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Fic -- Black Dog Days
grief
dillonmania
Title: Black Dog Days
Rating: T for Teen
Word Count: 1075
Characters: Roscoe Dillon/Lisa Snart.
Summary: You have to watch out for those cruel lows.
Warnings: Depression.
Notes: It's never been clear what mental illness(es) Roscoe presents with, but some years ago I decided to establish him as bipolar because of his high energy levels. If that's the case then he almost certainly leans towards the manic end of the spectrum rather than the depressive, but he'd sometimes have to hit those terrible lows which partially characterize the illness. Thus, while in a funk of my own (I have unipolar depression), I decided to write a short piece about him having a low period.



“Aren’t you going to get up, baby?” Lisa asked worriedly, noting that Roscoe had been in bed for more than fourteen hours. She tapped his prone and quilt-cocooned body, but he didn’t move.
“No,” was his only response, almost inaudible. The blankets were still pulled over his head.
“Why not? You’ve been sleeping for ages.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“I really think you should get up.”
“Can’t. Leave me alone.”

She frowned and pulled back the blanket, and he curled his head in defensively as though protecting it, his eyes tightly shut.
“C’mon baby, you’re being silly and lazy. Get up,” she chided him as he covered his face with an arm.
“Please leave me alone, I want to go back to sleep. Please,” he mumbled, and there was an element of despair in his voice which worried her. He didn’t seem angry or even tired, just very upset.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly, sitting down next to him.
“….yes,” he replied after a long pause, although she wasn’t inclined to believe him. “I just want to sleep. Would you please leave me alone?”
“All right,” she said calmly as she stood up and left the room. But the discussion wasn’t over.

When he finally got up a few hours later, he headed straight for the living room and turned on the television, flopping down on the couch to stare at a 24-hour news channel. Lisa wrinkled her nose at the sour smell which clung to him, as well as his unshaven face and general appearance of disarray. He was often so fastidious about personal hygiene.
“I think it’s time for a shower, to be honest,” she began hesitantly, but he didn’t look up at her.
“Later.”
“What’s gotten into you? You’re usually so busy doing three tasks at once, but you’ve been so…sluggish this week. Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No doctors,” he said firmly, the first sign of non-apathy in three days. “Things are fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine. Would you get off my case?” There was a slight snarl in his tone which startled her; for all his villainous fierceness towards the outside world, he was always unfailingly gentle with her.
So it was time to push back. “Nope, I won’t. You’re acting really weird and I don’t like it. Turn off the TV so we can have a conversation about this.”
“No.”

Lisa got to her feet and turned off the television, and snatched the remote from him before he could switch it back on. It took him only moments to burst into near-hysterical tears.
“Roscoe!” she exclaimed with genuine alarm, never having seen anything like it before. He’d hidden his face in the cushions of the couch as he cried with great heaving sobs, and she gently stroked the back of his head to soothe him. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he sobbed, but his breathless gasping had at least begun to subside when he felt her touch. “Things don’t feel right.”
“Not right how?”
“All I want to do is sleep…I want to be in bed right now and stop thinking. Can I go back to bed?” he asked plaintively, and began to rock himself from side to side.
“Soon, baby.” She gave him a few moments to calm down before speaking again, as his crying had turned into a series of quavering sniffles. “Have you been feeling sad?”
“No. Well, yes, I guess so. I don’t think it matters.”
“It matters a lot if it makes you cry and you don’t want to take care of yourself.”
“It’ll go away eventually. And why would you care?”

She gave him a reproachful look. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. Lots of people care about you, you know.”
He burst out laughing, with a hard bitter edge to it. “Like who? My parents undoubtedly wish I’d never been born, and the Rogues wouldn’t care if I lived or died. The only things they like about me are my skill and willingness to drink with them occasionally, but they don’t really care what happens to me.”
Lisa frowned at his words, but there was an element of truth in what he’d said, at least if Len’s occasional comments to her were any indication. Instead, she put her arms around him in a loving hug. “I’ll always be here for you…you know that, right?”

“You’re the only reason I haven’t goaded the cops into shooting me,” he murmured quietly after a lengthy pause. “You’re the one bright spot in my life. Thank you.”
She hugged him more tightly, utterly horrified by his admission. “Please don’t do anything drastic, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d be all right,” he said with a sad smile. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Maybe…but I don’t want to find out,” she whispered softly in his ear, gently stroking his unkempt hair and planting a kiss on his cheek. He seemed more peaceful now, and his breathing had slowed to a normal rate. “Do you still want to go back to bed?”

He sat silently for about a minute and a half while she waited for his answer with a patient expression; the last thing she wanted to do was hurry or stress him further. “I want to stay with you,” he finally replied. “I feel calmer with you, and things seem a little brighter.”
“Then why don’t I take the day off from practice and sit with you on the couch?” she suggested with a cheery smile. This was the best news she’d heard in days, and it felt indescribably wonderful to hear him sounding more like his usual self. She’d intended to go to the rink for some intensive skating drills, but this was far more important.
“I’d like that,” he said tiredly, and at least he didn’t seem particularly sad.

Lisa fetched a blanket for him, gathered some pillows for the both of them, and went to brew some non-caffeinated tea. He was lightly dozing when she returned, but awoke when she sat down next to him with a pot of red roiboos.
"I've got your favourite right here," she told him fondly as she pointed to the steaming tea, and his lips tugged ever so slightly into a hint of a smile.
“You’ll always be my favourite, darling.”

Corny, yet ridiculously endearing. Yes, he was definitely acting more normally.


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Aw! Poor Roscoe! I have had depressive bouts like this where all I felt like doing was crying and staying in bed all day. It was really nice to see Lisa come and save him from himself :) You always hit those feels my sweet!

Thank you :) Yeah, I think anyone with depression can relate to this, because the symptoms are pretty common for us. And I wanted her to help rather than just be an unsympathetic jerk, because we've also all probably run into people like that as well :P

Thanks for reading!

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