Author's Note: Well first and foremost a HUGE apology for the ridiculous delay in posting between chapters. I am happy (cautiously) to report that my health has been improving and as of yesterday, finally received something somewhat definitive about what to do/expect going forward. Thank you to all for your many notes and comments of concern – they are much appreciated. :)

NB: PLEASE remember this is an AU. Part of the reason it took so long to update is because I was waiting to see just HOW AU it would be based on what happened in Series 8 (I wrote/planned most of this story by mid-October). The answer: VERY AU. So my Twelve may have some elements of Canon Twelve, but other things could seem OOC (i.e., my Twelve doesn't lie like Eleven did. And neither does Clara, actually). If you want 100% Canon Twelve, this might not be for you (Tipping Your Hand is the only canon Twelve/Clara I've done, or there are probably 8 zillion other Canon Twelve stories as well :-p)


Clara slept at her dad's the first week.

She'd returned to her flat in a daze, utterly unaware of how she'd arrived as she stepped into her bedroom. But the second she stepped across its threshold, she was immediately bombarded with images, tactile sensations, sounds, her bedroom now her own personal Pandora's Box. And with its seal broken, it tipped over and gleefully spilled its secrets and memories into her head: the desk – where he had hoisted her after her leg muscles protested, clutching each thigh and hitching them over his shoulders; the nightstand – where he had dropped pin after pin after pin, the start of his unexpected seduction as he undid her hair and with it, her resolve; the cupboard – where he had grabbed her from behind and peeled her dress away, hot, demanding mouth blazing a trail of kisses down her back; the bed…

She swallowed. The bed.

Her approach was cautious. She didn't sink into it, holding herself rigid as though the ends might unhinge to reveal a pair of hideous jaws that would snatch her off the edge and swallow her whole.

The bed…

Where he had sat, unreachable, as he worked her to the edge and back again, watching her dissolve to pieces...

Where he had run his possessive hands over every curve, every dimple, every mole, every stubborn ingrown hair and fleshy pouch and scar, his touch greedy like he knew he was touching her for the last -

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Where he had lain her down, so gentle…

Where he had wiped away her tears with tender fingertips…

Where he had covered her, his jacket like a protective cloak; and in the shelter of his embrace, her head had found a comfortable spot on his chest at last, his strokes and caresses so soothing, so –

She was off the bed in an instant, refusing to even think that word.

But it floated about her head, mocking her: the last secret in this box that had once been her bedroom, her haven, her sanctuary. This place that no longer felt –

Safe.

Within twenty minutes, she had a bag packed and was out the door, slamming it shut. Sealing the contents inside.

Or so she thought.

Because removing physical reminders was the easy bit.

Memories, however…well, memories were slippery.

Of course, Clara was well acquainted with their nature: she had learnt every trick to prevent memories from overtaking her waking hours. With so many memories, she'd become quite the locksmith: fashioning the right-sized key for each individual door in the endless corridors of her echoes' lifetimes.

Unfortunately, she had never mastered the art…because those doors always opened at night in her dreams.

And that's exactly how the new memories slipped in.

She was back on Holi, standing under the shower, feeling the warm, thick substance like tiny fingers on her neck…but then the substance became the Doctor's fingers, kneading at those tight muscles.

"Feels good…doesn't it?" He murmured in her ear, his mouth following his fingers.

"Yesss," she hissed her pleasure.

They were both soaking wet, and she watched the colours swirl down the drain, the purples and magentas gradually deepening to blood red.

"Doctor," she said, alarmed.

"Ignore it." His voice was muffled as he kissed down her neck and her back, her shirt suddenly gone. There was a strange smell in the air now.

"What is that?"

His only reply was a moan, but no, it was more strangled than that. She turned, letting out a shriek at the sight of him. Flames licked his clothing, the sides of his face, but he didn't seem to notice as he continued kissing her stomach.

"Doctor, you're on fire!"

He only peered up at her. "Of course I am," he replied blithely. He held up his hands as they burst into flame. "This is what you do to me."

Panicked, she lunged for the shower orb overhead, desperately trying to extend it from the wall. But she lost her footing and slipped, landing hard on the tiled floor. When she opened her eyes, he was gone, and she shivered under the cold water –

And suddenly she was on Cedaraius, still naked. The snow drifted down around her, and her teeth chattered as she hugged her legs to her body. "Doctor?" she called, her voice returning to her on the wind.

