He had never had a beginning with her. The first time River had burst into his life, she'd whispered his name in his ear, and then died to save him. After that - later for him, earlier for her - she had been all sass and swagger and spoilers, so self assured and confident that she knew him better than he knew himself. And she certainly loved him better than he loved himself.
There was never any beginning, not for him. No awkward first dates. No "so, tell me about your family" and "what is your favorite color" and "how many sugars do you take in your coffee?" Just the sparkle in her eye when she took his hand and they ran mad through the universe together. After a while he just - went with it, and assumed that he'd done something somewhere to deserve her love. Or that their love was a self fulfilling prophecy, one lover always ahead of the other to show the way, and so no need for beginnings or introductions or foundations.
He'd always assumed it was that way for her. After all, the first time he had burst into her life he'd loved her enough to forgive her for killing him, and in return she'd given his life back to him. Other than Berlin, he'd never lived her beginning with her, and so he assumed she didn't have one either.
He thought about checking, sometimes. His Eleventh self had retrieved her diary from the Library. He told himself it was stupid to leave it there, where any enemy could find it and undo the best thing that had ever happened to him. So, straight from their last goodbye at the singing towers, he'd watched Ten and Donna walk away, broken and grieving. "Ha!" he'd laughed bitterly at his receding self, "you don't know anything about pain, son."
He took her diary back to the Tardis, and hid it among his books, but try as he might to forget, he always knew where it was. He was tempted, oh, he was tempted so many times, to open it and read what she had written. To discover maybe, just maybe, one line they had not yet lived, and go and find her somewhere in space and time. But he was too afraid. Too afraid to learn that he had lived it all and that she was truly lost to him.
And so he assumed they had no beginning, and he told himself he was glad. Glad to have skipped the boring parts and jumped straight to the action and the naughty bits. And his Eleventh self was glad. But as Eleven changed to Twelve, and Twelve wandered, more often alone than not, he wished he had her beginning. A thousand years without her, and his memories of her life's middle and end were well worn. But no beginning.
So, when she burst through his Tardis doors one day, vibrant and fresh and, oh god, so young, he realized with joy that they had a beginning. It was just that, for him, it was after the end.
"You always claim my Friday evenings!" River said, breezing in, her hands full of parcels. "It is like you don't want my other boyfriends to have a chance!" She laughed, and kissed his cheek to chase away his sudden dark look. "You are so funny all jealous."
"You were waiting for me though, weren't you?" he said, nodding at her parcels.
"Mmmm, true," she said, heading up the staircase to his bookshelves. "I'm giving you back your book on Gallifreyan syntax!" she called down. "Fascinating read."
He smiled. In many preceding Friday evenings, they'd had coffee, and dinner, and long walks on far-flung beaches. She'd explored the Tardis with joy, before he'd swept her off on small trips to beautiful places to meet interesting people. He'd sat with her under wild sunsets, content to hold her hand while she told him all about everything he already knew. On a planet ruled by intelligent shoes, they had a run in with some cranky beast things with teeth (as she called them) and had dashed back to the Tardis, beast things in hot pursuit. He'd looked at her, breathless, hoping she wasn't afraid, but she had dissolved into peals of laughter. "Oh sweetie," she'd said, "now that was fun."
From the beginning, she'd seen the Gallifreyan runes on the rotors in the console room, and had insisted that he teach her the ancient language. He'd laughed at that, and rejoiced in hearing her beautiful lilt developing in his language. In later days that voice would make him younger-him blush when she whispered naughty nothings into his ears.
"Where to?" he asked, as she came down the staircase, a new book on Gallifreyan grammar in her hands. She always had ideas about what she wanted to see, and he was happy to oblige.
"A picnic! I have sandwiches, you pick the place." She stopped and studied his face, suddenly uncertain. "Unless you've already eaten?" In another time and place, he would have let the easy double entendre trip off his lips, something low and sultry about dessert. But not here and now. Sometime she was so much his River. Sometimes, though, she was still the broken little girl.
"No, I haven't eaten recently," he said instead. "A picnic sounds wonderful."
She narrowed her eyes at him, catching his hesitation, and suddenly all 'mother hen' she looked so much like Amy. "When was the last time you ate?" she asked.
He waved his hand vaguely. "Oh, you know, who can tell? I'm sure it was sometime this week. Or last week." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Planets!" he cried, changing the subject, and gesturing toward the ceiling. "There is one actually called 'Picnic.' Or, more like 'e-PEEK-nee-eek' but that is near enough. Blue grass, purple sky, orange trees. Entirely vegetation, no animal life at all. At least I think not."
"Picnic it is," she said. He flipped the levers and set the coordinates, and then gestured at the switch that would activate the Tardis. Her eyes widened, and then with a laugh of pure joy she sent them flying through time and space.
They'd found a large orange tree to shade their picnic, and afterward, he leaned against its spongy truck and finished the excellent wine, while River snuggled into his chest, tracing Gallifreyan letters onto him. A breeze ghosted through the pale blue grass, and the sun was warm. The clear sky impressively framed the ring and moon system of the peaceful little world.
"What happened to your face?" River asked into the drowsy silence, her fingers stilling. The Doctor stirred. He had wondered if she would ask. She'd simply accepted his new face when she rolled back into his life. From her perspective, she'd only seen the old one once, and then only in the throes of madness and regeneration shock, which he knew too well. He'd wondered if she'd noticed, or thought through the implications.
