I Don't Know Why You Say Goodbye (I Say Hello)
14th Doctor/River Song
G
Summary: "Look at me, River," he moves to close the distance so that there leaves no space between them, face inches away from her own as he queries, "Do I look anywhere near my early 900s to you?" – The Doctor goes to pay his respects to the Ponds in New York. He runs into River.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. This has been a disclaimer.
AN: Initially I wrote this in 2014. The tags were: [Future!Doctor(wearing 10s face)/Post-Manhattan River, SPOILERS FOR 50TH SPECIAL 'THE DAY OF THE DOCTOR] - BUT - now that Tennant regenerated into Fourteen, this fic is legit legit
AN2: AN2: Title from The Beatles song.
The Doctor: I never forget a face.
The Curator: I know you don't. And in years to come, you might find yourself revisiting a few. But just the old favorites, eh?
- The Day Of The Doctor
"They're lovely," the elder beside him spoke, her voice soft but frail, eyes terribly kind.
The Doctor looks down at the bouquet he'd kind of-sort of-maybe nicked from the Shakespeare Gardens when he strolled past Central Park this morning.
The woman had pigeon food in a small bag beside her.
"Paying my respects to some friends," the Doctor replies, eyes far off and away when he says, "They're buried at the graveyard just down there."
The old woman nods, "I'm sorry for your loss."
The Doctor thanks her and inquires for her name. They spoke for a few more minutes before the Doctor pardoned himself to do as he intended. To lay the flowers on the gravestone of one Rory and Amelia Williams.
He's been so many different people since that horrible day in Manhattan, except the face that popped up this recent regeneration wasn't a new one. Not by a long shot. Just the old favorites, the Curator of the gallery said to his Eleventh face once. That was a long way back now but the old man hadn't turned out to be wrong. The face he wore now was that of his Tenth self. Actually, it was his Tenth's body, since he's long gone past his Tenth life when this face came along. To tell the tale, he's had a few turns with this mug, one with help from a hand he'd lost in battle one Christmas Invasion or so ago. It's hard to keep count of really, regenerations. He gets a headache just thinking about them.
But what an odd experience, this recent regeneration. The moment he finished the whole process he recognized himself almost immediately. It was the teeth that gave it away. He could hardly believe it when he looked in the mirror again. He didn't even have to look for anything to wear this time since his past self's clothes were still in the Tardis. He'd indeed missed his blue pinstripe suit. And his coat. And the sandshoes. And the hair, oh, he'd really missed the hair.
Companions came and went, that didn't change, but something in him did. This time around he was bolder and braver. He ran away less and faced more. With this face, he set out to be there for all of his friends as they were there for him in his past lives. He visited those still alive as much as he could and not simply when they needed him, but because they mattered, and they deserved to have him there. When their time came, as it did for all humans, he was now a man strong enough to be there to hold their hand and say goodbyes.
I can be brave for you, he told Amelia Pond once. He now knew how true it had come to be.
Even though Manhattan happened several lifetimes ago, the face he's wearing now is the only one who's been to visit them since then. They say time heals all wounds and perhaps they're right because it's certainly gotten easier to just drop by and pay his respects. Of course, he's long come to find it's always easier in one respect or another with a different face.
It had taken a bit of time to get to this point, and not just because it hurt too much, but also because of the impossibility of landing the Tardis anywhere near New York. That was the tricky bit. What it boiled down to was timing and not the timey-wimey kind he so beloved. No, in times like this, he had to do something completely terrifying. Times like these… he had to take public transport.
He really didn't want to. For one, it was embarrassing. Two, one reason was enough. He was the Doctor and he'd long stopped counting his age after he turned two hundred (and that was ages ago.) He was from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous, the Oncoming Storm. So public transport? He hadn't looked forward to that one bit. Still, he'd grit his teeth, swallowed his pride, and did.
Today marks his eleventh visit to New York to lay flowers on Amy and Rory's grave. He doesn't fail to notice the irony in that. Irony though is nothing compared to the shock of what he finds waiting at the gravestone of his long-lost companions. He can't quite believe his eyes, he's more annoyed than angry though.
"Seriously?!" He says aloud as he marches up to the gravestone. "You said you had errands to run!"
River Song startles at his voice and she's got her blaster aimed at him in less than a second.
"Woah, woah," he waves placating hands up in surrender, the hand holding the flowers loses some petals from the abruptness of his motion. "I'm cross but we don't want to go repeating incidents like last week, do we?"
River watches him skeptically and doesn't lower her gun. He notices her eyes, they are slightly puffy and red. She's been crying. She's… oh.
"You're young," he says, a blinding smile overtaking his face. "Look at you, oh, you are an absolute toddler, aren't you?"
He tries to lean in closer to study his very young wife, but he finds the gun pointed straight at his temple now.
"Okay, right, sorry," The Doctor backs away slowly. "My bad, I read things wrong. River," He could see her falter at the sound of her name and doubt made a crease appear at her brow, "I miscalculated. Please put the gun down now."
"Do I know you?" She asks, shaking slightly with the effort she's holding her gun.
The Doctor swallows, "One would say, intimately."
River blinks twice and immediately lowers her gun. "Oh, my god."
The Doctor shrugs, "Not my official name, no, but I've been accused once or twice. Try again."
