Author's Notes:
Seven/Death, Eight/Grace, some bizarre combination of those. I don't even know. Warning for canonical death and regeneration.

How could Death ever just let the Doctor go?

He's always been her sister's man. But she still wants him, more than ever, after so many years. He's given her such sweet gifts—and stolen what's rightfully hers, too, the little thief.

He's coming to her again. She knows she can never keep him, but she clings as long as she can. She's waiting in a hail of bullets, an anaesthetic gas, a woman's hands. A woman with skill and talent and the best intentions, and the Lady lets herself become her.

He's forgotten her with everything else, forgotten their old bargain. Innocently he kisses Death under the stars.