playing musical chairs with your exit signs

He has never prayed so hard to arrive at just the right time in his whole long life.

Well, that's a lie – he probably has prayed quite hard when things like life and death and the fate of the entire universe were at stake, but in his defence, this feels more important at the moment.

He can actually see the TARDIS dematerializing mere feet from the door as he opens it, and he grins. He's just left then – this should be perfect. He closes the door behind him, locking the TARDIS and setting off with a cheerful whistle. His hands are in his pockets, and nobody at the dig site pays much attention to him at all. After all, he'd probably just forgotten something. He'd just been there.

He slips into her tent with quiet ease. She has her arms wrapped around herself, and she is standing before the tiny camp stove with her back to him – watching the kettle. Tea. Of course – it cures the world's hurts, and his chest tightens at the thought of her hurting.

"You know," he speaks aloud and she jumps, visibly startled. "I just realize I've forgotten something."

She whirls around, and he can see traces of tears on her face. She scrubs her hands across her cheeks and frowns at him. "What have you forgotten my love?" Her voice is thick and he shrugs his tweed off before sauntering across the tent, reaching behind her to turn the kettle off. He didn't come here for tea, after all. Maybe later. Maybe much, much later.

"You." He speaks softly by her ear, and she looks up at him with a startled expression.

"Doctor, I told you-" She begins, but his mouth cuts her off, his hands in her hair and he is kissing her passionately. She tastes different now, this her. There is a bite to her flavour that melts across his tongue and makes his mouth water in anticipation. He wonders if the slight change in flavour applies everywhere. His skin flushes at the thought and she moans into his mouth as one of his hands travels down over her shoulders and back until he slides it over her hips and arse, pulling her into him with a groan. She is breathless when she pulls away from the kiss, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glossy and he thinks it suits her far better than tears or sadness.

Eliciting this change is quite addictive and he wonders if he can go back and properly correct every parting between them for her. Visit her two minutes after his first kiss with her, pop into a cleric ship in orbit over Alfalva Metraxis and give her a proper goodbye instead of awkward shy flirting and teasing. Hide out of his own sight in Amy's garden and snog her senseless before she even finds the younger version of himself and retrieves her diary and manipulator. Afterall, there were rather a lot of unaccounted hours between her giving Rory the diary and getting her manipulator back. Maybe he'd even find out where she'd disappeared to in a haze of smoke, electricity and time, and follow her there too.

Maybe he'd do both – she'd like that he thinks.

"Doctor, you have to go." Her voice is breathless and she looks so determined that he just has to kiss her once more – his mouth is greedy for hers, after all – and the need never seems to be satisfied enough for him. He presses her back into the tiny cupboard that is pretending to be a kitchen, his hips surging into hers, desperate for some kind of friction, some kind of sweet relief.

Her hands scrabble across his back, pulling and tugging and she winds one up into his hair even as she bites his lower lip gently, running her tongue over the mark as he pants into her mouth with need. Her hands push at his shoulders and she shakes her head. "I told you-"

"So you did, sweetheart. But when have I ever listened to you?" His face is filled with amusement and she freezes at the sound of him calling her that, looking up into his face intently.

"Oh you liar." She breathes out, shaking her head as a smile creeps across her face. "You're not you at all! How long has it been for you?" she demands, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly as she grins.

"Oh you know, long enough for a honeymoon. And like you're one to talk, Professor. Wedding night indeed – a slight hint about the fact that I was going to have to convince you to marry me all over again would have been nice!" He scolds her gently, his hands sliding down her sides as she stretches up on her toes to kiss him again in response. He pulls her up and against him until she is wrapping her legs around his waist, and they both moan in delight at the change in friction that brings about. He is still kissing her as he half-stumbles, half-carries her through the perception-filtered doorway at the back of her tent. It's a long hall, but his mind is on other things, so he pays no attention to it as they crash into one wall, his frame pressing into hers as she rolls her hips over his. He has to tear his mouth away to bury his face in her neck, a groan is pulled from him as she rolls her hips again. She laughs in delight and he glares down at her. "Bad, bad girl. Where is your bed?"

