clashildr one shots

Does Sarcasm Help?

"Next time I want something from someone slimy, I'm going to promise them our first born child."
Clara snorted before making a double take. "Ashildr, we're gay."
"Clara, my dear, that's exactly the point. That way, I never have to pay." Ashildr grinned. "I can't exactly promise them a lifetime of servitude, can I? I'd be stood in the remains of their civilization thinking, 'Ah, well, guess I should help move the rubble.'"
"And trying to steal it leaves us in the most glorious of hotels." Clara lifted her shackled wrists to notion around the dungeon they found themselves in. By the light fitting through the one miniscule window barely the size of a skull, the boxy room of flagstone was exposed to be little more than damp, echo-y and, for lack of a better term, 'a bit grim'. Spiders twitched across the walls, the trickle of water betrayed its location - Wales - and it smelled like freshly decomposing corpses.
Probably because of the skeleton in the back corner.
Ashildr scrunched her nose in agreement. "Yes, well. I didn't think I'd get caught."
"Yeah, well, you did!"
A drip of water landed right on Ashildr's forehead. Her wrist cracked as the manacles stopped her from wiping it away. "The first born works though," she insisted. "I look young enough to be unmarried."
"Not in the sixteenth century. People die in their thirties, they get breeding early."
"My kids died of the Black Death. That's a fun story for Christmas dinners. Oh, wait, we don't have those, either, because my family died in a Viking village at least seven centuries before yours were born." The pain never waned in Ashildr's chest - the more time went on, the more grief she added, and none of it ever went away. Black humour is a staple, you see it everywhere: healthcare workers, police, morticians, immortals.
"What's put you in such a good mood today, then?"
"You certainly seem to be dealing with the sleep deprivation, starvation, and sheer grimy nature of this dungeon much better than I am."
"Last time I was in one of these, the Doctor and Robin Hood were debating who would die first."
"One's immortal and the other isn't real. Tough question."
"Oh, he was real."
"Honestly, some days, I think I should just give up and start being religious, the amount of random crap that actually exists in this hellhole of a universe."
"Does sarcasm help?"
"My lot came up with sarcasm."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it's a Norse word."
"Nice."
The door creaked open to reveal the head of a man who was a complete stranger to both toothbrushes and washbasins. My God. Yes, it's 1572, but, c'mon, can't you wash? The man flashed his blackened teeth. His smile was false, sadistic. His eyes betrayed the pleasure he took in seeing those who dared rebel against the fascist schemes of unelected monarchs. But he stayed in the door.
"Oh, come in, don't be shy," Clara teased. "I have a very nice axe to show you."
Where did Clara get an axe? Actually, you know what? Ashildr wasn't gonna ask.