Chapter Twenty-Two, Part Two: Michelangelo's The Creation of KennyMature

Rassilon watches the Doctor’s hand arch out from itself in a ribbon of skin, and sets his jaw. His feet are fast becoming deuterium weights plated in lead, now- but he will not falter. Nor will he allow a creation of his own hand’s making best him utterly. 

He forces foot after booted foot toward the edge where the Doctor is lying. There is blood beneath the man; it should be pooling. Instead, nature is sharpening the bleed into red spears and thrusting them into the dark. 

His fellow Time Lord is naked, clinging to the very tip of the pulpit’s retractable floor-foil. 

“I found a working interface, and have initiated the aperture’s emergency closures,” he calls, meeting the other man’s pink-eyed, raggedy gaze. 

“Let me guess… you don’t know if it will close in time to save us!” the Doctor screeches in a harsh foreign tongue over the wheeze of harsh stellar winds. “In  that case,” he coughs, and red-orange ribbons of blood from his battered throat cascade between his lips in licks of abstract fire, lighting up the void in temporary little streams. 

His fingers are pressing so hard on his stomach, there are palm-shaped bruises across his bump, just shy of his navel like protective leaves covering a rose hip. His runner’s leg is hooked in the pulpit’s hollow back. 

“You aren’t just holding Kenny, are you, Doctor?”  Rassilon asks, his blue eyes watering in the sucking, roiling pull of the barely-contained black hole beneath their feet. “ I will do what I can as well, but you were always better at Sepulchasm.” 

The Doctor gags on a grin, half-choking behind such a slight shake of his head that Rassilon almost thinks he might have missed it. 

But Rassilon can see the shadows beneath the younger man’s eyes, growing like whale-roots. 

He won’t last. He can’t. 

The End

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