(A different version of what Peter Capaldi's 12th Doctor might have been like.)
Clara opened the Tardis door and poked her nose in. She didn't know what to expect, the Doctor had regenerated, but she hadn't seen him. The Tardis had dematerialized, and rematerialized a second later.
She knew, with the Tardis, that second could have been a long time.
She tiptoed inside. The layout had subtly changed, it was still the same raised central floor with a gallery all around, but now there were bookshelves and an armchair, everything generally more cluttered but with a cosy feeling.
It made her nervous.
She stepped all the way in and looked down. A pair of long legs emerged from under the console.
Italian loafers, complete with tassels, led up to long legs encased in elegant dove gray slacks, a sleek leather belt banded a lean waist, and a crisp white dress shirt tucked into it.
Over it dangled a threadbare old cardigan, ratty, overstretched, with a ragged hole in the corner of