I am a tiny bit proud of this chapter.

Just saying.

That being said, I now have to tell you that I won't be posting for another month or so because I'm going to host a foreign exchange student. So this will be the last chapter for a while. You better enjoy it!

When I am back from my hiatus, I'll post the thank-you-for-fifty-reviews chapter that I'm only just getting around to. After that, I have two more guest prompts. Just so you all know my plan.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Prompt from BafWolf1221: GLASS

The box toppled off the shelf directly onto Clara's head, knocking her to the floor.

Clara let out an involuntary 'oof' as the box tumbled onto her stomach, taking her breath away. She struggled beneath its weight for a few seconds before managing to roll out from underneath it and sit up. Disgruntled, she patted her hair back into place and eyed the offending box suspiciously. "What's in you?" she asked it. "You're so heavy."

Great. Now she was talking to inanimate objects. She was too used to having the Doctor to talk to. Now she couldn't adjust to having no one.

The Doctor had dropped Clara off earlier that morning at her flat, offering the rubbish excuse that he wanted to explore a planet where women were prohibited (what sort of stupid planet that was, Clara didn't know.) He had also said that she needed to learn how to clean her flat so that she could clean his TARDIS when he came back to pick her up. Which was an incredibly sexist request.

Not that Clara minded. She would happily clean his snogbox for him if he would just tell her what was wrong.

Because something was definitely wrong with the Doctor. Clara could tell just by looking at him. He wasn't his usual grumpy self - in fact, he had actually been properly polite the day before, which was odd. Apart from that, his voice was softer than usual, and something glinted in his eyes whenever he looked at Clara. Something lonely and sad. Something scary.

Clara felt a pang of fear. The Doctor had left her behind; he was on his own now. And he was dangerous when he was on his own. "Lord knows what he's doing," she murmured to herself. "Probably on his way to destroying the universe by now."

A wave of homesickness surged in her chest as she thought of the TARDIS, and her throat constricted. Yes, homesickness. This cold, dusty flat wasn't Clara's home anymore. No, Clara's home was on the TARDIS. Clara's home was where the Doctor was.

And he had left her behind. Abandoned her. Flown away. Would he even come back?

Clara sighed, her eyes unfocused and far away. Whatever was bothering the Doctor, she hoped that he would tell her soon. She knew that she could help.

A telltale lump rose in Clara's throat, and she quickly forced it down before tears could well in her eyes. "Get a grip on yourself," she chided herself. "You know he'll come back."

Feeling a little better, Clara briskly dragged the box towards her to examine its contents. She'd decided to start her cleaning by going through all the boxes in her flat that she'd never bothered unpacking. And there were plenty: there were boxes in the kitchen, in the laundry room, in all the closets, even under her bed. She'd already sorted through all of the ones in the kitchen, which had contained nothing more interesting than some old utensils and cookbooks. One of them, a French recipe book, had a list in the back of all the times Clara had tried to make the various recipes. Each entry was a variation of "Burned", "Collapsed", or some other calamity. The last item on the list read, "Vanilla soufflé: made it perfectly and then dropped it on the floor. I hate my life."

The box that had fallen on her head was from Clara's bedroom closet. She forced the top open and discovered that it was full of her childhood coloring books. "Why do I even have these?" she demanded aloud, shoving the box away. "So embarrassing."

She stood up, brushing dust off her face, and reached for the next box. Gritting with exertion, she managed to pull it down without killing herself, coughing and choking as dust swirled through the air. These boxes hadn't seen the light of day in far too long.

Settling herself cross-legged on the floor, Clara opened the box... and gasped.

The lump in her throat that she had suppressed earlier rose again, and tears pooled in her eyes.

This box was full of stacks and stacks of pictures. But not just any old pictures. Pictures of her and the Doctor.

Her first Doctor.

With trembling fingers, Clara gathered the first stack of pictures and settled it on her lap. Her breath hitched. There he was, that clumsy, careless, bowtie-wearing idiot with the big green eyes that had made her fall in love with him instantaneously. There was his wide, boyish smile; his floppy hair; his ridiculous tweed. In this picture he was carrying Clara on his back, and they were both laughing at the camera. She remembered that day, the sweetness of his touch, the warmth of his fingers on hers.

