Part One: An Empire's Criminal

"And there are few things as threatening to us as individuals as a person who perceives our worst flaws, especially when those flaws are all they see." - Jobie Hughes (At Dawn)

Chapter Six: Past the Attraction

He hadn't looked in the box yet, though his curiosity for any further contents kept poking him in the brain. John had profoundly dedicated himself to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy like it was his wife; for eighty-six reads was rather accomplishing, which was without a doubt a number he was wholeheartedly proud of. He had simply swept the box off of his desk and pushed it into a corner of its own, unable to give much attention to the thing until his rekindled science-fiction fetish had eventually died down.

Needless to say, Oswin was still a questionable matter in his eyes. He tried to convince himself that she was and forever will be the same, but he knew all too well that he never told the truth. Not even to himself. Her teasing and ridiculing was beginning to subside into mere mutters he couldn't make out, and she seemed to choose her words carefully every time she'd talk to him, and John noticed it. The way she'd pause between sentences, the uneasy look in her eye as if it were an apology without words. John had found the small-talk evidently unnecessary, but he never brought up his suspicions about its presence. He did, however, find himself bemused as to why he had suspicions in the first place. Maybe it was because he knew so little about her. And the little he had, simply wasn't enough to fulfill his satisfaction.

But why? He'd ask himself as his impatience throbbed, his machine of a mind eliciting nothing but pure oblivion. He was so absorbed in her, his mind pleaded to know more about her, but what his motive? He was adept in the illegal study of hacking, but it was nothing compared to what he didn't know, at least, what he didn't know about her. His attractive psychologist scholar. He would watch as she strolled into the room with her nerve and intelligence, yet all he could see was her pretty face. A pretty face in which he wanted to know the story behind, the mind that held all of that charisma. Her back-talk, her charm, her beauty; all of that was enough to evoke his interest. Could her thoughts do the same?

Short. Bossy. Occasional morbidity. Ridiculously adorable when smiling.

...it wasn't enough.

He snapped the book shut after he had read its last word, his gestures emphasized and sharp, and settling it atop of his abdomen, he exhaled ponderously. His chest rose and fell again, his thirst for air unending as the silence came to his attention. His green eyes wandered over the lonely box in the corner, a few measly seconds ticking by and before he knew it, he found himself sitting cross-legged before its cardboard structure. John was always one to change his occupations on a whim.

His two hands pulled out several objects, mainly books, a typical article. Titles flew by him as a blur as he distractedly cast them aside, scattered about the floor, disregarded. There were a few other familiar items that he tinkered with, his fob watch, which had disappointingly stopped ticking, and John couldn't blame it. He never really used it anyway; never saw the purpose of keeping track of the time. He was only getting older, he didn't need a clock to count the minutes until his death. A scratched-up chess board, it had been years since he'd played, but he could beat anyone any day he wanted. He also retrieved his formally named 'sonic pen', a brass ballpoint with an emerald LED light; he was actually glad to see that. Clicking it open, he put some use into his shaky right hand, writing one word on the on the inside of his wrist. A name. OSWIN.

He didn't know why he did this, he knew he was testing the ink, but he could've written anything. His own name, a dull one at the least. But of course, it had to be about her. Always her. His handwriting was terrible, for he seldom wrote or drew, but he was pleased nonetheless. Gingerly placing the pen beside him, John reached back into the box, only to pull out a gadget that, for one, wasn't his.

The lens of a classic Polaroid camera stared back at him, an example of technology that was out of his knowledge and understanding. It looked old, ancient old, and oddly multidimensional compared to the flat, skinny devices that he was used to seeing. It was arranged into peculiar components, as if someone had found miscellaneous scraps and parts and stitched them together to make this. John could tell that it was a camera judging by its lens, but other than that, he was entirely clueless. He turned the strange object in his hands, eying the massive lens with a quaint uncertainty, for the contraption was alien to him. His fingertips brushed over its bizarre buttons, and out of pure curiosity, he decided to press one. Click.

