Chapter Text
He’s wiping down the bar when she walks in, sunglasses perched on her nose, a flowery dress that bares her shoulders to the cool sea air. She’s not that different from the other guests—lithe, beautiful, rich, most probably, going by the jewelry—but she’s alone, and that’s enough to make her stand out.
He watches as she looks around the empty lounge, gaze narrowed over the thick frames. She looks a bit lost, and he tries not to roll his eyes; guests are constantly wandering into the bar, looking for the pool house or the golf course or any number of resort offerings. Bracing himself to be belittled by yet another well-to-do bird on hols, John slaps his towel over his shoulder and reaches for a drink, which she’ll undoubtedly demand.
They always do.
“Hello, sweetie.”
John starts, nearly dropping the glass, and looks up. She’s right across from him, sunglasses removed, and offers him an apologetic smile.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for—”
John huffs, and tries not to be entranced by her accent, far removed from the Americans that usually visit; an accent that matches his own. “Pool’s around back, take a right; beach entrance is down the main road about two blocks; registration’s in the building next door; spa’s on the third floor of the first complex; and concierge service is 24 hours, just put in a call to the front desk.” He slides a drink across the bar. “Apple martini.”
The woman blinks, then cocks her hip and smirks. “Impressive.” She doesn’t reach for the drink. “Though I was looking for the library.”
John’s head shoots up. “The library?”
“You know, those old buildings with lots of books? Maybe a couple chairs, a couch if you’re lucky.”
She’s mocking him. Typical. “We don’t have a library.” He turns his back, straightening the bottles on the first shelf so all the labels face out.
“Oh.” She sounds so disappointed, he almost turns around. “I thought—” She stops, and he stills, waiting. “Never mind. I’m sure there’s one in town.” She starts to leave, and he can’t stop himself.
“It’s quite far,” he says grudgingly. “You’ll have to wait for a taxi.”
“Is there a bus?”
He frowns. “It’s a long ride.”
“I don’t mind.”
John hesitates. “It’s not very safe.”
The woman quirks an eyebrow. “The bus?”
“The library,” he corrects. “It’s in the dodgy end.”
She chuckles, warm and throaty. “I think I can manage,” she says, and for some reason, he believes her.
Still. “It’s a bad idea. I’m sure if you talk to the front desk, they can get you whatever you need. Five stars and all.”
A wariness flickers across her face, so quickly he’s sure he imagined it before she shrugs. “I could do with the outing. This place is a bit...”
“Hoity?”
“Stifling,” she offers, and he blushes. “But that, too.” She pauses, head tilted while she considers him. “What time do you get off?”
He chokes. “Sorry?”
She rolls her eyes. “Off work, though that could be arranged, if you’re a good boy.” She bats her eyelashes at him, and he looks away, flushed. “You could show me around.”
John glowers. “I’m a barkeep, not your tour guide. I don’t jump when you snap.”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m sure we could change that,” she murmurs, low and sultry and John shifts, unimpressed by his body’s response. “But that’s not what I meant.” He frowns, and the woman sighs—a bit condescending, but also amused, and sympathetic. “You look bored to tears, sweetie. What do you say we get out of here a bit? You could show me your ‘dodgy end.’”
He’s sure the pronoun slip is intentional, and he opens and closes his mouth several times.
It’s not unusual to be propositioned by the resort guests. It happens at least once a week, much to his chagrin—always with a drunken smirk and a well-placed tip, like he can be bought for an extra few pounds. But there’s something different in the way she’s asking, the teasing lilt to her voice—like she knows, like she’s mocking them, not him, and while he has very little doubt she would and could eat him alive if so inclined, there’s something else. Something deeper. He’s been here a year, and become an expert in recognising sadness and shame—it rolls off people here in waves. Bad business decisions, complicated affairs—but it’s different, with her. Darker. There’s a caution in the way she moves, an edge to her voice that he’s never heard before, and it makes him curious. Draws him in.
He intends to say no. Intends to turn her down flat and go back to his business and forget all about the strange encounter, but instead what he blurts out is, “I don’t even know your name.”
Her expression softens, like it’s one of the most heartfelt things anyone’s ever asked her. Moving back toward the bar, she holds out a hand. “River,” she says. “River Song.”
Without thinking, he shakes her hand. Her skin is soft and cold, and he has the sudden urge to warm her up; to find out if she’s cold everywhere. Blushing, he pulls back quickly and clears his throat.
“John Smith.”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
She smirks. “Just...it doesn’t fit. Too common.”
He shrugs. “I’m a common bloke.”
“I doubt that.” Turning away, she moves toward the door. “Scotch,” she says, hovering in the exit.
“Huh?”
She nods toward the untouched drink. “I drink scotch. Good scotch, mind, not this rubbish.” She waves a hand toward the bottles behind him.
He swallows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She nods once and flashes him a final smile. She’s gone two seconds before his brain kicks in, and he hops the bar and runs after her.
“River!”
She pauses, looking over her shoulder.
“I, um. I’m done at four. If you—I mean, if you’re still interested, I could, uh. Show you my dodgy end.” He turns scarlet and stammers. “The dodgy end! The library.”
The smile that blooms across her face is the most stunning he’s ever seen.
--
She shows up outside the bar a few hours later, changed into an oversized sweater and dark pants, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her shoes are practical, and she’s carrying a large bag over her shoulder.
He doesn’t drive—isn’t nearly coordinated enough—so they hop the bus toward town. She gives him the window seat, and he doesn’t miss how her eyes scan the passengers as they enter and exit at various stops.
He tries to ask her about her life, what she’s doing on a tiny island beach resort by herself. “No husband, then?”
“Oh,” she breathes, “I don’t do weddings.”
He’s disappointed, though he doesn’t know why.
