"I said, run," the Doctor snarls, carefully reaching to disconnect the wires from Clara's head. The tear-filled, deep brown eyes fill him with rage – how dare she try to take this from him.
Missy turns, looking back over her shoulder. She pauses. "It wasn't me who ran, Doctor," she spits. "That was always you."
Not this time. He's given her a chance to walk away. But she just had to have that final word, didn't she? Not this time. And never again. It's his turn.
The Doctor snatches the Dalek gun by his side, raises his arm, and fires.
The bolt of light impacts Missy in the side, knocking her forward. She lets out a strangled gasp of pain, nothing like the false scream of before. Real this time. He watches her stumble, skeleton flashing momentarily, and fall to the ground.
It's an interesting reality, to see someone you've known your whole life die in front of you. He's not new to the feeling. He's seen his enemy die so many times in their lives, it's as if she does it for show, just a told-you-so in the feelings left behind, the aching tears when he remembers he cares. But he always recalls every moment she's hurt him too – the deaths of people he's loved and cared about, the pain radiating into him from everyone and everything. Destruction of his favored planet. Torture of his friends. Lying about Gallifrey.
But the Doctor supposes she really died long ago. He convinces himself he only loves Koschei, the ghost of their childhood, the boy long dead in her eyes, the boy he saved in the river on Gallifrey. The person he was willing to kill for, even at such a young age. And he remembers that maybe he's lost Theta too, and she sees the same in him. They're lying to themselves and each other. They love the children, the versions of themselves they once were. But they've grown out of those shells long ago, and they're new, and they're different.
It was so much simpler then. Things always are, when one doesn't have history. It's easier to say a person who steals should be convicted when you don't know that they're starving. It's easier to say the Doctor should have killed the Master far sooner or vice versa, when you don't know that they still remember the river Lethe, and they still remember every day they spent together, and that maybe they wish they could have turned out differently.
And when there was only their friendship to understand, no planets burning or genocide in a moment or disagreement on whether life was worth it – then, then it was easy to say 'I love you.'
But now. . .
The Doctor cannot let himself believe they are the same.
He knows that she'll probably have survived, just barely, but he also is certain she won't be running anytime soon. The buildings are already falling apart around their ears. At best she'll regenerate, but it's far more likely she'll die. This is Skaro, and if she isn't crushed by the buildings, then their shared enemy will surely find her and destroy her for good.
Daleks don't run to save their enemies when they are told they are dying.
He almost feels bad, but doesn't, yet does. He'll save thousands of lives if he makes sure she's dead, steps on her ashes like she has to so many others, like even he has to some. She is worse than others he has killed. All in all, for the good of the universe, he could be hailed as a martyr for firing a gun.
Aren't all soldiers?
Clara can't help but stare as the Doctor lifts her out of the metal casing and takes her hand. He's pointedly ignoring the figure on the floor, curled up. The smell of singed fabric and ozone is heavy in the air, and Clara can see a ragged hole in the side of Missy's coat. She can see the Time Lady's skin – flame red or charred, burned badly, beads of blood appearing quickly. Her corset was clearly made of Kevlar or some similar strong material, obviously having stopped the blast from directly killing her, but it had been destroyed too.
There's a quiet noise, almost a whimper, that makes even Clara's heart clench, and she only has one. The figure tenses, tries to drag herself off the floor. Gets as far as on all fours, almost, before she sways and collapses. Clara feels the Doctor pulling her, but her eyes are locked on the Time Lady, only a moment before so arrogant and strong.
"Clara. Let's go," he commands, tugging sharply on her arm. "Don't look at her."
He knows if he himself looks at the creature suffering at his hands, he will not be able to keep his determination to save the universe from her.
(And he knows. He knows he's wrong, somehow.)
But Clara does, and she sees the Mistress try again, lifting her head to look at them. No, not at Clara. She only has eyes for the Doctor, sapphire eyes burning holes in his back. Angry, but somehow managing to look as though everything she had ever known had been lost forever.
After all, she has searched the universe to save his life. Protected him, been at his side. Always shown him, and only him, the slightest piece of mercy. Shown him, perhaps, the last of Koschei alive in her, if he exists. And he has rejected her, left her to die alone like so many others he has loved and lost.
