Puncture Repair – Chapter 7

A/N: So here it is finally, the last chapter. Sorry for having taken such a long time.

He wasn't running for once, but rather walking at a leisurely pace. In fact, he wasn't even walking alone. He held a small hand tightly in his. Danger might lie ahead and he wouldn't let go, not for anything in the world. This hand was precious to him, he could feel it, yet oh so fragile. The walls were covered with strangely familiar white tiles, and as they started to close in around him, he gripped the tiny hand with enough force to hurt. Forms and shadows were bumping against them, and his feet were compelled to take shorter and shorter steps. Soon, he had to slow down to a stop. Something was very wrong. He couldn't feel the child's presence next to him and the hand had let go. He swallowed back a scream, realising too late that he had forgotten who he was supposed to call after. Surely, this should be easy. He'd been standing right next to him. He had to know who it was. The name escaped him. It was as though it had been erased from his brain in an instant, never to be remembered again. He thought he could see a small figure running in the distance, running away from him. Was that the person whose hand he had been holding just now? Was he scared? Had he frightened him somehow? But who was it? What was his name? It was there, on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn't come out. It was a simple name, a name he knew very well and loved. It was, it was...

"Dad, wake up!"

The Doctor sat up. His heart was racing and the dark room was spinning. He tried to speak up unsuccessfully as a small shape gradually became visible next to him. Sam. Of course it was Sam. They were in their hotel room in Paris and he'd probably just inadvertently woken the boy up. He blindly reached for his son's closest hand and held it tightly for a few seconds. It stopped his own hand from trembling and he finally released the breath that hadn't been able to escape his chest since he opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" asked the boy in a whisper. His voice barely managed to cover the Doctor's erratic breathing. He nodded, closing his eyes forcefully to try and calm himself. He didn't want to scare his son, but it was apparently too late for that.

"Yes, I'm sorry Sam. Just a nightmare. I'm fine, now."

"Do you want me to switch on the light or get you some water?"

The Doctor pressed his lips together in a thin smile and shook his head in the negative. He could feel his heartbeat finally returning to a calmer tempo.

"Thank you, but I'm going to be okay. You can go back to bed."

The child seemed reluctant to move away from him, but eventually his short legs took him back to the other side of the room. The Doctor heard the rustle of sheets as he laid back down and stared at the dark ceiling. It was a few minutes before Sam started speaking again.

"Dad?" he asked in a clear voice, clearly not on the verge of falling back to sleep.

"I'm okay, Sammy," the Doctor answered pre-emptively.

"Was it a really bad one?" inquired his son, disregarding his assurance.

"I'm fine now, that's all that matters, and you need to go back to sleep," he replied in a tone that he hoped was reassuring enough.

"You can tell me about it if you want to, I'm not tired."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, realising that there was no point avoiding the subject. Sam was proving once more just as stubborn as he was, and he couldn't help but feel secretly proud of that fact. Even though he knew he would probably come to regret that he had inherited this particular trait down the line.

"You should try and get some rest, it's our last day here tomorrow and you planned quite a schedule."

He heard the boy huff slightly from the other side of the room. Sam didn't like to be reminded that they would be leaving the French capital soon.

"I know, but I really want to see all those places one more time before we go. Even if it's only for a few minutes."

"Don't worry, we'll have time to do everything," he told him reassuringly.

The boy had taken an immediate liking to the city, and they had made the most of their five day vacation despite the unpredictable weather. They now both found themselves nervous about leaving Paris behind. Not really the place per say, since they could come back whenever they wanted, but rather what it represented. Having virtually spent each and every second together, it was almost painful to imagine going back to London and their everyday life. The Doctor had truly felt like a father for the first time. A father taking his son on a holiday. So it hadn't mattered that it rained or that the Louvre was crowded. What mattered was that they had done everything together. The walks in the marais and île Saint Louis. The cafés in quartier Saint Michel. The Eiffel Tower and Notre-Dame. They had wandered and admired the sights and complained about their blistered feet at the end of the day. They had laughed and they had run for cover during particularly violent rainstorms. They had bought almost all the pastries at a pâtisserie and didn't mind the sore tummies that resulted from eating them in one go. Always together. And the memories would stay with them for a very long time. At least, that was what the Doctor hoped.

One of the first things he had done when they arrived was buying a camera. He had let Sam take pictures for Clara, but he'd mostly used it himself to record their time together. Seeing the photo album under his son's bed had reminded him that children grew up quickly, and he didn't want to miss anything else from the boy's life.

"We should take some more pictures, as well," said Sam, as though he'd been reading his mind, "Clara wanted me to tell her everything about Paris when we came back."

"Yes, let's do that," he answered.

There was a pause in the conversation, and the Doctor thought that his son had finally gone back to sleep.

"She is coming back, right?" he then asked in a small voice.

"Of course she is, don't worry."

But the Doctor was frowning in the darkness of the bedroom. He was concerned, even though Clara hadn't mentioned anything about the possibility of not coming back to London. Coming back to him. To them.

"She has a new job waiting for her, remember?"

"But the school's really far away, isn't it? What if she has to move?" Sam added in a rush.

He sighed, wishing he could find the right words to set his son's mind at ease. But the truth was, he couldn't find the words to reassure himself.

