[Transmissions (VI - Superposition)]
There had been numerous moments after the regeneration where she would have tentatively dared to guess that they might be back to their old status quo, the entire share of good times and the cool nights and heartfelt conversations that followed hard days, and they all could invariably be followed to another instance of her doubting whether they'd understood a single word out of each others mouths since their return from frosty Trenzalore.
So when she'd stormed out of the TARDIS after the debacle on the moon, it had felt like a cummulation, an inevitability that had been overdue for a long time, and in some ways, it really might have been, some crucial lesson the two of them could only have staved off learning for long if they were to keep moving through time at each other's sides.
But now they knew, about each other, about themselves, and about that batshit insane world they had no choice but live in, and knowing was half the battle.
As mentioned before, there were many possible contenders for the moment on which their bond could have been regarded as sufficiently patched up, but there could be no doubt about when it had surpassed the levels of what they had before – When they stirred now, they moved in a strange kind of unison that came about through self-assembly more than any kind of coordination, throw this, catch that, over here, got it already, like the springs and coils of a well oiled-machine, four years (or thirteen lifetimes') worth of practice combining with the crispest and freshest of their new insights like the furious swelling of a violin melody (There was never a real chance of anyone, let alone Danny, buying that 'we haven't seen each other in months' excuse, was there?)
A stranger reading their conversations on a piece of paper might not necessarily catch that there was anything more than annoyance being exchanged; It took actually hearing them speak and watching them move to spot the natural, almost playful back-and-forth in their banter. Their lines were peppered with hermetic terms from all over creation and references to their very own history of past exchanges, and rarely meant to be understandable to anyone but them on their private wavelength – No wonder then that the onlookers these days assumed that whatever weird corner of creation their visitors must have sprung from, it was probably the same, and maybe not even all that incorrect, for after all she had done, with what right would she claim that space hadn't made her was she was as much as her upbringing in Blackpool, and with what right would anyone – him included – dare claim that he was not of the Earth, not by birth perhaps but most certainly by choice and allegiance.
At the end of the day, it didn't matter where they were from, not on days when they'd find their way to places where 'Earth' and 'Gallifrey' would be new, foreign words that would only be remembered as parts of the myths they'd leave behind them, and in the time they reserved for each other, she'd be as detached from the ground as he was, if not more, because she had the freedom to trade even that flight itself for her desk in the staff room at Coal Hill School – To an extent.
Her uncompromising ambition to have it all and her relentless refusal to accept anything else than that ideal third option had been some of her greatest assets and probably the reason that her life was as full as it had been for the past years, but even now, she found herself meeting the limits of what could be done – He knew her, from the candy-covered surface to the sour, chewy center, so it should hardly have been surprising that he didn't require any effort to work out that she hadn't been telling the full story, at least not to Danny, in fact so fast that it drove Clara to wonder whether her efforts to conceal her 'double life' on this one end hadn't been suspiciously sloppy, purposely betrayed by some subconscious pulling to let him now.
Now, whether she'd be prideful enough to claim that this was the only reason the Doctor ever found out depended on whether she was in a confident mood at the moment, which was, and always had been, a frequent occurrence – He'd put a complicated, sentient machine from one of the most advanced civilizations in the history of the universe on 'easy mode' because he actually trusted her to fly it – his most prized home – and she'd be liable to reply "What, because I'm a girl?" like such backwards obsession with trivialities was the only reason anyone could possibly fathom. His own attitude towards things he only kinda-sorta understood was, of course, much the same, and both their pride actually proved to have been merited most of the time.
She knew that she was good, not in a conceited, but in a correct way, and she wanted to be told that she was not because she didn't know, but because she liked to hear it.
And so far he'd always been quite forthcoming with the acknowledgment, maybe less obviously so these days, but when it counted, and his reliance on her skills bared the truth in its own, even stronger languages.
But lately, he seemed seriously more reserved, reluctant even in that regard, not unequivocally so, his reactions, possible thoughts on the matter seemed... complex. He'd seemed so much, much freer when she asked his opinion on that submarine three years ago – maybe it was something she said, something in that last conversation in the console room just before they'd resumed their voyages or the simple facts that even she knew were nothing to be proud of.
She supposed that even he was not so whimsically proud – and proudly whimsical – as to lack the self-awareness to realize that he had no right (given his various track records) and no business (given Clara's own) telling her anything about honesty – But it wasn't just simple hesitation, nothing simple or straightforward at all, if anything, he seemed at war with himself, or rather trying to contain various distinct responses, to do justice to several principles and concerns at the same time and this was perhaps best exemplified in the disparity between his responses to her performance to their encounter with the two-dimensional creatures he'd personally dubbed 'the Boneless' -
One when he was near suffocation while trapped inside the TARDIS, having reached his limits after several minutes without air supply, apparently choosing to go out with ample praise of her strength and skills if it couldn't be avoided –
And another, once they'd put solid pavement back under their feet, what was, perhaps, a sobering wake-up call phrased in a tone and demeanor somewhere between morbid fascination, a strict, disapproving scowl and some deeper, more fundamental unrest further inside, and she knew better than to assume that it was a matter as simple as him spilling, or refusing to spill his true feelings depending on the circumstances, there was some scathing truth in the factoids he'd made her aware of, things that made her think, too, his harsh comments and the way he addressed her, as always, abrasively equal in his expectations and criticisms, and expecting nothing else but the same to come back from her direction –
Maybe he hadn't liked to look upon is own form, or modus operandi like that, just like he hadn't liked his own handwriting in that heist he'd orchestrated from the future. Maybe Danny was right and she should long since have extricated herself from this madness.
