Chapter Text
DARILLIUM: a look inside the breakout rock band everyone is talking about
Since John Smith and River Song burst onto the music scene six months ago, they’ve captured our attention not only with their blatant onstage chemistry but with the rare ability to make us feel the full range of human emotion in just a few songs. They make us weep with ballads like “Always and Completely”; they make us laugh with their punk rock anthem “Love In Berlin”; they turn us on with the sultry croon of the summer smash hit “Screamer”.
With such diversity in their debut album, Darillium’s rapid rise to fame comes as no surprise to anyone here at Rolling Stone. The first show to kickoff their international tour begins in London, with further tour dates to follow. Do yourselves a favor and get tickets by any means possible. Even if you hate music you won’t regret it - watching River Song flirt with both her microphone and lead guitarist John Smith is worth the price of admission.
-
“We’re Bespoke”: an intimate interview with Darillium’s married duo
They arrive half an hour late, holding hands and whispering furtively to each other as they make their way to the table I reserved for our interview this afternoon. They sink into the chairs across from me and for a moment, I can only blink stupidly. I’ve seen them on magazine and album covers, from afar in my crappy seats at their show last night, but up close, River Song and John Smith are rock and roll royalty.
Disheveled and dressed in black, dark sunglasses slipping down his nose and strange tattoos visible near the collar of shirt, Smith taps his fingers against the table as we talk, as though there’s a constant melody in his head and if he doesn’t beat out the rhythm he’ll go mad. The rings on his fingers scrape against the table with every thump. Song doesn’t seem to notice the constant tapping, sipping her tea and casting her husband sly, flirtatious glances through the unruly curls tumbling into her eyes. She’s more poised than her husband but even she has her share of tattoos. And she admits she doesn’t go anywhere without her trademark black leather jacket. She’s funny and quick and the soft, purring timbre of her voice not only makes it impossible to look away from her onstage but in a crowded cafe in the middle of the lunch rush.
Smith spends the interview in a constant state of distraction, answering my questions with a glib impatience that might have been off-putting on anyone else. It’s easy to forgive him when his fingers still and his eyes soften every time he looks in his wife’s direction. The chemistry the two exude onstage is clearly not an act – every glance is heated, every touch electric, and this writer felt a bit like he was intruding every time they paid the slightest attention to one another.
They both light up when they discuss their music, particularly their inspiration – which tends to come from one another. Smith calls her his muse and Song rolls her eyes good-naturedly, as if she’s heard it before, and swats at him with a muttered, “Really, sweetie. Could you be more of a sap?”
Smith raises a heavy brow at her and Song wrinkles her nose, an adorable expression entirely out of place on the queen of rock and roll. “Can I help it we’re bespoke?”
Song huffs and sips her tea but her husband captures one hand and kisses her knuckles in a gesture so flirtatiously tender that even she has trouble hiding her blush. “Oh, bugger off,” she mutters, and Smith leans back in his chair with a triumphant snort, fishing through his pockets for a cigarette.
Which his ever helpful wife directs him to with a murmured, “Wrong pocket, darling.”
The cantankerous Smith and sultry Song might be a bit much to take individually, but together, they sing…
-
“Always and Completely”? NOT ANYMORE!
You heard it here first, folks – River Song and John Smith of the rock band Darillium have officially called it quits after months of rumored screaming matches, public disturbances, and canceled gigs. Our sources say the breakup has been a long time coming.
“John was always jealous,” says one anonymous but close pal of the former couple. “River just got sick of dealing with it.”
Another source claims the breakup is all Song’s fault. “She hated the fame and the traveling. John lived for it. It was just never going to work.”
Get the full story in all its juicy details over on page six…
-
He’s burned through three cigarettes, scared away five waitresses, signed six autographs, and still no sign of her. It’s infuriating. He’s always been the terrible timekeeper in their relationship; always late unless River was there to remind him he had somewhere he needed to be. And now here he is, anxiously smoking in the back booth of a noisy pub, waiting for his ex-wife to show the fuck up.
