Well, I had been thinking of making a trip up to the mines after everyone's left them and gone to bed. Thought I'd do a little bit of investigating, you know. Or there's seeing the stables again, but —
[ The Doctor is, as he has a penchant to do, rambling yet again. It isn't quite the nerves this time, but then there's the way she's looking up at him now, eyes practically boring into hers. And no, he doesn't look away either, the whole room around them floating away.
He clears his throat, properly seeing her, and touches her cheek. It's light and could be construed as playful even — in certain circumstances. But his expression softens and he shakes his head. ]
But I can be here tonight if you'd like. Suppose it's a husband's duty, eh? [ He smiles then, with the barest glint of mischief. ] Plenty we could explore later anyway.
[His touch to her cheek is electric. Goosebumps rise up over her arms as he does, and even though the touch is likely just meant to be a silly playful thing, her cheek leans right into it as if she's seeking out firmer contact.
Typically this would be where she attempts to fluster him by saying something ridiculous like There's plenty we can explore here in bed too. But things have shifted between them to not feel like she needs to do that. Not when she's feeling a bit of hope, happiness warming her heart until she's unable to keep the joy off her face.]
We can head to the mines tomorrow night. Just the two of us.
[But tonight he's hers, and she has every intention of filling the time with whispered conversation and laughter beneath the blankets in bed. Her hand reaches up, fingers curling around his wrist. Her thumb softly works along his pulse point, feeling his double heartbeat. Is this closeness effecting him as much as it is her?]
[ Not that whatever it is she's got planned for them tonight might be any less fun. It'll be a different sort of fun. And it is. Different, that is. Something's ... shifted. It doesn't feel awful; it's actually really rather the opposite, and it's got him feeling just a bit nervous, but a bit excited, but mostly he's trying not to think of it at all. He doesn't want to think about that horrid conversation they'd had some months ago, and the way he'd put that look of disappointment into her expression. He doesn't want to think of how afraid he'd been that he'd gone and wrecked their whole friendship, that he'd hurt her and driven her away from him ... even if that couldn't really be possible knowing what little he knows of his future self.
And he doesn't want to think of how selfish he's being right now, or how much more selfish he can be if he lets himself. Which, really, is good because the Doctor takes pride in being rather practiced in the art of distraction.
Even when Clara's pressing her thumb against his pulse, which is only serving to make his hearts beat just a tick faster.
[Ah, his heart is beating a bit faster now. That...well, that's good, isn't it? It means he must be feeling something. She stares up at him for a few moments later, their eyes staying connected the entire time. But she's the one that eventually looks and pulls away, going to retrieve her new dress. They have roles to play here, and she's determined to perform hers flawlessly.
It's hours and hours later that night, after he's back from his exploring and she's exhausted after her first long shift downstairs in the saloon. He's helped her remove her dress and corset, and they've found their way dressed down and in bed. They're caught staring at one another again, only this time they're beneath the covers in the small bed, curled up on their sides. They've pulled them up over their heads and are using a scrap of wood that she's carved to have the charter symbol for light magic that Sabriel taught her. It's resting on the bed between them, allowing them to see one another. They've just previously been discussing her studying magic and the conversation's fallen to the wayside, leaving them silently looking at one another. She doesn't even realize they've also been holding hands until she feels the brush of his thumb against her finger, causing her fingers to curl further inward against his.
Slowly, the corners of her mouth tug upward into a smile. These moments with shared whispers and longing looks mean a great deal to her. More than he likely will ever know. ]
Do you remember your anti-gravity motorbike? I wish we had one here with us. Can you imagine the look on everyone's faces as we raced up the side of the mountain?
[She giggles, smile turning into more of an amused smirk. But she never looks away. Not even when she knows she really should. But it's not as if he's looking away either. So there's no harm in this, in soft words spoken and hands being held. It's just the way things are between them now.]
