A/n: This chapter took two days to write and that's usually a really bad sign, so if this is a disappointment, know I'm likeeeee a thousand times more disappointed than anyone else could ever be. Thank you so much for all the thoughtful reviews- you're all so wonderful. We're gearing up for the end, but there's still a few more chapters to come.
The phone calls wouldn't stop.
He was used to it, or he had been. It rarely fazed him before when Donna switched calls over to him, even if he ended up taking dozens for two hours straight. He'd gotten used to ignoring his burning ear, his tight neck, his sore back. But that was before he had Clara in his office.
He was impatient simply because he wanted to talk to her. He didn't care about what. About stocks, about new products, about the birthmark on her lower back or the first time she ever cried in public. She was sitting there, quiet and productive, and his attention was scattered about in what felt like thousands of pieces. There were a few focusing on his phone call, a handful watching the clock, and an alarming amount were curled up in Clara's lap. He wanted her to tell him something.
When lunch time finally arrived, he answered Donna's call quickly, his patience so thin it caused his teeth to grind together.
"I'm going to lunch." He told her shortly.
"Come again? You don't have any lunch meetings." Donna argued.
The Doctor's eyes lifted from the surface of his desk and sought out Clara, absorbed in whatever she was reading on her laptop. She was idly twisting the small gold earring in her right ear as she did so, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He clenched his fists and looked back down to the desk.
"I know." He replied shortly.
"But what about the—!"
He slammed the phone down almost too forcefully, cutting off Donna's words. He reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose afterwards and huffed, taking a moment to just sit. No ringing phone, no dinging email notifications, no frantic executives rushing through the doors seeking last minute approvals. Just the light sound of Clara's fingers tapping against her laptop keys.
Her voice was casual.
"You're freaking them all out, you know."
He lifted his head and let his hand fall back into his lap, his eyes moving to look at Clara. She hadn't stopped whatever she was doing before; her fingers were still dancing over the keys and her face was unaffected. He wished he knew how she could do that, how she could block everything out so well. He wondered if it had anything to do with the loudness in her head.
"How so?" He asked.
She moved her right hand to the trackpad, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip again as she clicked a few times. His eyes snagged on the gentle rise of her chest as she breathed, and for a moment, they were ensnarled. He watched the buttons pull tight for a brief moment whenever she inhaled fully, bits of skin showing through the small gaps, and he couldn't help but imagine her panting in that top.
"They had you pinned. They learned how to handle you. And then you did something they never would have expected, and now they don't know what to do." Clara explained. She looked up abruptly just a moment too soon; she'd caught his gaze.
"What did I do?" He asked her, but then he couldn't stop himself from offering an explanation. His eyes had lingered just a moment too long. "You can't imagine how badly I want to see you panting in that blouse."
Clara's voice was flippant as she turned back to her laptop. "Probably about as badly as I want to be. And that's what I'm talking about. They walk in here and see us getting along and it throws them off."
He could have mentioned it then. He could have said So let me take it off of you tonight. Come stay with me. Let me stay with you. But the words felt too intimate, far more intimate than admitting he found her attractive. There was nothing new there. He swallowed the words and they scratched his throat going down.
"Well, they're just going to have to get used to it, aren't they?" He responded easily.
Clara looked up quickly at that, lips curling into a small, surprised smile. She looked at him for a moment and then nodded, her eyes turning down to her computer keys. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ears, her cheeks pink.
"Yeah. They are." She agreed.
It was her bashfulness that got him. He fidgeted slightly, folding his hands on top of the desk and then moving them to his pockets.
"Do you want to…get lunch?" He asked. He backtracked quickly, even though her expression hadn't shifted at all. "I mean—or we could order something and just eat it up here. I need a break from the telephone."
Clara's smile grew and he didn't think he imagined the affection shining in her eyes for a brief moment. She shut her laptop in an instant, moving it to the armchair across from her.
"Sure. I'm starving." She agreed.
He grinned at that and rose easily, crossing the space to meet her in front of the door. He patted his pockets for his wallet as she pulled her purse from inside her briefcase. As they walked out the door, he looked down at her, lips still curved up.
"Starving, huh?" He asked.
Clara waved back at Donna—whose wave had been pretty sassy, not that Clara seemed to care—and then glanced up at him, her fingers tightening around the strap of her purse.
"Yeah. Either that or I'm having some sort of intestinal bleed." She decided.
When his lips failed to fall back down into his default grimace, he turned his face to the opposite side.
"Let's get you fed then." He finally said. He didn't think he imagined the slight spring in her step, either. He wondered what it would feel like to be hungry and have an appetite for the first time in months, but he couldn't fathom it. He supposed it must have felt a lot like healing.
They were exiting the building when the Doctor heard someone call out Clara's name hurriedly. They stepped to the side once they were outside of the doorway and looked back through the glass doors, not surprised to see Jack hurrying towards them, Rory tagging along behind him. Jack's smile grew to a beam when he spotted the Doctor standing beside her. The Doctor groaned. Waking up naked to Jack's beaming face had been one of the most disarming moments of his entire life, and he was certain he'd only brushed the top of it.
"Here we go again." He sighed heavily.
Clara was smiling back at them, but she groaned something through her gritted teeth.
"Tell me about it."
He looked at her in surprise, having fully expected a scold. She and Jack seemed very close.
"Really? I thought you'd stick up for him." He whispered interestedly.
Clara waved back at Rory as they neared the automatic doors. She tipped her head to the side as she replied, the crown of her head resting against his bicep for a brief moment.
"Jack doesn't quite…get that not everyone's as open about sex as he is. He likes to swap anecdotes like veterans share war stories. Expect questions you don't even know the answer to about positions you didn't even know existed. Just smile and say 'tell me about your experiences with that, Jack' and usually he rants and lets it—Hello!"
Jack and Rory came to a stop outside of the doors, laden with overeager eyes and half-empty Starbucks cups. The Doctor greeted Rory while Jack examined their bodies intently, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth slowly as he did. After everyone exchanged hellos, they gradually fell still, looking up at Jack with curious expressions.
"Tsk, tsk. Black tights? I've got to teach you the skills of concealing." Jack finally told Clara.
That didn't take long. The Doctor reached over and grasped Clara's elbow, smiling tightly at them.
"We were just going to lunch." He said.
Jack beamed. "Brilliant! We were too!"
Rory walked to Clara's other side and looped his arm with hers. "We'll tag along!"
Clara smiled politely, but after they set out, he glanced down at her at the same moment she looked up. Her expression told him all he needed to know. He wondered if she'd been dying to talk to him, too.
They stopped at a café two blocks down, one the Doctor had been to a few times. He tightened his hand on her elbow as Jack and Rory stepped up to order, keeping her behind with him. He watched Rory turn around right before he ordered, his eyes searching the crowd for Clara. He looked away quickly when the Doctor met his eyes.
"Rory still doesn't trust me." He realized.
Clara looked up at him, her frown pronounced. He'd tried to say the words emotionlessly, as a fact he didn't care about one way or the other, but he felt she somehow sensed how uneasy it made him.
"Well, he doesn't really know you. He'll get over it." She reassured. She pulled on her arm, tugging him closer. "Come on, after we order I want you to show me how to fix the tea like we had it this morning."
He watched her step up to the counter, hands pressing down on the top as she lifted herself up on her tiptoes to peer towards the menu, and he felt such an intense need to know her suddenly—to know things no one else knew, to tell her things he'd never told anyone. Knowing things about people was power, and he wanted that power, but not to control her. To know how to help her so she could always be this way.
