Chapter Text
Rory chews on his bottom lip, small fist curling around a silver, feather boa. River smiles, crouched down next to him as she brushes a hand through his hair.
“This one?”
He nods fiercely, eyes wide and round as she pulls it off the rack, wrapping it over his shoulders like a scarf. It’s far too long, the edges dragging on the ground, but Rory grins up at her, cheeks puffed out and top teeth missing, and River finds she doesn’t care if it gets dirty or mangled. Not for the giggle she receives when she twirls him around, and the way he clutches the ends to his chest.
“It has glitter,” he breathes, awing at the sparkles coming off on his Spiderman t-shirt and the skin of his palms. He reaches up and pats her cheeks, tickled when some of the glitter sticks to her face, and River rolls her eyes fondly.
“I think I’ve got enough of that on as it is,” she laughs, but Rory shakes his head firmly and parrots the familiar phrase,
“You can never have too much glitter.”
River mock-sighs and gets to her feet, ruffling his hair, about to protest when Jack pokes his head into the stockroom.
“Did someone say glitter?”
Rory shrieks, launching himself at Jack, who scoops him up and turns him upside down by the waist. The little boy cackles, flailing tiny limbs until Jack flips him upright, perching him on his hip.
“Mummy said I could wear this tonight for the show, Uncle Jack, isn’t it pretty? It’s silver and soft, see?” He pushes the boa into Jack’s cheek. “I have to give it back ‘cause it belongs to the show but it’s okay if I keep it on ‘til we leave, right? It matches my shoes!” He swings his legs up, silver, sparkly ballet flats over his red socks.
Jack nods seriously and shoots River a wink. “I would be devastated if you took it off. It would be a travesty!”
Rory beams, and River smiles gratefully, approaching them to lay a hand on her boy’s back. “Places?” she asks, and Jack nods.
“Ten minutes. Oh. And your Wonder Boy’s back.” With a stilted flourish, he raises a bouquet of flowers.
River rolls her eyes, but takes them all the same, hunting for the card. It’s always the same: some ridiculous quote or fact on a card, buried in a haphazard bunch of flowers. She doesn’t know who they’re from, or why, but she gets them randomly, just her.
“What’s it say this time?”
River snorts. “ ‘Did you know: on average, half of all false teeth have some form of radioactivity? Break a leg! Not a tooth. x.’ ”
Jack sighs dreamily. “I have got to find out who his man is. Or woman. Either way, if you don’t want ‘em…”
“All yours, honey,” she says, pushing the flowers back into Jack’s hand. She keeps the card, though, tucking it into a pocket in her robe.
Rory looks between them eagerly. “Do I get to watch tonight?”
River chuckles, taking him from Jack and cuddling him to her chest. Her robe is soft and pink, and Rory snuggles his face into the lapel. “Not tonight, sweetheart. You’re still a bit young to see Mummy’s show.”
It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, really—he’s been backstage with her enough that he finds the sight of half-naked individuals par for the course—and keeping him away is more for her sanity than his; taking her kit off in front of strangers is one thing, but she’d like to spare him (and herself) the therapy bills of seeing his mum in nothing but a thong and nipple tassels mock-fellating his “uncle” for as long as possible.
Rory pouts, but she assures him he’ll get to say hi to the girls after, and in the meantime he’ll get to stay in the greenroom with Donna. “She’s brought you some new books, and if you’re good, you can keep the door open to hear the music, okay?”
He brightens at that, and River sets him on the floor, pleased when he slides a chubby hand into her own. He’s nearly five, which according to him is “super old,” but she loves that he still clings to her and holds her hand of his own volition. Loves the smell of his shampoo and the warmth of his tiny body nestled into hers. She loves his enormous ears and high-pitched laugh and juxtaposing obsessions with both superheroes and lace. He grins up at her now, boa over his shoulders and specks of glitter on his cheeks, and she loses herself for a moment in his toothy smile.
Then Jack taps his watch and she nods, hurrying Rory into the green room where Donna’s waiting and giving him a smacking kiss before shedding her robe in her dressing room. She slips backstage with the other girls, exchanging good show wishes. She can tell by the noise that the crowd tonight is heavy, and a shiver runs down her spine as she checks her costume—or what there is of it—one last time.
The lights dim and the audience settles, and Jack sidles up behind her, a warm hand on her bare back. “Ready?”
River smirks. “As always. Are you?”
Jack laughs quietly as the music starts, and the first act slips on stage. “Sweetheart, I was born for show business.” River snorts, and Jack winks, giving her an appreciative once-over. “God, putting you in clothes is a sin,” he groans.
