Lone Gunmen's Office
December 31, 1999
10:00 P.M.
 

Well, looks like Mulder won’t be spending the dawn of Y2K with us, his merry men after all.  Okay, maybe we're not the merriest men goin', but at least Fro whips up the meanest batches of eggnog you'd ever wanna wrap your lips around, if I do say so myself.  And, I do...say so myself, though I'd never tell him.  The stuff gets me merry enough.  You're welcome to drop by, after we've thoroughly checked you out first, that is, for sampling purposes.  Cool?

We've been calling our kooky Fibbie throughout most of the day.  Frohike started calling ever since breakfast, at about seven-thirty, and kept it up till noon.  Then, Byers took over, till about five.  And, I've been makin' with the reach out and touch somebody scene ever since.  But, it's no dice.  Mulder ain't around.  Time's running out fast.  Forget that--it has run out, far as I'm concerned.  It's too close for comfort to zero hour, Eastern Standard Time.  All day I've gotten flashbacks from one of my favorite classics.  'The Day The Earth Stood Still.'  Wonder if it will, at least in the 'technolopolises,' (my word for all you lexicologists out there) anyway, come midnight?  We won't know for sure until it's witching hour on this side of the planet, I figure.

Bet Mulder's with Scully.  Hey, like maybe they ran away someplace just the two of 'em to be alone to ring in year two thousand by their lonesomes.  Someplace all nice and special, and cozy.  Accent on the cozy.  If you ask me, man, they sure deserve it.  Been together every bit of seven years, and nothing to show for it but vague looks and freaky innuendos.  I know they're totally introspective people, and they think we're social outcasts, but even I haveta say it's so about real time they got up front and busy.  Really get inta it.  Tonight would be perfect timing for them to crack open a robust case of interlude.

Speaking of getting into it, I wonder what Leese is doin' right now?  Man, do I wish I was with her, getting lost in the moment, and her.  I know this is gonna sound extreme lame, but ever since we said goodbye at Dulles nearly six--SIX--weeks ago, I've thought of nothing else but gettin' back with her in January.  Yeah, I upped the time.  Can't wait till February.  I wish I was hoppin' a plane tonight to be with her, but my trusty inner voice of paranoia wouldn't have any of that.  Wait til stuff checks out before you go takin' planes.  'Sides, she's out in the Caribbean somewhere, even as I sit here fantasizing 'bout her fine self.  Hope nowhere even remotely near the Bermuda Triangle, that is.

I've dreamed about her and me doin' some very tight things together ever since she left.  But when I do get next to her again, I don't want her to think I'm one level up from sludge.  Yeah, we're certifiably nuts for each other already, and if she wants what I do, all systems are go.  But it's gonna be whatever *she* wants.  Won't be all about me, like a brat (not a total brat, anyway.  You know me).  Like Mr. One-Night-Stand, gimme gimme all ya got, baby.  Not with *this* langley honey...(the unit of illumination used to measure the temperature of irradiated surfaces, *langley*.  Now how's *that* for coincidence?).  Don't haveta tell ya, I get hot just lookin' at her.  But, no sir; no way.  She's not gonna be the next babe I just do.  It's time I stopped thinkin' with my...uh, you know.  Like a total dork who never grew up.

I mean, I wanna know what she's like, real bad.  So bad, I've kinda...uh, well.  You know dreams, man.  'Specially those of the moist variety <g>.  I thought I was too old for them.

It'll be her call how we work our thing--I'm mostly certain about that.  I'm so strung out.  I get off on just the thought of her believing I'm somebody worth caring about.  Too late to talk my heart out of what it wants; it wants Lee, and it's not accepting any substitutes.  Stubborn little pump.

Ain't life a blip?  Last year at this time, I felt like the loneliest, suckiest loser gulpin' breath, buried under a ten ton boozy haze.  This year, I've been born again.  I got this beautiful girl who calls me, 'mi amor' and means it.  I've never been anybody's anything before.  Not exaggerating, either.  I'll tell ya about my private hell of feeling unwanted sometime, when I'm in the mood.  It's a long, drawn-out boring story, people.  And for those of you who're like me, in Spanish, 'mi amor' means...my love.  I know, right...duh!

Am I lucky, or what?

"Hey, Langly..."

