Rory is twelve when they stand in the ruins of Gallifrey. Rassilon's pride, not his heart, had broken when he'd been exiled, and he allies with the Cybermen in an attempt to mend it - an attempt that quickly spirals out of control. In his arrogance Rassilon overestimates his power over the conversion process. As an ultra-intelligent converted hoard sweeps over the planet while the Cloister Bells toll the terrified Timelords call on their errant president to defend his homeland.
For the first time the Doctor and Clara regret their bond because it means he cannot send her away to protect their son. It is the only time she might have willingly left him, her need to keep Rory safe just slightly stronger than her need to stand beside her husband in what could well be his final battle. But the uncertainty of their bond's parameters make that too risky. She will feel it if he dies, and while he trusts her to be as strong as she is able he cannot expose Rory to the possible trauma of watching her fade before his eyes. Instead they lock the boy in the TARDIS, faced with the unbearable decision of how to set the emergency protocols, the only safe places they can think to send him the apartments of a grandfather he'd never met or the Victorian household of a Silurian, a Sontaran, and a human maid. Orson's existence makes it imperative that Rory grow up in modern times, so Clara records a message for her Dad she desperately hopes he'll never have to see.
Billions are converted before they find a way to stop the madman. Though Gallifrey will rebuild the victory feels hollow, and Clara fears the Doctor will hear the Cloister Bells in his head for a long time. She expects to dream of the terrible look in his eye when the army had fallen as one vast unit, and the way it had faded to an even more frightening blankness.
As soon as the cyber army is dismantled the Doctor returns immediately to their TARDIS, shunning the cleanup with a stony silence. He sweeps Rory into his arms and does not let go until he has parked in their attic and tucked him into bed. Instead of telling a story the Doctor plays a song, one that blends the melody he'd composed for Rory and the one he'd written for Clara with something far darker, his pain at the savagery he had witnessed bleeding through the discordant notes. As Clara watches from the doorway she is glad that Rory falls asleep quickly, worn out from three days worrying, because the song cuts her to shreds and he is too young to know such heartbreak.
When the Doctor finally finishes he leans the guitar against the wall. Clara can see the way his fingers shake as he leans down and gathers the boy in his arms once more. "Sleep safe, my son, and know that you are loved," he whispers, pressing his lips to the top of the boy's head before retreating.
The sight of her two boys together chases away the pain and fear of the past few days. She had seen the Doctor at his most dangerous, a firebrand warrior smiting down his enemies without mercy, the Oncoming Storm of old, avenging the lost souls of the drylands from the emotionless husks they had become. He'd had no choice; she cannot fault him. The Gallifreyans were lost the moment they underwent conversion, and no clever ramblings or second chances could restore them. If they had not been utterly destroyed they would have spread across creation like a virus, annihilating every species in their path. Yet it soothes her to see him again as the man that she loves. Children have always made him gentler. She remembers the way a child's cries had convinced him to save a Viking village, how he had spent hundreds of years surrounded by the children of Trenzalore, giving them hope when otherwise all they would know is war. There is something so pure about the bond he shares with Rory. He is an outstanding father, even if he can sometimes be an aggravating husband.
It is why she has mourned, so many times, that they cannot have children of their own. All of time and space and the prospect of eternity, and he can only raise another man's child. It isn't fair, but Clara has known since the day her mother died that life is not, in general.
Except, as he walks towards her, not even trying to hide the agony that makes him look his age, ancient and anguished, realization sparks, like the moment he discovers how he's going to win. Their world has shifted since the Doctor was summoned, and there is one particular aspect of that change that is not distressing.
Clara reaches for him but he shrugs out of her grasp, brushing past her towards their bedroom. She knows he must be drowning in guilt to shun her comfort, but she is not about to let him suffer alone.
He drops onto their bed like a sinking stone, his head in his hands, his elbows braced against his knees.
She sits gingerly beside him and lays a hand on his thigh to make him aware of her presence before she nestles into his side. His breathing is erratic, and when she reaches up to stroke his temple she finds a wall blocking her from his mind.
"You don't want to go there now," he growls, his voice a dark whisper. "I'm not sure you could stand it, and I won't have anyone else hurt today."
His rejection stings, but she refuses to be so easily deterred. They have both survived, and Rory is safe, and she will cheer him up.
"I think we should have another baby," she declares without preamble.
He doesn't even look at her as he asks, "Do you have a father in mind?" sounding absolutely devastated. He hasn't been so melancholic since their bonding. The resignation doesn't suit him.
"There is this one bloke I've been sleeping with for a while."
