Author's note: More fanfiction about autism by an autistic fanfic author. This is a prequel to Pocket Chalk and set right after the ending of The Witch's Familiar. Also, look for a few nods to OldWho. :)

Emotions are visceral things. They create physical sensations and sometimes those can be too much for an autistic person, especially if there is a lot of whiplash from one emotional extreme to another. Someone can seem fine for awhile and then, after the chaos is over, BOOM, meltdown. That is what happens here.

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Thorns

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Dirt crackled beneath the Doctor's boots as he walked doggedly forward. In his arms, a sleeping child clad in dirty brown clothing. A boy destined to become a monster. Those innocent features would one day twist into something unrecognizable.

He ignored the tightening lump in his throat. The child in his arms hardly weighed more than the evil creature he bodily dragged out of a chair and dropped on the floor.

No, no, as much as he wanted to he could not drop this innocent little boy. This act wasn't for his sake, but Clara's.

Smoky mist parted and desolate buildings stood like forgotten sentinels against the dreary sky. The Doctor halted exactly one hundred paces from the nearest structure. A gray, crumbling round thing that was probably white at some point.

"Davros," he jostled the child, "We're here."

Davros opened his eyes and squinted in the hazy sunlight. They were blue, like oceans, and for a brief instant the Doctor saw himself reflected in them.

He set Davros gently on his feet. The boy adjusted his rumpled clothing. At the same time, the Doctor tugged on his own jacket, which released a wisp of chalk scent from an inner pocket. Neither the scent nor the weight of the chalk box offered much comfort.

"Thank you," said Davros. He smiled and its sweetness cut like a knife. One day that young face would wrinkle beyond recognition and turn those white teeth black with evil.

The Doctor couldn't meet the boy's eyes nor return the smile. Grief opened inside him instead. Grief for the innocence destined to be lost. He nearly let out a shout when Davros ran up to him, wrapped his arms around his waist and hugged him.

Hugs really were excellent for hiding one's face. The Doctor heard two words repeating in his head and begging to be spoken. Words few said when they should. Was this the right time to say them? Would he be able to say them?

Images of Davros, old and dying- a trick in the end, but impossible to forget- flashed across his mind. Ironically, at that time, he could only see the child he ran from staring back with the same blue eyes. Eyes that showed him reflections of who he was and what he became.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"For what?"

The Doctor stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes and tried not to feel the arms around his waist.

"One day, I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back. Until then, there must be no regrets, no tears, no anxieties. Just go forward in all your beliefs, and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine," he cleared his throat. Keeping the hatred out of his voice used every ounce of willpower, "I think this is enough hugging now. Go home, Davros."

It's for Clara's sake. Clara, Clara, Clara, my Clara...

He felt the arms around his waist let go. Emotion choked him and he turned away despite feeling eyes watch him. Putting one foot before the other became his sole goal. Any distance between him and that child whose innocence he couldn't save was good.

"When will you come back?" Davros called out, his voice carrying over the wind.

But the Doctor pretended not to hear. Every step carried him across crackling dirt. They sounded like the drumbeats of a war young Davros would soon take part in. His shallow breathing came and went with the wind. He was the core of a star collapsing into a supernova. The tightening squeezed his chest and throat. Hot, painful tingling spread into his cheekbones. His ice blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

Clara, Clara, Clara, he thought. Memories of refusing to commit genocide crossed his mind. Back when he wore a long scarf and had much curlier hair.

"Now, future errors will be eradicated. Defeats will become victories. You have changed the future of the universe, Doctor."

"I have betrayed the future. Davros, for the last time, consider what you're doing. Stop the development of the Daleks."

"Impossible. It is beyond my control. The workshops are already fully automated to produce the Dalek machines."

"It's not the machines, it's the minds of the creatures inside them. Minds that you created. They are totally evil."

"Evil? No. No, I will not accept that. They are conditioned simply to survive. They can survive only by becoming the dominant species. When all other life forms are suppressed, when the Daleks are the supreme rulers of the universe, then you will have peace. Wars will end. They are the power not of evil, but of good..."

How many lives did that choice cost?

But it saved Clara, he told himself, running both hands through his gray hair, She may not exist if I change too much.

Tears threatened to escape. The Doctor snarled wordlessly and forced them back. His footsteps morphed into a stomping march. He plodded faster when the unmistakable blue of the TARDIS registered in his consciousness.

I have let so many people down in my long life. Just once, one time, I want to get it right. I'm the Doctor, and doctors save people...but there are rules. So many damn rules! She won't live forever...