She asks him about work, his life; for a reason he never quite identifies, he finds himself admitting that he was a doctor in London, the best, but he lost one patient too many. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s more than he’s told anyone else.
“You ran,” she says, but it isn’t accusatory.
He shrugs, fiddling with the ring he keeps in his coat pocket. “They tell you not to get close to your patients for a reason. It doesn’t end well.”
“I’m sorry,” she offers, squeezing his hand. He’s surprised she doesn’t pry or judge, only smiles gently, like she knows, and then leans back in her chair with a smirk. “Doctor Smith,” she says, as if testing the words. “Much better.”
“Oh, I don’t use—”
“Well I’m not calling you John.”
He snorts. “So it’s what? Doctor or ‘sweetie’?”
She grins. “Exactly.”
--
He takes her to the library, shows her around town; they walk along the pier, and she tells him she’s originally from Florida, but moved to the UK when she was very young.
“I studied there,” he says, and they compare stories, complain about the weather, but also how much they miss dreary London days in autumn. She’s intriguing—not like anyone he’s ever met. She’s a sharp tongue, a quick wit, and she keeps him on his toes. He likes it.
They eat dinner at his favourite restaurant, a small hole in the wall that serves strange concoctions, and he feels comfortable enough to order his usual—fish fingers and a side of custard. He expects disgust, but she just teases him, a fond, far away expression on her face.
“So what about you, then?” he asks, sipping tea after their plates have been cleared. “What brings you to our lonely isle?”
River shrugs. “Maybe I’m lonely.”
He scoffs, and she arches an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” he says, “I just find that hard to believe.”
“Oh?”
He blushes. “Well, you’re, you’re—you know. Quite the catch.”
She smiles, but it’s a pale imitation of earlier, and he reaches across the table for her hand.
“Sorry,” she says, quickly straightening and waving a hand. “Just—” She shakes her head. “I’m here on holiday. Needed to get away for a bit.”
“I understand,” he says gently, squeezes her hand, and pulls back. “So. You work?”
She laughs, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s oddly endearing, and he warms at the sight.
“I’m an archaeologist.”
He sputters. “Archaeology?”
“Not a fan?”
“It’s complete rubbish! Digging around in the dirt all day, cataloguing every bit of pottery you find, however insignificant.”
Rather than being offended, River leans back in her chair and studies him, tea cradled to her chest. “I haven’t found any bit of anything to be insignificant,” she says. “Every ‘bit of pottery’ as you say, every bone, every artifact—they all have stories. Maybe not earth-shattering ones, but stories nonetheless.” She shrugs, and flashes him a toothy grin. “Plus, I like getting dirty.”
He chuckles. “I bet you do,” he murmurs, surprised not only by his own forwardness, but by the way her eyes darken before she quickly looks away and clears her throat.
“We should probably be getting back.”
John stands quickly and helps her into her jacket. “I live ‘round here. I can get you a cab back to the resort, if you like.”
“That’d be lovely, thank you.”
He smiles, and it doesn’t feel at all strange to take her hand and lead her out of the restaurant.
--
He jolts awake, breathing heavily as his eyes dart around the flat. His hands flutter over his own body, “Legs—yes. Arms—good. Chin—still the same.” He sighs, part with disappointment and relief. It was a dream, the same dream, though it isn’t getting any less nerve wracking.
Rubbing a hand over his face wearily, John looks over at the clock. His gaze catches on a slip of paper, and he smiles, snatching it up and laying back on the bed with a smile.
He doesn’t know how he summoned the courage to ask—he can’t remember ever being so bold (or bold in his book, anyway)—but he knew he couldn’t let her slip through his fingers.
John lets his eyes flutter shut, small smile on his face, fingers curled around her number.
--
“No way,” says his co-worker, a thin, scruffy bloke named Arthur with a grating American accent. “Three days rule, remember?”
John slides a drink across the bar and frowns. “Three days?”
Arthur sighs heavily. “You can’t call a girl the next day.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll look desperate.”
John scratches his cheek. “But—if I don’t call, won’t she think I’m not interested?”
“Not if she knows the rule.”
John knits his brow in concentration. “But if she knows the rule, and I know the rule, isn’t calling on the third day basically like calling the first day, since it’s the first socially acceptable day to call?”
Arthur blinks at him languidly. “What?”
Sloshing vodka over the side of the glass and earning a stiff glare from his customer, John tries to reign in his limbs as he talks. “I’m saying, if it’s a social construct in order to—to—ease the appearance of being ‘desperate’ or—or—”
“Needy?”
John huffs. “Fine, ‘needy’—doesn’t it defeat the purpose of blokes saving face if the rule was implemented by men and women in conjunction? If she knows I’m going to wait three days, minimum, and then I call on the third day, it’s precisely the same as calling on the first day, except that I’ve lost three days! And during those three days, what if she meets someone else? Or—what if she goes home or loses interest or decides my chin is too massive or meets a buff American—or an Australian?”
Arthur pauses, towel slung over his shoulder. “Have you ever been on a date?”
John scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “‘Course I have. Must have done,” he mumbles. “And I never said I wanted to date her—she’s nice. I want to hang out.”
Arthur makes a sound between a hiccup and a snort. “Hang-out?”
John straightens defensively. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
Arthur sniggers. “Dude, just admit you want to bang her. I’m not gonna judge.”
John sputters, and this time really does knock a drink over onto the bar, nearly into someone’s lap. He apologises profusely, all the while glaring at Arthur.
“I do not want to—to—to—” He lowers his voice. “Have intercourse with her. I barely know her! I mean, not that she’s not—I mean, she’s—her hair and her face—and her eyes—” Realising he sounds a bit swoony, John backtracks. “But we just met!”
“Intercourse? Oh, Mr. Smith, how jolly good of you to come to tea,” Arthur mocks, adopting a fake, terrible British accent and holding his finger under his nose like a moustache.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, while Arthur continues to half-laugh, half-wheeze next to him.
