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River twists her fingers together in her lap, eyes flickering between him and the window.

“We haven’t taken off yet,” she says, scanning the crowded plane. “Maybe I should—”

“River.”

“There’s still time,” she protests, and John bites back a smile.

“You called him before we boarded.”

“I know. But what if they forgot—”

“They didn’t.”

She narrows her eyes. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

John arches an eyebrow, amused. “Does it matter?”

River huffs. “Fine.” She turns away from him, staring out at the tarmac, and John counts backwards in his head. When he gets to one, River looks back at him, eyes wide. “Mr. Bunny. What if they forgot—”

“I packed him last night,” he assures her, reaching over the divider to take her hand, smoothing her fingers out again his own.

“He can’t sleep without it.”

“I know.”

“I should just make sure—”

He does chuckle this time, lifting her hand to place a kiss to the back of it. “He’s fine, dear. He’s with your parents. They’re probably on their way to Leadworth by now.”

River glowers, but with her lower lip between her teeth it’s hardly intimidating. “Did Amy remember his snacks?” At John’s look, she sighs heavily. “He’s a picky eater, John, they can’t just stop anywhere along the way, he’s going to—”

“Your dad made lunches this morning, remember?”

River fidgets, eyes darting up to the fasten seatbelt sign as it dings on. Leaning down, she rifles through her carry-on, her voice muffled behind her hair. “I should just call one more time before—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Flight 155 with service to Cairo International Airport. Our travel time today is approximately three hours and thirty minutes. We ask that you take this time to turn off all electronic devices and ensure your carry-ons are stowed safely beneath your seats.”

River nearly snarls at the PA system, and John laughs as she kicks her bag under the seat, leaning back with a sigh. She spares him a glare, and John softens, taking her hand again.

“He’s going to be just fine. He’s safe, he’s with your parents. They’ve got our numbers, and we can call as soon as we land, yeah?”

River nods, curling her fingers into his even as she stares out the window. She’s never been away from him so long, or so far, and it’s harder than she expected. She keeps looking around, startled for a moment when she doesn’t see him, until she remembers he isn’t coming with them this time, that he’s safe, that he’s with his family. Her family.

It’s a foreign concept, and she taps her boot restlessly on the floor.

A week.

A week away from home, a week without Rory, without teaching or shows or anything to worry about other than John talking them into some sort of trouble, and as badly as she wants to be excited, there’s a small but vocal part of her that’s terrified. She’s talked herself in and out of the trip countless times since he gave her the tickets, but she’s here, and the plane doors are closing and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Well. She could, if really necessary, but she puts that thought to bed. She’s just a normal passenger and a normal tourist going on a normal trip with her not-so-normal...John.

Looking back, she finds him watching her carefully, concerned, and she squeezes his hand.

“You all right?” he asks quietly beneath the flight attendant’s safety speech.

River manages a smile, and tucks her head onto John’s shoulder, fingers laced with his.

--

She calls Rory when they land, and again when they reach the hotel, using the video camera to show him their room. It’s small and quaint, not far from the Egyptian Museum, run by a short, delightful man named Muhammad who beams when they arrive. Though John made the arrangements, River had gone over his choices with a fine-tooth comb, vetting the staff and anyone else of interest.

Rory claps his hands excitedly when she shows him the view overlooking Ramses street, marvelling at the lanes of traffic. She shows him the balcony, the room, the flowers on the breakfast table while John unpacks their bags and snoops around and makes small talk with Muhammad.

After ten minutes of listening to Rory recount every detail of their drive thus far, John carefully pries the phone from River’s hands and promises they’ll call later, murmuring in River’s ear that if she doesn’t hang up he’ll not be responsible for ravishing her on the balcony in front of all of Cairo proper.

Shaking her head fondly, but putting away the phone, River follows him back into the room and wraps her arms around his neck.

“Best keep that in here,” she murmurs, her eyes soft as she holds his gaze, and John nods, fingers playing out a melody on her arm.

She’s barely brushed her lips to his when there’s a knock at the door, and John grumbles under his breath while River bites her lip on a smile.

Muhammad smiles at them, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry, sorry to bother, I have your reservations for the tour. Eleven tomorrow, this is okay?” He holds a piece of paper with English and Arabic scribblings.

John frowns. “We didn’t arrange a tour.”

Mohammad beams at them proudly. “Is for you, if you want! My friend Mohab, he take you to see the Pyramids, and anything else you like!”

Shrugging, John turns to River. “Tour, my dear?”

“With your friend?” she asks, remembering him mentioning an old friend from college.

But John shakes his head, “No, The Brigadier—that’s what we called him—he’s in Germany on business. Forgot to mention. But we can do this one?”

River smiles. “Aywa, shukran, Mohammad. That would be wonderful. Salaam alaykum.”

“Ah, you must be River! W’alaykum a’salaaam. Fursa sa’ida!”

“Ana al’asad! W’ismo John.”

Muhammad’s smile doubles at her Arabic. “Aywa, aywa. Guzik?”

“La, mish delwati.” She glances over at John. “Mumkin arybaen, Insha’Allah.”

“Alhumdullilah. Hu rajil bachyt.” River flushes slightly, and John frowns. “Aywa, aywa, you will be here for dinner this evening?”

River nods, and Muhammad makes arrangements for them to eat together before politely excusing himself.

John sniffs next to her, trying not to pout. “What was all that about, then?”

River chuckles. “Of all the languages in that brain of yours, you never bothered to learn Arabic?”

“I’ve been a bit busy!” he protests, and River smirks, flicking the lock on the door before backing him up toward the bed.

“You’re about to be even busier in a moment.”

“Oh?”

She hums. “Most definitely. Absolutely slammed.”

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs, then snatches her by the waist, twirling her around before silencing her laughter with a kiss.

--

River is up well before dawn, shifting restlessly in their bed while she thumbs through an old, bulky history text, as she’d absolutely refused to buy anything remotely resembling a travel guide.

Beside her, John smirks into his pillow, biting down a grin every time she sighs loudly or coughs or moves her leg to ‘accidentally’ prod him in the side.

“I know you’re awake,” she says finally, glaring at him over the rim of his glasses.

John affects a loud snore.

Sighing heavily, River closes the book and sets the glasses on the nightstand. “Guess I’m going to shower alone, then.” He doesn’t move, even as she slides from the bed. “Maybe Muhammad will be up. He mentioned something yesterday about a romantic breakfast for two, but he’ll just have to take your spot.” Tensing, John scowls into his pillow, but stubbornly remains silent. Grabbing her robe, River turns away. “Shame, too. Guess I’ll be feeding him fruit. In my bathrobe. With nothing on under—”

John jolts from the bed, arms wrapping around her waist as he hauls her back into the pillows. “The hell you will,” he mutters, fingers tickling her sides as she laughs, catching his hand.

“Oh, you are up.” She moves her leg pointedly.

“You play dirty, woman,” he mutters into her neck.

“Guess we better clean up, then.”

Slipping from his arms, she dances backwards toward the shower, throwing her head back in laughter as he dives after her.

--

Their tour guide—Mohab—takes them to Saqqara first, to see the Pyramid of Djoser. John listens half-heartedly as Mohab and River converse in Arabic about the history of the necropolis. It’s not that he doesn’t care, or that it isn’t interesting, but it’s hot and dusty and it smells a bit and Mohab is smiling at River just a bit too much.

