You, Me, Archives?
It’s her last year of uni, and she’s literally counting the days until she can get out of this place, ditch this ridiculous job and finally get into the field. Assistant archivist, rare books and special collections, sounded so much more like a decent position before she realized it was code for student-who-shelves-heavy-books. She’s on the fifth floor of the stuffy old building, in a room with few windows and dust bunnies the size of her fist. She crouches on hands and knees, leveling heavy old books which no one wants to read but that nonetheless seem to need constant reshelving.
He doesn’t just bump into her, but properly trips, his boot hooked around her knee and his armful of books flung into the air. Reference volumes strike her shoulders and back in a leather-bound volley. A particularly sharp-cornered tome hits her in the sacral plexus and River thinks she will positively die. For a moment, they lie entangled-her palm trapped under his ribcage, his knee crooked over her waist. Then he’s scrambling to his feet, huffing in the clouds of dust and offering her his hand. She’s ready to be scathing, but he looks so genuinely sorry, almost pained, that her reproaches die on her lips.
As he pulls her to her feet, she takes him in, tip to tail. He’s somehow mousy, and at the same time absurd. Brown hair falls into his eyes as he stoops to gather his books. His bow tie is askew and his tweed jacket too old fashioned even for a professor. But he’s young, not so much older than she is.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks for at least the seventh time. As she nods, he looks up and seems to finally see her. A grin breaks slowly across his face. “River Song. Course you are. You’re brilliant!”