Jack and Rory received their food first and claimed a table for the four of them. The Doctor met Clara at the condiments counter after they passed him his own mug of tea, the oversized mug they'd handed her held uncertainly in her hands. She looked up in relief when his side pressed against hers.
"Good, okay. I want it just like it was this morning." She declared, her voice serious and clear like she was giving some sort of business proposition. She looked back to the shelves holding messy bottles of honey, half-empty glass containers of sugar, and poorly refrigerated tumblers of milk, her knuckle rising to trace her bottom lip. "Was it honey then milk? Or milk then honey? Or—we put milk in it, didn't we?"
He set his mug down on the countertop, turning to look down at her with an amused smile. He waited until she glanced up at him and then he grabbed the sticky bottle of honey. He passed it to her, his other hand pressing to her lower back as she began squeezing it into her tea. They spoke in whispers as they doctored up their drinks, and by the time their orders were ready and they were returning to their seats, Jack and Rory weren't even pretending to have been doing anything but staring at them.
It was as awkward as the Doctor assumed it'd be. He felt he could have done the things he wanted to do—like touching the back of Clara's hand as she reached for her fork, telling her he thought she looked beautiful—but not with people watching. He started eating his pimento cheese sandwich, glancing up at Clara to make sure she was actually eating like she'd said she would. He met her eyes right as she brought the spoon to her mouth, and he smiled at her quickly, looking back down towards his food.
"So, how's the new energy bill affecting—"
"Yeah, yeah, conserving energy, new lightbulbs—we're all very interested." Jack cut Rory off impatiently. Rory scowled at him, turning to give Clara a vexed look. She took Rory's hand over the top of the table, giving his knuckles an apologetic squeeze.
Jack continued. "I've got a more interesting question. A crucial question. Something I've always wondered."
The Doctor dreaded finding out what it was. He wasn't going to ask him. He wasn't going to encourage him. He kept his eyes chained determinately on his plate, but Jack didn't need his feigned interest.
"How's Clara's head? Because on the one hand, I feel like it might be subpar—"
"Excuse me!" Clara interrupted, her voice lifted with insult.
"—with her impatience, you know how New Yorkers are, always getting things done as quickly as possible. But then there's a part of me that thinks she might be really damn good at it, she's got that kind of mysterious air about her, one that kind of says 'I'm either going to suck you off or chop it off, but I'm worth the risk to find out which it is'. You know?"
The Doctor lifted a hand and rubbed his face wearily. Clara didn't waste any time rising from her seat and leaning across the table to lightly smack Jack on the side of the head. He didn't seem fazed in the slightest. Rory had his face hidden behind his hands and he was murmuring something that sounded like God I need new friends.
"I'm about this close to having you find out which, and it's not going to be the first one." Clara told Jack darkly.
Jack waved off her threat. "You love me to shitting pieces. So which is it? I've got a bet going but I won't tell you which I put my money on, in case it sways your answer."
Clara looked to Rory angrily. He lifted his hands immediately, his face red. "He does not have a bet with me! It's with my wife. My wife that I'm not claiming at this current moment in time!"
Jack kept talking, the words falling from him without thought. "We never could ask John because he always flailed and freaked out whenever you mentioned anything that would sound out of place in a Disney movie."
The Doctor saw Jack's face fall and his eyes flicker quickly to Clara in concern once he realized what he'd said. The Doctor didn't turn to look at her, simply because he felt she probably didn't want three sets of eyes on her, but he watched her posture from the corner of his eye. Her shoulders tensed for a moment.
He was desperate to have their attention off of Clara.
"Tell me about your experiences with giving head, Jack." He asked stiffly, remembering Clara's advice at the last moment. He heard her laugh quietly from his side, quick and automatic, and it made him worry less.
Jack turned his attention to the Doctor immediately, chest puffing out with pride.
"How long have you got?" He joked.
While Jack rambled on about his personal experiences with road head, the Doctor slid his chair over slightly. Just enough that he could reach over and set his hand on Clara's leg. He was reaching to do it, worried that she was upset, when he caught a sudden whiff of liquor.
Someone beat him in his quest to touch her. Clara flinched violently when Dalek's arms wrapped around her shoulders, his chin pressing hard against the top of her head. The Doctor turned his head so fast he felt a muscle pull, staring in surprise at Dalek. He looked completely relaxed, smiling easily across the table at Jack and Rory, holding Clara like he hugged her from behind every day. But all the ease in the world couldn't have made up for the way Clara was tensed, her fists clenched on top of the table, eyes wide and panicked.
"Good afternoon!" He greeted everyone cheerfully. Jack and Rory were looking at each other in confusion, their eyes eventually turning to the Doctor as if he had the answers. And he did have them, but he couldn't give them away any more than he could force Dalek's hands from Clara's body.
"Afternoon." The Doctor finally bit out, once he realized Dalek wasn't moving from behind Clara's chair until they began playing along. Dalek smiled tightly at the Doctor and then looked to Jack and Rory, forcing a conversation at the same moment his arms began sliding down.
"Beautiful weather today, don't you think? It's so warm."
From the other side of the table, Rory and Jack couldn't see what the Doctor could see. Dalek's closed hands moved to her hips, his movements hidden below the tabletop now, and the Doctor watched as he slowly inched his closed fists into the pockets of Clara's skirt. She was frozen, horrified; her eyes were chained on the sugar packets sitting in the middle of the table as he slowly removed his hands from her pockets.
He straightened and turned, giving the Doctor a smile. "I was just in the neighborhood. I thought I'd stop in to make sure you've cleared your schedule for our meeting on August 14th."
The Doctor was having a difficult time focusing. He watched Clara drop her hands into her lap, her trembling fingers sticking down into her pockets. When her fingertips brushed whatever Dalek had placed in there, she began noticeably shaking.
"Yes. Yes, I believe Donna wrote it down." The Doctor said quickly. He realized all he could do to help now would be to get Dalek away from them as quickly as possible. He was irrationally angry at Dalek, as if he'd expected better. He didn't have to do this here. He could have emailed them and said he wanted to meet up with them. He didn't have to arrive and shake Clara up after she'd finally started recovering from the trauma of their last run in with him. But the Doctor supposed upsetting them had been part of the intent.
"I look forward to it." The Doctor lied. "Where did the location get changed to, again? I want to make sure Donna fixed it."
Dalek grinned almost condescendingly, making it clear he understood exactly what the Doctor was doing. He reached a hand down and brushed his fingers through Clara's hair thoughtfully, ignoring the way she cringed back from his touch, arms winding around herself.
"Ms. Oswald's office, of course. Ten o'clock. See you then." He looked to Rory and Jack, who were watching the exchange with looks of confusion and unease. "Nice to see you two."
He had only taken a few steps away when Clara pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, her eyes landing everywhere but their faces.
"I—I'm feeling sick." She muttered. They watched as she all but sprinted to the bathroom, arms still crossed over her midriff.
"Who was that?" Rory asked Jack uneasily. Jack shrugged and they both looked to the Doctor, questioning glances aimed his way, but it was all rising up inside of the Doctor too fast. His concern and anger crested, his head spinning with fear, and he didn't even spare a glance towards Rory and Jack as he jumped to his feet. He shoved past people and pushed his way through the door of the women's toilets, heart hammering hard.
When he walked in, Clara was nearly in hysterics. She was standing in the middle of the small bathroom, her hands violently untucking her blouse from her skirt, her breaths only a little better than wheezes. He stared at her in confusion for five seconds before he noticed the familiar pills littering the floor around her.
