From: Lil XPhile Date sent: Thu, 7 May 1998 23:33:43 EDT Subject: NF> Tercet: The Splintering (1/1) To: gossamer Title: Tercet--The Splintering author: Martha Little and gizzie classification: S,A spoilers: minor season five Rating: R (language) Disclaimer: We're keeping them for ourselves, tough. Summary: Trouble a brewin' for the Lone Gumnmen. authors note: This is the brain child of Martha Little and gizzie. Please read Martha's "No Time To Waste" and gizzie's "Messenger VII" for back story. Our favorite foods are Ballatoré and PeePop, Doritos and Peanut Butter, and healthy servings of FEEDBACK. mwlittle@mindspring.com gizzie@ix,netcom.com Little and giz--All Gunmen, All the Time ****************************************************** Tercet--The Splintering by Martha Litle and XXXXgizzieXXXX It's one-fucking-thirty in the morning. It's not like I'm having an easy time trying to get to sleep, but now some idiot is leaning on my doorbell and apparently won't go away. Christ. I look through the peephole and recognize that face and that voice that keeps mumbling my name over and over again. What the hell? I can't seem to get this door open fast enough. Jesus H Christ. It's Langly. And he's drunk. Again. He nearly falls into my arms as I open my door. There is only a faint hint of alcohol about him, but then again, his drink of choice recently has been gin. He is always so happy to see me when he is in this state. He wraps his arms around me and gives me a bear hug. Even in this condition he is still so strong. And so heavy. It takes every bit of my strength to get him inside my apartment, and I am dragging him somewhat over to the sofa. As I deposit him on the couch, he is still mumbling my name and his apologies for the late hour and wants to know where the nearest party is. I hate the holiday season, if only to know what it does to Langly. I tell him to just stay where his is and that I'll be right back. As I am in the bathroom dampening some facecloths to help him settle down, I hear the cabinet doors in the kitchen being opened and slammed shut. Sigh. He's looking for more liquor. And he'll find it, too. You'd think that I would learn to keep it locked up after those other times that he's raided my place. "Stop it." I take a bottle out of his hand, none too gently. "Now go over there and sit down." I point to the kitchen table and give him a shove towards it. Langly limps over to the nearest chair and nearly topples it by falling into it. "Come on, I need a drink. Jus' one, and then I'll go home." I open the coffee canister and look for the filters. I know that coffee is not going to help that much, but I've got to get something warm into his stomach fast. "You've had more than enough already. You shouldn't have even had any." I try not to sound like I'm pissed off at him, but I am, and he should know it. I really should just slap his face and scream at him, but I know that it is not going to do any good. I did that the last time he showed up here like this. I still don't understand why he does this - why he does this to himself. He had always been an odd one. Well, odd for this group anyway. Even before, back in Baltimore, he seemed to have this sharp edge to his personality. He'd go for days being semi-rational and somewhat goofy and then turn around and be snarly and bitterly sarcastic. I never saw it coming. "I need a drink, and you should have one, too. Come on, Doo-hickey." I turn to face that shit-ass grin of his. He knew that last comment would get my attention. "You don't need another drink. What you *do* need is some sleep." I take the facecloths over to the table and begin to wipe his face. He struggles and turns his face first to the left and then right, like a four-year-old who does not want his face cleaned. I can only hope that the coolness will help to bring him somewhat back to reality. Langly finally surrenders and closes his eyes and allows me to pat his forehead and cheeks with the cloth. He is so much like a child at times. Why didn't I see this sooner? There was no hint pointing toward his drinking problem at first. He had always avoided parties and gatherings, preferring his gaming sessions where presumably no drinking took place. When I think of all the times that I drank in front of him, openly and in great quantities, and he never joined me even when I offered. I still don't know if his willpower was greater than his need or if he just didn't want any of us to know about his problem. Whatever it was, he kept it well hidden for those first couple of years. I pour that first cup of coffee and drown it in sugar and milk because that's how he likes it. He takes a tentative first sip, making a face at its bitterness even with all that milk, but he continues to drink it. Good, he's gotten to that stage where he understands what he has done and is accepting my help. I've memorized this routine of his by now. He's shown up here a number of times like this over the past few years. When he gets here, I know that this is his signal to stop drinking for the night even though he keeps asking for more. This is why he comes to my place. He knows that I will take care of him until he sobers up. Langly struggles to slip off his sneakers and shakily stands up in an attempt to pull his t-shirt up over his head. But it gets hung up on his glasses, and he tugs really hard, and the t-shirt finally makes it over his head, and his glasses go flying across the kitchen floor. He's complaining about the heat in my apartment even though my thermostat is set on sixty-five degrees, and I am standing here in sweats and I'm still freezing. I know what is coming next. I start to lead him towards the bathroom, but about halfway there, he breaks free and makes a mad dash for the toilet. I guess that I should be grateful that he knows where it is by now. He is still retching when I enter the bathroom There's not a whole lot that I can do for him at the moment, except sit on the edge of the bathtub and hold back his hair away from his face and rub his lower back. After another moment, he stops coughing and rests his head on the toilet seat, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The next step in this ritual is for me to run some water in the bathtub and let Langly stick his head and neck under the faucet. Sometimes he gets sick again, but mostly he just lets the warm water run over him for a few minutes. He's usually aware enough to turn the water off for himself, while I grab a towel. Then I'll sit back down on the edge of the tub and Langly will lean back against the tub in front of me while I dry his hair. The first couple of times that I tried to do this for him, he pulled away and wouldn't allow any sort of contact. Maybe it was too personal for him. Maybe he thought that I was trying . . . to take advantage of him in his inebriated state. Whatever - he can believe what he wants. He now accepts my help without hesitation or question. And I am only too glad to be able to do something for him. I am just sick about the reason why he is here in the first place. I finish squeezing the dampness out of his hair and lay the towel on the floor. Langly rests his cheek against my knee and renews his apologetic chant. For showing up again and for drinking again. If he would only remember this in the morning. He's tired. And I am thankful. Some of the other times, he's been so miserable afterwards. He'll start to cry, and I'll slip to the floor behind him and cradle him while he continues with his incoherent revelations. If he would only be this open with us when he is sober. He is always off on his own, never acknowledging that he needs anyone, much less any help with this problem. If he weren't so damn brilliant, I'd have told him to get lost years ago. But I didn't have the heart to do it. In a way, he reminds me of what I could have become. I pull him up from the floor, and we make our way back to the living room. He stretches out on the couch that has become his second home, and I pull the extra blankets out of the closet and tuck him in. He finally stops mumbling, and his breathing is slow and labored. I sit beside the couch on the floor for a few more minutes, just to be sure that he doesn't wake right back up wondering where he is, and then I head back to my bedroom to try to get some sleep. But it does not come easily. We have to do something about Langly. ******************************* Jesus. My mouth tastes like gym socks. And will someone PLEASE turn that klieg off?? I squint and turn over to avoid the skull-piercing sun light streaming through the curtainless window, only to roll over and right off the couch, thudding to the floor in a messed up tangle of blankets and my own long limbs. I fight my way out of the wollen mess, wondering where the hell my glasses are. And for that matter...where the hell am *I* ?? The whir, whistle, chime and BONG BONG BONG of sixteen antique clocks split my pounding head another few degrees, but without a doubt identifies my location as chateau Frohike. These fucking clocks of his...how's a guy supposed to sleep? Frohike and clocks...who'd'a thunk it?? What the hell am I doing HERE anyway....? Oh. Oh, yeah. The Christmas light tour and picking Becca's Christmas tree--that goddamn Byers, I swear he interviewed the damn things 'till he got the PERFECT one. Becca and Frohike bringing us hot chocolate from that strange little diner, Frohike with this lost puppy look on his face. I wonder what the deal is there? Becca and Byers practically shoving us out the door after we hauled that sucker up four flights of steps, so they could no doubt "deck their halls". Frohike went home, and I..... Ooops. Oh, yeah. The Limerick Tavern, the Christmas in Killarney floor show, and the cool, crisp bite of Beefeaters on the rocks..... Shit. I was doing pretty good there, for a while, too. It's not the drinking that's my problem...it's the not STOPPING. I must have came here on automatic pilot...I've done it before. The Limerick is only one block from Byers', but my inane paranoia still unconsciously shies me away from The Narc when my ass is in trouble. Frohike is like my own little leather-bound guardian angel. I stagger to my feet and find my way to the bathroom. Even with the window open, there is the unmistakeable underlying stench of puke in here, there are towels on the floor, and I wonder just how big an ass I made of myself last night. I remeber, once, almost drowning beside this very bathtub, kneeling with my head under the running faucet, as Frohike left the room, mistakenly thinking I had enough sense to extricate myself. That experience alone had kept me sober...for a while... I lean close, nose almost to the mirror, and study my face. I can't see very well, and it's probably just as well; I'm scaring myself as it is. I look older than my thirty two years. My face is lined, my eyes sunken and bloodshot. I think for the hundredth time about cutting my hair...Michael Bolton did. But Michael Bolton had that Nicolette chick, too.... Where ARE my glasses?? I think about taking a shower, but don't want to wake Frohike, who I saw is sprawled, still clothed, across the single bed in the closet sized bedroom. Something about that single bed makes my guts twist.... I swipe a string of Crest across my index finger and try to scrub the sock taste from my mouth. God, my head is splitting. The only thing in the medicine cabinet is Preparation H...kind of appropriate, actually.... I slam the mirrored door hard, suddenly pissed at Frohike for not having