The Doctor fumbled with a regular screwdriver, poking at random spots on a coffee pot. "You're so dull and un-sonic-y." He whined.
Normally, he'd be using his sonic screwdriver, but Clara had asked to borrow it earlier, so he was left with the regular bits. Come to think of it, it had only been a few minutes after she had asked for his sonic screwdriver that Clara had asked him to fix the coffee pot. She probably did it just for sport! He thought indolently, shoving the coffee pot onto the counter and spinning on his heel.
"Clara!" He shouted, tripping over himself as he marched towards their bedroom, where Clara was most likely napping. (She had been rather ill recently, you see, so he'd been trying to be extra nice and helpful.)
"Clara!" He shouted again. "Did you take my sonic just beca-" The Doctor halted in his tracks, (in his usual ungainly manner) at the sight of Clara curled up in the squishy chair on the far side of the room.
It wasn't particularly odd to see her like that, it was her favorite chair after all, but this time was different. She was curled up in an agonizing way, obviously extremely upset, and maybe even in pain. She was clutching something small and white in her hand, but didn't seem to be particularly taken with it as she was staring into oblivion. She was even paler than usual, (The sickness was a draining one, you see.) and her normally soft and smooth hair clung to her face and neck with sweat.
"Clara?" He said, this time softer, more of a question. "Clara, darling, what's the matter?"
But Clara didn't move, her eyes didn't even flit.
The Doctor took a few steps toward her, his arms bouncing awkwardly at his side. Clara was normally exceedingly perceptive. Especially with her emotions. She would do anything, fake a smile or a laugh, lock herself in the bathroom, change the subject, to keep herself from having to reveal an emotion she wasn't completely prepared to share. But when she was ready to share she opened up easily, albeit carefully.
But she didn't seem ready to share anything. At all.
In fact, even though The Doctor and Clara were as close and as in love as a couple could be, he felt as if he were intruding on something very private.
Nonsense! This was my room long before she moved in! He thought, staring at shoes. But when he looked back up, a pang of fear hit harder than ever, and he walked quickly over to Clara, worry tearing at his hearts.
"Clara, please, are you alright?" He asked softly, sliding in next to her on the squishy chair and wrapping his arm around her in the most comforting manner he could muster.
Clara jumped at his touch, her complexion becoming even more pallid as she turned and looked at him.
And for the first time in awhile, The Doctor saw Clara's eyes were red and swollen, and were once again filling with tears.
"Oh, Doctor.." She moaned, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest.
He half expected her to burst into sobs, but she stayed silent, even though he could feel his shirt becoming damp. He rubbed her back soothingly for a while, finally finishing in an awkward pat. He wasn't sure exactly if he was supposed to say something, but all he could really think about is he was really very worried.
About his Clara. His impossible girl.