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He stared at her from his high, brown throne. The Doctor could insist that it was a pilot’s chair as much as he liked, there was no way he could reach the console from there.
No, it was definitely a throne in which he could sit and read his books, and look intellectual and important.
His appearance was older, but even now those sad eyes looked far more ancient than the face that framed them. Old, sad eyes that looked almost constantly angry because of those eyebrows.
There was something else there, hidden deep, a sort of hope and longing. But mostly it was the eyebrows. Last time it was that chin, this time it was those eyebrows.
Maybe she could convince him to get them groomed, although she rather suspected that much like Harry Potter’s hair, they simply would not be tamed no matter how hard anyone tried.
How could someone go from having no eyebrows to having too much eyebrow? He was still staring at her and it was beginning to get unnerving.
“What?” She asked, breaking the long silence that they’d settled into.
“Hmmm?” The Doctor asked, raising those absurd eyebrows.
“You’ve been staring at me for the last twenty minutes. I’m not a painting or something, we can have a conversation if there’s something you want to say.” Clara said. The Doctor shook his head.
“Oh no, I wasn’t staring at you. I was sleeping.” He replied. Clara turned her head and peered over at him suspiciously.
“O...kay. If you say so.” She said, having decided that he was serious.
“You might want to bin that, it’s gone cold.” She added, nodding at the coffee cup still clutched in his hands.
The Doctor stared down at the cup, apparently surprised to find himself holding it. He took a tentative test sip, spitting it back the cup with disgust.
“Oh that’s awful. Just terrible. Really bad. Who would want to have that in their stomach, digesting? I hate it!” The more he complained, the thicker his accent got. With a dramatic sigh, Clara strode across the TARDIS and took the cup from his hands.
“Yes, well you aren’t meant to drink it once it’s gone cold. Now get out of the chair.” She ordered, setting the half-empty cup aside.
“What? No. It’s my chair. I like it.” He protested, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“You. Chair. Out. Now.” She demanded, glaring at him until he gave in and moved.
“Yes ma’am.” He rose slowly from the chair with a grace that the old him could never have managed.
Probably why the old him never had a chair like this. Too dangerous. Now that the throne was vacant, she sank into chocolate coloured leather.
“There are other chairs in the TARDIS you know, if you wanted a seat.” The Doctor grumbled.
“I know. Now sit.” “You just told me to stand up, now you want me to sit down. You’re in the chair!” The Doctor protested, arms gesturing about in front of him.
“I didn’t say sit in the chair.” Clara replied, pointing at the floor in front of her.
There was a brief stand off as the Doctor refused to move and Clara refused to repeat her request but after a few moments he started to sit down.
“No, with your back to me.” She corrected him before he can settle himself down facing her.
“Is there any particular reason for this sudden flurry of demands?” The Doctor asked as he shifted into a comfortable position, one leg crossed in front of him while the other stretched out as far as the curve of the TARDIS would allow. He leaned back until his back was resting warm against her legs.
“Yes. I’m going to touch your hair unless you tell me not to.” Clara told him.
She gave him time to respond and when he didn’t, she reached out a hand and ran her fingers lightly over the mess of grey curls. She half expected him to brush her aside or bat her hand away; to change his mind and ask her to stop; to get up and walk away but he didn’t.
It was softer than she had imagined, like running her fingers through grey silk. She kept playing with it for ages; letting the smooth, fluffy strands slip through her fingertips again and again; using her fingers to comb and toy with the gentle curls.
After a while a niggle started to develop in her neck, and she halted her playing so that she could massage it away.
“Don’t stop. I was almost asleep again.” The Doctor protested. Clara couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
“You know that I’m still expecting you to take me home, right?” She asked, as she began to glide her fingers through his hair again.
“Yes. But not just yet.” He replied. A warm, glowing feeling spread through her chest, down to her stomach.
“No, Doctor. Not just yet.”