[doctor who fic] (it's the season of grace) coming out of the void (3/3), r
(it’s the season of grace) coming out of the void (3/3)
- doctor who
- river song; river/doctor (eleven)
- 6700 this section
- r
- a/n: spoilers up through a good man goes to war, but not for the second half of series six. warning for mentions of child abuse, but nothing graphic.
- endless thanks to tenacious_err and my hippie aunt for the beta/suggestions, and to leanstein for the support and prodding. happy birthday, gidget_zb!
- title from the atheist christmas carol by vienna teng
part one
part two
It takes months, but he finally finds her among the ruins Anima Persis. It should have been obvious, now that he's there, now that he sees it - barren and sterile, a planet destroyed by war, inhabited only by ghosts - the last warrior, digging herself a grave. She's out of place, here. Her skin is too bright and her hair too still; there's no wind, no rain, no warmth. Another might have deserved it, but he knows better; she doesn't.
"River," he says gently, keeping a careful distance.
She doesn't turn. "Go away."
He smiles faintly and shakes his head. "I can't do that."
She huffs, annoyed, and fixes him with a wounded stare. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Planets to save, damsels to rescue." It's said with scorn, but beneath it there's a glimmer of truth, of respect and awe and he shrugs and offers her a cheeky grin.
"Who says I'm not doing so right now?"
She glowers - distress has never applied to her - and kicks absently at a bone by her feet. The ghosts shake and swirl, but she pays them no notice. "What do you want?" He raises both eyebrows in question, and she gives him a look. "You didn't track me across the universe to gloat; it's not your style."
The Doctor hmms in agreement and takes a few steps closer. She eyes him warily, but doesn't move. "Gloating is for those who have something to be proud of," he remarks, shaking his head.
"You won the War."
"There was no war, River," he murmurs. "Only what Kovarian made up."
She flinches at the name, fingers itching for a trigger. "Quite a story, then, isn't it?" she says bitterly. She's young, so young, so lost; a shell of the woman he used to know; the woman she’ll become. The lines on her face are harder, her jaw set tighter, and he almost thinks it would be easier, if she were wearing a different face, one he doesn’t know so well, one he hasn’t touched and kissed so many times. She doesn't trust him, doesn't love him, barely even knows him, and yet, here she is: a broken planet for a broken soul, trying to find her penance in the dusts of the dead.
"It's the best story there is," he answers, and she looks up at him in disgusted surprise. He backtracks quickly, waving his arms in front of his face hastily. "Not that part," he corrects. "Not the kidnapping part or the weapon part or the fighting part. Those are all rubbish, all horrible, horrible things that never…" he sighs heavily, "never should have happened, not to you. Not to anyone."
"Then what?"
"Us," he says simply. "You and me."
"I'm not leaving," she says flatly. "I'm not going back."
"I don't want you to go back."
She snorts. "I'm not going with you, either."
It stings, but he hides it with a shrug. "Okay," he agrees, fishing into his pockets. He pulls out a key - the TARDIS key, she recognises - and with a flourish throws it as far as he can. She watches as it arches, spinning, and falls over the side of the cliff face.
"What did you do that for?"
He grins - this early on, he still has the ability to surprise her - and sits down on a long, flat headstone. "I'm not going anywhere, either."
She opens and closes her mouth several times, looking back and forth between him and the ravine. "I've been trying to kill you for years," she reminds him, and he almost laughs.
"You've been trying to not kill me for years," he returns, "There's a difference." He eyes her knowingly. "It wouldn't have been difficult for you, if you'd really wanted."
She turns away, then, staring out across the graveyard, watching the ghosts weave in and out of the surface.
"I know you don't trust me," he says softly. "Not yet, at least. But you can someday. If you want."
She scoffs, "Where's the fun in that?" and doesn't notice when he winces; the faith he'll come to cherish hasn't been born yet. Doesn't exist. But then she turns, hesitant and curious and demanding: "Why?"
"Because I made a promise," he says, getting awkwardly to his feet and dusting off his trousers as he approaches her. "A long, long time ago, to a woman I barely knew. I made a promise that I would watch us run, as far and fast and long as we could." His voice drops and he resists the urge to take her hands, to touch her face. "Because I trust you, River Song, even if you don't trust yourself."
She pauses, so still and so unsure. He's offering her a chance, a first chance, a right chance, and her bones ache at the risk of it all; what could happen to her if she does, how she might actually change.
“There are things--” She stops abruptly, and the Doctor holds his breath. “There are things I can’t remember. Things I know I’ve done, but I can’t--”
Flashes of white, sandy beaches. A creature standing above her, haloed by the sun. Writing on the walls.
“River?” he touches her arm gently, and she blinks, startled, and jerks away.
“It’ll make sense someday,” he promises.
“How do you know?”
He grins. “Spoilers.”
She nearly growls, an angry whine in the back of her throat. “If you’re keeping something from me…” she warns, but he just shakes his head.
“It can’t be told, River. It has to be lived. And oh, do we live it. You and me.”
River frowns, her mind playing out all the angles, all the history and all the words and everything she knows about this man, and none of it, none of the stories or the fairy tales or the lessons are enough to convince her that he's lying; that this is some cruel joke at her expense. She doesn't trust him, not entirely, but he's still there, still waiting.
"Why?" she asks again, softer this time. "Why me? Why do you care?"
"I always care," he answers generally. Then: "We travel back to front. Your future is my past."
"So, what?" she demands. "I'm bound by some time-space law to go with you?"
"No," he murmurs, "No, not at all. Time can be rewritten, almost always. I only know what has happened, not what will happen. Time doesn't control free will."
She blinks. "That doesn't make any sense."
He grins. "Isn’t it wonderful?"
There's a flicker, an almost-smile, a touch of light to her eyes that he knows so well, remembers so fondly, loves so much. "You and me, River. Time and space." He holds out his hand. "What'd you say?"
She hesitates, stalling for time. "You threw the key over the cliff," she reminds him, but receives only a grin in response.
"Don't need it."
She stares at his outstretched hand. Words reverberate in her mind, cautions and threats and whispers, horrid tales of death and misery; the engine whine of the blue box, looming behind him. It terrifies her, that box; what she might find inside.
Slowly, so, so, slowly, she raises her hand. It lingers in the air between them, her mind and hearts duelling, her future staring at her from all directions. She shouldn't, she knows - it's too dangerous for them both, too volatile. But when she finally meets his gaze, he's looking at her with something in his eyes no one has ever held for her before:
hope.
She takes his hand.
"You're a lunatic," she says as he drags her toward the TARDIS. He stops in front of the doors, grinning widely, and snaps his fingers. The door swings open, and River stares, and the Doctor beams.
"River Song," he says, "You have no idea."
--
The air crackles with electricity and static, and then: nothing.
Kovarian looks around, staring out at the surface of a planet made entirely of sound. Vibrations hold the core, and the ground pulses with a throbbing bass, the air is high pitched and brutal, the floor a ringing tenor. Her temples pound, her skin crawls with notes. It's completely empty, save the sounds weaving in and out, in and out, unending bars.
She always knew it would end eventually. Knew her death would return to her in kind. But this, this place, this punishment--
The planet thrums around her, a steady, dizzying drone, treble and bass staggering their echoes.
She's done. Gone. She had no words, no fire, no passion - the weapon she raised, the girl she destroyed, picked her up and dropped her off without even a whisper, and now there's only this: the fizzing out of lightning, the fading imprint of a silhouette.
After a moment, not even the air remembers she was there.
And Kovarian is alone.
--
"I always thought it was strange," she says, too exhausted and too empty to care that she shouldn't be talking, shouldn't even be thinking like this around him. "A sad, lonely man with too much power and not enough Grace. A man who destroyed worlds and ended lives and purged the Universe in all parts of space and time. A bitter, bitter man corrupted by his own immortality." She smiles at him, but there's no joy, only pain, and he barely stops the hand that reaches for her desperately. "It never made any sense," she murmurs, and he swallows tightly.
"What didn't?"
