So a friend of mine got me into the idea of a Whouffaldi serial killer AU. Now normally I'm not into serial killer AUs, since it's not necessarily my style, but this one bit me and bit me badly. Please do not read unless you are seriously committed to the idea and are ready to read some terrifying stuff.
Warnings for the following: language, blood, gore, abusive relationships, dirty sex, violence, mad spirals into sociopathic/psychopathic behavior, and a possible super-cute AU/adventure that I actually do want to write one of these days but can't for a while because it's in this bad boy and I need to distance myself from it.
I don't own Doctor Who, blah, blah, blah, yes. This is also up on my writing tumblr, if anyone's interested in going there instead. I tagged it with Whouffle, Whouffaldi, and ficandsouffles.
The first one was an accident, it really was. More like self-defense when you think about it.
They had been cornered in a spaceport alleyway, the Doctor sonic-less and mind-boggled during regeneration by some technological do-whiz while Clara panicked and grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on to defend with. A fire-axe, small and light and a bright yellow that had glinted in the wan light coming from the street had been their only protection that night from three men intent on killing them for the Doctor's Time Lord DNA.
Clara took down the first two in tears, sobbing uncontrollably as an alien blue splattered all over her and the alley. Something snapped into place in the Doctor's head and, although he was not fully-aware yet, he punched the final attacker until he was out cold… and then kept going. They fled back to the TARDIS together, taking the axe with them and making sure no one saw.
There had been lots of shouting that night in the ship. Shouting and crying and absolute horror… when the Doctor was finally in full control of his faculties again it was a nightmare. Blood, nearly violet in its dried state, was smeared all over the console room, all over Clara, all over him. His arms and fists felt heavy and sore. He tried to hug Clara, to comfort her, but she shied away at his touch.
"Don't touch me!" she gasped. She ran her hands up and down her arms while she dried; they were going to answer for this, she knew it. Flashes of a man made of metal crossed her mind, one that changed faces and eliminated murderers without fail. The tiny people inside would know their sins and would have already decided their fates. "Please just… just take me home."
The Doctor complied, parking on her sitting room rug so that no one would see her come in covered in the blue flaky blood. He made sure she reached the bathroom, leaving her to sit shivering on the closed toilet lid. After going back into the TARDIS, he showered as well, letting the water run scalding over him. It soothed his muscles and burned his skin and rinsed the blue down the drain… but when he stepped out he still felt filthy. Still felt sick. Still felt wrong.
Clara had fared little better, having made it to the shower but somehow missing the undressing part. She sat there in the tub, staring off into nothingness. The Doctor had to help her up and move her catatonic form to her bedroom. She didn't protest as he peeled the wet fabric off her and found fresh clothes for her to wear—getting sick in the middle of the first month of school was ill-advised.
There was still a hollow void deep inside them as they lay entwined on the couch, Clara's ear pressed up against the Doctor's chest. He was… better, for lack of a more singular word, than she was. Being older than civilizations added to one's person, making it so that the shock that had turned his companion into a living shell didn't quite overpower him. He had enough left in him to think.
The Daleks. The Brothers and Sisters of Water. Akhaten. Blimey… those were just from his last face, the ones he could remember in his dazed state of being. He ordered the genocide of his own people, or at least he had thought he did for hundreds of years. Being a killer was nothing new to him.
Yes the Doctor knew his hands were already stained beyond cleansing, but the feeling of actually killing someone… feeling them struggle underneath his form, their face collapsing under his knuckles, their blood spurting into his face as he almost laughed at their attempt to best him… that was foreign. They had tried to kill him and worse, tried to kill Clara. No one was allowed to kill Clara. She was the entire reason he was still alive, the sweet and clever woman curled up in his arms with wide and unblinking eyes staring into nothingness. She had been so scared and was so brave—no one was allowed to touch her ever again.
No one, except for him.
"Smith; John and Clara Smith."
"Well then Mr. Smith, how long did you plan on staying?"
