A/N: Happy Holidays! At long last, we are nearing the end of this crazy, little road trip. Do note that there are two chapters left in this series! I began writing this story at the beginning of the year and had absolutely no idea what it would mean to me by the end of it. I am incredibly thankful for all those who decided to come along for the ride. As always, your reviews are greatly appreciated, and I hope you have a lovely day. This one's for you!

Chapter Seventeen: Marcus Aurelius

New York City looked nothing like it did in the movies.

The aerial shot of Lady Liberty surrounded by Jersey waters, the hopeful protagonist strutting down the streets with a coffee in hand—that was a polished illusion compared to the real thing. Clara was fascinated by the difference. If artists, idealists, and natural-borne leaders were challenged to fit as much as they could into a box, that box would be New York City. It was the only way she could describe the buttery scents from every street vendor they passed, the blinding bulbs of the Broadway marquees, the way every detail demanded her full and utmost attention. It was chaotic. But the city pulled it off beautifully.

Parking was hell, but Clara figured as much. When she stepped out of the four-story garage with her backpack on her shoulders, the sound of blaring sirens and oncoming traffic rushed to greet her. Stretching, she had to crane her neck just to see the blue sky.

"Well?" The Doctor asked, smiling wide. He might as well have presented the city to her on a silver platter. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"

"No," she admitted, shaking her head. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or overwhelmed. "No I don't think any dream could top this."

Alan drew himself beside the two travelers, counting his change. "Seven-fifty to sit your car between two bloody lines! God, these people are downright mercenary."

"You could've just dropped us off at the building, would've saved you the money," Clara said, her brow creasing with apology. He shooed her words away with a hand.

"It's only fitting we see you two off, we've come all this way," Emma reassured her from behind them.

"The noise might be hell, but the pizza is heavenly," Alan conceded. "Shall we be on our way?"

If Clara thought London's congestion was bothersome, then New York in the summer was insufferable. Clara could barely manage a crosswalk without ramming into a shoulder or two, much less peer above the heads of the relentless crowd. Latching onto The Doctor's arm as he belligerently paved a path for them, she lifted his uninjured wrist to check the time. 5:47. Thirteen minutes until her interview with Wayfarer Industries. Thirteen minutes until there would be a clear divide between success and failure.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" she asked The Doctor, squinting at the map she'd procured from his phone. He flashed her an overly-confident grin, the kind that only elicited more concern.

"Pfft, of course I know where we're going! I've been here countless times before. New Year's Day, 2011. St. Patrick's in 2014—that was a doozy. I know this place like the back of my hand!"

"Then why have we passed that Elvis impersonator twice already?"

He stopped in his tracks, taking a look around before realizing that she was right. "I'm pretty sure that's a different Elvis impersonator. They're all astonishingly good."

"Doctor it's nearly six o'clock! I don't have time to be running around in circles."

"John! Clara!" Alan hollered at them from a few paces back. He gestured towards his left. "Wayfarer Industries is down this way!"

The Doctor frowned.

"Back of your hand, eh?" the young writer teased, grabbing his hand and yanking him through the throng with a newfound determination. He yelped in protest—he was usually on the opposite end of this dynamic, but her infectious energy was enough for him to submit to her impressive change of pace.

This is what they had been running towards for the past forty-eight hours. This is when the woman he'd met in the terminals of San Francisco International Airport would finally get the chance to prove herself. The Doctor found it hard to believe they'd actually made it.

He hadn't meant to follow her into Espresso Express Sunday night. In fact, The Doctor was on direct route to the car rental lot after his flight got cancelled, tenacity boiling in his veins. If he missed another one of Amelia's birthdays, he'd never forgive himself. Not because he already paid for her present and a flight back, but because his absence made him feel like a rubbish friend. His return to the Big Apple was already long overdue; he didn't have the time for distraction in the captivating young writer.

Which is why, when he recognized her in the café window, it took his every ounce of self-control not to wave like a madman. You were just going. Stop noticing. Not staying, going.

There was a stubborn perseverance in her warm, brown eyes. The speed at which she typed made it look as if she wanted to sear straight through the keyboard. She probably had the brains to know that traveling with a complete stranger was an extreme, if not unwise, leap of faith. She would probably never agree to it, anyways.

The Doctor would've peeled himself from the café window if not for Amelia's words, turned up in his mind like an old friend from out of the blue. They were the exact words she'd written to him the day of her and Rory's big move to New York.

