The door to River's house is TARDIS blue. It is a painfully perfect recreation of the one on the house they picked out for Amy and Rory, once upon a time. So long ago now. He's only seen this particular door once before, in River's future. He'd stared at it for as long as he dared before knocking, whisking River away on as many madcap adventures as he could even slightly justify before they headed to Darillium.
He finds himself frozen by the memory, even though he knows that River is just behind him, just in the TARDIS. He's afraid to turn around in case the vision he conjures of her is just that - just another ghost plaguing him.
And then River's hand is slipping into his as she tugs him along with her. The Doctor hardly has time to pull himself together again before she is opening her door with a scarily familiar snap and winking at him as she drags him over the threshold.
It strikes him suddenly that he should be carrying her across the threshold. He should have been here when she bought this house. Where was he? How long has he been gone? Running away from Professor River Song when he should have been running toward her?
He glances around, attempting to smother the guilt before River catches it on him and undeniably curious about her life away from the TARDIS (without him).
Mercifully, there is plenty to be distracted by in his first proper visit to her lunar home. River laughs as he darts about, picking up and discarding various curiosities and bits and bobs and doodads from River's life. In his excitement, he probably isn't as careful as he should be - it's just that his mind is too busy racing about to figure each item out and on to the next that his hands are always carelessly scrambling to keep up.
Luckily, River seems to manage far better, staying right behind him, either catching various objects or snatching them away before he can dismantle them with short explanations. Lyra 5. The dig on Zebraxes. That was from the royal collection and Liz X sends her love.
Finally, she gives up. Snatching back a diamond the size of his fist that reflects a strange spectrum in the artificial light - and really, she has it just lying around? - and forcefully pushing him to sit on her couch. "Sit, sweetie." She sounds mostly exasperated but also just a bit amused and he's not above banking off that.
Twisting about, he reads her bookshelves sideways and investigates the contents of her end tables, while River rolls her eyes and presumably heads to the open kitchen, muttering about tea.
Keeping one eye on her back, the Doctor continues to try to piece together River through the contents of her home. In all these years - decades, centuries, not enough time - he's yet to truly figure out the wonder and mystery of River Song. He thinks that even with millennia together, she'd still surprise him.
His throat chokes up suspiciously - oh, how he wants those millennia. With River Song, forever doesn't seem quite so long and daunting.
So he explores what he can, hungry for new details to file away about his wife - and for just the most miniscule of seconds - hardly even a second, really - he understands the appeal of archaeology. Horrified, the Doctor glances back toward River - in case she somehow knows - and hurriedly snatches up the next item his scrambling hands meet. "A pterodactyl egg, River?"
"It's perfectly safe, sweetie, unless it gets too warm." She turns to aim a pointed look over her shoulder and the Doctor quickly sets the egg back down and mutters, "You and Jack and pterodactyls. Really."
"Ooh, does Jack fancy one?" River sets a mug of tea in front of the Doctor and tucks herself onto the couch next to him. "Maybe I'll give it to him as a gift, next time we're in the same decade."
The Doctor opens his mouth to protest, debates whether or not this is how Jack already acquired said anachronistic bird, and snaps his mouth shut again. He offers as bland a smile as he can, and River's eyes light up. "Shall I warn him about heating it?"
The Doctor wraps one arm around River's shoulders and tugs her closer, his other hand snaking around to steal her mug of tea for a gulp. "You know how Jack loves surprises."
River slaps him lightly on the arm, "Doctor!" And steals her tea back, replacing it with his mug. "Really, you're getting as bad as I am in your old age."
The Doctor just smiles fondly, "Mmm - you wouldn't have it any other way, River Song."
River tilts her head up at him questioningly, but the Doctor just kisses the top of her head and sips his tea - enjoying the sweet rush of sugar. "Now, what is on the agenda for tonight, wife? Dashing the hopes and dreams of countless children by marking up their papers over pesky details like grammar? Robbing some unsuspecting gallery of a priceless alien artifact? Running from angry recently awakened locals on far away planets?"
At the mention of running, his hand seeks out hers instinctively. River Song and the Doctor: lounging on the couch, drinking tea and holding hands. The Doctor imagines that some universe with flying swine has just popped into existence at the mere suggestion. He wonders if he could convince the TARDIS to take them there sometime.
