Work Text:
A chilly morning lay over Martha's Vineyard. Spring had long since arrived, but Bill Mulder felt a coldness settling deep inside. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and stood at the window of his study, gazing out at the dark water.
The sea was calm, the waves lapping gently against the shore. He hated this indifference. He used to find comfort in this rhythmic movement, but now it felt like a cruel mockery. The world had retained its right to continue living; his had been taken away.
Finally, he turned away, walked briskly to the leather armchair, and sank into the cushions. A heavy, exhausted lump amid the studied control of his study.
Samantha.
He closed his eyes. A mistake. The smiling face of his eight-year-old daughter appeared so clearly, so vividly. He heard her childish laughter and remembered her unwavering, infectious cheerfulness.
Her expression changed. She was frightened and desperate. Instead of her laughter, her screams pierced his ears. She called out for him, for her mother, for Fox. “Save me! Don't let the bad men hurt me!”
Gasping for breath, Bill opened his eyes as if he had been struck in the heart.
The silence in the study was broken only by the monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock. His hands clenched the armrests convulsively. He tried in vain to dispel the screams and their bitter echo. He couldn't do it. He pressed his bloodless lips together and reached for the glass of Scotch. The alcohol burned his throat, a necessary pain. “I should have prevented it,” he muttered.
A soft creak from the hallway told him that either Teena or Fox had woken up. Bill cursed quietly, because he didn't want his family to see him like this—especially his son. He hastily put the scotch aside and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He had to appear composed. He owed it to Teena and Fox to maintain this facade of control.
He forced himself to get up and walked slowly to the door, which creaked open to reveal the hallway. There he saw Fox leaving his room.
“Fox?” he asked. “What are you doing out here? It's still early, you should be asleep.”
The harshness of his voice hit Fox like a lashing blow. The boy flinched. The expression on Bill's face immediately registered guilt. Fox had always been a bright and curious boy, full of energy and eager to explore the world around him. But since Samantha's disappearance, he had become withdrawn, hardly speaking unless spoken to directly. Bill's throat felt tight; the words he wanted to say to comfort his son stuck in his throat.
Fox nervously tugged at the sleeve of his pajamas and looked down at the floor uncertainly, his shoulders slightly raised as if he were expecting a blow. “I had a bad dream,” he muttered so quietly that Bill almost didn't hear him. “I dreamed about the lights that took Samantha. I heard her screams, her cries for help, but I couldn't move. And then there was a voice in my head saying that everything would be okay and that I would see Samantha again someday.” Fox looked at his father with tear-filled eyes. “Dad... do you think that's true?”
Bill opened his mouth, closed it again, and blinked. His son's question hit a sore spot that he had been trying to avoid for weeks. Fox's eyes sought his, full of fear and hope at the same time.
He couldn't answer his son's fragile question. His son must never know what role he had played in this matter. To protect what remained of his family, he had to make Fox forget the events of that night. He had to dismiss them as nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
“That's nonsense. Absolute nonsense. There are no lights in the sky and no voices.” Bill's voice was hard, sharp, and devoid of any warmth. It left no room for discussion. “Go to bed now, Fox. Right now.”
Fox flinched painfully, this time even deeper. The delicate flame of hope died in his eyes, replaced by the familiar, guilty expression. He nodded briefly, muttered a quiet “Sir,” and disappeared into the darkness of his room without another word.
Bill stood motionless in the hallway. His heart was pounding in his chest and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The pain and despair in his son's eyes had hit him harder than any punch. He realized that he was in danger of losing his remaining child as well. But he saw no other way.
„Bill?“
Teena appeared at the end of the hallway. She had pulled her dressing gown tightly around her shoulders, and her eyes darted restlessly and anxiously from Fox's door to him. “What happened? I heard Fox's voice. Is he okay?”
Bill stiffened; he wasn't in the mood to face Teena as well. He just wanted to escape, hide away in his study, and drink Scotch until the images of Samantha's screams and Fox's tears were washed from his mind.
“Nothing, Teena, Fox just had a nightmare,” he growled wearily.
His wife pressed her lips together, the concern in her eyes giving way to a cold, knowing expression. “Nightmare, huh?” She took a single, deliberate step toward him. “Or was it the memory of what happened to his sister?”
Bill felt the heat drain from his face. Her eyes, sharp and alert in the semi-darkness, revealed nothing but icy resentment. He couldn't play this game. Not now, not here, not in the hallway where Fox could hear.
“I see no reason to have this conversation now, Teena,” Bill said, his voice now almost a low growl, control firmly anchored in every word. “He's gone back to sleep. That is all that matters.”
“That's your main concern,” Teena corrected, her voice dropping to a piercing whisper. She ignored Bill's command and took a step closer until the space between them was filled with nothing but tense, hostile air. “You took her away from us, Bill. It's all your fault because your work was more important to you than your family. You sacrificed Samantha. And Fox? He'll be traumatized—forever.”
Bill stared at her. The accusation hit him harder than any blow. He couldn't defend himself because she was right. Nevertheless, he felt a wave of defiance rising within him. He had sacrificed Samantha not out of self-interest, but out of necessity, to secure what remained. He had made a choice that no one should ever have to make, and Teena had no right to judge him for it.
“Do you think this decision was easy for me?” he asked, raising his voice briefly before forcing it back down to a dangerous whisper. “She was my daughter too! I loved her just as much as you do! I had no other choice. To protect you and Fox, I had to make a sacrifice. It had to be Samantha. Fox will recover. He's still young. Life goes on,” he said with a contemptuous snort and a confidence he didn't feel.
Teena gasped, her eyes narrowing to two dark slits. “Recover? You just lied to his face! You sold his soul! You protected him, not us! He'll never recover, Bill! He'll hate you!”
Bill couldn't take it anymore. The hatred his wife directed at him was so devastating that it threatened to crush him on the spot. So he turned abruptly and, without saying a word to his wife, went into his study and slammed the door behind him. In his study, he leaned his back against the door and closed his eyes. He fought back the tears that burned in the corners of his eyes and threatened to flow. With unsteady steps, he walked to his desk, reached for the scotch glass that was still standing on the desk, and raised it to his lips. The alcohol offered a momentary numbing.
Bill Mulder was no longer the loving father or loyal civil servant. He was just a man sitting in the dark, drinking. The ticking of the grandfather clock counted not the seconds, but the lost love and the irrevocable decision. He had traded his family for a lie, and now he had to live alone in the darkness with the shadows of his duty.