ill Mulder, He no longer understands his son. Word Count: 476
He no longer understood his son, this boy on the brink of manhood who was quiet and brilliant and wanted to go to school thousands of miles away. Wanted to put an ocean between himself and everyone, everything he knew.
As Bill swirled the scotch in his glass, he once again glanced at the small stack of papers sitting on the coffee table; the acceptance letter, a student visa applications, housing suggestions, tuition breakdown, medical forms, clothing recommendations, required reading, and on and on.
The manila envelope had arrived three days ago and Bill had yet to call his son and let him know that Oxford wanted him.
“What’s so god-dammed wrong with an American school?” Bill muttered, angrily swigging back the contents of his glass. Years of working for the greater good had cost him his daughter, the destruction of his marriage and loss of his wife, the animosity of various friends and family, and now this.
Getting too his feet, as stiff and slow as an old man, Bill walked over to the liquor cabinet and sloshed another three fingers of scotch into his glass. He no longer felt the burn as the alcohol made its way down his throat, the same way he told himself he no longer truly felt the ache in the knowledge that his son was leaving.
This quiet shadow of the boy he’d seen the last Sunday of every month, the intense and somewhat spooky young man who picked apart every detail until nothing was left but the carcass of the truth. How had Fox not learned that some questions were better not asked, that tact was the better part of valor, and sometimes it was better to ignore the obvious?
Looking back, Bill knew that even before that awful day when Samantha was taken Fox was already starting to change. There had been, still was, a depth to his son that had not come to Bill until much later in life.
They rarely saw eye to eye, even back when Fox had been a child theirs was an acrimonious relationship. These days they couldn’t even talk about baseball anymore without the subtext running treacherously deep.
Glaring at the phone, Bill knew he needed to make the call, to let Fox know that Oxford had accepted him, but part of him knew that as soon as he did the small pieces of the boy he understood would be gone forever. This changeling of a child who wanted nothing more than to explore the frailties of the human mind, who read poetry, and remember every detail but those that matter the most, was little more than a stranger to him these days.
Finishing his glass of scotch, he reached for the phone.
Bill Mulder no longer understood his son, but he suspected that maybe he’d never really known him anyway.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Bill Mulder, He no longer understands his son.
Date: 2011-04-30 07:02 am (UTC)He no longer understood his son, this boy on the brink of manhood who was quiet and brilliant and wanted to go to school thousands of miles away. Wanted to put an ocean between himself and everyone, everything he knew.
As Bill swirled the scotch in his glass, he once again glanced at the small stack of papers sitting on the coffee table; the acceptance letter, a student visa applications, housing suggestions, tuition breakdown, medical forms, clothing recommendations, required reading, and on and on.
The manila envelope had arrived three days ago and Bill had yet to call his son and let him know that Oxford wanted him.
“What’s so god-dammed wrong with an American school?” Bill muttered, angrily swigging back the contents of his glass. Years of working for the greater good had cost him his daughter, the destruction of his marriage and loss of his wife, the animosity of various friends and family, and now this.
Getting too his feet, as stiff and slow as an old man, Bill walked over to the liquor cabinet and sloshed another three fingers of scotch into his glass. He no longer felt the burn as the alcohol made its way down his throat, the same way he told himself he no longer truly felt the ache in the knowledge that his son was leaving.
This quiet shadow of the boy he’d seen the last Sunday of every month, the intense and somewhat spooky young man who picked apart every detail until nothing was left but the carcass of the truth. How had Fox not learned that some questions were better not asked, that tact was the better part of valor, and sometimes it was better to ignore the obvious?
Looking back, Bill knew that even before that awful day when Samantha was taken Fox was already starting to change. There had been, still was, a depth to his son that had not come to Bill until much later in life.
They rarely saw eye to eye, even back when Fox had been a child theirs was an acrimonious relationship. These days they couldn’t even talk about baseball anymore without the subtext running treacherously deep.
Glaring at the phone, Bill knew he needed to make the call, to let Fox know that Oxford had accepted him, but part of him knew that as soon as he did the small pieces of the boy he understood would be gone forever. This changeling of a child who wanted nothing more than to explore the frailties of the human mind, who read poetry, and remember every detail but those that matter the most, was little more than a stranger to him these days.
Finishing his glass of scotch, he reached for the phone.
Bill Mulder no longer understood his son, but he suspected that maybe he’d never really known him anyway.