The lights were dim in Clara's flat. They'd been that way almost since Christmas, the light switches forgotten in one corner of the room, completely unused since that night. She was sitting on the futon that had been pushed back against the wall in preparation for Christmas dinner, where it had been sitting ever since.

Almost three weeks had passed since then, and not much had changed. The table, set halfway with chairs still scooted out, was in the same place her family had left it when she'd convinced them to leave her alone, and the Christmas tree was still by the window, so old and dry that more of its needles were on the floor than on its branches. Shattered ornaments that had once hung on its brittle limbs had peppered the floor with shards of silver and red, and still, she couldn't bring herself to move any of it. Fixing things would mean she was going to move on, and she wasn't. She wasn't.

The mug of tea in her hands was cold, the steam having coalesced into droplets of water that ringed the inside of the mug, but she had forgotten about it long before. It had never been drunk, staying clasped in her clammy hands instead, the liquid practically opaque from steeping so long.

Her eyes were fixed on a spot across the room—next to the now dead Christmas tree, where she'd stood there with the Doctor and introduced him as her boyfriend to her family. Of course, she hadn't realized at the time that he was naked to everyone else. The memory made her smile. It felt like the last time she'd been happy with him before…

No. She wasn't thinking about it. She'd promised herself she wouldn't. Clara let out a sigh as she looked around her disgusting, unkempt flat. I'm not thinking about it, and yet I can't touch the things that remind me of it. Go figure.

She shifted slightly and the creaking of the floor resonated through the dank room with a hollow sound. The state of mess she'd fallen into was nowhere near comfortable to her—she wanted nothing more than to get up and move it all, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to. It felt like she spent half her life on the couch in her living room, reading there and grading papers there and sometimes sleeping there when she didn't feel like getting up. She had, quite undeniably, fallen into a ridiculous slump, but it was one she had no desire to get out of. Her dad had called her three times in the past week. She'd let it go to voicemail each time.

Yes, there was no denying that Clara Oswald wasn't doing well. She knew it, of course—She knew it, and the Doctor knew it too. She'd seen it in his eyes when he dropped her off at her flat.

The TARDIS engine's whirring had faded out as Clara was headed for the doors. She didn't want to look back behind her, afraid she wouldn't know what to say if he spoke to her.

His voice stopped her in her tracks as she was just at the end of the metal walkway, forcing her to turn and confront his question. "Wednesday?" He'd asked, a half-quirk of the old smile there but an underlying glint of worry in his eyes.

Clara had hesitated. The weight of his one-word question was clear to her: He wasn't just asking about next Wednesday, about their next trip, but all those to come. He wasn't just checking to make sure he should come next Wednesday. He was checking that she didn't want to leave him. She replied honestly. "I don't know."

At her response, he'd pursed his lips and nodded. "Of course. I'll see you soon."

She'd sworn his words had turned up just the tiniest bit at the end, like he was asking for confirmation. Unable to answer, she'd dropped her gaze and turned away, stepping out of the TARDIS onto the frostbitten grassy lawn of her building.

And that had been it. Three weeks had passed since that day, and there had been no sign of the new Doctor, no sound of the ship's engines as the blue box materialized outside her flat. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Maybe the best way to get over herself was to give him a call—jump headlong into the mess of things, fill her head with adventures and try to accept the fact that the different man who was getting into trouble with her was still the same, in his own respect.

Or maybe she'd just wait for him to come back. He'd always been able to understand her fairly well; that couldn't just change with a new face, could it? He knew better than she did when she'd be ready again. And so, she'd wait for him. It would be difficult, but she'd just continue in her sluggish ways until he came back to pull her out of it.

And that was when there was a knock on the door.

Or rather, several dozen knocks and the ring of her doorbell at least half a dozen.

The familiar sound almost made her smile for the first time in days. At least he knocked the same way he'd used to, with all that silly enthusiasm she had teased him about but always secretly loved. With that, she felt her heart lift a little bit. She'd never met another man who knocked on her door with quite that much zeal; perhaps he wasn't as different as she'd first thought he was.

