Fic: all i need is a bitter song

[honeynoir]

Title: all i need is a bitter song
Rating: PG [slight psychic/physical h/c]
Characters/Pairing: Clara, Eleven (Clara/Eleven)
Wordcount: ~7500
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Summary: Defaulting to tea and grapes it was. Clara thought she’d be home by now, but the Doctor wasn’t handling having his memories eaten as well as she’d thought... and the TARDIS just didn’t like her. (Post-Rings of Akhaten h/c.)
A/N: Cleaned up and fleshed out from the kink meme and this prompt here, re: the consequences of Eleven offering up his memories in Rings of Akhaten. Fic is not as much Eleven h/c as it is a Clara fic with Eleven h/c in it, mostly because... Clara talks a lot?

AO3 | Teaspoon | Under the cut



The time machine was making noise. Different noise. Not good noise.

Clara poked her head through a doorway. “You are a kitchen. Finally.”

The Doctor had also been making... not a good noise, but she was so far away now, she couldn’t hear him anymore.

The lack of tea or something hot and tea-like had been distinct (there were only so many times she could squeeze his shoulders or poke him in the side without changing his tune... that was, the sort of detached moaning with an M’fine or two thrown in she chose to think of as a tune) and so she’d wandered off to find the kitchen. She wasn’t even sure he’d noticed. After “finding” probably ten closets and one workshop and something that might have been a kitchen but which she couldn’t work without growing ten feet and using some kind of pliers, here was a proper one with cupboards and chairs and a cooker. It was all bumpy and glowy and metal-y, cupboard and chairs and cooker included, but so was everything else around here, wasn’t it? Just a snog box, she thought. Snog box, snog box, snog box.

The machine made another unhappy noise and the room lit up even brighter than before. She startled, blinked... and most of the light was not on her face (that was a change), but trained on a delicate plate of jammie dodgers sitting on the curved counter. Of course he would have random plates of biscuits out. Not a one half-eaten, either. “Good start,” she said to herself, slipped inside, and headed for the cupboard she felt most drawn to. It was within arm’s reach, at least.

Only, when she tried the handle, some ornate round thing, it wouldn’t open.

Neither would the ones next to it. Or the one across. “Can we get some grapes?” she asked the ceiling, shielding her eyes just in case. “Some grape action in here? No? Fine. Only trying to help.”

The Doctor was sick, but not sick in any of the ways Clara had learnt to manage. She had left him splayed (possibly not unlike but sadly not actually a thoroughly snogged thousand year old man) up the highly uncomfortable-looking metal stairs, head and shoulders on his rolled-up coat and overlong legs covering really too much of the floor. Back on Akhaten, Merry had pressed her fingers to his temples and that seemed to help him, and returning to the time machine had seemed to help even more, but he’d been moaning like he was running a fever when Clara had gone. If only they’d stayed with Merry. But, no, about the only thing she was absolutely certain of right now was that they’d left; the stiffness in her lower back was courtesy of the railings and that particular lovely take-off. ‘Take you home in a bit, just need to rest my head a moment,’ the Doctor had said, whipped off his coat and settled on the stairs, while his box was hanging between places, apparently.

Defaulting to tea and grapes it was. Tea and grapes and keeping her thoughts firmly in the past or in the present and not a bit further… this place had looked so much friendlier when it hadn’t been one giant winding hallway maze without helpful signs or arrows on the floor or even last-resort windows. As jam on the dodger, she’d left her boots with the Doctor (her sturdiest footwear + metal stairs + man in pain on them - too cruel) so slipping and sliding in her foot-y tights it was. Who ordered floors of smooth metal?

”Right then,” she announced, tugging her jacket sleeves up. “I’m not leaving without something to drink.”

The Doctor was still on the stairs and still in the same how-can-he-even-bend-like-that position she’d left him in. She had no idea how long she’d been gone, because of course the time machine didn’t need a clock. “Success, and even tea! I’m coming down now... you might not hear me, but I aaam.”

She tiptoed; he didn’t stir. She placed the heavy gilded tray with the mugs and the plate of jammie dodgers one step above his head; not even his eyelids fluttered.

“Totally steamed right now...” She sat down next to his shoulder, put her elbows on her knees and stared at the round thing that was supposed to control everything. “Your box is really particular about water.”

No-thing.

“Day one: wit unappreciated.” She sighed. “Feeling better? You look better.”

“Liar.”

She startled, grazing a pretty magnificient bruise on the side of a leg with the pointiest part of her elbow. “Hello! You’re alive!”

The Doctor laughed, a sort of dry and nasal laugh. “Bit of a headache. Behind one eye, you know. Light, pressure... yeah, it’s nothing like that.”

“Like what, then?”

He squinted up at her, skin around the eyes tight and wrinkly. “Do you know how to check if you’ve lost memories?

