Archive of Our Own

― Alejandra Pizarnik

There’s blood in his mouth, acrid and sharp. The planet around him is going up in flames and all he can do is fall to his knees, chest heaving. 

“What should we do with him?” the woman purrs in a voice as soft as velvet. She looks like River, the same wild hair and intoxicating eyes. She moves like River too, her lightly-muscled arms draped over the shoulders of a man he’s only ever seen in the mirror. Her fingers swirl over the other man's chest, so soft and delicate it’s hard to believe he'd witnessed those same hands slit a man's throat. 

The man that wears his face sucks in a deep, contemplative breath. When he exhales, it sounds more like a growl than it does a sigh, a low rumble in his chest as his fingertips toy with the business end of a blade. “I say kill him now ,” he offers easily. “But I know how much you enjoy foreplay, dear.”

He flips the knife in his hands, offering the hilt to the woman wrapped around his shoulders. Her lips stretch in a way that’s more snarl than smile as she takes the weapon from his grasp. “Well you’re on your knees,” she purrs, batting innocent lashes at her accomplice. “How’s a girl to resist?”

Predatory eyes turn on him and in that moment, she’s nothing like the River he knows. She’s all the deadly skill with none of the desire for restraint. Her battle dress may cling in all the same places, but her hips don’t sway in quite the same way. She moves like a lioness, like a hunter or a plague coming to tear one's world apart. Which, in a way, he supposes she is. 

“Please,” he begs, but not for his life. “You can’t stay here. Causality can’t sustain the pressure.”

She comes to a stop before him but she doesn’t kneel, doesn’t lower herself to his level. Instead, she stares down at him like she is a wicked goddess and he a humble sinner at her alter. She cups his chin and her nails dig into his skin in a way that’s far from a lover’s embrace. 

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, cruel and condescending, an unhinged gleam in her eyes, “we know.”

She cares not for his pleading words, empathy just a burden she no longer entertains. The Doctor's eyes drop to the weapon in her hand, to the hilt clasped lazily between her fingers, gaze stuttering over familiar carvings he can't quite place. There isn't time for his thoughts to linger on why, because the woman before him twists her head to the side, contemplating where she'll slice him first as her grip tightens on the knife. The Doctor inhales, eyes closing. A loud bang echoes across the desolated ground, and his eyes fly wide once again, sparks erupting before him. The woman in front of him let’s out a scream that’s more frustration than frenzy, and he may be a bit thick at times, but even he can spot a signal when he sees one.  

The Doctor leaps away, or tries to at least, staggering to a standstill when a pair of deceptively strong hands find his shoulders and tear him to his feet. It’s fruitless to struggle, but he tries anyway. At least he attempts to, until cool metal finds his throat, biting against his skin. He stills then, breathing hard, all too aware of the soft curves pressing into him from behind. They’re familiar, deadly, and now that he’s this close, it’s infinitely easier to tell that she’s not his River. She reeks of smoke and copper, his River’s sweetness replaced by something foul and dark.  

His hair dangles over his eyes, but as his vision clears and the dust settles, he spots a sight that eases the tension in his chest. River, the real River, his River, stands a few paces away, his doppelganger pulled to her chest much the same way he is to his wife’s imposter. It's rather striking, the similarities between the two women, the only discernible difference between them being their weapon of choice.  His wife has trained a gun to her hostage's temple while the lookalike has chosen to press a distressingly sharp blade into the Doctor's throat.

“Took you long enough,” the Doctor huffs out, voice light despite the cinders at their feet. 

“Well if someone could follow a plan,” his River snaps, the grip on her hostage deadly, “it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“They set a trap for us.” The imposter wearing his face grins, rubbing his hands together, manic excitement dancing behind dark eyes. “That’s new.”

“I do love a challenge.” The woman holding him prisoner lets out a laugh, deep and sultry and dangerous, the vibrations burning against the Doctor’s back.

“You know what they say,” the other him continues. “Three's a crowd, but four's a party. What do you say to that, River?” He twists his head into the barrel of her gun, trying to steal a glance at his captor. “Fancy a little fun?”

“In your dreams," River scoffs, but the imposter merely snickers.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he taunts, eyes traveling back towards the woman that had been lovingly draped across his shoulders only a moment ago. His sharp stare may as well be a physical touch, because the Doctor feels the other man's gaze cut straight through him. There's a desperation to it, as if he'd drill a hole right through his own chest just to get to her. 