Suddenly, a piercing light flashed before him, John jerking back in surprise of the camera's sudden flare. He scowled and rubbed his eyes like a child awakening from a nap, a small piece of paper printing from the Polaroid's picture slot, the dark photo slowly fading into the lines and hues that created the image of his shocked face. John snatched it up hastily, examining every detail of his portrait; it was as if he were looking in a mirror. The shades of green that pigmented the green of his eyes, the creases that shaped the imperfections on his face. His quiff of dark brown hair carelessly obscured half of his forehead, and for the first time, he inwardly insulted himself for looking like a girl with that length of hair. It was uncanny.

A faint knock interrupted his self-scrutiny as the familiar creak of the door replaced the still air, John scrambling to his feet like a toddler being caught doing some notorious antic. He placed the camera on the desk behind him as a slightly confused Oswin poked her head through the door, her brow furrowed in suspicion of the scene before her. "What are you doing?" she queried, stepping through and leaning back on the door so that it would close shut. John's expression faltered between looks of guilt and perplexity, his tongue wanting to speak but his mind unable to remember the words. "I-uh, was just, looking through the box you gave me a few days ago, that's all." he spat out, the girl gazing at him blankly in return, her eyes wandering from him to the books sprawled out across the floor. "You sure have a chaotic way of looking through things, could you be tidier next time?" she asked, and he wasn't sure if she were simply teasing or being serious. He was never exactly sure nowadays.

He watched her quietly as she carefully stepped around the novels, slinging her white lab coat over the back of his desk chair as she then said, "Care to explain to me as to why my name is written on your wrist?"

John's eyes shot down, the ink of his pen dry and clear on his skin. He timidly tried to scrub it off with the hem of his shirt, yet to no avail. Stupid pen. He thought to himself, having to meet Oswin's skeptical glance yet again. He cringed inside. "I-I was testing the ink for m-my pen." he stuttered out in a mere whisper, Oswin only nodding her head once in a doubtful and wary manner. "Right, and out of the millions of names there are in the world, you had to choose mine...?" she persisted, John only biting his lip and nodding uncomfortably in response to her question. She was making this situation rather humiliating for him.

Oswin only hummed softly in reply, crossing her arms across her chest, almost as if she were contemplating upon what to say next. John waited nervously before her, for he had the feeling that her vocabulary would consist of the either words weird or creep. Instead of retorting, however, Oswin only held out her right hand, John staring at it her palm for a moment, pondering over what the gesture was superposed to mean. "Give it to me," she explained in a calm voice.

"What?" he squeaked out too soon.

"The pen, give it to me." she clarified, raising her eyebrows as if she had been waiting for too long. His shoulders sank as his mind helplessly tried to untangle a disarray of confused thoughts, the girl before him unwilling to speak any further. Awkwardly swiveling around, John bent down to pick up his sonic pen from the ground, and turning back to Oswin, he pressed the ballpoint into her palm, his fingertips brushing over her skin slightly. Fingers clasping around the pen in satisfaction, Oswin clicked it open, and without a word coming from her lips, she wrote one word on the inside of her wrist. JOHN.

"There," she smiled promptly, the dimple on her cheek appearing as she handed the pen back to John. He took it back timidly, yet he was actually amused at her act as he placed the utensil in his front coat pocket. Her smirk was contagious, a disease that would undoubtedly be the death of him. "So, what else did you find?" she piped up suddenly, squatting down to inspect the dispersed items scattered about the area. John in the meantime inspected her rather contrasting choice of fashion. It was a wholesome attire when compared to her petite skirts; that day she was wearing a black turtleneck and leggings, in other words, pants. She never wore pants. When had she started wearing pants? Why did he care?

