WANTING

by Alison

Part 3 of the Waiting series

Fandom: The Lone Gunmen

Feedback to: xalison@excite.com, lammasday@yahoo.com

Pairing/Category: Langly/Byers slash, Langly POV

Disclaimer: They're not mine etc

Archive: Lone Slasher, Basement, WWOMB, Anyone else please ask

Spoilers: Minor for Unusual Suspects, Three of a Kind

WANTING

by Alison

It's midnight, I'm sitting on a bench by the Potomac and I'm pissed. Pissed off and pissed, in both senses of the word.

I walked out earlier this evening. A dignified exit I hope, although I could hardly see where I was going. And since then I've been bestowing my presence on half a dozen of my favourite bars all over downtown.

I'm in deep shit this time. And maybe this time there's no going back. So I walked out. All Mel had time to say was that he didn't know what had gotten into me.

I wish I knew what had gotten into me too.

Well, I do of course. It's John. It's always John.

It's crazy I know. We've lived together, side by side, best friends, for so long - years and years - and now suddenly I can't stop thinking about him. Can't stop looking at him - I can't belive he hasn't noticed.

More than a year now. Ever since the night at the Lombard. That was when it started, when we got home. We talked, like we'd never done before. And it was like I'd never seen him before. Never noticed him in that way. He was tired and cold and scared and his defences were down. And then he went off to take a shower, and I wanted to go with him. Go with him and be with him and make love to him.

But I didn't of course and I've been regretting it ever since. And imagining what it would have been like. I think about it all the time. He needed me then and I should have taken the opportunity. But I lost it then and I'll probably never get another chance.

If I could get him to see me as more than a friend. But it won't happen. And even if the idea didn't disgust him, I'm hardly his type. We're so different.

It's driving me crazy being so close to him and not being able to say or do anything. And - this is the weird part - I find myself almost hating him at the same time. I have this urge to provoke him, tease him. It just turns me on when he gets embarrassed, upset . . . it makes him . . . well, vulnerable, I
guess. Usually he's so composed, controlled . . . but when he gets flustered, it's like I see another side of him. And it's all I can do not to grab him and pin him to the wall.

It really gets to him when I give him a hard time about Vegas. Okay, I had some justification, with him losing our stake in the poker game. And I don't let him forget it. Or about how his impulses nearly got us all killed again.

And a few carefully chosen barbs about Susanne - that really gets under his skin. Of course I have to be careful because my track record isn't that much better, but I can cover myself there by referring to us *both* as "losers" - and it gets to him. Oh, it does, and sometimes he has to walk out, retreat to his room, or if all else fails just ignore me. And Mel looking disapproving, but what the hell? He can just shut the hell up.

And there are other little things too. Like those anonymous e-mail messages I've been sending him.

In a way it's like I'm trying to blow the lid off things, to start a fight - the sort of fight that ends with things being said that probably should stay secret.

But in this case it would only end one way - bye bye Byers.

I hate myself when I do these things to him. But it's like I just can't stop myself. It's like I'm thinking, if he's unhappy, perhaps he'll turn to me, confide in me, open up . . . and that would be my chance. And he'd never know it was my fault in the first place.

Or am I trying to punish him, for not seeing what is in front of him? For not wanting me as I want him?

So anyway, Susanne was the subject again today. Never fails. I can't remember exactly how it started, but Mel made some remark about how he thought Jeri Ryan was hot (surprise!) and I had to say, hoo boy, don't you think so John? And he looked up kinda surprised, as if he'd never thought about it, and said sure, yes. And something just let go in my head and I said, oh yeah, what would you know about it anyway, you're the guy who's waiting for some broad he's met twice in ten years.

He got up so fast I thought he was going to hit me. I'd never got a reaction like this before. And then . . . it wasn't so much what he said. It was how he looked at me. Disgust, contempt . . . revulsion . . . I'm just trying to convince myself I didn't see hatred in his eyes. Anything but that.

All he said was, in a quiet controlled voice that was so much worse than if he'd yelled at me was to leave him the fuck alone, his private life was none of my business and I was in no position to make judgements about him and Susanne. And then he just looked at me again and I felt about six inches tall. So I got out of there as fast as I could.

And now here I am sitting on this shitty bench in downtown Washington wondering where I go from here. If I'm going anywhere. And trying not to see that look in his eyes.

I thought I could live with it. But I can't any longer. I want him so much.

There's this picture I haven't been able to get out of my mind for months now. Ever since that night. I've been replaying it in my mind ever since. The way it should have been . . . I can see it now . . .

I'd be waiting for him when he came out of the shower, and offer to give him a back rub to help him sleep. Brisk and impersonal, don't want to scare him off at this stage. Then I get him to lie down on the bed while I go to get the oil. I sit on the bed beside him, no threat, and start slow and gentle on his shoulders.

Talking all the time about this and that, nothing heavy, just what we've been working on recently. Try and make him laugh.Get him to relax.

Then I work my way slowly down his back. Lean over him and let my hair brush his shoulder blades. He's relaxed by now, drowsy and calm. I let my strokes turn gradually to caresses, down his spine and the small of his back to his ass. Let him realise gradually without words where this is leading. And I let my hands rest just there and say "Do you want me to go on". . .and he turns his head and says "Don't stop . . ."

And I pull gently at his shoulder and he turns over, I bend down to him, and his arm comes up round my neck and pulls my mouth down to his. And he would want me as much as I want him. And then it would be so good. I'd make him forget all the fear and guilt and pain, and unlock the passion I know is there. He cares so much, if he cared for me in the way I want, we would be incredible together. . .

I wake up to find I'm cold and aching, still sitting on this shitty bench with a hard on the size of a baseball bat from thinking about what I'd like to do to John. Thinking about him, tall and slim, his hands on me, my hands in his copper-bronze hair, long legs and that gorgeous ass . . . oh yeah . . . John .
.

Colder still now and wet and sticky. Clean myself up with a tissue, straighten myself up and look around. No - one around - just as well. Don't want to be picked up for public indecency.

I'm gonna have to move. This part of downtown is no place for anyone to be on their own at this time of night, even if I wasn't smashed. I've no money left, but the muggers wouldn't know that until it was too late. Knife in the ribs and straight into the water - no ID - nothing to show until the guys pick up on the police scanner that a long blond haired hippy type has been fished out of the river. Nice farewell present for the guys that would be.

No, I'm gonna have to go back. It's late and I've nowhere else to go anyway. He'll have gone to bed so I won't have to face him tonight. And in the morning I can say something - say I wasn't feeling well or something - and maybe he'll tell me to forget it. Yes, he probably will. He doesn't have it in him to bear a grudge. He's one of the few truly good people I know.

It's one of the things about him that I love.

END