Clara was never one to be crazy over cars.
She viewed them as a means to an end, they simply do a job and that's that.
Despite John's clear attempt to impress her with his flash, navy sports car, her opinion didn't change dramatically.
Sure it was flashy and preferable to most cars but there was no need to prance around it like an idiot (a concept John didn't understand).
He had his arms splayed like a presenter on a game show revealing to (in this case) a not so eager contestant what was behind the sparkly curtain.
The car, which John had named 'The TARDIS' and Clara didn't dare ask why, was curvy and sleek, modern and classic and all around gorgeous to any car enthusiast, it's really a shame that Clara isn't one.
"It's nice."
"Nice!?" John cried incredulously, his beaming grin falling from his face, "Bit more than nice I think you'll find."
"It's an appliance. It does a job." She tapped the hood lightly as if she were petting a dog but didn't go anywhere nearer.
"Bit of a cool appliance, we aren't talking cheese grater here!" She rolled her eyes at him and tried to hide the rising amusement as his eyes clouded over with love "She's a beauty."
"And I think we've reached peak weird." Clara cut him off before he and his car could go any further.
"Fine, fine. Anyhow I promised you," he bopped her nose, a gesture she definitely was not expecting, "a drive." Sighing she opened the passenger door and popped a pair of sunglasses on he'd insisted she bring for "the road trip aesthetic", flashed him an award winning smile and said:
"And a drive I shall receive."
—
He was a madman.
Corners were a split second decision, speed limits were optional and all sounds from the surrounding area that might possibly alert him to another car were drowned out by an (admittedly good) playlist.
He was so relaxed, uncaring as he laid back like a dramatic cologne advert in black and white. He wore mirrored sunglasses and another band tee that Clara couldn't place, though she found it rather ironic that his playlist was mainly songs from the 70's,80's and 90's rather than all those bands he seemed to love.
"Interesting playlist!" She had to shout over the thumping bass. His hand immediately extended toward the dial to turn it down and narrowly avoided another hedge that had curved round with the corner.
"I'm a massive music fan, there's a little bit of everything in there, kind of like a musical time machine," he gave her a lopsided grin and she hoped to God there wasn't a slight blush rising on her cheeks.
She wasn't so sure what had shifted. The gradual change over the course of such a short period, but she would very much like to know to prevent any further blushing incidents.
Well she's almost certain she'd like to know. Sometimes it's best to live in ignorance a voice, that was rapidly becoming common, hissed in her head.
"Even I have to admit it's pretty good-" she was cut off by him avoiding a pheasant that had wandered into the road "clearly your playlist is much better than your driving!" She took this latest attempt at ending her short life early, as a sign to grip the handle above her for dear life.
"What's life without a bit of fun and a bit of danger hey?" He wiggled his non-existent eyebrows at her and for some reason she felt comfortable enough to swat him across the arm.
"There's a bit of danger and then there's a death wish!"
"You need to learn how to have fun." He said pointedly.
"I know how to have fun, I got in this deathtrap with you for a start." He grinned at that and she bit back a smile.
"Fine I'll give you that one- this is fun."
"I didn't say that this was fun-" she interjected but was silenced with his finger wagging at her and an "ah ah ah no buts, you said it."
She folded her arms and glared at him which was only met with further laughing.
"Why don't you let me pick a song then."
"Go on then, but something from mine I don't entirely trust you yet," he wasn't entirely joking as she was completely restricted to his playlist, although it was hardly a small limitation- it might take her 12 years just to get through all of the songs.
"You have over 7000 songs on here!"
"Exactly, you're spoiled for choice! Don't make a bad one, first impressions and all Miss Oswald." He swerved to the left to avoid a massive puddle leaving Clara using her spare hand to cling to the leather seat.
She had to admit, John Smith somehow made even the most mundane things like driving fun. Sat here with him she found herself enjoying herself more than she had in a long time.
It was just easy, he was so unlike the other people in society who all knew the rules as well as Clara; what to say and what not to say.
