(no subject)
Title: The Adventures of Martha Jones and the Man in the Black Suit: Meeting
Characters: Martha Jones, t.M.i.t.B.S., mentions of Des and the Doctor
Pairings: OT3!!
Word Count: 2025.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Talk of Character Deaths. SCURYNESS fo' rlz(but not nearly cause King makes it actually scary). The aftermath of Clubbin'! (these are the most cracky warnings ever)
Summary: It was like walking away from a burning building. "Are we well-met tonight, tiny dancer?" His breath pressed against the back of her neck.
Notes: AU!Rift-ish. I was reading Stephen King's collection of short stories, Everything's Eventual and I got a head voice while reading "The Man in the Black Suit". I wrote this in order to hopefully appease the head voice and never have to bother with his crazy ass, again. Of course, this is only chapter 1, but... AT LEAST HE'S NOT IN THE GAME.
Disclaimer: Stephen King owns the Man. The BBC and such own Martha and the Doctor. kawaiispinel owns Des.
It was raining when she left the club. Just a drizzle. The cool drops landed and rolled across beads of sweat on her forehead and arms. It woke her from the haze of drugs and music- the bump, bump, bump that still echoed through the door behind her.
Martha wrapped the strap around her arm and pressed the purse against her abdomen. She slipped her hand into it to hold on to the gun, taking off the safety as she turned the corner of the building and stepped into the alley.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
There were so many things she could have been thinking about, that she should have been thinking about, because it might have saved her from another night like this. Instead, she was counting steps.
9, 10...
At sixteen steps into the alley, she realized she wasn't alone. She never heard footsteps, there was just... something. A shudder crawled down her back and she had to gasp for breath.
"Looks like I stumbled upon a dancer from the club tonight." His voice was smooth, melancholy. It could be on the radio. "Or did she stumble upon me?"
Her very basic instinct at the sound of the voice, at the presence behind her was to run, but a defiant voice inside of her protested. She had faced demons, the Master, torture, and her own death. She would not fear the stranger in the alley. Besides, running would probably serve only to provoke him.
Get a grip.
Her heart clenched up and her throat tightened with the urge to scream. It was inexplicable. The fear. Martha hasn't even had a look at him yet and it was like the air sucked out of her. She blamed it on the long night.
She continued walking, but the muscles in her legs strained with the desire to spring. The sidewalk was maybe fifteen steps away.
Just fifteen steps.
It was like walking away from a burning building. Her back was dry, despite the drizzle and the sound. Like flicking water on to a frying pan. A sizzle as intermitten as the drops of rain.
"Are we well-met tonight, tiny dancer?" His breath burned the back of her neck.
How did he get so close?
A painful shudder spread across her shoulder blades giving her the strange feeling that his hand hovered just there, less than an inch from the fabric of her shirt.
Martha turned, if only to show him that she was armed and dangerous before sprinting to the street, heels and provoking him be damned. But she would not be running just yet. The instant she turned, she caught sight of his face- his eyes. Fire. No irises, just shifting orange orbs, flames deep where any man's brain should be.
He was not a man.
He was the devil. The real bloody thing. Of this, she was certain.
The realization sent a hot, fresh wave of fear over her in a strength that she'd never felt before. Her legs cramped so painfully in response to that fear it made movement impossible. He towered over her in his long, black suit. The heat and the smell of sulfur that radiated off of him started to go to her head. It was hard to focus, harder to breathe, and harder still to feel beyond the pain in her chest.
"You didn't answer my question, tiny dancer."
Elton John.
The bloody devil's quoting Elton John
Hold me closer.
Tiny dancer.
His fingers hovered over her collarbone, producing another shudder and the impression that if he actually touched her it would be so much worse. His nails were claws.
"Please don't hurt me," she whimpers, helplessly, as one can only manage to say when they come face to face with the devil for the first time.
"I'm afraid I come bearing bad news, Martha Jones." His voice is an impossible mixture of grief and laughter. "Your.... boys, as you call them." She feels her stomach sink with dread and he just goes on smiling. "Des and the Doctor, what very interesting names. Well, Miss Jones, I'm afraid they're dead."
"No," The alley spin and she reaches out to grab hold of- but there's nothing. Her throat tightens and she clenches her fist at her side. "You're lying. You're a- a bloody, lying bastard. Shut up."
Martha is only vaguely aware that she's just called the devil a lying bastard.
"I'm afraid I'm not," he says in a patient tone that implies he is so often accused falsely of being a bloody lying bastard. "You see when they discovered that you had been missing, and for quite some time it would seem, without a panic button or phone to contact you on, they did some panicking and set off to find you themselves."
It was something they would do, especially after the ware house. Hell, they would have done it before the bloody warehouse. And this was the only time she'd forgotten a panic button. She had left in such a fury to return to the dark.
