Clara arrives at the campus on a Thursday.

It's bigger than she expected- flashier. She visited the school website, toured three months before, and yet somehow, all on her own without her dad trailing at her heels, it's larger. The buildings seem to stretch on, and the crowds of people seem to be doubled in size. Her old, smaller university was nothing compared to this. It's new and exciting and invigorating all at once, and Clara finds that she yearns for nothing more than a good adventure. Anything to get out of that town, away from her overprotective father and the place where she was known as nothing more than the woman whose mother had died and who could never afford to get away and travel.

But this, she tells herself as she stares at the wide expanse of the campus laid out in front of her, all red bricks and golden cobblestone walkways, this is the moment everything changes.

Jenny is a nice girl who's only a few months older than she is, stuck in the same boat of being an older student in a sea of freshman. The only difference with her academic career is that instead of switching to a different university when she received her two-year degree, like Clara, she began there at the very beginning with no intention of leaving. Clara wishes she had done that, wishes she had saved herself from the stresses of phone calls, moving, and more paperwork than she's willing to remember, but like her mother often told her, regrets take up far too much time.

Their first meeting isn't so much shy as it is unsure. They've spoken on the phone and texted on rare occasions, but talking through a screen is always easier than meeting in person. They mutually agreed to meet in the lobby of the apartment building, a small tiled room with people constantly rushing in and out of it. Clara waits in one of the few chairs free, a recliner that's longer than her legs and the color of dark leaves. She stares at her phone, mindlessly scrolling through her apps. She passes by Twitter, and her heart has a sudden sharp ache.

"Clara!"

Startled, Clara drops her phone in her lap, head snapping up and almost immediately finding sight of Jenny. She looks just as she does on her Facebook page, though taller than Clara expected. She stands up from her seat, eager to shake Jenny's hand, and the other girl immediately goes to help Clara with her bags. "Here, let me help you with that- how was your morning? Your furniture came in at the same time as mine did." Her words are fast, and Clara stares at her, mouth parted as she holds her gaze. It takes a moment for the words to register, and then she nods, giving a small hum as she helps transfer her bag over Jenny's shoulder.

"Thank goodness," Clara finally says, "I was worried I'd have to sleep on the floor."

Jenny leads her up to their flat, up the stairs because the elevator is too slow and too packed at a moment like this, even with a heavy bag weighing her down. The door is unlocked, and the inside is full of half-unpacked boxes and ripped tape and cardboard littering the floor. Clara takes it all in silently, and feels as though they've spoken more in their short conversations on Skype than they are right now.

Setting her things on the kitchen counter, Jenny turns and asks offhandedly over her shoulder, "Would you like some tea?" and Clara very politely accepts, closing the door behind them and turning the lock with a click. She runs her gaze over the main room again, expression shifting into something a bit more comfortable when she catches sight of the tumbling pile of books on the couch and the clock already hanging crookedly on the wall. Clara slips out of her shoes, and notes the way the carpet feels soft between her toes.

Stepping around bits of tape stuck to the ground, Clara makes her way to the book-packed couch and clears a spot for herself, plopping a stack of paperbacks onto the coffee table. The first on the pile, the only one Clara can see, is a worn copy of a Sherlock Holmes novel.

When Jenny joins her, two steaming hot cups of tea in her hands, Clara feels her entire body relax. They sit together for a few quiet minutes, letting their cups cool enough to drink, before Clara eventually asks, "So, what are your classes? They start in what, five days?"

"Four," Jenny corrects, but her words are soft in a way that isn't quiet but just kind, and Clara adores her already. "I start off with a forensic science class at ten in the morning on Tuesday, and then I'm also taking basic courses, a couple more sciences and maths. Nothing particularly exciting other than the first."

Clara's eyebrows go up to her hairline, impressed right off the bat. She knew Jenny was a criminology major, or at least something of the sort, but hearing it in person makes it all the more awe-inspiring.

"Meanwhile," Clara laughs, leaning back into the couch, hair trapped behind her shoulder blades, "I start off with Photography 101 on Wednesday."

Jenny's eyebrows pull together in confusion, "Isn't that a beginners class?"

Clara shrugs, "Yes, but the professor is… very well known. It's the only class of his I can manage to squeeze into my schedule, so it's worth it." Her thoughts go to the Doctor, the mysterious photographer that's traveled the world and taken pictures of everyone and everything- except himself.

