"I got my heart's desire, and there my troubles began."
― Lev Grossman, The Magicians
Without missing a beat, the Doctor is on his feet and looking out into the hallway, where a handful of doctors and nurses are scurrying frantically around the corner, out of sight, and towards the sounds of chaos. He pulls out his sonic, scanning the system for security malfunctions because why has no one made an evacuation announcement yet? And the alarms really should have been tripped by now and-
Another explosion, smaller this time and definitely from within the hospital, rocks the ground beneath his feet. Glass panels rattle in their grooves, dust rains down from the cracks in the ceiling, and a static charge tingles across his skin.
"What the hell is that?" River asks, untangling herself from the sheets and climbing out of bed.
Sonic still buzzing, the Doctor's jaw clenches. Whoever it was, was emitting a signal disrupting the hospital's alarm frequency, which could only mean one thing, "Trouble." He answers. "Stay here."
River scoffs , already removing the various monitors strapped to her person. "You think I'm just going to sit here? It sounds like we're under attack out there!"
"Which is exactly why you should stay here."
Her arms fold in front of her, brow arching challengingly. "Because I'm a woman?"
"Because..." He stutters, arms flailing in her general direction. "Because you're half dressed!"
"All the more reason to not let you have all the fun." She grins, marching past him defiantly. He briefly considers arguing, but if experience has taught him anything, it's that nothing can change River's mind once it's made up. Marching out into unknown danger, scantily clad and without any semblance of a plan, is so typically River. It's dangerous and foolish and if he's honest with himself, he loves every minute of it.
He can smell her perfume as she drifts by and his eyes follow her as she passes. They track over the hair draping across her shoulders and back, where the hospital gown has been left open. It's spread wide at the top, revealing her shoulder blades and rib cage, but it pinches into a V near her hips, drawing his eyes down the exposed expanse of her back. All the golden skin he hasn't seen in decades on display before his very eyes. The curve of her waist and the flare of her hips and dip in her lower back where he used to rest his hand and just below that-
His eyes go wide at his own thoughts. "At least put this on." He blurts, shedding his coat and offering it to her.
River rolls her eyes, but takes it. He can practically read her mind even without a psychic connection. Annoyance depicted by the exasperated huff she gives because honestly, the hospital is under attack. This is hardly the time for modesty. But her movements are fluid, careful as she slips it on, expressing that never ending patience he thinks she developed just for dealing with him. She doesn't give him time to admire her, which is a shame. He likes the look of her swaddled in his coat, the purple somehow bringing out the green in her eyes, the shoulders just a little too wide, and sleeves just a little too long. He likes seeing her in something of his, looking sheltered and warm.
But she's already reaching for the door, headed out into god knows what, completely unarmed and, "Wait!" He leaps in front of her, "Let me go first."
"And they say chivalry is dead." She drawls in mock adoration.
"Not dead, no. Just-" he pauses, voice lowering. "River, do you hear that?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Exactly. What happened to the screaming?" It's gone quiet, no more shaking walls or distant shouting. Pushing open the door and poking his head out into the empty hallway, his ears are met with silence. There is nothing, no alarms, no beeping machinery, no voices calling out over the intercom, only the eerie absence of sound. The kind of heavy stillness at the eye of a storm, hanging in the air like a warning of oncoming disaster. His hand finds hers instinctively, whispering, "Stay close."
They pass other patients, who sleep behind the shelter of glass, blissfully unaware. They pass lounges and reception desks, but the staff are no where to be seen, tasks left unfinished and discarded. "What happened to everyone?" River asks quietly.
The Doctor runs a scan with his sonic again, "They're gone." He answers, eyes narrowed at his sonic.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"I mean the staff is gone. Teleported away."
"But why?"
Up ahead he spots another reception desk, this one in a far worse state than the others, like it's been ravaged and purposefully torn apart. "Maybe they're looking for something and didn't want to be disturbed."
"Probably medicine." She reasons. "High activity hospitals like this keep pretty good stock on their drugs. Find the right buyer and you'd be looking at a very pretty price tag."
