From: Lil XPhile Date: Fri, 8 May 1998 22:51:37 EDT Subject: NF> Tercet II: Temporizing (1/1) Title: Tercet II--Temporizing Authors: gizzie and Martha Little Classification: S spoilers: none Rating:R (language) Disclaimer: Property of the Big C, we'll return them when we're done. Summary: Langly gets stupid, and Frohike gets smart. This takes place in the Messenger/Time universe of giz and Martha, where Gunmen rule. Tell us it's working...... gizzie@ ix.netcom.com mwlittle@mindspring.com Little and giz--All Gunmen, All the Time *********************************************************************** ***** Tercet II--Temporizing by XXXXgizzieXXXX and Martha Little **Saturday, 10 am** Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my! Having been raised in the liquor controlled state of Pennsylvania, it is still a kick for me to stroll into a grocery store and pluck a bottle of booze from a shelf. Such a variety...such a VAST selection. I snag a bottle of California Red--here's to you, Frohike, I sneer to myself. I might have said it out loud, I don't know. At any rate, the stock clerk is staring at me, although he may just be gawking at my hair --people do that. He takes a step toward me, looks around, takes one more step.... "Hey, dude," he hisses, motions for me to step closer. Now *I* look around, paranoid...what are we looking for? "Hey." He leans close, my buddy, low voiced. "You better fly right, dude, if you look like you're already trashed, they won't sell you alcohol." I'm insulted and grateful, take a few deep breaths and palm-scrub my face as I head for the check-out lanes. Christ, it's crowded in here. It's still two weeks 'till Christmas, surely people aren't food shopping already. I needn't worried about the sobriety police, the woman-child cashier doesn't even acknowledge me, merely swipes the bottle across the scanner and holds out her hand for cash. I wonder if she can talk? I giggle at the thought, she fixes me with a curious little stare, and I duck my head, count change out from the pocket of my Levi's. I wave away her offer of a plastic bag and shove the bottle into my back pack. As soon as I'm out of sight of the front door, I duck behind a parked car, pull the 20 oz Tazmanian Devil travel mug from my back pack, and fill it with wine. I take several healthy swigs right from the bottle before I cap it and return it to the depths of my pack. The smooth heat warms my gut and stills the tremor of my hands. But it's official now--I'm freezing my ass off. I must find a coat. There's a Walmart at the opposite end of this sprawling strip-mall. It looks like it's sixteen miles away, but the bite of the freezing rain that has started to fall quickens my steps, and I take several soothing sips of the rich red wine as I hasten into the overheated interior of this suburban delight. I'm not much for shopping in the best of times, and the tension-charged air of the pre-Christmas crowd prickles the hair on the back of my neck. I will never understand why people torture themselves with Christmas shopping, when most appear to hate it so. I have it pretty easy, where that is concerned, no one to buy for, no one to buy for me, no beating my brains out over WHAT to buy, no returning lame shit afterward. I hate Christmas. And I want out of here. I find the Men's Department, am somewhat overwhelmed by the dizzying array of coats, but manage to find a lined denim jacket, a twin to the one I'm now fairly sure is thrown over the back of a kitchen chair in Frohike's apartment. I blew out of there fairly fast this morning. A long draught of wine squelches the bitter after taste of that conversation. I have a moment of panic, standing in the line of a gabazillion people, when I realize I only have $16 in my pocket. I dig through my back pack, check all the secret compartments, and am relieved to find a credit card. I'm more relieved to find it hasn't expired. The holiday-worn cashier shows a spark of interest when he compares my signature to the embossed name on the plastic strip. "Yes, that's my REAL name," I say, before he can question it. "Cool. Your parents must be real comedians." "They probably would be, if they weren't real DEAD," I snap, and grab the jacket from his hand. "I'll just take this to go." "Thank you for shopping Walmart...RINGO," he sneers. Smart ass kid. I stop in the vestibule of the store to rip the tags from the jacket and adjust the sleeve bands. Ringo. Christ, I haven't even HEARD anyone say "Ringo" for years. No one has