Rating: PG

Summary: You didn't seriously think we were done with the Byers angst yet, did you? (But wait, there's more!)

Spoilers: None.
 

"I remember
Standing at the wall
The guns shot about our heads
And we kissed
As though nothing could fall..."

"Heroes" by David Bowie. Copyright 1977 Bewley Brothers Music and used without permission.
 

Inter Canem et Lupum
 

March 3, 2000

"I don't know," Byers knelt down by Frohike. "I don't know what to do."

"Do you love her?" Frohike asked rhetorically.

"I think so. I know I want her."

"Is your life better or worse with her?"

"Better...definitely better."

"And what would be your answer to her proposal today, had it been today and not Saturday night?"

"I think...I think it would be the same. I care very much for her...but I'm not ready...I haven't known her all that long...I promised..."

"Promised what?"

"When Susanne died...I promised myself that there wouldn't be anyone else."

"Maybe you did that as a form of protecting yourself, not as a way of demonstrating your loyalty to Susanne. Have you considered that as a possibility?"

"Uh...no..." Byers was quite pink by now.

"Well, you might. I think you're frightened, my boy."

Michael and I pretended to work; I think that Frohike and Byers were fairly oblivious to our presence, but if they became aware of it, we wouldn't have the opportunity to be flies on the wall for long.

"This is rich, my dad giving advice to the lovelorn," Michael whispered to me.

"Shut up!" I hissed through clenched teeth.

Byers was in full blush-and-stammer mode now. God knows what he'd been like as a kid. It must have been painful to see at times.

"Uh...no...well, maybe...I don't know..."

"I always figured I'd be having this conversation with Langly, not with you." Frohike shook his head. "But then, kids always surprise you. Seriously, do you want her?"

"I do."

"Then you need to come up with a plan." Frohike spoke with some authority here.

"I'll go to Ann Arbor and see her."

"No. Not yet. She's probably totally pissed off and embarrassed as hell. No. Try flowers first. Matter of fact, I need to do that right now, if we're going to have any flowers at this wedding coming up."

"A dozen roses. Red." Byers looked embarrassed.

"Okay. What do you want on the card?"

"Uh...I'm sorry?"

"You can do better than that."

"Oh, Jesus." Michael shook his head. "My dad, the great romantic."

"I think he is at heart," I whispered back.

All of a sudden Frohike's head shot up. "Excuse me, I hear mumbling in the peanut gallery. You two, scram!"

"We're working," Michael protested righteously.

"Right, and I'm seven feet tall. Out!" Frohike came as close to roaring at us as he ever had.
 

"Byers is so fucked up," Michael marveled, shaking his head as we walked into the kitchen. "He'd have to be to ask my dad for advice."

"Why do you think your dad wouldn't know anything on the subject?"

"He and my mom split a long time ago."

"Doesn't mean there wasn't anybody else." Although I had no personal knowledge of any other relationships, it didn't mean that they didn't exist. "And maybe your dad learns from his mistakes. If he does, he's lucky. Most of us don't."

"Maybe." Michael was skeptical.

The door to the kitchen burst open Langly style, and was invaded by the tall blonde figure of my soon-to-be husband. I grabbed him around the waist and pulled him into a hard kiss. He didn't complain.

"So like where's Frohike and Byers? We're supposed to meet Mulder at Benny's. Playoffs start tonight."

"And how much are we going to lose in this series?" I asked tartly.

"Not losing a thing. My money's on NC State taking it all."

"That's not a stretch. The point spread could kill you, though."

"I compiled all their stats from this season and did a figure for each quarter of each game. And we have bets for most points scored in a quarter and for game, semis, finals and who finally takes it all. 'Course, I coulda just called Eleanor's bookie."

"You can't afford Elmer. Trust me. And from what I hear, he's got a special talent for breaking the kneecaps of blondes who get into him for too much and don't pay up."

"It's not that. Eleanor wouldn't give me his number." He sulked mildly.

"Thank God she occasionally shows some sense."

"Hey, she's crazy enough to pay for the James Cameron scale production known as our wedding. It's not like we could've afforded it."

"Yeah, well, hope it's more like 'Titanic' at the box office than in real life."

"How can we miss? Open bar beginning to end." He motioned to Michael. "You coming or what?"

