Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His life changes on a Monday.

He's in the middle of looking at ads for hiring restaurants when his girlfriend says, “You know, we're in need of a new bartender.”

Rory glances up from the paper; Amy's sipping her tea idly. “At the club?”

She nods. “Mickey quit two weeks ago – his band finally got signed; they're recording an EP. We haven't replaced him yet.”

“And you think I'd fit in?” He asks dubiously. “Isn't it a bit – well. It's punk rock, isn't it?”

Amy rolls her eyes. “The theme of it is,” she says sarcastically, “but it's not staffed by a bunch of hoodlums.”

He gives her a blank stare. “What do you think you are?”

She leans across the table and smacks his shoulder. “Shut up. It's alternative rock, too. A bit indie.”

“So, regress. The theme is sort-of punk rock.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay. Seriously.” He runs a hand through his hair. “What time are you heading in today? Think I can come down with you?”

She glances at her watch. “In about an hour,” she answers, calculating. “Yeah, I'm sure that'd be fine. They're pretty relaxed.”

“I don't listen to a lot of punk rock.”

“You will soon enough.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You seem rather confident they're going to hire me.”

She shrugs. “Honestly,” she divulges, “I think they'd rather...'keep it all in the family,' if you know what I mean.”

He frowns in confusion. “I don't. At all.”

Amy's expression is exasperated; she puts down her mug and licks her lips. “We're a close group. The owners have been friends with most of the staff for years. I don't think they want someone completely unfamiliar coming in, so me knowing you for so long will probably help your chances.”

Ah. That makes more sense, though he's now a bit intimidated at the idea of disrupting a familiarity that possibly predates the job itself. He's the opposite of Amy: where she is all fire and passion and quick, dominating energy, he is gentle and passive and calmly soft-spoken.

Unless she riles him up – which she does quite often, just for fun.

“Alright,” he says, stealing her cup and drinking a mouthful of tea before she can stop him. He swallows while she looks at him in mock outrage. “Well, let's hope you're right.”

“Aren't I always?”

He snorts, but he doesn't disagree. “People normally find confidence attractive,” he mutters darkly, “but then there’s you.”

She winks at him, smiling. So; he can't pretend he doesn't love her.

–

Amy leads him through the back doors and into the kitchen, connecting to the bar. She smacks a man on the back of the head playfully when she walks by, and he winces, glancing over his shoulder. He catches sight of wild red hair and says in a distinctive American accent, “Honestly, Amy, there are much healthier ways of releasing pent-up aggression. Trust me. I've tried all of them.”

Rory isn't exactly the jealous type, but he's still eased by the sight of Amy rolling her eyes. “I'm sure you have, Jack,” she responds, and tugs at the hem of Rory's sleeve. “This is my boyfriend Rory, by the way. Rory, this is Jack.”

Jack turns around fully, slinging a rag over his shoulder. He smiles handsomely, leaning over the counter.

“And how do you do,” he asks, innuendo evident.

Amy tuts under her breath. “Oh, don't you start.”

Jack raises his hands in surrender. “I'm just being friendly.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

“And if he were here, he’d approve--”

“Ah, yes,” another voice rings out from behind them, clearly feminine and tone subtly amused. “This is what I pay my employees for. Shameless flirting.”

Rory spins around and whoever he's expecting, it's not who's actually there.

A small, lithe brunette woman stands behind them, smirking; she's got one hand on her hip, the other holding up her phone. She's wearing a black sleeveless shirt with the Jack Daniel’s logo printed across it in white, and her leather pants are tight – to the degree that he knows not to let his eyes stray and figure out just how tight they are – and she's wearing heels with red soles, matching the polish on her nails and the colour of her lipstick. She reminds him of the devil, dangerous and seductive, eyes dark and amused; and there’s something oddly familiar about her he can’t quite place.

In his opinion, she doesn't hold a candle to Amy, but—

Holy shit, he's not fucking blind.

Jack winks at her. “Would you like a turn, sweetheart?”

She laughs, light and charmed. “Spare me, please,” she replies, a glint in her gaze. Her attention shifts towards Amy and Rory immediately following, sizing them up. “Is it 'bring your boyfriend to work' day?” She asks. “I must've missed the memo; I'll call mine.”

He doesn't know whether to be afraid of her or smile in response, and so he does neither, expression bewildered. Amy doesn't notice and answers casually, “Isn't that every day for you, Clara?”

Clara raises her eyebrows, grinning. “Touché.”

Rory doesn't understand, but Amy giggles, and then digresses. “This is Rory; he's actually here about the bartending position we've got open,” she introduces. “Rory, this is Clara – she's one of the owners.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says automatically, extending a hand. She slips her palm against his, studying him. He’s already nervous; he hopes his palms aren’t clammy. He glances down and spots a sequence of numbers on her wrist, and vaguely realizes it’s a tattoo. “I hope I haven't interrupted anything. I can come back another time, if it works better for you.”

Clara cocks her head, smirk growing. “Aw,” she says dismissively, humoring him and shaking his hand. “Precious. You're a polite one, aren't you?”

He feels his mouth moving, but he doesn't make any sound. His gaze darts between her and Amy uncertainly. He isn't trained for these types of situations; he isn’t good at reading signs.

Amy's grinning devilishly. “Yeah, he's a sweet little thing.”

He can’t tell if they’re poking fun at him or not, and he's too taken aback to reply, the embarrassment across his cheeks obvious.

“Hm,” Clara answers, studying him casually. “I used to date boys like him when I was younger. Quiet, polite...”

His first thought is that she's hitting on him, but Amy snickers, apparently finding something hilarious about the response. “Wow. Your taste certainly developed, didn't it?”

Clara laughs again and doesn't reply to the statement; Rory's distinctively missed a point. “Well, we are lacking a bartender,” she says instead, contemplating. “Where'd you work previously?”

He tries to relax, ridding himself of the tension in his shoulders. “The Rose and Crown,” he informs her, and smiles nervously. “Bit posh for my taste, honestly.”

She raises an eyebrow approvingly at the answer. “I used to work there, too, years ago. Rather uptight.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

“Quit already?”

“Last week.”

“Excellent.” Her phone starts buzzing in her hand; she glances down, checking the caller ID. She snaps her fingers and gestures to Jack. She directs at Rory, “You can start now. Amy'll give you the rundown.”