“No, sorry. No.”

“It’s okay, didn’t think so.”

“Did the Old god eat your memories? Because that is... not cool. That is rubbish.”

“Hmm, I dunno.”

“Okay, we should probably talk about that some more, but the tea is getting cold.”

He closed his eyes again, and even grinned. “No, it isn’t. My mugs don’t let it.”

“Yeah. More to the point, you’re awake, and still on the stairs. This is not actually your bedroom, is it?”

“Actually...” he started, every little muscle in his face screaming ‘uncomfortable’, “it isn’t”.

“Blimey! Anybody told you you’re taking this monk thing too far?”

The room they’d arrived in had: one narrow bed, one stiff-backed chair; one pillow, one duvet, one blanket, and one potted plant (all purple), and the same-as-everywhere-else metal sheets with lights covered the floor and the walls and the ceiling.

The Doctor only glared, stumbled to the chair and draped himself across it. He was exactly three steps away from the bed, but to-the-chair was apparently as far as he was able to go. Getting him on his feet, actually up the stairs and this far had involved roaring, much sliding of heels, and some heavy leaning on her shoulder.

Clara leant against the doorjamb, folding her arms. She didn’t hover with the children, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now. “You okay?”

“Perfectly, absolutely fine,” he said, and groaned. The box groaned. The chair groaned. Finally, he straightened, made his careful way to the bed, and sank down on it. He was facing her, which, for the first time, made her feel like she was in his home when she shouldn’t be. In his bedroom.

“You should get some sleep?” she said, wincing because somehow a question mark made its way into that one, too.

The Doctor must have heard it, because he thrust his lower lip out and whined, “No.”

“You agreed to go to the bedroom. I -”

He cut her off, saying, “Rest and sleep are different things, Clara.”

“Rude.”

“How is that rude?”

“Doing the best I can here, space person. You put me to bed, after all, it’s not like it’s completely ridiculous to assume you know of sleeping as a concept. You understood ‘snog box’, didn’t ya?” She sighed - she should have eaten more biscuits between the kitchen and the control room thingie. Just one bite of translucent blue fruit and one protein bar and half a mug of water to test its drinkability... she was hungry, and that did nothing to improve her mood in general - note to self, she thought, bring more protein bars. And Lucozade.

Entirely quietly, the Doctor folded in on himself, forward and to the side, hair and bowtie and waistcoat drooping; not like he was in pain or anything - really, very tired, though. Did he come like this? With the clothes on his back and a temperamental box, without photo albums or keepsakes or trinkets that had to be dusted and without even a proper bedroom. “Just... please.”

That was quite enough lounging, Clara decided, and hurried to cross the little distance there was between door and bed. She crawled up next to him, kneeling on the bed - it had a good mattress, at least. Should she touch him? Shouldn’t she touch him? Should she keep him talking? Shouldn’t she? “Do you think you lost memories? Sounds like you do, otherwise why would you ask?”

He mumbled, “Hope so.”

“Sorry, what was that? Did you just say ‘hope so’?”

“Yes. Your leaf, Clara... ”

“Put it to good use, didn’t I? After you’ve had some tea, I’ll tell you all about that leaf. Can you lie down or should I get up and shove?”

“Thousand years old, but yes, can lie down on my own. Move over.” The Doctor flopped back on the bed with as much grace as a plank with arms and... keened. “This bed is hard.”

Clara bounced a bit and stroked the heaps of fluffy purpleness around her. “This bed is awesome. It’s a fact.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it. You don’t like. Your own bed. Oh, I see,” she said, giggling. “Oh, it’s so obvious. This isn’t your real bedroom.” The size, the boring, Doctor Who acting as if he didn’t know his way around... it screamed spare room. Should have seen it immediately. Her powers of deduction were slowing down. Had to be jetlag. Timelag?

“Course it is.” He squeezed his eyelids shut and the rest of his face set in some angry grimace. The pulse in his throat was beating harder and faster and she really kind of wanted to reach out and touch it.

“I live with children,” she said, raising one eyebrow and hoping he’d look up to see it. “Know every trick in the book. I only get the spare, do I? What are you hiding in your actual bedroom? No, wait, don’t wanna know.”

“Clever Clara Oswald,” he ground out, as if it was so hard to form the words, making the most annoying pauses between them. “You can go... back to the console room. You will...”

“Okay, curious. What will I?” she asked, carefully hiding how excited she was to finally get to try her Stern Voice on him. Well, barely. She’d just achieved timbre when she realised something wasn’t quite right. He’d relaxed to a point where his limbs looked heavy but not as rigid as they had before... when his eyelids weren’t squeezed together any longer - they were smooth, and his eyes were very still behind them. “Come on, did you faint midsentence? Actually faint? Yes. Yes, you did.”

