Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999 13:58:27 EST
Subject: REV:  Exposing Wounds (1/1)
Source: revision

Disclaimer:	Byers, Frohike, Langly, Scully, and Mulder  
		belong to 1013 and FOX.  I am only using them 
		here for my own personal, perverted reasons. 
 
Rating:		PG 
Classification:	SA 
Spoilers:	Gethsemane 
Keywords:	Post-Episode. 
Summary:	The Gunmen react to the news of the 'suicide'. 
 
Notes:  The background story on Byers was borrowed from 
gizzie's The Messenger Parts I - IV, which can also be found 
on Gossamer archives (and SHAME ON YOU if you have not yet 
read them).  Permission was received to use her storyline. 
 
for giz, who listens; for CiCi, who begs 
 
 
Exposing Wounds 
by Martha  
marthalgm@yahoo.com 
 
The Wooden Nickel is one of those hole-in-the-wall joints that 
many would dismiss from the outside as a defunct place of 
business.  Next door to an abandoned A&P in a strip mall next 
to several seemingly abandoned warehouses, it had no neighbors 
from which to draw a certain clientele.  No noise, no sounds 
escape with the entrance of a patron except for the creaking 
of the door.  But to the seasoned eye, a weary and thirsty 
traveler would embrace the stillness of the place and its 
calmness.  No "atmosphere", no ferns or trendy decor;  just a 
bar, with wooden bar stools and an even dozen booths with 
sparse lighting.  A bartender with a sixth sense to know when 
someone needs to have a person to listen to their ramblings or 
to simply serve the drinks and leave them alone.  A silent TV 
above the bar is always tuned in to a baseball game.  A 
jukebox that will still get you two songs for a quarter sits 
in the middle of the floor, lovingly maintained by a patron 
who trades drinks for weekly upkeep. 
 
Shortly before lunchtime, a distraught Byers sought refuge in 
this darkened nook.  He had been here a number of times before 
for a quick beer before heading home, while Frohike often 
lingered behind to finish the bottle of whatever struck his 
fancy that particular evening.  He was not even sure what 
possessed him to take a turn towards this place today.  But he 
was here now, and he decided to take advantage of the empty 
bar to sort some things out. 
 
He approached the bartender to order his usual, but he felt 
the need for something a bit stronger.  "Bourbon, whatever you 
have," he found himself requesting.  As the bartender slid the 
glass towards him, Byers realized that he had no idea if 
bourbon was intended to be sipped or gulped.  He stared at the 
drink for a moment and decided to waste no more time on the 
subject;  he picked up the glass and emptied it in one 
movement.  The shock of the liquor in his throat made his eyes 
water and the cascading burning sensation that finally hit his 
stomach caused a coughing fit that nearly made him double over 
in pain.  As he steadied himself with one hand on the bar and 
the other wiping the tears from his face, he pondered the 
wisdom in continuing with this experiment.  But he had nowhere 
else to go, nothing better to do than to sit in an empty bar 
and slowly drink himself into a stupor.  He ordered a bottle 
of whatever it was that had nearly made him ill, grabbed a 
clean glass, and made his way to the back booth. 
 
Byers sat with his back against the booth wall and his legs 
stretched out over the bench and poured his drinks with his 
right hand.  His jacket hung over the back of the booth, 
halfway into the next, his tie lying not so neatly on top.  In 
between drinks, he had rolled his shirt sleeves up.  He drank 
slowly now, to allow for the effects of the liquor to 
gradually overtake him and to give him time to absorb the 
morning's news.  That Mulder was dead. 
 
The day had started out unusually.  A short and cryptic note 
on the machine from Scully, only saying that she would call 
them later.  When follow-up phone calls to her cellphone and 
apartment went unanswered, they tried calling Mulder, only to 
reach persons unknown who demanded to know their identities 
before they quickly hung up.  A police communications scan 
brought the news of the dead body in Mulder's apartment.  A 
frantic hour was spent trying to determine the identity of the 
body.  Until the verification came.  That the body was of one 
Fox William Mulder, an employee of the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation, and identified by a fellow employee, one Dana 
Katherine Scully.  A few moments of silence passed between the 
three Gunmen in their offices as that news sunk in.  And then 
Byers had gotten up and walked out of the headquarters, and he 
was not at all that certain that he would ever return. 
 