called me Ringo since my parents were killed in the crash of a private plane when I was seventeen. Becca calls me "Ree", which is --well, just so BECCA. So *cute*. Fuck. I take another swallow of wine and wonder if there's a REAL liquor store near by. I could go for a nice big hug from Jim Beam. In honor of Becca, and that emotional morning several weeks ago. Fucking Mulder. Some big guy plows into me, knocks my back pack out of my hand, yells "Watch it, freak!" I hate Christmas. **Saturday, 5 pm** I'm old enough to remember when phone booths were REALLY phone "booths" --a big, glass and steel closet, with a folding door, a little seat...a BOOTH. What the hell do you call these stand-up-and-talk things, anyway, phone STANDS?? There's probably some PC name like "telephone station". Whatever. I'm standing at, in, by this pay phone, outside the Toot 'n' Scoot, looking across the street at Byers' brownstone building. I can see their silhouettes through the sheer curtain of his second story living room window. They are apparently decorating still another Christmas tree. It's an epidemic. I wonder if there will be one in the office on Monday. I'm drinking Jim Beam from my travel mug, but I've lost my back pack, and therefore the rest of the bottle, somewhere along the way. I don't know where. I don't really know where I've been all day. I hope I had fun. "Hello?" Huh?? Oh....I DID dial Byers' number. "HELLO?" "Ummmm......Becca?" "Who is this?" "It's.....umm, Becca, does....umm...." I want to go home. "Ree?" "Does...I los' my keys. I need Byers' set." "Jeff!" I hear her mumble...I think she calls me a punk..... "Langly...Langly!!" I want to cry. "Byers... I need....." "Langly, where are you?" Ah, THAT'S a good question. "Byers, I need your keys." "Where are you, Langly? Are you okay?" "I'd be fine, if you'd just bring me YOUR FUCKING KEYS!!" "Langly, listen...just tell me where you are, I'll come get you." "Forget it......." "Langly, don't hang up!" Oh...panic..I like that.... " 'S'okay, Byers." I'm overtaken with a sudden fit of giggles, that ends with a horrendous choking hiccup. "Forget it. I don't know where my car is, anyway." I see him, suddenly, part the curtain and look outside the window. I have a maddening urge to jump up and down and wave my hands. "Langly, listen to me." His voice is low, soothing. "Are you at the office? Did you go home at all yesterday?" HA!! He's in Narc mode, and Doo-hickey apparently didn't rat on me. This could be fun.... "Byers," I whine pathetically. "I think I got robbed." Actually, that possibility is pretty good. In addition to my missing back pack, my pockets are empty. "Where ARE you, Langly?" "I'm...I don't know." I'm looking right at him. "Where were you last night." "In my car." "Where's your car?" "I don't know." Who's on first? I drain the travel mug...I'm gonna have to mooch some booze from him soon...."Byers?" "I'm here, bud" "Do you have anything to drink?" I hear his exasperated sigh, and although I can barely see him from here, I know he's palming his chin and rubbing his beard with his long fingers. You're still there, Byers..... "Langly, are you in a bar? Are you close to here?" "I'm close." HAA!!! "Look, you sit tight, ok?? Don't leave. I'll find you." Isn't that sweet?? "Okay," I say, meek. Sucker. I hang up and start the countdown. He must have flew down the steps, because I'm only to 15 when he comes bursting out the front door of the brownstone,his trench coat flapping behind him like the Caped Crusader. I'm gonna have to ask Becca if he wears that trench coat in the sack. What a tight ass. He stumbles and almost pitches head first down the steps, catches himself, and stops, looking up and down the street. I can see the adrenalin induced heaving of his chest--this is probably the most excitement he's had since Mulder faked his own death and scared the shit out of all of us. He makes a decision, and turns right toward The Limerick. I turn left and head for Palmer's. **Sunday, 12:30 am** I don't know who throws the first punch....darts is a stupid thing to fight over, anyway. It gets loud, wild and ugly real fast, I get pulled in and, pacifist that I am, end up flat on my ass in two swings. The bar light is arcing amazingly over my head, the room is spinning, the floor tilts when I try to stand. The guy who's been buying me drinks all night pulls me to my feet, and hauls my ass out of there, just as the police cruisers pull up. We don't quite make it. Ya' know how, on all those cop shows, they