I don't really know where this came from - but since today is the day the season finale will be airing, I thought I needed to relieve some of the feelings I've had bottled up since Clara's death.

Enjoy.

Linear

Hearing her scream was enough.

Seeing her die was enough.

He felt like something was being shredded up inside of him – something was clawing at his stomach, his throat, his eyes. Clawing at him everywhere, dragging him down and lodging everything out. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't breathe. (He wouldn't ever be able to breathe again.)

"Clara."

It came out like a whisper first – and then a whimper.

Dear Gallifrey, was he crying?

The Doctor stumbled forward, his shoes making little dragging sounds against the cobblestones. He sank to his knees, not even caring if the pavement was damp. It was suitable. He wrapped a hand around Clara's hand – her hand was already losing its warmth – and started to pull her close.

The Doctor tugged Clara's body towards him, burying his face into her hair. He could still smell her – something soft. Something warm. Something familiar.

There was no point in telling her to come back. She wouldn't come back.

"So that's how it ends."

The Doctor's head jerked up. His eyes scanned the buildings around him, only to find that there wasn't anyone else there. His grip on Clara tightened – as though any minute, someone might dare to take her away from him. (He wouldn't let them. He'd never let them take her away from him.)

"That's how it ends," the voice came again. Male. Sad. Tired.

The Doctor felt his hearts both skip a beat as someone came out from the shadows of the houses.

He saw the bowtie first – a pair of weary, green-brown eyes – the ridiculous flop of brown hair.

"You," the Doctor only said, his voice gravelly.

"Me," he replied quietly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Don't ask me how this is possible. I don't really know myself." A corner of his lips twitched into a smile. "Always a bit new, isn't it? Not knowing how I wound up here. Ah, well." He nodded his head at Clara. "She's dead, isn't she?"

The Doctor felt something tighten in his stomach. "Yes," he responded. He looked down at Clara. "How early is it for you?"

"We just escaped the Cybermen," he said.

"Ah. That was a fun one."

His eyes brightened up – though it was just a little. "I thought Clara was going to get into trouble, what with bringing her kids along and all," he said. "But we were all just fine. Everyone was fine. She was perfect." He grinned. "She is perfect still, isn't she? Always will be?" He asked this with hope – with just a little bit of hidden desperation in his voice.

The Doctor wanted to look at him and shout something. Clara was perfect before him. Clara was perfect before them. She died because she wanted to be like them. And look at where it got her…this wouldn't ever be perfect.

"Yes," the Doctor replied quietly. "She's perfect."

He looked relieved at that. Then, shoulders rounding over, he asked, "How long…?"

"A few years," the Doctor replied promptly. "You still have a bit of time left before you…well. Change." (Clara had used that word so often when he first regenerated. The Doctor had felt embarrassed about it at first – a little weary, a little scared – but then he realized that Clara was saying change like it was something just a little better. Not something worse.) "And then after that, we…go on for a little longer."

"Oh," he responded. He sat down next to the Doctor, the expression on his face only now darkening. "Her, too," he murmured, shaking his head. Bringing his hands to his face, he murmured almost inaudibly, "I'm tired…of losing everyone. She was supposed to be constant."

Constant.

"Why didn't you stop her?" he asked, turning to the Doctor. "Why – why didn't we try to stop her?"

The Doctor couldn't tell him everything. He only turned back to Clara. "You'll find out for yourself," he replied quietly.

"Of course." He stomped his foot on the ground, his face twisting in agony. "This whole time. All along. She's going to leave, too." He ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. "You'd think we'd be getting used to this by now."

"We can't," the Doctor replied sullenly. "We'll never get adjusted – or used – to it."

There was a silence shared between them.

"…how much time did you say I have left?" he asked at last.

"A few months."

He let out a short laugh. It was a bitter, angry one – one that the Doctor had heard himself give much too often. "That's hardly enough now."

It's never enough, the Doctor thought to himself. He wished he had those damn cards Clara had made them. (How ironic would that be?) There were cards about grief, weren't there? Something along the lines of, 'I'm sorry that your sister/brother/son/daughter/pet/lover died'. If Clara was standing right next to him – if Clara was still alive, breathing and talking – she'd know what to tell him. She'd look at his former self and tell him to move on.

"Make the most of it," the Doctor found himself saying. He turned to his younger self. "Make the most of each adventure. Pay attention to her, even if you know that the end's coming. Listen to her. Make sure she laughs the whole way." He smiled briefly. "You're going to have one hell of a time."

His former self only pressed a hand against the side of Clara's cheek. "I hope so," he whispered forlornly. "I wish –"

"You can't wish for this to not happen," the Doctor replied.

His former self bowed his head. "She just talked to me," he said quietly. "Told me that she wasn't going to compete with a ghost – remember?"

The Doctor did.

"So don't," the Doctor responded. "Don't see her as someone who's already dead. Because Clara Oswald –" He felt something crawl into his throat. He cleared it quickly, trying to ignore the burning sensation that shortly followed. "She's very much alive to you. Use that time. Make it linear. Make it count." He looked at his former self in the eye. "Do you understand? You need to make the most of it before it all goes away."

"Because she'll go away."

"Because she will."

His former self slouched again. He bit down on his bottom lip – and then, he leaned down to kiss Clara on the forehead. It was small, and it was gentle, but the Doctor knew the reasoning behind it. This was a goodbye that his former self would never be able to give later.

His former self slowly stood up. "What about you?" he asked quietly.

"I have something to do after this."

"Does it have something to do with Clara?"

They both knew the answer, but the Doctor said it anyways.

"It has everything to do with Clara."

A/N - I know, I know, I know, I probably just accidentally created a series of time-related tidal waves by posting this idea, but I just wondered what would have happened if it was Eleven who figured out that his Impossible Girl was dead and - *sobs* I just. I feel so sad now. (Because while I love Peter Capaldi wholeheartedly, there'll always be a part of me that's severely attached to our Raggedy Man. He was my first Doctor, after all, and it's been a while since I've last written about him.)

As always, reviews would be nice. Constructive criticism is alright, but flames are not.