It rained the day they began.
Rain so hard you could see the slant as it worked its way down from the clouds and dropped to the ground with a distinct plop and ricochet. The rain was fast, furious in its intensity, unusually heavy. Clara thought it was simply a reflection of the entire day she had been having. She turned her face up to the sky through the windows of her home hoping that the onslaught didn't signify anything more than what it was. Rain.
She realized as soon as she got to the school that she had laddered her tights, left her markings at home, and then, when watching the rain, realized that she had no umbrella. Perfect. Doesn't take a genius to realize that she will be soaked through by the time she makes it home. And she'll probably catch a cold to boot.
She's changed and towel drying her hair when she hears that knock at her door. She's starting to recognize the Doctor's distinct pattern.
She doesn't fail to notice the blue umbrella but decides to not comment on the color choice.
"Hello."
He stands there awkwardly but she knows to wait. The past few weeks have taught her patience with the Doctor.
One.
Two.
Three.
"I was wondering if you wanted to go and eat something? Somewhere. Maybe together?"
She stares at him for a moment, "Like a date? Now?"
"No, not a date. Never mind." He turns to leave but Clara has already reached out her arm to settle on his.
"Yes, I want to. Eat something with you on a not date." Her eyes are pleading with him to stay.
He's scowling but he hasn't left nor shrugged her arm off of his. Both are good signs in Clara's eyes.
"Stay?" She moves her arm away from the door jam and opens the door wider, "Let me make something for us here."
He doesn't respond but moves to close the umbrella as she steps aside to let him in, instead glances around the room to take in the all the little touches that Clara has added throughout. It's cozy and she loves it.
He points at her towel, "Caught in the rain?"
"Yeah, forgot my umbrella today. Had no idea it was going to rain this hard."
"Careful you don't catch a cold."
She manages a wry smile, "The thought has occurred to me, yeah."
He wanders into her kitchen with Clara following behind, tucking the umbrella into a corner. She still hasn't gotten use to the way he asserts himself in her home.
"Do you cook?"
"I manage," Clara also still struggles to keep up with his wandering train of thoughts. The past few weeks they had formed a tentative bond; he hadn't run every time she went outside and she considered it a win when he stopped by her home after Tom had finished and complimented her garden.
She even managed to get a small grunt of acknowledgement when she had pointed out that the hedges looked really lovely and still gave him his privacy.
Bully for her.
"Blue suits you." The Doctor comments as he sits down at her table.
She looks down at her blue jumper, "It does?"
"It does." He nods, emphatic.
Clara laughs, "I had been meaning to talk to you about your love of blue. You do seem to have a fondness for it."
""You should wear it more."
"Maybe I will." She speaks to him, speaks to the volume that ebbs and flows around them, speaks to what has been unspoken between them for weeks.
Another moment that stretches between them before Clara starts an endless round of conversation, of endless nothings to fill the gaps. The Doctor understands what she is doing and thinks that they are lucky enough to have made it this far.
They are on the edge of a moment that could define them.
Clara doesn't shut the door later that evening but instead, watches the Doctor as he opens his umbrella and turns toward his home. She thinks she should say something, anything to make him stay a bit longer. But the moment has passed, and the chance is gone, and she finds herself staring into the dark, watching nothing but the rain.
She should have known to expect the cold, it was all but inevitable.
She woke up in the night with a sore throat and a headache that was persistently pounding. She tried to make herself a cup of tea but found herself wanting nothing more than to go back to bed with a hot water bottle.
At least it was Saturday, or was it Sunday?
The warmth of the bed did nothing to dispel the icy shivers running down her spine. She sleeps fitfully; the persistent rain and rising wind contributing to her unease. By morning she is convinced she is going to die, might as well grab a cup of tea and a couple of Panadol while she was at it. She creeps downstairs, drinks her tea and makes her way back to bed. The weather has actually worsened through the night and there was no one about. Her street is empty, no sign of the Doctor anywhere next door.
