Dreaming Back to Front
Disclaimer: If someone wants to get me a job…
She jerks awake, her arm raised and pointed toward the shadows sprawling across the floor. She blinks a few times until the hazy shapes become her prison bars and her tensed fingers relax around her non-existent gun.
She lets out a breath and sucks air back into her lungs in sharp pants. A dream. It was a dream. Just a dream.
She feels her eyes sting before hot tears pour down her cheeks. She curls her legs up and shuffles into the corner, pulling herself into a tight ball. She tucks herself against the wall and buries her head in her arms across her knees, shuddering with the strength of her sobs.
She heaves in air, trying to calm herself down. She doesn't want the guards to see her this way. A small part of her mind decides to talk about perception filters the next time she's on the TARDIS.
The shakes begin to calm as the edge of terror fades away. She isn't sure what it was, this time. Sometimes she remembers, others she doesn't. This time, blessedly, she doesn't. She feels only the precipice of horror and pain, but doesn't remember the images, the sounds, the haunting memories.
And still, the wretched tears flow down her cheeks and her skin prickles with gooseflesh.
She is stronger than this.
And yet, it seems, despite all her training, and her life, and the insurmountable things she has in fact surmounted, River Song, Mels Zucker, little Melody Pond can still be brought to her knees by her nightmares.
"Oh, River."
She jerks her head up and gasps at the figure of her husband kneeling at the side of her bed, his big blue box parked in the corner of her cell. She should have known.
She opens her mouth, trying so desperately to find her familiar words, her smirk, her something. All that comes out is a small, pitiful noise. The resulting look on his face is almost worse than the dread sitting heavy on her chest.
"River," he whispers, rising slowly until he can perch on the bed.
She blinks at him as she tries to slow her heart rates down, tries to at least find some semblance of calm. He's wearing a purple waist coat now, with a vest and what might be purple boots. The bowtie looks the same. At least some things never change.
His eyes lock with hers and she swallows at the depth in his—at the lines around them. He's older. Much older than the last time she saw him. Yesterday? A week ago? Well, they'd been on the TARDIS for at least five days that time.
She watches, almost detached, as his fingers brush over her arm and curl around her hand. When she doesn't move, he edges closer, quickly toeing off his boots so that he can curl up with her. He shuffles around until they sit shoulder to shoulder.
"When are you?" he asks softly.
"I—" she rasps. She swallows heavily around her dry throat and he hums.
He reaches out and grabs the small cup of water she keeps at her bedside. He doesn't even bother handing it to her, merely tips it to her lips, and, damn him, she's so tired and shaken that she sips from it like a child.
He takes the cup away after a moment and sets it back down without so much as a twitch of his lips. He turns back to her and slowly slides his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side and away from the wall.
She licks her lips and presses her temple to his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. "We just did Jexlien."
"Which time?"
"The first, for me at least."
"Oh, early days for you," he says fondly.
His fingers work their way into her hair and she nearly starts crying again. She needs—needs to back away from this. He has her entirely too vulnerable, and comfortable. She could sleep against his shoulder. She could sleep and not dream. She could rest—
She tries to take a deep breath but it comes out a stutter and she squeezes her eyes shut. She cannot break down with him here. She hasn't done this with him since her second week here. And to her credit, she'd nearly been drowned when they took a trip to Space Florida, and Lake Silencio had been so raw...
But the look on his face then—like her tears were ripping out his hearts—she'd vowed to keep that look off of his face at all costs. So she hadn't cried, hadn't seized. She'd smiled and laughed and loved every minute of every night, and then some, they had spent together since.
"Nightmares?" he asks, his lips against her forehead.
She shrugs. She's been plagued by constant, unerring nightmares for weeks and weeks. The only nights without them were those spent on the TARDIS. Too often, they don't sleep together, even if they spend their time in bed. And so he drops her off and she tries to rest, only to wake thrashing and panicked, drenched in her own sweat with tears running down her face.
She's taken to not sleeping at all, but she can't avoid it forever. Tonight, apparently, had been one of those nights.
"Have we tried sleeping pills yet?"
She shakes her head. "No drugs," she whispers.
"They're perfectly safe. The 67th century has done some amazing—"
"It's like drowning," she tells him.
He stiffens against her and she bites her lip. She doesn't have a handle on this yet. She thought she would, by now. It's been two years, and probably more, what with those stolen weeks. There may have been a month in there somewhere—a mad cap adventure with her parents and then a long vacation to recuperate.
She should have a handle on herself, on her words. She should be able to shield him from this, the way she shields her mother and father. She doesn't need to add any darkness to his life.
"How long since you really slept?" he asks. She stays silent. "River."
"Weeks," she admits.
"Alright. Come on."
He shifts and stands, leaving her alone on her bed, staring at his outstretched hand. She hesitates for the briefest of moments before his face softens and he gives her a look full of so much affection that she stumbles up and into him.
