Mother Of Violence

By Anonymous
 

July 25, 1996

Yvonne will accept feedback for this author at yvonne@ihug.co.nz. Please
indicate that the
feedback is for Anonymous.

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and the
X-Files and X-Files characters are the property of 20th Century Fox,
Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. No infringement is intended.

CONTENT
Some teenage MulderAngst, a little blood...mostly Mulder's...and a tiny bit
of abuse.

LOGLINE
Still under the strict control of an uncaring father, Fox Mulder finds a
new
sense of purpose when his mother decides she's had enough.

     *****

-------------------------------------------
Dirty creature come my way
From the bottom of a big black lake
Shuffles up to my window
Making sure I'm awake
S'probably gonna pick my brain
Got me in a vice-like grip
He said, one slip, you're dead.
(Tim Finn, Neil Finn, Nigel Griggs)
--------------------------------------------

The sun went down.  Children who had been happily playing outdoors began to
collect their things and go home, shouting cheerful goodbyes to their
companions.  The boy streaked past them on his bike, thin arms pumping,
sneakered feet peddling furiously.  The wind whistled in his ears and
from a
distance, the boy appeared to revel in it.  Closer, though, and one
could see
the stark terror in the boy's eyes, the ragged breathing that meant he was
pushing himself beyond even a healthy child's limits.  He strained,
peddling
even faster.

The boy was late.  He ran the endless scenarios in his young, agile
mind.  He
wouldn't get any dinner.  He would be humiliated in front of guests.  He
would be given extra chores.  He would be grounded.  He would be ignored.
 Tears began streaming out of the boy's eyes as he gasped for breath.  His
father would look at him sternly, and then shut the boy out of his world.
 His mother would gaze with vacant eyes, never standing up for the boy, yet
never agreeing with the father, either.  The boy would spend the evening
hating his father and silently goading his mother, hoping for anything, any
sign, that she cared or even remembered that he existed.

The boy put on a fresh burst of speed as he turned the familiar corner for
home.  His house loomed in front of him, secure and inviting from the
outside, stark and cold on the inside.  The boy tried to not see past the
Early American facade, the neatly tended gardens and lawn, the sedan in the
driveway.  He skidded to a halt in the driveway and, fearfully glancing
up at
the disappearing sun, stowed him bike carefully in the garage.

The boy scampered towards the front door, stopping only to smooth his hair
and straighten his wrinkled t-shirt.  Taking a deep, cleansing breath, the
boy slowly opened the door.  He'd perfected the silent entrance but
unfortunately, his father was always a step ahead of him.  The boy crept
towards the stairs, becoming more sure of himself at every step.  Maybe the
old man was occupied; maybe he didn't want to torture the boy tonight;
maybe
the boy was finally becoming craftier than his father -

"Fox."

The name was spoken like an accusation, an insult.  The boy froze and
silently damned himself for his cowardice.  He debated, for just a moment,
rebelling, running way to California to follow in Jim Morrison's footsteps
like his friend Neill's decadent older brother.  But he wouldn't.  The boy
would take it like he always had.  Hating himself, he turned.  His father
knew his power, knew how much of a short leash he had on the boy.  He
didn't
even move from his easy chair, but even the softly spoken name and the
man's
presence was enough to cower the child.  Like a dutiful son, he retraced
his
steps and soon stood in front of his father, head bowed, ready to accept
punishment.

His father had old eyes, haunted eyes that said he'd seen the world and it
wasn't worth saving.  The boy would do anything to avoid the gaze that
reflected such pain.  Young Fox spent many sleepless nights in front of the
mirror, afraid that he, too, had the haunted look in his eyes.  Maybe he
couldn't tell anymore.  Maybe it was something that would come later,
when he
understood every reason behind the pain.  For now, though, Fox was a
confused
child at best, a terrified child when it suited his father.

"What time is it?" his father asked softly.  Fox hated the reflexes that
drew
his eyes to the grandfather clock.

"Seven," Fox replied in the same even tones of his father.  Bill Mulder
nodded appraisingly.

"When were you supposed to be home?" Bill inquired almost pleasantly.  Fox
drew a breath.

"Six-thirty," he mumbled, knowing that the insolence would get him into
even
more trouble.  Bill frowned and straightened up in his chair.  Fox
slouched,
instinctively moving away.  Suddenly angry, Bill stood, not quite towering
over his son the way he used to.

"Bill."

Bill and Fox turned.  Fox's mother stood in the doorway to the kitchen, an
apron around her waist and a ladle in her hand.  Fox made bold eye contact
with her.  She flinched and looked at her husband.  Fox shook his head,
disgusted.  Like lightning, Bill reached out and smacked the boy in the
head.
 Fox saw stars as he bit his tongue.

"Dinner in ten minutes.  You'd better wash up."

Without another glance at her son, Margaret Mulder turned on her heel and
disappeared into the kitchen.  Bill grabbed Fox by the arm and spun him
around, looking deep into the boy's terrified eyes.

"She's your mother," he hissed.  "You show a little respect."

Fox felt that cold flash of fear that meant he was completely out of
control
and at the mercy of the powers that be which, in this and every case, meant
his father.

"But I didn't -" he began.  Bill stared him into submission.

"No matter what you think of me, she is your mother and I won't have you
behaving like an ingrate.  Are we clear?"

Fox opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, dropped his gaze and
nodded.

"Are we clear?"  Bill wanted more.  He wanted the boy to supplicate
himself.
 Bill always wanted more and Fox never knew what on Earth he could do to
please the man.  Not that he tried all that hard anymore, but he DID
have to
live in the house for another four years.  But come his eighteenth
birthday -

"Fox!"

Fox jerked out of his favorite daydream.  The bastard.  Nothing was his
anymore.  Fox straightened up and looked his father square in the eye.  In
another few months, Fox would be as tall as his father.  Bill's gaze
wavered,
but just a touch.  If Fox hadn't been so terrified of every move he
might not
have noticed.  But fear had made him intuitive.  He met his father's gaze,
unwaveringly.

"Yes sir, we're clear."

Bill's old eyes crinkled into a smile.  He clapped the boy on the shoulder.

"Good.  Now let's go eat."

Fox hesitated.  Bill turned around.

"You're off the hook this time.  But I expect you to follow the rules
around
here, Fox.  Next time I won't be so lenient."

Good humor restored, Bill went into the kitchen.  Fox stood shaking for a
moment.  He wiped an angry tear out of his eye.  He'd had a few 'next
times'
in his young life and they were what he dreaded more than anything
else.  The
'next times' were what kept him in line, and Bill knew it.  Fox sighed,
drooped and stumbled into the kitchen, not looking forward to another
silent
family meal, but really needing some of his mother's apple pie.  At
least she
could cook, Fox thought meanly.

     *****

----------------------------------------------------
Look at all the plans I made
Falling down like scraps of paper;
I will leave them where they lie to remind me.
From the past a rumor comes
Don't let it keep dragging you down
Throw the memory in an open fire
You'll be free
(Neil Finn)
-----------------------------------------------------

Margaret Mulder woke from a nightmare.  In it, she had come home from
one of
her errands to find her house surrounded by the police.  She dropped her
bags
and ran screaming towards the house, calling out Fox's name.  But he was
gone.

Shaking, Margaret silently crept out of bed and eased the door open.  Maybe
one of her pills would help.  She wasn't supposed to take the pills
anymore.
 The doctor had given them to her after Samantha had disappeared.  But Bill
had been understanding and helped her get the prescription filled
whenever it
ran out.  Margaret closed the door softly and stopped, seeing a light
underneath Fox's door.  She hesitated, wondering whether or not he would
appreciate or resent her concern.  Because Margaret Mulder WAS concerned
about her son, more probably than he would ever know.  She crept towards
his
door and stopped, hand hovering just above the doorknob.  She bit her lip,
then knocked.

"Fox?" she said softly.  She heard a book slam shut and the bedsprings
give,
then her son was standing at the door, blinking slowly at her.  God, he was
getting tall.  Lanky, just like his father.

"Are you...all right?" she faltered through her concern.  That wouldn't
please the boy.  He cocked his tousled head, clearly perplexed.

"Uh, fine.  Just reading."

"Oh," she said as pleasantly as she could.  He didn't close the door.

"Heinlein," he offered.

Heinlein.  Heinlein.  Why did that sound familiar?

"The book you gave me for Christmas?" he reminded her, a touch
sarcastically.
 Oh!  Now she remembered.  She smiled fondly at him.

"The book with the spacemen," she said, delighted that her foggy memory was
working tonight.  He sighed loudly.

"No, Mother, I read that when I was eight.  The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress is
the one you gave me.  I don't read his juvenile novels anymore."

Margaret was crushed.  Not only had she lost her daughter, but she had lost
her son as well, and he was doing his best to put up that wall between
them.

"I'm sorry, Fox," she said softly.  Margaret felt like she was going to
cry.
 She looked at the boy, started to speak, then turned to go.

"Goodnight, Mother," he murmured.  Margaret turned, stunned, only to
hear the
soft click of the catch as he closed the door.  She stood there for a long
moment, hoping that he would turn off the light and get some sleep, but the
light remained on.  Sighing, Margaret made her way blindly down the hall to
the bathroom, downed three of her pills even though she was only
supposed to
take one at a time, sat down on the toilet, and waited for bliss.

     *****

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (2/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

---------------------------------------
At odd times we slip
And slither down a dark hole.
Fingers point from old windows
An eerie shadow falls.
I'm walking on the spot
To show that I'm alive.
Moving every bone in my body
From side to side.
(Neil Finn)
---------------------------------------

Neill MacColl was weird.  Fox knew that, which was why he hung around with
Neill.  Their group was always extremely small, generally consisting
only of
Neill, Fox and Neill's little sister Andie.  At this moment, Neill was
building a space-ship.  Fox shook his head in amazement.  Neill was putting
on the "top" now, which consisted of large amounts of tin foil and a
cardboard refrigerator box.  Because she was light, Andie was perched atop
the contraption, madly taping down the tin foil.  Neill stepped back to
admire his work.  He grinned at Fox.

"Whaddayathink?"

Neill almost always spoke in one word sentences.  If they weren't one
word to
begin with, they were when Neill got through with them.  To put it kindly,
Fox didn't share any of his Heinlein books with Neill.  Fox stood,
stretched,
and stared.  It was pretty impressive, really.

"Is it supposed to fly?" Fox asked innocently.  Neill sighed.