"Oh, just for tonight," Clara giggled. She clutched the Doctor's arm a bit tighter, giving him a flirty smile before looking back at the man behind the check-in desk. "We're on our way to California to visit my sister in-law."
"That's nice," the man said as he wrote down some paperwork and fetched a key from the hooks behind him. "Does she have kids? 'Cause if she does, they'd be a great excuse to go to that new theme park they opened last month in… where was it…"
"Anaheim," the Doctor said as he signed the guestbook. "Disneyland is in Anaheim."
"Yeah, that's it. I had a family pass through here just last week that went. Apparently it's fun."
"Maybe in a few more years," the Doctor grinned, flicking his eyebrows naughtily as he put away his eyeglasses. The clerk laughed and handed the Doctor the room key.
"Room Twelve, on the end," he smiled, pointing towards his left. "Check-out's at eleven. If you have any questions, just come and ask. If I'm not here at the desk, odds are I'm in Room Five just next door."
"Good to know," the Doctor said. He leaned down and kissed Clara on the cheek. "I'm going to go move the car, alright dearest?"
"Okay." Clara busied herself with tour magazines left on the windowsill as the Doctor exited the room.
The clerk came out from behind the counter to start cleaning some of the knickknacks that sat on a shelf. "So, is this your first time driving through New Mexico?"
"Why yes, it is," Clara said, not looking up from the pamphlet. "We just decided on a whim, you know? A nice quiet tour of the American West was really what we needed."
"Yeah, not a lot of West where you folks are from is there?"
"No, there isn't." Clara did not like this man. He was too nosy, too interested. They had wanted a quiet drive with no surprises or excitement and many grand landscapes, this was true. "Is it just you here?"
"Until Thursday, at least. My brother usually helps, but he had to run into Albuquerque for some stuff."
There was a pause in which the man moved closer to Clara.
"So, been married long?"
"A year and a half."
"He's kind of old, isn't he? I mean… not that it's any of my business."
"You're right, it's not." Clara set the brochure back down on the windowsill and walked with her head held high towards the door. The clerk opened it for her, lightly placing his hand on her upper back as she went by.
Clara walked down towards the end of the building, where the Doctor was opening the door to their room. Their bags were still in the back of the midnight-blue Hudson Wasp that they'd been driving in for days at that point. He left the door open as he went back for them, allowing Clara free access to the room. She sat down on the bed and waited for him to come back in and kick the door closed.
"He touched me," she said, folding her arms.
"Oh, come now dear," the Doctor sighed, setting down the two suitcases and drawing the drapes. "We can't just go about worrying over every single little brush. I admire your fidelity, but go easy on him."
"He questioned our story," Clara said. "He put his hand on my back. I think he smelled me."
The Doctor shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "This had been such a nice trip too."
"We don't have to end early, do we?"
"No, my pet, the trip is still on. You wanted Route 66, and you are getting Route 66. It just seems that our work is never done," the Doctor grinned as he walked over to the bed. He bent down and wrapped his long, bony hand around her neck as he kissed her. Without tightening his grip, he slowly pushed her down into the bed and climbed in to tower over her. He stroked Clara's throat with his thumb as he ran his other hand through her hair. The pins holding together her hairstyle forcefully came undone, ripping at her hair and one even flinging into the Doctor's eye due to unnatural tension. He cursed and his hand clenched down on Clara's windpipe. She gasped for air and clawed at his arm as she reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small metallic device. Clara put the device to the Doctor's chest and he flung backwards a jerking ness of limbs and voltage.
"It's been a while since I had to use that," Clara coughed with a smile. She stood over the Doctor's twitching frame and grinned to herself before straddling his waist and unbuttoning his shirt. Clara bent down and put an ear to his chest, listening to the arrhythmic twin heartbeats race just under vest and muscle. She chuckled and eased herself up, kissing the Doctor softly.
It really had been a quiet trip until that point. Honest.
