Title: Knuckle Painting
Author: Obfusc8er
Feedback: aobfuscata@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.
Category: Angst, mild MT.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter, FOX
and/or 1013.
Archive: If you have previous permission, go for it. If
not, please ask first.
Note: This story was written for the Mulder's Refuge
December fic contest.
Challenge words included: fan fixation, pan dulce, wreck,
painting, magic eight ball, dust bunny, and poetry.

Props to XU for the bitchin' beta, 'cause you are the suck.
(Sorry that you had to edit your own "surprise". <g>)

This fanfic is dedicated to XU. Your encouragement has been
much appreciated, and the time you share is a gift. Thank
you.

Thanks also to O2 and DFS for your honest objectivity, your
willingness to listen, and for kicking my ass when I needed
it.


********

>From "The Boxer" by Paul Simon

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him
down
Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains

********




"Bastard."

My breath emerges as white fog, giving the word a transient
physical form. The tang of blood coats my tongue. I spit in
contempt, and the pinkish wad lands with a splat on black
asphalt. The gurney bangs against the loading deck of the
ambulance, but I don't turn toward the sound. I am ignoring
the patient quite deliberately, staring at my recovered
service weapon, pretending to check the safety and loading
chamber while I secretly fume inside. I pop the clip out
and shove it in a pocket as a preventative measure. The
white and red doors slam shut, and the ambulance finally
leaves.

"Mulder, are you sure you don't want to have your hands
looked at?"

My partner's voice floats so innocently over my shoulder.
It's infuriating. Sure. I'd love to show the world the
ineptitude that is smeared all over my knuckles.

"No. I'm fine."

It hurts, but there is no way I'm admitting to that. The
humiliation is far worse. She wouldn't understand, anyway.
It's a guy thing.

"Okay. I'm going back to the office to fill out the
paperwork."

Yeah. Discharge of a weapon. Rub it in.

"Sure. I'll see you later," I reply.

I turn to her, hands and gun shoved into the deep pockets
of my trench coat. She isn't really paying attention to me,
anyway, and I'm not surprised. She's already started toward
her car, cell phone in hand, inquiring about the status of
the man on his way to the hospital.

Anger wells up inside me with the knowledge that I did not
do my job. I did not protect her. I let the guy kick my
ass. If she wasn't such a good shot... The possibilities make
my muscles quake. Only great restraint prevents me from
unleashing my frustration on the nearest object, in this
case a streetlamp.

The local police are almost done with the scene, so they
pay me no attention. Just as well. A cold drizzle alights
on my face and quickly covers the high brick walls with a
thousand teardrops.  I wander out of the wan circle of
light surrounding the old iron post, following the lazy
path of rainwater seeking a gutter in which to hide. Soon,
I find myself in a small side alley. The dark outlines of a
few boxes and a pile of discarded furniture adorn one side,
the colors indiscernible under the indirect illumination. I
gaze up into the night sky at the new moon and feel at
home, appropriately surrounded by the discarded. The
useless.

I really need to take a leak.

I sigh, realizing that my trench coat will need to be sent
to the cleaners. Red streaks cover my fingers, and a couple
of drops roll down to the muzzle of the Sig. Both hands
bleed, but the left one hurts more. It had met brick,
rather than bone. I study the injuries for a moment. This
reminds me of something the man I called Dad always said:
"The only things in this world a man can rely on are his
own two hands." Not a good sign.

I reach back to holster the gun, but the nylon hangs in a
loose flap at my side. Great. I know it has taken a beating
in the last few months, but this is pathetic. I'll have to
find someone to gripe to later. In the meantime, I switch
the secured weapon to my left hand so I can unzip with the
right, and select a target to mark with my indignation. An
empty beer can will suffice. My left hand reaches out to
brace against a rough wall, scraping metal against brick as
the stream of urine gushes out. It seems to echo with
unreasonable volume in this empty side street, accompanied
by the soft smattering of rain. The alley smells as if
several other people have had the same urge here, and the
shower does not clean the air of its stale stench.

