"Hearts are fragile things. That's why you have to be so careful."

Lauren Oliver | Delirium

Chapter Five: Or Maybe it Was the Other Way Around

Amelia

The woman with red hair and a semi-swollen belly sat up in bed with her glasses pushed on top of her head and a bunch of manilla folders splayed across the blanket covering her legs. She held a black pen between her white teeth and twirled the inky stick with her fingers as her eyes flitted over random grouping of words that somehow made coherent sentences.

She would never admit it to him, but she was worried about the Doctor. A part of her, one she'd buried deep down years ago, knew that asking him to do this was a bad idea. The Doctor got invested, he lost himself in whatever task she assigned to him. People like him couldn't just do something, they had to have purpose and reason behind them, slapping them on the back to keep them going when everything seemed to be falling apart. Torchwood was their big break; it was her big break. Maybe she was cruel for using him, for using how he felt about her against him, but she needed this.

Moonlight slitted on the wooden floor of her bedroom and she stared at it mindlessly, trying to recreate the past in her mind. Images from days long past started filtering before her eyes. Day she met the Doctor? No. Day she met Rory? No. Day she got accepted into University? No. Day she heard her mother and father being dragged away? Yes.

It was cold inside the house. Her parents never turned on the heat at night and Amelia Pond shivered in her bed, wrapping the crisp covers tighter around her body as cool air breathed over her skin. Trying to escape the breeze, she buried her head underneath the duvet for a moment. Then she remembered someone telling her that you could die doing that because you didn't get enough clean air to your lungs, so she flung the warming blanket off and was immediately met with another harsh blow of raw wind.

Sleep decided cruelty was an excellent form of torture against the squirming six-year-old and she easily gave up on the idea of a restful night. Tomorrow was Saturday, she could always drift off in the morning after breakfast. Daddy had promised pancakes.

Amelia threw her covered legs over the side of her bed and pushed up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that passed over her. She was determined to stay awake all through the darkness. Running to her little desk, where coloured pencils and markers were laid out in disarray, the little girl grabbed a fresh sheet of white paper and sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair to begin drawing. Her tiny hand swirled with pinks and blues and oranges across the fresh page until a dancing sunset blew up before her. If she closed her eyes long enough, she could almost see it right in front of her face, she could almost reach out and touch—

A crash jolted her out of her daydream and her eyes flew open. She heard muffled voices coming from downstairs, noises arguing with one another. Amelia Pond was not one to be terrified of things that go bump in the night. Perhaps it was just mother and father getting to bed late. But no, she heard them come up ages ago. These voices were distinctly male.

Amy gently slid off her chair and with small footsteps walked to her door. It creaked a little when she opened it and she flinched back, not sure why she was so afraid. The voices stopped for a moment, listening for something. Amy stopped breathing until they started up again.

"I told you they had a kid, now shut the fuck up before it wakes up."

"Don't talk to me like that. I know what I'm doing."

"Then act like it and stop talking."

Amy's room was right in front of the staircase. One glance out the slightest crack in her door and she could see downstairs clear as day. Two bodies dressed in black were exchanging blown up words too big and confusing for Amelia to comprehend. The little girl jumped back with a gasp. A ghostly whisper told her to close the door, but if she did that it would make more noise and then they'd come upstairs to her room. She didn't want to think about what they might do. The strange men in black.

Sliding backwards, Amy pressed her back to the wall right by the door where no one could see her unless they peeked hard enough through the hinges. A small wheeze told the small child that the men had started walking up the stairs, their padded footsteps muffled by the suffocating silence.

Amy held her breath when she heard them get to the top, her body relaxing only slightly when she realised they weren't coming for her. Then she reasoned with her small brain that the only other option would be her parents. With a beating heart, Amelia shook against the wall, sliding down and closing her eyes against the forces she had no power to stop.

Her heart pattered away in her chest and tears rolled down her face. The sound of her parent's bedroom door opening made her flinch. When she heard their muffled cries for help, Amy clenched her eyes and balled her hands into fists until she could feel her bones threatening to break through the skin.

"Check on the girl. They'll come willingly if they know she's safe."

The voice was talking about her. Suddenly, a shot of adrenaline pumped through her and she stood up, the floor boards of her room squeaking against her small weight, and stepped outside her room. She buzzed with nervous energy, fear coiling in her belly and making her want to be sick.

Blackness surrounded the hallway as she creeped towards the voices mumbling about her. Her tiny eyes adjusted slightly and when she was just outside the room, the door swung open and nearly blew her off her feet.

"Shit," a mask breathed, his eyes bulging through the ski mask he adorned. He was tall and little spits of blonde hair poked through the mouth hole. Amy cowered, her hands hugging her hips. "I got her."

He reached out a hand, a kind hand. It was big too, and uncovered. He had tanned skin and three moles on the inside of his palm. His fingers pulled her wrist and he gently guided her into the bedroom.

