The moonlight was bathing their bodies in the vast valley of Isglinban.

Clara was lying on her back, watching the nightly sky above her, counting the shooting stars as they passed by. There wasn't any artificial lights anywhere, so the view wasn't missing any beauty of the universe. It brought her peace.

The Doctor, on the other hand, was in a sitting position, leaning back on his elbows, legs messily thrown next to her. Unlike her, his sight wasn't fixed to the sky, but on her instead. Trying to understand the universe inside her own eyes, because he couldn't read what was in her mind ever since she found out about the origins of the muscle in her chest.

For, he knew, she still had so much to ask.

Clara had asked him to take her somewhere quiet, where she could enter a state of spirit that she could be alone in her thoughts, where there wouldn't be any disturbance — because neither of them had faced a dangerous situation ever since the changes in their bodies. She hadn't uttered a single word ever since laying across the grass; he didn't probe for one, either.

They had reached a point in which the silence didn't overwhelm them.

Hesitantly, he brushed his fingerprints on the delicate skin of her forehead, glancing at the reflection of the skies in her eyes. At first, she shivered underneath his touch, taken by surprised, but soon intertwined her fingers around his, bringing them to cup her own cheeks.

"I have so many questions, Doctor," she confessed, softly, refusing to allow him into her vision range. Almost like he didn't have a right to being there.

The Doctor cupped her jawline, knowing she wasn't mad anymore — at least, not evidently. He lied on the grass next to her, focusing his eyes on her side profile. "There's nothing impeding you from questioning, Clara."

He felt her clenching her jaw tightly, ranging teeth with teeth. "I'm afraid… You'll just lie to me again."

And she had every right to doubt everything he dared to say. Yet, he insisted, "I won't lie to you, Clara. Not anymore."

Clara scoffed, ironically. "That could be a lie, for all I cared."

His hand descended from her face to the base of her neck, laying two fingers flatly there. "In case you've forgotten, we share a heartbeat, Clara. The one thing I can't do is lie to you. We're always going to be connected."

Unconsciously, she held her fists together, feeling her heartbeat underneath her skin. "You're so used to lying that your body doesn't even react to your lies anymore, Doctor. You've lied to me before, after the transplant, and I was naïve enough to believe you. Your lies go unnoticed to your heart."

Besides her repressing tone, he didn't end the link between them. "Or, perhaps, you just didn't know what to look for. Please, Clara."

"Fine. Since we're talking about shared feelings and sensations and hearts, you're going to tell me," she snapped, abruptly turning her head to him, "What happens when I die?"

"Clara—"

She didn't allow him to finish, "Because as far as I can tell, you rely on these two hearts to beat, inside your chest or not. One heart needs the other to survive."

"I don't know, Clara. I really don't," he cried, his touch traveling down her arms until arriving in her hand. "Perhaps, we'll never find out. Perhaps we'll both live forever."

"Don't be silly," she hissed, turning her body sideways to properly face him, "No one lives forever. You said so yourself. I just don't want to die and take you with me."

"I'm not being silly, I'm speculating," he reasoned, their holding hands falling to the ground, "Maybe, by having my heart, you've acquired a regenerating ability."

"Or, maybe, you've lost yours by giving me your heart," she prompted, harshly, mad at her own words. "I don't want to change my face, Doctor. I'm really pleased with the one I have right now."

He wrinkled his nose. "Not even when you turn old, smelly and senile?"

"Hey, you're old and you're not smelly or senile," she made a face, "But we'll see."

The Doctor chuckled, taking her knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to them.

Her cheeks blushed at his gesture; nonetheless, she smiled. "Doctor?"

He waited.

Clara bit her lower lip, anxiously. "If one of us have sex, will the other feel an orgasm, too?"

His eyes enlarged, his applecheeks growing redder than the fruit they were called after. He cleared his throat, "Why? Do you intend of having sex anytime soon?"

She shrugged, "Dunno, it might happen sometime," she shot her shoulders up and down. "Will you feel my orgasm?"

"Clara," he alarmed her.

Clara shut her mouth briefly, but his scolding didn't hold her back. "If we have sex with each other, will we feel a double orgasm?"

"Clara."

"Fine," she rolled her eyes, "Why is this such a taboo to you?"

"There are things, Clara, that I would rather find out while they're happening," he sighed.

Her eyes widened, "Doctor, are you admitting you've never had sex before?"

"Clara!"

She threw her head back, "I'm just saying I'm a woman with needs, Doctor. I might be releasing myself and I really don't want you to talk walk in because your heart sped up and you thought something was wrong."

He tossed his brows together, "Instead you want me to just sit back and enjoy your orgasm?"

Clara giggled at his choice of words, "Yes. That's exactly what I want."

Her giggling carried on for a while, making his forehead turn into lines of pouting. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry," she said between laughs, "I just keep picturing your face right after you've caught me touching myself."

The Doctor's blushing only increased by the second. "Can we talk about something other than your intimate life, please?"

She spread her arms across the grass, torso facing the stars. Her lips remained stuck in half a smirk, although no sound escaped them. The Doctor turned around and laid on his stomach, resting on his elbows, so his head would be a few inches from the floor. Unlike her, he was serious.

"Have you forgiven me, Clara?" he pondered, desperately. Dreading to know the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

The grin fade away from her face. Peering at him, she didn't need to try too hard to see the reflection of the stars in his eyes. She spoke quietly, "There's nothing to forgive, Doctor."

The Doctor stared right into the window of her soul, almost desiring to be devoured by it. "You're still mad. If there wasn't anything left to forgive, you wouldn't be crossed."

She sniffed, the hair in the back of her neck quivering from the tone of his words. "Maybe I'm not crossed anymore."

"Aren't you?!"

She frowned her lips, "Perhaps I'm just confused, is all."

"I wouldn't say it's all that simple," he argued, yanking a few straps of grass from the ground.

"I'm scared, Doctor," she confessed, voice betraying the lips that had shaped it.

He nodded, thinking, "Scared of what?"

"The consequences," she whispered.

For a moment, he considered telling her everything. "I won't let them happen, Clara."

"Won't let what happen, exactly?"

He was silent, briefly, weighing in his options; his lips, however, had a bad habit of speaking ahead of his brain. "I won't let the prophecies happen, I promise."

Clara's jaw fell slightly open as her brows fought gravity and rose up. "What prophecies, Doctor?"

The alien man bickered his upper lip, realizing there was no turning back. She deserved to know, especially when she already knew everything else.