“What?” He responds in surprise, struck by the quickness of it all. “You don't want my – resume, or anything? References, even?”

Clara gives Amy a look. “Like I said,” she answers, smirk still in place, raising the mobile to her ear. “Precious.”

She saunters toward the office and doesn't spare them another glance black.

Rory stands in disbelief for a moment; Amy pats his shoulder. “Well done, mate,” she says cheerfully. “You've done it.”

He stares at her blankly. “That's it?”

She shrugs. “I told you they were laid-back.”

Jack throws him a grin. “Congratulations. It'll be nice to have a new, gorgeous face around.”

Rory stares at him blankly, in a weird fit of mild shock. “I really don't listen to a lot of punk rock.”

“It's sort of indie, too,” Jack supplies helpfully.

Amy snickers and tugs at the sleeve of Rory's jumper, dragging him away.

Several things seem to come to light at once. Rory glances around him furtively and takes a step closer to Amy. He lowers his voice, unsure. “Was she – coming on to me?”

Amy laughs loudly, her hair falling over her face. “Clara?” She chuckles disbelievingly. “Hitting on you? No. Not possible.”

He blinks stupidly. “Gee, thanks.”

Amy rolls her eyes, waving away his unnecessary offense. “That's not what I mean.” She pauses, grinning at a secret joke he's yet to be a part of. “You're not exactly...her type.”

Rory frowns. “What is her 'type'?”

“Oh, just wait. You really are oblivious,” Amy replies mysteriously, omniscient air about her. “Now, come on, I've got to train you up.”

He almost blushes at the insinuation in her voice. “We're at work, dear, if you don't mind.”

“I don't.”

Christ. Maybe this isn't the best idea he's ever had.

–

He waits approximately twenty minutes before it all makes sense.

The front doors swing open and an older man struts into the room, dressed in all black aside from his royal blue cardigan. His heavy boots scuff against the floor. He's got a pair of regular glasses on, but somehow manages to make them look oddly appealing; his grey hair is tousled messily. There's something familiar about him, too, but Rory can't quite place it—

“Afternoon, troops,” he greets the staff, clapping Jack on the back as he walks by. His eyes barely skim over Rory, but he winks at Amy roguishly. His Scottish accent is thick and arresting.

“Hey, boss,” Jack responds, smiling widely. Amy salutes with two fingers.

Rory comprehends the title and swallows: this man would be the other owner, he thinks; he's undeniably intimidating, assured and confident, commanding attention.

“Ten not in yet?” The man asks, checking his watch.

It takes Jack's reply for Rory to realize that Ten is a singular person, not a group of people. “He called about half an hour ago – he's running late; Rose was ill this morning.”

The man frowns in concern. “Is she all right?”

“Fine, I think – he's pretty sure she's got what Clara had a week or two ago.”

The man shakes his head, wincing, apparently recalling a memory. “Speaking of,” he says, “where is Clara?”

“Here!” Her voice calls from the office. She comes strolling out a second later, shifting her phone away from her cheek. “I've just spoken with Mickey; they're booked to play on Saturday night for their official debut.”

There's a subtle shift in the man's body language; his arms open slightly, mouth curling, but Rory doesn't understand the implication until he watches Clara walk straight into the man's embrace like it's the most natural thing in the world, leaning up to kiss him casually on the lips. His hands settle on her waist.

Rory's jaw drops. He hadn't seen that coming.

“I told you,” Amy mutters out of the corner of her mouth. “You're not her type.”

Rory stares unabashedly, listening in as the man continues the conversation. “Excellent; Martha'll be pleased about that.” He smiles genuinely and backtracks. “Hello, dear. Afternoon running smoothly?”

She nods, sinking back onto her feet: even in heels, she's drastically smaller than him. He doesn't move his fingers from her lower back. “Not bad. Sorry I missed you this morning – I was exhausted.”

“I know. You said, 'Love you, fuck off,' in your sleep when I tried to kiss you goodbye.”

She laughs cutely; Jack chuckles from behind the bar. “Really tired,” she emphasizes, unapologetic. “How'd your meeting go?”

“Well – they're going to invest. They scheduled a meeting with Donna for Wednesday.” He pauses suddenly. “I don't mean to change the subject, but there's a boy standing next to Amy who seems to have wandered into the wrong building by mistake and now won't stop staring at us.”

Rory averts his eyes, not realizing he'd been gawking so openly. Clara regains her smirk as they both turn towards him, and Amy covers her mouth with the back of her hand, attempting to hide her giggle.

“That's Rory,” Clara shares. “He's Amy's boyfriend. And our new bartender. Rory, this is the Doctor.”

Boom. It clicks inside Rory's head and he's almost slightly star struck; he's seen them before, the pair of them together, in the newspaper, on the covers of magazines—

“Boyfriend?” The Doctor repeats, peeking at Rory over the rim of his glasses. “Hope he's familiar with our policy on workplace relationships.”

“Yeah, because we definitely don't believe in those,” Clara answers sarcastically.

Rory clears his throat uncomfortably, sending Amy a glance that obviously says I can't believe you didn't warn me about any of this. A thousand things fight to come tumbling out of his mouth at once. “Wait,” he says. “The Doctor, as in – the lead singer of Gallifrey One?” He pauses, comprehending. “And is there a policy?”

“No, he's fucking with you,” Clara assures him first, and Rory's eyes drift to the Doctor's fingertips pressing against her waist. “If we did have a policy, we'd have to fire half the staff. Including ourselves.”

The Doctor examines him carefully and chooses not to answer, but Rory knows he's right. After a moment of silence, he asks, “Favourite Arctic Monkeys song?” It’s obviously some kind of half-assed test, considering how mainstream that particular band is, but maybe he’s lenient about credibility.

Rory stumbles over his own tongue in order to get to a response. He wracks his brain quickly. “Erm, Leave Before the Lights Come On.”

The Doctor stares at him a second longer, contemplating. He finally allows, “You'll do.”

Clara's grinning. “Nice one,” she says. “I'm a fan of their earlier stuff, too. Some of the newer songs are a bit grungy for my tastes.”

Rory can't help himself. “So you're – I mean, the two of you are...”

“Are...?” The Doctor pries, his lips set in a tilt; it's clear he's taking pleasure from making Rory uncomfortable.

Rory chickens out. “Erm, co-owners.”

