Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Amy threw parties like she threw opinions—freely, noisily, and with reckless affection. River didn’t even know what the purpose of the party was, but there was booze and good food, so she couldn’t complain.

River sat on the edge of a corduroy armchair, half-listening as Jack explained something theatrical to Martha across the room while her eyes strayed, again, to the dining table.

Basil sat there, nursing a whisky like it was a social obligation. His posture was casual, but his face was a fortress. River hated that she knew this. She hated that she could read every variation of his silence.

Especially when he barely noticed her.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once since she came in—not when she hugged Amy, not when she joked with Jack, not when she sat beside him at the goddamn table like some desperate idiot.

She took a seat next to him at the dining table and leaned toward him anyway.

“How was your day?”

He blinked, slowly. Didn’t turn his head. “Good.”

That was it. No follow-up, no warmth, not even the brittle courtesy he offered to strangers.

She refused to be discouraged. “How’s the Indigo Project going?”

That made him pause. He shifted, just slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the stone. He hummed. “It’s going. Tedious, but productive.”

“Sounds about right.” She lifted her glass, drained the last of her wine, and tried not to look as gutted as she felt. He still hadn’t asked her a single thing.

Conversation drifted away from them like a lifeboat. He didn’t follow up. Didn’t offer a remark, a question, a compliment—nothing. She was just another body at the table to him. She could’ve screamed, and he might have asked her to keep it down.

River refilled her drink, even though she knew better. This wasn’t the kind of party where she wanted to feel blurry, but being in love with someone who could barely be bothered to acknowledge her existence was worse than any hangover.

He made her look so foolish, and she hated it.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he chatted—really chatted—with Clara later on. His face relaxed, just enough to be noticeable. He even smiled. Not the kind of grin he gave students when he was feeling smug, but a real, crinkled smile. Clara laughed at something he said, and he seemed pleased with himself.

She found herself questioning what Clara had that she didn’t. River didn’t know Clara too well, but from what she had seen, Clara was nice enough… but somewhat bland. Bland, and yet, Basil seemed at least a bit fascinated when she spoke.

Clara nudged him with her elbow, and it made River hate the girl. It wasn’t her fault, of course. And River doubted that Basil felt anything more than friendship for Clara, and yet, she felt so starved of attention that it ate her up.

And later, with Amy—God, with Amy—it was worse. There was a particular brand of irritable fondness in the way he interacted with her, like they had found some native tongue in their shared Scottishness. Amy teased him, and he played along, rolling his eyes but answering her. It wasn’t flirtatious, exactly, but it was intimate.

River knew she would have hated her best friend if she wasn’t happily married to Rory.

She swirled the wine in her glass, tongue pressed hard against the inside of her cheek.

What was it about her? What was it that made him fold up like a bad hand when she was around?

Amy glanced over at her just then, as if she felt the weight of River’s gaze. She mouthed something—‘you good?’—and River smiled too fast and nodded too hard. She was absolutely not good, but it was a party, and no one wanted the girl who was brooding in the corner about a man who thought the word "hello" was an inconvenience.

She tried to rejoin the conversation at her end of the table. Jack was telling some story about being mistaken for a magician on a cruise ship. Clara was shaking her head and hiding a grin. Rory was nodding along politely. River was smiling, nodding, chiming in. But her eyes—her stupid, traitorous eyes—flicked back to Basil.

He was laughing at something Amy said. Laughing. The real kind, head tilted back slightly, something bright and alive sparking in his expression.

River felt like she’d been punched.

It had been like this for six months.

Ever since she moved back to town, took up the post at the university, and met him. Basil Smith. Senior academic, beloved by students, brilliant in his field—quantum physics, of all the cold-blooded disciplines—and about as emotionally penetrable as a neutron star.

From the beginning, it had been this strange, precise dance. Polite disinterest. Always that. Never rude, not exactly. Just... detached. Like she was another variable in his calculations, not worth solving. He’d shaken her hand at departmental meetings, sat beside her in panels, contributed to shared research drives—but never once asked her about her life, her work, her thoughts.

It was maddening.

He’d nod in her direction, sometimes. That was the full range of his emotional engagement. And yet. And yet—she had fallen in love with him.

Of course she had. Because she was an idiot.

Amy was already halfway drunk and more than halfway delighted with herself when she called out over the music, “Basil, get the guitar. Come on. It's not a real party ‘til you make everyone uncomfortable with Scottish folk misery!”

There was a ripple of laughter and protest from the table.

Basil raised an eyebrow but didn’t object. “I told you I’d left it at home.”

“You liar,” Amy sing-songed. “It’s behind the bookcase. I saw the case when I was grabbing more glasses earlier.”

He sighed, set down his glass, and got up. The room shifted subtly—like they were all watching an animal they thought was tame stand up and stretch its claws.

River watched him cross the room and retrieve the guitar. His fingers were deft, practiced. He didn’t make a show of tuning it, just ran through a few easy chords and then started playing without preamble.

His voice was low, raw in that way that made it sound like he was keeping something back. He sang an old Scottish ballad, something wistful and sea-soaked and full of ghosts. The room hushed. Even Jack shut up, which was saying something.

River didn’t even pretend not to watch him now.

And here was the thing. Here was the problem. He was beautiful like this. Not in the superficial way—he wasn’t conventionally handsome, not sleek or polished—but in that quiet, magnetic way that made people lean closer without realizing. He was passionate, even if he tried to hide it. It came out in his voice, in the way he played, in the way he knew exactly how to wrap a lyric around your throat.

He was smart—frighteningly smart. She had read his papers. She had watched him take apart a convoluted funding pitch with surgical precision. He was the kind of mind that saw in equations and poetry all at once, even if he only ever admitted to the former.

And he cared. He did. About things. Ideas. Music. The environment. The way students learned. About Amy, clearly. About Clara. He had opinions about hospital policy he shouldn’t even have been aware of, which Martha found equal parts baffling and endearing.

He cared about everything.

Just not her.

It hurt especially as they had a lot in common. For example, they were both academics at the same university.

River drank some more.

The song ended, and the room burst into applause and whistles. Basil nodded, tight-lipped, like he was embarrassed he enjoyed it. He placed the guitar against the wall and moved back toward the table, walking past her without a glance.

The party ended late and without incident—unless you counted River finishing the bottle of merlot and trying very hard not to cry in Amy’s bathroom, which she did not. She left with a headache and a renewed determination to stop caring about men with guitars and physics degrees.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was raining again. One of those persistent, misty rains that didn't quite fall so much as hover—settling into River's coat, her hair, the corners of her mouth.

She hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course not. She never remembered when she actually needed one.

The walk home from the Institute was only fifteen minutes, but today it felt longer. She clutched her bag tighter, not from cold—though the air was damp and raw—but from the familiar sensation curling in her chest. The one that had taken root over the last week, ever since The Human Imagination Project had launched and she’d found herself co-leading it with him.

Basil.

River closed her eyes for a moment as she waited at the crosswalk, letting the sound of passing cars wash over her.

He’d been cold. No—icy. Detached in a way that felt surgical. Efficient. And that would’ve been fine if he were like that with everyone. But he wasn’t. She’d seen him just today, leaning over Clara’s desk, grinning at some sarcastic aside she’d made. Laughing.

River hadn’t even known he laughed.

The light changed, and she crossed.

By the time she reached her flat—top floor, windows overlooking a stretch of crooked city skyline—her shoulders ached, and she felt a hundred years older.

Inside, the air was still. Too still.

She kicked off her boots, peeled off her wet coat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on with a practiced hand. Tea, then maybe her journal. Or a book. Or a nap. Anything to stop thinking.

The kettle clicked. She poured the water, dunked a bag of Earl Grey, and carried it to the worn armchair by the window. She didn’t sit at her desk. The thought of looking at notes, documents, or anything related to the project made her stomach tighten.

Instead, she picked up her journal.

The pages were messy—scribbles, quotes, a few dried petals from last spring pressed between entries. She turned to a fresh page, pen hovering above the paper. And then—

Nothing.

The words wouldn't come.

Not about the project. Not about Basil. Not about the way she kept feeling like she was shrinking every time they were in the same room.

She sighed, dropped the pen, and leaned back in her chair.

It was nearly dark when Amy arrived.

