[ closed ] the owl's flown the coop (and now there are all these feathers everywhere)

[lateness]

CHARACTERS: the doctor (11), clara oswald
LOCATION: private quarters
DATE: post-wish full mission, and post-a beloved doctor (12) and river song gone home
CONTENT: just sadness
WARNINGS: none so far

[ The return from their fishy mission is ... a little more solemn than usual. Really, it ought to be full of fun and touching things — touching everything now that he's got his hands back, hands with their fingers and palms and not-fins — and it is fun for a bit, riding that adrenaline wave ... right up until it stops being fun. There's the realization that half of the room is empty now where the TARDIS-blue bunkbeds ought to be; and the white-board, while still there with its scribblings of ideas and future PowerPoint presentation notes and not a smudge of marker-pen to be found anywhere, won't get quite the same chaotic use now. Not for quite some time. Maybe not ever again.

There is no sign of old snack-wrappers, no crisps bags, no concrete disc to be hoarded under an all-too-flat pillow and a scratchy blanket barely used. Two beds now sit vacant from their former roommates in an all-together odd arrangement that he'd grown to become quite ... oddly comfortable with. In its own weird way.

But at the end of it all, there's no silly, irritated quip about the wetness of that water, and the relief of a talent show ended and forgotten, and no one for the Doctor (this one) to ... well, riff off of. There's no one to huff and puff at for being so impossibly stupid. So impossibly him.

It isn't just the Doctor that notices this of course — well, not all of it, anyway — and as he glances off towards the other side of the room, just beside his own heap of clothing and trinkets and other lost artifacts, there's Clara. Clara, who is far more quiet now than she has been in a while ... not since she'd returned from her brief spell away from the Ximilia with her new memories, the same as he had. Clara, whom he has very little idea how to approach about this sort of thing. After all, this is about him (isn't it always?) but not him him.

It's odd.

It's odd to miss yourself when you're still you.

But he feels like he ought to try anyway, otherwise it'll be the big ol' owl in the room. And oh, what an owl he was. ]

Clara. [ He clears his throat, scratching at the side of his face distractedly.

He's got the perfect thing to say. Absolutely, bloody perfect. ] Do you think we should add some round things to the room?

Comments

[bossily]

[Clara's been trying very hard to act like everything is fine. If she allows herself to be sad for long over the Doctor's disappearance, it won't end well. She'll fall into shambles, and she has to try and be strong. There's been too many times now when this place has made her too sad to get out of bed, and she doesn't want to slip back into that and cause the Doctor that's still here with her to worry.

But he'll always worry about her, won't he? He's doing it right now, that much is obvious. They both know his wife and his other self are gone now. There's no point in denying it or acting like it isn't the truth.

Clara's just not sure she's actually capable of talking about it, so she's grateful when he approaches matters rather indirectly. He's gotten good at talking to her this way, easing her into the things that scare or upset her.]

Round things?

[She repeats, sounding a little skeptical that round things would add anything to the room at all.]

What, like pictures of my face?

[His other self always did say her face was oddly round. It's a memory that she tries not to dwell on for long, but her forced laughter is proof enough that he's on her mind in the moment. Her head ducks once she says it, shaking a little as if to dispel that thought. The last thing her ego needs is pictures of her all over their room.]

We've got more space now. Plenty of room to try and make it look like the Tardis.

[She's assuming that's what he's after here. And really, she thinks it's a lovely idea.]

[lateness]

Well, we could hang a photo, I suppose. If you wanted.

[ He's trying, okay, but it's clear by his expression that photos aren't at all what he means. There's a reason there aren't any photos in the TARDIS to be so easily seen.

He sort of paces back and forth between the beds, waving his hands about as he gestures to places where they can put things. Maybe his hat collection might find a proper display area. Like a museum. Oh, that'd be cool, wouldn't it? ]

But yes! Yes, that's right. I was thinking ... it wouldn't take much. Just arrange a few shelves here, maybe add an umbrella rack there. [ Not that they need one, or umbrellas. ] And we'll add round things everywhere. I do so like the round things.

[bossily]

We've been here for a while, haven't we.

[It's not a question. Time feels a little meaningless here, but she knows they've been around for a long time. The Tardis sometimes feels like a distant memory, something nostalgic that she considers to be home.]

The round things would help fill the space that they left behind.

[Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?

He wants to talk to her about something serious, and has no idea how to go about doing it. Clara feels like maybe she can meet him halfway on this. He knows her better than anyone. She doesn't have to pretend like she's just fine, when that's not the case.

Her eyes look over to the now empty part of the room, and she bites at her lip. She's determined not to cry.]

[lateness]

[ There's the sudden change in the Doctor's posture when he goes from pacing the room like a fluttering, distracted hummingbird with too-long legs and flappy hands to stopping right in his tracks.

Back turned to Clara, his shoulders slump ever-so-slightly, not noticeable for most who don't know him all too well, but plenty noticeable if you're Clara Oswald, an expert in the study of all things the Doctor. ]

Yes. [ He turns around now to meet her eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line before he crosses the space that feels both too small and too empty all at once. ] It'll be Christmas again soon and we'll only have half of us this time.

[ He huffs. ]

I didn't even like him.

[ Which hardly sounds convincing even now, when he lets the words out. ]

[bossily]

[She can pick up on the most seemingly insignificant details about the Doctor, and she takes quick notice of the way his shoulders slump. The sight of it puts a frown on her face, but she knows that nothing can be done. They have to deal with this loss and process it the best they can.

Distractions will only go so far, but she knows that the Doctor, this version of him particularly, is the King of Wishful Thinking. If he hopes and dreams enough that the round things will make things better, then maybe they will.

