The English Teacher (Clara Oswald X reader)

Friday

"I don't know why it keeps happening!" you lamented to Clara.
"Well, either he's really good at hiding behind things, or he can somehow disappear at will," she said, referring to the Tommy incident.
"Are being serious? I hope you're being serious," you said. "This is very serious," you added, hoping she understood just how serious this was.
"I am serious about it," she said. "But you don't need to worry about it right now. We've already talked about it at work, and we've told the Doctor what we know. I mean, you're in my house in your pajamas. You do deserve to give yourself a break now, (f/n). We've done everything we can do right now," she said.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right." You sighed.
"Anyway," she said. "What've you got there?" she asked, nodding at the shoebox clutched in your arms.
"Ugh," you said. That word pretty much summed up your feelings about the contents of the box. "It's my poetry," you said. Clara's face brightened. "Now, don't expect anything great. This was the product of a moody, self-righteous fourteen-year-old's mind."
When you handed it to her, she took the box with enthusiasm anyway. You fiddled with your fingers nervously as she read, looking around her room in an attempt to distract yourself from everything that was going on. You honestly hated when people read your writing, but she had been eager to read it.
What surprised you was that you didn't hear any moans of disgust from Clara. You heard almost the opposite: giggles and thoughtful Mmm's escaped from her mouth every few moments.
"Are you done yet?"
"Almost," she responded with a smile. You waited about a minute before she handed the box back to you, papers neatly placed inside.
"Well?" you asked. "What did you think?"
"I thought it was actually pretty good. Suppose it spoke to my fourteen year old self," she said with a laugh.
You sighed, relaxing. You hadn't realized how tense you'd been while she was reading until now. "That is a huge relief."
"I'm glad," she said, turning her head to look at you. Your heads rested on the very tops of the pillows your backs were leaning against, and your faces were level each other's. She gave a soft smile. You returned it. You scrutinized her face, which again you thought was lit perfectly by the lamplight. You thought it made her eyes twinkle. The only dark-ish spots were her dimples, which were still the most adorable things you'd ever set eyes on.
"Erm, also," she said, finally turning her head and picking up something behind her. The moment was over. "I brought something for you to read too," she said. She held out a paper to you.
You held the paper in a way that let the light hit it, so that you could read it well. It was titled '100 Places to See'. You glimpsed the stanzas underneath the title, realizing it was a poem.
"I wrote this in college," she said. "You know how it is, when you're young. I was one of the few who was actually more excited than nervous about my future, hard as it is to imagine a college student who's excited about work," she joked. "Thought it was only fair that I let you read something I wrote, if I was gonna read something you wrote."
You nodded, directing your eyes to the words on the paper curiously. You didn't really care if it turned out to be the worst poetry you'd ever read. Seeing into her thoughts, taking a glimpse at her self, would be worth that. That was what you loved about poetry, cheesy as the whole thing sounded.
It began, '100 Places to See'

'There are a hundred places out there to see
They wait for me, patiently
Green valleys and snowy mountains
Dessert plains and rain forests
Castles standing grand in their majesty

But my resolve wavers sometimes at night
When the goblins come to feed on my fright
What if I never leave this place?
What if my life is too short?
Then those hundred places may never reach my sight

From this point, I cannot tell
But come a bright heaven or a harrowing hell
I'll endeavor to seek them out
And live life to the fullest
Once I hear the last chime of school bells'

"So?" asked Clara, seeing that you had finished.
"Well," you said. "I can see why you're an English teacher."
She laughed, and you grinned. "Thanks," she said. "I've always been sort of self-conscious about that one," she confessed. "My poems were all about little things and tiny moments. This one was the only one that really contains my deeper feelings about something really big, I guess," she said, then she shrugged. "That probably sounds kind of silly."
"No, not at all. Character may be manifested in the great moments, but it is made in the small," you said wisely. Clara looked at you with wide eyes.
"Did you just come up with that or-"
"No, no," you laughed. "Phillips Brooks. Not me. I don't say things as wise as that, much as I'd like to."
"No, you're very wise," she said, leaning over to place the box and her paper on the ground.
"Oh, um," you paused. "Thanks." You'd been surprised at how casually she'd said it. Like it was a matter-of-fact sort of thing, rather than something she felt she needed to reassure you of. Oh come on, she doesn't think that highly of you, your mind told you, trying to shake yourself out of that state wherein you over-analyzed everything your crush said or did.
She sat back up, grinning again. You noticed something in her hand.
"Oh, god," you said. "Not that thing. Anything but that thing."
She held up the class picture with a fourteen year old version of yourself on it. "I think it's cute!" she said.
"Cute? I was going through puberty, which is anything but cute."
"Not seeing it," she said. She looked up at you. "Matter of fact, I think you're still pretty cute."
What.
What, what, what. Your mind drew a blank. "Do you mean that?" you asked.
She laughed. "Yeah."
What. Most girls said stuff like that though, didn't they? People called their friends cute.
"I think you're cute too," you said awkwardly, forgetting how to phrase sentences. "Um."
"Well," she said. "You think I'm cute, I think you're cute, lets go for a drink some time."
What.
"I mean, if you'd like to."
"What." Damn, you'd said that one out loud. "Wait no, uh. Yeah. Yes, that'd be great, I'd like that."
Her face lit up for the second time. "Great! That's great. When do you wanna go? 'Cause I can pick you up easy at any point. Except Saturday, probably," she stopped herself, realizing she was almost rambling in her happy state.
"Friday," you said automatically. "How does Friday sound?"
"Friday sounds fantastic," she grinned.
"Friday then," you repeated. "Friday it is."
Your smile was wide, and it made your face hurt. You didn't care much though. There was nothing you could care too much about after what had just happened. Friday, you thought. I have a date with Clara Oswald on Friday.
The two of you conversed easily for the rest of the night, you feeling a mounting excitement for the end of the school week.