A/N: This is about, oh, five stories I wrote and wittled down into one, because, well, I'm not sure really. For the most part it's modelled around the title. It's very rare that I come up with a title before I start writing something.
Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones, But Your Words Will Haunt Us.
The Doctor doesn't carry sword or guns or lasers, because the only weapon he needs are his words.
Men and women have buckled under the strain, but not her, never River. She's seen death (Past, present and future) and it doesn't scare her.
She keeps her eyes locked with the very man she has been trained to kill by any means necessary. Hand-to-hand combat. Cloaks and daggers. Assassination. A battle of wills. Somedays she comes away victorious, but not uninjured.
River's face is set in stone, but her eyes, they are bleeding.
He knows the words that will strike her heart cold, how to cut her down with his sharp tongue.
Eyes closed. The pain of distrust soaking into her skin, as she struggles against secrets and promises to keep herself contained. Its an art she's had to master; taking a hit and keeping her feet under her.
She didn't crumble in the face of his future death or her hand in it (and she intends to be in full control of her own), so this, his intention to run away will not break her.
Her weapon and the balm to her soul is her knowledge of their shared past, and the regret that shone in his dulled irises when she was young and knew nothing, and he was so very ancient and knew her whole heart.
He thinks she is the enemy now, but one day he will understand that civilizations will crumble, Army's will rise and fall at his hands, there will be births and extinction, but she will be the hand that catches his.
She will always be his unconstant constant.