Maybe had a point – she might have been worried for the prospects of this day's little group in the beginning, but when the day was done, she'd been too swept in her moment of triumph to consider the perspective where this didn't happen every day; Maybe he had especially hated to see his ugly mirror image reflected from her of all people, perhaps because Danny's accusations has stung more than he'd outwardly shown, because they'd been new salt on old and grisly scars.
Maybe he'd become acutely aware of the passage of time, not for him, but for her, from the girl who hadn't understood the rationale behind his secrets and demanded to be told why he insisted on hiding his title, to someone who'd intimately learned its meaning and was ready to defend it to others, even keep that same secret herself after she recalled that day in the labyrinth in the Trenzalorian catacombs, to someone who felt confident – and was, after some feebly annoyed protest, allowed – to take his 'name', his complete signature performance for a spin.
Maybe he was left wondering what of it was really his, how flimsy his identity really was, or maybe he'd wondered if she wasn't about to discard herself like a mask, where she had disappeared to in that moment –
Though really, it was really more like one of her many costumes, in the moment, before things had gotten serious, before the inevitable bitter aftertaste, she'd been having fun that instant, taking pleasure in annoying him with the borrowing of his title and making an impression on the locals in the process, giving the local creative young man a bit of the eye, too, and adding to said annoying in the process, maybe this would even qualify as flirting with two people at once, as even the annoying presenting a flaunting of her abilities.
She wasn't so much losing as discovering herself, new parts, new sides coming out under new circumstances, behaving a it different as if one might in a new set of clothes, at most perhaps forgetting or closing off the usual set until she felt like taking them out of the closet again – but that didn't necessarily mean that either of them would like what she had discovered.
In the end, his idea of innocence, or of damage done by seeing the shadows of the world was that of a person who kept all the knowledge to himself and was free to ignore facts for as long as he wanted to, not even held by the passage of days and the opening and wilting of petals – The sad truth was still the truth whether you knew it or not, doom was coming one way or another, and facts, capabilities and truths of her own being didn't depend on himself to reveal themselves – if the truth of the world she lived in was harsh, could adapting to it ever be a purely bad thing?
But of course, adaptation always depended on context; Most plants hadn't evolved the complex reactive systems of animals because they simply hadn't needed them, and while a white animal might thrive in a landscape of snow, the same coat might give it away easily in a dark forest.
Case in point: Terrible habit vs vital survival skill, and somewhere in the middle was he, with the regretful experiences he, as her friend, would like to spare her, and still, some cold and technical appreciation, even impressed admiration of how she'd pulled things off (and she was the same, to an extent – when she'd thrown him the screwdriver and watched his fearsome display as he banished the creatures back to their own realm, her only reaction had been a fond smile – that showoff, in his fancy outfit, waving his wand – She hadn't perceived it anymore, what could have been fearsome abut that snarling, commanding creature in black and red), and he wanted her to know what he thought of her performance, but another thing he wanted was to avoid leading her to ruin.
She couldn't recall the exact philosopher who came up with it, but she'd once read, in an article about the social changes in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, that one of the changes brought upon by the separation of the home and the workplace, as well as the however limited possibilities for social climbing, was how people saw identity – Once, the son of a carpenter would always become a carpenter, and a carpenter was who he would be, as well as a citizen of the same small village...but what if he worked in a factory, and the factory work remained independent from his activities as a father or husband?
So there was an awareness forming of how a person's identity and their social role weren't always the same thing, even the idea that the social role was what remained the same if you changed the person, and the person's identity was what remained behind when they switched between social roles.
Even then, things became even more muddled where art and science met, neither as different from the other as they were believed to be in her local environment, but probably separated by the potential existence of a 'correct' answers in the latter, even if the same phenomenon could surely be modeled in different ways.
There was the question of technician vs performer, of the sort of actor who'd fully immerse themselves and become a vessel for the thoughts of the author or director, or the one who injected a bit of himself in the role and its redefinition, someone presenting the world with 'their' hamlet or 'their' James Bond, down to a singer, and a stage persona that only they could become, but might still be distinct from them, perhaps a sub-set? Where did Clark Kent end and Superman begin, and how did Kal-El fit into this? That sort of questions, and how they escalated when other people's ideas, expectations and assumptions were added into the mix.