Above all else, know that we will love you always. Sometimes I do worry about you, though. I think once we're gone, you won't want to stay in London for long, and you might be alone, which you never should be. Don't be alone, Doctor.

He thought it was silly that he received a letter when he wasn't the one going away. But perhaps he needed to be reminded of those words. Perhaps now was when he needed them most.

It took his every ounce of self-control not to wave at the stranger like a madman. So it wasn't surprising when he flung open the café door and marched up to the counter, ordering beverages for two. If he were to take a chance on New York, he thought, then he had no reason not to take a chance on her, too.

Wayfarer Industries was a class act of a building that reached forty stories high. It was not a conventional skyscraper; fragments of certain floors seemed to jut out of the face of the building, the illusion so captivating that Clara grew tempted to reach out and push them back into place. Sharp, white light poured through the windows, the glass occasionally punctuated by tints of red, blue, and yellow. She suddenly wondered what it would look like at night.

"I suppose this is where we leave you," Emma mused, tilting her head back to get a good look at the place. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I dunno. Is it normal that I can hear my heartbeat?" Clara said with a laugh, though the question remained a valid one. Pushing aside the thought, she asked, "Where are you and Alan off to?"

"There's this place called Little Italy down by the New Amsterdam. It's a tradition of ours whenever we drive here," she replied. "Then it's back to the inn to get a head start on tomorrow's breakfast. And hearing my husband tinker with the motorcycle for hours on end."

Clara grimaced. "Our bad. I had my doubts, but I didn't think we'd actually crash it."

"Oh, no need to apologize! Alan's been in love with that kind of stuff for years now. It keeps him young." She snorted. "And what about you and John? Are you two planning on keeping in touch after all this is over?"

The question was enough to sober her from the high she'd reached since arriving here. Turning towards The Doctor, she saw him squatting on the sidewalk, trying to meet the eye-level of a pigeon. Alan observed him passively a few meters away. A sad sort of smile crept onto Clara's face. This entire road trip had led up to this point, to New York City. Now that they'd made it, now that she was finally standing before the revolving doors she'd only seen in photographs, she couldn't help but feel as if it'd ended too soon. Out of all the goodbyes she had to say on this trip, she wasn't so sure she could handle saying goodbye to him.

"Clara—look! I think he's expecting me to feed him," he cried, pointing at the bird as if it were newly appointed comrade of his. "Are pigeon lectures still on the table? I must say, I had my doubts, but you have a right way of thinking. We could bird-watch! I'd a great bird-watcher…"

"What's wrong?" Emma asked upon seeing her expression dim. Clara merely shook her head, maintaining a soft smile as The Doctor continued to ramble.

"I just realized something I wish I hadn't."

"What did you realize?"

The Doctor, whose fashion choices were cut from a twentieth-century catalogue. Whose way of thinking was so reckless and bold that you'd think he was unbreakable. He had intelligence that exceeded his years and managed to carry it with a child-like smile on his face. Did everyone he meet see him in such a light? Or was Clara simply one of the few people to take a closer look?

"That everything ends."

Emma frowned, not entirely convinced.

"No. Not everything," she disagreed, folding her arms across her chest. "Not love. Not always."

Clara's eyes widened to saucers as she turned towards the woman, who merely shrugged her shoulders in apology.

"I overheard you two talking in the kitchen this morning," she confessed. "Allow me to be frank for a moment, Clara. When I saw the look on your face after John had awoken, it was hard for me to believe you'd only known each other for two days."

"Feels like longer," she murmured.

"Which is what it should feel like. I don't mean to prod—only you and John have the right to that decision—but I knew Alan for years before telling him how I felt. And if there's anything I regret, it's not telling him sooner. Because as it turns out, we both had the same idea." Her face widened with a smile. "So just…hold on to what's good, Clara. Whatever that is to you."

The young writer pulled Emma into a firm embrace shortly afterwards, thanking her repeatedly until her own words ran dry. She and The Doctor owed their lives to these people. She couldn't imagine where they'd be if not for Emma's concern, for her willingness to take them in without a moment's hesitation. A part of her imagined what it would be like had she awoken without her. Lying in the grass, her arms outstretched. The Doctor's still body next to hers. The mere thought of it sent an unwanted chill up her spine.

Her mother's words resonated with her once more.

