Chapter 10: The Complexities Of A Second Marriage

A headache pressed on her temples. The kind of headache that could make the recipient irritated and overly cross within a matter of seconds if exposed to the appropriate stimulus from an external source. A hot shower had done little to eliminate the spikes infringing on her skull, and when entering the living room, she squinted slightly at the burgeoning daylight caressing over sensitive eyes. A mild hangover—considering what it could have been—or at least in relation to what she had experienced after past alcohol-involved events. Thankfully, she didn't feel sick.

Clara's immediate intentions upon her emergence into the room were somewhat thwarted as she stared down at the long body sprawled casually along the couch. Any concern that the next moments were going to be awkward between them dispersed as she observed what was happening.

"Hello," Clara said cautiously, narrowing her eyes.

John reached out an absent hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of her knee as she arrived beside him. "Clara," he murmured, grinning and refusing to look at her, "this is literally the best thing I have ever used. I'm not joking in anyway. It's like an actual book. But better. Look, I can change the font size."

"Yeah," she replied slowly without expression. "I know. I told you they were good."

"Never said they weren't. I've always loved them."

She put a hand over her mouth to stop any laughter that might be thinking of making an escape, or at least attempting to hide the grin trying to form on her mouth. While he wasn't looking at her, she gazed down at the scene he created, scanning her eyes across his early morning form. He had forgone trousers or jeans, attired only in pants, a long sleeved t-shirt and his customary mismatched socks. A blanket was bunched at his feet. All evidence of their game had been removed, the space next to the fire clear of glasses and alcohol. She cleared her throat and resumed her original task.

"This is for you," she announced, holding out two fifty pounds notes in front of his face.

"Huh?" he mumbled, glancing at her offering before returning to the screen. "Money…"

"Yes. Money."

"Why are you giving me money at ten in the morning?"

"Thought you might be more susceptible."

His arm slid around both legs, trapping her against the edge of the couch. "Seven o'clock is prime time," he murmured, tipping his head to rest against her knee. "You're a little late."

Clara ignored his pointless reply. "I have no idea what you've spent on everything. But this is the only cash I have on me at the moment. So, here."

"Spent on what?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Anything. Everything. Food. Petrol. Electricity."

"Oh, right," he responded, realising what was happening and then becoming completely disinterested in the matter. "I've already done all that."

"Yeah, I know. That's why you need to take this."

He wasn't really listening. Languid and indifferent, the only indication he gave to show he knew she was there was the fingers drawing tiny lines on the back of her knee.

"John."

He looked up at her, blinking and focusing his attention at her persistence. "What?"

"Money."

His gaze fixed on the notes, staring, and then he shook his head. "Clara, I don't need it. Or want it. So just… forget it." He nodded vaguely toward the guitar on the opposite couch. "If you haven't yet noticed, I've acquired extensive wealth playing that."

"John."

"Clara."

He was entirely oblivious to what she was trying to express. Beginning a conversation into why this was the only thing she could think of in her afflicted state that would create an immediate illusion of some sort of boundary, a very much superficial and rather shallow offering to establish a small form of control—wasn't really something she wanted at this time of the day.

"Sex," she said blankly. "I'm paying you for sex."

That got his attention. His eyebrows raised and his mouth parted.

"Thanks for all the sex," she continued slowly, keeping her expression neutral.

"I'm actually two hundred pounds an hour." His reply was careful, but a grin started to press desperately on the corners of his mouth.

"No, this is all inclusive. For the other… four and a half times, too."

"Right," he declared firmly, sitting up properly. "First of all—I don't do sex in halves. Let's round it up to six. Second—in what world would I charge only sixteen pounds per time? Twenty at least. I'm worth at least twenty. So, you actually owe me more money."

"Well, I don't think you've been good enough to warrant anything over ten pounds, so maybe you should lower your rates," she responded. "I was being generous. Alternatively, just get better at your job."

"Get better at my job?" he repeated, smiling with a dangerous edge and looking back at the Kindle. "Why don't you use that to buy a book on how to tell a convincing lie. Needs work."

"Here," she offered again, serious.

"Don't want your money, Clara."

"John, it's—" Sighing, she felt herself starting to get irritated. "Take it."

"I don't need it. I'll survive on my mediocre prostituting."

"I'm not…" She pressed fingers into her eyes and tried to clear the lingering discontent of not quite having enough sleep. "I'm not comfortable with you paying for everything."

"Why?" he shrugged, uninterested. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Yeah, but it matters to me. So just… just take it. Please."

"Are you getting all grumpy," he smirked, tightening the grip around her legs and pressing her forward slightly.

"Yes," she frowned, annoyed. "John, it's really important that you take it. All right? I don't care if you don't need it. It's more for me than you."

