#so that he wouldn’t have to face his own grief. but clara ends this story rewritten. clara ends as the person the doctor made her so that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

knickynoo · 3 years

Note

Gonna regret asking this as soon as you answer, but what do you think Marty would’ve done had doc actually died in the parking lot? Like immediately and beyond? And just to spread the pain around, what would doc have done had Marty died by buford’s hand?

This is another one of those asks that got backlogged. Sorry, anon. I've given some thought to these scenarios, though, and, well...I'm sorry. This is gonna be dark.

Had Doc not heeded Marty's warning and actually died (& assuming Marty re-loading the time machine with plutonium and trying to fix things isn't possible for some reason):

Marty would've continued to sit on the cold ground, sobbing for a long while. Einstein would join him, torn between trying to comfort his young friend and whimpering by Doc, trying to get the man to wake up.

Once the initial flood of tears eases, I could see Marty getting angry. Like, the angriest he's ever been. Screaming at Doc, at himself, and maybe finding things in Doc's truck to throw around and destroy. Then another wave of sadness would hit and he'd break down again.

Eventually, Marty would realize he needed to get moving. Someone was bound to see the fire caused by the Libyans' van and also the truck, DeLorean on the street in town, and the man lying dead in the mall parking lot. He'd know that the police would soon be called and that there would be a lot of questions that he'd rather not have to answer, but Marty would be very hesitant to go. He wouldn't want to leave his best friend. How could he? It would be a betrayal. He'd be a coward to run. Doc wouldn't leave him if the roles were reversed. So he'd stay, shivering in the cold night air, trying to figure out what he'll say. What they'll ask him.

After, he'd find a payphone and call the police himself. Upon their arrival, though, he'd lean into his own hysteria and act like he had no clue what happened. Maybe explain he was Doc's assistant and that he'd been asked to come to the mall but he'd shown up late and found the scene as it was already. When it came down to it, Marty would really be too much of a mess to talk to anyone, and the authorities on the scene would just see a distraught kid who needed to get home.

(There's a lot that could probably be said about how things would unfold once Marty got home, but in the interest of wanting to skip ahead, I'll just say that George and Lorraine would be horrified. Scared out of their minds and confused at what had happened. They'd likely do everything in their power to shield Marty from questions and prying eyes in the weeks that would follow)

Oh, right...on top of Doc being dead and Marty having witnessed it (twice!), he'd also have to deal with the whiplash at his suddenly new family. Which would really not be a good situation.

Things would rapidly fall apart for Marty once the dust settled and the reality of things set in. He'd be dealing with a family who all felt like strangers. He'd have no memories of ever having lived with those people. He wouldn't even be able to talk to Jennifer about anything for fear of sounding crazy and scaring her away. His best friend in the world, the only person who Marty felt truly understood him, was gone.

I think some pretty significant PTSD would be likely. Marty would have constant nightmares of Doc getting killed. Of trying and failing over and over to save him. And even with his loving, supportive parents doing all they can, it wouldn't be enough. Marty wouldn't feel a real connection to them or want their help. He wouldn't want Jennifer's help. He'd just want Doc back. He'd torture himself with thoughts of what he could have done differently that night he left 1955 or upon his arrival back to '85. He'd blame himself entirely for not trying hard enough. Not being smart enough or brave enough to have done something to save Doc.

Things would only be made worse as rumors swirled around town. Doc would be solidified as a villain in Hill Valley. A crazy, dangerous man who drew terrorists to their quiet little town and almost got a teenager killed. Marty would have to listen to whispers of people's theories as to what happened that night and hear them express their relief that Doc was no longer around to cause them any trouble. People would shoot Marty sideways glances, either looking down on him for having been acquainted with the deranged scientist or holding pity for him. Classmates would harass and taunt him, wanting to know what happened. Wanting to hear the "real story".

All the while, Marty is consumed by a grief he's unable to escape. He'd probably go one of two ways. Too depressed to function, he'd sort of withdraw entirely from life. Break up with Jennifer, shut his family out, abandon his music, etc. He'd see no real point in trying to make a good life for himself and be too anxious to ever move out of his comfort zone. On the other hand, he could give in to his anger and swing the other way, becoming self-destructive and sabotaging his future--drinking, dropping out of school, and using his fists to deal with any peers who dare to say a bad word about Doc. Either way, he'd be upset at himself because he'd know Doc would want better for him. Expect better of him. But he wouldn't be able to pull himself together because he'd be so stuck having convinced himself Doc's death was his fault.

Where would all of this leave our dear Marty as the years pass? I'm not sure. He'd either spiral totally beyond reach or eventually hit rock bottom and realize that he had to let go of all the sadness and anger and live up to all the potential Doc was always saying he had. At that point, though, he would have lost years to his grief, so getting his life together would be difficult. And...yeah.

That was lovely, wasn't it? Doc's turn!

Had Marty actually been killed by Buford (again assuming using time travel to fix things isn't an eventual option):

I feel like, initially, Doc would skip right past the devastated/crying phase and go immediately to a level of anger he'd never felt before. Do you remember how he acted when Buford was harassing Clara at the dance, especially when she was pushed down? Remember how it took 3 of Buford's guys to hold Doc back?? Yeah, well, take that and multiply it a couple of times.

I think it's quite possible that Doc would attempt to take Buford down right there, which likely wouldn't end well for him. But he wouldn't even care. He was heartbroken already over Clara and then his best friend in the world is killed in front of him. All rational parts of Doc would be gone. And seeing as Buford is, you know, dangerously unhinged and has his little posse with him, Doc might end up getting himself killed a minute or two later as well. In which case...well, that would be the end of this scenario. He and Marty would end up buried next to each other in the Old West.

If Doc somehow managed to survive an encounter with Buford, or if he didn't confront him at all because he was in such a state of shock, I think he'd resign himself to a quiet, lonely life in the 1880s. I'm not sure if he'd stay in town and work as a blacksmith. Maybe? If he wanted the distraction? But he also might move away to a little house and just live off the land.

Not sure how Clara would factor in, assuming she'd return to town to find Doc after getting off her train. I don't know if Doc would push her away, wanting to be totally alone in his misery or if he would cling to her.

Doc would be dealing with a lot of guilt. He'd decide that he was responsible for Marty's death. After all, he'd made the decision to stay in the saloon all night, and Marty had to then track him down. Then he'd taken that shot and passed out, costing them valuable time they could have otherwise used to be well on their way to the train. They could have avoided Buford altogether if it weren't for him, Doc would conclude, and in his mind, he'd essentially forced Marty to have to face the man.

Doc might eventually settle into a routine and go about living his life, but I don't know that he'd ever recover from the crushing guilt he'd feel. Losing Marty would shatter him. Marty was the first person to reach out to him, even with all the rumors and disdain other residents of the town threw his way. Marty liked and accepted him for who he was, something no one else had ever truly done. Marty brought so much good into his life, and in exchange, Doc had done all he could to be there for and protect his young friend--to help him see his own potential. But he couldn't protect Marty, and that failure would hurt more deeply than every other one combined.

Basically, I think that Doc would just lose part of himself after losing Marty. Even if he married Clara and had Jules and Verne and ended up with a nice life, he'd always feel the absence of his friend. He wouldn't ever fully be "Doc" again--more of a subdued, more serious version of himself.

I could see him holding it together for the most part, being a family man, all that stuff. But then he'd have moments where he'd find himself alone and just fall apart. And just to make things extra sad for anyone who's read this far, I imagine Doc taking very frequent trips to wherever Marty is buried, laying a few flowers down, and staying there for hours, crying, praying, talking to himself, or just sitting in silence.

Well. Anyway.

Thanks for the ask?

#back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly #doc brown #asks #anon you said you would regret your ask and I want to know if you do lol

52 notes · View notes

forzalando · 3 years

Text

Lessons | George Weasley | Pt. 2

Pairing: George Weasley x F!Reader AU: Royalty!AU Word Count: 3.2k (approximately, OOPS) Warnings: mentions of sibling d*ath, a very rude knight grabbing the reader, mentions of bruising on reader, reader sl*pping aforementioned knight, aggressive language and behavior

A/N: hello friends! here is part 2 to this George Royalty!AU! I actually quite like this two-parter. the easy banter between George and the Reader is adorable, if I do say so myself! I hope you all enjoy :) thank you for your continued support and love!

Summary: After the tragic loss of his twin brother, George Weasley finds himself using his talents to secure a job as the new Potions Master and Healer for the Royal Family. Unbeknownst to you, he takes a particular liking to you knowing that you have more in common than you realize. When a chance encounter results in the promise of more time together, both George and Y/N deal with intense nerves and several revelations.

here is part one in case you missed it!

***

“Luna, I think I might be sick,” you groaned, reaching for your stomach full of fluttery nonsense.

You heard her lilting giggle from across your bedroom as she pressed the wrinkles from your dress. Amidst the commotion of the morning, you took a moment to silently hope that George liked the color purple.

“You’re not sick, Y/N, you’re nervous. If you don’t calm yourself down I don’t think you’ll be able to walk to his workshop!”

“Nervous? This can’t be nerves, I’ve been nervous loads of times and it’s never been like this.”

“Well, when’s the last time you were nervous to spend time with a boy? Or a man?”

“I…never? I don’t think I’ve ever been nervous because of someone.”

Luna smiled cheekily as she handed you your dress, a look you knew far too well.

“Not even Professor Lupin?” She asked while laughing at the stunned look on your face.

“Oh god, Luna, I thought we would never mention that again. He was my tutor, it was a schoolgirl crush, end of story.”

“Alright, alright, no more mentioning Professor Lupin!”

She helped you slip on your dress and stood back while you admired yourself in your mirror. Something was missing, and Luna knew exactly what it was as she handed you the dainty, single pearl necklace your brother Aiden had gifted you for your most recent birthday.

