River and the Doctor lay on the couch, sprawled against each other, in the Pond's living room.

"I am partied out!" River said, rolling her bouncy head back against the Doctor's chest.

His arms tightened weakly around her, pulling her just a smidge closer to his front. "I never knew Christmas could be so exhausting," he muttered, dropping a negligent kiss on her hair.

River turned her head and looked around at the decimated living room. It was three o'clock in the morning. The only light came from the twinkling fairy lights on the tree. Piles of discarded wrapping paper billowed around them. Bows glinted here and there in the refuse. A pile of orange peels were heaped messily on a plate on the coffee table. Half-empty glasses of Champagne stood, tilted, beside it.

The Doctor's argyle-sock-clad foot bumped hers, starting her out of her haze. She lazily wrapped both feet around his, trapping it. The socks were soft on her bare feet, her new silk Kimono draped around them, keeping them warm.

"It was a good party, wasn't it?" the Doctor observed, sleepily, mumbling, his voice breathing warm in her hair.

"Uh-hum," she hummed, half asleep, faintly buzzing with contentment. "The best."

"Do you think Rory liked the chaps?" the Doctor asked, his cheek heavy against the crown of her head.

She giggled softly and wove her fingers into his where they wrapped over her stomach. "I know Amy did," she emphasized. Sending them both off into a drowsy spurt of laughter at the remembered look of horror, then speculation, on Rory's face as he held the Western garments up in front of him.

"Did you like your socks?" River asked, rubbing her fingertips up and down the back of his hand, unconsciously playing with his fingers. She and Amy had colluded to get him a collection of the most colorful, gaudiest, ugliest socks possible, one pair for every day of the month.

She felt his hearts pick up beat beneath her, and he lifted his non-trapped foot and stared down at it in admiration, it was clad in brown and tan and lime green argyle, fortunately the colors were muted in the twinkling dimness. "They're wonderful!" he enthused, dropping a somewhat hearty kiss on her head. "Socks are almost as cool as bow ties!"

River closed her eyes, smiling, but without the energy to roll over and take advantage of his appreciation. She felt his foot wiggling against hers, a sleepy nuzzle that was almost as good as a kiss.

River sighed. If it had been possible to relax any further, she would have melted over him like syrup on a waffle.

The lights twinkled, red and blue and green and purple, the bright starpoints of the white lights in the Christmas wreath over the mantle. Paper sighed and nestled in its nestings of the night. The air smelled of pine and oranges, cinnamon and cloves.

Her husband was warm. And his wife was soft. And the night was deep. And the day was done.

—

And up on the roof there arose such a clatter.

—

Their eyes sprang open.

—

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