Let's Go On With The Show, chapter 2
A/N: Hey, all you sweet peeps! (THAT WAS LAME. I apologize.) Anyway, I apologize for the REALLY late chapters, because I've been busy with school. New recruit to the school wind ensemble, birthday, getting shit done...it's been "fun." Especially with the recent emotions after finishing the final book of the HoO, " The Blood of Olympus." Please tell me I am not the only one. Lots of love sent to my reviewers, Randomcat1832, supersexyghotmew95, izzyclaire and JessicaWhoCouldEndTheWorld for your lovely words!
As soon as Amelia was fast asleep, taking the small cot that they had barely been able to afford, John shrugs on the dirty long coat that he favors, and throws on his favorite Stetson hat. Both found in the dumpster in the alley next to their apartment. John knew he could've used their money they scrounged together before coming to the city, to buy himself a good coat, but he had given it all to Amelia, so she could have all she needed. Fancier gowns, contrary to her plain country clothes. The low cut flapper dresses that helped her in her auditons during their struggle to the top. The strangest and most beautiful head dresses that convinced directors to hire her, and eventually, convinced Mr. Ziegfeld to hire her for Ziegfeld Follies.
John Smith and Amelia Pond had a relationship most could barely fathom. It was not of love, as many people would assume. John could never see his best friend, the girl whom he had felt like a little sister towards, like that. Too sharp, and a strange accent on her tongue many had trouble understanding, and he had helped her get rid of in favor of a smart, American accent. He was the one to give up most of his education funds, when Amelia had asked him to help her audition in New York. John Smith had wanted to be a doctor, a medical man of knowledge, but instead, he gave up the world of knowledge for the world of shimmering dresses and blinding lights. All for his best friend, Amelia Pond. It wasn't out of simple and amazing selflessness, it was because Amelia had given up so much for him. To comfort him and miss school to comfort him when the ladies in their tiny town broke his heart. The one who gave him a home when his parents had booted him out of their house at the age of sixteen, when he told him he was to help Amelia. The one to steal food when he was banned from the market for an accident he couldn't control. John lets himself grin, as he tucks the coat close around his body. What a memory. Him and Amelia had their fair share of struggles, but they had helped each other through it.
But was it worth it? It was nights like this, when he listens to his Amelia long for more. Nights when the questions that haunted him finally assault him, pounding him down into the dirt until he could find the answers. He's given her nearly everything he could give, and he knew she would always be grateful. But he couldn't give her the one thing she longed for, love. He knew he could never feel romantically attracted to her, she was his Amelia. Nothing more or less. Her Raggedy Doctor man. His Pond. They will always be connected one way or another. But he couldn't give her the love she deserves. The love that is what everybody longs for, who comes to the city and the country. Either to find their love or to settle down. To find, to quote her, her someone.
Amelia is beautiful, he couldn't deny that, and an intelligent woman. A smart, independant, ferocious woman. She knew what she wants and she never let anyone stop her. When she had gone out with Patrick Yerex in the ninth year, everybody at school had called her a scarlet woman, but that hadn't stopped her at all. Amelia didn't allow anyone to stomp on her, or bring her down. Sure, she's had her days when she's felt like dirt, but John always reminded her she is remarkable. Her beauty was astounding. Her intelligence is enviable. Her heart is gold, and the sharp tongue just gave a beautiful accent to her character. If she was a painting, she would be a masterpiece. John himself knew this so well.
While walking through the dark, but not silent, streets of the city that all long to go to, his thoughts have somehow invaded the path his feet walked along, and found himself in front of a bar, filled with your local flappers, your drunken men looking for love, your soldiers who haven't recovered, all the lost and broken who want to forget everything. He stares wistfully at the half glowing sign above it, crooked.
"The Caper's Check. Such a nice speakeasy." He murmurs to himself, reading the angled sign, and with a look behind him, feeling in his pockets for coins, and with a deep breath, he allows his feet to bring him into the dark dirty bar. He almost regrets his choice a minute later, when he the stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies hits his nose. He resists the urge to bring the collar of the coat up to his nose, and he continues on his way. He passes the four round tables, two of them completely occupied by drunk men, and heads to the bar. He approaches the long desk, where the man is wiping the inside of a glass with a somewhat dirty rag.
"Beer. That's all," John mumbles, sliding forth the five dollars that he had left, "Leave it in the bottle."
"Five fifty is the price," the bartender says with a slight glare, "Unless you got fifty more cents, boy, you might wanna try the joint around the corner."
"Fifty? When did they raise the prices?" John exclaims, his eyes widening, and his noticeably big chin lowers, "I was sure it was five dollars, no more, no less!"
"You don't got the dough, you best dry up," the bartender replies quickly, and leans forward, resting his forearm on the counter, "Now, hand it over, or you're a piker."
