Nightmares are pesky things.

They're dreams gone wrong. Incidents in one's life that don't fully get processed when one is awake and therefore have to be relived as jarring and wholly unrealistic images when one is asleep.

Her nightmares are unique. Of this much she is sure. She knows for a fact that no normal person has ever died a million times over, and is certain that no one has ever been pulled off of a cloud by a psychopathic ice governess.

Her dream starts off with a rush of joyous emotion that makes her throat burn and tears rise to her eyes. The Doctor has just given her a TARDIS key. Her emotions shift to blatant shock when she feels her boots leave the strange surface of the Doctor's cloud. She doesn't scream. In fact, she hardly makes a sound as she falls from the sky. She is too astonished by the fact that death is rushing up to meet her that everything else becomes secondary. The wind roaring in her ears, the screeching of the ice governess, the smell of the River Thames, the Doctor screaming her name over and over, it all dulls in comparison to her fear of dying. She is only twenty-six, her life is just getting started for God's sake! She wants to travel with the mysterious Doctor. She wants to see the stars. The young woman closes her eyes as she nears the ground. A single tear falls from her eye, and then her world erupts in pain.

Clara jerks awake, her eyes darting around madly, struggling to adjust to the darkness of the attic.

She takes in a deep breath, and realizes that she's been crying in her sleep.

Dry tear tracks run down the sides of her face, and fresh tears flow in slightly altered paths now that she's shifted her position.

Sweat makes the light t-shirt she's wearing stick to her like a second skin. She runs a hand over her eyes and discards a bit of sticky sand that has formed on the corner of her left eye.

She tilts her head to look at the glowing screen of her alarm clock and lets out a sigh.

2:39 am

Her legs kick off the covers but the immediate relief is short lived as she quickly grows cold and pulls the covers back up to her chin.

She does this three times before deciding that she would rather be cold than hot, and kicks the sheets off her bed altogether.

She stares at the ceiling fan going around and around and around with her mind on her Victorian counterpart.

Clara Oswin Oswald. An unorthodox young governess living a double life.
She had come so close to traveling with the Doctor. Painfully close. An irrelevant part of her mind wonders what would have happened had she not died.

She could hear the Chin already, "The paradoxes! End of the world! It's all very timey-wimey!"

Clara feels her stomach turn over as she remembers the sound of her own neck snapping after the fall.

Her fingernails dig into the mattress, and she desperately tries to think about something else...anything else.

She turns on her side, the twisting in her heart only becoming more painful as she remembers her parents from that life, her friends from the Rose and Crown, Francesca and Digby accidentally calling her mother almost every other day, Captain Latimer and his obvious crush...

Through the blur of her tears, she sees the Doctor's sleeping form lying on the spare mattress she'd pulled out for him the night before. ("There is no way you're sleeping in my bed you big chinned giraffe!") A little further away, tucked into the corner of the attic, sits the TARDIS.

She notices his outstretched arm, and remembers falling asleep holding his hand.

A faint flush appears on her cheeks, and a few butterflies seem to flutter in her stomach.

Clara reaches out and takes hold of his outstretched hand, finding it to be cold in contrast to her hot skin.

Slowly, she begins to feel better.

The tears slow down. The onslaught of painful memories come to a halt. And the heat of her body gradually comes down so that she's actually shivering on top of the bed.

His lips curl into a smile, and she feels his grip tighten on her hand.

"Hello Clara," he whispers, keeping his eyes closed.

"Hello Doctor," she responds in the exact same intonation.

Very slowly his eyelids slide open and she sees the glint of his eyes flash in the darkness of the room.

"Did you have fun yesterday?" he whispers.

"If you call fun me nearly being thrown into Mount Vesuvius as a sacrifice to the God of Fire," she says with a wry smile.

"I saved you didn't I," he asks.

"You always do," she says, blinking away the tears that just can't seem to stop coming.

He sits up, his brow knitting, and tilts his head to one side, like a curious puppy.

She sees him void of his usual layers, and sits before her in a white undershirt. For a second she believes that he's tossed aside his trousers as well, but when he stands up, they're where they always are. His feet are bare, and she tries not to notice how large they are, but becomes aware of the fact anyways.

He climbs onto the foot of her bed, and at this she sits up, wary of him.

He sits criss crossed in front of her his not altogether visible eyebrows rising in a silent question.

She shrugs noncommittally, and he gives her hand a squeeze that says "Tell me."

So she does.

And he pulls her into a hug that makes her feel loved, which, much as it hurts to think about, she hasn't felt in a long time.

She lets him stay on her bed in exchange for not having to leave his embrace.

"Do you get nightmares," she whispers into his chest.

"Only sometimes ," he says, stiffer than a board at the position he's gotten himself into.

"How often is that," she asks.

"Whenever I travel alone," he says very quietly, running his thumb over the bandage wrapped around her sprained wrist.

"I dream of my deaths," she says emotionlessly, "Almost every night."

"I know," he says sadly, stroking her hair.

"Last night I died in childbirth," she whispers, a shudder running through her body, "It was horrible. The babies didn't make it either. I was having twins you see... And they didn't get out in time..."

He closes his eyes tightly as she continues, "The night before it was Oswin. And the night before that it was the me on Gallifrey."

"Oh, Clara," he whispers, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"What do you do to make them stop," she asks.

"Now that's an excellent question," he says, at long last relaxing and closing his eyes.

"Would you like to see?" he asks.

She nods uncertainly, and starts when she feels him gently push her off of him.

He turns onto his side and pats the little space beside him, beckoning for her to do the same.