His vision became dazzlingly clear and his ears more acute. He noticed every seam in his clothing as if they chafed his skin. Then his throat got too tight to speak. A grimace twisted his lips into the parody of a grin. He chewed on his left index fingernail until it broke off in his mouth. Holding back the tears used his entire body, but pain gave him focus. Three more fingernails sacrificed themselves before he reached safety.

The Doctor heaved himself through the TARDIS doors and staggered to the control console. He pulled the locking mechanism, which triggered the TARDIS to dematerialize. Then he pushed at the appropriate moment to rematerialize exactly five minutes after he left Clara.

Everything continued surging inward. An accelerating, inevitable collapse. He pressed his hands on the cool hexagonal console. His hearts pounded so loud he felt them in the back of his head. Blood thundered inside his ears like raging waterfalls. Knots clenched the pit of his stomach and he reached up to grab at his gray hair.

"No, no, no..."

His fingers curled against his scalp. He grimaced and mussed his hair up. The choked sob he let out was his last attempt to contain a nuclear explosion of emotion inside a box made of tissue paper.

"Doctor?" Clara muffled through the doors.

Her voice was a detonator, and she didn't even know it. Everything he held back erupted into his nervous system. Shockwaves of terror and rage burst forth. Emotional pain became physical agony. Nothing made sense, something felt wrong and everything looked dangerous.

Fight or flight took over. The Doctor fled blindly up the nearest staircase with a strangled cry. His arm shot forward before he could stop himself. He grabbed one book off the bookshelf and flung it on the ground with all his might. Two books followed. Three more books. A sweep of his arm cleared entire shelf.

He yanked on the bookcase until the whole thing toppled with a deafening bang and scrambled over it to kick the magazine pile next to his easy chair. Magazines spilled across the floor he stomped upon. His boots almost slipped on a glossy cover when he tore down a second bookcase. Every falling book hit with satisfying thuds amidst fluttering paper.

Nothing else in reach, so he shouted wordlessly at the top of his lungs to expel the last of the rage and collapsed to sit within the ruin he created. Painful sadness rushed in like matter drawn to a newborn black hole. The ache in his throat encapsulated his whole being and he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of it.

"It's never enough...it's never enough," he chanted at the wall, "Never, never enough...never enough, nev-" the tightness in his throat cut off his voice and his face contorted almost beyond recognition.

Once the tears began they seemed bottomless. He rocked back and forth, head bowed and hands upturned as if pleading. The ragged wheezing sound was his own sobs echoing off the wall in front of him. He wept so forcefully his whole body heaved. His tears fell onto his palms like warm, bitter rain.

Careful footsteps picked through the mess he made. Leather creaked and he felt the presence of another body sit beside him.

"Doctor? Oh, Doctor..."

Clara! Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara...

He couldn't make himself stop rocking or turn his head to look at her. The weight of her concerned gaze burned the corner of his left eye and moved away when she faced forward. Her sleeve creaked. He saw her hand stop just short of touching his.

The Doctor accepted Clara's simple offering. In that precise moment his need to be comforted outweighed his inhibitions. He turned suddenly, burying his face in her shoulder and embracing her close.

"Oh!" Clara startled at the sudden shift in position. To her credit, she didn't question it. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and stroked his hair while he cried on the collar of her leather jacket.

He didn't care. Damn it, he didn't care right now. She was holding him. He wanted to be there, surrounded by her presence. A moment of crying embarrassingly loud in her embrace seemed far more tolerable than shedding silent tears alone at her grave.

Time was going to take her from him- he wasn't sure if he would get the chance to hold her when she took her last breath or see her corpse after. Part of him felt she was already dead by traveling at his side. Maybe, if he mourned now, he could bear the real thing later.

But, by God, it hurt. The misery of it swallowed his whole being. A second wave of tears submerged him when he realized he couldn't stay this way. His heaving sobs picked up speed and intensity again. Wave after wave. Like regeneration, the emotion kept boiling over.

"Clara, please! Clara...please!" he heard himself chanting. The only words he could say. He was begging her to stay forever. Begging eternity not to take her. Begging time to stop showing him the infinite possibilities for how it could rip her from his life and scatter her like dust in the wind.

Clara's fingers continued their journey through his hair. The arm around his shoulders pressed tighter. She sniffed softly, reacting sympathetically to his outburst.

"Shhh, just breathe, Doctor. Deep breaths," she whispered. Her shoulder rose and fell, modeling for him. He sniffled and followed suit, his fingers clinging tightly to her clothing.

