Are you writing another Randall/Clara fic?! Is that why you're thinking of titles? Yay! I know you said there won't be a continuation but will it at least be related/based on Collide? How about the scene where he proposes and the events that lead to it? Your story is so fixed in my head that can't imagine Randall/Clara in a different storyline anymore. Can't even watch The Hour now.
Hey Anon!
Yes, I am planning on writing another Randall/Clara fic, not only planning. I am brooding over the plot at the moment.
No, I will not write a sequel to “Collide”, because I think the story is told, and maybe the next step would be family and babies - some might even expect this - and I am not good with writing such stuff, so I leave it.
The story I want to write I am going to base on THIS gif set I made back in November 2014, when I had the first idea of Randal/Clara.
So I go another way, the Doctor will be included, and I think this will be a challenge, something different to Collide, and that it is what “turns me on” as a writer.
I am not sure yet, what kind of story will be happen. There is a great fic out already with a similar constellation. Spun. It’s Malcolm/12/Clara.
It’s probably unavoidable, when you go with two men and a woman, but I will not try to centre the story around “two boys fight for a girl”. I hope I’ll find another concept, but right now I can’t grasp it. I have a lot of little scenes in my head for the story and already a nice ending, but.. it’s hard to explain. I guess it will be about Clara and how she will decide, for the travel in a blue box or for Randall. We all know, she can’t have both. But, I can’t promise anything, because I haven’t a real concept yet.
I only know I start when Clara meets 12 first, and with meeting Randall everything will go into another direction. There will be no Danny and I simply go for another time line. We will see how it will turn out. And I think Randall will be a bit different, you guys know him now from Collide, and I think I bring out more of his sass (I think he definitely has) and I have some scenes in my head, where I am going to make him more braver, more “lets do this”, but of course, trying to keep true to the character.
And thank you so much, that you enjoyed Collide so much, and has accepted it as some sort of head canon. But you really should watch The Hour, alone because of PCap and Randall - remember this is what happened before Collide. So it will not change much for the actual story.
Okay, now this turned out long. Oh, and I think I found a good title - but for now, I keep this as a secret ;).
Chapter 11 for “Collide” is up on AO3, (thanks fetchingsort for the beta)
I used to give a little more info on AO3 in case you care for that, about progress and so on, just you people know.
Or you can read it here:
He picked her up at seven with his car. When the doorbell rang, Clara pressed the button for the intercom, “I be there in a minute!”
She had needed over an hour to decide for a dress. Was uncertain what was too short, what was too prudish, what sent the wrong signals and what colour would match with his suit - not that she knew what he was about to wear.
Red? No, definitely way too red and it let her look like she couldn’t wait to drag him into a dark corner to suck out his blood.
She had a nice dark grey dress, good enough for a parent’s evening, almost too good, but for a date she looked like her grandmother.
The next three dresses were either too short, too much skin and one didn’t fit anymore. When the hell did she put on pounds? Might have shrunk in the washing machine.
Then finally she settled down on a dark blue dress with nice embroidery and cutwork. Shoulder free and a bit short, but she decided to wear black tights and a wider jacket so it was still acceptable for a first date. She could imagine Randall wouldn’t mind.
The next hour she spent with make up and putting her hair into a loose bun. She needed three attempts till she was satisfied with her appearance in the mirror. Putting on her heels and grabbing for her purse, she hurried down the stairs, flinging the door open, she found Randall waiting by his car with his back on her.
When he heard the door go open, he turned around and needed to remind himself not to stare at her. His eyes traveled quickly over her appearance, feeling his heart set a faster pace and that heat sprawled in his cheeks. Swallowing and quickly licking his lips, he stepped forward.
It came to him, that he had should have brought some flowers, if only to occupy his hands. Now he didn’t know what to do with them and fumbled with his fingertips - he must have looked like a school boy, before remembering his manners. “You look very nice tonight.”
She smiled at him, finding him offering her his arm.
“Thank you,” she shoved a strand of hair behind her ear, taking the chance to look at him and it turned out she had made the right decision.
His dark grey three piece suit gave her dress the right credit and his blue tie almost matched the colour of her dress. If she hadn’t noticed before she noticed now that he seemed to fancy these kind of suits and she found herself asking if he possessed other clothing like casual tees or a modern jumper. Not that she minded, he looked incredibly attractive in these suits - not many man could wear such thing all day long without looking boring earlier or later. “I spent like an hour on the decision of wearing it.”
He chuckled, opening the door of the car for her, “If it helps,” he held out his hand to help her into the car. “I needed twenty minutes to decide on a tie.”
Smirking at him, when he sat himself down, she reached out for the tie, brushing a slight wrinkle out of it, for what she earned a surprised look, “Twenty minutes well spent.”
He nodded, touching the cotton there again, correcting the knot once more and feeling foolish for not holding back with his need to control the thing. His hand swayed for a few second in the air, needing to check again but not wanting, not wanting to make her frown at him.
She sprung to his rescue, “A bit to the left, maybe.”
And he thanked her with a relieved smile and a look with his eyes, that should tell her his thank you. They would talk about this; for now he did what he thought must be done, and then started the engine.
“There is this little nice Italian restaurant not far from here. Three blocks maybe,” he set the indicator. “We could have walked, but I noticed you forgot your scarf again.”
That’s when she simply grinned at him with sparkling eyes. He stopped the car half way out of the parking spot, “What is it?”
She opened her purse and held it out to him. The scarf neatly folded so it would fit inside the small handbag.
“Clara Oswald, you are a surprise. In every way.”
“I know.”
Randall drove for a couple of minutes and then found a parking spot around the corner. Opening the door for her, he offered her again his arm and she took it gratefully. She leaned softly into him, not only because it was cold.
Feeling her shiver slightly, “Will you take my coat, when I offer it to you? You seem cold.”
She squeezed his arm, “No, you said it is around the corner. I am fine, really.”
He wasn’t pleased with her reaction. It would be his fault when she would get a cold, even though she had decided for the lighter outfit. Quickening his pace they came around the corner and he stopped abruptly in his steps. There was a second his facial expression totally slipped and he must have looked like a deer in headlights.
Clara almost tripped so harsh was the stop. Confused for a second she looked around as if he had seen something, an accident, a person or a ghost, “What is it?”
It was hard for him to find words, also he was still busy finding out what had went wrong for himself by looking toward the street signs. “I...I it’s the correct street. I am sure.”
She turned around with him, reading the street name, then she turned around across the street. The only restaurant that was there was a pizza take out store. Clara began to understand what had happened.
“So, is this the famous italian restaurant you wanted to have dinner with me?” she couldn’t hold back a little mocking.
Still shocked he stepped away from her, “The last time I was there, it was a fine italian restaurant!” He couldn’t believe it. His staggered face flung between her and the take away, unsure what to do. It felt as someone had swept him off his feet.
“Randall? When was the last time you had dinner there?” Clara asked him carefully.
He turned swiftly around, full of confidence. It only lasted for a second, then he realized that it wasn’t a week or two but, “A couple years. Maybe a bit more.” He lowered his head in embarrassment.
Her hand covered her mouth so he wouldn’t see the smile that slowly turned into a serious laughing fit. Raising his hand in defeat he nodded and made a gesture that allowed her to laugh as she pleased. “I should have checked if it was still there.” Her giggling was contagious. “I am sorry.”
She stepped closer to him, grabbing his arm to steady herself, still snorting about his faux pas. “You might should have.”
He watched her giggle for a few more seconds, “I made a fool out of me,” he sighed and tried frantically to come up with an alternative. Of course he had none, because he never went out to dinner. “I’ll take you somewhere else, even if I don’t know another place.”
“No, please! There!” she pointed out to the little take out. “We can eat there.”