Ibuprofin, and myself for needing it so desperately. The clocks give another quarter hour dirge, ringing mightily through my head. I go to the kitchen, stare blankely at the Espresso machine. I don't have a clue how to operate this thing. He's gotta have some instant somewhere.... Five cabinets, and I hit pay dirt. An impressive selection of gentleman's booze, including an almost full bottle of Beefeater's. A little hair of the dog, courtesy of my main man, Frohike. Alllll right. I'm a little taken aback at how my hand shakes as I twist off the cap, but as I swig right from the bottle, the cloying burn spikes into my skull, and I feel instantly better. Another long draught, and even my vision is clearing..... "Don't forget to top it off with water, so I don't know you drank it." I startle and just about choke on the mouthful of gin. It's Frohike, stubble faced and bleary eyed and looking mean as cat shit. "I was just...." "I KNOW what you were doing." He yanks the bottle from my hand and throws it in the sink, where it shatters with a nerve-jangling crash, glass flying up and over the side. Frohike takes two steps and bends to retrieve the broken shards, I try to slink past him, but he's up in a flash and grabs me by the arm, spinning me around to face him. I yank away defensively, my fist automatically balling and coming up between us. He grabs my fist in one hand and yanks, and I'm suddenly on my knees, one arm twisted up behind me. He glares down at me, and I have enough sense to stop struggling, before I end up with a size 9 up my nose. "Are you done?" he rasps. I nod meekly, and the hand around my fist slides to my wrist, releasing the pressure on my burning shoulders, and he pulls me to my feet, shoves me into a kitchen chair. He turns away from me, leans against the counter and breathes in long, controlled breaths. "Where'd you learn THAT move?" I feel like my arm is gonna fall out of the socket. "Viet Nam." "I'm...I'm sorry, Fro....." He laughs suddenly, which scares me as much as his rage. He turns and looks at me, shaking his head. "You're SORRY...sorry for WHAT, Langly?? That you're drinking at seven am on a Saturday morning...or that I caught you....what??" "I...I'm not DRINKING, exactly....", I say defensively. "Oh. Well, what EXACTLY were you doing last night that you turned up here and ended up with your head in my toilet by two in the morning??" "I wasn't THAT drunk."' "Oh, I see, you just came by to wash your hair..." he turns away picks a shard of glasss from the sink, runs the sharp edge slowly across the tender underside of his wrist. "Jesus, Langly...." "Don't lecture ME, Frohike, you certainly have enough booze here." " *I'M* not the one with the twelve step pamphlets in my desk drawer, kid," he says quietly. Cheap shot. "I'm not REALLY drinking , Frohike. Not really." My paranoia is twisting my gut, raising my voice. I'm sweating . "I'm ok. I just stayed too long at The Limerick. They had their Christmas party last night. You should have come." "So what happened here, did you forget the Orange Juice for the Mimosas this morning?" He's pissing me off now. My eyes flash, and he sees this, he leans on the table, puts a hand on my shoulder. "What....what is it, Langly?? You were doing so good. Let me help you." No. I don't need anybody's HELP. "I'm alright, Fro...." "Is it this time of year....is it Christmas?" His voice is gentle, and I want to run. " Watching Byers and Becca yesterday...that was hard for me, too, ya know. This is a hard time of year, when you're alone." "What, alone?" I say bitterly "YOU'RE not alone, Frohike, don't you have that wonderful video collection you share with your BUDDY, Mulder?? And what about Dee, the mystery lady from the past?? How many times are you gonna stare at that scrap of paper with that phone number...what are you trying to do, channel her?" He looks like I punched him in the gut, but I can't stop, I'm on a roll now. "Then there's always your wonderful fantasy life, starring Dana Scully. She's fair game again, you know, now that she's well" Frohike pales and leans back against the counter, stunned. That was pretty cruel. Still, some self-defensive arena in me is cheering, I've turned this debacle around so it's no longer about me. I'm nothing but thorough in my assholeishness. I stand up and lean over him, my height an unfair psychological advantage. "Why don't you straighten out your own life,and stay the fuck out of mine?" He stares up at me, his eyes bleak. Something in my chest tightens and breaks, and I have to get out of here fast. I turn away from him, head for the door...I don't even know if I was wearing a jacket. "Langly." I pause, my hand on the door knob. "Here.....HERE!!!" I turn and look...he's holding my glasses by one earpiece. I take one step, reach-- he holds on to them for an extended second, 'till I meet his eyes. There's pain and confusion and I hesitate a second....no. "I don't need you to save me, Frohike. I don't need anybody." I push my glasses on my face as he turns away from me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He needs a shave. I slam his door behind me, bypass the elevator, and break into a run as soon as I hit the top of the steps. It's only eight stories. I need a drink. ************************** - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Em Laurence (LilXPhile@aol.com) http://members.aol.com/lilxphile/xf.htm - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - __ __ \X\ /X/ \X\/X/ X A n g s t /X/\X\ /X/ \X\ A n o n y m o u s http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/2553/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Are you the wife?" "Not even close." -Hotel clerk, Scully 'The Pine Bluff Variant' - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -