Welcome to Fuck Yeah River & the Doctor - a blog dedicated to the timey-wimey relationship between these characters. Blog for all the graphics and gifs, for all the metas, fics and all the feelings. Enjoy! married in space
They’re stumbling over the threshold of their flat on Darillium, still breathless with laughter and holding hands, before the Doctor sees the blood. He’d been so distracted before — racing back to the TARDIS with River just behind him; piloting away with River dancing around him, shamelessly adjusting his driving; bickering and talking over each other as they recount their newest adventure together. He hadn’t even seen the jagged cut just beneath her hairline, fuzzy curls matted with blood plastered to her forehead and nearly hiding it from view.
He freezes, his grip around River’s hand tightening just enough to catch her attention as he steps closer. She stops laughing, going entirely still as he crowds into her space and carefully touches his fingertips to the blood matting her hair. Red slicks down her cheek, the curve of her jaw, the gentle slope of her neck. It stains her collar. When he breathes in, the air smells metallic. His stomach curdles.
She doesn’t quite know what to do. After dinner on the balcony, after they return to the TARDIS, after she showers and slips on familiar clothes.
There’s so much she wants to say, even more she needs to hear. Her stomach still hasn’t settled and she can feel her hearts pick up every time he looks at her. She feels like she’s on a precipice, getting ready to jump and for the first time in as long as she can remember, she doesn’t know if he’ll catch her.
Isn’t certain anymore that he wants to.
The Doctor, of course, says nothing. She finds him in the console room, and barely has a chance to breathe before he drags her off on a completely unnecessary tour. He takes her to the 19th deck where there’s a perpetual desert storm and down below where there’s a room full of nothing but carousels; he shows her the replica of Coney Island and a new library and a meadow with thousands of butterflies.
“Not actually butterflies,” he admits as one lands on his arm. “Tiny robots.”
He grins, like it’s a huge secret he couldn’t wait to share, and oh, how she’s missed him. She wonders how long he’s been alone, that he’s this eager, chattering away like he’s been starved for company.
Though his voice is different, she still loves the sound of it, the way he narrates each room. She loves the smell of him, though she has to keep stopping herself from getting too close, from breathing him in. She wants to—wants, so much, to simply stop, to close her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and just stay there, for as long as he’ll let her.
But he doesn’t seem interested in that this go around, and his touches are fleeting at best. The occasional hand on her spine, or her arm. He doesn’t take her hand.
She supposes she deserves it.
After Manhattan, after Hydroflax, Fleming and Ramone, she understands why he’d be reluctant to touch her. Now that he knows, now that he’s seen the parts of her she’s tried so hard to keep hidden from him, to protect him from.
She doesn’t blame him. Couldn’t fathom it, but it hurts—the way his body doesn’t lean toward hers anymore. The way he barely looks her in the eye. She wonders what he sees, now, when he looks at her—a thief, a murderer.
A monster.
He touches her arm again to steer her from the room, and she flinches. His touch is too light, too absent, too unintentional.
She doesn’t deserve it, regardless, but her chest aches and she has to take slow, measured breaths, has to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying.
There will be time for that, later. When he finally tells her the truth.
When he leaves.
She tries to pay attention, to ask questions and offer the occasional innuendo that doesn’t make him blush any more. Instead, he just looks at her strangely, like he doesn’t know how to process the words, and she bites her tongue the next time there’s an opportunity; the very thought of making him genuinely uncomfortable makes her feel ill.
Pushing the feeling aside, she forces a smile as he explains how the waterfalls work, and where the stream goes. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and she wants to know everything but all she feels is tired.
It’s been so long since she’s seen him, so long since Manhattan and she’s been running nonstop and she just wants quiet. Wants one night without nightmares, without his words ringing in her ears, things he’d said in his grief to make her angry, things he said to finally make her leave.
Looking down at the railing, she stares at their hands, both curled around the metal. There was a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated to cover his fingers with hers; a time when he would have done the same. Now, he keeps himself at a distance, the physical space between them almost more than she can bear.
And still, she smiles.
She smiles when he takes her to a diamond cave and smiles when he shows her badminton courts and smiles when he grumbles about the new training room the TARDIS made. She smiles behind a flinch when he touches her elbow to guide her into the room, at the same time he declares how horrible guns are and how much he hates having a whole room of them on board.
Though the room is dark, she steps away from him, closing her eyes briefly against the lance of pain in her chest.
She knows he hates weapons. She isn’t sure why it’s taken her so long to realize she isn’t an exception.
Behind her, she hears the Doctor shuffle around for a light switch, hears the door click shut behind him.
“It was right here the last time I was here,” he mutters.
She doesn’t want to know why he was in here. The air around them feels dense, and she can’t see anything in the black, not even with the sliver of light from under the door.
“It’s fine,” she says. “We can come back another time.”
She reaches past him and fumbles for the door handle.
“It’s stuck.”
