Warnings: Spoilers up to Forest of the Dead.
Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.
Word count: 1,452
077. What?
"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose."
They are laying on a field of pillow flowers, hands intertwined, bodies pressed together. They stare up at the sky, soaking in the clear blue view of a cloudless night. It's spring time on Pillowtraxcy and the air is cool and refreshing against their skin. Neither of them speaks. They don't need to, really. Not now. Not in this rare moment of peace. Their hearts beat in tandem as they listen to the spring bees sing and the willow birds hum. It's a perfect evening for the Doctor and River Song.
At his side, the Doctor feels River fidget and he risks a sidewards glance at her, only to find she's already staring up at him. "Yes, sweetie?"
He shifts awkwardly and looks away. "Are you, ah, comfortable?" he asks, scratching nervously at his right cheek.
Her laugh is muffled against his side. "Always."
This sort of soft, quiet intimacy is sort of, well, new to the Doctor. He's a man who is constantly running. Constantly righting all the wrongs in the universe (and trust him, there are quite a few). But laying quietly next to a woman gives him a feeling of anxiety. Sure, his past selves have had their good fun, but not him. No, not him. Not this him. Not the him now. He wants to open his mouth–babble on about unimportant things–even if just to distract himself from how warm she is. How good it feels when his skin touches hers. He knows she won't mind–if he babbles, that is–she never does.
But something stops him. He isn't sure what it is, but a small voice in the back of his head–one that sounds conveniently like her–whispers for him to just shut up and enjoy the moment. Bask in it. So he does. He shuts his mouth for once and simply listens to the sound of her breathing. Of his. There is a tightness in his chest that isn't quiet painful and he realizes quite suddenly that it's anticipation. But what, exactly, is he anticipating? What could be possibly be anticipating? He hasn't the faintest idea.
It is River who breaks the rambling of his thoughts. "Sweetie," she begins. Shifts at his side and props herself up by her elbow so she can stare down at him. Her expression is soft and contemplative and he finds his hearts speeds up as she looks at him with those all-knowing eyes. She reaches up and caresses his cheek. "You're awfully quiet tonight," she teases. "I didn't even have to kiss you to get you to shut up."
Despite himself, the Doctor smiles a silly little smile. "You like it when I talk a lot."
River smiles and chuckles a bit. "Confident, are we?"
"Very." No.
Because that's the thing. He isn't confident. Not really. Not this time. Not when it comes to River Song. She knows everything about him and he means everything. Even things he doesn't even know about himself yet. He doesn't know how she meets him for the first time or what makes her so fond of him. It hasn't happened yet. Not for him at least. And that's the funny thing about time and space: it can be rewritten. Changed. Very little is written in stone. There are fixed points in time. River and he, however, are not part of those fixed points. Their relationship is a paradox and so very, very fragile.
She pats him on the cheek as if she knows. "Is that so?" She smiles to herself as if she's thinking of sort of private joke. Then River looks up at the sky, stares at it for a moment, and looks back at him. "You know," she says, "somewhere out there, amongst time and space, I'm meeting you for the first time." A sad little smile reaches her lips for the briefest of moments. "And the last time."
Without thinking about it, the Doctor reaches forward, and brings River's lips to meet his. The kiss is awkward and ill timed, but he doesn't care. Because he knows how he meets River Song for the last time. He knows how she takes his place. How she is dies before his eyes. He knows how his past self treated her and he's seen the rejection in her eyes from the man who had promised her everything. All of time and space. So he kisses her with feeling, with all the things he could never say (Or does he say them? Will he say them? Because he doesn't even know.) But he wants her to know. He wants her to remember that even if she meets him and he doesn't know it yet, he cares for her. A lot. A lot a lot. A lot more than he cares to admit, actually.
They break apart and there's a rush of harsh breathing and flushed cheeks. "What was that for?" she asks, before she grins cheekily. "Not that I'm complaining."
He kisses her again, lightly, quickly. "Because."
River snorts. "You never do anything just 'because'," she accuses. Rightly so, too.
"I do too!" he retorts, childlike pout taking to his lips. It doesn't last long and he laughs and slides his hand through her curls.
"Mmhm," she hums, rolling her eyes.
"So, Dr. Song—"
"Professor Song," she interrupts, grinning like the mad woman she is. "Of archeology, in fact."
He freezes and his blood runs cold. The world stops spinning, the universe stops moving, and–for a moment–everything stills. He swallows and forces himself not to react. He won't let her know of the fear that pulses through him or the sorrow that is pulling at his hearts and ripping them into tiny, tiny pieces. He won't. He can't. "What?" he asks, the question barely a whisper.
River's silent a moment. "I'm a professor now, Doctor," she says and gives him a funny little look. "What? No congratulations?"
"Right. Yes. Of course. Congratulations," he murmurs. It sounds empty, even to him.
"What's the matter with you?" she asks, but he doesn't dare look at her. He's scared–genuinely scared–that she will see it in his eyes. The knowledge that her death is soon. Too soon. And he can't let her know–can't take away her happiness. No, not now. Not ever.
He shoves down the sorrow and despair. Stuffs them in the deepest darkest corner of his heart. Locks them away and throws out the key. "Nothing," he says, all smiles again. "Nothing at all. Really, River, congratulations."
She gives him that I-don't-believe-a-word-you-just-said-you-silly-man stare of hers. But she doesn't force answer out of him. "That tart Stackman Lux finally got his head out of his backside and approved an expedition to The Library, though he's making us sign these awful silence agreements—" River frowns and whacks him on the head. "Are you even listening to me?"
But he isn't listening because she's said the very words he hoped would come later. Much, much later. The Library. Expedition. Stackman. His mind spins fast with flashes of color and images he hoped he'd forget one day. Except he doesn't forget.
He never forgets.
Not completely.
Not ever.
"Ah, yes. Yes, of course," he replies quickly—too quickly. "Fine, just—fine."
"Oh? I think you're lying." Her gaze is pensive. "What are you hiding?"
His smile is tight. "Spoilers," he mummers.
River nods, understanding. "Ah, well, no one wants to be the bearer of bad news, I suppose," she sends him a sly smile. "At least tell me it's exciting."
His eyes find hers and he holds them for a long while. Finally he breaks his gaze and stares up at three-mooned-sky. "I better go."
River frowns and places her hand lightly on his chest. "So soon?"
Yes. Soon. Now. He needs get away from her; needs to escape. Think clearly. And stop himself. Stop himself from trying to stop her. Stop himself from telling her not to go. Because River—the future River—asked him not to. It was her last request–her dying one–and, really, how could he break a promise like that? "Yes," he replies, getting to his feet and facing away from her. He waits a beat. "When are you leaving?"
"Leaving?"
"To go to The Library."
"Oh," River breathes, "not for another few months."
He turns back slightly, looking down at her. "If you get into trouble," he hesitates, "give me a call."
River's smile is cheeky. "I always do." She sighs and rolls over. "Goodbye, sweetie," she whispers after him as he wades out of the field of pillow flowers and walks towards the TARDIS.
He glances at his screwdriver.
He has work to do.
Fin.
Ending Notes: Beta'd by MuslimBaribe, who saved this little fic from being an absolute disaster. She fixed my Eleven and made sure everything flowed beautifully. Thank you darling, I love you. c:
Review?
