Stories in the Things Undone series:
TU 1: Things Undone by Erynn
TU 2: Mending the Tears, by Sally
TU 3: To Carry On, by Erynn
TU 4: Alchemy of the Word, by Erynn and Sally
TU 5: Snipe Hunt, by Erynn and Sally
TU 6: Road Trip, by Erynn and Sally
If you haven't read them, you'll be confused. Go do it!
______

"Someone who keeps aloof from suffering
is not a lover"

~~Sanai, translated by Coleman Barks -- The Hand of Poetry~~
______

MONDAY, JUNE 26, 2000
DEBORAH'S STUDIO, GEORGETOWN
3:30 AM

LANGLY:

"Ringo, honey, I have to go." Well, that's what I dreamed I heard.

"Mmm... uhmuh?" What time is it, anyway? Feels like it's the middle of the night.

There's a soft hand shaking my shoulder. "Sweetie, I have to go to work."

"Right now? We just went to bed!"

"That was hours ago. It's 3:30, and I'm on at 4."

"3:30?" Okay time to go to bed, but to get up? Oh, man, I have no clue how she does it, but she does it all the time. I mean, I'm tired just being on her schedule, and I can always go back to the house and crash. "Um, like, when you gonna get off again?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Deb says.

Ah the joys of dating a doctor. Is it worth the aggravation? Oh yeah. Deb's so awesome I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming her. But I'd rather be dreaming right now than dealing with her schedule.

"Lights, Ringo." She turns on the light as I squinch my eyes closed. "C'mon, babe. Tell you what. Drive me to work and you can have my car today."

"You sure?" Sounds a hell of a lot better than walking or taking the Metro. Usually I drive the van to Deb's, but right now it's spewing oil all over the place, so I'm sorta stuck.

"It's no problem, babe. It's not like I'm going very far during my shift."

That could be forever. Sometimes she ends up being there two or three days straight. I won't have much to do except work on those files Byers found and downloaded last week. Weird shit, some sorta experimental aircraft or UFO information that we gotta dig into more.

"Remember, I'm gonna be on at least 24, since I had to bargain hard to get Wednesday off."

"Wednesday?"

"Your birthday, you idiot!" She laughs at me. Okay, so I deserved that one.

"Oh... um... senility setting in."

"It never ceases to amaze me how men can forget all the important things," she giggles. "C'mon, babe, let's hit the road." We stop at 7-11, so she can have the first of her god-knows-how-many caffeine fixes of the day.

I could go for some, but then I wouldn't get back to sleep for a while... oh fuck it. When in doubt, do the caffeine. We're both pretty sleepy still. Deb says she's used to it, that she's almost forgotten what it's like to be awake. I'm starting to understand, but that doesn't mean she doesn't give one hell of a kiss goodbye when it's time to go. Tired as I am, I can still appreciate how good she makes me feel. Course, I'd like it better if we were home kissing, and then... but hey, she's gotta work. It's important. She's real focused and if I can't support her in that, I got no business being with her.

"I'll call you when I'm off," she says.

"Make sure you're really off, okay?" We've got this rule that she can't call and say she's done until she's actually out the door and headed home. If she's still inside the hospital, she's fair game, and I've already seen what happens with that.

She giggles. "I will, babe." She winks at me before kissing me one last time. "Drive careful. I worry about my car, y'know." She giggles again. Deb is such a gigglepuss. Frohike says it drives him nuts, but I love it.

"Have fun sloggin' through people's guts," I tease her. She laughs, gives me one more kiss, and dashes off; only got a couple minutes before she has be on the clock. Man, think about it, at least 24 hours of digging your hands in people's innards. Ewww. Well, at least I have the car. I wouldn't want to be walking home at this hour. It's not what you see, it's what you don't that's creepy.

I head south so I can get back home.

CRACK!

What the fuck? Sounds like somebody threw a rock through the window. Shit. I pull over and look at the damage. It's the rear passenger window, but that was no rock. Rocks usually shatter the glass into a bunch of pieces. This is a small round hole, and the glass is veined. Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck is someone shooting at Deb's car for? I mean, it's an Escort, for Christ's sake. *Nobody* kills for an Escort.

