Chapter Nine: Roy Orbison

He'd intended for them to have a good time.

Instead, he sat with a broken video projector between his legs, the emerald green light of his sonic illuminating its complex interior as he tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with it. He hadn't meant to knock it off the cart while dancing—a pastime which he was particularly terrible at—and never before had his inept abilities inflicted this much collateral damage.

"Here," Clara offered, plucking the device from between his teeth so he could see better. "Do you think you can fix it?"

The Doctor stared into the dark cavity of red and blue wires. "Well, it's either that, or we pay three hundred dollars, and while I may be considered affluent, I liked this option a wee bit more." He toggled with an interior switch and tried the power button again. Nothing. "Gives me a bit of a challenge."

"You should've seen the looks on those girls faces when you interrupted their Florence and the Machine tribute," she remarked, arching an eyebrow in suspicion. "Part of me is convinced you did it on purpose."

"Did not!"

"Please," she accused, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "I spotted that look on your face when they stopped singing—you looked relieved! Even when the manager began barking at us from across the room!"

"Well, can you blame me?!" he blurted, hands spewing sporadic gestures into thin air. "Whoever thought that molesting hair was an attractive dance move is severely misled!" He paused his investigation of the video projector to shudder. Actually shudder. Clara rolled her eyes.

"It was your idea to go out for karaoke and drinks," she reminded him. He shot her a look.

"Yes, well I didn't think I'd be sober throughout the entire thing," he shot back, rapping the lens of the machine with his knuckle, as if that would do the trick. "Everything's a lot cooler when you're not confined to the duty of the designated driver."

Clara frowned, tracing his hand movements with the light. "Do drinks really make the experience better? Is it like wearing 3-D glasses or something?"

The Doctor groaned, pushing the broken projector across the floor and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Tired, he was so tired, and, if he were being completely honest, a little cross-eyed. Tonight was supposed to be fun, relaxing, but trouble seemed to follow him more faithfully than his own shadow. And not only that, but Clara had a front-row seat to witness it all. He didn't know whether to be mortified or appreciative of her surprisingly calm disposition.

They were crouched in the corner of the supply closet, remnants of a tool kit scattered about as The Doctor sat in defeat, Clara peering over his shoulder at the three hundred dollars' worth of rubbish that he couldn't seem to diagnose. Filled to the brim with frustration, the young man laid down on the floor and tried not to think about how filthy it was but rather his incessant urge to scream. If he started, Clara would probably be the only one to hear him. A thick bass was already pounding through the door like a living heartbeat.

"Let me have a go at it, eh?" Clara suggested, patting him affirmatively on the knee and scooching over to the abandoned piece of machinery. She heaved it onto her lap and studied it under the emerald green light. "Oswald for the win—Oswin!"

"You must hate me right now," The Doctor drawled, rubbing his hands over his face. The young writer furrowed her brow as she began inspecting the wires for any disconnections.

"Hate you? Why would I hate you?"

"Because I took the karaoke out of the karaoke bar!" he exclaimed, squinting up at the grim fluorescent bulbs until his eyes stung. "Now it's just a bar! And not a very good one either, what kind of a bartender doesn't know how to make a decent lemonade? A nine year-old could do a better job than that lad could."

"You're just upset because you had to ask for a virgin-everything," she retorted, unscrewing the casing to the projector's main exhaust fan and coughing when a cloud of dust was unleashed into her face.

"Am not! I'm more upset that you requested an espresso shot at a bar," he accused. Clara glared at him.

"So what if I don't like to drink? It's unpleasant and disorienting and adjacent to morning-after headaches," she informed him. "Besides, if I had been under the influence, I wouldn't have had the acuity to fix this stupid thing." She banged her fist onto a piece of the projector so to relocate it to its former position. The Doctor peered up at her from his place on the floor.

"I'm sorry I got us into this mess," he apologized, feeling the chagrin in his chest begin to rise. "I know tonight was supposed to be fun."

Again, Clara paused, leaning back from her work to stare at him with a blank face. "Are you kidding me? This is the most fun I've had in ages."

The Doctor sighed, his hands retreating back to his face so she wouldn't see him turning red. "You don't need to lie to me and say that you're actually enjoying this."

