The Doctor was rapping his fingers against the cream colored linen on either side of his plate nervously, occasionally lifting a spoon or a fork to admire them, or fold and refold the napkin that now sat crumpled on his lap. His legs were a jumble of movement underneath the table and for a fleeting moment, it crossed his mind that he'd really rather like to be making his way through a Dalek army, or having another chess match with a Cyberman than be where he was.

Sitting in the Oswald household.

Waiting for dinner.

"Stop," came the quick and quiet command at his side and when he glanced over, he was getting a stern look from a set of dark eyes that darted between his own and his fingers. The Doctor gripped his hands into tight fists and made a face at her. "It was your idea," she reminded.

"It was an automatic response," he chided.

"You automatically told my father you'd come for dinner?" She teased in a hiss.

He stared.

"Ah, ready then," Clara's father told them both with a wide grin as he entered the dining room with a pot between gloved hands and the Doctor watched his companion's face brighten as she straightened in her seat and admired the roast he revealed, setting it on the table between them. The man pulled his chair in as he sat and glanced up at the Doctor, who feigned delight instantly. "Hope you like roast."

He did, actually. "Yes, of course," he allowed.

Clara took a bowl of mashed potatoes and dropped a lump on her plate, offering it to the man at her right, who took it and smiled and she shook her head at him. There will be no mashed potato formations at the table, her look told him. But I like mashed potato formations, his look responded. No, came the unspoken response and he sighed, taking the bowl and scooping out a small amount.

Because he would make a snowman whether she liked it or not.

"So, Doctor..." her father started, trailing for the third time that night, hoping to gleam a name that never came, before he continued, "Clara says you travel."

Picking out a few slices of roast from the pot in front of him, he smiled awkwardly and then nodded, agreeing before looking to Clara, who was giving him a strange look, and he realized, "Ah, yes, elaboration of a sort would be appropriate," and he clamped his mouth shut as he shrugged and told him plainly, "I travel... about. Bit of a historian, I suppose – keeping track of time, things of that sort."

"And how did you meet my Clara?" Her father asked curiously.

Again, he looked up to see the woman who held a tight smile and the Doctor was tempted to tell him to ask his daughter if he was so keen, but instead he offered, "I helped her find the internet."

"It was lost," Clara said softly, looking up at the perplexed set of wrinkles set on her father's head.

The Doctor smiled as he shifted a few carrots and peas away from his mashed potatoes, receiving a swift kick underneath the table that shocked him, but he only looked up at the face that told him, I said no! And he sighed, turning his attention back to Mr. Oswald. "She was in a bit of a pickle with her wireless services; received a phone number from a woman at a shop who'd mistaken a help line for my number, mix up of digits, and..." the Doctor paused, considering the detail with a grin before finishing, "I helped her. Sort of a happy coincidence, I would say."

It was the truth.

And the man across from him laughed, serving himself before giving a shake of his head and telling him knowingly, "Has Clara ever told you how I met her mother?"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor started with a surprised nod.

"Dad!" Clara gasped in shock.

The man smiled, looking between the two, raising a quick eyebrow before he settled on watching his daughter blush with embarrassment and the Doctor knew why – the man presumed him to be her boyfriend. Human tradition: meddle in the affairs of your children and then mock them mercilessly in front of their potential suitors, or mock their suitors. He was amused, watching Clara with a similar grin until he understood he should probably be feigning embarrassment himself, and he turned to his potatoes, working them into a set of lumps that earned him another small kick.

He pressed his lips together and looked up in slight frustration, but the emotion faded away when he saw the look on her face. It wasn't the potato shapes he'd been making, or the fact that her father was currently talking about coincidences and fate and something about growing trees. It was something behind him, just past the veiled window across the living room. Something out of the corner of his eye and he was almost afraid to turn around, but she was staring. She was concerned.

So he straightened, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rising in reaction to something unseen, and found himself looking out of a window to find a flurry of snowflakes. Unseasonable and thick in the air. And in the street stood an odd man. A man with black eyes that shone through a curtain of wispy white hair.

"Oh, what's so... Well, look at that – snow in August!"

The voice gave him a start, and he broke eye contact with the man outside, turning for a second to look at Clara's father, rising from the table and he jumped up, shouting quickly, "No!" that, surprisingly, Clara echoed.

