Blood of Abraham - Chapter Eighteen
by Mik
I don't think I've ever seen Skinner rendered completely speechless before. No, that's not true. I've seen him so angry he was not capable of actual words, but sound did emanate from him on those occasions. At that moment, however, he was absolutely noiseless. He did not even make the usual urps and eeps that come forth during cognitive discordance...the moment when the brain tells the eyes that this does not compute. He just stood there, silent.
It was cold, even in that high priced corridor, I was tired and Bram was getting heavier by the moment. I shifted the kid again and said, "May I come in?"
Still dumb, he backed up, raising his hand in a fist, not to hit me but to scrub at his eyes, but he caught himself, leaned out into the hallway to look up and down, and backed up again, shutting the door. "I beg your pardon?" he said finally.
I let Bram's bag o' babyness slide from my shoulder to the floor. "Is the offer still open?"
"Offer," he repeated, still looking as if he woke up on the nightmare express with no return ticket.
My panic was starting to rise again. The details the Gunmen provided when I met them to pick up Bram were enough to have me making the drive to Crystal City with my weapon on the seat beside me. If Skinner was no longer willing to provide sanctuary, I really had no idea what my next step would be.
Before I could remind him of the pressure he'd put on me just a few weeks before, he seemed to snap back into my universe and reached for the baby. "He's grown."
I hung on. I wasn't willing to let him go just yet. "Is it?"
Something on my face must have registered in him. "Yes, of course." He pulled Bram out of my arms. "Come in. Sit down. Tell me what's going on."
There it was, that calm reasonable voice, the daddy who assures you there are no monsters under the bed, even when you've seen their scaly toes. I took a breath, a real breath where I let the air all the way into my lungs and sort of savored it there. I let it out reluctantly. I sat. He was unbundling the kid, but I could feel his spectacle-less eyes on me. "Someone's..." my jaw worked, but my voice didn't, my reason didn't. Now in his presence, I wasn't so sure anymore. I opened my mouth again. "There's some indication that..." I sat forward, let my head fall into my hands just as a full body shudder overtook me. "The Gunmen found active surveillance at my place."
He didn't question it...he didn't even question the source. Perhaps he'd gotten a glimpse of those toes himself. I'm not sure what convinced him what I was saying was true, or at least convinced that wasn't the time to question me, but he bent, collected Bram's bag and went upstairs without a word. Halfway up, he paused, and said, matter of factly, "Make some coffee, will you?"
And that's how I moved in.
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I'm not really sure what all transpired that night. We certainly never discussed it, no plans were drawn up, no agreements agreed upon. I made coffee, and never drank any of it. By the time he came down after getting Bram settled in somewhere, I was half asleep on the sofa. He poured himself a cup and came into the room where I sat, struggling to keep my head up. I vaguely remember him asking if I'd brought any other bags and something about my keys. The next thing I knew, I was stripped to the basics, and tucked nice and tight in that pull out bed in his study. And the sun was shining.
I pulled myself upward, dragged a hand over my eyes, and got my hair out of my face. I allowed myself a deep, brain clearing yawn and a thorough scratch before fighting my way out of the bed, and stumbling out into the hallway under the stair.
Classical music was coming from the kitchen so I went there. Skinner was looking at the newspaper at his breakfast table, and Bram was in his car carrier, gnawing on one of his garish, knobby chew toys and making garish knobby sounds of glee.
Skinner was dressed for work; white shirt, black tie and, one assumes, the requisite trouser/sock/shoe ensemble below the table. He had a black mug before him, and there was a matching one waiting by the coffee maker. "Sleep well?" he asked, turning a page.
"Yeah, I..." I glanced to my wrist to check my watch and found it wasn't where I'd left it. "What...what time is it?"
"Six thirty," he said, still looking at the newspaper, which either proved that he had an atomic clock in his head, or he'd heard me coming out of the study and checked his watch before I got into the kitchen.
"Oh, good. I'm not late." I staggered gracelessly toward the coffee and filled the cup.
"There are fresh towels for your shower," he said, folding the newspaper and putting it down on the table. He reached for his coat. "I've arranged for a neighbor to look after Bram 'til we hire a nanny." He adjusted his collar. "She should be here any minute. Her name is Mrs. Line. Ask for ID. She won't be offended." He leaned over the car carrier and brushed the top of Bram's head. "Be good." He turned to look at me. I think I flinched. "I'll see you at work."
I nodded into the cup. "Right."
He paused at the door of the kitchen. "Did you sleep all right?" he asked again.
I wasn't going to look at him. "Yes," I told the coffee. "Just not long enough."
"Yes, you got in very late last night. Well, we'll get to bed early tonight." He jerked away from the door and a few moments later I heard the front door open and close.