A tear splashed on the carpet as she scanned the rest of the pictures. They they were again, holding hands and facing away from the camera. Watching a sunset on the planet Tridon. Throwing cake at each other. The Doctor cringing as Clara placed a freshly-baked soufflé in front of him. The two of them standing with their noses pressed together, almost kissing, but not quite...

Suddenly overcome with sadness, Clara dropped the pictures back inside the box and firmly sealed it back up, her eyes blinded by moisture. She knew she was being silly. Yes, her first Doctor was gone. But her Doctor was still here, her wonderful, beautiful Time Lord. She couldn't reminisce about his last regeneration anymore. She had a new Doctor to worry about.

Clara's movements were slow and subdued as she collected the next box and laid it on the ground. This one was full of breakables: vases, mirrors, various other antiques.

Clara recognized them all as members of her mum's personal collection. As she realized this, she felt dangerously close to crying again.

This cleaning thing was turning out to be a really bad idea.

"Getting all maudlin," Clara grumbled to herself. "The Doctor would laugh to see me right now."

"I'm not laughing," a quiet voice answered from the corner.

Clara shrieked and whirled around, very painfully dropping the box on her feet. "Oh my stars! What do you think you're doing?" she shouted, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the pain in them.

"Watching you," the Doctor answered, stepping out of the shadows. His curly gray hair gleamed in the light from outside, and he looked dapper as usual in his velvety coat. But his eyes were red and bloodshot.

Had he been crying too?

All of a sudden Clara didn't care. She had just remembered why she was in her flat in the first place. "You left me," she told the Doctor, her voice far steadier than she felt. "You dropped me off and left."

"I came back," the Doctor whispered, his Scottish accent low and subdued.

"Why - you couldn't stay away?" The words came out far harsher than she intended.

The Doctor hung his head. "No, actually, I couldn't. I... I can't stay away from you for long, Clara. I can't. I didn't go to that planet. I couldn't leave you."

Clara found herself growing irrationally angry, despite her relief that the Doctor had come back for her. "Would you care to tell me why you dropped me off in the first place?" she asked in a clipped tone. "Because I don't think it was so you could go to a planet. I think there's something you're not telling me." Her voice softened. "Doctor, please tell me, I can help, I can - ow!" Her finger was suddenly pulsing with pain.

For a moment Clara couldn't understand what she was seeing. Her finger was dripping with blood. She marveled at the sight of it. How was that possible?

Then she remembered. She wasn't invincible. She wasn't like the Doctor. She was fragile, and weak, and easily wounded. It was easy to forget, when you traveled with him, that you could still be injured.

Suddenly a warm hand slipped into her own, turning her hand so that the light caught the thin webs of skin between her fingers. "That looks bad," the Doctor murmured. Her index finger had been gashed from end to end, and blood was rapidly pooling beneath it on the floor.

Clara felt sick at the sight of her own blood; she hadn't seen it in such a long time. "I'm fine," she promised, forcing a chuckle. "There was glass in that box I was holding. Something must have had a sharp edge. I'll just go get a Band Aid -"

"No," the Doctor growled. The intensity in his voice sent a shiver up Clara's spine. "No, you won't."

And he began to stroke the cut.

Clara quickly realized what he was doing. "No, Doctor, stop it," she croaked, ineffectually pounding his chest. "Don't you dare."

But it was too late. Shimmery golden light seeped from beneath the Doctor's fingers, rippling around the injury. When he removed his hand, the wound was gone. His face was pale and haggard, and the lines on his forehead seemed deeper than usual.

"How many years was that?" Clara demanded thinly.

The Doctor shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care. You're better now."

Seized by a sudden impulse, Clara gripped his hands and leaned closer to him. "Doctor, don't you ever waste your regeneration energy on me again! It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. How many years did you just lose - five? Ten? Doctor, your time is too precious to waste on me!"

His eyes flashed. "Clara, nothing is too precious to waste on you! Nothing at all! Not a thing in the whole damn universe!"

Silence hung over her bedroom. Clara stared at the Doctor, shock and awe stamped on her features. She had never heard him swear like that before.