Her hands are already busy between them, tugging his bowtie off and draping it over her own neck before she unbuttons his shirt more rapidly than should even be possible. She slides her hands against the cool skin of his chest, pushing his shirt and braces down as far as she can, what with him pressing her into a wall and his hands under her bum, holding her up. She leans forward, pressing kisses against his neck and shoulder, biting there gently and his hips buck, pushing her into the wall. "Next door on the left," she manages to mutter and he lifts her once more, heading in the direction she indicated as quick as he possibly can. He assumes it's her bedroom, but he doesn't really give a damn outside of the fact that it has a large bed in the center of the room that he drops her on. She is sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed, her hand snaking out to snag the waist of his trousers and haul him forward. She pulls his shirt off now, and his braces dangle around his hips and thighs.

She is smiling in satisfaction even as she tugs on his waist again, sending him tumbling onto the bed next to her. She climbs over him, swinging one leg over his hips until she is sitting astride him, her hands tracing lines across his chest as she observes him smugly. "Convincing me to marry you all over again? Huh. No worse than you citing my yes in my mother's garden as obtained permission Doctor. That didn't count!"

"I asked if you thought I was asking you to marry me and you said yes," he points out, slipping his hands under her shirt and lifting it up and over her head in one fluid movement. He sits up, with her still in his lap, one arm wrapping around her lower back for stability as he leans forward, pressing kisses across her clavicle and down her sternum until he can place a kiss over each one of her hearts. "It counts." He mutters into her skin and she twists her arms behind herself, undoing her bra and shimmying out of it, her hips pressing into his pelvis in all manner of delicious ways. As soon as the bra is out of the way, he lowers his mouth to her breast, rolling his tongue across the peak, and her hands weave their way into his hair as her back arches, thrusting her breasts forward for him.

"Does not count." She pants the words out in and amongst the breathy little moans escaping her throat as he sucks one nipple into his mouth. His free hand is tracing Gallifreyan symbols across the smooth expanse of her back, circles and lines that mean nothing to anyone anymore, save them.

He lifts his head to move over to the other breast and looks up at her with a wicked grin. "Does too, you know you wanted to marry me, even when I was that young. You loved me." He is smug and she slaps his shoulder sharply, the sting surprising but not unwelcome as it sends a thrill shooting through him. He bends his head, licking along the underside of her breast and tasting the salt of sweat there and he was right earlier – she does taste different all over. His hips rise from the bed, pressing into her in eager anticipation as she gasps.

"Rude to mock a girl's unrequited love, Doctor." She points out with a pant; grabbing his shoulders and falling back with him until they are spread out across the bed, a tangle of limbs and skin and sadly still some clothing. He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at her seriously.

"Not unrequited River." His voice is a whisper and she opens glassy eyes to look at him, her cheeks red and her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths.

"Even then?" She wonders aloud and he doesn't answer her – he simply lowers his head and kisses her, thinking of all the times he's laid waste to already. He should have trusted his own instincts from the very start. He should have- her nails scratch lightly down his back and he pulls away, looking down over her with wonder.

"I love you. So much, River. My River." She smiles up at him, and her whole face seems to be alight and she is honestly so stunning he needs to take a moment to remember that he needs to breathe. He loves her, loves the mystery and intrigue of her. Loves that she is a puzzle and he still doesn't have all the pieces to or even knows where they quite fit – but oh he loves the attempt. He feels his eyes sting and buries his face by her neck, pressing kisses along the length of it and praying she can't feel his tears.

It creeps up on him sometimes as he watches her – his foreknowledge. But he is the Doctor and he cannot accept the fact that she must die in that Library. He presses kisses along her shoulders, and reaches up, untying her hair until it springs forth, tickling his face. He will find a way to save her. Even if it takes him the rest of his days – he will. Save her or join her – but one way or another, he will spend eternity with this woman.

His hands fumble at her waist, unbuttoning and stripping her and he crosses arms with her hands doing the same exact thing – they bump into each other and laugh about it. But eventually they are lying beside each other, and his hands stroke along the length of her body, his hands brushing from her shoulder, over the swell of her breast, nipping in at her tiny waist and flaring out again at the curve of her hip. Everywhere he moves his hands, she fits perfectly. If he believed in things like that, he would think it was a sign.

