by Moco
o.
I stared at the two men standing in my office and waited for my life to flash before my eyes. It was dark still, and I mourned the dawn I wouldn't live to see. I knew this day had to come. I'd known it for almost a year.
"This isn't a request," said the taller of the two, the one who held the power of life and death over me.
"I didn't think it was, Alex," I replied quietly. We locked eyes, ignoring the muttering blusters of the third man.
"It's nothing you haven't done before," Alex Krycek pointed out. He held a Palm Pilot in his hand, threatening. His eyes pleaded.
"Agents died, Alex. I won't withhold information. Not this time. Not ever again. This is over."
"Then you'll die."
A muscle jumped in his jaw, and I felt an answering twinge in my own. I was going to die, but he was going to have to kill me.
Revenge sucked.
We'd been unlikely lovers since Christmas, the knowledge that this day would come making our love hot, sweet and slightly desperate. My love was a much harsher vengeance than anything else I could have done to him.
Krycek's companion, a fire-plug shaped thug, pulled out a semi-automatic and pointed it at me.
"Oh, that's discreet," the love of my life said sarcastically.
"Dead is dead, Nintendo-boy," Fireplug answered, jacking the slide. My stomach clenched. I didn't want him to kill me.
"Alex," I said in warning, as if I actually had some say in my own death. He nodded at me, never breaking eye contact, and activated the Palm Pilot.
Ý
No matter how many times this happens, the pain always catches me by surprise. This time was different in that there was no slow-building torture. I could feel my arteries clogging, my heart futilely trying to pump blood through passages that were no longer open.
He almost reached out to me when I sank to my knees, having no strength to stand. Vengeance, I thought. He'd never forgive himself for this. I tried to touch him, tried to give him absolution. "Alex," I managed, "love..." His guilt would kill him. Saddened, I died, the sound of a gunshot in my ears.
I awoke confused, wondering why hell looked like my bedroom. The pain was mostly gone, but I was exhausted. Groaning, I sat up and reached for the phone, wondering what day this was.
My assistant answered. "Kim," I said, not knowing if it was morning or afternoon.
"Sir!" she said brightly. "Are you feeling better?"
"I'm not sure," I told her honestly. "What day is this?"
Kim was too much the professional to comment on that. "Thursday," she replied without missing a beat. "It's 3:15," she added helpfully.
Krycek had killed me for the second time early Wednesday morning. I couldn't quite stifle a distressed sound. "Sir?" Kim reacted to my distress with her own.
"I don't think you should expect me before Monday," I told her. "Can you rearrange things?"
"Already done."
I felt absurdly grateful. She was a fine assistant and just doing her job, but still I was appreciative. I thanked her and rang off, collapsing back onto my bed.
What the hell had happened? Alex had activated the nannites in my blood, killing me much quicker than he had the first time. I remember collapsing. I remember a gunshot.
Who'd shot whom? How did I get here, and why was I still alive? Most importantly, where was Alex? Questions I couldn't answer, so I forced myself up and into the shower.
I don't care what advances medical science makes, there's nothing as rejuvenating as a hot shower. And food. Once I was upright, the fact that I hadn't eaten since Tuesday night became very apparent. I was ravenous.
During almost 20 years of marriage, I'd learned how to stock a larder. There was food in the freezer, nukable meals and canned staples. Since I was really hungry, I put a large frozen pan of lasagna in the oven and built a salad from a bag. It exhausted me.
Why was I so tired? I hadn't felt this wrung out the last time I didn't die. I sighed and uncorked a half-drunk bottle of a not-bad generic red table wine. I sat and sipped, waiting for the frozen tin pan to turn into something edible.
I fully intended to get drunk.
Mission half accomplished, I took the dregs of the wine and collapsed onto my couch, belly full but without the energy to walk upstairs to the bed. I obsessively kept checking the phone for messages.
I don't know when I fell asleep or what time it was when a 'thump' from my garage woke me. Suddenly sober, I grabbed my spare gun from the desk.
It was quiet there by the door leading out to my oversized double, and yet I sensed a presence. Call it cop instinct, call it what you will, but I knew there was someone in my garage. Somebody had come to finish what Alex couldn't.
I braced myself, taking several deep breaths as I double-checked my weapon. Adrenaline made everything take on a preternatural clarity and time moved in separate, measured beats. This was the part of my job I both loved and loathed.
Quietly, quietly I opened the garage door, standing 'way to the side. Nothing greeted me, no gunshots, no black-clad thugs with knives. Only soft breathing. I flicked on the light. My lover lay in a heap on the cold cement floor, partially leaning on the right rear wheel of my Bureau-issued sedan.
"Alex?"
The heap didn't move. I approached him warily, still looking for enemies. We were the only ones there. I knelt beside him, fingers on his neck. He leaned into me slightly. His pulse was weak.
"Shouldn't have come," he whispered. "Had to see you...had to say..." His voice faded out and my heart stopped. I hadn't felt this afraid when I was dying.
"Alex, Jesus! What's wrong?" I grasped his shoulders to pull him upright, and he hissed in pain. Whatever was wrong with him, I had to get him out of the cold garage. "Hold on," I told him and lurched us both up to our feet, taking all his weight. The room swam for a moment, my recent brush with death having robbed me of the strength I take for granted.
I was sweating by the time I got him inside and in a chair. He slumped over the table, unconscious, while I struggled to unzip that damned leather jacket. Inside was all red, and my first insane thought was that red wasn't a good color for him.
Rolled up towels crudely attached by duct tape of all things had kept him from dripping a trail of blood to my doorstep. There were thick pads taped to his left shoulder, over his ribs and side by side waist high on his right.
I wondered what the other guys looked like.
He was like a rag doll, loose limbed and easy to manipulate. I peeled off tape, my heart sinking a little more at each gory revelation. My love was a sieve, bleeding out on my kitchen floor.
Calling an ambulance was not an option. Knife wounds required explanations. I hefted Alex up onto the table to keep him from falling off the chair then picked up the phone, breathed a prayer and prepared to beg.
"Agent Scully? I...need your help." Her concern touched me. Tears burned behind my eyes. I was still shockey from my own almost-death, and I couldn't stop my voice from thickening, couldn't stop the fear from leaking through. "Please, Scully. There's so much blood."
Bless her heart, she didn't waste time.
She stormed through my front door within twenty minutes, Fox Mulder hot on her heels. She hissed "Krycek" when she saw who was bleeding on my kitchen table. Then the doctor kicked in, and she went to work.
"You do this?" Mulder asked, fists clenched. I could only shake my head. "Then let him bleed."
I understood his anger, his loathing. These two had as much reason as I did to hate this man. More. Still, his coldness shocked me.
"No," I croaked, my throat thickening with anticipated grief. "Please."
"He needs a hospital," Scully said, sopping blood.
I looked at her, pleading. "That's not...a viable alternative." She stared at me a long time, then nodded and turned back to Alex. I had no doubt that if he was savable, she would save him.
"What's he doing here?" Mulder was a bulldog. If I tried to lie, prevaricate, he'd know, and he'd never trust me. If I told the truth...oh, God! If I told the truth, I had no idea what would happen.
"He came to say good-bye, I think," I said. "Maybe to give me some closure, so I wouldn't always wonder." We were standing in the kitchen, watching Scully.
"I need more towels," she said, not looking up from her patient, from my lover. "And hot water. I need to sterilize."
I directed Mulder to my pots before running upstairs for linens. She took the towels without comment. I stood at her shoulder awaiting more orders while Mulder puttered at the stove.
"The blood loss is life threatening," she said, still not looking at me. "The good news, if we can call it that, is that I don't think anything vital was hit. The belly wound is the worst. Hard to tell without equipment the extent of the damage. All I can do is try to stop the bleeding." She turned to me. "He needs to be in a hospital."
I knew a clinic where he'd be safe. It was half a continent away.
"Can he travel?"
She looked at me as if I'd sprouted clown's shoes and a funny nose.
"By air," I added.
"If I can stop his bleeding, and if he's still alive..." she sighed. "Who the hell knows."
"You gonna tell us why we're doing this?" Ah, Mulder. How can I explain? What would satisfy you? The truth? The truth might kill us both. I looked down at Alex, so pale and still, his chest barely moving. I felt tears again. Christ! I never cried. Never.
"He's become...precious...to me." They both stared at me; Mulder holding the lid to the pan he was heating water in; Scully, halfway to picking up a fresh towel.
"You told me you'd been compromised," Scully said. "By him?"
I nodded. "He controls the nanotechnology in my blood. I hated him, you know? Like I've never hated anyone. He showed up here one night, and let me take him prisoner. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to make him scream. I tried and couldn't do it. Couldn't torture him. He said it was because I was a good man." I laughed, the sound harsh.
Scully busied herself with Alex, asking quietly, "So what did you do?"
"I made love to him."
Mulder dropped the lid he was holding, making Scully and I both jump.
"It was a form of vengeance," I added. ClichÈs become that for a reason: The silence was deafening. Well, fuck. In for a penny, in for a pound. Another clichÈ.
"He showed up here the night before Christmas Eve," I began, watching Mulder pick up the lid, avoiding my eyes. "Said he couldn't stand to be alone at Christmas, that he needed to be with someone who felt something for him, even if it was hate. He'da let me do anything to him that night, if it meant not being alone."
Scully's expression was a combination of revulsion and compassion, but Mulder...Mulder's face showed something I wouldn't expect: understanding. But then why not? He was an alone man, too, like Alex. Like me. How many holidays had he spent wishing, wanting...anyone?
I sighed and rubbed my face. Scully dropped instruments into Mulder's hot water, nudging him out of the way. "He's a traitorous son of a bitch," she said with her back to me.
"Yes," I agreed. "He's also an abused child, and a man who plays cribbage and loves jazz. He believes that what he does is better for the human race than if he didn't do it. I don't agree," I said in answer to Mulder's beginning protest, "but he believes it."
"You've forgiven him." Mulder made it an accusation.
I shook my head. Not true. There were things that Alex Krycek had done that I would never forgive, even if I understood why he did them. "It's got nothing to do with forgiveness," I said.
"So what?" he asked. "You just moved on?"
Fuck him. "Yeah, Mulder. I moved on. And because I did, I've had a few months of happiness. Sue me." We glared at each other while Scully silently stitched.
"Skinner," she said after what seemed like a millennium, "he's stabilized now. I think. But this stomach wound concerns me. He needs a hospital. If you know somebody..."
Oh, Christ. And I thought facing Mulder was tough. I nodded to her and went to the phone, preparing to ask a favor from a man I swore almost 30 years ago that I'd never ask anything of.
Deep breath. At least he already knew about Alex. "Hello, Dad. Yeah, it's Walter. Look...I need a favor." I closed my eyes and waited for him to laugh.
He didn't. I might've been talking about a stalled Buick for all the shock or surprise he let on. I could hear him scribbling notes, the sound of his knife-sharpened No. 2 pencil on my mother's expensive linen stationery taking me back decades. I was six years old, and he was still infallible. I felt hope for the first time in two days.
He talked with Scully to get her medical grocery list, and then we waited. It's more than a thousand miles from Austin to Crystal City. This was nuts. Krycek would be dead before Dad could get here, and if he weren't, he'd be dead before the old man could get him to the clinic on the edge of the ranch. My hope turned to despair. I felt Scully's hand on my shoulder.
"He's stable," she said softly. "And we know he's tough."
God! What a roller coaster. Hope to despair and back again. It would be dawn at the earliest before the old man could get here. We waited. They asked questions, and I talked. I owed them that at least. It was after midnight when I reheated the lasagna and fed them. I debated opening another bottle of red, but it seemed too celebratory. That left diet Coke and bottled water.
More questions. They stripped me naked, those two, with their questions. Scully was the worst. She'd never entirely trusted me; she wanted to, I knew, but she was never quite convinced of my motives. Telling her I'd been compromised had gone a long way to make her believe I was one of the good guys, but she wanted more.
Mulder was more interested in my personal paranormal experiences. The old woman who'd been with me intermittently since Viet Nam fascinated him the most.
They asked, and I answered. It was my only coin, and I owed them. If Alex lived, I'd owe them forever.
The sky lightened, and Alex kept breathing. I sat in the kitchen and held his hand. Mulder crashed on my couch while Scully slept fitfully in the Lazy Boy, getting up every 20 minutes or so to check on her patient. Each time she smiled at me, saying "every minute he lives helps." It became my Rosary. I had the urge to go upstairs to find my beads, the ones my mother had given me for Confirmation. Ritual would comfort, I thought, and I mourned my loss of faith. Viet Nam had fatally wounded God, and the FBI had buried Him deep.
The sound of a car in the driveway startled us all. Mulder shot upright, gun in hand. I was surprised to find a gun in my own hand. Scully beat us both, and her Sig seemed outrageously oversized.
I looked out the window, saw my dad and activated the garage door. A nondescript station wagon joined my bureau car, and I went out to the garage to meet it. My father, a leathery, slimmed-down version of me, got out of the driver's side. My knees sank in relief when another obvious offspring exited the passenger's side: my half-brother, Ben. Alex's ace in the hole.
I waved Mulder and Scully away, and found myself reaching out. I hadn't hugged my father in more than 25 years. He still felt rawhide tough and smelled of pipe tobacco and Bourbon, as comforting to me as my mother's baby powder and rosewater. I began to hyperventilate, overwhelmed by emotion. This was too much, too much. Ben grabbed my arm, squeezed, and I calmed. My father's face was rubber-stamped on us both, Ben's younger and darker, but unmistakably mine. Those strong genes that once so embarrassed me were now a comfort.
"Doctor Scully?" I heard Ben say in full professional mode. "I'm Dr. Stiffarm. What can you tell me about our patient?"
Dad cuffed me not-too-gently upside my head, enabling me to walk. Inside, I introduced him to Mulder and gave him Scully's name.
"So, he's got him a team," he said, shaking Mulder's hand. "It's about damn time. Idiot thinks he's the Lone fucking Ranger."
"Dad," I started, thinking 'nothing's different,' but Mulder grinned, changing everything.
"Yes, sir!" he said, shaking my dad's hand vigorously. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that."
They both smirked, sharing something while I stood aside, feeling a mock kind of outrage. It was a gentle kidding, and I felt grateful to them both.
Ben interrupted, calling "Wally! You know his blood type?"
God, I hated that name. "Yeah, Benjy, I do: O positive."
"Convenient," he replied, ignoring my jibe. "We've got plenty of that at the clinic."
My brother, the doctor. "Will he make it that far?" I had to ask, and I was absurdly proud that my voice didn't shake.
Ben stared back at me with my own face. His was darker, and he still had hair. Lots of straight, black hair. I'd always loved him, even as a kid when I was embarrassed by our obvious kinship.
"He's lived this long." Ben shrugged, and I knew he meant that it was a toss up. Alex would live—or die—and ultimately there was nothing anyone could do either way.
He moaned when they moved him, which I took as a positive sign. Pain lets you know you're alive. Watching them put him in the back of the wagon and not go with him was tough. I knew I had to stay. I needed to stick around in case there were loose ends. Probably not, Alex was efficient that way, but maybe whoever hurt him was still out there. I had to make sure no one would be after him. Or me.
I tried to thank them, my father and brother, but thanks—like apologiesócome hard to the Skinner men. Ben just grinned at me while giving Scully a thumbs up. My dad cuffed me again, saying, "call your mother more often," before getting into the wagon and backing out.
I stood in the garage watching until they disappeared before closing the garage door. When I stepped back inside, my agents both looked at me expectantly. I could almost read the questions on their faces.
"Ben is the oldest of my father's five illegitimate children," I announced before they could ask. "Dad's had a sort of impulse problem."
Scully blinked twice and said, "Five?"
"And they all look like you." Mulder made it a statement. I had to smile.
"Every damn fucking one of them," I replied. They looked at each other and I could hear their thoughts: it explained a lot. Like many children, I rebelled, becoming as different from my father as was possible. Until the night Alex Krycek had shown up drunk on my doorstep, I'd never had an impulse problem.
Ý
"Sir?" Scully was standing in front of me. I hadn't realized I'd sat down, never noticed her moving. God! I was wiped. "Is there..is there something else wrong?"
I must look as bad as I feel. "He killed me. Again. Wednesday morning, my office. I woke up this afternoon..." I corrected myself; it was long into Friday by now. "Thursday afternoon. I don't know how. Or why. You know the rest." She looked so worried...so caring...it broke my heart.
"I want to draw some blood," she said. "Maybe it'll tell us something."
I nodded and rolled up my sleeve. Scully was swiftly efficient, swabbing the minor wound almost before I knew she'd pricked me. "I'll let you know what I find," she said. "Will you be here or in the office?"
I'd thought to sleep the day—and the weekend—away, but that was before Alex Krycek had shown up bleeding in my garage. I needed to find out what was going on. Surely Kim would have mentioned a dead body in my office, but still, I had to see for myself what the fallout from Krycek's failure to kill me was. "Office," I told her with a sigh.
She frowned her disapproval but knew better than to protest.
"You look like death warmed over," Mulder said. I glared at him. "Sir," he added. "Let us find out what happened. You should rest."
He made me smile, so earnest and sincere. I knew the truth about Mulder, though. He reminded me of Pugsley, a low-slung brindle terrier we once had. Dad would put him in a down-stay, then throw a ball. Pug would absolutely tremble with want, my father's will the only thing holding him back. Once released, he'd fly across the yard, shake that ball until he was sure it was dead, then proudly trot it back to Dad, and the whole thing would start again.
Mulder was like that terrier, standing all aquiver, just waiting for my release to run hell bent after the Truth. I knew him. He'd dig and harass and snoop, stir things up and probably get himself—and Scully—killed. Not to mention me.
"No," I told him. I think I said it kindly, because he looked surprised, wanted to argue but didn't know how to respond to my tone. I was still smiling, filled with a sudden serenity. If Alex lived or died—if I lived or died—it hardly mattered. I'd known love, a little bit of happiness...and friendship. "You are too..." I almost said 'vulnerable'... "valuable...to risk. Coming here was bad enough, although I do appreciate it. From here on, though, you are to stay completely away from anything to do with Alex Krycek or with me. And that includes your three geeks, Mulder."
He clamped his mouth shut, giving me that Mulder pout that could so much set my temper off. Now, it just made me love him a little. "I mean it, Scully." I turned to her. "See he behaves," as if she could actually control him. "Please."
She nodded. "You need rest," was all she said.
I agreed. "Soon. You two go home. Take the day off."
"Can we go to Spokane?" Mulder looked guiless again. Scully's sotto "Oh, God," made me leery.
"What's in Spokane?" I had to ask.
"Yet another sea monster," she said in a long-suffering voice.
"It's not a sea monster," he protested. "It's a river sprite."