"That anyone that alone, for that long, would want anything other than a friend."
"River..."
"You lied to me."
He nods solemnly. "Yes."
"You knew. You knew before I did, before I remembered. Everything I became. All that time you--"
She closes her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. He stares, and waits for them to fall.
"How?" she asks, her voice cracked in two. She looks at him with so much sadness, so much pain, years and years - the Silence. The metal box. The astronaut in the lake. Everything suddenly weighted, all returned. She stares at him like someone so, so broken, and he doesn't understand how through all that grief and all that noise, she only asks one question, steeped in desperation and guilt:
"How could you ever love me?"
Her tears fall and his shoulders fall and he kisses her because for the first time, he doesn't know what else to do.
--
"It's okay," he says, "I know who you are."
She raises her weapon. Two shots echo across the water, and he stumbles backwards.
Amy screams in the distance.
The astronaut stares.
The Doctor waits for pain, but it never comes. He sees Amy tear out of Rory's arms at the same time the child falters; the gun lands with a muted slap at his feet.
"No," he breathes. Melody falls, and he lurches forward, easing her gently to the ground. "Melody. Melody, can you hear me?"
Amy drops to his side, grabbing his arm frantically, trying to pull him away, crying out and demanding answers and all he can see is the pale face behind the glass. He looks up suddenly, eyes scanning the beach frantically. "Where did it come from?" He digs in his pocket for his screwdriver and stands, scanning the area in a flurry of motion. "Where did it--" He turns around. Amy is next to him and Rory is crouched over the astronaut, trying to pry her from the suit. River stands by his side, gun in her hand, eyes sharp and stance tight -- ahead of him, already ascertaining dangers and locations and, he knows, ready to put herself between him and uncertainty. He grabs her shoulders suddenly, and she blinks in surprise.
"What have you done?" he demands.
She opens her mouth to protest but he's already moved away, pacing, muttering, "No, not yet, not you, but how--" He whirls, squinting off into the distance; he can see the boat, Canton's car, the picnic blanket.
"Doctor?"
River's voice breaks his concentration, but he can't look at her. She'll know.
She always knows.
"River, go back to the TARDIS," he says sharply. "Bring her here."
"Doctor, what is happening?" Amy demands, standing now between him and River, looking between them and the astronaut.
"Rory, do not let her die," he says fiercely, barely finished before River protests,
"She tried to kill you!"
Too close, in her face, anger and fear and too much knowledge: "She's a little girl!"
River looks from him to the child, but there's no recognition in her eyes. It's as strange to her as it is to the rest of them, but she's smarter, older, and she turns back to him, voice flat and brittle. "You knew," she accuses, and Amy's head snaps toward her.
"You knew she was coming here, that this would happen. That she would try to kill you."
"Doctor?" Amy, almost childlike: "Is that true?"
He waves his hand in the air between them, frustrated. "We don't have time for this. River, the TARDIS--"
"Tell me you didn't know." She's so still, so tight, every chord of muscle taught and drawn and it was necessary, he knows, but the grief on her face is almost unbearable, and he looks away. River scoffs, slamming her gun back into its holster and handing Rory her hand-held device. "I'll get the TARDIS," she says flatly, and without another word takes off up the beach. He watches her for only a moment, then turns and drops to his knees next to the girl.
"Rory?"
He nods, confused but dutiful, indicating to the small computer. "She's alive, but barely. We need to get her out of this suit so I can examine her." The Doctor sighs, and Amy grabs his arm tightly.
"Doctor, what is going on?"
"Time," he says absently, "Time is being rewritten, meddled with."
He says it so gravely that she starts, pulling away. "Isn't that a good thing? River's right, she was going to kill you!"
"It's not that simple," he murmurs, eyes fixed on Melody's pale face.
"Doctor," Amy starts, but he's saved from any questions by the soft whir of the TARDIS. River opens the door and the Doctor gestures to Rory, both of them lifting the astronaut awkwardly and carrying her inside. River moves to help, but the Doctor snaps, "Don't!" She raises her eyebrows at him in question, her hands hovering just over the girl's arm, and he shakes his head. "Trust me, River, please. Don't."
She nods, slowly backing away. Amy watches from the sidelines as they gently place the child on the floor. Together, Rory and the Doctor remove her helmet, and Rory gasps quietly. "She's so young," he breathes.
Hardly, the Doctor thinks, but instead says: "Out."
Rory looks up. "What?"
"All of you," he says, concentrating on the suit, "Out. Out of the TARDIS, right now."
"Doctor--"
"Especially you, River," he snaps. It's wrong, he knows, to accuse her of something she hasn't done yet; something he assumes she's done. But she's here now, came just like she always does - did - will - and everything is jumbled and messy and he glares up at her harshly. "Seriously, all of you, out now. Go back to the restaurant."
"Doctor, you can't just leave us here," Amy says. Rory moves to help the Doctor, but he slaps his hands away and stands quickly, awkwardly, all hasty limbs and agitation.
River: "Let us help."
"You've done enough!" he yells. Amy steps back slightly, but River barely moves, doesn't flinch.
"I'm not leaving."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "River," he warns, but she barely reacts. It's a standoff, one he knows he could never win, and he sighs heavily.
"Amy, Rory, give us a minute."
"But the girl--"
"She'll be fine, Rory, I'll take care of her. Go." Neither of them move, and he lowers his voice. "Seriously. Go."
Amy watches him, confounded, as Rory leads her gently out the door, closing it behind him. He can hear their muffled arguing from outside, just underneath River's sharp, "Do you have any idea how much you just hurt her?"
He nods, deflated, and crosses the distance between them in a few strides. He doesn't touch her, too afraid, his hands fluttering nervously around her instead.
"Doctor," she says lowly, gently. "What is going on?"
"I can't tell you."
"Our timelines--"
"I lied." He bows his head. "I'm sorry, River. I lied. I'm older, much older. We're not linear."
She swallows tightly. "Why would you do that?"
"I had to. If there were another way, I would have…" His eyes stray to the girl, to Melody, to the paradox before him.
"Doctor."
He grabs her hands and presses his forehead to hers. "Please, River. Please trust me. I need you. I'm meeting you in the restaurant in about an hour, a younger me. There's somewhere we have to go and I…I need you there, more than here."
"Space, 1969."
"Yes."
Her gaze flickers to the astronaut. "You said time had been rewritten."
He nods slowly, his thumbs running gently over her palms. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
She looks back at him with bright, unguarded eyes. "I'm glad it did." He inhales sharply, but she doesn't notice. She kisses his cheek and pulls away. "I'll take care of them," she promises, one hand on the door.
He stands, frozen in place. "I know you will."
The door closes behind her softly, and he stares after her for a moment too long. Then all at once his anger returns, his confusion, his terror, and he scrambles up to the controls, slamming buttons and pulling levers harsher than necessary.
"Find her," he demands of the Box. "Find her now."
--
They are methodical. Perfect in their implementation. A single strike planned over 100 years into the future. Every step. Every breath. Twists and turns and rewinds to confuse and delay. They are tireless. They are precise.
They make no mistakes.
When they fall, it will be through no fault of their own, save one -
They tried.
--
Even when she’s young she has nightmares.
Grey faces, white walls, the smell of leather. The hum of the TARDIS is like a trigger, and it takes her months to get used to it; months before she can touch the walls, before she ventures into rooms on her own.
It’s an arch sometimes, their timeline, the end echoing the beginning and the beginning repeating the end. The first time she told him about the dreams was the last time he ever held her though the night. There are days in the middle where he doesn’t know, isn’t sure where they stand, but back at the beginning he can’t stay away, can’t even try. It’s a long time before she lets him in; before she tells him about the things she can’t remember, the words she can’t forget.
So many nights she doesn’t sleep, wandering the halls. He knows that someday she’ll grow to love the TARDIS, that she’ll talk to her and touch her and treat her sometimes better than he does.
