Hello! This story is the result of a prompt I found on WhouffleLibrary over on Tumblr. I'm sure that I'm not the first to write a fic based on the "Clara is nearly assaulted" prompt as a tag to "Cold War," nor will I be the last. Any similarity to other stories is not intentional. I do hope you'll enjoy my interpretation of events.
Disclaimer/Rating Info: I don't own Doctor Who. No copyright infringement is intended, as this is for entertainment only. As far as the rating goes, I feel that a lot of the action in this story is "implied" more than stated, which is why I've chosen a T rating. That said, it is a sensitive issue to some, so reader discretion is advised.
Submerged
After five days of being stuck in a submarine - much of that time spent holed up in the captain's quarters, with no stimulation except her own thoughts and a pitiful library occupying half of a shelf on the far wall - cabin fever has Clara's very bones aching with restlessness. Staring at the same four, dull gray walls for hours on end is not how she expected to pass her time with the Doctor. She should be seeing the farthest reaches of the galaxies, observing alien cultures, partying it up in Las Vegas. . .anywhere but trapped inside of a metal fish.
Not that she's complaining. Meeting the Doctor is, by far, the most interesting, wonderful thing that has ever happened to her, even if adventuring with him occasionally leads to some rough spots and the sporadic tricky situation. They always make it out though, by working together.
That's one of the reasons she's regretting her promise to stay shut up in the tiny room they share - Captain Zhukov's gift to them for preventing the Cold War from becoming a hot one. While she knows the repair work the Doctor executes every day is single-handedly keeping the vessel together, Clara finds it hard to follow a request she feels is ridiculous. Surely she could be lending a hand somewhere aboard the submarine?
"I don't see why I can't help you," she told him earlier this morning, finally voicing her thoughts. Up until then, she'd simply followed orders without question. If he was putting her patience to the test, she would receive failing marks.
His answer was simple and direct, to the point of being evasive: "Only one sonic."
She tried a different approach. "I could keep you company?"
That pained him a little. Clara saw it in his eyes. He always got that look when she did or said something he considered 'human.' But wanting companionship wasn't inherently human - it was one of those universal truths: everybody needs somebody. After all, he hadn't invited her aboard the TARDIS because he wanted to remain alone.
The tone of his voice told her how hard it was for him to deny her, but still he insisted. "Clara, the captain himself has asked me to - how do I put this delicately? - keep you out of sight."
She quirked an eyebrow at his inept, blunt wording. "That's being delicate?"
"You're a distraction to his men," he added.
Her finger poked into the middle of his chest, mouth ready to issue a protest, but the Doctor placed his own finger against her lips to silence her. He had more to say.
"I think he has a point," he revealed, effectively squashing any hope of escaping the boredom awaiting her - reading nautical charts and histories. "No good will come of provoking the crew with a temptation like you."
He tapped the end of her nose with affection and a note of dismissiveness.
Temptation? Clara pondered over his word choice. Was that a compliment or insult? Either way, he made it sound like the crew manning the submarine couldn't behave themselves. Sure, she'd felt a few of the men's eyes on her, even in the presence of the Doctor, but Clara refused to believe they were incapable of controlling certain urges.
He continuously readjusted his clothes - tightening his braces to keep his borrowed trousers from falling, twisting his bow tie to the perfect angle under the collar of the captain's spare shirt, and pulling at the panels of his cherished tweed jacket - antsy to get to work and out of their conversation. Clara wasn't about to let him off that easily. She wanted justification for his demonizing of the crew.
Grasping his arm, she physically turned him back to the conversation. "Doctor, give these sailors a little credit. They aren't mindless animals."
At her insistence, the warmth left his expression. "Oh, Clara. They are the exact opposite of 'mindless animals.' They are very mindful ones. They're humans. Far worse."
"Doctor - "
"I want you safe."
"But - "
"Promise me, Clara. Promise me you won't put yourself in unnecessary danger."
It was useless. He'd just keep talking over her until she agreed. He could be a real bully when it came to protecting her; it's just that she'd never been on the receiving end of the bullying before now.
"Fine," she acquiesced, but reiterated her opinion on the matter, "though I think you and the captain are both overreacting."
He kissed the top of her head briefly, then vanished in a flurry of tweed and green light.
For two or three hours after his departure, she kept herself occupied with her own daily activities: reading, tidying the room, braiding and unbraiding her hair, reading some more, and trying to sleep. After laying on the bed for twenty minutes, however, she can't take it any more. She's simply not tired enough to fall asleep. She has entirely too much energy to stay confined to a single room.
Clara fidgets on the end of the mattress, swinging her legs in agitation. Though her promise is fresh on her tongue, she's reaching the end of her patience. Every person has her limits, and Clara is reaching hers fast on this slow journey to the South Pole to chase after the TARDIS. And it isn't over yet. Their estimated date of arrival to the other end of the Earth is still two days out, and that isn't taking into account that they don't exactly have a fixed location on the renegade space-time ship.
