AlwaysClara @alwaysclaraoswald-blog - Tumblr Blog

MEET CUTE

Placing the entirety of my newest chapter on here. Going to work on the next chapter this week.

Thanks for all your lovely comments thus far.

Chapter 13

Paris, Part One

Explicit

http://archiveofourown.org/works/7131743/chapters/16194065

Clara and the Doctor roamed through the Louvre commenting on their favourite paintings and sculptures as they went. The Doctor's reverence of art that she had previously only been given a glimpse into when he spoke of the Vettriano print hanging in his flat was fully unveiled to her. He had a wealth of knowledge about every painting they passed. He said it was a hobby of his, but she suspected it was more than that. He expressed his admiration with such eloquence and passion as one would talking of a significant other or ones own talent which led her to believe that that these paintings were a vessel through which he could express his untainted, ecstatic joy for life, a view that was, outside the immutable walls of the museum, in the unrelenting cruelty of ones own uncertain life, necessarily more shrewd and tempered.

Now they were walking through the Tuileres. It was a clear day and the garden's flowers swayed lightly in the intermittent breeze. Her pinkie finger was wrapped around the corresponding finger of his. She had initiated this without being aware of it. She supposed she had done it because it was something her and her mother used to do when they walked side by side in the park near their home in Blackpool. Only after a couple seconds passed -- seconds where he perhaps wondered at her gesture -- did he accept it, curling his finger tightly around hers. She was thankful he did not recoil from her gesture; not only because she relished being near him in any minor capacity but also because it was something she had last done with her mother, the day before she died, and so the pain at his refusal would have been two-fold. As they continued walking, her finger curled around his, a warmth consumed her and she felt a prickling of happy tears in her eyes. He would never realise the significance, the comfort, she received from him simply curling his finger around hers.

But then ever since her tearful confession to him in her bedroom -- their bedroom -- at the Airbnb his mood had improved considerably. Not only no longer moody but considerate, warm, and teasing. In the room in the Louvre housing the Mona Lisa he dared her to take a photo of the painting -- strictly prohibited, enforced by the guards stood around the room to stop anyone from doing so -- and when she chickened out he walked over to the guard nearest them to ask him something innocuous so she could quickly take the photo without notice. When she did and he came back they both started giggling and half-ran out of the room, passing the guard he had been speaking to, a confused look on his face as he watched them go.

She was thinking of this as they stood in the park watching the many children before them sat cross legged on the bright green grass, their attention rapt on a puppet show in front of them.

"You know we could have been kicked out of the museum," Clara remarked.

"No, I don't think so. They would have just made us delete the photo."

"Why don't they want people to have a photo of it? Everyone knows what the Mona Lisa looks like."

"They don't want people using flash photography. It destroys the canvas."

"Oh, I didn't think of that," Clara said, aghast. "But I didn't use flash."

"I know, I made sure your flash wasn't on before I went over to the guard."

"Why did you do that, distract the guard so I could take the photo?"

"Why not," he said, looking mischievous. "It was fun."

"Fun, yes, but against the rules. You don't seem like a rule breaker."

"How do you know that? You've only really known me for a little over a week. And besides, looks are deceiving."

"Yes, you are right there," she said, thinking about the man who had sold them their tickets. When she explained to him that they were tourists from England he remarked that it was nice to see a father and daughter travelling together. She shook the thought from her mind, still as disturbing to her now as when it occurred a few hours before.

"That being so, I don't believe you are usually reckless. But you are right, I don't know much about you. You don't like to talk about yourself, do you? Is it because you want to appear mysterious?"

"No. There's just not much to tell."

"Well, everyone has parents. What about yours?"

The children before them began to laugh as one puppet knocked into another, causing the two to begin wrestling one another. As Clara laughed at the sight before her -- the puppets and the children's evident joy -- he answered

"My father and mother were dairy farmers."

"Dairy farmers? I thought at least one of your parents would have been a professor."

"No," he chuckled. "Far from it. Neither went to university, although my mother attended a village school and was well read. Her father owned the farm. He passed away shortly after she married. Her mother had died when she was very young and she had no brothers, so she and my father took over the farm."

"That must have been a beautiful place to grow up."

"Yes, beautiful. I had many happy moments there, especially in the Spring, watching the calves being born, running through the meadows filled with wildflowers, simply being out in the warm air, after such a long, cold winter. It looked and was at times idyllic. However, the farm itself was in disrepair when my parents acquired it and it took them many years to build back up. Even ten years after they took it over -- I was then still a child -- they had enough to keep the farm going, but not much else besides. My father worked 12 hour days, hiring as few people as he could to off-set costs. As I grew older I assisted him. He wasn't what you would call a loving father. He never expressed affection. I never heard him tell my mother that he loved her. But then he was not violent, he very rarely raised his voice either at her or me, even when in my teenage years I was not the most obedient of son's. There was only one time that he was very upset with me. I was in my early twenties. He wanted me to enlist in the Scottish National Liberation Army--"

"They advocated for independence from the U.K," Clara supplied.

"Yes, more specifically they were a militant group, terrorists really. They blackmailed and threatened those in power as a means to gain power for themselves, power they would use to secede and create an independent government. Of course they were unsuccessful. Many today even claim that they never existed. But my father had heard of them. He had always been a vociferous, outspoken, advocate for Scottish independence, although he never actively sought out any means of participating in its realisation. But now he was convinced that he could do his part. However, he could not do it himself -- he had the farm, his and his wife's only living, to secure, and he had begun to ail in health. But his son, young and able-bodied, was just the sort the army wanted. He found out who one of the ring leaders of the organisation was and had him come to the farm to speak to me without my father explaining beforehand who he was. The man was in his thirties, kind, ingratiating, a very good sales man -- a very good propagandist, is what I would later think, once my father, not the most eloquent or convincing of speakers, explained further what the army represented.

I had been home schooled by my mother but had read every history book that was available at the local library. I knew, even if both my father and this man had omitted it, that their endeavour was one that could only be accomplished through bloodshed. So I refused to go. My father was disappointed in me. The man from the army came back, this after several days of my father trying to convince me to change my mind, and I told him that he would be leaving without me. That night my father, for the first time ever, raised his voice to me. I can't now remember exactly what he said but it was not, I can assure you, affectionate. I left the farm that night. I walked to the center of town, waiting until daylight, and used what little money I had made from the farm to buy a train ticket. I arrived in London the next day. I had cousins there from my mothers side. We had written each other often. They had asked me to visit them, sending me their address in case I ever decided to do so. I stayed with my mother's sister for several years, got a temp job at a publishing agency and once I finished university I was given a small editorial job there, which I did during the day while attending graduate school classes at night. Then I acquired my PhD and started teaching."

