Dawn chases the stars away, constellations fading in the cornflower blue. He is doing a passable impression of sleep next to her, head lolling back, breathing deep and even. A rare sight; she's seen him unconscious, drugged, passed-out exhausted, but never quietly snoozing like this. He looks curiously vulnerable in the blankets. Skin so pale he's almost translucent in the golden dawn, marked in fading red by her mouth, her nails; the friction of her body against his. Her skin refuses to wear this evidence of their time together. She is always pristine.

The thought sends a pang of sadness through her. She kisses his bared throat for distraction, and settles back against him. Unexpected, his arm folds around, pulling her closer. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was." His voice rumbles in his chest under ear. "You moved."

"Sorry."

He opens one eye. "What are you worrying about now?"

"What?"

"You only apologise like that when you're thinking about something you know I'll disagree with."

"I'm not that predictable," she bristles.

"Prove me wrong, then."

"I was—" She opens and closes her mouth a few times. "Alright, fine. I was wondering what now." He shifts against her in answer, revealing his arousal, clearly enjoying her sharp little intake of breath. "Avoiding the issue? Very you."

"Not avoiding. Delaying." He kisses her pout softly. "Are you complaining?"

"No…" But my resolve is slipping. "We can't stay here forever."

"I'm not asking for forever," he says sadly, "just a little time." His thumb traces a line from hip to rib, and she shivers.

"Three days," she says, and it's promise to herself as much as him.

"Three days what?"

"Three days of pretending we don't have a universe of problems to solve. Three days' holiday from reason. Then we have to make a plan. Okay?"

"Okay," he agrees.

"Good." She straddles him in one swift movement. "Now where were we?"

What are you, she thinks. His nose traces the length of her jaw, breath ragged against her neck as he nudges her legs apart. They are high on a ridgeline, sprawled on a bed of moss. Ostensibly here for the view. More likely, she thinks, being here is symptom of his strange determination to fuck her across a whole landscape—beach to mountain top.

She's not complaining. As he pushes inside her she finds her fingers are dragging at his hips, pulling him closer, closer. Entwined in this gasping duet she pretends a cruel universe can no longer prise them apart. Their edges are blurred. It's not just the physical aspect, convenient as it is that Time Lord Tab A fits Human Slot B. He's in her mind as well as her body; the weight of his love for her, his guilt and sorrow, settle in her chest to mingle with her own. The rush of release unties that tangled knot of grief; steals something back from years of yearning.

What are you, she thinks, later, as he strips off his tattered rags to swim naked in the pool of a shining waterfall. Answer: the Doctor. There is a bruise on his hip and stubble on his jaw. Whatever strange power moves through him to build worlds is hidden, like a claw. Time and space no longer bend around him; effect follows cause. She swims over to him, pushes back damp curls of his hair to find his smiling eyes. Proves her point, watching his pupils dilate, adam's apple bobbing as water beads on her bare skin. She kisses him permission, fierce; he carries her from the water to continue their search for heady oblivion.

There's presumably a limit to his endurance, out there to be found. No sign of it here. Fingers dig into her flesh reflexively as she moves over him, every hitch and sigh exquisite torture. There's method in the madness of the extraction chamber. Her looping processes struggle with digestion, but they do allow her to eat. She can taste, she can smell. Feel and cry. And this, oh, this. Surely they were built then to allow one last meal, one last kiss? What am I, she thinks, suddenly sick. An echo, a ghost? One long last goodbye?

Clara, he says, and it takes a moment for her to realise the word has found its way into her head without bothering to go by way of the ears. Edges blurred indeed. That's what you are. My Clara.

My Doctor, she thinks, and is undone again.