He notices her for the first time on the third Tuesday of the semester when she is standing in front of him to get coffee. He is not inherently one to notice girls. He is aware that he is at most times surrounded by girls, fifty-nine percent of the people at the school are female, but he has never been as conscious of that fact as the moment when he sees her. She's so female. He is very specifically aware of her femaleness. From her small stature, to her shiny hair and her big round eyes and her dress that clings just right. And she's. Well. You know. Pretty. He's not used to noticing those things. But he does with her.

He has to look down to look at her because she's so much shorter than him and he finds that he rather likes that. Not that he's trying to stare at her, she's just standing in front of him and well, his eyes wander.

He has been staring too long and when she turns to look around the store, their eyes meet. He thinks maybe he should look away, wave his hands, pretend he sees someone he knows, do something. But he doesn't. Just awkwardly continues to meet her eyes. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out and then decides, oh why not? and gives her a big grin and says, "hello there."

"Hi," she says, looking bemused.

"Miss?" he hears the barista ask, annoyance lacing her voice.

She turns to order, but before she does she shoots him another glance over her shoulder, allowing him to marvel in the glorious sparkle in her eyes. But then she turns back to the impatient cashier and the thinks that is the end of it.

He finds himself feeling slightly disappointed, shoulders drooping, smile fading, until she steps over to the side of the line and waits for him while he orders. He finishes ordering, feeling giddy and moves to join her. They collect their drinks (black coffee for him and plain tea for her, which is unusual. Everything about her is unusual. Undefinably so. And definitely in a good way.)

"I'm John, by the way," he tells her taking a sip of coffee and blanching at the heat, "John Smith."

She laughs and he likes the way it lights up her face. She has a good face for laughing. It crinkles her nose and brightens her eyes.

"Is that even a real name?"

"Oi. It's a perfectly good name."

"If you say so, John Smith."

The laughter is still in her eyes as she takes a sip of her tea and his stomach tightens a little at the look in her eyes, teasing and open and warm. He has to clear his throat before he asks, "and you are?"

"Clara," she says offering him her hand, "Clara Oswald."

He takes her hand, feels her palm press against his, and smiles, "It is very lovely to meet you Clara Oswald."

It is their first date. Kind of. John is not very good at classifying things and neither is she. They had been talking and he had mentioned this movie that she had never heard of, but she agreed to go with him, because strange as it seems, she really likes this boy. He is tall and gangly and overly enthusiastic, but she likes his smiles and the way his eyes seem older than the rest of him.

He comes and picks her up at her dorm and she almost laughs when she sees his car. It is so inexplicably him. It is old and bedraggled, a sort of navy ish blue color that is uncommon in older cars. It looks like it can barely run and makes wheezing dying noises.

"Are you sure this can run?" she asks him as she drops into the passenger seat beside him.

"Ssshhhh. Don't listen to Clara," he says stroking the dashboard, "You're beautiful."

"And you're ridiculous," she replies, but she is smiling.

The movie they go see is horrendous. The acting is bad and the effects are worse. Halfway through she gives up on watching the screen and just watches John instead. He is one of the most animated people she has ever seen, his face changing with every scene, stretching and contorting with disgust and delight. She likes the way the light from the screen plays over the planes of his face. His nose and his chin are too large and his eyebrows are non-existent, but it works for him. The oddness fits him. There is almost something alien about him. Something not quite right, but in a good way.

He catches her looking towards at him and she thinks about looking away, but doesn't. She just looks right back, a challenge in her eyes, until he nudges her and whispers, "you're missing the best part."

She dutifully turns towards the screen, but it isn't long before her eyes begin to stray back to John. She privately thinks there is no hope for this movie if this is the best part, but she finds that, despite the horrendous movie, she is enjoying herself immensely. She thinks maybe it has something to do with his smile, which is too wide for his face, and the feeling she gets when their hands brush over the bowl of popcorn.

The night air is that in-between temperature where he can't quite decide whether it is cold or not. The air is so clear that when he breathes in he can feel it all the way to his lungs. Clara isn't wearing a jacket and he can feel her shivering beside him.

"Do you want it?"

He gestures vaguely to his jacket.

