Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 22 August 2002

Comments: A much-belated follow-up/add-on to Familiar Feelings, which deals with child abuse. Familiar Feelings owes its conception to the very excellent Familiar Faces by Susan Proto

Further comments, warnings, provisos, addenda, notations, advisories, et al:
GENTLE READERS: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
This story contains dark and potentially disturbing imagery of spousal and child abuse.
PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THAT IS GOING TO BOTHER YOU.
Use your delete key. That's what it's there for. If you choose to read anyway, and are disturbed, please do not bother to tell me. There are some who may feel there are slashy overtones to this story -- that is not my intent. If you interpret it that way and then get offended because I didn't label the story as slash -- then the decision is on you.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!

Familiar Flaws

"God, no! Not again!" Mulder teetered on the balls of his feet, staring down at the woman's broken body. She moaned and he dropped to his knees beside Scully. "Shhhh," he crooned. "It's all right now. Everything will be all right." He rose quickly, strode across the room and put his hand through the plate glass window.

"Mulder, no!" Scully cried as his hand went through the window. She started to rise, to go to him, but the woman on the floor needed her more. Skinner had already moved across the room anyway, and had Mulder's bleeding hand trapped in his own. He was picking the larger glass shards out and preparing to wrap the hand in a clean white handkerchief.

"What the hell's going on, Mulder?" the AD demanded.

"It would happen, it would be me. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" The words snarled from his lips as he forced himself to turn and stare down at the bruised and battered form that lay crumpled on the floor.

"All I'm doing is spending the night at a hotel. How fucking hard is that? They fumigate the apartment, I stay at a hotel a couple of days, and then I go home. Why is that so hard?" Tears were streaming down his face, and Skinner wrapped the hand, then stepped back to gaze in puzzlement at his friend.

"But noooooo ... Of course it couldn't be that easy for me. So I'm at the hotel, Scully's with me, you just stopped by to grab a bite with us, and some asshole decides to beat his wife nearly to death two doors down from three FBI agents." Mulder dragged heavy, pain-filled eyes across the room to stare into their mirror image on the face a young boy no more than twelve. "In front of his kid."

Mulder turned away again, and with a roar of rage and frustration, he slammed the wall -- once, twice, three times -- before the larger man caught him up in a bear hug. Arms like tree trunks slapped around him, immobilizing him, and he began to panic. "No, no, no," he screamed, his cry rending the air in eerie echo to the one that had drawn them to this bloody room.

Skinner jumped back, releasing the terror-stricken man, but still stayed close in case he decided to tackle the wall again. "Mulder, what the hell is going on?" He had his suspicions that this had something to do with the younger man's father, a man they had only recently discovered had long abused his son. What horror did this scene bring back for his friend?

Mulder turned away again, and Skinner reached out, but this time it wasn't violence that erupted, it was vomit. The younger man bent double and retched repeatedly, the sounds harsh in the silence of the room.

Skinner looked back. The woman was unconscious, but Scully's hands were flying across her body, pulling off clothing here, stanching a wound there, and yet her haunted eyes were on Mulder.

Mulder finally stopped the horrible retching and slowly lifted his head. He looked pale and drawn -- no sign of the irrepressible young man who had just been delighting in embarrassing Scully by telling dirty jokes.

Skinner reached out gently, slowly, not surprised when Mulder pulled back, but he snaked his arm around the younger man and helped him upright. "C'mon, Mulder, we're outta here."

"Crime scene," Mulder croaked, suddenly embarrassed.

"Not ours," the AD said firmly. "Metro uniforms are on site and they can handle it. Scully'll stay till the ambulance arrives." He pulled his friend to the door. "You," he said in a tone that brooked no disagreement, "are coming with me."

He started to take his agent back to the hotel room they had just vacated, then changed his mind. He stuck his head back in the room. "Scully, I'm taking him to my place."

"Take care of him, Walter, please." Her eyes were full of misery.

Scully was very protective of her young man, and Skinner knew what an enormous amount of trust it had required for her to stay and let him take care of Mulder. "I will," he replied shortly. "Do what you can here." He nodded at the doorway where the young boy still stood, trembling as he stared at his mother. "Don't let them forget the boy."