The Doctor feels how the woman behind him has gone rigid, every muscle spring-loaded and tight, infected by the giddy and gruesome expression marring his replica's sharp features. “I suppose it could be fun,” she bites out. “I’ve never murdered myself before.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” the real River snarls, and the Doctor's eyes find hers with the same desperate intensity his counterpart had bestowed upon the corrupted River. 

His wife’s determined green eyes are all the distraction he has from the excitement and rage making his captor bristle. A current ripples across the false River's skin, like lightning that can’t be contained, making her grip tighten around his throat. He feels the blade press into his skin, a sharp sting and the faintest hint of blood blooming on his neck. 

His River sees it too, retaliating by cracking the butt of her gun into his counterparts temple. The woman restraining him hisses, a shiver of delight rattling her chest, and it sounds so familiar, her breath against his ear. He can't help but think of all the times he's heard that noise before, when River gasped beneath him as his hands skimmed up her ribs and his teeth sunk into the pulse point on her neck. He recalls how she writhed beneath him as pleasurepain shot through her body.

He wonders if that's what this River feels now, if violence elicits the same effect as a soft touch, if seeing him bleed makes her shiver the way a gentle kiss should. He can almost smell it on her, the love of chaos, the thrill of destruction.  Her touch burns him like a Gallifreyan summer, like a violent past and people better off forgotten. 

The injury blossoms on his other self, dark crimson dripping along the corner of his brow. The man lifts a slow hand, uncaring of the weapon aimed at his temple, to wipe at the blood staining his sharp features. The sight of red on his fingers makes him grin, a wicked curl on his cheeks as his tongue darts out to taste it. 

“You know what I did with the last person who drew my blood?” There’s a delighted shiver on his spine, his voice a storm cloud, threats rumbling like distant thunder. He doesn’t wait for River to indulge him, to ask; his voice deepens, demanding she listen. “I turned them inside out and locked them in a time loop.”

“How romantic of you,” the real River quips, sarcasm dripping like the red on his brow. 

“Oh, it was,” the other River purrs. “And as exciting as this is, I’d like to have my husband back now. Dinner plans, you see.”

Nostalgia creeps in and the Doctor fights the urge to laugh in such dire circumstances. Reality is cracking and she wants dinner; some things never change. “River,” he tries, and his efforts feel all too familiar. “You have to stop this. You’re killing the univ-“

“Hush, honey,” she silences him, rasping the endearment, letting it slide across his ear like the syllables are made of silk and venom, “this is between us girls.”

“What are you proposing?” his River asks, tone low and skeptical.

“A trade,” she answers easily. “One idiot for another.” 

“You think I’m just going to let him go?” River scoffs, raising an indignant brow. “Over my dead body.” 

“It’ll be over his if you’re not careful," the other woman snarls back, her grip on his throat tightening in warning.

“If you want him back,” the Doctor intervenes, daring to speak despite the blade pressing into his Adam’s apple, “you have to let me go first. Otherwise, she’ll never trust you.”

“Yes,” the woman behind him hums in agreement. “I’m stubborn like that.” 

The grip on his shoulder loosens, and his brows raise, pleasantly surprised. He loves it when hopeful jabbering gets him out of impossible situations. The Doctor's about to take the liberty of movement when she gives a jarring tug, her front colliding with his back once more.

“Try anything stupid," she whispers, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, "and I’ll gut her whilst you watch. Are we clear?”

She means it, and if the cold steel at his throat hadn't been convincing enough, the cadence of her voice would be. He knows River well enough to read between the lines of her threats. This one is far from empty, and a sliver of ice creeps along his spine. He swallows back the rush of fear and adrenaline, voice low and controlled as he complies. “Understood.” 

"Good." Her voice is husky and raw and in another life that tone had been a life line and an omen and a blessing. It's equally as terrifying now as it had been years ago, but he pushes that to the back of his mind where it can return to haunt him another day. The woman behind him finally relinquishes her hold and the Doctor takes a cautious step forward, eyes locked on the River ahead of him, palms forward in surrender. 

He’s halfway across the small expanse before his River sees fit to release her hostage, shoving him away. The lanky doppelganger turns to face her, twisting his own neck at an unnatural angle, a pout on his lips as he asks, “No kiss?”

River puts her gun to his mouth instead, sneering as she instructs, “Walk.”

“Maybe next time,” he says with a smirk, sauntering away. 

