Chapter Text
The TARDIS door swings open, slamming against the side of his ship with more flourish than intended. A sea of grey walls and erratic light blind his senses. The Doctor blinks hard, willing his eyes to function. He spots her hair first, the golden mass like a ray of sunshine in a storm cloud. The rest of the world follows suit, materializing around him in the form of concrete and prison bars.
“River!” The Doctor bellows, skipping out of his ship as if he meant to land here all along. “There you are!”
The vixen before him seems entirely unconcerned with his arrival, her attentions devoted to her wardrobe and what appears to be an endless shelf of shoes. He must be seeing things because such an occurrence would be impossible and against regulations and almost as distracting as the silk robe she’s wearing. It clings to her hips in a way that turns his insides into goo, and if his limbs wobble more than usual as he bumbles into her cell, River doesn’t comment on it.
Closer inspection of the room bids him to notice the dress she’s laid out on her cot. Draped across dingy sheets might be the most daring bit of cloth he’s ever seen. The Doctor’s eyes travel back to River, imagining her inside it. His pupils have chosen to dilate of their own accord, a predicament that only amplifies when he spots her red lips and extra bouncy hair. She looks as if she’s getting ready for a date, or possibly a heist, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s him she’s waiting for. He doesn’t have to suffer the curiosity long, the question answered almost as soon as it flutters through his thoughts.
“You’re late,” is all River sees fit to purr, not even bothering to turn around. The Doctor finds himself pulled toward her, summoned by the sound of her voice.
He’s not entirely sure for what it is he’s tardy, but unable to admit fault, the Doctor can’t seem to stop his mouth as it argues, “You’re not even dressed.”
“Only because I know you.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes as she finally turns to face him.
Their bleak surroundings only serve to make River all the more radiant, and his eyes can’t help the way they trace the seam of her robe, traveling down her sternum. His legs have turned to jelly, and he swears Stormcage never used to be this warm. The Doctor rests one hand against the wall, leaning as casually as one can with a scantily clad criminal only a few meters away.
He fights the urge to loosen his necktie, but his flushed cheeks must give him away because emerald eyes study him, wary as she asks, “Doctor, how old are you?”
“Nine hundred and something,” he answers, trying not to sway towards her and failing. “Why? Does it matter?”
“Yes, actually.” Suspicious eyes are trained on him, her arms folded, and oh look at that. She’s gone all defensive. “It matters a great deal.”
“Why does my age matter?” He asks, interest peaked, equal parts skeptical and curious. But his head doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. It’s gone all light and dizzy, his tongue loose as it desperately tries to chase a single train of thought. “Did you get me something for my birthday? Oh! Is it a new fez? You shot my last one.”
“And I’ll shoot the next one, too,” River deadpans.
The Doctor’s eyes narrow at her, or at least he thinks they do. She seems to have multiplied when he wasn’t paying attention. He focuses his energy on the one on the left, hypnotized by how the ends of her hair have begun to spark like lightning. "River, how can there be two of you?”
“Are you asking?” River smirks. “Because that’s definitely a birthday wish I can get on board with.”
The idea is a rather distracting one, but it isn’t nearly as captivating as her mouth. Her teeth are barred like a Cheshire cat, mischief and mystery in the corners of her smile. He’d reach out and touch them if he didn’t fear she’d bite him or put her wicked lips to use in other ways.
She kissed him once, in this very room, sprung it on him like the lioness she is. Even now, her green eyes are sharp, trained on him even as the wall behind her begins to blur. The floor’s gone all wobbly, too, and it’s really rather rude of her, changing the gravity without warning him first. He takes a step to the side, swaying with the room, and the Doctor’s knees buckle beneath him.
“Doctor,” River gasps, rushing to his aid and capturing him before the floor leaps up and collides with his face.
He’s covered in River now, and his hands seem to have a mind of their own as they make a home on her hips. One of hers is wrapped around his waist, the other resting gently on his shoulder. Those ever perceptive eyes of hers are scrutinizing his face, and he has to blink hard, reminding his secrets not to spill themselves at her feet.
