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ladyoftimeThat ball of fire that sits beside me-
He beats the earth, and Jesus loves him.
His days are long, his bones are broken;
I served him right, I go to heaven.
Their relationship is like a dance, twisting, turning. A long dance over the ages, a tango, a waltz, a swing step. The music changes, the partners age – a beard there, a new gender here– but the dance lives on.
They’re dancing now. He twirls her on the down-beat, almost enough force applied to dislocate her arm. In a minute, she’s in a position to snap his neck – muscle memory changes, but the memory of Venusian Aikido doesn’t die. They smile, and make it look so effortless that no one can tell the work going into their steps. It’s a fight in disguise. It always has been.
“My dear Doctor,” he murmurs, drawing her in close enough to hear. “I thought you’d never make it.”
She shifts his hand upwards from her hip to her waist. “You could’ve invited me, you know. Sent a postcard.”
“But my way was much more elegant, don’t you think?”
They’re dancing in the only club left in the Glorious City of Phinehas. Three-fourths of the population within a six hundred mile radius burned today, their numbers reaching into the millions. Tonight, the survivors celebrate their lives, and the last of the Time Lords dance.
“Besides,” he says, and spins her back out again. “It’s not as if you have a post office box.”
“You could have found me, if you wanted.” She stretches the spin out for a few seconds longer than intended, throwing his rhythm slightly off-balance. “Nobody had to die!”
“Careful, Doctor,” he says, their arms and bodies crossing each other in a particularly tricky bridge. He could easily place her in a stranglehold any number of times; so could she. “Remember our agreement.”
Her raised voice drags the attention of their fellow dancers to them. She forces a reassuring smile for their benefit and lets the Master’s hand drift back down to her hip. “I remember.”
She remembers that this isn’t a dance floor, and those aren’t dancers. They’re hostages. At any moment, he could touch off the charges planted around this city and destroy these last remnants of Phinehas. The transporter bracelets wrapped around their wrists are set to whisk them away to safety; no one else will survive.
Frankly, she’s surprised he bothered to plan for her survival at all.
“What do you want?” she asks, finally, her voice flat. He fingers a strand of her hair, almost gently. In two steps, he could easily snap her neck. In two steps, she could easily dislocate his arm. “You can’t have gone to all this trouble for nothing.”
“Couldn’t I?” he smiles, that look that says nothing good’s going to come of it. “Maybe I just wanted a night out with my best girl.”
“Liar.”
He laughs, then, tauntingly. “Then why are you still dancing with me?”
“Because,” she says. “I wanted to do this.”
In a moment, she has the detonator out of his pocket. Years of practice with a deft hand – in all shapes and sizes – have honed her slight of hand to an art. She waves the device in the air with a hint of smugness and crosses over to the waiting arms of another partner.
Her closing bow.
But he’s not done yet, and he passes through six partners in succession to reach her again before she can make it out the door. “Do you honestly believe this is over, Doctor?”
“Of course I don’t,” she says. “But next time, just sign my dance card, would you?” With an unnecessarily theatrical flourish, she activates the teleportation device on her wrist. From his stronghold, she can dispose of the charges at her leisure.
Of course, by then he’s already rigged up a secondary detonator that blows the entire city to an ashy crater just as she’s about to render the entire system of explosives inert.
So the dance goes.
He beats the earth, and Jesus loves him.
His days are long, his bones are broken;
I served him right, I go to heaven.
Their relationship is like a dance, twisting, turning. A long dance over the ages, a tango, a waltz, a swing step. The music changes, the partners age – a beard there, a new gender here– but the dance lives on.
They’re dancing now. He twirls her on the down-beat, almost enough force applied to dislocate her arm. In a minute, she’s in a position to snap his neck – muscle memory changes, but the memory of Venusian Aikido doesn’t die. They smile, and make it look so effortless that no one can tell the work going into their steps. It’s a fight in disguise. It always has been.
“My dear Doctor,” he murmurs, drawing her in close enough to hear. “I thought you’d never make it.”
She shifts his hand upwards from her hip to her waist. “You could’ve invited me, you know. Sent a postcard.”
“But my way was much more elegant, don’t you think?”
They’re dancing in the only club left in the Glorious City of Phinehas. Three-fourths of the population within a six hundred mile radius burned today, their numbers reaching into the millions. Tonight, the survivors celebrate their lives, and the last of the Time Lords dance.
“Besides,” he says, and spins her back out again. “It’s not as if you have a post office box.”
“You could have found me, if you wanted.” She stretches the spin out for a few seconds longer than intended, throwing his rhythm slightly off-balance. “Nobody had to die!”
“Careful, Doctor,” he says, their arms and bodies crossing each other in a particularly tricky bridge. He could easily place her in a stranglehold any number of times; so could she. “Remember our agreement.”
Her raised voice drags the attention of their fellow dancers to them. She forces a reassuring smile for their benefit and lets the Master’s hand drift back down to her hip. “I remember.”
She remembers that this isn’t a dance floor, and those aren’t dancers. They’re hostages. At any moment, he could touch off the charges planted around this city and destroy these last remnants of Phinehas. The transporter bracelets wrapped around their wrists are set to whisk them away to safety; no one else will survive.
Frankly, she’s surprised he bothered to plan for her survival at all.
“What do you want?” she asks, finally, her voice flat. He fingers a strand of her hair, almost gently. In two steps, he could easily snap her neck. In two steps, she could easily dislocate his arm. “You can’t have gone to all this trouble for nothing.”
“Couldn’t I?” he smiles, that look that says nothing good’s going to come of it. “Maybe I just wanted a night out with my best girl.”
“Liar.”
He laughs, then, tauntingly. “Then why are you still dancing with me?”
“Because,” she says. “I wanted to do this.”
In a moment, she has the detonator out of his pocket. Years of practice with a deft hand – in all shapes and sizes – have honed her slight of hand to an art. She waves the device in the air with a hint of smugness and crosses over to the waiting arms of another partner.
Her closing bow.
But he’s not done yet, and he passes through six partners in succession to reach her again before she can make it out the door. “Do you honestly believe this is over, Doctor?”
“Of course I don’t,” she says. “But next time, just sign my dance card, would you?” With an unnecessarily theatrical flourish, she activates the teleportation device on her wrist. From his stronghold, she can dispose of the charges at her leisure.
Of course, by then he’s already rigged up a secondary detonator that blows the entire city to an ashy crater just as she’s about to render the entire system of explosives inert.
So the dance goes.
