Commentary: "Melancholy"
debs7 asked for commentary on my short story "Melancholy," so here it is, just for her!
This fic was written one day when I was in a piss-poor mood: a combination of nasty weather, being REALLY tired, coming down with a cold, and just a bit of minor depression. I was all set for it to be all angsty and awful, and yet somehow, it still turned out fluffy. WTH?
Rose came home, closed and locked the door to her flat, hung up her coat and handbag, and tossed her keys into the bowl on the side table. It was a routine that never varied by much. Sometimes the weather was too warm for a coat; sometimes she shucked her shoes as soon as she walked in the door. It didn't matter, though; it was what her life had become in this universe that wasn't her own.
This is what I do when I come home, too, though I always shuck my shoes, no matter what the weather. I hate wearing shoes indoors. But it seemed to me, for Rose, this would be horribly depressing-it was a reminder of that boring, routine life she'd had before the Doctor, the one we saw at the beginning of the episode Rose: Get up, get dressed, go to work, have lunch with Mickey, go home. A better job, but still.
The flat was silent, but that was more welcome than not. Torchwood was a wonderful place to work, full of stimulation and excitement and Important Things to Do, but it did get overwhelming sometimes. Quiet evenings were her down time, her chance to decompress from the stresses of the day.
She'd had takeaway Indian food for dinner, so the bareness of her cupboards didn't trouble her. There was only one cupboard she used much, anyway. She pulled out a highball glass and poured a finger of the single-malt whiskey that was her one real indulgence, and took it into the lounge, where she kicked off her court shoes and settled on the sofa, sighing as she wriggled her toes luxuriously. Today had been a 'paper day'; she'd spent nearly thirteen hours in her office, dealing with reports and other forms of red tape. It was the only part of the job she actively disliked, but she'd learned to deal with it.
Propping her feet on the coffee table, she leant back into the luxurious leather-covered cushion and took in her flat. It was truly hers, bought with her own money and decorated to her own style. The colours were subdued but tasteful: blues and creams and teals that gave a restful air to the room. Every piece of furniture, every bit of art, every knick-knack and accessory was down to her, bought with money she'd earned by working her arse off in a job that was far more than just makework for the boss' daughter.
And as she stared, she began to realise:
It meant nothing.
Yeah. Told you I was depressed. This describes my apartment pretty well, and also my job, though for me, 'paper day' should be changed to 'day trapped in Meeting Hell'. I don't drink whiskey, either, though I'm not averse to a glass of wine in the evening. And I had one that evening, because here I was, pouring my pity party out into Microsoft Word rather than whine and moan about it. Never intended to post this.
A tear splashed onto her silk blouse. She wiped her cheeks with an impatient hand, only now realising they were damp. How could she be disappointed with her life? There were plenty of people who worked far longer and harder than she, and had considerably less. She had nothing to complain about, nothing.
But the tears didn't stop. They fell faster and harder, until she set the glass of whiskey down and curled up on the sofa, her head resting against the padded arm, trying to hold in her sobs. This is ridiculous! she told herself. This is stupid! I have nothing to cry over! I have a flat with a view of St Paul's, for god's sake. Half the city would kill to be in my place.
Again, this was right out of my own feelings. Aside from a few minor things, I really have quite a good life, and so I tend to feel really guilty over my occasional bouts of depression and loneliness. So many people have it so much worse, that I often don't feel it's right for me to get all upset over minor things. Thus, putting it on paper instead of letting anyone else see it. Then, of course, it ended up being a fluffy fic that I posted anyway.
None of it helped. The simple fact of the matter was that, no matter how hard she tried to avoid thinking about it, she was living in this universe with only half a heart. The other had been left in a blue box that was so much bigger on the inside than the outside-like the man who called it home.
I really can't imagine Rose being happy with an ordinary life after travelling with the Doctor. I'm not even sure how she'll really take being with 10.5, but I doubt we'll ever find out, actually.
She'd tried so hard to make a life for herself here, and most of the time, she was reasonably content. Sometimes, she was even happy. She had her mum, and Mickey, and her little sister-not so little anymore; Anna would be starting Year Two at school soon. She'd made friends and created a niche where she was needed. She'd done good things, saved lives, protected humans and aliens alike.
But in the end, she came home to a silent, lonely flat, and slept in a big, luxurious bed all alone.
Stop this, she told herself firmly, and sat up, forcing her sobs to quiet. You're being an idiot. Quit moping about. The Doctor wouldn't thank you for it; he told you to go off and live a fantastic life. So do it, damn you.