The puppet show had ended a few minutes before and they were now alone sat on the grass facing one another.

"Did you ever go back to the farm?" Clara asked.

"No," he replied simply.

"Did you ever speak to your father again?"

"Only once. My mother called every week to find out how I was doing. When I made enough money to send some back home I asked her if she wanted to visit me in London but she said she couldn't leave my father. His eye sight by that point was very bad, and she had to take over many of the tasks that he had once done himself."

"Do you..." Clara stopped herself.

"What?" he asked, looking at her.

"I shouldn't ask."

"You clearly want to." He paused, and then said, "I won't be upset with you. What is it?"

"Well, do you ever regret not going back?"

"Yes," he answered frankly. "Not for him -- not that I hated my father, I could never hate my father -- but he and I had never been close, not like I was with my mother. I regretted not going back for her, even perhaps to help on the farm, after father could no longer keep doing it."

"But your mother must have been so proud of you -- going to university, getting your degrees, creating a life for yourself, practically by yourself."

"Yes, she was. But then life is not to be lived only for oneself.

She passed away two years after I received my PhD. It was in the winter. She got pneumonia but the snow was so high that by the time a doctor could get to her her lungs were filled almost completely with fluid. It was so bad that there was no medication they could give to help her. She died that night. But still I didn't go back," he said, his voice now wavering.

"She knew you cared for her. Mothers always do," Clara said, moving closer to him, covering his hands with hers.

"That was the last time I spoke to my father who called to tell me of her passing. He did not express regret for me not being there, for leaving, for never coming back, and so I didn't either. Three days later I received another call, this time from a neighbour. My father had missed his daily round of delivering milk. They went to the farm and found him, in the snow, face down, several feet away from one of the barns. He had been dead for over a day. His leg was broken." The Doctor shook his head incredulously as he said, "it was thought he was trying to repair the roof on the barn that had recently sunken in as a result of the accumulation of snow on the top of it. The damn fool had climbed up there on a ladder and then fallen off. He had pulled himself a few feet through the snow with his broken leg before he either gave up or hypothermia set in. I wish...I wish I had gone back right after hearing of my mothers death, but of course one always wishes these things, after the fact

Clara caressed his hand with her own. "It wasn't your fault, what happened to your father."

"No, I didn't push him off the roof, that's true, and even though you can't predict the future, the truth is, that if I had been there, I probably would have found him in time, or have been able to convince him to not be so foolish as to climb on that roof." He smiled a little, "Sorry, I didn't intend on telling you all of this."

"Thank you."

"Thank me, for what, making a beautiful day suddenly very depressing?"

"For telling me. For trusting me enough to tell me."

Very lightly she placed her lips on his, kissing him softly, while with her hand she smoothed the errant curls of his grey hair. Moving herself a few inches apart she looked directly into his eyes -- dark blue as of a stormy sea -- and moved to kiss the natural indentations etched on the side of his eyes, first the one side then delicately the other, marks that illuminated the years he had lived and seemed to her then a manifestation of his sorrow. As she looked at him once more she saw his brow furrow, a consequence she surmised of his wrestling with a myriad of emotions. Not wishing to cause him further pain she stood and offered him her hand as earlier during her turmoil he had offered her his, and she smiled at him sweetly as he rose, his features she noticed appearing no longer tormented, only the blue of his eyes containing the same tempestuous luminescence.

♥♥

When they arrived back at the house Amy and Rory were there to greet them. Clara predicted Amy would have ridiculous and funny stories to tell them about their day in Paris, as with her it seemed no matter where she went something unpredictable occurred to her that would only happen to most people once or twice in their lifetime. She expected a dinner at home of wine, cheese, and olives, and an early night spent in bed, with the Doctor, watching unintelligible French television on the old-fashioned T.V. box situated on the dresser in front of the room, and then she would fall asleep, tucked in his arms, the first real sleep since she last slept beside him several days before. This, however, was not how things were going to turn out she realised the moment she took in the sight of her friends.

Amy was dressed in a short black and gold glittery dress, Rory, whom she had never seen in anything other than jeans or nurses scrubs, was fitted in a suit and black trousers, his blonde hair combed back in a perfect quiff.

"You are back!" Amy announced. "I was just going to call your mobiles. Have you had dinner?"

"No, just lunch a few hours ago," Clara replied.

"Parfait! I have made reservations for dinner and then it is drinks at a jazz club afterward. Did you pack a nice dress like I told you?"

Clara nodded in affirmation.

"Good. Change into it. Doctor, you will find in your bedroom a suit for you. I knew you wouldn't want to bring one so I had one made for you -- we still had the measurements when you were in Rory's wedding party. Now, chop-chop, we have twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. Knowing the French, I suspect they will not hold our table for even a minute longer than they need to."

After they had changed -- taking turns turning around so the other would not see them dress, not that she would tell him but a fruitless effort on the Doctor's part, really, as he had already seen her almost completely naked -- Clara remarked:

"You don't seem as upset about this as I thought you would be."

"I knew what I was getting myself into by coming here this weekend. I'm just hoping the blow will be swift and relatively painless."

"Oh, such stoical resignation," Clara laughed, as she went toward him, running her hand through the back of his now slicked back hair, kissing him on the cheek.

Their dinner, at a chic restaurant, was very pleasant. It turned out that Amy did have a few unbelievable stories to tell them about her day -- one including a mime that Clara didn't think she would soon be able to erase from her mind. They left the restaurant cheerful, laughing and stumbling down the arrondissement arm in arm.

It was only a few blocks to the jazz club, LE CHAT SOLITAIRE, situated on a side street so you wouldn't know it was there unless you were specifically looking for it. Even so, Clara couldn't make out any noticeable markings for the club and would have gotten lost entirely if Amy hadn't been leading her by the arm. Clara could tell, the minute they entered, that the Doctor was nervous. He began fumbling with the cuffs of his crisp collared shirt. She immediately suggested they go to the bar. A stiff drink should help calm his and, she had to admit, her own nerves. She wasn't sure what Amy's reason was for coming here but she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that there was a reason and it was one that was bound to be uncomfortable for all involved -- well, all but the mastermind of it. Clara loved Amy, she believed that she had only the best intentions at heart, but she also knew that these good intentions did not always have a similarly positive outcome.

