TITLE: Insomnia AUTHOR: Tasha EMAIL: tasha@thetruth.de POSTED: January 15, 2002 DISCLAIMER: I'm not worthy to sharpen Chris Carter's pencil. CATEGORY/KEYWORDS: S, A, DSR, some MSR, Doggett POV RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: NIHT II ARCHIVE: Have it, just let me know where it goes. SUMMARY/TIMELINE: Mulder seems to be gone for good. Scully has left the X-Files, Doggett has trouble sleeping, and both of them have trouble dealing with what is left. Takes place some time after NIHT II. AUTHOR'S NOTES: There have been some discussions lately about Doggett being the "new Mulder" and the upsides and downsides of this concept. Frankly, I don't think Doggett will be written to act as another Mulder as S9 progresses – Mulder will be Mulder and Doggett will be Doggett, and their quests are totally different – but I was intrigued by the thought that the two men have more in common than meets the eye. Here's what I made out of that. This story deals with sleeping disorder. I know insomnia is a serious problem for those affected by it, and I did not intend to play it down, or offend anyone. Beta thanks to half the world: Cattie, Anne H., Feuerkopf. Thanks for your support. You rock, ladies. NC-17 DSR? Yes, I know there was Trust No One. Yes, I've seen Doggett and Reyes in 4-D. But truth is relative. And DSR makes me happy. On with the show. X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X His sleepless nights were filled with faces from his past. Sleep, he had to admit to himself, was the first thing he'd lost since he'd started working on the X-Files. He had not had a good night's sleep in months. Now the rumors he had occasionally heard about Fox Mulder's notorious insomnia were beginning to make sense, after all. And while he lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to rise, he had to admit another fact. His heart was the second thing he had lost. With an almost angry twist of his body, he turned to face the window. No lights outside, just the gentle rustling sound of the leaves in front of his house. The day had not yet begun. In those hovering hours between midnight and daybreak, which had become so familiar to him now, the concept of time had an almost fragile touch to it, and more or less everything seemed possible. If a spaceship were to appear right now in his bedroom, he'd probably just shrug his shoulders and wait for the second one to follow on behind. Spaceships, though, never come when you wait for them. Same thing with love, right? Same thing. He sighed and closed his eyes. There was something strangely familiar about the whole situation. It felt wrong and right at the same time. Had he missed something? Where had things gone awry? Was it supposed to be that way? He was the one who cared, and who would do anything to keep her and her baby safe. He was the one she'd call at night and when she was afraid, the one who was always there for her and who would never let her down. Or leave her. But he would also be more, much more than that if he could. If she would only let him. And that, right there, was the difficult part of the deal. At times, he felt guilty about his feelings. He felt like a schoolboy who couldn't get over his first love. He felt like he was intruding, barging in, disregarding her situation for his own selfish ends. But then again, John Doggett had been feeling guilty for a long time. By now, he had almost grown used to it. He had felt guilty for letting his buddies down when the bullets had pierced his knee, in Lebanon all those years ago. He had felt guilty as he finally left the Corps so that his wife wouldn't have to worry so much. And then, he had felt guilty for joining the NYPD. "But why?", she had said to him that night, anger in her voice and in her eyes, "why can't you just get a job that won't have me praying every night for you to come home?" He hadn't said a word, knowing that she didn't want to hear the only answer he could have given her. Nowadays, he didn't even have any answers any more, most of the time. He knew perfectly well that he would always feel guilty for having been too late, too slow, too vulnerable on that warm and sunny August afternoon. He even recalled the way the sky had looked, how the watery blue had spread over the scene that was about to change his life forever. "Like the blue bed sheet of a giant!" Luke would have laughed. Time may be a healer, but it doesn't wash away guilt. Ever since the chaos of a loved one's death had unfolded around him and his life had tumbled down before his tired eyes, John Doggett felt the guilt threatening to tear him apart. And ever since, he had felt guilty for having the strength to survive the death of his son. And the death of his wife. Years later, he could still see himself holding her blood- stained farewell letter, thinking, "It's my fuckin' fault." So yes, falling in love with his partner, a woman who, he knew, could not and would never return his love, made perfect