Well, well, well. This is the longest chapter I've written so far for this story. It got a bit out of hand but I had a very specific idea for this chapter and I hope I got it right. This will take us a bit deeper into Clara's real state of mind. And since I like my stories to a be a bit bittersweet... Well, you'll see ;) So sorry for the longer time it takes me to update, but college is getting back in the way and I have a lot to do to make sure everything works out for my first year as postgraduate. I've received and loved all your reviews, sorry I haven't been able to answer them. I'll do better this time around, promise. To all of those who have favorited and followed, thank you as well ! The story is getting far more audience than I'd previously dared to hope. It's wonderful ! As for the length of the story, I want to take it until the end of school year for Clara and the Doctor. So, get ready to have at least 6 other chapters ;) Love, Callie xxx
Chapter 6 :
She arrives at his place early. They had agreed the day before that they probably shouldn't wait to discuss the whole situation. Clara couldn't have been more relieved to hear these words. She was hopeless at waiting around to have an answer at her questions. She guessed that he was probably in the same predicament.
Not sure if she should wait a few minutes or ring his interphone right away, she checks the time a second time, just to be sure she hasn't made a mistake. ( she knows she's not mistaken, but her nerves are getting the best of her.)
Ten minutes early – well it's not like he is unacquainted with her punctuality. She rings and crosses her fingers without knowing why. The door opens on its own less than five seconds later, some kind of electronic device activating the lock from a distance. She carefully steps inside, not sure whether she is more afraid of breaking something by her intrusion or breaking herself by her boldness.
Because it does feel bold to be here, as if she'd taken a leap forward she hadn't known she could make – or could have been taken at all.
She closes the door behind her, not willing to let the cold air come in with her. She also appreciates the fact that she can put a physical barrier between them and the outside world, just the time of a dinner.
The hallway is dark. The lack of windows leaves Clara struggling to find the light switch. A search that she promptly abandons as she hurts a fingernail against one of the wooden panels. She begins to walk slowly towards the other side of the hallway. There's no sight of the Doctor and Clara wonders what is holding him from coming to greet her. She knows she has the right address – and if she had any doubt, the books lying here and there on the floor achieve to betray the house owner's serious penchant for literature. Her hand stays near the wall, without touching it, while she concentrate on not tripping over some very dead author's masterpiece. She finally sees the end of the corridor leading to a staircase.
At the top, the door is closed but there's some light filtering from under it. And is that Bowie she hears too ? She smiles – definitely the right house.
The first step creaks under her weight and she nearly jumps. Pull yourself together, Oswald. It's a date, not The Shining. And just as she is scolding herself, the door at the top of the stairs bolts open. She congratulates herself for stopping herself from shouting. She glares at the familiar silhouette before noticing his casual wear. Damn it, a man like him shouldn't be allowed to wear light T-shirts. Or dark jeans. Or anything really.
" There you are, I was getting worried. Did you lost your way in my corridor ?" His smirk is barely visible as the light comes from behind, shadowing his face, but she knows it's there. He gets down the stairs and takes her hand to help her up.
" Not at all. I was just figuring out which writer should be my demise before I trip over one of his novels. In your unlit corridor."
They are finally in his living room and she can now see him properly. His other hand reaches into his unruly grey curls as she wants to do the same. His first hand still hasn't let go of hers. " Ah, yes. Sorry about the light. I've never found the time to install a lamp downstairs" He looks down at his feet. She smiles at the small lie, squeezing his hand : "Trying to kill me before dinner, Doctor ? That's not very polite." He laughs and looks at her once again. " Me ? I would never ! Not when I've made lasagnes anyway. And I've rescued you from my murderous books, haven't I ?"
She lets go of his hand reluctantly and turns around, taking the room in. It's spacious and brightly lit by the French windows leading to the balcony. It has books everywhere as well, tidily arranged on bookshelves or carelessly lying around on chairs or tables. There's a piano as well and a frankly impressive armour in one corner. On the other side of the room, a heavenly smell comes out of the kitchen. Her stomach grumbles silently and she hopes it will stay that way until dinner is served.
She picks a random book from a chair, feigning an interest : " I rescued myself, thank you very much. I'm no damsel in distress and you're no saviour. The armour doesn't make the knight, Doctor."
He smiles almost too knowingly and doesn't reply, silently agreeing that she won that round before heading to the kitchen, checking out the oven.
"Well, if Miss. Oswald will be so kind as to help me lay the table, dinner is about to be served."
They move some books from the large table unto some other available space. " Don't worry, I'll put them back where they belong later " he says after she asks where they're supposed to go. She chuckles slightly and she wonders how someone so well organized at the university, can be so untidy in his own house.
