"She finds this objectivity of hers, this clarity, almost more depressing than she can bear, not because there is anything hideous or repellent about this man, but because he has now returned to the ordinary level, the level of things she can see, in all their amazing and complex particularity, but cannot touch." -Margaret Atwood
She's well and truly late for tea by the time she makes it up the stairs to her flat. More out of breath than she'd like to admit, River swears the third floor gets further away every day. As she continues to trudge her way up the steps, she begins to question the love affair she's always had with heights. The view just doesn't seem worth it when she's forced to manually waddle her way up three flights of stairs with a bowling ball under her dress. Her back aches, and her calves are throbbing, and she's never missed her vortex manipulator more.
There is a lift, mind, but she refuses to use it on account of rampant stubbornness and a mild phobia of small spaces. The only time River utilizes it is when she's bringing home her weekly shopping. And even then, she simply shoves her groceries in and then waits to call the lift until she's made it to the top.
The building and its inhabitants are relatively quiet. She researched them all before moving in, obviously. They're a younger crowd who work nights and don't seem to notice or mind the way she comes and goes at all hours. They keep to themselves, and so far, she hasn't heard any complaints about her current housemate, which is more than River can say for herself.
As she approaches her front door, she can hear the subject in question wreaking havoc on her kitchen. Honestly, he could make a fuss fluffing a pillow. River rifles through her bag for her keys, mentally preparing herself before opening the door. Luckily for her, it takes a moment to get inside. Old habits die hard, and she took it upon herself to set up a few extra security measures. Twenty-first century deadlocks were far too easy to pick for her liking. Most of the precautions are harmless alarms, sensory deterrents, and extraterrestrial scanners. But her favorite is the door handle. She coated it with a fine layer of nanobots that act as a fingerprint scanner. If anyone but herself attempts to turn it, the metal will heat up enough to melt the scales right off a dragon. The only security precaution she didn't take was hanging a clove of garlic and some rosary beads.
Some might say she was overdoing it, but it's only paranoia if no one is after you.
When the alarms disengage, River steps inside to the tune of something shattering in the next room. With a sigh, she shouts, "Everything alright in there?"
"No, ma'am, everything is not alright!" an almost human voice fusses. "You are late."
Hanging up her coat, River fights the urge to huff like a scolded child. Over two hundred years old and it's the first time she's ever even vaguely attempted to adhere to a curfew. It's hardly her fault that pesky planet-conquering aliens pay little mind to her dinner plans.
Making her way to the kitchen, River spares a glance to the baby's room, or rather, what will be her son's room. At the moment, it's cluttered with boxes of toys that have never been taken out of their packing. The walls are still as dull and white as the day she moved in. The cot is the only thing put together, perfectly assembled and tucked away in the corner, dust collecting on a mattress and mobile that have yet to see the light of day.
One hand on her stomach, River tells herself that there's still time. One day soon she'll pick out colors and fill a mahogany dresser with tiny, colorful clothing. She'll hang photos and put up curtains and line every surface with snugly toys. The very thought makes her hearts both flutter and flinch, her insides a mess of thrilled and terrified and nervous and excited, all for the one adventure she's never had. The only trouble is, nothing seems to be going to plan. This isn't the room she imagined she'd be decorating. And when they bought all the embellishments, she never once considered she'd be displaying them alone.
In the next room, the clatter of cutlery on plates can be heard, and River gladly permits herself the distraction. When she turns the corner for the kitchen, she finds her pint-sized, robotic companion is setting the table. It stands just over a meter in height, a pair of oversized binoculars balancing over a rectangular base. Two arm-like appendages protrude from its midsection, but in all honesty, they're wasted as limbs because they'd serve far more successfully as weapons of mass destruction.
To further her hypothesis, the droid's stiff body pivots, its graceless metal appendage knocking over an empty glass. River shakes her head, wondering if the clumsy thing would be more productive as a glorified coatrack than as a housekeeper. She only came by him a few years ago while on a mission to liberate a few artifacts from a starship. The droid was stowed away with the rubbish. It was the Doctor who found him one boring Tuesday afternoon, and since that man never met a machine from which he could resist tinkering, he took it upon himself to repair the out-of-service droid. It stayed on the TARDIS for years, sweeping and mopping up the ship's endless rooms because they never had much of a use for him until now.
River would argue that useful was a debatable description. He's a bit outdated, bless him. Despite being a twenty-fourth century drone, he still manages to look like a scrapyard reject from a low-budget 1980s movie. He's clunky and slow, and his wiring is a bit buggered. Though she supposes the latter isn't entirely his fault. He was a result of the Doctor's handiwork, after all.
She watches from the doorway as the machine in question reverses with a bit too much enthusiasm, its tank-like treads crashing into a cabinet and nearly knocking a vase onto the floor. As she watches the small machine maneuver it's way around the small space, she can't help but think that, like it's creator, it's possible the machine brings more mayhem than it does assistance. But River has always enjoyed a bit of chaos in her life, thrived on it, even. If nothing else, having the droid around certainly helped to keep things interesting. Or maybe she simply has a soft spot for quirky, broken things.