River laughs, raising her head off his shoulder, "They're university students, sweetie, not children."
He bops her on the nose because he can't resist, "Same thing," but he quickly recaptures her hand in his, turning back to sip at his tea as though the motion was unconscious.
River gives him an odd look but, after a moment and to his immense relief, River's brow unfurls, her hand relaxing in his loose grip. "You're just cross because your grammar is atrocious - all run-ons and fragments - especially in Gallifreyan."
The Doctor scowls even though she's right - he actually had to learn those rules, unlike a certain someone, and there have always been so many more exciting things to do and see and try rather than conjugating in all twenty-five present tenses. He readily admits that one present tense isn't enough. But twenty-five? Something is inevitably lost in the search for unambiguous conjugations.
River continues over his mental rant, sounding somehow teasing and nervous at the same time. "But I'm afraid you'll be rather disappointed. All I'd planned for tonight was a bottle of wine and old vids."
"You could never disappoint me, River." His voice is soft and serious. Laced with all the words he doesn't say. Laced with memories of their wedding and all the words he wishes he could have swallowed back the second they left his tongue. He swallows instinctively, even though it's far too late for that. "No matter what I may say. Who listens to me, anyway? Don't listen to me. Rule one."
But River's brow is crinkling again, one of her hands reaching out to soothe him. He claps his hands and leaps up, physically distancing himself from those melancholy thoughts. "Right. Vids."
In truth, he's a bit relieved. He's far from certain he'd be up to running with her just yet. He wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off her and he'd be too distracted - too terrified of accidentally letting go - to be any good for anything at all.
...
They watch an old sci-fi-horror flick with just enough audacious inanity that it almost could be real. The Doctor immediately thinks of twelve ways that he could have saved them all, including the monsters, while River comes up with increasingly creative - and violent - solutions for the dwindling number of survivors to try.
They spend the movie laughing and bickering: getting so caught up in debates over the exact air constitution of the fictional planet - given its defining movie characteristics - or whether or not the aliens could move that way anatomically - that they miss half of the "plot" or whatever passes for it.
The Doctor loses his jacket almost immediately, his shirtsleeves rolled up and arms spread out across the back of the couch, one of them neatly tucked around River. For her part, River manages to change into a more comfortable (and far more revealing) nightgown when she goes to fetch herself wine, before curling up against the Doctor with a smirk as she plays with his pocket watch and bowtie. They forget about the movie entirely for a while.
Despite an occasional lack of attention, they manage to come up with thirty-seven solutions that would have saved the movie before its ending, though neither of them actually guesses correctly. The Doctor pouts openly that River managed to think up one more brilliantly madcap plan than he did, mind whirling along to think of #38, but he really can't deny how much he loves her brilliance.
The actual solution in the movie is so convoluted and nonsensical -violating at least five laws of physics and two different gravities - that River and the Doctor immediately agree it never would've worked.
Still, the Doctor can't seem stop himself from exclaiming, one more time, "That ending was complete rubbish. It made no sense at all!"
He leaps up in his agitation to pace and gesture toward the telly, trying to express exactly how little sense the vid made. Sheepishly, he belatedly realizes that he must have jostled River rather a lot when he jumped up, since until a few seconds ago she was comfortably draped over him.
But River just joins him with a bone-cracking stretch that is far too distracting - her nightgown taut against her curves and riding up along her thighs - as she uncurls form the couch, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I know. The 23rd century is so behind the times."
She's laughing at him. The Doctor means to retort, but River is already reaching up to undo his bowtie and waistcoat. He can't remember why he bothered to get dressed again at all. Seems quite silly, at the moment. Clothes. Perfectly pointless.
The Doctor follows the motions of her hands - hopelessly in her thrall. And, ridiculously, somehow nervous. His wife has an unparalleled ability to put him on edge. He suspects she likes it. "Yes, well," he's forgotten what they were talking about.
River comes to his rescue, leaving his clothing undone as she takes his hand and he is helpless to do anything but follow. "Bed."
The Doctor nods even though River isn't looking. Swallows. "Bed. Right."
She leads him through the house by the hand, tugging firmly when he starts to veer off to investigate some of the intriguing items lining her tables and shelves. His mind is giddy and languid at the same time. Racing, but all his thoughts keep coming back to River. Here. Now.