“There. Now you look perfect. Plus, that beautiful necklace will have Mr. Weasley’s eyes wandering to your decolletage every time you lean forward.”

“LUNA!” you scolded, though you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped with your shout.

A moment passed before you turned around and grasped Luna’s hand in your own. She could sense that your demeanor had shifted a bit, and a serious tone replaced the previous lighthearted one in your room.

“Luna, how…how did you feel when you first met Neville? Did you feel like this? Am I being crazy?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re being crazy at all. It wasn’t an instant connection, if that’s what you mean, but the moment I realized what we had was special, I felt that I might take flight with the way my stomach and heart fluttered at the sight of him.”

You noticed her hand leave your grasp to trace the wedding ring on her left hand; she and Neville had been married last spring and although you had been to many royal weddings, theirs outshone them all.

“Neville knows George quite well, you know. He sees him all the time while working in the garden, says he’s one of the nicest people he’s ever met. Quite funny, too.”

Smiling fondly, you turned back to your mirror and smoothed your dress one last time.

“I’d better be going,” you said softly, the beat of your heart growing faster every second.

“I’ll be right here when you get back, waiting for you to tell me everything,” Luna said smiling. She pushed you softly towards your chamber door and with a newfound determination, you walked briskly towards the East Wing, careful to keep an eye out for anymore trip wire.

You had almost reached your destination when you felt someone grasp your arm from behind.

“Excuse me – ” you began to say, but you were cut off when the stranger turned you around.

“Sir Cormac, I hope you have a very good reason for putting your hands on me.”

His grip tightened as he pulled you further into the corridor, grumbling under his breath about something you couldn’t make out.

“Sir Cormac,” you shouted. “I’ll ask you again what you think you’re doing putting your hands on me.”

“I know it’s you leaving that wire around for me to trip on. I saw you laughing yesterday and I see the way you look at me with disgust and disdain. I deserve to be treated with respect for serving your family as diligently as I do.”

You shoved his hand off of you and promptly smacked him across his cheek.

“How dare you speak to me that way? I’m not the one making a fool out of you, but I wish that I were. You are vile, and I would rather face Lord Riddle’s army on my own than rely on you for whatever protection you may think you provide me and my family. I suggest you walk away and resign from your position, because you won’t like the outcome if I tell my Father what transpired here today.”

“Why you little – ” he started to say as he lunged forward, but a shout from down the hall interrupted him.

“Sir Cormac! I believe it would be in your best interest to step away from the Princess, immediately.”

You smiled as you recognized the voice and then internally scolded yourself. You were never one to want or need a savior, but the sound of George Weasley coming to your aid didn’t seem quite so bad at all.

“This is none of your business, Weasley,” Cormac sneered as he kept his gaze on you.

“I do believe it is, Sir. The bruise forming on the Princess’s arm is my concern as a Healer, and seeing as there’s no one else around, I’m quite certain it’s from you.”

George stepped forward when Cormac made no indication of leaving, but you put a hand on his chest to hold him back.

“I’ve got it George, but thank you.”

You turned your attention back to Cormac, bile rising in your throat just having to look at his face.

“I won’t repeat myself, Sir Cormac, and due to your hesitation, my offer has changed. Mr. Weasley will be escorting me to my Father’s chambers and he can decide your punishment.”

George moved closer to you and told himself it was for your protection, but the nagging voice in the back of his head told him otherwise.

You gently took his arm and began walking briskly away from Sir Cormac, satisfied with the final look you caught of the red handprint on his cheek.

“Are you alright?” George asked softly. “I didn’t mean to offend you by trying to help, I just know how he can be and I – ”

“Please don’t apologize, I’m…I’m quite glad you came to my rescue, Mr. Weasley.”

“Have you forgotten my name already, Your Highness?”

You shuddered at the formality and George burst into laughter, the sound of which made the fluttering from this morning come back tenfold.

“My apologies, George,” you emphasized.

Soon, you reached your Father’s study and relayed your encounter with whom, he thought to be, one of his most trusted knights. You excused yourself quite quickly after your Father thanked George for “coming to your rescue”, as he so aptly put it, and you would have to have been blind to miss the wink your Father gave you at the sight of George following you like you were the Sun and he was a mere satellite.

“I guess I’ll have to find a new target,” George mused as the two of you walked down the corridor together.

You stopped abruptly, causing George to crash into you roughly, but he had no time to react before you screeched.

“It’s been YOU? You’re the infamous castle prankster? All this time I’ve been trying to figure it out and I had absolutely no idea.”

“Well, you didn’t really know I existed until yesterday, did you?” He teased.

Although his tone was lighthearted, you couldn’t help but look down in embarrassment. You were ashamed that you hadn’t tried harder to meet him before your chance encounter, if not to thank him for helping your Mother but to comfort someone who you knew was still facing the same sorrows as you. It was the thought of confronting that grief that selfishly held you back, but that excuse didn’t make it any less difficult to deal with.

“Hey, Y/N, I was only joking. We wouldn’t have met any other way, our paths hadn’t ever intertwined.”

“I know you’re right but I should have made more of an effort. I wanted to, after I heard about your brother, because I thought maybe you might want someone to talk to who can relate, but I wasn’t ready to talk about Clara.”

George stayed silent, sensing you had more to say after your pause. You fiddled nervously with your necklace, wondering if Luna had magic powers as you watched him struggle miserably to avert his gaze from your chest.

“Actually,” you began thoughtfully, “yesterday was the first time I’ve spoken about her since she passed. Of course, people ask how I’m doing or my Mother, Father, or siblings will reminisce, but I never…I never bring her up on my own.”

“That’s how it was at first for me. My family is very close, and I know they all loved Fred just as much as me, but it was different. I lost my twin, my best friend, my other half, and when they started healing and moving on, I stayed stagnant. It took me so much longer than my siblings and my parents, but once you take that first step it gets easier.”

You smiled and reached for George’s hand, praying that your palms weren’t as sweaty as you thought they might be.

“George and Fred…a nice ring to it, I think. I’m sure you got up to all kinds of mischief together.”

“Oh, no one ever called us George and Fred. It was always Fred and George,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well, I may be biased, but I think it sounds better my way.”

Feeling bold, you winked at him before slightly tugging his hand toward his workshop, eager to start your lessons and spend the day locked away with just George.

If you had turned around only slightly, you would have seen George’s cheeks flushed as red as his hair and a dopey smile on his handsome face.

The door to George’s workshop swung upon with ease, and you gazed with wonder upon the many cauldrons, ingredients, and tools laid out on the nearest table.

“Welcome to Potions 101,” George bellowed comically. “Today, we’ll be making a remedy for nausea to start out simple. I brewed my own batch earlier this morning, and everything you need to make yours, including instructions, is right here on this table. When you have finished, we’ll compare yours to mine.”

“So I just…get started?” You questioned.

“Exactly. My Mum always told me that the best way to learn is get thrown right into it. I’ll be sitting right here if you have any questions, but I’m not going to assist you in anyway unless absolutely necessary.”

You furrowed your brows as George sat down in an armchair across the room. While you weren’t sure exactly how he was going to teach you, you definitely weren’t expecting him to sit in silence while you stumbled your way through his chicken scratch directions.

After thirty minutes of no noise except for the roaring fire underneath your cauldron, you huffed and hoped it sounded as annoyed as you felt.

“Is there something bothering you, Y/N?” George smirked.

“Well, yes. How come you aren’t speaking to me?”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to. You’re here to learn and conversation is distracting.”

“I thought we could, I don’t know, get to know each other. I mean, if I have to brew remedies for stomach problems in silence every day I might lose my mind and it’ll be entirely your fault.”

You heard George chuckling and looked up to find him looking at you, eyes alight with a playful glint.

“Ms. Y/L/N, did you have an ulterior motive when you asked me to teach you? Did you maybe just…want to spend time with me?”

“That is very bold of you to assume, George,” you stammered, accidentally dropping far more peppermint than needed into your bubbling cauldron.

George remained silent, the teasing look still on his face as you scrambled to save your mixture. Since it was impossible to separate liquids, you angrily sat down and blew a stray hair out of your eye with an aggravated sigh.

Now that your face was covered by the cauldron, you felt more inclined to answer George’s question.

“What if I did have an ulterior motive? Would that…would that change what’s happening here? Are you the Potions Master teaching an eager student? Or…or is this something else?”

You heard no response except for approaching footsteps. George stopped in front of you, taking your hand and pulling you from your seated position.

“I have a confession to make,” he said quietly. “I know we officially met yesterday, but I’ve known who you are for quite a while now. Not just in the “you’re the Princess of the Kingdom I live in” way but, I’ve been…watching you I guess I could say.”

You raised an eyebrow, eager to hear how he would explain that away.

“Not creepily watching you, no, not at all, I just…I saw you one day in the gardens. I knew who you were but I wasn’t sure if I could approach you, you’re the Princess, and then I saw you talking to Neville. You were so kind and treated him like a friend, like an equal. When you left I asked him about you and he told me how you and your family weren’t like other Royals. He told me about your sister and how he was so sad that he hadn’t seen you genuinely smile since she passed and I felt, I felt connected to you.”

He paused and tentatively reached for your face with his other hand. You gladly accepted and placed your own on top of his, relishing in the way his calloused fingers delicately traced your cheek.

“Before Fred died, our business was…unconventional, I guess you could say. We sold gag gifts, joke items, pranking seminars, anything to do with causing mischief, in the surrounding villages. It was wonderful and we got to do something we loved and were passionate about, together, but when he died that passion died with me. Until I came here, and I saw the way your eyes lit up when one of your little brothers chased the other with a spider or jumped out from behind a pillar to scare one of the castle staff. You didn’t smile, but I saw the twinkle in your eyes and it made me want to explore that part of myself again, if only to make you laugh.”

