fic: tomorrow is a mystery
Title: Tomorrow is a mystery
Rating: PG
Characters/pairing: River, Eleven (River/Eleven, River/Doctor)
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Summary: River regenerates in the Library, and Eleven arrives to pick her up.
For the Hell in Heels ficathon. winninghearts prompted: River/Eleven, AU. She doesn't die in the Library. She regenerates, (out of Ten's sight) and Eleven arrives to pick her up.
~
She draws breath and shapes her lungs around it.
Leaves the poor young Doctor handcuffed and unconscious, stumbles as far away as possible, regenerates on the go.
Turns out she did have a chance, imagine that; she absorbed the energy and rebuilt herself and the stupid suit - which, by the way, now pinches in all the wrong places and hurts her feet.
She stops in a bright enough spot in a big enough room - she’s somewhere in Biographies, she decides - closes her eyes, and lets herself settle.
“Untitled Sequel, Chapter One. Turning the page… and other appropriate metaphors.” He’s holding her journal, and his; both fat and worn. “Hello.”
“How many times did you rehearse that?” Her voice is rough and different, but she likes, likes, likes it.
“Practically none. Did you regenerate the suit?”
“Well, I didn’t want to be naked with flesh-eating shadows.”
They’re standing in the only sliver of light left, at opposite ends. He’s bowtie-less, in the dark coat and a boring blue shirt. “Ah, yes, I see. I brought my coat, in case…” He opens it, squeezes the journals into a pocket; hers first.
She smiles; she has a proper dimple, now. “How do I look?”
“Oh, amazing!”
She focuses on him; can see the broken vessels in his eyes, and the shadow-bruising beneath them, the swelling of his lips, the freshly cut ends of his hair. She knows exactly when he’s just been.
She takes a few steps toward him, keeps his gaze, pushes the knowledge of what she’s wearing into one of the re-formed recesses of her subconscious. “Hello.” She has a sudden urge to backhand him across a cheek, but it tapers off and she sighs instead. “You knew.”
He smiles at her. “Yes. I-”
“Don’t. I thought I’d used up all my lives.”
“Did I tell you that?”
The room is reflected in his eyes; she can see darkness, a hint of shelves, the suggestion of her own face. Beneath the reflection; beneath the Library and herself and the haemorrhaging, the only thing she can see is relief.
She takes half a step back. “You weren’t certain I’d regenerate.”
“Of course I was.”
“Have you seen me before? This face?”
“You’ll have to ask a future me.” He reaches for her, pats her head and gets hair in her eyes - nice hair, dark. He presses his palms to her cheeks and his lips to her forehead.
She catches his hands and kisses him properly, if briefly. She can still smell her own perfume on him. “I hate to say it, but our shadows will cross soon.”
“You’re right; we should take our leave. The Vashta Nerada don’t know who I am.” He leers at a particularly dense shadow.
She raises her brows, smiles; assesses fine motor control. “They don’t know who I am, either.”
“What a coincidence. Who are you?”
She offers him her arm - oh, she’s tall. “This time, I think the Universe needs… a geography teacher.”
“It’s all yours.” With his free hand, he snaps his fingers.
Rating: PG
Characters/pairing: River, Eleven (River/Eleven, River/Doctor)
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
Summary: River regenerates in the Library, and Eleven arrives to pick her up.
For the Hell in Heels ficathon. winninghearts prompted: River/Eleven, AU. She doesn't die in the Library. She regenerates, (out of Ten's sight) and Eleven arrives to pick her up.
~
She draws breath and shapes her lungs around it.
Leaves the poor young Doctor handcuffed and unconscious, stumbles as far away as possible, regenerates on the go.
Turns out she did have a chance, imagine that; she absorbed the energy and rebuilt herself and the stupid suit - which, by the way, now pinches in all the wrong places and hurts her feet.
She stops in a bright enough spot in a big enough room - she’s somewhere in Biographies, she decides - closes her eyes, and lets herself settle.
“Untitled Sequel, Chapter One. Turning the page… and other appropriate metaphors.” He’s holding her journal, and his; both fat and worn. “Hello.”
“How many times did you rehearse that?” Her voice is rough and different, but she likes, likes, likes it.
“Practically none. Did you regenerate the suit?”
“Well, I didn’t want to be naked with flesh-eating shadows.”
They’re standing in the only sliver of light left, at opposite ends. He’s bowtie-less, in the dark coat and a boring blue shirt. “Ah, yes, I see. I brought my coat, in case…” He opens it, squeezes the journals into a pocket; hers first.
She smiles; she has a proper dimple, now. “How do I look?”
“Oh, amazing!”
She focuses on him; can see the broken vessels in his eyes, and the shadow-bruising beneath them, the swelling of his lips, the freshly cut ends of his hair. She knows exactly when he’s just been.
She takes a few steps toward him, keeps his gaze, pushes the knowledge of what she’s wearing into one of the re-formed recesses of her subconscious. “Hello.” She has a sudden urge to backhand him across a cheek, but it tapers off and she sighs instead. “You knew.”
He smiles at her. “Yes. I-”
“Don’t. I thought I’d used up all my lives.”
“Did I tell you that?”
The room is reflected in his eyes; she can see darkness, a hint of shelves, the suggestion of her own face. Beneath the reflection; beneath the Library and herself and the haemorrhaging, the only thing she can see is relief.
She takes half a step back. “You weren’t certain I’d regenerate.”
“Of course I was.”
“Have you seen me before? This face?”
“You’ll have to ask a future me.” He reaches for her, pats her head and gets hair in her eyes - nice hair, dark. He presses his palms to her cheeks and his lips to her forehead.
She catches his hands and kisses him properly, if briefly. She can still smell her own perfume on him. “I hate to say it, but our shadows will cross soon.”
“You’re right; we should take our leave. The Vashta Nerada don’t know who I am.” He leers at a particularly dense shadow.
She raises her brows, smiles; assesses fine motor control. “They don’t know who I am, either.”
“What a coincidence. Who are you?”
She offers him her arm - oh, she’s tall. “This time, I think the Universe needs… a geography teacher.”
“It’s all yours.” With his free hand, he snaps his fingers.