Author's note: This chapter is basically just angsty fluff. Also, I'm going on vacation in a few days so it might be a few weeks before the next chapter. Don't hate me. Chapter title from Jose Gonzalez, Heartbeats
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"There was a skyness to the sky and a nowness to the world that he had never seen or felt or realized before." - Neil Gaiman, Stardust
It's the planet of the chip shops, but this far off the coast it looks more like oblivion, empty and black and infinite. This part of the planet is void of life, just a vast sea with one lone tree protruding from the still liquid, straining towards a sky that can't be reached. But this place hasn't always been untouched by civilization. Long ago a small barge did business here, harvesting rare white blossoms from the ancient tree and using the pollen to make sweetener. However, it has long since been abandoned. Now the flowers bloom freely, white petals adorning the tree like glowing Christmas lights. The only evidence man left of their presence here is the rusty maintenance lift that leans precariously against the great tree.
It's rusty from disuse, creaking like the hinges on a cemetery gate. River looks dubious as he pulls back the door and gestures for her to go inside. "There is no way I'm going in there. This heap of metal looks older than you."
The Doctor's face scrunches in offense. "I don't' look old! And it's perfectly safe. See." In an attempt to prove the lift's structural integrity and that he is, in fact, an eternal child, the Doctor beings bouncing up and down, stopping after only minimal protests from the ancient machinery.
River still isn't convinced. "Get out of there before you plummet to a death I can't bring you back from."
"It's not like you to let a little bit of danger get in the way of a good time."
"There's a difference between a bit dangerous and completely idiotic."
He huffs, hands on his hips. Then his eyes focus with intent, looking right at her as he takes slow, deliberate steps forward, closing the space between them. River stiffens instantly, watching with suspicion as that lithe body of his stalks toward her.
"You really don't want to?" He asks, crowding her space, eyes searing into hers. His hands find her upper arms, tracing patterns over her smooth skin. He's so close his breath tickles her cheeks, the sound of his voice a husky caress. "And there's nothing I can say?" He presses chaste kisses to her neck, one pulse point then the other. "Nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?"
She shivers at the contact and he grins into her throat, dancing his fingers over her shoulders and back. "You're welcome to try and persuade me." River baits him, breathless and brazen.
"Oh?" His lips follow the path of her collarbone, kissing his way to the hollow of her throat. "How would I do that?"
"Use your imagination." River instructs with husky breath as she leans into his touch.
"One idea does come to mind." The tone of his voice is nothing but promise as his hands begin their descent downward, mapping her sides and grabbing her hips. Without warning, he scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. River squeaks in surprise, wiggling her only means of an escape attempt as he walks them into the lift and presses the button for the top.
"Put me down right now, Doctor." She protests. "I mean it or I'll-"
"Sorry dear, did you say something? I can't really hear you over how creaky this lift is."
She threatens him in at least a dozen dead languages, including his own. The Doctor remains unfazed and more than a little pleased with himself, holding her prisoner the entire way and only releasing her once they've reached the top.
River is less than amused, huffing as she straightens out her unruly hair. "You're going to pay for that."
"I thought I might. But can I just say one thing first?" Before she answers, he presses his lips to hers. River's hands fly to his chest with intent to push him away. But when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her body flush against his, she sighs into his mouth, hands fisting in his lapels and tugging him closer. She tastes like chips and smells like honey suckles, sea air, and prison soap. When they part, he brushes his nose against hers. "I told you it was safe."
The TARDIS has parked herself just above the water, and River and the Doctor sit atop the blue ship, their legs dangling off the sides. They're floating some distance away from the gigantic tree, but in his mind, he can still hear the bark scuffing against the souls of his shoes, still smell the sweetness of the blossoms, still feel the warmth of her skin as she burrows into his neck.
Beside him, River shivers slightly, arms folding around her middle. Without hesitation, he sheds his coat and drapes it over her shoulders. She thanks him wordlessly, offering a grateful smile and pulling the coat tighter around herself. A soft hum escapes her as its warmth envelops her and the sound radiates through him as if he were the one being sheltered from the cool night air.
The communicator rests safely back in the top pocket, ready and waiting to beep should it's owners return to close proximity. He also took the liberty of scanning for life signs with his sonic. Thus far, there are only four. His and hers. Then and now.
There isn't much room on top of the TARDIS and their knees brush together every time one of them shifts. Even though he relishes in the indirect contact, he tries his best not to move. The scratch of his suit against the wood and the subtle sloshing of the waves sound obtrusive to the quiet they've found here in this secret place.