But then nothing happened. They ordered drinks and sipped them while sitting at a four top table, listening to the sultry tones of a young Parisian woman singing a slow, jazzy tune, and watching the few couples dancing in the front of the room. This transpired for about an hour. Clara began to relax. So too did the Doctor. They were sitting very close to one another as a result of the table being so small. Clara was onto her second drink -- second at the club, fourth all together, as she had two during dinner. Her chin rested on the palm of her hand while she looked up at him as he regaled her with a story. She had to admit she wasn't really listening to his story, not that what he was telling her wasn't interesting -- or maybe it wasn't, she didn't know -- but because she was now feeling quite tipsy and could only focus her attention on one thing at a time and currently that attention was superseded by her fascination at what he was wearing, or, rather, the two buttons that were currently undone on his white collared shirt, revealing to her the top of his chest, which she'd never seen before as normally his collar shirts were buttoned all the way to the top.

The lighting in the club was very low but even so she could clearly see him before her. He is quite skinny, she thought, as she noted the definition of his collar bone, the extenuated dip it made above his bare chest. Of course there were wrinkles, on his throat and further down and she wondered at herself for not finding him less handsome for them. Quite the opposite was true and if she were less drunk she would think more about why she found him more appealing as a result of them, so much so that she wanted to reach out and touch him there. But by this point her thoughts had moved onto a more interesting topic. To her surprise the portion of his chest that she could see was bare. There was no hair as she thought there would be -- he had such a thick, luxurious head of hair (for a man of his age, she added) -- which begged the question of whether he shaved his chest, and if so, what else did he possibly shave?

Clara suddenly began to feel very warm. She fanned herself with a pamphlet advertising that nights performer.

"And then the nun said, I guess you don't really need those apples after all. -- Clara, are you all right? You look a little over heated," he asked, all concern.

"I'm fine, it's just a bit warm in here."

"Hmm, I was just thinking it was really cold."

"Oh, well, maybe I caught a little bit too much sun today," she said, not, she thought, very convincingly.

"I guess. I hope you aren't coming down with anything." He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "You don't feel sick, do you?"

"No," she smiled. "But thank you for worrying. Doctor."

"Not that kind of doctor."

"Still, it was very considerate of you."

"Oh, well, I'm really just worried about myself," he said, eyes flashing mischievously. "You see, we're sleeping together the next two days and if you are ill then I'm liable to get ill as well."

"Hmmm, that being the case, I'll try to not get too close to you, but I can't make any promises." She smiled at him, all pretend innocence, and his eyes instantly became half-hooded. She couldn't wait to hear what he would say in response.

But as always, timing was not on their side.

"Here you are, at last!" Amy announced, holding her arms out to a dark-haired woman approaching their table. "Where were you, I thought you would never show up."

"I'm so sorry, Amy, my flight was late," the woman said, hugging her. "How are you? Is this Rory?!?" She hugged Rory to within an inch of his life. "Oh my goodness, he's quite gorg!" she enthused, finally releasing him, Rory smoothing the newly formed creases in his suit.

"Everyone, this is Gwen Cooper, a friend of mine who was also studying here at the same time I was," Amy explained, as both Clara and the Doctor shook her hand.

"I felt so bad that I wasn't able to make it to your wedding. But work, you know."

Amy nodded but neither explained what work it was that prevented her from attending.

"So, how is everyone enjoying Paris?" Gwen asked.

Clara said it was gorgeous. Amy recounted her and Rory's day, but as she did she kept looking behind Gwen to scan the room.

"Um...I thought you were bringing..." Amy began but did not finish.

"Oh, yeah, he's just trying to find a parking space," Gwen replied, looking behind her. "There's absolutely no where to park around here. Oh -- there he is."

Gwen pointed to a man at the entrance to the club who was chatting with one of the bouncers, giving him a dazzling smile as he did, before turning to slowly walk toward their group. He was wearing an American army uniform, tightly fitted on a muscular frame, and he was around her age, Clara noted, of moderate height and very handsome, just what, Clara thought, a young army officer during World War II would look like, or at least a hyper-glamourised movie version of one. And there was that smile again, chiselling his face in a Cary Grant sort of way, as he approached them.

"Jack!" Amy exclaimed, running into his arms.

"Hello, darling," Jack said sweetly, kissing her on the cheek. "And this must be Rory," he said, giving the aforementioned a tenacious shake of the hand before returning his attention to Amy.

"These two are really enthusiastic about their greetings," he whispered to the Doctor as he shook out his sore hand.

"These are two friends of mine. This is the Doctor, well John Smith but he prefers to be called the Doctor. He works at the university with me." Jack shook his hand but then immediately changed focus toward the person sitting next to him.

"And whooo are you?" he drawled, his voice a few octaves lower. Clara extended her hand toward his proffered one but instead of shaking it he lowered himself to place a delicate kiss on the top of it.

"This is my newest and now closest friend Clara Oswald," Amy replied.

"Captain Jack Harkness. Nice to meet you, Clara Oswald," he said, giving her one of his dazzling smiles. Clara giggled in response, smiling back at him. "You have a gorgeous smile," he said, which only made her giggle again.

"Drinks all round, on me?" Jack asked, but before they could respond he was already on his way to the bar. The club was full of a lot more people than when they first arrived and it took some time for him to get to the bar, frequently stopping to chat with some of the strangers, both men and women, he met along the way.

"Oh, Jack, how I do miss him," Amy sighed. "He's one of a kind."

"He certainly seems so," the Doctor said. "Gwen, are you and he an item?"

"Oh, no, he's just a friend, a very close and dear friend, but only a friend. I have a fiancee back home."

"Ah," was all the Doctor said in reply

"Whiskey sours for all," Jack announced upon returning, handing each person a glass. "Hope you can hold your whiskey," he said to all, although he was only looking at the Doctor.

"So, Jack, how do you and Amy know one another?" Clara asked.

He grabbed an empty seat to sit beside Clara, only an inch away from her now that their already small table was even more crowded. "I was visiting Paris during the time Amy and Gwen were studying here, and now I live here, working at the American consulate."

"Was it fancy dress day at work?" the Doctor asked, narrowing his eyes at him, while taking a large sip of his drink, seeming to barely register the harsh burn of the liquid as it travelled down his throat.

"Ah, no," Jack smiled, although directing the smile toward Clara. "I trained in the American army and am now in charge of ensuring the safety and security of American citizens visiting or living here. Which is no small task with the current threat of terrorist activity in Europe."

