Clara, you don't want to be saying things like that, not to me.
[ Where he'd been standing stock-still before her, their foreheads pressed together, her voice soft and her breath a little shaky, now he reaches with both hands to hold her face between them. Steady, still, gentle, and he tilts his gaze to look at her, eyes going a little cross when he focuses on her mouth, her nose, finally glancing towards her eyes.
He could follow her comment up with humour, could bring it out into lightness, and he could distract them both, send their conversation veering off into something droll, something silly. But the sharp edge of her words and a familiar aching keeps him solemn.
Yes — he's been here before, had to leave her behind too, and he doesn't — he doesn't want to leave Clara now. Hell, he isn't sure that he could.
But. ]
I'm a different me from the me that you know, and I don't mean the old man with the severe eyebrows. You said so yourself, you're from a time when you knew me better than I know you. [ And before she can protest that none of that matters, or the fact that time is always a bit bonkers when it comes to travelers like them, he continues on. She'd be right, though; it doesn't actually matter. It's just something he feels he should say.
What he says next does matter: ] I'm no good for you, and all of this — it won't last forever, you'll get tired of it. You'll want things. You'll want more. And you deserve those things, those humany things.
[ He's very old and he'll still live longer than she will; that's just the way of it. She deserves someone better, she deserves a whole, full life full of human experiences that isn't the madness and chaos of the life (the lives) that the Doctor leads. It doesn't escape him either the reason he's here at all: his regret. What had happened because of him. How Amy and Rory had died because he'd tried so hard to let go, and couldn't, and in the end it had cost them their lives.
In the end, he is meant to be alone. How could he condemn Clara to a similar fate? ]
no subject
[ Where he'd been standing stock-still before her, their foreheads pressed together, her voice soft and her breath a little shaky, now he reaches with both hands to hold her face between them. Steady, still, gentle, and he tilts his gaze to look at her, eyes going a little cross when he focuses on her mouth, her nose, finally glancing towards her eyes.
He could follow her comment up with humour, could bring it out into lightness, and he could distract them both, send their conversation veering off into something droll, something silly. But the sharp edge of her words and a familiar aching keeps him solemn.
Yes — he's been here before, had to leave her behind too, and he doesn't — he doesn't want to leave Clara now. Hell, he isn't sure that he could.
But. ]
I'm a different me from the me that you know, and I don't mean the old man with the severe eyebrows. You said so yourself, you're from a time when you knew me better than I know you. [ And before she can protest that none of that matters, or the fact that time is always a bit bonkers when it comes to travelers like them, he continues on. She'd be right, though; it doesn't actually matter. It's just something he feels he should say.
What he says next does matter: ] I'm no good for you, and all of this — it won't last forever, you'll get tired of it. You'll want things. You'll want more. And you deserve those things, those humany things.
[ He's very old and he'll still live longer than she will; that's just the way of it. She deserves someone better, she deserves a whole, full life full of human experiences that isn't the madness and chaos of the life (the lives) that the Doctor leads. It doesn't escape him either the reason he's here at all: his regret. What had happened because of him. How Amy and Rory had died because he'd tried so hard to let go, and couldn't, and in the end it had cost them their lives.
In the end, he is meant to be alone. How could he condemn Clara to a similar fate? ]