The Doctor's eyebrows rise practically to his hairline as his neck swivels so he can stare at her in shock. She feels guilty for hurting him for even one second on such a bad day but she hadn't expected him to be so thick.
"I mean you, you pudding brain." She checks him with her shoulder, shoving into him slightly.
His surprise settles into a frown, his eyebrows still on the attack. "You know why we can't."
"I know why we thought we couldn't. But we just faced the Hybrid – and it wasn't us."
"It was still my fault. I deposed Rassilon. Everything he did to regain his throne is on me."
"That's rubbish." She pulls away slightly, crosses her arms, and glares. She feels a surge of satisfaction as he shifts closer to her, like a magnet being pulled towards its opposite pole. "Rassilon was a monster! That's why you exiled him. It's not your fault he went even more psychotic. Yes, maybe you had a hand in it, and that's probably why you've been running from the prophesy for so long, but you are not responsible for what he did, so don't you dare let him do any more damage than he already has. What's important here is we got it wrong. The Hybrid wasn't us, and it isn't our children. So we could have them. Children of our own." She grabs one of his hands and holds on tight, her thumb stretching down to feel the way his pulse pounds against his infinity mark. "We could have so many years together, and Rory will be grown before we know it. You're such an amazing father, and you deserve to have a child of your own. We deserve … God, why aren't you saying anything? You're always saying something."
His silence unnerves her and she stops mid-ramble. His anger has faded but his face is a blank canvas that she cannot read. She wants to dip into his mind but that feels like it would be cheating.
"We just prepared to send Rory away and you think the solution is to have more children?"
She chuckles coldly, refusing to be derailed by his apparent rejection. "Not a parent of the year moment, yeah. But he would have been safe. Lots of people with dangerous jobs have children. Maybe we just need to work on the backup plan. Decide on some godparents and actually warm them of their duties."
Without warning he is surging towards her, and her eyes close as his lips latch on to hers, his hands coming around her waist to pull her effortlessly into his lap. When she needs to break for breath he kisses his way across her jaw and nuzzles into her neck, leaving her giddy. She opens her eyes to find him staring at her in wide-eyed delight.
One of the first things she'd learned about the Doctor was how quickly he's distracted. Perhaps it is selfish, to allow the thought of another child to cheer him instead of doing the hard work herself. Having Rory was selfish, in a way, but it was one of the best decisions she ever made.
"That a yes, Doctor Oswald?" she whispers, finally allowing herself to imagine what their child would be like without following the image with a chaser of guilt.
He strokes her face, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I would have a hundred children with you, Mrs. Oswald."
She laughs at his sincerity. "If you want a hundred kids, we're going to have to look into that Looming thing."
"But the human way is much more fun," he pouts, voice deliciously low, as he pulls her down and proceeds to prove his point.
There's no clinics this time, no awkward visits to doctor's offices while he pretends to be an anxious human father and everyone who works there pretends not to disapprove. He scans her hormone levels so frequently it becomes annoying, and then it surpasses annoying and the buzz of his sonic sweeping over her becomes such a regular occurrence that she learns to ignore it.
She can't ignore the time it cuts off suddenly, as he drops his screwdriver and pulls her into a kiss, right in front of Rory and several dozen patrons of the largest aquarium in the universe.
Six weeks later he drags her down to the TARDIS medbay. His puppy-like enthusiasm is catching, and even the normally serious Rory has been silly all month, responding to his father's cues. They plot a list of places they will take the baby, and instigate a delegation of chores that seems overly enthusiastic, but Clara's not about to complain that she no longer has to do the laundry.
The Doctor instructs her to lie down and swivels a scanner over her stomach as he stares down at her through his sonic sunglasses so long she starts to get nervous.
"Everything okay in there?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light. "It doesn't have two heads, does it?"
"Two heads, yes," he answers absentmindedly, in the voice he uses when he's barely paying her any mind, which she hopes is the case in this moment. "All four hearts in working order."
"Four hearts!" she squeaks, the thought of the labor and piles of diapers almost more than she can stand. At this rate the boys will be doing her chores for a lot longer than nine months. "You could have warned me I might have a litter."
He looks up at her sharply, but she can't see his eyes through the dark lenses. "Four hearts. Two babies." He snatches the glasses from his face and drops them carefully on her nose.
"Right. Sorry," she starts to say, but the image projected on the lenses steals her words. They're little more than smudges on a canvas, but she knows with soul searing certainty that these are their children. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head, his hands gentle at her shoulders.
She presses the button on the arm of the glasses that projects the image to the nearest monitor so they can both watch. The sound of the four heartbeats fills the room, their very own chaotic symphony.
