2.

"How long has it been?"

"Hmm?" Her gaze moves from the towers to meet his. They've been spending a lot of time watching the Singing Towers of Darillium, listening to the different scores that they produce.

He's parked the TARDIS just outside of the restaurant, and they sit just inside, both doors open to let the sounds and breezes of the planet into the ship.

However long they sit, hand in hand, the sight nor the songs never grow old.

"Since what?" He pauses, doesn't answer for a moment, letting his head bow so that he's looking at their hands entwined together.

"Since Manhattan." He feels her tense slightly, and he knows it must've been recent, that she hasn't had time to numb the pain from that, not yet.

Although, as strong of a women as River is, he's not sure exactly how she'll be able to numb that sting at all.

"Not long." She answers, her thumb methodically tracing circles on his hand. "Well, not long since the moment you came to me."

He looks back into her eyes, and it hits him, suddenly and very hard, how much pain he can see within her.

"River." He wants to say more, wants to hold her and let her cry and mourn, properly mourn for the loss of her parents and, in fact, all the events of that day.

But she would never want that. She would never want to be the one being coddled and comforted.

So he squeezes her hand, the smallest comfort he can offer discreetly.

"It must've been a while for you, then." She hastily wipes her eyes with the palm of her free hand, brushing away tears he hasn't even noticed were present.

"A while, yeah." To be completely honest, he's not entirely sure how long it's been, how many millions of years it could have possibly been since Manhattan.

All he knows is that every time he recalls it, the pain feels as fresh as if the wound had been carved the day before.

"It's funny." Her lips curve into a soft smile, and she looks at him, really looks directly at him. "You could've been through so much since I last saw you, you know. You could've had dozens of companions, faced countless hoards of Daleks and Cybermen and Slitheen and I have no idea."

"Not countless." He counters, smiling with her. "Maybe just a few armies. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I hope you haven't been traveling alone, Doctor." She sounds almost wistful, and at that moment he wants nothing more then to shut the TARDIS doors and fly away, together, and never leave her ever again. "You always do better with someone at your side."

The soft song of the towers begins again, a low, sweet tune that seems to envelope them and the entire spaceship with its silky sound.

An ever changing song. One that consistently flows into the next verse seamlessly, but yet completely different then the stanza before.

Sort of like him.

Sort of like her.

"I miss them." She lets her head rest against her shoulder, looking back towards the softly humming forms. "No matter how long it's been, River, I'll always miss your parents. It's never stopped hurting, not really."

"Perhaps it will someday." He feels her exhale a shaky breath. "Maybe now that you're here, it might cease just a bit."

She's right, as per usual. Because as much as it hurts to think of, having River, his River right beside him seems to numb the hurt the tiniest bit.

He knows that letting her go will be one of the hardest things that he'll ever need to do. He's known it for a long time, really. He thought, perhaps, that he'd already experienced their goodbye.

Every bone, every muscle, every fibre in his entire being burns at the idea of her going back to the first time he met her.

But he pushes it aside for now.

Now, he has her, and he has her for longer then he's ever consecutively had her before.

He pushes aside the negativity, and thinks about how lucky he is to have her.

The song of the towers of Darillium is just like them, in a way.

Somehow, it will never end.