"Why," he replied, deliberately misunderstanding, "do I have mustard on my chin?"
"You know what I mean," she said.
"I died," he answered shortly. She sighed, and resumed tracing patterns on his chest.
"Was I there?" she asked. He shrugged, not quite able to say 'spoilers.' What the hell did it matter? She wouldn't be alive to see it.
"No," he answered.
She sighed again. "Did it hurt? I remember it hurting."
"Yes. Achingly. Terribly. Agonizingly."
"Other you ... Baby face and bow tie. In Berlin, you knew me, and seemed to know me well. So, I'll see him again?" she asked.
The Doctor put his wine glass down on the ground and rubbed his hands on his face. An older face, but not nearly as old as he actually was. "Would that please you?" he asked quietly.
"I think I'll be happy to see any you," she answered, snuggling more deeply in his arms. Then he popped up and stared him in the face. "Wait, are you jealous of younger you?" She grinned at him. "You are!"
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "He was very handsome. And ... exuberant," he grumped. "And yes, I'm jealous of any man who spends time in your company."
River settled back in. "He won't remember any of this?" she deduced, her voice sad. "My past, your future, all out of order?"
"True, but you'll have a good time with him." The Doctor smiled. "He's a good sport."
River frowned. "How far are you ahead of me? Why come back and do the beginning now?" she asked, her gaze piercing.
This time he had to say it. "Spoilers." He sighed. Stupid, stupid word. But this wouldn't do. She might be young, and didn't know him nearly as well as older River, but she was smart and intuitive, and would pick up on his sorrow. Time to change the subject. He reached over to his coat, crumpled on on ground beside them, and pulled an old leather-bound book out of the pocket. "I think you'll find this interesting," he said, waving the book on the air. "Gallifreyan poetry."
"Oooh," she said, face lighting up. "Read it to me."
He cleared his throat and flipped through a few pages before beginning to speak. His native language tasted round and sweet on his lips, unspoken for centuries.
River closed her eyes and listened, just hearing the rise and fall of his voice, the tones, almost a song, the sounds and rhythms of his dead language. Then comprehension came, and she sat bolt upright and punched him in the arm.
"Not just Gallifreyan poetry!" She laughed. "Smutty Gallifreyan poetry!"
He laughed aloud at her expression, all shock and horror and sheer delight. Then she leered at him and reclined on an elbow. "Keep reading," she commanded, dipping her fingers in his discarded wine glass.
And so he did, pretending to be earnest, but unable to prevent his lips from twitching upward on a really delightful bit of wordplay.
"Ooooh," she interrupted, rapt. "So naughty! Is that even possible?" and she chuckled, warm and low, a sound that had always been 'River's laugh,' to him. His hearts clenched and throat closed at the sound, so long unheard. He was grateful that she chose that moment to snatch the book from his hands. "My turn!" She cackled.
She snuggled in beside him again, cheek against his chest, above his hearts, and began to read. It was all theater at first, waving her hands and smacking her lips for emphasis, both of them laughing until tears rolled down their faces. "Oh my god," River interrupted herself. "The poet was a genius!"
"She was," the Doctor said.
"You knew her?"
"I did. She would have liked you." (Someday, not today, he would tell her about his Gallifreyan wife, his children, his grandchildren, all lost to him so long ago.)
"I have a new hobby," River announced. "Writing smutty Gallifreyan poetry!"
Then River turned the page, shot him an absolutely obscene look, and changed her approach. She began to recite, and the sultry words dripped, they sizzled and seared and moved. She felt the rhythm of his hearts increase under her cheek, and lifted her head fractionally to look at him.
"Is this a thing?" She asked, all spice and sass. "Naughty poetry?"
"This may have been a bad idea," he answered hoarsely.
"It is a thing!" she crowed with glee, and clutched the book to her breast. "My book now!"
Yes, it is. The Doctor thought to himself, and sent a silent apology to his younger self through space and time. The poor boy had been beyond scandalized at River's filthy mouth. Rivah, where in the universe did you get that book! He'd asked. Spoilers, she'd answered, and proceeded to prove unspeakable words with unspeakable actions. Actually, Twelve thought into the universe, not sorry.
Back under the orange tree in the present past, River was reading again, and kissing her way up his neck for emphasis.
"River!" he managed to gasp, and cradled her head in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes.
She laid the book on his lap with a sigh, and burrowed her head into his chest. "Why do you love me?" she asked, her words muffled by his shirt. "I've done nothing worthy of your love." The broken little girl was back, and he was glad he'd stopped her.
"Oh, River," he said. He was about to tell her that she was a shining beacon through space and time, but closed his mouth before the word tumbled out. She wouldn't believe that she would someday live up to her own impossibly high example. She wanted to be loved for who she was, not the distant myth of her future.
"I love you here and now, for all that you are here and now," he said.
"What am I?" she murmured.
He blinked back tears. "My River, later you will be an unstoppable force, silver waters falling down the mountain, thundering rapids cascading through canyons, mighty and swift as you rush to the sea. But here and now," he whispered, raising face to his own and kissing her sweetly "right now you are the headwaters: deep and still, cool and clear, an unlooked for oasis of rest and hope for a very weary traveler."