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[attackbrows]

	You've reached Dr. Funkenstein. Expert on all things funkadelic. Please, by all means, save us both the hassle and don't leave a message.
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[bossily]

[In the days after Christmas, Clara's withdrawn. She spends a great deal of time in the simulation room having one reckless adventure after another. She doesn't sleep, because any time she lays in bed she just cries and cries until she passes out. She starts to look like a hot mess, with dark circles under her eyes, unkempt hair, clothes that are worn day in and day out, and that light that usually shines so bright within her nearly burnt out completely.

But eventually, about a week or so after Christmas, she finally starts to feel like maybe she needs to have some alone time in her room to have a good cry. Processing grief isn't something she really has the space to do here, but she can always have a good lonely cry.

Only when she makes her way back to her room at about three or four in the morning, she's surprised to walk in and see the Doctors laying in bed. The room is dark except for a light that's shining from beneath the blanket that's currently strewn over their bodies. Like two children staying up late they're laughing and being ridiculous, and Clara stares in total disbelief for a moment.

She's not going to waste this opportunity though. No matter how sad and sorry for herself she's feeling. She kicks off her boots and creeps toward the bed in a tiptoe, slipping up under the blanket at the foot of the bed to peek in at them.]

You two aren't waiting here for me, are you?

[They don't usually sleep, and she's never really found them in here before. A part of her wonders if they're here because they know she's hurting, because they always seem to just know when she needs them the most.

Or maybe they're just here to have a weird slumber party and she's interrupting. She never can be sure when these two get together.]

[attackbrows]

[Underneath the covers, this version of the Doctor is the least audible of the two despite his (poor) attempts at holding back a laugh. He lays there on his side with a hand propping up his head. On the other free hand, he is holding some device brought out from the lab. His mouth was stuffed with a lolly with the stick hanging out from the side. He is as comfy as a grumpy owl can look (not) cuddling up under the covers with his other incarnation.

The two had been reminiscing about some old adventures in their earlier days; of outwitting Cybermen and travelling to planets where they accidentally wed Emperors and Empresses. To inventing feta pasta on accident in a humble little suite in the 1920s.

Now, the Doctor is no stranger to having multiple conversations with himself but this— this may be a new level of having a chat with oneself. Looking at each other with childlike glee.

Then he hears Clara’s voice.

He pushes the duvet away from his head, craning his neck to get a better look at her.]

There you are!

[He was really hoping she’d pop in at some point.]

Have you tried this sleepover thing? It’s incredible! You just go under the covers and pretend to be sleeping, but you’re doing something completely different. Such a simple form of deception! I should have thought of this centuries ago.