"Just one short stroll," she plans out loud, thinking that if she can poke her head out for a few minutes, she'll be more content to follow the Doctor's request. "Just to the galley and back. I'll say I wanted a snack. He can't be mad at me for being hungry."
With a decision made, she bounces off of the mattress, slips into her shoes, then leaves the room, already feeling the first thrill of free will.
Outside, in the officer's corridor, she's surprised to find she's not alone. A young sailor with a mesh bag full of clothing has just exited the adjoining room.
Of course there are other people on the submarine, but the Doctor's done a pretty thorough job of scaring everyone away from the area. She's not sure how he manages to intimidate so many people when he has only wisps for eyebrows.
Still, he can exude authority when he wants. Maybe he accomplishes the task by jutting out his chin to compensate for the lack of eyebrow furrowing?
"Hello." She greets the sailor with a smile.
He nods his head in acknowledgement and grins in return. "Hello, miss."
"Dropping off the laundry?" she asks hopefully. She tugs at the fabric of the utility jumpsuit that hangs loosely on her small frame. It is the smallest uniform on the submarine, yet it still engulfs her in surplus cotton. She'd much rather have the dress - not to mention the knickers - she was wearing when she arrived. "I'd love to get back in my own things."
"I bet you would," the sailor agrees, a pink tint coloring his cheeks.
What an odd thing to blush over.
He's impossibly young, far too young to be a soldier at war. But the way he holds himself - back straight, shoulders squared, chin out - suggests that maybe he's more ready for battle than his baby face lets on. Fleetingly, she thinks of the Doctor, of his goofy smile and floppy hair; though he presents himself as unthreatening and cheerful, Clara knows that he keeps the anger and scars hidden deep within.
Appearances are most definitely deceiving.
The sailor hitches the laundry sack over his shoulder and queries, "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Just out for a walk," Clara volunteers. "On the search for food."
"I could take you down - "
"No need for an escort," she interrupts his offer. Waving in farewell, she starts down the corridor at a brisk pace.
The young man calls after her. "The galley's straight below! You're going out of the way!"
She glances over her shoulder with a mischievous smile. A tiny thrill of rebellion flares up in her chest. Breaking the rules is more fun than she thought, even when the rules are silly and a result of a certain Time Lord's overprotective streak.
"I'm taking the scenic route," she returns, barely containing a wink, then disappears into the bowels of the submarine.
A bowl of canned fruit cocktail and one hand of gin with the chef later, Clara climbs back up from the belly of the submarine to the captain's quarters. She feels refreshed and relaxed, having proven that she can move about freely without endangering her life. More importantly, she managed to avoid bumping into the Doctor and having to explain herself.
He's not going to like the fact that he isn't always right, she prophesizes, though she's still unsure of how to bring up the topic without making the Doctor worry. Clara doesn't want him to lose his trust in her over something as trivial as proving a point.
Clara goes inside, closes the door, then almost jumps out of her skin. The sailor she'd met in the corridor half an hour ago is standing beside the bed with his body turned away from her. Spread across the bed is her blue dress, while the rest of the laundry is heaped at the end of the mattress in haphazard disarray.
"Didn't expect you in here," she announces loudly as she inches forward, in a voice that is guarded but not unfriendly.
Her words startle him, leading the sailor to pivot in her direction. That's when Clara takes in the rest of the picture, a very unsettling scenario forming in her head. Over the course of a few flicks of her eyes - to the sailor's face, to his hands, to the bed, and back - she gathers all of the visual cues her instincts need to send a kick of adrenaline through her system.
In his left hand he grips a ball of intimately familiar pink satin, while he uses his other hand to grasp a bit of himself. Though he promptly lets go of the latter, it's clear he has yet to finish what he started. Clara's stomach lurches, as though she might become sick. It's one thing to walk in on Artie in an innocent moment of teenage "self-discovery," but quite another to find a stranger handling himself in her room, using her clothes as stimuli.
Clara catches herself back-peddling, stumbling toward the door, and stops. Why should she flee? This sailor is intruding on her territory. She's not about to let him get away with his disrespectful treatment of her belongings and personal space without objection.
Clara crosses her arms, then tries to sound stern when she asks, "Just what are you on about?"
"I was delivering the laundry," he explains without any hint that he's embarrassed by her interruption, "and then I came across these."
He lifts her satin bottoms, momentarily distracted by the soft fabric. Coming back to the point, his gaze refocuses on her. He takes his time performing a skin-crawl-inducing once-over. A frown of distaste pulls at the corners of his mouth as he considers the unflattering jumpsuit she's wearing. "You'd look much better in these."
Clara cringes. Yuck. Her knickers are going to need a thorough scrubbing before she'll even consider putting them on her body again.
"Time to give them back," she states as firmly as she can under his full-on leer. She loathes how her voice comes out sounding like a scared little girl. She shouldn't be intimidated. After all, this is the same sailor who blushed over the mere mention of her unmentionables a short time ago. Plus, she's at least a few years older than this kid.
To her increasing dismay, the sailor does not relinquish her stolen underwear. He rubs them between his fingertips as he devours her with his hungry, lustful stare. Taking a step forward, he halves the distance between them in the already claustrophobic space.
Clara struggles with the urge to retreat, desperately fighting to maintain her composure at the crisis moment. She only hopes he can't hear how her heart slams against her ribcage as a violent swell of terror washes over her.
She thrusts out her arm, palm up. Giving him her most disapproving pout - the one that tells her teenage charges that she's not messing around - she gestures with her hand, silently instructing him to turn over the goods.
Mustering the last of her remaining false bravado, she asserts, "It's time for you to go."
A deep scowl darkens his face as he seems to consider his options. His expression makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. He shuffles forward, growing larger and more threatening with every inch.
He's a trained soldier. I'm no match for him, Clara realizes a mite too late. While the sailor may be her junior in age, he's her superior in three key areas: height, weight, and muscle mass. It would take minimal effort for him to overpower her. What was I thinking?
Clara has no chance to try to stave off his attack. In the span of a breath, the sailor snatches the wrist of her outstretched arm, turning it up and behind her sharply. With an audible "umph" he crushes her against the door, using his body weight to pin her in place.
His free arm hooks around her throat and closes off her windpipe, making it impossible for her to breathe or cry out.
"If you call for help, I'll snap this pretty neck of yours," he threatens. "Got it?"
Unable to vocalize her understanding, Clara nods furiously in assent.
Happy with her answer, the pressure around her throat ceases, and his free hand goes on an exploration of her body, groping and prodding and fondling with clumsy, brutal strength.
"Why?" Clara squeaks. Maybe there's a slim chance she can still talk him out of this. Slim is minutely better than none.
Pink satin rubs against her cheek as he rasps his motives into her ear, "Simple. You see, I started thinking. . ..If I've got your panties, you probably aren't wearing any."
To prove his point, the sailor fingers the snaps on the front of her jumpsuit, getting a good handle on the fabric, and yanks it harshly, exposing the flesh beneath. She's bared from hipbone to collarbone, with only her bra for cover. Thank the stars she hadn't washed it too.
While Clara wriggles helplessly beneath him, the sailor's hand continues touching where he has no right to touch. His breathing is heavy and thick, rustling the hair at the nape of her neck with damp heat.
"You could play nice," he suggests. "It doesn't have to be like this."
Her response is to ram her heel, as hard as she can, on top of the sailor's toes. He grunts, but doesn't relinquish his hold. "Steel-toed boots, sweetheart," he sneers as he works the fabric of her jumpsuit down one shoulder, then the other.
Fear rapidly chases out the adrenaline in her bloodstream. She's running out of time, out of options.
While her hands and feet may be worthless as weapons against her captor's strength, there is one vulnerable area she can reach without the use of her limbs. Waiting until she can feel his nose rooting into her loose curls, Clara pulls away, then throws her head back with a guttural exclamation. A sickening crack accompanies a sharp pain in her head, but all Clara can focus on is that her arms are free. Her captor stumbles away, clutching at his nose. A red stream has erupted from his nostrils.
Clara doesn't hesitate and hurriedly opens the door. "Doctor!" she yells in an unusual pitch, voice colored with the fear sprouting in the middle of her chest. "Doctor! Help!"
Halfway down the corridor, she hears footsteps racing toward her. Glancing over her shoulder, she has just enough time to prepare herself for impact as the sailor tackles her from behind. Her wrist hits the ground at an awkward angle; Clara feels it crumple beneath the weight of two people.
Her cry of pain is muffled by a sweaty, bloody hand covering her mouth. Somehow the sailor has managed to flip her on her back and is now looming over her.
"You're in for it now," he snarls as he works on restraining her flailing limbs. He pins her legs beneath his own and swats away her uninjured hand - which Clara uses to scratch and punch whatever is in her reach - as though it is a pesky insect. Whipping her head from side to side, she tries to shake off the suffocating appendage. She succeeds in sinking her teeth into the side of his hand, filling her mouth with the taste of blood.
With a roar, her assailant recoils, but not long enough for Clara to cry out again. An open-palmed slap sears across her cheek; a fiery sensation lingers on her skin as tears leak from her eyes. The force of the hit produces dots of black across her vision. Even lying on the floor, she feels dizzy.
Now he's angry; the fury is there in his eyes. She can feel it in the way his hands encircle her neck and squeeze, both thumbs pressing on her windpipe. Clara barely has the wherewithal to struggle against her own strangulation. She manages to open her mouth, but doesn't take in any air.
The black dots in her vision grow to become dark clouds. The lights of the corridor dim, and the face of the sailor blurs above her. A terrible numbness settles into her chest, blocking out the panic that drives her to continue struggling to her last breath. Once it grabs hold, Clara no longer feels the need to fight back.
Just as night falls within her mind, the grated floor rumbles beneath her, as though trembling from the thunder of an oncoming storm.
A/N: I'm currently at work editing the second part of this. The Doctor's POV is much harder to work with, I'm finding. Reviews and critiques are cherished. XD