Chapter Text
Found me down at the river,
T ryin’ to wash my hands clean,
But the scars and the haunting that you tried to leave on me,
I’m no sinner, I’m no saint, no I lie somewhere in between,
And I know that I’ve done bad but there’s some good still left in me,
You are the judge, you are the jury, it’s in your hands,
Shout on me mercy,
Save me, please,
Have mercy on me,
Make me believe in somethin’
ONE
The Doctor handed Clara his psychic paper and told her for the fifth time to project what she wanted to show up on the paper when she flipped it toward him.
“I am projecting!” She groaned in exasperation. “It just doesn’t like me.”
The Doctor carded his hand through his grey curls and shook his head in frustration. “It can’t 'not like you'. It’s psychic paper!” He clenched his teeth and glared at her, pacing across the console room away from her before turning on his heel and rushing toward her. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!” He shouted, hoping to startle her into an acceptable reaction. Clara screamed and flipped the psychic paper open toward him. He raised an eyebrow at her. “S.O.S.? I scared you so bad you need me to save your soul? Have you perished from fright?” He grumbled sarcastically, glaring incredulously at her from beneath his formidable eyebrows.
“What? I was going for ‘MI5’ secret agent, but I guess three letters are three letters..” She muttered, turning the paper to look at the message, a disappointed frown etching over her face. “Wait, what’s that? I’m not doing that.” She spoke, her voice startled and confused as she turned it back to show The Doctor.
Another message was scribbling onto the paper in a script he’d know anywhere. That was one of the more interesting and convenient sides of psychic paper; notes from her typically took on the sender’s handwriting style. This type of note almost always meant an adventure afoot with lots of running and monsters and eventually a bit of snogging and him being in charge of the department of ruined evening gown removal.
Though, the last time he received an S.O.S,. it was from a young, just-barely-River-Song who had overslept for her exam and was using him like a glorified time traveling taxi service. He got her there with twenty minutes to spare, so she could review her notes in her seat beforehand and had even dipped into New Paris for some chocolate croissants because, honestly, how do you take an exam on an empty stomach? She aced that exam, and though there was no dress removal, she tasted like chocolate when she planted a smacking kiss on his mouth, thanking him for saving her from failing. He hadn't meant to wait outside the exam room the whole time, but he was more nervous than she was, and afterall, he was being a good husb-… boyfriend? Friend. He was a good friend who had already spent hundreds of years married to her, his friend. Sometimes. His inner voice muttered about making a bloody flowchart.
“Gimme.” He shouted excitedly, snatching the paper from her before she had a chance to offer it out and striding over to the chalkboard on the other side of the console room. He copied down the navigational instructions that were disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. “You didn’t do this. You’re still a failure.” He told her with a less-than-apologetic shrug and bounded over to the console to punch in the information.
Clara rolled her eyes and moved to stand beside him. “Ok, well who needs us to save them then?” She asked, glancing up at him expectantly. “Who even knows how to send you psychic messages? Who would know that was the best way to reach you in a pinch?” Her questions streamed out a mile a minute, and he wondered if she was going to be done soon.
“Rivah!.” He beamed at her. This face didn’t typically beam unless River Song was involved, and right now, it was beaming. He couldn't stop it if he tried.
Clara’s mouth gaped like a fish out of water a few times. “River… as in Professor River Song?” She inquired, arching a brow at him. “Your… dead... wife?” She finally asked, her question was breathy and drawn as if she wasn’t sure that was the appropriate response.
“She’s not always dead.” The Doctor told her matter-of-fact, rolling his eyes. Honestly, her sense of non-linear time was still lacking after all the travelling they did together. “And she’s not always a Professor or a Doctor, for that matter, so watch your mouth.” He said, pointing a warning finger at her. She’d probably never get the psychic paper at this rate.
Clara rolled her eyes theatrically. "Sometimes dead. Sometimes alive. Who is she, Shröedinger's wife?" She quipped with a grin clearly impressed with herself.
"No. She's my wife." The Doctor replied with an air of unintentional petulance, scowling at Clara for bringing that up. He knew River had a long line of husbands, and wives for that matter, just as he had one to match, but they knew which ones counted. "I don't think she ever met Shröedinger, let alone married him." He muttered, and racked his brain about that one now that he thought about it.
That's just the kind of sneaky thing River Song would do - marry Shröedinger for the singular purpose of peeking in the bloody box to find out if the damn cat was dead or alive, and not for any reason other than to be able to rub it in her real husband's face that she knew, and he didn't. Maybe he'd marry Shröedinger and do it first.