“No, I can’t take you out to an diner?” he already walked a few steps away, hoping she would follow. She did not.
Why did she like it so much, when he was horrified? Maybe because he forgot the shell in which he lived, forgot the walls he had built around him to keep others away, to hide his emotions and now Clara had found out how to bring them down. By doing something against all the normal ways. “Sure, we can. I know this one actually. Sometimes I order from there. The pizza is very good.”
Randall wasn’t sure what to do, he swayed back and forth, wanting to be by her side and take her out to a fancy restaurant and not to a diner, not in her best dress and his best suit. On the other side he could see she wouldn’t argue over it anymore. “Clara!”
There was only one word that would stop her from dragging him into the store. Her name, over and over again. Then she would leave with him, wherever he would want to. Her name on his tongue, the Scottish growl of the ‘R’, it did many things to her, but he wasn’t yet aware of his power over her when using her first name.
“Come on, I am hungry, you said you take me out. So take me out.”
“I meant a nice restaurant and not this!” he tried it with a helpless smile and a gesture that meant begging. “In the end you think I do this on all first dates.”
She walked up to him, slipped her arm through his and dragged him with her, “And how many first dates you had in the last few days?” she asked flirtatiously. “And do you go always to the same takeaway? Will they know you by name?”
He followed her and it must have been an amusing picture for others. She the smaller person dragging him the tall and lanky figure into a takeaway, both very overdressed for the occasion.
When they enter, the man dressed in a red company uniform glanced up for a second. Then he went back to his pizzas after he realized what odd couple had found their way into his store.
“Hi,” Clara leaned against Randall, who felt quite uncomfortable, not knowing where to look and acknowledging his stare with a short smirk.
“Hi,” the man answered not sure what to make off it. “Can I help you?”
“Uhm, yes,” Randall began. “We...we would like to eat something. Here.”
“Okay.”
Randall glanced down at Clara, who was still giggling, and it felt like he had went out with a young teenager, but he found it quite charming even when he didn’t show it. “Do you have pizza?” he asked dryly and it wasn’t his intention to make a joke. Rolling his eyes, he rose one finger for an apology. “I mean we would like to have two pizzas.”
“For to go?”
“For here,” Clara said and turned around to the only bar table in the room. “We can eat here, can we?”
The man eyed both of them for a few seconds, considering if this was a joke, but when Randall started to order without waiting for him, he shrugged and wrote down his order. “Anything to drink?”
“Do you have beer?” Clara called from the table.
“No, ma’am, only non-alcoholic. Coke, Fanta,” he explained looking back to Randall giving him a long stare, as if he wanted to tell him that he hopefully had his ‘gone wild girl’ under control.
“I’ll take a Coke, then,” Clara had seated herself on a stool, her feet whirling in the air. Randall needed the clearing of the throat of the man behind the counter to remind him, that they were not alone.
Turning around, “The lady takes a Coke and I would like to have a Fanta..”
“Sure,” he placed the cans on the counter and told him the pizza would take a few minutes. With that he turned around and began to make the food for them.
Randall took the cans and thought about asking for some glasses, but he spared himself the further embarrassment and joined Clara at the table. She still let her feet whirl in the air, watching herself with a smile on her lips.
“You are enjoying this,” it was not a question but a conclusion.
Grabbing the can, he had opened for her, she smiled at him, “Yes and why not?”
“I should have taken you out to a fancy, expensive restaurant,” he took off his coat and placed it over the stool.
“I am sure it would have been fine and nice, but I doubt we would have laughed that much as we have laughed in this place,” she watched him drink from his Fanta. Watched him placing the can on the table again, seeing how he frowned at the table for a moment, probably asking himself when it was the last time that the table had been cleaned. Watched him turn the can slowly around itself. “It suits you.”
“Mh?” he stopped. “What exactly?”
“A smile,” she nipped from the drink. “You do it so rarely. I found myself asking why and thought that it suits you. You should do it more often.”
He watched her drink, then his eyes dropped to her hands in front of him and he checked the fit of his glasses, as if it was a dream they projected. “So about your question, earlier,” he speaks on. “How many first dates I had last week.”
She laughed, the peak of her tongue peeking out between her teeth, and he thinks she is adorable and he is afraid and doesn’t know why.
“Do you want me to take a guess?” she asked when he kept silent.
“I don’t do first dates,” he admitted and immediately regrets. She smirked over it. “I mean, I haven’t asked a woman out for quite a while. You maybe should consider this.”
His words sounded odd to her, and she is unsure what to say, so she waited, observing him and his hands. How one hand slowly embraced the other. Every second she kept silent became a torture for him.
“Why should I? Do I have to run tests also? Give you a questionnaire you have to fill out till tomorrow at 12 o’clock?” she mocked and almost couldn’t stop herself, only when she saw that his eye contact slowly drifted away she knows she had hurt him. “Sorry, I didn’t meant… I don’t want to consider anything yet. That is all. You haven’t asked out a woman out for ages? I haven’t asked out a man out for ages, if it is about that.”
“No, I just thought,” he thought about what to say next and couldn’t come to a point. The pizzas got served and he is grateful for it.
“I think we should see what happens,” she answered for him. “Would that be okay for you?”
“Yes.”
He looked around on the the table for cutlery, but there is none and he found Clara smile then when he asked her with his eyes what now. She had already taken a slice into her hands and he started nodding, puffing air, “Tell me, is this the worst date you ever had?”
Chewing she mumbled, “I am still making up my mind.”
“So I have still a chance to land second to last?” he had finally given in and had taken a slice into his hands, taking a bite - surprisingly it is delicious and while he waited for an answer he looked at his food as if he just had found a new favourite place to eat.
“No, you have still chance to come first place,” a long trail of cheese hanged from her mouth to the slice she had moved as far away as she could, to detach it. Giggling she used one finger to roll the cheese up, till she had a thick knob of it on her finger.
“Watching you now, I should be glad that I haven’t taken you out to one of these expensive restaurants,” he didn’t smile, there was only a short twitch with one of his eyebrows and Clara had learned that it’s the eyebrows which play the emotions for him.
He found himself in the same cheese-dilemma only seconds after he had said it and it made him blush and her come to his rescue making another knob of cheese she eats from her finger mischievously.
Minutes went by while they eat in silence and battle with the cheese and exchange how good everything tastes, when Clara remembers what he had promised her and what she needed to know, even if it would spoil the beautiful atmosphere they were in at this moment. “Randall?”
There was something in her voice, soft and precarious also expectant. He lowered the slice down, cleaned his hands with one of the many tissues between them and grabs for his Fanta. “The picture.”
“The picture,” she repeats and felt her heart quicken and noticed his stern look and the way his eyes drifted away into the distance behind her. There was only one thing she now could do. Wait for him to tell her.
He lost track of the seconds that went by and he forgot for a moment that he was in a take away with Clara and not somewhere in Spain.
“Dear Randall,”
To many Wednesdays had past since he had left London again. He was drifting away and it needed Clara to bring him back.
The touch of her hand was soft and when he had shook of the past he saw her concerns. “Sofia,” he exhaled, reaching for her hand, when she was about to take it away again. Gently, like he would grab for glass, afraid to hurt both of them.
Clara looked down, seeing his fingers and his palm sweeping over her skin. The touch was so light, it was almost impossible to feel.
“Her name was Sofia,” his hand retreated from her, came to rest directly in front of her fingers and they both knew he had tried to reach out for his long lost daughter. Realizing his mistake, his hand became a fist and he pressed hard against the knot of his tie.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
His eyes found her again, “Don’t be blinded by my grief, Clara. It was the right thing to ask.”
