It's More a Matter of Space than of Time.

Third left, down the yellow corridor, and another right. Second door on the right side. Large, rounded, and mahogany, it was surprisingly archaic for the ever-childish Doctor. He made sure to place his own bedroom within the deeper core of his floating mansion. The companions were nice and comforting, but it would be a bit of a nuisance if they barged in after he had taken his shower, or while he was carefully perusing the information about a fatal cosmic creature he was about to face. He occasionally slept, 8 hours a week at most. That's all he really needed.

In this instance, he had had a particularly gooey spat with a slightly perturbed Ood, and was in desperate need of a shower and fresh tweed. The door moaned as it opened, a sound which was soon accompanied by The Doctor's shocked and humiliatingly high-pitched squeak.

"Hush, sweetie. Calm down. It's just me." There, perched on the TARDIS-colored California King, was a familiar face, with a mane of thick golden hair hanging over the

Gallifreyan-carvings in the headboard behind her. She was thumbing through a weapons catalogue, dawning a light-blue, fluffy pajama set patterned with stars.

"River, what are you doing?" He managed to get the words out, though he was still struggling through a haze of confoundment. Her eyes didn't leave the pages of the magazine.

"Well, I'm looking for a birthday present. Well, not really, I don't know when my birthday actually is, but the anniversary of when my father had to mop up Amy's-"

He interrupted her ramble (it was interesting with River and guns; she would get excited, rambly, bumbling… become a little like him, honestly. It made him smirk the slightest bit).

"No, River, I mean what are you doing here?," he motioned his fingers around the room to illustrate his point, "And I'm not getting you a gun. I'll give you fabulous adventure and a lovely dress with a bow on the front." (Although he would probably throw in a thigh holster for good measure.) He hadn't noticed River had looked up from her magazine with an eyebrow raised in a frighteningly critical way.

"We'll see what I get. You better hope it's one of these beautiful things. And I am here," she paused, mocking him by carelessly waving her fingers around, "because I wanted to spend the night." Smug soon painted itself all over the Doctor's face.

"I do like the sound of that," he muttered, low and growl-like. He approached her with wandering hands, stopping when he remembered he was still covered in Ood slime. Smug had replaced itself with Pout.

"No, I don't mean that way, as tempting as it sounds. I am exhausted, and I mean sleep, as in closed eyes and snoring."

"But in this room, River? How did you find it? You have your own room! I made it for you! It has a gun rack, for God's sake."

"The vortex manipulator dropped me off here. And it's time you were introduced to the concept of sharing." There was hint of impatience in the tone of her voice and the motion of her teeth.

"We were perfectly fine! I liked our set-up! Your space, my space, and then all our little lovelyfuntimes in other parts of the ship."

River's attention was back onto her catalogue. "It's traditional for a husband and wife to share a bed. Hence the term, marriage bed."

"Traditional? In what cultures?" The Doctor's indignance dripped from his whiney words.

"Enough," she droned out coldly, without a blink.

"River, I don't like this."

"I don't like the stupid hats you wear. Now, you are going to go take a shower and wash that disgusting whatever-it-is off of yourself. You are going to not give one good damn that you are naked and in a towel, get dressed in your night clothes, and then lay here and read with me. Or fiddle with one of your sonic gadgets. As long as you are here." She ended her sentence sternly and fiercely, peeled the dark blue satin off of the other side of the bed, and patted a spot on the bare sheets, indicating his commanded station.

The Doctor lowered the volume of his voice, sounding more like a man again, instead a spoiled toddler. "River, why are you so adamant about this?"

"Because I want to sleep, for the first time, in my husband's arms. Now, I've committed many a felony, sweetie, and surely that isn't one of them." Her voice was rigid, but her eyes were dark green, doll-like, and more than pleading. Even with a disgruntled moan, and a melodramatic eye roll, he couldn't resist.

He drudged to the master bathroom his beloved TARDIS had conveniently placed a few inches from his gargantuan wardrobe and bedroom door.

10 minutes passed, filled with only the echoed sound of a sprinkling shower. The Doctor peeked out the door, apprehensive, eyes darting back and forth like some sort of frightened rodent. River chuckled from deep in her throat, the taunting evident in her voice.

"Oh, please, I've seen you wearing a lot less. Should I be worried that that Craig fellow can see you in a towel, but I can't?"

He crept out from behind the door, pale chest reflecting off of the lamp beside him. The Doctor was soon blown backwards by an unexpected set of pajama pants to the face.

"Catch. Or not. She put them at the front of the wardrobe. Your beloved Sexy is advocating this whole bedroom situation." River snuggled herself into the cotton cocoon, a wry smile on her face, waiting for him to join her. He held up his newfound attire. They were patterned with tiny fezzes. He let out a giggle.

"Cool," the Doctor muttered, enamored.

River turned her head and gazed at him with bright eyes. "Well, put them on, then." He used his fingers, motioning for her to turn her face. "Really? You're so awfully ridiculous." She stiffly placed a hand over each eye, blinding herself to her husband's embarrassment.

"And you love it," he grinned, putting one leg through the trousers. The Doctor wasn't surprised to see flashes of green and long lashes poking out through spread palms. "No peeking, Mrs. Song."

"But it's so tempting, honey," River admitted, a tinge of seductive growl in her confession. A tinge that sent him over the edge; his inhibitions soon melted with his wife's warmth.

With all preparation and strength he could spare, he, at that moment, decided to run and pounce on his wife like a hyper extended jack-in-the-box.

"Oof," she grunted out, as he knocked all the breath out of her. He could tell by her face, that she was not amused. Not that he particularly cared.

"You said you wanted me here," he paused to lightly kiss a pulse point on her neck, "and now I'm here."

"Get off of me," she chided, but a small chuckle escaped through her annoyance. River placed to palms on his chest, trying to flip him to her other side. He ended up taking her on a ride; she toppled over him so they were face to face. She smiled at him, her eyes and lips enlightened with compassion and general silliness.

"You're so awfully ridiculous.'

"Yeah, you mentioned that." He held her lips with his, tingles traveling from hairline to toenails.

"I thought you didn't like sharing," she whispered, rolling off of him, laying her head on his chest, eyes beginning to droop with the weight of slumber. He placed a tight arm around her shoulder, and within five minutes, her eyes were closed tight.

She was so warm, so soft, and she snored in an adorable, whinging way. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful; his trained assassin, his bespoke psychopath. As he twirled a blonde curl around his fingers, and held her limp hand within his other, "sharing" was only another conquered battle of space and time.