“George,” you whispered, “I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, I know, it’s creepy. I’m creepy. I shouldn’t have said anything – “

“George!” You cried, interrupting him. “I think you’re incredibly sweet.”

“You…you do?”

“You spent your free time setting up things in the castle to make me laugh for the most selfless reason I can think of, why would I not think you’re sweet?”

“I thought you would think I was absolutely mad but, I just wanted to do whatever I could because I could see and relate to how you were feeling. It wasn’t entirely selfless, I admit, it helped me too.”

“Well, I’m glad that it did. You could have talked to me, you know. I don’t bite and I would hope that you realized my parents don’t believe in castle hierarchy.”

“I realized it straight away but…you made me nervous. Every time I thought I had the courage to say something I felt as if I’d throw up everywhere. Honestly, some of the times you knocked on my workshop door I was in here, I just didn’t know how to talk to you.”

You burst out laughing at his admission, trying to picture George Weasley hiding behind his bookshelves of potions or in a broom cupboard because he was too nervous to speak to you.

“That’s how I felt this morning,” you said quietly. “I woke up and thought I must be sick, but Luna informed me it was just nerves.”

“You were nervous? Over me?”

“Well, you are quite handsome. And maybe I was worried I wouldn’t be any good at making nausea remedies which, as it turns out, I’m not.”

“Eh, you just need a bit of practice. I say you come here every day, twice a day until you can make every potion, draught, remedy, herbal supplement, and tonic in existence.”

You tilted your head back to laugh, and when you looked back up at George you became irritatingly aware of how close your faces were.

“I think there’s something else I’d like to practice…” you whispered as you leaned in.

Your lips brushed his, softly, delicately, like butterfly wings, just long enough that if anyone had looked away, they would have missed it.

You backed off slowly, worried that you had misread this entire situation, but the instant you leaned away George grabbed your face with his hands and kissed you with such fervor you stumbled backward. Your hands snaked around his neck to hold yourself steady and his nose bumped yours clumsily as you navigated the unfamiliarity of one another.

He tasted of peppermint and tea, like the flames of a fire that currently roared to life in your stomach and your chest. He was soft and rough, warm and inviting, and your senses could only know George. George. George. His name, a mantra in your mind as your fingers tangled in his messy hair and he let out a breathy moan.

“George,” you whispered against his lips, breathing deeply to ease the burning ache in your lungs.

He opened his eyes slowly, pupils blown and searching for your own. You must have looked a sight, and the thought of anyone walking in to your current predicament caused laughter to erupt from you.

“What’s so funny, love?” He asked with a small smile.

“I was just thinking about what might happen if someone walked in at this very moment.”

George ran quickly to the door and locked it while you stood laughing at his distress. A look of annoyance was clear on his face as he staggered back to you, confirming that your kiss had affected him just as much as it had affected you.

“Oh come on, George, it’s not like you’d be banished from the Kingdom. You’d just have to explain to my parents why you were snogging my face off without asking their permission to court me first.”

Now that you said it aloud, you could understand his fear.

“Well,” he breathed out as he slid an arm around your waist, “now that I’m certain there can be no interruptions, what do you say we get back to practicing?”

“You’re absolutely right, George,” you said cheekily as you turned away from him. “I do believe I have a nausea remedy to restart.”

“Aye, that you do.”

***

taglist: @thoseofgreatambition @theboywhocriedlupin @theseuscmander @fortisfiliae @carolinesbookworld @starssayhello @finnofamerica @swellwriting @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy @marauderskeeper @wildfire-whizbangs @woakiees @claclary @love-peachh also tagging some mutuals who maybe might want to read! if you do not, PLEASE let me know and I apologize profusely!: @ickle-ronniekins @hollands-weasley @weasleytwinswheezes @theweasleysredhair @sleep-i-ness @barnesjamcs

#george weasley x reader #george weasley fluff #george weasley oneshot #george weasley fic #george weasley #tw: death #weasley twins #lumosbarnes #lumos barnes #moonlitfam #moonlit family #moonlit coven

120 notes · View notes

melyaliz · 4 years

Text

Heads

Fandom: Harry Potter

Summary: Heads or Tails, which would you chose

Pairing: Fred Weasley x OC

Notes: Chose your Ending! This is one of two possibilities

Other ending: Coming soon

Read the rest of the story: Master List

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive

Connect with me! AO3 / Instagram / Pinterest

DONATE or REQUEST

---------------------------------------

The electricity jolted through his body and Fred gasped for air like a fish. His eyes wide as he coughing up blood.

“What…. what…”

“There is no way in hell you are dying before me” Rose hissed putting a hand over his face. He took it eyes wide panting still trying to take in what was going on around him. Gently, with the help of Percy she helped Fred up escaping down to the infirmary.

Helen met them at the door helping Fred onto a chair as Rose explained what happened.

“It worked…” the older girl said more to herself than her cousin.

“What do you mean it worked!” Rose shot, the thought of it not working made her heart freeze over. The possibility. “You said it would!”

“I said it might…” Helen said checking the boy's eyes and pulse, “we’re going to have to check him for brain damage and…”

An unearthly scream cut her off. Everyone turned to see Liam bursting into the room, a bloody Clara in his arms. Behind them, Alfie let out a few more curses at someone who was obviously following them.

“Help her!” Liam yelled, “It was a werewolf.”

Both Helen and Pomfrey rushed to his side helping set the screaming sobbing girl onto a table. Her blonde hair was matted with blood and her hands were gripping Liem so tightly she was going to leave a bruise.

“My legs, I can’t feel my legs!” Clara screamed as Helen pulling her bag with her muttering something to Pomfrey was nodding.

Rose watched as if the world around her was spinning, turning to Alfie, as if in a daze. What was happening? Where was she? When was she going to wake up from this nightmare?

“What… happened?” she choked out, her brother turned to her. His eyes wide and hollow.

“She…” it was all he could get out before he bent over and threw up all over Rose’s feet. Rose knelt down rubbing her brother’s back as he tried to right himself. His body rocking with sick and sobs.

“There… It got a Ravenclaw, Clara was trying to help him get out…” Alfie mumbled, “There was so much blood.”

“Liam,” Helen said, voice was sharp as her brother turned storming toward the door, wand in hand.

“Liam wait!” Rose echoing Helens as she tried to help her brother who was gagging on the floor. Hand reached out as if she could grab the other boy and pull him back to safety.

Her cousin paused for a moment turning to look at her. His look was so fierce it frightened Rose. For the first time in her life Rose felt scared of him and remembered how powerful he had become, “They can’t get away with this” He hissed venom in his voice that made her blood run cold, “I’m going to kill them all.”

From behind her, Rose could hear Clara’s sobs as Helen quickly tried to stop the bleeding on her legs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That first year after the Death of Voldemort was one of the worst years in Rose’s life. So many deaths lay in their wake. It was as if every day there was another Oh you remember that one boy? That one mother? That teacher? It was the same conversation over and over with a different name.

Rose tried to block it out, the pain and guilt was something she just couldn’t handle. She knew she was selfish as she focused on helping Fred recop. Coming early every day to the Weasley home leaving late at night. Some days just getting him up to eat and talk was a pure victory while other days just being able to hold his hand and know he was right there was all she needed.

Survivors guilt, that’s what Helen had called it. But Rose would just brush her off as she kept busy after all it wasn’t just Fred that needed help rehabilitating. Clara had lost her legs and some days Abigail's memories were so bad she couldn't even remember her own name.

And there were others, scars that weren’t as visible. Alfie was never the same after that day. His happy songs turned to tragic ones. Using his music was a way to express himself. He became a famous singer and turned the world. He was never able to look at Clara the same way again. Blaming himself for what happened.

Liam became a Marksman like their Uncle Nolan. He married Carrie a few months after the war. It was a small wedding and an even smaller honeymoon. Carrie never complained about his long absences, instead keeping herself busy starting her fashion line for witches and wizards.

And a year after Fred kept to his promise and married Rose.

With George as the best man and Clara was Rose’s Maid of Honor sitting in her new wheelchair. Norie caught the bouquet. Rose got cake all over Fred’s face before he shoved her almost head first into his piece.

Almost two years later they had a girl who Fred insisted on calling Georgina.

The day she was born Fred stood there holding his little girl. His eyes so wide and calm. Calmer than Rose had ever seen him before. Turning he looked over at this beautiful wife “I want more” he whispered, “I want a house filled with laughter like yours. I want there to be so many children we can’t move.”

“Wait a few weeks before telling me that,” Rose mumbled, “I just got that one out.”

Like he promised Rose ended up having seven children. Each with large smiles and a great sense of humor. There was never a dull day in the Primmington/Weasley house. Somedays Rose felt like their laughter shook the very rafters.

There was Georgina, the eldest who sometimes seemed to take that responsibility a little too seriously. She would stand up for anyone who was weaker than herself and if anyone even looked sideways at her siblings they would end up with a nasty hex that would take weeks to remove. She was almost always in and out of trouble because of her protective nature, however, her punishment at home was never much more than a wink from her father and fake apologies to the teachers from her mother.

Josh was the second and unlike his namesake took on more of his mother’s temperament. With Fred’s flaming red hair and Mother’s bright green eyes, he looked like trouble a mile away. But with one soft smile, he could disarm anyone. He had a knack for talking his more mischievous siblings out of trouble with some large vocabulary and calm demeanor.

Amelia -called Amy by all her friends and a few enemies- was Fred’s daughter. A born troublemaker, when she gave her mother that little glint in her brown eyes Rose could only see Fred plotting some crazy scheme. She was the one who caused her parents the most grief yet the most laughs. While she was 2 years younger than Freddie and James the three of them would get into more trouble that would rival her father and his brother in their days.

