Chapter Text
It felt weird to return to Leadworth after years and years of living and studying in vibrant cities like London.
Leadworth was just as River remembered; the same small town, boring, everyone is knees deep in everyone else buisness. Part of her would regret it, if not for the fact that she at least had friends in Leadworth
And a job.
River dragged her suitcase up the familiar stone path. Before she could knock, the front door flew open, and Amy Pond practically launched herself out.
“RIVER SONG, AS I LIVE AND BREATHE!”
River was wrapped in a hug that could’ve cracked her ribs. “Hello Amy.”
Rory appeared behind her, trying to pry Amy off. “Let her breathe”
Amy ignored him entirely and pulled River inside.
“Roman, go handle the suitcases.” Amy said.
The house was exactly the same — warm, cluttered with blankets and photographs, smelling faintly of cinnamon and laundry detergent. A home, whether they meant to or not.
River dropped her bag by the stairs. “Are you sure you’re okay with me staying here until I find somewhere? I know I sprung this on you and—"
Amy made a horrified sound. “If you even think about apologising, I will put you back outside.”
“We want you here,” Rory said gently, already heading to the kitchen for tea. Because Rory always translated Amy’s enthusiasm into coherent language.
River exhaled through a smile — one that was tired but real.
They settled around the kitchen table; the old wood surface painted with years of shared meals and messy projects.
They spent ages catching up about the past couple of years.
“So, you’re both married now?” River asked.
“Yes, it’s been a year.” Rory said.
“How was it?” River asked.
“Beautiful. I cried like ten times. Amy got sloshed.” Rory laughed.
“Classic,” River smiled. “Sorry, I couldn’t come. I… well, don’t suppose I have much of an excuse. I was just very immersed in the PhD.”
“I can’t say I completely understand,” Amy said, “But I’ll accept it.”
“I’ll be a better friend going forward, I promise!” She insisted. That was part of her reason for coming back home. Her PhD had had a chokehold on her, and she was glad to have finished and now have secured a Post Doc.
“So,” Rory said, “When do you start your post doctorate?”
“Next week.”
“How do you feel about it?” He asked.
“I don’t know. A bit nervous. It’s always a mixed back with being a woman in Theoretical Physics. I spent half my PhD dealing with men flirting at me and offering to do things for me. And don’t get me wrong, I love a good flirting session, but they were treating me as if being pretty meant I wasn’t smart.”
“Ah,” Rory said.
“Some men ignored me; others were outright sexist. Many were decent and stuff but again, you never know. I am hoping my Principal Investigator is decent.” River said.
“If you want, I can ask around for you? My friend works as a Professor at the Theoretical Physics department.”
“Oh, that would be great! My PI is called John Smith.”
Silence.
Amy and Rory exchanged a look.
“Oh,” Amy said.
Rory winced. “That will be… fun”
River set her mug down slowly. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Well, as mentioned, John is my friend.” Amy said hesitantly.
“So he can’t be that bad?” River asked.
Amy leaned forward. “Right. So How do we put this… He’s brilliant. Like… actual genius brilliant. The sort of brilliant that turns other brilliant people into insecure puddles.”
“Are you saying he will intimidate me?” River asked.
“No, not at all.” Amy said. “You are probably pretty much as good as he is. After all, one does not go from completing a degree and PhD in archaeology in three years to then mastering physics like that. It is more so his demeanour. It makes even the most awkward genius on edge.”
“I guess, what Amy is trying to say is” Rory added carefully, “he has the emotional expression range of a particularly reserved stone.”
Amy nodded. “The man could attend his own surprise party and look like he’s identifying a fungus sample.”
River huffed a laugh. “So he’s… odd?”
“No,” Amy said. “Wounded.”
Rory shot her a look — the not this conversation looks.
Amy waved it off but softened. “He’s not unkind. Just… closed off. Like very”
“Just how closed off are we talking?” River asked.
“Like, he gives absolutely nothing. He doesn’t care for, well politeness..” Amy explained.
River blinked. “You know him well, then?”
Amy shrugged. “We’re friends. I think there’s a rule for Scots – when you’re the only few, you’ve got to get on. He shows up for Sunday dinners sometimes. He’s just—” she frowned, searching for words that didn’t sound like warnings— “Well, when he comes over, he is quite surprised every time I speak as if he didn’t come to my house. I’ve never been over to his. But he’s a good man. I suppose, he is someone who doesn’t let anyone too close so at this point I am pretty much his best friend.”
“That’s comforting,” River deadpanned.
They all laughed, the warmth returning.
The rest of the night passed in soft conversation and half-told stories and comfortable quiet.
