The X-Files: Next of Kin

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:18:56 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 1/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:41:46 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 376
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102037.AA01470@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

The following story contains characters copyrighted 1993 by Ten
Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  These characters,
"Fox Mulder" and "Dana Scully", are used without permission.  No
copyright infringment is intended.  All other material copyright
1994 by Sarah Stegall, all rights reserved.  Comments, flames,
lavish praise, critical reviews, and offers of movie options may
be sent to the author at sfsfs@fail.com.  Don't bother posting
comments to me on the newsgroups, since I cannot read them.  If
you do post comments, please cc me at my e-mail address.

This story contains very graphic scenes of sex, strong language
and some hints of graphic violence.  If you are under age, or do
not want to read this material, please stop now.  I really can't
take any complaints seriously if you fail to heed this warning.

Caveat lector.
                               
                          INTRODUCTION

This is not an X-File.

I was not interested in a story that focused on the
investigations of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.  I was interested
in a character study of Fox Mulder:  why is he so repressed, so
tightly controlled?  What made him the obsessive monk-like
creature that he is?  What makes him tick?  Like any good Oxford-
trained psychologist, I looked first to his background.  This led
me inevitably to the young Fox Mulder, and some speculation on
what life would have been like for him growing up after his
sister's disappearance.

We are all products of our youth, it goes without saying.  Almost
everyone who has been through high school carries the scars of
that coming-of-age ritual.  We are more aware of them because at
the time they happen, we ourselves are closer to the mature
understanding of the adult mind, so those echoes linger.
Sometimes the upheaval of the teen years is made more disturbing
by the shock of crime or failure or death, as happened to Fox
Mulder.  But life is more than a single, isolated tragedy.
Whatever happened to Samantha Mulder, young Fox had to continue
to grow, to change, to go through a more or less normal
adolescence.  What resonances from that early tragedy might have
touched him, rippled through his life to make him the man he is
today?  This story is an attempt to explore those resonances.

Since we are dealing here with an adolescent male, and the man he
became, necessarily this story involves sex.  Every man I asked
confirmed to me that it is *the* overwhelming obsession of those
years, possibly the single most important force shaping the boy
into the man.  For that reason, any honest appraisal of young Fox
Mulder will have to deal with this facet of his personality.  If
it seems to lean a little heavily towards sentiment sometimes,
chalk it up to the inevitable romanticizing of our youth that
comes with age.

My profound gratitude to Mindy Young, whose editorial comments
were invaluable in developing this work, and to Kellie Matthews-
Simmons, whose careful reading and insightful criticism aided me
greatly.  Thank you to all the X-Philes and members of the David
Duchovny Estrogen Brigade who put up with my endless and
impertinent questions.

Sarah Stegall,
X-Phile, David Duchovny Estrogen Brigade
November, 1994
 ----------------------------------------------------------------
                             
