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They’d been laughing as the director called cut for the final time. Lights dimmed, wires slackened, assistants were already rolling up cables as the pyramid set emptied. Beneath the last warm wash of studio light, Alex Kingston stood momentarily alone, still in River Song’s. The heady rush of the scene lingered on her skin along with the smell of stage smoke and dust. She could still feel Matt’s lips—soft, unexpected, tasting faintly of tea—press briefly against hers for the on‑screen kiss. On cue she’d laughed and declared, “Ooh, I could just kiss you all night!” He’d replied in that drawl of his, half‑mischievous, half‑sincere: “And I you, Miss Kingston.” The flirtation was easy, part performance, part genuine ease. Cameras had captured it, crew had chuckled, and then it was over the web.
As Alex unpinned the glittering hairpiece, her fingers stilled. The words now echoed in her mind with a weight they hadn’t carried under the blazing lights.
I could just kiss you all night.
It had been a tease, a throwaway remark to lighten the atmosphere. Yet under her smile had been something far less theatrical: a desire she’d suppressed since the first read‑through when a then‑twenty‑six‑year‑old with unruly hair and wide, curious eyes had bounded into her life, offering her a hand and calling her “ma’am” with a grin. Time had travelled quickly since then, weaving itself into scenes and series arcs, forging an intimacy formed under prosthetics and period costumes. For Alex it had become all too easy to forget that the Doctor she bantered with on set was not a fictionalised Time Lord but a man nineteen years her junior.
Pulling her dressing gown around her shoulders, she glanced around the dressing room. Strewn scripts, a pair of Converse trainers, a half‑finished bottle of water; they were the paraphernalia of months spent in Cardiff’s studios. Filming the wedding had felt like the culmination of an era—her era, perhaps. As River Song, she’d danced in the Doctor’s timeline; as herself, she’d fallen in love with the cast and crew. Yet the phone call from her agent earlier had made her heart sink just a little. “Wrap after this episode and back to Los Angeles. No word on a return yet. Steven’s playing coy.” Years of experience had taught her the unpredictability of the industry. Characters came and went. River’s story might continue off screen, or it might be the end. She’d grown to love these people, and one in particular. What if she never had the chance to say what she felt?
She heard a quiet knock. “You all right in there?” Karen Gillan’s voice carried through the door, a lilt of concern. Alex smiled, tucking away her swirling thoughts.
“Come in,” she called. Karen poked her head around the door, fiery hair twisted up, still wearing the remnants of Amy Pond’s dark eyeliner.
“They’re doing champagne in the canteen. Arthur’s already two glasses down and waxing lyrical about how he can finally stop wearing the Roman armour,” Karen said with a grin.
Alex chuckled. “Poor Arthur. All those layers of leather can’t be good for his skin.” She closed her make‑up case. “Give me a minute. I’ll be along.”
“You sure? You look… thoughtful.” Karen leaned against the doorframe, her gaze kind.
“Just the usual post‑wrap melancholy,” Alex replied. She waved a hand, dismissing it. “You know me. I’ll be dancing on the tables in ten minutes.”
Karen grinned. “Good. We expect nothing less. It’s been a long year.” She hesitated. “And you’ll come back, right? River isn’t going anywhere.”
Alex’s chest tightened. “We’ll see. Stories have a way of surprising us.” She forced a smile. “Now go and rescue Arthur before he steals the prop sword.”
When Karen left, Alex stared at her reflection. The laugh lines at her eyes, the silver threads in her curls, the experience. Two marriages behind her—one to an actor, one to a german writer. Each had taught her love’s fickle nature and how pain could linger long after the press cuttings had yellowed. She had always sworn she’d protect herself, particularly from entanglements that would make headlines. And yet… and yet.
Out in the corridor, Matt was leaning against a wall, still in his Doctor’s tweed jacket, collar askew. He was talking animatedly to Arthur about some football match, hands gesturing as if coaxing the memory of a goal from the air. When he caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Kingston!” he called. “You coming to toast our mutually assured gloriousness?”
Alex felt that small flutter in her stomach. He always said her surname like it was a term of endearment rather than an official call sheet moniker. “Absolutely,” she replied, matching his energy as she approached. “Wouldn’t miss the chance to watch you lot overindulge and embarrass yourselves.”
Arthur clutched his chest theatrically. “Madam, I am a model of restraint.”
“Until someone hands you a guitar, then we’re in trouble,” Alex quipped. They laughed, and she basked in the familiar ease. Yet beneath it she felt something like regret beginning to form. She almost said: I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Instead, she looped her arm through Matt’s and allowed herself to be drawn towards the canteen, thinking, just tonight, let it be simple.
—
Matt Smith had always been good at inhabiting roles. When he’d first been given the keys to the TARDIS, he’d known nothing of vortex manipulators or sonic screwdrivers. The notion of replacing David Tennant had been thrilling and terrifying. He’d sat up all night reading the scripts, letting this eccentric Time Lord nest under his skin. He’d studied archival footage and still, nothing could have prepared him for the headlong rush of the first day on set, or for the moment he’d turned to meet his River.
Alex.
The name had preceded her; he’d watched her on “Moll Flanders” and, like everyone else, been captivated by her ferocity and beauty. When she’d swung through those studio doors in boots and leather, he’d felt his jaw drop. She’d radiated warmth, the sort that wasn’t performance but person. The age gap had been commented on incessantly in tabloids and message boards. He’d shrugged it off. It was irrelevant when she looked at him and it felt as if she could see right through the alien words into his own jittery excitement. In scenes she’d taken his hand and steadied him, whispering lines of encouragement when he forgot. Off camera she’d told him to sleep, to hydrate, to allow his spine to unfurl after hours of leaning over control panels. It had been strictly professional, a friendship forged under prosthetics. And yet there had been moments—quiet, shared glances where she’d brushed hair from his forehead or he’d held her gaze a beat too long—that had made him wonder. He’d always suppressed those thoughts with a half‑joking “In your dreams, Smith, keep your head on.”
Tonight, though, something felt different. Maybe it was the way she’d said those words after their on‑screen kiss, maybe it was the knowledge that this might be the last time River Song shared a set with his Doctor. Perhaps it was the champagne he’d just necked when no one was looking. Either way, the awareness of Alex as Alex was almost painful.
He scanned the room. The canteen had been transformed for the wrap party. Banners reading “Well done!” draped in haphazard arcs, fairy lights coiled around prop Daleks, and a DJ had commandeered a corner. Cast and crew milled about, hugging, laughing, some already practicing their karaoke. In the centre, Karen and Arthur were dancing with PAs, arms flung wide. Matt caught glimpses of the after‑party spilled across Twitter when he dared glance at his phone. Fans would go wild; he chuckled at the thought.
Then he saw her.
She’d changed into fitted jeans and a silk blouse, her hair tamed into waves that brushed her shoulders. She looked utterly unlike River Song and entirely like the woman he’d come to… well. Matt set his drink down. He wanted to talk to her when there wasn’t a camera inches from their faces. As he approached, the thump of the bass seemed to recede. Was he really going to do this? The younger version of himself would have talked himself out of it—too shy, too uncertain. The man who’d played a time traveller who loved his wife across centuries felt braver.
“Dance with me?” he blurted, half invitation, half plea. He hadn’t intended to ask like that. The words were out, though, and Alex’s eyes widened slightly before she smiled.
She inclined her head with theatrical formality. “With pleasure, Mr Smith.” There was a gentle teasing in her tone, as if she wasn’t sure whether to believe this was serious. They moved onto the makeshift dance floor, weaving between gaffers and producers. A slow song mercifully came on—Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” of all things— and he took her hand.
At first they kept the respectable distance of colleagues. He could feel the warmth of her palm through his own. “You were brilliant today,” he said over the music. “As always.”
“So were you.” She laughed. “Well, you know that. Everyone tells you every five minutes.” There was no bitterness there, only fondness. Her thumb unconsciously stroked the back of his hand. Matt’s heart hammered.
“Do you ever think,” he ventured cautiously, “about… I mean… about what it’s like when this stops?” He gestured around. “When the sets go into storage and we all go off in different directions.”
“All the time,” Alex replied. For a moment her mask slipped, and he saw vulnerability there. “It’s the nature of what we do. Nomadic. Magical. Heartbreaking. You get used to saying goodbye.” She paused. “Doesn’t make it easier, though.”
“And us?” The question was out before he could stop it. “Do we just… wave and vanish?”
Alex looked up at him, eyes darker under the fairy lights. “If we don’t want to vanish, we find ways not to,” she said carefully. “If we want something… if there’s something worth risking a little heartache for, maybe we should risk it.”
Her words sank through his skin. Was this him misreading? He swallowed. “When you said earlier… about kissing me all night…” He let the sentence hang, inviting her to snatch it away as a joke.
Colour rose in her cheeks. “That was rather reckless of me, wasn’t it?” Her laugh was low, but her fingers tightened on his hand. “But I meant it. Perhaps not so publicly. I…” She hesitated. “Matt, you’re wonderful, and I find you ridiculously easy to be around. You make me feel… young and reckless again. But I’m afraid. I’ve been through marriages that burnt bright and burnt out. I’m older than you. You’ll find someone closer to your own life stage.”