When River finally went upstairs, Amy leaned in the doorway, arms folded.
“You’ll be alright, you know.”
River looked back at her, tired but steady. “I think so.”
The Physics building at Leadworth University was older than most of its faculty — stone pillars, high windows, draft-heavy corridors that smelled faintly of chalk dust and old books despite the fact everything had been digital for years.
River balanced her coffee in one hand and her folder in the other, scanning office numbers until she reached:
Professor John Smith
Senior Lecturer — Theoretical Physics
The door was closed.
She hesitated only a moment before knocking.
A voice — low, even — answered:
“Come in.”
She stepped inside.
The office was… exactly what she expected and nothing like it at all. Books stacked in uneven towers, floor to ceiling shelves overflowing, chalkboard walls covered in equations dense enough to make most people dizzy. A vinyl record player in the corner. A coat draped neatly on a stand.
And behind the desk:
John.
She recognized him from a distance once, years ago, on a panel at a conference. At the time, she had thought he looked a bit like a portrait — composed, sharp-angled, unmoving.
Up close, it was worse. Or better. Depending on perspective.
Tall. Grey hair and eyes an unreadable grey-blue, steady and assessing.
And no smile.
Not disapproval, not boredom — simply neutral. As though smiling were something done only with intention, never automatically.
He stood as she entered — which surprised her.
“Dr. Song.” He offered his hand.
His voice was deeper than she expected — quiet but certain.
River took his hand. “Professor Smith. Thank you for meeting with me.”
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Call me John. Titles complicate conversation.”
The corners of her mouth lifted — involuntary. “Alright. John.”
He sat again, posture straight but not rigid. “I’ve reviewed your dissertation and your early publications.”
River’s pulse stumbled. “You have?”
“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “If I am to be your principal investigator, I should know your work.”
She studied him — or tried to. He did not fidget, did not glance away, did not fill silence with explanation. He simply was.
His stillness was startling.
“Your methodology is sound,” he continued. “Your conclusions are ambitious. Some would call them overly ambitious, but I don’t share that opinion.”
River blinked. “Oh.
Most people tell me to rein myself in.”
“They lack imagination.”Tone unchanged. Completely matter of fact.
Her chest warmed. This was not praise. This was respect.
He stood again — restless but not agitated — and picked up a piece of chalk, writing three equations on the board.
“I’d like to see where you take these ideas next,” he said. “There is room for something… elegant here. Something new.”
River leaned forward, drawn in. “May I?” She gestured to the chalk.
He stepped aside immediately — not performative courtesy, just simple, instinctive space-giving.
She added a line — her idea — beside his.
He watched her hand, not her face.
When she finished, she stepped back.
He considered the board for a long moment. His expression didn’t change, but something in the atmosphere did — like air tightening.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s it.”
River felt something inside her go very warm, very softly.
He returned to his seat looking pensive and River felt awkward.
“Our arrangement is simple,” he said. “You work. I support. If you need resources, you ask. I do not hover nor babysit. But I do not disappear.”
River’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s… clear.”
He tilted his head again — something like curiosity flickering through his expression.
“Clarity is important,” he said. “Especially for those who have probably spent their scientific career being misunderstood.”
Her breath caught — just a fraction.
He didn’t know her. But somehow, it felt like he did. She supposed that it was probably a very easy deduction – after all, she was a woman in science, and physics no less. Yet, it felt nice to be acknowledged. And then — just like that — he looked away, already pulling a stack of papers toward him, the moment dissolving as though it had never existed.
“I am accessible through email. I have a personal assistant. Clara Oswald. If you require a meeting, please book through her.”
“Okay.”
“Email me your current proposal,” he said. “We’ll begin from there.”
River stood — slowly — gathering her things, steadying herself.
“Thank you,” she said. And meant it more than she expected to.
He lifted his eyes once more.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Song.” Not warm. But genuine.
She doesn’t know why she lingered but she did. There was something maddening about Professor John Smith. It was the way he seemed to clearly respect her – in a way she didn’t have to earn – and yet he spoke to her with such precision and brevity.
She cleared her throat lightly. “I, ah — I’m staying with Amy and Rory. They said you’re a friend of theirs.” She doesn’t know why she mentioned and felt quite embarrassed when John looked at her.
“Yes,” he said curtly before turning back to his chalk board.
She stepped out into the corridor — heartbeat slightly too quick — and closed the door behind her.
Only when she was halfway down the hall did she let her exhale out. Well. She understood the warning now. Not because he was harsh but because he was careful.
When she gets home. Amy places a bowl of pasta in front of her.