“God, you’re a riot,” he says. “Intercourse.” He slaps John on the back. “Good luck, dude. You’re gonna need it.”
John’s face burns, and he can hear Arthur snickering. Rubbing furiously at the bar, he wills away the blush. “I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, it’s ‘not about sex.’ Sure. I get it.”
John looks up at him hopefully.
“It’s twu wuv,” he sighs, clutching his hands to his heart. Dropping the facade, Arthur snorts. “Dude, I’ve known you for six months and not once have you even looked at a chick. Let loose once in a while! You need to release some tension.” He grips John by the shoulders and shakes him. “Besides, you said she was older, right? She’s probably just as desperate as you are. You know how these housewives are—wanton and unsatisfied and just looking for a bit of the ol’ John-stick to clench their—”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” he snaps, turning on Arthur with a glare.
Arthur backs up and raises his arms mockingly. “Ooh, gonna defend her honour, Smithers?”
John seethes, turning away to take an order, purposefully keeping his back to Arthur as much as he can. He likes Arthur, he does—when he’s not being disgusting and brainless.
“I bet she likes it rough,” Arthur says, suddenly right behind him, breathing in his ear. “All kinds of kinky fantasies just waiting to be filled by the cute virgin bartender. I bet if you asked real nice she’d let you spank her into—”
With more force than John remembers having, he turns and shoves Arthur as hard as he can, causing him to stumble back into the counter behind the bar, bottles rattling.
“I said enough,” he warns lowly. “Speak about her like that again, and I’ll report you to management.”
Arthur laughs. “Ooh, management. I’m so scared.”
“I’m sure they’d be interested to know all about your extracurriculars with the patrons’ wives, not to mention your smoking habit.” He gives Arthur a pointed look. “And I don’t mean the cigarettes.”
Arthur stiffens. “Like they’d care.”
John arches an eyebrow and reaches for the phone. “Shall we find out?”
There’s a long, steely silence. John knows this was the only gig in town Arthur could get, and only because he’s that good at it. Every other bar turned him down, even the seedy ones. It helps having an uncle in high places.
Finally, Arthur backs down, looking away. “You’re a real fuck, you know that?”
John shrugs. “Better than a cad.”
Arthur sneers, but doesn’t say anything else, and John relaxes slightly, turning back toward the next customer, and chokes.
“River!”
“Hello, sweetie.” She smirks, a knowing look on her face, and John pales. God, he hopes she didn’t hear them. More for her sake than his, and stumbles over a greeting, flashing a nervous look at Arthur, who appears to be shamelessly leering at her from the other end of the bar.
“Hi—hi. I mean, hello. I was, um. How are you? I was going to call you, but there was a rule—I think I’d have called anyway, but I was working, and now you’re here! So, what can I get you—no, wait, scotch, right? I have some in the back, I’ll just go grab it and—”
“Sweetie.” She covers his hand with hers, her smile gentle and warm and he feels his face flush for entirely different reasons.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I guess, I mean, how long have you been...um…?”
“Long enough,” she says, and he winces. “To know a real gentlemen from a prat.” She throws a disgusted look in Arthur’s direction.
“He didn’t mean it, really, he’s just, um…”
“It’s all right, darling. I’ve heard worse.”
John stiffens. “From whom?”
River laughs, shaking her head fondly. “Going to put them in their place for me?”
There’s something in her expression, a sweetness there that makes him feel like rubber. “Would you let me?” he blurts, then tries to backtrack, but River just smiles broadly, leans across the bar and kisses his cheek.
“Not a chance, sweetie,” she says. “I’m afraid you’d get hurt.”
He pouts at that, but knows she’s teasing, and without thinking he turns his palm up, curling their fingers together.
She starts, staring at their hands as if she can’t quite believe it, then slowly pulls away. John tries not to shudder at the trail of her fingers over his skin.
“So. What brings you here?”
“Besides a drink?” She arches an eyebrow, and John jumps to get her a scotch. He knows he looks silly, but he doesn’t care. It makes her laugh as he trips over his legs, though from the end of the bar, he hears Arthur snort. He listens intently as he quietly locates the bottle and a glass.
“Problem?”
“Seriously? Him?” Arthur says, and John winces.
He can hear the tension in River’s voice, however, and he smiles at that. “What’s wrong with my—with John?”
“Have you even seen him? I doubt he even knows where to put it.”
“And I suppose you do?”
“I know all the places, sweetheart.”
“And how’s that? So small you missed the first time?”
John chokes back a laugh and does his best not to slosh liquor over his hand. Before Arthur can return the barb, he slips out of the back and hands her her drink, delighted when she lets her fingers linger over his.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
River looks up at him in surprise. “For what?”
“Defending my honour.”
River purses her lips. “I’m not sure I so much defended yours as insulted his.”
John shrugs. “Works for me.”
She smiles, and John shifts down the bar to help another customer, his gaze constantly flickering back to her. For her part, River doesn’t take her eyes off him, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He gets wrapped up in serving people, the after-lunch crowd bustling in. He keeps expecting River to grow bored and leave, but she waits, nursing her scotch and scribbling in a worn, blue leather book. She’s drawing, it looks like, though he can’t see what.
When he finally gets a chance to move closer, she shuts the book before he can see anything and returns it to her bag.
“So you never said,” he realises, scratching his neck. “Why you came in. Besides the drink.”
“I knew you wouldn’t call me. Not today, at any rate.”
“I would have!”
“You’d have chickened out, sweetie,” she says, and though he blusters, he knows she’s right.
“So you came to see me?” He lights up at that, and River smiles.
“I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee after your shift.”
“I would love—”
“Not a date,” she interrupts, and though her voice is gentle it’s also firm, a no-arguments tone he’s heard before, though he can’t place where or when. She looks hesitant, almost, like he might change his mind, and John grins reassuringly.
“I would love to.”
The smile that blooms across her face is stunning. “Good.” Gathering up her things and sliding a bill across the bar, she stands. “Meet you back here at…?”
“Nine.”
“Perfect.” She moves to leave, then sidles down the bar. “Oh, and Arthur?”
He looks up at her warily.
“You were right about one thing.” Leaning over the bar, she about near shoves her cleavage in Arthur’s face, and John watches, half amused and half jealous as she reaches out a finger and trails it over Arthur’s cheek. “I do have several…very...kinky fantasies.”
Arthur gulps. “Yeah?”
She hums, breath ghosting across his cheek. “None of which will ever involve you.”
Arthur’s gaze jolts up from her breasts just in time to watch her turn and saunter out of the bar.
John can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of his shift, and if Arthur’s rather, well uncomfortable for the remainder of his, John figures it’s the best kind of karma.
--
River visits every day for the next week, perching on a barstool mid-afternoon, nursing a scotch from the good stash he keeps in the back.
He doesn't have many stories, so she tells him of her expeditions, her teaching career. Tells him things he wouldn't think you'd tell a stranger, but then she doesn't treat him like one. Her hand hovering, like she wants to be touching him always.
He can't say he terribly minds.
After work they take long walks on the beach, and he shows her the uncrowded areas tourists don’t know about. They sit on rocks and draw pictures with sticks, and he’s surprised when she draws a woman’s face, surprisingly good for lines in the sand. The woman looks strangely familiar, but he’s seen a lot of faces over the last year. They blend together.
“Who’s that?” he asks, and she starts and stares at the picture, as if unaware what she’d drawn.
She hesitates, lip between her teeth for a long moment before she admits, “It’s my mother.”
“Oh.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, fingers curling over the ring there, to keep from scratching his neck. “She’s, uh. She’s very pretty.”
River smiles sadly. “She is. I never knew her.”
He inhales sharply at the admission. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I mean, it’s not all right, but, it is what it is. I was...separated from them as a child,” she says, stumbling slightly over her words. “Was in and out of foster care until I emancipated myself at sixteen. I keep looking for them.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He forgets, sometimes, working here, that beauty doesn’t exclude pain. Reaching out tentatively, he puts an arm around her shoulder, surprised when she leans in instantly, curling into his chest. Her breath is warm against his neck, and he squeezes her shoulder, pressing a light kiss to her temple.
She shudders, eyes squeezed shut, and they stay that way a long while. The wind blows the scent of her shampoo under his nose, and he can’t identify it, but it smells like home.
It’s a perfect moment, until she stirs, and murmurs her thanks, and seconds later shoves a handful of sand down the back of his shirt.
“Oh, why you—”
She laughs, and he chases her across the beach, stumbling, until he catches up and wraps his arms around her waist and tickles her mercilessly until she begs him to stop.
--
They’re nearly inseparable after that.
Weeks spent lounging on the beach, John gawking every time she strips down to her bikini, cheeks burning red when she makes him help her with the sun lotion.
She sneaks into the bar during happy hour, distracting him from customers by sucking at her straw and licking scotch off her finger in a manner too obscene for words.
They spend weekend afternoons at his flat, reading books aloud to one another. River teaches him about archaeology and ancient civilisations, and he tells her how to sterilise a wound and make a proper tourniquet. He shows her his inventions and creations—a computer he built with spare parts, a remote that turns on the kettle, and a small, metal robot in the shape of a dog that he talks to incessantly.
“So you’re a proper genius, then?” she asks, a teasing glint in her eye, and John straightens his bowtie proudly.
She laughs at his terrible jokes and always helps him when he stumbles or drops something in his clumsiness. She’s an awful cook, nearly burns his flat down, and the one and only time she manages to coerce him onto the back of a rental motorcycle, she drives so fast he thinks his skin will fly off. She’s dangerous and soft, wild and calm, and she fits into his days as surely as she’d been there his whole life.
She seems to know things instinctually: how he takes his coffee, which side of the table he prefers, what books he's read and films he'll like best. She talks about Africa like it's a place he's been, and he suddenly wants to go. With her.
He wants to do everything with her, he finds.
He wants to tell her.
Everything—his past, what brought him here, how she makes him feel. Weightless, like a balloon without a string or a bird on a gust of wind or other, childish metaphors that make him wince when he thinks of speaking them out loud.
Even more strangely, he wants to touch her. Bury his hands in her curls and taste the salty sweat on her skin and see what she looks like with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. He wants to do unspeakable things to her, and he can hardly reconcile the urge with his usual blasé approach to women and sex.
It doesn’t make any sense, why her and why now and why he’s turned down every offer that’s come his way, but the one woman he wants doesn’t seem to have any interest. She looks at him so sadly sometimes, when she doesn’t think he’s paying attention. Like he’s not really there. Like he’s a ghost. Sometimes she looks at him so wounded, but he can’t for the life of him imagine anything he’s done or ever will do to cause this beautiful, precious woman harm.
There’s something about her—the set of her shoulders, the curve of her lip, the careless way she brushes off any enquiring into her own life—that makes him want to protect her.
She laughs when he tells her this, in a round-about, stuttering way on a warm afternoon on her balcony after a swim. She’s wearing a sarong and a large, man’s shirt and he couldn’t help bristle at that—if she’s with someone, back home, what is she doing with him? But then she smiles or teases him, that broken look in her eye and he can’t quite bring himself to care.
Maybe I’m lonely, she’d said.
Maybe she needs a friend.
“I can take care of myself, sweetie,” she says, but it isn’t reproachful. She sips an iced tea and smirks at him around the straw.
John fumbles, his cheeks red from the sun and embarrassment. “I know. I didn’t mean—I just thought, you know. Sometimes you look—”
“What?”
He hesitates, searching for the right word, and finally settles lamely. “Sad.”
River looks away instantly, and he can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, or her expression behind the wide-brimmed hat she wears. He’d brought it for her from home, worried about her fair skin in the harsh sun, and she hasn’t taken it off since he placed it on her head with triumphant glee.
Stammering, he tries to backtrack. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to cross a line, or, or, or pry or anything, I just—”
“No, it’s fine,” she says quickly. “I just...” She stops, and he can tell she wants to say something else, and he holds his breath. When she doesn’t respond, he buries his disappointment, steels himself for rejection, and stands up, tripping a bit over the chair, and offers his hand.
“C’mere.”
River frowns up at him. “What?”
He motions with his hand for her to take it. “Come here.”
She stills, eyeing him carefully before slowly, so, so slowly, placing her hand in his. He instantly wraps his fingers around hers, afraid she’ll change her mind, and tugs her to her feet.
“John, what are you—”
“Hush,” he says, and draws her into a hug.
River stiffens, her whole body taught and she tries to step back, but he keeps his hold tight. It’s the first time they’ve been so close. For all her teasing and bravado, she keeps him mostly at arm’s length, save for the occasional touch of the hand, and he takes the moment to breathe her in, sure she’s going to shove him away.
Instead, she relaxes slightly, drawing her hands up to rest on his shoulder blades. He waits, and finally she curls into him, tighter than he’d imagined, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She’s shaking, he notices, so he holds her closer and hums softly in her ear, some love song or another.
Her breathing hitches, almost a sob, and she clings to him, refusing to let go even when he tries to pull back, to see her face.
“Hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs, concerned and confused as he runs his hands up and down her spine. “You’re okay.”
She nods, but doesn’t release him, and he wishes they could stay that way. That he could always be there for her.
When she finally does step back, she laughs it off and covers her face and quickly disappears back into the hotel room, on the pretence of getting them room service. He doesn’t push, but can’t deny he’s disheartened when she returns, and acts like nothing happened.
She doesn’t let him touch her that way again.
--
The nightmares are familiar, but they’re getting worse. More vivid and visceral. His boss says he needs a vacation, but John just shrugs. He’ll deal with them as he’s done for the past year, with a pot of coffee and a long shower and now, her.
Her presence alone is enough to make him forget, even for a little while, everything he’s running from.
He dreams of rain and fire and burnt plastic and museums. Statues falling into the ocean. Sometimes he dreams of a figure in the distance, shadowed, but no matter how far or fast he runs, he can’t reach them. Bright red hair and a white lab coat and he wakes up with the tang of copper in his mouth and without thinking, scrabbles for the phone.
She answers on the third ring, and he can almost see her sleepy, confused expression. “Sweetie?”
He relaxes instantly at her voice. “Um. Hi. Sorry, I um—I didn’t mean to call so late.”
“What time ‘s’it?”
John looks at the clock guiltily. “Erm. Three fifteen.”
He hears her sigh. “And you’re calling at this godforsaken hour why?” She’s not angry, but she sounds exhausted, and John feels all the worse.
“N-nothing, sorry. I shouldn’t have called, I’ll let you go. Sorry, River.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he manages. “It can wait, just—go back to sleep.”
He starts to hang up when stops him. “Doctor.” It’s just a name, said in a firm, tired voice, but it brings down his defences instantly.
“It was nothing, River. Just a nightmare.”
He hears the shuffling of sheets, and when she speaks again, she sounds more awake. “What happened?” she asks gently.
“I don’t—um, it’s just...I can’t really remember.” He feels terrible lying to her, but if he tells her about the dreams, he’ll have to tell her everything, and he isn’t sure either of them are ready for that. He sighs heavily and runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I just...wanted to hear your voice,” he admits, wincing in preparation for her scolding.
There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment he thinks she’s hung up. “River?”
“I was on a dig once, in Olduvai. It’s one of the most important paleoanthropological sites in the world, where we first discovered the transition from the Oldowan to the Acheulean.”
John frowns slightly and thinks. “Olduvai, that’s Tanzania right?”
She hums an affirmative. “I was there as part of a graduate studies course. It was the first time I’d left England since arriving—well, if you don’t count my attempts to run away to Amsterdam when I was thirteen.”
John chuckles. “You tried to run away to Amsterdam?”
“Twice. But that’s not the story,” she teases.
“What is?”
She tells him about her first real dig, the blistering heat and sand and labour. About her professors and the other students who thought she was a cheater and a slag because she was smarter or quicker, and rumoured that she’d slept with the professor
“Did you?” he asks, gut tightening, and River snorts.
“Of course I did. He was the best in the field. Mind, I slept with him after the course was over.”
John laughs uncomfortably. “What was the point of that?”
“He was attractive. And a real hound-dog, too,” she grins, and he’s not quite sure if her salaciousness is for show or not.
She carries on, telling him about her first discovery, her great mistakes. Like the time she mistook a bit of pottery for a bone. She tells him about Tanzania, the local tribes, the faux-pas she made trying to learn their language and the joy of being asked to participate in a ceremonial dance. There are other things, he’s sure, but his eyes grow heavy as he listens, even as he strains to catch every word.
He falls asleep, the phone tucked beneath his ear, and when he sees her the next day, blushes and stammers over an apology.
But River shakes her head. “It’s all right, sweetie. Archaeology always did put you to sleep.”
He’s not entirely sure he knows what that means, but he smiles, and doesn’t dream for weeks.
--
Two months after they first met, John makes her rent a car and drive them several miles from town with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine, so she can see the stars.
Naturally, it’s overcast and slightly damp, and her hair is nearly unmanageable, but he thinks she looks lovely and he tells her so. River smiles, almost shyly, like she does whenever he pays her a compliment, and flops down next to him, neck craned to stare up at the shadowed sky.
