A/N: Hello! I've written this story for dreameater1988's Whouffaldi Fic Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is: "The Doctor has taken up a new hobby that confuses Clara a great deal." Lovely and open, plenty of room for interpretation. I chose to base this off of something else that dreameater1988 posted, because it's an idea that has been niggling around the back of my brain ever since I read it. It has to do with one of the deleted scenes released in the season 9 box set, specifically the one where Twelve analyzes Clara's facial expression and tells her that he hasn't figured that particular one out yet. dreameater1988 commented below the gifset of that exchange:

"A.K.A. The Doctor has troubles reading faces. He writes down every kind of look Clara gives him (possibly with drawings) so he doesn't miss a single emotion crossing her face because she is so important to him that he wants to know what is going on in her head at all times and because he is afraid of making a mistake again without noticing it, afraid of missing that something is wrong, afraid of anything that could make him lose her."

I couldn't not do something with that, so I thought I would kill two birds with one stone (horrible expression) by writing about it and entering it into the contest. dreameater1988 and any other readers, I hope you enjoy the story.

Clara was fed up.

The Doctor had been behaving strangely for a month, give or take—wibbly wobbly, yada yada—and she had finally lost her patience with him. Not only was she irritated and curious beyond belief, but at this point, she was also getting worried.

It had all started when she'd suggested the prompt cards. Something in their dynamic had shifted when she'd gently but firmly explained the need for them to him. The Doctor had taken the constructive criticism well enough and had agreed to the idea, but he'd been quieter ever since, especially when it was just the two of them in the TARDIS.

He'd also taken to scribbling away in a black, leather-bound journal of some sort when they were recovering between adventures and floating through the Vortex. She hadn't thought much of it at first; the Doctor seemed to benefit from writing things down, after all, so what did it matter if it was on paper instead of a blackboard? Fairly quickly, though, it became clear that this new hobby of the Doctor's took precedence over even his guitar-playing, which struck Clara as odd. The Doctor adored his electric guitar.

Now, though, he would sit in his armchair, on the stairs, or even on the floor of the console room with the booklet in hand, the pencil between his fingers alternating between long, smooth strokes and shorter, abrupt flicks. Clara'd wondered if he was writing something out in Gallifreyan, but whenever she tried to get close enough to glimpse the pages, the Doctor would stiffen and snap the journal shut, tucking it away in the lining of his jacket. Clara would always gave him a playful, petulant pout when that happened and the Doctor would always smirk back, but the bravado would never reach his eyes.

No, his eyes were wary—and even a tad embarrassed?!—and despite the fact that she knew she shouldn't pry, Clara couldn't help but wonder what he was guarding so closely and why that was the case. And if she was honest with herself, too, she was a little hurt that he didn't feel comfortable sharing what he was doing with her. Of course, that was irrational; he was perfectly entitled to his secrets, just as she was to hers.

But, oh, he was acting so peculiarly! Sometimes when he had the journal out and thought she wasn't paying attention, he would sneak furtive glances at Clara and then jot something down, nose practically burrowing into the paper. If he was feeling particularly gutsy, she noticed, he would stare at her for extended periods of time when he thought she was entranced by a book, and his gaze always seemed to hold an element of frustration.

Quite frankly, it was making Clara paranoid. Questions kept intruding on her thoughts. Had she done something wrong, something to upset him? Was he sick of her and trying to figure out a way to tactfully kick her out of the TARDIS, back to the 8-to-4 life of a primary teacher?

For goodness' sake, did she have something on her face?

And then, one day, the Doctor finally slipped up, and Clara found she couldn't help herself.

She peeked.

They'd just returned from the planet Aquis, where they'd gone scuba diving in the Great Violet Sea. It had been one of the rare peaceful trips, with no panic or chaos or running or rescuing—just exploring the cool, amethyst-tinted currents and observing the aquatic flora and fauna. They'd returned to the TARDIS soaked and chilled, but also with a bone-deep sense of calm that neither had experienced in a long time. The Doctor had smiled in that shy way of his and had murmured that he'd go fetch them towels before scurrying away.

Clara watched him fondly as he retreated into the depths of the TARDIS, but the smile slowly left her lips as her serenity faded and concern took its place. What was going on in that silly, silver head of his? she wondered, gnawing at the inside of her lip. She turned to the console and gave a sad, frustrated, little smile to the TARDIS.