He said it straight faced. I knew blackmail when my nose was rubbed in it. I could let him go chase northwestern myths, or he'd meddle in my life. "You just had to bring him, didn't you?" I admonished Scully.
She shrugged, tiredly amused.
"Go," I said. "The 302 will be on your desk when you get back. Just keep the mayhem to a minimum, and try not to piss off the locals."
I have to give him credit for not grinning. Partly, his attitude was an attempt to lighten up the situation, take my mind off my dying lover. Partly, it was pure adolescent joy from putting one over on The Man.
I turned to Scully, who's one of the few women I've ever known whose beauty increases with fatigue and stress. "Make him behave," I repeated.
"As if," she said, rolling her eyes. She stood. "I'll have results from your blood work before we leave," she said.
I saw them off, then went upstairs for another shower, fatigue settling over me like a burial cloth.
Alex Krycek had never believed in an afterlife, so he woke up very confused. Walter was bending over him, dressed up like a doctor. Only he seemed somewhat younger, and he had hair. And an odd tan. Alex wondered if Walter were dead, too, and therefore younger in appearance. The thought made him sad. He'd tried to fix things, to protect his lover, but he'd obviously failed.
"Sorry," he whispered. "So very sorry."
"It's okay," Walter told him in somebody else's voice. Alex felt a sting in his arm and sank back into oblivion.
The next time he stirred, Walter was a woman, thick, dark hair hanging to his (her?) waist. He reached up in wonder and touched a breast. She "tsked" him gently before turning her head to call for somebody. That somebody was the Walter-doctor.
Alex began to understand. This was his eternal damnation: to be forever surrounded by Walters. He appreciated the ironic cruelty even as he mourned. God had designed a perfect purgatory.
The Walters came and went. Some seemed very young. One was an obvious future-Walter, whip-chord thin and weathered but still strong. Alex liked this Walter. He meant that Alex had been successful. He'd saved his love who'd lived to grow old. He tried talking to this Walter, to ask him how the war went, if the Resistance was successful, but he couldn't quite get the words out. That must be part of his punishment, being unable to ask and never knowing the outcome.
There was a plump older woman who often came by. She didn't look like Walter, which confused him. The woman always had a small, brown child with her. They must be a metaphor, he thought, but he had no idea for what.
Once he heard raised voices. "How is this allowed to happen?" a woman said angrily. "Who lets these monsters live?"
"They're old scars, Ma," replied a male voice.
"Old scars, new scars. Why are these monsters allowed to exist?" The woman's voice was angry, rising in pitch. The man soothed and soon the voicesóor maybe it was Alex—faded away.
Sometimes there was more than one Walter in the room, and they talked to each other. He liked when that happened. Somebody had an infection that wouldn't go away, he learned, and somebody else wouldn't speak. Something killed a calf and was being hunted down. Alex felt a stab of empathy for the doomed predator. It must've had its reasons, he thought. Hunger, maybe. Perhaps it
needed to kill to keep others of its kind alive.
He faded in and out, missing his Walter horribly. He was vaguely surprised at how physically painful death was. Fire and brimstone he expected, but not this so very ordinary, nagging pain. It was irritating.
The more lucid he became, the more often he noticed the not-Walter woman. She'd sit next to him in sunlight, doing something with yarn, the brown child seldom leaving her side.
He came to his senses eventually to find the small, brown girl sitting by him on the bed, lightly touching the old scars on his chest, making patterns as if she were playing a tune. He moved, shifting under her touch, and she froze. Their eyes met, his puzzled, hers wet with tears.
"It's okay," he whispered, his voice thick with unuse. She shook her head in disagreement before fleeing the bed to stand behind the not-Walter woman.
"You're awake," the woman announced, putting down the yarn-thing and coming to stand over him. "I'll go fetch Ben." She started to turn.
"You're not a Walter," Alex said, voice slightly louder.
She turned back, head cocked. "Oh my," she said after a moment, laughing. "That would be confusing. But you're right. I'm not a Walter; I'm Walter's mother. And now I'm going to go get Walter's brother, who's a doctor. Tanya will watch you, won't you, dear?"
This last was said to the silent child, who nodded solemnly.
Alex watched the woman walk out of the room, processing information. It seemed he wasn't dead after all.
"Do you know why everyone looks like Walter?" he asked the girl. His voice was getting stronger. So was the pain in his gut.
She ignored his question, approaching him warily, one hand snaking out toward his chest. She was careful of his bandages, touching only the old scars.
"It was a long time ago," he said. "They don't matter anymore."
The girl disagreed again, solemnly shaking her head. Her eyes reddened, filling with tears. She turned her back to him and slowly raised the hem of her t-shirt. Her back was covered with the same small round burn marks as his chest and back, only hers were still angry and raw.
A sharp intake of breath made him hiss in pain and the girl turned back, silent tears not hiding her concern.
"Who?" he asked, his voice shaky with old emotion. "These people?"
She shook her vigorously, the thick braid hanging down her back whipping from side to side in a way that would have been comical in other circumstances.
"They took you away from...the bad people?"
A nod. He wanted to reach out to her, but his bandages left him effectively immobile. He could bend his elbow, but he couldn't lift it.
"Son of a bitch!" His buried past pushed aside his present discomfort, making him want to soothe the strange child's anguish. "Did they...were you...hurt in other ways, too?" His voice dropped back down to a whisper, torturous memories bubbling to the surface. He'd been younger than the girl, he thought, remembering a nightmare that had lasted until he'd grown big enough and cold enough to put an end to it.
"Did they?"
"Yes," she whispered back, tears falling silently down her cheeks. Alex lifted his arm as far as he could, opening his hand, fingers spread. She fell into it, laying her cheek in his palm, taking his comfort. "It hurt," she told his hand, "it hurt so bad."
"I know, I know" he crooned to her, over and over, caressing her chin with his thumb, pretending he had a left arm to hold her with. "It hurt, and nothing you did could make it stop. I know."
He felt her sobs heaving against his hand, silent. He remembered learning to cry without making a sound. Sounds made them notice you, and tears made them angry.
A strangled noise made him look up. The not-Walter woman was standing at the foot of the bed, hand grasping her throat, tears in her eyes. She mouthed "Thank you," and he frowned. She moved to the child, easing her away from him and into her own arms, where the girl could be properly hugged.
"Cry now, baby," the woman said, rubbing circles on the girl's back. "Cry it out. It's safe here, and you can cry." Tanya shook her head against the woman's chest. It would take more than mere assurances to make her cry out loud. Alex still cried silently, and it was only since Walter that his lovemaking had become vocal.
"This is the second miracle I owe you for," the woman told him over the girl's head.
The Walter-doctor came in nodding good-bye to the woman and still-tearful child before he could ask what she meant.
"So, you're finally lucid." He laid a black bag on the bedside table and put the back of his hand on Alex's forehead, frowned and felt under his jaw. Alex grimaced, uncomfortable with the prodding. "Dammit!" the doctor said, "you're still slightly feverish. That damned infection just won't go away."
"I'm the one with the infection," Alex stated, "and the girl's the one who wouldn't speak." He cleared his throat, wondering how long it had been since he'd spoken. "Did you ever catch whatever killed the calf?" He glanced over at the woman, who nodded at him, then prodded the girl into moving, and left the room.
Walter-doctor smiled Walter's smile, the one few people ever saw. "So, you weren't totally out of it, that's good to know."
He watched the woman leave. "Well, did you?" he asked, looking back up at the doctor.
"The killers turned out to be a pack of town dogs turned feral. Nothing worse than telling some townie that you shot the beloved family pet. They never believe Fido's a killer." He shrugged. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I was stabbed in the gut. Where am I?"
"Blue Mesa. It's part of the Skinner spread, a few miles outside of Austin. Butch built it years ago, just because it's so pretty up here."
"Butch?"
"El jefe," he helped Alex sit up, stuffing pillows behind his back, "the father of us all."
"The old Walter," Alex said. Things were starting to make a weird kind of sense.
"Bingo. How much pain are you in?"
"About a seven-and-a-half," Alex replied, shifting uncomfortably. He wondered where his gun was, then he wondered where his arm was. "How'd I get here?"
"You needed a hospital. Walt called Dad. Dad called me. We hopped in the Cessna and came and got you. I run a clinic of sorts close by."
"A clinic?" Alex shifted again. Everything hurt.
"Used to be on the Rez, but the Rez is no more, so we moved it to the ranch. Most of Butch's blow-bys are Indians of some kind."
Alex frowned. "Walter's supposed to be an only child. I've seen his records."
"Well, he is and he isn't. He's Mama Day's only child. He's also the eldest of Butch's six kids." He shrugged and gave a half smile. "Six that we know of."
Alex shook his head. "The woman with Tanya, that's Day?"
"Dahlia. But don't ever call her that. Butch started calling her 'Day' back when they were in grammar school, or so the story goes, and that's all anyone's called her since. I'm going to give you something for your pain, but I want you to try and eat first. You're weak, and the pills'll knock you out. I want something in you besides the stuff we've dripped into your arm."
"What did Walter tell you about my arm? About me?"
"Wally doesn't say shit about anything." He seemed amused by this. "And if Butch knows anything, he's not sharing. We know you're special to Walt, and that makes you special to us."
Alex cocked his head, puzzled.
"Not only doesn't Wally say shit, he never asks for shit. That he called Dad for help is...well, it's extraordinary."
Alex was saved from having to come up with a response by Day carrying a tray and followed, as usual, by Tanya.
"Eat as much of Mama's good soup as you can, Alex, then take this." Ben put a pill in a cup, setting it on the nightstand. "I'll be back later." He bent to kiss Day and gently touched Tanya's hair, careful not to invade her space. She almost didn't flinch.
The soup was good, but Alex's short-lived strength waned, his gut throbbed and all he wanted was pain relief and sleep. Day Skinner was a wretched hard woman, though, bullying him through an entire bowl of a rich beef barley and half a glass of milk.
He swallowed Ben's capsule with greed then sank back onto the pillows to wait impatiently for oblivion. Day's hand carding through his hair felt nice; he could imagine it was Walter. He whispered his lover's name and felt tears burn behind his eyes.
"He'll be here soon, I think," she told him. "He's been trying to get away, but there's so much going on. It's making him crazy not being here. I can tell it from his voice." She kept finger-combing his hair. It felt good, but made him sad, too. He didn't believe her. Walter wouldn't be coming. He didn't want Alex, and was well rid of him. Alex fell toward a drug-induced sleep surrounded by Day's lies, feeling bereft.
Ý
Coming into the office where I had so recently died was surreal. My assistant expressed concern, which I expected. What I didn't expect was the brand new carpeting in both my inner and outer offices.
"How did we rate?" I asked her, thinking I'd be expected to say something?
She grinned and shrugged. "They did the whole floor yesterday. It seems someone forgot to send a memo, but according to the work orders, it'd been scheduled for months." Kim was a pretty woman, even more so when she twinkled. "You should have seen it, Sir. Every carpet layer in the area must have been here yesterday."
I shook my head. The boy was good. There'd be no blood found in my office. No damning evidence to bite me in the butt.
"You think it's an improvement?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "Neutral is neutral. Are you okay?"
Kim asked the question, then looked embarrassed, as if she'd overstepped. Alex, I think, has made me kinder.
"Thank you, I'll be fine. Eventually." I smiled. She'd never asked me what my ailment was. Something else Alex had somehow taken care of. "What's on the agenda?" I asked, attempting to stay in character.
"I canceled everything. I didn't expect you in." It wasn't an admonishment, exactly, just a C.Y.A. "Agent Scully has asked for a few minutes of your time."
That surprised me. I expected her and Mulder to be on their way to Oregon by now. "Let her know I'm in," I told her, and headed for my desk.
Nothing seemed wrong. I'd been held at gunpoint and killed here just days before, but there was no sign of any mishap. Systematically, I began to search, looking for anything.
Scully's appearance put an end to my fruitless examination. She wore the same clothes I'd last seen her in and looked exhausted.
"Why aren't you sleeping on a plane?" I asked as she collapsed into a chair.
"We can't get out until this afternoon, so I decided to do the blood work myself." She slapped a piece of paper down on my desk. "I did it twice," she said.
I read her results: My blood was clean, no sign of nanotechnology. I felt lightheaded. This was phenomenal. "How is this possible?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "I'm not the one to ask, Sir."
"I don't know what to say. I wonder..." I wondered how he'd accomplished this, and whom he'd had to kill. The nannos had certainly been alive and well two days ago.
"I wonder if it'll come back?" Not true at all, but it was something to say to her. If Alex had freed me, I knew that he'd freed me forever.
Scully finally left me to my impotent investigation. I concluded that Alex was a magical being, capable of the most fantastic results. There was nothing in my office, no sign of murder or mayhem.
Paperwork and everyday minutiae soon took up my day, so I was startled when Deputy Director Kersh suddenly appeared in front of my desk saying, "He's dead."
My eyebrows rose in inquiry while my blood froze. "You want to be more specific?"
He didn't answer right away. Trying to be dramatic, I suppose. "Alex Krycek," he pronounced finally and waited for my reaction.
I'd learned to play poker at a young age, mostly in self-defense. My father took my allowance for months before I learned the concept of a poker face. Putting on a look of what I hoped was mild interest I said, "Who drove the stake through his heart?"
Kersh snorted and shrugged. "Didn't hear that part. Just that he was last seen leaking blood from more holes than a wheel of Swiss. It's not possible he survived."
"So there's no body." I said it with barely concealed scorn. "Bring me his head, and I'll be impressed." I went back to my paperwork, dismissing him.
"My source is reliable." His voice had ice in it. He was my boss after all, and I was not being properly deferential. But I'm damned if I'd call him 'Sir.'
I looked at him. "Bring me his head," I said again, letting my lip curl. "And I'll put it on a pike in my outer office." We locked eyes, and I saw the realization hit him that he'd given away too much. Told me things I didn't need to know, just to goad a reaction out of me. He told me he knew Alex Krycek controlled me, held my life. He told me he was one of them.
He broke eye contact and left, snarling at Kim on his way out. Interesting. He must not be too involved, though. Alex had left him alive.
I left the office soon after, drove 30 miles out of my way to get on a pay phone at a noisy strip mall and call home.
"Ben says he's holding his own," my mother told me, her voice full of concern.
"I'm fine, Ma," I answered her unvoiced question because I knew she'd never ask. I'd growled that out of her over the years. "Really. I...I love you...I..."
"I know, Sweetie. We'll take care of him. Don't worry."
Amazing. I was suddenly 12 years old again, and she was going to make everything better.
I got home, finally, finished both the lasagna and an old bottle of Scotch and slept the clock around. I'd have slept longer, but the phone rang. Some shit had hit the fan. It wasn't my shit, but shit just the same.
I wouldn't be going home any time soon.
Alex sat propped up in the bed watching Day crochet and listening to Tanya read. The girl only read out loud to Alex, her voice barely audible.
"We're home schooling her for now," Day had told him. "Until she's up to grade level." What was left unsaid was that they were afraid to let her go to school, were afraid that she was still in danger.
For Alex, school had been a refuge.
Tanya finished the book, closed it and looked up at Alex expectantly.
"So, would you eat green eggs and ham?" he asked her. She shook her head vigorously. "You wouldn't eat them in a box?" Head shake. "You wouldn't eat them with a fox?" A shake and a giggle. "How come?"
She covered her eyes, giggling. Alex gently moved a finger to look in one partially exposed eye. He cocked an eyebrow. "Because they're green," she whispered and blinked at him.
"Oh." He blinked back.
"Well, I think not eating eggs and ham that have gone green is a good thing," Day announced putting down her yarn and standing. "Tanya, honey. Go fetch Alex some fresh water. It's time for his meds."
The girl ran to obey. Alex watched her, feeling a low-burning rage flare up through his pain and lethargy. "Where are the ones who hurt her?" he asked Day who was straightening his covers.
She laid the back of her hand on his forehead, frowned and replied, "Dead. We think it was just the two of them, but..." she shrugged. "The boyfriend killed the mother and then himself."
"Considerate of him."
"We thought so." Her voice was cold steel, and Alex thought that Day Skinner would make a very bad enemy.
"So, tell me, is Butch incredibly brave or just plain stupid?"
She stopped her fussing and stared down at him. "You're talking about Butch's infidelities?"
"Sorry," he said. "None of my business."
She straightened up and shrugged. "It's rather hard to ignore with the fruits of his labor, so to speak, all around us."
"Then why do you...how can you...?" He shook his head, not sure how to say it without sounding crude or hateful. "Doesn't it bother you?"
She bent to smooth the bedspread near the foot and sat down. "When I found out about Ben's mom, I was devastated. Walter was four. I thought my world had ended. Because of our faith, divorce wasn't an option." She shrugged. "Seems I had two choices. I could be a martyr or a saint."
"You chose saint."
"It's a matter of figuring out what's important. I'd always wanted a house full of kids, and that just wasn't going to happen. I was only able to have the one." Another shrug. "Butch gave me my house full of kids."
"You're a helluva woman, Day Skinner."
"Take your meds, Alex. You worry us." She took a glass from the newly returned Tanya and handed Alex an antibiotic, supporting his head while he drank.
"Sir? I'm sorry to interrupt." My assistant, Kim, stuck her head in my office, interrupting what was possibly the single most boring meeting in the FBI's 95-year history.
Four days after my latest death, a Senator's 20-year-old son had gotten himself kidnapped. The resulting fervor had canceled all leaves and ground the wheels of Justice to a dead halt. We were still digging out.
Christmas came and went. It took the FBI's finest more than ten days to track down a nasty coven of fraternity warlocks bent on conjuring up demons of power by the systematic torture of the richest member of their group. While scores of agents scoured the Midwest, following telephone tips and false clues left by these clever young sociopaths, Fox Mulder disobeyed direct orders from Deputy Director Kersh and located the boy 30 feet below the room he'd disappeared from.
Mulder would've gotten to him sooner save for Kersh's directive sending him and Scully back up to Washington state and the elusive river sprite. The sprite turned out to be a salmon poacher with a flair for the dramatic, but he was no match for my most dynamic duo. According to Scully's field notes, Mulder had it figured out by their second day. It took them another four to
put the proof together.
Even after the solve, Kersh ordered them to stay and "make sure the locals didn't mess things up." Luckily for the Senator's son, Mulder disregarded our boss and hightailed it to ground zero, so to speak, ignored procedure and followed his gut to the frat house's hidden sub-basement.
While the boy mended enough to begin reconstructive surgery, the Bureau conducted its own systematic torture—only we called it debriefing—covering asses, reviewing procedure and martyring Mulder.
No good deed goes unpunished, it seems, so my boy found himself suspended for insubordination, and I was ordered not to intervene. That didn't stop an anonymous source from informing the Senator that his son's savior was being railroaded.
Mulder went back on the payroll.