“Not quite how I wanted it,” he grumbles, pouring her a glass of wine.
“Wanted what?”
“Our anniversary.”
River looks at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Two months to the day you sauntered into my life.” He giggles slightly and hands her her drink. “Thought we should celebrate.”
The smile on her face seems forced. “Of course.”
Brushing it aside, John lifts his own glass of orange juice and clinks it against hers. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” she says, her face suddenly pale, eyes bright and she turns away, downing nearly the entire glass of wine in one go.
John frowns and places a hand on her arm. “River? Are you all right?”
She shudders slightly. “Sorry, sweetie. Just—cold.”
“Oh.” He immediately shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She smiles wanly, and he babbles, saying anything and everything he can think of to erase the look from her face.
Eventually she calms, and though he wants to know, her shoulders are still stiff and he can’t bear to break the fragility between them.
He’s so afraid of saying the wrong thing that he nearly jumps out of his skin when she speaks, despite that her voice is low and quiet.
“Do you remember when I told you that I was separated from my family?”
John nods, looking over at her with a frown. “Yeah, ‘course I do.”
“That wasn’t...that wasn’t entirely true.” John turns on his side, facing her in the dark, and hopes that despite the low light, she can tell he’s listening. River pauses, takes a deep breath and then admits, “I was taken from them. Kidnapped,” she manages, “when I was about four. I was...kept for years, by someone...I still don’t know who. There was always a different face, I—” She shakes her head. “I was moved around until I was about twelve.”
John stares, wide-eyed, breath in his throat. “What happened?”
She smiles dimly. “I was rescued. By the most unlikely of sorts—a neighbourhood boy. Total accident, really. He was looking for worms for a science project and saw my message scratched into the basement window. He went and got help.”
John fumbles, debating reaching for her hand. “I don’t know what to say.”
River shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just telling you because...because I don’t want to lie.” She looks up at him, and there’s just enough moonlight through the clouds that he can see her smile. “And I trust you.”
John nods, hope pressing against his ribcage, pushing outwards. “Thank you,” he murmurs, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it lightly. River nods stiffly and he releases her, letting her put the distance back between them.
He feels like he should say something, anything, and grasps at the first thing he can think of. “So, the boy—are you—do you still know him?”
“I do,” she says, a fond, wistful smile on her face, and John shifts uncomfortably next to her. When he’s silent too long, River looks over and laughs, slapping his chest. “Good lord, not like that! He was like my father.” John can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, and River giggles next to him. “Idiot,” she mutters. “No. Rory—he’s still like my dad. He kept in touch with me, even when I was in the system, made sure I was all right. Him and Amy. They were best friends, married now. They looked after me.” She picks at a clump of grass. “I took Amy’s name when I emancipated myself. It was like having a family.”
“That’s good,” he says, his voice thick, “That you had someone.”
River nods, then suddenly looks contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—burden you or—”
“No, no. I’m—I’m glad you told me. I mean, not glad because you shouldn’t have anything like that to tell, no one should, but that you thought I—that you trusted me with it—with you—and—”
River hushes him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetie.”
He blushes.
She’s given him so much, he realises—beauty, hope, stability in a world he wasn’t used to, and he feels like he owes her, somehow. Owes her something more of himself.
So he tells her.
Lying on their backs, his hand over hers between them, he tells her why he left London.
“You lost a patient, you said.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t—it’s not the whole story.” She says nothing, just watches him from the corner of her eye, and he takes a deep breath. “I was in an accident. Car wreck, a pretty bad one. I shouldn’t have been driving in the first place, I—” He swallows tightly. “I’d lost a patient, a woman...Donna. She was sick for a long time, and—you’re not supposed to be friends with your patients, but I couldn’t help it. I should have known, I—” He chokes on the words, and River turns on her side, laying a hand on his arm.
Breathing steadily, he carries on, “I was upset, and went for a drive. It was raining, and I missed a curve, or something—drove right off a bridge.”
He hears her gasp next to him, and when he looks, her eyes are bright and wet. He smiles encouragingly.
“I’m all right. I was lucky, considering. But I banged my head pretty good. The only...the only thing I remembered was Donna. Being a doctor. I remembered all my medical training, every procedure but I couldn’t...I couldn’t remember my name. It was on my license, of course, but it didn’t...it didn’t feel right.”
“So you chose John Smith,” she breathes, and he knows she understands.
“I ran. I didn’t know where to go, or—I panicked. Grabbed what was in my car and took off. Landed myself here.”
“That was dangerous,” she whispers, her grip tightening on his arm. “Anything could have happened.”
“I know. I know. I was—lucky doesn’t seem right, but. Fortunate, I guess. And I suppose I was a bartender for a while before, because when I interviewed here I knew everything. For a high-end resort, they didn’t ask many questions.” He tries to smile, but the look on her face stops him; the hand reaching for his cheek, brushing against his skin so, so gently.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers, her voice thick, and he turns on his side to face her.
“Hey,” he murmurs, grasping her hand in his. “Hey, I’m fine. See? Ten fingers, ten toes, and all the other bits, if you want to check.”
She laughs softly, but leans her forehead to his, like she’s breathing him in. Tilting her chin up with his finger, he meets her gaze, startled by the tears hovering on her lashes. “River.” She blinks, and the tears fall, and he swipes them away with his thumb and kisses her.
Her lips are soft, slightly chapped from the windy coast; she tastes like chapstick and dust and something familiar, but he can’t place it. His hand curls around her shoulder and she threads her fingers through his hair, kissing him back, mouth opening under his desperately.
He tugs and she follows, rolling on top of him as his hands fall to her waist. She kisses like she knows him, like she loves him, and he doesn’t understand but he knows her, too. Knows that when he slips a hand under her shirt and drags his nails lightly up her spine, she’ll shudder; that if he nips at a spot just under her jaw, she’ll moan.