"I'll have to ask her." He added finally, filing that thought away for later. “How do I look?” He asked as the TARDIS breaks groaned to a halt. He raked his hand quickly through his hair and tugged the lapels of the jacket he wore over his hoodie, straightening it out. He patted his pockets in search of… “Aha!” He grinned, slipping his sunglasses on and pushing them up his nose slowly with one finger.
“Ridiculous. A bit dangerous. Completely unhinged. Kind of like a deranged mental patient who has made a daring escape and stolen the clothes off an unfortunate hobo.” She told him, coming up with that answer a lot faster than he appreciated. “Like always.” She added, obviously taking in his offended expression and shaking her head like he was utterly mad for even asking.
"My wife says I'm foxy." He muttered in defense, decidedly ignoring her response.
The TARDIS doors opened and she followed closely behind him, taking in their surroundings as they stepped out. They landed in some kind of wooded area, a ravine with a river, not the person, running thunderously along the heavily dispersed trees and shrubbery. He looked around for River, the actual person, wondering what kind of trouble she could possibly get into in a place like this.
“This is lovely.” Clara said quietly as if worried about disturbing the serene environment. “What planet is this?” She asked, looking up at him with wide-eyes. The Doctor rolled his eyes at her from under his dark sunglasses and lifted them off his face, deciding to humour her child-like wonder.
He held his finger up in the air for a moment and stuck it into his mouth, removing it with a loud, wet pop before waving a dramatic hand outward. “We are on a strange planet, home to a variety of creatures, but primarily known for it's self destructive, bipedal mammals that, externally, look remarkably similar to Time Lords.” The Doctor spoke conspiratorially to her and watched her face brighten with excitement. “We have landed in a region known as America, on the obscure planet known by its inhabitants as Earth.” He finished and watched her face until his words sunk in.
“Your sarcasm was entirely unnecessary.” She muttered at him, crossing her arms and looking around. “So where is the missus then?”
“Clara.” He groaned at her spoiler-spilling big mouth. “She’s not always my wife.” He told her, letting his eyes weave in and out of the greenery in search of the tell-tale signs of River Song — the usual stuff, like space hair, or fireworks, or someone running naked and afraid from a cackling psychopath with a smoking gun.
“Doctor.” Her voice called out to him and even with that singular word he knew something was wrong. Her voice was high and raspy, cracking on the syllables, like she had been or still was crying. “It was an accident.” He heard her voice again, small and terrified, but he still couldn't see her. He looked around frantically, searching the trees for any sign of her.
“There.” Clara said, grabbing his arm and pointing to River, kneeling on the ground just down a small eroded part of the embankment. Even from a distance, he could see her entire body shaking. She kept leaning forward and splashing her hands in the water beside her.
He hurried over to her, smacking tree branches out of his face that cut up his hands in his rush. “I can’t get it off.” She cried quietly, looking up at him, her eyes wide with terror and her cheeks tear stained. He looked down at her hands as she dipped them in the river and scrubbed violently at them. The blood was thick and red and crusted all around her fingernails. The longer he looked at her, the more his mind registered. She was wearing black cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt with an emblem for The Church sewn above the upper right breast. Despite the dark shade of the fabric, he saw the wet spots of mud and blood soaking into her clothes and rips and tears that indicated she’d fought with the tree branches like he had or another person or both. Her arms, too, where her skin was exposed, were spattered with blood and mud. When he finally met her eyes, he saw spots of blood on her face too. There was no denying the telltale patterns of arterial spray. He'd seen it before on another face. “I thought it was you.” She said quietly, her voice cracking again.
The Doctor scrubbed his hand over his face and closed his eyes, preparing himself for an adventure of a very different nature. This girl was not River Song. This was Melody. Melody who was repeatedly taken back by The Church and forced into committing atrocities that would haunt her every time she closed her eyes for the rest of her life. This was Melody, who was funny and flirty and young and curious, but she was also incredibly volatile and unpredictable and just a bit murdery sometimes. None of that mattered. He would always catch her, for better or for worse, in psychopathic rage and in health.
“Where?” The Doctor asked, exhaling in preparation of what he was going to find. Melody pointed with a shaking wet hand toward a clearing in the trees just beyond where she was, and both he and Clara looked over. From where he stood, he couldn’t really make out much, but there was clearly a disturbance. The branches around the area were bent and snapped, dangling from their limbs as if they’d endured a heavy weight. In the center of the space he could make out the bottom of a pair of boots and a purple hand.
