And then—as always, in the end—there was tea.

Earl Grey, sweetened and creamed. A whisper of citrus that smelled, to River Song, almost as good as freedom. There were many things that never quite ran out on the TARDIS: life, freedom, privacy, and a nice proper cup of tea. Before leaving the galley, River took a sip and tasted everything that had been denied to her for the last four and a half years. She closed her eyes and permitted herself a moment of relaxation, a loosening of all she had held close for all this time. But only a moment. Behind that wall was a terrain of exhaustion, anxiety, frustration—one that must be navigated, but not today, please. Not for long time yet.

She took two mugs and headed for the control room. Halfway down the steps, she heard the chirrup of the sonic screwdriver, a few notes off-key. On the other side of the deck, the Doctor leaned on a railing, back to River, head bent. River stood and stared. She could hardly be shy with him, as well as they knew each other, but then again, River hadn't spoken to anyone outside of Stormcage in almost eighteen months. And her heart broke for this Doctor. He seemed so young, so different from the others, and so unlikely to ask her for help with any given thing. Yet she could never quite lose the thread; she knew how he took his tea, for example, and how he carried himself when something was on his mind.

After a brief silence, the screwdriver whistled again, this time sounding pitch-perfect. The Doctor aimed it and unlocked the front door, then locked it again. He turned, tucking the screwdriver into his inside pocket. He looked like the man for whom the cliche death warmed over had been invented. He moved over, so the two of them could stand together near the railing, looking out over the brass and copper panels of the TARDIS.

River passed him a mug, which he sniffed.

"It's not poisoned," said River.

He shrugged and took a delicate sip.

"Brilliant," he said a moment later. "I can never get that bloody pot to work."

River balanced her mug on the railing, shifted her balance, and replied, "Ishnahakaar."

The Doctor's mug slipped from his hands. On cue, River reached out and caught it, not a drop spilled. She handed it back to him with as light an air of satisfaction as she could manage. Timing was everything. It really was.

The Doctor stared into his tea, a bit put out. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was a predictable ending. "I won't ask," he said. "Mind your own timeline."

"Fine," said River. "I wouldn't have told you anyway." In fact, she knew almost nothing about the word. She had heard only whispers, and those recently. River knew the Doctor on many different timelines, some of them much older than this one, but he had never said a word about this. Either the answers still lay in River's future, or the Doctor had perfectly shielded another piece of his long history. Either way, there was no reason to tell him so. A professed knowledge of each other's future was one of the trump cards in their decades-long battle of wits.

An ember of a smile flickered across the Doctor's lips.

"What are you going to tell Rory and Amy?" said River. The young couple had retreated to their suite, and River didn't expect they'd be seen or heard from for a dozen hours or more. They'd earned their rest and then some.

The Doctor gave her a too-innocent look. His smile faded. "I'm not at all sure what you mean."

"Please," River scoffed. "Ishnahakaar isn't a just a word, it's a name, and it isn't just a name, it's a story, and the people who know it are not the people you'd want to meet alone in a dark galaxy. Rory has to know what he's facing."

The Doctor cleared his throat. He looked at his hands when he spoke, avoiding her. "The air," he said, "was very close down there, don't you think?" He propped his elbows on the scaffolding. "Especially near the reactor core. Crank-ion burst, wasn't it? Poor shielding, too. No wonder he felt...confused."

River stared. Of course she knew what he meant, but she couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe it. She took a step away from him.

"I imagine," the Doctor continued, "that after some fresh air and a few days in the sun, it'll all seem like a bad dream."

It was like meeting a perfect stranger, all over again. "You wouldn't."

"Suggest an alternative," said the Doctor.

"It's mind control. It's illegal."

The Doctor scoffed. "So's killing people, but that didn't seem to stop..."

"It's wrong. You're not just wiping memories, you're messing with his identity. It's ongoing intervention. On some planets, that's worse than murder."

The Doctor nodded. "Would it be better to tell him the truth? Do you seriously think he'd be better off?"

"That's not the point."

"It's the only point," said the Doctor. "Whatever you think you know about this, whatever you've heard, I assure you the reality is much worse. We're all in terrific danger. Even if it's not true. Even if there's just a rumor that he's..." The Doctor shook his head. "I won't wipe their memories. Just buffer them a bit. I'll tell them everything I can—of course I will. But that's all."

"And you make those decisions, sweetie. All by yourself."

"Every day," he said. "Every minute."

River put her mug on the floor. She didn't want it anymore. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to be out of this box and back to her simple little life. Every corner of this place held a perfect memory for her, all of them undermined by this arrogant young man who drew her in with a familiar need—to be validated, reassured or challenged—and repelled her with his alien morals. She wanted to help him out of this swamp, but it was too early for him.

And, maybe, far too late for her.

"Well," she said. "This has been lovely. Do come again." In a gesture so quick she might have imagined it, she squeezed his hand, then hopped down the steps. At the door she took a moment to collect herself, to pick up the role of confident leader that the other prisoners demanded of her. It was true: the walls of a prison kept a lot of things inside.

The Doctor said, "Come with us."

"I'm sorry?" River's hand was already on the lock.

"You don't have to stay," said the Doctor. He strode over to the control panel, twisting dials and pushing buttons in an absent-minded way. "I'll take you somewhere else."

Despite everything, it was an offer that planted hope in fertile soil, that revived every desire River had: to be free, to go—finally—home, to go back to the beginning and start again. But no. Her sentence was long, the balance of her debt still due. Anyway, the storm brewing in this box was bigger than any she'd faced in Stormcage Prison.

"You know," she said. "If you count the years that didn't happen, Rory's almost twice your age."

You found out, after some time in the universe, that very old things were often very powerful, and the Doctor and Rory were very old indeed.

"Really." The Doctor turned a lever and flipped a switch. "How interesting."

"Don't do it," she said. It was the last thing she could do for him. "Don't shut him out. Don't put yourself on a collision course with him."

"I'm not in the business of beheading rivals," said the Doctor. "Anyway, what do you suppose Rory and I would compete over?" He seemed to find the idea a patent absurdity.

"If you had the universe to divide between you? I'm sure I have no idea."

She threw open the lock and left him furrow-browed and staring.

###

From "The Blue Book of Cardiff" (Torchwood File DR-54966^28)

Ishnahakaar—from the Draconian, meaning "The Eye of the Storm." So is it coming, or has it already passed? Is this the calm before or after?

The more I see of you these days the longer it all seems. Have pity on me, sweetheart, and don't come back till you know me better. For my part, I will not write again.

Tardis left Stormcage Prison 23:50 local time/ 8 Lunar 1185 S.P.T.