A/N: Have had this sitting on my hard-drive unfinished since after the season 6 finale, and only managed to pick it up after much fangirling with my beloved Becs. Full A/N at the end, because spoilers, sweeties.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I wish I did.
Pair: 11/River
Set: after The Wedding Of River Song. Spoilers for that episode.
Summary: She is the river in which he gladly drowns.
Drown
When he finds her she is standing with his bowtie twined around her fingers, her hand fisted and pressed to her chest. When he first arrived, the sight of her standing on the edge of a cliff shot a bolt of terror through him, until he realised she already knew everything; she has no reason to dive from it without the promise of being caught by him and his TARDIS.
She is staring so intently into the nothingness before her she doesn't even notice him striding up beside her. Or maybe she does; maybe she just manages her reactions better than he can. Her breathing is perfectly even as she gazes out across the horizon and watches the sun slowly bow towards it.
"You know, as beautiful as this is, I would've gladly destroyed it to save you. What do you think that says about me?" Her question bears no regret, no apology, merely the absolute truth of the matter.
"That you're a... psychopath." He teases slowly.
"You knew that when you married me, my love." Jokes the woman, turning her gaze on him for a mere moment. He still has not touched her. "I'm serious, though. I doomed the universe to save you."
"No, you doomed the universe to save me until said universe combusted." He corrects. His tone is not chiding; it's actually quite affectionate, in a know-it-all, smart-alecky sense of the word.
"I had to do something." She whispers. "I don't even want to imagine a world without you; a world where the rest of us is erased. I can't."
He remains silent, unable to find an eloquent way of acknowledging exactly how much she loves him.
"On the other hand," she begins, words laden with significance. "Never being able to touch you again was the most terrifying thing I've ever had to face."
He smiles in that goofy way of his. "More terrifying than Daleks?"
"Mhm." She nods, lips pressed together but curling at the edges at his flirtatious tone.
"Cybermen?"
"Definitely."
"Weeping Angels?"
"A trifle."
"Sontarans?"
She scoffs derisively. "Don't make me laugh."
"What about..." He pauses, searching for the monster more terrifying than all of the above. The only thing he can think of is his love for her.
"I said 'the most', Sweetie. I wasn't exaggerating."
"Well, the good news is: now you can touch me without wiping out everything that's ever existed." He says, then leans across and kisses the side of her head lingeringly. "Look. Universo Intacto." He observes. When he pulls back he drapes his arm around her shoulders and begins running his fingers gently through her curls. She leans her weight against his side and rests her head on his shoulder. She takes a deep lungful of the fresh, clean air and lets it burst from her body, relief hitting her like a lorry. She turns her face and pecks his neck before giving her attention back to the view.
"If we're going to start spouting Latin, the phrase I'd most like to hear is 'in flagrante delicto'." She states cheekily. He merely shakes his head in response, an affectionate smile playing about his lips. She is nothing if not predictable.
"So, not quite the way I imagined our wedding." She comments after a long pause, a teasing smile on her lips.
"You've thought about our wedding? You have hypothetical weddings for us? Honestly, Song; I knew you were a psychopath, but that's an entirely new level of insanity."
"Shut up, Sweetie, I've killed you before." She jokes wickedly.
"So, what was it like?"
"Killing you?" She queries, nudging him slightly with her shoulder.
"Our wedding. In your mind – obviously I was there for the real one."
"Well..." She draws out the word thoughtfully and lifts her head from his shoulder; her body remains resting against his. "I suppose much the same as it was: you and me snogging like mad – although in my head it was actually you rather than a shape-shifting robot that looked like you. And the world wasn't about to end – it was rather like the Time Lord equivalent of a shotgun wedding, wasn't it? Don't agree!" She snaps the last at him sternly, just in case he does have the temerity to do so. "So there was less exploding of the universe. And less robotics. The pyramid was a bit of a surprise, but you know me, always up for a little archaeology. And there was dancing."
Simultaneously their heads turn so their eyes meet. "So basically, there was kissing and dancing." He summarises.
"Well, and a variety of clothing and a less apocalyptic backdrop, but basically yes."