"Oh, and you found my Polaroid!" Oswin exclaimed excitedly, breaking John's chain of thought as she reached behind him, carefully lifting the strange contraption from his desk. "You're what-?" John queried with a furrowed brow, for he had never heard of such a word. She only giggled at his lack of knowledge as she explained, "It's called a Polaroid, they're entirely obsolete by now, but I love it nonetheless. I inherited it from my mother, my mother inherited it from my gran, so on, so forth." Her shoulders merely shrugged as she used her sleeve to brush off the dust collecting atop of the camera's surface.

John cast her a sideways glance, for that still didn't clarify as to why he had found it in the box. "For such an inheritance, I can't see why you'd give something like that to me." he mumbled shyly. "I mean, if your mother had given it to you, it must be special."

It was her turn to cast him a sideways glance. Her eyebrows drew themselves together as her features emitted an expression of pure bewilderment, as if she didn't quite understand his statement. "Oh, it's special to me." she nodded her head confidently in defense. "I...it's just that I don't have any younger family to inherit it from me, I guess. And I can assure you, I am not having children." she guaranteed him with a scoff. "Don't get me wrong, I adore them, but a responsibility like that is far out of my hands."

"And you think that a criminal like me is the next best thing?" he asked in disbelief, almost as if he were trying to protect this girl from himself.

Her shoulders had sunk by that point, a slightly irritated, almost disappointed look upon her face. "Do I really see you as a criminal, John?" she asked him earnestly, her brown eyes peering up at him. Her gaze could be described by a million words, and yet fear wasn't one of them. He fell silent for a moment, unable to answer, Oswin calmly exhaling as she set down the camera, and collecting her coat, she started to walk towards the door, as if her plans of staying had suddenly been suppressed. He closed his eyes tightly, but when he opened them, he shot out, "Then what am I? To you, I mean?"

By then she had already entered the exit pass-code, the excess light from the hallway pouring in as she turned around to face him. Her head tilted slightly to the left, her eyes searched for the words as if they were somewhere upon his face. "I think you're a man who needs fixing, but cruelty isn't going to get us anywhere." she replied at last, shutting the door behind her and leaving John to drown in a pool of his own thoughts. He suddenly became to realize that Oswin hadn't entered the room with the intentions of whisking him off for a day of simulations, she had come in her own time. Her own leisure. By choice.

It was a new feeling to him, to realize that kind of attention. An attention that didn't include constant badgering and diverting glowers. His brain reacted to the feeling like antibodies against a foreign bacteria, attacking it until was made useless. But, for once, he didn't want to act upon his former self. He didn't want to ignore the virtue that was given to him; he wanted to embrace it, to hold on to it until his circulation fought to keep up with his intent. Oswin didn't see him for who he used to be, she didn't point out the uncountable scars upon the face of a reckless man. She smiled upon the possibility of a man who could do so much better. What he wanted to be.

It was about time he acknowledged it.

The beep of rejection that was directed towards her train ticket only added to her unending list of disappointments that day. Just a few crucial minutes ago, Amy had groggily awaken from a nightmare well above expected, only to be met with the nightmare of it being twelve in the afternoon. Five hours late to work. What a joy. A blue pastel stain caked the pocket of her white blouse, the aftermath of the toothpaste she had ever so violently tried to scrub off. She hadn't had time for coffee, nor decent makeup, so she had decided to sport some under-eye bags for the remainder of her day. Maybe it would become her new trend.

The nightmares were just as exceptionally terrifying as the previous ones, Amy managing to gasp back into the safety of her bedroom every few hours, only to be plunged in an even more vivid dream. It was like drowning in a dark sea, choking for air as she tried to fight against its unceasing waves. Hallucinations of The Doctor with blood smeared hands played about in her head without end, thoughts that were not afraid to destroy anything of value. Smoke clouded her dreams as it poured out of his cigarette, intentions of death slashing out through the look of his eyes. Yet all of these illusions seemed to tell her the same thing: The Doctor was not John. John was not The Doctor.

