Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 4)
Title: Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 4)
Author: shegrewhearts
Fandom/Characters: Doctor Who, Eleven/River
Rating: PG-13, Eventual R
Word count: ~2100
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, no profit or infringement is intended with this piece of fiction.
Summary: "Are you married, River?"
A/N: I'm sorry I'm so bad about regular updates, but I'm really busy and it takes a lot to churn out the next chapter! I've never done a multi-chapter fic before so this is new territory. But thank you, really, for all the support you've given me! It means a lot.
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He barely makes it inside before the rain grows heavy, eye-patch still stuffed away in his pocket and mind still perplexed by River. Who is she, a woman of earned title with the battle-scars to match? Who is she, a figure of softened curves that cloud his sight when he thinks too hard? What sort of power does she hold over him?
If he were superstitious in the slightest or more prone to fits of insanity, he might believe the witchcraft rumors that follow in her wake. But he's a learned man of experience and science, and has lived far too long a solider to ever believe such things. Which, coincidentally, makes her mystery all the more intriguing.
Furious, raging drops pound down on the slated roof of the castle, and the stone does little to hide the noise. In all its fury, the Doctor has a certain interest in the ceaseless rain and steals away to his study, where he can watch the rain pour from overhead.
The clear dome enables him to ponder each droplet's fall from sky to ceiling, air to glass, and he leans tiredly against the telescope as he watches the onslaught. Individual drops caress the sides of the dome as they slide down, leaving behind watery trails that wane in size by the second. He reaches up and pretends to stroke the inside of the ceiling, his finger following one droplet's path down the glass. A tightening in his chest causes him to stop, however, and he drops his hand to his stomach to clutch at the fabric that hides the internal pain.
He stumbles down the endless walkway and collapses in his chair, one arm folded over his abdomen in a weak attempt for comfort. The rain's beauty has all but disappeared and reminds him, once again, of lost wars and bloody battles. He shivers.
Hinges creak somewhere in the room, and he shoots straight up in the chair, scanning the area for movement. A round face haloed by waving red hair pops out from behind the door, begging entry. He waves Amy in, relaxing back into the cushion. She walks over and sits on the ground before him, toying with the loose strands of upholstery that hang off the bottom of his armchair.
"Hello Amy," he smiles, glad to see her. It's been a long day for both.
She raises her eyes to meet his. "Hello Doctor." She doesn't say anything else, which worries him.
"Is there something I can help you with?"
She frowns, diverting her eyes back to the loosening strands of fabric. "I don't know what to do," she says softly. "Nothing makes any sense. I can see both sides and understand both points and I have no idea what to do. All I know is that I can't let these people terrorize my subjects any longer. It's not right."
The Doctor leans down, hands on his knees. She still won't return his gaze so he sighs, watching as she busies herself with her fingers. "You've always been able to see everything, Amy. That's who you are. That's what makes you special."
She stays mute and he ponders, not for the first time, how he came to love Amy like he does. She's brilliant, unstoppable, nigh close on mad; and still, after all these years, she means everything to him. He thinks back on younger days spent touring the countryside, meeting new people and helping out the helpless. That's how she got a reputation and, in turn, her throne. She's done well for herself and deserves it all, with a husband no less magnificent by her side.
Ah, Rory. Rory the soldier who has fought long and hard and not really for much at all, other than Amy. He loves her more than anything in the world, really, it's quite obvious. The Doctor wouldn't want any other man for her than Rory.
Amy interrupts his thoughts with a nudge to his calf. "Doctor, you've been outside the walls. What have you seen? What do they want?"
He furrows his brow, concentrating hard on his memories. "I know about as much as you do, Amy. Whatever they want, whoever they are: it's a mystery." Her eyes fall a bit and his heart breaks so he reaches down to cradle her face with his hands, bringing her gaze back to his. "But I promise you I will not stop until I've figured it out."
She smiles sadly, blinks back tears. She lifts herself to stand and motions for him to do the same, which he does. She throws her arms around him in a firm, desperate embrace that he returns wholeheartedly. When she pulls away from the hug, he pats the side of her face affectionately.
"Now, go back to Rory. Go love him. I know that you do."
She departs with a fond nod and slow curtsy, closing the door softly behind her. The Doctor sighs, shoulders sagging, and moves to face one of his bookshelves. He licks his forefinger and traces the spine of several books before finding the one in mind, then turns to rest back in the mold of his favorite chair.
It's hours later before he looks up from the ancient tome and the candles have all but burnt out, so he rises slowly, joints aching from the lack of movement, and trudges over to the nearest wall. He flicks a match and lights one candle which, in turn, lights them all and he walks slowly back to his seat. Plopping down, he rubs his closed eyelids with his thumbs as his mind races over what he's read. Still, nothing makes any sense.
There's a sharp cough and the Doctor stiffens, ears alert and hands clasped tight to the arms of his chair. Who could possibly be here?
His eyes dart around the room, searching for a source. Out of the shadows, Lady Song appears, and gracefully floats down the winding ramp all the way to the ground floor. His mouth drops open and she laughs, her chest bumping against the stack of books held steady in her arms.
"Hello, sweetie. Just stopped in for a quick read."
He stares, uncouth; all of the words that have the capability of forming sentences have fled his mind.
She smirks, walking further to stand in front of him. She lays her books down on the small table before continuing. "A few days before you arrived, I was wandering about one night and found this bright blue door. It was locked, you see, and well..." she trails off. "How's a girl supposed to resist?"
