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.

* * *

I pack quickly; there's no reason to take your 
time with jeans and tee-shirts. I 
leave a long and detailed note for Frohike 
and Byers, taped to my main computer 
screen, explaining exactly what they should 
and should not do with her while I 
am away. I organize rough drafts of the
stories I'm working on for the next 
issue and stack them next to my keyboards 
with another note full of editing 
suggestions. I debate about locking my room 
when I leave, and decide to leave it 
unlocked. I figure it'll be a rare gesture 
of trust - plus, I know both of them 
could get in if they really wanted to. 
I turn off my alarm clock. I clear out my 
half of the pantry shelves of anything 
that looks like it's about to go rancid. 

I realize I have no idea how long I'll be gone. 

I'm stuffing a Nation of Ulysses tee into my 
bag when Byers walks in. He hovers 
in the doorway for a while, not sure whether 
to come or go. He tends not to go 
anywhere unless he's specifically invited. 

"Come in already," I tell him. 

Byers steps out of the doorway, but he doesn't 
come much closer. "I'm sorry about your father."


"If my father was dying -"

"Byers, you hate your father. He's a 
right wing supremacist bastard and stands 
for everything we're trying to fight - your words."

He lowers his eyes; he can't argue with that. 
"How come you never talk about him?"

"Because I hate him." The words slip out 
before I can stop them, and the 
symmetry is so painfully absurd I start laughing. 
Byers doesn't join in, but me 
must think it's good for me or something because 
he just lets me get it out of 
my system. When I stop, the room goes somber - Byers' 

"Will you be all right?"

I nod, let him play mother hen.

"You'll call if you need anything?"

I glance at my shoddily packed duffel bags. 
"Well, now that you mention it, I 
need something now."

He looks at me, expectantly. This is harder than 
I thought. "I need a suit. I don't think my 
stuff is appropriate - I mean, I have 
nothing to wear if - if - "

"Langly," he says; but all I hear is stop 
being such a baby. "I think I can 
manage to lend you a suit." 

I smile, briefly, grateful that he understood 
what I was trying to say without 
me having to say it. 

* * *

My mother's family lived a few miles south of us - which, 
in farm country, meant 
my parents grew up as neighbors. 
They started dating in high school, 
went to the prom together, got engaged and 
quickly married, moved into the guest room that 
was, at the time, my grandfather's farm, blah, 
blah, blah, happily-ever-after. 


I don't think my mom ever got used to leaving 
the comfort and security of her 
childhood home. Or else she was fundamentally 
unhappy living with my dad. She 
would find excuses to go back to her parents' place, 
where she could sleep in 
her old bedroom, which looked pretty much the 
way it was when she started dating 
my dad. I think she just liked the feeling, 
in that brief second when she woke 
up surrounded by all those familiar things from 
her girlhood. For that one 
second she could really believe she was a little 
girl again, without all the 
crap in her life.

It didn't take long to figure out that these l
ittle escapes from reality were 
directly proportional to my father's 
consumption of Old Thompson. 

She used to take me with her when I was 
little. I would curl up in 
bed with her - it was a small bed, 
a young girl's bed. I liked going with her, 
because I 
preferred her parents to my father's. I felt 
like I belonged with her family, 
the way we all looked alike. My mother 
and I stood out at Langly 
gatherings, the 
only Danes in a sea of dark Welshmen. 

When I was too big to fit on the bed with her, 
she stopped taking me. 
One of the only times I remember 
wishing I was short - she never let me get that 
close to her again. 

Now, what I think is: She knew what she 
was going to do, years before it 
actually happened. And in her twisted
logic, she thought it would be easier on 
me if she had been a bad mother; 
if I didn't need her, or love her, 
or want her around anyway. 

And then I just think I think too 
much and I'm grasping for straws. 

After a while she started staying there longer 
and longer - whole weekends 
instead of single nights, 
then weeks instead of weekends, then almost 
whole months at a time. No one was 
surprised when finally she just didn't 
come home at all. Except me.

She'd been MIA for few days. I didn't 
pay much attention - she'd been gone for 
longer than that before. I figured she
was at my grandparents'. I figured maybe 
she wasn't feeling well and was staying 
inside, staying scarce. I figured she'd 
be home soon enough and I could stop 
eating my dad's burnt grilled cheese 
sandwiches and doing her half of the 
chores. No need to think twice, or notice 
the hard resignation that had taken 
hold of my dad's eyes, or regret the fact 
that I never said good bye to her when she left -

Until I caught my father packing her 
clothes in a cardboard box. 

I must have made some noise as I bolted
down the hall, because my dad started 
chasing after me, calling my name. But I was 
already on my bike, racing down to 
my grandparents' farm. I didn't 
bother knocking, just ran up the stairs and went 
straight to her room. It was empty. The 
bed looked like it hadn't been slept in 
in nights. I staggered against the 
doorway, heaving, trying to catch my breath. 
I couldn't process what was happening. 

My grandmother must have heard me. 
She came upstairs and walked into 
her room, saw me staring at the 
perfectly tucked sheets. 

"She's gone, Richard," my grandmother said. 

"Yeah." I folded my arms across my chest, 
hunched my shoulders inward. My mother 
used to say that it looked like I was pulling 
a cape around myself, trying to 
disappear. I stood like that a lot. Still do.

"She told me to tell you she loved you."

"Yeah." My pulse raced. 

"She said she didn't want me to tell you 
where she was going."

"Did she say," I had to struggle to catch my 
breath. "Did she say when she was coming back?"


Oh, I get it. She isn't coming back. 

"You look so thin, Richard. Why don't 
I make you something to eat, and we can 

"No, I gotta - I gotta - go," I shoved 
past her and ran down the stairs and 
jumped back on my bike and started peddling. 

If there was any twisted logic to our 
relationship, it totally backfired. I 
wasn't happy she was gone because she'd 
been a bad mother and I'd be better of 
without her. I just thought she left 
because I was a worthless son - not strong 
enough to protect her from my dad, 
not special enough to justify her 
union with him at all. 

I peddled as far away as I could before 
my legs went numb and I came to a 
skidding stop and curled up on the 
grass and stared sideways at the 
horizon - and all I could think about 
were the grass stains I just got on my 
clothing and how my mother was the only one
who could ever wash them out. And now 
she was gone.

* * *