He slowly swirls the glass on his hand, his eyes fixed at the amber liquid inside it as if all the answers he is looking for can be there. Most of the times, it doesn't. Especially lately, and he can't avoid thinking at the cruelty of all that. He is being denied the blessing of diving into the oblivion and instead, keeps being haunted by the darkness that comes from inside. It isn't fair.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips. Life is almost never fair anyway. It is nothing more than a sequence of insipid, pointless and painful events. He puts the glass down slowly and after a moment, decides for emptying it at the kitchen sink.
Somewhere inside him he knows that things aren't like that to everyone. Maybe, it hadn't always been like that for him too, but he honestly can't remember. It had happened long time ago, in another life, when he was still able to smile and breath and feel, when he was far more than this ridiculous caricature of himself.
Crossing his living room his eyes catch the image of the man reflected at the large mirror that covers one of the walls. He runs a hand through his silver curls and the man at the mirror looks back at him with tired eyes. When has he become so gray? When the lines around his eyes and mouth have become so deep? His fingers slide through his cheeks, feeling the stubble under its tips. He should shave. Or maybe grow a beard. He watches himself for a moment longer. No. That would make him look like a deadly ill Father Christmas, he thinks with a wry smile. So shave it would be.
But first, a shower. It will help to shake off all the scotch he had drunk earlier. Then he will go for a coffee. A little walk to the coffee shop at the corner and he can have his favorite. It sounds like a good plan and he walks to his bathroom trying to think about something else than his own pathetic life.
But sometimes, life just surprises you and challenges you to be brave enough to jump into the stream in search for the rewards when the waters calm down again.
She closes the door behind her back with her foot and places the cartoon box at the floor, taking a moment to look at all the mess surrounding her. Her body complains and muscles she isn't aware of having ache uncomfortably, easily convincing her to delay the tidying up in favor of a few moments on her comfy brand new couch. Her couch. She smiles her contentment at the thought and let herself fall heavy on it, kicking her shoes off.
The living room is more like a nightmare of cartoon boxes and things scattered on the floor. Even with the whole weekend ahead her it seems now an impossible mission to accomplish until Monday morning. She closes her eyes for an instant to savor the moment. Her home. Messy right now, and rented, of course. But hers all the same. It is the first time she is on her own and she can't be happier. Or more scared. She can't decide each one yet.
She sighs, memories she is struggling to keep on the back of her mind fight their way out and she feels the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. But she is determined to not give up and once more succumb to the sadness that wants to claim her soul. She has walked that path for too long now and, even though she knows that the wounds will take some more time to heal, she has promised her father and mostly herself that she will move on. She needs to. She has to do it. Besides, this is the whole business of moving to London, a fresh start, a new job, and a place to call her own. New friends maybe, in a new city. A new life.
So she shakes her head as if that can brush off her gloomy thoughts.
God! She really needs a bath. She can't wait to test her bathtub. But first things first. There are still some few boxes she needs to fetch from her car and, after that, if she can find her coffeemaker, she will make herself a good strong coffee. Or maybe she will buy one at the coffee shop at the corner.
She jumps from her seat and makes the journey to her car and back in a lazy pace as the muscles of her legs start to give up. Then, first for her surprise and after for her annoyance, the front door just refuses to open when she turns the key on the lock.
She tries different approaches to open it, all of them useless, until that stupid situation starts to have the best of her and she uses her weight against the offending wooden door to force it open. But the damn door just refuses to give in, more stubborn than her and keeps denying her the right to enter her own flat.
She curses under her breath and after a last attempt, throws all her composure to the wind and kicks it in utterly frustration, only to regrets it in the next second, a sharp pain on her left foot making her close her eyes and lean against the wall for a moment.
"You should be more careful." The male voice comes from the other end of the hallway and she opens her eyes startled to see a man leaning against the doorway of his own apartment, watching her with curiosity. "You can hurt yourself like that," he adds, the deeps and lows of his voice curls in the rough edges of his Scottish accent and makes her feel a strange flutter on her stomach. His gaze is unsettling and she feels her cheeks burn thinking about how long he is there, watching her pathetic attempts.