It's like John took the manual of how to behave like the 'upper class' and threw it into a supernova. He made her feel like throwing in the towel and just running for the hills but in the short time she'd known him he had also made her feel alive in a way that scared her a lot less than it should.
She contemplated, for the briefest moment, what it would be like if she never left the Smith estate and just travelled down country roads with this crazy person- no that idea is crazy she had to hiss to herself and almost physically shake it from her head. She knew far better than that. Four days was by no means long enough to plunge her into insanity… was it?
"Right I've got it. It would work better if we were in America or it was summer," she pressed play and the minute she did he started laughing. Maybe she picked wrong?
"Oh yes, Miss Oswald, classic road trip song." He started tapping his hands on the wheel and she was scared her choice would distract him from duties as designated driver even more than usual.
"Let me remind you, we are on a drive not a road trip, there's no way on earth I could handle this way of driving for an extended period of time." He rolled his eyes at her before belting out at the top of his lungs magnificently out of tune:
"SWEET HOME ALABAMA!" Miming along to the instruments of the song as he sang every lyric memorised, (the same with every previous song that had been on). However at this magnificent display Clara couldn't help bursting into a fit of giggles. She grew redder with every new action he gave from the guitar to descriptive faces he pulled to the lyrics. The harder she laughed the bigger his actions grew in a vicious cycle.
John knew what he was doing.
He loved hearing her laugh, it was such a rarity around him after all, so he was going full throttle.
After the incident a few days ago, he'd mostly been avoiding her. He had never liked opening up to people, letting them see the pain underneath the smile. It was always easier to keep it to yourself, 'why burden others?' Had almost become his life's philosophy at this point. Though he had to admit he owed her an explanation for his outburst, meaning actually talking about it. He wasn't ready to say wether it made him feel better or not yet.
He may not like the rules this stuck up society creates for itself but he's not an animal. She deserved an apology of some kind. She deserved better than that. Even if she was irritated by him.
Sadly, John had a slight penchant for getting bored and soon found himself dragging the girl on an excursion. Just to take in the sites, that's what he rationalised with himself.
It really is a beautiful area after all and adventure is always better with someone else to experience it with you; in the absence of Amy and Rory, she'd have to do.
He made a mental note to take her on his next walk with Sonic down to Foxberry Woods, frankly ignoring the part of him that recognised her as more than suitable substitute.
The song switched over to 'She moves in her own way' and John nearly had a heart attack when he heard Clara- Clara Oswald- singing along next to him. It was much more in tune than his usual performances and actually quite sweet to listen to. He was almost afraid to interrupt- almost. Soon he was singing along and the pair were giving what could pass for a choreographed routine.
They carried on like that for two hours, a mix of talking and singing from 'hit me with your rhythm stick' to 'love is a battlefield'. At some point in the mix of stupid conversations about which is the best kind of bear- Clara will defend the polar bear until the end of time- and 80's bops they stopped off in a little village close to the estate.
Clara had begged him to pull over so she could grab some snacks for their impromptu trip.
When she came back from the village shop with two bottles of diet coke and twenty different packets of sweets all crammed into a plastic bag, she watched on amused as John paraded his beloved car to an old couple. He worked as if he were a salesman desperate to make a sale, despite clearly never being willing to part with the car.
Clara couldn't help but note the passion in his voice, a rather attractive quality an apparently new but just as insufferable voice niggled at the back of her mind. We are not going there she had to forcibly remind herself.
Soon enough she was dragging him by his shirt back to the drivers seat so they could get back to the house before dark.
Of course fate, who seemed to have a dedicated cause to ruin Clara's life, intervened.
The engine sputtered and hacked like an old man coughing up a lung, the car drawing to a halt.
John cried out in agony, his head pressed into his hands at the fate of his baby.
"No dear God no!" The pain dripped from his words and Clara felt a twinge of sympathy for him until she realised her own predicament: stranded.
