Clara… I suppose… I'm the only one who knows how I… feel about you right now. You're funny; you're… so funny. And pretty. And the truth is… I'm starting to like you in a way that's more than just—
The Doctor jolted himself out of his thoughts half-reluctantly, staring at the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair frustratedly. His mind was so irritatingly busy, turning the events of the day over and over—some more than others—that he half wished he could be reintegrated into the Cyberiad, if only so that he could process all the information more effectively.
Again and again he tried to shift his focus towards anything but the situation he kept thinking about, but it resolutely returned to Clara each time, with greater and greater insistence. Another few fruitless minutes passed; the Doctor resorted to tossing up increasingly risque images of River in an effort to defend himself against the nonthreatening phantasm of Clara dancing in his head, to no avail.
Finally, he heaved a sigh, and said aloud as he sat forward:
"All right, all right, but I'm going to look at things from a strictly objective viewpoint; do you understand?" He wasn't sure he did, but he nodded anyway, and reclined agitatedly in his chair again.
First, what was the Cyberplanner, and what was its connection to the Doctor? The answer came immediately: what he would have been like had the enemy succeeded in Cybernizing him. That part of the matter was simple enough, he reasoned. But no, it wasn't. If the battle had just stayed inside his head—if Clara hadn't been caught in the crossfire—then it would have been simpler. But it hadn't, and she had been.
The Doctor fidgeted restlessly, trying desperately to comb through the tangled mess of thoughts that had been woven between himself and the Cyberplanner. He had purposely left open the section of memories concerning Clara, in the hopes that the intensity of the emotions concealed there would get through somehow. However, all that had accomplished was the Cyberplanner's latching onto his insecurities—and, more aggravatingly, causing Clara to believe that because it was the one that voiced his developing feelings and not the Doctor, its statements were untrue.
Unable to sit still any longer, the Doctor sprang up and paced around the control room, trying to determine a course of action.
You're too short and bossy, and your nose is all funny.
There had been no hesitation in his response, but only because there had not been time to hesitate, nor would Clara have believed him had he stated the truth. She was beautiful. No, more than that: truly attractive in a way that had not caught his attention since his regeneration. She was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, squeezed into a skirt that was just a little bit too tight.
The Doctor caught himself smiling at the memory of her striding out the TARDIS, but forced the expression off his face and chased the image to the edges of his mind before turning to his present, more vexing situation: what could he do, now that the Cyberplanner had ruined everything for him?
"Facts," murmured the Doctor, wandering agitatedly around the control room in an effort to expel some of his excess energy. "One," he continued to himself, "she doesn't think I think she's pretty."
How could she not?
"Two," he added, before falling silent as he realized that the first of his facts was really his core problem. Clara clearly didn't know how he felt, nor would she believe him if he revealed his attraction. After all, she thought he would rather die than say it, which was no longer true now that she had told him that.
"I can fix that!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I can most definitely fix that. You'll see." He scrambled for a piece of paper, searching through the secret drawers in the console, and eventually managed to find a business card stamped with the Great Intelligence logo, a quill pen formerly belonging to Edgar Allan Poe, and an inkwell of the same origin.
Once he prepared to jot down a note to Clara entailing his feelings, however, doubts flooded his mind. She would not believe it any more on paper than she would in person, and perhaps even less so, as notes could be forged. Cursing silently to himself in a thousand languages, the Doctor paced again, filled with a wild kind of nervous energy inconvertible to any kind of useful task.
Dear Clara, he thought to himself, Rule One: the Doctor lies. I think you're pretty.
"But she'd never believe it," muttered the Doctor, racking his brains for something else to say. Something perhaps less overt, or less relevant to the day's adventures. Remarking on the weather was right out. Complimenting her appearance was a routine occurrence that she interpreted as entirely platonic.
Dear Clara, I'm beginning to like you in a way that is more than just—
"Even worse!" exclaimed the Doctor, burying his face in his hands. The same phrasing as the Cyberplanner would undoubtedly either make her resentful at the courtship she dismissed as false, or else she would interpret the note as a joke.
Dear Clara, I know you don't believe the Cyberplanner, but in this instance, it was right about how I feel towards you—
"No!" shouted the Doctor, frustrated, but even as the word derailed his latest train of thought, an idea struck him in a manner similar to lightning. She didn't believe the Cyberplanner: that simple fact opened the way to a new, brilliantly simple way of saying it, a way that was able to be interpreted any way she wished. But Clara was a clever girl. Hopefully, she would grasp the true purpose of the message. And if she didn't, well, at least he had tried.
And the Doctor smiled, hearts throbbing excitedly, as he wrote his message:
Cyberforms can't lie.
((Well, here's another Eleven/Clara thingy! This takes place before Amazing in Red and Truth or Dare.))