it's the season of grace (coming out of the void)

"You blew it up."

River starts. She hadn't heard the TARDIS land, hadn't heard the door open. He's standing in her living room, and from the arch of his shoulders and the flicker of his gaze she knows he's young; too young. She closes her book and sits up straighter. "Hello, sweetie."

He doesn't smile. It was years ago for her, maybe weeks for him, and he doesn't understand yet - the blame and guilt assure her of that. "The lab we were in, the lab I helped you destroy - not long after we left it exploded, the entire complex, nothing left, no life." He's too still, and she regards him carefully. "I hardly think that's a coincidence."

"No such thing," she agrees calmly. He narrows his gaze.

"There were over fifty people still trapped when the charges detonated. Charges you set."

"Doctor-"

"Without telling me."

She sighs and stands, moving passed him into the kitchen. She needs something to do, something to focus on, an excuse to look anywhere but his face; she can't bear it. "Of course I didn't tell you," she says, a bit too hotly, "you'd have made me disarm them."

There's a pause, a shuffling of feet. She looks over at him briefly and he looks almost surprised - like he was waiting for her to lie. "You're not denying it."

She aims for casual. "Why would I? I set the alarm. Gave everyone as much time to vacate as possible."

"Well it wasn't enough," he snaps, dragging himself closer to her and then stopping with several feet to spare. She eyes the distance sadly, but her tone is smart and clipped

"Are you angry because of what I did, or because of your participation?"

"Both," he returns. "You lied to me."

"I didn't lie."

He steps closer, crowding her. "You didn't tell me you were planning on blowing everything to smithereens."

"You didn't ask."

"I trusted you."

"That was your first mistake," she drawls. He grabs her arm tightly when she moves away, pinning her between his body and the counter.

"Don't play me, River, I'm really not very agreeable when I've been played."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetie," she returns, but her honesty is clouded by a sneer. She doesn't mean it, not really, but he's so, so young, so distant; they haven't been yet, to hell and back. But they will.

They'll go everywhere.

She pulls away from him harshly. "It's my past. My business."

"This is not the way."

She whirls around to face him. "Just your way, then, Doctor? The path of righteousness." She scoffs, her understanding buckling beneath the weight of her anger. "As if you've never done a war."

"Not for sport," he snaps, and she reels back, putting distance between them for the first time he can recall; she's never moved away, not from him. Not by choice.

"Sport?" she repeats. Her voice is strong, but there are cracks in the timbers, so minuscule he wonders if he's imagining them. "You think that's what this is?"

"Over fifty people died, River! Innocent people-"

"Innocent?"

Her eyes slam shut and she can hear the screams; hear soft cries and feel hot tears. Her arms sting and her hands shake and she could have handled a physical blow, could have handled an accusation, but not that; not from him. Her voice wavers, low and deliberate: "I'm going to stop you there, Doctor, because as brilliant as you are, at this point you have no idea what you're talking about. You don't have all the facts."

"Then enlighten me."

She shakes her head and turns away. "Not when you're like this. Come find me when you've figured it out.

He pulls at her shoulder, turning her back. He stares, eyes boring into hers, his mind reaching out. She keeps everything sealed, everything protected, when all she wants is to let him in, to make him see.

"Who are you?" he asks, and the question burns.

Softly: "You know who I am."

"I know what you are," he corrects, "And right now I'm having a difficult time reconciling that with what you've done."

He's seeing people, she knows: lost lives and bones, breaches in the land and the sky and breaches in his knowledge - he thought he knew her, he thought he understood. The daughter of his best friends. She can see the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes, and it hurts.

"I'm a weapon, Doctor," she says lowly, "Born and raised and carefully constructed to be the most deadly, the most feared. Designed specifically for one purpose and one purpose only - and I spend every day of my life fighting it."

He scoffs bitterly. "Why bother? If this is the path you're going to take-"

"You don't trust me," she interrupts, tearing herself away from him. "That's fine. But don't you dare assume to know everything I've been through."