He opens his mouth to ask how she knows that, but decides he probably wouldn't like the answer. Opting instead for companionable silence as they make their way. There are no people or sounds, just them and the rhythmic falling of their feet on the tile floor. He finds the subtle noise comforts him, the rubbery squeak of his shoes combined with the soft patting of her bare feet. He has to stop himself from remembering all the times dinner took a wayward turn and she'd have to ditch her heels in order to run or jump or scale an imposing cliff face. She'd always bring those times up in arguments, how much money he'd cost her in abandoned foot wear. "Well if you'd wear something more practical.." "If you could make it through a meal without insulting the local aristocracy, it wouldn't be a problem!"
He's so lost in thought he almost doesn't hear the much more menacing sound of boots crunching against the floor. Luckily, one of his twenty seven brains is paying attention enough to tighten his grip on River's hand and tug her into a nearby supply closet, closing the door behind them.
"This is hardly the time for seven minutes in heaven." River hisses.
"Shh!" He scolds. "Someone's coming!"
It's not a janitorial closet like the one he'd parked his ship in. This one is filled with gauze, medicines, and other various medical supplies. It's smaller, much smaller, and with the two of them smushed in there together, there's hardly room to breathe, much less move.
Small ventilation slats in the door allow for thin streams of light to spill in, illuminating the small space just enough for him to see the silhouette of her face, golden hair lit up like a halo. The lack of vision seems to make his other senses compensate and outside he can clearly hear the growing sound of footsteps. Cataloging as many clues as he can, the Doctor takes note of two different pairs of feet, bipedal, long stride, hints of vanilla, probably humanoid, and is that a new shampoo. It's incredibly hard to focus with her so close. His over sensitive nose and body taking note of every subtle move she makes. Their chests are practically touching and he can feel the heat of her body and her warmth of her breath as it ghosts across his neck and she's half dressed and she really does look good in purple. Maybe he'll buy her a violet gown, with sequins so it will sparkle like the Cartwheel Nebula, and she can wear her red shoes. Do red shoes go with purple dresses?
"It sounds like they're getting closer." River whispers, and he snaps back to the task at hand. Was it always so hard to focus around River? Or was he just hyper aware of every movement because he'd been without it for so long, deprived of sight and sound and now he's been thrust before symphonies and everything is technicolor and she's standing so very close he's sure he could count the colors in her eyes if only there were enough light to see them by.
Outside, the sound of muffled voices floats through the slats in the door. They must be splitting up because one set of footsteps is fading while the other grows steadily nearer. River shifts, the tiniest fraction of movement, and he realizes their fingers are still entwined, hands clasped together and pinned between their bodies. He flexes, holding her just a little tighter, and she clutches him back. The small reassurance makes his hearts beat a tattoo in his chest, their pounding so loud he's sure it can be heard echoing down the halls. But her hand is in his, solid and comforting, and he's having trouble caring about anything else.
A shadow passes over the door and both their breaths freeze in their chests. Any moment the door will swing open. Any second they'll be discovered.
They wait.
But nothing happens, the figure just stands there, back to the door.
"What now?" River mouths, looking up at him expectantly.
Possible outcomes race through his head: they could ambush him. Nothing better than the element of surprise, unless he's armed or calls for back up or- scratch that. Maybe it's best to just wait. But for how long? He had to leave sometime right? Eventually they'd get what they came for and go. But the rest of the hospital could be in danger and this is an awfully small space to be pressed up against so much half dressed River and- suddenly her hand detangles from his, somehow managing to pick up jars and bottles and mix various fluids without making a sound.
"What are you doing?" He whispers.
"Getting us out of here." She whispers back, screwing the cap back on whatever concoction she's made.
"How? Spritsing him to death?"
"Shh!" She hisses. Then she's pressing into him, shifting her body as much as possible to get the hand armed with her spray bottle facing the slats in the door. She nudges him and he looks down to find her eyeing him expectantly. Her other hand has pulled the collar of his coat up to shield her nose and mouth and- oh! His hands snap up to cover his own mouth, holding his breath.
Ever so quietly, she taps the nozzle on the door. It's a quiet rasp, just enough to draw attention; and when the man instinctively turns around, she sprays the liquid through the slats in the door. Instantly, the shadow that had fallen over the door disappears with a soft grunt and the distinct thud of a body collapsing to the floor.
