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Chapter 2

What had she done? What on earth had she agreed to? Had her libido really gone ahead and decided to go over to a handsome stranger's house she had only just met? Clara couldn't believe she was actually doing this and yet she went home and headed straight to the shower, washing the day off of her and shaving her legs before she came to stand in front of her closet. She should wear something sexy but casual, not giving off the impression that she was too desperate for him when in fact she was. The Doctor was just. . . Clara groaned when her mind attempted to put her attraction into words. He was the most handsome silver fox she had ever met and all she could think about was how it would feel to bury her hands in his hair or slide them down his chest as his talented fingers discovered her body. She imagined how the scent of his cologne would smell mingled with that of sex and sweat.

Her phone woke her from her daydream and Clara looked at the screen to see that it was Danny – again. Annoyed with the disturbance she answered her phone.

"Yes?"

"Hey Clara," he paused, his voice careful, "Me and the others were wondering whether you still want to come to the pub."

"I've got plans," she said, "Sorry. I totally forget about that."

Clara wasn't keen on telling Danny about where exactly she was going. They had been separated for two months but from time to time Clara still got the impression that he was not over it yet. She didn't want to push it.

"Oh," Danny sounded disappointed, "Okay. I guess I'll see you on Monday."

"See you," Clara replied quickly before she hung up on him and turned her attention back to her wardrobe.

She ended up picking a dark skirt and tights and a simple blouse that showed enough cleavage to be considered sexy. Brushing her hair neatly and applying a little make up and perfume she was soon ready to go back out.

The Doctor had been right. His house was easily found, literally squeezed between two other, larger houses which made it stand out, giving it a slightly different, artistic look despite the fact that they were all made out of the same red bricks and white framed windows. Nervously Clara walked up the steps to the front door. She could still turn around and leave, tell him next Friday that she hadn't found it or that something had come up. It would probably be the wiser decision not to sleep with her art teacher on the first day of class. Yet Clara had always been the one to take risks and she had only regretted it on a very few occasions. She rang the doorbell.

For a while nothing at all happened and Clara was beginning to believe that she might have arrived at the wrong time or the wrong house but eventually the door opened and the Doctor, slightly out of breath and dressed in a ridiculous hoodie and plaid trousers smiled at her.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, "I was upstairs in my studio. Didn't realize it was 8 already."

At first she didn't know what to say. She wasn't quite prepared for this sort of hello and her mind was still trying to process how that man could look attractive even in an outfit like that.

"Why don't you come in?" the Doctor asked and opened the door wider for Clara to step inside.

The corridor was dark and scarcely furnished with a spiral staircase leading up at the end of it.

"I hardly use the rooms downstairs except for when I have to. I'm usually in my studio upstairs. Come on," he said and gestured for her to follow him as he made his way upstairs, passing another floor that seemed to be unimportant to him and Clara had to force herself to look down at her feet and not at what was right in front of her.

His studio consisted of one big room. Dark, wooden floor, the red brick walls similar to those of the outside of the house. The wall to her right however was mainly glass, probably meant to let in as much daylight as possible when the sun was up but right now all she could see was her own reflection and the distant lights of the city. Clara noticed that this room probably served more than just one purpose or that the Doctor really spent most of his time in here. She spotted a large sofa, bookshelves, a stereo system, a corner that could be called a small kitchen and of course many easels and painting supplies. Also there were paintings everywhere. On the walls, propped up against the shelves, piling up on the floor. Simply everywhere.

"Would you like something to drink?" the Doctor asked, fiddling with the coffee maker.

"Well, if you're gonna make coffee, I'll have a cup," Clara replied and turned her attention back to the paintings.

On the wall behind the sofa Clara saw a large painting, probably the largest of them all and she stepped closer to admire it. In the centre of it stood a woman with long, red hair. Clara couldn't be sure but she suspected it was the same young woman she had seen on the painting in their classroom. In this one she had her back to the viewer, a sheet wrapped loosely around her otherwise naked body as she stood in the middle of a late summer barley field in front of a sunset. Clara knew instinctively that whoever she was she must have meant something to the Doctor. This painting, as well as that in the classroom were different from the others that depicted landscape or architecture or abstracts. It was as if he had embedded his love for her into this picture with every single stroke.

"Do you like it?" the Doctor asked and held a cup with steaming, hot coffee into her direction.

Clara took it from him with a thank you before she turned back towards the painting. "It's beautiful."

She suddenly became aware that he was very close to her but before she could react and do something to get just a little closer the Doctor moved away and sat down on a small stool behind one of the easels. He pointed towards the sofa.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asked, putting his coffee down at his feet and reaching for a sketchbook and pencil.

A little confused Clara did as he asked and took a place at the edge of the sofa. With a remote the Doctor switched on several more lights and Clara squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden brightness.

"Sorry," he apologized, "Daylight lamps."

"You really want to paint me?" she found herself asking. By the way he had complimented her and smiled at her earlier she had thought this would lead elsewhere and now she was trying very hard not to sound disappointed.

"Well, I'd like to start with a few sketches, actually," he explained, "I need to see you. Properly see you. That takes time. And I'm assuming you'll need that to get comfortable. You're sitting there as stiff as a broom."

Immediately Clara adjusted her position.

"It's okay," the Doctor reassured her, "You'll get used to it. Why don't you tell me something about yourself? What do you do when you're not trying to learn how to draw and paint?"

"I, erm," she paused when he started drawing, "Do I have to sit completely still?"

The Doctor chuckled. "No, you can move. Just keep looking in my direction."

That was easier said than done. Every time their eyes met Clara could feel the heat rise to her cheeks and she was so sure the Doctor could read her inappropriate thoughts from her mind. If he could the Doctor didn't show it.

"I'm a teacher," Clara finally said, "I teach English at Coal Hill. It's pretty boring actually," she gave a nervous laugh and took a sip from her coffee.

"Teaching isn't boring. I teach. I like it."

"Yeah, but you teach art."

The Doctor shrugged, his eyes wandering back and forth from the drawing in his hands and Clara in front of him. "Art. Literature. Same thing. It's just a way to express our thoughts, our dreams, loves, fears. It comes from one and the same source. We see beauty and we want to catch it, trap it, make it immortal because we know that it won't last."

"Yeah," Clara found herself agreeing, "I suppose you're right."