From mishka@spiralcomm.net Wed Nov 13 02:02:36 1996
Fox at 12: The Best Night of My Life (1/2) (REVISED)
by Mishka (mishka@spiralcomm.net)
RATING (part 1): PG for a couple of mild cuss words and
some double entendres.
CLASSIFICATION: T/A (Meaning Action-Adventure & Angst).
This is a real "mythology" type of story.
SUMMARY:
No 4th-season spoilers (not yet, anyhow!); minor spoiler for
"Talitha Cumi" (3rd season finale).
I do not intend to predict what will be discovered about
Fox Mulder's childhood, if CC ever does decide to explore
that further in the show. This is just my little idea of how the
gap of years during Fox's adolescence might be filled.
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, his family, Cancer Man, Jeremiah Smith,
and any other X-Files-type characters who might show up are not mine.
They and much of the background to this story are the property of Chris
Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network, and have been
used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
I have only the best wishes for the continued success of The X-Files.
You have my permission to post any parts of this story elsewhere,
as long as the text is unchanged and my name stays with it as author.
SPECIAL THANKS: to my one and only Beta-reader, Pete Korecek ("Pecha" to me),
who gave me invaluable insights into what a brilliant pre-teen is really like
and what games preteen boys consider "totally uncool" (my words, not his)
after he read my first version of this story.
He also encouraged me, as a writer, to research, research, research!
This is my first attempt at fanfic. It also is one of my first attempts
at fiction of any kind. So be gentle with me, okay? Constructive
criticism will be welcomed, but flames will just make me curl up into
a little ball, pitifully weeping like Mulder in "One Breath".
Please send any comments to me: mishka@spiralcomm.net.
***********************************
Part 1
November 25, 1973
Social Security Administration
Washington, D.C.
11:21 a.m.
Jeremiah Smith sat in his small partitioned cubicle, typing at
an IBM Selectric. Stacked in neat but tall piles covering the right
side of Smith's desk were manila file folders, each with one of the
typed labels he had endlessly affixed on each raised tab. On the floor
to the left of his desk sat a cardboard box filled with pages of lists.
Lists of names, dates of birth, and assigned ID numbers. A sealed
box arrived each Monday, and more sealed boxes left, processed
by Smith, each Friday.
Smith knew many others just like him throughout the country
participated in much more nefarious deeds in this crime than he did.
But Smith didn't want to think about them. Or about how his seemingly
insignificant occupation was truly the lifeblood of it all.
Occasionally, the man in charge brought an extra page or two of names.
"Special requests", the man called them in his deep and somber voice.
Smith wished he had never had to meet this dark, lanky man with the
nicotine-stained fingers. But he hadn't had any choice in the matter.
For security reasons, Smith alone completed every bit of this phase of
"the work". No secretaries to help him -- there was always the possibility
that a secretary might raise questions about the human beings owning
the names on the files. It had been 30 years since Smith had helped
with a similar categorizing. He hadn't grown any older, and the job was
much the same; only the hum of the electric typewriter replacing the
clack of the manual Olympia.
30 years is a long time, Smith allowed, but some people don't forget
so easily. Not something like this.
"Mr. Smith, it's so good to see you again." The familiar voice, smooth
yet mildly husky, caused Smith to cringe slightly in surprise as he
swiveled around to face his visitor. "You've been keeping busy, I see,"
the tall man added with a pleasantness Smith had learned to recognize
as false.
Smith gave nothing but his attention in response.
"I have a special request for you today, Mr. Smith," the man said,
handing him a single piece of paper folded double. "Top priority, I'm
afraid. It must be ready for final processing by tomorrow. You can do
that for me, can't you, Mr. Smith?"
"For you, of course, Sir," Smith answered, nodding his head slightly
before he unfolded the page and let his eyes drop down to read.
A single entry occupied the sheet. Smith had never seen fewer than two
dozen names delivered as a "special request".
Mulder, Fox William
10/13/61
I.D. 292544
"Thank you, Mr. Smith. You're doing a fine job here," the tall man said
when he had caught Smith's surprised look. He placed a cigarette
between his lips, igniting it with a gold Zippo lighter. "A very fine job."
************************************
November 27, 1973
Martha's Vineyard Regional High School
3:15 p.m.