Jack just wanted to be able to do things. He was always in the middle of the action ready and willing to do anything. Never the one hanging the bucket over the door but the one hoisting his sister up. He worshiped Amy and she was his inspiration for anything he did. He had Rose’s observations people and Fred’s creativity to get in and out of a situation. In many ways, he was a born leader and a born follower. Like Fred, he was stubborn when he didn’t want to do something and did very poorly at school because of it. While it was hard to annoy Jack once you did that was the end. You were dead to him.

Danny was very active like Jack but channeled it in a very different way; Sports, if there was anything that described Danny it was sports. Games, competition. Rose wasn’t quite sure where he got it from but never questioned it. While he was always for a good prank with his siblings but his true love was on the field playing Quidditch. He even ended up playing professional Quidditch soon after he left Hogwarts and his family never missed a game.

Fred wanted twins. He never said it out loud but he did. But Rose knew so when he finally got them Rose declared she was done.

Martha and Mickey. They were inseparable since birth. Or they were until Mickey got his Hogwarts letter and Martha didn’t. It was Mickey who had cried that night stating that he wouldn’t go. He would stay with his sister. Wizarding school be damned, Martha was the most magical person he knew. In the end, his sister coaxed him into going letting him know she was excited about her muggle school and that they would write each other letters each day comparing the school experience. Yes, that little 10 year old used experience in her vocabulary.

So while her siblings were all off learning potions and spells Martha spent her days at the local school and nights with her father who would get her options on any new trick he was working on. While he would never admit it, Martha held a soft place in his heart. Maybe it was because she never left him or maybe it was because she reminded him the most of Rose.

Which is why he went to live with her after Rose’s death.

A promised Rose died first, Fred wasn’t really the same after her death saying it just wasn’t as fun without her laughter. He moved in with Martha and her young husband and kids. Four months later he died in his sleep. No fuss no bang, just fell asleep and never woke up to the sound of the most beautiful sound in the world.

Rose’s laugh.

That beautiful, deep down in her soul laugh.

“Hey”

------

Story Master List

Get Tagged!

@0hmydeku @thespacebuns

#fred weasley #fred weasley x oc #fred weasley reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #harry potter fanfiction #Fred Weasley long fic

8 notes · View notes

lins-fandom-hub · 4 years

Text

Murphy’s comfort

A quick story featuring the Quidditch cinnamon roll, Murphy McNully! Barnaby will always have my heart, but Murphy is very precious in his own way too. I figured he’d be a really good friend to Clara once they really got to know each other. Anyway, in tandem with the recent two Quidditch chapters that were released as well as the recent slew of chapters in year 6, I thought I’d write this. This has been on my mind for a while now, so let’s see how this goes.

Even with a blanket wrapped tightly around me, I still felt the thin veil of ice shroud over my limbs, chills tingling through my skin.

Drawing back the curtains of the four-poster, I glanced out at the window, at the sheer bright moonlight that glared back at me, and silently groaned, bringing my arms around my knees and hugging them close to my chest. This was not the best night to stay awake and wear myself out before the first rays of dawn; on the eve of the match against Ravenclaw and the fiercest Beater at Hogwarts, all players should at least get some rest. But this was also not the best night for the worst memory to resurface full force. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see the spells that flickered between Ben and Rakepick, the brilliant green light that enveloped my best friend as she pushed him out of the way--how quickly her life dissipated without much of a hiss.

She was always a neat, orderly person, even if the way she tied her tie said otherwise. Now, with her belongings all taken home, there was not a single trace of her presence that used to grace the castle.

Without much thought, I grabbed hold of my blue mug beside my bedside table and slowly rose to my feet, quietly so as not to rouse my dorm mates still snoring like baby piglets. Easing now into the grey sweatshirt Barnaby gifted me and slipping into a pair of Niffler slippers, I slowly opened the door and tiptoed out, not bothering to close the door. It sort of became a ritual, honestly--whenever I was disturbed in the night by some unpleasant thought, I always found that a trip to the kitchens to help myself to hot cocoa would cheer me up. It happened even more so now that Rowan’s gone. I guess I couldn’t bear the thought of easing back into what once was normal with a large significant piece of the puzzle forcefully taken from me. The incomplete image would always stay with me no matter where I went.

Barely had I made my way to the common room, however, when my feet suddenly halted on the carpet floor by a strange sight by the armchairs in front of the fire. Sitting in Rowan’s old spot, his wheelchair set off to the side and his playbooks sprawled over the cushions, was none other than the Quidditch commentator and strategist, Murphy McNully.

In the midst of this whirlwind that was trying to ease back into my typical routine at Hogwarts, reeling the reckless back in line, protecting my sister with all I could, and planning executable strategies for the Circle of Khanna, I hadn’t thought that I’d see something else fall out of the ordinary.

“Murphy?”

The boy turned around in his seat to see me, and a small smile grew over his face which brought a warm wash of relief over me. The last thing I wanted was a long lecture about how I should prioritize rest at a time like this.

“Clara. Can’t sleep?” he asked, beckoning me to the sofa which I willingly accepted.

“No.” I crossed over to him and placed my mug gently beside the huge pile of playbooks on the table. Leaning back against the cushions, I wrapped my arms around my stomach as I gazed at the fire, flames flickering in its mesmerizing dance. “You?”

Murphy shook his head as well. “Honestly, sleep evades me at the worst times too. You’d think a Quidditch commentator wouldn’t experience the same thing the team he supports would...but I worry a lot. And you know how reading statistics brings me luck.”

“Haven’t forgotten,” I said with a faint chuckle. “I suppose given the circumstances, everyone would need as much luck as they can get.”

Murphy nodded in agreement as he gently shut another one of his playbooks and put it on the table. Then he turned to look at me. “So why can’t you sleep?” he eventually asked.

“I feel like I haven’t told you the full truth,” I admitted quietly. “Remember when you speculated that I may have been in a bit of a slump at one point?”

“As clear as day. There’s only a 14.6% chance I’d forget any of our conversations,” Murphy responded with a nod. “Why’s that?”

I sighed and turned to him. To this day, it still scared me that he looked very much like my boyfriend, Barnaby--except his hair was blond, not brown, and his eyes were a piercing stormy grey, not emerald. Still, there was no mistaking the glimmer of care that suddenly sparked in his eyes, and I felt my chest buzz, guilt spreading through my being.

“Do you know of a student named Rowan Khanna?” I asked him.

Honestly, I half expected him to shake his head. I figured that not many people in the Circle of Khanna would have as strong a bond with Skye, Murphy, and Orion as I have--I wasn’t even sure if Rowan knew them as well as I did. To my surprise though, Murphy nodded.

“Yes. Rowan and I were very good friends,” Murphy answered, a fond smile on his face now. “She and I used to discuss broomstick models, and she’s actually very passionate about Quidditch too. Sometimes we even played Wizard’s Chess together.”

“Has she ever mentioned me?”

“Loads of times! Sometimes we talk about the recent matches and the probabilities of each team winning each match and the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. And the topic of you came up more than once--but she never really talked about you as just a player for Gryffindor. I figured you two were close,” he added quietly, tilting his head in thought.

“Very,” I confirmed, choking on the word as the happy memories returned full force, vivid and vibrant as they had been in the very moment. “And I’m still kicking myself over everything that happened. How, right now, we’re all still in danger despite the world slowly resuming its normalcy. There’s no sugarcoating the truth, either--this was why I was in a slump, Murphy. It’s not just about Skye and her strange behaviour. I’ve been so worried about what would happen to the rest of my friends and the school and my siblings that I let it get to my performance in...everything, I guess.”

That much, at least, was true. Most of my professors have noticed a slight deterioration in my academic performance after the incident, not to mention that I wasn’t sure whether the Circle of Khanna was actually working for the rest of my friends and peers. The longer we stayed within the confines of the castle, the stronger our enemies could potentially get. If they overpower us in the end...well, I couldn’t see why that wouldn’t bolster the headline for my failures. And if I failed...

“I won’t deny that I’m scared of the curse, too,” Murphy said after a bit. “I’ve seen the students and Madam Pomfrey in the wing. I know enough of the curse’s potential. But worrying over all of this will affect your performance in everything, and Rowan would not want that.”

“So everyone keeps saying--but--”

“No ‘buts’.” Murphy’s hands gripped at my shoulders now, eyes narrowing and piercing right through me. “I may not know you as well as the rest of your friends, but I still care as much as they do. Don’t let your grief swallow you whole. You have to keep fighting for everything that matters--and Quidditch is one of them, is it not?”

I nodded. “O-of course. I’d do anything for our Quidditch team.”

Murphy’s smile returned as he let go, and he picked up another one of his playbooks, cracking it open over his lap. “Speaking of which, did you find a lucky ritual for yourself?”

“I find that playing a piano piece I know very well in my head before flying out onto the pitch does wonders with my focus,” I told him then, a small smile fluttering back over my face as the warmth slowly seeped back into my chest, overpowering the icy cold that once held my nerves hostage. “And a mug of hot chocolate helps me get through any tough night,” I added, gesturing to the mug still on the table.

“Hot chocolate, you say? Now how did I not think of that?” Murphy’s eyes lit up at that, and he grinned at me now, abandoning the playbook still in his lap. “You don’t mind if I get a mug of it as well, and we can drink it together?”

I nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

Moments later, after making a trip to the kitchens and making two mugs of hot chocolate there, the two of us sat by the fire drinking hot chocolate and leafing through playbooks. The wee hours of the night came and went, and it only felt like a few minutes before the two of us eventually dozed off, enveloped by warmth and comfort from the others’ presence.