"You've done so well, Clara. Look at them." There is such warmth in his Scottish brogue. It seems so long ago that she'd despaired that this version of him would ever address her so fondly.
"We've done well." They'd worried their genomes might not be compatible, because human/Timelord offspring were rare. But here are their children on the screen, healthy and strong, and it brings tears to her eyes as her heart swells with a desperate yearning to hold them in her arms.
"Suppose we have," he chuckles. "Who would have thought? Grumpy old me, a father again at my age."
She shifts her gaze to watch his shy smile. His eyes are also a little bright. "Two hearts each, huh. Does that mean they'll be like you?"
His grin turns smug. "I had expected as much. After all River was a Timelord even though both her parents were human, just because she was conceived in the time vortex."
She rolls her eyes. "That's always seemed like dodgy biology to me. And the time vortex is hardly the only place these two could have been conceived."
He narrows his eyes. "I wasn't going to mention it, but there's also the matter of my—"
"Superior Timelord genes?" she finishes archly, daring him to contradict her – or agree.
"Mmmhmm," he answers as noncommittally as he can manage.
"It's not the genes as much as the personality that has me worried."
"I shall try not to be offended by that," he pouts.
"I don't mean you. I mean the rest of your lot. And okay, occasionally you." She remembers the Cloisters now, and the General's lack of remorse for all the Doctor had suffered at their hands. They'd seen Clara as a curiosity, and the Doctor, their greatest war hero, as weakened by affection. Even as their planet had crumbled under Rassilon's greed they'd remained so cold.
And Missy was another story altogether.
"Do you know why I travel with humans?"
Years ago she would have made a joke about how he finds them amusing, with their short attention spans and reality television. But she senses he's being serious and she knows the answer he's looking for. "Because we're your conscience and your carers."
He takes one of her hands, squeezing it gently before he rests both of them on her stomach. "Exactly. My companions make sure I don't act too much like a Timelord. They'd never put up with me if I did. You in particular have always excelled at making me better. And our children will always carry a piece of you with them. Instant humanity, whenever they need it. They'll be fine. They'll be better than fine. They'll be brilliant."
"Geronimo," she whispers, because in that moment she can see her former Doctor, boyish glee shining out from his old eyes.
There's no jealously in his response anymore, his answering smile a little bit sad, but also a little bit fond. "He would have been overjoyed to be here with you like this."
"He is," she insists pointedly, and he grins in return. Ever since he'd stopped hiding his feelings for her it's become easier to reconcile the two version of him she knows best. The primary reason he'd seemed like such a different man was because he had pretended so fervently to be one.
"There is another advantage to them being like me. Two hearts means they'll have my lifespan."
He's tentative, as if he isn't certain she'll appreciate that. But it only takes a few seconds to work out the glorious implications. "Which means we won't have to say goodbye."
"Not unless we're very unlucky."
It's Rory who will be the unlucky one, and that's a loss they'll have to live with. One Clara can't contemplate facing. She knows she will understand the Doctor so much better on the day she buries her child.
But that day's a long way off.
This summer's just begun.
This time when the babies come there are no hysterics or white-knuckle drive. He escorts her calmly via TARDIS to the best hospital in the nearest galaxy, and she gets over the fact all the nurses are cats as soon as they give her some proper drugs. He holds her hand the entire time, his voice in her head offering a litany of nonsensical encouragement, and his excitement buzzes through the pain, making her nearly as giddy.
And when the cat-people hand them each a child, purring congratulations, Clara can only tear her eyes away from the tiny, perfect, marvelous person in her arms so she can take in the look in his.
He is so absolutely reverent that it steals her breath and overwhelms her with silent tears. She blames the hormones for the way she sobs, but the moment is perfect and she is utterly exhausted. Her husband stares at their daughter with wide, moist eyes, his fingers tracing feather light patterns across her skin that might be the secrets of the universe. His brows furrow in concentration, and she knows they are having a private conversation. For a second she envies his telepathy, but when she reaches down to brush her fingers across her baby's soft skin she is flooded with love and curiosity and a voice whispering "Mama" as clearly as if she were shouting in her ear.
Clara gasps. The Doctor's eyes find hers immediately, wide and concerned.
"I can hear her," she stutters, ending on a laugh that becomes a watery sob as her little girl giggles at her foolishness.
"I had hoped," he whispers, leaning towards her to press his lips to her forehead. "They're a marvel, Clara," he says against her skin, and in that instant she realizes how right he is, because these two are products of a love that had thwarted death and linearity, but every heartbreak and hardship has been worth it for this moment. Nevermore will the Doctor be the last of his kind.