Kersh was not happy, and I was paying the price. My assignment was to interview each and every participant in the investigation, digest it all down to a manageable level and regurgitate on Kersh's command to The Powers That Be. Considering that 97.8 percent of the Justice Department had something to do with this misbegotten investigation, it'd be Christmas of 2010 before I could legitimately get away.
I ached for Alex.
I was in contact with my family daily, even though I didn't call any more often than my normal once a week. Mulder's geeks were helpful, as loath as I was to use them. And I had a few buddies from 'Nam who didn't mind subterfuge and obfuscation.
I was spending a lot of time in bars. Understandable considering my 18-hour days and the stress I was under with this damned case. Handy for making contact with those folks who talked daily with my folks.
I wanted to see for myself.
I wanted to see Alex. To touch him. Feel him. Hell, I wanted to taste him. Ben's worry about the infection-that-wouldn't-die left me crazy.
"What is it, Kim?" I said, proud that my voice didn't shake.
"You have a phone call, Sir. She says it's an emergency."
"She?"
"Your mother."
I gestured the agents out of my office, hitting the speakerphone before they were out of the door.
"Walter?" my mother's voice announced hysterically. "You have to come home, Walter. I need you here. It's your father. It's his heart. He has...he has to have an operation, Walter. You're my only son, Walter. You have to come home."
I met the eyes of Agent Gibson, the bore whom Kim and my mother had just saved me from. I scowled and picked up the phone, shutting off the speaker. He looked embarrassed, ducked his head and left. I figured the story of my father's ill health would be through the Hoover Building in about 12 minutes.
Mom's hysterical performance was good. I would've been just this side of frantic if I hadn't spoken to my father a few hours before. He'd hinted at something being up, telling me to pack my bags and not to worry: Mom had it covered.
I was giving Kim my travel needs when Kersh walked in. "Heard about your family troubles, Skinner," he said without a trace of compassion on his face. "Too bad you won't be able to get away."
Kim stopped her note scribbling and looked at me, questions in her eyes. I felt a shift inside myself, looking at his smarmy face. "I don't think I understand," I said as cold as I could be.
"I'm afraid I can't give you permission for compassionate leave at this time." He smiled, satisfied as some evil reptilian totem.
"I don't recall asking your permission." I felt my lip curling, couldn't help the snarl. Like a switch being thrown, his smile disappeared.
"Skinner," he warned.
I dismissed him, turning back to Kimberly. "I'll leave my resignation before I go. Copy the appropriate persons."
She nodded, face pale and stricken. I wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, inappropriate as that would be, and comfort her. Loving Alex has made me touch more. Made me want to touch more.
"Don't waste your time, Ms. Cook."
We all turned toward the hallway. The Director stood in the doorway to my outer office. "It won't be accepted, Mr. Skinner. Mr. Kersh? A word with you, please."
Kersh's face was wooden, and I longed to see how easily it would break. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through my brain. His eyes promised mayhem, but with the Director calling him to heel, promises were the worst he could give me.
I nodded my thanks to the Director. Kim's relief was almost comical. I thanked her, too, when the arrangements were finished and on impulse turned back and hugged her. She'd worked for me for years, but this was the first time we'd actually touched.
"You're not coming back, are you?" she whispered into my chest.
"I honestly don't know," I replied, kissing her forehead.
Ben met my plane and drove us out to the Mesa. "He's depressed," my brother told me. "I don't know if the infection's affecting his state of mind, or if his state of mind is keeping the infection active." He looked at me and smiled. "It's good you're here."
"Mom is amazing," I said, smiling back.
"Day thinks he's the miracle worker. She'd do just about anything for him." I cocked my head in question. "Tanya's blossoming because of him, and you've come home," he answered.
I felt ashamed. The rift between my father and me should have been healed years ago.
Ben drove me to the Mesa knowing I had to see Alex before I could cope with anything else. Ben's head nurse, Lucia, the oldest of our sisters, was sitting with my sleeping lover reading a thick paperback with a lurid cover. She'd been addicted to those since junior high.
She smiled, stood and dog-eared the book, an abhorrent habit she'd also had since then. "You look almost as bad as he does," she said hugging me. "This is not a good life you lead, Big Boy."
I hugged her back. She's almost as tall as I am, a striking, substantial woman. "It never fails to amaze me," I told Ben over my shoulder, "how anyone who looks like us can be so beautiful."
"Careful, Big," she said punching me lightly on the arm. "You're becoming charming."
"Never. Just honest."
She punched me again before turning to Ben. "His fever's up again."
Ben sighed and went to my lover. I hadn't dared look at him in front of my siblings, afraid of what I'd see, how I'd react. Now I did. He looked as he always did while sleeping: like an angel. There was a fragility to him now, though, a slight translucent cast to his skin, as if he wasn't entirely in this world, as if he was already partially in the next.
I made a noise, I guess, because Lucia was holding onto my arm, squeezing hard, grounding me. "He's gonna be fine," she said over and over while she steered me toward the bed.
He looked worse up close. "Oh, God. Ben," I heard myself moan.
"He shoulda died," my brother said. He was holding a thermometer in my lover's ear. Alex didn't move.
"Why's he so still?" I asked, hovering.
"The pain meds knock him out," Lucia supplied. "He doesn't eat enough."
"Mama D's the only one he really eats for."
"Yeah," Ben agreed. "The rest of us he just humors. Mama he behaves."
I had to smile at that. "Don't see why he should be any different." My smile faded. "Will he die, Ben?"
The thermometer beeped just then, giving Ben a reason not to answer me. "His body's fighting," he told me eventually, "but the rest of him seems to have given up."
Lucia put her hand on my shoulder. "He comes alive when Day brings Tanya over, but otherwise, it's like he's just filling space. He's not really here."
Ben carefully lifted bandages, inspected the healing wounds, sprayed on something and eased them back. Alex sighed once, but otherwise didn't stir.
"He'll live," Ben said, "if he decides he wants to. That's your job, I think."
"You haven't asked me about him. What he is to me." I didn't look at them, kept my eyes on Alex instead.
Lucia snorted and slapped the back of my head. "That's kind of a no-brainer, Big."
"Yeah," Ben agreed. "We all know how hard it is to find a decent bridge partner." He added his punch to Lucia's slap. I'd almost forgotten how painfully physical my family was. I smiled my thanks.
"I'll be back later when the folks bring dinner. You've got my cell number if something comes up."
I stood beside the bed until they left, then sank to the floor. Alex sighed again and rolled over onto his side. It was his usual sleeping position when he slept alone: edge of the bed on his left, taking up as little space as possible, protecting his abbreviated shoulder, and keeping his right arm free. It couldn't have been comfortable with the wounds. But then comfort had never
been of great concern to Alex Krycek.
I took his hand and held it, stroking my thumb across his palm. It felt dry and warm. I bent down and kissed it. My tongue snaked out for a taste, just a brief lick. His taste was off, and his smell was wrong, sharp and slightly bitter. "Oh, God. Alex," I whispered over and over. My poor love. He'd come to this because of me. I was free, healthy and clear, and here he lay, not healing.
I held his hand and watched him breathe, trying to pray. I must have dozed and dropped his hand. The shadows were long when I felt my head being stroked.
"If one of you brats shaved your head just to mess with me, I'm gonna kick some ass," my love whispered.
I looked up into sleepy green eyes. He stroked down the side of my head to my cheek, moving forward to my lips. I tasted him again. "Alex," I breathed.
"Please don't be another dream," he said, still whispering. "I don't think I could stand it if you were a dream."
"I'm not a dream," I said, and then I was on him. I don't remember rising or know how I got onto the bed, but there I was stretched out over him, trying hard to keep my weight off him even as I attempted to touch all of him with all of me. I couldn't stop crying.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," he told me, over and over, frantically pulling at my clothes. I sobbed harder, all the stress and worry from the past weeks coming out. Finally, just to stop my uncontrollable bawling, I clamped down on him, biting hard on that sweet spot where neck meets shoulder.
It seemed to calm us both. I kept my teeth on him, knowing I'd leave a mark and not caring. When he began to squirm, I released him, licking at the mark. The squirming continued, and I realized he was trying to pull his sweats off.
"What...?"
"Fuck me," he said in the breathy voice that reduces me to a throbbing cock.
Intellectually shocked at the suggestion given his wounds and condition, my body nonetheless responded with a hearty affirmative. My hands finished stripping his sweatpants off him, caressing him, rubbing him hard while I protested. "No, we can't. You're too hurt. I'll hurt you. We can't..."
"Yes," he demanded, the breathiness deepening into a throaty snarl. "Now!" He was pushing me, and I was afraid he'd hurt himself, open his wounds. I tried to calm him, but he only grew more frantic. "You'd better have brought condoms and lube," he growled, "or we're doing this bareback with spit."
I was still protesting when I peeled out of my clothes and rooted through my flight bag for the needed accessories. Still protesting as I eased him up on his side and prepped him. The noise he was making, something deeper than a growl, made it impossible to deny him. I'd never heard such need before, never had it directed at me. It was more primal than anything I'd ever experienced, and it spoke directly to my soul.
I entered him, easing in carefully and setting a slow pace, almost overwhelmed by the sensation. We wouldn't last long. Taking him in hand, feeling his warmth, alive and leaking, was even better than being inside. When he put his hand over mine so we could jack him together, he made me come, just from his touch. Explosively, I cried out his name, and that triggered his climax.
We lay together until our hearts slowed to normal and I could move again. I'd barely gotten us cleaned up and decent when I heard cars outside.
Alex sat up in the bed as if prepared to hold court. I was heading out to meet my folks when he announced, "The room smells like sex." That stopped me cold. He was right, and there wasn't a damned thing we could do about it. I just wished he didn't seem so smug.
Two identical SUVs filled the half-moon drive in front of the house. Butch greeted me by way of a one-two punch to the bicep, then handed me a warm, covered dish. Mom stepped down out of the vehicle, took it from me and handed it back to Butch. Then she hugged me.
Holding my mother started my tears again. She just kept her arms around me and rubbed large circles on my back, letting me cry. Once more I was transported back in time. I think the tears were for more than Alex. Thirty years of stoicism had finally found an outlet.
"He'll be okay," she murmured and squeezed. I nodded my agreement and got myself under control.
"Sorry," I murmured, sniffing and stepping back. Butch punched me again and handed me back the casserole.
"How's my patient?" my brother Ben asked, stepping out of the second SUV.
"Awake," I told him and willed myself not to blush. He slapped my back on the way past and disappeared into the house, black bag in hand.
I'd barely deposited the casserole on the kitchen counter when I heard my brother bellow, "Walter! Get your ass in here!"
I know I blushed then. My mother looked a question, but Butch only chuckled. "The apple don't fall far from the tree," I heard him tell her as I headed down the hall. God.
Ben was holding the thermometer in Alex's ear. From that position, there was no way he could avoid seeing the result of my passion.
"It never occurred to me that I needed to give you a list of restricted activities," he said coldly without turning around.
I tried to regret the bite mark I'd left on Alex, and the sex it had led to, but couldn't find it in myself to apologize. "Is he all right?" I asked instead.
"No thanks to you." He read the thermometer. Frowned.
"Is it up?"
His frown deepened. "No," he said shortly. "Dammit, Walter! Do you have any idea how easily these wounds can reopen? He's fragile, you idiot. Straining could set him back weeks!"
"I didn't strain," Alex spoke up. He looked smug and totally unrepentant. Like a cat. I wouldn't've been surprised if he'd started to groom himself.
Ben turned his ire on my lover. "You're not teenagers! As sick as you've been, Alex, how could you even—"
"We needed it," Alex told him quietly, total seriousness replacing the smirk. "We needed it," he repeated when Ben opened his mouth to argue.
My brother's mouth snapped shut. He turned and jabbed a finger at me. "You're too old to behave like this. Both of you," he threw back at Alex. He put a plastic cup of pills on the nightstand. "Eat something before you take these. I'll be back in the morning." He glared at me on his way out, and I hung my head. "This is all your fault," I heard him say in the hallway.
Alex grinned. He was still grinning when my folks came into the room. Mom had her arms full of linens, and Butch was lugging a card table. "Fetch the chairs," my dad said, "You know where they are."
Getting chairs was only the first of my chores. By the time I'd finished, Mom's card table was festively adorned and laden with mouth watering home cooking. Keeping busy kept the worst of my embarrassment at bay. I really wished Alex could put a shirt on and cover up my bite mark, but his bandages made that impossible.
Mom, ever gracious, neither reacted to it, nor remarked. Butch, ever the sonuvabitch, wouldn't stop smirking or making innuendoes. I was about ready to scream when my mother, without warning, slapped him hard on the back of his head. We all stared at her. Butch had his mouth open to protest when she raised an eyebrow. His mouth snapped shut, and he ducked his head, murmuring "sorry."
Alex and I stared at each other. He was still sitting on the bed, a tray over his lap. The table was pushed up flush with the bed. Mom sat next to Alex, the better to make him eat, I think, with Dad at the "head," and then me.
"What's my girl doing tonight?" Alex asked, breaking the silence. Mom gave him a look of such fondness that my heart swelled. I could never have imagined sitting down to dinner with my parents and my male lover. This situation was unfathomable, and I was grateful for it.
"She's at the movies with Frankie's kids," Mom replied, naming a sister who, like Lucia, was a nurse at Ben's clinic.
Alex frowned. "Which one's Frankie?" he asked. I knew the feeling. A person really needed note cards to keep track of this family.
The smirk was back on my dad's face. "Frankie's the one with the tits you kept grabbing."
I turned to my lover and was gratified to see him red-faced for a change. "You've been feeling up my sister?" I asked in mock outrage.
"He wasn't entirely conscious," Mom said, defending him.
"I thought she was you," Alex said with great dignity. "And you had breasts. It was a wondrous thing."
"Uh huh," I teased.
"I like breasts," he said.
Well, what could I say to that? "Yeah, me too."
Dad snorted, and Mom changed the subject by scooping more stew into Alex's bowl. He protested, but she ignored him and added another scoop.
"Eat," Butch commanded. "Chances are you're gonna need your strength."
Alex snickered and I could feel my ears burn. Normally, Butch's innuendoes would have pissed me off and started a shouting match that always ended with me storming back out of their lives. Now, I accepted it as him—them—accepting me and mine. It was something to think about.
Mom managed to get Alex to eat two full bowls of stew. I was going for my third when she said, "Save room for brownies." I settled for half a bowl.
"You never eat sweets," Alex said, amazed, when I piled two large brownies on my plate.
"These aren't sweets," I explained, smiling as Mom placed a large brownie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream on his plate, ignoring his protests. "Sweets are things like Twinkies, and those I don't eat. These," I took a bite, closing my eyes in ecstasy, "are an entirely different food group."
He managed most of the brownie and all of the rich, homemade ice cream. Mom had gone through a Martha Stewart phase awhile back, which had annoyed the hell out of my father but resulted in some great frozen desserts.
Alex faded soon after, so I helped the folks pack up the dishes and load the car. Dinner had calmed me and given me hope. I hugged them both goodnight. Dad pulled me to him, squeezing hard. I squeezed back, and we stood there, expelling more than three decades of ire. He let go and punched me hard on the shoulder, rocking me back on my heels. It was the only apology I'd ever get,
and I found it was enough.
I smiled at my sleepy lover after I closed up the house and returned to the bedroom. He'd peeled out of his sweats again and was lying naked on top of the covers. The bandages were strangely erotic, their whiteness a stark contrast to his honey-colored flesh.
"You've got a pain pill to take," I told him.
"Don't want it. Don't need it. You're the only pill I need."
"Bullshit."
He gave me a sleepy smile. "They put me under. I don't want to be unconscious. Not now."
"You'll heal faster if you're not in pain."
"I'll be okay now that you're here."
With him naked and sleepy, there was no resisting. I stripped and joined him. The bed was an oversized king, suitable for Skinners who tended to be tall and wide. It could've been a single for all the space we took up.
Skin on skin. Experts have discovered that it's essential for infants; they won't thrive without it. Heady stuff for a middle-aged divorced man used to sleeping alone.
We got as close as possible, given his wounds. Legs entwined, cocks danced. I put my hand around both of them and stroked slowly. It was more for the intimacy than the sex, although neither of us complained about the resulting orgasms. I wiped us off with a corner of the sheet, and promised myself that I'd wash bedding in the morning. Now, I wanted us surrounded by spunk, wanted the smell to be overpowering, marking us both.
I held him while he slept, fell asleep holding him. Hours later, his moans woke me. I clicked on the bedside lamp. His face was drawn, eyes dark with pain. I rolled out of the bed to get fresh water.
"Damn fool," I said, handing him the pill.
"Don't want it," he insisted. His voice was gruff.
"You need it," I insisted.
"They put me out so bad. For so long. I don't want to be unconscious all the time you're here."
I was torn, too. I didn't want him unconscious either. "What if I cut it in half? That should take the worst of the edge off, and not knock you out so much."
He didn't want any of it, I knew, but pain wears you down. He nodded. I cut it in two with a knife I fished out of my pants pocket and helped him sit up so he could swallow it.
"Come on," I said climbing back into bed and easing him down on top of me. I took him in hand again and stroked him leisurely, distracting him until the pill took effect.
We slept until Ben woke us up. Alex's temperature was down, which put my brother in a better mood.
"We didn't do anything strenuous," I told him before he could say anything. He rolled his eyes at me. Alex grinned. He still looked a bit gray, but seemed alert, feisty even.
"You're hurting," Ben said, poking at the glands on his neck.
Alex shrugged.
"He didn't want the whole pill, so I cut it in half."
"I don't want to be knocked out," Alex supplied.
"Good," said Ben. "Do you have a problem with codeine?" When Alex shook his head, my brother fished around in his black bag and came up with a bottle of white pills. "Tylenol 3," he said, handing the bottle to Alex. "Don't take more than four a day. And be sure to tell me if they're not strong enough."
Alex nodded his thanks. "Can I take a shower?" he asked. "I smell funky."
I had to agree. Ben looked from Alex to me and back. "Think you can stand that long?" He looked amused.
"I'll have help."
I could feel my face burn. My brother chuckled, and I began to regret all the times I'd kept him from getting beat up.
"A shower's not a bad idea. Just keep the water tepid and not too strong. I'll leave bandages. I seem to remember Walt having a knack for first aid."
Alex looked a question. "I got beat up a lot as a little kid," Ben told him, still amused. "Big here would chase off the bullies and patch me up so our mothers wouldn't know we'd been fighting."
"'Big', huh?" Alex said giving me a once over. "I always pictured you as a skinny kid."
"He was," Ben remarked before I could answer. "He was still bigger than the rest of us, though."
"I'm surprised you remember that far back," I put in, happy he was no longer pissed off at us.
