for Charina, because of this gifset. With all the feels.
He never wanted to let her go. That last night—Darillium—well, the Towers sang and you cried, she said. Every time he thought of it, those words, solemn as a liturgy, stopped his tongue. His fingers left bruises on her arms, bruises he kissed and caressed until his lips chapped. Hold me, he begged her, don't let go.
She had to, of course, though he had made some jokes about symbiotic relationships (they had seemed clever at the time, honestly they had, at least she'd laughed at them—at him? No, it was most definitely at the jokes. ) Back in the TARDIS, he'd kept scrambling the coordinates to keep River with him as long as possible, until she huffed in exasperation and took over. He didn't even crack a smile when River landed at the Great Pyramid of Egypt, the Alignment of Exidor, 15th-century France, anywhere and anywhen except her flat at the university. He could only stare at the screen as she walked away for the last time.
And he ran. He wanted to hide, to disappear from their world into a custom abyss. The TARDIS chose Victorian London; he didn't care. As long as Vastra and Jenny didn't interrupt his sulk, as long as no one alluded to rivers or ponds, or really, any bodies of water, it made no difference.
He stared at the epilogue of Melody Malone, tried to fix the TARDIS, slept for hours. The words were seared into his memory, the TARDIS sparked at the slightest touch, and all his dreams were of her. After one particularly bad/good one, where the River in the Library was a ganger and the real one materialized in front of him moments after Darillium, he woke to find her lying next to him.
It was another –but he stops the thought mid-sentence. Even if this is just a, well, he'd like it to last as long as possible. He rolls over to look at her. She's propped herself up on one arm, reclining like some Greek statue. For all he knows, she's posed for some of them. The thought makes him vaguely annoyed. This is a sight that should be reserved for his eyes alone, the way her muscles relax.
He keeps looking at her, gazing at each limb as Marvell's poem suggested, though the omission of hair gave him pause. Yes, a hundred years for eyes, but the author really should have worked in a millennia or three for those tangled, golden wisps. To be honest, he doesn't want to get to eyes just yet. Yes, he can see her, and she can see him. But he doesn't want to see her seeing him…not yet.
He doesn't remember getting out of bed, or even why he felt the need to wander down the corridors to another room. For a moment he considers post-hypnotic suggestion, but shrugs it off. Grief always devours unrelated memories, leaving others like sweet wine gone sour. Instead, he visits the architectural reconfiguration room, tinkering with the layout. Maybe he'll reinstall the pool, or move the kitchen closer to the console room.
"Eating, yes….maybe you should give it a go."
That was River. River's voice, scolding him again. He's over one thousand, he can remember to eat, thank you very much!
Well…okay, maybe he hadn't been eating much lately, but he just wasn't hungry. Not even puckish. If you go eating when you aren't hungry, you get huge, an elephant in tweed, and that wasn't him, right?
"I always pictured you as more of a giraffe."
See, he's just imagining her. He must have, because he's certain he didn't say anything aloud. He's just guessing what she would have said to him. Bad enough he keeps seeing her everywhere he goes—now he's hearing things too.
"Honestly, sweetie, it's a term of endearment."
At least some of them were nice.
It's always River, only River. Not Amy or Rory or any of his old friends. Just River.
"Are you missing her too, old girl?" He caresses a panel. Child of the TARDIS, daughter of Amy and Rory…twice dear, twice lost. Demon's Run. Darillium. You watch us run, she'd ordered, and he'd marched to her tune ever since.
But did she have to be this…this echoing melody, stuck in his head like the Birdie Song and the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's Complaints Department Song –he sticks his fingers in his ears and begins singing to himself. Anything but share and enjoy, share and enjoy.
She's laughing at him. A soft, gentle laugh, like melting snow in the spring. "Honestly, it's not that bad."
Maybe he'll visit Mozart, convince him to write a new opera. Or attend the debut performance of a Broadway musical. If he digs up that old coat, he could even star in "Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat."
"That old thing? I should hope the moths have gotten it."
He had liked it…once.
"You're off-key, besides."
She doesn't disappear when Clara comes on board either. She just stands to the side, watching them interact and giving occasional suggestions.
No, not that lever.
Period dress, always appreciated.
If you just whisk the soufflé lightly, it might not collapse this time.
Oh, and she's a person, not some mystery for you to solve, Doctor.
As the door swings shut behind Clara, the Doctor rubs his hands together. "Now, for next Wednesday!"
The TARDIS mutters at him.
"Yes, I know, I've been cheating. Time was, I could sneak out nights and go to parties. Fancy ones, with bands and those little crackers and dances." He half-heartedly waves one hand above his head. "It's not the same alone."
He closes his eyes, remembering the swoosh of River's skirts at the Coronation Gala. The blue silk had shimmered in the moonlight, reflecting the sea outside. And somehow, he's not surprised to see her in front of him when he opens his eyes.
Four steps forward, two steps back, two complete spins. She motions for him to follow. As she guides him through the steps, he recognizes the dance: 'Ember and Sea,' an old Hilaian ballad of a fire spirit's courtship of a naiad. River (young then, and aggravatingly contrary) had insisted on the fire spirit's role: "Puns are so ridiculous." So she'd leapt and vaulted and twisted, while he stumbled after her like a drop of sweat in the cracked Sahara.
River pauses and holds out her hands, palms up, like a child awaiting a gift. He lets his hands hover above hers. If only—if only—
"That's not how it ended," she whispers. Not yet.
At least she doesn't trigger any monitors at Caliburn House. Instead, she sits at the table, going over the data with the keen eye of an archeologist. Not even death can quench her curiosity. In the dark room, she stands between him and Alec ("you always need a professor to point out the obvious"), peering at the pictures, touching them with invisible fingers.
As he returns to the TARDIS with Clara, leaving Alec and Emma to their snogging, River puts a hand on his shoulder, gently directing him to look back at the window.
Oh. That's why.
He can be so thick sometimes! "It's the oldest story in the universe, this one or any other. Boy and girl fall in love, get separated by events. War, politics, accidents in time. She's thrown out of the hex, or he's thrown into it. Since then they've been yearning for each other across time and space, across dimensions. This isn't a ghost story, it's a love story!"
As the two monsters bound across the grassy field, he turns and looks her in the eyes, just for a second.