"Don't g-go," he croaked, "Please!"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Lovely Clara. Sweet Clara. Why did the universe give him such wonderful people only to take them away again?

Her comforting touch set him gently on the bottom of the pit his mind tumbled into. His senses quit screaming imminent doom. The heaving sobs stopped interrupting his deep breaths. He relaxed against her, mentally exhausted and emotionally spent.

Clara didn't insist he move once he fell silent. The hand rubbing his hair moved to pull a book out of the many strewn on the floor.

"I didn't know you already had a copy of Colleen McCullough's Thorn Birds book. I guess I'm not getting you that for Christmas then," she talked softly into his upturned ear, "It's pretty sad, don't you think? Everything Father Ralph and Meggie go through. Bet you can identify with it a lot more than I can."

The Doctor lifted his head, his puffy eyes still red-rimmed and face flushed from the brutality of his crying. He was a right mess and couldn't make himself care. His unfocused gaze stayed locked on her eyes. He felt hollow inside, almost devoid of emotion or words. The final paragraph of the book came out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"'Let the cycle renew itself with unknown people. I did it all to myself, I have no one else to blame. And I cannot regret one single moment of it. The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.'"

He broke eye contact immediately afterward. At the beginning of the book, he found himself identifying with Father Ralph. By the end, he felt grief for Meggie's sake because she had to watch everyone around her leave or die.

"Here," Clara gently slipped a package of tissues into his hand, "Are you all right now?"

Never. He would never be all right.

She was his impossible thorn, and despite all his resistance he found his hearts impaled on her. He could do nothing but let them sing while the music lasted.

"How much did you see?" the Doctor heard himself ask. Now it occurred to him that he should be embarrassed.

"All of it. That was quite a meltdown," Clara went on briskly. She started picking up only the magazines and didn't appear to care that he soaked the collar and shoulder of her leather jacket.

"Meltdown?" the Doctor asked slowly. The meaning of the word didn't register anything except images of nuclear reactors melting into the ground. Every thought felt like sludge oozing through the pipes of his mind. He suddenly remembered the tissues in his hand and used two to wipe his entire face.

"Yeah," she smiled over her shoulder, "I have an autistic student named Twila. She talks through an iPad because her mouth doesn't listen to her brain. Smart young lady, too. Always turns in A+ essays right on time. She has meltdowns when she gets overwhelmed."

He dabbed his eyes and said nothing.

"Kinda suspected you were on the spectrum," her voice swung right to left when she walked past his back to gather more fallen magazines. "Being autistic isn't the horrific thing people make it out to be. Do you know about-"

The Doctor inhaled deeply and puffed out his cheeks to exhale. "Yes. I've had over two thousand years to get acquainted with it. Mind you, it's a little different with each regeneration. I find it difficult to communicate this go-around. The meanings of facial expressions- sometimes I feel half-blind with two fully functional eyes."

Oh for the love of- he could almost hear her blinking at him.

"Yeah, you miss social cues a lot. So does Twila. She can't tell if someone is bored when she goes off on a tangent about botany." More magazines rustled. "For what it's worth, you speak quite eloquently. At least you don't have that issue, right?"

Such understanding...with holes in it.

He wiggled his fingers in a jibber-jabber gesture by his mouth. "I talk fine, yes. Anyone can talk if they have a mouth that works right, but talking is meaningless when you can't put words together how you want. What I think and what I say never quite match. Sometimes it's useful, sometimes not. See? See what is happening? I have to ramble to make a simple point!"

"What about-"

"You don't see the times I can't say what I want because I simply don't say it. I feel like I'm throwing spaghetti at a wall and the noodles that stick are the words that come out of my mouth, but look at how much hits the floor in the process." Turning, he looked straight into her eyes, "There are parts of me you don't know exist because I can't express them, Clara."

Clara frowned as she reached under the easy chair to free a magazine that had somehow skittered underneath it. She thumbed through them and arranged each issue in order how he liked them.

"I'm sorry..."

"For what?"

"I'm-" she looked down, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and let out a small laugh that didn't sound happy, "I feel silly to apologize for a thought. Sometimes I think 'get to the point already!' when you start rambling. It never occurred to me that you can't help it."

"Clara, can we change the subject?"

Did she just flinch? He put it out of his mind. His thoughts were still too muddled to stay focused on the same topic too long. Actually, he preferred if Clara didn't talk, however he knew there was no way to keep her quiet without being horrendously rude.

Paper rustled as Clara balanced the magazine pile on one arm to right two that flipped completely inside out.