"Are you kidding?" He set packages of bandages and antiseptic cream on the nightstand. "I still have nightmares about Kenny Knowlen and his crew cornering me under the monkey bars." He peeled the bandage off the shoulder wound. "Wally here could kick some serious ass when he was ten."
Alex's grin took some of the pain-induced gray from his face. "Wally here can still kick some serious ass."
"The next one of you to call me 'Wally' is going to get a first-hand demonstration," I growled.
They both put on "Who me?" expressions. I glared while Ben packed up his bag, fooling no one.
"No straining," he said, snapping the bag shut for emphasis.
My not-so-innocent lover held his fingers up in a "Scout's Honor" gesture. I just tried to look chaste and got punched for my effort. I'd been home less than a day and already had a sore shoulder.
Alex decided he wanted a shower worse than he wanted breakfast, so I helped him into the bathroom and sat him on the toilet while I got the water going. Like the bed, the shower was built to Skinner-scale, with crannies and nooks for soaps and seats in two corners that Mom insisted she needed to shave her legs.
"Sure you wouldn't rather have a bath?" I asked.
God! The seductive look he gave would ordinarily have gotten him bent over the sink and reamed into the wall. "Later," he husked.
My erection amused him. He teased me, batting those long, silky eyelashes; licking his lips. He even twitched that lush, round ass at me, making my cock twitch.
I managed to maneuver him into the shower, despite his efforts at seduction. I held him upright and slowly soaped him, taking great pains with his cock, intending to bring him off that way.
Alex, of course, had other plans, wanting to be fucked. Insisting on it.
"Do me, Walter," he said, leaning back into me. "Do me now."
I had no intention of complying. None. Of course. That's why I'd brought condoms into the bathroom, within easy reach of the shower, and why there was a bottle of lube randomly placed on top of the shower doors.
Who was I kidding? Regardless of Ben's admonitions, I knew this would be as healing as any of his potions. To someone like Alex, the act of making love—of being loved—was so uncommon and strange that it was magical and had great power.
We were clumsy, as if we had never done this before, and he really was too weak to stand long on his own. He half-knelt on one of the seats while I supported most of his weight with an arm around his waist. It killed my back, and I knew I'd be eating Ibuprofen tomorrow. But nothing mattered except the coupling, the closeness. I willed life into him with every thrust.
My back gave out before I could come, but it didn't matter. I got it up and got it on and got him off before my dick remembered it was 50.
I thought the sex and the shower would put him out again, but he seemed energized. Instead of settling him back in the funky-smelling bed, I moved usinto the kitchen and set him in the Captain's chair at the head of the table.
I started the coffee, dumped sheets in the washer and began to build omelets.
"My mother thinks of everything," I said, surveying the contents of the fridge. There was an already-chopped-up onion, sliced mushrooms, extra sharp cheddar, thick-sliced bacon, green peppers and even some ham slices. The eggs in the half-flat were large and brown. Packages of frozen hash browns were stacked in the freezer like cordwood.
I shared a can of beer with the eggs I was whipping, the better to make them fluff, while Alex sipped coffee. He smiled at me around the steam, watching everything I did. It felt good.
Alex shook his head at me when I dumped a loaded plate down in front of him. "Ever the optimist," he said, looking skeptically at the pile of eggs and potatoes.
"It won't go to waste," I told him. "If you don't eat, I'll tell my mother."
"Wouldn't want that. Day scares the hell out of me."
I doubted that. She adored him. He applied himself to the eggs, eating slowly but making a steady dent. I was wiping the last traces of egg off my plate with my last piece of toast when we heard a vehicle in the drive. Alex reached for the pistol he wasn't wearing while I looked out the window. A battered red Ford pickup with a young shepherd standing in the bed stood in the middle of the drive. I heard a whistle, and the dog jumped out just as the back door opened.
The dog shot through it, careened excitedly around the kitchen and then came to sit at the feet of another man who looked like me. This one was younger and darker, stringy thin like Butch, with long black hair tied back with a strip of rawhide.
"Big," he said by way of greeting.
"Little," I replied.
We regarded each other. Not hostile, exactly, just waiting. The two of us had issues. His hand snaked out, finally, and I took it, grasping it firmly. Remembering the warmth and relief I'd felt last night when Butch and I hugged, I pulled my brother into my arms and hugged him tight. He hesitated, then hugged back. When we broke the clench, I slapped him lightly on the head. He looked slightly puzzled.
"Alex," I called over my shoulder. "Have you met L.J.?"
"Not that I recall," he answered around a fork of potatoes, looking interested. This was one sibling who wasn't particularly thrilled at the return of the prodigal.
"Alex Krycek, L.J. Skinner," I said, making the introductions.
"What's the L.J. stand for?" Alex asked.
I grinned while L.J. rolled his eyes. "Little Jesus," I said, giving the second name the Spanish pronunciation.
"Ouch," Alex commented.
"My birth mother had an epiphany during labor," L.J. supplied, getting a mug out of the cupboard and pouring coffee. He refilled our mugs before sitting down at the table. What he didn't say was that as soon as she could stand, she handed her newborn to Butch and entered a convent. L.J. was the only other one of us to be reared entirely by my parents. Sibling rivalry hardly described our relationship. The fact that I was old enough to be his father didn't help.
I began cracking eggs into a bowl and fired up the burner under the skillet.
"What are you doing?" my brother asked.
"Making you breakfast."
"I ate breakfast hours ago," he said in a tone of voice that left no question about what he thought of slug-abeds.
"Then I'm making you brunch," I replied, refusing to fight.
"Oh." He always did have hollow legs.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched him watching us. Back and forth, from me to Alex. With my shirtless lover and his livid bite mark sitting that close to him, there could be no question—if he had a question—as to our relationship.
"So, which one of you takes it up the ass? Or do you just take turns?"
Alex froze, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, and narrowed his eyes. "Now I know you were raised better than that." He said it quietly, but the threat was unmistakable. Wounded, frail and half-naked, Alex Krycek with that look on his face was a dangerous man. And my brother knew it. L.J. jerked away from Alex then made himself still. I could almost see the wheels turning. Whatever clichÈs he'd had in his head disappeared.
L.J. had never been subtle and had always had an in-your-face way about him, but Alex was right: He had been raised better than that. I could see shame, anger, embarrassment—and not a little fear—warring on his face. Mom would have slapped him silly, and he knew it.
"This really bothers you, doesn't it?" I turned my attention back to the eggs and found that I'd been unconsciously stirring them. Scrambled omelet. Well, hell. They'd still taste good. I scraped them onto a plate, added what was left of the potatoes and set it in front of him. He stared at it, not looking up. He scooped up a forkful and looked at it.
"Not in theory," he replied, and tasted the eggs.
"So it's me you've got the problem with." I'd barely sat down and picked up my mug when he slammed the fork down, hard enough to make the dog jump up and bark.
"Dammit, Walter. How do you expect me to feel? I love Sharon. She's not just a sister-in-law; she's my friend. It was bad enough that you two split up, but that you split up because...because of this..."
He sputtered. Picked up the fork and stabbed the eggs.
I took a deep breath. Of course people would think that. "My marriage died a long time before Sharon finally made us face that fact. And it didn't have anything to do with anyone else. She wanted...she needed someone to share his life with her. I can't do that. The nature of my work...hell, my nature, made that impossible."
"You share with him?" L.J. jutted his chin towards Alex.
"He doesn't have to," Alex, still using that soft, dangerous voice, said. "I'm pretty much involved in all the bad things he can't talk about."
"So you work together?"
Alex smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Not exactly. My last paycheck was for killing him."
L.J. looked back and forth at us, seeking the punch line.
"Which reminds me," I turned my attention to my lover, "I have some questions about that." Like a switch turning off, Alex's face closed, and his eyes looked dead. "Which I'm not going to get answered, am I?"
He shook his head. We stared at each other for a long moment. My brother, for once, made use of the social skills he'd learned from my mother and stayed silent.
"Not even when we're very old men scandalizing the nursing home?" I meant to lighten things up, but knew the words were wrong as soon as they left my mouth.
The dead look in Alex's eyes slowly gave way to such ineffable sorrow that I thought he'd cry. He nodded finally. "When we're scandalizing the nursing home."
I knew where the sadness came from: We'd never get that old.
I reached out for him and squeezed his arm.
L.J. cleared his throat. I'd forgotten he was there. "What'd he mean, about killing you?"
What could I tell him? L.J. was a lot like Fox Mulder: stubborn, tenacious, uncaring about who he pissed off, totally honest and rarely uncertain. Once again, I opted for the truth.
"Some time ago, Alex infected me with a kind of nanotechnology that could, when activated, build up walls in my arteries and ultimately kill me. Which he did. Twice."
My brother looked disgusted. "A simple 'none-of-your-business' would suffice. You don't have to tell me fairy tales. I've learned to deal with your resentment, Walt, but I do expect a little respect."
"That is the truth, Little, although I understand you not believing it. It happened to me, and I have a problem believing. But where the hell do you get off talking about my 'resentment'? I've never resented you."
"Oh, please. You resent all of us. You always have."
Well, that pissed me off. "I never resented you kids. I resented Butch. With all of you looking just like him, everyone knew what he'd been up to. You all might as well have had 'bastard' tattooed across your faces foreheads. How dare he do that to my mother! How dare he do that to you! That's what I resented."
"Bullshit."
This sonuvabitch was so much like our father it made my jaw ache. He spoke in absolutes as if there was no other point of view, no other Truth but his own.
Mulder would have loved him.
I was too angry to answer, and I sure as hell didn't want to see what Alex thought of all this, so I pushed away from the table and busied myself at the stove. The coffee was all but gone, so I made a new pot, trying to identify what it was that angered me so. Resentment was an obvious thought. As a child, I'd been embarrassed, but as I'd told L.J., I was embarrassed for them, not by them. A small distinction, maybe, but important to me.
I'd had this same conversation with Ben a decade or more ago, and I don't remember being angry. I don't remember Ben being angry. The age difference might explain it. Ben was my contemporary. L.J. was of a different generation entirely.
After prissily putting everything away and wiping down the counter, I was finally cool enough to face my brother again. And when I did, the Truth hit me like a cold dash of seawater.
He was right.
"It's not bullshit," I said quietly, sitting down. "I didn't resent them. I don't resent them. You, I resented."
His face...oh, my poor brother! His face didn't know how to be. I read great satisfaction and appalling hurt. He was vindicated. I'd finally admitted what he'd always known and was so afraid to be true.
"Look at it from my perspective," I told him gently. "I was 18 and had just been killed. Everyone I knew or cared about in that god-forsaken country was dead, too, only they stayed dead. Little, I woke up in a body bag." I almost choked on the words, the horror that was always so close to the surface bubbling up out into the open. From the corner of my eye, I saw the hag, the succubus who haunted me, whose status as enemy or savior I could never discern. I turned to face her directly, but she was gone, leaving me only my hurt lover and hurting brother.
"I was broken when I got back here, Little. In pieces. All I wanted, all that had kept me going was the thought of coming home, of being safe and taken care of. I wanted my mother." It sounded silly coming out of the mouth of a 50-year-old man, but it's exactly what that 18-year-old boy had needed.
"She was here." He sounded defensive, almost petulant.
"Not for me."
Little glared at me. "I was just a baby," he hissed.
I nodded, agreeing. "Just a baby. A premature, colicky baby, who took all of my mother's time and energy and emotional wherewithal. And left her nothing for me. Did I resent you? Damn straight."
"Colic doesn't last forever." He said it between gritted teeth.
"No, it doesn't. Yours lasted just long enough. By the time you'd outgrown it, by the time my mother could turn her attention to me, the walls were up, and I was no longer able to let her in. To let anyone in. And everyone around me has suffered ever since."
"You blame me." I could see the muscles in his jaw jumping and felt a sympathetic twinge of TMJ. "My fault you alienated yourself from the family. My fault your marriage died. All my fault."
"Oh, hell no." I reach over and gently slapped his head. "You were a baby, Lit. And Mom can't be blamed for being Mom and putting the needs of a newborn child above that of a full-grown man. I was...well, I was just being me, I guess. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I've been such an asshole for nearly 30 years."
I could see it now, how I'd been, how much I'd hurt the people who loved me. I really was an asshole. Everything I'd done to be not like my father was worse than anything he'd done. Than anything he was.
All of this excess emotion was upsetting the dog. Alex had lured her over to him and was rubbing her head, comforting her. That was my fault, too.
"Ow!" I grabbed the back of my head and glared at my brother.
"Stop it," he said quietly. "I know what you're doing." There were tears in his eyes. "Shit, Big. I can see the wheels turning. We're alike, you know? Another reason we don't like each other much."
And that was true, too. L.J., of all the others, was like me: aloof, standoffish and taciturn. Self-centered as I was, I'd always assumed he was just like that with me, but when I thought about it—without putting myself in the equation—that wasn't true. Like me, he didn't bring friends home, didn't come home unless summoned. Like me, he compartmentalized his life.
At the same time, he was also the most like Butch—a rancher, tied to the land. A good ol' boy, charming when it suited him. Unlike Butch, though, I doubt anyone besides his wife and a couple of close friends actually knew him. Our father, on the other hand, had never had an unuttered thought. Casual acquaintances knew his most intimate indiscretions. Hell, many of them were his intimate indiscretions.
I smiled my agreement. "We are what we are, Little Brother." I reached out to cuff him again, but he blocked me and started a complex routine of hand slaps and high fives. I'd taught him that when he was eight and was amazed (and touched) that he still remembered it.
I glanced at Alex, who wore a bemused look. All this family stuff must be akin to observing the mating rituals of Reticulans. He cleared his throat. "Who's your friend?" he asked L.J.
My brother got a soft look on his face, as he looked down at the young shepherd sitting antsy by Alex. "This is Zelda," he said. "We're playing 'catch up'. Nina liked to ruin her these past few weeks." Little and his wife, Nina, raised dogs rather than kids and had very different ideas on how they—the dogs—should be reared.
"You've been away?" I asked him.
"Wyoming and Colorado, trying to sell bull semen. Wanted to make some contacts before the National Western," he replied, naming a major stock show and rodeo that takes place in Denver late January.
"You doing that?" I asked. He nodded. It would start in a couple of weeks. I wondered why he wasn't still in Colorado, setting up his booth.
"Mama Day wanted me back here. Seems she wants to do Christmas again, now that you're here."
I looked at Alex, but he just shrugged. "First we've heard," I said.
"Millie's coming home for it. She didn't make it back for Christmas either. And I guess there was a lot of stuff going on here then, too." He shifted his gaze to Alex.
Another shrug. "That must've been about the time I started hallucinating Skinners," he said and took a bite of toast. "Who's Millie?"
"Milagra," L.J. answered. "Our miracle baby."
"Baby sister," I supplied. "She's the only one who doesn't look like us."
"Yes, she does," he argued.
My turn to shrug. "Only sort of."
Alex arched his eyebrows in question. "Imagine Dana Scully with my face," I told him. "Only smaller and freckled."
He looked horrified. "I can't," he said.
I had to smile. It was a sort of frightening thought.
"Ma's called in the troops." I turned to Alex. "This is a good sign. She must think you're going to live."
"Yeah," L.J. agreed dryly, "And she wants to show him off."
"So, yours is not the only discouraging word."
A shrug. "There's a lot of curiosity. Uncle Walter got a divorce. Uncle Walter has a boyfriend. A mysterious boyfriend who's recuperating from violent wounds on The Mesa. Nobody gets to come here without being family. It's unprecedented.
"And then there's Tanya. Ma didn't think she could withstand a Skinner Family 'Do'."
"But now she can?"
"With him there." L.J. indicated Alex with a jut of his chin.
"His name is Alex."
The muscle jumped in his jaw again. He stared at me a long time, then turned to my love and nodded. "Alex," he acknowledged.
A Skinner apology.
Alex scratched the dog, making a hind leg kick.
A Krycek acceptance.
Little left soon after, looking as puzzled as when he first got here.
I settled Alex on the couch, turning the television to ESPN. He fell asleep watching soccer while I threw the bedding in the dryer and finished cleaning the kitchen.
With Alex down for the count, I used the time to rediscover Blue Mesa. The house was a comfortably sprawling ranch-style home that my parents used either to get away from each other or from us kids.
It was furnished with western kitsch—chandeliers made of antelope antlers, hide-covered footstools, leather furniture with cattle brands tooled into it. Old horse collars filled with mirrors hung on the walls. It was whimsical in a Roy Rogers kind of way.
Outside, the landscaping was naturalized. The half-moon drive was paved with red rock. Native plants that, come spring, would bloom with color were brown and dormant, but the view was still spectacular.
Something about the quality of light here in the mornings gave everything a blue cast, hence the name. Its sparseness suited me. It was starkly beautiful and it soothed me like no other place ever had. Butch built it for Mom, I'd always thought, as an apology for Ben's mother.
I stood outside for a long time, praying, I guess. Thanking the great Whatever for giving me a little while longer with Alex, for opening my eyes and forcing my guard down. Little had made me think. I was still standing there when Mom drove up.
I opened her door, helped her down and started around to do the same for the little girl strapped in the shotgun seat. "No, Walt," Mom's voice stopped me. She opened the door herself and coaxed the child out, much as if she were luring a feral pup.
"Come, dear, and meet Walter. He's Alex's friend."
Interesting choice of words. Not "my son" but "Alex's friend." I
stood very still, waiting for the girl to approach me. She seemed to be about eight and had an undernourished look, all eyes, cheekbones and elbows. She hovered behind Mom, staring at me solemnly, a storybook clutched in her hand.
"Hello, Tanya," I said after a long moment of scrutiny. "I'm so glad you've come. Alex missed you at dinner last night." She brightened at the sound of his name, making me smile. I knew the feeling. "Did you have a nice time at the movie?"
She nodded, still solemn. Mom nudged her. "Hello," she said, almost inaudibly.
I knew a little bit about Tanya's history but didn't quite understand my mother's part in it. She couldn't possibly be thinking of raising another child, not at her age. I'd get the story soon enough, I knew, but couldn't help but wonder. Maybe Mom was acting as a safehouse of sorts until they were entirely sure that Tanya's dead parents were her only abusers.
We followed the little girl into the house. "He's in the living room," I told
her when she started toward the bedroom. She threw me a look over her shoulder as if she didn't believe me. "I'm washing bedding," I explained. She blinked solemnly before turning into the kitchen and heading through to the living room. I followed her and muted the television. Alex was still out, but I knew he wouldn't want to miss her.
She stood and just looked at him for a long moment before carefully setting down next to him on a narrow strip of couch. My breath caught when she began touching his old scars. There was a ritualistic quality about her actions and I wondered if the ritual was for her or for Alex.
"It's the same every time she sees him," my mother said softly, coming up behind me. "I don't know what she'll do when he starts wearing shirts."