"Fine, fine. Okay." He took it from her hands and immediately dropped on the floor with a careless, bordering on derisive smile.

She sighed again. Good enough.

Water. She needed water. She detached her legs from his arm and headed toward the kitchen.

"Are you coming back?"

"Yeah," she promised, smiling at the instant and needy concern in his tone.

A glass was already placed in waiting on the bench beside a box of painkillers, and beneath was a small piece of paper exhibiting a rough sketch of a very large bird, who was clutching in its talons, a very small person. Clara exhaled laughter and looked over towards her artist, feeling her chest tighten at the attentive and caring gesture. She filled the glass and forced herself to drink the entire thing.

On the couch, John was grinning at his phone, both thumbs on the screen typing. She watched him openly, feeling lost and unclear about what to do. Other than the want to submerge her head into a bucket of ice, she didn't have any suggestions on how to really broach the conversation they needed to have.

"Hello," he murmured, distracted again as she returned. He resumed the arm around her legs and pulled her closer, his attention remaining on the screen, yet continuing to stroke the back of her knee with absent fingers.

She wanted to sit down, waiting for him to offer or move, but didn't quite want to interrupt the position of his arm.

"Who are you talking to?" Clara asked when another wide smile expanded on his mouth and he began typing again.

"Actually… sorry," she added immediately, frowning at her intrusiveness. "Pretend I didn't say that. Sorry."

"Jack," he replied simply, either uncaring or oblivious to the possibly inappropriate query.

"What—my Jack?"

"Your Jack," he confirmed with a grin. "Although he's my Jack now. We're friends."

Clara narrowed her eyes, wary at this revelation. "Ah… really?"

He hummed absent confirmation and smiled again at whatever he was typing.

"What are you… talking about?" she asked casually, innocently.

"You."

Her brow creased and she gazed at him with suspicion. "What about me?"

"We've been discussing the best way to tell you about my new role on the radio show."

"What!" she exclaimed, automatically making a swipe for the phone. He shifted it out of her reach with a burst of laughter.

"I'm the boss. No one is making decisions without me. Fucksake. Especially not fucking Jack."

"So controlling," he smirked, clearly in a mood to goad her.

"That's because it's literally my show!"

"Well, Jack seems to be under the impression it's his show."

"Jack can get fucked."

"He's also been telling me some very interesting stories."

"What?" she growled, eyes narrowing with concern. "What… stories?"

John grinned and shrugged. "Just some enlightening content he thought I might like to know. Few… incriminating pictures. I really love what you're doing to the statue in this picture here." He flipped the screen around and held it out. He tutted and shook his head as she focused her gaze. "So inappropriate."

Clara groaned and swore in dismay. "Stop texting him."

"He's my friend now," he announced with another grin, overly pleased with himself. "I'm the best friend he's ever had."

Scowling, she scanned the room for her own phone so she could send a hostile reprimand to her meddling former-friend, but didn't have a clue where she'd left it.

"Let me reply," she demanded, holding out her hand.

He shook his head with another smug look.

"John."

Shrugging, he fixed her with a taunting smile. "Make me."

Attempting another unsuccessful swipe, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her. He responded instantly, using the arm around her legs to tilt her off balance and force her knees into the couch. Clearly much stronger than her, his arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her down on top of him as she tried to reach the hand holding the device capable of containing potentially every incriminating picture Jack had ever taken of her, which, if she recalled correctly from the last time he had done this, was a lot.

"John!"

His response was only gleeful laughter, and while he crushed her into the back of the couch, she put her hand over his face and covered his eyes so he was forced to use his in order to remove the pressing fingers obscuring his vision. She took the opportunity and tore the phone out of his hand, victorious before curling over so he couldn't grab it back. She laughed as he tried to pull her over.

"I won, I won," she expressed as he grasped for her wrists. She flattened his phone beneath her, obstructing his intentions and shifting it out of his range. "Accept it."

"That was cheating!"

"I win." Clara grinned at him and his disgruntled expression and then turned back to compose an aggressive message. "Shit," she laughed as she realised the next obvious barricade. "You need to unlock it now."

He started chuckling, a triumphant and devilish grin plastering on his mouth.

"Please?" she asked, coy and softening her voice.

"I win," he smiled, showing all his teeth before dropping the malevolent expression and furrowing his brows. "Don't look at me like that."

"How?" she asked, innocent.

"That," he frowned. "With your eyes doing that."

"Doing what?" Clara watched him succumb and then surrender to her morally questionable tactics.

"Fine," he acquiesced with a scowl, conceding and entering the pin.

"You're too easy," she smirked, snatching it from his hands.

"Be nice," he instructed, clearly annoyed she was well aware of what she was doing. "Jack's my best friend."