When she’d left all those years ago he’d been certain he’d never see her again. He’d contented himself with keeping track of her through the gossip rags, watching as she’d become a successful PR representative and oddly gratified that she never tried to sing with anyone else after him. The string of young, handsome men she’d gone through hadn’t been nearly as gratifying. Her scandalous tabloid escapades had tormented him the first few years after they split.
He’d waited a long time for her to find her way back to him but after twenty years, he’d more or less given up that ridiculous hope. And then she’d called. He’d nearly dropped the phone the moment he heard her voice on the other end.
Hello sweetie.
Swallowing roughly, John flicks the ash from his cigarette into his discarded whiskey and grits his teeth. Two words and he’s a helpless whelp all over again, ready and willing to do her bidding. She’d asked to meet him so they could talk and instead of hanging up on her, he’d only gripped his phone and asked, “Where?”
Christ, he hates himself for getting his hopes up because of a silly phone call. River Song made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with him when she’d thrown his own guitar at his head and walked out, taking her lovely voice and his heart with her. Whatever she wants now, it isn’t him.
Still, every time the door to the pub opens and someone walks through, he stops breathing. He sighs through his teeth as someone else who isn’t River strolls in and takes a seat at the bar. Maybe she hadn’t called to rekindle what they’d once had but who’s to say he couldn’t persuade her once she arrives? Once upon a time, there hadn’t been much he couldn’t get River to agree to – including croon an explicit song he’d written about their sex life to a stadium filled with thousands of people. Getting her to agree to dinner should be simple.
The pub door opens again and John breathes in another drag of nicotine, eyes fastened on the door as a familiar figure slips inside. He inhales too much smoke at the sight of her and coughs, watching through watering eyes as she spots him and begins making her way through the crowd toward their booth.
She looks just the same as she did the day she left – unruly golden curls and fire-bright eyes – and he wonders idly if she actually ages. He’s still gaping at her rapidly approaching figure when he finally notices the dark-haired pudding brain trailing along behind her like a pup. He’s young but John knows from years of watching River flit from man to man that she rather likes them young these days.
He frowns, touching his fingertips to the graying hair at his temples. The prospect of dinner seems like a distant memory all of a sudden. He’ll be lucky if they can get through this – whatever this is – without being thrown out of the pub. River is close enough now that he can see the nervous edge to her smile and he relaxes somewhat, unclenching his jaw as she approaches.
Standing in front of him now, hands clasped and eyes soft, River studies him for a moment in silence and John does the same. She isn’t even wearing her leather jacket. He pictures it cast aside and gathering dust in some dark corner and his chest aches. He hates her new look, professional and polished and everything his River Song was not.
Her lips curl up into a soft, amused grin. “We can’t all spend our lives wearing too many rings and ratty hoodies and sunglasses indoors and expect to be taken seriously.”
He blinks at her, startled, before he remembers his old habit of thinking aloud in front of her. Apparently, River hasn’t lost her touch. Forcing his mouth into a frown, brows furrowing, he glances down at the silver rings stacked on his fingers and grumbles, “Who would ever want to be taken seriously? Sounds rubbish.”
River laughs and the sound takes him back twenty years, her hand tight in his and her lips against his neck. He swallows, squashing the memory quickly as she slides into the booth across from him and says, “It’s good to see you, John.”
He purses his lips and nods once, his throat too tight to return the sentiment. Eyes flickering to the young man who moves to settle in beside her, he asks, “Who’s this? Babysitting?”
Her eyes narrow and her hand reaches out to rest against the man’s bicep, fingers stroking casually. John clenches his teeth. “This is Ramone. Ramone, this is John. My ex.”
The dark-haired man grins broadly and reaches out to shake his hand. “It’s an honor, Sir. I’m a big fan -”
“Are you now?” John mutters, ignoring his outstretched hand as he stubs out his cigarette on a napkin. Ramone drops his hand back to his lap, looking lost. “Especially of River, eh? Probably had her posters on your wall when you were a wee tot?” He lifts his brows, watching Ramone blush and glance at River, not opening his mouth to deny it. John feels his lip curl. “Jack off to them, did you?”
Ramone sputters. “What, no -”
Unaffected, River rolls her eyes and casts a bored glance at her scandalized beau. “Ignore him. Give us a moment, won’t you, dear?”
