Disclaimer: I'm far too young and far too female to be Chris Carter.
I saw your obituary today.
Nobody who knows me, or knows of me for that matter, would ever think of me as the kind of man who would read the daily newspaper, but I do. There's such a comfort in the everyday ritual of passing by the newsstand and buying a newspaper and then going home, making a good cup of coffee and reading the paper from cover to cover. My life has been anything but conventional. I like these little touches of normalcy. It's almost like tourism—it's a glimpse of a different world. I sometimes wonder what I would be like if I lived in that world full-time, but I have no desire to actually know. Ironically, such knowledge would require a certain level of ignorance. I abhor ignorance. It's the worst problem that human beings have ever caused for themselves, and it disgusts me that so many embrace it.
But I didn't see your obituary in the actual newspaper that day. One of my occasional associates has finally convinced me to purchase a computer and an internet connection, and although as a matter of security I never keep any important documents on that computer, I have found it to be a useful means of keeping tabs on the important news in the world. Your local newspaper isn't delivered here. I read what they post online every day—and that includes the obituaries.
I confess that I panicked slightly when I saw your family name in the obituary section. Our son has been in constant danger and I thought that it was he who had died. But panic turned to grief when I saw your own name on the screen. A few years ago you almost died. I did everything I could to save you and it was a relief when I thought I had managed to do so, but I see now that I only bought you some time. I now regret that I could not spend much of that time with you.
I didn't do it for myself, though I admit that I felt some joy when I heard that you were going to be all right. I did it for you because I felt that your condition was my own fault to begin with. Your miraculous recovery stunned your doctors. You simply seemed to accept it. Though I'm certain that you would deny it if asked, you knew how and why you were still alive.
And now you aren't. There are those who believe that I have no heart. For a time, I was one of them. The grief that claws at it now, knowing that you are dead, disabuses me of the notion. I do indeed have a heart. I know it because your death has broken it.
The wording of your obituary implies suicide in the most euphemistic of terms. This came as a complete surprise, for although I know you've been ill, I just hadn't expected that you would take matters into your own hands. What were you thinking when you decided to do what you did? Has your life really been so terrible? You have a beautiful home. You have friends who try their best to lift you from your gloomy moments. You had two men who loved you deeply, even if he divorced you and I wasn't able to admit it until it was far too late, and our son has become a man of whom we can be proud—even as he's thwarted my plans so many times, I have been proud of him for his resourcefulness and his determination. I know that you have been proud of him for his dedication to searching out the truth regardless of the situation or what his search costs him. His search for his sister has turned into far more than anybody could possibly have predicted—even me. Or perhaps I should say, especially me.
It seems that he has not made the same mistake with the woman he loves as I made with you. In the past seven years, he has had a partner in his search for the truth. I know that you haven't been sure of what to think of her—you've met some of his women in the past, and I know for certain that you didn't approve of the most significant one before Agent Scully's arrival. Any positive emotion that you may have formed for her has been cautious, and I know that you blame her for keeping our son in the darkness that his quest has become. I wish that you didn't. Her involvement was involuntary, and it was completely my fault, from her presence in his office to her abuction, her cancer and countless other things she's suffered in the past seven years. You don't know the things that she has lost over the years, though I have a plan to remedy at least one of those things in the near future; after all, her involvement with our son has become much more personal in the past few months. Once I am certain that they have moved their relationship to the most intimate level, I will put my plan into action and we, my dear, will have a grandchild when she is once again able to conceive. I'd like to think that although I can never truly make amends for what I have put them through in the past, I can do something to make them happy.
And perhaps being a father will make our son more cautious. I worry for him sometimes, conscious that he will never return the favour. It truly is sharper than a serpent's tooth to have a thankless child, though I admit that I can understand his hatred of me to a certain degree. I know that he does not see my work to be the noble thing that I believe it is. It is my hope that someday he will know my reasons and accept that what I have done was intended to be for the long-term benefit of humanity.
I will attend your funeral, though I will do my best to not be noticed there. He will not understand my presence any more than she will. If he notices me, I will have to depend on her and her good sense, her level head, to keep him in check. Of course, he will not want to show you such disrespect as to come flying at me when they are lowering your casket into the ground, but I know his tendency towards emotional reactions. If she does not stop him, he will make a scene. He always was a dramatic one.
So, apparently, am I. As I look once again at your obituary, I am shocked as a single tear makes its way down my cheek. I'd thought that I was beyond such things these days. But just as your death proved that I have a heart by breaking it, it's also proven that I am still human enough to shed a tear. I find that simultaneously reassuring and disappointing.
Author's Notes: So, who did you think was talking in the first few paragraphs? *grin*
I like to play with a bit of ambiguity in my writing every once in awhile, as anyone who's read one of my Harry Potter fics, "Based on a Lie", will know. Mulder and his apparent biological father do seem to have certain things in common: both are highly intelligent men with dysfunctional emotional lives (though we see more of Mulder's dysfunction than Cancerman's) who have dedicated their whole lives to different sides of the same quest. In the end, they both lose everything (though CSM arguably loses more than Mulder does, as in 2008 Mulder's still alive and kicking and still getting into paranormal-type trouble, but we saw Cancerman's face get burned right off as he died in the Anasazi ruins in "The Truth"). And besides, who can resist the chance to get into Cancerman's head? Certainly not this humble fanfic writer. I hope that I was able to do justice to such a complex (and in many ways, tragic) character.