The duo were both standing, napkins clenched in fists, looking at the man who smiled awkwardly and raised his hands and gave an odd nod before settling back into his seat. "Sorry, dad," Clara apologized, looking up to the Doctor before she dropped back into her chair, "Just, we should finish dinner. Right, Doctor?"

He shifted his jaw, staring out into the darkness and glanced back at Clara. Her expression was pained with the unspoken request – the one she knew very well would be impossible for him to accept – and she finally looked down at the table, the unnoticeable nod his permission to advance to the window.

"History is a strange thing," the Doctor called back at them. "Always happening around you. Quickly, quietly, sneaking along unsuspectingly, and one day it's there, looking forward as you glance back. But every once in a while you manage to stare it in the face – watch it unfold – and you should never miss those opportunities."

Dave was staring at him now, question lingering on his lips – what the hell are you going on about – and he glanced sideways at Clara, who pushed a carrot into her mouth, a clever way to avoid speaking, he knew. "It's snowing in August," he finally managed to declare with a half laugh, nervous in the stillness of the room. "And you're talking about history."

He turned, "Snowing in August; one day it'll be history."

Dave Oswald dropped his head slightly and declared, "Right now it's just snow in August."

"Exactly," the Doctor told him with a smile.

"I'm not sure I understand," he replied, glancing back at Clara, who was sighing.

"He has to go find out why," she answered.

"Why?" Dave asked lowly, "Meteorologist by night?"

Pointing a finger, the Doctor told him with a laugh, "I like that," then looked to Clara, "I do like him."

Dave raised his hands slightly and sighed, "I'm very confused."

Clara stood and set her napkin down, "Sorry, dad. I'm really sorry about…"

There came a loud bang against the roof, several in slow succession that rolled from single pelts into a loud fury like never-ending thunder and the Doctor turned back to the window to see the hail that was splintering over the pavement, denting the cars in the road. He could feel Clara coming to stand next to him, hand coming up to touch his elbow so he could glance down and see the unasked question:

What was going on?

"I have no idea." He answered honestly, waiting and watching as the hail died down and the snow stopped and everything outside was black again.

"First snow, then hail?" Dave asked with a laugh. "Well you've certainly come on an interesting evening, Doctor…"

But the Doctor was already heading towards the front door, Clara just behind him. Dave sat in his chair a moment, hearing his front door open and then click gently shut and he looked out the window at his daughter. She was eagerly, and gingerly, stepping through the thin layer of snow in the front yard in her dainty purple floral dress, dark stockings, and wedged boots, bending slightly beside the man she'd suddenly come home with and Dave pressed a hand to his face. This was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever seen.

The chair moved back with an angry skid and he marched out the door to stand beside them, watching as the Doctor ran a device over the snow and whipped it up quickly to stare at it.

"What is that?" Dave asked.

"Sonic screwdriver; analyses things," the Doctor replied as Clara stared up at her father in shock, then he added, "Historical things."

"It's snow," Dave pointed gruffly.

"You're upset," the Doctor surmised. "Snow on your lawn. No. Not snow," he glanced at the man, sizing him up and looking back at the house. "Dinner," he gave his forehead a slap of his palm, "Interrupted dinner, always unpleasant, but," he gestured back, "Snow."

Planting his hands at his waist, Dave nodded, "Snow, it snowed. Hailed. Obviously some freak storm."

"What causes a freak storm?"

"And who was the man?" Clara asked suddenly.

"Man?" Dave repeated.

"Man on the lawn," the Doctor reported, "Man in the snow on the lawn, looking in on us."

"Looking at you," Clara realized.

"Possibly," he agreed.

"Well he wouldn't be looking at me or my dad," she frowned. "What'd we do?"

"Aside from cooking a meal that's going cold on the table," Dave interjected, watching them both turn to look at him before he smiled, "That's right. Still here." Clara's face scrunched as if he'd yelled. "And if there's a freak storm and a freak man wandering about, wouldn't it be prudent we go back inside?"

"Yes," the Doctor spat quickly, hand coming up to push Clara into her father, back towards the house.

"Doctor!" She argued, turning to slap his hand away, but he caught it, head gesturing towards the street at her left and she slowly looked out over the night, seeing the odd glow approaching. An army of what looked like white haired adolescent boys were marching through the milky fog that was thickening the air.

"What the hell…" Dave started.

"Inside the house," the Doctor ordered.

"Who are they?" Dave asked.

"What are they?" Clara countered.

"Inside the house!"