[doctor who fic] in your place there were a thousand other faces (part three/four), r
in your place there were a thousand other faces (part three/four)
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- r
- 1800
- 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 | part two
Her back slams against the doors and his body slams against hers and it's all hot mouths and nails, skidding under her clothes and digging into her skin. There's ash in his hair and blood on his face and she kisses him to make him forget. Her dress rips at the shoulder, tangling in his hands and around her waist as he yanks it down halfway, abandoning the pretense of gentleness or thought. His lips attack her skin under her collarbone, teeth leaving marks like answers to the marks across his back and neck from her nails.
She bites at the junction between his neck and shoulder and his fingers find their way inside her and she presses her hips so hard against his that he stumbles, tearing her away from the wall only to be pushed back into it; her mouth attacks his chest as she tears at buttons and cloth and he grabs at the back of her thigh, pulling her leg over his hip.
They turn again, her back against the cold wood and her legs around his waist and it isn't soft like it was last time, that one time, that time that never happened; he doesn't trace her skin with Gallifreyan words and she doesn't whisper secrets into his ear that only they know; but when he comes with a cry his lips move to swallow her sounds, and his fingers tangle lightly in her hair.
--
He takes her to the ruins of Salonne and Tress in the sixty-first century and watches as she moves through the sand and dirt like fog. She studies and contemplates and asks him questions, but the spark of empathy he so vaguely remembers isn't present; she circles the tombstones like an auctioneer, disinterested in the history save for its market value.
"You brought her here," she says finally, four plots away and a world between them.
The Doctor nods slowly. "I think so. I remember--"
"I don't care."
He looks up in surprise.
"I'm not her. I'll never be her. This," she gestures to their surroundings, "is just a manifestation of your guilt. It means nothing to me."
The Doctor stares, and Melody turns away before his expression and his shoulders fall.
--
Somewhere, in some time, the Doctor gives his River a small, blue book wrapped in red ribbon and promises to be there for her always.
Back to front. Every line, I promise. No matter what.
Somewhere, in some time, she almost cries at the words, the relief in her veins and the joy in her throat that this man, this impossible, impossible man, belongs in soul to her.
--
The Angels destroy three planets before their end, and the Doctor buries his face between his hands and sobs. There are no tears, just tight muscles and an anguished shout and she watches him from across the room as he slams his fist into the wall, and the ship hums in pain.
"I'm sorry, old girl," he whispers, stroking the wall. "I'm so sorry."
She stares and says nothing and doesn't understand why he blames himself for a disaster he couldn't prevent.
--
She tracks him to a small village in England with a closed post and no airport. The box is in an overgrown garden, and she frowns at the familiarity of it. She wanders around, fingers lingering over the dilapidated swing and water-damaged shed. Memories creep along the edges of her vision, but nothing holds. She's been her before, except that she hasn't, and when she closes her eyes she sees flashes, little hints of home.
Through the window, she spies a thin woman with red hair watching her, and disappears before the Doctor can return.
--
Unintentionally, she saves his life.
He's run out of options and run out of time, and something calls her from her prison cell to a small planet where she saves his life with a flick of a switch and a well-timed shot.
He's surprised, but at the same time he isn't, and he smiles at her widely and she knows that this must be fixed; that her past self did it and her other self did it and her future self will do the same, coming to his rescue based on a hunch and despite the warning bells in her head and heart, she can't help but smile, too.
--
"China!" He announces, spinning on his heel toward the doors. "Not just regular China - the planet China."
She almost looks impressed. "There's a Planet China?"
Grinning, he taps her nose. "There's a planet everything."
"It's always like this with you, isn't it?" she asks. "Today, a thriving planet; tomorrow, ancient ruins."
He grins. "All of time and space."
Her voice is almost wistful: "Next stop - everywhere."
--
He teaches her Gallifreyan.
She isn't sure if she cares or not, but lets him show her anyway, guiding her hand with his own as she makes circles on the page in even, steady paths. He teaches her the words to burn stars and raise up empires and topple gods and when she asks why he says only that she earned it; that he trusts her.
She thinks he's a fool, but repeats the words after him regardless.
--
"Who was she?"
"Who?"
Melody swallows tightly. "The woman at the house, in Leadworth."
He looks up from the sparking wires in surprise. "You followed me?"
She shrugs. "I found you."
The Doctor nods slowly and returns his gaze to the TARDIS' wires. He continues to tinker with the workings silently, avoiding her gaze. She sits on the bottom stair and waits for him to finish, to wipe his hands on the rag and pull the goggles of his eyes.
