[doctor who fic] in your place there were a thousand other faces (part two/four), pg13
in your place there were a thousand other faces (part two/four)
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- pg13
- 1600
- title from florence + the machine's no light, no light; au for the wedding of river song, based on the premise that the doctor had no way out, and truly did die at lake silencio.
part one
The first time she escapes the Stormcage, she does so in a hail of gunfire and the thud of bodies. She doesn't bother to count them, or mourn them, or wonder which ones could have been spared; she's a warrior, an assassin, and there are always casualties.
In some reality, she knows that Kovarian is the first. That finding her would be simple. Two bullets for her and two for the colonel and some for the Silence, just because. Instead, she feels her chest tighten and her mind rebel at the prospect of killing the only family she's ever known.
She'll find her vengeance somewhere else.
--
On the fields of Trenzalor, Silence falls when the question is asked.
--
The universe never cracks.
A time machine never explodes.
The Pandorica is never opened.
Except that it does and it does and it is, but how it's discovered she'll never know.
There's nothing in history texts or stories or legends about a man who flew into an impossible burning sun. No sketches. No ruins. No proof. And yet she knows, somehow, that it's a lie: time split wide open and the stars burnt out and everything collapsed and then didn't; everything was brought back by a blue book and a blue box and a man she remembers seeing only once by a lakeside in the hot afternoon.
Pencil to paper, history to page, she'll never know that it's her words, her thoughts and half-shaken memories that finally bring him back.
--
She tries to pinpoint the exact moment that time went wrong. When one reality began to bleed into another.
It wasn't the lakeside, she knows that now. She dreams of dark blue skies and sandy wind and soft lips against hers; fingers full of silk and a hand at the small of her back, pressing her in tighter.
Because that never happened, even though it did. It didn't. It couldn't have. It must have gone wrong before, in his past and her future.
In another life.
--
Sometimes, she imagines she loves the man she killed. She imagines his heartbeats next to hers, his whispers in her ear, his promises and his trust. She imagines what it might be like, to love so absolutely, and without condition; what it might be like, to be loved in kind.
(Sometimes, she imagines a watercolour field, a soft voice, and a question; the oldest, most obvious question, asked from trembling lips and answered soft and low.)
Sometimes, she doesn't have to imagine, and the regret is almost more than she can bare.
--
We've met before, he'd said, his eyes clouded with sorrow, his hand trembling at his side, as if he'd wanted to reach out but wouldn't dare.
--
They spend their honeymoon drifting.
He traces Gallifreyan symbols into her skin, words like love and trust and hope. She cups his face between her palms and smoothes away the lines of sadness and remorse with whispers from her mind and whispers from her lips, and they drift through time and space as if they'll have it all forever.
On the bedside table, she keeps in a vase a bright purple bellflower that smells of silk and never dies.
--
Shots fly around her as she dodges and weaves, stumbling over loose rock and tree limbs. She runs, out of breath and almost terrified, across the open field. The footsteps and shouts grow louder, closer, the plasma bursts singeing her hair and clothes.
She turns her head to gauge their pace and trips, falling hard to the ground, but not soft ground, not a field.
Glass.
She scrambles to her feet just as a door closes and the planet disappears and a soft hum echoes through her mind like a warm embrace.
"How did you get in here?"
She grabs the knife from her gun belt, half-spins on her toes and throws the blade at the voice.
It shrieks, and a lanky man ducks out of the way just in time. "Oi!" he shouts, "What was that for?"
She grabs a second blade, but he points something at her over the railing, and the knife falls from her hand. "Seriously, I've told you, no target practise in the TARDIS," is what he says, but what she hears is an echo:
Goodness, is killing you going to take all day?
She starts, stumbles backwards and presses herself into the door, then turns quickly and reaches for the lock.
"No no no! Bad idea!"
He waves the green device again - sonic, she somehow knows - and the doors bolt shut.
"Hard vacuum of the Time Vortex, really not a good way to go," he says, skidding down the stairs to the controls and pulling a few levers. "There are worse ways, I suppose - there's a gas on Vix that forces you to stay alive until your hear - or hearts - explode." He shudders. "Never, ever going back there."