"I'm sure she would have said something. You should really try to go back to sleep, Sam," pressed the Doctor, hoping that the subject would be closed. Mentioning Clara made his dread of going back to London that much greater. He was desperate to see her again, but dreadfully anxious that things would irrevocably change between them. They might have parted on good terms, yet he was very much aware that their relationship was in limbo. At best.

"You should ask her tomorrow when she calls," his son suggested.

He smiled slightly at Samuel's very serious tone. It always amused him that a nine year old child could sound so wise. He actually found comfort in those words – Sam was right to point out that Clara had called him every day since the start of their holiday. At first, the calls had mostly been focused on her dad's health and his recommendations. But they had quickly turned into something more. He could tell that the young woman needed reassurance to help her deal with the trying situation, but he also believed that they had somehow grown closer in the meantime. Which was paradoxical given the many miles separating them. The Doctor felt as though the conversations they had – short as they were - would have never been possible if they had been face to face. The distance allowed him to be more truthful, and to voice his feelings better. He'd certainly miss those calls. Although maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to trust himself more around her.

But for that to happen, she would have to be there in the first place. Sam was right when he pointed out that her new job would take her to the other side of London. The commute would be quite bothersome and it'd certainly be easier for her if she were to move closer.

"I really want her to stay, dad," the boy added unnecessarily.

"Me too, Sam," the Doctor replied.

Clara was fidgeting. She couldn't decide whether the train was moving too fast or too slow. Nevertheless, she would be in London in a little over an hour, and she didn't think she was ready to face the Doctor yet. She had missed him terribly - him and his son, really – but she was uncharacteristically scared of seeing him again. Scared of finding out if his feelings now ran as deep as hers. The past week spent in Liverpool had been eye opening, in more ways than one.

She'd never imagined that she would have that kind of relationship with him. The kind where just the thought of seeing him made her heart beat faster. The kind where the prospect of hearing him on the phone every day had made her smile and blush simultaneously. What if he didn't feel the same? They had never put a label on what or who they were to each other. Perhaps he'd just assume they would go back to being friends, or whatever the hell they had actually become before she'd left. Clara knew they had jumped too quickly into a relationship. They had never properly defined the situation. At the time, she had thought it best not to focus too closely on what this all meant - she just wanted to enjoy being with him. She had never been this carefree about any aspect of her life. This, more than anything else, terrified her. How could she have so completely let herself be submerged by the tidal wave that this man represented? How could she have so willingly taken leave of her senses? She was certainly paying the price for her foolishness now. She didn't think she could handle going back to the way things were between them. She was tired of pretending she didn't want anything more. Because she did. She wanted to be able to voice her feelings, and not swallow back her words for fear of his reaction. For fear of his rejection.

Clara wasn't the kind of person who let other people decide what was best for her. And the week she had spent with her dad had reminded her of that. She'd been completely focussed on him and his health the first couple of days, but when she had finally allowed herself to realise that he would soon be perfectly alright, she was faced with the startling reality that as much as she loved her father and had been scared out of her wits by his stroke, her place wasn't there. Her place was back in London, with the Doctor and Samuel. Liverpool had stopped being her home after her mother's death, and she still slightly resented her father for selling their old house and moving to the other side of Kirkdale. She understood that the memories might have been too much for him to handle, but she would have liked him to take her opinion into consideration.

She often felt as though she was still a child in his eyes. And as much as it had pained her at first to leave the only place she had ever called home to go to to University in London, it was the only step she thought she could take if she wanted to build a life for herself. A life that didn't include her father and his grief. Selfish of her, perhaps, given the silent reproach she could read in her dad's eyes every time she came for a visit, which hadn't been very often the first few years, despite her desperate feelings of longing and homesickness. Yet leaving Liverpool had been liberating.

They had been very close when she was growing up, but when her mother got sick he had started pulling away from her, probably in the stupid hope that it would protect her from tragedy. But tragedy had struck, and he hadn't been prepared, believing up until the last minute that her mum would magically heal and come home. Clara, on the other hand, had known from an early age that fairy tales didn't necessarily end on a happy note. And that the greatest ones, the ones you really remembered and cherished forever, were often rather sad.

Talking to the Doctor everyday had cemented that fact in her mind. Fairy tales could have dreadfully sombre elements, such as an orphaned childhood or bereavement, but it didn't make them any less magical. Clara had never heard such carefree happiness in his tone and she had no doubt that the time he was spending with his son in Paris was one of the most joyous experiences of his life.

What she hadn't anticipated was the fact that the Doctor would inadvertently turn out to be what brought her closer to her father. Closer than she had believed possible in view of their vastly different outlook on life – at least on the surface.

Her third day back in Liverpool was the Doctor and Sam's first day in Paris. She had called him early in the evening following a heated debate with her own self. Should she actually phone him now that he was on holidays and her dad was on the mend? In the end, boredom and curiosity had won over. And she didn't see her father come into the room, so focussed was she on listening to the Doctor order dinner at some restaurant in flawless French over the phone.

"Of course, you speak French. I should have known, really," she needlessly pointed out.

"Well, obviously I speak French," he replied in a deadpan voice.

Despite the distance, she could tell when he smiled with that almost imperceptible grin at the corner of his mouth. The grin she never quite managed not to answer with one of her own.