They're sitting too close for him to chance staring at her face without being obvious, but in the low light he can steal glances at her lap and feet while they wait for the stars to start their spectacle. Her jodhpurs are tight and worn in. Thin patches have formed over both knees and a run in the fabric mars her left calf. He traces the tear with his eyes, following as it curves over muscles and disappears to where it's tucked into her combat boots. His own dark trousers have seen better days, dawning their share of scuffs and frayed edges. They've become slightly bunched in this seated position and his socks peek out between the cuff of his pants and his shiny leather shoes.
Beneath them, the water is calm and placid, a black pool of glass reflecting an even blacker sky. Even the ripples from their landing have stilled. There is no lapping of waves or chatter of tourists or chirping of animals. There is only night and darkness and silence. But it isn't lonely, far from it. It may be the most at peace he's felt since the last time he gazed up at this night sky.
Maybe it's the vast possibilities that soothe him or the steady beat of his hearts. Or maybe it's because this feels more like how they used to be, just them, alone in the darkness, the only obstacle between them the bulb burning proudly on top of the TARDIS. It's not very bright, just enough to outline their forms, but amid the darkness it probably looks like a spotlight. He wonders if he could have seen it from atop that tree. If he had looked just so, between the branches and blossoms, would he have seen the dull glowing orb in the distance? Would he have known it was a slapdash attempt to recreate one of the best nights of his life?
"I know what you're doing." River breathes softly, but in the quiet darkness her voice sizzles like a hot brand.
He feels his body tense, trying not to sound terrified as he asks, "You do?"
"You're playing it safe. But it won't work. Nothing worth finding ever comes easy." In the dim light he can't tell exactly where she's looking, but he can picture her face by the tone of her voice, all knowing and triumphant, the victor of a game between them he wasn't aware they were playing.
She isn't wrong. It's the quiet places he suggested scoping out first, places they wouldn't be spotted or recognized, where he could account for the exact location of their past selves and make sure it was impossible to run into them. He could just admit it, that wouldn't certainly be the simpler option. So naturally he takes the opposite approach.
"Not at all. This is a stake out, a rather genius one if I say so. Very few life signs to keep track of and if that number changes we'll know. Plus, out in the open like this, there's nowhere for the people after you to hide should they decide to drop in unannounced. "
"You realize, by proxy, that means we also have nowhere to hide should any uninvited guests start shooting at us."
He waves a hand, batting the idea right out of the air. 'We've never been safer. Nothing can get through these doors." He emphasizes his point by knocking on the ship. "Trusty old girl."
"Ah yes, the impenetrable power of wood." River teases. Her eyes find the outline of the ancient tree, the only thing vaguely visible in the darkness. "What was I doing here anyway? Doesn't seem like much in the ways of archaeology."
He sidesteps her question with his own. "Speaking of, I've always wondered, why did you choose archaeology?"
River returns the favor, turning to face him with raised eyebrows. "Why did you become a doctor?"
"I wanted to help people, I suppose." He answers honestly, keeping his eyes on her, patiently waiting to hear the gospel of River's life choices.
She holds his eye contact as she debates some inner quandary, finally answering, "I was looking for something."
"Did you find it?"
"No." She says with a shake of her head, looking away. "But I think it's for the better."
Her profile is illuminated in the low light, sharp and smooth, sumptuous and strong. He can't bring himself to look away. "Why do you say that?"
One shoulder shrugs, jostling her hair. "What comes next, if you find everything you're looking for?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He asks playfully, and when she turns to him curiously, he answers. "You live happily ever after."
River laughs, dry and hollow. "I think we're both a little old for fairytales. And you never answered my question. What was I doing here?"
The ancient branches are wide enough to waltz on but they sit instead, him cross legged and her head resting in his lap, hair pooling over his thighs. She watches the night sky dance above them and he watches her, the light show reflected in her eyes. On a whim, he plucks one of the blossoms and tucks it behind her ear. River smiles up at him, green eyes full of love and starlight.
"It suites you." He tells her, and her brow crinkles in that way he finds adorable.
"What does, the flower?"
The Doctor shakes his head, fringe flopping in his eyes and grinning like the cat who at the canary. "Married life."
River scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I would hardly call that a wedding."
He chuckles at the notion that a fracture in the fabric of reality stretching across all of space and time isn't grand enough for River Song. He'd even asked her parent's permission. "And here I thought you weren't a wedding person."
She shrugs. "A girl can change."
He examines the stubborn creature in his lap, wild hair and smirking lips, prison sweats and combat boots, fighting for what she wants and never settling for anything less. It would be a sin to alter such perfection. Leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead, he whispers, "Please don't."
"You're on your honeymoon." He tells her, his eyes flicking to the tree. River follows his gaze, no doubt picturing a honeymoon with a different man, a man in a brown suit, the face of his former self. Mind, it's not that much of a stretch. Even without regenerating, he feels different from the man she married. This face has come a long way since fish fingers and custard. He doubts little Amelia would even recognize her raggedy Doctor now, with his pushed back hair and purple suit. All that older on the inside leaking out in the form of dark eyes and creases in his brow.
