Chapter Text
Chapter One
Clara slammed the phone into its cradle. It tumbled out of its plastic sheath and clattered to the floor at her feet. She waited until the count of ten before she crouched down, swept her hair from her eyes and the tears from her cheek, and picked the phone back up. Once it was back in its place, she shut her eyes again, and reduced the ten count to five.
"That's it," she said with a huff, holding up her hands in surrender. "That's it. I'm getting out. I’m going. I'm--fucking gone." She paused, counted down from seven, and let out the breath locked inside in her chest. “And then I’ll come back once I’m done shopping.”
Clara’s shoulders sagged, and though the edges of her temper dulled to a spark, the core of it ran deep. All she could do was push it down, keep counting and holding her breath, and wait. It was the only way Clara knew how to put on her mask without fail. It worked every time.
Trying not to gnash her teeth into little pearly stubs, Clara threw on her coat, snatched up her wallet and keys, and stormed out of her flat. She pulled the door shut with a loud snap, and did up the locks in an angry twist. She shot past the lift and made for the stairs at a rapid pace, her footsteps echoing up the empty stairwell.
God help her if she ran into any of her neighbours now. She did not have the energy to play the nice little schoolteacher they all assumed she was—and indeed, usually Clara had no problem keeping that particular mask in place. Except for tonight.
All it took was one phone call, and all of Clara’s carefully composed control came toppling down like a house of cards. Just the sound of her stepmother’s voice made Clara’s patience reach the end of its tether, as usual, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst were the tears, the crushing sense of failure and fury. This particular lethal trio gripped her heart like a hook. It pulled and tore at her, not just to wound but to mar, to scar. The usual post-family depression.
Clara felt as if everyone she passed on the street simply must know how furious she was, and were just pretending to be ignorant of it. How could they not know? How could they pass by, totally unaware of how broken she felt, and how hard it was just to keep her face free of both anger and tears? She didn’t want the attention, and she didn’t want pity—she just couldn't understand how something that overwhelmed her so completely could go unnoticed by people within arm's reach of her.
Why can't they see? Why can't they just know? she thought, and not for the first time in her life either. Why do all the worst things have to be said?
But these were all dead end thoughts. Clara knew they would lead nowhere and help with nothing, just as she knew she ought to shelve her temper, and cast aside all lingering frustrations if she ever wanted to get a good night's rest later on.
Slim chance of that. Clara chuckled to herself, weighing her keys in the pocket of her coat and shuddering against the strong burst of wind that whipped around the corner. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Sunday. There's no way I'm heading to bed early tonight. I'll be up for hours stewing over this one.
It always took Clara a few days to recover from these moods. Usually she avoided talking to her family unless it was absolutely necessary—holiday greetings, birthdays, and the unpleasant formalities of anniversaries were the only times she let herself bridge the gap of silence between herself, her father, and Linda. And really, she should have prepared herself for this one. It’s not like the call was a complete surprise. Christmas was only a few days away.
Clara scowled as she strode into Tesco Express, and snatched up a basket from the nearly empty rack. Trying her best not to think of her step-mother, Clara dodged carefully around a cluster of shoppers shouting over canned spices and tangerines. They were out in full force this year, dressed in ugly sweaters, Santa hats, and festive light necklaces that clicked like talons when the person wearing them lurched possessively over their food. Clara would find all of this viciously funny if she didn't have to put herself at risk just to get another box of breakfast tea (simple, predictable, but so sorely needed), to say nothing of the battle that would break out when she headed back to the dairy case. Luckily the stars smiled on her efforts; Clara found not one but two boxes of the beloved breakfast blend to take home, along with a box of loose leaf peppermint tea. That would be nice on Christmas morning.
It was with a bolstered heart and slightly more elevated spirits that Clara crept towards the dairy case, falling into step behind a tall man in a long, black woollen trench coat. Clara took a breath to calm herself, pushing her hair over her shoulder and out of her eyes.
See? You're calming down already. Not that you were even trying to calm down—although he certainly should, she cut in, pulling a face as she stared at the back of the man in front of her. He was standing rigid and ramrod straight, his neck tense, and his shoulders locked in as if a metal vise were clamped around the thin skin.
Clara’s heart went out to this stranger. Anyone shopping in a madhouse like this with their patience worn past its limit was a friend, as far as she was concerned. And if she actually were friends with the man, she might give him a pat on the back and a little nod of encouragement. But there was nothing Clara could do except gaze at his back in sympathy.
It didn’t last long, though. Clara stepped up to the dairy case once the line had cleared, and looked through what was left of the milk. There were only three containers left. Glass containers at that, thin and short and probably skim, to add insult to the injury. The stars might have smiled on Clara's efforts for the tea, but that was as far as the universe’s kindness went, apparently.