Hello dickhead… can you kindly FUCK OFF. c xxx

Nice enough. What she really wanted to do was scroll through this entire conversation, but knew that would be crossing every fucking line she could think of, so instead she placed his phone on the floor and slid it hard across the rug so it was out of range.

"There. I've done you a favour. You don't want to play Jack's games. Trust me."

She smiled at him and then observed the intimacy of their immediate position. She was stretched out half on top of him, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other over her shoulder.

"This is nice," he said quickly as he noted her sudden realisation.

Clara swallowed and nodded, and then just accepted it, supposing it wasn't really an accident. She didn't wanted to move, so she didn't. He tightened his embrace and she lowered her head into the cushion above his shoulder, burying her mouth and nose into the space behind his ear. His hair was damp from the shower and the scent of vanilla soap lingered on his skin. She reached up and brushed her fingers slowly through his dark curls, caressing him gently as she felt his chest move in steady motion beneath her.

"Did you sleep here?" she asked with quiet insistence.

The blanket bunched at their feet felt rather telling. He hummed and nodded almost indistinctly. "Sort of."

If possible, she pushed her head even closer into his, closing her eyes and pressing her mouth into his soft skin. "Should we talk about last night?"

"What part?"

"Well," she started, frowning. "All of it, I guess."

"Sounds boring."

She breathed out laughter as she registered the smile in his tone. "Mmm. Leave it? For a bit."

"Do you know what I think we should do today instead?"

"I'm not a fucking mind reader, John."

"You're so grumpy," he replied, laughter filling his voice.

"I'm not grumpy. I've just got a small headache."

"I'm not grumpy!" he repeated, pitching his voice in imitation of her. He started what could only be described as giggling and grabbed her wrists in case she was thinking of any form of physical retaliation.

"Not what I sound like," she muttered under her breath. "Why aren't you feeling ill? You probably had more than me."

"You're smaller and I'm also physically superior to everyone on this planet."

"Oh, good. I was wondering when the arrogance would return."

"My arrogant free hours are between four and eight in the morning. You've missed them."

"That's inconvenient," she mumbled absently, finding herself becoming distracted by his body beneath her. Unsurprisingly, he was very warm. She could feel him flexing slightly, adjusting to her weight.

"I think," he said quietly, "we should just stay like this for the entire day."

One of the best ideas she had ever heard in her life. Clara hummed and shut her eyes again. "What about the outside bit? The eagles might be out."

"Don't care."

"You do care."

"Not enough to move. And it's still raining."

Against his own declaration, John turned, shifting her between himself and the couch, pressing his body into her and laying his head beside hers so he could look at her directly.

"Can't even wear my own clothes," he complained, clearly holding back a smile as he trailed a hand down her jumper covered arm.

"I'm wearing one out of about the twenty you brought," she contended, unimpressed. "For a ten day trip."

"But this is my favourite one."

She shrugged, smiling back at him. His eyes ran over borrowed warmth and then he pressed into her further, eliminating any gap between them. His arm slid behind her back, securing them together.

This was how she had wanted to wake up this morning.

Every morning.

Warm against him and surrounded in his arms. What she wanted didn't really seem to be a possibility, however. She felt her chest tighten, the well acquainted crush of feeling both hurt and confusion. Right now, she was close enough to kiss him. The thought made her blink and swallow, mouth turning dry with nervous apprehension. The last time she had done that was on a balcony in London.

"That's yours," he murmured, interrupting her swerving thoughts.

"Huh?" She blinked quickly, forcing the return of the present.

"Your phone buzzed."

"Oh. Right. Where?"

He hummed absentmindedly and kept staring at her. "It's under the couch. Don't be angry. But I accidently stood on it a little bit. It's fine. I think. You should check."

"Want to get it?" she asked softly, finding his guilty expression rather endearing. "I'm trapped."

"Yeah."

He didn't move, just continued his dark and interminable stare. The edges of his mouth were curved in a vacant smile. The colour had returned to his eyes. She tracked their transformative hues and wondered if they really were shifting amongst the grey or it was just an illusion. The crush on her chest began melting away into liquid, dispersing like it had never been there in the first place. She could quite easily kiss him. The distance was tiny. A few inches of movement and his mouth could be on hers. She remembered what he tasted like, a visceral recollection that sent anticipation and heat down her spine. His tongue against hers. How warm his breath was before he parted from her lips to inhale.

Another buzz from somewhere on the floor broke the transfixion.

"Got it," he murmured, twisting and dropping his head over the edge.

Clara started laughing as the blurry text came into focus and she pressed her mouth into her shoulder to stop it. "Shit," she chuckled, half groaning, half amused.

"What?"

"This." She passed her phone into his hand. "It's for you, too."

