She’d told the Doctor once that she had pictures of all his faces, and at the time she’d thought that to be true. She had pictures of those she’d known to look for in the dusty remnants of history. But, in all of time, there was one thing that never altered. One constant. The TARDIS sat nestled between two stalls in one of the largest markets in the galaxy - the finest goods, from wine to art, from a hundred different worlds; street performers and pick pockets. She’d seen it in a photograph, tucked away in the archives of the Museum of Humanish History, and seized the opportunity.
Yet she’d been sitting a few booths away, a glass of wine forgotten between her fingers, for the better part of an hour, waiting. It felt silly, it felt ridiculous and she would never let on to the Doctor that she’d even known he was here, but it had been five years since she’d seen her husband last... So, she’d submitted to sentimentality. She’d misjudged the exact time, arrived too late to be there when the ship landed, taking instead for watching the crowds for, she hoped, the familiar glimpse of daft hair, a red bow tie, and, if she was very lucky, her parents in tow. She’d heard, for a moment, someone call out the Doctor’s name, yet when she’d turned, he’d not been there. Not a face she’d seen had that matched those she had tucked away, in pictures and in drawings, in her diary.
Stupid sentimentality. River finished off the last sip of wine and stood, deciding that, while she was here, she might as well have a bit of fun - after all, if she caused enough trouble, her husband was sure to show up eventually.
She cut through the crowds, sounds and movement ringing through the air, looking up to see an acrobat twirl through the air when suddenly a child, a boy of no more than ten, dressed in rags, his blue skin pale and grubby, slammed solidly into her and River was pushed into a small group, nearly on top of a blonde woman in a grey coat. But River paid very little attention to her, no recognizing her for who she was, and instead put her hand to her wrist. It was bare.
He’d taken her vortex manipulator.
“Oh, that little rascal,” she righted herself, searching the crowd for a glimpse of blue. “Did you see which way he went?”
