clashildr one shots

That Is a C h a i r

A/N - cause the last chapter was kinda short this one is gonna be significantly longer than the others

Yorkshire, 1912 - a city unaware of its future and still bustling with hopeful people going about their days trying to make a buck or two, whatever way they can, legally or... Otherwise.
It was in such times that Ashildr and her beloved had to be careful: two women running around was still, unjustly, unusual. After their recent escapades, staying in the norm was crucial. Unnoticed was best. It was for this reasoning, however much they disagreed, that Ashildr and Clara took precautions.
Of course, the Viking was alive in these times, and had dressed as a man to live the easiest life plausible. She returned to such measures when visiting with Clara, donning a suit and top hat and wandering the streets with her most manly gate. Although she would never admit it, Clara enjoyed not being the only top in Ashildr's vicinity. They tried to stay out of trouble, enjoying a sort of retirement, and did not actively go looking for trouble and the owner of the only other TARDIS did, purely for the reasoning that "lesbians in a diner" didn't have the same ring in legends as "madman in a box" did.
Only for a moment, Clara let go of Ashildr's arm, running off somewhere to explore some sort of dark alley she thought would lead somewhere interesting. Ashildr turned away for only a moment, her attention caught by some street vender trying to sell her some bauble, but when she turned back, Clara was gone.
"Clara?" She glanced around but the woman was nowhere to be seen.

Ashildr grabbed the man by the lapels and shoved him against the brick wall of the alley, his wares clattering from his hand. Her fingers throbbed, a dull ache pressing through her knuckles, but the pain was masked by the numb feeling of loss in her heart and the fear that gripped her stomach.
"Listen," she growled, bringing her face up close to the man's. "That woman means a lot to me, so God help you if you're withholding anything."
The man went to respond, but Ashildr twisted her wrists and forced him harder against the wall. His neck became pushed against the bricks at what looked like a painful angle. Good.
"Don't lie. That's a really bad idea."
The man licked his lips, bringing a breath through his frankly disgusting teeth. "Wa' ta'en, innit," he rasped. "Yer ain't neva gon see yer missus agen."
Anger flushed through Ashildr like a wave crashing against the rocks. As the sea pulled away from the sand, all that and we left in its place was dread. "The hell do you mean, 'taken'?"
"Sailors, innit, sir." He twisted his head to the side to spit, narrowly missing Ashildr's shoe. "They gon sell 'er if she's ugly, keep her if she ain't." He laughed. "Yer not from 'round here, ah yer? She'll either be given to the highes' bidd'r, 'r be ta'en to seh, case the men miss their wi'es."
The dread was replaced by disgust. The anger was replaced with a sense of purpose. Ashildr needed to get to Clara and fast.
"Where?" she whispered.
The man laughed again. "As if I' tell sum 'n'itled brat like yer-"
Ashildr held a knee threateningly by his groin. "Where?" she repeated, walking the line between desperation and determination.
"Docks."
She let go of him and his back immediately slouched again. Get hit the floor with a slight crunch. Ashildr turned to go. She tried to be finished with him, to leave him alone, but when he started laughing again she was overcome. Red descended her vision, clouded her judgements, boiled her blood; she turned around again to face the man, only aware of what she was doing when she felt her knuckled crack against his face.

Before Ashildr could embark on her heroic quest of saving her Clara, she first had to find her. People were keen to talk to her, it being an open time socially, but it was never about anything important. Men would tip their bowler hats with their wives hanging off their arms, lacy dresses leaving little more than an elbow on display as they melted into silk gloves.
"Weather is finally brightening up," they would say, chuckling.
"Indeed." Ashildr choked on the wasted time. Clara could be on a ship by now. "I don't say, do you fine people know where the docks are?" She would stuff her hands into her bracers and nod in return. Many were unhelpful, but if she stopped her frantic searching and spoke to people she may end up losing more time.
Time, time, time. The word ran amock in her head.
Perhaps that was a downside to the love she felt for Clara. Ashildr had spent so long under the name Me, the only constant in her life being herself, but the ticks of the clock melted together with Clara so much neither one remembered how long they'd been travelling together. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be alone - let her wall down again. And maybe that was a mistake. Clara was going to die, Clara should be dead, they both knew: in a way, to Ashildr, she already was. She was on Trap Street when Clara died. She saw it. The memories were etched in her mind more firmly than any other, surviving the years instead of burning out. And now she was going to lose her. But it didn't feel like that when they ran together. The Viking and the English teacher, running around the universe hand in hand - never to be pulled apart, not even by time. Who wouldn't loosen up? Let them in? This was a mistake. All Ashildr would ever get herself was hurt.
"Just turn left here, then keep heading straight until you can see the water. Ask someone there for more specific directions as to where you need to be," the woman replied softly, as if not wanting to disturb Ashildr too much. Or maybe that's how women were supposed to be. Ashildr couldn't remember.
"Thank you, m'lady. I should be off."
And she ran.

She didn't have time to talk. She didn't have time to threaten. She didn't have time to shake trees and bust into the sales. She had to pose as a buyer.
The very force it took Ashildr to mix with the men who would be buying and selling women was almost too great an ask: bile rose in her throat and anger in her chest.
A man came up to her and slapped a hand on her shoulder. His hand was wrinkled, the skin of a smoker and delinquent, and his fingernails dirty.
"Aren't you too young to be here, my son?" he asked through his five teeth.
Ashildr laughed. "No, sir. I'm a lot older than I look." A lot older than I can remember, she added in her head, but I doubt you'll make it to see tomorrow when I'm-
Ashildr found herself in a group of men, all clamouring and drunk and surrounding her as if she were a child. She gritted her teeth.
"Did you see the new one they hauled off the street just this morning?" one man asked.
A second man spat at the ground. "The pretty one?"
The men laughed outrageously. Ashildr didn't join in.
"Come on, son, be merry!" one asshat called. "Or have you not had the chance to look at the livestock yet?"
Ashildr clenched her fists in her pockets. He was gonna be out first. She forced a laugh, using the sick cover of their animalistic dehumanisation of women and incredulous misogyny to count how many there were.
Wrinkled-Skin, who'd slapped her on the shoulder, stood next to Livestock; the group seemed to be headed by Beard - the one who'd referred to Clara as "the pretty one" - and his mate Kidnapper, who'd spoken of taking her right off the street. The fifth and final man stood silent and stoic to the side, his beady eyes bulging out of their sockets as they scanned the water.
"The ships are coming in," Beady said suddenly. "Move inside, sailors. Boy." He gave Ashildr the side eye.
The warehouse was mostly empty and smelled rancid - the smell of the sweat of vacuous men's sweat mingling with iron (Ashildr refused to let it register as blood) and dead mice. The men allowed Ashildr to stand ahead of them as to "have a better view". She had a view alright.
Like it was some sick form of theatre, the only furnishing in the room was a crude stage of arranged crates. One by one, bedraggled women were pushed onto them and the men started to clamour.
When Clara was shoved on to the stage, Ashildr had to swallow every emotion that threatened to bubble over and have her see red.
"That your type, eh, son?" one of the men asked.
"Indeed." Mistake her anger for arousal. Men.
She was done. She'd seen Clara was okay. Time to get her back.
Not paying attention to who they were, Ashildr took out the men one by one. The shriveling man next to her took an elbow to the groin, his screams alerting those around him what was going on. She was just getting started. Of those who ran towards her, none got back up again. There was the man who took a knee to the stomach, letting the short Viking to get a good reach on his head, which she promptly slammed into a crate. She cracked her neck. Stared at the three remaining men. All others had scampered. One pulled a knife out of his jacket.
Spice it up a bit.
Ashildr blocked the knife, wrist to wrist, sending it flying across the floor. The man managed to land a punch on Ashildr's abdomen - a move which cost him two teeth - before shebpulled him round, yanked his shoulder out of its socket, and broke his leg. She was very cross.
She saw the "nope" cross the final man's face before he ran.
Ashildr looked around the room, frowning. Thanking God for the fact she was quite comfortable cross dressing, she pulled a knife out of one of her inside pockets and watched as the blade cut straight through the rope.
"What is that?" Clara asked, freeing herself of the ties and brushing off her dress as she stood.
Ashildr span it round one finger and slipped it back into her jacket."Pocket knife."
"It's at least twelve inches."
"Any knife is a pocket knife if it fits in your pocket."
Clara laughed, hitching up her dress and starting through the warehouse; Ashildr was momentarily struck by her grace, then got it together and proceeded after her. Just as she went to step around one of the unconscious sailors, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her ankle. Caught off guard, Ashildr hit the concrete, landing awkwardly with one arm underneath her. She stifled a cry, lashing out with her free foot. She heard the crunch before she had time to process the feeling of a face underneath her boot, but the man managed to hold a form grip around her ankle despite the waterfall of blood falling from his nose. Grunting from the exertion, the sailor continued to cling to Ashildr's thrashing ankle.
Not a moment too late, Clara appeared and dug her heel into his wrist; the man screamed, letting go of Ashildr, who stumbled to her feet and hid behind Clara, cradling the arm she fell onto.
"Never a dull moment when you get abducted," she panted.

A/N - honestly I'm considering writing this in excruciating detail as a separate book?? Idk