Chapter 2—Secret

Doctor

He followed the twisting, seemingly endless hallways until he arrived at his room. Left, right, straight, third fork on the right…

He pushed open the dark blue door, shutting it quietly behind him. His new eyes surveyed his room—the walls changed according to his moods and tastes. Currently, they reflected home. The floor was bright red, the ceiling streaked brilliant orange by the twin suns with the mountains stretching endlessly before him. A cool breeze brushed at his face, carrying the scents of home, the sounds of birds chirping. He smiled nostalgically as he closed his eyes for a moment, patting the wall.

"You always know exactly what I need, eh? Thanks, old girl," he said aloud, feeling the vibrating hum of the floors under his feet. He chuckled and strolled over to his closet, pulling it open. "Let's see what you have for my new look, then." He reached in and raised his eyebrows, but he'd never doubted her before—he wasn't going to start now.

He quickly pulled off his burned and tattered shirt, exchanging it for the black button-up instead. He switched to the similar dark trousers and pulled on the long overcoat, then knotted the dark blue scarf around his neck. TARDIS blue—he smiled. A little piece of her to carry with him, always. How thoughtful. When he was fully dressed in the ensemble, he turned to look in the mirror, to see himself.

His reflection startled him. He looked so…sharp. Sharp eyes, shifting in color based on the lighting, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes a strange in-between color. His last eyes had always had a slight playfully mischievous look to them, promising trouble and adventure. Now they were cold and glittered with intelligence, analytical. It frightened him, he wondered if he was really staring at himself. Experimentally, he lifted his hand. So did the person in the mirror, mimicking as he touched the sharp bones that stuck out of his pale face. He was so thin, and much taller than he was used to. And his hair…Still not ginger, he noted with regret, studying his dark curls with a sigh.

He ran a hair through his curls, watching in fascination as they bounced and stuck up funny before settling back into place. When he grew bored of this, he made to leave. That was when he noticed it, sitting in his pocket, ticking against his chest like a third, irregular heartbeat. He frowned and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the fob watch. As soon as he saw what he held in his hands, he dropped it as though it had burned him, shaking his head vehemently.

No. He had sworn to himself he would never do that again, not if there was any other option. His being human hadn't done anything to help people. In fact, it had wound up with a lot of people dead and more wounded, and he had almost lost himself. Not to mention the process was painful. Worse than regeneration, worse than being shot by a Dalek, worse than the time he had taken the Time Vortex energy from Rose into himself and the entire universe had burned inside him. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

The TARDIS' voice whispered in his head, as she would do every now and then. This is your last life, and your others have been so short. You promised me forever. You're too reckless to keep that promise, but you can buy yourself, buy us, some more time if you lay low for a while. She was sad and worried. He sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing one spot gently as he murmured to her.

"Come on, old girl, I can handle myself. And being human just means time apart, which never ends well for us, remember? This—" He nudged the watch with his foot distastefully. "—is not the answer to our problem."

He could tell she was unhappy, she didn't like it. But she rumbled under his hand, almost like a sigh, and he knew she would listen. He took the watch and shoved it under his bed where he wouldn't have to look at it, patted the wall one more time, and strode back to the main room, ready for his next adventure, wondering where this new body would take him.

When he came back, Clara was perched in a hammock with her arms crossed, glaring sullenly at the TARDIS mainframe. He frowned. "Did you two have another argument? I told you to play nice." He looked almost accusingly at the console. "Are you being mean again?"

"No, Doctor, it's fine. We didn't argue," Clara interrupted, looking down and fidgeting with her sleeve. The Doctor frowned, wondering why she was lying to him, what she was hiding. The way her eyes flitted to his and away quickly suggested it was something about him, but he couldn't think what she would have to hide from him. His frown deepened as he studied her.

She fidgeted again. "Doctor, would you kindly not stare at me like some sort of lab specimen?"

"Only if you'll tell me what you're hiding," he retorted, eyes narrowing at her. Clara looked away again, shaking her head and giving a very forced laugh.

"I'm not hiding anything. Don't worry, Doctor."

He frowned at her. "The very action of you telling me I shouldn't worry suggests that there is something I need to worry about."

"Well there's not, so don't," she said shortly, finally meeting his eyes. Her own were carefully blank of any emotion besides her obvious irritation at him, which was wrong. He'd seen those eyes smiling, and crying, and laughing, and screaming. In them he had read fear, anger, confusion, hurt, shock, delight—a thousand stories were in those eyes, a thousand lifetimes. They were an open book. And now…nothing? She was working far too hard to keep something from him, and it bothered him that he couldn't figure out what.

"Clara, don't lie to me. It's insulting to my intelligence."

She gave a derisive snort. "If you're so intelligent, figure it out for yourself."

His eyes narrowed at her scathing tone. "I will."

She stood abruptly. "I'm going to my room—I'm not up for any more excitement tonight." She strode away angrily, and when she was gone, the Doctor's irritation faded, leaving him feeling drained and confused.

He ran his fingers lightly over the various switches and levers on the console, thinking hard.

Clara was lying to him, hiding something, he was certain of it. He didn't yet know what, and clearly she didn't want him to. But that only intrigued him and made him want to know even more badly. He sighed and drummed his fingers, but stopped quickly because the tapping—tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap—dredged up old memories he didn't want to go into. He shut his eyes, trying not to see the fire, trying not to hear the screams or the ever-constant sound of drums beating rhythmically. He focused on Clara to distract himself.

He didn't know what her secret was. But he was determined to find out.