A/N: Here's the last chapter (a longer one), but don't worry: I've already planned a sequel (called "Gravity") and started working on it. It will be angstier but sexier (I hope). A huge thank you to everybody who read this story. Your comments were lovely and meant a lot to me.

Clarity - Chapter 10

It had started snowing again. That's what Clara noticed as she looked outside Malcolm's office window. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and the room was silent. If there had been a ticking clock somewhere, or a fly stuck against a window-pane trying to escape, they would have heard it. Clara liked arguing with other people, since she often had the upper hand. With Malcolm, it often escalated to a competition, but it only meant that she enjoyed verbally sparring with him even more. Notwithstanding the fact that it often infuriated her, given that the man was undoubtedly a professional arguer. Clara didn't like losing. And Malcolm didn't either. Unfortunately, they had apparently exhausted all the possible venues for their last conversation. Which resulted in the both of them sulking in silence. Well, Malcolm was sulking. She certainly wasn't.

She wondered if she should tell him it was snowing. But she guessed that would only make him argue once more that she should leave without him. And they had already agreed that she wouldn't. Agreed was perhaps the wrong word. More like fought over. Or tore each other apart. It would be six o'clock in half an hour, which was the time Malcolm had elected to call Hewitt. This meant that Clara still had to hold on until then. And come up with new selling points. Because she knew very well that once that call would be made and that creepy journalist deleted - there was no doubt in her mind now that Malcolm would do it - he would once again find excuses to prevent her from driving him home.

Clara had never met said journalist, but she had felt positively repulsed by his article. She had read a few unflattering articles about Malcolm - that night when she couldn't sleep and had made the mistake of Googling his name - but they had never felt so... gratuitously nasty. Perhaps one day she'd find the nerve to ask him about it. But now was definitely not the time.

Jamie's call this afternoon had surprised her. Not the fact that he was calling per say, but the tone of his voice. It was the first time she had heard him sound genuinely worried about something. And that something hadn't been work related, or government related or even survival of the world related. It had been someone related. Malcolm related. She now had actual proof that the two Scots were close, and that their constant bickering was just one of the numerous facets of their friendship. There had thus been no doubt in her mind that she would come to Number 10 and help if she could. She had just dropped her dog at Martha's and hadn't felt like starting the four hour long journey to Liverpool alone in her small car. Especially if said journey took twice that time because of the snow.

At six o'clock on the dot, she sat in front of Malcolm who had stayed seated at his desk. He stared at her intently for a few seconds, perhaps finding strength in her resolve, and picked up the phone to make the call. When he put the receiver down twenty tensed minutes later, he looked at her once more, his eyes set. He hadn't glanced at her once during the whole exchange, but Clara noticed that she had unconsciously clenched her fists, and that her hands were now slightly shaking.

"So that's done," Malcolm said in a tired but resolute sigh.

"Do you think that will hold until January?" she asked, pointing at the computer he had used to delete the reporter.

"It might, we'll see," he answered evasively, clearly trying to put the last few hours behind him.

He stood up and slowly paced the room, his eyes lingering on a few objects, as though he was trying to picture one last time where everything was.

"Let's go, then," Clara interrupted his silent musing.

"Yeah, let's."

He sounded genuinely tired. Clara imagined that his day had been a pretty stressful one, even if he was used to such tension. But this had been personal, after all. And he probably hadn't caught up on all his missed hours of sleep yet.

Clara was surprised to see him follow her docilely out Number 10. He still looked lost in thought, but once they had passed the guarded gate at the entrance of Downing Street, he finally stopped in his tracks. Anticipating his reaction, she grabbed his upper arm and started walking once more.

"My car is parked a bit far, I couldn't find a spot."

He didn't reply and didn't ask her to remove her hand. The snow was falling quite heavily and Clara didn't mind walking so close to him. When they eventually reached the small alley where she had parked, it was her turn to stop, suddenly self-conscious.

"By the way, it's not an Aston Martin."

She saw Malcolm smile at that, and this time he was the one who encouraged her to push on. When they finally came in sight of her small car, they heard raised voices. A couple was arguing loudly a few yards away. Clara felt Malcolm tense, but he kept on walking towards the two people. She had no choice but to match his long strides and she didn't try to stop him, even though every fibre in her body told her that this could potentially be dangerous.

"You bitch! Why can't you shut your mouth for once?" yelled the man, who was big and domineering.