Oh, that'd be brilliant. Wish I did have my anti-grav motorbike, though I suppose the kick-up of dust wouldn't change, and we'd still be walking around in our dusty clothing all day.
[ And said dusty heap of clothing is now not-so-carefully draped across the backs of chairs and on top of dressers, and stuffed into drawers.
All in all, the evening is turning out to be a delightful one, even without the usual hustle and bustle of an adventure or a life-threatening invasion, or something trying to chase them or eat them or end the entire cosmos. He wonders if this is what a normal human life is like, all those bits he'd been too impatient to stick around for, when he'd kick up a fuss and huffily make his way back into the TARDIS for a kip to some different era in a different galaxy, just because he could.
It's the sort of calmness that they haven't really had the time for even on the station, where things always felt a little more ... cramped. Closely tucked in with their fellow crewmates, there was always the chance that someone would need something, or someone would run into someone else, and three very dangerous glowing orbs were housed in the wing the next hall over.
He's still holding her hand in his, thumb gently sketching light haphazard circles over her skin as he thinks about all the other things that might be out of place in a world like this one. ]
[She isn't expecting the mention of a giraffe. Though with the Doctor, she supposes she really should always expect the unexpected. Her nose wrinkles up as she laughs softly, giving a light shake of her head. ]
Probably for the best. I don't think giraffes would do well with all the sand.
[Not that she does much better. It feels like they're always covered in a thin layer of dirt and sand, and no amount of cleaning she does helps keep it tame. Not that it matters much, since this isn't really their home. But it's been easy for her to get lost in the idea of being his wife, of playing the part. Of living together like this, something sweet and quiet and absolutely perfect.
Her thumb shifts, moving to brush against his. And as her legs move a little, she may or may not bump her foot against his. Unintentionally, of course.]
You should find a reason to do that dance of yours for them. The one where you look like a giraffe?
There is a decided lack of greenery in the desert, yes.
[ He pauses, scrolling through the rolodex of all the strange and wonderful creatures he'd seen and met over the years, thinks about the closest things that could come to giraffes in a desert and decides — ]
I think they'd only be a little grumpy out here, but they'd get on with the horses. And the little flower mantisaurs! They're a friendly lot.
[ And don't think he hasn't noticed that bump of her foot. He bumps back, but only because he thinks its some kind of tease regarding his dancing. ]
Oi! [ A huffed admonishment. ] I do not look like a giraffe. It's a perfectly respectable — downright fashionable, actually — dance move, and I'll have you know it was all the rage in 3340 Legansalia.
[She easily suggests, as if it's actually a possibility. It isn't, of course, and they're both aware of it. But still, it's a nice thought. So nice that she feels her cheeks flushing a bit as she's embarrassed by the disappointment of his not being able to take her. She covers that up by nudging her foot against his again, this time in a brush that has her foot lingering right up against his. ]
I know you can dance, Doctor. You showed me in Braccia, remember?
[Back when they had pretended to be married the first time. It's almost funny to her how that had felt like simply playing at something. This time around though, it feels so real that it's easy to forget they're still just the Doctor and Clara.]
Oh, yes. [ Also said like they've got all of the time (and space) in the world to go on their endless adventures. It's almost convincing enough to be believable, in fact. Sometimes, when the Doctor really puts his mind to it, he can believe the lies he tells like they're real. ] There's plenty of places we haven't seen yet, plenty of things to do —
[ Oh. The feeling of her foot pressed in next to his shouldn't incite any sort of emotional response, and yet it leaves him half-wanting to fidget or flap away if he thinks too hard about it. ]
I am not pouting. [ He huffs again, but it lacks any bite. Especially when he rolls a little closer to her, like he might take her dancing right here, right now, under this bedsheet-tent they've created. ] I did, didn't I? And we were brilliant.
[She points out in a whisper, scooting so they're closer together still. Their hands are joined and her other hand rests against his waist, just like they're slow dancing once again. Which is silly, of course, because they can't slow dance while laying in bed. So her fingers press against him a few times before slipping away, palm pressing down against the bed.