I pull into a 7-11 parking lot; they're lit up, and open 24 hours a day. I start feeling a little lightheaded 'cause I forgot to breathe there for a while. Well, your car gets shot at, you figure, what's a little thing like breathing? What the fuck is someone going after Deb for? I mean, she's been here two weeks. Yeah, she had some patients die on her, but those, they sounded like they were gone before she even got her hands in them.

Oh, man, she'll freak when she finds out. But I'm not gonna tell her. She's on 24, which usually means she's on longer. That gives me plenty of time to fix the glass. She'll never have to know. While that's happening, I can figure out who the fuck is after her.

Maybe I should tell her; maybe I oughta call her, tell her what's going on. Byers is always on about the honesty thing with the people we care about. What if somebody's got something out for her? Problem is, I don't want to make her paranoid. I got enough paranoia for both of us.

Maybe it's just a driveby. That would really suck, but least then it's just somebody with an attitude problem, not a grudge. People with grudges scare the shit out of me. We know way too many people with grudges, and some of them have 'em against us. What's even worse is, they have the means to act on them. This is very uncool... and then it hits me. I'm such a fucking dork: that bullet wasn't for Deb at all, maybe it was meant for me -- maybe they went after her to get to us. Well, they succeeded. Now to find out who the fuck it is and what they want.

Byers and Frohike are crashed when I get in. That figures. When I need them, they decide it's time to dance with the sandman. Why couldn't they have insomnia tonight? Any other night of the week and one of them would have been up doing something.

Meanwhile, my major debate is, what the hell do I tell Deb? I don't know. Is someone after her or me? The driveby thing looks remote. Carjackers go for somebody who looks like they got money, shoot up a Benz or something. What can I do to keep her safe? So far she's been a real sport -- all the shit that went down in April didn't scare her off, but somebody coming after her? Maybe Pennsylvania in winter doesn't look so bad after all. It's a hell of a lot less creepy than DC any time of the year.

I can't sleep, and I don't even know where to start making an enemies list since we've got so many, so I turn on the tube; 500 channels of nothing on. I flip to Technology Tonight, because it's a hair more exciting than the Weather Channel. Maybe it'll help me calm down. A beer might help too. I go to the kitchen, reminding myself to breathe, and pop a longneck. At least it's quiet; nobody's shooting at me here.

When the phone rings, I about hit the ceiling. Fuck! Who the hell'd be calling us this hour? Oh man, I don't like this. Mulder, if your ass is in trouble again, you deal with it.

"H'lo?" I don't much like answering the phone, but I put the tape on like always.

"May I speak with Richard Langly, please?" Some woman I don't recognize. I look at the Caller ID, and it looks like a GWU number, but it's not Deb's. And she's using my legal name -- that's never good.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be me."

"You're listed as the local emergency contact for Dr. Deborah SaintJohn?"

"Uh, yeah, why?" Suddenly, I'm freezing, even though it's 88 degrees in here. "She okay?"

"We had a shooter come in. She was injured in the incident. She's okay, but it looks like a bullet punctured her lung..."

"She's got a ripped up lung and you're saying she's okay?!" I'm shrieking and I don't care who hears me. God no, not my Deb. Oh man, shit, I should have called her, I should have told her. This is so my fault.

"When can you get here?" the lady asks me.

"Uh, like, right now!"

"Her parents are in New Orleans. Should we contact them?"

I don't even know them. The room's starting to spin, and the only reason I don't hit the ground face down is 'cause Frohike grabs my arm, and he's asking what the hell's going on. "I don't know yet," I bellow.

"Mr. Langly?" the chick on the phone asks.

"Uh, no. I'll do it." I won't, but the hospital doesn't have to know that. I mean, how will her folks feel about their kid getting shot up? I mean, like, mine wouldn't care. They'd probably figure I did something to deserve it, but Deb's folks, they'd be all 'see what you get hanging out with that loser'... assuming she told them what I do. I bet she didn't. She's tight with them, but there's always stuff you don't say. She doesn't tell them about all the cases she gets, for instance; she says they'd freak. Well, I bet they'd really freak if they knew what was going on with her now.