He hates himself for it, but the Doctor's eyes drift from his River to the man stalking towards him. He's never been the vainest of individuals, couldn’t be with the goofy, gangly avatars he's been dealt in the past. But the man before him is a new breed entirely. He's thinner, cheeks sharper and more gaunt. His skin is more pale, ghostly, haunted and drained by a lifetime of misdeeds. His lithe body is twitchy and manic and impulsive, as if he's never met a consequence that scared him. He's a murky reflection of every dark thought this body has ever had, and it shows in how his lips curl, barring the faintest glimpse of teeth. 

He can't help but wonder what the other man sees in him. An echo perhaps, control mistaken for repression, hope mistaken for weakness.  Hazel eyes he’s only ever seen in the mirror bore into him, and as he stares back, he can't shake the feeling that he's looking into the untempered schism itself. 

The space between them closes with every step. It isn't the same tingle he gets when testing the limits of time. It doesn't feel like the looming threat of paradox when meeting his younger selves. This burns like skin left too close to a fire for too long. It screeches in his ears like static. The atoms of his being run rampant and wild as they attempt to flee from a magnet of the same polarity. It's stings in a way he's never felt before, because it isn't time that's being bent or broken; it's causality, the very fabric of existence cracking under the pressure of two copies of the exact same man.

They're about to pass, just ships in the night returning home, when the other man slows, inclining his chin like he means to impart a secret. “We’ll burn this world to the ground," he promises, "just like all the rest, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us."

“It’s not me you need to worry about. It’s her." The Doctor's eyes drift to the River waiting for him only a few meters away, and the man beside him huffs out a hollow laugh. 

“Was I ever so naive?” he hisses, leaning in closer. “River is how we got this way.” 

The eyes before him are a dark reflection of every bad day condensed into two swirling pools of hazel, and the Doctor swallows back his surprise, faith and denial turning his face to stone. “Yours, maybe. Not mine.”

A chuckle stirs deep in the other man's throat, a smirk scarring his features in a way the Doctor never thought possible.  "Ask her sometime," the imposter whispers, inching ever closer to rasp against the Doctor's ear, "what she'd do to mummy dearest if ever she had the chance.” 

He pulls back, brows raised in a challenge so enticing the Doctor has to tame his own tongue to keep from inquiring further. His other self must sense it in him, the reckless curiosity, the need to know. Maybe that's why the other man backs away first. Maybe he puts distance between them, not to spare him, but to delight in the way Doctor's hearts twist with the temptation of foreknowledge. 

His forlorn counterpart turns his back on them then, heedless of the gun still trained on his back. He's fearless and careless as he skips across the small space and back into the other River's waiting arms. They fold around one another like two galaxies colliding. It's violent and captivating, and the Doctor can't help the way his eyes follow the path of his other self's hands. They're desperate and frenzied, clawing at this other River as if she holds the key to breathing. His mouth chases her like she keeps oxygen locked behind her lips. Her movements are just as rough, and yet where he is reckless abandon, she is utterly in control, painfully so. Practiced hands have folded around his neck, the knife clasped lazily between her fingers, and when she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, the Doctor hears his other self moan like a man pardoned from sin.  

It's wanton and guttural and just a little bit broken. He sees now, why Amy always tells them to get a room. The Doctor is so enraptured by it, he jumps slightly when River comes to stand by his side. It's only then he realizes he'd been frozen in place, hypnotized by whatever dark magic permeates off their other selves. He blinks away the spell, seeking out his wife's face. She looks nauseous and repulsed and wary, her eyes sharp and lips pressed into a thin line. The Doctor’s hand finds the small of his wife’s back, a comfort, a question, and River's eyes break from the spectacle, finding his. Her expression shifts in a moment, features softening, her soft smile like fresh air to choking lungs. 

"Let's go, sweetie," she tells him, offering him her wrist. The Doctor's fingers wrap around the leather strap of her vortex manipulator, and River’s about to join him with her other hand, about to take them away with a tap of her clever fingers when-

“Leaving so soon?” a velvet voice chimes, and the Doctor glances up to see the duplicate of his wife grinning. 

“Wouldn’t want to interrupt your dinner plans,” he quips back. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the scolding look his River shoots him. He shouldn’t be engaging with the enemy, he knows, but it’s rather difficult when his brain and body are wired to respond to her, even when she is the enemy in question.  

The other him seems equally as defenseless to her charms, mouthing at her throat like her pulse is something he can taste, a treasure he could keep if only he could crawl beneath her bones. His lookalike’s hands cling to her hips, hauling her ever closer. Her arms are still folded around his other self’s neck; and yet, those eyes, that are too dark and too heavy to belong to his River, are focused only on him. 

