My beta: "write me something for the prompt 'welcome home kiss.'"
Me, two days and 5,500 words later: "I found the prompt!"
(Words and mistakes are mine. World ain't. Title and bookend quotes from Thriving Ivory.)
We were holding a future in hand
A place to fly and a place to land
Our December will be sure to last
Said there'd be no rush for the year to pass
She can't quite remember the last time she saw this much snow.
River picks her way along the sidewalk path, boots crunching ice crystals with every step as she tugs her coat a little closer and bats away the falling flakes that catch her eyelashes and settle in her hair. The air is cold, colder than she'd expected it to be – she pulls in a deep breath and watches it escape her lungs in a cloud of vapor that vanishes into the night. Streetlamps glow soft against the blackened sky and the fences are laced with strings of fairy lights; in the distance, she can hear the last few strains of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" as they echo down the empty street. She thinks of her mother's inexplicable hatred of carolers and grins. If those particular merrymakers knocked on her parents' door, they're bound to have gotten a light soaking.
After all, River knows exactly where Amy acquired that water gun.
She'd been asleep when the message came in, the heavy rains Stormcage is known for pounding against the walls of her cell until the psychic paper tucked beneath her pillow began to burn, and it'd taken a moment to read the message clearly but she'd known who had sent it the minute she'd seen the handwriting. Location, date, and year, her mother's familiar scrawl on the page. Come for Christmas. She'd taken her time getting ready, had dressed quietly in the shadowed corner of her cell so as not to alert the guards she was leaving, but there hadn't been a time listed on the invitation and, as her husband is so fond of saying, time is not the boss of her. The vortex manipulator she'd fished from behind her perception filter sits comfortably on her wrist, and she's fairly certain she can make it back to her part-time incarceration before anyone notices she's gone.
If not… Well. Hallucinogenic lipstick exists for a reason, and if she didn't get into a spot of trouble with the guards now and then, she's sure they'd find her ever so dull.
The little house with the blue front door enters her line of sight, and she quickens her pace in response. It's been a few months since she's seen her parents, she thinks, though the non-linear format of her life with them makes it hard to know for sure. She'd come here after the Byzantium, sipping wine in the back garden with her mother, the early September air just beginning to chill. She'd told them about the Doctor then, she remembers, her military fatigues still smelling of shoreline and crumbling stone. Amy had swept her up in her arms and Rory'd been so bewildered by the whole interaction he'd nearly stumbled in his haste to sit down and start asking questions; they'd both hugged her close right before she left, and the memory sits warm inside her chest. She wonders if the Doctor's been to see them yet but doesn't allow herself to dwell on it. He's stepped into the shadows for now, kept himself from them for his – and their – safety. He'll be ever so cross when he realizes she's stolen his thunder, and it's that thought that splits her lips into a grin as she closes the front gate behind her and trots up the steps of her parents' home, rapping her knuckles against the door in a pattern she's known to use. The snow continues to fall around her, the lights hanging from the house's eaves gleaming against a sea of white and blue that's familiar and not nearly familiar enough in the same breath. The sound of music playing somewhere inside seeps through the walls, and she hears her mother's voice above the din, as loud and as strong and as Scottish as ever.
"Oi, Rory! Someone's here, go answer the door!"
River smirks, and she tamps down the desire to laugh because mother or not, she's been on enough girls' nights with Amy to know what the woman sounds like when she's drunk. She's in the middle of hoping they saved her some bubbly when the door swings open. As she catches sight of Rory, wine-warm and rumpled and looking just the slightest bit exasperated, she wonders exactly what part of the universe is experiencing an apocalypse because it's seeming more and more like she's the only stone cold sober member of this family at the moment.
Rory's green-blue-grey gaze locks with hers, and the mild exasperation on his face gives way to some semblance of relief. "Oh thank God," he says, and before she has a chance to react, he tugs her through the door and busses her cheek. Maybe it's the wine and maybe it's the Christmas spirit, but despite the fact that he's not usually so demonstrative with her, River decides she'll take it. "Finally, I am in the company of a sane person."
River's not sure if he means sane or just sober, but she bites the corner of her lip in amusement and pats his shoulder. "Now now, Father dear, we shouldn't go that far." She pecks his cheek, and when she pulls back, the smile she gives him is all teeth. "What's a psychopath to think?"
