Pairing: River/Eleven
Rated: Teen
Warnings: Accidental drug use, Woodstock, Recreational drug use, snogging (in public)
Summary: "Woodstock?" he asks warily. River glances up, her nose scrunching up adorably. "Or - have you been, Doctor?" "No, no," he reassures her hastily, starting his own circuit of the console to help get them underway. "Just surprised you fancy a trip." "I'm surprised you don't. Honestly, you'd fit right in, Doctor - you're such a-" River waves her hands in a gesture he thinks she got from him and huffs, biting back her last comment. "Hippie?" he challenges her, trying not to laugh and finally close enough to bop her nose. "Says the archaeologist."
Notes: Based on (though slightly divergent from) this snippet from betwixt mine eye and heart:
The images that flood his mind are positively filthy and have very little to do with archaeological accuracy. He's remembering their trip to Woodstock. River had poisoned him - again - and, while he firmly maintains that hallucinogens have no effect on him, the results were certainly interesting. River had acquired a camera to keep him occupied, and they'd spent the day in a blur of color and music and photographs. He mainly remembers her hair being like a rainbow or maybe a prism, even as she alternated laughing and huffing at him. He'd put on quite a show of being cross over being drugged and River had more than made it up to him, even if her eyes had sparkled in way that said she saw right through him.
Huge thanks to Becs for demanding that be turned into a fic and putting up with the various iterations while I fiddled with it. Literally this entire fic spawned from exchanges and discussions and sharing of ideas with Becs, so she deserves most of the credit for everything written (especially any lines you happen to like)! Also thanks to Megs for looking it over in a previous incarnation. All remaining mistakes are my own. Happy anniversary to River and the Doctor. May they always be running together through time. I have all the OTP feels (and lots of fics) today.
He's still adjusting his bowtie at the TARDIS monitor when the door opens, danger sweeping inside.
"Where to this time, Doctor Song?" The Doctor looks up quickly, watching River saunter up the stairs. Her eyes are bright and her grin is so wicked that the Doctor gulps against the excitement suddenly racing up from his toes.
That look means trouble.
River crowds him back until he's penned in against the console, her hands on either side of his hips. She leans up on her tiptoes and he thinks she's about to snog him hello. "Woodstock."
The Doctor is still blinking in confusion as River slides across the console, laughing at his shock and imputing coordinates. "Woodstock?" he asks warily.
River glances up, her nose scrunching up adorably. "Or - have you been, Doctor?"
"No, no," he reassures her hastily, starting his own circuit of the console to help get them underway. "Just surprised you fancy a trip."
"I'm surprised you don't. Honestly, you'd fit right in, Doctor - you're such a-" River waves her hands in a gesture he thinks she got from him and huffs, biting back her last comment.
"Hippie?" he challenges her, trying not to laugh and finally close enough to bop her nose. "Says the archaeologist."
They're standing really rather close. River rolls her eyes but doesn't move back, even as she whips out her diary, keeping it carefully tilted away from his gaze. "Where are we then, sweetie?"
The Doctor licks his suddenly dry lips. "Oh, you know. Met Jim the fish." When she continues to flip through her diary, he tries, "Stood on top of some brilliant pyramids before that."
Her diary is tucked away and her hands are at his collar before he finishes the sentence, her tongue sweeping over his lips and her mouth over his. When they part for air, her smile is radiant. "Hello, sweetie."
The Doctor fears he's grinning like an idiot. "Hello, dear."
"Right then," River's already throwing the parking brake and dragging him further into the TARDIS. "If we're going to Woodstock, we'll need to dress the part."
"I keep telling you, River - tweed is universal."
River ignores his protests, her hand warm and solid and firm against his.
...
The Doctor retains his tweed.
River huffs and disappears into the wardrobe. He putters about in their room, nudging the precarious stack of books a little further back on the nightstand and adding three new settings to the lamp behind them.
When River finally emerges, the Doctor tugs on his collar and thinks he should have adjusted the temperature settings instead.
He always has difficulty around River in jeans - but these sit extra low and tight against her bottom before flaring out dramatically at her calves to cover the simple sandals on her feet. A colorful scarf sits in place of a belt. Her top appears to be little more than her swimming costume, leaving her bare from hip to her ample bosom, all toned honeyed skin between. By the time he makes it to her hair, loose and wild with a headband of miniature blue flowers threaded through it, the Doctor has covered his eyes with his hands and is peaking through them on instinct.