"You're not a waste, Clara," the Doctor continued in a softer voice, pressing a tender kiss to her hand. "I would rather die today knowing that you're alive and well than live a hundred more years with no idea. You're all that keeps me going."

And then, for once, he initiated the hug.

The Doctor pulled her close, his hands buried in Clara's thick dark hair. His movements were awkward and he actually stepped on her foot, but Clara let it pass. She knew how abnormal hugging was for him in this regeneration. So she pressed her face into his jacket and hugged back, breathing in his comforting scent. "Thank you," she breathed.

The Doctor pulled back far quicker than she would have liked. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, already back to his normal, grumpy self. "Erm. Well. Okay." He glanced at the carpet, on which several drops of blood were scattered. He fished his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket and pointed it at the floor. As it began to buzz, the blood rippled and vanished into nothingness. "Absorber setting," the Doctor explained, pocketing the device. "Works on everything except grape juice. Don't ask."

Clara giggled, the dimple in her cheek deepening. "Thank you. And, now that you're here, you may as well help me clean."

"I don't think so," the Doctor sniffed ungraciously. "The TARDIS is just outside. I'll go wait for you."

"No you won't, because if you leave again I'll bake you a soufflé," Clara replied in a singsong voice.

The Doctor's face paled. He knew what that meant. "Okay. I'll stay."

She smiled at him and got to her knees, crouching in front of the box filled with breakables. The first thing she lifted out of it was a mirror - still beautiful, despite the thick film of dust that covered it. Clara unconsciously wiped the mirror's surface, admiring its intricate gold border.

Then she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the newly cleaned glass, and her breath hitched.

There were lines on her face - wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, frown lines on her forehead - faint, but there all the same. Clara stared at herself in surprise. Those lines hasn't been there the last time she looked in the mirror.

But when was the last time she'd looked in the mirror?

She was only twenty-six - far too young to be showing any signs of age. She had spent so much time on the TARDIS that time had no meaning for her anymore. It was hard to remember that humans were governed by time, that they eventually had to succumb to it no matter what. Clara had spent her days in a timeless daze, hopping from place to place around the universe, and now time was catching up to her. She was finally remembering that she was growing older every day.

The Doctor crouched down beside her and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Clara never ceased to be amazed at how he always knew what she was feeling. She opened her mouth to lie and say 'nothing', but different words forced themselves onto her tongue, unbidden. "I feel old," she answered.

There was a pause, and Clara knew that the Doctor was debating how to respond. She inwardly kicked herself. Shut up, Clara. Why did I just say that? It was just going to worry him. But it was too late to stop now, so she pressed on. "I just feel that... my life is passing by too quickly. I know everyone says that. But I really mean it. I spend all my time on the TARDIS, I don't even realize that's time passing. I mean, I met you three whole years ago and it feels like yesterday! I feel like I'm leaving everyone on Earth behind. Soon I'll probably be older than my Dad - but for him, I won't even have been gone five minutes... I sometimes wonder if traveling on the TARDIS is the right thing to do."

She glanced up. The Doctor was looking straight at her, but he didn't seem to be seeing her. No, he seemed to be looking into her, into her very soul. His face was heavy and brooding. "It's only right if you think it is," he answered slowly, every syllable fraught with uncertainty, longing, and misery, all at once.

Clara pressed two fingers to her forehead, brushing her dark hair behind her ear with her other hand. "And then sometimes..." she swallowed. "Sometimes I think about what'll happen sixty or seventy years from now. You wouldn't want me anymore, you would want someone young and fresh, and I would be left back here to rot with my head filled with the whole universe..." Her voice died. "Is the pain of being left behind worth all these years of traveling?" She had already been left behind by him today. She couldn't bear the thought of being abandoned forever.

The Doctor now gripped her hands in his, like Clara had done so recently. "Clara, if you think I would ever abandon you, you're a bigger fool than I am," he breathed, his eyes bright with emotion. "I know when I've found someone worth keeping... and you are worth more than all the stars in the sky." He paused, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he added, in a voice so low that Clara could barely hear it, "And you will always be beautiful to me."

Suddenly feeling a surge of love, Clara leaned forward and cupped the Doctor's cheeks, tears of both sorrow and joy swimming in her eyes. For one heart-stopping moment, the Doctor thought that she was about to kiss him.