The woman held her head down, and looked quite distraught. She was shaking and crying, and kept shouting at the man to leave her alone and shut up. They both looked inebriated, but this was no excuse for him to push her around. Malcolm observed them quietly for a few seconds, and when the man looked as though he was about to strike his girlfriend - or whoever she was to him exactly - he intervened and stood between them. Clara had fortunately anticipated his move when she had felt his biceps tense under her hand, and had let go of his arm.

Malcolm pushed the man back easily, even though his opponent was clearly heavier than him. The woman sat down heavily on the snowy curb and Clara approached her. She saw that one of her eyes was swollen - their altercation had apparently been going on for a while. Clara tried talking to her, but she would only shake her head and pull at her hair.

"What d'you think y'doing, man? Get off!" the attacker screamed at Malcolm.

Now that she was closer, Clara could also tell that the man was more drunk than she had first thought. He had a hard time standing straight on the slippery pavement. He was no threat to Malcolm, despite his skinny figure. He removed his hands from the man's shoulders, but prevented him from trying to approach Clara and the crying woman.

"Piss off. You don't want to come any closer," warned Malcolm, coldly, using the couple of inches he had over him to his advantage. With his heavy black woollen coat, he definitely looked like someone who shouldn't be messed with, and the drunk man was still sober enough to notice that.

"I said fuck off!" he added, louder, and the man eventually backed down when he saw Malcolm lunge at him, looking ready to strike, although he hadn't raised a fist. He stared at him until he had no choice but to walk away, unsteadily, mumbling incoherent profanities. Only when he was no longer in sight did Malcolm turn in the women's direction. Clara saw him drop his shoulders and unclench the hands he had kept resolutely against his sides.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked the distraught woman, kneeling down on the pavement despite the snow.

Even though she hadn't reacted to anything Clara had tried to say to her, she did react when Malcolm gently took both her hands in his.

"Do you have somewhere to go tonight? Somewhere he won't find you?" he asked gently and she nodded.

"Let's find you a cab, then. Okay, love?" he added, rising up from the ground and helping her stand up.

The woman nodded again and let Malcolm lead her passively to the corner of the street where they would be more likely to find a car. He looked at Clara and made sure that she was following them closely. He kept glancing behind them, perhaps making sure that the other man wouldn't appear from a dark corner, even though Clara was pretty sure he was too incapacitated to do such a thing.

Despite the weather, Malcolm thankfully managed to hail a cab at the busy intersection. Clara saw him hand the woman more banknotes than were strictly necessary to cover her journey. She hesitated, but took them gratefully when Malcolm insisted. She didn't say a word, although Clara could tell how touched she was. The cab disappeared slowly in the snowy street.

"Merry fucking Christmas," Malcolm muttered very quietly, but she still heard him.

"She'll probably run back to him in a week's time, but..." he stopped, sighed, and turned back towards Clara.

"So, your car?" he announced resolutely in a much clearer voice. Clara tried not to show how stunned she was, and bravely walked back towards the alley, Malcolm standing close beside her.

The small street was blessedly quite this time, and Clara opened her car as though nothing was amiss. She wanted to get away from this place. They would talk about this later.

"You weren't joking when you said it wasn't an Aston Martin," Malcolm said, smirking slightly, trying to diffuse the heavy atmosphere.

"Yes, but it's red," announced Clara proudly. Malcolm seemed to doubt that the colour would make her small Citroën Saxo go any faster. When he automatically walked to the left side of the car, Clara smiled genuinely for the first time since the altercation.

"Are you planning on driving, then?" she asked him.

"What? Oh, bollocks," he growled, realising that the steering wheel was on this side.

"I don't know how you manage to drive in London with that," he proclaimed, walking to the other side of the car with heavy, reluctant steps.

"I'll let you know once I've got enough money to buy a DB9, though you might have to wait for a while," she replied petulantly, sitting behind the wheel and quickly turning on the engine to defrost the windshield.

"I didn't mean the car itself. But it must be a fucking nightmare at roundabouts with the mirror on the other side," he answered, seeing that she was peeved. He had to slide the seat backwards all the way, and seemed amazed that he actually fit in the small place.

"You get used to it," she answered, shrugging.

It was quite cold inside, even though she'd put the heater on full. Thankfully, it didn't take long for the windshield to clear, and she drove away from the dark street. Malcolm looked surprised at the trusting sound the engine was making and Clara's sporty driving style, but he didn't complain. Although he did complain when they hit a small pothole and his head bumped against the ceiling.

