How I Burn for You: Doctor/Master (Dreams) PG
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Challenge: 53 Dreams
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, unless you don’t like an even 200 words.
Spoilers:. Up to and Including “Last of the Time Lords”
Note: I had a blurb sitting on my harddrive; I figured the prompt was a good time to dust it off for a bit.
How I Burn For You
A gunshot. Blood/Pain/Tears. The people around him became useless blurs, useless mumbles. All that mattered was the body in his arms, him.
He screamed until his throat ran raw. He screamed until it hurt too much to be simply pain. He screamed until the pain bled into suffering. Until he died. (He died.) He died.
The Doctor laid in his arms, bloodless and still, a bullet lodged deep in his abdomen. The Doctor dead in his arms. Forever. He refused to regenerate. (He refused.) He refused.
He refused (him).
Every evening it was the same nightmare. Every evening he woke up in a pool of sweat, in cold blood. He woke up. He should be grateful for his own genius. He should be grateful to be alive. And yet . . . Yet the nightmare remained.
Why?
He slept on his side, knees tucked to his chest and fingers wrapped around the blanket like it was his shield. He buried his face in the soft pillow and whispered words that were the closest whispers his people had to prayers.
It was not guilt. No. That was not it at all.
I’m sorry for leaving (you)./I forgive you for leaving (me).
Challenge: 53 Dreams
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, unless you don’t like an even 200 words.
Spoilers:. Up to and Including “Last of the Time Lords”
Note: I had a blurb sitting on my harddrive; I figured the prompt was a good time to dust it off for a bit.
How I Burn For You
A gunshot. Blood/Pain/Tears. The people around him became useless blurs, useless mumbles. All that mattered was the body in his arms, him.
He screamed until his throat ran raw. He screamed until it hurt too much to be simply pain. He screamed until the pain bled into suffering. Until he died. (He died.) He died.
The Doctor laid in his arms, bloodless and still, a bullet lodged deep in his abdomen. The Doctor dead in his arms. Forever. He refused to regenerate. (He refused.) He refused.
He refused (him).
Every evening it was the same nightmare. Every evening he woke up in a pool of sweat, in cold blood. He woke up. He should be grateful for his own genius. He should be grateful to be alive. And yet . . . Yet the nightmare remained.
Why?
He slept on his side, knees tucked to his chest and fingers wrapped around the blanket like it was his shield. He buried his face in the soft pillow and whispered words that were the closest whispers his people had to prayers.
It was not guilt. No. That was not it at all.
I’m sorry for leaving (you)./I forgive you for leaving (me).