WONDERING

by Alison

No. 4 in the "Waiting" series:

Fandom The Lone Gunmen

Note: The same night: Byers POV

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

Category: Langly/Byers

Disclaimer: They're not mine etc

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

Spoilers: Minor for Three of a Kind

Summary: Byers gets a shock


WONDERING
by Alison

Byers POV

Damn Ringo Langly. Damn and damn and damn him.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he doing this to himself, to us? Don't we all have enough on our minds, enough to worry about without wondering where he's got to, if he's okay, if he's out there again somewhere getting smashed or worse.

And he's screwed up my entire evening too. I'm supposed to be researching some UFO reports for Mel's article and all I can do is sit here and stare at nothing. I'm so angry, I just want to kick his ass all the way from here to Arlington.

Why is he doing this? What's bugging him? And why is he taking it out on me?

He's got a lot worse since Las Vegas. It was coming on before, but not nearly so bad. The odd sarcastic remark, sneering comment, but then he's always been sharp tongued. But it was when we got back from Vegas that I really started to notice it.

So - what about Vegas? I thought at first it must be the money, but I settled that long ago. I insisted on paying the guys back, put $2000 of my own money back in our holding account. So it can't be the money.

I wondered if it could be the drug they gave him. But Susanne was pretty sure the antidote was reliable and there were no side-effects. Scully certainly was okay. So it can't be that.

I wondered if perhaps it just threw him that he was programmed to kill Susanne. Or that it was my fault we could all have been killed. Or Jimmy being killed. Or any one of the things that happened that weekend.

But it doesn't matter. "Why" isn't the problem. I can't get past "what" yet. What he said.

When I yelled at him this evening, it was the last straw - I told myself I'd taken his crap for long enough, it was time to tell him where to get off. And boy, yes, it did feel good to see Mister Ringo Langly on the receiving end for a change. And to see the hurt look in his eyes, mirroring the way I know I look when he dishes it out to me. Yeah, it felt good at the time.

Only now, of course, he's got me feeling guilty too. I shouldn't have lost my temper with him. It's not like it was the first time. But why *now*, why this time, was it suddenly too much to take? If I'm honest with myself - because he was only saying what I've been coming to realise myself for a while now. That he's right.

What is it he calls me? A pathetic geek, who's been waiting ten years for a woman he's seen just twice in all that time.

Twice. In ten years.

When we came back from Vegas, I was on a high, euphoric. I'd seen her again, she remembered me, it was as if the last ten years had never happened. She gave me the ring, kissed me, said "some day . . .". And it was if all those endlessly repeating dreams might really come true, one day.

It was that dream that made me realise. After Vegas, I stopped having that dream. I thought it was because I'd seen the chance that it might come true, but I know now it was the opposite. It never could come true, and it never will.

It's taken me some time to realise it, but I wasn't so much on a high as in free fall. And it took a while, but now I've hit the ground.

Ten years. Is it going to be another ten years before I see her again? Will she wait that long? Would she want to? Would she still want me? Hell, did she ever want me? When I told her it was too dangerous for us to be together, she didn't argue. She let me send her away. If she really wanted to be with me, she would have stayed.

And that dream - would she want that too? The white house with the picket fence, the children, the dog - how do I know what she really wants? I hardly know her at all.

Ten years wasted on a dream. I'm beginning to see that now. But, God, it hurts to let go. To admit I've been wrong, to relinquish the security of a beautiful dream of "some day".

Langly was right. He may not have been very tactful about it, but he was right. I've spent ten years chasing a dream, and I've got to let it go.

I guess I should go and find Langly, tell him he's right.

I come back to earth to realise that Mel has been speaking to me. "John?"

He doesn't often call me by my first name, and this was enough to get my attention. "Yeah?"

"He'll be back. Don't worry, he can look after himself."

"Yeah, I know. That's not what's bugging me."

He looks enquiringly at me. I lean back, avoiding his eyes.

"He's right, isn't he? What he said. About me, I mean. And Susanne. I've been thinking a lot recently - and he is right. I am a pathetic geek. And I have been wasting my life, waiting for Susanne when we can never be together."