"Yeah, Frohike?"  He's yelling from the kitchen pantry area.  You know.  The little two-by-four hole in the wall that reeks of grease.

"Any luck raising Mulder?"

"Negatory, man.  The dude's A-W-O-L.  Think I should call Scully?"

"Uh ah.  Don't go there, buddy.  If she's home, and Mulder's not with her, she'll ask you when you heard from him last, and you've got zilch on that, so she'll freak.  We all know the drill.  Leave her in peace."

I nod at my personal computer's zippity-do-dahing screen saver, agreeing with him completely.  Can you believe how mellow I am?  "Sure bet."  I'm about to open a newer zip file when out of the corner of my right eye I spy Byers emerge from his inner sanctum, descending from the second level, looking spiffier than a crisp new twenty.  "What's up with you, D-D?  Ya didn't haveta dress.  It's just us.  You gussied for nothin', man."  He spins around to confront me with a look akin to apology.

Frohike steps out from the cookery haunt, sizing him up in league with me.  "Yeah, John.  You must have us confused with the Ritz-Carlton.  That tux rented?"

"Yes.  As a matter of fact, it is," he replies faintly, with an air of embarrassment.  "I've got an...what I mean is.  Well, technically--"

"Technically, you're bombin' out on us," I hoot, but I don't sound sullenly peeved for a change.

"I have a function to attend."

"Ooooh, a function..."  Frohike gives me a jaunty eye.  "Sounds la-dee-da."

Byers ignores the sarcasm.  "You remember Charlie Riverbeck?"

"The glad-hand dude from the Vegas convention?" Frohike identifies, still looking a good deal mystified.  "Works for Texas Instruments.  Right?"

"Uh huh.  Well, he invited me to a gala affair he's hosting downtown.  A car's picking me up in--"

"You're goin'?" me an' Frohike caterwaul.

"Doesn't it appear as though I am?" he patronizes, sticking it to us.

"Man, you're either desperate, or crazy.  Or both," Frohike qualifies, handing me the mug of eggnog I asked for.  "Why didn't *we* get invites?"

"Yeah, man," I chime in, but then, coming to my senses, I badger, "You're serious?  You could be puttin' yourself in mortal danger, man, according to CNN, and everybody else's news too.  The stepped-up outbreak of massive Domestic terrorism could be less than two hours away, and you're ditchin' us to party?  You wouldn't catch me hangin' out, out there.  Not tonight, man.  Not unless you're suicidal."

"I'll take that under advisement, Langly," Byers huffs, readying to put on his fleece-lined trench coat.  "Filed under the sub-folder of touching concern.  I thought a little break with tradition quite in order for this last night of the age.  Nothing personal."

I sip from the mug, letting the eggnog mustache adorn my upper lip.  "Yeah, like that's soooh obvious, obviously.  Have yourself a merry little shindig.  Don't worry about us."  Maybe you know why I say what flows next, which could've been better left kept to myself.  Nah, I say it and I'm glad I do.  You got it.  I don't like the idea of his trashing our tradition of movies, cards and the three of us being together, like always, these last few minutes of ninety-nine.  Here comes the surly.  "Wear Fro's dog tags so it'll be easier identifying the body, case you're blown to--"

"Langly," Frohike exhales, hitting me with a salvo of his 'torpedoes fired' looks.

"Smithereens."

"Don't wait *up*..."  Byers unbolts and unlatches the vaultish door of our techno-prism, like precision incarnate.  Before bidding us, his incredulous, slack-jawed mates a uncharacteristically high spirits, he opens the door, and smiles.  "The car's already here."

"Be careful, John," Frohike pitches, just managing not to sound fatherly.  "Have a blast--and that's strictly figuratively, dear chum."  After he's gone, Frohike lights into me like flies on bull pucks, stinkin' to high heaven.  "New Year's resolution number one:  Think before you speak.  Avoid like the plague speaking before you think, which is what you do for as long as I've known you, boy."

"I didn't mean--"

"Of course not, you never mean until you actually are," Frohike splutters.

Yep.  I know what you're thinkin'.  I'm not *that* destitutely dense.  Gimme a minute; I'll bend over to give ya a decent shot at mine.  "I'm sorry, Fro'...honest."  He just stares, like he's seeing me for the first time.

