A/N: It came to me, and refused to leave my head until I wrote it down.

Post-S4 AU, with spoilers up to and including Last Night. My first take on this Donna/River thing, so I'd appreciate any feedback you'd care to provide. Cheers!

The economical crisis hits Chiswick right when you'd thought you were safe and sound, temp or not, and some sacrifices have to be made in order to maintain your family's financial stability.

So you do something you'd said, repeatedly, you would never, ever do.

You take up a job in a pub.

It's not as bas as you thought it would be, honestly. Yes, you do tend to leave last ('It's not like you have a child or a husband to go back to', they say) and clutch the keys desperately in your fist, sharp edges sticking between your fingers like a makeshift weapon, but you like talking to people and, more importantly, listening to them, far more than you'd have ever guessed. And it's not just that—you like watching people, making up stories about them in your head, wondering what fabulous lives they lead when they go back, to their undoubtedly posh homes.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you'd have to admit that there's this one particular client you never get tired of watching.

And here's the twist—it's a woman. Can you imagine that?

She's not a regular per se: some weeks she comes in almost every day, but then you don't see her for weeks before she strolls through that door again, nods at the publican and throws her coat down on an empty chair in the corner, before leaning against the counter and ordering her drink. (You notice that she has a thing for coats: warm and fuzzy, with fur-laced hoods—but underneath them she wears more or less a variation on the theme of black, fitting trousers, greyish-black tank tops and sturdy boots. She always leaves her beautiful, tangled mass of curls down, and doesn't seem to be a huge fan of fancy accessories, with the exception of a rather interesting trinket she wears on her wrist: it looks like a combination of a bracelet and an electronic watch, and you're dying to find out where she's bought it, but somehow you doubt you'd be able to afford one even if she did tell you.) It's usually something light, like a pint of pear cider or a cup of slightly over-brewed Earl Grey with two slices of lemon: and as she sips on it, curled up comfortably in her chair, she writes furiously in a small, thick diary wrapped in a newspaper. It makes you wonder what kind of life she leads, what are the adventures that keep her from coming to the pub for weeks on end—what kinds of people does she meet, where does she go?

You never ask. She seems far too absorbed in her own private bubble, and so… purposeful, is that the word you're looking for? Yeah, probably.

You don't think you even have a purpose in your own life. In makes you envy her—the woman whose name you don't even know—as you wipe off the countertop and sweep the floor, before launching the burglar alarm and closing the door behind you, keys slipping easily into your palm.

You wish there was something the two of you could talk about, but you have no idea what it could ever be.

Shoes. It's as simple as that.

More specifically: the ones she's wearing tonight, as she sweeps in through the door and almost makes you drop a glass you'd been polishing. What happened, Cinderella, is there a ball I don't know about?, you'd like to yell across the room, because she does look like she's been transformed into somebody else with a little help of a fairy-godmother: her hair is tame of once, styled into elaborate, retro-waves; her half-see-through black dress (it's the first time you see her wear one) flows down to the floor, accentuating her generous cleavage and round, full hips… and then there are the shoes.

Red, perfectly coordinated with the shade of her lipstick. Spiky. And absolutely gorgeous. Actual Loubies, for Pete's sake!...

You hope she'd come over to your end of the counter, and you at least get a chance to compliment her on her outfit—and there she is, walking towards with a purposeful—there's that word again!—look on her face. She perches herself up on a stool and rests her wrists on the edge of the counter, fingers laced together.

"Do you have some Highland single malt, by any chance?" Her voice is soft and low in register, reminding you of smoke floating over a body of water, or a saxophone (or was it clarinet?) You nod hastily and turn towards the whisky shelf, frowning for a moment.

"Glen Morangie alright?" you ask over your shoulder, and blink as you noticed her eyes, focused and thoughtful, watching you without faltering. She smiles gratefully.

"It will do just fine. Straight up, please."

You take the bottle off the shelf and measure a healthy dose into a glass, sliding it across the counter to rest by her fingertips. "What's the occasion?" You know you shouldn't pry, and that her private matters are just that—private—but you cannot stop yourself from asking. After all, the worst thing she could do is ignore the question.

To your delight, she does no such thing. "I'm about to go to a party, do something incredibly stupid to get someone's attention, and then meet with them and have them help me solve out a difficult problem," she says, smirking, and drinks about a half of her drink without flinching.

