Chapter 4: One Heart Verses Twenty Four Ribs

The roads were quiet. Rain was periodically splattering the windscreen—the weather deciding it was bored now of pretending it was a different time of year. Clara couldn't remember the last time she had driven quiet roads in a car. On her motorbike, yes, but that was a completely different experience. Significantly more cold. This car had a rather good heating system. In a car, she could zone out in a lulled state that couldn't be done on a bike. In a… safe way, of course. She was quite attentively aware she was transporting Britain's national treasure in a small metal box travelling at fifty miles per hour. That wouldn't exactly be a pleasant headline.

"I'm not asleep!" John exclaimed suddenly, jerking awake. "I've never been asleep in my life." His head swivelled, disoriented. "Were you talking to me? If so, no. I don't agree with anything you just said."

Clara frowned with amusement, returning her eyes to the road. She had taken over driving after insisting that his habit to glance incessantly out of the driver door window every five seconds to look at trees and fences was going to end up cutting their holiday very short. Although, she hadn't exactly done a good job of sticking to her own instruction, taking advantage of his peacefully sleeping state to look at him while he couldn't notice her doing it.

"Where are we?" John asked, wiping at his eyes.

"Um… I don't have a clue. There's a good possibility I've driven past a turnoff.

"We're on Skye though?"

"Yeah. For an hour."

"Look at that view," he murmured, gazing out of his window.

Clara grinned. It was pitch black outside, the sun long set, casting the world into darkness. "I was about to wake you up for directions. We just passed Portree. I turned right on the… A85-something. Off the main road. Past the harbour. Was that right?"

"I wasn't asleep," he grumbled, irritated. "I just… had my eyes closed for an extended moment of time."

The back of his hands pressed into his eyes and then he pushed hard into the seat, tapping his skull repetitively against the headrest. "Portree…" he trailed absently. "Right. Just head in…" He waved a vague hand in front of the windscreen. "... that direction."

"Yessir," she murmured, amused by his behaviour. She pointed at the screen below the dash. "Does that have a GPS?"

"Yes," he confirmed, turning it on. Five seconds of tapping later and he was growling in annoyance. "No. What am I doing? I don't need a stupid computer to tell me what to do. Go that way." He switched it off and pointed into the dark. "It's that way."

"I'm going to be annoyed if we drive off a cliff."

"You're in charge of the steering wheel."

Grumpy when forced out of sleep, Clara smiled to herself. Probably should remember that. Or not. She probably didn't need to know that.

"I've finally decided on my favourite flower," she mentioned to distract him. "Can't believe I didn't think of this before. Triffids."

They had spent the previous hours of his conscious state going through every 'favourite' question they could think of before he had fallen silent and closed his eyes against the window.

"Not a flower, Oswald," he retorted. "Try again."

"Yeah? Well at least my favourite song isn't from the fucking Elton John collection."

"I was joking."

"No, you weren't. I'm never letting that go. Forever."

"Forever is a rather long time."

That right there—was her fault. She needed to stop having conversations like this.

"Maybe we should spend our time this week making friendship bracelets," he muttered, staring intently out of the window into nothing. "Have you driven past a hill that looks like a giant kicked out the side of it?"

"I've driven past some road that looks like road," she returned wryly, pointing a finger to the rushing grey passing in front of them.

"Hmm. Oh well. I've got a fantastic sense of direction. I've never been lost anywhere in my life."

She stole another glance at his furrowed brows just visible in the low light. He rubbed his eyes again and then shook his head.

"Eyes on the road," he demanded, disgruntled.

"Yessir," she murmured, holding back a pressing smile and tapping her forehead in mock salute.

"Your rules." He crossed his arms. "I bet you've been staring at me for the last hour."

Fucksake.

"No, I haven't."

"You have. Everyone stares at me."

Clara sighed. So grumpy. She desperately wanted to smile. The expression she could make out was almost endearing. She refrained, feeling as if it would increase his irritation, even if he couldn't see it in the dark. The sun had set before five, the granted hours of daylight this far north only extending for a meagre seven hours.