The first stars of the night are beginning to peek through the night sky, little pinpoints of light in a blanket of black. "Look there." The Doctor gestures to the east. "That's Primum, the first Quark star to ever be discovered. And that one there, just south, is a Red Giant in mid supernova. You can tell by the blurry disk of light expanding out around it. Oh! And that orangey cluster is the Nestle Nebula."
"Nestle? Like the company?"
"Oh yes. See, those are Y Dwarf stars. Really rare, they only burn at around 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Nestle bought them in 3309, opened up a satellite café, and, voila, cookies baked by starlight."
River shakes her head in playful disbelief. "You're lying."
"Am not!" The Doctor protests through a laugh. "They have the best chocolate chip cookies in the galaxy. I'll take you there after this and prove it to you."
"A night under the stars and dessert? Careful, a girl could get the wrong idea."
"Or the right one." His lips blurt before his brain can stop him. He can't be certain, but from the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees her blush. Then again, maybe it's just the starlight, growing steadily brighter as one by one the sky explodes. The magic of it is unlike anything else in the universe, starlight reflecting off the sea like a mirror, surrounding them with infinite, dazzling lights.
He missed it last time, too caught up in kissing her and watching as she marveled at the sight before them. It's much harder to miss now, the sky a backdrop, silhouetting the soft curve of her shoulders and peeking through her thick mass of curls. She looks up at the night sky the same way she had before, in wonder and awe. Except her smile isn't the same. It doesn't bloom across her face, lighting her up from within as stars shine just for her. It's smaller now, barely curling her cheeks, a secret. The starlight doesn't seek her out in waves the way it had before. It comes in kisses, sparkling the apples of her cheeks. It streaks across her arms, chest, neck, delighting her golden skin. Her reflection is even more breathtaking. Silver swirls over her and around her like brush strokes on an impressionist painting, blurring the edges where she ends and infinity begins.
"So what about you, then," River nudges his shoulder with her own. "Do you have anyone?"
His smile slips. "There have been a few contenders over the years. One in particular."
"I knew it. Go on, tell me about her."
He lets out a long exhale through his nose, looking deliberately away from her reflection and into the night sky. River's gaze pierces into him like a dagger and he struggles to hide the sadness that lingers just behind his eyes, weighing down the corner of his smile. Under her scrutiny, it's harder to maintain the façade of happiness he usually wears like a second skin, the one that blurs his true emotions, always leaving them just out of focus. "It's complicated."
River chuckles, but not at his expense. "Isn't it always?"
A million practiced diversions and ways to change the subject gather at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back. Rather than sifting through for the right words, he lets raw emotion flow unrestrained, free of flowery poetry. "She was… is everything: funny, brilliant, stunning, and far too good for me. She's fierce and determined and," he huffs a quiet laugh. "Dangerous. But patient, too, and kind. Certainly braver than she has any right to be. And together we were…" Words fail him. He isn't sure there are words to describe a union such as theirs. "And without her…" There are words for this. Grievous, self-pitying words like lost, lonely, and hollow. Words he can't bare feeling much less saying. Instead, he sighs, settling for an equally true sentiment. "She makes everything better when she's around. She makes me better."
"What was the problem?" River asks softly.
The Doctor still can't bring himself to look at her, studying the scuff marks on his shoes as he answers, "Never could get the timing quite right."
River gives an understanding, noncommittal nod before finally tearing her eyes away from him. Together they look up into the sky, observing all the stars that will one day go out. Some of them are new and freshly formed, still burning brightly. Others have long since extinguished, their lingering light refusing to fade, echoing through the cosmos out of pure defiance. But one day, even the brightest and most stubborn stars will fizzle out. It's funny how easy it is to blow out a candle. And yet, it takes precision and friction and all the right elements in all the right places with all the right conditions to restart a fire.
"Did you love her?" Her voice is quiet, like she's afraid sound waves will somehow shatter the empty air around them.
"Still do." He answers, matching her meek question with unwavering confidence. Nothing lasts forever. But love, love is special. It can't be stabbed or pummeled or drown. It can't get sick or lost or forgotten. Love doesn't die of natural causes; it dies because of us. It doesn't explode from the passion of anger or succumb to longing or sadness. It is extinguished by indifference. All the little moments that pass us by, the almosts and should haves. The thank yous and miss yous and love yous that we just forget to say. It dies slowly. It festers and creeps into your heart like a virus, unseen and unaware until your eyes begin to water and your nose starts to run. By the time it's visible, it's already too late. "Never really told her how much, though. Things always got in the way."
River hums in understanding. "Things do that."
