The Doctor isn't responding. He's staring at the black jar in his hands, that looks so much like an urn for ashes, and that is frankly all he's doing. Now that they are safely off the earth and out of the era where they so swiftly became wanted, Lizzie rounds the console and shoves him, hard, at the shoulder. All he does, the only explanation he's got, is to lift up the urn with a whirr from his enhanced armour and whisper at her, "Clara."

"We'll see."

"We did see, Elizabeth, it was on the little screen. And all those people standing about, talking about what a good crowd was in, what an excellent prize was up for auction later on, and…"

"We saw that the contents of that jar were gathered in 2086. We don't know if they've been gathered yet, as of when we left. So snap out of it, or I will quite readily snap you myself." About four seconds after the words leave her, Lizzie hears them. Maybe it's the echo out of the far recesses of the console room. Maybe she's just coming to her senses. It's the same way she spoke to that lowlife new money lizard at the auction house, and Lizzie is thoroughly baffled to hear it coming from her.

She has always lived modestly, and quietly. Keep your head down and try not to get yourself burned. Now she speaks like a noble, like on born noble, like one who has had armies at her 'hest and known them to obey.

Just a flash of a smile, and the Doctor bounds back to his feet. "Of course. Quite right too, thank you, Lizzie. He lifts the jar up on one palm, "I hold in my hand a brutal future. But that's the point, isn't it? It's in my hands. It's mine to control. Lizzie, do you want to see a magic trick?"

Something of a non-sequitur, but at least he's active. "Do you think your magic is better than mine?"

"You're not magic at all. You are a phenomena that people do not understand. That's the very definition of witchcraft. This, sadly, this is magic like ladies-and-gentlemen-nothing-up-my-sleeve-sawing-a-rabbit-in-half sort of magic. But no less impressive for that. Behold!" and with his heel he kicks a panel at the base of the console, popping it open. Within is a decidedly bland mess of cable and shadow, "A perfectly ordinary service compartment, one might think but no! No, it's a magical vanishing box!" He swings down, and with great ceremony, much flashy wiggling of fingers, places Clara's jar into this unprepossessing home, and slams the door again. "Now, when I open that door again, there will be nothing there. The future that bore the jar will have been unwritten, and the jar itself ceased to exist!"

Then he stands, looking glittery and proud of himself.

Lizzie counts to five, then nods toward the hatch. "So? Can we open it?"

Rolling his eyes, "No. You have to give the magic a chance to work, obviously." The Tardis judders, and they rush back to their positions for landing. "But don't you fear, Elizabeth, not one bit. I'll pull it off. Had I never performed such magic before in all my many days, and I have, including on a Las Vegas stage, thank you very much, I'd pull this one off."

"Oh, I don't need any special power to tell me that."

"Nevertheless, Lizzie, you reach and see. You ask all your knowledge, Will the Doctor allow this heinous thing to pass? You ask and you see what sort of answers you get."

There has been some small adjustment to the landing coordinates. Rather than land back at the crater of the tunnel collapse, they have chosen a more direct approach, and the Tardis fits herself neatly into the corner of the corridor around the quarantine. Sadly this means no more round-the-world trips on the office chair, but the Doctor needs to be close. He comes out still ranting, until Lizzie puts her hand on his arm. "You really must tell me that Vegas story sometime."

But even as she speaks, his eyes drift over her shoulder, seeking out Clara. She is still in the chair where he left her, slumped low, with her chin against her chest. Those eyes flare with panic and the Doctor races to the door, pulls it shuddering off its seals calling, "Clara! Oh, no, oh, Clara!"

And then a yelp, as he is barrelled off his feet by Jessica, pinned to the floor with one of her wooden stakes tickling beneath his chin. "Who am being?!" the little warrior demands. "What for is wanting Claraperson?! Talks now!"

"Jessica, what are you doing, it's m… I'm still purple, aren't I?" His animatronic tail twitches beneath him and confirms yes, yes, he's still purple. Yes he's still got a tail, and a scaly head, and a powerful outer shell. Remembering this last, he is able to put it to use, climbing up from the floor and swinging her up with him in his arms.

Sadly, the stake stays right where it is, and with Jessica struggling to free herself it does a lot of scratching and waggling. "No. Now knows is not being Doctor. Doctor am being weak, noodly man, and not lifting heavy wood-skellington Jessica."

