Notes: Please forgive the lack of British English spellings. I was too lazy to commit.
It was raining the day Clara moved in to the new house, but even that couldn't ruin her enthusiasm. It was no gingerbread house, and it was certainly not ripped from the pages of fairytales, but it was hers - hers entirely, without question.
The house was old, built at least thirty years before Clara was even born, but sturdy despite the age. It was narrow, two floors tall, and nicely wedged in between a weather-washed brick-encased liquor store and a residence that was the exact copy of Clara's own. The main difference was the door: her neighbor's was dark blue, the windows paned with dark glass, framed in white. Clara's front door was simple, unassuming, sun-bled red and chipped from age. Beaten. Weathered. Weary. She'd have to paint it when she had the time. It was the first thing you saw from the road - the rest of the house seemed to blend into the background, matching its neighbor's down to the black shutters and the shape of the windows.
It was the door that stood out and drew the eye. It made Clara pause when her friend Melanie showed her the place.
"Just like the one you've got in the picture on your desk," Melanie said, smiling broadly at Clara as if she'd given her a rare treat. "I saw it and thought of you right away - and it helps that inside it's, you know. Nice. Just what you're looking for."
Clara's smile, by contrast, was frozen and exquisitely composed. She wouldn't look a gift realtor friend in the mouth, nor take them for granted when they offered to find quaint little houses at a veritable steal. But she wasn't sure how much she enjoyed this idea of a treat.
Don't complain, Clara warned herself, both in car on the ride home from the viewing and in all the days leading up to and passing the purchase. Don't you dare complain for a second, Clara Oswald. You've got a house to live in. No more dreaded roommates and horror stories that could brighten up a therapy session.
The facts were simple: Clara needed a house. She had been shown a house. She would now take the house. That it bore a red door like the one from her childhood home - a time and a place best left ignored, forgotten, and dragged up only when she had liquor available and a therapist on hand - would be something that would make her smile when she reflected upon it later - like when she painted over it. She hoped the house understood.
It's not you, really. It's not you at all. It's your door. A door by any other hue would be vastly preferred. Black, green, pink - maybe even that dark, deep blue like the one on the house next door.
Clara peered over at it again as she took a step back to look up at her new house. She'd ask him about it tomorrow, using it as an excuse to introduce herself.
All the boxes containing Clara's belongings acrued from the ages of eighteen to twenty-six were inside the house now, waiting to be unpacked. The rest of her furniture would arrive tomorrow; all she had was a bed to rest on, a chair to sit on, and a desk on which to put her oft-ignored house phone.
All in all, it was a house full of promise. And it was her house. Her first house. A cause for a celebration, if nothing else.
Clara dug out her hooded navy blue sweatshirt from the box marked WARMER THINGS and double-checked to make sure she had cash in her wallet. Nothing worse than being caught at the checkout with a line at your back and the cashier hissing, "Not enough on 'and, sweet'art?" Properly prepared, Clara started out the door - then double-backed to get her keys and lock it. That was a new thing to get used to. But the click of the key in the lock was satisfying, solid. Clara wriggled the handle a few times just to test it, delighting in the security of the sound.
We'll get along just fine, she thought, giving the door a little pat. When she turned around to face the road, she noticed a man walking past on the sidewalk, headed in the exact direction of Clara's destination.
Tall and thin, scowling at the drenched granite against which he slammed his black boots with every step, the man had one hand in the pocket of his trousers, pushing aside the flap to reveal a streak of red lining inside his coat, and the other hand clutching the scuffed white handle of an umbrella. Rain tumbled off its curved edges with little plicks and pings, sliding over the clear plastic surface like tears. The man had the sort of temperament that could find reason to frown even on a clear summer day, and yet he was handsome despite all that, with an alarmingly clear, cutting pair of eyes that made Clara's heart trip when he glanced her way.
Clara smiled at him, a response born from habit, and slowed her pace as she approached the sidewalk. It would be awkward to walk next to him, and even more awkward to walk behind him. Best delay and let him get a few paces ahead.
"Hello. Just move in?" he asked, his Scottish accent prominent.
Clara nodded, pulling her hood up further as the wind shifted, pressing the rain against her face. "What gave it away?" she asked.
He nodded, leading with his chin. "Still got the 'sold' sticker on the sign," he said.