"Foxy, it's a SPACE ship.  Space ships don't FLY.  They..."

Neill's brow crinkled.  He turned to look at his masterpiece.

"Yeah?  They what?" Fox inquired.  Neill scratched his head.

"They...well, you're the smart guy.  You tell me," Neill said defensively.
 Andie hopped down from the top of the "ship".  She shook her head.

"Good God.  It's completely top-heavy," she moaned.  "This is too
embarrassing.  I'm outta here, guys.  Remember, you never saw me touch this
thing."

Turning away in disgust, Andie scampered towards the house, nearly
colliding
with her mother, Caitlin, who was bringing lemonade to the boys.  She
grinned
cheerfully at Fox and frowned at Neill.

"You're filthy.  Fox isn't," she scolded mockingly, before offering Fox the
first lemonade.

"Yeah, Ma, I did all the work!"

Caitlin looked at the ship and nodded.

"I can see that," she said dryly.  Fox watched the mother/son banter
longingly then suddenly turned away.  Neill looked at him.

"I gotta go," Fox mumbled.

"I thought you were staying to dinner," Neill protested.  Fox felt like a
cold weight was pressing down on his chest.  He shook his head quickly.

"I forgot something...I'll see you later."

Caitlin looked worried as Fox picked up his jacket and made for the door.

Shaking with anger, rage and disgust at himself and his situation, Fox
stood
in the MacColl's driveway, clutching the handle-bars of his bike with such
force that his knuckles were turning white.  He took a deep breath,
hoping to
dislodge the feeling of panic.  He'd been having a recurring dream and the
feeling he was getting now was in that dream.  Fox closed his eyes.  The
universe was swirling around him, through him, of him.  A dead hand reached
for him.  Fox felt something smack him in the side of the head and he
jerked
his eyes open, surprised to find himself on the ground.  His face throbbed.
 Dazed, Fox pushed his bike off of him and reached for his face, stunned
when
his hand drew back blood.  Fox started to sit up, but his head was pounding
and his vision was blurred.

"Don't move, Fox!"

Caitlin MacColl, his guardian angel, was rushing towards him.  Fox
grinned a
lopsided grin at her.

"I'm okay, Mrs. MacColl," he said slowly.  It was hard to talk.  She
knelt in
front of him, radiating concern, ready to help.

"No, you're not okay.  I've called an ambulance.  You just lie still.  Come
on, Fox, lie down.  You fainted.  No, don't get up.  Andie, bring that
cloth,
please!"

Fox meekly obeyed.  The dead hands became soothing hands, helping
hands.  Fox
felt safe.

     *****

Margaret stood in the bathroom, staring at the bottle of pills.  Bill had
gone to the hospital to get Fox.  Tears streamed down Margaret's face.  She
couldn't go, couldn't see her son in the hospital, dazed and hurt, not
understanding anything.  Margaret was a coward of the highest order, a
terrible mother in every sense of the word, a failure.  She would fall
apart
if she took her pills and even though Bill and Fox weren't exactly getting
along he needed a capable hand, not a basket case.  Disgusted with herself,
Margaret downed one of her pills and stared furiously into the mirror.

     *****

----------------------------------------------------
Here we all are sitting like fools
Stuck by the rules of fate.
Is what we are what we've grown to believe;
Better the devil you know.
(Neil Finn)
-----------------------------------------------------

The dream was light and movement.  Except for Fox, who was completely
stationary, unable to move, to speak, to breathe.  Helpless.  The light
swirled around him and as soon as it began to enter him he screamed and
opened his eyes.  He was in the hospital, that much was certain.  He could
feel a bandage on the injured side of his face as he reached up to wipe the
flop-sweat from his brow.  His breathing calmed slightly.  The door opened
and a nurse entered.  She smiled brightly at him as she checked his vital
signs.  Her eyebrows shot up and she looked at him again, concerned.

"Are you feeling okay, Fox?"

He shrugged.  She noted his vitals and moved to the door.

"We were going to release you, your father is here, but I want the
doctor to
have one more look at you.  Okay?"

Fox nodded, numb.  His father was here.  His father was going to kill him.
 The door opened again and an extremely tall, extremely thin doctor
entered,
professional smile firmly in place.  He pulled up a chair and, to Fox's
amazement, sat down.  Fox was uneasy.  This was not good.

"My father is going to kill me," Fox blurted out.  He stopped, stunned,
amazed that he would ever voice that to anyone.  The doctor frowned
slightly.

"It wasn't your fault, Fox.  It was a hot day, you were dehydrated...it
happens all the time.  There's nothing to worry about.  We ran some
tests and
you're fine.  We gave you enough fluids to rehydrate you and your father is
here to take you home, not kill you."

The doctor hesitated.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I fell.  In the driveway," Fox said automatically.  His mind was racing.
 Something was wrong.  Something was definitely wrong.  Doctors don't have
these conversations with their fourteen-year-old patients.  He looked at
the
doctor.

"My father doesn't like having his routine interrupted," he explained.  The
doctor nodded.

"You don't have to explain.  Fox...I was wondering if you were under any
sort
of stress."

Stress?  Fox grinned slightly.

"Just the normal stuff, I guess."

"Teenage stuff, right?" The doctor asked pleasantly.  Fox nodded.

"Yeah."

"Having trouble sleeping?"

Fox stared at him.  This guy was good.  Could he lie and get away with it?
 His father would kill him if he found out, but how thrilled would his
father
be if he found out that his son needed more attention than he was
willing to
give?  Fox shook his head slowly.

"Not anymore.  I mean, I did, for awhile, after Sam disappeared..." Fox's
voice trailed off.  The doctor nodded sympathetically and jotted something
down on his chart.

"Right.  I want you to know, Fox, if you need anything, or have any
questions
that can't be answered elsewhere, that you can always come to me.  Okay?"

Fox nodded doubtfully.  The doctor leaned forward.

"You're a smart boy, Fox.  Very smart.  Remember that."

"I will," Fox promised.  The doctor gave him an odd little smile and left,
closing the door softly behind him.  Fox stared after him for a long
moment.
 Smart.  Sure.

     *****

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (3/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

---------------------------------------------------------------
Dirty creature knows my type
found it in a magazine.
He'd seen that look of fear before
Splattered all over the screen.
The animal magnet thug draws me out of myself;
I need a dragon-slayer who can save me from myself.
(Tim Finn, Neil Finn, Nigel Griggs)
----------------------------------------------------------------

Fox slouched in the passenger seat of the family car, doing his best to
avoid
his father's gaze.  Bill had put a fatherly hand on Fox's shoulder and
helped
him on with his jacket after he'd checked out of the hospital.  He'd been
solicitous in helping Fox get into the car.  By all accounts, he was a
doting
father.  Bill glanced at Fox and cleared his throat.

"Do you want to tell me what happened now?" Bill asked.  Fox turned
slowly to
look at him.

"Didn't Mrs. MacColl tell you?" he asked.  Bill shrugged.

"She said you collapsed in the driveway.  The doctor said you were
dehydrated," he answered.  Fox frowned.

"Yeah?" he said belligerently.  Bill glared at him, flicked on his turn
signal, and whizzed past the car in front of them.  The driver gave Bill
the
finger.  Bill ignored him.

"Is that what happened, Fox?" Bill asked, still in that same even tone. 
Fox
felt that flash of fear again.  He nodded slowly.  What Bill said next
shocked the hell out of Fox.

"Because if you're having any problems, you can always come to me, you
know."

Fox had to bite his tongue to keep from replying.  Bill swatted him on the
shoulder.

"You hear me?" he asked.  Fox nodded.

"I hear you."

"Good.  I'm your father.  I need to know if you're having problems."

Needed to know?  That made sense.  Bill was fixated on information.  He
always claimed that information was power, not knowledge, and in one
masterstroke he destroyed any confidence Fox felt in his academic
accomplishments.  Fox had tried to fail history once but it had just gotten
him a black eye and he'd been locked in his room for the weekend without
food.  Still, at fourteen, his father's conflicting statements confused
him,
just as they were intended to.  Bill kept Fox on his toes.

Bill got off the freeway and turned down their street.  Fox watched
longingly
as the car drove past Neill's house.  The family was having dinner.
 Together.  Fox sighed.  Bill pulled into their driveway and turned off the
engine.  He turned to face Fox.

"I don't want you to see this as a sign of weakness, son," Bill said.  Fox
nodded stupidly, wondering if his father was really talking to himself. 
Bill
was still talking.

"But I think we have to talk about what you're going to be doing this
summer."

Oh God.  Fox looked Bill in the eye, aghast.

"What do you mean, what I'm going to be doing this summer?  Aren't we going
to Rhode Island?" Fox asked.  Bill shook his head.

"Your mother's not well.  It's best if she stay here this summer," Bill
explained.  He watched his son like a hawk as the boy sorted out his
father's
words and tried to attach meaning.  The boy looked scared at this sudden
change in routine.  Change was good for him, Bill thought.  Change would
straighten him out.  Fox finally looked at his father once more.

"Wouldn't a summer by the lake be better for Mom than a summer here?" he
inquired innocently.  Bill resisted the urge to smack the boy.  He was
becoming more and more belligerent, more and more independent.  This was
not
good.

"The doctor doesn't think so, son.  Look --"

"Mom hasn't been to see a doctor.  You've been getting her prescriptions
filled."

This was a terrible slap in the face to Bill.  He stared at his son, who
was
still enough of a child to wear a triumphant expression.  This time Bill
couldn't resist, couldn't restrain himself.  It was as if another Bill
Mulder
reached out and punched his child in the face.  Fox gasped, reeling
backwards, brown eyes open wide and brimming with hateful tears.  Bill
resisted the urge to hit him again and really knock some sense into him.
 Didn't Fox understand?  Didn't he know what was on the line here?  The
answer to that was, Of course not.  Bill forced himself to calm down.

Fox began to cry softly, in pain and fear.  And weakness.  Bill glared at
Fox's tears.  The boy reached up, his hand hovering in front of his face.
 His breath went out of him with a whooshing sound and he reached
blindly for
the door handle, scrambling out of the car and sprinting towards the house.
 Bill sighed, rubbed a tired hand over his face, and slammed a fist into
the
steering wheel.

     *****

-------------------------------------------
Dirty creature of habit
Little horror here to stay;
Anyone in his right mind
Would tell it to go away.
But the river of dread runs deep
Full of unspeakable things;
The creature don't mess around
I don't wanna mess with him.
(Tim Finn, Neil Finn, Nigel Griggs)
-------------------------------------------

Margaret flew out of the kitchen as Fox slammed the front door and raced
for
the stairs.

"Fox, what...?"  she asked.  The boy was most definitely upset.  Concerned,
Margaret reached for him.  He jerked away violently.

"Don't touch me," he muttered.  Margaret hesitated, then firmly grabbed his
arm.  He tried to jerk away but she held him.  She pulled him around and
gasped.  Fox's tear-streaked face was covered in blood.  Fox, seeing his
mother's face crumple, began to sob anew.  Margaret instinctively put her
arms around the boy and guided him down to the bottom stair.  She held
him as
he cried.  Margaret stroked his hair as thoughts raced wildly through her
mind.

"Fox, let me see," she said softly.  He shook his head and held her
tighter.
 Margaret was really alarmed now.  Fox never needed her anymore.  He didn't
need the comfort she so desperately needed to give him.  He didn't need the
fierce protection she so infrequently offered.  But now -

She lifted his chin, anger flooding through her.  It wasn't a serious
injury,
but that wasn't the point.  She'd heard the car drive up, heard Fox slam
the
door, heard him run up the steps.

"He hit you," she said.  Fox stared through the tears and suddenly, he
wasn't
hers anymore.  He straightened up and wiped his face with his sleeve,
smearing blood everywhere.  Margaret, ignoring this new demeanor, examined
the boy's face.

"It's just a bloody nose," Fox said haughtily.  Mother and son stared at
each
other for a long moment.  Fox was trying to convince his mother of his
independence, his ability to deal with the situation, and Margaret found
herself completely unable to convey to her son the love and responsibility
she felt for him.  She had failed at even this simple test.  Fox stood,
shrugging off his mother's help.  The front door creaked.  Both mother and
son turned to see Bill hesitate in the doorway.  He sighed when he saw
Fox's
face.

"Son -" Bill began.  Fox turned abruptly and started up the stairs.  Bill,
anguished at the pain he had caused, DID cause, moved towards him and
touched
the boy's shoulder.  Fox violently overreacted, stumbling and falling in
his
attempt to get away from his father.  Margaret, helpless, stood by.  Fox
slowly pulled himself to his feet.  Bill stared at his back.

"Fox," he said in a much more severe tone.  The boy hesitated, then
continued
up the stairs.

"Fox, you WILL look at me," Bill demanded.  Margaret found herself pulling
for her son's will, but much to her dismay, he stopped and turned.  Father
and son made eye contact.  Fox's eyes dropped.  Bill was back in control.

"Get yourself cleaned up, Fox, and don't ever mouth off to me again.  Do
you
understand?"

Fox nodded.  A forlorn tear splashed down on the banister.  He wiped his
face
again and looked back at Bill.  Margaret was shocked.  Fox's entire
demeanor
had changed.  He wore a defeated expression and his face appeared softer
and
more vulnerable, his body more subservient.  Margaret wanted to throw up.

"Yes, sir," Fox whispered.  Bill nodded, then stepped forward.  Fox
flinched
slightly.  Bill reached out a hand and touched Fox's face.  Fox was
trembling.

"I'm sorry, Fox," Bill murmured.  Fox's eyes widened.  Bill dropped his
hand
and turned, then stopped and looked back at his son.

"But you need to learn obedience, son.  I shouldn't have hit you.  But you
have got to learn...you don't know how important it is.  You're going to
camp
this summer, Fox.  It's a very prestigious academic camp, a program that is
very difficult to get into.  But with your exemplary conduct and your high
grades, you've been accepted.  I don't want you to get into trouble, to
fail,
because of a weakness that I failed to notice.  I'm doing this for you..."
 Bill's voice trailed off.  He looked lost for a moment.  Fox stared at his
father who suddenly appeared to have the weight of the world on his
shoulders.  Bill drifted back and smiled at his son, that cold smile, that
wolfish smile, that made Fox shudder.

"Congratulations," Bill said, then turned and went into the kitchen.  Fox
slowly looked at his mother, who looked as stunned as he felt.

"You knew about this?" he asked accusingly.  Margaret shook her head.

"No, Fox, I swear..."

"That I believe," Fox said.  "There's no way he'd let you in on anything
important."

Fox wiped his face again.  His nose had stopped bleeding.  He made his
way to
the kitchen, stopping to look his hurt mother in the eye.

"It's true, Mom.  It's a fact," he said softly.  Margaret nodded sadly. 
Fox
hesitated, then something compelled him to put an arm around his mother's
shoulders and escort her into the kitchen.

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (4/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

-------------------------------------------
Tentacles on the brain
Keep me from falling asleep
I'm rooted to the spot
The beast don't know when to stop;
Sneaking up from behind
Binds and gags my wits;
Dirty creature's got my head
Exactly where he wants it.
(Tim Finn, Neil Finn, Nigel Griggs)
-------------------------------------------

Neill cleanly fielded the grounder, pivoted, and threw the runner out.  Fox
grinned at him from the mound and gave him a thumbs up.  Neill was the most
dependable player on the field.  The catcher, Will Harding, called time and
jogged to the mound.  Fox sighed and pulled his cap down.

"They're still hitting them on the ground, Will, so lay off," Fox growled.
 Will gave him that "catcher" look that said he knew way more about Fox
than
did Fox.

"Your curve is starting to hang," Will replied calmly.  Fox scuffed at the
mound with his toe and looked back at Will.

"You'd better turn around.  Your mom's taking a picture," Fox said.  Will,
startled, turned.  His proud mother was indeed aiming an Instamatic his
way.
 Will groaned, then glared at Fox.

"Watch the curve, Mulder."

With that, Will turned and stalked back to the plate.  Fox allowed
himself a
small smile and then went into his stretch, taking care to check the runner
at second.  Fox focused on Will's glove, but a small movement from
behind the
plate made his gaze waver, and then Fox was staring at his father, who
stood
watching the game.  Fox stepped off the rubber.  Will stood up.  Fox turned
around.  Everyone was staring at him.  Everyone.  Even Neill.

"What?" Will asked.  Fox stared wildly at him, then shook his head.

"Nothing.  Broke my concentration.  Go on back," Fox said.  Will cocked his
head.  Fox glared at him.

"Will you go, already?  I'm fine."

Neill joined Will at the mound.

"What's up, Foxy?" he asked.  Fox sighed.  He could feel his heart
hammering
in his chest.

"Will you two get out of here and let me pitch?  Can't a guy take a break?
 Geez," Fox grumbled.  Neill and Will made significant eye contact.  Fox
turned on Neill.

"You told him, didn't you?" he accused.  Neill was taken aback.

"Fox --" Neill began, but Fox cut him off.

"Dammit, Neill, nobody needed to know about that.  It was no big deal," Fox
said angrily.

"It only happened a week ago," Neill said defensively.  "Even the coach
wasn't sure you should play."

"I just passed out from the heat.  You want a doctor's report, Neill?"

"Of course not, Fox, but you didn't see --"

"No, I didn't.  I was there!"

Fox and Neill were shouting now.  The coach, a big burly man with a crew
cut,
was ambling towards them.  Will turned to go.

"You guys fight it out between yourselves.  I'm going back."

Neill and Fox glared at each other, then Neill dropped his eyes and went
back
to his position at deep short.  Fox drew a deep breath and turned, relieved
to see that the coach had reversed direction and was once again safely
ensconced in the dugout.  Will kneeled behind the plate.  Fox tried not to
look at his father, who was now standing on the first base line.  Fox
closed
his eyes, went into his stretch, then opened his eyes and tried to
ignore the
pounding in his chest and the terror that always came with failure.  He
automatically checked the runner, gripped the ball, zeroed in on Will's
glove, and nearly beaned the batter with his wild throw.  The crowd groaned
and the batter glared at Fox.

Will retrieved the ball and quickly threw it back to Fox.  Bill Mulder
still
stood, arms crossed, coolly watching his son.  The pounding continued.  Fox
drew another breath but found that he could hardly breathe.  Ignore it, he
told himself.  That's what he wants, for me to fail.  He wants to
intimidate
me, at all times, without warning.  I'm better than this, aren't I?

Another wild pitch, this one almost clipping the umpire.  Fox sighed.  He
wanted to climb into a hole.  He risked a quick glance at his father.  The
disapproval was still on his face.  Why was he even here, Fox wondered.
 Another wild pitch.  Fox hardly noticed.  He watched his father, who
watched
him back.  Another, and another.  Fox made eye contact with his father
after
each signpost of failure.  Fox watched through a haze as the coach made his
way to the mound, followed by his star reliever.  The coach said something
and Fox felt himself nod.  He numbly followed the coach to the dugout,
subjecting himself to the stares of parents and kids alike.  But Fox didn't
care.  All he wanted was for the pressure to go away.  Just that.  He
squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to hold in the tears.  The coach watched him
carefully and handed him a cup of water.

"You better drink up, Mulder.  You look terrible," he said.  Fox gulped the
water and nodded his thanks.

"You coming down with something?" the coach asked innocently.  Fox thought
for a moment, then nodded.

"Yeah.  I...probably shouldn't have played today," he lied.  Lying was
becoming easier and easier, and Fox was pretty good at it.

"You need a ride home?"

Fox turned his head. His father was walking towards the dugout.  Fox
sighed.

"No, thanks.  My...dad's here."

The coach nodded, satisfied.  Fox collected his things and, head down, went
to meet his father.

"What was that all about, Fox?  You're a better player than that," Bill
said.
 Fox averted his gaze.

"I don't feel so good," he mumbled.  Bill clapped Fox on the back.

"Pressure's getting to you, isn't it?"

Fox stopped and looked at him.

"What pressure?" he asked.  Bill smiled at him.

"The same pressure I felt whenever my father showed up unannounced.  The
pressure to excel."

Fox stared at him.  Excel?  How about the pressure of not knowing when you
were going to be punched?

"Did your father hit you, too?" Fox asked sarcastically.  Bill stared at
him
in amazement.  Stared at him!  As if he had no idea what Fox was talking
about!

"He disciplined me, if that's what you mean," Bill replied.  Fox shook his
head.

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he muttered.  Bill watched him craftily for a
few moments, then turned to go.

"You deserve what you get, Fox," he said over his shoulder.  Once again,
Fox
fought back the tears.  The crowd watched the humiliated boy leave the
field.

