The Doctor spent the weekend locked in his TARDIS. He'd considered jumping ahead in time but had eventually decided not to, reasoning that it would give him time to dig deeper into Clara's life. So now he sat in the TARDIS jump seat nursing a glass of scotch and one handedly scrolling through Clara's school records.
He'd found nothing especially alarming, though he noted that there was a considerable break during which the school had taken its Christmas Holiday and that nothing had been updated since then. She had a number of write-ups from various teachers reporting a number of infractions including a few, but not an alarming amount, of missed classes. He smirked to himself as he read copies of Ms. Bansik's frantic appeals to get Clara removed from her class, each one detailing new and amusing transgressions. Nonetheless the overall impression he got was that Clara was a fairly average, if slightly mischievous teen.
It seemed that either the Doctor was noticing something about Clara which her other teachers had not, or, more likely, that the issue had started during the Christmas break. Whichever it was he found no mention of the man from the car and while it didn't particularly surprise him it was one more hopeless dead end.
The Doctor sighed, letting the files drop to the floor, where was he going wrong? He'd gone through all the most recent files, yet, even her medical records (which had required half a bottle of scotch to open), had lacked any real drama. It's only entries of any note read "underweight" and "late physical development". His disappointment did nothing to dampen his relief though, as he was able to discard the upsetting images that'd plagued him following Clara's plea, "Please don't phone my mum".
Taking off Amy's old specs he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger trying to force the drowsiness from them. He was clearly missing something important, but he was just too tired (and drunk) to figure it out. If only he could get some sleep. He'd barely slept since Clara had died. Instead he'd spent his nights trying to distract himself with trivial repairs, fiddling and redesigning until, fed up, the TARDIS would shut down in order to return everything back to its original state.
When he did sleep he was plagued by nightmares. Some were the old kind, the sort which he'd become accustomed to long ago. Dreams of monsters and wars and old enemies. But now those were a rare and welcome respite next to hellish onslaught that had been hounding him since Clara's death.
He saw them all now, every single one of Clara's deaths marched out before his eyes in a series of excruciating hallucinations. He knew not where they came from, nor whether they were real or simply his imagination running wild with the images already in his head, but they always ended with him jolting awake sweating and sick.
The Doctor pushed himself hastily from his chair, just thinking about it was making him feel nauseous. His head was spinning from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed and he was forced to clutch the back of the chair to keep from falling. He needed to clear his head. Grabbing his coat from the floor he trudged down the stairs towards the door. The TARDIS beeped at him concernedly, it was the second night he'd gone out drunk. He ignored her and pushed out the door.
12
On Monday morning stumbling into the Classroom after thirty minutes sleep and full night of drunken wandering the Doctor was again surprised to find Clara waiting at his desk. She was in his chair this time, one leg curled demurely beneath her skirt as she scribbled in her workbook.
The sight of her hit him all over again, almost as hard as it had that first time. The early sun streaming through the window held her in a column of light transforming her into a radiant vision of someone else, someone vivid and eager and lost. The proud dark lines of her eyebrows, the tilt of her nose, the full inviting curve of her lip: the last time he'd looked into that face it had been empty and blood smeared, cradled in between his palms.
He wanted, so intensely it took his breath away, to reach out and lay a hand on her soft dark head, to pull her tightly against himself and feel her slight and warm and breathing, as if by protecting her hard enough could somehow undo time and protect his Clara too.
"Oswin," he greeted her with a tentative smile.
She leapt from the chair sending it rolling backwards on wobbly wheels, breaking the illusion.
"Sorry," she rushed out, looking quickly at her feet, "It was the only comfortable chair."
"It's not a problem," the Doctor replied gently, trying to reconcile this jumpy bashful girl with the bold hot tempered young women he'd seen the week before.
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.
"Uhm, yeah," she picked up her book and came to stand respectfully before his desk, "I finished the equation I was hoping you could, you know, make sure everything's correct."
The Doctor took the workbook from Oswin's hands as he went to sit down in his chair, still warm where she'd been sitting. He read through her problem quickly a smile finding its way to his face. Her work was straightforward and clear, the terms coming together so effortlessly that he couldn't help but to appreciate the elegance.
"This is impressive," he said handing her back the book.
"Thanks," she smiled.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the Doctor asked, he didn't want her to go but could think of nothing to make her stay.
"Actually," she said, answering his unspoken prayer, "Would you mind if I worked in here until class starts?"
"Of course," the Doctor answered indicating for her to sit where she liked.
They fell into silence.
Not long after, first bell rang issuing in the hordes of bleary eyed students and the beginning of another long day of teaching.
12
When final bell rang, she was back. He noticed the second she passed through the door but pretended otherwise allowing her to make the first move. Eventually she spoke:
"Is it alright if I work in here again?"
The Doctor looked up from his papers, if her earlier appearance had not set off any alarms for him this one certainly did. He had half a mind to ask her right out why it was she was staying late when any reasonable child would have already been halfway home. He worried, however, that such directness would drive her away, so instead he went with a different more roundabout approach.
"Actually," he replied shuffling together the homework he'd been going over, "I was just getting ready to leave."