"I won't." She looked down at the woman again, wiped another blood stain from her face, and murmured, "I have to stay here."

"My place -- when you can." Skinner had kept one hand on his distraught agent during the brief conversation, and wasn't surprised to see that the man's eyes had glazed over, he was cold and shivering, and he seemed lost and afraid.

"Mulder," he said gently, tugging on the lax arm in his hand. "C'mon, buddy. We're going to my house and you're going to tell me all about it."

"Bitch! Lazy, no-good, cheatin' bitch! Take your bastard and both of you get the hell outta here!" The man raged, his face stained red with anger. He was drunk, of course. Again.

His mother ran from the living room, fleeing to the kitchen. Her china teacup, an heirloom from her grandmother, teetered on the edge of the counter where she placed it, then fell tremulously, crashing to the tile floor in tiny pieces.

"Ohh," she gasped, hands plucking blindly at the shards on the floor.

Her tiny mew of complaint was silenced as his father bellowed again, towering over his mother where she crouched, huddled in the corner of the cabinets.

"Don't, Bill," she begged. "The windows ... the neighbors ..." She gestured frantically at the windows, open to catch the cooler evening breezes of summer.

"Fuckin' bitch! Fuckin', cheatin' bitch! It should have been you!"

His threatening words registered, and the boy saw the color drain from his mother's face. He realized his father was worse today than he'd ever been. He was totally irrational -- almost insane. His mother clutched at her chest, and he knew she must be terrified. His own heart was pounding, and he was frozen to the floor. He was terrified for his mother -- and for himself. What if the bastard killed her this time? What would he do then?

But there was another part of him -- the part that shamed him and made him wince with guilt -- that was fiercely glad those angry hands weren't directed at him this time. He glanced down at the bandage on his arm -- he hadn't even healed completely from the last time the old man got mad. What could he do?

"Fuck the neighbors! I don't give a shit about the neighbors! And I don't give a shit about you and your fuckin' bastard either!" He stormed across the kitchen, raving.

The boy stood rooted in the doorway of his room. Though his body cringed, he risked sticking his head out to see if he could see what his father was doing to his mother. It hadn't always been like this. Sure, the old man had been hard on him -- harder than he'd ever been on Sam -- but he was a boy. He was gonna grow up to be a man -- he had to learn how to take it. Sam was just a little girl -- the rules didn't have to be so hard for little girls. It had been all right before ... He choked back a sob. As he watched, his father slapped his mother, and tears began to roll down his cheeks. His still small hands clenched into threatening fists, and he clutched and released his loose shirt tail.

It had been all right -- bearable -- before Sam disappeared. His father used to read to him, talk to him nicely, take him places. He'd touch him on the arm, pat his head. It had been good, once upon a time. But now, now he was sure the old man was going to kill him. Kill him and his mother. He'd grown some -- he wasn't the smallest kid at school -- but he was still only twelve, and his father had a good 6 inches and 60 pounds on him. He grit his teeth and swiped angrily at the tears -- tears would only bring more trouble if the old man decided to look his way.

The boy turned and looked out his window. There had been a group of kids playing a game of kickball in the street. He'd asked his mom earlier if he could go play too, but she'd shaken her head no, almost sadly, and told him his arm wasn't healed enough. He'd looked in the mirror and seen the still bright bruises that covered the left side of his face, the swollen eye, and he'd known they were as much a reason for her 'no' as the still tender arm.

There was enough gossip about the Mulders since Samantha vanished -- they didn't need this talk too.

But now he could see the kickball game had stopped. The kids had gathered in a knot, moving closer and closer to the Mulder driveway, silently absorbing each word that carried on the wind. As he watched, one of the boys turned, and called to his sister in the yard across the street, "Hurry up, Sue. They're at it again!" There was an illicit delight in his voice, and Fox hung his head again in shame.

"No, Bill ... please. Not again," his mother begged. "Fox ... it upsets him so ..."

"Sniveling little bastard -- I'll give him something to be upset about!" the man roared. Fox watched as his father grabbed his mother's arms and dragged her out of her corner, into the middle of the kitchen floor. He smacked her once, twice, three times, and the boy jerked uncontrollably with the sound of each blow.

He watched as the man -- his father, he thought in disgust -- stumbled, caught his balance, and then bent to scoop his mother up in an overly tight caricature of an embrace. He could see the muscles in his father's forearms bulge, and he wondered how his mother could breathe. It was one of his dad's favorite tricks -- what should have been a loving embrace turned into something to be feared.

"Bill, no ..." his mother gasped. "You're choking me." But his mother's anguish only served to enflame his father's wrath. His hold on her became more violent. "Can't. Breathe." She barely managed to get the words out.

The boy lowered his head again; the tears hot in his throat. He was useless. He just stood there, watching as his father slowly choked his mother to death. Too scared to move, too weak to try, crying like a baby. He was fuckin' useless, just what his father always said. A no-good Mama's boy who didn't even have the balls to stick up for his mother when she was suffering at the hands of this maniacal tyrant.

His father was mumbling incoherently now, the obscene words the only ones that seemed understandable. "Cunt. Whore. Bitch." The boy turned in rage when he heard giggling from the kids outside, then slumped his shoulders in defeat. What could he do? He was fuckin' useless.

He looked back and saw that his father's hand was groping against his mother's breast. Oh, God. Not that. Not this time. She was gasping for breath now, pain visible across her body as she still struggled for her freedom. But his heavy arm still embraced her, and the large hand clutched rudely at her chest.

Not this. Not this. He couldn't watch this. He dragged reluctant feet out of the bedroom door, into the hall, wide frightened eyes looking at the tableau in the kitchen. "

"Stop it, Bill." His mother spat the words out between gasps for air. "Fox... he'll see. You're frightening him." Her words were strangled. "Stop ..." His hand snaked lower, grabbing roughly between her legs. "Bastard," she hissed, misery etched on her face.

"Bastard?" His father's laugh was harsh and humorless. "I'm not the bastard, Tee, but then you know that." He laughed again, ripping at his mother's shirt now. "We all know who the real bastard is ..."

"Fox," she pleaded, "go back to your room. Shut the door..."

But he couldn't go back. His feet were like lead. Each step took more energy, more concentration, more time to take. But he continued to move forward, inching slowly up the hall.

What had his mother ever seen in this man? He reeked of alcohol; it wept from his pores. Cold reality set in and the blood drained from his face. He was crazy! His father was crazy!

"Stop it, Bill. Oh, you bastard." His father's cruel words were bitten off an octave higher, a spiteful mimic of his mother's pleas. He slapped her again. "You stop, you bitch!" He spat the words out, seething with hatred.

"Stop what? Bill, please ... what have I ever done to make you hate me so?"

"You and your bastard, not good enough for them. Had to take my baby, my precious baby girl ..." With each word he snarled, sour droplets of spittle flew from his lips, splattering on his mother's face, mingling with her tears.

The boy saw the moment his mother realized she was going to die. She began to shake convulsively. Her face took on a new pallor, and there was sheer terror in her words. "Leave us, Bill. Just go and leave us. I'll take Fox, I'll take him away. You won't ever have to see us again. Just let us be."

He was nearly to the living room. His uncooperative feet still fought each step but he forced them to keep moving. He was going to be too late. Too little, too late. Fuckin' useless, that was him. But this time -- this time -- he wasn't going to stand by in shock while someone he loved was snatched from him. Even if it killed him.

"Let you be? I'll let you be!" His father dropped his mother on the cold tile floor. Cruel hands grabbed her hair and dragged her through the doorway. She was shrieking. The boy wondered how anyone alive could make that kind of sound. It was -- it didn't sound human. The man strode into the living room, sneered at boy. "What do you think you can do?"

His father -- God, how could this thing possibly be his father? -- dropped his mother between the coffee table and the fireplace. She tried to scramble away, but he kicked out at her, almost effortlessly, and she crumpled again. He grabbed a heavy, elaborate lamp by its swirling wrought iron base.

His hand was around her throat again. The boy could see that she really couldn't breathe this time. She began to kick and struggle furiously, but it was futile and her movements soon began to slow, her hands dropping weakly to the floor.

He was really going to kill her. Right here, in front of her own son. The arrogant bastard just didn't care. The boy saw the man lift the lamp, the beginning of a crushing blow, and he launched himself across the room. He caught the man unawares, right across the belly, and he began to fall. It was as if it were happening in slow motion. The man dropped the lamp and clamped his hands across his abdomen. He staggered backwards, tripping over the body of his wife, lying nearly unconscious on the floor. His knees buckled as he fought to remain upright, but the force of the blow was too much and he began to fall, sliding down faster and faster until the room was split by the thundering 'crack!' of his head connecting with the hearth. He landed in a heap and didn't move.

The boy moved to his mother, whispering in a voice choked with tears, "Shhhh, Mom. It's all right now. It'll be all right."

Mulder wiped his eyes. "That was the last time he ever touched her, as far as I know. She left him, that was the causal factor for the divorce, but he still had visitation. I had to go see him every other weekend until I left for England. I was almost 17 -- that was four and a half more years. He stopped drinking as much after we left, but there were still times ..." Mulder sighed. "Fuckin' useless."

Skinner stood behind Mulder, his hand resting on the younger man's shoulder. "Mulder, no ..." He stopped, searching for the words. "You are not fuckin' useless. That is so far from any description I can think of for you.

"Didn't stop this," Mulder muttered morosely. "And then I wigged out in front of you and Scully and everyone else in that room."

"Wigging out in front me and Scully is nothing for you to be ashamed of. You know that." Skinner kneaded Mulder's tight shoulder.

"What'll Scully think? I'm some wimp who can't take it on a crime scene ..."

Skinner snorted. "I hardly think so. She's seen you on enough crime scenes to know just what you can and cannot take. And when you 'wigged out,' as you so colorfully put it, all it did was make her concerned for you." He stepped in front of Mulder, crouched before him in the chair, and wrapped his large hands around Mulder's upper arms. "And it made me concerned, too. We know you well enough to know that something triggered your little 'crash and burn' back there -- something deep and dark and very painful."

Mulder looked away, a dark flush rising into his cheeks. But Skinner pulled him back, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You were not responsible for what happened in that room. Do you understand?" When Mulder nodded miserably, he went on. "And you were certainly not responsible for what your father did to your mother in a drunken rage. Twenty- five years ago. When you were twelve."

"I didn't help her. I was glad -- do you hear me? Glad! -- that he was focused on her and not on me." Mulder looked away in shame, then sniffed. "What kind of a person does that make me?" He felt about twelve again, a teary-eyed baby, snot dripping from his nose. But it was different this time. Instead of a ringing smack to the head, Skinner just looked at him sadly, then held a tissue to his nose and said, "Blow."

Mulder gave him a strange look, but he took the tissue and blew.

Skinner rose -- his legs were beginning to cramp -- and pulled a chair over so he could sit face to face with his agent.

"You saved your mother's life Mulder. From what you've told me, your father would have killed her that day. He probably would have come after you as well. You saved two lives that day." Skinner reached out and patted the other man on the knee. "That's pretty impressive for one scared twelve year old. And just about as far from fuckin' useless as you get."

Mulder sniffed, then used his tissue and blew again. "It's always going to be with me, isn't it? It's never going to die."

"It's part of what made you who you are, Mulder. You don't have to like it -- hell, I'd be worried about you if you did -- but it, what you went through as a child, it's all part of who you are. It's like metal. It can be shaped, but until it's tested in fire, it has no strength. You went through the fire, Mulder, and you survived. And you're one of the strongest people I know. You're a survivor."

He rose, pulling the younger man to his feet as well, then reached out and embraced him. "I am so proud of you, Mulder, so very, very proud."

And Mulder cried.

He cried because it was safe. Because it was okay. Maybe even because it was a little bit expected. But mostly, because those words were so much better than 'fuckin' useless.' He was a survivor. And a man he respected and admired -- a man he loved -- was proud of him.

That deserved a few tears.