"Stay by my side," he told her, fingers flexing, aching for her hand and the touch of her skin. He restrained himself, because she was still afraid, and a little untrusting, no matter how many times she smiled at him. He saw, even when she looked away, how her eyes got wet.

"Where are we?" she asked, gaze raking over the new world in front of her, which was full of green grass, bright skies, and ancient ruins. Even with the image of paradise, she knew as well as he, in the very pit of her stomach, that something was wrong; it was empty. The beach, in the distance, had no one on it, and the only sounds drifting with the wind were their voices, breaths, and the water crashing against the rocky shore.

Slowly moving forward, his shoes pressed into the soft grass, silent and careful. "I'm not sure," he said, but quickened his pace, because if something was coming, it hadn't reached them yet. She was right behind him, her breaths growing quicker, and he thought of how she was described, a day that was years and years before, more scared than she lets on.

The Doctor knelt, knee digging into the ground, two fingers dipping into the grass as though he was checking for a pulse. It felt normal, he reasoned, and the dirt beneath it had no abnormalities, either. Still, he couldn't understand what had drawn the TARDIS, why she felt compelled to slip out of the vortex three centuries too early. He promised Clara New New Mars, not… this.

"Perhaps we should go back," he suggested, rising and ignoring the popping of his knees, brushing off specks of dirt from his suit pants. He paused, adjusting the buttons of his new jacket, waiting for Clara to say something in reply, but all he heard was the water.

Not breathing, the Doctor whirled around, the bottoms of his shoes squeaking against the grass. When he saw that Clara was no where to be found, that only the image of emptiness and the TARDIS in the distance was what was directly behind him, he lost his breath completely, almost as though he had been thrown to the ground and had it beaten out of him.

Then, his eyes focused, Time Lord biology versus the evolution of a dangerous species. He saw it, as it blended against the the dirty stone ruins: a Weeping Angel. It was still, quantum-locked from his gaze—something that gave him much pleasure and also fueled his anger— but faced the opposite direction, as though it were running from something.

From him.

His heartsbeats quickened, pumping adrenaline and pure fury through his veins, hot and cold, as his mind ticked faster than light itself. "Clara," he found himself saying aloud, the very sound of her name causing his chest to constrict, as though a hand were closing around it, squeezing the air out of him and crushing his bones. "Clara."

Without wavering his gaze on the statue, he quickly pulled his glasses out of his pocket and slipped them on, a shield of glass covering his eyes, protecting them from the wind as he ran at full speed, as fast as his legs could take him. Time Lords were quick, and without a human companion for him to slow down and keep up with, he was like the wind itself.

The Doctor remembered his first body, how he was too old to even run, how quickly he ran out of breath, and the thought of it terrified him now. Even if his joints were stiffer, the thought of not being able to run, not being able to move, not being able to save Clara when she was in danger, made him nauseous. He needed to be open, free, and not contained within his own body. He needed to be that— for her, and for the universe.

In the deepest part of his bones, he could feel the Weeping Angel's fear, but he wasn't there to punish it, not yet. When he reached it, the Doctor moved in on its space, close enough to feel his own breath hitting his face as it bounced off of the stone. He understood now, what Amelia did, why she did it, and why it was worth it. Clara was his Rory, and he couldn't lose her, not now, not ever. With a deep, steadying breath, he squeezed his eyes shut, and felt himself being sent through the cold, pressing tube of space.

But not time?

His back, elbows, and heels took most of the pressure from the fall, causing a sharp, tingling pain that he barely resisted hissing at. The ground was hard and dirty, the air damp and cooler than it had been before. His eyes were wide, adjusting to the light, or lack of it. Near him, there was the sound of water dripping, and quiet, shallow breathing.

Clara.

The Doctor scrambled, rolling over onto his knees so he could crawl, hand going to his jacket for his sonic screwdriver. His glasses were falling off of the bridge of his nose, but he just shoved them up with the press of a finger, not even thinking to put them away in his haste. The green light lit up the cavern, showing him the image of Clara, sprawled against the filthy floor and lying completely, impossibly, still. He quickened his movements, breathing heavy and dizzying, hands going to her neck.