She hesitates, then speaks first. "She's my mother, isn't she."
It isn't quite a question, but the Doctor flinches.
"I don't remember her," she continues, "but somehow I know."
He looks up at her, a mixture of curiosity and heartbreak. "How did it happen, for you? Your childhood?"
She pauses, bristling at the intimacy in his tone. She takes a deep breath to calm herself before answering. "I don't remember much. There was a space suit. Then there wasn't. I regenerated but Kovarian found me, brought me ho--" She halts abruptly. "Brought me back. I regenerated again, trying to escape, I think." She shrugs. "Then I killed you."
He nods and looks away.
"Why do you ask?"
"I wasn't sure," he answers quietly. "If--" He stops and shakes his head, then looks at her evenly. "It's my fault. You were supposed to grow up with them, with Amy and Rory. You were supposed to know them, to trust them." His jaw clenches tightly. "I was supposed to be there for you, in 1969. I wasn't."
She frowns, but can't quite bring herself to be angry at his admission. "Why not?"
He smiles, but it's almost devastating. "Because I forgot."
--
She dreams of purple flowers. A star-lit sky and warming breeze. Of goose-bumps along her skin and his smile, soft and bright and full of joy. She dreams of running, faster and farther than she's ever run before, and all the while her hand clasped around his or his hand clasped around hers and the two of them, always, together.
She doesn't remember the wedding and she doesn't remember their vows, but sometimes he smells like Egyptian dust and Time, and her hearts tighten like a fist.
--
"You have to promise me," he says, "Promise me you won't keep it - the anger and the hatred. Promise me you won't follow her or take revenge. It might not seem like it now, but someday you're going to look back and remember what you've been through and it's going to hurt, and it'll never stop hurting. But it will get better. I promise, it will get better. You just have to remember that it isn't worth it, and that you're stronger than they are, and you're better. So promise me. Please, River, promise me."
"Why?"
"Because you're forgiven. Always, and completely forgiven. Never forget that. Promise me."
A long, bating silence.
"I promise."
--
Spain, 1702.
Alfalfa Metraxis, 5689.
London. Rome. Forests and deserts and cities and fields, he takes her everywhere. Dangerous places and lovely places and places that are lovely in their danger. He takes her to the future and the past; to the beginning and the end of everything.
She doesn't mean to fall in love with him, but she does. Just a little. Just enough. His eyes, the quirk of his lips, the line of his throat; the way her hands fit around his shoulder blades and the way he looks at her like she could be someone special if she only tried.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," she snaps, pacing away from him, gold rain in her hair and on her skin and it wasn't like this before, some other time, but it's like this now and she can't stay still; the ache in her chest and hollow feeling in her throat make her want to run and run and never look back.
"This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't-- I'm not--"
He steps in front of her and holds her shoulders gently. "You are."
Her hearts beat erratically and her breathing stalls and it isn't enough, she knows, to become the woman he loved. It's too late for that.
The water is up to their ankles and it keeps pouring and the world is sparkling but she doesn't feel like laughing.
"I killed you," she says, the catch in her throat causing the words to be whispered.
He shakes his head. "It's not your fault."
She pulls away from him violently. "I shot you! I shot you in the chest and you are dead. Don't you get that? You're dead."
"I know," he murmurs; reaching out as she paces, he catches her wrist and holds lightly. She wants to move, but her feet are rooted to the spot.
Her hair is flat against her skull and gold water masks the tears in her eyes. The Doctor stares at her quietly for a long moment. Her eyes burn and her lungs ache and he stares at her with such compassion that she feels sick.
"I don't want to die," he says finally, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. "Hardly anyone wants to die. But if this is fixed and I have to go, I want to remember what I'm leaving." This other hand settles hesitantly on her cheek. "I want to remember you."
She wants to ask why. Why and how and what he gets from this, if anything. What she could possibly have to offer him, in any life. The Last of the Time Lords. The Oncoming Storm. What he would want with a little girl responsible only for death. She wants to know, but what comes out instead is harsh and unintentional and selfish and she can't bare to look at him when she asks, "Even this me?"
She doesn't expect his arms around her waist suddenly, or the pressure of his chest against hers, his hand in her hair and one on her spine and his breath against her cheek. She doesn't expect it and her body tenses until he squeezes tightly and she breaks, burying her face in his shoulder.
"Every you," he promises. "Every time."
With the rain still falling and the world still gold, she lifts her head and kisses him.