"There," Clara said. She propped her chin up with her hand, using the fork in it to point inconspicuously. "That one. He'll be our first."
The Doctor cricked his neck, using the movement to check on the bistro occupant that had caught Clara's attention. "Him? Why?"
"I saw an old film once where there were these two maiden sisters living in a large house," Clara explained, dropping her voice so as to not be as easily overheard. "They would take in drifters as boarders, single men with no friends or families, and slip them cyanide in their wine. By the start of the film, they must have had a dozen buried in their basement. He's that sort of man… I can feel it."
"That sure sounds like a gruesome picture," the Doctor shuddered. Clara shrugged.
"It was a comedy."
"How lurid. What if you're wrong?"
"Well then, things just got a bit more interesting."
Gasping in fright, Clara instinctively curled as she woke up. Her dream had not been peaceful, with gruesome images from the spaceport only hours ago flickering through her mind. She shivered and the arms wrapped around her tightened protectively.
"Shh, shh, I'm here, dearest," the Doctor cooed. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. "Don't worry. You're safe now."
"They… they were going to kill us…" Clara breathed. "Oh my God, Doctor, what have we done…?" She pressed her body further into his in an attempt to stop her trembling.
"Come now… as if I'd ever allow anyone to kill you." The Doctor buried his nose in her hair and smiled privately. "You, my savior, my reason I am even alive today… no. Your head is too pretty, your brain is too clever, to die at their hands."
"They will come for us. Revenge will be sought, and if not then justice."
"Don't you worry about that. The only man allowed to take you from me is me."
Clara paused, letting the words wash over her. The Doctor was her protector now that her role protecting him was essentially done. He cared about her, cared for her, saw that she was safe and warm even after the most stressful of adventures. It was why he would let her curl up into his side as they watched telly, when she really just needed physical contact with someone. It was why he spoke softly to her and made breakfast and indulged her when she decided to try a new soufflé recipe. His twin hearts beat below her, so full of love for her and concern for her welfare yet so conveniently devoid of those things for others. How was that, exactly? Was there something there that did not come over with the new face? He was so protective of her it was almost criminal.
The only man allowed to take me from him… is him.
Clara looked up at the Doctor, her eyes wide in trepidation. He gave her a soft smile and kissed her on the forehead.
"Go back to sleep, love. By the morning, you will have put it all behind you." Clara curled back up in her spot atop the Doctor though she was unwilling to sleep.
If he loved her, then why was she so afraid?
It was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, as some of Clara's more pop-culture-aware coworkers would have described it. The gangster den was packed to the teeth with muscle; they weren't mass-murderers or terrorists, so a more subtle approach had to be used. They didn't want to alert Vastra to their presence, heaven forbid.
Four, piss-drunk, argumentative, it was only a matter of time before the perfect group came out. They were easily tailed, and once they began stumbling through the empty street of shops, Clara made her move. She ran at full speed, which was not very vast in her voluminous petticoats and heeled boots, and bumped right into one of the men.
"Oi, watch where yer goin' bitch," he said, grabbing hold of her arm.
"Don't let her go!" the Doctor shouted from further down the street. He jogged over to them looking most the miser in his tall hat and frock coat and eyeglasses.
"What business'cha got wif a girl like dis, Guv?" one of the drunks asked. The Doctor narrowed his eyes at Clara and pulled a small purse from between her breasts.
"That is all," he said, affecting the accent of an English banker. "She is now your business." He tapped his cane on the pavement and began to walk off.
The man holding Clara smiled and began to drag her towards an alley between shut storefronts. His friends followed and one even decided his turn was first as he pawed at her skirt and tore off her pinafore. Clara struggled against the men, panting and terrified until the one had her pinned against the sandstone wall. She pulled a knife from the strap on her thigh and drove it into her attacker's throat. He tried to scream and she twisted it. Blood spurted all over her and the man's life quickly faded.
