NOTE:I wrote this story as a response to a challenge on the Lone Gunmen slash group, and thought that I'd share it with you, too.  The challege came from a line in one of the episodes where Langly (the blond) turns to the other two and says, "You'll be sorry when I'm dead."  Frohike (the older, shorter one) says, "Prove it." The challenge was to write a Langly is *dead* story.  This story is a missing scene from the LGM episode, "Tango de los Pistoleros".  To set it up, Langly 
has been poking around on a small motor boat when the motor starts up, and he goes flying off the back, into the water.  The other guys, watching from a nearby boat house watch on in horror.  The very next scene has the guys in their hotel room.  This story is what MIGHT have happened in between those 
two segments.  (And the entire last part of the story is a direct rip off of the motel scene.)  Even if you don't watch the show, you should be able to follow it. Anyway, that's probably more information than you needed.  Here's the story--hope you like.

 ***  

Miami Blues
By J.D. Rush

4:10 A.M.
Miami, FLA.

"Byers!  Get out of the water now!"

I pretend not to hear him.  Maybe he'll go away and I can continue to search in peace. . .

"Byers!  For Christ's sake!  You're been in there nearly an hour!  You're gonna freeze to death!"

Yeah, right, Frohike. . .and Langly's been out in this water a lot longer than *I* have.

"Byers!  Goddammit!  I know you can hear me!  Now get in the damn boat!"

Leave me alone.  I want to join Langly. . .

I slip under the water for the last time.  It'll be so easy.  A few more minutes, and I'll be with Ringo once more.  But just as I feel myself blacking out, a strong hand grabs at the back of my jacket collar and I'm being hauled unceremoniously back on board the little craft we had 'borrowed'.  I collapse in a heap on the bottom of the boat, gasping from lack of air, a gutful of water, and the repression of sobs that threaten to never end if I let them begin.

My lover is gone--I watched helplessly as he drowned right in front of me.  And there was nothing I had done to stop it.

"Jesus, John.  That was a really stupid stunt.  Thank God you're okay.  Talk to me, kiddo."  I hear Frohike calling to me, but I try to ignore him.  I don't want to talk to him.  I don't want to talk to anyone.  Except my Langly.  I just want to die. 

Suddenly my old friend is kneeling beside me, cradling my head against his chest, slapping my face gently.  "C'mon, kid--snap outta it!"

I cough up some water and mumble, "Leave me alone."

He doesn't seem offended by my words; instead he simply encourages, "That's good, Johnny. . .keep talking to me."

Oh, God. . .my stomach is flipping.  I'm going to be seriously sick!  I jerk away from his grasp and lean over the side of the boat, heaving up much of the water I had swallowed.  Frohike just sits beside me, patting and rubbing my back; I find his presence comforting.  "That's good, John.  Get it all 
out," he whispers in my ear.  "Damn, I thought we were gonna lose you there for awhile."

With nothing left in my gut, I slide down the side of boat, and slump on the floor.  "I wish you had," I mutter.   "I wanna die."

"NO YOU DON'T!" he commands, fairly shaking me by my shoulders in the mistaken belief I'll process what he's saying.  "Don't you EVER say that again, do you hear me?"

I barely manage to blurt out, "But. . .Langly. . ." before I break down, the grief completely overwhelming me. 

Strong, gentle arms pull me in for a hug, and hold me tight as I start to wail uncontrollably, mourning my lost love.  Rough hands cradle me, giving me a safe harbor in this time of crisis.  Frohike is good at that--like a black bear protecting her cubs, he always goes out of his way to protect me and Langly. 

But there was no way to protect either of us anymore.  Langly was dead.  And so was I.

Some part of my mind hears the conversation swirling around me, without me, but I no longer care as I cling desperately to Frohike, crying my heart out.

"What do we do now?" Jimmy asks, softly. . .sadly.

"Not much we can do," Frohike answers.  "We should head back."

"I still think we should call the Coast Guard," Jimmy argues. 

Frohike sighs, as he explains for perhaps the hundredth time, "I told you, Jimmy, we can't do that.  What we were doing out here was illegal.  VERY illegal.  We'll be arrested on the spot."

