#areyoumarriedriver

And now he sits slouched on the floor in the corridor outside the operating room – he’d thrown a proper tantrum when they’d tried to make him stay in the waiting room – hoping that the Sisters and their technology are going to be able to put his wife back together again. The Doctor digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and breathes unsteadily through his nose, knowing there is a very real possibility that this is it.

There is no safety net in the form of a Library – not anymore – and as fucking horrifying as that foreknowledge had been, it had still been a comfort at times. She couldn’t die because she already had. It made it a lot easier to breathe when she stepped directly in the line of fire, when she ran headlong into every explosion, every bar fight, every Sontaran hen night. She would be fine.

He’d never realized until he didn’t have it anymore just how important the Library had been in preventing him from becoming a sodding mother hen. All he does is fret now that his wife has escaped her fate because there is absolutely nothing to stop the universe from snatching her away again. And it seems like all it has done since he got her back is try to steal her from him. There have been a lot of close calls because River never bloody slows down for a second but this –

The Doctor draws in a shuddering breath and swallows thickly, lifting his head. Colored spots dance in front of his vision for a moment and he blinks, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. He could lose her. Any moment now, some fucking cat nurse could wander out of that room with River’s blood all over her gloved hands and tell him they’d done everything they could but it hadn’t been enough.

His stomach heaves and the Doctor clamps his lips tightly shut, pressing his face between his knees. He can’t say goodbye again. There isn’t enough strength left in him to grieve her all over again – not when he has fresh memories of just how it feels to have her back. He has woken with her hair in his face and her hands clinging to his shirt in the morning, he has watched her sit at her vanity and try to tame her hair before a night out and felt her lips at the back of his neck when he’s tinkering with the TARDIS. He has felt her hand in his when he runs and felt her warm and steady at his back when he needed her protection. He has heard her laughter and her bare feet against the control room floor, grumbled about finding her knickers in his trouser pockets and her guns in their bedcovers. He has rediscovered what it means to have River Song back in his life again and he cannot – will not – relinquish it. Not ever again. He’ll tear the universe apart and watch it burn before he lets her go now.

The Doctor grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists, fierce determination curling around his hearts. No matter the outcome today, River isn’t dying. He’ll go back. He’ll rewrite it, keep her from that battle and entice her into staying in their bed instead. He doesn’t care what the consequences might be and yes, River would hate it but she doesn’t know what it’s like to live with this fucking terror every single day. He always comes back to her. The Doctor has never had that reassurance with his wife.

“Doctor?”

He jerks his head up, red-eyed and startled. The nurse blinks at the grim resolve in his eyes but she recovers herself quickly, watching him scramble to his feet and stumble toward her. “Well? How is she? Is she alive? Is she -” He stops, unable to say the word. He growls instead and snaps, “Fucking tell me!”

Her eyes narrow but she doesn’t lose her temper. Her voice is gentle when she says, “It was a very precarious surgery but she came through just fine. She just needs to rest.” When his eyes water and he clenches his jaw, looking away to glare at the floor and try to sodding well breathe again, she reaches out a paw and pats at his arm. He flinches. “Your wife is going to be alright, Doctor.”

He nods tersely, struggling to speak around the lump in his throat. “When can I see her? I want to see her.”

“They’ve transferred her to the recovery wing,” she says gently. “You can find her in room 307.”

He barely pauses to mutter his thanks, barely even remembers turning on his heel and stalking away. He makes it to the recovery wing of the hospital with only vague memories of the walk there, wondering how many people he’d bumped into and snapped at in the process. He stands outside of room 307 and presses a trembling hand to the door. As eager as he’d been to get here, he can’t quite bring himself to go in just yet. He isn’t ready to see her battered and bruised, isn’t ready for another reminder of just how mortal his stupid, infuriating, wonderful love is.

But this body is a bit braver than his last. Well, not braver so much as too stubborn to run from his mistakes any longer. He’s tired of running away. So he takes a breath, fumbles for the control panel on the door, and presses the button to open it. His eyes are drawn to River the moment he steps into the room and he barely hears the door slide back into place and seal shut behind him. She’s pale and sleeping but to his relief, the bed sheet covers the wound. If it weren’t for the bruise blooming on her cheek or the deep cut over her eyebrow, he could have convinced himself she was only napping on the TARDIS.

He tries to pretend anyway, moving slowly across the room toward her like a moth drawn to a sodding stubborn, beautiful flame. He sinks bonelessly into the chair beside her bed and stares wearily at her. He’d been prepared to tear time itself apart to save her and he’d thought she’d done it before because she was so young and reckless but he’d been wrong. She’d just been too in love and too desperate to give a damn about anything else. He doesn’t feel any regret for being selfish enough to finally catch up with her.

“Sweetie?”

He closes his eyes at the sound of her voice, squeezing her hand.

“Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” he says weakly. “It’s just the eyebrows.”

River smiles tiredly. “Alright?”

He sighs. She’s the one lying in a hospital bed, the one who’d almost fucking died, and she’s asking if he’s sodding well alright. No, he’s not alright but this isn’t about him. Christ, he could lovingly strangle her. He could shout at her for taking risks but it wouldn’t do any good because she’ll never change and he would never ask her to. He could tell her what he’d been prepared to do for love of her. He could tell her he finally understands what it means to not give a fuck about the needs of the many, not when there’s only one that matters. But she wouldn’t thank him for that and he knows it’s going to be a revelation he keeps to himself, that he tucks away and she pretends not to see.