River heard the spare key in the lock, followed by the telltale rustle of a paper bag and the faint clink of glass.

“I brought dinner,” Amy called, already toeing off her shoes. “And wine. You looked like a haunted Victorian governess in your texts.”

River emerged from her blanket cocoon on the couch, arching an eyebrow. “I texted one skull emoji.”

“Exactly,” Amy said, grinning. “That’s your equivalent of a panic attack.”

She handed River the bottle—red, mercifully—and unpacked two greasy paper-wrapped bundles.

“Curry?”

“Extra naan,” Amy said. “I’m not a monster.”

They settled on the floor, legs crossed, the city glittering outside the window behind them.

“You look like hell,” Amy said gently, after a few bites.

River snorted. “Thanks.”

“I mean it kindly. Like... you’ve lost your sparkle.”

River looked down at her curry. “It’s just work.”

Amy didn’t answer. She just waited.

River exhaled, long and slow. “It’s him.”

“Basil?”

“Mhm.”

Amy raised her brows. “You like him, don’t you?”

“No!” River insisted but Amy looked at her quizzically.

“I mean I have never seen you like this before. Usually, when people annoy you it’s like water off a duck’s skin but this… he is properly getting under your skin.” Amy said.

River hesitated, fork pausing mid-air. “I … yeah… He’s different around me. Sharper. More guarded. Like he’s bracing for something awful every time I speak. And I know I shouldn’t care, but—”

“You do.”

River nodded miserably. “And the worst part is that we do work well together. When we let ourselves. But most of the time he just…shuts me out.”

Amy reached for the wine and poured them both generous glasses.

“He’s emotionally constipated,” she said. “Always has been.”

River laughed, a little broken. “He smiles at Clara.”

“Everyone smiles at Clara. She’s sunshine in human form. But I get it.” Amy tilted her head.

“And he is friendly with you.” River blurted,

“Yeah, well we have been neighbours for two years now.” Amy said. “You’ve been trying so hard to be good at this, to keep it professional, but you’re burnt out.”

“I just want to be seen,” River admitted. “Not even liked. Just…not dismissed.”

Amy leaned forward, eyes soft. “You used to light up talking about projects. Now you just… sigh. Like you’re trying to convince yourself it’s all fine when it’s not.”

River looked down at her lap. “What if it never shifts?”

“Then you move on,” Amy said gently. “You let yourself live. Go to that event Friday, the one you mentioned your department is running. Maybe take someone—just to remind yourself what attention feels like.”

River raised a sceptical brow. “Bring someone?”

“Yeah. Flirt. Dance. Make him see you don’t orbit his moods.”

River thought about that for a long moment. “Maybe.”

“And plus, a nice shag will only help you get over Basil.” Amy said slyly.

“I never said I was interested in him.” River huffed.

“You don’t need to say.” Amy laughed.

The next morning, she arrived at the university early, hoping for quiet before the chaos began.

The halls were still. Her office was cold. She flipped on the light and sat, pulling out her planner more from habit than intent.

A knock startled her.

She turned, expecting Basil.

It was Jack.

He popped his head in, smiling like a man who had never known shame. “Morning, Professor Song.”

“Jack,” she greeted, surprised. “You’re early.”

“I live to be mysterious.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically. “So. How’s the co-lead situation? You two murdering each other yet, or saving it for the Christmas party?”

River gave him a look. “Somewhere in between.”

Jack grinned. “Just asking because Clara and I have a running bet. I said there’d be blood within two weeks. She says slow-burn academic enemies to lovers.”

River choked on her tea.

He winked. “I’m rooting for you.”

“Get out.”

That afternoon, she found herself in the lounge kitchen, half-listening to the hum of gossip and paper cups crinkling.

She stared at the coffee machine.

He wasn’t here.

That shouldn’t have meant anything. It didn’t. But still—her eyes lingered on the space where he usually stood, arms folded, giving terse, unsmiling greetings.

It had become a strange routine. Him scowling. Her pretending it didn’t hurt.

She poured herself tea instead of coffee. A silent rebellion.

As she turned, she nearly bumped into Clara.

“Oh! Sorry, River.”

“No worries.”

Clara eyed her over her cup. “You alright? You look like you’re somewhere else.”

“Just tired.”

Clara smiled softly. “You know he’s weird, right?”

River blinked. “Who?”

Clara gave her a knowing look. “Basil. He’s got the emotional depth of a teaspoon and the self-awareness of a brick wall. Don’t take it personally.”

River said nothing.

Clara reached out, touched her arm. “He doesn’t know how to talk to people he actually cares about.”

River’s breath caught. “I don’t think he cares.”

Clara just smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

River walked home slower that evening, her thoughts tangled.

She thought about Amy’s words. About Clara’s. About Jack and his teasing.

About the man who had become a daily ache in her ribs.

When she got home, she stood by the mirror, brushing rain from her hair, and tried to imagine herself as someone who could move on.

She pulled out her phone.

Amy: Take someone with you!!!!!

She opened her messages, scrolled past the unsent texts to Basil, and landed on a name from a few weeks back.

Ramone.

They’d gone for coffee once. He’d been kind. Thoughtful. Funny in a quiet way.

River hesitated. Then typed.

River: Hey, are you still going to the faculty mixer Friday night?

The reply came faster than she expected.

Ramone: Was planning to. Want to go together?

Her chest twisted.

River: Yes. I’d like that.

Basil didn’t show up at the Institute the next day.

River told herself it didn’t matter.

But her tea went cold on her desk, untouched. And she found herself glancing toward the door more than once, hoping for footsteps that never came.

Chapter Text

There was something strange about the lab that morning.

River noticed it as soon as she walked in—the soft hum of conversation had quieted, the usual clatter of mugs and feet dulled. The space felt... still.

Her footsteps echoed as she moved past the main corridor, catching glimpses of students bent over notebooks and staff clustered in quiet discussion. But no one said her name. No one asked for her. For once, no one needed anything from her.

It was unsettling.

And then she saw him.

Basil.

He was already in the shared project office, seated at the long table where they hosted joint planning sessions. A single lamp lit his side of the table. He hadn’t turned on the overhead lights.

River paused in the doorway, unsure.

He didn’t look up. Just scribbled a note, then tapped something into his tablet.

Still closed off. Still wrapped in whatever layers he wore around her.

She moved to her desk and tried not to notice how he’d clearly been here a while—his mug was half-empty, papers sorted with almost obsessive neatness. A quiet storm contained.

She powered on her laptop.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

River reached for her usual mug, intending to make tea.

She stopped.

Someone had already made coffee. Not just any coffee—the way she liked it. Dark roast, splash of oat milk, one sugar. Still warm.

She blinked. Looked around.

Basil didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t say a word. He was marking something up on a printout, pen scratching steadily.

She picked up the mug anyway. Held it, stared down into the swirl.

Had it been for her?

It had to be.

He never made coffee for anyone. He barely even drank it himself—she’d caught him sipping black tea more than once. He hated the taste, he’d said once, flippantly. Called it “liquid dirt.”

And yet, here it was.

River didn’t speak. Didn’t thank him. Just sipped.

And for the first time in days, the bitterness in her chest eased.

They worked in quiet that morning, side by side.

Not comfortably, exactly—but not in open tension either.

When their team gathered for the midday meeting, something had shifted. Basil let her lead the agenda. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct her. Even nodded once, thoughtfully, when she suggested reordering the next stage of interviews.

Later, as they packed up their notes, Basil handed her a folder without being asked.

Their fingers brushed.

River didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

That afternoon, she found herself caught in a conversation with one of the younger researchers about narrative frameworks. Basil was nearby, but not part of it.

Still, River was aware of him. The way he hovered at the edges, tuning in without turning. He always did that when she spoke—not looking at her but listening. Like the sound of her voice irritated him and soothed him in equal measure.

And then, as the others peeled away, Basil approached her desk.

“Your point about archetypal scaffolding,” he said, like no time had passed, “that was… well argued.”

River looked up, surprised.

“Thank you.”

A pause.

He hesitated, then added, “You’re good at this.”

She blinked.

Was he—?

No. Don’t make too much of it, she told herself.

“Thanks,” she said again, voice quieter.

He nodded once and walked off.