"Oh," Clara's mouth twisted to the side, she clearly hadn't been expecting rejection.
For a moment the Doctor thought he had made a mistake, as she appeared to consider fleeing. He was about retract his words when she spoke again.
"But it's raining, can't I just stay until it lets up?" A stubborn almost petulant tone had returned to her voice and the Doctor knew that he was hitting on something.
"It's England, it's always raining," the Doctor said, pushing just a little further.
"Well, I forgot my umbrella and I really don't fancy getting wet." She snapped, but the Doctor could hear her underlying distress.
He eyed her over his desk for a long moment eyebrows furrowed letting his doubt and concern show. Just tell me, he implored silently, whatever it is I can help you.
"Fine," she spat turning to storm out of the room.
"Wait Clara," the Doctor stumbled up, arm reaching as if to draw her back, "I was only joking, of course you can stay. I've got loads work to do anyways."
She turned back at him glaring uncertainly.
"Come on come on come on," he beckoned her with rapid strokes of his hand, "sit down, you can stay as long as you like."
She came up only about half way then slouched down at one of the desks.
"You're kind of an arsehole," she observed but a relieved little smile was playing at the corner of her mouth.
"So I've been told."
Clara pulled her homework from her bag and got quickly to work. It wasn't long, however, before the doctor noticed her attention drifting. She was looking past him out the window, pencil tapping rapidly against her papers, her lower lip drawn between her teeth.
"Thinking?" the Doctor asked, startling her from her stare.
"Oh, I just- I got stuck on a question's all," she lied plainly.
"Here, bring it here," the Doctor put out his hand for her workbook, "Let me have a look at it."
"No that's all right," Clara said, "It's English anyways so…"
"All the better," he insisted, he wasn't really sure where he was going with this, "I've read loads of books, met most of the authors too… In a sense of course."
"Yeah fine," she relented, "if you really want to."
She brought the book up for him to take a look at.
"Ooh, The Stranger, I loved that book, well not loved, I liked it anyway, well not really liked…" The Doctor trailed off seeing Clara glaring at him, darkly amused.
"Right," he continued refocusing, "what can I help you with?"
The conversation quickly veered away from the book, maneuvering easily along various tributaries of small talk, never breeching any subject more intimate than favourite ice-cream flavours. The longer they talked the more Clara appeared to relax until she was sitting before him on the desk careless and smiling. The Doctor again found himself shocked by her sudden change in mood. She looked so childish, no longer wary or bashful, or brazen or cold. He knew he should tell her to get off the table, that, were someone to walk in there assumptions would be quick and the consequences harsh. But she just seemed so blissfully unaware of any such perceptions that he could not bring himself to make her move.
As for himself, however, he could not say that he was similarly oblivious. Though he sat at an angle to her knees he could not help but to feel that there was a certain suggestiveness to their positions, an odd kind of intimacy. It occurred to him, quite plainly, that should he bend down (perhaps pretending to have dropped his pen) he could brush his lips almost unnoticeably against the glossy plain of her bare patella. More ambitiously were he to shift just a fraction, so as to be more centrally placed before her, he could grasp her left foot (it dangled waggling languidly back and forth) and relinquish it of its scuffed black shoe and slouching white sock.
He already knew how perfectly it would fit in his hand, the curve of his thumb matching seamlessly the high sensitive sole. His lips then replacing his hands, he could imagine the trail they would explore up along that enchanting leg of hers, pausing a moment to pay reverence to the little bone twitching at the side of her ankle and again at her pink dimpled knee. Where her skirt slumped modestly between her parted legs he found his eyes lingering, longing for taste of the flesh just beyond its tartan folds.
"Clara?" they had stopped talking a bit ago and she was reading her tattered copy of The Stranger. When he spoke she looked at him over her book perhaps slightly startled by the casual use of her first name or else apprehensive about the quiet contriteness of his voice.
"You should go," the Doctor continued, "It's getting dark."
"Oh," Clara's attention darted to the window where the rain was still droning steadily then focused back on him. Her eyes were large, imploring, silently begging him to do something she wasn't quite courageous enough ask.
She doesn't want to leave, the Doctor realized with a twinge of something between concern and excitement. For a mad moment he pictured what it would be like to have her stay. To bring her back to the TARDIS, back where she belonged. The look of wonder that he could already picture lighting up her face as she exclaimed, 'It's bigger, on the inside!' She would have to sleep in his room as it was the only one kept functional, but it wouldn't be a problem since he hadn't slept there in ages. The image of Clara back in his bed safe and warm made his hearts tremble. But he knew that it wouldn't be so simple, that he couldn't let it be.
"If you'd like I could see if one of the other teachers could take you home." He offered dejectedly.
He could see that he had let her down, she had looked to him for help and he'd turned her away.
"That's all right," she said shortly, gathering her things.
"Clara," he caught her eye, "Don't act like I don't care about you because I do, more than you know. Let me help."
For a moment she held his gaze and he thought, that just maybe, he was getting through to her. Then she smiled at him coolly and slipping off the desk said, "I can take care of myself Sir."
She walked briskly from the room and again he was alone.