Clara had just picked up one of the bottles and turned to her left at the exact same time as the man she had been following made his turn to his right. The two of them knocked into each other hard enough to drop the bottles. Down they crashed, splattering shards of milk-coated glass across Clara's boots and stockings. The man’s shoes and the cuffs of his trousers were likewise soaked.
People turned to stare at the sound, their eyes open wide. Within seconds, grocery store workers came over to usher Clara and the grim-faced man away from the wreckage. Caution signs were put up, and a mop was slapped onto the floor by a gloomy looking, string-thin boy. Slowly, with curious eyes that cut like knives, the nearby shoppers returned to their routines. And still Clara and the man had not shared a single word.
They now stared at each other. Clara had to lift her head up further than she expected to get a good look at the man. He was clearly older than her, though it wasn’t easy to place his age. Mid-forties, perhaps. Clara thought she saw a bit of grey in his dark brown hair, a pale tinge that suggested grey wouldn't be far along perhaps in another year or so.
Stressed, old, and tired, she thought, taking the man in. When was the last time he slept in a bed? He looked like he slept over a desk for the past three days.
Whoever he was, Clara couldn't help but continue staring. Not just because she felt ashamed for knocking into him, but because of his eyes. They were bright eyes, almost blue, but then shades of green and storm-cloud grey seemed to creep in, and then Clara didn't know what to make of him. She thought of words like changeable, mutable, unpredictable. It was bizarrely appealing, despite how forbidding he seemed.
Before Clara knew it, she was laughing. It wasn't a happy laugh. A note of hysteria rang through each chuckle, and though she tried to clamp her hand over her mouth and keep the laughter inside, Clara knew she was bound to fail. The stress from being overworked, ill-used, and forced to endure yet another round of abuse masquerading as advice from Linda's puckered, thin-lipped mouth had left Clara incapable of her usual control. And so she stood there, laughing herself hoarse in front of a man twice her age whose eyes were like little storm clouds fixed into his face.
At last, Clara managed to say, "You know, I really did need that milk."
"As did I," the man said. She noted his accent (Scottish! Quite far from home, this one) and the tone in which he spoke. Tense, terse, and a little amused. This didn't stop her from laughing, but it did get her to take a breath, stand up straight, and focus more on composure than destruction.
No use breaking down over spilled milk.
"I'm sorry," Clara said, and she meant it, even if she were still fighting back hysterics. "I didn't see you there. It was an accident." She offered a smile along with the apology.
To her tremendous surprise it worked. The man moved his gaze back and forth over Clara's smile, taking in the dimple she knew past girl friends–and girlfriends–had envied her for. Linda always said ruined it every family picture. "It's like you've got a scar cutting up half your cheek, dear. It's awful–try turning to hide it next time, will you?"
No, shut up, Clara told the nagging little Linda that seemed to thrive inside her mind. She was like a cancer that needed immediate excision, but whose traces could linger on far longer than the initial exposure. And then the man was talking, and Clara had no reason to listen to the angry thoughts in her head anymore.
"Well, I can't expect you'd be able to see much from down there," the man said, gesturing to her stature with a large, open hand.
Clara scowled up at him. She’d heard that one before.
He quickly added, "So how important was that bottle to you? You're a bit– " he cut himself off.
"You were going to say 'broken up about it,' weren't you?"
It was the man's turn to frown.
The boy who had been mopping up the milk had since moved on to sweeping away the glass. He handed Clara and the man two complementary wet naps. Clara and the man accepted the help with smiles and thanks. They set about cleaning their shoes, taking turns leaning on the wall next to the dairy case for balance.
"Any particular reason why a bottle could be so dire?” the man asked, not looking at her.
Clara shrugged. “I needed that milk for a soufflé to take the edge off,” she said, picking at the ends of her nylons to unstick them. She sighed, well aware of the puddle of milk that had gathered in her boot. "I guess you might call me a stress baker."
"A stress baker?" the man echoed, scrubbing at the end of one leg to another, cursing beneath his breath. Clara's lips tightened at some of the phrases, but she otherwise kept her comments to herself. "What, are your parents a passive aggressive butcher and a post-traumatic candle-stick maker?"
Clara blinked, setting both feet down on the floor. She folded up the wet nap in her hand. "No," she said, staring up at the man. "Was that another joke?"
The man glowered at her, clearly wondering if that was a joke. Clara's smirk gave her away, and he had no choice but to fight his own grin in return.
"You must be fun at parties," he teased, half snorting as he said it.
This struck a nerve. "Don't go to parties much," she said, shaking her head in tense little twists that swung her hair around her face. "Not my thing, really—which, even if it were my thing, I still wouldn't go because hey, it's just Christmas dinner. That's nothing special. It's not like it's a tradition to get together with the family every holiday. There's no bloody need for me to put in an appearance where I'm obviously not wanted, yeah?"