But had she really been gone so long? Not that they would need long to worry. Still Martha shakes her head, over and over. They had lived such a long time. THey couldn't be dead. They couldn't just be beaten. They couldn't. She would know. Somehow. Inside of her. She would know.
The man smiled.
"They never stood a chance. They were taken by surprise you see, shot down. Filled up with holes like swiss cheese. Funny how there's so very little in this world that can survive a shower of bullets."
Martha believed him as people always tend to believe that the nightmares of their heart will one day be realized.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She could barely keep on her feet. Her head is spinning. Memories of her boys fill her head. The first time the Doctor pulled her in for a kiss, the smile on Des' face when he sees her, the sound of their laughter, the sight of their pain, the way their bodies fit so comfortably together in bed... Her throat was so tight and dry that she nearly choked.
"Why? There was... no reason-" Martha whispers. He has her blubbering like a baby, pressing her fist against her mouth every two words to pause for breath.
They were everything to her.
He let out a soft, chiding laugh. "I understand your pain, tiny dancer, but that particular arguement just don't float. You know better than most that reason is not always needed for pain... or death. Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe someone didn't like that they made friends with both sides of the equation. Angels and demons. Maybe someone has it in for them, they certainly haven't remained unnoticed."
They were all that kept her sane and they were wonderful and ancient and they were gone.
"You stick around Martha Jones too long and you get turned into swiss cheese, ain't that the truth?" He teased. "Do you remember how it sounded? The shots that killed Brando. It was just like that for your boys." He smacked his lips together to make a popping sound, and then said, "Bang."
Pop. "Bang." Pop. "Bang." Pop. "Bang."
Martha shook her head, pressed her hands over her ears (with the purse still clenched in one), but even that couldn't drown out the soud. It was in her head.
Pop. Bang. Pop. Bang. Pop. Bang.
"Stop!"
Her skirt swam against him with the breeze, flowing against the suit. She managed another step back, fingers trembling and slipping into the purse to take hold of the gun, again.
"I'm starving, Martha." He showed her his teeth with a wicked smile. "I'm going to rip you open, right down the middle, and eat out your guts. How does that sound?"
Martha could only answer with a soft whimper, trying to combat the overwhelming fear at least long enough to run. She doesn't want to die here. The devil's supper.
"I'm just so hungry." His reason. Not that he needs one. "And you won't want to live without your precious boys anyhow. I'll save you from all that terrible grief. And! You'll go to Heaven. Think of that, Martha Jones. Murdered souls always go to heaven so we'll both be serving God tonight. How's that?"
While she had been frozen still in fear, he'd closed the space between them, again. He opened his mouth wider than any human mouth could manage. It was like the mouth of a shark, only inside was deep red. And so hot. The heat poured out of his mouth, sweat slipped down her neck.
She knew he meant to rip her throat out. Instinct had wanted her to run, and it was instinct, again, that told her to fight and this time she listened. Martha pulled the gun from her purse and shoved it into his mouth. Her hand began to burn in the roasting pit of his mouth and she screamed. It was worse than the cyanide and it was spreading up her arm, she fired the barrel into his throat.
An explosion erupted inside of him, bloody, red tears slipped out of those fiery eyes as she ripped her hand away, abandoning the gun and sprinting in the opposite direction for the street with all that she had left in her to fight.
It was raining harder now as if the skies had been watching and wanted to give her cover at just the right moment. She was drenched moments after she left the alleyway, freezing, except for her hand, which she couldn't feel at all anymore.
She ran across the street heaving and sweating. Her weak heart protesting its overexertion with sharp jolts of pain. Only when she got across the street, behind cars and crowds of people did she dare to look back.
Steam poured out of the alleyway making it look like the club was on fire, but through the smoke and the rain she could see two hateful, red circles in the dark. It was foolish to think she could kill the devil with a gun. The Doctor would say something about how this proves his point about guns. They're not necessary. If he were alive. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he wouldn't say anything.
Martha did not stop running, again, until she reached the hotel basement. Her fingers curled around the vial by her collarbone as if it were the only thing that kept her feet moving. She stumbled out of the elevator doors when they slid open.
She would have continued to run to her room without looking through the tears that still blur her vision, but two familiar voices stop her where she stands.
They were bickering. Her boys. Des and the Doctor were right here in the hallway, talking back and forth, hands flailing, so real. Either she had gone crazy or they were alive and the devil really was a bloody lying bastar. She wiped the tears from her face with shaky fingers to get a better sight of the blurred figures. They were facing each other, obviously not happy, but there. No matter how much she wiped her eyes.
Des turned toward the elevator, "Martha?"
They saved her the trouble of deciding whose neck to wrap her arms around by moving fast and grabbing hold of her, which is good, because the moment she realizes they're real she loses the strength in her legs and as always, they were the only thing holding her up.