"Whoa, buddy, slow down there . . .

"Sorry, Mel . . . I don't want the "buddy" routine right now, okay? Just leave me alone."

But after a minute or two more I just can't take Mel's careful silence and cautious sideways glances any more, and I push the laptop away. "Maybe I should go look for him."

Frohike shrugs. "He could be anywhere by now. Look, he'll be okay. He's like a cat, he'll come back but not before he's ready."

He's right of course. Langly can look after himself if anyone can. But it doesn't stop me feeling bad about it anyway.

Maybe I should go and look for him.

I slam the laptop shut and go to look for my coat, but before I can find it the door buzzer sounds. I nearly rupture myself getting there before Mel does. All these damn locks - do we really need so many?

Langly's standing there, swaying from side to side. He's even more ratty and rumpled than usual, and boy, is he drunk. He stares at me, blinking and trying to focus. His mouth opens and closes several times before any words come out.

"John . . . John . . . hey buddy . . ."

I step back to let him in, but he just leans against the wall, frowning in an effort to concentrate.

"Hey buddy . . about this evening . . . uh . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Don't know what got into me . .. I didn't mean it . ." he mumbles, repeating himself like a stuck record. He staggers forward and grabs me by the shoulders. "Please John . . ."

I'm just relieved he's basically okay, but I can't let him see that. "OK, Langly it's OK . ."

"I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have said it. It's just . . .I hate to see you wasting your life. You're wasting your life, man . . ." and he clutches me tighter, leans forward and rests his head on my shoulder.

What can I do but squeeze his shoulders gently. "It's OK, Ringo, forget it. You're drunk. You ought to get to bed."

Langly raises his head and I'm amazed to see tears on his cheeks. Oh yeah, he's at the self-pitying stage. He sniffs and wipes his face with the back of his hand. "Sorry" he mutters again.

"Right, now come on, we'd better get you cleaned up and into bed", and I slip an arm round him and steer him in the direction of the bedrooms, waving off Frohike's offer of help.

Halfway across the room, he stumbles and falls onto the couch, still holding tight to me and dragging me down alongside him. "You're a good friend, John . . . he hiccupps and giggles with the abrupt change of mood of the very drunk, wrapping one arm round my neck. "Hey, gorgeous . . . why don't you stay with me . . . let's get comfy."

Oh Jeez . . . he's never been this bad before. I pull myself away and stand up. "Come on, Ringo, you don't know what you're saying. Let's get you to bed, you'll feel better."

He giggles again, squinting up at me. "Sure, if you'll stay with me . . . C'mon John, don't be a party pooper, we can have some fun . . "

Ringo . . . why are you doing this to yourself? I reach down and pull him up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leans on me heavily, forcing me to stop, and gazing intently at me. "John . . . I wanna thank you . . . I love you, John . ."

Omigod . . . I just hope he doesn't remember *this* in the morning. I tug on his arm again, and he obediently follows me down the corridor towards his bedroom.

"You're a good friend, John, did I ever tell you you're beautiful . . ." I fervently hope Frohike didn't hear *that*, while tugging his teeshirt off and discovering too late that he's been sick down the front. And no, I am *not* gonna do the nursemaid act and clean him up, he can damn well stay dirty and smelly and sticky till the morning. Let him wake up like that and see what sort of state he gets himself into. He flops onto the bed and I take his sneakers off, pull him into the recovery position so he won't choke, and go to get a glass of water to leave by the bed.

When I get back he's fast asleep already and snoring gently, so I pull the blankets up to his neck. He's a bit cold - must find something more to put over him. Another blanket; under the bed, maybe. No; maybe in the nightstand - wait, what's this -

Oh Jeez. Another one of his porn mags that we're not supposed to know about. Definitely not one of the kind he and Frohike trade between them and offer to me occasionally - this has a picture of a lean, young and totally naked guy on the front.