She felt foolish. He was right and yet she somehow didn’t wanted to push the subject further, knowing it would only hurt. “Even when it inflicts hurt?”
He eyed her for a bit, then the plate, he knew they wouldn’t eat up, “Will you walk with me for a bit?” When she nodded he placed way too much money on the table, grabbed his coat and held the door open for Clara.
The air was chilly and she shivered when they stepped outside into the cold. Opening her purse she pulled out the scarf, blushing over it and giving Randall a shy smile before she wrapped it around her neck.
“Here,” he placed his coat over her shoulders. “No, please take it. I am fine. I am not cold.”
She tucked herself into the thick coat, noticing the faint scent of him.
They walked past his car, he leading the way into the direction of her apartment. He would guide her home.
Clara knew he would speak up any second to explain ‘Sofia’, but she felt the need to prevent him from it. She didn’t know why yet, there was this feeling deep down in her stomach, that made her reach for his arm to stop him from walking. Clara had came up with the story by herself. Figuring out with the little details she had.
He looked down at her hand enfolding around his arm, pulling him slightly and so he stopped, tilting his head to see her better in the dark.
“Now I feel bad,” she begun and he shook his head in response without knowing a reason. Feeling bad in his presence also couldn’t mean something good and nothing he wanted her to achieve. “Don’t tell me… about the picture.”
The words came unexpected, “I don’t understand.”
Clara grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled the fabric more around her, searching for shelter in the way to large coat and searching for confidence. “Haven’t you said enough already about it?”
He licked his lips, shoving his hands into his pockets and wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. With a shift of his body he begged her to go on.
“Her name was Sofia,” she repeated and he nodded in painful remembrance. A picture of a baby girl. A time stream that had suddenly ended, had prevented another picture. “You told a story in only four words and it’s obviously not a good one.”
Randall shifted to the other side, admiring her in silence about her talent - understanding things others - in his experience - never did. “So tell me why, … Clara,” how could he make her name sound so special? “Why do you feel bad?”
It was cold and she could see he was shivering, dancing on the spot to keep himself warm, thats why she suggested with a tilt of her head to walk on - slowly.
“When you told me in your office, this girl, was your daughter, I of course thought about it. And I imagined what you would tell me about her today,” in memory of it, she laughed. “So I expected you tell me a story about a young woman,” she turned slightly to him, catching his smile knowing he was picturing her, the young woman, that never existed. “Traveling this world, with her boyfriend, discovering deep hidden beautiful spots. Seeing wonders. I hoped for a story about a wall in your home covered with postcards from all around the world. A promise to show me maybe,” she gave him a blushing smile over that remark and yes, he would have liked that. Postcards from Rome, Paris, India, Australia and the states. There were no postcards and no pictures, only a wall, grey and empty.
They had reached the street where she lived and without noticing this, Randall stopped, “You described her lively. Also you described a ghost. I grieve for her, of course, there are many regrets, but there are mine and don’t make it yours. I want to tell you.”
“What if I don’t want to hear it?”
“You only say that, because you not want to see me … see me sad, am I right?”
“Sofia is dead, isn’t she? I don’t think I have the right to know more about it. Not now, later. Tell me later! When you trust me.”
“When I trust you? You think I don’t trust you?” he asked.
“You aren’t a man giving away your trust easily, Randall,” maybe she knew this about him, because she was the same. “We both want the other to earn it.”
“How?”
“Patience, probably,” she smiled to the ground.
“Can I insist on telling you?” he made a step closer to her, facing her.
“This is our first date,” for a second her fingers spread away from her, longing for Randall. “I don’t want to see you sad.”
He saw her fingers, and felt his twitch in response but he couldn’t bring up the courage to reach for her. It was a mess, everything right now was a mess in his opinion. He needed to tell her about Sofia and all the things that were connected with. On the other hand there was still time, this was a first date, and he would tell her later. Hopefully before it was too late.
He gave in, stepping aside so she would lead the way to her door. “Can I say something? Can I talk about an observation I made tonight?”
Turning slightly, she smirked, “Let’s hear.”
“For a second I thought, that the description of Sofia, was actually you,” his hand stroke his chin, down his throat. “I know we have talked about it. Briefly. About travelling.”
They had reached her door, but Randall was not ready to let her go, so he fixed his gaze on her, not wanting the evening to end. She demanded him to silence about Sofia and he demanded her to speak about travelling. There was a certain diffidence, now he had seen through her.
“Maybe I assumed that this is something young people want to do, what someone wants to achieve in this age. Travelling, what better could there be?”
“You’re talking as if you would be old.”
“I’m not a young woman anymore,” her hands shot up under the coat in a wild gesture.
“You definitely look like one!” his eyes traveled around her face, taking in her features, the non existent signs of being old. “How old are you? Twenty...nine?”
She laughed up, “Thirty two.”
“You are not old, Clara. I am old.”
Gazing at him for such long, that he felt uncomfortable, “You are staring at me, once again.”
Her mouth opened and she tried to bring out the words but she only looked like a fish.
‘Say it!’ she yelled inside, reaching out for his hands to take them in hers.
The touch was as surprising to him as to her and he stared startled down to their linked hands. It helped her to focus, “I really like you.”
“I like you too,” he said and she closed her eyes over it, shaking her head.
“No, not like I would like a book,” she was glad her eyes were shut, because she could bet he was rolling his eyes in confusion. “Well, maybe a bit like I like a book, because I really like books.. and anyway, I ... ,” her eyes flung open again, when she felt his thumbs circle over the back of her hands. “This is nice.”
He shifted an inch, biting the inner of his cheeks, with one of his rare smiles on his face. “Clara.”
How ever it had happened, but he found his free hand raise and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Like earlier his legs, now it seemed his hands disobeyed him and had developed a life of their own. What was he doing? What did he think who he was? He didn’t deserve her. He only would disappoint her.
She pulled at his hand, leaning into the touch of his fingertips, still in contact with her ear, slowly gliding down her jawline. Clara could see the hectic in his eyes, they moved from left to right and right to left, it sent out a warning she ignored. Instead she decided to go all in, going on her tip toes, pulling him in and he didn’t resist at first.
There was a beat he couldn’t place in the first moment, till he realized it was his pacing heart. He likes her. He liked the evening, the odd dinner, the embarrassment at his charge. There are not many things he wants in life anymore, her visiting him in the morning for coffee for the rest of his life is now one of them.
He can’t. Can’t do it. So he stepped back, her hand slipping out of his, earning a startled face filled with questions and insecurities. “Randall?”
There only would be disappointments. “I am sorry, I…”, he wanted to explain but he needs to run away, needs to go. “Goodnight Clara.”
He didn’t look back anymore and Clara found herself reach for thin air, hugging herself then, feeling his coat around her shoulder he had forgotten.
Maybe it wasn’t Randall who was sad in the end. Clara was.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 4 for “Collide” is up on AO3, (thanks fetchingsort for the beta)
or you can read it here:
It was almost a twenty minute walk to the little restaurant by the corner he went two or three times a week to eat his lunch. The canteen at the University was no option for him. Way too many people, way too many possibilities to bump into familiar faces who would feel the need to talk to him, and it felt to complicated to tell them that he wanted to eat alone - they would leave him alone, yes, but they wouldn’t understand. He wanted to spare himself the looks, the irritation which people eyed him with.
So his first day, he had decided that he would find himself a little restaurant where he could eat in peace. Wandering around, he found this restaurant with a lot of wood and green, straight lines, nothing too extravagant, decent music in the background, and the food was good. They had some tables and a counter by the window where he always sat to eat.
The waitress was not a big talker herself, she was polite, and always gave him a honest short smile when he entered and told him about the special of the day. The clientele that ate lunch there was manageable, and he guessed they made their money in the afternoon.