By the time she returned home to get ready for the faculty mixer, River was more unsettled than ever.

The warmth of the coffee lingered.

So did his words.

You’re good at this.

He hadn’t said it with smugness or sarcasm. Just calm sincerity. Like it cost him something to admit it.

Like maybe he didn’t hate her after all.

She stood in front of the mirror, frowning as she pinned up her hair.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she murmured to her reflection. “And I don’t trust it.”

Her phone buzzed.

Ramone: Still good for tonight? I’ll meet you outside the hall at seven.

She hesitated, then typed:

Ramone: Looking forward to it.

She wasn’t sure she was.

The faculty mixer was loud and full of polished laughter.

River arrived in a dress that felt too elegant for the setting—dark green silk, cap sleeves, low back. The kind of thing she’d wear to remind herself that she was, in fact, still someone worth noticing. Her curls fell on her shoulders, and she wore very light make up.

Ramone smiled when he saw her. He looked good—charcoal grey suit, warm brown eyes, that gentle way he had of making space for her in a room.

“You look—wow,” he said.

River smiled, touched his arm. “So do you.”

They wandered through the crowd, greeting familiar faces. River let herself relax into the rhythm of it—small talk, jokes, the clink of glasses. Ramone was easy to talk to. No tension. No bruised expectations.

And then she saw him.

Basil.

He stood with Martha near the drink table. He was sulking as if he didn’t want to be there wearing a navy suit, with no tie. His collar was slightly askew in an effortless way. And God, she can’t turn away. He’s so sexy like this with his silver hair and stormy blue eyes.

His eyes found her almost immediately.

And stopped.

River didn’t flinch. Though embarrassed, she didn’t look away.  She smiled—just a little—and leaned into Ramones’ side. Let him rest a hand on the small of her back.

Basil looked away.

But not before she caught it—the twitch of his jaw. The subtle stiffening of his shoulders.

Ramone offered her a drink. She took it.

They talked. Laughed. Ramone leaned in once, brushing his fingers against her wrist as he asked something about her thesis work.

And Basil, standing across the room, watching from behind his glass, looked as though he’d swallowed something sharp.

Or maybe – she thought later – as her and Ramone danced, maybe she imagined Basil’s sour look when he looked at Ramone. Perhaps, she is willing something that isn’t there into existence?

It was later—near the end of the evening—when it happened.

River stepped out onto the terrace to breathe, the night air cool against her skin. She hadn’t realized how close the room had felt until now.

Footsteps followed.

She turned. Basil stood behind her, one hand shoved in his coat pocket, the other wrapped around a half-empty glass of scotch.

Neither of them spoke right away.

River was resolute on not talking to him but then she remembered the small kindness that he had shown her – the tea and a day of peace.

“Hey. How are you?” She asked, almost hating herself.

Basil hummed.

Right. She thought. Why the hell has he made a point of standing with her outside when he doesn’t want to speak to her.

Finally, he said, “How is the new flavour of the week?”

“What?” River asked befuddled.

“The pudding brain you’re here with.” He said.

River turned towards him and glared. “Don’t you think it is unprofessional and misogynistic to comment on my dating life?” Oh, she feels so stupid. So daft for falling into a sense of lull with him being nice to her.

Basil did not respond.

“He’s… bland.”

She turned, slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Bland. Very bland. He was talking to Martha earlier and everything he said was so dull.”

“Well, he is nice!” River huffed.

Basil’s mouth twitched. “He is definitely polite. The poor sod is quite predictable. The sort of man who’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear, and never once mean any of it.”

“What is it to you?” River asked, anger seeping into the even tone that she is trying to craft.

“He’s not good enough.” Basil said simply.

When River looked at Basil confused, he said “He is not good enough for you. He won’t challenge you. You don’t grow with someone like him.”

“And why do you care?” River asked furiously.

Silence.

River folded her arms. “Seriously. Why do you care, Basil? You spend every meeting looking like you'd rather be literally anywhere else than near me, and now suddenly you have opinions about who I date?”

He didn’t answer

.

“Say something,” she said, voice cracking. “Say anything, for once.”

Basil met her gaze.

“Because falling for someone who doesn’t actually see you is stupid.”

River laughed, bitter. “That’s rich. Considering I am invisible to you unless you are criticising me. I’d much rather not be seen by someone than be seen with contempt.”  

“I don’t see you with contempt.” He muttered.

He looked away.

“Why are you doing this? Is it that you can’t bear to see me happy?”

“No, I am just trying to be helpful.” Basil said frowning slightly. 

“Well, you’re not being helpful by passing comment on things that don’t concern you!” She snapped.

“I know you’re annoyed but—”

She huffed, her words falling out chaotically. “You are so horrible to me.” She turned towards him, closing in till she could practically feel his chest rise and fall. She jabbed at his chest.

She expected something. Denial. Perhaps he’d continue attacking her. However, she had not expected him to sigh.

“Why?” She insisted.

His jaw tensed. “Because—” He stopped. “Because I don’t know how to be close to you.” I just can’t be around you without—”

“Without what?” She asked.

Basil stepped back. “Forget I said anything.”

“Basil—”

But he was already gone.

River stayed on the terrace long after he left, heart pounding.

The city stretched out below her, glittering and distant.

She wrapped her arms around herself, stared into the dark, and didn’t know if she felt like crying or screaming.

Maybe both.

River didn't know how long she stood there.

Eventually, the cold seeped through her thin dress, and the night lost its fragile magic. Inside, she could hear the music winding down, laughter turning looser, more tired. The mixer was beginning to thin out, but the hurt gnawed at her, fresh and raw, refusing to be dulled by the passage of minutes.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the tears not to fall.

Why does he have to ruin everything? she thought bitterly. Why was she in love with him?

Dragging in a shaky breath, she turned back toward the hall. She needed to leave. Needed to find Ramone, at least to tell him she was going. It wasn’t fair to disappear without a word.

Inside, the air felt thicker than before.

She weaved through the crowd, murmuring polite excuses as she bumped shoulders, craning her neck in search. At the drinks table, she spotted Martha chatting with a few colleagues.

River slipped up beside her. “Hey, have you seen Basil?”

Martha blinked at her, surprised. “Oh—he left. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”

Of course he had. What a coward, she thought.

River nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?” Martha asked.

“I, yeah, okay.” She said.

Before she could make it two steps, Ramone found her, appearing from the side hall with two glasses of champagne in hand.

“There you are,” he said, smiling warmly. “I was about to come find you.”

He passed her a glass.

She took it mechanically, forcing a small smile. “Thanks.”

“You alright?” he asked, searching her face.

“I—” River faltered. She tried to summon something bright, something gracious, but it crumbled in her throat. “I think I’m going to head out, actually. It’s been a long week.”

Ramone’s smile dimmed with concern. “Oh. Sure, no problem. Do you want me to walk you home?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. No, it’s fine. Stay. Have fun.”

He hesitated. Then, gently, “Are you sure?”

River nodded. “Positive.”

And before she could lose her nerve, she set the champagne down, murmured a thank you, and slipped away.

She barely remembered the walk out—just blurred colours, the muffled thud of her heels on the carpet, the hum of music fading behind her.

The night air slapped her cheeks again as she emerged onto the street, but this time it felt less like relief and more like exposure.

Her chest hurt. Everything hurt.

She hadn’t wanted anything from Basil—not really. Just... basic decency. Kindness without cruelty hidden in its wake.

And yet, it was always the same. A flash of warmth. A flicker of hope. Then the cold crashing down, colder than before.

You don't grow with someone like him.

She hated herself for thinking that it could mean something else.

The words replayed over and over, twisting into something crueller each time. He hadn't said it because he cared. Maybe he knew that she has feelings for him? Perhaps, he wanted her stuck. Wanting him. Wanted her weak.

River hugged herself tighter against the wind.

Tonight, had proved what she already knew: there was no safe distance from him. Not as long as she kept trying to find something salvageable in the ruins he left behind.

She crossed the street, walking faster now, heels clattering on the pavement.

Tomorrow, she'd show up at work. Professional. Unshakeable. She would not let him see that he got to her.

Not again.

But tonight—

Tonight, she just wanted to go home and pretend, for a little while, that she hadn't ever looked at him and thought: Maybe.

Chapter Text

By Tuesday, River had given up pretending she wasn’t furious.

