Title: 5 TIMES THE DOLLHOUSE GOT TO MELLIE, AND THE ONE TIME THEY DIDN'T
Author: snowybaby
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~ 4,372
Pairing: Paul / Mellie
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss Whedon and Fox. Sadly, even Tahmoh.
Author's Note: Heya, guys. I just finished writing my first piece of fanfiction. This story, minus the last section, illustrates various ways that Mellie could have become an active. It's a mix of cannon and AU. I'd love some constructive criticism - - since I don't even know what a beta really does or how to get one - - but please be gentle with this first time author. Hope you like it.
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1. after she loses everything:
She doesn't sleep anymore. The house that feels, at best, empty during the day, at night becomes eerily quiet. Her husband had been a snorer. He'd denied it, vehemently, until the day she played a recording of it at the breakfast table. She's not sure what made her laugh harder: the look on his face (sooo. priceless.) or the noise machine - - featuring a fine selection of brooks a-babbling and Amazonian sound effects - - that appeared that night on her bedside table.
Music to drown out my snoring symphony had been written on the attached post-it.
She didn't have the heart to tell him that it took almost two weeks to adjust to the cacophony of sound, amplified in their little room, and get a good night's sleep again. She never guessed that the return of quiet evenings would serve as a piercing reminder of all that is gone. There are dishes piling in the sink (when she used to quote her mother jokingly: "tidiness is a virtue"). There's a door she never opens (what exactly is she supposed to do with a room painted gender-neutral green, with a little train along the trimming, and a half-assembled crib in the center?). And the artificial melody of rivers flowing sets her teeth on edge (it's woefully incomplete without the accompanying harmony of regular, heavy breathing).
She deletes sympathetic voicemails until people stop leaving them. Look, honey, it's Mom. This is my 23rd message. Just, call me when you're ready. She'd never been close to her family. They're easy to ignore. She becomes so familiar to the man at the corner bakery that he has her order prepared by the time she gets to the register. Donut, glazed. Coffee, black with two sugars. Right? Then she swears off donuts and vows to start ordering-in. The Italian place across the street is supposed to travel well. The only time she really leaves the house is to attend therapy. She goes twice a week and sometimes just sits, trying to breathe. As though the world hasn't crumbled around her and her stomach's not flat when it should be rounder everyday and the car, miraculously restored, minus dents and broken windows and blood, doesn't sit in the garage gathering dust because she can't bring herself to drive it...
Her grief counselor prescribes an anti-depressant. And maybe, if there's a part of her that wants to take all the pills, just keep swallowing, it's small enough to be ignored. The nights don't get better though, so, eventually, a sleep clinic located downtown is recommended. The facilities are top of the line. You can rock climb during the day. Swim. I hear the masseuse is incredible. She's just numb enough to agree.
She's not actually paying much attention to what the brunette therapist is saying, in that oh-so-proper British accent. Sips the offered tea so she doesn't have to talk. She just wants to sleep. Barely skims the document detailing the program. Mechanically signs the contract. She wants to forget. Later, she will.