It doesn't matter where you are, in a jungle or the desert or the moon. However lost you may feel, you'll never really be lost. Not really. Because I will always be here, and I will always come and find you. Every single time.

For the first time in eight years, Clara began to believe in them again.

"Do you want to know what Alan told me?" The Doctor asked her as they bid farewell to the couple, watching as they slowly merged into the New York City crowd. Waving until she couldn't see them anymore, Clara fell back on her heels and peered up at him with a raised eyebrow. "First, he gave me a friendly reprimand. Said that at this rate, I wouldn't make it out of the country alive."

"Fair warning."

"Second, he told me to never forget this. I told him he wouldn't have to worry about that one. Even when I'm old, grey, and—God forbid—bedridden—"

"You? Never in a million years."

"—I'll always remember," he finished, smiling at her like no one else deserved it. Clara was quick to memorize every facet of his expression—from that bittersweet look in his eye to the smirk on his lips—for she was sure that no one would ever look at her like that again. Either that, or she didn't want anyone else to.

They gazed up at the building for a good while, the silence between them conveying far more than anything they could've said. The Doctor didn't like endings. It felt selfish of him to admit, but he wished they'd gotten lost more often. Not to take away from this moment, but to augment to the ones they'd already shared. Two days simply wasn't enough in the company of Clara Oswald. But he knew what she came here for; it was standing right in front of her. Knowing he played a small part of this gigantic orchestration of hers was already enough.

Checking the inside of his wrist, he said, "Five fifty-five. Do you want another minute?"

"No," Clara replied, her fingers pressed against her mother's ring. Letting go of the precious heirloom, she took a deep breath, and said, "I think I'm ready."

The receptionist—a woman named Martha with a firm handshake and kind eyes—signed Clara in and offered to keep their bags in the back before escorting them to the elevators. Aside from a brief introduction, the young writer said little, for it became difficult to make small talk when her heartbeat was now racing. Detecting her own panic before it could strengthen, she interlaced her fingers with The Doctor's and squeezed twice. He returned the gesture and raised the back of her palm to his lips so naturally that she was stunned he hadn't done it several times before. You've got this.

"This is Mrs. Tasha Lem's office; she will be the one conducting your interview this afternoon," Martha said as they stepped out onto the twenty-first floor. It was an ornately decorated hallway, with acoustic panels of every color lining the spotless ivory walls. A pair of deep-seat chairs flanked a frosted doorway, a shadowed figure sitting behind the glass. "Your husband can remain in this waiting area while the interview's being conducted."

Far too nervous to even hear Martha, Clara shot her a tight-lipped smile in thanks. Nodding, the receptionist promised it would only take a moment to endorse her. She rapped twice on the door and disappeared not a second later.

"Mrs. Lem, Clara Oswald is here to speak with you."

There was a brief respite. The rustling of papers. "Who?"

"Miss Clara Oswald, ma'am. She's seeking the partnership from us."

"Ah, yes. I do recognize the name now." Clara herself found it tough to differentiate this woman's intrigue from her indifference. "Have you forwarded me the final draft for our September release?"

"No, ma'am," Martha replied. "I'm still waiting on the copy-edits from our senior staff…"

Seizing the few seconds she had left, Clara turned towards The Doctor and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He held her tight and buried his head into her shoulder, the steadiness of his breaths a stark contrast to the shakiness of her own.

"Hey," he murmured into her ear, quietly enough so that the two women on the other side of the door wouldn't hear as he began to speak-sing. "I walk along the avenue, I never thought I'd meet a girl like you…meet a girl like you…"

A laugh escaped her lips, the image of them driving across the Tower Bridge of West Sacramento calming her nerves, if only for a moment. It felt like forever ago, back when neither of them had the faintest idea as to what they were getting themselves into. Or what they would mean to each other by the end of it. The Doctor continued.

"With auburn hair and tawny eyes, the kind of eyes that hypnotize me through…you hypnotize me through…"

Her voice was shaky and undoubtedly off-tune, but mattered little to her as she sang. "And I ran, I ran so far away…"

Unable to finish without smiling like an idiot, Clara pulled away from him just in time for Martha to reappear in the doorway. "Ready?"

