They paint a picture, she and he. The stars themselves forced alignment and readjustment at the very mention of their names. Whole galaxies trembled at the sound of syllables that punched holes in the ozone and ripped Life from the manacles of Death: River and the Doctor. They met at parties and bewitched the waitstaff and promised each other kisses under mistletoe only to separate and find distance across black time and blue space. They wore asteroids on their belts as they waltzed across heaven, hell, and home. They played the world like a puzzle and promised to set her right again with a kiss, with a shake of the hands, with a meeting, with a parting of ways.
Sometimes, she'd smile into her drink as she watched him run past. He'd be carting some companion or three and he'd run right past, his eyes never registering her. If she asked him later, he'd remember nothing of a woman watching, only the thrill of a chase or a hunt. She agreed with a grin and a flash of teeth.
Sometimes, she'd make a game of it. Based on stories, she'd show up, dressed up all for the part. He never noticed her if she wore a wig and kept her eyes to herself (although that was easier said than done). Sometimes, he'd play, too, and he'd stop to give her a wink and a smile and a polite little wave. He didn't play as much when he was younger. He'd still squawk about how she shouldn't have done that, his arms flailing and his bowtie slightly askew and his words all lies but he wouldn't know it yet. And then when he proposed the game to her, his eyes flashing and his smile bright, she'd only laughed and kissed his nose.
She'd already won.
And so he proposed a new game, a game where they build hydrogen rockets under the bedsheets and giggle over comets they'd never seen but would like to some day. On days like these, she would marvel just how far they've come from death and war and how far they traveled to reach love and games.
Then she remembered every toppled star and spilled galaxy, every battle cry and baby's wail, every sign that said keep out and every locked door that led them right to where they were: painting pictures in honey and words in beds that were not theirs. They had to make homes from heartbreak, or else River and the Doctor would never win another game again.