Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January

They arrive back to the dorms a few days before classes begin again, teeth chattering and luggage heavier than it was on the way home, due to the haul of Christmas; Clara’s acquired several new articles of clothing, including three pairs of boots and seven jumpers.

(Hopefully this means you’ll stop stealing mine, John says with a grin, and she shrugs passively.

For seven days, maybe, she replies, and the light in her eye sparks into a glint.)

Jack’s the only person there; he’s sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, watching something on his laptop. He jerks out his earphones when they open the door, waving lazily.

“Hello, Jack,” Clara greets, struggling to get her suitcase through the door. John’s fishing in his pockets for his room key, but smiles at him. “How was your holiday?”

Jack winks. “Better than ever,” he answers enthusiastically. “You would not believe what I found under my tree this year—”

“Probably not,” Clara agrees, leaning against John’s back as he slips his key in the lock. John snorts.

His door clicks and he shoves it ajar, Clara pouring in the room after him. She dumps her luggage on his floor and begins wrestling with the scarf around her neck, grumbling.

John’s eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “Oh, are you moving in?” He asks airily, gesturing at her spilled bags. “You should’ve warned me, I would’ve tidied up a bit.”

She’s laughing. “Shut up,” she says, successfully removing her scarf and throwing it at him. “I already have a drawer.”

“Yeah, well, considering you live so far away and everything—”

Her mouth is suddenly covering his, still in a grin, fingers wrapped around his jacket.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she murmurs against his lips, “why I like you.”

His palms cup her cheeks as he kisses her back. “Sometimes,” he whispers, “I wonder the same thing.”

–

(They rejoin Jack in the kitchen soon after, sitting on the barstools across from him. He’s already made them tea; the sugar rests in front of them, and there are pastries laid out on the table. John drops two cubes into Clara’s mug automatically. She stirs. John spreads jam on his roll. Jack grins.

I knew you were returning today, so I bought breakfast, he says. Have a nice holiday?

John nods. Christmas was fantastic, and New Year’s was—

Ooh, New Year’s was lovely, Clara interrupts fondly. I took him to dinner, and then to a nice local pub – they did a proper countdown, and we had champagne—

You took him to dinner? Jack prods, and Clara laughs.

She did, John confirms, sipping his tea and smiling.

Jack beams. Cheers to that, he says, tapping their mugs together.)

–

“I’m glad,” Jack says quietly to John later, after Clara’s gone to take a shower, “that you have her, you know? It’s good. It’s great.”

It’s one of the most genuine things Jack’s ever said to him, and it takes John a moment to comprehend it. Heavy clouds glare at them through the kitchen window. John’s cup warms his hands. He looks down and smiles.

“So am I,” he says, an openness forming between them.

Jack pats his shoulder. “Not that we would’ve let you spend the holidays alone, and God knows I would’ve loved to kiss you on New Year’s, but this way you’re getting laid and enjoying it, at least.”

John snorts into his tea and chokes, laughing; Clara pokes her head out of her room and says dangerously, “What was that?”

“Nothing, dear, nothing,” Jack replies, slapping John on the back.

Clara rolls her eyes. “Oh, the pair of you,” she says, and leaves them to the early afternoon.

–

Amy, Rory, and River all return two days later, knocking loudly around the hallway at nine in the morning and snickering. Clara starts awake the moment Amy starts banging on Jack’s door, nearly cracking her head against John’s chin.

“Jack!” She hears Amy yelling. “No tea prepared for your best friends and flatmates?”

“Friends, flatmates, sometimes lovers—” River chimes in, voice deep and sultry.

“No scones?” Amy continues. “No jam and clotted cream?”

Jack swings the door open. “Which one of them told you?”

They’re all laughing; footsteps approach John’s room. Clara glances up at John, who’s grimacing in response to what’s about to come; he throws an arm over his eyes.

Jack sounds like he’s slammed his entire body weight into their door. “Who did it?!” He shouts. “Who betrayed me? I do one act of decency and this is how you repay me—”

Clara turns and shoves John off the bed. “Answer it, quickly, before he breaks the damn thing down,” she says, trying hard not to laugh at him half-sprawled on the floor. He opens and closes his mouth in offense, but doesn’t manage to get any of the words out; he settles for glaring at her instead and rising to answer the door.

“It was Clara,” John informs the crowd, immediately throwing her under the bus. “She’s the culprit, she texted Amy about what a sweetheart you were—”

Jack steps into the room. “Well then,” he replies, mockingly menacing, “she’ll have to be punished, won’t she? I only managed eight hours of beauty sleep, thanks to you; not that it particularly makes a difference, I’m always handsome, but it doesn’t hurt—”

Clara raises her hands in surrender, giggling as he approaches. John’s behind him, smirking.

“Into the hallway with her,” John announces. “Just bundle her up and toss her out. I don’t want her anymore.”

Jack grins and scoops her up as she struggles, unable to free herself from the blankets. He throws her over his shoulder; she doesn’t even bother fighting him, caught up in a fit of laughter. She’s not even mad. Amy’s cheering, River’s snickering, and Rory looks like he’s afraid Clara’ll kill him if he laughs at her as well. He’s a little too serious, she thinks, as John opens the front door and Jack drops her in the hallway, locking her out.

She bangs on the door with her fists, still in hysterics. “Let me in!” She screams, not caring if she disturbs the whole floor. “John! Jack!”

“Not a chance,” Jack’s voice calls.

She pouts, and uses the one weapon she knows will get her what she wants. “Doctor,” she shouts through the wood, and that’s all.

John opens the door after a minute of silence, smiling guiltily. He rolls his eyes at her, but picks her up again – she’s still on the floor in his sheets. “It’s like blackmail,” he says, pretending to be annoyed.

“Oh, is that why you’re dating her?” Jack says, overhearing. “She’s blackmailing you, is she?”

River smirks. “What’s she have on you?” She pauses, lips parting slightly in fake realization. “Inappropriate photographs, perhaps?”

Clara snorts. “Yeah, that must be it,” she replies, head against his collarbone; he’s still carrying her. “I can’t think of any other reason why he’d date me.”

“I can,” River says, innuendo evident. Amy lets out a high-pitched giggle, caught off-guard.

John ignores it. “So can I,” he whispers into her hair while the rest of them are distracted, and, well, there’s no way she can be mad at him after that line.

–

She and John don’t share a module this term (Good, he says, I don’t think I could’ve managed passing you through yet another physics course, and Clara slaps his arm) but their schedules are so oddly similar that they wind up being in class at the same times, meaning they take turns getting each other up in the morning and walk to and from university together. Sometimes he gets out early and waits outside her lecture hall with a cup of coffee; she always smiles appreciatively when he does this, kissing him on the cheek.

Rose – who shares the same lecture as her; it’s feminism and literature in the early nineteenth century – always rolls her eyes, amused, and asks, “How do I get my boyfriend to do that?”

Clara winks and continues their now-running joke. “Blackmail him.”

Rose laughs. “I might start,” she says, and waves them off.

They head out the doors into the frigid air; the grass surrounding the path home is icy. She shivers noticeably. John glances down at her and frowns. He puts a hand on her shoulder and halts her, stepping in front of her. She looks at him curiously.

He’s tutting under his breath, fingers at the bottom of her coat. “You’re like a child,” he says, buttoning it up for her. “Can’t even keep yourself warm.”

“It’s not like I was about to freeze to death, and the walk’s not far,” she says, but smiles nonetheless. “You worry.”

“For good reason,” he replies automatically, and pauses, grinning a second too late. “If you catch a cold, who’s going to have to deal with you? Me. I am.”

Her pulse flickers. There are things she heals and there are things she hurts; she’s not sure where existing falls in that spectrum. Love and loss. The two have always gone hand-in-hand for him.

Her eyes dart between his. He’s trying not to look at her, but he can’t avoid it. He gives her a half-smile, doing up the last button. The expression on his face is gentle.

“I love you,” she says, because she can’t not.

He places a palm against her cheek, thumb brushing underneath her eye.

“Yeah,” he replies, his mouth curled, “I think you’re alright, too.”

She understands; he has enough to give away. Her fingers link through his and she shoves their hands into his overcoat pocket. She tugs him forward, smiling to herself. She knows. She doesn’t need a translation.

–

(Come on, she says, walking down the path again. Let’s get you inside before your heart ices over completely.

He laughs. I’ll get another one, he answers. I can have two.

She scrunches her nose; quick visions of light and pounding bass make an appearance in her head, and then they are gone. Haven’t we had this conversation before? She asks, uncertain.

He shrugs. Probably, he says. You could use a second brain.

Yeah? Why, do you have a few extras?

Twenty-seven. I have twenty-seven brains.

She snorts loudly. Maybe I should leave you out here to freeze, she says, but he unravels their fingers and wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close, and she can’t think of a place she’d want to go without him, anyway.)

–

On the fifteenth, Clara decides to scrub the couch down – there’s a sort of living area off to the left of the kitchen bar that none of them use due to Amy having spilled an entire bottle of whiskey on it first term; Jack discovered the hard way how potent the stain was when he sat on it a week later and all of his clothes ended up smelling of Peaty Creag.

John sits cross-legged on the floor next to the telly, watching her with his nose scrunched; the scent isn’t particularly welcoming. “You’re a brave woman.”

“We live here,” she replies, inspecting the cushions. “I’d like to be able to take advantage of it, is all.”

John leans his chin against the back of his hand. “I think our room’s just fine. We have Netflix. And a bed.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles unwilling. “Our room, huh?” She answers dryly, glancing back to catch his blush.

He shrugs her off, but his ears burn. “You’re the one who moved in.”

She decides to let it go; he’s right, but she’ll never tell him that. “Jack’s having a party here next weekend,” she says instead. “He invited that club he’s in – U.N.I.T.? I figured it’d be nice if the place didn’t smell like Scotland.”

John snickers. “I go to a meeting, here and there,” he says, expression bemused. “Still don’t know what it is they actually do. I think it has something to do with conspiracy theories.”

“I thought it was a gay-straight alliance.”

Rory peeks his head around the corner.

“Don’t let Amy catch you insulting The Homeland,” he says, referring to Clara’s earlier remark. “She nearly took off my head for insinuating that the Loch Ness Monster wasn’t real.”

Clara slaps a rag at him. “She’s ill, be nice to her.”

“I am. This was two weeks ago.”

Clara laughs, but otherwise has nothing to add. “Well.”

Rory gestures. “Exactly.”

“How’s she feeling?” John asks. “Any better?”

