"You're really starting to worry me," the words were offered lightly, the slightest break in his voice, before gesturing down at himself to tell her, "It's really alright, I didn't spill any on me – no burns, no stains – so no harm done, really." His head came up and his mouth was open in a wide smile that dropped away when his eyebrows came together as tightly as his lips did to stare at her large eyes and ashen skin.
Clara coughed a laugh and she finally looked to her side before her gaze rounded to the ground and then she took a step towards a set of empty chairs that sat across from each other over a wooden table and she settled herself into one delicately, feeling a tightness in her chest and the warmth of new tears on the rims of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she finally told him quietly, because she could feel him following her. Smiling up at him, she shook her head and repeated with a nervous laugh, "I am so, so sorry."
The man seemed to exhale with a sort of relief and she could see the tension ease off his shoulders just before he gave a leap towards the chair across from her and sat, settling his coffee cup down and gesturing at it awkwardly, "Just coffee, that's all – bit on the floor near the door, ah," he glanced over, "Someone's come to mop it up. At most you owe me a few cents, not something worth holding you to as I suppose you've paid the debt with your smile…"
Her bottom lip trembled because he was so oblivious, just as he'd always been, and he was trying to compliment her – he was trying to flirt with her – and she realized just how far into her heart she had tucked her feelings for him. Her affections for him. Not just for this face watching her, or the hands that hesitantly reached out without quite making it across the space, afraid to cross some boundary between strangers, but for the Doctor. For the man who'd just left her outside of a coffee shop to live her life while he drifted back into space.
A man she wasn't quite sure she knew how to do without.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, hand coming up to swipe at her cheeks as she tried to give him a smile and knew she failed horribly because when she looked up into his eyes again, they were pained in a familiar way that struck at her heart and flooded her mind with memories. "I'm sorry, I'm not having the best day."
His shoulders slumped and he replied, "Ah, good, for a moment I thought this was normal."
Clara let loose a laugh and she admitted, "Sort of just got dumped."
Shifting awkwardly, he lifted his cup with a slight nod and allowed, "Take it I'm going to need fuel for this particular conversation."
She waved a hand and gestured to the door, "You should get on with your day."
"And leave you here," he told her, nose wrinkling as he shook his head, "Moping by yourself? Hardly seems right."
Clara sniffled lightly, watching him raise the cup to his lips to take a sip before she asked, "Missing bits not affecting the flavor, is it?"
With a grimace, he lowered the cup and whispered, "To be honest, their coffee's not the best."
"Then why do you drink it?" Clara questioned with a shrug, feeling suddenly odd because she couldn't quite figure out how she should be feeling, emotionally. She was elated to be looking at his face; to be hearing his voice… but she was also saddened by it, by the goodbye that hadn't truly been a goodbye – because she knew that might have been too painful.
She'd been through that before.
The man across from her grinned and he answered candidly, a hint of amusement in his eyes, "How else would I get through the day?"
Clara shifted back in the seat, hands fumbling with one another in her lap, "I prefer a warm cup of tea."
"Ah," he scoffed, "Tea's for bedtime."
Her eyebrows lifted, "So you drink tea?"
He smirked, "Bedtime."
"Suppose we couldn't share a cup then," she teased, expecting him to gap at the suggestion.
But he tilted his head instead, replying coyly "Maybe not quite this soon, no," and he waited, that twinkle of something devilish in his eyes that she'd gotten used to when he wasn't telling her everything about a planet. When there was some surprise just around the corner that he knew she was going to love and he was simply waiting. And she reminded herself that this man in front of her wasn't the man she'd travelled with, but there was no denying the way his words had affected her.
Her cheeks went red automatically and she looked away as he swung the strap of his satchel over his head to deposit it into his seat as he stood, bringing her attention back to him to ask quickly, "Where are you going?"
Hand landing lightly on her shoulder as he came to her side, he bent to whisper, "To get you a cup of tea."
Clara answered swiftly, "But it's not bedtime," and when she turned to smile at him, she saw the stain of blush climb up from his neck over his features as his mouth worked at an awkward grin before he stood straight and laughed, walking back towards the register.
Swallowing hard, she leaned back in the chair and she plucked her phone from her pocket, frowning because there was no signal and she lifted it slightly and then dropped it back in her lap, staring at the words that damned her before pushing it into her skirt again. Her eyes closed and she tried to calm her pounding heart and the small jolts of adrenaline that were pulsing through her because any minute now that man would return – that man with his ridiculous face – and he would smile at her and he would ask her if she was alright.
How did she tell him that she wanted nothing more than to sling her arms around his shoulders and hold him tightly for a day or two? How did she tell him she missed him so entirely when she'd just met him? How did she get up after their cup of tea and find her way home now that she knew that somehow he existed? Because she knew he was human and she knew he had no idea of who she was – he wouldn't be able to maintain this ruse for this long. He'd have clapped his hands together and he'd have laughed.
"Mistook me for a normal bloke!" He would have accused before smugly grinning and sassing, "Told you I could pass as human."
And she would have laughed and responded, "Knew it was you all along – you think with that face you'd ever pass as human – too alien," she'd wrinkle her nose and his jaw would drop and he would stomp behind her in disappointment back to the Tardis while she grinned because she'd maintained the upper hand.
A cup appeared in front of her face and she jerked slightly, taking it gently from the man who rounded the table and settled himself back into his seat with a friendly smile as he waited for her to take a sip, because Clara knew he wasn't waiting for a thank you. He was far too invested in knowing she was ok, she knew. Just like he would have been and she knew, immediately: whoever this stranger was, he had the upper hand now and for the first time in as long as she could remember she didn't mind not being the one with the control.
"Well," he groaned playfully, "Drink up." He gestured towards the front door, "There's quite a chill in the air and I couldn't live with myself if I knew I'd sent you off without something warm in your belly, at the very least."
Clara brought the cup to her lips and she tasted the sweet liquid, smiling because he'd given it a few lumps of sugar and a spot of milk and it was perfectly to her taste. Her eyes closed and she brought her other hand up to cradle the bottom of the cup and she slowly let it sooth her, mind working over the past few days in a rush of memories. Trying to find the moment they both understood it was time to part ways. And maybe it wasn't a moment; it was just – as she had thought – a feeling.
"Have we seen this planet before?" She'd asked him just the week before.
The Doctor had looked dumbstruck as he turned to spit, "Atrophelioxica? No."
Clara looked out over the red surface of the planet and she'd questioned, "Are you sure, Doctor?"
"Has your mind gone to pudding as well?" He'd responded, finger poking at her temple.
With a sigh, she'd lamented, "Maybe they're starting to look alike, I've seen so many."
"Maybe," he'd whispered as he left her side for the console.
It seemed as though their interactions had gotten closer and distant all the same because just as easily as she could recall that conversation and the way he'd been upset by her lack of enthusiasm, she could remember the way they'd laughed their way through a market in Prague in the twenty seventh century. He would point out advancements in civilization and she would giggle about how some things remained the same, gesturing at a couple – a man on his knee, a woman standing with her hands over her mouth in front of him – and exchanging a look of something she could classify as nothing other than longing.
"What's on your mind," the man asked her slowly, curiously, and she smiled as she lowered the cup and opened her eyes to meet his, looking over the way the green sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming in through the window at her left.
Cup in her hands, now warming her lap, she began, "You've been so kind," Clara looked away shyly before licking her lips to finish, "and I don't know your name."
He chuckled, head bowing before he turned it slightly to look up at her through the mess of long bangs hanging in his eyes as he nodded, "Fair question."
Laughing, Clara asked, "What's your name?"
"Fair question," he repeated, leaning his elbows on his knees to clasp his hands together and it was then that she giggled, watching the way it creased the corners of his eyes adoringly.
On a nod, she told him, "Clara, Clara Oswald."
Straightening, he held a hand out to her across the table and said slowly, "It is very nice to meet you Clara, Clara Oswald." She raised a warm hand to settle into his, feeling the instant spark it set off in her abdomen as he shook it delicately, and then he tilted his head forward and supplied, "Herbert, Herbert George Wells."
Eyes going wide, Clara exhaled a laugh because she imagined the Doctor would probably have met the actual H.G. Wells – he'd probably influenced him to write 'The Time Machine' – and he would have gotten a laugh out of meeting a man who wore his old face with that name.
"Is it irony, teach?" He would ask her with a crooked grin.
Clara cleared her throat and managed, "Like the author?"
He groaned, but there was an amusement on his features, and his free hand came up slightly to explain, "My mum was a bit obsessed with his books and, as it happened, her name was Wells – part of the obsession's origins, I often think – and so when I was born, she imagined she'd give me a namesake that was better than Emily's Bastard Son and I've," he stopped to watch her fading smile, "I'm sorry, I've said too much. Don't know why I told you that," he ended softly, looking confused with himself.
Her head was shaking quickly, mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise before she rambled, "It's good, I mean, you're named after a brilliant author. I'm named after nothing. I'm named because my mum looked in a book and thought 'Clara, means clarity, yeah, that's nice'. I was a mood, not a tribute to anything special."
"You're just trying to make me feel better," he whispered.
Grimacing, she questioned, "Is it working?"
His smirk grew and he mouthed, "Yeah," before looking down at their hands, still clasped over the table, and he spoke again, this time shyly, "How long does a handshake have to last before you're just holding hands?"
Her grip momentarily tightened as she watched him look up at her and then she loosened her fingers and slipped out of his grasp, the air leaving her lungs as their contact ended. Laughing nervously, she settled her hands around her cup of tea and she raised it again to her lips as he took a quick sip of his coffee and they both looked in opposite directions.
