clashildr one shots

Mummy On The Great Western Railway

TW: violence/knives    

     Trains, in all their forms, Ashildr was adamant of, were magnificent. Clara, having been a commuter on the tube, was far less convinced. For Ashildr, trains had been the welcome escape from the long hours spent journeying from one place to another; she couldn't remember quite why - although she guessed she'd made the pledge when they were still a new and fun technology - but she had promised herself that she would ride every line, start to finish, at least once. When the line was something that would turn up on some televison show about the magnificence of Indian engineering, or a demonstration of some of the fiercest physics ever seen (the kind of thing a middle aged dad who worked in the sciences would watch and get exited about), this wasn't so bad; however, when it was the Great Western Railway's 11:26 from Cowbridge to Newgate or something silly like that, she thought about giving up. As trains went from being the pinnacle of the 1800's to the subject of commuters' bellyaching, they did, regrettably, lose their sexiness.
      Under her stark black knee-length trench coat, and concealed by the table, Ashildr held her Ulfbert. Whilst not accepted practise to carry a sword on the train in the 20th century - and without Clara's knowledge, for she would almost certainly disapprove - she deemed it necessary; any old creature could be kicking around the place. It was nothing if not precautionary.
      But everything was quiet. An hour into the journey and Clara hadn't yet let go of Ashildr's hand as they watched, mindlessly, the trees pass them by.
      Clara passed her free hand around Ashildr's elbow and laid her head down on her shoulder. "Maybe I judged these train rides too harshly," she said, her gentle smile brightening the whole of the county. "Maybe we should be relaxing in our old age."
      Clara shared a glance and a chuckle with her momentarily. Across the aisle, she caught a man looking at them with slight confusion. Clara laughed slightly harder - she forgot she looked more like twenty-five than.... However old she was. She'd lost track a while ago. They both had. There was no need to count it.
      The fields because slightly greener as they passed - something that made sense as the rain started to patter down onto the glass of the windows. Wordlessly, having felt her shiver, Clara slipped off her hoodie and passed it to Ashildr, who took it without thinking and slipped it over her shoulders. She stood slowly, trailing her hand back as to not untangle their fingers.
     "I'm gonna go get a cuppa. You want anything?"
     "Ooh. Have they got any biscuits?"
     "I'll see."
     Walking along a moving train with some semblance of dignity is something that no number of years on this planet or the next could ever prepare you for. Clara held the backs of the seats as she made her way down the carriage to steady herself against the bucking underneath her. The passing thought of her health for her age was one she entertained with humour; she dread to think what her knees would be like if they felt the years.
      It was only natural for the refreshment trolly to be on the complete other extreme of the train to where they were sitting - and in use.
     A man stood at the trolly, facing away from Clara; he was bent head and shoulders over it, humming slightly and making a mug of coffee. His stature was eerily familiar, yet just out of reach. Those sharp shoulders, the matted hair, the feeling of unease his casual nature cast around him. The stink of his immorality that filled the room.
      Clara tried not to think about it - how many creepy men were on trains? Too many to count. It was probably nothing.
     Something about that "probably" wasn't all too reassuring.
     It wasn't like she could trust her memory.
     Apart from on that face.
     The man had turned around to face Clara. She stared up at him, mind racing between rage and terror, before eventually settling on one thought: Ashildr.
     She turned quickly on her heel and nearly ran back down the aisle. She listened for him behind her, hoping against all hopes he hadn't recognised her. Frantic. Heart pounding. Rushing of blood in her ears. Rage. Pain. Curiosity.
     Now is not the time.
     She busted back in to the carriage. The man sat across from Ashildr looked like he had been rudely awakened from his reverie. Ashildr found it amusing. Clara couldn't care.
     "No biscuits, then?" she asked, her voice cheery. Oh, she had no idea.
     Clara slung herself into the seat next to her and turned her whole body to face the window. She was careful to ensure that Ashildr had no direct line of sight to the door.
      "Ash, he's here." Her whisper was low, intense and so fast her words half blurred together. "The man who shot you."
     Ashildr's brow raised with surprise, and then furrowed again. "Hang on," she whispered back, "didn't you kill him?"
      "Obviously not thoroughly enough."
      The breaks squealed as the train pulled in to a station. Clara wasn't sure which one - she had other things on her mind.
      She made a snap decision. "We're getting off here. We'll find some way back to the TARDIS-"
     The man who had been sat across from them had pulled his bag onto his shoulders and was headed for the sliding doors of the carriage. Clara pulled Ashildr to her feet and was about to follow, but the passenger thanked an unseen figure as he left, and, as Clara went to lead them on their way out, she found herself cut off by the same man from the trolly.
      Clara felt Ashildr's hand tighten around her own.
      The man outstretched an arm and motioned the table. "Please," he said, condescending voice sickly, "sit." He flashed a repulsive smile that didn't reach his eyes. No, no. All those cold green eyes betrayed was sadism.
     Clara weighed her options. They'd never get past him, he was too wide; they wouldn't win in a fight, either. Two tiny women against a brute of easily six and a half feet? Those weren't good odds. That and there was the knife he had stuck into his jeans. He made a show of pushing his jacket back as he pocketed his hand. By the outline, it was at least seventeen inches. Bit excessive for a train ride to Newgate.
     Clara squeezed Ashildr's hand once as a way of telling her to sit down without taking her eyes off him. She backed into the seats behind them, still keeping his gaze fixed. The man sat down across from them and slouched into the chairs.
     "Forgive the hardware," he said, pulling it out and laying it deliberately across the table. "Don't mind if I leave it there, do you? Gets awfully uncomfortable."
      Clara reached out under the table and rested her hand on the knee of Ashildr's that was farthest away, thus putting herself between her and the man who had made an attempt on her life.
      "Don't worry about it." Ashildr feigned nonchalance. "Don't mind if I do the same?" She pulled her Ulfbert out of her belt and rested it, scabbard and all, next to the knife. "First things first. Who are you?"
      The man's face twisted with contempt for a second. His cold eyes grew almost reptilian. "I'm Jeremiah. I keep telling you that."
      "There wasn't much chat last time we met. It was mostly shooting, if I recall."
      "I'm sorry I missed."
      "I'm not," Clara cut in. "What do you want?"
     "Like you don't know."
     His composure snapped. Gone was the mask of the calculating killer, so aware of both him and his victims, leaving only the child beneath; his arrogance shone from his distrust and his sleezy, backwards morals of revenge and twisted snarl screamed from the rooftops: look. It's my weakness.
     He studied Clara's eyes for a moment, façade restored. "You really don't know. You are a heartless bitch."
     Ashildr jerked forward. If it wasn't for Clara's arm, she would have torn his throat out. Ashildr's fingers wrapped themselves slowly around Clara's wrist. Neither needed words to agree that this guy wouldn't be a stain on either's conscience.
      "Listen." He picked up his knife and slid it out of its sheath. He trained the point on Clara. "I am going to kill your pretty little wife here and I'm gonna make you watch. She is going to scream and writhe and all you're gonna be able to do is beg for me to stop, but I won't."
      Clara was about ready to take a shot at him herself. Bile rose in her throat.
      "Oh, when's that? We might have plans." Ashildr acted completely unbothered, but, through her wrist, Clara could feel her pulse thundering through her fingertips. She didn't know if it was terror or fury.
     Clara stood from the table and smiled. "This is our station."
     Without more than a second's warning, Jeremiah had leapt from the table, knife still in hand, and was headed straight for Clara. He pushed his elbow across her throat and her back up against the window of the train. He held the tip of his knife against her stomach. She could feel it through her clothes. Her feet were a good two inches off the floor. Her hands went immediately to his arm, trying desperately to get some of her weight off her jugular.
     Ashildr's sword sang as she unsheathed it. The man arched his back as she pushed the tip into his spine.
     "Here's how the story goes," Ashildr said, using her most severe tone. "You're going to put Clara down and let the two of us get off this train when we pull into the station, or I'm going to run this through you so slowly and with such great precision that you feel each of your organs burst."
      He made no effort to move.
      Until Ashildr pushed her sword in further. He grunted, arched his back, and dropped Clara back to the ground.
      She landed with a soft thud and a not-so-soft heave. The train slowed and stopped. The man picked up the sheath of his knife and opened up the carriage doors. He looked back over his shoulder to see Clara draped over Ashildr as she kneeled, cracked a smile, waved with his knife, and stepped off the train.
      "He really is very rude," Clara said between wheezes.