"Evening, Ethan," River greets with a smile that's almost genuine. His proper name is something along the lines of a make 7000 second class Essential Task Helper Android or some other series of fancy titles and futuristic lingo designed to sound impressive. But it was a bit of a mouthful, so River shortened it, somewhat affectionately, naming the small droid Ethan.
"Do not ' evening ' me," the machine scolds, and for a creature without any discernible mouth, it never fails to produce an impressive amount of sass. "And do not assume I am unaware as to where you have been. You should refrain from walking by there at night. What if he saw you?"
"He won't," River scoffs. "Honestly, it's like having a wife but without all the fun bits."
"If you are referring to coitus, I have fully-functioning body parts and am programmed to–"
"No," River interjects before it gives her a mental image she'll never purge from behind her eyes. "That's quite alright. You're not my type. I like my metal men a little taller, thank you."
An involuntary shudder rids her of the unpleasant imagery as River turns her back on Ethan in favor of attending the plants that line her kitchen windowsill. What was once a beautiful pot of Jasmine now more closely resembles a decaying cemetery weed. Try as she might, a green thumb is something she did not possess. As much as she loved digging in the dirt, it really wasn't worth it if there was nothing ancient or shiny to be found.
Drooping and wilted, she's certain the flower is beyond saving. She waters it anyway, trying her best not to see it as an omen. If she couldn't even keep something that relies on photosynthesis alive, how was she going to manage an actual living creature? Though, to her credit, her track record with caregiving wasn't entirely bleak. She did successfully care for a pet once, however briefly, when she lived in Leadworth.
"You can't just steal things whenever you fancy it." Even as he protests, Rory helps her load the crate into the boot of his tiny car. The vehicle dips under the pressure, and Mels rests her hands on her hips, satisfied.
"I prefer to think of it as liberating," she sing-songs, her chin held high. "And it's not a thing. It's a defenseless animal."
Confounded eyes nearly bug out of his skull, throwing his arms out in frustration as he squeals, "It's an eight-foot python!"
"Exactly. One of nature's best predators and it's being kept in a three-foot box. It's not right."
"Mels–" Rory starts, only to be silenced by the slamming of the car boot.
"His owner" –and if Mels spits the word a bit too harshly, Rory doesn't take notice–"wasn't treating him right. The poor thing has spent his whole life in this tiny little cage. All that potential beaten down and shoved into a box, it's spirit broken. And when it looked at me, it was so pitiful I just..." Mels lets out a shaky breath, taming the fire in her eyes as she confesses, "I have to, Rory. Are you with me or not?"
The scrawny boy across from her gives a relenting sigh, just like she knew he would. She can always count on him, her friend and father. "What's the plan, exactly?" Rory gulps, eyeing the reptile stowed away in the boot of his car, voice wavering a bit as he contemplates being trapped in a vehicle with an animal that could swallow him whole. "Drive it back to Asia?"
"Don't be daft," Mels quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Your car would never make it that far. The woods will do just fine."
"What if it mates and we get an infestation?"
"Not gonna happen," she answers dismissively. "They're not native to the U.K. You can't reproduce if you're the only one of your kind."
Rory's endless capacity to care shines out through his eyes, his face the picture of melancholy concern. "So it'll just be all alone in the wild?"
Mels simply shrugs, washing his troubled expression away as she quietly confesses, "Better to be all alone than in a cage."
"Fine," her partner in crime huffs, tossing her the keys.
"You want me to drive?" Mels asks, wide-eyed and incredulous. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Yup." Rory makes for the passenger side door, opening it. "Because if we get pulled over, I'm telling them I'm your hostage. Amy can't afford to bail us both out of jail."
Another clatter of plates tells her dinner is served. When River turns back to the table, she finds yet another curious concoction of food. A steaming pile of spinach sits next to what she can only assume is homemade oatmeal. It's defying the laws of nature, somehow managing to be both soupy and lumpy at the same time. However, it doesn't turn her stomach nearly as much as the suspiciously yellow serving of low-fat yogurt.
"How very... moist ," River offers, resisting the urge to breathe through her nose lest the unique concoction of smells have their way with her gag reflex.
Ethan gives a whir that sounds an awful lot like pride as he explains, "The cuisine adheres to all dietary restrictions, while simultaneously providing the nutrients required for optimal fetal development."
"And what's for afters, a lettuce cocktail?"
"Negative. For dessert, I have prepared a celery and beetroot milkshake."
"Lovely," River deadpans, taking her usual seat at the table. Ethan parks across from her, his unblinking opticals trained on her as River surveys the food before her. The spinach looks the least alarming, so she makes her start there. Scooping a respectable amount onto her spoon, River takes her life into her own hands and dares to try her first bite. It's warm on her tongue and slimier than any sort of leaf ought to be, but with a dash of pepper, it just might be edible.