"I gotta go, man," I tell Frohike, and then I notice Byers is there, too. "It's Deb, she's all messed up."

"What happened?" Byers asks.

I snap at him. "Some fucker came and shot her up, right after they shot out her car window."

"Put some pants on, Frohike. There's already enough violence in the world," Byers says. Good call. Really, that's too much information.

"Since when did you become such an asshole?" Frohike snarls back. "Just give us a minute, Blondie."

"I don't have a minute!" I shriek. Oh God, please, don't let Deb die, pleasepleaseplease. We all jump in the Chrysler, and Frohike decides to be Mario Andretti, but he's still going way too slow. Byers keeps telling me to take it easy, breathe -- yeah, sure. Like I could breathe right now. I've got to calm down. Next thing I know, I'll be having an asthma attack, and he knows it.

"Her car got shot up?" Byers asks as he hands me an inhaler.

I take a quick puff, then cough and try to catch my breath. "I drove it home. She said I could take it if I picked her up
later. I was just leaving GWU and BAM!" I slam my fist against my other hand and Byers hits the back seat flat. We've been shot at too many times, I guess. "It's parked on the street." There's no room in the driveway for anything but the van and Frohike's gunboat.

"It could have been a driveby." I think Byers is trying to make me feel better. It's not working.

"Doesn't sound like it." Frohike, unlike Byers, isn't still an optimist at heart. "If they went for the car, then for her, it's probably someone really mad at her."

"Or at us." I mumble. "Man, if this has something to do with me, I'm gonna kill myself."

"Just find out how she is. We'll worry about everything else later. Go on, I'll meet you," Fro says. Frohike drops me and Byers at the ER entrance, then goes to park. I just about cream the security guard.

I don't really come here much, and the only time I was here for very long was one slow night. Deb said come on over, we can do the wild thing in the on call room. We did, and it was kind of cool. But she didn't tell me we'd have company. Nobody caught us in flagrante delicto, but we'd just finished and if we smoked it'd be the time you'd have a cigarette. So this other resident walks in, sees us in bed, says 'hi,' and walks out like nothing's out of the ordinary. I'm freaking, but Deb didn't think it was big deal. It's a common room. That explained the sofa and two sets of bunk beds. There's a TV in there too, and lots of empties. Not unlike my room.

You'd think it'd be quiet this time of morning, but there was a shooting here, so they got cops and media and people screaming all over the place. I gotta just about kill someone to get information about Deb. The person who called me doesn't work down here and the chick I talk to doesn't know jack about my being Deb's emergency contact, and she ain't gonna give me shit 'til she finds out if I'm legit.

Byers is with me, though, and lucky for me, Mr. Suit knows how to massage the system. It's instinct for him. I'm just praying I can see her, and fast, but of course, I can't. They dragged her off to surgery. Somebody says Gary Waldinger's doing it, her advisor. I've never met him. All I know is, he better be good, and he better do it right, or I'll kill him myself. I'm about to start shrieking but Byers taps my arm and says ranting about killing people is a lousy idea right now. He's right, of course. Asshole.

BYERS:

The hospital staff tell us where to wait while Deborah's in surgery. ESPN is on, but none of us are paying any attention. I'm trying my best to calm Langly, but this hits too close to home; my memories of Sari being taken away for surgery the last time someone shot at us still make me shudder. "She'll be all right," I assure him. I say it to reassure myself as well. "We've had enough experience with the staff here to know that." Langly is about to snap at me again, but Frohike intervenes.

"Did you call her parents?" Mel demands. He's not trying to be harsh, but it needs to happen soon.

Langly gives him a frantic look of death. "What, do I look like an idiot? You think I'm gonna call 'em and say, 'hey, I'm your daughter's boyfriend and oh, by the way, she took a bullet tonight?' That's gonna go over good!"

"You should call them, Langly," I tell him softly. "She's close to them; they need to know."

"They've got a right to know," Frohike adds.

"They're gonna freak!" Langly's shaking.

"Of course they are, but that's no excuse not to call them," I tell him, "this is a serious matter. It would be like not calling us if you got hurt."

Ringo's not ready to deal with logic yet. "They're gonna hate me!"

"If they have an ounce of taste and sense, yes," Frohike says, "but you still have to call them."

"Oh man. They are so gonna hate me." He's got his face in his hands and shakes his head.

"Langly, I just told you, they'll hate you anyway. What do you have to lose?" Frohike says.

Langly pauses. "Uh... my self-respect?"

"That and $3.25'll get you a mocha," Frohike says to me. "As long as you don't have to pay for the self-respect."

He's angry, and shouts, "I hate you guys! My girl got shot, I'm freaking, you want me to call her folks, and then you go and diss me? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?"

I look at him, trying to be supportive. His relationship with Deborah is just starting in earnest, and things are still developing between them. If Deborah survives, he may lose her anyway. "We're your friends, Ringo."

He looks like he hates me for saying it, but I know he'd be lost if we weren't here for him. We sit down on the waiting room couch and he sits between us, sulking viciously. I wish I knew what to say, how to calm him, reassure him, let him know how much we both care.

GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
5:00 AM

FROHIKE:

I'm trying to stay calm and be supportive, reassuring. Byers and I are doing our best to be here for Langly. Even with us, he seems to feel it's important to maintain the swagger. But with Deborah seriously, potentially critically injured, his pretenses have worn down and nothing's left but his most basic elements. No wonder he's terrified. He's more exposed right now than he could ever be in a strip search. We've all had personal experience with said phenomenon, and it's not pretty.

Byers is rubbing Langly's back with one hand, assuring him that Deborah is in the best hands, and that she couldn't have been in a better place when she went down than here. He's appealing to Ringo's logical side, a compassionate older brother.

My role, as usual, is to be Mommy. For some reason, they've adopted me as their parental unit. Maybe it's the fact that I'm so much older than they are -- 15 years older than Byers, 17 ahead of Langly -- but the fact is, I need to be their parent as much as they need it from me. I keep wondering how I'll manage when they don't need me anymore. I'll always need them.

"Byers, I think we could use some coffee." I'm hinting that I need to talk to Ringo alone. Luckily, density is not one of Byers' personal traits. He nods and tells Langly he'll be back shortly. Langly nods, barely raising his eyes.

"Hey buddy," I tell him, "it's okay. You're having a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation." But as usual, I've misfired; rather than calming him down, I've elevated him to a brand new level of totally pissed off. He gets up and heads for the washroom to scrub his face. I follow.

"Frohike, do you mind?" he snaps irritably, but I know what he's really saying. We both speak Guy, and if he thinks he can fool me in that language, he's sorely mistaken.

"Just making sure you're okay," I tell him, laying a hand on his arm.

"Oh, do I look like I'm okay?" he explodes at me. His temper has once again overridden his resolve. "How the fuck you think I am, man? I mean, Deb comes here, she's barely here
two weeks and she takes a bullet; how the hell do you think I'm doing?"

"It was a rhetorical question."

"Save it. And get the fuck out."

"Forget it."

"Oh yeah? You tell me what happened then." His voice is a mix of anger and resignation, bewilderment and pain.

"I can't, buddy. But I can tell you, her boss is working on her. She's in a good place here, and..." I hesitate.

He stares at me, his face eager, inquiring, confused. "Yeah?"

"She loves you, man."

His face displays the disbelieving awe of a small child. "You think so?"

"Believe me, she does." There aren't many things in the universe I can swear to, but this is definitely one of them. "I mean, there's no accounting for taste."

"Okay, okay. I know I'm a dick, you don't need to drive it home, Doohickey!"

Point taken.

"Langly," I finally say, "you know, if we don't get out there soon, Byers is gonna be really pissed that he spent ten bucks on coffee and no one's there to drink it."

"Cheap bastard." I think the boy will survive.

I just hope his girl does.
 

End part 01

on to Part 2