He ate light - pasta with a huge salad, fish with rice or when he was in the mood and not that hungry a piece of the self made apple pie. A cup of tea and twenty minutes later, not talking to anyone except some short phrases about the food and the tip he gave to the waitress, he was on his way back. The rest of the week he ate what he brought from home or nothing except some cookies he always had in his drawer.
It was a Wednesday, when he came back from his lunch to his office, the mail he had picked up in his hand. He settled himself down in his chair, the pile of letters in front of him. He always needed a moment to prepare himself for the moment, for those special Wednesdays after lunch moments. Browsing through the letters till he found what he was looking for - the one letter he knew, was always there.
He took it and placed the rest of the pile neatly aside. The envelope was smaller than the usual and the paper felt rough under his fingertips. Handwritten address, the stamp always a bit askew - after a year it had stopped bothered him - but he always asked himself if this was done on purpose. Maybe it was meant as provocation, maybe a hidden invocation. He couldn’t say, he wouldn’t ask.
Taking the paper knife out of his drawer he opened the letter and started reading. One side, rarely two. A fine handwriting, but he could detect the slight haste in it. Always at the end of the word, when the pen slipped and didn’t left the paper completely when to write the next word. Old habits, he knew about from himself.
It always began with,
“Dear Randall,”
and always ended with “love” and her name.
Every Wednesday. Since three years. He never answered back, except for Christmas and her birthday.
When he had finished it, he placed it back into the envelope, placing it into another drawer with the others from the last few weeks. After that he leaned back into his chair, taking of his glasses to rub his eyes. He had tried not to open the letters, but he was unable to do so, it had deprived him of his sleep. There was still control she had over him, not much, but enough that it angered him a bit every Wednesday again.
Five minutes later he had regained so far, that he was able to work again, but the rest of the day was always overlaid with the taste of regret, long lost feelings and way too many “what ifs”. He got used to it, at least that was what he told himself.
When the day was over, he packed his bag, took his coat from the hanger and shoved it over. It was around five in the afternoon and the floor was empty when he locked his office. He made sure the door was locked and made his way down the stairs, thinking about if he had to buy something on his way back home. He remembered the milk had been empty in the morning and he had to pick up one of his suits from the cleaners. When he hurried he could make it before they closed at six.
He was just about to approach the stairs on the fourth floor when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks, “Mister Brown?”
It was Clara Oswald, locking her office with one hand and a big bag under her arm. Randall stopped on the second last step. “Miss Oswald, shouldn’t you be long home rehearsing your interview tomorrow?”
Walking up to him, placing the bag from under her arms onto the stone balustrade of the stairs to put away the key, she noticed that his tone was light but he seemed to worry, that she might was concerned about the next day. “I hold lectures in front of a hundred people sometimes, you really think I get nervous when I get questioned by just one?”
He had to look up to her, from where he stood, “To be honest, I can’t tell. You don’t look like it, but I don’t know you well enough to pass judgement on you,” a moment of possibilities arose between them.
Clara felt she should say something, it was the perfect situation, but was too stunned by the meaningful words he had delivered so casually and missed the moment.
“Can I help you, with your bag? Are there bricks in it?”
“It does look like bricks, doesn’t it?” she smirked and came around to walk with him down the stairs. “Thank you, I am fine. Just my markings I have to do.”
He kept silent while they walked down the stairs, unsure what to say, and a moment of silence fell over them.
“Odd, isn’t it?” she spoke up when they reached the first floor.
“I am not sure if I follow,” he opened one of the doors for her, and she gave him a short nod.
“It just occurred to me that I have worked here here for over a year, and I usually leave around the same time, but I have never seen you before.”
“It is a big place, what is odd about it?”
“Yes it is, but our offices are located in the same wing, and in calculations of coincidence there should have been a chance of seeing us before, but it obviously never happened.”
He stopped. Not only because there was another door he needed to open. A few seconds went by while he tried to understand her chain of thoughts, his hand on the door handle, fine lines building up on his forehead. “Miss Oswald, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never was that good at math and I can’t follow you,” he swung the door open for them.
“Are you always this impatient?” she crossed by, making clear with the tone in her voice that she was teasing him. “Or are you just impatient with me, Mister Brown?”
Her straightforwardness made him stop walking once again, and she gave him a soft smile, it was answer enough for her.
He huffed and glared down to the ground while they kept walking toward the exit. He indeed had never met her or had seen her before and it dawned on him, what she had found so odd when meeting him a few minutes earlier. They had probably missed each other by minutes or only seconds every time they had left their offices. Then after a short meeting about her interview, they finally had met by accident. Like coincidence had finally found the right timing for them.
When they reached the outside a cold breeze hit them both in the face. Randall didn’t seem to mind, but Clara shuddered in disgust and hissed something about “freezing cold”.
“It’s not that cold, you know,” he watched her, grabbing her coat by the collar to cover the skin by her throat. “What are you going to do in December?”
“Probably freeze to death,” she buried her face till only the nose was seen behind her collar and eyed him warily. He didn’t even made the attempt to close his coat, nor did he seem to be cold in the slightest, while she only wanted to be at home and take a hot bath.
He saw her eyes roam over him, and he felt like he had turned yellow or something.
“What?” they both asked in unison.
It made them both stare down to the ground. Randall checked his watch, usually he would have been on his way home already. He wasn’t used to such delay. Sometimes Freddy or the other students stopped him but only for questions about work. Now he stood there with a woman he had met a few days ago, who was sharing her philosophical thoughts about coincidence and was hiding under her coat because of a slight breeze.
“You need a scarf.”
“I need Winter in Lisbon and hot tea,” Clara whined, remembering that Lisbon was one of the 101 places to see in her book. The book in the box.
“No, … really, … you need a scarf,” he ignored her whining and her cryptic utterance.
“I know,” she shoved her face a bit back out of her coat. “You are checking your watch again, it wasn’t my intent to hold you up. I’m sorry, you probably have to write some very important article. Like about the vanishing books in the library.”
“Vanishing books in the library?”
“Yes, that’s what my students tell me. There are books you never can lend out because they always gone. The staff say they are in use, and they putting everyone on a waiting list, but you never hear from them again. The students say; someone is stealing them from the library and so no one else can lend them out, and I thought if it is true, it could be a quite good story, little bit mysterious, don’t you think? … Well, sorry, I am babbling, keeps me warm. I’ll let you go,” she dropped her gaze, blushing about her rambling. Pressing the bag closer to herself, she gave him one last quick smile and then hurried down the stairs.
Left behind dumbfounded Randall didn’t know what to do with the situation. “Vanishing books?” he whispered, following her with his eyes. Who was this woman? Why did he even care about this question? His feet started walking without his consent, hurrying down the stairs, following her. For a person with such short high, she was quick, he thought. “Miss Oswald!”
‘Gosh, no,’ she thought. Now he would tell her that he was a serious journalist and not some kind of joke she did all the time, trying to impress him. What did she even think? The man was working for “The Hour” in London, the news program. A job you not advertise for - you get it offered and then you take it or you go home in regret for the next five years.
She whirled around, hoping she could take the wind out of his sails, “I am sorry, I didn’t mean it. I know you are a serious journalist and you don’t do stupid stories about missing books. You do “Watergate” and -”
How the hell could she talk so fast without breathing? “Miss Oswald… Clara!”
He felt indiscrete and awkward for using her first name, without knowing her. They both knew, it was the only word in the world that had made her shut up, but for him, it closed a distance between them, he wasn’t sure he wanted to close. So he quickly rose one hand in defence, sorting out what to say, “Miss Oswald… don’t forget the interview tomorrow, and.. get a scarf! Please.”