"You don't mind?" she asks, already taking the proffered article and slipping it on. The coat swallows her small frame, but there is something undefineably appealing about it. Not that he couldn't define it, just that he won't in this particular circumstance.

He is taking her to his favorite spot on campus. It isn't particularly magnificent, though he knows that there are particularly magnificent parts of campus. It is a secluded corner of grass off the beaten path, almost obscured by trees but with a clear path to the sky when you lie down. John takes Clara's hand to pull her into the trees, but stops when he hears her teasing voice.

"Ooooh. John. I didn't know it was like that."

"Like what? Oh. No. No. No," he can feel himself blushing, "It's not. I mean. I didn't mean to-"

"Relax, you ninnie," she says swatting him on the chest and not even bothering to hide her wide grin, "I was only joking, where are we going?"

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. She has a way of throwing him off that he is unaccustomed to.

"Oh right. Well. This is the best view on campus of the stars, so, I you know, I come out here a lot I guess. Just to look at them. "

"Cool," she says, plopping down on the ground gracelessly, limbs splayed and her hair spread in a halo around her head.

He settles carefully down next to her, leaving the appropriate amount of space between them. She crosses it in an instant, her body molding against him, her head nestled by his, her entire body fitting in the space between his arm and his side . He lets out a shocked little sound and he can feel her resounding laugh against his chest.

"Warm," she murmurs, her breath ghosting over his neck.

He doesn't know how to move, how to think with her in this close proximity, so he does what he always does when he doesn't know what to do. Talk.

He paints a picture of the different galaxies with his words. Draws a map of brightly trailing constellations with the rise and fall of his voice. Shows her what he knows of the galaxy in sentences that will never fully describe its magnificence. He wants her to see the beauty he sees when he looks up at the night sky.

She is quiet for so long that he think maybe she has fallen asleep, but when he stops talking, she says, "It's indescribably isn't it?"

He looks down at her, sees the stars reflected in her bright eyes and thinks that he has never seen anything so beautiful.

"Yeah," he whispers, feeling as if there is something sacred in this moment.

"And so beautiful."

He nods his head, but doesn't respond. There is quiet for a long moment and then.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing."

He feels her shifting and then she is hovering over him, her face blocking out his view of the stars, his view of anything but her.

"No. John. It not. This is," she pauses for a second, trying to find the perfect word, "You. It's you."

They order Chinese food and eat in Clara's dorm. They are supposed to be studying, their books spread out across the floor, but so far they have done nothing of the sort. John is having trouble operating the chopsticks, his face screwed up in concentration and Clara is laughing harder than she has in a very long time. He gives her a disgruntled look, his frustration making him a grumpy three year old.

"It's not funny," he huffs, failing for the thirty-seventh time to spear a piece of chicken.

"It is a bit," she laughs and tries to help him, placing her hands atop his on the chopsticks.

Even with her fingers over his, he is too clumsy and the chicken slips again from the two slender sticks. She looks up at him. He is blushing from her proximity and the intermingling of their fingers. She smiles and watches his blush intensify. She likes knowing that she can affect him so easily.

Clara is at his apartment for the first time. This shouldn't be a big deal, but it is because his roommates and the craziness and well. Jack is there. That also shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. Just a little bit. He comes back from collecting his things from his room to find Clara leaning against the kitchen counter and Jack, well, being Jack. He is smiling just a tad too wide and standing just a little too close and saying something that is making Clara laugh and lean towards him. John coughs loudly and the two break apart, turning to look at him.

"John," Jack cries breaking into a broad smile as if he hadn't been chatting up John's friend. Who is female. And. Well. Err. Pretty.

"Where have you been hiding this magnificent creature?"

Clara laughs at that and shoves him in a playful way. John doesn't like the way she is looking at Jack with too bright eyes. And it's not like he is worried or anything (why would he be worried?), but Jack is Jack and Clara is Clara.

"You're pretty spectacular yourself," Clara responds.

"I am, aren't I?" Jack returns.

Clara lets out a little surprised laugh.

"You're awful."

Jack just shakes his head and winks. John doesn't like it. He is used to Jack flirting with every living being in the room, but he is not used to caring about it. He is not used to the unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He just wants to whisk Clara away from Jack and his sparkly eyes and his endless flattery.

