[Clara follows him, as she always has, as she always would given the choice.
The screened back porch overlooks a sprawling, green yard, sloping down the edge of a sparse wood. Everywhere, there are the detritus of her life with Cosima - two pairs of rain boots by the mat, two Adirondack chairs facing the screened wall, an ashtray and a calculator next to a regency romance novel and a box of Clara’s favorite biscuits. Clara passes them all to open the door, letting the Doctor pass her and head out into the yard.]
[ His eyes sweep over all of it, but he continues without comment into the backyard.
He plops down on the nearest solid surface outside the door, and stares skyward at the small smattering of visible stars. It's become habitual over this past mainly-sedentary century, stargazing— it's no substitute at all for travel, of course, but there's a comfort in it all the same.
With or without him, the universe spins madly on.
He doesn't take his eyes off it. After a long moment, he asks, ]
[Her voice is softer now, under the stars. Seeing the night sky above her is like having ground under one's feet. It reminds her that everything she loves - everything wonderful - is still out there, waiting for her.]
I met her once, actually. And I know you stayed with her for awhile after I left.
[She was glad to learn that. More than anything, she had worried herself sick over how he'd fare alone.]
[ Somehow, that doesn't surprise him. He just nods. Taps his foot in the grass. ]
One very, very long night. [ He lets out a slow breath and leans back, ]
Our last together. I'd known it would be, and I'd been running from it... but it caught up to me eventually, when I least expected it.
Any night could be the last, every Christmas is last Christmas. [ —he'd picked that phrase up somewhere, doesn't think anything of it, ] But she'd believed that "happily ever after" was found in the time you have together, however short or long.
[Clara tips forward and rests her head on her knees, considering his words.]
... But then it's over. It's always over.
[Again, and again, and again. She's getting so tired of it.]
I'm thirty-one, and I've already lost three people I wanted to stay with forever. How many more will that be by the time I go back to Gallifrey?
[She can feel her voice rising. The neighbors' lights are all too present in the corners of her eyes. Where the hell is the vacuum of space when you need it?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The screened back porch overlooks a sprawling, green yard, sloping down the edge of a sparse wood. Everywhere, there are the detritus of her life with Cosima - two pairs of rain boots by the mat, two Adirondack chairs facing the screened wall, an ashtray and a calculator next to a regency romance novel and a box of Clara’s favorite biscuits. Clara passes them all to open the door, letting the Doctor pass her and head out into the yard.]
no subject
He plops down on the nearest solid surface outside the door, and stares skyward at the small smattering of visible stars. It's become habitual over this past mainly-sedentary century, stargazing— it's no substitute at all for travel, of course, but there's a comfort in it all the same.
With or without him, the universe spins madly on.
He doesn't take his eyes off it. After a long moment, he asks, ]
Had I ever told you about River?
no subject
[Her voice is softer now, under the stars. Seeing the night sky above her is like having ground under one's feet. It reminds her that everything she loves - everything wonderful - is still out there, waiting for her.]
I met her once, actually. And I know you stayed with her for awhile after I left.
[She was glad to learn that. More than anything, she had worried herself sick over how he'd fare alone.]
no subject
One very, very long night. [ He lets out a slow breath and leans back, ]
Our last together. I'd known it would be, and I'd been running from it... but it caught up to me eventually, when I least expected it.
Any night could be the last, every Christmas is last Christmas. [ —he'd picked that phrase up somewhere, doesn't think anything of it, ] But she'd believed that "happily ever after" was found in the time you have together, however short or long.
Just the time.
no subject
... But then it's over. It's always over.
[Again, and again, and again. She's getting so tired of it.]
I'm thirty-one, and I've already lost three people I wanted to stay with forever. How many more will that be by the time I go back to Gallifrey?
[She can feel her voice rising. The neighbors' lights are all too present in the corners of her eyes. Where the hell is the vacuum of space when you need it?]