After about his fourth or fifth drink, Byers closed his eyes 
and leaned back against the cinderblock wall.  He thought 
about the finality of that news.  This was something that they 
had gone through before, a couple of years ago.  But there was 
no body back then;  there was one now.  Byers turned around in 
the booth to put his feet on the floor, his elbows resting on 
the table, and buried his face in his hands.  His long fingers 
then ran through his hair and ended up intertwining across the 
back of his neck, his jaw resting on the palms of his hands, 
and his forehead barely an inch from resting on the table. 
How long he remained in this position was unknown.  It was not 
until there was some movement across the table from him that 
he lifted his head.  Frohike had joined him, bringing a second 
bottle of bourbon to the booth. 
 
Frohike examined the initial bottle.  "Looks like I've got 
some catching up to do," as he proceeded to pour himself the 
first of many drinks that afternoon. 
 
For nearly ten minutes, they both drank in silence.  Byers had 
stretched out again along the bench and mainly stared at the 
opposite wall while Frohike sat in the middle of the opposing 
bench, resting his glass on his chest between swallows.  He 
had been worried about his colleague, who appeared to be 
alternating between napping and drinking.  When Byers walked 
out earlier, it was thought that he was just going to get some 
air.  When he did not return and could not be found, Frohike 
began to search for him on foot.  Their cars were still around 
back, so he could not have gone far.  It was pure luck that 
Frohike found him so quickly.  He had thought it out of 
character for Byers to be in a bar in the middle of the day, 
but with the current situation, he took that chance. 
 
An audible sigh came from Byers' side of the booth.  "What are 
we doing?"  It wasn't a rhetorical question, and he was not 
referring to their drinking.  "What are we doing this for? 
Why do we even bother anymore?" 
 
Frohike was somewhat taken aback by these statements.  Byers 
of all people never questioned his role in the organization or 
the work that he did;  even on those few occasions when he and 
Langly had dragged him out of the office to do some field 
work, Byers never put up any resistance.  The drink was 
affecting him;  It's got to be the drinking.  So he decided to 
change the subject.  "So, how are you and Rebecca working 
out?" 
 
"Let's leave her out of this," came the tired reply. 
 
"Well, you know, I was just wondering when you were going to 
bring her by the office and show off and all."  Frohike was 
trying to inject some levity to the current situation. 
 
"I SAID, let's leave her OUT of this."  Byers raising his 
voice, his insistence that this particular subject be 
off-limits, was a new one for him.  Yeah, thought Frohike, 
it's the drink.  I've got to get him out of here. 
 
Frohike began to slide along the bench seat towards the aisle. 
"Come on, let's go back.  Langly's probably gotten hold of 
Scully by now, and we can find out what's really going on." 
 
Byers shook his head and poured himself another drink.  "No. 
I'm not going anywhere." 
 
Frohike picked up Byers' jacket and tie and reached out for 
his arm.  "Come on, Scully tried to reach us earlier.  I'm 
sure that she has a very good explanation for what's 
happening." 
 
Byers pulled away from Frohike's stretched-out grasp.  "What's 
happening is that Mulder is dead.  He's dead.  So why don't 
you just go and meet your pretty little Dana for your 
explanation.  Why don't you just go and comfort the grieving 
widow now that your supposed friend is gone.  It's what you've 
always wanted, right?  To have her to yourself?  Well, you 
finally got your wish."  The raised pitch and the sarcastic 
edge to his voice surprised even Byers.  He did not think that 
he had it in him.  He slowly swallowed the drink in front of 
him. 
 
Frohike stood staring at Byers for a moment, trying to decide 
on his next course of action.  He had seen the influence of 
alcohol affect people in many ways:  some turned silly, some 
took to crying about the state of their lives, and others 
turned mean and angry.  Byers appeared to be heading down that 
last road.  He would have to tread carefully here.  Byers was 
a good foot taller than he and in much better physical shape. 
He would need time and help to get him out of there.  He 
replaced the jacket across the back of the booth and returned 
to his bottle. 
 
Frohike knew that he would get some grief over his comments 
about Scully from the past.  But they had always been in the 
form of little teasing, not the full blown accusation that 
Byers had just thrown at him.  A woman with that brain, that 
job, and that face just did not waltz into their offices 
everyday.  He just said what others would normally have kept 
to themselves.  And then he had seen them work together, 
Mulder and Scully.  And how much that they had depended upon 
the other and how much that they trusted the other.  This was 
not some woman who was just going to walk away one day when 
things started to go wrong.  She was in it for the long haul. 
And even that one time when he tried to apologize to Scully 
for the comments that he had made to her face and behind her 
back, all that she asked was that he not do it again.  He knew 
that he had escaped with his life;  it was a promise that he 
had gladly kept. 
 
They both sat opposite the other, quietly drinking, for a 
number of minutes.  Byers was the first to break the silence. 
"She's going to die, isn't she?" 
 
Frohike had no need to ask to whom he was referring.  Scully's 
condition had been on their minds for the past couple of 
months.  They had not seen her for some time and had to rely 
on Mulder for updates.  "She's got good doctors.  They're 
working on it.  She'll be OK."  The last part was added as an 
afterthought, halfheartedly, as if he was trying to convince 
himself of it.  He had seen Scully in a much worse condition 
in the hospital after she had been missing those few months. 
He knew that she was in a coma, but he was not prepared to see 
her hooked up to all of that hardware, forcing her to breathe, 
with monitors to detect the first signs of awareness on her 
behalf.  He remembered thinking that she looked so small 
compared to all the machines and equipment that surrounded 
her.  He also remembered his heart hitting the floor when he 
first saw her and the need to tear his eyes away from that 
vision until he finally settled on her hospital chart and all 
those odd readings. 
 
Byers interrupted his thoughts.  "She's not going to be OK. 
Somebody with that kind of cancer just doesn't suddenly become 
cured."  It was happening much too fast:  the detection, the 
treatments, the frequency of her hospital visits.  It's 
happening again, he thought;  it's Monny all over again. 
 
Frohike watched as Byers closed his eyes, with that added 
pressure on the eyelids of someone who is trying to stop any 
tears from escaping.  The odd grin on his face which was not 
really a smile but the beginnings of those facial moves that 
Frohike knew too well - one of someone trying to suppress a 
sob and failing miserably at it.  Here it comes, he thought, 
the wife.  He had only heard small tidbits of what happened 
from that time in Byers' life, and he was now getting an 
earful. 
 
Byers proceeded to pour his heart out on the table between 
them.  The liquor, the news about Mulder, Scully's condition, 
all were forcing down the stoic barriers that he had set up 
for himself after the death of his wife.  Through the tears, 
the sobs, and the drinking, he laid out those last two months 
of their life together.  The doctors who kept giving them hope 
and the hospital stays that broke down their confidence.  The 
terrified look in her eyes when she realized that she would be 
leaving him alone.  His inability to sleep through the night. 
He had refused to leave the hospital in what turned out to be 
her last stay.  As her condition worsened, he had ignored the 
staff's threats and had stayed in her room.  For hours, she 
had drifted back and forth between consciousness.  At one 
time, he had lain his head on the bed, to watch her and to be 
the first thing that she saw when she woke up.  He must have 
dozed off at some point because when he woke up, he felt the 
pressure of their hands intertwining.  He looked at her face, 
noticing the peacefulness of it, and then all of a sudden, 
several monitors went off.  The rush of the nurses, the 
unseen hands that pulled him away from the side of his dead 
wife, the doctors' explanations, the paperwork that somehow 
got signed.  All of this he knew would await Mulder, and he 
had resigned himself to being there for him when the 
inevitable happened.  But now Mulder was gone.  At least he 
would be spared that.  "You can't imagine," Byers told 
Frohike, "what it's like to watch someone go like that.  To 
see someone who was such a part of you be so cruelly taken 
away.  You can't imagine . . ." 
 