"Is he good at what he does, then?"

"He's amazing. He's one of my favorite photographers of all time."

The look on Jenny's face is knowing, "I understand, Professor Vastra- my forensics professor- is something of a celebrity herself. She's been called, and I quote, 'the Veiled Detective'. She's solved some of the trickiest crimes of this century- and the last."

Clara's mouth twitches with an interested smile, "The last?"

Jenny finally gives her a small grin, "Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper?"

Something shifts between them, the fragility of their blossoming friendship finally settling, like dust landing and stilling on a bookshelf, and the atmosphere suddenly feels like home.

Both Clara and Jenny are cheerful morning risers, and Clara thinks that, in another life, she could have been an amazing schoolteacher. But the stars and the changing skyline of cities call to her, call to her camera, and she can never find it in herself to give up the dream of travel, or of adventure.

The Tuesday of Jenny's first class of the semester, Clara asks her to show her around the campus on her way, and Jenny was very happy to agree. She knows the campus like the back of her hand, and credits it to lonely winter breaks stuck there, instead of home.

"That's the cafeteria," she points out, and Clara notices how much more talkative she is in the familiar environment, "but only go there when you're absolutely starving, the food is much better across campus at the buffet." Then she moves her arm, directing to a building that Clara has to squint to see, "That's the 'student lounge' where all of the men gather." She gives Clara a warning look, "Don't go in there. That way is the library, building T, down the walkway and to the left. You can just see it now if you look over the trees, it's three stories tall." Clara can see it, just briefly, down the walkway path that she gestured to. The sidewalk vanishes after it curves and hides behind several bushes of trees and shrubs.

And then Jenny checks her watch, and realizes with a bit of panic that she only has twenty minutes until her class starts, and she wants to be there early enough to get a good seat. Clara would tease her, mock her for being a teacher's pet, even after two years of university, but won't she do the exact same thing for her class the very next day?

Jenny bids Clara a quick goodbye, and tells her that she'll help with the unpacking in the flat later on that afternoon. She adjusts the puffy scarf around her neck, hikes her backpack farther up her shoulders, and dashes off without another word.

Clara tries to give a small wave, but Jenny's back is to her, and she can't help but let her attention be drawn to the building to her left. It's a distance away, but she finds her feet moving before she can think about going back to the apartment. The closer she gets, the more it becomes obvious that the library is more magnificent than Jenny had explained, with glass windows paneling the sides and trees covering the entire bottom story, hiding it in shades of reds and browns. She drifts, following the path without really looking at it, trying to get a glimpse inside as she nears it. Clara cranes her neck and tries to look over the top somehow, trying to see if that corner of the second story really is as vacant as it looks-

-and then, without warning, Clara slams into another body, her nose smashing into their shoulder. It throbs as she pulls away, tumbling backwards, but a hand grips her upper arm and keeps her from toppling onto the concrete. Her purse is secure, the strap thrown across her shoulder and pulled tightly across her chest, but the books and papers the stranger had been carrying tumble into the sidewalk, spines creaking against the strain of the landing. The stranger drops their hand almost immediately, and Clara falls to her knees, gasping, "Oh my God," as she tries to gather papers. She shoves the ones she collects together in a hasty attempt to keep them from getting swept up by the wind, "I am so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Obviously."

His tone is low, cold, and calm, and it makes Clara go still, but even with the harshness of his voice, he kneels down and helps her. Clara organizes his things for a few moments, trying to keep the papers from wrinkling, before slowly looking up to catch the sight of bright blue eyes and furious eyebrows. He reflects her panic like ice, and she swallows, heart pounding hard in her chest because, as intimidating as he is, he's older and he's grayer but he's ten times more attractive than any other man she's seen on campus so far.

Gaping like a fish, Clara tries to think of something to say, anything at all, a stuttered apology at the very least. She thinks that maybe, somehow, something witty or attractive will come out of her mouth, but all she ends up doing is staring like a deer caught in headlights. The only difference is instead of being frightened in the road, Clara is stuck in a pit of tar and unable to pull herself out in time to prevent humiliation.