"Oh no, I am loving this," she promised him, smirking. "It's not every day you get to sabotage a band of university girls' rendition of 'Cosmic Love.'" Biting her lip in concentration, she carefully screwed the cover of the projector back on and snapped it into place. "There. That should do it."

Holding down the power button with her thumb, the two travelers watched as the projector's glass eye whirred back to life, a pale blue light spewing forth and bending around the shelves of toilet paper and packages of unopened salt. Clara laughed in triumph as she slumped against the wall, her smile radiant as her eyes fell upon the thwarted doctor lying next to her. She nudged his leg gently with the toe of her sparkly shoe.

"I don't hate you," she answered him finally, setting the projector down next to her. "The people waiting in line to sing karaoke, maybe. But not me."

"Perhaps hate is too harsh a word," The Doctor corrected, crossing his ankles and hooking a finger onto the strap of her glittery high-heel. "Pity, maybe?"

Clara laughed. "Never."

"I couldn't even fix a ruddy old video projector," he chuckled, sitting up against the wall next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and drift off into a deep sleep. But the coffee she had inhaled minutes ago kept her awake, sharpening everything: her senses, her thoughts. The warmth of The Doctor as he leaned his head on hers. What would be of them in two days? Would they stay friends? Or would they drift apart, until they were eventually strangers again?

"Well, come and meet the girl who can," she murmured amusedly, feeling The Doctor's smile against her hair. And again, she felt it—a moment of brief tranquility, mixed in with the slight apprehension of being so close to someone she'd only just met. It certainly didn't feel that way. In fact, yesterday was already a lifetime ago in her eyes.

The comfortable silence died when someone began banging on the door. It was Klein, the bar manager, who had a slight beer-belly, frown lines, and a rusty red comb-over haircut. The Doctor scrambled to his feet immediately like a child looking for an escape route, his eyes even latching onto the vent situated just above their heads. Clara followed his gaze and blinked up at the barred-off exit.

"I'm not going to hoist you into that, so don't get any ideas," she said from her place on the floor as Klein allowed himself in without an ounce of consideration as to how crowded the closet would become. At least the two of them smelled decent. Clara tried to mask her cough as the musk of alcohol and cigarette smoke filled her lungs.

"Did you fix it?" Klein demanded impatiently, though his eyes were already locked on the fully operational video projector lying on the floor before him. The Doctor swallowed the lump rising in his throat. Relieved as he was, it didn't mitigate the manager's explicit anger towards them.

"Yes! See? It's as good as new. Actually, no," The Doctor frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not no as in the projector's not fixed, no as in I wasn't the one to fix it, Clara was." He jutted his thumb towards the young woman still sitting on the floor. "I was rather useless during the entire process, really, though I'm usually rather good under pressure—"

"Doctor?" Clara interjected.

"Hm?"

"Sh."

"Oh." He understood the cue and promptly shut his mouth, but not before adding, "Again, very sorry for upsetting the peace. Promise it won't happen again."

"Better not," the man huffed, Clara unsure of whether the look in his eyes was bewilderment due to The Doctor's unlimited access to words or a secret desire to have pocketed three hundred dollars from him instead. Something told her he wasn't actually expecting them to fix the thing. And if she were telling the truth, Clara hadn't either. This day was just full of surprises.

Quickly unplugging the projector from its socket and handing it over to the manager, the young woman accepted The Doctor's hand in helping her up. She dusted off her dress and teetered back out into the lively bar, where a live band was busy tuning their instruments. Klein made a hasty show of getting the karaoke back up and running again, ushering the next performer onto the tiny pedestal of a stage, a thirty year-old man who began weeping the lyrics to 'Time After Time.' Clara and The Doctor both collectively groaned as they leaned against the back wall of the bar, the drunken parade of businessmen and absent-minded college students swaying to the tune of the man's requiem.

"The terror continues," Clara narrated solemnly. He laughed.

"Seriously, who goes out to karaoke on a Monday night?"

She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. "We do, Doctor."

"Yes, but we're exempt from the shame. We're on a honeymoon, remember?" he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Clara laughed, shoving him gently as she watched the man onstage grip the microphone in near-desperation.