The message from Amy included a picture of Margaret Thatcher sprawled leisurely on the floor and licking a paw.

Which one of you will be paying my neighbour's £165.58 vet bill to fix their cat?

Before John had time to react, Clara heard the small swoop of another message arriving. He began laughing properly, a deep amusement that was both concerning and rather lovely.

"What?" she frowned, quickly trying to take the phone from his hands as she realised leaving him with unfettered access to Amy was probably a mistake. "John."

He held it out of her reach above their heads. "You can have it back if you promise I can reply to this message."

"No!" she growled. "Give it."

He passed it over with a grin and then ducked his head so he wasn't looking at her.

Seen anything outside of his bedroom yet?

Groaning, Clara tossed her phone away with resentment to join his, away from the couch and their hands, wondering how embarrassed she was supposed to be. "Can I have one of your best friends? I don't like mine anymore."

He looked up, horrified at the idea. "Clara. Ed, Hamish… they would… turn you against me. All three of you would just end up laughing at me and being mean."

"Aw," she grinned with false sympathy. "Is that what they do?"

"Yes," he scowled, not really responding to her slight condescension with much enthusiasm. "They think everything about me is funny."

"You are pretty funny."

"There's a big difference between laughing with me and laughing at me." His expression shifted and he narrowed his eyes. "They laugh when I tell them science things."

His childish, rueful disgruntlement was so innocent and so far reaching into the realms of pure and unfiltered exasperation that she struggled to not simply grab him and whisper meaningless assurances in his ear. Clara had no real idea what his friends were like, but she felt a fond moment of connectivity with the two men who had also been chosen and subjected to screeds of arcane information as she was.

"You should meet them. If you wanted to, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he swallowed. "They want to meet you. A lot." He frowned, wary. "Probably too much. A suspicious amount."

"Well," Clara smiled, "I made you meet my friends."

"Mmm. That went well."

"Which time?"

He chuckled and then clamped his mouth shut to control it. "Both," he deadpanned. "Just so… fun."

"They're all obsessed with you, too," she sighed. "Probably. Maybe not Rory. But the rest of them…" She narrowed her eyes. "The rest of them are definitely fucking obsessed."

"How? Ianto just likes my music."

Clara took a deep breath and stretched her arm over him, groaning slightly. "This is just what Amy and Jack are like. They're playing with you. First they ask all those intrusive questions—like at the bar? It's to make you think their mode of enquiry is only completely blatant and upfront. Next"—She pointed to his phone—"they team up and start doing that. Make you like one of them."

She started helplessly grinning and rubbed her eyes. "Oh my god. They're so manipulative. The other—in this scenario, it's Amy—she'll remain indifferent. Jack will bring her into the conversation but she'll be offhand and impatient. Most people want Amy to like them. And she… Oh my god. She's so shameless about how she'll go about turning it around.

"Anyway. The two of them will find the mutual friends they have with you and suddenly it's all, 'no, Clara, I can't get a drink with you, I'm busy with insert-name-here for the next month'.

"Jack's going to be all over Donna. It's just a big game to them. They'll get themselves invited to something you'll be at. Dinner… A party… Some event. Feign total ignorance that they knew you would be there. Then… they turn the dial up to ten. It's like watching a really amazing magic trick. They're honestly unstoppable when they work together." Clara sighed. "Before you realise, you will have revealed not just everything they want to know about you, but have cut keys for your house and handed over credit details."

"Even me?"

"Even you. No one is immune. They're professionals. Professional manipulators. And they'll probably be worse with you because they know you're a challenge."

"Is Jack only pretending to like me then?" His expression shifted and he looked a little disheartened.

"No," she grinned, quickly shaking her head. "Ironically, Jack and Amy are the most honest people I've ever met. Seriously. If they didn't like you, you would definitely know. They only do this to people they like." She pointed at his phone and gave him another smile for reassurance. "That's absolutely all real."

"Oh. Okay." His expression brightened. "That's good. I really like Jack. Do you think we could—"

"No," she interrupted. "Don't bother."

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

"I did. You're imagining a scenario where we have the prowess to manipulate them back."

"Yes."

"We can't. It doesn't even matter I just told you. They'll adapt. They probably already know I would tell you that."

"Well… I've already been yelled at and received a punch in the face. I don't see how it could get much worse."

"Mmm. Sure they'll think of something." Clara pressed light fingertips into his jaw, tracing over the now absent marks left from Jack's offence. "This is gone," she murmured.

"Jack should be thanking me I didn't hit back," he remarked, smiling. "Imagine his wedding photos."

Clara grinned, holding back further amusement. "I had that same conversation with Ianto."

"Would have been really cramped fitting all those guests into a hospital ward." His own grin expanded. "Do you think you and I should get married?"

