The Twenty-something Who Could Do Immortal Rage Like No-one Else.

The twenty-something who could do immortal rage like no-one else.

Matt Smith as The 11th Doctor in DOCTOR WHO

Unnecessary Evil

Synopsis: What was going on in the Doctor's mind when he escaped the Confession Dial? At what limits did he let his mind wander to? What prompted his redemption?

A/N: it's so fun playing with characters that don't have concepts of human morality. Warnings for general darkness and such.

Coming out of Hell, his ears rang like a bomb detonated in his general vicinity. Deafening. Blood-draining. The paranoia seeping in. Both of his hearts shot cold.

He turned to face wherever he was.

Of course! His own traitorous, ungrateful race. Of course! Jealous and naturally unambiguous, these demented fools, ever so committed to his demise. At the cost of her.

Never satisfied. Even after he, all of him, bailed them out of the War. It probably caved in their illusions of dignity. Saved by one of the ones they cleaved into rejecting. Useless unless used…

He craved to reach into the chest of whoever was responsible, and crush their hearts. Probably Rassilon. Or that general who called him mad, even as he held the fate of their entire survival in this hands. Mangle theirs as his had been. He craved to beat them as bloody as he was in that dial. (Although, the blood draining from him each time took on new levels of pleasure in her absence.) He felt more animal than Time Lord, all fried nerves and the lust to take his teeth and tear into their jugulars. Every single last of the arrogant high-born class he had the displeasure of being born into. Watch them regenerate helplessly as he ran their lives out.

No plan, yet.

And violence on this level would disappoint her. His beautiful Clara, her rage would never cease if he saved her after he slaughtered every single last one of them.

He had to do a cleaner job for her sake.

The image of wanting to reach his hands into their bleeding chests still gave him a rush. A just cause- a million lives for one…he had done it before.

What did he call himself once? The Time Lord Victorious.

Yeah, he could do that once more. Being the only one of his kind seemed delicious at the moment.

Even the Gallifreyans that weren’t a part of the Time Lords would benefit. Lives under such disgusting and pathetic ponces would be better off erased from the count of the universe. The elite grew fat off pretense while everyone else starved- where they could still breathe, his Clara lay dead in the long-forgotten past on Trap Street.

A past that the High Council and him remembered. That stupid little human he regretted saving had probably blotted her from her bratty memory. All of Clara’s loved ones lay dead and drained of existence.

All but erased.

It sucked the air from his lungs and felt like glass had waded its way into his guts.

To forget Clara Oswald, in her infinite sass, her boundless character, her goodness? A sin worse than any recorded by any faith imagined by any weaker mind. How nobly she had gone off to die! Without him.

How he regretted not going to her, to hold her warm, little hand as she breathed her last. Not alone, die in her place or even die right with her? To lay in his final death beside her? To lie in the cold ground of Earth right beside her? Silent bliss. What he was owed.

Another sin.

A necessary evil to blot out an inexcusable one? He already knew he wasn’t a good man. He’d long since established that within himself.

He wouldn’t grieve for her, he’d go to her. Save her. Fix this. Burn this planet and all its people out of existence.

A plan began to form.

Alone with all he stood for draining out of him. He needed new clothes. Nothing she would call Doctor-y or enjoy.

Doctor no more.

Of course the wee folk, the ones that truly recognized his sacrifice over the years would welcome him, and they did.

The hospitality was worlds-class as he laid himself down and rage took over.

Of course, the first thing these parasites did was threaten them to get at him. Weak, parasitic creatures. Getting an immortal earthling to bring him to heel?

One line was drawn in the sand.

He crossed another line.

Rassilon had all of time now to run terrified of him, terrified of what the bastard son of these Time Lords may do to him. His hearts could stop in fear every time he saw a shadow. His brain may eat at him in agony of it all. Maybe he’d become a sacrifice to a mad Dalek or even worse, some foe of the Time Lords that they blotted out of reach and memory.

Maybe he’d chase him down. Nowhere to run, just get it over. Dispatch him as cleanly and get it over as quickly as that man ordered the death of her. The Lord President, frozen in fear as he realized that he had no way out, no place to run. Not even a scream escaping his lips as he died like a fox torn by beagles.

Good.

That image felt good.

He found himself the new President, control slipping as he sat around as they quizzed him on the stupid myth of a hybrid. The ludicrous rumor of something half Time Lord- half Dalek…

He couldn’t lie to himself; the windows and walls would benefit from a coat of every single one of these aristocrat’s blood as paint. This body loved to draw and paint. He could even draw his beloved Clara’s face (even though he always had trouble with faces and found it difficult to memorize even his favorite face, hers…) in exquisite detail. Then he could drag the rest of the Time Lords up here and make them apologize to her as he dispatched them.

A slow genocide…

Every single time someone called him by his chosen name, he recoiled. The Doctor was someone Clara could count on. Some title that felt more natural off her tongue. Someone, something that belonged to her.

Who was he now? Was he that Valeyard, whom he would become eventually? Possibly. He didn’t feel there yet. The name didn’t feel remotely natural. He’d have to find a new one to bridge the gap between the Doctor and the Valeyard…

The Sisterhood of Karn stood there as his world divided. Useless. Saccharine. Pretending to play both sides.

There were places in the cosmos where they’d fetch pretty prices. Maybe he could sell them? He had no use for money, but their faces as he sold them to people who’d ruin them in body, mind and spirit would please him. Perhaps he’d purchase the services and watch them flounder in service to him…

The white-hot rage burned through him. All but purifying his mind and detaching himself from the table in which he sat.

So he sat, trying to figure out a new plan, a new name, a new anything. Something to rid him of this guilt, he felt a tug at his gut and an image blind his mind.

Her face.

His Clara’s face. Finally clear, despite this current body’s inability to process faces. Radiant as the day he lost her.

Unlined, except for crinkles around her eyes just beginning to form. Brought on by years of laughter and smiling at him when he managed to save everyone and everything. The little furrow that would smooth itself out after a few hours she’d get when she was deep in thought or grading papers aboard the TARDIS. All these effete elite’s faces had lines from regeneration and ageing into their bodies.

Clara was cut off before she would go grey, before she could wrinkle. Before he could add more lines to her face with smiles and proposals. He was thinking of making their life together official, in a way close to her species. He’d give her anything, a wedding, a million little Clara’s totting around the TARDIS, as bossy and good as their mother, adventures to all of time and space…

Anything. She was what was best of him.

She stopped him from teetering into the entrance of this body’s darkness and preoccupied with morality. She made him good when he didn’t know if he was good.

She wouldn’t want him like this.

Clara wouldn’t want him to be this.

Could he do this? Save her and remain the Doctor?

Did he want to do this?

Could he want this?

The images of what he could do or have done to his entire traitorous race still brought him glee. Glee and pleasure. He still wanted them to pay. He wanted them to feel a single grain of sand compared to the desert of pain he felt. He knew it was sadistic, but he'd been sadistic before. The thin, young, freckly man with the dark eyes and brown hair was certainly a sadist. So was the broad one with the curly blonde hair and a penchant for cat pins and sarcasm. Certainly, his first body was. Before Susan taught him to bleed it out of him. That little blonde bastard enjoyed killing Torvic for Koschei. He enjoyed the god-like feeling that killing someone with your bare hands gave from the very beginning.

Why did this form of sadism feel remotely different?

Options and his plans that started to form became colored with her of course! Clara wouldn’t enjoy his sadism.

Wasn’t he the smartest an most exemplary of then all? He could have his cake and eat it to. If he wanted. He could be sadistic and good too.

Many things can be true at once, he reasoned with himself.

Clara wanted him good.

He could be good for her.

He could bury these past mad days behind him and focus on that. Follow her orders.

He was in obeisance only to her. Even Missy knew. Missy even enjoyed it.

A plan snapped into place. He knew what needed done.

The image of Clara in a woven wedding dress slashed out of his mind’s eye. If he were to save her, he’d never get to offer himself to her on bended knee. Never get to hear her laugh or insults again, or that soft warm slightly-tanned hand in his large pale cold one. Her stomach round and tight with child…

He mourned the infants they should have had. Cradles sadly empty, tombs gladly never filled…

He prayed for love and his mortal dreams now dashed. Prayed to her, his Clara. His life never realized. Her life only a quarter-lived.

Their lives together, cut dreadfully short.

No more yesterday’s or tomorrow’s…

He set out and went to make her happen, to make her happy and alive.

Maybe that would be good enough, to echo her alive like her echoes did theirs. Not ideal, but just enough to give her a chance.

That was the man that he’d want to be for her. Good, or at least trying his best to not be, and not totally stained with the reality of what he was. What she refused to see. What she formed him to be. Different that he should be.

Her perfect Doctor.

And thus, the Doctor was reborn once more…

People: How are you coping with your grief?

Me: I'm hyperfixating on fictional men and wishing I could be kidnapped and forced to live on an abandoned mining ship 3 million years into deep space.

People: ...

Me: Also sharing all of my inappropriate thoughts with tumblr. It's going well.

Don't walk guys, run. Run as fast as you can and bring popcorn.

If anyone’s in the mood for some heavy Malcolm Tucker angst…I’ve written a thing

Teaser: “Over a decade in British politics had culminated in running, in all his flailing, undignified glory, from a herd of bloodthirsty hacks outside a fucking prison.”

Reblogging this because I originally posted it at two in the morning.

Second chapter is finally up, and yes, we finally find out who Holly had the affair with! Very excited to see people's reactions!

When the hyperfixation starts fading, then you see something like this.

You can say what you want about Arnold Rimmer, but the man is soft and beautiful, and I'll accept nothing else.