There were three other people in the room: her parents with their backs to each other, and the other assailant. The small girl looked at her mother and father with big eyes as they stared at her with matching shocked expressions. Her father moved his head to the man who had brought Amelia inside.

"You can talk, but only once." The man warned. Mr. and Mrs. Pond nodded slowly.

Amy noticed thy were tied together, their wrists joined with some rope-like tie that squeezed their hands. She eyed her parents cautiously, afraid. Someone held her back when she attempted to move and she heard her mother gulp. Looking up at the man who brought her in, his fluffy beard still poking through like wires, the little girl tried to understand it all.

"Amelia," her father said desperately, choking on her name. She tore her gaze away from the man in black and saw her father shed a tear. He never cried. She waited. "Just remember that we love you, your Mummy and I. We always will."

Then she felt something slide down her own face and she realised she was crying as well. She didn't know why.

"Amy. Amy. Amy."

32-year-old Amelia Pond snapped out of her memory with a jolt. She looked to her left and saw a hand placed delicately on her shoulder. Her eyes traveled from the thick fingers to the skinny wrist, up the arm and to the face of Rory Williams.

"I'm okay," she insisted, gripping her husband's hand with her own.

He looked at her disbelievingly and scooched closer. "Why do you torture yourself, Amelia?" He asked, looking at her with bug eyes that knew her all too well. That look reminded her of the Doctor, the way he used to gaze longingly, wishing to know her deep dark past.

Shaking her head, Amy moved to kiss Rory, letting his soft lips spare her head of the pain. A hand began caressing the swollen skin underneath her pyjama shirt and she felt light kicks press against her belly. Amy broke the kiss and joined her hand with Rory's.

"She can feel you," Amy sighed, cocking her head to get a better look at the man lying in bed with her, soothing her from her agonising past. He seemed to be in some stupor, each feathery kick bringing a new flash of feeling. Rory spied her out of the corner of his eye and gave her a reassuring smile, a warm one that he dedicated solely to her.

"I love you," he replied almost sadly, dipping his head to place a kiss on her tummy, the smack of his lips tickling the hairs that had grown there.

"I love you too, Rory Pond."

River

"And you're sure he's there, Harold?" She clutched the phone tighter to her ear in anticipation, anger seething through every pore like she was made of the stuff. She'd spent years building up her walls and it took one man with a smirk and beard to tear them down. No mercy now.

"I'm sure, Song. Shall I tell our beasts?"

River Song breathed a sigh of relief. She was one step closer to catching him. "Just Riddle. John's been itching for a fight. Lazarus needs a break. He did snap his pinky finger after all, the pathetic mutt."

"He's been a great help, River, remember that," Harold insisted.

River rolled her eyes and started pacing. "I don't care what he's done for us. We need him out there with Riddle and he's just whining like the bitch he is. He's lucky I don't break his hand," she fumed, her heels hitting the concrete of Torchwood's lab with force. "I'm fed up with the Doctor. Just get him to me."

"Done and done."

River smiled slyly at the frightened tone of her worker boy. "Good work, Saxon. Make me proud."

She snapped the phone shut and stomped over to the box. With a careful hand, she grazed the woodwork, her fingernails scratching down the sides quietly. Such a magnificent thing, so powerful and yet so small.

"Ma'am," Jack's call startled River's hand away from her precious masterpiece. "Admiring again?"

River laughed humourlessly and nodded her head. "If only I could get the bloody thing open, we'd be all okay."

"We'll get the key back, don't worry. We've got our best men on the job."

"He can fight, you know. He's clever." River reminded him, giving him a pointed look of defiance.

Jack shrank back a little bit. "I know, but we're smarter."

Nodding again, River set her sights back on the glowing blue box. "Do you know what drew me to him, Jack?" She asked. Her right-hand man didn't need to ask what she was referring to.

"I can only imagine, River," he replied, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

With a wistful smile, she leaned against the machine and tried to recall exactly the moment she spotted him. "He was tall and rugged. That beard really did it for me. But it wasn't his looks, to be honest he looked a bit odd, but it was the way he spoke. Like he was already my best friend, like I was special. I'm an old woman, Harkness, and he knew that. A young man like him playing with a girl like me, I was putty in his hands."

She glanced at Jack whose face had grown increasingly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to speak, "You couldn't help it, ma'am."

River threw her head every which way, taking in her surroundings. Tables with glass beakers and off-coloured liquids surrounded them entirely, placed almost haphazardly around the large room. Pairs of goggles were strewn across the tabletops, blasts of whatever explosion occurred splattered on the plastic frames. The walls were white, pure and angelic. Ironic, for the people who worked in here considered themselves the demons.

"But I didn't have to tell him anything."

"You trusted him."

Turning back to Jack, River frowned. "And look where it got me. Go back to your office. Now."

Jack took the order and turned on his heel, skipping out of the lab.

River slumped down, her back pressing painfully into the side of the blue box. Clutching at her hair, the woman began rocking from side to side, the memories overcrowding her senses entirely.