"Sorry," she replied to his muttered profanities.

"Lucky I didn't have to sit in the backseat, I suppose. Especially since I would have to chop off my own bloody legs to fit in," he grumbled.

"Don't worry, I only make the Doctor sit there."

"Where is the blasted K-9, by the way?" he asked, looking around, as though the border-collie was hidden somewhere.

"I had to drop him at a friend's. My step-mother's allergic. Or so she says," she answered, and Malcolm wisely dropped the subject, understanding that it was a sore point.

They drove in silence for a while but unsurprisingly quickly found themselves stuck in the very slow moving traffic.

"And here we go," sighed Malcolm, rubbing his cold hands against his knees.

"You would have been stuck similarly if you'd taken a cab, there's no extra lane."

"I know, but you wouldn't have been if you'd taken the A4 to reach the M1 to drive to Liverpool." Clara didn't reply. Tottenham Court Road was always a nightmare after all.

"Shall I take Camden Road or Junction Road?" she asked calmly.

"You're not there, yet" Malcolm huffed, "I'm not sure we're going to get to Hampstead Road before midnight."

Clara thought that he sounded like a bad-tempered child, and she chose to ignore him. She also resisted rolling her eyes when he started fiddling with the heater.

"Why is it so fucking cold? It should be easy to warm such a wee space."

"You could put on the radio," she suggested in a levelled voice.

"No, thank you. I don't want to hear any more bloody journalists today."

"You do know some channels actually play tunes."

"Tunes? The radio hasn't played any decent music in years."

"Saying this makes you sound about a hundred years old," she couldn't resist telling him. He looked affronted, but the car was pleasantly quite for a few minutes. They managed to crawl a mere fifty yards in that time. When they passed Goodge Street station, she told him he could take the tube, but he stubbornly refused, saying that it was her idea in the first place and that they would follow it through.

Clara hadn't needed any more proof that two very stubborn people shouldn't be locked inside a small place for too long. But she got buckets of it in the next hour. The road only cleared after Tufnell Park and Clara had been tempted more than once to suggest to Malcolm that perhaps they might go faster if he pushed the car. She had wanted to talk about that woman he had rescued and his innate understanding of her situation. Or mention the Hewitt article she felt slightly guilty for having read in his absence. But Malcolm seemed intent on preventing her from discussing anything that wasn't related to the bloody snow or the fucking incapable driver in front or her sodding idea to drive him home in the first place. And let's not forget how fucking cold her fucking red dishwasher of a car was.

Needless to say, when they reached Highgate, it was close to nine o'clock and they both wanted to strangle the other passenger. It had stopped snowing, but Clara realised that at least Malcolm's presence had been a distraction. She now faced hours of driving on her own in the cold Saxo. But she had promised her father she would come, and she knew that she had no other way to reach Liverpool now, since the trains were running very sporadically and flying on such short notice was out of the question on her budget.

Malcolm's small street was very leafy and very quite. The houses were old and vast with small gardens at the front and supposedly bigger ones at the back. They probably cost a fortune to rent let alone buy, but Clara was absolutely charmed. On a normal day, it would undoubtedly take Malcolm half an hour to reach Downing Street. And yet the neighbourhood looked like busy Westminster was a thousand miles away. She understood easily why he had chosen to live in such a place.

Malcolm also seemed to realise that she still had a very long way to go tonight, and he looked slightly regretful of his behaviour in the car.

"Thanks for the lift," he said, staying seated even though Clara had been parked for a little while, now.

"You're welcome, I owed you one."

Neither seemed to know what to say or do. But with the heater off, the cold prompted Malcolm to act.

"Come on in to drink something warm," he told her. It hadn't been a question, and he had reached for his door handle already. Clara had no choice but to go out to answer him.

"I have to get on the motorway," she replied, frowning.

"Clara, it won't make much difference if you leave now or in twenty minutes. Come on, I'm freezing my arse off," he answered in a far too reasonable tone. She followed him, refusing to admit that he just had to say her name in that accent of his for her to agree.

His house was blissfully warm. Clara had the vague apprehension that if she actually sat down anywhere, she wouldn't be able to leave. The place was more inviting and luminous than she had expected. It was modern but homely and decorated with taste. He led her to the large living room at the back, which looked onto the back garden. The ground floor was actually one big open space, with all the rooms communicating, and the kitchen at the centre of everything. She sat on one of the two couches and realised that her first impression had been correct: she would have a very hard time heading back to her car.