Even with the dim lighting, he can see River grin, smug satisfaction spreading across her cheeks. She holds her position, and after a moment when no one comes to his aid, she pushes open the door and crouches beside the guard.
"What did you do to him?" The Doctor asks, following after.
"Just a mild sedative." She answers flippantly. "Well, mild for a horse. He'll be fine in a few hours." By the time the Doctor kneels beside her, she's already relieved the man of his weapons and substituted her spray bottle for a blaster. The Doctor, however, is far more interested in the communicator strapped to the man's belt.
"I'm going to go check on his friend." She announces, standing as she adjusts the settings on her new toy.
"Don't wander off." He instructs, already sonicing away at the device. She ignores him, of course, already half way down the hall, weapon at the ready.
The Doctor sighs, getting back to his task. He doesn't know why he bothers to speak some times. They never listen. It's like his voice resonates on a frequency above human ears.
Luckily for him, at least his sonic obeys, easily locating the disruption frequency the communicator is emitting to block the hospital's distress alarm. He cuts off the signal, but only allows the silent alarm to trigger, which should hopefully keep the mystery invaders oblivious long enough for help to arrive.
The subject before him is in all black, no discerning marks or tattoos, no symbols or badges to allocate him to a service or employer. He is human though, 51st century judging by the smell and synthetic fabrics. The Doctor probes a little deeper into the system with his sonic, bringing forth a 3D hologram. The grainy blue-grey graphics flickering to life, rotating slowly before him to reveal the unmistakable image of River Song. The sight steals his breath because it's not a matter of what they're looking for, it's who.
"Coast is clear." She announces, and he cuts the connection before she can see over his shoulder. "What was that?"
"Nothing." He flashes a quick smile, trying his best not to look like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "Come on." He adds, standing and tucking the communicator in his pocket for later dissection.
They continue to make their way carefully through the halls when River breaks the silence by asking, "Why just teleport the staff? Why not the patients, too? I hardly think it was a sense of moral obligation."
"I don't know." He lies. And for once, he really doesn't want to stick around and find out what they'll do should they find what they came for. "But we need to get out of here. Now."
"How exactly? This place is locked down."
"I have a plan." He answers, opening door after door of patients rooms, offices, and supply closets.
"Which is?" She prompts, incredulously, watching him like he's mad.
"My ship." He spins around, distracted. "I'm sure I parked her around here somewhere. Why do all hospitals look the sa-" and bless his clumsy feet because in the next second there's a loud bang, followed by a bright light, and he finds himself sprawled across the floor, looking up at the wall, a black char mark where his head should have been. "River, no!" He shouts, watching in horror as she retaliates by sending a hail of messon bursts at their attackers. They return fire and the Doctor scrambles to his feet, grabbing River and diving around a corner.
Why was there always, always shooting? And guns! He hates guns! Wells, not so much River's guns, but that always leads to her getting shot at and he definitely hates it when people shoot at his wife. Though, they usually don't get a chance to do it twice. Then it occurs to him, "You missed." He blurts, suddenly worried. "Why did you miss? You never miss."
"I'm sorry!" River grunts sarcastically before throwing more cover fire around the corner. "Maybe I'm having an off day. Sue me!" Nonono, this was all wrong. River Song did not have 'off days'. "And," she adds, looking back at him with frustration. "I don't see you doing anything about the situation!"
"Right! Right, sorry!" Think, Doctor, think. His eyes snap around the corridor, looking for anything that could be of use. Fire extinguishers and frivolous wall decor and "ER" signs. "ER" signs! Of course. His eyes land on the opposite end of the hall, where the small janitorial closet waits like a beacon of hope.
"Come along, Professor." He exclaims, grabbing her hand and sprinting down the hall. Phaser fire bounces and ricochets, sparking off walls as they barrel through the closet doors. He leaves River no time for criticisms about half concocted escape plans or snarky remarks about getting her alone in dark places, rushing her into the TARDIS and out of harms way.
"See," he pants, once inside with their backs against the safety of the TARDIS doors. "Told you I had a plan."