But then she thinks better of it and shyly puts her hand back, a gesture very unlike her typical forward nature. And even more unlike herself, she starts to sing. When you're feeling nervous and afraid, is there anything better to sing than a little Duran Duran?
It's absolutely ridiculous to be singing this particular song while discussing slow dancing. But something about singing about being lost and found and hungry like the wolf to the cadence of a slow song they could actually dance to feels exactly like the sort of language that is secretly theirs. It's so ridiculous, it just feels right.
She had said back when she first sang this out loud, on the soviet sub in 1983, that life wasn't a Disney movie. That singing wouldn't make things better. And maybe it doesn't now. But all the weight she's been carrying since Christmas seems to be gone completely now. Hidden away in their private little world, she's lost in his orbit while she's kept safe being in the center of his gravity.]
[ When Clara starts to sing in that perfectly imperfect way of hers, it's soft and sweet and reminiscent of the soviet sub they'd been on. Facing down Skaldak and deactivating those missiles ... the whole adventure feels like years and years ago. Time, of course, has always been a little bit funny for the Doctor, but it had always been his choice too. He could always pick the when and the where to go, and he could go back if he didn't like it anymore. It was always Next Wednesday if he wanted it to be. But it could be last Wednesday too.
But his life spent on the Ximilia ... it's the first time in a long, long time when he'd gone through it all, every minute experienced, every second in one straight line without a hitch.
He closes his eyes while she sings, his hand still linked with hers, mouth curved into a small smile. Like he's committing this particular version of the song to memory, letting the sound of Clara's voice sear itself onto his hearts — because these things don't last forever, not even for a time lord with a spaceship, but the Doctor never forgets a single second.
[Eventually her singing trails off into just humming, until their foreheads are pressed together and their noses are brushing against one another. She can feel his breath warm against her, and knows it would be so easy to kiss him. And she very nearly does, up until she realizes this isn't the right time.
She's rushed so many things. She can't rush this. Not with him. Panic at the thought of her ruining whatever this is between them fills her and she abruptly stops humming, pulling back and causing the blankets to tug down around them so they're back out in the open once again.]
We should -
[She can't think of a single thing they should be doing. But she's definitely flailing, fingers knitting together in anxiety. It's with a self-conscious laugh that she pulls herself out of bed and over toward her notebook. If she opens it up and looks at it hard enough, maybe he'll believe she has something very important to tend to.
And maybe if she lies to herself a bit more, she'll believe there's absolutely nothing between them for her to be nervous about.]
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no subject
[ The Doctor is, as he has a penchant to do, rambling yet again. It isn't quite the nerves this time, but then there's the way she's looking up at him now, eyes practically boring into hers. And no, he doesn't look away either, the whole room around them floating away.
He clears his throat, properly seeing her, and touches her cheek. It's light and could be construed as playful even — in certain circumstances. But his expression softens and he shakes his head. ]
But I can be here tonight if you'd like. Suppose it's a husband's duty, eh? [ He smiles then, with the barest glint of mischief. ] Plenty we could explore later anyway.
no subject
Typically this would be where she attempts to fluster him by saying something ridiculous like There's plenty we can explore here in bed too. But things have shifted between them to not feel like she needs to do that. Not when she's feeling a bit of hope, happiness warming her heart until she's unable to keep the joy off her face.]
We can head to the mines tomorrow night. Just the two of us.