Yowza.
River laughs and the Doctor starts, blushing as he realizes he must've said that out loud. "Glad you like my outfit, sweetie." River sways closer, exaggerating the motions of her hips.
As soon as she's close enough, the Doctor reaches out, tracing the golden skin of her midriff while his eyes race across every tantalizing inch of her. He swallows hard. "I'm not sure it qualifies as an outfit."
River just smirks, ducking out of his grasp and lacing her fingers through his. "You stop that, old man, or we'll never make it out of our room."
"Old!" he sputters, "I'll show you old," but follows her anyway. It's hard not to follow River when the view from behind her is as tantalizing as the view from the front.
They make it out of the TARDIS without waking her parents, which is a blessing. He's fairly certain that Rory would go for his sword if he saw the way the Doctor is staring at River. It cannot be helped - his wife is enticing in anything and right now she's wearing practically nothing. River does take pity on him and wrap the scarf loosely over her arms, but it does nothing to hide her ample cleavage, which the Doctor finds both terribly negligent and rather brilliant.
As soon as they step outside, they're surrounded by a wall of music and chatter and people. A mass of humanity, mucking about playing in the mud.
Most of the crowd takes no notice of them, though more than a few eyes linger on River, the Doctor notes uncomfortably. One man offers the Doctor a high five. "Nice love booth, man."
The Doctor sputters. "What? It's not -" but the man has already melted back into the throng. "Why does everyone keep calling her that?!"
River's lips twitch up, but she manages not to laugh. Instead, she wraps her arm through his and guides him into the crowd. "Oh, sweetie, because it really kind of is."
"I don't-" the Doctor leans close to whisper in River's ear, her hair brushing against his face. "You're the only one I snog in the TARDIS."
River's eyes sparkle. "Well that's a relief. You certainly can't keep your lips to yourself anywhere else."
"I don't - it's not - humans, River! They're unpredictable - it's all their fault."
His hands keep wandering to her hips or the small of her back.
"I'm sure that's it, sweetie." River shoves a blanket into his arms that he doesn't remember her having a moment before, though he has been rather distracted. "Why don't you find us a spot to sit and try not to accidentally join any orgies until I get back."
She pats his cheek and disappears into the crowd while he's still gaping. "River!"
He can hear her laughter echoing through the crowd anyway.
...
He finds a nice sedate piece of what is still mostly grass in the ideal acoustical setting and spreads out the blue blanket across it without getting mud completely over everything. The neighboring humans are friendly enough, even if they are wearing very little and keep offering him all manner of substances.
At one point they hand him a seemingly random sheet of cartoons. They're all the same and they're not moving, so he licks one to investigate. It tastes sharp and wild and not at all like the pigments he expected. It might be the lead in the blue paint, but it leaves him feeling a little light-headed. The Doctor quickly shoves the rest of the cartoons in his pocket and politely declines everything else they pass him.
He learns that Laura is a maths student (the status of American education is truly appalling in this century - they haven't even taught her basic quantum mechanics) and that Dave works for the university (he declines to disclose in what capacity). Bob plays in his own band (and no, they are not looking for a cymbal player).
They tease him about being a square - "Not the last time I checked, unless I've had a truly unfortunate accident with the chameleon circuit-" and then seem to just incorporate him into their clan.
Dave even declares that the Doctor is "far out," which definitely seems to be a good thing.
River drops into his lap as though out of the sky, already covered in mud and sweat and perfume and balancing two cups of water and a small packet in her hands.
She wraps her arms around his neck, cups brushing against his jacket miraculously without spilling, and snogs him full on.
The Doctor opens his mouth to her automatically, noting that she tastes smokier and earthier than she had in the TARDIS, and his tongue sweeps her mouth to find the source. River moans in his arms, pressing herself so close that he can feel her breasts heaving through their shirts. His arms wrap around her instinctively, tucking River closer as his fingers trace her spine.
"Taking this free love atmosphere to hearts, are we, sweetie?" River breathes against his lips, all pleased surprise and low innuendos.