So I can't possibly imagine, huh, Frohike thought to himself. 
It's totally inconceivable to you that someone like me might 
actually have been in love once and had the displeasure of 
having their insides kicked out.  The drink must also be 
affecting him a bit more than usual because he decided to tell 
Byers a story.  One that he had not told in years. 
 
He was in college.  Back then, it was the surest thing to 
avoid that one-way ticket to Viet Nam.  Her name was Daisy, 
and they were in the same literature class.  Well, her name 
really wasn't Daisy, but in those days of flower children and 
free expression, it was the name that she chose to be called. 
The courtship had started slowly and innocently enough but by 
the end of the semester, they had both moved out of student 
housing and were living in a spare toom in a house occupied by 
a number of Daisy's friends from the student newspaper. 
Springtime came, and Daisy announced that she was pregnant. 
So Frohike, struck by lightning with his first love, did what 
he knew he would be expected to do.  He would quit school at 
the end of the semester, get a job, and the two would be 
married.  After all, a wife and a child on the way also 
assured him of protection from the draft.  Then, several weeks 
before school ended, he walked into a half-empty house.  A 
number of the occupants, including Daisy, had moved out and 
left town.  A note had been left for him, basically saying 
that she would see him around sometime.  One of the remaining 
housemates decided to soften the blow by adding that Daisy 
had taken up with one of the ones who had left. 
 
"What happened to the baby?" 
 
Both Byers and Frohike jerked their heads toward the 
questioner and were surprised to see that Langly had somehow 
tracked them both down.  Neither of them had heard him 
approach. 
 
"I don't know," Frohike answered.  "I can't even be sure that 
there was one . . . or if it was even mine." 
 
Langly joined Frohike on his side of the booth.  "So what did 
you do?" 
 
"I tried to kill myself."  Frohike quickly drained another 
drink.  He went on to clarify that he actually went out and 
enlisted.  Miraculously, the Army accepted him.  Even more 
miraculous, he survived a fourteen-month tour of duty in Viet 
Nam.  When he got back to the States, he began an on-again, 
off-again search for Daisy and the child, a search that still 
remains unresolved to this day.  "With all the resources and 
all the databases that we have access to, you think that I 
would be able to find her."  Frohike slammed his glass down on 
the table.  He cradled his forehead in the palms of his hands, 
the bourbon finally making its effect know.  He hadn't given 
much thought to Daisy lately, with everything else that had 
been happening.  And he still could not believe that he 
actually told these guys about it. 
 
"But if you found her now, what would you say?" 
 
Both Frohike and Byers glanced at each other before casting 
their eyes in Langly's direction.  He didn't really say that, 
did he, thought Byers.  Because as anyone who has ever been 
there knows that there is only one question to ask when a 
First Love goes wrong:  Did she ever really love me? 
 
Both bottles of bourbon were nearly empty.  Combining the 
contents of both in their glasses, Byers and Frohike settled 
in for their last drink.  "How did you find us?" asked 
Frohike.  "And who's minding the store?" 
 
Langly pointed his thumb towards the bartender.  "I got a 
phone call."  This bartender really did have a sixth sense; 
he knew the habits of his regulars, and he knew when they had 
had enough.  "And I left the machines running.  But we really 
should be getting back." 
 
"Not until you spill your guts," demanded Frohike. 
 
"There's nothing to tell."  Langly suddenly got very aware 
that something was wrong. 
 
"There's always something to tell," added Byers.  "You've 
heard us;  now it's your turn." 
 
"And I'm telling you, there's nothing to tell.  We really 
should go." 
 
Frohike grabbed Langly's arm to prevent him from leaving. 
"Then why don't you tell us about Callie Russell?" 
 
Langly suddenly went cold.  He had not heard that name in 
years, and he was certain that he did not ever mention to 
either of the others.  "How do you know about Callie?"  Jesus, 
Langly, that was a stupid move;  you just confirmed it. 
 
"Oh, you now, resources, databases," Frohike answered. 
"Actually, all I know is what was in the newspapers.  Fill us 
in, and we'll call it even." 
 
Byers chimed in.  "Hey, we're all walking wounded here.  You 
may as well join the club." 
 