He strode silently over to the body and looked down. Several injuries littered his body, but it was obvious the cause of death was the savage gash in his throat, so deep it looked like his head was nearly removed. He closed his eyes for a moment, cursing under his breath and trying to compose himself before he had to go back over there. When he turned around Clara was standing so close to him he almost stepped on her. She stared, wide eyed at him, a single tear spilling down her cheek. He glared at her, angry that she existed in this moment that nobody else in the Universe should ever know about. He was furious that she was going to see his wife at her lowest and most vulnerable and equally furious that Clara herself would be forever tarnished by what she’d just witnessed.
“Did she do that to him?” She hissed as he pushed past her and strode back over to Melody. “Doctor!” She demanded when he didn’t reply. He could hear her angry little legs stomping after him, trampling noisily over twigs and leaves, but he pointedly ignored her pursuit.
“Clara, take Melody to the TARDIS.” He instructed, emphasizing her name for the spoiler-impaired and keeping his voice stern and steady. When she didn’t move, he glared at her. “Now.” He growled, his brows lowering dangerously before stalking over to the body again.
For her part, Clara tried to climb down the muddy slide to get to Melody as gracefully as possible. She nearly fell but steadied herself. Leaning over, she extended a shaking hand toward Melody, who sat, frozen to the ground. Clara reached hesitantly for Melody’s arm, attempting to usher her to her feet, but she couldn’t get her up off the ground. Frustrated, but understanding the difficulty of the task he’d just given her, The Doctor stomped back over and grabbed Clara’s arm, eliciting a startled squeak as he hauled her back up onto the solid ground. He jumped down the embankment to where Melody was still kneeling, crying quietly into her filthy hands. He wasn't thinking clearly. That was a problem. He needed to get them into the TARDIS and out of his way. Quickly. “Hello Sweetie.” He murmured quietly, catching her attention before he bent over and scooped her up into his arms. Her body shook against him as he lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. He struggled back up the slippery embankment without the use of his hands, Melody’s body setting his balance off as he gripped her thigh and torso firmly, determined not to drop her.
He strode into the TARDIS, cradling his precious cargo in his arms and was vaguely aware of Clara scurrying close behind him. He carefully sat Melody down on the steps and gave Clara a warning glare. “Stay here.” He muttered, striding down a corridor to a storage room that the TARDIS, thankfully, had moved conveniently close. He snatched a shovel from the hook on the wall and strode back through the console room silently. He ignored Clara’s choked gasp as he passed her, leaving them in the TARDIS and walking back out into the woods alone.
The Doctor sighed heavily, crouching down next to the body of the boy. He was the equivalent of an Earth teenager for his people. His species typically lived to be 200 years old and here he was, snuffed out before adulthood in the name of the war against The Doctor. “I’m very sorry, son.” He spoke quietly, placing his hands over the boy’s open eyes and gently closing them. “You deserve much better than this.” So does she. He thought silently to himself. He searched the boy's pockets, looking for any indication of who he was, but as expected, The Church had stripped him of any identifying information before setting him loose in the woods with a psychopath.
The Doctor stood up and leaned the shovel against a tree while he took off his jacket and sweater, draping them over a nearby branch. He sighed, emotionally exhausted by the entire situation already, and he started to dig. It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He’d had help the last time he’d done this particular dirty job, and he could almost feel that presence now, like a ghost standing next to him, encouraging him to keep digging. Helping him soldier through the task.
Just a little deeper. For her.
He had no idea how long he had been digging, but the hole was finally long and deep, and he stood in the ground up to his neck. He climbed up on a make-shift step he’d dug into the wall of his hole and, as carefully as he could manage, pulled the boy’s body toward him. Cradling his body the way he had cradled Melody earlier, he lowered the boy into the hole.
He grunted, hauling himself out of the hole and standing over it for a long moment, staring in at it’s unfortunate occupant. He wiped his hands on his no-longer white t-shirt angrily, leaving a sickening blend of mud and blood, and he murmured a Gallifreyan prose that was commonplace at funerals. He started to replace the pile of dirt as respectfully as one could when one was burying a body, but every fibre of him ached with guilt.
Just a little more. For her.