Still, he holds his own, throwing out facts every time there’s a lull in the conversation.

“Did you know, Djoser’s Horus name is Netjerykhet? Try saying that three times fast.” and “Djoser’s advisor, Imhotep, was one of the first commoners ever to be given divine status after death.” and “The main excavator was Jean-Philippe Lauer. He lived to be ninety-nine. That’s a lot of nines! No, sorry, that’s only two nines, not that impressive, carry on.”

River rolls her eyes and pats his arm and ignores the confused expression on the guide’s face.

They travel next to Dahshur, River in the passenger’s seat asking question after question while John drums his fingers on his legs in the backseat and—according to River—pouts.

Still, the moment the car is parked she grabs John’s hand, tucking her arm into his as she recounts the history excitedly. “That’s Snefuru’s Bent Pyramid,” she says, “There was an engineering crisis while they were building it—”

“On the backs of slaves,” John grumbles.

River elbows him harshly in the side. “But it’s believed that it represents a transitional period, from the step-pyramids like the one we saw at Djoser, to a smooth-sided pyramid—so the Red Pyramid, that one there, is the world’s first successfully completed smooth-sided pyramid, and the third largest in Egypt. That over there’s the Black Pyramid—it was built under the reign of Amenemhat III—and was the first to house the remains of both the Pharaoh and his queen. Well, queens.”

“It’s lumpy.”

“It’s decayed.”

John wrinkles his nose. “It looks like Rory’s mashed potato creations.”

River gives a long suffering sigh. “It’s history, John. Have a little respect.”

“History of the victors built on the backs of slaves—”

“Labourers—”

“—and the Pharaohs get all the credit when they barely lifted a scepter—”

River huffs. “You know just as well as I do that workers were paid to build these monuments. Yes, they often came from poor families but their work was respected and revered, so much so that those who died during construction were buried in the pyramid tombs, close to their Pharaoh, with jars of supplies meant for the afterlife. They were well fed, medically cared for, given proper housing. I recognise it wasn’t the easiest work and yes, many died but the fact that you’re belaying a perpetuated myth is at best ignorant and at worst damaging and—you’re just winding me up, aren’t you?”

John smirks, and taps her nose. “Your cheeks get all flushy.”

Groaning, River whacks him in the arm with her hat.

--

In retribution for his earlier antics, River makes him go with her inside the Pyramids. It’s dark and dank and smells like bat feces and River looks like she might pass out with excitement. John grumbles and bangs his head on the low ceilings and curses and steps in something unmentionable. It’s hot and humid and frankly disgusting and he swears River spends more time than she actually wants down in the caverns, just to annoy him.

After her curiosity has been satisfied, Mohab takes them back into Cairo proper, to a small eatery that serves nothing but koshary. There’s a virtual tank of pasta in the window, and vats of lentils and sauteed onions and rice and chickpeas and he wonders briefly about the health hazards before drowning the dish with enough vinegar to make River shudder.

She takes a picture of the dish and the diner and of Mohab and sends all the photos to Rory.

“Ibni yagib burnyt’tka,” she says, laughing; then she freezes, her face going pale, and John touches her hand.

“River?”

“Nothing. Nothing, sorry.”

Mohab frowns, swallowing his food. “He is small?”

River tenses, and nods curtly, immediately pocketing her phone. Mohab looks between them curiously, but doesn’t ask, and doesn’t seem surprised when River asks him to take them back to the hotel. He promises to pick them up for dinner, and a boat ride on the Nile, but cautiously, waiting for River to agree despite John’s reassurance.

The walk back up to their room is silent, and River locks the door, closes the blinds, and paces.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

“Nothing.”

“River—”

“I let my guard down. I shouldn’t have—damn it.”

“River,” he says gently. “I can’t help you if I don’t know—”

“I told him I had a son. I told him—Rory, he said he liked his hat, so I told him—”

John shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t know him!” She waves a trembling arm toward the door. “I don’t know him, John, he could be anyone, he could be—”

“You vetted everyone, River.”

“Not him! Not the bloody tour guide, I didn’t—I didn’t know we’d be—”

“He’s a civilian, River, a tour guide. You didn’t do anything wrong, you—”

“One slip, John,” she snaps. “One slip, that’s all it takes, that’s all it ever—”

“River—”

“I made you promise not to say anything, I made you promise, and then I bloody went and—on the first day—” She whirls, digging through her suitcase for her laptop. “I need to find out. I need to check, I need to—his name, what was his—I need his name.”

John swallows. “I didn’t get a last name,” he says softly. “River—”

“Well, go ask someone, go ask, I need to find out—I need to—I need to tell Amy—I need to call them, I—”

Her hands are shaking as she opens the laptop, and when she reaches for her phone, it spirals out of her hands.

John grabs it before she can, holding it away. “Give it back.”

“River, you need to calm down.”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down, don’t you ever dare tell me to—”

“I know, River,” he says, louder, hoping to snap her out of it. “Remember? I get it.”

“No, you don’t! You can’t get it, John! Twenty years of looking over my shoulder, of—of—vetting every single person I meet from the—the—the waiter at the cafe to the dentist to the bloody car salesman and I made this mistake once before and you don’t—because she’s out there, she’s out there, and I left him—”

“You didn’t leave him, River. He’s safe, he’s with your parents, he’s—”

“Yes, my parents, who know so much about self defence and security tactics and—”

“No, but they’ve lost a child before and I don’t think you’re giving them nearly enough credit not to let it happen again.”

He’s not entirely sure whether he deserved the slap across his cheek, but he doesn’t blame her for it. Her eyes soften immediately, remorseful, but she still holds out a trembling hand.

“Just give me the phone.”

He slaps it into her hand and turns away, listens over his shoulder as she tells her father to take Rory home and stay there until she calls again.

“No, no, everything’s fine, I’m just—I’m sure it’s nothing, just please—okay. Okay. Thank you.”

She says nothing after she hangs up, and he hears the clicking of keys as she types furiously, doing whatever it is she does to look up people’s lives. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John turns and grabs the phone, slumping on the edge of the bed. He might as well help.

It’s an hour before she’s satisfied, and she closes the computer with a soft sigh.

“Better?” he asks, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone.

River nods stiffly.

John glares down at the phone in his hands. “You said you made this mistake before. You meant me, didn’t you?”

“John—”

“You meant me.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “But it’s not the same.”

“You handcuffed me to an oven.”

“You were spying on me.”

“I was trying to help.” Meeting her gaze, he says, “Not everyone is out to get you, River. There’s not a monster behind every door, or every smile. There are no—there are no kidnappers in the supermarket or—or—assassins at Disneyland. Some people are just…people.”

Her voice hitches. “You weren’t.”

John flinches, looking away. “I know.”

He doesn’t see her rise, but he feels the bed dip as she sits next to him, moving the phone out of reach. “I know it’s—it’s hard. For you.” She lets out a quiet snort. “When you fancied the burlesque girl, you probably never imagined you’d be signing on for this.”

John shakes his head. “I signed up long ago, River. I know you can’t remember, but...I signed up long ago. From the moment you pushed me out of a tree.”

“We were just kids.”

“You made a lasting impression.”

River takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. For hitting you, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

Shifting, she raises a hand to his cheek, her touch so light and soft. “I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to her temple. “Always and completely.”

She nods against his chest, taking a long moment, her hand gripping his knee, before she pulls away. “I should call them back. They’re probably worried.”

“I’ll do it, if you want.”

River hesitates, then nods. Rising, she squeezes his shoulder once before disappearing out onto the balcony.

--

“You sure you’re okay with this?” John asks softly.

River nods, smiling weakly, her hair still damp from her shower and her eyes slightly glassy. “Besides, it’d be horribly rude to decline.”

“I can be rude,” John grumbles, but River shakes her head, squeezing his hand before knocking on the door.

It opens instantly, and they both look down to find a small child beaming up at them between gapped teeth.

“Baba, Baba! In’hum huna!”

The little girl grins, grabbing Mohab’s trouser leg. He chuckles, scooping the girl up, and opens the door wider.

“Ahlan w’sahlan! Come in, come in!”

“Alan beeki!” John grins, grasping Mohab by the shoulders and awkwardly kissing both cheeks. “She’s been teaching me, eh?”

The girl at their feet giggles. “That’s for girls!”

John’s face falls. “Oh.” Then, “Well, who says I wasn’t talking to you, eh?”

“I’m Femi, that means ‘love’; what’s your names?”

“I’m John, and this is my—this is River.” He coughs to cover the mistake, and River rolls her eyes.

“Nahr!”

“Bless you!”

River snorts. “My name in Arabic, sweetie.”

“Oh.”

Femi rattles off a string of Arabic and Mohab laughs, shaking his head as he guides them to the table. “She is asking if you like fatta. It is a special dish, we don’t make it often.”

A tall, slender woman appears from the kitchen with a basket full of flatbread. “My husband always makes fatta for Femi.” Dusting her hands, she leans forward to hug them each in turn. “I am Basma. Ahlan w’sahlan.”

River thanks them profusely in Arabic for their hospitality, and both of them wave her off. Basma takes her seat last, passing around a plate of dukkah and tomatoes. “Mohab says you impress him, you know a lot about Egyptian history.”

River tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and nods, and the conversation flows easily. Basma teases Mohab gently for his cooking. “He comes home straight away, and says to me, ‘Basma, we’re having friends tonight, make the fatta!’ And I tell him, ‘You want it, you make it.’ So he does.” She shrugs, lips twitched in a smile as Mohab blushes. “I am a terrible cook,” she admits. “I make flatbread, and sometimes knafeh.”

“She always burns it.”

Basma laughs and swats him in the arm with a napkin. Femi giggles. “Basma, la, la!”

John tries to disguise the question on his face, but he isn’t fast enough. River kicks him under the table, but Basma merely smiles.

“She is my step-daughter. Her mother lives in Alexandria.”

River frowns. “That’s quite a ways from here.”

“Her mother—we are divorced—she has the...eh...rights?” River nods. “She gets Femi most of the time. I get a few weekends here and there.” He smiles sadly. “Every occasion I have my daughter is a special occasion. So we make fatta. And, fatta always goes better with friends.”

“You have biiiiiiiig hair.”

“Femi,” Mohab scolds, but the girl just giggles, holding her arms out as far as she can on both sides.

“It is big, isn’t it?” John whispers. “You want to know why?”

Femi nods, and John beckons her closer, until he can whisper in her ear. “It’s space hair.”

River snorts, and Femi looks adorably confused before shrugging and clambering onto her chair so she can reach the flatbread.

Dejected, John slumps back in his chair. “Seriously. You could fit a pyramid in there.”

River stomps on his foot under the table.

--

The rest of the evening passes in easy conversation, back and forth between English and Arabic. To Mohab’s surprise, River asks him questions about Egyptian culture, politics, music and film. He can tell by the way Mohab shifts in his seat, and Basma places a hand over his, that he isn’t used to being asked his opinion—just historical facts tourists can easily digest. John pipes in every so often, but mostly does his best to keep Femi occupied, letting her teach him Arabic words and butchering them on purpose to see her giggle.

He outright laughs when River mentions Umm Kulthum, and Mohab nearly scrambles out of his seat to turn the stereo on. Basma rolls her eyes and huffs fondly, while Femi takes the opportunity to abandon her vegetables in favour of dancing around the living room, singing loudly.

After dinner’s been cleared, there’s tea and knafeh (burnt, just as Mohab said), and it isn’t until well after dark that Mohab excuses himself to have a cigarette, inviting River with him.

John stays in the kitchen with Basma, insisting despite her objections that he help at least wash dishes; she steadfastly refuses, and he winds up sitting on the floor, teaching Femi how to play pattycake.

“So,” Basma starts, looking down at him as she dries a plate. “Are you going to ask her?”

“Ask who what?”

“River. To marry you.”

John chokes on oxygen, sputtering, and Basma bemusedly hands him his cup of tea. “Thank you,” he croaks.

“Well?”

Resisting the urge to touch the ring in his pocket, John shrugs. “Are you saying I should?”

Basma smiles. “I do not believe you need me to tell you that. Or anyone for that matter. There is a line—in so many of those American films—‘I see the way you look at her.’” She looks to him for approval, and John nods.

“Yeah, that’s it. And how exactly do I, um…”

“Ya’aburnee.”

“What?”

“Ya’aburnee,” she repeats, but when he frowns, simply smiles. “Mohab, when he came home today, he called me at work and said, ‘I met a woman today, with the same look in her eyes as mine.’” She smiles sadly. “Mohab is a good husband. He is a wonderful father. But every day, he fears Femi’s mother will take her away for good. Every time he says goodbye, he worries it will be the last.” Turning back to the sink, she selects another dish to dry. “You have nothing to worry about, sahibi. Not from us.”

Stunned, and able to do little else but go through the motion of clapping Femi’s hands, John swallows tightly and nearly bolts at the sound of the door opening and closing. He moves immediately to River, who seems to have the same, bewildered expression on her face.

“You too?” she murmurs.

John nods, about to speak when he notices a bag in her hands. “What’s that?”

Smiling, River shows him, the same hat Mohab wore earlier. “For Rory. Mohab bought it before he came home.”

John lets out a quiet laugh. “We’re gonna have to leave him one hell of a tip.”

--

The next day, Mohab takes them to Giza, to see the Great Pyramid and Sphinx. River has a difficult time containing her enthusiasm, bombarding their guide with questions and taking photos for Rory at every opportunity. Mohab warns them not to photograph the police officers on camelback, but John sneaks a few anyway, sending his own photos to Rory—he’d never admit to competing with River (mostly because he could never win) but he delights when Rory takes his side, in anything. Even over who has the best photograph.

River rolls her eyes and huffs, and when she isn’t paying attention, he snaps a photo of her against the Cairo skyline.

After lunch, Mohab drops them at Khan el-Khalili, a large market in the Islamic district, and River laughs as John darts from merchant to merchant, pointing at bracelets and rugs and shoes and bargaining with the shop owners. He buys far more than he can carry, mostly because he can’t say no when people tell him their stories, and River hides a smile behind her scarf, pinned loosely to cover her hair.

In return for carrying several of his bags, River tells him the entire history of the souq, the nearby mosque and university and gate (John delights in repeating bab al-Badistan as many times as he can, as fast as he can, before River elbows him in the ribs). She buys several books and a new scarf and, as promised, an intricately carved, bright blue scarab for Rory.