"Problems with your door lock?" He raises an expressive eyebrow.
She finally seems to come back to her senses and finds her voice again. "The key just doesn't work."
His eyes are magnetic and from where she stands, they seem to be from an unusual shade of blue. No. Now that she is really looking at them, they seem greyer than blue. Except that when he tilts his head a little there is a flickering of green under the change of light. Unsettling and impossible eyes, she thinks.
"Mind if I help you?"
His voice startles her and she almost jump. "Of course not. I will be very grateful."
He is tall and slender and moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly his place in this world while he crosses the hallway to stop next to her. At her side he seems too tall, but then everyone seems to be too tall from the perspective of hers 5'2 foot of height.
"You should ask the landlord to fix it or you'll have to find your way with this tricky little minx," his hand now is on the doorknob, his eyes fixed on the lock. He then pulls the doorknob firmly against his chest before he turns the key on the lock and pushes the door using the weight of his body. The door opens with a dry click and she looks at him in surprise.
"How did you know?"
He cast her a bashful smile but his eyes are fixed on hers with that greenish light burning her till her bones.
"I think that it has always been like this," he shrugs and shoves his hands inside his jeans pockets.
God, men like this should be banned from wearing jeans and white T-shirts.
"Thank you," she ventures an honest smile.
"You're welcome," his eyebrows rise a little and her eyes follow him when he walks his way back to his own door.
"I would offer you a coffee in thanks, but I'm not sure if I know where my coffeemaker is right now," she says with a faint grin. Now, from where did that come?
He blinks as if surprised, that shy smile crosses his lips once more and for one moment he seems almost boyish, despite his silver curls and the lines of his face.
"No need to bother," he crosses his arms in front of his chest and casually leans against the doorway once more. Both of them stare at each other for a quick second before he speaks again. "Thank you anyway."
She watches as he lowers his eyes and closes his door leaving her alone again in the hallway. Clara mentally kicks herself as she get into her flat and closes the stupid door. She is in her new home for what? Two minutes? And she is already developing a crush on the guy next door? Oh, so typical!
Please, Clara Oswald get a grip on yourself!
She sighs loudly, because the last thing she needs is to fall for some random man. Or for any man at all. Not now. Not for a long, long time if she has any choice on the matter. She shut her eyes. Maybe not ever again.
Once more she struggles against painful memories and decides to start with the boxes in her bedroom to occupy her mind with something else. She will need to put everything on place if she wants to get some sleep later, so it is the logical place to start.
Clara is still dwelling with her wardrobe and the evident lack of space for all her shoes when a knock on her front door startles her. She isn't expecting anyone so she hesitates in answer it at first. But the insistent knocks make her change her mind. Maybe is some kind of emergency. Or maybe is... Him? She rolls her eyes at herself. Idiot.
Behind the door she finds the familiar and beaming face of the old lady who lives downstairs.
"Mrs. Woodward?" Clara smiles at her and the old lady nods with a large grin of satisfaction because she remembers her name.
"That's right, dear. Miss Oswald, am I right?"
"Yes, but please call me Clara."
"Clara," she laughs and starts to happily chat about how good is the neighborhood for a young woman like her and tells her about the lovely couple that lives in the first floor too. Clara really tries to follow her but it has been a too long day. Her body complains strongly for a break and she needs to lean on the doorway for a moment to not fall on the floor. The old lady peeks over her shoulder to have a glimpse of her messy living room.
"So, it seems that you still have a lot of work to do, dear."
Clara smiles indulgently and from the corner of her eye she catches him going out his apartment, a dark blue cardigan over his white T-shirt. He casts a quick glance at her but his eyes stops at the back of the old lady and he seems to hesitate to move forward. But then he shakes his head and locks his door before he walks slowly towards the staircase, a cross expression on his face.
