At Arm's Length
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Doctor Who
Copyright: BBC
When the Doctor heard his wife crying in the (figurative) middle of the night, thick choking sobs that carried through the wall, he simply had to get out of bed and find her. It had been two days since Manhattan, two days they had spent repairing the TARDIS, avoiding each other inside its infinite halls, and pretending when they met that everything was fine. He could not stand it anymore. It was the most natural thing in the world for him to sonic the door between them, cross over to the bed, and gather the wild-haired, shaking figure of River Song into his arms.
He expected her to hug him back, maybe crack a joke about their compromosing position, or - hopefully – confide in him about Amy and Rory. She had been there to comfort him during his own breakdown at the cemetery. He wanted to be there for hers.
He did not expect her to say, in a small, surprised voice completely free of reproach: "You've never done that before."
"What, come to your bedroom? Of course I have."
She did not laugh at his double entendre. "No," she said. "This."
Her head fell against his shoulder, her arms closing around his back. He understood – and froze like a statue in her arms, tense with shock, his mind racing through his memories to account for the astonishing thing she had just said.
"Never?" He drew back slightly, his hands on her shoulders, squnting through the unlit room into her face. "But … I thought we were in sync now. Area 51? Demon's Run? The Byzantium? We've done all that together. We must have … at some point … "
"Oh, sweetie." River might have smiled then – he could hear it in her voice – but if she did, it was one of the saddest smiles he'd ever heard. "That's a kind thought. But believe me, we haven't, and I understand why. It's one thing to go to bed with your murderer, quite another thing to hug her."
She shrugged off his hands and moved back across the satin bedspread, not looking at him, making a forced attempt to flick back her curls as if they had been chatting about the weather.
If an earlier River had spoken to him like this, he might have been angry. But the current River was not vindictive; she wasn't trying to hurt him, only telling him what she believed to be the truth. And that nearly broke his hearts.
"River. Melody." She flinched. "Is that what you think? When did I ever give you the impression that I hold anything against you from your past? That I don't forgive you, always and completely? When did I say that?"
"At Area 51," she said, in a flat monotone that came from suppressing further tears.
Area 51? Their wedding day? He frowned. What could he possibly have said then to –
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "That."
I don't want to marry you … You embarrass me … Why did you have to be this? Rassilon's Eye, he really had been at his worst that day. But then again, so had she.
"Be fair," he said, throwing up his hands. "You were destroying the universe on my account, no wonder I lost my temper!"
"You didn't have to pretend to marry me," she retorted, anger finally flooding through her like the river she had named herself for. It was oddly reassuring; at least her anger was something he understood. "If you wanted me to shoot you, all you'd have to do was show me the Tessalecta!"
"You thought – but then why – "
"I only went along with it because I was young, half mad and desperately in love. I thought if I could be strong enough, clever enough, attractive enough, you'd somehow … But today I saw my parents die for each other, Doctor. I saw my mother take my father's hand, even though he was old and sick and, frankly, a bit repulsive. If that's what a real, proper marriage is like, what you and I have isn't worth the name! I've tried so hard to be the River Song you wanted, tried to hide the damage, keep up the charade – but my parents are gone and I'll never see them again and I can't … I just can't … "
Her own tears interrupted her; she put her hands over her face and made a high-pitched, barely human sound of pain, rocking back and forth on the bed. It was more than her parents' deaths causing her to break down now; it was the weight of decades, perhaps centuries of suffering, and all because him.
Once again, he pulled her close to him, running one hand through her tangled golden curls, tracing circles on the back of her silk nightgown. She let it happen, too drained to protest, leaving damp stains on his shirt, disarranging his bow tie with the impact of her face against his collarbone.
"River," he whispered into her hair, "River, listen to me. Rule One is hereby suspended until further notice, do you understand? I'm telling you the truth."
She nodded.
"I married you because I love you," he continued. "That's all. Because we're the same, you and I, blood on our hands and the stars at our fingertips. Because we understand each other like no one has, or ever will. We can do the wedding over again if you like, properly, whenever and wherever you choose – at the Taj Mahal, the Sistine Chapel, in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator – "
"Don't you dare!" She punched his arm, but when he looked down at her in concern, he saw that she was smiling.