She falls asleep again, to wake every few hours with a blinding headache and a chest that hurts when she breathes. It is late afternoon before she crawls out of bed again to wash her face and put on a clean nightie. A night's sleep would surely get her back on her feet, she convinces herself. She ought to make herself a drink but the very idea of going downstairs makes her feel ill. She wakes several time through the night aware that she should perhaps call the doctor, any doctor honestly. Somehow, she just could not be bothered, falling once more into an uneasy doze.
On Tuesday, the Doctor eyes Clara's house. He hadn't seen her all weekend but with the rain and stormy weather, had assumed she was having a stay in. Monday came and went with no sign of Clara. He already felt like he intruded in her life just a bit too much but he couldn't help himself.
He was already in too deep.
Mind made up, he grabbed his umbrella and walked over to her home. With no sign of activity, he knocked. No answer, he knocked again, louder for good measure. He stood back from the door and looked up to the windows above but there was no sign of anyone and after a moment he walked to the end of the little terrace and went down the narrow alley which led to the back gardens. Opening the flimsy gate, he crossed the garden and went to peer into the kitchen window. The kitchen was a mess, with a kettle on the stove and dishes and cutlery strewn about.
He had a feeling he was going to get into some kind of trouble for this.
Digging into his coat pockets, he dugout a pen knife and eased it into the window frame. He would apologize later. The window opened easily and he swing it wide. The Doctor sighed, closed his umbrella and tossed that onto the kitchen floor. He squeezed through the window, muttering under his breath the whole time. Gaining the floor, he stood for a moment, listening.
"Clara," he called, softly but there was only silence. He hesitated but then started up her staircase.
As he reached the landing, Clara came wobbling out of her bedroom. She was barefoot and in her nightie and her hair was an appalling tangle. Her pinched face was off colored and her eyes puffy. She has looked better.
"Oh, it's you, "she said in a hoarse whisper.
The Doctor swore under his breath and moved towards her, scooped her up and brought her back to her bedroom. "Hey, hey, I'm fine. You can put me down." He laid her back in the tumbled bedding.
That is about all the energy she has, she gives up protesting when he sits next to her on the bed. He presses his hand to her forehead, "You're burning up."
"S'hot but your hands feel soooo good." Her words slur but she manages to clasp her hand around his wrist, holding them in place.
"Clara. Let me get you some water, it will help." He makes to leave but she hasn't released his wrists. He tugs them free and gently runs his hands over her face, tucking stray strands of hair around her ears. "Tell you what."
"What?" Her eyes are already closing.
"I'll stay until you feel better."
"Sounds good." But Clara's already slipped back into her fitful sleep.
He's not a medical doctor, but he manages to get her to take a few more pills. He wakes her to drink tea and to eat some digestives. A few more pills and she dozes off, when she next wakes, its to see the Doctor in a chair next to her bed, asleep. The book he was reading sliding precariously close to the floor.
She stares at him, this man who pushes people away and yet cares enough about her to break into her home. This was the moment she had been looking, this was the man all along.
His eyes open and he catches the book as it slides off his lap.
"You're still here," she feels guilty that he slept on a chair.
"Yeah, you feeling any better?" She watches as she stands, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. "You want me to leave?"
She shrugs, "Only if you want to." And the look on his face is gone before she can describe it, was it hurt? "I would like you to stay."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He starts to sit back down but Clara makes a decision. She pats the side of her bed. "Seriously, there's plenty of room. I swear I won't make you sick."
He scoffs, "I never get sick." She knew he would probably regret those words soon but bit her tongue.
He is still hesitating, "It's not awkward?"
Clara stares at him, long and unyielding. "I think you and I have moved way past awkward. We're onto something new, something that is just us."
He returns her gaze and nods slowly. He's settled on the other side of her bed before he speaks again.
"I think you're right."
"You look better."
"I'm deciding to take that as you being - well, you – and choosing to answer that with a, well, yes, I am feeling much better, thank you."
Her fingers brush across the fabric of her jumper to straighten it, watching as he turns to study her. She smiles and he only stares at her, calm. She doesn't ask why he's there.
"I was worried about you," he says.
