DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN DOCTOR WHO NOR AVENGERS.

My name is Clara Oswald and I was born to save the Doctor.

I was born, I lived, and I died. All to save the man who saves the universe.

Different Doctors. Different times. Different Claras but the story is the same. The Doctor's life is threatened and I do what I must to save him.

The Doctor is safe now, my duty is done, but my life isn't, all thanks to the Doctor. Now, I get to live the rest of my life simply being the Doctor's friend.

I don't remember them. All those Claras, their lives, their hobbies. Except for bits and pieces of their stories that are more like echoes than anything. Like my inexplicable dislike of snowmen or that brief time in university when I studied performing arts for no reason.

The Doctor says it's for the best because remembering would be too much for a human brain to live with.

But there's something I haven't told him.

All those Claras in the past and the future, they're just echoes to me, a never-ending deja vu, that sliver of memory I can never quite grasp no matter how hard I try. But there's one Clara I do remember. One who feels as real for me as the life I live now. I remember her. The Clara that was born right before World War 2 truly began.

Or rather, I remember him.

The soldier with the blue eyes and the charming smile.

I remember everything about him. Our first meeting in the diner when I served him and his friend pancakes. Our first date at the jazz club. The carnival. The Expo with the world's first flying car. That last kiss before he went back to the front lines.

And then… the letter from the Army.

I remember it all and I don't know why.

He wasn't the only one I've loved in my other lives, I know that, but somehow he's done the impossible. He's made me remember him when I shouldn't even be aware that he ever existed.

It didn't make sense.

Until the day it did.

One day, I turned on the news and I finally understood the reason I could remember him and no one else. Our life together and nothing of the other Claras.

I remember him because our story isn't done yet.

Somehow, over seven decades later, Bucky Barnes looked as young as he did in 1942.

But he's lost and suffering and in pain. He needs a doctor, and I know just the one to help him.