A/N: I posted a prompt on watch_them_runficathon I wrote this yesterday while at work... Actually I mostly write at work and I'm going to be late because I want to post it before I leave, how do I still have a job?

My prompt was:
"I dream of dreaming dreams of her
In twilight she's a constant blur
The picture is clear
And I'm still fact she's fiction"
- Lyrics are from Mads Langer's Fact-Fiction.
The Doctor takes her diary and later travels with a River who isn't the fictional!River he fell in love with :)

This morning I checked the site and the lovely fullofspoilers had posted Of Diaries And Forgotten Dreamswhich I recommend.


He Loved Her In Every Scratch Of Lead.

He was moving, he was talking, but it felt like he was standing still and the universe was just carrying on without him.
This woman he knows her and every thought she had not been able to tell a soul for fear.

For fear of undoing them.

The way light flickered against her cheek dug deeper the sleepless nights beneath her eyes and if he were to concentrate hard enough he would feel the echoing beats of her hearts as they ran hand in hand.

He had believed in the myths and listened to the whispers in the cold, dark night, but it's the betrayal of reading her diary that cuts him down to the bone.

He's a guilty man running. He knows, oh, how he knows. He turned from one page to another reading himself as the enemy, a friend, something more than any mere human could possibly comprehend, to someone who slowly forgot her.

The story was incomplete. He should fill in her last adventure, the fate he lured her to. He could forge her slanted hand writing, the little upward curve of her lower case 'r', but it would be proof he had lied, would lie.

It would break her hearts, make her question every single moment they had shared. He wouldn't not tell her, because he was ashamed, though he was. He didn't tell her, because he couldn't hurt her, couldn't make her regret what they had.

Every page and the scraps of paper stuffed between, every ink stain, he loved her in every scratch of lead.

He's not the part he plays, though he's a better actor than he had ever given himself credit for, because she never suspected that every time they met he knew what would happen.

He knew to expect her last and his first kiss, though it still knocked the wind out of his sails. It was fantastic, quite possibly the best first kiss he'd ever had. It was familiar, but foreign all at once. He felt it deep in the cracks of his heart.

This should feel like the start of something, a new experience, but he had to go and ruin it. Now it was haunted by the ghost of her loss, of her losing him and he could barely stand to touch her.

His hand brushed her shoulder, he felt the soft grain of paper beneath his palm and the imprint of letters forming into their story. "He took my hand and I don't think he realized how tightly he held it or the tears mapping his grief. He never did like the spoilers."

He couldn't fool himself though. He was in love with a story, and even though she was the author he knew he could only ever give her the echo of that. It was only for the sake of the story that he lied and let her believe she held his hearts.