In scarce moments of peace like this, I have never felt more at ease with my conscience.

#sorry for the spoilers ahead of time hehe #hphm spoilers #hphm murphy mcnully #hphm clara lin #hphm rowan khanna #year 6 spoilers #hogwarts mystery #hphm quidditch #it's probably not the best thing ever but #every friend deserves comfort #and especially in their greatest time of need #so don't be afraid to reach out to a friend #you will never be a burden

7 notes · View notes

theclaravoyant · 6 years

Note

Hey Clara, I really miss your Trans!Fitz stories, and I just wanted to know: is there any on the making? If not, could we got one with Fitzskimmons? Thank you so much!

AN ~ Thank you so much! I’m really glad you like them :D and this prompt gave me an excuse to write something that’s been floating around in my head for quite some time now… it’s easily able to be interpreted as romantic or platonic due to being set during S1, hope you don’t mind. If you have any other and/or more specific ideas, let me know - in the meantime, enjoy!

Read on AO3 (~1900wd). Rated T. Bus Kids or FitzSkimmons. trans!Fitz.

After the Fall, Fitz comes out to Skye - partly for security reasons and partly because he’s wanted to tell her for a while now and never quite did.

also known as

Jemma rapped her nails on the teacup, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. The tears had stopped, for now at least; her grief momentarily suspended in the wake of the increasingly wide-reaching ramifications that seemed to be coming from this. Communications were down. Someone, somewhere was storming the Academy. Their friends and classmates were Hydra, on the run, or dead. It was enough to turn the stomach – only, she hadn’t eaten anything in over a day.

Fitz, lying on his bunk nearby, turned his Rubik’s cube over and over in his hands. His chest felt tight, his thoughts scattered. He stared blankly. Lost.

“D’you think Brian…” he wondered, trailing off before he could form the words. Voice straining, he recalled: “He was stationed at the Hub.”

The Hub. The Triskellion, as it was officially known. One of the first places to fall – and in a big way, too. Which meant there was almost no way Brian’s story ended well. He probably wasn’t Hydra, Fitz thought – and hoped: they’d been fast friends back in the day. But even if he were loyal, Fitz couldn’t help but recall his own experience in the field, barely scraping out alive from his first firefight after almost having his throat slashed and almost blowing up a plane. The plane he’d been on. He’d been a bumbling giraffe of an agent and last time he’d checked, Brian wasn’t much better, physicality-wise. Being surrounded by enemies, and secret ones at that, he wouldn’t last long.

And to think, earlier this morning, Fitz had teared up over wiping the personal data from everyone’s phones.

Fortunately a knock on the door interrupted him before the tears could well again. Unfortunately though, it was Skye, with a tablet in her hands and a solemn, almost timid expression on her face.

“Hey,” she greeted, similar discomfort mixed with sympathy in her tone. “How’re you guys holding up?”

“Great,” Fitz responded, needling and sarcastic. “Nothing like watching everything you’ve ever achieved in your life get taken away. Fictional people taking all the credit – or worse, our names getting wiped while that lot gets to keep the glory. ‘n glory’s not even the worst of it.”

“Fitz.” With as much strength as she could muster, Simmons scolded him. “Don’t take it out on Skye, this isn’t her fault.”

“Take it out?” Fitz retorted. “I’m not taking anything out. This is calm. I’m… zen.”

He clenched his jaw, and pressed the heels of his hands against the cube as hard as he could. The spiked shell of fury that had materialised to shield his grief and panic from prying eyes quickly crumbled and he sighed. Sitting up, he wiped a hand over his face to clear the clutter and haze.

“Sorry,” he whispered earnestly. “This is just… a lot.”

“I understand.” Skye nodded, then shrugged, and then realised that a shrug was probably not appropriate. In truth, while she saw their pain it was difficult to connect. She didn’t have a history of marked achievement that anyone could take away though, she supposed. Nor did she have the kind of network of acquaintances, colleagues and friends that they did. 99% of all the people in the world who cared whether she lived or died were in this building, going through this same pain, this same fear, as Fitz and Simmons were. As guilty as the thought made her feel, she hadn’t felt so grateful to be alone in a long time.

“We’re the lucky ones, though,” Jemma pointed out. Her tea was going cold. “Our loss is just paper, really, just scraps of code. Accolades. Plenty of people save the world and never get half as much.”

“True,” Fitz acknowledged, though it didn’t make him feel any better.

“I’m – sorry to do this,” Skye pressed, “but I’m actually here on business. I need to know, is there anything else you can think of where your personal details might be found. Old social media profiles, comments on New Yorker articles, a digitized catalogue of your baby photos…”

Jemma shook her head, but Fitz hummed in consternation. Skye raised an eyebrow and he let out a second sigh.

“Actually,” he said, “there is.”

Jemma glanced at him like she knew what he was talking about. Fitz glanced back at her, as if he had been expecting the look.

“It’s okay, Jemma. I was going to tell her sooner or later.”

“Tell me what?” Skye frowned, watching as Jemma brought Fitz what appeared to be an old shoebox, from his shelf. Fitz waved Skye over as he dug through it.

“I want to show you something,” he said. She sat on the bed beside him and took the photograph he held out. On a field of thick, patchy grass – somebody’s yard, most likely – stood a young child, probably around eight years old. A little girl, sandy blonde hair, her fists clenched in the skirt of her dress, which was somewhere between white and yellow – the photo was a little discoloured with age, so it was hard to tell. The girl scowled at the camera, and her eyes were on somebody standing next to the photographer, out of frame.

“School picture day?” Skye quipped, looking back at Fitz.

“It was, actually,” Fitz recalled, with a grimace. “But that’s not why I’m showing you.

Skye scanned the picture again. Not much more came to mind by way of observation, except that the girl looked like Fitz – which was unsurprising, since he had her photograph in his box of momentos from home.

“Who is she?” Skye speculated. “Your sister? D’you have a sister?”

“No.” Fitz took a deep breath. Time to move this along. “That’s me.”

“Really?” Skye frowned down at the picture again, and bit her lip. Part of her wondered if this was not another one of their pranks, though to what end she wasn’t sure, and the timing seemed extremely insensitive, even for Jemma’s usual tactlessless. Plus, as best Skye could tell, the photo was genuine and there was no other reason she could think of for Fitz to expose this kind of secret only to lie about it. Surely it would be easier to fake having a sister. And even if Fitz could pull it off, Jemma wasn’t sitting beside him, holding his hand, with an eerily May-like expression of neutrality for nothing.

“Okay,” Skye said. “I believe you.”

Fitz frowned a little, surprised at the anti-climactic response. “Do you have questions?”

“What kind of security threat do you think this poses?”

“What?”

“That’s why you showed me, right?”

“Right. Yeah.” He blinked, pulling himself together. “I’m not sure. There’s probably not even that much of her online, but you said everything, so, um…”

Feeling his hands begin to fret again, Jemma passed a pillow over. Fitz hugged it close to his chest. Skye was busy scanning the picture into her device and adding it to the search parameters, so Fitz had time to check his voice before he spoke.

“Her – My, uh, name was Bridget. If that means anything.”

“Sure, I’ll add it,” Skye murmured, typing into the search field. She paused, finger hovering above the screen. Fitz seemed hurt, and though her job was important – possibly moreso than anything she’d done with Shield so far – she was finding it hard to ignore the shimmering vulnerability that seemed to emanate off him. Maybe she didn’t understand the depth of what they, as Shield veterans, were going through right now, but Fitz clearly put a lot of weight on coming out to her and she was rejecting him. She knew that feeling far too well.

Taking a deep breath, Skye set the tablet aside.

“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to be an ass, I just didn’t want to pry, which is ironic, since I’ve been sifting through everyone’s dirty laundry the last few days…”

“S’okay,” Fitz replied. “Kinda surprised you didn’t know already, actually. Everyone else does.”

“Everyone?” Skye raised an eyebrow.

“It’s in my file, so May and Coulson definitely know, and I told Jemma already. Ward, I’m not sure. Sometimes he says things… but maybe he’s just teasing me, or I’m reading too much in. He does have higher clearance though so who knows.” Fitz shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is, I didn’t really tell you because of security. I mean, that helped, but either way it just didn’t seem right that everyone else got to know and you didn’t.”

“Then, thank you,” Skye said. “I wish it could have been a less morbid occasion but here we are. Can I sit?”

Fitz and Simmons scooched along the bed to give Skye some space. Then all three of them leant backward, and huffed out a breath of air as they took sanctuary lying under the roof of Fitz’s bunk.

“Can I ask, Skye,” Jemma wondered, “you didn’t seem that surprised, or confused. Have you encountered this sort of thing much before?”

“I mean, yeah.” Skye shrugged. “I was an underground anarchist hacktivist. You meet all sorts of people in that world, plenty of trans people. Might be a bit out of date but for the most part it’s… pretty normal to me, if that makes sense.”

“Sure you don’t have any questions?” Fitz asked. Skye took a moment to consider, and then ventured forward.

“Okay, I’ve gotta ask. Leopold?”

“I know,” Fitz groaned. “My mum thought of it. Thought it sounded brave and strong. ‘Lion-heart’. You know.” He snorted, and gestured down the length of his body with distaste. “Then she got this string bean.”

Jemma batted at him. “Shush, you. I think you’re very brave. You can’t be brave without being scared first.”

“Yeah… that’s not better.”

Fitz screwed up his nose and Jemma laughed. Skye laughed with her, and her hands joined the tangle of Fitz’s and Simmons’ in the middle of them all. As the humour of the moment fizzled - the weight of the day’s more sobering revelations making itself felt once more - she gave a squeeze.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. And for the record, I think you’re plenty brave. Not just for this, I mean - I knew you for like, one day, and you’d already been shot at, held at gunpoint, and nearly blown up twice and you still didn’t tell Shield to shove it, so don’t underestimate yourself. But also… there is something to this. Knowing who you are. To be honest, I’m kinda jealous, actually.”

