Matilda Stuckey Howard

Waiting

My mother did a lot of waiting. Now I continue her legacy. Her patience is a gift, along with her ability to tie a cherry stalk with one's tongue.

I suppose we wait for things all the time. For buses and trains and taxis. You wait for the paint to dry, for your luck to change. You wait for the summer all through the unforgiving winter. There are special rooms for waiting, with whole realms of people just sitting and watching the time pass away.

You wait for the final whistle to go, or for the time to clock out of your dull day-job to tick round. You can wait for exam results or for DNA results or football results. You wait for a sign to tell you how to continue on.

There are people who wait on tables for jobs. Women who wait for 10cm dilated. Men who wait for wisdom to come knocking. Teenagers waiting for the internet to load, or for normal body parts to arrive.

When you type 'wait' into Google, 1,500,000,000 results pop up in 0.16 seconds. And we wait for that 0.16th of a seconds to get the results.

We wait for kettles to boil, for phones to ring, for the microwave to ping, for the que to go down.

Our whole lives are just one big drawn out waiting game, as our planet slowly rotates on its axis, waiting for its impending doom. The human race is just a great long inter-looped mess of people crumbling to dust and ashes as they wait for things.

But I know one man who doesn't wait.

He doesn't wait because he hates staying still. Because he knows everything that's happened and almost everything that ever will. And if he wants to find something out, then he can just pop into his magic blue box and whisk away to when it's happening.

Something about that appealed to my mother. His unwillingness to wait.

Maybe that's what gets me too.

That, and his hair.

The Stormcage is full of waiting.

I wait for my meals and my mail and my allotted bathroom time. I keep myself busy though. Attempting to convince myself that I'm not waiting like the rest of them did, instead I'm just living my life. Taking each day as it goes.

I write in my diary. Play with my hair. Hand-stands, press-ups, sit-ups, cartwheels. Bounce on the bed (it's funny, but I think my little old bed in a planet-wide prison is the most comfortable thing ever slept on).

He drops me in gifts sometimes. I'll wake up and they'll just be there, always in Christmas wrapping paper, always with a tag.

Got this on the moon of Despidas, one might say, I'll pop in soon. Or, Rory and Amy made me take them skating on the frozen star of Kess, and I found this for you there.

Once, when we were together on Earth, I caught him giving me a sideways glance that spoke volumes. "What?" I'd said; "You've never had a Christmas present from anyone." he muttered, a statement disguised as a question. "Not yet. But it's never too late." I replied. "No," and his voice caught when he said "never too late."

I've got quite a collection now. A collection of things. Instruments and gems and technology and non-sonic screwdrivers. Books, so many books. Given all this time I have, I've managed to master at least six languages without the help of the TARDIS. Now I can read Agatha Christie novels in Halsphasic.

Some days I don't even leave bed. Those are the bad days. The days when I can't delude myself into thinking I'm not waiting. I never tell the Doctor about those days.

But I think he knows.

Sometimes I go out. Rarely. When I've been waiting for months and there's no sign of him showing, then out I'll pop, pinging away in a stolen spaceship to go and see the stars. It's awfully lonely though. Even when I'm surrounded by a group of male Tenthinkions, all wearing nothing but silk scarves, I feel the same as when I'm alone in my cell.

Not tonight though. Because tonight the Doctor will come.

In more ways than one.

Because he promised.

And so I'm waiting.

There it is. That noise.

The child of the TARDIS hearing its mother call. The familiar whoosh of her enfolds me like a blanket.

When will he ever learn to take the brakes off?

It takes a minute for my heart to return to its normal pace. I smooth my hair, my outfit, rub my lips together to ensure an even covering of red lipstick. It's this moment of anticipation we both love. The moment before I fling open the door and swagger in to kiss him. I look in from the outside and he looks out from the inside, the TARDIS door between us.

I look up at the TARDIS, this magnificent blue box, the box that's bigger on the inside. The box that's the bluest of blues. And I smile at it, a greeting to an old friend.

Finally I can stand it no longer. I miss him even though he's only metres away. This sort of ache fills me, an ache to reach him and let him hold me.

