A/N: I got a prompt for this over on my writing tumblr, which read as "artist!Clara, her muses are a private older man who runs a small used book store in town, and a young former soldier who's started teaching math at the local school". This is going to be listed as a one-shot until I get more material together, if I ever get more material together. The problem with prompt fills is that so often they just kinda die after so many words... so yeah.

I do love this story though because s8 was "Clara the Polyandrist, the Show" and it was great, aka: I can't believe they got away with it.

Clyde, Wyre, Severn, Durham

The flat she chose happened to be by the school and that's how she first saw him. Tall with broad shoulders, a dazzling smile and a pair of brown eyes she wanted to melt into, she began sketching him when he'd take the younger students outside for recess. Being in such a small town, the primary and secondary schools operated out of the same building and shared some staff between the two. He had nothing else to do, no one to go home to, she supposed, because he was at the school early for "cadet training" with a mix of older primaries and younger secondaries, and left late after tutoring sessions with kids of all levels. His classroom faced her flat and sometimes she'd sit there and wonder how any students past the onset of puberty concentrated while in the same room as him. She had the ability to look at him all day if she needed to, and it was admittedly pretty nice.

That didn't mean she ignored the other most-interesting man in the village once the teacher showed up. The quiet, solitary Scotsman that ran the bookshop was still intriguing, despite being known throughout Coal Hill as one of the village's more cantankerous residents. Though city-born Scotsmen were not exactly exotic to the rural burghs of County Durham, there was something about this particular Glaswegian that was different from the rest. He could nearly speak with his bushy, greying eyebrows alone and there was something about how he carried himself that made her see something past his beaky, twig-like exterior and angry scowls to find something a little less gruff, a little more sensual. Despite that, no one else seemed to figure that out considering he was always alone—ran his bookshop alone, went to the pub alone, lived alone. Most people tried to have even false friends, but he wasn't about to stoop to that level.

She, however, was the local artist-for-hire. Her flat was right above the studio she kept up on weekends for tourists, but during the week she would go about the county, painting murals, sketching people, capturing all sorts of scenery in various mediums. The landscapes went pretty easily, followed close by depictions of farmland and closed coal pits being overtaken by nature. Her favorites were the portraits though, and she was lucky few of them sold. She only ever put them up in the studio as examples of her work, in case someone with too much money on their hands walked in and wanted a commission, otherwise they were mainly hers.

This was one such weekend that she shut herself up inside her studio, painting in the corner as she watched over the shop. It was pouring rain one lazy Sunday in October, after a dry spell that meant the plants needed it in preparation for the ever-encroaching frost. The door opened and someone walked in, the little bell attached to the eaves ringing.

"All prices are negotiable," Clara called out, keeping her eyes trained on her latest painting. "I just need to finish this fencepost and I'll be able to assist you." The customer said nothing, instead letting their heavy footfalls punctuate the silence between them. THNK-THNK-THNK, the pace was slow and deliberate, keeping to the front of the studio with the sound of rain on the awnings.

Eventually the pacing stopped—something caught their attention, presumably by the sketches. She had just gone into Hartlepool for a few days to sketch boats and wharfs and whatnot, so that was possibly it. Coal Hill was very much inland and not known for fishing, meaning it was probably a pleasant surprise. She put down her brush and paints and grabbed for her rag, wiping off the excess wet paint on her hands as she made her way to the front of the studio.

"How much for this one?" her customer asked. Clara froze when she saw him: the bookstore owner, holding a sketch she did of him at the pub one night a few months back, hunched over the bar while perched anxiously on the stool. He was dressed in his usual casual garb, the plaid trousers and a hooded sweatshirt layered over a jumper, and a rare grin was plastered over his face.

"Busted," she laughed nervously. "You can have that one, if you want; no charge. It'll be my punishment for not asking first."

"No, I'd rather pay you for it—your work is good."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "Just good?"

"No, excellent," he corrected. "I used to teach art, in another life, and while there are many good artists, there aren't that many on your level, particularly not ones peddling their wares in the middle of nowhere."

"Ironic how big cities used to be the exciting adventure, and now it's the hamlets that have that distinction," she said. She held out her hand towards him. "I don't think we've properly met yet. I'm Clara Oswald, formerly of Blackpool."

"…and I'm John Smith, formerly of Glasgow, though I go by Basil," he replied, shaking her hand. "You seem like an interesting woman, Miss Oswald."

"Clara, please," she said. It was then that the door opened again, though this time it was the handsome teacher that had walked in, still in running gear.

"I got your text," he said, walking up to them. Basil held out the sketch of him and he took it, inspecting the drawing. Based on how his eyes flicked over the drawing, he was not as much an expert as the older man. "Wow… this is really good." He glanced over at Clara, his eyebrows arched in curiosity. "Are you the artist?"

"Yeah, I am," she said, really feeling the blush rise to her face now. She had watched both of these men for a long while, and suddenly they were standing in her studio, complimenting her on her work. Now was not the time to be timid, however, and she straightened her back confidently. "Just consider me a renegade sketcher, taking pad and pencil where one shouldn't."

"Well, you sure do have a talent…" he said. The teacher then caught himself, grimacing at realizing his own rudeness. "Sorry—I'm Danny Pink; moved here at the beginning of summer."

"Clara Oswald, and I noticed," she replied. "Pardon my asking, but how do you know each other? I wouldn't peg the two of you to be friends, no offense."

"Cousins, actually," Danny explained. "Didn't know one another existed until a short while ago."

"Fifth-cousins; barely any relation at all, as PE here tends to forget," Basil muttered sourly. "Just someone to argue with at the end of the night without any sort of lasting attachment other than sharing an ancestor; nothing, really."

"Don't listen to the General… he's cranky because the still thinks his hair's brown and now there's someone around to call his bluffs," Danny said. Something caught his eye and his attention veered away from Clara towards another sketch in the aisle. It was one of him outside with some Primary Twos, aiding them as they jumped rope. "Oh…"

"Dinner," she blurted out. "The price for those two sketches combined is dinner with you both. A night in will do, if you don't want to advertise your familial relationship."

The two men glanced at one another sideways, silently considering the option.

"When are you available?" Basil asked the artist.

"Anytime."

"Then how about Tuesday?" Danny offered. "I stay at the school a bit later on Tuesdays, so I can walk you to our house and back. That sound good?"

"Sounds excellent," Clara said. She took the sketches from Danny's hands and brought them over to the counter, wrapping them up in butcher paper. "I'll be seeing you both on Tuesday then."

"Yeah," both men said. Danny took the bundle and shoved it beneath his jacket for protection from the rain before walking towards the edge of town, while Basil shoved his hands in his pockets and started off in the direction of his shop.

Going back to her painting, it made Clara feel good, knowing that she now had the attention of not one, but two of the town's best-kept single dishes, though the additional information about them living in the same house was more than a little odd. There was a story behind it, she could tell; why else would two cousins with no prior relationship live together? Were they even related like they said? For all the six years she had lived in Coal Hill, Clara had no inkling that the bookstore owner knew what an orgasm was, so the idea of the teacher staying with him for an intimate relationship seemed out of the question. She had two whole days to get her questions together—more than enough time.

The only real question now was: which one would she go after?