“She’s a part of you,” the Doctor tells her one night, coaxing her to place a hand on the console. She does so tentatively, warily, and the TARIDS quiets, almost as if holding her breath. “We spoke once, the old girl and I. She told us about you. The only water in the forest.” He smiles at the memory. “I’ve travelled with a lot of people over the centuries, but there’s only one I’ve ever taught to fly my TARDIS.”
“Who?”
He crooks a finger across her cheek briefly and smiles. “You.”
--
She takes five lives before the end.
Two out of necessity - the scientist and the colonel; the mastermind and the keeper. Two because they’re strong, because they’re smart, because even if it all unravels, they’ll remember, and maybe Time will change; because she can’t leave the threads so frayed.
The third she takes out of mercy. He’s too old, too tired, too far gone to remember his name or his life or his purpose. They held him captive, a small, timid man with a bowtie and warm hands and writing on his arms: Get out. Go now. But he never did. He never left, even when he remembered; he read her fairy tales and kissed her forehead and tucked her in at night and told her not to fear the Silence or the thunder or the darkness. So she held his hand and watched him go and regrets only that it took her so long to free him; to understand.
The fourth life she takes because she can. Because she has no words. Because even if time rewrites it all, she’ll still be there, still haunting - the woman with the silver eye; her nightmares in a single glance.
She swore to him, so many memories ago, that she’d never kill for this, never take because she could or because she wanted to or because it seemed appropriate.
“We aren’t judges,” he told her once, back when her skin was still fair and her hands still unsteady. “We don’t get to bring life, or end it.”
She remembers the words, the sorrow in his eyes, even as she leaves in a whif of smoke, the treble pulsing in her bones long after the static has faded.
Contradictory lessons, fables and stories, rush behind her eyelids, accounts of God and men, clerics and thieves. The last life she takes isn’t planned or voluntary; like a dusty photograph, she remembers the motions, the scene, but the expressions are blurred out by time and guilt, his apology tearing at her hearts.
She takes five lives, passes five judgements, so that after the end, she can give just one back.
--
He can tell by the style that something's wrong. No museums. No decorated cliffs. No urgent phone calls or flying stunts. Just a psychic paper, no address: come when you can and a date.
She's curled up on the sofa, a forgotten cup of tea on the table. No books. No disguises. Her face is clear of makeup; clear of the brightness and sound and spark.
He gropes for something to say, some wit or ramble that will make her smile. All he manages is her name.
She tries. She tries so hard, so bravely, to keep up appearances. He can tell she wants to tease him, wants to spare him whatever pain she's come across. But she can't, not this time, and he crouches in front her without hesitation. "River," he says. A question. A plea. He takes her hands and she grips his fingers tightly.
If there's one thing he can do, one thing he's good at, he can catch her when she falls.
"Where are we?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter--"
"Where are we?"
He sighs. "We've just done the waterfalls on Pylea IV."
Her face crumples, and she looks away. "We're too early," she whispers. "I can't--"
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. The TARDIS…" She inhales shakily. "She brought this you for a reason."
He nods, but doesn't quite believe it. She needs him, another him, an older him, someone who knows and understands. "I could go and come back," he offers gently, but she shakes her head frantically and grabs his hand and he moves quickly, sliding up onto the couch and pulling her into his shoulder.
"Talk to me," he begs, running a hand up and down her arm.
"Spoilers," she murmurs; the sound reverberates under his skin, and he tightens his grip on her hand.
"You're clever, River," he urges, "Talk to me."
Her hearts beat in tandem to his own. Her hair smells like coconut and wildflowers and dust and there's a ring on her left hand that's digging into his own. She says nothing for a long, long time, regulating her breathing to the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on the softness of his skin and the clasp on his braces digging into her collarbone.
I remember, she wants to tell him. I remember everything. And I’m sorry.
"It's just difficult sometimes," she says instead. "All of Time at our fingertips….and nothing we can change."
"Time isn't meant to be controlled," he murmurs, though he knows the feeling, the ache. She doesn't say anything else. "We can go to Zakis," he offers suddenly. "Or New New York." River looks up at him, craning her neck to meet his gaze. "Brachton has a lovely harvest festival this time of year - well, any time of year, really," he amends, gesturing to the TARDIS.
River hesitates.
She never hesitates.
"We can stay here, too," he offers. "I can stay."
She lowers her head back against his chest, fingers of her free hand curling over his shoulder, one leg over his. "Thank you," she whispers. He kisses the top of her head.
"Always."
--
She's half in the shadows, staring out the wide window and watching the black around them as it swirls and curves. He knows she can see it; can feel it the way he does, or at least close. He can tell by her posture, the curve of her neck and the arc of her spine that she hears the whispers and echoes the Universe leaves behind as it shifts, too fast and too slow to be seen with the human eye. The blackness dances and sings and the Doctor watches her watch its performance in the silence. Framed against the light from the TARDIS, the light of space, she's beautiful; she looks softer, somehow; less cold. But her voice - when it shatters the air around them, drawing him back into the room, into the moment, into one time in one place; her voice, like fire in a crowded room, breaks his hearts.
"Madame Kovarian is dead."
Flat. Emotionless. She says it without remorse and without pride and dares him silently to rebuke her, to torment her with the morality she chose - just this once - to lack.
The Doctor nods. He doesn't agree, but he can't find it in himself to blame her, not this time, not after everything. Instead he turns, following her gaze out into the sky. The stars seem dimmer, the blackness paler, like the joy has faded from its reverie; like it knows.
He can tell she's waiting. Waiting for the fall-out, for the punishment. She's waiting for him to cut her down as he so easily could, with a word or a gesture or a look. He could end her, he knows; not the woman - the brilliant, fierce, tormented woman before him, her he could never touch, but River, his River - all he'd have to do is throw it away. (Sometimes he thinks he should. Maybe it would be better that way, for the both of them.)
But all she's ever asked of him - through all of time and all of space and every scar - all she's ever asked is that he let her stay.
"No questions?" she asks finally, terse and defensive. She waits. He catches her glance.
"Will you sleep now?"
Barely a whisper. Soft and gentle like a breeze.
Under its spell, she silently breaks.
--
He's barely out of the TARDIS before he starts, rage and fire in every gesture, every word, a storm of guilt and fear and she weathers it as she always has, static in the centre, inhaling the dust until her lungs are full and she can barely speak. It’s been hours for her, probably minutes for him. She went somewhere she knew he’d find her - their apartment, small and barely lived in, but a fixed point for them; a sanctuary.
His words and his anger feel like anything but, and she tightens her grip on the sink, her ring loose on her finger and tinkering against the porcelain.
“Where?” he demands. “Where did you come from? Where did you go?”
River inhales deeply and turns to face him, leaning back against the sink. Her legs are still shaky, her blood cold. Time is holding its breath, waiting for her answer; the Doctor is waiting.
“Los Angeles. 3034.”
The Doctor blanches slightly. “That’s right in the middle of Reconstruction.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Kovarian--” he starts, but she shakes her head.
“Whatever happens, happens. Just…” She exhales sharply. “Just get me there before I regenerate, or we’ll all be in a world of trouble.”
He points a finger at her accusingly. “I’m coming right back,” he snaps, already backing into the TARDIS. “Don’t you dare leave.”
The door snaps closed, and the box disappears, and River exhales sharply. Memories are refolding themselves, some fading, some growing brighter; two sets of lives with points intersecting, purple and gold and hot. She needs time, time to think, time to adjust, time to reconsile it all in her head; but she barely has time to gather herself before he returns.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, nearly a shout, and River braces herself with nonchalance.
"You're welcome," she drawls, but she doesn't turn, can't. She keeps her eyes focused on the sink in front of her, head down, avoiding her reflection. The Doctor doesn't notice, deep into a tirade that she only catches pieces of; her mind is still echoing, still seething, time altering itself in her memories and skin.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he snaps, pacing the floor behind her. "She could have died! You could have--"
Sharply: "I'm well aware of the ramifications, Doctor."
"I don't think you are! You created a paradox! A tear in space-time. Do you have any idea how dangerous--"
She whirls on him fiercely, her promise to be calm giving way to a flurry of emotions - fear, guilt, anger, regret - but above all, relief, a barely constrained joy that he's here, over a thousand years old, still here and safe and the words bubble over without her consent: "I didn't have a choice!"