Basil was avoiding her like it was an Olympic sport. Every meeting was suddenly “rescheduled,” every message reduced to curt, clinical one-liners. Their shared document hadn’t been updated in days. She’d sent him three drafts. Nothing.

No response. No acknowledgment. Just silence. Except, of course, for the echo of what he’d said at the party still buzzing in her skull like a wasp trapped in a jar.

“Flavour of the week.”

What the hell had that even meant?

She was tired. Bone-tired. She hadn’t slept properly in the four days since, hadn’t been able to focus at work, hadn’t even answered Amy’s check-in message that morning. Something about Basil had always thrown her off balance, but this was different.

At least John is not actively being a problem she thought…

Until she saw the email that he has sent on Wednesday.

There, sitting in her inbox—no warning, no discussion, was a forwarded email of their initial research report. It was clearly unfinished. Sections were incomplete, citations missing, structure half-collapsed like someone had knocked the bones out of it.

She stared at it for a solid minute, blood boiling, before grabbing the printout and marching toward his office.

She slammed the door behind her without knocking.

Basil didn’t even flinch. He looked up from his desk like she was a nuisance rather than a storm about to explode.

“You have five seconds to explain,” she snapped.

“Explain what?” He asked unfazed.

“Why you sent the Dean our unfinished report!” She huffed.

Basil blinked, slow. “Because we had a deadline.”

“For two fucking days from now. It’s a mess. We weren’t done.”

“We weren’t getting anywhere,” he replied, cool and flat. “So, I submitted what we had.”

River stared at him, stunned. “You did that behind my back.”

“I did this for the project.” He sighed as if he were talking to a petulant child, and it pissed River off further.

“No, you did it to spite me. Because you can’t handle having to work with me without trying to punish me every five minutes.”

He stood up now. His voice dropped. “You think this is about you?”

“Yes, Basil,” she said, stepping forward, fury mounting, “it is about me when you treat me like I’m something you stepped in whenever we’re alone.”

“You think too highly of yourself.” Basil said.

Ouch. River thought. Ouch. “And you are fucking arsehole,” she yelled.

“At least I am not being a perfectionist about some small silly deadline.” He said.

River hissed out a harsh breath trying to hold back her tears. “I am so tired of you. At every turn, you’re just so hostile, just so horrible!”

When Basil did not say anything, she snarled.

“Every time! What have I actually done for you to be so awful?”

“I—” Basil faltered and it only angered River more realising he didn’t have a good enough justification.

“What about me gets so under your skin?” She pushed. “It’s everything. I work you and you’re mean. I date someone and you’re condescending. I can’t even breath around you without causing offence.”

She felt tears threatening to fall and she took in a deep breath to still herself.

“That is not true,” Basil said hesitantly.

“Then enlighten me.” She said, sitting down.

“You’re not…” Basil said before sighing. “You’re just difficult to work with.”

“How?” She asked.

“Your presence.” He said simply.

“Okay.” She hissed. “And what about my date to the mixer? How does me being difficult to work with transfer to you being such a dick.”

 “It bothered me. That you brought someone. That you looked happy.” It looked like it took him a lot to admit that but River did not care.

River flinched. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do,” he snapped. “You get under my skin. You always have.”

The words stung, sharp and strange. Like an accusation.

River felt something snap inside her. “You absolute bastard.”

She jolted up and raised her hand, sharp and fast.

But Basil caught her wrist mid-air.

For a second, they froze like that—her breathing hard, his grip tight around her wrist, both of them locked in a moment neither of them had meant to reach.

“Let go,” she hissed.

His voice came out low, ragged. “Don’t do that again.”

“Or what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped her wrist. “Get out,” he hissed.

River left without another word, not trusting herself to speak.

Her wrist still stung where he’d grabbed her, more from the heat of the moment than any real pressure. But it echoed—like everything else he touched. Echoed in her chest, her gut, her head. She walked until she didn’t know what part of campus she was on. Just kept going, trying to outpace the mortification burning behind her eyes.

She should never have gone in there. Should never have let him rile her up. Should never have asked why.

The worst part wasn’t even the fight. It was how easily he dismissed her—as if she were some irrational things. As if she were the problem.

By the time she got home, her fury had cooled to something sharper. Quieter. Cold.

She stared at the ceiling until dawn, her body still and her mind thrashing like a netted animal.

If she couldn’t trust him to be professional, she could at least protect herself.

At 7:00 a.m., she got up and opened a new Google Doc. Its title:

Professor Basil Noble – Incidents / Concerns.

She didn’t write anything right away. Just stared at the cursor blinking at the top of the page.

“Jesus,” she whispered aloud, and dropped her forehead to the desk.

The next time she saw him; it was like nothing had happened.

Basil was already seated at the meeting table, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed. He nodded at her like she was any other colleague and turned back to his notes. Calm. Casual. Dead-eyed.

River’s breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat.

He looked—

Untouched.

While she was unravelling.

She dropped her bag into her seat harder than necessary, causing a few heads to turn. Basil didn’t even flinch.

"Morning," he said neutrally, eyes still on his laptop.

“Fuck you,” River replied brightly.

Clara choked on her coffee.

Basil didn’t respond. He didn’t even smirk. Just blinked slowly and moved on.

That infuriated her more than anything.

By Friday, she’d started collecting emails. Flagging discrepancies. Noting down missed deadlines, disorganized timelines, vague drafts. She wasn’t sure what she was doing yet—whether she was building a case or just giving herself the illusion of control—but it kept her upright.

Amy noticed first.

“You look like hell.”

“Cheers,” River muttered.

“Seriously. Are you sleeping at all?”

River sipped her wine. She was at the Doctor’s Brew café, which Amy now ran like a benevolent dictator. It should’ve felt safe. Instead, it felt like the walls were too close and the air too warm.

“You, okay?” Amy asked.

“I’m fine,” River said.

“Right. And I’m marrying Elon Musk.” Amy leaned closer. “Is it work stuff?”

River said nothing.

Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Is it Basil?”

River flinched. “Of course it’s fucking him.”

“What happened?”

“At the party—I brought Ramone, remember? Basil found me late in the night and told me Ramone was bland. Said he wasn’t good enough for me.”

Amy frowned. “That's… weird.”

“Right? And when I confronted him about it later, he wouldn’t even give me a straight answer. Just this vague, emotionally stunted crap.”

“Classic.”

“And then—God—he completely shut down. Stopped talking to me. Ignored my drafts. Rescheduled meetings. Like I’d done something to him.”

Amy winced. “Oof.”

“That’s not even the worst part.”

“There’s more?”

“He sent our unfinished report to the Dean.”

Amy’s jaw dropped.

River nodded grimly. “Didn’t tell me. Just forwarded it with my name on it. It was a disaster—half-done, riddled with missing sections. I only found out because he sent me the same version after the fact.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

Amy lowered her voice. “What are you going to do?”

River stared at her wineglass. “I’m going to burn him to the ground. I’m collating everything and then I will report him.”

Amy grimaced slightly, and it lit a fuse in River.

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Please don’t tell me he’s a ‘nice guy deep down’ or that he doesn’t deserve it. He’s made this project hell. At every turn, he’s hostile. Condescending. And now—this? This could tank both our careers.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Amy said gently. “I was just going to suggest maybe... you should go try a mediation or something before you go full scorched earth”

River rolled her eyes and drained the rest of her wine.

It was much to River’s surprise that on Monday morning, she received glowing praise from the Dean.

“Exciting,” it said. “Innovative.” “Bold.” “Can’t wait to see more.”

River stared at it for a full minute before bursting into disbelieving laughter. It echoed off the office walls, sharp and strange and bitter.

She forwarded the email to Basil with a one-line reply: “Nice to know sloppiness is in vogue.”

He didn’t respond.

Of course he didn’t.

That afternoon, they had to finalise some details for their project which meant sitting in a room with Basil.

River didn’t knock. She pushed open the door and dropped a stack of documents on the table between them.

Basil glanced up. “Afternoon.”

She ignored him. she flipped open her notebook and got to work.

For exactly twenty-three minutes, they spoke only about work. Efficient. Clinical. Detached.

Then:

“I got your email,” Basil said, tapping his pen against the table.

“Did you.”

