They had five hours to spare and share between them, now that they were free from the office lockdown. Five hours to kill, since time is often a sluggish beast, even more so when there's the matter of delayed sleep on the line. Five hours to waste, but waste happily, with company newly found and to which the pair of them were learning to be fond of perhaps a bit too fast. But the weight of time and all its significance was not an inherent quality, rather it was a trait that people create, so eager to give every passing second the same gravity granted to an entire life.
Clara peered into her cup of half-finished coffee when she wasn't looking across the table at the Doctor (John, she reminded herself firmly, silently, He'd rather I call him John,). He, unbeknownst to her, did the same. It was as if their eyes and all the weight one could attach to a gaze were tethered to a similar string, pulling down when the other relented and looked up. A kind of amusing see-saw of seeing without being seen was at work between them now. They sat facing each other across the scuffed once white table in a cafe that would only be open for another hour or so. It's the coming holiday, you see. Some people actually want to celebrate it. Clara couldn't think of a holiday she had learned to enjoy less than Christmas. John had long since given up wondering when he'd care for it again.
The table beneath their mugs and hands bore the marks of wax crayons, Sharpie streaks, and the gouged scuffs of keys. Remnants of customers past. Clara ran her fingers idly across the marks and faults, frowning as she tried her best to scratch them out. It made the table tremble on its stem thin legs. John sat back, placing either thumb and forefinger on top and under the table's edge, trying to hold it in place.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"It's the table," Clara said, frowning harder as she sat back to examine all its flaws. "It's just a bit messy."
John watched the way her eyebrows knitted over, forming a solid line of disapproval over her large, expressive eyes. It was always impolite to stare, something he wanted to tell the workers behind the counter who were snapping their gum and spearing viciously curious looks over the pastry case at the only customers they had. John knew how this must look. He could guess at what they might be thinking – but that was such a tremendous waste of energy that he was rapidly losing, and only marginally replacing with every sip of his coffee (black, just a small hint of sugar buried beneath the bitterness). He knew he shouldn't stare so intently at Clara, as if this were the first time light or a face of any kind were hitting his eyes, but this was the first time in their acquaintance that he had a chance to really see her. It was the first chance he had to see her face in anything but a passing nod and glance in the hall; the first chance to see her react, to see the way she looked when she thought of all those rapid-fire, charming, clever retorts that had so amused him for hours over the phone.
She wasn't making any of them now. And that had him curious, alert, unsure.
"Do you always fidget when you're nervous?" he asked.
"Not always. Just when I'm terrified it all won't go to plan." Clara caught herself, the words he said, as well as the suggestion behind such an observation. She put her hand on her lap, bending the fingers into a little arch that made her nails press into her palm. She smiled at John, only to have it returned in a flash like a kind of twitch, and then his eyes were back on the table again.
Silence.
"So you had a plan?" he asked.
"More like a hope for one," she said, sipping her cup, watching the way John's hands closed around his. "Was it that obvious?"
"Not really," he said quickly, shaking his head. Clara's silence drew his eyes off the table where they could catch hers, the shared gaze lasting longer than any of the earlier ones had. She didn't believe him, of course she didn't.
Clara was memorizing the look on his face, filing it away for a later day. This is how John looks when he lies, she said, But only when it's a nice lie, the kind that's meant to comfort. She'd rather a lifetime's worth of that than the other, a lie only meant out of fear and selfishness and absolute dread of the truth's consequence. But really, if Clara could have her way all the time, she'd rather no lies at all – except the ones she told when she was afraid. Those would have to stay.
"Yes, it was obvious," John amended with a sigh, knowing he was caught, knowing now what Clara looked like when she caught him in a lie: curious, keen, suspicious, but with the merest hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. As if her smirk were a kind of hook meant to dredge the truth out of him. "But I wouldn't worry about that."
"Worried? Who said I'm worried?" she asked too fast, finishing what was left in her cup. It was getting cold at the table, a drop in temperature that made Clara sit rigid, straight, shoulders back and chin up. "I don't think I am."
John didn't seem comfortable either, tucked into the almost comically miniature vinyl booth with the stuffing in the cushions bursting out in obscene, yellow fluffs. That gave her some bit of solace, to know she wasn't the only one reeling and spinning and uncertain. But it made her heart sink, sag, and tear as well. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to talk to me at all.