He drew closer, closing the safe space between them. He’d never been one for half measures. “Maybe I don’t want someone ‘appropriate,’” he said quietly. “Maybe I want you.”
His honesty seemed to shock her more than any of his ad‑libbed monologues. She stopped moving, other dancers swirling around them like a river around stones. “Matt—” she whispered, voice thick.
“Look,” he continued, the words spilling now. “You’re not a gap to be minded or a risk to be managed. You’re brilliant. You’re Alex, the only person who can tell me when I’m overacting. You challenge me. You make me laugh. The age difference—honestly? I don’t care. I like that you’ve lived. That you know things I don’t. That you make me want to be better. I know you’re cautious. I know your heart’s been bruised. Mine’s been bruised too. I don’t want to look back and wonder if I never said anything because it felt messy.”
For a heartbeat, Alex closed her eyes, lashes fanning against her cheeks. When she opened them, they shone. “If we do this,” she murmured, “it can’t be flippant. I can’t… I won’t be the older woman you had a fling with and then left for someone else. I can’t survive that humiliation.”
Matt lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He felt the tremor run through her. “I’m not looking for a fling.”
They didn’t kiss there, not on the dance floor under the watchful eyes of colleagues and cameras and possibly a stray journalist. Instead, they continued to sway, the distance gone. An unspoken pact formed between them: after the party, they would talk properly. For now, the simple joy of being close was enough.
___
Later, when most of the champagne had been consumed and people were scattering into taxis or collapsing onto couches, Matt slipped out through a side door. The night air on the Cardiff docks was cool, carrying the tang of the sea. He stepped into the shadow of a stack of crates and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. The door creaked again, and Alex appeared, her heels clicking lightly on the pavement. She’d thrown a woollen coat over her blouse, and she held a pair of trainers by the laces, having abandoned her heels. She spotted him and laughed softly.
“Meeting in the alleyway behind the BBC,” she said. “How clandestine.”
He grinned. “I considered inviting you to the TARDIS, but given that it’s an empty prop at the moment, that seemed less romantic.”
She drew near, their breath clouding faintly in the chill. “We won’t be disturbed?”
“Everyone else is in there singing Oasis songs. We’re safe.” He swallowed. “I meant what I said.”
“So did I.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. They stood facing each other, an awkwardness between them that seemed absurd given the number of intimate scenes they’d played. But those had been scripted; this was painfully real. Matt resisted the urge to make a joke. Instead, he took a step closer.
“Tell me what scares you,” he said gently. “I want to understand.”
Alex looked up at the night sky, the orange glow of street lamps painting her skin. “It’s not just the marriages,” she admitted. “Although that’s part of it. Each time I thought: I’ll be more careful. Each time I failed. I’m tired of being the woman who can’t make love last.” She met his eyes. “You’re young. Your whole life is ahead of you. You don’t need my baggage.”
Matt listened, letting her words settle. “Do you think my age means I don’t know heartbreak?” he asked quietly. “I’ve had girlfriends leave me too, you know. I’ve failed auditions and believed I wasn’t good enough. I’ve had my heart broken. The pain doesn’t care about numbers.”
“No,” she conceded. “But society does. The press does.” She pulled her coat tighter. “They’ll paint me as a cougar who seduced the Doctor. They’ll say I used you to stay relevant.”
“Then we don’t tell the press,” he retorted. He smiled wryly. “We’re actors. We know how to keep secrets. If the worst thing is that they gossip, let them. We’ll be living our lives, not theirs.”
Alex gave a small, surprised laugh. “You’re infuriatingly optimistic.”
“It’s part of my charm.” He reached out, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Come on, Kingston. I know you feel something. I’ve seen it when you think no one’s watching. You want to run, but you’re still standing here in the cold with me. Take a breath with me. See where this goes.”
She exhaled, her breath visible in the night. “We might destroy each other,” she whispered.
“Or we might not.” He rested his forehead against hers, the simplest, gentlest of touches. She didn’t pull away. In that moment, the dockyards vanished. There were only their mingled heartbeats and the possibility of something tender and fierce blossoming. He kissed her, not like the Doctor kissed River, but like Matt kissed Alex. It was slow and deliberate, tasting of the champagne they’d shared, of unshed tears, of relief. She responded, her hands fisting in his jacket as if anchoring herself. There was no camera to catch them, no director to call cut. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
When they broke apart, she rested her head against his chest. “That’s what you do to me,” she confessed, voice muffled. “You make me forget that I should be scared.”
He pressed his lips against the crown of her hair. “Then let me keep doing that.”