"…Noodly? I've won wars, y'know."

It's how hurt he sounds. That's what makes her eye him, allowing herself to be set back on her feet, snapping off the stake. "If being Doctor, why is comes in all-shouts and not caring that Clara am being sleeps now?"

"Sleeping! Sleeping, she's asleep, because she's been here for days, because it was quiet, oh, happy day, Clara's asleep…"

"What else would be being with snores like that?"

Oh, his delightful, snuffling, snoring girl! His hearts leap all at once, and he's so caught up in the moment that Jessica can only watch, confused. She looks to Lizzie for an explanation, but Lizzie slips past, checking Adam's vital signs, pretends she doesn't see.

Jessica gives up. Shakes her head and moves on, "Doctor is having had any much learnings, at soul auctions?"

"…Let's wait until Clara wakes up, hm? No sense in explaining it twice." No sense in explaining it at all, if he can possibly get away with it. At any rate, he wants to sit down.

Lizzie, since there's nothing she can do here, goes to find the hospital canteen. Clara sleeps on. The Doctor rests in the comfort of a soft visitor's chair that had been shoved into the corner by the door, with Jessica curled up at his feet. It's an old, familiar comfort. He spends some time untangling one hank of her hair from the rest, as gently and gingerly as he can, and proceeds then to braid it into something he can wrap around her head. They've done this dozens of times. She hardly seems to notice it anymore. In the meantime, she struggles with Dickens, picking up where Clara left off. Word by word, she picks her way across the page with a fingertip. Occasionally (though the occasions are many), she lifts up the book to his eye-level, finger still pointing, and he'll help out;

"Deceiver. It's another word for liar."

"Abode. It's another word for house."

"Bluetit. That's a sort of bird."

"Much thanks," she'll say, and go back to her little battle.

That's what puts a new conversation into his head. "When Elizabeth gets back-" he begins.

"Hopes is being soontimes; am having much rumbly-belly."

"-That's as may be, but when she gets back… I was thinking maybe you would let her read you. You know, like she did for Adam? It's very possible that Lizzie will have access to information you might like to know."

Her hair is starting to feel warm from wrapping around his fingers. Starting to feel alive and bright. She had little blue streaks put in while she was studying, and they have a spark, like electricity. Very warm. Very soft…

"Not-please, thanking very much."

"Whyever not? I thought that would be something you'd like. Something you'd want?"

"Oh, oh yes. Wants. Is being very-like-almost the thing her am most wanting in all of oony-verse, Doctor. But maybe to be waiting until badpersons Lewwy and Missustoffee are having been gone, right-yes? Not to be thinking about Jessica now."

What a sweet thing to say, he thinks. His thoughts are warm now too. His thoughts are soft. Everything has the colour and velvet of the clouds on a long summer sunset, that can be pink and gold and turquoise and navy blue and red and so very soft, so sweet. Marshmallows… Marshmallows are soft and sweet, and so are the Doctor's thoughts. One braid mindlessly abandoned, he separates another strand and begins the same treatment. It treats him too, treats him to a feeling of overwhelming happiness, spreading from his fingertips up toward his hearts like pins and needles.

"Doctor?" Jessica says, so very gently. He taught her to speak, you know. Him and the Ponds, and there are occasional Scottish catches in her vowels and twangs of brave, distinguished sarcasm. "Doctor? Not him to be being sleeps too?"

"No, no. I'm awake. Is it another word? Give me the book, I'll read to you."

"Not to be does, Doctor. Keeps playing with hair, please. But her am wanting to asks… what am being him biggest wish, in all of oony-verse?"

That is a very big question. That's a question out of a thousand years and all of space. And the Doctor, while he would consider himself to be very content and to be happiest when dwelling within the current and perpetual moment, has a great many wishes. You rack them up. Even if you don't mean to. Well, you tell yourself, these things happen, all mortal life must pass, but that doesn't stop you wishing. Logic can't touch wishes. You tell yourself, Hindsight is a wonderful thing, it doesn't do to dwell on one's mistakes, but that does not keep the dreams away. You might be smart enough not to allow the what-ifs and if-onlys to hold any sway over you, you might not even let yourself think them, but they are there. You wouldn't have to hold them off if they weren't there.

