A/N Just a quick un-beta'd one-shot to get some ideas I had out there. Please do let me know what you think, I may eventually expand on it. I had originally planned to use this idea elsewhere but for now it works better as a stand-alone piece. Unrelated to Broken or A Time of Expectations.

The Doctor stared at the dark haired girl in her hospital bed. The bruises would fade, the cuts would heal, but he couldn't heal the hurt she bore in her heart.

He had broken the promise.

He couldn't protect her from himself.

Hesitantly, he brushed a dark curl from her forehead, his eyes following the tubes that attached her to the attendant machines. IV, heart monitor, oxygen. It was funny how physical contact had once been so easy, so thoughtless, and now he could only work up the courage to touch her when she was unconscious.

But then, he wasn't the man he had once been. There had been a time when Clara had made him better, had saved his soul from the horrors he had created in the Moment. She had saved him in so many ways, and how did he repay it?

By nearly killing her.

Clara. Oswin. Oswald. The Impossible Girl. The Woman Twice Dead. Souffle Girl. He loved her. But he had to let her go.

For he was the Oncoming Storm, the Predator, the Valeyard. And she would never be safe with him again. The malignancy he'd tried so hard to bury was at last winning over his psyche. And he knew if Clara died, the one shining beacon of goodness within him would be extinguished, and darkness would truly fall.

Yet, he couldn't just send her home with a pat on the back. She'd spent too long in his timestream to ever be completely safe among humans. She practically glowed with vortex energy. She'd be a tempting target for any ruthless creature prepared to take advantage of her, and not just those who were the Doctor's enemies.

She was perfect.

She deserved better.

The Doctor- could he even still call himself Doctor?- ran his hands through his hair despondently. There was nowhere safe to take her, yet she was not safe with him.

It was at that moment he felt a vibration from his breast pocket, the pocket that contained his psychic paper.

Clara awoke with a start when she realized she was not in her bed, either on the TARDIS or at home. Glancing around the stark white room she realized she was in the hospital. There were some bandages on her arms, where IV's must have been connected she supposed.

Frowning, she looked around the room and saw no sign of the Doctor. Strange. He wouldn't have left her alone like this before. Of course, she wouldn't have been hurt in the first place before. She supposed she should feel lucky it occurred to him to bring her to a proper Earth hospital.

Once, she would have had to argue him out of using a few years worth of regeneration energy to heal her.

Time to face the music. Groaning softly, she managed to hobble over to the mirror to assess the damage. Well, it could have been worse, she supposed. One blackened eye and a few cuts that would heal on their own, plus a few sore spots on her waist and lower that suggested a cracked rib or two.

"If you're done admirin' yourself, the nurses said you can go."

Clara yelped, unable to hide her startlement. In his old body he'd never been able to sneak up on her like that.

"Oh..okay," she agreed shakily. A stab of guilt flashed through her for her momentary fear. He's still the Doctor, she reminded herself.

She was rather surprised when the TARDIS materialized in front of the National Gallery, and even more surprised that there were hardly any people about. Even when the museum was closed, throngs of people generally lined the stairs, tourists looking for a good photo op. Snow was falling.

"Doctor?" she asked confused.

"It's time,"' he said, with a ring of finality in his voice.

"Time for what? Doctor?"

The Doctor gave her a bitter smile. "Time for us to part."

Clara felt herself go red, then pale. "Doctor, that isn't funny."

"It wasn't meant to be, my dear. Don't you think it is time you led your own life rather than following me about like a love-sick puppy? Do you realize how much more I could accomplish without little Clara crying all damn day and night, telling me what I can and cannot do in my own name? Don't you think I'm tired of rescuing you all the time? Your little mystery was interesting enough, but now? The TARDIS doesn't even like you! What can a stupid ape like you possibly offer me now?"

I rescued you, too, she tried to say, but somehow her lips wouldn't work. She couldn't talk, she couldn't breathe. Love, she also tried to say, but couldn't get that out either. O my God, she thought, feeling herself beginning to hyperventilate.

Abruptly he looked directly at her and said. "Enough," and shoved her out the TARDIS doors.

The Doctor would never forget the tortured look on Clara's face as he slammed the TARDIS' doors in her face. Forgive me, he whispered as the ship disappeared into the Vortex.

How long Clara sat on the cold stairs in the snow she wasn't sure. Long enough to soak through the thin material of the gown she was wearing. Not long enough to forget the cold expression on the Doctor's face. Not long enough for her to give a damn about how deranged she must look, sitting on the steps of the National Gallery in a hospital gown covered in bandages. Not nearly long enough.

He didn't come back. Clara was sure he'd come back. He wouldn't leave her out in the snow, in a hospital gown, not even knowing what year it was. He wouldn't. Would he?

