Deja Vu Epilogue
by Xanthe
Skinner stood in the woodshed, feeling somewhat at a loss. He was so used to
being the one issuing the orders in this situation that he was disorientated
by the prospect of being on the receiving end for a change. He rubbed his
hands absently along his arms, shivering slightly, not from cold, but in
anticipation of impending punishment.
"Walter," Mr. Skinner pulled out the wooden bench into the center of the
room, and pointed.
"Yes, sir," Skinner replied, his breath catching in his throat. He felt an
old, but startlingly familiar sensation that was best described as insects
crawling around in his stomach - crawling - hell, they were partying! God,
he had been here, and done this so many times with Mulder, or one or other
of his brothers or young male relatives, and now he fully appreciated how
they must feel in the circumstances.
"Walter," Mr. Skinner said again, in a warning tone.
"Sorry. I was just..." Skinner shrugged out of his reverie and approached the
bench, his buttocks clenching involuntarily just at the thought of what was
coming next.
"I know, son." Mr. Skinner nodded. "It's been a long time since you and I
have needed to have this particular conversation, Walter."
"I wish it was a conversation we never had to have again," Skinner muttered
wryly, as he undid his jeans, and pulled them down to his knees, along with
his underwear.
"Me too," Mr. Skinner said pointedly, and Skinner sighed. Trust his father
not to allow him to lose sight of why there were here, doing this. "Over you
go." Mr. Skinner gestured his son over the bench and Skinner lowered himself
down. He had forgotten all of it - the feel of the wood on his thighs,
digging in slightly, the smell of sawdust underfoot, the gust of cool air
around his waiting, exposed backside.
Skinner shivered again. This reminded him of too many Saturday nights during
his teenage years. He and his father had conducted a long-running feud about
his curfew. Skinner had insisted it should be an hour later than it was, and
his father had told him he could come in when he liked - as long as he was
prepared for the consequences of that decision.
On the first occasion Skinner had only dared break curfew by 5 minutes. He
hadn't been surprised to find his father waiting for him in the kitchen,
reading a book. Mr. Skinner looked up, peered at his son over his glasses,
and politely inquired if he had enjoyed himself. Skinner, all of 16 years
old, and full of the brash confidence of youth, nodded, and got himself a
glass of water. He chatted politely with his father, pleased by how well the
man was taking his disobedience, and congratulating himself on having
finally got his father to accept that his eldest son was now an adult. They
enjoyed a nice conversation for fifteen or so minutes, laughing and joking,
then Mr. Skinner took off his glasses off and gestured with his head in the
direction of the woodshed.
"Go and make yourself comfortable, son. I'll be along in a minute," he said.
"But..." Walter's mouth fell open in surprise.
"You were five minutes past your curfew, Walter. By my reckoning that's 5
strokes with the Persuader," his father told him implacably. Walter's mouth
set in a hard line, and he clenched his jaw as he tried to stare his father
out. Mr. Skinner's expression neither changed nor faltered, but Walter
wasn't prepared to admit defeat yet.
"Fine," he said finally, getting up and going to his fate, his legendary
obstinate streak kicking in.
His five strokes of the Persuader stung like hell, but they weren't the
worst he'd ever received. He took them without a sound, and afterwards got
up, with almost a sneer on his face, forsook the usual hug, and stalked off
to bed without a sound. If his father wanted to play this game then so be
it. They would see who had the stronger nerves.
The following week he got home 55 minutes past his curfew. He waited outside
for another three minutes, and then entered the house exactly one minute
before the time he thought his curfew should be. His father was waiting for
him in the hallway - his expression dark and angry. There was no friendly
conversation this time. Mr. Skinner took one look at his errant son and
sighed, shaking his head.
"Walter, you know where to go," he said. Skinner shrugged, but boy that
punishment had hurt! 59 strokes of the Persuader was more than any of the
Skinner boys had ever received and he sincerely doubted that his father
would go through with such a harsh punishment - especially for a relatively
minor crime.
He was wrong.
He closed his eyes as the first few strokes whistled home, but he couldn't
keep from screaming the way he had the previous week. After 29 strokes his
father paused, and a small voice inside Walter gave a triumphant "yes" and
mentally high fived - but it wasn't over.
"Sit up, Walter. I think my arm and your butt could do with the break," his
father said.
Walter managed to kneel and then perch gingerly against the bench,
rearranging his clothes, and hissing slightly as the rough fabric of his
jeans made contact with his sore butt.
"Walter, you always did like to make everything hard for yourself," his
father said in a sad tone. "With Andy, it's always pure mischief that brings
him here, and he's quick to cry, and easily forgets. Joe knows when he's
done wrong, and just wants it over with - that boy always learns from his
mistakes, but with you," his father sighed. "I never have to punish you half
as much as the other boys, but when I do...it's much harder on both of us,
isn't it, son?"
Walter felt tears prick in his eyes, and blinked them back. This was a
matter of principle! He wasn't giving in now! He truly believed that at 16
he was entitled to a later curfew.
"I'm sorry, dad," he whispered.
"Me too, son. Maybe you'll remember that next Saturday evening, hmm?" His
father stared at him searchingly. Walter shrugged, but looked his father in
the eye, challenging him. Mr. Skinner sighed.
"I thought this wouldn't be quick," he said regretfully. "All right, Walter,
over you go again. Let's finish this off - for tonight at least."