It was with a smile growing on her face that Clara set her mug of cold tea down on the coffee table and got to her feet, brushing off her clothes and quickly smoothing out her hair. She didn't want him to see her like this—regeneration was harder on him than it had been on her, and maybe she'd do best to try and act normal. She paused to glance in the mirror on the wall, hoping that she looked like she usually did, and hurried over to the door. He was still knocking excitedly, and she found herself almost laughing as she clicked the key in the lock and pulled the door open.

Her voice was sing-song. "Hello, Doctor!" She smiled as she looked up into his face, and then the smile froze there. Hand still on the doorknob, she took half a tiny step back, her mouth almost falling open, eyes wide in shock as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing.

"Hello, Clara! Did I overshoot again? It is Wednesday, isn't it?"

Clara couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. His voice was so familiar, even if she'd spent the past three weeks stubbornly keeping it out of her head. She couldn't move for a second, staring wordlessly up at the man standing in front of her. It was the Doctor, but not just that. No, no, no. This Doctor didn't have gray hair and thick eyebrows and steely eyes.

This was her Doctor.

There he was, standing right in front of her, a goofy grin on his face and his old black bowtie slightly askew. He looked, well, exactly like he had. But that was three weeks ago, and he'd died, she'd seen it.

She stammered out a few syllables and took a step back. She had to be hallucinating, or dreaming, or something. She'd stayed up almost all night grading papers. She'd spent too long in the dark. Clara leaned heavily against the wall and rubbed her hands over her eyes, convinced that when she looked up again he'd be the new Doctor. She suddenly found herself unable to glance away from her shoes.

There was a pause, and a shuffle of feet. "Clara? What's wrong?"

It was still his voice. She felt a lump rise in her throat at the sound of her name on his lips, and had to choke back a sob that rose up out of nowhere. Something was wrong—he was acting totally normal, like he had no idea what could have happened. There was only one explanation that came to mind: Somehow, in some impossible, ridiculous way that only her Doctor could manage, he was late. He was very, very late to visit her some time in the past, and she had to make sure he didn't find out what had happened.

She stood there, motionless for another few seconds, her breath hitching in her throat. Against her conscious thought, the hand on the doorknob swung, and the door slammed shut right in the Doctor's face. Wordlessly, Clara stumbled back and collapsed against the closed door, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. She had to act normal, whatever happened. He couldn't know about his future. They knew what happened when he did, thanks to Trenzalore, and that wasn't a road she wanted to go down again.

The shock from a moment ago was lifting. Clara could feel her fingers again, and suddenly she found herself experiencing quite a different emotion. It started like a little ball of fire in her stomach, slowly spreading out into her limbs until she was actually smiling, still pressed against her door with the Doctor's confused exclamations bleeding through the wood from the other side.

He was here. He was here, and ready to take her away, and there was nothing to stop her from just going. She could jump right back into the TARDIS with her same old ridiculous Doctor, and that could be it. She could try to forget everything, but sooner or later she'd have to go back. And then she'd be confronted with that strange new Doctor and it would be like a smack in the face all over again, and she couldn't do that. She had to send him away so he could go back to her in the past.

She let out a teary laugh, followed by a deep, rattling breath. Just a week ago, if her Doctor had turned up on her doorstep, she would have gone away without a second thought. She would have been selfish and done what she wanted, disregarding what might happen as a consequence. What had changed so quickly?

He'd talked to her about paradoxes before. Never much, or in depth, but she understood enough to know that they were bad, and everything was better off when they were avoided. Couldn't this be a similar situation?

Clara took a deep breath and straightened up from the door, pausing briefly to wipe at her eyes with her sleeves. Suddenly, she was glad she wasn't wearing makeup. Her fingers closed around the doorknob, and she pulled it open. And there he was, still standing there, reminding her too much of the story her Gran had told her the night he'd died. She realized just how deep those words went, and that if the Doctor could keep standing there, unchanged, that was all she wanted in the world.

He gave her a bright-eyed smile. "Well? Moons of Poosh, and then cocktails on future Mars. Again. I know we tried last time but I think we ought to get around to that, don't you?"

She managed a weak smile, remembering the time just a few months ago when he'd actually taken her on that trip. It must have been right after this for him, without his realizing he'd actually visited her future. "It's Tuesday," She responded, her voice quiet.

