They’re in a Benedictine abbey in 1

They’re in a Benedictine abbey in 14th century Italy. The old monk they’re speaking to recognizes Clara. She’s never met him in her life. He might have met one of her echoes, but she hopes he’s from her own future. It would help confidently entertaining the thought of one.

The Doctor thinks the monk can help him find his TARDIS, maybe solve some of his other problems. “He’s only part human,” he explained. “But don’t mention that to his face.”

“The answer is simpler than you’re allowing it to be.” The monk speaks in Italian, blithely putting a morsel of cheeseburger into his mouth. Smuggling it into the abbey was something of a tradition. He grins at them when they leave, his front teeth missing like a raggedy old toddler, the opposite of the Doctor’s great exasperation.

She stands with him in the cloisters and can imagine the future gift shop, the donation boxes, and air of sterility. The huddled masses in this time are desperately poor, seeking sanctuary in the mountains after being displaced by a war between noble families. She and the Doctor blend in without difficulty.

“Sorry,” Clara tells him.

He shrugs with a self-deprecating grimace. “How’s that pulse?”

She places two fingers on her wrist. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t look at her, won’t let slip even a hint of despair. “No, it’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

She holds his hand and chooses to believe him. They’ve come too far. “Yeah.”

“Your hands are cold,” he says.

“I think it’s a side effect.”

He bring her hands to his mouth and breathes warmth onto her skin. She remains in his grasp. “How’s that?”

He is riveting, the earnestness in this simplest, most human of gestures. She stands close enough to smell the scent of his skin, study the long fine bones of his fingers.

She leans into him, like whispering a secret, and kisses his lips softly. They sink into each other as a tidal wave of air leaves their lungs. Their chests deflate, and the muscles of their shoulders come loose.

Words. We should leave it at words, one of them ought to say, always imagined saying. The relief of it feels mythical. Atlas no longer obliged to carry the heavens. Somewhere above, a gargoyle is blushing.

“Oh, Christ.” She breathes a laugh. The inappropriateness is not lost on her. They’ve caught the attention of the parishioners. Hesitant glances drift their way.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I was hoping you’d be bad at this.”

“Bad?”

“Such a disappointment.” She grins easily. “I quite enjoyed that.”

He makes a face. “I was hoping you’d be better.”

“Me?”

“I think my gran could do better.”

“Do you often think about your own gran when you’re kissing people?”

“Would you rather I think about your gran?”

Her face falls, and she sees the panic surge within him.

“Clara,” he says, “I would never actually think about your gran—”

“It’s just that my gran thinks I’m dead.”

This is a dull and sad realization spoken out loud. Nothing that she expects to be corrected.

結果 (中文) 3:

他们在上世纪第十四年代意大利的本笃会修道院。他们在说要认识克拉拉的老和尚。她一生中从未见过他。他可能会遇到她的一个回音，但她希望他从她自己的未来。这将有助于有信心的娱乐的思想。医生认为和尚能帮助他找到他的TARDIS，也许他的一些其他问题的解决。“他只是人类的一部分，”他解释说。“可是别提那对他的脸。”“答案是不是你让它变得简单。”和尚说意大利语，轻率地把一块三明治放进嘴里。走私到修道院是一个传统的东西。他笑着看着他们离开时，他的前牙缺失就像一张破烂的孩子，医生非常恼怒的对面。她站在他在道院艺术博物馆和想象未来的礼品店的募捐箱，和空气无菌。在这一时期，挤着的群众是极其贫穷的，在一场由贵族家庭之间的战争之后，在山区寻找避难所。她和医生毫无困难地融为一体了。“对不起，”克拉拉告诉他。他耸了耸肩用自嘲的鬼脸。“那脉搏怎样？“她把两根手指放在手腕上。“什么都没有。”他看不到她，就不会让他一个绝望的暗示。“不，这很好。会很好的。”她握着他的手，选择相信他。他们已经走得太远了。“是的。”“你的手很冷，”他说。“我认为这是一个副作用。”他把她的手，他的嘴和呼吸温暖到她的皮肤。她仍然在他的掌握中。“怎么了？“他是在这个简单的铆接，真挚，大多数人类的手势。她站得很近，能闻到他皮肤上的香味，研究他手指上的长细骨头。她向他倾斜，像耳语一个秘密，轻轻地吻他的嘴唇。当空气离开他们的肺时，它们会相互吸收。胸部缩小，和他们的肩膀肌肉松。话.我们应该把它放在一个单词，其中一个应该说，总是想象着说。它的感觉是神话般的。阿特拉斯不再有义务进行天堂。头顶上，一个石像鬼脸红。“哦，天啊，”她笑着说。不能不失去她。他们抓到的注意。犹豫不决的目光飘荡着他们的路。“那是什么？他问道。“我希望你会很不好。”“不好吗？““这样的失望。”她笑着地。“我很喜欢。”他做了一张脸。“我希望你会更好。”“我？““我想我大可以做得更好。”“你经常思考自己的奶奶当你接吻的人吗？““你宁愿我想你的奶奶吗？“她脸上落下，她看到了他内心的恐慌。“克拉拉，”他说，“我永远都不会真的认为你的奶奶”“这就是我的奶奶认为我死了。”这是一个沉闷而可悲的实现，大声说出。她希望得到纠正。