Together, they made for the cellar stairs, knowing that they had to get down to the basement to check the plethora of readings from the TARDIS' interface — where The Doctor had moved and parked his beloved ship — and to check the equipment he had set up downstairs. It might give them some indication as to which room the Scaphe was hidden in.
The next "vision" that they were greeted with was less than wonderful. It was a Universe without Clara Oswald, a place where he was alone, brooding, and missing her. Clearly he was suffering quite badly from it.
Clara and The Doctor were standing on the stairwell when they saw it. It was too personal — somehow more personal than seeing them kissing one another or making love. This was something she'd never been meant to see. Something she never should have seen.
The other Doctor, the Twelfth Doctor from the other place, was sat on a bed of grass and autumn leaves, knelt down beside a gravestone. "Clara Oswald," it read on the stone's face. He was clutching something in his hands, some small trinket. It took Clara a moment to notice what it was — a ring. Perhaps it was a ring that he'd always meant to give her, but never had the chance.
"Doctor," Clara suddenly said. "Don't look. Please don't look."
Without hesitation, Clara took his face in her hands. She turned his attention back to her, trying to keep his gaze from the other him .
"Look at me, instead," she said softly, no hesitation in her voice whatsoever. He needed to be guided back to the present. They had dimensions to save.
She let go of the Doctor's face, bringing his hands to her own and holding them. "Don't focus on that," she mumbled softly, "focus on me." She placed his warm hands on her cheeks. They were so large that he found himself brushing her brunette tresses.
There was an unspoken understanding, one that had lingered from earlier when they'd first seen Eleven and the other Clara.
"But you're dead," he said softly, expression dazed and groggy. "In the other place, you aren't with me anymore, Clara. You're gone. And I almost lost you the other day… I had to give you my regeneration energy. I... almost lost you here as well. What if I'm not fast enough next time? Where if there's nothing I can do to save you the next time? Gods know it'll come, sooner or later. It always does."
She sat him down gently, bravely standing in front of him and almost forcing him to keep his attention on her and not on the other Doctor. "But not here," she said. "I'm still here with you. I'm not ever going anywhere. Not if I can help it."
She was standing between his thighs, her hands on his shoulders. It was sweet, gentle.
"But, Clara—"
She hushed him, doing something then that she'd never done before. She crossed a line between them. For once, she didn't care. She wasn't afraid. There was no need to be. She knew exactly how he felt about her. If anything, that's what today — and their other selves — had shown her.
She placed his hand on her chest, pressing his palm to the fabric of her blouse and letting him feel her pulse beneath his touch. "This is me, Doctor," she told him softly. "Me, alive, real. Right now, right here in front of you. I'm with you, and I'll fight like hell to keep our lives that way for as long as I possibly can. That's a promise I intend to keep."
His eyes drifted about her features, slightly taken aback by whatever had come over her. She saw his eyes drop from her features to her chest, where she'd placed his fingers and palm. It was intimate, personal. Tender.
"Clara," he began, "why is your heart beating so fast? Are you feeling alright?"
She took a breath before bravely responding to her naive, oblivious Doctor. "Because your hand is on my chest," she confessed in a whisper. "Because you're touching me." It was as obvious, as plain as she could ever be with him.
I fancy you, Doctor Idiot.
What more could she say?
"Do I make you nervous?" he suddenly asked, knowing full well what was actually happening between them right now. She gave him a quizzical look, refusing to answer and simply dropping her hand away from his, from where it had been holding his to her chest. He was a lost cause. This thing between them was probably a lost cause.
Much to her own surprise, his fingers stayed where they were. His hand didn't fall away like hers had mere moments before. "Clara, I—" He stopped himself, the fingers of his free hand reaching out to her as well. They landed bravely on her waist, the others lowering to do the same.
She swore she saw stars for a moment. It was amazing what a simple touch could do to her. She was all but unraveling at the seams for him.
"What were you going to say?" she asked, her voice betraying her in the way it wavered for him.
He was drawing her closer, between his thighs, and she seized the opportunity to wind her fingers through his unkempt, curly tresses. Just a moment of intimacy in the midst of all this chaos felt so good.
Was this really happening?
"I was just going to tell you," he began, "that I'm not sure I could exist in a Universe where you aren't alive and by my side." He might as well have just said, 'I love you with all my hearts, Clara Oswald.' It left her breathless. At a loss.
She nudged him backwards, stepping closer and slipping right into his lap there on the staircase. Her knees came to rest on either side of his hips. She heard his breath catch, saw the way his eyes fell to watch.
The hollow projection, the hollow vision from the other place was gone now. Neither of them even noticed. They were so caught up in one another, so lost in the moment and close to one another. They were sharing body heat, sharing breaths.
"Are you going to kiss me, Clara Oswald?" His voice was low, gravelly. There was hope in his tone. She felt it in her very bones. Memories of earlier, seeing their other selves kissing, began to flood back to him. And her.
"Yes, I think I am," she eventually replied. Leaning down to him, she laid her lips just over his for a long, slow kiss. She lingered there with him, eyes fluttering closed. It was gentle, loving.
All at once, the mood seemed to change. Years of longing, since he'd worn a different face, came to the surface. He deepened the kiss, fingers grasping and caressing. She was helpless to it all. His tongue parted her lips, sweeping over hers in such a possessive manner. It was nothing like she'd expected. It was sexy.
The sound that fell from her lips, a mere soft moan, was a reminder. He came-to, slowly drawing away from her. "We can't," he said softly. "We can't do this right now. We have dimensions to save, Clara."
The gravity of the situation slowly sunk in for them.
"I know, Doctor," came her feeble response as her fingers wound through and through his wild curls. He pressed his lips to her jugular, as if to mark his territory one last time before they drew away, unsteadily rising to their feet.
"We need to find the Scaphe. It's somewhere in this house," he began slowly, as if still in a haze from their heated kisses. If they weren't in trouble right now, and on a clock, he would press her to the wall and do everything he'd only ever dreamt of before.
But, alas, saving the Universe — or Universes, in this case — always came first.
