Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

34(M)

let's live in the moment just this time, could we?

                  coffeesuperhero

He kisses her, this time. He makes sure of that. He knows it's useless, trying to take her by surprise, but at least if he's the kisser instead of the kissee (what total nonsense, who thinks of it like that, he won't, ever again) then he isn't so surprised, either, and that's worth the few seconds it takes him to lean down, slide his hand down to the small of her back, pull her closer, and press his lips to hers.

He's kissed people before. This isn't like that, or maybe it is: he hasn't really actively accessed those memories in a long time. His mind is a lot like the TARDIS-- it contains many rooms, some of them not in use, but never deleted, just there, waiting, holding so many memories too wonderful, too real, too painful to be fully remembered, much less to be relived.

River makes a pleased little noise against his mouth, and he resolves to leave the past alone, at least for the present, and concentrate instead on this business of kissing. It seems that while his mind has been busy thinking, his hands have started exploring River's body, discovering hidden curves he's never noticed before, not like this. What a pleasant surprise she's turning out to be, he thinks, what with her lovely hands and her exquisite body and the curiously wonderful things she can do with her tongue.

"That's interesting," he says, pulling away from her for a moment and glancing down, his body's reaction to all of this kissing and groping suddenly arresting his attention and diverting his focus from River, who just covers her mouth with one lovely hand and looks up at him with amused exasperation. "Well, it is," he insists, partly out of indignant irritation that she finds his fascination with his own biology to be humorous, but also because he's almost certain that his protestations will make her laugh, and that would really be something interesting. She does laugh, then, her head thrown back, her hair brushing against the TARDIS console. It is truly a thing of beauty, he thinks, to make someone laugh like that, even for the briefest second of time, to erase the lines of worry and care from someone else's face. He watches her laugh, momentarily carefree and happy, and the lights of the TARDIS seem to grow warmer for a minute, like even dependable old Sexy is laughing right along with her.

"I think she likes you, Doctor Song," he says.

"Oh, sweetie," River drawls, her smile full of mysteries and promises of things to come. "You have no idea."

He leans down so that he can speak directly into her ear. "Care to elaborate on that?" he asks, though he knows exactly what reply she will make.

"Spoilers," they say together, and River chuckles.

"Speaking in tandem," she says, walking her fingers up the line of buttons on his shirtfront. "We should be careful. People will say we're in love."

"Will they? Oh, Doctor Song," he sighs, covering her hand with his, pressing her palm flat against his chest, "surely that's not really much of a spoiler." He kisses her again, shoving aside memories of moments in his past, moments that are hopefully far, far in her future. He wonders vaguely, as her quick and clever fingers work to undo his bow tie, if he's been putting this off, not because he knows how it all ends, but because he doesn't know the middle bits, he doesn't know how much of this they have, and it's possible, it's very possible, that he's afraid that if they start this it will all unravel before they really have any of it. He lives in all of time at once, he will forever feel the weight of past, present, and future, but he cannot for the moment countenance the eventuality that River will someday be one more closed-up room in the labyrinth of his mind, a personal history too dear to consciously cling to.

"Penny for your thoughts," River says curiously, her fingers still caught up in the loose ends of his tie.

"Maybe when you're younger," he says, and they both sigh, "Spoilers," again, a simultaneous lamentation imbued with too much woe for two people, even if one of them is over nine hundred years old.

"Let's not dwell on the past," he says quietly, touching his forehead to hers. The curls of her hair are soft against his face. "Yours or mine."

"All right, why don't we see what else we can do in tandem?" she suggests, sliding against him.

The time after that is a blur of passionate distraction, of lips and hands and teeth and tongues in exciting new places, of hearts beating wildly and shouts of timeless exultation-- River was not lying, he discovers, quite to his delight, about being a screamer-- and all of it culminates in one glorious moment of sublime joy that leaves him feeling like all the doors to all of the rooms in his head have flown open, just for a minute, and there's pleasure and pain and wonder and fear and ecstasy, all of time and space and all of existence that is and was and ever shall be compressed into a few breathless seconds.

They rest, then, lying side by side on a bed in a room that he rarely uses. Their hips and shoulders are pressed together, and if he could summon the will to shift about enough to see them, he's sure he could spend a lifetime making an intimate study of the softer curves of River's body as compared and contrasted to the sharper lines of his own. She hadn't given him much of a chance to make careful observations. That will have to be rectified, he thinks.

"It's just as well that you're an archaeologist, River Song," he says, turning his head just enough to be able to see her face.

"Please tell me you're not about to say that you have something ancient for me to study," she says, laughing.

"All right, I won't," he mumbles, slightly grumpy that she has preempted his silly little joke.

"Don't worry," she laughs, rolling onto her side. "You can study me all you like."

"Even if I make terrible jokes?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow.

"How would I know it was you if you didn't?" she jokes.

"I wonder," he says dreamily, residual memories from all his other selves still floating around in his brain, leftover histories that haven't quite found their way back to their rooms. "I wonder if this is what it's like, at all."

"Hmm?"

"Getting a taxi at two in the morning," he murmurs. He reaches for her hand and she reaches back, lacing their fingers together. It's a wonder, love is, he thinks, turning regular innocuous little moments like this into something unexpectedly extraordinary and universally significant. He has things to do, planets to save, he knows, and there are so many miles yet to go before he sleeps, but that's all later, or maybe before, but it's not now. Now is this moment, the two of them, sweet and simple and complicated and perfect.

"Yes, my love," she says sadly, squeezing his fingers. "I think it must feel a little bit like this."

"Don't be sad," he says. "Please. I have a feeling that there will plenty of time for that later."

"There's never really enough time," she sighs, but then she shifts closer to him and smiles. "But what we've got, well. We live lifetimes in these little moments, don't we?"

"We do," he agrees, and kisses her, all his other histories still and silent behind their closed doors as he lives just for a moment in this time.