He chuckles and steadies her before bending down to grab his boots and her flats. He guides her across the cell and into his ship, the door closing softly behind them.
It's not the same.
She comes to a halt and he stumbles back, her hand in a vice around his.
The warm oranges and silvers are gone, replaced by stark blues and greys—utilitarian almost, but for the Gallifreyan above the time rotor.
"Why?" she lets out, unable to stop herself.
"Spoilers," he tells her. She sees the sadness in his eyes, but hasn't the energy to press him about it.
He smiles softly and tugs on her hand again, leading her up to the unfamiliar console. He pushes a few buttons, and she recognizes the sequence for invisibility. Funny, he's not even going to put them into the Vortex.
She doesn't fight him as he brings her out of the control room, down a stark, white hallway. Oh, she misses his older TARDIS—her TARDIS—the other design? She is so very tired.
They come to a stop outside a door as familiar to her as her prison cell, and she feels herself relax. He turns the knob and ushers her inside.
Unlike the sterile, mechanic control room, their bedroom is exactly the same as she last saw it. Her eyes fall onto their bed, a king-sized cushion of reds and rusts that looks like the most heavenly thing she's ever seen in this moment.
She curls her toes into the carpet and breathes, feeling the TARDIS humming all around them.
"Welcome home," he murmurs, his lips by her ear.
She jumps and he laughs, moving behind her to wrap his arms around her waist, his chin tucked onto her shoulder. She leans into him, letting him take her weight and he presses his lips to her cheek.
"Would you like a bath?" he asks.
She shakes her head and lays her hands over his on her stomach. "Do you mind if I sleep?" she whispers, and there's a timidity to her voice she doesn't recognize.
"Not at all," he says, his voice like a promise, an absolution.
He steps away from her, and she instantly misses his warmth at her back. But he's already leading her to the bed, already lifting her prison tank top from her chest. She raises her arms and lets him undress her. His hands are tender against her skin and he moves in to press his lips to her cheek, her jaw, her temple as he helps her out of her trousers, leaving her in a pair of prison-issue knickers.
He gently pushes her down to the bed and helps her settle beneath the blankets. She lets him, lets him smooth his hand over her cheek and tuck her up like a child.
He smiles and bends down to lay his lips over hers, a light, tender kiss that ends all too quickly. She watches through drooping eyes as he straightens and moves around the room.
She thinks he might leave her here. She wishes he wouldn't, but she is far more comfortable here than in her cell, and it wouldn't be so bad to sleep with the TARDIS whispering lullabies in her head.
The bed sags and she realizes he's been undressing all the while. She's not even been watching. He catches her eye as he slides beneath the sheets in nothing but his pants, and winks.
He scoots up to her and pulls her against his chest, spooning up against her back, his arm heavy over her stomach. She smiles as he nuzzles at the back of her neck, shifting all of her hair aside to press his lips to her skin. He moves up then, his chin over her shoulder, their cheeks pressed together.
"Sleep," he whispers. "I'll be here when you wake."
It's all the permission she needs.
As she sinks against him, the heaviness of sleep dragging her down, she hears him murmuring to her in Gallifreyan—a lullaby, a caress, a phrase. She smiles, her hearts light, as sleep takes her under.
(…)
She wakes languidly, rested and feeling lighter than she has in weeks. She turns her head and he is still there beside her, brushing the hair from her face and smiling down at her.
The eat breakfast on the TARDIS, scones and jam, and he kisses her at the door, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her feet.
"Until tonight, dear," he whispers as they pull apart.
"Goodbye, sweetie."
She smiles and stands back as he gives her one last look and disappears through the door. She watches as the box disappears and then looks around her cell.
It lacks the warmth of their bedroom, and her arms feel the chill of the air, devoid of his hands wrapped around them. Still, she pads over to her cot and loses a few hours scribbling in her diary, and then re-reading their adventures.
Guards pass. She plays a game of solitaire. The thunder claps. The lightning flashes. More guards pass. She plays a vertical and horizontal game of solitaire and resists the urge to use the anti-gravity deck he got her about six months ago.
She could pop out for a bit. Go on her own adventure.
But there was something about the way he held her, the way he promised her tonight. She wants to be here for that. She wants more time with this older Doctor. She wants—
She sighs and gives up on her game, messily shoving the cards back into their little box. One night.
After one night, she craves the comfort of his arms. She yearns for the stillness of him against her back.
She loves all of her Doctors. The calmer, steadier, older ones who patiently teach her, and scold her (and scold her), and the younger, bouncier, always running up the walls Doctors, who yank on her hands and giggle when they kiss. The younger ones take her to more exciting places, and grin as they run together. The older ones take her to dig sites and drink tea over supernovas with her.
And yet, after one small evening, she craves him—last night's Doctor.
