A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you've all had a wonderful day, I know I have. (Family, friends, and Doctor Who merchandise galore.) As for this story, it will be about four to five chapters I assume. It's up to your imagination to set the time period, but I guessing at early 1900's. (I don't even know for sure, haha.)

P.S. For those who know of the musical Little Dancer, it's songs are what inspired me to write this!

C'est Le Ballet

Friends were never really his cup of tea.

But then again, people in general never really were either.

The darkness had consumed him long ago in the midst of his toy repair shop; his only light one of a dim oil lamp, and that itself seemed to burn too bright. He was caged, and wholeheartedly enjoyed it. Every few days or so a broken packaged toy would slide through his mail slot with the designated amount of money to cover the cost of repairs, and in a matter of days, it came out as if it were newly bought.

Of course the man was kind; he'd always wrap the toy back up again and, on occasions, even wrote a letter containing thorough instructions on how to care for it. Then, placing it inside his personal postbox, the deliverer would pick it up and send it to the return address. It was a private company; nobody saw the face behind the work, and that was the way he was intending to keep it.

The man dreaded the holiday season, not because of a misled childhood or loneliness, but because business was rather slow. Hardly anyone sent for repairs; who would when they had the excuse of buying gifts for their loved ones? Though he had no family, he tried to understand to the best of his ability.

He shrugged on his favorite coat, navy blue with a bright red lining, and sitting down at his workbench, tried to find things to pass his time. No packages had come in the past two weeks, and though he wasn't prone to complaining, he was becoming rather impatient. A carving tool twirled at his fingertips as the sound of the clock ticking filled his ears with a rhymed peace, one that only lead him to contemplating. Time. A simple countdown to death. He laughed to himself. Such morbidity.

How he wished he could bend it, time itself, for his life would be far more entertaining than it was now. Visit the ruins of ancient Greece, or the damned society that was to come in the later centuries. The man smiled at the thought. What an impossibility.

Suddenly, there was another noise that had captured his attention. The rattling of the knob at the front door, as if someone were trying to get in. It was a sound that he seldom heard, therefore became rather startled at its presence.

Then came the knocking.

It had started out as a quiet little rap, but increased its power as the seconds went by without the man saying a word. He wanted to hide, shrivel away as if to prove a point that social interaction wasn't his forte. "Hello?" a young female voice called from the outside. "Hello, I'm here seeking a toy repair man? They said it was the best in town, and I just figured-" She cut herself off to heave a sigh. "I'm talking to nothing, aren't I-"

"U-Use the mail slot." His old voice croaked, the first words he had said in a while. There was silence from the other side for a moment, he pondered over whether or not he had scared the girl off. Just then, an index and middle finger poked through the slot, a pair of soft brown eyes behind it. "Well," the mysterious girl said. "How am I going to get through this? I'm not thin as paper, sir."

At first he was bewildered at her dry humor, then after a few minutes of processing, he finally understood. Oh. The man thought to himself. She wants to come inside. "Oh, you can't come in; most certainly not." he blurted out, noticing his rude tone. It was simply a matter of his thoughts speaking before his conscious could grant permission.

One of the girl's eyebrows lifted. "Willingly, I am a paying customer, am I not?"

He couldn't comprehend the girl's repetitious questioning. "A first time customer, I see," he commented harshly. She didn't reply, her silence earning her a sigh from the man. "Just slide the package through the mail slot; I'll have it delivered to your address once I'm finished." he explained, a process in which he thought everyone understood by this point in the business.

There was a slight pause from the young woman. "But, sir, I want to talk to you first before I leave you with my possessions, is that not reasonable enough for me to come inside?"

"What, you don't trust me?"

"You're the one who labeled me as a first time customer, I'd assume you'd put two and two together." she snapped, taking the man aback. He had been caught in a mess of his own words, and now there was nothing else he could do to send the girl away without him having the final word. I always have the final word. He told himself with confidence. Yet it lowered generously as soon as he met eyes with the crouched woman in the doorway.