A heavy moment passed between the three of them as they reflected further back than the fall of Shield. It was not only Fitz and Simmons who’d had their worlds shaken lately: Skye’s search for her mother had come to the most heartbreaking dead-end possible, and despite all her hopes, she was an orphan after all.

But after that moment, Fitz squeezed her hand.

“Hey,” he quipped. “Who says I know who I am? I have an existential crisis every other day. Got one scheduled for tomorrow at 10 if you want to join.”

“Sounds good,” Skye said. “I’m in.”

#bus kids #fitzskimmons #fitzdaisy #aospositivitynet #aosficnet #clara's fic tag #prompt me stuff #Anonymous #trans!fitz

20 notes · View notes

chasingthecosmos · 4 years

Text

By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: G Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 1/26 Read on AO3 here.

"Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that's what was happening ..." A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? Rating may go up as the story continues

Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that's what was happening. She had never actually died before, but she still had a lingering suspicion that it wasn't supposed to be quite like this.

It had all started with dreams - dreams of her old life, back in the original universe that she had been born in. She had only had dreams like these twice before in her long life - once when she had originally been trapped here in a universe where giant floating zeppelins constantly littered the skies over London, and once again when the stars began going out and Torchwood had called her in for a special project.

Both times, he had been there, haunting her sleeping hours like a ghost. He was always calling for her, but he always seemed to be just out of her reach. She thought that the dreams would be gone for good when she was dropped off in Norway (again) with his half-human double and had consigned herself to a life of following the slow path.

After that, Rose had gone on for nearly seven decades without another single strange dream haunting her in the night. In fact, she had had a long, happy, normal life - well, as normal as a life with him could ever be. It was a life that she never could have imagined herself having, but it was a life that she cherished nonetheless.

She was used to dreaming about him, though - so when the strange dreams finally began to return, Rose tried very hard to convince herself that it was simply grief that was fueling her nightly visions. She had only just lost him earlier that year, after all. And oh, she absolutely hated that phrase - "lost him", as though she had simply let him slip through her fingers and he could still be out there, somewhere, wandering around, if only she could find him again - but she still couldn't quite bring herself to say the "d" word, so "lost" would have to do.

It was his heart that took him in the end - and the mundanity of it all still made her sick to this day. She supposed that he wouldn't have minded, though - he had always been quite fascinated by his single, human heart. Even when he had known that it was his simply humanity that was going to kill him, he hadn't been upset or afraid - he had gone in peace.

So when the dreams started up again soon after that, Rose told herself that it was all just a part of the mourning process. That was normal, right? But she had lost so many during her long, long life - her father (twice), her mother, and more friends than she could count - but none of that had ever brought on such strange dreams.

They started just the way that she remembered from last time - a voice calling her, beckoning her forward and leading her towards ... something. This time, though, the voice wasn't his - for, at least, it wasn't just him. It was a strange, singing voice that seemed to contain everything in all of time and space with it. There was also a bright, golden light accompanying it - that was new.

After a few nights of her trying to shake the voice off and ignore it, it only became more insistent. In fact, it began to form a face and a shape that was familiar and strange, comforting and terrifying all at once.

"Rose, it's time."

But Rose always vehemently denied it - always pulling back and trying to fight against the current of the voice, the light, the song.

"Come home."

After another week of this, the face that spoke to her became more solid - forming the outline of a young girl with blonde hair and golden eyes. She had a gaze that seemed to look right through Rose's skin and peer into her soul.

"Are you afraid of the big Bad Wolf?" The strange woman had a smile that was like a snarl.

Rose hadn't heard those words in years, and in the dream she always scrambled to try and remember what they meant. The only thing that she knew for certain was that the words were somehow a solid tether to the Doctor - a link that she could follow through all of time and space that would always lead her back to him. For the first time since the dreams had started, Rose finally stopped trying to fight them off so hard. She surmised that if these few spoken words were somehow connected to the one man in the entire universe who she most wanted to see, then maybe this strange woman and her glowing aura were simply another beacon, ushering her back to him once more.

After that, the woman's face began to change. Her long golden hair darkened, as did her sparkling yellow eyes.

"Are you ready to go, now?" she asked one night, reaching her hand towards Rose in a calm, beckoning gesture.

Rose's heart beat once, very hard, as everything in her cried out for answers and urged her forward. Still, she hesitated as she brought her hand up and prepared to touch the strange, otherworldly woman.

In her dreams, Rose's hands weren't aged and wrinkled as they were in real life, but as she stepped closer to the glowing creature, the light shining off of her seemed to seep into Rose's own sin, infusing her with a youthful, ephemeral glow.

"He's waiting," the woman reminded her patiently.

And that's all that she really needed to hear - because if the Doctor was somewhere out there looking for her, then Rose Tyler had no choice but to answer his call. She locked her jaw and forced herself to stare directly into the woman's haunting, golden gaze as she stepped forward and finally felt her fingers connect with the shining light.

"Just remember ... you can't make souffles without eggs."

Before Rose could ask what that odd bit of advice could possibly mean, the eerie melody echoing in Rose's ears took on a strange, familiar rhythm, and she woke up to the sounds of "Habanera" from Carmen ringing in her ears.

--------------------

After that, Rose's dream took on a strange sense of realism - it was so real, in fact, that she began to question what the lady in gold had actually done to her.

In the dream, she was a different person entirely - though she didn't quite know how she knew that (there weren't exactly mirrors lying around in the underground bunker she suddenly found herself in). Dream logic seemed to fill in the gaps, though, and when she was asked, she succinctly informed her companion that she was Oswin Oswald, junior entertainment manager for Starship Alaska.

The man who had done the asking called himself the Doctor. The name rang in her head like a memory - or, perhaps it was more like an alarm - but Rose couldn't quite place where she had heard it before. She certainly didn't recognize his face - she was positive that she wouldn't ever be able to forget a chin like that.

There was a young couple with him, too - a tall, skinny Scottish girl called Amy and a man with quite the remarkable nose who they called Rory.

The whole adventure reminded Rose of her old days of traveling around in the TARDIS, but in the dream she couldn't seem to remember her past with any sort of specificity. It was simply as though she felt a strange, reminiscent ache for days gone by as she - as Oswin - helped the Doctor and his friends navigate through a dalek asylum.

The odd dream turned into a nightmare when it turned out that she wasn't a junior entertainment manager at all - but rather a living mind trapped inside the shell of one of the most feared and hated creatures in all of existence.

It all went quite mad after that, but Rose made sure that the Doctor and his companions made it out alive, even if she didn't. She couldn't quite explain why the urge to save them was so overwhelmingly important, but it didn't really matter. She only knew that the daleks needed to be defeated, and the Doctor needed to live to fight them another day.

The dream ended in a burst of fire and heat, which then dissipated back into that now-familiar glowing, gold light. When she opened her eyes again, Rose was staring into the face of the woman who she now somehow knew was the Oswin girl, though her normally brown eyes were golden as she smiled up at Rose.

"Did you enjoy seeing him again?" she asked, her voice somehow patient and teasing all at the same time.

"Why are you doing this?" Rose demanded angrily. "Why can't you just leave me alone, to die in peace?"

"Because you're not dying," the woman replied evenly. "Think of it simply as ... the next step in your journey."

"What are you talking about?" Rose asked wearily.

"Don't you remember?" the Oswin-looking girl asked, tilting her head at Rose as though she were a wild animal trying to get a better look at its prey.

At her prompting, a memory flashed in Rose's head - a memory that she had tucked away and forgotten long ago. She blinked and suddenly she was back on Satellite Five with the entirety of the time vortex running through her mind. "I can see all that is, all that was, all that ever could be ..." her past self muttered, her eyes glowing bright with the same golden haze that was standing before her now.

"The Bad Wolf," Rose muttered as understanding finally crashed over her in waves. "You're the Bad Wolf."

The creature before her smiled ferally once more, her eyes flashing somehow impossibly brighter. "You know me," the woman replied slowly. "I have been with you throughout all of time and space, Rose Tyler, and I have come again to usher you into the next chapter of your journey."

"But what does that mean?" Rose asked desperately. "What's going to happen to me?"

"Your old body will die," the Bad Wolf explained in an emotionless monotone, "but the mind will move on to a new one."

"A ... new body?" Rose asked, confused.

"In time," the Bad Wolf agreed simply. "It will take a lot of energy to get you back to that world, but it will happen. It has already happened. It will always happen. This has been designed from the moment that you looked into the heart of the TARDIS."

"So all of that ... that dream with the daleks ..." Rose's words trailed off as the memories of the dream suddenly came flooding back to her. That man with the chin ... could it really be?

"It was a weak connection," the Bad Wolf explained slowly. "In time, you will be tied to that world world more concretely. For now, you experience these things as dreams."

"And ... the Doctor?" Rose asked hesitantly, barely daring to hope.

"He's alive and well. And waiting for you."

"But ... the name ... I called myself 'Oswin' ..." Rose continued, still trying to wrap her head around this great, impossible situation.

"Oswin, Rose, Clara, Bad Wolf, what's in a name?" the creature asked, flashing her odd, inhuman smile once more.

"Okay, but ... in the dream I couldn't remember who I was. Not properly, at least," Rose insisted. "How am I supposed to find the Doctor again if I don't even know who I am?"

"The connections will build in time," the Bad Wolf assured her. "All will happen as it was designed to happen. You'll see it all very soon, when I come again at Christmas."

"Christmas?" Rose repeated dubiously.

"Until then, Rose Tyler ..."

