A/N – This plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. It's a one shot right now but if it's popular, I got a whole story planned out for it.
This takes place in Rose's world, where it turns out, vampires are real. The characters are not mine but the story line is.
Enjoy and review if you liked it.
~.~
Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
Emily Dickinson
The pain catches him in the chest and sends him crumpling to the ground.
At first, he thinks he's been hit by a baseball bat but knows better because the pain doesn't fade, it bites deeper and rips things that are much needed. His insides are burning. It doesn't let up, taking the breath from him. He's dazed and grasping and he can't decide what hurts worse, all of his nerves going haywire or trying to regain his breath with only one heart beating.
But he's always had one heart, he reminds himself.
The footsteps approach. One set, one pair. Light and delicate, a child's soft pace that comes closer and closer until a pair of black dress shoes skirt the corner of his vision. Seconds later, a face, so beautiful, so angelic and pleasing that he feels the human part of him calming down. The time lord part knows better – has always known better. He's faced angels before. Always beautiful, always lovely, always ends badly.
He wants to move. Needs to actually and it's very apparent that even his impressive mental wards aren't going to be able to cast off the burning pain that rakes his body. Even so, it takes more to stop his tongue from working. He thinks he's asking her what she wants from him – everybody always wants something after all – but he isn't sure the words are forming. Either way, the angel doesn't answer. Not that he expected her to.
"Jane." Another voice calls to her, another pair of perfect, black dress shoes, about the same size, stop near the first set. The angel leaves his line of sight, the alley is dark and pieces of trash shift around in the late night air. Not for the first time, he feels the limits of his human body and sorely misses the clarity and strength that he supposes was never really his.
There are more voices now, speaking in soft tones that hardly carry. Could be the wind but he knows better. His mind is reeling in how quickly it's all happening. Oh sure, the last year has been eventful by most measure, down right relaxing compared to his usual fair. Less than two hours ago, he and Rose had been at a cafe. No hint that the night would end this way.
Hands grab him, roughly lifting him off the ground and brings his focus, as is it, back to the present. Wedged between two large men in dark cloaks, he catches sight of the angel named Jane standing by a boy that in all ways looks to be a male version of her. Same petite build, same haunting red eyes.
"Not human." He mutters, thickly. "Not alien – what are you?" He's fairly sure that part he spoke out loud because a sharp shake from one of his captors forces him silent again.
A look of contempt and maybe smugness crosses Jane's face and he decides she's looking less angelic with each passing second.
"Bring him." She commands in sharp tones, leaving the alley in a blur of motion, the dark cape she wears flying out behind her. It reminds him of the coat he misses and yes, he knows all too well it's possible to miss what was never yours.
He's carried limply away, moving from alley to alley, always in the shadows, always a fraction faster than human eyes could follow. In less time than his entire capture had taken, he finds himself being carried down a vast, dark corridor. It's an old place, a place forgotten by time, despite the electric lights that cast down their weak glow. He can feel it in his bones, can taste the history. Something remains of what had once been the vast senses of a time lord and as they drag him along, he can hear the stones singing with history.
And violence.
The throne room is immense; the marble of it's walls screams it's age at him on all sides. History here is bleeding in to the now and it's all old, oh yes, so old. The three dark thrones in the center look out of place in all that cream white.
His head is clearing, whatever they did to him is fading. Which means they don't think he's a treat. Mentally, he counts all the dark cloaks shifting around the room and he knows they're right in that assumption.
The escort drops him to the ground near the foot of the dais. Straightening himself, he fixes the collar of his jacket and meets the court as best he can from his position on the floor. Three men, if they can be called that, all wearing elegant dress, all pale skinned and imposing, sit in silence, watching him, watching them.
The blond looks cruel and the middle one looks insane.
The one to his left looks to be his best bet. He looks bored, unconcerned, half caring about the strange man that has literally been dropped in their company. There is a sadness to him, a loss so deep it has become part of him, as real and sustaining as the marrow in his bones. If he can talk to him, there's hope. Convince him he's a tourist, wrong place, wrong time, act a little dense, little Western maybe – pass it off as the best theater he's ever seen and maybe, he can be back to Rose in time to watch the sunrise.
That hope is utterly dashed when the one in the middle, the one that looks at him with a cheery smile, with humor in his eyes. "My my, what ever do we have here?"
"I make it a habit not to never answer rhetorical questions." He answers from the floor. "Or at least now I do. Demand from my wife, really."
"It talks." Comments the blond one and those two simple words convince him he never, ever, wants to be in a room alone with him. By no means should he engage in conversation with that one, and yet...
"It does more than talk." He retorts, meeting the angry stare straight on. "Who are you? Who are any of you?" He calls around him to the larger group in the room, standing to his full height and trying to look like a man that should always be listened to, trusted, feared even. "Snatching people from the streets, terrorizing them. What right have you? I demand to be returned immediately." The last word is drawn out with as much command as he can force in to five syllables. When no one answers, he licks his lips with a wistful smile. "Always worked for him, you know."
"Enough! Aro, do it. If I have to hear much more of it, I'll silence it for good."
Aro, the one from the middle, the one that looks him over like a child appraising a toy that he simply must have, walks over from the dais and lightly places his hand on the shoulder of his captive.
With that simple touch, the Doctor's fate is sealed.
A look of surprise boarding ecstasy crosses Aros face. A second later, he finds himself embraced in the strong arms of Aro, the mans mouth resting against his ear. "Oh yes." The coying voice whispers. "Oh you are amazing, I knew it as soon as the Guards saw you in the square. The lives you've lived, what you truly are, captured there in that decaying flesh... You see, a war is coming. No one else sees it, oh but I do. So clearly do I see it. Every human I touch, every time I look at their pathetic, short lived lives, so full of panic and fear, I see it. In every car that passes and in every advancement they make – I. See. It."
Aro releases the man from his arms, and the Doctor goes stumbling back. "What are you?" He demands again, voice soft and urging but is quickly replaced by another demand as Aro signals to a Guard that walks towards him, silently.
"Don't do this." He pleads, warning. "Do not." He begins back peddling, away from the advancing figure, cloaked in black and menacing. "You can't –"
"I can." Corrects Aro, sitting back on his throne. "A war is coming and we simply cannot afford not to have you on our side."
The words echo up, mixing with the screams.
He knew, they never ever, should have gone on their honeymoon in Italy.
~.~
"Mum!" The voice is frantic, full of anger and tears unshed. "Please, please pick up!" Inside a phone booth, ignoring the irony, the young woman screams her frustration as the rings roll to the machine. The voice of Tony and her mum cheerfully offering her to leave a message. The chime sounds in her ear and for a second, it's all too much. No words come. The phone slips from her fingers and she slides down the side of the booth. Echoing over and over in her mind.
They've taken him.