So I throw open the door. Sashay in.

But there's no Doctor.

The consol room's empty, humming with a sort of longing for its Time Lord. I check under the consol as well, with all the coils and ribbons of wire trailing about. Nothing.

I call out for him – "Doctor!" – but there's no answer. My voice echoes onwards down the corridor, trying to get to him before me.

I start to worry. Is he curled up on the floor hurt somewhere? Did he send the TARDIS to bring me to some distant battlefield to salvage his dead body?

A hologram springs from nowhere to answer my questions. It's him, my Doctor, wearing his bowtie and, of all things, a fez. He smiles at me, though this is pre-recorded, so he's actually just smiling at thin air.

"River." he grins "My love."

I don't think he's ever said that before, it makes me go weak at the knees. A subtle reminder that we're married and that we're happy. I know he can't see me, but I feel oddly self-conscious, like I always do around him.

I'm also slightly irked at his absence. I see him about once a month, and wanted my waits worth of him.

"The TARDIS is taking you to a hotel in Paris. Your room is booked under your married name, which by the way you know have. I'll meet you there. Please feel free to ransack the TARDIS wardrobe for clothes, and if you're thirsty there's a fresh supply of chocolate milk in the fridge. See you soon, dear."

And like that he's gone again.

I feel the TARDIS lurch beneath my feet as the message ends. We're on our way. I quickly find my way to the wardrobe (past the helter-skelter) and take a look at his well stocked racks. My dress is perfect; I have no desire to change it. But my worn cotton panties are defiantly not suited to a night in Paris.

It occurs to me that the Doctor might not keep ladies underwear. There are thousands of garments in here though, so I try my luck all the same.

That's when I see the jackets.

The Doctor dislikes clutter. No knick-knack or trinket should ever litter the TARDIS floors. Everything is kept for a reason.

The first jacket is purple, faux leather, zipper at the front. Then there's a slim red one. Then one of brown suede.

Rose, Martha, Donna.

That man. He never forgets. Even though there are dozens of us, and we're all popping in and out of his life constantly, and waiting for him all over the place. Never forgets.

Slightly shaken, I continue my search. How is it that a man can own a thousand fezzes and not one pair of stockings?

As I'm rummaging underneath a frame, I suddenly spot the bottom of a door. I wheel the rack to one side and look at it. A pale blue door with a little gold handle. A mystery door, just begging to be opened. And to make matters worse, it has my name carved into it in fluent scripture. River Song, it says.

So I open it. And gasp.

I'm met by the sight of no less than a thousand garments of underwear.

Leather, silk, velvet, fish-net, satin, lace, spandex. Everything red, black, silver and midnight blue. Even the lighting's low and red. My mind reels. Where did this all come from? How long has he been keeping this from me? Has my Doctor, my ridiculous, impossible Doctor, made this all for me? I'm not sure whether to be confused or aroused, so settle for a general mix of both.

Then, like a child in a toy shop, I begin to dance about, racing up and down to choose the perfect bindings for my body. There are corsets and stockings, suspenders, bras and panties, some glittered and some not. There are even spiked leather kinky-boots huddled on a shoe rack nearby. And cowboy boots too.

That man.

I try on several pieces, parading in front of a full length gold-framed mirror. I like how they feel against my skin, how they cling to me. Finally, I settle on shadowy blue lace panties and a matching bra, with a suspender belt and fishnet stockings. I keep my black patent heels. My silver dress sits nicely over the top of it all. I look, and feel, more sensual than I've ever done in my entire life.

I leave the wardrobe happy, stopping in the kitchen on my way back to the consol room for chocolate milk. I want him to taste it on my lips when we kiss.

The TARDIS screen tells me we've been landed for ten minutes. My stomach is somersaulting. I run down the walkway as fast as my heels will allow, and open the door out into a crisp Paris night. The stars shimmer above, the Seine shifts beneath the bridge. I can see the Eiffel tower, bronze and shinning in the distance, peaked like a compass needle. The hotel is not hard to find under a million Paris street lights. The air's filled with magic and the smell of caramelising sugar. I dance into the hotel's lobby and over to the front desk.