She nods. Her hand doesn't move. She busies herself with her hair, pulling at the ends lightly. But the Doctor catches her too; it's a marvel, really, the idea of personal space and what goes between them. He mirrors her gestures though. His hand rises and falls. He picks first at the black jumper he wears. His fingers opening long and sweeping over the column of his throat; they move carefully against his skin and she shifts closer without thinking.
It's been two days since he crept into her home and cared for her. She woke up alone and felt a pang of loss but he had left a note which she read several times before tucking it away.
His hand drops then, curling his fingers into his palm. "I want to talk about those hedges," he tells her.
If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. She turns her gaze away and looks out towards the garden. She counts the mess the storm had wrought as best as she can. She picks a few odds and ends, questions that aren't really questions but fill her head instead.
"I don't." She fidgets. "And anyway, I suppose we already talked about it. In bits and pieces; there's nothing really to add on. They look so good, don't they?"
They're quiet. She sighs, out loud. Her hands pile into her lap. She rubs her thumbs around the rings on her fingers. She counts them once, twice, and then looks down as if to make sure they're still there too. These little games – nuisances, as her grandmother used to call them – are old and friendly, too far from habits and too close to be anything else.
"You really don't like them?"
She asks and doesn't mean too. She's blushing when she turns and takes a tiny peek at him, watching him carefully.
"Like them?" his eyes widen as Clara rolls her eyes and shakes her head. The Doctor follows her gaze out the window. "I'll have you know, they can grow on a person. I just wanted to see if you were interested in- maybe..."
"Yes?"
"I like what you have done with your garden, it's inviting and as you can see mine is a bit neglected. If you wanted."
He's quiet then, after. She's briefly reminded of her first encounter with him and standing there with him, trying to introduce herself and only explaining herself in such a way that she could only translate it as whatever this is and that she's starting to be shaped by this experience all over again.
"Yeah, maybe we could do that together."
He looks at her, genuinely concerned. As if the thought of them doing something together is a concept he was not entirely prepared for.
"Or," she says quickly. "I could, by myself. It's just that if you wanted to, together. We could and, well."
He looks at her then, a soft smile curving around his mouth so she smiles back. He reaches forward and pulls at a few strands of her hair. He wraps them around his fingers, pulling them as the locks begin to sew around his skin. When he tugs, she blushes. When he tugs again, he smiles and she stares at him quietly.
But he tugs at her hair again, and she's pulled back. Clara's nose wrinkles.
The moment stretches between them, long and filled with everything unspoken between them. Another moment. They seem to be made up of these moments.
"What?" she mutters then, and grabs his wrist, prying his fingers away from her hair. His hand drops but she pauses and takes his hand in hers. He doesn't pull away.
"What?" she asks again.
His mouth opens slowly. It closes. There is this look that she catches from him that seems familiar and unfamiliar; she dislikes that about him, she decides, that there are parts that she feels like she should recognize and others that she shouldn't expect. He leans into her though, and around them, the wind slows to a murmur and she's almost wistful, wanting to hear it all over again.
"Hold still," he says, and quickly, as if to catch her. He nudges her first and she's confused, watching him. "Just for a second, all right?"
"What?"
He says nothing more. It happens so slowly, catching her as his other hand presses into her cheek, and his fingers start to pull themselves into her hair. He tugs once and twice, and there's something so utterly genuine about the gesture. It gets her to sigh too. Her lips part and he leans in, ever so carefully, and kisses her.
She feels a touch and then another touch; his lips shy to open against hers. Her hand comes to rest against his chest. Her fingers curl in the lapel of his jacket and her body falls slightly into a twist, heavy as she starts to taste him.
He sighs into her mouth and she swallows it, breaking away first. She doesn't try and think. Her eyes are closed. She takes a deep breath. His fingers pull at her hair and drag through the short strands.
They are sitting on her terrace, face to face. It's not comfortable, but it's honest and she thinks back to their first moment on his doorstep. She opens her eyes and smiles at him, holding this for herself. It's her moment, she decides. But he clears his throat and her heart is racing, pulling at her as she finally starts to try and understand what has just happened.
Only that they were inevitable.
He smiles at her, pats her knee, and then stands. "Let's see about those hedges," he decides, and walks down the stairs.
She watches him go. She was right about this moment.