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Oh, how I'd cry
How I'd sigh
If you got tired and said goodbye
More than I show
More than you'll ever know

The water was warm – he'd apparently seen to that (or the TARDIS was being extra cooperative) – so she could not have attributed the chill in the air to the water.

"Um…which is the uh, soap?" The Doctor asked from above, uncertain hands passing over the array of her bath products in the hanging basket.

"The purple bottle. And use the – sponge thingy. It's a gel." She didn't mention that she was still in her underwear or remark how he'd retained his. He would probably say something she didn't want to hear.

Apparently he could wait to get her naked after all.

He was efficient, almost clinical, as he passed the sponge in concentric circles down her neck, making lines along her collarbone, rubbing it detachedly over her breasts, down her stomach, then back up along each arm, fingers massaging the gel into her arms and hands. He spent the most time on the areas that had been sprayed directly, but Clara could only feel the warmth and wet of the water, the pressure of his fingers and the sponge now too light to register.

He moved to her legs, starting at the feet and working his way up, again taking more time on the stickier areas, expression never wavering from that mask of grim determination.

The only change she could see when he reached her upper thighs was a brief flash of discomfort, making her eyes sting at how he somehow managed to add insult to injury. "Um…" His thumbs strayed over the elastic of her underwear, but shied from hooking underneath. "Could you…?" He glanced up at her sheepishly.

She nodded, though she kept her gaze trained downwards so he would not see the pained expression on her face. She tried to shift so she could brace herself to remove her underwear, but her arms felt heavy, weighted down to the floor. "Um…" Eyeing them as though they'd betrayed her, she sent screaming signals that went unheeded. Horrified, she discovered the same was true for the rest of her upper torso as she tried to move her shoulders, her back, her hips, all in vain. "I can't…" She choked, meeting his eye, panicked. She shook her head, biting her lip. "I can't feel them anymore - I can't feel anything below my neck. I…I can't move."

His visage cracked for a moment, lips parting, eyes widening, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he stood up, removing his own underwear and throwing it behind him. "It's okay." His voice was gentle as he joined her on the floor, scooping her up and settling her in his lap, one arm tight around her shoulders whilst he lifted her, sliding off her underwear. "It's okay," he repeated, over and over as though mere repetition would make it so. Returning to his scrubbing, he cradled her to him, rocking her like he was comforting a frightened child.

Though the motion was soothing, she slowly found it was rather unnecessary: emotions were beginning to mute and fade, like someone was turning a dial down. She just didn't…care anymore, and it was pleasant. Welcome, even, to feel that numbness settling over her like a blanket. No anger, no resentment, no pain. So she nestled into his shoulder instead, momentarily forgetting about the sticky substance on her cheek.

"Oh!" He brought both hands up to her face. "We need to do your face, don't we?" His thumbs stroked at her cheeks, his eyes soft. He raised the sponge, but Clara had just enough muscle control left to shrink from it.

"Not…that. I've got – a face…thing. The green…" She searched for the word. It was a container. It held things. It had a top where stuff came out. You could close it. What was that word?

"Bottle, Clara – the green bottle?" He'd already retrieved it, and was anxiously rubbing his hands together to lather them up.

"Yeah, thassit." She looked up at him, noticing the alarm on his face. "You look really scared," she said dreamily.

His forced smile did nothing to erase the abject terror in his eyes. Tenderly, he administered to her, his motions slightly frenzied as he caressed her cheeks, her chin, her temples, her forehead, and she marveled at how relaxing his touch was. Her eyes fluttered shut, the pressure increasingly lighter until it disappeared completely.

"Clara?"

She could hear him, yes, but…everything was so wonderfully nothing. So dark and soft and warm, even though there was no dark or soft or warm. She would've smiled if her lips could move. No touch, no taste, no smell, no sight. All that remained was the sound of the water and his unsteady breathing.

"Clara. Clara! Clara!"

There was some displacement of air, like her head was being moved.

"No. No. Nononononono. Stay with me, darling…"

More displacement of air, the sound closer.

"Stay with me, please…please, no…" A shaking, wet hiccupping sound.

"No…no…my love…please…" The sound was losing its volume, swirling down the drain…

Then the scene changed. All of a sudden, she was hiding behind the entrance to the console room, dressing gown clutched loosely around her. Or…no – she could see herself. Standing there, shifting from one anxious foot to another, wobbling slightly in her three-inch heels.

"Doctor?" She peeked around the edge, sizing up the room. No Doctor in sight, but there was a hiss and a crackle sounding from below. She watched herself tiptoe down the first set of stairs, stooping to look over the railing. "Doctor?"

"Yes, I'm –" Crack! "I know! I'll get to it, I promise! – down here!"

Why was she seeing this? It was like she was watching a movie of one of her memories, the borders of the picture fuzzy. She tried to make a sound, but couldn't really feel anything, so she wasn't sure that she had a body or that it had a mouth to make any sound.

"Are we going to explode?" Nervous fingers moved over the railing, eyes suddenly directed overhead. Oh right, she'd had that thought about whether the TARDIS would interfere with her plan…

"Not at the moment, no." He let out a sigh, perhaps of relief.

