I have a thousand of things to do right now, but what am I doing? What am I doing? Updating this story because I have no self-control, that's why.

Enjoy!

Hidden Message Seven.

"I dreamt about you last night."

She was in her bathrobe when the TARDIS appeared in her bedroom. Usually, the Doctor showing up in her apartment didn't bother her – she had grown incredibly used to it – grown to love it, in fact – but today, Clara found herself startling backwards. She had been carrying a mug of coffee, too, and it almost splashed down her front. However, at the last second, she only just was able to get the mug away from her before the hot liquid could slosh around any further.

As the TARDIS started to materialize in front of her, Clara stole a glance at the alarm clock sitting by her bed.

It was two thirty in the morning.

Clara placed her mug on the side-table and plopped down on her bed, waiting patiently for the doors to open. She found herself tapping her feet nervously against the floor, her fingers just dancing alongside the blankets (which had been messily thrown around the room).

You're being ridiculous, Clara thought to herself, swallowing hard. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine.

It had been forever since she last had a nightmare, too. Which was funny, to be honest – most people would look at her life and tell her that she should be getting nightmares every night, especially considering what sort of stuff she faced all the time. Only Clara never did get nightmares. Sure, she got afraid. Everyone got afraid. Everyone had monsters hiding under the bed.

Only Clara (at least, she believed, anyways) never got those nightmares because unlike most people, she knew how to fight against the monsters. She knew how to take one good look at them before dismissing them with a wave of her hand. She knew how to stare them down and send them back to whatever hole they've crawled out of. She knew how to outsmart them, using nothing but her wits and her experience.

Clara Oswald never got nightmares because she knew how to win.

But tonight had been funny. Tonight had been strange.

(Tonight had been terrible.)

The sound of the doors creaking to an open brought Clara's focus back to the TARDIS. The Doctor was standing in the doorframe, his sunglasses sitting at the bridge of his nose and a guitar slung around his shoulders. He looked ridiculous, as usual – and a bit frenzied. There was nothing wrong with the image. Nothing.

"Clara," the Doctor said, grinning. "You're awake! Good! I was scared you'd still be asleep – bad things always happen when you're asleep." He hopped around the blankets on the ground, and after a moment of observing the bedroom, he asked, "Have you been busy? I don't think I've ever seen your room messy before." His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Or…new boyfriend?"

If Clara had the strength to, she would have grabbed a pillow and thrown it at him. Instead, she just shook her head and replied, "Bad night."

At this, the Doctor came to a stop. "Bad night?"

"Yes, well, I am capable of having those, believe it or not," Clara muttered, pushing herself off the bed. She grabbed her coffee – took one long, hard look at it, and walked out to the kitchen. She heard the Doctor following her but didn't bother turning around to face him. She let the warm mug sit in her hands for a few minutes before dumping the contents into the sink. Clara watched the dark stuff swirl into the steel before disappearing forever down the drain – and with a sigh, she placed the mug on the counter. There was no point in drinking coffee this early, anyways.

"I didn't mean it that way," the Doctor said when Clara turned around. His eyebrows were knitted together, his lips folded into a tight frown. "Everyone has bad nights. Terrible ones, even. Sometimes. Occasionally. That happens."

"If you're wondering if I had a terrible night, then no – I didn't have a terrible night. Just a bad one. Just a not-so-good one."

"That happens quite a lot, too."

Clara moved past the Doctor, switching her voice into a brighter, cheery one. "Yeah, well – any particular reason why you're here tonight, Doctor? Do the mermaids need saving again? Because I haven't gone swimming in a while. I think I might have left my swimming suit in your TARDIS again, too, which would be pretty convenient, all things considered."

"Do you want to see if we can save mermaids again?" the Doctor asked, taking the sunglasses off his face.

"I don't know," Clara replied shortly. "I just thought you might – forget it. Never mind." She snapped her fingers. "I'm still in my bathrobe. Hang on." She walked out of the kitchen, shrugging her bathrobe away from her shoulders. Clara pushed herself into her bedroom and closed the door on the Doctor, adding, "Just give me a minute!"

Clara ducked down to her dresser, quickly pulling open the drawers. She wasn't looking for anything in particular to wear – just something she could run easily in. (Especially since they did that quite often – running; this was usually Clara's excuse to not go out for a run in her own free time. Why bother with fitness when she was burning calories just by going on an adventure?)

"Clara?" the Doctor called from the other side of the door.