“Amy really did keep you in the dark, didn't she?” Clara remarks delightedly, and addresses the other girl, “Remind me to give you a pay raise later.”

The Doctor only chuckles at Rory's poor save. “Yes,” he answers simply. “But that's not what you were really asking.”

“No,” Rory admits, eyes lowered to the ground bashfully. He’s slightly ashamed of himself. “I'm sorry, it's none of my business.”

Neither of them seem to mind; they're both wearing similar expressions as if they're entertained – it strikes Rory that they might be a little too used to reactions like his. Clara chooses to tell him anyway.

“He was my babysitter,” she deadpans, “from when I was five until when I was ten. Don't worry. Nothing inappropriate happened until much, much later.”

Rory's jaw unhinges, cracking, but the Doctor is smirking, and it takes Amy all of three seconds to burst out laughing. Jack is guffawing somewhere behind the bar. Clara looks at him almost pityingly for believing her, though it's clear she's mainly amused.

The Doctor wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head. He says airily, “Try not to believe anything she tells you. She's a filthy liar.”

Clara rolls her eyes, smiling. “Oi,” she retorts, elbowing him in the ribs gently, “I'm just putting the lad on. If he can't take a joke, he won't last long here, will he?”

“I'm sorry,” Rory sputters; Amy smacks him on the back like he's choking. “You – caught me off-guard. And, well...” He trails off, uncertain if he'll offend them with what he's thinking next.

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. He prompts, “Well...?”

Rory shrugs halfheartedly. “Anything's possible, I suppose, isn't it?”

To his relief – and slight confusion – they both laugh; Clara's fingers curl around the Doctor's, resting on her stomach. She says, a sparkle in her eye, “You'd think. But our story isn't quite that exciting – or morally questionable.”

Rory can't stop himself from asking. “So, really, then,” he says. “How did you meet?”

The Doctor straightens and slides his arms back to his sides; one palm presses against Clara's lower back. There's an arrogant air about him; Rory senses the conversation coming to a close. Clara's lips curve in a grin. The two of them are oddly in sync.

He answers vaguely, still smirking, “We liked the same music.”

He turns and heads back toward the bar; Clara winks over her shoulder at Rory, following after him. He watches as the Doctor takes a seat and pulls out his phone, chatting more with Clara about the aforementioned meeting.

Rory looks at Amy, who shrugs. “I told you,” she repeats mildly. “You're not her type.”

He glances back just in time to see the Doctor's fingers brush against Clara's wrist and her answering smile, bright and real. She rolls her eyes in response to something he's said and he laughs; he leans forward and brushes her hair across her forehead, sweeping a strand behind her ear.

Rory shakes his head, trying to close his jaw. “Sorry,” he apologizes after a moment. “I'm sorry. I'm just – you know – that was...unexpected. And you didn't tell me the Doctor owned the place. He's a legend.” He pauses. “So is she, for that matter - Clara Oswald - she owns a record label, doesn’t she?”

Amy raises and drops her shoulders again. “Your fault for being so slow on the uptake,” she says. “You know where I work. You know he lives here. And yeah - her label is called TARDIS.” She rolls her eyes. “Stands for something like - time and dimensions in space, I don’t know. He’s really into astrophysics. I think it’s an inside joke.”

Rory pauses and keeps trying. “The two of them together,” he begins. “They're – different.”

He doesn't really know how to explain it in words, but Amy understands; it's not a judgment. Her mouth slips up, and he's surprised to find that her expression is suddenly gentle.

“You'll see,” she tells him quietly, and there's an undertone of longing to her voice that Rory can't quite place. “I know what you mean.”

They stand thoughtfully in silence for a while. A question strikes him that he hadn't thought to ask before, but their degree of familiarity screams the answer anyway. He says, “How long have they been together?”

Amy's still oddly soft and tender. “At least six years,” she replies, and hesitates. “Possibly seven - they had a period of being...off.” She echoes herself, “You'll see.”

Somehow, Rory doesn't doubt he will; he's just not sure what he'll end up seeing.

–

Except once Rory starts watching them, it's like he can't stop.

He's introduced to Ten later that afternoon, and then Rose a day later. Martha and River come next – two of the techs, though, he finds out, River was actually the drummer of the band and Martha had toured with them – and he finally understands what Clara meant when she said they'd have to fire half their staff. From what he picks up, Rose and Ten have been together since college; Martha's seeing the boy whose position Rory'd taken, Mickey; and Jack and River flirt with every living thing in sight, as long as it's standing in front of them, breathing.

He also knows instantly that he isn't alone in his subtle observation of Clara and the Doctor.

There's something magnetic about the two of them together that refuses to let him look away; he can't put his finger on it, but he's certain he's not the only one who feels it. He catches Rose gazing idly at them sometimes, and Jack staring while wiping down tables, and Martha glancing over her shoulder as she sets up the sound system.

During lunch one afternoon, they sit together at the bar, Clara's boots caught on the rung of the stool and the Doctor's stretched out against the floor. Their knees touch, and her hand is on his thigh, and he's smiling at her like she's the sole reason he's alive; Rory pictures the sun and the earth, orbiting. She's stealing chips from his plate idly. The Doctor, seemingly unable to help himself, places one palm against her cheek and leans forward, pressing his lips against hers gently.

“No PDA on the job,” Jack calls from the kitchen, stacking dishes; Clara sticks her tongue out at him.

“We're on our lunch break,” she points out, throwing a chip at his head. “We can do whatever we want on our lunch break.”

Jack smirks. “I know. I've walked in on the two of you doing whatever you want more than once.”

The Doctor puts his face in his hands; even Clara's blushing.

“I thought I paid you to keep quiet about that,” she hisses at him, and Rory can only imagine the glare on her face.

He shrugs. “Honey, for the things I've seen, you owe me a hell of a lot more than what you pay me.”

River is the one who laughs first, somewhere behind the stage, and the Doctor's smirking behind his hand. He places a palm against Clara's bare shoulder.

“Well, dear,” he says drolly, “you can't argue with him there.”

She rolls her eyes and turns away, but she catches Rory's stare and smiles.

–

He also comprehends pretty quickly that he’s incredibly lucky to have this job at all.

They’re constantly receiving applications to fill spots that aren’t open, or don’t exist; fanatics and star-struck fans line up early on the weekends, hoping to get a glimpse of the Doctor and Clara, who confine themselves to their office more often than not in order to avoid the harassment. It’s clearly not as easy as they’d made it look in the beginning - owning a very public venue while trying to remain under the radar.