After an agonizingly long moment of silence, he asks, in the witty manner she wishes she could have voiced, "What? What are you looking at? Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The words come out as a delayed reaction, Clara's desperation to break her silence mixed with her nervous motor mouth, creating a demon spawn of embarrassing blurting, "Can I? That would actually be really great."

His hands, which were shoving his things into the binder they were organized in, still. He leans backwards, just the slightest bit, his eyebrows twitching with some sort of unreadable emotion. He stares at her for a beat, then two, before asking, his tone a tad higher and a lot more incredulous than before, "I'm sorry, what?"

Clara finally unfreezes, finally lets her need for control take over the situation, and gives a strained and almost panicked smile, "You- have a very nice face." She shuts her eyes for a second, a fraction of a moment to compose herself and to try and turn the situation around, "Your profile! You have a lovely profile, it would look great for my portfolio." The words are a jumbled mess, so she flips open the top of her purse to reveal her camera, as if to make herself seem suddenly less creepy. She doesn't feel as though she's successful.

He looks as though he suddenly understands, though, which Clara finds odd. Even odder, however, is the fact that even with the understanding, he doesn't look very pleased. "Ah, just for your portfolio then," and his words are full of sarcasm, or maybe even snark, she can't really tell. He rises onto his feet and, despite it all, offers a hand to help her up, and Clara takes it, mostly out of politeness.

"Not just for my portfolio- consider it an apology?"

He looks hesitant, but he isn't brushing any invisible dirt off of his clothes and ignoring her existence, which Clara considers a plus. "Do you take pictures of strangers often?"

She gives him a genuine smile this time, all dimples and flirtatious eyebrows, "Only when they're attractive."

"Do you think I'm attractive?" and his incredulous expression is back.

Her smile widens, "If I say yes, will you let me take a quick snapshot?"

"Are you any good?"

Clara's answer takes a second longer than she would have liked, which she blames entirely on her surprise at the fact that he's bantering with her. "I'd like to think so, but why don't you tell me?"

The man barks out a startled laugh, showing off a smile full of sparkling white teeth and eyes that shine so easily beneath the cold exterior. "Cheeky girl. All right, your flattery has convinced me, one photographer to another." Clara manages, very poorly, to mask how surprised she is at the revelation, and the man picks up on it fast. He pulls at the bag at his side, hidden from view behind his flowing coat, and flips it open just as Clara did to hers moments before.

Inside is a camera that costs more than Clara's tuition, the chrome striking against the brown leather of the bag. She feels a sense of dread creep up on her, tickling up the back of her neck, "Should I know who you are?"

He shakes his head, "You might, or you might not. Identity is relative."

She wrinkles her nose, "That's a horrible answer."

He grins, "I know. But if I was important, wouldn't you know me by now?"

Clara shifts her weight, her smile changing into something more like a smirk, "When did I ever say you were important?"

"Touche," he says as his eyebrows go up, and it's less amusement as it is giving in. Looking down, he pulls out his camera with long and careful fingers, thumbs flicking over a couple buttons. It comes to life, several lights going off and dings ringing in the air. Clara marvels at it, marvels at the lenses she can see at the very bottom of his bag, marvels at the way he handles it like a caress instead of a piece of machinery. It's obvious it means a lot and costs just as much, and there he is, holding it out for her to take, all but shoving it in her arms. "Well, go on then. Take it."

Staring dumbly, she says slowly, "I want it on my camera." For some reason, he smiles at her as if she's in on some inside joke.

"You'll get the picture, I promise."

"That doesn't sound very safe." She narrows her eyes at him, and takes a step back, but he puts his arms up like he's surrendering.

"You offered to take the picture, and I'm not going to hurt you. Here, look." He pulls the camera back, propping it against his side, and digs into the bottom of his satchel with his free hand. He pulls out a lanyard with an ID stuck at the end, and hangs it in front of her face. It swings, and the plastic shines against the sun, but she can see the administration symbol, all bright holographic rainbows in the light. Just as her gaze begins to slide up to his name, or his job description, he yanks it away. "I work for the photography department. Will you just take the picture? I haven't got all day."

"Do you teach or something?"

"I prefer to develop the photos behind the scenes, really."

Clara, who is an impeccable judge of character, feels a spike of boldness within her. The administration badge is enough proof for her that he's legitimate, and she figures that adventures never happen with being completely careful. So she throws caution to the wind, takes the camera with both hands, and swallows down her nerves when she feels how heavy it is in her palms.

