Chapter 3

It went off without a hitch. The relocated Ruillians were safely housed within the abandoned citadels of the planet's previous occupants. The climate was thriving and it was the ideal time for their arrival, as all of the naturally growing foods were ready to be gathered. The Doctor and Clara returned to the TARDIS in a mood of deep satisfaction at a job well done.

They arrived back at the pub where they had reunited the night before. "So," The Doctor began as they stepped out into the cool, refreshing spring air. "Here we are again."

"Yeah," Clara replied sadly. "That all went by so quickly." I was afraid it might, she thought, already fighting back tears she didn't know if she could physically cry at the idea of leaving him again. It was worth it to accomplish what they had, but the cost to her cut sharply.

"It doesn't have to be over," he proposed lightly. Almost casually. "Why don't you come with me? Where would you like to go, Maureen?"

She smiled in bittersweet tenderness. "All of Space and Time, Doctor?" He nodded happily, innocently.

Clara walked up to the Doctor and touched his face gently. "I can't. I'm sorry."

He furrowed his brow, disappointed. Confused.

"Okay, then," he said after a difficult pause. "But how about this?" He took a couple of steps backwards, in the direction of the pub. "One more drink, for old time's sake?"

"Old time's sake?" Clara laughed. "We practically just met."

"Same difference," he quipped absurdly. "Come on, what'd ya say?"

"I say…" she answered slowly, already knowing she wasn't strong enough to resist a little bit more time with him. "Alright, Doctor. One more drink."

Obviously, that meant one drink for the Doctor and one glass of wine for Clara that she couldn't enjoy. She waited for his back to be turned and sloshed half the glass over the side of the bar, smoothly tossing a towel down on top of the spill so that no one would step in it and slip.

There was music playing in the pub, and a fast-paced, irreverent romp of a song collapsed unexpectedly into a pensive ballad. The complex, romantic lyrics were labyrinthian, each poetic line flowing seamlessly to the next. The female singer's wistful voice delved further into words of love and Clara found her own words of forced, pleasant conversation drifting off midsentence. Before she even knew what was happening, she felt the Doctor's fingers brush her hand where it hung at her side. "One dance?" His voice seemed vulnerable somehow. But that didn't happen. What did it mean? "It's not too much to ask, is it?"

"No," Clara agreed, slipping into a slight trance, letting him lead her to the center of the room. No one else was dancing, but it didn't matter.

Their posture seemed so polite and chaste at first. He held one of her hands while his other hand lightly touched her waist, but something shifted with the deepening melody. Clara moved closer and put her arms around the Doctor's neck, resting her head against his chest. There were two hearts beating very hard beneath his skin, and the sound was beautiful to Clara. The formerly unheard-of proximity of their bodies brought those ghostly goosebumps back to her flesh and she shivered.

"Are you cold?" The Doctor asked, his voice low and husky.

"No," she smiled as they swayed to the song. For someone who was known to exhibit such icy behavior towards others, the Doctor's blood ran ironically hot. Almost clinging to him now, she'd never felt such delicious warmth. "Just afraid," she admitted, torn between happiness and heartbreak.

"Afraid of what?" He asked, all pretense of avoiding a dangerous intimacy abandoned as he stroked her cheek and stared into her eyes.

"This," Clara replied rather obviously. "I'm, I'm sorry, Doctor, I can't—" Tears that felt all too achingly real begged to be released from her helpless body, and she turned to go.

He took her hand, not demandingly, but in the name of one last try. "Please, don't leave me," The Doctor asked, and then very deliberately he added, "Clara."

"What?" Clara almost jumped in shock. "Oh, no, no. You can't. I have to go."

She was practically stumbling down the sidewalk when he caught up with her, but he made no attempt to touch her again or walk beside her. He lingered just behind her, giving her space.

Clara stopped short and spun around, fury starting to replace surprise and fear. "How long have you known who I am?"

"Ah, now you're angry," The Doctor smiled in resignation. "There's the Clara I know. I figured it out after Nevada."

"Why did you pretend I'd fooled you, then?" Clara asked, desperately confused. "It makes me feel like an idiot."

"Don't do that," The Doctor said, annoyed by the way she almost spit the last words at him. "Don't make this something it isn't. You ought to know perfectly well why I'd keep up any pretense you wanted if it meant that I'd get to spend one more day with you."

Clara felt his sentimental words falling over the flames of her temper, extinguishing her irritation, her hurt feelings. Now, there was nothing but longing and despair. The knowledge that despite it all, she still had to walk away.

Yet, there was one more question eating away at her. "How did you know it was me? In Nevada?" Clara asked.

"If you'll trust me a little longer, I'll show you," he replied, but the words seemed to be difficult for him to say, as if he was the one who was afraid now.

Clara followed the Doctor back to the TARDIS and once again, to his room. This time, he let her in.

It was a lovely room. Well, basically a library with a bed in it, all told. Neat, organized collections of technical gadgets lined shelves on one side of the room, while on the other, a bookshelf was piled with hardcover books that surprisingly, on a cursory glance, all looked to be classic literature.

The Doctor, the sentimentalist. He never stopped amazing her, with every layer of himself he let her glimpse.

The whole room reflected a soothing color scheme of maroon and honey-hued wood. It was more than lovely. It was peaceful and downright cozy. And it was deeply personal.

As Clara gazed around in speechless wonderment, the Doctor pointed at a framed picture that sat propped upright on a corner table beside a soft, comfortable-looking chair. The only picture in the room. "That's what did it," he explained. Then he turned away from her.

Clara took the moment in for all it revealed as she struggled to process her feelings. It was a picture of her. Here, in the Doctor's cherished inner sanctum, the place he showed no one. And he was showing her.

She came up behind the Doctor and slipped her arms around him, pressing her head to his back.

"But you don't remember me, remember me," she murmured. "You don't have all those memories of our travels together."

"Yes, I do," he corrected her. "I remember you, Clara Oswald. I remember every moment of you. It came back slowly at first, then it was like a deluge. Connecting the story of us with your face triggered it all again. The effect of the memory wipe wasn't nearly as strong as we thought it was. Either that, or my need to remember you was enough to overpower any artificially rendered mind alteration."

"But why?" Clara asked, "Doctor, why did you need to remember me so fiercely?"

She walked around him so that she could see his face, and he looked down at her reproachingly. "Now, Clara, I believe there's one fact we've already clearly established, and that is that you are most definitely not an idiot. And another brilliant idea I thought we'd agreed on was that we were done pretending. So don't pretend not to know why."

"Now, Doctor," Clara answered delicately, "That is a brilliant idea. Let's put an end to every bit of pretending between us." With that, she closed the distance between them and reached up to clasp the back of his head, drawing his face down to her own and then pressing her lips to his.