"Doctor," she names, disbelief laced within her guess.
"That's the one," he beams at her happily. "Gold star for you, Professor. You are one now, aren't you? I haven't given away a plot development, have I?"
The Doctor waits for her answers, but River only stares.
"But you," River says, abruptly halting, only to find herself speechless for another while longer. She finally decides on, "You're face."
"Oh, this old thing," he gave one cheek a light pat, "found it while I did some dusting."
"I'm sorry, my love. I didn't recognize you," River admits. "Have we done Asgard?"
The Doctor nods. He could see her face slip into the infamous spoiler mask she used to don on. She thinks I'm the younger one, he realizes, that I don't know who she is. He supposes the only course is to find out where exactly she was.
"How many adventures have we done? With this face, I mean?"
River secures her gun back to her thigh and looks anywhere but at him when she admits, "Just Asgard, actually. This will be our second run-in, on my side anyway."
"Oh," he took note of her hair. It was in a ponytail. River didn't do that too often outside life and death situations. The only time he remembers her putting her hair up was….
He swallows, "How long ago was Manhattan for you?"
River looks up at him in utter surprise. He's going to need to be careful now. If she's just met him at Asgard that means the Library is next for her.
"How do you know about that?" She demands in a hiss.
"Look at me, River," he moves to close the distance so that there leaves no space between them, face inches away from her own as he queries, "Do I look anywhere near my early 900s to you?"
A quizzical look appears on her face, but he can tell she's trying hard to let logic lead. She's looking deep into his eyes, peering for a sense of familiarity. A tiny breath escapes her lips when she finds it and gazes at him in wonder, "But how?"
"Without giving too many spoilers away, it seems I'm revisiting a few old favorites." It seemed the simplest answer.
River looks away quickly as if he's just struck her.
"What's wrong?" He asks, shoulders drooping immediately.
"Nothing," she fixed a smile onto her face, but he knew her well enough to see through it, to know she's absolutely livid about something. "It's a lovely face, dear."
"No, no, no. I know you, River Song. So very long now." He reaches out with a hand and cups her chin, turning her face towards him. He leans in and examines her every feature, every single line of her luminous face. Her eyes scream out a tell at him and after so many years he knows exactly how to read them. "I know exactly what you're thinking," he smiles, "I say old favorites with this face, and you doubt my affection for the one you love most."
"Doctor, stop it," River moves away from him. She opts to stare fixedly at her parent's gravestone. "We don't have to talk about it anymore."
"Tell me," the Doctor grins wolfishly, helpless to how adorably stubborn River Song is. "What makes you think this will be my last old favorite?"
River doesn't answer, simply lifts her shoulder with a shrug.
The Doctor moves forward and places the flowers he'd picked (nicked) on the gravestone.
"What makes you think the face that they loved isn't a definite favorite?" He posed for her. "What could ever make you think that, Missus Doctor."
River winces, "That sounds so rubbish."
"Oi," he frowns.
"Mister Song sounds better," River says.
"That's not how it works."
"Oh, yes, it really is," she bumped her shoulder into his lightly, the faintest hint of a smile threatening to reappear on her beautiful face.
"How long has it been, River?" He asks again. "Honestly."
His wife took a deep shuddering breath before answering him. "It's been eight months since Manhattan happened for me."
He doesn't even have to think twice about it. He pulls River towards him and envelops her in his arms. She stands firm in his hold at first before softening and returning his affections.
"Oh, River," the Doctor sighs into her hair. "My dear Pond, I'm so sorry. I know how he was, how I was, back then, and I'm sorry. I got better. For you. For me. For both of us. I promise you that."
River clutches at him tighter, "Thank you."
The Doctor pulls back and looks down at her, "For what?"
River smiles, her eyes nearly blurring with fresh tears, "For giving me this face, like this."
"I can tell you it wasn't planned," he admits.
"It'll help," River tucks her face back into the crook of his neck. "For next time."
He tries to contain the shiver that goes through his body in remembrance of what next time would be for her with this face: the Library.
"Doctor?"
"Hmm."
"Why were you so cross with me when you got here?" River inquires.
"Why?" He repeats her question and thinks it over.
Well, he can't very well tell her that her future self left him to do public transport all on his lonesome this time around, saying she had to go take care of some business at the London gallery.
He'd have to explain the whole retiring from time-traveling thing, and she wouldn't like that. Not this young anyway.
Of course, that would also mean explaining to her what awaits in her future, and then what comes after. He'd have to spill his greatest and biggest time heist thingamajig, about how her stay in the Library isn't permanent and that he does, in fact, get her out. There's no way he's letting her leave with that big surprise, that's his finest work!
He decides to go with the most appropriate response, "Spoilers."
River snorts, "I hate you."
The Doctor smiled fondly, "Oh, no, you really don't. Especially not with this face, everybody loves this face. Honestly, River. It's a bit ridiculous."
River pulls back to look at him properly, running a fingertip from his cheekbone all the way down his jaw. "It'll do," she says, smiling openly now.
The Doctor reluctantly looks away from his wife and down to the gravestone just a few feet away.
In loving memory
Rory Arthur Williams
Aged 82
And his loving wife
Amelia Williams
Aged 87
"That it will," he agrees. "For now, anyway."