Sometimes it feels like the whole universe is working against them, their paths forever revolving and crossing and twisting but never quite in sync. They existed in a realm of 'almost'. Almost the same species. Almost the right time or place. Almost the truth and almost finding the right words to say. They almost had it all and now he almost has her back. He thinks perhaps 'almost' is the worst affliction there is. It hollows out its victims, leaving just enough hope to eat them from within.
For a while he ran from the almosts. He ran because it was a habit or because he was scared of the future, of being happy. He ran because it's the only thing he knew how to do. A long life had taught him that happiness is fleeting and fickle and not for him, who had hurt so many and caused so much death. But he couldn't run from her, thrown together by chance and weaved like one by fate. Running from her only ever drew him closer and in the end he found himself chasing after her, clinging to any scrap he could.
He never thanked her for teaching him how to be still, for making him feel not alone. He told her by taking her on dates and showing her the universe and wasting away hours just lying next to her. She felt his love and gratitude every time their minds brushed and bodies joined. But he never told her with words, with spoken language and lips, his affection swirling in the air between their bodies, audible with every breath and syllable. He hid from his feelings, from love. But not River. She didn't see it as a weakness or something that made her vulnerable. It made her strong, never frightened or ashamed.
"Do you think you'll see her again?"
"Yes, I believe I will." And he does believe it. He believes it and hopes it and longs for it with all his soul.
River nods, her smile warm but exhausted, like the light of a faraway star. The brightness of it chases away the darkness of his thoughts.
"And I'll tell her." He promises the silhouette. "I'll tell her everything I should have said from the start."
River considers him a moment before shrugging and looking off into the distance, her expression unreadable. "If she's everything you say she is, I'm sure she already knows."
xxx
The night carried on without interruption. The stars shone and sparkled and both versions of them, past and present, watched the spectacle without interruption. And when the two other life signs on his tracker disappeared on cue, undisturbed, the Doctor made good on his promise to treat her to the best cookies in the galaxy. They arrive at the starlight café with the intention of discussing the who's and whys and how's of what was happening to her time line. Instead, they stay for hours, talking, drinking coffee, and eating biscuits, cookies, and little cakes. Her favorite are the sugar cookies but she can't stand the sight of apple cinnamon because it smells a bit too much like a spiced liquor she over indulged on at a staff Christmas party. His favorite are the chocolate bacon cupcakes, and at one point River licked frosting off one and he nearly spilt a steaming cup of coffee down his front. She merely teased him, saying I think you'd look rather good in a pair of hot pants and he responded by rambling awkwardly about why are they called a 'pair' of pants anyway?
Eventually they found their way back to the TARDIS, where she now sleeps, but not in their bedroom. Even he couldn't bear to be in there tonight, not with her on board, sleeping soundly somewhere not next to him. He misses sleeping with her, not in the passionate throws of love and lust way, but actually sleeping, warm and safe and loved in her arms. He misses talking over pillows and fading in and out of dreams, the only sound the slow beating of their hearts and shallow, sweet breathes. They were together, not to take away the pain, but to share it, so neither of them would be alone.
When she was away, he used to sleep on her side of the pillow just to be near her, to smell her. Eventually, even the essence of her was gone, echoes used up along with everything else. Missing her didn't come all of a sudden. It didn't consume him one lonely night while he lied in bed. It crept up on him like a thief. It dropped into his life like a subtle rain. One day it was grey skies and he could still see peaks of sun, but the rain clouds of her absence stole away his light so subtly he almost didn't notice when it began storming so hard it blocked out the sun. One minute he was making toast for two and the next the smell of burning bread made him nauseous. It was smiling to himself but never speaking aloud because it was a joke only she would understand. It was becoming accustomed to loneliness, a slowly setting silence falling on him so quietly any noise made him skittish.
She's right down the hall now, and in retribution for all those nights he feels compelled to go to her. He doesn't, of course. He sits with his legs dangling out of the TARDIS. He does this from time to time, when he needs to think, when he doesn't want to think at all, when he wants to stare into oblivion and forget. Sometimes he even does it to remember the outline of her figure, sitting alone in the doorway of the TARDIS, torso, shoulders, and hair a black silhouette against the Earthlight, a goddess, a quiet protector.
It's her first overnight stay in the TARDIS. He nearly choked on his own tongue when she let that slip, thinking nothing of something so trivial. But to him, to him it is a grim reminder that his days are fading fast. One more first. One more last.
She doesn't even see him as he strolls into the console room, too lost in her own thoughts, head too full of ghosts and monsters to notice the squeaking of his rubber shoes against the tile floor. He doesn't need to ask what she's doing out here, why she can't sleep. He's held her through enough nights to know about the demons that plague her dreams. But she's too young for that now, too new, not yet ready for his affections.
He clears his throat so he doesn't alarm her. "Penny for your thoughts?"
