Title: So Long...
Author: Poet (email@example.com)
Fandom: X-Files/Lone Gunmen
Status: New, Complete
Archive: CKoS and DitB
Other websites: http://www.geocities.com/norseblue/main.html or http://www.geocities.com/norseblue/myfic/myfic.html
Disclaimers: CC and 1013 and FOX and all those people own LGM, not me. The way you can tell is that if *I* had any say in the matter, LGM would be in the fall lineup. The bastards. Random quotes are taken from "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." You probably won't understand much of this mess if you haven't read HHGttG at least a few times. Byers's toast is from "Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden.
Notes: This is a little unbeta-ed, snapshot-type thingy, very tame. Implied L/B, of course. *g*
Summary: It's May 18, 2001. Douglas Adams has been dead a whole week now. This is my way of dealing. I've been on the verge of tears all night, and I sort of just got all of that out right here.
The room is quite large, but the clutter of half-formed computer components and discarded clothing makes the space seem tight. A low coffee table resides within the confusion, the stained surface of the wood scarcely visible through the litter of empty beer bottles and sticky shot glasses. In the very center of the table rests a brick recently painted a dull golden color; a fraying telephone wire straps a thin slice of lemon to the makeshift gold bar.
A trio of men sits, cross-legged, in a circle about the table, slowly passing around a tattered leather tome. The worn black cover bears the helpful words, "Don't Panic," written in large, friendly letters. The oldest of the three is in possession of the book at the moment, and it's resting in his lap, opened to chapter twenty-five.
"'That's right,' shouted Vroomfondel, 'we demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty!'" he reads aloud to his associates in a somewhat inferior English accent. Never lifting his eyes from the book, he smiles at the snickers he receives and continues, knowing the best part is only a few turns of the page away.
The two younger men sit close together, the blond resting his head against a bare shoulder. During the more amusing passages, he turns to bury his pace in his companion's chest and chuckles softly, his lover tightening his arms around his waist.
As Deep Thought prepares to reveal The Answer the bearded man, uncharacteristically free of his suit jacket and tie, can feel his friend smile against his undershirt. "Forty-two," they both breathe silently as the older man delivers the classic line.
"Chapter twenty-eight; your turn, hairboy. You get the homestretch," the older man states, passing the book to the blond and taking a swig of his now room-temperature beer.
The blond settles back against his partner, clears his throat, and begins to read, picking up where his friend had left off. After a few minutes, he reaches the last page, and as he comes to the final line, his voice cracks. "'Okay, baby, hold tight,' said Zaphod. 'We'll take in a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe,'" he practically whispers. He sets the volume to the side and looks up as the bearded man places a soft kiss on his forehead.
Two shots of Jack Daniels are placed in front of the lovers, and the older man raises a third. "Byers, your turn to toast."
The bearded man takes his glass and lifts it, up towards the heavens. "'The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;/ Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;/ Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;/For nothing now can ever come to any good.'" The glasses clink together, sloshing whiskey onto the table, and the three men drink.
They set their glasses back on the table, and the blond passes the book to his mate. He opens it to the first page and begins.
"Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy..."
Archived: May 18, 2001