songofsong | Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

It's a balmy September evening. The clouds above are a dark blue as the sun starts to fade, and all around the city is alive. It's a hustle of a city that lives, that always knows how to live, and that always has. They say it never sleeps, and perhaps it never has. It's the sort of place the Doctor loves, or the sort of place he would if he had any idea how he got there.

There's was no definable moment, no awakening somewhere, no swift moment of clarity. He's just simply there, and simply aware of his surroundings. It's a little like walking into a postcard, the people walking the streets, and music pouring out from a nearby bar.

It's vibrant and rich but he's almost dazed as he walks the streets. It's not until he turns a corner until it finally sinks where he is. Times Square might look different now, but it's still unmistakeable. Nearby there's a boy selling newspapers, and the Doctor approaches him, taking one of the papers.

September 4th 1938.

"That's not possible."

Because he can't be, can he? Of all places he can't be here, not now.

Edited 2014-07-29 20:18 (UTC)

Busy streets are something Melody Malone often deals with, but tonight, she's opting for a more elusive backstreet. She's on the tail of a tip off she'd received only that morning, a potential lead in the case she's been dealing with over the past few weeks. It's the kind of tip off that requires her to be as inconspicuous as possible, so naturally she's wearing an elegant long dress, drawn in by the tightened belt of her trenchcoat. Her familiar hat is perched just so atop a riot of blonde curls, with icy blue eyes that contrast perfectly with the blood red of her lips.

She steps through the rolling steam of the grills, her shadow melding her to the wall as she follows the guy. She wants to catch him before he gets to the main street, and she'll lose him amongst New York's finest. Tourists.

There has to be an explanation to this, any of this. There's a whole laundry list of reasons that this doesn't make sense, so many so that he really doesn't know where to start. There's the little fact he doesn't know how he got there, but somehow that's almost the least of his worries.

In cities like this, answers are rarely to be found in plain sight, no, they hide in cracks, slipping through. He's good at that, at least. So it's a sidestreet that he's taken down, one block and another, until the roaring bustle seems to fade to white noise in the background. It's still there, still breathing.

As he walks around he starts to notice how things just seem off. It's hard to pin point, hard to say exactly what it is, but not to worry, he tells himself, he'll get there. Turning another street he sees a group of men, huddled and discussing something. He almost laughs, it sounds like something out of Bugsy Malone. If he had been expecting gangsters he'd have put a special bow tie on. It's intriguing enough though, and so much so it makes him follow them a little as they turn off.

Little does he know he's walking right into the middle of the investigation of a certain detective.

Stopping at a dark corner, she peers out from under the brim of her perfectly placed fedora to watch as the man stands in wait, just under the illuminating glow of a street lamp. She knows who he's waiting for, and she's more than alright with that. Round them all up together, then she can question them one by one.

As she waits, she reaches down to slowly slide the Colt 1911 pistol from her discreetly hidden holster, letting her fingers feels the cool metal with some satisfaction. Breasts make men talk, breasts and a gun make men talk even quicker.

And so she waits, her eyes sharply observing the group of shadows that come from around the corner, a smog of cigarette smoke following after them. The man she'd been following goes to join them, and she adjusts her hand on the weapon. She's about to step out when a straggler emerges from the same alleyway, and she holds back for a moment longer, watching him carefully.

A crunch of footsteps and the Doctor is close to them. But rather than remain quiet in the alleyway, there's a clatter as he knocks against a rubbish bin, the metal lid rolling away and landing in a heap right in front the huddle of men.

He has their attention now.

The main guy steps forward, pushing his finger up against his hat and rolling his shoulders back.

"What do we have here, boys. Wise guy thinks he can follow us?" his voice is thick with a Brooklyn accent, and his cigar lights up as he takes a heavy drag. The Doctor takes a step forward, out into the half light of the alley.

"Yes, that's me. Following you. Up to anything tonight, fellas?" Oh he really has no idea what he's walked into.

What the hell is he doing?!

He's going to get himself killed, or worse, blow this whole case wide open! She hangs back against the wall, staring as this fool, half frustrated, half impressed by his audacity. She can't risk revealing herself now, not in front of a civilian, and if she blows her cover, it'll take her weeks to track these guys down again. All she can do is wait, and hope the guy is clever enough to make his exit, or the gang clever enough to shoot him first.