sense in its own sick, twisted way. Ever since he had seen the soft statement that glimmered in her eyes every time she looked at Mulder he knew he could never ask her to love him. Heck, even *see* him. So he felt guilty instead. It was cold in his bedroom. As always. He liked it that way. Whenever the memories came to him and weighed heavily on his chest, the cold and the darkness were his shelter. The cool air on his bare skin made him forget the once familiar warmth of a body beside him, long Sunday mornings spent in bed, the touch of soft hands on his body, the laughter of his son downstairs. But sometimes, it was just too warm to leave the past behind. With a deep sigh, he shrugged off the sheets and heaved his naked body out of the bed. This had been just one more of these long nights without much sleep, but sleep was actually the last thing he missed these days. There were other things to regret. And other things to run away from. He headed to his bathroom, and by the time the cold water hit his skin he was already engulfed in thoughts concerning the day at the office which lay ahead of him. Thank God for distraction. "Mornin', Monica," he said as he entered the room, noticing once again that the basement office was just a bit too gloomy for his taste. If the lights were to blame for this or if it was something else, he couldn't tell. But if he thought about it, he'd have to say it was probably 'something else'. His partner, musing over some files scattered across her desk, looked up as he stepped past her. The smile on her lips froze as soon as their eyes locked. "John? Have you been sleeping lately?" she asked, the worried tone of her voice mingled with quiet irony and also some reproach. Continuing his morning routine with studied reserve, he sat down at his desk and glanced casually over the file she had placed there for him. "Yeah, sure," he replied irritably. After all the years he had known her now, he had still not gotten used to being an open book to her. "Why?" "Because you sure don't look like you have," she said, studying him closely. "And you look great, too," he remarked and was strangely relieved to see her smile at his joke. "Seriously, it's just the case, I guess. No need for you to worry, Mon. I'm fine." As he watched her nod at his assertion, he knew that she didn't believe him, but he pretended not to have noticed her doubtful look. "Anybody call?" "Are you waiting for someone specific to call?" she countered and grinned as he stopped short at her question. She waited a beat before she casually pointed at the notepad on his desk. "Danny called for you. He said he had the contacts you asked for. And you owe him money. Betting on the wrong team again are you, John?" He frowned, then raised his eyebrows at her in mock disappointment. "Sure looks like it." She smiled at him and for the first time that morning he noticed that she was wearing her glasses. He liked her glasses. They made her look even more adept and reliable and thorough than he knew she was. For a moment, he asked himself if that held true for all female agents wearing glasses, and as his thoughts began to wander off to his former partner, he picked up the phone and called Danny. Thank God for distraction. X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X – X He was grateful for rainy nights. At first, when his sleeping problems had finally become too stubborn to ignore, he had hoped the soft rhythm of rain drops thudding against the window pane would lull him to sleep, but since he had given up that hope as well he simply listened to the soft sound of water on glass during rainy nights. It was, at least, something to keep him occupied while he waited for the sun to rise, and somehow it convinced him that all was not yet lost. Yet sometimes he would still drift off into a shallow sleep during the early morning hours when it was raining outside, dreaming vivid, colorful dreams just like the ones he had had when he was a boy. Not tonight, though. With a sigh, he pushed the sheets aside and stood up. As he padded to the window to close it, he noticed that the air smelled of rain and damp leaves, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. All of a sudden he became painfully aware of how quiet his bedroom was, and he felt a rising urge to cough loudly or turn on the TV or say something, anything, but he certainly wasn't yet ready to cross that boundary and start talking to himself. That thought was a tremendous relief. So he pushed the window shut with a bang, shook off these thoughts and flicked the light switch. A lit room, he had learned in these last few years, was less quiet than a dark room, no matter how empty it might be. While thinking of a good way to begin this Saturday, and carefully avoiding looking at his watch as he did so, he put on sweat pants and a blue t-shirt. Only moments later, he had already decided to spend himself on a long bike ride. Maybe this would blur out the thoughts that