He was so handsome and kind. She'd never had the typical sense of attractiveness, something she was always made fun of for, but this man, he walked like magic.

He sat down three bar stools away from her, a charming smile pirouetting on his face. She watched carefully as he ordered a rum and coke, flinching when he looked at her and winked. A blush found its way to her cheeks and she cursed herself.

The bartender grabbed a few bottles and started mixing the man's drink. River tried to stop staring, but something about him pulled her. She had to say something, anything, to get his attention.

"Are you old enough to be drinking?" She asked, her words dripping with hidden innuendoes.

He quirked an eyebrow in her direction and moved his hand up to scratch his fluffy beard. "I think this sucker here'll tell you all you need to know."

River sucked in a breath, trying to remind herself how to properly function. "And what does the ability to grow facial hair have to do with anything? A boy I knew once was able to outgrow his father's beard by the time he was sixteen."

"Perhaps they were from Turkey?" He quipped, still smiling. River chuckled lightly.

"Born and bred in London, sweetie." Hopefully her gravelly voice would peak his interest.

"I'm old enough, trust me," he said lightly as the bartender smacked his drink down in front of him.

He picked up the glass and downed it in one gulp, his face souring as the burning liquid poured down his throat. River listened to the ice cubes clink and rattle in the cup when the boy sloshed the remaining drink around, his wrist casually jostling the glass.

"So because you can swallow alcohol, that means you can legally drink it?" She questioned further, enjoying the sigh whistling through his lips.

"33, thank you very much. Been legal for fifteen years."

River did a double take. He certainly didn't look older than 25. She supposed she saw it, if she looked closer. The sunken eyes and the crinkles of frown lines marring his forehead. Her observations were rudely interrupted when the man hopped from his stool and sat next to her.

"Did I say you could sit here?" She asked accusingly.

He just kept on smiling. "Your eyes were begging for it," he said suggestively. "Tell me your name."

All defenses went up, but she could feel the warmth from his skin as he sat so close and that was her undoing. "River."

"Fascinating name."

"And yours?"

"Believe it or not, but it's John Smith. My parents had a funny thing about 'standing out.'"

Despite her best efforts, River laughed. His smile grew.

They'd talked all night. After three drinks, she was wobbly and he was offering to take her home. She'd said no and told him she'd rather go to his place.

"It's more of a hotel, actually. Just visiting Cardiff."

She didn't care. She couldn't. He was nice and handsome and he smiled at her.

"I'm not one to take advantage of a drunk woman," he said.

"Then it's a good thing you're drunk too," River gargled as he held her close and guided them to his hotel.

The building was two minutes away from the pub and River stumbled up to the elevator, banging on the call button angrily, her body working itself up into a frenzy of hormones. John came up behind her and grabbed her hand. The limb became slippery with nervous and excited sweat, but her boy didn't seem to mind. When the elevator finally got to them, she pulled him inside and shoved him against the reflective wall. Buttons were pressed blindly when River captured his mouth and began nipping at his lips with hungry ardor. Arms wrapped around her and pulled her flush against his clothed skin.

A ding sounded off in the distance and River found herself clumsily being dragged down a dirty-carpeted hallway with her lips still firmly attached to John's. They stopped suddenly and he pushed her off a little, their breaths coming out rushed and jumbled.

"Wait," he moaned. River tried to kiss him again, but he held out a hand. "I need to find the key."

She watched in painful patience as John searched through his pockets. His face lit up and he pulled out a keycard, swiping it against the sensor. Buzzing vibrated River's bones and John yanked her with him through the now-open door. By the time it swung shut behind them, John had already removed River's fancy black dress. The older woman groaned into his mouth when his hands started exploring parts of her that hadn't been touched by another person in too long.

Their movements were sensual but rushed; every flick of a finger, every pull of a hand sent shivers down her spine. Getting rid of their clothes happened fast and soon enough it was just them and nothing else. Not usually one to sleep with men without knowing anything about them, River froze when he climbed over her. He hushed reassurance and she calmed her breathing, loosening everything for the intrusion she was about to feel.

It ended with screams falling from her mouth.

They met at the bar every night for a month before he got the balls to ask her out on a real date. He took her to her favourite restaurant. She assumed at the time he just took her there because he liked it. Their romance flared quick and soon enough she was opening up to him about everything: her past, her present, her future.

River banged her head against the blue box and let out a muffled cry, letting her teeth sink into the flesh of her arm in frustration. With wobbly feet, she stood up and walked cautiously to one of the many lab tables. Her fingers danced across the curved openings of the beakers before she grabbed one and flung it to the ground.

Wild eyes observed acid tear its way through the concrete like a savage monster. Like the Doctor. She waited for ten seconds, holding her breath, before grabbing the correct base and throwing it over the sticky substance, watching the ground as it stopped collapsing.