"I imagine," Clara said, taking a small sip of her drink, taken back from the strength of it, the taste of it at once delicious and harsh. She wondered how the Doctor was able to take such a large gulp of it without showing any emotion.

"So, are you currently seeing anyone?" Amy asked, looking at Jack.

"Haha. I always loved your directness. No, not at the moment. But who knows, maybe by the end of the night that will change." And once again his gaze focused on Clara. The Doctor was just then taking another large sip of his drink and this time he did respond, coughing loudly. Rory patted his back a few times but the Doctor, rattled, swatted his arm away.

"Anyway, I came here for two things: one, to see my favourite red head again--"

"You're only red-head," Gwen butted in.

"Oh, what little you know, Gwen." Jack winked at her. "And two, to dance!" he enthused, rising from his seat and walking toward Amy. "So what do you say, Mrs. Pond, care for a Charleston or two.

"Do I ever!" Amy laughed, taking his hand as they rushed to the dance floor.

Rory raised an eyebrow to the Doctor. Clara, sobering, tried to keep a conversation going between the three of them but due to the sour moods of the two men present (as sour as the drinks they were consuming) she found it difficult to find anything interesting to talk about. She asked Gwen about her job but she wasn't very forthcoming -- saying only that she worked in an office -- but when Clara asked, blithely, what office job would require her to travel so much, she said kindly but with finality "we have offices all around the world."

Jack and Amy returned, gasping for breath and sweaty

"Oh, Jack, I'm going to have take a few Spin classes before seeing you again."

"Now, who's next?" Jack asked, looking at all assembled, stopping on Clara. "What about you, Clara Oswald, have you ever done the Charleston?"

"I can't say that I have."

"Well, everyone has to have a first time," he said, looking at her but with the briefest of glances catching the eye of the Doctor.

He extended his hand out to her but she did not immediately take it. "I'm really not much of a dancer."

"Don't worry, I'm a brilliant teacher," Jack boasted, taking her hand to lead her to the dance floor.

"So, Gwen, tell me, have you and Rhys finally set a date for the wedding?"

Gwen and Amy chatted on their own, leaving the Doctor and Rory sat by themselves.

"He's kind of an ass. I'm right, right?" Rory asked.

"He certainly is very sure of himself."

"I want to like him. Amy loves him; won't stop raving about him, which at first made me wonder if he and her were ever...you know...but she assures me that never happened."

The Doctor sat back, his arms crossed on his chest, as he watched Jack attempt to teach Clara the Charleston. She got a step wrong and fell against him laughing.

"I think he's what women call charming."

They danced two songs together, Clara finally getting a handle on the steps, and then the music changed. The singer from before returned and the music that had been boisterous and fast-paced for the last hour turned slow and romantic. The Doctor thought Clara and Jack would return to the table but they remained on the dance floor. He watched as Jack moved in closer to her, putting his arm tightly around her waist and she, hesitant at first, moved in closer as well, almost resting her head on his shoulder.

Now the Doctor sat up taller, uncrossing his arms. It seemed to him as though Jack was talking to her, speaking against her ear. As they turned with the music he saw her smile sweetly. Even from here he could see her dimples. And then Jack pulled back slightly to look at her, forcing her to look up at him.

"Looks like he's going to attempt a move," Rory remarked, and before the Doctor was even aware of it he had leapt out of his seat.

Clara was enjoying herself. Oh, yes, it was partially aided by the whiskey that she believed she could actually feel coursing through her veins, but also it was because she was in Paris, in a jazz club made to look as though it really was the 1920's -- a time in history she had always loved -- and she was dancing with a handsome young man in uniform. How could it be any more perfect? Well, she thought, as Jack twirled her around, it could be more perfect. But as she had taught herself a long time ago life was made for living as it was, right here in the minute, not for ruining it by wishing for more than you had. So she would enjoy Jack's easy-going nature as he taught her the Charleston and his assiduous efforts to make her laugh when she missed a step. She would delight in being so close to the stage that she could feel the vibrations of the music under her feet and hear all around her the brassy notes of the trombone and then later the entrancing sultry voice of the singer.

"The singers voice is almost as beautiful as you," Jack whispered in her ear as they slow danced. She smiled at the compliment but could not think of a reply. And then he separated himself from her, although still with his hand on her arm, and she looked up at him and realised as he looked down at her that he meant for something to happen, and then she felt panic because the only thing he could want to occur was the one thing she did not want to happen, not with him, not with all these people surrounding them, not with the one person she knew was watching them looking on. She saw him smile and his eyes positively twinkle and just as she thought he was going to lean in to kiss her she felt hands grasping her waist from behind her.

"It is time to leave," a voice said, low and harsh all at once -- authoritative -- a voice she recognised instantly and that sent pleasurable chills down her spine.

Jack removed his hand from her arm. "If you wanted to dance with the lady, you only had to ask," he said, winking at Clara before walking away, instantly lost in the crowd of people.

She turned.

"Why is it time to leave?" she asked the Doctor, craning her neck to look up at him, so much taller was he than Jack.

"It is late...we are both tired," he said, although it came out more like a question.

"I don't want to go home. I want to dance."

"Well, then I suppose you should run after your young sailor."

"He is not a sailor and you scared him away."

"He must not be as tough as he seems."

"Besides, what I really want, is to dance with you." She moved his hand back on her waist. "And don't protest or else..."

"Or else, what," he smirked at her

"Or else...I'll steal all the covers in the middle of the night and you'll wake up cold and shivering."

"I very much doubt that will happen," he said, covering her hand with his own, leading her in a dance as the singer sang La Vie en Rose behind them.

"Why do you doubt that? I have been told I am quite the blanket stealer."

He pulled her closer to him so that his lips lightly grazed her ear. "Because I will be holding you close to me all night."

She sighed, allowing her head to fall against his chest, her eyes closing as the silky strands of his voice and the purport of his words washed over her.

He held her against him for the remainder of the song and then throughout the next three until, among the crush of people, they were less dancing than he was rocking her back and forth, his head now placed against her own. He kissed the soft tendrils of hair on her head and she slowly looked up at him and he felt then as though they were the only two people there. Caressing her cheek he tilted her chin up toward him and then heard, behind him, someone say, "Do you two want to stay? We were going to head back home." And then the Doctor looked behind him with what Clara surmised was not a very warm look, as Amy, bashful, responded, "Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?"

♥♥

"Did you have fun today?" the Doctor asked Clara where they were now esconsced in their bedroom after saying goodnight to Amy and Rory.