Clara leaned forward and she watched him as he anxiously took in the cars passing on the street and she told him quickly, "So my mobile's got no reception and I know I'm in no position to ask for any more favors, but… could I possibly borrow yours to call for a cab?"
For a moment, Herbert continued staring out the window, then he frowned and turned towards her, asking her with a furrowing of his brow, "Mobile, for phoning?"
Chuckling nervously, Clara nodded and she set her cup down on the table, inching forward in her seat to explain, "Must be out of range of a tower, or it could be the ceiling," she considered that the Doctor had de-activated any ability for her to phone through time and space recently, to make their break as clean as possible, and she sulked at the notion, "I just need to call someone so I can get home."
He was still thinking and for some reason it made Clara nervous. Her hands twisted together against her knees as she waited for him to shift in his seat before gesturing, "They've got pay phones near the toilets," then his head came up and he smiled widely, then frowned, then looked away with a small shake of his head.
A set of rapid movements that had Clara giggling and asking, "What just went on in that head of yours?"
His hands opened and then dropped onto his knees as he looked to her, head tilted slightly, he told her honestly, "Was just thinking, if you needed a ride – I could give you a ride, but it seemed forward and I didn't want to frighten you with forward. Forward's not actually a good thing, I'm told. Actually, sort of a complaint I get a lot…"
Head shifting from side to side, Clara laughed and gestured at him, allowing, "No, forward is fine; I'm used to forward. Forward is absolutely normal," she finished, training her gaze on his confused expression. "Herbert, I'd be glad to have a ride – could pay you when we get to my flat. For the time," she stopped, seeing the small glimmer of hope in his eyes before she called, "Hang on, don't you have a job. Is it the weekend?" She gestured at his satchel.
"Oh, yes," he nodded slowly, "Got a sort of job."
"Sort of job," Clara repeated, smiling, "How does one have a sort of job?"
Herbert smirked and she could see the color darkening on his cheeks, matching the crimson his ears had been since he'd gone for tea, and he winced as he offered, "I'm a writer."
"Your name is H.G. Wells and you're a writer," Clara told him plainly, holding in her laughter because she didn't want to embarrass him any more than he looked in that moment.
Shrugging, he reached for his satchel and undid it with a quick glance up at her, and he plucked several well-worn notebooks from inside to show her, but, she noted, didn't hand her any. "Mostly stories for the paper – under a pseudonym, of course."
"Of course," Clara repeated, pursing her lips. Then she grinned mischievously, "What's your pseudonym?"
Dropping his notebooks back in, he glanced around, eyes narrowing as his lips dropped into a frown, and he inched forward to tell her simply, "Not telling."
"That's it," she laughed, "Not telling – afraid I'll find your writing and tell you it's rubbish?"
"Can guarantee you it's not rubbish!" He shot with a laugh to mirror hers. Herbert snapped the satchel shut and gestured at her, "Alright Oswald, now that you're no longer looking as though you've seen a ghost, let's get you home."
She chuckled and stood, holding tight to her cup as she finished the tea and she followed him towards the door where they dumped their empty cups and emerged into the cooler air. Air that sent a shiver down her spine and made her inch closer to him as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and then she stepped away with a simple, "Sorry, forward."
He laughed and bent to respond quietly, "Thought we'd mutually agreed we were alright with forward."
"Why're you being so nice?" Clara questioned suddenly, turning to look at him fully in the morning light.
His hair seemed softer than the Doctor's, flopping about over his brow as the wind picked it up and tossed it, and his eyes carried none of the sadness. It made her smile, seeing those eyes so tranquil as they looked back at her, his mind working over the right answer to her question. Then he shrugged, a small shrug that tugged the left side of his mouth up before he looked down and admitted, "I'd never seen someone with so much sadness in their eyes. Dunno, just… thought I could help."
He lifted the forefinger of his left hand slowly and wiped at the last bit of moisture on her right cheek as she told him quietly, "Five foot one and crying."
"Never stood a chance," he finished.
Clara began to smile, but then she spotted the newspaper bin beside the front door of the small coffee shop they'd just exited and her breath froze in her lungs. She could hear Herbert asking her what was wrong as she moved past him and stood in front of it, reading the stories that sat over the one that had caught her attention – the one that had signaled her panic. Princess Anne had just announced she was expecting her first child; an announcement that, ordinarily, might have had anyone offering congratulations to the royal family. But Clara uttered a curse under her breath as Herbert came to stand at her side, calling her name softly.
"It's March," she laughed.
Beside her, Herbert nodded slowly, not finding the amusement in the way her skin had gone pale and her eyes had glazed over in a sort of shock he wasn't accustomed to. He looked to the newspaper and then back at Clara and she turned slowly to him as he acknowledged, "Yeah, it's March," then he added, "Are you alright?"
Clara reached out and she smiled because Herbert's hand was readily within hers and she shook her head as she admitted silently, "No, Herbert, I'm really not alright."
Because it wasn't just March.
It was March 1977.
