ly then, when she slides her hand beneath the Doctor’s side does she notice the warm, sticky wet of new blood. She’d thought the wound would be closed, by now… had the blade gone that far in? If it had… in any case, the idiot’s lying on it. He must be cold, if he can’t feel that.
Rassilon says nothing. But all their noses find it. All their eyes can see. Their hindbrains know it by instinct.
In one swift spin, River Song turns and pivots, vaulting her agile body into a crouch as she presses the barrel of her fully primed pulse gun square to Rassilon’s forehead.
I’m sorry, my love.
With tear tracks reddening her cheeks, she fires, over and over, once for every horror story the Doctor ever told her.
Rassilon is still kneeling there, waiting with the rest of the Time Lords, his eyes on her like molten blue dwarfs.
She looks down at the gun as it slips from her hands, then she looks at her husband curled naked and unconscious on the floor. A Time Lady, dressed in 40’s grey silk and smelling of roses, hands her a black velvet robe lined with smooth, thick fur so fine that stars seem to glint from its folds; River takes it and drapes it over him, tucking it around the small mound of his stomach, his boy-neck. The hypothermic Gonzo mask between his legs, plus pom-poms. The frozen pink nipples like little mauve binkies.
“You clicked the safety on while I was checking that broken wing of yours, didn’t you, Benjamin?” River says, craning so their foreheads can touch.
Then she closes her eyes, and smiles.