Everything in the bedroom she shared with the Doctor looked the way River had left it so long ago, but it was different as well. The differences were subtle but quite prominent once you really paid attention. The tweed jackets in the closet were gone, replaced with dark coats and cardigans. Trousers were the proper length, and the Doc Martens were pretty snazzy. There were no bow ties, and she tried not to think about that too much as she hunted through her clothes for something to wear that wasn't a pristine white.

White had never, ever been her color, but she couldn't shake it while she'd been in CAL's database. It hadn't taken River long to figure out that Charlotte and Donna Noble's created children had seen her as an angel and ensured she dressed as such. The irony made her laugh. River Song was no one's angel. Like her husband, she favored darker clothes unless she had the chance to act very disgracefully. She found jodphurs and an oversized off-the-shoulder sapphire jumper and her favorite belt. Satisfied, she headed for the shower and to find some place to incinerate her white pantsuit.

Regeneration, River mused, was a way of life with the Doctor and there was no reason to get maudlin over it. Her sweetie was her sweetie, where he was in tweed or not. Seeing past versions of him never fazed her before. She wondered if he had yet to remember her adventures with his eighth self right around the Time War. She hoped he would one day, but that version of him was ever so prone to convenient amnesia. Granted, she hadn't helped matters then either. Chuckling, she wandered out of the bedroom and into a room across the hall.

Now she nearly wept.

Her library was in pristine condition, right down to the typewriter where she had written the pages of Melody Malone. It'd been one of the last things she'd done here before her fateful expedition to the Library. CAL had done its best to recreate it, but nothing was like this room. Shelf upon shelf of books lined multiple levels, not quite as big as the TARDIS library but it could hold its own. Her large, antique desk stood in front of display cases showing off her most valued treasures from her expedition. These items had never seen the likes of Stormcage. A whiteboard with calculations in progress stretched down the wall next to the door. The fireplace was against the opposite wall, between the two circular staircases that would take her up to her treasured books. An overstuffed couch and armchairs sat before it. It was her sanctuary, and she missed it so much.

"Wow."

River smiled as Clara hovered in the doorway, gawking slightly as she took in the room. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"It's like the TARDIS library," Clara whispered, easing into the room.

"This one's more focused on history and archeology," River said, beckoning Clara further inside. She motioned to equipment lining the wall opposite her desk and the display cases. "It has a full lab where I can work on object research and seven levels of books."

"Are some in the jars? Like the strange ones I found once?"

River nodded to her. "Ancient ones from Gallifrey. Don't tell the Doctor." She winked at Clara. "I may have gotten them slightly illegally."

Clara laughed. "You're a lot different from the last time. A lot more approachable, I suppose."

"I could say the same about you, Clara Oswald."

Clara winged an eyebrow, then huffed a bit. "Yeah, had that one coming, didn't I?"

"We both had it coming, darling. It was ever so easy to bait you. You were quite young then."

"I'm not that much older," Clara challenged. "I've been traveling with the Doctor what … three years? Ish? I think. I kind of lost track of time."

"Oh, but you are." River placed a finger beneath Clara's chin and tilted it up. "It's in the eyes, Clara. The things you've seen and the trials you've experienced always show in the eyes. They've not been easy, but you wouldn't change it for the world, would you?"

"No … and yes." Clara's gaze cut away.

River didn't say anything for a long moment. "What was his name?"

Clara's eyes snapped back to River's and she huffed again. She pulled away, hugging herself as she stared into the fireplace. "He was right about you," she finally said. "The Doctor. 'River would know. River always knew.' And you were right. How did you know? You were dead. You weren't still hanging around in my head, were you?"

She started to pace, not bothering to wait on a reply. "Danny. Danny Pink. He was my boyfriend. He was …" Her hand rested on her stomach a moment before snatching it away. "He was hit by a car, then turned into a Cyberman about six months ago. Suppose that's the short version of it. I tried to get the Doctor to save him, but Danny wouldn't let us."

"I see. When did you miscarry Danny's child?"

Clara nearly tripped and whirled around. She jabbed a finger at River. "You have no right to ask me that question."

"So the Doctor doesn't know." River moved to the small table next to her lab equipment where she kept tea and a kettle.

"No one knew," Clara whispered as River started the kettle. "How did you figure it out?"

River mimicked Clara's earlier motion. "Educated guess. It's in the tells. Patting your stomach when talking about your deceased boyfriend is one of them. It's not something the Doctor would notice unless he's looking for it. You're obviously not pregnant now, else you wouldn't be on the TARDIS."

Clara sank onto the couch and buried her head in her hands. "Oh my God, he's going to find out, isn't he?"