"Yeah – just give me a minute!" Clara yanked out a pair of pants. She preferred skirts and dresses over pants, but this would have to do for today. She wasn't feeling picky.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" Clara asked, hopping around. She just had one leg in her jeans. Dammit, she thought, frustrated. She shoved her other leg into the jeans, and for the next twenty seconds, she was helplessly jumping around her room to yank them up. Clara made a mental note to just go with a skirt next time.

"The avoiding thing."

Clara stopped short. She looked down at her clothes – she was still wearing her sleeping shirt. Fine. As long as she wasn't naked, it'd all be fine.

Clara yanked open the door, standing on the tips of her toes so she'd be face-to-face with the Doctor. Still, sadly, the Doctor managed to tilt his head down just a little bit. (One day, Clara was sure that the Doctor would have to regenerate into someone shorter. Or at least someone just a tiny bit taller than her – not a whopping ten inches taller than her.)

"I'm fine," Clara said simply. "I'm not doing any avoiding thing."

"We don't have to go on an adventure today," the Doctor replied, pocketing his sunglasses. "We could always stay here."

"You don't want to stay here," Clara replied, turning around. She stooped down to pick up her fallen bathrobe and threw it carelessly on her bed.

"Who says that?" the Doctor asked. Clara could hear bewilderment in his voice now, which she laughed off. Still, the Doctor continued, "I like your apartment. It's very Clara-Oswald-like."

Clara gave the Doctor a sidelong glance. "As opposed to?"

"Not Clara-Oswald-like. Boring furniture. No cozy chairs. Or colorful books. Or houseplants. You've got a few of those, you know. One of them is in dire need of watering. And another could afford to be put out in the sunlight a little more, by the way."

Clara let out a short sigh. "Right," she said, wiping her hands down on her jeans. "I'll get to that. Is that all?"

The Doctor tilted his head to the side. "Clara."

Clara didn't miss a beat. "Doctor."

"We don't have to leave right away."

"I know."

"Do you?" the Doctor asked, slowly disentangling his guitar from his back. He placed it in front of the TARDIS, saying in a quieter voice, "You're tired. Probably not a good time to go running about right now." With that, he sat down on the edge of Clara's bed, taking off his shoes.

Clara stood in front of him. "What are you doing?"

"Well," the Doctor said, placing his shoes neatly in front of the bed, "what does it look like?" He looked up. "Bad nights are something serious to look at, Clara. How terrible would it look if I just left when you've told me you just had a bad night?"

Despite herself, Clara felt something warm in her chest. "You can't be serious."

"Bad nights are serious. So am I."

Clara let out a long sigh. And then, looking up at the ceiling, she said, "Move over."

The Doctor obliged immediately, and then Clara was lying down, her arms at her sides and her legs dangling slightly over the edge of the bed. Her feet sometimes knocked into the Doctor's every once in a while – and they knocked together even more when the Doctor lay down beside her, too.

"I dreamt about you last night," Clara finally confessed. "It wasn't a good dream." She rolled over on her side, resting the side of her face with her hand. The Doctor was facing her now, his eyes searching hers curiously.

"What happened?" the Doctor asked.

Clara's heart skipped a beat. "Why would you want to know?"

"Dreams are funny things, Clara," the Doctor responded. "Sometimes, they could occur because of something we ate – or it could have something to do with a memory being wriggled out of some corner of your head – or it could be a fear – or a premonition."

"Which are just memories in the wrong order," Clara murmured. "You said that, remember? When we met Ashildr?"

The Doctor's face clouded over momentarily. "Yes," he said decidedly. "When we met Ashildr."

They were quiet for a while.

"What happened in the dream, Clara?" the Doctor asked at last, his voice only barely louder than a whisper.

Clara tried not to look at the Doctor. "You forgot about me," she answered quietly. "You saw me and…you just didn't really see me. You didn't know who I was. Or at least, you thought you knew – but you couldn't tell for sure…" She was having trouble breathing now. Clara let the rest of her words drift away from her.

"It's just a dream," Clara managed to say, more to herself than to the Doctor. "That can't happen, can it? It won't." She looked over to the Doctor, who was staring down at the blankets. "Doctor? I'm right, aren't I?"

Clara waited for three seconds before the Doctor replied, "Of course, Clara. It's probably something you ate, then."

Clara felt herself relax a little, though it was only by a little. She forced on a smile and turned back around so that her eyes would be focused on the ceiling.

"Good," she managed to say. "Because you know too much about me to just forget, don't you think?"

A/N - *whistles very casually*

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