"What should we name them?" she asks, already picturing all the ways they will be like him. She'll surely be driven half mad by the time they can talk – and it will be absolutely worth it.
She isn't expecting his hesitation. "I don't have to decide that," he answers, pulling away from her slightly. "You're allowed to have opinions."
"Clearly," she says, too tired to put any bite behind it. "My opinion is I've done all the hard work and now it's time for you to pull your weight."
He chuckles at her sass, and it's one of her favorite sounds in the world, because he's finally learned how to let himself be happy. He reaches over to take the baby from her arms and then stares at both of them intently, his gaze shifting occasionally from one to the other. They focus back more attentively than babies ought. She wonders, if she touched his hand, whether she could be part of his examination, but she doesn't dare break the spell. There seems something almost sacred about the moment. A naming ceremony, unbound by centuries of pomp and protocol.
These children will be named by love, not coldness.
When he finally looks up there is something hesitant in the gesture. Worry flares – for surely he has found no flaw or defect. "What wrong?"
"Nothing," he assures. "I'm just not sure that you'll find my suggestions acceptable."
There are a million names he could give that she absolutely wouldn't, but she's not worried this time. Not after Rory was perfect. "No way to know until you tell me."
He looks down again, pressing his lips against one tiny head already covered in red wisps, and one covered in gold. When he looks up again he still seems worried.
"Amy. And Rose."
His words evoke a pang within her, but it's not jealousy exactly. The swelling warmth is love and sadness tied together. "Why?"
"Because this one will be a handful," he predicts, and his words have lost all hesitation. "She'll never let anything in the universe hold her down. But she'll love, fiercely. She'll be magnificent."
Tears prick at her eyes because she wants that with the same ferocity. "And Rose?"
"Less than an hour old, and she already sees the wonder in this world. This is just a hospital room. Wait until she sees all the things we can show her! Her joy – it will sustain us on the darkest of days."
Clara is reminded of the day that she stood among three versions of him while the youngest one cast judgement. She knows with certainty how this regeneration would have been described – the one who remembers. She hadn't thought that had been the case once; she'd been so sure he'd broken his former self's final promise to her. But she knows now that everything this man is is because of who he once was. And she loves it all – his scars and insecurities and alien sensibilities and deep, abiding loyalty.
She remembers how touched she had been when she discovered Rigsy had named his daughter after her. She is glad her children will be legacies to those who had shaped the Doctor into who he is.
"It's perfect," she proclaims.
"Yeah?" he asks tentatively, a smile stealing gradually over his features as his eyes widen and his eyebrows rise with the corners of his mouth.
She nods, her words stopped up by the swelling in her chest. She pitches toward him to rest her head on his shoulder and he presses his lips to her hair, his joy spilling into her mind across the connection. Their impossible family. She could stay in this moment forever. Except she knows the Doctor will have to get up soon to fetch Rory. Her family won't be complete until he's snuggled amongst them, bringing his own awe and love and clever curiosity. Yet she can't bear to leave this moment quite yet.
But the questions have started bubbling. She's never been good at keeping her mouth shut.
"Will they keep their names? Or will they hide them away like you?"
She's not sure how she feels about that. The Doctor's title represents everything he personifies – sometimes she thinks he needed the reminder more than anyone. She fell in love with that persona, but it is the man beneath it who loves her – that lonely child from that orphanage on Gallifrey. She hopes her children need not be so conflicted, but they would choose well, she knows already, and perhaps all of time and space might benefit from it.
"That will be their choice. They'll be free from the Academy and the Council. No one will force them to stare into the untempered schism. But if they wish to forge their own identity they shall be free to do that as well."
She's already done her best to change the darkness in his past. It's now her job to fill his future with light. "I've always wondered what my Time Lady name would be," she muses through a yawn.
He chuckles, just as she hoped, the melancholy lingering at the edge of his words chased away. "I figured that out long ago."
"Did you now?" There's something in his tone that warns her he intends to get a rise out of her; it had seemed inadvertent once, but after all these years she's aware he knows exactly what he's doing.
"You'd be The Boss for sure." He laughs, a full out guffaw, and any slight she feels is eclipsed by overwhelming love.
Bloody hormones.
"I should be offended by that," she acknowledges. "But you're probably right."
So, there are actually two more quite pivotal scenes to this, but real life is kicking my butt. A darling reviewer recently reminded me I'd left this quite abandoned, so I wanted to share what I'd written at least. Hopefully I can get the conclusion up by the end of the summer. Thanks to anyone who's still reading this, and so sorry for the delay.