Hard questions whose answers they might not like even if they could determine them, so tempting to leave them for another day, but pressing enough to make him consider and person he could hardly stand as a solution as long as they were different from the person he liked the least of all.
Maybe he was afraid and facing a frightening thing at either branch of this crossroads – At least right now in this current phase of his life, she was the closest, most precious person to him in the world – And that's why he came to her, for all sorts of things, be it just some fun time together or a prospective great experience he'd like to share with her, a huge task for which he wanted one of his most ´skilled right-hand people nearby, or was even daunted to undertake all by himself, or just for basic comfort and company after a bad day.
That's why he really didn't want to have to part with her any time soon.
But he'd rather leave and remember her as this person he liked immensely in the centuries to come than knowing that he'd distroyed everything he liked about her with this own hands.
Of course, he never considered that perhaps the opposite would happen, that her example as someone he shared certain things with, but still remained someone he liked , might make him like himself a little more, but both their hesitation to confront the certainties awaiting them ensured that things got worse before they got any better, and all this taught them two things they should have expected:
That the disparities in their perception of themselves and each other could still be quite palpable even when – or exactly when – they were forced into the most complete kind of cooperation, with only one of them having access to the outside world, the phantom of the opera and his angel of music, his spirit and her voice, in one combined, the beautiful mask to bring the beast's genius to the world, joined with her own skill and radiance -
And, that whatever they were made of beneath everything, that elusive, fugacious something that couldn't be fully described by 'Miss', or 'Oswin' or 'Ozzie' or 'Boss', or 'Doctor' or 'The Renegade' or 'John Smith' or 'Theta Sigma', nor even the far too pompous string of syllables his parents had once chosen, was pretty similar, in a way that transcended even their different backgrounds and the significant disparities in the layout, durability and overall state of their flesh, and, if nothing else, they had that mutual awareness of each other's true merit – and true danger – to give each other the occasional course correction or at least make them very aware of what they were doing.
They had no illusions about each other's pride, and she had his default strategy, the step-by-step procedere he didn't even need to finish explaining to her, as seen through as he had the secrets she'd kept, she'd picked up on his tendency to engineer his foe's defeats with their own petards.
He did get that reputation from somewhere – He showed up on the scene, and soon after, all hell would break loose even if he didn't seem to do more than to stumble from one exploding room to the next exploding room because it was slightly less on fire.
But there was that subtle deliberateness in the question he asked, the places he visited, the levers he flipped, maybe not following a plan but constructing multiple possible scenarios based on each new piece of information somewhere in his head, a cunning too disgraceful for your basic dashing hero, but still very much there in case it should become needed.
She knew, she'd seen.
She'd approached these voyages, or life in genera, with an analytical mindset to begin with, and though she was less likely to mumble things about narrative conventions to herself, it was because she didn't need to because she'd become firmer, surer in the handling of red buttons and the like.
He felt alive when she was here, like she was where she was supposed to be, in was what supposed to have been her element all along, the voyages she wanted to go on, the exiting thing she was waiting on... but that was dangerous. Uncertain. Difficult terrain, past the point where return might not be possible.
If those feelings and all that were here, they were nowhere near firmly in her grasp, they weren't within her control, and they would, instead, be tied to one of the least reliable, least predictable of people around her, to the fickle circumstances of their exploits, at the mercy of their arguments and moods... and it didn't take a genius to see how this wasn't a good idea, it was not a good idea at all, better to keep this compartmentalized, better to keep all the doors open...
She thought that was the right answer, but these days, the 'right' answer, as a concept, was not as clear as it once had been. There might not always be such an answer that cud wrap things up without any broken eggshells anywhere – and even if there was, she was beginning to fear that being right might not necessarily make it the true answer when it came to her life in particular.
A/N: A very unappreciated genius fact about 'Flatline' (that makes it even more ironic when haters who'd be dissatisfied with any amount of Clara complain that there was too much of her in it) is that (in part because of the simple plan that he had to explicitly explain it to someone else) it contained some very articulate & accurate meta-analysis on the Doctor's typical procedere. Like, you could look through all sorts of past episodes and notice how he carries those same steps out, how he can be very deliberate underneath the sillyness (most notably the purely psychological boasts (Voyage of the Damned says hi) or the group dynamics assessments.
Interestingly he was pretty bad at this when he was fresh out of Gallifrey's spires, he picked up the heroic leader act from Ian Chesterton, and modified/ continued to further refine it it to suit his own style and strengths – He's a sly bastard. Always has been. Interestingly honest about it these days, and Clara's the same... and I absolutely love how they know that about each other and we basically get to watch them kick lots of butt together.), you realize that this is still the same guy who used to be Seven, he just chooses to go with improvisation because he believes in it - They've sort of pulled of the usual once-per-season 'give the lead actor a break' episode without actually having him and his character be less of a presence in it.
If Jamie Matthieson's upcoming series 9 episodes prove as good/popular as the s8 ones, I'm strongly suggesting that Moffat put him on the list of potential successors when the time comes.