As the warmth of the little house seeps into her bones, River shakes some of the snow out of her hair and lets her gaze wander about the entryway as she unbuttons her coat. Gold tinsel and garlands are strung from all corners of the room, almost haphazard in their placement if not for the fact that she's sure they were put there on purpose. She hasn't seen mistletoe yet but knowing her mother – and remembering all the holiday parties they attended when she was Mels – she knows it's hidden in here somewhere. She'd put ten quid on Amy having already caught Rory under it, and if they had guests at any point of the evening, she'd be willing to bet Amy'd caught them under it too.
River smiles to herself. Amy's never been afraid of a good snog. Like mother, like daughter.
Rory latches the door behind them and helps her out of her coat, hanging it on the coatrack in the entryway while she unwinds her scarf. Familiar laughter echoes down the hallway above the beat of the music. She turns to her father and wings an eyebrow at him. "Sounds like you've started the party without me."
"If by 'party' you mean whatever's going on in there, then yes," he says, rolling his eyes in a way that's an interesting mix between irritated and fond. Her half-amused admonishment is taken for the joke it is, though she wonders exactly what they've been up to in the hours before her arrival. Rory jerks his head in the direction of the living room and slides both hands into the pockets of his blue-black cardigan. "Maybe you can help me manage them. After all, he's just as much your problem as she is mine."
River opens her mouth to ask him exactly what he's talking about, but the voices drifting from the living room stop her cold in her tracks.
"Ow! Raggedy Man, that was my foot!"
"Sorry! Wait, no, not sorry – you left it there for the stepping on, how was I supposed to avoid it?"
"By watching where you put those massive clown shoes of yours! You could sail across the Channel with them, absolute boats!"
"Oi! That's really rude! I swear on my Jammie Dodgers Pond, you're almost as rude as – "
And she knows that voice, knows that laughter, the sound of it sliding between the gaps in her ribs to curl in the space between her hearts, and she looks over her shoulder to see her father smiling back at her, small and crooked and knowing all the same.
He's here. The Doctor is here.
River steps out of the hall into the doorway of the living room, her gaze landing on the space's two occupants, and she's unsure of whether she's watching Amy attempt to teach the Doctor some modern Earth dance or the Doctor attempt to teach Amy whatever ridiculous movement he called the dance he performed at her wedding, but she doesn't think it matters because both are flushed pink with activity and alcohol and neither effort appears to be succeeding, and they whirl about as happy as she's seen them since the roadside reunion in Utah all those years ago. The radio in the corner is playing something too electric guitar-heavy to be Christmas music, and Amy's on tiptoes trying to spin the Doctor under her arm despite the fact that he's taller and has to duck, both of them laughing too hard for the insults traded back and forth to carry any barbs. The Christmas tree's been pushed tight into the corner in an attempt to protect it from any flailing limbs, no doubt; there are four stockings hung before the fireplace, each carrying the name of a Pond or an honorary Pond, and River swallows against a sudden lump in her throat. Even if this version of her husband isn't the one who married her, even if the man twirling her mother about is too young to know the taste of her lips or the feel of her skin, it's the first time in months she's had all three members of her family in the same room, and she's going to revel in it as long as she can.
Rory appears beside her, and River banishes any moisture from her eyes by the time she looks at him, the same lopsided grin she'd seen on his face curling at the corners of her mouth. "I see what you mean," she quips; when she's sure the flood of emotion has ebbed to gentle warmth, she raises one eyebrow as she cocks her head towards her mother and husband. "Couldn't convince them to go for a snowball fight or a game of charades?"
"Oi!" Amy cuts in, having noticed her daughter in time to dodge the Doctor's wayward arm and move towards the doorway. "It takes four people for a good snowball fight or game of charades, didn't they teach you that in university?"
River laughs, and as her mother's arms close around her, she breathes in the scent of perfume and shampoo and something brighter that's decidedly champagne. "Yes they did," she agrees. "Right between advanced quantum theory and the history of indigenous lifeforms."
And then Amy's releasing her, tossing some comment that sounds remarkably like "I told you so" at Rory, and River looks up to find the Doctor watching her carefully, his spine gone straight and his fingers playing at the edges of his bowtie.
Hello sweetie.
Gods, she hates how much she's missed him.
