purplekitte

So I wrote this whole fic at 2 in the morning, at which point I evidentially write in second person imperfective, while watching the death scene from LotTL on loops. Meanwhile I already have three epics in the works for my new fandom, because I've ever finished an epic since when?

Title: “Pyrrhic Victory”
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Master/Doctor
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: character death
Word Count: 397
Spoilers: 3x13
Disclaimer: Dr. Who is not mine.

Pain hurts.

Except when other people’s pain is much, much funnier.

No, still hurts.

You’ve got to say you’ve lived a good life, though, when you’d have laughed hysterically at your funeral. He cried. Like a baby. You weren’t there, of course, but you know. He tried to be grave and stern but no matter how much he tried not to blink his tears didn’t dry out and once they started to leak he sobbed and screamed the way he did over your body.

And none of his human pets could do anything about it. Not that he’d have let them. He wouldn’t have let them come to the funeral. He’d have known deep in his hearts that he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together and would have isolated himself. Which would only make it worse. Not that there was another option when you are truly, utterly, and eternally alone. The last.

Still hurts. Your hearts speed up trying to get less blood more places. You want to follow your flirting by burying your head in his collar and your face in his soft skin and listen to see if the four hearts beating out of time would overwhelm the drums.

It hurts so much it’s hard to breathe. Let him cry and beg and babble while you get together your strength. He hates you more than anything but you are everything he revolves around because you’ve broken him and made him yours, much more important than making him love you or some such nonsense. This incarnation’s nice. The rips on the soul show so much nicer on it than you think they would have on some of the previous ones.

So beautiful. You want to kiss him, to lick the contours of his features, but your neck’s not working that well so you just smile.

It hurts bad like dying, which is a little too obvious an analogy. The drums are in your blood and it hurts. Your body cries out for the regeneration he promises you and you want it. You want it so much but you can beat the drums too. You close your eyes and you can see them there too.

He holds you tight and screams and breaks and you’d smile if you were able.

Death is eternal and unfathomable and unchangeable. It doesn’t bring you peace; it brings you victory.