“So, how did you find John?” She asked.
“He was interesting. Very… sparse.” River responded.
“That he is.” Rory chuckled.
The lab was on the third floor, at the quiet end of a long corridor that smelled faintly of ethanol, soldering heat, and chalk dust. River followed John through the hallway, her coffee still warm in her hands, her pulse settling into a steady rhythm. The hum of fluorescent lights and the muffled clatter of distant experiments formed a background that felt strangely like belonging.
John walked with long, unhurried strides. Not the purposeful stomp of a busy academic or the aimless drift of someone avoiding work—more like he always knew exactly where he was going and never saw the need to rush to get there.
People nodded to him as they passed.
He nodded back to exactly one of them.
River noticed.
The rest got nothing more than silent acknowledgement: the faintest inclination of his head, something measured, reserved. If she hadn’t been watching closely, she might have thought him cold.
But she was watching closely. She couldn’t help it, but if there was something she already knew about John, it was that she needed to watch him carefully in case she missed something.
He used his attention like a scalpel—precise, sparing, never wasted.
When he stopped at the lab door, he didn’t simply push it open. He tapped the handle with his knuckles, listening for movement inside before entering. Not out of fear—out of habit.
Inside, the room was warm, bright, and scattered with mismatched desks, wires, and a blackboard half-filled with chalked equations. River’s eyes caught on a scrawl that looked like John’s handwriting—sharp angles, looping arcs, impatient and brilliant.
John gestured around the space.
“This will be your primary workstation,” he said, motioning to a desk in the corner with a large monitor and an old-fashioned corkboard pinned with bits of paper. “The lab has open-hours policies—but if you need it after midnight, you’ll need to register keycard access. I’ll authorise you myself.”
She blinked. “You’d trust me with after-hours access? Already?”
He glanced at her.
“You’re a researcher. You need freedom to think. Restriction would be counterproductive.”
River smiled—small, involuntary.
Her PhD supervisor treated lab access like nuclear launch codes.
John treated it like oxygen.
He stepped over to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote her name in the corner with slow strokes:
There was a knock at the door.
A young woman with brunette poked her head in.
“ John—Dean Harris just emailed. The external funding proposal needs to be rewritten today because apparently the reviewers ‘prefer simpler language.’”
John’s expression did not change.
“Of course they do,” he murmured. Then, louder, “I’ll handle it. Thank you, Clara.”
Clara nodded, relieved, and left.
River raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to rewrite an entire funding proposal because the reviewers can’t handle complexity?”
“Yes.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Yes. Indeed.” Still deadpan.
River huffed a quiet laugh.
John turned to Clara. “Introduce yourself.”
“Right. I am Clara Oswald. Long suffering personal assistant to this pain in an arse.” She said generally indicating John.
John looked as if he were almost going to smile but then he thought better of it.
“I am Doctor River Song. The new postdoc student.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Well,” Clara said, assessing River with a quick, warm smile, “if you need anything at all — supplies, room bookings, or someone to tell you whether he’s being enigmatic or just accidentally rude — come to me first. Saves time.”
“I am not rude.” John said simply.
“Mm,” Clara hummed. “You are, though. Accidentally. With flair.”
River bit back a laugh.
John paused, pen held between his fingers. “Clarifying information that will prevent unnecessary confusion is not rudeness.”
“You called me a pudding brain last most when I got something wrong. Though I suppose that was deliberate rudeness.” Clara said. Though, much to River’s surprise, Clara sounded gently exasperated as opposed to offended.
“You were being a pudding brain.” He shrugged.
“I know you struggle with using human words John, “Clara started.
“That doesn’t make sense. I always use human words.” John said, slightly prickly
“Barely,” Clara replied, with the confidence of someone who had tenure in this exact argument.
River laughed. It slipped out before she could stop it.
John’s gaze flicked to her — quick, sharp — and then softened, just by a fraction.
“If he starts pacing and muttering at three in the morning, just throw a blanket over him. He forgets to sleep.”
“I do not—”
River watched them banter curiously. There was something about Clara that John seemed to find ease in because though the man was what some could call, impolite, there seemed to be some thickly veiled fondness.
“You do,” Clara said, already at the door. “If you need me, I’m in the admin office two floors down.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
John cleared his throat. “I shall be off now too.” He nodded before disappearing.
River settled into the rhythm of the department the way one eased into cold water — slowly, carefully, allowing the shock to pass through her bones before warmth began to bloom.
Theoretical Physics was a strange little ecosystem.
Students rushed down corridors with half-formed ideas spilling out of notebooks. Professors argued loudly over coffee, equations scribbled on napkins. Grant deadlines hovered over the building like storm clouds. Nothing was ever still — except for John Smith.
John moved through the halls like a quiet current, steady and unchanging. People parted around him without meaning to. Some looked intimidated. Some looked reverent. Most looked a little confused.
River did not try to speak to him unnecessarily. And as promised, he did not hover.
But he noticed things.
On the fifth morning, she arrived with her hair pinned back in a clip that was slowly losing its structural integrity. She tried to fix it with one hand while carrying her laptop, coffee, and notebook.
Without a word, John reached out and took the coffee from her hand so she could use both to fix her hair.
He did not speak. He did not even look at her. He simply held the cup until she reached for it again, then gave it back before walking away with no commentary, awkwardness or familiarity as if the gesture were the most obvious thing in the world.
River met Bill one week in as she was sat in the Physics common room.
River had claimed a corner seat, notebook open, pen hovering as she chased the shape of an idea — one she could feel forming, delicate and bright, just out of reach.
She didn’t hear footsteps.
But she felt the shift — the sudden presence of energy, confidence, colour.
“Oi!” a voice called out, bright and warm. “You must be River Song.”
River looked up to see a woman a bit younger than her, with a beautiful afro. She was already halfway across the room, dropping her backpack onto the table with a dramatic thump.
“Bill Potts,” she said, sticking out her hand. “First year. Resident ‘asks too many questions’ person.”
River shook her hand, amused. “River Song. Postdoc. Also guilty of asking too many questions.”
“Oh good,” Bill beamed. “We’ll get on.”
She plopped down into the seat beside her, scooting close as though they had known each other for years.
“So,” Bill said, eyes bright and curious, “you're the one who proposed that manifold collapse theory extension that overturned half of Anderson’s symmetry assumptions.”
River blinked. “…Yes.” River isn’t used to first year students knowing her research.
Bill grinned like she had just unwrapped a gift. “John said it annoyed many a Nobel prize winning physicist.”
“John—?” River repeated, startled. “He… mentioned me?”
“Mmhm.” Bill began rummaging through her bag for something, speaking with casual confidence. “When he was telling me he was getting a new postdoc.”
River’s heart did a small, unexpected thing. A warm, startled tremor.
“Interesting.” She said. “Do you and John talk a lot?” She asked, unable to hold in her curiosity.
Bill found her chapstick, uncapped it. “All the time. He’s my personal tutor. Well sort off. I worked at the canteen and then he invited me to meet because he noticed me at one of his lectures smiling when I didn’t understand something.”
“Oh. River said.
Bill laughed. “He asked me why I was attending his lectures and I told him about a girl I served chips to who was proper cute.”
“And then what happened?” River said. She was curious – the idea of talking to John about a girl she found cute sounded ballistic. She could not imagine his reactions. Would maintain his neutral demeanour or would he gape at her like she was growing a second head.
“He asked how that had anything to do with what he had asked. I said I didn’t know, that I was hoping it would develop into something and then he asked me I came to university to serve chips.”
“Ouch.” River said.
“Yeah, I was proper offended. I was ready to leave and never attend his lectures again. And then he agreed to be my personal tutor and I was like, I don’t even study at this uni and he said he would figure it out.” She shrugged.
“Damn, that is wild.” River said.
“Yeah. One day I was working at the canteen, the next day, like I am a student.”
“How do you find talking to him?” River asked.
Bill shrugged. “I mean, he is him. He doesn’t tell me much about his life, but he is a good listener.”
“Interesting.” River said.
“Speak of the devil,” Bill said.
John stepped into the doorway. He looked between them — River seated, Bill half sprawled — and River braced to be chastised for unprofessionalism. Her PhD instincts screamed don’t look like you’re socialising, they’ll assume you’re unserious.
But John only nodded once.
John shifted a stack of papers under his arm. “Dr. Song, if you have time later, I would like to discuss your model extension. The one concerning the symmetry break at high-energy thresholds.”
River straightened. “Of course. I— yes. Absolutely.”
John’s gaze held hers — for a moment longer than necessary. Not intense. Not searching. Just… seeing.
Then he nodded to Bill — the acknowledgment gentle, familiar.
“Miss Potts.”
“Professor. How are you?”
“Well. And you?” He said.
“I’m good! Had a date with the girl I mentioned, you know, Penny. It was great. She asked if we could go out again next week.”
River looked between them slightly baffled. John, neutral as ever nodded. “Nice.” John said before turning and leaving.
“See, like I said. He’s a great listener.” Bill said.
River looked at Bill slightly bewildered.