"If he does, it won't be from me." River prepared two mugs and carried them to the couch, then handed one to her. "It's not my secret to tell, Clara."

"I don't particularly want to tell you either," Clara muttered.

River made a non-committal sound and sipped at her tea while Clara stared stonily into her own mug for several minutes. She shifted her focus to the office, started mentally cataloging what needed to be done. She needed to take inventory, figure out what projects she could resume work on and which ones she'd need to pass off. She needed to inquire about her status at Luna. She should-

"I was going to tell him the day he died," Clara blurted, cutting into River's thoughts. "I was three months along. Didn't realize it for the longest time. I was pregnant, and I was going to tell Danny everything, then tell the Doctor I couldn't travel with him anymore. But then Danny died while he was on the phone with me. The bloody phone. And the next day, I started bleeding. I knew what was happening, and it wouldn't stop, and I miscarried. I didn't tell anyone, not even my Gran though I think she knew too come to think of it. Then I kinda just lost it and tried to force the Doctor to bring Danny back to life. And he let me. I betrayed him and he let me try to bring Danny back anyhow, but then Danny refused to come and I had already lost our baby and oh my God." She buried her head in her hands and began to sob.

River hastily grabbed Clara's mug before it could drop from her hands and put it on the coffee table along with her own. She pulled Clara into her arms and rocked her back and forth, absently running her fingers through her hair as Clara cried. "You need to tell him, darling," she murmured.

"How can I without making him feel guilty?" Clara sobbed.

"In this case, he had nothing to do with it." River eased Clara back, then fished in her pocket for a handkerchief. She passed it over. "Danny was killed in an accident, yes? Was the Doctor anywhere near?"

"No."

"You had an immense shock and were still in your first trimester. It happens. He'll be sad for you, but he knows it's not his fault."

Clara nodded and pushed to her feet. "Sorry, didn't mean to come dump that on you. I was just … wanting to apologize. For before, during Trenzalore. I didn't realize how much he loved you. He couldn't talk about you."

"He doesn't tend to talk about his former companions much."

"No, no," Clara clarified. "He literally couldn't. He started sobbing when I brought you up. He can talk about you now, some. Told me once you trapped him for a month with otters. Good on you. I want to hear about it some time. Anyhow, he never stopped loving you, and he once said that he wouldn't have made it to Trenzalore alive without you. I just figured you needed to know that. And now with Danny, I get what he was feeling when he lost you. So, thank you."

Clara hugged River once more. "Thank you for loving him enough to come back," she murmured into River's shoulder and quickly left the room.

Finally. The Doctor peered down the corridor as Clara walked out of River's study, wiped at her eyes, then headed in the opposite direction. He wondered what had taken her so long, but he couldn't blame her. He wanted to bask in River's presence as well. He fidgeted a bit, straightening his jacket and absently brushing a hand through his hair. Right. He was going to deal with the whole antsy physical bit and get back to the important questions.

He strode into River's study to find her sitting on the sofa, tea mug in hand and staring into the empty fireplace. From what he could see of her profile, she looked pensive. He gave her the silence she seemed to crave and took in her office, books stretching above them. He hadn't been in there since the day he left her to go to the Library.

He glanced at the display case and wondered if she noticed a few of the smaller items were missing, along with the ancient Japanese vase that was on a pedestal on the third level. He'd broken them in a rage, unable to deal with seeing her off to her death. The shards of broken pottery and glass were gone, and he silently thanked the TARDIS for taking care of him again.

"Well, Professor Song," he said, crossing the room. "How're you settling in?"

"It's home," she replied, and he saw the tension in her eyes as he stepped in front of her. It was there, just fleeting, then it was gone. He bristled. She was home, but she wasn't relaxed. He knew when she let her guard down, but something had that careful mask of hers sliding into place. He didn't want that. Not anymore.

He clasped his hands behind him and stared down at her. "What's with the look?"

She gave him a small smile. "Just thinking, sweetie."

"About?"

She sighed. "Something that you're not privy to, and don't you think pouting will get me to talk about it. It's not my story to tell."

"I'm not pouting. These lips do not pout."

"Oh, well that's a very pretty imitation of a pout." River laughed as he scowled at her. "And don't think I didn't notice that my favorite Jōmon era vase is missing. Oh, my love."

"It was an accident," the Doctor muttered and stared at the fireplace, trying to think of what to do now. He sought her out, because he couldn't get the distracting carnal thoughts out of his mind. But now guilt rolled over him in familiar waves. He heard the soft clink as River put her mug down.

