Guys it's me again, with my eleven/rory AUs abundant. This time, it's eleven who is stuck as a human in Glasgow, Scotland in 1898.

Characters not mine, unfortunately.

John Smith had hair he could not explain.

He was a rather conservative man in a conservative society; wearing nice brown suits his friend Amelia insist he wear, taking the time to shine his shoes every night without fail, and there was nary a thread out of place.

His hair though, was inexplicable.

It drooped over his eyes, making it hard to see anything without batting it first out of his gaze. It stuck up in a way that made little old ladies tighten the grip on their purses and hats when he passed by.

It seemed unnatural, that infernal droop coming even when his hair was shorn.

It was a weakness of John Smith; his dastardly, evil, hair, along with his boss, Mr. Fletching, deadlines, and spiders, which Amelia would never let him forget, bless her heart.

Surely those things can't be natural?

But none-the-less, John Smith was a perfectly well-adjusted, well-groomed, pleasant-mannered man.

Excepting his nightmares, but that was just insane conjuring of his mind, late at night.

He didn't write them down, in case someone would find out and mock him, but they were like photographs in his head, crystal-clear and sometimes even moving, that novel thought.

Amelia was there, except she was wearing a skirt of ungodly length and called herself "Amy." John personally thought his Amelia was much more refined, with her graceful walk and her biting wit, and he realized he wouldn't have to choose, because it was all a dream.

Except, oh, and that's a big except, there was this man in his dreams as well. Called himself "Rory."

John was a weaker fellow, gawky with not much muscle, but this man was somehow more gawky and slender, with obscene shirts that were checked all-around and with runners on his feet, so different than the ones he used at polo, but this man wore it as well as he would a fine suit.

He was tall with hair the colour of sand, a rather large nose that John found strangely appealing, and something shining right under his skin, spilling sunshine from within.

John wasn't proud to say that he took a fancy to this "Rory" man, and Amelia laughed, twinkling bells, when she heard about his insane thinkings.

"Don't be ridiculous. Firstly, a man? I definitely knew it, Doctor," Amelia stopped midsentence, a gasp on the bow of her lips, and she smiled instead, trying to cover up his slip.

"John, I'm apologize. I was thinking of my new… beau. He's a doctor at the clinic in York, and… he comes to visit me every month. Takes a train and everything," She widened her eyes, and crossed her legs daintily, laid her intercrossed hands on her lap, and took a sip of her tea calmly.

"Oh really? Makes a bit of pence, does he?" John said knowingly. He was familiar with Amelia's habits of courting men.

"Oh, he makes a bit," Amelia winked, and John chortled and smiled at her, used to her unusually saucy ways, and really, she was a dear sister to him, nothing more.

She did try to seduce him once, but he had to have an awful conversation with her later about him and his feelings on men, and she brightened a bit, straightening her dress and promising to drop by for 6:00 tea, as they always do, and John was left flabbergasted, with his shirt-tail out of his trousers and his infernal hair drooping over his eyes again.

They had got on pleasantly since then, and nobody had mentioned it, except for the frequent badgering's from Amelia about "whether he had met a nice fellow yet," and "I saw this man on the street, and apparently he's unattached. Would you like to meet him?"

No, Amelia, he would say. I'll be lonely for now.

And he was lonely. When Amelia left promptly at 7:25, escorted by her chauffeur, he was left frowning into a pot of cold tea, only surrounded by housekeepers until the next morning when he left for work.

Amelia had scoffed when she heard he was working. "Your father patented modern medicine as it is, John. You don't have to work a day in your life!"

He persisted though, said "It was for the experience, darling," and promptly got a job at the Glasgow Times, knocking about with articles about rubbish things. He was usually got stuck with writing about the infernal people who lived in Glasgow, about their social lives that his boss said he would know a lot about, him being the John A. Smith that had been on everybody's lips and ears as "Scotland's most eligible bachelor," for four years.

He despised being called that, a painful reminder about why he was always so alone and desperate.

He went to bed early whenever Amelia stopped by on her Wednesday's and Sundays.

He cleaned his shoes again, for the second time that night, and relit his pipe, sending sweet tobacco smoke into the air, scenting his clothes.

He got up and read for about an hour after in his library; books filled with poetry from Keats and Poe and Shelley and the grand stories of Dickens and Twain and Tolstoy while Brahms and Wagner played on, the fire-heat lapping at his legs, the shadows of the bookcases making the large room feel cozy. Amelia said it gave her fear, so many things that could topple and crush in this room, and she never quite liked literature either, especially when he droned about this article one of his mates ("No, I don't fancy him.") had written about Arthur Conan Doyle, and he had decided to read his works, and he was in love, by golly, and Amelia rolled her eyes and delicately sipped her tea.