***
He strode silently into the TARDIS and was met by two pairs of equally terrified eyes, though they were terrified for entirely different reasons. Clara seemed to be keeping her distance from Melody, standing on the other side of the console and eyeing her suspiciously as though she might lunge out and kill her. She might, he had thought suddenly, and the console between them wouldn’t hinder her much, but the TARDIS would have stopped it, probably. He made quick work of punching in the navigations to linger in the vortex. The sooner they got away from the scene of the crime, the better.
“You’re filthy.” Clara pointed out the obvious, and he wanted to retort sarcastically, but he didn’t have it in him to do so. “What did you do?” She hissed at him through her teeth, her voice shaking with terror and accusation, though she didn’t seem to want to approach him, as she stayed close to the railing behind him.
"I'll bring you home soon." He told her quietly, casting a quick glance at her over his shoulder. He pointedly ignored her question and strode over to Melody, still sitting on the steps with her bloodied mud-covered hands fidgeting around her equally encrusted face. He knelt in front of her, trying to get her eyes to focus on his. Her pupils were dilated to the size of flying saucers. She was still strung out on whatever they dosed her with to make her more pliable to the post-hypnotic suggestions of The Silence.
They convinced her that this boy was The Doctor and The Doctor was coming to fight her. The boy didn’t stand a chance against her years of combat training alone, but arm her with a blade? They knew exactly what they were doing, what this would do to her. Break her down. Build her back up. Make her easily convinced that The Doctor is public enemy number one, but also that she was capable of murdering him, so when that day came on Lake Silencio, she’d be the perfect little soldier. They had lost years worth of programming after Berlin; she had softened to him, enough to save his life and sacrifice of all of her own, enough to call on him for a lift or a date to a uni function, but he knew she still fought an internal battle between good and evil and whether or not he and she were on the same side, not to mention, just which side that was to begin with.
“They’ll come for me.” Her panicked voice croaked out around her fingers. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, her own blood bright red and mingling with the dark, dried blood of the boy.
“They won’t.” He told her confidently. No body, no crime, no Jadoon patrol on her tail. No Stormcage for her. Not yet anyways. Not for this murder. Exit strategy was a vital part of her training. If she couldn’t get away from a crime scene, cover her tracks, what use was she as a killer? Of course that only applied until she completed her final mission. Then they wouldn’t give a damn whether or not she was able to get away.
“Are you going to kill me now? I deserve to be punished.” She murmured to him, looking imploringly into his eyes with those pained swirling orbs that broke him in ways he’d never be able to describe. Those words could both crush his hearts or elicit great excitement in him when falling from those lips, depending on the tone. This time was a painful vice. “I know I’ve done something awful, but I promise… there is good in me. I can be good. You showed me. I can be River Song… like in Berlin...” She murmured quietly, and he wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to convince. She sobbed, her body shaking violently. She was conditioned to believe he was a bad man, that she had committed what he would deem an unforgivable crime, and it was his duty to execute her punishment. “Lock me up. Kill me now, so I can’t hurt anyone else. Please.”
To her, right now, he was the judge, the jury, and the executioner. He knew how he reacted to these events in her life were defining moments for their relationship and he wasn’t a saint himself. She had seen him through some of his own darkest hours, and perhaps her guidance was what had made him so capable of guiding her now. She hadn’t yet learned to hide the damage from his young and unpredictable face. She didn’t have to be the strong one yet, the one oozing with unconditional love and forgiveness, always and completely.
“Shh.” He murmured, reaching his hand toward her slowly, though she flinched slightly when he placed his hand gingerly against her cheek and rubbed his thumb over the dirty wet streak. He stood slowly and extended his hand to her. She stared at it warily for a long moment before reaching out and taking it. He carefully pulled her to her feet, and her legs trembled under her as she stood in front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, needing to catch his own bearings, before scooping her into his arms again and carrying her across the console room. “Don't." He told Clara as he strode past her questioning glare. He knew she would have questions that he couldn’t answer, and he was almost glad that he had a more important task at hand to buy him time before facing that particular music.
He carried Melody silently down the corridor to their bedroom, or his bedroom that would become hers as well eventually, and he headed straight into the en suite. He sat her down on the closed toilet lid and kissed her forehead, salty with sweat and Earth. It was a habitual action and he second guessed it immediately. This young, she had sporadic romantic familiarity with him, and the action could elicit a wide range of reactions from her. She still believed, on occasions when she was drugged and suggestable, that she had to kill him, that he was the problem with the universe. Her contradictory feelings for him didn't matter when she was newly re-convinced of her mission. Berlin seemed to poke a hole in the fabric of her reality though, and once she’d peeked through that hole, she'd rather liked what she’d seen.
