads him through the TARDIS to her room, pulling her fluffy down comforter off the bed and spreading it on the floor. "Here. We'll eat here."
They do very little eating, though, and most of the picnic lies abandoned when the Doctor scoops her up and deposits her on her bed before getting in next to her. She lets him gather her into his arms and hold her for a while, her head tucked just beneath his ridiculous chin. With one finger she traces simple patterns into his side as she kisses his neck, kisses that start chaste and reassuring but become decidedly less so when he draws back just enough to tilt her head and press his lips to hers.
Afterwards she wakes to find him lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and it's her turn to gather him to her. She pillows his head with one arm, using her free hand to run fingers through his hair soothingly. He curls into her; she can feel his breath on her bare skin at the hollow of her neck, can feel the pads of his fingers as they skim the curve of her hip.
"Remember?" he begins, and starts to speak to her of Gallifrey, and she closes her eyes because that helps her remember best. It was one of her echo lives, yes, just on the edge of memory, but when she tries she can almost bring it into focus, like a series of old photographs, slightly blurred. When he talks of the Capitol she can see it, can remember it – the slightly subdued bustle of Gallifreyan society, the spires, the suns in the sky. The minute details of those lives - her Gallifreyan life, all her other lives - are just out of reach no matter what, but she remembers broader brush strokes, feelings and larger details.
"And I remember you, my Clara," he says, kissing her collarbone, drawing her closer. "Leading me to my TARDIS with that cheeky grin. Thank you. I didn't remember before, but I do now. I'm sorry."
"S'okay," she says simply. "I remember you, too." Because she always remembers him. That's the one picture that stands out clear as day – the old-young Doctor and his granddaughter, off to see the stars. She'd wished, back then, that she could run with him, felt a pull to follow him that she couldn't describe but they'd been strangers. No longer.
He sighs, tangling his legs with hers, like he can't get close enough. "My Clara," he repeats, sounding almost awestruck. "You've seen everything, all of it, my whole life. You, no one else. And you're here."
"Course I'm here, don't be silly. Wouldn't want to be anywhere but here. Now," she says, a half-smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "tell me about something else."
For a moment he's quiet, and then, "Do you remember this?" and begins to sing something quietly, in a language she doesn't know but assumes is Gallifreyan, but the tune is familiar and she hums along, almost unconsciously. When the last note trails into silence he pulls her down to kiss her properly and cradle her face and smile and kiss her again and she knows he's okay, for now, that the mood has passed.
"Ready for the markets?" he asks her, brushing away hair that's fallen across her eyes.
She scrunches up her face, pretending to think. "Maybe in a minute," she decides, pushing him onto his back.
They've got time, after all; they've had a thousand years of it and quite a bit of making up for all the lost bits to do.