"And you're right," he added, still keeping both hands on her shoulders. "I do tend to keep you at arm's length … but never, ever, for the reasons you imagine."
She tilted her head with a look of patient inquiry; it would have been his turn to smile, if the subject of his confession were not so painful to both of them.
He thought of all those times his arms had ached to hold her just like this, even in the beginning when he'd been so nervous around her, not even knowing what their relationship would be. He was physically affectionate by nature, ever since the Time War had left him with that secret terror of being alone. He liked to hug all of his companions, kiss them on the forehead, take their hands when they were running. He had wanted so badly to do all of that with River, but had held himself back – not only to set her apart as something more than a companion, but for her own sake as well.
"Melody Pond," he said, in a voice hushed with love and sorrow. "You've been genetically altered without your knowledge or consent, taken from your mother's arms at birth, trained in murder since you could walk, and forced into a living space suit to kill the man you love. You've been violated in almost every way that's possible. I thought … I thought that if anyone deserved her personal space, it would be you."
Once again, the tears ran down River's face – but this time, they were silent tears of joy.
"You mean … "
"That's why I always wait for you to kiss me," he murmured, leaning in so close that their noses almost touched. "That's why I let you lead when we make love. I want to touch you every moment, every second we're together … but it has to be your choice, River, your choice alone."
She shook her head slowly, curls rippling over her shoulders, smiling at him with that familiar look of loving exasperation. It was then that he realized he could see her: the white silk of her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, the dark roots showing through her dyed blond hair, her flushed and swollen face, and the tears in her they talked, the TARDIS had been gradually brightening the lamps above River's bed, until they saw each other clearly in every sense of the word.
He looked at his wife and found her beautiful, and she looked back at him without any trace of fear and shame.
"You idiot," she murmured. "You sweet, sentimental idiot."
"I, er … I take it you don't mean that as an insult this time?" he inquired warily, still aching from the memory of her slap in the Angels' hotel lobby.
"I never do," she said. "Not really."
"Oh, really?"
She made a small sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, that he hadn't even realized he missed.
"Let's make a deal, shall we? I'll grant you the right to do outrageous things to rescue me, as long as you give me the same right. Now that I know you're not doing it out of pity or obligation, I admit it seems a little easier to accept."
"That sounds … sensible," he agreed.
"Why, thank you."
"It also sounds bloody near impossible to keep," he burst out, thinking of his shame and terror on the day River had saved him from her own poison by giving him all her regenerations, or the day she had – would – sacrifice herself for him in the Library.
"Sweetie," said River, raising an eyebrow. "Everything about us is impossible. I suggest you live with it."
If he didn't know how useless it would be, he would have prayed to whatever eity was listening that he would never need to keep his word. As it was, he swallowed his objections – the last thing he wanted was two fights the same night – and held out his hand.
"It's a deal," he declared. At least, until I find a way to save you.
By the wry understanding in her eyes as she firmly squeezed his hand, he knew she was thinking exactly the same thing.
"Now come here, loverboy," she purred, tugging on his hand to bring him closer. "You say you want to touch me every second we're together? Now's your chance."
Then she said a thing which, before tonight, she would never have said to anyone. Looking up at him as she leaned back against the pillows, her sultry smile faded; her hands were trembling as they reached up to undo his shirt buttons.
"Stay with me, won't you?" she asked. "I … I don't want to be alone."
"Then you won't be," he promised her, raising his lips from her neck to whisper into her ear. "I'll be here when you wake up, as long as you need me. Now lie back and think of England, my dear Professor. This time, it's my turn to lead."
Her giggle became a moan, and for the next few moments, husband and wife forgot their battles, their tensions and their grief in each other's arms.
He knew she could not stay forever, and he wouldn't ask her to; after almost a lifetime in prison on his account, he knew how much she treasured her freedom. He knew he would miss her abominably when she left, just as they both missed the Ponds. But she was here now, and that was all he needed – just River, her trust and honest, her faith in him and her unconditional love. A few centuries ago, he might have asked himself whether he deserved her. Now, knowing her story as well as she knew his, he knew there was no question of deserving.
They were both murderers, both saviors, broken in all the same places, held together by love and hard-earned wisdom. They belonged together, and if she had not known this earlier, she certainly would now.