Chapter warning for Barbara smiling and making nice with someone she believes is an active threat to herself and her son; Strickler's presence makes her seriously uncomfortable
"So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being." - Franz Kafka
The doorbell rang. Barbara felt a cold wave wash over her. Was she really about to do this? Was she really going to allow a man who had conspired to kill her son into her house, and greet him with a smile?
The very thought made her stomach churn, but it was too late to change her mind; the wolf was at the door. She was doing this for Jim, she reminded herself. Stopping the Bridge from being completed was the best way to keep him safe (to keep the whole world safe, but that was a distant concept to wrap her head around, and not something she could connect with emotionally), and in order to stop it, they needed to uncover its location.
The doorbell rang again. Showtime.
She forced a smile onto her face, and opened the door.
Walter looked the same as he had before, a tall drink of water in a turtleneck sweater. For some reason, she thought she'd be able to detect some sign of what he really was, now that she knew what to look for, but there was nothing. His genial smile looked as sincere as it ever had, deepening the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, which remained the brightest green she'd ever seen.
"Hello," (he even managed to sound uncertain convincingly) "I didn't know what variety you liked, so I brought a pinot noir, the 'heartbreak grape.'" He chortled, holding the bottle out to her. For one frozen moment, she did not know how to respond, her heart pounding in her ears – but the moment passed.
"That's fine." She reached out for the bottle and hoped her movements weren't as jerky as they felt. "I hope you like stuffed mushrooms!" Human food was starting to be a bit hit-or-miss with Jim, but any dish with mushrooms in it he could reliably eat. (They'd been eating a lot of Mediterranean food lately, but at least they could still eat dinner together.) As a secret troll, chances were good Walter liked mushrooms at least as much as Draal did (whose verdict was good, but not as good as burning coals).
She turned away, keeping her steps even as she went to put the bottle on the table, then went to fetch two wine glasses, despite the fact that she had no intention of imbibing this evening (she needed to keep her wits about her... but appearances had to be maintained). The back of her neck itched with the knowledge that she'd turned her back on a dangerous predator – that by taking her eyes off him, she'd functionally left Jim alone with him.
A deep, albeit subtle, breath. She could do this. Jim was capable, and Draal could be out of the basement in eight seconds flat (they'd timed it). Her job was to lull Walter into a false sense of security, to magnify their advantage of surprise. He'd likely be keeping a close eye on Jim, but he would expect Jim to be unwilling to act in front of Barbara, and they could use that.
The wine glasses were dusty; she gave them a quick rinse. As she dried them off, her thoughts went to the small plastic bottle tucked deep into her pocket.
She was surprised no one had brought up the possibility of straight-up poisoning Walter; she supposed she should be relieved that the thought had not occurred to Jim. There was a time she would have said with absolute sincerity that Jim wouldn't hurt a fly, but evidently those days were past. Maybe his tactical reasoning would say yes to poisoning Walter if it were proposed to him, but at least the thought had not even crossed his mind (it heartened her to see the gentle son she knew in the warrior he had become).
The thought had occurred to Barbara. Her hand clenched around the bottle of tranquilizers that she didn't even remember reaching for. She knew safe dosages, and lethal dosages, and the uncertain space in-between.
Could she even go through with it? The evidence was damning, but Walter had not personally done anything, not yet (not that they knew of). More than that, could she really drug a person against their will? Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought, every moral fiber in her rebelling.
She forced her hand to let go of the bottle, unopened. It was taking her an unusually long time to fetch two glasses; she hurried back to the dining room, her pocket weighed down as though with lead.
Jim and Walter with both sitting upright at the table, hands folded in front of them. No bloodshed so far, surprisingly.
"Dinner will be ready in five minutes!"
"It smells wonderful, Barbara."
She opened her mouth to direct the compliment towards Jim instead, but paused. She knew her own cooking was as infamous as Jim's was famous, and that was a reputation that the bitter taste of a crushed-up pill could more easily hide in.
"Oh, well, I tried," she managed before the silence grew too long. Hopefully she just came across as flustered, instead of dishonest – she forcefully shut down that train of thought before it could contemplate what Walter would think of her being flustered. The knot in her throat tightened.
Jim shot her a quizzical look, but didn't correct her on who should take credit for the meal. He didn't know about the possibly-not-hypothetical tranquilizers. She didn't think she wanted him to know, ashamed.
Walter picked up the conversation, drawing her in as easily as he ever had. She tried not to think about this fact too much, and focused on keeping her body relaxed, her smile easy. Before she knew it, five minutes had passed, and she excused herself to fetch dinner, feeling moderately more confident in the success of their plan.
Pulling the baking sheet of stuffed mushrooms out of the oven, her earlier dilemma returned full-force.
A small dosage wouldn't kill him, but it could slow him down, give Jim and Draal an edge in a physical fight. All she had to do was crush up half a pill and dose one of the mushrooms, then serve that mushroom to Walter. Easy.
It would merely be very proactive self-defense, she told herself, firmly ignoring how her insides twisted with guilt.