As moany and immobile he’d been in the control room he hadn’t been this out of it and Clara was good at dealing with sniffly children and mates with Pimms’ breath... soufflés and Time Lords with headaches caused by old gods lying inside what had to be the only phone box she wouldn’t be able to call 999 from, not so much.

Hmm. That was that, then.

She scooted closer to him, raising waves of bedclothes in her wake and tugging her flowy skirt higher so she could move more freely. “Doctor? Doctor! Near-coma once; acceptable, twice... starting to worry. Okay?”

He was breathing; the fabrics of his old-man waistcoat and stripey white shirt strained against their buttons. Maybe they always did that, though? Maybe he wasn’t having weird super deep breaths? Gnawing on her lip, she curled her fingers round as much of his nearest wrist as she could, raised his arm and dropped it - a muffled, boneless thump later she’d estabilshed he was definitely uncouscious. Next, she splayed her fingers across his forehead - always felt like she was petting someone’s headache when she did that, but there was nothing for it... she was not getting lost looking for the Room of Undoubted Unhelpfulness or the office or wherever he kept the thermometre.

His forehead was cold. Like, really cold. Dry. Bony. Scarred. Bigger than her palm. “So you don’t have a fever? Too bad, I’m good with a fever. Fever Girl. Unless you have some backwards fever and you’re very hot when... you’re... well?” She sat back and side-eyed him briefly, but, of course, nothing happened. “Next move, then. Hearts go in chest, I hope.”

She knew what to probably expect, but still hesitated a moment before placing her hands on his chest, at human heart level because why not, thumb to thumb, half on shirt and half on waistcoat. There really, really were two hearts; she felt them rising and falling and lurching and living against the planes of her fingers... just like hers, except he had two. Whether they were unusually fast or ridiculously slow was another question, but at least they were both... there. And working.

Next move? Loosen the bowtie and unbutton the shirt a little? She touched the maroon/pattern of the bowtie, scraped at it with a nail and hmm, no. Best not. It felt like the kind of thing he’d be particular about. She thought about tugging the blanket loose and tucking him in, but he’d fainted all over it and who said he needed the warmth anyway? “Aren’t you supposed to regain consciousness suddenly about now?” she asked him. “Is there a magic word? Do I tap your nose three times?” No answer, no anything.

If he’d been one of her kids, this was the point where she’d squeeze down next to him and hum London Bridge Is Falling Down till he woke, but he wasn’t one of her kids and he didn’t have the flu and maybe that particular rhyme wouldn’t be his favourite.

Thinking about it, he’d have to have done this for her sometime in between carrying her to her room and sloshing water into her slippers and leaving half-eaten biscuits on her nightstand... he’d had to make sure she was breathing and beating and all that.

She sat back, scratched her head - no! Pulled her hand back. Apparently, knocking her head against the pyramid wall had caused an egg-shaped, hurty bump to go with the assortment of bruises she’d collected.

If only he’d had something she could ice and be done with.

She folded her hands in her lap and decided to have a good think, except now she was aware of the pain in the back of her head it refused to fade and that wasn’t helping.

It was the inside of the Doctor’s head that needed comfort and whatever she did, no matter how much water she boiled or how many times she went looking for grapes, it wouldn’t help there, not like Merry had helped him when she’d touched his temples. Maybe, though... maybe he needed to have his headache petted. He was a Time Lord and all that. It couldn’t hurt to try. She hoped.

“I would say all patronising should be postponed till after tea, but I never thought I’d fly a moped, sooooo.... making an exception. Fairly sure no one has ever needed to have their hair stroked as much as you right now.” She tucked her knees next to his ribcage and leaned forward, ghosting her fingers across his forehead wrinkles and the scar and as much of that thick hair as she could. He was still knobbly and cold and maybe as clever as her. “Where are you from, hmm?”

They were almost nose to nose, like this, and it felt intimate and comfortable.

Of course the Doctor ruined it by opening his eyes. “Auuugh!” he hollered. For a full three seconds. Then he stopped as suddenly as he’d started, squeaked, and pressed his shoulders against the pillow, which flopped up at the sides and nearly swallowed his head.

Clara fought through the combined daze of choking on her own cry and unexpectedly ringing ears and just managed to pull back her hand before the pillow swallowed it, too. And there was the sudden awakening, she thought. Now if only her own single heart would stop hammering as if it was fighting its way out of her chest. “Please don’t ever do that again. Any of that.”

“What are you doing?” he asked. Well, probably, it was a little slurred.

“What am I doing? What do you think? Checking for signs of death.”

He stared at her from the depths of his pillow, following her tiniest move carefully. His eyes were dull, blank, shining with panic.

“Doctor?”