“No it isn’t,” he says, and she huffs.
“Yes, it is.”
She feels him press up against her, and stumbles out of the way, knocking into something that feels suspiciously like a broom.
“Doctor.”
She feels her way along the wall: shelving, a few bottles, pails, and what she hopes are sponges.
The Doctor is muttering at the door.
“You locked us in a cupboard.”
“I did not. It’s the training room.”
“It’s the maintenance cupboard.”
He kicks the door and then grunts. “Why would I take us to the maintenance cupboard? It was supposed to be a grand tour.”
“Sonic?”
“My other coat,” he says, and his voice is strange, almost disembodied. She can’t see him at all.
“Seriously?”
“No, you’ve been Punk’d,” he says, and she tries not to flinch at his tone.
“There must be some way out of here,” she says, trying to feel around; but it’s a small space, barely big enough for three people, and it’s only a moment before she bumps into him, and quickly steps away, shrinking herself into the furthest corner. She knocks over what she thinks is a mop, hears it hit something hard and then clatter to the floor.
“Ow.”
She almost smiles.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he says, and her smile drops, her hearts like a lead weight.
Part of her assumes he’s joking, but in the dark, without his smirk or glimmering eyes she can’t tell, and the words fall flat between them. She doesn’t have a reply, words stuck in her throat, and because he can’t see, she wraps her arms around her stomach in some kind of embrace.
Oblivious, the Doctor sighs. “We’ll just have to wait until she lets us out.”
“She? The TARDIS?”
“Who else?”
River frowns. “Why would the TARDIS lock us in a cupboard?”
There’s a beat, then, “Seriously?”
River glares, then realizes that won’t do any good and huffs loudly. “Forgive me for not being a mind reader.”
“If you were this would be a lot easier,” he says, low and almost reluctant, and her breathing stalls.
She knew this was coming. She just thought, maybe, a few hours… that she could have just a few more hours with him, to say goodbye for good before he flies away.
“River,” he starts, and she can hear the hesitation, the guilt, and slams her eyes shut.
“Don’t,” she manages.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say it.” She’s nearly begging, but she can’t bring herself to care. She can’t hear him say it’s over. That’s it’s been over for years. She knows, if he says it she’ll break and she can’t afford to, not here, not now. “I know—” Her voice catches and she clears her throat, tries again. “I know this isn’t what you want. I understand. I appreciate—everything.” Her eyes sting and she has to take two slow breaths to calm her trembling.
“You appreciate it,” he echoes, and it sounds angry, bitter.
“I just meant—I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s unnecessary. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll leave you alone.”
He’s silent, and it weighs on her. In the dark; she starts to see faces, gaunt and howling.
“If that’s what you want,” he says finally, flatly, and she resists the urge to laugh, almost hysterically.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says. “What matters is that you—” She stops, hesitates. “What matters is that you’re happy,” she says quietly, and it feels like a secret, too hushed.
“What makes you think I’m not?”
Because you haven’t kissed me, she thinks. Because you haven’t touched me. Because it’s been so long without me.
Instead, she forces a laugh. “I can’t imagine anyone would be thrilled to discover their wife’s a homicidal maniac.”
“I already knew that,” he says, and she flinches, hard.
Breathless, she barely manages, “Well, you certainly seemed surprised.”
“I’m always surprised when I’m with you,” he says, and she can’t tell what he means, how he’s saying it, his voice low and gruff in the dark.
“Surprised isn’t happy.”
“No,” he agrees. “No, it isn’t.”
Tears sting at her eyes and she shuts them tightly. There’s not enough air, not enough space and everything feels like it’s closing in on her, suffocating.
Please, she begs, hears the TARDIS hum soothingly in her mind. Please let me out.
She can almost feel the ship’s disapproval, her defiance.
The Doctor moves, does something she can’t see and then there’s a hand on her arm, but it feels misplaced, feels conciliatory, and she flinches.
She hears what sounds like a sharp intake of breath, and his hand falls away.
“I’m sorry. I’ll stop doing that.”
Don’t, she thinks desperately, please don’t stop, please touch me, please hold me—
She can’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Instead, she clears her throat, tries to make herself small in the tight space.
“No,” she says, too hoarse. “No, it’s not—it’s just—”
She doesn’t know how to explain. How his touch unravels her. How it feels like a brand, how she craves and needs it so much, and yet, dreads it.
Because he’s too good. Too kind, too soft, and she knows she cuts him with her hard edges. Knows she’s too violent and too cruel and too sentimental for him, especially now.
She can’t bear to imagine what he’d think of her if he knew, all the things she’s done since Manhattan. Since she lost the only three people she’s ever truly loved.
He wouldn’t understand. He’s lost so much, over and over and somehow remains so, so good, and she’s not like that, never has been. Fear has never made her kind, the way it does him; it makes her weak. Angry.
Unworthy.
