❛ WHERE I STAND.

Appearing like a winged creature poised on a pedestal, this object is actually a billowing tower of cold gas and dust rising from a stellar nursery called the Eagle Nebula. The soaring tower is 9.5 light-years high, about twice the distance from our Sun to the next nearest star

Clara Oswald, Face The Raven

If I ever needed proof that I loved you as a character, this is it.

Heal yourself.

By God, she’s trying, at least.

She watches him, half expecting some sort of outburst or anything that might make her flinch or recoil. She expects to be shouted at for even daring to disturb him, to be honest. She remembers that temper well. When none of it comes and he does take a small drink of the tea, she relaxes - somewhat. Her emotions are still broken and her chest is tight; everything within her feels shattered to the core. Half because of her own thoughts and memories, the other half comes from him. She takes it in stride - if there’s any way she can lessen the pain, she will. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when she agrees. It’s not as if he’d expected her to hightail it out of there as soon as he gave her the chance, but verbal confirmation that she’s staying comes as a relief to him. He’s not sure why. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone. It’s not as if he’s alone by choice, though. Not this time.

The touch doesn’t go over as well. Initially, he jerks away like her touch is electric. It’s a natural instinct, nothing against her specifically. He’s been keeping it together well so far (at least in front of Thirteen, but his hands still ache from taking his emotions out on the console after he’d seen Rigsy’s memorial on the TARDIS), but everything’s still so raw. Twelve spends a moment perched on the edge of his seat, trying to get his emotions back under check.

     Quietly, she places a cup of tea in front of him.      She’s actively trying to hold back tears; what had      started as a comfort attempt was going slightly off      kilter. She can feel everything he does, the pain,       the anger, the suffering - it makes her remember all      over again.

His eyes are firmly closed, and he intends to keep them that way. He doesn’t want to look at her. He knows she knows and she’s just trying to help, he does, but it’s not helping. Only one thing would help, and that thing’s impossible. She was always impossible, but now she’s impossible and gone and it hurts. It’s gnawing at his insides, tearing at his hearts. He wants to do something, but he promised not to. Be a doctor, she’d said, heal yourself. Too bad he’s horrible at listening to others.

The order gets his attention. He swipes his hand across his face, briefly presses his palm against his eyes like that’ll push the emotion out. It doesn’t. When he opens his eyes to frown at her, they’re still watery with tears he’s refusing to shed. She doesn’t look like she’s in much better shape. His gaze moves quickly from her to the cup, and his frown deepens. “Tea’s not going to fix anything,” he says, more tired than angry. Regardless, he picks the cup up gently and tries to ignore the slight shake in his hands as he takes a sip.