“Who are you? What do you want? You can’t vivisect me, I’m just an old man!” He was definitely clawing at the blanket now, digging his dirty boots into the duvet. “Who are you? What have you done to my grand- No. No, that’s not right.” He tried shaking his head, which only made him burrow deeper.

“Oh, please, no.” Oh, stars, please don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget me.

“The Dalek Asylum. Eighteen-ninety-two. Akhaten.”

“Yes! Akhaten!”

“Akhaten?”

“Mm-hmm. Pancake Tuesday, blue fruit, remember? Please.”

“Grandfather.” It was like watching someone struggling to swim to the surface.

“Grandfather’s alarm clock? Merry? Letthecloakoflightclingtoyourbones?”

“Eggs.” Realisation seeped back into his eyes like... like a drop of food colouring spreading through a glass of water, darkening everything slowly and surely.

“Eggs?” she got out. He seemed to recognise her, but the words still made no sense.

“The milk and the eggs.” Now he was staring at her like he was angry at her, like he was going to choose fight instead of flight. “We shall meet again who are you?”

She took a not-at-all shaky breath. “Clara Oswald. London. Twenty-four and can’t fly a plane.”

“One hundred and one places to see,” he said, and relaxed from head to toe. Deflated. Even that chin looked softer.

“That’s the one.”

Using his elbows, he raised himself up until he was nearly sitting. “Clara. Is something wrong?”

“With?”

“You.”

“Me!” She tucked her arms under her chest and went full on Stern Voice, not caring that it was also tinged with slight panic. “What’s wrong with you!”

“I’m fine. Oh, you mean... that. That happens sometimes, it’s nothing.”

“Happens! That is not a thing that happens! Don’t tell me about losing memories and then not recognise me because that is that is that is arrrrgh!” She slammed her palm against the duvet one-two-four times. Her knees were still right next to his chest, her bones knocking against his.

“Mind your poor vocal cords, Clara. What was that you said before, about checking for signs of death?”

She noticed through the tunnel vision of emotion that his eyes were back to normal: bright, green. (Not that they had been different; that had just been her imagination, in her head.) His manners seemed to be back to his normal, though, just like that, back to the way he’d been when he’d appeared on her lawn this... morning. It had really only been a day, hadn’t it? “Well,” she said, “somebody had to.”

“You don’t know my physiology,” he stated, with just enough authority to be bloody annoying.

“I think I could tell if you were dead. And if you’re not supposed to use both those hearts at the same time, you’re not fine and you’re welcome.”

The Doctor looked down at his chest, then back at her. Then down again. “Working perfectly.”

She forced herself to relax. Don’t be mad at someone ill. He’ll only faint again and then what will you do? “How’s the headache?”

“It’ll pass.”

“You fainted!”

“It’s... yes. It will pass. I’ll get the tea, shall I?”

“No, I’ll get the tea, you stay here and function perfectly.” She crawled off the bed in the most dignified way she could manage. Her feet had barely touched the vaguely slippery and vaguely metallic floor before she stubbed her toe on something that was neither slippery nor metallic. “Ow!”

He tensed instantly. “What’s wrong?”

She sucked in a breath and tucked her aching foot under the one that was mostly fine. “Toe. Calm down. If you’re not going to be properly sick, you don’t get to be overconcerned, either.”

“That was rude. Rude and illogical. And I’m always concerned.”

“That’s on you, then. Now...” she said, stooping to peer under the bed the best she could with two-feet-going-on-one, “what do you keep under here?” Drumroll... It was a box. A stone box. Of course it was. A box in the box, with a corner turned outwards, just for kicking toes into. She teased the box out and held it on straight arms (never knew what it might be after all). The rough stone bit into her fingers; the sheer weight made her arm muscles scream. “A mystery box? Under the spare bed?” she asked, going for alluring, shaking the box in his direction. She skinned some of her fingertips, but it might get a good reaction.

“Eh!” He jerked from head to toe, as if poked with a live wire. He stared, too, in a rather intent pupils-taking-over-eyes-and-also-rest-of-face way. So not a good reaction.

“I’m opening it.”

“No,” he said, sternly. Like he expected her to listen.

She wrenched the lid off and let it fall to the bed with the same dull thump the Doctor’s numb arm had made. When nothing actually appeared from its depths, she brought it closer to her face. It was a mess of memorabilia. Definite trinkets. “So, a bowtie - have a thing for bowties, don’t you - a pocketwatch, one old girl’s shoe...” A stack of rings, a scuffed medal, a post-it covered in intersecting circles tied around a broken-necked bottle. “Is this desiccated red grass?”

“Put that back.”

“Because?”

“Give it to me. Clara... give that box to me.”

“Fine. It’s really heavy, anyway.” She dropped it a foot or so above the bed, because heavy + rough surface + already smarting fingers...

The Doctor somehow lunged - from nearly prone on his back to nearly flat on his face and knees in moments - with time left to flail ineffectually for a fraction of a second before catching the box (smoothly) just before it landed on the blanket.

