They walked together in silence through the woods, the Doctor trailing just a few feet behind Clara. She was exerting herself unnecessarily, he knew, forcing herself to take stronger steps, forcing herself to walk faster than she could. Before long he could see the sweat underneath her arms and beginning to dot her back, and he could hear her wheezing breaths, pained with the effort it was taking to continue on at her pace and he frowned, hand coming up to touch the delicate spot at his chest.
He knew what was on her mind: whether or not he ordered the death of her son, somehow he'd cosmically been responsible for it. Though he knew she understood it would have happened either way, because they needed her to hate him just enough to pull the trigger. He watched her struggling now and wondered just who she'd killed, though a part of him had a good idea. There weren't too many people around this time who could convince UNIT they were the Doctor and he certainly wouldn't be cocky enough to walk into a trap.
Smiling at the brunette whose energy was fading, he shrugged.
Maybe he would, with the right bait.
"You should stop for a rest; catch your breath," he offered.
"Sod off," she spat back at him without turning.
He raised an arm at her, "Oh, brilliant, language."
Clara slowed, hands coming up to grip at her waist and her head fell back, taking several long breaths before she turned to aim her stare at him. "Don't you even consider telling me to watch my language."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered, hands flipping up quickly before dropping heavily at his sides.
She nodded slowly and then bent forward, and then she crumpled to the ground with a reluctant whimper, but she slapped the Doctor away when he moved towards her. She straightened her leg and he could see the blood soaking the front of the dark trousers she wore, and she lifted the back of her hand to wipe at her forehead before sniffling loudly against tears.
"How far are we from the lake?" She managed in a low voice.
"Not far," he replied softly.
"Five minutes," she barked. "Five minutes and we keep moving."
"Is this the soldier in you?" He argued, "Unwilling to accept you should probably turn back?"
"What's the point in turning back now?" She growled up at him, her meaning clear.
"That's right then, finish the mission." He looked to the ferocity in her eyes, the redness that tainted them, and he nodded, finding a fallen log to sit on before he stated calmly, "Five minutes then, Captain Palmer."
The name seemed to sting her and she turned away. It was her husband's name, he presumed – he'd been in the military as well. Either that or she was simply angry he'd said her name, her proper name. As though he hadn't the permission, he understood. The Doctor rubbed lightly at his chest and he could feel the ache in his back and through his shoulder – they'd both gone too far on this walk, he knew. Foolish and stubborn.
Both of them.
For some reason, the thought made him smile. "Nothing changes," he sighed.
Clara turned.
"You and I, in all of space and time – no matter the echo or the incarnation – it seems we've always been and will always be the same." He gestured weakly to her and then back at himself, "Nothing changes."
Planting her hands into the rough ground, she lifted herself slightly and pulled herself towards him as he watched, and when she had her back pressed into the log, she took a long breath. Her eyes glanced sideways at his knees and she asked, "Would you want it any other way?"
He shrugged, a small laugh escaping him as he offered, "Sometimes I wish I had been less of a pompous arse, if that's what you're asking."
Clara's head toggled and he could see the hint of a grin on her lips before she stated, "I know it's not really your fault." Her eyes met his for just a moment, "The death of my family – it's not something you could have predicted, or even known about."
"If I could fix it, Clara..." he began honestly.
Her hand came up and she chuckled as she stated, "Rewrite time? For me?"
"Why not for you?" He responded softly. His fingers flexed over his right thigh, wanting desperately to stroke through her hair, to offer her some comfort, but he didn't dare chance it – not when she was beginning to open up again after that morning. A minor setback, he considered, wasn't that always the case between them.
One step forward; two back.
Clara's hands came together in her lap and she picked at her nails in that familiar way of hers that made the Doctor's heart skip a beat, and then she tugged at the edge of her jumper, revealing the beginning of her larger scar. She hesitated, but then pulled it up completely, finger trailing over the white line on her skin. "My life meant nothing to me when I did this."
He nodded, noting that she refused to meet his gaze, and he stated, "And then you thought about your mum."
There was a soft humph of a laugh and then her head shifted up and down slowly, "I thought about a lot of things; suppose that's how it goes when you're about to die. You experience your life in rewind and you find all of the little moments you could have changed – all the little moments you would have made bigger." She turned to look up at him to tell him, "I've experienced that twice in my life, Doctor."
He stared down at her curiously, waiting, and she turned away.
"My husband..." she began, trying to answer his unspoken question about that other time, and she went silent a moment, mouth working over several ways to explain before she slumped slightly, giving up. When she spoke again, it was not to finish her previous statement, but to start a new one, telling him lightly, "I tried to take my own life, two months after my son's death. All that time trying to make sense of why things happened the way they did and it just seemed pointless – everything did."
"And then UNIT gave you something to focus all of that anger on," he proposed knowingly.