He's about to reply when there's a pointed cough. The Doctor parts from River reluctantly, only to realize that they're still sitting on their blue blanket in a circle with Laura, Dave and Bob staring rather expectantly.
The Doctor can feel himself turning red as River twists to regard their companions without disentangling herself from his lap. "This is River, my wife. River - meet Laura, Dave and Bob."
"Like an angel from heaven, she drops from the sky," Bob waxes poetically, though the Doctor is unclear if he means River or if he is merely hallucinating some religious icon. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tightening protectively around River.
"And she comes bearing gifts," River hands one cup and the packet of pills to their companions, after tapping two into her palm.
Her eyes sparkle dangerously as she holds a red and blue pill out to the Doctor. "What do you say, sweetie - fancy seeing how deep the rabbit hole goes?"
It takes him a moment to catch the anachronistic reference, and he mostly does only because he's learnt to assume that anything River offers is probably laced with hallucinogens. He sits back, frowning, while River laughs at him. "Hallucinogens don't affect me."
River arches one eyebrow and challenges, "Well then, no harm in trying one."
It's hard to fidget with River on his lap. He's not lying - well, not really. Most compounds have a very short half-life when one has a binary vascular system, and he is naturally resistant to a good number of hallucinogens beyond that. One of the reasons River can get away with Jack's hallucinogenic lipstick so well is that she's been immune from the start. Still, he prefers not to test alien-manufactured compounds if he can avoid it. Especially since the paint is already disagreeing with him and really, since when has paint been so disagreeable? He's clearly getting too old to be licking things, not that he'll ever admit to that. Besides, at the moment, he'd quite like to lick River. He imagines she'd taste earthy and smoky and even more vivid than usual. But River's eyeing him expectantly, and the Doctor realizes she's waiting on his answer. "No thank you, dear."
"Suit yourself," River shrugs and places both pills on her tongue, still giving him a curious look.
The Doctor watches her nervously as she sips her water, already trying to calculate whether this particular compound will have any effect on human plus physiology and did she really have to take two? "River-"
"Stop worrying, Doctor." And then she's leaning forward to snog him again, her tongue snaking into his mouth.
She still tastes a bit smoky, but now there's a sharp chemical edge to her kiss that bursts across his tongue with surprising strength. He's too lost in the sensation of River's mouth against his to finish analyzing the compounds though. River is intolerably distracting, all that bare, muddy skin pressed up against him, warm even through his shirt.
He loses time kissing River. Clocks and timelines and gravities fade out until his head is filled with a blissful calm silence that is all River, and it feels as though he could happily spend the rest of his lives kissing his wife.
Eventually even Time Lords require breath though, and they part reluctantly.
The sun is dancing through River's mud-speckled hair, a halo or a rainbow, sparking with magic and fire. He reaches out to bury his fingers in the ephemeral glow of her curls and River's laughter tickles through him, warm and bubbly as though they're one being.
Everything is too bright despite the clouds and prisms that are dancing across the sky. Everything is warmth - soft earth just below him, River draped over him, even the rain that is soaking them both, leaving them streaky and stuck together.
It takes the Doctor an embarrassingly long time to realize that River's poisoned him again.
His head falls back against the slick ground as he huffs, still half distracted by the muddy trails his hands are leaving across River's skin that he can see even once he closes his eyes. "Oh River, you bad girl."
He means to chastise her, but it comes out low and scratchy, and he can feel River chuckle from where her lips are pressed against his throat.
"You love it," she replies breezily, her tones warm and honeyed, melting against his skin.
"Love you," he mumbles, opening his eyes so that he can see her. He ought to be properly cross, but he doesn't feel cross at all. Instead, on this grassy, muddy field, surrounded by the happy sounds of humans running and playing and making music, River somehow makes him feel young and carefree.
He traces music scores over River's skin, torn between the notes dancing through the air and the symphony dancing through his head and composing both and nothing at once. His thumbs brush across her ribs and the sides of her breasts. River hums under his hands as she maps out a complementary harmony against his skin.
The Doctor shoots into a sitting position, scrambling to look around. River yelps and digs her fingers into his shoulders at the abrupt motion. "River - we're in public!"
River's smile is indulgent. "It's yet to bother anyone else."