[But tonight he's hers, and she has every intention of filling the time with whispered conversation and laughter beneath the blankets in bed. Her hand reaches up, fingers curling around his wrist. Her thumb softly works along his pulse point, feeling his double heartbeat. Is this closeness effecting him as much as it is her?]
no subject
[ Not that whatever it is she's got planned for them tonight might be any less fun. It'll be a different sort of fun. And it is. Different, that is. Something's ... shifted. It doesn't feel awful; it's actually really rather the opposite, and it's got him feeling just a bit nervous, but a bit excited, but mostly he's trying not to think of it at all. He doesn't want to think about that horrid conversation they'd had some months ago, and the way he'd put that look of disappointment into her expression. He doesn't want to think of how afraid he'd been that he'd gone and wrecked their whole friendship, that he'd hurt her and driven her away from him ... even if that couldn't really be possible knowing what little he knows of his future self.
And he doesn't want to think of how selfish he's being right now, or how much more selfish he can be if he lets himself. Which, really, is good because the Doctor takes pride in being rather practiced in the art of distraction.
Even when Clara's pressing her thumb against his pulse, which is only serving to make his hearts beat just a tick faster.
The Doctor swallows. ]
Well. Yes, yes, I can't wait.
no subject
It's hours and hours later that night, after he's back from his exploring and she's exhausted after her first long shift downstairs in the saloon. He's helped her remove her dress and corset, and they've found their way dressed down and in bed. They're caught staring at one another again, only this time they're beneath the covers in the small bed, curled up on their sides. They've pulled them up over their heads and are using a scrap of wood that she's carved to have the charter symbol for light magic that Sabriel taught her. It's resting on the bed between them, allowing them to see one another. They've just previously been discussing her studying magic and the conversation's fallen to the wayside, leaving them silently looking at one another. She doesn't even realize they've also been holding hands until she feels the brush of his thumb against her finger, causing her fingers to curl further inward against his.
Slowly, the corners of her mouth tug upward into a smile. These moments with shared whispers and longing looks mean a great deal to her. More than he likely will ever know. ]
Do you remember your anti-gravity motorbike? I wish we had one here with us. Can you imagine the look on everyone's faces as we raced up the side of the mountain?
[She giggles, smile turning into more of an amused smirk. But she never looks away. Not even when she knows she really should. But it's not as if he's looking away either. So there's no harm in this, in soft words spoken and hands being held. It's just the way things are between them now.]
no subject
[ And said dusty heap of clothing is now not-so-carefully draped across the backs of chairs and on top of dressers, and stuffed into drawers.
All in all, the evening is turning out to be a delightful one, even without the usual hustle and bustle of an adventure or a life-threatening invasion, or something trying to chase them or eat them or end the entire cosmos. He wonders if this is what a normal human life is like, all those bits he'd been too impatient to stick around for, when he'd kick up a fuss and huffily make his way back into the TARDIS for a kip to some different era in a different galaxy, just because he could.
It's the sort of calmness that they haven't really had the time for even on the station, where things always felt a little more ... cramped. Closely tucked in with their fellow crewmates, there was always the chance that someone would need something, or someone would run into someone else, and three very dangerous glowing orbs were housed in the wing the next hall over.
He's still holding her hand in his, thumb gently sketching light haphazard circles over her skin as he thinks about all the other things that might be out of place in a world like this one. ]
I'll bet they've never seen a giraffe here.
no subject
Probably for the best. I don't think giraffes would do well with all the sand.
[Not that she does much better. It feels like they're always covered in a thin layer of dirt and sand, and no amount of cleaning she does helps keep it tame. Not that it matters much, since this isn't really their home. But it's been easy for her to get lost in the idea of being his wife, of playing the part. Of living together like this, something sweet and quiet and absolutely perfect.
Her thumb shifts, moving to brush against his. And as her legs move a little, she may or may not bump her foot against his. Unintentionally, of course.]
You should find a reason to do that dance of yours for them. The one where you look like a giraffe?
no subject
[ He pauses, scrolling through the rolodex of all the strange and wonderful creatures he'd seen and met over the years, thinks about the closest things that could come to giraffes in a desert and decides — ]
I think they'd only be a little grumpy out here, but they'd get on with the horses. And the little flower mantisaurs! They're a friendly lot.