When it began to be clear that, yes, in fact, he would leave her there, she was first angry. Angry was good. Angry kept the tears away. But as the cold from the air and the chill of the pavement began to seep into her body, the heat of her anger gave way to despair. Only her strongest willpower kept her sobs from becoming loud wails. And then...and then...nothing. At last she felt nothing at all.

"I'm afraid I'm out of jelly babies, but would a cup of tea help?" The voice beside her was warm, familiar. Clara didn't open her eyes.

"I don't think anything can help right now." Clara wasn't in the mood for small talk. She supposed he was only trying to help, but that voice sounded so much like...Clara choked back another sob as a single tear crept down her face. Apparently she wasn't done crying after all.

"Maybe we should get you inside? Your hands are turning blue, you know." Clara pried open her lids to peer at her hands. They were indeed looking a bit blue. Well, more purple than blue, but cold nonetheless.

"Come on," the voice beside her urged. Clara looked down at the hand she was offered. It looked so inviting, so famil-against her will, she looked up at her benefactor in confusion.

"You," she breathed, as the world faded to black.

This time when Clara woke up she was in a curious little room with no windows. Books covered all the walls, most of the tables, and were stacked so suspiciously next to the sofa on which she lay that she suspected they'd been hastily removed from the seat.

"You're awake," came that familiar voice. A tall, floppy haired silhouette blocked most of the doorframe.

"You," she said again, her voice strangled. For some reason she couldn't even begin to articulate.

"Me," he agreed, setting a teacup down on yet another convenient stack of books.

"You," she said again, then suddenly she found herself standing, pummeling his chest with her tiny fists."

"I see you're feeling better," he answered without a trace of irony. "Ow!"

With his longer reach he finally clasped Clara against his chest, pinning her arms so she couldn't hit him anymore. She briefly considered biting, but the soothing double beat of his hearts calmed her temper.

"How. Are. You. Here?" she gasped out, her voice muffled against the fabric of his waistcoat. O God, did he cross his own timeline? How young was he? Did he even know her? Panic rose in her once again.

"Shh..." came that voice, that voice she knew, that voice from so long ago...had it only been...how long had it been? "I can explain it all. But you really should sit down."

Un-der-state-ment.

Clara allowed herself to be led back to the sofa.

"First off, it isn't what you think."

Clara felt her eyebrows raise. Now he claimed to know what she thought?

"You have no idea how much it hurt me to say those things," he said seriously, then flinched away as he saw her fists ball up again. "No hitting!" he exclaimed, knowing how much she was hurting inside.

Clara processed that for a moment, jumping over the impossibility of the face she saw before her. "Then...why?" she asked, hating the crack in her voice. The crack that betrayed just how deeply those words hurt.

"Would you have ever left me if I hadn't said them?" he asked her, knowing the truth as much as she did. No. She would never leave, no matter how much he hurt her. No matter what. She was the girl who spent 300 years trying to unlock the TARDIS. It was what she was born to do. She felt him touch her bruised cheek gently.

"But...how?" Brown eyes met green, impossibly green.

"That is a bit more complicated."

"I have time."

"Yes, my beautiful, impossible Clara, you have all the time in the world now." He jumped to his feet and held out a hand. "But first, I need to show you something."

Clara wasn't up to many more surprises today, but she didn't have the strength to argue either. Leaning on him more heavily than she would like, she walked with him out of the tiny, book filled room and into a room full of pictures. A room she'd been in once before.

The Under Gallery.

"There's nobody else here," he assured her. That was one bit of good news, considering she was still wearing her slightly worse-for-the-wear hospital gown, a sweater of indeterminate shape and size thrown over it.

"Closed for the day?"

"Closed for the holiday," he clarified. "Merry Christmas, Clara," he said seriously, smoothing her hair back, running his fingers gently over her chin before softly - oh, so softly!- bending to brush his lips against hers. "Merry Christmas."

"Christmas?" she asked weakly. Her mind had gone totally blank.

"Christmas Day. 2018." he confirmed.

Blinking in confusion, in weariness she blurted out "Then what are you doing here?"

Now he smiled, the first real smile he had shown her. "I live here."

"You live...here?"

He nodded and, stepping back he spread his hands wide in pride "I'm the Curator."

Eleven: I could retire and be the curator of this place.
Curator: You know, I really think you might.
Eleven: I never forget a face.
Curator: I know you don't. And in years to come you might find yourself...revisiting a few. But just the old favourites, eh? ...
Curator: It's entirely up to you. Your choice, eh? I can only tell you what I would do, if I were you...
[both laugh knowingly]
Curator: Oh, if I were you. Perhaps I was you, of course. Or perhaps you are me.
[both laugh again]
Eleven: Yeah!
Curator: Congratulations.
Eleven: Thank-you very much.
Curator: Or perhaps it doesn't matter either way – who knows, eh? Who knows?