They put the plates and cutlery on the table silently, their movements almost familiar, a choreography of unsuspected domesticity.
Bowie can be heard in the background, slowly chanting prayers about loving the alien.
"But if you pray all your sins are hooked upon the sky
Pray and the heathen lie will disappear oh ho
Prayers they hide the saddest view
(Believing the strangest things, loving the alien)"
She brushes his hand putting down a fork and he caresses the back of her neck trying to move behind her in the narrowed space. It's really no wonder that she can't hold herself a second longer as she spins around, reaching for his shoulders and planting the sweetest, briefest kiss on his lips. It's over before he can think "hallelujah".
" I don't think I said hello already." She fights her growing cowardice by not letting go of him or looking down at her boots. He raises one hand to her cheek, the other coming around her hip. He gazes down at her. " No, I don't think you did. Me neither."
He isn't as shy as her and allows his lips to fully lock with hers, playing with both her upper and lower lip before mutely requesting permission to access the softness of her tongue. She allows it and dinner is an unearthly notion. She joins her hands behind his neck and he pulls her to him, forcing her to rely on her toes. She feels him losing himself inside her mouth and it's the most glorious sensation that envelops the whole of her body, trembling with anticipation and faith in the unknown.
The moment doesn't last as her balance slowly disintegrate underneath his ministrations and she involuntary takes a step back, banging against the table. Awareness of space and time slaps them back into reality and they break contact, blushing and unwilling to look at the other. Bowie has stopped singing and the silence lingers a bit, punctuated by the accusing ticking of the clock on the wall.
It's Clara who finally speaks first : " Well, that's probably the nicest hello I've ever received". He cannot refrain himself and lets out a short but heartfelt laugh. He calms down, carefully rearranging a strand of her hair into a more dignified position. " I think I can return the compliment."
The ding of the oven startles them both. He strides towards the oven, opening the door before retrieving the steaming dish with a kitchen rag.
" Ready to be amazed by my cooking ?" She giggles : "Serve away and find out."
Dinner is divine. Not that she'll ever admit this to him with that particular phrasing but she does compliment the cook on his "admirable skills". He thanks her for the encouragement but he is no fool, he knows his own talent. One day, he'll make her confess the truth out of her.
( " Lasagnes ? What lasagnes ?" "Don't play coy with me, Oswald. I saw the pure ecstasy on your face that day. Admit it." She smiles and rolls over him. " Wanna see some more ?" He knows that's as close to a confession as he'll ever get and pulls back the bed sheet over them. )
The wine is superb as well and she tells him so, although she insists on not having more than one glass. She wants to keep her head clear, a sentiment he gladly shares. They are now both sitting on the couch, close enough to touch each other but refraining to do so. Her cheek is resting against the back of her seat, legs beneath her and boots on the floor. His back is against the armrest, one foot on the floor, his other beneath his thigh. He is looking intently at her, knowing she wants to speak first.
" I'm not going to leave after this year. I want to stay and get my doctorate's degree. Not that my leaving would have any impact on how I wish to handle our relationship. I've never been one for short-term relationships and I don't think it would be fair on any of us if we were to start something one of us didn't believe in. I really want us to work out, whatever this is. So my question is : do you see a real future for this or is this just… I don't know… a flirt that has gotten out of hand ? Please be honest."
She forces herself to look at him while she speaks. She's not frightened of him but she does worry about his reaction. Their encounter last evening was passionate and she wants the confirmation she's not just a mere passing fancy.
There are hundreds of ways to answer her. He could reassure her, swear that he'd never would abandon her, argue and demonstrate that she's not going to get hurt but he doesn't. It's not the question she's asked and he doesn't want to make empty promises he can't possibly keep. She wants to know whether he would be willing to spend as many months, years, decades with her as humanly possible if they were to be a matching set. She didn't phrase it like that and yes, it could be a wild interpretation of her question but he doesn't think it's erroneous. He can feel the hurt of abandonment behind her interrogation and he wonders if it was a man. He can only sympathize.
"It's not. Passing fancies are nice but I wouldn't risk my career on them. Or someone else's heart. I would love nothing more than to get to know each other and see what is waiting for us down the road. If you agree, of course."
She smiles and she's shaking a bit. Her need to belong somewhere had been so strong this past few months, the relief of finally having a shot at something concrete is a bit overwhelming. He can't resist taking her in his arms.
"It's not going to be easy, Clara. Our respective situations do not allow us to really experience our relationship the way we'd want to. It might be straining at some point. I don't want you to force yourself into something you cannot tolerate. Lying can become an unbearable burden and I'd hate to see you hurt because of me."