His tone was unreadable. “You disagree with the Dean, then?”

“I think it was irresponsible.”

“His praise?”

“Sending an unfinished report.”

Basil’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “It was a rough but core was sound.”

“It wasn’t finished.”

“It was enough.”

“For you, maybe. But I have standards.”

That landed.

He looked up at her, eyes darker now. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.”

“River—”

“You made a decision for both of us, without even consulting me,” she said. “That’s not just careless, it’s controlling.”

“I couldn’t sit there while you rewrote every line I touched,” he muttered. “You act like this is your project, not ours.” Basil said.

“What bullshit!” She spat back.

“Plus, you were too busy plotting your little revenge campaign, weren’t you?” His voice was cold, almost smug. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Do you know what this does to my name?” she hissed. “If the Dean thinks I signed off on this, I look like a sloppy amateur. I’ve worked ten years to get taken seriously and you just—flushed it down the drain.”

“I don’t care.” Basil shrugged. “Like I just said, it’s not all about you.”

River’s chair scraped back hard. “You’re unbelievable. Arrogant. Cowardly. And a complete bastard.”

“Says the woman who tried to slap me,” he shot back, stepping forward. “Over a report. A draft.”

“You grabbed me,” she snapped, backing up. “You left a mark!”

“You raised your hand first,” he growled, advancing until she hit the door. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe, just once, you’d stop being a dick!” she yelled.

They were close now—too close. Breathing the same air, locked in some horrible gravity neither of them could break. Her chest heaved. His jaw clenched.

“I hate you,” she said, voice shaking.

“No, you don’t,” he bit out. “You wish you did.”

Something snapped. Neither of them moved for a second too long—and then they both surged forward at once.

The kiss crashed like a door being slammed shut. Hot. Messy. Furious.

River moaned, furious at herself for the way her body answered. His hand slid to her waist, gripped her hip like he needed an anchor. She felt him tremble, just for a second, and it broke her open.

Basil was the one who broke it, dragging back with a sharp inhale like he’d touched something scalding.

They stared at each other. Breathing hard. The tension didn’t break—it just twisted tighter.

River’s lips were parted. Her hand was still fisted in his shirt.

“You’re impossible,” he said hoarsely.

“Then stop kissing me,” she snapped—but didn’t let go.

His eyes flicked down. “You stop first.”

She didn’t.

So, he kissed her again.

This time the kiss is rougher, more frantic. They tore at each other like people starved. There’s no finesse, no gentleness, just the overwhelming need to feel and be felt. He pulled away, his calloused hand sliding into hers as he walked her towards his desk. When they were there, he gently pushed her on to the edge of the desk, scattering pens and papers to the floor. His hands tangled in her hair; hers pull at his shirt, yanking it untucked.

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered against her mouth, hoarse, breathless. It was almost a plea for sanity.

Instead, she grabbed his belt and answered with a growl “Shut up.”

Basil's hand slid up her thigh, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps. "Basil," she gasped, her voice a mix of surprise and desire.

His fingers found the damp fabric between her legs. She arched into his touch, her nails digging into his shoulders as he stroked her over her pants. Each touch sent waves of pleasure through her body. He kissed along her jawline as he slid her pants aside. His fingers roughly pressed on her clit before he two fingers inside her.

River moaned as he pushed his fingers in and out of her. Her hips bucked against his fingers desperate to have him as deep as possible inside her.

“Basil!” She growls. “Please. Please, fuck me.”

Basil's eyes darkened at her desperate plea, his own need reflected in the depths of her gaze. He didn't hesitate, positioning himself at her entrance and pushing inside with a groan that matched hers. The initial resistance gave way to a slick, tight warmth that made him curse under his breath. He filled her completely, the sensation of her body enveloping him driving him wild.

Her nails raked down his back as they moved together. His rhythm was punishing, but she met him thrust for thrust, her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps, her eyes never leaving his.

"Fuck," he grunted, his voice strained with effort.

"Basil," she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut. "Don't stop."

And so, he didn't, his pace relentless, pushing her closer and closer to the edge until she was trembling beneath him, her body tightening around his. With a final, powerful thrust, she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm. He followed soon after, burying his face in her neck, his entire body convulsing with release.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air was thick with sweat and silence, their breathing ragged in the quiet.

He pulled out of her and stepped away.

Meanwhile, River stayed frozen for a beat—then another. Her limbs felt heavy. Her chest, hollow. Slowly, she slipped down the wall and sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. She stared at the opposite wall, eyes unfocused, her skin cooling too fast against the silence he'd left behind.

What just happened? She thought. What the hell?

She watched Basil.

Basil stood, rebuttoning his shirt, movements clinical, mechanical—like he was getting dressed after a meeting, not after shattering the boundary between them into a thousand irreversible pieces.

He didn’t look at her.

He didn’t speak.

The silence stretched, thick and bruising.

River pressed her palms to her face. Her skin was still burning. She hated the way her body hummed. She hated that he had touched her like that. That she’d let him. That she’d wanted it.

That she still wanted more.

Because watching him now, watching his tousled hair yet composed movements makes her realise that nothing has changed.

Eventually, River followed suite, dressing before straightening her hair.

Finally, he moved, clothes on and composed, he sat at his desk. He reached for a pen on the floor and clicked it once before setting it on the desk, as if that act could re-establish order.

“We should get back to the um, next stage of the project,” he said, voice even, unreadable.

River laughed—one sharp, humourless sound. “Right.”

Basil didn’t respond.

“Or maybe…” She said, voice shaky  “We should talk about what just happened?”

“What is there to talk about?” He asked.

“We just fucked.” She said and finally, she got a reaction! He looked up at her, his stormy eyes in slight turmoil.

“It was just sex.” He said.

She looked  a him then, eyes narrowing. “Do you even feel anything? Or is this just—what? An experiment to see how far you can push me before I snap?”

He met her gaze. Calm. Icy. But something flickered. Barely.

“I thought you’d figured it out by now,” he said. “I don’t do feelings.”

River rose to her feet slowly, like she might fall if she moved too fast. Her whole body ached—rage, regret, everything in between. “Then why kiss me? “

“It takes two to tango.” He replied simply.

Her jaw clenched. “You’re a bastard.”

“Undeniably.”

She watched him for a beat, searching for a crack in that marble facade.

“Was it nothing to you?”

Basil hesitated. Just a fraction. Not enough to be called uncertainty. But not nothing, either.

He looked down at his desk. Adjusted the edge of a file that didn’t need adjusting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Not softer. Just… slower.

“I told you,” He said, “you get under my skin.”

River’s breath hitched. Not at the words, but the way he said them. Like he hated himself for it.

She waited. Hoped, maybe, for something more. An apology. A confession. Anything.

But he straightened his shoulders. Cold mask re-affixed.

“You should go,” he said. “We both have work to do.”

River stared at him. One last time.

Then she turned and left.

And behind her, for the first time, Basil didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for his laptop.

Didn’t tidy his desk.

He just stood there—still, quiet, and for once, just a little bit wrecked.

Chapter Text

River lay wide-eyed in the dark, her skin still tingling where Basil had touched her, her thoughts stuck in an endless loop of what-if and why-now.

Her skin was still tingling where Basil has touched her.

A small – and pathetic – part of her, hoped that what happened, meant that Basil liked her. That he wanted her the way she wanted him.

Yet, the sensible part of her knew that for him, what happened between her and Basil was just an outlet, a pressure valve after weeks of silent antagonism and growing tension.

 It was bad enough that it happened. Worse still was the aftermath.

No acknowledgment. Not a word. Nothing.

She should’ve expected that. Of course he wouldn’t say anything. It was like kissing a mirror: cold, unyielding, and vaguely accusatory.

Maybe tomorrow? She wandered. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps, he just needed the evening to compose himself and he would address it? She laughed to herself – very unlikely! It was more likely that when she went into the office, that he would be his usual cantankerous self.

And that it would break her.

Therefore, in the morning, she braced herself, preparing for his usual biting sarcasm, the barely masked derision when she outlined her ideas, the familiar emotional minefield of working alongside someone she couldn’t quite decipher.

What she didn’t expect was silence.

Not the hostile kind. Not the kind that carved itself between them with knives. Just… nothing. Quiet.