Clara’s mouth hung slightly open, when she saw him turn around and walk toward some cars not far away from them. He didn’t turned around anymore, just walked to his car - an old Mercedes and drove off. She kept standing at the spot where he had left her, staring at him and his car till he was out of sight. Only when her arm started to hurt because of the weight of the bag and she saw her bus coming, did she shake herself out of her paralyzed state.
A half hour later she found herself at home, with hot tea on her work desk, trying to make her markings - but being unable to concentrate. It was her name, that distracted her, out of his mouth. It echoed in this low, rasp Scottish tone of his, in her head. Over and over again.
Freddy pointed out to the corner of the room with a comfy looking sofa and a leather chair. Clara decided for the sofa and he sat himself beside her into the chair, taking out notebook and a pen.
They talked for a while about the interview and what was the meaning of it and what they wanted to achieve with it. At the end Freddy closed his notebook, he had made little notes about things Clara had said, so he would remember them, when they would finally do the recording.
“Don’t tell me, this is what you do all day? Asking teachers about their subject and the goals for their students?” Clara asked.
Freddy smiled lenient, “You don’t watch our program very often, Professor Oswald, do you?”
Then it occurred to her, how she must have sounded. She blamed the lack of coffee. “This didn’t sound very nice, and it didn’t reflect well on me, did it? I have to admit, I mostly see it in the break room - when it is on mute.” She gave him an excusing smile, like she wanted to say that she had tried to put the sound back on, but had failed miserably.
“Don’t you worry, there are teachers, they actually give a fuck about our program. They even deny us an interview,” he shrugged, surely having a few names on his tongue, but Clara saw he was reliable, and wouldn’t drag others through the mire in front of a stranger.
“Any particular reasons for that?”
An impish smile appeared on his face when he leaned slightly closer to her. Clara copied the gesture subconsciously, like they had to fear the walls had ears. “As it seems, we don’t only ask questions about Sense and Sensibility.”
She pouted her lips and gave him a grimace. Glenn would have made a fuss out of his behaviour, would had talked about disrespect, but Clara felt that Freddy was a nice young man, and had nothing like that in mind, he was just teasing her - a friendly reminder to go and watch the program.
He gave her an apologetically nod before moving on, “Remember the rumours about the science professor a half year ago, who was forced into retirement?”
She couldn’t remember the name, but the accusations, “Sexual harassment?”
“Something like that.”
“Something like that?”
Snickering he leaned forward again, “He gave particular people, people with not so good grades, better grades, before he even interacted with them. When it came to the finals, he dropped the grades. The persons concerned, couldn’t say much about it, because, these grades were actually real. The next thing he did, was offering better grades for, well …”
Clara leaned back, “That’s insidious!”
Hands raising he said, not without sounding a bit proud, “That was us!”
“But I bet that didn’t came up on your YouTube channel,” Clara said for her defence.
“No, it didn’t,” a voice came from behind. Randall with a cup of coffee in his hand. “However, the interview the professor gave shortly before he got busted by Freddy was very entertaining afterwards. The circulation-,”
“-clicks and likes,” Freddy corrected quickly.
“Clicks and likes,” Randall repeated not without a short glare at his underling, who took it with a nonchalant smile. “They went up into the air.” Randall stepped to a sideboard by the corner, on which some magazines were laid out.
Clara waited a few seconds, and hoped he would tell her why that was so, but nothing came so she asked him her why, which he seemed to expect from her.
Shoving one of the magazines back into the order of the others, he turned around, “Telling how much you care about your students and feeling connected to them with some other nice little double entendres maybe wasn’t his best idea.”
“Oh,” she obviously had to change her opinion about the GUST. Randall looked at her, raising an eyebrow, she took as a approval to her intend.
“We had to take it down, but we had quite good attention,” Freddy stood up, placing the pen behind his ear again. “One of many little happenings. We do investigative journalism here, so it is always a good idea to watch us. It could come out the most important hour of your week,” he held out his hand to her, shaking it goodbye.
“You should use that as your slogan,” she smirked at him, watching him walk to the door.
“Sadly, it is already taken,” he looked at his teacher for a moment, smiling again his boyish smirk - as if he knew he had to smile for both of them.
“It is,” Randall only stated and dismissed him with a short brush over his waistcoat. Turning to Clara, “So, are you feeling ready to give your interview next week?”
“Freddy briefed me very well, so I think I am able to answer some questions about English Literature,” she eyed his coffee mug and hoped it didn’t looked too obvious. “Or did you do some background research and dig some skeletons out of my cupboard?”
He stopped his motion to bring the mug to his lips, “Are you giving me some notions, Miss Oswald?”
She openly smiled at him, “Maybe I do, Mister Brown. Maybe I do.”
“Mhm,” he slowly drank from his coffee, never leaving her eyes with his.
“What did you say to Professor Murray?”
“It would be very indiscreet to tell you.”
Clara made a fake face of disappointment, “We are talking about Nicola Murray here and not the prime minister,” of course she could understand it, and decided not to push. “You are right, it is none of my business. Are we done here?”
“I think so, yes, if you haven’t any further questions?”
She did as if she has to think hard about it, only to test him out, hoping he would reward her with another smile, but he kept a straight face. “If I do, I can .. call you?”
He thought about it. There is Freddy, he could deal with it, “If you feel it’s urgent.”
“Thank you, I might,” she walked past him out of the door, when she remembered something. Whirling around, she popped her head back into the room, one of her hands slapped against the door frame, “I need to know something.”
She could see Randall, who had turned his back to the door, slightly jump. “Is it a matter of urgency?”
“Absolutely.”
His eyes roamed over her face and her try to look serious. It would have worked certainly with one of her students; however, he was able to detect the playful impression she carried around in the brown of her eyes.
“Then I am all yours.” He only realized his words when Clara gave him a short twitch with her eyebrow and her expression became amused. He decided to do as he was waiting impatiently by glancing at his watch and Clara decided to save her cheeky answer for another time.
“Neo-expressionistic garden party,” her tongue got caught between her teeth while her eyes stayed at him to not miss the reaction.
His face went from a deep frown, about a very strange question, to perking his eyebrows in remembrance, “Yes?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she had made her way back into the room and now leaned against the door frame.
Randall frowned again at her, not sure what she meant.
“Nicola. It was you who talked her out of this ridiculous garten party last year, wasn’t it?”
Instead of answering her, he tried to figure out what she tried to achieve with her question. There was no chance for him to solve this alone, and she looked at him in curiosity, smiling, waiting for him to say something, otherwise it seemed she would not go on. He shifted, placing the cup aside, “it was November - after all.”
Clara snorted - a ghost with fine humour maybe? “Well, I take that as a yes and to be honest, I had made a mental note to thank the person who did intervene.”
“Ah,” he said and his head tilted in silent agreement.
“So,… thank you,” she finally said.
He kept his straight face, no hint that he was humoured by her words, but Clara could have sworn she saw a glint in his eyes, a little sparkle of amusement. Before she could grasp it, it was gone again, and he hid his face by shoving his glasses up his nose with his hand.
She smiled and had to look away for a moment, toward the empty cup by the magazines, at the corner of the sideboard, where he had placed it. The handle was levitating over the edges of the sideboard.
It was only a step and it bothered her more than it should. She placed the edge of her finger on the side of the handle and turned the mug on the spot until the handle was in the safety of the edges of the wood.
All under the attentive eyes of Randall, who had followed the movement of her finger toward the cup and back to the side of her hip, watching her smirk at the cup and asking himself why he hadn’t noticed. Why had he placed the mug like this in the first place? Glancing away from the cup to Clara he knew he didn’t need to guess about it.
