April 22nd. An unremarkable day in regards to weather or current affairs, Clara thought as she watched TV after work. However today is, was, would have been his birthday. Danny Pink. The soldier, the maths teacher, the perfect distraction. Her perfect distraction. She missed him. She missed his kindness, his loyalty, his wisdom. She missed him as a constant. For five minutes a day.
Clara sighed. She was still angry. She had so much anger within her, and it would dance and dip and well up again. She could feel it now, brimming and bubbling like a cauldron. A witch's stew of emotions, ugly and vile, simmering. She pushed the emotions out - if they were a stew, or a potion, she was more content with soup. She almost laughed at how ridiculous the metaphor was.
A familiar noise pulls Clara out of her thoughts. The sweet wheeze of the Tardis materialising. Oh, she missed Danny, but that was because he was gone. She had, has, will always have the Doctor. The magician, with no potions or cauldrons, only that amazing box and that amazing mind.
She slips down the stairs, clothes and hair ready but barely and makeup. Will the Doctor like that, or does she look better to him with lipstick and eyeliner? Does he even notice? Because the Doctor doesn't notice or doesn't understand when she looks at him. Doesn't understand her need for him. Get another hobby, she scoffed to herself. But the Doctor was far more than a hobby, he was an addiction. Clara would never admit it, but it was an unhealthy one. She reached the bottom of the stairwell and walked across the dry, defeated grass to the perch of the Tardis.
Upon opening the Tardis door, Clara could hear the noise of the Doctor playing his guitar. He was engrossed, plucking out a section of a rift which Clara recognised but couldn't put her finger on.
"Doctor, hi!"
The music breaks off as the Doctor looks up at Clara. She smiles at him and he reciprocates. He remains seated on the edge of his stool, and motions to the floor in front of him,
"Clara! I've been practising a song, would you like to listen?"
She makes her way over and sits on the edge of the centre platform which the Tardis console resides on. She back is against the railings and she leans forward in anticipation. She loves hearing the Doctor play his guitar - it has a husky tone that matches his own, and the music seems to spring to life and occupy all of the Tardis (or indeed 15th century arena).
"I'd love to, go for it."