She buys him another, smaller one on a necklace, just because, and John teases her mercilessly for spoiling him.

For dinner, they meet up again with Muhammad at the hotel, and Mohab, and John feels River tense beside him when a third man is introduced. He’s much older, with greying hair and a cane and perpetually trembling hands, but he smiles softly and River releases a steady breath.

“River, this is my good friend, Shimy,” Mohammad beams, manoeuvring him to stand next to River.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mohab tells me you are interested in archaeology? I work at the Egyptian Museum, so I know a bit about these things.”

Mohab claps Zahi on the shoulder. “He is being humble. Shimy is the Antiquities Chief of—”

River pales slightly, her eyes widening. “Dr. Zahi Shimy?”

Zahi nods, a crooked smile on his face, and John surreptitiously places a hand at River’s back to keep her upright, doing his best to keep from outright giggling. River stutters slightly before shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—I’ve read all your books, listened to all your lectures, I—it’s an honour to meet you.”

Over River’s head, Mohab beams at John, giving him two thumbs up, and John laughs brightly, resisting the urge to kiss the dazed expression off River’s face, right here in front of everyone.

Instead, he brushes a thumb over her spine before slipping away to talk with Mohab and Muhammad, leaving River on the other side of the room, watching out of the corner of his eye as she gesticulates, her eyes bright as she and Zahi discuss all manner of—in John’s opinion—dreadfully boring things.

It doesn’t take much wheedling to realise Mohab actually knows very little about Dr. Shimy, but that he’s Mohammad’s cousin’s wife’s sister’s husband’s father and that’s good enough to call him a friend.

“Thank you,” John says lowly, when he’s sure River is too engaged to hear. “That was very kind of you, to introduce them.”

Mohammad shrugs. “Most people, they come here and know nothing. They don’t try to speak Arabic, they don’t ask questions. They take photos of Sphinx and Great Pyramid, and complain there’s not enough hot water, when twenty percent here do not have enough food, and most are children. It is...rare. To have someone like River.”

John returns his smile. “She’s one of a kind.”

Mohammad nods, then turns the conversation to the rest of their stay, and to John’s delight helps arrange a trip to Luxor, to see the temples. From there, they’ll go to Aswan, and then back up the Nile, to spend another night in Cairo before heading home. He makes a note to check with River later, after he teases her mercilessly for interrogating the old man across from her about various pots and pans.

The night carries on with food and coffee, before Zahi begs off and Mohab takes them down to the Nile, warning them not to engage the young girls dancing on the boat.

River swallows tightly, and John grips her hand as a girl no older than thirteen approaches them, her shadowed eyes and heavy makeup doing nothing to hide her fear and exhaustion. Despite his warnings, John gives the girl his jacket before they leave, with money still tucked into the inside pocket.

They take coffee and shisha at a nearby cafe, but retire soon after, and River keeps her hand tight around his on the walk back.

Try as he might, he can’t shake the image, can’t help but replace the girl’s dark hair with curls, her brown eyes with grey, and if he clings to River tighter than usual under the sheets, she says nothing.

He spends a long time staring into the dark before he summons the courage to ask.

“Did you—” he starts, then stops, and River runs a hand over his chest. “I mean, I’m not judging—it’s just—you said you—you’ve never mentioned how you...started. Burlesque, I mean.” He quickly covers, “Not that—not that that’s what happens, it’s just—I meant—you know what, never mind.”

He clamps his jaw shut, and River smiles down at him gently, propped up on her elbow, her skin warm against his.

“I worked in a club in Brighton for a while,” she says, her voice low and calm, and he feels himself relax at the timber of it. “Stripping, mostly. It was decent money, and the girls—we took care of each other.”

John swallows, his hand curling possessively over her hip. “You don’t have to tell me.”

River brushes a hand over his cheek. “I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

He starts at that, meeting her gaze, and he realises suddenly that her silence on the matter has less to do with secrecy and more to do with sparing him, and his heart clenches because of it.

“I can handle it,” he says, his voice thicker than he’d like, and she starts to shake her head. “River.” Snatching her hand, he brushes his lips against her knuckles. “It’s up to you.”

Eyeing him for a long moment, she must see something in his expression that makes her nod, because she slips down and settles with her head against his shoulder, their fingers still intertwined.

“There’s not much to tell, really. I worked there for about three years, until I was twenty one. Then I got a job waiting tables, but—it was actually better money working in the strip club. And I liked it.” She pauses. “Well, not liked it, really, but—it was...empowering. For me. More so than bussing dishes and mopping floors, at any rate, and—and I liked the performance aspect of it. The show, the lights.”

John hums, running a hand up and down her arm. “How did you get from there to London?”

River snorts quietly. “I got fired.”

John mock-gasps. “Really, you?”

She thumps his chest. “Some of us had clients—regulars, anyway—who used to come into the club almost every week. And there was a girl—Sunny, we used to call her. She had short hair, bleached yellow—she was—” River shakes her head. “She didn’t belong in that world, not really. One of her regulars—he tried to pick her up after her shift. At first it was just a joke, or so we thought but after a while…” She trails off, pressing herself further into his side. “I was late packing up, and when I got outside, he was trying to push her into his car.” John inhales sharply and she feels him tense under her hand. “I broke his jaw. And his nose. And his arm.”

John snorts, but relief washes through him, and he presses a firm kiss to her temple.

“I might have done worse,” she admits then, so softly, “If Sunny hadn’t stopped me. The manager was...less than sympathetic. So I gave Sunny my tips and the first three months rent on my flat and told her to get the hell out.”

“Did she?”

River shrugs. “I don’t know. I stole three hundred bucks out of the till and hopped a train to Dover. That’s where I met Donna.”

John huffs, but squeezes her tighter, shifting so his arm covers more of her back, as if he could shield her from the past. He wants to ask, suddenly—if that’s where she met Rory’s father, too. It’s an unbidden thought, one he can’t shake, that sits heavy in his chest, and he’s thankful for the dark that she can’t see his face. She can read him all too well, and he knows by the way she nuzzles against him that she’s relieved enough for one evening. That it’ll keep.

Biting down his curiosity, John presses a kiss to her forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

Against his chest, he feels River smile.

--

They spend their last day in Cairo at the Egyptian Museum. John darts between statues and bits of pottery and sarcophagi, snorting at the placards and declaring things “wrong” while River wanders slowly behind him, intently studying each artefact.

“River,” he sighs, aware that he’s borderline whining, “At this rate we’ll never make it out of the lobby.”

Over her shoulder, she glowers. “This museum houses the largest collection of Pharaonic antiquities in the world, sweetie. Forgive me for wanting to take my time.”

“Seen one gold Tutankhamun mask, seen them all,” he huffs, but it’s mostly for show—he loves the way she marvels at things, her eyes travelling over every hieroglyphic and every scratch, fingers twitching at her sides to touch.

Sliding his hand into hers, he tugs her away from a half broken, painted head of Hatshepsut. “Come on. There’s more half-faces for you to look at upstairs.”

Like a child, she resists, throwing a longing look over her shoulder. “But—”

Grinning, John taps her nose when she turns back. “Trust me, dear. There’s more where that came from.”