Clara turned to peer at the sign swaying in the wind, her face burning. "Ah, right." She faced the man again, just in time to see a little hint of a smile. That gave her courage. Smiles often did. She held out her hand, ignoring the way the rain shifted to soak her fingers within seconds. "I'm Clara," she said.
The man took her hand, gave it a tight squeeze as he shook it. "John Smith," he said.
"Nice to meet you."
"And you."
They paused and let go. Clara's hand dove into her coat pocket, fingers curling into a fist as she trapped what little remained of his warmth. John stretched his fingers and returned them to his pocket, stepping back, ready to turn and walk away. Something about her expression made him stop. He couldn't say why, really. She didn't look pleading or sad. She didn't look like anything apart from the sort of person he'd like to speak to just a little more, if she'd allow it.
"Are you out for a walk?" he asked.
"Only as far as the shop," she said, tilting her head to indicate the building a few yards to their right. "Who wants to walk in the rain?" she asked, half laughing as she did.
John's eyebrows, impressive as they were, shifted and rose in an elegant lift. "I do," he said. He held the umbrella higher, not giving Clara a chance to cringe at her small mistake. "I can lend a hand if you don't mind the company."
Clara glanced up at the umbrella and then shifted her eyes back to John's face. "I don't mind the company if you don't," she said, stepping forward and fitting neatly beneath it, keeping herself just a half step away so that her shoulder didn't brush the arm of his navy blue coat sleeve.
"Wouldn't offer if I did," John said, and he began to walk, adjusting his strides to match her shorter legs and faster pace.
"Do you live nearby?" Clara asked.
"Next door," John said. "The one with the blue door."
"I like that door," Clara said brightly. "I was admiring it earlier. What made you go for that color?"
"I didn't choose it," he said, his tone growing darker, his tongue coated sour. "My wife did."
"Ah."
John hesitated. In the corner of her eyes, Clara saw him grit his teeth for a long moment, taking in a little hiss of breath. "Ex-wife. Former wife. That's what I meant."
"Right. I'm sorry."
"Are you me?"
"Er, no?" Clara glanced down at herself and up again at John's face. They were closer to the shop now. "Wasn't a Scot last time I checked."
"Then you've got no reason to be sorry," he said, showing something like a smile again. But it was still sour, his lips curved higher at one end then the other.
"I'm still sorry to hear it, Mr. Smith."
"John's fine. And thank you, that's - that's probably kind. But you're a stranger, and a polite one it seems, so one has to wonder at your level of sincerity."
Clara snorted. "That's not very nice."
John paused. They were in front of the shop now, but Clara made no move to leave either his company or the comforts of his umbrella. "It wasn't, was it?" he asked.
Clara turned to stare up at him, shaking her head slowly, her eyebrows darting up to match his own. "Not in the slightest."
"Right. That tends to happen. It's the mouth, it's got a mind of its own some days. Nothing personal."
"I wasn't taking it personally." Clara kicked at the pavement, noticing that John had removed his hand from his pocket and was stretching his fingers out again. A nervous habit? Some kind of cramp? She considered this, noticing that the ring was gone from his left hand as she did. It must have been the first thing he took off after the divorce, even though he hadn't quite adjusted his vocabulary to the change. "And it takes one to know one."
"Sorry?"
"It takes one to know one," Clara said, speaking louder against the rush of cars and trucks in a sudden flurry of traffic. Their tires hissed against the puddles forming little rivers on the street, and John flinched back from a particularly large spray, scowling with enough fury to cut down a braver man. Clara continued to talk, drawing his attention back to her. "I only meant - I can get that way, too. Don't get me talking, I'll end up offending half your family and even some twice removed relations while I'm at it. They'll come from miles around screaming murder."
John let out a little laugh. "Is that so?"
"That's what I'm told," Clara said, smiling back to him.
Another moment passed in silence, the pair of them glancing at each other and just as quickly glancing away. When Clara took a step back, John couldn't understand why he was holding his breath.
"It was nice talking to you, John."
"You as well."
"Enjoy the walk."
"Enjoy the... wine?" he asked, hazarding a guess.
Clara nodded. "Red and sweet, just like me," she joked, attempting a laugh.
"Er, what?"
Clara chewed on the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, but none came. She pulled at her nails, catching one little bit that begged to be pulled off, and then jerked her thumb to the left, back in the direction of her house. "It's... It's my door? It's - it's, er. Red. Look, I was trying to make a joke and it didn't come out well."