John doesn't really know what he is doing or if his brain is even functioning, but his arm somehow finds its way around Clara's waist his hand settling against her hip and he sort of pulls until she settles back against his chest. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the laughter in Jack's eyes, but he's not looking at Jack. He's watching Clara and the way she is looking at him as if to say finally.

When Clara's dad announces that he is going out of the country for winter break, she immediately goes to John.

"What are you doing for the break?" she asks him, worrying her lip between her teeth.

She thinks that he will probably tell her that he is going somewhere fantastic and magical. He seems like the sort that would have traveled all around the world. She can see him in Africa, Asia, South America, everywhere.

"Well. I was thinking I'd just stay here really."

"What about your family?" she asks.

"Err. Haven't got one. Just me. Now."

He is not looking at her, staring at a point past her left shoulder.

"Hey," she says, her palm against his cheek, making him face her, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Clara," he says softly.

She had wanted him to look at her, but now she does not know if she is prepared for the sadness she sees in his eyes. The longing. He shakes his head and when he looks back at her, he looks normal again. Mainly. His smile is still flavored with pain.

"What about you?" he asks her, "what bright adventures does Clara Oswald have planned?"

"Ummm. Nothing. Really. Or. Well. I don't really know. I'm kind of on my own for Christmas this year."

"Oh," he says and then it's quiet for a moment.

"Well," he says, brightening, "you could always come stay with me. Amy and Rory are going home to Ledworth. And I think River said she was going with them. And well. Jack. He probably won't be around much. Never is really. Point being: There'll be plenty of room. And of course you're always welcome round. But if you don't want to, of course, I understand. All kind of sudden and the like."

"John," she says, "shut up. Of course I want to."

"Oh," he says, "Well then."

He can hear the music before he is even up to the door. It is some pop song that he has heard, but doesn't know the name of. He opens the door, moving to enter the main room of the apartment, and then stops in his tracks. Clara. Clara. The first thing he notices is legs. For someone so short, the expanse of leg on display is really very impressive. The second thing he notices is that she is wearing one of his old has a vague memory of her asking if she could borrow something of his while she did laundry, but he had never quite imagined that she would look so, well, appealing in his old clothes. It might also have something to do with the fact that she doesn't appear to be wearing much else, and well the previous thing with the legs. Which are of course quite nice. She has not noticed him standing on the doorway yet which he feels grateful for, because it means he gets to watch her without her noticing for a moment. She is dancing, the hop up and down sing along kind, which is rather dorky, but he thinks that it kinda suits her. She isn't wearing any makeup and her hair is wild and adorably rumpled atop her head. She is a beautiful mess. She is magnificent.

Clara is staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, when she hears noise from John's room. She immediately sits up, swinging her legs out of bed, wincing when her bare feet touch the cold floor. She pads down the hall and stops when she reaches his room, her hand on his door frame.

"John?" she whispers.

When she doesn't get a response she pushes the door open and sucks in a sharp breath. The bed is a mess of twisted sheets and John is in the middle of it, his face screwed up as if he is in pain and Clara can see the tear tracks making their way down his sheets. It feels intensely private to see him like this and she feels like she is intruding, but she can't seem to draw her eyes away.

"Please," she hears him whisper and she doesn't know if he is awake or if he is still in the dream, but she knows that he needs her.

She moves to the bed, kneeling beside him, and places her hand on his feverish face.

"John," she whispers, and then again louder, "John."

He opens bloodshot eyes and he looks older and sadder than she has ever seen him look.

"Clara."

He says her name like a prayer and motions slightly with his head and she is crawling into the bed beside him, her arms wrapping around him. He clings to her tightly, like she is a life boat and he is lost at sea. She thinks he might be crying, she feels the tears hitting the side of her neck, but she doesn't say anything, just holds him until she feels his body relax against her.

"I'm here," she says, because it's all she has to offer, "I'm here."

John is trying to cook breakfast. He is not very good at cooking, generally because it requires patience and focus and hand eye coordination and he has never been very good with any of those things. And after a harsh lecture from Amy about the probability of him burning down their apartment, he has stayed clear of the kitchen. But Clara is sick and confined to her bed and John had wanted to do something nice for her for once and so he had decided to make something for her. And well, he is failing pretty fantastically. The smell of burning pancakes swiftly fills the entire apartment.