"Listen, it's either I get hypothermia trying to argue with you, or I leave and you lose a customer. It's your choice." the girl said, and with that, closed the mail slot, leaving him in the dark of his own little shop. He felt an odd feeling tingling underneath the warmth of his sweater, for he was torn between decisions. Let the girl in and let her see the disarray that he lived in, or send her away with him being eternally stultified.

On the other side of the door, the girl was becoming rather cross. The best toy repair shop in town. They said. Well, they were dead wrong. She thought to herself. The lack of respect she had received in three minutes had enough to insult her for weeks; it was entirely impolite.

Just then, the sound of the door unlocking surprised her furthermore as it creaked open, but the man behind it was the most bizarre thing of them all. A grey-haired stick insect. She concluded as she carefully observed his lanky figure, with his threatening eyebrows and incredibly intimidating stare. "Well, you wanted entrance; don't just stand there!" he scowled as disappeared back into the solitude of the building. The young woman was hesitant to enter, for she wondered about what lurked in the shadows of his hiding.

Her first step was one that sent a shiver up her spine as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, her voice seeming to tremble as she asked, "Would it kill you to shed some light around this place?"

"Only have one lamp." he replied frankly, settling himself down again before turning their small talk another direction. "So, toy? What's the problem?"

He heard the door closing in the distance, a petite figure appearing in the darkness as well as a few facial features. A retroussé nose, soft eyes, and a smile that became difficult to describe. "Well, it's not exactly a toy, but I consider it to be one." The young woman then began to search through the satchel slung around her shoulder. "It's this music box I inherited from my mother, and I want to give it to my daughter for Christmas."

His threatening eyebrows lifted at her words. Judging by what he had seen, he wouldn't have expected her to be older than eighteen. His silence seemed to support this theory, for the young woman looked up to face the man. "I may not look it, but I am twenty-eight for your information." she stated flatly.

"I wasn't curious." he said in defense.

"No, but you were critical." she responded. It was as if his eyes were a clear window to his thoughts, and apparently this girl had an impressive view. "Aha, here it is!" she announced as she took a small velvet box into her hands. "It's a beautiful thing, really; it's just the wind-up is broken and it won't play." She paused to admire the heirloom. "Money's not an issue; it's just that Christmas is only in a matter of days, and my husband-"

"Leave it here." he interrupted her gruffly. "I'll see what I can do, I'm sure it won't be a problem." She was quiet for a moment, as if she were inwardly saying goodbye to her little treasure, and with a steady hand, she placed it on the work bench. "Can I trust you?" she asked, too formally for the man's taste.

"Life is full of taking chances, Miss...?" he trailed of, realizing that he didn't even know her name.

"Clara." she put in. "Clara Oswald."

"Well, Miss Clara Oswald, I can assure you that your music box is in safe hands, and if not, I offer my dearest apologies in advance."

She crinkled her nose just a bit. "That doesn't seem at all convincing."

He shrugged. "What can I say?"

Sighing to herself, Clara only nodded her head, and meeting gazes one last time, she pivoted on her heel and walked away. The man sat back in his chair, rather fond of having a visitor to talk to, for it was a chance to feel less alone, and though he would never say it aloud, he would take any chance that was offered to him.

"Oh," Clara exclaimed once she was in the doorway, turning to face him yet again. "And what shall I call you, sir?"

He pondered over this for a moment, for it wasn't often that he was asked his name. By this point in time, he wouldn't be surprised if he had forgotten it. "Call me The Doctor." he finally replied, for even though he enjoyed the company of this young woman, he was still firm about keeping himself well unknown, as hidden as the universe would allow.

Clara scoffed. "A doctor of toys, I presume?"

A smile swept his features at an instant, for he liked the sound of it. "A doctor of toys, indeed."

Smiling back at him, Clara finally stepped back out into the cold, away from the darkness at which was now shared. "Well then, goodbye Doctor."