Clara had developed a routine by the time a month had passed. She worked every day except Sundays, that's when she watched the match with Victor and Marjorie, sometimes they headed down to the pub, other times the stayed in. They'd have Sunday lunch together, something Marjorie insisted on making for them though Clara had offered to help many times. She was settled in, no longer thinking so much about when she was here or when she could leave, she began to treat it like a work placement.

Three months in Leeds working in retail, that's what it was, maybe not that exotic, but it could've been worse. She was fortunate enough to be in her own country in a recent enough time period, she could have easily ended up anywhere on the planet, or in an entirely different century. She was grateful for the small things, the people that populated her world being the best thing about it.

She'd made a few friends at work, finding that she got on quite well with Julie, both her boss and Victor's sister. Her other co-workers were friendly too, making Clara feel very much at home. From time to time her mind wandered, she wondered what her parents were doing, they were so near to her now and yet so far. What sort of life had they lived three years before she was born? She longed to see her mother again, it had been so long, just to see her smile again would be enough, but she resisted the temptation to travel to where they lived. She could practically hear the Doctor's voice in her head every time her thoughts drifted in that direction, 'don't interfere with your own personal history.' She knew it would be detrimental of course, but still, she had been dumped into the past of her best friend's father, wasn't that in itself interfering with stuff that was a little too close to home? Well, if it was, it was hardly her fault at any cost, and the Doctor wasn't around to ask, so the question lingered, unanswered.

It was one particular Saturday night almost half way through the second month of her stay that Clara felt herself missing her strange alien friend. As much as she did have to admit she rather liked it here, it wasn't the same without somebody to share it with. She left her bedroom, the Doctor's letter laying open on the bed, having been read through for the one hundredth time. She entered the kitchen and discovered Victor in there, washing up after a late dinner. He had a dish and towel in his hand, slowly drying one with the other, staring into the distance before him, off in his own world. Clara opened the fridge, causing him to turn to her as though just realising she was there.

'Did you have bangers and mash again tonight?' she asked, the aroma still present in the kitchen. 'Yeah, it's finally gone. If I never see another sausage in my life it'll be too soon.'

She smiled, taking the milk from the fridge and some tea bags from the cupboard. She filled the kettle and set it to boil. 'How long did those leftovers last you?'

'Too long. Don't tell Marjorie, she'll give me a lecture to rival my mum,' he said, making her chuckle.

'Do you want some tea?' she offered.

'Yeah ok,' he replied, and she set aside a mug for him, dropping a tea bag into it.

'How was work?' he asked.

'Ok. Quiet today, but ok,' she said.

'Yeah, Julie was saying. That's bad weather for you,' Victor said, finally putting the plate away at reaching for his knives and forks, 'barely anyone goes down to the shops in the rain.'

Clara watched him, noticing that despite his usual cheery tone when he spoke to her, there was something off about his whole demeanour. Her heart sank slightly, thinking of where he would end up in the future. She glanced over at the worktop, her eyes falling on a book. 'Ooh, more philosophy? What's this one like?' she said, stepping over to the book and picking it up.

'It's a lot harder to get into than the other one. Full of big ridiculous words I've never heard before. I doubt I'll even get through it. It's about time I gave up on this whole philosophy business. It's for proper educated people, not the likes of me,' he said. Clara paused in her flicking through of the book's pages.

'You come across one difficult book and you're just going to pack it all in? Just like that?' she asked, disheartened.

'Yep, that's me, thick and a quitter,' he said with a forced smile, his self-deprecating humour barely concealing what was beneath.

He turned his back to her, picking up the last of his cutlery and returning them to the drawer. The kettle reached boiling point then, Clara placed the book back where she'd found it and went to tend to it. There was silence as she got their drinks together, Victor busying himself with organising his cupboard.

'Tea's ready,' she said after a moment, holding out his mug to him. He turned and took it from her with a sheepish 'thanks,' and minimal eye contact. Her eyes didn't leave him as he turned to go.

'Are you alright Victor?' she asked before he had reached the kitchen door. He stopped and half faced her with a frown. 'Yeah I'm fine,' he said, trying to hide the defensive edge in his tone and failing.

'Are you?' she added, not allowing him off the hook.

He gazed back at her, as though not sure what he thought of her and the questions she asked of him. His stare seemed to continue forever, Clara held it, suspended in this moment, disconnected from everything else that existed in the world.

'How did you know Clara?' he asked.

'Know what?'

He shuffled slightly, facing her fully. 'Ages ago, the first night you were here, you said- you asked me if there was anything wrong, if I would tell someone.'

'And you said you would, but I don't think you were being honest, and I don't think you are now either.'

Victor was silent, he gazed into his mug, not out of awkwardness now, but something deeper. Clara sipped her tea, then lowered it to the counter, stepping closer to where he stood, in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

'What's wrong Victor?' she asked.

His head lowered further still, he began to trace the rim of his mug with his spare hand.

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'How are you supposed to tell someone when you don't even know what it is yourself?' he asked his tea, Clara picked up her own cup and began to direct him to the sofa in the other room. 'Come on, let's sit down and just talk. Tell me whatever comes into your head, even if you think it doesn't make any sense.'

He nodded slowly, face reddening slightly. She tried not to think of how strange this was, comforting her friend's father almost like a mother would. She paused those thoughts away and listened to Victor.

They stayed up well into the early hours, Victor speaking of his strange unexplained sadness, his dread of everyday life; and how he felt like he'd never be anything other than useless at whatever he put his hand to anyway, so why even bother trying? Clara offered advice, talked him through some of the more manageable problems, but most of all she just listened. That's what she knew he needed most of all, just a listening ear so he could hear his own words back and begin to make sense of them. They'd used up almost every tea bag in the house, and ended up drifting off right there on the couch together, much too tired to make the journey upstairs to their cold, separate beds.