The Doctor dumped the empty food cartons in a wheelie bin outside the basement, and decided to head back to the TARDIS. He paused when he reached his old oak desk. Nardole would be inside the time machine, and he really didn't fancy another lecture from him. He sat in his chair for a moment instead, a maudlin mood descending on him. He picked up the picture of Susan.

"What would you think of it all, eh?" he said, his heart heavy. He'd placed Susan's picture there the day he'd taken the oath, to remind him of the things that mattered. Hold himself to account. But the side effect of that was that he found himself wondering, sometimes, when he looked at her picture, where she was. If she was happy. If she'd lived a good life. Sometimes his hearts ached and he longed to visit. Run around a garden with a great grandchild under each arm, perhaps. Then he reminded himself that Susan and any family she had were better off without his trail of destruction anywhere near them. Nurse Joan Redfern had asked him, years ago, when he'd thought he could outwit the Family of Blood by hiding in a sleepy English village, "If you had not come here, would anyone have died?" He closed his eyes and tried to block out the screams echoing through his mind.

"Don't torture yourself. No one died today." A comforting voice, like a gentle song, whispering to his hearts. Clara.

"The Landlord and his mother did. But he had no right to preserve one life at the cost of others," he said.

"You understood how he felt, though?" Clara said. "That's why you were kind."

He opened his eyes, and there she was, standing in his office.

"He destroyed lives because he couldn't let go. I can't feel too sorry for him."

"Oh, so you've never broken the rules to save someone you care for, then?"

He didn't have an answer for that one. He dragged a hand through his hair.

"And why are you spending so much time in that vault?" she persisted.

"Clara, when you've lost as much as I have, you learn to find a way hang on to what you do have. Even if that thing is . . . problematic."

"Problematic. . . That's an interesting way to describe—"

"I don't want to talk about it!" He got up and paced around the room. "Look, this is my subconscious. I should get some say in what goes on here!"

"Do you actually know how subconscious works?" Clara said, with a dry edge to her voice. She sighed, quite loudly and theatrically. "You never were any good at facing the truth."

"You were worse!" the Doctor exclaimed.

"Yes, I was," she admitted. "I suppose we deserved each other."

"Exactly," he said. This little visitation from Clara was hitting a bit too close to home. Perhaps it was indigestion from the extra-hot jalapenos frying his neurones, making her apparition more fiery than usual.

Her voice softened. "You never told me, why you forgave me for what I did that day. Throwing the TARDIS keys away, I mean."

They stood in silence for a moment. He pictured her, distraught after Danny's death, throwing the keys into the volcano. There had been something hypnotic about her rage, all that love, all that pain and anger. Something in the dark corner of his soul had prodded him to discover just how far she would go. Clara Oswald went all the way.

He could have told her the sleep patch she thought she'd slapped on him hadn't worked, of course he could. He should have stopped her sooner, it would have been kinder. Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn't stopped her because a part of him was punishing her for loving Danny instead of him. Reflecting on that didn't make him feel particularly good about himself either. "I tried to tell you. I said—"

"Ah, your famous riddles. 'Do you think I care for you so little betraying me would make a difference?'" Clara quoted his words precisely.

He'd obviously left an impression, and oddly, that pleased him. "I was actually rather proud of that one."

She laughed. "Yeah, it was memorable," she looked up at him, rather coyly, he thought. Certainly more coyly than was necessary for a figment of his subconscious mind.

"I've often wondered exactly what you meant," she said, fingering a black pendant she wore around her neck. He hadn't noticed it before. Funny the things his fevered brain conjured up.

"It meant I would forgive you anything," he said. She looked up at him, and her soft smile made his heart race, faster than it had any business racing. She was in his head, yet she seemed so real. She was so close she made the hairs on the back of his arm stand up.

Her eyes changed and became suddenly sad. "I don't think it's healthy, to be prepared to forgive someone anything."

He sighed. "Probably not. I think maybe that's the point. I'm not sure the universe is ready for the Doctor in—" He paused. His instinct was to move slightly away from her, but his feet stayed stubbornly rooted to the spot. Was he really going to say it? Was he actually prepared to admit he was in love, even to a construct of his labyrinthine mind? Love makes you run faster, jump higher, push harder, and that's right and it's good. But unconditional love, love without borders or boundaries can push you too far. Look what happened.

She moved closer to him. He could feel her presence in his personal space as clearly as he felt Bill standing next to him earlier today. But this was different. His grandfatherly affection for Bill was wonderful and brought him the adventures and excitement he couldn't really live without, unrepentant adrenaline junkie that he was. But this wasn't the same at all. Heat rose around his neck, making him roll his shoulders and pull at his collar. This was slightly ridiculous, he realised. He was a two thousand year old Time Lord, not an adolescent Earth boy with a crush. So why was he shifting from foot to foot like a nervy teenager?

When she moved closer and placed her hand on his chest, he closed his eyes. Her touch was exquisite agony; all he ever wanted and everything he feared.

"I like your jumper," she said. "Very you."

"Clara," he murmured. He could find no other word, in a universe of a billion languages, and with the songs of a million poets to choose from, the only word he could utter was her name. "Clara."

