Blood of Abraham - Chapter Twenty One
by Mik
And so it began, that season of being Walter S. Skinner's lover. It wasn't a constant thing. I didn't spend every night in his bed, and he never came to mine. In fact, I doubt it materially affected us in any other way. There were no goofy grins to reveal our change in status to even the most astute observer. There were no clandestine meetings to kiss or grope. Given our working arrangement, there were actually times when I could go days without seeing him, in the office or at home.
Home. That high-rise glass and concrete citadel was actually starting to feel like home to me. I could find the coffee cups in the kitchen, and the water pressure in the downstairs shower was just to my liking. I had more storage space in the room that had been designated mine than I had in my entire apartment. Better cable, as well. And my bedroom was conveniently located just across the hall from a source of sexual relief should I get the urge in the middle of the night.
Sex was kept within our unspoken but well defined boundaries. He never tried to take what wasn't offered, and neither did I. Oral sex and friction, either by hand or body, was the extent of our contact. And we did not cuddle after. Oh, sure, sometimes I fell asleep there and stayed the night, sometimes we just sat up and ate cornflakes and watched late night movies before I went back to my own room. We didn't even talk all that much.
He never slipped and called me Fox beyond his bedroom door. In fact, he showed remarkable restraint, never calling me 'sweetie' or 'honey' or 'monkey face', or any other sticky-poo pet names. Outside his bedroom door, it was business as usual. The only difference was we were conducting business under the same roof.
Well, there was one other difference. He was involved in all things related to Bram. Sometimes more than I was. He hired the nannies. Yes, nannies...plural. The first two were unqualified disasters. The first one came with glowing references, and then announced two days after moving in, that she was getting married in a month. The second one didn't even move in. Despite having been advised she would be living with two men while carrying out her nannily duties, she balked at the threshold when she saw the two of us. But the third one seemed to fit right in. About Scully's age, Rachel was a widow, and childless, and didn't much care who else lived in the house. She doted on Bram. And he seemed to adore her. When she was in the room, he wouldn't take his eyes off her. No matter how loudly he was squalling, he'd still instantly when he heard her voice. Personally, I think she was a witch.
Within a month, things had settled down to a comfortable
routine. I still went around to
Unlike my building, where people seemed to note every detail of coming and going, Skinner's complex was blissfully insular. No one cared, no one gave anyone a second glance. Skinner worked out, I swam, Rachel walked the baby, and no one seemed to realize that we were all living in the same unit. Of course, the fact that we paid little or no attention to one another outside the walls of our little aerie probably did wonders for keeping us disconnected in other people's minds.
Scully seemed to be the only one truly affected by this new direction my life was taking. She made no probing questions or impertinent remarks, and somehow managed to make me keenly aware of her restraint. She chafed a little at my new reluctance to take field assignments but she didn't try to talk me out of not going out of town. Nor did she drop little hints she ought to be invited by to witness my newfound domestic bliss for herself. In fact, she seemed to pretend there was no bliss. If I gave even the slightest indication there might be bliss, her eyes would darken, her mouth would pinch and she would take an inordinate interest in the nearest file, coffee cup or pencil.
Now, the gunmen, on the other hand, were fascinated.
They had a million questions about my new living arrangements. And for every
question they asked, they came up with three million answers of their own.
Byers was more interested in the new nanny than the man in my life, but Frohike
and
Bram still wasn't doing the things I thought kids should do. If you sat him up, he could stay upright, but he never seemed to manage sitting up on his own. He didn't talk. He didn't even attempt that annoying gibberish that seems to explode out of infants when they think they're talking. He made little sounds at Rachel...Skinner described it as cooing. He was fluent in both screaming and shrieking. I'd even heard him chuckle once or twice. A sort of low in the throat sound that made everyone around him laugh. But that was the extent of his communication. Walking, of course, was right out. I didn't expect the kid to be telepathic, or fly, or even manage four place division in his head, but I did think he should sit up and say 'da da'.
There was still one other undeniable and irritating fact about the kid. He didn't like me. When left in my care, even long enough for Nanny Rachel to wash her hands, his face would scrunch up as if it was being sucked into a black hole, and he would demonstrate those aforementioned screaming skills. I concede I'm not the most paternal of people, though I thought I was doing my best. Rachel and Skinner both insisted that Bram needed to feel my confidence so he'd be safe. If he was waiting for me to feel confident as a father, the kid was out of luck.
Skinner was good at it, though. He held him, rocked him, sang Waltzing with Bears so many times I was humming it in my sleep. Bram seemed fascinated by him, and would lie in his arms, gazing up at him in pure adoration. I admit I was jealous. But I was also relieved.
