Work Text:
Alex can't sleep.
She's tried everything. All of the at-home remedies she could find on the internet. Hot baths, cups of warm milk, glasses of wine, earplugs, everything short of knocking herself out, but nothing seems to work. When she does fall asleep, it's no more than a couple of hours. And she wakes up each time, shaking and sweating.
Alex turns onto her side, dragging the quilt over her head. She tries to snuggle deeper into the pillows, but they smell strongly of bleach and it makes her nose burn. Hotel linen always smells like bleach. She usually finds it comforting. It's something which connects each liminal space--people move in and out, but the smell of the sheets never differs. Tonight, she feels awash in the chemical reek of it.
She rolls onto her back and tries to clear her mind. She tries to even out her breathing. Tries to count backwards from 100. Counts backwards from 100 again.
She gets to twenty-eight and gives up with an exasperated sigh. "This is ridiculous."
A sliver of light catches her eye as she sits up, shining through the crack under the door of the adjoining room. Dr. Strand's room. She should have known he would be something of a night owl.
Rearranging the blankets around herself like a cloak, Alex climbs off of the bed and makes her way toward the door. It’s locked, of course, for their privacy, but after a moment's hesitation, Alex knocks.
Is that shuffling she hears on the other side of the door? Or could it just be her imagination? It's possible he fell asleep with the light on.
“Alex?” Strand asks. He’s forgone the jacket and tie, but he's still wearing his shirt and slacks. The first few buttons on his shirt are undone and his sleeves are rolled up.
Alex tries not to stare.
Strand clears his throat. "Did you need something?”
Alex shakes her head, tearing her eyes away from exposed skin. She pushes past him into his room, trailing her blanket cape behind her. “I can’t sleep.”
“I see,” he says, wry smile pulling at his lips.
Neither of the beds is even the littlest bit rumpled. The desk, however, is a mess of old books, sheets of paper, and his open laptop.
“Don’t tell me you were working," Alex says. "I can go back to my room, if I’m interrupting.”
“No need. Make yourself at home.”
Alex takes his words as permission to flop onto the closest bed, bouncing once before settling into a cocoon of blankets. “What are you working on?”
“Nothing you would find terribly interesting, I’m afraid." Strand gestures to the kitchenette. "Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.” Tea is the last thing she needs if she hopes to fall asleep. "What makes you think I wouldn't find it interesting?"
"It's research, mainly. For an article I'm writing."
He sits at the desk. Even given his height, Alex can barely see him behind a pile of dusty texts. She could sit up to watch him more fully, but she doesn’t bother moving. Somehow, the bed in Strand’s room seems much more comfortable than the one in her own.
She lets him type in peace for a long moment, before her curiosity gets the better of her. “Do you always work this late?”
He pauses, eyes shifting to meet hers briefly, then continues tapping away at the keyboard. “Is this for your podcast?”
Alex yawns. “No. I’m too tired to do any reporting right now. Just trying to think of the right questions to ask you is exhausting.”
His wry smile curls at the corner of his mouth as he continues to work. He pulls a book from the stack and opens it, careful not to disturb the fine layer of dust settled onto its cover.
“How did you manage to pack all of that?” she asks. "I didn't see you bring more than one suitcase."
The smile curls wider, almost into a smirk. “I thought you were too exhausted to ask me questions.”
She grins at him. “That’s not what I said.”
He doesn't answer, which Alex doesn't fault him for. From what little she can see of him, bent over his notes, he's already re-absorbed in his work. After a moment, however, he says, “My father taught me.”
Alex blinks, having gotten used to the relative silence. “Your father taught you what?”
“You asked how I was able to pack my work into my suitcase. My father taught me.” He flips through one of the texts from the pile, marks a place with his finger, and goes back to typing, one-handed.
“Is your article about demons?" she asks. She can still see the exorcism from his Black Tape behind her eyes. She shivers and tugs her blankets more tightly around her. "Or spooky math?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he says. "Not all of my work revolves around demonology."
"Just some of it?"
He looks up, examining her with his cool blue eyes.
Alex closes her own eyes, before he can see just how disturbed she's felt ever since they watched that particular Tape.
After a brief silence, Strand goes back to typing.