"Obviously. And what did you actually order? Tell me so that I can be just that much jealous of you two."

He paused, and the silence told Clara that he also wished she were there with them. And that silence was more than enough for her. She then heard Sam in the background asking something.

"Sam wants to know how you and your dad are doing," he reported.

"We're good, thank you. Tell him he'd better be taking notes on all the places you visit. I want to know everything."

"I'll tell him."

She smiled a little sadly, wishing she could read the obvious excitement she heard in the boy's voice on his face.

"Don't let me keep you. You should enjoy your meal."

"It hasn't arrived yet and Sam's trying to draw a gargoyle he saw on Notre-Dame from memory. It might take a while."

She interpreted this as his way of telling her that he wasn't ready to hang up yet, so she didn't. And they talked mindlessly about their days until their crêpes arrived on the table.

Clara knew she must have looked rather ridiculous with her rosy cheeks and stupid grin, which was why her first reaction at seeing her father sitting on the sofa was annoyance. The conversation, as unremarkable as it was, had been deeply private. She berated herself for not realising that he had come into the room, then berated herself some more for not worrying about his health first and foremost.

"Sorry, dad. I didn't see you there. Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"So, was that him, then?" her father asked, unconcerned by her questions. Clara couldn't see his face from where she was standing, and despite the wariness she felt at the prospect of sharing such a personal thing with him, she decided to go and sit next to him.

"Him who?" she replied, a small carefree smile that she chose not to hide from her dad still on her lips.

"You look happy," he said in quiet amazement.

Clara didn't know whether she should agree with him on that assessment or frown at his surprise. Wasn't she allowed to be happy? She therefore remained silent and observed him. He'd lost weight in the few days he'd spent at the hospital, and despite the lines around his mouth and eyes, he now looked a lot more like the father of her youth. Which was perhaps why her defences didn't rise up in his presence for once. The idea of having an actual adult conversation with him appealed to her.

"That was the Doctor. I told you about him. I'm an au pair for his nine year old son, Samuel."

"And you live with him. With them," he added rhetorically.

"Yes," she nonetheless felt compelled to say, staring at him pointedly. She hoped he understood what the three letter word encompassed. Yes, I do live with him. Yes, he's the one who's making me happy.

"Maybe I could meethim someday." Once again, it hadn't been a question.

"Maybe."

She smiled again. Serenely. And the tender look she saw on her father's face was reminiscent of much better times.

They had talked in the following days. Long conversations they hadn't had in an age. Clara realised that his stroke had forced him to come face to face with his own mortality. Something almost everyone went through at some point in their lives. Getting him to change his diet and daily routine had been the easy part of her stay. Letting her father see the person she had become these last few years was infinitely harder. And yet it had felt achingly cathartic and necessary. She didn't think she'd told him much about the Doctor. But in a way, he'd been the subject of every talk. Her present life. Her future expectations. Her past regrets. Even though she hadn't seen him for days, he'd never left her. Not really. And now, as the train was approaching London, she wondered what was waiting for her at the end of the figurative – and not so figurative – tunnel.

This is stupid, the Doctor thought for the hundredth time. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't be standing there like a pathetic old man. A pathetic lovesick old man. Which was even worse. He felt about a thousand years old, standing there amongst the crowd of commuters, travellers and onlookers. The Doctor could tell which ones belonged to the same category as him – that of family members, partners and friends. They all had that same look of joyful expectation on their faces. But he felt like an intruder, like he didn't actually belong – what right did he have to be there? How could he justify his presence at the station to himself? Yes, Clara had told him when she was coming back, but he hadn't warned her he would be there. And she hadn't asked him to. Would she take it badly? Would she see it for what it was, his desperate need to see her and hold her in his arms? His desperate need to tell her that he'd missed her and didn't want to part from her ever again? Would she be able to see how scared he was of losing her? She would, if his hands wouldn't stop shaking by the time she arrived, he realised.

He congratulated himself for having decided against bringing flowers. That would have looked even more ridiculous. There was a young man across from him with a bunch of daisies in his hands. Daisies were a weird choice. They didn't even smell that nice. No, for Clara it would have to be roses. Too obvious, perhaps. But that's what he would have gotten her if he hadn't been able to resist. Fearing he would make a fool of himself, he had managed not to look at the flower shop next to the car park. He didn't want Clara to feel awkward and compelled to take the flowers when she didn't want them.

This train of thought was exhausting. Stop focussing on stupid flowers and try not to screw this up. The Doctor wanted to make a good impression, and show the young woman that he cared for her. He didn't want to spook her, especially with Sam's words weighing heavily on his mind: is she coming back? She clearly was coming back, but that was only the first step. Now he had to make sure that she stayed. Of course, he could just ask her. But if life were so easy, then he wouldn't be standing there feeling sorry for himself in the first place.

When he heard on the Tannoy that her train was entering the station, he took a deep breath. Now or never. He tried to look as nonchalant as possible as he scanned the arriving crowd at the end of the platform. He spotted her red suitcase before he spotted her, and he had to bite his lips to prevent himself from smiling like an idiot. Clara did a double take when she caught his sight. He couldn't help the tingles that travelled all across his limbs when he noticed how her eyes seemed to drink him in and roam over his features appreciatively. Blood was still noisily rushing to his ears when he eventually managed to say something.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice hoarse and his hands sweaty.

