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mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Written because I wanted this fic to exist: all the time I was reading "The Night Circus", I kept thinking of that circus/old timey movie theatre episode of Torchwood. And also because, whilst I was on Tumblr when I *should* have been writing something else, I ran across a lovely post by one "aakhaten", in which they hoped to see a "Night Circus"/"Doctor Who" crossover. I vetted my idea and they got very excited. And so, here we are!
Set sort of during the time period depicted in the in-universe film clips in "From Out of the Rain". Warning for violence and some Jack-related strangeness.
Outside Swansea, Wales, 1925
The Resurrectionist
Life Trumps Death
The tent that bears the peculiar placard is one of the smaller ones, a newer addition to the show, standing slightly on its own like an awkward newcomer to a family.
Inside stands a ring of sawdust, black and white in varying stripes, like the dust that covers the ground outside, as are the velvet covered seats that surround the ring on all sides. The patrons enter wondering what they will behold, murmuring amongst each other about what kind of marvels a "resurrectionist" could possibly offer.
At length, there appears in the ring a tall robust man in a grey cutaway coat fitted tight to his form, over riding trousers of a lighter shade grey and black riding boots polished to a mirror-like shine. A handsome man with a twist of a smirk about his full, sensual mouth, and with eyes of an impossible shade of blue, like the heart of a distant star, older than his handsome face. A pair of lovely female assistants flank him. One clad in black riding attire, a black top hat on her raven-black hair and a silvery mask that suggests a death's head her face. The other dressed in a white gown that suggests a winding sheet, one corner wound about her head and wearing a round mask, half white, half black, suggesting a half moon. In their hands the girls each carry one of a pair of long, silvery steel pins, like two-foot long knitting needles, the points sharpened to a vampire's fang. The girls hold the pins out to the man in riding attire; he takes them, with a grin and a quip, then kisses each, on the one spot where her mask leaves her face bare, one on her forehead, the other on her chin.
Turning back to the audience, he holds up the pins, walking the outer edge of the ring, allowing the audience to inspect the steel pins. The more adventurous even reach out to touch the points, nicking themselves. The man in riding attire quips at this, warning them to leave the injuries to the professionals.
At length, the performer takes the center of the ring, his handsome face growing serious. He holds the pins up for all to see one last time. Then drawing in a breath, he turns the pins inward, aiming them toward his chest, angled toward each other. Then in one swift gesture, he plunges the pins into his chest, ramming them into his flesh. The audience gasps, women cry out, men stare in amazement, children hide their eyes on their parents' arms.
The performer's hands fall limp from the hafts of the pins, blood trickling from the wounds, running down his jacket. His assistants come to his side like ministering angels, gentle reapers come to collect the soul. The man drops to his knees, his blue eyes turning glassy; the assistants place supporting hands behind his shoulders, steadying him. His head drops on his chest and a final sigh escapes his slack mouth.
The man in riding attire stays still, unmoving, unbreathing, the figures remove the pins, slowly, carefully, then hold them up for the viewers to inspect. A sheen of his blood coats the surface of the pins, red against the silver, the only color in the ring, aside from the man's fading blue eyes. People murmur in wonder and shock. A girl at the back of the audience might start to cry.
And then as sudden as an earthquake, the man's head jerks up and back, mouth agape as he draws in a loud, groaning inbreath, like a death's rattle in reverse. He rises to his feet, flashing a broad, cheeky grin, as if he's just let the audience in on some cosmic joke that only he knows. The flesh visible through the rends in his jacket is whole and clean, freshly healed, not a trace of blood to be seen. The gathering roars with amazement and relief and approval.
Then a bluish light flashes, surrounding the trio of performers; when the light clears they have vanished, leaving only drops of the man's blood on the sawdust and the crowd's lingering amazement....
Set sort of during the time period depicted in the in-universe film clips in "From Out of the Rain". Warning for violence and some Jack-related strangeness.
Outside Swansea, Wales, 1925
Life Trumps Death
The tent that bears the peculiar placard is one of the smaller ones, a newer addition to the show, standing slightly on its own like an awkward newcomer to a family.
Inside stands a ring of sawdust, black and white in varying stripes, like the dust that covers the ground outside, as are the velvet covered seats that surround the ring on all sides. The patrons enter wondering what they will behold, murmuring amongst each other about what kind of marvels a "resurrectionist" could possibly offer.
At length, there appears in the ring a tall robust man in a grey cutaway coat fitted tight to his form, over riding trousers of a lighter shade grey and black riding boots polished to a mirror-like shine. A handsome man with a twist of a smirk about his full, sensual mouth, and with eyes of an impossible shade of blue, like the heart of a distant star, older than his handsome face. A pair of lovely female assistants flank him. One clad in black riding attire, a black top hat on her raven-black hair and a silvery mask that suggests a death's head her face. The other dressed in a white gown that suggests a winding sheet, one corner wound about her head and wearing a round mask, half white, half black, suggesting a half moon. In their hands the girls each carry one of a pair of long, silvery steel pins, like two-foot long knitting needles, the points sharpened to a vampire's fang. The girls hold the pins out to the man in riding attire; he takes them, with a grin and a quip, then kisses each, on the one spot where her mask leaves her face bare, one on her forehead, the other on her chin.
Turning back to the audience, he holds up the pins, walking the outer edge of the ring, allowing the audience to inspect the steel pins. The more adventurous even reach out to touch the points, nicking themselves. The man in riding attire quips at this, warning them to leave the injuries to the professionals.
At length, the performer takes the center of the ring, his handsome face growing serious. He holds the pins up for all to see one last time. Then drawing in a breath, he turns the pins inward, aiming them toward his chest, angled toward each other. Then in one swift gesture, he plunges the pins into his chest, ramming them into his flesh. The audience gasps, women cry out, men stare in amazement, children hide their eyes on their parents' arms.
The performer's hands fall limp from the hafts of the pins, blood trickling from the wounds, running down his jacket. His assistants come to his side like ministering angels, gentle reapers come to collect the soul. The man drops to his knees, his blue eyes turning glassy; the assistants place supporting hands behind his shoulders, steadying him. His head drops on his chest and a final sigh escapes his slack mouth.
The man in riding attire stays still, unmoving, unbreathing, the figures remove the pins, slowly, carefully, then hold them up for the viewers to inspect. A sheen of his blood coats the surface of the pins, red against the silver, the only color in the ring, aside from the man's fading blue eyes. People murmur in wonder and shock. A girl at the back of the audience might start to cry.
And then as sudden as an earthquake, the man's head jerks up and back, mouth agape as he draws in a loud, groaning inbreath, like a death's rattle in reverse. He rises to his feet, flashing a broad, cheeky grin, as if he's just let the audience in on some cosmic joke that only he knows. The flesh visible through the rends in his jacket is whole and clean, freshly healed, not a trace of blood to be seen. The gathering roars with amazement and relief and approval.
Then a bluish light flashes, surrounding the trio of performers; when the light clears they have vanished, leaving only drops of the man's blood on the sawdust and the crowd's lingering amazement....