She holds him tighter. Her voice is almost a whisper : " I know it's not going to be all rainbows and sunshine. I mean you're a bit grumpy and rude and I'm bossy and quite the mouthful. But I think we can make it a very good story. And the lying is only for a few months. After that, I don't care if they catch us in your office or against the blackboard. You'll be mine and I won't care who knows. Deal ?"
He smiles against her neck. " Against the blackboard, eh ? Have we been fantasizing in class instead of taking notes, Miss Oswald ?" She scrapes her nails into his T-shirt. " Not more than usual, Doctor. And probably no more than you. Although you do seem to be more keen about offices, if I remember well." He murmurs against her ear : "Deal".
They spend the rest of the evening talking about everything and nothing. He tells the tale of his wild youth and she describes some of her travels in Europe. Literature, music, despairing students and awful teachers make their way into the conversation. It's fluid and easy and they touch quite a bit although they seem to be holding themselves up, not willing to rush into things too quickly. Their time will come, she's certain of it.
He mentions his last serious relationship as a token of trust. She listens and tries to read between the lines but he keeps his cards close to his chest, hiding a weaker hand than it once was. His eyes burn with the recollection of scorched memories. " I suppose we've both been hurt." Her admission is rash and she regrets opening a box of wounds and aches she used to keep concealed. She doesn't want him to ask her any questions and she feels stupid for not be willing to return the favour he so gracefully gave her. So she gets up before he has a chance to think of a question and goes directly to the piano. She speaks again, changing the subject :
" Do you play, Doctor ?" Nina used to have a piano she barely touched, often cursing the damn thing for the waste of space. Clara shakes her head, chasing the bad memory away. She puts her hands on the piano and her fingers trace patterns on the closed lid of the instrument.
"Sometimes, when I feel the need to or I want to think about something else." How fitting, she almost says "What about you, my dear ?"
She laughs. His sudden mannerism amuses her. He is tiptoeing, not knowing how to behave around her, trying to be polite while thinking about undressing her. She is no fool, she has seen the look in his eyes at dinner. She remembers watching old movies with Laurence Olivier and Noel Coward plays. Who calls someone "my dear" when they're burning to take them to bed ? She knows he won't tonight but his need to maintain appearances is admirable. She wants to rip his shirt and find his beating heart, fingernails marking red and blood boiling.
He is still silently waiting for her answer and she tries to stop thinking about him, thinking about her. She sits on the bench, opens the lid and clumsily starts to play Für Elise that she had learned one rainy day at her grandmother's. " Does it answer your question ?" she asks after finishing. She bits her lower lip, refraining a smile. He wishes she would let him do it for her.
"I think it does. Did you never wish to cultivate your piano playing ?" She pauses a few seconds, pondering on whether she wants to elude the question or not. He looks at her, genuinely interested and decides he deserves an honest answer.
" You call that practicing and I call it a waste of time and energy" she says softly. " I will never have the talent to play piano or any other instrument and I never succeeded in taking any pleasure from it. I was always an "all or nothing" kind of girl. It can be disappointing as well as very rewarding. Anyway, I honestly prefer to enjoy a Mozart concerto rather than to have to endure it under my fingers. It's too beautiful to taint with my lack of talent."
From anyone else he would have called such a speech sarcastic and probably dishonest. But there is no bitterness in her voice, just a hint of melancholy and lost admiration. He gets up from the couch and takes a chair with him, positioning it so he can sit right behind her, his torso against her back. His chin is on her shoulder, his breath in her neck. " Put your hands on mine". She does as she is told, not questioning his actions.
Her mouth is dry. She can feel a hint of stubble against her delicate skin and his heart forcing its way from his ribcage to hers. She almost can't bear it.
He plays and their hands fly across the notes, making music and destroying barriers. The bareness of the walls are beginning to take colours and shifting shapes. She is with him, somewhere else, her feet not touching the ground as the melody speaks to her in a language she doesn't recognize. There are no words, no letters, just sounds that he finally allows her to comprehend, to make hers. She flies and it's all his doing. The music stops and she is completely resting against him. He takes his hands of the instrument to place them around her waist, encircling her. Her eyes are closed and tears are streaming down her cheeks. Everything has come back to the surface and she cannot hold back anymore. Memories of her underlying sadness trap her once again into an uncontrollable spiral. She wants to flee so he doesn't see the worst of it but he catches her, holding her still. His voice is soft and she wonders where he's been before she knew she needed him.
" Let yourself go, Clara. I'm not going anywhere."
They don't know how long they stay in this position. She doesn't feel the slumber overcoming her, just his arms and the feeling of having found solace after an interminable winter.