The Doctor blinks and stares, and she crosses the room, pushing open the TARDIS door and standing beside it, a clear invitation for him to leave. "Don't you dare."


The Doctor doesn't find Melody Pond in the Gamma Forests. He doesn't find her on Earth. He doesn't find her in space, or outside of it

It takes years and years of searching, of hoping, of trying, before Melody Pond finds the Doctor on a small beach in Utah, flanked by the Silence, trapped in a big, white suit.

River doesn't know. On the sand so far away, watching his every motion, she doesn't know what he knows, what she will know later. They're out of synch, out of time, not linear like she believes; like he made her believe.

He lies to her, he always lies, and doesn't tell her he's been to Kovarian's office, or that he's seen her after, held her close and made her swear not to change anything, not one line. She doesn't know, and he hates himself for this, but there was no other way.

"It's okay," he says, "I know it's you."

Melody stares at him through the concave glass, and fires.


She's in the library, fast asleep, tucked into the corner of the sofa, a heavy book open to a seemingly random page; nothing about her is random, and he smiles at her translations, her sketches and notations and research. She's always working, always thinking, constantly forcing herself to absorb new information and new knowledge; it's one of the things he likes best, though he knows he's understating.

He gently pries the book out from underneath her cheek, marking her page and setting it aside. Her eyelids flutter and she murmurs and he watches her for a moment, humbled.

It occurs to him then.

He frowns, the realisation turning over and over in his mind, each little detail and nuance of every conversation and every expression and every twitch of her lips as she smirked; every non-answer and spoiler and he doesn't understand, and makes a note to ask. He always asks. She always answers, somehow. It's one of the things he adores the most; her answers. But there's something missing, a hole, a tendency he's never noticed before, always passing over it like a shadow in the corner of his eye. Watching her now, her even breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, it dawns on him that when she sleeps with him she never really sleeps.

She makes tea and they talk and she laughs, blankets piled around her hips and her chest bare and he traces images along her neck and shoulders, her ease and her smile distracting him from everything she keeps so carefully tucked away. He's seen her meditate, seen her curled up on the sofa in the library with a large book in an ancient language, eyes dancing across the pages like she's found some precious gold. He's seen her so tired she can barely stand, but she always slips away, and he always gets distracted by some new story or some gadget or some planet, and he never thinks anything of it, that when she finds him later in the night or day or in-between, that he's never simply sat, quiet and still, and watched her sleep.

It means something, he knows, something he'll have to contemplate, but for now he's content to brush her hair back from her face and memorise the details: the way her fingers curl as if around a shirt collar, her soft murmurs, the thin wrinkles around her eyes.

He smiles, leaning forward to flip off the light; the TARDIS glows gently, just bright enough for him to back quietly away.

He's nearly to the door when he hears her cry out.


There are rumours, but Kovarian rejects them.

Melody Pond they might have worried about, but River Song is locked away, heavily watched, partially controlled. She's weak, infected, too much a part of the Vortex to ever have been malleable. She served her purpose, though she doesn't know it; she never will.

Colonel Manton tries to protest: "What if we're wrong? What if we trained her too well?"

Kovarian laughs, and the air winces and the marines stand straighter. "You have nothing to fear, Colonel Manton," she smirks, emphasising his weakness. "River Song is far too much like the Doctor; and Melody Pond will never remember what we've done. What she's done."

"And if she does?" the Colonel tries, one more time, but Kovarian only grins.

"Then let her come."


She has no name.

She doesn't find it strange; no one here has names. They tell her stories and bring her food and teach her how to wield a knife, too big and weighted for her tiny hands. They teach her everything. Videos and sounds and images, bombarded day in and day out. Screams upon screams. A woman with red hair, red blood. She doesn't know the words for please and thank you and I'm sorry - they don't teach her. The only name she knows is accompanied by an engine whine and a scream.

Doctor.

In her language, it means only Killer.


