attackbrows | {ximilia}

[The Doctor takes a few steps back and looks to the floor, scrubbing his face with the back of his knuckles. He angles out said hand and sticks it outward in the air.]

…The thing is about agreements is that they’re simply that: Flimsy promises made to each other. You either notice it or get burned with the bridge in front of you.

[He sucks in a breath and directs his eyes back at Clara.]

I just want you to be the one ready to run. Not the one carrying the gasoline.

[He's completely infuriating. He knows her so well, and is able to call her out on just about everything. Her anger that just ran so hot fizzles out, leaving her looking warily over in his direction.

If she didn't know better, she'd say he regenerated to be better for her. But that can't possibly happen.]

I'm always ready to take your hand and run, Doctor.

[That answer might sound flippant to someone who doesn't know her well. But there's a distinct lack of casual indifference in the way she's looking at him know, her lips pursed together like she's resisting the urge to smile at the way she does just for him.

It's unfortunate she can't promise that she won't eventually be the one holding the gasoline to burn all her bridges. If only she knew what kind of foreshadowing this conversation was to all the great things they eventually go through together.]

[A weight is lifted off his two hearts, seeing her eyes soften. As seductive as erasing one’s regret away is, the Doctor doesn’t how deep this spiral goes. A garden of roses is breathtaking, but a thousand thorns are enough to tear one apart. The pain of false hope stings that much.

And yet, the Doctor knows in his heart of hearts that he will bleed over and over to keep her safe.

His feet shuffle closer to her. The touching, again, he doesn’t do well with the touching, but it’s different. Exceptional even when he shows affection towards her. He can’t recall the last time someone has ever made this abrasive-like demeanour melt into a besotted lamb in just ten words.

Both hands reach for hers. Her small hand always radiates such warmth between his long and cold fingers. He raises it, gives the back of her hand a light peck with his lips.]

Thank you.

[She's seen him be so gruff and rude to others. And he can be gruff with her, but beneath that there's this side of him that makes her take pause. He's so gentle with her where it counts, and she feels her cheeks turn a light shade of pink as he kisses at her hand.

Apparently he gets more romantic and smooth with age.

Her fingers that are laced through his give a reassuring squeeze. She's here, she's alive, she's fine. She's perfectly safe with him here.]

Think I should be the one thanking you. For keeping watch over me, after all this time.

[They're still joined at the hand, but she leans in and rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.]

[He isn’t sure how to respond to that. Only because they’ve travelled together for so long that this has become second nature for the Doctor. To keep her close and protected, no matter the circumstances. They can be trapped under a small dune in a snowstorm on the coldest planet and he will be the first to offer his jacket to keep her warm.

When Clara’s lips meet the hollow of his cheek, the Doctor can’t help but turn flush under the skin. The one oddity of having this body: not boding well with physical touch, but becoming smitten when the moment is right.

He slips one hand away from hers, hovering under her fringe with the back of his index knuckle. Almost tempted by the thought of combing his fingers through her hair.]

Very bold of you to say when we haven’t touched down in Victoria, London yet.

Well, I have been known to be bold on occasion.

[Her smile becomes a little more smitten, and she feels her own cheeks turning pink. She has to duck her head to laugh at herself. She's utterly ridiculous.]

Are we...all right, then?

[She isn't sure if he's still upset with her for her attempts at gardening and trying to help out around the station, or if he's over it now. But she wants to know that he isn't disappointed in her.]

Clara, out of everything in this universe...

[And listen, he gets cross/disappointed/grumpy about a lot of things. From the trivial to the justified, it’s just how this entire body is wired.

He slides a hand down to cup her cheek, raises a brow and says with the utmost sincerity (and playfulness):]

I refuse to allow succulents to be our breaking point.

[She laughs, any tension that might've been there now gone and forgotten. Her hand presses against his, pressing his palm more firmly against her cheek. The touch is fleeting, dropping away before it has time to linger.]

Oh, I'm sure our breaking point is something far more ridiculous. Like a flock of birds on the moon. Can you imagine?

[She has no idea how many breaking points she's just referenced here. But is blissful being completely unaware. Her eyebrow arches as she regards him for a moment more, then bites at the side of her lip. She winds up turning away to head back toward the exit to the room, knowing he's likely to follow.]

[Oh, he doesn’t have to imagine.]

Spoilers.

[The Doctor prefers not to spare a thought from the past several catastrophic bouts they’ve had. Too much shouting, not enough of him talking about constellations.

He follows her. Of course he follows her. The Doctor is tied to Clara by an invisible string. There is no other place he can see himself being for the moment. Without the luxuries of his TARDIS, he will have to savour every second of this very slow encounter of “normal” space-time.]

Dinosaur first. Then we’ll chat.

{ximilia} - ic inbox

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