"Very much so."

"You seemed to enjoy the jazz club most of all."

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I quite liked the Louvre."

"I thought Jack was an interesting fellow."

Clara smiled to herself.

"Very much so."

"Is that your new favourite phrase?"

"Do you want to watch some telly before bed?"

"Do you not want to talk about Jack?" he asked, ignoring her as she had ignored him.

"What is there to talk about?"

"Well, I don't know, that he seemed to fancy you and you seemed to enjoy him teaching you how to dance."

"So you were watching us? I thought you were."

"So when you smiled and laughed at him you knew I was watching?"

"I can do what I like, with whomever I like," she responded adamantly, stubbornly.

Slowly, the Doctor replied, "I have never said you cannot. I believe I even quoted Charlotte Bronte once in approbation of your independence. But...Clara...you know not how your actions affect me," he said in such a way that it seemed it was almost painful for him to say it.

"Do they? I don't think anything I do affects you much."

"Is that right?" He glared at her, slowly moving toward her.

"I wonder if there are any English channels," she said, hurriedly picking up the remote near the nightstand but before she could turn on the television he crossed the short divide between them, taking from her hand the remote, lightly tossing it across the room.

"Maybe it is time I showed you how you affect me."

He waited only a couple of seconds -- seconds during which she could have protested against what he thought he made clear he wanted to do -- but she did not, she only stood looking up at him with those lovely doe-like eyes, eyes that he knew then would always be his siren song; any scruples he had would always be lost the moment he looked into them, especially as they were now, tremulous but wanting. He was calm during these seconds. He did not move, he did not speak, he did not betray any emotion. And then, when those seconds were over, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek and without further hesitation kissed her with fierce abandon. When once he had waited for her to lead now he would be the leader, kissing her open-mouthed and deeply, not waiting for her to join, although he realised, despite his then lack of a capacity for reason, that she did, that she matched him kiss for kiss, that wherever he led she followed.

He broke his kiss from her lips, for which he received a little humpf of protest, but only to kiss her cheek, then along her jawline, and finally to leave little kisses along her throat for which she obligingly tilted her head ever so slightly for him to gain better access. The dress she was wearing contained the tiniest straps and as his progression lowered he used his teeth, lightly grazing her shoulder, to move and lower one of the straps. He kissed the inch of flesh on her shoulder that had hitherto been hidden, the strap left dangling along her arm, almost exposing the soft, round flesh for which purpose it was to assist in sheltering. He brought his hand to the other strap, resting delicately upon her shoulder, and with his long fingers curled underneath the thin piece he slowly moved it to the side. Her breath caught as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his movements. She knew what would be the consequence of the loss of the second strap. But even when, from his doing, it fell from her shoulder, his fingers held firmly onto it.

"Do you want this?" he asked, his voice raspy.

Breathless, she said, "Yes, I do."

"Do you know what I am asking?"

"Yes, and I want it. Very much so," and she smiled a little and he smirked back, his eyes seductive but teasing.

"Oh, I am quite fond of your new catchphrase."

With a flourish of his hand he dropped the strap, the dress following suit, pooling among her ankles.

He had already gathered as much, -- the dress was made of such flimsy material -- that she was not wearing a bra. He had seen most of her the night they were last intimate, the only time they had been intimate, except for her breasts which he didn't need to view to know they would be one of the most beautiful sights he would ever see in his life.

"And so they are," he whispered reverently to himself on a sigh, once lowering his gaze to take in the sight of her.

"No painter could capture your beauty," he remarked, but it seemed less to her than to an invisible audience, as though they were in a gallery and she, stood straight against the white wall behind her as she was, were a real-life Mona Lisa poised against a blank canvas.

He lifted a tremulous hand to her breast, so silky smooth, his thumb skimming along its already hardened peak. Falling against her, placing his forehead against hers -- overcome -- he kept his view and hand on her breast, milky white, soft, spreading out so fully on either side of her chest while he continued massaging first one then the other as Clara voiced her approval with little mews, her breath skimming along his lips with each sigh. She moved her head to kiss him and he, determined to continue the role of leader, returned the kiss double fold. If that were not enough to show her who was boss he took the hand not kneading her breast and shoved it in her black thong, an article of clothing that upon his notice of it had made him instantly hard.

She was already dripping wet.

With a few movements of his fingers against her he was able to gather enough wetness to lubricate her clit and then he moved against her -- not with one finger, not with two, but with his whole hand, rubbing, hard, back and forth. It took only a minute before she was pleading with him to rub even more firmly, to precipitate her much desired release. At her request, however, he instantly removed his hand, now drenched with her wetness, a drop of it, she saw, falling from his finger to the carpeted ground below. She had images of him penetrating her with those still wet fingers but, her plea for release denied, she would gather her pleasure in other things.

"I am almost completely undressed and you, sir, are not."

She tugged his belt from its belt buckle, released the stem from the notch and with one long pull sent the belt clattering to the floor, all the while her gaze was mesmerized on the evidence of his arousal peaking against his trousers. She gulped and felt herself become newly wet. She made to unbutton his trousers too but it was then he stilled her hand with his own. She had been expecting it.

"Clara, I am not..." He could not finish.

She walked to the bed and sat. He followed.

"I am not a young man," he said, quickly.

"I am well aware of this," she replied.

"So my body--"

She placed a finger on his lips to quiet him.

"I am attracted to who you are."

He shook his head. "Personality has nothing to do with sex."

"Like hell it doesn't. I wouldn't want to sleep with you if you were a Tory, or a slum lord, or only read books about fishing, or were snobbish and belittling. I wouldn't be attracted to that at all."

"That is the reasons why a person chooses to spend time with someone. But with physical relations it invariably comes down to physical appearance."

"Granted, I haven't seen all of your body, but from what I can tell"-- she motioned with her eyes to the tent in his trousers-- "I will be vastly rewarded."

"There's not just that," he said, with a lecturing gaze.

"You have no idea," she began, sitting herself sideways on his lap, he instantly putting his arms around her waist to prevent her from falling, "how much I am turned on by your appearance," she said softly, unbuttoning one, two, three buttons in the middle of his shirt. He was not wearing an undershirt and with only two more buttons left to unbutton most of his chest was exposed. Without hesitation she placed her hand on his chest, broad and smooth, tantalising. No, not overtly muscular but toned nonetheless and more alluring to her than she could adequately express in words. So instead of using words she kissed him, on his clavicle -- angular and prominent due to his thin frame. She left kisses on his throat as he had done for her, finally savouring that area she had so admired earlier. How could she tell him so he would believe her that looking at his body, such as his neck with the many furrows denoting his age, -- providing him a more interesting, more substantial, character than the smoothness, the blankness (as of a barely painted canvas) on a person much younger than him -- drove her wild with desire?