Fox Mulder slowly forged his way through the bustling corridor, other kids
running past him to catch the bus or shouting out weekend plans to each
other.
Fox still didn't have a lot of friends like everyone else seemed to have.
At 12, he was the youngest kid in the 9th grade. Since the day he began
school it had been impossible for him to suppress his unusual intelligence,
and over the last seven years he had needed to skip two grades. Along
with always being the smallest in his class, he had developed the reputation
of being "a real geek" because it was impossible for him to hide his gift for
understanding things and making logical connections much faster than anyone
else could. Perfect grades were too important to him.
His father had always demanded that Fox "apply" himself to his fullest;
even though Fox's academic success hadn't helped his relationship
with his father, hadn't made them "buddies", Fox wasn't going to give
up yet. Striving for his father's approval was still the top priority in
Fox's life.
All through junior high Fox had been a "shrimpy nerd" to the rest of his
world. But, over the last few months, Fox had begun a growth spurt
and he had begun to hope that things would look up for him socially.
Although he had prayed for years that this would happen someday, now that it
was actually happening he hadn't the foggiest how to handle it.
Nearing the end of lunch hour one day, he had noticed a klatch of
Freshman girls huddled together, whispering and glancing furtively
in his direction. At first he was certain that they were making fun of him.
Again. But then, shocking Fox irreparably as the group dispersed at
the bell, two of the girls cried out "Fox Mulder is a fox!" in unison before
scampering off to 5th period in a fit of giggles.
Fox's mother had frequently attempted to assure him that he would
grow to be a tall, handsome man. "You take after your father too
much not to become tall and handsome," she had said once, sadly, and then
left the room with her eyes filling with tears. *But Dad's only five-nine,
and he's dorky looking!* Fox had thought to himself. This had puzzled
him but, seeing his mother's distress when she had said it, he never pressed
her to explain herself, and she never mentioned it again.
Fox decided that his mother saw his father that way just because they were
husband and wife. It was the only evidence Fox had seen in years that
Margaret Mulder may still have loved Bill Mulder.
*Oh, well, at least I'm not shorter than ALL the girls in school now* Fox
consoled himself. *And those babes weren't really laughing at me,
were they?* he mused, grinning mischievously, remembering his moment of
surprised triumph. Then, shattering his brief reverie, the memories of all
the times he had been rejected by his "crushes" came flooding over him. They
came to him in images as clear as if they had happened just moments ago.
*Damn that eidetic memory of mine!* he cursed to himself. Whenever he
started feeling okay about himself, some embarrassing memory would pop up
like a new color Polaroid to put him back in his place.
Fox finally arrived at his locker. He opened it wearily, unlike all the
others who were eager to begin their weekend of freedom. All Fox
had to look forward to this weekend was attempting to watch "The Magician" on
TV while he babysat his pesky sister; his parents were going next door to
play bridge with the Galbreds. And his father would undoubtedly come home
drunk.
Fox pulled out his Knicks jacket, put it on, and got ready to walk home.
Alone. Again.
A folded paper fell from the folds of the jacket onto the white cement
at his feet. He picked up the paper, pastel pink with a small heart drawn
on one exposed side.
Amazed and curious, Fox unfolded the note, looking nervously to his left
and right to make sure no one could see what was written there in the
careful, cheerfully rounded cursive of a teenaged girl:
"Hi, Fox!
You probably don't remember me, but I sit 2 tables
behind you in Biology. I think you're really smart and cute.
I was wondering, could you come to my house tonite and
we can study together? My mom said it would be OK 'cuz
I'm down to a B now in Bio, and I really need the help.
It's just 'cuz I was out sick for a week, tho.
Could you help me get caught up?
If you can come, look behind you and wave to me
(ha, ha, surprised you!)
Hope you can. Luv,
Winnie Rystrand
P.S.: I think your name is really neat!
(Fox, I mean.)"
Fox gasped and turned his suddenly pale face a quick 180 degrees,
nearly giving himself whiplash. There, directly across from his locker,
across the tiled hallway of the two rows of classrooms in the Science wing,
stood Winnie Rystrand, grinning like a jack-'o-lantern with braces, waving
her right hand from side to side. She giggled for a moment when their eyes
made contact, stifling it lightly with her left hand. Fox and Winnie
simultaneously blushed bright red.