Every single thing about the unexpected question should have been either completely inappropriate or perhaps undeniably awkward, but instead laughter became inescapable and she matched his mirthful and humoured expression. "Is that a proposal?" she questioned, raising her brows.

"Yeah," he smiled, fixing her with his laughing eyes.

"Does it matter we've only known each other for four weeks?"

"Thirty two days, actually."

"Are you counting?"

"No," he grinned, shaking his head. "Yes. But not on purpose. I have numbers for things that won't go away. I can't help but count."

"Imagine if I said yes."

He closed his eyes and turned his head to silently and helplessly laugh into the cushion, before struggling to maintain a straight face. "I'm very traditional. We've slept together, so I have to do the honourable thing."

"I'm not exactly pregnant," she pointed out with a dry smile.

Uncontainable amusement spilled from his mouth and he put his forehead into hers, pressing hard to force her back. "You'll have five children by the time I'm done with you," he growled with severe assertion.

"Fuck off," she breathed in disgust.

"We will," he insisted. "We'll have one, and then make backups."

"No one has five children. We can make… one. Two if that one is an annoying science nerd."

"Well that's fucking offensive!"

"Sorry—no, I can't hear your protests over all the rock and tree facts you and the smaller version of you are trying to tell me."

"Too bad, Oswald. That's just your inevitable future. Imagine me and five little annoying science nerds competing for your attention."

"Yeah? Well good luck supporting your five nerds on ten quid rates in this economic climate."

Another torrent of contagious laughter burst from his mouth.

"Probably a local church we could stop by tomorrow," she continued casually. "Or later today? My headache will be gone by the afternoon. Actually, fucking hell. This conversation really needs to stop."

Grin wide with permanent amusement, he lifted and leant over to put his mouth on her ear. "You're so inappropriate. I've only known you thirty two days."

"You started it!" she expressed, pushing him back amidst a final bout of laughter.

John shifted into his original position, arm draping across her waist and then sliding up to her shoulder. "Want to marry me anyway?" he smiled, eyes soft and glittering. "In the future?"

It was such an innocent, incidental question, without weight or intent, just a quietening of a safe and innocuous moment. Clara shared his smile, a flood of warmth rippling in her chest and expanding like a wave through her body.

"I think I might be a bit weird about marriage," she admitted, lifting her shoulder in a shug.

"How come?" he asked, blinking through his gentle and imploring gaze.

"I just… I'm not sure. Whenever I try and think about myself in that situation, I can't really picture it. Telling someone I'll love them forever."

She frowned a little, considering something that she hadn't thought about in a long time. "I always thought Dan might ask. It would have made sense. But… we, ah, we didn't live together. Which I knew was weird. Everyone thought it was weird. He asked me twice, seriously, to move in with him. You're not supposed to live separately after three years, right? Amy and Rory moved in together after about six months. So did the boys. But I made excuses. We were fine, but that was weird.

"It… panicked me. Doing that. So I think, maybe," she swallowed, "that might have been why he…" She trailed off, blinking away the rest of the sentence. "It's my best guess. I never wanted to commit to anything."

Clara bit into her bottom lip as she watched him watching her, quiet and observant with fixed attentiveness.

"But my issue with marriage," she continued, wanting to diffuse the somber mode she was sinking into, "is more likely to be a side effect of my everlasting resentment of having Linda in my life."

His small rush of laughter was countered by the weight of her deeper acknowledgment.

"I honestly will never understand why my dad married her," she muttered, stretching her arms out slightly and ducking her head to ease the slight tension between her shoulderblades.

"Love, surely," he suggested with amusement.

Clara scoffed and pulled a face. "Yeah, right. Seriously, John—you would understand if you met her."

He smiled. "I think you might have a small discriminatory problem."

"I've already told NASA they can have her for the first non-returnable Mars mission," Clara continued, ignoring him. "That, or just use her for degraded oxygen experiments."

"Clara!"

"I'm kidding," she grinned. "I'm really, truly, almost kidding."

He started chuckling, looking up to the ceiling. "She's probably just incredible in bed."

Clara's mouth dropped open. He turned his glittering eyes towards her and in a second she had pulled the cushion out from behind his head and was battering him it.

"John!"

"What?" he laughed, trying to fight off the assault.

"Don't say things like that!" she exclaimed in disgust, grabbing at his defending hands. "Jesus. Yuck."

"I'm simply offering a possible theory"—The cushion connected to his face—"into the complexities of a second marriage as posed by the denier of parental reconciliation!"

She hit him again and then he tore the soft weapon from her grasp to throw from the couch. Its trajectory veered into the window, falling to knock a lamp beneath. It tilted and came crashing onto the wooden floor with the definitive sound of broken. The sudden destruction startled them both into stilled silence.