It startles her anyway, whipping around with wide, surprised eyes. When she sees that it's him, she frowns before looking back out as they orbit the Earth. "I was trying to get back to my dorm on Luna, but this is as close as she would take me."
"I told you I don't fly her wrong." The Doctor dares to skip a little closer. "She's just picky."
River snorts. "Except when you leave the breaks on."
"Yes, well." He says, leaning casually against the doorframe beside her. "I like the noise."
"So you've said." She deadpans, and he gets the distinct impression she'd rather he just left her be. Naturally, he doesn't.
"Why were you trying to get back to Luna?" He asks, instead.
River shakes her head, frustrated. "You don't have to do this."
"Do what?"
"This!" She gestures between them. "Comforting me, acting like you care. Just stop it. I'm not an idiot."
"Well I am." He chimes, taking a seat next to her in the doorway. "Or so you tell me. So I'd be eternally grateful if you could explain what I've done to upset you."
She allows him to sit beside her, but her body language is closed off, bristling. "I appreciate what you're doing by taking me on these little field trips. You feel guilty about what happened in Berlin. You think you manipulated me into bringing you back, but you didn't. Regardless of what you told me, it was my choice. So you can drop the charade."
He sits, stunned. What would make her think such a thing? He thought he'd been perfectly clear that she was important to him. "River, what are you talking about? What charade?"
She sighs, "My room."
"Your room?"
"Yes. Nothing in it is mine and if I spent any significant amount of time here in the future, there would be. So we obviously don't know each other as well as I assumed. Which is fine. Spare me your pity because I'd rather spend my time where I'm wanted."
He really is an idiot for thinking she wouldn't notice the room wasn't hers. Even more so for not realizing she would get the wrong idea. Of course she would expect the worst. She doesn't trust him yet. She trusted her parent's judgment enough to save him, but she doesn't trust him. She has no reason to. He hasn't proven he was worth saving yet.
"You're right. You don't have a room." He admits softly. "We have a room."
River looks over at him with raised eyebrows.
"I didn't think you were ready to know so I made one up. I'm sorry I should have known you'd see right through me. You always do."
As if to prove his statement, she drags those sharp green eyes over him, appraising him from the flop of his fringe to the tips of his toes. "You're not exactly my type."
He gives a good natured laugh. Neither of them ever liked what they were supposed to. "And what is?"
River shrugs. "Muscles. Eyebrows. Having hit puberty."
"You've got me on the eyebrows." He concedes, leaning in conspiratorially. "But I'm stronger than I look and I've most definitely hit puberty."
Where an older River would flash him a knowing, naughty smirk and say something that made his whole body flush, this time, she doesn't even crack a smile, changing the subject as easily as turning a page. "Why not just tell me about the room? What does it matter if it's going to happen no matter what?"
The Doctor shakes his head as he tries to explain. "It doesn't work like that." He hates being the older one. He's no good at knowing when the time is right or what to say. River had made it look so easy, he always assumed when the time was right, he'd just know what to say. Instead, he finds himself tripping at every hurdle, struggling to find words that usually flow freely. "The future isn't set in stone, not all of it. It's in flux all around us, constantly shaped by the words we say and decisions we make. You don't have to have any of it." He pauses, exhaling as he adds, "Time can be rewritten."
Even as he speaks, time pulses all around them, fragile, moldable putty just waiting to be ripped apart or shaped into something beautiful. There's so much history between them, and yet, from her perspective, hardly any at all. "Your life is what you make it, River. You always have a choice. I need you to know that." The air sits heavy in his lungs, the very oxygen around them weighed down by the power of their conversation.
"So my diary," River says, pulling said blue book from some hidden place on her person. He doesn't know where she keeps these things; he stopped asking years ago. "You've seen it in the future, yes?"
He nods, the inflection of her voice making an uneasy feeling swirl in his belly. River stares intensely down at the bound leather, the blue still vibrant, spine stiff and unused. Her fingers close around it and he watches helplessly as she extends her arm, holding the book out into nothingness. "What if I drop it now?" She asks, voice as impassive as the Earth beneath them, spinning madly on, untouched and blissfully unaware that his fate dangles by a thread. "Would all those memories go away? If I choose differently, would everything in your journal just disappear?"
"Yes." The Doctor swallows against the dry lump in his throat, trying to keep his voice flat. "I suppose it would."
"Would you?" She's slightly breathless this time, like she's afraid he might dematerialize just at the thought.
"Possibly." He clutches the floor until his knuckles turn white. The need to touch her is overwhelming. Without her skin on his, he fears he might float away, but his grip on the TARDIS ties him to the present even as her delicate hand holds her future, his past, in limbo.