Time slows, leaving me with a consuming case of self-doubt
and instruments of life and death in either hand. Blood
paints both, startling against the pink surface,
inconspicuous on the black. One is...neglected; the other is
put to use far too often. Well, at least I don't lose my
dick on foot pursuits, although it seems as if I was
precariously close this time.

The last of the yellow stream is expelled, and I sigh with
relief. Soon, everything is tucked back in, adjusted and
doubly secured. Scully would consider this crude, probably,
but it doesn't matter. She isn't here, and she could never
understand. Definitely a guy thing.

I am still standing here, getting wet, but I can't shake
the feeling that I failed in my efforts to keep her safe. I
tuck the Sig under the waistband of my dress slacks and
freeze. A familiar flashback hits, because the only thing
that matters is that I do a much better job of protecting
her than I did for...

My heart clenches at the thought of my sister. I bite my
lip, but the central pain is too intense, too overwhelming.

"Ah, shit."

I back against the wall and close my eyes, shaking. A rage
is building inside, rage directed at the man who attacked
Scully, but even more so at myself. I let down the person I
care about the most, even if she doesn't realize it. The
cold rain runs in soothing lines down my face, now hot with
anger. I need to burn this off.

"Totally pathetic," I pronounce regarding the entire
situation.

A nearby rustling claims my attention, and I whip out my
gun, pointing it at the sound. Oh, right. No clip. Nothing
in the chamber, either. Safety first, my ass. A gray-haired
man wearing a worn brown canvas coat emerges from one of
the larger boxes. His eyelids crinkle as he stares at me.

"Nutcase."

He shakes his head.

"Can't even find a quiet place to sleep around here."

He turns and disappears, mumbling, into the darkness of the
passageway, totally unimpressed by my service weapon.
Figures. A frown pulls at the corners of my mouth as I put
the gun away once again. Better be getting back to the
office, I figure, although I'm not in a hurry to face
Scully. Ordinarily, I would prefer to jog back, but I'm
wearing dress shoes and a suit. A cab it is, then.

An idea hits me as I walk out toward the larger street. I
have grown tired of trying to figure out what or who I run
from every morning. Perhaps what I need is less flight and
more fight.

A white taxi pulls up the moment I step toward the curb.

"Alexandria."

I need to pick up a few things before heading to the
office.

**********

The hallway is quiet, affording my mind some time to rest
as I make my way to the workout area. Eventually, the
strong scent of sweat and the occasional sound of soft
grunts indicate that the gym is nearby. I open the doors
and head straight for the men's locker room. My duffle bag
lands with a thud on the bench and lists to one side,
threatening to fall off. Oh well.

There aren't very many people here for a Tuesday night, I
note. A couple of the faces are unfamiliar, but that's not
unusual. New Cadets and transfers go through here all the
time. Most of them do not have a tour of the basement high
on their priority list.

I unlace my running shoes, kick them into my locker, peel
off my sweatpants, and dig through my duffle bag for the
groin protector. Hope I didn't forget it. A magic eight
ball? How did that get in my duffle? Aha! There. Protective
gear of the utmost importance. I stand up to put it on, and
something bumps into my left shoulder, nearly sending me
crashing to the floor in a rather awkward position.
Violating the unwritten "no eye contact" rule, my head
whips up to see who has such gall, and one of the newbies
is walking away, as if I didn't exist. Oh, this is the
wrong day to play "tough guy" with me. He has blond hair in
a close crew cut, walks with a stiff spine, and has neck
muscles like a horse. Probably a new agent; from the
Marines, I'd say.

I pull my shorts up over the protector while trying not to
be obvious in my surveillance of Mister Dead Meat, who is
busy talking and laughing with a couple of other unfamiliar
people. Looking back down, I cringe. The yellow satin
material is almost embarrassing, but it was the only pair
of boxing shorts I could find. They hang down to my knees
in a baggy, shapeless wad. I don't know what I was thinking
when I bought them.

Glancing up again, an evil grin spreads across my face when
I notice that the guy's hands are wrapped in white strips.
I will get my chance at him in the ring, although the idea
of smearing Ben-Gay on his mouthpiece does cross my mind.
In the meantime, I re-adjust the protective gear and get my
flat-soled boxing shoes out of the bag. I sit back down to
lace them up, occasionally glaring at the twit from the
corner of my eye. The conversation just reaches me. I'm
unsure if I am meant to overhear, but the words "Spooky"
and "jackass" make their way to my ears. I tie the laces
unreasonably tight as a false comment regarding my
partner's personal habits is emitted from the group. Oh,
yeah. That is the last straw. The guy is just starting out,
young and invincible. He hasn't yet learned about the FBI's
special techniques for humbling and humiliating its new
employees. I am itching to be among the first to share with
him.

I pull my hand wraps out of the bag but pause. The skin, or
where the skin used to be, on my knuckles looks pretty
aggravated. Scully would not be happy with this situation.
The physical wounds do not hurt now, numbed by adrenaline,
but I know they will later. I apply some anti-bacterial
ointment as a sort of compromise.

I look at the wraps for a second before I can tell which
one goes on which side. It's been a little while. My mind
wanders aimlessly as I spread the fingers of my left hand
and start the loop over my thumb, wrapping slowly,
methodically.  I feel a primal need to redeem myself, to
prove that the kidnapping suspect took me by surprise
through unpreventable means, not because I wasn't paying
enough attention, or reacted too slowly, or was simply too
dumb to find my ass with both hands.

Speaking of hands, my left one is wrapped. I clench it into
a fist to test the fit, and the tug against my knuckles
feels perfect. As I start the other, I mull over my reasons
for this form of venting frustrations, looking at it
objectively. It's good practice for later, when Scully asks
what the heck I was doing here and why I chose this form of
self-flagellation. First of all, the urge to hurt someone
just happens, especially when one screws up. This is a
relatively safe and consensual way to do so. It's good
exercise, for sure. Right now, though, I feel the need to
simplify. One-on-one, no distractions. This is the only
legitimate measuring stick right now. I need to know that I
still have the testicular fortitude to win. Scully is quick
to reassure. I want to earn this.

Perhaps more importantly, Scully deserves the security of
knowing that I can protect her. She's tough. Everyone knows
that. I just want to give her the chance to...unwind. She
shouldn't need to be so tough all of the time. It's the
least I can do, really. I love the irony in the ability of
a pathologist to cure my eviscerating loneliness. Of
course, she wouldn't really understand the full
significance of this fight. It's a guy thing.

Long finished with the wrap, I curl my right hand into a
fist. Perfect. I close the locker and zip up the bag,
bringing it with me into the larger training room. There is
a nice, open spot to warm up in front of the big mirror. My
reflection takes me aback. I look like a wreck, like I've
already gone a few rounds. The left cheek is swollen and
red, and there is a large abrasion over my right eye.
Leatherneck will go straight for those areas. He is trained
to exploit weakness, but that predictability may work to my
advantage.

I go through a stretching routine, the muscles protesting
only slightly in response. The ring is already in use, but
there does not appear to be anyone on the waiting list. I
walk over and sign up for a light heavyweight spar before
returning to my warm-up. Just as I am getting out my jump
rope, my foe emerges from the locker room. We lock gazes
for a brief moment, and it is assured that we will fight.
He's confident, but he underestimates me. He goes over to
the board and signs up next to my name. His build is
shorter but stockier, so we are in the same class. Good. It
should be interesting.

I hold the rope steady for a moment. Have to concentrate
with this one. It's leather, built for speed, but,
appropriately, it stings like a son of a bitch when you
screw up. I step over, quickly building up momentum, and
soon settle into the rhythm. The rope slaps against the
floor at a nice clip. My tank top is soaked with
perspiration soon enough, and I'm panting, but I keep
going. Need to get the feet moving. Scanning the room, I
notice that my opponent has settled in with the speed bag,
trying to show off with ridiculous enthusiasm. Go right
ahead, I think. Wear yourself out.

Before long, the bell rings, and the previous sparring
match appears to be over. I take a large swig of cool water
from my bottle and stash the rope, still breathing deeply.
The rush of blood from the short workout is invigorating.
The ring is almost ready for us; one of the trainers is
still mopping up a pool of sweat where someone hit the
canvas.

