Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

32(G)

A dreadful collection of.
memoranda

mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)

The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!

- Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

The last thing she says to him, from his perspective, is 'Don't forget to take the brakes off.'

He prefers it infinitely to the dreaded 'spoilers' that had been her last words from her perspective. It is so ordinary, so domestic, that he can almost believe that it isn't over. Surely, the last words breathed between two people of the greatest love story the universe will ever know aren't about the TARDIS brakes.

He clings to that for a while. There must be something else. Some conversation either wildly flirtatious or dreadfully heart-breaking. And until River shows up and exchanges these words with him, it isn't over.

It takes him almost two months to admit to himself that sometimes, the end isn't neatly final and tied up in a bow of perfect words and last sentiments. Sometimes the end is abrupt and unknown and messy.

Sometimes there are no right words to make it hurt less.

When acceptance comes, he honors her last request and leaves the brakes off.

He doesn't love the noise anymore anyway.

-

Her diary is perched on the jump seat in the control room, ancient and blue and so very well loved. It taunts him; calls to him like a siren song. Sometimes he answers the call and reaches for the book, hands shaking.

He never manages to even crack the spine.

-

He doesn't sleep in their bedroom for a while. At first, the memories contained within are too painful. Her scent lingers in the air - the vortex and plasma bursts and French perfume and honey. For a long time, he holds his breath whenever he needs to go inside the room, too afraid he might break.

Her gun lies on the bedside table, charged and ready for her to slip it into her holster again. It is waiting for her next adventure.

Her books and a stack of papers that still needed grading are perched on their dresser, along with all of the hair products he always teased her about. As much as you like to blame my hair on the vortex, sweetie, she'd said, it does still need maintaining. He would lie on their bed and watch her put all manner of strange things in her hair and pull her to him the moment she finished, burying his face in her curls.

In their room, just as everywhere else, her absence is a constant ache that will not abate. He doesn't ever want it to. The more the pain lessens, the more he will forget. And forgetting one precious moment of his time spent with River Song is unthinkable. He thinks of forgetting her face or her smile or the way she rolled her eyes and it terrifies him.

So he stops avoiding their bedroom and curls around the pillow that no longer smells like her. He stares at her dress still pooled at the foot of the bed that he refuses to move, and lets the memories wash over him. The pain is better than forgetting.

-

The first morning he can bring himself to get up and face the world - every beat of his hearts still a painful reminder that his wife is gone and she won't ever be back again but River would slap him silly for letting himself waste away - he climbs out of bed as if in slow motion. He acts on autopilot, dressing mechanically - buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his trousers, fastening his braces, tugging on his coat and adjusting the collar.