The Doctor pushes off the door, heading for the console. He wants to ask her what she thinks of the new desktop, the grey-blue lights and elegant, polished controls. It's a far cry from the golden, tawdry design he used with the Ponds all those years ago. He wants to ask her if it needs more round things. He loves the round things. But he doesn't. She wouldn't remember anyway.
"What about everyone else?" She asks, following him around the room.
"I soniced the communicator and cut off what was blocking the signals to authorities. Local law enforcement will be here any minute."
"Then why do we have to leave?"
"Because I have the funniest feeling they'll be back."
"Get into these situations often, do you?"
"More often than you'd think." Suddenly he stops in his tracks, spinning around to look down at her, eyes intense and burning as he invades her personal space.
"What's the matter with you?" She asks, brow furrowed, but she doesn't back away.
"You're not freaked out by this. You're in a ship that's bigger on the inside with a mad man in a bow tie that you hardly know. Why are you not freaked out by this?"
She scoffs, "I did just come back from the dead. It's hardly the strangest thing that's happened to me lately."
"But it's…" he gestures wildly, arms flailing, "bigger." She's supposed to say it's bigger. They always say it's bigger. That's his favorite part.
River rolls her eyes, stepping past him. "If you think being bigger on the inside is a rare occurrence, you've clearly never rummaged through women's handbags." She looks back at him playfully as she examines the console. "I just assumed it was a dimensionally transcendental." Naturally, that she remembers. "Only ever heard them theorized, though." She looks almost transfixed, and he can't help but wonder if the TARDIS is singing in her mind, projecting soft, welcoming vibes into the soul of her child that's finally come home. Delicate fingers stroke over the console, and the ship hums at the familiar touch. "Sentient?" She asks, and he nods, watching her carefully. "Wherever did you get it?"
A smirk crawls up his cheeks, because surely this will impress her. "I stole it."
She laughs, any trance she may have been in vanishing. "No really. Where?"
"I did! I'm a right rebel, me."
She gives him a once over, eyes studying him until he's burning from the tips of his toes to the flop of his fringe. "Fine, don't tell me." She huffs, having decided he's nothing short of harmless. "But listen, I can't just go running off like this. I need-"
"Forget the hospital." He interrupts, spinning around the console as he inputs coordinates. "You'll never get your memories sitting in a bed, waiting around for them to come back. We need to go get them. And this is also a time machine, did I mention? So we'll have all of time and space to work with. Wont get that offer anywhere else," with one final flip of a switch, he sends them into the vortex and spins around to face her, voice dropping low and flashing his most charming smile. "So what do you say, River Song? Shall we go get your memories back, and maybe make a few new ones along the way?"
River inhales deeply through her nose, chest swelling, excitement building, smile growing. Maybe there's an upside to this. Maybe he can finally wow her the way he's always wanted. Maybe he can-
"That's lovely, but actually I meant I can't go anywhere like this." She says flatly, gesturing to her clothes. "I need to stop by my house first. You think I'd want to stay in that dull place? I've been itching for a way out since I got there." All he can do is blink at her as she carries on. "The one time I leave home without my vortex manipulator. It's lucky you came along really." She tosses him a wink. "You're a good a taxi as any."
"Oh, right." He was silly to think he could treat River Song like an average companion, that she would be so easily impressed. A tiger was still a tiger if you took away it's stripes. A very rare tiger that's quite precious to him and currently being hunted by god knows who for god knows why. And if someone's looking for her they're bound to try her home first and, "No wait!" He blurts, then attempts to school his panic by leaning casually against the console. "You don't need to change. That's a great look on you." She arches a brow and he swallows, "Tweed, always in fashion."
At his floundering, a smirk curls her lips. "Fashion faux pas aside, I'd rather my own clothes thanks."
He can't exactly tell her she has her own clothes on the TARDIS… right next to his, in their closet, in the bedroom they share because they're married. But hey, no pressure. And any more arguing would be suspicious. She has no reason to trust him yet, no solid evidence that they really even know each other, so he relents, imputing the coordinates to her house with a silent promise that they'll leave at the first sign of trouble.
"Do you practice that little speech in front of a mirror? I'll bet you do."
His head snaps up to find her watching him, arms crossed and lips curled. "No! Of course not."
She grins "That's a yes."
"I don't!" He protests again. "It's just the nature of the speech. Offering people planets and stars and all of history and- and what are you laughing at?"