"Clara," he said hoarsely as she travelled to his jaw, bristly with a few days worth of growth, "I think we should talk." But this time she did not listen to him. Breaking away from him she unbuttoned the last two buttons on his shirt, working next on the button she had tried earlier on his pants, except this time he did not stop her, and when she put her finger on the top of the zipper she looked up at him to ascertain whether he really wished to deny her action and although he looked her straight in the eye he did not say a thing. She lowered the zipper, carefully, slowly, aware of his current delicate situation, all the while keeping her gaze on his eyes, watching them as they transformed from keen awareness to half-hooded and wanting.

"Will you take your trousers off, please?" she asked, so innocently, like a child requesting an ice cream.

Well, how could he deny her when she asked so nicely?

So he rose and lowered them, shedding them one pant leg at a time. She had not divested him of his shirt. Although she wanted him fully naked she had to admit that the sight of him -- just a peek of his chest between a crisp white collared shirt of whose length extended to his upper thigh -- was a very delicious sight; so very manly, authoritative, teacher-y. Made now even more delectable in sight of his tight-fitted red briefs and what was then straining against them. He let her look, or hadn't yet decided what to do next; whichever was true, she stood viewing him while he watched her face undergo a series of contortions denoting how well she liked what she saw.

"Are you cold?" he asked a minute later. "It seems as though you are."

Although she was cold she wasn't shaking or chattering her teeth. Perplexed, she watched him approach her and lower himself several inches and then she knew what he meant as with one hand he gathered her breast and put his mouth, hot and wet, around its straining tip. She placed her hand on his head for support which had the added benefit of allowing her to comb her fingers through his grey hair, now so much thicker than when she did this previously when he last had his mouth on her but somewhere infinitely sweeter. He switched to the other breast but kept his finger on the one he had just given attention to, circling the now wet nipple with his thumb while circling the other one with his tongue.

And then he rose.

"Lay on the bed, sweetheart," he said softly.

She did as she was told, but not before engaging in that independence he claimed he was in such favour. With her hands on either side of her waist she lowered -- slowly -- her black thong.

In response he raised one eye brow, his face otherwise a portrait of complete unread-ability, only his eyes lowered, displaying a hunger that was at once calm and ferocious. She doubted she would ever not be aroused and surprised by his eyes as they looked now. In all her years of dating men, watching romantic movies, viewing the occasional pornography, she had never seen a man's eyes look quite so intensely, tantalisingly seductive.

His eyes were made for sex.

They followed her as she laid down and then looked her up and down as she lay, on her back, her legs together but herself exposed nonetheless. She didn't bother to cover herself with the blanket underneath her. He sat on the bed next to her and with one hand touched her cheek, then her neck, travelling next to her chest where he circled around her breasts, cupping the one and then the other, rubbing his thumb across the rosy tips, before placing his hand over her belly and then, after the barest of hesitation, moving just below her belly, his fingers gliding gently over that part of herself -- with her legs closed -- that was exposed, lingering there, motioning back and forth, his thumb strumming over her clit as he watched himself do it. She moaned softly and when he moved his gaze to her face he saw her eyes were closed, her face a specimen of complete contentment.

He kept his hand in place, massaging her, as he climbed on the bed, placing his legs on either side of her, towering over her. He removed his hand just before lowering himself on her so the pleasure he had been giving her with his fingers was quickly replaced by himself. She sucked in a breath at feeling him against her, especially the particular part of himself that she most wanted against her. He kissed her then and she kissed him back, placing her arms around him, feeling his shirt, the fabric cool, a delicious contrast from the heat of his chest that was pressed against her bare skin where her breasts were smashed against him, her nipples chafing as she moved, the sensation painfully pleasurable. She rubbed her foot up and down his bare leg as a prelude to what she really wanted to do which she did a moment later, raising both her legs to wound round his waist to bring him even more against her core than he already was. The result was more than she could have asked for, as her moving herself against him made him, sucking in his breath, grind down against her, which then, on a moan, prompted her to do the same again, until they were both, in unison, grinding against one another, the movements of their mouths becoming now as frenzied as the movements of their hips.

His fingers threaded through her hair, his hand cradling the back of her head to pull her closer to him as though being on top of her, pushing himself against her, was not enough. And she savoured the feeling, both the literal feeling of his mouth, hot and insistent against her own, but the feeling that he wanted -- needed -- to be as near to her as was humanly possible. Knowing this and with his hardness crashing into her core she could feel her pleasure mounting. From the corner of her eyes she saw his hips gyrate up and down, so rhythmically beautiful, and she knew then that she didn't want to come just yet, that she did want to come with him moving so beautifully against her but with him inside of her, filling her up.

With this in mind, she moved her hands to around the top of his briefs, placing a finger inside the band, and just as she was to lower it he removed his lips from her and, mere inches from her mouth, breathing hot breaths against her, he said, "Clara, I can't go any further."

Still moving her hips against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, she said, pleading, "Please, no, you can't stop now."

"I don't have anything," he said, placing his forehead against her, visibly disappointed.

"What do you mean?"

"To protect you." And then she understood.

"You mean condoms?"

He nodded against her and then kissed her forehead.

"I'm sorry," he said.

And then she laughed, softly, smiling, her dimples displayed for him to see. He gave her a quizzical brow as she placed her hands on either side of his face.

"Silly, Doctor. We don't need condoms. I'm on birth control. Have been since I turned 16. And I also had an STI/STD check after my last sexual encounter so I'm completely fine. So long as you are OK in that area we should be good to go."

She captured his lips with her own and they kissed softly as she made to relieve him of his shirt which he helped her in doing. His shirt gone all that remained was his briefs which, when Clara looked down at them, she saw were dotted with quarter sized stains of pre-come. That was the wetness she had felt against her belly.

"Can I touch them please?" she asked, knowing that he was watching her looking at him there and for what reason.

He nodded barely perceptively, as though a part of him was fearful of such an erotic act.

She seemed to feel the same way as she only tentatively touched him although upon feeling the wetness that had seeped through his briefs her brow wrinkled with arousal and her breaths became short and laboured.

Seeing her reaction and feeling her small fingers against him, even if lightly, his own breath began to speed up. Then he remembered what she had said to him.