"Get them off of me!" She gasped, her hands moving senselessly underneath the waistband of her tights, as if she thought he'd somehow gotten them wedged between her skin and the thick nylon. She reached up and gave her blouse a shake, like she expected pills to tumble from the creases. He watched her for a moment, stuck and sweltering from his fury at Dalek, and then it all knocked back into place. It was the sharp torment in her eyes that did it.
He hurried over and reached for her, his arms locking around her waist. He pulled her back against him and pressed his mouth to her shoulder, his lips pressing briefly in a kiss, thoughtless to anything but calming her down.
"Hey," he said softly, and somehow that one word had her relaxing against him with a shuddering breath. She fell still, her hands hanging at her sides, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized was jammed in his throat. The pressure in his chest eased as he did.
He breathed against her shoulder as he moved his hands to the entrances of her pockets, pushing them down into her skirt. He prodded against the fabric, but after running his fingers around the space three times, he concluded there were none left.
"There's no more." He promised her. He could hear them grinding to powder underneath his feet as he shifted his weight, stepping down on a few. He wanted suddenly to stomp on each one. He felt it might help him feel less angry.
Clara was shivering.
"I can't be in here. I have to go. I can't—"
He pressed his lips back to her shoulder, his arms tightening around her. It calmed her for a brief moment, long enough for him to take a step back and hand her another reassurance. He didn't want her running out into café when she was this upset. That'd not only bring attention to her and make Jack even more suspicious, but it also made her a weakened target if Dalek was around. He wanted her to stay by his side.
"I'm going to pick them all up and get rid of them." He decided. "Close your eyes and count to sixty and then they'll be gone. I promise."
She shook her head, eyes wide and tearful.
"I can't. I can't." She fretted.
He locked his jaw and took a few steps over to her, his hands grabbing her upper arms tightly like he had in her office what felt like weeks ago now. He watched her eyes dart from him to the pills and back again, a never-ending dance of longing.
"You can."
She locked eyes with him and held his gaze for a long moment. When she slowly closed her eyes and exhaled shakily, he felt his shoulders relaxing. She would be fine. She wasn't going to take one. He'd clean it up and they could pretend it hadn't happened.
He slid along the dingy tiles on his knees, picking up each one. He rose slowly to his feet, his knees aching sharply, and then he dropped them all into the toilet. He flushed them and turned to Clara, relieved to see her eyes were still shut and her lips were moving wordlessly as she counted underneath her breath.
"It's okay." He told her.
Her eyelids fluttered up. For a moment he just stood there and looked at her, taking in her destroyed expression, and then he felt his throat stitching closed. It wasn't fair. Dalek had no reason to punish her like this. He couldn't help but feel like her life was a series of getting shoved down after she'd finally stood back up, and she looked so low that he couldn't keep from stepping across the space between them to offer her a hand. Wasn't there someone out there who wanted to keep her from getting trampled?
There was. It was just a shame that it was him. He was already trampled enough as it was.
He touched her arms first, staring at her trembling lips with a frown. And then he hesitantly pulled her forward and folded her against his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around her before he could second-guess it. Before he could be scared of it. She was tense for a few awful seconds, but she slowly relaxed into him. Her words were wobbly when she spoke.
"I wish I never had." She whispered into his chest. He lifted an arm and rubbed it up and down her back, feeling for a moment that his heart was being stretched far past its limits. Any moment he was sure it'd snap. "I wish I hadn't."
And he wished it too, more than he felt justified to tell her right then. He wished he could go back in time and never let her touch the bottle, much less set a pill on her tongue. He clenched his eyes shut and wondered how anyone in the world could believe some benevolent force was controlling them.
"I know, Clara," he whispered. He felt his eyes sting with tears that he didn't want to show. She would suffer forever to a certain degree, and in that moment, he couldn't lie to himself and pretend it wasn't true. He pressed his lips into a firm line and rested his cheek against the top of her head. He thought about his mother, weeping her way through a withdrawal only a month before her ultimate overdose. In the end, they all wished they never had. "I know."
Jack stopped dead in his tracks after only one step into the bathroom. He met the Doctor's eyes over the top of Clara's head, his face pale and lips parted. He took a hesitant step towards Clara in concern.
"Who the hell was that?" He finally demanded. His eyes drifted down to Clara. "Are you okay, Clara? Should I call someone?"
Clara jerked back from the Doctor's embrace like she'd been shocked, turning on her heel to stare at Jack.
"No! Don't call anyone. It's fine. Really. I'm just…sick." She lied. The Doctor felt that even a complete stranger wouldn't have bought that lie. She looked the furthest thing from fine. But Jack seemed to realize how desperate she was for the subject to be dropped. He nodded after a moment and then jerked his thumb towards the doorway.
"I'll just…I'll be at the table." He finally said, but he worded it like a question. The Doctor nodded.
"Is this what it's going to be like from now on? Is Dalek going to torture me any chance he gets?" Clara asked him, once Jack had left the bathroom. He glanced down at her, taking in the way she was fidgeting so nervously, her hands still unsteady. And just like that he knew he couldn't send her home alone tonight in good conscience. He'd have to at least ask.
"I don't know. I hope not." He answered. He reached forward and touched her hip, waiting until her eyes were finally meeting his. "Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"
Her eyes were damp with tears. She studied his eyes, her arms wrapping back around her waist. She nodded a couple times, her eyes squeezing shut against her building tears.
"Yeah. Please." She whispered. He took another step forward and rubbed the side of her arm, giving it a brief squeeze of reassurance. He didn't know if it helped much, but he was learning. He didn't know how to comfort her with anything but sex, and he wasn't sure when he'd decided he wanted to. But he watched her face carefully to see what made the lines on her forehead smooth and what didn't, and when he pulled her in for another quick hug, he realized hugs were what helped the most. Hugging was and always had been wildly out of his comfort zone, but he would learn. He would learn to hug her as she needed and she would learn how to make his tea. And maybe it really was that simple.
He stopped by his flat for two hours after work, long enough to feed Tardis and pet her until she got bored. He packed a bag and walked the block to Waldorf Towers, his heart pounding impatiently. She'd been in better spirits near the end of the work day, thanks to a story he'd thought to tell her between phone calls about the time his jeans fell down on stage during a play in secondary school, but he could tell she was scared of being alone. He'd asked her if it was Dalek she was scared of, or the hired men, and she'd told him it was herself. He still wasn't really sure what she'd meant by that, but at least he could ask her soon.
She answered the door right after his first knock, her face flooded with genuine, open relief at the sight of him. He followed her into the foyer and watched as she locked the door and slid the chain back into place. She'd changed into cotton shorts and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back. Noel was in the middle of dinner and spared him a brief tail wag but seemed otherwise uninterested, not that he could blame her.
"Hi," he greeted. He shifted his weight awkwardly, clenching his fists at his sides.
Clara's hands were soft as she grabbed his forearm, tugging him gently towards the kitchen. He listened to the soft padding off her feet as she walked and eyed the slight sway of her hips, his heart easing up. She seemed less weighed down.
"Have you eaten?" She asked him. She brought him to a stop in the kitchen and gestured towards the boxes of Chinese takeout. "I got Chinese."
He smiled at her appreciatively, shaking his head.
"Not yet. It smells great." He said.
He pretended not to notice the way her shoulders lowered, almost with relief. She fidgeted with her fingers and then handed him a plate, nodding towards the boxes.
"Have at it; I've already made my plate. Have as much as you like."
He spooned out rice, alternating between watching what he was doing and watching her. She crossed to the living room and stood in front of the window for a moment, her hands reaching behind her to adjust her ponytail. He watched the way the vermilion hue of the setting sun settled around her, seeping warmly into her light skin, and it was all he could do to keep from crossing over to her and pressing her into the wall. He wanted to cover her body with his and kiss the curve of her lip because he still hadn't forgotten the way it'd trembled at lunch. He wanted to pull her hair down and tangle his fingers in it and tell her the truth he couldn't bear to. I want to save you, Clara. Just this once. I want to save someone and I want it to be you.
