“Where has my lipstick gone?”
The Doctor answered from her bedroom. “The laser one? Last time I saw it you’d just dropped into the acid pit on Glaxifrastorica.”
“Not the laser one! Though you need to replace that because I used to use it all the time. A real, actual, lip-coloring lipstick.” The one she’d just started using before the Doctor had materialized the TARDIS in a corner of her bedroom, as was his new habit.
“There are dozens of them here,” he said. “I was just looking at them.”
Clara groaned and made her way back into her bedroom. The Doctor was sitting at her vanity, in front of her mirrors, another one of his new habits. Clara thought he secretly enjoyed glaring at himself in triplicate.
“Looking?” she said, suspiciously. Her vanity looked as if he’d been rummaging around with everything on it. Again.
Clara closed her eyes for a moment and breathed. Once. Twice. “Sorting. You were sorting my lipstick.” By implication: that was why the one she’d just used was missing.
The Doctor waved his hands around. “By color. Well, luminance. When viewed under ultraviolet. I was curious about what you look like to a bee. Or to a native of Polychromatoa. Since we’re going there as soon as you’re ready. See, here they are, all sorted. You’ll want one from the lighter end if you want to show up most clearly. Hurry up, now.”
And now he was doing the long-suffering routine, exactly as if she were holding him up rather than the reverse.
“You know what? I don’t need makeup for this.”
“Of course you don’t,” the Doctor said, under his breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He was giving her an utterly baffled look. “You’re perfect as you are right now. Don’t see why you need to change anything.”
Clara dove at him and managed to press a kiss to his cheek before he scrambled away. “Polychromatoa, you say? Let’s go.”