“Just what?” he asks, and his voice sounds softer, somehow. Patient, in a way he’s never been, not with her. At least, not lately.
She doesn’t know what to say, without saying everything.
She pushes it aside, tries to keep her voice causal, keep it from cracking.
“It’s just been a while,” she says, and hopes he doesn’t ask. She hopes he does.
“Since Manhattan?”
She nods, and a long silence stretches before she remembers he can’t see her. “Yes.”
“How long?”
She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Almost a year.”
There’s a beat, and his tone is a strange mix of anger and hurt. “Then you lied to me.”
“About what?”
“You said two months.”
River frowns, trying to remember. “When did I say that?”
“At Amy’s. When I followed you, you said—”
“Spoilers,” she says, suddenly breathless, a faint hope knocking at her ribs. She hasn’t been back to her parents house, with its warmth and photographs and memories. She hadn’t wanted to see it empty, hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back, to clear it out. She knows she’ll have to, eventually—she knows he won’t do it.
“What do you mean, spoilers? You’re a professor, you’ve done Manhattan, and then you left and I found you packing up their house—”
“Maybe you did, but I haven’t done it yet.”
“You haven’t,” he echoes. And then, “You haven’t done Arnos yet either, I assume?”
“No,” she says, her mouth dry, suddenly desperate and terrified of seeing her husband, that version of her husband, again. She’d thought that was the end, after—
“So the last time you saw me…” he trails off, and River closes her eyes, tries not to think about his words, the look of betrayal on his face.
This is your fault.
She shudders, exhales, waits for more of his ire.
Instead, he touches her again, fumbling in the dark for her arm. “I’m sorry.”
River blinks. “What for?”
“Everything,” he says. “What I said. What I did. Time travel.” He huffs. “I followed you, River,” he says, and she shakes her head, almost frantic.
“Don’t tell me—”
His hand tightens around her arm. “I followed you, and I did everything in my power to make it up to you. Or rather, I will.” He sighs. “I didn’t realize it had been so long.”
River swallows. “It’s not your fault,” she manages.
“Yeah, it is.” She opens her mouth to protest, and he must know, because he steps closer, still holding her arm. “Don’t. Just because I will apologize doesn’t mean you have to forgive me now.”
“I always forgive you,” she murmurs.
“Even for not loving you enough?”
The words knock the air from her lungs, and she pulls away from him, winded. She’d known, she’d known he didn’t love her, not the way she loved him, but hearing it, she can’t breathe. Her hearts trip and she remembers her father, before he knew he was her father, asking her what she meant by a far worse day and it’s this, she thinks, this moment, all her fears true and the blackness and she can’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. She inhales, body trembling and she’s glad, suddenly, for the dark. If this is what had to happen, and even the TARDIS knew, she’s grateful he can’t see her face.
“River—” he starts, uncertain, and it’s not his fault, no one’s fault but her own, and she shakes her head, her voice cracking just slightly on her reassurance,
“You can’t help it.”
It falls flat, sounds unconvincing even to her own ears but she doesn’t blame him, doesn’t want him to think she does, but when she tries to speak, it’s all air.
“I suppose,” he says, and she tries to breathe, to control herself, but when she exhales it’s a hitched sob, and she claps her hand over her mouth, humiliated and heartbroken and so, so lost.
“You’re crying.”
He sounds surprised, and she doesn’t understand.
“I’m fine,” she manages, swipes at her cheeks, aware her tone is too curt, angry at herself.
“Why?” he asks, and there’s no judgement, no reprimand, just concern, and she supposes she owes him, for whatever good it will do.
“I knew—” she starts, stops when her voice breaks and tries again, softer. “I’ve known for a while. That you don’t feel the same. It’s just another thing to hear you say it, that’s all.”
He moves, and she can feel him closer, and she closes her eyes, wishes he wouldn’t. She wants to bury her head in his chest and cry but she can’t do that to him, won’t do it to herself, and she’s so distracted trying to keep herself together she almost misses his words, the floundering,
“Say—? No, River. That’s not—that’s not what I meant.”
Her hearts pinch. Her Doctor, always trying to make things better.
“It’s alright, Doctor, really. It doesn’t matter—”
“Stop it,” he snaps, and she blinks, momentarily stunned. “Stop saying that, of course it matters.” He sighs, and steps a few paces away from her, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do, now. She knows she doesn’t need him—not to travel or survive or live her life but she wants him, always has, always will, and she supposes this is her punishment, to love so fiercely the person who can never or will never love her back.
She’d thought she’d made peace with that. Apparently she was wrong.
Just as her tears start to well again, the Doctor reaches out, fumbling along her arm for her hands. She tries to pull away but he holds fast, stands so close, his forehead nearly pressed to hers.
“I meant I haven’t shown you. I haven’t been there for you. I haven’t done enough.”
She inhales sharply, rehears his words, and they mean something different, so suddenly, but she doesn’t dare hope.
