He's aware that something is toying with him here; the magic, of course, it has to be. His mental defenses should ordinarily be enough to overcome it, yet as has happened before in this world, he's struggling. Silently, the Doctor focuses on the sound of Clara's voice, anchoring to her.
People like him? He's glad for that, though he wonders why, questions it. Why? That nagging doubt keeps tugging at his thoughts.
"Do you feel safe with me, Clara? Even here?" Even without his TARDIS, all of his usual resources. Eyes scanning her face for a moment, he needs to know. He worries that he makes her sad, too, but he has enough control and restraint left in him not to utter the words aloud. He feels like he just makes everyone sad lately, and the conversation with River is on his mind, weighing heavy. River, glorious River, who deserves so much better than him, despite her assurances otherwise. He wants to make her happy, but really, he just makes her sad, he knows.
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People like him? He's glad for that, though he wonders why, questions it. Why? That nagging doubt keeps tugging at his thoughts.
"Do you feel safe with me, Clara? Even here?" Even without his TARDIS, all of his usual resources. Eyes scanning her face for a moment, he needs to know. He worries that he makes her sad, too, but he has enough control and restraint left in him not to utter the words aloud. He feels like he just makes everyone sad lately, and the conversation with River is on his mind, weighing heavy. River, glorious River, who deserves so much better than him, despite her assurances otherwise. He wants to make her happy, but really, he just makes her sad, he knows.