Clara sees the tears as the Mistress drags herself to a wall, pressing herself up against it and crushing her eyes shut. And for a moment, the human understands. She knows how much the Doctor's enemy cares for him – whether he knows it or not, she ran to save his life, and in her twisted way, she likes him. Loves him, even. She made a mistake in lying. Clara had heard the rushed explanation of why, trying to get her point across.
A friend inside the enemy...an enemy inside the friend.
She remembers, in the graveyard, forcing him to try to kill her. The hesitation, the horror in his eyes as he realised he had to. Clara hadn't noticed it at the time. Now, she berates herself for being so caught up in her own problems not to see. Not to see how clearly he can't.
That, she understands, was her being an enemy to him. And she knows that he has become his own worst antagonist.
"Doctor!" Clara yells. He looks back at her.
"Clara!" His eyes are full of concern. "We have to go! We're all going to die here if you don't get a move on!"
"What the hell are you doing?" Clara wrestles herself out of his grip, her voice shaking with anger. She has seen the Doctor like this before. He is furious. He's lost control, he's lost himself, and he's going to regret it later. This is why he cannot be alone. This is why he must always travel with companions. He needs to remember who he is. And she will make him. That is what she always does.
"Clara?"
"You can't just leave her!"
"Obviously, I am! She killed your boyfriend, tried to destroy your planet, tried to kill you -"
"I don't care!"
And she feels like in that singular statement she has betrayed every inch of Danny Pink's legacy. She's lying. She does care. Too much. She hates the Mistress. Everything the Time Lord – Lady – does and is.
But someone once said that hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don't like, and Clara holds herself firmly to that. She is the Doctor's hold on everything he is, when he forgets.
Never be cruel or cowardly.
He stops, surprised, attempts a halfhearted, nervous smile. "...Sorry, what?"
"This is, this is you, being all, all soldiery! She can go to hell. But I will not let, I will not let you do this, I won't let you become this! She cares about you, she searched the whole universe for you. She saved your life. She's evil, she's terrible, she deserves this – but I will not let you become like her. This is what she does, not you. You. Are. The Doctor. Remember what that means!"
There's a long pause, though not silent. The facility shakes, flakes fall from the ceiling.
"Doctor," a third voice, rasping with pain, Scottish, quiet. It's pleading. All eyes are cast to her as she wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth and stares up at him, propped on one arm and stabilised as best she can. Afraid of his power, but defiant, accusing him with azure flame. She allows the tips of her mouth to twitch to the ghost of a smile. Almost as though she's proud of him for pushing back.
She suppresses most of her emotions. The physical pain, the anger, they are necessary to show. But what she has to push down is the hurt, her fears realised as he's given up on her, he doesn't care anymore. She has to hide that.
She doesn't trust him with her vulnerability. Any weakness is an advantage for him now, when he is like this, when he is her flaming Doctor, fury and power and more dangerous than she ever has been. He will burn everything.
Clara looks back at the Doctor. His eyes are locked on Missy. He needs to simply turn and walk away, drag Clara with him. He has a duty of care, after all. The gun is raised in her direction still. But his eyes are trapped in hers, and he won't be freed.
He remembers much the same situation, in a town called Mercy. He had been holding a gun on a creature, a terrible person who had destroyed so much. Amy. His Amelia Pond had shown him he was wrong.
Today I honour the victims first.
We have to be better than him.
He has to be better.
The Doctor throws the gun aside and rushes forward, crouching by Missy's side and throwing his arms around her, supporting her as her strength gives way.
"Clara, run," he tells her. "We'll be right behind you."
He's not lying now, because he is home in himself again, and he cannot fathom how he could ever have gone this far.
There's a pause, then the human nods and sprints out.
The Doctor looks down at his best enemy and remembers, so long ago, when he held her like this in another body, a thousand years ago and yesterday. He remembers crying. He remembers burning what was left behind. He remembers grieving before his own regeneration, when the Time Lock had closed. The Doctor remembers every time he's thought she died. How he had cried in his TARDIS, not only that she had lied about Gallifrey, but for his loss. His fear when the Daleks had shot her, even just today. But this time he won't let her go.