Now and again he'd get a certain expression, a tilt to his head, a sideways look, a half of a laugh that would remind me of something. Something that would suddenly pierce me, and then be gone before I could identify it, like an assassin in the dark. It wasn't that he reminded me so damned much of Samantha, because he did, and frequently. It was something else. Someone else. But I just couldn't hold on to the thought long enough to unravel the mystery. Sometimes it would distract me for hours. I had this feeling if I could just place that expression on someone else's face, I'd know where Bram came from.
At this point it shouldn't have bothered me so much. He was here, he was undeniably related to me in some way beyond my ken or scientific explanation, and I had accepted my role before God (assuming He was listening) and men. But not knowing always plays hell with me and there is so much in the world I can't know. It would have been nice to scratch this off the list.
Rachel thought he looked like me. She said so, often, which was annoying because to me he looked like Sam, and she and I did not look alike. At all. If I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn one of us was adopted. Of course, I had the Mulder nose so if I had to choose, I'd pick Samantha. But of course, she wasn't.
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Around the time we reckoned him to be seven months
old, I had completely emptied the flat at
"I can't believe you're leaving, after all these years," she said, almost making it into a personal affront.
"Yeah," I admitted, trying to look regretful...which was not all that hard, because a part of me was really going to miss the ratty old dump, "but, time to move on. I'm on the road so much now, living in hotels, not much sense paying rent on a place I visit only a few times a year."
"What about your son?"
I was still flinching when someone said that. One would think I'd have overcome that in four months. "Didn't I tell you? Family of his...his mother wanted him. It was hard, but they could give him a more stable home life. I had to think of what was best for him."
"I'm sure your mother would have liked a say in that decision," she chided, not so gently. "She wanted to see him."
"My mother?" I nearly dropped the coffee cup "What do you mean, my mother? When did you talk to my mother?"
Mrs. Holden looked innocently perplexed. "It was just a few weeks ago. She came to see you, and I told her you'd been away a lot. She said it seemed she never got to see you anymore and I said I hoped that didn't prevent her from watching her grandson grow up. Lord knows I couldn't bear it if I didn't get to see my grandchildren every week, they change so fast, and-"
"You told my mother-" I cut myself off and backed up. "You told her I've been traveling a lot?"
"Well, yes, she said she hadn't heard from you in a while, and she was concerned. I thought maybe she was concerned about the baby, so I assured her you were an excellent father and took the very best possible care of him. She asked if I knew who was keeping him while you were away. I didn't know, of course, but I was sure you had someone very capable. I didn't know about this family of his mother's. That's such a shame. I only hope they do as well for him as you tried to do. I was just telling my friend, Agatha Whissel, the other day, I'd never seen anyone try so hard. Agatha, I said, he would be up every night walking the floor with him. Sang to him, kept him almost as clean and well dressed as my Cherub, and if I do say so myself she was an excellent mother when her babies were young. Agatha, I told her..."
I was gritting my teeth trying to keep from shouting at her, strangling her or perhaps both. I waited for her to break for air and dove in. "Did my mother mention if I should call her?"
Mrs. Holden blinked in surprise. I'm not sure it was because I interrupted or because she thought the question surprising. Either way she blinked. "Oh, yes, she did. She said if I saw you I was to tell you to call her. She misses you. Terribly."
"Mmm hmmm." Well, that couldn't be my mother. "Thank you, Mrs. Holden. You've been a very good neighbor all these years." I pressed the obligatory kiss to her puffy, hot cheek and left. Shaken.
Downstairs, I dialed the number I knew best. No, not my mother. "Scully? It's me."
"Yes, Mulder." She sounded as if I'd caught her in the middle of an autopsy and she'd had to fish her mobile out of a former someone's viscera. You know...messy and irritated.
"I was wondering..." I paused to glance around as had become my habit at that address, "have you heard from my mother recently?"
Now she sounded messy, irritated and surprised. "Yes, I have. Why do you ask?"
I wasn't in a mood to answer questions. Only to demand answers. "When? And why didn't you tell me?"
"About two weeks ago, and she asked me not to."
I slid behind the wheel of a far more reliable van, one not acquired for me by the Gunmen. "Since when has that ever stopped you?"
There was an impatient gush of air from her end. "Mulder, what do you want?"
Wasn't it obvious? "What did she say? What did she want? Did you tell her about...about...anything?"
"Which 'anything' concerns you, Mulder?" she asked wryly. "The fact that you have an unexplained baby with your DNA? The fact that you are living with your boss? The fact that your boss is a man? Which part?"