He whirls, gesticulating sharply. “You think Kovarian’s just going to let this go? Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in? If they find out you failed--”
“Let them come.”
“River,” he warns, a deadly edge to his voice but she doesn’t care.
"I'm a weapon, Doctor," she reminds him sharply. "I'm the most powerful weapon the universe has ever known, and that includes you. And it includes Kovarian. I can't change how I was bred, but by god I can change what I choose to destroy."
“You just rewrote history. Your history -- my history!” the Doctor shouts, stalking away and then stopping, his fists tight against his sides. “I taught you better,” he murmurs, harsh and guttural. “I told you never, ever to interfere with my time line and you promised - you promised me and I trusted you, River, I trusted you and I have never once regretted that until--”
"You knew," she interrupts, partly to stop him and partly to save herself; she can’t hear those words from him, that tone, that disappointment.
The Doctor freezes as River moves closer, anger bubbling up the more she concentrates, the more she remembers. She intends the words to be strong and full of indignation, but they come out cracked and quivering. "You knew it was me and you made me watch.” She pushes against him suddenly, sending him stumbling backwards. "You bastard."
He shakes his head, a trace of his anger dissipating, and reaches for her. "River--" he tries, but she pushes him again, harder, his back bumping the TARDIS softly.
"You knew!"
"Everybody dies, River," he snaps, righting himself and moving into the open space of her kitchen. "You of all people know that."
Her eyes widen in pain and disbelief. "And you thought I could just let that go?" she whispers fiercely, her lungs tight and breathing shallow and the world is spinning slightly, gravity changing, molecules shifting. She stares at him nakedly, brokenly, and he looks away, lips tight and eyes shadowed. "Did you?" she demands, a little stronger. He remains silent, furious and yet humbled, trapped between black and white and her voice, shaking as she nearly screams: "Answer me!"
"I needed you there," he says flatly, unable to settle on a feeling or thought. "Needed to trust you--"
"So I could destroy you later?" she gasps out, holding a hand to her chest like she can barely breathe.
"It was my time, River!" he shouts, but her voice covers his, frantic and shrill:
"Not by my hand!"
He stills. The room is suddenly too quiet, too empty, and he drops his head and sighs. When he glances back, expecting understanding or commiseration or at the least respect, all he sees is pain. Like he's destroyed everything she holds dear in a single line. The realisation - her words, his anger, the shots across the beach, everything unfolding and refolding in his mind, hundreds of years and moments and places and here, now, the look on her face - hits him with enough force that he stumbles, disciplined by the obviousness of it.
"River…" he tries softly, but she shakes her head.
"No."
He moves closer but she flinches away and he stops, stunned, and for the first time he looks, really looks at her - pale skin and damp eyes and marks on her skin he's never seen before; she's resting her weight against the table, one hand flat on its surface and the other arm curled around her stomach. She looks so dull, so grey, so improper, and it starts to make sense, to settle in his bones that which he refused to admit. She moves jerkily to the side, bracing herself over the counter, hands against the wood, her back to him, hair shielding her face. She doesn't turn, and it terrifies him so, her stillness.
"River," he whispers. His shoulders drop and his fists relax and she inhales shakily but her throat catches on a sob and he's by her side, trying to turn her, trying desperately to see her face. "River, look at me," he begs when she tries to pull away. She's shaking, barely upright, a hand pressed to her lips and her eyes closed and he doesn't know what he was thinking, coming here like this. His voice breaks on her name and he folds his arms around her without a second thought. She bends into him effortlessly, bones aligning, hands reaching out to curl into his collar, her face pressed tightly against his chest. "It's all right," he soothes. One hand tangles in her hair, the other runs up and down her spine, pressing her impossibly closer. "It's okay, it's okay," he promises, just above her broken admission,
"I couldn't."
The Doctor closes his eyes, exhaling, her words reverberating along his skin.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I couldn't… I can't--"
He presses his lips to her hair and shakes his head. "It's okay, it'll be okay." Softer, on a prayer: "I'm still here."
She breaks, then. Body heaving with silent cries, hands running frantically over his chest and shoulders and face. Her hands are cold and damp, from her tears or his he doesn't know, and he brushes her hair back repeatedly. She meets his gaze finally, staring up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes and he stops breathing, stops thinking. Open and unguarded, he can feel it, everything, all her love and pain and guilt, everything she's ever felt for him unshadowed, her mind clear and full and her hearts beating hastily, an echo in the room so loud and so wrought: Forgive me. She stares at him, eyes wide, hands clinging to his shoulders as if she'd otherwise fall.
There's a new scar across her eye from her temple to her cheek, burn marks on her neck and a lilt to her posture, all new, all rewrites. His hearts break again and again and this, this sacrifice - he cups her cheeks in his palms and breathes her name and kisses her with everything - a thousand years of time and space pouring past his lips, tears for planets and stars and skies and she kisses him back as if its the last thing she'll ever do and all the while she's pleading with him, begging him to understand.
"I couldn't," she whispers, over and over against his mouth. He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, every bit of skin he can reach. "I'm sorry. I couldn't, I had to do something. I had to. I had to."
“You just rewrote your own history,” he murmurs, unable to keep the fear and awe from his voice. Then, finally, what propelled him here and sparked his anger and left him cold: “I could have lost you.”
It’s barely a whisper, more of a prayer, and the words echo around them, attaching themselves to particles and sound. “I could have lost you,” he breathes, a desperate edge to his tone, and she cups his cheek in her palm.
“Some things are fixed, my love.”
Time is still rewriting itself, still weaving; he can feel the strings of it wrapping and fraying in his mind; new stories added, old stories missing, but through it all she’s still there, still clinging to his hand as they run. He doesn’t believe in gods or demons or tricksters, but he thanks them all regardless; her body warm and soft and close and safe.
"River,” he murmurs, drawing out her name, rocking just slightly on his heels, his mind whispering songs and lullabies to hers. "How did this happen?" he asks, though it isn't really a question; he knows the answer - it stares at him every time she does, so plain it nearly hurts. River pulls back just slightly, still leaning into his touch. He brushes his thumbs back and forth across her skin, over the red and white line, soft and warm. "My most fearsome enemy…" She shudders, just slightly, and he shakes his head. "My greatest protector."
She closes her eyes and exhales and he can't help it; he kisses her, a barely-there brush of skin to skin; a tinge of salt. I love you, she says, though the words don't pass her lips.
I know.
*
Every year, the people of the Gamma Forests leave a ring of flowers around the Bone Meadows. They celebrate and offer prayers to the stars, and sing the songs of children, lost and found. Every year, a woman watches them from a distance, caressed in shadows and slivers of light. They never see her, never hear her, but she owns the forests here, the waters. The pebbles shaped like stars and the stars shaped like moons and she owns them all, holds them in her hand with a whisper of a tune long since forgotten by the rest of them.
She never stays too long; the electricity barely dissipates before it sparks again; she's the Forests' best keep secret, save to one.
The Doctor steps beside her, looking down at the canyon - flowers in all colours and shapes, transforming the ugly, barren land into a garden, a sanctuary. Children skip over the buried bones, laughter decorating the air. They'll all die, he knows - the flowers. Flatted into dust. She knows it, too, and without a word he grips her hand tightly, his ring pressing into their skins. She turns and smiles, her mind open and her thoughts calm and he kisses her forehead tenderly.
"Ready?" he asks. She nods, but doesn't move, just presses herself tighter against his side, head on his shoulder. "Where to next?" she asks, and he smiles; whispers:
"Everywhere."
--
They start out as fairy tales:
Once upon a time, through all of space, a doctor ran. He ran from the Silence, and from the echoes, and from Time itself. He ran until the day he died, the day he didn't die, the day that never should have been.
She doesn't believe in fairy tales anymore, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that there's a far simpler truth: that deep within the Forests and deep within Space, the Doctor will always run.
