The second time it happens the world was on fire.
The klaxon wails, painfully loud, a noise she feels reverberate inside her chest.
The ship is going down, which was kind of the plan. They are still on the ship, however, which was not.
He stands on the burning bridge, flames beginning to lick the walls, and smiles with satisfaction at the image on the cracked view screen. The colonist's lifeboat is powering away, the tractor beam no longer tethering to them to the Cassini Warship. The Warriors have fled, a hundred harmless rescue pods glittering in space behind their crippled ship. No one died here today. Just this once, everybody lived.
Except possibly the Doctor and Clara.
He's having one of his moments, she can tell. Drunk on his own cleverness and the destruction all around them, he's forgotten that once they lose orbit and the ship starts its descent proper they have no chance of escape. Even if they somehow made it down in one piece, Thalos IV is a proto-planetary mess of fiery volcanoes and raging storms of burning gas. Not even the Doctor can regenerate out of that.
She grabs his arm, unable to make herself heard over the awful noise of the red alert, and shakes him.
He comes back to himself, head snapping round to see her frightened face, suddenly realising their predicament. He catches her wrist and they run down smoke filled corridors. She can barely see, barely breathe. The smoke is almost too much. But she trusts him. When he pulls open a door and stuffs her into what seems like a cupboard she assumes it is all part of his plan…
She opens her eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned for once.
"Yes," she says, her voice hoarse.
"You were a bit… passed out for a moment there."
"The smoke."
"Yes, of course."
She blinks. She has assumed until this moment that he is holding her upright in her swoon, but that doesn't seem quite right. They still seem to be jammed in a cupboard, dimly lit with flashing LEDS, walls covered in buttons and switches.
"Doctor, where are we?"
"Escape capsule," he says, with a grin, "On our way back to the TARDIS."
She reaches behind her experimentally, fingers brushing against the wall. The capsule can be no more than three feet wide.
"Bit… intimate, isn't it?"
"They're usually for just a single person," he explains.
"But we have to share? Great." A thought occurs. "Doctor, how long will it take the capsule to reach the TARDIS?"
She can tell from the look on his face, straight away, that she's not going to like the answer.
He pretends to do the calculations. "Oh, about… nine hours or so."
"Nine. Hours."
"Give or take a margin of error. Ten percent."
"There isn't even room to sit down," she says, slightly despairingly.
"Well…" He is wearing an expression that can only be called 'shifty.'
"Well what?" she says, mentally preparing herself. "Spit it out."
"I changed the artificial gravity when we got in. So we could stand up."
"How does one normally occupy an escape capsule then?" she says, and some part of her brain marvels that sentences like these just come out of her mouth now, that this probably counts as a fairly standard day for her.
He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, trying to think of the right words, and decides to go for a practical demonstration instead. He flips a switch and gently the capsule seems to fall over backwards.
She is no longer standing in front of him. She is lying on top of him. Or she would be, if she wasn't balancing on her hands and feet to prevent herself from squashing him.
"So, just to be clear, my options are standing with my face practically in your armpit for nine hours, or lying on top of you?"
"I'm sorry," he offers. He doesn't look very sorry. He's still grinning from their victory over the Cassinis.
Her arms are beginning to ache. Screw it. She gently lowers herself down, lying with her head on his chest. He is too bony to be truly comfortable, and the acrid smell of the burning Warship hangs on them both. She's definitely not enjoying it.
"This is pretty much a hug," she says, muffled slightly, although to be honest he's been a bit better about that sort of thing since what she calls The Fuchsia Spire Incident, two months ago.
They still haven't spoken about it. She doesn't regret it. It didn't change anything between them, so it counts as a win. Just an itch they had to scratch once, she supposes.
"Nah," he replies, looking down at her as she glances up at him in surprise, "I can still see your face."
This is particularly true right at that moment, thanks to her ill-timed movement. They are almost nose to nose. Like the Fuchsia Spire Incident. Except this time she is already on top of him.
She hastily buries her head in his chest again.
If someone had asked her, four months ago… No, wait. Is it four already? She counts the weeks in her head, trying to remember precisely how much time has passed since Christmas Eve and her flight to the TARDIS. Probably four months. Give or take a margin of error. Maybe ten percent.
If someone had asked her before Christmas whether she'd be able to fall asleep lying on top of the Doctor like this, she would have laughed. Except the person doing the asking in this scenario would probably have to be Danny, as no one else knew about the Doctor, and actually that wouldn't be very funny at all…
She feels a sudden gut-wrenching pang of sadness and opens her eyes again.
