[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
[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.]