imogen poots for young river song

The Civil Wars : To Whom It May Concern
I missed you
But I haven’t met you
Oh but I want to
How I do

He still won’t tell her who he is, exactly. Just the Doctor. He says it as if it should be obvious. As if people just swan into your life every day with buckets of self-confidence and impossible legs akimbo, knowing every little thing about you, a daft smile slapped across a daft face. It’s a face that makes her think of statues, monoliths, crude pagan carvings that are all sharp angles and unsophisticated lines. She should find it utterly ridiculous and off-putting, but she finds she’s more of a fan of primitive art than she would have expected. And it suits him, anyway.

Sometimes, when she glances out of the corner of her eye especially quick, she catches him staring at her with an indefinable expression on that face. It’s a strange sort of longing and sadness, the expression an old friend would wear the day of a twenty-year reunion when he realizes you’re not the same person he used to know. It makes something twist inside of her, a dull ache of half-remembered pain, and when she asks him what’s wrong he simply shakes his head with a rueful smile.

“Oh, River Song,” is all he says.

Tonight he asks her to dance, and at first she refuses. She’s seen what he calls dancing, and hadn’t planned a concussion as part of the evening’s festivities. But he insists, one of those dangerously unpredictable arms slipping around her waist with a surprising amount of grace and gentleness. He’s fond of twirling, and she finds herself spinning across the dance floor in his arms.

She’d always told herself she wouldn’t be one of those girls, the silly ones who moon over boys. But it’s so comfortable here with him, so nice, and when he smiles at her she feels the warmth of the sun on her skin.

Tonight—and only tonight—she can overlook the outrageous hat he’s wearing.