Even more surprising than her snooze is the fact that the Doctor is snoring lightly. She can't quite believe it. And she can't reach her 'phone to record the moment, for posterity and a trump card in every argument they ever have again about 'superior species.' Not without waking him up.
Now that is unbelievable.
With little else to do, she lays her head back down on his chest, watching the play of the blinking LEDs and hoping to fall asleep again.
"Clara," he breathes, after a long while.
"Yes?" she whispers back. There is no response and after a moment she realises he is still asleep.
"Her name is Clara."
She can't help but smile. "Are you dreaming about me, Doctor?" she murmurs.
"My Clara."
"In some ways," she agrees, "But only if you don't tell anyone."
She opens her eyes.
"Oh you're awake at last," he says and she could crow with delight.
"I was awake before," she says jubilantly, "And you were asleep."
"Certainly not. You must have dreamt that."
"No, I definitely wasn't."
"You've got no evidence."
"Urgh, I knew that would happen." She shifts uncomfortably. "Doctor, take the sonic out of your pocket."
The instant the words are out of her mouth she realises her mistake.
"Uhm," he gulps, and she tries desperately to think of a lie that can preserve his dignity.
"No," she yelps, "Sorry, my fault, just my belt… buckle." She is fooling no one. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."
He flicks the artificial gravity, and she regains her feet. She can still only put inches between them in the cramped cabin, and frankly it isn't enough.
"Please tell me we're near the TARDIS?"
He checks the read out. "At least an hour away. I'm sorry, I can't−"
"It's okay," she says, over his apology, "It's not your fault. I mean… it's just biology. And I have…" She trails off, not sure whether or not she should finish the sentence as she originally intended. I don't regret it, she tells herself, And neither does he. "I have seen it before."
She blinks, trying very hard to stop herself from thinking back to the last occasion.
"I suppose that's true," he says levelly, addressing the console panels behind her head.
There is no way out. They are stuck in this capsule for the next hour. At least.
She draws in a breath and leans back in against him, screwing her eyes shut as she buries her head in his chest. "Just talk to me Doctor. About anything." She casts about for a suitably distracting topic. "Where are we going next?"
She can feel him relax a little having reached a safer subject. "I was thinking Iridonia. They have waterfalls there that make Niagara look like the fountain in a hotel lobby."
"Sounds nice. What's the catch?"
"Well there is a rumour that the falls are the home of the legendary Krall, creatures of light and energy that possess living souls in order to experience a mortal existence…"
She lets him prattle on, relived that the moment of awkwardness is dispelled, and trying not to dwell on how pleasant it is to be curled up like this. She flicks the artificial gravity back after a few minutes of expansive discourse on the refraction indexes of living beings, settling down as he continues about sentient gas creatures. She is absolutely not thinking about what he was dreaming of when he said her name.
Sudden silence. She realises his last statement was a question. "Hmm?"
"I said: you're not listening to me, are you?"
She makes the mistake of looking up at him; they are nose to nose once more.
"No," she admits, before she kisses him.
She half expects resistance, but once again he reacts like she is water and he is dying of thirst. Like the crystal chamber in the Fuchsia Spire, the capsule feels like a private universe; a tiny pocket of time and space disconnected from their real lives, where this sort of thing can happen.
There isn't really room to undress properly. She fumbles his shirt open and he manages to pull her jumper up, just enough to feel skin against skin as they kiss−
Bleep-bleep.
"Proximity alarm," he says, against her mouth.
"Ok," she says, stealing another kiss.
He switches the gravity, still holding her close. "TARDIS should extrude the defence shield so there's breathable air between the doors."
"Should?"
He ignores this. "I'll open the door of our capsule and we should just… float across."
Of course, it doesn't work that way. They tumble out of the capsule and land in a breathless heap inside the console room.
She expects him to pull her upright, to put an end to their moment of capsule induced madness and send them spinning off on their next adventure.
She does not expect his mouth to capture hers once again, long fingers curling around the hem of her jumper.
But when has the Doctor ever been predictable?
She is surprised that the TARDIS so much as lets her find a bathroom, let alone one with fluffy white towels and an enormous free-standing bathtub.
Still expecting a trap, she turns on the hot tap. Warm water gushes out. She fills the whole bath, expecting at any minute it to turn cold, or that the bath will spring a mysterious leak. Some punishment for her misdemeanour. They have breached a fairly fundamental rule of TARDIS etiquette, hanky-panky in the console room no less.
Nothing happens. She climbs into the tub and relaxes back in the hot water, washing away the smoke and sweat.
Could it be the old girl actually approves?