He keeps talking and she keeps listening, but her eyes scan the room, so familiar and so mysterious at the same time. Stepping cautiously away from the door, she slides her hand up the cool metal railing, the earlier hum reverberating through her bones and skin. It's a song she knows by heart, but swears she's never heard.
"You're the Doctor."
He peers out from behind the time rotor. "Of course I'm the Doctor, I'm always the Doctor - except for that one time I wasn't but that's all a bit fuzzy, really; never recommend a fob watch." He turns back to the keyboard. "So, where shall we go? Fio? There's a great festival in 12091 where we can design our own hats. Or Trion in 3435, the planet is completely covered in golden rain - it's not actually golden, of course, it's a reflection of the minerals at the bottom of the evaporating ocean, but it looks like golden…rain."
His words slow, falling to a whisper, as he turns and looks at her. "River?" he breathes. He takes a step forward; she steps back.
"How…how can you be here?" He shakes his head. "Why did I think you could…"
Bright lights and a winter storm and gold droplets clinging to their skin. Soaked and glistening, taking refuge under a faulty bridge, the yellow waters up to their knees, warm and soft; laughter, ringing out in two tones. Hands around her waist, fingertips on her skin, pushing her dress down, down, down. It's a pool of gold on the floor along with trousers and a bow-tie and everything is so, so soft; fingers through her hair.
"You remember," he murmurs. "I remember--"
She shakes her head. "No."
"River--"
"Who's River?"
He presses forward again; she bolts up the stairs toward the knife still lodged in the wall.
"You're--" He closes his eyes tightly. "Time. It's Time, being re-written, it's--"
"It never happened."
When he opens his eyes they're wet and shining. "It did. We did. River."
He says her name like a prayer.
--
She runs.
She runs from the box and the Stormcage guards and the man with a face she shouldn't remember but can't seem to forget.
She runs across worlds and times and wars. She runs when she's scared and runs when she's angry and runs when she's out of breath and alone. She even runs back to the prison, once, but the walls are still small and grey but when she leaves this time she lets them live, though she isn't sure why.
She runs off cliffs and dives off buildings and sails out of moving ships and every time he catches her; picks her up and dusts her off and lets her run away again, until the next time brings her back into his old ship to his old eyes and sometimes he knows her and sometimes he doesn't and sometimes he's alone and sometimes he isn't but he always trusts her, even if it's just enough to let her go.
She runs and she runs and she doesn't stop until she's under a sky full of stars, so bright she has to squint her eyes to see. The wind is hushed and cool and the leaves above her head rustle gentle, turning out a melody as they brush against each other like cricket wings.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks softly, and she can tell by his voice that he knows; that he remembers everything, even when she doesn't.
"What do you want?"
"I want to help you."
She almost laughs. "You really don't."
"I remember you. A different you." He sighs heavily and turns his face toward the sky. "Time's gone wrong."
"Maybe it's gone right," she snaps.
He smiles at her sadly. "You don't believe that, or you wouldn't be here."
"I'm not her. I'm not River, whoever she is."
"You could be. If you wanted to."
"And why would I want to do that?"
He reels back as if struck. For the first time, he doesn't answer or question her, no retort lingering in the air between them. Instead he turns away, shoulders hunched as he leans over the railing, staring down at the ocean below as it laps against the roots of the tree.
It makes sense, then, in the way that it doesn't make any at all and yet seems so clear: "You want her back."
"I--" He bows his neck. "Yes."
She blinks, startled by the vulnerability in his whisper.
She swallows tightly. "I killed you, you know. Or will do, anyway."
He chuckles quietly. "I assumed so."
"Something changed."
He shrugs. "Time can be rewritten."
She hesitates. "And rewritten again?"
"Over and over." He turns towards her. "Why do you ask?"
She lifts one shoulder carelessly. "I killed you," she says, like a throwaway line, but her muscles tighten and her fingers clench around the bannister.
I could save you.