Swallowing around the questionable substance, River forces a smile. "Delicious."
Ethan buzzes at the praise, recognizing his cue to clean the kitchen. He tries, bless him, and considering he has no former culinary skills or tastebuds to speak of, he does alright. River can't help but wonder if perhaps the Doctor was partially to blame for Ethan's unorthodox choices. Her husband's food preferences have always been a little left of center.
Alone once more, River reaches for the newspaper and loses herself to her nightly crossword puzzle. Dinner, dessert, and her nightly rituals come as uneventfully as they always do, and by the time River climbs into bed, her weary bones sing praises at the feel of her soft, cotton sheets. The mattress is far too big for just her, and it makes sleeping alone all the more noticeable. At least in Stormcage, her creaky cot left no room for delusions of snuggling. Not that her husband didn't try.
The loose spring is digging into her back, and his elbow is on her hair, and his chin is taking up most of the pillow, and his knee is pressed up against a body part that would make his younger self blush. They're all wrapped up in one another, and when he finally settles, a sweet stillness washes over her dingy prison cell. Rain on the windows and his breath on her cheek the only lullaby Melody Pond has ever known.
It took some time for her to learn to sleep alone again. As alone as one could be, anyway, with a parasitic bundle of joy growing inside her. A nest of pillows helps to make the elusive mistress called sleep more attainable. River wraps her limbs around an oversized pillow, both to battle discomfort and to sate a need to cuddle, to which she'll never admit.
The feather-filled sack isn't nearly lanky or wiry enough, but she makes do, her eyes settling on her bedside table and the framed photo that rests upon it like a crown. It's the first picture they took together after. It's the starting mark of something new, of a life together without spoilers and secrets and little white lies. It's a memory, the first one they framed in their newfound linear life together.
"What on Earth are you doing?" River asks, a bewildered smile curling her lips.
"It's called a selfie!" he exclaims, holding the camera out in front of him. "Or at least it ought to be." A frown steals over his pouty lips as he taps at the screen. "I think it might be busted."
River bites back a smile, making her way over to him. "That much I'm aware of, dear," she offers, patiently extracting the camera from his hands and turning it the right way around before passing it back. "Why are you taking one?"
"Because," he enunciates the word with a twirl, turning those excitable eyes on her, "we're going to take one."
"Oh, we are, are we?" River arches a brow as he bounces on the balls of his feet, bopping her nose.
"Yep. You're an excellent decorator, Professor Song. But the one thing your house lacks is pictures of your husband. Now, pretend you enjoy my company, because I intend to have this framed."
With a half-hearted sigh and a besotted smirk, River allows herself to be tugged into his side.
Holding the camera out at arm's length, he instructs, "Smile in three, two–"
At the last moment, River turns, pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek and makes the Doctor's eyes go wide.
It's ridiculous and out of focus, but it puts a smile on her face and a blossoming warmth in her chest. Nevertheless, the feeling isn't quite enough of a fix for her liking, so River reaches for the top drawer of her bedside table, where she keeps all her most secret and favorite possessions. Fingers close around worn leather and she pulls her diary to her, sinking back into warm bedsheets. She flips to a page at random, eyes scanning the parchment. It's smudged and dirty, and her gaze catches on words like explosion and battlefield and for heavens sake, sweetie, not that button!
It's an adventure she remembers well, but it's no bedtime story, so she lets the pages flip as they may. When they fall open again, it reveals tear-stained ink and the drawing of a skyline she'd rather not remember. Closing the cover and brushing past those melancholy days, River strokes her fingertips along the worn, blue leather, choosing instead to linger on memories that came later, the ones that never made it into her little blue book. She never knew a full diary was a blessing in disguise, that it would give way to days that didn't come with citations and flow charts, that it would mean her memories were more than cliff notes in a grander scheme, that they were finally for her and her alone.
It's funny how the small moments have come to be her favorites. River stretches, her toes flexing beneath the covers and–
"Will you be still, woman?" he fusses, exasperated.
"I'm sorry!" River gripes. "It tickles!"
"Well when your toes are a mess, don't point any fingers at me. All I'm saying."
"Yes, sweetie," River deadpans. "Your immaculate pedicure skills are not to be questioned."
"Good," he nods, adamant. "Glad we're on the same page."
River rolls her eyes fondly, because it is good. It's more than good. It's suspiciously perfect. It's everything that quiet voice inside of her has always wanted. It's everything she never thought they'd have.
They have time enough to be still, to savor moments just because. Not to say they never fight, because, oh, do they. But when they do, they don't part fearing it will be the last words they ever say. When she storms out of a room, he knows exactly where to find her. No more guessing games. No more decades without speaking.