As Clara was weighing her options, forever the planner, John had sprinted round to the hood of the car and was desperately trying to find the problem however he couldn't see through the massive cloud of smoke. (Clara was willing to bet that was the problem however she didn't dare suggest that to him).
"It's going to take ages for the AA to get here," Clara offered not knowing exactly how it would help.
"You." He whirled round mock fury on his face "You did this,"
"Me?" She barked a laugh.
"You are a curse, you never liked the TARDIS- you, you- you have magic powers." He declared pointing an accusatory finger at her.
"Yeah magic powers that leave me stuck out here too. A really well thought out plan on my behalf,"
His shoulders sagged before he chuckled and went back to the car.
Clara was sure he was about to sit and wait with the precious vehicle before his head popped back out, the bag full of sweets and their two coke bottles clutched in his hands.
"Well Miss Oswald, ready for the great hike back?"
"I dunno," she said pretending to think about it, "I'm not sure I can handle your company without that playlist." She took the coke bottle from his outstretched hand.
"Good thing I always come prepared." He produced a fancy speaker that she was sure had all the bells and whistles just like the car (only she hoped this worked better) and began pairing the bluetooth to his phone.
She almost burst out laughing at the notion of John Smith being prepared for anything. That man was like a blind hurricane, there was no plan only terrible- but fun- ideas. She, very kindly, didn't point out the irony of this statement with their current predicament, letting him have that small victory.
With that they set off on their never-ending trek back to the house, eating skittles and singing along to 'Paradise City'.
"So tell me Clara, as a perfectly prim socialite what do you do in your spare time," John had come up with the idea of conversing as if they were at a benefit dinner so the pair had donned their perfect manners and were using slightly exaggerated versions of their 'event voices'.
"Well John, in my time between galas and balls I find myself baking soufflés," at this bizarre comment John stopped in his track forgetting their stupid game, a Percy pig halfway to his lips.
"Soufflés?"
"Yeah, they were my mum's recipe and I will nail it one of these days," a steely, resolute glint entered into her eyes and John had to stop himself from snorting at the furious determination bottled into this tiny form.
"Well you are welcome to use our kitchen anytime you'd like. You don't have to confine yourself to your room." He offered it to her with full sincerity that Clara couldn't help but appreciate it as her face lit up like the sun slowly setting behind them.
She squealed and gave his arm a hug, distracting him long enough to snatch the bag of sweets from his grasp. The theft allowed her to mask the all too genuine gesture that she wasn't quite sure was something friends (if that's what they were now) did.
"Oi!"
"Not my fault," she put her hands up in a mock surrender. "You were hogging the haribos."
They continued to walk, the music playing to fill any gaps of silence that appeared, though considering it was John there was very few gaps.
The forest mapped out around them; branches curving towards the sky and in on each other in a confusing tangle of dark evergreen and natural brown, but the bumpy, country road they walked was clear to the sky above which seemed confused between lilac and orange.
The fields beyond were expansive and never ending and Clara wondered if she just gave in and became the feral creature her step mother believed her to be, how long could she survive running amok this stretch of land?
Clara's feet were beginning to ache but she suppressed the feeling as she found herself not all too desperate to get back to the big, lonely house. Judging by the way her companion's great, lengthy strides seemed to slow as the mansion could finally be seen in the distance, he felt the same way, most likely ten-fold.
"Why didn't you call the house?" Clara blurted out of the blue, she wasn't exactly sure what had triggered the realisation that John had in fact, had an escape route for them this entire time. "I mean you have your phone on you, which is linked to the speaker so it's not due to lack of signal, you were able to call a car, it would've been here an hour ago."
He stopped, staring at her intently as if he were searching for the best answer.
"Why didn't you?"
Clara looked down at the phone clutched in her hand, completely forgotten, and wondered how on earth one afternoon with this man could completely destroy all logic your brain is able to formulate.
When she didn't answer, he sucked in a breath and realised it was down to him.
