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Hello my fellow Whovians! I would just like to say that last night's episode was the first time I have cried during an episode of Doctor Who since "The End of Time, Part 2." Which also means this is a reaction fic, so sorry to all of you readers who have yet to watch "The God Complex" but this would spoil you. IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN LAST NIGHT'S EPISODE, STOP READING NOW.
Anyways, here's my take on the aftermath. I don't know if I love it, but it feels right to me so I'll post it for you guys to either love, hate, reject, or cherish. All or none of the above is fine too, of course.
Thank you for the support and I see a pattern that more people like (if reviews=enjoying the chapter) comedic encounters, so maybe I will try to whip up more of those. I'd really love feedback in that sense-what kind of stories do you like to read the most?
Please continue to read, review, and enjoy!
Cosmic Love-Florence + the Machine
I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back.
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too,
So I stayed in the darkness with you.
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out,
You left me in the dark.
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart.
"I left them."
They are not words but whispers of despair pulled forth from his lips. "I left them," he repeats.
She is afraid to move a muscle, terrified of changing a single atom in the atmosphere and forever breaking the tender thread of which the Doctor is clinging to so tightly as a lifeline. He is breaking in front of her and she doesn't have the heart to sew him up.
"Shh," she hushes. "Hush, now."
He takes two steps forward and literally falls head over heels into her, causing her to stumble and trip backwards into the wall. It holds her up as she holds him up, and she is thankful at least one of them is made of sturdy material.
Tears soak through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt into her skin, droplets of pain, age, and fear burning the supple feel of her body's surface. Each teardrop is a knife into her shoulder, but she is willing to collapse under the pressure of the stabbing desperation in an attempt to relieve him.
This moment is a moment of complete and utter rarity, this openness in the middle of his calamity never so easily given. He is trusting her with himself, with everything. She has never seen him more vulnerable.
"You saved them," she coos. "They are alive and breathing because of you."
He still does not respond, too caught up with crying to do anything else.
"My love," she coddles. Her cosseting is met with a heavier weight as he presses into her, unable to keep himself up alone. Emotionally and physically, he is completely depending upon her.
His sobs are gasping, his lungs conquering the air and forcing it down his throat. He cannot breathe and yet that is all he can do, and she is stroking loving fingers around his temples as she comforts him.
"Be strong, Doctor," she whispers. She says his name like a benediction, seeming to bless the world around them with the utterance of this prayer. "Try, Doctor. I need you to try."
His fingers curl in the material of her sweatshirt, pulling it so tightly she is frightened for a moment she will not be able to breathe. Shifting herself up a little, her throat opens and the air is heavy in her body and the surrounding space. His fists draw her towards him, their breaths mingling and interchanging.
"I can't," he releases.
His eyes are pleading as he musters the courage to look at her, and this is the oldest she has ever seen him. His eyes are ancient, so incredibly ancient, and she feels a literal splitting where her hearts are in the middle of her chest.
"You have to try." she pauses, almost belligerently. "Try for me, Doctor. Be strong for me."
These last words get through to him and his breath catches and River can feel his entire body tense up against her. She reaches for one of his hands and interlaces their fingers, struck by how sensual and intimate the gesture is. She squeezes lightly but doesn't release the pressure, slowly walking them over to the open floor of her hallway.
There, she drops them to the floor and they lie against the wood, panting and choking and holding hands.
She can tell his clothes are chafing against his skin and he pushes himself up on his elbows, staring her straight in the eye. She meets his gaze with eyes filled by love, and the tears resume as he leaps up and attacks her lips with his. He clings desperately to her body as he tries to gain composure and closure, but she gently pushes him away despite knowing the dejection that will surface.
His face is even sadder than she imagined, and misery is woven into every feature of his contradictory visage.
She lifts a hand to his cheek but he backs away from her touch, more broken than before. She simply shakes her head and looks away, then back up to meet his eyes.
"Not like this," she says firmly. "Besides," she hesitates. "Not yet."
He cannot comprehend what she is saying and he is on his feet, discovering the strength to hold himself upright. He backs away from her and knocks over a stack of books with the jut of his hips, a striking pain searing through his side that he consciously ignores.