"I could beat a triffid in a fight," John declared suddenly.

Helpless against it, she smiled. "Why are you all… alpha male today?"

"Clara." His tone was unfazed. "Don't tell me you wouldn't want to punch a triffid in the face."

"They don't have a face."

"In the trunk, then." He jabbed his fist into the air in front of him. "I'd be a brilliant triffid hunter. How many do you think I could take on at once? Five? Maybe ten. Probably fifty. Anyway. This is likely just because of a return to the motherland. I slide right back into the scrappy section of the Glaswegian stereotype."

"You're doing a fantastic job of it."

"Thank you," he muttered under his breath.

John leant forward, fixing his eyes out the window, looking for landmarks. A sign eventually flashed past them and he pressed his fist into the dash. "Great. I know exactly where we are. Lost."

"What—really?"

"No. Take the next right. Or the one after. You choose. Fifty-fifty. One leads to the house, other to a cliff."

One storied and traditionally stone clad, the house was spectacularly quaint—perhaps—but in a seemingly modern way. It displayed white window frames and a built-up entrance, but it had clearly been renovated at some point. Vines extended on one side of the wall to the roof and spread around a chimney. A well maintained garden and shrubbery extended around the outside. John had mentioned something previously about the view, but the rest of the property and whatever expanded beyond was hidden in the dark.

"Knock knock."

She was still distracted by the outside of the house as he spoke. She peered through the windscreen at it, the front illuminated solely by the car headlights. It looked old, enchanting, like it had stood here for one hundred years, upgraded and up-kept when required. Straight out of a book. Knowing him though, she imagined the inside would be a little different from any decor fully replicant of the last century.

"Clara," he demanded, wanting her attention. "Knock knock."

She blinked and turned to him. "What?"

John gave her an unimpressed stare. "It's 'who', not 'what'."

"What?"

"Knock knock."

She clicked on to what was happening. "Who's there."

"We're."

"We're who," she repeated blankly.

"We're here."

An extended moment of silence passed between them as Clara blinked again and tried to figure out if there was anything she could draw out of that interaction.

"John…" she said slowly, staring at him. "That was quite possibly the worst joke anyone has ever said. Number one being, it wasn't a joke in any way. None of that made sense."

A humourless grin spread on his features. "Don't care. Do you like my house?"

She turned her gaze back to the view. "Ten out of ten for the outside."

"Come on then!" he insisted abruptly, jumping out of the car. "We're here! Let's go swimming!" He slammed the door.

Clara wiped her eyes, a tired smile pressing on the edges of her mouth. She watched him walk around to the front of the car. He mouthed something she couldn't hear, and then wound down the window. The outside temperature began washing through the heat.

"What?"

"I've got an absolutely awful and inappropriate physical humour joke, if you want that instead."

He banged the bonnet twice with an open palm. Christ. He was pushing a dangerous line.

"No, thank you," she called, grinning and breathing out amusement. He was obviously in a strange mood. Restless and impatient, which she imagined was from being cooped up and stationary in the small box for most of the day. He probably needed to go for a run and expel some energy. Her thoughts drifted to other possible ways they could solve this issue.

Stop that—

An outside light flicked on as she watched him reach the front door of the house. He twisted the handle and then banged on it in frustration. "Clara!" he yelled back at her. "Get out of the car!"

The rest of the cold seeped into her as she exited. Freezing was too much of a generous, warm descriptor. This was something else entirely. Her coat was abandoned somewhere in the backseat. She shivered immediately and watched her breath expand in the low light. No one would survive this exposure dressed as she was for very long. She felt like she might have been able to hear the sea crashing in the distance, but couldn't be entirely sure. Icy wind swept across her unprotected body.

"Keys," John instructed firmly, pointing back at the driver side.

The now customary reaction to entering any room that he owned overcame Clara again and she groaned in her head, marvelling at the utter luxury.