"All right. New topic. What does regenerating feel like?"

"Be more specific," he grumbled irritably, "It's different every time."

"Okay, how did your most recent one feel, then?"

"Have you ever sneezed so hard you changed your whole body?"

The words sounded so absurd that the emptiness in his chest gained a tickling edge. Before he knew it he was laughing hysterically. He didn't want to laugh, yet it felt so good that he didn't try to dampen it.

"I think-" but Clara's voice choked off into giggles. She patted the bottoms of the magazines against the floor to neaten the pile and set them aside, "What?"

"It's- it's-" he couldn't spit it out. Sneezing a new body! How ridiculous!

The Doctor pressed a tissue to his nose when he felt it trying to run again. He slowly reigned in his guffawing and wiped the tears off the corners of his eyes. Ironic, two opposite emotions made his eyes and nose drip. This body sure liked to leak through its face a lot!

"I think I understand a little," Clara finally finished her thought.

"What? You sneezed yourself into a new body?"

"No, I mean the talking thing."

"Oh."

"When I was hooked into that Dalek, its casing wouldn't say anything how I wanted it to. It was...it was frustrating. And scary. Very scary."

Implications he didn't like hung in the air between them. Was this a blank spot words were supposed to go into?

One of these days I'm going to fail you, and it's going to cost you everything. I care so much for you that the thought of that moment makes it impossible to breathe.

My impossible girl. So kind, so angry, so wonderful. You were the first face my new eyes saw and your voice was the first voice my new ears heard. My Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara...

"There are many things I want to say and simply can't," the Doctor blinked slowly, "Like right now, here I am spitting out a bunch of words and the ones I actually want to say are stuck somewhere inside my skull. Er, excuse me."

He turned away and blew his nose into a handful of tissues. Then he offered her the wad, "Here, dispose of that. I need to clean up this mess."

Clara made a displeased groaning noise and picked the soggy tissue up between thumb and forefinger. She disposed of it in the trash receptacle by the easy chair.

"For what it's worth, I don't think less of you," Her words shot across his awareness like rainbow waves of kindness, "Actions speak louder than words, Doctor."

She paused to rub the sides of her head.

"Clara?"

"Hmph. Headache. Nothing compared to what you dealt with. Are you all right?"

The Doctor slid his sonic sunglasses on and scanned her head just to be sure. She looked perfectly healthy. No red alerts or anything. He placed the sunglasses back into his pocket, gave his coat a tug and inhaled the reassuring scent of chalk.

"I'm fine," his voice was still husky. He sniffed and pushed himself upright, "I made quite a mess."

Clara giggled and swiped the Thorn Birds book when she stood. "Probably looks like the inside of your head on a good day."

He cast her an amused look from beneath his bushy, furrowed eyebrows. It felt forced and he wondered if she could tell. She didn't indicate either way.

"Clara."

"Yes?"

"Are you all right? You look fine, but you humans are so excellent at not letting others see the damage."

Clara's expression changed. Shadowed itself, somehow. Everyone he met had a baseline of behaviors they always fell back on. It took some observing and time to figure them out. She went off hers when she gathered several books together with unusual haste.

"This whole thing was a bit of a fright," she said, "But I got out and you got out, isn't that what's important?" A pass of her hand pushed her hair out of her eyes, "Now how about we stand these bookcases back up?"

Changing the subject quickly- she didn't want to talk about it. Not right now, in any case. Humans had a talent for dancing around subjects they wanted to avoid.

But Time Lords did, too, and they did it well. Maybe too well.

"Bookcases. Of course."

The Doctor pushed himself up and watched Clara try to arrange the books into neat piles for easier shelving.

"You're doing it the slow way," he lamented aloud.

"Oh, what? You have a magic button that can fix this in a moment? Figures."

"Moment restore points. Always handy to have a few."

Letting Clara clean up manually was tempting, however the Doctor lacked the patience to watch her search for missing volumes that could be anywhere in the mess. He climbed over a downed bookcase instead of righting it and descended the staircase.

"Stop piling up books! It won't matter."

"Fine," Clara stopped collecting books and slid across the same bookcase to join him by the central console, "This won't wipe me out of the TARDIS and make me come in again, will it?"

"It's just like the restore points on a personal computer. It only affects the TARDIS, not you."

He turned to the diagnostics panel on the console, pressed two buttons and flipped a switch. The lights flickered off, came back on and the TARDIS looked impeccable except for the Dalek gun lying on the floor. The same one he nearly shot her with. Missy's laughter echoed in his mind until he blinked very, very hard to make it stop.