Randall Brown / Clara Oswald - Fic - "Collide" - Chapter 2- Now online
Chapter 2 is up. A bit earlier than planned, but I think it is time to meet Randall Brown. Thanks for the beta fetchingsort.
AO3 Link
Summary:
Clara Oswald, English Literature Professor and Randall Brown, the Head of PR and Communication work at the University of Glasgow. They have never met before, but then coincidence finally makes up its mind. See what happens when two people who couldn't be more different collide. Slow Burn. Romance. Doctor Who/The Hour - Whouffaldi (somehow)
Clara found the office on the last floor in the same wing as her office. Hers was on the fourth floor and this seemed to be the last floor before the stairs went up to the attic. At least that was her impression.
She had to check a few doors before she found the one with the number 7.043, a filled waste-paper bin aside, near the stairs but not in obvious sight. The fact that his office was not far away from her own made her wonder if she really never had seen him before. Yes, she taught in another part of the building, but she visits her office every day and the man must leave his office from time to time. For work, food, going home. Her curiosity grew.
Standing in front of the door, she surveyed some thick metall silver letters, affixed directly onto the wooden door.
“How odd,” her head tilted as if it would help her to build words out of the letters.
R a n d a l l B r o w n
It was the only door that had its owners name highlighted like this. Everyone else simply had some plastic sign on the right, with some labelled cards in it. Easy to replace. Glancing to the right, she saw the square sign - empty. Smiling, slightly shaking her head, she knocked three times. Not even the headmasters had door signs like this. Either someone was very certain of his job, or simply quirky.
“Come in!” a voice echoed from inside and Clara opened the door, not without taking the chance to brush her fingertips against the letters.
She took one step inside, her gaze automatically fell toward the work desk in front of a row of little windows at the end of the room. The chair behind the desk was empty, so she took a second step inside and looked around, finding by the right wall someone laying on a couch - carved by Freud himself it seemed to her. She guessed it was the owner of the office, Randall Brown, even if she couldn’t see his face because he was reading a folder with some documents in it.
Clearing her throat, “Do I come in an inconvenient moment? Shall I come back later?”
The folder got lowered and a pair of eyes, framed behind black retro looking glasses appeared. He eyed her quizzically, without saying something.
Clara asked, “I know the office door says it very clear, but… you are Randall Brown, are you?”
The man returned to upright position, closed the folder, and placed it aside from him on the surface of the leather. Without haste, he scanned Clara and she could see that he tried to place her somewhere. The way he squinted his eyes told her, he didn’t know her, and so she was right in her assumption, that they indeed never had met before.
“Yes, I am,” he grabbed for the folder, and stood up, straightening his suit jacket. “We don’t have an appointment, do we?” he asked. He glanced down his watch, holding it then to his ear for a moment, and then walked over to his desk and placed the folder onto it.
Clara took the few seconds to let his impression sink in. Randall Brown - a Scotsman, going by his mocking byname and his accent - a man in the beginning of his fifties, tall, she guessed he was near 6 feet tall. Even from the distance she had to look up to him, with her 5ft 2. His lean figure was highlighted with a bespoke, dark blue suit, under a matching waistcoat a white shirt and the black tie finished his appearance in a very sharp manner. His hair, in shades of grey and black, combed backward. She realized, that his piercing eyes were directed at her, waiting for an explanation of her being in his office, so she quickly broke eye contact in case she had stared at him.
Raising the letter from him, “I got your message. I’m Clara Oswald. You told me to come by to discuss my interview,” she gave him a smile to which he didn’t react
“Oh, yes, I remember. English literature,” he frowned at her, checking the fit of his glasses with his right hand. “You are late.”
“Well,” Clara rose one hand in excuse, “I didn’t know about the interview till today.”
He walked around his desk, moved the folder he just had placed there to the other side of the desk, lining it up exactly to the desk’s edge. He then opened another folder, his finger gliding down a list.
Clara didn’t know what to say, did he assume she was lying or was he just correct? Glancing around in his office, she registered shelves with many books, a pinboard with notes, newspaper cutouts and some pictures, all in line, none in any way slanted. His desk was a paradigm for order and cleanliness. She saw no computer, no mobile phone and no radio. Only lots of papers, pens, and a frame, might be a picture of his wife or family, she guessed. She couldn’t see it from her point of view.
At the side, shelves, filled with books. Not that she knew him in the slightest at this point, she only had made her assumptions, had subconsciously taken the little bits and pieces she had collected through her observations and had formed an impression of him. She guessed they were all sorted alphabetically, followed by color, topic, and then probably by birth date of the author. She bit her lip to suppress her amusement.
‘Don’t be rude, Clara,’ she thought before stepping to the bookshelf to find out.
Randall stopped when he saw her move in the corner of his eye, and watched her, while she scanned over the titles. Although she has worked here for a year, he can’t remember seeing her before - he knew that from the basic information sheet he always asks for from the administration office for each interview partner.
She wore boots with high heels and was still very small to him. It occurred to him, she couldn’t reach the top shelf without them. A fact, that amused him - deep inside. Another fact that he wondered about was why she had left London. He knew at least four of his students who wanted to work at the ULC (University College London) when to get the chance, even when they would be offered a job here in Glasgow. She probably had her reasons, he thought, and pushed it aside. He knew, it was none of his business.
When she wanted to touch one of his books, he reached out to her with words, “I sent it out two weeks ago, over to the head of your department.”
Clara’s hand backed away from the books, and she walked back to the spot she had stood initially, “Yes, Nicola Murray.”
She didn’t wanted to put the blame on her and let her look bad, but she didn’t wanted to look incapable either. Her inner debate got put to an end when Randall closed the file with a little thud and gave the mentioning of Nicola a knowing hum.
“That explains your delay,” his voice was rigorous but she sensed, it wasn’t meant for her.
“Sorry,” she answered automatically and in reaction he lowered his chin a bit.
“Don’t be,” his expression softened until it was almost unnoticeable. ”I know Professor Murray and her…,” he thought about a single word he could describe her with. He found many, but none would go alone. None would be very pleasant.
“Talents?” Clara suggested dryly, knowing her eyes were betraying her sarcasm.
His fingernails tapped against the wood of his desk while they exchanged looks, “That is one way of putting it, yes.”
She felt he wanted to say something more about it when his lips parted again, but he seemed to decide otherwise and closed them again into a thoughtful purse-lipped expression. He checked the watch again, and stepped around his desk toward her. “Professor Oswald, I have to be in the studio in ten minutes, do you mind following me? I will hand you over to Mister Lyon there, one of my students who will do the interview with you.”
He had already opened the door, and waited for her to move. She knew there was no other answer as to follow him. “Fine.”
Randall nodded, closed the door and made long strides toward the steps. Clara had to hurry to follow him.
‘Typical Newsman,’ she thought.
Two floors down, Randall pulled out the key for the lift out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock. “Have you done something like this before?” he asked, while they waited.
“An interview? On TV? No, actually not, I am an English literature teacher, not a famous pop singer,” it was a helpless try to break the ice with the man they called a ghost.
He blinked two times at her before he answered and before the lift arrived with a faint “ding”. “I’m glad you aren’t, the opinions of pop singers are way too overrated in this world and personally I don’t give much about them.”
She squinted at him, trying to figure out if he got her joke and if there was one hidden in his words. “There are pop singers, who try to rescue the world, you know that?” she stepped beside from him.
Checking the fit of his tie he pressed the button for the basement, where the studio was, he asked, “And who could that be, Professor Oswald?”
“Bono. Bob Geldof and what about John Lennon?” Secretly she had asked herself, at which point he had decided to make a political discussion out of her poor try of making a joke.
Randall turned his head to her, and only his head, “Bono? Geldof? Lennon?”