Finally, all lined up like days on a calendar, the edges of two separate puzzles finally smooth enough to become one. It's a Tuesday or a Sunday or a Friday afternoon, and for the first time, it doesn't really matter. Gone is the burden of spoilers, of time limitations, of restraints.
They're curled up on the settee, her feet in his lap as she tries desperately not to wiggle her toes. His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, concentrating as if he were defusing a bomb, rather than painting her toes a particularly hideous shade of mustard yellow. It feels almost, dare she say it, normal, as normal as either of them could ever bear in any case.
"If you're done procrastinating, I do believe it was your turn, wife."
River takes in a deep breath, contemplating. After a moment, an idea comes to mind and– oh! "I spent a short time in jail with De Sade and ultimately became his inspiration for Juliette."
"Lie," the Doctor declares. "Definitely never happened."
"What makes you so sure?" River arches a challenging eyebrow, but the Doctor never breaks concentration, his eyes fixed on the nail varnish.
"Because I met him," he answers easily. "And never once did he mention a flummoxing siren of a woman with mad, curly space hair."
River snorts out a laugh at his ridiculous reasoning, but he is right. She hates it when that happens. "It was Daniel Defoe," she confesses, "and I was Moll Flanders"
"Really?" His voice hits an octave that informs her he's impressed. River simply laughs, low and secretive. She'll break the news to him about that particular adventure another day.
"Your go, sweetie."
"Alright," he dips the brush in the varnish, moving his attentions to her other foot. "I once saved Christmas with the power of song and a flying shark," he brags, and River answers immediately.
"True," she states confidently. "Mum told me all about how you gave them tickets to a crashing spaceship for their honeymoon."
"Bloody Amelia," he mutters, all hubris deflating from him and his fringe dangling in front of his eyes as he shakes his head in exasperation. "Never could keep a secret, your mum."
River deflects the comment with an impartial hum, another instance coming to mind. "That time we went to dinner on the dust rings–"
"With Sand Shoes?"
"Yes, and I refused to take off my coat because I was cold."
"Oh, definitely a lie," he snorts, breaking concentration to meet her eyes. "What was the truth, by the way?"
"I was expecting you, not Pretty Boy. And, well, I was cold because I dressed for the occasion."
It takes him a moment to catch on, confusion wrinkling his brow before River flashes him a suggestive smirk. Realization dawns, and he gulps, pitying his former self and mourning missed opportunities.
"And to think, I assumed you were smuggling something." Hazel eyes wash up and down her frame, remembering how she sat across from him, his imagination filling in all the glorious details his past self didn't know he was missing.
They've made a game out of an old necessity, unraveling old lies and rewriting all the rules to which they were once bound. There's nothing holding them back now, no timelines or paradoxes to tie their tongues. It makes the little moments seem sweeter than any former glory. Sitting before her with her feet in his lap, her husband has never looked grander. She's seen him dance around death and save the day more times than she can count, but here, in the quiet, she's never seen anything so captivating as her husband's soft, content smile.
Finishing his work, the Doctor leans back to survey her freshly-painted toes. Satisfied, he purses his lips, blowing softly as he says, "Tell me something else I don't know about you."
She snorts at the request because if he doesn't know by now, there's probably reason. A girl deserved some secrets, and she had ones that would make her husband's head spin.
"Fine," he pouts. "I'll tell you something about me."
"I studied you, honey," River rebuts, trying her best not to sound patronizing. "There's nothing I don't know."
"What about that time on Nabraxus when–"
"Yup."
"Well certainly not about when I married the Queen of the Nine Aisles because–"
"Know that one, too."
Turning wide, dismayed eyes on her, the Doctor sputters out, "How?!"
"She told me," River confesses, throaty and full of promise.
"How?" The Doctor gulps, less shocked and more intrigued.
River tosses him a smirk that sends his imagination reeling. "Persuasion."
The Doctor wets his lips, eyes a bit darker and voice a bit lower as he says, "I'd like to know that story."
"I'll bet you would." The words slip off her tongue in the form of a wicked chuckle, almost distracting him until–
"Okay! Here we go," he blurts, vindication eclipsing any naughty thoughts that may have been brewing. "That night with the Sontarans, when you were convinced there was another woman on board–"
"Because there was," she interjects, and he throws his hands up in the air.
"Yes! You! It was you, you impossible woman. Three of you, to be exact."
Rivers's eyes narrow, studying his face. Finding none of his usual tells, she finally concedes, "Alright, I guess I believe you."
"Good," he nods. "Now close your eyes and stop cheating."
"Just because I read you like a book, doesn't mean I'm cheating."
"It does when I'm losing now. Eyes. Closed."
"Well, since you asked so nicely," River purrs. She always did like it when he went all strict. Half her life wasn't spent in a jail cell for the room service. She did it for the ready supply of handcuffs.
Taking a deep breath, River concedes to his demands and closes her eyes. After a century of marriage, she knows exactly what will come next. He wasn't the most subtle of creatures when it came to the art of seduction, not that she's complaining.