They didn’t rush into declarations or promises that night. They walked along the quay, talking about trivialities—the time Karen had mistaken a Silence for a set builder, Arthur’s fear of the dark, the ridiculousness of their prosthetic eyepatches. It was as if both needed the lightness after the heavy words. They sat on a bench overlooking the water until the stars dipped and the horizon lightened. Somewhere between laughter and yawns, Alex’s head found his shoulder, and he felt a profound sense of peace settle over him. The world might spin, but he’d remember this stillness.
“Where are you staying?” he asked as dawn tinged the sky.
“I’ve got the hotel near the bay,” she replied. “I was planning to go straight to Heathrow tomorrow.” She lifted her head. “Stay with me tonight? Just to sleep. I don’t… I’m not ready for more than that. But I don’t want to be alone in a sterile room thinking too much.”
His smile was soft. “Of course.” He stood and held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation.
—
Hotel corridors at four in the morning have a peculiar hush. The red carpet muted their footsteps as they made their way past identical doors. Inside her suite, the lights were dim, the bed neatly made by housekeeping that afternoon. Alex tossed her trainers aside and kicked off her boots. It felt so ordinary that for a moment she forgot about the swirling feelings in her chest.
“You can take the sofa,” she said, gesturing to the plush couch. “I’ve spent enough nights on friends’ sofas during drama school to know they’re not as uncomfortable as they look.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Or,” he countered, “we can both take the bed and sleep on opposite sides. It’s bigger than the TARDIS interior.” He saw her expression and added quickly, “Nothing more. Just… I don’t fancy waking up with a crick in my neck.”
She weighed this. “All right,” she agreed, surprising herself with how natural it felt.
He changed while she ducked into the bathroom to wash her face, removing the last traces of make‑up, scrubbing off the day. When she emerged, he was lying on his back on the right side of the bed, arms behind his head, hair tousled. It struck her anew how young he looked. It also struck her how safe she felt.
She slid under the duvet on the left side, lying on her side facing him. For a moment they both stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the mini fridge. Then he broke the silence. “Can I… can I hold you?”
The question was like a key turning. Alex nodded, her throat too tight to reply. He lifted his arm, and she rolled into him. His body was warm, his heartbeat steady against her ear. She hadn’t been held like this, without expectation, in a long time. Tears pricked unexpectedly. She let them fall, silent, dampening his shirt. He didn’t say anything, just ran his hand through her curls, fingers gentle.
“Shh,” he murmured. “It’s all right.”
They fell asleep entwined, exhaustion finally overwhelming adrenaline. Neither stirred when the first texts came through from friends still at the party. The world could wait.
—
When Alex woke, grey light had filtered through the curtains. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she felt the weight of a hand across her waist and the warm exhale against her neck. She smiled despite the dryness in her eyes. Carefully, she turned to look at him. Matt’s hair stuck up, his mouth slightly open, his expression softened in sleep. He looked ridiculously angelic. She resisted the urge to trace his jaw. Instead, she extricated herself to shower.
In the bathroom, as hot water sluiced away the remnants of last night, she braced herself. The decision to step into something with Matt would have ripples. She thought of her daughter at school in America, of her agent, of the press. But she also thought of the way her heart had lifted when she’d kissed him. She’d felt something like hope; she’d felt like herself beyond the roles she played. That had to count for something.
When she emerged wrapped in a towel, he was awake, propped up against pillows reading a book he’d grabbed from her bedside table—a dog‑eared copy of “Pride and Prejudice.” He looked up and grinned. “Morning.”
“Morning.” She walked to her suitcase and pulled out clothes. “It’s nearly nine. My flight’s at noon.”
He set the book aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll take you to the airport.” It wasn’t a question but an assertion.
“You don’t have to,” she said, though she wanted nothing more.
“I want to,” he replied simply. “Besides, you’re not lugging that suitcase down on your own.”
“You’re useful,” she teased, but her voice wobbled. She dressed, feeling his eyes on her in the mirror. “I should tell you… I may have a job in L.A. after Christmas. A miniseries. It’ll keep me there for months.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. He stood, stretching. “There are planes. I can visit when I’m not filming. You can come here when you’re free. We can call, write, send messages like teenagers.”
“You’re very sure.” She turned to him. “What if you change your mind? What if the distance is too much?”
He stepped close, cupped her face. “Then we’ll have tried. I’d rather fail than never know.” He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering. “But I don’t think I will change my mind.”
They checked out just after ten. In the lobby they bumped into Arthur, still wearing last night’s clothes and sunglasses, his arm slung over Karen’s shoulders. He raised his eyebrows at them but said nothing. Karen grinned knowingly.