They sat down on the couch with their plates in their laps. She didn't say much as she ate, but she'd glance up at him every now and then, almost like she was checking that he was still there. The Doctor knew she needed something, but he didn't know her well enough to know what it was.
"Are you all right?" He finally asked. He lowered his fork and angled towards her. She'd barely touched her food.
"No." She admitted. She looked down at her lap and reached up to rub at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "But I don't want to talk about why."
It was difficult to nod and let it go. He wanted to push; he wanted to know what was going on in her head so he could find a way to stop it. But he had to trust that she knew what she needed better than he did.
"All right." He responded.
She nodded, dropping her eyes back to her plate. She stared at it for a few moments and then looked back up, her eyes dancing with something he couldn't place. She gazed at him carefully and moved her plate from her lap to the coffee table, only lowering her eyes from his for a moment. She closed the distance between them quickly and pressed a hand to the back of his neck, bringing his lips to hers, but this kiss was different than they normally were. She shifted closer, her fingers running lightly over his hairline, her lips brushing his gently. He set his hands softly on her waist and kissed her back, mindful to match the pace she was setting. She parted her lips and moved back, her mouth only millimeters from his, her breaths mingling with his until they were both breathing in hot, sticky air from each other's mouths. He didn't know what she was searching for. He didn't know what she expected to find. But after a moment she leaned back in, tongue pushing past his parted lips, and he guessed she'd found it.
Her eyes were bright when she pulled back, running her tongue over her bottom lip in the way that always drove him mad. She seemed to fight with the words before she said them.
"I wondered if it would help." She explained.
He worked to keep his face impassive.
"And did it?"
Her gaze was abruptly heavy. It was hard to look away from it, like it was pinning him down. He watched her struggle underneath the weight of it, his own chest echoing with discomfort for her sake.
"It always does. I'm afraid I won't know how to handle this when you leave. You're the only way I know how to deal with cravings, with emptiness."
The words stung him. His eyebrows rose and his lips parted, that heaviness taking root inside of himself too. He knew what he should have done. He should have left, he should have realized then that this was bad. She was getting dependent on him and he was getting sucked into her darkness. But he was drawn to it. He was drawn to her. He liked to tell himself it was to save her, but part of him wondered if it wasn't truly for the sake of burning up beside her. But God, wouldn't that be a perfect way to go?
"I'm not leaving. Who told you I was leaving?" Where on earth would he even go?
She looked away. She didn't answer, but she didn't have to. He was sure that to her, losing the people she cared about was a given now. No one had to tell her anything, but he would still try.
"I can't leave." The words left him bluntly. He didn't know any way to sugarcoat them. "I'm invested now. And I—" he stopped, the words coating his throat. He felt the urge to cough them up, but he wanted to give them to her gently. "Well, this is where I want to be. And I think you're great, Clara."
This time when she kissed him, he could feel it.
She was invested, too.
She was the wildest thing that had ever happened to him. It only took a month to understand that.
She sat in his office with him during the days and he slept in her hotel suite with her at nights. Some days she had the highest highs—she'd wake up smiling and she'd go to sleep smiling—and sometimes she was low as low could be. But after that night they had Chinese together on her couch, she made a point of kissing him anytime things were as bad as they could get. And usually it was enough.
On the easy days she only burned him. She'd kiss him awake with her lips curved up and he'd feel his skin sizzling. They'd go through the day sharing sly smiles and personal anecdotes. They'd eat dinner on her couch and put on movies they always talked the whole way through. But some days she consumed him entirely. He woke up with the taste of her on his lips and he couldn't think of anything else. They fucked in the morning, at lunchtime, twice when they got home. They were manic and they grasped at each other, bit into each other, buried into each other. The phone calls built up, the cancelled meetings swelled, their bodies ached and their skin grew so used to touching that it felt almost like being naked to not be in contact somehow.
And after all the hatred, after all the dislike, he couldn't find a fucking thing he didn't like about her. He loved her knees, her breezy laugh in the mornings, her dislike for crime shows. He was infatuated with the way she stirred her tea with the handle of the spoon, with the way she hung backwards off the couch when she read books, with the way she talked to Noel in whispers when he was around like she was afraid he'd tease her for it. He held her hand sometimes when the affection got too fierce to hold back and he loved the way she always looked up at him in surprise, her cheeks pinking like it was the most intimate thing they'd ever done. He couldn't decide what he loved more: her face after she came or the way she looked at him when he was telling her something personal. Both expressions made him feel more accepted and loved than he ever had in his entire life, and because of that, she could have set herself on fire and he would have clutched her body to his anyway. He would have kissed her, would have licked the flames from the inside of her mouth. He would have turned to ashes smiling.
He would either save her or go down with her. There was no other alternative. He wasn't sure when it'd happened, but he felt it must have been sometime during sleep, with the night sky puddled on her back and her feet pressed to his calves.
And sometimes she told him things that didn't make much sense to him, things that felt like pieces to a puzzle he didn't even own, out of place and mismatched. She always uttered them softly, her voice weighty with seriousness, and it was her tone that made him hold the admissions close even if he didn't quite get them. You set me free. You make me forget to fear this, she'd said once. You make me feel safer when I'm sleeping with you than I feel doing anything else. If it was a mismatched piece, it was a corner piece trying so hard to mesh with the innards of another puzzle. He always felt it was important by the hesitant way her breath skidded past her lips, but he wouldn't question its presence. You make me believe I'm good. It was that one that always dug nails into his heart.
They met up with the commercial manager of John F. Kennedy International Airport on a manic morning. They woke up in a frenzy and that's the way they stayed. They made it to the conference room with only seconds to spare, Clara's lipstick smudged and the Doctor's tie hanging loosely around his neck. He reached over and ran his thumb along the skin just underneath her bottom lip, rubbing away the smeared red as best he could, and Clara reached up and quickly tied his tie. They ran their hands over their clothes and did final checks, and then they hurried through the doorway, the Doctor trying to figure out how exactly he was supposed to sit beside Clara the entire meeting and not think about the way she'd looked pressed against the living room wall less than an hour prior.
The manager was a younger man, mid-thirties if the Doctor had to guess. He'd been checking his watch when they entered, his briefcase still shut at his feet. He stood as they walked in and the Doctor shook his hand firmly, stepping to the side to watch as he shook Clara's hand. He ground his teeth at the way the man swept his thumb over the back of her hand in a caress, his eyebrows up in his hairline as he took her in. So it would be a jealousy day. The Doctor sat down into the chair across from the manager and tried to ignore the irritation blossoming in his stomach. He didn't do too well on jealousy days.
"Thank you for meeting with me." The manager said, his eyes locked solely on Clara as she slowly sat down in the seat beside the Doctor's. He watched her cross and uncross her legs, shifting her hips to the side, and he didn't have to wonder why. His thighs were stinging with pain.
"No problem, we're intrigued to hear your business proposal." Clara responded. She rested her forearms on the table, her fingers interlocked, automatically taking a dominant posture. She leaned forward and looked towards the Doctor. That was all the prompting he needed.
"Ms. Oswald and I are interested in the prospect of having Everest sell merchandise past your security checkpoints." The Doctor told him. He lifted a finger and then reached down, pulling a copy of the man's original email out. He tapped his finger to the circled number. "However, we don't like the monthly rent price for the venue, nor the extra service fees."
