not quite sure where this was lurking in the dark recesses of my subconscious... o.O
the fairy story's end, doctor/rose, pg-13
The first night, she dies in his arms with a sword meant for his hearts in hers. The forest is dark.
There's always blood and grief and desperate ache in the nights of a Prince of Time.
In the nights of the pink and yellow girl who loves him.
With a gasping breath shuddering in her lungs, crackling against the crush of blood and metal and tears, she reaches for his hand, begging him closer to her--it's getting ever so hard to speak. He holds her tighter in his lap, readjusting her so that he can better lean into her, and there's blood everywhere, so he'll need a new suit, after... well.
"Doctor," she chokes, a trembling weak thing with the voice of a siren, wailing her pretty anguish for him, weaving the thin strands of his broken hearts-strings into guns and lace and swords, like the one that slid through her breast, tearing and breaking and oh, there is so much blood. So much Rose-flavored blood.
"Stay still," he whispers. "Just breathe, oh Rose just... just breathe."
"'kay." Her dry, pale lips slip into a fragile smile, and he's stunned. Stunned at her calm, at her resolve, at her undying spirit in the face of imminent death, all wrapped up and sealed into that lovely thing gracing her face, and it's all he can do not to kiss the life out of her, for he has all but done that with each kiss and each word and each step further away from run, has condemned her to this with a grasp of his hand. "I--I..."
The first night, she dies in his arms with a sword meant for his hearts in hers. The forest is dark.
He's tending to the Queen. She's not supposed to die here, in 1879 Scotland--that's just not right. But he's so caught up in his confusion and frustration and anger that he misses the rumbling growl behind him, the spittle of rabid wolf, of a creature destroying time with tooth and claw, and then, just as he catches it--
"NO!"
--Rose is there, in his place, being torn up in front of him, her screams silenced by shock and pain and oh--no, this is not right, this can't be right, this is the purest wrong he's ever felt, and then the monster retreats, dropping her ragged body into his arms, like he could ever fix her now, and oh, that's her blood and her weak smile and her hand all battered reaching up to touch his face, but she's shaking ever so much, and he's falling to his knees, and there's so much blood...
"Doctor," she starts as he tucks her gently into his arms. "It was... comin' after you an' I couldn't, I just... couldn't..."
She runs a finger down his cheek and gasps, and her breathing shallows, and she's pale--gods, she's so pale...
"You're cryin'," she whispers to his chest. Big brown eyes gaze up at him like he's the one dying in her arms, like she's losing the one she--
And he is. Crying. His shoulders shaking as he sobs. And her eyelids flutter feverishly, but she won't feel the mutation--she'll die, right here, and perhaps that is the better alternative. But oh, Rose!
This time, he does hear the wolf behind him.
The second night, they die together at the Torchwood Estate and birth a world of metal men and desolate beaches where crying girls say goodbye. It's midnight.
Some nights, they live on. Some nights, he falls or she falls or they fall together, wrapped within one another, hand-in-hand. But some nights, there is life. Some nights, she sheds her youth and dies in a field of sunflowers. Her favorite, he knows.
And some nights, she never dies. She lives on forever, a gift/curse of Time. Time moves on, brings red-haired girls with lovely daughters into her world, into his world. Their love grows hot/cold, a storm, their lovemaking harsh and beautiful at once, their words soft and bitter. A duplicity, a contradiction.
In some nights, he dies before she can even taste death. She watches the universe tire of life. She aids its rebirth and sheds a tear for her mate.
He always loved a party.
But the final night tastes fresh. They start on a beach in Norway, a beach they know too well, and grow into a love always remembered, a love with wings and kisses in Barcelona (the city, mind you) and cherry lips against wet skin in the bath. Another night, and a child is born; another night, and a TARDIS bursts into life; but this night, this last night, they laugh at graying hairs and voting for conservatives and chiropractors, they find the noblest of friends in this night, and perhaps, they are ready for death when it comes for them as they sleep.