“She’s stopped vomiting, at least,” Rory says. “I need to pop out to Tesco’s for a bit – can you check in on her?”

Clara looks at John pointedly, and then at the sofa she’s midway through cleaning. He stands, dusting off his flannel pajama bottoms, and rubs her back as he walks by.

“I’ll make her a cup of tea,” he says. “English Breakfast alright?”

“Yeah,” Rory responds, already heading towards the door. “Milk, no sugar. Thanks!”

The door slams. John puts the kettle on, glancing over the bar at his girlfriend. “Tea, dear?”

“Better not,” she says, aggressively scrubbing again. “It’ll get contaminated. Give me another twenty minutes – make it then.”

He hums, pouring the hot water into one of Amy’s Peter Pan mugs. Clara’s panting slightly, hair stuck to her face from the effort. He stirs Amy’s tea idly and admires the domesticity of it all, the closeness; he can’t give it a name. It’s something like home.

“What if I catch what she’s got?” He says. “Will you take care of me?”

Clara smiles and meets his gaze. “Absolutely not,” she replies, eyes sparkling. “You’re the Doctor, aren’t you?”

He grins. He can hear the undertone in her voice; obviously, you idiot – her mouth fades into a soft curl, more akin to fondness than sarcasm. He picks up the mug, walking to Amy’s room. “If I get sick,” he tells her over his shoulder, “you still have to kiss me.”

“But then I’ll get sick, too!” She calls back.

He shrugs. “Two is better than one.”

She sighs audibly behind him. He counts it as a victory.

–

(Ugh, God, the two of you, Amy says upon his arrival to her room. I can hear you bickering back and forth from here. It’s like some cheesy romantic comedy.

John grins. Sorry, he says, but he isn’t really. I’ve made tea for you.

He sets it on the table beside her bed. She smiles appreciatively. Thanks.

He plops down in the chair Rory’d been previously sitting in and asks, How are you feeling?

She shrugs. A little better, she replies, and doesn’t elaborate.

John’s not sure where to go from here; he takes a stab in the dark. You’ve got Rory, he says. I bet that helps.

Amy smiles genuinely – he can spot the difference right away – but it dims after a brief moment.

I feel bad sometimes, she says slowly.

He raises an eyebrow. Why?

She takes the mug from off her bedside table and holds it between her hands. Because, she replies. I wasn’t as good to him in the beginning as I should have been.

You didn’t know how much he was going to mean to you, John says, crossing his arms. He forgave you.

Yeah, she answers distractedly, staring off into the distance. Still. It messed him up a bit, didn’t it? He’s – insecure, sometimes.

I don’t think that’s your fault, John replies. I think that’s just…human.

There’s a lull. Amy’s mouth turns up at the edges. You and Clara, she says, abruptly changing the subject. She’s your best friend, isn’t she?

He smiles. Yes.

Are you ever insecure?

He pauses. No, he allows, But I’m not human.

Amy laughs and lets it go; he’s lying, obviously, but there are things he has trouble admitting to himself, let alone everyone else, and—)

–

Clara’s wiping it dry by the time he leaves Amy’s room. “So?” She says, giving the sofa a final polish. “She alright?”

“She’s alright,” he responds. He puts the empty mug on the counter, resting on his elbow, staring at her. “She asked if I was insecure. About you.”

Clara sits up straighter. “And?” She leans her chin on the back of her wrist. “What did you say?”

His nerves get the best of him; insects in his intestines, whatever the phrase – he’s drawing back. “I said, ‘Of course I am. Have you seen her? And I have to take that out in public.’ Something along those lines.”

Clara snorts with laughter; he thinks he can hear Amy chuckling in her room, too, but he’s not certain. Clara gives him a look; amused, but still curious.“What did you really say?”

It’s better this time. “That you were my best friend,” he confesses easily, keeping his voice light.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, good, because you’re my best friend, too.”

The silence occurs naturally, content and contemplative; sunlight paints the curve of Clara’s spine. He watches her. He’ll never get tired of watching her. He can feel the beat of his heart when she catches his eye.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” he muses aloud, “how things work out like that.”

Clara smiles and doesn’t respond.

–

(Now come here, she demands, waving to him. Come here and smell this couch. It’s unbelievable.

He obliges, sinking onto his knees beside her. Her hand comes around the back of his neck as she tries to forcibly bury his head in the cushions; he’s caught so off-guard that she actually manages to do it. He inhales.

Wow, he says, stunned. It smells like honeysuckle.

She raises her hand. Do I get a high-five, or what?

He slaps his palm against hers. Clara Oswald, he announces, the impossible girl, capable of cleaning even the most horridly stained sofas.)

–

The month comes to a close with them eating pizza in bed, watching Casablanca. John makes a face and peels a green pepper off of one of his slices. “Ugh.”

Clara disregards him. “Says you,” she snipes back. “You like pineapple.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.”

She raises her eyebrows, smiling like something extremely clever is about to come out of her mouth. “Yeah, well, you’re delicious,” she teases, giggling into the palm he shoves over her jaw.

“Behave,” he commands sternly, but can’t resist: he moves his hand and kisses her once. “It’s a long movie.”

She hums, leaning sideways into his lap. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of the classics.”

“I didn’t know you were.”

“Humphrey Bogart is a dream. What a bloke, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, he’s lovely.”

She turns her attention back to the screen, sighing. John runs his fingers through her hair, unconsciously untangling the knots. She stretches an arm and scratches her nails against the back of his scalp without paying much attention; the shirt of his she’s wearing rises above her thigh, revealing her knickers. His hand skims down her body, rubbing her leg. She’s attractive, yes, but it’s more than that – he likes that they can be this comfortable around one another without any sort of expectation.

Play it once, Sam, for old times’ sake.

Someone knocks on their door. Clara glances at him curiously and presses the spacebar, pausing it.

“John?” A voice calls. It’s Jack. “Martha’s here for you.”

He smacks himself in the face. “I forgot,” he tells Clara. “She wanted to borrow some notes.” He pushes at her back gently, waiting for her to roll off of him. “Shove up a little bit.”

She whines and shifts onto her stomach – he does a double-take when he stands, not impervious to the view. She catches him staring and grins.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t answer it all the way.”

She stares blankly. “Why not?”

“You’re not wearing trousers!” He says, aghast, reaching for the doorknob.

She snorts loudly. “Right,” she says dryly. She’s pretty sure the fact that they have sex isn’t a secret. “Like they don’t already know we sleep together—”

He points a finger at her. “Shut up,” he says, and opens the door with a blush. “Hello, Martha. Sorry about that. Clara’s being obscene.”

A pillow hits him in the back of the head. Jack laughs. “Good throw,” he calls to Clara. Martha looks rather caught off-guard, but ultimately amused by the two of them.

“Thanks, Jack,” she shouts back. John waves them off.

“Which notes do you need?” He asks kindly.

She smiles appreciatively. “The ones from Tuesday,” she replies. “I was out ill.”

“Yeah, it’s been going around,” John says sympathetically. “Amy had it a week or two ago. Hang on.”

He retreats back into the room, leaving the door ajar. He glances at Clara, still lying on his bed, looking tantalizing – he’s suddenly strangely bothered by the fact that they have company, regardless of how brief.

“See something you like?” She flirts, her head in her arms.

He’s quick. “Yes,” he quips, rifling through his papers. “The last slice of that pizza.”

She picks it up immediately and rips off half of it with her teeth. “Too bad, bitch!” She shouts through a mouthful, and he has to lean against his desk to gather control of himself again – he’s laughing too hard.

Martha turns to Jack in the hallway and says lowly, “Are they always like this?”

Jack grins widely. “Every day,” he confirms. “Don’t you just hate people in love?”

She doesn’t know whether to take him seriously or not, and so says nothing; John reappears at the door. “Here you are,” he says, handing her a folded notebook. “The pages are numbered; if you need me to define anything, just send me a text and I’ll help you out.”

“Thank you,” she says gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver, John, really.”

“A lifesaver?” Clara calls from inside. “Sort of like a…Doctor?”

John tries desperately not to laugh again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Martha doesn’t understand; Jack’s heard it enough times to realize it’s an inside joke, and shrugs when she looks at him bemusedly.

“Anyway,” Martha says, smiling, “thanks. I’ll text if I’ve got any questions. Have a good evening.”

John echoes the greeting – Clara does, too – and he shuts his door, turning back to her.

“You’re insufferable,” he tells her fondly, crawling back onto the bed, moving the now-empty pizza box out of the way. She rolls onto her back, playing the film again.

“You adore me,” she says, shutting her eyes. “I’ve got a stomachache.”

He doesn’t bother teasing her about the pizza. He lifts the bottom of her shirt up to her ribcage, leaning over to kiss her navel. He gives it a moment, waiting; she shifts her leg and smiles slightly. He kisses her again, dragging his lips higher. Her lungs expand against her bones as her breath catches in her throat. His hands palm her sides, slipping her shirt up, and up, and—

She complies, and it lands on the floor next to them; she hooks her fingers around his collar, pulling his lips to hers.

“Feel better?” He exhales into her mouth, and her nails tap against his back.

“Getting there,” she says, spine arching into him. His hips press against hers and her lips part, curling at the corners. She contests, “Oh, I don’t think so.”

She pushes him up and onto his back, hovering over him on her knees. She straddles his waist and he laughs, her hipbones digging into his palms.

“You’re the boss,” he says, and her answering smirk drives him wild.

–

(Her hair sticks to her neck, her shoulders. The room smells close: the air is heavy with urgency. John’s mouth is hot and his tongue sweeps across her collarbone, teeth scraping against the curve of her neck. Her nails dig into his sides rough enough to leave marks. She gasps into his hair; the movie plays on.

A while later, she’s lying next to him, sheets pooling around her hips. Her arms are above her head and her eyes are closed. He’s running his fingers up and down her body gently. She turns her head towards him, small smile on her lips, eyelids still shut.

That feels nice, she says.

He thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; the most beautiful thing that could ever be seen, by anyone, and here he is, lucky enough to witness it, to touch her, to kiss her—

She opens her eyes. What is it? She murmurs.

He thinks about the space between his heart and his lungs, and the dimples in her back, and home between the blood rushing in her veins. He thinks about the emptiness he used to feel and how he doesn’t feel it anymore; how it’s been replaced by seven good days in a row, blankets with the scent of chocolate and lavender, heat-seeking lips and hands and legs. The sound of the film filters through his brain; he recognizes where they are in it and his mouth curls.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid, he says, and her smile is the best life lesson he’s ever learned.)

February

Rose suggests to Clara during an open discussion in lecture that they should double-date; sort of a pre-Valentine’s Day, she says, it’ll be fun. Clara agrees – she’s quickly growing to like Rose; they often partner up for group work and end up talking about their lives instead, including their eerily similar boyfriends, who are both pursuing the same degree. They plan for that Friday night at eight, and then they’re dismissed; John’s waiting outside the door.

“Evening, Rose,” he says, smiling at her, and she watches the casual intimacy that occurs when he bends to kiss Clara briefly and his arm wraps around her waist; Clara’s hands rest on his arm. It takes all of two seconds. He meets Rose’s gaze again. “How was your lecture?”

“Eventful,” Rose replies ominously, and John furrows an eyebrow.

Clara laughs. “Come on,” she says, tugging at his wrist. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”

“See you soon,” Rose says nicely, taking a few steps back. “I’d walk with you, but I’ve got to stop by Tesco’s.” She nods behind her.

“See you,” Clara echoes, smiling, and John inclines his head, already heading for the door. He holds it open for her on their way out, letting his outstretched arm drop across her shoulders. Her fingers tangle with his.

“So, what was so eventful about your lecture?” He asks, pulling his coat around him with his other hand. It’s a chilly evening; the dark sky looms with the threat of snow.

“Women. Revolution. Power,” Clara says with a straight face. “Overthrowing the patriarchy.” John makes an indistinguishable noise in his throat, somewhere between a reluctant laugh and a sigh. She grins. “No, Rose and I decided we’re all going out together. Her and Ten, you and I.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That could be fun,” he allows. “He’s in two of my modules. Almost as clever as I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “When did you get such an ego?”

It doesn’t faze him. “When you decided you liked me.”

God damn. She’s got to stop giving him openings like this.

–

Friday rolls around, and Clara’s getting ready in her own room for a change; she leaves the door cracked. John comes knocking just after she’s taken a shower, asking about attire.

“Where are we going?” He asks, playfully tugging at the towel she’s wearing. “Should I look as indecent as you do?”

She rolls her eyes, swatting him away with her hairbrush. “Shut up,” she says, grinning. “No, you’re fine the way you are. Put on a nice bowtie.”

“Way ahead of you.” He pulls two out of his pocket, offering her the choice. “Which one?”

She’s still amazed someone can own as many of the same accessory that he does. “Grey.”

He quickly slips it around his collar, tying it without looking. She straightens it for him, smile affectionate. He says, “Well, you look great. Don’t have to change a thing.”

She laughs, pushing on chest with a palm. “Down, boy.”

He sprawls back against her bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He’s not wearing his coat, and he sleeves are rolled up; his hair is swept over, off to the side. He’s sort of – disheveled, and it’s oddly sexy to her. She’s never pretended to be immune.

She moves back to the bathroom, drying her hair. She lets her towel drop, reaching for her bra and underwear, both black; she walks into her bedroom clad only in that, opening her wardrobe. She can feel him staring.

“That’s an even better look,” he says, his voice low. “Come here.”

It sends a shiver through her spinal cord. She doesn’t normally oblige him like this, but – there’s something lurking in his tone; it’s dangerous, magnetic, undeniable. She turns, meeting his gaze. He’s watching her intensely.

He lifts a hand slowly and crooks a finger, beckoning her with a smile like the devil.

He doesn’t move as she approaches. She leans over him, palms against the side of the bed. He only stares with that same focused, dark expression – it’s endlessly attractive. She’s waiting to see who breaks first. Her lips are red. His gaze drops to the curve of her breasts, and then back to her eyes.

He raises an arm and ghosts his fingers across her cheek and to her jaw; she exhales, her eyelids fluttering. He wraps a strand of her hair between his index and thumb, coaxing her down, and then—

His mouth meets hers, tongue slipping across her bottom lip, and he’s kissing her like he can’t be deep enough inside of her, like he’d rather be every other pound of her pulse, like his favourite work of art is the spark of neurons firing in her brain. She realizes that they’re seconds away from stepping out of control, and she shifts her lips across the side of his face, nipping at his ear.

“We’ll be late,” she murmurs, sounding husky, and takes a step out of his grasp.

He falls back against her pillows, pouting; the dangerous glint is gone from his eye. He holds up his hands. “Okay,” he replies. “I respect your boundaries.”

She giggles accidentally; sometimes the things he says are so contextually strange that she doesn’t know how to respond. “Believe me,” she says, shifting her attention back to her clothes, “if we had it my way, we’d be pushing this date back an hour or so.”

He grins. “What a shame.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, put something on to ensure I don’t forget my manners again.”

She snickers. “You talk like such an old man.”

“Maybe I am.”

She doesn’t have a retort for that one.

–

(She’s ready twenty minutes later, fully dressed, minimal makeup on. She stands in front of him and spreads her arms jokingly. Well? She asks, grinning; I know it’s more clothing than you’d have liked, but do I pass the test?

He smiles at her, bending to press his lips against her forehead. He thinks she looks stunning, hair curled, heels on, eyes dark and alluring; I don’t think you know how to make mistakes, he wants to tell her, Even the way you walk is a masterpiece; instead, he says—

You’ll do.)

–

They meet Rose and Ten outside their building, standing on the snowy path. They’re laughing together as Clara and John approach; Clara thinks she hears something that sounds distinctly like werewolves. Ten catches sight of them and waves; Rose follows suit.

“Hello!” Clara greets. “Are we late?”

“Nah, you’re right on time,” Ten says, taking Clara’s hand and kissing it. “Pleasure to see you again, Clara.”

She laughs, and sneaks a peek at John; he isn’t outwardly bothered by it, grinning.

“I’d kiss your hand, Rose,” he starts, “but Clara’s a raging jealous monster, so better not risk it.”

She smacks him, rolling her eyes; Rose laughs. “Oh, it’s going to be that kind of evening, is it,” Clara says sarcastically. “Lovely.”

“Shall we?” Ten prods, extending his arm to Rose.

They head off down the road; it’s not big enough for the four of them to walk comfortably side-by-side, and so it ends up with the girls in the front, John and Ten in the back. Rose and Clara picked the restaurant – it’s a little nicer, and a little further in town; the boys are already calculating ways to split the bill.

“Does Rose like to have a drink with dinner?” John asks, already feeling like he’s just going to charge it to his card.

“One or seven,” Ten says. “Clara?”

“I’ll probably just order her a bottle of tequila and get it over with.”

Clara tuts under her breath up ahead. “They don’t know we can hear them, do they?” She says to Rose, who smirks.

“No,” she replies. “But I’m now going to order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu. See if that teaches them.”

“I’ll do wine. John hates wine.”

Rose nods approvingly. “Even better,” she says. “Ten hates it too. We can split a bottle.”

They laugh so loudly that it startles the two into silence behind them, and Clara’s got to admit, the night is already more fun that she thought it’d be.

–

(They order an expensive Merlot and their boyfriends adopt similar expressions of disgust, frowning; Rose snickers and Clara says, Yeah, we could hear you.

John has the decency to look abashed; Ten just stares at the ceiling guiltily for five minutes and doesn’t answer. Clara and Rose resume conversation.

Eventually the boys start discussing atoms or something; Clara tunes in for a moment and hears sonic waves and sub-atomic level and zones back out. She jerks her head at them, signaling Rose, who pauses to listen and then gives her a deadpan expression that Clara understands entirely too well.

They’re idiots, she says lowly. Idiots who give themselves way too much credit for being clever.

Clara laughs; Let’s not do this too often, she responds, John’s ego is already big enough.

Rose nods enthusiastically. You don’t need to convince me, she says. I’m pretty sure Ten thinks he’ll be inventing time-travel one of these days.

Clara grins. We better not leave them alone, she replies, or they actually might.)

–

Valentine’s Day is exactly a week later, on a Friday; John picks Clara up from her afternoon lecture. She drops her bag into his outstretched hand almost automatically, mouth in a pout.

“I’ve decided what I want to do,” she grumbles, putting her sunglasses over her eyes. “I want to take a hot bath and eat pasta and drink tequila.”

“At the same time?” John asks, mentally sorting out the logistics of their bathroom space.

“At the same time,” Clara confirms.

“Class that bad?”

“Appalling.”

He slings her bag over his shoulder, linking their fingers together and tucking their hands in his coat pocket. “Well, I think we can manage that. I’ve already secured the last two of the three.”

She crinkles her nose, thinking. Her smile grows sly. “Chicken tequila fettuccine?”

He has a bounce in his step. She almost trips. “Yes! I thought it’d be nice. I didn’t think you’d feel like going out.”

She stops walking, forcing him to a halt. He turns, looking at her in bemusement; she’s staring at him with an odd expression on her face. He pokes her nose.

She says, “God, you are the best fucking thing that has ever happened to me.”

He replies, smiling in confusion, “It’s just pasta.”

She thinks he misses the point entirely, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

–

(No, really, she insists. I’m not – this isn’t about the pasta. It’s about you. You.

He seems unable to comprehend what she’s telling him. What have I done? He asks, fingers tight around her hand.

She huddles close to him, her head below his chin, his other arm automatically wrapping across her back. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing. He doesn’t push her for an answer. Her lips find his temple; her free hand tangles in his hair. The ice crunches underneath her boots.

Everything, she says. You’ve done everything for me.

She doesn’t know how to explain it; she used to be alone and now she’s not. These facts have got to mean something: her fingerprints are on his pillowcases, she smells like his soap, and she remembers the path Venus takes through the solar system. It’s been a bad day and he’s here with a quirk in his mouth and a pocket watch hanging out of his overcoat and he’s made her dinner, and tonight she’ll fall asleep with his lips pressed against her shoulder blade and his fingers dancing across the curve of her spine. What else is there, then, she wants to tell him; What else matters.

He’s still unsure of what’s caused this onslaught of emotion, but he doesn’t ask. He lifts his head. He says, You’re perfect. Perfect in every way for me.

Somehow, he gets there in the end.)

–

They catch Amy and Rory on their way out, looking glamourous; Amy’s wearing a dress and Rory’s hair is wilder than usual, styled. It’s an extreme contrast to Clara and John: Clara’s ready to pass out for a few hours and John’s – well – John.

“Wow, big night?” Clara asks, admiring Amy’s outfit. “Where are you both off to?”

“It’s a surprise,” Rory says before Amy can open her mouth. “She doesn’t know where we’re going.”

Amy harrumphs under her breath and Clara giggles. “She’s cheery already.”

Amy rolls her eyes, and glances at the two of them in an accusatory manner. “How about the two of you?” She shoots. “I know John’s been slaving away in the kitchen all afternoon, but I said, 'What if she wants to hit the town? Have some fun?’ And he said—”

“I said you’d probably want to stay in,” he finishes, grinning.

“I do want to stay in,” Clara agrees, corroborative.

Amy exhales loudly. “Sometimes I wish he’d get it wrong for a change. He makes the rest of us look bad.”

John smiles, amused, but says nothing. Clara drops her gaze to the floor.

“Yeah,” she replies, oddly abashed. “Sometimes I wish he’d get it wrong, too.”

John recognizes it for the compliment it really is: that so far, he hasn’t. Rory takes it as their cue to leave. It’s a moment he’s conscious of. He’s always been attuned to the two of them, more so than anybody else; he thinks it has something to do with that first night in the club, and things he shouldn’t have been allowed to see.

“We’ll be late,” is all he says, his hand at the small of Amy’s back.

John gestures for them to head off, waving with his hands. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Move along, Pond, off you trot.”

“Have fun,” she replies drolly, and walks away with Rory.

Clara turns to John. “I don’t ever get it wrong, either,” she tells him confidently.

He inclines an eyebrow. “No, you don’t,” he answers slowly, almost curiously. “How is that?”

There aren’t people who know him; there are people with ideas and notions, guesses, hypotheses, theories. His body is dying cells and organs and matter and mass. When he thinks about himself he has equations; math, science, the rotation of the Earth, the gravitational pull, how to fall at twice the speed every twenty feet. It’s unknowable. The darkest day of his life was in July.

She presses a hand against his cheek, lips parting over her teeth in a genuine smile. She strokes his skin with her thumb. He watches the way her eyelashes brush when she blinks.

“I always know,” she says, and he believes her.

–

(She runs a bath. He lets the sauce simmer. When he returns to his room, she’s half-undressed asleep on his bed; he touches her ribcage gently. The water is still hot. The bathroom mirror steams over.

Clara, he murmurs, Clara.

She hums and opens her eyes, stretching after a minute. She rests her head against his knee. She asks tiredly, Bath ready?

Yes, he says, and grins. You can sleep on me. I’ll wash your hair for you.

She cracks a smile and raises herself up slowly. Well, with an offer like that, she replies cheekily.

He says, Go on. I’ll be right there. What do you want to drink?

Champagne, she answers decisively.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, watching her walk away. He asks, Really?

She shrugs, slipping her tank top off. I’m feeling classy all of a sudden, she calls from the bathroom.

He stands, peering around the door frame. She sinks into the tub, looking over at him and smirking. He can’t argue with her. There’s a reason she’s the boss.)

–

Near the end of February, Clara comes home from her lecture, expression oddly disturbed.

“What’s the matter?” Amy asks, taking notice immediately. John’s making daiquiris, but whips his head around instantly, like he’s expecting her to be openly sobbing. He calms when he realizes she isn’t – her mouth is twisted into a frown, eyebrows furrowed.

She says, “I think my professor was flirting with me.”

John nearly breaks the blender. River perks up, noticeably interested. “Is he hot?”

Clara rolls her eyes. “Not my type. Also not the point.”

River raises her glass to her lips suggestively. “Well, no, but if he’s at least hot, I’d be happy to…take care of him for you.”

Amy snorts. “I thought you wanted to be a professor, not do one.”

“Can’t a girl have both?”

Clara laughs – she and River may have had their differences, but they’ve long since moved on; she appreciates River’s personality, blunt and unapologetic. She says, “His surname is Latimer, if you know him. Teaches revolution in literature.”

River thinks for a moment and shakes her head. “I’ll get acquainted.”

John leans against the cutting board. His voice is awkwardly controlled; it makes Amy snigger. “What did he say, exactly?”

Clara scrunches her nose. “Something about how I…was remarkably wise for someone so pretty. And then corrected it to 'young.’ It’s not the first time he’s said something along those lines, to be honest.”

River tuts under her breath. “Amateur,” she says in response. John grimaces.

“I’ll pick you up next week,” he decides, grabbing a knife and beginning to slice strawberries. He adds hastily, “Not because I think you can’t take care of yourself, but because – you know – because.”

She holds back a giggle. He has his moments of jealousy, of childish possessiveness; he’s lucky she finds it somewhat endearing and not irritating. Juice stains the tips of his fingers.

“Yes, dear,” she replies, sharing a look with Amy. She idly notices an absence around the table. “Where’s Rory?”

“Studying,” Amy says. “He’s got coursework due Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“You know how he is.”

Clara gives her that one. “And Jack?”

“He’s with 309 tonight,” River chimes in, scrolling through her phone. “They’re on their way to Glow, that club across town.”

John glances up, appearing weirdly offended. He dumps the strawberries in the blender. “Why didn’t we go?” He asks. “I liked hanging out with them—”

Clara holds up a hand. “Absolutely not,” she says firmly. “The two of you were unbearable.”

“We weren’t that bad,” he protests mildly, measuring rum. “It was mostly quantum mechanics—”

“You were ready to build a time machine.”

He hums nonchalantly. “I still maintain that we could do it, given enough space and access to the right materials.”

Even River sighs exasperatedly.

“Couldn’t you just slap him sometimes?” She asks conversationally, and Clara winks in reply.

March

Rose is the first to spot him on her way out of the lecture hall; she does a double-take and smiles brightly.

“John!” She greets, kissing him on the cheek. “This is unusual – you’re not normally on campus at this hour, are you?”

“I’m not,” he confirms, smiling back at her. “But it was brought to my attention that the professor is a tad…keen.”

Rose understands immediately, pulling a face. “Yeah, he’s a bit eager,” she says. “Fancies Clara, that’s for sure. He always keeps her behind.”

John grimaces, but saves it. “Not that I can blame him.”

Rose laughs at that. “Oh, he’s rubbish, anyway. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

As if on cue, Clara’s voice echoes out behind them, followed by the distinct voice of a man. John shifts his gaze over Rose’s shoulder and she turns around, catching sight of Clara and the professor in the doorway. She rolls her eyes. He makes an entrance.

He approaches carefully, resting a palm against Clara’s lower back. She glances over, surprised. Professor Latimer halts in the middle of a sentence, staring.

“Sorry to interrupt, dear,” John says, tone low and cool, “but we’ll be late to dinner.”

Clara follows the act he’s putting on; it’s terribly appealing, jawline hard and stare forceful, challenging. Professor Latimer recovers and says, “Who are you?”

She decides to do the introductions. “Professor, this is my boyfriend, John.”

John extends a hand. “How do you do?” He asks civilly.

It throws the man off. He glances between them, carefully grasping John’s fingers. He opens his mouth, and after a brief pause, looks at Clara and says, “You have a boyfriend?”

She can’t even fake politeness at that point. She forces a smile and replies, “Really, we’ll be late.”

John says with a smirk, “Nice to meet you.”

Rose trails behind them as they leave, not even bothering to muffle her laughter.

–

(Brilliant, John, brilliant, Rose praises, patting his arm. You should think about a second degree in theatre. You’re rather impressive when you want to be.

Clara raises an eyebrow to the suggestion, taking it in. I have to admit, she says, you pull off the whole dark and dangerous thing well.

He grins. That’s because I am, he replies, poking her in the side. Just wait until I get you alone.

Rose snorts – he’s more transparent than he thinks he is, and Clara’s got a smile on that doesn’t lie.

Right.)

–

Jack bursts into their room on the thirteenth, laptop balanced on one arm and mug of tea in the other hand. Clara looks up from her book, pausing in the middle of reading aloud, John’s head in her lap. They’re lying on his bed contentedly. Jack doesn’t blink twice.

“Okay,” he says authoritatively, clearly about to get into something. He sets his cup on John’s desk. “I’m thinking group vacation; we’ve got most of April off until exams in May. Where’s nice this time of year?”

Clara closes her book. “Like all of us? Going on holiday?”

He nods, clicking a link on his computer. “Everyone’s for it.”

“Define everyone,” John says.

“Us and 309.”

Clara raises her eyebrows, attempting to sort out the logistics. John’s fingers tap against her knee unconsciously. “Ten of us,” she says. “That’ll be a fair amount of work.”

“Right, which is why I’d like to book it now,” Jack agrees. He squints at his screen. “Rose suggested Split. Said it’s supposed to be great. And warm.”

John looks at her. “What d'you think?” He asks. “Do you want to go?”

She hums. “Will there be cocktails?” She directs at Jack, and grins when he gives her a stare like she’s just insulted him. She glances back to John. “Could be fun.”

Jack leans over and ruffles her hair. “That’s my little alcoholic,” he coos, and she laughs. “I’ll buy you your first margarita, and you can drink it on the beach.”

John sighs. “I guess that settles it.”

Clara smirks at him. “Chin up – oh, pun intended,” she says coyly, patting his cheek. “I’ll be wearing a bikini the entire trip. Something to look forward to.”

“You’re so indecent,” he replies, faking exasperation, but the expression on his face doesn’t protest.

–

(Jack books the tickets and hostel ten minutes later, waving them off. I’ve got connections, he says almost ominously; You can pay me back. It’s easier to do it at once.

Clara secretly thinks he’s part of an American mafia, or some international drug cartel, until John points out that Harkness is a large corporate business overseas and the money he just spent is probably like pocket change to him.

She bites the inside of her cheek. So, who’s richer, between the two of you? She asks, distantly listening to Jack and River argue the merits of vacationing in Croatia.

John hides a grin. Why? He responds. Are you going to leave me if it’s him?

She nods. Oh, definitely, she answers seriously. Let’s compare bank balances.

John snorts. Pick your battles, dear, he says airily, mouth in a lazy smirk.

She laughs and kisses him; never, never.)

–

On St. Patrick’s Day, Amy takes initiative and plans a pub crawl across town, ending at Chapel. Jack and River, who have been drunk since eleven in the morning, buy them all four rounds of shots each at The Rose & Crown – their starting location – and laugh uproariously when John downs them all in quick succession, nearly falling over from the head rush. Clara gets him a glass of water. He leans heavily on her shoulder.

“Steady now,” she says, gritting her teeth. “It’s the beginning of the night. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am. Come on, take it like a woman.”

He chuckles breathlessly into her neck. “Woman up,” he says, raising his head. “I need to woman up.”

“You do,” Clara agrees, nudging him in the ribs. “Amy’s on her sixth shot of whiskey. River’s been smashed all day. And I—”

“You weight approximately a hundred pounds and still manage to handle your liquor better than me,” he finishes, wincing. “I know. I know. Be gentle with me. I haven’t had as much practice as you lot.”

She rolls her eyes. “What did you used to do before you met us, I wonder.”

“Science-y stuff. You know.” He answers, slipping his coat back on. “Read about physics and quantum theory. Timey-wimey business.”

Clara tugs on his hand, giggling. Rory holds the door open for them; John grimaces when the cool evening air hits him. Amy and Jack are loudly singing up ahead, arms thrown over each others’ shoulders.

“As nice as that sounds,” Clara replies without sarcasm, smiling, “I hope you prefer us.”

John closes his eyes and grins at the sky. “I do.”

–

They’re a pub away from the club and everyone’s off their faces; Jack’s begun teaching the entire bar how to swing dance and River’s collecting phone numbers, texting Red Cross to donate money from every person she’s not attracted to and actually giving her information to the ones she is. She and Clara are rating them on a numbered scale; there’s been a few sevens, mostly eights; Clara gives a brunette woman by the door a nine and River looks approvingly at her.

“You’re more dedicated to this than I thought you’d be,” she says, not bothering to hide her interest.

Clara shrugs. “I had a thing with a girl once; her name was Nina.”

River’s eyebrows raise impressively. “Well,” she begins, lips curling, “if I’d have known that, I might’ve gone for you from the beginning instead.”

John, who’d been passively enjoying their game, sputters and chokes on his cider, ears burning red. Clara winks at her and says, “Oh, this could have ended up much, much differently.”

“Yeah!” Amy yells from behind them, also eavesdropping. “Kiss!”

Clara laughs, leaning into John’s side. John points a finger threateningly at Amy. “Oi! The only – kissing – here will be between significant others,” he scolds sternly. “Or…those who are unattached…with those who are also…unattached.”

“Ruining all the fun,” River sighs, as if he’s severely inconvenienced her, but kisses Clara on the cheek anyway, staring at John the entire time.

His jaw drops, comically offended. Clara shares an amused look with River and places her hands on John’s cheeks, pulling his mouth down to hers in a proper kiss. His right arm curves around her waist automatically, while his other rests on the bar holding a bottle. It’s a more intense kiss than they’re used to sharing in public, but they’re drunk enough that neither of them care; her tongue is hot against his bottom lip.

She breaks away. “Satisfied?” She asks coyly, her fingers under the line of his jaw, one eyebrow raised almost challengingly.

He holds her tighter, mouth against the shell of her ear. “Not quite yet,” he murmurs dangerously, and his palms press against her hipbones in a way that makes her eyelids flutter shut.

Her lips tilt into a half-smirk. “Oh, well played,” she says quietly. “But we’ve got a few hours to go until we get anywhere near there.”

He leans his head back, exhaling loudly in childish impatience. “I know.”

River’s voice floats over them. “If you’re looking for an extra set of hands, I’d love to join in.”

Clara nearly knocks her head against John’s chin, guffawing; River’s even giggling at herself. Rory says to John, uncharacteristically, “She’ll be fucking with you for days.”

John sighs. “Oh, what else is new.”

Amy calls them all a minute later, heading for the door; Clara turns and throws her arms around both Rory and Jack, and the three of them waver unsteadily on their feet. Out on the street, she alternates between taking steps and letting the two of them carry her, swinging between them like a child. She glances over her shoulder at John, lips parted in the middle of a laugh, and everything is right with the world.

–

John’s too drunk to stand an hour into being at the club, and Clara leads him to the couches at the back of the room. She finds the setting familiar, and the look in John’s eyes is knowing; he grins lazily, contentedly. He says, slurring, “You know, I lied.”

She pauses. Their knees touch. “What?” She asks. “About what?”

He tries to point a finger at her and misses by several inches. “You have to promise you won’t be cross with me,” he tells her seriously.

“I promise,” she says. The bass thumps against the soles of her feet.

He rests his jaw on his palm, gazing at her, unfocused. He says, “I remember.”

“What?”

“The first time we came here. I do remember it. Or – some of it.”

She blinks, expecting any other revelation. “You do?” She replies, shocked. “How? When—”

He’s too smashed to be embarrassed. “After Amy kissed me that one time,” he elaborates. “I had a weird flashback. I remembered kissing you. But I convinced myself it was a dream until – Rory confirmed it to you.”

She smirks. “A dream, huh?” She presses, playfully egging him on.

He shrugs, unashamed and honest. “Well, I thought it was too good to be true.”

Her heart stops and starts. She’s going to learn, one of these days, to quit while she’s ahead.

–

(Clara’s pouting. Was it a nice kiss? She asks. I wish I remembered.

John cups her face in in his hands, leaning close. He smells like cranberries and tequila, and underneath, something heavy and musky and drawing: wood and smoke, dusk. His hair is swept up messily, accidentally styled in a way that makes him look as if he’s done it on purpose. Her fingers wrap around his wrists, nails digging in.

I can show you, he says cheekily; Fancy a reenactment?)

–

“I’ve figured out what Jack’s club is,” John announces upon arriving home from lecture near the end of March. “It’s basically a milder version of an American fraternity.”

Clara blinks, glancing up from her coursework, stretched out on his bed. “What, like – just a bunch of blokes in a house getting drunk and shagging loads of women?”

“And men, in Jack’s case,” John adds, struggling to get his boots off. “But you’ve got the basics down, yeah.”

She laughs, envisioning it. “Pity you didn’t join properly,” she replies, smirking. “Sounds like your thing.”

John turns and pats the crown of her head. “You know me,” he says in fake agreement. “Severe commitment issues.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be expecting a ring any time soon.”

“Probably not. I already gave it to one of my other girlfriends.”

She grabs a pillow from behind her and smacks his back; he falls off the bed, chuckling. She tosses it onto his stomach and goes back to her work, scanning the book in front of her.

He hoists himself up lays on top of her, resting his entire weight over her body; she collapses under him, pushed into the mattress. She’s laughing. His cheek presses against the top of her spine.

She chokes out, “You’re crushing me.”

He hums in response. “It’s my bed.”

“I sleep here, too.”

“Oh, slow down.” His voice vibrates through her, rumbling. “That’s a bit too intimate for me. Sharing a bed? What’s next, a drawer for your clothes? Space in the wardrobe? A toothbrush? Keys to the front door?”

She’s trying hard not to laugh, but it’s a fight she’s losing. She says, “God, wouldn’t that be a nightmare.”

He rolls off of her, grinning. She tilts her head and meets his eyes. His fingers trace the dimples of her lower back automatically.

“Or,” he begins, gaze flickering shyly down and back to her, “crazy idea, I know, but I’ve decided it’s worthwhile anyway – you could stay with me forever.”

It’s a moment that doesn’t strike a chord within her, or form ocean waves against the walls of her heart, but instead sits lightly, like a swing hanging from the bones of her ribcage. It’s a pleasant ache, a warmth, and her smile is genuine and soft. She replies, raising an eyebrow teasingly, “Forever? For a man with commitment issues?”

He raises and drops his shoulders. “I figure it’ll help me get over them. You know, like quitting cold turkey – all or nothing. What d'you think?”

She places a palm against his jaw, running her thumb over his bottom lip affectionately. “And you’re picking me for this experiment?”

He takes her hand and kisses it, lingering. “Clara Oswald,” he replies, smiling. “I can’t think of a better person to spend forever with.”

April

He picks her up on an unusually warm afternoon the Friday their classes end. She nearly skips to him, overjoyed; he plucks the beanie off of her head and adjusts it on his own, grinning. She tugs on the strings to pull him down for a kiss. He greets cheerfully, “Hello, gorgeous.”

She laughs. “Hello, Doctor. You look absolutely ridiculous.”

“It’s my new thing,” he says, striking a pose. “Ridiculous hats. Up next: a fez.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not allowing that.”

He ignores her, too lively to bring down. He presses his lips against her cheek loudly, the way he knows she hates. He says, “Courses done? All work submitted? Ready for a holiday?”

She can’t help but smile; his enthusiasm is contagious. “Yes, yes, and yes,” she checks off on her fingers. “And tonight, we are going to celebrate—”

He stills, seemingly holding his breath. She pauses before finishing her sentence; he’s expecting her to say something about getting drunk, and she can tell he’s not in a hard liquor mood. She decides to screw with him.

“—By having outrageous amounts of sex,” she says deliberately, waiting for him to comprehend it. “So much sex. Hours and hours. I want you to do that thing you do with your—”

He shoves his hand over her mouth, silencing her, face furiously red. She’s snorting into his hand, giggling hysterically. “Shut up!” He exclaims. “There are people around!”

“Yeah, and I’m rubbing it in,” she says, deadpanning. “You get to go home and shag me; they don’t.”

“That’s – that’s not exactly – as true as that may be, there are some things, dear, that we should – you know—” He sputters all over himself, unable to form a single coherent thought.

She begins to walk ahead, glancing over her shoulder. “That’ll teach you to try and predict what I’m going to say, won’t it?”

He grimaces, trailing behind her. “I thought you wanted to get drunk.”

“I do. I only said that to fuck you.” She pauses and then grins. “Sorry. Fuck with you, I meant. Fuck with you.”

He sighs exasperatedly, face still burning. She knows exactly how to get to him; he’d hate it if he didn’t love it. He says sternly, “Well, the most you’re going to get after that stunt is – nothing. You get nothing.”

She spins and halts, giving him a disbelieving look with an eyebrow raised. “Really.”

“Really.”

“You’re telling me,” she says lowly, taking a step towards him, “that if I try to seduce you later, you’ll turn me down?”

He almost gulps, it’s that bad; he doesn’t know whether to continue the game and see where it takes him, or if he’ll end up worse for playing. He hasn’t made a decision by the time he’s opened his mouth, and what comes out is, “Erm, yes?”

It’s so hilariously uncertain that her facade breaks and she laughs, shaking her head; “Pathetic. This could’ve been a lot of fun.”

Damn. He gives her a hopeful glance. “It can still be fun, can’t it?”

“No. Stand your ground next time.”

His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. “What if you try to seduce me, and I pretend I have willpower?”

She laughs again. “And how long will that last?”

“Five minutes?”

She slips her fingers through his, tugging him along. Well. At least he’s honest.

–

(Do you really want to go out and drink? He moans upon arriving home, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall. Can’t we compromise?

She plops onto his lap, winding an arm around his neck. Okay, she allows; Have any ideas?

As a matter of fact, yes, he replies indignantly, resting his chin on her shoulder. That Mexican restaurant in town. You can drink margaritas. But I want tacos.

She smiles into his hair. All right, she says. That actually sounds good.

See? You want tacos, too.

No, I want a burrito. And nachos.

His expression is wary. If you vomit, he threatens, you’re doing it in your own bathroom.)

–

Their holiday is a week and a half later and they’ve got an early-morning flight; nobody sleeps except for Amy, who passes out on the couch for three hours while Rory packs for her. Clara’s mixing a Bloody Mary for River and Jack each, and John’s taking his clothes out of the dryer, folding them.

He wrinkles his nose at their drinks. “It’s four in the morning. We’re leaving in half an hour.”

River gives him a look, as if he should know better. “Exactly.”

Clara throws a dishrag at him. “Oh, pipe down. We’re all going to be drinking on the beach, anyway.”

“And in the airport,” River says.

“And on the plane,” Jack adds.

“I’m going to organize an intervention,” John informs them all, retreating to his room.

–

They wake up Amy twenty minutes later, Rory holding a mug of tea right next to her face – it’s the surest way to quell her anger. She grimaces in response instead, sitting up and staring tiredly at them like a zombie.

“Is there whiskey in this?” She grumbles before taking a sip, and John makes a noise of outrage.

“What is wrong with you all?” He questions in bewilderment. “It’s four in the morning!”

She appears thoughtful for a moment. “And I’ll have a bagel, thanks.”

Clara chokes on a laugh; River’s already handing Amy a bottle. “Up you get, dear,” River says. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”

They’re out the door with their luggage soon after, heaving it down the stairs, not bothering to keep their voices low – their suitcases are making enough of a ruckus for the volume of their conversation to make any difference.

They meet 309 outside, where three private cars are waiting to take them to the airport. Martha glances around, impressed. “Is this your doing too, Jack?” She asks approvingly, but he only shrugs.

“Not me,” he replies. “I thought we’d just hail cabs.”

Clara turns to John, knowing immediately. “You called us cars?”

His ears are pink. “I figured it’d be easier this early,” he answers modestly. “And Jack paid for everything else, so—”

Jack winks, overhearing. “Good man, John,” he calls, already beginning to load bags into the trunk.

It’s not a bad ride, and it’s a quiet morning at the actual airport – security isn’t a hassle, and nobody’s forgotten their passports, thankfully. River and Jack make a beeline for the pub near their gate, ordering seabreezes in honour of their vacation. Mickey and Rose join them for a pint each, but Martha and Ten remain at the gate with the rest of them. Martha and Rory are discussing their bioethics lecture as Amy plays Bejeweled Blitz on her phone; John and Ten are sitting opposite, talking about the theory of the multiverse. Martha’s gaze slips over to them.

Rory takes notice; he’s forever the observant one. He begins hesitantly, “So, I know John, but – they’re so similar – did you ever…fancy Ten?”

Martha smiles; it’s not bitter, just accepting. “No,” she replies. “Well – for about a millisecond, but he and Rose have been together since college, so I didn’t bother. But John was sort-of single when I met him.”

She says sort-of because nobody can pinpoint a time when it wasn’t really Clara. “Yeah, I remember,” Rory says, studying the two idly. “And you’re still – into John?”

She’s curling a strand of hair around her fingers, thinking. She doesn’t answer for a moment. Clara comes over, holding a tray of coffee cups; she begins handing them out by order.

“Amy, black, shot of espresso – Rory, yours is in the middle, two sugars, milk – Martha, I asked Rose how you like your coffee so if it’s all wrong, blame her, here—” Clara offers her an apologetic grin and a napkin, which Martha takes gratefully.

“Thank you,” she says, genuine.

Clara turns toward the boys. “Ten, hazelnut, three sugars, Rose did yours as well – and – John.”

He fakes offense. “I don’t get a description?” He prods. “What if you got my order wrong? I need an opportunity to tell you off.”

She takes the seat beside him, unfazed. “I doubt I got hot chocolate wrong, but feel free to complain to Starbucks if I did.”

“Is there whipped cream?”

“There’s whipped cream.”

Amy sniggers; Martha only smiles again, observing.

John’s grinning. “Only joking, dear; and by the way, you look lovely this morning.”

Clara pushes her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I look tired,” she disagrees, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Be my pillow for the next forty minutes.”

He kisses her hair nicely. “No need to limit it to forty minutes; I’m sure I’ll follow through on the plane as well.”

“Wow, sounds like you have stamina,” she replies, tone vaguely sarcastic.

“Oh, yes, incredible endurance.”

Martha says quietly to Rory, “I don’t think I do, no.”

He glances at her. “You don’t fancy him?”

She shakes her head. “Not anymore,” she answers definitively.

Rose and Mickey make their return, clearly tipsy. Rory takes the distraction to continue the conversation in greater detail. “Can I ask why?”

She nods toward them. “Look at them,” she says, gesturing. “Honestly, Rory – do you think they’ll ever break up?”

It’s one of the strangest ideas he’s ever considered; not because he can’t recognize them as two separate people, but because something about them together is so comforting, so right, that he thinks the tilt of the earth’s rotation relies on them loving each other. “No,” he responds slowly. “It’s a bit weird, actually. Sort of like – they were meant for each other, or something.”

“Yeah.” She exhales. “It’s – untouchable. It’s nice to witness. I have too much self-respect to get involved.”

“It’s not a competition,” he reminds her.

Martha’s reply isn’t self-deprecating; it’s simply the truth. “Only because there’s not a soul in this universe who can compete.”

Rory doesn’t argue; there’s no point in pretending to see something that isn’t there.

–

(River and Jack wander back right at boarding time, oddly composed for two people who’ve been drunk for three hours – then again, it’s not as if they’re new at this.

River says, sultry, You know, I’ve always wanted to join the mile-high club.

Jack grins with all of his teeth. River, he says, that’s a task I’d be honoured to help you fulfill.)

–

Jack’s outdone himself on the hotel; he’s booked two suites in a five-star in the centre of town, near the dock, each with two private bedrooms leading into a living room and kitchen. Ten, Rose, Clara, and John have one to themselves; Martha and Mickey decide they’ll probably have more fun in a room where everybody isn’t dating each other. They store their bags and don’t waste any time changing into their swimming attire; Clara’s wandering around in a bikini and a towel, which John considers very distracting.

It’s nine in the morning and the strip by the water is nothing but cocktail bars; out of every restaurant, only one serves food. They sit there and watch the boats in the harbor sail lazily by, drinking in the sun and blue sky. They all order omelettes, purely because it’s the only item they’re familiar with on the menu. Clara’s feeling classy and adds tequila pineapple cranberries for her and John; River and Jack are drinking something foreign nobody can pronounce, and Rose and Mickey are back to beer. Martha, Amy, and Rory are staring at the menu, debating between plum brandy and pear brandy. River’s created a rule stating anything they drink while on holiday has to be alcoholic, which a few people roll their eyes at but don’t protest; Clara figures the weather will make them all too lethargic to bother getting into trouble anyway.

They wander toward the beach soon after, where Clara and Amy stop at a stall along the way and buy sunhats; Clara because it’s fashionable, and Amy because she’ll burn otherwise. The actual beach is crowded, but Ten rents them chairs on the sand and they stretch out on their towels, lounging. River, Jack, Rose, and John make the short trek to the bar sitting uphill of the beach and order drinks, delivering them down to the rest of the group.

Clara’s got a pair of aviators covering her eyes, and she rolls onto her back when John approaches.

“Do my back,” she says, referencing the suntan lotion. “The blue bottle. I still want a tan.”

He stares at her, picturing it. “You’re way too hot for me,” he says stupidly, speaking without thinking.

She laughs into her elbows. “Oh, shut up,” she replies. “Come on. Get to work.”

He rubs sunscreen into her shoulders and lower back obediently – like he’d complain in the first place – and she giggles every time his fingers press against her sides, ticklish. He flops next to her. The sun sinks into her skin. Her bones feel heavy.

She falls asleep for an hour and a half until the pressure of John’s hands nudge her awake; he’s rubbing lotion into the indent on the backside of her knee.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning bashfully, noticing her movement. “I didn’t want you to burn.”

She stretches, feeling relaxed and refreshed. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Probably, yes.”

She smiles; her toes curl. She loves the smell of seasalt. There are no ocean waves. The water is calm and shallow and clear. “Take a swim with me,” she implores. She glances to her left. Martha and Ten are asleep, too; she sits up and scans the area.

Jack and River are chatting up a group of gorgeous foreigners by the bar; Rose, Mickey, Amy, and Rory are out in the water playing a game with a small ball. She stands, tying up her hair. John follows behind her.

Clara’s tiny enough that she can submerge herself completely, even while the rest of them comfortably stand. Rose tosses her the ball. “We’ve got a plan for tonight,” she informs her.

“Oh?” She says, mildly interested. “What is it?”

“Gonna hit the clubs on the cliff,” Mickey answers. “There’s a whole line of 'em, connected. We can just hop from one to the other.”

“Sounds good.” Clara’s too relaxed to disagree with anything. “Considering we’re not allowed to be sober, anyway.”

Rose grins. “That’s the spirit,” she says.

John sinks into the water and exhales, bubbling in almost-silent protest. Clara laughs and tosses the ball back to Rory, watching their game continue.

“We can dance,” she murmurs into John’s ear, winding her arms around his neck, floating. “I’ll take the lead.”

He’s not the greatest when it comes to rhythm and beat; it’s why the two of them usually end up in a corner somewhere at a club instead of on the dance floor. He makes a face, but ultimately acquiesces.

“Drunk in a foreign country,” he says. “I suppose the risk of us embarrassing ourselves is already high.”

“Exactly,” Clara says, grinning. “What’s a little more?”

–

(What happens is this:

Nobody remembers anything.

Mickey wakes up on the floor of the kitchen, having dragged his mattress there from the bedroom for some unknowable reason; Amy discovers Rory passed out with his arms over the toilet bowl at five a.m.; John falls out of bed and doesn’t even flinch, sleeping straight through it; Martha spends an hour the next morning hunting for her wallet and her phone, which she’d hidden from herself while intoxicated; Clara inexplicably opens her eyes to find three cartons of orange juice resting on her nightstand, even though she hates citrus; and Ten actually has to give Rose a piggyback ride to breakfast. Jack and River don’t even come home.

It’s only the first night. Clara doesn’t think they’re going to survive the rest.)

