Shadows of the Soul I can hear them talking. Mulder, high on whatever combination
of drugs the Consortium pumped into his tap water, sounds dull and confused,
nothing like the Mulder I love best. Then again, being with his father
seemed to have that effect on him anyway, transforming Fox's usual bullheaded
certainty and outspokenness into a sickening respectful passivity.
Bill Mulder seems to be trying to catch up with his son through alcohol.
Two parts of the dysfunctional Mulder family.
Even now the old bastard is circling around the issues in a way Mulder
would probably find confusing even if he were dead sober. Bill Mulder
worked for decades committing atrocities with the very people his son hates
most but will only tell Fox now when Fox is about to find out for himself.
Tell him! For once in your miserable life, give your son something
he needs! But even now Bill Mulder can't say it. It doesn't
surprise me.
It was difficult finding enough work in the New England area to make
money while I pursued my hobby, but I managed. I've watched William
Mulder for so long that I can do a dead-on impression of him. I've
seen how he is with Fox, the coldness and the casual cruelty. What
used to be a burning hatred is now a deadly, compressed thing as frigid
as William Mulder's stunted soul.
The Cancer Man doesn't want his old crony dead, but the Cancer Man's
interests don't always fit with the Consortium's. I surprised them
with my eagerness to do this job. They think I'm trying to curry
favor, but that's only a fringe benefit.
You may never understand it, Fox, but I'm doing this for you.
I know you don't remember a night I can never forget. You weren't
really awake but you were warm and more than willing beneath me as I ravaged
your mouth and started to wonder what the rest of you would taste like,
started to realize that I really wanted to know. Passive and docile, you
hadn't really been yourself at that moment, but I had been too inflamed
with an unexpected lust to really notice. You stopped me with one
unguarded word breathed out in a moment of passion.
Daddy.
Your mind is such a patchwork of buried and recovered memories that
I wonder if you're consciously aware of what he did to you. I wonder
when it started and how long it went on. Seeing how he is with you,
I think that maybe you didn't even fight him off very hard, that maybe
you welcomed any touch, any pale shadow of affection, he sent your way.
Maybe you could tolerate being used if you could reinterpret it as a show
of love from a man who seemed to be incapable of feeling it. I saw
your shock when he met you at the door with a hug tonight, since we both
remember you reaching to hug him when the fake Samantha showed up and him
deflecting you away and offering a firm handshake instead.
I think you still love him dearly. I'm sure what part of you remembers
blames yourself instead of him as he no doubt taught you to. Scully
is wrong when she thinks that you're an egotist for thinking that everything
is about you. Rather the opposite, since you think you're responsible for
everything that goes wrong. Your father's very presence transforms you into a
quiet, submissive thing. A scapegoat. An inanimate sex toy.
Just as I held you back from retrieving Scully to save your life, I'm
going to kill your father for your own good. I'm sure you'll hate
me for it, but you hate me anyway.
I love you, Fox, and this is the only way I can show it. What
a pathetic life I lead.
I ducked out of sight as William Mulder entered the bathroom and went
to the medicine cabinet. While he was distracted with that, I quietly
closed the door. When he finally turned and saw me, he noticed my
gun immediately.
"What do you want?" he demanded querulously but I could see his fear.
"What do you think?" I answered.
"He promised me safety."
No need to ask who "he" was. "He shouldn't make promises he can't
keep."
"So after all those years of service, I'm now a liability?"
"That's why they want you dead. I have my own reason."
"And what would that be?"
"For him. For Fox! You buried him in secrets and lies and
weighted him with guilt, encouraging him to blame himself for everything
when it was all your doing. You let him blame himself for his sister's
disappearance and your divorce. Your work scarred and crippled his
life, leaving him a neurotic obsessive who's so guilt-ridden, socially inept, and troubled that
he can't live a normal life if he tried. You abused him physically
and mentally then molested him just to make sure." I searched his
face for any sign of shame or remorse.
I should have known better. "Fox is lying!" he hissed.
"Fox never said a word. I found out on my own. You tortured
and killed people for a living with your projects, but you had to bring
your work home. Now I'm here too." When I shot him he had such a
look of surprise on his face, as if he never thought something like this
could happen to him. As if he could consort with betrayers and remain
untouched by the treachery. I knew better. He fell to the tile
floor dying but still alive, with a pool of dark blood already forming
beneath him.
I could hear Fox rushing toward the room, and for a moment I froze,
ensnared by the compulsion to see him up close again after so long.
I quickly snapped out of it. If Mulder could attack A.D. Skinner,
he would have no compunctions about trying to kill me. I hoisted
myself out through the window and stood in the yard listening.
It hurt to hear the pain in his voice. It hurt me even more to
hear William Mulder croak, "Forgive me," because I knew Fox would.
My mind whirling, I left without any clear thought of where I would go.
Which was why I had Mulder beating on me a day later, about to kill
me with my own gun. I should have just left the country, gone home
and gotten my head back together, but first I felt drawn back to Virginia,
to an apartment building where my life had changed forever. Mulder
had ambushed me like a pro and manhandled me with an expertise I wish he
would show sober while beating other people.