But Clara comes in one afternoon, calling the Doctor’s name; he emerges from the back, perplexed.

“What’s going on?” He asks, traipsing over to her. Her smile is wide; she grabs his hand.

“There’s the cutest ten year old boy outside with his dad,” she says, “and the boy is the one who’s the fan - he loves you, but he told me, very seriously, that he only listens to the age-appropriate tracks.” She laughs at that, and he grins in response.

“Where’d they come from?” He asks, already following her out.

“Not too far,” she says. “Manchester.”

The door shuts. He hears them chatting animatedly with the little boy outside, and it’s clear they’ve made his entire life with one conversation; the dad thanks them profusely, saying they’re only here to visit family but decided this stop was worth a shot. The Doctor tells him kindly that he’s glad he was here, and the boy can always write him letters and he’ll answer them.

Jack’s shaking his head, smiling to himself; he catches Rory’s eye and explains, “This happens all the time. They love kids.”

“They don’t have any, do they?” Rory questions, and fortunately it’s a normal inquiry under the circumstances.

“Nah.” It takes a second, but Jack laughs loudly and says, “That’d be way too much commitment. They’re fine only having each other.”

He continues laughing at his own private joke, and in that moment, Rory honestly wishes he knew everything Jack did.

--

Amy puts up with his almost-obsession at home, where she catches him googling the two of them after the end of his second week working there. There's a huge amount of information on their relationship: scandalized prints over how young she is (was), endless paparazzi photos, behind-the-scenes videos taken by Jack during one of the Doctor's tours, random pictures and clips apparently they themselves posted (though Rory can't imagine either of them willingly posting anything private); and - impressively - a Rolling Stone cover and interview. He’s about to click it when Amy finally strolls over and shuts his laptop.

“If I've learned anything, it's to go straight to the source,” she advises him wisely. “Or, at least, side sources that can be trusted.”

He glances up at her, intrigued. “Do you – know a lot?”

“I might.” She sits in the chair beside him, grabbing his open beer and drinking half the bottle. “Why are you so curious?”

He shifts his weight, elbows resting on the table. “I don't know,” he answers honestly; there's no point giving Amy excuses. “It's something about them. The Doctor's so – cool and reserved, but how he treats Clara is like – like he'd do anything for her. You've seen the way he looks at her. It's as if she's like...hope. As if she represents hope to him.”

Amy's silent for a moment. He swallows nervously, thinking maybe he's taken it too far, until—

“I've picked up on some of it,” she replies, her gaze trained on the wooden tabletop. “Neither of them have directly told me much, but Jack – well. Jack's been there since the beginning. He's let a few things slip.” She pauses. “I know it took them both a long time to even admit they liked each other. He was afraid she was – gonna change her mind, and thought he was someone he wasn't. He was afraid she had this idea of him that he couldn't live up to. And she was afraid, period - I mean, I can’t imagine what she must’ve gone through, falling in love with a celebrity.”

“Makes sense,” Rory says, listening raptly.

She continues, “I know that they're engaged, but they're keeping it quiet. The press thought they married ages ago, actually, but – neither of them are quite the 'marriage' type.” Amy crinkles her nose at the very notion. “They're doing it mostly for the legal benefits. Except they're having a small ceremony because Clara's father'll kill her if he doesn't get to walk her down the aisle.” She stops and grins. “Jack said they both had pretty bad commitment issues when they started out - it seems like a miracle they made it to marriage.”

Ah, now his earlier joke makes a little more sense. “So her family's okay with this?” Rory pries. “The Doctor, I mean.”

Amy furrows her eyebrows, thinking. “Not...exactly,” she says, and seemingly has a change of heart. “Actually, I think you should ask Jack. Or even Clara. The Doctor's pretty reserved, but—” She stills.

He prompts, “Yes?”

“You're not wrong,” she responds finally. “That is the way he looks at her.”

–

The Doctor, Rory realizes during his third week, enjoys nothing more than confusing the hell out of him.

“It was rather boring, really,” the Doctor begins, elbows leaning on the bar as Rory wipes it down. “We met in M&S. We collided in the dairy isle. She smashed a carton of juice all over a lovely green cardigan I was going to buy.”

Jack's snickering somewhere behind them; Rory shakes his head. “Clara?” He calls, looking for the truth. They've started doing this thing: the Doctor picks a random story, presenting it as their first meeting, and then Clara tells him when it really happened.

“A year into our relationship,” she provides helpfully, distractedly sending a text message. “That cardigan was fucking hideous. I did it on purpose.”

The Doctor frowns. “It wasn't that bad.”

“Green isn't your colour, dear, we've been over this.”

The Doctor turns back to Rory. “According to Clara, I'm only allowed to wear red, blue, black, and sometimes grey and white,” he shares, and pauses just after, posture becoming slightly stiff. He's never shared smaller details before: they're close and intimate, and Rory understands the withdrawal.

His mouth gives way to a smile. In a way, it's almost preferable; so, he doesn't know the beginning, but he's putting the rest together one piece at a time.

–

He and Amy are laying in bed a few nights later; he's halfway strewn across her body, his head resting on her shoulder while she reads a book, the spine pressing against his back.

“Amy,” he says sleepily.

She turns a page. “Yes?”

“I hope people know how much I love you, just from looking at me. Just from watching me watch you.”

There's a pause, and then the book is placed flat against him and her fingers are in his hair and her lips against his head.

“Even if they don't,” she murmurs, “I do.”

–

Rory's stacking chairs at closing while the Doctor sits at the counter, crunching numbers; Clara's fiddling with the sound system, sorting through the iTunes music on a laptop. She giggles to herself. They both glance over at her.

“What is it?” The Doctor asks.

“Jack's discovered a new band,” she informs him, eyes bright. “You'll love it.”

Rory must look confused, because she notices him staring and fills him in.

“Jack's in charge of the music,” she explains. “When he finds songs he wants to introduce, he makes playlists and drops them into the Cloud for us to listen to – we approve all the music beforehand.”

“Right,” Rory says. “Sensible, considering it's Jack.”

“Exactly,” Clara affirms. “Once, on April Fool's Day, he put all of Taylor Swift's music on shuffle and locked the laptop so none of us could get in and change it. Bloody nightmare. Fortunately our customers are pretty good-natured.”