With a heavy sigh, she capitulates, allowing him to drag her up a long flight of stairs; he chooses a room at random, and River immediately drags him over to a case with dozens of bracelets and necklaces, skimming their tags and elaborating on certain things, wrinkling her nose at others, and tracing the glass over the beads and threads.

They spend hours, distracting one another, pulling each other from one glass case to the next; John asks ridiculous questions—“Do you think Nefertiti would have like Bogle?”—and tells awful jokes— “River, what do you get in a 5-star pyramid? A tomb with a view.” and “Did you hear the one about the angry mummy? He flipped his lid.”—while River rolls her eyes and apologises to whatever guard may have been John’s unwitting audience.

They break for lunch in the museum cafe, and John grumbles about prices and “touristy stuff” while River peruses the gift shop, picking up a few more gifts for Rory, Amy, and her father to add to her collection.

The rest of the day is spent wandering the halls of the museum, heads ducked together as they bicker about history and artefacts until closing. At the hotel, they pack up what they’ll need for they’ll need for their trip down the Nile later that night, leaving the rest in storage. Mohammad brings them dinner, and in the privacy of their room, they feed each other ful and hard-boiled eggs and fruit and John tells her she would have made a good ruler, or even a god.

“Isis, maybe.”

River snorts. “Does that make you Osiris?”

John straightens his bowtie. “I could be a god!”

“First of all, they were siblings, and while that may have been readily accepted then, I’ve no desire to move to Utah or some other such place.” She pauses, glancing at him over the rim of her teacup. “Unless there’s something else about my past you aren’t telling me.”

John balks, arms pinwheeling and cheeks flushed. “River!”

She smirks. “Just saying, sweetie. Plus, in one version of the myth, Osiris gets murdered by his brother, tossed in a box in the Nile, brought back to life just long enough to impregnate Isis, dies again, and then gets torn into fourteen pieces and scattered throughout Egypt.”

“And if I remember correctly, Isis searched until she found them all and put him back together for a proper burial. The gods were so impressed by her devotion, they brought him back to life.”

River rolls her eyes at his smug tone. “If someone rips you into fourteen pieces, I’m on the next plane back to London.”

“Oi! Here I am, trying to be romantic, and you’re abandoning me to the Sahara,” he grumbles, and River purses her lips to contain a smile.

“You know, they say Isis never could find his phallus after he was ripped to bits.”

John flushes bright red. “River.”

“They say it was eaten by catfish.”

John gawks. “Why you—”

John lunges, and River shrieks, darting from the chair as he chases her around the hotel room, cornering her in the small bathroom against the sink as she laughs, her head thrown back and his arms around her waist.

“You are the worst,” he grumbles, even as he presses his lips to her shoulder. “I take it back. You’d be a terrible god. All mean and abandony and—and—”

“Related?” she offers, one eyebrow neatly raised.

“That wasn’t the point,” he whines, and River chuckles, smoothing a hand down his back.

“All right, then. What was the point?”

John shakes his head stubbornly. “Nope. The moment is ruined.”

“John.”

“You’ve completely killed it.” He turns his head away, and River bites down a smile before leaning up to kiss under his chin.

“Better?”

“Nope.”

Arching up on her toes, she kisses his jaw, then his cheek. “Now?”

He considers. “Slightly. I’m still not telling you, though.”

With a put-upon sigh, River cups his cheek in her palm and turns his head, meeting his lips in a soft, tender kiss. “How about now?”

Licking his lips, John stares down at her, and for a moment she can’t breathe for all the affection in his eyes. There must be something in her expression, then, some measure of surprise, because his confidence weakens, and she watches as he swallows tightly, the motion of his throat, the way he inhales sharply.

“I’d search the whole world over for you,” he says, all in one breath, so hushed the words fall less like sound, more like air, and her heart pinches in the best way.

Softening, River guides his lips back to hers. “Oh, sweetie. You already have.”

--

They take the night train from Cairo to Luxor. John sleeps, his head on her shoulder while River reads and keeps an eye on their luggage and attempts to discourage the flirtation from the young man across the aisle. They leave at eleven, and when their train rolls in at nine the next morning, they’re both tired, and River is irritable, muttering about coffee and a shower, but when they arrive at the bed and breakfast on the westbank of the Nile, she pastes on a smile for their host just long enough to get their keys, with a promise to return for coffee after they’ve settled in.

Following her up the stairs to the top floor, John grumbles, “Is everyone enamoured with you?”

River lets out an indelicate snort, but doesn’t answer, choosing instead to grab her toiletries and a change of clothes and beeline for the shower.

John tries not to feel put out that she didn’t ask him to join her, and instead flops down on one of the twin beds for a moment before he gets restless and starts poking around, opening drawers and sniffing the walls and pulling back the curtains.

The view is stunning, and John makes a mental note to bring something back for Mohammad.

Still, River takes far too long, and he entertains himself by rearranging furniture, pushing the beds together, and finally settling on the chair by the desk, tapping his feet against the floor.

He manages almost a minute, before he’s about to go downstairs and explore, when River sticks her head out the bathroom door, hair wet, expression exasperated.

“Are you coming or not?”

Lurching to his feet, John stumbles his way to the bathroom, shedding his clothes, and River rolls her eyes fondly when he trips trying to take off his socks.

“I thought you were grumpy.”

“I am grumpy,” she sighs, holding him still while she tugs his undershirt over his head. “I’m tired and sore and smell like train and I want my husb—” She coughs, barely stumbling, “I want you to make me feel better.”

John licks his lips, his eyes wide, and River steadfastly avoids his gaze, and instead drops to her knees and tugs his boxers down to the floor, her nails skimming lightly over his thighs.

“Any suggestions?” she asks, her smirk wicked even as she stares at a point near his shoulder.

“River—”

She presses a kiss to his hip and he starts, but receives the message—she doesn’t want to talk about it, or maybe he just heard wrong, so he tugs her to her feet and kisses her, hands splayed on her spine as he guides her back into the shower.

--

Over the next two days, they visit Karnak Temple and Valley of the Kings, the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut and Deir el-Madina. River is nearly beside herself, and John secretly delights, but continues to tell horrible jokes to keep up appearances.

“River. River, what do you call a very, very, very, very, very, very, very—”

“Sweetie—”

“—very old joke?”

She levels him with a glower.

“Pre-hysterical!”

A woman next to him on a nearby tour stifles a laugh while all the others either glare or ignore him, and River quickens her pace through the temple.

She hasn’t said anything about her slip of the tongue, but he can tell she remembers, by the way she avoids his hand when he reaches for her, or the way she rolled over on her side to sleep, away from him. It hurts, but he doesn’t know if it’s because she wants it to be true and he’s failed her, or if she regrets the implication completely.

Still, he tries to lighten the mood, always keeping her expression, that brief second of surprise and fear and maybe, just maybe, hope, in the back of his mind.

Sidling up to her as she rests in the shade of one of Karnak’s pillars, John clasps his hands behind his back and murmurs in her ear. “Why did the archaeologist go bankrupt?”

“John, I’m really not in the mood.”

He frowns, kicking at the dust. “It’s a good one.”

“None of them are good,” she snaps, then instantly regrets it by the way his face falls and he looks away.

