A/N: This sort of follows canon. My first attempt at writing twelve (yay!); so feedback is very appreciated.
Clara Oswald will never understand how he can go from being all furrowed eyebrows and gruff, Scottish snark to what she swears is an inch away from a pout, of all things, in mere seconds.
"I'm busy." Oh, but he's bored and he misses her. Not that he'll admit it. She already knows, he thinks. "Papers to grade."
"We can be back in seconds."
"Mhm, that's why they didn't get done last time. Wasn't like you dropped me off thirty five hours late."
"Touché."
That's how he ends up at her place, pacing around her small flat, 'fixing' her appliances (she finds out later that her kettle takes three seconds to boil, and her toaster talks), and attempting to convince her that there are planets far better suited to grading papers than Earth. Like she's falling for that one.
She's curled on the couch, cocooned in an oversized sweatshirt, papers scattered over the coffee table, tendrils of hair escaping her ponytail. He wants to reach out and tuck those delicate wisps behind her hair. Or muss her hair up further. Perhaps both.
She thinks she can feel his eyes burning into her. He thinks her sweatshirt might be trying to eat her.
"Done," she murmurs after what feels like years to him - but perhaps it's worth waiting to see the smile that tugs at her lips, though he can see the weariness forming in her eyes. Humans and their need for sleep; he supposes adventures can wait.
He makes tea for them, she sips at hers and pats the space next to her gently, watching as he gingerly settles next to her. There's a careful air about him, always leaving just a little too much space between them. She wonders if he knows how that makes her heart tighten.
He's far away, sipping at his tea, seemingly wrapped in his own thoughts. Raindrops patter delicately against the roof, the windows - there's a comforting sort of quiet hanging in the room. "What are you thinking?" she says.
That he doesn't know what he's feeling.
That he wants to wrap himself up in her warmth.
That he's never noticed how sweet the sound of rainfall is; or perhaps it's that she's with him that causes this sense of security and calm to wash over him in gentle, caressing waves.
That he's too scared to admit it's her, always her.
"Oh, nothing much."