"In a technical sense, is it still our wedding day? Because I make a point of always dancing at weddings."
"In a technical sense, the sun hasn't set yet."
"In a technical sense it is the twenty-second of April."
"In a technical sense I am in my wedding dress. And my wedding shoes which are both highly appealing and extremely impressive if I do say so myself." He laughs lightly at her, although her shoes are quite impressive.
"Well then, Mrs Song," he says gallantly, twisting to fully face her, bending at the waist and offering his hand. "May I have this dance?"
"Indeed you may, Mr Song." She smirks, settling her hand in his.
"Oh! So that's why Rory hoped it didn't work like that." He says, realisation crossing his face.
"Trust me, that is how it works."
He grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Song."
He takes her in his arms, one of her hands clasped tightly in his, his other hand on her back and begins dancing with her. He hums a Gallifreyan lullaby in her ear as he begins to slowly sway her across the reddened surface of the planet.
He feels her relax in his arms, feels tension melting out of her body as she nuzzles against the side of his head. His hand takes in the frills at the base of her jacket, playing with them idly.
"You know, I feel the need to point out that you've been a bit of a shit to me all day."
"Right."
"I didn't imagine that in our fantasy weddings." Her tone is teasing, but he knows she isn't.
He raises his hand from her jacket to lightly finger her hair.
"Women fall in love with me all the time, River." He says into her curls.
"Cocky," she interjects, but he ignores her. "I don't usually fall in love with them back." He is perfectly vulnerable, and usually seeing him in such a state would make her take pity on him, but now she uses it to her advantage.
"So why did I have to be what?" She questions him, keeping her voice moderated.
He pulls back and grins at her sardonically. "So. Bloody. Determined." He pecks her lips. "And stubborn." Then tweaks her nose. "And loyal. And human. And not human. And in love with me." The last is barely more than a whisper, and his fingers graze her cheek.
"Can't help it, sweetie," she sparkles. "You're irresistible." He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. He feels her body react to his proximity, and he can no longer refrain from kissing her. She is the river in which he gladly drowns, her kisses making him weak and helpless and igniting him in a way he never believed possible in his many centuries.
"River, sometimes I think I hate you for making me feel this way."
"If you say things like that I'm going to divorce you." She breathes, a teasing edge to his tone.
"You'll never divorce me; you love me more than the universe – "
"More than everything that ever was and ever will be, yes you're quite correct."
"So then, you really have nothing to threaten me with." Smirks the Doctor wickedly.
"Oh, sweetie, how naive you are. I know more methods of torture than you could possibly imagine."
"Do any of them involve tying me to a bed, by any chance?" His eyes twinkle with mischief and her lips tweak in response.
"About seventeen percent; seven-thousand-nine-hundred-and-eleven, to be exact."
"Oh Doctor Song, I do love when you spout numbers like a curvy sexy-voiced calculator." River laughs; he feels her laughter through his palms.
She leans up to his ear and mumbles "some of them even involve custard," in her most knee-weakening voice.
"Alright, that's it. Come on." His tone leaves no room for argument, his hand is clasping and tugging hers before she knows where he's dragging her.
"Where are we going?!" Demands the woman, curls flying out behind her as he forces her to run in her platform Perspex shoes. In fairness, she's had to run in worse.
"The Hôtel De Ville: 1950! You, Mrs Song, deserve a honeymoon! We'll get Doisneau to take some happy snaps, it'll be brilliant!" Babbles the Doctor, dragging her in his wake. River laughs happily, knowing this is his form of penance for railing against her earlier, and she is grateful for it.
And so the newlyweds disappear into a conspicuous blue Police Box, setting course for a brief interlude of normalcy before they return to their fragmented timelines and the heartache they cause. In the meantime there will be expensive French wine for him to spit out in disgust, a bed to be bound to, a quantity of custard, a French maid's costume if he is lucky, and an iconic photograph of a stocking-clad leg dangling out the window of a minivan that will never be identified as belonging to River Song.
A/N2: The photo is called 'She Dances Alone' and is by Robert Doisneau. It can be viewed on Google Images or Neat Designs dot net. Like all Doisneau photographs, it is beautiful. I am also convinced it is River.