Of course Clara's father had been livid, and as they sat together on the couch, both wearing exhausted frowns, the man paced in front of them. He shouted at them about carrying weapons and he shouted at them about being more cautious. Dave shouted that maybe they should have scanned the planet from the Tardis, and maybe they should have offered a warning shot before heading out. He pointed and accused the Doctor of being reckless and then he turned his finger and accused Clara of the same and by the time he was silent, just pacing, they were both smirking at one another.

"You both think this is amusing, do you?" Dave huffed.

Clara pushed her fingers in between the Doctor's on her lap and she tilted to land her head into his shoulder before offering, "It's not amusing."

Dave stopped, lips pressed tightly together, hands gripping his hips, and he turned his eyes to the ceiling before bellowing, "You could have died!"

"You could have died driving your car over to berate us for the better half of the last hour," the Doctor pointed out lightly, still weakened by his injuries. "You could die driving yourself home, or have given yourself an aneurism with the rigorousness of your anger."

Beside him, Clara shook her head as a warning, but she was smiling as she sighed and offered, "Dad, I'm sorry – we were reckless in not being better prepared."

"And you want to take a baby into this life," the man muttered at them before shaking his head and telling them both honestly, "I don't approve of that; don't approve at all."

The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Clara's fingers squeezed at his and he turned to look at her, watching the small shift of her head, the second warning to keep a tight lip and nod and he frowned. Because he knew time travel better than Dave could – he knew how unpredictable it could be – and he bowed his head in silent resentment, but also with embarrassment. The Doctor knew better than anyone how dangerous it was and he understood Dave's anger and Clara's acknowledgement of that.

"I'm sorry, Dave," he told the man quietly, honestly, and the Doctor lifted his eyes to see Dave's shifting to meet his, to see the sincerity there before Dave dropped into the single recliner next to them. "You're right – I ought to better vet a planet before landing with Clara. I can set the Tardis to scan for hostile life forms in the vicinity; add preliminary scans to the Sonic; warning protocols."

Dave eyed him a moment, watching him lower his chin to his chest before sighing, "But you can't predict everything that happens when you travel, can you – no more than you can predict traffic patterns or erratic drivers."

Clara turned quickly to him, and she looked between the men before barking, "Are we still on about who's to blame for my accident?"

They both raised their eyes to her guiltily.

Shifting away from the Doctor, Clara told them both firmly, "I'm to blame." She shook her head and laughed, "I'm the idiot who thought I could put off buying a car one more month and I'm the idiot who didn't want to take the tube."

Clara released a sigh of frustration during which the Doctor felt his chest freeze because he'd never told her they'd intended to buy a car. He watched her shake her head, readying himself because he thought maybe her memories would come flooding back in that moment, but she simply let out another forceful breath and looked between them.

And then she spat, "Stop snipping at one another about it because neither of you could have prevented it and neither of you is to blame."

"Clara," they both began, but she raised two fingers, silencing them both before biting her lip and looking between them, watching the shocked sadness in their eyes.

"No," she uttered, "No more." She lifted up and fell into the wheelchair beside the couch and she made her way down the hall and into the den in the back. Clara stopped with a loud bang of her front wheels to the wall just underneath a large window that looked out into the yard and she held her breath, but despite her best efforts, she began to cry.

A tree in the far back corner offered a small wave of one of its branch and Clara managed a pained laugh, lifting a hand to wave back before it shook and settled and she didn't turn when she felt the strong fingers that fell lightly atop her shoulders. She imagined she'd find her father's eyes staring down at her with an apology, but then she felt the familiar kiss to the top of her head and the small whine of discomfort that made her turn quickly to look up at the Doctor as he grinned sheepishly down at her.

"You aren't supposed to be up," Clara argued.

"You aren't supposed to storm off," the Doctor retorted.

She nodded, slowly, and offered, "I'm sorry, you just couldn't understand…"

"How guilty you feel about it all?" The Doctor interrupted before his hands began a gentle massage at her shoulders, and he continued, "How you blame yourself for her death? I couldn't understand?" He shook his head and she knew – he could understand it in a way she never could: the Doctor felt responsible for every life he failed to save and for several hundred years he'd been weighed down with the belief that he'd sacrificed millions on his home planet… innocent children. With a shake of his head, he told her gently, "Don't carry that, Clara – I'm at fault as much as you are because I could easily have disabled the bike with a flick of the Sonic when your back was turned." He laughed darkly, haunted by his memories, and he admitted, "I never thought to, so if you're to blame for not considering the dangers, I'm equally culpable."

Clara's lips tugged up slightly as she went back to looking through the window to tell him, "Sometimes I think maybe this happened because we weren't ready to be parents. Maybe we still aren't and the universe isn't cruel – she's calculated. Dad is right, we're reckless."

"It's not the universe, and your dad is wrong," he huffed, continuing softly, "I'm reckless and you're merely trusting that I'm making the right decisions for you."

"You're not my father," Clara told him firmly with a small grin, "I make decisions for myself."

"Then stop being so reckless," he teased.