Clara answered before she did think about it, “Don’t tell me you don’t listen to the radio and news as a journalist? You know these people, don’t you?”
The lift reached the basement. “Professor Oswald-”
“-Clara. If it’s not too much to ask. You are not one of my students, so please, … just Clara. Thats totally fine.”
The door was wide open, but he wasn’t about to move, he just looked at her, over the edges of his glasses. Piercing down at her with his greenish eyes, it was so intense she wanted to look away, but she held his stare. His expression softens suddenly, “Then they should have become politicians, world savers, superheroes.. I don’t know,” he stepped outside, turning around to her, “But not pop singers.”
He didn’t wait for her, just headed off to the studio, the next interview would start in a few minutes and he hated to be late - what he usually never was.
She caught up to him again, when he was already standing behind a big wall of glass, behind it the studio, an interview room. Cameras, lights, people buzzing around. In the middle two chairs. On the left side sat a dashing young man with black hair, he wore a grey shirt with the slogan “Save the Arctic”. The face was familiar, she knew it from the University channel. Clara could see a pen behind his ear, only slightly covered by his longer hair.
Randall could see it too, he huffed and stretched his shoulders tensely, checking again the fit of his tie, “Tell him about the pen, Donna!” he turned to a woman by a console, so she pressed a button and talked into a microphone in front of her. “Freddy, the pen please…”
Freddy looked up and sent a grin over to them, before slipping the pen away.
“One minute!” someone called.
Clara could see that Randall got nervous, he was tapping the fingers of his right hand against his upper thigh, and the fingers of his left were twisting his lower lip, “Where is she?” He walked over to the microphone and repeated his question.
“Sorry! Sorry!” it was Nicola Murray. “I had to change.”
Clara couldn’t suppress her laughter, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand when she saw him scrutinize her for it.
“Nicola Murray,” he only whispered and shook his head in disapproval.
Nicola settled down in front of Freddy and shifted a few times in her seat, she was unsure if she should lean back or sit on the edge of the stool.
Clara noticed, “This isn’t live, isn’t it?” She was afraid it would be and only because she knew she had to give one too.
“This is not “The Hour”, Professor Oswald,” he liked his lips, and took his glasses off to clean them with a little cleaning rag out of his pockets. When he was finished, he placed them back on his nose, “But we like to give the impression of it.” Clara believed to hear a hint of a mocking tone.
“She looks nervous,” Clara said. Knowing he could easily tell her over the microphone that it was not live and she just should relaxe.
“I told her to go to a training, but it didn’t really help,” he paused, and gave Clara a side look, whose eyes were still directed onto Nicola. When she felt his eyes on her, she turned her head and met Randall’s. Looking back to the studio he adds “Sometimes I ask myself how she got that job as the head of the art and literature department. She has the inevitable talent of …,”
“.. of picking the worst possible time to fuck things up,” Randall’s head shot around in such a surprising haste, that one of his muscles twitched.
Clara blushed immediately, her tongue now thick and heavy, she turned to him, pressing her lips together. His eyebrows came close together, making his look sharp and his expression stern - it made Clara feel bad about her swearing.
“Not the words I would have chosen,” it was the smallest smile Clara has ever seen, and yet a smile. “Sounds like one of these little “postcards for to go” in front of some restaurants restrooms.”
She blinked, while he shoved his hands into his pockets, watching Freddy asking Nicola some questions. Randall Brown, the man who appeared to her like he had stepped right out of the fifties, didn’t look like he went to this kind of restaurants. And it felt sudden to her, to actually think about a man, whom she had never met before, and his possible evening activities.
“You know that you are staring at me?” he pulled her out of her thoughts, without turning toward her.
‘Two times blushing in under five minutes, not bad, Clara.’ she cleared her throat, “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
Freddy finished the interview and shook Nicola’s hand, then he waved over to Randall.
Before leaving he turned to Clara, “Lost? You don’t look like a woman who gets easily lost, ...Professor Oswald,.” He gave her exact three long seconds to think about. “Excuse me, I have to tell Nicola some words from a postcard. Freddy will take care of you in a moment.”
“A towel!” she blurred out and Randall stopped by the door. “It is from a towel, not a postcard, and… it’s still Clara.”
Freddy came to his side, glancing around between the two teachers, seeing Randall sending over a smirk toward Clara - an actual smile, that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, short, with closed lips, but honest. “A towel then.”
Freddy almost gaped at his teacher who walked over to Nicola, “Have you seen this?”
Clara blinked, “Seen what?”
“That smile.”
“Uhm.. yes,” she gestured, that she didn’t understand the problem with it. “So?”
Freddy smirked at her, “He never smiles.” With that he guided her toward a little room, so they could talk about the upcoming interview.
Clara gave Randall and Nicola a last look before she followed Freddy. Nicola looked disappointed and in distress, while Randall stood in front of her, talking, on hand in his pocket, the other slowly moving around in front of her.
She would have given a lot to hear his version of the towel quote.
Randall Brown / Clara Oswald - Fic - "Collide" - Now online
It has happened, I posted Chapter 1 of my new multi chapter fic about Randall and Clara. You can read it here or on Ao3. I advise Ao3, because there you find some longer notes about the story (no must read, just for basic information). I'll try to update weekly. Depends on my muse and my beta. Thanks here to fetchingsort.
If you like to follow the story you can follow the RandallXClara tag.
AO3 Link
Summary:
Clara Oswald, English Literature Professor and Randall Brown, the Head of PR and Communication work at the University of Glasgow. They have never met before, but then coincidence finally makes up its mind. See what happens when two people who couldn't be more different collide. Slow Burn. Romance. Doctor Who/The Hour - Whouffaldi (somehow)
How could one - who was not born here - even think to settle down here? In Scotland, where the wind blows sharp as a knife and the temperature was more moody than some teenager on a Monday morning.
Clara Oswald had no problem with Scotland itself - god beware, she only had a problem with the weather, and some grumpy old neighbours, who never missed a chance to tell her, that she simply was not made for this beautiful country - in other words, “Ya darn Blackpudlian, better go home!”.
She couldn’t remember another word out of their mouth, since she had moved into her flat in Glasgow.
“Why did I come here?” Clara muttered. “Ah, yeah, teaching. Here. Dead in a ditch. Great idea! Brilliant idea, Clara!”
She shook her head while approaching the stairs which led to the main entrance. She was not in the best mood. The bus she initially wanted to take simply didn’t show up, so she had to wait for the next one, and was now late. Let alone cold.
It was the first of October and for some reason it seemed the leaves had turned orange over night and the temperature had dropped at least a hundred degrees. Well, all that was her personal opinion - she was not a meteorologist, so she might was wrong about it.
It didn’t change the fact, that she was late and she was cold. Maybe she should go back to London, where she had teached before.
She was actually quite happy there - well, pleased. To be happy is always a big achievement. She had a nice tiny flat, a great job, no boyfriend and a stepmother who never missed a chance to point out to it. So it came, that she accepted - after two glass of wine - the offer from the Glaswegian University to teach English Literature one year ago. (There was maybe a considerable pay raise involved too.) Within four weeks she had packed all her stuff, had found a new flat in Glasgow and had made her goodbyes to friends and family - her greatest moment of pure rebellion. The only thing that made her hesitate in the end was her dad. And she felt terrible sorry for leaving him behind like this.
“Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart,” he had told her, with one of his warm smiles. “It’s Glasgow, not the end of the world.” For Clara, it literally was the end of the world.
After Blackpool, she had moved to London and after that, she had moved to Glasgow. Nothing in between, no travel to another country. Not even Irland or so. No, it was always this darn island. When she had turned 30, she had taken the book “101 Places to see” from the shelf and had placed it in the darkest box in the basement she could find. Now, she was almost 32 and at least once a month she woke up at night, having a dream about settling down in Glasgow - forever. She never had a worse nightmare in her life.