His hands curl in the fabric of her shirt, wanting but patient, and he breathes her name against her throat. “River.”
And then she’s gone, pulling away and staggering to her feet, curls in her eyes as she shakes her head frantically. “No. No, I can’t—I’m sorry, I—”
John stands quickly and reaches for her, but she steps away. “River—”
“I’m sorry. I’m—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, John.” She’s never called him that, not once. It’s always ‘sweetie’ or ‘doctor’. “I think we should just—just be friends, yeah?”
The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh.
“But—you and I, we—we—” He makes a kissy face, and she laughs brokenly, arms wrapped around herself. She looks so small in his favourite tweed jacket, so frail, and it’s never a word he’d think to associate with her.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I can’t do this.”
He feels like his ribs have cracked, inward on themselves. “Why?”
She shakes her head almost violently. “Please, John, just—” She looks so desperate, her hand reaching for him and then withdrawing.
“River, if you just tell me—”
“I can’t. You’re too—”
“What?” She looks away, and he crosses to her, arms on her shoulders. “Too what?”
“Don’t,” she snaps, jerking away from him. “You have no right to be angry with me.”
He doesn’t. He realises it suddenly, like a punch to the throat. He can’t punish her for not returning his feelings. For not reciprocating. For not wanting—
“You’re right,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she murmurs, and he knows he’s forgiven. “I’d like to go back, though.”
Nodding wordlessly, he gathers their things. River drives back in silence, and he keeps looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She lets him off at his apartment, and he hovers halfway out of the car.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
To her credit, she tries to smile. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
At least it’s honest. John nods and lets her go, watching until she’s out of sight. He stands forlornly outside his apartment for some time, until a cold wind rushes up under his shirt, and he shivers.
He’d left his jacket with her.
--
He’s in the middle of mixing a drink when she sidles up, breasts pushed out, make-up flawlessly done, smile in place. John gulps. The woman eyes him hungrily, flirting passionately, reaching out a hand at every opportunity to touch his arm. He shoots the other bartender a begging glance, but receives no help.
He can’t be rude, and he’s never been very good at firm denials, so he tries his best to just ignore her, but it’s a slow day, and she’s very, very good, pouting if he doesn’t pay attention, throwing his lines back at him easily. She’s young, maybe mid-20s, and beautiful, he can’t deny it. Probably a genuinely nice person, but he isn’t interested and doesn’t know how to say he isn’t interested without hurting her feelings or getting himself sacked.
The resort likes it when he flirts—they sell more drinks.
But John has always been terrible at flirting the way normal people do. So far, in the year he’s been here, only River seems to understand.
Still, the woman at the bar seems to find him at least endearing, because she leans over when he asks if she’d like another drink, and whispers in his ear. “Not a drink, sweetie.”
John tenses. “Only River calls me that.”
He doesn’t mean to say it, and the woman pulls back, surprised. “Who’s River?”
My everything, he thinks, and instead mutters, “A friend of mine.”
The woman relaxes. “Oh. Well, I’ll just have to find another name to call you, then, won’t I?”
“Look, ma’am—”
“Elizabeth.”
He swallows. “Elizabeth. I’m, uh, I’m...flattered? But I, um. I’m working, yeah? And I can’t, um, you know...”
She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
He breathes a sigh of relief.
“I can wait ‘til you’re off.”
Elizabeth winks. John sighs. The door opens, and his stomach leaps into his throat. She’s back. It’s been three, long days without her, but she’s back, hesitating in the doorway warily. John beams, trying to put her at ease, and River smiles weakly and gives a little wave, like she always does. If Elizabeth notices, she doesn’t say.
“I don’t usually do this,” she murmurs lowly, walking her fingers up his arm. “But I’m feeling a bit daring. So why don’t you meet me in my room—”
John starts and yanks his hand away. “Oh, um, I don’t think that’s—”
She stops abruptly. “Oh, of course. You’re probably not allowed in the resort, are you?”
His face burns, but she pays him no mind. “That’s fine. We can go back to yours and—”
“Everything all right, sweetie?” His brain sends mixed signals of thank god and oh no, and he turns to River, giving her the best silent please help me look he can muster.
Elizabeth looks up from rummaging in her purse, then looks to John with a frown. “Is this your friend?”
He nods. “River, Elizabeth.” He waves a hand at each in turn, unable to tear his eyes away from River.
Elizabeth holds out a hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
River stares at her blankly before taking her hand. “Hello.”
Elizabeth leans back. “I was just telling John here to meet me later.”
If he hadn’t been staring so hard he’d have missed it. River’s face contorts, just for a second, into one of anger, then staggering hurt, before relaxing again into one of serene ambivalence. She looks to John, and he shakes his head frantically, eyes wide, and while Elizabeth’s gaze is focused on River, flails his arms in what he hopes is a please please get me out of this gesture.
He breathes a sigh of relief when she smirks, message received, and turns to Elizabeth with a frown.
“Oh. Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry.” She looks between the two of them, biting her bottom lip for show. “I need him tonight. He promised he’d be my date for a party and I’ll feel absolutely wretched if I have to go alone.”
John brightens at the idea of a date. “Really?” he asks, at the same time Elizabeth voices the same question. She looks at him in confusion, River glares, and he clears his throat. “Oh, right, yes, of course that...date...thing.” He gives Elizabeth his best penitent look. “Sorry.”
Elizabeth shrugs. “Not a problem. I’m here all week.”
John pales. “Right,” he mutters, scratching his cheek nervously. “Look, Elizabeth, um, you’re, you know, you’re lovely, really—”
“Thank you.”
