From: "D. Sidhe" <firstname.lastname@example.org> Date: Saturday, November 30, 2002 3:13 AM At this moment, given my little keyboard issues, I can basically either answer email or I can write stories. The plot bunnies are demanding stories, so I'll get around to the email eventually. Sorry. The bunnies want me to share a quickie, but I'm hanging onto the Washington series until I get to a point where I can be pretty sure I'll actually finish it. As far as this one goes, well, Langly told me to pick on somebody else this time. The Significance of the Pickle by D. Sidhe email@example.com Category: Basically a Langly/Byers slash, but no sex. And no plot, either. Good grief, what is here? Not much, actually. Rating: PG for a little language and innuendo (You can hear worse on The Simpsons.) Disclaimers: None of these boys are mine, but I still treat them better than their real owner does. The title and summary aren't mine, either. Sorry, Arlo. Archive: If you want it, take it. Spoilers: None. Summary: "In the daytime I'm Mr. Natural/ as healthy as I can be/ but at night I'm a junk food junkie/ Good Lord have pity on me."
John Byers sighed in contentment and bit into his sandwich. There was something about late night snacking... He didn't do it often, if only because it was rare for everyone else to be asleep at the same time. But as vices went, this one was pretty mild. He was about halfway through his treat when Langly stumbled into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless in old gray sweats.
"Hey, Johnny. Wondering where you got to."
Byers dropped a napkin over the sandwich and tried very hard to look like a man who'd gotten out of bed for a glass of milk. "Couldn't sleep," he mumbled.
Langly fixed his gaze on the napkin-draped plate. "Whatcha got there?" Before Byers could stop him, he reached across, grabbed the napkin, picked up the sandwich and took a bite. "What the hell?" he said through a mouthful. He scrutinized the sandwich. "Damn, John, what is this?" Byers snatched it back and tried stuffing it in his mouth.
"Hey, Mel! Jimmy!" Langly yelled, face aglow with unholy glee. "Get in here!"
The two of them staggered in in various stages of undress. "What's all the damned yelling about?" Frohike demanded, with a little less alarm than Langly'd caused the first twenty times they'd heard him insisting they had to see something at two AM.
"Look what I caught!" Langly was smirking.
Frohike shoved his glasses up his nose and looked. "Okay, you caught Byers. I hate to tell you this, kid, but we already know about that."
"No! You gotta see what he was doing!"
Frohike backed away slightly. "You two boys aren't gonna put on a show, are you?"
Byers disposed of the last of the evidence, swallowing hastily. "I was just having a snack. It's not that big a deal."
Langly was still grinning. "Yeah, so tell 'em what kind of snack you were having."
Jimmy blinked. "Are you drunk, Langly?" he asked earnestly. "Because it looks like a glass of milk and a sandwich to me."
Frohike sighed. "That's it. I'm going back to bed. I don't care what you're doing."
Langly stood up and went to the sink. "Ah-hah!" He held up a knife and an odd green thing. "Busted, John!"
Byers sighed and slumped in his chair. "Okay, Sherlock, you got me."
Frohike turned around, and Jimmy took a step or two closer to see what
Langly was holding. "That's a..."
"Pickle stem! He was eating," Langly crowed triumphantly, "a peanut butter and pickle sandwich!"
Byers put his head in his hands. "I'm the victim of secret mind-control tests," he offered hopefully.
Frohike snorted. "Hell, I don't know how else to explain this."
Jimmy giggled. "You have to stop cooking for him, Langly. You're making him weird."
Langly stopped laughing. "Oh, it's my fault! Sure, Narcboy's got a PB-and-pickle fixation, and it's my fault."
Frohike grinned despite the hour. "You or the aliens, I don't know which. Are we sure that's really Byers?"
Byers sighed again. "I'm an alien clone, I swear."
"Give it up, Johnny. Nobody's buying."
"Nice try." Langly jabbed his shoulder. "You are so busted, Pickle-Boy."
"Are they dill pickles?" Frohike asked.
Langly peered in the fridge. "Nope. Sweet."
"Mad-cow disease," Byers tried, a little desperately. "Midlife crisis."
Frohike sat down, laughing. "I think we've got an X-File. Someone call Mulder."
Harpy firstname.lastname@example.org Handmaiden of the Goddess of Irony
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to D. Sidhe