fic: a heart in search of happiness
Title: a heart in search of happiness
Author: shegrewhearts
Fandom/Characters: Doctor Who, Eleven/River
Rating: PG
Word count: ~900
Summary: "When River dreams, she dreams of a big dark house with a wrought-iron gate and a friendly old man who always seems a bit left of center."
A/N: The title's borrowed from the Benny Goodman song "You Showed Me the Way." I wanted to try writing something shorter and more concise, that had a splash of plot (though let's be honest, this is just some angst/fluff with a bit of introspection). Enjoy!
When River dreams, she dreams of a big dark house with a wrought-iron gate and a friendly old man who always seems a bit left of center.
He colors her dreams with mobile stars that glitter from the ceiling and never spin; the room has a window that doesn't open, that never lets in a breeze to cool her in the summer or whisper with crickets or spin the stars that hang from the ceiling. Occasionally the room gets unbearably hot, and River wants to climb over to the window and punch a fist through the glass but something stops her, and she's chained to the bed with moon-white shackles.
She tries to turn her head but she can't, her body transfixed, until she realizes it's not from fear but from an actual, physical hindrance that engulfs her and feeds her and traps her. A soft, white spacesuit that keeps her escape at bay. Wires and timeless technology stave off her dreams.
Panic sets in and rises like a tide, but it always feels this way for her, rolling in harder and sharper until it combusts and disappears, crashing against the shore. Her hearts thud against her chest and scream to get out, her breath in her throat, and her lips are dry, and the suit can fight off hunger but it can't fight off fear.
A deep, aching loneliness surrounds her but gives her faith, so she waits. It cradles her fears and validates them, and teaches her to trust herself. She waits every night, calling out for help that doesn't come; when someone finally does, it's already too late. She rips her way out with a new strength she finds burning in the fire of the red woman's cries.
Her chest heaves in crisp pants, marking her for dead. The need to escape overwhelms her paralyzing fear, and then the front door's open and the rain beats down on her back and she's far, far too busy running away to ever notice a nondescript blue box parked right in the yard.
"River?"
His voice breaks through her sleep, jolting her awake. Her hand jerks to grip the closest weapon but his fingers enclose her wrist, his pulse against hers, and the dim glowing lights remind River where she is.
She clears her throat. "Yes, my love?"
He frowns. "You were twisting and muttering. And you're sweating."
River shakes his hand off and wipes her forehead, making a noncommittal noise in her throat. "So I am."
"Everything all right?"
She smiles wanly, shifting to her back and lifting his hand to her lips, kissing his palm delicately. It's meant to distract him and they both know it, but he lets it slide. There are some things he will never know about River, and she intends to keep it that way.
The bed suddenly feels so small but the space between them so large. The walls glimmer in an orange sheen that warms them as much as the merlot blankets, and the wooden furniture completes the old, full feeling that embalms the room. There's an intricate, woven rug that lies in the center of the floor and spans most of the space, and if River stares too hard at the center it looks like the fraying white ends are arms stretching out to reach the walls, clawing to reach an unattainable goal. Staring too hard makes her dizzy.
There are no stars hanging from the ceiling here. Just a white, open sky of a ceiling that smirks down at her from its perch on a pedestal. River turns to face him, ignoring the smug ceiling.
"How long have I been asleep?"
He flicks his eyes to his watch, which lies casually on top of his latest end-table book. "A few hours. Barely any time at all, really. Though a lot can happen in an hour. Obviously not those few hours, though, since you've been asleep. Yet time is relative and somewhen else Einstein's discovering the theory of relativity, Frost's gazing at a spider, and the Third Emperor of Qaan is losing to me in Checkers."
"Modest in the mornings, are you?"
He pouts, one hand curling a wisp of her hair into a ringlet. "I'm never modest. I'm the Doctor."
"And I do suppose it's not technically morning."
He releases the curl, moves on to make another one. "Right you are."
"Are we feeling coffee or tea this non-morning?"
The Doctor shrugs and sits up, leaning against the headboard. He gazes down at River with a soft smile that feels all-knowing, almost to the point of invasive. But his eyes that meet hers are soft and careful, and not at all searching. She smiles and rolls over so her chin rests on his stomach, breath puffing against skin.
Her nails doodle small figure eights on his abdomen. "I'm glad it's you."
"Hm?" His eyes are half-closed, relaxed under her touch.
"I'm glad it's you I wake up to."
His eyes open and widen before finding a tender, loving expression that sears straight into her soul. He doesn't say anything, and she doesn't expect him to. He's never been that type of lover.
The grays of his eyes say enough and more; there's a universe of possibilities in those shifting pools, and they make her feel as though she cups every galaxy in existence in her palms. His eyes are the brightest stars she's ever seen.
He intertwines a hand with hers and squeezes. For River, it's enough.