She sobbed quietly as he turned on the taps, filling the deep soaker bathtub. His mind betrayed him, playing memories of him and River, a much older River than the one behind him now, soaking in this tub together, bubbles up to the chest until the water turned cold and their skin wrinkled. Even then, they drained the tub and refilled it, adding more bubbles and lounging in the sweet aromas of River’s latest haul of essential oils, liberated from some ancient palace or another.
He straightened and turned around, reaching for Melody. She was almost robotic, letting him guide her and maneuver her like a life-sized poseable doll. He reached out, gently lifting her arms up above her head before reaching the hem of her t-shirt and lifting it off. He tossed it on the floor and reached around her, unclasped her bra, bringing her arms back down and sliding it off her shoulders. He kept his eyes downcast mostly for her sake. It wasn't as if he hadn't had every inch of her body committed to memory. He reached for the button on her pants and watched her stomach muscles tensing and contracting with her silent sobs. He crouched as he tugged her wet, muddy pants down her legs along with her knickers. He quickly unlaced her boots and tapped her ankle. She lifted one foot and then the other, placing a shaking hand on the top of his head for balance as he pulled the boots off and removed her pants the rest of the way, tossing them all in the growing pile of unsalvageable clothing.
He silently stood and held her hand, helping her step into the tub. She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her head turned and her cheek resting on the tops of her knees as the water continued to fill. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at anything, just staring into space. His movements were measured, ensuring not to startle her as he leaned over to turn off the taps and retrieve a flannel from the cupboard. River’s soaps and hair products were already present on the side of the tub, as they always were, and he was, luckily, well versed in her hair routine, having assisted his wife on multiple occasions in the task of washing her wild mane. She'd never forgive him if he messed her hair up.
"Melody." He murmured quietly, but she didn't move, didn't even acknowledge him, so he knelt beside the tub, grabbing River's body wash. He reached for her hand, still tucked tightly against her body. She struggled for a moment, but released it to him in defeat. He carefully scrubbed at her nail beds with the corner of the soapy flannel, gently removing the caked on dirt and blood. He repeated the efforts with her other hand before rinsing the cloth and reapplying the soap. He approached her arm first, an area she could see him reach for, but he worked his way up over her shoulder to her back, making sure his intended path was clear to her. She didn't stop him or try to strangle him when he leaned closer to reach her other shoulder, so he considered it a win.
The water had become a dark brown of mud and blood mixing, and he pulled the plug to drain it, watching the dirty water and chunks of forest swirl away. She looked at him then, eyes peeking through her matted dirty hair and blood still spattered on her cheeks. He offered her a warm smile, now that she could see him again, the drugs having started to wear off. He reached across and turned the shower on this time, pulling the handheld nozzle down and trying not to think of salacious ways he'd used this on his wife the last time she was on the TARDIS. "Head back, Love." He murmured to her, keeping his voice firm and unwavering. Melody needed solid ground. He had to give that to her no matter how much he wanted to throw his fists through the mirror and throttle the porcelain and tiles surrounding them right now.
She complied tilting her head back and letting him soak her curls with the stream of warm water. She covered her eyes like a child as he applied copious amounts of shampoo, massaging it soothingly into her scalp and rinsing the dirt and blood down the drain. She sighed unintentionally as his fingers stroked circles over her scalp, and he smirked. He repeated this thrice until the water finally ran clean. He applied the special curl defining conditioner, which River had demanded she needed and had even convinced him to try on a few occasions, to her wet hair and let it sit while he stood up to retrieve a fresh flannel from the drawer.
She stared directly at his face as he gently stroked the wet flannel over her cheeks and forehead, scrubbing the blood splatter away. When he was satisfied that all of the dirt and the boy's blood had completely washed down the drain, he reached for the wide toothed comb on the side of the tub and combed through her curls, de-tangling and ensuring no larger forest debris was hiding in there. She sighed again, tilting her head back for him, clearly content with his ministrations.
When her hair was completely rinsed, he let the stream of water run over her back, moving the sprayer around to ensure her body was completely rinsed. Her eyes were fixed on the wall again, wide and haunted. He flicked his finger through the stream, playfully spraying a few droplets of water on her cheek. She turned her face sharply, and he grinned at her despite the murderous glare. Winking at her, he turned the tap off and stood up, holding open a large fluffy towel.
Her face still firmly in a scowl, she stepped out of the tub and allowed him to wrap her up. He was far more experienced with her than she'd know right now because he could see, despite her glare, her legs still shook slightly and the skin beneath her eyes was darkened from lack of sleep and proper nutrition. He knew, from the confessions he and his wife would share in the darkness of their bedroom, their faces inches apart with the covers pulled up over their heads, that today was most probably the end of a long and physically intensive training session where she'd been left in the woods, high as a kite with only the Silence and their manipulations of her perceptions.
He scooped her up again, and now that she was becoming more lucid again, she tensed in his arms. He tried not to let that bother him as he carried her in the bedroom and laid her on top of the covers. She curled up into herself in the fetal position, clutching the towel at the top of her chest, her wet hair soaking the pillow. He snatched the soft throw blanket off of the chair at her desk, the smell of her lingered on it and wafted through the air as he flicked it open and draped it over her gently. "Sleep." He murmured quietly, flicking on the lamp by the desk and flicking the overhead light off as he left. He stopped on the doorway and looked over at her. "Melody, I will always come from you." He whispered. "Always."
"Ok." She whispered back, though he wondered if she believed him. He closed the door as she pulled the blanket up over her head like a child hiding from something unseen in the room.
One down. One to go.
He debated a shower before dealing with Clara, but felt he'd better get on with it. He scrubbed his hand over his dirty face into his sweaty hair and walked into the console room.
"Where's the serial killer?" She quipped, and he wondered if she was trying to be funny to mask her fear of the situation.
"Don't." He muttered because any other response might come out hurtful.
"Please speak to me in a full bloody sentence!" She shouted at him, stomping over and shoving him as hard as such a small person could. "What the hell was that?" She demanded, waving her arms out. "Did she murder someone? Did you just hide the body?!" She asked, her voice rife with accusations.
He nodded, because, yes, that was what just happened. Of course it was more complex than that, but the short answer, the easy answer, was yes. "She thought it was me. She was under the influence of… a lot of things." He told her, punching in her home coordinates.
"That makes it ok? Oh, she meant to kill me but missed and murdered someone else! Woopsy! So you just traipse around the universe, hiding bodies for her? Do you help her kill people too?" She asked, her voice pitching up and down. "Aren't you supposed to be The Doctor? The one who helps people?" She demanded, pushing him again with tears ready to burst from her eyes. "You're supposed to be good!"
"I have never claimed to be good." He replied calmly.
Her tears finally spilled down her cheeks as she glared angrily up at him. He stood still as her balled fists connected with his arms and his chest. He let her hit him until she had worn herself out and was standing in front of him gasping. "She wanted to kill you!" She rasped out. "She said she thought he was you."
"Yes." He replied quietly, waiting for her to continue.
"What do you mean 'yes'!?" She yelled at him. "She is a psychopath! She- whatever that person in there is, that was an entirely different Professor Song than I met. That murderer will become the woman you married? The angelic looking data ghost? Are you entirely mad?"
"Yes." He replied again and watched her frustration explode over her face.
"Yes what!?" She screamed.
"Yes! All of it." He growled because now he was becoming frustrated by her inane accusations. “She’s my family.” He said quietly, though Clara didn’t appear as reassured by those words as he had once been when he had needed to hear them so long ago.
The good, the bad, and the ugly. The ghosts in his mind murmured.
Clara's mouth opened to say, or scream, something else at him, but the thought was interrupted by something behind The Doctor. He whipped around to where Clara was staring and found Melody standing in the doorway of the corridor in an old Van Morrison t-shirt that was actually left behind by an older River at some point, and a pair of The Doctor's boxer shorts.
"I'm hungry." Melody rasped, her throat raw from the screaming and crying and mercy knew what else she'd been through during this training exercise.
“Melody.” The Doctor whispered, wondering how much of that she’d heard.
“Mels…” She grumbled back at him, narrowing her eyes in a silent threat.
The Doctor strode toward her, cupping her face in his hands and examining her eyes. He flicked a penlight from his pocket and shone it on and off, checking her pupillary responses. They seemed to be back to normal, and he moved on to her pulse, checking her blood pressure. She stood still, allowing him to check her vital signs until he was satisfied. He kissed her forehead and lifted her chin to make her look him in the eyes. "Soup?" He asked her, but she shook her head.
"Chips?" She asked hopefully, offering him a small smile, but it was his turn to shake his head.
"Soup it is." He replied, turning from her scowl and looking at Clara's shocked expression. "We're going to get soup. If you want to join us." He offered, and he wasn't entirely sure what answer he wanted or expected. Having Clara see the better side of Mels would be helpful for Clara’s impression of her, maybe, but Mels needed him to herself.
"I… I think I want to go home." She muttered, giving Melody one last glance over The Doctor's shoulder before turning around.
Wordlessly, The Doctor snapped his fingers and the TARDIS doors opened to reveal the inside of Clara's flat. Neither spoke as she grabbed her bag and strode out.
The Doctor looked back at Mels, and plastered a smile on his face. It felt foreign there. "He sings a song about you, you know." He said, pointing to her shirt and striding over to the console.
"Who? Van Morrison?" She asked, pulling the shirt out from her body and looking down at it. Punching in the coordinates for a soup shop in New New Rome, The Doctor nodded, but Mels looked dubious still. "Why the hell, would Van Morrison write a song about me?" She asked, hopping up into the jump seat.
"I didn't say he wrote a song about you. I said he sings one about you." He replied with a grin.
Mels glared at him. "Well, who would write a song about me then?" She grumbled at him, clearly getting irritated with this little piece by piece information session. Ever the inquisitor. The Doctor just winked at her I've this shoulder. "Which one?" She asked, crossing her arms.
"That's a spoiler, I'm afraid." He replied, striding toward the door.
"That's not fair!" Mels called after him.
"You'll figure it out when you're older." He told her with a wink as he left her alone to think about it and went in search of some takeaway soup.
***
"She's angry with you." Mels stated bluntly when they were safely flying back into the vortex.
"She'll get over it." He replied, offering her a reassuring smile over his shoulder, though he wasn't entirely sure Clara would just get over it. Melody's expression said that she wasn't sure either.
"Will you?" She asked him, suddenly at his side at the console, looking down at all the knobs and levers, with a voice smaller than he's ever heard from her lips.
"Already am." He lied, stroking his hand over her now mostly dry curls.
"Liar." She muttered, but she allowed him to tuck her into his side with his arm around her waist. "It was the pretty one." She said quietly, wrapping her arms around his middle and hiding her face in his shoulder.
"All my faces are pretty." He replied in mock offense and felt her laugh against his chest.
"I was relieved at first that I had completed my mission, that I killed you, and I was glad you were dead because I'd finally be free, but then…" her voice cracked with pain and guilt. "What would I do with my freedom, if not find you? My parents would never forgive me if I'd killed you. So I could never go home to them… Who am I without my mission?”
The Doctor pulled back to look at her face. “That is not true. In Berlin, while I was dying, that wasn’t hatred on their faces or anger; that was pain. They were scared for you. There is nobody in the universe who means more to them than you do.” He told her softly. Though it was much more recent for her, he still remembered it like it was yesterday. “And you are so wrong.” He told her. “There are galaxies upon galaxies out there just waiting for you. Your life is your own, River Song. The universe is your oyster, with or without me.”
“I don’t think I’m her yet.” She confessed, and he smiled.
“It has to be lived.” He told her, remembering their accidental trip to the Gamma Forests, how the soldiers introduced them to their queen as The Warrior and his keeper, River Song. In their defence, she had handcuffed him in front of them and told him to behave if he wanted to be released.
"I was relieved when I realized it was a test. It wasn't really you. I was glad it was some nameless face on the ground." He held her tighter, letting her confess her sins to him. She sniffled and tilted her head up toward his face. "I'm a monster. One day, I'll kill you because I have to, or you'll kill me because… of things like today."
"If you feel that killing me will set you free, I will offer my life up with a neat little bow tie, Melody Pond, but I think we both know that the day you fulfill your mission, you outlive your usefulness to them, too." He told her, looking directly into her eyes. Her brow creased with worry and regret and pain. "And you're not the monster in the room, Dear. You and I, we’re neither entirely sinners nor entirely saints, whenever you need to be a monster, you call me. I will be so terrible you'll look like you've been heaven sent. There's nothing you could ever do that I won't have done worse."
She stared up at him for a long moment as if trying to decide if she believed him. "What if you're not always there when I need you… when I've fucked up like today?" She asked, and he can't help but smirk at the way she casually curses this young.
"We're back to front, remember?" He reminded her. "I've already walked your worst roads with you. In every darkest hour, you will always find me. Not always this dashing face, but still me and still wound tightly around your delectable little fingers." He murmured, reaching for her hand and bringing it up to his mouth. She bit her lip as he pressed his lips to the palm of her hand.
