River smirks, and grabs his bum again as the guard’s beady, wet black eye rounds on her, then slips around and avoids them in favour of a slender, long-haired man in green and gold and brown pale-patterned Chinese robes - those robes being the exact style of Mencius the poet, she wagers- behind them, his face turned away from them, and so too, the crowds.
Behind River, Borusa, short and blonde and little girlish, simply… allows herself to gape- she doesn’t have to fake anything, and she knows it. She never had time to visit the Museum on Gallifrey…
“Hey, Old Man!”
Suddenly a large yet delicate hand is taking hers, whisking her through the crowds.
She looks up, her diminutive face puffy and annoyed.
It is the long-haired man; his hands are smooth, and long. And squarish.
A gasp catches in her throat before her gaze even touches his face.
His long finger brushes her lips, asking her silence; there is gentleness there- not quite the gentleness of a man who would carry her for metres down a malfunctioning time bridge through the Citadel while she slept on his back, but all the same, it is a gentleness. Of a kind.