"Schwarz. Mulder. You're up," the guy with the clipboard
announces.

I nod at him when he looks up and approach the ring, trying
not to walk too fast. Don't want to appear to be in a
hurry.

"I'm Mulder."

He hands me the clipboard. A waiver form lies atop the
signup sheet. I sign it without reading. No, I will not
hold the FBI liable if I get my ass kicked. I take a few
steps back and pull my headgear on while my opponent
registers. After a few words, the official turns toward me.

"Red corner."

I go obediently to my designated spot. Looks like Danny is
going to be my corner man today. He recognizes me
instantly, and his brow creases in concern.

"You sure you're up to this? You're already going to have a
nasty shiner tomorrow."

"Yeah. I know, but I'm more than ready."

I hold out my hands for emphasis, waiting. He shrugs at me
with a slight grin and helps me into a pair of black padded
gloves with white contact points. I shift my weight back
and forth, bouncing lightly on my feet to keep up a rhythm.
Danny cuts off the plastic tips of the laces on the gloves
and headgear and tapes up the loose ends. He offers water,
and I nod, taking the bottle in a ridiculously oversized
hand. I squirt some into my mouth, swishing it around and
spitting it out before swallowing another mouthful.

"You have three rounds today. That's the maximum because
our referee has sidearm qualifications to supervise this
evening."

I nod.

"Ready?"

I nod again. Boy, he's a quick one today.

"Okay. Good luck."

He uses a towel to pick up my mouthpiece and fits it onto
my upper teeth. I give him a big smile, because I know that
nothing looks more impressive than a mouth full of black
plastic. Next come the three steps, and I duck between the
ropes. Leatherneck is already set in his corner, waiting
for me. So he is faster. I can deal with that.

The referee enters the ring and motions us to the center.
He checks both of us over carefully as our staredown
resumes. The wiry official inspects both of my gloves and
tugs at my headgear, correcting its position slightly.

"Protector?"

I nod.

"Mouth guard?"

I draw my lips back, displaying encased teeth.

He jerks his chin up in approval and turns to my opponent,
quickly repeating the safety procedure.

"Okay. You two know the rules. Keep the fight clean."

Schwarz nods in assent. He does not look very convincing.

"Touch gloves and come out swinging."

I offer the gesture of sportsmanship, although grudgingly.
Schwarz reaches forward and pushes hard against my gloves,
trying to demonstrate...something. Whatever his intention, I
stand my ground, and he shoves himself back a step. Heh heh
heh.

I go back to my corner, bouncing from foot to foot and
jabbing at the air. The rhythm feels natural. Too bad I
can't dance this well without gloves. The referee backs
away from the center of the ring, and the starting bell
sounds. I begin to drool. Stupid Pavlovian reflex.

I take a defensive stance, hunched over, trying to look
smaller than I am as a deception. Schwarz makes the first
move, ducking in close to me. He feigns right, trying to
lead me, but I don't fall for it. He backs off, and we
circle each other warily, like a pair of Coliseum tigers. I
see him turn his body slightly away and try to move in on
the weak side. He swings for my face, but my gloves are up.
I retaliate but catch air.

Schwarz hesitates for a moment before lunging forward,
fists flying. I block his right hook, but he slips in a jab
with the left, square to my diaphragm. I gasp, unable to
suck in air, and the ropes bend behind me. He sees my arms
lower reflexively, trying to protect my abdomen, and I see
everything wink out. My head snaps back as his glove drives
straight into my face. I stagger away from him along the
ropes, unthinking, trying to suck in air around the
mouthpiece. My eyes water and burn now, and I am only
capable of dodging along the edge of the ring, stumbling
over my feet. My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, chest
heaving furiously. Soon, he's on me again. I evade a couple
of punches in spite of my drunken wheeling. Schwarz
advances. I am backed into a corner, seeing my porn
collection flash before my eyes, when the bell rings. Whew.

Leatherneck leers at me, brushing the thumb of his glove
across his nose, before retreating to his corner. I try not
to stagger as I head in Danny's general direction. Both of
him. Shit.

The mouthpiece is out immediately. I draw in huge gasps of
air, my nose now clogged and sore. A stool has never been
so comfortable to sit on. Something warm trickles into my
eye, and it stings terribly. I see Danny's face swim into
view. A big, white towel obscures my vision as he dabs at
my forehead. It comes away red.

"That will take a couple of butterflies."

He touches a very sore spot over my eyebrow with
disinfectant, while I reach for the water bottle. I don't
wince. Leatherneck is watching.

The butterflies are applied to my cut, and I get a couple
of squirts of water. I use a little extra to wash some of
the sweat from my face. It feels so good running down my
skin. The coolness is refreshing. Danny locks eyes with me.

"Are you sure you want to keep going? If your face gets
messed up much more, Scully will be after both of our
hides." He fakes a panicked expression.

"I'm okay. Maybe it will heal quickly. What she doesn't
know won't hurt me."

He smiles.

"Focus."

"Yeah. I have him right where I want him."

At least the words weren't slurred. Wouldn't have gone over
well. I stand up on surprisingly steady legs. Danny clears
the corner, and I'm on my own again. I stare at a smudge on
the floor, focusing my energy while I roll my shoulders,
loosening stiff muscles.

The bell rings again, and I look up, shifting my feet
slowly. Schwarz dances back and forth in his corner,
waiting. He looks totally relaxed. Might be a good thing. I
advance, lowering my gloves slightly. Leatherneck can see
the cut. His nostrils flare. The bait works, and he
charges, forgetting that I have longer arms. He runs into
my right fist, his jaw taking the brunt of the hit. A wild
swing hits my arm, but it doesn't do any damage. I stalk
him, waiting for another sign of distraction.

Schwarz slides in under a hook, catching me in the ribs. I
cringe, sliding away, but he does not recover his defenses
quickly, and I drive my left fist into his gut. He coughs,
spattering the floor with saliva. It sounds like he's
trying to dislodge a dust bunny from his trachea. His glare
afterwards practically burns holes through me. Aw. He's
upset. That's too bad.

I feel light on my feet and steady now, all of the
fuzziness cleared from my head. Schwarz edges in, trying to
force me into a corner, but I slip away. A parting shot
connects, and he betrays himself again. I hit him on his
right side, getting him turned, and then put all of my
weight behind my right cross. It is a solid, satisfying
blow, sending him reeling into the ropes and his mouthpiece
flying out of the ring. The smell of sweat permeates the
air as I pant through my nose, closing in for the finish.
Leatherneck rolls away, and the bell rings once again.

Well, that round was infinitely more fun, I think, heading
back to my corner.

"Hey, Mulder."

I turn around slowly, eyebrows raised, face deadly serious.
Schwarz spits on my shoe. Great. I'm fighting a camel.

I ignore him and walk to my corner, my left arm
protectively guarding my ribs. Danny notices immediately
and holds up a hand. I stop obediently. He runs his finger
gently up the ribs, testing for fractures. I flinch, but
I'm sure they're not broken. Satisfied that I am not about
to fall apart, he hands me a fresh towel. I smile,
momentarily thinking of a favorite novel and its insistence
that everyone should carry a towel at all times. Okay. My
mind is wandering. Must focus on the fight. One good round
is not enough, not in this Boxing Ring at the End of the
Universe.

Danny pats me on the back.

"Sic 'im, Mulder."

I grin. It's good advice. Finish it.

I get up and take a few jabs at the corner post, getting
psyched up. The bell rings, and I face my opponent.
Schwarz' face glows red with anger. He's losing control. He
tries to flank me, outmaneuvering my evasive moves. I see
him slip in a low punch in the periphery of my vision, and
I move just quickly enough to avoid a nasty foul. His
frustration boils over, and he brings his hands up, pushing
against my arms. He shoves me against the ropes and reaches
around with a wild punch. My knees almost buckle when the
kidney shot lands. I glance at the referee. He's on the
blind side. Schwarz uses my divided attention for another
body punch. I take the chance to swing at whatever presents
itself, and my fist connects with his face again. Sweat
flies, and he drops to one knee. My entire left side burns
now, and the pain distorts my face. It's so difficult to
breathe. I have to concentrate. In and out.

Both of us are wiped out now. It comes down to endurance,
to who wants it more. My 12-ounce amateur gloves suddenly
feel as if they are made of a thousand pounds of lead, too
heavy to lift. Have to keep them up, though. Another punch
in the face will be the end of it. I take the offensive
this time, striking out with tired arms. Schwarz steps
inside of the arc of my swing. Another abdominal hit, and a
wave of nausea nearly ushers me to the floor. I can feel
the blood drain from my face. I summon my remaining
strength and step out, bracing my legs and bringing my
right fist against his jaw. His body spins with the
momentum, and he slumps to the edge of the ring, hanging
limply from the ropes.

The referee moves in, motioning me away. I stagger back a
couple of steps and watch as Schwarz is counted down. His
head lolls back, mouth open. He's really out of it. The ref
waives him out, and I raise my gloves in the air.

"Heck, yeah."

I just beat the crap out of someone, and it felt good. I
probably ought to feel ashamed, but I don't.

"Nice bout, Mulder," Danny calls out.

I turn and nod at him, grinning, and remove my mouthpiece.
A groan comes from my opponent, who is now being helped to
his feet by his corner man. I walk over nonchalantly and
tap him on the shoulder. He looks up at me, dazed.

"It's not a smart idea to talk about my partner. So don't."

That feels incredibly good.

I smile for him, totally eating up his blank expression and
loss of words. That kicked some pan dulce, I think,
climbing out of the ring. Danny helps me out of my gloves,
and I quickly shed the headgear.

"See you later."

"See you. Thanks."

I stuff my equipment into the awaiting duffle bag, hyped
and full of endorphins. That fades fast, though, when I
notice familiar red hair heading toward me from the other
side of the gym. There is no way I can explain this to her;
I can only brace for the verbal thrashing. She strides
over, eyebrow cocked and ready.

"Hey, Mulder. Took me forever to figure out where you
went."

She sounds only slightly irritated. My hope dares to perk
up.

"Just finished filing the papers. Everything in the office
is taken care of for today."

"Good. Thanks."

Short words are good. I'm still panting. She reaches out,
grabs one of my hands, and lifts it, peering at the wrap.
Uh-oh. Here comes the lecture about the ill-advisability of
my pugilistic pursuits.

"You're bleeding."

What?

"What?"

I look down, and there are indeed spots of red soaking
through the wraps.

"I, uhm..."  I struggle for words, trying to avoid her gaze,
feeling like a guilty little boy.

She studies me for a second, then tilts her head to one
side and says, "But not as much as the other guy,
apparently."

A wide grin threatens to split my face in two.  "Nine
minutes, Scully."  My shyness is melting away now, like
snow melting under the bright sunlight of her approval.
"Three rounds, three minutes each.  He just lost nine
minutes courtesy of Spooky Mulder."

She lets out a genuine Scully laugh.  My breath catches and
for one vivid moment, I fully comprehend the concept of
sanctifying grace.  Overwhelmed, I want to look down, but I
can't take my eyes off her face.

"I am starved, Mulder. Want to go find some dinner? After I
look at those hands, of course."

That's not at all what I expected.

"Um, sure."

"You know..."

She looks down at the red spots and then locks her gaze
with mine. I am a slave to her eyes.

"Thanks for covering my back earlier today. My gun was
jammed when I drew it. You gave me the time I needed.
Otherwise, it could have been much worse for both of us."

I feel the blood rush to my face. Hate blushing.

"It was nothing, Scully."

"Nonsense."

That is all she has to say about it, but it says
everything. I'm in no position to argue, and I let her lead
me toward the first aid station by the hand. I want to tell
her about how she amazes me endlessly, injecting reason
into my chaotic world. I want to show her the poetry of her
actions. I would like to explain the way she makes me feel,
how she restored something I had lost so easily and fought
so hard to get back. I want to explain to her how I am
suddenly the strongest person on Earth when she is next to
me, and how I love the way her tiny, gentle hand holds
mine. I think I'm developing a fan fixation...but she would
never understand. It's a guy thing.


********
End