"He's going to live, isn't he?"
She took my arm and leaned against me. I could feel her nod. "Ben is amazed at how he's turned around in just a few hours." She looked up at me, smiling. "I'm not. He called out for you, over and over. I knew he just needed to see you." She squeezed my arm. "His feelings run deep."
"You seem awfully accepting of all this."
"Oh, honey! How can I not be?" She laughed. "A bisexual son is hardly the
most embarrassing thing I've ever experienced."
"Bisexual, not gay?"
"I've spent a lot of time talking to Sharon about you and what went wrong with your marriage. Sex wasn't one of the problems. And you've always liked girls."
I could feel myself blushing, but she was right. Sex with Sharon was never a problem.
"It was easier than talking," I conceded.
"And less intimate," she agreed.
I leaned into her in a sort of armless hug, and we stood there comfortably enjoying each other and watching Tanya with Alex. The girl finished touching his scars and had begun to read. Her voice was so soft that we couldn't hear her from the edge of the room. Alex could, though. His eyes opened and he smiled. He said something, causing her to smile back.
I shook my head. "Who'da thought?"
Mom pinched me. "Come on," she said turning toward the kitchen. "I want to ask you something."
"Something" turned out to be Mom's plan for a slightly late family Christmas celebration. Although voiced as a question, there was no doubt that, come Friday, we'd be surrounded by Skinners, their mates, kids and—at least in L.J.'s case—dogs. There'd be presents to open—mine and Millie's to the family and theirs to us. I sighed, wondering how Alex would react.
As it turned out, Tanya told him about it before we could, making sure he'd be there so that she could "sit by" him.
"Are you scared?" I heard him ask her.
Her answer was inaudible to us, but we heard him say, "But you know these people. And they're nice to you."
"Sometimes," the soft statement from her was almost a shout, "sometimes the nice people are the worst."
I turned towards my mother and saw tears. "She won't talk about it," Mom said. "We know the physical things that happened to her, at least some of them, from the damage that was done. But she won't talk about it." She angrily wiped tears from her face. "How can we help her when she won't talk? How can she heal?"
I took her hand, held it gently, feeling her age through the fragility of the bones, the delicate skin and prominent veins. "Maybe there isn't any healing. Maybe there's just getting on."
"Alex healed."
"No, he didn't." I looked at her and debated what to tell her. Part of me wanted her to keep whatever pie-in-the-sky opinion of Alex that she had. Another part of me, the part that she had molded, knew that she'd never appreciated being protected. "He became an assassin, mother. He kills people for a living."
She searched my face, looking for a truth she could fathom. "What kind of people?"
I knew what she was asking. "He killed me, mother. Twice."
"And yet you live."
There's that. I'd probably never know what he gave up so that I could live. I don't think I want to know. I could only shrug at her.
"You're telling me not to get too attached," she said, patting my hand.
I nodded. That's exactly what I was telling her.
"No one's ever loved him before," she stated.
Well. Fox Mulder had nothing on my mother. "You should have been a profiler."
She raised an eyebrow at me. "What makes you think that I'm not?"
I picked up her hand and kissed it. "Well, you've certainly had enough practice."
"It's been a good life, Walter."
I knew what she was telling me. "I know, Mom. I'm sorry I've been such a pill."
"Well, Butch hasn't helped any. And neither one of you has a lot of give in him."
I glanced into the living room. Tanya had closed her book and was listening intently to something Alex was telling her. "What's going to happen to her?"
"Frankie will adopt her, eventually. Her twins were in Tanya's class. They're the ones who alerted us that something was wrong. They like her a lot."
Quite an endorsement. Frankie's kids were a rowdy, opinionated lot. If they liked her, she was already one of the family.
"What's going to happen to him?" Mother's turn to ask a hard one.
"That's a good question. From what I've gathered, his employers think he's dead. I'd like to convince him to stay that way."
"He could stay here."
I saw a small glimmer of ...something... A future, maybe. A possibility, very small. Tiny and vulnerable, but there nonetheless.
"It's a big ranch," she added.
Big enough to get lost in. "We ain't the Bush's," my dad was fond of saying, "but we do okay." I knew there wasn't a chance in hell that Alex would agree to go underground here, at least not for long. But it was nice to have options.
A shout from the living room stopped my fantasizing and brought us to our feet.
"No!" we heard Tanya shout. "Stop it!"
I don't know what I expected to find, but it certainly wasn't a showdown between an undernourished eight year old and a wounded, one-armed thug.
She was glaring, hands on hips, at a tottering Alex.
"What the hell's going on here?"
Alex looked sheepishly defensive, but Tanya just seemed righteously annoyed.
"Alex has to tinkle," she told me solemnly, "and he won't call for help."
"I'm fully capable of getting to the bathroom by myself!" He glared back at her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mom smothering a smile. "Yeah," I told him, "the one that's ten feet from the end of the bed." The one he was heading for now was two rooms away. "Stop fighting it and let people take care of you." I put my arm around him to support the bulk of his weight.
"Silly boy," Tanya pronounced.
That made me snort. Alex just glowered.
"You're outnumbered," I whispered. "Give it up."
"Shit," he whispered back, but let me support his weight. "You gonna hold my dick, too?"
"Not with my mother in the house."
I heard her chuckle. She still had those mom ears that heard everything.
I deposited Alex in the bathroom, then waited in the hall for him while listening to Mom tell Tanya that they'd do gifts tomorrow. Mom was big on kids making gifts rather than just getting money to buy something. I bet she still saved egg cartoons, Popsicle sticks and toilet paper cores.
Alex walked steadier going out than coming in, having found his legs. He managed to get back to the couch with just a hand on my arm. "I gotta get my strength back," he told me with a sigh as he sat back down.
"We'll work on it," I promised.
Mom said her good-byes then, herding a reluctant Tanya out with her, promising to send someone out with dinner later.
We spent the rest of the day lolling on the couch pretending to watch old movies, talking about nothing. Such a calm, peaceful time. I'd remember this afternoon, I think, forever.
Lucia and her husband Abel showed up with dinner, meds and a set of car keys. "Butch thought you'd want your own wheels," my sister said, getting out of Dad's old souped-up Buick.
"Holy shit," was my only comment, gazing at it in awe.
"Brings back memories, huh, Walt?" said Abel, stepping out of a red Cherokee.
We shook hands and then hugged. I'd liked him from the beginning, partly because he never let Butch get the better of him. Even though he looked big and slow, he was one of the smartest people I'd ever met. Made him a helluva good Sheriff.
I didn't worry about him getting official because of Alex and his knife wounds. Abel's philosophy was to clean up his own yard before he worried about his neighbor's. Since Alex hadn't been stabbed in his jurisdiction, and by the same token hadn't stabbed anybody here, he was not a factor in Abel's world.
Abel's a large, brown man with a pleasant baby face that told of his Papago ancestry. Heëd met my sister in college, followed her home and politely refused to leave. Sheëd married him, she always said, so he wouldn't be arrested for vagrancy.
Inside, he shook Alex's hand then stood patiently aside while his wife tended to her patient. His stillness can be disconcerting if you're not used to it. Alex seemed to take it in stride. Now that he's over his Skinner-shock, I don't think anything we do will faze him.
"No temperature, Alex. This is good! I want to take some blood; see where that infection's at." She grinned at me over her shoulder. "Ben so much wants to yell at you, but he doesn't have a reason as long as this one's getting better." She turned her grin back at Alex.
He returned it. "What the hell was that you were driving?" he asked her.
Her grin turned evil. "Dad's Buick. He thought Big needed a car to drive."
"And that boat's what he could spare?"
"Butch is an evil, perverted son of a bitch," Abel said affably, "with a twisted sense of humor."
Alex raised his eyebrows in question. "I lost my virginity in that car," I told him ruefully.
Abel laughed. "Hell! We all lost our virginity in that car."
"You know," Lucia said, smoothing tape onto Alex's shoulder, "that damned car always had a supply of condoms in the glove box. Wonder why it never occurred to him to use them."
"Well," her husband drawled, "Butch has always been an Old Testament kind of guy. The Lord said go forth and multiply, so I figure he felt he was obliged to obey."
It was my turn to snort. "He's awfully cavalier about which of the Lord's directives he chooses to listen to."
"Give him some credit," Lucia said. "He probably didn't want us to repeat his mistakes." She gave Abel a meaningful look. "Parents are like that, you know."
I had to laugh. "That why all your children drove Japanese cars?"
"Yup," said Abel. "It's hard for anyone the size our kids were to get into too much trouble in the back seat of a Toyota."
Lucia rolled her eyes. "You just keep thinkin' that, Abel."
"Where there's a will, there's a way," Alex intoned solemnly. Then he smirked.
I refused to blush. The back seats of Bureau-issued fleet cars aren't exactly designed to Skinner scale either, but we'd managed one crazy night when my Crown Vic was being serviced. So stupid. And hot. Hot enough that the memory made me hard.
Abel guffawed, and my sister snickered. "Don't suppose that's a story we'll ever hear about."
"Don't suppose you will," I growled, making them all giggle.
"If you weren't so hurt, I'd hurt you," I told Alex after they left. He grinned and blew me a kiss.
The week continued that way. Slow, gentle loving sandwiched between visits from family. Little bits of Skinners came to say "howdy" and get introduced to "Uncle Walter's friend." Mom's doing probably. By Friday, Alex would have met most all of us.
One afternoon I put him in the Buick and we toured the Mesa, ending up at Little's. Alex insisted that he needed a special gift for Tanya, and Little said he knew just the thing. He insisted on driving, leaving me to stretch out in the back seat. Angled just right I could watch Alex in the shotgun seat, watch his face. Fascinating how he never really opened up. Never gave anything away.
Now and then, though, a crack appeared. Unguarded instants that stabbed my heart and made me want more. I tortured myself with possibilities, like a sore tongue on a chipped tooth, seeing glimpses of a future that I knew we'd never have.
Little pulled up in front of a battered doublewide set on a cement foundation before I could put myself in a total melancholy funk. Alex glanced back at me before I could wipe those feelings off my face. He cocked his head and frowned, considering me for a moment. "We'll always have Paris," he said when Little got out of the car.
That made me laugh, albeit a little hysterically. I'd never pictured myself as Bergman.
Alex exited the Buick before I could get out to help him. We'd been walking, a little more each day, and his elusive strength returned slowly. He stayed awake longer, still fought even the milder pain meds and had begun to wear his prosthesis for part of the day.
He followed Little up to the door while I trailed not far behind. He'd lost weight. That and the loose jeans he wore for this outing hid the sweet ass I'd come to crave. Probably a good thing since we were in public.
Little's knock at the trailer door started a cacophony of hysterical barking, yips and canine screams. The front door opened a crack, then burst all the way open as a wave of smallish black and white dogs poured through. They ran past us, causing Alex to totter and giving me an excuse to hold onto his arm.
The oldest, tiniest woman I'd ever seen appeared at the door, gave a shrill whistle and the wave of dogs turned their headlong dash into a broad circle. I tightened my grip on Alex's arm as they headed back. They all veered around us and flew up the steps and back inside, except for one petite female in a bright, pink collar who came to a dead halt in front of Alex. She sat smartly and barked once.
"Patty Cake," the old woman said sharply. The dog looked over her shoulder, sat herself more firmly and barked again. "Don't make me clap my hands," the woman threatened. Another defiant bark before the dog turned and trotted into the house.
"Howdy, Mavis," my brother said.
"You lost, L.J.?"
"Heard you had a litter that's ready. We're looking for a pup. Gift for a little girl." He nodded his chin in our direction. "This is my brother, Walter, and his friend, Alex."
Her face wrinkled up in what I took for a smile. "'My brother' is a bit redundant, doncha think?"
"So, L.J.'s not the only Skinner you know," Alex said, flashing her a smile that could melt granite.
"Oh, hell no!" she said holding the door wide open for us. "Butch tried hard to seduce me once, but I wouldn't have none of it."
We must have all looked askance, because she added, "It was a few years back."
"His loss," Little said, bending down to kiss her cheek.
"Charmer," she said and punched his arm. So, maybe it was a Texas thing, not limited to Skinners.
We followed her through the living room, veered left at the kitchen into what seemed to be a long family room. An old man in a wheelchair sat at a computer in one corner. There was no evidence of the herd of dogs.
"Slim!" Mavis screamed.
He started, looking around. "Huh?"
"Say 'howdy'," she yelled.
He squinted at us through impossibly thick lenses. "Howdy," he said and turned back to the PC.
"What's he doing?" L.J. asked.
"Reading smut," she replied, opening a door into an enclosed back porch. "Heads up, Lilly," she called. A white-faced bitch lay on a plaid blanket in a boxed off corner of the porch holding court over five small black and white pups. She stretched her head toward the closest pup and began licking it, knocking it over in her anxious zeal.
High-pitched yips greeted us, with the pups climbing over each other trying to reach the old woman. "This is Jersey Lil," Mavis said, introducing us to the bitch. "And these are her babies. Aren't you, sweeties?"
She squatted down next to the whelping box with an ease of movement that would have made a young woman envious and began handing up pups until we each held one of the excited little beasts. I held mine in one hand; it couldn't have weighed more than two pounds.
"What's his story?" Alex asked, indicating the fifth pup still in the box. It sat hunched in a corner looking sad.
Mavis chuckled. "That's Spooky. He's learned that that pitiful look gets him lots of attention. I'm trying not to encourage it."
I looked over at Alex. "Why's he called 'Spooky'?" I had to ask.
"Haven't a clue. Slim called him that and it just seemed to stick." She deposited her pup back in the box and scooped up the Spooky pup. He cocked his head and looked even sadder.
"Look at that face!" Alex swapped pups with the old woman, clearly entranced. "Is there anything wrong with him? Physically, I mean."
"Oh, hell, no. He's a rambunctious little shit when he forgets to be
manipulative. Playful as they come. Good confirmation, too." This last was directed at L.J.
Little handed me his pup so he could check out Alex's charge. "Thought you weren't breeding for show anymore, Mavis."
"I'm not. I breed these little Bostons strictly for temperament and
health. But it's a pleasure when you get one this good. He's a pretty boy, aren't you, Spooky?" She rubbed the dot on the top of his head, causing him to collapse against Alex's chest.
His eyes went from me to L.J. and back again. "This one?" He looked like a little kid suddenly, and I could hear the unspoken, "Please, please."
L.J. nodded and started to dicker. Mavis drove a hard bargain, standing firm at an exorbitant price until we agreed to it, then abruptly halving it "for that poor child." I wrote out the check while Alex stroked the little dog whose melodramatic sighs when he paused made us all smile.
Alex had gone gray again by the time we made our good-byes and got our new charge and his accouterments out to the car. I took over the pup and let Alex crash out in the back seat. He—the pup, not Alex—looked a bit apprehensive when put in my custody, but a few minutes in the smooth-moving Buick lulled him to sleep.
He snored.
It wasn't a little puppy snore, either. It was, rather, a 250-pound beer-drinker-with-adenoids kind of snore.
I glanced from the dog in my lap to my grinning brother. "I'd forgotten about the snoring," I said. L.J.'s grin widened. "He's gonna fart, too, isn't he?"
L.J. snickered, nodding. "It's all related to a soft-palate problem the breed has."
"I remember Pugsley's problem," I said, placing my index finger over one tiny nostril. The snores changed pitch until he snorted awake, grumbled and resettled.
"Yeah," L.J. agreed. "Chance had the same problem."
I vaguely remembered the dog Little had as a kid. It was a scrappy little Boston, smaller than Pug had been, mostly white with big, black spots. It had looked like a round die.
"Did all of us have one of these?" I refrained from blocking his nose and used my finger to stroke his head instead.
L.J. shook his head. "Just you and me, Bro. Guess Day was the only mom who'd put up with them."
"What'll happen when Frankie adopts Tanya? Will the dog stay with the folks?"
Another head shake. "Frankie says it's okay. With her brood, who'll even notice another farting, snoring critter?"
"Good point." We lapsed into a comfortable silence, accompanied by the dog's cacaphic snores and Alex's softer exhalations.
Nina was home when we got back to L.J.'s. "He's adorable!" she said, taking the sleepy pup from me. She deposited him onto the lawn where he yawned, stretched and peed. He sat then and looked forlorn, a tiny dog in the middle of a huge expanse of grass. "Pobricito," she cooed, scooping him up and cuddling him. He threw his head back dramatically, as if in a swoon, giving her access to his throat and chin, which she obediently stroked. His tongue stuck out about half an inch.
Alex didn't stir, even when I dug the sack of puppy food out from under his feet and pulled loose the old towel Mavis had given us with the dam's scent on it.
I gave everything to L.J., who was going to keep the pup under wraps until the gift exchange. His resigned look at Nina's mothering made me think that Mavis would soon be getting another visit from Skinners.
Alex grumbled when I woke him up back at The Mesa. "Can't you keep driving?" he asked sleepily. "This car's great for sleeping."
"So's the bed," I told him, herding him inside and into the bedroom where I helped him undress.
"Get naked with me," he said stretching out and taking himself in hand.
I couldn't think of a better way to spend a January afternoon, so I hurried to comply, tossing my clothes in the general direction of Mom's rocker.
He looked like a feast and made me hungry. So I indulged myself, licking him in broad laps from his groin to his nipples, taking my inspiration from the bitch, Lil, and marking him with my spit. I licked him until he was hard and writhing, then licked some more. He spread his legs to give me more access, but I ignored his cock and ass, concentrating more on the insides of his thighs, licking at the backs of his knees until he began to curse, keeping it up until he lapsed into Russian.
His hooded eyes brightened when I sat up and reached for the lube, then widened when I began to grease up not my cock, but his. I couldn't help but grin at his expression when I squatted over him and made a show of prepping myself.
"Christ," we said in unison, but for altogether different reasons, when I impaled myself on him. I didn't do this often, and while Alex wasn't as big as me, he wasn't what anyone in their right mind would call petite either.
My thighs trembled, and I wished I'd spent more time seriously opening myself up and less time showing off. It took days to get his entire cock up inside me. When he was finally planted, we both froze from the overwhelming sensation.
God! He was big and he burned and the way his eyes rolled up sent such a wave of lust through me that I thought I might come just from the sight.
He arched under me, sending his cock even deeper inside. I shifted, just a bit, and he brushed across my prostate.
"Yes," we hissed, again in unison.
"So tight," he prayed.
"So good," I answered.
I fucked myself then, slowly, not letting him strain, taking no chance of him hurting himself.
It was the most controlled I'd ever been during the act of sex and, at the same time, the most selfish. Every stroke was like a little orgasm, each rake against my prostate a tiny piece of heaven.
He wanted it faster, and harder, but I kept it slow. He cursed me again right before he took me in hand and made me come. I clenched around him, and he screamed, shooting deep inside.