"Tea? Coffee?" he asked.

"Do you have cocoa powder?" she answered, surprising herself.

But Malcolm looked less startled than she had expected, and got a yellow Nesquik tin from his cupboard, the kind usually meant for children. Clara resisted from commenting, since a cup of Nesquik sounded just about divine, at the moment. Malcolm joined her on the couch once the hot chocolate was ready. They both enjoyed the warm beverage and managed to resist making any crack about little kids or old ladies.

Feeling better, Clara took off her heavy coat, and as Malcolm went to hang it up in the entryway, she realised that it was one more step in the not-leaving-anytime-soon direction. Just as she was contemplating the idea of resting her eyes for a few seconds, her mobile rang. She thought about not answering, but eventually rummaged through her bag and picked it up. It was her dad. Malcolm seemed to understand who it was, and deemed it a good time to go upstairs.

Wen he came down ten minutes later in his shirt-sleeves, having discarded his grey cashmere sweater, he noticed Clara's unhappy mood.

"Everything okay?" he asked, clearly seeing that it wasn't.

Clara paced the living room, unknowingly copying his usual behaviour in stressful situations. She looked at him, seeing how relaxed he seemed in his own home. He probably wanted to unwind and get some well-earned rest, she realised. And tomorrow was Christmas - he must have plans with his own family. He didn't need to be burdened by her issues. He dealt with other people's issues all the time and deserved a break.

"Yes, fine," she lied easily, "I should go."

"Was that your father on the phone? Do they still have snow up in Liverpool?" he insisted, standing in the kitchen and thus blocking her way.

"Nope, no more snow, but it will still take me a while to reach it, so I really should leave now."

"Funny, because I just saw online that the M6 was blocked North of Birmingham," he told her, smirking slightly.

The bastard, of course he checked online. He probably had a computer in every bloody room of the house.

"I guess I'll stay on the M1, then."

"That'll only take you to Stoke," he added, visibly enjoying proving her wrong.

"Then I guess I'll stop in Stoke and wait for the M6 to re-open," she replied, hoping to put an end to the frankly childish discussion.

"And then, what will you do? In this weather, it'll probably take you about four hours to reach Stoke. Are you sure you want to be in that fucking depressing city at two in the morning?"

Not particularly, thought Clara, although she didn't say it out loud. But Malcolm could clearly read her answer on her face.

"Yeah, me neither. So what did your dad tell you on the phone?" he persisted.

"I told him that I would stop on the way to get some rest and thus arrive tomorrow at a reasonable hour. So it really doesn't matter that the M6 is closed." She was getting tired of his game, and wanted to leave. But Malcolm still stood in the middle of the kitchen, with his hands in his pockets, looking very much at ease despite her irritated tone.

"Why do you have to arrive at a reasonable hour?"

"It would just be easier all around, that's all," she hedged, feeling desperately tired all of a second.

"I mean, if it were me, I'd rather sleep in a bed than a wee car," he reasoned, apparently choosing not to notice how Clara kept pacing angrily in the small space in front of him. Why wouldn't he just stop speaking?

"What does it matter if you arrive at silly o'clock in the fucking morning? It's your dad's place, right?"

"Because I don't have the bloody key!" she eventually told him loudly, standing very close to him now, and feeling like shoving him away. Screaming at him was the last thing she had wanted to do. And she hadn't wanted to share that particular piece of information either. Malcolm raised one eyebrow, and for once stayed silent. He searched her eyes and seemed to come to the - valid - conclusion that the fact that she didn't own a key to her father's was deeply painful to her. He understood that there was probably more to the situation, but didn't press her.

"Well, I'm making risotto. You can stay for dinner if you want. Won't make much difference now, since you're planning on sleeping on the road," he uttered resolutely, as though this had been the plan all along - and maybe it had been.

"Risotto?" she repeated dumbly.

"Yes, risotto," he answered, and started pulling plates from the cupboards, "it's nine o'clock at night on Christmas Eve, and for the first time in months I have the time to cook. So fuck it, I'm making risotto."

"Right," Clara said, completely lost. She no longer knew how she was supposed to behave in Malcolm's presence. She didn't want to be angry at him since nothing actually warranted it, but she couldn't tell what he expected from her. Should she leave now and spend a miserable night on the snowy motorway? Or should she stay and have bloody risotto?