It makes the Doctor’s throat go dry, fear and another instinct he refuses to name sparking like lightning in his veins. She’s still looking at him, still holding him captive with her eyes when she leans up to whisper something in the other man’s ear. Her red lips move like they invented sin itself, secret syllables rolling off her tongue as she licks at the shell of her lover’s ear. 

When the other man finally pulls back, there’s a cruel smirk curling his swollen lips. Tangled hair hangs over his eyes, casting his face in shadow, as he hums, wicked and low. 

“I think that can be arranged,” he answers just loud enough for their counterparts to hear. 

It’s an invitation and a trick, but nothing makes his pulse quicken more than when the corrupted version of his wife says, “Until the next time, Doctor.”

The crackle of electricity is the next thing he knows, space-time tearing and reforming around them. River’s arm falls to her side, and the Doctor releases his grip. It’s not like River to get bored with banter, but she seems cross so he holds his tongue, focusing instead on blinking away shadows. The silhouette of their entangled duplicates burns behind his eyes like sunspots on an exhausted retina.   

Banishing his thoughts, the Doctor investigates their surroundings. A deep inhale tells him they’re rematerialized close to an ocean, and judging by the thickness of the ozone, probably near the planet’s equator. 

“You could just look, you know,” River scolds, winging a brow at his theatrics. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” He grins back, bright and delighted to see she isn’t cross enough to give him the silent treatment. 

He spins around, his theory confirmed when he finds a large body of water before them. Angry waves slosh and churn like a vat of acid, sizzling and popping in unnatural ways. There used to be a city here, a bustling, thriving metropolis, until their chaotic counterparts blew it up just to get his attention.

The Doctor turns away, expectant eyes searching what’s left of the barren planet. "Where's the TARDIS?"

“I parked her a nanosecond out of sync with space-time,” River explains, holstering her weapon. “They’ll never find her." 

River busies herself adjusting the settings on her scanner. For what, he isn't sure. Signs of life, perhaps. She won't find any. In all his years, he's never seen anything like it before, the reckless abandon in his other self's eyes, the way they took lives with the flip of a switch all to lure him to their doorstep. He's never felt reality shudder the way it did when his other self flashed that Cheshire cat smile. He'll never forget the way the other River looked at him, like he was a lamb for the slaughter.

The River before him now is nothing like the woman he saw before, and yet he can't help but watch her hands. They move in a rhythm that's all their own, nimble and quick, and he tries to shake off the feeling of those same fingers wrapped around his throat. 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" her voice floats to him through a haze and the Doctor wills his brain to cooperate, clearing his throat.

"Yes," he declares with an admiral amount of conviction. "They're not from here."

River snorts, "I could have told you that. They reek of antimatter."

"They came through the void, broke through into the bubble of our universe."

"But why?"

He swallows. "They burned the last one." The words sit heavy for a moment, River's eyes fixed on his. "As far as I gathered, this is what they do, break into one universe, kill off any living versions of, well, me, and destroy it before moving onto the next.”

River shakes her head, confusion and disbelief creasing her brow. "You can't be serious. This has to be a trick. You and I, we'd never..." her voice trails off, dejected by the deeds they'd witnessed only a moment ago.

"Infinite universes, River," he shrugs, as if he's not speaking his greatest fear aloud. "We were bound to tread a dark path in one of them."

Another wave of silence descends on them, and he can tell by the way River's eyes break from his, by the way they stare absently at her hands that she shares his fears. With pasts like theirs, with nightmares lurking just beneath their skin, they were bound to be monsters in some reality, to ache to tear time apart the way it's always sought to separate them.

“What did he say to you?” her voice is soft, but the tender question is enough to shatter the stillness around them. 

A noncommittal frown tugs downward at his lips, as he averts eyes. “Nothing. Just empty threats.”

It's a lie, and River must read it in his voice or in the lines around his mouth, because her face hardens like stone, resolve settling in her bones. “We need a plan," River states, and when the Doctor fails to deliver one, she continues, “I was thinking we capture and relocate. Shouldn’t be too hard if we can separate them from one another.“

“It won’t be that easy," he counters, and even to his own ears, his words sound ominous. "They won’t go without a fight.”

“What are you proposing, Doctor?” she accuses, unnerved and wary. The Doctor swallows hard, but before his lips part, River speaks again, refusing to let him break his own rules. "We'll find a way. No one knows you like I do. If anyone can talk sense into you, it's me."

"And if he won't listen to reason?"

"Well," she sighs, one shoulder shrugging and the ghost of a smirk on her lips. "Then I guess all my training won't have been for nothing."