“Hang on... Are you faking it?” she asked, folding her arms. He scooted backwards off the bed, holding the box to his two hearts and not-quite glaring at her. The bed was in between them now, and that seemed appropriate. “Is this like an initiation? Are you testing me?”

“No. No, doubly no. Clara-” He slipped the box under his pillow and the edge of the blanket over the pillow and then he patted the useless pile with a soothing, stupid noise. The real box lid was still on top of the blanket, all sharp edges and dullness in the bright lights. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Dunno what to think of you, do I?”

“I did give you running and flying mopeds, what more do you need? Initiation?” He looked at her with the same sharp energy with which he’d caught the box; looked as if he was looking right through her. As if he didn’t trust her.

“My Mum’s ring. You made me give it away.”

“Clara, I have to keep those things. It’s my... duty.” He folded again. It began with the shoulders, then his neck bent far too much; the chin got closer to the bowtie; his waistcoat drooped in the middle, the chain sagging. And then his knees started to give -

Angry still, she raced across the floor, of course she did, holding out her arms before there was even a chance she’d reach him.

The chair saved the day again. He pressed his palms against the seat and kept himself roughly not-on-his-knees by what was apparently sheer will.

She pushed at his chest, raising him up bit by bit, sliding a little further back each time. They trembled; or, rather, one of them trembled and made the other do it too.

Eventually, all that was still drooping was his neck and chin. Good enough. “There,” she said, straightening the waistcoat. “All tall again. Good, eh?”

He immediately looked worse for wear. How could that be the wrong thing to say?

“Yes, it’s very good,” he said slowly, brushing past her.

“Are you going to your real bedroom?”

His shoulders tensed.

“Doctor?”

He pressed the door control thingie. The doors slid apart. He stepped out into the hallway, didn’t look back.

“Doctor...” She reached out to touch his elbow, started to follow him... but the doors came shooting back out of their hideaways before she was through and it was pull back or get arm sliced off. The doors joined with a hiss right in front of her nose, with the Doctor on the other side. (Could a hiss sound satisfied?) “Oh! Oh. Come. On.” She slammed her palms against the metal. Once, because it stung good.

Tried slamming the door opener instead; dead.

“Doctor?” She knocked; he wouldn’t leave her here?

Well, he definitely didn’t come running to let her out, either.

So... she was stuck in his spare room, while the drooping man with a mind-ache wandered the corridors as he pleased. She’d expected a cuppa and a Q and A after the first trip; someplace quiet, the Maitlands’ back garden, maybe. This, not so much. Then again, the last time she’d gone with him, she’d come to alone and facedown on a café table.

Okay. No point in freaking out. Besides, she wanted adventure, and she certainly wasn’t going to be afraid of the Doctor. Definitely not. Not after what he did for the people back there, for Merry, for Clara herself the first time they met. At least he hadn’t locked her in with something this time: silver lining.

The door whispered open, all on its own.

She’d just sat down on the bed; was, in fact, just about to lie down, wrap herself in the blankets and have a proper angry stew with his box of secrets for a headstone.

The chair got to serve as a very large impromptu doorstop this time, but Clara wasn’t going to be crushed just like that. She gathered her skirt and climbed over the seat, flattening herself as much as possible and trying to keep the images of chairs being sliced through out of mind.

The doors didn’t emerge so much as a millimetre, but better safe than sorry.

Open corridor and freedom.

She had the very uncomfortable feeling someone was laughing at her. Must be dehydration.

Shake it off.

The only way from here she knew (hopefully) was that to the control room, so... as good a place as any to start from. Left-left-left, down odd sloping part, round the section of spirally staircase just sitting there doing nothing... Right-left-right. Annnnd: control room. Quick and painless, that was.

Also, Doctor.

“See,” she said, trying not to sound worried/out-of-breath at all, “when you get a headstart in your own house, you leg it somewhere the other person hasn’t been.”

He paced round the controls, being worn by a pair of round glasses and casually trying to eat his own hand. The machine made double the bad noise to make up for his silence - not quicker, or louder, just more of it and. All of it. Echoed. It was a wonder his head hadn’t popped clean off; hers felt well on the way.

He was kind of staring at her still. Not in that undressing-with-eyes way but in that intense way a kid would read their current favourite book.

She rolled her eyes and reached for a mug of tea as she passed it on her way down the stairs. It held no milk or sugar because none of those had graced the presence of the few cupboards she had managed to wrench open, and she wasn’t desperate enough to crumble a jammie dodger from the past or the future or whenever into her mug. But there was caffeine, at least, or something similar to it. She took a big gulp.

As he’d said, the tea was still warm. Almost, in fact, scalding.