He finished his book and stretched heavenward, feeling that heat wash over his exposed stomach and he almost purred like Amelia's sweet-tempered tabby cat, Edwin.

He got up, picking up the empty glass that once held bourbon inside, and tipped the ashes out of his pipe into a waiting dish. He left the cup in his study, a desk with stacks of books and a typewriter, brand new, a birthday gift from Amelia.

He didn't know why Amelia was so wealthy, she was pretty tight-lipped about the matter, but he knew she gave a lot in kindness. After he was weaned off the drink a month ago, she had helped him get shaped up, even giving him a nice silver pocket watch when he just ordered water at the bar with his mates, which now lay in his library, unopened. It didn't work, why open it?

He let it slip from his mind, and he went upstairs to put on his bed-clothes and to prepare himself for a rough night. Nights after Amelia had left were the hardest on him. The dreams were the most vivid.

This night was no different, with him jumping around with the same infernal hair and a bow-tie of all things, with Amelia hoisting guns that shot light beams and not looking a tad affected, and that "Rory" man that John had grown soft for.

This time was a kicker; they were in the 2000's, only a thousand years away, and they were underground, helping almost lizard-like people and then Rory got hit with a light beam and then Amelia (Who was married to Rory in this situation) forgot about him.

There was also Vincent Van Gogh featured lightly in it, a man who one of his comrades talked about frequently, and who had passed early this year, and John took a begrudging liking the man he never met.

He woke up at 6: 14, his biological clock precise to the minute, and got himself dressed perfectly for work, putting on his trousers and buttoning up his dress shirt and donning a jacket and a cap for the day. He slipped on his shoes, quickly checked to see if he had notes he needed, and he took off, yelling a "See you tonight!" at his housekeepers and locking the door behind him.

He started down the street and flagged a buggy over towards him. One; after a while, mind you; finally pulled over, and he climbed in, stating his destination.

Two other men sat in the small cab; one with his face wholly shielded by a newspaper, the other staring out the window with a blank look on his face. They all sat in silence as the buggy slowed and the absentminded man by the window got up slowly and paid his dues, staggering out towards the rain-soaked plains of Glasgow.

John reached out and slammed the door shut behind the man, and it caused the other man with the newspaper to jump, nearly out of his seat.

"I'm sorry for startlingly you, dear chap," John started, and the stranger dropped his newspaper onto his lap and John almost gasped.

It was Rory from his dreams. Exactly. Down the shagged blonde hair to the nose.

Rory (?) smiled at him and said, with a calm voice, "Didn't startle me at all, don't worry. I am simply high-strung from my job. I'm starting today, you see, and I'm horribly nervous."

John couldn't stop gaping at Rory's (?) face, taking it in so hungrily that the other man shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, fidgeting a bit with his thumbs.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that you look like someone I knew, once," John apologized, and the man smiled and said sociably, "I get that a lot."

"Now, where are you starting at? Your new job?" John asked, genuinely intrigued this time, partly in due of the Rory-likeness and to the adorable fidgeting.

"The Glasgow Times, actually. Literature column," The Rory-doppelganger said, smiling a bit bashfully, and John raised his eyebrows. Well, he tried to. Truth was that he had very little eyebrows.

"I'm the Social column. Four years now," He said, and the doppelganger looked surprised before reaching over to shake his hand firmly.

"We'll be seeing each other, presumably. I'm Arthur Williams," He shot him a small smile, and John returned the handshake with fervour.

"I shall hope so. John Smith," He said in way of introducing himself, and Arthur nodded before dropping his hand and reassembling his newspaper, tucking it under his arm.

"Our offices are a step away. Let's walk," Arthur said, and John nodded, getting his briefcase and hastily tugging his hat back on.

"But it's raining outside, Arthur," John was nagging him like a mother, inappropriate for someone he had met not but a minute ago, but Arthur just laughed and grabbed the fussing hands to still them.

"What you must learn about me, John, is that I love walking in the rain," And with that, the doors opened, he paid the fare, and jumped off into the crowds while John stood, open-mouthed at Arthur's back.

Oh, wait till I tell Amelia.

WIP! AH!

Review if the day is long and the winds seem to sing through the branches of that old oak tree in your backyard.

(or just because you liked the story that's cool too lol)