"That's defiantly a yes." She teases, her laughter rich and throaty. "For the record, time travel isn't all that uncommon. Honestly, it's not like you invented it."
His lips purse. Well, not him personally, but his people and he's the last one so surely that grants him some bragging rights. But the point becomes mute as he feels the ship shudder to a landing. He rushes to the door, cracking it open just enough to fit his screwdriver.
"What are you doing now?" River huffs.
"A thing." He answers, sonic waving wildly, scanning for any signs of life, alien technology, or anything else out of the ordinary.
"Yes, I can see that. What thing?"
"Just... Scanning for badgers." He lies.
"Badgers aren't even native to this planet."
"Well, one can never be too careful when badgers are concerned." He explains, examining the readings from the sonic. There's no evidence of alien technology, no acrid smell of residual transmit energy lingering in the air, no faint tingling left behind from use of vortex manipulators, no signs whatsoever of a waiting army or ambush. Temporarily reassured, he offers her a weak smile.
"Are you quite finished?" She asks, brow creases and arms folded.
He salutes by way of answer, and she rolls her eyes but he can see the smile she's fighting as she pushes past him. The doors open, revealing the quaint but cozy cottage she calls home. Night has fallen, but twin moons hang high in the sky, their residual light providing enough of a glow to make out the outline of her home. It sits near a cliff face, overlooking a perpetually angry sea. The only sound pervading the darkness is the roaring of waves as they crash and spill over jagged rocks below. He's not entirely sure what he was expecting, maybe dust settled shelves, overgrown grass, and neglected plants, something abandoned and forgotten. But he wasn't expecting this, for the familiarity to hit him like a slap to the face. It's exactly as it's always been, even after all these years, every shutter and corner a memory of "River, we have to decorate. It's Christmas!"
"Sweetie," she says patiently, "there's decorating, then there's what you do."
"Nothing wrong with a little enthusiasm." He chides, a wreath around his neck and knee deep in colorful lights.
"There is when planes start landing on us."
"That was once! and they only almost landed on us."
The soles of his shoes crunch against a cobblestone walkway, the sound of it like the pre chorus of a long forgotten tune, and to his sides, a small army of sunflowers lead the way to a bright blue door. It could be the epilogue to any of a thousand nights, when they'd stumble in after a long day of running, when they'd laugh and bicker and her eyes would sparkle with happiness and starlight and he'd press her up against the solid blue surface and kiss her like his life depended on it.
It's only when his eyes drift back to her that he remembers why he's here, that he can't just scoop her up and step over the threshold. Instead, he watches like an awkward bystander as the identification plate reads her hand and clears her for entry. The highly advanced tech looks out of place on such a humble residence, but that's River for you, so much more than meets the eye and so very complicated on the inside.
Motion sensors trigger the lights automatically, illuminating the room before they even step inside. It still smells like her, still feels warm and lived in because the house never knew she died. It never assumed she was gone and wasn't coming back. It never thought to start collecting dust, to become detached and worn down. It never learned to live without her. And in that respect, he finds himself envious of carpeted floors and soft sheets that never had to go a day without the promise of her return.
The first thing River does is strip off his coat, slowly revealing a surplus of golden skin that he finds so very distracting. He tries not to look as she hangs it on the rack. He tries not to notice the way her muscles contract as she lifts her arms or how her calves flex as she stretches up on her tip toes. He won't be distracted by the arch of her lower back or the curve of her waist. He won't. He won't. He won't.
"I'm going to change." She announces and it may be the first time in his life he's been happy to hear River was going to put on clothes. "Make yourself at home." She offers, exiting the room and leaving him to wait awkwardly in her living room.
He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before deciding to take a seat on the settee. He wiggles a moment, testing it's integrity. It's satisfactorily, bouncy and firm, and he crosses his legs, then uncrossed them, then crosses them again, and what are you supposed to do your legs while on these things? Are there instructions or directions for proper limb placement etiquette? He gives up, planting them firmly on the floor and tapping his fingers on the arm rest, then folds them in his lap, but that's no good at all because he's a big ball of nervous energy and were cushions really supposed to be this bouncy?