Clara's heartbeat was weak, but there, pumping against the thin, sensitive skin of her neck. The Doctor was relieved only by the littlest fraction, because as he moved to her face, fingers brushing the hair away from her cheeks, he noticed how it stuck to her forehead, sticky with blood, like string and glue against a piece of paper. He swallowed, raising his sonic to get more light on the wound, and he swore under his breath, something he almost never did. It wasn't deep, but head wounds bled like there was no tomorrow, and by the angle of her arm and the bruising of her torso, he'd say that it wasn't the most worrying injury. One wrong move and she could snap something, one wrong move and she could puncture something very, very important.

Weeping Angels weren't precise. Clara must had fallen the wrong way in the dark, tumbled into some rocks, and gotten hurt. The Doctor felt rage, and he was certain that if the cavern had more light flashing through it, he would have seen red. The vein in his forehead filled with blood, pounding against his skin, and he felt a dangerous tingle run up the back of his spine, all the way to the top of his neck, where his silver hair started to curl. His hands clenched into fists, shaking at the sheer force of his strength, and he was ready to kill, or maim, or slaughter.

There was the sound of scuffling, and he stood up, flashing his sonic as though it was the weapon it was never made to be. He knew why she was taken, why she was the target. A single Weeping Angel was clever, he couldn't have taken the TARDIS with him to retrieve her, not with the anomalies in the planet's past, and the entire universe knew that he couldn't go on without her.

"Who are you?" he demanded, still not used to the pure, icy fury of his new voice, how frightening his rage could now be. His words echoed off of the rocky walls, but there was no answer, so he raised his sonic above him, where the sky would be, if it were not covered by stone.

"I can bring down this entire cavern with the flick of my thumb," he roared, extending his sonic as a threat. "Show yourself, or I'll kill us all."

There was a pause, a long, anxious moment of silence, before there were steps. A figure stepped forward, voice timid and quiet compared to the Doctor's. "You would not," it began, "you would harm the human girl."

The Doctor's mouth formed a thin, dangerous, furious smile.

She was light in his arms. Her body was small, curled against his, automatically trusting and seeking protection. Fortunately, he kept his promise, the one he made to himself, where he would never let her go and never let her die. He couldn't face that, not now, not again.

Her head bobbed slightly as she finally became conscious, and he winced in sympathy for her. As her head rested in the crook of his arm, her hair swung over it, twisting and flowing as the wind blew at them, curling behind her. Her eyes fluttered open, then squeezed into slits, pupils all but yelling out at the change in light, as the sun shone brightly above them.

Miles behind them, there was a pile of rubble and rock, where a cavern used to be. In front of them, in visible distance, was the TARDIS, so even as she rested in his arms in pain, she wouldn't have to wait for very long.

"What happened?" she asked, still nearly limp, not strong enough, or motivated enough, or wanting enough to try to move herself. Her voice was scratchy and quiet, and he imagined her throat was incredibly dry.

"You were taken," he answered truthfully, trying his best to be quiet, soft, and understanding, but he couldn't help as his voice rumbled in his chest, how there was still that hint of anger. He had allowed it to happen because he wasn't paying attention, and her pain, wounds, and mistrust were all his punishment. "A Weeping Angel was sent for you, out in plain sight, and I didn't notice."

"Oh," she answered, eyes catching his for a single moment before closing. She brushed her nose against the inside of his arm, snuggling against him. "'t's okay, Doctor. Wasn't your fault. I didn't see it, either."

It was the first time she had called him by his name. His face, with his new ears, hadn't heard the words come out of her mouth before then. He kept his distance, gave her enough space, didn't even hold her hand when he would have before. But as he carried her, as he had the line of her body pressed against his, she gave him everything he needed: her forgiveness, and her acceptance.

The Doctor's throat felt tight, but it powered him through the last few steps to the TARDIS, whisking her through the doors and right to the room he would consider a sickbay. He did his best to be what she needed, what she always thought he was, and what he wanted to be.

Even when he finished wrapping her in bandages and sonicked her more than enough times, just to triple check, he found he that couldn't leave her. He leaned over her bed, hands cradling her face, thumbs scraping over her cheeks in a repeated cycle, forehead hovering over hers. The Doctor let her small, puffy breaths hit his lips, the touch of life relaxing him, reversing all of the stress he had experienced throughout their horrifying adventure.

He waited, over her, for another instant, before resting his head against her chest, letting her heartbeats pound against his ear. Her scent and presence washed over him, and his mind drifted, finally at peace with her, finally at peace to begin with. His life, this new life, started in chaos, went through chaos, and finally he had a moment, all to himself, and all with her.