"I like to put as much space between myself and my father as possible, the walk is a welcome distance, in more ways than one." He had the weariness of a warrior who had seen one too many battles, an ending that was so desperately desired but unobtainable.
Clara glanced around their surroundings, spotting the exact thing she was looking for.
"Come on." She gripped his hand in hers a sense of strength overcoming her- or he was just willingly being dragged but either way he followed. Clara brought him to a great oak tree a massive branch twisting and extending over the small river not much bigger than a brook.
She indicated for him to clamber up and was only mildly embarrassed at the fact that she couldn't quite reach. That soon faded when she felt his hands on her waist, lifting her up towards their new seat. Clara was pointedly ignoring the warmth his hands emitted instead focusing on the snacks in front of her.
"Well you're the space boy," she nudged his shoulder playfully, hoping to distract him even if only for a little while. She wondered why she was so comfortable with this man that she had only just met when he swung like an erratic pendulum between hot and cold, leaving her constantly guessing where she stood, when after all she wasn't all that sure she even liked him yet. "Know any good constellations?"
"Good constellations?" He cocked an eyebrow mocking her as per usual "Please tell me what qualifies a constellation as good? Is Orion meh but the Cygnus, now that gets your heart racing." She swatted him before joining in.
"Of course, Orion is just so cliche I'm only here for the rarest of the rare, the kind that only money can buy."
The stars were only just beginning to come out, the twilight sky a mix of amber and midnight blue as the sun and moon fought for control, the sun in an inevitable losing battle.
He did his best without a telescope and without a clear, starry night. Clara mentally gave him credit for trying because despite insisting she could see what he was pointing out to her she hadn't the foggiest what he was talking about. She did however enjoy listening to his explanations.
They'd moved onto the chocolate portion of their bag, malteasers being passed back and forth, with Clara suspecting a few more were going to John rather than to her.
Her feet dangled over the small river below and she found herself swinging them back and forth like a child.
She wasn't sure what it was, but something about John was like reverting back to a childlike innocence, something Clara hadn't been able to grasp in a long, long time. It was as if her mother's death stripped her of her youth and forced her into a position of maturity she still hadn't grown into.
He seemed to mimic her movements, well more accurately, she mimicked his, as his legs swung out further than hers could ever hope to reach. This whole place, the strange, unofficial clubhouse of a tree and the noise of the rushing water below was like a spell cast over her, a sense of calm in a world that usually screamed.
"We're going to have to go back." John said, eventually admitting the obvious that for some reason Clara wasn't too keen on, a strange part of her would have stayed by that tree for years.
"Yeah," she finally agreed with a sigh, shuffling towards the edge of the tree so she could get off as gracefully as it would allow. She wasn't anticipating John lifting her down by her waist again, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't find herself complaining.
They walked in mostly silence, the speaker having died a while ago. It was a comfortable silence though that both parties seemed to respect and didn't wish to break.
When they finally reached the top of the hill, Clara was embarrassed to say took the wind out of her a little, they were immediately greeted with an onslaught of staff faffing and worrying about where they've been. John shared a guilty smirk with her before allowing himself to be ushered inside and pushed toward a shower.
—
Clara found herself being forced into the same direction, almost as if she were incapable of caring for herself.
One day she is going to snap.
Snap at every friend of her father's that look at her like she's a precious, little idiot almost as if they were waiting to pat her on the head with a condescending 'good girl, keep trying'.
At every maid who apparently thinks she can't hold her own toothbrush.
At every moron in her world that really couldn't hold their own toothbrush.
Clara was going to just snap.
Not today though. Today she was exhausted and weirdly grungy in a way her own staff and her stepmother would never allow and all she really wanted was a shower.
Her hands fumbled with the knobs in the marble bathroom, desperate to feel the rush of heat after her brisk, January walk. When the stream hit her skin, the ache that had developed in her body washed away with the dirt she had had no idea was even there, leaving her empty except for her increasingly louder thoughts.