Fox waved back, not realizing he was doing it until he was doing it.
He looked in shock at his raised hand, froze, and dropped it. Winnie
almost skipped across the expanse of white and black tiles, landing right in
front of Fox.
"So can you come?" Winnie asked, youthful hopefulness in her eyes.
"Uh...s-sure, sure, if you need the help," Fox stammered back.
"I can come anytime."
He felt so embarrassed. Fox wasn't very experienced at this kind of thing.
Actually, he wasn't experienced at all. Every word he said seemed to
come out wrong; he was terribly afraid she might take what he said the wrong
way. *Nah, she's a nice girl,* he thought. *But what a queeb I can be
sometimes!*
"Great!" Winnie exclaimed, grinning widely and then quickly willing her
lips to go back to their job of hiding her "metal mouth".
"Can you come at 7:30? My folks are going to a movie, but they let me
stay home alone all the time. They don't worry about me; they say I'm
mature enough."
*Mature enough...yeah, I'll say...* Fox blushed anew. *Man, get your mind
out of the gutter!* he told himself as he took a much-needed deep breath.
"Okay. 7:30. You live in that green house down from the Anderson's,
right?" David "Doggie" Anderson was the closest friend he'd ever had; Fox
knew the neighborhood well.
"Right. I'll see you then, okay?" Winnie said with an uncertain lilt.
"Okay," Fox nearly whispered, then turned abruptly and walked away.
Fox broke into a run as soon as he turned the corner of the building, tearing
across the Morgan Memorial Ampitheater and into the field beyond the school.
He almost sprained his ankle as he sloshed across the creek he used as a
shortcut home, disregarding the mud that quickly seeped into his new
sneakers. He often lingered at the quiet, protective creek for a while after
school. There he felt less alone and much less vulnerable, secluded by the
shadows and foliage of the trees lining the stream. But today any thoughts
of potential harrassments and assaults from older boys were pushed away by
his elated mood.
*Winnie Rystrand asked me over!* He couldn't believe it. Winnie wrote
that he probably didn't remember her -- but she was oh, so wrong.
Fox had noticed her the first time she spoke up in class, the second
day of school. She had explained the differences between each stage of
meiosis and meitosis as if she were a geneticist. No one else in class but
Fox had more than a clue what the terms even meant. Since that day, he had
also come to appreciate the way her intelligence and confidence belied her
fragile, waif-like appearance; the way her straight black bangs would fall
softly into her pale hazel eyes.
*Winnie Rystrand! This is so cool! This is gonna be the best night
of my life!* Fox thought, racing jubilantly along the side of the creek,
periodically jumping up to slap leaves above him as if he were putting up
layups and sky-hooking slam dunks. Then he suddenly stopped in his tracks,
the joyful expression reluctantly falling from his face.
"Oh, shit! I'm babysitting Samantha tonight!" Fox exclaimed aloud,
stomping his foot in frustration. *Darn that baby Sam! She's always
screwing up my life!"
*************************************
That evening
900 W. Georgia St.
Washington, D.C.
8:53 p.m.
The man leaned back in his worn leather armchair, cigarette steaming
slowly in his hand. He took a quick drag and exhaled the blue smoke.
He knew why Bill Mulder had chosen Fox instead of the girl. The man
knew his friend had suspected the truth for years. *Bill suspects even
more now. Although he refuses to admit it -- even to himself* he thought.
The man had set the wheels in motion. It was too late to change
anything now. He would make sure no harm would come to Fox.
He was actually glad Bill had made the choice he had.
*Bill shouldn't be allowed to have the strong influence he has on Fox*
the man continued in his rationalization. *Bill is weak. Always has been.
He hasn't been the kind of father Fox should have.* The man sighed. *No,
things will be different from now on. With my help, the group can be made
to see that the boy could grow to become an invaluable asset to the Plan.
That is, given the correct environment.*
The man reached for his lighter.
* And I have my own plans for my son.*
November 27,1973
Mulder residence
Chilmark, Mass.
3:52 p.m.
Fox knew that his mother would be alone in the house.