"Definitely the weirdest honeymoon I've ever been on."

"The only honeymoon you've ever been on," he corrected her. Realizing his mistake a moment later, he faltered with his words. "Not that I'm assuming that you've never been on one before, even though that's precisely what I just did—"

"You stand correct," Clara corrected him amusedly, relief immediately flooding his features as she smiled cheekily back at him. "Only the one. Even if it's a hundred and ten percent fabricated."

"Hey, you gotta admit, I did pretty well back there," The Doctor replied. "The backyard ceremony, Canon in D, me being a mess, as usual."

"You basically described the wedding in every Hallmark movie ever made."

"Don't insult the Hallmark channel, Clara. Those films are golden," he said rather seriously, sending the two of them into a fit of laughter that wouldn't stop, even when they began receiving strange looks from the people around them. Because they weren't just cracking up over the Hallmark channel, but The Doctor's dance moves that had cost him nearly three hundred dollars in replacement fines, the sickly-sweet lies of two strangers trying to get a discount, and the probability of two completely different people coming together to complete one seemingly impossible task.

"Let me drive the TARDIS to our next stop," Clara said once their revelry had subsided, feeling the courage in her begin to rise. The Doctor tore his gaze from the stage to stare at her, his mouth slightly agape.

"Really?"

"Yeah!" she shrugged, as if convincing herself that it was no big deal. "The road is just a straight line anyways, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You do realize that question is typically preceded by potentially dangerous consequences, right?"

"True," she admitted, the corner of her mouth turning into a frown. "I just think you should give yourself the luxury of a drink or two, Doctor. I saw you eyeing the cocktail menu, though you tried to be discreet."

He still didn't look convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," she reassured him, though the dread began to accumulate at the base of her throat. She swallowed it down and forced herself to continue. "Course, don't black out on me or anything. I am not dragging your body back to the car, nor do I need another recreation of 'Weekend at Bernie's.'"

"The Missionary did look good," he admitted, stroking his chin in careful deliberation. "According to The Guardian, Utah has the most restrictive liquor laws in the entire United States...what did you mean by another?"

"It was my friend Nina, she broke a heel on the way down. I had to visit a chiropractor after that incident," she supplied ruefully. "And I knew about the liquor laws, surprisingly. It's Trivial Pursuit question. I memorize Trivial Pursuit questions so I can...win," she finished bleakly, scratching the back of her head. The Doctor didn't know why this amused him so much, and Clara caught the look he was giving her and glared.

"Go," she ordered him, shooing him away. "Go and claim your 1.5 fluid ounces of liquor and then meet me by the billiards table so I can beat you."

"Is that your strategy?" he asked, backing up towards the bar with a blithe smile on his face. "Convincing me to get tipsy just so you can win?"

"A player never reveals her strategies," she replied coyly. He laughed, and she suddenly found herself blushing beneath his accusatory stare. "I'm not trying to put you at a disadvantage, I swear!"

"I would've believed that if you hadn't told me that you memorize Trivial Pursuit questions," he called back, Clara shaking her head as soon as his back was to her. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face as she admired the way the light bounced off her shoes, the young woman unaware of her surroundings as she turned on her heel and ran smack into a wall of dress shirt buttons and men's cologne. Staggering backwards, she felt a pair of firm hands keep her from falling, a dazed look in her eyes as they tried to focus on the stranger. America was certainly full of them.

"Whoa," he said, the smile in his voice evident as he situated her upright. "Are you alright there?"

"Yeah, think I am..." Clara drawled, pulling back from his grip and massaging her temple. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Understandable," the young man said, his brown eyes casting an expression of sympathy onto her. She took in his closely cropped black hair and neatly pressed black blazer, and realized that his facial features were almost programmed to be attractive. He maintained that same easy smile on his face as he said, "Mind me asking, but you're not from here, are you?"

She mashed her lips together, suddenly aware of the throng of people overtaking every square inch of her peripheral vision.

"No, no I'm not," she replied, finally meeting his gaze. His GQ smile. "And I'm assuming you are?"

She swore she saw his teeth whiten by ten watts.

"Yes. Yes I am."