“John…”

He shrugs. “I’ll, uh. I’ll just be over there, there’s an interesting, um—thing.” He scurries away from her, and River sighs, tugging her hair from its band. Her neck is hot and her hair feels like a weight but tying it up is giving her a headache, and she knows she looks older with it pulled back.

Harsher.

When she spots John, he’s arguing with a bedouin about payment for a photograph, and River rolls her eyes, quickly intervening. She gives the man a tip and tugs John away, toward a stretch of shade, and it takes her a moment to figure out why he looks so surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

River frowns, following his gaze to their fingers, intertwined, and realises: it’s the first time all day that she’s taken his hand.

She deflates, smoothing her thumb over his wrist. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“For what?”

“For...being so tetchy,” she offers. Her eyes flicker to his, then away. “And last night. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to...insinuate anything.”

“I know.”

His expression gives nothing away, and she tries not to feel disappointed. “Okay.”

“River—”

“It’s fine, John.”

“What’s fine?”

“Everything. Everything’s—it was a slip of the tongue, that’s all. There’s no reason for you to be worried or—”

“Why would I be worried?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, but it only serves to agitate her more.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

River glowers, but when she tries to pull her hand back, he clings tighter. “I called you my husband,” she snaps. “Most men would be halfway to Alexandria by now.”

John smiles tightly. “Am I most men?”

“No, but—”

“Do you want that?”

His voice is so soft, so low she has to strain to hear him over the passing crowds and traffic in the distance. He peers up at her through his fringe, and she resists the urge to brush it back, to feel his skin under her fingers. She wants to say no, to stay on safer ground, protect her heart from the inevitable recoil, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at her, nervous and earnest, that makes her pause.

“Do you?”

“I asked first.”

She hesitates, her eyes drawn to his free hand, jittering against his thigh, the near-death grip he has on her own hand, and she bites her lip. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I never thought—” She swallows, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I never thought I’d be the marrying kind. And then I had Rory, and—and it wasn’t about me anymore.”

“This is,” he says. “This is all you. What you want.”

“And what about you?”

John’s lips twitch in a sad smile, and with his free hand, he roots around in his pocket. River’s breathing stalls, and he opens his palm to reveal a green, plastic ring. It’s not at all what she was expecting, and she tries not to feel disappointed, tries to shake off the heavy weight that settles in her chest.

“You gave this to me,” he says, proffering her the ring between his fingers. “You were three, and we were at the—at the park. Your parents, mine. I’d met you before, but—” He chuckles. “You were never interested in talking to me. I made fun of your drawing the first time we met, and you held a grudge.” He quirks a smile, his thumb brushing over hers. “I was alone, sitting on a bench away from the others and you—you just toddled up and shoved this in my hand and said you’d forgiven me. That we could be friends now.”

“And you kept it? All these years?”

John nods, his eyes glassy. “I tried proposing several times, as kids do.” He laughs. “You always turned me down.”

“Turning you down, shoving you out of trees...it’s a wonder you stayed with me.”

He looks up, then, so briefly, before sliding the ring onto her pinkie. “You were different. You understood me—accepted me the way I was, you—you knew when to tell me off and when to hold my hand and you still do that, even now, even after everything I’ve—”

“John.”

He sniffs, looking away and tugging at his bowtie, and River bites down a smile. “I’m just saying. I’m not going anywhere, however many Freudian slips you make.”

Shaking her head, River cups his cheek in her palm and turns his face back to hers, bringing him in for a chaste kiss. “That’s good to know,” she murmurs; hesitates, then takes a deep breath and adds, “And if it helps, when you’re ready—I’ll say yes this time.”

His neck snaps so fast she hears the crack, his eyes wide and hand clinging to hers. “Yeah?”

She nods, tucking herself into his arm as she starts to steer them away, toward the Temple of Khonsu, the fake, plastic ring solidly on her finger.

John fidgets for a moment. “River?”

“Yes?”

“It’s cause her career was in ruins.”

River laughs, and shoves him into a pillar.

--

“Lupus.”

“Nope.”

“Musca?”

John shakes his head before propping his chin on her shoulder. River furrows her brow, nose crinkling, and he smiles against her neck.

“Apus.”

“Wrong again.”

River huffs. “Are you going to tell me, or make me go through all the constellations in the Southern Hemisphere?”

“Could you?”

She snorts. “Probably. But that’s not the point. Unlike someone, I’m not a show-off.”

John pokes her in the ribs. “Oi! I’m not a show-off. It’s not my fault I’m absurdly intelligent.”

River rolls her eyes. “Says the man who who almost made us miss the boat because he refused to ask for directions.”

“That’s not a matter of intelligence, it’s a matter of pride,” he sniffs. “Besides, my directions are impeccable.” River snorts. “I got us here, didn’t I?”

“Barely,” she grumbles, but she’s smiling, her head tilted back on his shoulder as they stare up at the night sky. “Centaurus?”

“Nope.”

“Tell me.”

“You have to guess.”

“We could be here all night!”

“And that’s a problem?”

The wind whips her hair across his face as she turns to look at him. “A bit of sleep wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sleep! How can you even think of sleep at a time like this—we’re on the Nile, River.”

She chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to his throat. “And we’ll be here for several more hours, sweetie.”

“But not like this,” he whines. “Everyone else is asleep, it’s quiet, the stars are out, your hair is...dancing.”

River blinks. “My hair is dancing?”

He nods, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the strands. “It’s like it’s own galaxy. Space hair.”

River laughs quietly, snuggling back into his arms to ward off the night chill, and John dutifully wraps his arms tighter around her waist as they stare up at the stars.

“Norma?”

John sighs. “Well now you’re not even trying.”

“I’m trying to guess your favourite constellation out of—pardon the pun—thin air, sweetie. A little direction wouldn’t go amiss.”

John huffs. “Fine. I named the 3-D printer I’m working on after it.”

River considers for a moment, then turns, her eyes bright. “Chameleon?”

He taps her nose with his fingers. “Got it in twelve.”

Prodding him lightly in the chest with her elbow, she squints up at the stars. “Where is it?”

Taking her hand, John guides her finger up, pointing. “See the Southern Cross? Acrux at the bottom?” River nods. “And then go down, there’s Musca, and if you go straight down from the bottom, very faint, that’s Epsilon Chamaeleontis. And then from there—”

“I see it,” she murmurs. John brings her hand back, kissing the top of it before he releases her. “Why that one?”

John shrugs. “I like chameleons. They’re clever, and adaptable. Did you know, chameleons have 360-degree vision? They can see in two directions at once. Forward and back.”

“The past and the future?” she murmurs, looking at him knowingly.

“If you like.”

Smirking, River offers, “Their tongues are also twice the size of their bodies.”

“They’ve also got special toes and bad hearing and—” He looks down at her face. “River. You cannot make chameleons filthy.”

River laughs. “Oh, sweetie. I can make anything filthy.”

“My bad girl.”

River hums in the back of her throat. “In fact,” she murmurs, “I seem to remember something about the bunk beds in our room catching your fancy.”

“Bunk beds are cool.”

Turning, River winds her arms around his neck. “Want to make them cooler?”

He doesn’t need much persuasion after that.