“Doctor—”
His voice trembles, and she can feel his breath against her cheek. “You really think I don’t love you?”
Hope flutters in her chest and she can’t do this again, can’t be brave any longer. Her mother’s last words ring in her ears, take care of him, but she barely remembers how to take care of herself.
She wants to lie. On instinct, wants to apologize and lie and say it was all a misunderstanding, to chase the guilt and weight from his words. That of course she knows. Of course it’s all pretend.
But she’s so tired. Of running and fighting and lying.
In the silence, the Doctor slides his hand up her arm, and she holds her breath as his fingers slip over her jaw, and his palm, soft and tentative, cradles her cheek.
“I don’t know anymore,” she whispers, doesn’t mean to, wishes she could take it back but instead of the guilt she expects, the groveling, the Doctor’s quiet a moment, and then, so soft, his thumb brushing over her cheek,
“Would it help if I said it?”
She freezes. “What?”
“Would it—”
She shakes her head. It can’t be real, can’t be true. Not once has he told her, never returned her whispers in the dark. She knows he can’t, and doesn’t want to demand it of him but she’s hungered for those words for so long, so much, each time he leaves her with a kiss and nothing else she’s wished.
“You don’t have to—”
His hand falls to her waist and he holds fast. “Would it help, River,” he repeats. “The truth, please, for once.”
He sounds sincere, and desperate, and afraid, and for the first time she wonders if she was wrong. If all of this is wrong, and she’s just been without him so long she can’t remember what it feels like, his love. How he says it without saying anything at all.
But she’s never heard it before.
Amy and Rory never said it, not as children, not as teens. They never said it as her parents, though they certainly seemed to love her in some kind of way. She’s never been close enough to anyone else, and even if she had been, there’s only one person she’s ever wanted those words from and here he is, at last, offering them to her in the dark.
“Please, River,” he whispers, like it matters.
She swallows, breathes out, and admits, so quiet, “Only if you meant it.”
It’s as good as a yes, and the Doctor’s fingers dig briefly into her waist before he drops his hands, and she tries not to panic.
“You know,” he starts, and she can hear his clothing shift, but can’t see what he’s doing. “Gallifreyan has over a thousand words for love. There’s a word you use for brothers, for sisters, for parents and friends and lovers and strangers.”
She knows, remembers learning them all, his voice in her ear, hand over hers as he taught her how to write, those beautiful circles it took her so long to perfect.
“Time matters as well—most languages, they only think in past, present, and future, but Gallifreyan - there’s a word for “I love you right this second.” There’s a word for “I’ll love you tomorrow.” There’s a word for “I don’t love you yet, but I will.””
River bites her lip, feels like she’s waiting, feels like she’s falling, but the Doctor just keeps talking, almost casual, but she can tell he’s choosing each word with care.
“We have words for inevitable love and unrequited love and fleeting love and dancing with someone you love. There’s even a word for falling in love, that roughly translates as “the sound of wind rushing in your ears.””
She can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness for his native tongue.
“Marriages on Gallifrey only last one regeneration,” he continues, “Because personalities change, it’s unfair to assume people will stay together any longer than one life. Sometimes vows are renewed, sometimes people go their separate ways.”
Her hearts plummet again, waiting for the truth, for him to step away. Instead, his voice softens, and he takes her hand again, stroking his thumb over her skin.
“And very rarely, people will stay together through every one of their regenerations. Those people use a different word—there’s no exact translation, but it’s close to endless, boundless, eternal, with the understanding that life isn’t fleeting at all, not for a Time Lord. When humans say forever it just means time. A little more time.” He echoes her words, and she can hear his smile. “When we say it, it means unending.”
Her chest aches and her eyes burn and she can barely breathe. “Doctor.”
“I can’t say I love you, River,” he says, and she feels herself start to slip away, and then: “It’s too small, and too ordinary, and not nearly sentimental enough.”
River inhales sharply. “Sweetie—”
He pushes something into her hand, something soft and worn and she would know it anywhere, that old bow tie. Her fingers fumble for it, follow it, and she nearly gasps when she realizes one end is wrapped around his hand, the other loose for her.
To choose.
Leaning forward, his lips brushing her cheek before they reach her ear, he breathes the words she recognizes, words he just told her. It’s I love you forever. I love you eternal. I love you boundlessly. Her breathing hitches and she strives to stifle the sob, but it creeps up anyway, a shuddering gasp in the quiet room.
“That’s why I don’t say it, River. Not because I don’t feel it. Because it’s just not enough.” His hand settled on her cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. “Do you believe me?”
She sniffles, and almost laughs. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to tamp down her hearts, which feel like they’re flying away. She wants to hug him, kiss him, hold him and never let go. She restrains herself, barely, and takes a deep breath before feeling in the dark for his hands.
“Yes,” she murmurs, wrapping the other end of the bow tie around her hand, the gesture so familiar, so precious.
