Chapter One:

Books, Clara decided, are therapeutic. There were days where Clara would pick a book of a shelf and curl up behind the counter and the whole world would fade out around her. Customers would be forgotten, and she was rather sure that someone could knock over a book shelf and she wouldn't notice (except she would actually go bat shit crazy at any person that would even consider doing it). Today was one of those days, although, when she thought about it, most days were like this.

When she walked into the bookstore, her only goal was to finish the book she had started yesterday. It was a collection of Greek mythology fables, she'd found it in a crate of books that no one had bought for years. It was hardcover, and well worn, the spine was cracked in several places and the gold lettering of the title had faded to a mere shimmer. Clara pulled it out of her bag— which had then been dropped, unceremoniously, to the floor— and she positioned herself on a three-legged wooden stool between the cash register and a small rack of bookmarks. She opened the book to the page she finished on yesterday and lost herself.

Her first customer came thirty minutes after she had opened; they needed nothing but her to give them change, for the sci-fi fiction that they purchased. The second, third, fourth and fifth came as a group and spent a good forty-five minutes picking out books, all of them picking from the classics section and one buying a bookmark. The sixth customer came in and looked around briefly, all Clara could remember about them was the way that they walked, although she could not think of a word to describe the motion. Customers seven to ten each bought a book, one buying three bookmarks and the other tipping her for no apparent reason. At exactly one o' three pm, Clara locked the door and flipped the sign so that it said 'Back in 10', wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders and made her way down the street to a small cafe where she ordered a tea and a toasted cheese croissant.

When she came back to the bookstore a man was leant against one of the shop windows and seemed to be waiting for her, she mumbled a quick sorry and unlocked the door. After she sat down at the counter she watched the man walk amongst the shelves, seemingly picking books out at random and putting them back after he read the back. Customer eleven was tall and lanky, he carried himself in a gauche way, his arms were like octopus tentacles at his sides, his turns were sharp, but awkward, she noticed that he bumped into things far more than any person she'd ever seen. Even his hair seemed awkward, it was like someone had attempted a comb-over on a person with a full head of hair and strands of it fell in front of his face which gave Clara a oddly desperate urge to push them back.

She then realised that she'd been staring at customer eleven for a good five minutes now, and she should probably get back to her lunch, and then her reading, which she promptly did. Ten minutes later she was interrupted by swear of annoyance. Clara looked up from her book slowly. Eleven had attempted to pull out a thick collection of William Shakespeare's work and in turn pulled out that section of the shelf, which had all landed on the floor. He was standing in the middle of it, his face braced for impact, holding the damned book in his hands.

"Oh", Clara exclaimed softly, scrambling out from behind the desk to help.

Eleven rubbed at the back of his neck, looking mortified, as she bent down to pick up a few books, "Jeez. S'okay. I can do it"

"Don't worry about it, it's my job. I should put a sign up anyway, this happens all the time", Clara assured, putting the books she held back onto the shelf.

"I'll help", he insisted, several books already cradled in his arms, she didn't object.

They worked in silence for a few minutes until they finished. Clara realised that they were all just randomly placed, so she decided that she would place them back into last name order the next time she re-stocked, instead of having to take them all off and start again.

"Thanks a lot, er...", she struggled not to say customer number eleven.

"John Smith", he finished, smirking at her.

"I'm Clara Oswald", she pushed her hand out for him to shake, which he did.

She smiled at him, thanked him again for helping her and went back to the counter to try and read. With a large emphasis on try. Clara tried, really tried, not to stare, but it's pretty fucking hard when there is someone like John Smith in your bookstore. She swore that no one had ever looked so devastatingly handsome looking at books before (but that was a lie because she though the exact same thing last week). There were times that Clara wished being bossy, snarky and sarcastic, with the nose of a pig was desirable. In the five minutes it took Clara to wallow in the unfairness of her gene pool, John Smith had managed to leave. She told herself, repeatedly, that she wasn't annoyed at herself for not asking him for his number. It was better off that way, he wouldn't like her anyway. Men like that, didn't like girls like her. It was written into the rules of the universe (Oh, but Clara, didn't anyone ever tell you. The universe is always in flux. Like a fire. Forever changing. And one day it will be all but ashes on the ground. All but echoes in space. But until then it burns. Oh how it burns Clara).

The next time Clara saw John Smith was two days after, what Clara had come to call the William Shakespeare debacle, edition 12 (it happened that often). That day he was customer number 22. It was 4pm, an hour before Clara usually shut. They didn't speak, the only communication involved a nod and a smirk. John didn't buy anything, instead he swerved around corners, shot guilty looks at the Shakespeare shelf, and bumped into bookshelves. Clara decided that he was more like a giraffe with octopus arms. But then she had to go and picture it. As soon as the snort was released, she regretted ever comparing John Smith to animals and she swore she would never do it again. Said man shot her an amused look. And Clara knew her chances (which were already pretty fucking slim) with him had gone down the drain. But then he left.

The third time they saw each other was three days after the Octo-raffe snorting business happened. Clara was beginning to wonder why he was at the bookstore so often, she wouldn't think it weird if he had been buying books, but he wasn't, he was just looking, and bumping, and giving her looks that made her feel incredibly self conscious. About ten minutes into his browsing Clara finally decided to do her job, and help. She followed the twists and turns to reach him, and when she did he was reading the blurb of a Terry Pratchet book.

"A-are you looking for anything in particular?", she asked, once he had put the book back in its spot.

He jumped slightly when she spoke, spinning around quickly, "Clara. 'Ello. Uh, yes I am actually"

She smiled, "'Lo John", she nodded, "What is it? D'y know?"

"I need a book on theoretical time travel. If you have any of those", he scrunched his nose up as he told her, obviously a little embarrassed.

Clara mentally went through the content of the bookstore, looking for some where the book he wanted could be, "Just wait here", she said, as she turned, "I'll be right back", she retrieved the step ladder from behind her desk and was back with John within seconds.

"Thanks", he said, as she set up the step ladder in front of him.

"No problem", she mumbled as scanned the shelves for the right book, she pulled down two and handed them to John, "Take one, or both, or none", she said as she stepped down.

He read the back of both, "I'll take 'em both"

Clara beamed, "Follow me"

John put the books on the table just as Clara sat at the stool, "Is theoretical time travel a hobby of yours, or is it for someone else?"

"Both, I guess. I dabble in it sometimes, but these are for my friend", he answered as he drew money out of his pocket.

Clara raised a eyebrow as she took the money, "So you hung around here for three days. Why not go somewhere that's better—", she waved her arms in circle at her admittedly unorganised bookshop, "Uh. Sectioned"

"No idea", the look he gave her indicated that he knew exactly why, but there was no way she was going to press it with the amount of money he just gave her.

She put the books in a paper bag and handed them to John, "Bye"

"Thanks Clara", he mumbled, turning to the door, he made it half way until he turned around, "Do you. Er. I mean. Uh. Do you want to get dinner with me, uh, tomorrow?", he forced the sentence out as quick as he could, like he didn't want to hear it himself.

It took every part of Clara not to squeal, "That would be great", she grabbed a piece of paper, scrawled her phone number, address and 6pm, onto it, and then she handed it to John.

John grinned, "See you tomorrow then"

"Bye, John"

A/N: This is pretty short, but that's just the way I roll. The next chapter is in the works and will probably be up in a weeks time.

thanks for reading guys x