"Hey," she repeated, her cheeks a nice pink colour.

"You didn't have to come and pick me up," she added, apparently having less of a hard time finding her voice.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he replied, but the joke fell flat. "I had a night shift yesterday, so I was free to come. And since you told me when your train arrived, and..."

"It was nice of you, in any case," she interrupted his ranting, her eyes attempting vainly to communicate her glee. But he was still talking.

"...and with your heavy suitcase, I knew the car would be more..."

"Or you could just say that you missed me and wanted to see me. That would work, too," she tried again, surprising herself. She meant what she said, and that description was true enough as far as she was herself concerned. But she hadn't thought she'd dare say those words out loud. Not when she knew how squeamish the Doctor could be when it came to voicing his feelings. And yet he managed to surprise her as well.

"Yeah, I could say that."

The smile that had died on her lips was blossoming once more, and the Doctor felt himself physically drawn to her mouth and her eyes and her cheeks. Each spot his gaze lingered on he felt he needed to touch. His hands found themselves low on her back and he pressed her against him in the time that it took her to let go of her suitcase. He breathed in deeply, his nose against her neck, and she closed her eyes.

"I missed you," he supplied unnecessarily. But hearing those words didn't hurt. On the contrary.

"See, wasn't so hard to say, was it?"

"No. Maybe I should say it more often."

"Maybe," she agreed, "And I missed you too," she eventually added, not knowing why she hadn't thought of mentioning it sooner.

She felt his grin just before he finally let go of her, his hands lingering on her waist for a few more seconds.

"Let's go home?" he asked, and Clara didn't hear any hesitation in his words.

"Yeah," she replied, and the Doctor could read in her eyes that 'home' held the same meaning for the both of them.

Clara asked about Sam as soon as they reached the door and she didn't find the boy behind it.

"He's at his friend Alice for a sleepover. He was really excited. I thought it would be nice for him, with school starting again in a couple of days."

"It's good that he made a friend. But you know what that means, right?"

"What?" he asked, looking worried.

"That you're going to have to agree on a sleepover here, too. To return the favour," she replied, enjoying his bewilderment. He'd probably expected a lot worse, but he still looked uneasy.

"Don't worry, I'll be there to help you chaperone."

"Will you?" he breathed out, his eyes very serious.

"Of course," she replied, frowning slightly. Where was this coming from?

He cleared his throat and let his hands travel along the bristled cheeks he hadn't shaved that morning and reach his hair. He was more than nervous, Clara thought. He was downright terrified. To think that she had been so overjoyed by his candidness at the station...

"Doctor, what is it?" she asked, her suitcase still at her feet and her coat now heavy and uncomfortable on her shoulders.

"Are you okay with staying here?"

"Stay here, what do you mean? Are you planning on moving?"

"No," he replied quickly, his voice higher than usual, "No, it's just..." he started again, more quietly. Sam had made the question sound so easy. So simple. Just a yes or no question, after all. Why was it so difficult? The Doctor sighed and dropped his shoulders, feeling drained already.

"With your new job starting next week in Lewisham, I thought..."

"You thought I would be moving out?" she supplied, her eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Doctor, my job will basically be some kind of internship two days a week. I wouldn't really call it a job, much less an incentive to move all the way across London" she paused, taking note of how uneasy he looked.

"Unless..." she muttered, feeling her throat close up.

"Unless?" the Doctor pressed, his eyes fixed on hers now that he had heard doubt creeping in her voice.

"Unless you... want me to move?"

The penny finally dropped for the both of them, and the Doctor realised how badly he'd handled this conversation from the beginning. He swallowed thickly and stood up straighter. It was imperative he didn't mess this up, so he forced himself to approach Clara's very still frame and rebelled against all the inner voices in his head that urged him to stay away. He gently gripped her hands in his and marvelled once again at their smallness. He couldn't reconcile the fact that someone with such tiny hands could hold so much power over him.

"Of course I don't want you to move, that's not what I meant," he said, waiting for her eyes to reach his face. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

"Clara, I know I'm terrible at this, and I'm sorry. I want you to stay. I really want you to stay. And Sam wants you to stay, too," he added, thinking that one more argument couldn't hurt his case.

"Then why did you ask me if I was okay with staying here?" she asked, her brow still knit in confusion.

"Because apparently I'm an idiot who can't ask you a simple question," he supplied, feeling equally foolish and angry at himself.

Clara smirked, more familiar with that particular tone of his, and realised how much she'd missed it.

"You're not an idiot", she said, a fond look in her eyes to counter the Doctor's scowl. "I think you're just a bit rusty with the whole communication skills thing."

"Rusty? It's more like gangrene at this point," he deadpanned.

"Well, don't go chopping off anything yet, though. I'm rather fond of you."

"Fond of me, really?" he wondered out loud, his cheeks probably just as pink as hers. But Clara attributed the sudden warmth she felt rushing to her face to the heavy coat she was still wearing. She nodded, and the Doctor slid his hands up her arms tentatively to settle them on her shoulders.

"How are you, by the way? I didn't even ask." The Doctor was gently framing her face with his fingers, visibly more at ease with himself now that the air was cleared between them.

"Good," Clara replied, her own hands coming to rest over his in the hope that he would keep stroking her cheeks so tenderly. "I'm glad to be home."

