Ruminations on REM
by Eisoj5
PG
Category: V
Spoilers: Via Negativa
Keywords: Post-EP
Summary: Scully's thoughts during the final scene of "Via
Negativa" in Doggett's house


I stand awkwardly in the doorway of Doggett's bedroom,
unsure of what to do.  He wasn't answering his phone, and after
that message he left on my machine, I was starting to get a little
concerned.  Skinner filled me in as best he could on the case,
including the fact that their suspect, Anthony Tipet, was dead.  

I don't move from this spot by the door.  Doggett sure has a
nice house for a G-man's salary, a lot better taken care of than
Mulder's apartment.  No dead fish floating at the top of his
fishtank. 

"Agent Doggett?" I try again.  Even from here I can see he's in
the grip of some dream, eyes darting in REM sleep.  He
sounded so tired on the phone every time I got in contact with
him that it seems criminal to wake him from this much-needed
rest.  Nevertheless, I call his name again, taking a cautious step
or two into the room.  He remains unconscious.  

Mulder slept much more lightly.  A gentle tap on the shoulder
or a whisper of his name and he'd wake with a jerk, coming out
of whatever nightmare of his past he'd been reliving.  A lot of
the time it was dreams of Samantha, seeing her taken again and
again, or so he told me.  

Sometimes he saw the faces of the killers he'd caught,
remember the horrors they perpetrated and wake, shaking, on
his couch.  I knew sometimes he didn't sleep at all, spending
long hours staring at the ceiling of his living room or some
celluloid beauty doing unspeakable things on his VCR.  

He was possessed of an amazing ability to sleep on planes,
however, an ability that I envied deeply.  The second the plane's
engines whirred to life he was gone, head back or slumping
towards my shoulder while I read the case file over and over,
trying valiantly not to be sick.  

I think none of us sleep so well any more, actually.  A hundred
personal tragedies weigh on our souls to the point that even
sleep brings no escape.  I dream of my lost partner constantly,
dreaming him in the hands of some unseen, malevolent entity.  I
dream of the time I was taken, half-formed shadows of people?
beings? standing around me, wielding tools not meant for
pleasant purposes.  I dream of my sister sometimes, happy
dreams of being with her again and reliving the innocent days of
our childhood.  I even dream of my lost daughter from time to
time, dreams of holding her hand and then seeing her taken
from me again and again.  

Many mornings I awake with tears on my face.  

I don't doubt that Agent Doggett sleeps just as poorly as
Mulder or I do.  I know very little about his past, but I know
life as a Marine or a policeman or, for the past few years, a
criminal investigator doesn't leave you without scars, mental
and physical.  

I move closer again, still reluctant to touch him, even briefly,
even if the purpose is purely innocent.  The morning light
streams in the window, falling across his bed.  His face remains
in shadow.  

"Agent Doggett?"  I try again, and finally he wakes.  He is
clearly surprised but strangely, also looks relieved.  

"Agent Doggett.  Hi," I say.  He looks up at me, squinting a
little against the sunlight.

"How'd you get here?" Doggett asks.  

"Your door was unlocked," I tell him.  Really not a wise thing
to do, leaving the door unlocked, but I don't think he'd enjoy
being reprimanded as if I was his mother.  

"You just saved my life, Agent Scully," he tells me.  It's weird,
because he says it like he really believes it.  Really believes in
this case, somehow.  

"I just woke you up, Agent Doggett," I reply, a little
dismissively.  

"Tipet's in my dreams," Doggett says.  "If you hadn't woken
me up just now . . ."  

"Anthony Tipet is dead.  I got the call from Skinner on my way
over here.  He never regained consciousness."  

He looks at me, trying to understand.  I'm actually pretty
amazed at how coherent he is, first thing in the morning without
that coffee he's always drinking in the office.  Leaves coffee
rings on every surface.  He does not ask why I was coming here
even before Skinner called.  

"Are you okay?" Doggett finally asks, and I remember I was
holed up in the hospital with some minor complications. 

"I seem to be, yes," I respond.  He looks doubtful.  Partnerly
concern written on every line of his face.  

"Well, if you need some more time off . . ." 

"No. I'm, um... I'm back at work now."  I change the subject
hastily.  "That must have been some nightmare you just had."  

"Tipet thought he'd find God by looking in the darkness inside
himself," he tells me.  I know little about this "via negativa"
theory, but from what I've gathered from the case, it really
doesn't look like the way to go.  

"You don't think he succeeded?" I ask.  

"In my dreams, I see . . . I saw terrible . . . violent images that .
. . scared the living daylights out of me.  These things are a part
of me.  I can't deny that, but . . . maybe . . . maybe they didn't
come from me."  He isn't entirely comfortable confessing this to
me, and while I chalk that up to the fact that we still don't
know each other very well at all I get the feeling that there's
something else going on here.  

"Then where'd they come from?"  It's just an idle question, but
it bothers him.  

Doggett looks at me.  He seems unsure of what to say.  

"It was a bad dream, Agent Doggett, but that's all it was," I try
to reassure him.  

He doesn't exactly look reassured, glances away.  I back away
from his bed.  

"Um . . . I guess I'll see you in the office then," I say
uncertainly.  It strikes me how bizarre it is that I'm standing
here having this conversation with a man who's not out of bed
yet.  

"Yeah, okay," Doggett replies, not making any move to get out
of bed until I exit.  I start to turn, to leave, but before I get too
far he calls me back.  "Agent Scully?"  

I look back at him.  "Yes, Agent Doggett?"  

"Have you had breakfast yet?" 

I am reminded that sometimes, the bad things that happen
during the day are ten times magnified in our sleep, in our
dreams.  Dreams that are unreal, and best forgotten in the
business of waking life.  

end

Author's Note: This little vignette was born out of remembering
some spoilers for "Via Negativa" that involved a lengthier, ah,
bedroom scene than actually aired. (Constructive) feedback is
greatly appreciated (jscz@umich.edu) although Doggett-
bashing emails will be fed to my dragon.  Thanks for reading!