There is a planet of waterfalls and city lights, somewhere in a far-flung arm of the universe. A popular tourist destination, but only for the rich, privileged, and sly, psychic-paper-bearing members of society. Darillium, it's called. There are towers of glass, there, that light up the night with their glow, and are reflected in the rippling fountains.

There are little restaurants and viewing decks and long, polished halls of glass in the towers. Halls that show you the gorgeous world spread out beneath you. In the day, it's beautiful, but in the night, there's hardly a sight in the galaxy that compares with it.

There's a couple sitting in a lamplit corner of one particular restaurant. The man is twirling his fork in his fingers, letting the pasta threaded through it jiggle around as he tells a story. He reaches the punchline and cracks up before he can finish it, so that the sentence explodes into laughter. They're both in stitches by the time he chokes out the last word. The woman's eyes are lit and she rocks back and forth slightly as the joke's mirth is relived, and the man's eyes are scrunched up, childish smile seeming to reach both ears. The soft light and gentle music is put a little out of place in regards to the hilarity they've shared, but the romance isn't completely lost, because she grabs his bowtie and plants a firm kiss on his unprepared, scrunched lips.

"So, I see you got a new hair cut," the woman says.

"Yes, I did," the man replies, going back to his spaghetti.

"I like it."

"Yes, you do."

"Shut up." She kisses him again, across the table, and he gives a muffled noise of protest. "River, I'm trying to eat."

"And I'm trying to kiss you!"

"Plenty of time for that later. I'm hungry, now." And for just a second - just a second - there's an echo of something sad in his eyes.

"Aren't you going to take off your coat?" He says, looking her over.

She ignores the question. "Doctor," she says, expression fading to mildly happy - the best poker face she can manage under the blissful circumstances. "Do you like kids?"

"Oh," he says, mouth full of spaghetti, pointing his fork at River, "I love kids. Don't you know that? Someone I - greatly admire -" he swallowed, "Once said, 'Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.'"

"You're just looking for an excuse to quote Dumbledore."

"So what?"

"I mean -" she plays with the edge of a napkin - "Besides other people's words, though. How do you feel about kids?"

"They're amazing." His voice is grave, suddenly. "They're so human. Stupid and brilliant and loud and dirty and wonderful."

"How about Time Lord children?"

"Haven't seen one of those in a while," he says, expression slightly withdrawn. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she says.

There's a rather awkward silence. He casts about for a subject of conversation.

"Aren't you going to take off your coat, honey?" He says again.

"No," she says, pulling the thick material closer around her body.

"Oh, come on. It's perfectly warm in here."

She tries to change the subject - "Are you alright? You seem a little sad."

"I'm never alright," he says. "I can't believe you're actually enjoying yourself if you're wearing your coat like you're going to dash off." A small, mischievous smile tugs at his lips. "Are you trying to hide something, or what?"

"You're so thick," she says.

"Yeah," he agrees. "So, I'm not going to guess why you're acting strange. Take off the jacket."

"I'll tell you what I'm hiding if you tell me why you're acting so up and down."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at you! You goof off and then you look depressed, and I'm tired of it! Just be happy, why can't you?"

He gives a little laugh, and she takes one of his hands in her own. "Sweetie," she whispers, "You can tell me anything."

He shakes his head. "Sorry, River."

"All right," she says after a long moment. "I'm getting hot, and I suppose you were going to find out sometime." She slips out of the coat.

"What?" he says, laughing just a little. "You gained a couple of pounds? You really think I care?"

"You … complete … idiot!"

"Okay, he says, still looking amused, playing with his pasta. "Tell me what I'm missing."

"I'm pregnant."

There's silence for a beat. He looks up, cheeks losing their colour. "You're what?"

"I'm going to have a baby. Oh, sweetie - isn't it wonderful?"

"Yeah." He pushes his hair back, fighting off the sudden swirl of dizziness that's threatening to knock him out - "Yeah. That's wonderful."

"Are you alright?"

"I need to - go to the bathroom - I'll be back in a second."

It's all a haze - he can't think - he stumbles into the small, polished room where he can be alone - fumbles with his sonic screwdriver, locking and sound-proofing the door - sinks down with his back against it - and starts to break down. Face in hands, curled fingers gripping so hard the skin they touch whitens.