"Oh, shit." I'd forgotten to put a condom on him.
"You did me bareback," he rasped, coming to the realization at the same time I did. "I'm clean...I haven't...you...only you..."
"Me, too," I managed, letting him slip out of me and collapsing at his side.
As we lay panting, I felt the melancholy of earlier settle over me. Being fucked tended to make me emotional, which is the main reason I didn't often do it. I thought I might cry, thinking of years to come when this wouldn't be part of my life. I turned my face away, hiding in the bedding.
A long time passed, it seemed. Normally, we cuddled, but I couldn't seem to make myself turn back to him.
"Walter?" I felt myself tense when he touched me. I used to do that to Sharon, too. It drove her crazy. I stifled a sigh and made myself relax.
"How many did you kill to free me from the nanos?" I asked, still not looking at him.
"It's not important." He took his hand away.
"Human life's not important?" I couldn't seem to stop the words. I didn't want to say this, didn't really want to know, but the melancholy had a life of its own and wanted to make sure it'd stay entrenched within me for a long while. And it seemed to want to take others along for the ride.
"Not theirs." His voice was cold, dead.
The tears spilled over then, somehow freeing me. Funny how I hadn't cried since before Viet Nam, not even when my wife left me, not even when she almost died because of me. But this man whom I'd hated, should still hate, could make me cry merely by the tone of his voice.
I rolled over to him, grabbed his tense body and pulled him close. "God," I said roughly into his neck, "what you've become. What we've made you become." He tried to pull away, but I tightened my hold. "My poor love," I murmured into his neck, "my poor, poor love." I sniffed loudly.
When he squirmed to move away again, I let him. He rolled over to face me, eyes big, brow furrowed. "You called me 'your love'," he whispered.
I don't remember when I started thinking of him in that term, but I know I'd never called him that before. We didn't do affectionate little nicknames. Neither of us were that kind of person.
I had to clear my throat. "Yeah," I conceded, "I did."
"Oh, God."
"Yeah."
We touched foreheads then, staying in that position until we heard a car in the drive. I got up and pulled clothes on, tossing Alex his pants as I went out to greet whichever member of my family was here now.
I was both relieved and peeved when Ben walked into the kitchen. "Heard my patient had an active day," he said by way of greeting, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a beer. "Thought I'd stop by and make sure he's okay."
Alex walked into the kitchen just then. "Walter made me strain," he said petulantly. His eyes twinkled.
Ben raised his eyebrows while I sputtered. When Alex was well, I really was going to hurt him. "I did not make him strain!" I glared at Alex, then smirked. "I made him scream," I told Ben with dignity, "but I didn't make him strain."
I took great satisfaction in my brother's deep flush. We'd flustered the doctor. Teach him not to call first.
Despite his embarrassment, Ben did his doctor bit while Alex continued on a non-stop innuendo roll. He was starting to make me blush when I suddenly knew why he was being such a brat.
Fear.
I tended to dread Mom's family extravaganzas, mostly because I was an unsociable, surly s.o.b. I could only imagine Alex's apprehension. It was bad enough being the prodigal. Here's Alex, the prodigal's mysterious gay lover. He'd been a good sport about all the casual stoppings-by from siblings and spouses, but I hadn't thought about what an entire day spent with them all would feel like for him.
"Did we overdo it today?" I asked suddenly. "Maybe going over to Mom's tomorrow isn't such a good idea."
Ben snorted. "You'd prefer to have everyone come here, Wally?"
I felt a whimper bubbling up in my throat.
"I have to go," said Alex, suddenly serious. "I promised Tanya I'd sit by her. And we have to give her the puppy."
Ben didn't seem a bit fazed by this bit of pre-adolescent bonding coming out of the mouth of a 30-something thug. I picked his beer up from the counter and drank it down. "I'm going to get called 'Wally' all the damned day."
The two identical smirks made that statement a "gimme."
Dr. Ben pronounced Alex fit enough to beard the Skinner clan, stating that Mom had my room ready for him to rest in and that Tanya had instructions to bully him into using it. I had to smile at the image that invoked. I wondered if she'd call him "silly boy" again. Ben took another beer from the fridge, popped it open and took a large swallow.
"Get good rest tonight," he told Alex. He closed his bag, shrugged into his coat and bent his head, indicating that I should follow.
I opened the SUV's door for him, so he didn't have to juggle beer can and bag. He tossed his bag inside and took a swig.
"He's changed you," Ben said and handed me the can. It was less than half-empty.
"You complaining?" I swallowed beer. He shook his head when I offered him his can.
"It's almost like I've got my brother back, the one who died in Viet Nam." He gave me a gentle cuff on the side of my head. I was stunned.
"You were a funny kid, Walt. Intense, but funny. It's good to see a little of that playfulness again. Just..." He stepped into the truck and pulled the seat belt around him. "Be careful."
I had to clear my throat. "We're careful," I said, determinedly not thinking about our recent bout of unprotected sex. "We use condoms, and we're monogamous."
Ben smiled fondly at me. "That's good to hear, Walt, but it's not what I'm talking about." He paused, and I could see him thinking. "That's a dangerous man in there," he said finally.
I nodded, though I wondered what in Alex's wounded, vulnerable state gave Ben that impression. "That's true. But then, Benjy, so am I." He cuffed me again. I grinned at him before closing his door, then watched him drive off.
My brother had missed me. The weight of wasted years settled over me, making me again sad. Melancholia, it used to be called. I stood a long time in the afternoon shadows letting the peace of The Mesa settled over me, willing it to lift my spirit.
Minutes passed. Unmoved, I gave up with a final wordless prayer before going inside to my dangerous lover.
The night progressed quietly, each of us busy with our own silent thoughts. We held each other tenderly, chastely, and pretended that we both believed in happily-ever-after.
We arrived at the main house early, giving us—I thought—a psychological edge. Alex teased me, saying it was as if I was planning a board meeting.
"If that were so," I said, "we'd be the last ones to arrive. Asserting our power by making everyone else wait. In this instance, we're announcing our place in the family by being here before anyone else."
He rolled his eyes at me.
Tanya was thrilled. She took Alex to his spot on the couch, pushed a hassock close so he could put his feet up, and brought him spiced tea and a bowl of Chex mix that she'd help make. Then she hauled him up to show him her room and give him a tour of the house. The last I saw of them, she was pointing out the ornaments on the tree that she had made.
It was a real tree, of course. Nothing like the perfect, though artificial, Scotch pine that Sharon had left with me, the one Alex had insisted we put up last year. This one listed slightly north, and I'd give odds that the side against the wall was flat or branchless.
Mom put me to work, the major disadvantage to showing up before the allotted time. I'd forgotten about that. I split kindling and stacked wood, swept both porches, replaced lightbulbs in the multi-colored strings outlining the house and peeled potatoes. Lots of potatoes.
"Isn't this a job you usually give to one of the kids?" I asked Mom after she brought out the second ten-pound bag.
"You're a kid," was her explanation, "you're my kid." Dad was nowhere around.
I'd just finished the third bag when I heard a commotion at the back door. My brother-in-law, Jocko, nudged his way through the kitchen door, shoulder first, arms full of brightly wrapped packages. He spotted me at the sink, grinned and yelled over his shoulder, "Coast is clear. I told you we wouldn't be too early."
A gaggle of giggling children flowed through the doorway behind him followed by my middle sister, Frankie. She was truly a middle child, being about 10 years younger than me, and 10 years older than L.J.
Besides being classically middle, my sister Francis was a classic underachiever. She'd always tested in the highest percentile but barely passed her classes from year to year. She had tattoos in places I didn't even want to think about and started piercing body parts a full decade before it became chic. She carried all of her weight in her chest, giving the impression of obesity when, in fact, she has the hips of a boy.
Frankie married a rich wasp, a James Spader lookalike with a trust fund the size of Texas and a liberal bent that made his parents twitch. I'd met them once or twice at weddings and such, and they seemed shell-shocked.
Jocko played stockbroker—quite successfully—while Frankie did Donna Reed: room mother, field trip chaperone and craftswoman extraordinaire. In her spare time, she nursed at Ben's clinic. We'd all expected her to become a doctor.
She, however, was ecstatically happy with her life, and her kids reflected that. They were opinionated and self-confident, ranging in age from 6 to 15. Her twins—one of each—were 8.
I dried my hands and prepared to be Uncle. A skinny Skinner clone bounced up to me, crying, "Uncle Walter! Uncle Walter!"
"Jackie!" I said with great enthusiasm holding out my hand for shaking. The boy skidded to a halt, his face on the border between hurt and shock.
"Uncle! I'm not Jackie, I'm Charlie!"
"That can't be true," I said taking off my glasses and making of show of cleaning them. "Charlie's a little boy. You can't be Charlie!"
I thought his face would split with the grin he gave me. I opened my arms, and he flew into them. "And this devastating creature must be Edie." I moved Charlie into one arm, opening the other for the twin coming up behind him, a shaggy-haired doppelganger wearing pink jeans and tiny butterfly earrings.
"Hi, Uncle."
"Like your earrings," I told her.
She dimpled. "You gave them to me last year."
I squinted at her ears. "So I did."
"So, what'd you get me this year?"
"Edie." A warning from big brother.
"Hey, Jackie." My sister's first born had his father's wasp good looks with an unfortunate Skinner nose. Made him look like an Ivy League boxer.
"Uncle Walter," he greeted me with all the dignity of a 15-year-old determined to be grown.
"You driving yet?"
That made him grin. "Got my permit."
I grinned back. "Got the Buick."
His grinned widened and he nodded. A pact was made.
"Thank God," his father said, coming back into the kitchen empty handed. "My doctor won't let me give him anymore lessons."
"Ben's a wise man," I said, shaking his hand.
That was the day. Kids and more kids. I reconnected with people I discovered I really liked.
Dad returned with baby sister Milagra shortly before Mom's feast hit the table. Like a whirlwind, Millie stirred things up wherever she went. She spied me getting ready to sit down on the couch and launched herself at me from half a room away. I caught her and found 85 pounds of redhead hanging from my neck, legs wrapped around my waist.
"Thank you thank you thank you," she cried between kisses—on my face, my head, even the end of my nose.
"You're welcome," I replied. "What'd I do?"
"Got me into the Air Force Academy, twit! All those letters of recommendation! Two Senators, a Congresswoman and the Director of the FBI."
"The Congresswoman was mine," Butch broke in on his way through the living room, arms full of packages.
"No doubt," I said mildly. I heard snickers from the kitchen, then an "ow." Mom's wooden spoon, I'd imagine. I deposited Millie on the couch next to Tanya. "Have you met Millie?" I asked the little girl, who was staring wide-eyed and nearly sitting on my lover's lap.
"Hi, sweetums," Millie said, wrinkling her nose. Tanya wrinkled back and relaxed slightly.
"And this is Alex."
"Yum," was her reply. Alex grinned. It was difficult not to love Millie. She expected total acceptance and was rarely disappointed. She bounded off after a minute, so much energy packed into that tiny body that she was impossible to settle.
Alex spent much of the day surrounded by kids. Tanya wouldn't leave his side, and Charlie rarely left hers. They protected him from any rude or confrontational comments such as L.J.'s of a few days before.
I had to smile. They read to him and drew pictures for him and fed him. Tanya seemed to gather courage and confidence just from his presence. It took all of my mother's negotiating skill to convince her to sit between Charlie and Edie at the kid's table.
Dinner was Mom's typical organized chaos. She fed us turkey and ham, spicy-sweet ribs, mounds of potatoes mashed with butter and cream, yams, cheesy grits and sweat-popping chili. The conversation was lively and raucous. Dad was atypically civil, not going out of his way to piss me off.
The kids' table was almost as loud. The occasional shriek was quickly silenced by one of those looks from Mom or Frankie. Lucia's kids, like Ben's, were old enough to be sitting with us grownups, so she blithely ignored all but the most egregious noises.
Alex caught on first that Edie's loud teasing and Charlie's louder protest were something other than kid's play.
"She farted! She farted! She farted!" Edie chanted nastily, as only a little girl can.
"Stop it! Leave her alone!" Charlie's yells were punctuated by a screech of pain. I turned around in time to see Charlie with a fist full of his sister's hair.
"You hurt me!" Outrage from Edie.
"You're mean!" Both answer and excuse.
Mom and Frankie were up and intervening before the rest of us could even figure out what was going on. Except for Alex.
Tanya stood away from the table, big-eyed and ashen, her face a study in terror. Alex was up and kneeling down in front of her before I could even turn to him.
"She farted," Edie was saying, petulant now.
"Edie was mean," came Charlie's comeback.
"Yes, she was," my sister agreed. "But that is no excuse for your behavior, young man."
"But—"
"But nothing. You know the rules. How dare you raise your hand against your sister."
"I didn't hit her! I wouldn't do that."
"So you don't consider hair-pulling to be an act of violence?"
"I...She...Edie was being mean!"
"Yes," said Frankie.
"To Tanya." This was whispered.
"I understand, Charlie. That doesn't excuse your behavior. You both need to leave the table now."
"But we haven't had any pie!"
"Edie, no dessert is the least of your worries right now," said her
mother
"Gramma?"
"You don't want me involved in this," Mom said in that voice, the one that still made my balls crawl for cover. It seemed to have the same effect on the twins. They both deflated.
They walked away dejected. Edie stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "I am sorry, Tawny," she said sadly. "I was just..."
I thought she was going to say "teasing."
"Jealous," she finished.
It was such an adult thing to say. She turned away, shoulders hunched. I glanced over at her mother. "Who knew?" Frankie mouthed. I smiled and turned my attention to Alex.
He was murmuring comforting sounds to the little girl. She mouthed "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...it was an accident...I'm sorry...please...I'm sorry" over and over, while Alex repeated her name.
"Tanya, Tanya," his voice got sharper, "listen to me!"
I didn't think it was possible, but her eyes got even bigger and filled with such a look of despair it broke my heart. A whimper escaped her throat. She must have thought Alex had turned on her.
"Tanya, listen to me!" he said, still sharp. Then he gentled, "You're not going to be punished. You've done nothing to be punished for. No one's mad at you. Do you hear me, baby? No one's going to hurt you."
"Why in the world does she think she's going to be punished?" Mom asked, rising from the table. "She's not responsible for Edie and Charlie's bad manners."
"Because," Tanya whispered, looking from Alex to Mom and back, "because I...it was an accident...I'm sorry...I didn't mean..."
Not much shocks my mother. This did. "You truly think we'll punish you for passing gas?"
"It's what she's used to," Alex said. He held Tanya's hand, stroking her wrist with his thumb.
"Oh good Lord," said Lucia, joining in from the table. "If we punished people for farting, we'd have to shoot all the men and half the dogs."
"Hey!" said Abel, "I resemble that remark."
"You most certainly do," replied his wife. The laughter from the table seemed to reassure the child. She looked from Alex to Mom and back, even glancing up at me once or twice. I tried to look comforting.
"For reallies?" she whispered finally.
"For reallies," said Alex, smiling.
"Yes," said Mom, holding her hand out.
Tanya reached out to take it, and the touch set her off. She sobbed. Great, gulping sobs that seemed to come up from the bottoms of her feet. Mom gathered her up, lifting the girl into her arms, holding tight and cooing nonsense comfort sounds. She took her into the living room, sitting them down in a big overstuffed chair, and let her cry.
"I'll bet she's never cried like that in her life," Alex said, rising. "She
believes now, I think. That she's really safe."
"It's about damn time," Butch said. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes.
"Well," said Lucia rising and starting to clear dishes, "that storm's going to be draining. I think a little break is called for before we do dessert and open gifts. Alex, you've gone gray. Wally, get him off his feet."
Alex opened his mouth to protest. "Don't bother," I told him. "She's
channelling Mom."
He nodded, smiling over his shoulder at Lucia. "I could stand to close my eyes," he admitted.
I took him into my old room which—thank God—had not been saved as an icon to my teenage years and settled him in what was now a charming spare bed. He writhed a bit, as if getting comfortable, spreading his legs and striking a seductive pose. "Don't even start," I said sternly.
"Chicken." He licked his lips.
"You know, I'm keeping track, and when you're well, you will be punished."
"Hmmm. Can't wait." He batted his eyes.
I glared at him, which got me a grin. He blew me a kiss, then rolled over, showing me his backside. Which he wiggled.
"Behave." I meant it to be stern. My voice came out husky instead. I could feel his grin. "Brat," I said, leaving while I was still able.
Tanya was asleep in my mother's arms. "Can I get you something?" I asked her.
"Got it covered, boy," Butch said, coming in with a cup of coffee that he placed at her elbow. He brushed her cheek with his thumb in a rare tender gesture. "You remember how to play cribbage?"
"Been practicing," I replied, and the challenge was on. Dad won the first two games—barely—and I took the next two. Millie came over before we could start the tiebreaker and insisted on a three-handed set. She skunked us both. Butch left it to me to put her in her place, and she beat me two more times before I managed to peg out first.
Another minor crisis kept me from more humiliation when Edie came stomping in, tearful and angry. "It's not fair!" we heard her cry to her mother. "It's just not fair that Charlie gets to be the boy!"
"Oh, good Lord," said my mother softly, trying not to wake Tanya. "What's going on out there?"
"Looks like a pissing contest," said Millie, grinning at the window.
"Those boys. Where's Butch? Why isn't he putting a stop to this?"
"Probably because he's winning," I told her, looking over Millie's head at a line of males of various ages and sizes standing side by side urinating on Mom's currently barren vegetable garden.
She made a sound that was half distress, half laughter. "Oh, good Lord," she said again.
Edie came flying in wailing "Gramma!" and launching herself at my mother and jarring Tanya awake. The sleepy little girl looked around, blinking. Her eyes were swollen almost shut. She frowned at her sobbing classmate, then patted her in a comforting manner, looking confused.
Millie rescued Mom by hauling Edie up saying, "Come on, Sweets. Let's go do girl stuff. Charlie'll be so jealous."
"Really?" asked a tearful Edie.
"Yup. How 'bout you, Snookums?" She chucked Tanya under the chin. "Want to come get be-oo-tiful? Make all the guys want to be your boyfriend?"
Tanya shook her head. "I don't want boys to look at me," she whispered.
"Well, then, how about I make you so ugly-scary they'll all run away screaming?" Millie asked without missing a beat.
"You can do that?"
"Honey, I'm a Skinner. I can do anything!" She took off for the bathroom, a little girl holding each hand.
"Thank goodness," Mom said, rising stiffly. "My legs were going asleep."
Alex wandered out, sans left arm, blinking and looking about as confused as Tanya had looked. "What's the excitement?"
"The boys were having a pissing contest, and Edie took umbrage about not being able to participate," Lucia said, coming up to Alex, feeling for fever. "How's the pain?"