You raise you eyebrows in silent approval, and make a show out of arranging supplies under the counter, in case your boss gets an idea to call you off to serve somebody else. "All the while wearing the shoes?"

The smirk gets naughtier, and definitely more pronounced. "I just might lose them at some point."

You give her a matching smirk of your own, and start on cutting some limes into wedges (you shouldn't exactly be doing this before anyone orders a shot, but tonight you don't really care). "Before, or after you attract that certain someone's attention?"

She grins at you and toasts you silently with the rest of her drink.

She leaves soon afterwards, and just as she closes the door behind her you realize you still haven't got the chance to ask for her name.

Next time you see her, it's the anniversary of Moon landing, and the pub is swarming with people, watching the reruns of Armstrong's foot taking the great step for the mankind. You stifle a yawn as you pass a couple of bitter halves to a youngster hovering uncertainly at the right end of the bar, and raise your eyes to see her, fiver in hand, leaning against the counter not three feet away from you.

And wouldn't you know—she's wearing a dress again. The olive-green number with a wide belt is not half as festive as the black one from the other night, but it looks rather flattering all the same. Then again, what doesn't, when it comes to this woman?

You step in closer and open your mouth to ask for her order, just as she remarks idly, eyes fixed on the telly, "Great thing, Moon landing. Fabulous accomplishment."

You bite your lip and look down at the counter, frowning. "Do you ever wonder what it's like? Being in space? Locked in a small, metal box for months?"

She stiffens for a moment, as if paralyzed by a sudden impulse, before turning to face you, a small, warm smile playing in the corner of her lips. "Lonely, I'd say. But it also depends on who you're travelling with."

You shake your head with gusto, shuddering comically. "I cannot imagine myself locked in a box with another person for weeks. Hell, months is more like it! I'm not made for this."

"You'd be surprised," she answers softly, an unreadable expression on her face. "Some things need to be experienced before an opinion can be made about them."

"I'd rather keep my feet firmly on the ground, thanks," you shoot back amicably, and do something you most definitely shouldn't—extend your hand to her. "I'm Donna, by the way."

She takes your hand and pauses for a second too long, before finally giving in and squeezing your fingers gently.

"Melody."

Somehow, you're not sure if she's telling the truth—but it doesn't really matter.

Tonight, she's in a thin, black coat and a pair of heels, a single string of pearls adorning her neck, and a distant, troubled look on her face. She sits at the far end of the bar, and you pour her a double Glen Morangie before she even had a chance to ask.

She looks up when you place the drink in front of her, and gives you a grateful, though tired smile. "How did you know?"

You shrug and tap on the side of your nose, feeling rather smug. "Bartender's super power."

"Much appreciated, sweetie."

Sweetie. You're not really not endearments much, but this one you could easily live with. "Don't mention it. You looked like you could use one."

"Thanks all the same," Melody nods and twirls the glass between her fingers before quirking her head and looking up at you through her eyelashes. "And one for yourself?"

The clients don't normally offer you drinks, not unless they're regulars—something that Melody definitely is not—so you take on the offer gratefully, looking around to check on the situation. It's rather late in the evening, and only two other people are sitting at the other end are being handled by Billy, the other member of the staff that gets stuck with late night shifts almost as often as you. Nothing wrong with accepting a little tip, then.

"I'll have a stout, then, thanks," you say with a smile and pour yourself a pint, before reciting the new balance of the order. Melody pushes some money your way, and when your fingers brush, you notice how cold her skin is. "Anything the matter?"

She shakes her head slowly, eyes fixed on that mysterious diary of hers—still wrapped in a sheet of paper—placed on the counter between her forearms. "Been thinking about relationships way too much," she admits reluctantly. "People coming and going. The flow of time. Why we stay with someone. Why we get married." She meets your eyes with a quizzical expression. "Are you married, Donna?"

You think about the mishaps and misfortunes of your love life, and roll your face. "Whatever for?"

Melody shrugs. "Haven't you ever met someone who'd make you want to be with them forever, no matter what?"

There's something cold, cold and hollow opening at the bottom of your heart as she asks you that, but you simply shake your head and take a large gulp of your beer. "Can't say I have. Have you?"

Melody's eyes are glistening as she stares off into space, and you wish you could reach out to her, much like you did when you told her your name, and squeeze her shoulder comfortingly. "Yes," she answers simply, offering no further explanations. From the look on her face, you think you can probably guess the ending of that story.

