A/N guys. I think I am seriously in need of some mental help. This ship is eating me out from the inside.

I'm serious.

I play several instruments, and it has gotten to the point where if I think about whouffle while practicing a piece it ACTUALLY SOUNDS BETTER.

NO FREAKING JOKE I'M SERIOUS MY MUM WAS LISTENING AND I PLAYED THE SAME PIECE TWICE AND THE SECOND TIME I STARTED RANDOMLY THINKING ABOUT THE NAME OF THE DOCTOR AND THEM SAVING EACH OTHER AND SHE WAS LIKE "you know, the second time you played that it sounded really different, and a lot better than the first". WHAT THE HELL WHAT IS MY LIFE

Ahem.

Enjoy the chapter.

P.S Christmas Whouffle! Hooray!

P.P.S I have written a little whouffle one shot. It's wholock (Sherlock and doctor who) but you can really read it even if you haven't seen Sherlock. Check it out on my profile! Pretty please?

P.P.P.S YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! All these reviews...thank you everyone! I love you all in a non-sexual way!

•••

DOCTOR

The Doctor brushed down his coat, straightened his bow tie, and combed his fingers roughly through his hair before making a face at his distorted reflection in the metal of the TARDIS console.

It was another Wednesday, meaning another Clara day. Of course, to him yesterday had been Wednesday too. And the day before that. He had a time machine, he didn't have to wait the entire week that separated the days he could see Clara again. He didn't want to, either.

Stepping out of the TARDIS, he took a deep breath of the outside air and walked up the path to the front door, the path that he had now memorized every turn, every crack, every crevice of. But that was just his Time Lord memory, not any sort of sentimentality. Right?

He rang the doorbell, and it was answered almost immediately by Artie.

"Artie! And how are you on this beautiful afternoon?"

Artie looked dubiously up at the sky, which threatened another thunderstorm. "I'm...okay. Um... It's Thursday."

"Thursday? No, no, it's Wednesday! Of course it's Wednesday!"

Clara appeared beside Artie in the doorway, face set with that raised-eyebrow-set-mouth-head-slightly-tilted-expr ession he had come to know so well.

"It's definitely Thursday."

"Oh, well, um," he fiddled with his bow tie, needing something to do with his hands. He hated situations like this. He didn't pretend to be adept in the social scene.

Angie materialized behind Artie, saving him. "Actually, Doctor, Artie needs some help with his history project."

The Doctor, despite his lack of social adeptness, did not miss the slightly confused look on Artie's face that he quickly changed into an innocent smile.

"Yeah! It's on Vincent Van Gogh. I'm supposed to analyze some of his paintings and write a biography."

The Doctor clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. This was something he could do. "I'll have you know that I met the man himself!"

"That's what we were counting on," Angie deadpanned.

"Come on!" the Doctor followed Artie as he ran down the hall, hyper aware of Clara as she ghosted behind him. He could almost hear the smirk that he presumed was painted across her face.

Artie held up a print out copy of several of Van Gogh's paintings expectantly.

"Ah yes. The greatest painter who ever lived. He fancied my friend, did you know? Even painted a picture for her. The sunflower one. Funny story that," the Doctor knew he was launching into a rant, but Artie was listening intently, and Clara was standing off to the side along with that infuriating smile. "She gave him some sunflowers, knowing that he would paint then in the future, and he did. Another paradox, funnily enough, but that's why it says "for Amy" just there. She gave him hope, you see, you know he was depressed? He was special, that man. A bit of a prophet, he could see little trails of time and creatures that no one else could. And it drove him mad, it did, it weighed down on his life. But all these wonders of life, he showed them to rest of the world in his paintings. And Amy... She gave him hope. She was brilliant. She made his life so much brighter just through her own human goodness," he trailed off, looking down at his hands. Those young, lying hands.

Evil hands.

Amy Pond was gone. And it was by his hand.

If he was honest to himself, it was him who had killed her.

Brave, fiery, loyal Amy Pond. The girl who waited. Waited for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor sneaked a look at Clara. She was sitting casually, her hair hanging down, arms slung across her lap. Her eyes were wandering, light and deep and golden brown. Glowing with life. Glowing with all that was inside her.

All that knowledge, that wisdom, that cleverness for anything and everything and was far beyond her young age. All that fire, that playfulness, that fun. And then, behind that, the constant sense of loss that she had never acknowledged, yet never seemed to truly dispel. And with that loss had come wariness, a reluctance to trust, to come close, a sense of security to protect herself. And then, pushing through this mist of hidden yet ever present sadness, was a yearning. A yearning for more, for adventure, for worlds beyond imagining. A yearning for wonders and dangers and extraordinary things.

He saw all this, because much of it was reflected in himself.

But she was different to him. Different to anyone he had ever met.

And she was beautiful.

But, just like all his other companions, just like Amy, one day he would lose her.

"Doctor?" she was looking back at him curiously, her eyes crinkled.

He blinked and looked away. "And you see "Starry Night"? He could see all of those movements in the sky. That was his inspiration. All the little wonders of life. He saw it all. Quite mad, he was. But brilliant all the same. Reminds me of someone I know," he added, in an attempt to lighten his own inner mood.

"Modesty is a virtue barely ever blessed upon you, Doctor," Clara muttered.

He felt himself smiling again, just from the sound of her playful, teasing voice.

"So, will you be joining for Christmas dinner tomorrow night?"

Christmas? Was it Christmas already?

"Er..." he looked at his hands.

"Please, Doctor? Dad said we could ask you!" Artie pleaded.

"Of course! Not in my nature to miss a party! And why are you doing homework? It's Christmas Eve!"

"It's holiday homework."

"Holiday homework? It's an oxymoron! A paradox!"

Artie smiled, and Clara did too.

"You also kinda need to prove to Dad that you aren't a freak. I don't think he was impressed."

"Well, that's how most people think of me. Is that enough for your project, Artie? Because I just have to go and something." Oh real smooth Doctor. Something.

Clara's smile morphed into a smirk. "You've forgotten it's Christmas, haven't you? Go on then. Just don't get some priceless wish-giving jewel from Mercury for gifts. In fact, don't get me anything."

Ha. Humble Clara. "Mercury is a far from ideal environment for gems to form, much less wish granting ones." he said, retreating down the hall.

"You know what I mean. You are much too eager to please."

He wasn't aware that this was a part of his personality. "I'm what?"

"Oh you know. Showing me the universe. All through space and time. A bit desperate, hey?"

The Doctor laughed to himself as he backed out through the front door, calling an indignant "Shut up!" back to a chuckling Clara.

He paused on the doorstep for a second, just able to hear Artie make some snide comment through the glass door by use of his Time Lord hearing.

"He's going to buy you a Christmas present, anyway, isn't he?" Artie continued.

"Yes, I believe he is," Clara muttered with a small, exasperated sigh.

The Doctor smiled again, for his own sake this time, and stepped out onto the path.

He was almost certainly sure that this, this thing he was doing, was wrong. Well, wrong for him. Well, right for him, but wrong for his future, and possibly Clara's as well.

But, for once, he didn't care about the future.

He just cared about now.