All of time and space; everywhere and anywhere; every star that ever was. Where do you want to start?
dostoievskys-deactivated2021040:
12 days of whouffle christmas: five hugs
↳ the rings of akhaten, cold war, journey to the centre of the tardis, the name of the doctor and the day of the doctor
If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me, time after time
join the party, friend
twelve days of whoufflé christmas:
[one/two] kisses — the snowmen.These days, the Doctor didn’t pride himself on much. There wasn’t anything to pride himself over, not anymore. Not since the Ponds had left and he had resigned himself to stay up on the clouds with the one constant in his life, his TARDIS.
The days are terribly long and boring, but any thought of travelling, of meeting people, of finding that one brilliant person whom he may end up making his companion keeps him from doing anything rash. From running across the universe and time and time again losing someone he dearly loves.
Then along comes Clara, who is proving herself to be everything a perfect companion embodies. The Doctor is trying hard to stay away from her, holding her at arm’s length, but somehow she finds a way to entangle her life further with his. It should be irritating, and it is. It shouldn’t be uplifting, shouldn’t give him hope, but it does.
But he’s not expecting anything from…whatever it is that is happening between them. And he’s certainly not expecting a kiss in midst of a very troubling predicament indeed. But it occurs anyway.
One minute they are arguing with one another, or more like the Doctor arguing while Clara calmly deflects every single complaint, and then smooth hands are pulling his face down to hers. Soft, supple lips are pursuing his eagerly.
His first instinct is to flail. So he does. Wildly. His second? It’s to kiss her back. To grab her gently, hold her to him, and prolong the kiss. But he doesn’t know how to. It’s been quite some time since he’s kissed someone, since he has wanted to, and he has no idea what to do. But Clara seems experienced, if her leading the kiss with fervour is any indicator.
So he continues to flail, staring at her with wide eyes and flushed cheeks when she finally pulls away from him. He finds himself regretting his actions, of not having kissed back when there had still been time to.
“You kissed me!” he says afterwards, when they squabble some more.
“You blushed,” is all she says, smiling with an alarming amount of innocence. Her eyes showcase something completely different that would have made his hearts skip a beat if it were biologically possible.
And there is nothing he can say to refute it. She’s right, after all.
twelve days of whoufflé christmas:
[two/two] kisses — the day of the doctor.When she cups his cheek, smiling up at him, she does not mean to kiss him.
It was just a kiss on the cheek, she tries to convince herself when she is safely inside the TARDIS, patiently waiting for the Doctor to enter and whisk them off somewhere else (hopefully home, as the day has been emotionally taxing for the two of them, and tea sounds lovely). It hadn’t meant anything. There was nothing behind it; nothing that entailed anything romantic, any way.
But there had something there, hadn’t it? Or had that just been from her side of things? The way he had stared at her; so imploringly, almost lovingly. The way she had felt him tremble under her touch as her lips touched his smooth cheek. The way his eyes widened marginally when she first came close, as if he expected her to kiss him, properly kiss him.
There is no way for her to be sure. Maybe it is just her feelings blinding her to the truth. It wouldn’t be the first time a bloke didn’t fancy her like she did him. However, the Doctor is different than just any other bloke out there: he’s so much more.
And that is what is exhilarating, yet frightening about it all. He is so much more, and she is…well, his saviour, she supposes. Can there ever be anything more? Can romance spark between a Time Lord and mere human? She has seen it happen to him before, yes, but it has never ended wonderfully. How can anything between them ever be any different?
The more she thinks, the more dire the situation feels. She isn’t in love with the Doctor. She can’t be. As usual, she stomps down the thoughts, the doubts, the questions. She stomps down it all until all there is left is a hollow feeling in her gut and blankness in her mind.
There can never be anything more. She won’t let it. And she knows that he won’t either, even though his mannerisms scream otherwise—the hugs, the looks, the words, the kisses even. They all point to one thing. The very thing that will one day be the death of them both.
The TARDIS doors suddenly open, and Clara straightens up, tacking on a pleasant smile. “All done?”
The Doctor, who had at first looked so full of hope, stares at her silently. His smile wans some. “Not exactly, no,” he says, stepping inside carefully. “Everything alright, Clara?”
No. I am doing something very dangerous, Doctor: I am falling in love with you. I fear I may already have.
The answer that escapes her lips is different. “Yes. Of course, Doctor.”