She shouldn't. She should want them all equally. She shouldn't care when he is, as long as he's there.
But this Doctor—this Doctor held her as she cried, and laid with her as she slept, whispered words of love in her ear.
She flops backward on her bed and stares up at the cracked, damp ceiling, disappointed in herself.
She should be better than she is, for him.
But that night, as the small clock on her bedside passes 1am, and she lays there restless, she finds herself hoping and unable to comfort herself. The nightmares hover at the edges of her mind, waiting for her to succumb to sleep, to the bitter exhaustion that even one glorious night with her Doctor couldn't fix.
Just as her eyelids begin to flutter, she feels the air shift. She looks over at the corner of her cell and smiles as a door opens out of the air, her husband's face popping out, back-lit by his blue control room.
"Evening, dear," he says softly, reaching out a hand.
She's across her cell in three strides, taking his larger palm and letting him pull her into the TARDIS. The door shuts comfortingly behind her and she smiles up at him, hesitating for only a moment before she wraps her arms around his shoulders.
He returns her embrace, lifting her up until she balances on his toes, her face pressing into his neck. He squeezes her tightly before lifting her back down to her feet.
"Dinner?" he offers.
She shakes her head. The prison food isn't terrible. Or she's gotten used to it, which is an alarming thought, actually.
He nods and leans in conspiratorially. "You know, the right bit of intel can get you three star meals instead of one."
"Oh really?" She arches an eyebrow and he merely grins.
"Spoilers. But think on it. Now, can I interest you in a shower, or a bath, my dear?"
"Do I smell, sweetie? You keep trying to get me to bathe."
He laughs and tugs her along, back down that hallway. She skims her fingers along the wall, her skin tingling as the TARDIS reaches out to greet her.
"Hello," she whispers.
He looks back at her at that. She meets his eyes and finds them regarding her with both affection and regret. She smiles at him, trying to push her gratitude through her look. Greeting the TARDIS, listening to her sing at night, feeling her reach out—it's like having Amy back. Better, in some ways.
The TARDIS has always been her mother, in a way.
Amy couldn't be. And she's wonderful, and River misses her dearly when they're apart, but it isn't the same.
The TARDIS is her mother at every moment in time, ever.
He brings her into their room and closes the door before turning to take both of her hands in his. "Good day?" he asks.
She shrugs. "Fair. Beat that deck you gave me about seven times."
"Mm," he hums, seemingly taking note of that.
She hides a smile. She has a feeling she'll be getting another, more advanced deck for her birthday. Well, if it's this him she gets.
"Come with me," he says after a moment, guiding her through the room and into the ensuite.
He clicks a switch and the lights come up, low and romantic. Oh, he's done things in here since she's been last.
The tub in the corner is deeper, and a dark green instead of white. The shower is grander still, and she thinks she spots two extra showerheads. Interesting. And a bench. Kinky old man.
He grins as she looks around, and nearly skips to the tub to start it filling. She shakes her head as he spins around, nearly slipping on the blue-green tiles.
"Careful, my love," she lets out. Oh dear, she's going soft.
He simply smiles and toes off his shoes, kicking them to the side of the toilet against the wall. His hands reach up for his bowtie. She walks to meet him as he undoes the knot.
She reaches up and slips it from his collar, wrapping it around her palm as she goes. She looks down at her hand for a moment and feels his hands fall to rest on her arms, fingers squeezing gently.
She blinks, pulling herself from memories of a pyramid and a kiss that restarted time.
By the time she fully comes back to herself, he's got her trousers undone and his waist coat is gone. She laughs and helps him along until they stand bare before each other but for the bowtie still clutched in her hand.
He reaches behind them and flips off the tap before stepping into the bath. She watches him go, all of his lanky limbs and bandy legs. Oh, she loves his body—his ridiculous, funny, lithe body.
The boyish grin he gives her as he reaches out for her tells her he knows all this—knows the way she giggles and gasps at him at just a twitch of his fingers.
She takes his hand and lets him help her into the bath, allowing him to guide them down until she rests against his chest, the water warm around them. She relaxes against him, and gives in to the safety of his arms against the water.
The first few times they'd tried this, she could barely step in the water, let alone steep in it. She hadn't told him—hadn't let on and suffered through, until one evening he left to get wine for her and found her sitting on the toilet, drenched, having climbed out of the tub to escape without him there with her.
Each time after that, he got in first. He'd never pressured her into a relaxing soak after that night unless he was there to soak with her.
She startles as she feels a tug on the bowtie she hasn't realizes is still around her hand. She loosens her grip almost automatically and feels him smile against her cheek as he winds the other end around his hand as well.
"Married in a bathtub?" she wonders aloud.
He chuckles in her ear. "We haven't done this for you yet then?"
"Do we do it more than once?"
He merely wraps his other arm around her. She laces her free hand through his and leans her head back so she can turn and kiss his jaw.
