I suppose this should be posted on Christmas day, but I decided that I should probably just post it today, because I'm pretty sure we're going to get our Whouffaldi hearts back to work on Christmas without fan fiction. ('Cause I mean - c'mon, you guys! In the trailer, Clara kissed the Doctor on the cheek! On the cheek! And they were holding hands! If that doesn't say 'Whouffaldi is canon', I don't know what does.)

So...here you go! Whouffaldi! Happy reading!

Under the Mistletoe

Clara Oswald's flat was practically bursting at the corners with Christmas decorations. In the living room, there was a large pine tree decorated from the bottom to the top with bubbly ornaments and glittery, gold and silver streamer-like materials. There was even a Christmas wreath hanging from outside Clara's door, and then there were the pine boughs decorating various places of the flat – bookshelves, dressers, tables, et cetera. The frost gathering at Clara's windows also added quite the Christmas touch as well. In other words, Christmas seemed to be perfect. Clara was expecting her Aunt Linda, her father, and her grandmother to come around as well. (Clara wasn't really looking forward to her aunt coming, but she perked up at the possibility of her grandmother and father's arrival.)

It was no secret that Clara was hoping for a better Christmas than the last, too.

Clara's eyes caught on a single branch of mistletoe – a bit frivolous now, of course, but…if there had come a time last Christmas, then that time was…

At the thought of that, Clara felt an all-too familiar lump bob up and down her throat. Last Christmas, she thought to herself. The Christmas that involved a young-looking man with a prominent chin and bowtie…and then the Scottish, sad-eyed, man who erupted into Clara's life shortly after. Heat welling up from behind her eyes, Clara pushed away the thoughts and went back to busying herself around the flat. She still had some work to do – the turkey was cooking (she made sure to make it a bit better this time) and everything seemed well set-up, but she needed to do something. So Clara did just that – from rearranging the boughs to vacuuming every square inch of the flat, the young woman kept herself from staying still.

Afterward, Clara even graded a few projects that her students had finished before break. However, when she looked back up at the clock, she was bitter to find out that it was only five o'clock, even though it was dark outside. Her relatives weren't due until an hour later. Was she really going to have to wait that long?

No later had she formed that thought, a too-familiar wheezing, groaning sound filled the flat. Clara's eyes widened and she quickly backed into her bed as a blue police box – the TARDIS – landed in the area right next to her dresser. Clara stared at it, her lips parted and a scream halfway out her throat. Who could blame her? The last time she saw the box – the last time she saw the person who owned the box – was a few months ago.

"Am I late?" the Doctor asked as the TARDIS door swung open. He poked his head into the room, looking around almost wildly until his eyes landed on Clara. He didn't give any signs of recognition or acknowledgement that they hadn't seen each other in a while. "It's Christmas, yes? Or have I over-shot again? I really am working on that, you know."

Clara was stunned. She swallowed, closed her mouth, and then re-opened it. She tried to say something – tried to form a word – but instead, all that came out was a squeak. "How – why – what – what?" Clara managed to gasp. The Doctor sighed, shaking his head. "Just a few months and you've forgotten how to speak English," the Doctor murmured. "Well, that can't do, can it? I thought you were an English teacher, Clara!"

Clara pressed herself against the backboard of the bed. She cleared her throat, rubbed her eyes, and blinking back up at the Doctor to make sure he was still there, and whispered, "You said you weren't going to come back."

"And I decided to pop in for a visit," the Doctor said, obviously dismissing the topic. His eyes went back to traveling around the flat and then in a stage-whisper, asked, "Is P.E. here? I figured coming here so suddenly would be a bit of a nasty shock for him." He took a small step outside of the TARDIS and closing the door behind him, added, "Now that I think of it, it'd also be a bad idea to show up here on Christmas…" His voice trailed away, and for a moment, his entire expression dimmed. However, before Clara could properly address it, he straightened himself and said, "But no matter! The surprise will be worth it."

"Hold on," Clara finally said breathlessly. The Doctor stilled, allowing Clara to crawl off her bed. She slowly made her way to the Doctor and, frowning, said, "You said no more travelling. No more running. You were going to –"

"Please don't tell me you're still dragging on about that, Clara," the Doctor groaned, as though Clara had disappointed him. "Doesn't really matter, does it? Time traveling machine – I can go back before Gallifrey could ever figure out I re-took the TARDIS."