"It's okay," she whispered in his ear.

This was Clara, always trying to save him, even now. But it wasn't okay. It was very far from okay. There were too many holes in his memory, still. He knew she told him something very important in the cloisters. So many memories of her had come back over the years. Why not that one? He guessed the answer: because the universe is not kind, and does not care for the fate of hearts who should have known better.

"I don't know what to say, Clara. You know I'm awful at this stuff."

"We could try being honest with one another."

"That's a terrible idea," he said. "I don't think that's advisable at all," he said it lightly, as if he was joking, but fear gripped him.

"Go on," she encouraged, "I'll go first. I've often want to. . ." She paused, as if she'd suddenly thought better of it.

He felt disinclined to let her off the hook, though. Just like he didn't stop her on the edge of the volcano, when he knew he should, he pressed her to answer. "Wanted to what?"

"It's silly. You'll laugh."

"Try me. I can't actually promise not to laugh, but I'll make a serious effort not to." He pulled a straight face.

"Well, I often wanted to touch your hair. I never dared ask, though."

He burst out in a laugh, in spite of himself. "My hair has a life of its own. Sometimes I wonder if it's approaching sentience. You'd probably need a permit," he quipped.

"Okay, so floof petting is out, I guess." She took a step back from him, looking a little wary. He realised too late that he'd missed the perfect chance to let her get close to him. What a fool. But, if she was a construct of his mind, did it even matter? And why was he feeling so damn flushed, like he wanted to reach out and touch her, just to see if he could. To run his fingers through her hair. Maybe if he gave into the feeling, he would get this out of his system once and for all.

He took a cleansing breath, told himself this was his own private mind palace, and he could do what he liked. He took her hand. She looked up, surprised. He felt a shock run through him. She felt as real as anything ever had. This experience, whatever it was, clearly involved some kind of tactile hallucinatory component. One hell of a jalapeno. Still, no harm, no foul, he told himself. He raised her hand so that she could touch his hair. Smiling, beaming even, she let him guide her hand.

"It's really soft," she whispered, so close he almost stopped breathing. He immediately started to think this was a mistake. Far from getting anything out of his system, now he wanted to pull her closer. He ghosted his fingers over her hair. She seemed so very real, hauntingly beautiful. He could hardly stand it.

"Clara," he whispered. "I've missed you."

Tears welled in her eyes. "This feels so real."

He wiped a tear away with his thumb. "I know." He pulled her into a full hug, holding her close. This was almost unbearable.

"What did you tell me, in the cloisters?" he asked her. "I need to know."

Something hard and cold pressed against his chest. He shifted back from Clara, just enough to see the pendant she wore around her neck. When he touched it a thrum vibrated along his fingers. Why on Earth would he hallucinate something like this? He'd enjoyed these moments with Clara, thought them harmless constructions of his mind. Now he wasn't so sure.

"What's this?" he held the dark, shining gem between his fingers. It was no bigger than his thumb nail, but he could feel power coursing through it.

Clara looked down at her chest. "That's. . ." She frowned. "I'm not sure what it is." Then her eyes widened. She took a sharp step back from the Doctor as gem started to fizz with a silvery light. A stream of bright particles curled around the black gem, and then whirled outwards. Spinning faster and faster in the air, until they became a solid mass.

"What is that? What's happening?" Clara asked.

The Doctor grabbed a screwdriver from the pot on his desk and scanned the glimmering, irregular shape. It expanded, and then steadied at about the size of his fist. "It's the same as last time. A quantum tear oscillating between dimensions. Here and not here." This really was fascinating. Like nothing he'd seen before. He turned the sonic device toward the gem on the chain around Clara's neck.

"Ahem. Are you scanning my chest?"

The Doctor flushed. "No, of course not. I'm scanning the gem that happens to be positioned on your chest."

"Oh. Because I wouldn't object. To you scanning my chest."

He glanced up, and filed that thought under things my subconscious wants Clara to say and tapped the side of the screwdriver. He still wasn't sure if the quantum tear was in his mind or happening in the real world. The two things seemed to be connected somehow. He briefly considered calling Nardole for a second opinion, but dismissed that idea almost instantly. Maybe he could call Bill. But she'd already had a busy night.

He had a suspicion what the gem might be, or represent at least. He'd have to cross reference it with the TARDIS databank to be sure, but it looked very much like it was a fragment of dark star.

"Clara, tell me something I don't know."

"What?"

"I think you're in my head. But are you? How can I touch you? If you tell me something I don't already know, then you can't just be a construct of my own imagination."

Clara tried to move towards him, around the swirling mass of silver specks, but it shifted as she did. "Doctor!" she called, her eyes wide. His hearts raced and pounded to the tune of her cries. Light exploded around him, filled his vision, his senses and his mind.

Then he was sitting at his desk with the picture of Susan in his hands. The room was silent. No lights, no quantum tears, no Clara. He put the picture down and rubbed his eyes. He was getting old. Maybe he was losing his mind. Perhaps it really would be time for bed soon.

