Title: Golden Death
Rating: T
Summary: It's never simple, is it? Everything seems perfect, his arms around her, and then it just all goes wrong… Ten/Rose.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Doctor Who (the BBC does) and I have made no money from this little fic. Pity, I could use the cash…
Right, hello again. This is a sequel to my other fic 'Breath of Life', which I decided to continue. Hang on, that's sorta obvious… The continuation bit at least. Ah well. Anyway. I don't think you have to have read that one to make sense of this one, but it might be a good idea I suppose.
And to the readers of 'Breath of Life', some of you might be able to get a clue to the ideas in this one from the title… Heehee. I enjoy being evil.
But I'll try not to disappoint. Sequels screw up rather often, so I'll try not too. Enjoy!
Golden Death
Prologue - Tearing
The coffee was finished now, the patterned mug dispatched amidst a pile of rumpled sheets on the floor of their bedroom. There was the smell of sweat and joy in that room; the scent lingering after the occupants had left. The clothes that had been strewn across the floor had been gathered up and pulled on roughly, his tie simply draped around his neck, her jacket tied around her waist with a loose knot.
The corridors still rang with happy, racing footsteps. He had chased her around the TARDIS, jacket flapping out behind him, silly grin on his face. She had led him in a merry dance through passageways that none of them had thought existed, before he had caught up with her in the control room.
His arms had shot around her waist, catching her. She had fallen back against him with a giggle and a flirtatious pout. He had raised his dark eyebrows at the working of her mind, and then lowered his lips to hers, tracing flesh over flesh.
They had made their own silent symphony, the TARDIS the orchestra in the accompaniment; the kissing couple the double woodwind soloists.
They had been too absorbed in the simple touch of skin on skin to notice when the orchestra began to fall apart, when the symphony fell into discordant clashes. The soloists had carried on while their backing crumbled.
They only noticed the death of the music when she was roughly torn out of his arms, icy blue light encasing her in a bubble of stifling brilliance. The gold in her eyes had flared up in distress, her hands pressing to the blueness, beating at her prison. Her lips had formed his name in a soundless scream, and he had screamed hers in return as blood red radiance pulled him down.
The music was extinguished, and the TARDIS hung in space. Empty. Cold. Torn apart.
The Oncoming Storm; red as blood; down to hell.
The Bad Wolf; blue as the moon; up to heaven.
>>>>>>>>>
But Hell was not always what it seemed.
And Heaven wasn't populated by angels.
>>>>>>>>>