She found herself returning to John in her mind no matter how many times she told herself to think about something else: home, a book, wether she could have a music playlist that good. Yet every single thing linked back to him. Not in a dirty way- she wasn't insanely stood in the shower fantasising over a man she barley liked.
Instead it was like a puzzle, that was in black and white with no edge pieces. Her brain was constantly whirring trying to piece it together and it this point she found it easier to submit.
She roughly dried her hair with the Egyptian cotton towel and wrapped herself in the fluffy dressing gown laid out on her bed (whilst she complains about the maids she has to admit, there are some benefits).
Clara padded around her room, the room she had vaguely become comfortable in (though she'd never admit it) and began searching for her next book to devour.
She'd always said if it wasn't for the life that she had to lead, the path already planned, she would have been an English teacher.
Clara liked to think she'd make an excellent English teacher, she had the passion for the words she read, the thirst for knowledge that she'd happily share with the kids, yes she thought I'd definitely make a good English teacher.
Sadly, that wasn't going to happen though, she'd become the face of her father's company with absolutely no say in how it was run. That was how it was going to be wether she liked it or not.
After realising that she had finished the books she'd brought with her (only two, Linda hadn't allowed her much, more room was required for hats that she hadn't worn once,) she decided to take a quick stroll down to the library to see what she could find when there was a sharp knock at the door.
"Come in!"
A girl around the same age as her with dark hair and large eyes that popped her head around the door.
"Sorry to interrupt miss but you've been requested to join Mr Smith for dinner," Clara was so focused on the welsh accent that was so out of place that she nearly missed the message that was being relayed to her.
"Sorry, uh Mr Smith wants me to join him for dinner?" She felt her heart hammer for a reason she couldn't pin point- nerves possibly? Couldn't be anything else.
The girl laughed a little and replied with a "yes".
"Which Mr Smith?" Clara asked hoping she could hide the lilt in her voice that suggested a preference.
"Senior Miss. We've been told to call Smith junior John- he's not big on formal titles." Somehow that made complete sense to Clara like she couldn't expect anything else of John, he really had no regard for the lifestyle he was supposed to lead and if anything it was a redeeming quality in him. "I've been told you are to dress formally but not exceedingly so…i'm guessing you'll understand what that means?"
"Not a clue," Clara laughed, maybe she should have actually listened to her stylist "What's your name again?"
"Gwyneth," the girl smiled like she wasn't allowed to say that. On further consideration, knowing Smith senior, she probably wasn't.
"Well Gwyneth, would you mind giving me a helping hand?".
—
John hated when his father got the abstract notion that family dinners were formal affairs; every now and then when he was in the mood for 'good will' he would invite John along for a dinner in which they actually spoke to each other and actually listened and of course wore another starched suit for no good reason.
Tonight, he assumed, they would be joined by Clara which meant his father's good manners would be on their best display.
John's would have to be too.
He checked his reflection in the mirror, trying to add any more volume into his hair (which is pretty impossible) and straightened the scarlet bowtie around his neck: he was presentable and that's all that mattered tonight.
The dinner was of course served in the main dining room, which was only usually used for special occasions.
When the Smith's actually spoke to each other, well, it could be classed as a special occasion.
John knew better than to turn up fashionably late, when it came to his father late was late, no matter what high society magazines tried to market to their avid socialite readers.
Instead he found himself, five minutes early, pacing outside of the dining room doors, enough to wear a hole into the carpet, desperate to get this night over and done with.
When he finally achieved the small ounce of courage to open the door he was greeted with the sight of his father and Clara already sat and waiting.
"Ah John, nice of you to finally join us," his father said, the undertones of his voicing portraying his thoughts loud and clear, "Late as usual."
No matter what he did, in the eyes of that man, he'd always be a failure. It was about time he came to accept that.
His mother had never thought so low of him. She'd been his only advocate before. When he'd failed RE for 'being too scientific' his mother had defended the blight on his record, when he'd almost gotten suspended for a harmless prank involving four things, well four things and a lizard, his mother had been the voice of reason.
