songofsong | Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

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Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

PROLOGUE

It was another dark and dangerous night on the streets of New York. Well, it was always one of those. And that was just the way I liked it.

After all, that was my profession. As a detective, those streets were what kept me alive, and for as long as the people of New York kept giving into their paranoia and fear, I would be in business. It seemed people would pay a high price to feel safe in their beds at night, and I too slept a little easier, knowing I had the villains caught and money in my pocket.

And what villains they were indeed. For I didn't deal with wanted criminals or the occasional ruffian the police failed to catch; my customers were of a more particular variety, and too were their problems. I could say it was because these particular clients paid me rather handsomely, or that I felt some kind of noble responsibility to keep New York safe - but none of that was true.

The reason I did it, was because I loved it.

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Oh but doesn't it just ache. He wants to shake her by the shoulders, to tell her to wake up, be who she's supposed to be. But she's just not, is she? She's not River Song. He wants to do much more than shake her too, especially when she stands there looking like she's pulled a page out of Marlene Dietrich's book.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he tells her, his head lifting off to look towards the window as a loud clap of thunder rings outside and seems to almost shake the building at its very foundations.

The thunder draws her head towards the window, and she watches as the rain rolls on down the glass in a constant stream. "Looks like it's going to be a bad one tonight," she remarks, then adding through a sigh. "It's always a bad one." She glances back towards him, to how he still sits and shivers in her chair, the towel having done barely more than mop up his face.

"You're shivering, honey. We need to get you out of those clothes. Let me see if I've got anything warmer for you." She gives him a small smile before she steps on past him, once again retreating into the next room. She has clothes he could wear, she's known that since he set foot in her office, but she'd been reluctant to offer them. But he was in such a state, she couldn't let a silly thing like sentiment get in the way of this poor man's health.

A few minutes later, and she's back in the doorway, holding a small pile of clothes in her hands. They're neatly folded, flattened from storage, and have a faint smell of wardrobe to them.

"I think you're about the same size, isn't that lucky?" she says as she approaches him, offering him the pile.

As she moves close, the Doctor pushes himself to standing. He leans over, across her just a little, and sets the empty glass down against her desk before reaching out to take the pile of clothes.

"Thank you," he nods, looking at the pile of clothes and thinking that it's curious she has them at all. The same size as who, exactly? Best not to ask for now, just in case she might not like the question.

"Is there somewhere I can?" he asks, looking off to the side a little. Unless she expects him to just change there in front of her.

"Oh, you can use the bathroom," she says, no playful suggestion that he should do it right there. If anything, she seems to prefer the opposite.

She waves over her shoulder to indicate the direction, stepping aside so he could pass on. She lets him lead on through to the next room, which isn't much bigger than her office, but at least considerably tidier. In here, the era is unmistakable, with busy wallpaper and dark furniture, low lights flickering on the walls.

"Through there," she adds as she follows him on through, pointing to a door just off to the side that would lead to an even pokier bathroom.

Edited 2014-07-31 19:14 (UTC)

It's odd, and almost disconcerting. He can manage her not being River, just about, but then at the same time he isn't entirely sure how to talk to her. She doesn't respond like River, doesn't give him that twinkle in her eye like River, there's no banter, just strong liquor and a cigarette. It makes his head duck a little, and he's quiet as he moves through to the adjacent room.

It's small, and almost seems to ooze with the era. He recognises it, but then he knows why. It's been in the books, right down to the crack on the bottom left of the old mirror that's fixed to one wall. His gaze lingers on it only a moment, and a moment longer on her bed, covers strewn as though it's some form of art.

There's another nod as she instructs him on, and he moves ahead into the small bathroom, closing the door with a gentle click behind him. Only then does he sit himself down against the edge of the tub, his hand wiping over his face. This is big, whatever this is, it's really huge, and right now he can't think how to even begin to fix it.

He doesn't wait long before standing and starting to remove his clothes, layer by layer, piece by piece all but peeled from his skin. He's shivering again, and he rubs the towel frantically against his body to warm himself. His bowtie is shrivelled and almost sad looking as it falls onto the pile, atop the purple coat that's almost black with damp.

Soon, much drier, he's dressing himself once more in a set of pyjamas that was in the pile Melody gave to him. He feels almost self conscious, and isn't that ridiculous? His hair is almost dry, aided by the towel, and he runs his fingers through it, pushing it back from his face. One final check, just to be safe, and he opens the small door, heading back out into the room besides him.