She watched him quietly for a while, and tried to come up with a decision. He wasn't looking at her and seemed intent on his cooking. Apparently, he knew what he was doing. The way was also clear, now. Clara could walk right past him and leave the house. But she was getting less and less inclined to do so. She leaned back against the sink, and decided that for now, she just wanted to watch Malcolm Tucker make risotto. She let her eyes roam, and when they fell on his fridge, she couldn't help but blurt out:

"Are you sure you don't have any children hidden somewhere?" Malcolm turned towards her, mystified.

"What? No," he answered, but saw what she was looking at, "Oh, it's from my sister's bairns, the younger one is at the scribbling stage," he added, and went back to his cooking. Clara looked at the drawings more closely. Perhaps that was why he also had Nesquik mix.

"And you've never been married?" she pressed on.

Malcolm turned back towards her, scowling, but he saw on Clara's face that the question mattered to her, for some unknown reason.

"No," he answered seriously, "I thought it would be obvious."

"Jamie said so, but I wasn't sure he was telling the truth."

"Why would he be lying about something like that?" Malcolm said, electing not to ask her why Jamie had felt compelled to tell her that in the first place.

"I don't know," she answered genuinely. He stared at her, puzzled, for a few more seconds, then turned back towards the stove.

"So, are you staying then?" he finally wondered out lout.

"I think so," replied Clara, and he could tell that it would be the most definite answer he'd get on the subject.

"Good, I'll open a better bottle of wine, then."

"What?"

"I need some white wine for the risotto, but since you're here, and, you know, it's bloody Christmas Eve, let's splurge," he declared, blushing so imperceptibly that Clara was sure she was imagining things.

"I guess I'm allowed one glass," she said, although she knew this was just another factor that would prevent her from actually leaving.

They'd had to clear the front room dining table before they ate. Clara guessed he usually had his meals in the kitchen. The risotto was delicious but she refrained from praising Malcolm's cooking skills too much, since she clearly embarrassed him the first time she tried. He probably didn't have the time to make dinner from scratch very often but it was something he must enjoy doing. It was indeed a great way to wash away a stressful day.

She had admired his record collection whilst he was cooking, and had gently made fun of him when she told him that good albums had been released even after 1979. He had put on an old vinyl which now played quietly in the background. Duke Ellington, he had said. Clara had heard of him, of course, but she had never actually sat down and listened to his music. It sounded a lot more upbeat than anything she had imagined Malcolm Tucker would listen to. Frankly, her mind hadn't gone any further than Wagner on that subject. She enjoyed the joyful piano notes and she could tell that Malcolm was glad of that fact, given his half smirks every time her fingers unconsciously beat the tempo on the table.

They had come to a silent understanding when Malcolm had poured her a second glass of wine and she hadn't declined it. Clara wasn't going anywhere tonight, but they had wisely chosen not to acknowledge that fact out loud in order to enjoy their dinner. Just for little while they could pretend that Clara didn't need to drive all the way up to Liverpool to spend an undoubtedly awkward Christmas with her father and his second wife. And Malcolm could pretend that he hadn't come close to selling his very soul for his bloody job this afternoon.

When the record stopped, Malcolm stood up to put on the B-side and came back with satsumas.

"Sorry, I don't have anything that could be considered as desert," he told her, sheepish.

"That's fine, it's very much the season of satsumas, after all. They always make me feel like it's Christmas," Clara said, smiling, aware of the wine she had been drinking and her tiredness.

"Well, it will be Christmas shortly," Malcolm answered, refraining from eating the small fruits at his usual speed.

"You're right, it'll be midnight soon," acknowledged Clara, quickly sobering up.

They both knew they were running out of time, and that reality was bound to come crashing down around them. They could only pretend that the situation was absolutely normal for so long.

"Big plans in Liverpool for the holidays?" Malcolm eventually asked, unconcernedly.

"Not really, I don't think I'll stay there long. But it's been a while I haven't seen my dad, so..." she stopped, seeing the far-away look on his face. Perhaps now was the right time to mention what she had read in his office whilst he was talking to Jamie. Clara hesitated, but eventually realised that she might never have another opportunity.

"That article? The one you prevented Hewitt from publishing?" She could tell that he knew exactly which article she was talking about, and had known she was going to mention it even before she opened her mouth. He looked into her eyes and seemed to silently warn her that she'd better know what she was doing venturing there.

"What he said, about your father..." she pressed on, slowly, "Was it true?" she finally managed to ask in a quiet voice.

