Adjust to the Dark by bugs SPOILERS: Post 4-D CLASSIFICATION: S, A, D/R UST RATING: PG SUMMARY: Reyes, disturbed by strange dreams, has an unexpected nocturnal visitor.

The first time he was behind me. He smelled of Ivory soap and tomato juice. I thrashed my arm out, knocking my pillow off the bed. The clock said 11:45. I forced myself back to sleep. The next time, I woke gasping for air, clutching at my throat. It hurt as though I'd been cut. I staggered to the bathroom. Blinking under the light's glare, I checked. Nothing. I took a piss and went back to bed. This time, I wake sobbing. I don't know why. I can't recall the dream, only the fear. I tell myself, it's always hard to sleep the first night in a new house. After my last shoebox apartment, these high ceilings and brick walls make me feel as though I'm a small marble rattling around in a large can. I check the clock again. 2:04 AM. My alarm goes off in four hours. I have to sleep. Closing my eyes, I breathe once, twice, slow the rate, calm, calm...   I smell antiseptic. I smell urine. John's mouth gapes, but he can't breathe. I can't breathe. My panic is so great I only manage shallow gasps. I fumble for the phone and dial his number. I can't stem this sense of irrational urgency. "Yeah?" His voice scratches like his beard. I barely croak out, "John? Are you okay?" "Monica?" "Yes." "What's the matter?" "Are you okay?" I ask again, sounding stronger, but now shaking with cold. I hear him flip a light on. "Yeah, I'm fine. What's wrong?" "Nothing, if you're all right." Turn a light on. That's a good idea. My sleeping area floods bright but my eyes are drawn to the long shadows in the corner. "Did you have a bad dream?" He's laughing at me. That clears my head. "I'm sorry, John. I'll see you in the morning." "Mon--" I hang up the phone. Should I get some water? Try meditating in the living room? With all the lights on, I add, as I creep out through the doorway. I'm at the cabinet, opening my gun box. I never take my gun out until I'm ready to leave for work. It's a work tool, and that's where it belongs. But for some reason, I fully expect it to be missing. It's lying within the box. The gun in one hand, I pull my meditation pillow out from under the low table. Balancing on it, I light a candle. I cradle my gun on my lap. Hardly Gandhi's teachings, but it works for me. I find a center and clear my mind.   I'm aware only of my body. The touch comes from blackness. I roll off the cushion, onto my back, and snap my gun up, flipping the safety off. "What the--" John yells, "Jesus!" He retreats a step. Shaking, I thumb the safety back on. "That musta been some bad dream," he says. "What're you doing here?" I spring to my feet. The key I gave him dangles from a finger. "I just figured you needed to talk, maybe. You were pretty upset this afternoon." I remember him being pretty upset. I'd been unable to stop myself from hugging him. I'd been just so happy to see him--even through he'd been there all along. His stiff body told me that I'd overstepped. As I tried to figure out how to gracefully back away, he mumbled some excuses and fled as soon as I eased my grip. He cranes his head, peering under the wing of hair that's fallen over my face. "You sure you're all right?" "I'm fine. In fact, I was just about to go back to bed," I insist, although my heart is beating a thousand beats a minute again. "Listen. Why don't I stay a while?" He gestures toward the couch. "I could sack out--" I shake my head. "You don't need to do that. I'm a big--" I'm suddenly ashamed. Tomorrow, we have to go to work. We may be in a standoff, down some alley and he'll be thinking, Monica's gonna wimp out on me. "I'm a big woman," I finish lamely. "I just had some vivid dreams. But I've got my gun--" He holds his arms out wide, cutting me off. "How 'bout this? I'm scared. I don't wanna go home alone." Now I'm mad. "John, get out of here." I stomp over to the door, difficult to do in bare feet. When I look back, he's laid on the couch. "What're you doing?" Innocent, he says, "It's a long drive back to Falls Church. You don't want me to fall asleep behind the wheel, do you?" He's pulling the throw off the back and covering his legs. Changing tactics, I spin on my heel, and head towards the bedroom. "All right. Let me get you a pillow." When I come back with some more bedding, his face looks unsettled. Rethinking his stance? He always has to be the aggressor. "Thanks." He pushes the pillow behind his neck. My low, modern sofa isn't wide or long enough for him. His hiking boots stick off the end. "Here." I begin unlacing the right one. He starts scrambling. I was right. Clothing removal was not on his plan. Unfortunately for him, he's tangled in the blankets. "Just stay still," I tell him, yanking the boot off