were beginning to take over his mind again. Scully. In those sleepless hours, far away from every distraction he had so carefully positioned in his daily schedule, he saw her everywhere. Her voice was in his ears, her soft touch was on his arm. He wished she'd look at him one day, look him straight in the eyes and let him show her what she really meant to him. Yes, she had let him take care of her, she had even let him save her life more than once, she had graced him with a thank you and a hug, an occasional smile and a warm hand on his arm. But she was too far away for him to show her how much he ached for her. Maybe, he thought, maybe he just wanted her so badly because he knew perfectly well that she would never be his? Absently, he raised his hand at the thought as if trying to block it off. He refused to think any more. Descending the stairs in the semi-darkness that filled his house, he tried to remember where he'd put his keys the night before. He spotted them on the small entry table, right next to the flashlight he always kept there. Grabbing them swiftly, he opened the front door. And froze instantly. What was she doing here? What was she doing in front of his house on a Saturday morning? Why was she slowly walking up to his door? To him? Why was she here? "Agent Scully? Are you alright?" He almost instantly bit his lip. Yeah, sure, that's why she's spending some time in your front yard on a Saturday morning, because she's totally alright, you moron. With a sad smile, she acknowledged his question, but refused to answer it. Slowly she came closer. He could see she had been crying, and she looked so tired and miserable that his heart sank. Months, he thought. For months he had tried to forget her, and every single day he had failed miserably. She looked at him in that quiet, pleading way of hers, and stepping aside, he let her in without another word. He couldn't remember when or why she'd been in his house before, but he knew very well that she had. The familiarity with which she entered his house, never even looking back at him, made him hold his breath. Quietly he closed the door. Her soft scent already hung in the air surrounding him. When she turned around to face him, he suddenly wondered if he was dreaming. But he hadn't been able to sleep lately, right? Can you dream without sleeping? "Thank you, John," she said, her voice wavering slightly. You probably can. He nodded, not quite sure what to say. "For what?" She had to smile at his puzzled statement. "Dana, there's no need..." The look in her eyes silenced him. "You've always made it hard for me to thank you. Please, let me. Just this one time." He swallowed. "It - it just doesn't make any sense." "What doesn't?" "You standing in my hallway. Talking to me on a Saturday morning." She shifted uncomfortably and lowered her head. Doggett felt the strong urge to go to her, to gather her in his arms and tell her that he was sorry. Sorry for everything he might have done to her. Sorry for everything anybody might ever have done to her. But he stayed where he was, too afraid of how she might react. "Have you ever wanted something so bad and looked for it so desperately that you didn't see it when it was right there before your eyes?" she asked, her voice a husky murmur. Looking down at her clasped hands, he noticed that her fingers were twitching nervously. What was she saying? "I've been looking a long time now. I've been running away from myself more times than I can count, and all it has brought me - " "No," he said. "Don't." With four big steps he was beside her, and he hesitated only for a moment before placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gently. She needs some kleenex, go get her some, he thought. And then he winced. Yeah, right, kleenex. In his house. Stubbornly holding back the tears that threatened to overcome her, she reached out for him, spread her arms, and a moment later he felt her body leaning against his. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "Shhh." He soothingly ran a hand up and down her back. She pressed her cheek against his chest and he felt her body relax under his touch as the sobs slowly subsided. This is not happening. Her hands moved up to the nape of his neck and before he could resist – not that he would have – she was gently pulling him closer, pulling his mouth to her lips. A few seconds passed before he realized that he wasn't dreaming. Then he returned the kiss with the ferocity of a man who had waited for this moment so long it had cost him his sleep. As her lips parted and he felt her tongue searching for his, he moaned against her mouth and whispered her name. For a second, he wanted to stop. This could not be right. It's borrowed time, his rational mind kept on telling him, but he didn't even care. She's not in love with you, she's just lonely now, his pride tried to tell him, but he didn't want to listen. She was there. That was all that mattered. - End of Part One -