The Doctor runs, and the songs run, and the trees run, and the River stays calm and cool and deep.
- doctor who
- river song; river/doctor (eleven)
- 6700 this section
- r
- a/n: spoilers up through a good man goes to war, but not for the second half of series six. warning for mentions of child abuse, but nothing graphic.
- endless thanks to tenacious_err and my hippie aunt for the beta/suggestions, and to leanstein for the support and prodding. happy birthday, gidget_zb!
- title from the atheist christmas carol by vienna teng
part one
part two
It takes months, but he finally finds her among the ruins Anima Persis. It should have been obvious, now that he's there, now that he sees it - barren and sterile, a planet destroyed by war, inhabited only by ghosts - the last warrior, digging herself a grave. She's out of place, here. Her skin is too bright and her hair too still; there's no wind, no rain, no warmth. Another might have deserved it, but he knows better; she doesn't.
"River," he says gently, keeping a careful distance.
She doesn't turn. "Go away."
He smiles faintly and shakes his head. "I can't do that."
She huffs, annoyed, and fixes him with a wounded stare. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Planets to save, damsels to rescue." It's said with scorn, but beneath it there's a glimmer of truth, of respect and awe and he shrugs and offers her a cheeky grin.
"Who says I'm not doing so right now?"
She glowers - distress has never applied to her - and kicks absently at a bone by her feet. The ghosts shake and swirl, but she pays them no notice. "What do you want?" He raises both eyebrows in question, and she gives him a look. "You didn't track me across the universe to gloat; it's not your style."
The Doctor hmms in agreement and takes a few steps closer. She eyes him warily, but doesn't move. "Gloating is for those who have something to be proud of," he remarks, shaking his head.
"You won the War."
"There was no war, River," he murmurs. "Only what Kovarian made up."
She flinches at the name, fingers itching for a trigger. "Quite a story, then, isn't it?" she says bitterly. She's young, so young, so lost; a shell of the woman he used to know; the woman she’ll become. The lines on her face are harder, her jaw set tighter, and he almost thinks it would be easier, if she were wearing a different face, one he doesn’t know so well, one he hasn’t touched and kissed so many times. She doesn't trust him, doesn't love him, barely even knows him, and yet, here she is: a broken planet for a broken soul, trying to find her penance in the dusts of the dead.
"It's the best story there is," he answers, and she looks up at him in disgusted surprise. He backtracks quickly, waving his arms in front of his face hastily. "Not that part," he corrects. "Not the kidnapping part or the weapon part or the fighting part. Those are all rubbish, all horrible, horrible things that never…" he sighs heavily, "never should have happened, not to you. Not to anyone."
"Then what?"
"Us," he says simply. "You and me."
"I'm not leaving," she says flatly. "I'm not going back."
"I don't want you to go back."
She snorts. "I'm not going with you, either."
It stings, but he hides it with a shrug. "Okay," he agrees, fishing into his pockets. He pulls out a key - the TARDIS key, she recognises - and with a flourish throws it as far as he can. She watches as it arches, spinning, and falls over the side of the cliff face.
"What did you do that for?"
He grins - this early on, he still has the ability to surprise her - and sits down on a long, flat headstone. "I'm not going anywhere, either."
She opens and closes her mouth several times, looking back and forth between him and the ravine. "I've been trying to kill you for years," she reminds him, and he almost laughs.
"You've been trying to not kill me for years," he returns, "There's a difference." He eyes her knowingly. "It wouldn't have been difficult for you, if you'd really wanted."
She turns away, then, staring out across the graveyard, watching the ghosts weave in and out of the surface.
"I know you don't trust me," he says softly. "Not yet, at least. But you can someday. If you want."
She scoffs, "Where's the fun in that?" and doesn't notice when he winces; the faith he'll come to cherish hasn't been born yet. Doesn't exist. But then she turns, hesitant and curious and demanding: "Why?"
"Because I made a promise," he says, getting awkwardly to his feet and dusting off his trousers as he approaches her. "A long, long time ago, to a woman I barely knew. I made a promise that I would watch us run, as far and fast and long as we could." His voice drops and he resists the urge to take her hands, to touch her face. "Because I trust you, River Song, even if you don't trust yourself."
She pauses, so still and so unsure. He's offering her a chance, a first chance, a right chance, and her bones ache at the risk of it all; what could happen to her if she does, how she might actually change.
“There are things--” She stops abruptly, and the Doctor holds his breath. “There are things I can’t remember. Things I know I’ve done, but I can’t--”
Flashes of white, sandy beaches. A creature standing above her, haloed by the sun. Writing on the walls.
“River?” he touches her arm gently, and she blinks, startled, and jerks away.
“It’ll make sense someday,” he promises.
“How do you know?”
He grins. “Spoilers.”
She nearly growls, an angry whine in the back of her throat. “If you’re keeping something from me…” she warns, but he just shakes his head.
“It can’t be told, River. It has to be lived. And oh, do we live it. You and me.”
River frowns, her mind playing out all the angles, all the history and all the words and everything she knows about this man, and none of it, none of the stories or the fairy tales or the lessons are enough to convince her that he's lying; that this is some cruel joke at her expense. She doesn't trust him, not entirely, but he's still there, still waiting.
"Why?" she asks again, softer this time. "Why me? Why do you care?"
"I always care," he answers generally. Then: "We travel back to front. Your future is my past."
"So, what?" she demands. "I'm bound by some time-space law to go with you?"
"No," he murmurs, "No, not at all. Time can be rewritten, almost always. I only know what has happened, not what will happen. Time doesn't control free will."
She blinks. "That doesn't make any sense."
He grins. "Isn’t it wonderful?"
There's a flicker, an almost-smile, a touch of light to her eyes that he knows so well, remembers so fondly, loves so much. "You and me, River. Time and space." He holds out his hand. "What'd you say?"
She hesitates, stalling for time. "You threw the key over the cliff," she reminds him, but receives only a grin in response.
"Don't need it."
She stares at his outstretched hand. Words reverberate in her mind, cautions and threats and whispers, horrid tales of death and misery; the engine whine of the blue box, looming behind him. It terrifies her, that box; what she might find inside.
Slowly, so, so, slowly, she raises her hand. It lingers in the air between them, her mind and hearts duelling, her future staring at her from all directions. She shouldn't, she knows - it's too dangerous for them both, too volatile. But when she finally meets his gaze, he's looking at her with something in his eyes no one has ever held for her before:
hope.
She takes his hand.
"You're a lunatic," she says as he drags her toward the TARDIS. He stops in front of the doors, grinning widely, and snaps his fingers. The door swings open, and River stares, and the Doctor beams.
"River Song," he says, "You have no idea."
--
The air crackles with electricity and static, and then: nothing.
Kovarian looks around, staring out at the surface of a planet made entirely of sound. Vibrations hold the core, and the ground pulses with a throbbing bass, the air is high pitched and brutal, the floor a ringing tenor. Her temples pound, her skin crawls with notes. It's completely empty, save the sounds weaving in and out, in and out, unending bars.
She always knew it would end eventually. Knew her death would return to her in kind. But this, this place, this punishment--
The planet thrums around her, a steady, dizzying drone, treble and bass staggering their echoes.
She's done. Gone. She had no words, no fire, no passion - the weapon she raised, the girl she destroyed, picked her up and dropped her off without even a whisper, and now there's only this: the fizzing out of lightning, the fading imprint of a silhouette.
After a moment, not even the air remembers she was there.
And Kovarian is alone.
--
"I always thought it was strange," she says, too exhausted and too empty to care that she shouldn't be talking, shouldn't even be thinking like this around him. "A sad, lonely man with too much power and not enough Grace. A man who destroyed worlds and ended lives and purged the Universe in all parts of space and time. A bitter, bitter man corrupted by his own immortality." She smiles at him, but there's no joy, only pain, and he barely stops the hand that reaches for her desperately. "It never made any sense," she murmurs, and he swallows tightly.
"What didn't?"
"That anyone that alone, for that long, would want anything other than a friend."
"River..."
"You lied to me."
