Clara could hear the scratching of his pencil and she blinked her eyes open slowly, feeling groggy and a little bit hungry and she peered up to find Herbert turned towards her, writing furiously. For a moment she simply took him in. She'd seen that look of concentration before and she knew it would be dangerous to interrupt it. For all she knew, whatever he was working on would be his greatest masterpiece and if her presence stopped that from going out into the world, she would never forgive herself.

His lips lifted into a grin and then his eyes met hers and she saw the color burst onto his skin, but he didn't look away, he simply continued gazing at her. Herbert wanted to thank her, but he didn't know how to do it without seeming odd, because he'd filled more pages in the last half hour than he'd filled in days and the way she was peering up sleepily at him sent a warm wave through his body, even as the cool wind tussled his bangs over his forehead.

"Sleep well?" He asked lightly.

Clara croaked a laugh and pushed off the ground, stretching her arm against the pins and needles that were instantly upon it, questioning, "How long was I out?"

Herbert flipped his wrist up and it knocked the air out of her lungs with the familiarity of the motion. Then he grinned back to reply, "Two and a half hours."

She rubbed at her eyes and stretched her legs, repeating, "Two and a half hours."

"Was beginning to think I might need to find a prince," he teased.

"Ah," she sighed, then teased right back with a sly look to him, "Don't I already have one."

Herbert parted his lips to respond, but he could feel the gaggle of words colliding in the space between his mind and his mouth and so he clamped it shut and gave her a flustered look that made her smile. She bewildered him on purpose, he knew, and she did it well – frustratingly well. With a small sigh of acceptance, he understood that she knew the effect she had on him and he understood she would use it against him. Herbert knew how dangerous that could be and he tried to push it to the back of his mind as she plucked up the bag beside him and searched inside until she found a sandwich and began to slowly take nibbles.

"What were you writing?" Clara asked quietly, hand coming up to block her mouth as she added with wide eyes, "If it's personal…"

But he laughed, "No, I was working on an idea."

"An idea," she replied with a nod, "That's always good."

Herbert smiled as he looked down at the last words, "She was an enigma and yet he thought maybe he knew her better than anyone else. An idea that frightened him terribly," and he simply nodded before closing the notebook and setting it aside, reaching into the bag for the second sandwich. He took a large bite, watching her peer out over the park with half-closed eyes, and when she looked back at him, he smiled warmly, tickled that she returned it.

"This was a good idea, Herbert," she told him honestly.

Nodding, he supplied, "I am full of good ideas today."

Clara laughed, looking to the notebook and wondering just what those ideas were. "Are you going to need me to look that over?"

He shrugged, then smirked, "Maybe… when it's finished."

Eying him curiously, Clara asked, "How long's it take you to finish out a story?"

Herbert listened to her laugh as he took another bite and smiled at the sandwich in his hands.

"You're a tease," she sighed.

His eyes came up quickly, just as his eyebrows did, and the motion elicited a laugh – one that told Herbert she knew exactly what he was thinking: "And you're not?"

Clara then went back to gazing before turning slightly and muttering, "Oh no, Herbert, don't look now, but I think a family has arrived – should we call for reinforcements?"

He chuckled and shook his head, "I think it'll be fine."

"This particular family," she pointed, "They're alright."

Herbert began to laugh, wanting to explain that children were less inclined to interrupt a couple, except there was a giddy youngster he recognized rushing towards him. A little boy with a mop of ginger hair and a blast of freckles across his round nose who had planted himself at his side to quietly make his own drawings and he'd been too kind to tell his parents he was a bother. Not that he truly was. He was simply a distraction. Not unlike the brunette at his side, he thought with a lazy grin.

"Hiya Herbert," the boy called, waving a hand already smeared with smudged grass and speckles of dirt and Clara gave a small shout of surprise when he tripped and landed heavily in the space between them, rolling over to peer up at him, "Are you drawing today?"

Looking to the man beside her, Clara watched as the scowl she expected never materialized. Herbert merely offered the boy a small smirk of amusement as he picked up his notebook and pushed it into his satchel before plucking a new one free as he told the boy calmly, "I was writing, but my mind might be a bit exhausted for words, so a little drawing might be good."

"Herbert," the boy whispered, "Who's your girlfriend?"

Her eyebrows shifted up as the boy aimed a shy grin at her, watching her with bright eyes as he waited and she bent forward to tell him lightly, "I'm Clara." He giggled and rolled over, sitting up and crawling closer to her as Herbert flipped through the pages to a blank one and grinned at the duo.

"I'm Milton," the boy offered with a nod that sent his flaming hair bouncing about comically. "Herbert says," he shifted even closer to Clara to whisper, "If I'm very quiet and don't ask him questions, I can watch him draw."

"A child he likes," Clara stated boldly.

Herbert smiled and nodded awkwardly, "Well, they're not all terrible."

"He doesn't like the noisy ones who misbehave," Milton told her, small hand pointing to her as he nodded and continued, "Being honest, I don't like them much either."