Instead of agreeing, the Doctor holds out his hand.
part three
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- pg13
- 1600
- title from florence + the machine's no light, no light; au for the wedding of river song, based on the premise that the doctor had no way out, and truly did die at lake silencio.
part one
The first time she escapes the Stormcage, she does so in a hail of gunfire and the thud of bodies. She doesn't bother to count them, or mourn them, or wonder which ones could have been spared; she's a warrior, an assassin, and there are always casualties.
In some reality, she knows that Kovarian is the first. That finding her would be simple. Two bullets for her and two for the colonel and some for the Silence, just because. Instead, she feels her chest tighten and her mind rebel at the prospect of killing the only family she's ever known.
She'll find her vengeance somewhere else.
--
On the fields of Trenzalor, Silence falls when the question is asked.
--
The universe never cracks.
A time machine never explodes.
The Pandorica is never opened.
Except that it does and it does and it is, but how it's discovered she'll never know.
There's nothing in history texts or stories or legends about a man who flew into an impossible burning sun. No sketches. No ruins. No proof. And yet she knows, somehow, that it's a lie: time split wide open and the stars burnt out and everything collapsed and then didn't; everything was brought back by a blue book and a blue box and a man she remembers seeing only once by a lakeside in the hot afternoon.
Pencil to paper, history to page, she'll never know that it's her words, her thoughts and half-shaken memories that finally bring him back.
--
She tries to pinpoint the exact moment that time went wrong. When one reality began to bleed into another.
It wasn't the lakeside, she knows that now. She dreams of dark blue skies and sandy wind and soft lips against hers; fingers full of silk and a hand at the small of her back, pressing her in tighter.
Because that never happened, even though it did. It didn't. It couldn't have. It must have gone wrong before, in his past and her future.
In another life.
--
Sometimes, she imagines she loves the man she killed. She imagines his heartbeats next to hers, his whispers in her ear, his promises and his trust. She imagines what it might be like, to love so absolutely, and without condition; what it might be like, to be loved in kind.
(Sometimes, she imagines a watercolour field, a soft voice, and a question; the oldest, most obvious question, asked from trembling lips and answered soft and low.)
Sometimes, she doesn't have to imagine, and the regret is almost more than she can bare.
--
We've met before, he'd said, his eyes clouded with sorrow, his hand trembling at his side, as if he'd wanted to reach out but wouldn't dare.
--
They spend their honeymoon drifting.
He traces Gallifreyan symbols into her skin, words like love and trust and hope. She cups his face between her palms and smoothes away the lines of sadness and remorse with whispers from her mind and whispers from her lips, and they drift through time and space as if they'll have it all forever.
On the bedside table, she keeps in a vase a bright purple bellflower that smells of silk and never dies.
--
Shots fly around her as she dodges and weaves, stumbling over loose rock and tree limbs. She runs, out of breath and almost terrified, across the open field. The footsteps and shouts grow louder, closer, the plasma bursts singeing her hair and clothes.
She turns her head to gauge their pace and trips, falling hard to the ground, but not soft ground, not a field.
Glass.
She scrambles to her feet just as a door closes and the planet disappears and a soft hum echoes through her mind like a warm embrace.
"How did you get in here?"
She grabs the knife from her gun belt, half-spins on her toes and throws the blade at the voice.
It shrieks, and a lanky man ducks out of the way just in time. "Oi!" he shouts, "What was that for?"
She grabs a second blade, but he points something at her over the railing, and the knife falls from her hand. "Seriously, I've told you, no target practise in the TARDIS," is what he says, but what she hears is an echo:
Goodness, is killing you going to take all day?
She starts, stumbles backwards and presses herself into the door, then turns quickly and reaches for the lock.
"No no no! Bad idea!"
He waves the green device again - sonic, she somehow knows - and the doors bolt shut.
"Hard vacuum of the Time Vortex, really not a good way to go," he says, skidding down the stairs to the controls and pulling a few levers. "There are worse ways, I suppose - there's a gas on Vix that forces you to stay alive until your hear - or hearts - explode." He shudders. "Never, ever going back there."
