Title: Bad Night
Author: babos
Date: August 1, 1998
Rating: R- violence, blood, angst and implied child abuse ( I am a sick puppy!)
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to the all powerful Oz, I mean, Chris Carter and FOX television. They also belong to the talented and wonderful actors on the best tv show in the galaxy-- Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. Many thanks to them and also to all the other fanfic writers, archivists and readers out there. Special thanks to Rachel, my cyber (and now real!) pal across the miles. Thanks, Dudette!

Summary: Mulder is captured and ... or, how did he wind up in the hospital again. This is actually a prequel to my very first story ever, Old Photo, which I hope you will read as well. It is also posted at the great Mulder Torture Anonymous. Thanks to all who e-mailed me to ask for more. I loved hearing your comments and anxiously await more. (hint,hint) You can reach me at br_osen@hotmail.com

Bad Night

Special Agent Fox Mulder peered into the old refrigerator and once again cursed the fact that he hadn't replaced the tiny lightbulb inside. He gave up his search after pulling out a cold bottle of Sam Adams beer and slammed the door of the fridge. He popped the cap, trudged into the living room and dropped down on his couch. After taking a long swig of the brew he grabbed his phone and hit speed dial 6 to order from his favorite pizza place.

He placed an order for his usual. ( They should know it by heart, he mused, medium pepperoni with mushrooms, green peppers, artichokes and extra cheese.)

He grabbed the remote to watch the news and laid his head back against the couch. (Well, maybe I will just "listen" to the news.) He didn't think enough time had passed for the pizza to be delivered when he aroused to a noise outside of his door. As he headed for the door it suddenly pushed open and he found himself looking at three drop-outs from the World Wrestling Federation. Before he had time to reach for his weapon on the coffee table he found his hands being held behind his back. He was forced down to his knees and his hands were raised up toward his head. He tried to cry out but before he could manage a sound he felt a gun handle crack against the side of his head and he blacked out.

When he regained consciousness he was sitting in a wooden chair with his hands bound behind him with what felt like wire. It was very tight and he felt like his circulation was being cut off. He squirmed around and tried to get some slack into the wire to no avail. He only managed to cut himself with the action. He could feel the coolness of the blood around his wrists.

His squirming also must have alerted his captors of his consciousness because the door to the small room opened. They flipped on the overhead light and it made his head trob and his eyes water. The three drop-outs from the WWF entered the room along with a well-dressed man who seemed vaquely familiar. This created a gnawing feeling in the back of his head, this man had something to do with the Cancerman but he couldn't wrap his aching brain around it. Whatever the connection was, Mulder knew he was in deep shit.

Mulder, being Mulder, responded to his fears with a joke. "So... where's my pizza?" Instead of receiving a slice of pepperoni he was given a fist to the left side of his face that almost knocked over his chair.

Before he could recover, goon number one grabbed his face and pulled him around to face his captors. He was about to receive another blow when the well-dressed man held up a hand to stop the fist. Mulder attempted to focus his eyes on the man. It wasn't easy. He just wanted to let himself pass out, his head hurt so much he couldn't concentrate on anything, much less focus.

"Who are you and what do you want from me?" he finally managed to slur out. He hoped it came out more clearly than it sounded. The left side of his face was throbbing and his bottom lip was cut. He could see some drops of blood on his white t-shirt.

"We would like to make you an offer, Mr. Mulder." came the clipped tone of
the man. He had a New England accent, probably Boston, thought Mulder wondering how his brain had managed to retrieve that information when he could hardly remember his own name.

"An offer you can't afford to turn down", the man continued, "You would do well to take it before it is too late."

"What are you talking about?" Mulder managed. "Who are you?"

"I am an old friend of your father's. We worked together before ... well, before things went to hell. I watched you grow up, Fox. I was actually very proud of your accomplishments. I think I was more proud of you than your father ever was. Of course, he was a hard man to please. I know he was a hard man in many ways."

Mulder watched at the man and tried to decode what he was implying. As a child his father had brought home men he worked with on various occassions. Fox had never paid that much attention to them, a fact which he had regretted over the past years. These men all seemed to hold clues about Samantha and about his father's work. So many pieces to the puzzle of his life. Would he ever be able to put them together for a complete picture?

Before Mulder could respond the man walked over to the small sink and filled a glass of water. He held it up as if it was an offering and then came to stand in front of Mulder. He held it to Mulder's mouth and slowly poured it down his parched throat. Mulder hadn't realized how thirsty he was up until then. He swallowed gratefully until the glass was drained. He could taste the metallic of the blood from his split lip but it still tasted like heaven to him.

"So, you knew my father. What does that have to do with me? What are you talking about... an offer of what?"

"I was thinking about your father and the way he treated you as a young boy." the man continued. His eyes were unfocused, as if he were reliving a scene from long ago. Mulder was getting a very uneasy feeling as he watched the man. Suddenly the man got a wild look in his eyes and kicked the chair over. Mulder and the chair fell backwards. Most of the weight landed on his hands and he felt his left arm snap just before his head cracked the floor and he lost consciousness.