The Doctor releases a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and she reaches out with her free hand, searching for his face in the dark. She brushes his cheek, and he instantly tilts against her, his other hand coming up to cover hers.
“Good,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Good.”
River smiles, and for the first time in so long, it’s real.
“I love you,” she whispers, in his language, the same words repeated back and the Doctor shivers, and steps closer, crowding her, still clutching her hand. His forehead drops against hers and he tangles his free hand in her hair.
“River.”
“Shut up,” she whispers, and he seems to take it as permission, seems to open some floodgates she hadn’t been aware existed. He surges forward, pushing her back against a shelf and his mouth covers hers and she keeps her hand on his cheek, parts her lips and kisses him back. He makes a sound, gruff and somehow sweet, a moan that turns possessive when she tries to pull back. He grips her tighter, presses himself against her and he’s warm and gentle and all-consuming, his mouth moving over hers and his fingers against her neck.
She startles when the lights come on, and the door clicks, but the Doctor doesn’t seem to notice, breathing heavily, his fingers brushing the remains of her tears from her cheeks.
“Staying?” he asks, and she can hear the insecurity, sees it in his face still when she leans back, just far enough.
Squeezing his hand, she smiles. “Yes,” she murmurs, the single word swallowed in his kiss.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/River Song, The Doctor/River Song
Characters: Eleventh Doctor, River Song, The Doctor
Additional Tags: Younger River, Older Doctor, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional, Feelings, happy anniversary to my favourite idiots in love <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: River/Ten
Rated: T
Words:23,259
Summary: The Doctor loves Easter. All the sweets he can eat and a mysterious pinprick of a hole in the fabric of reality – it’s practically as good as Christmas.
He is just investigating the properties of a delicious chocolate Easter egg when he spots her boarding a bus, of all things. Impossible to miss her, really, what with that hair.
river/eleven fic for @tinkerbellxoxo (human au; bickering idiots in love). thank you so much!
This fic was written in an effort to raise money for Black Lives Matter. In exchange for donations to bail funds, medical supplies, or other BLM causes, I am writing ficlets for anyone who sends me a donation receipt. You can find more information HERE. Please donate if you can and request a fic!
and i’m thinking ‘bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways
Movie night at the Ponds’ has always held a special place in her heart. They’ve been doing it for years, at least once a month, one of the few sources of steadiness in River’s life. She always brings take-out from their favorite Thai restaurant, and Rory bakes a cake, and Amy chooses the film. Sometimes it’s a rom-com, sometimes a classic; sometimes she picks an action flick, and spends the entire two hours hoping out loud that The Rock or Vin Diesel will lose his shirt somewhere in the ensuing fight. Rory always huffs and River rolls her eyes, and they miss most of the film regardless, interjecting opinions or talking about their days, Amy’s new venture (lately, a perfume that’s wildly popular), Rory’s work at the hospital, and River’s professorship at Oxford, her digs over the summers in places like Egypt and Israel and Tunisia.
She always brings them back something from her travels, and the Ponds’ living room is littered with vases from China and blankets from Peru and wall decorations from Morocco. She loves telling them stories, of shattered cups she unearthed or snippy little men she put in their places, and loves nothing more than to see Amy throw her head back and laugh. She delights in Rory’s fond, long-suffering sighs and his quirked smiles, and has never felt quite as much at home as she does in the Ponds’ house, teasing them over the lull of Casablanca playing in the background.
She loves it, or rather, used to love it, until six months ago, when Amy started inviting her friend John.
John, who insists on shushing them during the film so he can pay attention, only to get up halfway through and start tinkering with their garbage disposal, claiming it’s making “a noise.” John, who can’t sit still for the life of him, and meets all her stories with ones of his own, always trying to one-up her in everything. He snorts derisively when she talks about archaeology, and rolls his eyes when she talks about her students, muttering about how “those who can’t do, teach.”
She always glowers, and snipes something back about grown men who can’t drive and eat custard for dinner, but it’s half-hearted. It’s not that she doesn’t like John—he’s clever and quick, and blushes bright red every time she makes any sort of innuendo. He’s well-travelled and well-read, and can debate her for hours on the merits of Foucault and Derrida, not that she cares much for either. He’s got floppy hair that falls in his face and long fingers that curl around mugs of hot cocoa—he doesn’t drink coffee—and he gestures so wildly he inevitably breaks something. His politics are similar, though they argue over how to implement them; he loves museums, though they argue over who should keep what artifacts and why.
He’s ridiculous and mad and funny and sad, she thinks, an air of melancholy around him that he fights off with grand speeches and silly quirks. She knows Amy sees it—is almost positive that’s why she’s invited him to all their movie nights, told her once that he didn’t have any family, that they were all gone, and that he needed someone.
She understands that all too well.
