Watching him go, River allows the momentary solitude to take a breather, closing her eyes and trying to work out where the hell she could go from here. She'd put this off for long enough, any longer, and there'd be no hiding her condition.

But when he returns, it seems there's no hiding much else, and she looks towards him with a surprised lift of her eyebrows. Caught out, she hesitates, then trying to laugh slightly to cover up. She knows she needs to tell him, share this with him, but she fears the rejection. It's not that she doubts how much he cares about her, but this isn't what they are. They're not locked into one place at one moment, they're everywhere and everytime. A child changes that.

"I come to see you and you immediately think something's wrong? Are my visits normally that bad?" she jokes, biding her time, still not quite answering his question.