He begins to whisper, ancient Gallifreyan spilling from his lips, declarations of fidelity and honor and love wrapping around them like the bowtie joining their hands. His voice is low and husky against her ear, and she closes her eyes, letting his words wrap her up like his body. She takes his promises greedily, and whispers back her own, smiling as he wraps his legs around her as well, cocooning her, claiming her.
A Gallifreyan Bonding—one of the most ancient rituals in the Universe, and they're doing it in his bathtub.
His murmurs his final declaration, a soft, ancient, forceful, "I love you," and then goes silent. She opens her eyes and blinks in the low light, her body tingling all over as his breath ghosts over her cheek.
"I love you," she says, and even she isn't sure whether it was in Gallifreyan or English.
"My wife," he breathes out as he slowly unwraps their hands.
She watches as he lays the bowtie reverently on the edge of the bath, then wraps his other arm around her, bending to bury his forehead in her shoulder. She strokes her fingertips over his arms and presses her temple to the side of his head.
Perhaps he isn't just here for her. Though she wonders what she can possibly do for him this young. There must be hers who know—hers to match the wisdom in his eyes, who can speak of the things that make him so tired, so old.
"You smell like lilacs," he mumbles into her shoulder.
She laughs and nuzzles against him, completely out of her own control. "You bought me a perfume."
"I did," he agrees, though it's more of a question. Goodness knows how long ago it was for him—the him that brought it was awfully young. "It's the middle of the night."
"I have it on my pillow," she admits. It makes her bed smell less like…a dank and stormy prison and the hateful crime she committed, even if she didn't really.
It felt enough like she had at the time. No amount of knowing he was wearing a giant Doctor suit made it look less like shooting him.
"That sounds lovely. Can I borrow it?"
"No," she says quickly. "How do I know you'll bring it back?"
He huffs and lifts his head. "I promise I will."
She hums. She believes him. It's the when of it that concerns her. Unless—"Did you find it on the TARDIS?" She hears him suck in a breath. "You gave me paradox perfume? Doctor," she slaps his arm, giggling.
"You like it. I like it. So what if it's a little timey-wimey."
He laughs with her and they stay that way, giggling and exchanging soft words until River begins to shiver. The Doctor gives her one last squeeze then gently nudges at her until she stands.
Together, they get out of the bath and towel down. River playfully flicks her towel at his unclad bum as he walks ahead of her, and he growls, spinning around and picking her up.
She squeaks and slaps at his shoulders, unwilling to fight her way down lest they fall. He only has so much coordination. That said, he still manages to make it to the bed and toss her down, climbing up after her to pounce on top of her and blow raspberries into her neck until she shrieks with laughter.
"Doctor, please," she pleads, pushing on his shoulders until he raises his head. "Oh, I hate you," she pants out.
"No you don't," he says with a smile. "Can't hate the groom on the wedding night."
"Which wedding night is this for you?" she asks as he settles between her thighs, propping himself up with one hand while the other plays along her side.
He cocks his head, considering her. "Oh dear, 512, abouts."
"Five hundred," she lets out. He marries her over five hundred times. And those aren't even the anniversaries. Anniversaries, he's said, are even more special. She's not sure she believes him. This feels damn special as it is.
"And you?" he asks, smiling softly at her.
"Sixth."
His eyes light up and he leans down to press his lips to her nose. "You have so many wonderful nights ahead of you."
She smiles and reaches up to stroke his cheek as the light in his eyes fades while he stares at her. "And you, my love?"
"And I," he tells her, but she isn't sure he believes himself.
"And tonight?" she murmurs, letting her calf trail along his.
"Is one of those wonderful nights," he decides before he bends down and claims her lips for his.
Later, when they lay in a sweaty tangle of limbs, he traces patterns on her shoulder blades, his whispered words from their bath turning into symbols against her skin. She presses her lips to his chest and feels him take a shaking breath.
"Darling," she prompts, lifting her head.
She finds him staring at her, like she holds the secrets of the Universe, like she shines with the stars. The look blows her over.
"Stay tonight," he whispers.
"Of course," she promises, willingly sinking back down onto his chest as his hand tangles in her hair.
His arm tightens around her back and she wonders where he truly is in his time stream, and where she is by comparison.
(…)
As she leaves the next day, he gives her flowers for her cell—fake, beautiful flowers that he says the guards won't see.
She stares at them off and on throughout the day as she does some reading. She knicked a few of his more obscure books while he was tending to breakfast, and they keep her entertained through four guard shifts. They've never denied her books.
She's just working up what she thinks might be a decent dig proposal based on speculation over a burial ground on Greilieth Six when she notices a disturbance in the air on the far side of her cell.
As she stands and cracks her back, she wonders idly over why her younger Doctors park outside of the cell. Maybe he gets better at precise landings over time.