"You bitch!" cursed one of the remaining three. Clara scrambled to her feet, holding the knife defensively between her and the men. One was about to charge at her when he instead reeled backward from a face-full of cane. The Doctor had returned, grinning manically.
Two of the men went to take the Doctor on, while the third attempted to get the knife from Clara. With the gangsters' drunken state, it was easy to trip them up. As the one was down, the Doctor swung his cane so that the pommel smashed into a face and taking the man down in one blow. His friend staggered to his feet and attempted to throw a punch. The Doctor easily dodged and spun, losing his hat and slamming an elbow in the man's face. The drunk stumbled to the ground and was pinned down, the Doctor finishing the job with his own fists. When it was done he stood up and admired the blood that had been so full of life only moment ago as it darkened his coat sleeves and stained his waistcoat.
"Oh, this will be a pain to get out," he sighed. The Doctor turned to Clara, who just finished slicing the remaining man a vent for his heart, and extended his hand with a smile.
The two time travelers made eye contact and all three of their hearts skipped a beat. They were both standing there in blood-soaked Victorian dress, sweating from exertion and a little roughed-up themselves. They briskly closed the distance between them and kissed roughly; until then it had been all arm-clinging and hand-holding and light touches to the top of the head. Now, with the moon illuminating them in a soft glow and adrenaline coursing through their veins, they gave in to the only other thing simpler than killing. Clara gathered her skirts and jumped up onto the Doctor so that she could sit on his hips and be eye-level with him. He held her around the waist as he made for the wall, but he slipped and tumbled backwards into a nearby stack of crates and straw instead. It was only a moment, but Clara used the opportunity to feel the Doctor's hearts beating rapidly through his shirt and waistcoat. He used his elbows to push himself back up and start chewing on her throat as his hands caressed her waist and guided her hips into place.
By the time they left the alleyway, breathless and exhausted, everything had begun to smell of sex and death and the nearby wharf. Their heads were spinning in euphoria and they knew the point to turn back was long behind them.
"Sir! Sir! Please, are you in there?!" Clara cried frantically as she pounded on the door of Room Five. A latch slid and the clerk from the desk threw the door open, dressed in his slacks and undershirt.
"What is it?! Is something wrong?"
"It's my husband! He was in the bathroom taking a shower and he collapsed! I tried calling emergency but the phone's dead!"
The desk clerk's face ran pale. "Oh no." He spun around and picked up the phone that was on his nightstand; dead. "Shit—the line must've snapped again! Goddamn telephone line's brand new and this is the third time in two months!" He stormed out of his room, closing the door and following Clara down to hers. The door was already open, allowing him to rush in. Steam billowed from the bathroom as the hot water kept running.
"I've told him he needed to cut down on the heat now that he's older, but he doesn't listen," Clara explained. Her words ran together in a frantic jumble. Did the clerk even understand her? No matter. "I… I just don't know what to do!"
She allowed him access to the bathroom, where the Doctor lay crumpled on the floor with the shower curtain wrapped around him as if he had tried to use it to stay standing yet failed. The clerk righted him and lifted his chin to look the Doctor in the face. "Hey buddy! Mr. Smith! Hey, wake up!"
The Doctor's eyes snapped open, accompanied by a manic grin. The clerk barely had a second before the Doctor's hand was on his face and smashing the back of his head open on the lip of the tub. He slumped to the floor, dead.
"You know you're going to have to strip him and put him in there if you want to make it look like an accident," Clara frowned. The Doctor stood up and shrugged.
"I can't just dump him in and fill the tub?"
"For the love of… Doctor, be creative."
"…but I have my favorites, as do you."
Clara went and kissed the Doctor as he went and lifted the corpse into the tub, smiling into the naked man's mouth. "We've been doing this for long enough that I'd hope you had a favorite or two."
"Clara Smith, my love, you have no idea."
Weeks had past, and Clara grew less and less nervous and more and more confused by the day. The robot populated with miniaturized people was nowhere to be seen and no blue-blooded aliens were tailing them on their way to and from work.