"One Missionary, sir," the bartender announced, presenting a brightly-colored concoction in a sweating glass. The Doctor thanked the man and tipped him generously, sipping at the drink as he meandered his way through the crowd in search of Clara. He skimmed the surface of everybody's heads, realizing the fault in his tactic, so he began looking for her shoes. He liked them quite a lot, actually, the way they sparkled in the light...

The Doctor stopped short. Because when he spotted the shoes, he failed to ignore the pair of loafers to their immediate left.

Clara was talking to someone.

And even though he told himself that they were just talking, he couldn't control the slight plunge his stomach took into an unending abyss of apprehension. Again? he couldn't help but ask himself, wanting to smack his palm into his forehead. First with Jack Harkness, and now with this strange bloke with the dimples and the clean-cut quiff. The Doctor's hair wasn't like that at all; it sort of took its own path. Stuck up in places he didn't want it to. Not that it bothered him, it was merely an observation.

"Join the club, man," a voice said from beside him. The Doctor started, turning his head to face a student with a beer in his hand and a pitiful look on his face. He blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I see the way you look at her," he answered him, pointing the mouth of the bottle towards the scene playing out before him. Clean-cut man laughing at something Clara said. Clara smiling politely back at him. "That wistful longing. The inferiority complex." A grim expression passed over his face before he said, "It's best you just forget about it, though. She's way out of your league."

"Excuse me?" The Doctor said defensively, shooting daggers at the young boy. "Are you even allowed in here? Where are your parents?"

"Look, I'm just trying to do you a favor here in sparing yourself from any potential embarrassment, that's all," the boy replied gingerly. The Doctor was mortified.

"It just so happens that I'm her ride!" he exclaimed, taking a rather vigorous sip of his cocktail. It burned at the back of his throat and he nearly sputtered. "At least, that was until we agreed to swap roles, but that's not the point. I know her, I'm her friend!"

It didn't seem to support his case, because the boy only tsked, like a physician diagnosing him with some malicious disease. "Out of your league and firmly situated in the friend zone. That's gotta hurt."

"Nothing hurts!" he shot back.

Rarely was he ever irritated with anyone; he typically sought to be understanding of others' backlash—perhaps they were having an off day, or didn't get that bicycle they wanted for Christmas. But when he looked at this child, with his pompous attitude and petty narratives, all he felt was indignation. He was the doctor, for Pete's sake, he wasn't supposed to shrivel under the eyes of minors. That wasn't the way things were supposed to go.

"What? So you really think you have a chance?" the boy challenged, folding his arms across his chest. The Doctor scoffed.

"Yes," he said, though his confidence lacked luster. The boy frowned at him.

"Well, nothing's gonna happen if you just stand there. You do know that you have to actually approach her, right?"

The man only laughed, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Has no one taught you how to address your elders?"

"You're not old."

"You're right about that," The Doctor replied, pausing to take a sip of his drink. "You're also probably right about her being out of my league, and the saving me from potential embarrassment bit, but you know the part where your mistaken?" he asked. The boy raised his eyebrows. "Watch this."

The Doctor downed the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass into the boy's hands as he swiveled on his heel and walked away. The poor kid stared at his retreating figure incredulously.

"Where are you going?!" he hollered. "She's that way!"

"I know!"

He didn't know where the suddenly bravery came from—the drink that was now making his head fuzzy, or his incessant need to prove people wrong—but The Doctor felt the idea in his head grow more and more ridiculous as he stalked to the front of the room in an unforeseen determination. He had decided a long time ago not to let anyone influence his decisions, and that promise remained firm, even now. No one could defer him from what he was about to do—not the minor, or clean-cut man, or even The Doctor himself, which was an unexpected surprise. Usually he was his own adversary when it came to gestures like this.

Perhaps it was finally time to beat himself at his own game.

Clara couldn't even remember his name.

It had come up at least twice in their conversation, but she had difficulty latching onto it as he continued to indulge her on the success of his vegan food truck. When she had asked if they sold chimichangas, he laughed. She didn't know what was so funny about it, for it was a legitimate question.

"Have you ever tried being vegan, Clara?"

She noticed how he pronounced her name differently. It was all short vowels. "No. Tried being vegetarian for a while, though. It's difficult when you're indefinitely responsible for Christmas turkey."