He pops out of the air with a smile, extending a cup of tea to her as she walks through the door. He closes it behind her and crowds her as she wanders around the console, inspecting the flight controls she hasn't yet had the time to explore.
"All the same," he offers, leaning back against the far panel.
"More organized this time," she says as she strokes over one of the thrust handles.
"The last one had a poetic brilliance to it," he defends.
"Oh, I know, sweetie." She smirks at him. "All that twirling about. Very fetching."
"Fetching," he grumbles as he pushes off and comes to stand in front of her, watching as she takes a blithe sip of her tea. "I am not fetching."
"Whatever you say, dear," she says, laughing. "Are we going somewhere tonight?"
"Two nights on the TARDIS too domestic for you, Miss Song?"
"Aren't they for you, my love?" she wonders.
He shrugs, looking utterly nonplussed. Interesting.
"Either way, I suppose we could go to the planet of pillows. Pick you up a new mattress."
She stares at him. "A new mattress."
"The one you've got's rubbish."
Well, he has that right. "Are you planning to perception filter my entire cell?"
"Perception filter isn't a verb," he mutters as he begins flipping switches. "Oh, wait."
He darts out of the TARDIS and back into her cell. "Sweetie?" she calls after him. She walks down the steps and leans out the door, watching in amusement as he waves his sonic at her cot. "What are you doing?"
"Come here," he says, waving her out of the TARDIS.
"What have you done?"
She crosses the cell and raises her eyebrows as he plucks her cup from her hands and sets it down on her bedside table. "Lie down," he instructs.
Wary, but willing, she settles onto her cot and promptly groans. He—oh, it's like heaven.
"What did you do?" she asks again, stretching languidly as she stares up at him. He grins, so proud of himself, and flops down beside her, cuddling in close to get all of his frame onto the bed, his feet dangling off the end.
"I enlarged the atomic structure of the padding, puffed up the lining and softened the springs," he informs her as he curls around her, pushing his nose into her cheek.
"It's divine," River admits.
"I always thought it was too nice," he mumbles, getting comfortable.
"Spoilers," she admonishes, smiling as he chuckles into her neck. "The TARDIS is still open," she adds.
He simply lifts and arm and snaps. The door falls shut with a soft bang and he lets his arm fall to curl over her waist again.
"The guards," she adds.
He grunts and shifts around, digging in his coat pocket for a moment before he pulls out his sonic. He aims it blindly at the hall, and all the lights go out, plunging them into blackness.
"Hardly helps with flashlights," she says, even as she revels in the sudden stillness—the lack of buzzing. The lights have always grated on her nerves with their humming and flickering.
"Wiped those out too," he whispers. "All night. Relax, River."
"Sorry, sorry," she huffs. "Just don't think it'd be best if a guard walked by and saw me in bed with the man I killed. Rather blows our cover."
"Fine. Gimme a 'mo." She waits as he fiddles with his sonic, pushing a few buttons that certainly hadn't been there the last time she'd seen it. In fact, it looks new—ancient, but new—an improved version of his last.
"There," he proclaims, pointing it back at the bars. "Now, it'll be empty."
"So I've only escaped then. Perfect," she mumbles, smiling into his hair as he chuckles. "You don't have to sleep here, my love," she adds as he shifts again, propping one of his legs over hers. "Your bed is bigger."
"You're here," he says softly.
"I can be there too."
"Sleep, River."
She blinks up at the darkness, smiling as he drags her meager blanket up by his toe. His jacket scratches softly at her bare arms, but she doesn't care, charmed somehow by his simple words and tender gesture. His breath puffs against her neck, slower and slower as he falls into sleep.
She spends a few minutes stroking her fingers through his hair before her eyes flutter shut and she too falls into sleep—the most peaceful sleep she's had in this cell since she arrived.
And when she wakes, though he is gone, the feeling of contentment remains. She stretches and looks to her side, the lights restored, perception filter apparently gone. Her face splits in a small smile as she notices the mug on her bedside, full of still-steaming tea.
That man.
She sits up slowly and brings the cup to her lips, sipping with pleasure before cradling it in her hands between the knees she brings to her chest.
A guard walks by and gives her a curious look as she savors her tea.
"Lovely morning, isn't it?" she offers, giggling to herself as he scowls and continues on his way.
(…)
She watches slowly as her hand reaches out, mechanical fingers aimed at his heart. She tries to pull back, uses all of her might, but nothing stalls the steady progress. Nothing stops the build up of energy she can feel buzzing all around her. She's screaming, begging him to run, but he stays. He stays, tears on his cheeks, eyes locked on hers.
And within them, she sees nothing. No miniature Doctor. No mechanical eye. She stares into the face of her Doctor, flesh and bone, and light shoots from her hand. He jerks, more tears falling from his eyes as that golden glow erupts from his skin, and she screams.
A flash of light. A crumpling body. A dead Doctor at her feet.