The man—Henry Latimer as the email reminded the Doctor—frowned. He looked down at his own calculations in front of him, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Those are our standard fees." Latimer told him. He glanced back up to the Doctor. "What did you have in mind to be more suitable?"
The Doctor glanced back down at the email, towards the calculations Jack had done in the corners, but Clara was speaking up before he had the chance to say anything at all.
"We want it halved."
Latimer seemed caught between laughing and being insulted. The Doctor examined the profile of her face. Her expression was hardened and she was leaning forward, gaze locked seriously on Latimer. The Doctor had never been to a meeting of this nature with her before. He'd never expected she'd be such a hard negotiator, but he slowly understood why people usually asked to meet with him alone when negotiating deals.
"Halved? Are you joking?" Latimer demanded. "Why would we do that?"
Clara lifted her eyebrows challengingly, her lips parting. The Doctor watched her slowly lean back, her hands falling into her lap, and he'd never been so taken aback in his life. And she'd never looked sexier to him. She never dropped her eyes from Latimer.
"Cut the rent and fees by 50% and we'll give you 5% of our profits every other month." She ordered.
It was a shit deal. The Doctor knew it was a shit deal, Latimer knew it was a shit deal. Clara surely knew it was. But she didn't back down from it. Latimer watched her in disbelief, turning his eyes to the Doctor's as if to ask is she serious?
He'd learned by now not to question Clara Oswald's instincts. The Doctor casually leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms behind his head. He kicked his legs out and smiled towards Latimer.
"It's a better deal than she gave Hartsfield-Jackson." He lied. "We still haven't gotten back to them yet, but they're ready and willing, so it doesn't matter which way. We're only expanding to one airport, and we wanted to keep it in the home state, but they are the busiest airport in the country."
Latimer shook his head, glancing between the Doctor and Clara.
"But why would Hartsfield-Jackson take that deal?" He demanded.
Clara leaned forward, her lips curved up into a knowing smirk. The Doctor swallowed hard, trying his hardest to keep from tracing his eyes down to her thighs.
"Because I told them about our new line of everyday products and they understood what you're about to. Everest is going to make more money this next year than it's made in five years combined. We're due to expand to ten more countries by the new year." She told him seriously. She leaned back into her chair, mirroring the Doctor's relaxed posture. She turned and glanced at him before she continued her speech to Latimer, and she had the nerve to wink at him. He shifted in his seat as he went hot around the collar, working hard to keep his thoughts from showing. Clara looked back to Latimer and shrugged. "So really, Henry, you have two choices. You can take my offer and leave here with an investment, or you can deny it, go back to work, tell them you were too afraid, and then when you see us on CNN you can sleep comfortably knowing that you didn't take any risks at all."
He leaned slowly back in his chair, as if to get away from Clara's intent stare. He shook his head and looked down at his papers.
"Cutting it by half is a lot to ask." He muttered. But the Doctor could hear the weakness snaking into his voice.
"Not when you remember you'll be getting 5% of our profits every other month." Clara argued.
The Doctor glanced casually at his papers, his eyes scanning over Jack's calculations. He felt his lips curve up wickedly when he realized how deceitful she was being. If he took that deal, the airport would barely make enough money off them to justify their presence, assuming their projected numbers were correct. While Latimer flipped anxiously through his papers the Doctor turned and met Clara's eyes, lifting his eyebrows. Her responding smirk was smug and naughty. He remembered suddenly that she'd worked her way up to this. She'd been poor, she'd scrubbed floors and waited tables, and this must seem like nothing to her. Manipulating the filthy rich seemed to sit just fine with her conscience.
Latimer looked up after running his hand anxiously through his hair a few times.
"I want 7% and then we have a deal." Latimer finally said.
Clara appeared to be thinking it over intently, but the Doctor knew it was all for looks. They could have comfortably offered Latimer 15%. She looked to him in question, grinning when he gave an affirmative nod. She was suddenly all smiles as she stood and shook Latimer's hand.
"Wonderful! I so look forward to working with you in the coming months." She said. Latimer looked a bit breathless after being on the receiving end of her smile. The Doctor could almost sympathize with him. Almost. He did get to be the one to fall asleep beside that smile, after all.
The Doctor stood up and shook Latimer's hand too, nodding politely back at him. He stood and gathered his papers while Latimer left the room. Both he and Clara were waiting to hear the sound of the door shutting behind them, and when they did, their papers were floating carelessly to the floor. The Doctor reached over and yanked Clara's body against his, his face pressing hard against her neck as he pressed his lips to her skin.
"That was robbery," he scolded.
Clara pushed her hips against his impatiently, backing him up against the edge of the conference table. She reached up and looped her arms lazily around his neck, smiling up at him.
"His fault for not checking his math." She said innocently. She slid her hands down his shoulders and moved them to his tie, her fingers working quickly on the knot she'd tied.
"Seriously, Clara? That man didn't stand a chance." The Doctor argued. "Look at you. You practically had him at your feet."
He watched her drop his tie carelessly to the floor, her fingers working quick at the buttons on his collar. He reached up and cupped her hands in his, stilling her movements.
"Conference room." He reminded her.
She twisted her hands from his grip. "Turned on."
He grasped her hands again. "Unlocked conference room."
She stopped at that, turning to glance at the door. He slid out from between her and table and walked over towards it, turning to smirk at Clara. He turned the lock. "But not anymore."
Her cheeks were burning when he crossed back over and took her face in his hands. He pressed his lips to hers in an open-mouthed kiss, taking a moment to taste the honey still on her tongue from the tea they'd shared on the way to work. He felt her small hands returning to his buttons at the same moment he dropped his hands from her cheeks. He didn't waste any time untucking her blouse. He looped one arm around her waist and held her to him as he pressed his lips back to hers, and then he shimmied his other hand underneath the waistband of her tights. She was bare underneath and he could feel how damp the nylon had grown. He touched her gently, listening carefully. He could gauge the way things would go by the way she sounded when he did that, and this time it was a quick, ragged gasp, her body arching fast into his touch. She pushed her hips forward, urging him to do it again, her fingers stilling in their quest to unclothe him. She pressed her forehead against his chest and gasped as he obliged her command, his fingers pressing back to her harder.
She lifted her head when he abruptly withdrew his hand. Her eyes locked on his and for a moment they just looked at each other, faces flushed and lips parted, and then her fingers were all but tearing the buttons from his shirt. He registered the sting as her nails scratched at his chest, the sound of his blood racing in his head, but he couldn't care about anything because she was still in her tights and skirt. He touched her hips at the same moment she lifted onto her tiptoes, setting her ass on the edge of the table, and he quickly pushed her all the way up on it. He stepped between her legs and reached up underneath her skirt, tugging the waistband of her tights. They clung stubbornly to her slightly damp skin and the Doctor gave up for a moment, his hands moving to stroke up the back of her blouse as her hands pushed beneath the waistband of his pants. His world went sharp and then hazy, his breath leaving him all at once, and it was all a race for the clock after that. She shoved his pants down over his hips and reached underneath her skirt, impatiently yanking her tights down her hips. The Doctor stuck his fingers under the fabric once they reached her thighs and tugged hard, finally removing them. He threw them onto the chair behind him and slid onto the table beside Clara, his hands ghosting over the buttons on her blouse. She was breathless.
"No, I don't care, leave it. I want to fuck. Do you want to?"
He wondered how she could even question it. He was putty in her hands, sometimes in the literal sense it seemed, but he couldn't think about anything at all with her half-naked in front of him. He couldn't decide what he wanted more—to fuck her or go down on her. Something about the thought of seeing her writhing on the conference table had him leaning towards the latter. She seemed to catch the conflict in his eyes.