Samantha was at Girl Scouts, his father at work. At
least he didn't have to worry about them getting in the
way of his mission just yet. "Mom! MOM! I've got to
talk to you!" Fox shouted, uncharacteristically
letting the door slam behind him as he returned home
from school, and even more uncharacteristically tearing
through the house, searching for Peg Mulder and her
much-needed attention. If Fox's father had been there
to witness this behavior, Fox knew, Fox would never
hear the end of it. But Fox knew his father wouldn't
be home for another two hours at least.
"Fox! What in the world is wrong?" Peg Mulder asked in
surprise and concern when her eldest child ran headlong
into her as she came through the door from the garden
and into the autumn sun-speckled kitchen. "I could
hear you calling all the way out in the arbor. *I'm
sure the neighbors could hear him, as well* she thought.
"Did something happen to you in school again?"
Fox ignored her question, being so intent on resolving
his dilemma that he couldn't give her words much
attention. "Mom, you've got to get me out of babysitting
Samantha tonight. You've just got to!" Fox pleaded,
forgetting to put on his lost puppy dog face that was
usually quite effective with his mother. He was far
too upset to think of anything quite so manipulative.
Still, Peg looked at her son with the kind of sympathy
only a mother can have. She was relieved to see that
Fox had not come home with a bloody nose or other
signs of a physical incident.
"Honey, you know that we are counting on you to look
after your sister tonight. It's been a long time since
your father and I have been out together...A very long
time," she added. "And you know how your father feels
about you taking responsibility for your sister. Now tell
me, what has happened that has made you behave
this way? What, is there some football game at school
tonight that you want to go see?"
Fox looked dejectedly down at his sneakers; laced his
fingers tightly behind his back; looked at the wall,
the ceiling, anything but the maternal concern he knew
was in Peg Mulder's eyes. He could not face his mother
with this kind of problem. What would she say? What
would she think of him? What would his dad say to shame
Fox when he inevitably found out?
Fox had never been in a situation like this, with his
duty to his parents in direct conflict with his newly-
enervated hormones. Up until this moment, playing the
role of the dutiful son had been relatively uncomplicated.
And Peg Mulder had never seen her son quite like this
before, either.
"No, umm...I -- It's just that a kid from school asked
me to help with Biology. They...they got really
behind, and they really need some help to catch up."
Fox was glad he had managed to get through that
explanation without letting it slip that "they" was
really a "she". Despite his precautions, he still felt
as if he were lying to his mother. Fox had no problem
lying to his father when he needed to; lying was a matter
of survival around his dad. But he hated lying to his mother.
Peg smiled that Fox's problem was something so trivial.
"Well, that's easily handled," she responded
cheerfully, putting a hand lightly on her son's arm.
"You can always go see him tomorrow. I don't like the
idea of you going out after dark, anyway. It would be
better for you to go tomorrow -- you'll have all day to
help him."
"But I...I..." Fox began, then gave up. There was no
way he could get out of this without letting his mother
know that it was Winnie Rystrand he wanted to "help
out" with Biology studies. *Man, my one big chance, and
it's slipping through my fingers!* Fox thought. *Just
because of my sister and some dumb old fogies'
Bridge game!*
Peg could see the disappointment in her son's eyes, but
couldn't understand why he'd be upset over such a small
matter. *He's always had such a hard time making
friends, I suppose* she explained to herself. *Maybe
this boy is someone Fox wants to impress. If only
those children could see what a sweet boy Fox really
is!* But she knew she was just seeing everything
through a mother's prejudiced eyes.
"Well, you invite him over to the house tomorrow. I'll
make you a nice lunch, and you can spend all day
together," Peg consoled. Fox's demeanor hadn't changed
a bit. "Is there anything else you want to tell me,
Dear?"
"No, it's nothing, Mom. It's okay. I'll look after
Sam," Fox said, finally meeting his mother's gaze.
"Don't worry, everything's okay." Fox turned, not
wanting his mother to pry any further, and trotted to
his room, closing the door carefully behind him before
throwing himself face down on the bed.
*Darn that Sam! She's such a little princess
sometimes. If it wasn't for her, maybe I could have a
normal life for a change!* Fox thought. There was no
doubt in his mind that Sam was his father's favorite.
Nothing he could do was good enough to his father;
Sam could do no wrong. But Fox regretted his thoughts
almost as soon as they came. Fox did like Sam. He
loved her, actually, a fact that was often hard for a
12-year-old boy to admit to anyone, including himself.
