Take Me to Church

Sometimes, he wished that that the romance between her and the Soldier Man had worked out.

(Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…).

He remembers how it used to be when he wore a different face. How there was always an illusion of understanding between them, and how it had seemed almost simple to almost slip into the role of her lover.

(If you take a broom and replace the handle, and then later replace the brush – and you do it over and over again – is it still the same broom?)

He tells her insultingly and repeatedly that he can barely distinguish her from the other apes, but what she doesn't grasp is that those words aren't for her. They're more akin to reminders for himself.

When her arms encircle him, he pulls away, remembering Rory.

(Every time the Doctor gets pal-y with someone, I feel this overwhelming urge to notify their next of kin.)

Thinking of Rory leads to thinking of Amy, and River, and Donna, and Rose, and Astrid, and Adric and oh but how that list stretched on, and how each name hurt in its own special, hellish way.

"I'm not the hugging type," He lies every time, before turning back to his console.

He almost snarls in fury the first time he smells the Soldier Man all over her, in a way which could only mean one thing.

"What?" she asks from the TARDIS doorway, wide eyed and a little nervous. Her arms are crossed defensively. "What's wrong?"

The Doctor counts to ten in his head, and repeats the process, staring down at her intently the whole time, his knuckles white from gripping the railing in front of him.

"Doctor, are you alright?" she asks, coming closer.

"Never better." He lies through gritted teeth.

What he really wants to say is,

"If he touches you again, I will break every single bone in his ten fingers. I will kill him slowly and painfully for even deigning to look at you."

What he really wants to do is to push his body against hers, tight enough that a breath couldn't pass between them; he wants to surround her, be inside her, to rid her of all traces of anybody and everybody else.

What he really wants is for her to understand who she belongs to.

Except she doesn't belong to The Doctor does she? Not really. Not even close.

(I'm not your boyfriend. I never said it was your mistake.)

"Tell me Clara," he says, turning away from her at last. "Do you have any interest in lizard men who make musical instruments using only the light of a dying star as their raw material?"

Her eyes gleam in excitement and she smiles, never noticing how his hands are still balled in tight, murderous fists.

In his rare moments of slumber, he dreams of her pressed up against the cold walls of his ship, her eyes locked on his, her lips parted in a frantic pant.

"Let me in." he murmurs. It's not a question. "Do as you're told."

The Clara of his dreams never hesitates, and neither does he as he takes her.

(Put Uriah out in front where the fighting is fiercest. Then withdraw from him so he will be struck down and die….When Uriah's wife heard that her husband was dead, she mourned for him.After the time of mourning was over, David had her brought to his house, and she became his wife)

A war starts on Earth. There is always a war. There will always be a war.

Such is the nature of humanity, bless their pudding brains.

It starts with the death of a few innocent civilians, their ugly and pointless deaths broadcast through the unfeeling servers of every social network on Earth.

Clara doesn't talk much about it, but he can see from the tension in her shoulders that all is not well. Secretly he's pleased, and then disgusted with himself that he is pleased. He gathers enough information on his own however, to understand that Soldier Man could not resist the cry for battle. The man could not bring himself to stay out of a fight for what he believes to be right. He is a principled killer.

The Doctor can relate.

He finds himself calling on her more often than before, and relishes guiltily in the fact that she does not have the requisite energy needed to send him away. Instead, she follows him quietly to dozens of new worlds and uncountable moments in history.

When the inevitable occurs, when Danny – yes, he can call him by name now – dies, The Doctor sits beside her as she sobs, hating himself for the relief he can feel coursing through him. His hands itch to pull her closer, to offer her the comfort she so clearly craves.

"I don't understand." She says much later in a calmer moment. "I thought…I thought you showed me my great-great-grandson. I thought that meant…"

The Doctor feels a true pang of sadness then – her eyes are begging for another explanation, for a way out of her nightmare. She wants to hear that she will see her Danny Pink again.

"Clara…" he says, and watches as her hope begins to diminish at the tone in his voice, "Time can be…a funny thing. It's not always a straight line. Sometimes, the lines curve, sometimes…"

Not knowing quite how to continue, he doesn't. Instead, he indulges himself by feeling like an utter and complete shit as he watches her face crumple in sorrow yet again.

Clara moves into the TARDIS, but they don't talk about it. Not once. He stops dropping her off at home, or at school and she never, ever asks to be taken back.

The Doctor can relate.

Grief turns into anger, and that anger never quite leaves her. Mercy is less important than justice for this girl – this woman – and it didn't quite matter the means she sometimes took to achieve it.