She presses the spacebar and the Doctor immediately laughs. “Took him awhile, ” he comments, amused. “I thought he'd be all over them ages ago. Which records?”

Clara scrolls through the list and shakes her head. “He's fucking with us,” she says, convinced. “Girls, Settle Down, Heart Out, Sex...”

Rory interjects – they're the only three in the bar; he can't not listen. “Did he do something – wrong?”

The Doctor's smile is sly. “No. He just knows us very, very well, and it shows.” The answer is as vague as Rory expected it to be, and so he doesn't ask. Some of the lyrics give him an insight – particularly the ones he sees Clara and the Doctor shoot each other looks over, such as you know I can't be found with you and if we're gonna do anything, we might as well just fuck. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

He pushes the last table against the wall and turns to face them. “Well, I'm off,” he says, and pauses; the two of them are absorbed in each other again. They do this often: have entire conversations without saying a word, and it's about the way Clara's lower eyelashes brush her cheek and how the corners of the Doctor's lips tilt when he thinks nobody is watching.

Clara comes back into herself, tearing her eyes away from the Doctor's. “Thanks, Rory,” she says cheerfully. “You're off until three tomorrow. Big night.”

He nods his head and leaves, giving them a nice wave.

The Doctor doesn't even look at him, but Rory glances back just before the door shuts, and all he sees are the Doctor's hands cupping Clara's face and his mouth pressing against hers like he can't remember how to breathe without the air coming directly from her lungs.

–

The next day is as eventful as every other: Martha starts the afternoon off by barging into the front room, looking irritated.

“Anybody seen Ten?” She asks, her tone short. “He's borrowed the tools again – God knows what he's tinkering with this time. I need the screwdriver for the new amps.”

“He's probably snogging Rose out back,” Amy replies, checking the night's guest list. “They took their lunch breaks five minutes ago.”

Martha points a finger in Clara's direction. “You should definitely fire him,” she advises fiercely. “He's more trouble than he's worth.”

“You know, maybe today's the day,” Clara answers seriously, agreeing, her face stoic. “He really has it coming, Martha. One more strike and he's out.”

Martha rolls her eyes and stomps off. “You say that every time!” She calls over her shoulder. “I'm waiting for the delivery, Oswald!”

Amy's grinning, eyes still skimming over names; Clara waits until Martha's out of earshot and laughs.

Rory shifts uncomfortably. “Really?” He asks dubiously. “You're going to fire Ten?”

She giggles, shaking her head. “Nah,” she says, grinning. “They're good friends, but she wants him fired at least once a week. He's always doing everybody else's jobs. Gets bored, I think.”

“Or he's got an undiagnosed case of ADD,” another voice drawls from afar, and the Doctor comes traipsing out of the office, ruffling his hair. He spots Rory leaning on a mop and smirks.

Rory stands up straight; he can feel it coming—

“So, Rory,” the Doctor enunciates, resting back against the sound booth, one ankle kicked over the other, arms crossed. “Still curious as to how we really met?”

“No,” Rory answers firmly, fooling nobody, “though I'm sure this story is as exciting as all the others have been. Especially the one about the cracked aquarium in the Japanese restaurant.”

“We met in a mosh pit,” the Doctor says, ignoring his sarcasm, smirk as amused as ever. “I saved her from being trampled.”

Rory doesn't actually believe him – he's grown used to their jokes and avoidance of the question, littered with fake replies and false records – but Clara's laugh rings out, genuine and true, and he pauses. She's looking at the Doctor, expression on her face adoring.

“Did you really?” Rory stresses, glancing between the two of them.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor says mildly. “She slammed right into me – it's fortunate she's so tiny, or it would've been rather painful.”

But Clara's shaking her head, and Rory feels the disappointment settling in his stomach again. He wants to know, damn it. Observing isn't enough. She says, snickering, “That's the second time we met.”

He sighs. Still, it's closer than he's ever been. He glances at Clara. “You? In a mosh pit?”

The Doctor's eyes are bright. “It's incredible she's still alive, isn't it?” He says airily, waving a hand.

She rolls her eyes. “I can hold my own,” she disagrees. “I didn't get hurt.”

“She's lying. I almost broke her nose.”

“I had someone I really wanted to see,” she argues pointedly.

Rory's actually curious about that over anything else. “Whose show was it?” He asks. He can't imagine the Doctor putting up with a crowd of overly aggressive men slamming into each other for any band.

The Doctor raises an eyebrow; his mouth half-curls. “My own.”

Well; Rory should've started expecting these answers by now, he supposes.

–

River approaches him later on in the night, lips in a knowing smile. He likes River, but she has this vibe about her, like she's always astutely aware of everything he isn't; and, he thinks, she probably is.

“You've been watching them,” she says, pouring herself a Thatcher Gold.

He doesn't bother denying it. “A bit,” he confesses. “Yeah.”

“It's hard not to.” She sips her drink idly, running her finger across the lines of her mouth, clearing any smudged lipstick. “People always stare at what they can't touch. And people have been staring at those two since they were outed six years ago.” Her tone is ancient and heavy; she wasn’t involved in most of it, but he forgets that there are things she’s seen, too.

The sentiment is oddly deep, but he understands. “I guess.”

“But it's not just them, you know,” she continues. “We look at you and Amy, too.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“How did you know?” He asks.

River's smirk grows. “It's a gift,” she says, winking. “Want me to read your palm?”

–

He spends the weekend listening to Amy's entire iTunes library; The Clash, Sex Pistols, The Wombats, more Arctic Monkeys than he can almost stand; Franz Ferdinand, The Ramones, The Vaccines, Dead Boys, Culture Club, Soft Cell, The 1975, Gallifrey One—

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you…

He’s at the end of the album when he hears an odd bonus track, unlike anything else the Doctor’s ever written; the chorus just repeats I miss you, I miss you, I miss you like a lifeline, like they’re the only three words in the universe worth repeating. It’s haunting, painful, and he instantly wants to know the story behind it, but he's interrupted when Amy tugs the earphones out of his ears, her eyebrows raised.

“Wow,” she says, impressed, “I didn't expect this. Embracing the lifestyle at last, are we?”

“Erm, yeah,” he agrees, taking the excuse. “Something like that.”

