Yowzah Oneshot Collection (2)

62(G)

you go your way, i'll go your way too

                         hihoplastic

The music dies almost as soon as it wakes her, a brash chorus of —had a very shiny no— over the loudspeaker before it abruptly cuts out. River blinks the sleep from her eyes, giving her hearts a moment to settle. The TARDIS hums reassuringly, amused, and River lets her shoulders drop, eyeing the outline of the Doctor in the bed next to her, cool to the touch.

She pushes down the voice that says he hadn't wanted to stay, and instead focuses on stretching out her tired but pleasantly sore muscles.

Her lips quirk at the thought, eyeing her bra on the other side of the room, flung over a floor lamp, the Doctor’s suspenders half under the bed, his bow tie peaking out between the pillows.

It hasn't been so long, not really—she’s only on her eighth month in prison—but it feels longer, with the days spent here and there and everywhere. She still isn't quite sure how this marriage thing works. If it’s real. If it’s real to him. He’s done a good job avoiding the subject thus far, and she refuses to ask. It shouldn't bother her, she knows—the Doctor is nothing if not affectionate, and she doubts too many if any other women have their lingerie scattered about the TARDIS.

But sometimes, when the bed is empty, it creeps up on her.

Shaking the thought away, she tugs his bow tie free of the sheets, giving in to the sentimental desire to wrap it around her palm, to bring it up to her face. It smells like him, with a bit of musk and sweat, and she can't help but close her eyes, just for a moment.

He’d picked her up nearly a week ago, declaring it the Month of Christmas, and has steadfastly refused to return her to Stormcage until after the 25th.

“That could be any time, sweetie,” she’d reminded him, only to have him grin and tap her nose.

“Exactly.”

She’d huffed at the time, put up the barest of pretense, but if she's honest it’s the best present he could have given her: time, just the two of them in the TARDIS. No companion, no parents. She’s sure there will be a big holiday party at some point or another, but for now she’s content to run with him alone.

Slipping into a warm robe, River pockets his bow tie and pads through the halls, veering off into the kitchen momentarily, startled to find an assortment of breakfast items from various planets—all things she's remarked enjoying at one time or another. On the counter is a bottle of her favorite champagne, and a lump of berries wrapped in brown paper she knows make the best mimosas in the galaxy.

“Idiot,” she murmurs, fixes herself a cup of tea and tries to decide if she should drag him back here when she finds him, or back to bed.

Continuing through the halls, his voice reaches her first, an indistinct mumbling followed by a thump.

“Doctor?”

There’s a yelp, more frantic mumbling and a quick, “Just a minute, dear!”

Already bemusedly exasperated, River follows the sound until she reaches the study, a warm, cavernous room she loves to curl up in on slower days.

The sight that greets her isn't all that surprising.

The Doctor, tangled from neck to toe in wrapping paper, lays on the floor, desperately trying to reach his screwdriver some five feet away. Somehow, there are lights around his ankles and around the tree, and tinsel in his hair. There are dozens of boxes and presents—she spies a sweater, a calendar, a pair of mittens from Deloros V, and a jewelry box before she even thinks to look away.