Title: Just... Things...
Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG
Keyword: DRR
Spoilers: The Truth, and general season 9
Disclaimer: They're not mine, so don't look at me like 
that, 'kay?
Archive: All are more than welcome, just please notify 
me via e-mail.
Summary: 'Y'mean you're not worried 'bout the future?  
What we're gonna do after all this, if we get through 
this at all?'
Author's Note: Just a little post-The Truth ditty to 
make me feel better about the fate of D & R.  Hope you 
like it...

---

This was what, the fiftieth time they've pulled over?

He was quickly losing count.

And this...  This was what, the hundred and fourth time 
she's looked at him like that, with her big hazel eyes 
all worried and bright with uncried tears?

"Maybe we should turn around.  Go back to that motel we 
passed a few miles back."

She nodded and chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully.  
"Sure.  If you're tired, we should do that."

He sighed, ran a hand through his already ruffled sandy 
brown hair, and looked at her.  "You wanna?"

He couldn't believe that the sight of her smiling, in 
spite of their situation, could get him to smile, too.  
He knew the smile was for his benefit, but he didn't
care.  It made him worry less.  Even for a little 
while.  "What?  What's funny?"

She shrugged, opened the door on the driver's side and 
turned to look at him again.  "You're asking me what I 
want, John..."

Her reply was left in limbo, which was just appropriate 
tonight.  There were so many things she'd wanted, so 
many things she still wants, that she can't have right
now.

She wants to go home.

She wants peace.  On Earth, in the Universe, and in her 
own heart.

She wants quiet.  The quiet that only a worry-free mind 
can grant her as she sleeps.

So many other things she wants, and she can't have any 
of them.

At least, not right now.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head immediately to dispel the guilt that 
always accompanies his apologies.  "Don't be.  Maybe 
this is good right now."

He watched her climb out the truck, and pace around in 
front, stretching her legs and trying to ease all the 
stiffness from their long drive.  He leaned out the 
window, squinted at her and asked quietly, "What 
exactly about all this is good right now?"

"Limbo.  Nothing.  Not knowing what'll happen next..." 
She looked up at the moon, closed her eyes and let out 
a low, tired, moan.  "I can fall asleep standing right 
here."

Her strangeness never ceased to amaze him.  Even now, 
despite their situation, her quirkiness always made 
him wonder just how she maintains that awkward balance 
between her professionalism and her kookiness 
sometimes.  "You're serious."

"About what?" She walked around the truck, crossed her 
arms over her chest, and leaned her elbows on the door.  
"Living like this-not knowing anything, or falling 
asleep on my feet?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.  An almost smile.  
He leaned forward, rested an arm on both of hers, 
before he bowed his head slightly and arched an eyebrow.  
"Not surprised that you of all people can sleep standin' 
up."  He waited for her slight nod of acknowledgement, 
and then he continued, in a much lower tone of voice.  
"Y'mean you're not worried 'bout the future?  What 
we're gonna do after all this, if we get through this
at all?"

"If something's meant to happen, John, it'll-"

"Happen," he rasped under his breath.  "Yeah."  He 
looked at the road, so dark and empty and lonely and 
long.  He'd never entertain the thought of driving 
down this same road-or any road like this one, for 
that matter-all by himself.  Or with anybody else-any 
body other than her-for that matter...  "C'mon.  
Let's turn around an' call it a night."

She didn't budge.  For some reason, she just stood 
there and stared at him.  For a second or two, he 
began to wonder whether she made good on her word and 
actually fell asleep standin' up.   But then she 
blinked and let out a deep sigh that practically 
swallowed up his whole heart.

"Hey, what's wrong?  Y'weren't like this a minute ago, 
Monica."  His hand touched her hair without his or her 
permission, and rested against the side of her face 
indefinitely.  "Life in limbo, remember?  You said it 
yourself.  Could be a good thing-keeps us on our toes."

She shook her head.  In the moonlight, her hair cast 
off strange shadows on his hand.  Made his hand look 
different.  Gave him zebra patterns on his skin.  He 
slid his grip from her face down to the crook of her 
neck, the base of her pale shoulder.  "So what's on 
your mind?"