The Doctor

The Doctor could hear Clara happily singing as she packed her bag. He smiled to himself, stuffing a few digestives in his mouth and sipping tea. They were leaving Frinton and heading off to the Devon countryside. He had picked out a cottage a while back when he and Amy came up with an escape route to keep the Torchwood demons at bay. Amelia had phoned him the other day about the article. The article he had yet to even think about starting. Which, he thought furiously, had nothing to do with the small brunette currently blabbing The Killers "Change Your Mind" at the top of her lungs.

No, it wasn't her, it was his thought process. Something was blocking it.

He picked up his wrist and turned it over so he could read the time: 7:13. They were supposed to have left fifteen minutes ago. Damn Clara and her insistence on staying up last night. She'd wanted her last night in Frinton to be special, and while Clara and himself had opposite views of what 'fun' was, he found himself being dragged to the beach past ten o'clock with a bottle of gin and a couple of blankets.

Careful not to disturb any coppers, the duo spread their beach blankies over the cold sand and passed the bottle back and forth between them, telling random stories about university and childhoods. He learned that she was a Cambridge graduate and her parents died when she was young. With more alcohol in her system, she revealed that she tried being 'cool' for one month back when she was seventeen. This apparently included getting a tattoo (she would not divulge where or what it was) and illegally getting wasted with weirdos and posh kids.

Able to control his mind and mouth a bit more even with the threat of alcohol, he spared her most of his stories, letting Clara talk more about her life. She was a fascinating creature. Intelligent, witty, and very beautiful. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. 22-year-old fresh out of university girls who run away with strange men on a whim even with the looming threat of men with fucking guns.

Over the past few days, the Doctor was discovering how much he enjoyed Clara's presence. And it annoyed him to no end. He was the Doctor. He did not feel for things that were not himself, his job, and Amelia Pond. But the more he spent time with Clara, listening to her sweet cull of a voice tell him stories of a past life and a girl too far gone, the more he found himself entranced with her.

He noticed everything about her. The way she smiled shyly if he ever did anything remotely chivalrous like hold a door open for her or guide her somewhere with his hand barely touching the cloth covering her lower back. The Doctor saw her cheeks swell with a grin whenever she came up with a witty retort, which was more often than not. He adored the small whimpers she released in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep and wound up watching her. Or how she squealed whenever he accidentally walked in on her changing. That'd happened two times over five days and he was not proud to admit the pleasure he got from shocking both her and himself. She fascinated him. That's all he could think.

Only once did he allow his mind to wander far enough that he again saw the way she looked mostly naked in skimpy underwear that revealed way too much while somehow holding everything together. She was small all around. Her breasts were slight bumps, perfectly rounded. Her stomach was flatter than a board with no signs of muscle and a tiny inny bellybutton. Skinny legs that looked more like twigs than anything else. No curves, just smallness.

As he sat there at the kitchen table mulling over his confused feelings toward the girl in the other room, he considered for a moment the prospect of her having the same view of him. Did she spend as much time wishing he would kiss her when she knew it was wrong but oh so right? Did she watch him as he slept too?

His eyes focused again on his watch and he saw that five minutes had already gone by and she was still singing that same song on loop. Groaning tiredly, the Doctor got up, pushed his chair in, and walked out the kitchen.

"Clara, hurry up!" He shouted, his voice carrying enough that the singing immediately stopped. He smirked to himself in pride.

"I'm just saying goodbye!" Clara yelled back.

"You've been here only five days, you're hungover, and I don't know if singing that song will really give this place the right message," he mentioned quieter as he approached the bedroom. Clara was sitting on the bed, her duffel bag all packed, wearing a Billy Joel t-shirt.

"Well, I couldn't think of another song to sing," She dignified, crossing her arms under her chest and squeezing her ribcage.

"How about 'You're My Home'?" the Doctor suggested, pointing to Billy Joel.

Clara's smile spread like butter and the Doctor met it with one of his own. "I should've done that. Damn it." She snapped her fingers and bowed her head in mock frustration.

"Well, if you wanna start the song up now, I'd be happy to listen."

With an arched eyebrow, Clara stood up and gathered her things. "In your dreams, Mystery Man."

Oh, definitely, Lancashire. He thought. Out loud he said, "How can you be so sentimental about this place?"

It was old, fairly unkept, and green. He hated green every time he came here.

"These've been some of the best days of my life. How could I not be so sentimental?" He looked at her curiously, but there was such sincerity in her words and her body language screamed 'unhappy' that the Doctor had no other choice but to believe her.

"Hey," he said softly. Clara's eyes whipped to his own, their gazes locking in a heated staring contest. "Maybe we can come back another time."

He didn't know what possessed him to say something like that. Next time? There wouldn't be a next time. There couldn't be a next time. He was going to finish this article, become a millionaire, retire, find some random girl to sleep with without the threat of baggage, and live happily ever after.