show the arresting officer gently guiding some poor bastard into the back seat of a cruiser, a protective hand on the top of his head?? My guy must not watch television. I smack my forehead into the roof molding of the cruiser, then get the blunt end of the wacking stick shoved into my gut for holding back. Amidst the static of the radio, I confusedly hear we are being arrested for D&D. "I never knew it was illegal to play Dungeons and Dragons", I think, right before I pass out. ****************************************** Sunday AM There is this dream I used to have where someone is calling my name and I'm searching through every room in this huge mansion and no matter how close I think that I am getting to the source, it always seems to move away and start somewhere else. I think that I am having this dream now. I can hear something in the distance, and it won't stop, but I can't seem to find it. It's not a dream. There's a phone ringing somewhere in my apartment. I reach out for the one by the bed, knocking my glasses and assorted paperwork to the floor. This had better be good. "Yeah?" "Hey, bud. What's up?" Jesus Christ, it's Langly. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" I pick up the clock that I have not managed to knock over and squint to read it. "It's four in the morning." "Yeah, I know." There is a slight hesitation in his voice, and he seems to have lost some of that hey-bud tone. "Listen, can you come get me?" Something about this doesn't sound good. "And you are where?" Langly hesitates for a moment, and this is really not starting to sound good. "I appear to be a guest of the City of Arlington's finest." "You mean that you've been arrested." Why am I not surprised? "You've said the magic word. Come on, help me and come bail me out." Fuck. "Bail you out? What have you done?" Langly starts giggling. "I'm not real clear on that." I'll bet. I don't know if it's because I'm physically tired or just tired of playing his game. There seem to be moments when a decision is made and a line is drawn and nothing ever goes back to exactly the same way that it was, like leaving home or falling in love for the first time. I always told myself that I would put a stop to this nonsense someday, but I have never been able to refuse him. Until now. "Sorry, Langly; you're on your own." And before I can hear his protests, I hang up the phone. * * * * * * Monday Lone Gunmen Office 8:45am Byers keeps wandering through the offices like he has lost something. He does not appear to be looking for anything in particular, but he has got this worried look on his face. "Where's Langly?" he wonders out loud. I know exactly where he is, but I'm not really sure if I should answer that question. Byers continues. "He usually comes in on the weekends, but I don't think that he's been here." He stops in front of my desk. "You don't think that something's happened to him, do you?" I decide to tell him the truth. "Yes, I do." Byers nearly drops his cup of coffee at that response. By the time that I have finished telling him about the phone call the other morning, he has managed to spill some of it on some reports on my desk and onto the floor. "You did WHAT?" he asks incredulously. I still do not see the cause for alarm. "He's a big boy. He can take care of himself." Byers begins to fish around in his pockets for his keys. "Where is he? I'll go and get him myself." I try to mop up the mess that Byers has left on my desk. "No." "I can't believe that you left him in jail for the entire weekend. If you didn't want to deal with it, then why didn't you call me?" Byers is beginning to sound worried. "And what do you mean, no?" "I've had him checked on. He'll be released by ten o'clock." Byers is again standing over my desk. "And what happens after that?" Good question. What happens now? Is he so pissed that he packs up and leaves? And just where would he go? And would it even solve anything? I stand up and pick up my keys from the desk and walk towards the door. Byers calls out from behind me, still at my desk. "So what are you going to do?" The answer had been so simple. Dragging in the components of the equation had not been. But it might work now. "Something that I should have done a long time ago." I pause and look back towards him. "You want to come? It may not be pretty." to be continued - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 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' - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -