#melodypond

Not many people casually ran into the TARDIS. 

To be perfectly fair, not many people walked into the TARDIS in the beginning. Or even came inside. 

But, of course, River Song was one of those people that just pulled it off. 

The Doctor had just been minding his business, reading up on how to sew a hole in space and time, when the door slammed open and shut faster then he could react. Looking up, he saw a blur of beige and gold collapse onto the stairs, and in moments the book was flying as he raced over to the huddled form. 

As he drew closer, he noticed a few things:

Obviously, this was River Song;

She looked very young; not just her body but the way she held herself even sprawled over stairs;

She was very, very in trouble.

Blood was streaked all over her, still wet in her hair. Her tunic was ripped (in a way that, any other day, would be criminally distracting,) and had its fair share of the sticky red substance as well. Though at first she seemed unconscious, as he reached her and sat on the stairs to assess her she opened her eyes.

He had been right; she was very young. Far too young. The wariness was almost tangible, her body leaning away from him; even as he watched, she recoiled to the far end of the stairs. 

“River.” He muttered softly, not breaking eye contact. “We need to get you to the medical wing of the TARDIS.” He watched as she slowly absorbed his words before shaking her head. 

“I’ll take myself. You lead, if you must.”

“River, you’re barely able to stand--”

“I take myself!” She shouted, the words so harsh and pointed that they sliced right through the Doctor’s chest. He fought back against the bitterness welling inside of him; she didn’t need that right now.

“Alright. Alright. Follow me.” He quickly stood, ignoring the way she flinched at the sudden movement, and extended his hand. River let out a humourless laugh. 

“You think I’m going to take your hand?” 

“Please. Just let me help you up.” He could tell that he sounded pathetic, begging to care for her, but he couldn’t help it. 

“No.”

He almost pushed his plea further, but dropped his hand as she used the railings for support. The TARDIS was fond of her; she would catch River if she were to fall. With a sigh, he set off to the medical wing, casting glances behind him to get bitter glares. 

Finally, he pushed open a white door, where a comfy examination table sat, along with extensive supplies and a bed with chairs around it. The Doctor gestured vaguely, not wanting to take her autonomy away from her; she walked by him and jumped onto the table with an audible ‘oof’. 

“Maybe you should lie down.” He said quietly. She raised an eyebrow. 

“Trying to get me in the bed already?” She teased, but he could tell it wasn’t directed at him; any man would have gotten the same response. 

Trying not to think of all the times River had tried to get him into that same bed, no matter who was injured, the Doctor cleared his throat and shook his head. 

“‘Course not. Was talking about. The table.” River laughed, but dropped it. She lifted up her skirt to expose a bloodied, old bandage on her left thigh, looking at it in contemplation. She continued to assess herself, revealing bruises and gashes all over her body (as well as a suspicious burn mark). The Doctor’s hearts thumped faster every time he saw a new injury, infuriated that the universe dare touch her like that. Every once and a while he would think, ‘oh, that’s where that scar came from’, or ‘so that’s what it looked like before the accidental trip’, but most of his thoughts were determinedly watching her. 

After ten minutes of this, she looked up at him, smiled, and jumped off the table. Ignoring his protests, she limped over to the cabinets, trying to find the right medicines. The Doctor approached her, and she visibly shifted to the next cabinet.

“River. It’ll take you ages to find the right medicine.”

“I have to learn sometime.”

“I could help you if you told me how you got these injuries--”

“--I don’t want your help with this--”

“River!”

He hadn’t meant to do it (had he?). If he had had any thought attached to it at all, he would have stopped before it had even solidified (would he?). But he didn’t (did he? Did he just choose to ignore it?) think about it, and before he knew it, her wrist was in his hands and he was pulling her towards him because he had to hold her and help her and she wouldn’t listen and--

The pain, though somewhat expected, broke him out of it. Blinking from the sting of the slap, he stood completely still while she ripped her hand away and skittered further down the cabinets. In a blink, the place rearranged, and River almost ran into the cupboard marked “USE” that the TARDIS plopped in front of her. She wasted no time, grabbing what she could and breezing past him back to the table, where she set to work.

Finally coming to his senses, the Doctor turned back towards her. With a frustrated bump into the counter and a mumbled ‘thanks, dear’, he slowly walked back over to her area. 

A substantial amount of time passed as River undressed wounds, washed off gashes, and dabbed at burns, until he decided to break the silence.

“I’m sorry.” 

“A slap will do that to you.” She didn’t even look up.

“I’m not sorry you slapped me.” That got her attention; though she didn’t look at him, her movements slowed, and he could tell she was interested. “I’m sorry that I deserved it.”

Fidgeting, he took out his sonic screwdriver, scanning her quickly. She resumed care of herself. 

He had only been scanning to do something, so he almost dropped the screwdriver when he read it. As it were, he fumbled quite a lot. “River!” He shouted, not even sorry for making her jump this time. “You have a broken rib!” 

“Ah, well. Wouldn’t you know?” She was trying to keep it from him, but she was too young; now that he knew it was obvious, so obvious, and how hadn’t he seen it before? 

Every part of him ached to hold her, touch her, comfort her; but even as he went to move she tsk-ed in obvious disapproval.

“Please, let me help you.”

“I don’t want you touching me.” 

The carefully calculated, strained words broke something deep inside of him, and the Doctor nodded in defeat. “I’ll ask the TARDIS to move my study next-door. If you need anything, holler or come on over. If you need to be anywhere, you know how to fly her.” Silently, he left the room, waiting for his River to follow, to ask for his help, to need him in the way he knew she did but she didn’t know yet. To come and flirt, and tease, or at least tell him that she was going to be okay, or that she would come back, or even that she was leaving now.