"I can tell, yes," John said, nodding. "But full marks for the effort."
"Do you always grade the jokes people tell you?" Clara asked.
"Only if I like them enough," John said.
Clara blinked.
"The jokes," he said quickly, sparing a grateful thought that he was hardly one to blush from embarrassment. Unlike Clara, who still had a bit of pink in her cheeks. "I meant liking the jokes, not liking the people."
"Got it," Clara said, nodding as she took another step back. Now seemed a good time as any to part ways, now that they'd both thoroughly embarrassed themselves. "Thanks for the company, John. I'll see you around."
"Yeah," he said, his voice stalling out when she turned her back. "Sure."
The bells on top of the door chimed and swayed as she stepped inside. For a moment it looked to John as if she were holding the door open for him, an invitation to follow. But the moment passed, as did the illusion, and he was off again in a huff, scowling into the wind and the rain.
The day after this meeting, on a cloudy Saturday, some time in the early afternoon, Clara heard a knock on her door. Flushed and almost breathless from having arranged and then rearrange all the furniture that had been dropped off that morning, Clara spared just enough time to dab at her face before she went to greet whoever was so insistently tapping at her door.
She blinked and looked up at a familiar although entirely new face. "John?"
"Hello, Clara," John said, nodding. He wasn't alone. In his hands was a cardboard box cut in half, containing a few items Clara could only just see: a French press was one of the items, along with a few mugs wrapped in newspaper, a carefully folded tartan blanket, and a handsome, leatherbound book.
Clara darted up on her toes to peer inside. "Is that all for me?"
"Consider it a housewarming gift," John said. He tapped his long fingers against the side of the box. "And a welcome to the neighborhood gift. And an 'I'm sorry for the boorish way I talked to you' gift."
"That's quite a lot of gifts," Clara said.
"It is, yes," John said. "You should feel honored."
"I should?"
"Do you?"
"Well I feel flattered," Clara said, grinning. "Confused but... Flattered." She took a step back and pushed the door open. "Come on in. It looks like rain out there. Wouldn't want you to disappear for a walk before I'm done with you."
Clara appreciated that John didn't peer curiously at her house and its current disreputable state, with boxes half open and clothes strewn about in piles, books affixed with signs saying FOR THE SHELF UPSTAIRS and BASEMENT BOUND. If he was a curious man at all then he was not a prying one, and his sobering presence filled Clara with the same sort of comfort she was hoping to pry out of this solo living experience.
So what if it was forced on me? she asked, leading John to the kitchen and the newly established table and chair set she'd pressed up against the windows facing the yard. I'll make the best of the worst. That's the Oswald motto. At least, that's what her therapist told her to do.
John set the box down on the table and waited until Clara pulled out her own chair before he took his. He set the book down first, passing it to her with a smile. "It's blank, in case you were wondering," he said, noticing the way she ran her fingers along the edges of the pages, lifted them to her nose, and took a quick little sniff. That warmed his heart like a fire had been lit. He'd never seen anyone else do that besides him.
"Didn't think you'd be the sort of man to give a used journal as a gift," Clara said, tapping her fingernails against the cover and admiring its detail. "I had just a tiny bit more faith than that. Thank you, it's perfect. I can jot down all my recipes."
"Are you a cook?" John asked, reaching for the French press.
"I try to be," Clara said, watching the container emerge. Even John noticed the way her expression tightened from a sudden shock of unease, quickly passing into a breezy laugh. "I can learn to be." Clara lifted the book and gave it a little wave. "This'll help me keep track of all my culinary casualties."
"I can find the receipt for this," John said, tapping the French press, his eyes going wide when it seemed dangerously close to toppling off the table. He caught it though, with Clara reaching out to be the safety net in case his reach failed. "It should be around still. Somewhere."
"Somewhere?" Clara echoed, watching as he began to unearth the mugs next. "You didn't buy all this, did you." It wasn't a question but a statement. She waited until John's eyes met hers before she pressed the point further. Coward he was, she had to wait half a minute. "Where'd you get them?"
"From the house," he said. "My house."
"You're regifting?" Clara asked. She wasn't offended. She could hardly demand the honor of freshly purchased presents when she was only an acquaintance. And although she was slightly affronted by how boldly he displayed this fact, there was something refreshing about the lack of a lie.
