“I may have mentioned the design to a prominent tailor, but I honestly don’t see how you can stand to wear that thing, even if it is extremely comfortable… and sexist.”
River Song takes the Doctor’s hand in hers and pats his knuckles gently. “You’d think you were pregnant, the way you carry on, my love.” Her fingers lace in his as they walk down the blue-grey path to the square of purple park grass.
His fingers clench suddenly away from her, and he’s bending, his hand a tight claw against his stomach.
Vision, for the Doctor, becomes a narrow focus, a single pinpoint of brightness at the end of a dark, square tunnel. Billions of tunnels. He’s in a maze, running. And suddenly the maze is full of light.
River helps him to one of the benches, the nearest one. It has a stone drink holder on the side.
“My god, Theta- are you all right?” Now her fingers brush his face, but he’s not listening. His forehead is hot, and her own hand is on her stomach now, checking for temperature differences she might have missed.
“Not you, Melody,” he manages, gagging against what he knows is coming. He hates himself for it. “It’s a friend of mine. Please go and get us a nice basket of fried Pnyy and veg chips, the ones… with the…” He grabs her hand, squeezing a little too tightly; she feels a joint pop. “Sorry, my love… you can’t meet this one yet. He might shoot you, because he doesn’t love you yet, and that won’t make it very fun for me!”
She ruffles his hair. It sprawls wetly down over his forehead, and a chuckle escapes her. He looks like a drowned rabbit.