This time when he awoke he was no longer in the chair but strung up from a hook in the ceiling. The pain was excruciating. His shattered left arm was bearing much of the weight of his body. Tears came to his eyes and his breath seemed to be caught in his lungs. He was gasping as the pain in his left arm sent shivers down his side. His feet just barely scraped the floor and it was difficult to lift his head. He really just wanted to stay unconscious but that wasn't to be. He knew they must have been watching him so he tried to pretend he was still out. At least it may put off what was coming next for a while. Perhaps he could think this thing through and figure out a way to get out of this mess.

At that moment the door opened and in walked the goons. They each wore a very frightening grin and, if Mulder hadn't been hurting and scared, he might have been able to control his response to the sight.

"Curly, Moe and Larry on a bad night." Mulder blurted out. Apparently the goons failed to see humor in his comment as it was met by several blows to the ribs and chest. Mulder gasped and groaned. (Me and my smart-assed mouth.)

After the fists tired Mulder tried to take stock of his new hurts. Definitely a couple broken ribs and a very tender abdomen. He was too tired to raise his head even when the well-dressed man entered the room. So the man came over to help him do it by yanking Mulder's hair up roughly. This emitted another groan from Mulder but he managed to glare defiantly at the man. The man's gaze seemed to soften momentarily, as if he were proud and impressed by the strength of his captive. But the admiring look disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and then came another fist to Mulder's face. The man was left-handed, something Mulder had failed to notice during the first encounter, and his ring cut through the tender flesh just below Mulder's right eye. It had come dangerously close to his eye and could have caused more serious damage, Mulder thought in a convoluted way. Given the fact that the left side of his face was so swollen that he could barely see out of that eye, he was strangely grateful to the man's left-handedness. At least now he would be able to see what was coming. (Very comforting, Mulder. )

"Does this position seem familiar to you, Fox? Does it bring back any memories?" the man leered at him. "Do you recall a hook like this in your father's garage on the Vineyard?"

Mulder gasped as the pictures flooded back to his fuzzy brain. Some memories were just too painful to be allowed to surface. He had attempted to block out the years between the ages of 12 and 17. He had worked so damn hard to please his old man. He'd had straight "A's" in school, had captained the basketball team and played a strong right field on the baseball team. He did these things to escape his home life but he always hoped that in some small way they might actually make his father notice him, perhaps even make him proud. They did make his father take notice, all right. But what he'd noticed was how the basketball team had taken second, not first, in the playoffs, how his son had only gotten one hit in the first baseball game of the season. Young Fox could never do anything well enough. Perhaps spending a night suspended from a hook in the garage on a cool April night would help improve his batting stance. Maybe a few punches in the gut would make him a more aggressive basketball player.

As Mulder relived these painful memories, a few tears made their way down his swollen cheeks. The man appeared touched by this for a moment. His eyes seemed to soften and he almost reached out to comfort his captive. Suddenly the man remembered that he wasn't the only one in the room with Mulder. The goons were watching his every move and waiting, like bloodhounds on a trail, to jump into the action. They were practically drooling with anticipation to bloody their prey. The man turned away and nodded to them.

The blows came fast and furious to his face, side and belly. He hung from the hook by his wired wrists and tried to remain strong. He tried to think of anything but the pain they were inflicting on his battered body. He managed to reach up a bit with his right hand and grab the hook in an attempt to take pressure off of his broken left arm. He was even able to get a good enough grip to pull up his legs and take a kick at a goon. The man fell back with a grunt of surprise and Mulder felt a small sense of pride in this accomplishment. Unfortunately this only made the goons angrier and more brutal. Mulder let his mind drift to that far away place of his imagined days with Scully. His dreams of them lying on some beach in Hawaii or hiking through the Rockies on a sunny summer day with a couple yellow labs loping ahead of them. Could these dreams ever come true? Would he ever be allowed the normal joys of life with the woman he loved? He let his dreams carry him off to blackness as the blows continued.

Another man watched the beating through a small window in the door until he had to turn away. The young man in front of him was the son of a former friend. He had watched the boy grow up. He had spent days with the boy's family at a cottage by the sea. He had helped the boy learn how to water ski. Although this young man had been the bane of his existence for the past 6 years he still felt compassion for him, hell, he even admired Mulder. The man lit up another cigarette and rapped his knuckles on the small window. The goons stopped their activities and turned toward the door.

"Enough!" the smoker shouted. "He is not going to join us, he has already told us that much. He is more valuable to us in the FBI. We have done enough to slow him down while we make new plans. There is no need to kill him, especially not in such a way. We do not want to turn his passion into a crusade by his friends."

The well-dressed man gazed at the smoking man and nodded. He instructed the goons to bring Mulder down from the hook. They still had a lot of fight left in them and were none too pleased to quit so early. Two of them held Mulder's broken body up high enough so the third could slip his bound hands over the hook. Mulder was dropped uncerimoniously to the hard floor and his head hit hard against the concrete. Fortunately, he was already unconscious so he didn't feel the crack that even made the goons wince. One goon gave Mulder a last kick to the ribs to exhibit his frustration at not being able to complete his task.

"I said ENOUGH!" shouted the smoker. "Tie his feet, gag him and find a place to dump him off. Use a place where he will be found by daylight."

As the goons tied Mulder's ankles with picture wire, the well-dressed man turned and walked down the hallway. The Cigarette Smoking Man lit up another Morley and inhaled deeply.

My follow-up to this story is titled "OLD PHOTO" and can be found at MTA also. I would love to hear from you. E-me at br_osen@hotmail.com.