Clara gripped the wheels at her side and she turned herself slowly to look up at him, head tilting when she saw the way his jaw was clenched against the pain of straightening and she nodded to the hall where her father stood, a distant look in his eyes. "Go on," she told the Doctor, "Go upstairs and lay down – I'll be up soon enough to change your bandages."

He eyed her a moment, hand reaching out with a wince to stroke her cheek, and then he nodded and moved past Dave, making his way towards the steps slowly because each step up was a sting to the puncture wounds at his back. Clara shifted her attention to her father who came to lean into the entranceway, still staring down at the ground in contemplation. She knew he was mulling over her words, having never considered that she'd feel it was her own fault her child had died and she sighed.

"You should have told me you were feeling that way," he offered lightly, "Did you tell your therapist?"

Clara frowned at the word, and then her cheeks went red as she admitted "No, I haven't."

"Why not, Clara?" He demanded, "That's the purpose of the visits."

"I know what the purpose of those visits is," Clara huffed. She looked away, fingers picking at one another in her lap before asking, voice trembling, "How do you tell someone you feel as though you've murdered your child through your own negligence?"

He shook his head, stepping into the room to kneel in front of her and take her hands, squeezing them as he watched her blink a set of tears free to utter, "Just like you told me; just like you told him."

She nodded slowly, smiling when he released her fingers to wipe at her cheeks and Clara listened as he sighed, standing to kiss her forehead before letting his thumb trail over the scar at her temple. "Will you be by tomorrow? Check in on us?" Clara asked weakly.

With a nod and a quiet laugh, he whispered, "Of course, sweetheart." Then he tilted down to try and catch her eye to ask, "Will you be alright; do you want me to stay a little longer, maybe scream at you both some more?"

They laughed together and she shook her head, lips forming a silent, "No."

"Well then," he said quickly, gesturing at her, "Help you up the stairs and I'm off to my own adventures."

Clara grabbed her wheels and looked up at him curiously, "Your own adventures."

"The dreaded crossword," he told her menacingly and he shifted out of the way as she rolled forward, following her to the steps where he watched her park the wheelchair as he picked up her crutch. Dave smiled when Clara stood and settled it underneath her arm and he offered a tight hug and a rub to her back, whispering to her, "You didn't kill her, Clara; it was an accident, plain and simple."

She felt her eyes water as she nodded and murmured, "Then stop giving him hell for it."

Dave offered a pitiful laugh and shifted back, a soundless 'ok' slipping from his lips before he released her and gestured to the stairs, remaining until she was halfway up before he turned and left, locking up behind himself. Clara finished her walk up and then into their bedroom, finding the Doctor lying on his stomach on the left side of the bed, shirt already stripped from his body, face shoved into a pillow. She laughed lightly and watched him sigh. Picking up a kit from atop their dresser, she made her way to him, sitting beside him and carefully plucking away the bandages to look at the healing wounds.

"Your skin's gone back to its old pasty white," Clara teased him as she trailed her fingers lightly over his flesh and watched as the goose bumps rose over his back as he laughed. "They're fairly scabbed over; do you want to let them breathe a bit?"

Shifting his head, he opened his eyes to look up at her with a smile and then he reached out a hand for hers, nodding and telling her quietly, "Lay with me a while."

With a nod, she set the kit on the floor and curled up on the bed next to him, her right hand holding to his as he watched her, a small smile on his face and after a moment, she asked lightly, "What?"

"You," he answered simply.

Clara smiled, bowing her head against the pillow before stating, "Me."

He sighed, "You and me and secrets; haven't we figured out yet that we're no good at them." Reaching out for her cheek, he rested his hand there a moment before letting his fingers slip over her jaw, dropping to the bed to search out her hand again. "Why didn't you tell me you felt you were to blame for her death? I would have comforted you with the truth: you weren't. Not entirely." The Doctor shook his head, "So you took your motorbike; it could have been a car and she would still have crashed into you."

"But I might have had a dented car," Clara whispered. "Not a dented head."

They laughed lightly and he shook his head, "You're father was right about one thing – you can't predict what will occur. Not in the universe and not on Earth. There are too many variables in play, too many moving targets, too many trajectories to follow and you do the best you can and sometimes, Clara, sometimes terrible things happen you can't avoid. Terrible things you can't prevent, or stop, or change, and you have to be bigger than those moments because what you can control is how you respond to them."

She nodded slowly, watching the way his eyes drifted to stare at the sheets just beside her and she stated calmly, "You tried to change it, didn't you." Clara watched him exhale and then he met her eyes, nodding as they reddened, "You saw it happen and because you did, it became a fixed point."

"Maybe it was a fixed point all along, and that's why I couldn't reach you in time," he surmised sadly. "Our daughter's death was an unavoidable and blameless event and I responded to it terribly because I was caught between two tragedies, not entirely sure which I should face first and because of that you were in a limbo you didn't deserve and you're still hanging there, a very thin thread – a random burst of memories – from being cut free."

"Yes, Doctor, but it's like you said – we're in control of how we respond and I know how you will. You'll be there to catch me," Clara assured, "We can control that, Doctor – you will be there to catch me."