     *****

----------------------------------------------
We are the myths in our childrens eyes
We are the hope when the future lies.
(Tim Finn)
----------------------------------------------

Margaret Mulder was not a drinker, but sometimes alcohol was the only thing
that could dull her existence.  Sometimes she heard Samantha calling
her, saw
Fox and Sam being typical siblings, saw Bill being a father and she a
mother.
 Caitlin MacColl watched Margaret with concern.  Caitlin was a wonderful
friend, but she didn't understand.  Nobody understood.  Margaret put her
brave face on, though, and kept on trying to fool Caitlin into thinking
that
she led a happy life.  She poured herself another glass of wine and
curled up
on the couch.  Caitlin sipped her Pepsi.

"I'm glad to see that Fox has recovered," she began.  Margaret nodded.

"He's a strong child.  He'll pull through," she said absently.  Caitlin
cocked her head and looked at Margaret.

"He still misses Sam, doesn't he?"

Margaret's hand shook.

"We all do," she said softly, thinking about the night her daughter
disappeared.  Disappeared -- was taken.  What's the difference?  Caitlin
reached out.  Caitlin was always reaching out.  Sometimes Margaret wished
that Fox could have her for a mother.  Maybe he'd have a chance...

"Margaret, I'm concerned about Fox," Caitlin said.  Margaret sighed.  Of
course she was.

"You and that social worker from the hospital who accused us of mistreating
him," Margaret said bitterly.  Caitlin's eyebrows shot up.

"What?"

Dammit.  Alcohol made Margaret a little more forthcoming than she usually
was.  She took another gulp of wine and hoped Bill wouldn't kill her for
talking about this.

"Child Protective Services.  They said it was routine.  Apparently, Fox
shows
signs of being an abused child," Margaret said.  Caitlin was truly stunned.

"Of course, our family has really been torn apart by Sam's
disappearance...so
it's only natural that Fox is angry and hurt, and misses his sister
terribly."

Caitlin put her drink down so that she could totally focus on Margaret.

"Maggie, there's a pretty big difference between a child who's abused
and one
who's traumatized."

Margaret gave a little laugh.

"That's what I tried to tell them," she said.  Caitlin shook her head.

"I've seen the bruises, Maggie," she said softly.  Margaret's expression
didn't change.  She was perfectly calm.

"Like I said, Fox has changed.  He's unruly; Bill needs to keep him in
line,"
she replied almost automatically.

"There is no excuse for hitting a child, or anyone, for that matter,"
Caitlin
said.  Margaret was still in her dream-world.

"That's not how it is.  Fox has to learn..."

"Maggie!"  Caitlin grabbed her friend by the shoulders, trying to shake
some
sense into her.  "You can't let this continue!  Do you hear me?  Abuse is
learned behavior.  Bill has got you so scared you don't know which way to
turn but to him, and he's using both emotional and physical abuse to
keep Fox
in line.  Eventually, Fox is going to pattern himself after Bill, or he's
going to be so emotionally damaged that his life won't be worth living. 
He's
your son, Maggie!"

Margaret glared at Caitlin.

"He's more Bill's son than mine."

How is that possible?" Caitlin asked, bewildered.  Margaret knew she'd said
too much.  She shook her head.

"I can't possibly explain it, Caitlin.  But my hands are tied.  There's
nothing I can do."

Caitlin stood, sickened.

"Then Bill has destroyed two lives."

Margaret stared blindly into her wine glass as Caitlin slammed the door
behind her.  Maybe that was true, she reasoned, but even if she wanted to
stand up to Bill she couldn't.  She hated and feared him so much that
she was
completely tied up in knots, dependent upon artificial substances to get
her
through the day.  Margaret glared sourly at her glass of wine, then stood,
walked into the kitchen, and poured it down the sink.

(continued in next post)
 

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (5/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Dirty creature's got me at a disadvantage from the inside;
I don't want to sail on the waters of invention tonight.
(Tim Finn, Neil Finn, Nigel Griggs)
-------------------------------------------------------------------

Fox glowered at his plate of orange spaghetti.  Unfortunately, it glowered
back.  Neill slid his tray next to Fox's and made a face.

"Christ.  You'd think they'd at least use food coloring," he grumbled.  Fox
smiled absently, then tried to figure out which method of attack on the
food
would make him less ill.  A frontal attack, maybe.  Fox stabbed at it with
his fork.  It bounced back.  He sighed and put his fork down, then
watched as
Neill downed his lunch.

"Are you insane?" Fox asked. "You're gonna regret that later."

Neill shook his head.

"I just don't eat the peas.  That's where the real trouble comes in."

Fox grinned.  Neill nudged him.

"Carlo alert."

Fox glanced around the lunchroom.  Carlo Orsatti was making his big
beefy way
through the line.  Girls clung to him, laughing at his every word.  Fox
shook
his head.

"He's not really fourteen.  It's not genetically possible," he said.  Neill
and Fox watched as Carlo collected his tray and ambled their way.  Neill
groaned and started picking up his stuff.

"Come on, we'll sit outside," he said.  Fox didn't move.  Neill stared at
him.

"He's gonna want to sit here, Fox.  Let's go."

Fox watched almost dispassionately as Carlo stopped in front of their
table.

"Out, Mulder," he grumbled.  Fox folded his hands and smiled.

"Say please," he said.  Carlo's Neanderthal brows came together in a V.

"Please."

Fox cocked his head, then shrugged.

"Not good enough.  We're sitting here, so why don't you go sit outside?"

Carlo set down his tray with a crash.  Neill bailed.

"Fox, come ON!"  he hollered.  Carlo reached across the table and
grabbed Fox
by the arm.  Fox didn't flinch.  He kept his unwavering gaze on the bigger
boy.  Carlo heaved, pulling Fox across the table and through the spaghetti.

"I said MOVE!"

Kids began running for cover and cafeteria workers started looking
around for
teachers.  Fox landed on the floor, hard.  Carlo, satisfied that he had
won,
sat down.  Fox slowly got to his feet and looked around.  Every kid in the
lunchroom was staring at him.  Instead of breaking out in a cold, panicked
sweat like he usually did, Fox just got mad.  Furious, in fact, trembling
with anger.  He clenched his fists and glared at Carlo's back.  Carlo felt
his gaze and slowly turned around.  He gave Fox a mocking smile.  Later on,
that was all that Fox could remember.  That smile, the same one Bill
gave him
so often.  The smile that told Fox how ridiculously pathetic he was, how
he'd
never amount to anything without Bill's guidance, how Fox and his mother
were
the two most worthless people on the planet, how losing Samantha had been
such a milestone to Bill that he refused to acknowledge his son.  Carlo's
grin broadened.  Fox hit him.

Fox felt nothing but fury, all the pent-up rage that had been building ever
since Sam disappeared, ever since he became nothing.  And Carlo was paying
for it.  Fox pulverized him, turned Carlo into a helpless infant.  When the
teachers finally came to break up what had turned into a fight to the
death,
it took four burly men to pull Fox off of Carlo.  Even then, Fox managed to
break the soccer coach's nose.  Carlo lay on the ground, face completely
bloodied, bawling hysterically as Fox screamed insult after insult at him.
 It felt good, it was a release, the only release Fox could imagine.  He
screamed until his throat was sore, flailed until he could no longer move.
 Anger flooded from every pore and Fox welcomed its departure.  Finally,
spent, arms bent behind him and his face smashed into the floor, he
subsided,
panting for breath.

The history teacher hauled him to his feet and stared at him.  Fox was
suddenly emaciated, as if the anger he'd released had actually been a
part of
his physical make-up.  Maybe it had, he reasoned.  Everybody knew that the
boy's father was a strict taskmaster.  Fox's spaghetti-splattered shirt
clung
wetly on his thin frame, his hair hung limply into his eyes.  His eyes. 
The
history teacher had never seen eyes as despondent, as empty before.
 Especially the eyes of a child.  If Fox Mulder didn't get help soon,
then no
amount of care in the world was going to save him.

     *****

Fox had broken his hand.  He watched calmly as the doctor applied the cast.

"Pitcher, aren't you?" the doctor asked.  Fox shrugged.

"Doesn't matter," he replied unemotionally.  The doctor hesitated, then
continued his work.

"Well, you'll be able to pitch again.  We just need to immobilize these
fingers for a few weeks.  Nothing too serious.  I'd hate to see the other
guy," he added, trying to lighten the atmosphere.  Fox smiled, a creepy
smile.

"I'll bet you would," he said.  The doctor finished up and stood, eager to
get away from Fox.  The boy stared at him.  The doctor couldn't tell if Fox
was in pain, or in any distress whatsoever.  He appeared calm, but he also
appeared as if he was in shock.  The emergency room door opened and Bill
Mulder stood there, staring in stunned horror at Fox.  Good, thought Fox
maliciously, I've shocked him.

Fox slid down from the table.  His knees gave and he almost hit the floor,
but the doctor gripped his elbow.

"We'll give you some pain pills --" he began.  Fox turned on him in a fury.

"No pills!" he barked.  The doctor could easily see Fox becoming
violent.  He
ducked his head.

"Okay, you can take aspirin, if you like.  I've got another patient, so if
you'll excuse me..."

Without waiting to be excused, the doctor bolted.  Bill stood in front
of his
son, shaking in anger and partly surprised at Fox's demeanor.

"They've suspended you," Bill said accusingly.  Fox shrugged.

"There's a surprise," he replied caustically.  Bill turned on his heel.

"I'm not dealing with you right now.  Get in the car.  I'm tired of picking
you up from hospitals."

Fox made a face at his father's back and followed him out.

     *****

Margaret's Journal  --
I've decided to start keeping a journal.  Caitlin was very angry with me
and
I started thinking about what she'd said.  Have I really rationalized
Bill's
behavior to such a degree that I ignore what he's doing to Fox?  Am I as
much
to blame as Bill?  Losing Samantha, especially the way we did, has left a
huge hole in me that I don't think I can repair.  It was so senseless,
and it
was all Bill's fault.  Talking about that fact, how can I feel so guilty
for
it?  Bill chose Fox, I know that now.  He deliberately shut off his
feelings
towards our son when he was born, knowing that even having children was
dangerous in his line of work.  And now Bill hates Fox for still being a
part
of our family.  But what kind of family can we have now that everything's
fallen to pieces?

Which child would I have chosen?  I take the pills so that I won't have to
think about this question.  It didn't seem real to me until Sam
disappeared.
 Now it's all I think about, and I must confess that there are times when I
resent Fox.  He must be feeling that.