There was the sound of footsteps trudging through the snow.

Clara held up a hand and squinted through the flurries, just making out a familiar shape with a long coat. "Doctor?"

The form finally reached her and she found herself looking up into the Doctor's previous face, green eyes full of concern. "Clara?"

Her mouth opened, but her words were stuck.

"Clara! What are you doing here?" He swooped down on her, running gentle hands over her shoulders, her hair. "And you're all wet – you'll catch your death out here!"

"I –"

"Here." He quickly unbuttoned his jacket, laying it around her shoulders and covering her.

"I was…" she began, but her words fell away as the Doctor folded her into his embrace, rocking her back and forth.

"No one here for you…no one to take care of you…" He kissed the top of her head, and it worked like magic on her eyelids, which closed as grateful, happy tears sprung to her eyes. "Who's going to look out for you?"

Then he was gone, and she was alone again.

She turned from side to side, meeting empty, cold air in every direction. "Doctor?"

"Mmm," came the reply from near her stomach.

She was in her bed, wearing only a t-shirt, her hands fisted in the Doctor's mop of brown hair.

He raised his head, hair flopping boyishly over his eyes. He smiled. "We haven't done this, have we?" he asked in a toe-curling tone of voice.

"You," she breathed, returning the smile. "It's still you."

He pressed himself against her, his clothes falling away like his sheer want of her was enough to melt them. "It's me." He kissed her, tongue sweeping inside her mouth, then dropped to her neck. "We didn't get to do this, did we?"

She could only shake her head, clutching him tighter.

"Do you want this, Clara Oswald?" he asked, bucking against her.

She nodded fervently. "Yes," she cried softly. "God, yes, I want this. I want YOU. Just you."

And then he was inside her, and they were moving together, and she could barely contain herself knowing that she had him there, that it was him, it was HIM…

His breaths came hot in her ear. "You think I didn't know you wanted it to be him?" the wrong voice growled.

She jerked up, expecting to see the older face, but it was the same Doctor. Still him.

"Clara?" His light eyebrows immediately knit together. "What's wrong?"

She placed both palms on his face, holding him there, the image of him – of HIM over her like this. He was here and this was real and REALLY happening. "Nothing. Nothing, just – just kiss me."

He caught her lower lip between his, making her sigh into his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, crushing him to her, hands wandering his face like they were checking to make sure his face was still his.

But he was insatiable and quickly broke away from her hold, descending again on her neck, tongue lapping against her ear. She let out a whimper when his teeth grazed the tip of it.

"Better enjoy this, Clara, since this'll be your last time," the wrong voice warned again.

This time when she pushed back, she was looking into the owner of that voice's face, slate blue eyes darkened with desire and something even fiercer.

Gasping, her hands immediately unwound from his neck, trying to push herself away. But he anticipated her movements, catching her wrists and pinning them to the bed.

"I could make you scream," he purred, letting a finger trail lazily around her jaw. "You know I could do things to you that HE would never have dreamed of…never have DARED to do."

She could only stare, wide-eyed, caught in the stalemate of her body warring with her mind.

He thrust into her, and her eyes slid shut against her will, a traitorous moan sounding from her throat.

His cackle was triumphant. "You feel it. You know it."

She pried her eyes open, shaking her head. "No…no, I don't want –"

"Don't want what?" Another rolls of his hips, slow and languid.

She shook her head, biting her lip to prevent another cry from escaping. "I don't want –"

"Me?" His mouth fell to her neck, and she could feel it – the fire. Pouring from him – or was it from her? "We both know that's not true…"

She conceded defeat, giving herself over to it, letting it build as they continued their own build. And when she was pushed to the edge, so close, he whispered in her ear.

"Too bad we can't have it."

His face was blistered, horribly disfigured from where the flames had consumed his flesh. She screamed –

And woke up covered in a cold sweat, shaking.

Instinctively, she reached for her lamp on her nightstand, but met with only air. It was then she remembered she was in her old room at her father's flat. She slid up in the bed until her back was against the wall, tucking herself into a tight ball. The memory – dream - of her Doctor covering her with his coat was just close enough that she could conjure it, could feel the way his arms slid around her shoulders, hugging her close. But it warred with the actual memory, freshly planted in her mind, of her new Doctor performing the same motion – before both vanished…

"Why did you leave me there?" she whispered into the dark silence of the room. "Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave, Doctor, why?"

