Thank you for the reviews, your support means the world. Time for a new chapter; we know how the Doctor feels. But what about River?
He hears her before he sees her.
He's been looking, striding down endless corridors that all look the same to the extent that he starts to believe the Old Girl is trying to put space between them until the sound of her stops him in his tracks from pure shock.
She's crying. He knows before he rounds the corner, to find himself in her old study where she used to spend hours finishing archaeological dissertations after warning him that if he dared disturb her on your own head be it, sweetie, and his deduction is confirmed by a little trembling figure in front of the fireplace, silhouetted by the dying embers within it that tell him she has been here a while.
He almost calls out, asks what's wrong, because she rarely cries. He remembers that about her, at least. She is incredibly strong, or at least she pretends to be.
But he stops himself, because it took him over twenty minutes to find her which means that this, what he's watching her do now, is hiding. And when he edges further into the doorway to see more of her, he understands why.
She is curled up on one of the velvet chairs, a tweed jacket strewn across her knee. It takes him a moment to recognise it; by the time he does River has her face buried in the fabric, crying quietly into it, and he wants to shout at her because it's a good jacket and she's getting it all soggy and very probably smearing her make-up all over it.
He doesn't, remembering it is not something that the kind of man he is pretending to be for her sake would do. Besides, a moment later the undying love for his clothes subsides because I haven't worn that jacket since
Something snaps into place inside his head. She's smoothing the sleeves as if his old self is still wearing it and oh, he knows that look on her face.
Doctor… please tell me you know who I am.
Who are you?
He knew that day, how those three words had been like bullets to her heart. Poorly concealed dread had seeped into her features and she had spent the rest of that awful, awful day gazing at him with a sort of nostalgia, as if silently, forlornly contemplating everything that had ended with those words; the way she was gazing down at his old jacket at this moment.
And everything falls away, their very own pocket universe crumbling at the edges because everything he is consists of as long as River is happy and suddenly there is no reason for the façade upon which he sits.
He's different now. He knows that. He feels it every day, and that swirled with time makes him selfish and cold. But he thought that if there was one exception, one thing that he could at least put up with pretending to be something else for, it could have been River.
He is the hoper of far-flung hopes, always has been- the dreamer of improbable dreams. And he knows that this could work; both of them keeping up different fairytales, or as grown-ups call them, lies. But his are to please her and he knows that hers are to satisfy him and neither of them is pleased or satisfied.
Seeing the futility of everything they are makes tears pool in his eyes to match hers because it is horribly sad. It's sad that this is what they've ended up as after everything- one of them crying while the other watches unobserved, so very far from each other.
He turns on his heel and leaves her there without making a sound, because he doesn't know what else he can do.
She hated herself for being so pathetic.
She was River Song. She was his wife, for god's sake- she wasn't supposed to care.
But she did. She tried not to, of course- living in memories was a dangerous thing- but she could never quite help flicking back through the diary, finding one of his old jackets that still lingered with the old scent of jam biscuits and sugar and losing herself in it.
It was the bloody tangled timelines that she blamed. She'd grown so used to looking forward to that stupid baby face and bow tie because he was the man who knew her, the man who was her husband. Though of course she'd never show it, because of course she couldn't, seeing other faces had filled her with dread. The Library had confirmed that more than anything else.
Even without the new face, which she could have grown accustomed to, the matter of time made it all so horribly difficult. It had been so very long for him, more than enough time to change anyone. Given all that had happened to him in those years it was little surprise that he was almost beyond recognition.
She never thought she'd miss those days, and hated herself for doing so. But what were they, now? They had always been at the far end of the normality spectrum before, but at least they'd been happy back then.
The worst thing was that he was happy. And god, he loved her. He even said it now.
It wasn't that she didn't love him back. She wasn't unhappy, either- not by any standards.
But when she had discovered this new man living her husband's life, she'd assumed that she would no longer have a part within it. And with that assumption she'd felt relief.
She was confused, to say the least. There were times she absolutely adored him, new face and all, to the extent that she wondered if she'd have felt this uneasy had she found him before Trenzalore. Because even at the best of times, even in the mornings where she'd wake up to find he'd got up, cooked her breakfast and left it under a cosy on the bedside table before climbing back under the covers just to be there to say good morning to her, there was still hat horrible niggling sensation that something was different- and not good different.
The thought that he was with her because he felt he had to be had always terrified her. She'd never brought it up because, of course, she couldn't- all she'd be met with was of course I'm not, River, I love you, River, I'm with you because I want to be, River, it's always been you, River, among other mawkish barefaced lies. She knew that now it was more likely to be true than ever- she'd died because of him; of course he'd feel obligated to love her. Perhaps it was the fear of being a wife out of sympathy that was causing her to have moments of desperate unhappiness.
But she could smile. She could conjure up a flirtatious remark or throw him a look that had always been able to make him go weak at the knees, and stave off the agitation for a few more minutes each time. With luck, it often led to things which could make her forget about all the problems in the Universe, and she was sure that if they just stayed this way then she would be more than capable of keeping up the pretence.
He didn't have to know.
He didn't have to know that she lost hours with her nose buried in his old clothes, or that whenever he smiled at her all she could think about was how much she missed his old puppyish lopsided grin.
He didn't have to know that on the nights when she squeezed her eyes shut tightly she was concentrating until she could almost feel the floppy quiff of chocolate hair tickling her forehead.
But she couldn't keep her eyes closed forever.
"Is Clara still coming tomorrow?"
Her voice is all bouncy and joyful. False, he thinks, all of it. All of this, flicking a lever he doesn't know the purpose of with more ferocity than originally intended. "Why wouldn't she be?"
She's referring to the meal they have planned for the next day; another stab at playing happy families, apparently. Clara will make her own version of food and husband and wife will joke on as if all is right in the order of the Universe.
What's the point in pleasantries anymore? Neither of them wants to be here.
What a mess all of this is. He checks the monitor even though for billions upon billions of miles they are surrounded by nothing at all because he can't look at her now.
She's sauntering over to him, all wild bed curls and silky pyjamas. "Well, I know what the helmic regulator can be like after you've played with it." She grins with that full smile of hers, all perfect teeth and velvety lips. He glances away, breaking what has become eye contact between the two of them because he doesn't want to want her.
"The helmic regulator is fine. I've told you."
"That's because I fixed it." She smirks, leaning over the console and resting her chin in an upturned palm.
She looks so happy.