“Are you alright?” She asks, though he suspects she already knows the answer.
Her breath ghost across his skin like velvet, and maybe it’s the desire to feel it again, to hear her talk, even if she’s scolding him, that urges him to answer, “Had a spot of trouble with some warrior clerics. But no matter. I handled it.”
“Handled it how?” Her voice is a warning, the tempting kind that makes his pulse skip.
“Drank their holy water.” He offers easily, one of his fingers coiling around a strand of her curls. “But don’t worry. I’m fine. Venenium doesn’t effect Time Lords.”
“No,” River stresses, her velvet voice suddenly stern. “Venoshium doesn’t effect Time Lords. Venenium is a very potent psychedelic.”
“Oh,” is all that falls from his mouth. But in his defense, how is he supposed to say much of anything when River’s warm curves are pressed into his side and her silk robe is so soft beneath his palm?
River’s hands are giving him their undivided attention, stroking and caressing along his torso. Her nails tickle as they skim over his chest, neck, and temples, stuttering only to check his pulse points. The pads of her fingers are soft and cool to the touch, his neurons firing so rapidly he sees stars. It’s all very intoxicating, and when he wills his vision to stop swimming, he finds that River’s easy smile has contorted, eyes wide and full of awe and worry as she breathes, “You’re hot.”
“Thank you,” he preens. “I was wondering if you’d noticed.”
“No, I mean you’re warm.” She pats his clammy cheeks, green eyes suddenly frantic. “Sweetie, you’re burning up.”
The next thing he knows, his feet are moving backwards towards the bed in the corner of the room. Without his permission, his surroundings have gotten murky and muddled and far away. All he knows is the firm press of River’s hands as she sits him down, guiding him until he’s flat on his back. She’s careful and precise and gentle and it’s not at all how he imagined it, being bedded by River Song.
“You’re in no condition for that.” Above him, River is smirking, shameless lips curled in a way that makes him swallow hard. Her robe has fallen open and his eyes fly wide at the exposed skin, acutely focused despite his erratic thoughts.
His mouth has gone dry, and his tongue snakes out to wet parched lips. Fingers twitch to touch her and he doesn’t mean to, but his body attempts to right itself, reaching for her. River’s hands stop him, finding his chest and pushing him back down before he can float away.
“Absolutely not,” she tuts, putting a cloth to his head. “You need to be still.”
She uses her duvet as a weapon, draping it over him and pinning his lanky form to the bed. River busies herself tucking and checking and fussing. She’s gone into nurse mode, apparently, and come to think of it, Rory’s a nurse. Funny that, why hadn’t Sexy brought him to the Ponds if she knew he needed help?
“You were right to come to me. They wouldn’t have known what do to,” River tells him, which is odd since he hadn’t spoken out loud.
“I didn’t know you were psychic.”
“I’m not. You’re mumbling. It’s a stage two side effect.”
“What’s stage three?”
“Without treatment? Fatal.” She answers easily, busy hands reaching for something in her handbag. “Luckily, I’m good with hallucinogens.”
When her capable fingers return to his sight, they’re bringing a small glass vile to his lips. The Doctor frowns even as he sips at the potion, eyes on her mouth as he mutters, “This isn’t how you normally drug people.”
River offers him a quirked brow, her scolding glance betrayed by a playful smirk. “I’m curing you. Not poisoning you. Now hush before I change my mind.”
The Doctor surrenders, settling into her prison cot. It’s lumpy and the springs squeak as he nuzzles into her pillow. The coarse fabric smells like her, and the Doctor’s eyes shut, smiling.
“River,” he asks softly, fighting against the current of sleep because a very important question has just blossomed in his mind. “Do you think I’m hot?”
“I already told you,” River starts. “You’re running a temperature of at least-“
“Besides that,” he cuts in. “Am I, you know, hot?”
Even though the outside world is murky, he still hears River clear as day, fond exasperation on her tongue as she sighs, “Yes, sweetie. You’re hot.”
“Even in a fez?” He can’t help but add, and maybe it’s the hallucinations talking, but he’s sure he hears her whisper-
“Even in a fez.”