For a moment, she doesn't say anything, taking the opportunity to study him while he's open and soft and relaxed. A cup of eggnog she's entirely sure Amy spiked without his knowledge sits next to him on the fireplace mantle, one of many he's probably had this evening because "eggnog is just custard that's drinkable, River!" His tweed has been tossed over the back of the armchair, a paper crown she only has the slightest compulsion to shoot resting on his head, no doubt plucked from a Christmas cracker she's willing to bet he pilfered from Rory. His cheeks are flushed, the tips of his ears gone pink (which shouldn't look as precious on him as it does, bless). His floppy fringe is just as floppy as ever; his eyes are the same blue-green of the sea after a storm, darker now in the dimmer glow of the lamp and the firelight crackling in the hearth. She's seen him recently – he always manages to stumble into the thick of something, though whether it's something she's gotten him into or something she's getting him out of is anyone's guess – but now, with their timelines gone so back to front, it's hard not to look at him like he is the wave and she is the shoreline, always meeting but never for long, until the tide inevitably pulls him out again. She's not quite sure which him this is, but at the end of it all, it doesn't matter. She is still her, and he is still him, and she is the woman who loves the Doctor.
Even if he is intoxicated enough to slightly trip over his own feet.
He ambles over to her, thumbs tucked into his braces, and a flood of affection washes over her at the sight of this ridiculous, wonderful man attempting to look suave and debonair despite the fact that this body's moved like a gangly newborn giraffe since the day he regenerated. He sidles up to her, leaning against the wall, his shoulder just brushing hers. "Dr. Song," he says in that low voice that still sends a shiver through her. He peeks at her from the corner of his eye. "Having a happy Christmas?"
She smirks, only rewarding him with a glance. "Happier now." Her gaze lands on her parents, her mother having tugged Rory into a dance as soon as her previous partner became otherwise engaged. She presses against the shoulder brushing hers ever so slightly. "So where are we, Doctor? Somewhere interesting, I hope."
His lips quirk up at that. "You know perfectly well where we are," he says, gesturing to the room around them. "Leadworth, Rory and Amy's house." His smile takes on that playfully cocky edge. "Shouldn't take an archaeologist to figure that out, Dr. Song. Didn't you used to be clever?"
And oh, the cheek of him, she could just slap him because she's sure he knows exactly what she's talking about. Instead she settles for jabbing his shin with the toe of her boot. When she looks up at him, her expression's gone predatory. "Didn't you used to be funny?"
"I'm always funny," he declares, rubbing at his shin with the opposite foot. He's pouting, bless. She'd almost feel bad if he didn't deserve it.
They fall silent for a moment, watching Amy lead Rory through something that looks like a cross between the Cupid Shuffle and the Locomotion, but somehow she can feel the weight of the Doctor's attention focused on her, and she basks in it. If this is as close as she gets to him tonight she'll take it, but she can feel him fidgeting next to her and knows the moment's about to end. Eventually he nudges her with his elbow until she looks up at him; when she does, he juts his chin out in the direction of the makeshift dance floor and raises his (nonexistent) brows. "Care to dance?"
And he's a fantastic dancer when he tries, she knows, but she can't resist teasing him when given the chance. "Love to," she purrs, and only feels a small amount of satisfaction when she sees him swallow hard at her tone. "It's a shame you're too busy doing whatever that drunken staggering was."
"Oi!" He glares at her, petulant and mildly offended. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent dancer – you do know I'm an excellent dancer, what with the, the 'spoilers' and the smirking and the knowing things." He's gesticulating wildly before his hands go still and he crosses his arms. "And I'm not drunk. Amy! Tell River I'm not drunk!"
"He's drunk."
"See, there you ha – sorry, what?"
Amy's apparently trying to maneuver Rory into letting her dip him, something he does not have any intention of allowing, but she still manages to toss a wry grin over her shoulder at the gobsmacked Doctor and an amused (and slightly smug) River. "Butterscotch schnapps in the eggnog," she says, rather unapologetically, looping her arms around her husband's shoulders and swaying with him as the music slows to something softer. "In my defense I did try to warn you, but you'd already drunk two cups by then."
The Doctor stares at her, his gaze flicking between his two best friends in betrayal. "But…but fish fingers and custard!" he sputters after a moment. "You swore on fish fingers and custard, Pond, that's sacred!"
"I see no fish fingers and eggnog isn't custard," Amy sing-songs.