Softly, the Doctor leans down and pecks her on the cheek. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm so, so sorry."
He hauls her upright, without any warning, causing her to cry out in agony, steadies her against his shoulder. "Come on," he tells her, then apologises again because he knows everything she is experiencing is pain.
"I'm going to kill you," Missy says in a choked voice, lifting her hand to see the flitting golden dust that's begun to gather. She resists it adamantly. "once this is over."
"Fair enough."
A Dalek rounds the corner, and Missy pulls out her device and fires, causing it to burst into flame.
"I thought Davros took it off you," the Doctor comments.
"I stole it back."
They stagger into the main room. The Doctor doesn't bother to explain his new glasses, simply directs Clara near them and the TARDIS materialises. He throws the lever, tossing them into the vortex.
Everyone catches their breath.
"Clara," the Doctor says quietly. She looks up. "Thank you."
"Yeah. Yeah, 'course." Yet she's still appalled. She forgets, all too easily, that he is dangerous.
The Doctor carefully helps his oldest friend out of the console room. Missy looks back towards Clara, gives her a tight smile and a small nod as she leaves.
Clara climbs the stairs and flops onto the chair placed there with a huff, stares at the ceiling, and now has to cope with the knowledge she has saved the life of a creature more despicable than all of the worst figures on Earth combined. She brings a hand over her face, covering her eyes.
"I'm going to regret this."
The Doctor is gracious, but he isn't sure what is too much and what is too little help. He doesn't want to ruin her dignity, as it will only make her annoyed with him, but doesn't want her to have to do things herself. He doesn't know how to apologise in a way that will make her understand how much he means it now.
They make it to the med-bay, and the Doctor gives up trying to protect her ego and scoops her up, setting her lightly on the examination table. She gives a muffled objection, but doesn't resist. He's gentle with her from here on out, though not entirely certain how to proceed.
She raises an eyebrow. "I'll just direct you. Get that cloth robe thing."
He picks it up as she unbuttons her coat and hands it to her, then proceeds to turn around. She snorts derisively, and he hears the fabric rustling as he stands awkwardly for an uncomfortable length of time.
"You can turn around now, you spoon."
He does, and finds that she's modestly dressed, though she's carefully arranged the cloth so that the blaster wound easily visible. It looks worse now than it did fifteen minutes earlier, and the Doctor feels overwhelmed with concern, disgust at himself. He carefully keeps his pity in check and does not let it show. He knows that it is the last thing she wants from him.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"I know," she says, and that is all, before she lists several assortments of tubes and bottles to ease the pain, heal the burn, and protect it from infection, and orders him to retrieve them.
Every direction complete, the Doctor is left with bandages, and he is more comfortable now, but also not, with the idea of her being near him. It's strange but comforting, and he reaches around and quickly bandages the injury neatly. This, he realises, he knows how to do all too well. And now they're done. Missy picks up the clothes, obviously destroyed, and casts an annoyed glance at the Doctor, who shrugs helplessly, takes them and tosses them in the incinerator for her.
He sits down beside her, slightly farther away than he might be if he hadn't just attempted to kill her and ruined her clothing.
She's looking intently at the small object in her hands, a small cameo brooch. The Doctor stares at it, trying to place it. He knows he's seen it before, not sure where.
"My daughter," she reminds him. "You gave it to me. When my daughter died."
"Ah," he says.
She scoots closer to him, bringing her knees up and curling up into him. After a moment, the Doctor relaxes, puts his arm around her and rests his head on hers. "It's always just us, isn't it."
He covers the brooch with his hand over hers. "Hm."
She looks up at him and brushes his lips with hers, lingers for a moment, then pulls back and socks him in the face.
The Doctor tumbles off the table and crashes to the ground, scrambles on his back. He rubs his face and winces. "Ow!"
She perches primly, smirks, looks down at him with an air of satisfaction and arrogance not unlike a cat's. "Yeah, you deserved that."
He blinks and grimaces as his face stings. "Yeah, I really did."