"Yeah." Michael grabbed a Corona from the fridge and popped it.

"Hey, you know, there are open container laws in this state," Langly balked.

Oh, God. He was becoming responsible. I'm not sure the world was ready for that.
 

March 6, 2000

Friday night, and the male members of the group were nowhere to be found. Actually, that wasn't quite true. They could easily be found at Benny's. They'd probably be seeing a lot of Benny's for a few weeks. March Madness. Even getting the March issue of TMB out slipped down on the priority list; apparently even conspiracy theorists were not immune from the effects of March Madness, and no one complained about lateness for one month out of the year.

I hadn't checked my own e-mail for three days, and figured it was time to see what lay in my in-box. I was amazed to find fifteen messages waiting for me, until I realized that most of them were probably spam. Even with spam filters, I still got some unbelievable junk.

Many of them were just that, but some of the senders were definitely deserving of answers. There was one from my friend Robyn in LA, a chatty, amusing message typical of her on a Friday afternoon when she didn't feel like working. I typed her a long note back, discussing our wedding, which she'd already gotten vacation time to attend. She'd never been to DC and she and our friend Mary Beth were planning to spend a week after the celebration touring the city and then hitting Williamsburg. Mary Beth would also be at the wedding with the cast of hundreds coming; she knew my mother, and she had written that when she found out Eleanor was paying, there was no way she was going to pass. I could get a real inferiority complex about
this, but my mother seemed to be willing to do it, and so far, she hadn't guilt-tripped me about it.

Another letter, this one from Anne. Jason hadn't been feeling well. Shit. I wrote her back, in e-scream, to get him checked out immediately and I would call her first thing in the a.m. Anne doesn't like to get up early, being a restauranteur, but I hoped to God that what Jason had was minor, not something like what had happened to the rest of us...and she was getting a wake-up call.

A note from Lydia. Lydia was better; she'd gone back to North Jersey, where she was teaching high school science for the time being until she figured out what to do. She still sounded rather lifeless and depressed, but at least she was back home with Seth and working. She was still disturbed that four and a half months of her life was missing in her memory and was
currently undergoing intense psychotherapy, which she hated. She did, however, speak positively of being with kids; she never thought that would be her bent, but it was proving to be enjoyable, if somewhat exhausting. And she and Seth had a new kitten, and of all that she spoke of, the kitten seemed to be the most therapeutic. I could understand that; I can't imagine
life without animals. I could never have loved someone who didn't like them.

Thank God Langly likes animals, I said silently and gratefully.

The last note...was from a jren-@leesburgusd.edu. Joan. She'd finally responded. With some trepidation, I opened her note.

"Dear Allison-thank you for including your real name; I'd be embarrassed to call you Copperhead (my e-mail name and Eric's pet name for me. By the way, it's not lost on me that a copperhead is a poisonous snake. When I mentioned this to Eric, he just grinned). I was very surprised to hear that Ringo is still living in the area, and even more surprised that he is getting married. As you know, I have not been able to speak to him for over 13 years, so I really don't know him anymore. I hope he's well. I do not know if he has discussed the circumstances of our being separated from one another, but I hope you won't think poorly of me for it. It's really very complicated. (Whatever, Joan). What it boils down to is that my husband feels that I should not associate with him. I have gone along with this for many years. But hearing that my baby brother, who is,  unbelievably, 36 years old and about to get married has made me wonder if I've not made a mistake. (Took you this long to figure that one out? She didn't inherit her little brother's brains, I thought rather contemptuously).

I assume you are writing this letter without my brother's knowledge. I doubt he'd want you to have anything to do with me. (Right on A, wrong on B, sister). I have to say I was shocked to be asked to be in your wedding party, particularly when you have never met me, and I don't think Ringo would want me there. My impulse is to say no. My husband will be furious when he finds out I've received this invitation.

But I think it's time I tried to mend fences with Ringo, and I would very much like to meet you. If you are willing, I will meet you in Falls Church at the Starbucks on Old Bridge Road, tomorrow morning at 10:00. Please tell me what you look like so I will know who to look for. I am 5'9", 150 lbs., blonde hair cut short, blue eyes. (Okay, she's tall like her bro. Same coloring, too). I wear tortoise-shell wire glasses and I carry a brown leather handbag. (You and a million others)..