“The Doctor's wild, isn't he?” Amy gushes, noticing the track art. “What's your favourite album of his so far?”

Oddly enough, it's a question Rory has a legitimate answer to. “Deep Breath, and then The Magician’s Apprentice.”

Amy half-laughs, entirely unsurprised. “Those would be.” She pauses thoughtfully. “Magician’s Apprentice was an incredible tour, actually - magic-show themed, but if you can imagine the punk-rock version.”

Rory frowns in bewilderment. “Sorry,” he says. “Is something funny about my liking the two?”

“Well, a bit,” she says ominously. “He only wrote and recorded two more albums after meeting Clara, and those are it. Deep Breath is all about her - it was the one he wrote just after they met. He won, like, three Grammy’s for it. And Magician’s Apprentice is his last album; again, all about her, of course.”

He grimaces. That doesn’t sound good. “She didn’t break up the band, did she?”

Amy snorts. “No, it wasn’t a Yoko Ono kind of thing - they all love her, actually.” The way she says the sentence makes Rory think that everybody loves Clara; it’s a given.“They just decided it was time to take a break; they’d been playing together for like, twenty fucking years, or something. Vastra wanted out of the spotlight for awhile for personal reasons; Strax didn’t really care either way, he’s got loads of hobbies. They still play festivals and shows and shit when they feel like it. Sometimes they drop singles and EP’s for fun.”

It's like fate, or something, Rory decides; he swears he's not even trying. It's a light shining out of places the eyes can't see. Maybe River's right. Maybe he likes what he can't touch.

–

It's a month and a half until he gets any real answers at all, and they're revealed on accident. It's one in the morning after hours on a Tuesday, and he, Martha, and Jack are left closing.

Martha's in a mood; she'd gotten in a fight with her boyfriend, and he's felt bad for her since – she's probably the person he gets along best with, aside from Amy. She's not helping much; she's distractedly resting her chin in her palm, staring across the room. Rory's wiping glasses and Jack's sorting music.

“They make it look so easy,” Martha says quietly, and Rory pauses. He glances over at her, surprised by the observation, because that's it – that's exactly it. “They make it look like love is the easiest thing in the world.”

Jack doesn't even lift his head, but he becomes noticeably still. “Maybe it is.”

Martha snorts. “Come off it, Jack,” she protests mildly. “Even you and your ridiculous, idealistic non-romanticism can't coexist with them.”

“That's not what I mean,” he replies slowly. “I mean – maybe it is that easy, and the rest of us just don't know how to get it right.”

In the time Rory's been here, he's picked up on a few things nobody else talks about; it's not the age difference, it's not the moral compass, it's not about hearts. It lurks underneath, like a speck of dust hovering in his peripheral vision, an entire history unexplained.

This is his moment to know. He says carefully, “It wasn't easy, though, was it.”

Jack stops wiping, arm stilling. He doesn't seem to know whether or not it's a statement he can accurately explain. The muscles flex in his arm when he inhales.

“No,” he answers finally, losing the battle. He's cautious not to look at Rory while he talks. “No, it wasn't easy. Not at first.” He leans on his elbows, recalling the memory; he struggles again, but it's like he's unsure of where to stop, or what they should be allowed to hear. Even Martha's paying close attention. He continues, “A relationship like theirs is a hard thing to understand from the outside. People don't know them, and so they base their opinions on physicalities, on – on shit that honestly doesn't matter. And Clara and the Doctor pretended not to care, in the beginning, but – Clara was twenty-two when they met. She was a wild little thing; reckless, spontaneous, adventurous. Still is, though not as much as she used to be. She has no reason for it.” He smiles. “The Doctor’s almost twice her age, you know. They tried to keep it a secret, even from me, but...this isn't a big town, and he's pretty famous. It got out. Her father didn't know what to think – he'd grown up listening to the Doctor's band, taken Clara to a concert when she was younger. It really threw him, but it's not like what they were doing was illegal, so he couldn't stop it. They had a falling out. Clara's life wasn't...wasn't great at that point, and the Doctor tried to leave, to make it better, but all he did was make it worse.”

He pauses, considering where to end. Rory tries to hide his shock, and the expression on Martha's face is endlessly pitying. He forgets that she shares some of these memories; little bits and pieces slipping through the cracks. It's hard to imagine such a beautiful thing blooming from something that had been so mindlessly persecuted.

“I remember that,” Martha says quietly. “I mean, I didn’t - I wasn’t as close to them then as you were in the beginning. But I’d see them backstage, sometimes, before and after his shows, and at all the parties. And that time in Venice…” She trails off.

Jack winces at the memory, but doesn’t dwell on it - whatever happened in Venice, it’s clearly not something either of them are comfortable discussing. “I watched them fight for this for a long time,” Jack says, skipping steps, staring distantly. “A long time. And it was so fucking – idiotic to me that they had to fight at all.”

“Why?” Rory asks.

“I knew them both,” Jack says quietly. “I watched them fall in love. I watched them change. It’s like--” He nods his head at them subtly, breaking off. “They’ve never looked at another human being the way they’re looking at each other now, and it’s been like that since the day they met. Who the fuck should have to fight for that?”

All three of them are now watching the pair on the other side of the room; the Doctor's poking fun at her for something, grinning as she tugs at his deep red overcoat. Clara's in stiletto boots and her favourite pair of tight leather pants, and a loose tank top that clearly used to be a shirt with the sleeves cut off, creating slits down the sides; the neck is low. Her hair is down, curly and unstyled. She still barely reaches past the Doctor's shoulders.

“You know Clara’s tattoo?” Jack says suddenly; Rory nods. He’s long stopped wondering what it is.  “The Doctor has one, too, but his is on his chest - above his heart.”

“What’s it of?”

Jack’s smiling softly. “Hers is his birthday, and his is her birthday. It was sort of a ‘fuck you’ to everyone who constantly liked to remind them of their ages, but it was also…” He trails off. “Sometimes I think it’s like, a reminder that they’re just lucky to even be alive at the same time.”

The Doctor catches Clara’s chin between his index and thumb, tilting her head. She's biting her bottom lip. None of them can hear the low, quiet things they're murmuring to each other, but the Doctor presses his lips to her forehead gently as if he's never touched something so precious before. It's like he's telling her I love you.

Rory turns back and meets Jack's eyes, and nothing more needs to be said.