Characters: Martha Jones, t.M.i.t.B.S., mentions of Des and the Doctor
Pairings: OT3!!
Word Count: 2025.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Talk of Character Deaths. SCURYNESS fo' rlz(but not nearly cause King makes it actually scary). The aftermath of Clubbin'! (these are the most cracky warnings ever)
Summary: It was like walking away from a burning building. "Are we well-met tonight, tiny dancer?" His breath pressed against the back of her neck.
Notes: AU!Rift-ish. I was reading Stephen King's collection of short stories, Everything's Eventual and I got a head voice while reading "The Man in the Black Suit". I wrote this in order to hopefully appease the head voice and never have to bother with his crazy ass, again. Of course, this is only chapter 1, but... AT LEAST HE'S NOT IN THE GAME.
Disclaimer: Stephen King owns the Man. The BBC and such own Martha and the Doctor. kawaiispinel owns Des.
It was raining when she left the club. Just a drizzle. The cool drops landed and rolled across beads of sweat on her forehead and arms. It woke her from the haze of drugs and music- the bump, bump, bump that still echoed through the door behind her.
Martha wrapped the strap around her arm and pressed the purse against her abdomen. She slipped her hand into it to hold on to the gun, taking off the safety as she turned the corner of the building and stepped into the alley.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
There were so many things she could have been thinking about, that she should have been thinking about, because it might have saved her from another night like this. Instead, she was counting steps.
9, 10...
At sixteen steps into the alley, she realized she wasn't alone. She never heard footsteps, there was just... something. A shudder crawled down her back and she had to gasp for breath.
"Looks like I stumbled upon a dancer from the club tonight." His voice was smooth, melancholy. It could be on the radio. "Or did she stumble upon me?"
Her very basic instinct at the sound of the voice, at the presence behind her was to run, but a defiant voice inside of her protested. She had faced demons, the Master, torture, and her own death. She would not fear the stranger in the alley. Besides, running would probably serve only to provoke him.
Get a grip.
Her heart clenched up and her throat tightened with the urge to scream. It was inexplicable. The fear. Martha hasn't even had a look at him yet and it was like the air sucked out of her. She blamed it on the long night.
She continued walking, but the muscles in her legs strained with the desire to spring. The sidewalk was maybe fifteen steps away.
Just fifteen steps.
It was like walking away from a burning building. Her back was dry, despite the drizzle and the sound. Like flicking water on to a frying pan. A sizzle as intermitten as the drops of rain.
"Are we well-met tonight, tiny dancer?" His breath burned the back of her neck.
How did he get so close?
A painful shudder spread across her shoulder blades giving her the strange feeling that his hand hovered just there, less than an inch from the fabric of her shirt.
Martha turned, if only to show him that she was armed and dangerous before sprinting to the street, heels and provoking him be damned. But she would not be running just yet. The instant she turned, she caught sight of his face- his eyes. Fire. No irises, just shifting orange orbs, flames deep where any man's brain should be.
He was not a man.
He was the devil. The real bloody thing. Of this, she was certain.
The realization sent a hot, fresh wave of fear over her in a strength that she'd never felt before. Her legs cramped so painfully in response to that fear it made movement impossible. He towered over her in his long, black suit. The heat and the smell of sulfur that radiated off of him started to go to her head. It was hard to focus, harder to breathe, and harder still to feel beyond the pain in her chest.
"You didn't answer my question, tiny dancer."
Elton John.
The bloody devil's quoting Elton John
Hold me closer.
Tiny dancer.
His fingers hovered over her collarbone, producing another shudder and the impression that if he actually touched her it would be so much worse. His nails were claws.
"Please don't hurt me," she whimpers, helplessly, as one can only manage to say when they come face to face with the devil for the first time.
"I'm afraid I come bearing bad news, Martha Jones." His voice is an impossible mixture of grief and laughter. "Your.... boys, as you call them." She feels her stomach sink with dread and he just goes on smiling. "Des and the Doctor, what very interesting names. Well, Miss Jones, I'm afraid they're dead."
"No," The alley spin and she reaches out to grab hold of- but there's nothing. Her throat tightens and she clenches her fist at her side. "You're lying. You're a- a bloody, lying bastard. Shut up."
Martha is only vaguely aware that she's just called the devil a lying bastard.
"I'm afraid I'm not," he says in a patient tone that implies he is so often accused falsely of being a bloody lying bastard. "You see when they discovered that you had been missing, and for quite some time it would seem, without a panic button or phone to contact you on, they did some panicking and set off to find you themselves."
It was something they would do, especially after the ware house. Hell, they would have done it before the bloody warehouse. And this was the only time she'd forgotten a panic button. She had left in such a fury to return to the dark.