The Doctor finally extracted his fist from his mouth. “Is that your bag hanging from the eighth-dimensional spatial converter?”

“It’s a knob,” she slurred.

“Knob! It’s not a...!”

“It is a definite knob, made for hanging bags. Did you lock me in?”

“Sorry?” All around him, lights flared and faded and chased each other and crashed like waterfalls from the ceiling... and he didn’t seem to notice.

“Couldn’t open the door after you left.”

“I didn’t lock you in!”

“Let me guess, it happens sometimes?”

His expression was telling her to back off, now, and then he held up a hand. Men.

Clara sauntered towards him; he backed away. Actually backed away. Around the controls. Backing.

“It’s like... these glasses, Clara! Look. They’re just glasses, there’s nothing special about them. I know where they came from and where they’ve been and where they’ll remain.”

“Don’t really care.”

“They’re not...”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No, I’m talking to myself. Eavesdropper.”

“I think you are. I think you’re scared of me. I think you’re blushing.”

“Stop that!”

Oh, no, he’s not, is he? Clara thought. He was pretty close to the stairs and looking over his shoulder... definitely heading for them. “Where are you going now? Don’t you dare!”

Three strides and he was already at the top, leaving the room, definitely running away from her.

Up the stairs again, then. She slammed the mug down on the nearest flat surface and set off, stomping for Queen and Country this time.

He’d gone right, yeah? Best to run, or he’d have time to disappear.

She balled her fists and slid in her tights, and just caught sight of the flapping strap on the back of his waistcoat as he rounded the same corner she had when her search for a decent kitchen had started. “Slow down! Doctor!”

When she peeked round the very same corner, he was nowhere to be seen, not hide nor hair nor waistcoat. Just Clara, more metal, more lights, and the choices of left, right, or straight ahead. She strained her ears. Always look for someone lost, never lose anyone. Shouldn’t his heels at least echo or something?

Next trip: bring sports bra, hairbands, plasters, possibly a leash. More protein bars. And Lucozade. And why didn’t she put her shoes on?

She had a good feeling about turning right. It was a start.

The sound of her walking seemed to be optional; either her steps were annoyingly slap-sharp or creaky like the upstairs of a haunted house, or so silent she had to look down to make sure she was actually moving. And somehow the walls kept swallowing her cries.

Right-right-left. Left-right-left. Would he make it up those stairs? No. Probably not. Let’s try left-left-left.

The machine had now started producing a very different and very insistent noise that quickened her heart rate and closed up her throat and followed her around. Hidden speakers everywhere, had to be. She was getting lightheaded, too; empty stomach. At least the kitchen hadn’t been moving.

Through that doorway. Then right.

The bell-shaped doorways would have been brilliant if you had an enormous 18th century dress to swoosh around, all bigger downstairs, but as it was... eh.

Right. Stop. Have a listen. Worry you’re getting yourself lost. Continue. More blue-ish metallic corridors. Left-right-right. Doors everywhere. They were much less keen - it seemed, anyway - on slicing off her arms when the Doctor wasn’t near, so that was a plus. Metal doors. Stained-glass doors. Snake-skin doors, wallpaper doors, spare blue doors and hanging sheets of vine and solid mist and concrete. Wooden Earth-doors that wouldn’t give no matter how much she pulled/pushed. General unwelcomeness was getting harder and harder to ignore, but she still had a good feeling about continuing. Snog box, snog box, snogbox snogboxnogbox.

Up tiny ladder. Duck under random curtain. Pass damp-looking knobbly structure, chunks of.

Peek into rooms with; a desk, a well (there was no way she was drinking from that); a squash court; a crumpled hot-air balloon; a hammock and an ice bucket.

Long stretches with grid instead of floor or ceiling; where there were millions of lights. Longer stretches where there were no lights whatsoever. This was what she got for thinking the metal and the lights were everywhere.

Left-right. And her without Mum’s ring. If she got properly, desperately lost the Doctor would come and find her, right? She had been so certain of that when she’d gone looking for the kitchen, and he’d been disoriented on the floor then. How could she be less sure now?

Dead end. One door. One closed door. No choice of corners, no hatch, no ladder. Just... one way.

She didn’t have a particularly good feeling about this door, but the noise was actually hurting her teeth now. Sighing, she tried not to let annoyance win. Tried. She slapped her hand against the control, hoping for that swooshy sound that meant the path was clear.

There was no swooshy sound.

The door wouldn’t open. Course it wouldn’t. Not even after fifteen presses and her sliding her forehead against it. “Uhhh, great. Doctor! Where are you!” Again, it was as if the words were absorbed into the walls instead of travelling, echoing.

Time to throw in the towel and find her way back to the tea and her bag and no prospect of sleeping in her own bed tonight. Unless the machine could, like, move the doors so she’d end up somewhere completely different. It couldn’t, could it?