Posh businessmen and women spared her a menacing glare as they passed by her with ease, swiping their tickets and entering the station without the consideration of helping the poor girl. Amy swore she was about to cry once she finally got the scanner to work, hastily pushing her way through the metal turnstile and keeping her head low. Her fiery red strands of hair cascaded across her face, veiling her teary red eyes as she silently yet impatiently awaited her train heading towards the downtown of the Capitol. Bloody underground metro system, she inwardly scowled to herself. Bloody terrible air ventilation. She continued to swear at the things she had dreaded that day, and considering that she had a rather long list, it took her quite a while.

A piercing screech rang in her ears as the train raced into the station, sending Amy's hair into an askew mess as a female voice announced in her robotic tone, 'Attention all underground travelers, the monorail is now arriving at the station. For your safely, please stand by and wait until all arriving passengers have left the train prior to boarding. Thank you.' Amy blew a strand of hair out of her face as she crossed her arms in exhaustion, simply tired of her repetitious routines she chose to endure. She held so much more potential than the life she was living, yet she had hopeless determination in achieving something better. It was a foolish aspiration, ideally impractical.

She found a seat at the back of the train, wedged in between a crying toddler and a man in a fedora, who essentially looked as if he would fit in a classic noir film. (Rory had rented one a while back, for they were hundreds of years old by now, and Amy could tell. The black and white imagery, all of which seemed faded by soft, blurred contours.) She crossed her legs in attempts to look comfortable, but even she couldn't fool herself. She was guaranteed that the kid would wipe his snot on her.

But what seemed to push her even further down the line was the fact that the man to her had suddenly began to stare at her. It was as if he had no attempts to look polite at all. Amy closed her eyes and clenched her fists even more tightly than they already were, in hopes that he would simply turn his head in a matter of seconds. Those seconds had passed painfully, and his eyes were still on her. Her curtain of red hair tried to block the man's eyes from view, but they were still easily visible in between the strands. It wasn't a creepily obscure stare either, more like a stare of awe, almost as if he had seen someone who held the blessing of fame. Amy new one thing: she wasn't famous, and being famous wasn't a blessing.

Without making eye contact with him, Amy muttered under her breath, "Excuse me, can I help you with something?"

The man well knew that the retort was directed towards him, yet he was taken aback by her question, as if she were an animal that wasn't expected to talk. Or make noise, for that matter. "Well actually, I-" the man scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, trying to collect himself. Amy impatiently listened to the screeching melody of the monorail as she awaited his answer. "Apologies, ma'am, just so happens that I...recognized you." he said coolly, his tone of voice and accent making him seem a bit too egotistical for Amy's liking. Me? Amy thought, her expression twisting into a look of discomfort. How the hell does he know me? she thought as she tried to clear her throat, but as she started to speak, her voice only came out as an uncontrollable, scratchy rasp. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, you're Amelia Williams," he nodded his head once. "You were friends with that guy, the criminal one?" he nonchalantly traced gestures in the air with his hands, as if he were drawing a picture that Amy was supposed to comprehend. "Ah, what was he called again-?" he squinted up at the ceiling, snapping his fingers repeatedly. Amy almost wanted to rip his hand off. "It was a clever name, full of ego..." he described whimsically. "...it was The Doctor! Am I right?" he cast a sly grin at the redhead as if he were playing some sort of childish guessing game. Amy, however, was furious. John. His name is John. Amy wanted to scream at him, but she knew that she had to keep herself calm this once. She couldn't rage on at a time and place like this, though the energy inside of her refused to stay unexpressed. Not in front of the children, she reminded herself. No matter how disgusting they may be. "H-How do you know me? How do you know my name?" she queried frantically, shifting in her seat to fully face him.

He stared at her as if she had been living under a rock. Maybe she really was. "Well, from the media, course," he replied back dubiously. "You seem to be all they talk about. If you were involved in any criminal activity with The Doctor, why you reacted the way you did at his arrest- hell, it seems to me as though you may be more popular than he is." he chuckled as if she were his friend whom he had known all his life, as if this were his way of making small talk, but Amy wasn't taking it as a friendly first impression. Her tongue seemed to be caught in her throat, for nothing came out of her mouth but pure silence. Her name on television, on headline news. No no no no. she thought, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. This couldn't be happening to her. People like her didn't get attention like this.

