"You started it."
The Doctor sits on the edge of their bathtub, hands lathered in shampoo and working gently through his wife's curls. Bits of strawberry bob around in the bathwater, which has turned milky from the whipped cream he's spent the last twenty minutes washing off.
This, he thinks, is the sort of scenario that may invite questions should someone happen to walk in. That's happened more times than he cares to remember. A particular evening spent handcuffed to the balcony railings with a strategically placed napkin springs to mind – three hours it had taken for someone to find him. Poor Nardole.
This room, with the rather fancy marble bathtub big enough for two, has certainly seen its fair share of those evenings. Tonight's explanation, however, is a decidedly un-kinky one. Namely that his two-hundred-and-one-year-old wife thought it would be a fabulous idea to start a food fight down at the restaurant.
River whips her head around at his grumble, water droplets careening into his face. "I did not!"
"Darling," he chastises – he's definitely picked that up from her – as he dots a little blob of shampoo foam on the end of her nose. "You can't antagonise a group of Sontarans at the next table and fail to take responsibility for what happens next."
"It was fun though, wasn't it?"
He grins. "You're terrible."
"I know." She leans back, a smug as all hell smile on her face. "I don't know why you put up with me."
"I can think of a reason or two." There are plenty, not all of them appropriate or, come to think of it, remotely adhering to his moral code. And she damn well knows it.
"Sorry the evening ended in chaos," she says breezily. He knows she's not sorry at all – she'd drag them back to the restaurant for round two if she could help it.
"Ah, I married chaos. Chaos is my life now." He chuckles at how true that rings, massaging her scalp. "This has been a relatively quiet night by our standards."
"That's true." She giggles. "Remember those horses at the casino?"
"Oh, I do. Bad influence, you are."
"Oh darling, go and tell it to the otters." She leans her head back to smile up at him and she's not only taking the piss but getting the front of his shirt all wet and covered in shampoo, and he knows he really ought to care more than he can bring himself to when she looks at him like that.
He plucks half a stray strawberry from her hair carefully. "And it could have been worse. At least it was during dessert."
"Why is that good?"
"Well, for starters, being covered in pavlova is better than being covered in beef stroganoff. As is the smell." He wrings the water out of her curls, twisting it into a bun. "Ok. I think I've got it all out."
"Sure you don't want to dip in?" she asks with that false innocence that's been luring him into all manner of things for centuries. "The water's lovely."
He pouts, torn between the headache that an evening of fending off Sontarans has given him and the fact that his wife is literally propositioning him while naked and covered in strawberries.
"Actually," River says, "You might have to. I think I may have got you a bit with the pavlova."
"Did you?" he asks, preening.
She reaches a hand up to comb through his curls with a frown. "Yeah, you've got a little bit… just…"
Her hands grip his lapels, and he's hurled over the side of the bath with an undignified shriek. River cackles and then she's kissing him, shrugging him out of his soaked shirt before he can tell her that he's absolutely going to kill her for this.
The Tardis always keeps the water warm. By the time they climb out there's more of it on the floor than in the tub, along with bubbly meringue hills and bits of strawberry. He wraps River up in a fluffy towel and she's all soft, her cheeks pink from the heat of the water and just begging to be peppered with kisses. His clothes are completely ruined to match hers, of course, so they both dress themselves in one of his hoodies (he does enjoy pointing out the irony in her wearing his clothes after mocking them quite literally since she was born) and settle in front of the fireplace in the study, sprawled out on their favourite velvet sofa.
It's been very close to a year of this now, and the whole thing still renders him giddy. It staggers him, how very much he loves it all – how he needs it like he needs to breathe. The only stars he needs are the ones that wink at them from the balcony and everything else, everything, is in River. She's tucked away his happiness for safekeeping and he knows that when the sun rises it'll go with her, but for now he feeds off it like an addict who's waited four and a half billion years for a fix.
He makes them hot chocolate, putting River's in her I Dig Archaeology mug (which he hates on a number of levels, and never misses an opportunity to tell her so) and piling it high with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and marshmallows, all dusted with rainbow sprinkles.
"Ooh! You do know how to spoil me, dear," River purrs, prising her mug out of his hands.
"Well, we did miss dessert. And I doubt they'll let us back in the restaurant for a while." He scoops a spoonful of marshmallows off the top and presses it to her lips, which upturn in a smirk.
"It's a miracle it's taken them this long," she laughs through her mouthful of marshmallows. "Considering."
"Mmm. Mind you – the balcony railing's a lot comfier than the bath," he decides, cricking his neck. Married life with River has always involved a certain degree of acrobatics. And bruises.
As soon as they've polished off their hot chocolates, she prods at his legs till he uncrosses them and shifts so she's propped up against him instead of the sofa, settling herself between his thighs with her back pressed to his chest. "I think I might sleep tonight. Haven't had any for a few days."
"That'd be nice," he answers, running his fingertips lightly down her arms. They always sleep together. She needs it more than he does, but if he settles next to her they'll whisper in the dark until she falls asleep, their hands and feet tangled together, and he can be there when she wakes up. He's seen the universe give birth to entire galaxies, and none of them hold a candle to the beauty of River in her ordinary moments.
She snuggles down in his arms with a pleased hum, pulling his arms tighter around her. "It's our anniversary next week," she almost whispers, like it's a secret. They share multitudes of anniversaries, of course, but this is the one that matters.
"I know," he replies, kissing her shoulder. He hasn't forgotten. His fingers stroke along her belly, and he feels her muscles flutter. A year, they said. A year of cocktails and food fights and being utterly, recklessly them. And by the time their next anniversary comes around, if they're lucky, the Tardis might just be a little more full.
River's head lolls against his chest. "Thank you."
"What for?"
"This year. And all the years to come," she murmurs with a smile, stretching lazily and letting her eyes drift shut. "I can't wait to see what we do next."
In the next minute she's snoring softly, relaxed against him with her small feet tucked between his. Her hair still smells vaguely of strawberries and he buries his nose in it, wrapping up the memory with all the others that he plans to live on once this is over. But for now, as she dreams in his arms and he's about to join her, he's content to be astoundingly stupid and sentimental.