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It’s been niggling at River Song ever since she found herself archived into the afterlife and met its manager — the man who calls himself Doctor Moon.
Eventually, after another just-too-familiar interaction, she asks, “Why do you know me so well?”
Doctor Moon looks at her. “I have access to your neural data,” he points out in that patient, superior, I’m-smarter-than-you tone he gets sometimes. She hates that tone.
She knows that tone.
River shakes her head, refusing the bait. “I don’t just mean you know about me. I mean, you know me.”
More to the point, I know you.
He looks away. “I am the Doctor of this place. Knowing you is my job.”
“Mmhm. And how did you get so good at it?”
“I’ve been very fortunate in the company I keep,” he says softly — still studiously avoiding her gaze.
Professor River Song squints at him, suspicion growing.
Spoilers, she reminds herself sternly. If he isn’t admitting it, he has a reason.
Probably.
Hopefully.
If she isn’t entirely wrong.
She sighs. “Will you share some simulated wine with me, Doctor?”
“That wouldn’t be very professional.” He looks at her askance — then smiles. “But yes, it would be my pleasure.”