"Yes, well - humans!" He extracts her hands from his shirt and tries not to become distracted by the way they fit so perfectly in his - no. He will not shag his wife in a public field, no matter how good she feels pressed up against him.
Laughing at his hands, River points out. "I'm human, Doctor."
He bops her nose. Nice safe body part, the nose. Even if hers is extraordinarily sexy when she crinkles it up like that. "Human plus, dear."
Now that he is aware of the drug moving through his system, he can adjust his focus to account for it - even if it is difficult to sort out whether his flushed temperature and racing pulse is from the chemical or his wife's proximity.
His face must express his internal conflict because River laughs again and then presses her forehead to his. "Relax, sweetie. I'm not going to take advantage of you in such a state." Her eyes fall to the ground, where the little cartoons have fallen out of his pocket and are drowning in the mud, and her lips purse. "What did you get up to while I was away? I can't leave you alone for five minutes, honestly."
She sounds surprised and even a little concerned, and it occurs to the Doctor blearily that perhaps River hasn't drugged him after all. Actually, he belatedly recognizes that it definitely wasn't lead on the pictures - too bitter, more like the residual traces of the pills on River's tongue - oh. It is almost definitely the double hit of whatever he'd licked earlier and the remainder of River's little pills that is making his head so light and colorful. "I'm not in a state. I'm fine. Stupendous. Magical. Like your hair." There are rivers of rainbows obscuring his vision, and he wishes he could capture them all at once.
This close, River's eyes are dark and full of promises like those that drip from her lips. "Then perhaps I shall shag you right here, Doctor. Especially if you keep doing that with your hands."
The Doctor realizes guiltily that his hands have been tracing across the planes of River's bare back, dipping under the ties to her top before moving down to cup her bum, but he can't seem to stop touching her. Not when her skin is searing him through the mud and rain. He just wants to be engulfed in her; consumed by her fire and purified in River.
"Upon the memorable day when Parvati presumed to lay, in wanton play, her hands, too venturous goddess, in her mirth, on Seeva's eyes, the light and life of earth."
"What are you on about, Doctor?" River muses, brushing her sodden hair out of their faces and arching her body back to cool in the rain. "The goddess of creation and the god of destruction? Which of us is which, my love?"
The Doctor is entranced by the droplets of water dancing across River's skin, washing away the mud. The poem is almost entirely forgotten, tucked back in whatever corner of his too-full mind keeps tabs on such things. "No, no, nothing like that, dear. If anything, you're Artemis or Sekhmet. Though Parvati did ride a lion."
River snorts, shaking out her hair as she settles back in his arms. "Mucking about with mythologies again, Doctor? And I am not a lion. Or shall I just eat you right up?"
Her teeth close over his lip playfully, and the Doctor finds himself quite lost in the depths of her mouth for another timeless period where River is all there is. Eventually, he manages, "You do have the hair."
He tugs on one curl, but it doesn't bounce nearly so thoroughly when wet, and River bats his hands away.
"My, someone is handsy. I should have known. Here," with a sigh, she produces his favorite old camera from the most definitely bigger on the inside bag slung across her body, "keep your hands on this and listen to the music."
The music has indeed started, loud and clear despite the rain and chatter surrounding them. The Doctor is tempted to tell River that he'd rather keep his hands on her, but he tries to remember that they're in public and, really, no matter how little River is wearing, he does have some self-control. Not much, but some.
He presses a kiss to River's temple and shifts her in his arms so that they can both watch the show and he can fiddle with the camera, trying to catch the raindrop rainbows and (when she's distracted) the light filtering through her hair.
...
River and the Doctor lose track of time amongst the seething mass of people around them, too caught up in the waves of color and music and laughter. The Doctor takes loads of pictures, most of them of River. At some point, they give their shoes up for lost and dance barefoot in the mud. Eventually, the warmth and bright colors fade with the music, their systems having successfully broken down the foreign chemicals.
By the time they stumble back to the TARDIS, River has lost her crown and replaced it with the Doctor's bowtie, which is doing a very poor job indeed of holding up the heavy wet mass of her hair. The Doctor is still in his tweed, which is now sodden, and he's lost his shirt, his braces scratching slightly against the bare skin of his chest. His head and hearts are throbbing as though he's been running for his life, and perhaps he has been.