They'd gotten on so well over the phone. More than she'd hoped, more than she'd even expected to, considering her first impression of him (far too fond of scowling and silence and loud, echoing lectures that could jar her out of her own lessons if she listened too long to his). Had she been wrong then? Again? Had she been once more utterly mistaken? Clara smiled wider at the thought, no matter how much it terrified her. She'd long since learn to smile at everything that made her aware of fear, even if such a defense didn't always last.
"Do you not want to be here?" he asked, watching her intently. Clara's eyes had gone wide again, with the same sort of surprise and offense he imagined she felt when he'd let all those unintended insults slip out in hours past. He took a decisive sip of his coffee – and scowled. It was stone cold.
"No, hey, that's my line," Clara said, shaking her head, blinking fast. "I'm supposed to say that to you."
"And so I've said it for you," John said, shrugging. Then he drew up straight, eyebrows lifting, eyes going wide as her reply sunk in. "Why would you say that?"
Clara thumped her elbows on the table and pushed her fingers against her temples, giving them quick little rubs that hurt more than they comforted. How could this be going so wrong and all so fast? How could it not be going anywhere but instead spun madly, wildly, stuck in its own uncommunicative cycle? Spiralling like a Catherine wheel off the spoke, firing round and round and doing nothing but burning itself out. She shut her eyes, took a breath, then let it out in a long sigh. How could two people talk so well over a phone and bungle it all up beautifully when face to face?
John watched her, waiting until her eyes were on him again before he asked once more, "What's wrong?"
"Can we start over?" she asked, waving her hands, fingers rigid, as if to scatter the past few minutes like so much water from her hands.
John blinked, considering this. He hadn't thought the conversation, what little there was to be had, was so wretched as to warrant a reboot. But it hadn't gone the way he'd wanted it either. Light, polite banter and charm and comforts, yes, that's what John had been looking for – but perhaps that was foolish, especially for him.
"Alright," he said, leaning forward, holding out his hand.
Clara already had one of hers extended. "Clara Oswald," she said.
He shook it, holding to her fast. "John Smith."
"Pleasure to meet you."
"Pleasure's mine."
They hadn't let go yet, neither one wanting to be the first. "I'm tired. Are you tired?"
John smiled at her, kindly, sympathetically, giving the back of her knuckles a tender little stroke. "Awfully tired. Have been for a while, remember?"
"Then let's leave," Clara said, hearing herself speak but not really daring to believe it was herself who said it. A mouth on legs that runs away wherever it pleases, yes. That was her.
"And go where?" he asked. This was a long time for a handshake, he thought, but each time he felt his fingers go slack Clara's seemed to hold on tighter, matching the rigid, fixed state of her smile. And there was something too sad about that, something so wretched that reminded him of all her earlier forced laughs. So John simply lowered his hand, taking hers with his, until both were at rest on top of the table that was a mess of scuffs and gouges and fading marks from all the people who sat here before it.
"Dunno. Which is closer, your place or mine?" I actually said that. Those words actually came out of my mouth. Clara kept her teeth clenched in case she actually said a little oh God out loud.
"I would have to know where you lived before I could answer that, wouldn't I?" Oh don't do cute, John, you can't do cute, it doesn't suit you now. Did it ever? And then, with his own words catching up with him, John took a ragged, short breath. Did you honestly ask her that?
"I've got a flat in Shoreditch," Clara said, telling him the precise directions. She couldn't help but notice the way his fingers twitched around hers. She was waiting for him to let go before she did so first, but as there was a warmth in his hand that she hadn't expected. It beat back against a chill pressing down on the back of hers, like fire and ice clashing and crashing together. Clara didn't want to lose it yet.
"Yours," he said. "Yours is closer."
Gaze and hands broke apart as they fumbled to pull themselves together, slipping arms into coats and winding scarves around throats that had gone taut and arid. All the words they could have said, that they wanted to say, and they wanted to hear being said, were lost in the bramble of so much that could be said but had yet to properly develop. But that didn't bother either one of them as much as it ought to. After seven hours of near-constant conversation the idea of talking any further seemed a stale, silly, manipulated thing.
We've talked enough for one day, haven't we? They both thought this in the quiet solace of their own minds, neither one knowing that the other had it cross their thoughts, too – not until they shared a look that suggested the same silent words were there.