–

He's almost reached the point where he's settling into the idea that he's never going to know, until—

Clara corners him while he's working, sitting at the bar like she's going to order a drink. It's a busy Thursday evening; she won't be overheard. He looks at her expectantly.

She meets his eyes unwaveringly. “Quiet and observant,” she says bizarrely. “That's your type, isn't it? That's you.”

He's taken aback. “Sorry?”

“We know you're interested in us,” she informs him casually. “We tease you about it, but you stare.”

Understandably, it's more intimidating being confronted by her than by River; he swallows nervously. “I know.”

“Why?” She drums her fingertips against the surface of the counter. “We're not mad. Just curious. He thinks it's a fame thing, but I—”

“It's not.” He doesn't even attempt to forgo honesty. “It's because you're different,” he confesses. “Not – physically, I mean, but – I've never...seen two people love each other the way you do.”

It's very obviously not the answer she was expecting. She blinks slowly. “What?”

“Come on, Clara,” he says, on the verge of exasperation. It's been so long. “You know how he looks at you, how he – touches you. How you look at him. How you talk to each other. It's almost – enchanting. I don't know. I've just never seen anything like it before.” He pauses, uncertain and struggling. “It's so—”

“Not what you expected?” She finishes quietly, eyes trained downwards. They flick up to his briefly. Her smile is sad and cynical; it's a look he's unused to seeing from her. The music pounds in the background.

“Yeah,” he answers finally. “Yeah. I guess not.”

“We know what people say about us. We're used to the rumours,” she says softly, and for a split second, she’s somewhere far off, in another place and time. She shakes her head and shrugs. “But I - I didn’t care that he was famous. I didn’t care that he was older, and it wasn't about that, anyway. It was never about that. There are...more important things, you know.”

“Well, those people are wrong,” Rory says with finality. “I'm sorry if I overstepped my boundaries or made you uncomfortable. It wasn't my intention. I understand if you want to fire me. But all those people are wrong.”

Her smile turns genuine; she pats Rory's arm nicely. “You're not fired,” she says, and stops. “Thank you. Not just for that, but for – what you said. It was...” Her head ducks slightly. “Nice. It was nice.”

He pops the cap off of a Rekorderlig cider and slides it across the bar to her. “It's just the truth,” he says modestly.

She nods appreciatively and adds, “Amy's pretty lucky, you know.”

Rory shrugs. “No. I am.”

The Doctor picks exactly that moment to interrupt, like it was planned, his hands resting on Clara's waist. She glances up at him and back to Rory, and her and the Doctor seem to come to an understanding from that brief, quick look. Her eyes twinkle.

“We met at a club,” she finally reveals, grinning as he rests his chin atop the crown of her head; it's a popular position for the two of them, practiced and easy. Rory can immediately tell he's getting the real story. “I used to work there with Jack, and the manager decided to give us one night out of the week to – customize, I guess. Like a themed night. And we picked punk rock.”

“Gathered quite the crowd,” the Doctor adds, and Rory's surprised to hear him chime in at all. “It's not a big city; nobody thought there was a market for a place dedicated to that kind of atmosphere. But once word spread – you should've seen the line. Jack had to let me in the back.”

Clara smirks. “The line was there to see you.”

Rory asks, “And how did you know Jack?”

The Doctor waves a hand loosely. “He used to tour with me. I like him; there's a real lack of judgment from Jack – he’s so carefree - it's refreshing. I got him his visa.”

If Rory wasn't impressed with him before, he certainly is now. “Sorry,” Rory says. “Continue.”

Clara continues, voice light and airy. “I was in the booth. I'd just put on Let's Dance to Joy Division by The Wombats, and maybe a minute in, Jack barreled over with this one and introduced us. I recognized him, but I knew that they were friends, so I kept my composure. Mind you, we were basically shouting at each other – couldn't make a damn word out. He gave up trying to talk to me and just said, 'I love this song.'”

“It's a great song,” the Doctor defends mildly.

She says, “I'm still glad I wasn't playing any of your records when you walked in. That would've been awkward.”

The Doctor chuckles and continues. “Jack took over the booth, I bought her a drink, and we talked the rest of the night.” He raises an eyebrow. “She came on pretty strong.”

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. “Shut up. He asked how we met, not how we started dating.”

Rory grimaces; it's the next step and she knows it, but she's playing him. He asks, “Okay, so how did you start dating?”

She laughs. “That's a story for a different day,” she says mysteriously, swinging off the stool and tugging the Doctor with her, and Rory loses them in the crowd.

–

He's more at ease, after that; the Doctor doesn't take as many digs at him, and Clara actively seeks him out to talk to – she seems to truly value his outlook and opinion, and they'll often chat while the Doctor's out or busy.

Amy jokes on their way to work one afternoon, “Should I be worried? I don't fancy having to compete with Clara, you know. She is my boss.”

He rolls his eyes and doesn't take the bait. “She doesn't even compare to you.”

Amy exhales loudly beside him, and then there's a silence.

“I'm so cross with you,” she tells him dramatically. “I can't even pretend like I don't know how much you love me.”

Rory smiles, his eyes lowered. “Yeah,” he replies, oddly abashed. “Must be difficult being you.”

–

He walks through the back door, only to find Ten doing his job for him, counting the cash in the register at a lightning speed. He clears his throat. Ten's head swivels around.

“Oh, hello, Rory,” he greets cheerfully. “The money's all here. No need to thank me. I've balanced the book, too.”

Rory sighs, but it's just a part of working there they've all had to get used to. “Once again, Ten,” he says wearily, “I couldn't have done it any better myself, even though it is my job.”

Ten beams; Rose comes out of the back kitchen, hearing their conversation.

“There you are,” she directs at Ten, walking over. “I've been looking for you; the oven's broken.” She subtly winks at Rory when Ten's not looking.

“I can take care of that, easy,” he says. “Anyone know where Martha's hidden her tools? I'd borrow River's, but she gets frighteningly cross with me when I touch them.”

“Wonder why,” Rory replies sarcastically. “No idea, mate. Best of luck.”

Ten bounds off. Rory stares at Rose.

“How do you do it,” he says wonderingly, and she laughs.

“He's a handful,” she answers lightly, “but he's worth it.”

Rory's developing a notion: there's something special about everyone when they're in love.

–

They've all got the day off work a week later due to a holiday, and Rory makes three mistakes that night.