You don't talk much after that little exchange. You clean up, polish the glasses, banter with Billy, fending off his playful attempts of flirting. Melody simply sits there, sipping her whisky and staring off into space, fingers skimming across the cover of her diary. She seems to be somewhere far, far away, completely oblivious of her surroundings, and you wonder what kind of a person—an incident, a place, a time—made her act like this.

You shouldn't even care about it. But you do.

It's way past the usual closing time, and everyone but the two of you have already gone home, when you finally approach her, wringing your hands together. She looks up at your slightly troubled expression, and her eyes flick to the face of your watch. (Why doesn't she check the time on that fancy thing of hers?)

"I've kept you working way too long," she says, shaking her head. "I'm sorry." Something flashes in her eyes, something you don't quite understand, and she says it again. "I'm very sorry, Donna."

It sounds likes she's apologizing for something much more important than simply overstaying in a pub, but you have honestly no idea what she's on about, so you simply dismiss it with a flick of the wrist. "'S alright. Not the first time it happened to me."

Melody's eyes widen for a fracture of a second, and then she shakes her head and smiles sadly at the counter. "Yes. Yes, of course. You're right." She looks back up, her smile strained and shaky, but at least it's there. "Shall we go now?"

She walks you back to your house, listening attentively to your nervous (why are you nervous all of a sudden?) blabber about your mother, and how you worry for your granddad because he never goes outside with his telescope anymore. She lets you tell her the sad story of you losing your temp job and having to start working in the pub, and how it turned out you're actually good at it, and like it quite a lot. You even drop in some tiny pieces of gossip about the customers, and she laughs, genuinely laughs, at that.

"I do hope you don't have too many awful things to say about me," she teases and you reach your gate, and you twirl on the spot to face her, suddenly breathless and terrified.

"Oh, no! No! I mean… you're different than them lot, Melody, you have to know that."

She cocks her head to the side, hands in her pockets. "How am I different, Donna?"

"W-well," you stutter slightly, and blame it on the stout, "you're beautiful, and smart, and I may not know you much but you surely have so much going on in your life, not like the losers who spend all of their time hanging around their watering hole. Sometimes you come through the door and I know, I know you've been to places I can't even imagine, and done some amazing things, and it makes me feel so small and insignificant that I sometimes despise you, but I can't not see you, and—"

Melody leans in and stops your blabbering rather effectively.

She kisses you—and soft, chaste brush of her lips against yours, like a touch of a butterfly wing on your eyelids when you slept on the grass when you were a little girl. She pulls away and you lick your lips nervously, tasting the vanilla-flavoured warmth of whisky, laced with a hint of sadness.

"You're brilliant, Donna," she tells you, slipping her fingers into your palm and squeezing gently. "Absolutely brilliant. You just need to believe in it."

You shrug, too awed by this whole evening to properly express your feelings. (And what are those, exactly?) "I try to do my best. It isn't much, but… thank you, I guess?"

Melody's eyes are green and warm, and when she leans in for another kiss you meet her halfway, your lips caressing gently as you push and pull, your fingers tangling in her hair as you open under her ministrations and sigh into her, savouring the taste and feeling of the moment.

"Goodnight, Donna," she says after a long, long while, and you smile at her, watching her retreating form, your heart thumping furiously in your chest.

When you finally manage to get into bed, the last thought before you fall asleep is how her words sounded very much like a goodbye.

She doesn't show up for weeks after that night, and you cannot help but think that you blew it somehow, and now you'll never see her again. Ever.

Perhaps you should have pushed her away when she kissed you.

You couldn't have done it even if you knew how it would end.

You go on with your life as if nothing happened. You work in the pub, turning down any and all attempts at awkward flirting from your clients and co-workers. You quarrel with your mother and worry about granddad.

You go on with your life as if it didn't hurt the least bit.

And then, with absolutely no warning, she's back in it.

"Whoa," you say, more than a little stunned. "This… this is… you look lovely."

And she does, in a skin-tight, green dress, shimmering in the low light of the pub. She smiles and runs a hand through her hair, suddenly looking rather bashful. "Thank you, miss."

"What's the occasion?" you ask, and turn to get the whisky bottle off the shelf. She stops you, leaning across the counter and putting a hand above your elbow.

Until now, you haven't realized you missed her touch, but oh yes, you did. You lean into it a little—just for a moment, nobody will see, right?—and raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"That won't be necessary," Melody says, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes. "What time do you finish work tonight?"