Maybe it was just one of these days, she thought.
“Clara!” she heard her name behind her, while climbing up the stairs.
“Danny!” Sweet little Danny Pink. He caught up to her, his bag around his shoulders and a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
They both had started working at the same time. His taught math, and she had been glad that she wasn’t the only new face. So they had connected quickly.
“You look unhappy,” he smirked while sipping from his coffee, Clara envied him for. There was no time to walk by her favourite cafe to get some, so she would need to take potluck with the nasty one from the break room.
“It is Monday morning, I am late, I am cold and I have no coffee,” she huffed. “I hate this town!”
“No, you don’t, you are just in a bad mood. I remember you praising it two weeks ago,” he offered her his half drunken coffee with a gesture and she happily took it from him. They both knew what the coffee from the break room would do to her. She would start to eat at least two of her students alive - with no regret.
“That was only because I had a good day,” she smirked.
Sweet Danny Pink. They had dated a few times, but nothing ever came off it. He was a good looking guy, former military man, smart, charming and he was good with kids - her stepmother would say, he was perfect.
After a couple of dates, and their first kiss, they had realized they didn’t “click”. So they stopped dating and started sharing some lunch and some dinners as friends, a half year later he finally found the courage to ask Sissy Cooper from the University administration office out for a date - since then they were together. Clara was happy for him, Sissy was the good heart of the administration office, and had a solution for everything. Adorable Coop, she called her.
“How is adorable Coop? You both had a nice weekend?” she asked while they both headed toward the post room to get their mail.
“We had a nice dinner, at Mancinis. Very good food, not that pricey, you should try it out one day.”
They both approached their mail compartment, two of 150. “Yeah, can’t imagine why I should do that. Hi, I am Clara Oswald, do you have a table for one, please? No, really, I have some self respect, Danny.”
Leaving the room, he sighed, “You know what I mean. No one said you should go alone. I am sure you will find someone. Glasgow has nice man, you know that, don’t you? There are not all like your neighbors.”
“Well, they are like 110, so they don’t count from market economy perspective,” she was not in the mood to talk about the fact, that she seemed unable to find someone capable of being a good boyfriend. She had dated a few men, but it was the same as with Danny, she couldn’t connect with them. “I’ll die old and grey and alone.”
“No, you won’t!” he slapped her softly with his letters. “You’ll find someone.”
“How do you know? It is easy talking for someone in a relationship,” Clara sorted through her mails, but decided she had no time to go through it and shoved them into her bag.
“Because you are intelligent, warm hearted and not that bad looking. Only three of the many aspects that frighten most men. I am sure when you stop searching, the right one will fall in front of your feet,” he gave her a quick hug, a wink and excused himself to his study hall.
“You are a good friend, Danny Pink!” she called after him, he turned around for a moment only to shoot her another grin and a thanking bow.
She emptied the paper cup, and headed toward her classroom. She was not really in the mood, but she had to give a lecture about Jane Eyre, its social criticism and morality.
---
After 90 minutes of lecture, Clara fell exhausted into her stool. Bejant/Bejantine were the worst. They asked way too many questions, not because they were interested, more because they feared to do something wrong. She knew of some professors, whom loved Bejant/Bejantine, because they kissed the ground the Professor walked on. Needy gameplayers, she called them. Personally she liked the Tertian, they had some kind of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, before they became Magistrand. At this point they finally listened to what she said and figured out, not to ask too many questions, which would set up boundaries for the works they had to hand in.*
It took her a minute to find her way back into the present, and she remembered her letters from the post office. Grabbing into her bag, she pulled out the pile and tried to sort them out. Most of them were memos from the principal, news and updates. Some student requests for an appointment and a new print of the Glasgow University Guardian. Clara shoved the papers, except the newspaper back into her bag and unfolded the Guardian. There, a letter, that had slipped between the newspaper, fell down to the ground. She followed its fall with her eyes, and prevented it from sliding under the table by stepping onto it with her boot.
“Gotcha!” leaning down, she noticed the odd handwriting on it. Usually all the letters were printed, even the addresses. Not this one. The front had her name on it, Professor Clara Oswald, English Literature, Art and Literature Department. She turned the small thing around and frowned at its addressor. Randall Brown. Office 7.043. Nothing more.
Clara lowered the letter into her lap and fixated on a chair in the last row of the classroom, trying to remember the name. Nothing. She didn’t know someone with the name. She shrugged it off, she couldn’t know everyone, the University was far too big. Opening and reading it, made her stumble.
‘Please make an appointment for your interview at the 8th, so we can brief you about topics and policy. Sincere regards, R. Brown’
“What?” Clara had no clue what this was about. What interview and who the hell was Randall Brown? She felt she had missed something important.
The call of her name yanked her out of her reflections, “Clara, there you are! I am looking for you ever since,” the woman approached her hastily.
“Nicola!” Clara trilled. Nicola Murray, the head of the Art and Literature department. In her forties, married, two kids, stressed out and always on the hop. She liked Nicola, at least some bits of her, she was very engaged, lovely but she had an aura of chaos around her. After a while Clara had recognized that she was always doing a good pace. She seemed to run from one appointment to the next. Danny suggested it was because of her short political career 10 years ago.
There were times Clara wanted to tell her to come down a little, breath, relax, chill out, like her students sometimes suggested behind her back, before she would die because of a heart attack, but she was her boss, and she had bigger problems as to tell a workaholic to chill out.
“I totally forgot to tell you about your interview,” she kneaded her fingers in distress. She didn’t liked to admit, that it was her fault, probably because it happened quite a lot.
Clara held up the letter, “what interview, Nicola?”
“For the GUST, the Glasgow University Student Television. The Department has to give some overviews over the single subjects. You go for English Literature.”
“Why me? Why not Glenn? He is here since, I don’t know 1983.”
“Are you kidding me? Glenn? Glenn looks like a salesman for suits from the 1980’s, not like an English Literature Professor,” she waved hectically.
Clara made a gesture with her mouth. She had a point, because Glenn not only looked like one, he also talked like one. “So it is me then? Since when do you know?”
Nicola made a grimace, that told her everything, “Forget it. Tell me at least, who is Randall Brown?”
That earned her an expression of disbelief, “You don’t know the Caledonian ghost of news?”
“The what?”
“Randall Brown is the Head of Public Relations. He is responsible for the Glasgow University Guardian and the Glasgow University Student Television, the GUG and the GUST.”
“He is a Professor?” Clara was confused.
“He is a journalist. Joined us three years ago, from London. He is a bit odd, but he is the best,” Nicola was already about to leave her alone again, by turning on her heels.
“Why did you call him a ghost?” Clara grabbed her bag and followed her.
Nicola smiled at her, with a bit too much pity as Clara found. “You told me, you don’t know him, and I assume you haven’t met him yet.”
“No, I can’t tell that I have.”
“See. That’s why we call him a ghost. You’ll see. I have to go now, they want an interview from me too, and I really have to change before that. Bye!” with that Nicola dashed out of the door and vanished in the floors of the University.
Clara smirked. Everytime she saw her, she remembered last year, when she came up with the idea to make a little public relations event in form of a neo expressionistic theme based garden party - in November. In Scotland. She was really convinced about the idea, till someone obviously had told her that the idea was totally bananas. Clara never really had bothered who it was, but had made a mental note to thank the man or the woman, when she, by small chance would ever meet the saviour. Peering down to the letter, she had a hunch.
“Office 7.043 it will be,” she whispered, still quarreling with the lack of good coffee in her veins and made her way up to meet some ghost.