"God, I don't care what you do, just do something." She ordered.
He watched the buttons on her blouse strain as she exhaled in frustration, and just like that, the choice was easy. He moved down and off the table, sitting down in the chair he'd just vacated, his hands pulling Clara to the edge of the table by her hips. Her legs fell open easily and she lifted herself up on her elbows, looking down at him in anticipation. He'd just pressed an open-mouthed kiss right where she wanted him to the most when they heard a conglomeration of voices outside. The door handle shook.
Clara threw her hands up into the air, falling hard back onto the table. She let out a pathetic sound that almost made him want to tell whoever it was to fuck off. But it didn't seem fair to tell them that just because he'd wanted to get Clara off.
"Locked? We booked this room last week. Someone get a janitor." One of the people outside of the door ordered.
The Doctor looked down to Clara, staring up at the ceiling with the most fed-up expression he'd ever seen her wear.
"How long do you think it'll take them to find a janitor?"
She glanced down at him, eyebrows lifted. He could see the struggle in her eyes.
"You shouldn't." She said sensibly, even though it looked like it was painful to force the words out. He leaned down between her legs again, his eyes on hers. He breathed out across her. She shut her eyes and then shook her head, waving her hand carelessly. Her voice was strained. "Fuck it—let them open the door. I don't care."
That was all he needed. He knew they were pressed for time, he did, but he couldn't help but take the time to slow and glance up at her each time she muffled a moan. She had her forearm pressed over her mouth, her head tipped back, a couple buttons of her blouse popping open. He lifted a hand and pressed it to her stomach, feeling her muscles spasm from pleasure. By the time someone said a janitor was getting on the elevator, she was biting out curses underneath her breath, her legs quivering and her hand tugging forcefully at his hair. He waited until her entire lower body tensed and she let out an audible oh, God, her body going slack a moment later as she panted, and then he was off her and scrambling for their clothes. He shoved her tights and his tie into his briefcase, tugged his own pants up, quickly rebuttoned his shirt, and by the time the janitor was pressing the key into the lock Clara was scrambling off the table, tugging her skirt back down over her.
They fell down into the chairs and picked up random papers from the floors, resting them on the table and looking down at them intently. The Doctor felt a brief warmth in his chest when he realized they'd both thought to do the same thing.
No one would buy it, he knew that. Clara was still breathing heavily, the air held the tangy scent of sex, and his pants were obviously tented. But as long as no one could prove anything, they were fine.
The door gave way just as the Doctor dropped his face into his hand, wiping at his mouth, and then he stilled like he'd been falling asleep over the paper. They both jumped in surprise and turned back to glance at the people in the doorway.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the Doctor said. He frowned and glanced down at his watch. "Have we run into your scheduled time?"
They were middle management from the bottom floors and not caught up on all the latest gossip, so the sight of the two obviously threw them off. They looked from Clara to the Doctor and then exchanged looks themselves.
"It's all right, sir." One of the men finally said.
The Doctor smiled tightly. "Splendid. The room is all yours."
Clara was remarkably steady the entire walk to the elevator. Once the doors shut, she pressed her face into her hands.
"Holy shit." She cursed. She dropped her hands and scanned her eyes down from his face, lingering noticeably on his pants. She swallowed hard. "Time to go back to your office for lunch."
Definitely a manic day.
They were in his office with heating pads and Chinese takeout when a young executive stormed through the doors without warning.
He was supposed to come by the office at seven that morning to give his pitch, but he'd failed to show up, and as he hurried towards the Doctor's desk, it became apparent that he was just as unprepared this time. His clothes were wrinkled and his hands were shaking, probably from too much caffeine. He opened his mouth to begin talking, but all at once he looked down at his hands and realized he didn't have something he needed, most likely handouts.
It didn't take much more than that to rouse the Doctor's anger. He was about to bite into him, about to explain to him how inappropriate and unprofessional his behavior was, but then he caught a glimpse of Clara as she shifted in the chair. He glanced to her—she was staring politely at her screen and not at them, but something in the profile of her face stopped him.
He swallowed and looked back up at the young man, who very well might have been shaking from nervousness now that he thought about it. He reached forward on his desk and pulled a notepad to him, quickly sprawling out another date and time. He ripped it off and passed it over to the young executive, who took it with wide eyes.
It was easy to forget, but he had once been young and naïve too. He'd once been just like this executive and just like Latimer. (If he was being honest with himself, he might have still been a bit like Latimer, just in the way that it was difficult to tell Clara Oswald no).
"We'll go over it then. Get your materials prepared." The Doctor told him.
It was a tiny thing. The Doctor stared at the small smile on Clara's face once the man was gone and felt his heart pulling. He would have done anything suddenly to keep it there. He would have done so many things. And he was terrified of not telling her, of having her fade away without knowing how devoted he was to her happiness, but he couldn't say the words even to himself. He knew that he loved her; he had to. He thought of nothing else and wanted nothing more than her wellbeing. But it'd been years since he'd said the word "love", and besides, he still hadn't told her his name yet. She still hadn't been inside his flat.
He wondered why those two things didn't even seem to matter so much sometimes. When she said "Doctor" it felt like the name he'd lived with as a child, and when he was in her bed, it did feel like home.
On a late July morning, Jack Harkness strolled quickly through the Doctor's office doors, two duffle bags the length of his body slung over each shoulder. He was staggering underneath the weight, and when he finally let them fall to the floor, he let out a groan of relief.
Clara was hesitant.
"…Are those…bodies?"
It was a fair question. They were bulging and huge, and obviously weighty by Jack's reaction, but he gave her a strange look anyway.
"What? No. It's about fifty million dollars." He looked to the Doctor. "Has she been watching crime shows again?"
The Doctor looked to Clara at the same moment she looked to him, their lips parted and eyes wide. Jack was busying himself with pulling back the zipper to one of the bags. He pulled out the half-inch thick stack of $10,000, his face stretched in a smile.
"Money. My only children." He declared. He looked back to the Doctor and Clara. "But I can't keep it at my place, too many people coming and going. So who's got the kids this weekend?"
The Doctor shook his head in disbelief, not even sure where to start. Clara took the dive for him.
"Jack." Clara said sternly. "Jack, why? Why have you got all that cash?"
He flipped through the small stack of one hundred dollar bills, lifting his eyes to look at Clara. His expression was less easy then.
"Because I withdrew all of our money from our accounts in New Jersey." He responded.
The Doctor reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing deeply.
Clara shook her head. "Jack—you're not supposed to be allowed to withdraw money from—"
He pointed at them with the stack of bills. "Something's not right, Clara. I'm the CFO. I know money. And something isn't right with those accounts."
The Doctor felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Those were the accounts they were supposed to be making the yearly transactions from. They'd sent the information to Dalek only a week prior. But nothing had been taken out yet (and wouldn't be if their plan kept going as smoothly as it was) so he wasn't sure what Jack was going on about. He just knew they were in trouble if Dalek found out about this. He'd easily see it as an act of rebellion.
"You need to put it back, Jack." The Doctor ordered quickly. Jack opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor didn't give him a chance. "No. I don't care. All of this goes right back into that bank. Did you take out everything? Are the accounts closed?"
Jack pursed his lips angrily, looking to Clara for back up. He glared when she merely glanced towards her fingers.
"There's been people asking about those account numbers weekly. People who say they're from Everest but aren't." Jack snapped. "If I put this money back in, we might not see it ever again. The security is pathetic."
That fact only reaffirmed the Doctor's impatience, because if Dalek had people checking up on the money, he'd know if it was suddenly gone.