To her surprise, his voice doesn't drop low, nor do his hands stray from her freshly-manicured toes. Instead, he draws little circles on the pad of her foot, his voice overtly chipper as he says, "My favorite pastime is satellite spotting."
"Lie," River declares firmly. She'd know the answer to that even if it wasn't for the too bright inflection in his voice. "It's antiquing."
The huff that precedes her answer is all the confirmation she needs. River bites her lip, doing her best not to look too smug. A moment of silence washes over the room as he contemplates. She knows he's found his next riddle before he even opens his mouth. Epiphany cascades off him in waves, something vulnerable wavering in his voice as he confesses, "My favorite thing about you is your hair."
Smug for a different reason entirely, River smirks and says, "True."
"It's a lie, actually," the Doctor breathes, and River's eyes open in surprise.
"Oi, Song!" he scolds, poking at her calves. "Eyes. Closed."
Giving an exasperated huff, River makes a show of rolling her eyes before conceding once more. Silence takes the room again, but it feels different this time, heavier. His hands lift away from her legs, and when he touches her, it isn't where she expects. One of his long, lightly-calloused fingers runs down the bridge of her nose, pausing at the tip to give a gentle tap.
"It's your nose," he whispers, his voice so quiet and sincere she momentarily forgets how to breathe. "Specifically, the bump in the middle."
River can count on one hand the number of times she's been rendered speechless, but as words fail to form on her tongue, she resigns herself to the scales being tipped. He's always had a fondness for her unique facial feature, she knows. But she assumed the gesture was a manifestation of how he coped with his endless need to touch. She never considered it was anything more. It's a secret in its truest form, a truth he'd never confessed, a fact she couldn't read about in a book or dig up in an old ruin. It's comforting to know they still have a few mysteries left to discover.
The realization is so endearing she doesn't even mind the smug twitch that is no doubt tugging at the corner of his mouth. When she opens her eyes, her suspicions are confirmed. Love and affection and mirth are sparkling in those hazel eyes she loves so much.
"Do you know what my second favorite thing is?" he murmurs, gently sliding her feet off his lap and turning to face her.
River smiles up at him sweetly, her fingers stroking through his messy quiff. "Tell me."
The Doctor adjusts up onto to his knees, leaning over her as one hand cups her face while the other runs its way up the back of her thigh. "That spectacular bum of yours."
A possessive hand takes the liberty of squeezing said backside, and laughter rolls off River's lips like a siren's song. He swallows the sound with his mouth, and River wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It's soft and sweet and slow because they finally have all the time in the world.
Morning finds her as it always does, too soon and never soon enough. She's exhausted, but every new sunrise means one less day until she can get back to normal, back to a warm body in bed beside her, back to breakfast on Venus and dessert in ancient Vienna. She misses unpredictability. She longs for the days when she could cram at least four impossible tasks in before breakfast, for when she could sleep until she pleased because her vortex manipulator allowed her to arrive at her lectures precisely on time. Now her days work around vitamins and bus schedules and nagging robots.
She's bound to timetables and guidelines and all those rudimentary routines that were once her playthings. If she wants lamb for tea, she has to run by the butchers by three pm on Wednesday, and if she wants a decent desk at work, she has to stake her claim on one before eleven am, otherwise she'll be left with the squeaky chair. Most importantly, if she wants to catch sight of her favorite shop opening, she has to be out the door, down the road, and seated at a coffee shop by eight am.
There are better cafes along the high street, but none of those come with a view quite like this one. It's directly across from her sweetie's shop, and on days like today, when the morning sun is warm enough to tease the oncoming summer, she sits at one of the outside tables, greedily watching from afar, hoping to catch a glimpse of him as customers filter in and out of the building. River sits back into her seat, a long exhale dragging out through her nose. Her coffee mug warms her hands, and when she takes in another deep breath, the smell of decaf is nearly enough to satisfy her weary bones. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend it's the real thing. But when the liquid touches her tongue, it's never quite the same, never enough to quench her thirst, never enough to fill the need or quiet the ache.
Today must be her lucky day, because the door of the shop across the street swings open in a flourish. Interest peaked, River sits a little straighter, watching as a figure that's more poster than man stumbles out of the building. Scrawny legs can be seen protruding out from beneath the heap, carrying it to an undesignated spot on the walking path. River takes in the spectacle, enjoying her front-row seat to chaos. Eventually, he empties his armful of papers onto the ground, picking them up one by one and taping them to the window. She can't make out the writing, but the font is loud, and the papers are brightly colored. All goes unexpectedly to plan until he reaches for the largest poster. It's nearly as long as he is and River watches with skeptical eyes as her gangly fool of a husband tries to wrestle the poster onto the door.
It's an advertisement for watches or waistcoats or water balloons. It's hard to take notice of such trivial things when her eyes refuse to part from his frazzled hair and crooked bow tie. His sleeves are rolled up, his worn leather shoes on the brink of untying. He looks as if he should come with a warning label and a hazard sign. Personally, River regards it as a miracle that he survives his own ridiculousness on a daily basis.