His first mistake is allowing Amy to coerce him into doing shots of whiskey with her.

His second mistake is developing the idea that he knows how to properly throw a punch.

His third mistake is actually testing that theory on a big, burly man harassing Amy while they walk home from the restaurant, and consequently finding himself flat on the concrete, grey specks sparkling across his eyes and the back of his head throbbing painfully.

He hears Amy shouting something, and then her hand grips his neck and his arm and heaves him up.

“Shit,” she says, slightly panicked. “Okay. Right. Quick thinking, Amy, you've been in sticky situations before—”

“Who's sticky?” Rory slurs, disoriented. “Am I dead?”

“What? No. You're fine,” Amy tells him, huffing under his weight. “Just hold on. We're gonna walk down this street, okay? You can make it.”

She stops on the doorstep of a big, nice house he doesn't recognize; the yard is well-kept and lush with flowers, spilling over the stone pathway.

He laughs strangely. “Amy, did you hit your head?” He questions, and keeps laughing when he comprehends what he's just said. “Pun – pun intended. But we don't live here.”

“No, we don't,” she agrees, and knocks loudly on the door.

It takes a few minutes, but there's a shuffle behind the wood separating them and a shadow in the peephole, and then the door is thrown wide open.

“Oh my God,” Clara gasps out, her hand over her mouth. “Amy? Rory? What happened?”

“Long story,” Amy grits out as Rory leans on her. “Can we come in? He hit his head pretty hard.”

“Of course – Jesus,” she answers, still shocked. She takes hold of Rory's other arm, supporting him. “Here. We'll put him on the sofa.”

There's a nice, modernized kitchen to the left, and the entryway leads into a large, open living room, with glass walls separating them from the back garden. A set of stairs to the right lead to the second floor. The Doctor and Clara’s Rolling Stone cover is framed and hanging in the hallway.

“Wow, Clara,” Rory says, tasting metal in his mouth, “this is a nice place you've got here. How come you never invite us over? We're friends. Friends hang.”

She laughs despite the circumstances, depositing him on the couch. He vaguely notices how comfortable and soft it is. “You're so right,” she replies, playing along. “Tell you what – you stay conscious and you can come over any time you want.”

“Yeah,” he responds, staring up at her with a stupid grin on his face. “I'm gonna come use your – what is it – hole in the ground, with water in it. That thing.”

“Pool?” Clara guesses, her smile equally amused and worried. “You can use our pool.”

“Clara?” A voice calls. Heavy footsteps approach and the Doctor appears, descending the stairs. He falters on the last step. “Oh, fuck.”

“Everybody just chill out,” Rory says, holding up his hands. “There’s a Doctor here. He’ll help.”

Clara can’t stop herself from laughing at that one - she’s made similar jokes plenty of times. They’re always funny, in her opinion.

The Doctor bends down to Rory's eye level and observes him closely. “What happened?”

“He was trying to defend me,” Amy explains, chewing her lip worriedly. “Some guy kept following us, making remarks, and he—”

“Gave him the ol' one-two,” Rory informs them all, still grinning. “I'm a boxer.”

“No, Rory, you didn't and you aren't,” Amy tells him. “You're off your face and you hit your head.”

“I'm like that American guy who punches people.”

“Ah, yes,” Clara says in sarcastic understanding. “That guy.”

The Doctor moves around the couch, looking at the back of his scalp, fingers touching gently, testing the tender area. It takes Rory a moment to realize it hurts.

“Ouch,” he says blankly.

“It's not bleeding,” the Doctor states, examining it. “He's got quite the lump, though – it's likely he has a concussion. We should keep him awake for the time being and sober him up.” He pauses. “Clearly Rory didn’t win this fight.”

“I did,” Amy waves away distractedly. “I kicked him and probably broke his cock. I think he was crying when we left.”

Clara fetches blankets from the upstairs closet and the Doctor pours them both tall glasses of water, forcing Rory to drink. The Doctor watches him finish three full glasses and fills one more, setting it on a coaster on the coffee table. Clara returns, passing Amy a blanket and then tucking one around Rory, keeping him warm.

“We'll turn on the telly,” Clara decides, reaching for the remote. “You can't sleep, okay, Rory? Promise us you won't sleep.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he assures her, though she knows it won't last.

The Doctor settles into the recliner, and Clara stretches out next to him; he wraps an arm around her shoulders and rests his head against hers. Rory stares openly. Amy rubs Rory's arm.

“Oh, just put on Top Gear,” the Doctor points out on the menu, and rubs his eyes. “Cars and wankers. Doesn't get much more exciting than that, does it?”

“Look at you all, staying up to keep me company,” Rory interjects dreamily, glancing around. “I've never been this popular in my entire life.”

Even the Doctor can't keep a straight face. “Part of me wants to film this and tweet it,” he says, studying the boy with a half-smirk. “But the other part of me realizes that'd be a horribly mean thing to do.”

Clara hums. “The latter part is the correct judgment, in case you were still debating.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Well, I'm not anymore.”

Rory says, “Film me. I'll be famous.”

Amy croaks out tiredly, “It's gonna be a long night.”

–

An hour and a half later, Amy's passed out on his lap, and he's exhausted and his skull is throbbing and he still isn't entirely sober. He looks over at Clara, and he finds the Doctor curled into her, his head having now fallen to her shoulder and her fingers stroking through his hair.

“That looks nice,” Rory comments. “Sleep. I think I'll do that.”

“No, Rory,” Clara forbids. “No, you can't do that, I'm afraid. You and I have to be the strong ones. Stay awake.”

“I'm fine. I'm completely fine. I'm just gonna – take a quick nap. Twenty minutes.”

“No,” she tells him firmly. “You can't sleep until we're sure you'll wake up.”

He scoffs. “I think everybody's being a little dramatic, and that's not even how concussions work,” he replies, his eyelids fluttering; they're so heavy. “I'm closing my eyes.”

When she realizes he's being serious, she rushes to desperate measures. “No, don't,” she argues frantically. “What if I – tell you a story?”

He begrudgingly opens them and meets her stare. “What kind of story?”

She wracks her brain quickly. “Erm, what if – what if I tell you my story. About me, and about the Doctor, and about – how it happened. How we got here.”

He squints at her. “Really?” He enunciates. “You don't mind?”

“I don't mind,” she echoes quietly, determined to keep him awake. “I'll tell you our story.”