I'm going against my better judgement in posting this before I'm done writing but considering it's been two months since I started and I think it's about time I share. Why? Because WWII AU.

Also on my writing tumblr.

Roamin' in the gloamin' on the bonnie banks o' Clyde
Roamin' in the gloamin' with my lassie by my side
When the sun has gone to rest
That's the time that we love best
Ach, it's lovely roamin' in the gloamin'

-Sir Harry Lauder, 1911

Chapter One

It was January 1940. After coming off another twelve-hour shift, John Smith trudged his way up to the bar and ordered a pint. He hadn't even bothered going home to change out of the overalls and jumper and heavy boots he wore to work first—after a mismatched day where nothing seemed to go right, he just needed to sit down and relax. At the pub there were no new kids to train, no riggings to snap on him, no rivet guns to malfunction, no things to drop three stories and spill oil all over the shipyard floor… now it was just him and a pint and nobody else to harp on him. He took his beer with him and sat down at a table towards the back of the establishment, away from the dance floor and most of the other patrons. The past few months had seen his regular joint turn from the same people he saw day in and day out near his entire life to burgeoning nearly to the point of capacity as people from all over the United Kingdom had come to work in the shipbuilding yards. It was hectic, but everyone was so enthusiastic that it made it all worth it.

John scowled at the crowd as he drank his beer. Sure he could have gone over and chatted with his old mates in the one corner or gone to see what some of the young blokes he worked with at the yard were up to, but he was not feeling it. The past three months working long, hard hours was wearing him down quicker than the previous three years. He was aging faster, he noticed, with his face growing more drawn and grey starting to appear in his hair. Well he had turned forty-eight not that long ago, but it was just jarring when looking at a photo from January last year to find his face not nearly as angular and his hair not yet beginning to sprinkle with signs of age.

Finishing off his beer, John took the glass up to the bar and ordered another. He brought it back, only to find that his table had been occupied—two of the local lads that worked with him in the shipyard and a young woman he had never seen before with brown hair and eyes and possessing the most petite frame he could imagine. John paused before sitting down in the empty chair next to the young woman.

"Oh, was this your table?" one of the young men asked. The smirk on his face told John he was there to pick a fight, but could be diffused by age and wisdom.

"How observant," the older man sniped.

"So then you were here with her?" the other asked.

"No…" John replied.

"Then what are you doing here?" the first asked the woman. "You're English, but you're not one of the migrants at the factories and I've never seen you around so you had to have moved here recently. What is your game?"

"That's enough; if you're going to be too forward from the get-go, at least be nice about it," John growled. This was not the day to cross him and risk him slipping into a more caustic attitude than necessary. He turned to the woman and frowned, his voice no less harsh than when lecturing the boys. "I do apologize for the lads, Miss. They're a bit rough, but that's how we Scotsmen tend to come."

"It's alright—boys will be arrogant little buggers until they stop being boys and just become arrogant buggers," the woman said with a smile and a straight face. The two young men grumbled and left, as they both realized there was not only more work in ruffling her feathers than they planned on, but they'd have to deal with one of their gruffer coworkers as well.

"My… aren't you the one with her feet on the ground," John chuckled. He took a sip of his beer and looked at the woman… no, she was almost a child herself. She couldn't have been no older than twenty-one or twenty-two, with her lipstick a bright red to match her dress. "They do have a point though: you don't exactly make sense here. You know, if you don't want the attention it's better to just get a bottle of whiskey from the shop and drink it at home."

"Can't," the woman replied flatly.

"What, you can't buy a bottle of whiskey?"

"I hate whiskey."

"And yet you moved to Scotland. Would it be rude of me to ask when you first came to grace our little slice of the River Clyde, or would you rather just drink and forget about outside for a while?"

"Drink, please," she grumbled. Her accent was very northern English, which did explain how come the boys chose to single out her. She took a drink of her beer and shuddered, clearly not used to the taste. "They should do the women of Clydebank a favor and go enlist."

"They're on reserve," John explained. "Most of the men in here either didn't make the first cut or are ineligible. Some are even barred from enlisting because they're too valuable in their trade."

"Which are you? Tell me," the girl asked, her turn to be forward. John shrugged.

"Too old. I don't look like this just because of the yards wearing me down."

"They turned away a shipbuilder because he's too old? What, did you miss the cut-off by a year?"

"No, they turned away an artist who was three years shy of fifty who instead helps the war effort by building ships alongside women and boys and crippled old men… not that there's anything wrong with women or boys or crippled old men, but it still does a number to you when you know you still have it in you but no one will give you a chance." He looked at the girl, who seemed to be studying him carefully. "So what about you Miss…?"

