WATCHING

by Alison

Part 2 of the Waiting series

Feedback to: xalison@excite.com, lammasday@yahoo.com

Fandom: The Lone Gunmen

Pairing/Category: Langly/Byers slash (well, just implied)

Disclaimer: They're not mine, etc

Archive: Lone Slasher, Basement, WWOMB, anywhere else just ask

WATCHING
by Alison

It's a slow autumn afternoon in the Lone Gunmen HQ, and Langly is pissed off. The trail he's been following for the last two hours has proved to be a dead end, and he's tired and bored. His shoulders are tense and cramped from leaning over the keyboard all afternoon, and his eyes are aching.

Usually he would relieve his bad mood with a few digs at Frohike, but the oldest Gunman was up all night and is now sleeping it off in the back.

He finds himself looking across covertly at Byers, as he seems to be doing more and more these days. His friend is absorbed in something he's hacked into, his intense blue eyes locked on the computer screen and oblivious to anything else. A stray beam of sunlight from the only window is slanting down across the dimly lit room and turning his red-brown hair to the colour of New England autumn leaves. He's leaning his chin on his hand, the long capable fingers stroking through his beard.

There suddenly doesn't seem to be enough air in the room for Langly. His chest is tight and there's a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pushes himself to his feet abruptly and takes a deep breath.

"I'm getting nowhere here. I'm gonna take a break, get some fresh air."

Byers blinks and looks up distractedly. "Sure, okay . . . be back by dinnertime?"

Langly nods and heads out, stopping in the bathroom on the way. Leaning over the basin he splashes cold water on his face, then stares at himself in the mirror. "Nice one, Ringo . . your best yet. You've got the hots for your best friend. How're you gonna get out of this?"

He's been living with this knowledge, yet trying *not* to acknowledge it, for months - no, more than a year now. Ever since the night at the Lombard Clinic when they could have been killed, he has been trying to come to terms with the feelings churned up by that night's events. Thoughts of John Byers have filled his waking moments and his nightly hours as well. Living side by side as they do, John is hardly ever out of his sight, and while Langly is grateful for every minute he can spend observing John without his behaviour being noticed either by Frohike or John himself, but it is leading to a severe case of frustration.

Langly's fantasies are taking up more and more of his hours, waking and sleeping. They usually involve him saving John's life or otherwise earning his undying gratitude, an appreciation his friend is only too willing to show in the most gratifying form.

And times like their recent trip to Las Vegas are both a delight and a sweet torture to Langly. Sharing a room with him, in even closer proximity than usual; seeing him half naked on the way to the shower or dressing; waking up in the night and seeing him sleeping in the next bed, his face calm and peaceful, his body exposed and vulnerable.

This is all compounded by the realisation that this is not just about sex. Much as he aches to have him, he finds himself also wanting to protect his friend; to look after him. Not just to fuck him, but to make love to him. He dreams of being able to wake up in the middle of the night to find John sleeping not in the next bed, but in his arms; to be able to just watch him sleeping, to lie awake listening to his breathing.

His inner turmoil, however, has had some strange effects on his outward demeanor. He finds himself tempted by some inner demon to provoke John, to tease him more than he did before, with two-edged remarks designed to bring a blush to his reserved colleague's face. Sneers about women and the lack of them in their lives, which make John bite his lip and look away, his face closing up.

He feels he's got to do something, say something, or he will explode. But how can he tell his *most definitely straight* friend how he feels? John would be out of there so fast there would be a sonic boom. Better not to say anything, Langly tells himself desperately. At least we can be friends and I can see him every day. That's got to be enough.

At least that's what he's telling himself.

He leaves the HQ and drives aimlessly downtown, glad of the need to concentrate on the heavy homegoing commuter traffic. He parks a couple of hundred yards from the Mall and gets out and walks. A group of Australian tourists are cluttering up the sidewalk ahead of him, their backpacks almost knocking other pedestrians into the road. They are hanging about outside an internet cafe and talking about picking up their e-mail, and then it's like a lightbulb coming on in Langly's head.

He hesitates for barely a minute outside before making a decision and going in. He takes a terminal at the back and gets to work. It's the matter of a few minutes' work to access an anonymous internet account the other guys don't know about, a false name and id, and hack into an ISP he knows as well as the back of his own hand.

He types his message and then spends another while tweaking the settings, navigating its path through the arcane labyrinthine backwaters of the Net, bouncing from service provider to service provider across the Web until not even his colleagues would be able to trace it back. His final touch is to set a delayed delivery, giving him time to get back to HQ before the message is received. He clicks the final "send" with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, mixed with the illicit thrill of finally giving in to temptation.

Back in the car he is surprised to find his heart is hammering with excitement as the visualises the arrival of his message. Arriving back at HQ he finds Frohike awake and cooking dinner, and the next couple of hours is taken up with the regular evening routine of eating, watching a game on TV, bickering about this and that, until Byers gets up and goes to his terminal as he always does at this time to check his email.

Langly casually drifts after him, takes a seat across from him so he can see Byers' face. That tight feeling is back in his chest again as Byers opens his email programme. His eyebrows shoot up.

"Hey . . ."

"What is it"

"Anonymous message. I don't recognise the source . ."

His voice trails off as he opens the message. A faint flush appears on his face.

"What *is* it?"

"Um . . . I suppose you'd better look. This is weird . . ."

The other two peer over his shoulder at the screen. They see a pale blue screen with two lines of Gothic type in a large font:

"John Fitzgerald Byers

I Love You."

Langly has planned his "reaction" carefully. He snorts in derision.

"Woo-hoo, Byers . . you got a secret admirer! Way to go, Narcboy!"

Byers' flush deepens. He splutters:

"Look, it's probably just a joke .. . one of our contacts having a laugh."

"C'mon, John, you can tell us. Where did you meet her? At the library? In the candy store?"

Byers is scarlet with embarrassment now. God, he looks hot. Langly opens his mouth for one final dig but Frohike cuts him off.

"Have either of you two dorks thought it might be a virus? Or *someone* attempting to access our systems? Delete it, now!"

Byers shakes his head. "Unlikely, with the firewalls we have set up. Let me try and trace it first."

Frohike parks his butt on the edge of the desk and stares at Byers until he meets his eyes. "Think it might be Suzanne?"

Across the room Langly freezes. He hadn't thought of that implication. But Byers shakes his head again.

"No, it's not Suzanne. We're very careful about always using coded messages."

For the next half hour or so Byers works on the e-mail, while Langly watches with a mixture of glee tinged with guilt. Nothing turns you on like watching the one you love doing something he's good at. And damn, John's good. But not *quite* as good as me.

Eventually he pushes his chair away from the desk with a sigh, and moodily stares at the screen. He reaches out one more time and taps "Ctrl-Del" and the message is irretrievably gone.

"Dumped it?"

"Yep."

"So we'll never know."

"No". He smiles crookedly at Langly. "I did think for a moment it might be Suzanne."

Shit. Who was it said "you always hurt the one you love".

Looks like another sleepless night.



END