"When was, if you don't mind me asking, your last sexual encounter?"

"With Danny," she said softly, removing her hand. "I haven't been with anyone since I've come to London."

"Danny," he said, with some spite. "How long were you two together?"

"Two years."

"Two years...that's a bit of a long time."

He knew he shouldn't care. He had been with other people, probably more than her considering how much older he was, but it rankled him that others had been with her, had touched her in her intimate places, enjoyed her body, entered her, had made her moan, had watched her face transform when she came. What's more, he had met one of those men, a person who had ultimately hurt her. This led him to wonder how Danny treated her when he made love to her -- if he was selfless and kind or if he took what he could get without care for her own pleasure.

With that in mind he asked, as he left soft kisses on her cheek, "Was he good to you? I mean, when it came to this?"

She did not immediately answer, instead placing her hands on his back, her fingers running up and down it, her short nails leaving a pleasurable sensation behind.

"He was," she said, so softly he could barely hear it.

"That doesn't sound very convincing." And he tilted her chin to make her look up at him, seeing that her eyes were half-filled with tears.

"He was never cruel."

"But he wasn't terribly kind," he supplied.

She looked down now, embarrassed.

"He was not very attentive, but he never forced me, he was never too rough."

"Never too rough," he echoed, a sadness in his voice.

He lowered himself to kiss her, so softly, his hand cradling her cheek, and she gathered him against her, her arms crossed against his back as far as they could go. His arm gathered around her shoulder and as he kissed her he caressed her there, the other hand threaded through her hair, his thumb massaging her temple. And then their legs were entwined again, their breathing more pronounced, both lightly moaning, and after some time Clara had her hands on the band of his briefs again and this time he allowed her to lower them, even raising himself so she could more easily take them off him. As he recaptured her mouth and she noticed he had his eyes closed she looked down to see him -- she did not want him to be embarrassed by her wish to see him -- and without meaning to, without knowing she would, the sight of him made her moan so deeply she could feel it tremble through her throat as it was muffled by his mouth on hers.

He was so beautiful.

She kissed him deeply, her tongue lapping over his, waiting for him to respond the same, waiting for him to lose himself completely, and when she was certain he had -- he had taken over the lead, his mouth crashing into hers, the depth and ferocity of their kiss entirely dependent on his instruction -- she took him in hand, at once moving her hand up and down his length. He broke his kiss from her, overcome at the sensation of her hand on him, only keeping his lips resting on hers. She massaged the head of him, gathering the pre-come, spreading it along the length of him before continuing her ministrations up and down.

"Oh God, Clara," he said against her lips. "It's too much. Your hand on me. It feels so good."

She smiled at herself -- he looked lovely so overcome, his face strained in vexed pleasure. She kissed him lightly even though she knew he could not reciprocate, although he tried, returning her kisses but with less frequency.

And now, with him so completely gone, and her hand still on his length, she lined him up against her entrance, so he was aware exactly of what she wanted.

She did not, however, move. She kept her hand on him, waiting for him, leaving it up to him to lead, to do what he wished, hoping, as the desire pooled within her, that he would choose what she so very much desired. But he did not immediately act and just as she thought that perhaps he would retreat after all he pressed his lips against her ear and whispered, slowly, hoarsely, his Scottish accent more deep than she'd ever heard it:

"We'll have to be quiet."

A shiver ran through her.

She had forgotten entirely about Amy and Rory, across the hall, but not, in this small house with its paper thin walls, a considerable distance away.

Leaving a kiss on her forehead he looked her into her eyes as he moved his hips an inch, only just entering her. She exhaled dramatically, her back arching, her brow ruffled -- but despite her evident torment he did not continue moving. It was only when she opened her eyes to look into his and saw they were now as they had been before -- dark and teasing and seductive -- that he moved again another inch, entering her more fully, spreading her open. Again, she closed her eyes and arched her back in torturous pleasure and again he did not move farther, again he forced her to look at him. When she did she saw that this time his brow was ruffled and that his eyes were not just teasing and dark but also half-hooded in unadulterated pleasure. He moved again, twice the distance of the first two times combined, almost, but not completely, entering her, a low moan escaping him this time. The need she had to feel him filling her completely prompted her to move this time, just the extra inch that was needed so that he was now entirely within her.

They stayed as they were, him hard inside her, she luxuriating in the feel of him spreading her wide, his length and especially his width larger than she had had before.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, as if he had read her mind.

"Oh, yes," she responded satisfyingly.

Her response was all he needed. Almost instantly he moved slowly away from her to then, just before he would leave her, move back into her, now a bit quicker and oh so deeply. Clara's moan when he re-entered her was low and half-strangled as though she were powerless to even voice her pleasure so intense was it. He covered her mouth with his and continued his movements, preciously slow, in and out of her, as he kissed her just as slowly. She followed his lead and soon their arms and legs were wrapped around each others bodies, only their hips moving up and down in synchronicity. He felt her walls clench around his length, radiating more pleasure through him than he was already feeling moving in and out of her tight core that was so very soft and so very wet.

Now he couldn't sustain the slow tempo, he had to have more of her, and confident that she was now able to handle him, he incrementally increased his pace, moving just a bit faster each time he entered her. She expressed her approval of this, matching his pace every time he increased it, her moans and mews following the same trajectory until, along with him, they were unable to even kiss, instead remained moaning deeply against one another's mouth, as their hips gyrated faster and faster, crashing their bodies against one another. The headboard hit the wall violently, the old-fashioned bed creaked, and they were both moaning so loud that he was sure Amy and Rory could hear them, if not the neighbors the next house over.

He decided then to momentarily slow his pace, both as an effort to quiet them but also to prolong their pleasure. Moving his mouth to her neck, he sucked there lightly, then skimmed his teeth over her skin, before laving it with his tongue where he bit. He did this again and again, every time he did Clara pushing him closer to her with her hand in his hair. The pace of his entering and withdrawing from her was slower but deliberate now that the angle he was on, while kissing her neck, caused his hip to hit her clit, and every time he entered her and just as he reached the hilt of her he lingered there so that she would derive the most pleasure both from the feel of him hitting her sensitive spot and him so completely filling her.

But she was pleading with him, her mouth near his ear, pleading with him to increase his pace.

"Please, Doctor, please I need more, I need you," sounding as though she were close to tears.

"You want me to go faster?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it.

"Yes, please."

"How much do you want me to, Clara?" he asked, minutely increasing his pace for her.

"So much, so very much."

He kissed her deeply.

