Doctor Who 1. Chapter 1

truth be told i've tried my best  
but somewhere along the way  
i got caught up in all there was to offer  
and the cost was so much more than i could bear

The heat washes over her and is oppressive as she tugs her bag higher over her shoulder, sighing silently as she steps inside her flat. Tossing her keys onto the hall table, she kicks off her shoes as she makes her way to the kitchen.

She had spent the whole day trapped in a school room without a whisper of a breeze and now that the sun was starting to set, she ventures onto the tiny back patio (she calls it a patio but it's really nothing more than a square of cement but its hers) with a glass of wine. Even with the heat pressing against her, she enjoys the peace.

For a moment.

"There's nothing to do in your kitchen."

Clara turns to stare back at the Doctor, watching his lips curl into a pout.

"Haven't you broken enough of my appliances? I still haven't gotten a replacement toaster from you, despite your numerous promises. How long have you been here?"

"No money. You didn't leave any." The Doctor pushes gently at the door, forcing Clara to shift forward to allow him entrance onto the patio. He is successful at ignoring her protests and questions. He sits down next to her forcing her to budge over. "Hey!" She protests, but doesn't really push.

The Doctor ignores her protests. "Good, now that you're home we can go have some fun. I'm bored. " She only rolls her eyes, turning to face him. "You have a _time machine_. How is that even possible? Just pop ahead to when I'm free and we can be off."

He turns and stares at her thoughtfully, "Well and good, but you're never free. Always busy, swanning off to this and that. It's quite annoying." He is careful to not sit too close to her, trying to keep the annoyance out of his face and voice. They sit shoulder to shoulder, staring at the colors streaking across the sky, the silence between them quiet and heavy. She doesn't know how to respond. Her life has gotten complicated these past few months and in truth, she feels like she is living a double life. She wants to blame him, tell him that it's his fault for changing the dynamic of their relationship. _I never said it was your mistake._ Her breath still catches when she thinks too much on it.

"It really is lovely at this time of night. I feel like I never get to see this." Clara spoke softly, cutting through the silence.

The Doctor turns to look at her, hand coming up to ghost against her hair, stopping himself before he touches it. "I like when you wear your hair down."

Clara smiles at him, "Yeah, you notice? Half the time I am not sure you even see me."

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't answer. Instead, he stands, extending his hand down to her. She reaches up and lets him help her up. But he drops her hand as quickly as he is able, brushing his against the leg of his pants. Clara pretends she doesn't see.

She follows him, tired as she is, because she can't quite let them go.

She thinks about leaving sometimes.

Actually, she thinks about leaving almost every day. Telling the Doctor that she can't do this anymore. The double life, the secrets, and now the lies. It's starting to become the first thing she thinks about in the morning and the very last thought she has before drifting off into oblivion at night. She knows that it might be easier to just stop, because it hurts to hold on and she knows it will hurt so much more to let go.

She doesn't leave because he is hers and she is his. He scowls and avoids, this thinking Doctor of hers but he is still hers. She knows he pushes at her, wanting her to have another life but sometimes she thinks he sees her as the prize; the one to win by being better, faster, and smarter than all the others. His vanity is still at play and sometimes she wonders if it's enough. Is it jealousy that has him popping into her flat more often than not or is it sheer competitiveness that drives him? What happens to her when he wins?

Time to go, time to go. It echoes in her mind, every time she sees him (which is less and less frequently) but she knows she's stronger than that.

At least, she wants to be.

It rained the day they ended.

Rain so hard you could see the slant as it worked its way down from the clouds and dropped to the ground with a distinct plop and ricochet. The rain was fast, furious in its intensity and Clara thought it was simply a reflection of the day she had been having. She turns her face up to the sky through the windows of her flat, hoping that the onslaught doesn't signify anything more than what it was. Rain.

She turns to watch the Doctor pacing up and down her hallway at a dizzying pace. She places her fingers against her temple, willing the throbbing to stop. "Look at all the time we're wasting! We could have been gone and back by now." His voice cracks through her head like whip and Clara winces.

"I told you, I can't." She sighes. "Honestly, I am not feeling all that great." He stops his endless pacing and pauses in front of her. "Are you ok?" concern evident on his face.

"No, I just said I wasn't."

"But it's Wednesday." His voice is petulant and Clara wants to smack him.

"Still not ok."

"So you're…not…coming?" The Doctor stares at her, dragging out the sentence.

"No, not." Clara closes her eyes, listening to the sounds of the Tardis as it leaves.

It is weeks before the Doctor returns.

Sometimes Clara wonders how it came to this. The more she pulls, the more he pushes. She gives, he takes. This is what they have become. When did it become such a struggle? The simple things became so complex and she spends too much of her time wondering what he is doing, and how he is feeling. Gone is the easy flow of their relationship and she misses him even more.