All right, then, she would. Tomorrow; she was too tired tonight. Maybe that was why the bout of tears: simple exhaustion. Rather than sipping her whiskey as she usually did, savouring it, she downed it in three gulps that burned all the way down her throat, and headed off down the hall to prepare for bed.
***
And here we get into the fantasy-wish fulfillment part of this. It always ends up fluffy, somehow.
"Rose?"
"Mmm?" she hummed softly, only partially awake but becoming increasingly aware of the cool body pressed against her back.
"You know, you humans sleep far too long. A third of your lives are wasted in this silly unconsciousness. There are a great many things we could be doing."
"Li' wha'?" she asked sleepily.
"Oh… like this?" A pair of soft lips pressed against the side of her neck, and she hummed again in appreciation. "Or this?" The lips moved upward to the sensitive patch of skin just behind her ear, and she sighed.
"Definitely better than sleeping," she agreed.
"Then why aren't you awake?" His hand skimmed up from her hip across her belly to cup her breast. "Wake up, Rose," he breathed into her ear. "Being awake is so much better than sleeping…."
Rose's eyes blinked open, and it took her a minute to recognise where she was. Not the golds and browns of her bedroom in the TARDIS, but dark purple curtains and a bright white duvet printed with sprigs of lilac. A real bunch of lilac blossoms sat in a bud vase on her bedside table; their perfume tickled her nose. She sighed, closing her eyes again. It was a dream, then. Her heart felt as though it were shrinking in her chest, stretching painfully over the hope that had filled it only moments before. She'd thought, for a moment, that she'd had him back-that she'd heard his voice, felt his lips….
I hate that feeling, when you've just been having the BEST dream, and now suddenly that's all it was: a dream.
Memory caught up with her suddenly; all sleepiness gone, her eyes flew open again and her breathing caught. She stared at the lilacs…which had not been there when she'd gone to sleep the night before.
Where had they come from? It was November; hardly the season for lilacs in England, no matter which universe she was in.
She shifted as though merely turning from her side to her stomach and, casually as she could, felt beneath her pillow for the semi-automatic pistol that should have been there. It was gone. (This is Torchwood Rose; the Rose the Doctor knew would never have had a gun under her pillow, but if she's a field agent [and I think she is], she'd definitely be trained with one, and keep it near to hand.) Shit, she thought, fully awake now and running through her options in her head. If there was someone in her flat, they must have moved with inhuman stealth to get her gun out from under her pillow while she slept. Did that mean some alien had tracked her down, invaded her home? Was it still there, hanging over her, waiting for her to give some indication that she was awake? Every inch of skin tingled, and she fought to slow her breathing and calm the pounding of her heart.
"Looking for this?"
Awww! There he is!
The voice made her jerk her head up and stare towards the opposite side of the bed, where a blue-suited figure stood, holding the gun in two fingers as though it were something thoroughly nasty. (I love this image of Ten.) "I'm surprised at you, Rose Tyler," the Doctor went on. "Keeping firearms around. Why, anything could happen. Which is why I took the liberty of removing it from your reach. Sorry if that scared you. I didn't really think you'd be the type to shoot first and ask questions later, but I've been wrong before, and after all, I don't know what you might have been through while you've been here. I think the lilacs were a nice touch, though. Don't you?"
She closed her mouth, which she realised had been hanging open, and tried to moisten her dry mouth. "Doctor?" she asked softly.
He stopped, and his face slipped into the tender half-smile he'd reserved just for her. "Yes," he said. Laying the gun carefully on the bedside table beside him, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached across to touch her face. "It's me."
The familiar, cool touch of his fingers broke down her last wall and she dissolved into tears. He scooted forward, ignoring the fact that he still wore his trainers, and took her in his arms, holding her against his chest and stroking a hand up and down her back. She clutched at him, breathing in his scent, trying to make her mind understand that this was real, it was real, he was really, truly here.
"Shh," he murmured into her hair. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without you, at least. Not unless you want me to."
She lifted her head to look him in the eye. "Want you to?" she repeated in amazement.
He smiled again. "Had to offer," he said.
Poor Ten. He still thinks there's a chance she could say no, that she'd rather stay in this universe than go back with him.
She shook her head. "Never thought I'd see you again," she told him. "Now you've found a way across, I'm not planning to let go. Ever."
He pulled her close again, cradling her to his chest. "Me neither."
I don't really care for how this story ended, either, but I couldn't think of any way to end it that wouldn't have added another seven or eight pages, and I had to get to bed. So I went ahead and posted it before I could chicken out, and by the time I got up in the morning, enough people had enjoyed it that I didn't have the heart to take it down.
So there you have it-a look into the deep dark recesses of depressed!Lissa. (Which I'm not, very often, honestly; it was just a Bad Day.)