The hospital is protected by lights and troops and Silence. Guards at all the doors, unnatural and grim. The cameras never see her, the soldiers never hear her. She doesn't exist except in one room, small and severe, tucked away and forgotten by forgetfulness itself.

(The Soldiers don't remember what they guard; they wouldn't guard it if they did.)

She closes the door softly behind her, pausing in the shadows. The man in the bed doesn't turn. He faces the window, muttering, his skin slick with sweat and his hands fisted (release, fist, release, fist, release) in the sheets.

She checks her watch; Time.

He doesn't react to her footsteps, or the motion of the bed as she sits lightly beside him. His hand is warm, just like she remembers.

He turns slowly, eyes blank, his lips echoing words long since spoken. He frowns, trying to place her, trying to remember.

"Who are you?" he asks; his voice cracks along the vowels, and she reaches into her satchel for her canteen. He stares at her, wide-eyed and scared, and she smiles at him gently.

"It's all right," she soothes.

His lips part in soundless surprise, in brief recognition. "Melody?"

She tilts the bottle to his lips and helps him drink. He coughs, his throat dry and stiff, and she rubs his back carefully before lowering him back into the pillow.

"Yo-you shouldn't be-be here," he mutters; his fingers tighten around her own. "You sh-should run."

"I have," she murmurs. "I did."

He nods weakly. "Good."

She watches, unable to look away, as the contentment fades. She can see it in his eyes, in the lines on his face, each memory fading, each truth blurring more and more until his eyes are dull and empty.

"Who...?" he starts, but he trails off, turning to face the window. It's still raining; it's always raining, and her throat tightens. "So much," he mumbles. She strokes the back of his hand reassuringly. "So much…missing. Gone. It's still raining." He turns again, frowning at her. "1966. It's 1966."

She nods; an easy lie. "Yes, it is."

He sighs in relief.

Black and grey filter through the window. The shadows on his face are harsh and sordid, bleeding through his skin; his bones are soft and his hair is matted, brittle and thin.

She wants to apologise.

"Do you remember me?" she asks instead. His eyes flicker down to their hands as he frowns, then return to her face, searching; it doesn't last long. "You read me stories," she whispers, "Forbidden stories. Fairy tales. Princesses and dragons and knights in shining armour."

"Melody," he says. Recognition returns, and he grabs her hands and clasps them tightly. "You've grown," he whispers, awe and pride and fear. "Free?"

"Working on it," she answers.

He nods, but his grip slackens and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he's gone. In and out, like a flickering light in the dark.

"Sarah?" he begs desperately, hope so fleeting.

She shakes her head. "It's Melody."

"Melody." He smiles broadly, and reaches up to touch her cheek. His hand shakes, his skin rough and hot, and his eyes shine with tears. "I held you," he says brokenly.

"It wasn't your fault."

In and out. Back and forth.

"So many things…missing."

Her eyes brim with tears but she holds them back.

"Do you want it to be over?" she asks finally, raw and flat and shaking. She's supposed to be stronger than this.

He stares up at her in confusion. "Over?" he mumbles. "Over…so many days…" Suddenly he starts, pushing against her and looking around frantically. "Melody. Where's Melody?"

"I'm right here," she murmurs, "I'm right here."

He grabs her face between his palms, barely able to hold himself up. "Make sure she's safe," he says firmly. "Make sure…" He blinks and stares at her strangely. "Over," he says softly; she lowers him back into the bed gently. "Yes…over."

The rain hits the window like a grotesque symphony. He murmurs to himself, fingers curling and uncurling around the blankets. "Sarah…"

River swallows tightly and pulls a syringe from her bag. Her hands are steady and firm. The needle slides into his skin, and she watches as the orange liquid drains under her thumb.

"It's over," she murmurs, caressing his arm gently. "You can sleep now."

"Sleep," he echoes, eyes drifting closed. "Melody…" he murmurs. She squeezes his hand. "Melody was her own knight.