With a huff, he's on his feet again, restlessly pacing the room, when a splash of color catches his eye. He finds himself drawn to a collection of photographs on the wall. Most of them are moments he remembers well, snap shots of River and Rory, Amy and him, or some variation of the four of them. Days spent with her parents were just about the only things River thought were worth framing. The only exception being her first Archeology degree, which hangs discreetly in her room as a symbol of the first thing she accomplished in a life that would be all her own. But everything else, all her awards and medals and letters of thanks from far away ambassadors, sit in a box beneath her bed. Diamonds and rubies and rare gems tucked away in jewelry boxes as if they were simple trinkets. But moments with her parents, those were priceless. And she displayed them as carefully and as dearly as she remembered them.
It isn't until her life is spread out before him that he notices there aren't as many pictures of the two of them as he would like. It's always been the four of them, pictures taken by a kind stranger, or in the few shots where it is just the two of them, it was taken by Amy or the Roman. In other words, parent friendly photographs where they're laughing or posing or bickering because we don't need to ask for directions, River. We have a two thirds of a perfectly good map!
There are no pictures from times when it was just them, always too busy running to pick up a camera or too intimate to risk documenting. He used to make a habit of trying not to leave a paper trail. The Ponds broke him of that, but River never pushed the matter, never insisted on photographs or postcards. He wishes now she would have, that there was more evidence of their life together than the whimsical stories of a mad man and a missing blue book.
Behind him, her bedroom door opens and he turns to see she's changed into pajamas. They're comfortable, practical, and shouldn't make him want to loosen his bow tie. But this is River and she could make a potato sack look appealing. He's so used to seeing her pajamas on the bedroom floor it's hard not to imagine them there now, and what she would look like relieved of all that soft cotton fabric.
He shelves the thought, pasting a smile on his face as she makes her way over to join him. "Friends of ours?" She asks, eyes fixed on a picture of the four of them from Amy and Rory's wedding anniversary.
The answer almost chokes him. River was their daughter, their best friend. She grew up with them, then watched as they slowly got younger and younger right before her eyes. They were there when she regenerated. They were two of the first faces her current face ever saw, and she watched as tears tracked down Amy's cheeks when a stone angel sent them somewhere she could not follow. River knew their faces better than she knew her own.
He swallows against the lump in his throat, "They're your parents."
Confusion furrows her brow. "But I'm older than them."
"Yeah. The traveling I mentioned, it wasn't always chronological."
Verbally, she gives no reaction, but he can see the exact moment she catalogs the information, adding it to the growing list of things she'll process later, when she's alone with her thoughts and there's no one around to see her with her walls down. Some things never change.
"What are they like?" She asks, eyes studying each minute detail.
He relaxes, half smiling. Finally, a question he's not nervous to answer. "Your mother, Amy, very stubborn. But strong. Scottish through and through. And Rory, well what can I say about Rory?" He sighs happily, "Loyal, brave, kind. The epitome of a good man."
River hums, imagining the picture before her coming to life, day dreams standing in where treasured memories should be. His eyes stay fixed on her as her attention flutters from frame to frame, never once looking like she pities herself or feels angry at the universe for robbing her of such joyful moments. River truly is the best of both of them, with that little bit of extra thrown in, that sexy, spicy, untamable hint of time mingling with the best humanity had to offer.
Suddenly, her eyes light up, finally landing on a moment she recognizes. "My team from my first big expedition." She explains, excited to be able to claim a memory as her own.
He listens intently as she recounts names and details and funny things that were said. He vaguely recalls hearing about the expedition, but it disturbs him that he doesn't remember any of their names. As he listens, he can't help but notice there are other pictures he's never taken notice of before adorning the wall. All filled with faces he doesn't recognize, her students, her friends, her colleagues, all the people in her life he doesn't know.
For so long he ran from the title Professor. The very word a dagger dangling over his hearts, a sign her days were coming to a close, their time together was almost up. He ignored it, avoided it, pretended the days weren't slipping though his fingers. And River, as always, figured out that, for one reason or another, he was running from it and stopped talking about it altogether. She never mentioned, but knowing her, she probably thought it was because she was getting older. As if he cared about such things. All he cared about was keeping her. It's ironic that his desire to keep her only made her slip away faster, that his selfish tendencies ended up costing him the very moments he tried to keep. Because of his own foolish actions, she excluded him from precious moments of her life and instead gave pieces of herself to people he couldn't even name.