Malcolm leaned back against his chair and ran his fingers through his slightly greying hair. His eyes hadn't left hers and he pondered his answer so carefully that Clara thought that she wouldn't get any at first.

"There were many untruths, misconceptions and outright lies in that poor excuse for a fucking article," he stated calmly. "But this particular piece of information... It didn't belong in that category," he eventually added, after a short pause.

He was still staring at her, and his look was harder, now. More severe. As if he was daring Clara to judge him for what he'd done.

"Do you still see him?" she asked, not backing down and holding his stare.

"No, never. But I'm told he's still around, clinging to life like a fucking cancer," he muttered harshly, pulling at his hair painfully one last time before calmly resting his hands on the table. He averted his gaze and stared at his fingers instead, as though he was making sure that they weren't shaking in quite rage.

Clara stood up silently and went to stand beside his chair. She observed him closely for a minute but he wouldn't raise his head to look at her.

"That woman in the street, earlier..." she started, and he slowly turned towards her, "What you did for her, that was really brave, you know."

He huffed, and lowered his eyes once more. But Clara forced him to look back at her, resting a hand against his shoulder.

"I mean it, Malcolm," he reacted when he heard his name, "you didn't have to intervene and help her but you did, and thanks to you Christmas might be a little happier for her." He pursed his lips then smiled ruefully, clearly unconvinced.

"That has to count for something," Clara reasoned, trying to convince him that intentionally choosing not to see the silver lining in any given situation was damaging in the long run. But optimism wasn't part of Malcolm Tucker's philosophy. She still smiled ever so slightly, and when she was satisfied by what she saw in his eyes, she crossed her arms and leaned back against the table, so that they were at the same level for once.

"So, tell me, any other arrest in your record I should worry about?" she asked impishly. Malcolm smirked and no longer shied away from her stare.

"I remember a few demonstrations in my youth where I might have behaved in a way that earned me some remarks here and there but no, the arrest Hewitt found out about was the only one," he answered calmly. He thought some more about the words he'd just uttered, and Clara saw him come to an important realisation.

"But, you know... He never came back after that, he left us alone," he confided to her, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the front door, "So I don't think I regret being arrested for kicking his head in when I was fifteen. I wished I'd done it sooner, even, and not in front of witnesses ready to report me."

He looked back towards Clara and seemed almost stunned by his words, as though he had never expected he would actually say them out loud and in somebody else's presence.

"That has to count for something, too," she told him sincerely, echoing her previous words and smiling genuinely as she realised that he could perhaps still learn to value silver linings.

When the B-side came to an end, the silence made them both realise how tired they actually were. Clara had a hard time stopping herself from yawning as they cleared the table quietly but companionably.

"Look..." he started, once everything had been put away, "there's a guest room upstairs, and you could..."

"It's okay," she interrupted him, "I was actually thinking... Could I perhaps borrow your couch in the living room? It's bound to be more comfortable than my car seat, and I'm only planning on sleeping for a few hours."

"Oh, sure," he answered quickly, genuinely surprised. He'd probably expected her to go at once when she'd interrupted his suggestion for her to sleep upstairs.

"That way, I won't wake you when I leave," she added.

"The walls are thick, I really wouldn't mind. Are you sure you're going to be alright on the couch?" he pressed, following her to the living room.

"Are you joking? It's bigger than my bed!" she marvelled.

"So, when are you planning to get back on the road?" he asked as he rummaged through the closet in the entryway for the old duvet he knew he kept in there.

"I was thinking around six. The M6 is bound to re-open sometime in the morning, and that way I'll be in Liverpool around lunch time at the latest, I guess." He nodded and refrained from pointing out that she could stay there as long as she wanted, since it would only make her feel even more uncomfortable.

He insisted on putting on a duvet cover despite her objections and went upstairs to retrieve a pillow from the guest room. She went back to her car to pick up some clothes and toiletries, and he'd agreed not to go with her when she'd stubbornly implied that she didn't need his help. But after all, he knew his neighbourhood was perfectly safe. And he'd managed to make her stay in the end. So in his mind, he'd clearly won the most important round. Malcolm smiled slightly at this realisation.

He showed her the downstairs bathroom and told her she could take a shower upstairs if she wanted - she declined - and when she took off her boots and came to stand in front of him to wish him good night, he froze. Fortunately, Clara didn't seem to know any better than him what she was supposed to do. He was gripped by the same feeling as last night, when they'd walked her dog together and she had looked so unbearably small and beautiful. Was it only last night? She glanced up at him and he saw both expectation and bashfulness in her brown eyes. He knew very well that if he played his cards right, she'd probably follow him to his own bed. And he wouldn't even feel guilty the next day, because she didn't seem to need that much of a push.