More gentle with the camera than she would be with a baby, she ignores the way her skin tingles from where their hands brushed together. He's already prepped it, the bright orange-yellow light at the top blinking, waiting for an action. She runs her own thumb over the wheel next to it, and the screen zooms in instantly. "She's nice," Clara comments, "does she have a name?"

"I call her the TARDIS."

Looking up, Clara looks at him with a confused but amused expression, "What does it mean?"

"Something special. Maybe you'll find out one day."

"Oh, I'd like to."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Clara feels her cheeks heat up, feels her heartbeat quicken just a pace, but she holds her ground and holds his gaze. He's the one who breaks it, clearing his throat and shifting his weight and pose. She realizes that he's standing for the picture now, so Clara brings it to her face, angles the lens, and takes a couple snaps. She pulls the camera back and frowns at the lighting, then takes another move backwards, crouches just a bit, and takes a few more. When she's satisfied, she hands it back to him without a word, and he takes it without looking through the photos in front of her. She's relieved.

"What's your name?" he finally asks once his camera is safely secured in his bag.

"Clara."

He offers his hand, and she shakes it, noting how short and curt he keeps the contact. Once he pulls away from her touch, he slips his hand in the pocket of his coat and pulls out his cellphone. "What's your phone number, Clara?"

Her cheeks feel too hot now, from both embarrassment and from heated excitement. She rings the numbers off for him, and tacks on, at the end, "Maybe you can give me those photos over coffee?"

He pauses, and says without looking at her, "Maybe I'll bring them printed for you."

She smiles, and can see his lips twitch. He tucks his phone away once her contact is saved, and gives her a nod before slowly taking a few steps backwards. He is much more graceful than she would be, and successfully doesn't bump into anyone. "As fun as this has been, I was headed somewhere before you ran into me."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"I know how to manage my time." His tone now is softer, an amused goodbye, and Clara wonders if there's something that could come from this. "It was a pleasure," he says, and she knows a goodbye when she hears one.

When Clara thinks about asking for his name, he's already long gone.

At least he has her number.

The next morning, her alarm is muffled by the pillows lying across her dresser, still not given a home in her small, cramped bed. By the time Clara wakes up, she's in a half-panicked frenzy and barely has time to comb her hair and grab a slice of toast in the kitchen.

Jenny is there at their tiny table, sipping at a cup of tea and reading the newspaper that was dropped off at their door not an hour before. She doesn't look up as Clara rushes around the kitchen in a frenzy, too involved in an article about criminal reports given by the police department.

"Oh my God, Jenny," Clara says breathlessly, burning her fingers digging the toast from the toaster oven and onto a napkin. She quickly smears chocolate spread over the top, and ends up getting some on her fingers too, "I'm late— I'm late."

Jenny hums in reply, waiting a moment before adding, "Better run, then," and Clara does.

By some stroke of sheer luck, she manages to find a spot in the parking lot a block from her building only after circling it for the second time. Thankfully, she slipped into her old, worn flats, so running doesn't kill the heels of her feet.

Though most of the class is full, the professor still isn't there, and Clara feels herself flush with giddy relief. She finds a seat in the far back, and though it isn't ideal, she'll take it. The man next to her looks up and gives a soft smile, which she returns as she sets her bag down and pulls the chair out behind her. He doesn't introduce himself to her, keeping distanced and quiet, and for once Clara doesn't mind.

Excitement coils in the pit of her stomach. She glances at the clock every few seconds, tapping her nails against the table and taking in deep breaths through her nose. When the door finally clicks open, all chatter in the classroom stops almost instantaneously, as does Clara's jittering. The atmosphere in the room feels as though a breath is being held, and their professor, the man who Clara has been dying to see since she turned seventeen, comes in slowly. He takes off his coat and throws it onto the desk in the front of the large room, and Clara rakes her eyes up his form, taking in the sight eagerly. When she comes up to his face, she takes in one large breath, and freezes, absolutely horrified. His eyes, which are striking even across the room, are the same blue color, the same warmth underneath the coolness of his expression, and he's the same man from the day before.

He doesn't see her, all the way in the back, and begins the class without a fault in his step. "Hello everyone," he begins with a dangerous grin, "I'm your professor, but you can call me the Doctor."