It occurs to him that he's never really looked at the details of her home before. He's been here sure, but never for long. He drops in like a stone skipping over water, upsetting peace, making ripples, then carelessly moving on. He thinks of all the times he's swanned in shouting 'Get your coat! We're going dancing', or ranting about an exploding Binary Star, River! Three billion light years away and if we don't leave right this minute we'll miss it! He thinks of all the times he took for granted, all the parts of her life he missed out on, how so much of her is still unsolved. It kills him that after all that time, after she knew him inside and out, she still held so many secrets. Not because she was hiding them away, but because he never bothered to ask.
"I guess that explains it." She chuckles, and he looks up to find she's moved across the room to inspect another collection of photos. "You're one of those people that kiss everyone."
"What do you mean?" His asks, making his way over to her, where he discovers she's looking at a photo from Christmas. To Rory's great discomfort, he and the Doctor had found themselves under the mistletoe. Amy had been quick with the camera, snapping a photo just in time as the Doctor planted a very wet kiss to her husband's cheek. He remembers the roaring of the fireplace and the smell of turkey filling the air. His grin is wide and shameless, even as Rory wipes at his cheek like he's been covered in some hideous alien slime. "Why, Doctor? Why is it always me?"
When the hysterical laughter of the woman dies down, River comes to his defense. "In fairness, dad, wouldn't you rather he kiss you than watch him snog one of us?"
"But why does he have to snog anyone?"
"Loosen up Rory!" Amy shouts, her Scottish drawl thickening with each glass of wine. "It's not Christmas till someone gets snogged!"
"Before," River's much less merry voice shocks him back to the present. "When you broke into my hospital room, you kissed me and I thought that maybe…" she shakes her head. "It doesn't matter." He wants to say yes it does matter. It matters so very much. But she derails his thoughts almost immediately by asking, "Where are they now?"
He studies her, the way her fingers on her right hand rest on the glass, tracing over the figures like the warmth of their skin can be felt through the thin layer of glass. "New York." The Doctor answers softly, almost afraid to speak above a whisper should she notice his throat has turned to sandpaper.
"They'll be in for a bit of a shock when I turn up." His hearts almost beat out of his chest, mind working in overdrive to come up with an excuse for why they can't go see them when she adds, "I think I'll wait until my memory comes back before I visit. I don't want to worry them."
He swallows hard, relieved and somehow even more guilt ridden at seeing the light in her eyes, that spark of hope that means she thinks she lives in a universe where she can see them whenever she pleases. River doesn't know that she can't pop 'round for tea or help with Christmas dinner, and he'll be damned if he has any intention of telling her. He wont break her hearts twice, not unless he has to.
Clearing his throat, he says, "How about a cup of tea?"
She nods without looking up from the photograph, so he makes his way into the kitchen. He boils the kettle and locates her favorite cup on autopilot, extracting the milk and the sugar from their prospective cupboards like a well choreographed dance. He knows exactly how she takes it, just a dash of lemon and honey. It's a sharp contrast to his nearly white mixture of cream and three scoops of sugar. He convinced her to try it his way once, but she told him she much preferred the aftertaste to the actual product. And when he asked her what she meant, she pulled him to her and kissed him, her tongue slipping into his mouth and rolling against his own, the faintest hint of honey and zing of lemon busting across his tongue. The sweetness of her mouth betraying the bruising way her lips pressed against his, mapping his mouth and leaving no inch of it undiscovered. When she pulled away, she'd smirked and said see sweetie, you're sweet enough for the both of us.
Upon reentering the room and setting the drinks on the small coffee table, he spots her standing in front of the bookshelf, looking at a different collection of photographs.
"Where was this taken?" She asks, passing the photograph to him.
He smiles instantly, remembering the day as one of his favorites. "The Lake District. 1927."
