Much later that night, they lay side by side on a grassy hillside, gazing up at the clear starlit sky and the twin moons, listening to the delicate chiming music of the distant towers.
"Of course, they're not really singing," observed the Doctor. "It's an atmospheric oddity. A happy accident, if you like."
"All the best things are." River smiled up at the sky, enjoying this rare moment of pure peace and stillness. They weren't being shot at by Daleks or chased by Sontarans. There were no Weeping Angels on the entire planet... probably. It was kind of - nice.
Her head rested on the gold clutch bag she'd carried for the evening. They'd had dinner, they'd even danced. The Doctor was a better dancer than he sometimes liked to pretend. It had been a perfect evening.
She turned her head to look at him, their fingertips barely touching. "I like the new suit, sweetie. What are we celebrating?"
"Oh, nothing. I thought you'd appreciate it."
They lay in silence for a while.
"River." He idly twirled one of her curls around his finger. "Do you ever wish you could have had a normal life? Grown up with your parents. Stayed Melody Pond. Had a normal relationship. With a human being. In the right order."
He expected a jokey answer - River was the queen of flippant rejoinders, after all. But instead, after a short pause, she quoted, "You mean - 'If the world were black or white entirely/ And all the charts were plain/ Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters/ A prism of delight and pain...'".
They both gazed at the sky, the distant stars.
"No," she said. "No. How can you even think it?"
Finally the timelines were more or less in synch. Right now, they knew each other as completely as they ever would. Few spoilers still remained. And as the warm night drifted past, and the towers sang, they reminisced about the times they'd shared. The people they'd shared them with. About Berlin, and New York. Washington and Asgard and Alfava Metraxis. About Amy and Rory. Vastra, Jenny and Strax. About Daleks and Angels and Autons and a sky full of enemy spaceships.
And they told each other things they'd never shared before. The people he'd cared for and lost, so many of them – mostly, to her, only names and images in the TARDIS's databanks. His beloved granddaughter, Susan. Barbara and Ian. Liz and Jo, Sarah Jane and Harry. The Brigadier. Tegan, Romana, Jamie. Young Adric, who'd died. So many others. The adventures they'd had. And she told him stories from the long years when she'd been alone.
Finally she realised he was crying, though he wouldn't say why, and she held him in her arms.
When the suns finally hit the sky, he took her home. Not to prison, not anymore. Those days were long gone.
They stood between the TARDIS and her front door.
"I've got something I have to give you."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Well, actually, I've already done it."
The corners of her mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.
"Not that! You're incorrigible, Professor. It's in your bag. Don't look, not till I'm gone. Keep it close by you. There's a day coming when we'll need it."
Something in his face, in his eyes, had killed the laughter. She stared at him, a moment that seemed to last for years. The Doctor was so old now, he'd seen and lost so much, that even in his lightest and silliest moods there was always pain behind those ancient eyes. But the look in them now - she'd never seen that before. She never wanted to see it again.
Behind him, the TARDIS thrummed gently. Such a comforting sound, but it wasn't helping her now.
She spoke his name. "What..."
He spoke with an effort, forcing a smile.
"Spoilers. Goodbye, River."
Alone, again, she clicked open her bag and stared down at the contents. The Doctor's sonic screwdriver lay, inexplicably, on top of the necessities she always carried - her vortex manipulator, lipsticks both of the normal and hallucinogenic varieties.
A shiver passed through her.