Title: Familiar Flaws
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R/NC-17 Very disturbing imagery of spouse 
        and child abuse
Category: SA MSR M/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please
Feedback: Yes! Please! 

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully, et al. are owned 
by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television 
Network, etc.  They are wonderfully brought to 
life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch
Pileggi.  I will make no profit from this, and neither 
will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have 
nothing material they can profit from. 

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.  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 I apologize.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!  

Summary: A case of domestic abuse opens up wounds
Mulder didn't know were there.

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.

He 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 as he 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.

End