It wasn't really a surprise when he showed up in her bedroom with a goofy grin on his face and his Sonic held tightly in his hand as he began a random string of words that made no sense to Clara as she pulled herself up from the tangled mess of sheets she'd been sleeping in. It was almost as if he'd been there all along, always making connections in the hectic world around her, whispering them to her somewhere in the back of her mind, and he'd always been exactly what she needed.
Today she needed to understand why her mother was gone. Why she felt so empty when she spoke to her father, or to her aunt, or to her Gran, or to anyone else in the family who tried desperately to get her to talk. Clara needed to know why she felt the most at peace locked up in her bedroom with an imaginary man prancing about with a silly smile and a barrage of insanity.
"So, do you think the birds fly out of necessity, or do you think they enjoy it?" He waves his Sonic through the air and then points it to the window just as a sparrow passes and he smiles, mouth open with a laugh that never quite makes it out as he elaborates, "I imagine they'd take some sort of comfort in keeping themselves out of the dangerous grasps of cats and other land-locked predators, but at the same time – why the acrobatics? The dances and twirls, the drops and flips, as if they were enjoying more than just the escape from certain death in a terrestrial life, but the wind underneath their wings and the sound of air against the ears." He taps her leg lightly as she sits up and stares at him. "What do you think, Clara? Do birds revel in flight the way we do a car ride with the windows rolled down, arm extended to swim in the ocean of breathable gasses floating all around us?"
He drops onto the edge of the bed and his mouth pops open as his eyebrows rise. And she smiles.
Clara almost never answers him, knows he's a figment of her imagination she wouldn't dare tell a soul about – especially not her father; especially not now – and she simply enjoys the company as she wipes at her tears. Clara only lifts the book she'd been ruffling through as she'd fallen asleep the night before up to cling to it with a sigh as he offers, "I think if penguins could fly, they would never leave the skies," he points to her again, dropping his head slightly to add, "That's what I think."
Her father pushes into the room and the man at the foot of her bed doesn't drift away with the invasion of reality, he simply watches Clara as though continuing to wait for her response. Clara keeps her eyes on the bedding curled around her legs just underneath the book in her arms. She knew she should have put it away; there were quite a few things she knew she should have locked up by now.
The book her mother had read from almost every night for as long as she could remember. The album of photos she'd spent the past week sifting through, afraid that if she didn't look at her mother's face every day, it might fade from memory. And her heart. Clara presses the book tightly to her chest, wishing she could take the offending organ that continued to ache with longing and toss it into the deepest darkest cupboard and close the doors.
Except she knew it wasn't possible because part of her heart had been buried underneath a simple block of black marble that told the world the day her mother had blessed it with her arrival, and the day she'd been taken forcefully from it. Clara peers up at the man who stares down at her, eyes bruised in the same bright red from early morning tears; tears that came when the voice they both expected didn't cut through the silence.
"My stars, it's bright outside today."
"Are you ready to come down yet?" Dave asks quietly and Clara looks to the window. She can see him nod, just out of peripheral, as if it were exactly the response he were expecting, except he wished it hadn't been the one he'd gotten. "I can bring you breakfast. How's some toast sound? Spot of tea?"
"Might be good for your stomach," the Doctor sighs, standing and going to the window to watch the birds now perched on a branch, pecking at one another for space. He points back at her, "At least take the tea – you know you want to take the tea. You love tea."
"Yeah," Clara manages and she can feel her father still lingering in front of her, knows he desperately wants to make her feel better, but he knows that was more her mother's forte. Rubbing at his forehead, he sighs, and Clara finally looks up towards him with a nod, "Yeah, dad, tea would be good."
Shaking his head, Dave begins quietly, "Clara, you've got to…" He stops and goes to close the window she's turned her attention to, and she smiles absently as the Doctor Sonics the birds and then points at them hopping about in response. Leaning against her desk, Dave frowns as he looks back at her and raises a hand, "I know you're hurting. I get it, Clara, I get it – you know that I do – but you've got to snap out of this…" his words drift again as he searches while she watches the frustration on his face and the way his eyes well up with tears, "I've already lost my wife; I can't lose my daughter too."
"I'm not lost," Clara tells him weakly, yet still defiantly.
He gestures beside him and Clara smiles when the man at his side dodges his arm. "You're talkin' to imaginary things; grinnin' for something I can't see and I've asked you before, Clara, and you've told me it's nothin', but it's not nothin'." He steps forward, kneeling in front of her.
"He is right, you know," the Doctor supplies, tapping his Sonic to the palm of his left hand before aiming it in her direction, "You've had more interaction with me in the past week than with him – and I'm not even here; and you know it." He eyes her curiously, approaching, "A hallucination of your mind; a desire from your heart. Clara Oswald, why would you choose to have a time travelling space man help you grieve for the loss of your mother rather than your own father?"
Clara closes her eyes and looks to her father, asking him softly, "Why do birds fly if they don't have to?"
He lets out a short laugh, brow coming together roughly before he looks to the closed window and back to his daughter with a shrug as she waits. Finally, he stands, planting his hands at his waist, and he tells her calmly, "I suppose they fly because it's easier."
He meets her eyes and finds them locked onto something else – someone else, he's starting to think – and Dave clenches his jaw to keep it from trembling. He watches Clara as she looks over a particular spot in the space just at the foot of the bed, as though she's examining a face, and there's a lost look in her eye he doesn't recognize. She's become a girl he doesn't recognize and the thought terrifies him as he turns back towards her door and steps out.
The Doctor nods slowly and sighs, "Easier." There's a chuckle Clara feels free to mimic now that her father has left the room. "Now I don't know if that's true – what do you think, Clara? Is it easier to fly?"
She smiles, watching him twirl the Sonic in the air. "Yes, Doctor," she responds on a whisper, a sort of understanding dawning on her as she finishes, "It is."