"Eggnog isn't cu – of course eggnog is custard, it's custard you can drink, who told you –"
"And on that note," Rory interrupts, casting a longsuffering glance at the ceiling, and River gives him a wink because she knows exactly how difficult their respective spouses can be to handle when riled. "Doctor," he says, looking very much like an exasperated father despite the fact that he can't be too far behind Amy and the Doctor in terms of intoxication. He gives her husband a pointed stare. "Would you like to escort River to the kitchen and find her something to drink?"
"Not eggnog," the Doctor mutters with a glare, though his gaze softens when he looks over at her. He shoves at the paper hat that's begun falling into his eyes (and River is not thinking of all the ways she could shoot it, because he's got that almost shy look on his face that does funny things to her insides, damn him). He toes at the carpet with his boot. "Unless you fancy a cup?"
She smiles at him, resisting the urge to brush his fringe out of his eyes, and settles for letting her hand rest in the crook of his elbow. "Well, not now since it's personally offended you," she quips, squeezing his forearm. She's still not entirely sure of where they are, not without comparing diaries, but he doesn't shy away from her touch, and that in and of itself is a comfort. She casts a glance towards the kitchen before catching his gaze. "Though I could be persuaded into some champagne."
The Doctor brightens at that, and though the movement is just a bit clumsy, he bops the tip of her nose with his finger and brushes her shoulder as he pushes away from the wall. "Right. Bubbly. Glass of. Much better than wrong spiked custard. Back in a mo'."
He steps around her, aiming to head for the kitchen, and she thinks he might have gotten there if Amy hadn't stopped him. "Not so fast, Raggedy Man," she says, and River and the Doctor both freeze. She raises a finger to point at an area just above their heads. "Looks like you've got something to take care of first."
River looks at the Doctor, and he looks at her for a split second before both of their eyes migrate upward and land on the small bundle of mistletoe hanging suspended from the doorway.
Well. It's almost comforting to know her mother hasn't changed.
River chews at the inside of her lip for a very brief moment before fixing her mother with a raised brow. Something knots in the pit of her stomach. (She's not stalling. She ignores it.) "Exactly how long have you been waiting to point that out to us?"
Amy's grin is a little wicked as she leans her head on Rory's shoulder. River is immediately reminded of those Christmas parties in their respective youths and stifles a wince. "Since you got here." Her arms are curled around one of Rory's, a simple gesture of affection that makes a very small part of River ache. "Had to wait a bit. I wasn't gonna make you kiss Rory."
The Doctor's head snaps around to face her at that. "You were going to make me kiss Rory!"
"And what a very awkward situation that would have been," Rory interjects. His face has gone a little too pink, and River would laugh if her emotions weren't all backed up in her throat. She swallows them as her father glances between her and the Doctor, finally settling his gaze on Amy, who fixes her with an expectant stare. "Are we sure we want to do this?" he asks his wife, and Amy does not look away. "I mean, do we really want to see –"
"Yes we do!" Amy interrupts. She gestures between her daughter and her best friend, her one free hand going to rest on her hip. "Well, go on. Pay the toll. Plant one on her, Raggedy Man."
And the Doctor opens his mouth to argue, of course he does, but somehow River can't bear to hear it, because this is so simple and so stupid and she's not nearly prudish enough to be thinking about this as hard as she is. He is her husband. She is his wife. She has made love to him beneath a sky full of stars, damn the witnesses; she has fucked him against the time rotor of the TARDIS, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers tangled in her hair.
But he knew her then. The last version of her husband she saw did not know her true name. The last version of her husband she kissed did not know the taste of her lips. He's been getting younger and younger, the front of his timeline to her back. Every time she sees him now, every time she lays eyes on the man she loves beyond reason, she is forced to wonder if this is it, if this is the day he no longer remembers who she is. He'd told her there's a first time for everything when she'd kissed him through the bars of her cell in Stormcage, but she knows he has not stopped to consider the fact that there is also an end.
She glances up at him, still preparing himself for further argument with her mother, and she decides that even if this Doctor is not the one who married her, time is not the boss of them. She has already faced loving a man who's never kissed her once. She can do it again, lick her wounds when she's alone, and she will not allow herself to hesitate because she will not fear what she does not know.
Rule 7. Never run when you're scared. River is not scared.