This fic was written one day when I was in a piss-poor mood: a combination of nasty weather, being REALLY tired, coming down with a cold, and just a bit of minor depression. I was all set for it to be all angsty and awful, and yet somehow, it still turned out fluffy. WTH?
Rose came home, closed and locked the door to her flat, hung up her coat and handbag, and tossed her keys into the bowl on the side table. It was a routine that never varied by much. Sometimes the weather was too warm for a coat; sometimes she shucked her shoes as soon as she walked in the door. It didn't matter, though; it was what her life had become in this universe that wasn't her own.
This is what I do when I come home, too, though I always shuck my shoes, no matter what the weather. I hate wearing shoes indoors. But it seemed to me, for Rose, this would be horribly depressing-it was a reminder of that boring, routine life she'd had before the Doctor, the one we saw at the beginning of the episode Rose: Get up, get dressed, go to work, have lunch with Mickey, go home. A better job, but still.
The flat was silent, but that was more welcome than not. Torchwood was a wonderful place to work, full of stimulation and excitement and Important Things to Do, but it did get overwhelming sometimes. Quiet evenings were her down time, her chance to decompress from the stresses of the day.
She'd had takeaway Indian food for dinner, so the bareness of her cupboards didn't trouble her. There was only one cupboard she used much, anyway. She pulled out a highball glass and poured a finger of the single-malt whiskey that was her one real indulgence, and took it into the lounge, where she kicked off her court shoes and settled on the sofa, sighing as she wriggled her toes luxuriously. Today had been a 'paper day'; she'd spent nearly thirteen hours in her office, dealing with reports and other forms of red tape. It was the only part of the job she actively disliked, but she'd learned to deal with it.
Propping her feet on the coffee table, she leant back into the luxurious leather-covered cushion and took in her flat. It was truly hers, bought with her own money and decorated to her own style. The colours were subdued but tasteful: blues and creams and teals that gave a restful air to the room. Every piece of furniture, every bit of art, every knick-knack and accessory was down to her, bought with money she'd earned by working her arse off in a job that was far more than just makework for the boss' daughter.
And as she stared, she began to realise:
It meant nothing.
Yeah. Told you I was depressed. This describes my apartment pretty well, and also my job, though for me, 'paper day' should be changed to 'day trapped in Meeting Hell'. I don't drink whiskey, either, though I'm not averse to a glass of wine in the evening. And I had one that evening, because here I was, pouring my pity party out into Microsoft Word rather than whine and moan about it. Never intended to post this.
A tear splashed onto her silk blouse. She wiped her cheeks with an impatient hand, only now realising they were damp. How could she be disappointed with her life? There were plenty of people who worked far longer and harder than she, and had considerably less. She had nothing to complain about, nothing.
But the tears didn't stop. They fell faster and harder, until she set the glass of whiskey down and curled up on the sofa, her head resting against the padded arm, trying to hold in her sobs. This is ridiculous! she told herself. This is stupid! I have nothing to cry over! I have a flat with a view of St Paul's, for god's sake. Half the city would kill to be in my place.
Again, this was right out of my own feelings. Aside from a few minor things, I really have quite a good life, and so I tend to feel really guilty over my occasional bouts of depression and loneliness. So many people have it so much worse, that I often don't feel it's right for me to get all upset over minor things. Thus, putting it on paper instead of letting anyone else see it. Then, of course, it ended up being a fluffy fic that I posted anyway.
None of it helped. The simple fact of the matter was that, no matter how hard she tried to avoid thinking about it, she was living in this universe with only half a heart. The other had been left in a blue box that was so much bigger on the inside than the outside-like the man who called it home.
I really can't imagine Rose being happy with an ordinary life after travelling with the Doctor. I'm not even sure how she'll really take being with 10.5, but I doubt we'll ever find out, actually.
She'd tried so hard to make a life for herself here, and most of the time, she was reasonably content. Sometimes, she was even happy. She had her mum, and Mickey, and her little sister-not so little anymore; Anna would be starting Year Two at school soon. She'd made friends and created a niche where she was needed. She'd done good things, saved lives, protected humans and aliens alike.
But in the end, she came home to a silent, lonely flat, and slept in a big, luxurious bed all alone.
Stop this, she told herself firmly, and sat up, forcing her sobs to quiet. You're being an idiot. Quit moping about. The Doctor wouldn't thank you for it; he told you to go off and live a fantastic life. So do it, damn you.
All right, then, she would. Tomorrow; she was too tired tonight. Maybe that was why the bout of tears: simple exhaustion. Rather than sipping her whiskey as she usually did, savouring it, she downed it in three gulps that burned all the way down her throat, and headed off down the hall to prepare for bed.