***************
Peg Mulder was not satisfied with the way she had
handled her son. *Something else is wrong, I just know
it!* she thought. *I wish he wouldn't always be so
secretive; he's always trying to be so strong for Bill.
But maybe it's just that he's beginning to grow up.*
Peg and Fox had always been especially close;
although Fox put on a tough exterior for the benefit
of her husband, Fox had always been able to open
up to his mother. *He's starting to get so big;
he'll probably end up as tall as Ben. Soon he won't
want to have anything to do with me* Peg feared.
*I'm going to miss my little boy.*
***************
That night
Mulder residence
8:07 p.m.
"Fox! Fox! Come out of the closet! I want you to play
dress-up with me!"
"Buzz off, Sam! I'm not gonna do that with you!" Fox
yelled as he held the handle to the closet door secure
from his sister's efforts at intrusion. "No, Doggie,
it's just my stupid sister being a pain in the butt...
Yeah, she really did! She said she thought I was cute!
...After all the years you've known me, Doggie, after all
the things we've been through, why won't you believe me?"
Fox had been in the closet, phone in hand, since his
parents had walked out the door nearly an hour ago.
The closet was his only refuge from his sister and her
demands to play dolls with her. Fox's first call was
made to Winnie to beg off for the night. *Thank God
she has a weird last name* Fox had thought when he
had found the number in the phone directory. They
were the only Rystrands on Martha's Vineyard.
After having a very reassuring conversation with
Winnie, he had spent the next 45 minutes reporting his
exploits to his best friend, David "Doggie" Anderson.
Doggie was two years older than Fox and on the school
basketball and baseball teams; he was still a bit of an
outcast among his contemporaries, however, particularly
because of his apparently uncontrollable fondness for
writing poetry. That just didn't cut it with the Jocks. A few
of the older kids, however, thought he was pretty cool. His
"select" group of friends sampled the gamut from Stoners
to Brains, and were mostly juniors and seniors.
Regardless, Doggie was the rare kind of boy who didn't
care about what other kids thought about him; he didn't care
if others didn't approve of who he hung out with or what
he wore or what his hair looked like or what he did in
his spare time. Fox admired Doggie for that. The majority
of the kids at school didn't.
"Well, guess what, Doggie? It doesn't matter if you don't
believe it, 'cause it's true. Winnie Rystrand likes me," Fox
joyfully insisted to his friend.
"Fox, I'm telling Daddy that you spent the whole night
in the closet, talking on the phone!" Samantha whined
from the other side of the door. "He's gonna give you
the whipping of your life when he finds out!"
"Hey, Doggie, I gotta go. My sister's having a shit
fit. I'll talk to ya later, okay?" Fox hurriedly hung
up the phone and got up from his cramped position on
the closet floor, pins and needles rushing to his legs.
"You'd better not tell, Butt Munch, or I'll kill you
with my bare hands!" Fox called to his sister as he
came out of the closet. Samantha ran into the living
room screaming in glee, with Fox in hot pursuit, the
eight-year-old girl delighted at finally getting her
brother's attention away from the phone and onto her,
where it rightfully belonged.
Samantha stopped her flight in the middle of the living
room. Fox caught up with her, but didn't make any move
to follow through on his threats. Samantha suddenly
looked sad. "Aw, you know I wouldn't really tell Daddy,"
she said honestly, turning up her large brown eyes to
look into her brother's green ones. "I hate it when
he gets mad at you. I just wanted you to play with me."
It was always easy for Fox to make up with his sister,
to forgive her for all the little annoyances that only
a sister, four years his junior, could cause. She was
so cute, and she loved him as much as he did her. Fox
and Samantha shared a strange sibling camaraderie,
possibly a reaction to the tension between their
parents that the family never discussed, but which hung
about the house like a foreboding cloud.
It was the kind of tension that children could sense as
clearly as adults, but which they could never really
understand; not completely, at least. They knew it
was there; Fox could almost touch it, but there was a
shadowy secret behind the tension in the Mulder
household that Fox was afraid to pursue. Fox was bright,
sensitive, emotionally mature, but he was still only a
12-year-old boy. Pursuing it might mean having to
discover more about his father than Fox really wanted
to know, not while he still craved his father's approval.