River will not run.
She rolls her eyes to the heavens in the picture of exasperation, fixes her mother with a huff and a stare, drawls "Always the voyeur," in Amy's direction as she squares her shoulders and straightens her spine. River turns to her husband, fingers reaching out to clench in the front of his shirt, and his eyes go wide for a split second as she flashes him her teeth. "Pucker up, sweetie," she purrs as she tugs him to her. Their lips meet, brief and firm and with just enough time to nip at his bottom lip, and she tells herself that whatever happens when they part, she will not let herself live with regrets.
She is prepared for him to flail and squirm, to pull back from her as soon as she lets him. But as their lips part, breath still mingling in the air between them, she realizes his hands have found purchase on her shoulders, and this time, he isn't moving away.
She opens her eyes to find his staring back at her, dark and tender and open, his lips bare inches from hers. His seascape gaze wanders the planes of her face until he's drawn so close she can barely see him. His fingers brush her cheek, softly, almost experimentally, those flailing hands still and gentle against her skin.
He watches her with a knowing stare, the weight of his years visible in the lines around his eyes and mouth, young and old and impossibly beautiful to her all at once, and as his lips form around the syllables of her name, she knows, she knows exactly which version of the Doctor she is seeing.
"I'll make it a good one, yeah?" he whispers, an echo of the words he said the night he made her his wife, the night she tore apart the universe to save him and he pieced it back together again to save them all. Her throat closes up with a swell of emotion that she couldn't explain if she tried.
"You'd better," she breathes, praying he does not hear the tremble in her voice, and his lips are on hers again, fingers sliding up to tangle in her hair, and when his mind whispers against hers, the gentle edge of his consciousness brushing against her own, she cradles his face in her palms and does what she's been aching to do since she first touched him.
She lets him in.
(Calderon Beta is everything he said it would be, the blue-black sky shimmering with the light of a billion stars, each one cast across the heavens like diamonds across deep velvet. His eyes shine silver in the light, and she leans into him even as she bats away his questing fingers.
The Doctor pouts at her, bumping her with his hip. "Can't even share with your husband? That's rude, Dr. Song."
She swallows what she lets him believe is the last chip and makes a show of licking the salt and grease off her fingers, cataloguing his reaction to the perceived slight before smirking up at him. "Rude, am I? I suppose you won't be wanting this then."
She holds up the last chip between them, watching his eyes light up in boyish excitement, and waits until his lips are scant millimeters from her fingers before snatching the treat away and popping it in her own mouth.
She's laughing when he catches her, his arms wound around her waist, and as his lips graze the skin of her neck and shoulder, she thinks this isn't such a bad first night of 12,000 consecutive life sentences –)
(The air is cold and frost bites at the tip of her nose as she skates up to him, sprawled flat on the frozen Thames.
River smirks down at him as he wrestles his gangly limbs back into some semblance of order, his feet almost immediately going out from under him again as soon as his blades touch the ice. He swears, something colorful in Gallifreyan that would surprise anyone else with its vulgarity. Her lips hurt from being schooled against a wider grin. "Need a hand?"
He grumbles, batting away her offered help before realizing he's going to need it to haul himself up, but his weight and natural clumsiness prove too much for them and they both go down, winding up in a tangle of limbs with him beneath her.
River raises an eyebrow when she catches her breath, pushing herself up on his chest, and her nose is almost close enough to brush his when she speaks. "Darling, if you wanted me on top all you had to do was ask."
And as he splutters and stammers and squeaks out "River! We're in Victorian England!", she silences him with her mouth, and his flailing limbs go still –)
(She wakes to find his fingers tracing patterns on her skin, swirling the language he's taught her across her hips and spine and the blades of her shoulders as she slowly emerges from the haze of sleep.
The pad of his thumb brushes against a mark on her ribs, halfway between her side and backbone. "What happened here?" he asks, his voice low and gentle in the quiet of the room.
Her eyes follow his movement. She shrugs. "Cave collapse on Cirillian, back in university. One of the support struts went through my jumpsuit. The bruise was worse than anything."
The Doctor nods, soothing the spot with his fingers before slowly letting his touch glide up. He settles on the scar just above her eyebrow. He studies it for a moment. "What about here?"
She watches him, transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. "Somebody brought a knife to a gunfight."
His lips curl upward. "I take it you had the gun?"