She glanced up from her laptop around mid-morning, having offered a suggestion about restructuring their week’s work plan. Normally, he’d mutter something passive-aggressive. Instead, he just nodded once and scribbled something in his notebook.

“Okay,” he said simply.

River blinked. “Okay?”

Basil didn’t look up. “It’s a good idea.”

That was it. No sarcasm. No cold amusement curling around the edge of his mouth. No pointed sigh. Just a good idea.

River sat very still for a moment, her fingers pausing over her keyboard. She felt relief warred with suspicion—was this genuine civility, or the eerie calm before another cold front?

They had a meeting with the Dean on Thursday. A formal presentation of their initial progress.

River wore a navy dress and heels she hadn’t bothered with in weeks. She looked sharp. Polished. Professional. Untouchable.

Basil looked like he hadn’t slept. But when he opened the presentation file, his voice didn’t shake. His slides were clean. His pitch was coherent.

She backed him up flawlessly. Reinforced the value of their interdisciplinary approach. Outlined the diversity of their interviews. Answered questions with crisp clarity while his hand hovered near hers on the desk and didn’t quite touch.

The Dean smiled. “This is fascinating work. A wonderful start. Keep going.”

As they walked out of the building, Basil murmured, “You were good in there.”

“So were you,” River said, surprising herself.

A pause.

Then: “Do you want coffee?”

She blinked.

“I owe you,” he said. “For the data coding. And... everything else.”

River almost declined.

Almost.

But something in his voice—tentative, unguarded—made her hesitate.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you annoy me, I will kill you with a spoon.”

Basil almost smiled.

River sat across from him with her chai latte while he sipped his black coffee like it was penance.

There were long silences.

But not tense ones.

Just... quiet.

“I’m not good at this,” Basil said at one point. It was whispered as if it were a confession, and all River could do was gape at him.

“Uh?” She asked. “What?”

He looked at her with his stormy blue eyes as if it took a lot from him to not only admit it, but repeat, “I am not good at this. Any of this.”

River raised an eyebrow. “This being… interpersonal relationships? Emotional maturity? Human decency?”

He actually laughed. It was small. Surprised. But real.

“All of the above,” he admitted.

She looked at him for a long moment.

“I know.”

Another silence.

Basil looked down into his cup, then up at her, and for the briefest second, he looked… afraid. Of what, she wasn’t sure.

Then he said, quietly, “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

River didn’t answer right away.

Eventually, she stirred her drink and said, “Neither did I.”

Theys sat in silence and then didn’t say anything else about it.

But when they walked back to the office, Basil held the door open for her.

And River let him.

River sat alone in her apartment, audio files from that day’s interview playing through her headphones. She was transcribing manually—half because she didn’t trust the software, half because she wanted to hear every word again.

The artist had said, “Imagination is a kind of echo. It remembers something that never happened.”

River paused the recording.

She stared at the sentence.

Wrote it down in her notebook.

Then, without quite meaning to, she opened a new document.

Title: Notes on subjectivity, emotional residue, and the imagined self.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Basil.

Let me know when you want to test the creativity protocol. I’ve rewritten the prompt script. Less robotic this time.

River stared at it and then read the prompt script.

Then typed back:

Noted. Also, you spelled “conversational” wrong in the first line.

Basil replied immediately.

Rude. I was being vulnerable.

Was that a joke? Had Basil just made a joke with her?

River’s lips twitched.

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t delete the message, either.

Amy's dinner was casual, just a few of them: Clara, Rory, Jack and Martha. A Friday night thing with pasta and cheap wine. It was loud and chaotic, as always, and though River arrived exhausted, she very quickly found herself laughing.

Basil arrived late. She hadn’t expected him to come.

“Basil!” Amy grinned, wine glass in hand. “Nice of you to grace us.”

He muttered something about a delayed meeting and slipped into the seat beside River.

River tried not to gape. Usually, he avoided her at all costs, sitting as far from her as possible.

What is she thinking, she wandered slightly rattled.

And now she was hyper-aware of his shoulder brushing against hers, of the way his knee nearly touched hers under the table as if it were natural.

“So,” Martha said, leaning forward across the table, “how’s the project going?”

River smiled. “Less chaotic. We’ve found a rhythm. Sort of.”

“She’s been doing the heavy lifting,” Basil said, pouring himself a drink.

River froze.

Clara raised her eyebrows. “Look at you giving credit. I’m so proud of you!”

River turned to him slowly, unsure if she’d heard right. “You’re being… generous.”

Basil shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

It sounded like a joke, but his expression was unreadable.

As the night wore on, he kept doing it—little things. Asking if she needed more wine. Sliding the bowl of pasta toward her when she reached. And at one-point, mid-conversation, he turned to her and asked:

“How was your day?”

River blinked. “My day?”

He gave a lopsided, awkward shrug. “Yes, that thing you lived through between this morning and now.”

“Fine,” she said cautiously, eyeing him. “Busy.”

“I figured.” His voice was quiet. “You’ve looked tired lately.”

Something about the way he said it—soft, unjudging—made her feel exposed. Not in a cruel way. In a… noticed way.

“Thanks?” she offered.

He gave the smallest smile. For a second, he looked at her intensely before turning away.

It was unsettling.

She excused herself to refill her glass, retreating to the kitchen under the guise of busyness, but really to breathe. In the clatter of cutlery and hum of conversation behind her, River leaned against the counter and shut her eyes. That look—soft, unreadable—hadn’t been part of their repertoire. Not in meetings, not in passing, not even in those too-intimate silences they pretended didn’t happen. It cracked something in her—something careful. When she returned, she wore a smile like armour, slipping back into the noise, the laughter, the safety of Jack’s easy presence.

River laughed at something Jack said, her hand resting lightly on the table near Basil’s. Not touching. But not far.

Basil leaned back, expression unreadable, except his eyes weren’t. They followed her too often, too long. And when River got up to help Amy in the kitchen, Clara saw him watch the door after she left, like his thoughts had gone with her.

“You’re not subtle,” she said to him quietly, during a lull.

Basil blinked at her. “Pardon?”

Clara gave him a knowing smile. “You look at her like she’s a fire you don’t want to admit you’re already standing in.”

He didn’t say anything. Just took a long sip of his drink.

But he didn’t deny it either.

After dinner, River and Basil ended up doing the washing up together.

Not by assignment. It just happened.

Clara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold. It was fascinating. The quiet choreography of two people pretending to be fine.

River washed. Basil dried. They didn’t speak much, but the air between them buzzed. Not angry. Not quite warm.

Clara wandered over to Amy again, whispering, “If I blink, do you think they’ll start dry humping over the sink?”

Amy nearly choked on her wine.

“They’re not flirting,” Clara added, “they’re emotionally sparring with undertones.”

Amy wiped her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my God. That’s exactly what it is.”

“They’re both so emotionally constipated it’s painful.”

“You’d think one of them would crack.”

“I think they both already did. And now they’re pretending they didn’t.”

Later, on the couch, River sank into a cushion between Clara and Jack, glass of wine in hand, her expression relaxed but too carefully so.

Clara nudged her. “So, you and Basil.”

River looked at her. “What about us?”

“Don’t play coy, River Song.”

River sipped her wine. “We’re working together.”

“Oh, I bet you are.”

Jack leaned in. “Do you want us to start a betting pool? Because I will. Clara and I are giving it a week.”

“Before what?” River asked, eyes glittering.

“Before one of you either murders the other or fuck.”

River didn’t laugh.

“Unless it has already happened? The fucking?” Clara asked suspiciously between the two of them.

At Basil’s uncomfortable gaze, Amy rolled her eyes. “Look, let’s stop teasing them. Let’s tease Martha instead. How is Mickey?”

At the end of the night, when River had had too much wine and shrugged on her coat, Basil stood up with her.

She frowned at him slightly.

“I’m going to walk you home. I have some updates regarding the project.” He said. River had groaned internally – slightly too tired to talk work.

Outside, as people began to leave, Clara lingered with Amy at the door. They watched from the hallway window as River and Basil walked off into the night together, their steps too in sync to be accidental.

“I don’t know what this is,” Amy said softly. “But I don’t think it’s casual.”

Clara hummed. “It’s going to break one of them.”

Amy nodded. “I just hope it’s not River.”

