Work Text:
I.
There are no dreams the first night. She's too exhausted to even protest when the doctor tells her they're keeping her overnight for observation. The thin gown they provide her with is a welcome change from the grimy outfit she had been wearing all week. Even hospital food tastes delicious after being fed nothing but stale pizza.
A nurse gives her a dixie cup filled with pills and she wakes up 12 hours later groggy, tangled in a ratty hospital gown. Next to the bed, her youngest daughter sleeps soundly on a rickety wooden chair, her head nestling on her boyfriend's shoulder as he types away on his laptop. Two distinct voices are chatting in the corridor. She twists her neck so she can see and pinches herself because she never thought she would ever see FP bring Charles, their son, a cup of coffee.
II.
The night after that, Alice opens her eyes and finds herself in an empty motel room with no idea of the location of her phone. There is supposed to be an officer positioned outside her door, but when she looks through the peephole, there is nobody there. She tries the doorknob to no avail. Then the window. It's boarded shut.
She hears the rocket before she smells it. The flames that carry Edgar away on his suicide trip begin to eat away at everything around it. Her room is the last thing to go, quickly filling with thick smoke. There's nowhere else to run, so she waits alone on the bed while the flames envelop her before she wakes up.
The empty feeling of the dream stays with her all day, and she has to consciously pull her attention back to the agents taking her follow-up statement.
III.
Old habits die hard, which is why she calls FP on night number three. She had told herself she wasn't ever going down that road again, even went so far as to block his number. But years of reporting means that the Sheriff's office phone number ingrained in her brain, and she calls it without a second thought.
She doesn't want to go back to sleep, doesn't want to dream again even though the details are already starting to fade away.
"Jones here."
It's not the first time she's called him in the middle of the night. Like the other times, it's a mistake.
"Hello?" he tries.
But the loneliness, the helplessness… They linger.
"FP… I-" the words die in the lump in her throat. What can possibly say to him? I miss you, I hate you, I love you.
"Alice? Is that you?"
What is she doing? She can't just call him when she wants, what she wants, if she wants. He made that perfectly clear when he chose Gladys. His wife may not be in the picture anymore, but Alice was nobody's consolation prize.
"Are you okay? What's going on?" Each word betrays his worry.
"I'm sorry," she finally manages. "I shouldn't have called. Forget it."
"Alice, tell me what's going on," he presses.
So she does. Because he's FP and for whatever reason, even after all the heartache and anger, Alice can't find it in her to let him go.
"I can't sleep," she finally says. Judging by the fact that he answered the office phone, neither can he.
"Oh…" he hesitates long enough for Alice to start regretting saying anything. "Listen, I was about to head out to Pop's. Would you like me to pick something-"
"Yes."
Within the hour, FP is at her motel door still in uniform with a takeout bag and drink tray in hand. This is not the first time she's speaking to him since they broke things off, but it's the first time they have been alone. It feels momentous somehow and yet, it's not.
"Hey." It's all she can think to say.
They have been here before. This on-again-off-again has defined much of their lives. Despite all the chaos and the secrets and every mistake they ever made— despite everything—here they are.
Again.
She had sworn to herself a million times that she was done being in love with FP Jones. They're not perfect—they never were—and they have oh so much to untangle.
And yet…
"I've missed you," she states matter-of-factly.
"I-" FP blinks. He's got that dopey, confused look again. "I missed you too."
He still makes her heart glow.