Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

151(G)

a vision of streetlamps as angels

                       leiascully

Loving River Song is completely impossible, but not nearly so impossible as not loving her. The Doctor finds it strange to remember his life before River. She bends history around herself, graffitis the oldest cliff in the universe and writes herself into every era. But there was a time he hadn't met her yet, and didn't know what he lacked. He wore a different face then. He carried a key to the TARDIS. For better or for worse, he was not the man he is now. For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, et cetera et cetera amen, and these days he takes some joy in kissing the bride without having to go through all the rigamarole of rebooting the universe for the umpteenth time.

River: professor, archaeologist, professional mischief-maker, hell in high heels. His wife. His right hand. His heart of hearts. She carries the flame inside her wherever she goes, a blaze that could burn the universe. She rekindles the flame of righteousness in him. She reminds him what it means to be good, which is a little bit funny, since she delights so deeply in causing trouble. Somehow she's the anchor that lets him be steady. She spins on the dizzy, dangerous edge of the universe and he stands firm in the center, shouting to the heavens until justice and mercy are reunited. There are days that he is justice and there are days that he is mercy, but always she is there to balance him, out there somewhere.

He cups his hand in the air above her skin sometimes while she sleeps, to feel the heat of her rising from her restless body. It makes her so real, so desperately real. The Doctor's Wife - that's a difficult concept, but nowhere near as difficult as the reality of her. She is prickly and vastly affectionate, passionate and icy, as fierce as an avenging angel and as domestic as any comfortable relationship. She is a contradiction in terms, utterly inscrutable and utterly inescapable. He trusts her without reservation.

She has made him a thief. He steals time, every moment he can get, so that he can be with her. He hasn't even felt guilty about it aside from those first few brief moments. He would take time from nearly anything to spend with her. He would bankrupt the universe if that's what it took. He would feel even worse about the hours and weeks and years she's spent confined in the Stormcage, except that it would diminish the choices she's made, and above all, he wants to honor that sacrifice. More than anything else, he owes her that.

River lives to the length and depth and breadth of the universe, and then back again. She is fearless, a worthy daughter of the Ponds. He is more than a little in awe of her. He has put her through hell, through worse than hell, and look how she's come through it all, glorious as an army, banners tattered but still flying proudly. She humbles him.

Nobody could love him as well as she does. No un-Time Lord-ish heart could be so resilient, he suspects. If she esteems him a little too highly at times, at least she has the wit and the muscle to remind him of his place as well. He has basked in her admiration and weathered her scorn, and both of them have come out better and stronger for it. His River, who has never in her life needed him the way he needs her, but who chooses him anyway. No mortal, however dear, has ever been able to keep up with him the way that she does on his glorious run through all of history everywhere. Rose couldn't escape the fate he brought down on her and neither could Martha or Donna; River looked a fixed point in the eye and rewrote history.

She loves him more than trouble. She loves him more than time itself or her own existence. He cherishes her for that, and fears it too. He knows he isn't worthy of it. He isn't a god, after all, and he's caused her so much hurt. Because of him, she lost her childhood and her parents and gave up the rest of her lives; she broke her heart and broke her wrist. He understands why she's made her own life, but he's desperately glad that each time he stumbles, she's there at his side with her hair wild and her eye keen.

Now and again, in the rare moments that he dreams, he has nightmares of the Library. He dreams that he arrives, stooped and shuffling, finally at the end of his road, to find the lovely balconies destroyed, the buildings nothing more than rubble, and River lost forever. That would truly be the end of him. The dream of living with her in the eternal uncomplicated make-believe memory of the Library's computers is his solace on the worst days. He doesn't know what he would do if that dream died.

Tonight, in the most recent of their stolen moments, River sleeps and he watches the steady rise and fall of her ribs, half-hypnotized and drowsy. They have been on a mission of justice this evening, restoring artifacts to those from whom they were stolen. River had smiled broadly and pointedly rested her hand on the butt of her pistol. He can't help but admire the utter certainty of her notion of right and wrong, and her complete and flagrant disregard for niceties when it comes to bringing the universe around to share her ideas.

The TARDIS hums quietly as they spin on through the deep of space. The engines always have a special note of contentment when River is aboard. The Doctor resettles the duvet over himself and River and savors the peace that comes with the soft sound of her breath. She might wake any second and he would lose this sweetness. Awake, there's always a sort of tension about her even when nothing's wrong; she'll lie in the bed gazing at him, as fierce and contented and lazy as a lioness. Even at rest, she is a force to be reckoned with, but sleep smooths the lines from her face and relaxes the grip of her curled fingers. He is aware of the immensity of her trust in him that she allows him to see her this way. She is never defenseless, but it is a precious gift when she lets her guard down.

He picks up her hand and presses it to his lips. These are the hands that have given him back his life, over and over. These are the hands that have set him on the right path. These are the hands he reaches for in the bleakest moments. He kisses her fingers again, wishing his lips could express all the things his words can't manage: his gratitude, his devotion, his hearts-rending need to see her face and know that her life and his will braid together, indelibly intertwined. Her eyes open slowly.

"Sentimental old man," she teases in a soft husky voice that warms him all through like a good cup of tea.

"You bring it out in me somehow," he tells her, smiling.

"You know what they say," she murmurs. "Nothing flatters like bespoke."

"When does the flattery start?" he asks. "Because last I remember, you were criticizing my choice in haberdashery. Not particularly flattering."

"Neither were the hats," she says, and stretches. "At least I didn't wing you. When it comes to psychopaths, you could have done worse."

"I certainly could have," he says, cupping her hand around his cheek. She strokes his face with her thumb and smiles.

He is Time Lord, Victorious. He is Time Lord, Vanquished. He is Time Lord, Domesticated, and he is all three at once with her.

"Penny for your thoughts," she says, curling around him. Her skin is warm and soft. He had forgotten what this felt like, in his mostly-chivalrous affair with Rose. He had forgotten what this felt like, in the centuries since he's last been married, or maybe it's just that River is unique in all the universe.

"I think I'm enjoying married life," he tells her, turning his face into her palm to kiss the soft swell under her thumb.

She chuckles quietly, the sound thrilling somehow. "I'm certain that you are," she says with a wicked glint in her eye.

She's right, but then she nearly always is. They enjoy each other thoroughly, making the most of every stolen moment. River and the Doctor, sailing through the universe, recreating bliss in a stolen blue box only barely big enough to contain their joy. It is as near to a miracle as he has ever discovered.