But had she really been gone so long? Not that they would need long to worry. Still Martha shakes her head, over and over. They had lived such a long time. THey couldn't be dead. They couldn't just be beaten. They couldn't. She would know. Somehow. Inside of her. She would know.
The man smiled.
"They never stood a chance. They were taken by surprise you see, shot down. Filled up with holes like swiss cheese. Funny how there's so very little in this world that can survive a shower of bullets."
Martha believed him as people always tend to believe that the nightmares of their heart will one day be realized.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She could barely keep on her feet. Her head is spinning. Memories of her boys fill her head. The first time the Doctor pulled her in for a kiss, the smile on Des' face when he sees her, the sound of their laughter, the sight of their pain, the way their bodies fit so comfortably together in bed... Her throat was so tight and dry that she nearly choked.
"Why? There was... no reason-" Martha whispers. He has her blubbering like a baby, pressing her fist against her mouth every two words to pause for breath.
They were everything to her.
He let out a soft, chiding laugh. "I understand your pain, tiny dancer, but that particular arguement just don't float. You know better than most that reason is not always needed for pain... or death. Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe someone didn't like that they made friends with both sides of the equation. Angels and demons. Maybe someone has it in for them, they certainly haven't remained unnoticed."
They were all that kept her sane and they were wonderful and ancient and they were gone.
"You stick around Martha Jones too long and you get turned into swiss cheese, ain't that the truth?" He teased. "Do you remember how it sounded? The shots that killed Brando. It was just like that for your boys." He smacked his lips together to make a popping sound, and then said, "Bang."
Pop. "Bang." Pop. "Bang." Pop. "Bang."
Martha shook her head, pressed her hands over her ears (with the purse still clenched in one), but even that couldn't drown out the soud. It was in her head.
Pop. Bang. Pop. Bang. Pop. Bang.
"Stop!"
Her skirt swam against him with the breeze, flowing against the suit. She managed another step back, fingers trembling and slipping into the purse to take hold of the gun, again.
"I'm starving, Martha." He showed her his teeth with a wicked smile. "I'm going to rip you open, right down the middle, and eat out your guts. How does that sound?"
Martha could only answer with a soft whimper, trying to combat the overwhelming fear at least long enough to run. She doesn't want to die here. The devil's supper.
"I'm just so hungry." His reason. Not that he needs one. "And you won't want to live without your precious boys anyhow. I'll save you from all that terrible grief. And! You'll go to Heaven. Think of that, Martha Jones. Murdered souls always go to heaven so we'll both be serving God tonight. How's that?"
While she had been frozen still in fear, he'd closed the space between them, again. He opened his mouth wider than any human mouth could manage. It was like the mouth of a shark, only inside was deep red. And so hot. The heat poured out of his mouth, sweat slipped down her neck.
She knew he meant to rip her throat out. Instinct had wanted her to run, and it was instinct, again, that told her to fight and this time she listened. Martha pulled the gun from her purse and shoved it into his mouth. Her hand began to burn in the roasting pit of his mouth and she screamed. It was worse than the cyanide and it was spreading up her arm, she fired the barrel into his throat.
An explosion erupted inside of him, bloody, red tears slipped out of those fiery eyes as she ripped her hand away, abandoning the gun and sprinting in the opposite direction for the street with all that she had left in her to fight.
It was raining harder now as if the skies had been watching and wanted to give her cover at just the right moment. She was drenched moments after she left the alleyway, freezing, except for her hand, which she couldn't feel at all anymore.
She ran across the street heaving and sweating. Her weak heart protesting its overexertion with sharp jolts of pain. Only when she got across the street, behind cars and crowds of people did she dare to look back.
Steam poured out of the alleyway making it look like the club was on fire, but through the smoke and the rain she could see two hateful, red circles in the dark. It was foolish to think she could kill the devil with a gun. The Doctor would say something about how this proves his point about guns. They're not necessary. If he were alive. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he wouldn't say anything.
Martha did not stop running, again, until she reached the hotel basement. Her fingers curled around the vial by her collarbone as if it were the only thing that kept her feet moving. She stumbled out of the elevator doors when they slid open.
She would have continued to run to her room without looking through the tears that still blur her vision, but two familiar voices stop her where she stands.
They were bickering. Her boys. Des and the Doctor were right here in the hallway, talking back and forth, hands flailing, so real. Either she had gone crazy or they were alive and the devil really was a bloody lying bastar. She wiped the tears from her face with shaky fingers to get a better sight of the blurred figures. They were facing each other, obviously not happy, but there. No matter how much she wiped her eyes.
Des turned toward the elevator, "Martha?"
They saved her the trouble of deciding whose neck to wrap her arms around by moving fast and grabbing hold of her, which is good, because the moment she realizes they're real she loses the strength in her legs and as always, they were the only thing holding her up.