"Definitely your fault," he grinned, an expression that showed off all his teeth.

"No. Another thing Linda's destroyed. Along with with my diminishing childhood and sense of joy." She drew her gaze away from the window. "What was your wedding like?"

"Um… nice." John smiled, laying back down on his side to face her, closer perhaps, his legs pressing against her own and hand clenching into the jumper over her shoulder. "It was lovely, really. In London. Just small. Which I thought was funny because River knows so many people. But we just had family and close friends. I remember there being lots of snappers out the front. And Eddie was so drunk." He laughed slightly. "I think he was drunk through the entire ceremony, too."

"What are snappers?"

"Snap snap," he smiled, blinking his eyes in time. "Photographers. That's what Louis calls them."

"Oh," she realised. "Well. We love a good celebrity wedding."

"I'm going to take down that photo of River and I up there," he said quietly, pointing a finger over his shoulder to the mantelpiece and then exhaling lightly. "But I'm, I'm going to keep it. Is that… Is that normal? Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You can do whatever you want," she said gently, reassuring. "I think it's probably normal. You don't need to erase her from your life."

She stared into his kind and intelligent eyes and decided she wanted to tell him classified information. "Want to know the serious reason why I think I have a problem?"

"You can tell me anything," he murmured.

"I think… I think it's because of how Dad was when we were told about Mum's cancer. I was just about to turn fifteen. The three of us were in this room and the doctor said it could be anywhere between a month and… a guess. A year at the most, maybe. The woman who told us was behind a desk. Dad stood up, went right up to her and took this bit of paper she was reading from out of her hands. He balled it in his fist and then just walked out of the room.

"I couldn't really comprehend what was happening. He didn't come home for two days. I don't know where he went. Mum must have because she… I don't know. She wasn't surprised or…" Clara shook her head. "She just told me not to worry about him."

Swallowing, she cleared her throat a little. "They were so happy. I don't even remember them ever fighting or arguing. And that's what he got. For being in love and wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. She died six weeks later.

"I know it's… pretty irrational. It doesn't even make sense. Dad—he would never have traded it, even if there was a way of knowing in advance that would happen. Of course he wouldn't. And I know that letting it affect my own relationships is absurd.

"But Dan… he's been the only long term boyfriend I've had. Anyone else was just… months. Or weeks. We never talked about any of that though. I never really explained it. I don't think I wanted to and it must have created a gap between us. Space that felt unbreachable, perhaps. I don't know."

Sighing, she frowned and brushed her hand over one of his, staring down to his pale fingers. "How come…" she started quietly, blinking and looking up to watch his eyes. "How come I can tell you?"

It wasn't really a question and he didn't respond, even if he did know the answer.

"It's actually fourteen years on… Next week. Since Mum died. The eighteenth. Which is… Saturday, I think. I guess fourteen years is sort of quite a long time ago now," she contemplated. "But I'm still sad about it."

John closed one of his eyes for a moment as if considering her admission with curiosity.

"Everyone is dead," she sighed drastically.

The laughter he exhaled was laced with proper and sincere amusement. "Sorry, sorry," he murmured immediately in apology, yet couldn't rid himself of the humour in his tone. "I'm not laughing. Well, only a tiny bit. That was just a little melodramatic."

"I've barely seen anyone else in five days," she grinned back, casting her eyes over his shoulder toward the window.

"I'm very alive. You can't feel this warm if you're dead." His fingers pressed into her cheek for confirmation.

"I'm going to start regulating your sugar intake."

"No!"

"It's very controlling of me. But I'll do it in a way you won't even notice. Someone should have told you years ago."

"They did. I'm a bad listener." He smiled and tucked strands of stray hair behind her ear. "Tell me about your mum."

"Ah… well, she…" Clara gave him a wry smile. "I think she would have really liked you."

"Already sounds like an excellent person," he declared formally, raising his eyebrows and nodding in want of agreement.

"Yeah," she smirked, pushing her hand harder into his shoulder. "Despite the arrest and the radio."

"I did consider… your dad might have come round to punch me at some point by now."

Clara turned her mouth into the couch to stifle her laughter at the thought. "He's a very passive sort of bloke. Mum was too. I remember her being very calm. Like… tranquil, sort of. Didn't get angry or concerned about little things.

"All traits I really didn't inherit," she added with a grin. "But we liked all the same things. Books and films. I suppose I might just like them because she did, but that's okay. Austen. Dickens. She used to read to me a lot, even when I was older. Or tell me stories. Everything could be a story."

On the rug, a phone buzzed an interruption.

"Who do you think?" Clara asked. "Jack sending you a video of me dancing on a table, or Amy sending me a picture of a mangled cat?"

"I very much hope it's the former."