The tension mainly manifested itself to Fox and Sam in the
way it was occasionally and unpredictably released; when
their father would drink too much some nights and get
embarrassing and nasty, calling Fox a "bastard" for hardly
anything at all, or slapping Fox across the face for not
showing him "proper respect" when he didn't use exactly
the right tone of voice when Bill Mulder imagined Fox had
"talked back" to him. Or how their father would blow up at
Fox sometimes for leaving a light on by mistake or not
putting his bike away just right -- sometimes it seemed
that anything and everything could set Bill Mulder's ire on
his son. These episodes were just as frightening for
Samantha as they were for her big brother. The two had
become like seasoned combat veterans; buddies for life.
Fox looked at his sister and called his truce. "Okay,
Spam Sandwich, I'll play with you. But we're NOT
playing dress-up again and we're NOT playing with your
dumb Barbies!"
Fox looked around the living room to get some inspiration
on how to entertain his sister without going totally out of
his mind with boredom. His eyes rested on a slim
cardboard box, orange and white, that rested on a shelf
amid a stack of games no self- respecting 12-year-old
boy would be caught dead playing, unless he absolutely
had to: among them, "Sorry", "Operation", "Chutes and
Ladders" and *the baby game of all baby games*, Fox
thought, "Candyland".
"Okay, we'll play 'Stratego'," Fox announced, going to the
bookcase and pulling out the box. He then pulled on the TV,
cranking the knob to Channel 7. *At least "The Magician"
is on tonight* Fox consoled himself.
"Aw, do we have to play STRATEGO?" Samantha whined
again. "I hate that game, Fox. You always win. It's no fun."
"You wanted to play with me, right? This is what we're
playing. Now shut your smelly trap, or go to our room
and play with your stupid Barbies BY YOURSELF," Fox
threatened. "And while you're at it, keep your hands
out of my stuff and off of my side of the room."
"No, I want to play with you," Samantha reluctantly
conceded. "I'll play the dorky game. But later, we
can play dress up, right?"
"Aw, crap," Fox sighed quietly. It was going to be a
long night.
***************
That evening
900 W. Georgia St.
Washington, D.C.
9:02 p.m.
Ben Mulder watched as the black-and-white war film
flickered on the screen. John Wayne was ordering his
leathernecks to take the next hill. Ben didn't much
care for the movie, wasn't really paying any attention,
but it kept him company and it helped him sleep. In an
hour or two, he would move from the armchair and onto
the couch, where he could gradually drift off to the
sounds of grenades exploding and machine guns firing.
Just as he did most nights; once darkness fell, he could
not so easily stave off the guilt he felt; not like he could
with his long hours in daylight when he could immerse
himself in his work.
Ben stubbed out his cigarette into the overflowing
ashtray at his side. He deftly juggled another out of
the pack and began the unconscious ritual of lighting,
puffing, exhaling. He hardly realized he was doing it,
it had become such an accepted practice to him.
His thoughts drifted back to the night's events. He
wondered if he could ever have lived his life
differently -- if he could have led a normal life
with a wife and kids and a regular job. Remained
ignorant of it all.
A more immediate concern forced its way into his
thoughts of impossible domesticity. Thoughts that
concerned the future of his only child.
*It will happen soon, if it hasn't happened already*
Ben reminded himself as he glanced at the clock
on the wall.
He pushed that thought aside with more pleasant thoughts of
just two summers ago, the last time he had been at the
summer house in Rhode Island. Fox had been nine that
year, almost ten. Ben had really begun to see the
resemblance that summer: the boy's large hands and feet
that would eventually be proportioned with the rest of
his body; the facial features that were still unformed
and childish, but which Ben knew would someday mirror
his. Even the way Fox carried himself reminded Ben of
his own leisurely, lanky gait.
That summer in particular, Ben had wished things could
be different. Seeing Fox playing in the surf with his
sister tagging behind, Peg continually trying to keep
the little girl from diving into the water after her big
brother, Ben had wished he could have been in another
time and place, where certain events had not occurred
and he had never heard of certain events to come. Ben
had longed to join his son on the beach, to have Fox know
who he really was, to toss a football with him as Ben's
own father had never done with him, to have Peg as his
wife, to share their lives together in ignorant bliss.
