A/N hi again. How are you all? I'm sinking into a mess of stress, procrastination, lost sleep and oblivion, thanks for asking.
Thank you all for reviewing, I got like a ton of reviews last chapter. Today I would like to thank you all individually because you're so nice. Here goes.
Extraordinary thank yous to: LeilaTheGalaxyDefender, Dancer-with-Duende, MeghanMurray, KaraokeLeo, , MadMan-in-a-SnogBox and Reader244, along with all my lovely guests. Extra special extraordinary thank yous to: only-the-sassiest, RememberMeWhen, runyoucleverboy-remember, lifewithdaleks, TimeSpaceAnomaly, RandomVictorian, AMysteriousWoman711, whoufflemysouffle and, last but certainly not least, daisy-chains-and-bowties. You're the bestest, and I am justified in this abuse of proper grammar.
Another thing, I've written a oneshot thing. It's called Time Lord Defeated, and based on the Waters of Mars ending. It would be really cool if you all checked it out :)
Due to aforementioned stress, insomnia, endless void etc etc I won't be updating very frequently for the next few weeks. But then I go on holidays and I, with my ghost town of a social life, will be back to writing more. :)
Today's song is Heartstrings by Pegasus Bridge. Everyone please applaud only-the-sassiest for recommending this band to me, as they are brill. But have also broken up after one album. *cries*
Also, my French is far from fluent, so please correct me if its wrong.
•••
Heartstrings - Pegasus Bridge
Skin keeps your heart in
When you're one still believing
And the skin that we're living
Is slightly constricting.
Is it the real thing, you are living in?
Is it a lesser you, that you're living through?
Just think what it might be like,
to live like that every night.
And think what it might be like,
to live like that every night.
Stay if you want to,
I know that I'll miss you.
But I've got to see things,
That can pull out your heartstrings.
I dare.
Is it the real thing, you are living in?
Is it the lesser you, that you're living through?
Just think what it might be like, to live like that every night
And think what it might be like, to live like that every night
Just think what it might be like, to live like that every night
Just think what it might be like, we live like this every night
To live like this every night
We live like this every night
•••
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She didn't make a sound.
The silence, the unwavering, violent silence of her sleep, seeped into every crevice and corner of his mindless mutterings, into every heavy nothing that the clanging of the TARDIS echoed into.
It had been three days since Trenzalore. Three days, three nights. And in all that time Clara had spent there, running around with his other selves, preoccupied with making sense of the new revelations about the man she had been travelling with, she hadn't slept once. And the past few days, she'd simply been wandering alone about the TARDIS corridors. He'd left her to her thoughts, but was almost certain she hadn't caught a wink in that time either.
Eventually, the Doctor had found her curled up in a corner leading to one of the libraries. Absolutely dead to the world. She looked so much like her old self, like the person she'd been just a few days ago. When she was Clara Oswald, and no one else.
He'd carefully lifted her into his arms, so little, so light, and carried her over to the nearest room the TARDIS produced. It had felt like he was holding a skeleton, a fragile shadow of someone else, if he dropped her she would shatter into thousands of shards of white bone. As if the pieces would scatter into all those people Clara had created, dull and bright white, rotting fragments of a once perfect whole.
Perhaps that wasn't so far from the truth of the situation.
The Doctor had been careful, meticulous, as he laid her down on the bed. Making sure her limbs rested just so, and she was securely tucked under the blankets. He'd put a glass of water and some biscuits on the nightstand, left her a short note for when she woke. He'd even found her a toothbrush and left it out for her in the adjoining bathroom.
He'd done everything he could, until there were no more excuses for staying.
Now, listening to the heavy silence soaking through the TARDIS walls, he wished he'd been able to persuade himself to at least settle down in the corridor outside.
He pretended to fiddle with the navigation circuits, but was really just listening. For any sound at all.
It was hours before he heard anything that wasn't the occasional sparking of wires. And that anything was not what he had expected.
"Billy?" The call echoed from a darkened hallway. It sounded like Clara. There was no one else it could have been but Clara. But, even so, he dearly hoped it was not.
"Billy?" she called again, and he saw her appear at the mouth of the corridor. "Billy?"
He hesitated before answering. "Clara? Clara- are you alright?"
She looked at him surprisedly. "Oh- sorry sir. I didn't mean to be a nuisance. I'll be out of your way, sir."
She was about to turn back the way she came when he ran up to her. "No- Clara. What are you doing?"
"Sorry, sir. I think you must be-" here she faltered, frowned. "You must be mistaken. I'm Clare, sir. Clare Oswald. I'm sorry for getting in your way, sir."
At this, he felt as though all the hope he had physically sank. Or, more accurately, threw itself into an undeniable whirlpool. He'd wished with all he had to avoid this, that maybe she would get better easily, that maybe she wouldn't have to go through this.