They are holding hands when the clock strikes twelve.
The first night, she dies in his arms with a sword meant for his hearts in hers. The forest is dark.
There's always blood and grief and desperate ache in the nights of a Prince of Time.
In the nights of the pink and yellow girl who loves him.
With a gasping breath shuddering in her lungs, crackling against the crush of blood and metal and tears, she reaches for his hand, begging him closer to her--it's getting ever so hard to speak. He holds her tighter in his lap, readjusting her so that he can better lean into her, and there's blood everywhere, so he'll need a new suit, after... well.
"Doctor," she chokes, a trembling weak thing with the voice of a siren, wailing her pretty anguish for him, weaving the thin strands of his broken hearts-strings into guns and lace and swords, like the one that slid through her breast, tearing and breaking and oh, there is so much blood. So much Rose-flavored blood.
"Stay still," he whispers. "Just breathe, oh Rose just... just breathe."
"'kay." Her dry, pale lips slip into a fragile smile, and he's stunned. Stunned at her calm, at her resolve, at her undying spirit in the face of imminent death, all wrapped up and sealed into that lovely thing gracing her face, and it's all he can do not to kiss the life out of her, for he has all but done that with each kiss and each word and each step further away from run, has condemned her to this with a grasp of his hand. "I--I..."
The first night, she dies in his arms with a sword meant for his hearts in hers. The forest is dark.
He's tending to the Queen. She's not supposed to die here, in 1879 Scotland--that's just not right. But he's so caught up in his confusion and frustration and anger that he misses the rumbling growl behind him, the spittle of rabid wolf, of a creature destroying time with tooth and claw, and then, just as he catches it--
"NO!"
--Rose is there, in his place, being torn up in front of him, her screams silenced by shock and pain and oh--no, this is not right, this can't be right, this is the purest wrong he's ever felt, and then the monster retreats, dropping her ragged body into his arms, like he could ever fix her now, and oh, that's her blood and her weak smile and her hand all battered reaching up to touch his face, but she's shaking ever so much, and he's falling to his knees, and there's so much blood...
"Doctor," she starts as he tucks her gently into his arms. "It was... comin' after you an' I couldn't, I just... couldn't..."
She runs a finger down his cheek and gasps, and her breathing shallows, and she's pale--gods, she's so pale...
"You're cryin'," she whispers to his chest. Big brown eyes gaze up at him like he's the one dying in her arms, like she's losing the one she--
And he is. Crying. His shoulders shaking as he sobs. And her eyelids flutter feverishly, but she won't feel the mutation--she'll die, right here, and perhaps that is the better alternative. But oh, Rose!
This time, he does hear the wolf behind him.
The second night, they die together at the Torchwood Estate and birth a world of metal men and desolate beaches where crying girls say goodbye. It's midnight.
Some nights, they live on. Some nights, he falls or she falls or they fall together, wrapped within one another, hand-in-hand. But some nights, there is life. Some nights, she sheds her youth and dies in a field of sunflowers. Her favorite, he knows.
And some nights, she never dies. She lives on forever, a gift/curse of Time. Time moves on, brings red-haired girls with lovely daughters into her world, into his world. Their love grows hot/cold, a storm, their lovemaking harsh and beautiful at once, their words soft and bitter. A duplicity, a contradiction.
In some nights, he dies before she can even taste death. She watches the universe tire of life. She aids its rebirth and sheds a tear for her mate.
He always loved a party.
But the final night tastes fresh. They start on a beach in Norway, a beach they know too well, and grow into a love always remembered, a love with wings and kisses in Barcelona (the city, mind you) and cherry lips against wet skin in the bath. Another night, and a child is born; another night, and a TARDIS bursts into life; but this night, this last night, they laugh at graying hairs and voting for conservatives and chiropractors, they find the noblest of friends in this night, and perhaps, they are ready for death when it comes for them as they sleep.
They are holding hands when the clock strikes twelve.