Archive of Our Own

“Am I a good man?”

Clara’s eyes widened in surprise, put on the spot and completely stunned. What was so shocking about that question? It seemed to leave her at a loss for words, and the worst part is he didn't blame her. Why didn't he blame her? “I dunno.”

The three moons of Traskler Prime hung in the blackest sky. He’d done this before. Seemed a bit too whimsical for his tastes, but he must have enjoyed it once. The cool evening breeze left him slightly chilled despite his layers, and his tea had long since grown cold. The small town was quiet and mostly empty, but he’d found himself a little tea shop with outside seating, and he simply couldn't resist. The Doctor wasn't made for still nights such as these, playing music carrying along with the wind from inside, catering to young love. He stuck out like a sore thumb with this face, and he felt curious eyes shifting their gaze in his direction occasionally. Why did this place matter? Why had he come here? His thumb caressed the metal ring on his finger thoughtfully. Why in god’s name was he wearing a wedding ring? And why did it feel wrong when he’d remove it?

“Time Lord!” a woman’s shout echoed behind him and the Doctor immediately stiffened. No one could possibly know him here, could they? “Ha! A broken clock keeps better time than him! At least it’s accurate twice in a day! I’ll kill him! No… already done that… there must be something worse than killing!” the voice continued, grumbling angrily nearby.

A flash of curls overwhelmed his peripheral, and he wrapped his fingers around the cold mug of his forgotten tea, hiding away his face as he peered towards the open door of the shop. The door was slammed shut behind her as she took a seat nearby and gingerly sat down across from him. He stared at her dazed and silent, not quite certain what this mad woman wanted. He knew her, but when he held her gaze all he could think about was water… and Ponds.

She stared him down with sharp, dangerous eyes that he was certain had seen war and death. His mind supplied mapped out scars in intimate places these eyes had never witnessed. Her posture was perfect and tense like a soldier ready for anything. The dress was sensual, revealing cleavage he was certain he’d have enjoyed were he wearing a different face. “You've forgotten… haven’t you,” she accused.

How could she possibly know about his memory lapses? “Water… but it was something else wasn't it? Not still water like a pond. Rose! No wait… that’s a flower,” he muttered and shook his head. “Did start with an ‘R’ though… I’m sure of it.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” she questioned with a roll of her eyes, taking a sip of her tea.

He knew her. Memories filled his mind with entire evenings spent dancing under the stars (among other things), lots of running, shooting things, saving worlds, causing mischief, and breaking his hearts with each goodbye. He remembered quiet nights in her arms, slicked with sweat, and how she’d fuss each morning about her rumpled curls. Her wrist appeared perfectly healthy, but all his mind supplied was ugly bruises and so much guilt. Why did it hurt so badly to look upon her face? “I’ve got a melody stuck in my head and it keeps repeating,” he whispered.

Her eyes softened as she set her tea down, and she let out the longest sigh. “I could use a Doctor right about now.”

“I am the Doctor,” he offered.

“But not my Doctor,” she replied. “Look at you… you've gone and forgotten. You certainly know how to make a girl feel special. So many faces… well, at least this time you manage to look your age.”

He’d expected her to be hurt, somehow. Most people would be… to be forgotten. She didn't seem worried in the slightest, though he didn't fancy being pitied much either. “You look like a poodle with all those curls.”

“Oh god, Scottish! Well, I suppose imitation is the best form of flattery, though I’m almost grateful mother isn't around to see this.” She smiled as if she held the secrets of the universe, and it felt like she did. What if she did? Could she answer his questions too? He felt like she was under his skin already, buried there long ago, and he never managed to get her out. “You could poke someone’s eyes out with those eyebrows… almost makes me miss the chin.”

“Oh yes, it’s all coming back now. You’re the infuriating one. Big hair and a gun… shouldn't like that.” He wasn't sure why he couldn't say her name. Rory Williams. Amelia Pond. He knew those names, and he knew them well. What was stopping him from uttering hers? His stomach was in knots that twisted every time she held his gaze. She was a living ghost, a nameless face, and she mattered so much that he’d gone and forgotten her.

She finished her tea, and tilted her head to the side as if he were the old bones she studied on one of her expeditions. “You have a question for me,” she whispered as if she’d been reading his mind.

“You couldn't possibly know that.”

“The oldest question in the universe,” she continued on, as if he hadn't spoken. He felt exposed sitting before her, unmasked and indecent. Then again, he was quite certain he’d always felt that way with her.

“It’s certainly a question, but it’s not that old,” he replied.

“Maybe not to the rest of the universe, but it is to you. You've been asking it for thousands of years, sweetie. You never stop.”

He swallowed hard and took a moment to collect himself. “Be a dear, no games this time. I need you to take this seriously.”

She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with such amusement, and he rolled his eyes when she licked her lips. Always with the flirting. “I’m always serious with you, sweetie.”

“This face doesn't flirt.”

“Flirting implies attraction for the sake of amusement rather than serious intent. I can assure you, Doctor… my intent was and always will be very serious.”

When his pants tightened he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat; he found it impossible to look at her when she was staring at him like that. “Old and wrinkled and you still look at me like I’m your favorite bar of chocolate,” he groused.

Her laughter was rich, and when he shivered it was less from the wind. She made him feel edgy and tight, but the experience wasn't entirely unbearable. His lips curled faintly as he finally took in those knowing eyes. “When will you learn? You’re as beautiful to me now as you ever were. I’m in love with the Doctor… every face… even the wrinkled ones.”

“Am I a good man?” He couldn't stand that word… ‘love.’ His question came out in a rush in the wake of her confession, though it couldn't really be considered a confession by now, he supposed. It didn't stop the fact that it was a confession he couldn't bear to hear. He knew exactly why he’d come here now. The Doctor had been looking for this woman all along… he’d just forgotten. His hands gripped the edge of the table, rubbing his ring against the metal and glass. There was an urgency in his question she was sure to pick up on when he repeated himself, but slower this time. “Am I a good man?”

She didn't even hesitate. “Yes.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“There are several ways a man can be good, Doctor. Good in bed, for example,” she paused and quirked an eyebrow at the implication. He refused to blush at the rush of memories that entered his mind. “A good soldier.” This time he thought about that young woman… Blue, and the woman Gretchen who’d given her life to save them.

“I asked you if I was a good man,” he pressed impatiently.

“But you’re not just a man, are you? To some whole worlds you’re divine, godly… a wizard hidden in our fairy tales. You sit there asking me a question, but you refuse to accept the answer, Doctor.”

“You haven’t given me one,” he insisted, his accent deepening in his frustration. His blood surged at the prospect of an argument, as if it craved the rage. “You prance around me like somebody who knows what she’s talking about, but spout nothing but nonsense!” He could feel several eyes on him as his voice rose, but he ignored their stares. “I’m not like him! No frills, no fuss… just for once, don’t talk to me with your bloody riddles!”

She bristled a bit, but her expression was far too patient for his liking. “Oh shut up,” she shot back with a roll of her eyes. “It’s exhausting, sweetie! Honestly! You don’t want riddles, that’s fine by me! I can’t answer you until you ask the right question.”

“That’s the only question I've been asking!”

“And it’s wrong!” she shot back. “Good is fluid… defined from person to person. Our moral standards differ, and you will never find a satisfying answer because you’re asking the wrong question. You ask me if you are a good man… well, I say you are. To the Dalek’s you are the farthest thing from good, and their answer is no better than mine. Only you can decide whether you’re a good man or not. It’s a choice we all make based on our own standard. Look in the mirror, Doctor and answer your own question, because that’s the only time you’ll ever really find satisfaction with the answer.”

Their table grew silent except for the soothing music playing inside, forcing him to digest her words. Even the wind seemed to settle, the other patrons were as still as sleeping automatons and he was forced to glance away for a moment just to make certain he hadn't gone and gotten himself trapped in another ‘situation.’ It felt like the planet had stopped turning in the moments following her words, as if nature itself were in support of her wisdom and advice. He knew her name… hell in high heels. “Why in god’s name did I ever marry you?” he asked as his ring scrapped the table once more.

Her smile was wide and pleasant as she responded. “Now that would be the right question.”

“Have you got an answer for that as well?”

She chuckled quietly and nodded. “You married me because I’m good… very good.”

“Good,” he repeated the word, slightly disgusted to even utter it. “River Song, you were never, ever good… my bad, bad girl.”

Instantly, her eyes lit up. It took him a moment to realize there were tears in her eyes. She leaned over the table and surprised him by stroking his face. He sat still, awkward and uncomfortable with her affection, but not even he had the hearts to resist. “That too,” she agreed. It was only then that the Doctor realized he’d spoken her name. River.

“Clara… she said I try. I try to be a good man.”

When River settled back in her chair he could see a moment’s hesitation. “Clara… she travels with you?” He nodded. “Clever girl, that one. Definitely a keeper, I should think.”

He found himself smiling at that, and for the first time since his regeneration, the fear was gone. Eventually it would return, and he would face it’s chill just as he braced against the wind of this peaceful evening with his dead wife. She wasn’t dead right now. She was alive, hearts pumping, and wild poodle curls. “Come with me.”

River reached out for his hand, slipping fingers over the wedding band. “Shall we go running, then?”

“Perhaps brisk walking, I’m too old for a run.”

Her smile was teasing, and he resisted the urge to groan. “Then perhaps we should take transport. We’ll save all that energy for better things.” She was out of her chair before he could reply, pulling him up to her despite his protests. Warm lips caressed his, and he couldn't help indulging… at least for a moment. He told himself he was humoring her… they were married, after all.

“Good men stay away from bad girls,” he pointed out, slightly breathless.

River Song, his wife, she never really changed… even if he had. “That’s because good men make them better,” she shot back, tightening her grip in his hand. She pulled him away from his forgotten tea and the little tea shop at the edge of the tiny village. “Come along, sweetie… take me on an adventure. It’s our anniversary, after all!”

His eyes widened as he realized why she’d been cross earlier, and immediately tugged on his collar. “I’d forgotten.”

She nodded, and he watched her curls bounce about and block his vision momentarily… so distracting. River squeezed his hand affectionately. “Of course you did… and then you remembered.”