His lips twitched slightly to form that infectious grin, and instead of copying it, she leaned over to kiss him. Gently, at first. Then gradually with more insistence, owing to the Doctor's eager response.

"So I was thinking..." he eventually started to say, his mouth against her neck and her hands brushing through his soft curls.

"Please don't," she cut in lightly, feeling his answering smile on her sensitive skin. She shivered and he pressed her closer. They should definitely stop speaking.

"Why don't we go somewhere for lunch tomorrow? All three of us..." A lingering kiss on her pulse point. "Sam would like that."

"Sure..." she replied non-committally, her mind clearly elsewhere.

"I really think he missed you, and he's taken lots of notes and pictures to show you." His hands were now sliding underneath both her coat and sweater, and she couldn't stop the breathless gasp that escaped her when he encircled her waist.

"Great, can't wait..."

When his fingers reached the underside of her bra and he looked as though he was about to say something else, Clara tugged him down towards her and reclaimed his lips in a heated kiss. When she felt a wall against her back, it finally dawned on her that they still hadn't properly set foot inside the house and stood tantalisingly close to the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs.

"So, what about tonight?" she asked, winded in the most enjoyable way.

"What do you mean, tonight?" he replied, and Clara was glad to see that he finally looked the part, with his vacant stare and rumpled hair. She pressed herself more snugly against him to help him focus, and his strangled moan told her that she was successful.

"What are you planing on doing tonight?" she added, raising one leg to his waist while his hand automatically came to assist her. He then looked at her as though his answer was obvious. She raised an eyebrow in jest and he started moving his hips against hers.

"Well... I don't know. Are you hungry?"

Clara replied by raising her other leg to sneak around his midsection.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Food can wait."

The cold woke him the next morning. And for a moment, he thought that Clara had left the bed. But he sighed in relief when he saw her long brown hair peeking out from the comforter at the other side of the bed. Funny how they had somehow inadvertently moved to opposite directions during the night, even though they had fallen asleep with barely an inch of space separating them. He realised that it was probably his doing. Clara was definitely more of a cuddler than him, and he'd forgotten what it was like to share a bed with someone all the night through. But if it meant waking up in the cold every morning, then he'd willingly learn to look past his reticence. Hell, he'd probably come to enjoy sharing his warmth with her. Because he had come to an important decision the previous day, as he was awkwardly walking up the stairs with Clara practically draped over him. He wanted her in his bed. His own bed. No more Tardis nonsense, that's where she would belong from now on. And he hadn't missed the wonder in Clara's eyes when he had insisted they went to his bedroom and not hers.

He thought he'd better start learning how to act the part now, so he slowly slid closer to her inviting frame. Reaching her, he planted a barely there kiss on her neck, which was the only part she'd kept uncovered. It was still early morning, and the Doctor knew that his colder limbs would surely wake her if he were to reach across her naked waist to curl up against her. So he took the time to warm up first and blink away his slumber. Breathing in the smell of her hair languidly, he allowed himself to contemplate the words she had said to him the previous night in the darkness of his bedroom. He didn't think he could acknowledge those words - much less repeat them - for a little while yet. But he was getting there. Soon he'd be able to say them back freely.

When she sighed in contentment as he was gently tracing the curve of her spine with the pads of his fingers, he knew she was awake. And yet she didn't speak or turn towards him. She let him continue on his journey, mapping away the contours of a body he was starting to be rather familiar with. He knew the spots that made her shiver, the ones that tickled, the ones that made her breath catch, and the ones that almost always led to her whispering his name in the way that he liked.

"Doctor..."

As always, he'd aimed right, and Clara lazily turned towards him on the mattress, her eyes still half in dreamland but her smile very real.

"Morning," he said.

"Is it really morning yet?" she replied, her voice scratchy with sleep, "Surely it can't be. I just closed my eyes."

"That's what happens when you wake me in the middle of the night," he cheekily supplied.

"You weren't complaining at the time," she mumbled, burrowing her head against his chest in the hope that sleep would welcome her once more.

"And I'm certainly not complaining now," the Doctor added, pressing his prickly chin against her forehead. She started by grumbling in irritation but he quickly had her smiling again.

She stopped his movements by sliding her hands over his cheeks, and she raised herself higher on the pillow they were sharing to look into his eyes. In the pale light of the room, they looked startlingly blue to her. Their colour was almost painful to watch. Clara kissed him soundly on the lips, her fingers continuing to caress his stubbly cheeks. Soon, she was straddling his waist to get better access to his mouth, and they were both breathing heavily when he started speaking again.

"I have to go and pick up Sam," he said once he had cleared his throat. Clara enjoyed the rumble of his words reverberating against her hands resting on his chest.

"When?" she asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible when all she wanted was to keep her lover in bed for as long as possible.

"Not just yet," the Doctor replied, very much aware of his arousal and her burning stare.

"But you can stay in bed if you want to sleep a wee bit longer," he announced with a smirk that did nothing to hide his obvious intent.

"Well," Clara said, arching an eyebrow in jest, "it's your bed after all."

"You look rather good in it, I have to say."

"Oh, do I?"