This room had no more answers than her own bedroom, leaving her to ponder which him and he she meant as she rocked herself back and forth.


Clara returned home the next week.

The different location could only do so much, and her sleep hadn't been any more restful than if she had stayed in her own flat. But even that reasoning wasn't what tipped the scales for her. Because while she had been unsuccessful in curtailing the memories that grew and warped into even stranger and ever-more confusing dreams at night, she had at least been able to keep it all safely tucked away during the day, carefully pushed to the furthest recesses of her mind.

But she discovered that she could only do that for so long.

Clara hadn't thought anything of it when she'd glanced at her lesson plan for the day. She had taught Jane Eyre several times now, and her afternoon class probably ranked as somewhere in the middle for both level of interaction and thoughtfulness of discussion. And Dorna McAllister wasn't exactly a star student – or a terribly talkative one for that matter. Her argument wasn't all that articulate, though Clara did have to admire her for her gusto…

"I think he's a right bastard."

"Language!" Jimmy Barnard immediately chimed in in a sing-song voice, anticipating one of Clara's classroom discussion rules.

"Thank you, Jimmy." She held up a hand wearily, motioning to Dorna. "Why do you say that, Dorna?"

"Well, I mean he does everything he can to make her think he doesn't like her, like, spends all that time carrying on 'bout Blanche Ingram, talkin' 'bout marryin' her and stuff. He makes her think she's leavin' when the whole time he's plannin' on marryin' her instead. Then he, like, springs it on her – the truth I mean – and 'spects Jane to jus' be like, 'Oh, you mean all that 'bout Blanche was just bullsh – rubbish? Well, good job I love you so much – let's get married!'"

Tristan Littleton sniggered.

Clara looked at him meaningfully. "Yes, Tristan? Anything to add to that?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "No, Miss," he mumbled with downcast eyes.

"Okay – anyone else?"

Her students were silent, save for some shuffling of feet. Mike Barron let out a loud yawn, leaning back in his chair.

Clara rested against her desk. "Remember one of the essay topics is a character piece, and Mr. Rochester is a good one for that. Anyone want to venture a guess as to why he might have misled Jane for so long?"

Her students were doing their best impressions of waking zombies. Finally, Robbie Cramer offered a tentative hand.

"Yes, Robbie?"

"'Cause he was scared?" he asked squeakily.

Clara nodded encouragingly. "Okay. Say more."

His eyes doubled behind his thick glasses. "Ummmm…ermmmm…."

"What was he scared of? Can you think of anything?" She coaxed.

He scratched at his head. "He…he was scared that…uuuumm…she was gonna leave?"

"Bullshit!"

Clara's eyes snapped to the middle of the room at Dorna. "Dorna, you'll get your turn. And what did I say about language?"

Dorna folded her arms defiantly. "He's scared she's gonna leave – that's bull – rubbish!" She huffed. "Is that every boy's excuse then? 'Oh no, I can't possibly be nice to 'er 'cause then she'll know I like her! An' she might not like me like that, so I'll jus' be an ar – uh – a complete git – and then she won't know and she won't leave?'"

It was Clara's turn to blink, and she found herself stammering. "Uh – well, people can fear rejection – that's very um – human, don't you think?" The room suddenly felt warmer.

Dorna wasn't having any of it, though. "But that's not even all there is – it's like he gets to be the one who like, holds everythin' back, and she's jus' expected to go along with it! He's willin' to base their entire relationship on a lie!"

Some male voice muttered something about ooh burnt and two-timin' Tom gonna get it, but Clara didn't catch it. Her world had narrowed to the fiery adolescent rage of Dorna McAllister. That and the loud sound of her heartbeat in her ears. "You mean the wife?"

"Yeah!" Dorna shook her head in disgust. "He's like, 'You an' me, we're the same, Jane, we're like, totally built of the same stuff,' talkin' 'bout them bein' equals an' all, but he don' treat her like that! He's the one who decides if she stays or goes; he's the one who keeps holdin' stuff back from her – if you ask me, he jus' likes havin' all the power."

Clara's mouth had gone dry. "Power?" she echoed, her voice sounding strangely far away.

"Yeah, power." Dorna sighed, her shoulders slumping, as if that was the most energy she'd expended in a while and it had physically drained her. At the very least, it was the most energy she'd expended in Clara's classroom in a while. Dorna took a minute to gather herself, sounding almost sad. "I mean, if you really love someone, you show it, right? You don' jus' keep lyin' and lyin' and lyin' – right?" She raised her eyes, meeting Clara's with a steady, almost pleading gaze. "How is that love, Miss Oswald?"