This was a cottage—small house—and not a normal-sized-house-with-a-big-gate, but even so, it was completely gorgeous. A compressed opulence. A small entranceway led straight into a combined living room and kitchen. The stonework continued within, matched with dark wood and crossing beams on the ceiling. Someone had been in here recently, the fire was going and low lights from surrounding lamps were casting a soft haze over the room. It was blissfully warm, heat from the flames, or matched with an alternative source to completely saturate the area. The warmth melted the immediate prickle of ice that had started setting in her lungs. Couches spread around the glowing fireplace, a large grey rug trapped beneath. Firewood was stacked high in a basket and a handcrafted dining table was placed on the opposite side beside the kitchen bar, dangling lights situated above.

Clara stared back at the fire, deciding she was going to spend the next seven days immobilised beside it while she ordered her grumpy and cross servant to make tea and pass her books. She breathed out, wondering how difficult it could be to write a song, record it, be declared a musical genius, and then become excessively rich and buy a house on an isle. Couldn't be that hard.

"Okay?" John murmured from behind her, hand briefly pressing into the small of her back.

She realised she was blocking the entranceway to the room. "How come… how come you don't just live here permanently?" she mumbled, not bothering to move.

She heard him laugh a little and then hands were placed on her shoulders. He applied pressure and made her dip slightly so he could put his chin on the top of her head.

She twisted away, annoyed. "Don't do that," she muttered.

"Grow and I won't be able to," he shot back immediately. He pulled her out of the way so he could enter the room and then took off his jumper, throwing it carelessly to the floor.

"Hello, house!" he yelled in an expectant tone. He paused as if waiting for a response before scrubbing a hand hard through his curls and shaking his head.

"Sorry, Clara," he sighed, frowning as if realising his attitude. "I've gone all antsy."

"Clearly," she smiled.

There was nothing nervous or apprehensive about him, just… fidgety impatience. Antsy was a good word.

"I'll be fine in a sec."

"Go run down the road and back."

"The monsters will get me," he contended, frowning further. "Do you like my house?"

She wasn't entirely sure why he was insistent to keep asking her this. Want of approval, perhaps. His eyes and expression gave her nothing other than a darting assertiveness.

"Yeah. Of course I do."

"Good." He considered her response for another moment and then asked again. "You like it?"

"Yes, John," she confirmed for the third time, smiling slightly with confused amusement.

"Good," he repeated abruptly, brushing his palm quickly over his chest.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly, wondering whether she should more concerned about his agitation. She hadn't experienced this mood from him this before. Perhaps flashes, but not a continual restlessness.

"Yes." He nodded and smiled, showing a flash of teeth. "I'll get all the stuff. I can do it in one trip. Carry every single thing at once. Like a Hercules beetle. Stay here."

Rather than argue with him in his jittery state, she just nodded and wandered further into the room. He certainly possessed a lot of books, evident in the wide shelf filled to capacity attached to one side of the wall. She found a light switch and washed proper illumination over the beautiful space. The framed art on the wall was all his. She shook her head as her inspection continued. It was incredibly good, the level of detail almost astounding her. They were all landscape, probably of this landscape. High cliffs and choppy seas, cragged rocks and barren hills. An easel was set into one corner beside a wide window that stretched the width of the room, currently shrouded by curtains.

Photos lined the mantelpiece above the fire. A small child in wellingtons and an oversized coat, standing with her arms raised in front of a high rise of a cliff face. Chloe, she assumed with a small smile. Hamish she recognised, shirtless and behind a drum kit, face fixed in concentration, arm half raised, taken moments before the stick hit a symbol. There were two of Louis, the first of a very young version, small enough to be carried on John's shoulders as he walked down a sandy beach path. The other much more recent, school uniform on a football field, hands in pockets and a slanted smile directed to the right of the lens.

Clara fixed her gaze on the left most picture. John was younger, nearer her age perhaps. Ten years ago. He had his arm around River's shoulders, head tilted sideways into hers. It was a lovely shot. They were both smiling, peaceful curves set on their mouths amidst a relaxed and serene moment.

She bit her lip, frowning. She didn't know how to feel about River. Part of her wanted to apologise to her, another wanted to avoid her completely, and another was incredibly glad—for River's sake—that she was out of the relationship. Combined, it was an odd sensation.

