The course of true love never did run smooth but neither did his skin.
It wrinkled around his joints. Pulling at his knees, scrunching at his elbows.
The skin was red tinged. Rough with the quantity of it, saddened with lack of care.
But if you knew what I would do to that sad skin.
Eleven and River would lie in the bed. The roosters crowing; the sun struggling to be recognized through the thick wool curtains. They could hear the sounds of the world waking around them. Sweet sleepy murmuring sounds. Sounds that had the strange quality of pushing you deeper into slumber. Eleven was long. His feet curled off the edge of the bed; his toes retracted in the chilled morning air. River proved herself twice the pillow than anything that could be sold in stores; her hair twirled up into his nostrils and laced itself around his mouth. Her softness pushed against his skin and bones, her breath puffing out of her and warming them both.
Everything was so delightful trying to keep him asleep. The more his hearts beat, the more they sought to keep time with the slow sleepy beat of River's. River was murmuring now, her hands were groping in sleep. But River never just murmured and groped. She pulled, lulled, and seduced. Despite her movements, her heart still belied her sleep. For all her groping, Eleven didn't want her to be asleep anymore. But he liked the last moments in the dusty cold hours of the morning when he was the only thing moving. He liked the hours before he opened the wool curtains to see the blue box destined to move him forever. He liked that time, so every morning he buried his face in her hair, resisted her sleep-induced groping, and held himself in one place underneath their covers.