She can't begin to count all the times that she'd tried to push through his defenses, clawed away at them, only to be met with more layers. The hand that was ignored, the wary way he watched her, in case she moved too close. She kept waiting, hoping that he would see beneath all that pain that lurks. What was one more day if it meant having one more moment? She has started gathering all the moments together and clinging to them, hoping that they would change what she had become. Clara hopes that these moments would complete them if she could hold onto enough of them.

Clara thinks she can hold on just a little bit longer, stay the ebbing tide that is on its way to totally consuming her. But she's so tired and she is sure, so sure, that this is the right time. When did she become so consumed with leaving? How can she even contemplate it? Could she even consider it?

_One day you meet the Doctor. And of course, it's the best day ever. It's just the best day of your life. Because, because he's brilliant, and he's funny, and mad, and best of all, he really needs you. The trick is, don't fall in love. I do that trick quite a lot, sometimes twice a day. And once you start running, you start to forget, slowly. After a while, you just stop asking._

_Don't fall in love._

Too late.

It's a Thursday when they meet again.

She sighs when she hears the sound of the Tardis in her bedroom and moves from the kitchen to greet him. He doesn't come out, so she pushes on the door and enters the Tardis slowly. She sees him leaning against the console and feels a rush of pleasure stream through her. She knows now that there is no way she could leave, the past few weeks had been needed but unbearable. She approaches him cautiously, wanting nothing more than to fling herself against him and welcome him back.

He looks at her, his gaze steady. "It's not Wednesday, are you free?"

"Where have you been?" She can avoid as easily.

"You've been busy, thought I would give you space." He turns to look down at the console. "Or did I misunderstand?"

Her voice is quiet, full of apology. "I'm free. Where are we going?"

He won't admit it but he missed her terribly, he hates Wednesdays almost as much as he craves them. The hours are endless and he misses having her with him. Planning was never something he was overly good at. Things were going to change.

"On a trip!"


	2. Chapter 2

See the lies first, look for the truth next.

He finds her on a Thursday, after. He won't admit that he did it on purpose, that he learned over time to hate Wednesdays. It's frustrating that he spends more time begging her to travel with him than he does _actually travelling _with her. He wants to tell her so much; that he misses her when she's not there, that he hates this other life she leads even though he knows that she wants the two boxes of her life separate, needs that control. He doesn't tell her that he's spent the better part of the past few weeks ignoring her; ignoring the emptiness. He doesn't tell her that he had hoped that she would miss him enough to leave with him, even on a Thursday. He's mildly surprised when she does.

He doesn't let her know any of this.

Instead, he asks her to come with him and waits for her answer. He sighs quietly when she does.

Next, see if there is truth in the lies.

She's quiet as she studies him, the wary way he watches her and sees the cold note in his eyes. _There's a sliver of ice in his heart. _Emma's warning never seemed so true. This bothers her, a little, changes her perception of him enough that she clenches her hands tight. She doesn't doubt that he would notice the gesture. He has.

"I see you've haven't got a date tonight." His mouth curls into a smirk.

"I see you haven't learned any manners." Instantly, she brushes down the urge to make another retort (why bother), and hates that in the span of two minutes he can make her feel so defensive.

So she waits, eyebrows arched. It doesn't take long.

"There's a thing."

"There's always a thing. When did a thing become a thing? Is this what we are now?" Her heart, pieces already chipped at, threatens to shatter entirely.

Because she knows this is why he would come to look for her and it breaks her a little. 

Because inside his lie, there's a truth.

She's on a planet, time all but forgotten and the Doctor is watching her, weighing his options carefully. Another man's hands are resting lightly on her arm and she's leaning in, flirting with her eyes and body. The dress is too tight but it's all part of the game (plus she knows it looks good on her).

He moves his hand to the nape of her neck and she won't claim that she's not affected (she misses the Doctor's touch so is her body saying any man will do?). It's the game; they made the mistake of being at the wrong place at the wrong time (time to get out, out, get out). She had wryly asked the Doctor how far she should let the game go and he had leveled his gaze on her, eyes burning tension. _We have to do what the Game Maker tells us to do._ She had flushed, with anger and embarrassment (and not without resentment).

Now, she's tempted (oh so tempted), when she catches him out of the corner of her eyes, watching them. His hand is clenched tightly around the glass in front of him, eyes burning into hers. The corners of his mouth are turned down, and she looks away quickly. There's a game to be played and she shouldn't forget.

(but she might let the Game Maker kiss her once or twice, just to remind herself)

Finally, the lie is truth.