"Once," she started, closing her eyes, "Jack accidently sent my dad this overly… bad photo of me and Amy dressed in police outfits that wouldn't meet current police uniform regulations."

John's warm laughter filtered into her ears.

"Yeah," she expressed with old annoyance, a fixed and unimpressed smile on her mouth. "Dave and Danny were a little close together in his contacts."

She opened her eyes and took a deep breath, smiling again at his open amusement. "You know, if I could have talked to anyone about what happened, it should have been Dad. He's been through the same thing."

"Did you try?"

Clara shook her head. "No. But he did. After the funeral. But I, ah…" She frowned, rubbing fingers into her eyes. "I wasn't interested. I'm still not." She looked across to him, blinking as the edges of her mouth curved. "Turns out I'd rather talk to some random celebrity I met in jail."

"I'm not a celebrity," he grumbled in complaint, suddenly pushing his head into her neck to speak against her skin. "I'm a musician. And technically, we met in a fight."

The further proximity made her heart beat a little faster. His breath brushed in light caress.

"We have the best 'how did you meet' story."

"Who can we tell though?" he murmured, voice muffled. "Everyone knows."

Clara grinned into his hair. "If someone does ask, we don't even have to explain, either. We can just give them our newspaper cover."

She felt him laugh and she slid her arm over his back, absently drawing lines through his thin t-shirt. "My parents have a good meeting story. Mum…" Clara stopped and blinked in realisation. "Actually, the parallels here are weird. But Mum saved Dad from being hit by a car. She pulled him off the road."

John drew back so he could look at her. "Can I say an inappropriate joke?"

"Mmm… All right."

"Another trait you didn't inherit."

Clara closed her eyes and knocked her forehead repetitively against his shoulder. "John," she protested, almost amazed at his daring.

"Too far?"

"Yes, obviously that's too far." Sighing, she wondered whether to laugh or simply ignore him for the next three hours. "That's so far over the line."

"Quite good though, right?" John smiled as she found herself becoming helpless against the audacious nature of his responding attitude.

"No. Well, yeah. Not bad. Actually—yes." She pressed down the traitorous grin curving her lips. "Fine. It was good."

"Thank you. Some of my edgy material." He tilted his head slightly. "Your mum died very close to Christmas."

"Yeah. Here's my obligatory 'I hate Christmas now' proclamation. I hate Christmas."

"Do you?"

"Nah," she replied, letting herself smile. "Christmas is all right."

"What are you doing?" he queried. "Blackpool?"

She shook her head. "No, ah… Linda is taking Dad to France for a surprise trip. He already knows. Pretty sure that bitch did it so she didn't have to deal with me and my temperamental grieving."

John's eyebrows raised at the abrasive wording and accusation.

"That's a little harsh, isn't it," she frowned, reconsidering the description. "I hate her as a joke, but I also really don't like her in… reality."

"Other than marrying your dad, what's she done?"

"She just… you know."

"What?"

"Look, she's just a bitch."

A grin flashed on his mouth and she could see him struggling to contain the resulting smirk. "It's completely unfounded, isn't it."

"No! It's not." Clara frowned at him. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"All right, grumpy. I've got your back. Always."

"Anyway," she continued, smiling at his continual bravery. "It means I'm not doing anything. Which I'm sort of glad about. I was—" She swallowed, pausing. "Was supposed to go to Bristol. With Dan. But, obviously… not.

"Amy… Amy and Rory want me to come with them to the Williams' event. But, um… I don't really feel like having to small talk my way through twenty people for three days. So. I'm going to buy Margaret Thatcher expensive cat biscuits. Maybe we'll have a productive chat about our life choices."

She smiled at him, watching his dark eyes scan over hers. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, ah…" He cleared his throat. "Missy and Chloe are coming to stay. I usually go to them but I have my own house this year. And Donna and Louis are coming for lunch. We always do that if I'm in London. That's it."

"I sort of, um… worry about you."

John blinked, startled by her sudden and straightforward admission. Clara stared at him, trapped in his eyes as silence stretched in the small space between them. She could feel his breath, a little short perhaps, apprehensive and unsure, caught unawares by her words.

"Is that weird?" she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I've only known you a month." She touched his jaw and slid absently to his chin, fingers like feathers. He'd shaved at some point within the last few hours, a meticulous and perfect job. His skin felt like silk.

"I think you're very lonely and it makes me worried."

The glittering pools of grey stared back at her, glazed with the effects of absent sleep.

"Are you?"

"Yes," he whispered, swallowing. "But I'm not… not right now. I have you here. Clara—"

"Do you think Margaret Thatcher is all right?"

She wanted him to talk, except she could feel herself starting to break, sudden fractures showing in the stoic walls and barriers. The floodgates to hold back what was probably quite literally a flood of repression. She wasn't sure she was capable of dealing with its effects.