"He's a mystery sometimes, isn't he, Old Girl?" Clara mused to the machine affectionately. The TARDIS made a gentle whirring sound at the companion, and Clara swore she could feel a sense of warmth emanating from the walls. She patted the smooth metal of the console lightly. "I just hope that he's alright," she added, her eyebrows scrunching close.

The TARDIS groaned as though sympathizing with her, and then suddenly, something in Clara's peripheral vision caught her eye. She turned to look up the stairs and her eyes slid along the balcony bordering the console room to land upon the round thing above the Doctor's armchair, which unlike the others was blinking.

Huh, Clara thought, What is she trying to tell me? Her gaze wandered searchingly back down to the armchair, and then, within a handful of seconds, her eyes went wide.

There, tucked partially into the leather seat cushion, was the Doctor's journal.

Clara's feet seemed to move of their own accord, flying up the stairs and over to the chair. Her hands automatically reached for the journal, but abruptly, she hesitated.

If I open this, if I even touch it, he'll know, she thought to herself, utterly certain of the conviction. One way or another, I'm not getting off scot-free if I decide to go through with this. She paused. But the TARDIS thought I should see it, she realized. She thinks that whatever's in the journal either concerns me or is important enough that I need to know. With that thought, her mind was made up.

Cautiously, she eased the leather-bound book out of the space between the cushion and the armrest, and then, with the fleeting thought, Oh, if I'm going to be bad, I might as well go all in, she plopped herself down in the Doctor's armchair with the journal on her lap. Finally, feeling slightly breathless, she flipped open the cover.

The first page read in the Doctor's stark handwriting, "A Guide to The Facial Expressions of Clara Oswald."

Shock coursed through Clara's veins. This was definitely not what she had been expecting. Suddenly, a memory pushed its way forth.

"You're doing your look," the Doctor commented, staring at her face.

Clara stared back at him, baffled. "What look?" she asked.

"Sideways, head-tilt, semi-mouth purse. I've been writing them down. I haven't translated that one." His eyes squinted slightly as they analyzed her expression. "Have you got a question or a neck malfunction?"

Clara felt like an utter idiot. How had she not put it together? The constant glances, the secretive attitude, the embarrassment when she'd tried to look...she felt like slamming her head against a wall. Idiot, idiot, idiot, she chastised herself.

He was trying to understand her. When she'd brought up the prompt cards, he'd realized that this version of him was prone to upsetting her without meaning to, and so he'd taken to teaching himself what her expressions meant so that he could recognize how she was feeling and act accordingly. Now that she thought about it, too, they had quibbled much less over the past month.

Oh, Doctor, she thought, blinking rapidly as water began to well in her tear ducts.

She began to turn through the pages, her eyes stinging and her chest throbbing painfully. There she was, over and over again, in exquisitely detailed drawings marked like diagrams, complete with annotations at the bottom of each page. She read them over, awestruck. In one of the drawings, there was a number and line drawn to her mouth, which was pursed and gathered to one side. The note with the corresponding number underneath the illustration read, Displeased. Something has upset, frustrated, worried, or annoyed her. See eyes and eyebrows for clarification. She laughed, a tear finally spilling over; she immediately, frantically wiped it away, afraid of it landing on the Doctor's work and blotting the paper.

She kept flipping. Sure enough, the questioning face was there too, the one he hadn't been sure about during the conversation they'd had in the Viking barn. He'd gone back since too, it seemed, because while the original annotation mentioned his confusion, there was an asterisked section below it acting as a clarification. As she went on, there was also the face he'd mentioned on the Orient Express, a little less detailed because of the distance of the memory, but undoubtedly accurate nonetheless. Sad eyes and smile, it was titled; the annotation began with a question mark, before he'd written his speculations in an adorably bewildered rant.

Overwhelmed, Clara carefully rifled through the sheets of paper, looking for the last used page. They started flying by under her thumb and she startled as she saw that she'd gone too far. She backtracked, flipping pages forward as she searched for the final entry.