He keeps talking and she keeps listening, but her eyes scan the room, so familiar and so mysterious at the same time. Stepping cautiously away from the door, she slides her hand up the cool metal railing, the earlier hum reverberating through her bones and skin. It's a song she knows by heart, but swears she's never heard.
"You're the Doctor."
He peers out from behind the time rotor. "Of course I'm the Doctor, I'm always the Doctor - except for that one time I wasn't but that's all a bit fuzzy, really; never recommend a fob watch." He turns back to the keyboard. "So, where shall we go? Fio? There's a great festival in 12091 where we can design our own hats. Or Trion in 3435, the planet is completely covered in golden rain - it's not actually golden, of course, it's a reflection of the minerals at the bottom of the evaporating ocean, but it looks like golden…rain."
His words slow, falling to a whisper, as he turns and looks at her. "River?" he breathes. He takes a step forward; she steps back.
"How…how can you be here?" He shakes his head. "Why did I think you could…"
Bright lights and a winter storm and gold droplets clinging to their skin. Soaked and glistening, taking refuge under a faulty bridge, the yellow waters up to their knees, warm and soft; laughter, ringing out in two tones. Hands around her waist, fingertips on her skin, pushing her dress down, down, down. It's a pool of gold on the floor along with trousers and a bow-tie and everything is so, so soft; fingers through her hair.
"You remember," he murmurs. "I remember--"
She shakes her head. "No."
"River--"
"Who's River?"
He presses forward again; she bolts up the stairs toward the knife still lodged in the wall.
"You're--" He closes his eyes tightly. "Time. It's Time, being re-written, it's--"
"It never happened."
When he opens his eyes they're wet and shining. "It did. We did. River."
He says her name like a prayer.
--
She runs.
She runs from the box and the Stormcage guards and the man with a face she shouldn't remember but can't seem to forget.
She runs across worlds and times and wars. She runs when she's scared and runs when she's angry and runs when she's out of breath and alone. She even runs back to the prison, once, but the walls are still small and grey but when she leaves this time she lets them live, though she isn't sure why.
She runs off cliffs and dives off buildings and sails out of moving ships and every time he catches her; picks her up and dusts her off and lets her run away again, until the next time brings her back into his old ship to his old eyes and sometimes he knows her and sometimes he doesn't and sometimes he's alone and sometimes he isn't but he always trusts her, even if it's just enough to let her go.
She runs and she runs and she doesn't stop until she's under a sky full of stars, so bright she has to squint her eyes to see. The wind is hushed and cool and the leaves above her head rustle gentle, turning out a melody as they brush against each other like cricket wings.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks softly, and she can tell by his voice that he knows; that he remembers everything, even when she doesn't.
"What do you want?"
"I want to help you."
She almost laughs. "You really don't."
"I remember you. A different you." He sighs heavily and turns his face toward the sky. "Time's gone wrong."
"Maybe it's gone right," she snaps.
He smiles at her sadly. "You don't believe that, or you wouldn't be here."
"I'm not her. I'm not River, whoever she is."
"You could be. If you wanted to."
"And why would I want to do that?"
He reels back as if struck. For the first time, he doesn't answer or question her, no retort lingering in the air between them. Instead he turns away, shoulders hunched as he leans over the railing, staring down at the ocean below as it laps against the roots of the tree.
It makes sense, then, in the way that it doesn't make any at all and yet seems so clear: "You want her back."
"I--" He bows his neck. "Yes."
She blinks, startled by the vulnerability in his whisper.
She swallows tightly. "I killed you, you know. Or will do, anyway."
He chuckles quietly. "I assumed so."
"Something changed."
He shrugs. "Time can be rewritten."
She hesitates. "And rewritten again?"
"Over and over." He turns towards her. "Why do you ask?"
She lifts one shoulder carelessly. "I killed you," she says, like a throwaway line, but her muscles tighten and her fingers clench around the bannister.
I could save you.
Instead of agreeing, the Doctor holds out his hand.
part three