"I can stand it," he said, looking over at me.
"I'm sure you can stand just about anything, Alex," she said cuffing him gently. "But there's no need. Go sit down—" she turned him toward the couch—"and I'll get you something."
He opened his mouth then closed it, obviously having second thoughts, waggled his eyebrows at me, crossed the living room and plopped on the couch. The innocent look he put on his face made Lucia click her tongue and shake her head. When she returned with his meds, most of the rest of the clan followed her in. Butch looked slightly chastised and made quite of show of helping in the kitchen.
Soon, everyone was settled in the livingroom. Millie returned with her creations—Edie tarted up with garish blue eyeshadow and orange lipstick and Tanya looking like a Goth munchkin with black lipstick and frown lines drawn in with dark pencil. Her normally modest braids were loosed and frizzed out. I gave a high shriek when I saw her and covered my eyes, making her giggle. When I dared look again, Edie was standing in front of me.
"Marry me," I said in a moony voice.
"Oh, Uncle!" she beamed and flounced off.
I looked up at my redheaded sister. "Whatever possessed you to buy that color of lipstick?" I asked her.
She grinned and shrugged. "It looked good in the drugstore," was her explanation.
I scooted down to the floor so Tanya could sit by Alex. Dad and the girls began handing out desserts, and I took a berry cobbler, one of my favorites.
"You look appalling," I heard Alex tell the little girl snuggled next to him.
"Thank you," she replied. Her tear-swollen eyes only added to Millie's grisly work.
My lover and his new best friend shared a piece of peach pie and a large bowl of vanilla ice cream. Every so often, Alex would bend down and spoon a bite of one or the other into my mouth. The little girl at my back kept it from being overtly erotic. I hope.
Butch planted himself on a hassock in front of the tree, the better to play Santa, and started to hand out presents. I always tried to make the presents I sent home personal and appropriate, to make up for my familial reticence. Mom helped by keeping me up to date on who was into what, whether it was Harry
Potter or Pokemon.
Jackie looked up from the emergency road kit that I'd topped with a pair of fuzzy dice. "Do you know something I don't, Uncle?" he asked with a grin.
I shrugged, keeping my face noncommittal and not looking at either of his parents. His grin widened. "Far out," he mocked us, obviously very pleased.
While my gifts were appropriate and practical, Millie's were off-the-wall fun. Jocko actually groaned when Jackie opened his do-it-yourself henna tattoo kit.
I received ties and hand-made ornaments, a fancy picture frame made of polymer clay filled with a family portrait, a hand-made book of risquÈ poems (this from Millie) and a quilt made from t-shirts of mine that I recognized going back to elementary school. Mom hadn't made a shrine of my room; she'd made a shrine of my clothes. I was very moved.
Alex and Tanya inspected it as of it was something alien, as if neither of them could fathom the breed of parent who would do this. Mom interrupted the guided tour of my childhood by handing Alex a package of his own. He looked up at her with a slightly puzzled smile. His face, as he unwrapped it, was a study in amazement.
He paled, and I thought he might swoon. "This...this is what you were making...when I was so sick...I saw you..."
"Yes, Alex," Mom said, gently amused. "I started it when Butch brought you to the Mesa. I had this yarn, and it seemed to match your eyes."
"Then you made it... for...me?" There was a note of hope behind skepticism, and wonder.
"Yes, Alex, I started it when you first came here and made it for you." Mom sounded as if she were encouraging a particularly slow child at some elementary task.
He pulled the afghan out of its wrapping. It was loosely woven of different shades of blues and greens, and it did match his eyes. "I..." his mouth moved, but nothing came out. Tanya poked him until he pulled his eyes away from the afghan and looked at her.
"Say thank you," she whispered.
"Thank you," he said, looking at Mom with shining eyes.
"You're very welcome, Alex," she smiled.
I had twisted around to watch him, squeezing his nearest leg. His eyes were enormous and his mouth still moved soundlessly. Tanya kept patting him, like she'd patted Edie earlier. "He likes it," she told me.
"So I see," I told her.
"Well," Butch announced from his Santa spot, "I think that's it."
"I don't think so, Dad." It was my turn to poke Alex. "Present," I mouthed when he looked at me.
"No, wait," he said, clearing his throat. "There's one more."
L.J. came in from the garage just then with a small pet carrier. He knelt down in front of Tanya.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Open it," I urged, "and find out."
She glanced up at Alex. He smiled and nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. I took control of the quilt and afghan, folding them both safely out of the way.
L.J. unlatched the small door and flipped it open. Tanya carefully peered in. "What is it?" she asked, voice awed.
"What's it look like?" L.J. replied.
"It looks like a puppy."
"That's good, 'cause that's what it is."
The little dog poked his head out of the carrier, looking big-eyed and scared.
"Oh, he's sweet," she cooed, reaching for him.
There's something magical about a puppy with a kid. The one seems to recognize the youth in the other, the sameness. That sad little Spooky pup got into Tanya's hands and turned into a wriggling dervish, excited as if she were his long lost best friend. He wriggled and licked, and she giggled.
I wondered when she'd last laughed like that.
"He's so cute!" she said when he settled down, content to snuggle against her neck and lick her ears. "What's his name?"
"He doesn't have one," Alex told her. "You need to name him."
"Me?"
"He's your puppy."
Her mouth formed a perfect O. She looked from Alex to Mom to Frankie. They all smiled and nodded at her.
"Merry Christmas, Sweetheart."
"His breeders called him 'Spooky'," I said, trying to be helpful. That seemed to snap her out of her shock.
"That's a mean name," she frowned at me, snuggling the puppy tighter.
I met Alex's eyes. "So it is," I agreed.
She'd attracted a crowd of kids, Charlie and Edie at the forefront. They all stood quietly, the twins both with their hands clasped firmly behind them.
"Name him, Tawny," Edie urged.
"Can I call him 'Alex'?" she asked Alex.
"I'm flattered, but won't that be confusing? Just imagine calling, 'Alex, Alex!' and we both come running."
"Oh, okay." She looked disappointed, and sad.
"When I was very little, my grandmother called me 'Sasha'. It's a kind of nickname for 'Alex'."
She brightened. "I can call him that?"
"If you want. You can call him Spot or Spike or Henry or Killer or Bowser or..."
"You're silly," she told him softly. "Hey," she chucked the puppy under his chin, "what do you think of 'Sasha'?"
The puppy wriggled at the new attention.
"He likes it," Charlie announced, giving up his battle and reaching out to touch the pup. "So do I."
"Me, too," Edie echoed, also reaching out for the pup.
That started a flood of kids all reaching out toward the puppy. They were careful—they all had dogs of their own—but still their excitement reached him, starting him to run hell bent along the couch. He hit the arm only to careen off it back toward Tanya, bounce off her thigh, making her shriek. Back and forth he ran, faster and faster, ears streaming behind him, until he collapsed panting across her lap.
She stroked him, broad smile plastered on her face.
That somehow signaled the end of the evening. L.J. stayed by Tanya, giving her puppy-care instructions while the rest of the crew played cleanup, gathering presents and kids and the dregs of covered dishes.
I twisted so I could watch Alex watch Tanya listen to L.J. The object under discussion seemed to have exhausted himself. The pup yawned wide, his bright pink tongue extending out an impossible length.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Jocko, walking past with a load of presents, "How the hell does he keep something that long in his mouth without gagging on it?"
"Practice," Alex replied.
Jocko froze. No one said anything, and I could feel my ears burn. Then someone snickered and that started a roomful of guffaws and belly laughs. Jocko laughed so hard he had to set down his load of presents. Even I had a hard time stifling my chuckles.
L.J. stopped his pup-care lecture and turned away from the little girl, shoulders shaking.
Tanya looked from him to Alex to me, around at the other guffawing men, then frowned back at my begging-for-a-beating lover.
"Alex?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Are you being naughty?"
"Yes, I believe I am."
"Then you'd better stop it."
"Yes, dear." He put his arm around her and she snuggled into his side, cuddling the sleepy pup. L.J. gave up trying to stifle his laughter, held his sides and let loose with a roar.
I heard Dad snort right before I was smacked on the head. He shook his head, grinning at Alex as he walked past. "Always said he took after his old man," I heard him say from the kitchen.
Alex gave me an angelic smile when I glared at him. I sighed, which made L.J. laugh even harder.
"Can you make him behave?" I heard myself asking Tanya.
"I don't think so," she replied seriously, tilting her head back to look up at him. "He's awfully silly sometimes."
"Yes, he is," I agreed solemnly.
Alex wrinkled his nose at us both.
The family took off soon after leaving just us, the folks, Millie and Tanya. Mom hustled the girl and her puppy into bed and kennel while I herded Alex off to my old room. He fell asleep immediately with no teasing or seduction attempts.
I didn't feel sleepy, so after making sure Alex was down for the count, I went to see what still needed cleaning up. Mom and Millie had the kitchen sparkling, and Dad was hauling out the last of the trash. I took the armful of boxes from him and deposited them outside.
When I came back in, Dad had broken out his under-the-kitchen-sink bottle. It was mellow Tennessee sippin' whiskey, and he poured fingers for us all. Millie plunked ice cubes into hers and Mom's, causing Dad to snort.
"This was a good day," Mom said as we sat around the kitchen table and sipped. I had to agree. No fights. No bad feelings. Just fellowship and fun.
"My last hurrah," Millie said, toasting us.
"Cold feet?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Free-floating insecurities. Can I measure up? Do I have 'the right stuff'? You know, basic anxiety."
"You'll do fine, girl," Dad said. "You're a Skinner."
"That means you're smart, you're tough, you're fit and you've got more integrity than any one person has a right to," Mom added.
"And that means you'll be able to handle whatever's thrown at you," I put in my two-cents worth.
Millie smiled her thanks at us. I tried to picture her elven features in an Air Force uniform but couldn't. I shook my head at her, drained the bourbon and stood to say 'good night'. "Dad's right. You'll do fine."
I kissed her and Mom, and punched Dad lightly on the arm.
"Watch it, boy," he growled.
I grinned, feeling truly at home. Alex was a bad influence.
He'd moved from the spot he'd fallen asleep in and lay in his patented Alex-defensive-sleep posture, precariously balanced on the far edge of the bed. I slid in, naked, to that side where I could hold him, easing him back toward the center of the bed. He turned toward me without waking, snuggling close.
I breathed in deeply, smelling a complex scent of pure Alex topped with home cooking and Skinner kids. He smelled like family. Like home. I closed my eyes smelling him. Fell asleep smelling him.
I woke up with a shout, sunlight stabbing at my eyes and pleasure bursting from my body. I lay gasping, my heart pounding. I heard Tanya's puppy frantically barking down the hall, and then Alex's grinning face appeared from under the covers. He scooted up my body to kiss me, tasting of Alex, morning breath and come.
He was gone before I could respond, jumping up and announcing, "I'm gonna take a shower."
I could only lay there, stunned. He'd sucked me awake (in my mother's house!), made me holler and then breezed out, leaving me blinking stupidly. The dog had stopped barking and I began to hear other morning sounds. We'd awakened the household.
I thought about hiding in the bedroom all day.
Eventually, I gathered my courage and dressed, wiping off as best I could the come on my thighs. Alex hadn't just serviced me; he'd gotten himself off as well.
I needed a shower.
I pulled on sweats since Alex had snagged my robe, took a deep breath and prepared to face the world. Alex was in the guest bath and I could hear Millie singing in the main bathroom. I stood undecided in the hallway when Tanya came out of her room looking sullen. She frowned at me.
"Good morning?" I didn't mean it to come out as a question.
"You woke up my puppy," she said. Her frown deepened into a scowl. "And I got in trouble."
"Ah." I understood immediately. "Mom busted you with the dog in bed, huh?"
She ducked her head and nodded. "He was crying," she mumbled.
I could feel my head nodding. "Yeah, and he looked really, really sad, too."
She looked up at me and nodded eagerly. "Yes! You know how it was, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. I got busted a couple of times, too." More than a couple. "But you want to know a secret?"
Her eyes got wide, and she nodded very seriously.
I lowered my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Mama got busted once, too."
"She did?"
I nodded. "Yeah. And L.J. got pictures."
"He did?"
"Uh huh. Ask Butch to show them to you sometime. But whatever you do, don't tell Mama. She's kinda sensitive, you know?"
Tanya grinned at me. I'd been forgiven.
Butch exited the folk's room just then, arched an eyebrow at me and smirked.
I glowered back. "I need a shower."
The smirk deepened and he jerked his head back toward the master suite. "This 'uns empty." Then he put his hand out to Tanya. "Come on, Little Bit. Let's go get that young 'un of yours some breakfast."
I watched them saunter down the hall and felt a stab of jealousy. He'd been such a great dad when I was a little kid. He knew just what was the single most important thing in my life at any given moment.
Maybe he still did.
Showering in my parents' room made me feel naughty, and that made me feel silly. It was a very short shower.
Mom was putting breakfast down when I finally made it into the kitchen. Millie was missing, I was happy to see, so I wasn't the last person to the table. I'd barely gotten my napkin on my lap—glaring at Alex as I did—when Millie breezed in. She tugged Tanya's braid on her way past then planted a kiss on the top of my head.
"You two make a helluv an alarm clock," she grinned at me.
"Thank you," Alex told her politely.
I buried my face in my hands.
"Elbows off the table, Walt," Mom told me, reaching around to put down a mound of scrambled eggs.
"Shoot me now," I entreated my father.
"Oh, hell, boy. You lived through that powder blue tux, and that was in front of the whole school. This here's just family."
I groaned. It was a memory I'd buried. Leave it to Butch to dig it up. Tanya and Millie both looked expectantly at him while Alex raised his eyebrows at me.
"Junior prom," Mom supplied, sitting down with a huge platter of bacon and sausage. I began to salivate even as I felt my arteries clogging. "Walter had his heart set on a powder blue tux with a ruffled shirt. Those were all the rage. But the only one available was a size smaller than he wore."
"Dumb butt wore it anyway," Butch told Tanya while he scraped eggs onto her plate. "Split those polyester pants plum in two, first time he tried to shake his booty."
Tanya giggled, and I heard a noise of laughing dismay from Millie. Alex wore a horrified look. "Yeah, it was that bad," I told him.
"So see, boy. This ain't nothin' but a fart in church."
"Will you shoot me?" I asked Alex.
"Better not," Tanya told him. "He's just being silly."
"He gets that way sometimes," Alex replied.
Millie laughed. "So where's Sasha this morning?" she asked, thankfully changing the subject and letting me eat breakfast in peace.
When we all finished, she and I did dishes while Alex and Tanya rescued the puppy from the backyard. Dad puttered, and Mom supervised, making sure we didn't misplace any of her stuff.
"Someone's coming," Millie announced, looking out the window over the sink. She handed me a rinsed plate to dry.
"Water man," said Butch, opening the kitchen door and going out to the mudroom. "Someone new. It ain't ol' Sandoval." He pushed open the backdoor while a large thin-haired man pulled a two-wheeler out of the back of a white van and loaded it with two blue 5-gallon water bottles.
"Howdy, Mr. Skinner," I heard the man say to my father.
"That you, Daryl?" Butch asked. "Where's Sandy?"
The big man nodded, wheeling the dolly up the walk toward the door. "Knee surgery. I'm just fillin' in while he's laid up. Ya'll have a good holiday?"
"Fine as frog's hair," Butch said, standing aside.
"Miz Skinner," Daryl acknowledged my mother, nodding at Millie and me. While he moved the empties out of the way, I looked toward the living room. Not surprisingly, Alex had moved out of sight.
Sasha came careening into the kitchen just then, barking excitedly, followed by a laughing Tanya. Both youngsters skidded to a stop when they saw the big stranger. Tanya scooped up the pup and clutched him tightly against her chest. Her eyes were huge, her face pale. It would take a long time, I thought, for her to get over her fear of strangers.
Mom immediately went over to her, bending down and making soothing noises.
"Hi, little girl," Daryl said, smiling.
Tanya audibly sucked in air, squeezing the pup tighter, making him squeal. Mom clucked at her, physically loosening her grip on the dog and letting him go. She led the girl out of the kitchen saying, "She's shy," over her shoulder.
"Cute little thing," said Daryl, handing my dad some paperwork.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Millie nudged me, holding out a dripping plate. I was distracted and falling behind, but couldn't help myself from constantly looking through the doorway toward the living room where Mom, Alex and Tanya were.
Dad escorted Daryl out through the mudroom, glancing back at me with a frown. He'd felt it, too, and that worried me. As soon as Daryl was back in his truck, I draped the dishtowel over Millie's shoulder and went in search of Alex and Mom.
My mother was sitting on the couch holding the undamaged puppy and softly crying. In front of her, Alex knelt before Tanya. The child seemed catatonic, frozen and stiff. In years to come, this is how I'd think of him, not naked with his cheeks sucked in around my cock, but kneeling protectively in front of a frightened child.
I sat down on the couch and put my arms around my mother.
"Oh, God, Walter," she sobbed. "There was a monster in here. We let a monster in here. How could this happen? This is a safe place. My children come here. My grandchildren. And we let a monster in. How does this happen?"
"Mama, you don't know. It's not your fault."
I hugged her tight. The little dog in her lap looked sadly worried, but then he always did.
The nonsense words of comfort I thought Alex was murmuring to Tanya started to make sense as I held my mother and listened.
"Baby, listen. You have to talk. You have to say it out loud. If that man hurt you, you have to say it. If it was someone who looked like him, or talked like him, or wore the same kind of uniform, you have to say it. You have to say it out loud. Honey, we need you to help us. We can't do anything unless you say it. We can't stop him without you. Tanya, I'm sorry, but you have to say it. You have to."
Over and over he said the words, but the girl didn't react. She just stared at him, sightless and frozen. I squeezed Mom's arm, rose and stood behind Alex. Tanya didn't notice until I reached around him and began to unbutton his shirt, baring his chest. It'd been days since his bandages allowed him to cover up. Days since Tanya had performed her ritual touching of his scars.
A hand snaked out to touch him and her face lost its blank look, taking on instead a frown of concentration. She touched the scars. Once. Twice. On the third go around she began to speak.
"I had to call him Mr. Morgan," she said so softly that we had to strain to hear her. I glanced up toward the kitchen where Butch stood. He nodded at me, looking murderous. This was my father as I'd never seen him. Morgan was indeed Daryl's last name.
"He took pictures. And told them things. To do to me. While he watched. And took pictures."
"He won't do it again," my father said. "To anyone." His voice was hoarse, and there were tears in his eyes. He started through the living room, heading, I was sure, toward the back bedroom where his gun safe was.