Still blushing, Ramone nods and mumbles, “I’ll be at the bar.” He presses a quick kiss to River’s temple and scurries off, avoiding John’s gaze the whole time.
The moment he’s gone, River turns to glare at him. “Was that necessary?”
“Very much so.” John signals to a waitress and eyes River curiously. “Was he even alive when we had our first hit?”
“His age is none of your bloody business, thank you.”
The waitress approaches, smile plastered on her face. “What can I get you?”
“Another whiskey for me.” John gestures lazily to River. “She’ll have a glass of red, won’t you, River?”
River glares at him. He feels his mouth curl into an unfamiliar smile and doesn’t bother stifling it. “White,” she says, just to be contradictory. “The bottle, please.”
As their waitress nods and slips away, John leans back in his booth and taps his fingers idly against the table. River meets his stare unblinkingly and he has to fight hard to keep from slipping into old memories. It’s been so long and he can’t help but wonder if she still smells the same, if she’d still feel familiar under his hands, if she still likes to be held down and kissed with force, if she’d still make that obscene noise if he sank his teeth into her skin.
It’s too much and he looks away first, clearing his throat. “Just curious,” he begins, and out of the corner of his eye he sees River stiffen like she knows he’s about to be an arsehole. It’s somewhat of a comfort to know she still recognizes the signs of his impending arse-hattery. “Do you have to change his nappies for him or has he figured out how to go potty all by himself?”
River smiles sweetly. “Oh, he has a long way to go before he’ll need a nappy again. Can’t say the same for you though, can we, darling? Everything still in proper working order down there?”
He lifts a brow at her, unfazed. “Want to find out?”
She snorts. “No more talking until I have a drink. Deal?”
Suspecting she only wants something she can throw at him, John nods anyway, holding up his hands in surrender. They sit in silence as they wait for the return of their waitress and from his spot, John can see Ramone at the bar nursing a beer and mouthing the words to the song playing over the speakers. It’s one of his, though he isn’t singing it. He’d written it after River left and sold the rights to someone else, unable to bear the thought of actually performing it. It’s all he does now, writes music for other people.
I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind.
Would the wind be at my back?
Could I get you off my mind this time?
He wonders idly if River knows he’d written it and that he’d written it for her. He wonders if she ever hears their songs on the radio and has to pause and remember like he does, if she ever walked out of the grocery store and left all of her things in the cart because she couldn’t listen to one more line of Always and Completely without losing her sodding mind.
Maybe it’s just him.
Finally, their waitress arrives with another whiskey for John and a glass of white wine for River, settling the remainder of the bottle on the table between them. “Can I get you anything else?”
River shakes her head, eyes fastened on John, and murmurs her thanks, waiting until the girl is out of earshot before she asks, “How’ve you been?”
He watches her sip her wine and shakes his head. “You didn’t ask me here to catch up.” It’s what he’d been hoping for, of course, but Ramone had quickly shot that idea to hell. One simply doesn’t bring one’s boy toy to see an ex-husband if romantic intentions are to be had. “What do you want, River?”
She sighs, looking almost regretful as she straightens and puts on that professional face he’s only ever seen her wear giving speeches at awards ceremonies. She’s more practiced at it now, slipping into the expression with ease, and he wonders if she uses it often in her new line of work. He wonders if it hurts, dimming those fires in her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve regained quite the loyal following these days.”
His lip curls in annoyance. He’s certainly noticed the change from older fans waving at him in the street to the wide-eyed, squealing younger generation snapping photographs on their iPhones as he browses the freezer section of Tesco. “What about it?”
“We’ve been discovered by a whole new generation. Album sales are through the roof again and I can’t think of a better time to jump on the bandwagon with the Rolling Stones and all the other geezers giving it one last go.” At John’s puzzled glance, River clarifies, “A reunion tour, obviously.”
He stares at her. “You want to do a reunion tour? With me?”
“Want is a very strong word,” River murmurs around a sip of wine. “I’m an opportunist, honey. You know that.”
John frowns, doing his best to ignore the pang in his chest one little pet name had caused. It’s hardly what he’d been hoping she wanted when she called but in some ways, it’s almost better. A tour means months of traveling, months of hotel rooms and airplane rides. Months of seeing River every day and most importantly, months of singing with her again when he thought those days were long over.