"And perhaps you should become a more permanent fixture in it," he added. His tone was still light, but Clara saw in his eyes that his sentence was very serious. He looked apprehensive, and she knew there was no way she'd rebuff him. Especially not when he was displaying such raw honesty, as hidden as it was behind the veil of humour.

"Fixture? Is that a Scottish term of endearment I never knew existed until now?" She felt him relax under her as he brought his hands to her waist.

"How very romantic," she lamented jokingly, her nose millimetres from his as she settled more snugly over his thin frame. Fortunately, Sam didn't complain when the Doctor showed up a bit later than expected.

Sunday, the gloomy weather compelled them to stay indoors, but they tried not to let the grey sky or the looming week ahead dampen their spirits. The day before had turned out brilliantly after all, with the Doctor taking a very excited Sam and equally radiant Clara on a small trip to Brighton to enjoy a sunny day at the seaside.

Clara had now taken residence at the dinner table in the living room where she had managed to cover all the available surface with notes and books. Although she would only be required to sit at the back of classrooms and observe at first, she still wanted to be ready and know the curriculum she would hopefully start teaching come September.

The Doctor was sitting on the sofa, with his laptop across from him. Sam was on the carpet at his feet, in order to see the screen better.

"Oh, we should definitely keep this one!" he suggested enthusiastically.

They were in the process of sorting out the pictures they'd taken in Paris. The Doctor couldn't believe there were so many, and he found himself hard pressed to discard any of them. Especially the ones which showed Sam. The boy didn't seem self-conscious about that fact, and once they had selected the best shots that they would show to Clara later, he even asked if he could have some of the pictures printed.

"They would look great in my..." he started saying, then stopped himself abruptly, looking chastised.

"In what, Sammy?" the Doctor asked quietly, knowing what he was probably referring to and hoping his son was now trusting him enough to tell him.

He looked up at him from the floor, his cheeks reddening and his eyes so much like his that it made the Doctor swallow hard.

"I've got, hum... This photo album, in my bedroom. With old pictures of me and stuff. Maybe I could add some of the pictures you've taken in it?"

"Of course, Sam. As many as you want," he paused, and felt his heart hammering painfully in his chest when he asked the next question, "Would you show me the album one day? I'd love to see what you looked like when you were smaller."

Sam pursed his lips. The Doctor was aware of how big this step would be for his son. Telling him about the album was one thing, but showing it to him willingly was another. He looked towards Clara who was still working on her notes at the table, even though she'd probably heard every word and was just as anxious to hear the boy's answer as the Doctor.

"I could show you now," he whispered furtively, "in my room."

The boy stared at him hopefully yet with unguarded timidity. The Doctor slowly counted to five in his head to compose himself and he smiled tenderly, nodding. Sam was ready to share this very private keepsake with him, but he wasn't ready to show it to anyone else, yet. Even Clara. And the album wasn't to leave the haven of his room. He more than understood all that, and couldn't believe his luck. He hoped he didn't sound too nervous as he encouraged his son to go upstairs and wait for him while he picked up something from his office. He'd followed Clara's idea to keep the couple of pictures from his own childhood at hand in the eventuality that this very moment occurred. She'd been right, and when he walked back in the living room holding the small envelope, he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt her hand clutching his tightly. He looked back at her silently and squeezed her hand back in gratitude.

It wasn't difficult for him to pretend that he hadn't seen Sam's pictures before, because the experience was so much different with the boy next to him. What had been a painful process was now turning into a treasured moment. One he would certainly revisit many times in the future. His son was telling him the stories behind some of the pictures, and even though he spent more time lingering on the shots showing his mother, the Doctor didn't read overwhelming sadness in the boy's eyes. He seemed glad to share his memories with him and talk freely of his time before coming to live in London.

"I don't think I want to be an archaeologist any more," he blurted out while they were looking at the more recent pictures taken in Egypt. From the very tone of his sentence, the Doctor knew that it was something that his son had been thinking about for a while, now. But hadn't found the courage or the opportunity to tell him.

"You can be whatever you like, Sam. And you still have a lot of time to think about it," he said, trying to reassure him.

"But I said I would. I told her that's what I wanted to be," he replied, furrowing his brow.

The Doctor didn't need to ask who the 'her' referred to. And it wasn't hard either to understand why he sounded so guilty.

"I'm sure she would want you to choose something you love. She wouldn't blame you for doing something different than her."

"I don't know if I want to be a doctor or a surgeon either," he added in a rush, his eyes wide.

The Doctor had a hard time hiding his smile when he answered: "And that's okay too, Sammy. I don't want you to feel forced to do anything because of me." He looked around the bedroom at the drawings covering the walls and suggested, "I think you could be a brilliant artist for instance."

It seemed to be a good answer, since Sam was giving him a rare toothy grin.

"You really think so? That would be so great! Or maybe an architect or something. The buildings I drew in Paris were really tricky but I liked it a lot."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea and as I said, you can take your time deciding."

The boy was still smiling when they reached the end of the album. When he asked what was in the envelope in his hands, the Doctor showed him the two pictures. And when Sam inquired about his own childhood he answered his questions, even though it was a harder task than he had expected.

"But if you lived in orphanages and homes, that means you never met your parents?" he eventually realised out loud.

"Well, no. I told you I was an orphan."

"I thought that it was because your parents were dead, not because you didn't know who they were," Sam admitted.