But that hadn't been what tonight had been about. If he ever took that step with her - and God, he wished he wouldn't come to regret his decision not to act tonight - he wanted to be less sleep deprived. And that it happened at a time when the other participant didn't have to leave precipitately the next morning. So he smiled, put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from doing anything with them he would later regret, and said good night. She looked relieved, and perhaps a little disappointed - although that was probably only what his ego wanted to believe.

Just as he was turning the corner to reach the staircase, he heard her say his name. He was painfully aware that if she stopped him and instigated anything, his resolve would crumble at his feet in a split second.

"Merry Christmas," Clara said.

He looked dumbly at his watch and realised that midnight had just gone and past.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas."

They stared at each other intently for a little longer, then both went on their way: Malcolm to his own room, Clara to the couch. It was probably for the best. Although when Clara turned for the hundredth time under the duvet two hours later, she came to rethink her decision.

She'd seen how Malcolm had been looking at her, and she was certain that she wouldn't be rebuffed if she walked upstairs and knocked on his door. She was very tempted to act on this impulse. Clara didn't believe in fate, but she knew that the last few days had led up to the situation she now found herself in. She also knew that if she chose to take a step on that path, she wouldn't be able to take it back. Even if they indulged in a one off thing they would later be able to blame on the holiday or the snow or whatever, there could ever only be one first time.

Her priority at the moment had to be sleep. But spending more time with Malcolm Tucker - and not necessarily in his bed - came in close second. Clara wished that they could pretend that the outside world didn't exist. That they were snowed in, perhaps, and that the elements prevented her from going anywhere. It was a childish fantasy, but she chose to cling to it, and thus dreamed of ever falling snow.

The first thing she heard the next morning were padding feet and a faraway voice. She furrowed deeper in her comfortable pillow, but the voice was coming closer. It was a male voice, a bleary voice, it was... Oh God, what time was it? Clara reached blindly for her phone and realised that it was almost nine o'clock. Nothing dramatic - it was Christmas after all - but she had told Malcolm the previous night that she would be leaving early. Earlier than nine in any case. And now he clearly was on the phone with someone and thought her gone. Should she get up and show herself? Hell, he was bound to find out eventually, and the couch was just too comfortable.

"Yeah, you woke me up. I do sleep sometimes, Liz," she heard Malcolm grumble.

"No, I'm fine. Work wasn't too much of a nightmare... No, really." Malcolm padded to the kitchen, and Clara guessed that he'd opened a cupboard. She closed her eyes forcefully, fearing that he would discover her presence at any moment. Apparently, he didn't, because he kept on talking to the mysterious Liz. There was then a dull sound and a whispered profanity.

"What? No, I'm making coffee... I bumped my head... You're the one who woke me, you wee devil, I need caffeine..." Clara smiled, and kept on listening. She heard mumbled grunts that probably meant yes, and the bubbling electric kettle.

"Yeah, I saw online that the roads were cleared, now... Of course I'm still driving up there, I said I would, didn't I?" The sound of water being poured, she guessed in a coffee press - there was no way Malcolm Tucker drunk instant coffee.

"If I leave after lunch, I'll be there around seven... But I like driving!" More affirmative grunts, then the wonderful smell of coffee.

"Did you manage to reach Kate? ... Well, she's your sister too, you know." Mystery solved, realised Clara, he must be talking to his sister, then. But she hadn't known he had more than one.

"Yeah, yesterday went fine..." Malcolm was apparently walking to the front room, and Clara had to strain her ears to catch what he said.

"No, Jamie and Sarah won't come for lunch, they have their bairns now, you know... I'll see them on the 27th... I won't spend Christmas at work... No, I have a friend coming over." Clara was quite sure now that Malcolm couldn't possibly know she was still there.

"Don't be daft, I'm not having you on... It's just lunch, then I'm driving to Paisley... No, you can't meet her tonight... Because she has her own family thing in Liverpool..." She froze, and opened her eyes, not caring any longer that Malcolm might discover her.

"Well, yeah, of course I'm going to fuck things up... I know, that's what you always say... Thanks, sis... Yes, I'll see you this evening... Tell them I promise to be there before they have to go to bed... You too, bye Liz."