A few minutes of struggling and one discarded coat later, he lets go of the troublesome sign, tentatively stepping back to survey his work. Dusting off his hands, a satisfied nod says he's half-convinced he's finally finagled his way to success. Unfortunately, in the next moment, the adhesive fails and the edges begin to unceremoniously curl. He pounces on them before his prior efforts are totally wasted, and before she knows it, a crooked smile has stretched its way across River's cheeks.
She wonders if it refuses stick because of fault adhesive or if this is the TARDIS' way of taking her revenge. She's been known to get stroppy from time to time, and the onslaught of poorly-dressed strays constantly wandering in and out must be getting rather grating by now. Not to mention, the Old Girl wasn't one to enjoy being idle either. It's why she stole her thief in the first place. It's also why she let River steal her right out from under the Doctor's nose on so many occasions. It certainly didn't help that they chose one of the quieter decades. But if this plan was going to work, they needed to avoid trouble. When trying to lay low, the last thing they needed was him getting caught up in any disasters, natural or extraterrestrial. The best course of action was to settle in somewhere safe and quiet, preferably in a location that came with rift energy camouflage. And with Jack's team here to offer support, Cardiff had been the obvious choice.
It was easy enough to nestle the Old Girl between two buildings, where an alley used to be. The chameleon circuit hadn't even taken much effort to fix. Not physical effort, anyway. If it's any consolation to her transdimensional mother, it pained River just as much to remodel her as it was for the TARDIS to endure. Trading bright blue doors for ordinary brick walls had hurt every bit as much as watching her husband forget every facet of who and what he was. Never has there been a task more difficult than willfully letting go of everything you know and love. One would think it got easier, but no matter how many times River's been forced to walk away from the life she knew, it never fails to put new cuts on her scar tissue hearts.
Even now, it stings to see a plastic "Open" sign hanging where once it read Police Public Call Box. But keeping him in the ship was the safest place for him. Even in stand-by mode, the Old Girl can keep an eye on him when River can't. Besides, it was his home. The Doctor belonged in the TARDIS, no matter what his current state happened to be. In all honesty, he isn't all that different. He still wears ridiculous clothes and smiles at pretty girls and trips over his own feet. Overall, it's business as usual. The only true difference just happens to be the one that matters most. She does her best to remind herself it's only temporary. It's not like he's gone, not really, not forever.
Fate sees fit to taunt her, because he's finally won the battle with the poster. Finished with his task, he scoops up his neglected coat and disappears back inside, the door slamming closed behind him. Other passersby continue to flitter along, but the street is dull now, her coffee even more lacking than usual. The lackluster beverage has gone cold, and she's debating on ordering another when duty calls in the form of Jack Harkness. His number flashes to life on her mobile phone. River opens it, somewhat regretfully, already knowing what the message will be. Just as she expected, the team needs her back at the Hub. Placing a few notes on the table, River stands, hailing a cab. She isn't waiting long before a car pulls up, and as she opens the door, River spares one last look at the shop across the street and the man who lives there. "Until the next time, sweetie," she whispers, blowing a kiss as she sinks into the taxi.
Her timeloop of normalcy persists. The day passes as they usually do, in a blur of gunfire and aliens and banter and bus rides home.
By the time she finds herself back on her favorite street, hours have past, and the moon has taken its rightful place in the Cardiff sky. It's especially quiet tonight, no wind or chipper whistling, just her flats and the way they scrape against the cobblestone road. Even the windows of her favorite shop are already closed and shrouded in darkness.
Already mourning her losses, River is about to walk past and carry on home when one of the downstairs lights bursts to life. It's bright and intrusive and completely out of sync with her nightly routine. River pauses, something heavy and unpleasant coagulating in the center of her chest. Before she can define the feeling, the door creaks open, and her husband slips out, locking it behind him. There's a skip in his step as he makes his way down the street that causes the knot in River's chest to expand until she's sure it will stop both her hearts. ' Where could he be going this time of night?' His hair is pushed back, and his sleeves are rolled up, and there's that eager pep in his step he always gets when he can't quite temper his excitement.
Surely he didn't have a date? Just the thought is enough to make her forget how to breathe.
But it's late, too late for a take-away, and the crumpled paper in his hand tells her this is more than just a nightly stroll. She should let him go. He doesn't remember her, after all. He doesn't know his wife and child are waiting just across the road. She should let him go about his business and have his fun. She knows that whoever he's going to see will be just another face in a long line, another story they'll laugh about when they bicker over who married whom.
And yet, even as her head screams that she shouldn't interfere, her feet have already carried her in his direction. She follows as discretely as she can, staying out of view on the other side of the street as they leave the comfort of fairy-lit trees behind. They're a few blocks away before he begins to slow, checking the street signs before making a hard left down a road she's never explored before. He rounds the corner, passing another block of flats. River picks up her pace, stalling at the edge of the building to listen. The Doctor's footsteps have stilled, and he must be only a few houses down because she hears a door creak open and–
"Hello!" the Doctor announces with fervor, and the sound of his voice is enough to tear open every wound she'd so carefully patched up and hidden away these last six months.
It sounds like music in a world of white noise, and when she hears him ask for a woman named Evey, River feels her chest constrict. The hearts that once resided there plummet into her stomach. Except there isn't much room in there these days, and the intrusion makes bile rise in the back of her throat.
"Ah! There she is!" she hears him exclaim. "Just the stunner I was looking for!" When River peaks around the corner to steal one last glance, she finds a bright smile stretched across his face, his hands rubbing together with enough enthusiasm to make a cricket jealous.
Something curious and self-destructive takes hold of her, and when he steps into the building, River finds herself pulled right along, compelled to get a closer look. As she rounds the corner, she discovers the building in question isn't a flat at all. It's a multi-purpose studio, a oversized glass window revealing a large, mostly empty room. In the center resides a collection of fold-out chairs and half a dozen elderly women. A banner that reads Knitting for night owls is strung across the back wall, and the laughter that bubbles in the back of River's throat is enough to make her eyes water.
A round, dark-haired woman that must be Evey swallows the Doctor in a warm embrace before directing him to a table that must be home to every inch of yarn in Cardiff. Her ridiculous husband lights up at the sight, eyes bouncing between balls of yarn like a kitten who can't decide which toy to play with first.
It's the closest she's been to him in months, the most she's seen of her lanky husband in what feels like years. River drinks in what little she can from beyond the glass, a sad smile curling her cheeks and softening her eyes as she immerses herself in this new life he made for himself. More than anything, she wishes she could be a part of it. She wishes she could be inside, be that much closer to him. What she'd give to hear his voice again, even if it was only as a fly on the wall.
Her mother looks stunning, and her father looks besotted, and her husband looks like an absolute lunatic. His hands can't seem to pick an altitude, stretched over his head one moment and snapping down by his hips the next. She'd know just where to put them if only she dared go inside. But she can't be a part of the memories they're making now. It's far too early for that, for family outings and quick kisses in broom closets. She knew these days would come, that she'd run out of Amy's that knew her and husbands that loved her. When it comes to the Doctor, the things you want always seem to be just out of reach. There's no touching him, not really. No matter how close one gets, you're still on the wrong side of the glass, always an outsider looking in.
Another wave of nausea creeps up on her, throat going dry and her head suddenly light. Something hot and thick that feels suspiciously like last night's supper burns it's way up her esophagus, and River's hand flies up to cover her mouth.
She's going to be sick.
A quick glance over the road reveals an off-license, and River bolts for the doors of the small shop. Even in her current state, she must still look like a force of nature, because the attendant doesn't even attempt to protest as River barges into the building and heads straight for the toilets. It's filthy, but she hardly notices as she lifts the lid and purges her stomach. When the offending substance is gone, River sits back, a clammy hand dragging over her face. It's been months since she's been ill. As she flushes and makes her way to the sink, River hopes this particular occurrence is down to Ethan's poor culinary skills and not a belated side effect of Time Lord pregnancy.
Or maybe she's just getting sick. The woman looking back at her in the mirror certainly looks the part. Her skin is pale, and her eyes aren't shining as bright as they once did. River lets out a sigh, promising herself that tomorrow she'll get an extra hour of sleep. For now, she makes do with splashing her face with tap water, tapping at her cheeks until a respectable amount of pink blooms. Satisfied, River vacates the lavatory, making for the exit as quickly as possible. Luckily for her, the shopkeeper is busy, allowing River to escape onto the streets without any awkward explanations.
Returned safely to the outside world, River makes her way back across the street, allowing herself one last look at her sweetie before heading home. Except this time, when she gazes in through the window, the Doctor is nowhere to be found. He's gone, vanished before she could steal one last glimpse. Disappointment and panic flood her body in unison because she knows better than most that the streets of Cardiff are no place to wander alone at night, not when he's vulnerable and clueless and human.
He can't have gotten far, and River takes a quick step back, prepared to scour every inch of this city when her body collides with a tall, lanky figure. The form before her squeaks, familiar hands reaching out to steady her.
"Blimey, are you alright?" It isn't and it can't be, and yet when the disorientation fades, River is met with a sight that nearly steals her breath. "I'm such an oaf. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Stunned, River blinks up into the face of her husband like she's seeing the sun for the very first time. His eyes are wide and friendly and empty in every way that matters most. Oh, but they're brown and green and gold, and it's the closest she's been to a galaxy since the day they parted. The hands resting on her shoulders are warm and steadying, centering her in a way she'd forgotten possible. He's touching her for the first time in months. It's nothing more than an apologetic gesture, lasting no longer than a fraction of a moment, and yet her skin sings at the subtle contact.