She wriggles up to him and frowns when his hand pushes her forehead against his.

"Er, Doctor?"

He raises a finger to her lips, "Close your eyes."

She does as he says, feeling his fingers trace circular Gallifreyan on her hands, and slowly up her arms.

"I'm going to go into your mind," he says slowly.

"You're what?"

He shushes her, his fingers now running lightly over her collarbone.

"Focus on me. My voice. My fingers on your skin. Let everything else go."

"Easier said than done," she mutters.

He shifts so that his chest is directly against hers, and swiftly knocks his head against hers.

Clara gives a startled squeak as she lands on a bed of soft grass.

"That is called creating a mental link," the Doctor says, appearing in front of her.

She gets to her feet and looks around in amazement.

They're standing in a wood with trees spaced far apart, and little shallow pools about three feet wide in all directions everywhere as far as the eye can see. Little streams trickle from the pools to a large lake at the edge of the wood.

"Where are we," she asks.

"Physically, we're lying on your bed. But mentally, we're in your head," he pauses, "Ooh, that rhymed!"

"But where are we in my head?"

He bends down, plucks a couple stems of grass, and puts them in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before spitting them out.

"I honestly don't know, it's nice though isn't it?"

"Yeah," she says, pushing a willow tree branch out of her way.

They're both dressed the same way they went to sleep, so they have no shoes on.

The water of one of the pools laps at her feet, and a voice fills her head.

"Is there a word for total screaming genius that's modest and just a tiny bit sexy?"

The Doctor blinks and Clara has turned into Oswin, his eyes widen as he takes in her short red dress.

Clara staggers away from the pool and her appearance returns to normal.

She looks at the pool and then walks over to another.

She bends down onto her knees and places her hand in the pool.

"Oh, spoken like a man! Sweet little Clara, works at Rose and Crown, ideas above her station. For your information, I'm not sweet on the inside, and I'm certainly not little."

Her appearance changes to the long blue dress Victorian Clara wore the night she died.

She turns to the Doctor and his heart skips a beat.

"They're all me," she says, "Each of these pools are one of my lives."

"Yes," he says, gently leading her away from the pool and following one of the streams to the lake.

"And this," he continues softly, gazing at the lake , "This is you. The real you. All your memories. They're in here."

Clara grins, "So how do I stop the nightmares?"

The Doctor points to all the streams and crosses his arms, "What do you think you should do?"

Clara lets go of his hand and steps into the stream in front of her.

Grass grows where her feet are standing, severing the connection from the pool to the lake.

She turns back to the Doctor, who nods encouragingly.

With a bright smile on her face, she walks around the lake, stepping in streams and disconnecting her other lives from her real one.

When she returns to him, her face is positively glowing, "My head isn't pounding anymore!"

"Good."

"So will I get nightmares anymore?"

He shakes his head, "No, you've repressed those memories. They won't bother you anymore. You'll get some flashes occasionally, but nothing to worry about."

She grins and launches herself onto him, peppering his forehead with kisses, and letting out a constant stream of thank yous'.

He blushes but returns her hug, and wraps his arms around her waist.

Clara closes her eyes tightly, and when she opens them, they're back in her bedroom.

And in a rather distracting position.

She's lying on top of him, with her forehead against his. She tenses when she feels his hands dangerously close to her nether regions.

"Thank you," she says again, looking at his enticingly close mouth.

"My pleasure," he squeaks.

She wants to kiss him. She really does. And he's a convenient distance beneath her. She should really kiss him...

Her lips are lowering to his just as the door to the lights flick on and the attic door flies open.

A cry of disgust is heard.

The Doctor jumps up, and Clara tumbles onto the floor with a yell.

"Angie!"

The teenager falls into Clara's desk chair, evidently disturbed.

"Oh god."

Both of the adults jump to their feet.

"It isn't what it looks like," the Doctor says, pushing Clara slightly farther away from him.

Angie rubs at her temples and closes her eyes, "I've got a terrible image seared into my brain. Oh god you two were going to have sex!"

Clara's face turns redder than the Doctor has ever seen it, and she seems to be frozen in place.

"No," the Doctor cries, "We were not going to.. Erm... That."

"Really, because if you haven't noticed, you were about to kiss and Clara's practically in her knickers, Those pajama shorts don't exactly leave much to the imagination."

Clara seems to unfreeze as she catches the Doctor looking at the back of her shorts.

"My eyes are up here Doctor."

He flushes and takes another step away.

Clara steps forward and puts a light hand on Angie's shoulder.

"You know those nightmares I've been having?"

"Course," Angie says, and suddenly the Doctor notices her expression change to worry, "I hear you screaming sometimes."

Clara frowns, "The Doctor found a way to make them stop, and I was just thanking him."

The teenager looks nauseated, "With sex?"

"No," Clara says exhasperatedly.

"Then why..."

"I have a question for you young lady, why are you up at three in the morning? It's a school night."

Angie points to the alarm clock, "It's seven forty-six in the morning. Artie and I are going to be late!"

Clara scrambles into her closet, and comes out struggling to pull on a pair of jeans.

Angie shakes her head and leaves the room, mumbling, "That is the last time I forget to knock."

Clara gives the Doctor one last grateful look before exiting after her charge.

The Doctor gathers his many layers and walks into the TARDIS, a smile on his lips.

"We weren't doing anything," he says half to himself and half to his TARDIS.

"Did it look like we were doing anything?"

The TARDIS engine hums smugly, and he blushes all the way to his roots.

"Oh, shut up."