Clara put her hands into her pockets and smiled, tilting her head back to peer up at John. She may sometimes be just a mouth with legs that runs off when it pleases, when it's afraid and eager not to seem as such, but even she didn't always have words to spare. Sometimes, no matter how the mind was pushed and prodded and cracked through clean, there was not a single thought that could be polished and sent down along the assembly line process into becoming words. Sometimes all one had to do was relax, reflect, and enjoy the silence.
There were, however, a few lingering questions.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. More than sure. I'm certain." She paused. "Do you mind?" she asked, nudging his arm as they fell into step together, heading out of the shop (that was all too happy to see the back of them).
The sooner he said no the more eager he might seem. John had a sudden, intruding image of a jumping, yipping puppy, half mad for attention and a comforting pat. You're not that type, he said, frowning, his whole face falling into it with gusto.
Clara nudged him again. "Still waiting, Doctor."
"John."
"John," she corrected, her hands curling into little fists inside her pockets. Clara didn't sweat when she was nervous: she only grew cold and froze hard, like a diamond locked in its own private panic.
"No. No, I don't mind, not at all," he said at last when they'd turned the corner at the end of the block. John sneaked a look at her askance, and shortly after shared her smile.
The leaden grey sky was too pale for a another storm. The worst of the weather had cleared up in the night, leaving only vague, fading traces behind. They walked with careful steady steps on sidewalks that were only just starting to have their icy shells cracked, piles of snow turning to colorless slush beneath soles and heels. Through the jitters and shakes-inducing miracle known as caffeine, may the name of coffee everywhere be praised, Clara and John managed to stay on their feet long enough to clear the walk back to her place. Only a few other disgruntled persons were out and about at this hour, their hair tousled from a sleep recently ended and sorely missed. Some already had bags from shops in their hands, dangling like shackles off every part of their forearms.
One more day til Christmas, Clara thought as she saw them, suppressing a yawn by dragging her teeth along the side of her cheek. One more day til my first Christmas alone. It was a strange thought, and certainly not a comforting one. Her father – or rather, her father's wife – had rung up earlier in the week to let her know that her presence this year wouldn't exactly be appreciated. There were cousins coming in from the country, impressionable and sweet minds that would benefit more from Clara's lack than her presence.
"Is this cos I told Gemma it was perfectly all right for her to rather have a girlfriend than any boy you've got lined up?" Clara had asked.
Linda had feigned a sad, miserable sigh. "Oh that's part of it, Clara. But I think it's rather more to do with one of your own romantic choices of late. And he was so very married, dear. Couldn't you tell?"
Yes, couldn't you? Clara asked herself, remembering the ring on John's hand.
John kept his eyes on Clara's back as they climbed the steps to her floor in silence. It wasn't her silence that bothered him as much as the suggestion of all that was going unsaid, that yawning gulf of thoughts discarded before they could be shared. He was either too tired or getting too old or some combination in between to be able to piece together what she was thinking. He was either too tired or knew better than to think he had any right to guess. He only had to wait a few seconds more before he figured it out.
Coming to a stop in front of her door, Clara turned to put herself in between it and John. She looked at the ring on his left hand, letting it linger there long enough for him to get the point.
"I have one question," she said.
"Just the one?" he asked.
Clara considered. "And a potential follow up," she amended.
John nodded, tense. "Then you'd better ask it."
"Why do you wear that ring if you're not married?"
"It's an old habit," he said, sliding his thumb around the band and giving it a slow, steady twist, like a noose knotting tight. "An awful one. Hard to break after all the years."
Clara folded her arms over her chest, her hands bloodless pale and cold. John noticed this, just as he noticed the strain her voice when she cleared her throat and said, "Would you be willing to try?"
"Try what?"
"To break it. The habit, I mean." Clara leaned back against the door, using its weight for support. She was getting tired, so tired, her thoughts sluggish. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep, nestled against pillows and blankets and sheets and a pair of long, stringy arms whose hands were warmer than she'd expected them to be. "Because if you're willing to try then I might be willing to open the door and let you be on the other side of it when it shuts."
"Is this because of the other one?" he asked.
"What other one?"
"Your other one," he said. "The one who hid his ring."
Clara's words were as weary as her smile. "He never was mine to begin with, John. That was the point, remember?"