It wasn't until Clara's body shifted that he snapped up, blinking his eyes with more force than he probably needed, forcing himself to wake. Clara's eyes, wide, brown, and beautiful, stared up at him, amused and glittering. Her mouth was twisted in a smile, and her head was tilted to the side, as though she was ready to question him at any second. His cheeks heated, and he opened his mouth to explain, but she beat him to it.

"Hey," she murmured, a hand reaching out and grabbing his, fingers tight and entwining. He let his eyes close for a moment, reveling in it, in her touch, and then released a long, shaky breath.

"Hey," he whispered, though it felt like an admission, as though he was giving into something he's been resisting for an eternity. He thinks that maybe, he's giving into her eyes, the look in them reflecting in his own, his feelings bubbling on the surface of his body, rather than being buried so far within him.

"Thank you," she told him, and he shook his head, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her palm, leaving his lips pressed against her skin as her fingers slowly opened to let him in.

Her eyes were sad, though, watering again, and he wondered if she wanted to go home. He wondered if what had happened was too much for her, if he had showed her that final atrocity that made her snap, if he had—

"Please don't send me away again."

He stilled, both his body and his thoughts. She pulled her hand away, and he let her, let her fall right through his fingers, watching as she sat up in the bed he placed her in. He wanted to tell her to lie down, to rest, but he knew she was fine, and she knew she was fine, and trying to stop Clara Oswald when she had her mind set was nearly impossible.

"Never," he said with a tone that meant finality, but he had lied to her before, and he could tell by the sadness growing in her eyes and in her soul that she didn't believe him. Her lack of trust in him when he needed it most was like a slice in his hearts, but it was the price he had to pay for his actions. "Believe me," he prompted, asked, begged, "I couldn't do that to you. Not now, not this face. I'm the Doctor, but I've also changed." There was the silent, left out, completely obvious, for you.

Clara blinked quickly, looking away and swallowing, composing herself before turning to stare him down without shame, fear, or embarrassment. "Prove it," she demanded, voice stronger and more commanding than he would have ever given her credit for. Another surprise that made him fall even farther.

Their gazes were unwavering, and it reminded him of the Weeping Angel he refused to let sneak away, the same Angel that took her from him. His hearts pounded at the mere thought of it, at the very thought of her leaving him, and his desperation clawed at him, wanting to come out of him, like talons against his throat. Slowly, with a patience the Doctor didn't quite have, he leaned forward, eyes still wide open as he brought his face closer and closer to hers.

Hands curled around the cloth of his shirt, where the lapels of his coat would be if he were wearing it, and he let out a noise of surprise. Clara pulled him to her, quickly and almost desperately, crushing her lips against his in a searing kiss that could burngalaxies.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, and he slowly allowed his to do the same, one of his hands cradling the back of her head and tangling in her hair. The other moving to her neck, thumb finding residence on her pulse point. When he rubbed over it, she twitched, mouth moving slower and hotter, tongue smoothing across his own. If it were a battle for dominance, he would have let her win, but it was far more than that. It was a plea for her to forgive him, for her to forgive all of his sins and injustices towards her, and she was finally giving him penance.

"I will never leave you," he gasped, pulling away while he could, before he could never allow himself to ever let her go again. "Ever. I will never send you away— I'm in too deep. I care for you very much, Clara Oswald."

The words weren't perfect, and the way he twisted his mouth wasn't the same as she was used to, but it was somehow more than what she expected. She nodded, eyes shining, and pulled him into a kiss again, replying with actions instead of words. She pulled him with even more force, his top half of his body lying across hers on the bed, her legs moving and curling around his waist. If he were as clumsy as his last body, he would have fallen over, but he had more grace, skill, and maturity, and it had finally begun to come sink in.

Down the hall, the console beeped, an urgent message ready for him to read. He would have ignored it, but the last time he ignored something important, he had nearly lost Clara. With a heavy sigh, he pulled himself away, but not before pressing small kisses to each of her fingers, catching her eyes with the strong promise of later.

"There are people who tried to hurt you, Clara," he told her, reluctantly pulling away, "I'm going to find them all. You're safe here, I promise."

And even if she didn't quite believe him all the time, even if she had to learn to trust him once more and he had to gain that trust through hard work and communication, he could tell by the look in her eyes that she felt protected, and wanted, and cherished, and that was all the Doctor really needed.