“—and um, I’m sure you’re great, but I’m not, um, what I mean is I’m sort of, eh—”
“My, you’re a rambly one, aren’t you? Mind, we’ll put that mouth to better uses later.”
“What? No, I, um, that’s not—”
“He’s not interested,” River supplies, and both Elizabeth and John look up at her, startled.
“What?”
River shrugs. “If he could spit it out, he’s trying to tell you that he’s not interested in sleeping with you.”
Sliding off the barstool, Elizabeth folds her arms across her chest. “And I suppose he’s interested in you?”
John’s eyes widen, but River barely flinches. “No,” she says flatly, at the same time he wants to say yes! “But he does have standards.”
“River!” John yelps, at the same time Elizabeth gasps.
“Excuse me?”
“She didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“River!” He flails his arms uselessly. “You can’t just say things like that! I’m so—she’s sorry, River, tell her you’re sorry.”
Elizabeth huffs, waiting, but River ignores her, turning to John with a scowl.
“You always do this,” she snaps. “Get yourself stuck in these predicaments, expect me to get you out of them and then complain when I don’t do so by your standards.”
John gapes, lost and flustered. “I’ve never—you haven’t—River!”
But she’s already leaving, halfway out the door before he comes to his senses. Hoping the counter, he barely remembers to bluster out a quick apology to Elizabeth and his co-worker before dashing out of the bar after her.
“River! River, wait!” He catches up to her easily and darts in front of her, stilling her with hands on her shoulders. “River?”
“What.”
He takes a step back, stunned by the fury in her gaze. “I—I’m sorry,” he manages. “I didn’t think—”
She scoffs. “You never do, do you? I wonder what your wife would say about that.”
“My—?”
For the first time, he realises she has his jacket in her hands.
His jacket.
With the ring in it.
A wedding ring.
His wedding ring.
“River—” She shoves the jacket into his arms and stalks away. John freezes for a moment, then runs after her. “River! River, wait, I can explain—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She keeps walking, white-knuckled around her purse.
“River, please—”
She stops suddenly, turning on him. “How long have you known you were married?”
“I—”
“Before the crash, married before the crash.”
John blinks, trying to summon the right words. “I—I always knew. I mean, I saw the ring on my finger and assumed—”
“You’re married.”
He’s not quite sure why she keeps repeating it.
“Yes. No. Yes! I mean, technically, but it doesn’t matter, it’s not—I can’t remember it, so I hardly think it counts.”
If anything, that only makes it worse. River’s jaw tightens and her face contorts, like she wants to cry. “And what about your wife?”
“I—” John sighs heavily, shoulders slumped. “I know. I know, River. It wasn’t right or fair but I’m not—I know, I know it’s wrong but I love—”
“Don’t,” she gasps, backing away as if he’d struck her. “Don’t you dare.”
“River—”
She shakes her head and turns away, and this time he doesn’t follow her.
--
He doesn’t see her for several days. He looks for her, of course, checking her room, the beach, the pool, any place he can think of they’ve had moments that had felt heady.
She felt something, he knows she did, but she’s running and he finds he’s running after her, unwilling to let her go.
She turns up on the beach finally, and he stumbles across the sand to get to her. She doesn’t smile this time, and she looks ragged. John approaches carefully, with a tentative half-smile.
“Hello, Song.”
“John.”
He frowns. “Why are you calling me that? It’s not even my real name.”
She flinches. “Neither is ‘doctor’.”
“I like that, though,” he offers, trying to open her up. “And sweetie.”
She looks away.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing, I just—I’m going back to London.”
John stares. “What? When?”
“Tonight.”
“No. No, you can’t.”
“I need to get back. I got a call—a dig I’m needed on. I need to get ready.”
He hesitates, then blurts, “I could come with you.”
River winces. “No.” Uncompromising. Final. John shakes his head frantically.
“Why not? Nothing’s keeping me here.” He gestures to the resort behind them. “You’re my only—” He can’t find the word. “Is this about...is this about the ring?”
She eyes him for a long moment. "You lied."
He drops his gaze. "I know. I'm sorry—"
"Not to me. To your wife."
"I didn't—" He sighs. "I know. I made a mistake, I should have..." He waves a hand in the air, but River isn’t having it.
"What?"
"I don't know. Done something different. But River…” He steps closer and grasps her hands. “River, I don't remember her. Nothing. I don't even remember being married."
"You might."
"It's been a year.” She continues to stare at him, sceptical and wary, and he sighs. “I'm a doctor, River, and I know...this long...it's doubtful that I’ll ever remember."
She nods, looking out toward the ocean. “Are you going to tell her?”
John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s almost easier, this way.”
"Easier for whom?"
John accepts the criticism. "I thought it would hurt too much," he admits.
"I believe she could have coped." Her words are soft, but there’s an edge of pain there he doesn’t entirely understand. Something else, something more—the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her hands shake and fumble with her skirt. "You should find her,” she says finally. “End it for good.” She offers a weak smile. “No one likes to be left in the dark."
"And us?" John holds his breath. Everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed right in front of him, pulling away.
"There is no us,” she whispers. "Not anymore."
"No. No, I refuse—” He shakes his head and reaches out, grabbing her arm to hold her to him. “Why? Why are you doing this? We were—why?"
Meeting his gaze, River lets out a heavy breath. “Because I’m married, too."
He drops her arm, stung. “What? I thought you said—”
“I lied.”
John flounders for something to say. “But—why? Why would you lie about that?”
She shrugs, but it isn’t casual—it’s burdened, weighed down, and he wants to hold her as much as he wants to push her away. “Because he’s gone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
“River—”
“I’m sorry, John,” she says, and though her eyes are wet, her voice doesn’t shake. “It’s—” She swallows tightly. “Just remember that I forgive you, okay? I do. But I can’t…” She shakes her head, and as she passes, presses her lips to his cheek. “Goodbye, sweetie.”