While the Doctor is getting changed, Melody tries to make up some semblance of a bed in the room. She has a worn-looking couch that'll at least be more comfortable than the floor, and she tries to arrange it so it looks more like a bed. She sets some cushions against one arm, and she drapes over a heavy woollen blanket. It's not a lot, but it's something, and the poor bastard clearly needs it.

When he steps on out of the bathroom, Melody is perched on the windowsill, looking out at the storm with a freshly lit cigarette delicately hanging from between two fingers. Her profile is little more than a shadow against the glass, and when the lightning crashes, it illuminates her form. She turns her head at the sound of footsteps, smiling just gently at the sight of him in those pyjamas.

"Much better," she tells him simply, then turning to look back out of the window, distracting herself with another drag of her cigarette, and him with the long, bare legs on display through the gap in her dressing gown.

It's an odd urge, but he almost wishes that he could photograph her, sitting there the way she looks now. He could imagine this from the pages of those books, the way she'd be described, the way the fabric felt against her skin. For a moment, or maybe longer, he finds himself just watching.

Still though, it's the cigarette that pulls him from it, and he frowns just a little.

"You shouldn't smoke, you know. It's bad for you."

Not that people really knew anything about that in 1938.

The remark is enough to draw her attention from the outdoors, and she looks towards him with a raise eyebrow. "A lot of things in this business are bad for me, sweetie," she points out in an almost sultry tone, pointedly returning the cigarette to her lips. She spends her day chasing after bad men with guns, everything else is relative.

"Yeah well some can be avoided," he points out.

His head turns, back towards the bathroom. "I left my clothes in there. I'll dry them off tomorrow and get out of your hair."

He moves a little awkwardly, not quite sure where to stand, looking over to the small couch she prepared. He can't help but realise it's in the same space as her bed.

"That for me?" he asks.

She nods in silence, pointing over to the self-made bed with her cigarette. "Best I can do," she tells him simply. She was lucky enough to have a bed of her own, without trying to find a place for others to sleep.

"Uh uh. Not so fast, honey. You're going nowhere until you've told me everything you know. And believe me, I'm very thorough with my questioning." She fastens him with a pointed look before she looks back out of the window, her gaze lifting to watch the rain run down the glass, the very scene a sight that could be photographed.

"Thank you," he says, sincere, he means it. He's not one to ask much for charity, but he appreciates it now, especially with the rain still pouring like it is now.

"Everything?" he laughs, just a little. "Oh you know that might take a while. I know quite a lot of things." And whether she means it that way or not, there's the smallest touch of a smirk.

"Oh I bet you are."

He just can't help but flirt.

Melody Malone is no stranger to flirting, and she hears that tone in his voice like it's a most obvious clue. She glances towards him, smirking just slightly at the suggestion. Many men flirt with her, they think it's a way around her (or into her,) and they're rarely successful. That doesn't mean she doesn't enjoy their attempts, of course. In fact, she gives as good as she gets.

"Better get some rest then," she tells him, as though they're talking about something far more strenuous. She gives him another amused smile before she twists and stands from the window, striding across the room like a Hollywood siren, her dressing gown fluttering open around her legs. She puts out the remainders of her cigarette in the ashtray by her bed, before she perches on the edge of it, removing the pins from her hair.

The Doctor isn't the sort to really look at a woman, well, like that. But Melody is no ordinary woman, and every moment he sees her, he sees River. He sees the woman he lost, the woman he loved. Still loves. The woman he misses and craves just one more moment beside.

He takes a step up, a little closer, watching her like some old black and white movie. But this one he can reach out and touch. This one he can breathe in and know is real.

"We don't have to rest," he suggests. Forward, more so than he ever would be. But then here he's hardly himself, not in this room, not with her.

The words quickly draw her attention to him, her eyebrows raising. She was a flirt, certainly, and she knew how to use her assets to get what she wanted, but there was a fine line between suggestion and promise. She lays down the last of the pins, giving a small laugh as she lets her curls fall about her shoulders. It's not a surprise to her. It's normally only a matter of time before they try this. She appreciates the attention, but she also appreciates the choice.

"Nice try, honey, but you're staying on the couch," she says, giving him a pointed look that suggests her next refusal won't be quite so amicable.

It's almost mesmerising, watching her let out her hair like that. He's seen it before, of course, and maybe that's what does it so much. He wants to reach out, to run his fingers through it. But then he's jarred by her laughter. Nothing that seems normal, and he's left feeling almost embarrassed.

"Couch, yes," he nods. "Thank you. Much more comfortable then the park, I'm sure."

She watches him until he eventually shows signs of retreat, before she shakes her head to herself. Not that she makes it any easier for him, because next, the silky dressing gown comes off, leaving behind a negligee that's even more revealing. Not overly, but then it doesn't have to be.

Pulling her legs up into the bed, Melody gets herself comfortable in the soft sheets, letting out a content sigh as she lays down, her head propped up on the pillow as she watches him get settled himself.

Settled isn't something the Doctor is about to get. He moves to the couch and sits himself down, slowly reaching out for the blanket, bringing it over himself. He's still cold from the rain, and anything to warm him is more than a little appreciated.

It's hard not to watch her, though he knows he shouldn't be doing that. It should't hurt this much, but it does, because he's only reminded of how alone he feels, and how much everything hurts.

He leans back a little, propped back on a pillow, but still seeing her from where he is, still able to see how the fabric (or lack of it) sits on her skin and disappears under her sheets.

Quite without meaning to, he feels a sting in his own eyes. Oh this is horrible, just awful, and there's a very real risk of tears.

With him on the couch, Melody begins to settle down a little more, pulling her covers up and over herself. She tells herself this is necessary, that the information she might get for this act of kindness could speed up months of work. Because this case has been dead end after dead end, and she could really do with a break through. She needs one.

"Goodnight, Doctor," she says, reaching over to turn out the light, and plunging the room into a dense blackness.

CHAPTER THREE

The sun pours in through the window of Melody Malone's office, casting a glare against the wall, the dust visible in the harsh light. Behind her desk, and dressed to the nines, sits the detective herself, ready for another day's work, another mystery to solve. There's always some poor sap that needs her help. But today? The poor sap in question is already in her office, sitting in the chair opposite her, sharply dressed in a crisp suit that was never meant for him.

He starts, looking around as though he doesn't know where he is. And in a way, he doesn't.

It's happened again, and he glances down, looking at the clothes he now wears, all sharp suit and slicked back hair that he doesn't remember doing. Clothes he doesn't remember dressing in. His eyes lift, a little wide as they look towards her. How did they get here? The last thing he remembers is the clutch in his hearts as he lay on her sofa, the moment she bit him goodnight. The lamp went off and next? He's here.

There's a slap of papers as Melody flips through the file open before her, but it's almost unnecessary. She knows exactly what's in there, from the amount of long, dark nights she's spent going over everything, nursing a glass of liquor in the low lamp light.

Looking up, she unfolds a sheet under his nose, tapping at a spot a map that's been drawn and indicated many times. "That's where it happened," she tells him, apparently in midflow of a conversation that he should understand.

This makes no sense. This really makes no sense.

He looks at her, and the way she looks at him she certainly seems to expect some sort of response. Expects him to have even half a clue what she's talking about.

"Where what happened?" he frowns.

His confusion causes her to regard him sharply, half annoyed, half concerned he'd had another bout of amnesia. She needs him to work with her on this, she needs to know what he knows. Trust the only person who might have any answers be one who's liable to forget them at any moment.

"That's where the car was last sighted. Doctor, are you taking any of this in?" She can't help but be exasperated. Her entire life is in this folder, and she can't move on until this case is closed. She rubs at her forehead with a hand, sitting back and deciding this called for cigarette. Well, any moment seemed to call for a cigarette.

"Car... yes, yes of course." But really, no, not of course. He's confused, and he frowns, unable to make sense of it at all. What's happened here? How can he have just forgotten hours?

"The car..."

Another beat.

"Actually no, sorry, what? A minute ago, I was going to sleep, and then now..." he glances down, nice new set of clothing, apparently it's daytime, none of this he recalls.

Melody nods slowly as he begins talking again, assuming he was getting himself back on track. She busies herself with lighting meanwhile, shaking out the match before she propped her elbows on the desk, slipping another countless cigarette between her lips.

But when he starts again, she quickly looks over, confused, before her eyes roll and she realises its happened again.

Pushing away from her desk, she sinks back in her seat, folding one arm and giving him a levelled look. “Doctor, you’ve been in my office for the past hour, and getting nowhere fast,” she tells him, pointing at him with her smoking cigarette.

“And now you’re telling me you’ve suddenly forgotten all of that?” she asks, waving that hand aside, wanting an explanation.

"No. No I'm telling you none of that happened. I'm telling you I was there and now I'm here. I don't know what's going on here, but I didn't black out. I didn't pass out. You'd know if I had, wouldn't you? But there was nothing, was there, nothing at all."

He pauses then, takes a deep breath as he looks around the room in the light of day. There's something still a little off about it; something he can't quite put his finger on.

Well, apart from the whole sitting chatting with a fictional character bit.

Maybe he finally is just going mad.

Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

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