The problem, then, isn’t that she doesn’t like John—but rather, that she likes him too much. She likes his funny walk and his ridiculous analogies that make no sense. She likes his stories and his fierce belief in the good of humanity. She likes his hands, and his stupid chin, and his stupid hair, and she likes that he can keep up with her, and she can keep up with him.
The only thing she doesn’t like is that John doesn’t seem to like her one bit.
River/12. Pride and Prejudice AU. The whole thing is finished, just needs some tweaking I haven’t gotten around to yet before I post on AO3. Happy River Song Appreciation Day!
a certain step toward falling in love
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of little fortune and even less social standing must be in want of a wealthy husband. Melody Pond, however, wants nothing of the sort. As she tells her cousin Amy often, nothing in the world but genuine love and affection could entice her into the trappings of marriage. In all her years, no man has ever managed to convince her of his devotion and consequently, she had long ago resigned herself to spinsterhood.
It won’t be so bad, she thinks, spending her days alone. At least there won’t be anyone disagreeable sitting across from her at the breakfast table and she won’t have to pretend interest in any of his boring hobbies. No, being the dull little wife of some dull little man with more money than sense is not in Melody Pond’s future. She’s much happier out on the moors with her horse, her cheeks flushed from her brisk ride as she contemplates a scandalous dip in the pond.
Once she reaches the stables, she hands the reigns of her dear Lizzy over to the stablehand and walks slowly toward the house. She moves quietly, listening in hopes of ascertaining Aunt Tabitha’s whereabouts. If her aunt discovers she had scorned her riding habit again in favor of a pair of trousers, she’ll pitch a fit. Melody does her best to avoid confrontation with Tabitha if she can help it — her aunt always finds a way to turn any disagreement into a pointed lecture about finding a husband.
An independent hellion all her life, Melody can think of no man whose company she prefers above that of her solitude. Which is precisely why, when she tiptoes into the house and is instantly accosted by her cousin going on about a bachelor in the neighborhood, she barely blinks.
Hanging onto her arm, Clara declares breathlessly, “A man has rented out Pandorica Manor.” Her eyes are as wide as Aunt Tabitha’s favorite china saucers and she lowers her voice, as though confiding some shocking secret. “And he’s single.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: The Doctor/River Song, Eighth Doctor/River Song
Characters: Eighth Doctor, River Song
Additional Tags: these two need to have more adventures together so here I am
Summary:
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not that she was against it, not at all. River just didn’t expect this one in the middle of her dig. Sure, that face was surely a very refreshing view for the archaeologist, even more so because she was forced to work side by side with Lux in the last five weeks.
An unexpected encounter with a certain Doctor that River shouldn’t have met leads to an alarming discovery. Surely everything is gonna be fine, right?
13th doctor/river song for #river song appreciation day!!! this got wildly out of hand / pg13 (violence) / thank you to @mygalfriday for the cheerleading, and so so much to @atheneglaukopis for reading so many times and holding my hand and all our chats i couldn’t have written this without you <3 / word count: 29k jsyk
i am the distance you put between all of the moments that we will be
By the time they make it back to the TARDIS, by the time Yaz has put Graham in a chair and fetched cups of tea none of them drink; by the time the shouts and screams have faded into the quiet of the vortex, the hum of the TARDIS calming her mind enough to think clearly, she’s already come up with and discarded over a dozen plans.
There are schematics on the console screen, a brief history of the planet pulled up in text, words leaping out at her like prisoners of war and no survivors. Graham is quiet, sitting on one of the ledges, watching her. Yaz stands beside him, saying things like, we’ll get him back and the Doctor will figure it out, just give her a minute.
There’s a tightness in her chest that reminds her too much of failure—of Amy, dissolving into flesh on the console room floor; Clara, split into thousands of lives across all of time and space. She thinks of Donna, weeping, begging to stay, everyone alive but at what cost?
She glances at the screen, the running text, absorbs phrases as they scroll by like fiercest guards in the galaxy and no aptitude for negotiation.
She knows what she needs to do. Has known, from the moment Yaz stumbled into the TARDIS, breathless, her hair singed and a streak of dried blood on her arm and said, “They took him. They took Ryan.”
But knowing is different from moving. From careening around the console and pulling the lever that will put them into flight, put them on this path—put her on this path—that once she’s on, she can’t avoid.
It will change history. Their history.
The thought makes her eyes sting and her throat close and there has to be another way, someone else she can call.
She can’t do this to her, not again. She shouldn’t.
It’s not just history, but her history, their history, their past coming back to haunt them. She has her suspicions, but there’s no reason to tell her friends, not yet. In case she’s wrong—but she glances at the readouts again, reminding her:
Kushiel—the Angel of Punishment.
It’s a terrible idea.
But there’s another, quiet part of her, a nudging in her mind that sounds suspiciously like the TARDIS, that whispers of opportunity. Of chance. Timelines swirl in her head and she thinks she could do it, somehow—thinks they could have this, that she could see her, and keep everything intact. She doesn’t know how, exactly. But it’s there, a cruel whisper.