So, it's New Year's Eve...maybe the last of its kind.  I'm not crocked to the gills, feeling better about my life than I ever have, and I really wasn't out to hurt Byers.  I know you know that.  It's like what Frohike is fond of saying, and I quote:

"That boy's not right..."

But, this year, I plan on gettin' righter.  I've practically got a lifetime to catch up on.

"Can we still be friends?"  I haveta ask, 'cause he hasn't said a syllable.

He does a triple-take, and I already sense his holding my thoughtlessness over my head isn't there in the running.

"Friends doesn't even cut it, dear boy, and you know that."

My breathing's a lot less labored now.  The grin's on his face before he knows it's there, I'm certain.  I think it's too soon for me to wear mine.  "Yeah, I do.  I just didn't want him to bail on us.  I want him to be safe, here with you and me."  Fro' nods like the sage he is.

"I know.  But, he'll be all right.  John appears vulnerable, but he suckers you, man.  He's a more polished version of you."  I blink then, 'cos I thought I knew what Frohike was gonna say.  Never said I could read minds.  "He's a survivor too.  That's why he's in our club.  He's been over some rough patches this year.  Kicking up his heels, and being with folks cut from the same jib, will do him a world of good."

I nod, as I let what he's said sink in.

"Come on, Langly, let's party Gunmen style..."

And we do.  We keep our traditions alive.  I even let Fro' watch his favorite skin flick twice without griping about the absurdity of some scenes, but doing a smidgen of role playing of my own, with Lee as my star.  I happen to glance at my watch, and gawk in disbelief.

Bingo!  It's five minutes away from the brand new day...

We've been tuned into Times Square, all along, on the other screens, and it astounds us that the place is jammed to the max, despite the safety recommendations to stay away.  People, go figure 'em.  When the ball starts dropping, he and I'll raise our eggnogs on high in a commemorative toast.

I'm just about to take my place beside him, glued to our whizz-banging multi-tubes, when I hear my computer ding.

"You've got mail," Frohike says in a dry undertone.

"It can wait.  I wanna see this."

"Open it.  Maybe you won't get the chance, later..."

Good point.  I saunter up to my beloved delivery system, and do what he said.  "It's from her!" I say in what sounded like a cheer.  "It's Lee wishing me a Happy and how she can't wait to see me!"  I put my palm to the screen and press into the glass hard.

Frohike quietly comes to stand at my side, and he reads what I just read.  "She does have a way of reaching out of the screen to ya, doesn't she?  You've really impressed this girl.  I'm happy for ya, dear boy."  I'm sitting on my stool, and all at once, his fingers tangle in my hair.  His stroking ends as unexpectantly as it began.

I know he thinks I think this habit of his is weird, and back in my messed up days of non-stop drugs and booze, when he'd hold me so I'd stop shaking, it used to creep me out.  Like he was coming on to me, or something.  But I was just bein' paranoid, and I sorta got used to it.

Comforting.  Considerate.  Caring.  Frohike.  The first person who ever showed those to me.  Then, in time, Byers.  Man--I LOVE THESE GUYS--that's the way it'll always be.

"This isn't a news flash, but you've got a keeper on your hands, in my humble opinion."

"When is your opinion ever humble?" I rib, "But you're right.  She IS."  I press my palm against the screen again.  Her sentiments warm me, and for an instant, I see her clearly in my mind's eye, before the eyes behind my glasses mist.  "She's soooh special."  It's then my grin comes.

says, "Hey, it's droppin', man.  Wanna watch?"

It's dropping all right.  Dropping...dropping...  DROPPED.

HAPPY Y2K.  Televised pandemonium, all in living color!  We wait for explosions, but there aren't any.

Our phone pings not too long after.  It's Mulder!  He's wishing us a happy new year, and artfully highlights that the world didn't end.  Ha, ha.  Not yet, anyway.  Then, Scully's on the line wishing us the same too.  See, told ya they were together.  Just like Leese and me will be too, soon...

After they're off, Fro' and I embrace with a good deal of hearty back thumping amidst the broadcasted revelry.

"I love ya, man," I croak.  "So far, so good..."

"I love me too, man," he teases.  "But, yeah, I get behind that feeling when it comes to you too, dear boy...have for a long time."  He sniffs.  "We'll wait and see..."