"Dear, I have brought you this," Mrs. Woodward gives her a plate carefully wrapped in a kitchen towel decorated in roses and lilacs. "It's a welcome to the building gift," she adds with a beaming grin and once more peeks over Clara's shoulder, this time practically forcing her head through the door to have a better view. "It is a very nice couch you have there, dear. And it's brand new, isn't it? And look at that, you have a nice taste for furniture; I can see it from here. You will make this a better place to live that the last tenant. Very good taste, indeed."
Clara is a little surprised by the old lady insistence and is dwelling between giving her access to her apartment or politely giving her some excuse to get in and finally take the bath she is yearning for. But she doesn't do neither because she sees when he dramatically rolls his eyes at Mrs. Woodward last commentary. Clara pushes back a smile.
"Mrs. Woodward." His voice is harsher than before and makes his accent more evident. The old lady is startled and turns around to look at him, her expression curiously stern.
"Doctor!" Mrs. Woodward's voice raises an octave when she speaks his name, punctuating her displeasure on being interrupted on whatever she is trying to do. "May I help you?" The old lady asks in a clear mock disdain.
Clara fells the tension rising but her attention is locked on him while she struggles to avoid eye contact. Doctor? So he is a Doctor. She wonders what his first name is. She will go for Peter. Maybe Edward. No. Definitely Peter. He looks like a Peter for her.
"Did you lock your door?" He is looking the old lady straight in the eyes in a way that Clara can only describe as menacing. Curiously the old lady returns his gaze, not even a little bit intimidated by their height difference. "Because I'd just heard Gipsy barking. And it didn't seem to come from inside your apartment."
Mrs. Woodward furrows her brows at him not buying his statement as true and it is about to give him some good answer when they hear a dog barking from downstairs. Clara can't say if the dog is inside or outside the apartment but that is enough to make the poor old lady go down in a hurry. Not without casting him a last stern look before she disappears downstairs.
He finally moves his eyes to her, his countenance softening considerably and she feels that odd fluttering in her belly once more.
"Lovely lady," he almost smirks, his eyes intently on hers.
"She doesn't like you at all," Clara finally manages to say before things starts to become awkward.
"And I keep asking me why," he grumbles loud enough to Clara hear him and she chuckles, completely sure that the feeling is mutual.
"So?" She raises her brows inquiringly.
He scratches his scalp and shrugs, casting a look to the tips of his shoes before looking at her once more.
"You need to go harder on her or you will never see the end of it."
"But she is so sweet!" She can't refrain a grin when he grimaces at her, seeming more a twelve year old annoyed with a grumpy grandparent.
"Wait and see! Without any warning she will end up in your nice brand new coach. Forever." He watches her for a second and turns his body a little towards the staircase. "I'd better be going," he starts to go down but raises his head again to her. "Ah, and welcome," he grins and finally goes down disappearing downstairs in a flash.
Clara puts Mrs. Woodward welcome gift at the kitchen counter and finds out that is a homemade cake that seems rather tasty. At least it smells really good. Her lips curl in a grin when the images of his annoyed face flashes in her mind.
Yes. Definitely he should be banned to wear jeans.
Later, when she is about to finally get into her bathtub she hears again a knock on her door. Her heart is torn between to answer the door and find Mrs. Woodward again at that hour of the night or completely ignore it and simply slide to the warm waters in the bathtub. But she feels guilty about leaving the poor old lady waiting, after she had been so kind. A little nosy, but undoubtedly kind. So she decides for the first and after put herself inside her dressing gown, she opens the door to find no one to be seen.
She blinks. She is completely sure that she heard the knocking but maybe she is just too tired. But something on the floor catches her eye and she goes down on her knee to pick it up - a cup of steamy coffee and a bag with bagels, from the coffee shop on the corner. There is a little note in the bag written in a very steady and masculine handwriting.
"Just in case you haven't still located your coffeemaker."
She glances at the closed door across the hallway and smiles dumbly at it just for in the next second almost bang her head on the wall.
Damn. Damn. Damn.