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In the six years they’ve spent on Darillium thus far, he’s learned more about his wife than he had in almost 1200 years of non-linear marriage. He’d known her—her bravery, her compassion, her carelessness, her humor—but he’s come to realize he’d apparently known very little about her beyond the obvious. He’d known how she took her tea and what restaurants she loved, what dresses she’d like and whether or not she was about to lift something from whatever museum they were in.
But the little things, simple, ordinary, human things—the exact products she uses to wash her hair, the way she bites her lip while painting her nails, brow furrowed in concentration; he’s learned how ridiculous organized she is, her clothes hung by garment, by color, shoes lined up at the bottom; that despite her tendency to dig in dirt and start food fights (she once dumped flour on his head when she was cross), she keeps things clean; he’s learned to read her body language, to know that a downward quirk of her lip means she’s hiding her amusement, one shoulder roll means she’s frustrated, two and she’s about to snap at him; that she snores in her sleep, that she’s insufferable when she’s hungry, that she loves Sarte and hates Dickens and can read for hours on end, curled into the corner of the sofa while he plays guitar.
And every time he thinks he’s learned everything, that he knows everything there is to know about his wife, she surprises him.
She’s been in a bit of a mood all day, so when he suggested they attend the party in the city at some wealthy governor's mansion, he assumed she’d refuse. Instead, she put on the lowest-cut dress she owned, her highest heels, her most expensive jewelry, and all but dragged him out of the house.
“You could have just said you wanted to do something,” he’d grumbled, and she’d shot him a glare and proceeded to ignore him, flirting with every man and woman and leaving him to sulk at the edges, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at the man currently sweeping his wife around the dance floor.
Her laughter is the only thing that keeps him from intruding.
High and bright or low and sultry, she seems to be having a good time, and he can’t begrudge her that.
He doesn’t know what he’s done to upset her, or if she’s truly upset at all—she’d insisted she wasn’t, that she was just feeling off today, not to worry, darling—but she’s barely touched him all day, and he misses her. Misses the fleeting touches to his back as she passes by him in the kitchen, the way she’ll prop her feet up in his lap while she’s working or wrap her arms around him from behind while he’s searching for a book to read. He finds he craves it, needs it like oxygen, and there’s only so much of watching his wife hang off other people’s arms he can take.
He’s been watching her closely, and she’s on her tenth or so drink when he’s finally had enough.
Stalking through the crowd, he makes his way toward her, determined to at least make sure she’s alright. Her back is to him when he approaches, and he sets a gentle hand at the base of her spine.
River jumps slightly, which in itself is alarming—she always knows when he’s nearby, always senses him—but when she turns her smile is wide and her eyes bright.
“Darling! I was wondering where you’d got to.” Before he can answer, she loops an arm through his and pulls him into her side. “This is Mayor Costas, Madame Mayor, this is the Doctor, my husband.”
“Please, call me Darlene. Your wife is a brilliant dancer,” she says, with a touch too much eye on River.
The Doctor frowns. “She’s a brilliant everything.”
Rather than the pinch to his side he’s expecting, River merely beams at him. “Yes, well you’re biased.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true,” he says carefully.
“That’s exactly what a bias means, darling,” she corrects, and the Mayor chuckles, excusing herself when a man across the ballroom waves. “She’s invited us for dinner next week,” River says, turning into him fully as she lowers her voice. “Apparently there’s a bit of a scandal going on with her opponent and she’s looking for some discreet assistance in uncovering it.”
He slips a hand his hand down to her wrist, finger against her pulse. Her hearts are beating a bit fast, her eyes a bit glassy, and he swallows his panic enough to say, “You’re a PI now, then?”
River shrugs, still smiling. “I thought you’d be open to a little mystery.”
He snorts. “Every day is a mystery with you, dear.”
River grins up at him like he’s paid her the most beautiful compliment. He supposes he has, in a way, but he’s a bit too preoccupied ushering her off the dance floor, but not before she snatches up another glass of the bubbly drink from a passing waiter.
“Have you tried this, darling? It tastes like those cocktails we had on Albertine, remember last year?”
“I remember.” He frowns. “Are you sure you should be drinking more?” He winces at the way the words sound, almost parental, and River scrunches her nose adorably.
“Why not?”
He hesitates. “You’re a bit…”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Drunk.”
River laughs. “Tipsy, darling. I don’t do drunk. Highly undignified.” She takes another sip and hands it to him. “Try it.”
He takes it, but instead of drinking he places the glass on the table behind him, out of her reach.
River pouts up at him.
He places the back of his hand against her forehead.
“Oh, stop it,” she says, pushing his hand away lightly. “I’m fine. Lighten up.”
He feels his eyebrows skyrocket into his hairline. “‘Lighten up’?”
River nods, leaning into him, fingers playing with his cravat, ghosting over his neck in a way that makes him shiver. “Yes. We’re at a party! It’s meant to be fun.”