With her gone there was no buffer, only the endless shame of a man constantly wishing for a better son and a son wishing for the understanding and possibly if he could accept it love of his father.
The dining room was stiff. Much like the rest of the house but on a considerably larger scale.
No amount of vases with bouquets of perfectly arranged flowers or log burning fires could change that.
The whole place had the sense of an icy claw wrapped around it; the conversation of tonight certainly wasn't helping.
"Are you enjoying the soup Clara? It's our chef's specialty," God his father's normal person act was sickening. It's like taking a small dash of 'shark', a pinch of 'disapproval' and finally a truck load of 'privilege': the recipe to Smith Sr, patten pending.
"Yes very much sir, it's wonderful." Short and to the point. John respected that. Though if it had been him, he would have over exaggerated, it usually gets the person asking the question to go away.
"Anything interesting to add John?" Damn. Just once he'd quite like to fly under the radar.
"No sir, nothing at all." Most children grow up calling their life bringers, daddy or dad. John was lectured beyond the age of seven the benefits of calling him father or sir, 'it's more respectful and that's what you owe me: respect'.
John wasn't quite sure he agreed but he didn't care enough to argue.
"Well if you have nothing of importance to add to the conversation, please do us all a favour and wipe that smirk from your mouth, there are no pathetic, young girls for you to flirt with here, just myself and poor Clara." Bastard.
He didn't miss the wince that crossed Clara's face for a fleeting second and he also didn't miss the fact that she had most likely never known this contempt from a parent.
His father's favourite past time would forever be finding a way to embarrass and shame his son. If it hadn't been for the whole him being the sole heir thing, John swears Smith Sr would have cut him off and sold the story to the tabloids.
In all honesty, John would have preferred it.
He would have become a traveller, seeing far off lands and doing the things others dare not.
He's done a good deal of travelling but he always thought it would be nice to make it your profession.
Well any job is better than professional disappointment.
"Actually, the reason I called you here wasn't to discuss the soup," he gave a strange belly laugh at what John wasn't all that certain was a joke.
"I'd quite like to discuss my birthday plans- it's my 60th and well, sue me, I want it to be special. Anyone who is anyone important will be there and John I need you to at least attempt to play the role of dutiful son."
His father gave him a pointed look, layered with years of resentment for what could have been.
"It's a masquerade ball, I've arranged fittings for both of you."
Clara's head snapped up from where she had been studying her plate intently as if it were the most difficult puzzle in the world, eager to escape the frosty awkwardness.
"Yes- you too Miss Oswald. We will be showing a united front and as a current permanent fixture that includes you." Clara nodded stiffly clearly understanding the inability to argue and John felt a wave of sympathy; she may not be his favourite person but no one deserved to be ordered around by his father even when the orders led to a party (nothing is that simple when it comes to Smith Sr).
"However, your parents cannot attend urgent business in Argentina sadly, no matter, no matter, you are their representative and I know you can present yourself graciously." Aimed and fired with perfect accuracy at John.
He sliced through the steak that had been placed in front of him and chewed glumly as the rest of the dinner passed in a haze of politics and society's gossip, neither of which John ever cared to partake in.
He caught himself on more than one occasion casting a glance at the woman sat opposite him. Her hair was lightly curled like the first time they met rather than the sleek straight she tended to have and a satin, emerald green dress clung to her in a way that shouldn't be so distracting.
It was like walking a tight rope, wanting desperately to flirt like his usual self does so effortlessly or completely ignoring her simply for being her.
He couldn't quite understand why he was so conflicted, it was like being a child again. A stupid little boy on the playground trying to decide wether he pulled the pretty, girl's pigtails- No. This was nothing like that. Nothing at all.
After that harrowing and completely incorrect thought, he brought his attention the paintings on the walls he'd never cared about before because nothing had ever given him reason to. He tried memorising every brush stroke and hue because anything was better than following up on that thought.
—
He nearly missed it when his father gave the words, the absolute god send, that they were dismissed.