Langly slumped down in the booth a bit and placed his feet on 
the opposing bench seat.  Talking about his past was something 
that he was loathe to do.  And there really wasn't much to 
tell;  he had led a perfectly ordinary life . . . until 
Callie.  But even so, bringing up this subject after all this 
time . . . 
 
Langly let out a long sigh and proceeded to tell them the 
story, all the while staring at a water ring stain at the 
opposite side of the table.  It was in high school, sophomore 
year, and a girl named Callie Russell was in his homeroom and 
a history class.  They even had lockers across the hall from 
the other.  She was one of the new new kids in school, and he 
was one of a group of social misfits.  But she started talking 
to him in the halls, tagged along during study halls in the 
library, even went as far as to invite herself to join his 
lunch table.  The attention started to go to his head.  They 
eventually started dating:  going out for pizza, going to 
the movies, tame stuff even for kids in a small town.  And 
inevitably, it led to sex.  Langly almost began blushing at 
this part.  "I didn't initiate it;  I don't even think that I 
knew if I was doing it right."  But soon afterwards, 
everything changed.  Callie became possessive, constantly 
hanging on to him, demanding all of his attention and all of 
his free time.  It wasn't simply a strong case of love on her 
part;  it was a bit more desparate than that.  He had tried to 
place some distance between them, but it was impossible to 
avoid her at school.  The constant attention took its toll to 
the point that one day, at their lockers during a class break, 
he told Callie to go away and leave him alone. 
 
"I'll never forget that look in her eyes.  It was like telling 
a four year old that there was no such thing as Santa 
Claus."  Langly paused for a moment, then continued.  "The 
rest you know."  For Byers' benefit, he repeated what had been 
reported in the local papers.  That Callie had left school 
early that day.  Had gone home and taken her mother's car to 
the outskirts of town.  Had parked the car on the railroad 
tracks and waited for the 3:05 Amtrak.  Some reports differed 
as to whether the car was actually parked on the tracks or had 
simply stalled at a most inopportune time.  But Langly knew 
that it was deliberate;  so did everyone else at school. 
Whatever friends he may have had, he promptly lost.  Whether 
he directly or indirectly caused Callie's death made no 
difference.  "Maybe I should have handled it better.  Maybe I 
should have done it differently."  Then Langly himself began 
to withdraw.  His parents became so worried about him that 
they shipped him off to live with an aunt in another state to 
finish high school.  He never got around to 'fitting in' but 
did discover the ultimate nerd pastime: computers and 
programming languages.  "It was probably the only thing that 
kept me sane . . . relatively speaking." 
 
Langly sat there, continuing to stare at the ring on the 
table.  He did not wish to elaborate anymore on the story. 
Why his relationships with women were practically nonexistent. 
Why he barely let anyone, even the two men sitting with him, 
whom he had known and worked with for years, inside his world. 
Why he shunned the public at large.  To actually let anyone 
get that close again, forcing him to care, to feel, terrified 
him.  To him it was simply safer not to try.  If you reach 
out, you get hurt.  And I'm not going through that again, he 
thought to himself.  I can't take that chance. 
 
Byers and Frohike had already jumped to the same conclusion. 
"Explains a lot, don't you think?" Frohike commented to the 
other man.  And to himself, he made a different observation. 
That while he and Byers had dealt with their pasts and tried 
to move on, to form new connections, Langly had simply given 
up.  To even try was to guarantee failure.  And to this, he 
pitied the younger man. 
 
"We should really start trying to move," said Frohike, gently 
nudging Langly out of the seat.  Turning to Byers, "Do you 
need help?" 
 
Before Byers could answer, Langly added, "You don't have to go 
far.  Your car's out front." 
 
"My car?"  Byers fumbled for his set of keys in his pockets 
and then remembered that he had left them on his desk back at 
the office. 
 
"You don't think that I would let the two of you in my car, in 
your condition.  If you were really that bad off, you can be 
sick in your own car."  Langly helped Byers extract himself 
from the booth. 
 
As the three of them headed somewhat unsteadily towards the 
exit, the door opened, and they were temporarily blinded by 
the afternoon sun pouring in.  When the door had closed, Agent 
Dana Scully stood in the hallway. 
 
"Guys, I need your help." 
 
 
the end