He wants to talk, he wants to beg, he wants to plead with whoever is doing this to him. No more! No more! But he can't say anything. He can't make a sound. All he can do is sit, curled in upon himself, crying silently -

Something snaps, and he gives a huge, desperate gasp, sucking in air. He has to move, he can't just sit here, he'll die.

He pushes himself up and towards the sink. His hands are shaking. So badly. He pulls off his bowtie, turns on the tap, lets the water run over his hands. Splashes some on his face.

It's losing River. Again. He was handling it fine, he was handling it well. He was letting her laugh and having fun and - fun, what's that got to do with anything. Happiness, it's a bit shallow, really. This is all there is, isn't it, at the end of the line? Leaving and leaving and dying and, oh, oh, all the pain...

He looks in the mirror and hates the reflection, for no other reason than the fact he hates everything, right now. His chest is heaving in and out, every breath trembling a little, his hair plastered to his forehead. The skin around his eyes is wet from tears and water.

Losing River, he was handling well, for her sake. But he refuses to take this in stride. Oh -

He slams a fist against the mirror as it hits him in full force, letting his hand slide down the smooth surface. A baby. A child. His child. His own to raise and love and take his place, his own to love, a bit of River and a bit of himself. A baby. Destined to die tomorrow, at that bloody Library. He slams his fist against the glass again. There are no words. Honestly, every language in all the universe and there are no words for what he feels.

He lets it out agonized cries as he strikes the mirror, cries no one will ever hear. Just like the cries of that beautiful child who'll never, ever breathe the air…

He can feel the mirror cracking under the force of his hands - keeps striking it - the pieces of glass are shattering and falling and there's blood on his fingers… oh, please, oh, please, oh, don't do this.

Screaming, crying, sweat and spit and boiling heat and tumbling, white hot rage. Passionate, furious misery and despair, black as a pit. It's not fair!

The storm blows over and all that's left is to sob. He lays his forehead against the smashed glass and shakes all over, tasting something sharp and bitter. Licks his lips. Salt from the tears and iron from the blood. Why me? Why River? Why our child? He's sitting on the floor, now, and his face is in his hands and there are red streaks on his face where his fingers have touched the skin. He's sobbing and rocking back and forth. He feels sick. He feels drained. He feels so tired.

"That was fast," River says, when her Doctor comes back, looking perfectly clean and neat and composed. "I thought you were going to have a major breakdown."

"Oh, no," he says.

"Got over your dad-shock?"

"Funny," he mumbles. "That's what Donna called it." Yeah, that's what Donna called it. River and Donna, wrong about the reason he's so broken inside. He's not scared of the idea of a child. He's just so dead when he thinks of all the ones he's loved and lost. But thinking of Donna hurts, too, so he shuts it all out of his mind.

"To tell the truth," he says, because he can't bear to hide anything more from his wife (not on this night), "I had to go down to the TARDIS."

"What?" she says. "But you've only been a few minutes!"

"You left your vortex manipulator in there," he admits. "I've been out for a while."

"How long?" she says.

He runs his fingernails along the edge of his plate. "An hour. Maybe two. Maybe three."

"Gosh, taking it rather hard," River comments, voice a little too quiet.

"River," he says. "Don't think like that. I'm not -" he puts a hand on her cheek and smiles sadly at her. "It's not like that at all. I am - over the moon. I really am." A real grin splits his face. "A baby! That's fantastic. And you will make the best mother I can imagine."

She smiles and kisses him again. "Liar," she says.

"Okay," he says, "Maybe we won't be that good at it. But we'll try our very best, and it'll work out. Yeah?"

"Yeah," she agrees. "The best adventure yet."

He laughs in agreement.

"So," he says, after a while, "What are we going to call it? Are you thinking girl or boy?"

The fountains are sparkling in the light from the towers. Unearthly, beautiful music is all around the happy couple dancing among them. The cobblestones are wet from the misty spray of the water, and it's cool and refreshing on the skin.

It's a slow dance - they're leaning against each other, feeling soft and blurred at the edges. Their baby is there, between them, somewhere (the Doctor could almost feel the hard gentle form when he put his hands over it, earlier). Eyes closed, go with the music, let it bleed through you. Take it one day at a time, the Doctor thinks. And today, I'm a dad who's figuring out what's best to name his child.

He rests his head on River's shoulder, lets out a sigh and makes sure it doesn't come back in. Breathing light.

"I love you." It has to be said, one last time, even if his voice will give away the fact that he's crying again.

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love it if you told me what you think. Thanks again!