"Of course."
A huff of laughter escapes his lips, ghosting warm across the bare skin of her shoulder. She props up on one elbow as she watches him. He drags the callused tips of his fingers down, over the swell of her cheekbone, across her jawline, lingering on the pulse point fluttering in her throat. Her eyes drift shut; the backs of his knuckles graze a mark just behind her ear, not far from her hairline. "And this one?"
"You'll laugh."
"Will not."
She smirks. "Burned myself with a flatiron."
And he does laugh at that, at least until he realizes that would have meant she was straightening her hair. She reaches up and stalls his protest with a finger across his lips. "I haven't done it since, don't worry." She can feel the shape of his smile beneath her touch, and she caresses his bottom lip with her thumb.
His hands come up to catch hers, rougher skin dancing along the veins and tendons, circling her wrist until he stops and studies a mark licking from the base of her palm upward, only visible if you know exactly what you're looking for, and she goes still.
"What about this, River?" he says, and the gentleness of it all nearly undoes her as she swallows back the instinctive "Spoilers" that sits like ash and shattered glass on her tongue.
She looks up at him, preparing for any judgment in his eyes, and whispers, "Lake Silencio. The weapons system ate through the glove on the first blast. Guess it never did fully heal."
He watches her, fingers never releasing hers as they trace reverent lines across the part of her that burned when she took his life.
When he kisses the scar, wordlessly pressing an apology into her skin, she pins him to the bed and reminds herself that they're both alive –)
(The chasm yawns before them, deep rushing water at the bottom promising their only salvation. The battle cries and thundering feet of a few dozen very angry Sontarans are drawing closer with every second, and River smacks a kiss against the Doctor's lips that is almost hard enough to bruise.
"For luck!" she declares, almost laughing at the sheer surprise momentarily etched on his face.
"River!" he sputters after a moment. "This isn't Star Wars!"
"No, my love," she agrees, flashing him a smile that is half-feral and full of teeth. "More like Indiana Jones."
And she takes his hand before pitching them both off the cliff –)
(She sits bolt upright in a bed that isn't hers, throat raw and lungs aching, the sterile scent of a hospital assaulting her nose, and there is something bracketing her shoulders but she can't see in the dark of the room, as dark as the water where she was supposed to drown, and she searches every reserve of strength she has to fight back against it, against the panic clawing at her throat –
"River," his voice soothes, "River, dear, it's all right. You're safe now. You are safe."
She freezes – she knows that voice, knows the warmth of it as well as her own. Knows it belongs to the man she loves.
Knows that he is dead, and it is her fault.
But he sits alive in front of her, his hands cradling her face, his fingers tucking wild strands of hair behind her ears, humming soothing and low in his throat, and she watches him until the saline rises in her eyes and she can't see him anymore, and the words fall from her lips because it is so important that he knows.
"I'm sorry," she rasps, the lump in her throat swelled big enough to choke her, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," and he holds her as she falls apart, the bloodied hands that took his life trapped between them, and his lips whisper "You are forgiven. You are always and completely forgiven," against her skin until she has no more tears left to weep –)
(They are standing in her parents' living room, mistletoe suspended above their heads, and he holds her as if she is a precious thing, her hand braced against his jaw as the other clings to one of his braces, the world gone still around them, and neither can bring themselves to mind. He tastes of custard and butterscotch, of Gallifrey and age and time; she is hard edges and soft corners that can cut and bruise, but in his arms she fits as if it is the one place she can belong, and they cling to each other in a tangle of lips and teeth and skin until their lungs go empty and not even a respiratory bypass system is enough to keep them from drowning.)
River pulls back, gazing up into the ancient eyes of the man who married her, and the smile he offers her could ignite suns as he traces benedictions on her temple with his thumb. "Welcome home, wife," he whispers, and the last empty piece in her chest is filled.
"Hello sweetie," she breathes, too-bright eyes locked with his own, and she ignores Amy's wolf-whistle and Rory's groan as she rips the paper crown from his head and kisses him as if time itself is running out.
I remember streets covered white
And I remember long winter nights
Said our December will be littered with lights
And I see you walking to me
Reviews are a journey in the TARDIS, a mug of spiked eggnog, and a kiss under the mistletoe.
Thank you so much for reading!
( chaseyesterdays on tumblr for more fandom nonsense)