There's a ghost in the room with them.
River isn't exactly averse to extra participants in bedroom scenarios, but she does prefer them to be an active presence. This is something new. Something that gives pause when cross words are the first that jump into his mouth; she can almost see this lips move as he counts to ten before speaking. He listens to instructions. Occasionally even follows them.
And here, now, there's a routine to their intimacy he's learnt elsewhere. A softness of touch, the gentle caress of parts of her body that he's never shown much interest in before. At first she thought it a quirk of regeneration but it's too stereotyped. He doesn't make love like a man exploring his body for the first time; he knows what he likes, what he wants. And her too, for that matter, which is the deciding factor. Previous incarnations have shown distressingly scientific tendencies in re-learning the intricacies of sex – she's confiscated more than one notebook on the subject. Here at last is a man who knows what to do with his hands.
She's not complaining. Whoever she was, River likes her style. But he doesn't talk about her. Monogamy doesn't make much sense in a trans-temporal relationship and River doesn't have much truck with jealousy. Here and now he is hers, always, and that's enough. This is just as well because he's far too simple to hold back on those other loves (and he always loves them, whether they share his bed or not). Rose, Martha, Donna, her parents… But not this one. Which makes it all the more unsettling to get to know her by proxy.
He holds her close in the dark. Another quirk, he lies still and quiet beside her until she falls asleep. A pleasant change from his usual 'right, where to now?' attitude of old. Until the prickling awareness crept in: she is being savoured. Every tick and heartbeat counting down to the last page of her diary he is determined to be present, in the moment, hers. And that is the most un-Doctorish thing of all.
There's nothing else for it. Time to light the blue touch paper.
"Who was she?"
He stiffens reflexively, at odds with his light tone: "Who was who?"
"Are you really going to make this difficult?"
He scowls down that oversized nose at her. Weighing up whether this is worth another month living with the otters, she imagines. "No," he huffs, and licks his lips. "She was my friend."
"Just a friend?"
A sigh. And then, more brokenly: "I don't remember."
A part of her wants to tell him the answer, but she holds her tongue and finds another question instead. "How?"
"A memory wipe."
"That bad a break-up?"
"Universe shattering," he growls, and she knows he's not just being melodramatic.
"You need to talk about it," she says, unperturbed, tracing a finger against his collarbone.
"Yes," he agrees, taking hold of her finger and kissing it, butterfly soft. "But not now."