By the way, is your last name Jewish?

Very truly yours,

Joan L. Renshaw
 

A weird letter, to be sure. But she did offer to meet me. At 10. Dana and Ellen were coming by to go shopping with the girls at 2. With any luck, she might be able to join them...
 

March 7, 2000

It was 10:15, and I was getting worried. Maybe she decided she couldn't go through with it, I thought sadly. I was well into my second latte out in Falls Church-not that far, but a ways from Leesburg-why the hell were we meeting here?

I contemplated getting a to go cup when a tall figure appeared by my small table outside. I was dragging away on a cigarette and reading the paper when I heard my name said very quietly.

"Allison Gerstein?" She pronounced it ger-stine, not ger-steen, which is what my family says it as, but close enough.

"You're Joan." I stood up to shake hands with the woman. She was prettily-and expensively-dressed in a cream pants outfit with a camel overcoat and a handbag that cost more than my wardrobe put together, Docs included. Her hair was coiffed perfectly, and I could see she had the same icy blonde her brother had. The eyes were the same shallow-water blue. And the hands were long, graceful and had spatulate fingers, like her brother's.

The handshake, though, was limp, cool, and tentative. She seemed extremely ill at ease, constantly staring around her, her shoulders bunched.

"Thank you for meeting me," I said, hoping to put her at ease. She seemed not to relax. "Can I get you something?"

"Decaf anything, thank you. No, I'll get it. May I get something for you?"

"I'm still working on this latte, thanks."

I waited for her to return with some anxiety-I wondered if she wouldn't bail. She had body language that screamed fear. But she did return, and she checked around her with an intensely worried expression crossing her fine features.

God, was paranoia genetic in this cluster of DNA?

"My husband is out of town today, but...anyway, tell me about yourself, Allison."

I studied her more as I spoke to her. "Well, I'm a deaf support services provider at CU. I've got a 14-year-old daughter and one I've got temporary custody of who's the same age. I met your brother the first night I lived in DC. We bought a house in September in Alexandria. Your brother works in cryptography at the Pent." The Cliffs Notes version.

She looked very much like him, but if she'd ever had that sassy, impish look to her, it had vanished long ago. She was 16 years older than he was...that made her 52. At first glance, she was well-preserved, but you could see she relied heavily on cosmetics for that effect; lines were etched heavily around her eyes, which were rimmed with red-not that unusual for a  blue-eyed person, but hers looked...sad. And scared.

"It sounds like he's doing well." She nodded. "I'm happy to hear that."

"If you don't mind my asking...why have you been separated for so long?" It was a rather pointed question to be asking this early in the conversation, but I felt like moving in for the kill. I didn't want to dance around with this woman; either she wanted to see her brother or she didn't. I tend to have a low tolerance for bullshit on these issues.

"It's...complicated."

"Believe it or not, I do catch on sometimes."

"I'm not even sure I should be telling you this."

"Your choice. But either let me know where you're at on this, or I'm gone. I've got way much to do." I'd wanted to meet with her; why was I so impatient all of a sudden? She looked at me as though I'd slapped her, and while I should have felt some contrition, I wasn't quite there. My reactions were baffling me even more than hers at this point.

"No...I'll tell you." She looked at me, blue eyes wide behind her glasses. "You weren't followed here, were you?"

"What?!" Maybe it was good Langly and I couldn't have kids. This was one set of paranoia genes gone haywire. "The only person who knows I'm here is my daughter, and she doesn't even know why."

"If you're sure." She looked down at her hands, which she seemed to do a lot. "Allison...I have to ask you. Are you Jewish?"

"You asked me that in your e-mail. Is this relevant to anything?"

"My husband...might have a real problem with this."

"Apparently he already has a problem with your brother for some reason, which I'm not sure what it is, but I don't think my religious affiliation has anything to do with our conversation here today." I was getting a little huffy; I urged myself to slow down and cut this woman some slack. Apparently coming here today was a very threatening gesture for her; I wasn't sure why, but it seemed to have been very difficult for her. "But for the record, yes, I'm Jewish, and the wedding will be conducted by a Reform rabbi."

"I was afraid of that." She looked very depressed.

"Afraid of what? That we sacrifice small children? That we bite the heads off pigeons at weddings?" My impatience shown through.