"We have to be quiet."

"No we don't," she said, sounding like a petulant child.

"Yes, we do Clara," he said, his voice an octave lower. "We can't let them hear us."

"But I need you..."

"Need me to what?"

"Move quicker."

"Like this," he again increased his pace, the bed board lightly hitting the wall.

"Oh, yes." She was completely enraptured.

It was then -- why at this point, not earlier, he did not know -- that it hit him so astonishingly completely that he was making love to her. Clara, his Clara, who was kind, and funny, and so very beautiful -- as he looked down at her body, as he watched himself move in and out of her.

And then he did not care if they made noise, if Amy and Rory could hear them, that the sound of the bed creaking and the back board violently hitting the wall and their uninhibited moans of pleasure made it so clear that he was fucking her, because at that moment all he wanted was to watch himself make love to her, to hear Clara's cries of pleasure, to make her come apart in his arms. As his own pleasure increased, so he increased their pace, faster than it had ever been. He moved his body half an inch so as to hit her clit, what he knew she needed, and she moaned against him, louder and louder -- "yes, oh yes, Doctor, oh yes" -- as he too moaned against her, holding her so very close, until their moans turned to cries and he felt the walls inside her contract around him, pulsating around him even as he vigorously moved his length against them, and on the final contraction, the strongest yet, and while he watched, as on a final cry her pleasure came over her, he stilled and with a deeply satisfied groan spilled inside her.

As she came down from her pleasure she felt his come fill her, hot and satisfying. He did not withdraw himself from inside her but remained while resting his head in the crook of her neck so that his body crushed against her. He was careful, however, to not place all his weight on her, not that she would have minded if he had; she liked feeling the weight of his body pressed against her, as if, in her thoroughly satiated, weak state, she were a wounded animal he was keeping safe from those who would harm her.

She was half the way to sleep when he moved, rousing her back to consciousness.

"I'm going to have to move."

"Hmmm mmm," she murmured.

"And, well, there's no delicate way to put this..."

"What?" she asked, wondering at his hesitation.

"Well, you know how in the movies people make love and then instantly fall asleep, no problems, no fuss?"

"Yeah..."

"Real life is not the movies."

She followed his gaze to where he was looking at himself still inside her and instantly she knew of what he was alluding.

"Oh," she said.

"Let me take care of it."

She nodded her head, but was smiling.

"What?" he asked, all seriousness.

"This is just so embbarrasing," she giggled, shielding her eyes with her hands, her face bright red.

"Sweetheart, I just fucked the living daylights out of you. I think we can handle this." At once she removed her hands at hearing him say that he had fucked her, feeling turned on all over again. She wouldn't tell him, but she wanted to hear him say he was fucking her, but while he was doing it.

In her distracted state she did not immediately realise that he was moving, slowly, out of her. She lamented the loss of him, what had been the delicious feeling of him inside her, filling her up. She looked down to see just the tip of him remained within her, the rest of him still hard and thick in his hand. With his other hand resting under her opening he completely withdrew, the white thick liquid trickling out of her, into his waiting hand, where it gathered full and plentiful.

"Don't move, dear," he said, softly, moving off the bed to cross the room. With his free hand he took copious amounts of tissues from the Kleenex box resting on the dresser, scooping up his come into the bundle of tissues, then carefully placed the tissues in the covered wastebasket near the door. He brought the remaining tissues with him as he moved toward her. He hesitated, she saw, but then, his eyes darker, he made a choice. He grabbed the half-full bottle of water resting on the bedside table, dousing the tissues with the lukewarm water.

"Will you recline for me?" he asked and she, thinking she knew his intentions, did as she was told.

He sat on the bed.

"Spread your legs wider, darling."

He took the soaking wet tissues and moved them over her inner thighs, where, despite his best effort, some of his come had drizzled down to rest. He cleaned her there and then moved farther inward, delicately rubbing the tissues over her now engorged lips, careful to not push too hard against her overly sensitive nub. Finally, he moved below where there was the smallest amount of clear liquid still dribbling out, marvelling as he did that he had been inside her, there, where the entrance to her was now so small and delicate looking.

He did not linger over her too long however. Only as much as was needful to ascertain that he had completed his task. And then he gathered the rumpled blanket next to her and draped it over her naked body, pulling it all the way up to her neck as he realized, himself still naked as well, that it had grown quite chilly in the room. He put on his clothes as she pretended to not watch him where he was half-way turned from her, suddenly modest once more.

"Do you mind if I wash up?" he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.

"Not at all."

"I'll be back soon. Put some French telly on," he said, gathering the remote that he had previously thrown across the room. He handed her the remote, kissing her quickly on the forehead as he did.

He came back some time later to the telly on and Clara, still snuggled under the blanket, fast asleep, her hair mussed up in a not at all disagreeable fashion, her mouth slightly open, no evident worry marring her features: so very innocent looking. That faithful anxiety that had lain dormant the last few hours resurfaced. He didn't deserve her, it was saying. She's too nice, too sweet, too perfect. And yet he desired her, more than he had anyone for a long time, more than he'd possibly ever desired anyone. But at the same time that he acknowledged that he didn't want to lose her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her by his side -- making her laugh, listening to her thoughts and feelings on every subject under the sun -- he also wanted her to have the best life she could possibly have, and no matter how much he tried to justify his keeping her close to him he would always believe that he was not the perfect life she could, and deserved, to have.

He pulled the covers back slowly and tried as best he could to climb under them without making too much movement so that he would not wake her. He wanted also to turn off the telly but she had the remote clutched in her hand and when he tried to take it from her she opened her eyes, slowly.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said, penitently.

"It's fine. You're all tuckered out. You haven't been sleeping well."

"No, I haven't. Not without you."

She looked sad, so he left one kiss on her lips and then one her forehead, and when he looked back at her she was positively gleaming.

"There's that smile," he said.

And then he decided that just for this weekend he would set aside his anxious thoughts, his practical scruples, and just do as he wished. And there was nothing more he wished to do in the world right then than spend every waking moment with Clara, making her laugh and smile, holding her in his arms, and feeling this contentment that he had when he was with her and which he didn't think he had ever really experienced before her.

"Are you ready for sleep?" he asked, turning off the television.

"Oh, yes, please."

He opened his arms for her and she dove into them and, with a few wiggles of her bottom (which made him laugh despite himself and for which she teasingly hit him on his shoulder for doing), she snuggled herself against him.

"I've been waiting for this all day," she sighed against his chest.

So had he.

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