It was then when she realized that maybe she had been a little out of it lately. It was then when she realized that she had been too absorbed wallowing in self-pity to see that she was getting more attention than she had wanted. Her eyes darted around the train, and signs of recognition sprung up everywhere she looked. Some were staring at her, others tried not to, mothers wrapping protective arms around their children, holding them close. She hadn't noticed until now. A question then arose inside of her mind: Am I a threat?

I can't be. She wanted to tell herself. Chasing down history of a man, a man with a craving for innocent blood, lying to her husband about her intentions; it was as if she were a criminal herself. And she wanted to convince herself that it was all entirely, perfectly normal. All of those stares, all of this attention, it all seemed to reply: You are a threat. You are dangerous. Maybe UNIT should have locked you up, too.

"Sam Garner, journalist and private eye." the man introduced himself, holding his hand out for her to shake. She didn't take it.

"You're not from here, are you?" she asked tentatively, clenching her fists in attempts to stop them from shaking.

"No ma'am, sent here from across seas for research." he remarked proudly.

"...what kind of research?" Amy snapped out, closing her eyes tightly, as if she were waiting for him to shoot her. His reply was basically the same thing.

"I was sent to investigate arrest of John Smith, ma'am."

That was when she broke. "Oh, now you've said too much." Amy said through gritted teeth, snatching up her bag and standing up from her seat. She was getting off of this train, no matter where on earth she was. Sam, however, was fumbling for his notepad and pencil. As if this were his perfect chance of retrieving information. "But Mrs. Williams, if I may ask you a few questions-"

"You were sent here to track me down, weren't you?!" she barked at him. She didn't care if others were staring. They seemed to know her well enough. "What makes you think that, just because you're so damn charming, befriending me would get you answers? So you could get a headline story for your little damn press?" she snapped at him, the man frantically scribbling down her words. Amy was too enraged to realize. "Well, I can tell you something: I am not your friend. And I am not here to be interviewed." she shook her head, the automatic doors of the train opening as a chance of her escape. She wanted to hide, to leave, to tear off all the things upon her face that made her recognizable.

Sam only followed her out into the station, as if he had nothing else but her to worry about. "But Mrs. Williams-!" he persisted, calling out after her. "...the world outside of Gallifrey wants answers."

She sucked in a cold breath, swiveling around to glare at him with her now crying eyes. "So do I," she admitted. "But we don't always get what we want, now do we?"

Oswin slurped her takeout noodles, distractedly playing with the pair of chopsticks between her fingers. It was after hours, John had endured his testing, his results had been taken for evaluation, and she had locked him back up in his room; so from now until tomorrow, she was practically useless. And she didn't like the feeling.

She spun around repeatedly in her desk chair, contemplating upon the options she did and did not have. She couldn't head back home, not yet, for her life outside of UNIT was exceedingly dull, duller than sitting in her cubicle even, especially on nights like these in which she had nothing else to do. Plus, her friends would interrogate her on her whereabouts without even mentioning a hello. She hardly wanted to spend time with them anyway. Nobody outside of UNIT knew she had this job, not even her father. As if her father would care. She then considered another option. It was a Friday night, the air in the Capitol most likely to be polluted with the stenches of alcohol. Oswin smirked at the idea of a gin martini at hand.

In the end, her list of options were narrowed down to a local pub and her cubicle, which she was already sitting in, and considering the amount of apathy she had for getting out, she just decided to stay where she was. Carefully placing the soggy paper noodle box on her desk, she scooted in her chair to face the control panel of her desk, turning it on by command of her voice. "Oswin Oswald," she spoke clearly of her name, its screen awakening from its slumber and displaying her files of John's simulation recordings, each labeled by date and time. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, scrolling through each one and reminiscing on his complaints about it afterwards.