He nods solemnly. "Yes."
"You knew. You knew before I did, before I remembered. Everything I became. All that time you--"
She closes her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. He stares, and waits for them to fall.
"How?" she asks, her voice cracked in two. She looks at him with so much sadness, so much pain, years and years - the Silence. The metal box. The astronaut in the lake. Everything suddenly weighted, all returned. She stares at him like someone so, so broken, and he doesn't understand how through all that grief and all that noise, she only asks one question, steeped in desperation and guilt:
"How could you ever love me?"
Her tears fall and his shoulders fall and he kisses her because for the first time, he doesn't know what else to do.
--
"It's okay," he says, "I know who you are."
She raises her weapon. Two shots echo across the water, and he stumbles backwards.
Amy screams in the distance.
The astronaut stares.
The Doctor waits for pain, but it never comes. He sees Amy tear out of Rory's arms at the same time the child falters; the gun lands with a muted slap at his feet.
"No," he breathes. Melody falls, and he lurches forward, easing her gently to the ground. "Melody. Melody, can you hear me?"
Amy drops to his side, grabbing his arm frantically, trying to pull him away, crying out and demanding answers and all he can see is the pale face behind the glass. He looks up suddenly, eyes scanning the beach frantically. "Where did it come from?" He digs in his pocket for his screwdriver and stands, scanning the area in a flurry of motion. "Where did it--" He turns around. Amy is next to him and Rory is crouched over the astronaut, trying to pry her from the suit. River stands by his side, gun in her hand, eyes sharp and stance tight -- ahead of him, already ascertaining dangers and locations and, he knows, ready to put herself between him and uncertainty. He grabs her shoulders suddenly, and she blinks in surprise.
"What have you done?" he demands.
She opens her mouth to protest but he's already moved away, pacing, muttering, "No, not yet, not you, but how--" He whirls, squinting off into the distance; he can see the boat, Canton's car, the picnic blanket.
"Doctor?"
River's voice breaks his concentration, but he can't look at her. She'll know.
She always knows.
"River, go back to the TARDIS," he says sharply. "Bring her here."
"Doctor, what is happening?" Amy demands, standing now between him and River, looking between them and the astronaut.
"Rory, do not let her die," he says fiercely, barely finished before River protests,
"She tried to kill you!"
Too close, in her face, anger and fear and too much knowledge: "She's a little girl!"
River looks from him to the child, but there's no recognition in her eyes. It's as strange to her as it is to the rest of them, but she's smarter, older, and she turns back to him, voice flat and brittle. "You knew," she accuses, and Amy's head snaps toward her.
"You knew she was coming here, that this would happen. That she would try to kill you."
"Doctor?" Amy, almost childlike: "Is that true?"
He waves his hand in the air between them, frustrated. "We don't have time for this. River, the TARDIS--"
"Tell me you didn't know." She's so still, so tight, every chord of muscle taught and drawn and it was necessary, he knows, but the grief on her face is almost unbearable, and he looks away. River scoffs, slamming her gun back into its holster and handing Rory her hand-held device. "I'll get the TARDIS," she says flatly, and without another word takes off up the beach. He watches her for only a moment, then turns and drops to his knees next to the girl.
"Rory?"
He nods, confused but dutiful, indicating to the small computer. "She's alive, but barely. We need to get her out of this suit so I can examine her." The Doctor sighs, and Amy grabs his arm tightly.
"Doctor, what is going on?"
"Time," he says absently, "Time is being rewritten, meddled with."
He says it so gravely that she starts, pulling away. "Isn't that a good thing? River's right, she was going to kill you!"
"It's not that simple," he murmurs, eyes fixed on Melody's pale face.
"Doctor," Amy starts, but he's saved from any questions by the soft whir of the TARDIS. River opens the door and the Doctor gestures to Rory, both of them lifting the astronaut awkwardly and carrying her inside. River moves to help, but the Doctor snaps, "Don't!" She raises her eyebrows at him in question, her hands hovering just over the girl's arm, and he shakes his head. "Trust me, River, please. Don't."
She nods, slowly backing away. Amy watches from the sidelines as they gently place the child on the floor. Together, Rory and the Doctor remove her helmet, and Rory gasps quietly. "She's so young," he breathes.
Hardly, the Doctor thinks, but instead says: "Out."
Rory looks up. "What?"
"All of you," he says, concentrating on the suit, "Out. Out of the TARDIS, right now."
"Doctor--"
"Especially you, River," he snaps. It's wrong, he knows, to accuse her of something she hasn't done yet; something he assumes she's done. But she's here now, came just like she always does - did - will - and everything is jumbled and messy and he glares up at her harshly. "Seriously, all of you, out now. Go back to the restaurant."
"Doctor, you can't just leave us here," Amy says. Rory moves to help the Doctor, but he slaps his hands away and stands quickly, awkwardly, all hasty limbs and agitation.
River: "Let us help."
"You've done enough!" he yells. Amy steps back slightly, but River barely moves, doesn't flinch.
"I'm not leaving."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "River," he warns, but she barely reacts. It's a standoff, one he knows he could never win, and he sighs heavily.
"Amy, Rory, give us a minute."
"But the girl--"
"She'll be fine, Rory, I'll take care of her. Go." Neither of them move, and he lowers his voice. "Seriously. Go."
Amy watches him, confounded, as Rory leads her gently out the door, closing it behind him. He can hear their muffled arguing from outside, just underneath River's sharp, "Do you have any idea how much you just hurt her?"
He nods, deflated, and crosses the distance between them in a few strides. He doesn't touch her, too afraid, his hands fluttering nervously around her instead.
"Doctor," she says lowly, gently. "What is going on?"
"I can't tell you."
"Our timelines--"
"I lied." He bows his head. "I'm sorry, River. I lied. I'm older, much older. We're not linear."
She swallows tightly. "Why would you do that?"
"I had to. If there were another way, I would have…" His eyes stray to the girl, to Melody, to the paradox before him.
"Doctor."
He grabs her hands and presses his forehead to hers. "Please, River. Please trust me. I need you. I'm meeting you in the restaurant in about an hour, a younger me. There's somewhere we have to go and I…I need you there, more than here."
"Space, 1969."
"Yes."
Her gaze flickers to the astronaut. "You said time had been rewritten."
He nods slowly, his thumbs running gently over her palms. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
She looks back at him with bright, unguarded eyes. "I'm glad it did." He inhales sharply, but she doesn't notice. She kisses his cheek and pulls away. "I'll take care of them," she promises, one hand on the door.
He stands, frozen in place. "I know you will."
The door closes behind her softly, and he stares after her for a moment too long. Then all at once his anger returns, his confusion, his terror, and he scrambles up to the controls, slamming buttons and pulling levers harsher than necessary.
"Find her," he demands of the Box. "Find her now."
--
They are methodical. Perfect in their implementation. A single strike planned over 100 years into the future. Every step. Every breath. Twists and turns and rewinds to confuse and delay. They are tireless. They are precise.
They make no mistakes.
When they fall, it will be through no fault of their own, save one -
They tried.
--
Even when she’s young she has nightmares.
Grey faces, white walls, the smell of leather. The hum of the TARDIS is like a trigger, and it takes her months to get used to it; months before she can touch the walls, before she ventures into rooms on her own.
It’s an arch sometimes, their timeline, the end echoing the beginning and the beginning repeating the end. The first time she told him about the dreams was the last time he ever held her though the night. There are days in the middle where he doesn’t know, isn’t sure where they stand, but back at the beginning he can’t stay away, can’t even try. It’s a long time before she lets him in; before she tells him about the things she can’t remember, the words she can’t forget.
So many nights she doesn’t sleep, wandering the halls. He knows that someday she’ll grow to love the TARDIS, that she’ll talk to her and touch her and treat her sometimes better than he does.
“She’s a part of you,” the Doctor tells her one night, coaxing her to place a hand on the console. She does so tentatively, warily, and the TARIDS quiets, almost as if holding her breath. “We spoke once, the old girl and I. She told us about you. The only water in the forest.” He smiles at the memory. “I’ve travelled with a lot of people over the centuries, but there’s only one I’ve ever taught to fly my TARDIS.”
