Some Weird Sin

By Cameragrrrl

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. 

Good riddance. 

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 
less surprised. 

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.

* * *