A/N: Sometimes, when I have the availability to fulfill prompts, I open up a window of time for people to submit an idea to my writing tumblr. This is the product of one of those times.
This ended up being the fulfillment of two prompts that involved soldiers. One made mention of the Vietnam War, which then made me think of all the vets clubs I grew up in and around and the patrons and then this happened. Set in January 1999, a vague Midwestern American location.
McEwan's, Masterpiece, and Daphne Moon
Clara's first day on the job was pretty much around how she expected it to go: awful. Thick cigarette smoke hung in the air and clung to her clothes while men leered at her from over the bar. She had to repeat herself an average of five times a conversation, seven if the jukebox was running one of the marathons of Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash it was prone to, and the other barmaid was loud and cloying and a little too two-faced for her Minnesotan accent and matronly figure… it made her want to scream.
She took it because she needed the money. The hospital was scaling back its resources; some said it was because of the looming Y2k scare, that cutting back on the workforce meant that they would be easier to sever once the clock changed and the world went south. It was silly, really, because if they were worried about a panic they should have been worrying about medical emergencies caused by all the malfunctioning parts of computerized society, not the emergency of whether or not their employee data survived in the system. She had worked in a pub all throughout uni, so being a barmaid wasn't exactly a foreign concept to her for while she was applying at other hospitals, but it was her that seemed to be the foreign concept… and quite literally.
"So where you from, sweetheart? They don't sound like you 'round here, especially not in a VFW," a man asked, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the oaken bar counter. It was not the first time that evening the question had been spoken and she was sure it wouldn't be the last. Clara smiled her sweetest fake smile and filled a glass with Pabst.
"England," she said. "Ever been?"
"Nah; I hear you eat toads in holes and something about bubbles and squeaking."
"Well… you're not wholly wrong."
"I knew it—and here I thought Dad had always been joking," the man chuckled. Clara placed his beer down on the counter and he placed the payment besides it. "He was stationed there for a while after saving your asses, so I heard all sorts of stories growing up."
"…and I'm sure they were all lovely," Clara replied. She bit her tongue and was very proud of herself for not snapping back; it was a little thing, but with lots of little things all night, little things easily became big things. Washing more glasses seemed suddenly like a very high-priority thing for her to do, and she easily lost herself in the task until the other barmaid snapped at her.
"Clara, you have a customer," she said. A tall man with greying hair and a blank face was standing on the other side of the bar, holding out an empty bottle.
"McEwan's, please; I have a tab," he said, his otherwise-Midwestern voice straining curiously as he named his drink. Clara quickly took his bottle and paused, trying to remember where the new one would be kept. "It's in the back fridge, next to the Heineken." Wordlessly Clara vanished into the back and brought an opened bottle of beer out, which the man took back to a table where a book was waiting for him.
"What… there's something about him that doesn't sit right," Clara thought aloud. The other barmaid shook her head.
"Oh, him? Don't worry about Scottie. He won't bite—I think he just comes here for the cheap beer and the noise." After a quick check of a security monitor, she buzzed a patron in and placed the man's empty bottle in a crate underneath the bar. "Not much atmosphere when you're living alone, I imagine. Now hurry up—we've got a Senior Sons' meeting in an hour and we got to be ready."
A few more hours, a whole meeting, and few more dozen inquiries to her origins later, Clara found herself wiping down the countertop of the bar as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Her coworker came up and took the washcloth from her, motioning towards the only patron left sitting at a table.
"It's about time to close up—why don't you go get Scottie's tab?" she suggested. Clara nodded and went out from behind the bar, approaching the man from behind. She put her hand on his shoulder, gasping when he dropped his book and yanked on her wrist. He pulled her forward with a snarl, twisting her so that her arm was in an unusable position. She caught a glint of fierceness in his eyes as she looked at him, which instantly vanished as he saw her face and he came back to the present.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized as he let go of her arm, adverting his gaze. "I… um… please don't do that. I'm surprised they didn't warn you." He licked his lips as he brought his eyes back up to hers. "I… I didn't mean…" She held up a hand, silencing him.