***
And here we get into the fantasy-wish fulfillment part of this. It always ends up fluffy, somehow.
"Rose?"
"Mmm?" she hummed softly, only partially awake but becoming increasingly aware of the cool body pressed against her back.
"You know, you humans sleep far too long. A third of your lives are wasted in this silly unconsciousness. There are a great many things we could be doing."
"Li' wha'?" she asked sleepily.
"Oh… like this?" A pair of soft lips pressed against the side of her neck, and she hummed again in appreciation. "Or this?" The lips moved upward to the sensitive patch of skin just behind her ear, and she sighed.
"Definitely better than sleeping," she agreed.
"Then why aren't you awake?" His hand skimmed up from her hip across her belly to cup her breast. "Wake up, Rose," he breathed into her ear. "Being awake is so much better than sleeping…."
Rose's eyes blinked open, and it took her a minute to recognise where she was. Not the golds and browns of her bedroom in the TARDIS, but dark purple curtains and a bright white duvet printed with sprigs of lilac. A real bunch of lilac blossoms sat in a bud vase on her bedside table; their perfume tickled her nose. She sighed, closing her eyes again. It was a dream, then. Her heart felt as though it were shrinking in her chest, stretching painfully over the hope that had filled it only moments before. She'd thought, for a moment, that she'd had him back-that she'd heard his voice, felt his lips….
I hate that feeling, when you've just been having the BEST dream, and now suddenly that's all it was: a dream.
Memory caught up with her suddenly; all sleepiness gone, her eyes flew open again and her breathing caught. She stared at the lilacs…which had not been there when she'd gone to sleep the night before.
Where had they come from? It was November; hardly the season for lilacs in England, no matter which universe she was in.
She shifted as though merely turning from her side to her stomach and, casually as she could, felt beneath her pillow for the semi-automatic pistol that should have been there. It was gone. (This is Torchwood Rose; the Rose the Doctor knew would never have had a gun under her pillow, but if she's a field agent [and I think she is], she'd definitely be trained with one, and keep it near to hand.) Shit, she thought, fully awake now and running through her options in her head. If there was someone in her flat, they must have moved with inhuman stealth to get her gun out from under her pillow while she slept. Did that mean some alien had tracked her down, invaded her home? Was it still there, hanging over her, waiting for her to give some indication that she was awake? Every inch of skin tingled, and she fought to slow her breathing and calm the pounding of her heart.
"Looking for this?"
Awww! There he is!
The voice made her jerk her head up and stare towards the opposite side of the bed, where a blue-suited figure stood, holding the gun in two fingers as though it were something thoroughly nasty. (I love this image of Ten.) "I'm surprised at you, Rose Tyler," the Doctor went on. "Keeping firearms around. Why, anything could happen. Which is why I took the liberty of removing it from your reach. Sorry if that scared you. I didn't really think you'd be the type to shoot first and ask questions later, but I've been wrong before, and after all, I don't know what you might have been through while you've been here. I think the lilacs were a nice touch, though. Don't you?"
She closed her mouth, which she realised had been hanging open, and tried to moisten her dry mouth. "Doctor?" she asked softly.
He stopped, and his face slipped into the tender half-smile he'd reserved just for her. "Yes," he said. Laying the gun carefully on the bedside table beside him, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached across to touch her face. "It's me."
The familiar, cool touch of his fingers broke down her last wall and she dissolved into tears. He scooted forward, ignoring the fact that he still wore his trainers, and took her in his arms, holding her against his chest and stroking a hand up and down her back. She clutched at him, breathing in his scent, trying to make her mind understand that this was real, it was real, he was really, truly here.
"Shh," he murmured into her hair. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without you, at least. Not unless you want me to."
She lifted her head to look him in the eye. "Want you to?" she repeated in amazement.
He smiled again. "Had to offer," he said.
Poor Ten. He still thinks there's a chance she could say no, that she'd rather stay in this universe than go back with him.
She shook her head. "Never thought I'd see you again," she told him. "Now you've found a way across, I'm not planning to let go. Ever."
He pulled her close again, cradling her to his chest. "Me neither."
I don't really care for how this story ended, either, but I couldn't think of any way to end it that wouldn't have added another seven or eight pages, and I had to get to bed. So I went ahead and posted it before I could chicken out, and by the time I got up in the morning, enough people had enjoyed it that I didn't have the heart to take it down.
So there you have it-a look into the deep dark recesses of depressed!Lissa. (Which I'm not, very often, honestly; it was just a Bad Day.)