Date sent: Sat, 14 Mar 1998 15:27:54 -0500 From: Morgan Caulfield Subject: Dear Other Son (1/1) by Jeanne Williams Please direct all comments to morganc@voicenet.com. Title: Dear Other Son Author: Jeanne Williams Email address: morganc@voicenet.com Distribution statement: anywhere Spoiler warning: (minor) Patient X/TR&TB Rating: PG Content warning: slight language Classification: VH Summary: CSM writes a letter to his other son. All characters mentioned belong to 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. Dear Other Son (1/1) by Jeanne Williams Disclaimer: The following is not indicative of any belief on the part of the writer regarding Mulder's parentage. It's just that Spender isn't even any fun to write to. Dear Other Son, It was gratifying to find that one of my offspring had finally responded to my letters. However, your missive would have been more touching had it not been addressed to "You Black Lung Son of a Bitch." Still, it is cold and lonely here, and I'll take what I can get, not to mention that your half-brother is such a whiney little pain in the ass. It is my own fault, no doubt, for taking up with women like your mother and that Cassandra woman (and believe me when I say that her multiple abduction experiences have only made her more lucid, so you see what I've had to put up with). Still, as I ponder the strange twists and turns my life has taken that have led me to my current snow-laden meditative state (I ask you, what does that Clancey guy have that I don't have?), I cannot help but wonder whether my children would have turned out more, well, normal if I had become involved with a halfway intelligent woman. Damn, I bet that Maggie Scully was hot was when she was younger. This leads me to my major reason for contacting you, Fox, and, yes, that stupid name was your mother's fault. After five years, I would think that you would have at least made it to first base with your partner. Do you think I went to all that trouble to get her partnered with you in the first place just so you could make lame jokes about what she's wearing? And don't tell me that you've scored with her when I was wasn't looking. I'm always looking. And listening. "Secure line" my ass. Don't you realize that by now we've got your office, your apartment, her apartment, your phones, her phones, your fish tank and every hospital ward in the greater D.C. area wired? I held out some hope when you hugged her in the hospital that time, but to my great disappointment it actually was an ova in your pocket, you weren't just really glad to see her. As your father, I feel it is my duty to advise you. Son, believe me when I tell you that being presumed dead is not as much fun at my age as you seem to find it now. Too many of my old friends and colleagues are truly dead, so I cannot hang out with them and play "let's break into the Department of Defense" any more. Sure, I killed most of those old friends myself, but the end result is still the same. I'm alone. And cold. Do you know what the heating bills up here run? Write again soon, son. Your letters are my only comfort here in my self-imposed exile. Just try to think of some new names to call me; all these smoking-related metaphors are getting a bit old. Your other loving father,