"Oh, sorry. Oswald. Clara Oswald. I just came up here from London a couple days ago with my kids. We're waiting to get them sorted to country boarding houses and foster care."

John had heard about the mass exodus from London that was starting to take place, planned to eventually move hundreds of thousands of mothers and children out of London and away from potential Luftwaffe raids. Did a group come in town recently? Maybe they were beginning to run out of space in the English countryside and decided to reinvade Scotland with mothers and babes. Maybe the women took turns watching each other's children for the night, so that they can all rest. Whatever was the matter, John knew he had no place to mock her for that.

"I see. That's very brave of you, dear," John said respectfully. From the looks of her, she probably had a baby waiting for her at her place… maybe even a child just young enough to stay home from school yet. The young woman sighed and took a deep drink of her beer.

"Thank you," she replied. "It's going to be hell trying to keep all those kids in line while trying to find homes for them. I actually have to find them. Can you believe that? Twenty-five homes for these kids and they're already starting to not listen to me…"

"Pardon…?" John was confused; twenty-five?!

"Yes. I'm a schoolteacher," Clara said. She looked at John's baffled face and laughed. "What? Did you think I came up here with kids of my own? I'm not even dating anyone, let alone married with kids!"

The tips of John's ears turned red, partly from embarrassment and partly out of the day's exhaustion catching up to him. "I'm sorry, Miss Oswald. Most of the ladies I work with are mothers, even the young ones, so I tend to assume…"

"No, that's fine," Clara smiled. "I'm actually flattered you think I'm mature enough to be a mum. Everyone else tells me I'm just too flippant and boss around other people's children like a meddling old maid in the making."

"Oh, there's time for you yet," John chuckled. He gave her an encouraging smile and finished off his beer. "You're not flippant; you're good at being in charge."

"How would you know? We just met."

"You handle a large number of school children and are escorting them far from their home and yours in a time of crisis. I wouldn't call that a bad thing."

"Thank you… um…"

"John. You can call me John."

"Thank you John," Clara smiled. She looked over her shoulder, over towards where the crowd became concentrated on the lacquered hardwood in front of a small brass band, and back at John. "Would you care to dance? I think I've got time for one go before I have to get back to the kids."

"How could I refuse?" John stood up and held out his hand, Clara laughing at the formality and taking it as she rose to her feet. They walked over to the dance floor and waited for the song to end. During the pause, they edged their way in and slowly danced as the brassy tune kicked back up.

Licking his lips nervously, John looked at the woman in his arms. She barely came up to his chin and that was with heeled shoes. He unconsciously began to pull her in closer, to which she drew away a little.

"Now, now, none of that," Clara scolded. "I asked for a dance, not for my door to be beaten down by an angry wife in a few hours."

"I'd like to know how that would happen, considering I'm not married," John said. "Never have."

Clara looked up at him quizzically. "Really?"

"I might've married, if the Great War didn't shuffle my life around for four straight years. After that I just didn't really pursue it. Wasn't a high priority, if you can infer the sentiment."

"You served then, and still want to serve now?"

"I'm old, Miss Oswald. I've lived life and I know what it takes to be a soldier. I'd rather our young men be the ones dancing while on reserve."

"No; you just want adventure."

Those words hit John oddly as they slowly spun in place. How could she figure something like that? For being such a difficult a person to read she was tapping buttons that weren't exactly correct, but not incorrect either. He blinked at her.

"Adventure…?"

"Yes. Excitement, thrills, adventures… all those things."

"…and how can you tell?"

"You're dancing with me, and I wasn't even alive during the Great War. I'd say that's adventure enough for a Tommy."

"That sure would be," John admitted, "but I'm not sure I would call going off to war an adventure. Maybe one day a long time ago, when I was your age, but not now."

Clara raised her eyebrows and tried to reword her statement. "You're right—maybe 'adventure' isn't the proper word for the situation. It's a bit callous now that I think about it. Probably more like… a purpose."

John looked down at this woman, this girl, this stranger with her perfectly foreign accent and dark brown eyes and a scent that was a mixture of the liquor and smoke of the pub with a swarthy cologne, and pondered. She was hitting the buttons more precisely now—a big, red button with white lettering that screeched loudly as it was pressed. Purpose. He bent down and lowered his voice so that he could whisper in her ear.

"…well, I guess I am."

John stopped dancing and straightened his posture as the song ended. He bent down again, slightly this time, and kissed the back of Clara's hand.

"Thank you, Miss Oswald, for the dance."

"Please John, call me Clara."

"Okay Clara. See you around?"

"Definitely."