Clara laughed and she looked to Herbert, already sketching. Occasionally he peeked up at them as Clara engaged Milton in a conversation about his favorite subjects that lead into a talk about how the children at school weren't the nicest. It wasn't easy, Milton explained, to enjoy school when you were constantly tormented about the contents of your lunch, or how you're too clumsy to play sports.

"Yes," Clara sighed, "Suppose that could be difficult, but I bet there are loads of things you can do better than them, right?"

Milton perked up, as though he'd never considered it, and he exclaimed brightly, "I'm good at drawing, and I write short stories – like Herbert – and I get good marks."

Nodding, Clara told him confidently, "See that? Those kids who bother you? One day they'll pick up a paper, or a book at the store, and it'll be your name printed there." He beamed back at her and then looked to Herbert, who agreed with a grin and a bob of his head.

Milton seemed pleased as he stood and moved towards Herbert, glancing at the notebook in his hands before raising his eyes to meet Clara's and he said quietly, "That's your best drawing, I think."

"What have you drawn?" Clara questioned, brow furrowing as she lifted herself onto her knees, beginning to peer over as Herbert raised the notebook. "Come on," she urged with a wave of her hand, "Give it up."

"It's you, miss," Milton revealed as Herbert straightened to give the boy a frustrated glare before he awkwardly looked back to Clara and sighed, arm stretching to hesitantly hand her the notebook.

She expected to find herself and Milton deep in conversation, but instead it was simply her, staring off at the park, long bangs swaying at her jaw line, lost in some thought. Clara wanted to agree with Milton, because it seemed more detailed than what she'd seen the day before in his other notebook at his flat, but the words never quite made it past her mind. Past the question of how well he knew the curves of her face and the immediate justification that he'd been watching her talk for over fifteen minutes to the boy who was also waiting for her reaction.

And she realized they were both watching her intently, so she cleared her throat and handed the notebook back with a simple, "You're an amazing artist," before timidly turning away.

Milton and Herbert both looked up at the sound of the boy's name and he groaned, muttering at them, "It's my mum, gotta go over to my aunt's for dinner. She makes terrible dinner and pinches my cheeks," he squeaked as his hands came up to protect them.

"Best you find a way to hide them, then," Herbert told him with a point of his pencil.

Milton's shoulders jerked upwards as he demanded, "How'd'ya hide cheeks, they're on your face!" And then he shook his head and his whole body slumped slightly before he sighed and rushed off, leaving Clara and Herbert chuckling to themselves.

"He's a character," Clara sighed.

Herbert, she could see, was staring down at his drawing, and she wanted to ask him what he was thinking. Of course, she would be embarrassed to find he was thinking about how easily she'd talked to that boy; how he imagined she wanted children of her own one day and how envious he would be of the man who gave them to her. With a long sigh that gave her pause, Herbert answered quietly, "He certainly is."

"You alright?" She asked him, hand coming up to touch his, gaining his attention so she could examine the sadness in his eyes – a sadness she recognized that broke her heart. "Herbert?"

He smiled then, turning away before admitting, "You're great with children."

"Hope so, seeing as I'm a teacher," she laughed in response.

Herbert closed his notebook and pressed it into his right thigh, lifting his head to shake it, "I've always been quite awkward around others, especially children."

Gesturing up at the park, Clara told him bluntly, "Don't think that's true – you were fine with Milton and personally," she smirked deviously, "I don't find you awkward at all."

"That's because you're an anomaly," he teased.

"Quite right I am," she shot back.

Herbert held her stare and they both broke away with a shared laugh as he pushed his notebook into his satchel and slung it over his head, patting it lightly where it sat at his waist. "We should maybe go to the Market on tenth. It's on the walk home."

Nodding slowly, Clara stood and folded the blanket several times over, hanging it against her stomach as she watched him crumple up the bag he held. Then he smiled, infectiously. Clara waited to follow him, walking by his side and back onto the street and quietly towards his flat, suddenly at a loss for words. Maybe she expected him to lead, to try and excite her with some knowledge, and she barely stopped the laugh from escaping just before they entered the market and he plucked up a basket, hanging it from his arm to begin perusing the aisles.

"Noticed you had a travel toothbrush," he said absently before turning, "Do you always carry that with you?"

Clara shook her head, surprised by the question, and she admitted, "Yeah, I, uh, I never quite know where I'm gonna end up most days." Then, to his confused look, she explained, "We travelled sometimes, spur of the moment. Too far from home to just head back."

Herbert nodded acceptingly, then told her, "Maybe you should pick up a real toothbrush?"

She laughed nervously and turned away when she saw him frown. Clara knew he was thinking that she didn't want to take on anything permanent, that she was still thinking of abandoning their pact and leaving him – for her boyfriend, or just on her own—and she reached up to touch his arm, stopping him just beside a pile of avocados, setting her tongue against her bottom lip a moment. With a tilt of her head, she shrugged, and then looked up to his expectant face.

"A toothbrush," she began, then added, "And a real brush, because yours is…" she grimaced, "A comb, which is great for you, but I need something for all of this," she flicked her ponytail, "And a blow dryer might be nice?" Clara clasped her hands together and looked to the floor, "I didn't want to bother you about it all because I know it's a lot and…" he landed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle rub.