He resists the urge to take out his screwdriver and scan her with it. “I’m having fun.”
“You’re not,” she counters. “You’re brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You brood spectacularly, my love.”
She arches up on her toes and kisses his cheek.
“What’s gotten into you?” he says, attempting to keep the panic out of his voice.
He’s seen River drink before—drink large, grown, alien men under the table, in fact—but he’s never seen her like this.
“It’s a party!”
“So you’ve said.”
She rolls her eyes, but settles her hands on his chest, staring calmly at him, her lips betraying her amusement. “I’m perfectly alright. I’ve had a few drinks, and I’m a bit tipsy, as I said. Nothing more.”
“You never drink in public.”
“I drink in public all the time.”
He tightens his hands around her waist. “Not like this.”
“I don’t drink like this when we’re working. Look around—for once, no alien invasions, no sinister waiters, no maniacs hiding in the planters.” She rubs a hand over his chest. “Besides, if anything were to happen, I know you’re here.”
“Here to what?”
She shrugs. “Protect me. Be my knight in shining armor.” She pauses, frowning. “Actually, you would look terrible in armor. Don’t ever try it.”
“Thanks,” he drawls.
River pats his cheek before grabbing his hand and dragging him back onto the floor. “Now come on. It’s fun, darling. You remember fun, right?”
He rolls his eyes but dutifully lets her maneuver him around, tension fading from his shoulders as he watches her spin away from him, as he hauls her back, cradles her to his chest. She smiles at him, so bright, and he can’t help but return the expression, eyes soft and so, utterly besotted.
They dance for hours, and he even allows himself a few drinks, not enough to get nearly as drunk as she is—tipsy, darling, she corrects, even as she giggles into his chest.
Giggles.
River Song, giggling.
It makes his heart feel light, his feet weightless, a blooming happiness in his chest that he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt before.
“So you’re feeling better, then?”
“Better?”
“Than earlier. You were...upset,” he decides, watching her face closely.
Sure enough, she looks away, just for a moment, then back up at him with a smile. “I’m fine, darling.”
“But you weren’t fine,” he says, sliding his hand further up her spine to press her closer into him. He doesn’t know how else to tell her that he’s here, that he isn’t going anywhere, that she can show him anything, tell him anything, and he won’t run. Never again.
River loops her arms tighter around his neck and leans her head on his shoulder, nose brushing his neck with a sigh.
“It’s silly. You’ll laugh at me.”
Intrigued, but trying to keep his curiosity contained, the Doctor shakes his head. “I would never.”
“You will. I would laugh at me.”
He tilts her chin up so she’ll meet his gaze, and nearly smiles at the expression on her face, almost glum. “I won’t laugh,” he murmurs.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She nods, seeming satisfied, but it’s another few moments of fiddling with his necktie before she sighs.
“I didn’t get my good morning kiss.”
The Doctor blinks.
“Your what?”
River sighs again, as if he’s being especially dense. “Every day, you kiss me good morning, except today you didn’t, and I missed it.”
She looks so put out by it, so genuinely morose, that he has to clench his teeth together to keep from breaking his promise.
“I brought you breakfast in bed,” he says.
“It was lovely.”
“We did the washing up.”
River rolls her eyes at his euphemism. “We did a lot more than ‘wash up,’ darling.”
“See? I kissed you then, didn’t I?”
She nods. “I know. But it’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
She licks her lips and doesn’t reply.
He stops swaying, ducking his head to look at her when she turns away. “Why not, River?”
There’s a long silence, the two of them standing in the middle of the dance floor, unmoving, and he thinks, for a moment, that she won’t answer him. That this will be yet another time she hides the damage, she won’t let him in, she’ll insist on suffering alone and he’ll have to—
“8,792.”
He blinks, startled. “What?”
“That’s how many mornings we’ll have had on Darillium, before the sun comes up.”
“And?”
She hesitates before looking him in the eye. “And I want all of them. All 8,792 mornings.”
He nods slowly, understanding. “All 8,792 kisses.”
She lets out a heavy breath. “I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“It’s just one kiss.”
“It’s important.”
She snorts, but he can tell her derision is toward herself. “How can one kiss be import—”
“You saved my life with a kiss.”
“I killed you with a kiss. Twice.”
“Equally as important,” he reminds her. “We got married with one of those kisses.”
Her lips quirk up. “True.”
“See?” he says, tapping the bridge of her nose. “No reason to feel silly.”
River smiles, so full of love, the same, besotted expression he wears so often reflected in her eyes. When she leans forward to kiss him, he wraps his arms tighter around her waist, one hand dragging into her hair, and she giggles against his mouth, breathless and giddy.
She starts to pull back, but he draws her in again, softer this time, more serious, one hand at her back and the other cradling her cheek, like he always does, mouth moving softly over hers before he pulls away just enough to press his forehead to hers, like he always does.
“Good morning, dear,” he murmurs.
She beams at him, her smile his very own sun.