John stepped beside her suddenly and she quickly dragged her mind out of the place it was sinking into while she was startled by his presence.

"What should I do with this?" he asked quietly, pressing fingers into the bottom of the frame.

"Whatever you want," she replied, lifting her shoulders.

"Can't just leave photos of the ex lying around," he muttered, staring at it intently. He was clearly hesitant, frowning and unsure.

"Just leave it," she suggested, glancing at him. "You don't need to decide now."

He nodded slowly and took his hand away, crossing his arms. "I dropped my guitar."

"Huh?"

"Outside. Just now."

Clara blinked, returning to the present. "Oh, right. Ah… is it okay?"

He shrugged. "I was trying to carry everything at once."

"You might have just taken ten thousand off its value. A little scratch."

He didn't like that. His eyes flashed and he fixed her in the dark burn of an intensive stare. "I hope I didn't scratch it. Was there anything breakable in your bag?"

"Did you drop that as well?"

"Yes."

She shook her head with false annoyance. "So strong…" she chided lightly, trying to encourage a reaction that wasn't so serious. Granted—teasing sarcasm probably wasn't the best way to go about it.

Rather predictably, she received nothing back. He just stared.

"Fucksake," she sighed, almost wanting to laugh at him. "Seriously. Go for a fucking run or something. Stand in the cold for ten minutes."

A cryptic frown set on his brow in place of a response. Dark eyes scanned over her face.

"Who lit the fire?" she tried, nodding in its direction.

"No idea."

Clara paused, staring at his blank expression. He didn't look away from her, just kept up the insistent, untranslatable fixation. She reconsidered what was really going on. He was being weird.

"John," she frowned, more serious in her concern now. "Sure you're… okay? You're being weird now."

His eyes were a little red. He was probably overtired. Travelling, for reasons she had never quite been able to settle on due to all the sitting, was exhausting. Or perhaps this was something a little deeper. That was understandable. She watched him blink slowly and clasp the hem of his shirt in his fist. She didn't exactly expect him to be calm and rational on a continual basis. That was completely unrealistic. She'd been given a huge insight into how he felt and she certainly had some idea of what she was getting herself into. And, she was pretty sure he either struggled, or was incapable of maintaining any sort of facade around her. That idea—fact?—made her feel incredibly odd. But he had told her that, if not in explicit terms, then in actions. If he was trying to compress this behaviour down, then he was doing a terrible job of it. He might have been sharing for her benefit. A simple warning so she could understand.

"Do you still like me when I'm like this?"

Definitely sharing for her benefit. She sighed. She just wanted to hug him. It was easier than words.

"John…" she trailed with an unintentional incredulous edge to her tone. "You don't need to ask me that question."

"What's the answer?" He didn't give her a chance to reply. "What am I going to do about you?"

"In what way?"

"You."

She blinked, confused. "Me… how?"

"Just you. In general."

"You're not making any sense."

He nodded and hummed, absent and detached, wiping fingers over his mouth. "I had a nice day. With you."

"Ah… yeah." She smiled at him, gentle but unsure how that related to his previous statements. "Me too."

"What bit did you like the best?"

A review section. He wanted a performance review. Clara breathed out and let her head catch up to what was happening. She filtered through some irreverent remarks before deciding a serious response was probably best.

"When you were telling me stories about the other times you've come here."

He nodded slowly as if pondering over her reply. "Was I annoying?"

That was a little more revealing. Possibly obviously revealing. Ridiculous and unnecessary insecurity. She was going to have to talk to him about this. She didn't want him to feel like this or he would never be able to relax around her. Broaching the subject, however, was another problem. She didn't think anything would be achieved by just telling him he was being ridiculously and unnecessarily insecure.

"John," she sighed, wanting to press into him for some sort of physical reassurance while she was devoid of appropriate words and a solution. "No. Of course you weren't."

"Are you very sure?"

"Yes," she stressed, frowning.