Alex lets him, content to let the tapping of keys fill the silence instead of Strand pushing for more information.
Even if she isn't looking at him, his presence is a comfort. Just knowing he's there makes her feel warm and heavy and eventually, thankfully, Alex drifts into sleep.
She wakes up with a start to see Strand standing over her, brows furrowed with concern. “Alex? You were screaming.”
She sits up, pushing him away, and tries to get her breath back. “Shit. Shit. Not again.”
"Not again? Does this happen often?"
“Shit,” she says again, instead of answering, and drops her head into her hands. She feels like crying, mostly out of frustration, but also because she is so damn exhausted.
“I’ll get you some water,” Strand says. His footsteps pad across the carpet to the sink. The faucet runs, but Alex doesn’t look up again until he offers her the glass.
“Thanks,” she says. Sipping at the water gives her something to occupy herself with as she pulls herself together. And it allows her to avoid his eyes, embarrassed now the nightmare has retreated.
He takes the glass from her once it’s empty and sets it down on the nightstand. “Why don’t you try going back to sleep?”
Alex sighs. “I don’t think I can.”
He hesitates, but only for a second before sitting down on the bed next to her. “Tell me.”
Alex groans. “It’s nothing.”
“Alex--“
She shakes her head. “No really, I don’t know. I can’t sleep. When I do, I have nightmares. I can’t remember what they're about.”
“This has only started recently? Since you’ve been working on the podcast?”
“I know what you’re trying to suggest, Dr. Strand,” she says, emphasizing his title, “But I’m not--“
Strand holds up a hand, cutting her off. “I was only going to suggest you are working yourself too hard. When was the last time you had a break?”
She can’t remember. But she's a reporter. This isn't the first time she's chased a story like this. It shouldn't be affecting her this way.
“Take a couple of days off," he says. "Rest. Relax. These cases that can wait. They were sitting on that shelf for years before you came along.”
“But--“ she trails off at the serious look he gives her. Her shoulders slump. “Okay. I’ll call Nic in the morning. He’s just--he’s going to be worried.”
“He’ll understand.”
“I--you’re right.” Alex sighs and gathers her blankets.
“You are going?”
She stops, surprised at the question. “Back to my room? I probably won’t be able to fall asleep and I don’t want to bother you. It’s already pretty late. At least one of us should be well rested.”
Something in his eyes, almost like disappointment, begs her to ask. So she does. “Unless you want me to stay?”
Strand clears his throat and looks away. “If you’d like.”
Alex smiles. “Sure.”
Getting up, Strand says, “Get yourself settled. I’ll be right back.”
He does come back, a few minutes later, dressed in a black t-shirt and pajama pants.
“Nice pajamas,” Alex teases.
“You are one to talk,” Strand shoots back, referring to her over-sized t-shirt and gym shorts.
Alex grins, but doesn’t defend her choice of bedclothes. She watches as he turns off all but one of the lamps, then gathers his laptop and settles onto the other bed. He opens it, types something very briefly, and to her surprise, begins to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
Alex laughs. “You can’t be serious.”
He raises a brow at her. “I am. Would you like me to continue or not, Miss Reagan?”
“Oh, no, please continue--actually, wait a second.”
He laughs a little when she snuggles further into her blanket nest until the only part of her left uncovered is her face, turned to watch him read in the soft light of the lamp.
“Okay, now I’m ready.”
Strand continues. She always thought his voice soothing, when there isn’t a condescending edge to it. She loses herself in the story and then, somehow, loses herself to sleep.
When she wakes, it’s with a yawn and a stretch instead of residual fear. She gropes for her phone before remembering she left it in her own room. Sitting up, Alex turns the alarm clock toward her. It reads 12:10. In the afternoon. Pushing the clock back into place, she notices a note scrawled on the hotel pad.
Alex,
Called Nic. Don’t worry about checkout. We’ll be here for another two days. Get some rest.
Went out for coffee. Will return soon.
-R. Strand
Alex smiles at the succinctness of his writing and then pads into the other room to grab her phone. She has a few missed calls and more than a few missed texts, but she ignores these for now and types out a message:
Thanks for the bedtime story.
The reply comes almost immediately:
Any time.