And then there’s Ryan. And Yaz, and Graham, staring at her expectantly, with all the trust they haven’t learned yet how to break.
She needs time, but there isn’t any. She needs help, but there’s only one person she trusts.
Cuing in the coordinates, she stares at them for a long moment, hand hovering over the lever.
“Doc?”
It’s Graham, his voice trembling.
She drops her hands and turns to them, holds her hands together in front of her to keep them from shaking.
“Right, fam. We’re going to need some help.”
Yaz moves closer, and Graham follows, and they stare at the coordinates, though they mean nothing to them, and everything to her.
“Help from who?” Graham asks.
The Doctor opens her mouth, the words nearly tumbling out without regard. She turns away so they can’t see her jaw move, biting the name back in. “An old friend,” she says.
She can feel Yaz’s hesitation. “He’s not… your last old friend, yeah?”
Graham snorts despite himself, and the Doctor flinches, covers it with a twirl and a wide smile. “Nah, she’s much better.”
“Who is she?” Graham asks. “Can we trust her?”
The Doctor swallows, her smile falling away, the lump in her throat so thick she can barely push the words out. “I’d trust her with my life.” With everything, she thinks.
Graham nods. “Well then, let’s go get her.”
The Doctor nods. She hesitates, just a moment, just long enough for Yaz to ask, “Doctor?” before she takes a deep breath, and sends the TARDIS into flight.
—
Luna is exactly how she remembers it. 51st century technology, disguised to look like 14th century architecture. The hallways are wide, the arches high, and it smells like old books.
“Are we on Earth?” Yaz asks, looking around, and the Doctor shakes her head, shutting the TARDIS door behind them.
“The moon. 51st century.”
“Then why does it look like Oxford?”
“Nostalgia,” the Doctor says, walking a familiar path, muscle memory dragging her down the hallways even as her mind and hearts reel in protest. She wants to run. Wants to turn back to the TARDIS and fly away and pretend they’ve never come here, that she’d never said a word.
But Graham is behind her, and Ryan is not, and she pushes forward, winding down a staircase, maneuvering around humanoids and aliens alike. No one pays them any attention—they don’t look any more or less out of place than anyone else, and she focuses on Yaz and Graham’s quick footsteps behind her, trying to level her breathing to the sound of theirs.
“Is this a school?” Yaz asks, and the Doctor nods, and rattles off information about the University—when it was built, how many students, famous discoveries and anything else she can think of to keep her mind distracted as they get closer and closer.
She thinks she should have parked elsewhere, saved herself the long walk through familiar halls, but she’d needed the time to center herself, to swallow down the bile in her throat.
“So your friend, she’s a student?” Graham asks, somewhat skeptical.
“Professor.”
“Of what?”
“Archaeology.”
Graham frowns. “How’s an archaeologist going to help us get Ryan back?”
“Not just any old archaeologist,” the Doctor promises, just as they turn the corner, and the Doctor can see her office at the end of the hall, the door shut. The door is rarely shut. The only time she remembers she ever closed her office door, it was because she was with a student, or with him, and she remembers so abruptly—pinning her against her desk, his hands wandering, her lips on his neck, her breathless laughter—“You’re going to get me fired!”—her first day, but she’d been so irresistible, in a pencil skirt and bright red blouse, red lipstick to match, her hair wild around her face and he’d grinned—“No, I’m not.”—and she’d moaned softly, his lips on her neck, “Isn’t that spoilers?” and he’d chuckled, slipped a hand under her skirt.
The Doctor slams her eyes shut and shakes her head quickly, dislodging the memory.
There’s a new desk sitting outside it, with a short woman with four arms behind it, typing frantically on multiple computers.
She looks up as they approach, takes in their gait, their severe expressions, and immediately shakes her head before the Doctor can even open her mouth.
“Professor Song is in a meeting.”
“Professor Song doesn’t take meetings in her office,” the Doctor counters, and the woman blinks, startled.
“She’s asked not to be disturbed.”
“So she’s in, then?”
The woman purses her lips. “She’s not available.”
“She’ll want to be. Tell her The Doctor is here.”
“Doctor what?”
The Doctor glances over her shoulder at Yaz and Graham. “I hate it when they say that.”
The woman ignores her, turns back to her computers and types with lightning speed on three of them, eyes flitting between the screens faster than a human could ever be capable of.
“What’s your business with Professor Song?” She gives them all an assessing look. “You’re not students.”
“How do you know?”
“No textbooks,” she says flatly.
“Right, you got us. I’m an old friend.” The words stick in her mouth.
The woman—a little sign on her desk says T’unera D’galaati, Administrative Assistant, Department of Archaeology—shakes her head. “You’re not on the registered list of acquaintances.”
“Since when does she have a list of acquaintances?”