Is this what it would have been like? His life with River in order? Vids and languor and no running at all? Going to bed at regular intervals; reasonable times? Shockingly, he feels a dull sort of longing at the notion. Such domesticity normally stifles him under the weight of boredom. But with River, he's never bored. He thinks he could have tried this. With River. With a renewed determination, he thinks that this time - for these stolen moments - he will.
Her bedroom is a perfect replica of their room in the TARDIS. The one he still can't bring himself to go into - not that he sleeps without her anyway. The sight of it leaves him stumbling and grasping at the door jamb for support.
Thankfully, River has hurried ahead of him to hastily gather up the various papers and journals and books strewn across the bed, tables, dresser - any horizontal surface, really. The sight of her tidying away the everyday knick-knacks of her day-to-day life (without him) breaks his hearts all over again.
While River is occupied with clearing off their - her - bed, all the Doctor can think is how much he has missed her journals crowding their bedroom on the TARDIS. How much he has missed their bedroom. How much he has missed her.
He used to tease her that she was clearly trying to fit the whole TARDIS library into their room, and that she might as well add the pool and be done with it.
The memory is enough to steady his shaky legs and hearts. He slips behind her, wrapping his arms around River's waist and hauling her back into him. Murmuring low into the mass of curls near her left ear, "No pool?"
River laughs, "Because books and water mix so well, sweetie," and doesn't put up much of a protest when he gently takes the papers from her hands and tosses them haphazardly off to the floor somewhere behind him. River leans back into him, and they sway there for a long moment.
Finally, River twists out of his grasp and moves to sit on the bed, her hand still laced with his. The Doctor falls back onto the bed, bouncing both of them with his weight and delighting at how much it even feels like their bed. If he closes his eyes and forgets that the spinning under him is the moon moving about the earth rather than the TARDIS moving about the vortex, he can almost imagine that they are in their bedroom. That this is just one in a long line of nights stretching across the centuries.
"Are you tired, Doctor?" River's voice is soft and curious behind his eyelids, a bloom of rich color.
"Oh, River. I am so tired." And he lets the true emotion of it bleed into his voice, for once. He is so tired. He doesn't sleep. Without her, he feels like he's not slept in decades. But it's more than that. He's tired of soldiering on and laughing at the darkness. He's tired of the weight of centuries piling on top of him like rocks in an avalanche that keeps on falling.
And River must hear the emotion in his voice for what it is because she curls around him, her fingers idly stroking across his chest, "Then go to sleep, my love."
But he immediately throws his eyes open. Tightening his arms around his wife and trying valiantly not to give into the sluggish relaxation that is trying to claim him. He really shouldn't be so nervous. But he half expects to wake up and find out he's dreamt it all. Except his dreams are never this pleasant.
River just makes a noise of contentment against the material of his shirt, holding him just as tightly as he clutches her. She knows without him having to say. All about the darkness and the nightmares and how sleep can be anything but refreshing. She has her own demons to battle in the dark. Her grip is firm and reassuring, and the Doctor tries to make himself believe that she is truly, properly real. She's not going to disappear into mist in the night.
"Doctor?"
"Hmm?" Their heartbeats and the rise and fall of their chests are in sync and he can almost feel that elusive sense of peace.
"At least take off your boots." River's voice is sleepy and teasing and the Doctor finds himself suddenly completely at ease.
He wiggles out of her grasp to untie his shoelaces and toe off his boots. He looks down at River's form, already soft with the half-glow of sleep. He manages to slip off his waistcoat and carefully places his watch, pocket watch and bowtie onto the nightstand. He curls back around River, on top of the sheets and comforter, dragging a jaunty star-patterned quilt up to cover them instead. "Goodnight, dear."
River catches his lips for a soft kiss, eyes still closed. "Night, sweetie."
Twined together amongst the stars, they finally drift off to sleep. Arms wrapped securely around one another to ward off the dark.
...
In the muted earthlight, they lie in the replica of their bed, curled around each other and drifting, floating as though they are in the vortex. In his long life, the Doctor has never felt more and less grounded at exactly the same time. River grounds him. He never thought he would have this again. Ever. And now he doesn't know how he survived without it. Without River Song wrapped up in his arms. Tears prickle at his eyes and he fights them back, pressing a kisses to the top of River's head through her curls and tucking her closer to him. They have lost the quilt and their clothes, but they finally made it under the sheets sometime early in the morning.