She smiled sadly up at him, "They blamed you for the war."
Shifting towards her, he asked on a hiss, "How was I to blame?"
"You were supposed to usher in an era of peace, they tell people – the Doctor and the Tardis were supposed to make things right," she bowed her head, "And instead you asked for war. You told diplomats and presidents and prime ministers that their efforts were fruitless; you laughed and you whispered in ears and then you disappeared."
"I did nothing of the sort," he shouted angrily as she jerked in shock, his blood boiling at even the thought, and then he stopped and questioned, "Is this what they told people? Why would they do that?"
"Because you did disappear," she spat at him. "You were supposed to help us find peace and instead you went off in your bloody Tardis and disappeared and guess what – we couldn't find peace on our own!"
He frowned, "And then all military branches started their search for the Doctor."
"Yes."
"Who did you kill?"
Clara looked up at him in confusion, asking lightly, "What?"
His hand waved slightly at her, encouragingly, "He said he was the Doctor."
"Yes," she stated blankly.
"Then who did you kill?" He lifted his hands to gesture at his chest, "I'm sitting right here."
"Dunno, he called me by name, said I was looking for him. Seemed right pleased with himself," she offered quietly.
"Oh," he breathed. Shaking his head, he slumped back on the log, "We were supposed to... and because of her... we never... I never... I came here instead... and then she took advantage – thought you were looking for me to help." He clapped a hand over his face, dragging it roughly down.
He felt her fingers touch his knee timidly and when he glanced down, she asked on a shrug, "Who?"
"Missy," he stated plainly. "The Master," he continued to her blank stare, "The Mistress? But why? It makes no sense."
"Sorry," Clara allowed, "I've never heard of them."
His arm shot out in a gesture that made her recoil and he bent in pain at that, that she'd expect him to strike her, and instead he laid his hand to the side of her face, thumb stroking over her cheek, "The man you killed in the street, he was scanning as Gallifreyan – that's why you believed him when he said he was the Doctor."
Swallowing roughly, she nodded and told him, "Yes, and I..."
"You hesitated," he finished, watching the guilty look on her face, "You hesitated because you knew it wasn't me; deep down you knew."
Her eyes welled, "They told me to take the shot – General Wallace reminded me that you were responsible for Charlie's death and the deaths of all those children that day; the deaths of so many people across Europe that you were supposed to help us avoid."
"And you fired because you hoped you were doing the right thing."
Jaw clenched against her question, Clara nodded.
The Doctor answered her quietly, "It was the right thing on that day, Clara – don't ever question it again."
"Who was he?" She asked shakily.
He smiled as much as he could against the sadness in her eyes and then he bowed, his hand slipping to her shoulder before dropping off and returning to his lap. "He was my best friend."
She let out an odd noise of discontent that sounded like an apology and the Doctor glanced down at her to see her turning away, face crumpling slightly, brow knotted in confusion, and then she turned back. Clara looked over his gaunt face and his slumped shoulders and she took a long breath, a considered breath, before quickly pulling herself up onto the log at his side, grunting against the pain of her leg.
The stitching had to have ripped as they were walking, he knew, and he growled in frustration because on top of damage done, she'd moved too fast. He would have to sew her up again when they returned and he would have to do it without sedative and the thought turned his stomach. He turned to ask her why she'd done it, but she was snaking her fingers over his, taking his hand within her cold clammy one, working her fingers through his to hold him securely.
There was a tremor nestled in their palms, one the Doctor couldn't be sure the source of, and he looked back to her, to the tiniest nod she gave him and then he laughed. A quiet laugh that came with his own nod, and he spoke to her on a whisper, "You have her heart."
Shifting into him, she nudged him gently and scoffed, "Maybe she has mine."
He watched her as she avoided his eyes, as she remained staring down at their hands as though it were something familiar to her. The Doctor chanced to lean into her and press a kiss to her head, one she unconsciously leaned into; he heard the quiet giggle she managed to squelch and sighed. She was right – Clara had the heart of a million women scattered through time and space – each with just enough love for him. And, he knew, that was saying a lot.
"Could we start over," he offered.
"Start over?" Clara asked, head coming up to wrinkle her nose at him.
"Hello," he breathed, "I'm the Doctor."
She laughed then, the sadness dripping away as she replied, "Hello, the Doctor, I'm Clara."
"Nice to meet you, Captain Clara Palmer," he told her on a nod.
But she shook her head, a small frown tainting her lips a moment as she bowed, then it shifted away as she began, "Captain Clarice Palmer has been dead for a pretty long time." Looking back up to him, she squeezed his hand and said on a small nod, "I think right now I'd like to be just Clara Oswald again."
He smiled, a genuine smile that stung the cold of his cheeks and he poked at her nose as he replied, "Just Clara Oswald then, we need to get you back to the cabin."