“I could say the same for you.”
Jack draws his eyes from her breasts, barely encased in a lace, see-through bustier, to her face. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, slaps her ass, and with a flourish, slides onto the stage to uproarious applause.
Nodding to the stagehand, River carefully and quietly as possible climbs the stairs and ladder to the catwalk, where another stagehand helps her into her dangling chair. She has no idea how she let Jack talk her into this, and every night curses him as she stares down at the stage from 20 feet up.
She doesn’t have time to brood for long, because the music changes and the cue is given; curling her hands around the rope of the swing, she nods once to the stagehand, and is lowered into the spotlight.
--
John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tapping his fingers against the small table. It’s dark in the bar, and loud, and the lush, red velvet of the booth keeps sticking to his tweed when he leans back. He turns around to glower at it.
“Relax, would you?”
John starts, glancing over at Clara. She’s in the corner of the booth, sipping a martini, watching him with a mixture of annoyance and bemusement.
“The furniture is attacking me.”
Clara rolls her eyes. “So take off your jacket. It’s warm in here anyway, I don’t understand how you’re still wearing that thing.”
John fixes his bow tie out of habit and runs a hand over the front of his jacket. It is a bit toasty, he’ll admit, but the tweed makes him feel better. Less...naked.
They’re toward the front of the venue, with a full view of the stage, and he hates feeling so exposed. Normally he sits in the back near the bar, unseen and unassuming—not that Clara knows that. As far as she’s aware, he’s never been here before, and he’d like to keep it that way.
When she’d decided to drag him out for a night on the town before the first day of school, he figured she meant dinner and an old movie at the run-down theatre he likes, or possibly a round of mini-golf. Instead, she’d brought him here, to the one bar in all of London he actually frequents—and, well, when he says frequents, he means once in a while. When he can. Never more than twice a month. Except for that one time, during that one show—but it’s not his fault it was spectacular.
Still.
He eyes the patrons, a mix of everyone from drunken men in dirty work boots to businessmen to a gaggle of young women, scantily clad, whom Clara reasoned earlier were probably here as part of a bachelorette party. He hadn’t asked what that meant, deciding it best to look it up later and not incur Clara’s favourite lecture on how he needs to ‘get out more’ and ‘learn about the real world.’
“I’m fine,” he says, taking a sip of his apple juice. He splutters, spitting it back into the glass and shoving it away from him. “What is that?”
Clara purses her lips. “It’s apple vodka.”
“Liquor?” He glares at the offending drink. “You said it was apple juice.”
Clara shrugs. “I lied.”
John grumbles, pulling on his bow tie. “You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m a wonderful friend. I take you out, I buy you biscuits—”
“You’ve brought me to a—a—” he lowers his voice. “strip club—and that was only the once! Besides, they were chocolate.” He wrinkles his nose. “I hate chocolate.”
“First of all, it’s not a strip club, it’s a burlesque show. Second of all, you’re not human.” John huffs. “Seriously, who doesn’t like chocolate biscuits?” John opens his mouth to retort. “Everyone, John. Everyone likes chocolate biscuits.”
“Well, I don’t,” he grumbles. “And I don’t like burlesque, either.” Which is a lie. Completely. “It’s all…naked women.”
Clara grins. “That’s the point.”
He tries not to flap his arms too much. “But they’re on stage! In front of people—in public!”
“So?”
“So, shouldn’t they...you know...put some clothes on?” He’s grateful the lighting hides his blush.
Clara merely snorts. “All right, the chocolate I’ll buy—grudgingly—but you’re a bloke. You can’t tell me you don’t like naked women. Unless you’re gay.” She waves a hand. “But there are naked men, too, so you’ll be fine no matter what.”
John slumps in his seat and resists the urge to fold his arms across his chest. “I hate when you talk in binaries.”
“And I hate it when you sulk. Come on,” she pleads, turning to him and gripping his arm. “It’s your last night before school and then the rest of the year will be all stolen lunches and overbearing parents. Let loose a little. Have a little fun. Lord knows you don’t get out enough to—”
“Doctor!” A waitress stops in front of them, smiling down at John. “I didn’t see you there! Trying a new spot today, eh?”
John waves a hand weakly. “Hello, Nancy.”
“Who’s your friend?” She gives Clara a slow once over and holds out a hand. “Hi. I’m Nancy. Can I get you anything?”
John gulps. “Eh, Clara, Nancy, Nancy, Clara.”