"Why?" he shouts, letting go of any shred of dignity as he throws himself against the wall. "Why not now?"
She stays silent, her poker face greeting his furious one.
"Am I too broken for you, River? Am I not good enough?" His sarcasm is piercing the air and he cannot keep himself together as he continues on, screaming and gesturing and releasing the fire. "Is this what you want? Shall I come back with a smile and then 'jolly good, let's meddle with the Doctor? The grand, heroic, proud Doctor. Let's wait until he is good again and then he will be good enough for me.'"
His lips are quivering but his voice is not, steady and unwavering and resolute.
"Because this must be a game to you, River. Just a tragic, star-crossed love story because you have nothing better to do with your time than fiddle with my life. Well, I've had it. I don't want to see you again, River. Leave me alone!"
He crumbles to the floor as he slides against the wall, his hands covering his head and pulling his hair hard enough to draw forth fistfuls.
When she still does not react, he looks up and glares at her. He lifts himself from his heap and stands over, all but spitting at her. "This is what you make me. What is the point of you?"
Wiping his spit from her face with the sleeve of her jumper, she stands up slowly and meets his gaze.
She blinks unhurriedly, patiently, and he drops to his knees and grabs her legs as he cries into them; the greatest man in the universe reduced to clutching at worn denim.
She lowers a hand to his hair and strokes gently, moving her hand southwards until she is tracing his jaw with feather-light fingertips. She hooks two fingers under his chin and lifts his face to make eye-contact, twirling circles on his skin with the pad of her thumb.
"They will be happy," she says matter-of-factly. "You are giving them happiness."
The tears on his face begin to dry as his cheeks are stained and stiff all at once, tight skin over the sharp edges of his facial structure. He brings himself to his feet and his shoulders are hunched as she swirls Gallifreyan symbols on his cheeks with her fingertips. He catches her wrist with one hand and looks at it with a mixed expression of adoration, heartbreak, and calmness.
She tugs her hand away and brings her hands down to his feet. She bends and fixes his shoes first, tying the laces taut and into perfect bows. Next are his trousers, fluffing and straightening the fabric against his legs. She makes her way up to his shirt, tucking it in and re-clipping his braces so they are tight on his shoulders. Skipping his jacket, she ruffles his hair and then smoothes it to one side, brushing it behind one ear just the way he likes it. Lastly, she runs each hand down one of his arms and flattens the tweed, then trails her way over to the lapels, pulling them down and proper against the back of his neck.
River takes a step back and admires her handiwork, finally meeting his eyes.
"How do I look?" he chokes out, an attempt for humor.
She smiles broader than he's ever seen when she responds. "Amazing," she says. "Absolutely amazing."
"I'm vain," he whispers.
"So am I."
He shakes his head. "I'm old."
"Me too."
He can't bring himself to look at her as he speaks. "The universe hates me."
"What a coincidence."
He looks up, deadpan. "Stop competing."
She laughs aloud at this and his expression shifts, finally, to the faintest hint of a smile.
She smirks. "I will if you will."
He is fully smiling now and she cannot describe the love bursting in her chest but somehow she contains it, standing her ground.
"You don't have to be alone." she says, taking a step closer to him. "I am here with you. You aren't the last anymore."
His smile falters a little as she looks him in the eye, meeting him step for step.
"You don't even have to belong to yourself. You can be mine," she breathes out. "You can let go of everything, for just a moment. Can't you?"
He finds the courage to nod, still silent.
"I am always loving you, remember that," she pauses. "Even when we are apart, I am loving you somewhere, somewhen, somehow. Always."
"River," he lets out. "Oh, River."
And then she wraps him in her arms and leads him to the bedroom, and there they fall asleep together, still in their clothes and entangled in each other's limbs. She holds him tonight as he drifts into a nightmare, or possibly a dream, and she knows she will hold him through everything. Through fire and ice and rage, through crystal constellations and oceans set on fire, through agony and turmoil and sheer happiness, she will hold him.
She holds him as he slumbers, and she will never let him go.
