indefinite hiatus.

"Ah, yes! The books!" The Doctor held up a finger, quickly looping his arm with hers as he began to guide her to the library again. "Now, there was a kind of…cult on Gallifrey. They used to use an odd mix of science and myth. A bit like alchemy. Except not like alchemy. Forget I mentioned alchemy."

"You involved in that cult, Doctor? Never imagined you to be the type of person to become part of a cult, to be honest. Then again, you never stop surprising me," Clara mused, letting him lead her - she's a lot more relaxed now that he's cheered up, stopped threatening her or her loved ones.

Look at me like you look at your favorite pair of socks. Just a glance, in passing — to check that I’m there, that I am warm, that I can be yours when you need me. Don’t call me beautiful. Call me by the name my mother plucked just for me, off the island whose trees fleck my blood with olive and salt. Let the syllables sing, a Mediterranean wave cresting, crashing. Before running a red light, kiss your fore and middle fingers; tap the car hood and think of me. Make me your little superstition, never a crutch or criticism, but something brought to life with your breath — something you believe in. Love me. Love me simply. So simply that we’ll forget the word has to exist between us at all.