Still shaking the waitresses hand, Clara slaps him in the arm with her other. “You’ve been here before! You lying liar!” She smacks him again, and John flinches away.
“Ow!”
Nancy laughs. “Sorry, John—didn’t mean to blow your cover.” She winks, then spies the drink on the table. “You? Vodka? I thought I’d never see the day.” She puts a hand on a bare hip, and while the Doctor has little trouble looking at her face instead of the bikini top and mini-skirt, Clara is less obtuse. Shameless, even, and John elbows her in the side.
“Quite all right, love, long as she tips well.”
“Oh, I do,” Clara promises.
Nancy grins and squeezes John’s shoulder. “Let me get you a fresh drink—we’ve got some juice in the back, yeah?”
John nods dumbly as she moves away, slumping down even as Clara smacks his arm repeatedly. “You know their names! You come here often enough to know their names!”
“It’s just polite,” he mumbles. “And it’s not often—just...occasionally.”
“Names!” Clara reiterates, but instead of being angry like he’d thought, she’s nearly ecstatic. “You frequent a strip club!”
“It’s not a strip club! It’s a perfectly respectable show.”
“But they’re naked,” she teases. “ ‘In front of people, and so public!’ ”
“It’s art!” he protests. “It’s like a play!”
“With breasts.” Clara giggles, rubbing her hands together. “I knew it was a cover. All that protesting and blushing—you’re a bloke who likes breasts,” she sing-songs, just as Nancy returns with their drinks—a tall glass of apple juice with an apple slice in the rim for John, and a refill on Clara’s martini.
“Actually,” Nancy says in a stage whisper, “I think he fancies the lead.”
“Nancy!”
“Oh?” Clara raises an eyebrow, deliberately dragging her finger’s along Nancy’s as she takes her drink.
“Sends flowers and everything. It’s kind of sweet if you ask me.”
“Well, nobody did,” he grumbles, blushing as Nancy leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek before sauntering away to help other patrons.
“Flowers, eh?”
“Shut up.”
Clara nearly dances in her seat. “Does Johnny has a wittle crush on the stripper?”
“She’s not a stripper,” he snaps, closing his eyes in mortification as he realises he’s played right into her hands.
“I can wait to see her. All of her.”
“You’re horrible. I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
Clara grins and slings an arm over his shoulder while he pouts. “You love me. I’m a great friend. You’ll never be rid of me.”
“You’re walking home.”
“You’d never let me. A little girl like me all on her own?”
John quietly fumes, but when the lights start to dim and the announcer starts to speak, his agitation fades. He sits up slightly, dropping his hands to the table as he tries not to lean forward while he waits.
He knows the show by heart now, but it doesn’t stop his heart from beating double time when the lights shut off and the spotlight comes on and there she is—wild curls and a low, rich voice that still sounds sweet.
He’s overheard the conversations— “Dude, did you see her tits?” “I’d tap that ass.” “Fuck, bro, I bet she has a tight little—” and rationally knows that most men are there to look. That it doesn’t bother them the way it bothers him when they cat-call. He won’t lie—he’s stolen a glance or two when she removes the corset; he’s wondered what it would be like to touch all that skin. It's not what he's here for, not even close, but there's something about her that he can't resist. Even when they were young, he never could—
He quickly catches himself, looking back to her face or closing his eyes to concentrate on her voice.
He does so half-way through the show, tipping his head back against the booth to listen—it’s hardly poetry, but he gets lost in the smooth tones until Clara elbows him in the ribs and shrieks in a whisper, “You’re missing the best part!”
Keeping his eyes firmly shut, John shakes his head. He knows what part this is—he can tell by the timing and the lyrics and the laughter, the uproarious and lascivious cat calls.
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s not real,” Clara returns. “Though I bet he is.” John cracks an eye open to look at her and wishes he hadn’t; she’s ogling the man on stage with a hungry smirk. “All real.”
“Clara,” he hisses, and she laughs.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous! She’s not really giving him a blowjob.”
“Yes, I know that, thank you.”
“You are jealous! Which one?”
“Sorry?”
“Who are you jealous of?” She picks up her program and flips through it. “Lady M or Jack Hardness?” She giggles. “Hardness.”
“How old are you?”
“Young enough,” she returns, waggling her eyebrows. “So?”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You’re totally jealous. Has it been that long?”
John glares, forgetting to keep his eyes closed and when he looks up at the stage, Lady M is on her knees while ‘Jack’ faces the audience, head thrown back as he sings. Lady M’s too busy doing...other things, and he clamps a hand over his eyes.