He looked over his shoulder as she crossed to her desk and started to sort through stacks of paper, not quite sure how to talk to her. He couldn't remember the last time he was unable to talk to River, hated that all the words were jumbled in his mind. The tension was thick between them, and there was a lot that needed to be said. Her fatal trip to the Library, his being a rubbish husband and leaving her behind for a thousand years. His time on Trenzalore. He wondered if she knew about it and decided that she probably did to a degree. He thought about the questions on his chalkboard and about his wife stretched naked over her desk and nearly buried his face in his hands.

"Sweetie, pick a question and start with it," River said pleasantly as she scanned through her papers.

He grumbled beneath his breath. "Do you have to know everything?"

"Part of the job description."

He dropped to the couch and tried sorting through all the questions in his mind. He closed his eyes and his fingers twitched a bit, aching for a piece of chalk and one of his chalkboards. River had whiteboards, but the squeak of a dry-erase marker was nothing compared to the feel of chalk dust on your fingers and the satisfying clicks of chalk on a wood board. There were the obvious questions, the not-so-obvious questions, the sincerely annoying questions. There were facts and suppositions, and River's intoxicating scent woven throughout all of it. He took several deep breaths and tried to meditate. It would all become clear if he meditated, then he could ask River what he needed to know and ...

I slept.

It was the Doctor's first conscious thought after his mind emptied, and he absently wondered the last time he slept. Really slept, not a Kantrofarri-induced sleep. He shifted a bit, felt something ruffling his hair, and he stilled. He felt the ruffling again, nearly moaned as he felt fingers absently scratch his scalp and wondered why he wasn't flinching. He cracked open one eye and nearly leaped up in shock when he realized where he was.

He'd moved, but not off the couch. At some point, River had sat down with her papers and his head … his head was in her lap. She absently ran one hand through his hair, massaging his scalp as she read. He bit his lip as she took the hand away to turn the page, then worked her fingers back into his hair. He closed his eyes again. He was definitely dreaming. Definitely Kantrofarri, it had to be. It was the last time he'd dreamed about River, it was how he knew that Clara would dream about Danny. OK, right, so he had to properly wake up and go rescue Clara. Again. And …

He felt the hand in his hair pull ever so slightly, and he grunted. The River in his dreams didn't result to hair pulling.

"That's because you're not dreaming."

He cracked open one eye once more to see River giving him an amused smile. "I'm 79.43 percent positive I am."

"Because?"

"Because you're dead." Because touch didn't hurt him in a dream, he folded his hands over his stomach and remained where he was. "You're dead, and clearly I didn't dispose of the Kantrofarri properly. It makes logical sense since you're what I dreamed of last time. Let me be selfish, dear, and sleep a little longer."

River made a sound beneath her breath and moments later, he felt a sharp pinch in his side.

"Ow!" He jerked upright, glaring at her as he rubbed his side. "That hurt! Forget this, you're a mean dream."

"Oh, sweetie. You're not dreaming."

And it came back to him. Ellie. The Library. Clara and rescuing River. Missy. He stared at River as if she was some sort of specimen, not quite sure how to deal with it. He absently ran his hand through his hair, then yanked it away in surprise. He stared at his palm, at the lines criss-crossing it.

River's touch hadn't made him flinch.

"I don't do touch," he said in a rush that sounded perilously close to a babble. But he didn't do babbling. That went with bow ties and too-short trousers. "I don't do hugs or hand-holding, and don't even begin to ask me about sex. I tried asking Clara about it, but she nearly punched me. I mean, not ask her for sex, just about it. Why didn't I hate your touch?"

River didn't say anything, but merely gave him that assessing look of hers that told him that she already knew the answer and was just waiting for him to get around to figuring it out himself. It was the look she alternated with the "he's hot when he's clever" one that was a particular favorite. He willed himself to breathe calmly, then carefully rested his hand atop hers. He was prepared for the instinctive reflex to pull away, but nothing. Nothing but warmth and marveling at the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He slid his fingers down to the underside of her wrist and felt the double beat of her pulse. Still nothing. He had flinched away from her in the Library until he'd taken her hand and it had felt right. Her hand always felt right in his.

He wet his lips and tried to glare at her as he absently caressed her wrist. Younger, wilder her would had been all over him by now, but not his professor. She knew him better than he knew himself, and he realized she wasn't going to initiate things. Not this time. She did in the past more often than not and would in the future. But this time, she was leaving the decision about touch in his hands.

Right. Well. Brave heart, Doctor.

Still holding her wrist with one hand, he lifted the other to her cheek. The skin was soft here as well. She hadn't bothered with makeup, and he was glad for it. He thought of the last time he'd kissed her, how that time on Trenzalore stood out sharply among the murkier memories of his previous self. He remembered he'd cupped her face, stroked the apple of her cheek, and tried his very best not to cry. He swallowed, not quite sure what to do and was pretty sure he was about to cry now.