He's the one taking the picture, one arm holding the camera out in front of him, a goofy smile plastered to his face, while the other points to the Ponds in the background. Amy and Rory are fawning over River, who at the time was still a fresh faced University student. There was nothing particularly special about the day. No monsters to beat or planets to save. The four of them together was all the adventure they needed. It wasn't a particularly good picture either, since three quarters of the occupants weren't aware it was being taken, but it was the first time they'd all been out together as a family, or at least when they all knew they were a family. Maybe that's why she felt the need to keep it, so she would never forget that she finally found her family.
"It's labeled." She notices, taking it from him and flipping it to reveal the backside of the photograph where Mum, Dad, The Doctor, and Me is written in permanent ink.
"The Doctor?" She asks, wrinkling her brow.
"Uh, yeah." He says tentatively, a nervous hand running through his hair. "A bit of a nickname that's stuck around."
Her eyes find his again, curious and green. "Is that what I called you?"
He nods. "When you weren't cross with me, that is."
She chuckles, "And what did I call you then?"
"A very colorful spectrum of things. You're quite creative with your insults."
She laughs again, brighter this time, before replacing the photograph and taking a seat on the settee. Her hands wrap around the small cup and she lifts it to her face, inhaling the bone warming essence that is a good cup of tea. He follows after, taking a seat in the chair nearest to him. He tries not to stare, to focus on his tea, but it's hard convincing his eyes not to be greedy when all he wants is to take in as much of her as he can.
He wonders if she'll taste different. Not the raw ingredients that make up River, of course: tangy like time, sweet like champagne, and tart like trouble. He knows those flavors will still be there, still dance across his tongue and delight his taste buds. It's the bitterness he wonders about, that hollow aftertaste that clung to his tongue every time they parted. He thinks that would be gone this time, that if he touched his lips to hers all he would taste is the next hundred thousand years of his life. If their bodies and lips were lined up as linear as their timelines now are, he thinks she would taste like infinity.
More than anything he wants to find out. He wants her lips to quirk into a smirk and her eyes to beckon him to her. He wants to crash his mouth against hers and press her to him so tight they meld into one being. He wants to kiss her, hold her, keep her.
But for now he'll make do with opposite ends of a coffee table. He'll sustain himself on the smile that forms as the drink touches her lips and the hum of approval she gives as the heat of it warms her from the inside out.
Here in her own home, in her own clothes, and surrounded by her own things, she looks much more at ease. She needed this, something familiar. But the comfort of home has put cracks in her walls and allowed fatigue to seep through in the form of heavy eyelids and slow, deep breaths.
"You should sleep." He suggests quietly. "We don't want you getting any worse."
"Maybe you're right." She consents without even arguing, a true testimony to how tired she must be. "I suppose I do have a big day of remembering my life tomorrow."
"You absolutely do" He declares, setting his untouched cup down with a soft thud. " I call dibs on the settee, and that's final. I don't care how sick you are, you're not saddling me with the big comfy bed. So off your pop. Doctor's orders."
She offers him her trademark amused, but indulgent smile, and for a moment it feels like it used to. When she would tease and he would try to flirt, when she would crook her finger and he would trip over his feet to get to her. It feels like all the other moments when she would offer him a smile that made him a slave to her every whim, when she would pull him behind closed doors and kiss him senseless or render him speechless with the tone of her voice.
But she does none of those things. Instead she places her now empty cup back on the table, stands, and makes her way to the bedroom without him.
"You never did say," she turns, halfway through her bedroom door, "how did you know to find me?"
"I thought you sent me a message." He confesses, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "But obviously not."
"If it wasn't me, that means someone else must want us together. Why?"
These were really the kinds of questions he should have been asking, rather than ogling his amnesia inflicted wife. "All questions for tomorrow. Tonight, you should try to rest."
She nods in understanding, then offers him a small smile, "Good night, Doctor."
"Goodnight River." He smiles back, watching as she turns away once again. But she pauses, looking over her shoulder at him.
"Thank you." She adds. "For coming when you thought I called."
His smile widens. "Anytime."
With that she steps into her room, and just like that the distance between them doesn't feel so daunting. Suddenly the closed door is just a door, delicate wood that can be opened and stepped inside. They can have it all again. Nothing is lost or forgotten so long as it can be remembered, his Ponds taught him that. Eventually, River will remember. And like his Ponds, he's willing to wait as long as it takes.