One look at Clara's face, though, shattered every one of those desires. Her eyes lit up and her smile widened to the point he was afraid it would crack her skin. Well, he was stuck with her for a while yet.

"But come on," he chided, moving closer and stepping behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, grabbed her bag, and pushed her out of the room.

Dropping the bag next to his, he turned around and faced Clara. There she was, looking small and happy as ever, ready for Devon and excited for another adventure.

"So what's this place called again?" She asked when he figured he'd been staring too long.

He uncomfortably coughed his dizziness away and shifted his bow tie. "Honeysuckle Cottage. Beautiful and scenic. There's a pool and it's on a farm. The owners also have a playground equipment shop, so there are loads of trampolines and swing sets out front."

With bright eyes, Clara sighed. "Sounds perfect. Can't wait."

The Doctor laughed a little and picked up their things, swinging his briefcase over his shoulder and throwing Clara her bag. "Then let's go."

Just as the words left his mouth, a ringing started up in the Doctor's pocket. Something vibrated against his leg incessantly. He groaned.

"I think your phone's ringing, Doctor," Clara said, looking at his pocket.

He nodded, reaching in and pulling out the phone. He didn't recognise the number. "Hello?" He asked cautiously, keeping his voice neutral.

"Doctor?"

His brow furrowed. "Sally?"

"Oh, good, Doctor. Bad news, I saw one of the guys from the photograph just outside the pub."

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

"Fuck!" He shouted. Clara visibly jumped away from him. He couldn't find in himself to care too much at the moment, though. They were both in danger now, she should be frightened. "Which one?"

"Uh, the shortish one. He's got silvery hair?"

"John Riddle." The Doctor's mouth hung open. They called John Riddle "the Hunter" for good reason. "How long ago?" He demanded, inching closer to the cowering girl before him. He held out his free hand and begged her to take it with his eyes. She nodded calmly and grasped his fingers. She felt like heaven in his grip.

"Literally thirty seconds ago. Did a double take, then phoned you."

"Thanks, Sally. Looks like we'll be off then. Wish me luck, old lover."

"You don't need luck, Doctor. Go get 'em."

He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket, moving to get Clara in a hug. She flung her arms around him and he could feel her shaking.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispered into her hair, smoothing a hand down her back. "We just need to be brave, okay?" She nodded against his clothes.

They sucked in a mutual breath and parted, but his hands didn't leave her body. He maneuvered his grasp to her arms, grazing her bare skin and noting how thin she was. Their eyes locked again and this time he saw fear and strength hidden in her gaze. She was pulling him further and further into her abyss without even realising it. Without realising how insane she was making him. For a moment, he thought he had two hearts with the way his pulse beat so erratically out of time.

He was wasting precious seconds, he knew, but he needed this. He needed her eyes to give him the push.

"Let's go, Doctor," Clara murmured. And so they went.

The light outside was bright and the air was chilly with remnants of spring hanging on June's back. The Doctor and Clara's feet moved in synch, their hands clasped tight and their bags swinging dangerously from their shoulders. He could barely keep up with his thoughts, his brain continuously going back to how great it felt holding Lancashire's hand. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on the people. He needed to find Ripper before Ripper found him.

A familiar face was stationed a few hundred feet away from him and Clara. Silver hair, small. He wore sunglasses and all black. God, he must be hot. His pulse quickened again and he gave Clara's hand an absent squeeze.

John Ripper was a ruthless "kill-for-hire" assassin picked up by Torchwood ten years ago to be a permanent member of the defense team. He co-ran the security force with his good buddy Richard Lazarus who, if the Doctor remembered correctly, was currently out with a broken finger. Sucker. That didn't mean he was out of the woods with Ripper. That man had more kills than any other assassin the Doctor had ever come across. Piles and piles of memorabilia was stored at the man's home, little tokens taken from his victims. Definitely a serial killer; a sick one that felt no remorse. That's why he took the trinkets, to remind himself that he ripped people lives apart. They were his souvenirs, the trinkets.

He wondered what Ripper would find to take of his if the Hunter ever caught him.

"Keep moving, Lancashire," the Doctor said quietly, nudging them in the opposite direction away from Ripper. He knew it was a fat chance the Hunter didn't catch him looking, but he hoped that having Clara by his side deterred the man a bit so he and his Lancashire could escape.

Again with the possessiveness, Doctor? He thought to himself as he attempted to get lost in the crowded Frinton street.

The train station was just outside the quote-unquote gated community that was Frinton-on-Sea and he knew their train was leaving in less than ten minutes, so he had to rush. And with a crazy murderer on their trail, the Doctor had a little more incentive to move quickly.

Breaking away from the crowd, the Doctor held his breath. They were exposed now, visible to anyone with a prying eye. Strangers gave him odd looks as he clung to Clara and pulled her with him. His blood was pumping fast, adrenaline spiking his veins without any threat of real danger yet. Although, he supposed simply being followed by a crazy guy was enough to get the adrenaline going.