--

On no sleep and far too much caffeine (for John, at least) they spend the day on their own, wandering around the city, getting lunch at a small restaurant tucked into an alleyway; they walk along the banks of the Nile and swap stories and John learns that River hates modern art and loves bialys, though she doesn’t eat them often; John confesses that he switched majors six times before settling on physics, and that he’s properly forgotten how many doctorates he has. River confesses she’s thought of going back to school, but she loves dancing far too much to give it up, and she’s always had Rory to consider.

She’s called him every day, like clockwork, and he can tell that as much as she’s loving the vacation, she can’t wait to get back to her little boy. From Rory’s whine on the other end of the line when River finally relinquishes the phone, he feels the same about his mum, and John hopes it always stays that way.

They visit a large, open air market, and despite covering her hair, River gets far too much attention for John’s taste, street vendors hollering at them to buy things, one man insists loudly across the way that River is “sugar and spice.” John levels the man with a glare, but River just laughs, until another man stops her while John is distracted and offers, “I give you 50 camel, you be my wife?”

River’s jaw clenches and John quickly steps in, guiding her away with a hasty excuse before she can do any real damage, all the while biting down a grin at her—adorably—pinched expression.

They leave the market soon after, both with several items for Rory, River’s parents, Clara and Jack and Donna and anyone else John could think of.

“At this rate we’ll have to buy another suitcase,” River mutters, watching him tangle himself in his bags.

“You could help, you know,” he grumbles, trying to get the plastic off his wrist.

“But this is so much more entertaining.”

He glowers, but it’s weakened by the kiss she presses to his cheek as she takes his bags, helping him sort through gifts and trinkets into a manageable load, before they head for the train station.

The sleeper car is a blessing, and John passes out almost immediately, face down on the bed, drooling slightly. River shakes her head, a fond smile on her face as she brushes his hair back from his face, before climbing into the top bunk herself.

They’ll spend the night on the train, then one more day and night in Cairo. She’s anxious to get home, to see her little boy, sleep in her own bed, not have to worry about overtly public displays of affection. But she’ll miss it, she knows—the people, the culture, the hot sun and the gritty sand and the cool evening breeze.

She drifts off to sleep with a smile on her face, and for once, doesn’t worry at all.

--

John is quiet.

Far too quiet for her liking, and no matter how many innuendos she makes or kisses she presses to his jaw, he remains sullen and withdrawn.

“It’s our last day, sweetie,” she coaxes, her patience running thin. “Can’t we enjoy it?”

John starts, pulled from his thoughts and studies her for far too long. “Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Sorry. Of course.”

His smile is short and sharp but she takes it. They spend most of the day in their room, or in the lobby with Mohammad, venturing out for lunch and one last walk through the busy streets.

John scuffs his feet on the ground, looking everywhere but her, and River finally stops, hands on her hips.

“What.”

“What?”

“You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

River arches an eyebrow.

“Fine. I just—” He blows his fringe out of his face, and River tries not to find it adorable. “I just don’t want to leave,” he mumbles, and River frowns.

“You don’t want to go home?”

“No, no, I do, I—I just—” He shrugs. “I was hoping—” He cuts himself off, and shakes his head. “It’s just been...nice,” he finally says. “Just us, without—” He waves a hand in front of his face. “Everything.”

“Everything being…”

His eyes widen at her dangerous tone, and he stumbles over his words. “No! No, not Rory, no. River. I can’t believe you would—”

“Well you said—”

“I meant—work and running around and bills and paperwork and—and—everyday drivel. It was just—I like this, just being with you—and Rory, of course—and—and—travelling and seeing the world and—”

River softens, stepping forward to take his hand. “We’ll travel again, sweetie. We’ll—we’ll go places. And bring Rory and have adventures, yeah?”

“But—but you—you don’t like that.” He swallows. “It worries you.”

Smiling gently, she shakes her head. “I’ll get over it.”

“River—”

“You were right. What you said, that first day. Some people are just….people and I—I need to learn. How to live in the world without ghosts.”

Squeezing her hand, John nods. “I’ll be right here. If you want me.”

“Always.”

He grins, then, lopsided and endearing, and River huffs, resisting the urge to snog him in the middle of the street. She’s about to turn, to keep walking—it’s getting dark, and they’ll need to finish packing their things for their flight in the morning—when his phone rings, and John lets go of her hand.

“Hello?”

River frowns as John’s eyes widen, before he quickly schools his expression into one of indifference. “Yes. Yes of course. Okay, thank you. Thank you very much. Talk soon.”

“Who was that?” He looks torn between telling her everything and telling her nothing, and River folds her arms across her chest. “John.”

Unable to contain himself, John’s face splits into a wide grin, and he grabs her hand. “Come on.”

“What? Where are we going?”

He drags her down the street, all the way back to the hotel. In the lobby, Mohammad beams at him, and River exchanges a worried look between them before being unceremoniously pushed into their room.

“Get dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

“Get dressed up, we’re going out!”

“Out where?”

John nearly giggles. “It’s a surprise!”

“John, you know I don’t like—”

“Please?” He turns, eyes big and lips turned down in a pout and she huffs, throwing her hands in the air before rummaging around in her suitcase. “Wear the blue one!” he calls from the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes as he changes as well.

Ignoring him, River pulls out a black skirt and jacket, the fanciest thing she brought with her, and when he emerges, John huffs.

“You can’t wear that! It’s all...depressing and businessy!”

“You said fancy!”

“Yes, fancy, not—not—executive.”

River glowers, and John sighs, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt—one of his nicer ones, until he pulls his tweed jacket over it and dons a grey-black bowtie.

“Why do I have to get dressed up if you’re wearing that?”

John frowns. “What’s wrong with this? It’s my special occasion bowtie!”

River snorts, but doesn’t have time to argue, because as soon as his shoes are on his feet, he grabs her hand and pulls her out of the room again.

“Sweetie, what on earth are you—”

“Trust me?” he says, halting abruptly on the sidewalk.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Turning, he flags down a taxi, leaning forward from the back seat to whisper directions in his ear. The driver frowns, says something back, but nonetheless seems to follow John’s instructions.

They drive for almost half an hour, out of Cairo proper towards the desert, John fidgeting nervously and River prodding him for details. He says nothing, even when they stop, just pulls her from the cab, asks him to wait and hands him what River can only assume is an insanely generous tip.

Her heels sink into the sand as he tugs her along, and despite her hesitation, his enthusiasm is infectious. She laughs, stumbling against him until they reach a restoration site, obvious by the tents and equipment and scaffolding surrounding a fragmented pyramid.

“Sweetie, where are we?”

“Zawiyat al Aryan.”

“Isn’t this closed to the public?”

John winks, and River snorts. “Sweetie, this is important archaeological work. If they’re trying to restore these pyramids we shouldn’t be—”

Turning, he presses his finger to her lips. “I’ve got it all worked out. Now hush.”

Sighing, but obliging, River follows him around the side, where a patrolling guard merely eyes them once, then looks away.

“What was that about?” she murmurs.

“May have called in a favor.”

“John—”

“Up you go.”

He gestures to the ladder, and River glowers, pointing to her shoes. “Do you want me to fall to my death?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says. “For the view.”

Pursing her lips, River carefully ascends the rickety ladder, muttering under her breath. “This better be worth it.”

“It will be, dear.”

At the landing, he tugs her around to another ladder, and then another, River cursing him under her breath and John grinning delightedly until they reach the top. It’s a small area, with no railing but the scaffolding on three sides, crumbling and dusty. Breathing heavily, River turns as he falls over the side behind her.

“All right. What are we doing here?”

Jumping up, John dusts himself off. “We climbed a pyramid.”

“I see that, dear. Why?”

John falters. “You said you’d climb a pyramid with me.”

“I meant metaphorically speaking, sweetie—we could get thrown in jail for this.”

“Since when are you against doing anything illegal?”

“When it potentially damages years worth of archaeological research and ancient, irreplaceable monuments?”

John waves a hand in front of his face. “It’s fine. Solid as a rock.” He pats the side of the pyramid for emphasis, then blanches at a piece crumbles off in his hand. “Oops.”

“John—”

“All right, blimey, no time for pleasantries, then.”

“John—”

“Did you mean it? What you said—that you’d say yes.”

The question catches her off guard, and River inhales sharply. “What?”

“Did you mean it.”

Licking her lips, River nods slowly. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Beaming, John pats his pockets. “All right, then. We’re illegally perched on top of a pyramid and the guards could change their minds any minute, so we’ll have to do the quick version.”

“Quick version of what?”

“I need a strip of cloth, about a foot long. Anything will do.”

River snorts. “Well, don’t look at me. You think I can fit anything in this skirt?”

John’s eyes rake over her form. “I certainly hope not.” Then, before she can reply: “Ah! Never mind.” Pulling his bowtie from around his neck, John proffers one end to her. “River, take one end of this, wrap it around your hand, and hold it out to me.”

“What am I doing?”

He smiles crookedly. “As you’re told.”

It’s half a statement, half a question, and River nods, slowly, reverently, winding the cloth around her hand, while John does the same.

“Handfasting ceremonies used to be legally binding, but. We’ll have to consider this an engagement.”

“What, no ring?” she teases, but she’s a bit breathless, eyes tracking his every motion, and John huffs.

“I propose on top of a pyramid and you’re still not satisfied?”

“You haven’t proposed yet, sweetie,” she reminds him, and John takes a deep breath.

“Too right.” Swallowing, John stares down at their hands for a long moment before meeting her gaze. “River Song. Melody Pond. Whatever name you choose to go by—you—you are…” He stumbles over his words, and River smiles encouragingly. “You have always been there for me. Even when you weren’t, you were, which I know doesn’t make any sense, but it does, to me, because you—no matter what I’ve always...seen you. Just you, not Lady M or Mels Zucker or anyone someone else tried to create and I—love you,” he manages. “Very much. You, and Rory, package deal, and whatever happens in the future I want—I want this. Us.”

Blinking fiercely, River nods, throat tight. “Just ask me, sweetie.”

“River Song. Melody Pond.” He inhales, and when he smiles, she swears she sees stars. “Be the woman who married me?”

Nodding, River tugs him closer, their fingers brushing, her free hand cupping his cheek. “Yes.”

The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh, and River laughs softly. “Idiot.” John grins at her, cheeks stretched and eyes bright and wet, staring at her as if he’s never seen anything more perfect in his life, and River shakes her head. “You can kiss the bride, you know.”

John chuckles. “I’ll make it a good one,” he promises, leaning in.

“You’d better.”

--

Rory is out of Amy’s arms and into River’s in a flash, tiny arms latching onto her neck as she hauls him up, smothering his face in kisses. “Mummy, Mummy you’re home! Did you have a good time? Did you miss me? Nana and PopPop and me had loads of fun and PopPop found a house and they might move here and be close to us and we could have lunch with them all the time!”

River laughs, cuddling her little boy fiercely as he rambles on, watching out of the corner of her eye as John and her parents exchange hugs and—as promised—Amy punches him in the arm.

“Mother,” she scolds, but Rory is still babbling in her ear as John and Rory Sr. gather their bags as they head toward the car.

They sit on the back seat, on either side of Rory who can’t seem to decide who to talk to more, so he just talks, one hand in River’s and the other occasionally poking John in the leg to get his attention. John, for his part, can’t stop smiling besottedly over Rory’s head, and River keeps flushing and looking away, twirling the green plastic ring on her finger.

At home, River and John manage to keep their eyes open long enough for Rory to exhaust himself with hugs and presents and bathtime, which River greedily takes over, tucking him into bed with the promise that they’ll tell him all their stories tomorrow.

Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she turns out the light and returns to the living room, to find John fidgeting awkwardly on the coach, Rory Sr. glowering, and Amy near tears. “What—”

“They guessed, all right, it’s not my fault!” John squeaks, raising his hands, then quickly shielding himself again as Rory Sr. scowls.

Shaking her head, River collapses into the sofa next to him.

“So you’re really engaged?” Amy demands.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of soon?” Rory Sr. asks, earning a smack from Amy.

“Just because it took you almost twenty years, doesn’t mean everyone else has to crawl at your pace.” Turning back to them, Amy clasps her hands together and beams. “I’m so excited. You’re having a wedding, right? You have to have a wedding. The house we found—it has a beautiful back garden, we could do it there, or on the beach—Rory and I got married in a church, but that doesn’t seem like your—but whatever you want, it’s your wedding.”

John and River exchange amused, tired looks. “We’ll talk about it more later,” River promises. “Girl’s day?”

Amy nods vigorously and grins. “I’m so happy for you, both of you, but mostly you, Melody, though I can’t imagine what you’re thinking—have you properly seen his chin? I mean really looked.”

“Oi! That’s no way to talk to your son-in-law!”

Amy giggles, then her face abruptly falls, mimicking John’s look of horror. “Oh, god. You’re my son-in-law.”

John flails. “You’re my mother-in-law! That’s worse!”

“Oi!”

“Hush, you two, you’ll wake Rory.”

They both quiet, and soon after Rory Sr. pulls Amy away, begging exhaustion and much looking forward to their fancy hotel mattress. They’ll be in town another week, maybe longer, and River kisses them both goodbye with promises to do dinner tomorrow night. She locks up behind them, then follows John into the bedroom; he’s already snuggled under the covers, and River smiles at the picture he makes, like a little boy waiting for his teddy bear.

Rolling her eyes at her own visual, River strips out of her clothes. “I’m going to take a shower,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead, expecting him to fall asleep.

“Can I join you?” he asks instead, and River nods.

His hands are warm and large over her skin, and he helps her wash her hair, lips pressing sporadic kisses across her shoulders.

“Basma said something to me, when we were at dinner,” he murmurs.

“Oh?”

“Ya’aburnee, I think. Do you know what it means?”

River stills in his arms, silent for a moment as she slides soapy hands over his chest and back. “It means ‘you bury me,’” she says finally. “It’s the hope that a loved one will outlive you, so you don’t have to deal with the pain of losing them.”

John furrows his brow. “Isn’t that a bit selfish?”

“Yes,” she agrees, shivering as his hands slide over her spine. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

Holding her tighter, John plants whisper kisses along her neck, her jaw, until he reaches her lips. She tastes like water and salt and stale coffee and he slides his hands into her hair. “She said that’s how I look at you,” he murmurs, lips against her cheek.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’ll put you back together again.”

“Like Osiris?”

River nods. “Like Osiris.”

He kisses the tip of her nose. “My very own goddess.”

“Not hardly, sweetie. Just a wife.”

Grinning, he lowers his mouth to hers. “I’ll take it.”

“I thought you might.”