Actually, Clara's plan had been to kiss him. But then she slowly removed her hands, her fingers brushing against his stubbly cheeks, and sat back on her feet, regarding him with a tinge of sadness. She couldn't kiss him - not yet. Not while she still remembered kissing her last Doctor, not while she still remembered the promises they had whispered to each other when no one else was there. No. It was too painful.

She didn't even know if this Doctor felt the same way that she did. She had known him for so long, but she still couldn't tell if he loved her like she loved him; if he would even tolerate her kissing. There was still so much to learn about the Doctor, and that was why Clara couldn't kiss him. A kiss was an intimate thing, a token of affection that you shared with those closet to you. But a kiss couldn't just be given, it also had to be received. And Clara didn't know if the Doctor was ready to receive it.

If only she knew how ready he was.

The Doctor involuntarily reached for Clara's hand, and then stopped himself. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Cleaning. There's cleaning."

"Yeah," Clara murmured, her face unfocused. "Cleaning. Erm - I'll go make some tea, and then we can get back to it."

The Doctor tilted his head, scrutinizing his petite companion. Every aspect of her face, every way in which she expressed her emotions, was so easily recognizable to him now that he knew exactly what she was feeling without even having to think. He could tell by her slightly upturned eyebrows, lowered eyes, and the way she was currently biting her lower lip that she was reluctant to clean.

The Doctor had a better idea.

He sprang to his feet and offered Clara a hand. She stared up at his imposing, majestic figure and at the black coat swirling around his knees. "Where are you going?"

"To hell with cleaning," the Doctor snapped. "We're going to Paris. Late 1800's. Coffee on the Seine."

A slow smile spread across Clara's lips. "That sounds way better than cleaning." She raised her eyebrow as a thought struck her. "But hang on... I've got to come back and finish it at some point."

The Doctor shuffled his feet. "About that... I've been thinking it's time for me to let you go."

"What?" Clara yelped. "After all you just told me about never abandoning me?!"

"No, no, not like that," he hastened to reassure her. "I was just thinking about what you said about leaving everyone on Earth behind... and I think you should stay here during the week." As Clara opened her mouth to protest, the Doctor quickly continued. "I think we should only travel together on weekends. That way you still get to teach and shop and do all that boring human stuff." Even as he said this, he already knew that as soon as she left he would take the TARDIS straight to the next weekend. He couldn't survive five days without Clara. But he wanted to make sure that she was able to balance Earth-life with Doctor-life. In his experience, humans needed their silly little human habits to survive.

Clara stared at the wall, thinking hard. Finally her gaze flickered to the Doctor. "Exactly how long is a weekend?" she asked.

The Doctor grinned. She had found the loophole, as he had known she would. "As long as you like."

Clara's eyes gleamed. "Then we have a deal."

"Good." The Doctor slid his fingers into hers and pulled her to her feet. "Then Paris awaits. And afterwards you can come finish your cleaning."

"You mean we can come and finish my cleaning," Clara corrected mischievously. "And if you're lucky I'll even make you dinner."

"That must be the worst kind of luck in the world," the Doctor grunted.

Clara rapped his forehead. "Behave yourself."

"You behave yourself. I don't have behavioral issues. You're the short grumpy one, not me."

"Says the man who has a permanent scowl etched into his forehead," Clara teased him, elegantly kicking boxes aside to make a path to the living room. "You can hardly talk. And you're being rude right now. Do you want to debate this? Because you know I'll win."

The Doctor held up his hands in surrender. "No debating. We have a date in Paris."

"A date?" Clara repeated. "Getting serious, eh?"

His face reddened. "Clara Oswald, that's not what I meant and you know it."

She smiled. "Just teasing. Let's go."

The Doctor couldn't resist muttering "Allons-y" under his breath as he followed her out to the TARDIS.

Some of you may have noticed that my recent chapters have contained a lot of Eleventh Doctor mentions, as well as tension between the Twelfth Doctor and Clara. This is intentional. I promise I am not randomly trying to break your heart. This all had its purpose, and you will quickly find out what the purpose is in the next chapter! So you have that to look forward to. The next chapter will be kind of the climax of the story.

Thanks for reviewing! See you in a month.