Little Red (mylittleredgirl) wrote,
Little Red
mylittleredgirl

X-Files season 9 flash ficlet

Technically, this is procrastination, but let's pretend I intended all along to end the day with an iTunes challenge (write something inspired by first song to pop up on "random"). Track was "Daysleeper" by Longwave. The Doggett/Reyes part of this is brought to you by voodoo practiced by fyca and/or espirk, because I started dreaming about them the other night for no reason. Hrm.

Doggett/Reyes friendship.

Monica Reyes can sleep anywhere.

It's one of the odd constants in John Doggett's ever-more bizarre life on The X-Files. He's got precious few of them now that death is no longer a permanent condition and there are literal, actual monsters popping up right and left. The sun still rises in the East, traffic on the Beltway is impossible in the mornings, and there's Monica.

He never thought that Monica Reyes would make this job less crazy, Monica being as crazy in the head as she is, but there it is. She does her absolute best to drive him bonkers with her nonsensical theories and pseudo-psychic premonitions, but there's a lot about Monica that he can rely on.

Like she always, always falls asleep on stakeouts. Always. It doesn't matter if it's the middle of the day, if they're camped somewhere cold and nasty, if it's the biggest case of her career -- an hour in, he'll run out of things to say and she'll start to drift off.

He lets her, usually, because she's always instantly alert if something happens and because it's kind of sweet. He's got no idea how she does it, and he's envious as hell. Not because he really wants to sleep in the driver's seat of their rented Toyota while waiting for some low-level possibly-mob, possibly-pizza-delivery-boy informant to show, but because he barely sleeps at all.

This X-Files business is a kick in the head. His involvement has gone from temporary assignment to riding shotgun on Mulder's half-cocked crusade, and all the things that have happened to him, all the things he knows now, are playing havoc with his ability to sleep like a normal person. He doesn't know if it's the weight of obligation to something he doesn't completely understand that's keeping him up, or the lingering fear that some lunatic will possess him in his dreams... either way, it's wearing him down.

So he doesn't mind Monica catching a little shut-eye on the job -- at least someone's getting some rest before the apocalypse -- but he has no idea how she does it.

Aware that she's being watched, or maybe just between REM cycles, Monica mumbles something about Cheetos, stretches, and opens her eyes.

"Did he show?" she asks, smiling blearily at him from the passenger seat.

That look of hers is another constant -- the totally defenseless expression she wears when she first wakes up -- and it reminds him of the other reason he's happy to let her nap. It's silly, probably detached from reality, but he likes the feeling of being her protector, if only for a little while. She saves his ass as often as he saves hers, but there's a simple thrill in watching over her while she's asleep and her guard is down.

"Nah. I think this stakeout's a bust. Our intel must have been wrong."

She arches her back like a cat, hands propped on the dash in front of her. "Yeah, I figured as much. Breakfast?"

"It's four in the afternoon, Monica."

She shrugs. "IHOP's open."

He doesn't argue her point. Monica works under her own code of logic, and it doesn't include eating her meals at the societally reccomended times of day.

Though he has to admit, pancakes do sound good.

"Fine, fine." He catches her yawning, and says, "Do you not get enough sleep at night or something?"

"Sure I do," she answers, oblivious to his teasing. "Why?"

He just stares at her.

"Oh, that." She's still half curled up in the seat. "It's comfortable."

He rolls his eyes, ready to dismiss this as yet another example of how Monica lives on her own plane of existance, population 1, when she elaborates, "Not the car. You."

"I'm comfortable."

Her look is pretty much a mirror of his, like she thinks he's off on some logic-free safari somewhere. "Yes. I relax around people that I trust. It's easy to fall asleep."

He wants to say something about how Monica trusts everyone, because she's got a track record of believing every crackpot who crosses their path, but he stops when the compliment catches up to him.

"So... I'm comfortable for you."

Her eyebrows are almost at her hairline with barely contained amusement. "Yes, John."

"Oh." He likes that. It's kind of a weird way of talking about this -- he'd never expect any different from her -- but he likes it a lot. If someone had asked if he thought Monica trusted him, he would have of course said yes (she's like that, after all), but this is a little bit more than that.

He likes being here to watch out for her while she sleeps; she falls asleep because he's there. It's a good partnership, and it reminds him of the thing he's been feeling that he hasn't quite been able to say -- that now that they're over the awkward new-partnership part where they step all over each other's toes, they really work well together. They're a good team.

"That's good, I guess," he acknowledges.

She ignores his awkwardness. That's something else he counts on about her -- she rarely makes him spell things out. He's pretty sure it's not because she's polite. More than likely, she can just read right through him.

He doesn't really mind. She's Monica, and he's pretty comfortable around her, too.

"IHOP?" she asks again, "Or more waiting on the delivery boy?"

That night, when he's tucked in for his usual six hours of not sleeping, he remembers what she said. He's not quite as good as his partner at dropping unconscious when in proximity to people he trusts, but he does trust Monica, and there's something comforting about knowing she's close by, now that he's thinking about it.

She's asleep in the next room, just a few feet away. The motel walls are thin enough that he could hear the low murmur of her TV when she had it on, and now, the relative silence.

It's nice, he thinks, closing his eyes. Comfortable.

With that thought the last to cross his mind, John sleeps the whole way through the night.
Tags: drr, fic
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