She screams and screams but nothing comes out. The suit marches her back into the lake, down, down, down underwater and she weeps and struggles and fights.
He's dead.
He's dead and it's all her fault.
"River."
She takes a gasping breath and her eyes slam open.
A canopy above her, soft mattress beneath, the humming sound of a lullaby in the air all around—she's not in the lake.
"Hey there."
She turns her head and blinks in the dim light that filters in from the bathroom. His face hovers close to hers, a heavy hand warm and comforting on her stomach, his thumb rubbing circles against her naked skin.
"Doctor," she whispers, her voice raspy.
"Bad one," he offers, smoothing his fingers across her forehead, his other arm propped near her temple. "You with me?"
"Dream," she states, watching as he nods. "Sorry," she adds, closing her eyes as she swallows, her throat raw. She must have been screaming.
"Don't apologize," he says softly. "You don't have to apologize to me."
She stares at him, his face so very open and honest, and sad. Beyond his concern, and his affection, and the love that shines from his eyes, she sees how sad it makes him, how her despair seeps into him—a fault, a guilt, a burden he should never have to bear.
"Don't do that."
"What?" she asks, confused.
"Don't decide that you're not entitled to your feelings because I feel them with you. Don't hide the damage from me, River. It's not worth it."
"Yes it is," she says instantly. She clamps her mouth shut as his eyes grow dark. But it's true. They needn't both be in pain—her nightmares are her own. He has his. He doesn't need hers as well.
"No, it's not," he intones. "We've only got so much time. Don't spend it pretending, please, River."
She searches his face, her mind putting pieces together at a rapid pace. Hiding the damage. It sounds like something she'd say—something she's thought in the privacy of her head before. Something, it seems, she's said to him, admitted to him at some later date.
And he doesn't want her to do it.
Is that the age is his eyes, the despair at the corners of his smile when he looks at her now, so young? Did an older her get far enough along to let it slip—tell him after years, decades, centuries—all of the things she's refused to say, refused to show?
She must have done, will have done—a spoiler, a paradox, a foreknowledge she knows instantly that she will carry out.
Not tonight. Maybe not for a few days, a few weeks. But when it counts, when it's more than nightmares and thunder. When it's more than the memory of the suit and the black of the lake and the down down down.
Sometime in her future, there are worse days coming for her—pains and injustices, sacrifices she will keep to herself. That she already has kept to herself. That she has hidden from him. There are things he will never know—things he couldn't bear, and it will be her duty to keep them, to secret them away for only her hearts to carry.
And though she'd do anything to take away the sadness in his eyes tonight, she won't undo the work she's already done—work a future her has already done, to protect him.
She won't undo it. But she can spare him it now—can make him think she'll fix it. She can give him hope.
For in his eyes, she can see, suddenly, that that her—the older her—won't be seeing him again. It chills her.
Back to front.
This him will never know, one way or another, if she hides the damage. He's already lived her end, or something like it—been through the other side with her.
He's saved her from her nightmare tonight. Perhaps she can help him through his waking one.
"I was at the lake," she tells him, meeting his eyes as he peers at her, understanding blooming over his face. "And I looked into your eyes and—and it was the first time. You died. I—I killed you," she gets out.
"You saved me," he tells her. "Twice, River."
"Not tonight." She takes a deep breath, feeling the hand he lays against her cheek, locking herself into this reality. "Not," she sighs and lifts her fingertips to her temple. "Not here. Not always."
"Always," he insists, leaning in to feather his lips across her face, soft presses to the tip of her nose, her cheekbones, the corners of her eyes. "You always save me. Every day. I promise you that."
He smiles at her, and she sees the sadness fade away, replaced only with his affection and love. "What else do you dream about?"
She considers him as they lay there, her cradled into his body, his fingertips feathering over her skin, breath warm against her cheek where his head rests on her pillow.
"Berlin. Mels, sometimes. Melody. And then—I don't know."
"You don't always remember," he surmises. River nods. "Better that way."
"Yes," she whispers.
"Do you want—I can get you dreamless sleeping pills," he offers.
River stares at him. "Like, like in Harry Potter?"
He laughs, loud, then presses a smacking kiss to her lips that leaves her giggling. "Of all the—well, yes, I suppose like that," he says after they stop giggling together. "You couldn't take them all the time, but if they get really bad, it could—it could help. I want you to sleep, River."
"I don't need to sleep that much," she tells him. "Part Time Lady, you know."
He grins and presses up against her. "Oh, I know."
"Kinky man," she whispers.
"Last of our kind, River. Hardly kinky," he argues, staring at her like she's irreplaceable, a wonder.
And sometimes, in these brief moments when he looks at her this way, she believes it. A wonder. She is a wonder, tailor made for him—to walk with him, to keep him company in this lonely universe. The two of them together. The last of the Time Lords and his almost Time Lady.