"So you're a cook, then?"

"I prefer a writer with a dash of amateur baking," she corrected, thinking back to her soufflé triumph earlier that morning. It was like the lottery, nailing down that recipe. "My friend's vegan, so I can relate a little, but I'm persistent on the border that lies within our fridge."

"Fair enough," he grinned, swirling around the ice in his glass. "Say, you're looking particularly empty-handed. Why don't I buy you a drink? We can continue our conversation over a game of pool."

Clara crossed her arms across her chest, feeling her insides constrict. The Doctor should've been back by now, bantering with her, discussing where they were off to next. What was keeping her from saying yes? It wasn't like she was on a date or anything, and she'd be halfway across the continent by tomorrow. Any other person would have accepted the man's offer, would have unraveled at his immaculate hair and practiced smile. And yet here she was, trying to find the words that would inflict the least amount of damage.

"Look, you seem like a really nice guy...uh..." she trailed off, grimacing. She couldn't believe she had forgotten his name.

He knew what her answer was going to be right there and then, as his lips drew themselves into a thinly pressed line. His dimples still flanked that blithe, easy-going grin as he nodded and took a step back from her. Clara was at least glad he got the message.

"Ouch," he laughed, a little uneasily. "You know you don't stand a chance when she doesn't even remember your name."

"I'm sorry," she apologized truthfully. He shook his head.

"No, it's alright," he insisted, finishing off his drink. The look in his eyes told her he wanted another. "It's William, by the way."

"Ah, yes! William," she snapped her fingers, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all along. "Regardless of my poor listening skills, I stand firm with what I said. I think you're a nice guy, and I'm positive you're going to make someone very happy one day. At least you're one person closer to finding out."

He nodded, though that tinge of defeat still lingered in the space between them.

"Is it too arrogant of me to ask why you said no?"

She laughed. "Trust me, William, it's got nothing to do with you. If anything—"

Her words were stopped short as a wave of ear-splitting feedback ricocheted off the walls, causing everyone's heads to turn towards the stage.

"HELLOO SALT LAAKE!" The Doctor hollered into the microphone, squinting as the light from the projector blinded him into oblivion. "Forgive me for interrupting your evening but I'd like to take a moment to introduce the smashing band you've got performing here tonight! We've got Lucy on drums, Oren on bass, and Peter on lead guitar—did you know that Pete here's from Scotland? Love a good Scot. Anyhow..."

"What the hell is he doing up there?" Clara muttered to no one in particular, excusing herself from William's side and pushing forwards into the throng of people, where the heat became almost palpable. She wanted to get to the front of the crowd but was unsure of what she was going to do when she got there. It wasn't like she was going to yank him off-stage, and there wasn't a chance of her getting up there herself...

She froze as the band began to play, ascending guitar riffs mixed with the the steady beating of drums keeping her firmly rooted in place. She swore her heart stopped once she recognized the song.

And she didn't know what it was, the hoard of people bobbing their heads to the music, or the fact that The Doctor was singing Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," but Clara felt the blood rush from her face in a feeling she couldn't discern. Was it embarrassment? Shock? Or a strange hybrid of the two?

"I don't believe you, you're not the truth. No one could look as good as you...mercy!"

The crowd began to sing along, The Doctor's eyes meeting Clara's from the stage as he flashed her the widest grin she'd ever seen him wear. She shook her head in disbelief. He did everything: the air-guitar, the purr at the end of the verse that made everyone in the room go hysterical, and it was good. He was good. Not like she would ever admit that to him.

She began to laugh when someone in the audience handed him their sunglasses, the tension in her limbs dissipating as she began to sway in rhythm to the song, her sparkly shoes glittering under the lights when she twirled. She wasn't the most graceful dancer—while The Doctor was all limbs and flailing, Clara was a culmination of shoulders and hips, but she didn't care what she looked like in the moment. She just danced.

It was the most fun she'd had in a long time.

A/N: Apologies for the gap between updates! Studying has taken up the majority of my time, but chapters should be coming more frequently once exam season is over. Clara takes the wheel in this next installment, so we'll see how that goes! Again, thank you all for following me with this story, it truly means a lot and I hope you've been enjoying it so far!