The fourth time it happens he is maudlin and she is clever.
Usually the best way to focus on a vexing problem is to attend to the TARDIS. There's a myriad little repairs on his ever growing to-do list. The tick and hum of her circuits and the less tangible sense of her, all around him, are a reassuring comfort.
Not today. The scatter of books on the library table are Clara's choices. Her mug is on the draining board in the kitchen, the dress she wore to dinner still hanging at the front of the TARDIS wardrobe. Every room inhabited by an echo of her. He can't think in the TARDIS today.
He goes to the gardens instead. Technically the Lost Gardens of Treloath, an archaeological treasure that won't be rediscovered by the inhabitants of the nearby Midian Cluster for another three hundred years, if one takes a linear path through time. He walked in the shadow of the walls here when the place was first planted, however. Lost is always a relative term.
He leaves the TARDIS at the feet of the great pyramid, a landmark even he should be able to find again, and strolls in the vague direction of the ceremonial pools. It is as idyllic as he remembers; the green smell of growth and chirrup of birds the most pressing stimuli. No other soul, save one asleep on the TARDIS, for a hundred light years in every direction…
Unbidden, the thought of her has followed him out of the doors, even into this place of supreme peace. He sighs. There is a weathered stone bench overlooking the pools. He takes a seat and tries to empty his mind once again of all things Clara.
It's too soon, that's the thing. He's barely shed the skin that he learned to love River in. And Clara is human for another. Not human with a dash of TARDIS magic thrown in to gift her regenerations and understanding of Time Lord science. Just plain old Homo sapiens.
Was Rose not bitter pill enough to teach him?
He sighs, and not for the first time wishes he could ignore the compulsion to find someone to share the universe with. He should travel alone. Be alone. Except of course he tried that before, the last time fragile little humans broke his hearts, and who was it with power to drag him out of isolation but Clara? For a moment he feels every day of his two thousand years old; bone weary with it all. The loneliness of surviving when all around him withers and dies.
Third thing, he thinks. This face. Regeneration is always playing catch up. Trenzalore needed this body, all scowls and sharp words; not the kindly youth he wore there for centuries. And by the time he found this curmudgeon within himself, a man with the brittle strength to withstand a thousand years of isolation? The universe had moved on.
He is on his feet now, driven up by the rising frustration. There are rounded pebbles scattered around the edge of the pools. He picks up a handful, weighing them thoughtfully in his hand before lobbing them into the water. There is a curious satisfaction to be had in disturbing the stillness, shattering the peace of the place.
He has to put an end to these moments of weakness. Put things back in their proper context. Go back to being just… Just what, exactly? More stones break the surface of the pool as he throws them with renewed ferocity. Her friend? Her best friend? The kind that can watch happily from the side lines when she finds happiness with someone that matches her in youth and beauty, rather than mercilessly deride any fellow she takes up with? Ha!
"Should you really be doing that?"
He freezes. The last stone falls from his still upraised hand. He spins on his heels.
"Clara!"
She is standing, one hand on her hip; a wicker basket in the other. As he struggles to find more words she sets it down and fumbles the leather straps open. A picnic blanket emerges, a huge woollen thing worthy of an Enid Blyton story, which she precedes to spread out on the ground.
"How did you know where I was?"
She raises an eyebrow, amused. "I always know where you are." He looks nonplussed at this odd pronouncement and she laughs. "I scanned for you on the TARDIS before I set out."
"Oh." He sits down opposite her, crossing his legs.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
She cocks her head sideways, clearly dubious. "Really? Didn't exactly look like okay when you were chucking stones in there."
He shrugs. "I was just checking."
"Checking for what?"
"Oh you know. Monsters. Aliens. Sentient fish people evolved since the last time I came to visit."
"And?"
"I think we're safe enough."
She laughs again; he's horrified by the way his hearts leap at the sound. "Famous last words."
He tries to distract himself with a new problem. "What's in the basket?"
"A picnic." She begins pulling out sandwiches, bottles of ginger beer and lemonade, scones, cakes and fruit. Seeing his expression at the surprising capacity of the small wicker basket she smiles slyly. "It's bigger on the inside."
"Of course. I was wondering where I'd put that."
A couple of books and cushions follow the food. She props herself up with a hardback in one hand and sandwich in the other. He selects his own sandwich, pulling apart the bread to inspect the tomato slices minutely before eating. Catching her disapproving look, he scowls. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." She reads another line or two and wriggles pleasurably in the sun. "I bought your books too."
He pulls the selection towards him, culled from his desk in the console room: A Brief History of Arakkidian Diplomacy, Teach Yourself To Knit In Three Easy Steps and Doctor Zhivago. He reopens the knitting book, watching her read from behind the cover of its pages.
He would never, ever feed her ego-mania by telling her, of course; but at this time and in this place she is as beautiful to him as the birth of stars. Surprisingly round face and all.
It is some time before he unexpectedly catches her eye and suddenly realises she is doing exactly the same. Her eyes snap back to her book, colour flooding her face, and he swallows the lurch in his stomach. Resistance has to start now if he is to have any chance of putting their relationship back on a more platonic footing.
He clears his throat. "I should… make a start on some repairs to the navigation system."
"Oh, ok. Are we leaving?"
"Not right away. You can… you stay here. Enjoy the sun and- and the books for a bit longer."
"Right," she says, and even he can hear the disappointment in her tone. "I'll do that then."
He nods, thoroughly miserable himself, hands straying to unconsciously straighten the picnic blanket. "I'll see you later."
"Later," she agrees.
He moves to pick up his books, to return them all to the safety of the picnic basket before he leaves. Clearly she has had the same idea, their fingers brushing unintentionally on the cover of Doctor Zhivago.
"Doctor…" She is all eyes in her face, a trait he has never been able to fully understand. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"No," he croaks, suddenly unable to look away from her. "I'm not okay."
"Well, can I hel-?"
Her question is lost as he kisses her. This is no gentle question; all the frustration of the unsolvable puzzle that his impossible girl remains is poured into capturing her mouth. She returns the kiss with even ferocity, taking hold of his lapels and pulling him down to the picnic blanket. Her hands move under his shirt, warm against his skin, and he breaks away suddenly.
He takes a breath, wondering how in the universe he can possibly distil the complexities of their situation into human speech.
"Shut up," she says, softly, before he has even spoken a word.
"You don't know what I'm going to say."
"I don't mean that," she says, confusingly, "I mean that little voice inside of you that makes this complicated."
He blinks. "Isn't it?"
"Not terribly, no."
He tries again. "But I… One day you won't−And then−"
"I know. And then you will find someone else. And that's okay. That's the way it should be. You've had four wives, are you seriously telling me you haven't worked that out yet?"
He opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I suppose not."
"Slow learner," she replies affectionately, fingers now tracing a circle on his back.
"Well, if you're offering to teach me..."
"Apparently I am quite good at that."
"Shut up," he replies, kissing her again, just to be sure.
They spend the afternoon climbing the pyramid. Sunset on high is something to see on Treloath.
"Well?" he asks, when they finally stand on the high balcony amongst the palette of pink and gold.
"It is beautiful," she agrees, tugging the picnic blanket more tightly around her shoulders. The warmth of the day is ebbing fast with the sun. Inky blue seeps into the sky, pin prick stars beginning to show. She stands, grinning up at the darkening sky. With no light pollution is seems as if the universe has been poured overhead; a thousand constellations coming into view.
"Pick one," he says quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Pick one. Make it a good one."
She takes a while to make her selection, eventually pointing up at the brightest star in a cluster of seven. "That one."
He holds out his hand. "Come on then."
There's a lot for them to see together, after all.