Clara checks on the Doctor at Vastra's and finds him asleep.
The lines on his face weren't as visible in repose.
Clara had quietly stopped in the doorway and was leaning against the frame to examine this new man who had replaced her Doctor. Not replaced, she quickly corrected herself. It's still him; he's still here. And he was finally sleeping, although in the armchair, not the bed.
It wasn't the fact that the lines on his face showed age that had rattled her, as she knew Madame Vastra suspected. It was the way they showed experience in the harshest way, showed worry, anger, stress. These were lines from a life of frowning, not one of laughter. She so badly just wanted to see this Doctor laugh, and in it to recognise the man she knew. She felt sudden anger boil up at Vastra for portraying her relationship with the Doctor as such a shallow one. I'm not pining for a handsome face, she thought. I've just had my best friend ripped away from me.
The Doctor shifted in his sleep. His chest began to rise and fall faster, as if in his dreaming he was troubled. It unsettled Clara and part of her wanted to wake him, but only in the way you feel you should help a stranger, and then not knowing how they'll react, do nothing. Instead, she crossed her arms in front of her.
She couldn't be expected to just carry on as if nothing had changed, could she? It wasn't exactly normal for humans, to have a friend just suddenly become a whole different person. A different face, a different… personality? He's the same person, she told herself.
—
His dream had been full of the bright energy of regeneration, and had woken him. Sensing another presence in the room - and knowing it was Clara - he maintained the appearance of sleep. He wondered how long it would take - if it was ever going to happen - for her to accept his new appearance, new character. The thought that she no longer recognised him brought on that familiar, sharp pain of loss. Why, for god's sake, did it never get weaker?
He'd stood in front of the mirror and stared, when they'd left him in the bedroom. Stared at this strange face that he'd seen before, trying to place it. He wondered again what forces chose his features - whose body he was given when he died each time. Because this body… the last few times, he'd been able to fool himself that it was his face alone, just new. But this… he felt its difference, felt the new traits he'd inherited - developed? - coming to the fore. A grin came less easily, his temper rose more quickly. It'll settle in, he told himself. I'll get used to it. But will she ever be able to? Will she want to?
The Doctor became suddenly aware of being alone. He cracked open an eye. Clara was gone.