Train's whistled in the distance, signaling their closeness to the station. The Doctor started running. Clara followed by his side, their hands never unclasping. In fact, Clara entwined their fingers and the Doctor nearly stumbled over his feet with the new thrill echoing through his body. He could hear her laughing a little beside him and let a little chuckle of his own out.

"Doctor!" A voice called behind him. A deep voice. The voice of the Hunter.

He couldn't turn around, not with Clara strapped to him. They were so close to the station, so close. He could see trains slipping through trees, hear them chug on the tracks, feel the rumbling ground as they glided.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot!"

The Doctor skidded to a stop. The Hunter made no empty threats. Clara jerked next to him and he gave her one very stern look that said everything he could muster. Don't speak, don't move, don't think. She stared at him bug-eyed. The Doctor dropped everything and grabbed Clara's bag, throwing it to the ground with his stuff.

"Better," Ripper grumbled. The Doctor heard footsteps approaching. A good assassin never has his back turned. Not that he was an assassin. "Now, who've we got here, eh? Rose, is it?" Turning around slowly, fuming on the inside, the Doctor came face to face with an old friend. "This isn't Rose. She was blonde. Taller too, I think."

"John, it's been a while," the Doctor rolled casually, giving a quick smile.

Ripper eyed Clara, the fingers not holding onto his shiny, illegal gun moving to touch her hair. Clara flinched. "No, definitely not Rose. I've got orders to take you back to base, Doctor." Ripper loomed up at the Doctor.

"Have you now? Well, best tell River I'm a bit busy at the moment."

The Hunter scoffed. "You're quip won't get you out of this, John."

"Do you remember when we were friends? When I used to be J.S. and you were J.R.?" The Doctor was pushing his luck, but he needed time. He looked for an easy jab. Ear clap? Mm, with the ear clap he'd crumple to the floor and drop his gun, then with a kick to the face, he and Clara could get away.

"I'm not here to reminisce, Smith. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. . ." his sentence trailed off, blowing up into the air like smoke. The hard way. Dead.

"Does our history mean so little to you, Johnny Boy?" The Doctor inquired, jumping a little on the soles of his feet, trying to get Ripper to come up to him. It'd be easier if the Hunter thought he could get in the first punch.

Sure enough, the well-trained assassin with a tiny and unloved heart stepped in front of the Doctor and jutted his chin out. "You know I hate it when you call me that." It was a menacing growl. The Doctor thought perhaps he should be a little more afraid.

"You used to love it when we were drunk."

A small smirk played at John's lips. "I'm not drunk now."

Ripper pulled back an arm, but the Doctor was prepared, shoving Clara away and ducking, missing the fist/face connection by a few centimetres. In confusion, the Hunter stumbled forward. The Doctor moved back and brought his hands up, slapping them over either of Ripper's ears. The older man dropped to the ground with a girlish squeal, his gun clapping down beside him.

The Doctor took in Ripper's momentary pain-fest and lifted his foot to kick the man while he was down. With the heel of his boot, the Doctor thrust his leg so his shoe cut a clean hit to the Hunter's temple. John fell back, his head thumping with a loud smack to the gravel-covered ground beneath them. Blood spilled from where the Doctor kicked and he backed up, taking in his handy work.

"Is he dead?"

The Doctor whipped his head around. Clara stood shivering, holding onto herself like she was afraid she'd crumble if she let go. He momentarily forgot about the man lying in a puddle of his own blood and went to Clara, stopping just before reaching her. What had he done? Had he scared her off?

He held out his arms, but she shook her head. "Is. He. Dead?" She asked again.

Shaking his head enthusiastically, the Doctor replied, "No, no. He's very much alive. He's just very stupid without his gun. He doesn't do well with hand to hand."

Clara gave one nod of her head, still shivering, and collapsed into the Doctor, taking in shaky breaths and letting them out. One by one.

"We need to leave now," he mumbled.

She moved her head and peeked up at him. He gazed down at her. "I know."

They separated and grabbed their things. The Doctor ran to Ripper, picked up the gun, and shoved it in his briefcase, hoping Clara didn't see. Then he pulled Clara's hand into his own and ran with her to the train station.

His body was buzzing by the time they made it on their train. They had two minutes to spare. No one else seemed to be in their car of the train and the Doctor tried to calm his nerves with Clara sitting across from him. She was no longer shaking, but he could see the fear in her eyes.

"Clara," he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. He was going to hurt us."

Clara snapped him a look of disbelief and he quivered. Her eyebrows went up. "You think I'm mad at you?"

"I think you're scared of me," the Doctor shrugged, looking away. "You have every reason to be afraid of me."

"Why? Why should I be scared?"

"Because. . .You saw what I did—what I could do to you."

"You don't scare me, Doctor." She sounded sincere, but he couldn't really tell above the ringing in his ears.