Or as John thought of it- free.
His father, never a one for sentiment left rather hurriedly with a barley audible goodnight (even his best manners/show for Miss Clara couldn't extend to the evenings when the American stock market was up).
Though somehow the old bastard still had time to call "John, make sure you escort Miss Oswald to her room."
He didn't really see the need. If she was staying for one night then of course, it's only courteous but Clara had been here for four days now and he hadn't walked her back a single time nor would he be for the rest of the month.
In conclusion, he now had more evidence to support his claim to Amy and Rory that his father hated him.
John extended an arm wrapped in Italian silk and found himself suppressing a gulp at the length and fit of this bloody green dress. Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth.
Not true. Something in him taunted and if he could he would have slapped it away.
Charm or pigtails? He weighed the options.
Giving her the once over yet again he made his mind up.
Charm.
"You look wonderful this evening." He flashed her and award winning smile as she took his arm, searching for any change in colour on her cheeks. None.
He quite liked it when he made her blush, it was almost like a point to score.
"I could say the same to you," She smiled without teeth, that close lipped Clara smile that screamed 'I know more than I'm saying but you never will'
They strolled the corridors amicably, hardly in a rush to get to her room though neither admitted it and John nearly forgot they were meant to be speaking until he felt Sonic's wet nose press up against his other hand as his soft paws silently synched up with them.
"How have you been finding it?" He blurted out, shocked at the cold on his hand, smashing the silence they had established.
"Finding what?"
"Here. This house. Staying here, in this house…" Not as cool as initially planned.
"It's fine. A little lonely, a little quiet- not that I mind," she was babbling like him, it was almost cute- almost "I'm on my own a lot, it's just a bit more noticeable when you aren't in your own room."
"Is there anything I can do?" It was a genuine question.
"No, no it's fine." Her inability to allow herself to overstep reared its ugly head yet again.
"But you're my guest. I want you to feel comfortable. The offer to use the kitchen is still there." He was the one blushing now and he didn't know why.
All he knew was it had to stop.
"Come on John we both know whose guest I am." She looked up at him with those big brown eyes that can sear right into your soul and all he could do was sigh, conceding.
"Well this is your door then," He scratched the back of his head, discomfort increasing with every passing second.
"Good night John." She gave him a weak half-hearted smile before bending down to scratch Sonic's head "And goodnight to the best boy in the whole wide world."
"Oh don't do that," anguish coated his voice.
"What?" Her voice high pitched and incredulous.
"Babying him, he doesn't like it, he's far too intelligent." John sniffed the air in indignation. Clara didn't have to know the extent to which John himself babied Sonic.
"Oh please, Would you prefer if it was you being babied?" Without warning she reached a hand up to the mass of hair on his head and ruffled it "Oh well here's the best boy right here," He swatted her hand away playfully, a low chuckle escaping his lips. I guess maybe there was some time for pigtails tonight.
He pinched her cheek and half pushed her into her bedroom "Me and my best boy will be returning to our room presently, to escape the mocking gaze of such a 'foul' creature," She barked a laugh at his barely, functioning retort and was prepared to shut the door when she heard him call:
"Oh and Clara… go to sleep tonight, I quite miss having sonic in my room."
He knew. But how?
She'd thought her midnight walks had been discreet.
Apparently John noticed more than he let on.
Her mind whirred as a thousand different thoughts combatted inside her head.
The possibility of him having a part to play in Sonic's almost guaranteed appearance was not one of those thoughts.
Really it should have been.
The monotonous routine of getting ready for bed happened in a blur unnoticed by Clara who was wondering what else could John Smith know?
What else did he care to see and take an interest in?
The idea of sleep seemed impossible, a far off dream that she'd never be able to have.
Literally.
That was until her head hit the pillow. That was until her dreams fused from the possibility of a blissful sleep to a man with floppy hair, a striking ability to make her want to laugh and scream with fury all at once and ancient, green eyes that held something strong and strange beyond their years.