I lurched toward the chair he'd vacated and put the cup down heavily on the table. My hands were shaking, my stomach was rolling like a rock tumbler. I had a Freudian preconscious understanding of what was happening but at that moment the id was the only thing responding. I was under pressure on so many levels it was natural, expected that I would feel lost and out of control, but knowing that was not enough to stop the shaking hands, the whirling stomach, the cold sweat breaking out over my entire body.
I was scared.
I had come to this place seeking refuge, protection for myself and this still unknown entity I called my son. I was seeking refuge from person or persons unknown who might or might not pose a threat to my son. Or to me. Or to the universe. I just didn't know, and that was the frightening part of all. I've spent the greater part of my life knowing that there were a lot of things I didn't know, didn't understand, didn't hope to prove, but accepted all the same. I've lived my life with a conviction of the doubtable. But this one time, I really did not know.
And it wasn't just because of a few suspicious little transponders tucked here and there in my home. There were other dangers, other fears, other unknowns. One of them was Skinner.
And one of them was me.
Mrs. Line came as promised. She was the cheery, apple cheeked antithesis of my neighbor, Mrs. Holden. She introduced herself and offered identification without question before crossing the threshold. She was clearly a clever woman...she recognized Bram's quality without gushing. She took over without being pushy, sending me to my shower while she took stock of her new charge. By the time I was showered, shaved and ready to depart, she and Bram were fast friends, as evidenced by his willingness to share his gooey, drippy chew toy with her.
I'm not a great car lover. In that way I am a traitor to my sex. I don't care about torque to weight ratios, horsepower or turning radii. I don't thrill to the gut rumble of a muscle car. I don't even care if a car looks 'hot'. All I want is a comfortable place to park my bottom while I get from one parking space to another. A decent radio isn't even required. But this clunky van the Gunmen found for me to take from my building to his was not even acceptable to me. It rattled, wheezed and gasped even going downhill. I didn't have to worry about turning radius because, evidently, it did not turn. It just sort of lurched forward at an angle, and if I shut my eyes tight, I might open them again facing relatively the direction I wanted to go.
Somehow, however, it managed to get me within the parking structure of the DC station in plenty of time to get a coffee, and emerge with all the other DC-ites, if anyone cared to look for me. It was while getting said cup of coffee that my mobile rang, and like a hundred other worker bees, I juggled briefcase, phone and scalding hot liquid through the throng on my way out to the street. "Mulder."
It was Scully, of course. Her voice was both hesitant and full of foreboding, a gift only she possessed. "Well, is it...settled?"
I had to smile. Her conflicts of conscience are always a sight to behold. I knew she regarded this move as unwise in the extreme, but she was going to do nothing to betray me. "All settled," I promised.
"No...difficulties?"
How careful she was being, in case our phone conversations were being monitored. But it meant I couldn't be sure if she was referring to the logistics of getting to Skinner's place without being observed, or the logistics of moving in with a man she was sure was surely waiting to have unnatural relations with me. "No difficulties."
Well, that was almost true. Getting there hadn't been difficult, just clumsy, and certainly it would be the last time I'd rely on the Gunman to get me somewhere inconspicuously. And Skinner had made no difficulties at all. In fact, once he woke up and realized I was not a ghost of conspiracies past, he seemed to take our presence fait accompli, and moved around us in his morning rituals as if we had always been there.
I was the one having difficulties, but those were not the sort of things I'd share, not even with my dear partner. "No difficulties," I repeated.
"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Where is...everyone?"
Bram. Funny how he really had become 'everyone'...or the only one. "Accounted for," I answered. "I'm on my way in."
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The day ground out the way such days do, one bean at a time, in a merciless and ancient hand crank grinder. In my case, the crank was called Kersh, and he preferred me ground to a fine powder. He criticized, chastened and chided my reports, my findings, my recommendations. He found fault with everything from my conduct during the investigation to the route I traveled to come back to DC. But finding nothing for which he could legitimately discipline me, at the end of the day he surrendered and I was free to leave.
Scully tried to detain me. She wanted to go someplace and talk, but I wasn't going to wait around. I wanted to get back to Skinner's (I certainly wasn't prepared to call it home) and have a good think through before Skinner got there. When Scully persisted, I gave her a gentle push and lightly suggested she come by my place the next day and we could order pizza and have a good long chat.
"Your place," she spluttered. "You mean your - "
I cut her off with a black look.
"Your...you're buying?" she finished.
I gave her a very faint nod of approval. "You can drop me off at the train, if you're so desperate for my company before then. My car's still not running. I had to take the train in."
Scully made a face. "The station's in the opposite direction. You're going to owe me anchovies for that." She rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag. "Come on."
I started scribbling notes as soon as we got in her car, explaining that I would be at the apartment on Hegal Place the next day and for her to be prepared to have a very meaningless conversation for the benefit of anyone listening.