“Oh, bless.”
“Shut up, Clara.”
Leaning into his side, Clara takes a sip of her martini. “I’m so coming with you from now on. The show is great, but your reactions are comedy gold. Maybe I’ll make you into a character in my next book.”
“You write travel guides, not books.”
“I’m going to write a book. It’ll be a best seller. The awkward principal who falls in love with a dancer. What would sell more, the girl or the bloke? Oh, both. Definitely both.”
“Clara!”
“You’re so easy,” she grins, and John is saved from replying by the end of the act. Half the crowd stands to applause, and Clara jumps to her feet to join them, whistling. John sinks into his seat, and tries not to think about how long the next hour will be.
--
River sighs, fumbling for her keys with one hand, umbrella tucked into the crook of her elbow as she hoists Rory further up on her hip. He’s dead asleep, mouth open, face pressed into her neck. It started pouring at some point during the show, and she can feel the cold water seeping through her coat.
Exhausted, she finally manages to push open the door and stumble in; the umbrella hits the floor and she nearly trips, and Rory whines at being shaken. She hushes him quietly, soothing a hand over his back as she drops her keys onto the table and pushes the door closed with her foot.
Her flat is small, a drafty one-bedroom on the outskirts of London proper. It isn’t the safest place, but it’s all she could afford, and she’s done her best to make it a home. The bedroom is a mix of her things—makeup, corsets, wigs, skirts, and shoes all tucked away in a tiny dresser—and Rory’s, his clothes in the bottom drawer, toys in a hamper, a Roald Dahl-themed bedspread and pillow cases he’d all but begged her for for Christmas.
Laying him down on the bed, River carefully removes his shoes and clothes, guiding his exhausted limbs into pyjamas and under the covers. He curls immediately around a worn, stuffed rabbit, and River sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, watching him sleep.
She doesn’t remember much of her childhood. Sometimes she gets flashes: red hair, a swing set, a soft hand bandaging a skinned knee, but they’re not real. She knows she had parents, logically knows she must have done, but they never wanted her. Never even tried.
Sometimes she wonders if she made the right choice. If her own child might have been better off with someone else, growing up somewhere else, with two parents and a house and a dog and all the toys in the world. If she should have given him up before she ever laid eyes on him, staring up at her from beneath a blue hospital blanket. If someone who never had parents even knew how to be one at all.
Truthfully, she’s not sure she ever had a choice. She’s loved him from the moment he first kicked her hand, still in the womb; from the moment the doctors told her he was upside down and trying to crawl out feet-first.
Smiling at the thought, she leans down and kisses his head, before forcing herself to her feet. She strips out of her jeans and sweater and climbs into the shower, scrubbing as much of the glitter, sweat, and makeup off her skin as possible. Her nipples are still sore from pulling off the tassels, her knees are bruised and she has a nasty scar on the inside of her thigh from a set malfunction three weeks ago.
The water goes cold far too quickly, and she shivers through the rest of her shower, pawing the conditioner out of her hair before shutting off the water and wrapping herself in a thin towel. She pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a vest, dries her hair as best she can. She has to force herself to take care of it, so in the morning it won’t be completely unmanageable. Normally she wouldn’t bother, but tomorrow is Rory’s first day of Reception.
He’s never been in school before, not even a daycare, and she’s been fretting all summer. When he should have been in Nursery, River was in a travelling show, and not having any family to watch him, he’d travelled with her. He’d loved every moment, and she’d been grateful to keep him with her, but she hopes she hasn’t held him back; that he’ll be all right in the system, that she’s taught him well enough on her own.
Jack says she’s overreacting, as usual, but she can’t help the churning in her stomach when she thinks of leaving him there on his own. He’s been around strangers all his life, but never his age, and always with her by his side, his little hand tucked into hers, and god, she frets. That he’ll make friends. That he’ll like his teacher. That no one will tease or bully or frighten him.
He’s been so excited—nervous, she knows, but excited nonetheless—spending the week prior deliberating his first day outfit. He’d finally settled on his favourite jeans, a green and purple Hulk t-shirt, brown socks, and his favourite pair of shoes: bright pink Mary Janes.
Forcing herself to relax, River tames her hair as best she can before digging into the pocket of her discarded jeans. Smiling, she fingers the card from earlier, allowing herself a moment to daydream before opening a little music box and dropping it in with the rest. She climbs into bed, and the shift makes Rory turn, seeking her out in his sleep. He curls into her, breath light against her neck.
She falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat under her palm.