When Bill brought him home from the hospital Fox appeared changed somehow.
 He challenged Bill, was quite rude to him, and Bill lost his temper and
hit
Fox, right in front of me.  I saw Bill's hand connect to Fox's face, heard
the slap, saw Fox's quick flash of anger.  I couldn't escape it, and for
the
first time, I couldn't tell myself that Fox deserved it.  He didn't deserve
it.  Bill has turned him into an automaton but it is beginning to backfire.
 Caitlin was right.  Abuse is learned, and one day Fox is going to turn on
Bill.

But then I ask myself if these changes Fox is going through might not be
for
his own good.  He is standing up to Bill now, something I've always dreamed
of doing.  How could I have failed a child who didn't need me in the first
place?  Maybe I'm wrong here.  Maybe things will calm down again, maybe
Bill
will see Fox as his son and not as a soldier to be trained.  Maybe.

     *****

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-------
There's a wild thing in the woolshed and it's keeping me awake at night;
A devil in the closet and a feeling I'd prefer to hide.
He is religion he won't hear me when I cry for help;
He has a vision of me but I am somebody else.
(Neil Finn)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-------

Fox woke from a fitful dream.  He gasped for breath, his heart pounding
madly.  In the dream, Samantha was drifting away from him, calling his
name,
screaming for his help.  And Fox couldn't move.  A weight pressed down
on his
chest.  Now he blinked at the bright sunlight that streamed into his room.
 He'd been suspended for two weeks and fortunately for him, Bill had been
sent out of town on business and Margaret didn't seem to have much interest
in punishing Fox, or even in acknowledging him.  Fox had been sleeping a
lot
this last week, but never at night.

He slowly got to his feet and felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen.  Fox
hadn't eaten anything in ages.  He sighed and commenced a dialogue with his
stomach.

"I feed you, and you rebel.  Then you make noise.  Just what do you
expect me
to do?"

His stomach didn't answer.  Fox shook his head, then picked up a book and
eased his door open.  The pain hit him as he started down the stairs and he
dropped his book, grabbing onto the banister with his good hand.  Good
Lord!
 The pain was strong and kept getting stronger.  Beads of sweat dotted his
brow as he tried to right himself.  Failing that, he collapsed onto a
stair,
clutching his stomach.  The pain was overwhelming, like someone had lit a
fire in his belly.

Fox could barely draw even the most shallow of breaths with which to
call his
mother.  He tried, very softly, but every time he tried the pain increased.
 Tears began rolling down his face as he imagined his mother, in
drugged-out
bliss, sleeping through his crisis.

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (6/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

Margaret's Journal --
I'm writing this quite a bit after the fact, because it's taken me days to
stop shaking.  We almost lost Fox, and it was my fault.  He's still in the
hospital (again), rushed there by ambulance.  The doctors say he has a
bleeding ulcer, very unusual in one so young.  He'd been in distress for
hours before I found him, passed out on the stairs.  Bill wasn't home,
he was
away on business.  This was my worst fear.  I couldn't imagine having to be
my son's rescuer, but somehow I managed.  I don't even remember what I
did, I
just knew that the most important thing in the world was my son.  At that
moment, as I sat with him and tried to revive him while the ambulance
was on
its way, I knew what my purpose was.

I talked for a long time to a social worker at the hospital, a lovely
man who
was positive that Fox had been physically and emotionally abused by
Bill.  He
claimed that I had been abused as well, a claim that I didn't deny after my
talk with Caitlin.  It's ironic, really, to think that all of this is
coming
to light and my main concern is that I haven't destroyed my life so much
that
I'll be unable to help my son.  No matter what happens, though, I'm
secure in
my love for Fox, my now-unselfish love.  Even if he hates me until the
end of
time, I will do right by him.

I sit with Fox all day, holding his hand, murmuring to him, reading from
his
favorite books.  He's in and out of consciousness and the social worker has
been wonderful about not notifying Bill.  It's just Fox and I.  I'm
determined to make that permanent, at least for awhile.  I've been
hatching a
plan, a plan that will break the terrible bond between Bill and my son.  A
plan to save Fox's life.  When Fox is released from the hospital, we're
going
away for the summer.  My brother has a horse ranch in upstate New York, a
wonderful place for boys who need to learn how to be boys again.  I'm
hopeful
that Fox and I can repair ourselves and perhaps build our relationship
again.
 Bill is sure to be against it, but he won't stop us.  I don't know if I
have
what it takes to do this, but I hope that the innate strength in my son
will
win out.

     *****

---------------------------------
I wanna be forgiven
I wanna laugh with children
Iwon't you ever forgive me
Please, please forgive me
I wanna hug my mother
And the sky above her
I want the Earth to open up
And hold me.
(Neil Finn)
---------------------------------

Fox stared sightlessly out of the car window at the rolling pastures.
 Margaret glanced at him.  She had kept a close eye on Fox ever since
they'd
left home hours ago.  The doctor had been fairly certain that Fox would be
all right to travel and Margaret, while making sure that she wouldn't be
harming Fox, was relieved to get the official medical word so that they
could
leave town before Bill returned.  Margaret sighed in relief as she spotted
the neat white fences that surrounded Ringsend Farm, her brother's place.
 The silence had been supercharged, and Fox had refused the pain pills the
doctor had prescribed, choosing instead to play the martyr.  He didn't want
to leave, Bill would be angry, he'd miss school, Bill would kill
him...every
other sentence was a dire pronouncement of what Bill would do when he found
his family gone.  Margaret had been very clear and specific about that fact
that they were not leaving Bill, but would return when Fox had recuperated.
 She had half-convinced him that he needed the time away.

Margaret parked at the edge of a long, winding driveway and smiled in
delight
when her brother Nick appeared.  Nick always made Margaret feel safe. 
He had
been instrumental in saving their own family when their father became an
alcoholic.  Big, strong Nick, with his close-knit family and world-class
racehorses.  Margaret helped a very pale Fox out of the car and Nick picked
her up in a bear-hug.

"Damn, girl, it's been too long!  Hope the trip wasn't too nasty.  Your boy
looks beat," Nick said.  Margaret grinned at him and looked at Fox, who had
the world-weary, cynical look on his face that he'd recently cultivated.
 Nick shook his hand carefully.

"You look bushed, pardner.  Come on in, we'll get you settled.  You can
rest
up a bit, then tomorrow I'll show you around," Nick said.  Margaret smiled
and put an arm around Fox's shoulders.

"You still talk in itineraries, don't you Nick?"

He grinned at her and motioned to a lanky teenaged girl, who had just
emerged
rather suspiciously from the back of the house.

"Eliza, come on over here and help me with the bags," Nick called.  The
girl
shuffled over and glared at Fox.  He stepped back.

"I'm not a porter, Nick," she growled.  Nick didn't even blink.

"Bags, Eliza.  Put 'em in the two rooms at the top of the stairs.  You
don't
have to ride Lousy tomorrow morning," he added.  The girl sighed, then
picked
up the bags and moved towards the house.  Fox's eyebrows rose.  She was
deceptively strong.  Margaret watched her go, then looked at Nick, a
question
in her eyes.  He laughed.

"Eliza's fifteen.  Brilliant rider, helps us break yearlings, exercise
lay-ups, that sort of thing.  Does it before school, after school, on
weekends.  Gonna be quite a trainer, that one.  You know what a lay-up is,
boy?" Nick barked.  Fox jumped, then shook his head.

"Gonna have to learn then, aren't you?"

Fox looked surprised.

"Well, what is it?" he inquired.  Nick chuckled and turned towards the
house.

"Look it up, kiddo.  No freebies here," he called over his shoulder.  Fox
turned his head and stared at his mother.

"He's your brother?" he asked.  Margaret nodded.

"My favorite brother," she answered.  Fox shook his head, disgusted, and
Margaret fought back a smile as she led Fox towards the house.

     *****

Margaret's Journal --
We've been at Nick's for two weeks now.  Physically, Fox is recovering.
 Mentally...I think there is still a lot of work to be done, and quite
frankly, I'm at a loss.  I've tried to make myself available to him but
he's
become reclusive, choosing to spend most of his time by himself.  He has
frequent nightmares but refuses to tell me about them.  It hurts me to see
him hurting so and while I revel in the fact that I can finally feel
again, I
pine for my son, who may not learn to feel because I may not be an adequate
teacher.

Nick has been a wonderful listener for these two weeks, very patient and
supportive.  I desperately want Fox to feel some of that support but he's
shut everyone off.  Nick tells me that I'm right to be concerned, but he
also
thinks that as long as Fox is surrounded by people who care and he's in a
safe environment, his strength will help him to return to the land of the
living.  Nick feels that Fox needs something to connect with, and it's his
hope that being on a horse farm will give Fox opportunities that he
wouldn't
have received back home.

I have spent time exploring the beginnings of my bond to my son, now I need
him to explore his bond to me.

     *****

Fox was bored.  He'd looked up the latest ridiculous horse term, changing
leads, and had delivered his report to his uncle.  He'd read all the books
his mother had gotten for him in town and had finished reading a book his
uncle had on breeding, by some guy named Tesio.  Fox had found it somewhat
intriguing, but now he was going stir crazy.  The town doctor had given him
the okay to take short walks outside but Fox was vaguely uncomfortable with
the formidable farm.  Getting lost and having his head kicked in by some
psychotic horse was definitely not on his schedule.

But, like it or not, Fox was fourteen, and his natural curiosity finally
drove him outside.  It was either that or another game of chess with his
mother.  She was a willing player, but Fox could beat her so easily that
there was no longer any sport in it.  And, oddly, he didn't like beating
his
mother.  There was something going on between them, there was an awareness
that hadn't been there before.  Fox was starting to feel safe with her
but he
couldn't allow that, because once Bill was back in the picture his mother
would fade into the distance, into her role as the cipher.  And Fox was
getting too attached to her.

Fox eased the front door open and peeked outside.  It was a lovely spring
day.  Margaret and Nick had gone into town, leaving Fox to his own devices.
 He stood for a long moment at the door, then finally stepped outside and
closed the door behind him.

The farther he walked the better he felt.  The farm was really beautiful
and
there was something ethereal about watching the foals and mares cavort
in the
paddocks.  Fox leaned against one pristine white fence and watched five
foals
bravely dash away from their mothers, proving that their desire to race was
innate.  Fox smiled wistfully.  The foals would be taken away from their
mothers, have strange devices shoved into their mouths and onto their
backs,
and be piloted around by strangers, who would hit them repeatedly with
whips
to make them run faster.  Their innocent youth would be over.  Fox felt
that
his youth was over, too.  They would have a lovely time in the country, Fox
would recover, and they would go back to their lives, each assuming their
roles.  Nothing would change.  Nothing ever changed.  Fox sighed,
envying and
pitying the young horses, and hoping that none of them were going to be
raised and taught by someone like his father.

     *****

Eliza Duncan really wanted to kill this colt.  He threw his head higher,
eyes
rolling, daring her.  She sighed.

"Lousy, you son of a bitch, I'd say you're healed, what about you?"

In answer, the horse pawed the ground.

"Piss and vinegar," Eliza grumbled.  Like lightning, she reached up and
grabbed the colt's ear.  He snorted and tried to pull away, but Eliza
quickly
and professionally haltered him, undid the stall webbing, and led him out.

"No matter how smart you are, Lousy, you're still a horse," Eliza taunted.
 Lousy tried to take a piece out of her arm, but Eliza yanked on the
shank to
discourage him.

"You behave yourself, buddy boy.  You make me miss that race and you're
back
in solitary."

Eliza led the tall colt out into the soft sunshine and then she really did
have a problem on her hands.  Someone was standing, silhouetted, at the end
of the shed row.  Lousy, his routine upset, leaped backwards, nearly
tearing
the shank out of Eliza's hands.

"Coward!"  she yelled at him.  Eliza finally wrestled the colt back under
control and peered at the figure.

"Who the hell are you?" she barked.  "You nearly gave him a heart attack."

The figure stepped closer and Eliza recognized the slender form as Nick's
nephew, the city boy, Fox or Wolf or something.  He seemed a little scared,
but not too concerned that Lousy had nearly gotten away.  That made Eliza
mad.

"I asked you a question," she said.  He stared at Lousy, who was still
snorting and stamping.  He still looked incredibly pale and very sad, as if
something so horrible had happened to him that there was no longer joy in
anything.  His hollow eyes slid from Lousy to Eliza, and Eliza found her
anger dissipate.  She suddenly felt a dull ache for the boy.  Lousy danced
backwards and Eliza crashed back to Earth, startled at the empathy she felt
for this person she'd barely spoken two words two.  He said something.

"Sorry," he whispered softly, eyes still on the horse, "I was just taking a
walk.  I didn't know I wasn't supposed to be back here.  I'm Fox
Mulder," he
added.  Eliza nodded, pleased that now that the boy was coming closer,
Lousy
was calming down.  He had some sort of effect on Lousy.

"No, it's okay," she said.  "You're Nick's nephew, you can go wherever you
want.  It's just that Lousy's really a head-case and you startled me,
that's
all."

He nodded slowly and looked at her.

"Can I touch him?" he said breathlessly.  Touch Lousy?  Why the hell not?
 Eliza nodded and took a firm grip on the shank.  She debated about
putting a
lip chain on the colt, but he was totally calm right now, his chocolate
brown
eyes gazing into those of the boy.  Fox took two steps forward and put
out a
hand.  He grinned delightedly and stroked the colt's velvety muzzle.  Eliza
grinned back.  The smile on Fox's face almost negated the pain and sadness.
 It made him presentable.  It made Eliza invite him to the gathering.

"You wanna come back to the office and watch a race with us?" she blurted
out.  Fox looked at her, still softly stroking Lousy, who seemed to love
it.

"A horse race?" he asked.  Eliza snorted.

"Uh, yeah.  We kinda favor those around here," she replied caustically. 
The
abrasive retort didn't faze Fox.

"Sure."

"Lemme just put this guy up, okay?"

Fox shrugged and stepped back as she led Lousy back to his stall.

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (7/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

The office was packed.  Fox's expression had gone back to wary and
frightened
as Eliza introduced him around.  Maybe throwing him together with a
bunch of
racetrack no-goods was a bad idea, Eliza thought.  Fox smiled and shook
hands, rather automatically, as if he was observing the human race rather
than being a part of it.  Eliza looked at Jack, the yearling manager.

"Start yet?"

Jack shook his head.  He was a tall, lanky soft-spoken man who had once
been
a gymnast.  He still hadn't lived that down.

"They just did a nice feature on Frank, though," he said.  Eliza rolled her
eyes.

"That's fiction," she said.  A chuckle was heard round the room.  Fox
watched
every move, heard every comment.  It was finally too much.

"Uh...what race are we watching?" he asked innocently.  The group held its
collective tongue.  Eliza was proud of them.

"The Coaching Club Oaks," she replied casually.  Fox nodded.  She stared at
him.  Finally, with a sheepish grin, he gave in.

"Okay, fill me in," he said.

"There she is!" Stan, one of the grooms, said excitedly.  Eliza positioned
Fox in front of the TV set.

"Just watch that horse and you'll know all you need to know," she said
slyly.
 Fox looked at the TV.  A rather large black horse pranced majestically on
the screen.  Fox got a closer look, then glanced at Eliza.

"That's a filly?" he asked in surprise.  Eliza nodded.

"Yep.  One of the all-time greats, Fox.  Her name's Ruffian."

"Ruffian," Fox murmured.  Ruffian was quite a specimen.  She was enormous,
coal-black, and had that arrogance that great athletes have.  Fox couldn't
take his eyes off her.  The crowd cheered as the filly took her place in
the
starting gate.  She broke explosively, disdainful of her opposition and in
fact, paying little attention to them.  Her feet flew and her tiny rider
sat
motionless on her broad back.  The other horses never even got close to
her.
 There was never another horse in front of her.  Fox marveled at her power,
at her absolute domination.  Ruffian crossed the finish line and the office
erupted into a huge cheer.  People hugged each other, gave high fives,
congratulated each other as if they had had something to do with the
filly's
victory.  Fox's eyes never left the screen.  He watched the huge filly
gallop
out then circle and return, almost nodding to her fans, the thousands who
hugged the rail, cheering themselves hoarse for the filly.  Eliza put a
hand
on Fox's shoulder.

"First race, huh?" she asked.  He nodded as he watched the Janneys
gracefully
accept the trophy for Ruffian's win.

"It's amazing," he said, awestruck.

"SHE'S amazing," Eliza corrected.  "It'll be a long time before we ever see
another filly like her."

"She won't ever be beaten."

Eliza laughed.

"Look at this, guys!  He's a tout after his first race!" she crowed.  The
others laughed along with her, but Fox was still watching the filly.  He
knew
that it would take an act of God to defeat her, because she had been
sent by
God.  Fox had never seen anything like her, never seen anything with so
much
power, such lightning in a bottle.  Ruffian was exactly what Fox
needed.  He
had found his connection.

     *****

Fox was driving Nick insane, and if Nick hadn't known the boy's history, he
would have been pissed.  As it stood, he happily answered any and all
questions about Ruffian, the Janneys, Frank Whitely, and Jacinto
Vasquez.  He
managed to procure film of the filly's previous races and discussed at
great
length her leg injury at two.  By the end of the week, Fox Mulder was a
Ruffian aficionado.  Nick was actually stunned at Fox's rapid
assimilation of
information.  The boy was beyond bright; he was a genius.  Soon, he was
giving Nick lessons on speed figures.  That gave Nick the creeps and he
wondered vaguely about Bill Mulder.  He'd met Bill only once and had found
him affable and charming.  Margaret certainly seemed to love him and
rejoiced
when Fox was born.

Nick sighed and popped the tab on a beer.  He hadn't really listened to
Margaret when she began talking about how distant Bill was to the boy,
hadn't
really listened when Margaret had voiced her opinions about how hard
Bill was
riding Fox...hadn't really listened until Samantha had been taken.  Nick
should have taken Fox then.  He'd suggested it, late one night after
Margaret
had called him, sobbing about the abuse Bill was inflicting on Fox.  But
Nick
never stuck his nose into the affairs of others, and when Margaret had
refused his offer, he quite frankly forgot about it.  That was over a year
ago and Nick had been up to his neck with some grand-looking yearlings. 
He'd
forgotten about his own sister.

Nick felt that flash of anger again, the anger and pride that had gotten
him
to where he was today.  He was frequently angry at himself and it took a
great amount of self-control to not inflict that upon those he loved.
 Margaret and Nick had been intensely close as children and Nick didn't
question for a second the theory that Margaret had married a man like her
favorite brother.  Bill was short-tempered, brilliant, and driven. 
Margaret
had a special way of cajoling her husband into giving her what she wanted,
which was how she became the mother of two lovely children.

Samantha...Nick remembered her from a summer visit about five years
ago.  She
was a sunny child, but there was always something vaguely disturbed about
her, as if she knew more than anybody else and didn't like the power that
came with her knowledge.  Fox had been surly and had disobeyed his
mother to
such an extreme that he had been confined to his room for the duration
of the
trip.  Nick had dismissed Fox abruptly, thinking the boy lazy and stupid.
 Nick had forgotten what it was like to be nine years old and the
brother of
an adorable younger sister.  Nick had never had the weight of the world on
his shoulders, and to see Fox before and Fox after was painful.  The boy
was
wasting away as sure as anyone with a serious physical ailment.  Whatever
Bill Mulder had done it had broken Fox's spirit and according to Margaret,
that was exactly what Bill had wanted to do.

"Did you hear?" A breathless voice sounded at his elbow.  Nick jumped,
spraying beer all over the cat, who meowed furiously, sneezed, and left the
room with as much dignity as she could muster.  Fox was dancing from one
foot
to the other, eyes sparkling.  Nick wanted to cry, the boy looked so good.

"Did I hear what?" Nick asked good-naturedly.  Fox looked like he was going
to burst.

"There's gonna be a match race!  Heard it on the news.  July 6th, at
Belmont,
between Ruffian and Foolish Pleasure!"

Nick actually gasped.  Fox was thrilled.  Stunning an adult with real news
was a rare treat.

"Oh my God," Nick said, shocked.  "I can't believe Whitely would do
this.  Oh
my God.  Particulars, Fox!"  Nick commanded.  Fox grinned.

"A mile and a quarter.  Three-hundred fifty thousand, two-fifty to the
winner.  CBS is gonna cover it.  Eliza says it's the biggest event in
racing
in decades!"

Nick smiled the smile that the veterans reserve for the young and
enthusiastic.

