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They’d been ever so wrong. Being so used to being right through all of space and time, none of them had ever been so wrong before, not in any of their regenerations.
The Doctor does not and has never loved me. I’m not lying.
He has half a mind of getting cross with her, getting all grumpy and frowny and scowly and grumbly and snarky; it’s become something of a habit since he’d regenerated into this new body of his, but he can’t bring himself to do so. He can’t, because he has limits and he still knows her better than that.
Cocky and full of herself she’d never been one for doubting, so they’d simply assumed that she’d known all along. Dealing with wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff could indeed get messy at times, but … he’d known. He’d known ever since the Library, back when he hadn’t even known her yet. He has no idea why he never even noticed that he’d kept silent on that matter, let alone why he (his jolly, chatty former self of all people) had possibly felt inclined to do so.
He can feel the pang of regret in his gut, he can feel the shameful bile rising. Oh well … He should’ve known, after all, he’s had it coming, for better or for worse. Not that he’d meant to stumble upon her doorstep with a haircut and a new suit (and a new face, she’d just so neglected to mention, golly, she really should’ve mentioned the face!) like that. But now it was happening, all of a sudden and all at once, and not having laughed like this in a long time he realises how much he had indeed missed her.
You are the woman who loves the Doctor.
She is.
She is all bouncy curls and sparkly wild eyes and beautifully veiled mystery and fierce spirit and nonchalantly quipped comebacks and wry wit and haughty demeanor and cheeky flirtatiousness and dangerously smug smiles and heavily armed cunning and ruthlessness and grim determination and memories of happier times long gone (or have they, really?) and the enchanting brute force of a thousand supernovae and a bittersweet feeling of utter desperation that surrounds her and she’s his.
She is his wife, for all intents and purposes.
She is the woman whom the Doctor loves.
She is.
But whoever said he loved me back? He's the Doctor. He doesn't go around falling in love with people. And if you think he's anything that small or that ordinary, then you haven't the first idea of what you're dealing with.
She’s looking at him … looking right through him, and it shouldn’t kill him but it does. She’s breaking his hearts – slowly, and then all at once. Not that he’d ever admit it, mind you.
His hearts had skipped a beat and then some when she’d revealed her face back on Mendorax Dellora. The sound of her voice alone had made him feel all giddy, and the sight of her was one for sore eyes. So giddy, in fact, that for one single moment he’d simply forgotten about the one single most important thing that had happened since they’d last met: that new body of his. She was being deliberately obtuse, he’d have wagered, or maybe she was purposefully leading him on, but then again … maybe she wasn’t. She definitely wasn’t.
He’d gone on dropping so many clues, all the while being ridiculously, pathetically obvious. He’d been tossing memories and silly inside jokes all over the place, waiting for the penny to drop and to finally bop her nose and hug her. With every passing minute the certainty grows and so does his pain:
River Song doesn’t see him.
Two hearts, stupid clothes, you can't miss him. Go on, scan the whole parsec! He's not here. God knows where he is right now, but I promise you, he's doing whatever the hell he wants and not giving a damn about me! And I'm just fine with that.
With every word his jaw clenches more, as if it’s the only thing that’s still in his grip. His eyes grow darker and his breathing more erratic. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, and furthermore, he can’t believe that she really believes what she’s saying. She’s exceedingly good at lying, he’d always known that to be true. He knows her guile and bravado all too well, knows her talent for fraud and deception; he’d witnessed her fabricating subterfuge, watched her evading and charming and bluffing their way out of the most impossible of situations and it was a glorious thing to behold. He’s not inclined to believe some insane tyrant’s alien technology, but the scan confirms that she’s indeed telling the truth. He simply refuses to believe her version of the truth. He has limits, after all.
Glaring anger is clouding her vision and the hurt in her voice is evident while she stubbornly keeps on contradicting Fleming’s announcements; with every rebuttal and every word she says the Doctor’s determination grows and so do his fears. No matter how much he wants to prove her wrong, and he does want this a lot, this is no longer about him and River, never has been. He’s in dire need of a plan and what’s even more important, he needs River with him. There will be a time for overwhelming emotions and declarations of love and marital nonsense, but this is not it.
He holds his breath for far too long while he waits for the right moment to interrupt. He daren’t touch her while he’s approaching and trying to get her attention, he’s most certainly in love enough to know better than that.
When you love the Doctor, it's like loving the stars themselves. You don't expect a sunset to admire you back.
But indeed they do, he does, no matter how much she shakes her head. She’s beautiful when she’s furious, always has been. He can’t help staring at her, transfixed by the curve of her lips; he remembers the way they feel when they move against his; he’s not craved or even missed it, but now that this particular memory is present in his mind again he can’t help longing.
And if I happen to find myself in danger, let me tell you, the Doctor is not stupid enough, or sentimental enough, and he is certainly not in love enough to find himself standing in it with me!
And all of a sudden she’s faltering. River Song is that one person who would take anything and everything in stride, who would meet any irritation with that equally irritating unfazed bemusement that’s utterly her. She’s not one to falter, not one to let her guard drop, never one to be taken by surprise.
She’s furrowing her brows, and his eyes go softer while she’s eyeing him with a sceptically scrutinising tilt of her head. Her lips are trembling and her mouth stands agape in astonishment and utter confusion is written on her face while she gasps for air. He can all but hear her thinking.
The triumphant grin of a bona fide lunatic once again lights up his face while a predatory waggling of his eyebrows finally takes her breath. When he opens his mouth to speak he realises that all of these emotions had been choking up his voice; overwhelming emotions she’d been so adamant that he didn’t have to begin with. His voice is a mere whisper, a caress laden with affection and adoration.
He too is struggling to keep his composure while he’s watching her watching everything fall into place and her life fall apart yet again.
Hello Sweetie!
They’d been ever so wrong; both of them, every time they’d dared imagine a reunion. Imagination tends to run wild while true love lies.
Hush! Mummy and Daddy are busy.
There’s pride welling up inside him, and a curious feeling he can’t even properly name. It’s … familiarity. It’s … security, he guesses, and trust; a stability he’s never known before she came a-swaggering into his timeline more than a lifetime ago. It’s being with his wife again, boldly burgeoning out to save a galaxy or kill a dictator or solve a mystery or kick alien asses or have the time of their lives just gallivanting around the universe; knowing fully well that she’ll have his back come what may, even if she hasn’t. He still feels like kissing her senseless, but this is so much better, this never gets dull.
I hate you.
No you don’t.
There’s a faint trace of sadness in their voices; a faint trace of sadness in the air. It’s the Melody of the Singing Towers, it’s Happily Ever After. They’d been ever so wrong to believe that one single night, albeit a 24-year-long one, could possibly be enough.
THE END
… or is it?
Bananas.