A/N: 917 words; kind of just a scene and nothing else really; makes mention of Classic Who for a brief moment; this one was the one that's given me trouble so far, so idk

Days 9-16: Miracle | Weather | Silent Night

The Doctor picked at the guitar strings, tuning the instrument carefully as he sat perched on the second to top step in the TARDIS console room. The acoustic instrument was clear over the low thrum of the ship, allowing him to hear the notes clearly, fixing them so they were all in tune. There was something satisfying about this face and its ability to play the guitar. He had learned so long ago now—younger and blond and with a penchant for wearing veg—yet he never shared the fact with anyone before… not even those with whom he had been traveling with at the time. There was something terribly intense about it, something he couldn't name despite knowing all the words he did, and he was now just able to share. He was better at it now, at least, and he suspected that was part of the overarching issue.

"You didn't tell me when you learned how to play."

Clara; she was sitting off in a nearby chair, doing her marking and sharing the space with him. He didn't need to glance over to know that she was looking at him, that pert half-smile on her lips. It was worth at least a shrug.

"I was stranded for a bit and ended up staying with a bloke who thought it'd pass the time well," he replied. "He was a decent teacher, at least in this."

"Did he try to teach you other things?" she asked coyly.

"No—just the guitar." He plucked a few experimental notes on the instrument and paused, letting the moment sit. "Tegan found me in rather a state, after making sure Turlough didn't run off with the TARDIS."

"I think you need to introduce me to some of these old friends of yours." Clara put down her marking and padded over to him in her stocking feet. She sat on the landing with her legs on either side of him, using the extra height given by the low step to drape her arms over his shoulders and rest her chin atop his head. "There are plenty of names I don't have faces for, I'll have you know. It gets rather confusing at times."

"Turlough was often trouble—easy to figure him," he said. She laughed at that.

"You wouldn't've kept him around if he was just a bit of trouble." He took advantage of her sitting still in order to pluck out some more of the melody. Her breathing slowed as she concentrated on the music, allowing him to play.

"I was a bit more tolerant back then," he claimed. "My list of approved persons is becoming interestingly narrow."

"Do I make the list?" she chuckled.

"Top; end; only."

"Flirt."

They sat silent together for a while after, allowing the guitar to again be the only sounds rising up over the low thrum of the ship. She rubbed her face in his fluffy hair and made a content noise.

"Do you think you'd be able to sing that?" she wondered.

"...what do you mean…?"

"Will the TARDIS allow you to sing that song?" He stopped playing and considered her words. "I don't really get to hear you sing, so I'm not certain what would happen. The song's in German, I'm speaking English, and you've got something entirely else going on. What would the TARDIS let you sing?"

Without openly musing on the concept, the Doctor began plucking at the guitar again, beginning the song anew. He allowed the notes to swell throughout the console room, filling it with the somber tune.

Then, to Clara's surprise, he began to sing. She could feel the reverberations as she held him, low and calming as alien notes left his lips. The translation microbes made way and allowed the Doctor to sing in his native tongue, turning the song into something both haunting and wonderful. Tears escaped her eyes as she listened to him, not knowing the direct translation of what he was singing—it could have been something completely different for all she knew—only being aware that she could sense the adoration and love somehow deeply imbued within.

The emotions and care that resonated through his singing was not involving the song, or the lyrics, or anything related to Christmas for that matter. It was for something well beyond that, but also much, much closer than either of them were willing to admit aloud.

"Clara…?" he wondered. She loosened her grip on him and blinked—he had stopped playing and was now looking at her. "Are you alright?"

"You've got a beautiful singing voice," she admitted. "That could have been vulgar and I think I'd be the same." She wiped some tears from her face and chuckled, trying to diffuse the situation. "Why don't you sing more often?"

"It's… complicated." He leaned back into her grasp, letting his head rest against her chest as she held him again. "Did you like it?"

"I more than liked it, Doctor," she assured him. "Now why would I not at least like it if I told you that you had a beautiful voice?"

"Again… it's… complicated."

"Then explain it to me, but another time." She used one hand to scratch at his scalp, while the other lay flat against his chest. "Now tell me a bit more about your adventures—you owe me that much after making me cry at a bloody Christmas song."

He chuckled at that, smiling up at the ceiling. Of course he could.