Well, I've always known Langly swings both ways - he tries to keep this side of his nature hidden around us, but I've seen him bring gay porn tapes home sometimes, he watches them in the middle of the night when Mel and I are both asleep. And a couple of times when I've had to go to his PC to find something, I've come across pictures he's downloaded.

It doesn't really bother me as much as he probably thinks - I can think back to a couple of experiences of my own before we met. It might even surprise him to know what this pathetic geek got up to at college. Oh well, that was a long time ago. I lean to put the magazine back where I found it.

With curiosity I see something in the drawer that looks strangely familiar, and casually pull it out for a better look. What the hell is this doing here? My old blue undershirt, that I was wearing last week and threw in the laundry basket and couldn't find it again - crumpled and still unwashed and - stained - how . . . what . .

I let it fall from my hand as I see what is below it in the drawer. A pile of photographs.

Photographs of me.

Photographs I've never seen before.

Photographs of me, taken here in the HQ - oh yes, I remember - earlier this year when Mel and I gave Ringo a new digital camera for his birthday, he spent hours prancing round taking practice shots of us all over the place . . . he said most of them were so bad, he'd trashed most of them . . .

There's one of me sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen, frowning - what was I looking at? And another of me in the kitchen, leaning on the counter top with a mug of coffee in my hand, talking to Mel.

And then a lot taken outside, that's right, he dragged me off around Washington on the tourist trail, taking more "practice" shots. That hot summer day, he made me change my suit for something more casual, so there I am in my cotton pants and open-necked shirt with my sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over my shoulder.

There's one of me at the top of the Washington Monument, leaning on the barrier looking out over the city. It's not a bad photo of me, except that the wind is blowing my hair all over the place.

There's one of me by the reflecting pool, again not bad except that I've got a big silly grin on my face, we'd just seen two kids on roller blades go smack into each other and I told Ringo he'd never make a journalist, he should have snapped the kids - he was laughing so much, I didn't think he'd got a shot at all.

There's one of me by the coffee stall at the entrance to the park, rather uncharacteristically with my hands in my pockets, slouching . . . why did he keep that one?

There's one of the two of us - oh yes, that Japanese couple asked us to take one of them, and then Ringo was using sign language, getting them to take one of us in return . . . he was goofing about, putting his arm round my shoulders to make them laugh . . .

Here's one he must have taken a few days later, when the three of us drove up to Buffalo to see that guy who was a friend of Thinker. Driving back, when I'd finished my turn at the wheel I crawled in back and went to sleep. So there's one of me curled up on the back seat with my hair in my eyes and my mouth open, fast asleep.

And here, last of all, there's another one of me asleep.

Here, in the HQ, in my own room. In my own bed.

And god help me, it's only now that the implications of all this suddenly hit me and knock the breath out of me.

This last picture. I'm asleep, curled on my side as I usually do, head resting on one arm and my face half buried in the pillow. I'm wearing those old blue pajamas I should have thrown out years ago, with most of the buttons missing off the top that I keep meaning to replace. Another warm night it must have been, because I've pushed the blanket half off of me and I'm lying there half naked.

Omigod . . .

There's only one way he could have taken that shot. He must have sneaked into my room after I was asleep and . . .

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, on the floor by Ringo's bed with my head resting on the side only inches away from his outstretched hand. The pictures have fallen from my hand and are scattered all over the floor like the remains of a present-unwrapping session on Christmas morning. And Ringo is blissfully asleep behind me completely unaware that he's just put his fist through my entire life and shattered it like a broken mirror, and my self-image is lying in pieces on the floor along with all the scattered pictures.

Ringo . . . omigod . . . now I see . . .

I come to my senses with almost panic, feeling I have to get out of there before either Ringo wakes up and sees me and all this stuff, or Frohike walks in. Don't know how I manage to scramble all the pictures back together and shove them back in the drawer with the shirt on top, stumble dizzily to my feet and get the hell out of there.

Ringo . . . Jesus . . .

But I must have managed it somehow because here I am in my own room with the door shut, my breath is coming fast and my heart pounding, my hands are shaking.

Ringo . . .

And I have all night to decide just what the hell to do now.



End