"Does that work on all the girls, Sweetie? That's some real smooth talking." She retorted cheekily, breaking the heated eye contact they'd been holding, but he could hear the hitch on her breath and the feel the speed in her pulse.
"All of them? It doesn't even work on this one. I'm clearly doing something wrong." He groaned, throwing his hands up dramatically. She laughed then, and he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.
***
Melody stayed with him on the TARDIS for just over what constituted a week in the vortex before he was satisfied she was fed and hydrated and mentally stable enough for him to drop her off at her dorm on Luna. He could tell she was back to her old self again when she began finding interesting ways to torture him, like walking around the TARDIS in only a t-shirt and knickers.
The real convincing moment was when she joined him for tea first thing in what constituted the morning on the TARDIS, striding into the kitchen with her silk dressing gown wide open revealing her only other attire: an impossibly tiny pair of lacy knickers. Her treacherous laugh echoed throughout the room when he choked on his tea.
"Morning." She chirped at him, snatching the scone right from his hand and plopping down across from him as if nothing at all was amiss. "Black, please, Sweetie." She murmured, picking up the tablet from the table and scrolling through the various digital newspapers from around the galaxy.
The Doctor rolled his eyes, pouring her tea into the empty mug in the centre of the table, sliding it over to her and picking up one of the physical newspapers off of the table. "Interesting breakfast attire, Dear." He murmured feigning disinterest as they both casually scanned the news for anything interesting to pop in on.
"Thank you for noticing, Darling." She replied with such saccharine of a tone he knew she was looking to get a rise out of him.
"It's not going to work, Honey." He replied in a high pitch to match hers and shifting in his seat slightly.
"I think it already has, Sweetie." She replied as her toes crept up the side of his calf. "Aren't you supposed to be my future husband or something?" She demanded when he continued reading his paper.
"Or something." He muttered, lowering his paper to give her the full effect of his eyebrow glare, reaching under the table and capturing her traveling foot. "Tease." He said with a grin, stroking his thumb up and down over her arch and watching as she sunk deeper into her chair and let her eyes fall closed. "You have a degree to complete first my sweet little psychopath." He whispered fondly, watching her lips slowly curl into a smile.
***
He parked the TARDIS on the street, unsure if parking it inside would be entirely welcome, and walked up the front steps to Clara's building. He hesitated for a moment before jabbing the buzzer.
"Hello?" Her disembodied voice spoke so cheerfully that he almost didn't want to respond, lest he spoil her mood.
"Do you want to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" He asked into the intercom. She didn't reply, but the door buzzed and unlocked, granting him entrance.
By the time he made it up the stairs and down the hall, she was standing in the open doorway of her flat waiting for him. "You don't look like a Girl Scout." She muttered, stepping aside to let him in.
"I'm not." He muttered. "Clara-"
"Doctor-"
"Let me go first." He said, pacing her sitting room. He made it from one side to the other in three strides and muttered to himself about the tiny space. "There are parts of my life that are not for anyone else to see." He started, crossing his arms. "You saw them. I can't rewrite that, but I also can't explain or defend what you witnessed."
"Doctor-" Clara groaned, but he put a silencing hand up.
"Clara, my wife and our relationship, at any point in her timeline, is never up for discussion." He said firmly. "I will try to avoid crossing you with her again, if you care to continue travelling with me, that is…" He rambled a bit, getting ahead of himself. "My point is that River is off limits, always, to you and anyone else who travels with me." He said with what he felt was solid finality on the subject.
"Ok." Clara said, putting her hands on his crossed arms. At his shocked expression, she rolled her eyes. "I've had three months to think about it. Did you get lost or something? I understand-ish." She told him with a shrug. "Also, I’ve had a few of those psychic conference calls with Madame Vastra, and she really puts things into perspective. You should really send her a fruit basket or something. She definitely cut my necessary stewing time by half at least." She patted his crossed arms and walked into the kitchen. "Tea?" She called and he stood there bemused for a moment, wondering what exactly Vastra had told Clara. She was one of River's closest friends and confidants. She was his as well, truly, and he was certain whatever she said was with the approval of the Data Ghost herself. He wondered briefly if said Data Ghost was in attendance at these meetings. "Earth to Doctor!" Clara said, waving a hand in front of his face and holding a teacup toward him.
He shook his head and took the cup, glad that whatever powers were at work here allowed him to avoid having the hard conversation.
“So what’s new and exciting in the universe? Is there trouble somewhere for us to get into?” She asked, grinning at him around her cup.
The Doctor grinned, putting his cup down and heading for the door.