It burns and it's beautiful, and all she can think to blurt is, "You dropped something,"
She regrets it instantly because his eyes break from hers, disentangling himself. River follows his gaze, finding a plethora of chocolates and sweets littering the ground by their feet.
"It's not all for me," he declares, bending over to gather the treats into his long arms. "Well, the Haribo is. I got chocolate for the girls. They can't have the chewy bits. Messes with their dentures and– wait a minute. I know you!"
Her hearts stop and stutter and beat earnestly for the first time in months. "You… you do?" she asks, trying her best to keep her voice even. Her heart must be racing because the baby kicks in that way he only ever does when she's holding the fate of the world in her dainty hands.
"You get coffee at the cafe across from my shop," he explains, and River's shocked expression must make him nervous, because he's quick to clarify, "Not that I watch you! I just noticed. I do that from time to time."
"Notice things?" River queries. It's a guilty pleasure that she shouldn't indulge, but she can't help drinking in every movement as the man before her nods, hair falling into his eyes.
"Oh, yeah. Mostly odd things. Not that you're odd!" His hand flies out, protesting of its own accord, and nearly dropping his candy again. "It's just that you're pregnant at a coffee shop. It's curious. I didn't think pregnant women could have caffeine."
"I have decaf," she answers easily, and his nose crinkles.
"Bit masochistic, isn't it, being so near to something you can't have?"
Oxygen lodges in her throat, mouth bobbing for only a moment before she forces herself to answer. "I like being reminded of it, I suppose."
Even as he hums, accepting her answer, River knows she's playing with fire. She should turn and walk away as quickly as she can. She never should have followed him here in the first place. She never intended to speak to him. She was supposed to stay away. She promised.
"Why do we have to split up?" The words tumble out in a defensive hiss because, "No one has more experience keeping you safe than me."
The Doctor pauses, defeated as he takes her hands in his. "It's not me I'm worried about," he sighs, gazing down at their entwined fingers. "I can't risk them finding you through me."
River opens her mouth to argue, but the Doctor is quicker.
"Please, River. It's my turn to keep you safe."
She's never been so angry, so outraged and agonized. Her fingers twitch to slap the martyr right out of him, her tongue eager to lash out against his need for self-sacrifice. The trouble is, he's never looked so desperate. The pain in his eyes is enough to subdue her, to give her strength enough to quell her own emotions, taming them the way the moon does the tide.
"I only have one request," he states, and never before has his voice sounded more like a loaded gun. He hesitates, a nervous tongue sneaking out to moisten his lips. The stillness that follows rolls across her skin like the calm before a storm. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she knows that whatever words may follow next will tear down her world. "You have to keep your distance, River. You have to be strong, because we both know that if you speak to me, I won't be able to resist you."
She answers him with silence, tongue in knots and protests lodged in the back of throat, because though he may be right, he may as well have asked her hearts to forget how to beat.
"Promise me," he pleas, squeezing her hands to his like a lifeline. "Promise me you'll keep our baby safe. Promise me you'll stay away."
"What brings you way over here?" Lost for answers, River's eyes flash to the studio, and the Doctor's face brightens. "Are you here for knitting class?"
"No," she corrects quickly, and oh, it's hard to walk away when everything about him is begging her to stay. "Just... out walking."
The smile slips from his lips, replaced by a disapproving frown. "You shouldn't be out here at night, you know, especially in your condition."
River says nothing, biting back a smile because she's easily the most dangerous thing this side of Jupiter. But the chocolatey eyes gazing down at her are so full of concern that something inside her melts. Her fingers tingle to wipe over his brow and soothe away his worry lines. It's the same hand that he wrapped in silk, that he healed, and held so tightly in his tomb. It's the one he pressed his lips to when she promised not to interfere.
The oath binds her, her hand coming to rest on her stomach because the child inside her is the closest thing to him she's permitted to touch.
An abrupt banging in the form of a cane against the studio window causes them both to jump. Twisting around, a woman can be seen on the other side of the glass, summoning the Doctor inside.
The moment shattered, he clears his throat, gesturing behind her. "I should probably…"
"Right, of course," River agrees, stepping aside to let him pass.
"Not that I want to," he adds. "It's just that the girls get feral if I deprive them of sugar for too long."
A small chuckle falls from River's lips. He always did love to surround himself with feisty women. "Wouldn't want to keep the girls waiting."
Regretfully, he steps past her, flashing a smile that's every bit as lopsided and perfect as she remembers. But he stalls, turning to face her as he slowly backs away. "You should come into my shop some time."
It's a question and an invitation and a terrible, naughty, very bad idea.
"Maybe I will," River agrees, because she never was very good at staying out of trouble.
His whole face lights up at her answer, flashing a smirk so hopeful and tempting it's almost enough to convince her it's worth the risk as he responds, "Looking forward to it."