"I do, yes," John said, and it struck him as passing strange that he could say the same thing as when he'd put the ring on now that he was taking it off. He held the ring up for Clara to see, noting the way her face had gone as still as her gaze. Was it exhaustion that made her look so sullen and weary, or the lingering guilt?
"I don't do lies, Clara," he said, keeping his eyes locked onto hers. "You're always better off without them."
"Me?"
"It was a general you," he corrected.
Clara thought about this, then she nodded. "Looks like I've got a habit to break too," she said.
John didn't ask what that meant. He thought about the way she could force a laugh and a smile, thought about the way people hid behind lies because of how great was their fear of really, truly being seen.
Clara watched as John put the newly removed ring into his coat pocket. She wouldn't smile, not yet. Perhaps not until much later, when she had a few hours of sleep and another cup of coffee in her. Or a pot, she considered, turning slowly to her door, well aware of how close John was to her back as she fished the keys from her pocket. The entire bloody pot, I'll drink it straight from the container.
A new kind of silence followed them into Clara's flat. It was a silence that was like the snow starting to fall outside in a colorless blanket, the kind that muffles thoughts and hushes all sorts of sounds, like doubts and sighs and questions and little nervous laughs. They hadn't even thought to remove their coats; they'd just stumbled like stringless puppets down the hall back towards where she kept her bed, John smiling at the way Clara had turned to beckon him closer with crooked fingers of her two little hands, Clara smiling at the way he tried to hide his laugh. Of course the shoes were removed – no sense bringing the bad weather in further than it had to be – and Clara held on to his offered sleeve as she kicked off her heels, dropped down a good four inches, and tugged him gently across the threshold from which he had been leaning almost warily back.
"A little sleep never hurt anyone," Clara heard herself say, already crawling across her bed and tugging on the covers with one hand, aware of how John was still politely resisting the insistent tugs of her other hand.
He reached up to dislodge her fingers from the front of his coat, moving his palms over her one hand gently, carefully, trying to warm her up again. "How tired are you, Clara?" he asked.
"Very tired," she said, yawning as she peered round at him. "But not tired enough not to know exactly what I'm doing."
"Right. Which is?"
"Inviting a co-worker to sleep in with me." One of John's knees was propped on the edge of her bed, making the mattress sink beneath the added weight. Clara was already leaning back on the pillows she had strewn about in a kind of cushioned mess no matter where she decided to rest her head. "And you should know that I'm a turner."
"A turner?" he asked, watching Clara shift until the blankets and sheets, gold and white, pure, crisp, newly washed he'd bet, were out from under her back and moving up over her dark stockinged legs.
She nodded, very solemn and sure, the way she always was when sleep descended fast. "I move from one end of the bed to the other," she said, budging over to give John some room as he settled down near her at last. There was just a hand's span of space between them now and Clara held her breath, waiting to see who would close it first.
"Then it would seem that I'm your opposite," John said, doing a quick calculation of how easy it would be to reach over and close his hand over hers, to use that bit of courage to pull her into his arms, perhaps give her leave to rest her head on his chest.
Clara leaned in close, peering blearily at him. Their noses almost touched. Any word said next would bring their lips dangerously near to a kiss. "Why's that?" she asked.
John held and then gave up his breath. His hands were on her back, mirroring where she'd put his on his chest. Clara curled up closer, a little knot of limbs beneath the blankets. John had stayed atop, not wanting to intrude that much. "I sleep like the dead," he said, keeping his voice soft, quiet.
Clara murmured something, then trailed off into silence, enjoying the sound of his heart and the warmth of him beneath her, the warmth of his hands holding on tightly behind her. John listened as the silence filled the room, as her breathing evened out into gentle sighs, like the hush of the sea meeting shore. He closed his eyes, feeling rather than seeing every little rise and fall of her chest against him.
They slept that way well into the night, comforted and more than a little comfortable despite the peculiar start to their acquaintance. More content with silence than they had been trying to force a conversation, when John and Clara stirred awake several hours hence, they shared only a look, sleepy smiles, and the kind of gaze that sends and receives a mutual, muted decision. Stay here, like this. Stay here with me.
Clara threw back the blanket just as John shifted to wedge himself under it, neither one of them tired, neither one of them really wanting to fall back asleep – but neither one wanting to say it first. Not yet.