Clara crossed her arms. "There's got to be some kind of law against that," she pointed out incredulously. The Doctor shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "If there is, I've never paid any attention to it," he replied. Without another word, he started towards the bedroom door. Clara stared after him, emotions on turmoil.

It wasn't that Clara wasn't happy to see the Doctor – God, no, it was probably the very opposite – but all the while, there was something about him that made her uneasy. For one, he seemed ever-so careless and determined to avoid the topic of Gallifrey, something that Clara hadn't been expecting. If anything, Clara was preparing for some sort of long, rambling, detailed speech about how wonderful Gallifrey was. But that was if the Doctor was to come back, and well…what was this? Another goodbye? Was it really a visit? Or was there something more?

Feeling her heart sink into her stomach, Clara walked after the Doctor. She found him looking at the Christmas tree, a small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. She swallowed at that. That smile, she thought, leaning against the doorway. The sad, sad smile…

Clara never knew how much she missed it.

Then the Doctor's eyes flitted to the walls – to the walls with photographs and framed pictures all pinned up. Clara could see his eyes narrow at each one, the blue-grey irises staring intently at the images. "Where'd P.E. go?" he asked suddenly, turning to look at Clara.

"What?" Clara asked, blinking.

The Doctor pointed at the walls. "Pictures of family, friends…and no picture of your boyfriend. Just curious," the Doctor added with another shrug. Clara blinked again. She rubbed the back of her neck with a hand, shifting her gaze to her shoes. Well. It seemed that the Doctor hadn't lost any of his analyzing skills. Or observing skills. Clara could feel her heart rate speeding up – this was the moment, wasn't it? The moment in which she'd tell the truth – tell the Doctor about what really happened to Danny Pink, why there weren't any photos of him on the walls.

For a wild, fleeting moment, Clara wondered if she could get away with another lie. "Oh, I've just sent the photos to a pharmacy to develop them properly," Clara envisioned herself saying to the Doctor with a bright, cheery smile. "They're supposed to come later. Maybe next week."

"And when's P.E. going to come home?" the Doctor would ask. His eyebrows would lift to his hairline, already challenging Clara. And then, with another grin – and possibly an eye-roll, Clara would say, "He's visiting some family and friends. You know, it's been a while since he's seen them. Christmas and all that, you know how it goes."

The lie sounded so convincing in Clara's ears that she almost brought herself to repeat those words.

Almost.

Closing her eyes, Clara replied softly, "Danny Pink is dead, Doctor. He's been dead for a while. That's why his pictures aren't on the walls." There was a small period of silence that followed after Clara's announcement. She felt him moving towards her, then stopping only a few steps away. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly quiet and remorseful. "Clara, I'm sorry," he said. "It must have been…hard." He hesitated. "And especially after you had to watch him –"

Keeping her eyes closed, Clara interrupted, "No, Doctor. I mean, he's been dead for a while. As in, he never…came back." Even saying those words got a few tears squeezing out of Clara's eyes. She sniffed, rubbing at them. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I meant to tell you in the café, but you began talking about Gallifrey and I didn't want you to feel like you'd have to drag me around because of Danny's death and – oh, God, Doctor, I lied to you."

Unable to hold anything any longer, Clara let out a small sob and sank to the floor. She could feel panic blooming around her chest – curling its tendrils around her heart, forcing her to bury her head into her arms and cry out. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I was scared that I'd just be dragging you down and you'd be disappointed and –"

"Clara, stop," the Doctor said quietly. When Clara didn't respond right away, he dropped down beside her. Clara felt his hands over hers – and slowly, gently, they lowered them from her face. "Stop," he repeated, his voice so calm and soft that Clara could feel her heart slowing down. He let out a small sigh and murmured, "The thing is, Clara, I lied about Gallifrey." He pressed his lips into a sad smile. "There is no Gallifrey. I only pretended there was a Gallifrey to return to because I figured that you would be back with Danny."

Clara stared. "What?"

"No Gallifrey," he said with a simple nod. "Never was, never has been. Missy was lying. Again." His eyes drifted away from Clara, towards a certain point on the wall. Clara had the suspicion that he wasn't staring at anything at all, rather getting lost in the void. "After all this time, I don't think I was too surprised…it was a bit far-fetched, don't you think?" He let out a short laugh, though it sounded too forced and detached to Clara. He sighed and looked back at her. "See?"

