There's always a soothing hum massaging her feet with each step she takes, and there's a strange warble that tickles her ears every time the tubes at the console center pass over one another as they move synchronically day and night to keep the ship adrift. There was the occasional wheezy suction noise and the clanging of something that sounded miles away, or miles inside, and there were the steady clicks and knocks of the buttons and levers being worked.
But something was off.
Clara had dismissed it as some sort of cabin fever, telling herself that there really was no possible way she could suspect something was wrong with the ship when its captain, the man who pranced carelessly about its center, seemed as unconcerned as ever. But it irked her as they made their way past stars and suns, travelling aimlessly in time.
The Doctor flips a switch and slaps an object in front of him and that devilish smile of his – the one that at once jabs infinite terror and absolute joy into her heart – momentarily flickers over his face.
"You're staring again," he half sings, one eyebrow rising underneath the thick swipe of hair permanently set over his long brow as he continued watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Of course he would notice her, peering at him from the stairs. Not budging to board the main deck. With a look of concern souring her face.
"I am not," she sings back, gripping the railing at either side and giving him a smile as she pulls herself up the metal pathway and onto the main floor with him.
As if he hadn't done his share of staring, she thought to herself, remembering the first days of their time together. She'd caught him often, looking her over – not with any sort of admiration, but with concern and just a smidge of confusion – the same way he looked at a puzzle before he'd figured it out, or an eight headed four foot tall bug he'd found on a planet they'd landed on for lunch recently.
Pressing his palms into the edge of the console, he leans forward, twisting his body slightly towards her and he announces, "Come on then, tell me what's on your mind," and he added with an air of mischievousness, "I have told you I'm a fantastic listener – and I did teach Freud a thing or two about psychoanalysis. Of course, he was preoccupied with the size of my," he removes the Sonic from his pocket and waves it with a grin before abruptly pocketing the object as though something had crossed his mind.
She deduces and grins as he blushes.
The notion of the expanse of his mind and all of its crisscrossing circuits dancing about one another tickles her as she stands at the console and stares at the glowing greens and blues. There was the occasional splash of red and she wrinkles her nose at the color, gesturing at it all, glancing up at the monstrosity that stretched up into the ceiling before asking, "Can she get sick?"
"Can wha…? Can the Tardis get sick? Impossible." He laughs, then asks in a light, yet cautious, tone, "Why would you ask that?"
"Well you talk to her like she's an actual real thing, so I'm taken to suppose she is an actual real thing and actual real things can get sick…" she lets the words die off with the thought and she watches the amusement fade from his face in that way it does sometimes where his eyes suddenly look old and his age becomes almost palpable in the air. "Do you get sick?" She askes abruptly – not to diverge, but out of pure curiosity. "I've never seen you sick and I know it hasn't been that long of a time, but people get sick."
"Ah," he raises a finger, "But I'm not people."
"Ya," she remembers, "You're not human."
He seems somewhat hurt by the assertion, turning away from her and toying with a knob in front of him until it snaps into place and the ship gives a small lurch. "I can get sick; she can get sick. Sickness isn't limited to the mortal," he tells her solemnly.
"So you're immortal," Clara offers, moving beside him to nudge his elbow with her shoulder and she watches his eyes drift over to meet hers, a small nod and smile. "What's that like, immortality?"
"Well, technically, I can die. I could be blasted by a gamma ray cannon and then get blown up before the regeneration cycle kicks in…" and for a moment she understands he's explored the scenarios, imagined them to analyze and escape them. "Or I could be thrown into a sun and…"
"Come off it, you're immortal," Clara teases to stop him from thinking out loud any further, then repeats, "What's it like?"
"Fantastic!" He exclaims, but she watches his mind work over the answer and the brightness that illuminated his face in the second before weakens slightly as he explains, "To have all of time within your reach, to know the adventure of living never ends…"
"Forever is a long time," she interrupts sadly, fingers tracing a circular pattern etched into the panel in front of her before she looks up, seeing the defeat on his face, and half whispers, "It must be lonely."
He only smiles.
Not the smirk with the boyish charm he uses to persuade people to be amazing, or the manic smile he flashes when he's just been clever, or the smug grin when he's feeling accomplished. A genuinely accepting smile – as though she'd settled upon something more fascinating than the universe around them. "I can never be lonely as long as I have a companion along."
Narrowing her eyes at him, she asks, "And what will you do when I'm gone? I can't stay forever, you know," she points out, not anticipating the sorrow she finds in his features – as though he had already felt the loss of her presence, were already preparing for it.
There's a silent laugh and he tugs on a lever while turning a joystick. "Same as always."
"Are we so replaceable?" Clara challenges and he turns fully away from the console, a chord struck somewhere that puts a flame in his eyes. "You pick someone up and show them the stars and when you've tired of them, you drop them back off – and then find another?"
"Clara," he calls, quietly, and something about the way he says her name wets her eyes. "Clara, every person I bring aboard this ship is irreplaceable. It's because of your uniqueness that I have to eventually let our adventure come to an end."
"The mortal cannot travel with the gods forever," Clara allows with a tight smirk.
He nods, "I've had quite a few companions, and they've given me a lifetime of memories – of love, and pain, and joy, and magnificent surprises. Clara, you can't even begin to… Each of you is your own endless vortex of unimaginable strength and courage and life spilling out with every action, every word, every challenge that strides across your path." He leans again, looking haggardly in the dim blue glow washing over them. "And eventually I have to choose between selfishly keeping you until an inevitable and untimely end, or selflessly giving you up to continue in your own time while I continue in mine, and I will always choose – if given the choice – to allow for the parting of ways." The Doctor sighs and there's silence for what seems like an eternity before he nods and finishes, "It is the most difficult part of the journey, and yet it is the most necessary part of the journey."
Clara looks up at the Tardis, listens to the labored breaths it takes as they meander aboard her, and she sighs, "Is that why she gets jealous?"
"Jealous?" The Doctor spits in a tone of surprise.
"She doesn't like me," Clara nods at the machine that, for a moment, flows with a burst of yellow. "She doesn't like me because I'm just next in your long line of companions. And yeah, there's the bit where I think she doesn't trust me, but I reckon she's jealous, and she gets moreso with every new companion because when she opens those doors, we leave to explore, you and I. And we leave her behind." Clara waits, testing his reaction before she proclaims, "She's lonely, Doctor."
"She's sick," he corrects, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You mistook jealousy for sickness. And that's the questions and the concern."
"Well, Jealousy is a sickness of sorts." Clara touches the console, watching the section beneath her fingers flutter with red and orange, but she stubbornly refuses to move her hand. "Maybe she tires of being left behind. If she's anywhere near as old as yourself," he gives her a look, "It's a terribly long time to watch those who accompany you get to experience the time and space she was designed to travel through."
"She's not lonely," The Doctor asserts, but she watches his hand stroke the machine apologetically – as she'd observed before – and she does the same, trying a soothing set of soft pats that are greeted with a loud clonging that echoes through the air around them. "She's the only companion I will have forever," the Doctor admits solemnly.
Clara smiles when she realizes that while the Doctor was speaking, he was not speaking to her, but to the assortment of mechanics in front of him. He turns to her before flicking a switch and rolling his palm over an orb and then claps his hands together, rubbing them as he approaches her, hunched slightly and looking diabolical.
"What?" She immediately asks, eyes wide, and she finds herself looking to the Tardis herself for help, but she only gives a long whurp that ends in a muted explosion of energy charging into energy somewhere in her bowels.
"I've just had a thought. Outermost ring of Fursya, a technological Mecca for androids and the outcast souls of robots passed. Literally, souls of the irreparably damaged, floating around in a gassy haze looking for new storage units to inhabit," then he considers it, "Well, maybe that's just a story, but..."
"A robot doesn't have a soul!" Clara tells him incredulously as he turns and begins to steer the Tardis towards their new destination.
The Doctor gives her a chin grin and tells her pointedly, "Just a moment ago you were quite disturbed by the notion that my Tardis could be lonely, could be jealous, and you don't equate that with her having a soul?"
"But she's the Tardis. Special build!"
"Everything in the universe is special build, Clara," he tells her knowingly, and she only nods, quickly gripping the metal in front of her when the ship shifts suddenly, lurching and spinning through space and Clara listens as the momentum of sounds around her picks up. The churning of the engines is as boisterous as the shouts of glee coming from the man at the controls.
And then it comes to a quick halt, the shaking weightless feeling replaced by the solidity of a planet underneath their feet and Clara shares a smile with the Doctor, glancing towards the door, and asks, "Fursya?"
He moves quickly, passing her while rattling off, "Fursya's the planet keeping this moon in orbit, no, no, Clara, the planet isn't interesting at all. Too warm for human life – too acidic – but this moon? This moon, the first and greatest colony of abandoned, delivered, old exploratory, and even vacationing, robots, has a name – it's simply unpronounceable." He smiles at her as he reaches the front doors, waiting for her to make her way down the ramp to stand before him. "It's robot speak for 'The Achievable Dream' and it's right outside."
"Well then, enough with the words," Clara tells him matter-of-factly, pressing past him to grip the handle on the door and allow that pang of electricity bolt her stomach as she pushes open and immediately coughs. All she can think is that the air isn't done – like a half-baked cake – and she covers her mouth with a hand, glancing up at the Doctor, who wears a look of glee, despite this.
