A month turned into two in the blink of an eye. So much so that it surprised the Doctor as he realized it, counting the days on his fingers as he looked out at the forest. The leaves were growing in green and the rains had given way to sunshine and warmth and he leapt off the steps to stand on the mossy ground to examine a new growth of mushrooms that had sprung up overnight. Clara had gone off on her own hours before. New routine, she told him, she had to get back on her feet and in shape.
The statement had worried him because as her limp disappeared, the fire in her eyes had returned. He knew it was on her mind, festering during their time there: someone had to pay for Charlie's death. If she insisted on that revenge, he would find it difficult to allow her into the Tardis... not with new blood on her hands and murder in her heart. At least that's what he continued to tell himself.
In truth, he would probably drag her in kicking and screaming.
"Oh, Clara," he sighed at the foggy landscape.
She was a mile away, knife held firmly between her thumb and forefinger raised just beside her right ear, lifting higher as she measured the target hung sloppily from a tree. Her left arm came up slightly and she chucked the knife with a small grunt of effort, watching it cut into the cloth that hung there, embedding it into the wood with a thick smack. Frowning and biting her bottom lip, Clara knew she should be faster, but she was also distracted and a slight bit guilty.
If the Doctor knew she was having target practice with knives, he would lecture her about the implications and she knew he knew what she was planning. He didn't have to read her mind to know she was constantly lost in thoughts about how she would make them pay for her son's murder. Clara knew the Doctor was avoiding the subject because he hadn't mentioned UNIT or Charlie in weeks, he'd taken to talking to himself, muttering as he cooked, or waving his arms at trees in which birds sat, enraptured by his quiet speech.
He was talking to her, Clara knew.
She knew she would never measure up to her.
Yanking the knife out of the tree, Clara stumbled backwards and groaned. Her limp had gone, but the wound had left her with a small annoying pain when she exerted herself too much – and she'd already done a five mile jog around the woods, terrain now entirely too familiar to her. Taking several steps away, she tapped the blade of the knife against her palm and looked to the thin scars on her wrists and she trailed the knife's tip along one, huffing a breath and knowing out here it would be easy to complete that death.
Just two quick swipes and she'd bleed out before she could get back to the cabin.
Shaking the thoughts away, she looked back to the target, now hanging awkwardly and she thought about how disappointed the Doctor would be if he found her dead in those woods. Disappointment was probably all he thought when he thought of her now, she knew, letting those vengeful thoughts overtake the promise of travel... because he was certain if she was going to continue on that path she would surely die, but if she went with him...
Clara chucked the knife roughly, too roughly, and she shouted when it missed entirely, clattering off a set of rocks several feet away. She turned a half circle, her hands coming up in fists at her temples before she growled and dropped them to slap at her thighs
"You stupid old man," she barked.
Because he got into her head, even when he wasn't around, and she didn't know when what he thought became so important to her. Had it always been? She began walking towards the knife, stomping through the foliage and kicking up leaves angrily, stubbornly, thinking about how it actually meant something to her that he cared about her actions. The Doctor cared about her pain and he cared about her well-being and she plucked up the knife into her palm, gripping it tightly as she made her way back to her spot, stopping only to straighten the target.
Staring at it hanging there, she considered that the Doctor truly did care, and then she chucked the idea away because she knew – he only cared because of her face. He was only there because of her face. He only helped her because of her face. The knife lowered to her side as her shoulders shook and she cried silently knowing she was trying to convince herself of a fact that simply wasn't true. He looked for her because she was a part of Clara, but he cared because he was the Doctor.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid old man," she muttered, left hand coming up to brush at her tears before she sniffed a long breath through her nose and turned towards where she knew he was standing. Clara could feel him staring into her, wondering what she was thinking and wondering what he could say to interrupt the moment. Wondering whether he should at all.
His hands twisted in front of him and he gestured, "I've been called worse, it's perfectly fine."
Clara laughed. Then she raised the knife to point at him a moment, asking, "How long have you known?"
"That you still want to kill everyone at UNIT?" He questioned, face contorting as he looked skyward before glancing back at her to sigh. "There are two moment in every day that you stop, without fail, and think about Charlie, moments where your eyes soften in that memory and then harden in anger." He watched her, thinking about it before continuing, "The first is the moment you open your eyes and look up at me and you wish with all of your heart that he were there bouncing about in that bed with us because it's what every morning had become and every morning you wake without him you're reminded that he's not with you and how he was violently taken from you."
"And the second?" She asked quietly.
"That last moment in every day, when you stare blankly at a space that seems a hundred miles away where you think back to tucking him in at night, reading him a bedtime story as his eyelids droop shut over tired eyes, and pressing one last kiss into his forehead. It reminds you of the last time you'd done so, on an autopsy bed, to cold pale skin before you were ushered from the room by your mum and collapsed just outside." He watched her jaw clench and her eyes water and he watched her nod slowly and look away, embarrassed that he knew without her telling him.