"It's been awhile since I've run this rodeo," he admitted hoarsely.

"Don't worry," she replied softly. "It's been the same for me."

She tugged him closer by the lapels of his jacket. He reached out with his mind, felt hers wrap around his and draw him in even as he remembered how this went and finally, finally kissed her. He cupped her face as her arms slid around his waist, and as his body poised to recoil in revulsion, her mind soothed his. There, there, she coaxed mentally, and that's when he realized how she'd managed to get his head into her lap as he slept. A human wouldn't be able to do it, and Missy sure as hell wouldn't get close enough despite her own physical assault on him. Just his wife. His long-lost wife who'd been restored to him, and it wasn't a dream.

He waited for passion to sweep over them both, to propel them to mate. And it was there, simmering in his blood for the first time since Trenzalore the first go-around. But instead of tearing at clothes, he eased back. His senses were tingling, his trousers were suddenly too tight, and he saw the high flush of arousal in her cheeks. Before he could do anything, she slid off the couch in front of him. He started to ask what she was doing, but her hands sliding up his thighs derailed his thoughts. He didn't think he could possibly get any harder than he was at the moment, but then her deft fingers were working his fly open and oh fuck.

His head tilted back as every nerve ending lit on fire. Part of him wanted to shove her away, but instead his hands curled in her hair, urging her on. He wasn't going to even try to pretend to have some semblance of control. It had been more than a thousand years since he'd felt her touch, of wishing and hoping and longing and daydreaming and fuck, fuck, fuck. His hips bucked sharply as he thrust into her mouth and came with a hoarse shout. His breath came in short, hitching gasps as he stared at the high ceiling of the study. He felt her pull away, and knew he needed to fix himself, but he didn't have the energy to move.

His conscience took its turn, reminding him that this sort of thing was a two-way street, and he came back to himself to find her already gone. He pushed off the couch to see her by her desk, papers back in hand as she sorted stacks. He froze, not quite sure what to do, then ordered himself to keep going. He would bloody well touch his wife, and no one, not even his own body, would persuade him otherwise.

He pressed himself into her back, nudging his hips against her as he encircled her waist with his arms. He tugged up her jumper until he was at the waist of her jodhpurs. Hoping he wouldn't make a complete fool of himself, he managed to work the buttons open and push them down just far enough until his fingers slid into wet heat. He jerked his hand away in reflex and wound up smacking it against the side of her desk.

"Sweetie, you don't have to-"

"Shut up," he ordered, shaking out the pain. "I'm not going to leave you thinking this was the dullest experience of your life."

She looked over his shoulder at him, looking almost cross. "I'm not going to make you do something you don't want to do." She pulled away and started to fix her clothes. "It's OK."

"No, it's not," he said hoarsely. She turned around as if to leave, and he stayed her by loosely grabbing her hips. "It's not OK. I want to do this. I don't know what my problem is. I've computed it and analyzed it and Clara has nagged me to death about it. She thinks she could hug me back to her young man in tweed."

"It doesn't work like that." She absently patted the area where his bow tie had once rested.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. "Help me, wife," he whispered. "I don't think I care bear leaving this room without …" He couldn't finish it, but she knew what he was trying to tell her. She always knew.

She closed her eyes, and he felt her mind extend toward his again. He embraced it and her fully. Her thoughts entwined with his own, and for the first time, she held nothing back. Oh, there were a few shadowed places. Those, he assumed, was where her younger self had met future versions of him. As for him, he threw open all the doors. She knew his name. She knew the indescribable pain he'd experienced through centuries. She was his steady light in the darkness, the candle that had never extinguished - even when he thought her dead. She accepted all of him, even this, and he knew why he couldn't bare to touch anyone else. It had been a cruel reminder that he would never hold her again.

The universe apparently didn't agree with that. So it brought him the one gift he didn't deserve.

He stepped between her legs, boosting her onto the desk as his lips found hers. He could see her memories now, of them together in good times and bad. His hands made their way beneath her jumper as they kissed, then down to her jodhpurs once more. This time, she helped him, removing them entirely and stripping off the rest of her clothes as he made quick work of his own.

He repeated his earlier move, hand sliding between her legs as he breathed into her neck. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to focus on the touch but of the hitching moans as she wriggled against him, hips thrusting ever so slightly. He pulled her closer and slid two fingers into her with one hand as he rubbed her clit with his thumb.

She wasn't quiet about any of it, and each cry ignited his blood once more. Impatiently, he angled her hips and slid into her. Eyes locked on each other, she came with a sharp cry on his second thrust. Despite what she'd done to him earlier, he followed her into oblivion seconds later as their minds coiled tightly around each other.