"So, I don't need to sleep," she continues, when she can breathe again, when her hearts let go of that cherished look and his eyes manage to shutter it away.
"You do so need to sleep," he rebuffs. "More than me, at least."
"But so much less than anything human," River argues.
He chuckles and bops her nose. "Yes dear. But you still need to sleep. When you don't—" His smile falls away. "When you don't, River, I worry."
"You needn't," she says instantly.
"Oh but I do," he continues. "With your guns, and your jumping off buildings—"
"I make a habit of that, do I?" she puts in, smirking. He scowls at her. What? It's his spoiler.
"And your basically making a mockery of all that is safe and sane, I worry. And with less sleep, River, it's not—you're not at the top of your game, and you have to be. I—I need you to be. So you come home," he finishes on a whisper, age and knowledge and loss heavy in his eyes again.
She can give him this, she decides. So she can come home to him.
"Alright, my love. We'll get me dreamless sleeping pills. But only for special occasions."
"For all the others, you just come here, and we'll weather it," he promises. "Any time, River. You call, I'll be there."
They stare at each other. She won't always get this him. More often than not, she reasons, she'll get the youngest hims, and instead of sleeping, she'll end up on mad-cap adventures, running and shooting and jumping on no sleep at all.
And he'll run beside her, grinning all the way, while his older self bites at his nails, remembering.
She smiles and leans up to kiss him. She won't promise to call. And he won't force her to lie to him. Not about this.
But they have tonight together.
Hopefully, she has this Doctor for years to come.
Hopefully he won't be able to let her go just as much as she won't be able to tell him to—to tell him to move on, to go see her younger selves—the ones before Stormcage, before the lake. She'll keep him from herself for as long as she can, greedy and wanting and weak.
(…)
Sometimes she catches him staring at her. When she toys with her hair. When she lays in bed. When she pilots his ship. When she eats. When she laughs. The moments are brief, but she can see it—can see him tucking them away, bolstering himself, she assumes, for when he has to leave her.
It's been weeks, perhaps two months, of seeing this Doctor nearly every night. Sometimes they adventure, and he keeps her longer than he should—gallivanting off to see the Universe, his hand around hers and his lips against her ear as he shows her wonder after wonder.
But more often than not, they spend their nights in bed, in the kitchen, in the bath. He shows her parts of the TARDIS she's never seen. He dances with her in the control room, waltzes her down the halls. He cherishes her, cradles her, kisses her, savors her.
Tonight when she walks through the doors, her customary, "Hello sweetie," tripping off her lips, she knows. In the brief look that flashes across his eyes, she knows. Tonight is their last night.
She has to grow up—has to take the strength he's afforded her and move forward, and he must go back—has to meet her younger selves, take them on amazing adventures. And in her memory, there are only a handful of those—so careful of her before Silencio he had been. So wary of undue influence. He even changed the TARDIS back, now she thinks of it—kept it like it had been with her parents.
She wants to tell him to pick her up and never let her go—to go to her, prove his love, and take her away. He could teach her, could give her a doctorate to circle the moon and its university twelve times over. She wants to tell him to screw everything he's known—change them, make them linear.
But she won't.
It would mean that none of this will ever have happened.
That she wouldn't be there to save him, to kill him, to marry him.
That he wouldn't be here tonight to wrap his arms around her, pressing his face into her hair, his breath hot and fast against her ear. He wouldn't be here to lift her off her feet and cling to her. He wouldn't be here for her to cry silently into his shoulder for a moment so brief she thinks she may have imagined it.
He wouldn't be here to say goodbye to this her.
And that would break her hearts more than anything that's yet to come, waiting there in his eyes as he pulls back to look at her.
"River," he breathes out.
She smiles and strokes her hand over his cheek. "My love. What shall we do tonight?"
He stares at her for a long moment before his face cracks in a smile. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" she wonders, trying to sound a little put out. But nothing—nothing sounds wonderful.
"Absolutely nothing but eating biscuits and milk over the birth of the Milky Way," he enthuses.
"All night?" she wonders as he releases her to hop up to the console, fingers flying over the controls—flying her nearly perfectly.
Oh, she'll miss him.
"Well," he hedges, looking over his shoulder at her, a fairly convincing smolder in his eyes.
She winks and follows him as he walks back to the kitchen. He takes her hand and they amble together, light and easy.
A while later, they sit together, their legs dangling over the edge of the TARDIS, the doors thrown wide open as they watch stars being born beneath them, around them. She kisses crumbs from his lips and he toys with her curls as she sits smashed into his side, the plate of cookies balanced on their thighs.
"It's beautiful," she tells him.
"I've not shown you this before, have I?"
She turns and meets his eyes, shaking her head. "First time for me."
"Good," he says happily. "You've so many firsts to come, my River."
"You've a couple yourself," she promises, finding his hand to weave their fingers together.