There was some rustling and he looked up. Clara was sitting next to him, taking his hands in hers, getting her dainty fingers through his. "I'm not frightened of you," she stressed, laying her head on his shoulder. He felt a spark and wondered if she could feel it too. "I'm just frightened of him. Of them. They want to hurt you."

The Doctor started stroking the back of Clara's hand with his thumb and he heard her sigh into his neck. Her breath was warm and damp as it met the fine hairs of his skin. "John Ripper's always been too excitable. He loves shooting his gun off, so the millisecond he thinks you're worthy of dying, whether or not he's been told not to shoot, he'll shoot."

"What do they want from you, Doctor?" Clara's small voice asked.

He desperately wanted to tell her. More so than ever right then, he just wanted to spill all of his secrets with no filter, no regrets. But he held his tongue.

Shaking his head, the Doctor leaned back and pulled Clara with him so her head settled over his heart. He felt her breathing, he smelled her sweet skin, he could taste her trepidation.

"You're heart's beating fast," she observed, removing one of her hands from his and twirling it around the pocket of his jacket. He could barely feel the pressure, but it was enough to dull his mind.

"Adrenaline," he replied. And you.

"I'll bet you mine's beating faster than yours."

"Doubt it."

"Humph," Clara mumbled childishly, grabbing at the Doctor's now free hand and placing it right below her left breast.

His breath caught, a lump forming in his throat. He was touching Lancashire in a very intimate place. Almost too intimate. There were quick thudumps vibrating up his arm and he wanted so badly to move his hand up just a little to cup the fleshy mound.

"It's beating fast," the Doctor hummed, closing his eyes and trying still his erratic, shallow breaths.

Pressure released his chest and when he opened his eyes Clara's head was level with his own. She was watching him intently, a V formed between her eyebrows. Concentration. What was she looking for? He tried to stare blankly, but his eyes must be swimming in emotion because she brought her thumb up and started tracing the dark shadows beneath his lower lashes, swirling the pad delicately as if he'd snap.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said sleepily, her eyelids drooping. "But I'm afraid of this."

"What do you mean?" He asked desperately.

Her eyelids fell further. "This. Us. I don't want to get hurt."

The Doctor took in a sharp breath that hurt his lungs. "I won't hurt you. I won't let you get hurt."

"That's what he said."

He? The Doctor watched Clara's face fall from grace. Oh, he. Anger bubbled inside of him, directly pointed at the mysterious Harry."Clara, I am not him. I promise you."

She let out a laugh, a small, pathetic laugh that sounded like a laugh getting caught with its knickers down. "I know. But this is new territory for me."

"What? You've never run away with a madman before?"

They both laughed that time, breathless and nervous. She was telling him how she felt. That she felt the same way. Oh, he couldn't form a coherent thought. His head was jumbled and messy.

"I've never run anywhere before."

Their breaths started mingling and he could literally taste her on the tip of his tongue. Sugar and spice and everything nice. He wanted to melt into her, to become one with her forever and a day.

Maybe it was the near death experience or maybe it was the hormones or maybe it was just the water, but one minute she was eyeing him like he was a petri dish and she was a microscope. . .and then she was kissing him.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

He didn't know and he didn't care. All he could think was warm, soft, wet as Clara's mouth melded to his. She pressed firmly against him, moving up a bit and swinging her leg over his lap. Her chest crushed his, her hands moving up his arms and teasing his hair, pulling his head closer to her.

The Doctor had kissed before. Many times before. Usually it meant nothing. He never liked kissing, it was all just a part of the game, but her calm, sensual lips curved to his and he forgot the world. He was full of her. Every thought buzzed with Clara, his hands roaming the smallness of her back, ruffling her t-shirt until his pinkies came in contact with hot skin. She gasped into his mouth. There was not enough blood going to his brain.

No tangling tongues, no grinding, no pants or moans. It was just mouth; delicate, smooth, perfect mouth.

It ended too soon for his liking with Clara fumbling off of him and wiping her lips, a sheepish smile and reddening blush tainting her face. She looked beautiful.

For the rest of the trip she stared out the window and he could see her pulse jumping in her neck, hitting her skin with mercurial leaps of embarrassment and elation.

What just happened?

She definitely started that. She was the one who tiled her chin in just the right way to capture his mouth's attention. Clara Oswald, his Lancashire, trusted him. Completely. She wanted him.

He hit his head to his seat and attempted a proper breath. This added a whole new playing field to his game, one he was not prepared for. He wondered what Amy would think. "I knew it would happen." That's what she'd say. Then she'd follow it by warning him, "Now if she gets killed, you'll want to die right along with her."

And she would be right.

Somehow, in the small amount of time since he's known this girl sitting in front of him with a red face, she'd managed to entangle herself in his heart. She shimmied her way into his life, messing with his plans, his head. He didn't want to go back. He couldn't go back. They were a team now. Hell, they'd been a team since she invited him back to her place a week ago, when the rain was pouring and the wind was howling. Before she even said yes to running with him. There was no living outside of her, without her.

