Black and Blue and Bloodied

by Sixes_And_Sevens


Blood and Water

The Doctor had managed to get them into a hotel room. Blueblood wasn’t sure how, although he was fairly sure the words 'psychic paper' had been murmured before they had arrived at reception. He honestly didn’t care at this point. The hotel was far from his normal fare, as well. No mint on any pillows here, and he rather doubted the possibility of breakfast in bed. At present, he didn’t really care about that, either, though he decided that he would certainly complain about it tomorrow morning. Right now, all that mattered to Blueblood was the fact that this place had running water. Before the Doctor could say or do anything, the unicorn had already locked himself into the bathroom and began running a bath. Were there bubbles? There were. He promptly upended the bottle and poured about half into the tub.
He was dusty and tired and sore in places he didn’t even think could be sore, excepting perhaps after certain vigorous activities in the bedroom. But no, not even being forced to make his own bed was quite as strenuous or as stressful as today had been. He had lost his bow tie. The rose on his lapel had wilted. He dared not look in the mirror for fear that the sight would drive him to— he clipped that thought off at the root. No dwelling on the past now. This was his time to relax.
Yes, he was tired and sweaty and aching. His golden coiffure was plastered against his head. And yet, he felt strangely exhilarated. Exhausted, certainly, but exhilarated, nonetheless. It was unusual, to say the least, but not unpleasant. Far from unpleasant.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt a warm glow begin to rise in his chest. If only Aunt Celestia could see me now, he thought. How peculiar she would have thought it! After all the time she spent trying to convince me to do things for myself, to make my own breakfast, to tidy my own room, how odd would she find my actions today? Not only getting myself out of scrapes, but doing so gladly.
Blueblood turned off the taps and dipped a hoof in the water. A tad hot, but no matter. It would help relieve the soreness. He slid into the bath with a sigh of utter contentment. He let his mind play over what his aunt would say once he told her about today. If he was able to tell her about today.
Relaxed muscles tensed. Spine straightened. Jaw clenched. No. Don’t think like that. This was a purely temporary situation, he knew. Soon enough, he would be back home, in his rightful time and place. Wouldn’t he?
With shaking hooves, he grabbed a washcloth and vigorously began to scrub at the dirt that seemed to stick in every pore. Today had been positively adrenal, yes. The old ticker had never run so fast, not since his childhood. But now, he had to face facts. He could have died today. He could have met the same fate as Rings or Henn, throat sliced open in a gruesome red grin. He could have been buried under a pile of rubble, his bones snapped like so many cocktail toothpicks. He could have missed the edge of the building and given its first floor a new coating of paint. He rubbed vigorously at his hooves until they shone.
How many had come before him? His aunts, he knew of. But they were immortal and he most emphatically was not. How long was his life expectancy, now that he had caught the attention of this mad Doctor? He grabbed a bottle of shampoo and squeezed. A dollop the size of a fried egg plopped into his hoof, and absently, he slapped it onto his head and began to rub it in.
Visions of his aunt were now replaced by memories of Father. A neatly curled maroon moustache, greying slightly. A coat as white as clean linens. Eyes as blue as china plates behind half-moon spectacles seemed to study him intently from all angles. “You young fool,” his voice thundered. “What have I always told you? What did I always tell you about business?”
Blueblood shrunk in on himself, a tiny colt in a sailor suit once more. “Always make sure you know the full story…”
“Before,” his father prompted.
“Before getting into any type of situation,” Blueblood whispered.
“And?”
“And always assume that the other party is lying.”
“Exactly. Well done. Trust nopony, my boy! Trust no one at all, and you will go far.”

***

Blueblood blinked. He was back in the hotel bathtub. The bubbles had mostly popped, leaving only a faint film on the surface of the water. The tub itself had cooled to an unpleasant lukewarm, and the water was grey with dust and dirt. The unicorn quickly pulled himself upright and clambered over the side. He grabbed a towel from the shelf, absently knocking several others to the floor in the process. He vigorously dried himself off, fluffing up his coat in the process. He glared at the mirror. His mane was a fright. Where was the comb? He lowered his eyes to search, but in the process, he froze, transfixed by his own gaze. His father’s eyes stared back for the briefest of seconds, exactly as they had been in life.
The unicorn tore his gaze away from the mirror. His mane. Where was the cursed comb? He grabbed a brush from the counter and dragged it through his golden locks, tugging painfully at the roots. He hardly even felt it.

***

The Doctor was lying on the bed, doing a sudoku puzzle, but he glanced up as his companion left the bathroom. “Bout time,” he said. “You’re not th’ only one what needs a shower.”
Blueblood merely grunted, refusing to meet the Doctor’s eyes. The Time Lord frowned. “Something th’ matter?”
The unicorn cleared his throat. “Nothing. Merely a trifle. Have your shower, I’m all done in there.”
The Doctor regarded the prince for a long moment, then nodded. “Right. Pleasant dreams,” he said, trotting into the bathroom and closing the door tight behind him.
Blueblood regarded the two beds for a long moment. One of them had a great big smear of dust and dirt over the covers. Very probably, this was a test of some sort. Blueblood trotted over to the clean bed, drew back the covers, hopped in and yanked them up around himself. There were tests, and then there was dignity.

***

The Doctor looked around the bathroom in disgust. The bathtub was stagnating. Towels lay strewn across the floor. Blobs of shampoo and bubble bath were spattered about the room. “I swear, I’ll never understand why people think the rich are tidy,” he complained. “It’s just that they can afford to buy labor.”
He fumbled about in the turgid grey water for a moment before finding and pulling out the plug. Carefully, he re-stacked the towels, wiped off the mirror and sink, and wiped away the excess goo from where it had spattered. Then, grabbing a washcloth, he stepped carefully into the tub and turned on the shower-head. He closed his eyes and let the warm water wash over him. He smiled slightly. He liked water, he decided. This body was very fond of it. Life-giving. Replenishing. Not like fire.
He turned away from that thought as quickly as it popped into his mind. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. He was trying to leave the Time War behind him. He was trying so hard to be a Doctor once again.
A department store, exploding into smithereens.
Orange polymer gel in the shape of a face, screaming in agony.
Faces, eyes unseeing, of those he couldn’t save.
Fire
Eyes, beseeching
Faces, familiar
Fire
Explosions, everlasting
Fire
Fire
Fire
The Doctor sat down heavily under the constant spray of the showerhead, unable to stand under the weight of his losses. He wept, and his tears flowed down the drain with the cool shower water.
Some ten minutes later, the green pony stepped out of the shower, his fur dripping. His eyes were tired and thousands of years away.