The entrance to Elias's suite is as opulent as imagined. A pair of gilded chair flank an impressive writing bureau. Full length mirrors, framed with rococo flourish, make the space seem even larger. Clara's worried reflection meets her own eyes. "What are we looking for?" she whispers.
"I have no idea. I expect we'll know it when we see it." She stifles a groan.
There are three doors leading off the lobby. John puts a hand on the left handle, raising eyebrows in query. She nods assent. Thick carpet muffles their footsteps as they enter an enormous bedroom. There is little trace of the man who supposedly lives in these quarters. John surreptitiously opens a wardrobe door to reveal a couple of hanging suit jackets and one white shirt. Clara heads for the bedside table, hoping more telling effects might be placed in the small drawer. To her disappointment it is empty, save for a Gideon Bible. John crosses to make sure, equally frustrated—
Both of them freeze at the sound of the en-suite toilet flushing.
"Bloody hell, mate," calls a jovial voice from inside. "That didn't last long. What did you fuck up this time?"
There is no time to run. John stares at Clara in horror; the game surely up.
She kisses him. Hard on the lips, knitting her fingers into his hair. She expects shock, recoiling horror even. Instead he kisses back, insistent, tongue brushing hers. She can't tell if this is the most convincing performance of his life or… something else. His fingers curl around her elbows, pulling her tighter against him—
"What the fuck are you doing in here?"
She breaks away with a stage-worthy gasp. "What are we doing here? What are you doing here?"
"Who are you?" John adds, sounding distinctly punch-drunk.
"Who am I? Mate, you and your bird are in the wrong bloody room."
"What?"
"What?"
"This is five seven three. Penthouse suite is the next door on the left. Can't believe that idiot left the door unlocked…"
"Oh," replies John faintly, blushing hotly. "Well, this is an embarrassing mistake. Our apologies."
"Ah, no, it's… it's fine mate. No harm done. Have a good night, won't you Mr…?"
"Smith," he replies. "Mr and Mrs Smith." He takes Clara's hand very firmly in his as they walk to the exit.
"Charmed," says the man. His smile is still friendly, but he watches them all the way down the corridor to the Penthouse door. John gives him a cheerful nod as he unlocks it, ushering Clara inside.
He spends a good minute staring through the peephole before turning to her again. "He's gone inside. Um, good thinking, by the way."
"Thank God for the master key," she demurs. "So, should we sneak out now or…?"
"Sneak out?"
She blinks. "Well, we can't stay here, can we?"
"Why not? It's not in use. And we're in a good position to have another go at searching the room when our man pops out…"
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly." He looks genuinely perplexed at her reaction. "Are you… scared?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm bloody scared. We're… well, what if they kick us out?"
"A mummy tried to kill me in my own house. Robotic men and Martian warriors dog our steps and you're worried about hotel doormen?"
She makes a frustrated noise. "Fine. Fine. When you put it like that…" She runs her hand along the bureau, twin to the one in Elias's room. "Look at this stuff though."
"Go on," he says, "explore. I'll keep a watch out."
She nods, flicking the lamps to shed more light on the luxury of their surroundings. A grand master bedroom, hung with more gauzy drapes than she has ever seen in one place. A living room with a plush chaise-longue and comfortable sofas. The third door reveals an actual dining room with proper long table, high backed chairs and even sideboards of fine china. She half expects a mechanical butler to roll out on casters. The square footage is several times that of her flat.
She slips into the bathroom, to spend a few moments sorting out her mussed hair and smudged make-up, trying very hard not to think about the way his mouth moved against hers…
He is sitting on the thick carpet, his back against the door when she returns. "He's still inside."
She sits down next to him, shoulders to the wood. "What if there's nothing in there?"
"Then we'll find something else. Maybe at your friend Dora's. Maybe wherever it is that Ronnie is living these days."
"What if there isn't anything, though? What if we never find—?"
"Clara." His hand has curled around hers again. "Stop."
She looks down at their twined fingers, and feels the edge of something half-remembered. The sense that she has seen her small hand caught in his larger one before. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"How do you do it? Stay so calm in all of this?"