And then her eyelids snapped open and Rose came awake with a startled gasp. Her eyesight was no longer as good as it had once been, but in the pitch-black darkness of her room, she could easily see that there was a strange, yellow glow coming off of her skin. She breathed out a heavy, confused sigh and a swirl of bright golden energy drifted from between her lips like smoke and danced before her eyes.

It was all so completely, ridiculously, impossibly mad, but when she got up the next morning, Rose still made sure to mark her calendar and count the days until Christmas. She had to admit that she was interested to see what the Bad Wolf would show her next.

#doctor who #dw #fanfiction #fanfic #dw fanfic #dw fanfiction #doctor who fanfic #doctor who fanfiction #rose tyler #the doctor #eleventh doctor #eleven/rose #elevenxrose

0 notes

5hfanfiction · 7 years

Text

The Price We Pay

The man raced down the dark alley just as a black arrow whizzed by his ear, narrowly missing him. A very feminine laugh echoed off of the buildings walls from the person chasing him. “A warning shot- next time I won’t miss.” Her voice was young, and sounded playful, as if she was enjoying this. He couldn’t see how someone could enjoy making another person their prey, basically. A second arrow came flying at him at a deadly speed, this time slamming into the back of his thigh. He shrieked as the pain overtook him, causing him to collapse to the ground.

As footsteps grew louder the closer the girl got, his heart continued to be at a too fast pace while pain shot up and down his leg. He knew very well that with this arrow in his leg he’d never be able to escape from the girl.

“It’s a shame,” the girl was still in the shadows, and he waited until she was in the moonlight so he could get a better look at his murderer. “I really do enjoy the chase. It’s a pity that you were such easy prey.” She sighed dramatically, finally stepping into the light. The unnamed man gasped at the sight before him; she was a child! No older than eighteen, maybe even seventeen, with long dark brown hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Her skin tight black leather suit blended in perfectly with the shadows. She had a simple black mask that covered only her eyes and the bridge of her nose. “Well, Mr. Reed,” he was too paralyzed by fear to jerk away when she leaned down into personal space and reached into his inner jacket pocket. The papers. He was supposed to be on his way to deliver papers before… before, this girl. “This was fun, but I’m not one to keep my master waiting.” With that, her eyes flashed white for a moment as a black arrow appeared out of thin air. She didn’t bother to notch this one before slamming it into his heart.

As she walked down the alley towards the awaiting black town car, her ears and nose began to bleed just as she coughed a mouth full of blood up.

Camila strode through the long hallway of Jauregui Manor, attempting to find her master. He was usually in his study working on one thing or another with a client, but he wasn’t there. She checked the dinning room next, but once again he couldn’t be located. There was one place left to check besides his bedroom, and Camila dreaded going there.

Master Jauregui lost his only daughter and child three years ago when she was fifteen. It was a standard assassination gone wrong, and it cost Lauren Jauregui her life. Besides his work, Lauren was Master Jauregui’s whole world. Clara Jauregui, the masters late wife, died during childbirth along with their second child, a boy they named Christopher. He never took a breath.

And if Master Jauregui wasn’t in his one of his regular rooms, he would be found in Lauren’s old bedroom.

Camila slowly shuffled up to the oak door. There was nothing to differentiate this door from all the others in the large manor besides for the green ribbon hanging on the doorknob. She didn’t bother to knock as she shoved the door open on well oiled hinges. Her Master made the staff keep up on all the cleaning in case his daughter some how managed to rise from the dead.

“Master,” Camila dropped to one knee, her head bowed in a show of complete submission. Master Jauregui was merely standing in the center of the room, clutching much too tightly the green bear that Camila remember as Lauren’s favorite childhood toy. Camila wished to tell her master to give up, that his daughter was dead and gone, but knew he would surely kill her for that. While she was his favorite killer, she was nothing compared to Lauren, even in death.

“Yes, child?” He sighed in that detached voice he always seemed to have whenever he thought about Lauren. Even Camila had to admit the girl was well liked. Unlike Camila herself and her master, Lauren was kind. There wasn’t a vicious bone in her body, even if her powers suggested otherwise. “The mission…” He said softly, as if just remembering he sent Camila on one. “I take it it went well?” If a mission didn’t go well, Camila knew not to come back until the target was dead. And if she couldn’t kill them, then she better die trying. Master Jauregui would not employ incompetent sorcerers.

“Yes, master,” Camila still didn’t look up, she kept staring at the off white carpet. Up close, she could see the stains that Lauren had attempted to remove. The markings of a child and teens room. “Philip Reed is dead.” She didn’t know who Lucas was, merely that her master wanted him dead and so he is now dead. “If you don’t require anything else of me, I’ll be leaving you now.”

He turned to look at her now, a permanent frown currently etched onto his otherwise relatively handsome face. Age would have done him nicely, had he not had worry lines on his mouth and eyes making him look older beyond his years. “You’re coated in blood. Yours?” Master Jauregui pointed towards her chest, which was in fact covered in her blood. She hadn’t had time to change once she arrived home. “Your price isn’t getting any worse, is it?”

He sounded so concerned, worried, interested, that Camila nearly believed it for a moment. She needed to remind herself he only cared in case she started to flame out. There was no telling when a sorcerer would flame out. The only tell tale signs were a sorcerers price became too steep to handle. In Camila’s case, every time she would use her powers she would bleed more and more each time until she eventually either lost control of her powers and ending up killing herself, or bled to death. Neither option sounded too appealing. She had never seen someone flame out, but she’s heard enough stories.

“No. It’s the same as it always is.” While her price was annoying and somewhat gross, it wasn’t as bad as some, like Normani for instance. That poor girl had a price Camila wouldn’t wish upon her worse enemy. Normani was the only sorcerer employed by Master Jauregui to hardly use her powers. Camila believed the only reason her master even kept the girl around was because she’s never failed to make a kill, and by hand too. The older girl preferred knives to make it up and close.

Master Jauregui waved her up, and Camila sighed as she stood. So he didn’t have another mission for her. If he did, she would have stayed on her knees. It was the dismissal she had gotten for the past ten years. Though, one could imagine her surprise when instead of allowing her to leave, Jauregui asked, “do you miss her, Camila?”

Lauren. He was asking Camila if she missed Lauren. Memories berated her brain, forcing her to think of the times they spent as children, before she made her first kill. Lauren didn’t have to fight to be the best, like Camila did against Ally and Normani and Dinah. For as long as Camila could remember they were fighting each other to win Master Jauregui’s favor. But not Lauren. She didn’t talk to Camila to figure out any weak spots, or any advantage she could for a fight. Lauren talked to Camila because she wanted to, because she wanted to befriend her.

Yes, Camila missed Lauren more than anything else. She missed the older green eyed girl who always wore a smirk, who never wanted the life of an assassin, who would do anything to please her father. But more importantly, Camila missed the girl with the playful glint in her eyes that would sneak into Camila’s room at night only to stay up the whole night talking and watching movies.

“Of course, master,” Camila finally said softly. She refused to meet his hard gaze as she stared out the window her and Lauren used to jump from in the middle of the night to watch the stars. “I miss her everyday. But…” she wasn’t sure how to continue. Master Jauregui had never asked her a question like this, even though he knew how close she and Lauren were. “I can’t let myself dwell on it.” That should be good enough to not provoke him, but enough to make him happy. “If I dwell, I’ll become blinded by the sadness, the grief. I can’t let that happen.”

It was quiet for too long, an awkward and tense sort of quiet that made the hairs on Camila’s neck raise. Just as she was about to ask for permission to speak (Master Jauregui had a strict ‘spoke when spoken to’ rule for his sorcerers) he finally spoke up. “You may leave, Camila.”

Finally.

Camila didn’t wait another heart beat before quickly exiting the room, heading straight towards her own. She was in desperate need of a shower, as well as sleep. It had be, what, almost twenty-four hours since she last slept? Much too long, but for whatever reason Master Jauregui insisted Camila complete the mission the moment she received it. A little out of the ordinary, but not too odd.

She reached her room at long last, falling onto the soft down mattress. It felt like forever since she had gotten a chance to lay down. Too tired and worn out from using her powers, Camila only had enough energy to strip herself of her tight black suit and weaseled her way under the covers in just her underwear. Thanks to Master Jauregui, Camila couldn’t stop the memories that constantly flooded her mind of Lauren Jauregui.

Lauren danced around Camila’s kick, the smile never leaving her face even as the younger of the two landed a hard punch to Lauren’s stomach. That infuriating smirk that Camila had come to love over the years only intensified and she barely had a moment to prepare herself before Lauren threw a serious of jabs and kicks that sent Camila spiraling to the ground. Once on the ground, Camila didn’t bother to get up, simply enjoying lounging on the black mat.

Camila patted the spot beside her, and a moment later felt it dip slightly as Lauren laid beside her. They should be training, and Camila knew if her Master walked in he’d skin her alive. But she didn’t care right in this moment as she relaxed next to her best friend.

“Camz,” it was the nickname only Lauren was allowed to call her, the nickname that instantly brought a smile to her face. “We’re going to be friends forever, right?”

“Friends forever, Lolo.” They were fourteen and fifteen at the time, with a whole world of possibilities at their fingertips. But to them, none of that matter if they couldn’t be friends forever.

“Friends forever,” Camila mocked now, shaking herself from the memory. “Yeah, right. You left me. I loved you. And you left me.”

Michael Jauregui sat at his desk, holding the unopened papers one of his assassins brought for him. Camila. He smirked as he thought of the vicious child, who he knew would do anything for his approval. She’d kill her own teammates, if he asked. It always worked out in his favor to have a flawlessly loyal killer on his side. Camila was a murderer, and a good one at that. Her powers made her important, and her ability to perfectly wield those powers made her dangerous.

