The TARDIS materialized into Clara's bedroom, obstructing the range of the door's swing again. His voice, high and alight with excitement, chattered on infectiously about some pre-revolutionary sentient furniture planet he'd accidentally purchased a stationary from in a bad deal, and how he'd been planning the reunion meticulously…something about purchasing no-scuff polish as an apology gift…His short impossible companion did not appear immediately, so he popped his head out the door and looked 'round. The light was off, but he could see her form snuggled into her bed and strangling a thick quilt. "Clara," he whispered, "Clara come on I need you for a thing. Is it 3 in the morning again? Did I miss?" There was no reply. Frowning, he crossed the room in long strides and drew the blinds. Midday sunlight shot through the room. His eyes traced the fluid path of golden dust as it swirled in the disturbed air of the room. "You don't take catnaps in the middle of the day—you're doing it wrong—you're supposed to be standing up!" He turned towards her in mock disapproval. "And you're supposed to ignore people while you're doing it, but not me. Hey" he continued, playfully, gesturing to his person with a sharp movement, "I'm not the one you're supposed to be doing the ignoring thing to."
The only reply was a small, exhausted sigh and Clara shifting herself to face the dark side of the room again. A pair of wireless earbuds were lodged in her ears. Rolling his eyes, the Doctor reached over and patted her shoulder impatiently.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Ripping out the earbuds, she sat up quickly on the other side of the bed and faced the Doctor. "Bloody hell, Doctor, you scared the living day lights out of me. I'm not going anywhere today, I'm sorry, now shoo." She said all this in a low monotone, sounding too exhausted to support her voice with enough air. She sounded so…just so done. And the language—that was a tip-off. The Doctor cocked his head curiously, albeit disappointedly. But the stationary reunion…?
"Clara? Are you ill?"
A moan escaped the dark corner and she let herself buckle into the quilt and comforters, hugging them tightly to her middle. Even when she was being silly, she was still beautiful. Her dark hair fanned out on the light, floral-printed bedding like ink.
"I am not ill and I am not diseased and there is no super-alien-flesh-eating flu contaminating my blood stream so could you please just mmmk mmpppph" she murmured into the blankets, the last words unintelligible but exceptionally clear all the same.
"Well, something's clearly off," he continued, sitting on the bed and bouncing slightly, "you never sleep in the middle of the day and the lights are off when it's perfectly alright outside." He prodded her shoulder with a boney finger. "What's wrong."
It wasn't a demand, or even a question—just a statement of concern. His voice had dropped into his natural, low, soft tone and she felt her mind relax minutely. That tone was cathartic and warm and lovely and it dripped through her pain like honey. Maybe his bedside matter wasn't so lousy after all.
She raised her head and looked into his eyes, considering. It wasn't a big deal, but she'd still die of embarrassment. "I am not ill, nothing is the matter. I just don't feel well and I'm not up for running today. Or moving, for that matter." A familiar whirring sound rang somewhere off to her right and she lunged forward in attempts to bat it out of commission "Oh please don't" she begged before slumping forward again in defeat, hugging her blankets to her middle again.
"Clara Oswald you are a mess of chemicals….and a thing. Ah. Well, ummm…okay." They sat in silence as the Doctor tried to formulate some clever way of apologizing for scanning her without her consent, and Clara tried to burrow deeper into her blankets while her face burned.
This was not happening.
He coughed. "Chocolate? Don't you human females consume large amounts of chocolate when you do the thing? There's actually a scientific explanation for that whole bit—" he said, flopping backwards across her bed. "—the bit with the chocolate I mean. It restores the ratio of dopamine, endorphins, oxytocin, and serotonin once all the bad-feeling becomes too loud in your sensory fields. Also, of course, oral consumption is much safer than injection, although if you have diabetes—"
"Doctor. I would really love some chocolate but I really can't bring myself to eat anything," she confessed, tilting her head towards him on the pillow. God, he was so understanding. So calm. So logical. She loved this.
His eyebrows twitched in betrayal of his nonchalant voice, "You mean you haven't eaten anything today?"
"I've had tea. Lots of tea."
He sighed in annoyance.
"I added milk!"
"Clara, you're probably feeling extra rubbishy because your blood sugar is low." He raised the sonic to read her results again, and his change of tone confirmed it. "Your physical processes are whining for energy but your brain is too muddied up with badfeeling chemicals to actually send the signals through. What do you want? Soup?"
The thought of trying to digest anything made her feel sicker, if possible, and she shook her head into the pillow, moaning in frustration and discomfort as a wave of nausea and pressure racked her body. This sucks. Simple as that.
"Do you always feel this rubbishy?" He wasn't planning to press, but he was determined to make her smile before the day was through.
"Mmmph." She replied.
He rose his head to glance up at her beneath amused, fluffy eyebrows. Time to sass. "You know, amazing enough as I am, I do not have psychic links with pillows that lack any semblance of sentience. Kindly repeat yourself. Speaking through a medium of feathers would be very, "he flicked his tongue in distaste, "irritating."
"I was late by two weeks and every late day worsens it tenfold." She sighed. Her insides constricted and she despised the tension and the restlessness it caused. Turning her face away from the Doctor, she allowed a hot, burning breath to escape and she felt tears begin to simmer in her eyes. Closing them in pain, she tried to make herself as small as possible. It never worked, but she always tried. The tears accumulated and she heaved a shuddering sigh, hugging her chin to her chest. A large hand patted her back, its warmth searing her over-sensitive skin with a pleasant burn. The hand withdrew, and Clara lay immobile. Her eyes flitted in the darkness. She wished she could sleep it off, but she wasn't that kind of tired.
The Doctor returned a while later with a bowl of orange-red soup that smelled of carrots and basil and squash and…something she couldn't quite place. She didn't know the what, but she definitely knew the where…Gallifrey.
A smile of familiarity crept onto her face as she recognized the where, and how very special this was. Of how very lucky.
And she appreciated the soup, too.