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Fic: River's Choice.
Oh this one has been a labour of love. I hope you like it. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathyh for the beta. :)
Summary/setting: Companion piece to Donna’s Choice (Eleven visits Donna), and set immediately afterwards. Like the previous piece, this one also deals with problematic consent issues. (It’s also shamelessly shippy - you have been warned...)
Rating: PG.
Word count: 1300.
Characters/pairings: Eleven/River.
Spoilers: S5.
River’s Choice
He was standing at the central console, hands undecided, as his treacherous memory played painful games with him...
(Donna’s hands grasping onto controls bathed in a turquoise glow, voice half-excited, half-petrified - “I can't believe I'm doing this!”)
He could still feel her death beneath his hands, the murder he’d had to commit. Because it was murder, even though this time she’d chosen herself. ‘Assisted suicide’ was far too simplistic a term for something of such drastic magnitude - something he knew he could never have chosen himself, not for anyone.
(“Could you change back?”/“Yes.”/“Will you?”/“No.”)
Death... Death, when it came down to it, was an easy choice. Un-existence, even, something he had managed to embrace. But being less than he was, trapped, unknowing - no. Donna had been braver than he.
Finally moving he chose not to choose, whispering “Surprise me”, as he let the TARDIS decide what he most needed now.
When they landed, the large circular screen showed a compact - and rather messy - office, shelves piled high with books, data cubes and artefacts and, behind a desk, a mass of unruly curls.
His hands communicated a ‘thank you’ with a gentle pat, and his feet were dragging a shade less than when he had entered.
As he opened the door she looked up, smiling, but shaking her head.
“Go back a year.”
He blinked, and her eyes turned soft, as did her voice.
“It was a wonderful night, and I dearly wish I could relive it. Go on, before I decide to break the rules.”
He nodded and did as he was told. The importance of keeping time...
(“Not those times. Not one line! Don't you dare!”)
Moments later the same office materialised around him, although the clutter had moved, and this time the curls - a little darker - shook with annoyance.
“What have I told you about landing in my office?”
“Nothing,” he replied truthfully. “Well- you told me to go back a year, so I did.”
She sighed, resignedly.
“Fine. But don’t do it again. Last time-”
She stopped herself, and then briefly closed her eyes.
“Why are you here?”
He didn’t know what to say. Did they have some kind of code for times like these? There were so many things he didn’t know yet...
“Come with me,” he finally said, and as she noted his stillness the irritation on her face ebbed away, a look of concern entering her eyes.
“Whereto?” she asked cautiously, trying to gauge his mood, and he hesitated.
“Somewhere... somewhere beautiful, I think.”
“Okay,” she nodded, swiftly shuffling some papers around and shutting down her console. Her hands moved towards her diary, but he shook his head.
“Not today.”
She looked up, but withdrew her hand and followed him into the TARDIS without question. Maybe this was a rule - one that he’d just made up. Travels without the diary, for times when he just needed... to not be alone. In time, he reflected, he would probably need her, specifically, since she had the remarkable ability to be what he needed in any situation. He hoped that with time he would learn to be similarly attuned.
They ended up on a tiny planet on the outskirts of the Circinus Galaxy, watching a meteor shower of quite spectacular beauty, and for a long time they just sat in silence, watching the exquisite trails of light that streaked the sky above them.
“Have I ever told you about Donna Noble?” he finally said, and she shook her head.
“You’ve mentioned the name, but that’s all. Who was she?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, but Donna’s words from the Library echoed in his mind...
(“Your friend... Professor Song... She knew you in the future, but she didn't know me. What happens to me? Because when she heard my name, the way she looked at me...”)
Self-fulfilling prophecies, he thought wryly, as he quietly began to talk, had a way of being impossible to escape.
Yet he discovered that once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Of course he was good at talking, words being so very useful for hiding behind, or in. But to just talk, to simply let that well run and run and not hold back... he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Had he ever? And River just listened - he knew whatever he said he would neither shock nor impress her, and the freedom this gave him was quite staggering.
When he had finally finished Donna’s story (from first appearance, in her wedding dress, to final, painful visit) he had somehow ended up with his head in River’s lap, which he had discovered was very comfortable. River was silently running her hands through his hair, but her eyes were on his face, rather than the splendour of the sky.