He held me down against the hood of a car with my own gun trained on
me. I could taste the blood dripping from my nose and thought that
this was one hell of a stupid way to die.
Mulder's usually hazel eyes had gone a dark, madly glittering green.
I hadn't seen him this violently insane since he nearly killed Duane Barry.
"I'm going to kill you anyway," he rasped, his ravaged voice getting progressively
louder, "so you might as well tell me the truth. Did you kill my
father? Did you kill him! Answer me!"
How the hell did he guess? Unless his drugged mind just decided
to blame me since I happen to be right here. Since I have a history
of betraying him. At least he's not blaming himself for his father's
death. Dazed, my head spinning, I couldn't answer him even if I'd
wanted to.
He picked me up, knocked me to the ground, then kicked me. I had
gone from not striking him back out of my feelings for him to not striking
back because I was afraid it would only make him worse. He picked
me up again and kept me at arm's length with his finger on the trigger.
As we stared at one another I could swear I saw something start to shift,
soften, in his eyes. The gun wavered, and he muttered something under his breath. Did I see
what I think I saw?
"Mulder! Don't shoot him! Just back away!" Scully shouted
with her own gun trained on us.
With Scully witnessing, Mulder snapped back to homicidal rage.
The dutiful son. I cursed her under my breath. By getting involved,
she had just ruined any chance of ending this without violence. She
had ruined something else too. What would Mulder have said and done
if she hadn't shown up?
"He killed my father, Scully!" Mulder shouted.
"I have him, Mulder!"
I broke free of his grip to give myself to ability to move if things
turned really ugly. For reasons I didn't understand myself, I spread
my arms wide. To dare him to shoot me? To invite him in?
My gesture obviously confused him, but Mulder just shouted, "No, Scully!"
Then she fired. And shot him.
I stared at her in shock for a second then ran for a safer place before
she turned on me too. I gave myself some distance, let her think
I'd fled, then watched what she did next. I didn't think she belonged
to any of the conspiracy's factions, but everyone has a price. If
she'd killed him she wouldn't live long enough to collect.
She looked him over then tried to move him when she heard the neighbors
start to come outside to investigate. If the situation hadn't been
so serious, I would have burst out laughing. She couldn't move Mulder.
He was too tall and heavy. At least that reassured me that she hadn't
planned this from the beginning.
I crept up behind her and knocked the gun from her hand. She stared
up at me in shock and distrust. "What are you trying to do with him?"
I asked. I saw that she had shot Mulder through the shoulder.
He looked like shit, but he looked like shit before she shot him.
He still lived.
In her moment of need, she decided to share with me. "I found
someone who can help us in New Mexico. I have to get Mulder away from the
people who are trying to discredit and kill him."
"You'll have to drive. You can't take him on a plane like that.
It's a long ride to New Mexico. How are you going to sleep?
Cops check out occupied cars parked on the side of the road, and I can't
see you dragging Mulder into any hotels by yourself. Maybe you can
ask the desk clerk. 'Excuse me, sir, but can you carry my husband to our
room? He's a real heavy sleeper, in more ways than one, and—Why are you calling 911?'"
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you have in mind?"
"I can help you get him to your car without jolting his wound.
We could drive in shifts so we wouldn't have to stop."
"Why help me?" The question fairly exploded out of her mouth.
"This is excessive, heavy-handed, and just plain wrong." If she wanted
more than that, too bad. "We should move quickly. The neighbors
are coming, and Mulder's bleeding all over the place. You should
fix him up soon."
"Did you kill Mulder's father?"
"Did you ever meet William Mulder?"
"No."
I just shook my head.
It's my turn to sleep now, but I just can't do it. My thoughts
keep getting in the way. I have Mulder's head on my lap and keep
stroking his hair because I like to and it makes him smile sweetly in his
sleep. I decided not to wonder who he thinks is touching him.
I have my leather jacket wadded up under his wounded shoulder to try to reduce the car's vibrations running
through his body. I shoot dirty looks at the back of Scully's head
as she drives. She didn't have to shoot him.
She keeps glancing back at me, at us, in the rear view mirror.
Trying to figure out what I'm up to, why I'm doing this. Well, so
am I.
I intend to leave before he wakes up in New Mexico. I wonder what
Scully will tell him about the trip. He has enough problems without
having the man who killed his father hanging around.
I understand his reaction. No matter how much of an abusive bastard
your father may be, you feel guilty if you don't feel grief at his death.
My father was a bastard of a different order, and I still felt bad when
he took a bullet in Afghanistan.
But maybe there's hope for me and Mulder. About an hour ago I
finally figured out what he had muttered as he wavered in his decision
to kill me. He'd said, "You're my shadow. You do the things
I can't." Maybe someday that will be enough.
end...
Weaknesses II
by Viridian5
So here I am standing in a tub, gun in hand, waiting to kill an old
man. Usually this would be beneath even me, but this old man
