A/N: Hey guys, this is my first 11/River fic, and I like it a bit, so tell me if I got the characterization right and things. I'm not very adept at romance, but I try! Let me know what you think, and remember that if you review, I love you!
Disclaimer: I stole the characters from a lovely Scottish man called Steven Moffat. I must be a problem child.
She always said that he wasn't romantic enough. It had happened for the first time after one too many kisses over the console, grease on his lips and adrenaline pumping through their bloodstreams. After a few too many complaints, he had taken her to Paris and kissed her under the stars to make a point. After a few too many points had been made, she stopped complaining. Even after her complaints ceased, he stopped kissing her over the console and in the library and over breakfast, each kiss lending a specific taste to her lipstick, time and dust and eggs. Sometimes after they'd been fighting, he'd take her to a planet with an unpronounceable name and exceptional food, and they wouldn't talk but he'd watch her and hope she was happy, his human. After a bit too much plastic romance, she began to miss the adrenaline of kissing in the vortex and under the floor and the way he held her hand and dragged her out of harm's way when she was too stupid to do it herself. River always said that The Doctor was unromantic, but she had never claimed not to love it.
He always said she was too dramatic. It had happened for the first time after one too many guns pressed against his temple, the murmur of her voice in his ear when he started at the cold metal. After a few too many complaints, she had walked straight up in front of him, her eyes locked on his. She'd shoved him gently to the wall and kissed him softly, just to prove a point. After a few too many points had been made and the gun put away, he stopped complaining. Even after his complaints ceased, she stopped surprising him with hungry kisses in the heat of sieges and invasions and peacetimes, the taste of her lipstick heavy with apprehension. Sometimes after they'd been fighting, she'd come into the library and lay her head on his lap, playing with his fingers, and they wouldn't talk, but she'd watch him and wonder if he was happy, her Time Lord. After a bit too much of manufactured calmness, he began to miss the gun against his temple and the bites on his neck and the way she held his hand and dragged him out of harm's way when he was too stupid to do it himself. The Doctor always said that River was too dramatic, but he never claimed not to love it.
The woman of passion and the man of adventure held hands and dragged each other across the stars.