"I prefer to think of it as supplying almost abandoned items to a person who could get some use out of them," John said, speaking carefully as he unwrapped the second mug and pushed it closer to Clara. "They'd be neglected if they stayed with me any longer. No one deserves that kind of life. Not even a souvenir coffee mug."
Clara pulled the mugs closer, examining the bold black script painted on their inside rims. "Blackpool?" she asked, wanting to laugh.
John shrugged. "It's the accent. It seemed to fit."
Clara nodded slowly. Yes, it did fit. "I... can't say it's a touching gift, John, but it's... Well, it's a gift." She smiled again before glancing over to watch him pull out the blanket. That looked new, at least. "Oh, that's the best one yet. It'll be perfect for the winter."
John seemed to hesitate before he handed the blanket to her, doing so with deliberate stiffness and an awkward sort of tension moving up his long, thin arms to his shoulders. Clara made sure to keep her fingers clear of his touch as she pulled the blanket from his grasp and spread it over her lap, smoothing the folds and wrinkles, relishing in the immediate warmth it gave. His expression didn't change from its tense, frozen state, and she eyed him curiously, wriggling the blanket so that it fell down to cover her legs.
"Nice," she said, nodding, hoping that would get him to show some kind of emotion. "Toasty."
"I made that," he said at last, watching the way Clara crossed her legs at her ankles, her motions moving the dark black squares and lines on the blanket. Like a shadow wriggling.
"No, really," Clara said, looking down at the blanket and then at his hands. They were clenched into fists on the table, but there was not a trace of anger on his face or in his posture. It was as if he were keeping himself composed, compact, steady - but why? "No, really," she continued, astonished. "Shut up, you didn't."
"Yes, I did," John said. Clara's eyes had gone wider than ever, and were just as bright as he hoped they'd be. There was something about her shock that didn't prickle his pride but coaxed him to relax. He took the time to enjoy the way she beamed at him, as if they weren't new acquaintances, one rank above strangers, but long friends that could take pride in the others' accomplishments. "It was part of therapy, if you must know."
Clara's smile slipped as if she'd gone running full tilt onto a patch of black ice and lost her traction in mid stride. "Therapy?" she repeated, not prodding him to speak but not stoping him from answering if that's what he wanted. She watched as he stretched his left hand out again in a long, lingering, convulsive gesture.
John looked at his hand as if he were just now noticing it was there. With an obvious effort he curled his hand into a fist, took a breath, and then spoke again. "There was an accident. Nothing serious. Tore a few nerves in the old hand, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was how close the bones got to being powder," he said, waving his left hand, twiddling his fingers up and down. To show he could do it, or to make her laugh? Clara wasn't sure, but her smile was the saddest she'd ever given to a stranger. "Lost most of the feeling for a while, but once I healed up as best I could they sat me down in some crafts club. It was a nightmare. And then I got better. And then it was a mildly irritating dream." John pointed at the blanket on Clara's lap. "That's the better one you've got on you. The others are hopelessly crooked, messy, hideous things."
Clara waited until John was looking at her again. Her smile had become less sad, replaced by a warmth that made John squirm in his chair. "And you're sure I can have it?" she asked.
"Answers obvious, isn't it? You're already half wrapped in the thing," he said.
"You could always take it back," Clara said.
"Wouldn't want to. Don't know why I'd want to. What would be the point of giving it as a gift if at the last second I turn heel and demand it back?"
"I don't know, but you're rambling."
"I don't ramble."
"You might be blushing a bit, too."
"I don't blush, either."
Clara puffed up her cheeks and let it out in an exaggeratedly long breath, shaking her head. "Oh no, no. Of course not, Mr. Smith."
"Just John, Mrs.-?"
"Miss. Oswald. Clara Oswald. But I'm just a Clara, I think you'll find."
John stood up. "Where do you keep the coffee, Just-a-Clara?"
She pointed to a porcelain white urn painted with blue and pink stripes on the countertop behind them. "In there. Spoons are in the drawer to your left, next to the sink." Clara watched him set to work, taking the French press with him. He seemed more at ease in the kitchen than she would have expected him to be, given that this was not his house. Clara wondered if his was a mirror model to her own, the way her friend in America would often lament about "cookie cutter developments."