It almost felt wrong of her to do so, like she was invading a part of his life without permission or necessity of doing so. Yet, her curiosity seemed forever fascinated with him, this boy. His look of discomfort when she'd tease him, the childlike look in his eyes as he fawned over his science-fiction stories; it was as if the criminal within him was never there, despite the rather disappointing social skills. She wondered why he left such a deadly impression on the news, yet such an innocent one in person. How could someone with such a hostile past possibly be as incredibly infantile now?

Fingertips poised above the cold screen, Oswin reluctantly clicked on the video of her choice, a holographic video flickering before her eyes. Oswin smiled to herself. The holographs always seemed to astonish her. It as if she were staring at a ghost, transparent yet so visionary. The recording was one of John's recent tests, a response simulation. Oswin remembered reading the designated test description to herself just a few days ago: Subjects are placed in an enclosed area. Subjects must use their knowledge of escapology to extricate themselves from imprisonment. The girl now watched, helpless from her desk chair as the holograph replayed the events of his simulation: John's bleeding hand, the gun that he almost shot at his head, the same gun that helped him escape. Oswin had watched this before, yet it was like a movie; it took her along the same path of excitement just as it did the first time.

Ever since she had started working at UNIT, client after client took the exact same simulation, and they all ended the same way. Bullets shot through thoughtless brains, every single time. Oswin was expecting the same results from John, for the amount of crime committed didn't affect her overall perspective of him, but how he had proven her wrong. And for that, she could finally admit to herself that she didn't entirely hate him. In fact, she admired his clever ingenuity, his witty balk-talk that was beyond arrogant, and his taste in literature especially.

The ink that spelled out his name peeked out from underneath the sleeve of her lab coat, Oswin biting her lip in memory of that morning. She delicately brushed her fingertips over the letters, almost as if it were a tattoo that she was never going to get rid of. It was like John was permanently fixed onto her mind, as if her brain held purpose without him there to intrigue her.

She lifted her head right as the holograph disappeared into the cold air, signaling the end of the recording, leaving Oswin alone in the midst of the quietness. She tried to determine what the world would be like if laws were simply followed. If there were no need for envy or hatred, misconduct or disobedience. Peaceful. She had eventually decided upon. Calming, even.

...yet extremely uneventful.

Right at that moment, she yearned for the sound of his voice, almost as if she had missed it. As if she had thought too much about a world that was perfect, and now she needed something to reel her back in. It wasn't something to be entirely proud of, either; it meant that she had no one else to talk to but him. But as of now, he seemed like the only one she wanted to talk to.

The retinal scan to the criminal dormitories was beyond tedious. Oswin squinted as the light scanned her left eye, tears of irritation appearing on her waterline as she pushed through the heavy double doors into the long, endless corridor. The lights were dimmed and flickering to save power, Oswin's soft breaths echoing off of the walls as she carefully tip-toed past each door. Behind it were prisoners, felons, and though they were hidden behind automatic locks and complex pass codes, suddenly being on her own seemed to frighten her for once.

When she found the right room, Oswin quickly typed in a series of numbers into the entrance panel, the little beeps emitting from the gadget only startling her even more so, like cold drops of rain on dry bare land of desert. The door unlocked, Oswin chewing on her bottom lip nervously as she creaked it open. "John-?" she whispered into the darkness. "Are you awake?"

There was a silence. "...no."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Oswin quickly firmly closed the door behind her as he asked through the dark, "Oswin, what are you doing here?"

Her back was pressed up against the wall, her fingertips barely leaving the door handle before she replied, "Honestly John...I don't know." She could almost sense his confusion from across the unlit room, at which she only grimaced to herself. "Look, I...I was tired of hearing nothing but by own breath for hours until end, and...you're the only one here I can actually talk to without getting scolded at." she explained in a hushed voice. The only people left in the building were the overnight security guards, whom she had to avoid in order to avert herself from their suspicious questionings.

