And then it got "Weird"
"What?" The Doctor demanded defensively. He was a tall man, and thin, with a shock of thick brown hair. He gave off an aura of being younger than he looked, amused, amazed, and a bit confused by everything around him. He wore dark dress pants, currently grey, a light maroon dress shirt, a tweed jacket, with elbow patches, and a sharp, red bow tie.
"I know," Clara answered, not releasing him from her death glare. She was a full head shorter than The Doctor, with a willowy build, though she was not lacking in curves. She had bright, attentive brown eyes, and short chocolate hair. Her lips were full, and her nose a cute button above them. She had been called beautiful, but she was as humble about her appearance as she was proud of her athletic and mental accomplishments. The young Briton currently wore blue jean Capris, a cyan tank top, and a black half-jacket.
They were standing in the entryway of the home were Clara lived and worked as a nanny, when she wasn't off gallivanting across time and space with The Doctor. She had heard the familiar sound of the TARDIS landing, and had confronted him as soon as he breezed through the door.
"I might have forgotten most of it," she continued, more gently but still smug, "But I know what you've kept from all the others. I held on to it, in the back of my mind. Your deepest... darkest... guiltiest... little secret."
She stepped forward with each adjective, driving the Time Lord into the corner. He tried to reach for the knob, hoping to retreat. But he would have been opening the door into himself, and would have had to get past her. She had him right where she wanted him.
"And I've got the means, if you can get us there," she suddenly grinned, whipping out a pair of printed pages. His eyes quickly scanned the contents, and he tried to put on a indifferent front, even as the twinkle in his eyes gave him away.
"Well, since you went to all the trouble," he agreed, his apparent disinterest completely unconvincing.
"...by the way, if one day you happen to wake up and find yourself in an existential quandary, full of loathing and self-doubt and wracked with the pain and isolation of your pitiful meaningless existence, at least you can take a small bit of comfort in knowing that somewhere out there in this crazy ol' mixed-up universe of ours, there's still a little place... "
Clara glanced over at The Doctor, who continued to sing along in perfect rhythm, though not quite perfect pitch. He was as out of breath and hoarse as she had ever heard him, which was saying something considering the amount of running they did, and the amount of talking he did. But, she supposed, after two hours of near constant singing or yelling, he was entitled. She was no stranger to the artist's music, and had even downloaded a few of his newer songs to make sure she was ready for the concert. Despite that, she had been tripped up by a few of the concert only songs or embellishments to the released versions of the tunes. But The Doctor kept up with every uncommon element as if he had seen them a hundred times before. As she thought that, she began looking around for any other familiar faces.
"Jim West," the singer spun to point at the guitar player
"Steve Jay," the bassist nodded a put out a quick riff at the acknowledgment.
"Ruben Valtierra," the keyboardist waved as his name was announced.
"Jon 'Bermuda' Schwartz," the first member of his band sketched a bow.
"Thank you, Minnesota. GOOD NIGHT!"
The stage went black, even as the crowd continued to applaud and cheer. Eventually the noise decreased, the fans knowing that he almost never did more than the one encore they had already received. The audience began to shuffle out, but rather than head to the exits, The Doctor and Clara pushed through the throng, towards the stage.
"How did you manage to get back-stage passes?" the Time Lord prompted quietly, not wanting to rub it in the faces of the other fans.
"I talked to a friend of yours, Kate Stewart," she answered glibly, "And she called in a favor the CIA owed her. The CIA might not have much of a sense of humor, but they do have a sense of honor, so they agreed to lay off him in return for a couple of VIP passes."
"Right, the Miley Cyrus song," The Doctor mused thoughtfully. When they reached the front of the theater, Clara showed the burly security guard the special passes, and flashed him her best smile for good measure. He did not look impressed by her pearly whites, but after studying the laminated cards carefully, he stepped to the side. The Doctor was practically skipping as they walked past the roadies and technicians, to where the band was putting away their instruments.
"Mr. Yankovic, it is truly an honor," The Doctor gushed, grabbing the parody master's hand and shaking it vigorously, "I've been a huge fan ever since March of '82. Well, technically I've been a fan since you were in grammar school, thanks to the Proxima Delta 'Before They Are Stars' radio show."
"Is that so?" Al regarded the strange being before him with a combination of exhausted acceptance and cautious amusement. Clara assumed he was used to dealing with fans who made outrageous claims, and had no way of knowing what The Doctor was saying was probably true. Especially given the fact that The Doctor did not look old enough to have seen a concert in the early Eighties.
"Yes," The Doctor confirmed, "The Deltans were never able to master time travel, but they did find a way to collect radio waves from the future, and used them to find the next big thing decades before they recorded their first songs. Of course after some of their own people never even became singers due to the interference, they limited it to signals from other races. Oh, before I forget, if I could trouble you for an autograph?"
He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a broad, thin book that should have been readily visible under the close fitting fabric. Clara glanced at the cover, and was surprised to read it was "My New Teacher and Me!" by Al Yankovic. The singer took the tome and a marker The Doctor retrieved with an appreciative smile.
"Who should I make it out to?" Al asked.
"I'm sorry, where are my manners. I am The Doctor, and this is Clara."
"The Doct..." Al paused in his writing, and a spark lit his eyes, "Not the The Doctor? The guy who saved the Earth when the Daleks took it to the other side of the universe? And fixed things after everyone else turned into to that crazy blonde guy? And when the stars vanished, and everyone thought they were just a myth..."
The Doctor had tugged his lapels with a smug grin at the first exploit Al noted. But at the second listed adventure, the Time Lord frowned thoughtfully. And then he began to stare at Yankovic more intently as the singer mentioned the events surrounding the Pandorica.
"That's right," The Doctor said carefully, "But how do..."
"Man that's great," Al started shaking The Doctor's hand again, "I've been trying to find a way to meet you since that whole 'Master' thing. It's like meeting Superman, but skinnier and with snappier clothes..."
Al was cut off by a cry of pain from the security guard, various shouts of surprise and fear from the hired hands around, and even the crashed of some dropped equipment. Clara and The Doctor both looked back instinctively, to see what appeared to be a bipedal rhinoceros charging towards them. It wore high-tech black armor, and carried a large energy rifle, which it pointed at Al.
"Al Yan-ko-vich," it rasped, "Surrendor the Vancian Matrix or be dis-inte-grated."
"YankoVIC," The Doctor shouted at the alien, "There is no 'h'!"
"He hates it when people add an 'h'," he told Clara more calmly.
"I think he does it just to annoy me," Al noted with a hint of amusement in place of the ire or surprise the time traveler was expecting. And The Doctor noted he had picked up his accordion again.
"Well, it was nice to meet you Doctor," the singer announced, be for glancing to his band-mates and saying, "And I'll see you guys in Des Moines."
Bermuda gave a small wave as Al played a quick chord on his squeezebox and vanished.