Well, Doctor, he thought to himself with an audible sigh that made Clara's eyes flit to his for a second before slipping back to the fascinating world outside the train window. Let the games begin.

..1..

Clara

She didn't know what possessed her to do it. Maybe it was to prove that she wasn't afraid of him. Either way, her heart was bumbling on like an idiot high on crystal meth and her lips wouldn't stop tingling. Something had changed within the past few hours and it wasn't that she'd kissed him. Clara liked the Doctor, and she couldn't not think about it, about him. Their relationship was odd, backwards almost. They were already sleeping in the same bed, and yes, one night Clara accidentally rolled over and her arm landed squarely on Mystery Man's chest like in the movies. She'd woken with a start, catching her breath and chastising herself for enjoying the solidness of his body.

Clara Oswald didn't like people. She loved Craig and her grandparents and that was it.

But this man instilled feelings in her that were new and strange and almost painful. She should be more afraid, she knew that. A man with a fucking gun came after them. But she wasn't afraid with him there, because, as she saw, he could and would protect them both.

Kissing him had been spur of the moment. The adrenaline in her system started dwindling down and her head got fuzzy, so she kissed him. Perfect explanation.

When their lips met her mind went completely blank and she consumed the Doctor, letting her mouth control his with little smacks and pops. His hands had caressed her back and she'd spent the time wishing he'd just throw her shirt away already.

The stubble decorating his chin poked her face, spreading delicious pain and flaring up some sort of feral thing inside her belly. She couldn't get carried away on a train, though, so when his cold pinkies grazed the soft skin of her back, she knew she had to get away before anything happened.

Since that night at university, when Harry took her soul and ripped it to shreds, Clara had convinced herself that men would always repulse her. That no one could get her pulse erratically beating or make her do stupid things like straddle someone's lap on a train. Then she met the Doctor and he uncharacteristically made her want to throw her inhibitions away and crawl all over him the first night she spoke to him. She was so ready to invite him upstairs to her bedroom before he interrupted it all by admitting he was on the run and asking her to join him.

Everything was shifting in her brain, getting accustomed to the untouched desire stored deep within her psyche. And she was ready for it.

The Hunter

His head was on fire, a large welt the size of a golfball situated over his right temple. Searching through his pocket, he pulled out a burner phone and dialed Song's number, hoping she lacked the necessary skills to murder him through the receiver.

"Ripper," she said slowly, dragging out his name hopefully.

"He blindsided me," he admitted gravely, sliding his hand down his face, feeling the dried blood flake.

There was a pause. A deadly silence. Then indecipherable screaming. He yanked the phone away from his ear.

"I know, I—I know," he grunted angrily when River finally calmed down. "He did the ear-clappy thing he's so fond of."

"Well fuck, because now we don't know where the hell he's going!" She squealed in a pitch he was sure only dogs could hear.

"I've got information, Song. I think you'll like it."

"Tell. Me," she demanded, her sultry voice dropping an octave.

Ripper smiled. "He's got a girl."

A/N: Eh. . .I don't know about this one. I took a while rereading and fixing things, but I'm not too happy with it. Hopefully you will be, though. That'd be enough for me, if you guys liked it.

The Doc and Clara kissed. Ooh. . . That's actually the bit I'm most unsure about. But if you guys thought it was good (or if you thought it was bad) tell me! I need these reviews to know that I'm not horribly screwing everything up to the point of no return.

John Ripper and Richard Lazarus are the Torchwood "defense team," yes. I was poking through my Doctor Who character encyclopedia and thought these two guys would fit the "kill-for-hire" profile quite well. And who doesn't want to put Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft together as a team?

I never know what to say in these author's notes. I can't seem to gather my thoughts. But anyway, next couple chapters should be less "oh god we're going to die". What did you think about me adding the different people's perspectives? Craig's going to make an appearance in one of them too, just for your information. I thought it would be too much to have the whole thing in the Doc and Clara's viewpoints, so we're switching it up!

I'm probably too old to enjoy young adult novels as much as I do, but I have to admit that a good chunk of my bookshelf is overrun with these types of books and Delirium is one that I'm going to be stealing quotes from more than once.

And I just have to say a massive thank you, massive, huge, ginormous thank you, to Random Kid guest reviewer. Those reviews you wrote sincerely gave me a smile that would not go away. Tuesday's when I have my hardest class and when I got out I had all these emails telling me I had reviews and I reread them over and over until I practically memorised them, so thank you! And thank you to anyone else who reviewed, you're amazing and wonderful and I love you even though we don't know each other at all. I can't believe this story's being recommended between friends. Ahh! It's such new territory for me!

I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I promise that when they get to Devon (Honeysuckle Cottage is an actual place I've stayed at before and made me desperately want to move to Devon) there'll be more fun and games and sexual tension. Thanks again! You're all awesome.

Until next time - LoveIsATemple

Disclaimer: I own nothing.