The Doctor's face darkened. He took the weapon without comment, carried it to the TARDIS doors and tossed it outside into the dirt. Coming back if he needed it later wouldn't be all that hard.

"Were you really intending to get me the Thorn Birds for Christmas?" he asked as he rejoined Clara by the main console.

"Mmhmm, figured it's a light read for someone like you. Is there any book you haven't read yet?"

The Doctor cocked his head. He smiled, "Neurotribes by Steve Silberman. Haven't read that yet. I promise not to acquire it before Christmas. How about that? Deal?"

"Deal, and I'm holding you to that promise. Now- what are you sniffing?"

He pulled his jacket open and lifted the box of chalk in his pocket enough for Clara to see it. "It's my pocket chalk. I always carry it. The smell is...um...soothing." One shoulder rose in a half-shrug, "Everything makes sense when I have it with me. I added a pocket for it in my space suit, too, right near the air filter. I'm never without my chalk." Both eyebrows rose inquiringly, "Is this the first time you've noticed?"

Clara crossed her arms and smiled, "I know you always carry it. I never figured out why. I thought you liked having it in case you needed to use a chalkboard."

He smoothed his coat down again, "Well, there's that, too. And was that your stomach growling?"

The gurgling sounded again. Clara covered her stomach and her face flushed faintly pink.

"I could use dinner...and a shower. When's the last time you ate?"

"I- hm...I can't say I remember."

Regeneration...what a strange lottery. He remembered how hunger and thirst felt on a visceral level. His last body didn't let him ignore either sensation. They demanded to be attended immediately. This body held the opposite extreme. Not being nagged by an empty stomach or a musty feeling in the throat was nice, but horrible for staying alive. Usually, the TARDIS warned him when his fluid levels dropped or he let his stomach stay empty for so many hours.

Sometimes, Clara took over the reminders.

"Well, if you can't remember then it's probably been too long. Take me home and we'll order in. I don't think you're up for a noisy restaurant."

"Definitely not."

"Then it's settled. Let's have pizza. A big one with everything on it."

"Eugh, you can have all the toppings. I'm going to pick them off."

"More for me, then. Shall we?"

There she went again, being so kind. Her contagious smile jumped to him. How could he say no?

.o

The Doctor and Clara sat on her living room floor, their backs against her couch and the open pizza box situated between them. Both were barefoot. Clara wore green satin pajamas and the Doctor wore the same clothes as before, albeit cleaner. His black coat lay across the back of the couch.

Pizza had to be one of the most disgusting, greasy, unhealthy Earth foods. The Doctor wolfed down his fourth slice after meticulously picking off all the toppings. Stringy cheese toed the edge of what he could handle. Lumpy toppings were too intolerable. He finished with several gulps of bottled water and tilted himself sideways to let off a polite, soundless burp.

"Are you going to eat that?" she pointed to the toppings he pulled off his pizza.

The Doctor spun the open pizza box around to place the toppings in Clara's reach. He couldn't watch her eat those. They were gross. He chose instead to take comfort in the fruity scent of her recent shower. Thinking about it caused him to scratch the back of his head. His own hair was damp. She invited him to use the shower after her and he obliged A good head to toe wash fixed a lot of things. He hoped she didn't notice he borrowed her manual razor and some shaving cream to shave off his stubble.

Clara kindly laundered his clothes while he showered and let him put everything back into his pockets himself. In the end, he realized he smelled like her. Just as the TARDIS sometimes carried wisps of her scent.

"I'm never eating again," Clara groaned after finishing the toppings he left behind. She stared forlornly at the empty pizza box from which they collectively consumed every scrap of food. Grease glistened in the faint light cast by two end table lamps.

"Not a wise decision," the Doctor wiped his hands on a crumpled napkin, "I spied a fudge cake in the refrigerator..."

"You can have it," she replied, "Leftover from a birthday party at work. Is it still the same Monday as when I left?"

"Yes."

"Then today. Still fresh. Have at it."

Grinning, the Doctor gathered up the napkins, pizza box and his empty water bottle and took them into the kitchen. He gladly helped himself to that delicious chocolate cake. A bit dry and crumbly for his taste, though not enough to set off his gag reflex. The gooey fudge topping made up for it. Chocolate had to be one of the greatest human inventions in the history of the universe. He washed that down with a hearty gulp of milk straight from the carton and wiped the milk mustache off his upper lip.

