Clara's dancing around the console, humming along to the music he's piped in for her – some folk band he's not fond of – and every so often a few words emerge as she wipes down the chair or passes a frustrated glance at the underside of it all. She's decided to clean her. Decided it might help them get along. Decided, either way, it needed to be done.

"I bet, whenever she gets too dirty, you simply change it all; reprogram a whole new design just to avoid a little light dusting," she'd teased, smirk ready, giggle not far behind as he'd scoffed at the accusation that came with a quick poke of Clara's duster at his chest.

It wasn't true – he cleaned.

Every so often.

In a way that simply required a quick reprogramming of the interior to the exact same structure, minus the dust and stains and bits of bits left over from his adventures. Unless he'd blown it all up, then, possibly, he might change the color scheme. Add a few new buttons, or some nice lights. Like Christmas. Who didn't love a good Christmas?

"Are you going to watch me, or are you going to help?" Clara asks calmly, not looking up at him as she bends just a little too far to peer under the console and he can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, the move had been purposeful. Catching him off guard and staring too long at the thin veil of material keeping his eyes from the start of her backside.

Straightening, he makes his way up the ramp and grabs hold of the railing at each side, frowning as he turns away to stare at the ground, "I'm not going to help."

With a quick smile, eyebrows rising high as her head comes up to glance at him, she asks, "So you're going to watch me clean your ship?" Then her head tilts as she offers, "I could put on a maid's uniform, saw one in your wardrobe – if that's your sort of thing."

He flusters, head shaking as his cheeks go pink and he stares angrily at the smug look on her face before gesturing, "I could clean her in one command."

With a point, Clara spits, "Cheating, that how the Time Lords do it?"

"No," he grunts in response, "We do it cleverly."

"Cleverly cheating," she corrects, jutting her chin out towards him. "Come on, Doctor, roll up your sleeves – I'm sure she'd appreciate a good rub down from you."

His mouth falls open slightly as she moves away from him, clearly amused by the color of his cheeks, ready to burst with embarrassment. "I work the mechanics, down below, not a feather duster!"

"Ah," Clara laughs, "So you do work under the skirt."

"I work…" he starts, arms coming down roughly at his sides as he watches her wait, "Never mind that, you ever considered she doesn't want this sort of treatment," he points at the console, "A thousand years and she hasn't complained once about the need for a cleaning. Not one cloister bell of disapproval over her state."

Clara nods, considering his words before approaching him, bottom lip tucked between her teeth and when she releases it, he exhales involuntarily, bending slightly to meet her eyes. "Alright then," she tells him quietly, and he senses a spot of rejection in her voice as she continues, "I'll see you next Wednesday." With a smile, Clara adds, "And I expect by then you'll have fixed the shift modulator – seeing as that's your thing – and we'll be able to see the fields of Oura you promised me last week?"

Hand coming up to rub through his hair, the Doctor watches the hopeful look on her face fading and he realizes she hadn't been cleaning because the ship needed it; she'd been cleaning to stay aboard even when they had no place to go. With a nod, he mumbled a quick, "Yes, absolutely, ready to go."

Shifting on his feet, he watches her move past him, duster in one hand as she picks up the spray cleaner she'd brought in from the Maitland's, and the small pile of half used rags. "See you next week then," Clara offers sadly.

"Wait," he calls, hand coming up, and when she turns, he can't figure out why he's smiling as he explains, "Maybe she could use a cleaning… and maybe I could help."

Clara shakes her head and moves backwards towards the Tardis doors. With a glance around, she reminds him, "Your ship – you know her better than..."

"Clara, stay, just a bit," his head drops and he brings it up quickly, a spark of ingenuity in his eyes as he lifts his hands to her and explains, "I could take you under the skirt."

Eyes going impossibly wider, Clara breathes, "I'm sorry?"

With a wild gesture, the Doctor shouts, "Under the console, I could show you my thing!"

She smiles now.

"THE MECHANICS OF THE SHIP!" He bellows in response, eyes snapping shut as he winces.

Moving back up to the console, Clara sits the contents of her arms down and then crosses them as she approaches him again, waiting for him to look sheepishly down at her before she laughs. "You want me to help you tinker with your ship?"

Clenching his jaw against any other inappropriate comments, he utters a simple, "Yes."

The cloister bell rings shrilly and Clara nods up, "Think she disapproves."

With a smile, the Doctor reaches to take her hand, leading her down the stairs and to the mass of coils and wires wrung up over their head like a maze. Handing Clara his Sonic, he nods, grin easy on his lips as he begins, "Setting 89…"

-End