“You two leaving together?” she asked innocently.
“Matt’s playing chauffeur,” Alex replied quickly. Her tone dared them to comment. Karen nodded, eyes sparkling, but she simply hugged Alex fiercely.
“Safe flight,” she whispered. “Don’t stay away too long.”
Matt shook Arthur’s hand and accepted his half‑hearted admonition not to let “The Kingston” get into trouble in London. Then they slipped out into the morning.
The drive to the airport was mostly quiet. Cardiff blurred into fields, then into the motorway lined with hedgerows. Radio chatter filled the silence when conversation faltered. They talked about scripts, favourite songs, his hatred of avocado—and of everything and nothing. Alex kept glancing at him, committing his profile to memory. She wanted to freeze time, to preserve this bubble of just them. But airports, like time, wait for no one.
At the departure drop‑off, he parked and helped her unload her suitcase. The conveyor belt under the “Departures” sign hummed. She turned to him.
“This feels surreal,” she said, trying to laugh. “One minute we’re saving the universe on a pyramid, the next we’re standing between a Costa Coffee and a duty‑free shop, talking about love.”
“Life is surreal,” he replied. He pulled a small object from his jacket pocket. It was a key on a chain, dark metal, slightly battered.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking it.
“My spare TARDIS key,” he said with mock solemnity. “Every companion should have one. It doesn’t actually open anything except maybe my flat, if the door’s being stubborn. But consider it symbolic.” His expression softened. “A promise that my door’s always open to you.”
Emotion clogged her throat. She clenched the key in her fist. “You’re soppy, Smith.” She slipped the chain over her head, feeling the metal settle against her collarbone. “Will you write?”
“Every day,” he vowed. “And if you don’t answer, I’ll send a paper plane across the Atlantic.”
She laughed, a sound that turned abruptly into a sob. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him. He hugged her tight, burying his face in her hair. “Be safe,” he murmured.
“You too,” she replied. She pulled back enough to kiss him, uncaring of the travellers bustling around them. It was a firm kiss, less tentative than last night’s, more sure. Her fingers curled in his hair. His hands pressed into her back. It said everything words could not.
When they separated, they lingered, foreheads touching. “Go,” he whispered. “Or they’ll announce your name over the loudspeaker.”
She nodded, releasing him. She wheeled her suitcase toward the security queue, turning once to wave. He stood watching until she disappeared beyond the metal detectors. Only then did he let himself exhale. He pressed his palms over his eyes, feeling the sting of tears, he refused to shed in an airport. He’d meant every word. He would fight for this.
—
Aeroplanes are strange liminal spaces—neither here nor there, suspended between times. Alex buckled her seatbelt, the TARDIS key tucked safely beneath her blouse. She took out her phone and, on impulse, snapped a photo of her feet propped on the seat in front, the bracelet he’d once given her glittering at her ankle. She captioned it with a blue heart and sent it to him. His reply came through minutes later, an image of the wrap party’s abandoned set with the caption: “ Uk is not the same without you.”
She smiled and tucked the phone away as the engines roared. Through the small oval window, she watched the british countryside recede, patchwork fields and snaking rivers becoming abstract art. She let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes.
She remembered the feel of Matt’s hand in hers last night, steady as a heartbeat. The future stretched before her like the Atlantic: vast, unpredictable, shimmering. She knew there would be turbulence. She also knew, in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to know in years, that there could also be joy.
She whispered into the hum of the cabin, “Don’t forget me” letting sleep take her.
—
In London, Matt walked through his front door and tossed his keys onto the sideboard. His flat was exactly as he’d left it: half‑finished jigsaw on the coffee table, shelves crammed with vinyl records and books, a pile of scripts in the corner. The familiarity was oddly comforting. He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, smiling at how domestic the act felt after talking about saving the universe on set.
On his fridge, he kept mementos—Polaroids with his sister, a flyer from his first theatre job, the first fan letter he’d received. He added something new now: a Post‑it note that read, in untidy scrawl, “Kingston → Los Angeles.” He stuck it in the centre. It wasn’t a shrine; it was a reminder. Whenever he opened the fridge for milk, he’d see her name and remember that there was someone across the ocean thinking of him too.
She had his key. He had her trust. The rest was a story yet unwritten.
He looked out at the overcast London sky. Somewhere across the world, an aeroplane carried a woman he cared for. Somewhere in Wales, a set was being dismantled. Life moved on. But for once, he felt unmoored in a good way, as if he’d stepped into a timeline he hadn’t foreseen but fit better than any he’d imagined. He took a sip of his tea, still hot, and smiled to himself. “Geronimo,” he whispered softly, knowing she would understand.