Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

75(G)

         miles to go before i sleep

             areyoumarriedriver

He’s so very tired.

She can read it in the line of his shoulders, the curvature of his spine as he leans against the console, his palm flat on the etched glass, the line of his arms rigid as if he is supporting more weight on them than he should.  She longs to move over there and wrap her arms around him, be the source of strength he needs, but it is beyond her for so many different reasons.

She knows him so very well, even if he knows her almost not at all. She leans against the doors she has just eased through, remarkably silent – a particular talent of hers, and she still calls it a talent  even if it was trained into her as a child. Kovarian may have drilled these skills into her, but it is River who makes them her own. She is River, not Melody. She closes her eyes for a moment, leaning her head back and when she opens her eyes he is watching her with a wary curiosity. Her eyes meet his but she does not move and his eyes track over her body as his curiosity morphs into a frown of confusion , and then one of worry.

“River?” It is a tentative question – there is doubt colouring his voice and she feels her nose tingle and her eyes sting and burn. He’s far enough along to question who she is, but not far along enough to know.

“Hello sweetie.” She manages to grind the words out, her throat tight and her body aching. She tries to mask the pain with a smile, but he misses nothing and she is fooling no one. He pushes himself off the console, and is beside her faster than she can comprehend, his hands on her shoulders as he pulls her closer, supporting her weight and she feels awful – like a burden or another albatross around his neck.

“What – what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His hands are running over her body – but it’s wrong. All wrong. Clinical and searching, not stroking and worshipping. And it’s been so long since she has felt his hands on her in that way. So very, very long and she is lonely. Their lives are a tangled web, and the gaps in between where they intersect always feel like gaping wounds. Empty and unnatural. Tears sting her eyes and he looks even more startled, his expression panicked as his hands hold her upright.

“No, I’m fine.” She finally manages to speak, her voice thick with repressed pain and tears. She longs to wrap herself up in him, like a child burrowing under blankets and hiding from the dark. She wants so much, so badly – she always does with him, but it is always his pace they follow. She loves him enough to give up that control, and if she’s honest; she appreciates it being out of her hands. She looks up into his face and his disbelief is palpable. “I’ll be fine. Just – just give me a minute.” She grips his forearms tightly, the tweed scratching her palms gently as she focuses on breathing through the pain. They heal – so much faster than most species – but it hurts.

“You were hurt.” He looks down at her with dark eyes, and she avoids his gaze because she knows what she’ll see. Pain, guilt, blame, all directed inward. “Why are you alone? Where did you come from?” The ‘why didn’t I help’ goes unspoken, but it dances through the air between them as if he’d spoken it aloud anyway.

“I didn’t call you.” She answers the question he didn’t ask first, and her hands tighten around his arms as she pulls herself upright, the pain receding for the most part.

“Why not?” He sounds bereft and she smiles through the remaining aching echo of pain, trying to keep her breathing even. “I always come when you call.”

“Some things I wouldn’t ever put you through, sweetie.” She doesn’t want to tell him. Doesn’t want to explain the types of missions she sometimes has to do in order to earn time for her pardon. The clerics – thousands of years in the future and the Church is still as much of a perversion as it ever was. Any warfare can be justified in the name of God.