Clara's voice was sharp.
"Put it back."
Jack shook his head, looking at her disbelief.
"Are you kidding? Do you hear yourself? There's no reason to put it back! You're just saying that because—"
He stopped, the words clinging to his tongue. He pressed his lips together angrily.
"Because what, Jack?" Clara demanded.
The words were practically spit from his mouth. "You know exactly what I was going to say."
They stared at each other for a moment; injury lurking just below their furious expressions. The Doctor took it upon himself to break the tense silence.
"I expect it to all be placed back into the account by the end of the day."
Jack didn't even look at Clara as he hefted the bags back onto his shoulders and shoved out of the room.
He went home for a few hours after work to spend time with Tardis, still reeling from Jack's stupidity. He'd had reason to do it, of course. But Jack didn't realize he was risking their lives.
He was sitting on the couch with Tardis in his lap when he felt his stomach crumble up into a tight ball. He'd been watching the news, so he told himself it was just anxiety over all the hellfire and brimstone, but after it didn't dissipate for thirty minutes he decided he'd call Clara.
He rarely felt anxiety for anything else these days. He rarely felt anything at all outside of the things he felt for Clara. Perhaps he had already been wrung dry in her soft hands.
He listened to it go straight to voice mail, his expression furrowing with concern. Her phone shouldn't be dead. He'd watched her plug it up in his office that afternoon. He waited five minutes, and then ten, and then he couldn't ignore the anxious pounding of his heart any longer. He pet Tardis and gave her a treat to apologize for leaving earlier than normal.
He all but jogged the distance between her living place and his, his heart in a bed of needles, his throat dry like hay. The doorman nodded to him as he hurried past, but the Doctor didn't spare a second. He was in the elevator and in front of her door in half the time it normally would have taken.
Seeing the door cracked stopped his heart for a sickening second. He stood in front of it, fists clenching tightly, heart darting down to his feet. She never left the door unlocked or open. Ever.
He shoved it open and stepped into the dim foyer, his eyes scanning the area around them for signs of struggle. But everything seemed relatively normal.
"Clara?" He called. He could hear the nervous hitch in his tone, but he was too anxious to feel embarrassed. "Clara, please answer me."
Her voice was tilting, strung with anxiety he couldn't hear without feeling panic of his own. "Please go."
It struck him hard, knocking his heart down to the pit of his stomach. He edged towards the bedroom anyway, knowing he had to see that she was alright before he could accept those words.
He'd almost overlooked it. As he walked past the small kitchen, his foot pressed over a sheet of paper. It was the crinkling sound that got his attention. He stopped for a moment and bent over, picking it up in his trembling hands. He scanned the format of it, deciding after some confusion that it was a random page from a letter. He turned on the spot and looked to the counter right above where the paper was lying, his heart clenching violently. He lifted the picture of her and John—lying in a few inches of snow, their noses pink with the cold—and then he lifted the bottle sitting beside it. He gave it a shake, his fingers curling around it at the same moment his dread overtook him. His eyes grew hazy from his anger, his fear, and he almost missed the note sitting on the counter, slid just slightly to the right. When he picked it up, when he read the words Dalek had sprawled (Picked you up some things from your house—sorry I missed you.) he felt his head swim with such intense fury that he felt he could have easily torn the man's heart from his chest with his fingernails.
Of course, it only got worse when he turned his eyes to the letter. It began halfway through a sentence, the previous page nowhere to be found, but it was clear after only a few sentences that it was from John.
-frustrating! But at least it will be over soon and I'll be back home, hopefully with a tan and a grand! Haha, see what I did there, Clara? No one here appreciates my jokes like you always do. Their eye rolls are genuine—yours are always a type of laughter. Impossible girl that you are. God, I miss you. I know it's only been six days, four hours, and about thirty-three minutes, but I miss you. And I can't stop thinking about what you told me the night before I left and I'm so torn up over it. I know it's dumb to feel like this, but I'm actually angry at myself, as if I could have stopped it somehow. How egotistical is that? I didn't even know you then. I was still living in Colorado. But at night I think about what you said, and last night I dreamed that I was there, standing outside the Ritz, and I was crying because I knew what was going to happen, but I couldn't stop it. I couldn't even open the door. I'm so sorry for it. Even in a dream I didn't save you.
I told you before but I have to tell you again. It doesn't change you. He wasn't right, nothing he said or did was right. You aren't worthless. You aren't that. And even though talking about it hurt both of us, I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you finally told someone. You need to know that the way I see you didn't change—the way I see the world did. You're perfect, Clara. No one is made up of the things that happen to them. You're just you, and as long as I'm here, as long as I'm with you, you'll know it. I'll never stop telling you. I'll never see you as anything but good. I love you, I really do. And I know you just want to keep it in the past, but if you ever decide you want to do something about it, I couldn't want to hurt anyone more. Guess there is something that can make me dangerous after all.
Thank you for loving me and believing in me. It seems amazing that you chose me—chin and all—to have the privilege of calling myself your boyfriend. I can't wait until I'm home with you again. And I've got a—
The letter stopped, the words tumbling off a precipice. Maybe whatever was going to come after would have alleviated the pressure in the Doctor's chest. Maybe it would have someone made the words he'd just read all right. But he doubted it, because all at once his brain was a flurry of activity, of distant points in his mind converging and joining after so long apart. It was filled with a realization that felt like a vacuum sucking out his insides. His brain went in order and he saw it all now: the way she'd flinched back from him that second day he was CEO, barking at him not to touch her, running from the room moments after. The way she grasped so tightly to control in every aspect of her life like an abundance in the present could somehow make up for a lack of it in the past. The way she'd been alcohol-free the entire night at the party and didn't think to touch her lips to a shot glass until she was weak and tucked away in a corner with the CEO of Calvin Klein and his sticky hands. The way she'd jumped anytime Dalek put his hands on her, the way she stared him dead in the eye like she was looking an old threat in the face when he threatened to do awful things to her. The way she'd shaken afterwards. The words she'd told him when he'd asked her why she needed the drugs in the first place, the words that made no sense to him at the time: It helped and it's been so long since I've been without the haziness. I'm afraid of what it feels like when it's there. Close. I don't want to feel it. He hadn't known, hadn't questioned it much, because he was used to addicts rambling. But then there was that morning, when he'd made love to her and he'd told her you're so good, Clara, and she'd shut herself off from him. It was too close, she'd said, you were too close. He'd never thought to ask what it was he was close to. He'd never considered the possibility that she'd rarely let herself connect emotionally through sex, John being the exception. Or through anything. Of course it all would have felt too close, when she'd spent years barring herself away, hiding behind substances and isolation, viewing sex as everything but connection or comfort. And then there was the way she always stopped no matter how heated the moment was and always said, in so many words, I want to do this with you. Do you want to do this with me?, like a learned habit she'd picked somewhere down the line. Her refusal to talk about what made her upset that night after Dalek embraced her in the café. And last of all were the words she'd told him, all the mismatched things that made no sense but felt like a hand twisting his heart now. You set me free. You make me forget to fear this. You make me feel safer when I'm sleeping with you than I feel doing anything else. You make me believe I'm good.
Don't lie to me when I'm on my back.
I don't want you to feel like I'm taking advantage of you, he'd said. He was sick when he realized why her response had been so quick, so automatic. It's not you taking advantage of me. And perhaps she knew that because she knew what that felt like.
When he turned to the bottle still clutched in his hand, it suddenly didn't seem like the biggest threat. It suddenly seemed like a consequence. He eyed the label and made sure it wasn't a higher dosage, in case she had taken some, but it was the same as before. Another bottle from her house, and for a moment, the Doctor was almost as furious with John as he was with Dalek. How had he never noticed his wife storing these away each month? How had he missed this—the way she felt she needed to be punished, the way she systematically shut down? But then he remembered some of the words John had written, about how he was the only one who knew, and the Doctor realized that she'd probably been better when John was alive. He wondered what it must have felt like to lose the one person who knew and accepted her despite everything, even the things she couldn't let herself accept or even think about.
She was where he thought she'd be when he stepped through the doorway. He stared at her for moment, at the shape of her body curled up tightly in the middle of the bed, and he only had to watch the pattern of her breathing to know she was high. He was selfish, because despite the fact that he knew it wasn't her fault, he felt himself crippled with disappointment that made his eyes sear with tears. He had been like this so many times in his life: standing in a doorway, looking down at a woman he'd thought was finally healed, watching her spiral out of control again. A woman he needed to be okay, because he needed her. And suddenly he wanted to leave the room, wanted to walk away from her. He wanted to never see her again, never touch her again, never have to deal with the aching pain of being so incredibly let down by someone. He wanted to walk away from her mess, her sick churning self-destruction, her weakness. He wanted to escape because he'd told himself he'd never let himself be this again. He told himself he'd never let another person have the power to make him feel this pained, this out of control. And he'd passed that power to her mouth from his. He'd willingly given it to her.
"How many did you take?" He asked her. His voice was cold, curt. He knew she heard the hardness of it by the way her body quivered.
When she didn't respond, he shook his head and shut his eyes. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails tore through the skin on his palm. He'd done this to himself.
"More than two?" He demanded. He was furious but he had to know she wasn't going to overdose and die in that bed. The same bed he'd once felt he could save her in.
She shook her head after a long moment, a cry tearing past her lips. It filled the room with such thick misery that the Doctor couldn't stand to be in there anymore. He shook his head again, his lips twitching down against his pain. He wouldn't let her see him cry. He'd never let her see him cry and he wouldn't let it happen now.
"I hope the morning isn't awful." He told her shortly. He didn't say goodbye, but he didn't have to. He knew she could hear it in his tone.
Something in his disappointment got through to her. He heard the bed squeak as she turned over onto her other side, and maybe it was the little boy in him that hesitated at her doorway, turning to glance down at her almost with hope. Like maybe he'd been wrong and she was all right after all.
She shook her head, tears spilling past her distant eyes. She couldn't seem to catch her breath as all her sobs converged, leaving her gasping around the heft of them.
"Please don't leave," she pleaded. Her words were almost indistinguishable through her cries. He couldn't even look at her. He shook his head in disappointment and turned his gaze to the floor, walking quickly through the doorway before he changed his mind.
He made it to the foyer before he stopped in place, like some sort of chain was welded to his gut and hers, tugging him right back to her. He fought against it, tried to cling to his fury and his hurt to protect himself, but he couldn't forget the broken expression her face. It had been what Dalek wanted. He'd wanted her to take the pills, he'd wanted to punish her. He'd wanted to send her out of control and make the Doctor leave her. And he was punishing her too by falling right into Dalek's plan. He was another person shoving her right back down after months of climbing back up.
He crossed back over to her doorway and stopped, leaning back against the wall beside the door. He knew all at once that he was going to cry and he wouldn't be able to stop it. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes, but the burning never ceased. He knew she heard it when he slammed his fists back into the wall, his anger and pain no longer distinguishable in any way that helped. It was all one emotion now.
He waited until he'd worked his tears down for the time being, and then he stood up straight and walked back into her room. She was still weeping in the middle of the bed, her arms locked around her legs, and he'd never seen anyone look so thoroughly beaten down in his entire life. If there was ever proof that there was no God for him, it was this moment. The brightness of her smile had threatened to make him rethink everything he'd ever seen, but now? There was no way anyone could be up there keeping score. Because if there was, Clara Oswald would have had a different life than this.
It was his need to keep from contributing to her darkness that drove him forward. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and pressed his hands to his face. He waited until he felt her shift, looking up at him, and just like that he was a broken boy. He slid across the space between them and opened his arms, not even sure anymore if she'd slide into his embrace or not. But she collapsed into him, her body knocking hard against his as she wound her arms so tightly around his middle that it was difficult to breathe.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she sobbed into his chest. He could feel the pounding of her heart and the knots her muscles were in. "Please don't go. Please don't leave me too. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
She clutched the material of his shirt so tightly in her fists that her nails bit into his back. He pressed his face against the top of her head, and it was there, breathing in the scent of her hair, that everything inside of him bottomed out. His mouth quivered against what felt like a lifetime of repressed tears and she wept even harder when he began crying.
He knew he should have told her that he was giving up on her, that he had to leave to save himself. Because he felt, logically and terribly, that she was doomed to die in his arms. That no matter what they did, no matter how many times they laughed, no matter how many times they fucked or even made love, she would always end up crawling back to that drug like an abusive lover. And he'd be left in a pile of her ashes. Empty heart and empty bed. But she was here now and he couldn't accept that time was already written, that there was no way to change the future. He couldn't believe that she was already dead. Or maybe he just didn't want to.
"This is what he wants, Clara. He's trying to get you to do his dirty work for him. He's trying to get you to kill yourself." He told her. He was so angry and he was beginning to realize it was aimed at himself more than anything. Why wasn't he here to protect her? To stop her mind before it got too torturous? It was his job. Somehow, it'd become his job.
She nodded against his chest, her words shivering and off balance.
"I know! I know, I'm so sorry, I know it but I can't—I'm so sorry! Don't go. I'm—I know I'm awful, I'm sorry, I know I'm stupid, but I need you."
And what made him cry the hardest was the fact that he needed her, too. But they both were in no place to need anyone but themselves. He was in no place to feel so acutely miserable at hearing her talk about herself that way. He swallowed hard and forced his words past his tears.
"I know, Clara. I know. And it's okay, because I need you too. So I'm not going anywhere." He whispered.
He'd never felt her body relax so utterly, her breath leave her in such gasping relief. She just kept apologizing, kept repeating that same broken phrase, and he wondered if it was just him she was apologizing too.
"I'm going to tell you something," he told her thickly. "And I want you to listen."
It took her a moment, but she nodded against his chest, her arms tightening around him to the point of physical pain. He turned his head so his cheek was resting against her head, so he knew she'd hear his words. She had to hear them because he realized if he was going to save her, it had to be all or nothing. There would be no halfway giving. She'd kept secrets from him just like he'd kept them from her, and now was not even near the time to even begin to approach them, but it was the time to say something he knew she deserved to hear.
"I love you." He told her, all at once and harshly. She immediately leaned back, her eyes searching for his, her lips parting to argue. But he shook his head, his fingers reaching over and brushing her lips, imploring her not to say what he knew she wanted to. "No. Listen. Please. Listen to me. I love you. I love you and it isn't a lie. And I need you to be okay, Clara. I need you to love me back enough to save yourself; I need you to love me back enough to promise me I won't ever have to hear you apologize for the same reason again. Don't break my heart—please. I'm not running out on you so you—you can't run out on me. And that's what you're doing when you do this."
The words only served to upset her at first. He held her close as she fell back against him, her apologies tumbling from her lips again, and then he heard it clear as day. The words were muddled and congested, but he heard them clearer than he'd ever heard anything before.
"I swear it." She gasped. She closed her fists around the material of his shirt again, her words muffled into his chest. "I swear it. I love you enough to swear it."
He didn't know what they were going to do. He didn't know if anything would ever be okay—if they'd helped or complicated matters by their honesty. But he did know he was going to make Dalek suffer.