Oh, it so definitely would.

She turned her back on the dead end, started humming Artie’s current favourite song as noise-blocker, and set off down the corridor.

Just as she paused to make sure no walls had moved before she turned left and then right and then left again, there was the swooshy sound. Possibly. Or did she imagine it? Was it an echo of some completely different door opening somewhere else entirely? She was so not skipping back to check, all hopeful. Looking over a shoulder was okay - who knew, the Old god’s alarm clock could be behind her, in addition to living forever in her nightmares.

The door was open. It really was. It really was and the Doctor was taking up most of it. Looking sad or possibly morose. “Come here!” he cried, beckoning her. “Come on.”

Clara spun, put her arms behind her back, and approached him like she did Angie when she was late home. “You are not closing that door in my face.”

“Never.”

He didn’t. He didn’t close it behind them either.

They were in a ballroom. An empty ballroom. Talking completely devoid of things, here. No furniture, no carpets, no paintings. Just metal and blue lights, twinkling and making impressive light shows; shooting stars and constellations she’d never seen. The noise was decidedly less noisy, too. “This is better, as hiding places go,” she said. “Next time, though, don’t let me in.”

“I’ll remember that.” He sighed. “Can’t have you wandering around looking for me.”

“There’s a pretty simple solution to that.”

“I know.” He sank to the floor just next to the doorway, back to the wall, bending his legs with effort. “Sorry. I shouldn’t...”

Great, now she’d have to jump over his legs to get out of here. Which felt downright easy, really, compared to the rest. “Shouldn’t what?”

“I want to be alone. The TARDIS will guide you to the console room, or the library, or a bedroom, or the pool or wherever you want to go.” Having said that, he pressed his face into the corner, accentuating the angular features almost too much.

Clara didn’t have the heart for a chin joke. “You don’t.”

“Eh?” he said, muffled.

“Not really. You wouldn’t have let me come after you if you really had.” She sank down next to him, tucked her ankles under herself. There was a grey smear across her dress, dark blue base, fun pattern and all. Great. So much for the sensible clothes choice. Does Bold get out other planet dust? “I was looking forward to this. Yeah. I thought it would be just... the best trip.”

“I know, I’m sorry. The Rings seemed like a good first time... A place to see.”

“You keep leaving me.”

“I’m taking you home. I’m sorry.”

“Not ready.” She rested her arms on her thighs, scratched the finger that used to carry the ring. “You can take me home in a bit.”

What she could see of his face was full of oddly protruding bones and wrinkles in places people didn’t usually have wrinkles, and his shirtsleeves were still stupidly white. What’s your story? she wanted to ask. Because there was a child and a grandchild at some point.

He’d been better when Merry had touched him and Merry had Mind Powers that Clara definitely didn’t. Couldn’t hurt to try? Possibly? She couldn’t come to stay and have another person die right in front of her. No-o, so not having that. Happy thoughts were the key, had to be.

“Could you turn towards me? Just a little? Talking to the back of your head really isn’t improving the conversation.” Best start with something human, she thought, and smoothed some of the hair from his face, tucked a few strands behind his ears. She could have gone for a hug, but wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t run away again. “That thing Merry did before we got back here? What was that?”

“A bit of psychic comforting. Like - like a handshake. A farewell.”

“Can I try?”

He scoffed at her, but both mirth and fear danced in his eyes. Odd combo, really. Then he swallowed. “Why not?”

“Okay. Here goes.” She wet her lips and took a breath. Trying to do it like Merry had, she touched the skinned tips of her three longest fingers to his temples. The Doctor obediently closed his eyes, but his lips were pressed together to the point of trembling. “Relax. I’m not going to suck the memories out of you. Not even if you ask me to.”

She felt the pulses beat in his temples, and closed her eyes as well. Happy thoughts. Had to be happy thoughts, right... Psychometry, sentimental value, telekinesis, thinking happy thoughts... Dad pushing her on the swings Mum’s hands cracking eggs 101 places to see her own hands making the perfect meringue the light of an alien sun I know where I am

“You’re pressing your nails into my skull!”

“I’m trying to help!”

“Well, you aren’t. Help how?”

“Thinky pat on the back?” She cracked on eye open, then the other. He stared at her. It suddenly felt really pressingly awkward having her fingers on his face. “Am I supposed to rub, then?”

Slapping at her hands like a two-year old batting the spoon-plane with mashed carrots away, the Doctor didn’t seem overly keen on that. “Get your tiny, sharp fingers away from my head!”

“Again, very welcome.”

“You’re attempting psychic soothing without the proper training, without the right touch, with - with questionable intentions.”

“Oi! Don’t knock my intentions. Did I ask you about yours before you took me to another planet?”

“Yes, I thought you did?”

“Sorry?”