They're both covered head to toe in mud.
And the TARDIS - the TARDIS is covered in stylized flowers with a giant peace sign boldly graffitied over her doors.
The Doctor sputters, racing to pat the wood soothingly. "What have these hippies done to you!?"
River laughs brightly, patting his shoulder as her hand brushes against the soft wood of their ship. "It's just paint, Doctor. We can fix her up in the morning. Though, I take you're feeling better, judging by your grumbling."
"I'm not grumbling. And I told you before - I'm fine."
As soon as they slip inside, River is already shedding the Doctor's shirt and her own into a wet pile on the floor. She leaves muddy footprints as she makes her way further into the ship, patting the railing apologetically when the TARDIS hums in disapproval. "And here I thought we might have to fix you up with a bath as well."
They definitely owe the TARDIS a proper tidying up before the morning, but there's not much to be done about mud on the floor until they've managed to get the mud off themselves.
The Doctor struggles out of his tweed and unclips his braces, unconsciously licking the salt off his lips as he watches River. That explains where his shirt is, at least. He vaguely recalls convincing her to wear it in some fit of chivalry after she somehow stripped it off him. Which explains why his tweed is caked in mud. And his hair. River's hair and body are also streaked with mud, leaving her every inch the wild, predatory goddess as she sweeps her hair out of her face and struggles with the fastening of her trousers. As his head clears, the Doctor is less intrigued by the patterns in the mud (though he is just as fascinated by River's body, mud and all) and more aware that he's wet and cold and probably smells a bit ripe. "I suppose we should get cleaned up as well."
River grins at him over her shoulder as she wiggles out of her tight, wet jeans. "Oh, we're not nearly dirty enough yet, Doctor. I was terribly well behaved and didn't take advantage of you while we were in public and you were out of sorts, but now you owe me a proper snog in our 'love booth.'"
Shaking his head as he fights his way out of his socks and trousers, the Doctor fights a blush at her teasing. Still, he can't help but agree with the rest of her sentiment. "You have been quite patient with me, dear."
"I have been." Her jeans puddle messily on the floor as she stands there, one hand propped on her bare hip and her eyebrow arching under her dirty brow.
"And I did get you all muddy."
"You did."
They sway toward each other as they always do, without the need of music or chemicals to draw them together.
He reaches out to brush her wet hair from her temple, his thumb lingering over her skin. "I'll make it a good one then," he promises lowly, watching her eyes darken and her breath hitch.
"You better."
A/N: Title and the Doctor's quote are both from: The Ganges by Robert Southey (1774–1843)
(From The Curse of Kehama) A STREAM descends on Meru Mountain;
None hath seen its secret fountain;
It had its birth, so sages say,
Upon the memorable day
When Parvati presumed to lay,
In wanton play,
Her hands, too venturous goddess, in her mirth,
On Seeva's eyes, the light and life of earth.
Thereat the heart of the universe stood still;
The elements ceased their influences; the hours
Stopt on the eternal round; motion and breath,
Time, change, and life and death,
In sudden trance opprest, forgot their powers.
A moment, and the dread eclipse was ended;
But at the thought of Nature thus suspended,
The sweat on Seeva's forehead stood,
And Ganges thence upon the world descended,
The holy river, the redeeming flood. None hath seen its secret fountain;
But on the top of Meru Mountain,
Which rises o'er the hills of earth,
In light and clouds, it hath its mortal birth.
Earth seems that pinnacle to rear
Sublime above this worldly sphere,
Its cradle, and its altar, and its throne,
And there the new-born river lies
Outspread beneath its native skies,
As if it there would love to dwell
Alone and unapproachable.
Soon flowing forward, and resigned
To the will of the Creating Mind,
It springs at once, with sudden leap,
Down from the immeasurable steep.
From rock to rock, with shivering force rebounding,
The mighty cataract rushes; heaven around,
Like thunder, with the incessant roar resounding,
And Meru's summit shaking with the sound.
Wide spreads the snowy foam, the sparkling spray
Dances aloft; and ever there at morning
The earliest sunbeams haste to wing their way,
With rainbow wreaths the holy stream adorning;
And duly the adoring moon at night
Sheds her white glory there,
And in the watery air
Suspends her halo-crowns of silver light.