"Do you think it was because it was self-defense?" Clara asked. She was nestled in the Doctor's lap as he reclined in a chair, his forehead resting against the crown of her head.
"No."
"…then because they were evil?"
"…no."
"Then why? How?"
"…because we got away with it," the Doctor said plainly. He shifted in his spot a little and tightened his hold on Clara's waist. "It's an unsolved case at this point. No one would have thought us: the older, charming, gentleman and his young lady friend with pretty eyes and a quick wit."
"You mean… if they haven't blown up Coal Hill trying to find us by now, then the case is cold? We were never suspects to begin with?"
"That's right." The Doctor held one of Clara's hands in his and kissed it gently. "No one is going to touch you on my watch." He let go and Clara put her hand down on his other heart, the one not occupied by her ear.
How did he feel so warm, despite the fact his words sounded cold?
"The only man that can take me away from you is you," Clara stated. Her blood ran cold at the sound of his response.
"Only if I have to, love."
She should have run right then and there. The police? No. Kate? Yes, Kate Stewart—she could help. She knew the Doctor better than anyone and had the firepower to back her up. Instead, she buried her face in his chest and clung tighter; if she went to Kate, she would have to explain the situation and who knows what she would have done.
To Clara, it was better only having to worry about one person than everyone.
"I don't understand, Miss Oswald. Is everything okay?" the headmaster asked. "If there is something that can be addressed, please let me know. You are one of our most engaging teachers and I would hate to lose you."
"It's nothing of that nature, I can assure you," Clara smiled. "I just have some things to take care of that will keep me occupied for some time. There is nothing but good to say about Coal Hill."
In reality, Coal Hill had become too good for her. Clara could not say it, but she felt like she was going mad more and more with each passing day. She was beginning to see her students with slit throats and missing limbs and beaten bodies. The previous week as they sat an exam, she had even imagined how easy it would be to run one of the more boisterous students through with her letter opener.
That had been the final straw. Upon returning home that night she immediately drafted her letter of resignation, effective immediately. She had to leave. No two-week notice, no further explanation, just good-bye to her work-mates and a man that she might have had a chance with had she not been so broken.
"Abandoning your post? On a Monday?" the Doctor asked with a grin that night. "That's not like you."
"No, you know what's not like me?!" Clara snapped. "I have been seeing things, Doctor! Ever since that night in the spaceport, I can't get it out of my head! The other day I could visualize dismembering one of my students! I had to get out of there! I'm not well, Doctor!" She let herself sink to the floor of the TARDIS, sobbing hysterically. The Doctor knelt down in front of her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, letting her cry into his chest.
"Clara, you forget that you're talking to a man who has spent much of his life being called a murderer and master of genocide. They are not titles anyone should live with, no, but even the heaviest burdens can become light with time."
"Easy for you to say—I don't have the time you do. I have to fix this and fix this now."
The Doctor pulled away from Clara and held her face gingerly. "There is nothing about you that needs fixing."
"Doctor, I do need fixing! I need help!" Clara cried.
"You can't change what's already happened… not within your own timeline, anyways," the Doctor said. "What you need is a way to deal with your burdens in a manner that doesn't stop you from living."
"I'm not a killer! We aren't killers! I just want to be Clara again!"
The Doctor sighed and, while still holding Clara's face, rested his forehead on hers. "You are Clara Oswald, my clever, beautiful, impossible savior. Don't think you are not strong enough to face this, for you have me by your side."
"…but what if I'm not?"
"Then I'm going to kill you."
Clara inhaled sharply and stared at the Doctor; he was looking at her from underneath his long lashes and bushy brow, with the most loving eyes his face could muster. She shook as she brought her hands up to his and took them down from her face.
He just wants to help. He cares immensely. He knows how to live with this… this pain. She crawled into his lap and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
"You're the only one allowed to kill me, provided I don't get you first."
"I would be honored."