John followed her lead and tried to smile, failing while his dark eyes swarmed with unease as he was forced to continue. "Looked fine to me," he replied, swallowing. "Doubt the other cat got a claw in. That's who we should be worried about. Hundred and sixty five quid of damage. What's that? Couple of bites? Missing eyeball?"

His words meant nothing, he was just talking to make sound to fill the empty space.

"You should have her," she said slowly, blinking. "She might be happier. Danny used to play with her. He had a remote control car and he'd drive it around for her to chase. I tried to find it. After. Couldn't." Her breath didn't seem entirely stable as she inhaled. "She doesn't like me. I can't even touch her."

"She'll come round."

"When? She's known me for two years."

"Oh. Well. You never know. I'll talk to her. Put in a good word."

She stared at him, feeling the numb crush on her chest try and make its dutiful return.

"Clara." His voice was strained with apprehension. "Are you okay?"

"No," she swallowed. Her words felt thick and heavy. "I'm really not. I think I'm… emotionally exhausted."

"Am I… Am I making you feel like that?"

"Yes," she told him quietly, unable to give him anything but pure honesty.

The devastation on his face was so raw it made her want to feel sick. The headache she'd partially forgotten about became an angry, pulsating thud in her temples before she breathed through it.

"I'm a bit of a mess, John," she whispered, watching his dismay transform into anxiety. "I've got some serious fucking problems. And so do you. But you're overwhelming me.

"And last night," she continued, "that was bad. All of it was bad. We should be better than that. We… need to be better than that or this is just going to be a trainwreck."

Her vision was suddenly blurred. She blinked to clear it but found herself incapable of the task. "Shouldn't do that," she mumbled, pressing her fingers into wet eyes. "Medically dangerous.

"This isn't anything resembling some sort of ultimatum," she clarified, swallowing again to try and clear the lump in her throat. She didn't want to cry, but her eyes seemed to be making their own plans. "Please don't think that. I'm just being realistic. We're currently living in fantasyland."

"Clara, what—what can I do? I'll do anything. I'll do anything you wan—"

She pressed fingers into his lips to shut him up. "You can relax," she murmured, lowering her hand and taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "It's okay. We'll be fine. Right now I have a headache. Which probably makes everything very easy." She gave him a watery, weak smile and brushed at her eyes. "Want to stay here? Just for a bit."

Soft hands framed her face. His thumbs ran over her cheeks. The blanket collected at their feet was suddenly pulled up and over her shoulders. She pressed her head into his shoulder and put her arm around him, flattening her body into his. His hand wove through her hair and caressed the back of her neck.

"This is probably the most comfortable I've ever been," she confessed in murmur. "In my entire life."

John only nodded in response. "Would you like me to read something to you?" he offered after a few minutes, shy. "From my Kindle."

"Mine," she mumbled, a weak protest against a helpless smile.

"I've already changed all the settings to the ones I like though," he explained in whisper. "And then I also accidently bought a book, and then I bought three more books on purpose."

"What books?"

"I bought them for you," he said slowly. "Books… you'll like."

"What books?" she repeated, suspicious.

"There's one about… manta rays."

Her instant smile was well hidden in his shoulder. "What about the others?"

"Ah… well, they're all about manta rays, too."

"You bought four books on manta rays."

"Mmm… yes," he admitted carefully.

"Thank god I still have a job," she smiled, continuing her soft mumble. "I'm so glad I can support your obscure obsessions."

"I've done you a favour, really. It's important to know what's in the sea to discourage any desire to go in it."

John brushed through her hair and then moved to reach down to the floor. "Okay. Here starts part one in my series on why you shouldn't go in the water."

"How many parts are there?"

"Ah… I think there's around two hundred thousand known species living in there, but it could be over a million. Might take me a few days to cover them all. And I can do the ones we haven't discovered, too, because I've invented them all."

"You've invented eight hundred thousand species."

"Yes. Names and everything. In my head. There's a fish called Oculus-manibus that has ten eyes and little hands for grabbing plankton."

"Why does it have ten eyes?"

"So it can see ten things at once," he stated like it was obvious.

"John," she mumbled, burying her head further into his shoulder. "I've got a really good idea why your friends laugh at you."

"Why?"

His obliviousness seemed completely genuine and she bit down into her lip to stop her own laughter. "Nevermind," she smiled. "Carry on."

"Manta rays first. Because they're my favourite one. We'll work backwards."

A/N: Hello, it's me. Hi. Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has left a review so far.

And, if anyone ever reads this who is embarking on a future trip to the Isle of Skye, say hi to that f****** rock I fell off last time I was there, and the giant angry seagull that rejected all my attempts at friendship.