The men he had been would have been horrified at the ruthless general she was capable of being.

The man he is now wants her badly, so much more than he did before. He craves her, craves the notion of holding her down as he fucks her slowly and deliberately until she falls apart under him, keening for him.

Instead, he spends his nights alone, staring at the ceiling of his ship.

When it happens, she is the one who comes to him. She who straddles him in his seat and leans in for a kiss.

"Clara, we've talked about the touching…" he stutters in shock.

"You've talked about a lot of things." She smiles down at him. She has gray hairs of her own these days and lines that don't fade from around her eyes. "I don't always listen."

"Clara…" he says, putting his hands gingerly on her shoulders.

"Don't ruin this." She says, pushing herself closer. "I'm not stupid. I know…"

She never gets to tell him what she knows. His grip on her tightens as he yanks her body downwards, smashing his mouth against hers. There is nothing gentle in the kiss, nothing sweet about the way he finally acts on his desire. Their coupling is much the same. When she comes, she breathes the word "Doctor" – and he breaks against her violently and loudly.

Afterwards, they lie in companionable silence on the grated floor on the TARDIS, dozing contentedly against each other.

The blood pours out of her wound; he has forgotten how much blood a human body contains, even one that's all of five feet tall.

(Every time the Doctor gets pal-y with someone, I feel this overwhelming urge to notify their next of kin.)

The soldiers surround them in a protective circle, guns pointed at the creatures who did this to her, but he could care less.

"Please…" he chokes, clutching at her, "Don't die. Not yet. I'm not ready to lose you."

He's always been selfish. Always.

"I never said it," her eyes stare dreamily up at him as her hand reaches up to touch his cheek, "But I love you. I think I always have."

(Rose Tyler…I…)

"I love you." He said, voice roughened further by pain. "I love you so much."

His lips brush against hers; he feels her last breath whisper across his skin as her hand falls limply to her side.

When he stands up, the ones who hurt her, the ones who stole her from him – they die screaming, broken and bloody. But still, he cannot find catharsis even as he cracks their bones apart with his bare hands.

Consider this, he thinks as he scribbles his hypothesis on the chalkboard: Had Clara married Danny, and conceived, Danny would not have gone to war (probably). She would be alive, and well.

He begs for another explanation as he scribbles feverishly, desperately seeking a way out of his nightmare. He wants to find that he will see his Clara again.

It is a very, very long time before he finally stops.

Springtime in New York City is beautiful, even now with the Ozone burned away. It is the year 2187, and the whole world lives under a massive glass dome that makes the blazing sun seem bearable.

The giant creeping ferns artfully grown amidst the fruiting mango and papaya trees make the city look like a tropical paradise. Chinese words intermixed with English ones proclaim the wares being sold by the many farmers lining Union Square.

The Doctor is luxuriating in the divine taste of locally grown oranges, indulging in the sweetness spilling across her tongue, when she sees a familiar face.

It's almost clichéd to say that she did a double take, and definitely clichéd to say that she dropped everything she was holding. In two seconds, she was in front of the slight girl, enveloping her in a tight hug.

She doesn't know how; she doesn't care to question it.

"Um. Hello to you too?" the girl said with a nervous laugh, her English accent sounding quite at home in one of the most diverse cities in the galaxy. "I think you've mistaken me for somebody else."

The Doctor, who had closed her eyes in joy upon contact, opened them in embarrassment as she remembered that most of human society still behaved within a certain defined set of social rules.

"Oh, goodness!" She feigned surprise. "I thought you were a good friend of mine. Clara Oswald."

The girl laughed, brushing a lock of hair away from her face, her skin tanned from spending time outdoors.

"My name is Kat Oswald." She said, extending her hand for a handshake. "So you're close."

"Nice to meet you Kat Oswald. I'm the Doctor." The Timelady paused, wondering if it was weird if she kept holding on to the younger woman's hand. With nothing to lose, she asked, "Do you think…I could perhaps buy you a coffee? To make up for what just happened?"

Kat tilted her head and squinted at her new companion, as if trying to figure out if she did know this stranger after all. After a split second, she said,

"Yes. A coffee sounds fantastic."

Perhaps, The Doctor thought as they began to walk side-by-side, just perhaps, the Promised Land wasn't an idea, or even a place.

Perhaps it had always been a person.

It was a warm notion in an otherwise cold universe, the Doctor thinks, and she decides that it will suffice for the time being.