#

Clara Oswald and Ashildr had left the Diner in a park and fly zone, hopped on a connecting air rail carriage, and had a wonderful day at the 412th Anti-Grav Olympics on New Earth. Now, they were returning with the crowds, happily mingling with all manner of life forms. Clara loved this, mixing with the citizens of the cosmos, seeing wonders she never imagined. It took her mind to a happier place. One that made sense.

Something caught her eye in the crowd. Something dark, flitting on the edge of her vision. Then it vanished.

They got off the air rail and walked through the shining towers of New Earth. She'd seen the history of New Earth in the Diner's data banks: it didn't end particularly well. But even if a story has a sad ending, she told herself, you could still enjoy the book.

That strange blackness flashed across her vision again.

"Ashildr. . ." The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. "I've got a bad feeling about—" Feathers as dark as night. A whoosh of air. A glimmer of claws. Clara didn't wait to see more. "Run!" She grabbed Ashildr's hand and dragged her off the main walkways and into a narrow alley of small shops selling trinkets old and new. One of the shops, shrouded in darkness inside, had a 'closed' sign on the door. They dived into the doorway.

"What is it?"

"I don't know! But it's freaking me right out. Something with claws and feathers. I don't want to stay here and find out!"

"I didn't see anything." Ashildr squinted at Clara. "Are you seeing things again?"

"No! That was ages ago. It hasn't happened again." Clara lied.

Ashildr wiggled her hand free from hers. "Just stop. We've been through this. You promised to tell me if—"

"Bloody hell, Ashildr. Don't you trust me any more? I hate birds. You should know why!"

"No need to throw that back at me again!"

Clara took a step away from Ashildr, ready to run if the feathery black mass showed up again, but nothing appeared. She tried to calm herself down. She didn't want to fight with Ashildr, but she had no intention of telling her the whole truth. Either something very strange had been happening over the last few weeks, or she was losing her mind. She wouldn't like to put money on which. She'd find herself staring into space, having conversations with him in her head. Not that she minded. But it had disturbed Ashildr when she told her about it the first time it happened. She'd kept it to herself after that. But it was happening more often.

But, here and now, she was sure she'd seen the bird. She felt the flap of its wings disturb the air, seen its claws glinting.

Clara lifted up her hair and turned around. "Has it changed? The tattoo?" she asked, hoping against hope that her last heart beat wasn't over. Not yet. She still had things to do. Places to see. People to meet. And she couldn't give up hope that she would see the Doctor again, one more time, for real.

Ashildr placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It's just the same. I don't think the Trap Street is calling time on you just yet."

"Okay." Clara said, relieved.

Ashildr touched the silver chain at the back of her neck. "Where did you get this? I've never noticed you wearing a necklace before, and that chain, well it's glowing."

"Is it?" Clara let her hair drop to cover the chain and the tattoo. She pulled the chain and pendant out from under her shirt. "No it isn't."

"Oh, it's stopped now. Or maybe it was a trick of the light." Ashildr said, in a tone that told Clara she thought it was nothing of the sort. "Where did you get it?"

"This? I found it in one of the wardrobe rooms," Clara said. It was partly true. She'd found the chain in a silver jewelery box, and hung the gem she'd found in the snow back in 1814 on it. Right or wrong, it reminded her of the Doctor and she wanted to keep it. After all this time of staying away, she'd earned a little indulgence, hadn't she? Where was the harm? Ashildr probably wouldn't see it like that, though. She shoved the black pendant back under her shirt.

Clara poked her head out of the shop doorway. "No sign of anything now. Perhaps I did imagine it," she didn't believe that anymore than she imagined Ashildr believed her about the necklace. This was the way they operated sometimes, each clinging to a lie, because it was easier than the truth. Story of her life, really.

Ashildr squeezed her hand. It was an unspoken understanding between them, a way of consoling each other, of finding a way to live well with what they were. He made us both. What we do with that is up to us.

Clara smiled back, and they continued down the street back to the Diner.

#

A cloaked figure inside the shop watched Clara and Ashildr leave. As it moved, the silver speckles on its shimmering cloak left trails in the darkness. The First was patient and slow to anger. Eternity was a blink of an eye to one existing outside time and space, beyond the knowledge even of the Time Lords, who arrogantly thought themselves masters of all. But at least the Time Lords accepted the rules, for the most part. They understood that there were some things that should be immutable. Some points fixed, some things that should not be overwritten. Oh, they were arrogant, and liked to think there were no mysteries they couldn't solve. They even tried to put a name to something unnameable. The Hybrid, they called it. They did not understand at all. Well, the First had tolerated the Time Lords like the petulant children they were, until this one kept bringing himself to its attention. The Doctor's lifespan was a blink of an eye to the First, but like a repeating tick he continued to make himself felt. This last incarnation was more troublesome than most. Something had to be done.

The darkness stirred, air ruffled. Two eyes like coals. Shining claws set themselves down on a counter beside the First.

"Is the trap set?" the First whispered into the darkness.

"The storm is gathering. The pieces remain out of alignment, however."

"You are under contract. Get it done."

"Synchronicity on this scale is difficult to achieve—" the Small Darkness protested.

"Then do not let me keep you from your work." The First spun itself around, its cloak becoming a vortex of light, and then it vanished.