"What makes you think you're welcome here?" he asked. Oswin got the sense that he was testing her. She was well-prepared with answers, however. "...kindness. It's a start, isn't it?" she responded.

"It's two in the morning."

"And you're not asleep." Oswin shot back defensively, and though she couldn't see, she knew he was smiling. It seemed like an eternity since she had spoken like this to him, so freely, without worrying about what he might think. She was creeping over a borderline, it seemed. Looking down, she closed her eyes before asking, "Can I stay here? Just for a while until I find something genuinely productive to do?"

"Talking to me isn't productive enough?"

"Just- can I?"

"I don't know, can you?"

She was grinning by now. "...may I?"

There was a pause of respite. "Alright," he finally replied, patting the spot on the bed next to him. Oswin furrowed her brow for a moment, a little taken aback by the unseen gesture, but accepting the offer nonetheless. Awkwardly shuffling across the floor, she did her best impression of a blind walking corpse as she made her way over to his bed, hands outstretched before her in case she ran into anything. "Where are you-?" she asked as she tried to sit down, afraid she might bump into him.

"Here," his voice responded, a hand suddenly grasping hers. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from gasping out loud, for it was rather terrifying have a hand grab you at random in the dark. He helped her onto the bed, Oswin sitting cross-legged as she then hesitantly pulled her hand away from his. "I-uh..." John sputtered out as if he had done something wrong. "Sorry." he mumbled shyly.

"No, no-" Oswin shook her head, laughing shakily. "It's okay. I mean-" she stopped herself right then and there, wanting to prevent herself from saying something entirely idiotic. "...what have you been doing all this time?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, I don't know. Staring at ceilings. Thinking, primarily."

"Isn't that a bit monotonous?"

"Not when you have so much to think about." he shrugged, the outline of his shoulders coming into view. As Oswin's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, the silhouette of his face began to trace out before her. "What have you been doing? Why can't you just go home?" There was a slight pause. "N-Not like I would want you leave, I just meant-"

"No worries." Oswin interrupted, waving her hand nonchalantly. "My flatmate's probably drinking with her friends there anyway, wouldn't want to interrupt them." she explained briefly.

"Why don't you go join them, then?"

Oswin hugged her knees to her chest, unable to answer. She tried to feed him the least information possible. "Me and her...we're not exactly on speaking terms right now."

"...oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. I probably deserve it anyway." she admitted. Though her friends were annoying, and persistent, Oswin couldn't blame them in the end. She was woven through their lives; in and out, time and time again, gone one day, here the next. They had a right to interrogate her. If only she could tell them, if only they'd believe here in the first place. "John, can I ask you a question?" There was silence from him, like a blank space that was supposed to be filled. Oswin took it as a yes. "What do you think the world would be like if no crimes were committed? If everyone just...got along?"

He considered this for a moment, looking through his options as if he were skimming through shirts in a closet. There were so many answers to that question, but only one that he actually wanted to speak of. "If there was no crime in society...then I would've never met you."

Oswin was so glad that it was dark in that room. That way, he wouldn't have to see her cheeks blush a soft pink.

"...would that be a good or bad thing?" he asked.

"What?"

"Meeting you. Good or bad?"

At first, Oswin didn't know. There were so many things that were wrong with this situation; she'd never imagine herself being so close to someone like him, with a mind that contained all that dreadful, hatred past. Yet, here she was, talking to him, unharmed, and maybe even slightly blushing. She didn't know what to think. "I think that what led you here is bad. Even you know that." she said after a while, her voice lucid yet gentle. "But...I'm actually kind of glad that I met you."

John was quiet, as if he knew it all along, but never wanted to admit to it. He was surprised that she did.

"...I'm glad to meet you too."

A/N: What did you guys think of the 'after hours' visit with these two? I was thinking about different scenes to put in, but with the amount of time that goes between each update, I wanted to write a little fluff for you all. :)

P.S. I will be shortening my pen name to MiniSouffleCafe soon, just thought I'd let everyone know beforehand.