“Who?”
He crooks a finger across her cheek briefly and smiles. “You.”
--
She takes five lives before the end.
Two out of necessity - the scientist and the colonel; the mastermind and the keeper. Two because they’re strong, because they’re smart, because even if it all unravels, they’ll remember, and maybe Time will change; because she can’t leave the threads so frayed.
The third she takes out of mercy. He’s too old, too tired, too far gone to remember his name or his life or his purpose. They held him captive, a small, timid man with a bowtie and warm hands and writing on his arms: Get out. Go now. But he never did. He never left, even when he remembered; he read her fairy tales and kissed her forehead and tucked her in at night and told her not to fear the Silence or the thunder or the darkness. So she held his hand and watched him go and regrets only that it took her so long to free him; to understand.
The fourth life she takes because she can. Because she has no words. Because even if time rewrites it all, she’ll still be there, still haunting - the woman with the silver eye; her nightmares in a single glance.
She swore to him, so many memories ago, that she’d never kill for this, never take because she could or because she wanted to or because it seemed appropriate.
“We aren’t judges,” he told her once, back when her skin was still fair and her hands still unsteady. “We don’t get to bring life, or end it.”
She remembers the words, the sorrow in his eyes, even as she leaves in a whif of smoke, the treble pulsing in her bones long after the static has faded.
Contradictory lessons, fables and stories, rush behind her eyelids, accounts of God and men, clerics and thieves. The last life she takes isn’t planned or voluntary; like a dusty photograph, she remembers the motions, the scene, but the expressions are blurred out by time and guilt, his apology tearing at her hearts.
She takes five lives, passes five judgements, so that after the end, she can give just one back.
--
He can tell by the style that something's wrong. No museums. No decorated cliffs. No urgent phone calls or flying stunts. Just a psychic paper, no address: come when you can and a date.
She's curled up on the sofa, a forgotten cup of tea on the table. No books. No disguises. Her face is clear of makeup; clear of the brightness and sound and spark.
He gropes for something to say, some wit or ramble that will make her smile. All he manages is her name.
She tries. She tries so hard, so bravely, to keep up appearances. He can tell she wants to tease him, wants to spare him whatever pain she's come across. But she can't, not this time, and he crouches in front her without hesitation. "River," he says. A question. A plea. He takes her hands and she grips his fingers tightly.
If there's one thing he can do, one thing he's good at, he can catch her when she falls.
"Where are we?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter--"
"Where are we?"
He sighs. "We've just done the waterfalls on Pylea IV."
Her face crumples, and she looks away. "We're too early," she whispers. "I can't--"
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. The TARDIS…" She inhales shakily. "She brought this you for a reason."
He nods, but doesn't quite believe it. She needs him, another him, an older him, someone who knows and understands. "I could go and come back," he offers gently, but she shakes her head frantically and grabs his hand and he moves quickly, sliding up onto the couch and pulling her into his shoulder.
"Talk to me," he begs, running a hand up and down her arm.
"Spoilers," she murmurs; the sound reverberates under his skin, and he tightens his grip on her hand.
"You're clever, River," he urges, "Talk to me."
Her hearts beat in tandem to his own. Her hair smells like coconut and wildflowers and dust and there's a ring on her left hand that's digging into his own. She says nothing for a long, long time, regulating her breathing to the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on the softness of his skin and the clasp on his braces digging into her collarbone.
I remember, she wants to tell him. I remember everything. And I’m sorry.
"It's just difficult sometimes," she says instead. "All of Time at our fingertips….and nothing we can change."
"Time isn't meant to be controlled," he murmurs, though he knows the feeling, the ache. She doesn't say anything else. "We can go to Zakis," he offers suddenly. "Or New New York." River looks up at him, craning her neck to meet his gaze. "Brachton has a lovely harvest festival this time of year - well, any time of year, really," he amends, gesturing to the TARDIS.
River hesitates.
She never hesitates.
"We can stay here, too," he offers. "I can stay."
She lowers her head back against his chest, fingers of her free hand curling over his shoulder, one leg over his. "Thank you," she whispers. He kisses the top of her head.
"Always."
--
She's half in the shadows, staring out the wide window and watching the black around them as it swirls and curves. He knows she can see it; can feel it the way he does, or at least close. He can tell by her posture, the curve of her neck and the arc of her spine that she hears the whispers and echoes the Universe leaves behind as it shifts, too fast and too slow to be seen with the human eye. The blackness dances and sings and the Doctor watches her watch its performance in the silence. Framed against the light from the TARDIS, the light of space, she's beautiful; she looks softer, somehow; less cold. But her voice - when it shatters the air around them, drawing him back into the room, into the moment, into one time in one place; her voice, like fire in a crowded room, breaks his hearts.
"Madame Kovarian is dead."
Flat. Emotionless. She says it without remorse and without pride and dares him silently to rebuke her, to torment her with the morality she chose - just this once - to lack.
The Doctor nods. He doesn't agree, but he can't find it in himself to blame her, not this time, not after everything. Instead he turns, following her gaze out into the sky. The stars seem dimmer, the blackness paler, like the joy has faded from its reverie; like it knows.
He can tell she's waiting. Waiting for the fall-out, for the punishment. She's waiting for him to cut her down as he so easily could, with a word or a gesture or a look. He could end her, he knows; not the woman - the brilliant, fierce, tormented woman before him, her he could never touch, but River, his River - all he'd have to do is throw it away. (Sometimes he thinks he should. Maybe it would be better that way, for the both of them.)
But all she's ever asked of him - through all of time and all of space and every scar - all she's ever asked is that he let her stay.
"No questions?" she asks finally, terse and defensive. She waits. He catches her glance.
"Will you sleep now?"
Barely a whisper. Soft and gentle like a breeze.
Under its spell, she silently breaks.
--
He's barely out of the TARDIS before he starts, rage and fire in every gesture, every word, a storm of guilt and fear and she weathers it as she always has, static in the centre, inhaling the dust until her lungs are full and she can barely speak. It’s been hours for her, probably minutes for him. She went somewhere she knew he’d find her - their apartment, small and barely lived in, but a fixed point for them; a sanctuary.
His words and his anger feel like anything but, and she tightens her grip on the sink, her ring loose on her finger and tinkering against the porcelain.
“Where?” he demands. “Where did you come from? Where did you go?”
River inhales deeply and turns to face him, leaning back against the sink. Her legs are still shaky, her blood cold. Time is holding its breath, waiting for her answer; the Doctor is waiting.
“Los Angeles. 3034.”
The Doctor blanches slightly. “That’s right in the middle of Reconstruction.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Kovarian--” he starts, but she shakes her head.
“Whatever happens, happens. Just…” She exhales sharply. “Just get me there before I regenerate, or we’ll all be in a world of trouble.”
He points a finger at her accusingly. “I’m coming right back,” he snaps, already backing into the TARDIS. “Don’t you dare leave.”
The door snaps closed, and the box disappears, and River exhales sharply. Memories are refolding themselves, some fading, some growing brighter; two sets of lives with points intersecting, purple and gold and hot. She needs time, time to think, time to adjust, time to reconsile it all in her head; but she barely has time to gather herself before he returns.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, nearly a shout, and River braces herself with nonchalance.
"You're welcome," she drawls, but she doesn't turn, can't. She keeps her eyes focused on the sink in front of her, head down, avoiding her reflection. The Doctor doesn't notice, deep into a tirade that she only catches pieces of; her mind is still echoing, still seething, time altering itself in her memories and skin.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he snaps, pacing the floor behind her. "She could have died! You could have--"
Sharply: "I'm well aware of the ramifications, Doctor."
"I don't think you are! You created a paradox! A tear in space-time. Do you have any idea how dangerous--"
She whirls on him fiercely, her promise to be calm giving way to a flurry of emotions - fear, guilt, anger, regret - but above all, relief, a barely constrained joy that he's here, over a thousand years old, still here and safe and the words bubble over without her consent: "I didn't have a choice!"