Then he decided he'd be nice and washed all the dishes in the sink. One less thing for Clara to worry about. He wasn't sure where to put the clean dishes, so he piled everything on the counter and called it good. Being domestic...it wasn't his thing at all.

"Clara, I've done the dishes, but I don't know where they-" the Doctor paused in the kitchen doorway when he saw Clara had fallen asleep where she sat, "-go. Clara?"

She was breathing steadily. Deep breaths, typical of someone in delta-wave sleep. He pondered waking her and sending her off to bed, yet she had gone through so much. Sleep was probably the best thing for her right now.

He padded towards her, his bare feet soundless on the carpet. Just like he did for Davros both a millennia and hours ago, he knelt to slip one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees. Lifting her took more effort than he expected. He held back his snide remarks about her weight- it would be rude to accost anyone while they were asleep- and shuffled down the hall to her bedroom.

Clara didn't stir once as the Doctor laid her gently on the bed. He realized too late that he should have turned the bed down before bringing her in here, so he settled for folding half the comforter over her instead.

"Oh, Clara, Clara, Clara...if only you knew the depth of what I can't say," he whispered, brushing her hair off her ear, "You are the joy of my hearts. The sun on my skin. The music I play. The air I- hmph...I'm rambling again. My mind is screaming five simple words, and they won't come out of my mouth."

With his fingertip, he traced the shrinking moonlight sliver that fell across her upturned eyebrow. The memory of how she held him earlier clung to his mind. It was what he ran from. Affection. Caring. No affection, no caring...no pain. But how did one live life without pain? Being alone meant the same numbness he experienced right after his meltdown. Being alone led to nothing. Pain was something.

Pain gave him his compassion.

The Doctor bent close and lightly kissed the corner of Clara's mouth. Then he left her there to sleep in peace. He flopped across her couch, using his sonic sunglasses to switch off the lights because he couldn't be bothered to move.

So many feelings in one day grew tiring. He curled up on his side, acutely aware that the squishy fleece pillow under his cheek smelled like Clara's fruity shampoo.

I'll rest my eyes for a minute. Then I'll put my shoes and coat on and go.

.o

Quiet hissing roused the Doctor out of sleep. Sometime during the night he'd switched from sleeping curled up on his side to lying supine with his arms crossed. Dozing off in somebody else's house, how embarrassing! He opened his eyes behind the sunglasses he never took off to see bright red high heels by the front door. Gurgling noises sounded from the kitchen. His nose detected a fresh pot of coffee. Clara, clad in a colorful blouse and black slacks, was bustling about while trying to be quiet for his sake.

If he stirred, she would tend to him like any polite hostess. He didn't feel up to conversation or making her late, TARDIS notwithstanding.

Clara approached the couch. He closed his eyes and evened out his breathing. Did she notice he woke up?

"Doctor?"

Playing sleep was much easier than pretending to be dead. He could do this all day, barring abrupt loud noises or bright light shining on his eyes.

A few heartbeats passed. Clara's shirt rustled. She slipped his sonic sunglasses off his face. The earpieces clicked when she set the sunglasses on the end table.

"Are you really asleep?" Clara whispered,

Steady breaths, in and out- a perfect imitation of deep sleep. He kept his eyeballs pointed downward to prevent his eyelids from fluttering.

"Heh...it's funny. A man like you who never stops...and you're sound asleep."

She touched his forehead with a warm hand. This body had the annoying habit of turning light caresses into branding irons on his skin. Somehow, over time, she figured out exactly how much pressure he required for a 'gentle' caress.

He could exist forever in the way she brushed her thumb over each of his eyebrows.

"I woke up when you picked me up, and it felt so nice to be in your arms-" her voice cracked, "-I didn't want to make you feel awkward."

Ah, Clara, he thought as he grunted quietly and smacked his lips to keep up the sleep charade, I would've carried you anyway.

Clara's hand jerked away from his head. She let out a soft giggle. Well, giggling was good- giggling wasn't crying. Her presence came close again, the weight of her eyes warm on his face.

"You don't have to say anything to me, Doctor. Your eyes say it for you. You make this...this face at me and it's plain as day. I'm just now realizing why you didn't recognize me making the same face back at you and it's through no fault of your own."

She laid her hands over both of his hearts with a heavy sigh. He nearly blew his cover when she bent closer and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. Exactly where he kissed her last night. The soft warmth of her lips penetrated every atom of his existence.

Too much, too much- he turned over so he faced the couch backing and kept his breathing even. His skin tingled where she kissed him.

Clara leaned past him and he felt his coat being laid over his upper body like a blanket.