He frowns, standing up. At his full height, he's a good few inches taller than her and he feels a sharp thrill shoot down his spine when he realizes she has to look up to meet his gaze. It's just another thing that doesn't make any sense. "How did you get in here? How long have you been in here?"
She winks. "Can't tell you that, it's a trick of the trade. But I can tell you I've been here for, oh, say," she pauses to count numbers in her head. "More than a few hours."
He gulps. "Were you here when - well, when..." he hesitates, hoping he's not revealing something. "When the Queen came in?"
The Lady laughs, glowing. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, I won't tell. Not that there's anything to say, really. She's besotted with the King. Rightfully so."
"What are you doing here?" It comes out harsher than he means it to.
"Well," she begins, eyes flicking down to inspect the book left in his seat. "It's a room full of books, is it not? What do you do in a room full of books?" she pauses, winks. "I suppose, though, you could do a lot of things if you were in the mood."
He gulps again, nervous by her body's proximity. Why does she always need to stand so close to him? "What are you reading?" he reaches out to grab a book from the table but she clamps one hand over his wrist, tugging it back towards them.
"Secret."
He laughs, taking a step closer to her. She's momentarily distracted and he reaches for the book again and succeeds in picking it up, flipping it over to see the cover. "A History of the Realm?"
She steals it back from his grasp, hides it behind her back. "You're not the only one who cares about culture."
"That's not what I meant." he pauses, licks his lip to recover. "You disappeared rather quickly this afternoon."
She turns away from him to retrieve the other book from the table. "You were getting nosy."
"So I'm not allowed to be a little curious?"
She shields her bosom with the books, averting her eyes from his. "It would suit you well to be careful with your curiosity, my Lord."
"My Lord?" After the past few times spent together, the Doctor has begun to feel a comfortable ebb and flow between the two of them. He would push and she would fall back, avoiding his advances while still egging him on. Simultaneously the most frustrating and fascinating thing in the world, he's grown accustomed to her presence. He thought, or rather hoped, she had felt the same. The lack of a familiarity disheartens him.
When she meets his eyes, there's an unbidden sadness that wasn't there before.
"River," he whispers, because how can he not when this woman looks so delicate and frail in this sudden moment? How could he have ever thought she was nothing but iron? His hand closes around her wrist and lowers her arm. She drops the book.
"Doctor, what are you-"
He shushes her. "Are you married, River?"
Her eyes flash with a marriage of lust, fear, and hope before she replies. "Are you asking?"
"Yes."
She breathes in, breathes out. "Yes."
His stomach drops and then rises again when he realizes a double meaning. "Wait, did you think I was asking you to marry me or asking if you were married?"
Grinning, she rubs her thumb over the tender skin of his palm. "Yes."
He gulps, fighting the urge to be distracted by River's swirling fingers. "Was that yes - or - or yes?"
She takes a step closer, her hand lacing itself with his. Leaning in so her breath is on his neck, she responds. "Yes."
"River," he squeaks.
"Shut up," she breathes out, propping herself up on her tiptoes. She brings her empty hand up to cradle his face and kisses him, gentle and sweet and slower than he'd expect. His hand, of its own accord, finds its way to her waist and grips her tightly, pulling her flush against him. She smiles into his mouth and parts her lips, teasing him, and soon they are kissing hungrily as he awkwardly maneuvers them over to the wall.
Shoved up against a bookcase, River releases his hand and moves it to cup the back of his neck, dipping his head further into the curve of their mouths. He meets her stroke for stroke, pressing her into the wall as his hands slide to the cinch of corset, holding her captive with the line of his body and the various leather spines digging into her back.
Her kiss sets him on fire, shooting stars of need spiraling up from his toes to his neck. He can feel where every part of her body touches his, can feel every little moan she makes into his mouth. It drives him mad.
His fingers move to tangle in her hair, pulling her even closer. Her hands drop from his neck and trail down the front of his jacket, nails scraping buttons. She opens the coat and slides her hands under the fabric to rest on his shirt-clad chest, drawing tiny circles on the space there. He shudders.
He thrusts the lower half of his body into hers and she gasps, breaking their kiss and burying her face in his shoulder. He does it again, purely out of spite, and she bites into the cloth of his jacket. He snakes his hands down her neck and over her shoulders, tracing the skin of her arms. He outlines a scar and stops, jarringly, looking down on her bed of hair.
"Tell me," he pleads. She's still breathing into his skin and it's hard to concentrate but by God does he want to know her, understand her. He wants, nay, needs to figure her out. "Who are you? What have you done?"
She lifts her head and shifts her hips to escape his grasp but he holds firm, biting his lip from the sensation. "Secret."
"You will tell me who you are," he snaps, much rougher than intended. Her nails bite into his back but he doesn't relent.
River rolls her hips into his, testing him. She points herself up on her tiptoes and leans towards him, sharply biting the bottom of his ear. "Let go of me."
The acidity in her tone surprises him and he drops his hands, backing away. Her eyes are furious as she brushes herself down, dusts herself off. She looks him squarely in the eye and, as much as he wants to, he can't look away. He gulps.
She shoves past him and goes to collect her books, stopping to bend down and pick up something from the floor.
Without warning, the Doctor's eyesight goes fuzzy and he can't see straight, and the last thing he registers is River curling her hands around a piece of black cloth and walking towards him, and then his legs aren't working and his heart is beating too fast and everything falls to darkness.