He felt spent and oddly vulnerable, and watching her reflective face he found himself asking one of those questions he knew he shouldn’t ever ask. Plus, in her case it was a lying sort of question, since he knew the answer. But she didn’t... Circumstances had forced her hand, and he was curious to find out how she imagined her (their) future.
“How long are you going to stay with me?”
(”Forever” she’d said, and they’d both pretended to believe the lie.)
Hearts beating he waited for River’s response - she was an accomplished liar, he knew, and yet he felt sure that there were some truths that she always faced head-on.
She smiled softly, and her hand stilled.
“Till death do us part,” she said simply, and he had to swallow against the sudden pain. And yet death had only been the beginning...
She had been right though, on Alfalfa Metraxis - he would always be there to catch her. Even the final time she leapt into the unknown, he was/would be/had been there. River Song - saved.
But then Donna’s voice intruded again - she seemed to have made herself permanently at home in his mind, bluntly distracting him from his agreeable thoughts on chivalry and devotion:
(“Oh Doctor, when will you learn to let people make their own choices?”)
She won’t/doesn’t/didn’t mind, he told himself, watching the woman above him. She knows me, she knows what I’m like. And anyway, she chooses me, every time. The answer is always ‘yes’.
And yet now the thought was there, it wouldn’t go away. She’d only been a data ghost - a snippet of consciousness, the merest whisper of memory - when he’d stored her in The Library; his, forever, and never lost.
(“Some days, nobody dies at all.”)
But did he have the right?
“River...” he started, cautiously, “what if... What if I could keep you... after?”
She raised a bemused eyebrow.
”After death? Why Sweetie, I never thought you were one for mummification. Or would you like to keep my head in a jar on the console?”
He waved the joke away irritably.
“No no. I mean...” he searched for the right words, painfully aware that he mustn’t give the game away.
(“Rule number one: The Doctor always lies.”)
“Would you... if you could, these things are tricky, but if - would you maybe hang around, after? Haunt the TARDIS, keep an eye on me? That sort of thing. I keep losing people...”
Stars were burning in the black sky above her, as her hand gently cradled his face, and he read the answer in her eyes before she spoke it out loud.
“Yes.”
kathyh for the beta. :)Summary/setting: Companion piece to Donna’s Choice (Eleven visits Donna), and set immediately afterwards. Like the previous piece, this one also deals with problematic consent issues. (It’s also shamelessly shippy - you have been warned...)
Rating: PG.
Word count: 1300.
Characters/pairings: Eleven/River.
Spoilers: S5.
He was standing at the central console, hands undecided, as his treacherous memory played painful games with him...
(Donna’s hands grasping onto controls bathed in a turquoise glow, voice half-excited, half-petrified - “I can't believe I'm doing this!”)
He could still feel her death beneath his hands, the murder he’d had to commit. Because it was murder, even though this time she’d chosen herself. ‘Assisted suicide’ was far too simplistic a term for something of such drastic magnitude - something he knew he could never have chosen himself, not for anyone.
(“Could you change back?”/“Yes.”/“Will you?”/“No.”)
Death... Death, when it came down to it, was an easy choice. Un-existence, even, something he had managed to embrace. But being less than he was, trapped, unknowing - no. Donna had been braver than he.
Finally moving he chose not to choose, whispering “Surprise me”, as he let the TARDIS decide what he most needed now.
When they landed, the large circular screen showed a compact - and rather messy - office, shelves piled high with books, data cubes and artefacts and, behind a desk, a mass of unruly curls.
His hands communicated a ‘thank you’ with a gentle pat, and his feet were dragging a shade less than when he had entered.
As he opened the door she looked up, smiling, but shaking her head.
“Go back a year.”
He blinked, and her eyes turned soft, as did her voice.
“It was a wonderful night, and I dearly wish I could relive it. Go on, before I decide to break the rules.”
He nodded and did as he was told. The importance of keeping time...
(“Not those times. Not one line! Don't you dare!”)
Moments later the same office materialised around him, although the clutter had moved, and this time the curls - a little darker - shook with annoyance.
“What have I told you about landing in my office?”
“Nothing,” he replied truthfully. “Well- you told me to go back a year, so I did.”
She sighed, resignedly.
“Fine. But don’t do it again. Last time-”
She stopped herself, and then briefly closed her eyes.
“Why are you here?”
He didn’t know what to say. Did they have some kind of code for times like these? There were so many things he didn’t know yet...
“Come with me,” he finally said, and as she noted his stillness the irritation on her face ebbed away, a look of concern entering her eyes.
“Whereto?” she asked cautiously, trying to gauge his mood, and he hesitated.
“Somewhere... somewhere beautiful, I think.”
“Okay,” she nodded, swiftly shuffling some papers around and shutting down her console. Her hands moved towards her diary, but he shook his head.
“Not today.”
She looked up, but withdrew her hand and followed him into the TARDIS without question. Maybe this was a rule - one that he’d just made up. Travels without the diary, for times when he just needed... to not be alone. In time, he reflected, he would probably need her, specifically, since she had the remarkable ability to be what he needed in any situation. He hoped that with time he would learn to be similarly attuned.
They ended up on a tiny planet on the outskirts of the Circinus Galaxy, watching a meteor shower of quite spectacular beauty, and for a long time they just sat in silence, watching the exquisite trails of light that streaked the sky above them.
“Have I ever told you about Donna Noble?” he finally said, and she shook her head.
“You’ve mentioned the name, but that’s all. Who was she?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, but Donna’s words from the Library echoed in his mind...
(“Your friend... Professor Song... She knew you in the future, but she didn't know me. What happens to me? Because when she heard my name, the way she looked at me...”)
Self-fulfilling prophecies, he thought wryly, as he quietly began to talk, had a way of being impossible to escape.
Yet he discovered that once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Of course he was good at talking, words being so very useful for hiding behind, or in. But to just talk, to simply let that well run and run and not hold back... he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Had he ever? And River just listened - he knew whatever he said he would neither shock nor impress her, and the freedom this gave him was quite staggering.
When he had finally finished Donna’s story (from first appearance, in her wedding dress, to final, painful visit) he had somehow ended up with his head in River’s lap, which he had discovered was very comfortable. River was silently running her hands through his hair, but her eyes were on his face, rather than the splendour of the sky.
He felt spent and oddly vulnerable, and watching her reflective face he found himself asking one of those questions he knew he shouldn’t ever ask. Plus, in her case it was a lying sort of question, since he knew the answer. But she didn’t... Circumstances had forced her hand, and he was curious to find out how she imagined her (their) future.
“How long are you going to stay with me?”
(”Forever” she’d said, and they’d both pretended to believe the lie.)
Hearts beating he waited for River’s response - she was an accomplished liar, he knew, and yet he felt sure that there were some truths that she always faced head-on.
She smiled softly, and her hand stilled.
“Till death do us part,” she said simply, and he had to swallow against the sudden pain. And yet death had only been the beginning...
She had been right though, on Alfalfa Metraxis - he would always be there to catch her. Even the final time she leapt into the unknown, he was/would be/had been there. River Song - saved.
But then Donna’s voice intruded again - she seemed to have made herself permanently at home in his mind, bluntly distracting him from his agreeable thoughts on chivalry and devotion:
(“Oh Doctor, when will you learn to let people make their own choices?”)
She won’t/doesn’t/didn’t mind, he told himself, watching the woman above him. She knows me, she knows what I’m like. And anyway, she chooses me, every time. The answer is always ‘yes’.
And yet now the thought was there, it wouldn’t go away. She’d only been a data ghost - a snippet of consciousness, the merest whisper of memory - when he’d stored her in The Library; his, forever, and never lost.
(“Some days, nobody dies at all.”)
But did he have the right?
“River...” he started, cautiously, “what if... What if I could keep you... after?”
She raised a bemused eyebrow.
”After death? Why Sweetie, I never thought you were one for mummification. Or would you like to keep my head in a jar on the console?”
He waved the joke away irritably.
“No no. I mean...” he searched for the right words, painfully aware that he mustn’t give the game away.
(“Rule number one: The Doctor always lies.”)
“Would you... if you could, these things are tricky, but if - would you maybe hang around, after? Haunt the TARDIS, keep an eye on me? That sort of thing. I keep losing people...”
Stars were burning in the black sky above her, as her hand gently cradled his face, and he read the answer in her eyes before she spoke it out loud.
“Yes.”
no subject
Thank you. I am rather glad I thought of it here, away from the temptation to zing somebody with it :-\
Having re-watched the episodes in question recently, her reaction is not one of surprise, or shock, or dismay - it's just amused affection.
I can understand the need, on a meta level, to look out for messages like 'all women really just want to take care of babies.' That's a real concern, and I think Moffat often walks a fine line there. But the argument people make is that River would not (or even, implied, should not) want to be there, and I don't see it in text. . .
Even if we never see it, I shall presume that some discussion, like the one I wrote, takes place sometime.
Me too. Though with Moffat's tendency to revisit themes, it would in no way surprise me to get an actual scene out of it *crosses fingers* The Donna tie-in is, as you say, an excellent in.
(Did I mention that I loved writing it? *g*)
Might've come up ;-) I can well see why. Certainly the temptation to sink into the languid, shippy depths and never come out again is . . . strong.
And re. 'new rule', then it only occurred to me later that it'd fit very well with River's account of their last meeting - that sometimes they just go somewhere beautiful when they need to.
I had never quite thought of her account that way, but you are perfectly right of course. Mmmm.
(I think it is very important that River isn't young and impressionable. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but when it comes to spilling your secrets, it helps that your confidant won't judge you in any way.)
I'm finding it more and more difficult to read any fic that has River any younger than about, oh, mid-thirties. It just does. Not. Work.
I believe there are a lot of fics with TenToo that use this (I know I have myself), but I'm not sure about Eleven... Glad to have amused you anyway. :)
:)
BTW: random nitpick: I'm not sure it's possible to have a "spherical" viewscreen. Unless there's weird dimension things going on there that humans can't perceive ;-)
no subject
Ah yes. But I'm sure you're happy to have it all ready and waiting for next time...
I can understand the need, on a meta level, to look out for messages like 'all women really just want to take care of babies.' That's a real concern, and I think Moffat often walks a fine line there.
Oh yes, absolutely. And it's actually something S5 has done a lot to ameliorate, because it shows River as the storyteller, and the Doctor as a story, and the children aren't there for her to mother, but as stand-ins for [the children in] the audience. (This might be way too subtle for some, but it works for me!)
But the argument people make is that River would not (or even, implied, should not) want to be there, and I don't see it in text. . .
Indeed. I always found it puzzling, and more of an imposed viewpoint than anything *I* could see...
Me too. Though with Moffat's tendency to revisit themes, it would in no way surprise me to get an actual scene out of it *crosses fingers* The Donna tie-in is, as you say, an excellent in.
Have I mention recently how much I adore the Moff?
Might've come up ;-) I can well see why. Certainly the temptation to sink into the languid, shippy depths and never come out again is . . . strong.
No kidding. I cut out quite a few lines.
I had never quite thought of her account that way, but you are perfectly right of course. Mmmm.
This is why I love fic (or at least one reason) - it throws up new connections. :)
I'm finding it more and more difficult to read any fic that has River any younger than about, oh, mid-thirties. It just does. Not. Work.
Yeah, a young, starry-eyed River is... weird. (I keep coming back to the River-Jack parallels and figure that she might meet the Doctor in similarly odd circumstance. Or maybe something like The Library, where *she* will be annoyed at his competence.) Basically I can't see her in the role of traditional companion.
BTW: random nitpick: I'm not sure it's possible to have a "spherical" viewscreen. Unless there's weird dimension things going on there that humans can't perceive ;-)
Ah yes. I was getting tired of 'circular' so I had fun with my thesaurus - and then forgot all about it...
no subject
That's true . . .
(This might be way too subtle for some, but it works for me!)
It does take reading the story on about six different levels at once *silly grin* But this is how Moffat demands to be read.
Have I mention recently how much I adore the Moff?
*SQUIISSSSHHH!*
(I keep coming back to the River-Jack parallels and figure that she might meet the Doctor in similarly odd circumstance. Or maybe something like The Library, where *she* will be annoyed at his competence.)
Would not surprise me.
no subject
Always good to carry ammunition. ;)
It does take reading the story on about six different levels at once *silly grin* But this is how Moffat demands to be read.
Well it's how I ALWAYS read stories, but most of the time (as in: In most shows) there aren't that many layers and I am sad.
Moff! *squishes him too*
Would not surprise me.
I hope and pray that we'll get to see it. And knowing Moffat, he's probably had it planned out for years!
no subject
<3
no subject
(And slightly appalled, when engaging the dirtier parts of my brain...)
no subject
(I think there is literally no outmaneuvering the collective will of the people to take things as suggestively as possible, and I am done trying. Let them think what they want.)
Je ne regrette rien.
no subject
no subject
unexpected naked jak; it's like my special skill.There's a joke in Cabaret about a "cunning linguist." My friend had to explain it to me twice. The first time I forgot.
no subject