Clara held the knife tightly and she asked, "What should I do then? Simply walk away?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Do you walk away, Doctor?" She eyed him curiously. "Do you walk away when people are hurting and need help?"
He shook his head and took a step closer, seeing her left palm wrap around the blade. "Clara, this isn't people hurting and needing help – this is you wanting to murder to seek revenge, which is understandable. UNIT has done terrible things and they should be brought to justice, but this isn't how you go about it."
"Do you even understand what they've done?" She spat. "This isn't just about Charlie."
Nodding slowly, he stated, "I've given that quite a bit of thought, actually, and I'm wondering when the aliens invaded while you had your backs turned – or else I'm wondering when men became so calloused they'd wage a war to gain more power." He huffed, "But isn't that the history of mankind. Invade and conquer."
Her breathing became heavier, considering it, and she told him quickly, "They've increased their numbers across Europe tenfold in the past five years alone – instituted bases all around the world and have anchored themselves into the militaries of every foreign country, creating militaries where there weren't already. All in the name of peace and protection and they've done so through lies and deceit and the deaths of innocent lives." Clara's hand slipped off the blade and the Doctor watched the blood fly as she swung an arm up to point out into the sky, "They've been allowed to infiltrate satellites and have become the world's top surveillance organization and could easily dominate the globe with a few strategic assassinations. Have probably already begun them over the years and we've turned a blind eye, being told they were insurgents attacking – you attacking." She laughed roughly, "They say you're trying to steer the course of history through these actions, but it's them, setting us all against each other..."
"And we can stop that, Clara," he breathed, interrupting her thoughts, hands held out towards her. "We can stop that with the spread of information, not death – we can, aboard my Tardis, hack right into their systems and decimate them the just way. Not striding into headquarters, guns blazing, hoping to take out as many people as possible." He pointed to her, watching her arm come down as the blood continued to drip from the wound she seemed oblivious to. "Innocent lives like yours would be lost."
"I don't care about my life!" She shouted, left palm slapping her blouse wetly, leaving a half a palm print in crimson across her chest.
"It's not about just your life, Clara, don't be such an egomaniac!" he countered. "People like you who believe they're fighting a grander cause; people like you who've been deceived by them, they could die going in the way you want." He reached out and took her left wrist tightly. "Allies, Clara – there are allies in UNIT that could help us contain those who've corrupted and desecrated an establishment that used to stand for good things with this sickness of power."
She softened, grimacing as she looked to the slice across her palm and the blood flowing from it. And then she whimpered, because she knew he was right. "How?" She questioned simply.
"We need a strategy – something we've been boldly and willfully ignoring while you heal and work out the mess in your head," he gestured with his free hand before looking to hers. "We need to get this cleaned and bandaged and we need to take a look at the Jeep parked behind the cabin."
"Why?" Clara asked, nodding.
He shrugged, "Well you sunk the helicopter – how else do you think we're going to get back to London?"
Inching closer to him, she took a short breath and then asked, "Are you ok to do this? To strategize?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" He asked, his voice softening as he watched the concern in her eyes.
She smiled, small and fleeting, and reminded him, "I'm not the only one who was healing."
He scoffed, "My wounds are fine."
"I didn't mean your physical wounds, Doctor," she chanced to say.
Turning away, he admitted, "It's easier for me – I have you."
"That's not fair," she shot, pulling her hand away. "You can't pin that on me – I can't be her."
"I don't expect you to be," he responded quickly, gesturing for them to walk back towards the cabin. He didn't want to chance lake water on her wounds as she'd already gotten an infection once off it and another infection was the last thing they needed.
Clara hesitated, watching him take three steps and then turn back to look at her, worry in his widened eyes, and then she moved with him, taking his words and tucking them into the back of her mind. He didn't expect her to be like his Clara, not consciously, but occasionally he slipped. He spoke as if she were her, mentioning some thing that had happened to them and then recanting with an apology to explain. They were halfway back when she tapped at his elbow with her knuckles, gaining his attention.
"We need to come up with a strategy," she told him earnestly.
"To get my Tardis?" He questioned, a hint of doubt in his voice.
Clara nodded, smiling, and responded, "To get into UNIT."
He hung his head and nodded, saying nothing more and Clara understood very well what he was thinking. So long as they made the Tardis their main goal, with justice for what UNIT had done secondary after that fact, she might have a chance… she might make it into his blue box safe and alive to help him save the world. But if Clara chanced revenge on UNIT for her son during that initial exploit, she would die. She lowered her head, not wanting to meet his occasional glance, because how could she not, if an opportunity presented itself, take that chance?