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Rogue had thought it would be instantaneous. The blast was supposed to take him out in a flash of light and violence too quick for any of it to reach his brain, and he would have been fine with that. But at the last second, on a foolish instinct, the Doctor had tried to shield him. Or maybe just to die holding him. Now he’s about to die, being held, his Time Lord boyfriend’s body being far more durable than his own, but not enough to protect him. Under the Doctor’s arms, his body has been torn into parts he can’t feel anymore and parts that seem to be on fire, no telling which of them remain attached to the part that is still thinking, and he had thought it would be so much quicker.
The Doctor’s face is close to his, but whatever he is saying is drowned out by the ringing in his ears, penetrating and consuming, he doesn’t expect to hear anything else in this world again. He can tell it’s bad for him too. The Doctor seems to be glowing from the inside, golden light under his skin, wisps of it dancing on the back of his hands and up his bare and burned arms. And then he pushes it away.
No.
Please do it, he whispers. Maybe. His lungs are burning or gone, but his lips must be moving, because the Doctor nods and strokes his face with sticky hands and wastes a few more words he can’t understand. Please change, he tries again, hoping to see the Doctor’s light flare back up and tell him that he, at least, will keep going.
Because Rogue knows he can’t. His own last moments of life are trickling from a body beyond repair and out of tricks, but the Doctor will carry him, won’t he, in his indestructible hearts, he will carry him across the universe. But the light doesn’t return, however hard he looks for it.
And then slowly, slowly the fire in his limbs burns down and with it the pain, until he must be nothing but ashes and a lingering spark in the descending darkness, reflecting in the Doctor’s eyes; until at last this too is scattered and carried away into the night.