It was as if Clara's mouth acted outside of her will. The repeat of her conversation with Linda came out in a harsh rush.
The man stared at her, saying nothing. She closed her eyes and took another long breath. Clara could feel the man's eyes on her, like a hand pushing and prodding at the mask she was trying so desperately to put back into place.
When she looked at him again, Clara was relieved to see traces of sympathy on his long, pale face. It was as if he'd seen a wound she'd been trying to hide and instead of being viciously curious about the mark, he felt only pity for its presence.
And then his own mask slid into place, his expression smoothing out into an empty expression that even Clara couldn’t mistake as genuine.
"I'm sorry," she said again, trying to laugh and managing a sort of lopsided smile. "I’m dumping quite a bit on you tonight, aren’t I? First milk, then miseries.”
"It happens," the man said, his voice softer than it had been earlier. “It’s the holidays. They’re not always festive.”
"I'm sorry." Third time's the charm. "I'll just... I'll be going, yeah? There's one more bottle in the case, and if you don't mind I think I'd best be leaving with it. Then we can be on our happy way."
"What, us?"
"No, me and the bottle," Clara said, before she realized that once again, he was joking. Her smile was immediate—this, at least, was genuine.
If the man was amused by this, Clara didn't give herself time to see it. She turned away and walked back to the case, treading lightly on the newly mopped floor. A woman with short blonde hair, a sour face, and ice blue eyes darted in front of her at the last second and snatched up the last bottle on the shelf. She lowered it into her cart with deliberate care, where Clara could clearly see another bottle of milk had been placed.
Something inside of Clara snapped. Like a little twig that endured the cold bite of winter only to break under the first warm spell of the season, Clara reached out without realising what she was doing, and gave the older woman a sharp tap on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," Clara said in her best angry teacher voice. The woman turned to look at her. She was vaguely familiar, but Clara couldn’t quite place her just yet. "Yeah, hello. I was going for that bottle." She pointed at it.
"Were you?" the woman said, looking Clara up and down.
Clara knew that look. Linda had mastered the art of disdainful glares, and it was clear that this woman was no dab hand at them as well.
"Yes, I was actually," Clara repeated, matching the woman's temper. There was something so familiar about her face and voice. It brought Clara back to her temping job days, where she'd made friends with a brash, bold red-haired woman named Donna Noble. They had bonded quickly over the state of the relationships they had with their mothers, and Clara remembered hearing Donna's mother's voice on the phone quite frequently.
This woman's just like I imagined her to be based on that voice. Sour and cross and puckered, like a lemon in a wig.
The man in the black coat approached until he was standing just a hand's length away from Clara. She ignored this. "Since you've already got a bottle, would it be all right if I just take that other one back?"
It was phrased as a question, but there was nothing in Clara's face or tone that suggested it was something the woman should refuse.
But refuse she did. "Hmm, no," the woman said, looking down the length of her nose at Clara. "No, I'll be needing them both."
"For what?" Clara demanded, knowing it was a pointless argument to have. She couldn't believe this was happening. I'm actually getting into a row over a bloody bottle of milk. I thought I was better than this. But it wasn't just the bottle that was the problem here, it was the principle of the thing.
"For my cats," the woman said, after a deliberately thoughtful pause.
Clara opened her mouth to reply, which was when the man in the black coat stepped in, holding up his hands as if to push back on the older woman's argument. "Look—hi, yes, couldn't help but overhear the little tiff. Pretty sure the drunk Father Christmas out front ringing the bell could hear it, too. You've got a lovely voice, you know. Like a dental drill. It bores in."
The older woman flinched as if she'd been struck. Clara chewed on her lip, trying not to laugh.
"Just give the girl the bottle, and let the kitties binge from the tap for a night, yeah? They’ll thank you for it. And your carpets will, too," the older man said.
The older woman glared as if he'd told her to do something horribly rude. "Excuse me, but who are you? Who even asked you to speak?"
Oh, she is so Donna’s mum, Clara thought.
"A man who knows you don't give fucking dairy products to a cat unless you were hoping to have another stain on the furniture for the holidays," the man said, each word laid out with effortless grace. Even Clara couldn't help but be impressed at his temper. He controlled it so well, it was almost an art.
The old woman wasn’t impressed. "If you'll excuse me, I have groceries to pay for. Happy Christmas."
“Happy nothing, you miserable cow!” Clara hissed at her. “And tell Donna I said I’m sorry she’s got you for the holiday!”
It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year kicked in from the speakers overhead. Clara held her hand to her forehead and took another long breath, tapping her fingers against her scalp. She turned, surprised to see that the man in the long dark coat was still standing next to her. He was staring down at her with a curious expression, like he was trying not to smile.
"A friend of yours?” he asked, dragging his fingers over his mouth. It was as if he were wiping the smile away.