Oh, there are a great many wishes he could choose from.

But his biggest wish? In all of oony-verse?

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. How could he possibly admit a thing like that? Not to Jessica. She's still got so much to learn, so much living to catch up on. How can he tell her about all the inevitable pain ahead?

"Doctor?"

"Shh, love."

A little twist of blue clings to his knuckle and he curls it over and over. It seems almost to glow, to be giving the heat to him and not the other way round. The happy tingle is making its way up the sides of his neck like a blush, tickling a nerve behind his ear until he laughs. "Doctor can whisper to her if is being better?"

She hops up onto her knees, craning her pretty head to listen more effectively. How tempting! What a delicate little shell is offered to him, just to listen. It would be like telling the sea, or writing down a message to give to the wind. It would be so very easy. And a weight off his chest too. Just the simple act of having told someone…

"And you won't think any less of me, Jessica?"

"Absylutely never-not, Doctor."

His delightful girl… He leans down, close, and closer again…

Then only just gets his face out of the way as Lizzie shoves her shoulder to the door. She's got a tray in her hands, comes in backward. The Doctor gets clear, but Jessica isn't so lucky. She's sent sprawling, tangled hair flying, and lies motionless for a second on the tiles. In seconds, the tray has been put to the side and Lizzie is on her knees at her side, apologizing, one word tripping over the next. She is gathering back hair and picking up Jessica's head to examine for bumps and…

And then she stops. Lets go. Gets up from her knees and takes a step back.

"Doctor, did you tell her anything? Did you agree to anything, ask for anything? Tell me now, did you?"

Holding her aching skull, Jessica sits up sighing. Folds her legs and mumbles, "Ow. Goddamn it, I never get to leave you without a headache, do I?"

There is no Scottish hiss or dry British humour anymore. Actually, her voice is taking on a Southern twang. The pins and needles drain out of the Doctor's skin. Everything is suddenly very cold.

"Answer me!" Lizzie bellows at him.

"No! No, I told her nothing."

All the shouting is getting to Jessica. The parts of her hair which should be blue gutter like candles and turn red, and the shape of her face loses some of its roundness. The Doctor discovers he doesn't like his little friend when she suddenly develops cheekbones. It's too grown up and far too quickly.

She mutters darkly, "He got damn close to telling me something, thank you, Lizzie…"

The Doctor begins to sit straight, drawing himself slowly out of the lull. "What were you told," and this is spoken with all the restraint and rage he can manage, "about imitating my friends, Mrs Lees?" But he doesn't sound scary enough. His gaze keeps flicking up over her head.

Lees' laugh is nasty, all the nastier coming from the crumbling façade of Jessica, "Clara's fine. Told you, she's sleeping. Ain't no harm to come to her yet."

"Reveal yourself, please."

She tosses her hair red again, blinks her eyes into their proper shape. The roll of her shoulders reveals them bare and white, and echoes down her body to show her in a beaded ice-blue gown. She looks down at it and winces, "Yeah, don't even ask about that…" Getting to her feet is made all the more difficult by the matching shoes. There's a glance, just a flutter of a glance, back at Adam as she hauls herself up on the bed frame. Reaching into thin air, she produces a white fur stole and flings it around her shoulders. "I'm gonna go," she sighs. Then, biting off every word like a bullet, "I won't forget this, witch… But I'm gonna go and leave you good folk in peace. Win some, lose some, right?"

As she reaches for the door, Lizzie grabs for her.

Toffee's arm quite simply vanishes, leaving her an incomplete mannequin, until she's out of danger. When it reappears, it has found a new diamond bracelet.

But she's so busy avoiding the one of them that she misses the Doctor. The door slams hard when he throws himself out of his chair and pins her to it. "Where's Jessica? What have you done with her?"

"Lord, Doctor, don't you know a thing about espionage? You sent a spy, and she got caught, and I came back to see you instead."

"And now you're caught."

"Not quite."

Her arm disappears again first. Then a leg, then an ear. Piece by piece, and giggling about it, she disappears from beneath his weight, until all that's left are her shoes, side by side in front of his.

He tries to kick them, and they wisp away as smoke.