Basil and River walked in silence.

She didn’t know what she wanted him to say. Why he would subject them to spending more time with each other just to be silent.

The footsteps between them were in sync. Too in sync. And still he said nothing.

Finally, she couldn’t take it.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Basil stopped walking.

River turned to face him. The streetlamp above them spilled pale light over his expression, which was—what? Conflicted? Blank? She couldn’t tell.

“I mean it,” she said, softer now. “You’ve been… you’re being kind to me. And I don’t understand why.”

He looked down at the ground, then up at her. Something behind his eyes twitched, like he was fighting an internal war she didn’t understand.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know.”

They stood there in silence. River’s heart pounded in her throat.

Basil glanced toward her door.

She didn’t move. She was confused by the way he could vanish emotionally, even while standing inches away. And yet… she was curious. Curious by the way that he looked at her as if she were a nuisance but also as if … as if… she was the only person who mattered.

“Basil?” She asked.

He looked at her intently. “Can I kiss you?”

River blinked. “What?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just stepped closer, his hand brushing hers. She could feel the heat of him, that familiar storm she both hated and wanted to drown in.

She should say no.

She didn’t.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He kissed her, slow and deliberate, and this time it wasn’t born of annoyance or anger or frustration. It was hesitant. It was careful. It tasted like a question.

When they pulled apart, River searched his face. “Is that what this is?” she whispered. “You like me?”

Basil looked away.

Just looked away.

Her stomach twisted.

He stepped back, just a little, hands falling away from hers.

“Goodnight, River,” he said. His voice was neutral. Carefully so. Like a man avoiding landmines in his own chest.

Then he turned and walked away.

River stood in the empty street, her lips still tasting of the kiss, her eyes stinging with something that felt dangerously like tears.

God, you idiot, she thought. You let him kiss you again.

And worse — you hoped it meant something.

She didn’t go inside immediately. Just stood there, the night cold and sharp around her, watching him disappear down the road like he hadn’t just opened a door only to slam it shut again.

Tomorrow, she promised herself.

Tomorrow, she would go back to being clinical. Detached. A professional.

Because clearly, this was nothing more than a moment. An experiment.

And she refused to let herself be a variable in someone else's emotional hypothesis ever again.

Chapter Text

Basil continues to bring River coffee.

She had not anticipated that it would become a more regular occurrence.

Monday morning, she entered the office bleary-eyed and undercaffeinated, expecting to head straight to the machine and mainline whatever half-burnt sludge was available.

But there it was.

Sitting on her desk.

Still warm. A black takeaway cup. She stared at it like it might explode. Or sprout legs. Or confess to something.

How had he even got into her office? She wondered.

And yet, she knew it could not be anyone else.

When she saw Basil later that day in their shared project space, she stared at him quizzically instead of greeting him.

Basil stared back at her as if everything was completely normal.

“You got me coffee.” She said.

Basil merely raised his eyebrows as if to say, and?

“And you put it in my office.” She said.

“Yes.” He said.

“How the hell did you even get into my office?” She asked more amused than angry.

Basil shrugged. “Most people would just say thank you.”

“Most people wouldn’t break into someone office just to leave coffee. Especially someone that they hate.” River said.

“I don’t… hate you.” Basil said reluctantly.

She ignored him. “Though I guess it would make sense, you going to all that effort to poison me.”

“You’d be dead by now if I wanted to kill you.” Basil muttered.

River narrowed her eyes. “Are you dying then?”

“No.” A beat. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, picking up the cup suspiciously. “This feels like a trap.”

“It’s just coffee,” Basil said, returning to his notes. “Don’t over think it.”

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Because on Tuesday, there was coffee again.

And Wednesday. With a slightly smug post-it that said, “No need to thank me. Your productivity is suffering.”

And again on Thursday, with no note this time. But also, a croissant.

She didn’t say thank you.

But she didn’t throw it away either.

It was like that with everything lately. She'd pitch an idea during a meeting, braced for impact, and instead of his usual withering sarcasm, Basil would nod. Sometimes even… agree.

Worse, he’d add to it. Build on it.

They were getting along.

Not just tolerating each other. Not just enduring the awkward aftermath of that night. But actively working. Conversing. Functioning like actual colleagues. Like… friends?

No. Not friends. That would be too simple.

This was something else.

She caught Clara watching them during one of their planning sessions. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, lips twitching like she was barely suppressing a grin.

“What? Spit it out.” River muttered when they were alone.

“Are you two shagging?” Clara asked.

“No.” River said.

“Whatever is going on feels very intimate.” Clara laughed.

“I wouldn’t say intimate.” River said.

“He brings you coffee every morning. Into your office,” Clara smirked.

“I didn’t know you-,” 

“Please! I notice everything. Bless, he was trying to be subtle about it you know. Sneaking off in the morning. But I saw him two days ago at the Students Union getting coffee and then I followed him, and he walked straight into the archaeology department.”

“Did you see how he got into my office? “River asked, curiosity piqued.

“No, but I suspect he can probably pick a lock.” Clara shrugged.

“That’s a bit… ominous.” She said.

“Yeah…” Clara said vaguely before she turned to River. “Hey! Stop trying to distract me! I see what’s happening! I see everything! He asks how your weekend was. I caught him saying something kind about your interview transcripts yesterday. Do you know how many times I’ve seen that man say something kind? Twice. And both were directed at inanimate objects. What is happening between you two?”

River sighed. “It’s not a thing. Plus, he is still irascible. He muttered pudding brain the other day when I suggested something for the project. He hardly ever smiles at me and whilst he asks me about my weekend, he doesn’t respond much.”

“That’s just Basil.” Clara insisted.

“No, it is not and you know it! He is somewhat pleasant with you, Amy and Martha.”

“Please. He calls me a pudding brain twice a day. He gapes at me like I am an idiot when I do not understand something. Sure, he is softer with me and Amy than he is with you. But it is superficial. Like I feel like you both see each other in a way that none of us see either of you.”

River hums unsure of how to respond.

“Can we please drop the subject?” River asked.

She was tired. Tired of everything. If she were honest, she was desperately hoping that at some point, the damn would burst with Basil and they would fall into a peaceful sort of courtship.

Because the more Basil acted like a civilised human being, the more River felt unmoored. She didn’t trust it. Didn't know where to put it.

Like that Friday morning.

They were prepping materials for their next participant when he glanced up from his laptop and said, completely unprompted, “You did well in that last session. You got that poet to open up in a way I haven’t seen before.”

River froze. “What?”

He looked mildly embarrassed. “I’m saying you’re good at this.”

“…Are you concussed?”

“I can take it back.”

“No, no.” She held up a hand. “I’m just… filing this away under ‘Shit That Feels Like a Glitch in the Matrix.’”

He huffed a laugh. “Noted.”

And then there was Saturday.

He messaged her at noon.

You busy? - Basil

River stared at the screen, slightly terrified but quite curious.

Why? – River

There’s a gallery opening near campus. They’ve got an exhibit on the intersection of visual art and neural patterning. I thought you might be interested. – Basil

Are you… asking me to go to a gallery with you? – River

I’m offering an intellectual distraction. Take it or leave it. – Basil

River stared at the message.

I’ll take it. But if you try to psychoanalyse me via abstract sculpture, I will drown you in the gift shop fountain. – River

Basil replied with a thumbs up emoji.

They met outside the gallery at six. Basil was already there, hands in his pockets, wearing the same charcoal coat he always did when pretending he didn’t care about the weather. He looked up when he saw her.

River arched a brow. “Are you early, or am I late?”

“You’re two minutes early. I’ve been here for seven.”

She smirked. “Classic.”

Inside, the gallery was hushed and over-lit, filled with sculptures that looked like a computer had exploded during a fever dream. One corner held a rotating prism installation labelled “Neuroplasticity in Flux.” River raised an eyebrow.

“I feel like this is exactly what a migraine looks like,” she said.

Basil huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe that’s the point.”

They wandered past a series of canvases that looked like brain scans painted in oil. River paused in front of one particularly dramatic mess of reds and black lines.

“This one feels... aggressive.”

“It’s called ‘Impulse: A Study in Emotional Repression,’” Basil read from the placard.

She snorted. “So basically your autobiography.”

He turned to her. “You think I’m repressed?”