                           Next of Kin
                               
                        by Sarah Stegall
August, 1994
Washington, DC
   
     Fox Mulder sat with his head in his hands on the waiting
room couch, his fingers tangled through his hair.  It was two
o'clock in the morning and his only witness was dying.  He rubbed
his eyes, trying to erase the image of that room when he and the
other agents had gone through the door--the blood thick on the
walls, the smell of fear, the gurgling sound in the victim's
throat as he fought for air.  And the soft, low laughter of the
creature in the corner, the man Mulder had tracked for six weeks.
Mulder remembered how his hands had slipped in blood when he
handcuffed him.
      He thought of stepping out for some air, but decided
against it.  Possibly the man would regain consciousness long
enough to speak.  Maybe--
     Dana Scully came through the emergency room doors, pulling
bloody gloves off her hands.  She threw them in the red disposal
bag in the corner and jerked off her mask and gown, flinging them
into the laundry bag with a sharp, angry movement.
     "Pretty bad, huh?" said a low voice from the couch.
     "What are you doing here, Mulder?  I thought I told you to
go home."
     The bags under his eyes made him look older than his thirty
four years.  "Is he dead, then?"
     She nodded wearily.  "We did what we could, but..."  She
shrugged helplessly.  "There's only so much you can do with a
severed jugular.  Joe's a good vascular surgeon, but he's not
God."
     Mulder's shoulders slumped.  "Damn.  Scully, if I'd been
five minutes--two minutes earlier--"
     Dana said nothing, but looked at his bowed head
sympathetically.  She knew the feeling: the hopelessness, the
frustration.  "At least you have the guy in custody, right?"
     "Yeah," Mulder sighed.    "No comfort to the poor bastard on
that table, though.  Thanks for trying.  I'm sorry I got you out
of bed for nothing."
     She sat down beside him on the couch.  "Anytime.  Are you
all right?  I haven't seen much of you lately."  She sounded
almost wistful.
     He turned his head and looked at her.  "No, I'm not all
right, Scully.  They've got me back in Violent Crimes, working on
serial killers again.  They won't even tell me what happened to
the X-Files.  God, I hate that.  I hate that.  They're so...."
He couldn't finish, and dropped his head back in his hands again.
     Dana hated to see him so defeated, so weary.  The spirit had
gone out of him.  He seemed like a shadow of the Mulder she had
known.
     "Let's go get some coffee, huh?"
     He rubbed his face in with his hands.  "Don't you have to be
at work in the morning?"
     She smiled. "Yeah.  Oh, boy, another autopsy.  My subjects
aren't going anywhere."  She stood and grabbed his hand, hauling
him upward.  He lurched to his feet, swayed, and nearly toppled.
She steadied him with a hand on his chest.
     "Pull up, there.  You really haven't had enough sleep, have
you?"
     He shook his head.  "No."
     She made a short, abortive gesture, as if thinking better of
something.  "Let me take you home."
     "I need to fingerprint him, to confirm the ID."
     "Mulder, that's what Scene of Crime guys are for.  Anyway,
there's not much left.  Whoever did this did a pretty thorough
job."
     Mulder nodded.  "I know, I saw."  Despite years of
experience, he felt a little sick at the recollection of the poor
bastard in the next room.  The killer had taken the victim's
scalp.  And his eyes.  "Scully, I don't even know the victim's
name!"
     "Mueller, all right?  Now, can we go already?"  She was
pulling fiercely on his arm.
     But Mulder was frowning at her.  "Mueller?"
     "What?"
     "I don't know.  That name...."
     "He had some ID on him, not much.  It looks like he was a
Vietnam veteran; he had VA papers on him."  Scully let go of him
and dug in a pocket for her notebook.  "Here, I wrote it down.
Name...ah...yeah.  Here it is.  Mueller, okay?  Are you
satisfied?  Zachary Foster Mueller."
     "Zachary?  Why does that name sound--oh, my God!"  Mulder
looked sick.
     "You know this guy?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "Never met him in my life.  Oh, my
God."  His knees bent, he sank down onto the couch.  "Oh, God.
Carolyn."
     She sat down beside him again, real concern in her eyes.
"Mulder, tell  me.  Who is this guy?  Talk to  me."
     "I can't..."  Mulder swallowed and moved away from her.
"It's personal.   I knew...his sister."
October, 1976
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     Fox Mulder slammed the door of his house behind him,
swinging his backpack angrily onto his back.  Another late start.
Another lecture from his parents.  Another day begun badly.  When
would they give him a break?
     His lips pressed into a thin line, he swung down the
sidewalk,  the first snow of winter crunching under his boots, to
the bus stop.  Just as he turned the corner he saw the big yellow
vehicle pulling away from the curb.
     "Stop!  Wait!" he yelled, breaking into a run.
     He was fast, he had always been fast.  He caught up with the
bus and ran alongside it, pounding on the side.
     "Wait!" he cried.
     At last, after a block and a half when he thought his heart
would fail him, the bus pulled screeching to a stop and the door
swung open.  As he leaped the three steps, Grady gave him an evil
grin.
     "Right on time, Mulder," he said.
     Fox bit back the angry reply; the shop teacher and part-time
bus driver was baiting him again.  The giggles from the rest of
the kids on the bus confirmed his suspicion:  Grady had
deliberately let him run for a block, out of pure meanness.  Once
again the shop teacher and part-time bus driver had humiliated
him.
     Fox slunk to the back of the bus and threw himself into the
last seat, staring out the window.  The new Rush tune was going
through his head.  He'd heard it on the radio, and had asked his
parents to get it for him for his birthday next week.  Not that
they would, but he had asked.  He closed his eyes and lost
himself in the lyrics....
And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart.
   