"Too bad you weren't a fan a mere two years ago," Nick said.  Fox looked
puzzled.

"Secretariat, Fox.  Geez, haven't you been studying?"

Fox shook his head, dismissing the greatest American thoroughbred of the
second half of the century.

"Secretariat got himself beat by Onion.  Couldn't win any race starting
with
a 'W'.  Ruffian -"

"Has never been headed, never been outrun at any point in a race, never
been
extended.  I know the drill, Fox."

Fox looked at Nick, incredulous.

"You can't seriously think that Foolish Pleasure has a CHANCE?"  He
asked in
amazement.  Nick stood and reached for a fresh beer, tossing a root beer to
Fox.

"It's horse racing, son.  You always have to remember that.  The minute you
let yourself get attached -"  Nick stopped himself from saying something
incredibly stupid.  Fox's eyes narrowed and suddenly, Nick was scared.  He
had to remember that Fox, with all of his boundless enthusiasm, was still
weak from his illness and emotionally disturbed.  And here he was, great
cynical horseman, trying to put a stop to Fox's joy!  Maybe he was a little
more like Bill Mulder than he cared to admit.  He looked at Fox.  That
thought disturbed him.

"Foolish Pleasure is a pretty nice colt, Fox," he said softly.  Fox
snorted.

"His figs don't even come close to Ruffian's.  She's never even been
extended.  He's lost his last two and despite the Derby win, is suspect at
the distance.  Besides, Vasquez chose Ruffian."

Nick wanted to applaud.  Fox was as passionate as Nick had ever been.

"You're like I was when Dr. Fager and Kelso were making the rounds.
 Greatness surprises us, Fox, and it's a wonderful thing to be able to
embrace it.  Hell, after Secretariat, I didn't think we'd see another great
horse for twenty years or so.  And I certainly thought the next great horse
would have Northern Dancer bloodlines," Nick mused, almost to himself.

"So you think she's great?"  Fox asked, as if his whole world was
hinging on
the answer.  Nick thought about it.  The boy deserved an honest answer.  He
thought about Buckpasser, Northern Dancer, Bold Ruler and Native
Dancer.  He
remembered the brilliance of Hoist the Flag, of Mill Reef.  He nodded.

"I absolutely do," he replied strongly.  Fox nodded soberly at him, and
Nick
was glad that he hadn't written the boy off, hadn't decided that Fox's
opinions and desires weren't important.  And he knew he had to have a talk
with Margaret about this remarkable boy.

     *****

Margaret's Journal --
I'm not so sure about letting Fox go to see this race.  Nick assures me
that
it's important to Fox, and has actually intimated that it might be the only
thing that's bringing him out of his shell.  But it's hard for me to put
all
my hope into one event, because I find that I wake up in cold sweats at
night
wondering if it's right to let Fox pin all his hopes on this.  He doesn't
know he's doing it, but he's become such a passionate, lively child, and
I'd
hate to see that taken away.  I think that my anxiety is due in part to our
return home.

Fox is recuperating wonderfully and I can no longer put Bill off.  He
demands
to see his son, and even given everything that's happened, who am I to deny
him that right?  Nick says it's a privilege, not a right, and that Bill
hasn't proven to be deserving.  But there are things I can't tell Nick,
horrible things, things that I hope Fox never knows.  Our aborted family
will
limp along and Fox will never know what went wrong.  I only hope that I'm
strong enough, that I gain enough strength over the next month, to give Fox
some semblance of support and love.  I know he loves me, which is certainly
more than I knew a month ago.  But respect?  I crave it, and I don't
know if
Fox can ever respect me.

The day of the race dawns.  Fox is going alone with Nick.  He
half-heartedly
asked me to come, but I would just be in the way.  It was a magnanimous
gesture and I love him for it.  He's never been to Belmont Park and Nick is
as excited as Fox about seeing Ruffian.  I still don't understand Fox's
attraction and connection to this horse, but I do understand the happy
child
in front of me.  If only he can maintain this joy when we are forced to go
back home.  I'm concerned that he can't, that he's not strong enough,
that he
doesn't have the confidence.  Or maybe it's I who doesn't have the
confidence
in my own child.  I will do some heavy thinking while Fox is gone.  I
have to
get my head straight.  I have to be ready to defend my child.

     *****

Belmont Park was beyond crowded.   Fox darted through the throng, trying to
keep Nick in sight.  Nick turned, caught Fox's eye.

"Paddock," he mouthed.  Fox nodded, his excitement building after the long
car trip.  They reached the paddock and Fox deftly dove through the
six-deep
crowd to the rail.  There she was.  Ruffian stood in front of him.   The
filly manifested Fox's dream, fears and nightmares.  She was perfect.  Fox
knew she'd never lose, but he couldn't get rid of that palpable fear that
he'd felt after awakening from a particularly gruesome nightmare the night
before the race.  He had been in a grey room, dressed in grey clothing.  An
intense spotlight was on him.  Figures moved past him, vaguely threatening
figures.  They reached out cold hands, taunting him.  Always hands.

Fox drew away, terrified about what would happen if they touched him.
 Something made him look up and he saw Samantha as he had many times in his
dreams.  She was floating, eyes closed, unencumbered.  Fox stood and
shielded
his eyes from the light.  He called to her, but she didn't respond.  He
panicked and tried to reach her.  Unable, he began to scream at the
figures,
but they, too, ignored him.  They all ignored him.

When Fox woke up, gasping for breath, a memory flickered in his head.  It
sidetracked him from the nightmare and he searched his mind desperately,
trying to pinpoint its location.  It was a feeling more than a thought, a
feeling of incredible dismay and frustration.  He'd sat in silence for some
time, shivering, dreading.

Now he shook those feelings away and concentrated on the filly.  She was
staring wild-eyed at Foolish Pleasure, and even Fox had to admire the
compact
chestnut.  He was quite a specimen, even though he was no Ruffian.  She
seemed...otherworldly.

     *****

MOTHER OF VIOLENCE (8/8)
Parateam@aol.com

     *****

They're approaching the gate now and Fox is feeding off of the energy of
those surrounding him.  Fans, some just spectators, some long-standing
horse-players, are rooting for the filly.  She is their champion, their
savior, the great hope for the sport.  A lot rests on her strong shoulders
but there's no doubt that she can handle it.  She is unique.

Nick cheers along with the crowd, reveling in the spirit that so
infrequently
visits racing.  This is a moment of celebration, a day to crown a true
queen.

Fox is crushed between a very large man and the rail, but his gaze never
wavers from the filly as she walks regally into the gate.  Vasquez sits
chilly on her, making certain that she is focused and on her toes, but not
asking her to expend any energy yet.  Braulio Baeza, on Foolish Pleasure,
checks his goggles, his whip, feels the courage of his colt.  The colt and
the filly eye each other.  Fox watches her eyes, her strong legs, her
desire.
 He's with her in the gate.

As abruptly as always the bell clangs, the gates fly open, the horses
break.
 Ruffian surges out of the gate and Fox revels in her strength.  A seagull
startles her, but Vasquez settles her and she assumes the lead.  She's
never
been headed before and this will not be the first time.  Fox is suddenly
looking out through Ruffian's eyes, seeing the long lonely track ahead. 
But
he sees it the way she does -- as a battleground, a place to prove herself,
one more hurdle to greatness.  Fox laughs, giddy with excitement.  Vasquez
sits low on her back, saving her strength.  Ruffian is ahead and he hasn't
even asked her.  Baeza clucks to Foolish Pleasure and shakes the reins,
asking his colt to close the gap.  He does, but there is a strain to his
stride.  He's having trouble keeping up with the magnificent filly.

The crowd is roaring.  This is what they wanted.  Two horses, going as fast
as they possibly can, proving themselves against each other.  Through
Ruffian's eyes, Fox sees Foolish Pleasure edging forward.  Vasquez
shakes the
reins.  She responds, surges forward.  She will not be headed.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, everything changes.  Fox feels a shooting
pain through his body.  It radiates, punctures him.  He gasps and if it
wasn't for the man crushing him into the rail, he would fall.  His vision
blurs.  The sustained roar of the crowd becomes a scream.  Fox has lost
precious inches on the rail and must strain to see what's going on.  His
world collapses.  He sees Foolish Pleasure, Baeza looking behind,
cruising on
the lead.  Ruffian is staggering behind the colt, obviously in distress.
 Every step that Ruffian takes in trying to catch the colt makes the pain
worse for Fox.  He can hardly breathe.  Fox is screaming at her, trying to
get her to stop killing herself.  The filly is furious, scared, in
pain.  The
colt speeds away from her.  The crowd is now silent, horrified, afraid to
move.

The outrider catches the filly and she pulls to a stop, sides heaving, eyes
white-rimmed.  Vasquez, quaking, hops down and takes the reins, patting
her,
trying to soothe her and control her in her pain.  Now that the filly is
standing, right leg lifted off the ground, the pain in Fox eases.  He's
able
to breathe once more.  He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns.  It's
Nick.
 Tears are streaming down his face.  Fox cocks his head, looking at his
emotional uncle.  Nick envelops him in a bear hug.  Fox gasps.  The pain is
still there but it's subsiding now, diminishing.  Suddenly, it's gone
and Fox
almost collapses.  The horror of what he's just seen hits him and he wraps
his arms around his uncle and sobs.

     *****

"She's dead," Nick announced quietly.  Fox, dazed, didn't respond.  Nick
sat
down.  He could still see the breakdown and the courageous filly's
attempt to
do what she had been bred, born and trained to do.  He could still see
Frank
Whitely's blank mask of a face as he talked to Vasquez and looked after his
filly.  He could still see Ruffian rearing in terror, temporary cast on her
shattered leg.  Nick knew, at that moment, that the surgery would not be
successful.  And he had a suspicion that Fox knew even before he did.  Nick
wondered why he stayed in this sport, what use it was to anyone.  And
now he
was worried about Fox, about how the boy's fragile spirit would take this
tragedy.

"They had to put her down.  She came out of the anesthetic too fast and --"

"I know," Fox said softly.  Nick stared at him.  Fox smiled a sad smile.

"Fox, I --"

Fox stood.

"I need to be alone for awhile, Uncle Nick.  I've got to --" Fox made a
helpless gesture, "-- figure stuff out.  Things happened, and..."

