Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1556
Characters and pairings: River/Eleven
Warnings: sexual themes
Spoilers: post “The Big Bang”
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is the intellectual property of the BBC. No infringement on that right is meant by this fan work.
Prompt: For owlsie's prompt at spoiler_song's Ficathon
Summary: “You, me, and handcuffs... Must it always end this way?” River needs something in Stormcage, and the Doctor comes to deliver it.
You've made me acknowledge the devil in me
I hope to god I'm talking metaphorically
hope that I'm talking allegorically
know that I'm talking 'bout the way I feel
And I've never known a girl like you before
The Doctor was led into a small, spartan room at the end of a long corridor. There were no windows, but someone had placed a lamp with a bulb glowing red to set the mood, as it were. And there she was, lounging on the bed, one hand shackled to a chain protruding from the bedpost.
Her hair was longer than the last time he had saw her, the soft frizzy curls framing her face as she stretched like a cat, unhampered by her bindings. Perhaps the crease in her brow was less defined. “Conjugal visit, Doctor? Really?” River Song’s lips pursed in amusement.
“It was the first thing I thought of.”
“It worked. Where is Amy?”
“On vacation." He refrained from saying honeymoon. "You called, I came. Don’t know why. They really don’t trust you,” he replied, eying the manacle. “Psychic paper told them I was Urban XXIX and they still frisked me.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his sonic screwdriver and a tube of psychedelic lipstick. “Fortunately my pockets are—”
“—bigger on the inside. Yes, I know. May I?” He tossed her the lipstick and she examined it briefly, screwing it up and down and recapping it. “Ooh, passion red, my favourite.” She deposited it safely in the depths of her bosom.
The Doctor coloured slightly after catching himself staring at that, er, particular area. “It’s illegal in nine galaxies. You can’t even guess what I had to go through to get my hands on that stuff.”
“I think I can.” She smiled at him, honey sweet, and his shoulders relaxed, some of the nervous energy leaving him. Or perhaps it was despair, at never being able to figure her out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He ran his hands through his bangs in frustration, a lingering habit from his previous incarnation. “I’m not going to play delivery boy every time. And the TARDIS is not a taxi service.”
“Keep telling yourself that. So I’m the wife of a three star pope?”
“Four star. He’s been promoted. And it’s more consort. Mistress, if you will.”
“I will not!” The red light highlighted the flush of her cheek, the indignant flare of her nostrils. “I’m nobody’s mistress, Doctor.”
The Doctor’s face twisted with surprise at her reaction. “I— Sorry.” To prove his sincerity, he turned the sonic on the handcuff and with a WHIRR and a CLICK it unlatched.
As fast as her temper rose, it faded. “Thank you, sweetie.” She rubbed gingerly at her wrist. For all her posturing and pretending before, he could see that the skin was bruised and cut, probably from struggling against the metal restraint. He sat down beside her, the springs groaning loudly under his added weight.
“I’ve got a salve, somewhere.” He fumbled around in his pockets, pulling out three handkerchiefs, a banana, a cat pin, a freshly baked biscuit, and a ballpoint pen without a lid. Finally, he extracted a half-used white tube. “May I?”
Their eyes met for a hot instant. Then, she extended her hand and he took it in his, feeling the feather-light bones under her bronzed skin. The greasy goop he squeezed out onto his fingertips smelled of lemon and menthol; he massaged it into the damaged flesh. The skin shimmered blue for a moment, and then it healed. “Nanogenes?” she breathed, surprised. “Isn’t that Chula technology?”
“Other species have picked it up over the years. I borrowed some once from the hospital in New New York. Never know when I’ll need them...” For the first time he noticed just how close they were. He could feel her breath, warm on the hollow of his throat. She leaned forward and very firmly kissed the corner of his mouth. The Doctor froze. “River, we shouldn’t.”
“You promised me a conjugal visit, if you’ll recall.” Each word was spoken so deliberately, teasing, under her dark eyelashes.
“River Song, I could bloody kiss you!”
“Oh well, maybe when you're older.”
There were a hundred and seven reasons that this was a really stupid idea. Fifty three of them involved the fact that she was human, twenty seven involved the fact that this body was still so new to him, two involved Rose, three involved how much he had panicked when Amy kissed him, and... he was losing count because River was kissing him again. Properly, on the mouth. And by Rassilon and Omega’s blessed wedding bed, he was kissing her back.
Her mouth wasn’t at all what he had expected, all strength and force one second and soft and melting the next. She grabbed him hard by the hair and held them together, joined at the mouth when her tongue pressed between his startled, parting lips. Kissing with tongue, that was such a human thing to do. Unsanitary certainly, and he struggled against it for a moment until her tongue slid across the ultra-sensitive flesh of his own, and his brain short circuited.
He kissed her back, sloppily, eager to taste her. Bittersweet, like burnt marshmallow and cloves. Her hands in his hair, driving him crazy, wanting that contact that would make it complete. His big hands found her temples and he pressed, gently, into her mind.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. The white clutter of a human consciousness, passive and mouldable at the merest suggestion. It was possible to provide enough training to resist lesser psychic beings or the psychic paper; centuries ago, he had been a passable teacher.
But here there were strange, brittle shields, dark purple and pulsing with inner strength, but he was welcome here and they let him pass like light through glass. At the centre was the tiniest spark of psychic energy. It knew him, and he knew that he had been here before, even though it was his first time, and the spark burst into a flame of greeting. Not purely human, then. Low level psychic.
And she was beautiful to him. Their minds caressed, and he knew that he had taught her this, and she was his in this way alone, a marriage of minds, renewed.
He undressed her clumsily, hearing but not seeing the psychedelic lipstick pop out from under her black lace bra as he unsnapped it. The tube clattered onto the floor and rolled under the bed. He kissed her because she wanted him to, now, kissed the curve of her neck and her full breasts and the circular tattoo of his name in Gallifreyan on her hip. He tasted between her legs, then, where the V of curls met in an exquisite little spot.
They said nothing, for speaking would shatter the moment, but his clever tongue brought her swollen flesh to its peak and over, and he could hear her screaming in her head. When he entered her, he cradled her body and mind together until there was no space between them. They came, together, shuddering and silent.
When his double heartbeat had stopped pounding in his ears, the Doctor whispered, “I finally understand what you meant.”
“Shhh,” she scolded, “don’t spoil me.”
He was still wearing his shirt, but his bowtie was undone and his braces and trousers were about his ankles. His coat had been thrown across the room. “And here I thought that was your job.”
He slid off the brown blanket covering the bed to restore his clothes to their proper order. River laid back, her hair a golden halo about her face and her bare breasts still heaving from the exertion. The Doctor took in the sight, unsure if and when he would ever see her like this again. “Just this once, we’ve caught up to each other.” She laughed.
The Doctor was distracted by his watch. “We’re out of time.”
“Of course we are.” Her face tightened, barely perceptibly. “I’d better dress.” He fetched her clothes from the floor and she slid into them, biting her top lip all the while. It was stripped bare and swollen from kisses.
He didn’t know what to say to her. “You should probably be in the handcuff again.” She stuck out her wrist immediately. Her fingers were trembling. He wondered how bad prison was for her, what she had done to end up here in the first place. He could not bring himself to ask either question. Very gently he shackled her to the wall. “You, me, and handcuffs,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
“Will I see you again?” Her smile was very thin. “I know this was your first time with me. You once said—”
It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her about the Pandorica, about the TARDIS exploding, to leave his younger self some kind of message. But he didn’t know where to begin. So he kissed her forehead and pressed the psychedelic lipstick into her hand. “You’re going to need this.”
“Would I lie to you?”
The Doctor flushed and turned to the door. “Well then, yes. Try to stay out of trouble, River.” He pounded the door three times, hard, with the side of his fist, summoning the guard.
“You know better than that.” Her eyes were like a cat’s, he realised, all that cunning in one head. She seemed... familiar. Too familiar. He shivered, trousers slightly tight, and left to her fate.