Under my married name...

The woman behind the desk looks up from her computer at me, raising an eyebrow.

"Hello," I smile "I have a room reserved. My husband should be here all ready."

"Doctor Song, I presume?"

"Yes." My stomach fills with butterflies "Yes, that's me."

"Floor 78. The presidential suite." She hands me a room key over the desk.

I ride the elevator up to the top floor, swaying to and fro with excitement. I'm aroused and nervous and desperate to see that sexy face of his, with that jaw line that he flaunts so well.

The elevator doors open. I step out, and run my card key through the necessary slat. I push open the door.

I'm met by a large lounge area with thrones for chairs. I rush through into the master bedroom, looking around expectantly.

He's not there.

My stomach drops, my throat swells. Where is that man? Is he trying to lead me on some kind of a wild goose chase?

Then I hear running water. The en suite, of course!

I push through the door, and I can see his outline in the shower. The clouded glass is between him and me. But something's wrong. He's shaking slightly, eyes shut. Is he okay, I wonder? Then I see what's really happening.

He's jacking off.

I stand, frozen, unsure of myself. The Doctor isn't like this. Not usually. Not with me, not with anyone. There's always some kind of a wall there. But not now. Now he's just a man. A Time Lord. All alone and naked, dripping wet. He's vulnerable. And hurting.

I don't know why, but I can see it in his face.

He's in pain and he needs me. Then he starts to groan.

"R-r-r..." For a deadly moment, I fear he's going to say Rose. My throat closes up. "River." he chokes out.

I back out of the bathroom, pull out my bra and underwear from under my dress. Stash it under the bed. He needs me now, and I've no time to get fully undressed. Thank God for water proof mascara.

I pull open the shower door. His eyes fly open, he sees me. Jumps upright, startled. I close the door behind me; stand so that our toes are touching.

"River." And his voice is barely there at all.

"Hello Sweetie." I smile.

Then we're kissing, hungrily because we both need each other. We both want each other. And there are no words, only actions.

Kissing the Doctor's like licking fire, like dancing in the rain. Like consuming lightening. The world melts away as the warm water soaks though my dress to my skin. I can feel his fingers feverishly unzipping it so that it falls away, and there's only his hands on my flesh. The need to please him passes through me. I duck down, kissing his navel, tasting his skin.

Slowly, I circle his erection with my tongue, teasing him. Then I push his legs, hard, so that he's standing right backed up against the shower wall. And I suck. I suck, and I can feel him quiver with joy. He moans loudly, tangling his long cold fingers in my hair. I reach up, clinging to his hips, toying with his penis in my mouth. Biting down a little prompts a sharp cry of pleasure from him. Then he comes, pumping hot semen down my throat. I swallow the best I can, but it's so thick and so fast that I almost choke. I don't show it though. I release him from my lips and nibble his inner leg. But he's not having any more of that.

The Doctor can only take so much before he has to start giving. It's his nature.

He wants to please me in turn. And I want him to.

My cunt is hot and wet for him. He takes his turn at ducking down in one fell swoop. He clasps my behind, working my opening with his tongue. He's lapping me up, dipping in and out of me so that I writhe with pleasure, tilting my head back against the cool glass door. The warm water rains down on us as he works me up to orgasm.

At the last moment he stands, picks me up and presses us against the glass. I wrap my legs round him and pull him inside of me.

Oh!

Oh!

The pleasure's hot and fast, spreading before I can even cry out. I'm a screamer, and so that's what I do. And he moans with me, a harmony of ecstasy. He's huge and burning inside of me, pushing against a knot of nerves so deep down in me I didn't even know they were there. He comes and I come, and the waves of orgasm won't stop until we drown. It's loud and hot and the whole world stops to hear us scream.

Then I lower my legs and it's over. We kiss again, softer now, like fading daylight. I sigh into his collar bone, exhausted, as he kisses the top of my head.

"I love you River Song." he whispers, looking down into my eyes.

And there are no words. Only these.

Some things are worth waiting for.