[ And don't think he hasn't noticed that bump of her foot. He bumps back, but only because he thinks its some kind of tease regarding his dancing. ]
Oi! [ A huffed admonishment. ] I do not look like a giraffe. It's a perfectly respectable — downright fashionable, actually — dance move, and I'll have you know it was all the rage in 3340 Legansalia.
no subject
[She easily suggests, as if it's actually a possibility. It isn't, of course, and they're both aware of it. But still, it's a nice thought. So nice that she feels her cheeks flushing a bit as she's embarrassed by the disappointment of his not being able to take her. She covers that up by nudging her foot against his again, this time in a brush that has her foot lingering right up against his. ]
I know you can dance, Doctor. You showed me in Braccia, remember?
[Back when they had pretended to be married the first time. It's almost funny to her how that had felt like simply playing at something. This time around though, it feels so real that it's easy to forget they're still just the Doctor and Clara.]
So there's no reason to pout.
no subject
[ Oh. The feeling of her foot pressed in next to his shouldn't incite any sort of emotional response, and yet it leaves him half-wanting to fidget or flap away if he thinks too hard about it. ]
I am not pouting. [ He huffs again, but it lacks any bite. Especially when he rolls a little closer to her, like he might take her dancing right here, right now, under this bedsheet-tent they've created. ] I did, didn't I? And we were brilliant.
no subject
[She points out in a whisper, scooting so they're closer together still. Their hands are joined and her other hand rests against his waist, just like they're slow dancing once again. Which is silly, of course, because they can't slow dance while laying in bed. So her fingers press against him a few times before slipping away, palm pressing down against the bed.
But then she thinks better of it and shyly puts her hand back, a gesture very unlike her typical forward nature. And even more unlike herself, she starts to sing. When you're feeling nervous and afraid, is there anything better to sing than a little Duran Duran?
It's absolutely ridiculous to be singing this particular song while discussing slow dancing. But something about singing about being lost and found and hungry like the wolf to the cadence of a slow song they could actually dance to feels exactly like the sort of language that is secretly theirs. It's so ridiculous, it just feels right.
She had said back when she first sang this out loud, on the soviet sub in 1983, that life wasn't a Disney movie. That singing wouldn't make things better. And maybe it doesn't now. But all the weight she's been carrying since Christmas seems to be gone completely now. Hidden away in their private little world, she's lost in his orbit while she's kept safe being in the center of his gravity.]
no subject
[ When Clara starts to sing in that perfectly imperfect way of hers, it's soft and sweet and reminiscent of the soviet sub they'd been on. Facing down Skaldak and deactivating those missiles ... the whole adventure feels like years and years ago. Time, of course, has always been a little bit funny for the Doctor, but it had always been his choice too. He could always pick the when and the where to go, and he could go back if he didn't like it anymore. It was always Next Wednesday if he wanted it to be. But it could be last Wednesday too.
But his life spent on the Ximilia ... it's the first time in a long, long time when he'd gone through it all, every minute experienced, every second in one straight line without a hitch.
He closes his eyes while she sings, his hand still linked with hers, mouth curved into a small smile. Like he's committing this particular version of the song to memory, letting the sound of Clara's voice sear itself onto his hearts — because these things don't last forever, not even for a time lord with a spaceship, but the Doctor never forgets a single second.
And he certainly won't forget this. ]
no subject
She's rushed so many things. She can't rush this. Not with him. Panic at the thought of her ruining whatever this is between them fills her and she abruptly stops humming, pulling back and causing the blankets to tug down around them so they're back out in the open once again.]
We should -
[She can't think of a single thing they should be doing. But she's definitely flailing, fingers knitting together in anxiety. It's with a self-conscious laugh that she pulls herself out of bed and over toward her notebook. If she opens it up and looks at it hard enough, maybe he'll believe she has something very important to tend to.
And maybe if she lies to herself a bit more, she'll believe there's absolutely nothing between them for her to be nervous about.]