With a dry mouth, Walter presented his bare bottom for punishment again,
almost screaming out loud as the first stroke connected on his already sore
backside. True to his word, his father neither went easy on his eldest son,
nor stopped before the total tally of 59 was reached. Both father and son
were pale and shaky by the time the ordeal was over. Walter's backside hurt
too much for him to even get dressed again afterwards, and he crept back
into the house hoping that nobody was still up to witness his flaming red
butt. The following week he overstayed his father's curfew by only one
minute, much to the relief of both of them. At times during the course of
that year, he stayed out later than that, but he never again waited until 59
minutes past again. He hadn't broken his father the last time on that one,
and his butt ached at the very thought of trying it again.
Thirty years later, Skinner could still remember how long that particular
"conversation" had gone on - almost a year, and it had been his father who
ultimately gave in, although Skinner had a sneaking suspicion that he had
done so less because Walter had pushed him into it, and more because his son
had merely had another birthday which made him old enough to warrant the
hour later curfew.
Now, butt up over this old, familiar bench, Skinner suddenly wished his
family had an age limit for spanking, like the statute of limitations on
certain crimes. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as his father made
the short walk over to retrieve the Persuader from its hook. Skinner was
suddenly aware that he was still wearing his glasses, and he seriously
doubted they would stay on his face during what his father was about to dish
out, so he took them off. His father saw the action and put out a hand.
"Here, give those to me, son." Skinner gave them up hesitantly, watched as
his father put them in the top pocket of his shirt, then gazed down onto the
newly blurred world, awaiting his fate.
"All right, Walter. What's this strapping for?" Mr. Skinner asked. Skinner
felt the Persuader rest momentarily against his bare backside, then he heard
a whistle, and the familiar snap of Persuader against flesh, followed by a
much less familiar sting of the most atrocious pain.
"Uhhh...taking the family's problems on myself for so many years," he managed
to gasp out, seriously shocked by how painful this was.
"This wasn't your problem to bear alone, son," his father said, making sure
his son fully understood that fact by laying several strokes on his rapidly
reddening backside.
"I know...I'm sorry...unnnhhh!" Skinner yelped.
"What else is this strapping for?" His father asked.
Skinner's mind went a total blank. He had no idea. The pain in his
hindquarters made rational thought impossible. He'd have to remember that
next time it was necessary to punish Fox - because there would certainly be
a next time with Fox. Fox...a wry part of his mind knew that his wayward
subordinate/son would have paid good money to be a fly on the wall in the
woodshed tonight.
"Uhhh, for...for..." he floundered, as the strap did its work on his bare
buttocks.
"How about deception, son?" Mr. Skinner suggested.
"Deception?" Skinner gasped. "I didn't mean...that is..."
"I know you meant to protect us, but it wasn't your responsibility, Walter.
You have to learn, once and for all, that you don't always have to be the
protector." He laid another few, burning licks over his son's now neon pink
bottom.
"But...I..."
"No buts. I saw this happening after Jeremy - hell, it's always been part of
what you are, Walter, but you don't have to shoulder everything alone. You
have a family who can share the burden. Remember that. We love you too much
to know to see you worry yourself into an early grave by taking everything
on yourself, son."
Mr. Skinner reinforced that message with another few hard licks of the
Persuader. Skinner gasped, his mind reeling.
"What you do, bottling things up, is every bit as detrimental to your
wellbeing as when Fox takes off on one of his hare-brained schemes - and you
rightly punish him for that," his father stressed, keeping up the rhythm
with the razor strop, not letting up the strapping for a second.
"I'm sorry," Skinner whispered, suddenly feeling as if a weight had been
lifted from him. He had never seen it like that. Protecting those he loved
was just what he did. It was a relief to know he wasn't alone, that he
didn't have to struggle on without respite, without being able to share, and
thereby halve the burden.
He stared in surprise at the blobs of sawdust on the floor, wondering why
they were wet, and then suddenly realized that he was crying. Huge, wracking
sobs seized him, and a few seconds later he found himself being helped to
his feet, his clothing readjusted over his painful backside, and then he was
being held in his father's strong arms, being comforted in a way he had
never allowed anyone to comfort him since he was a boy.
"There, Walter. It's all right. You're not alone, son. It's not all down to
you," his father whispered gently, stroking his son's back. Skinner gave up
any last vestige of his pride, and clung on for dear life, shedding too many
unshed tears - years and years of them, as his father took care of him. "I
may be getting old, but you're still my little boy," his father said with a
chuckle. "You'll always be my little boy, Walter. I can see you - 5 years
old, those solemn brown eyes watching me as I worked in the garden, or as a
little baby, sitting in your crib, learning how to clap your hands together
when I showed you how. Your mother and I were always in competition over who
could win a smile from you...you were so serious! You have no idea the silly
antics we would do to amuse and entertain you, and all in the hope of
winning one of those beautiful smiles...because when you smiled, it was like
the sun coming out - it still is, son." Mr. Skinner pushed his son back, and
looked at him. Skinner wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve, and managed
a smile through his tears.
"Thanks, Dad," he whispered.
Mr. Skinner smiled, and put the persuader back on its hook. "Time for bed,
Walter. You have a difficult few days ahead of you. Time to reflect on what
I told you, hmm?"
"Yes. I guess." Skinner shrugged uncomfortably. "Could we skip the bedtime
spankings though?" He asked hopefully.
Mr. Skinner laughed. "A punishment tour is a punishment tour, son. The
bedtime spankings are part of that."
"How did I know you were going to say that?" Skinner sighed, as they walked
up to the house together.
He felt a curious sense of peace. This man beside him, his father, was like
a rock in a stormy ocean - always there, always making sure that the rules
remained in place, and ensuring that no lesson was learned without a hug and
a few kind words after the tears.
It was a good feeling.
The End