He laughs low in his throat and squeezes her hand. "Good to know."
She watches as he kicks his legs back and forth. "Thank you," she says softly. He turns to look at her in question. "For the past few weeks."
He takes the plate and shoves it back and into the TARDIS, turning back to take her face in his hands. His thumbs stroke her cheeks as he studies her, his eyes searching hers, remembering, memorizing.
"I will never tell you enough," he begins, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers. Light and warmth bursts across her mind and she gasps. "I love you," he breathes out, and it swirls between their lips, between their minds, bright flashes and stretches of oranges, reds, yellows, pinks, twining together in brilliant strands behind her eyes.
"I love you, and I have loved you, and I will love you," he promises, and she can feel the conviction of his words reverberate through her, mind and body both.
"Always," she promises back, Gallifreyan. It shimmers between them, silver and gold and purple and black.
He stands and takes her hands, pulling her up until he can lean down and pick her up. He kicks the doors shut and River hears the TARDIS laughing merrily around them.
She smiles into his shoulder, her arms around his neck, trusting him to carry her through the halls and to their bedroom. He doesn't stumble once.
And there, in the room they share together—her home and his—he cherishes her, treasures her, and she gives right back, savoring this last night together like this.
She will have more nights with him. Immeasurable nights, he promises into her mind as they move together. And he will have more with her too. They won't be like this—for neither of them again—but they will be equally beautiful and full of love.
And when they have worn each other out, their skin alive with the echoes of kisses and phantom recollections of caresses, they hold each other, two sets of hands tracing Gallifreyan over bare backs and sides.
They spend the night this way, reigniting fires and soothing each other back to reality each time, in an endless cycle River thinks goes on for days. They are selfish together, and they steal time greedily, hoarding it like children.
But after the third time she comes back to the bedroom with food, she knows it's time.
Together they walk to the TARDIS doors, fingers twined together.
"River," he whispers as she opens the doors and turns back to him, staring into the TARDIS as he stares out at her cell.
"I love you," she tells him, meeting his eyes with all the strength he's given her, trying to give it back to him.
He smiles crookedly and leans down to plunder her mouth, tender and frantic at once. She presses against him, sighing as his hands clutch at her, her own smoothing over the purple coat she's come to love as much as his ridiculous tweed.
"My wife," he says as they part.
She smiles and so does he, even though they both know she will never see this him again like this—not until she's older—not until she has the wisdom in her own eyes to match the age in his.
"Good morning, my love," she intones, wrinkling her nose as he presses a fast kiss to it. "See you tonight."
"Yes, you will," he promises. "Sleep and dream of me, River Song."
"I will."
She arches up onto her toes and presses a last kiss to his lips, before stepping back and out of the TARIDS, out of home and into prison.
He stares at her for a long moment, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before he turns and snaps, the doors falling shut behind him. She stays close and watches with a heavy heart as the TARDIS disappears in a quiet whoosh.
After a long moment, she turns and looks around at her cell, fuller than it had been only a month ago. Her flowers are still there, a 51st century authentic tea dispenser disguised as a dull book sitting beside them; he promised to keep her in tea for the rest of her time here—a promise he already knows he'll keep—smug bastard. It's not a kettle, but it will do, and there's always tea on the TARDIS, brewed to perfection by her second mother herself.
River smiles and walks over to make herself a cup, sitting down on her comfortable mattress and pulling up the new throw—a beautiful, blue patterned wool that feels thicker than it looks.
She slips her diary from beneath her pillow and curls up, the blanket over her legs, her tea on her bedside. And then she writes, committing all of it to page, a smile on her face and a sheen of tears in her eyes. Treasured pages fill with romantic nights beneath her pen, and by the time she's done—every caress, sweet word, lovely gesture laid out for eternity there—it's gone from day to night and the last guard is walking by.
A few minutes later, she looks up at the tell-tale sound of her husband's TARDIS landing outside the bars.
A young one then.
She reaches down and grabs her belt, wrapping it around her waist. She quickly stuffs her blaster and her diary into it and fluffs her hair, ready with a smirk as he pops out of the TARDIS in his tweed.
"Evening, Doctor Song," he offers, swaggering up to the bars. "Care for an adventure?"
She smiles and walks over to meet him as he sonics her cell door. She strolls out and past him, headed for the TARDIS, but he snags her arm.
"Forgetting something, aren't you?" he asks.
She looks over her shoulder at him. "Am I?" she simpers.
He growls and yanks her in, pressing a hard, fast kiss to her lips.
He grins as he pulls away and she smiles back.
It isn't the same.
But as he tugs her inside, into the brilliant copper TARDIS, the ship humming joyously under her feet and her parents standing happily on the steps, she realizes that the journey from this him to the one that left her this morning will be worth it.
There are so many nights to come between then and now.
She thinks she might enjoy the back to front, at least for a while.