An impossible silence falls over them. He forgets how to move and breathe, his pulse pounding in his ears as he watches her hand like it's the last thing he'll ever see. Maybe it is, maybe this is how she kills him. Maybe his hearts explode in his chest from suspense. Maybe she takes his life without ever even laying a finger on him.
After a few painstaking moments, she retracts her arm, the book sitting safely on her thighs once more. His whole body relaxes, breath expelled from his chest like a sickness, a terrible weight lifted. "Why did you choose it?" She asks. "Surely you could have just avoided me."
A fond smile finds his lips. "Oh, believe me, I tried. But you're just too hard to resist." His fingers flex towards her of their own volition, tentatively brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She can't quite bring her eyes to meet his, and sensing her hesitation, he withdraws his hand. Too young, he chides himself.
"Is that why you didn't return me to my parents as a child?" It isn't really a question. It's accusation.
He tries not to let the guilt show on his face as he answers, "That decision has never been mine to make."
River scoffs. "Since when has that ever stopped you?"
He shrugs like it isn't the most important question he'll ever answer, like he isn't thinking of the day he met her and lost her. "Since you made me promise not to. You chose it, not for me, not for the Silence or anyone else. You chose it for you. Because you are River Song and nothing and no one makes decisions for you."
Her eyes are fixed on the blue sphere turning beneath them, imagining this woman he speaks of, who shares her face but isn't quite her, this almost tangible creature made up of 'one day's and 'someday's and 'could be's and 'should be's.
"There were a million ways and a million times you could have asked me to change something or changed it yourself. But you never did. Even if I wanted to change things, I couldn't. You never told me where to find you."
"I could tell you now." River offers casually, like she's making dinner plans rather than deciding the very fate of both their lives.
"Alright then." He breathes, voice barely above a whisper. "If that's what you want."
She finally turns to him, emerald eyes shining with disbelief. "And you would do that, change everything, just because I asked?"
"I would do anything if you asked me to." Words from his lips have never been more earnest and he wills her to understand that with his eyes, to understand that he is at her mercy. Her whims and smiles his lifeline. Her happiness the only thing worth living for and without her, he would be lost.
An emotion he can't quite place tugs at the corner of her lips, and she's never looked more like his River than when she says, "That's a dangerous thing to say to a girl like me."
He grins at her, unabashed. "It's dangerous to ask favors from a man like me."
River chuckles, leaning back on her hands and tilting her chin up, exposing her throat. "We're perfect for each other in that respect." She purrs. "We could destroy the universe together."
"True, or we could save it." His fingers inch toward hers, brushing her knuckles with his, a question, an invitation.
She looks down at their hands, almost entwined, flirting with what path to take. "Is it worth it?"
"Every second." He promises. "Always and completely." And then she takes his hand in hers and chooses.
When they used to stare out the TARDIS doors into blackness, everything looked so vast, so full of possibilities. But without her next to him to share in the splendor, it just looks empty. After a few hours of waiting, he gives up hope that she'll materialize beside him, that she'll just know that he needs her.
And need her he does, more than he should, more than he ever wanted or intended to. He needs her when he's angry or frustrated or lost. He needs her smile and her laugh and the way she crooks her brow. He needs her in order to sleep, to eat, and to fly his ship. She's in the very air that he breathes, his morning routines and nightly adventures. When had she become so vital, fuel for his very existence, rooted so deeply in his soul he doesn't think he'll ever be rid of her? Had he dozens of regenerations ahead of him, had he faces upon faces and endless bright blinding light to purge and reshape him, he thinks she'd nest within him still, clinging comfortably somewhere between the translucent fibers of his soul and the thumping of his heart beats.
With a sigh, he stands, stretching his young old bones, and makes his way through the depths of the ship, back to his room. His ship whines, a sympathetic, melancholy sound. The Old Girl missed her, too. He forgets sometimes, that there's more to the universe than his own self-pity. Pity when he ran from her, pity when he lost her, pity when he didn't have the strength to go back and say goodbye. Now more pity that she's back and yet she isn't. The TARDIS feels the loss as acutely as he must. To have her child walk through her halls, touch her walls, and breathe the air she provides, only to not know or remember... It must be unbearable for her, too. His ship did mourn River's loss, there's proof of it in the Gallifreyan scribbled across the console like the messages River so loved to leave scattered throughout history for him.
How long would he have let her remain trapped in that mainframe if fate hadn't stepped in? If he hadn't gotten that note, how long would she have sat in that hospital bed, waiting on a husband that wasn't coming? And even then he almost didn't investigate, not wanting to get his hopes up even when the evidence had been delivered right to him. Sure, he told himself it was impossible to change her fate, that River was gone and there was nothing to be done. But he had never really tried. If he tried and failed that meant she was really, truly beyond saving. As long as he ran from it, he could hold out hope that he'd find some way to rescue her one day in the future. Or better, that she'd find a way to rescue herself. She'd never been one to wait on him before, never needed him to save her. He'd always been the one who needed the saving. Berlin. The pyramid. The Library. He's been asking for her help since the day she met him, and she gave it until her last breath.