When the calendar invite for the Wayfarer interview appeared in her inbox weeks ago, she thought it was the only chance she had to prove herself. That was before she'd climbed aboard the TARDIS. Before she'd baked the perfect soufflé, danced to The Doctor's Roy Orbison impression, and lost herself in her thoughts more times than she did on the road. To her, those moments—and the people she shared them with—held more merit than any partnership or raise. Funny how two days had been enough to change her perspective.

Whatever happened now would never take away from the triumph of these past two days. With that in mind, Clara finally felt the dread subside and bravery begin to take hold. Giving The Doctor a collected smile, she straightened her blazer, lifted her chin, and walked inside.

"So you're the young woman who has been cluttering my inbox?" Tasha Lem asked by way of greeting.

It took Clara a great deal of restraint not to wrench the door back open and run out. Lips forming a polite smile, she refused to overanalyze the woman's tone of voice and instead gathered the confidence to strengthen her own.

"I prefer to keep my lines of communication open, yes," she replied coolly, though her hands began to numb at the fingertips. She clasped them behind her back.

The CEO of Wayfarer Industries lifted the spectacles from the bridge of her nose, piercing grey eyes examining her every feature. Clara didn't doubt this woman had the ability to see right through her—past the composure and wit, the second-hand clothes and layers of makeup. She held in her distress like she would her own breath.

"You're quicker than I anticipated," Tasha said. It didn't sound like a compliment. "Clever."

"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today, Mrs. Lem," she replied in attempts to divert the conversation. "You must have a rather busy schedule."

"How touching, you understand the concept of running a multi-million dollar company." Maintaining eye contact with the young writer, she closed a file folder on her desk and placed it aside. "Well? Do sit down, unless you expect me to interview you from across the room."

Doing as she was told, Clara approached the desk and perched herself on the edge of a white leather wingback. Tasha was a woman who wielded intimidation like a sword. Dressed in a red ensemble with a sharp bateau neckline, she managed to quicken Clara's pulse with her every movement. If she'd known that this was the woman she was writing to months ago, she likely wouldn't have sent the email at all out of pure, unadulterated fear.

"Martha faxed me your résumé," she drawled, retrieving the document from beneath a stack of travel magazines. "Your blog, '101 Places to See,' was named one of the top domains in lifestyle journalism by The Expeditioner. Why do you think that is?"

The young writer suppressed a smile. She'd practiced this.

"Well, I began publishing on the site when I was sixteen years old. My mother had this travel guide she bought at a charity shop, called '101 Places to See.' It was all the destinations she wanted to visit but never got the opportunity to. She passed away due to illness that year.

I've explicitly stated that a part of the reason I travel is because my mum never got around to it. There are times when I wish she were there with me, and I don't shy away from mentioning that in my writing. So to answer your question, I think there's a good deal of heart that goes into my work, and people have resonated with it for eight years now. There's this saying that goes: 'People don't buy what you do, but why you do it," and I think that rings true in this case."

"And do you see yourself upholding your current position for another eight years? How do you expect to maintain such high blog traffic?"

"Ideally, I never want to stop writing, or traveling, for that matter. I understand that circumstances may arise where the latter might not be possible—a secondary job, or a family—but I can use another approach during that time. Recommend destinations, offer advice for first-time travelers."

"So you hope to settle in the near future? When so much of your pre-established career advocates doing the exact opposite?"

"I can assure you, I am not against the idea. The purpose of '101 Places to See' is to show people what's out there, to inspire others to adopt perspectives they never even knew existed. I believe it's important—if not necessary—to travel before settling down."

Tasha's blasé expression was enough to make Clara's confidence splinter at the edges. Would she make any credible impression on this woman? Or would every word she spoke be flung back in her face? Her mind racing, the young woman tried to review her rehearsed responses for contradictions or other points of contention.

"Are we the first company you've sought sponsorship from, Miss Oswald?" she asked.

"Yes."

"So you have no prior experience with business partnerships," she concluded, turning over the résumé with a manicured hand. "And you assumed that Wayfarer Industries—one of the highest-ranking travel media companies to-date—would be a good starting point?"

Clara faltered. Tasha seemed to notice, because her eyes gleamed with a power she'd been working towards this entire time. Superiority. The young writer had been quick, attentive, and on her feet ever since she walked through the door. And something told her that her interviewer preferred it to be otherwise.