The other part of the problem here was that he very much needed to cease the relentless stare that was currently, at this very moment, happening. It was making her… weak. This was one of those stares that reified and seemingly shed proof over the fact he was capable of sinking inside her mind, scrolling through her conscious thoughts. Impossible. Probable.

"I'm going to have a shower."

She blinked, not expecting such a straightforward and extraneous response. "Okay," she said carefully. "I'll just… make a start on my fifty thousand piece jigsaw puzzle then."

"Come with me."

Clara swallowed, heart pounding in her chest. In her ears. He wasn't allowed to say that, this wasn't friends—

"I'll give you a tour on the way."

Right. Right.

"Right," she muttered in relief. "Okay."

She followed him down the short hallway, trailing fingers over the dark wood that made up the walls.

"This is the main bedroom," John explained, pressing his foot into the bottom of the door and switching on the light.

Gorgeous of course, large bed and small desk facing each other. A white framed window extended across the entirety of the back wall.

John twisted back into the hallway and pushed open the opposite door. "Here's the other."

The room was smaller but just as nice, the windows instead opening to the front of the house. Another of his watercolours hung on the wall, a dark depiction of a moonlit night over rippling water. The pointlessly jealous section of her mind was suddenly annoyed her drawing skills extended to a circle, two dots and a smiling curve.

"Ah… I usually sleep in there"—John pointed back towards the other bedroom—"but you can have it. It's bigger. And it has the view. You're going to like the view."

Clara shook her head slowly. "No…" she said absently, watching him frown. "John, I'm not taking your bedroom."

"But it's better."

"I don't care. Why would I care? This is fine. Obviously."

John shrugged and escorted her absently past the laundry, uninterested, and then stopped outside the bathroom, pressing on the door.

"There's a bath, see?" He pointed unnecessarily to the corner where a bath was indeed, inset.

His eyes flickered back to hers and held. "You'll be able to have a bath," he said slowly, like he was testing each word on his tongue. His hand trailed across his chest and down to his stomach, over the thin t-shirt.

"Sure," she swallowed, trying to tear her gaze from his fingers.

"Colin lives down the road," he explained suddenly without expression, pointing through the wall. "Well… down the road about three miles away. He's left us dinner. He's a terrible cook. But his wife, Helen, is not."

Clara didn't quite register what he was saying. It seemed like pointless information. He really did need to stop looking at her.

"I'm going to have a shower now."

Blinking quickly, she nodded. Definitely time to leave. She tried to remember how to send instructions to her legs.

"You should come with me."

In her chest, her heart made it overtly clear that it most definitely existed and then proceeded to assure her that, yes, it probably could break through her ribcage if it actually wanted to.

"Just… kidding," John added with slow control. "Friends don't do that."

No, they did not. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. The endless black in his eyes drilled into her, making it impossible to look away. Silence extended between them. Clara started counting seconds, illusive and irrelevant numbers cycling through her head.

"We're going to be excellent friends, aren't we?"

His low tone washed like silk across her ears. She couldn't understand how he could shift so quickly from his former agitation into… this. This being the sort of behaviour that was absolutely not adherent to their admirable intentions.

"Aren't we," he repeated, a little more insistently. It wasn't inflected as a question but he wanted a response.

"Yes," she swallowed, nodding. Her mouth was dry.

"Scared of me?"

"What?"

A dangerous curve spread his mouth. The intimate warmth in his eyes was saturated through with something else entirely. "You look like you're scared of me."

"I'm not scared of you."

He lifted his shoulders, indifferent.

"You're scared of me," she added, completely unsure about how to deal with this situation and beginning to feel like any control over it was just an illusion of her own stubbornness.

"Yes, Clara," he replied carefully, keeping her eyes, "I am."

He gave her a smile. A proper, warm and genuine grin, much more replicant of what she was used to, and then closed the door on her.

Clara remained staring at it, wondering what the hell had just happened in that interaction, and then how the fuck she was supposed cope if he spent the next week looking at her like that. More pressingly, she needed to learn—very quickly—how to adapt to this unpredictable transform in behaviour and tone. She put her hand over her chest and tried to decide how many of her twenty four ribs her traitor heart had just smashed through.