“I think if you were any more emotionally guarded, you’d be a tax write-off for a vault company.”

He tilted his head, amused. “And yet you’re here with me.”

“Don’t remind me.”

They moved through the gallery slowly, pausing now and then to make snide comments or—on occasion—have quiet moments of surprise. River caught him looking at one piece for longer than expected: a looping video projection of a child painting with their eyes closed, over and over, creating the same image in different colours.

Basil said nothing.

River didn’t press.

By the time they left, the sun had dipped, and the air had cooled. Basil shoved his hands deeper into his coat.

“There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “Mediterranean. Small, but decent. Want to grab food?”

She hesitated.

This wasn’t supposed to be dinner.

But she nodded anyway. “Sure.”

They walked in silence, save for the distant hum of cars and footsteps on wet pavement. The restaurant was dim and warm, with dark wooden tables and a tiny menu scrawled in chalk. They slid into a booth across from each other.

Basil ordered for them—falafel, chicken pasta, grilled halloumi, lemon potatoes, olives. It shouldn’t have been charming. It was.

River sipped her wine. “Do you always assume control of the menu?”

He looked up. “You always complain, even when you like it.”

She shrugged. “Habit.”

Their food arrived, and for a while, they just ate. No need for filler. No awkward scraping for topics. It was quiet, but not empty.

Eventually, River broke it.

“So,” she said. “Are you going to pretend this is a work meeting the whole night?”

Basil paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “It’s not a meeting.”

“But it’s also not a date,” she said, watching him carefully. She has been curious – she hadn’t thought it was a date up until dinner … and well now…

He didn’t flinch. “No.”

River leaned back, tilting her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “You brought me to an art exhibit. You took me to dinner. You ordered for me.”

“You sound ungrateful.”

“I sound confused,” she snapped, sharper than intended. Then, softer, “I’m trying to understand.”

He set his fork down, the clink too loud in the space between them. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

She blinked, a bit thrown by the sincerity in his voice. “I am.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” she said slowly, “is that you’ve been... nice. Which is new. And unnerving.”

He looked away then, jaw tightening like he was chewing on words he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. The silence between them stretched until it felt like a dare. And then, finally—

“Okay,” Basil said.

River blinked at him. That was it? “Okay?”

She felt a very rational urge to throw her wine in his face or flip the damn table. Okay? He’d been confusing her for weeks, pulling her close then pushing her away, and now he was sitting here like a stone-faced ghost playing at intimacy and giving her nothing?

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I hate you,” she huffed.

There was a beat of silence.

Basil looked down at his hands like he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe like he had and didn’t know how to answer. The weight of everything unsaid pressed between them like a third person at the table.

Then, just as she was about to say something cruel to break the tension—because if he wasn’t going to feel anything, she sure as hell wasn’t going to be the only one drowning in it—he sighed. Looked up. Met her eyes.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly.

The words hit her like a dropped glass.

She straightened. “To do what?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “To not fuck it up.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “To not fuck up what?” she asked, quieter now.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and for once, it didn’t sound like a deflection. It sounded like the truth. “This. Whatever... this is.”

Silence settled again. Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. This one was full of panic and what-ifs and aching possibility. Her stomach twisted with something sharp and uncertain.

If she were honest, she was disappointed. Not because she expected him to spell it out, but because part of her had hoped—stupidly, naively—that this night would be different. That maybe, this time, he'd meet her halfway.

He shifted closer to her in the booth, slow and careful, like any sudden move might spook her. His grey eyes found hers again—but this time, they weren’t guarded. They were searching, almost pained. “This,” he whispered, and there was a tremor in the word like it had cost him something to say it.

Her heart pounded in her throat. “And what is this?” she prodded, voice barely above a breath. “We are not dating.”

“No,” he said again, quieter now.

“And we’re not friends.” She hated how vulnerable she sounded.

“No, I suppose not,” Basil repeated, and this time, a crooked, uncertain smile pulled at his mouth. Not a smirk. Something smaller. Softer.

He kissed her.

Soft. Measured. Not frantic like the last time. Not heated or full of resentment and misfired want. Just warm. Intentional. Almost reverent.

River melted into it before she could stop herself.

When he pulled away, she didn’t speak for a long moment. She just stared at him like she was waiting for the ground to shift underneath her.

“Still not a date?” she whispered, breathless.

Basil looked genuinely unsure.

“I’m still not sure,” he said.

River closed her eyes, a bitter laugh in her throat. “Christ, you’re a mess.”

“And yet,” he murmured, brushing her knuckles with his thumb, “here you are.”

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t tell him to stop.

Didn’t ask him to explain.

Because he wouldn’t. Not really.

And if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

Instead, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. His body tensed beneath her for a second—then softened. He shifted just slightly, like he was adjusting to the weight of her.

They stayed like that for ages. It could’ve been a minute or an hour. But time didn’t seem to matter in that tiny booth, in the warm blur of something almost tender.

At some point, a waiter came by to let them know the restaurant was closing.

They parted without speaking. Basil paid the bill without asking. River didn’t fight him on it.

Outside, they stood under the awning, the air cool and damp around them. Rain threatened, the kind that never quite arrived but made everything smell like pavement and electricity.

River looked up at him. “You’ve kissed me twice now.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’ve… slept with me.”

He nodded once.

“So, what now?”

He shrugged, awkward and sincere. “You tell me.”

She laughed then, dry and almost fond. “You’re infuriating.”

“So are you.”

And then, just like that, he walked her home again.

Like it meant nothing.

Like it meant everything.

By mid-morning, River was elbow-deep in transcripts when a quiet knock interrupted her concentration.

Her office door creaked open.

Basil stepped inside.

He didn’t say anything—just set down a coffee and a paper bag on her desk, nodded once, and turned to leave.

River called after him. “Wait.”

He paused.

“You brought me another croissant?”

He glanced back, almost sheepish. “You’re easier to tolerate when you’ve eaten.”

She blinked. “Are you bribing me for good behaviour?”

“I’m bribing myself. You hungry is... a nightmare.”

River narrowed her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m defaulting.”

She opened the bag. Almond again. Of course.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

He didn’t reply—just gave a small shrug and walked out, closing the door gently behind him.

River stared at the pastry, then at the door.

At lunch, she went to Amy’s.

Not because she needed company.

Because she needed clarity.

Amy was in the back of the café restocking napkins when River barged into the kitchen, grabbed a biscuit from the tray, and leaned against the counter like a woman on the edge.

Amy looked up. “Jesus. What happened? Is the Dean dead? Are we under attack? Is your dry cleaner closed?”

River exhaled. “Basil took me to a gallery.”

Amy paused. “Like… on purpose?”

“Yes, he invited me out. And then took me to dinner.”

Amy blinked. “Wait. You went on a date?!”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Oh no.”

“But then he kissed me.”

Amy dropped the napkins.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.”

Amy stood there, mouth opening and closing like she was buffering.

“He kissed you,” she repeated.

River nodded. “Well… he’s kissed me a couple of times now. And – we, please don’t over react, but the other week, well things got a bit heated… and we may have… did a little more than make out.”

“As in, you two fucked?” Amy asked.

River nodded sheepishly.

“Details!” Amy demanded.

“Are you sure you want details?” River smirked.

“Hmm, maybe not.” Amy laughed. “But yikes. That all happened and then he invited you out and said it wasn’t a date?”

River shrugged helplessly. “He said no and when I asked again he said he did not know.”

Amy collapsed onto a stool. “That man has the emotional clarity of a potato.”

River dragged both hands down her face. “And the worst part is, I don’t even know what I want from him anymore. I’m mad. I’m confused. I’m… God, I’m interested. I’m so … I want him so badly. Is that crazy?”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to stage an intervention? A cleansing ritual? Call Clara and have her do her ‘red flag sweep’?”

“No. I mean… maybe. Just—just don’t say anything. I’m still trying to figure out what this is.”

Amy leaned forward. “I don’t think even he knows what this is.”

“Then why does he keep kissing me?”

“Because he’s emotionally stunted and likes you but doesn’t know how to admit it without combusting.”

River groaned. “That’s not helpful.”

Amy grinned. “Welcome to the slow-burn heartbreak Olympics. You’re in medal position.”

“Ugh,” River groaned.