"Sleep tight, Doctor," she whispered in his ear. Her body heat dissipated as her footsteps padded away from the couch.

The Doctor barely kept himself contained in his feigned sleep. Clara heard what he said last night. She felt his kiss. And she had no idea he knew she returned the favor.

So it was truly mutual. Everything. Every wonderful, temporary and futile moment of it.

There were lines he couldn't cross, and they both wobbled on it like tightrope walkers. Certain rules threw immutable barriers between them. Damn those rules...damn humanity's short lifespan!

The legend of the thorn bird ran through his mind. A bird which sang once in its life. As soon as it left its nest, it went looking for a thorn tree without faltering or resting until it found one. That strange bird- driven by instinct- impaled itself upon the sharpest thorn on the tree. As it died, it rose over its pain to out-sing all other birds. It paid its existence for that single song, a song that made the world stop and listen. A thorn bird's best was only brought forth in the face of terrible agony and death.

The Doctor always knew what he got into when he opened his hearts to people. Regardless of what he did to avoid it, he impaled himself over and over.

Or was he the thorn? Could a person be both the bird and the thorn?

Water ran in the bathroom. The toilet flushed. Clara had finished her morning preparations. She breezed across the living room like a whirlwind. The front door whooshed open and whined shut. Its lock clicked with finality. Her tapping heels faded into the distance after a pause. No wonder she didn't wear them in the flat. Those things could wake up an entire planet.

The Doctor sat up, causing his coat to fall into his lap. She'd left him a Post-It note thanking him for washing the dishes. A second note informed him that she brewed extra coffee for him and requested he turn off the coffeemaker before he left.

Not only did she brew coffee, she left out a Grumpy Cat mug with cream and sugar. He drank two cups while combing his fingers through his hair to smooth it. Last night's dishes and silverware had been neatly put away. He washed the coffee cup, switched the coffee maker off and penned a quick note.

Clara, thank you for the coffee. I didn't leave anything in return because you said you didn't want to eat ever again. Until you do, enjoy this picture of a pizza.

Beneath the text, he doodled a slice of pizza and playfully imagined her dismayed groan at seeing it. He left the note standing inside the coffee cup he just washed.

Sunlight streamed into the kitchen window to illuminate his face. His blue eyes squinted in the brightness. The bird clock on the wall chirped the hour. Seven o'clock in the morning. He turned and watched his shadow slide from the living room wall to the floor.

Time shaped everything within the universe the same way moving water wore rocks smooth. Equations to measure it only worked as well as weather vanes measured wind direction. But to experience it- he sensed its passage in his bones as though wading barefoot through a fast-moving stream. How did humans live their lives without feeling time's pull every second of every day?

Sighing, he ceased that line of thought before it could drag him down. A floorboard in the hall creaked when he stepped on it. He used the bathroom without lowering the toilet seat afterward and washed his hands. Leaving the seat up on purpose was just another way of saying he'd been there.

The bathroom smelled like hairspray, minty toothpaste and whatever powder Clara applied to her face to paint it. He picked up the tube of red lipstick she left open on the sink and experimentally applied it to his lips like he saw her do a million times.

Makeup seemed so silly. It turned his mouth fire engine red. Voguing in front of the mirror didn't do much, either. Besides, the color was bleeding into the wrinkles around his lips.

"Hmph!" He hurriedly wiped his mouth on toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet as he exited the bathroom.

Everything in this flat carried the marks she created in his hearts. He wondered if he left similar imprints on hers when she wandered through the TARDIS.

Too much pondering, not enough doing. The Doctor gathered his sparse belongings and slipped into the TARDIS. Its dim interior felt like a tomb. He released the locking mechanism to send the TARDIS into dematerialization mode and reached for his electric guitar.

Soft hissing marked the amp being turned on. Fingertips with nails chewed to the quick touched the glistening electric guitar strings. He remembered every single person who traveled by his side. Their faces shone in the notes he played once he began strumming.

Clara was destined to be just a memory. A face, a voice, a touch, all imprinted on both his hearts. The pain of her inevitable absence lashed him like lightning strikes.

His mind's eye painted a picture of Clara smiling at her students as she went about her day. He moved his fingers deftly to capture that smile in each chord. Nothing could take that image of her away from him. Not time, not sadness, not death.

Time slipped around the Doctor like buffeting wind that turned everything else into dust and blew it away. Though he didn't fancy himself a singer, he felt compelled to sing the song he aimlessly strummed. Every note rang in his skull. He rocked his weight back and forth, telling himself his voice cracked because he sang notes too high or low for his vocal range.

