the first part of three. God I miss these two; they were such dorks.

enjoy- and reviews are pretty awesome, remember that.

part one: playing it cool (if fire were cold)

She's been at the counter of Oswin's for a few weeks now- smiling when he orders, cheerfully commenting on the weather, looking absurdly happy for a weekday morning. Nobody is that happy on a Monday- nobody. She must be insane, he decides; yes, very much off her rocker.

But it's- it's downright irritating, is what it is. Because he's trying to get on with his brooding and empty flat and crotchety grumping, thanks very much- but she's there, short and nice and with an unnecessarily endearing nose-crinkle, and it's enraging. He hasn't had a crush in ages- he certainly doesn't need one. And he doesn't even know her name.

(he bets it's a good one, though)

And he swears, the date was entirely accidental. Not even vaguely his fault, it was her who asked him out, wasn't it? Is that justification? Yes, it must be.

"Croissant to go, please," he says, trying to not look at the girl he's speaking to. "Oh. And one of those biscuits." He pauses. He can't help himself. "I like biscuits."

"Yeah," she says. "I've noticed."

Oh dear. He's engaged her in polite conversation; now he has to look at her. So he does, staring intently at a tiny freckle by her temple. "Have you?" he asked, strained.

"Yeah. Kind of hard not to, actually," she says, warmth infusing her voice. It's a nice voice- a bit Northern. Maybe she's from Manchester. He shudders. Strike that- she could never be from Manchester. She's got a soul, for starters; a commodity which the entire north of England is sorely lacking in.

Wait, no, no wait a second. Was she flirting, just now? Was that flirting? With him?

He transfers his gaze rather clumsily, and finds out that she's got brown eyes, pleasantly dark and merry. For a second, his heart is confused as to its place in his life and decides to perform a series of acrobatic stunts, attempting to crawl up his throat.

"You're very pretty," he blurts, and ruminates on the positives of fleeing out of the bakery and never returning. He is also very sure that all his blood has travelled to his face.

His flirting needs work.

The woman blushes and it's adorable. That's it. He's gone. Goodbye, crotchety old apartment. Goodbye, grumpy musings on the futility of human existence. He has an odd urge to sing.

"I'm Clara," she says, and yes, it is a nice name after all, and offers her hand for him to shake. He does, very enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically, as he misjudges the force needed for a handshake rather disastrously and ends up trying to rip her arm from her socket.

"Oh, oh god I'm sorry," he says when she winces, letting go of her hand. If Any were here she would slap him. "Oh dear."

The customer behind him- a lady with a bleach problem and a velour track suit- sighs loudly. "Am I ever gonna get served?" she asks. "I ain't got all day."

"Right, right- sorry!" Clara shakes her head, flustered. It's very endearing, her being all flustered. She turns to him decidedly. "Tell you what, I've got the morning shift and it ends in an hour." She takes in a breath, and nods. "Meet me here?"

"Yes. Yes absolutely, I'll be there- here, here, I'll be here. I-er." He stutters, and frowns. "I'll see you."

"Wait," she calls, as he turns away. She's grinning. "I didn't get your name, mister."

"Yes," he says. Wait no, that's not what he meant. "I mean- John. John." He smiles. "Bye, Clara." Clara. Her name slides out of his mouth like his teeth were built for it.

He is so happily distracted that he completely forgets to collect his food and is forced to buy a sad, limp croissant from a subpar cafe a mile away.

It tastes like victory. And croissant.

"Hullo," Clara says, when she wanders up to him. He may have been waiting outside for the last twenty minutes, but then, he might have not.

Her hair- a dark, rich brown- is let down from the bun she wears at the counter, and sweeps around her shoulders quite alluringly. "I didn't know if you'd come. So I thought to myself, 'Clara, if he doesn't come, he's probably forgotten and is not worth bothering about.' But you did come. Which is good, obviously, because nobody likes to be stood up, and god please shut me up before I say something I regret."

He blinks, a little stunned. "I like your coat," he offers. "It's got a very nice colour."

"Does it?" She looks pleased. "I thought so. I like your bow tie. Very cool."

"Do you really think so?" He is overjoyed. At last, someone who can appreciate the value of a good neck adornment. "I always think so, myself. That's why I bought it, I suppose."

"Do you want to see a movie?" she asks, fiddling with her purse. "I don't think there's anything better; a movie on a Sunday with a cute boy."

I'm cute, he thinks. If he isn't mistaken, his ego has grown to impossible standards in the space of a moment. "Nothing better than watching a film with a cute girl," he counters.

"Well, then," she says, flashing him a grin. "We're sorted. Cutest couple at the movie."

Oh yes, he thinks. Most definitely.

As it turns out, the title isn't hard to achieve as there is precisely zero other people in the theatre, let alone couples. And as it turns out, the movie Clara chose is intolerably boring, so he amuses himself by attempting to steal popcorn from her box and gauging the violence of her reaction from one to ten.

Eight, he decides, as she slaps his hand away.

"Mine," she announces.

And, really, the few first dates he can remember are painfully awkward, even from inside his head- missed glances and stutters and mortifying silences. But this is good, this is different. He feels as though he could quite easily sit in silence for a long while.

Mainly because she'd be talking. But still.

"Well," he says, once the movie has finished and they both have consumed enough popcorn to fuel a small country for a week, "that was lovely."

"No," she says. "You hated it. That's alright; I liked it. I count it as a half-success." She pauses. "Want lunch?"

"Yes," he says, even though he doesn't. Anything to keep wandering along beside her. "I love lunch."

He learns over lunch that Clara- Clara Oswald, mind, and what a lovely surname, too- does not plan to spend the rest of her working life in a bakery.

"I mean," she says, waving a fork of tortellini in the air, "the idea of baking is great. But then I get there, and everything I try to do just falls apart. I burn soufflés on a semi-regular basis." She takes a bite and swallows thoughtfully. "I like to think it's because that, if I were to make anything properly, it'd be too beautiful for the world to bear."

He nods solemnly. "It's a reasonable assumption."

"In fact," she says. "I think I want to teach. English. I've always liked books. I think I'll go to uni once I've saved up enough, and take the teaching course."

"Excellent idea. You would make a splendid teacher."

Clara grins at him. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said. It almost makes up for the popcorn you stole. What do you do, by the way?"

"Me? I own a shop."

"What do you sell?"

"Stuff," he says proudly. "My shop is full of stuff. It's called the TARDIS."

Clara's nose wrinkles adorably. "What's it mean?"

"I've no idea," he says cheerfully. "I've been trying to think of an anagram, actually. No luck, so far ."

Clara chews her pasta. "I'll get one for you," she promises.

His entire body is united in intense adoration of the woman scoffing an inordinate amount of pasta opposite him.

"Now," he says. "That's the nicest thing someone's said to me."

"We make a good team," Clars decides.

(when she walks him back to his car, she kisses his cheek and pinches his bun at the same time. he can't decide which he likes better.)