"No!" Mother's shrill yell turned us all towards her, even Tanya. "No, Butch." She bordered on hysteria. "You call Abel. You do it now. Now! We do this right, Butch. No...no...loopholes. No tainted evidence. We do it right, you hear me!" She took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm herself, and gave Tanya a weak smile. Then she looked at me. "Tell him, Walter."
The Assistant Director warred for a moment with Butch Skinner's son. I cleared my throat. "She's right. We need to do this right." I found my hand wrapped in Alex's hair. I loosened my hold, grimacing at him in apology. His eyes sparkled with green hellfire, but I knew it wasn't directed at me.
Tanya had come back to herself, and was buttoning up his shirt. "Don't let Alex fight," she told me. "He'll hurt himself."
Alex rose to face me.
"Alex can take care of himself," I told her before he could voice a protest. "I'll call Abel. Dad, you get the guns. He's going to need a posse," I told Mom.
"If he took pictures, there'll be copies," Alex said. "And a mailing list."
"We'll need a warrant," Mom said. "Butch, I'll get the guns. You get on your cell and call Judge Westphall."
Dad stopped as if poleaxed. "I don't—"
"Now's not the time, Butch! I've known about Rikki Westphall for months. So get on your phone and get the fucking warrant." He opened his mouth, closed it and switched directions, heading for his jacket on the back porch. His face was a mottled red.
I'd never heard my mother say 'fuck' before.
"I've got the Sheriff's," said Millie, handing me the kitchen cordless.
"They're tracking down Abel and trying to find out where Daryl was headed next."
I nodded my thanks and took the phone, tracking her as she made her way past Alex and Tanya. She chucked the girl under the chin and squeezed my lover's arm before disappearing down the hall after Mom.
"Pretty damned credible in my book," I heard Butch say from the kitchen. "She knew his last name." He stayed silent for a time, listening. "Yer a good one, girl," he said with a nod, meeting my eyes. I stifled a sigh. Some things don't change, I thought.
He closed the cell and walked toward me, and I could see his jaw muscles working. He held my gaze, waiting for me to say something. For the first time in my life, I let it go. I didn't approve, of course, but this was something between him and Mom. His silent shrug, as he passed me, was his idea of an apology. It made me sad. I wasn't the one he needed to apologize to.
Abel came on the line just then, scratchy and faded, a bad cell-phone patch job, but I managed to tell him what we thought. His people were already at Daryl's next stop, but the big man never showed. Not there, and not at any of his other scheduled stops.
"He knew the girl would talk," I said. "He couldn't take the chance that she'd stay silent."
He said he'd send a deputy after the warrant and meet us at Daryl's. While I wrote down the information, Abel said, "You tell Butch this ain't no assassination squad. And leave that friend of yours home. He's too close to the girl, to...things. I don't want any killing."
"Dad's loaded for bear," I told my brother-in-law, "but I'll do my damnedest to keep him leashed."
"And Alex?"
"Will be guarding the girls."
I could almost see him nod. That would work. Convincing Alex now...
It was easier than I thought. He smiled ruefully at Abel's concern and reluctantly nodded, agreeing. He brightened when Butch tossed him a sweet little baby Glock from the stash Mom and Millie brought. For the most part, Dad's weapons were utilitarian, shotguns and hunting rifles. I picked up the shotgun Iíd learned to shoot with and wondered if we had time to swing by the Mesa and pick up my service weapon.
Millie voiced a small protest at being left behind, but Dad's "I need you here, girl. I'm countin' on you bein' here. You go, an' I'll have ta stay," made her stand down.
"I'm being manipulated," she frowned at him when he bent to kiss her forehead and hand her a shotgun and box of shells.
"Yup," he agreed, "but it don't make it any less true." He nodded at Alex who was loading the Glock one handed, Tanya standing at his knee.
My love met my eyes and grimaced. I think it was supposed to be a smile. Tanya patted his knee, and I felt his eyes on me until I was out of the house.
Abel and a squad of deputies surrounded the small white bungalow that Daryl Morgan had inherited from his mother. We waited with them until Judge Westphal's clerk showed up with the warrant.
"Her own clerk?" I couldn't help myself from commenting. Dad only shrugged.
"The man is a dog," Abel said into my ear.
With the warrant came the ram, and we entered the home expecting the lair of a monster to reflect the soul who lived therein. It was horrific in its ordinariness. A neat, orderly spare-bedroom-turned-home-office housed hellish images cross-filed by gender, age and—God help us all—subject matter.
Tanya hadn't been the only victim.
"I'm out of my league here," Abel said the second time one of his deputies made a dash out of the office to retch off the front porch.
I agreed. This was more far reaching than we'd first thought. Time to become the Assistant Director once again.
"You have to leave," I told my dad while I dialed the FBI's Child Pornography Task Force. "You're supposed to be recuperating."
"I don't want him running around loose playin' cowboy," Abel said scowling. He looked as if he had a migraine.
"Well, somebody oughta be trackin' down that animal. Ya'll stay here with your thumbs up your butts. I'll be glad to get out in the fresh air."
"Dammit, Butch!
"Dad, go home." I massaged my own temples. "Abel's put out a statewide BOLO for the water van. He'll turn up. He's got no family. We'll freeze his assets. Where's he going to go? He'll stay close to what he knows. Go be with Mom."
The old man glared at me, then nodded tersely and stomped out. Abel watched him, shaking his head. "I hope I don't regret not putting him in custody. Or at least disarming him."
"He's Butch Skinner. You think he can't get other guns?"
"Hey, Boss!" called a deputy from deep in a walk-in closet, distracting Abel from his rabid father-in-law, "We've got videos."
We joined him, moving out partitions that made up a false back to reveal floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with neatly lined up video tapes. Abel stared at me, face stark and drawn.
"Let's wait for the Bureau," I said backing out. I had a sudden need for fresh air, too.
Abel joined me on the front step, cell phone to his ear. There had been no sign of Daryl. I stood when a dark Taurus drove up. The Feds had arrived, and the nightmare continued.
Alex hefted the gun, getting a feel for it. Holding it made him realize he'd missed being armed. There was a lot of his life he'd missed. He shook his head, not wanting to go there quite yet.
Tanya still stood by his knee, watching, face creased with her all-too familiar frown. He smiled at her, trying to be reassuring.
"They'll find him," he told her. "It'll be okay, you'll see."
"I'll have to say it, won't I? What they did."
Alex tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. "Yeah, probably. But you won't be alone. And you're strong."
Tears filled her eyes. "I don't want to," she whispered.
"Well, we won't worry about it now," Day said briskly. She held her hand out to the girl. "Now we're going to take down the tree. It needs doing," she said in reply to Alex's amazed look. "You'd rather sit and worry?"
"Be careful or she'll have you washing woodwork," Millie said, carrying empty red plastic ornament boxes.
The women stripped ornaments off the tree, handing them to the little girl who carefully placed them in cardboard compartments in the plastic boxes. She took her duty seriously, treating each as a treasure beyond price. The puppy kept step with her, his naturally worried countenance mirroring that of the women.
Alex watched bemused, wondering what the ritual would be like without the tense set of Millie's shoulders, without the fear he could smell on Tanya and the anger that rolled off Day in waves.
The second time someone tripped over the dog, they put Alex in charge of him. He kept the pup entertained by dangling a knotted sock in front of him. They all smiled at the ferocious snarls coming out of the tiny dog as he tugged and shook the sock, trying to dislodge it from Alex's grip.
It relaxed them. Day even argued amicably with Millie over whether they should unwire the tree from the small eyebolts keeping it upright and haul it out themselves or wait for "the boys" to come home.
"If we take it out now," Day said, "we can start the outside decorations."
"Don't you want to get the kids over to do that?" Millie asked.
"No!" Day said it so sharply that they all froze and stared at her. "Not until...not until it's over. Not until we're sure."
She didn't have to explain what she meant by "sure." Sure the monsters were gone. Sure her children would be safe.
Alex did have questions about the "outside decorations."
"We take off everything but the popcorn and cranberries, then add pinecones filled with peanut butter rolled in birdseed, baskets of suet and stuff like that."
"For the birds," Day added when Alex still looked confused. She took a deep breath, getting herself back under control. "Then in the spring we chop what's left into mulch for the garden."
So much normalcy. Alex shook his head in amazement.
"What the heck is he doing?" Millie brought their attention to Sasha, who'd made his way off the couch and seemed to be trying to screw himself into the carpet.
"Uh oh," said Tanya. "It's his poop dance. He's gotta go out." She scooped him up just as he screwed himself into a squat. "Outside, Sasha," she said carrying him out through the kitchen and the back door. "You have to go poopy outside."
"Poop dance," Millie laughed. "That's exactly what it looked like, too."
Day shook her head, almost smiling. "That dog is a Godsend, Alex. Thank you."
"It was L.J.'s idea."
"Maybe so, but you're the one who made it happen." He'd never felt so much a part of something as when she patted his cheek, standing beside him while gazing critically at the almost bare tree. "I think we got all the non-edibles, don't you?"
Millie poked through the branches, coming up with two glitter-covered eggs and a plastic Dalmatian puppy from a Happy Meal. "That does it, Mama." She deposited the ornaments in the last open carton, closed it and began to stack them.
"Make more trips," Day admonished when Millie stacked the cartons three high. Millie's rolled eyes made Alex smile.
"I'll help," Alex volunteered, rising.
"Good," said Day. "You kids are welcome to those stairs. I'll go out to the shed and check on our supply of pinecones. I think there's still a basket full left."
Alex grinned at the "kids" comment, winking at Millie while she stacked cartons in his arms. He balanced them on his artificial left arm, holding them steady with his right.
It took them three trips up to the attic. Ornaments and decorations collected for more than 50 years took up space and filled boxes.
"You're getting your strength back," Millie commented on the last trip down.
"It's taken me long enough," Alex replied.
She grinned at him, wrinkling her nose. "Walter helped."
"Oh, yeah," he grinned back. "Big time."
"Big time, huh?" her expression turned evil. "Guess Dad isn't just bragging about Skinner attributes."
He opened his mouth in mock shock. "Day!" he called out as they came back into the living room, "Millie's being naughty!"
"Huh uh!" she sing-songed out gleefully, "Alex just has a dirty mind."
They were playing to an empty room.
"How long does it take to pick up a basket of pine cones?" Millie asked. Her frown echoed Alex's as he looked out the big front window, feeling for the gun tucked in the back of his belt.
"Listen. There's Sasha barking out back," she said. "She must be playing with Tanya and the pup."
He nodded, relaxing slightly.
The dog's barking went up half an octave and sounded frantic. They shared another look. Alex turned pointedly toward the mantel where Millie had put the shotgun. She nodded and was halfway to picking it up when Tanya screamed.
They ran through the kitchen to the back door, Alex's long legs outdistancing Millie by half a room. He threw open the door, hunched low, half expecting a bullet.
What he saw stopped him cold. He barely registered Millie as she skidded to a stop behind him, shotgun at the ready, and gasped, "Oh my God. Mama!"
Day Skinner stood silent over the body of Daryl Morgan, an ax buried deep in his skull.
"Tanya," Alex said sharply to the still screaming child. She stopped abruptly then ran to him, throwing her arms around his legs.
"He was gonna squarsh my puppy," she told his thigh. "He was gonna stomp Sasha and take me away." She looked up at him. "Mama made him stop." She turned to look at the unmoving Day, still holding onto Alex's legs. "Mama did good, didn't she, Alex? Tell her. Tell her she did good."
"Mama?" Millie came down the steps, shotgun held at the ready. She knelt by the body, feeling for a pulse, while keeping her eyes on Day. He was obviously dead, but Alex admired her for checking.
"Mama, what happened?" She rose and touched the woman's arm.
Day looked at her and shuddered. "There was a monster in the yard, Millie. A monster. Here." She shuddered again. "Where my children play." She grabbed Millie's arm and shook her. "The things he was saying...monstrous things...Tanya! Oh, Tanya, baby. What have I done? What have I done?"
The little girl broke away and ran toward Day, stopping by Morgan's body. She looked, shuddered, then kicked him before throwing herself at Day.
"You saved us, Mama. Me 'n' Sasha. Don't worry," she patted the woman, "it'll be okay, won't it, Alex?"
"I'll call Abel," Millie said.
"Wait." They stared at Alex. "I can..." he hesitated, cleared his throat once, looking at Tanya. He couldn't have the law here, not in any kind of official capacity. He couldn't risk the publicity. Walter would have no way of explaining his presence, and the people who thought him dead, the ones who'd tried to kill him, would know he lived. "I can make this go away." He looked up from the girl and met Day's eyes, turned to look at Millie and then back to Day. "If you want." He tried to keep his face neutral.
"What do you mean, Alex?" Millie asked.
"I can make this go away. No one has to know anything ever happened. That he ever came back here." Both women looked shocked at the suggestion. "It's what I do," he added softly.
Day stared at him a long time. "That would be wrong," she whispered.
He nodded, not denying anything. "But there'd be no statements for Tanya to make." He glanced at Millie. "No scandal." Then he met Day's eyes, giving her everything. "And Walter would never have to explain me."
It was a no win situation. Day Skinner would live forever with the sin of murder on her soul, knowing that for her son's sake she could never confess it. And if Alex had his way, Walter would never know why his lover had left.
Day marveled at Alex's efficiency, even as she was horrified by it. The clean up, he said, was rudimentary. Millie found Morgan's van parked just a bit down the road, and drove it back to the house.
"This is wrong," Day whispered, watching Alex and Millie carrying Morgan's body to his van. She had the hose out, washing blood off the grass, leaving Tanya inside to tend the fire where the ax handle was burning.
"This is wrong," she repeated to her son's lover as he inspected Millie for traces of blood.
"Yes," he acknowledged, "but it needs to be done."
She shook her head, not believing.
"This is better." He took her hands and noticed she didn't flinch from the touch of his artificial one. "Tanya won't have to testify. If there are other kids involved, they're off the hook as well."
"But what will you do with him? And how will you get back here? Should Millie follow you? You're still weak, Alex, and—"
"Day, Day," he interrupted her. "Day, I'm not coming back. You and Millie will go back to your lives and never speak of this. Ever. To anyone. Tanya won't talk, and you two mustn't."
"Not coming back?" Millie cried. "Alex, you have to! What about Walter?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw and he gave a little shudder.
"Walt will just think I've reverted to type. He knows I'm a son of a bitch. My leaving was just a matter of time anyway. We've always known that."
"No." A harsh whisper from Day.
"Yes." He kissed her temple. "You have no idea how much you mean to me, what you've done for me. No one has ever been this kind. Or accepting. But it's past time for me to go. There's a war on that few people know about. I need to get back to the front lines. Walter, too."
"What war?" asked Millie. "What are you talking about?"
He twisted around to look at her. "Nothing that you'll ever know about. If we do our jobs right." He turned back and kissed Day again. "Thank you," he said, "for letting me have this time. Tell Walt—" He shook his head and broke away from her.
The back door opened and the puppy came bouncing out.
"Bye, baby," Alex said to the little girl standing there. "Love you."
"Love you, too, Alex."
He squeezed Day's hand before turning abruptly and striding to the water van. He didn't look back.
"What do you mean he's gone?" I was roaring and couldn't make myself stop. Mom had been crying, and Millie wouldn't meet my eyes. Neither would answer my questions. A very bad day had just gotten worse.
Tanya, silent as usual, took me by the hand and led me to the couch, pushing me down on it. Then she climbed into my lap, leaned her head on my chest and patted me. The pup was right beside us, snuggling tight against my thigh.
"He's really gone?" I asked her. I felt her nod against my chest. "What happened?" For some reason I was whispering. I didn't think the child heard me, she was silent for so long.
"Bad stuff," she whispered back suddenly. "But Alex fixed it."
"Fixed what? Tanya, what happened here?"
I felt her shake her head. "He loves us," she told my chest and continued patting me.
I looked for him, of course. Once Butch came home, still full of piss, vinegar and indignation, I took off in the Buick. Alex hadn't been to the Mesa, hadn't been anywhere that I could find. Back home, my mother and sister still wouldn't answer my questions. Even Butch seemed subdued, a welcome change from all his earlier bluster, but troubling just the same.
Exhausted, I fell into bed and didn't sleep. I'd gotten used to another body, another heartbeat. I lay in misery, not knowing what to think or even how to feel. I must've drifted off, finally, because the opening of my bedroom door startled me awake. "Alex!"
"Shhh," came my mother's voice. "I want to tell you a story."
I listened in the dark, and mourned.
I returned to work a hero. Daryl Morgan kept meticulous records, and his mailing lists would keep the FBI's Child Pornography Task Force busy for a long, long time. Like Tanya, the other children involved were all local, giving my brother-in-law an ulcer but assuring his easy re-election for many years to come.
Morgan was never found, although the water van showed up on the outskirts of Nogales, burnt up in a fire so hot the tires melted. The labs would try, but it was doubtful that any useful evidence survived.
Mulder had missed me, and was so happy to have me back that he followed protocol for a good three weeks after my return. Then I had to rescue him from the Canadian military in Manitoba, and life got back to normal.
Six months back in D.C., and Blue Mesa was just a dream.
I stayed close to my family through sheer force of will, consciously fighting my natural tendency toward isolation and silence. It was tough. Each contact was a reminder of Alex, every conversation a stab through my heart.
My father was the hardest to deal with; he was relentless, questioning and cajoling me about Alex, my job, the "war," and my plans for the future.
I had no future plans.
Once again, work was my life: long days, no weekends, endless meetings and soul-sucking paperwork. I'd just finished reaming out Mulder for his creative use of FBI resources when my assistant knocked and opened my office door.
"Sir. This just came by special messenger," she said, handing me an envelope. The return address showed a very old, very prestigious law firm from Austin—my father's attorneys. The envelope contained three documents, an official letter written on heavy linen stationery, a notarized deed and a handwritten note on a torn piece of yellow foolscap.
The earth tilted on its axis, and my life changed. Forever, I hoped.
"Sir?" Scully's voice brought me back to earth, and I became aware that I was grinning. I couldn't seem to stop."Good news?" asked Mulder.
I tossed him the letter. He read it, passed it on to Scully and looked confused.
"This says you're being cut out of your father's will."
"Yeah. I won't be inheriting my one-sixth of a cattle ranch I don't want. I do, however, get this." I waved the deed at them. "It's called 'Blue Mesa.' It's a...family getaway...I guess you'd call it."
The note I folded up and put in my inside pocket. It was in my father's handwriting and said simply, "Best come home and take care of whatís yours."
"Mulder, you want to drive me to the airport?" I picked up the phone without waiting for his answer and instructed Kim to cancel all my meetings for the rest of the week and get me a ticket on the next plane to Austin.
"Will we have time to stop by your place to pick up clothes?" Mulder asked.
I didn't think it was possible to grin any wider, but I managed it.
"I'm not going to need any clothes," I told him.
Scully raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word.