"I close my eyes only for a moment, and the moment´s gone.
All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity.
Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind..."

.o

A solid month alone let the Doctor reign in his anticipatory grief. He spent the first half revisiting the otters, but that didn't ease his mind much. Finding a dark, abandoned planet near the end of the universe, however, did wonders for his jangled moods. He had more rocks to kick than there were stars in the sky and the quiet let him meditate without interruption.

When he wasn't kicking rocks or meditating under the stars, he holed up in the TARDIS to write and rewrite equations on his chalkboard. Physically forming the complexities of his mind on a two-dimensional space always felt satisfyingly soothing. He particularly enjoyed the tapping scrapes and the smooth vibrations of chalk sliding on a surface.

His phone rang. It was Clara. He smiled at her welcoming voice until he realized she sounded upset.

"Clara, what is it?"

"I have a little emergency. I don't have any chalk for-" her signal briefly cut out and returned, "-I'm already running late. Can you spare any chalk?"

"I thought your classroom had a whiteboard."

"Yes, and if you flip it over there is a chalkboard on the other side. I'm going to use both."

"Mm, let me think about it...let me see..." He moved the phone away from his ear, rolled his eyes upward and whistled the battle tune he heard on the Star Trek episode Amok Time. William Shatner was such a ham.

Clara groaned, "Ohh, c'mon, don't leave me hanging."

Amused, he swung the phone back into position against his ear, "I've decided I can spare some."

"I knew you would."

Clara, I would move the universe for you if the rules allowed it.

The Doctor held the phone between his cheek and shoulder to free both hands. He pressed three buttons in quick succession with his pinkie finger. The TARDIS triangulated Clara's exact Epsilon coordinates. Readouts displayed themselves on the view screen. To her, only twelve days had passed since their Oscar-winning performances of pretending to sleep.

He brought the stick of chalk close to his nose to sniff it like a fine wine while he typed that information into the input bar. The course he laid out scrolled onto the view screen and he confirmed it via the directional unit.

A quick pull on the locking mechanism sent the central time rotor into motion to trigger dematerialization. The Doctor quietly admired its glow as the dimensional stabilizers chugged away. He knew dematerialization was complete when his sense of equilibrium briefly wavered. Journeying through the time vortex always felt a little like riding an elevator to him. Trips into the future felt 'up' and venturing towards the past felt 'down'. Aliens sometimes sensed this motion, yet their insensitivity to the nature of time travel meant their brains translated the movement all wrong. Some experienced it so violently they became ill.

"I'm landing right now," he took another whiff of his chalk and eased the locking mechanism into the upright position, "You know where to find me."

Some wheezes and thumps later, he rematerialized the TARDIS in the Coal Hill School utility closet. The cloister bell rang to signal a successful landing. He took the chalk box out of his coat pocket and neatly tucked the stick he was sniffing back inside.

Then Clara burst in with all the subtlety of a hurricane. She looked absolutely windblown.

"You're saving my lesson plan."

The Doctor set the box of chalk on the console so she could grab a stick.

"Everyone gets a freebie," he replied, casually stuffing his hands into his trousers pockets and turning to examine the equations on his chalkboard.

Clara's footsteps and scent came closer. "And how many 'freebies' ago was that?"

Oh for the love of- he couldn't recall when he stopped counting.

"Hmph! You're on the clock, Clara."

"Thanks. Try not to get into too much trouble without me, okay?"

The Doctor's only response was a bemused chuckle. Clara rushed back out the TARDIS door so fast he wondered if he imagined her brief visit.

He reached for the box of chalk to slide it back into his pocket. His fingers closed on nothing. Frowning, he scratched the back of his head and ruffled his hair. The box wasn't on the floor under the console or hidden behind any control levers.

A strange emptiness opened in the pit of his stomach. No, no, no, this wasn't right.

"Uh...Clara? Clara!" the Doctor scrambled towards the TARDIS doors and poked his head out. He winced in pain as the first bell rang. Lessons were commencing, and he couldn't very well interrupt them.

I suppose I'll go find more chalk on my own, then. Shouldn't be hard. I can pretend to be an ordinary human long enough to make the purchase.

A potential problem pushed his raised eyebrows into a deep frown.

Hm, money- ah! I'll sonic an ATM machine and everything will be fine.

Up went his eyebrows again. His eyes sparkled as the solution lit his face like a Christmas tree. He slammed the TARDIS door and clambered to the control console.

-END-

Footnote: The Doctor was playing/singing Dust in the Wind by Kansas.