She only rolled her eyes again and dropped me at the curb without even a flicker of curiosity. I went upstairs, bought my ticket, in case anyone was watching, went downstairs, climbed into the van and drove away.
Mrs. Line, like everyone else but me, seemed to have worked magic on Bram. He was asleep on Skinner's bed, and Mrs. Line was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. "What a delightful baby," she greeted me, "you must be so proud."
Yes, I must, I thought darkly. "Thank you, Mrs. Line. It was very kind of you to do this on such short notice."
"My pleasure." Also unlike my neighbor, she did not feel the need to give me details of her experience, either with my child or anyone else in the world. "Will you be staying with your uncle very long?" she asked, pausing to taste whatever was in the pot.
'Uncle'? So that's how we're going to play this, is it? "I don't know, yet. A few days, at least."
"Oh, that's wonderful. He's such a nice man and he's so thrilled to have you and the baby here."
"Yes," I agreed in grim amusement, "Uncle Walter's been very good to us."
"He's always seemed like such a lonely man." She looked into the pot, replaced the lid and turned off the fire. "It's nice to know he has some family in the world."
"Oh, yes, he does. His family just keeps growing and growing."
She picked up her jacket and purse from the table in the hall. "Now, if you should need me again, don't hesitate to call."
"We won't." I hovered at the door, a smile plastered crookedly on my face. "Thanks again."
"That's just a little pot of soup, if you men are feeling hungry," she added before slipping out into the hall.
I flicked all the locks into place, and shrugged out of my topcoat. Early bed, he'd said. That sounded great. I only had to open a couple of doors to find a place to hang my coat, before I went back into the kitchen and gave the pot a tentative sniff.
Well, I thought, standing hands on hips, looking around his kitchen. Home, sweet home. Everything was so meticulously arranged to look like a mock of up a real, working kitchen I was almost afraid to breathe for fear of disturbing the order. I couldn't imagine ever feeling at home in a place like this.
As I stood there, wondering how my life had made this complete one eighty, the door opened behind me. I heard the rustle of paper bags, keys and a wet trench coat out in the foyer. I didn't go out to meet him...it just smacked a little too much of 'hi, honey, I'm home' for me. But I did kind of wish I'd bothered to start coffee for him.
"Making yourself comfortable?" he asked, behind me.
Comfortable. Ha ha ha. I turned around. He had two large sacks in his arms, which he eased onto the table and brushed his hands together. "Uncle Walter, you're home!"
For a moment his brow wrinkled up like a bulldog's, and then he nodded. "I had to tell her something, Mulder." He searched through bags and came up with a bottle of wine and a carton of eggs, both of which were carried to the refrigerator.
"Interesting omelet," I observed. "You couldn't tell her the truth?"
"The truth?" The bulldog look was back. "A man I used to work with needs a place to stash a kid he's acquired because someone he doesn't know is spying on him."
I made a face and reached for the other bag. "Yeah, you're right. And I suppose no one falls for the 'he's just a friend' routine anymore." I pulled out bread, tuna fish, celery and baked beans. I looked into the other bag. There was a roast of prodigious proportions. "I like your bag, better."
He laughed and turned to put something away over the stove. "What's this?"
I was putting things in the cupboard by the table. "Mrs. Line was cooking that when I got home. She says you're a nice man … but a lonely one."
"She's a nice woman. One of the friendliest people in the building." He lifted the lid, and sniffed. "Not the greatest cook, however." He opened another cupboard and began pulling jars out. "Where's the baby?"
I folded an empty bag. "Upstairs on your bed. Asleep. At least, he was the last time I looked. I need to get him another bed. We couldn't think of a way to get his out of the apartment without making too much noise and attracting attention."
"He's fine where he is for now," Skinner said, stirring. He lifted the spoon and held it out to me. "Here...isn't this better?"
I stared at him, the proverbial cervid in navigational beams. I crept nearer and parted my lips, letting him feed me a taste. Okay, it was good. But just too intimate for me. "Uh...yeah...much." I backed away quickly.
He didn't seem to notice, though. "Put on some coffee, will you? I'll make up some sandwiches to go with this." He stirred some more. "How was your day?"
"Oh, the usual." I had to move around him to get to the coffee maker. "Kersh riding my aaaaaa - back all day. I don't know what I ever did to make that man dislike me so much."
"Questioned authority, Mulder."
I peered into a shelf, and pulled down paper filters. "Oh, was that it?"
"Not so much questioning authority, but questioning the status quo." He put his hand on my back to tell me he was moving behind me to get something from another cupboard. "You made people uncomfortable, because you challenged their place in the order. You challenged the order."
I held my breath as he leaned over me, his knee pressing slightly against the back of my thigh. Talk about challenging the order of things. When he moved away, I let my breath go in a soft circle of relief. Well, I wanted it to be relief, but there was a little regret, as well.
End Chapter Eighteen