"Scully, it's not like that." Of course it was exactly like that, but since I'd never actually confessed to her that it was, and she'd never seen it actually taking place, I could still protest.
"Mulder." Her voice was low and dry as dirt. "I may not be a highly decorated forensic psychologist. I may not be the top profiler in D.C. I may not be blessed with that weird spookiness that whispers to you when something seems wrong. But I am a reasonably intelligent woman with some life experience and fairly intimate knowledge of your patterns of behavior, and I say it is like that. Now," her voice hardened, "call me a liar."
I could lie to her. I think the moment I moved in with Skinner the degree of our emotional intimacy had cooled to something akin the Canadian plains in winter, so lying really couldn't do much more damage. I could make a glib remark and change the subject. I could whine at her. But I reached down, and found a pair and sighed. "You're not a liar."
"I don't understand, Mulder. You had other options."
Like you, I suppose? "Not as many as you would think, Scully." I waited a moment. "What did you tell my mother?"
"Very little." Her voice wasn't exactly arctic, but it wasn't all soft and inviting, either. "She called to ask where you were and where you got the baby."
"You're sure it was my mother?"
Okay, we'd reached polar bear country. "Give me some credit, Mulder."
"Sorry. What did you tell her?"
"I told her the truth."
"Oh, fu..."
"That you were staying with a friend and I didn't know anything about the baby," she finished. "Naturally, she pushed for details. I said I couldn't give any more."
"Thank you, Scully. Thank you." Relief was pouring off me. "How did she take that?"
"Rather well. She didn't tell me to screw myself before she hung up."
"Well, thank you again, Scully. I really do-"
"How did you know she'd called me?" she demanded.
"Mrs. Holden told me she'd seen her at the old place. I knew if she couldn't find me, she'd go to you."
"You might have warned me," Scully protested.
"I didn't know 'til about five minutes ago," I protested right back.
She was quiet for a moment. "How is he?"
"I'm assured he's all a baby is supposed to be. He just hates me." It hurt saying that aloud.
She laughed. It was a soft patient chuckle that gave me hope our friendship wasn't completely dead. "Oh, Mulder, babies aren't capable of hatred. It's a learned response. You know that."
"Ah, but you weren't raised in the Clan Mulder, were you?" It was meant as nothing more than a glib reply, but there were several gravelly grains of truth in it. "Well, I should get ho...er, back. Nanny Rachel takes Saturday nights through Sunday evenings off."
"Nanny Rachel?" she drawled. "How P. L. Travers."
"More J.K. Rowlings, I think," I replied. "Talk to you later, Scully."
"'night, Mulder."
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So, it wouldn't be entirely truthful to say I was surprised when, a week later, Rachel knocked on my door and announced that there was a lady to see me. She had the air of a child care professional who resents the intrusion of any female who might feel better qualified to deal with the precious little muggins. It didn't take any great prescience to know it wasn't Scully. Rachel and Scully had met once, and no hair had been pulled, so this woman was a stranger and a perceived threat. There was only one possibility.
I came down the stairs, and she was in the living room, dressed exactly the way she would have dressed the day that JFK was shot, modest suit, matching hat, bag and shoes, and pinched little face that always looked as if she had a headache. She was surveying the room as if she knew it would look better if this chair was moved just two inches that way, and someone brought in some cabbage roses.
She turned as I reached the lowest step. She came toward me hesitantly, lifted a gloved hand to my cheek and murmured, "Fox."
I embraced her, partly because it was expected of me, and partly because I always expected it to be different. "Mom."
"You've moved," she observed, pulling away. "This was very...unexpected."
"Yes, it was." I gestured she should take a chair, but she remained standing.
"That young woman..."
Young woman? Well, I suppose to my mother, Rachel would seem like a young woman. "A friend," I put in. I could hear dishes rattle in the kitchen. The friend was doing the washing up. "So, Mom..." I sank into a chair even though she remained standing, "what brings you down from the holy ground?"
She clutched at her bag as if she feared I'd rip it from her fingers. "I received..." she drew in breath, "a rather unsettling report and I wanted to..." another breath, "to see for myself."
"Well, as you can see," I spread my hands, my eyes darting around the room in search of some telltale sign that her 'unsettling report' was true, "here I am."
We both saw it at the same time. I came halfway up in my chair, my heart plummeting to my shoes. She was only two steps away and she moved faster than I ever recalled her moving. Her fingers closed around it and she turned to me, her eyes already wet. "Oh, Fox."
Samantha's little black sheep.
"Fox, what have you done?"
End Chapter Twenty One