"No, you're Clara," he said strongly, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She looked at it, as if wondering why it was there. "I'm-I'm-I think you must be mistaking be for someone else, sir. See, I'm looking for a boy. He's-he's about nine or so, blonde hair, skinny. Have you seen him, sir?"
He studied Clara's eyes, they were unnaturally hazy. Her words were ever so slightly slurred, too, and her movements just a little slow. Perhaps, in the searching void of dreams, she had begun to confuse herself with someone else. To think she was someone else.
"Is he your son?" he asked softly.
"No, sir. He's-he's my adopted son. I suppose. We're down along near Greenwood, it's hard living 'round that way, but we get by. I suppose you don't have to worry about that much, do you, sir?" she smiled a little, a fake smile.
"Clara-"
"Sir, my name's Clare. Now, I must get going, if you haven't seen Billy anywhere..."
"Clara, Billy isn't here."
"Why do you keep calling me that, sir? And-and you said you hadn't seen him?"
He took a deep breath. "Clara, you do not have an adopted son called Billy. You do not live near Greenwood. You are not Clare Oswald."
She blinked several times, her lips turning down. "I'm sorry, sir?"
She still thought she was someone else. She still had forgotten who she really was. But how was he to make her remember? To jump into another's time stream- it was impossible. No one had ever done it before.
How could he know if she would remember herself?
How could he know if she would get better?
How could he know if she would survive at all?
He took her hand from where it hung by her side, clutching it tightly even as she flinched.
"Sir," she said. "Sir, can you let go of me please, sir?"
He quickly slipped the cloudy silver band from her finger, and let Clara's arm drop. She began to back away.
"I think I should go now, sir-"
"Do you know what this is?" he strode forward with her, holding the ring between two fingers before her eyes.
"A-a ring, sir," she muttered.
"Yes, but who does it belong to? Who did it belong to? How old is it? Who bought it? Why do you have it? What is it for?"
"It-it-it-" her eyes were wide, but for a second some sort of recognition flashed in her eyes. She seemed to force it away. "It's a wedding ring. An old silver wedding ring."
"Why do you have it, Clara? Who gave it to you?"
"I-I- it was my mother's...it was-it was-no, it wasn't, no, I don't, my mother isn't married, my mother doesn't have a ring, my mother is dead, my father is dead, he didn't give me a ring...he didn't...he..." she swayed a little on the spot, her eyes unfocused. "This isn't my ring."
"That's right, it's your mother's, Clara, that's you-"
"My ring's not silver. It's gold," she squinted at the band between his fingers. "My ring has a diamond."
The situation was steadily whirlpooling into chaos, into something he wouldn't be able to fix. "No, Clara. That's not yours. This is yours. Your mother's."
She looked shocked as she snapped back, "Not my ring? Who are you to tell me that? My ring is gold, it's mine, and why do you care?"
"Clara, Clara Oswald..."
"I think you have the wrong person, I'm Oswin."
"But you aren't Oswin, you're Clara," he felt his voice deteriorating from a calm tone to desperation. He reached for her arm, but failed to grasp it.
"I'm-who are you? Get away from me!" she backed away quickly, "That isn't my ring, what do you want from me? Are you one of Harry's friends? I've told him before, Lawrence and I want nothing to do with him!"
"Clara, Oswin, I don't want anything, but you have to remember. This isn't you, this is someone else." He held up his hands to show he meant her no harm, tried as best he could not to show the pain than stabbed through him at the sight of fear in her eyes.
"You're insane! Get away from me! I'm Oswin Palmer, I'm-I'm-"
"Clara!"
She stopped again, her expression went blank. "Clara."
"Yes! Clara! You're Clara, my Clara!" He wanted nothing but to crush her in a hug, to press her to his chest and whisper to her all the things that he knew she was, as Clara, as Clara Oswald...
"I...I..." she frowned at her feet. "Où...où suis-je? Qui...où est...oh mon dieu..."
And then she started speaking French.
"Monsieur, je suis déolée, oú suis..." she started swaying from side to side again. "Je suis très fatiguée...ma tête...my-my head..."
Clara took two shaky steps towards him before staggering against the railing. She would have collapsed to the ground had he not steadied her.
He held her up by the shoulders, she was barely standing, her eyes unable to focus.
"Clara? Clara, this is you. Clara?"
"I learnt Spanish...I learnt...Spanish in high school..." she mumbled, her speech swimming tiredly across the space between them.
"Which high school? What's your name? Who are your parents? How old are you? Clara?"
"I-I didn't learn any French...how can I..." and then she seemed to lose her ability to both speak and maintain consciousness, and fell forward onto his chest.
This time, he didn't take her to the lifeless, featureless room he had laid her down in before. This time, he gathered her up in his arms, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and set off through the TARDIS corridors.
It was a long walk, as always, to the room. Took at least ten minutes of aimless wandering for the door to present itself. He'd always wondered why the TARDIS hid the room like this, and decided that there were plenty of good reasons to choose from.