--
She curls up against his chest and listens to his hearts, his skin warm against hers, the rise and fall of his chest like a lulling wave as he traces Gallifreyan words along her spine.
part four
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- r
- 1800
- 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 | part two
Her back slams against the doors and his body slams against hers and it's all hot mouths and nails, skidding under her clothes and digging into her skin. There's ash in his hair and blood on his face and she kisses him to make him forget. Her dress rips at the shoulder, tangling in his hands and around her waist as he yanks it down halfway, abandoning the pretense of gentleness or thought. His lips attack her skin under her collarbone, teeth leaving marks like answers to the marks across his back and neck from her nails.
She bites at the junction between his neck and shoulder and his fingers find their way inside her and she presses her hips so hard against his that he stumbles, tearing her away from the wall only to be pushed back into it; her mouth attacks his chest as she tears at buttons and cloth and he grabs at the back of her thigh, pulling her leg over his hip.
They turn again, her back against the cold wood and her legs around his waist and it isn't soft like it was last time, that one time, that time that never happened; he doesn't trace her skin with Gallifreyan words and she doesn't whisper secrets into his ear that only they know; but when he comes with a cry his lips move to swallow her sounds, and his fingers tangle lightly in her hair.
--
He takes her to the ruins of Salonne and Tress in the sixty-first century and watches as she moves through the sand and dirt like fog. She studies and contemplates and asks him questions, but the spark of empathy he so vaguely remembers isn't present; she circles the tombstones like an auctioneer, disinterested in the history save for its market value.
"You brought her here," she says finally, four plots away and a world between them.
The Doctor nods slowly. "I think so. I remember--"
"I don't care."
He looks up in surprise.
"I'm not her. I'll never be her. This," she gestures to their surroundings, "is just a manifestation of your guilt. It means nothing to me."
The Doctor stares, and Melody turns away before his expression and his shoulders fall.
--
Somewhere, in some time, the Doctor gives his River a small, blue book wrapped in red ribbon and promises to be there for her always.
Back to front. Every line, I promise. No matter what.
Somewhere, in some time, she almost cries at the words, the relief in her veins and the joy in her throat that this man, this impossible, impossible man, belongs in soul to her.
--
The Angels destroy three planets before their end, and the Doctor buries his face between his hands and sobs. There are no tears, just tight muscles and an anguished shout and she watches him from across the room as he slams his fist into the wall, and the ship hums in pain.
"I'm sorry, old girl," he whispers, stroking the wall. "I'm so sorry."
She stares and says nothing and doesn't understand why he blames himself for a disaster he couldn't prevent.
--
She tracks him to a small village in England with a closed post and no airport. The box is in an overgrown garden, and she frowns at the familiarity of it. She wanders around, fingers lingering over the dilapidated swing and water-damaged shed. Memories creep along the edges of her vision, but nothing holds. She's been her before, except that she hasn't, and when she closes her eyes she sees flashes, little hints of home.
Through the window, she spies a thin woman with red hair watching her, and disappears before the Doctor can return.
--
Unintentionally, she saves his life.
He's run out of options and run out of time, and something calls her from her prison cell to a small planet where she saves his life with a flick of a switch and a well-timed shot.
He's surprised, but at the same time he isn't, and he smiles at her widely and she knows that this must be fixed; that her past self did it and her other self did it and her future self will do the same, coming to his rescue based on a hunch and despite the warning bells in her head and heart, she can't help but smile, too.
--
"China!" He announces, spinning on his heel toward the doors. "Not just regular China - the planet China."
She almost looks impressed. "There's a Planet China?"
Grinning, he taps her nose. "There's a planet everything."
"It's always like this with you, isn't it?" she asks. "Today, a thriving planet; tomorrow, ancient ruins."
He grins. "All of time and space."
Her voice is almost wistful: "Next stop - everywhere."
--
He teaches her Gallifreyan.
She isn't sure if she cares or not, but lets him show her anyway, guiding her hand with his own as she makes circles on the page in even, steady paths. He teaches her the words to burn stars and raise up empires and topple gods and when she asks why he says only that she earned it; that he trusts her.
She thinks he's a fool, but repeats the words after him regardless.
--
"Who was she?"
"Who?"
Melody swallows tightly. "The woman at the house, in Leadworth."
He looks up from the sparking wires in surprise. "You followed me?"
She shrugs. "I found you."
The Doctor nods slowly and returns his gaze to the TARDIS' wires. He continues to tinker with the workings silently, avoiding her gaze. She sits on the bottom stair and waits for him to finish, to wipe his hands on the rag and pull the goggles of his eyes.
She hesitates, then speaks first. "She's my mother, isn't she."