And then, there it was, and she felt her eyes grow impossibly larger as she stared down at the drawing in surprise. This one wasn't labelled, or even titled, and it wasn't just a depiction of her face. No; it was a sketch of her lying down on the settee in the TARDIS's library, which was her favourite place to curl up with a good book when they were taking a break from their travels. True to form, her portrait-self had a thick tome leaned up against her bent legs, its lowest edge resting on her waist. Her back was propped up by a pair of pillows, and her head was leaned forward over the book, a strand of hair obscuring a portion of her face. Nonetheless, her eyes and her mouth were visible, and Clara felt more tears drip down her cheeks as her gaze lingered on them.

In the sketch, her eyes were alive with mirth and her lips were adorned by a full, unadulterated smile. From the posture the Doctor had captured, she appeared to be laughing at something she'd read, and she was entirely absorbed in the text—

"So, Clara," the Doctor's voice called out, growing louder as he approached the console room. She froze. "You have a choice. Green spots or—" As he was walking in, two towels in hand and gaze sweeping the room for her, his eyes met hers and he stopped in his tracks, shocked as he realized where she was sat and what she had in her lap.

She closed the journal, keeping a finger in it to mark her place, and held it up for the Doctor to see clearly, giving it a slight wave in the air.

"Finally got my hands on this," Clara said lightly as the Doctor stood in stunned, disbelieving silence. "I was originally going to respect your privacy, but I was getting worried about you, and the TARDIS seemed to think that I should have a look." The TARDIS wheezed in defiance when the Doctor glared at the console, betrayed. Clara got up, walked to the staircase, and slowly descended into the main console room, keeping her eyes on the Doctor's rigid form all the while. She strode right over to him and let the book fall open in her hands to that most recent entry. She held it out to him beseechingly and his frightened, defensive stare dropped to the page. His mouth twitched as his eyes swept over the drawing of Clara in the library, and then he suddenly looked back up at her, mouth dropping open as though to explain. "Clara," he started.

Her expression stopped him in his tracks.

It was the sad-happy one, the one that confused the hell out of him. Wait, thought the Doctor. Not quite. There's something else in the eyes, they're not just sad. They're—

Clara grabbed the lapels of his jacket and yanked him down, going up on her tiptoes to press her lips softly to his.

The Doctor froze in surprise; he had absolutely no idea how to react. After a moment, Clara stopped and pulled back, searching his face. She brought her palm up to cup his cheek and looked into his eyes unabashedly, her own eyes soft and warm.

"I know, Doctor," she told him. "I know." She kissed his other cheek gently and then brought her face back directly in front of his. Earnestly, she pleaded, "Please don't run. Not this time, Doctor. You've nothing to explain and nothing to fear. Alright?"

The Doctor stared at her for an indefinite moment, and then gave her a single, shaky nod. Clara beamed up at him and he felt his lips quirk automatically into a small smile at her obvious, unbridled joy.

And then, as she brought their lips together for the second time, the Doctor knew exactly how to react.

Sometime later, the Doctor was dressed in a pair of slacks and a hoodie, sitting in his armchair and sketching away in his journal. Clara slid into the console room in sock feet, plaid pyjama bottoms, and a tank top. Her eyes zeroed in on her lover and she laughed happily, jogging up the stairs to his side.

"What are you up to, Doctor?" she asked cheerfully, peering over his shoulder.

"Oh, you know," he said grandly, Scottish accent out in full force, "a little of this, a little of that." He tilted the journal towards her.

Decorating the page was a gorgeous, full-colour portrait of Clara. She was smiling up at them, her eyes warm and sparkling under the red-orange glow of the TARDIS console, her cheeks rosy, and her lips pulled in a beatific smile.

She looked positively angelic.

"Oh my stars," she breathed. "Is that really how you see me, Doctor?" He turned his head to look up at her, one bushy eyebrow raised and a "Duh," loud and clear in his blue eyes. She laughed lightly, blushing.

"Doctor," she asked slowly, "can you afford to finish that later?"

He tilted his head slightly. "I suppose so," he replied. "Why?"

Clara snatched the journal and the pencil from his hands and flitted over to the bookcase, stowing them away with care. She then came back over and promptly straddled the Doctor, sitting herself down in his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As one of her hands played idly with the curls at the nape of his neck, she brushed their noses against one another and murmured with a teasing grin, "Oh, I dunno. Why do you think, Doctor?"

He smirked.

They proceeded to snog.

Fin.