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "It would be so like Ringo to do something so...unconventional."

"Well, he is that."

"So he hasn't changed much."

"I don't know. I've only known him 16 months."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"That doesn't seem like a very long time."

"I'm 44 years old. I don't feel like wasting time anymore."

"You're...eight years older than my brother."

She can add, I thought silently. "Yes."

"You look...very young."

"Thank you. I think."

"You said you have a 14-year-old daughter. Are you divorced?"

"Widowed."

"Oh. I'm sorry. For how long?"

"17 months. Look, are you trying to do a background investigation on me or what? I invited you here because I love your brother and I was hoping you'd be in my wedding party. He really misses you, Joan. I think he'd love to see you. He hasn't said a lot about you...but he's said enough."

"Such as?"

"Like how much you took care of him when he was small. Like you were like his mom. About how much it hurt when you got married and your husband wouldn't let you be with him that much-"

"Roy is a...difficult man at times."

"They're all difficult at times. Don't think your baby bro is an exception."

She smiled into the distance, but still kept checking around her. "I have a hard time imagining him as a fully formed adult. What does he look like?"

I smiled. "Well, he's really tall-"

"That I knew. He's been tall all his life. He was 6-2 when I last saw him."

"He's still there. And thin."

"He was always like that, too."

"He's still got all his hair. It's almost as long as mine."

"He's cut it since I saw him, then. It was down to where he could sit on it for a while. My husband hated it. He always threatened to take a pair of scissors out whenever he saw him."

"Really?" And I thought he was gorgeous now. I'd have to ask to see pictures. "Here, I have some photos from a friend's birthday party last week." I pulled out the snapshots from Dana's birthday celebration. "Okay, this is my daughter Miranda and Shelby, her friend who's staying with us-"

"Child abuse?"

"You could say that." I didn't feel like going into Shelby's history right now.

"Your daughter is very pretty, but she doesn't look anything like you."

"She favors her father. And this is Michael, the son of one of our dearest friends." Michael was sitting in the living room, watching the ballgame, drinking a beer. "That's Andrea, a girl he's seeing." Andrea was mimicking his activity in the photo. "This is our friend Frohike-"

"Fro-what?"

"Frohike. And Jo, his friend, my boss." It had been taken at the dinner table. "Ah, here's the birthday girl." A really nice photo of Dana, taken by Frohike, standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling, holding her daughter. "That's her baby Rebecca. Here's John, a friend of ours who's been getting over being sick, so that's why he's asleep on the sofa. We always tease him that he never sleeps. Now we have documentation. And this is our friend Mulder who's making the bunny ears on the girls." And grinning wickedly-with teeth. "This is Julie, who's making bunny ears on Mulder now." We'd all had a fair amount of beer by this time. Here's Dana and Mulder-they're married-"

"And very in love," Joan observed from the photo.

"That, too. You'd have to love Mulder a lot to put up with him. Here's me, cooking dinner-" I hated that shot-"and here's your little brother." Langly was reaching into the fridge, grabbing a beer, and smiling broadly. He'd been about three sheets to the wind at this point. It was a great picture. Joan took it in her hand and studied it for a long time.

"He looks good," she said finally. "Happy."

"I think he was drunk."

"Oh, no, he's not drinking, is he?"

"Yeah. We enjoy our liquor."

"He needs to be careful."

"He is." Most of the time, anyway. "And here's a shot of us that Miranda took." It was a head and shoulders shot, faces close, beer bottles raised, and smiles all around.

She shook her head. "I worry about the drinking."

"He's talked about some of his earlier problems with it. At least now he doesn't drive and he ends up in his own bed when he does." Which was probably where he still was right now, as we spoke.

"Well, that's an improvement over past times."

"You haven't seen him in ages, Joan. He's really doing fine. Of course, this winter we nearly lost him...I thought about trying to get in touch with you then---"

"What do you mean, you nearly lost him?"

"He was really sick, Joan. And we still don't know what laid him out. For that matter, it's taken a few of us down, and nobody knows how we got it, or what it was, or where it originated. I'm just grateful he's here."

"Why didn't you call me?" she reproached.

"Would you have come?" I shot at her, maybe more forcefully than I should have.

She didn't look at me. She stared around the corner, checking...for what?"

END OF PART 70