Her hands explore him too, and she crawls to her hands and knees gracelessly, without care, her hair tickling along his skin as she presses kisses across his throat and shoulders, down over his chest and stomach, nipping at his hip bones while he bucks underneath her, gasping and repeating her name.

She tilts her head to look up at him, smiling knowingly as her hair brushes against him and he groans at the feel of it. She lifts her head again, licking along the length of him just once before she swallows him whole and he gasps, his hips twitching but she's pressing them into the mattress with her hands.

He cannot properly concentrate, there is a buzzing in his ears and she hums as she moves her mouth up and down along the length of him, and he feels that hum all the way to his toes. She swirls her tongue around him, and he balls his hands into fists simply to stop himself from reaching for her. He threads his fingers through her hair instead, and she moans when he tugs a bit, so he does it again, harder. Her humming increases along with her pace, and she aligns the lower half of her body with his, still constantly moving up and down, her tongue in constant motion. She lowers herself until she is sitting on his leg, and she presses her hips down and he can feel her there – hot and wet and pulsing against his shin. She squirms a bit until she hits the spot she wants and she gasps, releasing him as she buries her face by his hip, his hands still pulling at her hair.

He pulls her up against him roughly, rolling them over until he is above her now, and he smiles as he kisses his way down the length of her body. He licks and nips at the skin of her shoulders, her belly, her breasts and her thighs. She is amazing – every inch of her, and the sight of her never ceases to amaze him. He loves so much about her, the shape of her, the softness of her skin, the noises she makes when he touches her. He nips at her hip bone they way she did his, and she startles him by squealing and crawling to the left, away from him. "Doctor, no!" She is breathless with laughter, and he grins, following her across the bed until he can pin her down and do it again, listening as she laughs hard and struggles against his hold.

"Ticklish, River?"

"Not ticklish. It just – I can't explain it Doctor but you can't do that, it makes me... all..." She gestures her hands in a twirling motion and he lays his head on her stomach, grinning up at her.

"I like it," he admits with a laugh and she rolls her eyes.

"I don't."

"Tell me – if I promise never to do it again – am I lying?" He is teasing her now and she glares at him, folding her arms across her chest.

"You always lie." She points out in a tone of exasperation and he chuckles, turning his face to press a soft kiss to her belly, dipping his tongue inside her belly button quickly. He moves his face lower, and smiles up at her from where he is laying between her legs.

"Oh yeah, I do. Best not promise then, eh?" He winks and she laughs, attempting to glare at him but he presses his face forward until his nose is buried against her center and her laughter stops abruptly with a gasp. His licks along the length of her, sweet and bitter and crisp and rich – he loves this part. Because it involves him doing what he does best – talking. His hands grip her hips and he licks and sucks, nips at the small bundle of nerves as she twitches and gasps beneath him, her hands burying themselves in his hair and twisting. He doesn't hum like she does when she does this for him, instead he mumbles words in his own language against her skin and some of it is poetry, some of it is love letters pressed into the most secret of places. Some of it is dirty limericks, and she giggles through those – and a few are tongue twisters that make her gasp.

One of his hands releases her hip, inching below his chin until he can run his fingertips along her wetness, delving in and out at whimsy, circling and twisting until she is panting, his name skipping off her lips like a record stuck in a groove. He can feel the moment just before she comes undone, feel the tension in her body coil and coil and coil right before it snaps and his hand is suddenly soaked and he licks her all through that too – because she tastes like his.

Her hands pull him up, and she shoves him against the headboard until he is sitting up, his back pressed against the wrought iron. She climbs into his lap with haste, not stopping until she sinks down on top of him, warmth and wetness and again she just fits him - his bespoke wife. She is tailor made, for him. She lets out a deep moan and stills and his hands trace along her back, long strokes from her shoulder to hip, over the round of her behind as she leans forward and claims his mouth with hers.

She moves as she kisses him, her hips undulating and her tongue mimicking the action in his mouth. She tastes like him, or he tastes like her but together it is indescribable. These kisses are messy, wet with random pauses as they gasp for air. Wrong angles that cause his teeth to clack against hers but he doesn't care, because he can feel her everywhere, all at once. Her weight in his lap and her feet brushing against his knees, her hips against his, her heat wrapped all around him and her mouth fused to his as she increases her pace, growing more and more frantic in her movements.

He pulls his face away from hers, burying it in her hair, her curls sticking to his skin as he grips her hips and groans her name as his world explodes into tiny shards of light on the edges of his vision. She follows, pressing down against him as he rises up; his name is panted in his ear as her hands bite into his shoulders so tightly he is sure there will be bruises.

Afterward, she collapses against his chest and he slides down awkwardly, dragging two pillows and the duvet with him until they are sprawled against each other, sticky skin and heaving chests. She tucks herself along his side, her hand over his left heart and he can feel her heartbeats against the side of his ribs.

This is his favourite part, he thinks, as his hand traces along the line of her shoulders before it inevitably creeps up into her curls. They're not tired – they rarely are – so these moments of catching their breath are ones of quiet companionship, and it's something he cherishes. "River?" his voice is a whisper and she tilts her head back slightly, just able to look up at him.

"Mmm?"

"Would you ever change it – if you could? Make us proper and linear and not a big ball of insanity?" He is hesitant to ask the question, because he doesn't want to disturb their moment of peace. She smiles gently, pressing her hand against his chest harder for a moment before she leans back and looks at him properly.

"No. Not even if I could, Doctor. I don't regret any of it – I never could. I love you far too much for that." Her voice is warm and he shakes his head.

"No, not like that, I mean – if we had a chance, eventually, to somehow just... merge and move forward linearly... would you want that? To be with me always and not just only sometimes?" He is afraid of her answer because he knows what this question means, even if she doesn't. He is asking her permission. Her permission to tear this universe apart, searching for a way to save her from that Library. So he can have her with him, always. The way a husband and wife should be.

"Of course I would my love. I would be with you every moment if I could. You and me. Our TARDIS. We'd never be apart. But I- I don't like to think about it much, because I don't think it will ever happen." Her voice grows thick and he rolls to face her, pushing his other hand against her face, his thumb brushing against her cheek softly.

"I'll find a way. I promise. Someday, I will find a way. I swear to you, River." She says nothing, but smiles at him with tears in her eyes and he leans over, pressing a kiss to her forehead softly. "I will find a way."

"Always a way out, hmm?" She wraps her arm around his waist and burrows into him with a smile.

"There is for me. You trust that, River Song. I'll work it out."

"Alright, my love, I trust you." She presses a soft kiss to his shoulder before lifting her head and peering around the darkened room. "How long can you stay?"

"For a while. Maybe I'll kick around here for a bit – mock your theories and tease you about already knowing what happened to this planet." He grins and she laughs softly.

"Well you certainly know how to charm a girl," she smiles down at him and he runs his fingers along her jaw line.

"I do. Plus there's plenty of wooing to be done." She giggles at his words and he affects a hurt air. "What?"

"Wooing?" She manages through her laughter and he shakes his head.

"Wooing is a great word. Almost as good as shenanigans – which we can also get up to. Wooing and shenanigans on a dead planet. Sounds perfect to me." He defends himself and she shifts closer to him, dropping a quick kiss to his mouth.

"You daft man, I already married you – wooing is no longer required." She points out and he gasps.

"Wooing is most definitely always required River. Especially when the object of one's woo-" He ignores her outright bark of laughter and carries on, "is one's wife. I should write a new rulebook. Rules for being married. Rule 1: always woo your wife."

"Always?" She asks with a smile and he pulls her against him again, tickling her sides lightly until she is giggling into his shoulder, breathless with laughter.

"Always. Not leaving until you are good and properly wooed, Professor Song."

"Might take a while," she bites her lip and grins up at him, her eyes shining. "Sure you can stand being in one place that long?"

"Absolutely not, I abhor staying in one place." He insists and her face falls slightly so he presses a quick kiss against the top of her head. "Unless of course, that place happens to be right next to my wonderfully amazing, clever wife. I can make an exception – just in that one case."

"Well, my love. Consider myself on the road to woodom."

"That's not even a real word. You're just saying things." He teases her gently and she laughs against his shoulder. "Don't mock the wooing, River. You'll see."

"I look forward to it my love."