–

Miraculously, they do; though they skip clubbing the second night because everyone in the other suite comes home and falls asleep after drinking on the beach, leading Clara, John, Rose, and Ten on an adventure to find a restaurant that isn’t purely seafood – Ten isn’t the biggest fan of it. The third night is another blur, but less so; they end up swimming in the ocean at midnight after four shots of some blue liquid the bartenders were passing out for cheap, and then stumbling home.

(There are only a few odd mishaps: Martha climbs into the wrong bed with Mickey and falls asleep on him; John flings his clothes – including his shoes – into the bathtub and turns the water on, complaining about sand; Rose wanders into the other suite and leaves with three of their pillows, which Jack comes looking for in the middle of the night.)

On the last day, they wander around the city together, stopping in boutiques and hole-in-the-wall shops and even the fish market, to the displeasure of everyone except Amy and John. Clara catches the tail end of a conversation between Jack and River—

“You know,” Jack’s saying, “I don’t really understand it. I’ve never found it to taste like fish. At all.”

River nods, inspecting a carp.“Yes, I’ve always thought it to be sweeter than that—”

Clara doesn’t think she wants to know.

–

(Their flight is a few hours later, and they spend the duration of the ride playing group games of poker on the screens; Clara sweeps them all four out of six rounds. Amy accuses her of cheating, somehow, and winds up challenging her to a real game the minute they get home.

Clara wins twenty-five quid from Amy, who vows never to bet against her again. Clara doesn’t give her the money back. She’s not a pushover. River’s smile is secretly approving.)

–

The next week, Clara and John are packing. She’s beginning to feel like they never stop.

John’s already in the kitchen by the time she wakes up, brewing tea; he and Amy are talking about childhood memories, and it’s such a sweet, undisturbed conversation that Clara waits to interrupt. She lays in bed, listening, smiling at the stories John tells – most of them she’s heard before, but there’s one or two she hasn’t – and finally, when her stomach rumbles loudly, she pads into the kitchen.

Amy’s back is turned; John greets her nicely. “Good morning,” he says, giving her a light kiss. Amy spins and echoes him. John continues, “I’ve made you tea,” and hands her a steaming mug.

She takes it appreciatively. “Thanks. Morning, Amy.”

Amy pushes a plate toward her with a croissant on it, buttered. “He made you this, too, but apparently forgot in his rush to impress you.”

Clara grins. John blushes. “I don’t have to try to impress her,” he shoots back hotly. “We’ve been together long enough, I think.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “Nice try,” she replies. “I don’t think you know how to stop impressing her.”

Clara watches the back and forth with amusement, holding her cup to her mouth. John huffs and doesn’t answer. Clara’s grin widens. She touches John’s arm.

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s endearing. It’s good. I love you for it.”

The use of the word love calms his embarrassment; he relaxes slightly. Amy stares between them contemplatively. “Hey,” she says, “when’s your anniversary?”

He and Clara look at each other, equally baffled. “Erm,” she says.

John puts his finger underneath his chin, thinking. “I think – it was definitely November, right?”

“I thought it was October.”

“Seems like it, but it was – the last week of November.”

Amy’s arm flops against the table in disbelief. “You don’t even know? Don’t you celebrate it?”

“No,” they answer simultaneously, wearing similar blank expressions.

“Hang on,” Clara says, recognition flickering across her face. “You’re right. It was like, the 25th or something.”

He cocks his head. “I thought it was later than that.”

“Should we just pick a day, or—?”

“Go on.”

“28th work for you?” Clara asks, scrolling through the calendar on her phone. “It was a Wednesday.”

“Any day works for me.”

“Perfect.”

Amy’s jaw hangs open. She recovers just enough to say, “You two are unbelievable.”

“Hey, five months tomorrow,” John says, clapping his hands together. “Good on us, ay?”

Clara giggles, mouth against the rim of her mug; Amy’s given up on reactions when neither of them are paying attention. She observes casually for a moment. John kisses Clara’s forehead.

It’s not that anything they’re doing is particularly intimate, but it feels so; it’s the space between them, everything they don’t say and everything they do, the way Clara’s lips tilt and her gaze drops the second John turns his back. Clara’s phone lights up with a text message; her lock screen is a picture of the two of them, clearly candid, asleep together on what looks like Clara’s living room couch; John’s stretched out and Clara’s curled on top of him, head tucked below his chin, underneath a blanket. One of John’s hands rests in her hair; the other is on her waist. Amy can’t stop herself from smiling.

Clara catches her peeking and actually blushes; not because she’s embarrassed, but because it’s not something the rest of them usually get to see – they’re allowed the smaller moments, the jokes and fake insults and flustered compliments. They’ve never been granted vulnerability.

John’s washing dishes; Amy takes the distraction to lean over. “It’s okay,” she says genuinely, quietly. “It’s cute. It really is.”

Clara’s lips curl in slight appreciation. “It’s nauseating,” she corrects, but her voice falls flat. Amy laughs to make her feel better.

Clara changes the subject abruptly. “John, what time’s our train?”

“Eleven.”

She grimaces. “Hour and a half,” she says, checking the clock. “I’ve got to get dressed.”

“Brilliant plan,” he agrees, wiping down a plate. “We would like to get there on time.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll be going alone if you keep up with that attitude.”

He sticks his tongue out at her.

–

(How long are you gone for? Amy asks, chin in her palm.

John thinks for a minute. Until the 10th, he answers; we’re seeing Clara’s family. My exams are the next week, and I think Clara’s are then, too. She’s only got two, though.

Amy frowns. Lucky, she says jealously. I have four.

So do I, John says, but I’m quite looking forward to them.

She rolls her eyes. Of course you are.)

May

The spend the first few days with Clara’s grandmother and aunt, who’ve been waiting to meet John for months; he makes quite an impression when Clara’s gran walks in on him in the bathroom, getting dressed after a shower. She laughs and takes entirely too long leaving, citing old age and rusty joints; he rushes into the kitchen, hiding behind Clara, who’s chopping potatoes.

“What is it?” She asks, catching sight of his red face. “Did gran try to snog you again?”

“She saw me naked!” He exclaims, flapping his arms about wildly.

She chokes on a laugh. “Bet she loved that.”

John fumes. “I’m starting to think she’s doing it on purpose.”

“Probably.” She glances over at him; he’s still somewhat mortified. She nudges his elbow and passes him a knife. “Here,” she says, handing him an onion. “Chop this.”

He starts slicing slowly, methodically; she thinks it’s helping until she sees the tears in his eyes. There’s something so sad about him crying that it doesn’t even matter what induces it. She stands there, biting her lip, her expression tragic; he gives her a watery smile and rushes to apologize.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry. I’m usually better with onions; this one’s strong. Ripe.”

He’s afraid she might cry, too. She places her hands against his cheeks. “Look at you,” she whispers, like he’s some injured stray puppy she decided to take home. “Those big, sad eyes.”

Gran walks in at exactly the wrong moment; Clara’s back is to her, and the only face she sees is John’s. “Oh, dear,” she coos, and Clara jumps. “What’s the matter? Sweet John. You know I’m only teasing.”

He rubs at his eyes furiously. “No, no, no,” he replies, gesturing at the onions without being able to see. “I’m – cooking—”

She obviously doesn’t buy it, giving Clara a knowing stare. She says, “Well, we’re due for a nice board game in a tick. Clean yourself up and meet us in the living room,” and hobbles off.

Clara’s expression is more pitying now than anything else. She wipes her thumb below his eye. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeats, trying to comfort him. “I know she can be a bit much—”

He shakes his head, silencing her. “It’s all right,” he replies, and there’s a look on his face weirdly akin to fierce determination; it’s one she’s seen only in dire situations, like when he forced her through her physics final last term. He meets her eyes. “I think I’m going to have to do things your way.”

She has no idea where that door leads until he reaches for a bottle of tequila, and takes a swig straight from the bottle. She’s torn between shock and hilarity, her eyes wide, hand covering her mouth.

“Life and soul you’re about to be,” is all she manages to say, following him as he marches to meet his doom.

–

(They’re all seated around the telly, and John comes in, clapping his hands. Board games? I love a good board game, what are the options, anyone for a battle of Twister?

Clara mouths ’sorry’ to Dave, and her aunt doesn’t even know how to react; but her gran chortles and replies, Dear, I’m not as flexible as I used to be, but I wouldn’t mind practicing with you.

They wind up playing some random game of cards instead, and Dave leans over and whispers, You know, I’m sort of disturbed that my mother won’t stop flirting with your boyfriend.

Clara winces.

When you put it like that, she says, trailing off.

She winds her fingers through John’s for the rest of the afternoon and tries not to let him go.)

–

The rest of their days home they have to themselves; it’s strolling through parks and drinks at pubs and deep conversations at three in the morning, or frantic kisses, mouths meeting, hands pressing against skin. Clara wants a collage of the way John curls around her while he sleeps; his head underneath her chin, his body resting atop hers, sprawled out; or it’s his cheek on her shoulder, leg across her thighs, arm thrown over her stomach; it’s like his bones were carved with hers in mind.

He’s running his fingers through her hair and she’s lying on his chest; she stretches sleepily and exhales. He asks, “Do you like being home?”

She pauses, frowning at the ceiling in thought. “I do when you’re with me,” she answers finally. “The family – sometimes they’re too much. It’s fine when it’s just dad and I, but my aunt’s a bit overbearing.”

He hums, nails running down her back. “But your gran’s nice.”

Clara breathes out in a laugh, low in her chest. “Real keen on you, that’s for sure.”

“Real keen on playing Twister with me, more like.”

She grins into his collarbone. “It’s nice to see her so lively.”

He hesitates. “When did your grandfather pass?”

“When I was a child,” she says. “I think about eight. It hit her hard.”

John doesn’t speak, still rubbing the contours of her spine. She shifts, resting her chin on her hands, flat on his sternum. She grins distantly, pulling up a memory; she’s not sure why the particular one comes to her or what it means, but she tells him anyway. “She has this story,” Clara begins, “from before they were together. She’d see him across the street all the time. But there was a day in particular – a moment – where she said she looked at him and wanted everything to stop. Like he was so beautiful, standing there, that she wished nothing would change ever again.”

John remains oddly silent. He meets her gaze, and the look on his face is delicate, gentle, fleeting; like if she blinks, she’ll miss him. She feels his lungs expand and his breath catches. He says, after a brief struggle, “I feel like that a lot.”

Her eyes dart back and forth between his, comprehending. She kisses him once, lingering, and murmurs, “Yeah.” Her lips are in a smile against his. “I feel like that a lot, too.”