Clara forced herself to look him in the eye, wondering if she was going to get a crick in her neck for the effort. He was so tall. "Sometimes I lose my temper and just… sort of… say things," she trailed off, jumbling her hands in the air in a wild tangle.
"Things you wouldn’t otherwise mention unless you were holding onto your patience by a shrivelled strand of bollock skin?" the man offered.
"Yes–well, no. No, not exactly," Clara said, frowning. "Not the bollock part, anyway. Are you always this vulgar?"
"Do you usually confront hatchet-faced matrons over baking ingredients?" he fired back, smiling again.
"No, you just caught me on a bad day."
The man studied Clara in silence. She took the time to observe him as well, surprised at how easy it was for them to resume their effortless banter. He didn’t seem to mind any of that—in fact, if Clara didn’t know better, she could have sworn he was impressed.
Clara liked it when a man didn't shrink from her temper, or try to make light of her anger. She wasn’t used to it. It was frustratingly exhausting having to explain why it was all right to be angry in the first place, only to hear back awful questions about her time of the month or medication. Neither of which were anyone’s business but Clara’s own, thank you very much. But this man's reaction to Clara's anger had been nothing short of full-on acceptance, even joy. Whatever his reasons, Clara appreciated his endorsement.
Too bad I’ve no idea how to put that particular bit of gratitude into words.
Gazing into each other's eyes and listening to the final bars of the Christmas song come to a close, Clara found herself mirroring the small, tender smile on the man’s face. The lines around his mouth creased his face, but there was something handsome about him all the same. He had a striking face, with so much life and vigor behind every shift of his expression.
"Listen," the man said, clearing his throat and scratching at his cheek. Idle gestures and movements, little ways to distract from the words that came next. "How about I, er... How about I pay for that?" he asked, pointing at the boxes of tea inside Clara’s basket.
"Are you trying to make me feel better?" Clara asked, grinning. And then it happened again. Her mouth took off without her will, spilling out words that were better left locked inside her heart. "Because if that's the case, then how about you buy me dinner instead?"
"Dinner?" the man echoed, blinking. "Are you asking me to take you out on a date?"
Clara shrugged, pretending it didn't mean much. On the inside she was screaming with mad, wild happiness. "Sure, why not. Let's call it a date. I'm free most weekday evenings, but weekends are your best bet for my full attention."
"Right, yeah—what?" the man said, catching himself. Clara almost felt sorry for him, but it was so worth seeing his eyes dart around in a curious dance, looking for the crack in the seam, or else searching for the lie. He wouldn't find any. Clara had never been more serious.
She dug into her pockets, pulling out little scraps of paper and receipts. The man handed her a pen from his own pocket, still staring wide-eyed as she jotted down her number and handed it and the pen to him with a grin.
"See you soon?" she offered, taking a step back.
The man peered down at the number–and then shook his head. "No, this won't work," he said.
Clara froze.
"I don't even know your name, do I?" he added, holding out the pen again. “Forgot to add that bit in.”
Clara hoped she wasn’t blushing as she took the pen back, accidentally brushing her fingers against his own. "There you go," she said, passing the pen back and holding out her hand for him to shake. She wanted to touch him just once. "It’s Clara, by the way."
"Malcolm," he said, shaking her hand. His hand nearly swallowed up Clara's own. Short bones met long ones in a tender, warm grip. "Hello, Clara."
"Hi, Malcolm," she muttered. He really was charming, with his warm voice, long hands, and lovely eyes. Oh no. Clara nodded slowly, still holding on to his hand. "Well this has been sufficiently awkward," she said. "Definitely one of my worst hellos."
Malcolm didn't let go of her hand. They gazed at each other again, lapsing into a comfortable, deeper silence just as I'll Be Home for Christmas started to play. Bing Crosby's voice crooned in the background as Malcolm spoke up again. "Well, we'll just have to try again on Thursday. Might be a bit busy this weekend, you see. What with it being Christmas."
Clara took back her hand and laughed, grateful when Malcolm joined in. She hitched the handles of the basket up on her arm until it was resting in the bend of her elbow. "Thursday it is. Keep me posted on the place and time and I'll be there."
"Yes, ma'am," Malcolm said.
Clara liked the sound of that. "Best be off," she said, taking a step back, thankfully not bumping into any other shoppers. "Nice meeting you, Malcolm."
He returned her nod with it a brief smile. "It's been interesting, Clara."
Clara turned around. Only then did she squeeze her eyes shut, and let her face break through the careful mask into an expression of anxious dread. What a nightmare.
She paid for the tea and trudged back to her flat, her heart sinking down past the heel of her boots. Clara felt it trailing behind her, wearing itself out into a hopeless lump that she would have to pick up and stuff back in again. At least now she had tea to soothe this ache.
To her tremendous surprise, Malcolm called a day later. Clara couldn’t help but smile. She had never been happier to be so wrong.