Her fingers played with the ends of the dressing gown sash. "In the next five minutes?"

"No, no! Well…at least, I don't think so."

"In the next hour?" She thought her voice had shaken at the time, but she actually sounded confident.

A muffled noise of insult sounded from below. "You know, I have piloted this ship for over 900 years – I do sort of actually know what I'm –" Hiss! "Okay, okay! Yes, dear – I'll fix that!"

"You realise you can't call both of us dear, right? One of us might get jealous…" Ah, she was stalling.

There was a pause. "Is there a reason you're talking to me from up there?"

"No, I…" She twisted the loops around her fingers, unthreading the sash. Now she looked properly scared. Taking a breath, she let the dressing gown fall, pooling at her feet. She shivered, though she didn't remember being cold. Setting her shoulders back, she walked down the stairs, the view shifting to follow the action. Stopping at the bottom, she waited for him to look up, teeth nervously worrying her bottom lip.

He didn't look up for several seconds, but when he did, he did a double-take, sonic clattering to the floor, mouth falling open. He gawked, fingers clasping and unclasping as though they could make the sonic magically fly up into his grip. "You're not wearing any clothes," he informed her as though she wasn't aware of this.

"Noticed that, did you?" She leaned casually on the railing, her confident pose quite effectively masking her racing pulse.

At least he wasn't covering his eyes. Though he was being maddeningly respectful of looking only above her chest after the first few seconds. "Did something happen to them?" He sounded genuinely worried.

"Yeah. I took them off."

"Oh." He paused, his fidgeting starting. "And didn't put them back on."

"That was the idea, yeah." She raised her eyebrows, a corner of her mouth quirked. "Any thoughts about that?"

"About your being naked?"

"Yeah."

"Well…yes." At least he didn't look sheepish about that, though he did swallow rather audibly.

"Okay…" She said slowly, drawing the word out as she sauntered towards him, hips swaying slightly. "So then here's what I want you to do. I want you to focus on the thoughts that involve me being naked and push all the other ones to the side."

"Okay," he croaked, thumbs sweeping over his fingers.

She was almost in his space, but she stopped, hands on her hips, head tilted. Clara couldn't believe how in control she looked, how poised and in charge. "Then," she what – commanded? Ordered? Her voice rang so clear without the slightest betrayal of the frantic flapping of butterflies in her stomach. "I want you to eliminate any thoughts that don't also involve your being naked, too. Can you do that?"

His head bobbed rapidly up and down. "Yes."

"How many thoughts are left?"

"Twenty-three." He answered like a little boy trying to impress his teacher.

She raised her eyebrows, clearly pleased. "Okay." Raising a hand, she used the leverage of a hold on one edge of his waistcoat to slide into his space, keeping it as their only contact. "Now I want you to eliminate any thoughts that don't involve something we can do in the next five minutes and any that involve traveling somewhere outside the TARDIS."

"Oh." He looked like he was calculating. "In that case – nineteen – well…define traveling?"

"We don't go past those doors." She motioned with her head.

"Okay, then…eighteen," he conceded, sounding vaguely disappointed.

"Now…" She placed her other hand on his waistcoat, her thumbs stroking at the v in between. Her voice dropped to its sultriest. "I want you to eliminate any of those thoughts that involve talking."

The corners of his mouth turned up, his expression changing. "Fifteen."

"Okay…" She lowered her eyes, letting them raise slowly to his. "Now pick one…" Then she leaned into him, her mouth next to his ear. "…and show me." Pushing herself away from him, she backed up a few steps, hands dropping to her sides. She waited.

He stared at her, smirk edging towards a leer as his eyes traveled down her body, the wheels visibly turning in his head. By the time he met her gaze again, there was only heat and purpose behind it. Wiping his hands on a rag, he swaggered over to her, never breaking eye contact. Then he threw the rag down and scooped her up in one swift motion, her strappy heels clicking together. She let out a little gasp, her heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

"Which one are you going to show me?" She asked breathlessly.

His eyes sparkled, smirk widening into a wicked grin. "Eleven."

Humming her approval, her fingers played with his collar. "That just happens to be my favourite number."

Dipping his head down, his lips caught hers in a searing kiss. "I know," he practically growled.

Clara's lips still felt that kiss, though…she had no mouth, so how could she be feeling…?

The scene was fading, like the director had decided to end it there, the only sounds his footsteps and her giggles as he climbed out of the frame. But the sensation wasn't going away, this feeling like she had a mouth and there was something…something…

A whisper of something.

A…tendril of sensation, ghosting across her face. Her face?

But yes, there was something at her mouth. And, very slowly, she moved it – she found she could move it, seeking out further sensation.

"Clara?"

The sensation went away, and she mustered a very faint whine in response.

"Clara?"

Now there was another sensation, the vague feel of something about her head, and with each passing second, the grip grew tighter and tighter. There were thumbs digging into her cheeks, which were also now frantically sweeping under her eyes.

"Darling? Darling, can you hear me?"

Little by little, feeling returned to her face, ending with her eyes. She finally had control of her eyes and she opened them, her world flooded with misty green.

The Doctor exhaled on something between a sigh and a sob, his breath a welcome warmth across her face. "Hello, my love," he whispered hoarsely.