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Doug dreams of a familiar couch.
It’s a garish green color, something that hid stains well, but, more importantly, it wasn’t particularly comfortable. Which, on the surface, sounds like a net negative. But after a tour in the force, Doug can’t really sleep in comfortable beds anymore. Not that he sleeps in Kate’s bed anymore, but even her mattress is too much. The couch is better.
It had been snowing, and he can tell, because when he shakes his head and sits on the couch, melted snow drops fly off of hair that desperately needs a trim. He’s always been bad at scheduling hair appointments. Easier to just shave it down to the bare bones and let it grow out in its own time.
A familiar head pokes out from the kitchen, a dark cascade of hair falling down her shoulders, and Doug would be a liar if he didn’t miss her. Not that he doesn’t see her damn near every other day, but it’s different. The lines of her face, severe and wary and affectionate but less so than it used to be, smooth into a small smile.
“Oh, hey Doug. Didn’t realize you’d come in.”
He settles into the couch for a moment. His body is sore from working late, late, later and later shifts at some private security gig, but the need to sleep is far outweighed by the need to see Anne. He shrugs. “You know me. Silent as a jungle panther.”
“Uh-huh.” She says. “And just as graceful, too, I’m betting.”
Her eyes flick to the brightly colored WELCOME! mat that heralds the front door. Okay, so Doug had tripped over it on his way in and now the corners had been all fucked up and crimped on the edges and he may have sworn on his way in and wasn’t actually that quiet, but sometimes Kate had a tendency to not pay attention when she was busy. Judging by the towel wringing around her hands, the ‘busy’ in question was dishes.
“Yep!” Doug confirms. “I’m a regular Baryshnikov.” Okay. Quick pivot. Like a ballerina. Hey, if the metaphor works. “She up?”
Kate glances behind herself, glancing at the clock on the oven. “Not yet. Still has another ten to her nap. I can get her up, though.”
“Nah.” Doug leans back on the couch even more, lacing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes, long legs sprawling out on the coffee table in front of him. “I want her bright eyed and bushy tailed.” Pause. “I could do with a ten minute cat nap.”
He has this dream a lot. Or dreams like it. He arrives to Kate’s house, he waits for Anne to get up and then--
The street lights look harsh at night, especially through the haze of panic and wavery alcohol-induced confusion. What’s more confusing-- The crash. He’s never crashed before. Never. Clean record. Mostly. Point is, he was Air Force . He knows how to drive a damn car. And then, looking to the back seat, and--
Doug wakes up. His face is mashed into his keyboard, cherry keys sticking painfully to his skin. The computer interface in front of him has long since stopped registering the insistent pressing of the ‘hjklbnm,’ keys, but it clearly took it a while to do so, if the Jack Nicholson-esque manifesto blinking back at him is any indication.
These dreams never let him actually see her face. Her face fades in his memory more and more with each passing year. He knows she probably looks drastically different, now, but-- Even her as she was. It’s disappearing.
“Ugh,” He groans, sitting up and wiping a hand down his face. There’s drool on his mouth and cheeks and it makes his skin clammy. The warm, light, cozy living room is shockingly absent. He’s--
Ah. Right.
His shoulder hunch in as he comes back down to reality, and jerks a little when Hera says, “Oh! Officer Eiffel! You’re awake.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Welllll… Not really. I checked your vitals and heat signature and you definitely weren’t dead so I knew you’d wake up eventually, but--”
“Remind me to tell the good Doctor to explain what a coma is to you just in case,” Eiffel grumbles. He groans, and lets out a deep breath.
“Okay, rude . I know what a coma is.” Pause. “Are you okay?”
“Hm? Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah. Peachy. Just a bad dream, is all.”
Hera is quiet for a while. Long enough that Eiffel has time to get up out of his chair and stretch, trying to hide his anxious nervousness in an overabundance of what he thinks looks like confident energy.
“Are… You okay?”
“Don’t gotta repeat yourself, baby. I’m fine. Told you. Peachy. It’s fine. I, uh--”
“Let me go ahead and relinquish you from pretending you’re not shaken up from something, Officer Eiffel,” Hera says. Snappy. Almost mean. If Eiffel were a different man, he wouldn’t flinch. As it is, he is that man, and that tone jolts him further into his reality than anything else could.
Right. Right. There’s a reason he’s here and it’s not-- Kate’s house is so far away, now. He nods, stiffly.
“Commander Minkowski needs you on the bridge. She wants you to... assist her in talking to Hilbert. Negotiations, yada yada, you know how it is.”
“Yep.” Uh-huh. He does. He gets that. C’mon, Doug, get your head in the game. “Tell her I’ll be there in ten? Just, uh, gonna get some water.” And get his life together. And remember that he’s never-- If even his dreams don’t let him see her, fat chance of it happening in the real life. Right. Minkowski. Hilbert. Hera. That’s what he’s got right now, and one is a fucking freak with a needle full of bioweapons. Bigger picture here, Doug. Bigger picture. That phrase tastes vile in his head.
He pulls his hair up messily and takes a few quick breaths, straightens his back, and gears up to leave. No moping. Gotta be Officer Eiffel.