"Are you really staying?" Her voice is a soft question against his clavicle, one of her hands gripping his tightly.
The Doctor squeezes back just as hard, trying to reassure her in every way he can. For her and for him and for all the times they couldn't stay. "What? What kind of question is that? Of course I am!" He keeps his voice carefully light and challenging, "I said so, didn't I?"
After a moment, River props herself up on his chest, regarding him with a sly smile and reassuringly smug voice, "But what are you going to do with yourself, my love?"
"Oh, you know. This and that. Putter about the house. Whisk you away in the TARDIS. Sit in on your lectures."
"I thought you hated archaeology?"
"Oh, I don't know," he hedges, fidgeting, not quite able to stop the grimace that just the word always brings to his mouth, "it could be worse, I suppose."
River simply lifts an eyebrow in disbelief.
The Doctor shrugs. "What? I've a bit of a thing for the professor."
River laughs at him openly, "A 'thing'? Is that what the cool kids are calling it nowadays, my love?"
The Doctor bops her nose, trying for stern but somehow fidgeting in the face of her raised eyebrow and completely unshakable ability to mock him relentlessly, "Oi. You. Not another word."
River just shakes her head at him fondly before teasing, "Should I be worried?"
"You, River Song, have nothing to worry about." He takes her face in his hands and kisses her soundly. "Ever."
...
They stay in bed well past any reasonable solar hour. It's not unusual - they often lose hours and even days in the TARDIS to proper reunions when they have the luxury. Times filled with low murmurs and gasping exclamations and absolutely no running at all. Times where they cling to one another and pretend that it is more than once in a thousand blue moons that they find themselves curled around one another, free-floating in the vortex without the omniscient ticking clock counting down their seconds together as soon as they meet.
And though the Doctor can feel the low pull and tide of time here, on a lazy moon orbiting one of his absolute favorite planets, he pushes that aside and listens to the pull of River instead. The sound beat of her hearts and the glowing hum of her mind.
"I'll miss my lecture." River is tracing lazy looping Gallifreyan across his chest, following the patterns of the sunlight streaming in through the curtains.
"So miss it." One of his hands captures hers and brings up for a soft kiss against her knuckles.
He loves her hands. How they manage to be so soft and powerful at the same time. Small against his own, though he knows first-hand that they are strong enough to near break his jaw. Admittedly, he'd really deserved that slap. He can't help but chuckle at the memory, juxtaposed against her soft skin and the lazy morning.
"Sweetie." River sighs affectionately, tugging her hand away from him.
"We'll use the TARDIS." He shrugs, unapologetic as he runs his fingers down her sides.
River rolls her eyes and shifts toward the edge of the bed. "I'm getting up."
She sits up before he manages to catch her in his arms. Circling them firmly around her and tugging her back down to him. "Don't want to let you go." Perhaps it comes out a bit petulant, but it is also unequivocally the truth.
River tilts her head with just the edge of vexation that she always gets when she can't decide if he's being ridiculous or sweet. "Well then come with me."
"All right." And he bounds up, already thinking about breakfast and wondering if she has any Jovian orange juice. He has a brilliant recipe that he's been meaning to try.
But River is still propped up on the bed, blinking at him. Exasperated and amused. One of his favorite combinations. "Wait. What?" He finds his discarded trousers and manages to get them on without even almost falling over, "You're serious?"
"Were you not?" He spots his shirt and waistcoat out of the corner of his eye and is just reaching out to rescue his bowtie and watches from the nightstand when River's hand closes over his, stilling him.
When he looks up, River is giving him a delightfully suspicious and confused look. After a moment of searching, she sighs, resigned, "We need to shower before we get dressed." She eyes him, "Quickly."
"Yes, dear." He abandons the search for his clothes in favor of dutifully following her enticing backside toward the bath.
The shower is anything but quick.
He does discover, much later and to his delight, that not only is her closet bigger on the inside, but his clothing is interspersed with hers. He hastily picks out a new outfit before River comes to investigate what is taking so long and finds him reduced to tears over a wardrobe.
...