It isn't quite a question, but the Doctor flinches.
"I don't remember her," she continues, "but somehow I know."
He looks up at her, a mixture of curiosity and heartbreak. "How did it happen, for you? Your childhood?"
She pauses, bristling at the intimacy in his tone. She takes a deep breath to calm herself before answering. "I don't remember much. There was a space suit. Then there wasn't. I regenerated but Kovarian found me, brought me ho--" She halts abruptly. "Brought me back. I regenerated again, trying to escape, I think." She shrugs. "Then I killed you."
He nods and looks away.
"Why do you ask?"
"I wasn't sure," he answers quietly. "If--" He stops and shakes his head, then looks at her evenly. "It's my fault. You were supposed to grow up with them, with Amy and Rory. You were supposed to know them, to trust them." His jaw clenches tightly. "I was supposed to be there for you, in 1969. I wasn't."
She frowns, but can't quite bring herself to be angry at his admission. "Why not?"
He smiles, but it's almost devastating. "Because I forgot."
--
She dreams of purple flowers. A star-lit sky and warming breeze. Of goose-bumps along her skin and his smile, soft and bright and full of joy. She dreams of running, faster and farther than she's ever run before, and all the while her hand clasped around his or his hand clasped around hers and the two of them, always, together.
She doesn't remember the wedding and she doesn't remember their vows, but sometimes he smells like Egyptian dust and Time, and her hearts tighten like a fist.
--
"You have to promise me," he says, "Promise me you won't keep it - the anger and the hatred. Promise me you won't follow her or take revenge. It might not seem like it now, but someday you're going to look back and remember what you've been through and it's going to hurt, and it'll never stop hurting. But it will get better. I promise, it will get better. You just have to remember that it isn't worth it, and that you're stronger than they are, and you're better. So promise me. Please, River, promise me."
"Why?"
"Because you're forgiven. Always, and completely forgiven. Never forget that. Promise me."
A long, bating silence.
"I promise."
--
Spain, 1702.
Alfalfa Metraxis, 5689.
London. Rome. Forests and deserts and cities and fields, he takes her everywhere. Dangerous places and lovely places and places that are lovely in their danger. He takes her to the future and the past; to the beginning and the end of everything.
She doesn't mean to fall in love with him, but she does. Just a little. Just enough. His eyes, the quirk of his lips, the line of his throat; the way her hands fit around his shoulder blades and the way he looks at her like she could be someone special if she only tried.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," she snaps, pacing away from him, gold rain in her hair and on her skin and it wasn't like this before, some other time, but it's like this now and she can't stay still; the ache in her chest and hollow feeling in her throat make her want to run and run and never look back.
"This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't-- I'm not--"
He steps in front of her and holds her shoulders gently. "You are."
Her hearts beat erratically and her breathing stalls and it isn't enough, she knows, to become the woman he loved. It's too late for that.
The water is up to their ankles and it keeps pouring and the world is sparkling but she doesn't feel like laughing.
"I killed you," she says, the catch in her throat causing the words to be whispered.
He shakes his head. "It's not your fault."
She pulls away from him violently. "I shot you! I shot you in the chest and you are dead. Don't you get that? You're dead."
"I know," he murmurs; reaching out as she paces, he catches her wrist and holds lightly. She wants to move, but her feet are rooted to the spot.
Her hair is flat against her skull and gold water masks the tears in her eyes. The Doctor stares at her quietly for a long moment. Her eyes burn and her lungs ache and he stares at her with such compassion that she feels sick.
"I don't want to die," he says finally, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. "Hardly anyone wants to die. But if this is fixed and I have to go, I want to remember what I'm leaving." This other hand settles hesitantly on her cheek. "I want to remember you."
She wants to ask why. Why and how and what he gets from this, if anything. What she could possibly have to offer him, in any life. The Last of the Time Lords. The Oncoming Storm. What he would want with a little girl responsible only for death. She wants to know, but what comes out instead is harsh and unintentional and selfish and she can't bare to look at him when she asks, "Even this me?"
She doesn't expect his arms around her waist suddenly, or the pressure of his chest against hers, his hand in her hair and one on her spine and his breath against her cheek. She doesn't expect it and her body tenses until he squeezes tightly and she breaks, burying her face in his shoulder.
"Every you," he promises. "Every time."
With the rain still falling and the world still gold, she lifts her head and kisses him.
--
She curls up against his chest and listens to his hearts, his skin warm against hers, the rise and fall of his chest like a lulling wave as he traces Gallifreyan words along her spine.
part four