     ...until he was shocked awake by the slap of something wet
and slimy on his face.
     "Hey!"
     Chuck McCandless was smirking at him over the top of the
seat in front of him.
     "I baptize thee!"  he cried, and spat again.
     "Dammit!"  Fox wiped the spittle off his cheek.  "Knock it
off, McCandless!"
     "I baptize thee...Foxy Lady!"  Chuck giggled.  Behind him
several other students tittered.
     "Foxy Lady!  Foxy Lady!"
     "Hey, fuck you, McCandless!" Fox cried, and swung the heavy
backpack.  It caught the other boy on the side of the head,
slamming him against the bus window.
     "Ow!  Hey!"  McCandless clutched his head with both hands.
"Mr. Grady!  Mr. Grady-y-y-y!"
     Up front, Grady looked in his rear view mirror.  "What's
going on back there?  You kids quit that!"
     Fox wanted to smash Chuck McCandless' face in, but
restrained himself. As Grady turned onto Route 14 and headed up
the highway, Fox relaxed, a little warily, and stared out the
window.
     His last year, thank God.  In May he would be through with
high school.  But what to do then?  Where to go?  At sixteen,
nearly seventeen, he was smart enough to have been advanced to
the senior class, but not old enough to leave home legally.  And
to run away--he could not do that to his parents.  His
mother...he couldn't imagine what it would be like for his mother
to lose her only remaining child so mysteriously, so suddenly.
     He didn't want to think of Samantha, but he couldn't help
it.  His head ached whenever he tried to think of his younger
sister.  He concentrated on trying to remember her face, but
after four years it was beginning to blur.  He felt a sudden
sense of panic at that.  He had forgotten so much, too much.  Fox
had a remarkable memory, but it wasn't infallible.  There were
some areas so fraught with emotion that he simply could not think
about them.
     His mother's midnight tears, his father's anger, his own
emotional withdrawal after his sister's mysterious disappearance-
-those searing consequences Fox had learned to deal with.  It was
the silence he could not stand.  No one talked about it, no one
mentioned it, but his sister's fate and the impossible questions
it raised hung over the silent house on Birch Street like a
nuclear bomb in the attic, ready to destroy the entire family
without warning.  Fox felt as though he had been walking on
tiptoe ever since that night in 1973.
     So the question of simply getting on the next bus for Boston
or New York was no question at all, really.
     Fox woke from his brooding when the bus creaked to a halt in
front of the yellow brick school.  Teenagers poured from the bus
in a busy romp of overactive hormones competing with the need to
be cool.  Fox was the last off the bus, slouching through the
door, his long legs scissoring across the trampled snow to the
front stairs.  He nearly made it, but as he set foot on the first
step something cold and wet hit his back.  He spun, but the crowd
of boys below him was looking away, up at the sky--anywhere but
at him.  Fox looked at each of them in turn, noted the suppressed
giggles, the wise-guy looks.  He set his mouth in a thin line and
deliberately turned his back.  Without hurrying, he climbed the
steps and pulled open the door.  As it closed behind him, he
heard the laughter begin.
     His home room was on the second floor.  He passed his locker
and took the stairs two at a time, his long stride taking him
past the younger students quickly.  He was thinking about his
trigonometry class, which began in half an hour, and so was on
automatic pilot as he entered the room and headed for his desk in
the middle of the third row.
     Which is why he nearly collided with the redhead with an
armload of books.
     "Look out!" Jack Dean called to him, unnecessarily.
     He stood for a moment, facing the girl waiting hesitantly in
front of the desk that had been Fox's for the last two years.
     "Uh...sorry," Fox said, his voice cracking at the end.
     "It's all right," the girl said quietly, and stood aside for
him.
     But he didn't move, looking down (still a new experience to
him, he'd shot up ten inches in the last year) at red hair and
blue eyes and clear ivory skin.  The green of her sweater brought
out highlights in those eyes.  Her arms were hugging her books
tight to her chest in a gesture he recognized from the last year
or so:  girls who had overnight developed breasts they didn't
quite know what to do with, and who held sweaters, books,
anything up to their chests to hide them.  His mouth turned up in
a tiny smile, and she smiled back at him.
     "Um.  Mrs. Renfrew said I was supposed to sit here..." Her
voice trailed off uncertainly.  "I'm new."
     Fox felt his usual paralysis around the opposite sex taking
over, and nodded awkwardly.  Breathless, he slid into the next
desk, automatically twisting so that his knees stuck out into the
aisle to accommodate legs too long for the height of the desk.
The girl sat quickly in the seat ahead, the one he thought of as
his, and put her books on the desk.  One of them, he noted
automatically, was a trigonometry textbook.
     The rest of the students filed in, joking and talking,
darting glances at the new girl, who kept her head down, her long
red hair falling in her face.  Fox felt his palms growing sweaty
and wiped them on his jeans.
     Mrs. Renfrew called the class to order and announced what
everyone had already figured out, that the new girl was a
transfer.  She smiled what was no doubt meant to be an
encouraging smile and said,
     "Carolyn, why don't you stand and introduce yourself to the
other boys and girls?"
     Fox groaned inwardly.  As usual, Mrs. R. didn't have a clue.
He felt the girl's embarrassment as acutely as if it had been his
own.
     Reluctantly, the girl stood, still looking down.  "My name
is Carolyn Mueller.  My dad is a captain in the Army, 234th
Regiment, over at the base.  We just moved here from Lake Pryor."
She sat down quickly.  Mrs. R. looked a little disappointed, but
continued with the schedule.  While the announcements and
admonishments droned on, Fox stared at the back of Carolyn
Mueller's head.
     It had been three years since the last new kid entered the
tightly knit community of Chilmark High.  The military kids
usually stuck to the school on the base, whose curriculum was
adjusted to their scattered records.  Rarely did one of them
venture into the closed society off the base.  Fox wondered
whether this transfer had been Carolyn's idea or her parents'.
     He wondered if she had a boyfriend.  Then he wondered why he
wondered.  After all, it wasn't like he had a chance in hell.
     Fox was used to the rejection he met around him.  He had
long since figured out that his exclusion had less to do with
him, personally, than the circumstances of his sister's
disappearance.  Like primitive savages, teen-agers were actively
hostile to any new thing that did not fit, that challenged their
view of the world.  Fox was the visible daily reminder of a
frightening mystery that had split the tiny town into those who
stood by the Mulders in their tragedy (fewer every year), and
those who ostracized them out of fear and suspicion at the enigma
in their midst.  Knowing all this did nothing to ease the hurt,
but at least it made them more predictable.
     But here was a girl who knew nothing of the past history of
Chilmark, or the unhappy Mulder family.  She didn't know anything
about him, had not already learned to fear him and ridicule him.
     The bell rang, shocking Fox out of his reverie.  Carolyn
jerked in surprise at the sound, and her books scattered across
the floor.  Suppressing a smile at her clumsiness, Fox bent to
gather them.  Handing her the trig book, his hand touched hers
and he felt suddenly very warm.
     "Thanks," she said in a small voice.
     "You have trig next?" he asked unnecessarily.  There was
only one trigonometry class.  "You know where it is?"
     She shook her head, not looking at him.
     He felt unaccountably bold.  "I'll show you.  I'm in that
class.  We have a test next Monday."
     She walked silently beside him all the way to the end of the
hall to Mr. Thompson's room, her head down, arms hugging the
books.  Fox wondered briefly what was under the books and felt
his face go red.  Suddenly he felt awkward and shy again, and
hung back at the door.
     "Just go on in," he said.  He turned aside to the water
fountain.  She stopped at the door, hesitating, and then went in
warily.
     Fox took a long drink of water and splashed some of it on
his face.
   