You sigh and shoot a sideways glance to the publican, thinking of all the long nights you'd been pulling recently. "I was supposed to stay on until one… but I could try and get off a bit earlier, if you don't mind the wait."

Turns out, she doesn't.

She gets you a cab and has the driver drop you off in London Central, where you walk by the river: Melody wrapped in a long, forest-green coat and you in a warm, hand-knit blazer and a scarf your mom gave you for Christmas last year. You are as different as two people can be, but Melody doesn't seem to mind as she slips one hand into the crook of your arm and trails the metal railing with the other. She closes her eyes and breathes in, purring like a very content cat, although you have absolutely no idea what could be so thrilling about the damp, night London air.

Perhaps she likes it, and that's all there is to it. You decide against asking her about it. Asking is not what you usually do. And yet, there's one thing that keeps nagging you about this night: a sense of finality, of something coming to an imminent end. And endings are something you don't particularly enjoy.

So you brace yourself against the hurricane, and say, trying to sound as casual as possible: "You never did tell me what was the occasion, Melody."

She smiles and pulls you closer, her fingers tightening around your arm. "Somebody made me very happy tonight. And I know it sounds rather strange, but… I felt like giving that happiness back to someone."

You blink, uncomprehending. "So you came to see me? Out of all the people you could be with… me?"

"You overestimate my social skills, Donna. And anyway… I have told you once before: you're brilliant, and somebody should remind you of that ever so often."

You know, then, you simply do, even though her words never once indicated it. "I won't be seeing you again, will I?"

She stops and turns you to face her, both hands grasping your arms lightly as she speaks, her face suddenly looking very serious, and immensely tired. "I don't know. You might, but… I can't make any promises. I know I'd like to see you again, should the time permit it."

"Is it because of whoever made you so very happy?" You know you have no right to be jealous. You can't seem to be able to help it.

She shakes her head, and cups your cheek in one hand. "No, of course not. That's a different story altogether. They—he would never want to hurt you."

Somehow the thought of there being a man in Melody's life instead of a woman makes you feel slightly more at ease. You cover the strange feeling with a shrug, and look away. "Why should he care about me? I don't even know him, do I?"

Melody tugs you by the arm making you step closer into her embrace, her fingers tracing the contours of your face. "He's just that kind of a man." Her eyes darken a little, and her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth ever so gently. "But I didn't come here to talk about him."

You swallow, blood thundering in your ears. "You didn't?"

She shakes her head slowly, and suddenly everything is settled, understood, and decided. "Not particularly."

You turn your head and latch your lips to Melody's neck, inching down towards her collarbone as she hums above you, turning your blood into hot, golden liquid in your veins. It hits you without warning, and you arch your back, flying high, anchored by the velvety body wrapped around yours so perfectly.

She licks her lips with smugness you cannot blame her for, and brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. "Again?" she asks, and it's naughty, and possibly wrong, and you shouldn't like it so much—but you do, and oh yes please, could we?...

So you do. Quite a few times, actually: until you think you can feel her flowing through you, like an underground river of emotion, the undercurrent of everything you ever dreamed of, but didn't believe it could come true.

You tell her that, looking quite smug yourself as she smiles up at you, completely spent as she stretches across the hotel bed and purrs, looking much too delicious for her own good. "You're like a river, y'know? Completely wild. Untamed."

You meant it as a compliment, so it troubles you when a frown appears on Melody's forehead, her eyes suddenly regaining focus, and looking much too troubled for your liking. "Why would you say that?" There's a nerve vibrating in her voice that makes you feel as if you lost your footing on a slippery mountain pass, but you're not going to give up. Not now.

"It's like you're flowing right through me… you know?"

Her features soften again, and she leans up for a kiss that will inevitably end in something much more serious. "Oh, I think I do."

You were right, in the end. After that night, you never see her again—and she's gone before you wake up, so you didn't even get to say goodbye. Perhaps this was the best ending you could have ever hoped for. Perhaps not.

Time passes, and eventually it all grows dim, and the memories start to fade. You meet a decent guy for a change, and you think this one might be a keeper. He asks you to marry him, and you say yes, because that's what you're expected to do at this point in life.

You quit your job in the pub. You never drink another drop of single malt, not even when somebody else is buying.

A curly head a hair spotted in the crowd almost always makes your heart skip a beat.

You keep on waiting.

You never lose hope.

After all, you never told her you think she's brilliant, too.

The End