He lets out a long sigh before answering. "I watched the world burn once. Saw an empire topple and millions die. For… nothing, really. I lost everything. I didn't understand how I could have survived. How there could be pages after that bitter ending. But there were. There are. There is no ending, Clara. Only the next chapter in the story."
Brown eyes find blue in the soft light of the lamps. "That's very poetic."
He shrugs, arm bumping companionably against hers. "Occasionally my foot does leave my mouth."
She chuckles softly. "That's where I've been keeping mine. Around you."
"Yes, I had noticed."
"I'm glad you were, y'know, able to look past that aspect of my personality."
"Haha. The saving my life part definitely helped."
"Haha."
Their laughter has bought them closer together, her head almost resting against him. Some of the magic of their roam around London town seems to have crept into the room again; as if this time and place, this moment is the only real thing in the world. "John?"
"Yes?"
"I'm… really glad I met you. You know. Despite all the terror and danger that seems to go along with it."
"Thank you. I think."
Her cheek is pressed against his shoulder now. A strange heaviness has settled on her chest; an inexorable tug she resists and resists. If she can just keep her eyes on the carpet, ignore the fact they are so close that his breath stirs her hair…
"Clara?"
"Mm-hm?"
"I'm… very glad that I met you too."
Damn him.
She looks up, and is lost. Her mouth meets his before her brain can cut in with the various reasons why this is a very bad idea, and is short-circuited by sensation.
They break apart breathless, minutes later, hours; she isn't sure. His eyes rake her face, find whatever it is he is searching for, and he kisses her again. Pulls her into his lap, and she stops trying to rationalise whatever is happening now, gives herself over to the moment.
There is a muffled thump as he manages to crack his head against the door frame. Her lips slip from his and there is a beat of panting stillness, where sanity might regain the upper hand. Instead, he stands, pulls her to her feet and leads her into the ridiculous bedroom.
The mattress is far too soft for her tastes, approaching the size of a small country. This is useful, as neither of them can seem to settle on a comfortable configuration. He lies down under the insistent pressure of her kisses, only to roll her over and trace a line from earlobe to collarbone that makes her shiver. She can feel his arousal; grins wickedly as he gasps at a ghosting touch of her palm. She flips him again, straddles him; teases him with butterfly soft kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, until he groans and captures her mouth.
Her fingers linger on the top button of his still-damp shirt. A line in the sand, she thinks; a step into something more. He is shaking slightly. "We don't—?" she breathes.
"I want," he gasps. "It's just… been a long time."
"I understand," she lies, unbuttoning him deftly. And then, perhaps, she does understand after all. Here is a different body to the one she is familiar with, with skinnier ribs and softer skin. Older, hairier, alien. Now she trembles, on the edge of unknown.
"Stay with me," he whispers against her lips, kissing her until the certainty edges away the fear. She pulls off her recalcitrant sweater, swiftly discards a bra that was chosen strictly for its structural capabilities when she dressed this morning. Not that he cares. She catches his eye and almost laughs at the wondering expression.
"This is just me."
"You are beautiful." He's not the first man to have said those words, of course, but he might be the first she's believed as he traces the curve of her breasts like it's an act of worship. It's too much, too much; her hands find his trousers, tugging insistently until he gets the message and helps to remove the last of the layers between them.
His breathing is ragged against her ear. "Clara."
"Shh," she manages, rolling them over until he is on top of her, taking his face in her hands. She closes her eyes and kisses him, as he pushes inside. Gentle at first, almost delicate. She rolls her hips against him, making him moan softly. He gets the message, thrusting harder, fingers knitting with hers against the pillows almost painfully tight. His rhythm starts to fray; he bites his lip in concentration and that, of all things, is what tips her over the edge. Her knees squeeze his hips reflexively, and he is similarly undone.
He collapses against her, gasping and boneless. Her fingers curl in his hair, she presses a kiss against his temple. He meets her eyes after a moment of recovery, smiles—
And outside, down the corridor, a door slams shut.