Clara's mouth opened and closed, her fingers finding the edge of the desk and digging in, curling into the wood until her nails protested. "Yes. Good." She nodded, the motion making her head swim. "Dorna, that's good – that'll be a good character study then, asking those questions, looking into that, very good. Great essay topic, top notch." Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.

Blessedly, she only had to endure a few minutes of the questioning looks from her students as the bell rang soon after that. Her escape to the lavatory was timely, though when the stall door slammed shut, she only sat down hard on the seat, head cradled in her hands as her world spun and spun. Finally, she walked on shaky legs to the sink, splashing cold water on her face, but even that couldn't eradicate Dorna's earnest question that seemed to echo inside her brain.

How is that love?

It was everywhere: in bold-faced type posters announcing upcoming chess club meetings, monthly raffle drawings and the annual fundraising bake sale that lined the school corridors; in the graffiti scrawled on the rusty boards across from the gated entrance to Coal Hill; in the flashing signs that announced her bus stop. And when she discovered that it had followed her back to her Dad's flat, finding it in elegant peach-coloured script in the crocheted platitudes that her step-mother loved to decorate with, she decided it was time to return home.

She opened the door to her bedroom with a purposeful sweeping motion, determined to find the answer.

The Pandora's Box association no longer fit, as her mind had proved quite adept in taking the memories and twisting them in her dreams, embellishing to the point that desk, cupboard and bed were relatively tame by now.

It had taken her all afternoon, but she thought she finally had the answer.

And so she marched over to her nightstand and wrenched open the drawer, plucking the culprit of the source of all her woe from its hiding place.

The bloody translator.

It had taken her Doctor from her…

It had left her with a dead man's voice, thoughts, feelings, desires to comfort and yet torment her for months and months…

It contained a message that lived on, that had been co-opted, seized by a man who hadn't demonstrated even a trace of what those words contained.

Or had he?

She hadn't used the translation screen in a while, and it took her a few tries to find the right button. But it whirred to life, and she watched with a single-minded intent: find the evidence. Prove that it's love.

Seeing the words scroll past brought the message to life for her again, made the meaning somehow more immediate. There was "lost, broken and had given up all hope…and you brought me to life again;" and "I suppose I never told you that it was always Wednesday for me…that I filled my days with Wednesdays;" and "there are few things I have experienced in either this life or any of the previous ones that brought me the – the…how do I say this? You were the windsong of my hearts, Clara." And finally there was, "many regrets, of course, but you? All those times I almost reached for you, almost touched you, wishing I'd taken those cheeky little touches into something more defined, and oh, believe me I'd thought about it. I'd thought about all the ways I wanted to have you, all those rooms in the TARDIS – and yes, I mean all of them. I'd thought about it every time I would stand behind you when we looked at those views, how you'd react if I'd given in and started kissing you on the neck at Loktor, and how long it would've been before we lay down in the grass, and with your skirts and dresses" (he emitted a low chuckle) "it would've been very easy, indeed…"

She stopped it, her familiar question sounding from her lips before she could stop it. "So why didn't you?"

The familiar answers came back to her, tired and used: because he ran out of time. Because he didn't want to ruin things between them. Because he didn't know how she felt. Because because because…

She raised the translator, sliding down the edge of her bed and landing on the floor with a thud. Her original instinct to smash it to pieces evaporated like breath on a mirror; this was all she had left of her Doctor. She squeezed it between her palms, pressing it to her forehead.

"You wouldn't have done this," she whispered. "You would never have done…" A sob welled up from her throat, cutting her off. She bowed her head between her knees, shoulders quaking. "Why?" she wanted to know. She shook the translator. "Why, Doctor?"

It was impossible to say who she was talking to, but a new answer bubbled up, settling over her. A new "because"…

Because he was a coward.

Because he wouldn't have done this. Any of it. Because it was only when he was dying, when he knew he was out of time and wouldn't have to face her – that he'd allowed himself to pour his hearts out to her. And yes, he'd left her with something to hold onto of him in fear of what might come next, something to reassure her in case the next face turned out to be…well – exactly like it had, actually (at least until the Earth-shattering revelation of last week) – but it had left her clinging to a ghost.

To the past.