Of course, that's before he mentions Christmas. Clara's eyes go wide like she's been punched right in the gut. And honestly, with the way her heart painfully twists and aches, she does feel a bit like she has been. ]

Doctor —

[Her voice cracks as she says his name, and she feels tears start to slip free and slowly trickle down her cheeks. She's quick to wipe them away, of course. He doesn't need to see her being sad. Not when she needs to be strong for the both of them. Still, she slips off of her perch on the bed and goes over to embrace him. Her arms wrap around him tightly, like she's almost afraid to let go

He may disappear too, after all.]

You're an awful liar.

[Which is a lie in itself. one that makes her laugh through her tears.]

We both know you absolutely adored him.

[lateness]

Well, let's not go that far.

[ He is him after all, or some version of him, a future version of him. It's fine to be passably accepting of another version of him, it's been done before, but to absolutely adore a version of himself?

Oh, absolutely not.

There is far too much self-hatred for that.

That said, he doesn't bother to add anything else to what could be the beginnings of a tirade on just how much he doesn't like himself. He just wraps his arms around Clara too, pulling her in as close as he can, planting a quick kiss to the top of her head. ]

It's just us, then. For now.

[bossily]

For now.

[She repeats, doing her best to sound hopeful and optimistic. It makes it easier for her to lie to herself and believe that this is only a for now situation instead of losing his older self forever.

He doesn't know what the future holds, and she's impressed she's managed to hold onto her secret for as long as she has. And while it doesn't sit well with her to not tell him the full story, he's a man that doesn't like his endings. And as long as they can stay here and live on together...well, who cares if things are a little endless?

Her arms wrap tightly around him, and they stand together in companionable silence for a few moments.]

Just us then, Doctor. Just us, and I suppose it's time for a bit of snogging. It'd make us both feel better, I wager.

[Hey. She's at least still perfectly shameless in her flirting.]

[lateness]

[ While the mood seems to be suitably somber, Clara's sudden comment does pull a genuinely amused laugh out of him. Stepping back just enough to rest his hands on both of her arms, he gives her the most incredibly Doctor-like Look of Looks, the kind that dares her to explain the human condition and obsession with kissing.

It's something he's beginning to understand, sure, but he's likely never to comprehend it the way Clara or Amy (or Rory) have. They're just obsessed with it! ]

Always with the snogging, you humans.

[bossily]

Is not!

[Clara's smirking though, trying her best not to outright laugh. Even when things are sad, like they are today, it's good to be able to have someone she can laugh with. Because if they can't chuckle their way through the bad days, they don't stand a chance of getting through this without another breakdown on her part. And really, that's the last thing she wants to happen. They're in this together, the Doctor and her, and they'll make it through just fine.]

It's hardly my fault you have such kissable lips, Doctor.

[A shrug with her arms crossed over her chest is the defensive pose that she takes on as she pulls away, looking for all intents and purposes like she very well might be cross.]

Would you rather go see about trying to make some of the round things, then?

[Luring him into a quiet moment might prove to be a good time to try and get him to talk about his feelings, after all.]

[lateness]

Hah.

[ Before she does manage to pull away, arms crossed and her face all scrunched up in that way of hers when she pouts, he gets in one good nose-boop with his finger and then he too steps back into the too-large space of their room to inspect the possible locations of a round-things addition.

It isn't quite as exciting as it should be, not with the heaviness of their missing roommates still hanging in the air and the barest poke at the elephant of that conversation still taking up space in the room.

The Doctor decides to perch himself on the nearest sitting surface instead. And because his own bed is covered in hats and clothing items and other random bits and bobs he's collected over the course of their time living on the Ximilia and bopping in and out of different planets, it's Clara's perfectly clean, perfectly made bed that he picks. He leans forward, elbows resting on the tops of his thighs, and thinks just for one moment to continue the ruse after all. It's easier to pretend everything's all right. He's got plenty of experience with that.

But he's already made some sort of a promise to Clara, not to hold so much back, not to keep a distance he's so very used to in his old age. ]

The truth is, Clara, I don't know what to do either.

[bossily]

Thing is, I don't think we have to know what to do. Just this once, it's alright if we figure things out as we go.

[She knows that he always likes to think he's in control and has everything in its place and a plan for everything. But she remembers when they first started travelling together how chaotic things could be. Remembering their very first adventure where he brought her through the Tardis and into an airplane puts a sad smile on her face. Oh, she misses those times.

What they have now is better in so many ways, but there's nothing wrong with a little nostalgia. Not when you both know you can never go back to those days again. She rubs at the side of her face as she approaches him, wedging herself to stand between his legs. Her hands brace themselves against his shoulders, and she tries to look brave.]

But really, I suppose we ought to do what we've always done. We don't shut down. We don't turn away. Not when there's people that need us.

[And whether they like what happens on these missions, there's generally always someone that needs their help on most of them. They can at least focus on that.]

[lateness]

[ They really were good times, weren't they? Those early days when things had been fun and easy and not always so life or death, nor so full of this intensity of emotion. He's really gone from learning just a bit about being human to indulging in almost all of the other things that make humans so humany.

Rather than travel alone like so many of his adventures in the past, he's here in the company of fifty-some others and the company of his current companion who happens to also be his future companion, and his something-a-little-more. His impossible girl. It's enough to turn any Timelord from cold and severe and alien to something worthy of those two hearts beating behind his ribcage.

His smile when he glances up to meet Clara's eyes is small but true. He feels her hands on his shoulders and tilts his head enough to press the faintest of kisses over one hand in gratitude. ]

Turning away was never an option, no. No, neither is shutting down. Whatever might become of us next, whatever might become of those orbs ... yes. We do what we always do, we help the people who need us. And we help our friends.