“You would be obligated to do all the things you hate, of course – interviews, photoshoots, dealing with the press.” She shrugs. “And I know it’s been awhile since you’ve been in front of a crowd -”
“Are you implying I’ve forgotten how to perform?” He raises a brow at her and River rolls her eyes at the innuendo. “Because I can assure you I am as capable as ever.”
She sets aside her glass and folds her hands on the table in front of her, meeting his gaze patiently. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll have to behave ourselves. No bickering or throwing things, no picking up right where we left off.”
“What?” He asks dryly, tapping one of his rings against the table. “You leaving me?”
Her gaze hardens and he watches her lips purse. “If that’s what you think happened.”
In a fit of childish pique, he shoves aside his drink and nearly knocks it to the floor. Only River’s quick hand stops it from sliding off the table and shattering. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, River? It’s not what I think happened – it’s what happened. You walked away. Period. End of story. No other bloody way to look at it.”
“Yes, alright,” she snaps, voice wavering, and the professional facade is gone now. He’s finally looking at his River, the rebellious little hellion with a temper to match his own. “I walked away first. But I did not leave first and you are lying to yourself if you ever for one moment thought otherwise.”
He stares at her, every angry word drying up in his throat in the face of her quiet fury. Her hand trembles as she reaches for her wine glass, knocking back what’s left of it in one quick swallow. “River -”
“This was a mistake,” she mutters, and he watches in growing panic as she gathers her things. “Forget it-”
“I’ll do it.”
She pauses, handbag clutched in her white-knuckled fingers. “Sorry?”
He sighs, scrubbing a weary hand over his face. “The tour, the interviews, whatever the hell else you want.”
“Photoshoots,” she whispers faintly, still gaping at him.
“Yes.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. The whole buggering lot.”
River swallows and it’s audible even over the last strains of the haunting melody he’d written, whispered words about getting over her on someone else’s lips. “Why?”
His gaze flickers across the room, in the direction of Ramone and the bar. The dark-haired young man meets his eyes through the crowd, frowning. He looks torn, like he doesn’t know if he should risk venturing closer yet or not. “How old is he? Your new lad?”
River sighs. “What does that have to do with -”
“Answer the question, dear.”
“Twenty-eight,” she snaps, glaring.
John smirks and slides from the booth, digging into his coat pocket and tossing a tip for the waitress next to his drinks. “I’ll be in touch. My people can call your people.”
As he turns to go, River calls after him and he turns to look at her one last time. “What changed your mind?”
He winks at her. “Spoilers.”
-
What he’s done doesn’t quite sink in until the announcement and tour dates have been released and the only thing left to do is panic. When River had suggested the tour, months of spending time with her sounded like a bloody dream but when he starts thinking about it he realizes he’s just signed away the last of his sanity.
Yes, he’ll see River every day but he won’t be able to touch her or hold her. And what’s truly fucking infuriating is that he hasn’t wanted that sort of tenderness in a long time. Not since River. He isn’t even sure he’d remember how to be that man again if she wanted it. On top of that particular torture, tours end. What will he do after it’s over? Go back to glimpsing her in the papers occasionally? John is something of a magnificent liar but even he cannot tell himself that will be enough and actually believe it.
Groaning, he sinks onto his sofa and props his booted feet up on the coffee table, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. “I’m fucked.”
A delicate snort from the direction of the armchair in the corner makes him scowl. “I think it’s rather romantic. Together again after all these years. You can’t tell me you haven’t been hoping for it. I know you too well, old friend.”
John lifts his head just enough to glare at Vastra, balancing a cup of tea on the arm of her chair and twirling a lock of lime green hair around her finger. “Romantic? She asked me to tour, not renew our bloody vows.”
Vastra shrugs, eyeing him calmly. “Perhaps one may lead to another.”
“Perhaps you should shove off,” he mutters, leaning his head back again. He laces his hands together over his stomach, trying desperately to quell the urge for a cigarette. Vastra never lets him smoke indoors, not even in his own home. “She’s hardly looking to rekindle our train wreck of a relationship. She’s got Ramone now.”
