I thought of writing something like this while watching the prequel to the season seven finale. I wanted to post it before the finale actually aired to maintain relevance. Initially, I thought the setting would be that room of artifacts that the prequel was set in, a room a didn't actually know the exact purpose of, and therefore would probably name inaccurately. However, in the scheme of things, this can be set in plenty of places, so you have some juristiction there. Congrats. Enjoy!
No rights to Doctor Who. Rights to BBC.
Clara represented the great dichotomy of I-can't-get-enough and I've-had-more-than-enough to the Doctor. Mysteries were a wonderful intrigue, but the thing about TV mysteries and movie mysteries and novel mysteries was that they eventually, through an entertaining string of events, got solved. But Clara was not a novel. She was a girl. But a mystery nonetheless. And after all this time, the Doctor had failed to figure her out. It had been entertaining to try, definitely, but most things got dull after enough repetition.
Clara was wonderful. In the Doctor's travels, he'd learned firsthand about the imperfection of the world, particularly from the humans. Clara was no different. She was gloriously imperfect. She was the type of perfect that didn't denotatively mean perfect. She was a perfect reserved for him, coming into his life when he required a shove from his dormancy. Clara was an excellent, quippy, lovely shove.
But she was mystery. And the Doctor was fed up with it.
He turned from her hands on his hips, then swiveled back to face her on the balls of his feet.
"You know, I've had it with you Clara Oswin Oswald," he fretted.
"Clara what?" a knot formed between her brows.
"Whoever you are," he amended, sauntering up to her. "I feel as if I've had about as much as I can take."
"The offhand comment I made about your chin was all in good fun," she assures him.
"No, not that!" the Doctor wrings his hands in the air. "I mean you. Not knowing who you are."
"You know who I am," Clara tells him, a note of concern in her voice.
"You know the thing about people," the Doctor lifts a finger, a signal that he's about to explain something he considers profound, "is that one person hardly ever truly knows another person. But you, Clara, you take that to extremes. I don't have a clue-and-a-half who you are. And you know what really gets to me?" the Doctor continues, bending to her height, getting close to her face in an almost interrogative way. "I don't think you have a clue-and-a-half either."
Clara meets the Doctor's eyes warily. "I'm not sure what you mean." She adored the Doctor, sure, but he was either achingly genius or monkey-barrel bonkers. Probably both.
"You're. Too. Perfect," the Doctor stresses each word. In most other mouths, those words would be complimentary, but here, they're biting.
"Still lost," Clara lifts her open palms in something of a shrug.
"You're funny," the Doctor stands upright, but does not lose intensity. "You're pretty. You're smart, and small, and intriguing, and delightful, and entirely too wonderful to be wonderful."
"And you're mad about that?"
"I'm not mad. I'm frustrated!" he exclaims. "What are you, eh? Are you a plant, maybe? Is this an elaborate plan to, I don't know, end my life, find my secrets, steal my ship, what?"
"Doctor, not to sound conceited, but can't a girl just be funny and witty and smart and intriguing and—what was that last one?"
The Doctor provides, "Delightful."
"…and delightful without being a walking conspiracy? What makes you so special?"
"You'd be surprised," he shrugs a shoulder.
"Doctor, I'm not perfect," Clara goes on. "Nowhere near. Neither of us are. But maybe you simply like me because you like me, not because I was programmed or something. You've seen a lot of the universe. Is it that surprising that you might find someone who's . . . nice . . . to be around—who's good for you?"
The Doctor crosses his arms to think for a moment, still looking huffy. He thinks back to previous friends of his, how many of them had entered his life and provided something that enriched it, all while, for the most past, not being genetically engineered or something just as nefarious.
"And honestly," Clara interrupts his reverie, "you showed up at my door dressed as a monk with a time machine, and I'm the one being met with suspicion? Where's a girl have to go to get some respect around here?" She smirks up at him.
The Doctor smiled down at his companion. A genuine, appreciative smile.
He still didn't know what or who Clara was.
But maybe he didn't need to in order to appreciate her.