–

Clara isn’t the constant center of jokes until the next day, as Dave’s been too busy working to stay at home much, and none of them are night owls – but the minute he’s got time off, it’s like he’s reading a list of all the ones he’s stored up.

“Clara, darling, if you don’t mind,” he interrupts, in the middle of her singing an over-dramatized Whitney Houston ballad, “John and I were hoping for a lovely afternoon together, not a preview of a surely-to-be rejected audition for The X Factor.”

John nearly snorts tea up his nose, choking. She looks at him in offense, swatting him on the shoulder. “Don’t laugh!” She commands. “Defend my honour!”

He sets his mug down, falling into fake seriousness. “Well, Clara, he’s got a point – you’d definitely be rejected.”

“I want you dead,” she says cheerfully.

“Love you too, dear, thanks.”

Dave grins innocently, as if he isn’t the one who initiated the conflict. Clara throws a sugar cube at his face.

–

(John says later, I’m only joking, dear, you know I think your singing is beautiful.

She rolls her eyes, allowing a small smirk to form across her face. Really, she says flatly.

He kisses her slowly, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw.

Honestly? He starts quietly. If I could have one thing from you – just one – it would be the sound of your voice.)

–

Everyone’s in crunch mode by the time they arrive back at their dorm: Rory’s sitting in the hallway, surrounded by piles of books; River’s highlighting paragraphs of her notes at the kitchen table, sitting next to Jack, who’s typing up definitions on his laptop; and Amy’s making flashcards in the living room, quizzing herself. They all look up when Clara and John return, greeting them happily.

“You’re home!” Amy expresses joyfully. “That’s a good enough excuse to take a break, right?”

“I’ll allow it,” Rory says begrudgingly. Jack tugs his earphones out of his ears.

“Perfect,” he says. “I’m starving. Should we do dinner?”

River swings around on her stool. “Let’s go out somewhere,” she implores. “All of us. It’d be a nice change.”

Clara inclines an eyebrow in confusion. “We always go out together.”

River rephrases. “Let’s go out together without having the intention to get smashed.”

“Oh, right, I see,” Clara says. “Yeah, we should.”

Rory’s grumbling to himself; Amy and River are already slipping on their coats. Jack grins. “That settles it,” he answers. “Anyone in the mood for tapas?”

–

John observes them sitting around the table, passing dishes back and forth, laughing and joking and enjoying each others’ company. It’s not an awkward, forced meal where they’re making polite conversation and side-eying one another, wary and tense, like it might have been in the beginning – he remembers Clara avoiding River, and Amy walking on eggshells around Rory, and him and Jack in the kitchen, talking about mistakes – but this is warmth and genuine affection; it’s River and Rory hugging, it’s Clara and Amy debating over appetizers, it’s Jack saying earnestly he loves each of them in turn. It’s family.

Clara notices the subtle change in John’s demeanor. “John?” She asks. “Something wrong?”

The rest of them overhear and stop to listen, worried. He smiles softly, gazing at them all. He says, “A lot’s changed, hasn’t it.”

The silence that settles is reflective; they weren’t expecting a streak of sentimentality. They grow almost shy of each other after realizing the truth of John’s words. Clara taps John’s knee.

Amy stretches a hand across the table and wraps her fingers around his; she’s beaming. “Yeah,” she agrees gently. “It has.”

–

He sort-of studies for his exams, mostly for the sake of appearance; he’s confident enough in his own knowledge and ability to pass without needing to go over the material again. He sits next to Clara on the couch instead, wearing his reading glasses, reading short essays and texts in order to validate her interpretations of them. Sometimes he pretends to disagree with her, just to make her explain it thoroughly; she gets heated, pointing out subtext and literary devices until he understands. She realizes what he’s doing the third time around, and pauses in the middle of a sentence, grinning at him.

“Oh,” she says. “I see.”

He smiles, waving his hand. “Go on.”

“In a moment.” She leans on one elbow. “Do you still love me, even though I sound like a raving obsessive lunatic?”

He sighs, almost like he can’t believe she’s even asking him such a question. “Clara Oswald,” he responds, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

–

(Clara, Amy, and Jack are all up late that evening, as they’re the three with exams the following afternoon. John stays awake and brews them coffee – his first test isn’t until a day later – and even gives Amy a shoulder rub, working out the kinks in her muscles.

You’re the best, John, she almost moans, her head flat against the table. My back is killing me.

Just call me the Doctor, he replies zealously, and he can feel Clara’s grin from across the room.)

–

Clara’s the first to finish her exams, as she’s only got two, and her second is the day of John’s third. She waits outside the hall with Rose, who’s waiting for Ten; it’s the exam for the module the two share. They’re discussing summer plans, and activities they want to do once the term officially ends.

“Ten wants a holiday in New York,” Rose says, inspecting her nails. “He loves it there, and I’ve never been.”

Clara whistles. “Lavish trip. And here I’ve got John wanting to take me to the Caribbean.”

Rose almost laughs, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “The boys and their money.”

“At least they’re modest.”

“True,” Rose allows. “Anyway, nothing’s set in stone, yet. You?”

Clara shrugs, resting against the wall. “John’s parents had a lakehouse, about two hours south. I think we’re going for a week or two in July.”

Rose smiles. “That’ll be nice. Bit of an honour, don’t you think?”

She knows instantly what Rose is referring to. “Yeah,” she replies, humble, “because I don’t think he’s been there since. He said he’d love for me to see it, though.”

Rose gives her a nod in understanding, still smiling.

“It’s a step,” is all she says, just as Ten and John come piling out of the exam hall.

–

(How’d you do, boys? Rose asks, and in lieu of a response, Ten grabs her face between both of his hands and kisses her.

Brilliantly, he announces enthusiastically, swinging an arm around her shoulders. What a breeze, eh, John? Finished at the same time.

John points at him. Great minds, he says, clapping. We are incredibly clever.

Now, Ten continues excitedly, weren’t we discussing that quadracycle?

Rose and Clara exchange looks while their boyfriends’ backs are turned.

Don’t even ask, Rose mouths.)

–

River’s the last to end her exams, and they’ve all agreed to stay until then; it’s only an extra few days, so nobody minds much. They’re packing up their stuff, anyway, leaving their flat a mess of suitcases and half-filled boxes and heaps of clothing scattered about – Clara finds three of John’s shirts on the kitchen counter, and Jack realizes he’s packed half of Rory’s pants by mistake – and John’s left wondering how they wound up with exponentially more belongings than they started with.

“I swear,” he says, folding Clara’s jumpers, “it’s like your wardrobe is bigger on the inside. How’d you manage this?”

“I’m excellent with storage,” she replies from the bathroom, scrubbing the sink.

He doesn’t bother asking in the future.

They end up starting a pile in the living room that Amy refers to as “Things I’d Never Fucking Own,” and sorting through it once the rest of their packing is done. It’s small items like hairbrushes and lipstick and the odd pair of socks, but someone throws in a bottle of tequila as a joke, which Clara steals immediately.

“Think of it as a goodbye gift,” Jack calls as she smuggles it into her room, dragging his suitcase to the front. “I’ll see you in September.”

They all trickle out slowly, and it’s hugs and promises to visit over the break; Amy kisses John on the cheek, which River follows by kissing Clara on both, walking out the door like she’s on a runway. Rory’s carrying her bag. She waves over her shoulder with a wink and says ominously, “Until next term.”

–

(It’s difficult for John to take down his stars.

They’ve got the lights off and they’re staring at the ceiling, reveling in the solar system one last time. Clara’s head is pressed against John’s shoulder. His arm curls around her back.

So, he says, trying the lighten the moment; Should I tell you something about space?

She nods into the crook of his neck, breathing. Yeah, she murmurs, smiling. Tell me something about space.)

–

Clara and John are the last to leave.

He’s holding a book in his hand, flipping aimlessly through the pages, staring at their empty flat. Clara’s hands cover his, reading the title.

“The Prophet,” she says quietly. “Trying to find the words to say goodbye?”

He smiles. “It felt nice,” he says, “to have a family again.”

She rubs his arm comfortingly. “We’ll be back. Same group.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, lost in thought. She’s learned to wait; he’ll tell her when it comes, when the words are waiting precariously on the tip of his tongue to fall, when he can’t contain them anymore. He laces his fingers through hers.

“I spent a long time running,” he murmurs carefully, “from my own life, and my own pain, and my own suffering. I thought the farther I ran, the less it would hurt. That’s all I wanted. For everything to stop. For time to pass.”

She stays silent, sensing the importance and weight of what he’s trying to express. He glances at her and laughs once, quietly, under his breath.

“You know, I originally applied for a private room, but something went wrong,” he says. “I wanted to stay as far away from other people as possible. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to have nothing more to lose.” There’s a pause, and he tilts his head, staring fully at her. “And then – that first morning – there you were.”

Her lips stretch into a small smile; she’s never heard his perspective like this before. He brushes her hair behind her ear and continues. “You. You were – so impossible; so small and forceful, and so, so beautiful. I’d spent so long trying to see people as things; sticks and stones, weapons that could be used against me. But you. You. You.”

She can’t stop herself. “What about me?”

His thumb brushes her cheek. “You were so beautifully human. And nothing mattered after that; no ounce of reason, no sliver of logic. I wanted to be with you. I was happy being with you. Whatever came next – the months I didn’t step forward, the days I gave to River, all of it – was because I knew it had to be you, and I tried running from that, as well.”

“Why?”

“Foreknowledge is a dangerous thing,” he answers, grinning almost cheekily; it fades into a sad sort of softness. “You know exactly why, Clara.” There’s a pause. His voice is low. “I still have nightmares about burying you, too.”

Her fingers are tight around his own. “I’m not going anywhere,” she declares, more sure of it than she’s ever been. “Promise me you won’t – send me away, or push me away again. Promise.”

He nearly laughs. “Send you away?” He repeats. “Is there actually a place I could go where you wouldn’t follow me?”

She smiles. Her eyes are wet. “No.”

He lays a palm against her cheek, standing in front of her. Her gaze is anchored to the ground. He says, “Clara.”

He lifts up her chin. “What?” She asks, trying not to cry.

He says, “I love you. And I’m looking forward to tomorrow with you, to every holiday with you, to every anniversary with you.”

It’s so simple. Her throat hurts from the effort of holding back; it’s raw and unguarded and vulnerable, his mouth parting against her lips, his heart beating next to hers, the feeling of time and place and person being right, and it’s all that’s worth anything, really: that they’re alive together.

So she says, “I’m looking forward to every Wednesday with you.”

–

(When they leave, they lock the door and don’t look back.

She keeps his spare key.)