"Hey, do you got any idea who you're talking to?" the heady guy asks, stepping a little closer towards the Doctor, ready for confrontation. The Doctor though, he barely seems fazed.

It's off-putting, and one of the men turns, looking up and down the street. He takes a step towards the other guy, voice dropping, "Boss, we can't make the exchange now. You think this guy is with the cops?"

"He's not cops," the guy laughs.

"Well what if he's with her."

That seems to catch his attention, and his head turns back towards the guy beside him. Curious, the Doctor thinks, who could this 'her' be that she'd be more concerning than police.

"Looks like it's your lucky night," the guy says, turning his head back towards the Doctor. He throws his cigar forward, the butt landing on the ground in front of him.

"I see you again and you'll be sleeping with the fishes."

On that, the trio turn away, heading off into the New York night. The Doctor? He just smirks.

The mention of 'her' has her slinking further back into the wall, cursing just quietly under her breath. And she thought she'd been discreet on this one. Still, she's pleased to hear she's making a name for herself, and the fact it's apparently enough to make the men slink off makes her smirk. Not entirely a loss, then.

She peers carefully around the corner as she watches the gang make their exit, and the other guy leave in the opposite direction. No handover, at least. That buys her some time.

As the alleyway clears of her targets, her attention is instead drawn back to the man who almost ruined her weeks of work. He seems unfazed, which only makes him all the more unusual. Normal civilians wouldn't react like that after facing down a group of armed criminals, so this man is either brave, mad, or dangerous. Or perhaps all three.

It's time to find out just who the hell he thinks he is.

With her gun still in hand, she steps out of the shadows, one long leg first. Silently, her heels graze over the coarse ground, dress hem just about skimming the black puddles that linger from this morning's shower. As she approaches, the sequins of her dress glisten in the low light of the lamp, as does the pistol she's carrying by her side.

He's still got his back to her, which is handy. She does like surprises.

"Lucky, indeed," she suddenly says, a smokey voice in his ear, a warm sound to contrast the cold gun that strokes delicately at his temple. "With those guys, you don't normally get a second chance."

And there's something in her voice that implies that might be the case here if he doesn't play his cards right.

It's all a bit odd, this whole evening. Part of the Doctor wonders he hasn't had some strange blow to the head and this is the result. But no, that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?

He's all about to move when suddenly there's the cold touch of a barrel of a gun against his head. His whole body stiffens, not turning, not making a move in the slightest. A bullet to the head would really put a dampener on his day. Slowly, he lifts his hands, opening them, about to put them up, but then she speaks, and oh that voice.

It's been a long time since the Doctor heard that voice, a long time trying to forget it while never truly managing it. She's always there, the voice in his head, the one that guides him, or argues with him when he's on his own. He could never mistake it, never be anything but entirely certain exactly who it belongs to.

The last time he saw her, she was dead.

"River?" the surprise is clear in his voice. Why her, why here? And why has she got a gun pointed to his head?!

"Yes, that's where they usually end up," Melody agrees conversationally, not quite understanding he was saying a name, much less a name of hers. The only river in her mind was the Hudson, and the considerable number of bad guys now resting at the bottom of it. "But if you start talking, maybe I'll keep you nice and dry."

If the gun wasn't persuasive enough, then perhaps the press of her chest at his back would have him talking. Either way, neither weapon was going anywhere until she was satisfied.

"Who are you?"

Is this some sort of game? Well that would hardly be surprising. Oh he'd almost forgotten all of this.

His hands raise a little more, held up in front of him, and then he feels her up against his back, and blimey she means business doesn't she?

He frowns at her question, mind still catching up with all of this, and somewhat distracted by the various weapons at her disposal. Still, there's only one real reason he can imagine she'd pretend she doesn't know who he is, and so when he responds his voice drops to a whisper.

"Is somebody watching?"

"Not a soul. So you'd better hurry up, I'm a very busy woman," she warns, a sigh to her voice that says his death will just be a small annoyance to her day. "Tell me your name." Her voice low and threatening in his ear, almost lost to the siren that's wailing several blocks away. The chorus of New York is not so far away, but right here in this alley, it's just the two of them.

There's something disconcerting in that tone, non nonsense, and it's not playful. He knows River well, so very well, and knows the way her lip quirks when she teases him. It's been a long time, but some things you don't forget. But even as he can't see her now, he can tell it's not there, tell that whatever is happening here, this? This isn't a game.

Still, there's something about that tone, about the long lost voice like caramel in his ear. It makes his eyes close a moment. It's never going to be anything but painful, is it?

He takes a long breath as he opens his eyes again, gaze falling on the steam raising from a grate in the sidewalk. He's almost forgotten she pressed him for an answer, but as the barrel of the gun pushes further against his temple, he has a sharp reminder.

"The Doctor," he says quickly. "I'm the Doctor."

With a little extra encouragement, she has an answer, albeit a strange one. "The Doctor?" she repeats, an echo of a laugh on her voice, like she can't quite believe him. "Doctor who, exactly?" It's not the first time people have gone under aliases to protect themselves. It's a dangerous world they live in.

Slowly, the barrel of the gun slowly slips off his head, and she steps aside, relieving him for the time being. But that gun isn't going anywhere, and she keeps it by her side as she slowly steps around him, her fedora dipped low over her eyes and only her red lips visible.

"And what do you know of Costello's men?"

It's only when she speaks again that she lifts her head, and reveals the face he's been waiting to see.

He watches her as she moves around him, standing there like she's been drawn, all hair poking from beneath that hat, and lips he's kissed a thousand times. It doesn't much make sense, and even less so that she's asking that question. Or could it be some joke? Surely it has to be.

"Costello's---" he starts, all full of confusion. He can only assume they're the men he wandered in on. But this, this show and flair, all gun and oddly well lit (and it really is oddly well lit). If he stopped to think about it, he might notice that a little more, that everything is almost a little too perfect, like a movie. Some grand lighting rig or hooked up smoke machines hidden just out of sight.

He keeps looking at her, at the way she stands, at what she wears, and oh does he remember that. It's then it seems to start to settle a little more. But it doesn't make it any less confusing.

"My stocking seams were straight, my lipstick was combat ready, and I was packing cleavage that could fell an ox at twenty feet." He speaks the words aloud, remembering something. Something from a book.

His frown only etches deeper into his brow.

"Melody?"

She lifts a hand to nudge up the brim of her hat, revealing the full extent of those blue eyes. An eyebrow arches intriguingly at the lines he recites to her, words she doesn’t recognise, but seems to appreciate all the same.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” she notes when he speaks her name, taking a slow step forward that brings her profile out of the shadow and throws light over that ox-felling weapon and the glistening corset that houses it.

“Melody Malone,” she clarifies, the words rolling off her tongue like they were made for that voice. All low and smoky, sensual on every syllable.

The Doctor could only ever imagine how painful it must have been for River, all those years to have looked at him and seen no recognition in his eyes. All that time that she knew him so well and he barely knew her at all.

But he knows it now, knows it in the way her eyes flick over his features, it's the way you look at someone for the first time. He had no idea how much it would hurt. Oh does it hurt.

His frown etches deep into his brow once more as she repeats the name, his own eyes flicking over her form and lingering for just a moment (well he can hardly help it).

"But that's not possible," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Melody Malone is a story, a set of adventures made up. She can't possibly be here.

But then here she is.

"You're the detective?" he asks. "Melody Malone?" because surely she'll make sense of this, laugh and tell him he's being silly like she always used to? He hopes, but something tells him that's not about to happen.

His confusion only serves to amuse her, a gleam of enjoyment touching those bright eyes. “Not what you were expecting?” she asks, a twist of a smile on those ruby red lips. “That’s usually the case.”

She notices, of course, the way his eyes trail over her body, in a path many a man has taken. Not that she blames him, she is stood in such a way that perfectly shows off her assets. She looks over himself herself, assessing his appearance. Her eyes sweep across him, not even lingering on his choice of bowtie - he’ll find he’s in good company in this city.

"Yes you could say that!" An understatement to say the least.

He wants to reach out and shake her, to make her see sense, but no. Least of all because of the gun she still has in her hand; he doesn't expect she'd be afraid to shoot it.

"Are you on a case?" he asks then, a ridiculous grin finding its way onto his face. Well, the whole situation fits that bill, doesn't it? The least he can do is try and make sense of it.

“I was,” she says pointedly, glancing down the alleyway which Costello’s men had slinked off down. Her eyes slip back towards the Doctor, regarding him and that frankly stupid grin he has on his face. He seems to have no idea how much danger he could’ve been in, or maybe he does, and he doesn’t mind. Isn’t that an interesting thought?

“But it looks like plans have changed,” she sighs, brushing open the side of her trenchcoat and sliding the gleaming gun back into its holster. It sits snugly against her skin before the split layers of her dress fall back around her legs.

With that, she turns her head aside, a discreet look out of the corner of her hair, her hat and hair shielding most of her face as she speaks. “A word to the wise, honey. Stay out of the way.”

The Doctor turns his head, glancing off along the street where they'd disappeared.

"Costello," he repeats. It rings a bell. Money laundering, undercover drugs ring, something like that. Maybe a bit of both. Maybe he read that somewhere.

Her suggestion brings him looking back towards her once more, and there's a slight smirk at her very suggestion.

"Yeah, don't tend to be very good at that as it happens."

"Then you won't last long on these streets," she answers simply, as though it was a mere fact of life. And in this city, it truly was. With that, she lifts her hand, delicately delving her fingers into the tightly packed crease of her bosom to produce one of her cards. In two fingers, she offers it to him, waiting patiently til he takes the card.

"But you might last a little longer with me." She smiles just slowly before she steps back. "I'll see you around, Doctor."

Tugging her fedora neatly over her eyes once more, her hands slip into the pocket of her coat; scarlet nails a rare gleam of colour in the otherwise dank alleyway. A slither of a smirk can be seen upon her lips as she slowly turns away, walking down down the middle of the alley, her heels following each other a perfect line. She kept on going til her body became little more than a silhouette, only to be devoured by the rolling steam and the inky blackness of the night.

CHAPTER 2

It's late at night and the blaring sound of a siren startles the Doctor. He's on the side of a street, and a cab hurries on by, its wheels passing through a heavy puddle against the kerb, splashing water back up against him.

He doesn't remember how he got here.

Moments ago he'd been standing in a twilight alleyway with Melody Malone, and yet now he's somewhere else entirely. There's a frown in confusion, how could he possibly have moved without knowing it? He begins to walk the streets, and as he does everything looks a little too precise. He can't quite put his finger on what it is. He stops someone in the street to ask the time, but they instead start giving him directions to Central Park. Before he can stop them to question more, they're already walking off along the street.

Strange.

Above him clouds hang heavily, and it's not much longer before they begin to rumble and crack, the rain pouring down like he's never seen before. It's heavy and almost impossibly so, he's drenched within minutes. It's only then when he goes towards a locked doorway and attempts to let himself through the door that he realises he doesn't have his screwdriver, or just about anything he usually carries with him. It hits him then, there in the pouring rain, that he's truly lost, no screwdriver, no TARDIS, no hope.

But then there's one thing, and he slips his hand into his pocket, a pocket that usually houses all manner of things. But now? Now just one, a business card for one Melody Malone, and on the bottom, an address. Through the pouring New York rain, he takes himself there, walking what feels like forever, through streets that all seem the same. But then he turns a corner, and there amongst a row of buildings is a doorway, dark, with gold gilt lettering. Melody Malone, Private Detective.

He wraps his finger on the door, and waits.

The sound of the door snaps Melody's head up from her desk. It's late, too late for clients, and the faded sign on her door clearly marks her as closed. But then, she's never truly closed, and even now, with the clock drawing ever closer to midnight, she's in her office, working on a case that's all her own. Closing the private contents of file, she stands up from the desk, a loosely tied dressing gown the only thing offering her modesty in the sanctity of her tiny office.

She moves on bare feet towards the door, seeing the dark silhouette on the other side of the mottled glass. The lamp light outside casts a sinister glow over the name that arches over the glass, marking the shadow across her face as she quietly approaches. She recognises the figure of a man, and with the hour late as it is, she reaches to check her safety pistol is stored just above the door.

Unlocking the clasp, she pulls it open a short way, looking out to the shadow that lingers on her doorstep.

"It's out of office hours, honey. Come back in the morning."

Edited 2014-07-30 19:57 (UTC)

For a moment the Doctor thinks she's not there, that's she's not going to answer, even if he can see the vague warmth of a light within. He's about to turn aside, back into the dark night, when the door cracks open.

He's soaked through, and he stands arms crossed in front of him, desperately pulling his jacket closed across his chest as he shivers, cold from the rain. His hair is plastered against his face, and his bowtie barely recognisable around his neck.

"Melody Malone?" he asks as she opens the door a crack. "Please. I need your help."

Because for once, it's the Doctor that needs help, and if anybody can, it'd be her.

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