"You're hoping I find it ambitious that you chose to correspond with me in the first place, but I'm afraid I find it a bit naïve," Tasha said, her voice devoid of any sympathy. "Why should I partner with you, a twenty-something still high off of teenage amusement, rather than, say—an experienced journalist with no intention of settling down, having children, or doing anything that would hinder the growth of their career?"

Her blatant assumptions were like a blow to the chest. Naïve? High off of teenage amusement? Writing was the only thing she could bring herself to do after her mum died; in many ways, it was her saving grace. What right did this woman have to pass it off as a mere phase?

"Wayfarer Industries could benefit from younger audiences," she answered. Carefully. Competently. "Your company's website and printed publication has a majority demographic of ages thirty-five to forty-five. You say that a domestic life hinders the growth of one's career, and yet the people who are most likely to have one are the ones keeping your content relevant. I may be a twenty-something, Mrs. Lem, but when I attend an interview, I do my research."

Whether she was irritated or impressed, it didn't register on the woman's face. Instead, she asked, "And you are confident that you are the right person to bring in such an audience?"

"Call me ambitious, but I think I am."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I think these past eight years of my life could lead to something special," Clara said, her voice rising with fervor. "Because there are days when I don't sleep a wink because of a red-eye, or a deadline, or agonizing writer's block. Because I did not entrust in a doctor to drive me forty-eight hours across the United States to miss out on an opportunity like this."

Tasha quieted. Clara struggled to catch her breath. Was it getting hotter in here? She readjusted her blazer and cleared her throat before speaking again.

"My only intention in coming here today is to know if I even have a chance. If I do, then I'd be more than happy to work with you. If not, then please tell me. Because this is all I've been thinking about for the past several weeks, and I'd just like to know."

Silence hovered between them for several seconds. Though no amount of time could prepare the young writer for what Tasha asked next.

"Are you referring to the young man outside my office?"

Clara blinked. That wasn't at all the point she was trying to make.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The doctor who drove you forty-eight hours across the United States," she repeated, pointing her pen towards the door. "That young man outside my office, is that him?"

"Yes. It is," she replied, unsure of why Tasha felt the need to bring The Doctor into this at all. "My flight from San Francisco to New York was cancelled Sunday night, and we both needed to be here by Wednesday. We thought it was reasonable that we travel together."

"So prior to Sunday night, he was but a stranger to you?"

To agree with this woman without providing any context was beyond frustrating, but to do the exact opposite would be dishonest of her. And Clara was certain her facial expression would betray any lie that dared escape her lips.

"Yes, but—"

"Tell me, Miss Oswald, how you would like me to perceive you. Because all I have gathered from this interview is that you are a tenacious young woman with little to no experience in business partnerships or professional journalism. Perhaps a job in creative writing would be better suited for you." She returned Clara's résumé to her drawer with a look of disdain. "Honestly, I find it hard to take you seriously when you walk in here, fresh off a sojourn with pretty young men at your beck and call."

Clara swore something snapped at that very moment. Because not only had a line been severely and horrendously crossed, but the coquettish young woman of Tasha's description was so unlike her actual self that it infuriated her to no possible end.

"Are you judging me?" she asked quietly, though she was hardly intimidated by her anymore.

"This is an interview, is it not? Were you expecting otherwise?"

"How dare you. How dare you," Clara seethed, rising from her chair. "Marcus Aurelius. Roman Emperor. Stoic philosopher—"

"Superlative author. Yes, I'm aware."

"—and the only pin-up I ever had on my wall when I was fifteen. The only one I ever had. I am not sure who you think you're talking to now, Mrs. Lem, but I have never had the slightest interest in sojourns with pretty young men. And for the record, if there was anybody who could balance a healthy domestic and professional life, I can assure you she's standing in front of you right now. So just because my pretty face has turned your head, do not assume that I am so easily distracted."

Tasha's nostrils flared, but the look in her eyes had shifted from a visceral intolerance to a subtle, if not respectful, surprise. It was evident the young writer had made her point clear. There were few things in life she couldn't stand. One of them was being judged or accused of being someone she wasn't. Which is why she had every intention of storming out of the woman's office empty-handed.

Which is why, when Tasha finally spoke again, Clara's jaw nearly fell.

"Would you like the Wayfarer partnership, Miss Oswald?"

A/N: Will Clara accept the offer? Will our two travelers ever make it to Amy and Rory's? And where will their relationship go from here? So many questions—but I promise to answer all of them within the next two chapters. Thank you so much for reading!