T’unera glares. “If you were a friend you’d know that,” she says smartly, and the Doctor likes her instantly. Turning back to the computers, she announces, “If you tell me your name and point of business I can schedule you for an appointment next week.”
“Too far away,” the Doctor says, “I need to see her now.”
“Too bad,” T’unera says, “She’s not available.”
The Doctor eyes the distance to the door, thinks she could probably get there before T’unera could get up.
She looks back at Yaz and Graham, then eyes the door. Then looks back.
Yaz steps up immediately, clearing her throat and trying very obviously not to stare at T’unera’s many fingers.
“It’s important,” she says. “We need her help. My friend, he’s—in trouble.”
The Doctor inches out of her way, slightly closer to the door.
“I’m afraid your friend will have to wait until next Tuesday, at 11:15am.”
Graham shakes his head. “We can’t wait. He’s in danger. Doc says the professor can help us. He’s my grandson.”
“My condolences,” T’unera says without looking up.
The Doctor moves further to the side as Yaz and Graham approach the desk.
“Do you have family?” Graham asks, and T’unera scoffs.
“Of course I have family. I’m Abergarrean.”
Abergarrean, the Doctor thinks—hatched from eggs, hundreds of siblings, communal parenting, other stuff.
“So… you’d do anything for your family, yeah?” Graham asks, and T’unera sighs.
“Your attempts at pathos are endearing but misguided. I am merely a receptionist. My responsibility is Professor Song’s schedule, and since you are not approved acquaintances, I’m going to have to ask you to either make an appointment or leave the premises—”
She’s mid-speech when the Doctor bolts toward the door. She makes it two feet when a hand clamps around her wrist and drags her back in a vice grip. Yaz and Graham make startled noises, and the Doctor looks back to find T’unera still in her seat, one long, stretchy arm holding her back.
“Abergarrean,” the Doctor sighs, remembering suddenly their propensity for flexible limbs. The Doctor struggles, but T’unera doesn’t release her.
“I’m calling security,” she says, and with one of her other hands, presses a button on her desk.
“There’s no need for that—” the Doctor says, at the same time Graham finally cracks,
“We need to speak to the professor. My grandson’s life is in danger and the Doc says she can help and I don’t care what you say we’re going to speak to her—”
“Graham, don’t—” the Doctor says, at the same time he tries to push past. T’unera reaches out another long arm and grabs him, and he struggles, hard.
“Let me go!”
“Graham!”
“T’unera, please, there’s no need for this—” the Doctor tries, and then there are two men in anachronistic suits rounding the corner, and Graham’s yelling and Yaz is yelling and the door behind them opens and there’s a voice that makes the Doctor’s hearts stop beating.
“Is it too much to ask, T’unera, for one hour of peace and quiet?”
She isn’t angry, just long suffering, almost slightly amused, and T’unera—still holding the Doctor and Graham—turns to her with a chagrined look.
“I’m very sorry, Professor, these interlopers—” She tightens her grip on them both. “—are refusing to leave. I’ve called security, so there’s no need for you to—”
“River.”
She doesn’t mean to speak, doesn’t mean for her voice to break. Doesn’t mean to stare and stare but she can’t help it. River is there, right in front of her, in slacks and a blouse, unbuttoned to be just shy of appropriate. Her hair is pulled back from her face, her nails painted a light shade of pink, she’s leaning just slightly to one side, her nostrils flare slightly and she turns her gaze to the Doctor, all at once staring at her without an ounce of recognition and it hurts. More than the Doctor ever thought it could, more than she imagined. It isn’t even the lack of familiarity—she was prepared for that—but just seeing her, alive and whole and breathing when she’s not, when she’s dead and she’s been dead for so long, and the Doctor wants nothing more than to run to her, to bury her face in her neck and never let go.
River appraises her slightly, clinically, with an air of disinterest the Doctor knows is a farce. “Do I know you?”
She opens her mouth to reply, to say something, anything, and then Yaz, sweet Yaz, fumbles,
“She’s the Doctor. She has a new face, but she’s the Doctor. You know her.”
Time stands still. In the background, she can feel the security guards hovering. She knows Graham is still struggling under T’unera’s grip. She knows Yaz is looking between them, but everything has faded into the background. Everything is just noise. There’s just River, and her bright eyes, her frown. She turns back from Yaz to the Doctor and stares, eyes roaming over her face, her body, back up. She can see when it dawns on her, sees the recognition slip into her gaze, and she almost wilts in relief.
And then there’s nothing. No warmth, no joy, no sweetness or kindness. She knows her, the Doctor can tell she does, but she stares at her like she means nothing, and the Doctor can’t breathe. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can feel her hearts lurch and pain spikes through her chest and she doesn’t understand. Her whole body aches and she searches River’s gaze for something, anything—the last time she saw her, the morning on Darillium, she stared at him with such devotion, sadness, too, but it was anchored by love, so much love and now there’s nothing, and she can’t breathe.
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