He's Fire And Ice And Rage

"We'll be late," the Doctor called through the bedroom door. He gave it a rap and got a disgruntled grunt of affirmation in reply.

River Song was not one who often spent time dressing up. More often than not, the Doctor would arrive on her world for a visit and find her still in the dusty clothes she'd been at the architectural dig in, leaning over some artifact and incorrectly guessing what it was. He often said it was "endearing", if a little dirty.

But tonight, no, tonight was a special night. Tonight, River emerged from the bedroom in a floor-length dark red opera dress with her hair piled on the top of her head.

"Are you sure this counts as an anniversary?" she asked. She stepped forward and straightened the tie on his new suit.

On the best of days, the Doctor was not a romantic. On the worst of days he would wax on about how very much he hated the idea of domesticity and with romance came the domestics. But sometimes, on very special occasions, he would do something like this.

"Well, we're hardly on the same timeline, are we?" he replied.

"That's never made you want to celebrate an anniversary before," she said, crossing her arms.

"And when was the last time I took you to dinner? Besides, you'll love it. Berrillum food is unlike any other world. Slices of light cut into pasta and sprinkled with Vercasian sugars." He smiled widely and, as it often did whenever he visited while he was older, it didn't quite reach his eyes.

River nodded, and then passed him to put a note on the plate of hot tea and lemon biscuits she'd left for her usual Saturday visitor. Jenny, the Doctor's daughter, had visited often, occasionally making River's home her port of call. The Doctor hadn't mustered up the courage to speak to her. Not yet. But he would. River would convince him, someday, and they'd be a proper family, him and Jenny.

Out with your Dad for dinner. It's our anniversary, apparently. I'll bring you something back from Berillium. -R She placed the note delicately next to the ceramic teapot and picked up her handbag and journal before heading towards the TARDIS.

"If our anniversary only comes when I finish a journal," she said, "Then it's not quite our anniversary. I've got a page left."

"You can put tonight into it," he said. For a moment, the Doctor looked unbelievably sad. Sadder than she'd ever seen him. "Dinner and the Singing Towers. It'll be perfect."

"Perfect?" she asked, curious but not wanting to pry. "Willing to bet your life on that?"

He smiled then, small and tight. "Always."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 451

At least he's in good company hating this situation.

He loves it best when he and River are running away from some sort of danger or other, and River's smile is second-widest when she's running with him, as well (widest, of course, when she's proving him wrong about something). He doesn't like the sedentary stuff, the stuff where they have to do the paperwork, read up on the history, or, as in River's case, prepare the presentations.

This is a presentation before a wide variety of historians, archeological supervisors, and scientists. She's doing it on something and something or other in the 24th century, he pretends he really cares, but she's got her history wrong and correcting her would just irritate her. Basically, it's a way of showing what she's done so that someone out there will help her pay for doing more of it.

It's not necessary, he tells her. He can do a little time manipulation and fund every project she'd ever want for the rest of her life, if she desired it. But, no, of course not.

"This is my career," she says.

"I know," he replies, though he's more than a little confused and he's not pretending that he's not.

( 'Am I not allowed to have a career?' she snaps. 'A career that's mine? I don't want your influence, not on this.' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,826
Special thanks to youwillobey for the muse-inspiring suggestion!
Also, this would not have been possible without the immense assistance of savagestime! Thank you!

Based on the ongoing tales of morethananecho, following this story.

Her neighbors must think she runs a lot for stolen spaceships at the rate she's going. Not ten minutes after the stolen RMN-42 shuttle blasts off her back patio, a stolen Type 40 materializes in its place.

"Could at least give me time to clear away the dishes first," she mutters, piling the china teacups onto a tray.

But it's not as if she's really irritated to see him. Irritated at him? Well, that's pretty much a constant.

He steps from the blue box and he smiles. It's a tired-looking smile, but it's all him just the same. She remembers the first time she met him, him with the white in his sideburns and dark bags under his eyes. He's not quite there yet, she can tell. Certainly far from early days for him, but not quite that old. His sideburns only have wisps of gray and the darkness in his eyes hasn't taken over, not just yet.

She wonders what happens to him in between those times, what takes him from the lonely old man he is now and makes him into the sad and tired man he is when she first meets him.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small diary covered in Egyptian hieroglyphs. She picked it out for him, like he picked out the blue one she has nestled in her handbag.

"Summer of the Seven Hills," he says.

"Oooh, you're a bit behind me, then," she says, smiling. "Just like you, showing up late."

He sticks his thumb in the direction of his ship behind him. "I could always leave and come back, if you want."

"No, seems like too much work. And besides, you'll just track more mud in."

He looks down at his feet and makes a face that's somewhere between 'oh, you noticed that' and 'sorry'. She sighs and moves the cold teapot to the tray.

( 'You just missed her,' she says. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,880
everybody_lives, morethananecho, and notsomerrywidow used/referenced with permission.