He leans over, his lips quickly claiming hers, his eyes close and she presses closer to him taking the lead, allowing their breaths to mingle. She leans closer to him, kissing him with an urgency that shakes her. Clutching at his shirt, he gently pries her fingers off, as if to say, _'don't wrinkle the shirt.'_ She thinks, _'the hell with this,'_ but then his tongue delves deeper, exploding with urgency, his mouth restless, moving over hers and drawing her closer, demanding more.

She licks his bottom lip and he groans, parting his mouth and holding her face more firmly. She touches his tongue with the tip of hers and then withdraws a fraction, teasing, getting him to lean forward, and searching for more. His tongue chases hers, playing and exploring. His kiss is not gentle; instead it's hungry and possessive. She tastes both frustration and desire, held back with a fierce restraint. Their tongues tangled together in a heated dance so sensual her body ignited and burned.

For only a kiss it was unbelievably erotic.

He pulls back, "Clara," he whispers, and covers her mouth again. She participates fully in the kiss, opening her mouth under his, raising her hands to rest them on his shoulders. When his tongue met hers again, she digs her nails into his shoulders and hears the soft hiss he makes. She breathes in deeply, her nose next to his cheek and absorbs herself in a heady odor of soap and him. With each beat of her heart, with each stroke of his tongue, she slides further down the bed. Because she couldn't stay upright, his body is pressing her down, down, down…

He groans and dimly, she realizes he is affected as she is (layers to this man, she's always known that). She should draw away, walk away while she still can, but his mouth is too delicious, stroking heat into her, his taste too heady. She drifts dreamily, drugged with sexual heat as he explores her mouth.

He withdraws the barest breath away and she sighs in disappointment, but he immediately places his lips on her jawbone and nips lightly. His voice startles her, so out of place in this context, "I think you flirted on purpose. Is this what you wanted?"

She wants to push him away, hates how easily he sees her. _'As if everything,'_ she wants to say, _'isn't already a game of control with you.'_ But she doesn't, this feels too good and she's wanted this too long. Instead, she leans back and her breathing speeds up as his mouth moves to her ear, where he traces delicate whorls with his tongue.

(tomorrow is another reason to stay)

He lifts his head and she shivers at the heat in his eyes. Arousal had turned his face stark, his face flushed. His eyes are dark and his hand is slowly stroking her breast, his thumb slowly circling her nipple.

Lies uncovered by truth, are they still lies?

How many times has he wanted to touch her, caress her, stroke her, feeling her skin warm under his touch? He layers everything he feels for her beneath his cold indifference, beneath his faint praise. He should have known that she would be the one to see through it.

"Doctor," she murmurs as she exhales softly, her head falling to one side.

"You're lovely." His voice comes out low and rough.

He still can't get the image of another man's hands touching her, kissing her; out of his head. It drives him crazy and his hands turn rough as he pulls her closer to him. With a low, maddened growl, he pulls her panties off and pulls her up to him. He turns away from the bed with her held in one arm and with the other he moves over to a small desk in the corner, sweeping it clear; books and papers fly to the floor as he lays her down on the surface.

He stops a moment, staring down at her figure laid out like a sacrifice. He is hard as a rock, his penis straining to be inside her. "I need you, Clara." He mutters against her neck, not really sure what he is saying.

"Yes."

His eyes close and his hands shake as they travel up her legs. His thumbs open her and he drops to his knees. He watches his fingers coax her arousal from her. Her back arches and she moans as he slides first one finger, then a second finger into her.

He brings his mouth to her and hears her sharp intake of breath. He kisses her deeply, exactly as if he were kissing her mouth. His tongue circles her then slides lower to plunge back into her. His thumbs opened her wider as his tongue imitates his cock. Clara's thighs shake and she suddenly cries out and pulses against his mouth. He can feel, taste her climax. Rising swiftly, he opens his pants, pulls her towards him and thrusts into her hard. He grits his teeth to keep still as she continues to climax around him. She throws her arms up over her head and lays stretched out before him, pale and slender, impaled on his cock.

As the contractions faded away, she opens her eyes. "God," she whispers, sounding dazed.

"Doctor," he says harshly, staring at her face. Flexing his back muscles, he pushes with the force of his hips deeper into her. He clenches his jaw and pushes farther, opening her up even more to his possession.

"Mine," his voice guttural.

They stare at each other, joined in every way possible, and he breaks under her gaze. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise and he begins thrusting with all the strength of his body. Hard and fast, creating a rhythm which he knew would have hurt her if she hadn't already climaxed. He can hear her faint cries beneath him and when he feels the clench of her around him it was as if a bus had barreled into him and he pushes in her a final time. His orgasm seems to last for hours as he shakes and groans, spilling into her.

He will never be able to get enough of Clara, never be able to let her go. His breath still catches at the thought that she could have walked away from him and that he would have let her.

Lies he tells himself.


End file.