"John?" he hears from the doorway, "what are you doing?"

He turns and sees Clara standing there, holding a tea mug between her hands. Her nose is puffy and red and she looks miserable.

"I, uh," he scratches the back of his head sheepishly, "was trying to make you breakfast."

"Trying?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, failing, really."

She steps close, surveying his handiwork, the mess of kitchen, the scattered bowls, the blackened pancakes on the stove.

"It was going to be nice," he says, "but well, you know, cooking isn't really my strong suit."

She looks like she's going to laugh or cry, he can't really decide which.

"Clara," he says questioningly, "are you alright?"

She lets out a little choked sound and then throws herself at him, her arms around his neck and her body pressed tight to his.

"You're an idiot," she says against his neck, her voice mangled with emotion.

Clara has the idea of putting glow in the dark stars on the ceiling over his bed, a reminder of the night sky he loves so much. She wants to just place them all over the place, but John gets out his star map and places them in the exact position, naming each star as he places it on the ceiling. He crafts each constellation with care, measuring the angle, while Clara sits back and laughs at his ridiculousness.

"It doesn't have to be exact, John. It's just meant to be fun."

"I am having fun," he says, tape measurer in one hand and protractor in the other. Privately, she thinks his obsessive tendencies are precious.

"Hmmmm," she says laying back on the bed, conscious of the way his eyes dart down and rest on her.

When he finishes, she gestures to him to turn out the lights and they watch the stars light up, their own private view of the heavens. Though she mocked him for it, the way he laid out the little plastic stars create a night sky of their own, caught on the ceiling of his bedroom. He lays on the bed next to her, his head resting somewhere near her stomach and their bodies intersecting at random points. She nudges his side with her foot.

"It's beautiful," she says.

He leans his head against her.

"Thank you," he whispers and she knows he doesn't just mean for the stars.

When it happens, it almost seems like accident. He thinks that it will be a big moment, but it's not. She just leans in and then so does he and then their lips meet. Just like that. And then it happens again and again and again until he feels like he is drowning in her.

Clara.

Clara.

He is breathing her name into her mouth and tightening his arms around her. He feels her hands grasping his hair, his waist, everywhere. She is everywhere. Invading all of him. All parts of him, inside and out. But somehow he finds that he doesn't mind so much. He wants to pull her even closer until they are occupying the same space, so that there is no distance between. So he does and he feels her sigh against his lips.

It's like he has been holding his breath for a long time and this, the feel of her right against him, her heart beating next to his, finally allows him to breathe again. He drinks her in like a hungry man. He never wants to stop.

Later he draws patterns into the bare skin of her back with the tip his finger. She thinks maybe they are constellations, like he is mapping the stars into her skin, like she is her own galaxy.. She had expected him to be all flustered and nervous and blushy afterwards, but when she glances over at him she sees him smiling. He looks the happiest she has ever seen him. It is like he exhaled and let the world fall from his shoulders.

And maybe it's the way he is smiling down at her or the memory of his lips against her skin, but she feels like being honest.

"John."

"Hmmm," he answers absentmindedly.

"I just wanted to let you know," she clears her throat, suddenly nervous, "I was so lonely until I met you. And I don't want to pull the whole my mother died when I was young and I was never that good at making friends card, but well."

Her voice is starting to clog up and she blinks tears away from her eyes. She feels John's hand still on her back.

"Clara."

"No. Shut up. That's not what I'm trying to say. What I'm trying to say is you fixed me. Like you were a doctor, my doctor. And I don't feel so alone anymore. So. Thank you."

She feels his hand upon her face, turning it to look at him, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from her cheeks. When she meets his eyes, she sees that they are filled with wonder.

"Clara Oswald," he whispers , so reverentially that it makes new tears spring to her eyes, "you saved me. I didn't think it was possible, but you did. "

He pulls her towards him, pressing his forehead to hers. She raises her hand to his neck, lightly tugging on the hair that curls at the nape of his neck.

"My doctor."

"My impossible girl."