"No, it's okay. Scott, was it?" Clara saw a flicker of surprise cross his face as she spoke, though it vanished as quickly as it came.
"It's John," he replied, the force of his newly-applied Glasgow brogue blindsiding her. It was admittedly tempered by their American surroundings, but it was genuine and a welcome change from the cartoonish imitations that she heard when people tried their "Scottish" accents out on her. "And you're Clara. There. We've been introduced."
"That still doesn't mean you've paid your tab for the night," she said. Clara stood there quietly as he took four dollars from his pocket and handed it over. "Thank you." She went back to the bar and scowled at the other patrons who were now snickering. "Don't laugh; you should have warned me."
"That part of him isn't special around here, only what you have to get used to," the other barmaid said, shaking her head. Her words should have been cold, but the way she said them voiced an interesting amount of care. "I'm just impressed you got Scottie to speak in Scots. That's a rare thing usually reserved for Auld Lang Syne."
"He's the only one that drinks that beer of his too," one of the barflies muttered. Clara looked back towards John's table, only to see that he was gone.
"Clear his place and you can go for the night; you're a bit rusty, but you'll do," the other barmaid said. Once she did as she was told Clara grabbed her coat and walked out into the chilled January air. Her motorbike was on the far end of the parking lot, making her grumble in self-loathing as she attempted to make a beeline for it. With the snow that was lightly falling and beginning to stick, she was going to have to get back to her apartment quickly before the roads became too slick.
"Why did you leave Blackpool?" Stopping, she glanced across the parking lot and saw John standing by a beat-up old Ford truck, its blue paint shimmering oddly with the orange street lamp. His book was tucked under his arm and the collar of his coat flipped up to protect his neck against the chill. "I don't mean to pry, but, I can't remember the last time I heard a Lancashire accent without turning on Masterpiece."
Clara hesitated slightly before making the walk over to John's truck. She looked up at him, studying the lines in his face as he steeled himself against a small gust. "Followed my boyfriend, but now I'm too rooted to leave." His eyebrow quirked.
"I'd ask, but that would definitely be prying."
"Yes, it would. What about you?"
"Parents, back in '58. I find sounding like home brings too much attention." He shrugged, trying to downplay the entire conversation. "It's nice though, to hear some of home when you least expect it."
"That's why I tape 'Frasier' every week," Clara chuckled. John snorted at that, nearly allowing his book to slip from his arm and into the snow.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess."
A pause settled down around them, so thick the snowflakes seemed to fall around them and not between.
"What is that?" Clara finally asked, pointing at the book under John's arm. He held it up almost sheepishly, presenting the beaten paperback with a library card sticking out.
"'Without Remorse'. It's not exactly my favorite, but it's a story. You like Clancy?"
"Not usually my style," she smirked. "I'm the type that rereads 'Jane Eyre' twice a year and can't choose a favorite Brontë." Noticing the way he shirked back slightly, she quickly tried to think of another book, something newer. "How about fantasy? I used to work with kids, and they can't stop raving about this 'Harry Potter' book. It's clear it's for kids but I liked it so much I had my dad send me the second one by post." A grin twitched against his lips as he tried not to react.
"Hope it wasn't by Owl Post, or the shit involved would have been disastrous for book's structural integrity." He chuckled as he held out his hand. "Doctor John Smith; pediatrician at St. Idris."
"Clara Oswald, between-jobs RN," she replied. Clara let go and tilted her head, amused at her current position. "Hey, you know, I'm feeling kind of peckish. You know the diner across town?"
"Know it? I played hooky from high school in those booths. Meet you there in ten?"
She nodded. "Then you can tell me all about how a man like you is a pediatrician. If your bedside manner is as keen as your first impressions, then I wonder if I should rescind my application."
"Low blow," he laughed. "For that you're paying your own way."
"I think I can live with that."