“Ramone?” Vastra sighs. “Let me guess, tall dark and handsome? Looks about eighteen?”
John frowns. “How did you know?”
“Because of the long line of men who came before him. None of which have ever lasted. Honestly, stop being childish.”
He scuffs his boot against the coffee table and bites down on his tongue before he can stick it out and prove her right. “So what if he doesn’t last? She left a long time ago and she’s had plenty of opportunity to change her mind and come back.”
“Quite a bit different when you’ll be standing right in front of her for months.” Vastra sips her tea. “Such quality time with you would make most rather murderous but River has always been a strange one. It might bring about some fond memories to have you so near again.”
John silently curses Vastra for voicing every well-hidden and pathetic hope he has, making it all sound possible when he sodding well knows differently. “What makes you so certain I’d take her back even if she asked?”
Vastra stares at him unblinkingly until John huffs and looks away again, rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette. “Don’t even think about it.”
Swearing under his breath, John abandons his search and goes back to crossing his arms and nudging his boot restlessly against the coffee table. “You’re not my sodding minder, you know.”
“No, that’s Clara’s job I would imagine. But I am the only pianist who will put up with you for an entire international summer tour.”
He perks up a bit at that. “Does that mean you’ll do it? What about Jenny?”
Vastra nods. “Jenny and I wouldn’t miss this train wreck – forgive me – tour for the world.”
Glaring, John gets out a cigarette and lights it with vengeance. Vastra watches him in quiet amusement but doesn’t protest, keeping him silent company until Clara wanders into the room with her mobile in hand and her face set with grim regret.
Dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up, John regards her warily. “Your eyes are doing that thing again. Stop it.”
Clara squints at him in an effort to hide her wide-eyed panic and it’s a piss poor attempt at best but John silently appreciates the gesture. She gives it up after a moment under his disbelieving gaze and opts for scrolling through her mobile instead, tapping out something as she avoids looking at him. “You’ve got interviews scheduled for the mid-week plus a joint interview and photo shoot for Entertainment Weekly with River at the weekend. We should be in Belgium by Monday, plenty of time for rehearsals before the tour kicks off.”
John nods slowly, wondering why there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach despite the efficient schedule Clara has plotted for the next week. He remains silent, watching cautiously as she keeps tapping at her mobile screen.
Apparently under no such impression, Vastra claps her hands together and beams so widely he can see her tongue ring poking out between her teeth. “Sounds perfect, Clara. What would we do without you and your schedules?”
“Shut it,” John mutters, waving a hand at her.
Vastra hums in surprise. “What now?”
He doesn’t dare take his eyes off his assistant. “She’s hiding something. Something bad.”
“Not bad!” Clara looks up instantly, eyes widening alarmingly all over again. John grimaces. “Just…potentially awkward.”
“Out with it,” he snaps. “And I swear if you start fiddling with your bloody mobile again, I’ll flush it down the shitter.”
“Ramone is going on tour with us as the drummer.”
John blinks at her. “Sorry, what?”
Clara bites her lip and offers her mobile a longing glance but doesn’t dare touch it. “Ramone, y’know, River’s -”
“I know who he is,” he says through gritted teeth. “Why the hell is he our new drummer? What happened to Strax?”
Clara shrugs. “It turns out building nuclear weapons for the government is quite lucrative. Doesn’t want to give it up to go wandering the globe banging two sticks and watching you eyefuck your ex – bugger if I know why.”
John glowers at her.
Offering him a saccharine smile, Clara eyes him tentatively. “Are you alright?”
Turning his attention to the cigarette still burning between his fingertips, John takes a long drag and ignores the knot in the pit of his stomach. Blowing out a breath of smoke, he asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She stares at him, clearly at a loss. Vastra clears her throat delicately and offers, “It isn’t exactly ideal, going on tour with your ex and her new boyfriend. It can’t be what you were hoping for -”
“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” John snarls softly, avoiding their pitying gazes. “We’ve been divorced for twenty years. She can bring a whole sodding harem with her on tour for all I care. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clara and Vastra exchange a dubious glance.
He deflates, staring at the smoke still lingering in the air. “It’ll be fine.”