"What?" His face fell. "No. Really? I missed? Again?"

Against her will, Clara's smile grew slightly at his irritation. "Just a bit," She said, forcing a tone of lightness into her words that seemed to come easier with him around. "Don't worry though, I'm looking forward to it on the right Wednesday." Or looking back on it, she added silently.

"Oh. All right." He seemed to brighten up at that. "Well, right then. Good. I will see you Wednesday." He planted his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward, gently pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. She closed her eyes and took in a small breath, biting her lip to keep herself from breaking down again. His warm breath tickled her skin, and she forced herself to look up at him for the last time as he pulled back and nodded. "Good-bye, Clara."

To her, those words sounded much more final than she knew he had meant them; he'd see her in just a few minutes, from his perspective. This was the last time she'd see him. Ever. Her heart stumbled over itself as she took a hesitant step over the threshold. "Wait."

He was only a meter away; when she called out, he turned back and closed the distance between them in a single stride. "Clara?" He asked. "What is it?"

She stood there in front of him, her mouth hanging open just a fraction of a centimeter, as she realized she had no idea what she wanted to say to him. He had opened her eyes, shown her worlds she could never have even imagined, become her best friend. Because of him, the world was bigger and madder and so insignificant at the same time. He'd done all that for her, and then she'd lost him forever. All she'd wanted was a proper goodbye—so why couldn't she think of anything to say?

"I…" She started, looking down at her hands. After a moment she saw another pair of hands slip into her field of vision and felt his fingers close around hers. The Doctor rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles as she glanced up at him, completely at a loss for words.

"Are you okay?" He asked her gently, his forehead creasing as he met her gaze.

"I… I just…" Clara sighed and closed her mouth. "I don't know," She admitted. "I've just lost a friend. A very dear friend, is all."

"Oh?" His hands tightened around hers. "What happened?"

She shook her head, feeling tears prickling at her eyes like needles. "He liked to pretend he was okay," She said finally. Her voice came out thick, filled with restrained sobs. "But he wasn't. I know he wasn't. And now I'm never going to see him again, and I don't… I don't know what to do."

He shook his head slowly and pulled her into a hug, wordless. She pressed her face against the fabric of his old purple coat, breathing in its scent. His arms were wrapped warmly around her shoulders, the embrace such a familiar thing that she could almost believe nothing had changed. "Hey, hey, don't cry," He murmured, rocking her slightly. "It's okay. Letting go can be hard, but things change. I'll be there for you. I'll help you get through it, okay?"

She let out a watery laugh. I suppose you're right, she thought to herself. You'll be consoling me about your own death. "Okay," She agreed quietly. "Thank you."

He stepped back and smiled softly. "Do you want me to stay? I can, if you'd like."

She shook her head. "No, it's okay," She said, though the words pushed themselves out of her mouth with the force of a ball of hot lead. "I'd best go back to get some sleep, anyways." She looked down at her shoes. "Haven't slept too well and all."

"Of course." She heard the shifting of his shoes against the cement. At the very edge of her vision she could see the tips of his boots twisting slightly, like he was about to walk away. Her fingers itched. She wanted to reach out to him, to hug him, one last time. Her hands came out and caught his just as he had been about to leave. He looked down at her, confusion etched on his face.

"What is it?" He asked.

She didn't respond, only feeling that burning in her gut that had been present ever since he showed up at her doorway, stepping closer to him and raising up on her tip-toes. She intended to give him one last little kiss on the cheek, her goodbye to him, but to her shock his head shifted at the last second and her lips rested against his for a fraction of a heartbeat.

She almost jerked back in surprise, but forced herself to slowly sink back onto the balls of her feet and step away. She didn't meet his eyes again.

"Clara?"

"Good-bye, Doctor."

"Are you… Was that… Clara?" He finished his sentence lamely, the stammering hint of uncertainty present in his tone.

She let the smallest traces of a smile touch her lips. "It's fine," She replied. "I'll punch you if you mention this ever again." She added the last part as an afterthought.

"All right." She heard the smile in his voice and forced herself to stand still as his footsteps finally receded. When she looked up, he was vanishing around the corner.