The Doctor was taken aback by his son's words. While he understood why such a distinction was important for someone like Sam who had already lost one parent, he found himself unable to explain to him why he had deliberately chosen not to make it. No matter how painful it might be. From a very early age, he had preferred to believe that his parents were dead rather than alive and unconcerned by his existence.

"Did you ever try to find them?"

"Yes, but it never led me very far," he acknowledged, a familiar weight settling somewhere over his heart. It was an old ache he hadn't felt in a long time, but it was always there, as though lying dormant somewhere in the very branches of his genes, encoded into his DNA.

"Why don't you try again?"

The question was so pure and innocent, and he could read similar frankness in his son's eyes, but it was impossible for him to give a simple answer. Sure, it would be easy to tell him that had his parents been alive when he was a child, they were probably dead now. But such a justification wouldn't work on Samuel. He was starting to know what his boy was like, and elusiveness was not part of his make-up.

Sitting there on his son's bed, with the photo album lying open between them and seeing the child's utter trust in his gaze, he realised that there was another answer he could give him. One he had only recently started to accept as real. I no longer need to. I no longer need to try and look for my family because I've finally found it. I found it in you. And perhaps even in Clara. But he couldn't say that to a nine year old. Or maybe he could, but not in so many words.

"I might start again," he settled on saying, understanding that having his son in his life could actually be a new incentive for him. That closure was at hand as long as he could count on his child being there.

"Maybe we have some family members somewhere," Sam added, making it clear for the Doctor that his search wouldn't be a lonely quest.

"I shall take you to Scotland with me one day, and show you around where I grew up. If you feel like it."

The boy nodded enthusiastically and asked him some more questions about his childhood. He answered them as truthfully as he could and the pain in his heart started eroding slowly.

Even though she'd only had to go to Lewisham three times this week to observe classes, Clara readily admitted to herself that she was exhausted. She'd probably be asleep if it wasn't for Sam and the Doctor talking about the new room they would be fitting inside the Tardis. The Doctor had suggested that Sam should have his own room in the canal boat, and that they could spare a part of the kitchen and a cupboard to accommodate it. The boy had jumped at the prospect, already picturing all the trips they could take. Nothing could apparently dampen his excitement, not even the fact that the engine wasn't even fixed yet.

"Are you okay, Clara?" asked the Doctor a few minutes later as they were stopping at a red light.

They were on their way to Martha's engagement party. It was to take place at her parents' house in Dulwich and attended by a very wide variety of guests. The Doctor had been surprised to get an invitation, but his young registrar had seemed so adamant that he couldn't refuse.

"I'm fine, just a bit tired with all the travelling around this week. But I'll get used to it," she added resolutely, remembering the Doctor's worried words on the subject.

"It's also a lot more pleasant in a car. Maybe I should think about buying one," she mused.

"Or you could have my old Norton Commando if you wanted. It's in storage but it's working perfectly," the Doctor suggested casually.

Clara turned towards him in puzzlement.

"Your what?"

"My motorcycle. A 1973 Commando 850, it's an absolute beauty and wonderful to ride, I got it when it first came out," he passionately described. Clara found it both endearing and worrying. She had a hard time picturing his lanky frame on a motorbike, but then she still didn't know much about his past. Perhaps that was something that he used to do.

"Wait a minute," she cut in, quickly doing the maths, "you were only fifteen or sixteen when it came out in 1973, how come you were riding one?"

He shrugged, the very picture of innocence. Clara saw a spark of teenage rebellion in his eyes. Something we will have to look out for in Samuel in a few years. She found herself often saying 'we' in her mind now, when it came to her and the Doctor, and especially when it concerned Sam's upbringing. She was strangely fine with that realisation.

Martha's parents house was already teeming with family members and friends when they arrived. She could see that the Doctor had automatically gravitated towards the people that he knew - his work colleagues. He wasn't too keen on socialising and given what she knew about him, Clara couldn't say that she was surprised. Sam seemed pretty shy as well at first, but as the afternoon wore on he started making friends with the other children present, and they were soon playing in the garden outside. Amongst said children were Martha's cousins Angie and Artie. She was thrilled to see them again, and marvelled at how much they had grown with their father, Mr. Maitland. She also made the acquaintance of his new wife, a bubbly woman named Sandra and their nine month old daughter Astrid.

She spent a long time cooing and making faces at the baby, who seemed happy with the attention she was getting, and it took her a while to notice that the Doctor was observing her from the other side of the room. He stood on his own while other people talked around him and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight. Clara felt slightly self-conscious although she couldn't understand why at first. When she handed Astrid back to her mother and walked towards the Doctor it came to her, just as she was reaching his side. From up close, it was easier to read the longing in his stare.

"You didn't have to stop torturing that poor babe on my account," he deadpanned, trying to downplay his reaction. The man probably didn't realise how transparent he'd been, Clara thought fleetingly.

Still, she chose to humour him for now: "Babies are strange creatures, then. They seem to enjoy this kind of treatment."

"They certainly are strange," he replied, his gaze once more lingering on the small child who was actually now starting to complain about being transferred to so many different pairs of arms.

Clara turned in the same direction as him, and they stood side by side, their shoulders rubbing but their eyes fixed on the other side of the room. She felt him breathe in deeply, which gave him the courage he needed to be truthful.