"So what?" Jimmy shoots back.  "We don't leave a man behind.  Isn't that what you always say?  Don't you even care that Langly's out there somewhere?"

I can feel the tension grip Frohike's body as he grips me closer still.  "Listen, you little punk-ass!" he growls.  "Don't you DARE question my loyalties!  I'm perfectly aware of the situation, but I'll be DAMNED if I'm gonna allow them to throw this man into jail after everything he's gone through."   His arms tighten even more around me, sheltering me, as he 
whispers forcefully, "Nothing is worth that. . .not even Langly." 

The sound of his name causes me to start shaking violently.  "Oh, shit," Frohike mutters. 

"What's wrong?" I can hear the worry and concern in Jimmy's voice.

"Probably hypothermia," comes the diagnosis.  "We gotta get him back to the van."

"But Frohike. . ." Jimmy complains.

The older man has had enough, and puts his foot down.  "I'm not going to debate this with you anymore, Jimmy!  Just trust me--I'm doing what's best for all of us.  Now get us the hell outta here!" 

Without another word, Jimmy starts up the engine, and begins driving away from the area where we had seen Langly go down.  Mel releases his hold on me just long enough to take his coat off and wrap it around me, before enfolding me in his warm embrace once more.  How could I tell him the shivers had nothing to do with the cold, except the coldness in my heart?  "You're gonna be okay, Johnny," he murmurs, reassuringly.  "Just hang on, buddy--everything's gonna be okay."

But Langly was gone. . .things would never be 'okay' again.

++++++++++++

When we get back to the van, Frohike pushes my wet jacket off my shoulders, and helps me strip off the rest of my soaking wet suit, socks, and underthings--it WAS rather stupid to jump into the water fully dressed, I suppose--before he envelops me in the heavy wool blanket we kept under the seats.  Again, he hugs me close, as much out of affection as to provide 
warmth, and Jimmy takes over at the wheel.  While grateful for Mel's body heat, I'm more thankful for his closeness and strength.  Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I have no energy left, and need someone to lean on.

"Where to?" Jimmy asks, as the old motor comes to life.

"There's a hospital not far from here.  That's our first stop," replies the confident voice beside me.  With that, we take off, leaving the marina behind, but not the nightmarish memories.  The short drive is done in silence except for Frohike's instructions to our driver, and the weeping I can't 
seem to get under control.
 
 

Once we arrive at the hospital, Frohike lays out the plan for Jimmy.  "Okay, kid.  I want you to go into the emergency room and scout around, find out if anyone matching Langly's description has come through here.  I'm gonna go see
if I can round up some supplies."

"But what about Byers?" the young man inquires, baffled.  "I thought we were going to get him some treatment for his hypoglycemia?"

"HypoTHERMIA," Frohike corrects, with just a hint of his usual impatience.  "No.  Too risky.  'Sides, I think he had a pretty mild case--seems to be past the worse of it, eh, buddy?"

I just nod.  Getting out of the cold wet clothes has been a big help, but I'm still trembling, from thoughts of life without Ringo. 

"Is he going to be okay by himself?" Jimmy asks, cautiously. 

Frohike kneels down in front of me and stares into my eyes.  My God, it's the first time I have really looked at him since all this started--he looks like he's aged a hundred years.  "He's gonna be fine, aint'cha, Byers?"

"Yeah. . .fine," I respond automatically, my voice so low, even *I* can barely hear it.

"Hey, I got a great idea.  Jimmy, turn on the radio before you go."  Mel gives me a small smile, "That'll keep ya' busy until we get back, 'kay?"

Again, I just nod as the gentle, soothing strains of a Mozart sonata drifts through the back of the van.  Even Frohike seems surprised that Jimmy got it right the first time.  I'd thank him, if I could only form the words.  I hear the driver's door squeak as it opens, and then our youngest member is gone.

"Do you think he'll be here?" I ask, hopefully.

My old friend shrugs his shoulders.  "Don't know.  It IS the closest ER to the marina.  Thought it'd be a good place to start looking. . ."  He doesn't finish the sentence, and I'm glad he doesn't.  The thought of Ringo laying in a morgue somewhere--I can't handle thoughts like that right now.