"I don't know, John..." She looked away, blinking back 
the uncried tears that were threatening to escape her 
control.  "Just...  Things..."

"What things?"

"Things.  Little things.  Things that shouldn't matter 
in the grand scheme of things."

"You'll see your folks again.  This isn't us vanishin' 
off the face of the earth, Monica, it's-"

"No, no.  Things like," she grasped his forearm and 
allowed her fingers to rake gently through the golden 
hairs that glinted off the moonlight.  His skin was 
warm.  He was warm all over, and it made her feel safe,
good, at peace with herself.  At peace with herself 
enough to say what was on her mind.  "Your fern.  You 
won't see it for a while.  Who'll water it, John?"

He blinked, and realized that she was dead serious.  
Hell, why wouldn't she be dead serious about things 
like that?  This was Monica, for Chrissakes...  He 
shrugged, tried desperately to keep the amusement from 
trickling through his voice, and said quickly, "I 
never did.  Not once.  He'll be fine without me."

"You're laughing-"

"I'm not.  I'm not.  Really.  I'm not.  I know what 
you mean.  Seriously.  I know, I understand."

She gave him a dubious glance, before she stepped back 
and gave him room to open his door.  "Here," she 
handed him the keys.  "You drive back.  I'm sore."

He slowly planted his feet on the ground, looked 
around him carefully like a paranoid freak and 
motioned for her to get in the passenger seat.  "I'll 
wake ya when we're there."

---

This was what, the fifty-first time they've pulled 
over?

He turned to his right and studied her face.  She 
looked even more tired as she slept.  Probably thinkin' 
and worryin' 'bout those things.

His fern.  Who'll water it, open the windows for it, 
and give it sun?

It suddenly dawned on him that she has more plants at 
her apartment than he does at his house.  She should be 
worrying about them, and not his fern.  After all, his 
fern has survived all this time, without him doting on 
it.  So why was she worried about his fern, of all 
things, at a time like this?

Because.

Because it's not the fern she's really worried about, 
John-boy.

It's you.

After everything lately...  Regali, Follmer, Luke...

After things were getting better.  Relatively better, 
at least.

With you.  Your life.

With her.  Her life.

Your life, with her in it, and her life, with you in 
it...

This has gotta come up an' happen.  This-hiding, hiding 
out, hiding yourself, and who knows what else...

So she worries about your damn fern.  All because she 
thinks she might scare you away again if she tells you 
she's worried 'bout you.

"We're here."

He could feel the blush creeping up to his face at the 
realization that she had caught him staring at her.  
"Uh-huh.  Didn't wanna wake you yet, you looked like you 
were havin' a good dream."

She smiled graciously, ignored the blush creeping up to 
his face and unfastened her seat belt.  "Lots of 
vacancies.  We're in luck, John.  We can stay here for 
tonight."

"Monica?"

She looked over her shoulder, gave him a few lazy blinks, 
before she jutted out her chin at him.  "What is it?"

"Maybe you're right."

"Right about what?"

"Livin' like this.  Life in limbo.  Been a tough year," 
he shrugged recklessly and finished off his thought.  
"Maybe I need this right now.  Be outta my boxed-in life 
for a while.  Might do me some good.  Do both of us some 
good."

"I think it will, John."  She opened the door.

"Wait."

She faced him once more and waited, slightly unsure of 
what more he had to say.  "What is it?  What are you 
thinking about?"

He opened his mouth to say something profound, something 
memorable, and dramatic and optimistic.  He decided 
against it; there would be time for all that later, some 
other time.  "I dunno.  Just...  Things...  My fern.  
Who'll water him...  Y'know," he shrugged.  "Things like 
that."

"Well if he's lived this long without you doing anything, 
then-"

"He'll be fine.  Things'll be fine."

He looked at her, desperately wishing that things were 
different.  That they could both be in his living room 
right now, looking at his fern.  That they could both be 
in that basement office right now, just looking at each 
other.  He took a deep breath, let it out and touched 
her face once more.

"`S'gonna be alright, Monica.  Trust me.  Things'll be 
okay.  C'mon."

END?
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