Some Weird Sin
Disclaimer and some such:
I do not have the rights to use any characters
officially associated with The X-Files/ Lone Gunmen
television series. I am using these characters without the
permission of FOX, 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, or
any other copyright owners. Of course, this is intended for
[non-profit] entertainment only, and no
infringement on copyrights or trademarks
was intended by the author.
Any similarities to people, places, and other works of
fanfiction are purely coincidental.
All other characters not officially associated with
The X-Files/ Lone Gunmen (including, but not limited to,
Smithee and Ellroy) are property of the author
and should not be recycled into another story without
No animals were harmed during the making of this fanfic,
except for two mosquitoes and one waterbug.
Cost of coffee drunk while writing this: $15.82
Cost of paper used to print out draft copies: $2.38
Cost of Anne Hawley's beta-reading skills: PRICELESS
The 'present' of this story takes place a few years
before The Lone Gunmen series timeline.
* * *
Flatness. Nothing but perfect flat horizon for miles.
Nothing to keep me from leaving. It's sad, I thought,
like, pathetic sad, scanning around for something
- anything - that I might miss when I was long gone.
But there was just flatness. Some corn. Typical Nebraska.
So I got on the bus, put on my phones, and jacked up
The Stooges until Iggy Pop's trademark growl
made my glasses vibrate.
In less than a week I'd be nineteen, with a new job,
a new home, a new life. The hangover I had now
wouldn't matter. None of this would matter.
I didn't seriously consider, as the bus pulled away
from the setting sun, that a decade would
pass before I saw this place again.
* * *
It's Byers' fault I have to go back there; Byers
answered the phone. I keep telling him to get
rid of the thing. If people really want to get in touch with
us, they can either e-mail us or just come right on over -
assuming they know where we live. And generally if
someone wants to get in touch with us at all,
they know where we live. We don't have too many accidental
I hate the phone.
But Byers tells me this guy's been trying to get in
touch with me for a few days. He's been leaving
messages, saying that he's trying my old number in DC
but some Spanish woman is answering the phone and
doesn't know who I am. Christ.
I haven't lived there in ages - since I first
came out to the East Coast. That
takes me back. But not back far enough.
I still have to deal with Byers, who is
holding a phone in my face and urging me to get
on and talk to the person on the
other end. I grab it and shoo him away.
"Yeah?" I say into the receiver.
The voice on the other end is tentative, not trusting
it's me. "Richard?"
I swallow, my chest suddenly tight. "Ellroy?"
It all crashes back, too quickly. Ellroy. Ellroy.
Fuck. Ellroy. It could have been JFK Himself
calling to say he faked the whole assassination and
was alive and well eating cherry pie with Elvis in
the Bermuda Triangle, and I would be
Byers runs back into the room to see what's up.
Must have heard the shock in my voice. I stamp my
foot, wave him away again.
No, not shock. Fear.
The were only two reasons Ellroy would call,
would ever even go through the
trouble of tracking me down - a man I haven't
seen or spoken to in ten years;
and when we did speak last, it wasn't on the
best of terms. I'm not sure I can
deal with either one of those reasons.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I
hang up the phone. With a soft click, Ellroy is gone.
Breathe, Langly, breathe. Inhale. Exhale -
And I back away from the phone like a wild animal,
never losing eye contact, until I can reach my windbreaker.
I throw it on and unlock the door. I don't
even notice until I try zipping it up against the cold
that I put the jacket on
inside out. I think that's when I start running.
* * *