The boy's voice trailed off.  Nick nodded sadly.  Fox was once again the
hollow-eyes child he had been when he had arrived.  Nick had been wrong
about
Fox's passion.  He had it, he used it sparingly, and when it surfaced it
became all-consuming.  Nick figured that it would serve Fox well in the
future, but also that it would cause Fox to pay a pretty high price.  Nick
watched Fox walk out of the room and prayed for his survival.

     *****

Fox stared sightlessly at the cavorting foals.  They were a little older
now
and seemed to take their games more earnestly.  He watched their spindly
legs
and wondered how on Earth these creatures could have survived.

He sighed and closed his eyes, then opened them immediately when it became
clear that he was going to see Ruffian staggering down Belmont's stretch
for
some time to come.

"Fox."

Startled, Fox turned.  His mother stood there.  She hadn't said much to him
when Nick and Fox had returned, which, Fox figured, was par for the course.
 She usually refused to become entangled in Fox's life.  But there was
something now about her demeanor.  She stood a little straighter, looked
him
in the eye without the faintest hint of trepidation...she didn't seem so
afraid anymore.  Of him, of his father...

"Hi, Mom," he answered.

She stepped towards him, joined him on the fence and watched the foals. 
She
smiled.

"They're adorable, aren't they?" she said.  Fox smiled slightly.  She
glanced
at him, noticed the shadow pass through his eyes.  He'd been through so
much
and Margaret had been so wrapped up in her pain that she hadn't noticed her
son's pain.  And yes, she had blamed him somewhat for Samantha's
disappearance.  She still didn't understand...but that wasn't a viable
reason
to ignore Fox.  She'd recently began to marvel about what a unique and
special child he was, in spite of the treatment he had received.  And he
deserved more than that.  If Bill was unwilling to give it, if he was
unwilling to appreciate the fight left in Fox, then it was up to
Margaret to
guide him, even if she didn't feel up to it sometimes.  She was all he had
left.

"How are you doing?" she asked.  He sighed and turned away from the
cavorting
foals.  He looked at her searchingly, appraising her, wondering if he could
trust her.  Could he?  Margaret wondered.  Had she earned trust from Fox?
 Probably not, but she was going to try.  These past weeks had been
liberating for Margaret.  She had been able to live without fear, although
the struggle now was to figure out how she could take Fox back to Bill and
still survive, still have some semblance of her new self.  Margaret kept
her
gaze on her son.  Fox shrugged, attempting to belittle his pain.  And that
hurt Margaret more than anything else.  She found herself speaking, the
words
flowing, tumbling out of her mouth.

"You are allowed to feel, Fox.  You made a connection and you feel that the
connection was broken, that your world was shattered.  But it wasn't."

"She lives inside me, right?" Fox asked sarcastically.  Margaret usually
approved of Fox's ability to use humor and sarcasm to deflect his pain, but
not now.  He was in a crisis, he was hurt and confused, he was lost.
 Margaret didn't miss a beat.

"Nothing lives inside you," Margaret said flatly.  "That's a myth that has
been perpetuated by people who need justification.  You should never
overlook
your pain.   It's your secret weapon, your driving force.  Ruffian was an
icon for you, one that you dearly needed.  She gave you the strength
that you
don't feel you have.  She was absolute perfection and you channeled through
her.  She did through instinct and never had to cower in fear that she
would
be beaten or ridiculed or humiliated.  She just didn't have that in
her.  And
as she struggled on to the finish line, destroying her leg in order to
catch
the other horse, you still fed on her courage.  But you don't need to
anymore, Fox.  You ARE courageous.  You're not perfect, you're screwed
up in
fact, due in part to my own negligence and fear.  Perfection doesn't have a
place on this Earth.  Real life is gritty, depressing, horrific.  And so
was
Ruffian's death because in the end, she was mortal and real.  Samantha -- "

"Mom, stop," Fox pleaded.  Margaret looked at him.  He was slumped,
defeated,
thin.  There was more pain in his gaze than Margaret had ever felt herself,
and still Fox had the presence of mind to keep fighting.  But how to impart
this to him?  How can she tell him that she DOES blame him in part for
Samantha's abduction, but at the same time loves him fiercely and is
incredibly proud of him?  How does she steel him to Bill's desire to
turn Fox
into one of his robots?

"I felt her," he said softly.  Margaret looks at him, surprised.  He
wipes a
tear away from his eye.

"When she broke her leg, I felt it.  I was in so much pain...and so was
she,
but she kept running.  I almost passed out from the pain.  I screamed at
her
to stop.  She was killing herself and she knew it.  She didn't listen to
me.
 If she would have stopped, she would have survived.  She didn't have to
die.
 Why didn't she stop?"

Fox's tear-stained face turned towards Margaret.  He was asking her for the
answer, appealing to her knowledge, trusting her.

"Oh, Fox..."  For a minute, Margaret felt that she would fail this
test.  But
she spoke to her son from the heart.  "She's a great horse, a champion.
 Greatness doesn't let you stop.  It doesn't let you quit, no matter
what the
odds.  It's Ruffian's determination and heart that connected to you,
Fox, and
that still exists because the whole world saw her try in vain to win, even
after she'd hurt herself so badly.  I saw it, Fox, and I see it in you,
too.
 She's helped you to recapture that part of you, the part that won't quit."

Fox digested this.

"I just can't look at it..." His voice trailed off.  He sounded so fragile,
his voice so thin and defeated.

"You haven't lost it, Fox.  It's just buried.  Greatness isn't all power
and
grace, it's also dark and fractured.  Like you.  Ruffian's body was broken,
but never her spirit," Margaret said.  She watched Fox's face change.  He
looked at her, and he was hers again.  Fox was indeed a smart child, an
intuitive child, and one who would not accept that the world would be
handed
to him wrapped up in bright paper.  He had never been allowed to accept
that.
 His world was dark and grimy, fraught with nightmares and a sister whose
disappearance Fox couldn't remember.  Fox's world was monsters who hit
him in
the face when he failed a test, ogres who could destroy with a single
world.
 Defeat.  But Ruffian's achievements and even her death had showed Fox that
greatness could live alongside pain and fear.  Greatness demanded it in
order
to prove courage.  Fox saw that now.  He smiled tentatively.

Margaret Mulder, the woman who never thought much of herself and would
never,
ever consider herself a worthy mother, let instinct take over.  Just like
Ruffian, she gave Fox what he needed.  She reached for him.  He pulled
away,
but she wouldn't accept that.  She knew best.  She was his mother.  She
wrapped her arms around her son and crushed him to her chest.  He
stiffened,
tried to pull away.  She wouldn't let him.  She felt his hesitation,
then he
relented and put his arms around her.  All the hate, all the anger, all the
pain, flooded through her.  She was strong, though, and she stood her
ground.
 Fox clung to her, once again a small child, uncertain in the world, and
let
his mother teach him.  She taught him about courage and compassion,
conviction and connection.  For that moment, she was his guide to his
confused world.

     *****

Fox's Journal -
This is stupid.  Um...Mom keeps a journal and she says it's helped her sort
out her feelings while we've been gone...I don't have a lot to sort out, at
least I don't think so, but Mom was happy with our vacation away from
Dad and
I am too, really.  I'd like to thank her for what she did for me, but she
says she didn't do anything, that she just let me find my connection.

I really thought that Ruffian, or the image of Ruffian, would help me
somehow.  I can't explain it, but I did feel a connection to her...soul.
 Geez.  That sounds stupid.  But how else are you going to explain what I
saw, how I felt?  I DID get something from her.  Her strength.  I can
see the
world again, and part of it doesn't have my father in it.  Maybe I can live
in that part.  Truth is, I love my dad, but I hate the kind of person he
is.
 I know he'd do anything to keep me safe, but it'll always be on his terms.
 I've got my own terms.  Mom says that those are growing pains and that
it's
natural to want to knock Dad off his pedestal.  I say it's survival,
nothing
more.  I want to survive.  I want that connection and I won't let anything
stand in the way of it.

Uncle Nick gave me a picture of Ruffian that he'd taken in the walking
ring.
 She's looking right at the camera, through it really, and you can see the
intelligence in her eyes and the untamed fire.  Ruffian did things on
her own
terms, too.  I still don't know what I want to do with my life, but I
know I
don't want to follow in my father's footsteps like he wants me to.  I won't
be a good little soldier, no matter how much he berates and abuses me.  I
won't play into that anymore.

I miss my sister, and I know my parents do, too...and one day I'm going to
find her.  But I've learned so much about the world, about the hate and
grief
and unfairness of it all, that I either have to give in or search for some
pureness, some sanity.  Some truth.

     *****

Bill Mulder stood at the door, watching as Margaret and Fox slowly made
their
way up the walkway.  Fox had grown in these two months.  He was still thin
and wan, but stronger somehow.  His gait was more sure, almost cocky.  He
locked eyes with Bill.  Bill stepped aside, allowing his family back in the
house.  There was a distance in Fox that scared Bill, and it was so
different
from his usual demeanor that it took him completely by surprise.  So
much so
that he stuck out his hand.  Fox shook it strongly.

"Welcome home, son," Bill whispered.

"Thanks, Dad," Fox replied.  Margaret stood just behind Fox, not shielding
him from Bill for the first time ever.  If anything, Fox seemed to be
protecting his mother.  Bill kissed her on the cheek and took her bags.  He
watched his son, who looked around the living room, perversely glad to be
home.

Bill had lost him, he knew that now.  Whatever Fox had experienced at
Nick's
had changed him, made him more complete and less reliant on Bill.  For some
reason, Bill felt an enormous amount of relief.  He could honestly tell his
cohorts that Fox was his own man, strong and willful, and unable to be
turned.  Bill felt lighter, more relaxed than he had in years.  He had
loved
his son, but he hadn't respected him.  Now perhaps he would make the
effort.

     *****

Fox Mulder sighed, ran a hand through his already rumpled hair, and tore
off
a piece of tape, which he affixed to the window.  He looked at his rather
lopsided X, then set the tape down on the messy desk.  His hand absently
brushed over an old photograph, tinted with age, stuck into the blotter.
 Ruffian looked boldly out of the photo, straight into Mulder's heart.  He
smiled somewhat sadly, then sat down on the couch to await his informant.

--------------------------------------------------
Fear, fear -- she's the mother of violence
Making me tense to watch the way she breed;
Fear, she's the mother of violence
You know self-defense is all you need.
The only way you know she's there
Is the subtle flavor in the air;
Getting hard to breathe
Hard to believe in anything at all
But fear.
(Peter Gabriel)
---------------------------------------------------

Q.E.D.