Had she been so blinded that she hadn't noticed the subtle shifts in the Doctor's behaviour around her in the present? Had he actually been demonstrating his want and his love of her, and she'd just been too biased against him for it to register?

But no…she couldn't have done. Because it wasn't just that he'd stopped touching her – he'd stopped – so much of what he used to do. More of the travel seemed work-related now than anything: messes he wanted to fix; problems that needed solutions. There were fewer and fewer of the trips like to Holi, where they went just for something fun. She hadn't been lying when she told Frederick that the Doctor planned all the trips – and it's not like that hadn't always been the case. It's just that he used to plan them with some sort of awareness of what she might actually enjoy. Now it was about what he wanted or decided or thought was best. She barely got a say anymore.

Oh, right…that comment about power.

She sighed, wiping at her eyes. None of it was adding up for her.

Good job she had another two weeks to sort it all out.


Unfortunately, Clara had even fewer answers by the third week. Because by the third week, all of her unanswered questions were dominated by one thing and one thing only:

She. Missed. Him.

She missed the TARDIS; she missed the traveling; she missed the excitement and the anticipation of a new destination, a new time period, a new planet, a new alien race; she missed the running; she missed the thrill of being in a life-or-death situation and having to make split-second decisions. Her life seemed painfully dismal and maddeningly penned-in and stagnant without the Doctor.

And she did miss the Doctor.

It wasn't the dull ache of missing the younger Doctor; this ache was fresher, sharper and more complicated. She hadn't gotten over her fury at him, and yet, she wished he'd show up early. She wished he'd misjudge and show up a week early, not just his usual ten minutes - despite all of the complex emotions that meeting would entail. But she didn't care. She had never been apart from the Doctor for this long since she'd first met him, and it frightened her how much his absence weighed her down. And how moody and on-edge she was without his mercurial moods to bring out her calmer and sane side.

And then of course there was –

Do you still love me?

He'd want an answer, she was certain of it. Unlike before he changed, this Doctor was direct, straight-to-the-point, with no dancing around an issue or dissembling. . When he didn't want to provide an answer (or when he didn't like it), he opted for silence, not lies. Which had made his months and months of purposeful deception all the more shocking.

By the end of the third week, she was so desperate for a distraction from the ever-growing pile of unanswered questions, that she actually texted Frederick.

She didn't hear from him for six days.


Clara broke down and rang Frederick that weekend and left what was quite possibly the most pathetic voicemail of her life. She was hungry for something – anything – to break up the monotony of her current existence, and finally, her prayers were answered. He rang her back just a few minutes later, sounding out of breath as he navigated his way towards a Very Important Football Match at his local pub, The Oak & Crown. His invite was half-hearted, but Clara jumped at the opportunity, shocking him with her level of enthusiasm.

It had all of the elements of a trip with the Doctor: an unknown population with rituals and customs entirely foreign to her (not only were there specific drinks for specific team members but there were chants and nicknames for them, too); a life-or-death situation (judging by the mood of the crowd); having to make split-second decisions (should she politely decline the drink being offered her by the bloke with the scraggly ginger beard, using the excuse that she was there with someone else?); and finally, educational. Apparently everyone called Frederick "Ricky."

Still – there wasn't that outlet for her pent-up energy: watching all the running on the telly only made her restless, and the rest was a whole lot of sitting. And drinking. She might've been able to strike up conversations with some of them if they hadn't been so bloody invested in the match. So halfway through her second pint, she stole out to the back to get some air.

Frederick – Ricky – was smoking a fag and texting. She sauntered over to him, starved for even a half-friendly, half-awkward chat.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"All right," he replied, sticking his mobile back in his pocket. He gave her a sideways glance. "You don't really seem like you're having all that much fun."

Clara's smile was apologetic. "No, sorry." She shrugged. "Guess it's not really my thing."

Ricky gave her a lopsided grin, making one of those "what are you gonna do?" gestures. They both shook their heads.

She felt the need to fill the silence. "And – sorry about not getting in touch earlier. The last month has been a bit – um, difficult, I guess."

He shrugged, looking unconcerned at her failed communication attempts. It's not like he had made any great effort, either. "'S'all right."

This time the silence was different, like they were so far apart that they were almost strangers. Perhaps it was what she needed. "I was seeing someone," she admitted, the words feeling strange out of her mouth for the first time. "Sort of. I mean – have you ever met those pairs that everyone thinks is a couple? Like – they finish each other's sentences and they're always flirting and always in each other's space? And everyone knows they're a couple but them?"

