Lies My Father Told Me (1/1)
by Lisa DaFoe
LisaDX@aol.com

Rating: PG
Category: VA
Summary: Mulder has a graveside chat with dear old Dad.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter and
Fox Broadcasting. They are borrowed without permission. I promise
to give them back when I'm done. No copyright infringement is
intended.

This little vignette grew out of my frustration over Mulder's
lack of dealing with the revelation of Pa Mulder's
involvement with the project. This is my first attempt at any
kind of fiction so please bear that in mind. Thanks to Kate
and Dave for their suggestions and encouragement.

Comments and constructive criticism are welcome. Flames
will be printed and used as a liner for my cats' litter box so
don't waste your time.

Lies My Father Told Me (1/1)
by Lisa DaFoe

March 15, 1996
Boston, Massachusetts

Bill Mulder's grave was on a bluff above the Charles
River. The view of the river cutting a graceful path through
the city was stunning.

"Fat lot of good it does you, huh, Dad?" Fox
Mulder's voice was slightly slurred and he held up a bottle
of vodka, pointing it at the gravestone. "Here's to ya, Dad."
He took a long pull and gazed out at the river.

He had been sitting on his father's grave all night
and now daylight was coming. He thought about the dreams
that had driven him here. Night after night, he'd heard the
gunshot that ended his father's life. Felt his father's blood
seeping through his clothing as he held him. Seen the rows
of file cabinets buried in a West Virginia coal mine. Saw the
folder with Samantha's name. Saw himself pull the edge of
the label up to reveal his own name underneath. Heard
himself ask his mother "Did he make you make a choice?"
Heard her answer, "He made the choice and I hate him
still!"

He could remember the night of Samantha's
abduction so clearly now although the memory had once
eluded him. *Thanks a lot, Dr. Verber.* He never really
stopped thinking about it. Samantha screaming his name
over and over. His inability to do anything other than watch
in horror as Samantha floated away in a wave of blue light.

"Why?" A soft whisper. "Why her? Why didn't you
choose me?" He looked hard at the gravestone, as if
expecting his father to rise up before him to answer his
questions. It really didn't make sense. How could he let his
own daughter be taken away? Especially when he knew
what they would do to her. He'd been in on the project,
after all. And Mulder had seen the horrifying results of it in
the boxcar.

"Is that what you were going to tell me that night?
That you knew but you opposed it? That black-lunged
bastard said you authorized it. Is that true? That geriatric
GQ model said Samantha was taken for insurance. That you
were going to expose the project. Was he just telling me
what I wanted to hear?...Scully thinks so." He stopped
talking and looked down at the river and at the awakening
city beyond. The pain he'd lived with since his father's death
was rising up from its hiding place.

"GODDAMN YOU!" His scream broke the dawn's
stillness. He threw the almost empty bottle against the
gravestone and watched it shatter. <Just like my life,> he
thought. His eyes were stinging with the tears he'd denied
himself for so long. He sniffed, trying to force them back.
All those years he had blamed himself for Samantha.
Thinking he hadn't done enough, hadn't tried hard enough.
He was supposed to be watching her that night, protecting
her, and he had failed. He was her big brother, after all. All
those years of guilt and self-hatred. Why had his father
allowed him to believe that he was responsible? Why had he
encouraged it? To appease his own conscience?

His anger was choking him and the tears he could no
longer hold back sprang from his eyes. The cold morning
dew was soaking through his pants as he knelt on the
ground, his clenched fists pounding into his thighs. Words
were rushing from his mouth, stumbling over each other in
his sudden need to get them all out. As if his father could
hear him, as if it wasn't too late.

"Whenever I looked at you all I could see was the
blame. Do you have any idea what that did to me? I think
about it all the time. I dream about it every night. Do you
know how many times I've had my gun in my mouth
because Sam is gone and it... was... all... my... fault?"

Now to find out that it had been his father's choice
all along. His father's choice to send his daughter into
oblivion and keep his son around to shoulder the blame.
This part of the story was true, he knew that if nothing else.
His mother had confirmed it. Her hatred for his father
followed the old man into the grave. He wondered if she
hated him, too.

He jumped to his feet, facing the cold granite stone
that bore his father's name. Again, the anger he was trying
to hold in check broke free of its bonds.

"YOU BASTARD! YOU SON OF A BITCH! I'M
GLAD YOU'RE DEAD!". Swaying, gasping for breath, he
collapsed on the hard, dewy grass. He rolled to his side,
bringing his knees to his chest and sobbed.

*****

Dana Scully pulled up behind Mulder's car. <Thank
God he's here.> Mrs. Mulder's phone call had given voice to
the worry she'd been carrying around for weeks. The older
woman had called her in the middle of the night, frantic.

'Fox is drunk,' she'd said. 'He wanted to know where
his father was buried. I told him, but he sounded so bad.
Please find him. You can help him. I can't. He won't listen to
me. He's so angry. Please.'

Scully had boarded a late flight and now she got out
of the rental car and walked up the hill toward the grave.
From where she was she could see him lying on the ground.
Her heart lodged in her throat. Mulder had been so
depressed and shut off lately that it had scared her. She was
afraid of what he might do. Terrified that he was going to
blow. From what she could see, it looked as if he had.

She knelt beside the huddled figure and sighed with
relief. He was breathing. "Mulder," she said softly.

He didn't answer; didn't appear to hear her. She laid
a hand on his trembling shoulder and shook him gently.
"Mulder," she said again.

Red-rimmed eyes stared at her from a gaunt dirty
face. His hair was sticking up in a dozen different directions.
Clothing disheveled and filthy.

"Scully." His voice was raw. "Oh God," he
whispered and began sobbing again.

"It's okay, Mulder." She reached out and pulled him
into her lap, his head against her chest.

They sat like this for a long time. He crying and she
shushing and rocking him.

Slowly he regained some of his control and pulled
away from her, looking at the ground, embarrassed. "How
did you know where to find me?"

"Your mother called."

Mulder grimaced and looked up. "Jesus, I probably
scared the shit out of her."

Scully smiled and said, "She did sound a little
frantic.You should call her and let her know you're all
right." She paused and caught his eyes. "You are all right,
aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." He stood slowly, looking at his
wet, disheveled clothes. He was starting to shake from the
cold.

She knew he was lying but decided to let it pass...for
now.

"Well, you look like something the cat coughed up."
He gave her a dirty look but she didn't miss a beat. "And
you're freezing. You need a hot shower and some
sleep...doctor's orders."

"Yes ma'am," Mulder said solemnly. "I just need a
minute."

"Sure." Scully started walking down the path toward
the car. She heard a soft sob and turned to check on
Mulder. He was standing so still, looking down at the grave
and wiping his eyes. She heard him say softly,

"I love you, Dad."

Finito.