But… but Walter was a changeling, a troll. He could have a severe allergic reaction, or it could affect him in a completely unpredictable way, or not at all. They had no idea how closely his brain chemistry mimicked a human's.
She couldn't risk it. (She could not have handled the guilt on her conscious, regardless of the outcome).
The pills stayed in her pocket.
Dinner was fraught with tension, or so it seemed to Barbara.
Jim was doing a good job of pushing food around on his plate, but Walter was observant; Barbara didn't doubt he'd notice Jim wasn't eating anything eventually (somehow, when formulating their plan to invite Strickler over for dinner, it had completely slipped everyone's minds that Jim would be forced to wear his mask, and would therefore be unable to eat).
They needed to stall Walter as long as possible, to give Toby, Mr. Blinky, and Aaarrrgghh the time they needed to investigate his office. It was entirely possible this dinner would not come to blows, and Barbara's cover of ignorance could remain intact, to be used again in the future.
It was entirely possible, but looked increasingly unlikely to Barbara. The longer they pretended, the more likely it was that Walter would figure out that the whole dinner was a ruse, and if they wanted to keep the advantage of surprise, they needed to act before that happened.
Jim had the easier role; he could get away with passive-aggressive hostility towards his mother's new boyfriend (Walter wasn't her boyfriend, and he hadn't been even before she found out he was a two-faced liar, but it fit the resentful-teenager narrative Jim was presenting).
Barbara was having a much harder time sitting on her own temper. She felt like she was being dragged closer and closer to some precipice with every passing moment, but the final the straw inevitably came when Walt cracked one pun too many.
"...well, that's what you get for eating Italian!" Walker guffawed, the laugh lines at his eyes inviting her to share in the joke.
That was it, she was done. Barbara barely managed to force a laugh, before making some quick excuse and escaping to the kitchen. She breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, leaning heavily on the counter, fists clenched. Paolo Vincini's disappearance had been all over the news that morning, and his picture was being circulated around the hospital in case a John Doe with his face turned up.
It seemed Walt really couldn't resist dropping troll-related double entendres when he was confident she wouldn't understand. The wordplay she had once found so charming now felt sinister and manipulative.
She swallowed down the bile that wanted to climb up her throat. Her excuse wouldn't last for much longer (probably – she couldn't actually remember what she'd said to get out of the room), but she found she couldn't be bothered to care. She was going to damn well take however long she wanted to pull herself together (even just thinking that to herself felt fortifying, gave her back control of the situation).
But worry for Jim continued to interrupt her thought processes; she wasn't entirely comfortable leaving Jim alone with him in the dining room, however she didn't think he'd try anything right under her roof, with her just one room away. The risk to his own cover was too great.
...Or maybe he would, she thought, hearing two stomps coming from the dining room, the signal for Draal to come up – but then there was another thump, followed by a string of back-and-forth arrhythmic stomping, and the sounds of a scuffle. Shit.
Barbara forced herself to walk, not run, back to the dining room, because it was important that she not break her cover unless she had to, and Jim had not shouted or cried out to her for help. Nevertheless, she kept her weight over the balls of her feet and her knees slightly bent; she didn't know what she was going to walk in on, but she was prepared to dodge and/or punch as needed.
Neither was needed. She blinked to see them both seated in their chairs, utensils in hand, as though she had never left. What did that mean?
It meant her cover was still intact, and that Walter was unwilling to reveal himself in her presence. If she stayed in the room, she would suspend any physical altercation, thus keeping Jim safe indefinitely.
There was no sound from the basement; evidently Draal didn't know how to interpret more than two stomps. She could go and fetch him, but that would mean leaving Jim alone with Walter, and letting their fight resume.
Did Jim even need Draal anymore, if the fight was paused for the time being? Barbara bit her lip, indecisive. Maybe Jim didn't need to summon Draal anymore, but maybe he still did and was aware of something Barbara wasn't. Jim had given the signal; maybe it was time to tear down this pantomime.
She wavered for a moment more, then decided to trust her son. "Ack, silly me, I just realized I forgot to move the laundry over. I'll be right back!" (No reason to paint a target on her back until backup had arrived).
She waited until she was out of Walter's line-of-sight to dash down the stairs, only to come to an abrupt stop at the bottom at the sight of an unexpected visitor.
The teenage girl, equally startled by Barbara's sudden appearance, stumbled backwards… straight into Draal, who seemed to be trying to squeeze himself as far away from her as possible. There was nothing Barbara could do to halt the inevitable.
"AAIEEEEE – !"
Barbara bolted for her and grabbed her before she could knock her head on something, reeling around in a panic in a dark basement. "Draal, Jim needs you, go!" she snapped. "I'll take care of her."
"T-t-take care of me!?"
"Breathe with me, it's going to be alright." She demonstrated, long deep breaths, exaggerated volume, in for a count of five, hold for five, out for five. 'Mind over matter' was all well and good, but the reverse could be just as useful, when the body could be manipulated to influence the mind. Deep, even breathing could convince the brain that all was well, and that the sympathetic nervous system could dial back the flight-or-fight response.
Barbara sat down on the floor, non-threatening, at ease, and invited the unknown teen to do the same with a gesture. Perhaps responding to Barbara's surety, or perhaps just feeling too shaken to remain standing, the girl complied. She continued to lead the teen through the breathing exercise until she had herself more-or-less back under control.
"What's your name?"
"C-Claire," she answered reflexively, still wide-eyed and a bit shaky.
Claire? From the play? What on earth was she doing in their basement? "Claire, you're alright, you're going to be fine."
"That – That was – "
"That was Draal. He's a troll who lives in our basement." She kept her tone even and relaxed, matter-of-fact.
There was a loud thump and roar from upstairs, and Barbara winced at the sound of something shattering. Claire flinched back, and her breathing started to pick up again.
"Hey, hey, Claire, it's alright. I know trolls can seem scary, but they're just people. They're just people."
"Wh-what's going on?! Trolls?!"
"Yes. Trolls." This evening was not going according to plan, but there was no help for it. "Let me explain."
She explained trolls to Claire the way Jim had explained them to her, painfully aware all the while of how quickly a game of Telephone picked up errors. She erred on the side of caution, saying less where she might have said more, afraid of getting something wrong and leaving Claire with entirely the wrong idea.
When she finished, Claire was slack-jawed and staring, and Barbara had no idea what she was thinking. There was another set of thumps from upstairs, and it seemed to shake Claire free of her stupor.
"This… is so… incredible! It explains so much! Jim's monsters weren't metaphorical after all!"
"Jim's…?"
"Oh, um, Jim left me this letter, and…" she floundered. Oh-ho, so Claire warranted a letter as well, did she? Internally, Barbara was fighting off a smirk, but externally she schooled her face into one more disapproving.
"Claire, what are you doing here?" Her tone came out harsher than she intended, but, under the circumstances, it was a completely reasonable demand.
"I, I, I'm so sorry! Jim was acting weird, and I overheard him talking to Toby that he had a plan to take down Mr. Strickler tonight, and I just wanted to understand what's going on!"
"So you broke into my house? How did you even get in here?"
"Through the window…?"
Barbara looked where she pointed. Oh to be that young and flexible again. She turned back and gave Claire her best Unimpressed look. "And how would you have gotten out again? You did not think this through all the way, did you?"
Claire flushed with embarrassment. "I was worried!" she defended.
"An admirable trait, but not one that excuses trespassing. Now, you'd best get going, and be glad I don't call your parents about this." Barbara stood and Claire followed suit – but then Claire started to move towards the stairs, and Barbara lurched forward to stop her. "Not that way!"
As if on cue, there was another load thump and roar from upstairs. Claire gulped visibly.
"Ohmigosh, Mr. Strickler! I completely forgot!"
Barbara pinched the bridge of her nose. She had rather deliberately left Changelings out of her explanation, in the hope that Claire would be in enough shock over the existence of trolls to forget what brought her to their basement in the first place. "Another time, Claire, alright? There's too much going on right now, and I'm needed elsewhere."
"But – !"
"Claire, you need time to think long and hard about how much you really want to know, because some of this knowledge is dangerous to even possess, regardless of whether you ever act on it." Barbara winced, knowing what it felt like to be on the receiving end of 'I didn't want to tell you because I wanted to protect you,' and knowing how rarely the argument actually held water. But when it came to Changelings, the threat of bodily harm – of death – for just knowing too much, was quite real. Forewarned might be forearmed, but those metaphorical arms could take many forms, and when it came to spy networks and the intelligence game, knowing more was like holding a live grenade.
"You sound like Jim. 'You know that I know that he knows what they know that I know.' I don't know anything!"
Barbara quite frankly had no idea how to parse that. But she didn't need to. "You know about trolls. My son is up there, and I don't have time for this. Go. Home."
Claire eyed the window apprehensively; it would certainly take a lot of upper body strength and acrobatic skill to lift oneself up to the narrow window, which then left very little room to maneuver. Fortunately, they kept a small stepladder in the basement, next to the workbench, so Barbara didn't have to risk throwing her back out giving Claire a boost.
Once she was safely outside Claire hesitated, clearly inclined to hang around and glean what info she could of the goings-on in the house, but Barbara knew how to Mom Glare, and sent her on her way.
Barbara crept up the stairs, listening intently, crowbar in hand that she'd picked up from the workbench. Everything seemed quiet, and she had not heard any thumps for a while. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner.
An unfamiliar green troll was trussed up like a turkey, bound hand and foot with thick rope, with Draal sitting on its – his? – chest for good measure, and Jim was nearby in his armor, though at the moment he was more preoccupied with his phone ("C'mon Tobes, pick up, pick up!") With a jolt, she realized the troll had to be Walter.
A/N: This chapter was getting long, so I decided to split it; I tried a less cliffhangery place to end it, don't know that I succeeded. I got really impatient to post something, so chapter might be subject to edits once I've slept on it for a day or two ;P
Claire: I don't think I made the best first impression on your mom
Jim: Can't be any worse than the impression I made on yours
