Chapter Twenty-Two, Part One: Thirty White HorsesMature

The two flashes of dark light, the Doctor realises as he wakes, are not burning coals; no- nothing so innocuous as that. 

They are two eyes. 

Smiling eyes. 

Two calm, red-ringed blue eyes filled with the promise of death. 

Thank the stars... those youthful eyelids are closed. He still has... 

“Borusa said something about my Cossie being one of your experiments, before I tried to kill you back then. In the Old Days. When were you going to share?” Rassilon whispers, bending and dampening the Doctor’s forehead with a wetted white flannel. 

“There is a time for your anger...” the Doctor says softly, through the rasping file of a throat wrapped by the other man’s omnipresent hands, “...but it is not now. We have a task to complete. Then you may blame me in whatever fashion you choose. Focus on the Present, Rassilon. Focus on the N... GAACK!” 

The big, strong hands become a big, strong vice- the vicious clench of husbandly animosity vivacious on Rassilon’s face whilst he applies himself to the Doctor’s throat as one would a ripe orange to a table juicer. 

“You and your ever so thoughtful gifts. I ought to beware them by now.” Rassilon quirks brightly, releasing his fingers as if murmuring a poem to a milkfaced girl. 

The Doctor collapses to the floor like a rag toy, his head striking in ricochet across the tiling, skipping his skull like a flat stone across a lake. Despite the healthy streak of blood booming from the shallow scalp split, he is not knocked unconscious; instead he moves to sit, rubbing his neck with all his available hand while the other hand pushes up from the floor.

The End

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