Hey guys! I had originally thought of this as simply a one shot but if you guys like it I think I can make it a series of one shots. So if you'd like to see me continue this, please let me know :) Thanks for reading.
Blood was an awful, wonderful thing; he'd almost forgotten how truly fantastic it was. He had almost forgotten the way that his own blood pumped through his veins, wove through his two hearts at rapid speed when he saw someone else's. He'd forgotten the wonderful way it ran down pale skin or dripped onto someone's clothes, leaving a scarlet stain that did not come out, reminding the owner of the mark that prompted it. It had always been there, that throbbing, probing feeling in the corner of his mind; even when he had been in the height of his 'goodness' seeking only to help those weaker than him he had felt that deep, dark desire to wrap his fingers round someone's throat and drain the life out of them or slice their skin and make that crimson tide flow. But, he had tried to be good. He had always been, essentially, evil. It would take someone truly malicious and vile to destroy their own people. Sure, some would say it was the only option; that to destroy true evil he had had to kill his own people. But how many people could do that? How many good people could commit genocide to their own species even if it meant that it would end a devestatng war? The answer was no one; no one decent could.
He had always been that wicked but somewhere along the line he had been convinced to be something else. He had had companions, humans; they were so young, so innocent…..so naïve. They had convinced him for a time to bury that dark and dangerous part of him. He was a lonely monster and he just wanted a companion, someone to stave off the emptiness. There were moments he would begin to lose that goodness, when his true self would begin to shine through. His companions would then look at him in such horror, with such revulsion that he feared they might leave. So, he would reign in the monster; he would push down that desire for the red, sticky stuff that would so freely flow from those weaker than himself. It would be so easy to make that crushing desire happy, so easy to see the blood that burned in his mind's eye. But if he did he knew that they would leave and it was easier with them. So he became someone else for their sake. Because he didn't want to be alone.
But then he was alone. The weeping angels had stolen the last of his companions and that was it. The last straw…he had been alone for decades, centuries. It had made him more than hard; he had found that part of himself that he thought he had buried for good that. He had been reacquainted with the feeling of excitement that made his hearts flutter and a sneer form on his lips as he saw that amazing crimson again, the feeling of heady power that came with knowing it was his doing. He'd lived that way for a long, long time, on his own. He didn't think that he change back to the way he had been, the way that had earned him companions. And he was very right.
The Doctor watched the thin stream of blood as it reached the tip of Clara's nose and dripped off, leaving those stains, those memories on her white blouse. He leaned on the console and simply watched her, feeling more and more power from every drop of blood that spilled from her body. All his doing; as she cowered in the corner, curled up and watching him, instead of feeling that need to hide himself he was proud of his actions. Let her cry; she deserved it.
Clara sat in the corner and watched the Doctor, leaning on the console, his dark expression making her shiver. He looked so pleased with himself. It really was disturbing. She had known ever since the beginning that he was a troubled man; she had seen that flash of darkness, that hint of a monster behind the goofy childish expression that he normally wore. She hadn't known how deep that darkness went but she would never had thought that she would witness the darkness that she now saw on his face.
Something had changed a few weeks ago; Clara didn't know what had prompted it, but ever since then he had steadily begun to fall into a deeper hatred for everything around him, including her. He stopped eating, stopped sleeping; even traveling seemed to hold no appeal to him anymore. He would disappear for sometimes as long as a day at a time, leaving her stranded in the TARDIS. She never knew what he was doing or where he was anymore and she hadn't had the courage to ask him to take her home. Something was wrong with him and she had wanted to help; little did she know he didn't want any help. That fact was very obvious to her now; while she had gotten used to him snapping at her and his angry outbursts, she had never expected him to actually hit her.
She had been warned not to trust him; now she could see why. He was simply too damaged, too broken; he might not even be fixable at this point. Hurt rang throughout her heart when she looked at the Doctor who was sneering at her, just watching her as if she was some prize he was proud of. He was glad to see her pain, her hurt. Even with his sour attitude, she wasn't sure how this had happened; she simply must have not gotten out of the way in time. It had happened so quickly; he had been trying to get around her and she supposed that she hadn't moved out of the way quickly enough. He had smacked her in the nose, causing an instant sting and stream of blood. She had looked at him to see the anger and rage in his cold blue eyes and shrank back to her current spot.
Clara used the sleeve of her shirt to dab at the last of the blood running out of her nose; looking down at the shirt she could see it was already ruined. She used her other sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes. She hadn't wanted to cry but it had taken her so by surprise and it hurt so badly (in more ways than one) that she couldn't stop.
The Doctor leaned back on the console, crossing his arms across his chest as he stared at her haughtily. As much as he enjoyed the sight of the burgundy liquid dripping from her sorrowed face, he couldn't stand the crying. It was starting to annoy him; he really had hardly touched her. And she was just being so loud.
"Oh please, Clara. Shut up" The Doctor said languidly. "I hardly touched you"
Clara looked up at him; her nose had stopped bleeding and tears were beginning to dry on her face though new ones were quick to accompany it. Betrayal flashed in her eyes but the Doctor couldn't care. He was tired of her. She made no motion to stop crying and the Doctor could feel his anger reignite.
"Really….if you're going to insist on blubbering like that, then go to your room or something" the Doctor said, shooing his hand toward the direction of her bedroom. "If you want to stay here, I can give you something real to cry about"
Clara paused, as if sizing up his threat. He could see a slight shiver run down her before she finally decided to trust his words and got up, taking off towards her bedroom. Something deep inside her urged her to stay, to try to do something for him. But the weaker part of her urged her to save herself. The tone in his voice was chilling and she thought it was best to not try and test him. She walked, almost ran toward her room; she found herself, for the first time ever locking the door behind before she collapsed on the bed.