Ricky gave a half-hearted shrug. "Not really," he said.

"Oh." She was sheepish for about three seconds. "Well – I was in one of those situations. And – that man that I travel with, the one I told you about? It was his…younger brother. Like a lot younger, like twenty years, closer to my age. That's how I met him, actually. 'Cause I knew his younger brother first."

Ricky frowned. "Thought you said you met him at work, right?"

Clara ducked her head, her cheeks reddening at her lie. "Yeah, that was um, that wasn't true. I just said that 'cause…'cause I dunno. It sounded better, I guess." She gave him a half-apologetic smile.

He didn't seem terribly ruffled by her deception. "Okay."

"But the thing was," she hurried on, "that I knew his younger brother before I knew him. I didn't even know he had an older brother – they were…estranged. So I traveled with this younger brother, and that was a lot of my life, but then the younger brother…" She trailed off, her gaze fixing on the ground. She could feel Ricky's interest piquing more. "He died," she said quietly. "And…right before he died, he let me know that he'd felt all these things for me, left it in a message, actually. But then the older one stepped in, and took over. And he was…well is – really different. Like seriously, almost complete opposite of his younger brother. You'd never even know they were related."

Ricky took a long drag off his cigarette, looking thoughtful. "Huh," was all he said.

"So, then I started traveling with the older one, and now no one thought we were together or a couple because everything was so different between us. Honestly, there were times when I wondered why he continued to travel with me 'cause he didn't always seem to – well, care. About me. I was feeling like he just needed someone to be his travel companion so he didn't get lonely, and a lot of what I used to love just didn't feel…fun anymore."

A light misting of rain started falling on them. But Clara didn't move, watching the tiny beads of condensation land on her sleeves, little points of light that flickered and faded.

"But then about a month ago, the new one – the older brother – he…he basically told me that he had developed the same feelings for me as his younger brother had. And…well, something happened between us. It was confusing and I don't know if it happened 'cause I was missing his brother or if I really feel anything for him, or I was just tired of being alone or I don't know what. It's just…it's complicated," she finished lamely.

Ricky flicked his cigarette off to the side, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. "Wow. Sounds like one of those shows my mum watches."

"Oh? Which one?"

He snapped his fingers a few times, hunting for the title. "East somethin', East – "

"'East Enders?'" Clara queried disbelievingly.

"Yeah, that's it. That's the one."

She huffed, arms tightening around her. "Bit more sensational and dramatic, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah – that's what I'm sayin'. I prefer a simpler life. No drama." He shook his head.

Her mouth thinned into a line. "Not really a fan of it myself."

"Sounds like you've been thinkin' on it a lot, though."

"Well, yeah, but…" She sighed, regretting her decision to talk to him. "Never mind. Sorry I brought it up, I didn't mean to make anything more…" She motioned vaguely between the two of them. "I didn't think it would really…I dunno. That you'd mind."

He gave a half shrug. "I don't."

It was difficult for her to decide between relief and genuinely peeved at his nonchalance.

He motioned with a jerk of his thumb. "Think I'm gonna go back in – you wanna come?"

She may have emphasized her half-hearted shrug more than usual. "I dunno. Maybe in a minute."

"Suit yourself." He toed the fully extinguished cigarette a few more times. "And uh – y'know, you can come back any time you like. Come out with us, I mean."

Clara ducked her head. "Um, thanks, Ricky, that's nice of you. But I don't know if you and I should be –"

"Oh, no, I don't mean like that." He shook his head, giving her a slightly bashful lopsided grin. "I mean –I want a woman who's gonna get excited by the same things. Y'know – who likes the sorta life I like, content to jus' go down to the pub and shoot the shit over a few pints with a bunch of mates and the match on. No offence, Clara, but you're clearly not that woman."

She smiled. He was so much more relaxed when he wasn't trying so hard. "None taken. And no – I'm definitely not."

"I just thought…maybe you could use a friend."

He was already looking in the direction of the door, the comment so offhand, so common, so used and familiar in these dating situations-gone-wrong, and yet…

Something slid into place inside her with a click. Something so unexpected, she had to clear her throat from the lump that had formed there and make an effort to turn down the gratitude behind her smile. "Yeah," she agreed, her nod continuing for several seconds more than she'd planned. "Yeah, I really could. I'd like that."