A thought occurred to her as she watched him, leaning one arm up on the back of her chair, elbow bent, hand acting as a chin rest, the other stretched across the table, fingernails tapping a staccato rhythm to offset his whistling. It was the Habanera from Carmen. "You can always take it back," she said, her voice enough to pull his eyes to her.
John frowned. "I said I wouldn't want to. I meant that."
"Then you can always come over and get some use out of it," she said, watching the way her words - half a joke, half a line, and a poor attempt at a line at that - dawned on him. "Just in case you miss it and want to catch up. Wouldn't want to come between old friends."
Clara could live to be three times one hundred and still never find a sight more enjoyable than a flustered, stammering, slightly blushing older man trying his best to focus on making a cup of coffee. "That's - well. That's an idea. Not a good idea, but it's... certainly an idea."
When he dared to look at her again, Clara was the perfect picture of nonchalance. She even shrugged. "It was just a suggestion. It really is quite warm."
"I can make my own, you know."
"Will it match mine?"
"No, this one will be red. Like your door and your preference for wine."
"Just can't stand the sight of blue, can you?" Clara asked, noticing that the yarn he'd used for the blanket matched the deep, bruise tone of the paint on his door. Maybe it wasn't just a gift, maybe it was also an attempt to get rid of all the memories contained within.
"You can think that if you'd like," John said, bringing the French press over to the table and setting it down before he made a trip to the fridge to search for creamer or milk. "But it was more of a parting gift of sorts. And besides," he added, taking a seat at the table next to Clara again, eying her and the way she had grown attentive, alluringly curious. "The blue suits you."
"Does it?"
"It does," he insisted with a prompt nod, pouring her a mug first, noticing even from the corners of his gaze the steady way her eyes lingered on his face. "You should keep it."
"I intend to," Clara said, speaking to his eyes, (blue in this lighting, but of a changeable color that she couldn't quite pin down), speaking to his tone, (blue, somber, but with a warmth that was a slow growing burn, the kind that could kindle fires), speaking at last to the suggestion beneath his words. Both of them knew she didn't just mean the blanket, but their mugs were finished, and then the coffee was done, and then all topics of conversation exhausted in the hours that passed, and it didn't come up again.
Clara hesitated for a moment as she moved to shut the door, watching John head down the walk, across the lawn, back towards his house. She thought of saying something, any little thing. A joke, a comment, a wish for a safe trip in the few feet that separated where she was now and where he'd be soon. But the moment passed, and the chance was gone, and she found herself staring at the back of her door, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, trapping the warmth in.
I could always call tomorrow, she thought, but the thought of her voice blaring out through the tinny little set of a phone tempted her as much as the thought of a chasing whiskey with lye. A thought best saved for the grimmest of nightmares. Clara amended the suggestion. I could always... stop by tomorrow? Yes, that sounded reasonable. That sounded thoroughly doable. Just pop in for a quick hello and a thank you. Perhaps she'd bring her best box of tea as well.
Clara fell asleep that night, still unable to think of a suitable reason to get herself over there. Her best options were "thank you for the gifts" gift containing her favored blend of Lady Grey tea, an almost embarrassingly dainty tea cup painted red and blue with matching, fully-bloomed roses, a hunter's cap she'd bought as an homage to Holden Caulfield, and a book. Her favorite book.
"Frankenstein?" John asked, spinning the book around to peer at the front cover. It was the Modern Library Classics edition. Coated in blue and gold tones, the cover art was thoroughly morbid and yet somehow charming for all its dire tone. He scowled at it, and then nodded appreciatively.
"D'you like it?" Clara asked, hopes rising and peaking, staying buoyant, however hesitantly her heart thumped inside. "Or at least... Do you think you'll like it?"
"I'll love it," John said, his voice low, his tone insistent, and his eyes on Clara's face, not the book in his hands. He ran his fingers across the pages and took a whiff of the scent. Lavender, faintly sweet. Like a perfume. He realized within a second that it smelled like Clara. "I can't think of a nicer way to spend a cold, lonely night than reading up on a mad doctor toying with bits of dead men."
"It doesn't have to be a lonely night," Clara said, sipping the tea, avoiding his steady look. "Not even a cold one, either."
"Not if you bring the blanket," John said. He held his breath, waiting for Clara's smile.
He didn't have to wait long. She held out her hand for him to shake, and he grabbed it at once, squeezing back as tightly as she held on to him. "Deal," they said, and shook on it. It was a promise.