She doesn't cry, but she holds his hand until his grip goes slack and his eyes close. She stays, maybe a moment longer than she should; checks her watch. Time.

"Goodnight," she murmurs, rising and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams."


The suit nearly kills her.

The fear does the rest.


She cries out, a sharp, broken moan, and he freezes. She's still asleep, her face twisted in pain. He hesitates, unsure and confused, watching as she moves fitfully, a light sheen of sweat on her brow and her hands curled into fists. She's projecting, images loud and harsh against his mind, and he has to concentrate to block them out, to keep them at bay. He moves back to her side quickly, touching her shoulder gently and shaking her.

"River," he murmurs, "River, wake up."

She shouts, and he presses harder.

"River!"

Her body contorts and flinches away under his touch. She's nearly screaming, the syllables harsh and terrified; he's never heard the language of the Forests sound so horrible, and he panics. He yells; the TARDIS brings up the lights; her arms come up and thrash out, defensive and brutal.

"River, it's me, it's me, it's the Doctor. River. River, can you hear me?" He speaks, stumbling over his own words, saying anything that comes to mind, saying her name over and over, trying to grasp her hands and shield himself from her blows. "River, please!"

"No!"

She bolts upright suddenly, knocking him to the floor. Her gun appears from nowhere, trained on him with expert precision. Her eyes are wide, her breathing heavy, and she stares at him for a long, hard moment. Then:

"Doctor?"

"I hope you have the safety on," he grumbles lightly, his eyes dark and concerned. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, but otherwise remains still and calm. "You can put that down, now," he says gently.

Her eyes flicker to the gun in her hands, then back to him. She swallows tightly, her body trembling as she tries to get her breathing under control. Slowly, warily, she lowers the gun to her side, her grip on the cool metal still tight, her finger still hovering over the trigger.

"Are you all right?" she asks finally. He takes that as a cue to stand, moving slowly and purposefully, each action one she can predict.

"Just a lump," he quips, hoping to spark a retort, a light mockery, or even a bit of concern. But she merely nods once, then turns suddenly, the gun disappearing into the folds of her clothes as quickly as it had appeared.

"River."

"Don't," she snaps. "I don't want your pity."

He shakes his head. "You don't have it."

She stills, her back to him; she's shaking fiercely, unable to control it, and it makes sense, suddenly, all those nights they stayed up laughing, all the exhaustion and excuses and little things that never added up. All the times he drifted off, then awoke to find her watching him, touching him, running her fingers through his hair, keeping a careful, quiet vigil. He's stupid, so, so stupid sometimes, and he hates it.

"You didn't want me to see this," he says softly. "That's why you never sleep when we're together."

She remains quiet, but whether it's because she won't speak or can't he isn't sure and he wishes suddenly against all hope that he were better. Better at this. Better for her. That he were enough to make this all disappear; that he could fix it with a wave of his hand and a journey in a box; that there were something - anything - in all of time and space that could mend her heart.

"River." He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she flinches, hard. He pulls back, murmuring an apology.

"No, I-" she starts, turning to him with wide, unguarded eyes. He's never seen her at a loss for words. Not once. Not ever.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," he murmurs, guilt spilling over. She pushed him to the ground, her body a shield; the bullet scraped her skin and tore her clothes and he couldn't even thank her for it. He tries to mask it, the guilt, but she knows, and she grips his hand firmly.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

So firm. So determined. He falls just a little bit more, just a little bit harder; this impossible woman.

"River..."

She turns again, packing her books into a satchel on the floor. "I need to go."

"River-"

He thinks of too many things at once, so many platitudes and condolences and things that will mean nothing to either of them; he won't insult her and everything she's been through by trying. She's waiting, he knows, for him to fill the silence; for him to be the man she expects every time, rather than the young facsimile. But the silence hangs and he can't find the words and she smiles in understanding, slipping past him toward the door and he can't, not again, not this time.

He follows after her at a run.