and reaching for the next. "This won't hurt a bit." I'm sure my teeth glint like a wolf's in the dark. Settling his head gingerly back against the armrest, he mutters, "I'm not afraid." "What've you got to be afraid of, John?" I mock him. "You're not scared of the dark, are you?" He smiles back, and his toes wriggle in my grasp. The boot is off, and I've been cradling his foot without realizing it. Forcing myself not to drop it, I gently lay it on the other armrest. I don't spare him a backward glance as I go back to bed. "Goodnight." "Goodnight," wafts after me. Crawling back under the covers, I watch the shadows and light dance on the ceiling for a while, ears trained on the living room. Eventually, I hear his breathing deepen, and I can fall asleep.   His rough cheek is pressed against mine. "I enjoyed you. You bled like a pig." The pain is back, accompanied by heat. Hot blood, flowing, collecting under my chin, I'm drowning, drowning--I gasp, rise, I must find the surface--I fight the water's weight-- It's not water; it's an arm. He's here. I try to scream, but his grip is tight. "Monica," his voice rasps. His hand cradles my neck, and his body curves against my back. "John?" "Monica," he repeats. His cheek is damp on my ear. "John, what's happening?" "You were dead." I try to put all these pieces in a logical order and find none. "Yes, I was dying. But it was the dream." "I had the dream." He sounds stronger, almost belligerent, as though this is my fault. "I'm sorry." "Your throat was cut." His worn palm strokes my neck, fingers following the tendons' traces. I'm warm again. I shift slightly to rock back into his long frame, even as I reassure him. "I'm all right." "You were dead," is all he can say. I roll over and my eyes find his in the growing light. "I'm alive," I say. His face can hold so much hurt. The wind and sun have bitten and battered the skin and bone. I always have to control the urge to smooth that pain away. This time I push my resistance aside. My hands travel over his brow, down his cheekbones, and repeat my wiping motion on his upper lip. My fingers slide off his rough chin before cupping it. His eyelids half close like a petted cat. "But, John, how could we have the same dream?" I whisper, our lips grazing as I speak. He says, "I dunno," pushing our mouths apart. He leans back on the pillow, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Your throat was slit in your dream?" At first peeved, I let it go. "Yes." Flipping onto my stomach, I support my chin with upturned palms. "And you were in a hospital." He meets my gaze. Low, he says, "I was being crushed. But you were dead--" "I'm not." "Show me." He grasps my head, pulling me closer. He moves onto his back and I have to follow, his hands urging me to climb aboard. Our lips barely touch when a loud buzzing fills the air, and we tear apart. I grapple for my gun again, then, I remember. "It's my alarm." I slap it off, and glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see him disappearing through the doorway. He's lying on his side. He smoothes his hair before reaching out to tuck some of mine behind my ear. Beware a neat freak, my Aunt Marie would say, but I mumble, "Thank you." He smiles, and suggests, "We could be late for work." Yes, yes, yes, an inner voice screams, but I say, "I already took yesterday off to finish moving. We can't get anymore black marks on our record." His face closes. He sits up, back to me. "Yeah, you're right. AD Follmer might call to find out what's happened to you." Extending my arm, I brush my fingertips down the cords on the back of his neck. "He won't," I assure him. He turns his head just enough so he can peer at me out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah?" "Yeah." My voice gives off an early morning huskiness that has the desired effect. The corner of a smile peeks over his shoulder. He stands. "You're right. We better go to work. I'll see you at the office." I stop him with, "But John, how could we have the same dream?" "You told me." "Not details." His mouth tightens. "Why else would you call unless I was dead in your dream?" "You're going to claim it was your deductive skills?" "Monica, it's nothing. You had a bad dream. I had a bad dream--" "And you haven't punched the clock yet at the X-files?" He laughs. "Yeah. Glancing at his watch, he says, "I'm not on duty for another three hours." "Okay." I release him. "I'll see you at work then." The relief on his face tells me I did the right thing. "Yep. Later." When I hear my front door click shut, I say, "Later," to the empty room.   *~* The End *~* AUTHOR'S NOTES: I decided that Monica didn't remember what happened to Parallel!Doggett. That's my take and I'm sticking to it. Feedback >> Back to Post-eps >> Back to Index >> Back to Rookery