"A toothbrush, a girly brush, and a blow dryer," he repeated. "Avocado?"

She glanced up to find the vegetable in his other hand and she laughed, then nodded, and he placed it in his basket before his hand slipped off her shoulder and he began to move again. They fell into quiet chatter about meals and what he was used to versus what she was and mostly it was the same – they were both too occupied with their worlds to think much about food preparation. Sandwiches, quick soups, TV dinners, random things they could pluck off the counter. She smiled when he placed a bunch of bananas in the cart and she stopped him beside the meats.

"Maybe that's why you're so thin," she sighed.

He gestured, "Speak for yourself."

Clara's cheeks burned and she rubbed at her right elbow before shrugging towards the items beside her and telling him lightly, "Then let's stock up on real food."

"My bananas," he told her with a lifting of his chin and a mock arrogance, "Are real food."

Laughing, she plucked up a package of pork chops and another of steaks and she dropped them in his basket before twirling around and walking away, listening to him argue a moment before rushing to catch up. Clara felt guilty when they rang up their purchases and for a moment she glanced to the clutch hanging lightly at her side with the bank card inside and she wondered what the Doctor had set her up with.

He probably expected her to get a job, now that she had proper credentials to do so. Of course, recommendations were out of the question since she knew no one, really, in this time period. They stepped out into the afternoon sunlight with bags hanging off their arms, and began walking back towards the flat, Herbert questioning whether she really knew how to make anything they'd just purchased and her giving him an annoyed smirk.

"Of course," she sighed.

Herbert chuckled as they entered the building and when they reached the door, she stopped him, watching him hold the keys in his hand as he turned and raised his eyebrows. She turned away a moment, knowing he wouldn't approve of what she was about to ask; knowing he would be nervous about it, but she nodded to herself and then up at him.

"I was thinking I would go for a walk by myself a bit."

Herbert bent slightly, "Are you alright?" Then he shot, "I could come with you, it's no bother."

Clara laughed and shook her head, "You need to type up everything you just wrote down, get your mind wrapped back around those thoughts – find your story. I just want some air."

He was nodding slowly, eyes shifting to the ground sadly with rejection, and then he opened the door and held out his keys to her. "Don't go too far."

Her fingers wrapped lightly around the keys and she held them there, feeling he hadn't released his hold, and then she told him lightly, "Herbert, I'll be fine."

"I'll worry," he told her honestly, "You know that."

Clara smiled up at him and his hand dropped away, leaving her clutching the keys as he took the bags from her and stepped into his flat. She'd already scribbled the address down off the mail on his coffee table, so she wasn't worried about getting lost, but she found herself a little nervous about running into the Doctor. She'd have to convince him to let her go back to tell Herbert what happened, or she'd have to tell the Doctor she was alright where she was.

The thought struck her like a cold knife in the chest as she stepped back out into the cooler evening air and she was thankful she was still wrapped up in Herbert's sweater. For a moment she was lost in that thought, looking down at the milk chocolate colored knitted fabric that hung halfway over her skirt and she absently brought the sleeve she held in her fingers up to her nose to inhale. For some reason his scent always caught her by surprise.

Just cleanliness… which she didn't expect.

The Doctor had been different. There was an odd metallic twinge to most of his clothes. Whether it was the space he travelled through, or the closets he kept them in, or maybe just the materials they were made from – because Clara didn't know if they were the same threads as on Earth – something clung to all of his coats and vests and shirts. It was a smell she used to smile about, after a trip in the Tardis, when she'd be back in her own flat and he'd be just gone. She'd settle into her kitchen with a warm cup of tea in her hands and she would inhale it off her own clothes wondering whether it was from contact or the travels.

"Ah, Herbert," she sighed as she began walking down the street, back towards where the market had been because she knew there had to be a bank she could swing into to inquire about her account. If she had enough, she could buy him a few new notebooks, maybe a new typewriter – she'd seen the old one that sat on his desk back in his flat. Clara could pick up more fruits and vegetables without him complaining about how he didn't like them, and she would definitely find herself a jacket.

It was March and she knew it was unseasonably warm. There could be a cold snap the next week and she'd be entirely unprepared. Crossing her arms, she approached an ATM as she pondered it – Herbert was right, she needed trousers. Then she dug around for the card in the clutch at her waist and slipped it into the machine, staring when it asked for her PIN because she hadn't considered it. Would it be the same as her old PIN. Clara puckered her lips, knowing better, and she punched in the last four digits of the Tardis line and the screen blinked to greet her by name.

With a small chuckle to herself, she read through the options to check her balance before she could choose what amount to withdraw to get the silly items she was now listing in her head and when it appeared on the screen, she gasped a simple, "What?"

Turning quickly, she surveyed the street with wide eyes as her heart jolted in her chest. Then she raised a shaky hand and requested forty pounds, listening to the machine beep, creak, and shuffle, and the money emerged readily. Clara withdrew her card and pushed it into her clutch along with the money and she stared at the machine for a moment in confusion.

Because she'd expected enough to survive for a time.

Not five million pounds.