But Peg had chosen to stay with the man she had
married, not the one she had loved first.
Ben's idle thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the
door. *Who the hell could that be, at this hour?*
Ben wondered, getting up slowly from his seat. He
never had visitors come to his home. *It must be
someone with his head up his ass, drunk and looking
for the wrong apartment*, Ben thought.
He quickly grabbed his gun from the coffee table and
cautiously went to the door, peering out of the
peephole. Surprised, Ben tucked his gun into the back
of his waistband and opened the door for his caller.
"Benjamin. Good evening," his visitor said as he
walked over the threshold, letting Ben close the
door behind him. "I wanted to see you personally
about this."
Ben Mulder looked at his visitor inquisitively.
"I thought you should know," the dapper man explained,
"before you find out elsewhere, that there has been a
last-minute change in plans about the -- occurrence tonight."
"Exactly what kind of change are you talking about?"
Ben asked his "friend" and associate, a crack in his voice
betraying his concern. *Please, don't let them have
decided to harm Fox, now that I've handed him over to
them* Ben pleaded silently. He knew he wouldn't
be able to handle the guilt; if that were true, he would
end it all by putting a bullet in his brain.
"It was my understanding that everything was set, that
everything was agreed upon," Ben said uncertainly, trying
to keep his voice under control.
"Yes, that was my understanding, as well. But the
group made a decision, against my advisement, and I
could do nothing to stop it. I know we had promised
your brother that he could make the choice, but.."
"The choice? Is that what this is about?" Ben asked,
somewhat relieved. "What are you talking about?"
The man sighed, deciding to tell Ben all the details at
once. "The group has felt that -- that it would be
more effective to take your young niece, instead of
the older boy."
Ben was confused as to how he should feel at this news.
When Bill had chosen to give up Fox, at first Ben had been
distraught. But, with time, he had managed to rationalize
that the decision could be used to his advantage. There
would be requirements to fulfill, he knew, but, once Fox
underwent the initial tests, Ben had hoped to finally be able
to draw his son to his side, to have him assume an important
place in the Plan. Fox was a smart boy. Much smarter than
Ben had ever been. The group already saw what an asset this intelligence
could be to the project. And Ben, in secret,
hoped that he and his son could have a future together, if only
he could get the boy away from Bill. This had seemed to be
his only chance.
Ben's associate continued with what Ben had already
discerned for himself, explaining the sudden change of
plan. "The others knew that Bill would choose to
keep the child he preferred. They decided to take
the girl instead. As an extra insurance, if you will,
of Bill's cooperation with the project."
"And now," the man said, " they are expecting you to be
the one to handle Bill when he finds out. After all,
you are his brother. You can do that for us, can't
you, Mr. Mulder?"
"Of course I can," Ben answered.
***************
That night
11:21 p.m.
Mulder residence
A key rattled in the front door; moments later, Peg
Mulder helped her husband into the darkened house,
his bulk making it difficult for her to keep him upright.
Bill wasn't a big man, and she herself was tall and quite
strong for a woman, but basic physics and years of
practice didn't make this job any easier. Her plan was
to get Bill to the couch so he could sleep it off. That done,
she would check on the children.
Her immediate plans were delayed when she noticed a
form lying on the plush carpet of the living room. She
quickly recognised it as Fox.
*Poor dear, he must have fallen asleep on the floor
waiting up for us* she told herself. She half guided/half
carried her grumbling husband over to the couch, letting
him fall face down onto it and lapse into an instantaneous,
deep slumber.
She walked quietly over to her unconscious son,
stooping to lightly pat his back to avoid shocking him
into wakefulness. "Fox", she whispered. "Fox, we're
home. You can go to bed now."
Fox didn't respond. He was on his side, his back to
her, curled up with his arms hugging his knees tightly
to his chest. He looked much younger to her now
than he had when she and Bill had left him earlier
that evening.
"Fox, Honey, wake up. It's time for bed." Peg shook
him a little harder, knowing her son could be a heavy
sleeper at times. When Fox still didn't respond, Peg
gently rolled him over. It was dark, but she could
make out enough of her son to make her gasp. She was
surprised to see his thumb in his mouth, his eyes wide
open and staring into nothingness.