Yes, he had definitely trained her well.

Better than he trained his own daughter, since Camila had managed to survive all these years, when his own daughter couldn’t. Michael supposed he was cursed, since all the people he found he actually loved had died. First his son, who had never even taken a breath, and then his wife, who gave her life to birth a dead child. And his Lauren, his poor, lovely Lauren.

Michael jerked a letter opener through the paper, skimming it once, twice, three times to make sure what he read was true. The longer he continued to stare at the letter, and the picture attached, the faster his heart beat. The letter shouldn’t be true, couldn’t be. He’d seen the grave himself, seen the casket go down with his own eyes. Of course, the body was too burned to do anything more than know it once belonged to a teenager girl.

A war was going on inside him, should be believe the paper and picture, or no? If what it says is true… If Lauren’s alive…

And that is the first chapter! It’s really just a shorter part to explain some of the things going on, basically just background. Let me know if I should continue or nah? I’ll explain more about the sorcerers and magic and their prices later on of course. And soon you’ll meet all the other characters as well, and find out about Lauren.

LOOKING FOR A BETA IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED!

also on Wattpad

#UPDATE #series #AU #slash #camren #submission #The Price We Pay

15 notes · View notes

actual-bill-potts · 7 years

Text

On the Nature of Whouffaldi

Last week, I wrote a meta about companions in Moffat vs Davies Who and how Moffat companions are defined mainly by their relationships. That meta was partly inspired by Clara: I find her a very difficult character to understand, but what I realized is that she comes into much clearer focus the more we see of her relationships with others. “The Time of the Doctor,” the first time we see her interacting with her family, is a good example of this. Her controlling tendencies and desire to maintain a certain image are instantly evident in the way she presents the Doctor as her boyfriend and obsesses over the turkey, insisting that everything be perfect.

A question that follows naturally from this realization is, of course, what is the nature of Clara’s relationship with the Doctor? Most of the other Doctor-companion relationships are clearly defined: Rose and Nine/Ten were a Romantic Couple (whether you think they were an actual item or just a bundle of sexually-charges longing), Martha had unrequited love for Ten, Donna and Ten were the Best Friends, and Eleven and the Ponds were a family. What was the Doctor’s relationship with Clara, then? Eleven and Clara seem pretty flirty, but then Twelve takes a hands-off approach. They’re friends, obviously, but it’s not the easy camaraderie of Donna and Ten; they push each at other. At times their relationship seems almost abusive, as he commands her and she goes to extreme lengths to control his actions, but they also have a lot of trust in and love for each other. What, then, are they defined by? The easy answer, of course, is that they are just the Doctor and Clara, and to attempt to define them further is to create too simplistic a model. There is a lot of truth to that in some ways, but it doesn’t satisfy me. So here’s what I came up with: the Doctor and Clara—particularly Twelve and Clara—are defined most of all by hero worship.

Let’s first take a look at Eleven and Clara to see how this plays out. Eleven certainly puts her on a pedestal: “My Clara,” he muses, “always brave, always funny, always exactly what I need.” He might treat her more like a mystery than a person, might be suspicious of her true intentions, but there is no question that he adores her.

Clara likes this, and likes him because of this. Everyone likes to be adored, and there’s an extra level of attraction for her because he provides her opportunities to be a hero. She also sees him as a hero, a wonderful man who drops from the sky. “Good guys do not have zombie creatures!” she scolds the Doctor in “Journey to the Center of the Tardis.” She views him as a storybook hero, and it is this belief that allows her to stop the destruction of Gallifrey; she cannot believe that the Doctor would look at 2.47 billion children and still press the big red button.

So far, they have a mutually-reinforcing cycle of hero-worship: he treats her with respect and gives her adventure, she acquits herself well, his admiration for her grows, she is motivated by that to do more and better, he is even more impressed, and so on. How does this relationship change when Eleven regenerates?

Well, Twelve is much more hands-off and self-contained than Eleven, so on its face Whouffaldi seems much different from Whouffle. Gone are the compliments, the kisses, the spins and giggles and flirty remarks of Eleven’s era. But beneath Twelve’s Grumpy Cat persona, there’s the same idealization of Clara. Look at his impressed “and you saw right through that” in “The Caretaker,” his “I had faith that you would always make the right choice” in “Kill the Moon.” His utter faith that Clara, when put to the test, wouldn’t really throw away the Tardis keys. He trusts her, he loves her (whether that’s platonic or romantic is yours to decide), but he does also idealize her. She is always right, always perfect, indestructible. He owes her his life twice over on Trenzalore. He may not call her that anymore, but to him she is still the Impossible Girl.

Clara, meanwhile, still sees him as a storybook hero. We see this in “Robots of Sherwood” (“When did you start believing in impossible heroes?” “Don’t you know?”), in “Listen” (“if you’re very wise and very strong…”) and most notably in “Dark Water,” where she completely believes that the Doctor can bring Danny back.

Their hero-worship cycle, then, is mainly intact in series 8. It’s a little darker, a little more ruthless, a little harsher as Clara abandons her perky heroine persona in favor of her true self—someone just as devious and dangerous as the Doctor. She, like Twelve, has become a character stripped down to the essentials. But they still believe in each other, hiccups like “Kill the Moon” aside.

I mentioned “Dark Water” earlier as an example of Clara’s faith in the Doctor. But that episode, and the ones following, are the turning point of Whouffaldi. Clara still believes in the Doctor and sees him as a great hero. After all, he did bring Danny back, sort of. And now Danny’s gone, so in series 9 she has no one besides the Doctor. She becomes increasingly dependent on the Doctor’s affirmation and has more of a need to be the Doctor, as she perceives the role, as she becomes detached from Earth.

But Twelve no longer sees Clara as his impossible, indestructible hero. He still loves her, still respects her, still trusts her—but his idealized version of her has been shattered by “Dark Water,” because she doesn’t make the right choice when confronted by seven keys and a volcano. Destroyed by grief, she betrays—or thinks she betrays—the Doctor in the worst possible way. Twelve still adores her, but now that image of her leaping into his timestream has been balanced by her throwing his keys into the fire. It’s not a coincidence that she’s wearing nearly the same outfit in “Dark Water” as she wears in “The Name of the Doctor.” In one, she becomes the ultimate hero for the Doctor; in the other, she becomes a villain, in action if not in his eyes.

This blow to her image is followed in rapid order by “Last Christmas,” in which the Doctor thinks he has come back for Clara too late and believes her dying. Her human frailty has been thrust in his face too many times to ignore, and so he starts to treat her more as a typical companion—someone, though capable in their own right, who needs to be protected—and less as a fellow soldier. Thus, just as Clara becomes very dependent on his approval, he stops approving her Doctor-ish actions.

The contrast is clear between series 8 and 9. Look at Twelve leaving Clara on her own with the clockwork droids in “Deep Breath” vs his “Please, please save Clara” in “The Magician’s Apprentice”; Twelve instructing Clara to shoot his sonic screwdriver toward the Skovox Blitzer in “The Caretaker” vs his promise to save Clara in “Before the Flood”; his faith in Clara to do the right thing in “Kill the Moon” vs his desperation to get her back in “The Girl Who Died”; and again, interestingly, his willingness to take her to “hell” in “Dark Water” vs his insistence on Me’s guarantee of Clara’s safety in “Face the Raven”. He still loves her, still trusts her, is still deeply grateful for everything she’s done for him—but he’s no longer willing to thrust her into danger and trust that she’ll land on her feet, for the simple reason that realistically, eventually she won’t land on her feet. He wants to keep her safe.

Ironically, though, this new solicitousness for Clara’s safety leads to a twisted version of the hero worship cycle they have in series 7 and 8. He is worried for her safety, and so responds with disapproval to her increasing recklessness, trying to get her to stop doing what he, until recently, has been encouraging. This only drives Clara to throw herself more and more into the role of the Doctor, trying to prove that she is just as good a hero as he is, trying to show that she doesn’t care that she’s not invulnerable. The more reckless she is, the more concerned Twelve becomes, which leads Clara to keep on trying to prove herself, and so it continues, spiraling Clara downward until she finally crashes into reality in “Face the Raven”.

The interesting thing about that cycle is that they’re at complete cross-purposes; his priority has become her safety, but she still expects it to be all about the danger and the thrill. She has decided that being the Doctor is worth her life, if it has to come to that; the Doctor doesn’t believe that anything is worth as much as her life, and responds to her actions accordingly. And of course, this leads to him being driven nearly mad himself as he fights to get Clara back and fulfill his duty of care, until finally, in a beautiful reversal of “Dark Water,” she makes him see that being a hero—that being the Doctor—is worth it to her and he lets her make that choice. So Clara, with all her faith in stories, receives her fairytale ending instead of the cold, realistic one she would have had if the Doctor hadn’t returned to his initial faith in her and given her back the decisions about her safety.

(It’s important to note, by the way, that it is not in fact misogyny for the Doctor to be concerned for her safety. What he says in FtR is true; he is less breakable than her, and she takes risks that he can only take because he’s a genius with twenty-four lives.)

The Doctor and Clara, though initially difficult to define, thus have a relationship that reveals new facets when viewed through their hero-worship of each other. It is the Doctor’s loss of that complete faith in Clara that drives her to suicidal recklessness, and it is his regaining of that which allows her to travel the stars and fully become the Doctor—Clara Who. This is, of course, but one interpretation of a relationship that in some ways is beyond words, but that is, perhaps, the true charm of Whouffaldi: there are many readings of it, and every one of them is true.

#dw meta #dw scribblings #whouffaldi #whouffle #clara oswald #clara who #twelve #eleven #brotp: keep a tight hold on it clara #bow ties are queue

93 notes · View notes