Doctor Who: The Legends of River Song

The Doctor winked at something that must have been a camera, and suddenly, the night lifted entirely, and suddenly we were in a perfect, golden dawn, in a meadow, next to the empty bridge, wildflowers everywhere and the warm sun on our necks. ‘Picnic?’
After we’d eaten, he lay back, sighing in contentment, his head in my lap, and started pointing out the inconsistencies in the sky system. I could have mentioned that he was criticising a replica of a wholly imaginary atmosphere, but I don’t think he’d have cared. Then he stopped in mid-flow and reached up, one of his fingers – they seem, through every iteration, to stay abnormally long; Time Lord fingers are always a dead giveaway – twirling up through the curls in my hair.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he said. ‘You look sad. I hate sad. It makes me itchy.’ I looked down at him. ‘I know,’ I said, and I stroked his cheek. ‘It’s nothing.’ ‘But you should still tell me, River-Runs-Deep. Shouldn’t you? Should you? Is this one of those things I always get wrong, like flowers are GOOD presents and trees are NOT GOOD presents? Mystery of the Universe right there.’
‘Mystery of the Universe,’ I said, breathing out and trying to let go of the idea of that extraordinary thing I yearned for; life that remakes life on and on and on. That no matter what the science tells you, the fact that something alive can grow inside you, something brand new and unique – even though it is made of the same mix of stardust and honey and hope as everything else that ever lived – is a mystery; that every baby is a piece of magic.

It began, as things so often do, with the Doctor. He arrived at my door to pick me up. I have told him to stop doing that. I’m perfectly capable of managing my own escapes.
He was in his bow-tie-and-chin incarnation. As I would later learn, he hadn’t been to Lake Silencio yet. If he had, he’d have known why showing his face – any of his faces – in Stormcage was a terrible idea.
To be fair to him, he had come in disguise.
Being less fair, the disguise was a twentieth-century British bobby’s helmet. He seemed to think this rendered him unrecognisable. A square of psychic paper and a gormless expression can work miracles – luckily for him. Behind the guards’ backs, he doffed the headgear and pointed to his grinning face as if revealing his identity to me.
The guards agreed, with some misgivings, to hand me over to him – as long as we were shackled together. I certainly had no problem with that. The Doctor did his best to avoid my gaze as he applied the handcuffs. Dear Diary, how I love it when I can turn him bright red with a look.