John is about to call him plenty of good names, a few that aren't even legal in the state of New York, before two coins worth 25 cents are slid in front of him. John is stunned, as a man with sandy blonde hair gives the man the last 50 cents for his drink. The bartender accepts it without question, though he gives John the stink eye. John, opening the bottle, is quiet as the man with the sandy hair takes another sip of his own drink. The two men are silent, awkwardly shifting in their seats and avoiding the other's gazes.
"Thank you."
"It was nothing." The sandy haired man replies, "Rough night?"
"The roughest." John turns to the other man, shaking his head, "Wouldn't find myself here for any other reason. And of what of you, kind stranger?"
"Kind?" The man chuckles, laughing softly, "Not even close. Leaving my only friend for the military. She's upset."
"She? Are you two...?" John uses odd hand gestures, unsure how to say what he's thinking. He first raises his right hand, and wraps it around the left, and then awkwardly holds it close to his heart. When the man simply gives him an odd look, he sighs, exasperated. Though, the other man simply stares, then his eyes widen in realization. He spits out his drink, and the bartender gives him a nasty look. John cries out, and as soon as the man has calmed down.
"Together? You think...Clara and I?"
"Well..."
"No! Not at all. She's my best friend. If anything, she would fall for a man with a big chin, like you. She likes the weird types." He playfully slaps John's arm.
"I don't have a big chin! And what did you say your name was?"
"Rory. And yes, you do, Mr...?"
"John." He grins, straightening his blazer, "John Smith, manager of Ziegfeld girl, rising star, Amelia Pond." He gives Rory a toothy smile, but Rory merely stares back in shock, his mouth agape.
"A-Amelia? The Amelia Pond?"
"The one and only."
"Sir, please," Rory nervously wipes his hands on his trousers, taking another huge sip of his drink, "Um, John, sorry...if you don't mind...you don't mind...if I...and her..." He suddenly sways in his seat, and John fumbles to save him as his eyes shut and he nearly hits the ground.
"Rory! Oi, Rory!" He shakes him, but Rory doesn't reply, his eyes open but dazed, "Come now, get together!"
"Not going to help, he's completely bent," the bartender says from behind the counter, "He's had about 4 bottles of the strong stuff. I say, fear of shell shock. I hope he doesn't off himself like others-"
"You're not helping!"
"HEY!"
A sharp, sweet voice is heard from the entrance of the bar, and John raises his head to see a short, brunette girl force her way through the drunken men, pushing aside a particularly promiscuous man. He goes crashing to the ground. She takes Rory from John's arms, holding him upright, then glares at John.
"Sorry Mac, bank is closed," she yells towards the man that she shoved over, but she then immediately turns her attention back to Rory, "What did you do to him?" She demands, prodding his chest, "Spike his drink? Or took him for too many, like Pink. You goddamn soldiers, drinking to save all your troubles! I told him he had training, and he said he would go have a drink then come back!"
"Wait, wha-?" John merely stares as the girl, wraps Rory's arm around her shoulder, surprisingly being able to hold his weight for one with such a small frame, "Who are you?"
"Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald." She spits out, lifting Rory's chin and looking at his neck, checking his pulse. "Drunk as ever. I swear, he'll off himself before he leaves, such bushwa...and you are?" Her brown eyes raise to the stunned manager, and John takes a good five seconds before he gets back into the zone. If anything, if this was the Clara Rory had been talking about, he didn't find her as attractive when she was yelling and blaming him for Rory being drunk.
"John. John Smith." He walks over to her side, ignoring the bartender taking their glasses and beginning to dump their drinks, "And do you need help with, well...that?"
Clara was beginning to sag underneath the full weight of a drunken, out of state Rory. "No, I'm fine. I really am. Thanks for asking-"
"But I-"
"I insist." Terse silence. "Well, I could, but I don't like asking strangers with big chins for help. Especially those called John Smith."
"Hey!"
"Now, go chase yourself, Mr. Smith." she begins to drag Rory out of the darkened bar, as the other drunken men are either watching the spectacle that is the drunken soldier, the confused manager and the aggravated nanny. The moonlight outside illuminates her body, and though she's half bent over because of the weight of her friend, she looked like a goddess. Someone to come and take the world by storm.
"And remember me."
"Oh, trust me..." He mumbles to himself, watching as she drags Rory down the alley and out into the city of New York. Clara Oswin Oswald. "I will."
He remembers Rory Williams, the drunken soldier, and the exceptionally impressive Clara Oswald that night, even in his half-intoxicated state. He remembers Rory's words, his shock when he mentioned Amelia. Amy could like Rory, he thinks to himself as he re-enters the apartment, managing to stay undetected all night. Amelia is still fast asleep. He pulls off his dirty coat, undoing the bow tie that is loose on his neck. Amelia could love Rory. Maybe. Maybe she could.
"I've got your someone, Amy," he mumbles to himself, looking at his friend in slumber, "And I'm not letting him go. Not gonna make you wait anymore."