Clara smiled sadly. "It's all a bit Gift of the Magi, don't you think?" she asked softly.

"Gift of the Magi?" the Doctor asked, puzzled.

"Gift of the Magi by O. Henry," Clara confirmed. She traced a thumb over the Doctor's hand. "It's a Christmas story – a classic one at that, too. It's all very sad. It's about a married couple. They're poor, but they love each other very much." She paused, not daring to look up at the Doctor. "And then, without telling each other, they decide to give each other a Christmas present. The wife – who knew that her husband had a handsome fob watch – cut off all her hair to afford enough money to give him a chain for the watch. But the husband – who knew that his wife had beautiful hair – sold his precious watch to get her a set of beautiful combs."

Clara swallowed. "But when they come back for each other, you see, they realize that they both had it all wrong – they both sacrificed something to get the other a gift, even though the results weren't what they had been expecting." She sighed. "It's a sad story, really – but I think there's some beauty in it."

The Doctor took a while to respond. "So…this is it, then? Gift of the Magi by O. Henry." He said. His voice was just as low as Clara's, but there was something in there that she couldn't decipher. She gave him a small nod. "Seems so," she replied.

"Only we're not married," the Doctor said with a weak laugh. Clara smiled. "Yeah, there's that," she replied. She felt her breath hitch and then, closing her eyes, she blindly reached for the coffee table – and to her surprise, her hands clasped onto the thing she had been looking for.

"Mistletoe," the Doctor commented. Clara re-opened her eyes. "That's right," she replied. She looked up at the Doctor. "And you know, humans have this um…thing they do when they're under the mistletoe on Christmas." She halfheartedly held it up. "Do you want to take a guess at what it is?"

The Doctor startled. His eyebrow slowly crept up to his hairline and he looked down at the branch in Clara's hand. "I'm well aware of it," he replied. Clara felt heat creep up to her face. "Oh," she said quietly, lowering her arm. "I mean – I didn't – well –"

"Clara," the Doctor interrupted. He took the mistletoe from Clara's hand and to her surprise, pinned it up against the wall. "I was just going to say that you really didn't need to hold up the mistletoe by yourself."

At that, Clara felt a smile bloom on her face. She watched as an identical, happy smile spread across the Doctor's lips. Another stab went through her heart, but it wasn't a bad kind of stab, if that made any sense. It was the kind of stab that a heart would receive any time one would go through exciting news – or find something amazing – or looking at someone s/he loved.

It was a nice feeling.

And then Clara was leaning forward.

And then the Doctor was leaning forward.

There was a hesitant pause between the two of them – but then Clara gave the Doctor's hand another squeeze, another gesture of reassurance – and closing her eyes, lightly kissed the Doctor's lips. It was soft – that was the intention – and kind and warm. Clara hadn't meant for it to be anything else, and it seemed that the Doctor didn't want to take it much further, either.

Clara was just fine with that – because as the Doctor kissed Clara back and moved his hand to hold her cheek, there was a certain tenderness and passion that couldn't be found in any other kiss. Clara knew – she just knew – that this was the kind of feeling that only a kiss this calm and beautiful could give. One couldn't receive a feeling of perfect sincerity from sex – or some casual date in a coffee shop – or from a dare.

Clara supposed that there were billions of other ways of how to describe the perfect kiss, supposed there were tons of different words that can be used to create the image of what she felt at this very moment.

But she didn't have time for that, really.

Because this kind of kiss – this kind of meeting – was unspeakably unique. Different.

And as the two reduced to resting against each other with heads placed on the other's shoulder, both thought the same thing –

They loved it that way.

A/N - I swear I've written waaay too many scenes like these before. *facepalm* BUT THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I'M DEPRIVED OF WHOUFFALDI, OKAY?! I've also already written a Doctor-and-Clara-lie-reveal story, but I don't think it had a kiss. Or maybe it did. I don't know at this point. I'm just obsessed with these two getting back together. COME AT ME, BRO. (And...I may or may not be in the progress of writing a ton of Whouffaldi multi-chapter stories. *whistles*)

Reviews are always great! Constructive criticism is welcome, but flames are not!