He whirls, gesticulating sharply. “You think Kovarian’s just going to let this go? Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in? If they find out you failed--”
“Let them come.”
“River,” he warns, a deadly edge to his voice but she doesn’t care.
"I'm a weapon, Doctor," she reminds him sharply. "I'm the most powerful weapon the universe has ever known, and that includes you. And it includes Kovarian. I can't change how I was bred, but by god I can change what I choose to destroy."
“You just rewrote history. Your history -- my history!” the Doctor shouts, stalking away and then stopping, his fists tight against his sides. “I taught you better,” he murmurs, harsh and guttural. “I told you never, ever to interfere with my time line and you promised - you promised me and I trusted you, River, I trusted you and I have never once regretted that until--”
"You knew," she interrupts, partly to stop him and partly to save herself; she can’t hear those words from him, that tone, that disappointment.
The Doctor freezes as River moves closer, anger bubbling up the more she concentrates, the more she remembers. She intends the words to be strong and full of indignation, but they come out cracked and quivering. "You knew it was me and you made me watch.” She pushes against him suddenly, sending him stumbling backwards. "You bastard."
He shakes his head, a trace of his anger dissipating, and reaches for her. "River--" he tries, but she pushes him again, harder, his back bumping the TARDIS softly.
"You knew!"
"Everybody dies, River," he snaps, righting himself and moving into the open space of her kitchen. "You of all people know that."
Her eyes widen in pain and disbelief. "And you thought I could just let that go?" she whispers fiercely, her lungs tight and breathing shallow and the world is spinning slightly, gravity changing, molecules shifting. She stares at him nakedly, brokenly, and he looks away, lips tight and eyes shadowed. "Did you?" she demands, a little stronger. He remains silent, furious and yet humbled, trapped between black and white and her voice, shaking as she nearly screams: "Answer me!"
"I needed you there," he says flatly, unable to settle on a feeling or thought. "Needed to trust you--"
"So I could destroy you later?" she gasps out, holding a hand to her chest like she can barely breathe.
"It was my time, River!" he shouts, but her voice covers his, frantic and shrill:
"Not by my hand!"
He stills. The room is suddenly too quiet, too empty, and he drops his head and sighs. When he glances back, expecting understanding or commiseration or at the least respect, all he sees is pain. Like he's destroyed everything she holds dear in a single line. The realisation - her words, his anger, the shots across the beach, everything unfolding and refolding in his mind, hundreds of years and moments and places and here, now, the look on her face - hits him with enough force that he stumbles, disciplined by the obviousness of it.
"River…" he tries softly, but she shakes her head.
"No."
He moves closer but she flinches away and he stops, stunned, and for the first time he looks, really looks at her - pale skin and damp eyes and marks on her skin he's never seen before; she's resting her weight against the table, one hand flat on its surface and the other arm curled around her stomach. She looks so dull, so grey, so improper, and it starts to make sense, to settle in his bones that which he refused to admit. She moves jerkily to the side, bracing herself over the counter, hands against the wood, her back to him, hair shielding her face. She doesn't turn, and it terrifies him so, her stillness.
"River," he whispers. His shoulders drop and his fists relax and she inhales shakily but her throat catches on a sob and he's by her side, trying to turn her, trying desperately to see her face. "River, look at me," he begs when she tries to pull away. She's shaking, barely upright, a hand pressed to her lips and her eyes closed and he doesn't know what he was thinking, coming here like this. His voice breaks on her name and he folds his arms around her without a second thought. She bends into him effortlessly, bones aligning, hands reaching out to curl into his collar, her face pressed tightly against his chest. "It's all right," he soothes. One hand tangles in her hair, the other runs up and down her spine, pressing her impossibly closer. "It's okay, it's okay," he promises, just above her broken admission,
"I couldn't."
The Doctor closes his eyes, exhaling, her words reverberating along his skin.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I couldn't… I can't--"
He presses his lips to her hair and shakes his head. "It's okay, it'll be okay." Softer, on a prayer: "I'm still here."
She breaks, then. Body heaving with silent cries, hands running frantically over his chest and shoulders and face. Her hands are cold and damp, from her tears or his he doesn't know, and he brushes her hair back repeatedly. She meets his gaze finally, staring up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes and he stops breathing, stops thinking. Open and unguarded, he can feel it, everything, all her love and pain and guilt, everything she's ever felt for him unshadowed, her mind clear and full and her hearts beating hastily, an echo in the room so loud and so wrought: Forgive me. She stares at him, eyes wide, hands clinging to his shoulders as if she'd otherwise fall.
There's a new scar across her eye from her temple to her cheek, burn marks on her neck and a lilt to her posture, all new, all rewrites. His hearts break again and again and this, this sacrifice - he cups her cheeks in his palms and breathes her name and kisses her with everything - a thousand years of time and space pouring past his lips, tears for planets and stars and skies and she kisses him back as if its the last thing she'll ever do and all the while she's pleading with him, begging him to understand.
"I couldn't," she whispers, over and over against his mouth. He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, every bit of skin he can reach. "I'm sorry. I couldn't, I had to do something. I had to. I had to."
“You just rewrote your own history,” he murmurs, unable to keep the fear and awe from his voice. Then, finally, what propelled him here and sparked his anger and left him cold: “I could have lost you.”
It’s barely a whisper, more of a prayer, and the words echo around them, attaching themselves to particles and sound. “I could have lost you,” he breathes, a desperate edge to his tone, and she cups his cheek in her palm.
“Some things are fixed, my love.”
Time is still rewriting itself, still weaving; he can feel the strings of it wrapping and fraying in his mind; new stories added, old stories missing, but through it all she’s still there, still clinging to his hand as they run. He doesn’t believe in gods or demons or tricksters, but he thanks them all regardless; her body warm and soft and close and safe.
"River,” he murmurs, drawing out her name, rocking just slightly on his heels, his mind whispering songs and lullabies to hers. "How did this happen?" he asks, though it isn't really a question; he knows the answer - it stares at him every time she does, so plain it nearly hurts. River pulls back just slightly, still leaning into his touch. He brushes his thumbs back and forth across her skin, over the red and white line, soft and warm. "My most fearsome enemy…" She shudders, just slightly, and he shakes his head. "My greatest protector."
She closes her eyes and exhales and he can't help it; he kisses her, a barely-there brush of skin to skin; a tinge of salt. I love you, she says, though the words don't pass her lips.
I know.
*
Every year, the people of the Gamma Forests leave a ring of flowers around the Bone Meadows. They celebrate and offer prayers to the stars, and sing the songs of children, lost and found. Every year, a woman watches them from a distance, caressed in shadows and slivers of light. They never see her, never hear her, but she owns the forests here, the waters. The pebbles shaped like stars and the stars shaped like moons and she owns them all, holds them in her hand with a whisper of a tune long since forgotten by the rest of them.
She never stays too long; the electricity barely dissipates before it sparks again; she's the Forests' best keep secret, save to one.
The Doctor steps beside her, looking down at the canyon - flowers in all colours and shapes, transforming the ugly, barren land into a garden, a sanctuary. Children skip over the buried bones, laughter decorating the air. They'll all die, he knows - the flowers. Flatted into dust. She knows it, too, and without a word he grips her hand tightly, his ring pressing into their skins. She turns and smiles, her mind open and her thoughts calm and he kisses her forehead tenderly.
"Ready?" he asks. She nods, but doesn't move, just presses herself tighter against his side, head on his shoulder. "Where to next?" she asks, and he smiles; whispers:
"Everywhere."
--
They start out as fairy tales:
Once upon a time, through all of space, a doctor ran. He ran from the Silence, and from the echoes, and from Time itself. He ran until the day he died, the day he didn't die, the day that never should have been.
She doesn't believe in fairy tales anymore, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that there's a far simpler truth: that deep within the Forests and deep within Space, the Doctor will always run.
The Doctor runs, and the songs run, and the trees run, and the River stays calm and cool and deep.