"Fox! Fox! What's wrong!" Peg shouted, hysteria
entering her voice. She pulled his stiffened arm away
to remove his reluctant thumb from his mouth. She
tried to pull his face towards her to make him look at
her, but Fox's glazed eyes would not focus on her.
"Mommy, Mommy, I want to go home. I want to go
home!" Fox began repeating quietly, as if the words
were a spell of protection.
***************
November 28
Mulder residence
10:13 p.m.
"What the hell do you mean, you don't remember anything?
I'll see that you remember, you little bastard!" Bill Mulder put
all of his weight into the slap across Fox's face. The last 24
hours or more had been a blur to Fox, with police questioning
him, doctors prodding him, his father enraged, and his mother
distraught with shofear and grief. Now, with night come on
again, he remembered little of what had been happening.
His father had sobered up quickly when Peg had screamed
Bill awake on the couch, calling Bill every horrible name she
had ever heard. It scared Fox to see his mother like that.
Fox had been in a temporary catatonic state for hours after
his parents had come home to find him on the floor. Fox
couldn't remember the exact moment he came out of his
trance, but now he was desperately trying to remember what
had happened to his sister. The last thing he could remember,
Fox kept explaining to the police, was telling Sam to get lost
when she was bothering him on the phone. Even that memory
was a little hazy.
Now the police were gone, off looking for the missing girl and
doing what they could on a case with no clues. "This kind of
thing just doesn't happen on the Vineyard," Fox remembered
hearing one of the officers mutter as they left the house. Bill,
who worked for the State Department, used his pull to get the
F.B.I. in on the case. They would be arriving later that night.
"You did it, didn't you?" Bill Mulder continued with his tirade,
shaking Fox by the shoulders as he battered words at the boy.
"You've always been jealous of her; you had them take her
instead, didn't you?"
Fox didn't understand what his father was asking; all he could
answer was "No, Sir," to each of the questions his father kept
barraging him with. Fox knew he would never hurt his sister.
Not Sam.
Fox's mother, usually his protector, was upstairs inbed, a
sedative given to her to help her calm down. Just when Fox
felt like his father might really lose it, might finally have it over
with and knock Fox into eternity, a sharp rapping sounded on
one of the glass panes in the front door; the door had been
left half open by the police officers when they departed, and
two men in suits walked into the living room as Fox and
Bill Mulder looked up.
"Mr. Mulder, we're with the F.B.I."
Fox heaved a sigh of relief, the first glimmer of hope he
had since this all began. *I'll bet the F.B.I. can find Sam*
Fox told himself. *If they can't, I sure as hell will.*
The end...or is it just the beginning?
(Okay, I know that's that corny; I just couldn't resist.)
Please don't be too hard on me if I've really pissed
you off on any of my "revelations". I came up with most
of this in one sitting, with no editors, no one to bounce
ideas off, and no idea where I was going until I got there.
I truly think I may have been possessed by some X-Files
demon as I was writing the last few pages of this. I might
as well have thrown out my outline, because MANY of the
things in here couldn't have come from me -- they just
showed up on my screen. Bill and Cancer Man brothers?
That wasn't me. Cancer Man a kind of nice guy, of sorts?
Never! The little F.B.I. reference at the end ("What do
you want to be when you grow up, little boy?") I swear,
it just popped up there when I wasn't looking!
So don't flame me if you didn't like it; flame the little
green men who climbed in my window and took over
my computer. They said they're not giving out their
addy, though.
Also, in case you were wondering, I though of the title
of this series, "Fox at 12", BEFORE I remembered
one of my favorite TV shows as a kid, "James at 15/16".
(For you young whippersnappers, it was like a male version
of "My So-Called Life", set in the dark ages of disco, back
in the mid '70s.) I'm sure there was some subconscious
influence there, so I hope I don't get hassled by the creators
of THAT show. I kept the title because it seemed pretty
appropriate, since both "James" and this story are about
equally drenched in teen angst.
But don't worry, this story won't morph into "Fox at 13: My
Bummer Bar Mitzvah at Betelgeuse" or "Fox at 16: My Sweet
Sixteen Party is Crashed by Greys". However, unlike the
Cancer Man, I have no Master Plan.
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