Clara didn't hear anything else for a little while. Then Malcolm walked presumably back towards the staircase, but he stopped abruptly.

"What the f..."

A few strides and he appeared in the living room just as Clara was rising up from the couch. He looked comically dumbstruck, and she couldn't help but smile at his wild eyes and equally wild hair.

"I didn't leave," she supplied unnecessarily.

"Yeah, I saw your coat, and..." he started, then seemed to realise that he was still holding his coffee cup and decided to take a sip, perhaps hoping to find the end of his sentence there.

"You know, I was thinking I might actually take you up on that shower offer. Is that okay?" she interrupted, knowing the caffeine hadn't kicked in yet.

"Shower offer? Oh, yeah, sure, I'll make some, uh..."

"No, I'll make something this time, don't worry. But I wouldn't mind some coffee," Clara announced in a flourish, passing his unmoving form on her way to the staircase.

"Right," he muttered resolutely, knowing that he could at least handle making more coffee.

When Clara came down fifteen minutes later, Malcolm had also found the time to change from his pyjama trousers and T-shirt. She was almost disappointed. But he still looked slightly disheveled and bleary eyed.

"Clara, the phone call..." he started, having visibly only thought about this particular subject since she'd gone up.

"Your sister, right? Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said, opening the fridge to make sure that he indeed had all the necessary ingredients.

"I didn't know you were still there when I told her..."

"I was thinking about making a soufflé," Clara declared, looking around the kitchen and opening cupboards until she found the flour.

"A soufflé?" he repeated, frowning, and she was reminded of the previous night when he announced he was making risotto out of the blue. Fitting, then.

"Yeah, you've got all the ingredients. I'm good with soufflés and they work great for brunch," she continued, as if nothing was amiss.

"Right."

Clara turned back towards him, and took the cup of coffee he had been holding out to her ever since she'd arrived in the kitchen.

"You like soufflés?" He nodded, but was still frowning.

"Good. I think I'll just put cheese in it, I saw you had Parmesan," Clara paused, thoughtful, "It was my mother favourite recipe, you know? She made chocolate ones for me, but I could tell she preferred the savoury ones."

Malcolm stayed silent, but observed her closely, realising that this was important for her.

"We used to make soufflés on Wednesdays when I was little - you don't have school on that day in France. It was just the two of us, since my dad was at work. So Wednesday was soufflé day. And I just realised this morning that it was a Wednesday, today, and I haven't made a soufflé on a Wednesday in a long time."

"Well, a soufflé's fine by me," he told her, smiling a bit sadly.

"Is your mum still alive?" Clara asked, seeing on Malcolm's face that he already knew about her own mother. They probably had files on all government employees at Number 10, after all.

"No, she died when I was twenty-one," he replied quietly, "It was tough for Liz, my little sister, but Kate was there."

"Kate's your older sister?"

"Yeah, she's three years older than me, and Liz's four year younger," he confirmed.

"I wish I had siblings growing up," she mused, "but I had a very happy childhood, all things considered."

Clara cooked in silence for a while, and Malcolm lingered in the background. He had tried offering his help but she'd told him that everything was under control. He trusted her, and Clara enjoyed the feeling.

"It has to cook for about 25 minutes, is that okay? You're not late, are you?" she asked, sounding unsure for the first time that morning.

"No, don't worry, it's not even ten yet. I hadn't planned on leaving until twelve," he paused, and hesitated, "What about you? Have you decided not to go?"

"Well, as much as I dislike my step-mother, I did promise my dad I would come, so I will. But I thought arriving sometime in the afternoon would be enough. It's Christmas after all, and I... I really wanted to bake a soufflé." Clara hadn't intended to finish her sentence like that. She'd meant to tell him that she had just wanted to spend some more time with him, but she hadn't found the courage to say so. Seeing the small, grateful smile on his face, though, she wondered if maybe he had been able to read between the lines.

The soufflé wasn't burnt, and the improvised brunch was a success. It didn't feel awkward, and they'd managed to share other happy Christmas memories. They both had some, and Clara was glad of that fact. Malcolm's mother sounded like someone she would have loved to meet.

When Clara stood on the steps outside to say goodbye, she realised that no matter how dreadful the rest of her Christmas holidays turned out to be, she'd still have this happy memory. Spending time with a friend and sharing home cooked meals. That was more than enough. Although when she glanced up at Malcolm and felt him kiss her forehead and stroke her cheeks already reddened by the cold, she knew for certain that she would soon make new and better memories with him.