Disclaimer: I don't own Fillmore!
Summary: Ingrid's having a late night.
...
She was tired.
Her sash weighed down on her shoulders, so light yet so heavy. She let her bag fall to the floor with a thunk, dragging her weary body up the stairs to her room after giving her father and sister a quick hello and goodnight as it was well past her bed time. A few months ago she wouldn't have been all that tired, but her new (but amazingly fun) job kept her busy to the point of exhaustion.
She collapsed onto her chair with a hefty sigh. She wasn't done yet, not by a longshot. She thought over getting some tea, but decided against it. Not even tea was strong enough to help with this form of exhaustion. What she needed now was a good nap and a boiling cup of cocoa. She wasn't really one for cocoa, but this was an emergency.
It was a good thing Fillmore practically lived at her house, she decided, heating up some water. Once he'd realized her home lacked any of the substance, he'd quickly brought over a small box 'for those long patrol nights'. Pouring her cup and stirring in the mix, she swallowed half the cup, ignored her burning tongue. A little tongue burn was more than worth it if the bad guy was brought to justice.
...What was she saying? A few months ago, she would have been the bad guy brought to justice. How many times had been she been the one to sit in the chair across from some safety patrol officer, bitterly wishing she had a spare piece of fabric from there sash to have some 'fun' with her voodoo dolls? How many officers had told her she wouldn't ever be anything other than a delinquent? She still didn't trust half the officers she met, to this very day.
She shook her head, attempting to clear of her ragged mind of any excess thoughts. She must be tired if she was going down this route. Clutching her cocoa mug tightly in her semi-shaking hands, sugar high slowly kicking in, she trailed back up the stairs. Funny, she thought with a chuckle, she didn't used to have a cocoa mug. She'd had a tea glass, but she'd never had a cocoa mug. Now that she thought about it, she hadn't even touched her tea glass since the newest case opened. Maybe that was why she felt like she was on withdrawal.
Placing the cup on the desk, she re-slumped into her chair, arm hanging over the side. Too tired to even bother with taking her belt off, she wheeled the chair under the desk, turned on the computer.
A few months back, she would have gone to bed early, homework completed and at the ready, curled under the covers, and wonder what had become of her. Now she went to bed late, homework done in class, and wondered what had become of her as she awaited for her sugar high to slow down enough for her to have a plausible reason to give Vallejo for conking out on the job. Not that much of a difference, but the first one was much more physically satisfying.
And why was it she was the one who always got stuck searching through newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping for any kind of hint that the others had missed? Her photographic memory was a big help, sure, but it'd be nice if someone else got the job here and there. Part of her honestly wondered who got the short end of the stick before her arrival. Probably Fillmore, she guessed, scrolling down the page.
She took another sip of her cocoa, blinked sluggishly at the screen. It was hours past her bedtime, she knew, and her dad would ground her if he knew she was still awake. Fillmore did this stuff all the time, but she was still unused to the sensation of having her limbs feel like they were made of stone.
Her walkie fuzzed beside the computer. "Ingrid?" Back when she'd first met him, his voice had made her grit her teeth in annoyance. That intrusive boy was back and trying to get her to try and prove her innocence. Why couldn't he leave her alone!?
Now, his voice was one of her favorite sounds. It was familiar and safe. She clicked the button. "Hey."
He chuckled. "Late night?"
"Obviously. Why're you still awake?"
He shrugged. She didn't see it, she didn't have too. She knew he shrugged and he knew she knew he shrugged. "I thought you might want some company is all. Long nights are actually a lot of fun if you have company."
Imagining the smile flickering across his face, she snorted. "Are you offering?"
"Always." She took a drink of her cocoa, setting the now-empty cup down with a small clatter.
What happened to the nights when she used to plot her crimes and pranks? The days she filled piñatas with stink powder and chemical stank because she was forced to create one for the principal for her birthday as punishment for some crime she'd committed? "You sure you wouldn't rather be sleeping?"
She imagined the small chuckle lingering in the back of his throat. "Wouldn't you?"
"Touché."
Honestly, who was she kidding? She wasn't a real Safety Patrol Officer. Real officers didn't pick locks. Real officers didn't steal. Real officers didn't know how to steal a mascot and get away with it. (Well, some of them might know from experience with mascot thieves, but most of them still didn't understand how the interworking's of mascot-theft.)
"Ingrid, you listening?" She startled, shaking herself. Glancing at the clock, she realized it'd been a good half-hour or so since she'd last checked it.
"Sorry, I must have dozed off..."
"You okay?" Why could he read her so well? Even her closest business partners back during her delinquency days couldn't tell what she'd been thinking, but he didn't even have to see her face to know something was off... It was mildly worrying.
"Yeah, just tired." She rubbed her eyes, groaned at the newest feeling of exhaustion. Did all officers go through this, or was it only the workaholic ones like Fillmore and herself? She couldn't see O'Farrell staying up late unless something was wrong with his camera. And even then, his mother wouldn't let him stay up past his bedtime. (Not that her dad would let her either, but that was beside the point)
"Uh-huh." He didn't believe her, it was in his voice. And that was alright, let him worry. Maybe one of these days he'd realize that she didn't like talking about things like this. "Anyway, how's the search going?"
"Nothing." She sighed, exiting out of the newspaper column. "I've checked every paper for the past ten years, and I still have nothing." She paused. "Did you know that the gym used to be another detention room?"
"I'm not very surprised." He sighed. She imagined him leaning back in his chair. "Ingrid, you're tired. Go to bed."
"But-" She bit her tongue. He wouldn't sleep, not until the case was over. He'd catnap, but he wouldn't really sleep. How was it fair that she got to go the bed but he didn't?
"But nothing. We need you awake, not dragging your feet. It's no big, I promise."
"Thanks." She stretched, resisting the urge to yawn. "Goodnight, Fillmore."
"Night Ingrid."
Hanging her sash on the hook, she buried any thoughts about weather or not she truly deserved to wear it (Fillmore was a delinquent, she reminded herself, he turned out fine. So will you.), and curled under the covers to try and get some sleep for the long day ahead.
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