On landing, the stab in my heart isn't much to do with the white hot needle scraping at it not two hours ago. I mean, yes, obviously, that's a part of it, and in terms of the physical pain, it's the lion's share, but I'm being metaphorical. It's just the thought of the last time I landed here. I was so excited. So joyous and desperately happy. I was friends with a scone and the Keeper was real and I had left word for myself to stay away, but what the hell did I know? The moment before this began, the last time I was utterly, obliviously happy, I was standing exactly where I am now.

That's why I linger over opening the door.

That's why I don't complain why River puts out a hand to hold it closed, and slides between me and it, insinuates herself close and warm. Not at first anyway. Moments pass and then I realize that this really isn't a comforting thing for her to do. The confident, beaming smile on her face is a ruse. That's not her normal smile, that's her manipulating smile. It might not look it, but it's fake. She sees that I know this, and it falters.

"Listen, sweetie… don't lose it or anything-"

"You know what's outside that door, don't you?"

Here I am, standing shoulder deep in trepidation and, if I'm honest, barely standing at all, with the headache to end all headaches, the worst possible crick in the neck and one heart just barely clawing through each atrioventricular systole, and she knows. And she wonders why I don't bloody trust her sometimes.

Honestly.

Well, no, and isn't that just the bloody problem…

"Aside from a sub-surface cavern in a non-orbiting meteorite?"

"I rather got the impression you knew what was in it."

"Let's… Let's just open the door, and listen to them before we go mental, alright? Deal?"

"Listen to who, River? Who's out there."

"…We are."

Oh, heavens, I want my wheelchair back. And I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what the big deal is. We've met ourselves before. We met another River just last night. We lived, time survived. But wasn't it just that tiny little bit harrowing? And aside from that, weren't we nearly executed last week for overdoing it on this kind of caper.

"For what it's worth," she says, "I think you're overreacting."

"Overreacting! Are you insane? I don't even know if we'll survive opening that door."

"The other You says we'll be fine."

"Then the other me is a fool, River."

All of a sudden, her voice isn't coming from her, but from the other side of the Tardis door. "All of you is a fool."

"Two of you," I hiss at my River. "No wonder the Department would rather have us dead." I motion for River to stay quiet and gently turn her around. Lift up a handful of hair off her neck and, beneath it, draw a small cross with my marker. Just in case. I'm not going home with another man's River. You never can know where they've been.

"Well," she says aloud, "she knows we're here now, so we can't just leave."

"The big blue box vro-ohm-ing in was a bit of a giveaway."

I throw the door open and greet her with one stabbing finger. "Imitate my Tardis again, go on, I dare you to." Suddenly I'm very aware of standing between two grinning faces. "Oh yes, well done you… both of you…"

"We survived, didn't we?"

This from my River, as she wraps both hands around my arm. I keep my hands firmly in my pockets. I don't know these future selves and I don't want the first thing they see to be my surgical trauma tremors.

Tell you what, though, they've done wonders with the Cursed Place. It's nicely lit now, and there's a hatstand not far from where we're parked with the other River's great cloak flung over it, and the same jacket as the one I'm wearing hanging up. On the other side of us is a circle of five reclining chairs, arranged head to head and a sixth space in the circle occupied by a computer terminal. I've seen a similar set-up before, though only built for two.

The rest of the cavern is cut off by a curtain. There's the hint, the impossible, heretical suggestion of another Tardis beyond it, so I stop looking.

"Come along," my future wife says brightly, "Kettle's just boiled."

Luckily that's on our side of the curtain, a small table with service for three set out, bizarrely proper when the table wobbles on rugged stone. Oh, but it's nice to sit down, and it's nice that there's tea, and Jammie Dodgers. It's like she's known me all her life.

"I expect you're wondering-" she begins as she pours.

"No," I say. Both Rivers look at me. "No, I'm not wondering anything. I'm sitting down and drinking tea. Might I suggest, River, that all queries and explanations, be directed towards River. I, for my part, will listen carefully and try not to get overly confused.

My River laughs, with a wry smile.

The other too smiles, but strangely, and looks almost as though she might cry. Again, it leaves me lost in the pity of her, and the fear for myself and what I've become. But then she turns to her former self and says, "You've been very patient."

River tells her she trusted her. Every time, every step of the way. She knew in her heart that she would never ask herself to do anything that would hurt me.

Fact-Which-Explains-A-Lot #1 – River's been in league with… herself for some time. She wasn't aware of the bigger show, but she was playing the bit parts as they were given to her.

I don't like Facts Which Explain A Lot. Chiefly, they lead to Plethorae Of Questions. Who gave her the parts, who told her what to do, how much has she known and since when and what could she have spared us if she'd only come clean. I've found the font of all River's impossible foreknowledge and I'm still none the wiser.

"We're on a limited timeline, you see," the future River goes on, "The battle's coming. There was really only time to give you the highlights. And you have to be ready, it's never been more important for you to be prepared."

Fact-Which-Explains-A-Lot #2 – The last months of my life have been the Cliff's Notes on a much longer period. That's why nothing's ever stopped, why we've lurched from one disaster to the next like a dying elephant, why all the fun and adventure disappeared from in between the bits that hurt.

It's not a plethora of questions. It's just one. One so big and important that I break my resolution not to interrupt.

"Why?"

"Later," says the other Doctor's River.

I turn to mine and say, "Do you know? Was that given to you in advance? Because I'm telling you both, it had better be good. When you tell me, and you will tell me, I promise you that, it had better be good."

"Oh, it is." This from the River I don't know, who snaps it at me. She's so hard, so afraid. The River I never want to know. My own, beneath the table, takes hold of my hand. I squeeze back, trying to tell her it's okay, but it's not. Whatever I just said to trigger her, I questioned everything she's fighting for, and everything she ever lost to bring her to this.

I think she sees our fear on our faces, because she forces herself to sit back then, laughs off the last of her frustration and grins. "But later. Tea for now. We're just waiting on you coming back, my love."

"Why, where did I slope off too?"

Her brow tight, she pinches the bridge of her nose, "One of our frequent and infamous jailbreaks."

"I'm not going to end up with three of you, am I?"

I have two shins and they both get kicked. Like I'm not in enough pain…

"No," she sighs. The River who waits, who looks at me, as I am, as I was, with deep, strange longing, shuts her eyes, raises her teacup and breathes in steam. Exhales, "Somebody much more useful to him than me, I'm afraid." Beneath the table, River's fingernails bite into my palm, and while her future self contemplates the surface over her tea I, quickly, secretly, shake my head.

No.

Not ever.

You and me, River. This other me, whoever he is, whatever he's become, it won't happen. That's why we're here. Whatever else we have to do, that's what we're here for, is to stop that from happening. You and me, River. Always.

Then, on the far side of the curtain and before anymore can be said, the flash and crackle of a manipulator, returning. And the light throws his shadow up in the distorting folds of the fabric and a voice, like mine calls, "River?"

Like mine. Not mine.

"Over here, my love. We have guests."

A voice like mine breathes out through a smile like the devil's, the kind you can hear and which terrifies, "Ah. Tell me I want him, would you?"