He was a coward and he didn't deserve someone like her, someone brave and trusting. His cowardice had cost him the very thing he wanted to save: her. Because he had lost her, hadn't he? Sure, she was out of the Library, she was running with him, but she wasn't his. Half her life was gone. The very memories she died for, lost, stolen, possibly gone forever because he failed to protect her. She suffered again and again, always because of him.
The ship wheezes again and he runs his hand over the cool metal walls, soothing her. The lights dim and then brighten, grabbing his attention, and he blinks, finally realizing he should have reached his room by now. He doesn't know where he is actually. He isn't anywhere near the pool or the wardrobe, but he has passed this corridor three times already. There's a door on the corner he doesn't recognize, and come to think of it, he doesn't even know where it leads and-
The ship hums again and, oh, the Old Girls been leading him circles. He knows what she's trying to do, what she's always done. She's leading him on the path to her. But it's no use. River doesn't want him. He doesn't have the right.
The ship groans again, louder, lights flickering encouragingly. The Doctor's hands scrub at his face. He doesn't want to argue; he wants to sleep, to close his eyes and curl around a pillow and make believe it's her. Which is a bit sad considering the object of his desire is just beyond this door. But he lacks the courage to knock. She's probably sound asleep, anyway. She probably wouldn't even hear him. He wouldn't know what to say if she did.
"You realize I can see your shadow pacing under the door frame." River's voice floats through the air, muffled by the thick door, and he freezes instantly. The ship sounds overtly smug in the back of his brain when he notices his shadow darkening the doorway. The Doctor watches as, without his permission, his hands reaches for the handle, twisting it and pushing inside. Light from the hallway spills into the room, a single strip of pale, glowing yellow piercing the darkness.
River sits up, amused. "I didn't say come in. Though, at least you waited until I was awake this time. That's an improvement."
He flushes, realizing this is the second time he's barged into her room unannounced. "Do you want me to go?"
"No." She breathes, firm but quiet. The admission roots him to the spot, feet like lead weights. He simply stands there, unable to move or breathe as he takes in her appearance. The blankets pool around her waist and an emerald night shirt hangs loosely around her frame. Her hair is a mess from tossing and turning and the dark circles under her eyes are all too familiar. She hasn't been sleeping; he can tell by the focus with which she observes him, curious and expectant.
Finally remembering himself, he clears his throat and asks, "Do you need anything? A blanket? It's rather cold in here, isn't it?" River silently studies him as he shuffles into the room, fussing through a linen closet until he finds a decent sized quilt.
"Thank you." She says, still watching him as he spreads the cover out over her bed.
"Anytime." He breathes with a smile, not yet moving from where he hovers at the foot of her bed. River remains still, simply looking up at him, saying nothing. "I suppose I should..." He gestures toward the door awkwardly, taking a few steps back before spinning and bolting for the exit.
He almost reaches the handle when River speaks up, "Wait." He pauses, turning to see she's pulled her lip between her teeth, thinking. "You could stay, if you want."
The Doctor's mouth bobs open and closed like fish, working overtime to form words his brain can't find.
He must look as frightened as he feels because, in a deceptively innocent voice, she adds, "I don't bite."
She does, actually, and he can't help the breathless laugh that sneaks out from between his lips at the thought. When he peaks up at her through his messy fringe, he sees her head is tilted to the side, her quiet smile matching his own. He isn't capable of saying no when she makes that face, so he sheds his coat and toes off his shoes. Simultaneously, River scoots to one side, making room for him on the bed. The Doctor pulls back the sheets and climbs in, lying on his side a respectable distance away. River twists to face him, palms tucked flat beneath her cheek.
As they face each other in the small bed, the Doctor finds he's at a loss of what to do next. Should he sing? Humans do that to put each other to sleep, don't they? Or is that just for children? Holding her used to do the trick, their heart beats thumping out a slow soothing rhythm. Maybe he'll just hum. That's a relaxing, non-threatening sound to make. But what should he hum? Funny thing about humming, millions of species can do it, reverberate their vocal cords in various frequencies and tunes. For instance, "Did you know house flies hum in the key of F?"
River blinks at him for a moment, then she smiles, warm and genuine. "Your pillow talk is unique, I'll give you that."
The Doctor gives a self-depreciating laugh. He feels like he's nine hundred again, like he doesn't know what to say or where to look. All he knows is that he doesn't want to go. He gives in and looks where he wants: her eyes. She's staring back at him, expectant, curious, waiting; so he says the first thing he can think of. "Why couldn't you sleep?"
