[ The loss of Amy and Rory had broken him in ways that felt beyond repair for a long time. So broken was he then that he forgot his own promise to himself, to the universe, caught up within the darkness of his own pain. River had lost just as much - more even - but because it was a loss they'd both felt, naturally the Doctor's own pain had eclipsed hers. This is the first time he's been with his wife and had a moment to step outside of his own pain to actually comfort her. He's never done it before, and she's more than deserved it. Call it old age, weariness, an accumulation of pain upon pain, his hearts scarred sometimes beyond his own understanding, but now it's just made him...a bit more reflective than he's been in the time she's known him.
And when a man like him reflects, well, it's not that he's ever lacked the awareness of just how dreadful he is and can be sometimes, but he struggles to take that awareness and make it into something useful. Losing Amy and Rory changed a lot of that in him, he thinks, he hopes. Something good had to come from that, and from losing River. Could it make him kinder, as Amy had once remarked? Make him more loving? What does that word mean, loving. Is it this? Is it just being close to his wife and holding her through the pain? Could it be as simple as that? Has he run all this time from the simplest of moments, trying to stall the pain that's going to come. What a ridiculous notion, really. There's no stalling it, no delaying it. It will come because everything ends. All that he's done is made the choice for both of them and deprived them of so many good things.
He'd told Clara only recently that he wished he could be better at not running out on the people he cares about (loves). Can he put that sentiment into action? Can he be what his wife needs most? He hasn't done so far, not even close. He's not sure he could ever be what she deserves, because she deserves so much better than him. There he goes again, lost in his own inner turmoil.
For once - for maybe the first time - it can and must be about her. Not him.
And so, what does she need from him? Words? Hope? Truth? Touch? All of it or none of it. How does he do this?
With her head still against his shoulder, the Doctor acts with his first thought, which is to cradle the back of her head, pressing his own face a little bit closer.
River was a little girl stolen from her parents, her whole life written for her. Alone, abandoned. He thinks back to her rot - solitude - and his fingers curl into her hair a bit, in a way that might almost be soothing. He's comforted so many friends just like this. Why is it with River that he questions himself? He knows; she's so important, he'll muck it up somehow, he always does, so he fears himself with her sometimes. But she deserves better than that, too. She deserves him trying. ]
We all need someone, no matter who or what we are. What happened in there, it was a trick. [ On some level, he knows she understands. It's not to patronize her, but to reinforce that it wasn't real. ] You are her mother, River, she knows that, you know that. Nothing can take that away from either of you.
[ It's important, because that part is real. What she feels for Charlotte is real and will always be. ]
no subject
And when a man like him reflects, well, it's not that he's ever lacked the awareness of just how dreadful he is and can be sometimes, but he struggles to take that awareness and make it into something useful. Losing Amy and Rory changed a lot of that in him, he thinks, he hopes. Something good had to come from that, and from losing River. Could it make him kinder, as Amy had once remarked? Make him more loving? What does that word mean, loving. Is it this? Is it just being close to his wife and holding her through the pain? Could it be as simple as that? Has he run all this time from the simplest of moments, trying to stall the pain that's going to come. What a ridiculous notion, really. There's no stalling it, no delaying it. It will come because everything ends. All that he's done is made the choice for both of them and deprived them of so many good things.
He'd told Clara only recently that he wished he could be better at not running out on the people he cares about (loves). Can he put that sentiment into action? Can he be what his wife needs most? He hasn't done so far, not even close. He's not sure he could ever be what she deserves, because she deserves so much better than him. There he goes again, lost in his own inner turmoil.
For once - for maybe the first time - it can and must be about her. Not him.
And so, what does she need from him? Words? Hope? Truth? Touch? All of it or none of it. How does he do this?
With her head still against his shoulder, the Doctor acts with his first thought, which is to cradle the back of her head, pressing his own face a little bit closer.
River was a little girl stolen from her parents, her whole life written for her. Alone, abandoned. He thinks back to her rot - solitude - and his fingers curl into her hair a bit, in a way that might almost be soothing. He's comforted so many friends just like this. Why is it with River that he questions himself? He knows; she's so important, he'll muck it up somehow, he always does, so he fears himself with her sometimes. But she deserves better than that, too. She deserves him trying. ]
We all need someone, no matter who or what we are. What happened in there, it was a trick. [ On some level, he knows she understands. It's not to patronize her, but to reinforce that it wasn't real. ] You are her mother, River, she knows that, you know that. Nothing can take that away from either of you.
[ It's important, because that part is real. What she feels for Charlotte is real and will always be. ]