"You're good with them. Children, I mean," he added, although she'd understood. Of course she had.

"It usually helps when you want to become a teacher," she supplied, aware that her own banter was also indicative of apprehension.

"No, but... With babies as well. It's...nice. You'll be a wonderful mum one day, I'm sure."

"Too bad I want to start a new career, then."

"That's why they invented fathers."

She quickly turned towards him in amazement. And when she saw how flustered he looked, she went back to staring vacantly ahead of her.

"I mean, if you were, hypothetically, thinking about having a child, the father could always cut back on his own job. You know, stay at home and all that. Perhaps he would even enjoy it." He'd rushed through his words, but he couldn't have been more straightforward if he'd tried.

"Hypothetically?" she underlined with a small smile he couldn't see.

"Of course hypothetically," he replied gruffly, which turned her smile into a grin.

The Doctor was still thinking about that conversation on Wednesday night while sharing his usual midnight pot of tea with Martha in his office.

"Samuel seemed to have enjoyed himself," pointed out his registrar, not realising that the Doctor was miles away.

"What?"

"At the party on Saturday," she pointed out, amused by his obvious befuddlement.

"Oh, yeah. He seems to make friends more easily now."

"That's good. And I couldn't help noticing his accent," she added.

"His accent?"

"It's not really an accent, perhaps, but some of his inflections are definitely more Scottish now," Martha supplied while the Doctor looked at her with wide eyes.

"No, you can't be hearing right. Why would he do that?"

"Oh, come on, Doctor. Why not? I think it's rather sweet. And it's not that noticeable. I hadn't heard him speak in a while, that's why I could tell. It's different for you because you see him every day."

He started fidgeting in his chair and didn't know whether he should feel angry or not. But who would deserve his anger? Himself for having influenced the boy? Or his son for unconsciously copying his diction? He realised how stupid it would be to be upset over this, and settled on glaring at Martha.

"Shouldn't you be heading home?" he asked her, deflecting.

"Soon," she answered, familiar with his antics, "I'll be back tomorrow for Mr. Cole's check-up."

The Doctor nodded absently then froze.

"The small temporal lobe tumour we removed two months ago. Remember?" clarified Martha, thinking that the Doctor had stopped swivelling his chair because he had forgotten who the patient was.

But the Doctor's memory was intact, and he could picture quite clearly when the operation had taken place. Well, when it should have taken place the first time at least. It was on the day that Sam had punched a kid at school. The day he'd met Clara. It seemed incredible that only two months had gone by. Two months ago, he barely had any conversation with his son and he woke up every morning with the distinct impression that he was failing him miserably.

"You okay, Doctor?"

"I'm fine, I was just remembering the surgery," he explained. From Martha's expression, he could tell that she knew very well what he had actually been thinking about.

"Oh, and Carver wanted to know if you could cover his shift on Saturday," she added, just remembering.

Saturday? He had plans on Saturday. They were supposed to start working on fitting in Sam's room in the Tardis. And he wouldn't mind spending the morning in bed with Clara.

"I can't this weekend," he heard himself replying. Funny how he would have jumped at the occasion to help out two months ago.

"I'll tell him," Martha said with a smile that the Doctor thought looked rather proud.

Epilogue

Samuel loved the mornings on the Tardis. When the sun was already shining and he had breakfast with his dad on the deck. He never wanted this week to end, but he knew that September was almost upon them and that school would start soon.

They were taking a round trip North to Marsworth, and had reached the summit of the Chilterns on foot the previous day. This was the most wonderful birthday present he could have hoped for, and he couldn't wait to tell Alice about it and show her the new sketches he'd made.

He heard Clara coming up from below deck and he shared a private smile with his father. These days, Clara was always the last to rise, and him and his dad were secretly making up for all the times she had made fun of their early morning grogginess back in London.

"Morning," she mumbled, rolling the sleeves of her overlarge woollen sweater to give Sam's hair a fond pat.

"Morning," he replied, while she sat across from him next to his dad. They looked at each other for a few seconds before she surreptitiously sneaked a hand on the table to steal his cup of coffee. She inhaled the scent longingly and took a tentative sip.

"You do know that you're allowed to drink some coffee and tea. You're even allowed to drink it from your own cup," his father pointed out jokingly.

"I didn't use to like coffee, that's really unfair," she complained.

Retrieving his cup from her hands, he took a big mouthful of the hot beverage and made an appreciative sound.

"You're just being cruel," Clara said, but Sam saw the small smile at the corner of her lips.

"So, Sam, what do you want to do today?" she asked, turning towards him and looking slightly more awake already.

He pondered her question while observing them over the table. His dad had placed the cup within her reach, and Clara took another microscopic sip. Sam hoped that they would finally have that conversation with him. He knew they wanted to tell him – probably - but they never seemed to find the right moment. Frankly, he was getting tired of their antics. Did they really think he was that stupid? He'd just turned ten, after all. He wasn't a baby any more. And speaking of which, he secretly hoped that it would be a girl. A little sister sounded like an even better birthday present.

PS: A very warm thank you to all the people who've read or reviewed this story and carried it in their hearts all those months. Since I'm so terrible at saying goodbye, I might choose to revisit this world one day. But for now I think Sam, the Doctor and Clara are allowed some well-deserved rest.