He placed his hand on the silver doorknob, dusty despite the TARDIS' usual automatic cleaning. He hadn't been in this room for years, could barely recall the last time he'd opened the very same door.
He pushed it inwards.
It was just the same as the Doctor remembered.
He stepped over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them, and strode over to the bed in the centre of the room to lay Clara down upon it. Spread the blankets over her, propped her head up on a pillow.
Then he straightened, and had no more excuses. He looked around.
It was not a big room, but not a small one, either. There were no walls, just floor to ceiling bookshelves wrapping around him until they reached the wooden blue door. The bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room, the rest just cold and empty air.
The room had undergone a change or two since he had last entered it, some hundred years back. He knew every page of every book, every face of every photograph that rested on the shelves, and walked directly over to the new additions.
Right behind the headboard, in between a couple of volumes on Gallifreyan history- which he'd never read, nor did he want to- was a photograph. He didn't remember it being taken, as with all the other such photographs in the room, but he remembered the people in it.
They were smiling, the three of them. He had his arms around their shoulders, and each looked both amused and content. Lying next to the frame was a detective novel, with a yellowed letter bookmarked between the pages.
At first there was a stabbing in his chest, and then he just felt tired.
He didn't smile, but might as well have, and patted the wood of the bookshelf. "Thanks, old girl."
Another thing he'd always wondered, was why the TARDIS had created this room. He barely used it, and even then hardly ever for its original purpose. Most nights he found he couldn't bring himself to drag his feet here, and, if necessary, simply slept in the chair by the console.
If he ever had a chance to speak to his TARDIS again, that would be something he'd ask her.
With a cold and heavy chain weighing down his ankles, the Doctor turned, went to the door and rested his hand on the knob.
For the first time in his life, he was reluctant to leave that room. Looking back at Clara, sleeping so soundly– thanks to the psycho-somnial aura present– he wanted more than anything to lie down beside her.
She hadn't slept in days, he hadn't slept in months. And the rather uncomfortable prospect of the seat in the control room wasn't nearly as appealing as the alternative.
He should stay anyway, shouldn't he? Leaving her alone before had resulted in a drastic collapse of her cranial identity and memory structure. If she were to deteriorate any further, he may not be able to save her at all.
One minute. Two minute. Three.
He stood slowly, felt like his limbs were controlled by some other part of him. A more compulsive, indulgent part.
It was then, looking down at the sleeping Clara- just his Clara, not one of the hundred copies who were not quite as brilliant as this one- that he realised just how tired he was.
When was the last time he had slept? Certainly not within the past eight weeks, and even then no more than a few hours on a hard chair.
Every inch of his itching aching skin yearned for the feel of soft cotton, his eyes burned and spun for the prospect of rest, his mind sighed long in the imagining of sleep.
He kicked off his shoes, slid off his coat, and dropped both to the floor along with his common sense.
Even Time Lords needed sleep. He'd always been somewhat of an insomniac, but not a wink of rest in over two months had to be pushing it. And suddenly it was like all of the heart-wrenching revelations of those months sank to his feet, leaving his head light and hazy.
He lay down slowly, forced his eyes to stay open though they yearned to close. Clara breathed softly next to him, nestled under the covers as he lay over them, and he watched her for the time until he could no longer command his brain to see.
Which was less than a minute.
In the dark, he could still hear her, her heart beat too. Beatbeat. Beatbeat. Beatbeat.
But his own was louder.
The four beats of something not human.
In the void and this powerful rhythm, his mind conjured up a fleeting image. He wasn't sure where it came from, or why. But it was there.
It was Clara. Clara, as herself. No one else. Just the Clara he knew, the Clara who leapt into his time stream. The Clara who lost her mother. The Clara with her book of 101 places, and crinkled old autumn leaf. The Clara with her unwavering compassion, the Clara who was there when another mother died and saw fit to help. The Clara who answered the door while he was dressed as a monk. The Clara who was so very brave on a Russian submarine. The Clara who saw his name in a book in a library, then forgot it as it never existed. The Clara he sacrificed his own self to save. The Clara who everyday managed to tug discreetly at his heartstrings. That Clara. His Clara.
No one else.
Just minutes later, it could be observed that the old Time Lord was lost in a web of dreams, sinking gratefully into unconsciousness. It could also be observed that the young woman next to him was beginning to stir, mumbling forgotten names to people long swept under the rug of oblivion, hands reaching for ones whose lives hadn't even begun.
Her eyes opened, she looked all around her with a steady hand on her forehead. Her eyes were clouded at first, like she couldn't seem to hold on to what she was seeing. But then she caught sight of the sleeping figure beside her, and squinted over at his peaceful face. She seemed to recognise it, it raised a more natural light in her eyes.
She looked troubled for just a moment after, then appeared to be unable to keep from drifting back to sleep, which she almost immediately did.
She didn't even notice that the man lying beside her had a tight grip on her hand.