Disclaimer: DO NOT WANT!
Foreword: I don't write often, but I wrote this and decided that if even one person reads it and likes it, that's reason enough to post it. There are sure to be consistency problems of all kinds, and there are religious themes, so that's a !WARNING!, but try to enjoy it, nonetheless. Also, the lack of grammar (in p.4 esp.) and exclusive pronoun usage are intentional.
Summary: The Master and Lucy revel in insanity at the end of everything.
"The End," he says, sing-songing the words like the happily-ever-after of his favorite child's story. "The universe is in its final throes, and we have bedside seats." He grins widely, studying her reaction, his fingers tapping expectantly against the blue police box.
She looks around at what he has given her, at the nothingness, and instinctively thinks that this is the worst place that he could have brought her. Out of "all of time and space," couldn't they have gone some place nicer, anywhere else but here? "This is..." her lips part slowly while she hesitates, not because she is afraid of upsetting him (no, never her Harry), but because there is nothing she can say. He notices her falter, and he slowly tugs his fingers free from their gloves and the gloves from his hands. He touches her with his fingertips, tracing trails of heat along her neck, and he cups her petite jaw too tightly in his palm. His touch, so loving and filled with the promise of violence, is not Harry's touch, not her husband's, and cold panic slides down her spine.
"My darling wife?" he asks smoothly with vague concern in his voice, and there is meaning in that question that is lost on her. She focuses on the fingers burning through her skin, and her mind, clutching like a drowning child to her Protestant faith, screams that this man is the Devil. She is startled out of this blind, righteous fear by four light taps on her cheek, and she looks up into a face that she had once known as well as she knew her own. With the slow obedience of a scolded child, she studies the hard set of his jaw behind his kind smile, only now recognizing the mockery that has always been there. When she finally meets his eyes, the-
The universe is burning, as All Things seethe with ambition and passion and need. They know this not because they see or hear or smell or taste or touch but because it is and always was and always will be, even when it will have never been. The fire is threads and the threads go through, through them around them entwining them entangling. She's suffocating, and time (that's what scorches, what writhes) is hot and she is freezing. She has always been so, they think, frigid and fragile on her pedestal, but then he extends his hand, eternity is pooling, infinite, in his palm and now they are ablaze-an insignificant consciousness folds and snaps beneath the promise of forever. The heat coalesces, caresses and she is breaking, mending, cracking, healing, remade in the whir of shining blades lovingly lacerating wax-soft flesh and kindling bone. Steaming, red life eddies around their feet, shimmering with dying heat, and she notices it is pulsing as if still rushing through bodies, but quicker, rippling with a rhythm as old as memory. They are foxtrotting, swirling, laughing to the soundtrack of human despair in 4/4 time. Intoxicated with death, their lips meet and his mouth is feverishly warm and metallic, and he is all-consuming focus and brutal, bruising force. She is kissing a black hole, and He will take everything and give nothing back, but she could only ever be what he makes her into. Appreciating this, she thanks him with her first, gasping breath for letting her believe that she had a choice. At this admission, he laughs, a sound that touches time and refracts, and she can almost see the veins of the universe through which it flows.
"Lucy," he says it like an invocation, like the proverbial Adam uttering the first, true name of his dearest possession. His voice is all that she, scattered among the flickering, dying stars, will ever hear. She looks at him with too-bright eyes and pink, parted lips, embers of fading starlight caught in the tracks of her ecstatic tears. With an amused look, he replaces his gloves to ward off the chill of space. "What would you say to having a vacation home here? Considering the condition of the housing market, it would be quite affordable," he muses with a smirk, his eyes glittering as he watches her without looking at her-she is his, and he has always known.
"Oh, Harry-" She stops and frowns, because that isn't him, that name obscured in blood and ash. So she asks, with all the shyness and sharp curiosity of a young girl speaking to the opposite sex, "Uhm, excuse me, but who are you, exactly?"
"I am the Master," She trembles as he brings her hand to his mouth in a gentleman's greeting, the civility of the gesture belied by his wicked smile. She nervously pats at her hair with her free hand. "But Harold Saxon will serve me, for now. I must keep up appearances, and I wouldn't want to give away too much, too soon," he says and touches a lingering finger to her lips, assuring her obedience. Then, with a playful grin, he offers his arm, and hers fits perfectly in his. "You'd be surprised to what extent some people will go to ruin the fun," he continues with mock-sorrow as they walk aimlessly across the alien soil. She watches his every move with undisguised awe, staring unblinkingly as the universe, dying, falls at their feet, grasping desperately at the passing Lord's black coattails. In His wake, space rips open, and through this rift there is glistening metal and the faint refrain of Their Song, chorused by the last of humanity. The melodious cries of the bereaved clash with the whining buzz of death, and from the empyrean podium, He laughs in mankind's hopeful, upturned faces while they march to the beat of His drum. She blinks rapidly until the darkness returns, and she stifles a sudden fit of giggles in his sleeve.
"Oh, Master, this is Heaven!" she exclaims, unable to restrain herself, and she laughs shrilly into the oppressive silence; she spins in place with arms outstretched, enraptured. Dizzy and breathless, she catches his arm with both hands and clings tightly to him, to the center of her reeling existence. Burying her face in the glorious warmth of his jacket, she looks up at him, and her breath catches-the intimate blackness is radiant compared to his eyes, and a murderous anticipation sweetens the curve of his lips. She shivers, even as a flush of pleasure stains her skin.
"Yes, it is," he says through a black grin of dazzlingly white teeth, and his gaze sweeps the desolate wasteland like so much refuse. Blades whir close by, but her eyes never leave his face. He glances down at her, and she is being pulled in and apart, everything she is, circling the voracious, gaping mouth of the black hole. "With all of the humans who are literally dying to get here, it would be terribly unfair of us to keep it to ourselves, wouldn't you agree?" They had walked a wide loop and now came to a stop before the ubiquitous blue doors. "So I'll just bring a bit of Heaven to Earth," he says with his face turned to look inside of the open box, his face aglow like Christmas day, "and won't they be grateful!" Without his eyes to keep her, she turns her head to see the air behind her shiver, suddenly vacated. The blades cease momentarily before their musical humming starts again from inside the open door, and she begins singing along to what is, as best as she can make out, "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear." His voice joins her, singing the carol on a tune picked at random, and the jarring noise of their discordant voices echoes in the endless emptiness. With a polite gesture and a "ladies first," she walks into the entrance of the slaughterhouse, never looking back, and he shuts the door behind them.
"Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing."