#arc. regency.

They'd gotten comfortable, the two of them. In more ways than one. From the way that Balfour moved around the Hare and Hounds, collecting plates and cups and all else that had been discarded so haphazardly about the room, he might have looked like he'd been doing this his whole life. Like he belonged here, almost. He didn't even put on that deer in the headlights look when Clara touched him as he passed her. He stopped, of course, and smiled when she leaned against him, talking on of worker's rights, which he never had any clue about.

He must have said something in response to her. Must have. Balfour didn't have it in him to ignore Clara, and there was much to be said - fondly, if not teasingly - at her temperament, of how she could likely spark a revolution all on her own. But he had no hope of recalling the words that had just left his lips. Not a shred, with Clara's fingers at his chest, cold against his skin and pulling him closer, to where she relaxed back against the door. His own fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the plates in his hand, fighting the urge to let that usual rush of feeling force him to step back or straighten or make any move that might encourage her to let go. His other hand, naturally and without much thought, moved to cover her own; he'd always run hot, and there was no reason not to share his warmth on such a cold winter night.

"Mistletoe?" he asked, then, and glanced up, just briefly, to see what Clara meant. Ah. Of course. It was a wonder that Balfour could even feel the chill at all, from the way the usual blush spread across his cheeks and warmed his face. Returning his gaze to Clara, he managed a slight smile. Flustered and embarrassed and all of those usual Balfour Sutherland things that made him question why he ever said a damn word around her in the first place.

And something else.

In a week, in a week - God fucking help them if they were still here in a week. Balfour could barely stand the thought of being here for another day. No money, no food, no phones, no way home, no... anybody, except for each other. And it wasn't to say that he minded Clara - quite the opposite, in fact, and there were few people he would rather be stranded in time with - but this was...

This was the sort of thing that he had never let himself think about happening. Always a possibility, of course, while he worked at UNIT, but it was the worst case scenario. Living your whole life in the past, no way back. No Doctor to time travel it all better. There was no protocol for this, no UNIT to help him back in this time, nothing he could rely on to make it better and not the life-ending horror it was turning out to be.

No wonder they were both snapping.

Naturally, the words were enough to have that usual pink flush spread itself across Balfour's face. She'd cut deep, with that shame of feeling - all too deeply and all at once. Balfour turned his eyes away, just momentarily, frowning as he tried to think of a level response. He rubbed at his jaw.

Before their little misadventure in time, it had been a long while since Balfour had woken up with somebody else at his side. Or in his arms, as it were. He'd tried to keep his distance, at first, to save them any awkwardness - and now, most pleasantly, that wasn't a problem anymore. Where once he had slept in their mildly uncomfortable bed, arms crossed over his chest in an effort to keep himself from reaching for her in the night, he could now indulge his particular affection-hungry ways, cuddling close to her as they slept, completely at ease and completely happy.

It was Clara's stirring in his arms that woke him that morning, and he made smallest sound of complaint, fearing she might be trying to leave. Wise of her, of course, given the day ahead. Balfour had never been one to shy away from a day's hard work but, Christ, he was in no mood this morning to move anywhere from this spot. His arm tightened around her.

"Stay," he pleaded in that sleep-heavy voice of his, eyes still closed, fingers curling into her nightdress. A moment later, and he felt her brushing her own fingers through his hair, her gentle touch enough to finally make him open his eyes. A slow few blinks, then; Balfour came back to the world to the sight of Clara's face. Her sweet smile, messy hair, those gorgeous eyes taking him in in all his half-asleep glory, and - if he wasn't getting ahead of himself, here - the most content look he had ever seen from her.

It was one of those not quite so rare moments where Balfour felt overwhelmed by the sight of her. So he did the only natural thing, and moved that short distance between them to steal a few languid and lingering kisses from her lips. This, he was certain, was what they made mornings for. To think that he had been wasting them on early runs in his old life and playing the publican in this one - oh, it was madness. Pure fucking madness.