He waved everything away, still more two-year old than anything else. “Clara, I’m fine, I don’t need you rummaging around in my mind.”

“I wasn’t going to do any rummaging.”

“Then... let me do it.”

In theory, she should probably worry about that sudden gleam in his eye - in reality, she was just happy he was warming to her idea. “You want to give yourself a thinky handshake?”

“I want to help you... help me.”

She shrugged, folded her hands in her lap. “You’re the expert.”

“Okay,” he said, getting that intense look that meant... something. “Your mind will touch mine, mine might touch yours, briefly. I might catch an echo of thoughts you weren’t planning to share. Psychic overspill, completely normal.”

“I’ll still keep my thoughts, right? And they’ll stay in my body, right?”

“Of course! Of course. Clara!” He wrapped his long fingers around the back of her head, smoothing her hair; leaning towards her, closing his eyes. For a fraction of a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he touched his forehead to hers. “Right, then. Just... relax.”

She closes her eyes again; looking right then felt startlingly intimate. A jolt of fear rolled around in her stomach, because this wasn’t like awkward physical contact where he could simply say “Time to let go” when he got scared and it’d be okay, but she really did want to help... He moved his head ever so slightly to the left and then to the right, and then slightly down so the tips of their noses almost almost touched. She could still see the many lights dance on the backs of her eyelids.

“Are you thinking?” he asked; the loudest whisper ever.

“Mm-hmm.” I know where I am moving to London first bike could you help me with my homework Clara I love you

“Good. Keep going.”

She felt a rush of solid reassurances - not just his words but something else - slipping down the back of her neck and spreading to every part of her; to her smarting fingers and aching toe and stiff back; to the roots of her hair and her kneecaps and the inside of her mouth. She could stop worrying... he’d be okay... she’d get home to Angie and Artie and her own room. Her bruised head and thigh and that aching tiredness behind her eyes all eased and floated above her, dissipated. Fresh flowers first sip of tea in the morning night out with Sasha and Caroline her Dad reading her the paper over the phone Mum dancing

“Good, you’re doing great,” he said, and he pulled away slowly, slowly, leaving her forehead feeling cold and full of pressure. “So... who are you, Clara?”

“Now you’re being weird,” she said, after forcing herself to open her eyes and form words with tongue, not just think them. His face was so close she was going cross-eyed looking at him, and he asked things like that? “Feel better?”

“Yes, actually, thank you.” He did look relieved. And flushed. And curious.

Then he moved his hands, from cradling her head to smoothing the tips of her hair and she thought she’d never be able to hold herself up on her own but it wasn’t a problem, after all, “Catch a whiff of my thoughts?” Her lips felt numb, tingly... tongue all slippery. She hadn’t caught a thing of what he’d been thinking, which felt really, really great, honestly.

“One or two.”

“Let’s hear them, then.”

“You’re hungry.”

“I know you can do better than that.”

“You’re excited,” he said slowly, “to go back to your own bed.” He sagged against the wall, looking like he’d just had a good run and was full of endorphins and all that good stuff. His legs looked all loose and limber, now, not at all stiff and creaky.

Clara felt kind of the same. “Yep. You’ve seen my bed. It’s a nice one.”

“Your parents...”

“My parents.”

After keeping his mouth open for a bit too long, he obviously moved on. “You don’t like my kitchen.”

“Nope. You’ve got two terrible kitchens, unless you count the wet sack in a corner, in which case three and the wet sack was the best.”

“I have dozens of kitchens, hundreds probably, we’ll find you one you like. If you stumble on one with something cooking it’s best to just let it be. Haven’t got to the fire drill yet.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Anything else?”

“No, nothing. Nothing... apparent.”

“Those were the thoughts at the forefront of my mind? Really?”

He shrugged. “Could be worse. How’re you feeling?”

“Tired, sort of happy. We should do this again.” Maybe not too often, but really, how much danger could his head be in on a daily basis? Next time they could do it in her room, though... she could weasel a chapter or two out of him. There was this eating of memories, as well, but it could wait. “Do the same for me?”

“Always. And... there’s some chocolate and a very nice blueberry cordial in my pocket, if you want them.”

“In your trouser pocket?”

“Yes. At least, that’s where I put them.”

“Oh, why not, give me.” She patted his leg, a spot closer to the thigh and... less close to the knee than she’d intended. “I promised to tell you the story. Might as well do it in the giant empty ballroom overlooking the corridor.”

“Story?”

“My leaf. Page one.”

The Doctor turned slightly toward her, oddly wordless in his encouragement.

“It’s the story my Mum and Dad told me, and it takes a while, so get comfy,” she started, leaning her head against the wall and not on his shoulder, but near it. “I blew into this world on that leaf. Not much to hold on to, but I did it; it’s in the grip, see. I thought my parents were lonely, so I decided to join them...”