River shrugs, "Too much coffee, I suppose."
"And the night after the hospital, when we stayed at yours, had you had too much coffee then, too?"
She considers him, those green eyes as perceptive as always. "You're one to talk. You're not sleeping either. Is knowing when women need comforting in the dark your super power?"
"More of a sixth sense." He teases. "But it's wasted on me. I'm quite terrible at it."
"Oh, I don't' know." Her eyes flick to the sheets between them, finding his again as she says, "You're doing a pretty good job of it now."
Something in the tone of her voice makes his pulse skip, the air around them thicker, more intimate than it was a moment ago. Nothing exists but this room and her green eyes and thick lashes as they blink at him in the darkness. "Do you want to talk about the nightmares?" He asks softly and her face hardens.
"There's nothing to talk about."
Looking her in the eye suddenly feels far too personal, so he looks down and away, quickly stuttering out an apology. "Sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"No." River stops him. "I mean, I never remember them, which isn't so bad really. If I'm going to have demons at least they're polite enough to let me forget them when I wake." It's her turn to laugh, but it isn't self-deprecating and hollow. It's light as air, rolling off her as easily as water on duck feathers. All the terrible things in her life and all she ever does is forgive, swallowing the evil down and turning it into something beautiful, sending it back into the world via throaty laughs, wicked smirks, and sparkling smiles.
"Then I'll stay up all night, and if you have another one, I'll wake you." She doesn't answer immediately so he adds, "If you like."
Her eyes are as vulnerable as he feels, voice tender as she asks, "What about you? You must be tired, too."
"Nah," he smiles as he repeats her words. "Too much coffee."
"You're a terrible liar." River smirks at him and he smirks right back.
"I'm a doctor, not a lawyer.
"Shame. Then you'd have an excuse to wear one of those ostentatious wigs."
He shudders for dramatic effect. "Horrendous things. Even I wouldn't wear one of those, and I once wore celery as a boutonnière.
River stifles a yawn to laugh. "I'd like to see that."
"I'll bet you would. Now hush. You'll need your rest if you're going to make fun of me in the morning."
She hums, closing her eyes. "Well you make it so easy. How's a girl to resist?"
"I wouldn't want you to." He admits, then quietly adds, "Good night, River."
"Good night, Doctor." She whispers back.
They fall silent and her breathing settles, fading into a restful sleep almost immediately. He can't resist the urge to brush her hair from her face, a liberty he shouldn't take, doesn't deserve. But when she relaxes further at the contact, he can't bring himself to feel guilty. In fact, the urge to press a kiss to her forehead bubbles so intensely within him he feels he might erupt, the desire to feel her skin against his lips almost overwhelming. In another time, another place, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd kiss her temple and run his fingers through her hair. He'd watch her sleep and thank his lucky stars she let him, that his time hadn't run out.
He doesn't have the right to do any of that anymore.
Instead, he watches her, chest rising and falling, so very thankful for the simple gesture he never thought he'd see again. He is awestruck by her chest expanding and collapsing, by her inhales and exhales, and by the very oxygen she takes into her lungs. He is humbled by the soft breathes she expels between her lips and the way it ghosts across his skin. He is captivated simply because she is alive, and he has never seen anything more beautiful than that in all his days.
She shifts, curling into him, a subconscious gesture as she drifts in and out of sleep. He feels warmer at the contact, her head resting easily on his chest with one arm draped across him. He takes advantage of the sleepy state, holding her as long as she'll let him and wondering how much of this she'll remember in the morning. He can't think of a better reason to be still than her in his arms. His body was made to wrap around hers, hold her close, and keep her warm.
It's the first time he's held her like this since Darillium, but it comes just as naturally as it always has. Suddenly the universe is warm and solid and right, a sensation so much different from the cold emptiness haunting him in her absence. For the first time in a century, he feels like he has a purpose again. He feels whole, a chasm only her smooth skin and double heartbeat could fill.
It's all too much, more than he ever dared hope for, and it makes his hearts stutter like kick drums. The Doctor closes his eyes, listening as his pulse races around his body in circles, in a hurry to get nowhere. He sympathizes; he too feels that like he's constantly rushing forward in an endless circle, always back to her.
River hums unexpectedly and his eyes fly open at the sound of her voice. "You have two hearts." It's a statement of fact, River's sleepy voice struggling to stay afloat even as her subconscious sinks slowly into dreams. The Doctor holds his breath, waiting for her to continue her thought. "Are we the same, then?"
He nods, then quickly realizing she can't see him, he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, tickled by her hair. In the stillness, he hears his own lips part, his voice a whispers, a barely there puff of air ruffling her riotous curls. "Bespoke."
But she doesn't hear him, already pulled under by the current of sleep.