August, 1994
Washington, DC
   
     "So, how do you know the late Mr. Mueller?"  Dana Scully
asked.
     Mulder shook his head, staring into his coffee.  They were
sitting, watching the dawn,  in the all-night coffee shop across
>from the hospital.  He looked haggard.
     "I don't know him.  I may know his family.  If this is the
same guy, his ...his sister and I were in school together."
     Dana tilted her head slightly to one side.  "You never talk
about your childhood," she said.  "Unless you're talking about
your sister."
     "Not much to talk about," he said firmly.
     Dana cocked an eyebrow at him.
     "Really," he said.
     "So you want to inform the next of kin?" she asked.  "Soften
the blow a little?"
     "Yeah," he said moodily.  "Something like that."
     "How long has it been since you went back home?" Dana asked
curiously.
     "Not long enough."
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:19:16 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 2/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:41:47 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 315
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102038.AA01489@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

December, 1976
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     The cold wind off the lake had nothing to do with Fox's
shaking:  it was pure nerves.  He was intensely, acutely aware of
the smaller figure at his side.
     "Have you seen this before?" he asked the girl.
     Carolyn looked up at him.  "No, but I heard it was really
neat.  Lots of special effects and stuff."
     Fox nodded, glancing up at the movie poster above them.
Green on black, the road stretching to the foot of the sinister
figure of Devil's Tower loomed ominously over the title:  Close
Encounters of the Third Kind.
     Fox hoped this movie wouldn't frighten Carolyn.  She had
already admitted to being terrified by "Jaws".  Most of all, he
didn't want this first date with her to be his last.  It had
taken him weeks to work up the courage to ask her out.  Over and
over he saw her laughter, her rejection, her taunting.  But every
day she was there in class, ahead of him.  He would stare into
her red hair and imagine the touch of her hand, the feel of her
body, the softness of her mouth....he would shiver and feel a
warmth stealing over him that had nothing to do with the radiator
that clanked in the corner.
     So, finally, after much urging from his friend Jack Dean, he
had psyched himself up and asked her to go to a movie with him.
And to his utter astonishment, she had smiled happily and said
yes.
     The ticket line stretched ahead of them; mentally he counted
them one more time to make sure they had a chance at tickets.
     "Did you see 'Carrie'?"  asked Carolyn.
     He looked down at her, into those upturned blue eyes.
     "Yes.  Did you?"
     "Yeah.  My mom didn't want me to go, but my brother and me
sneaked out and we went.  It was pretty far out.  I liked it."
     "Me, too.  I love the scene at the prom.  Did you read the
book?"
     She shook her head, and the breeze blew a strand of hair
across her face.  Without thinking, Fox caught it and smoothed it
gently back, feeling the soft hair under his hand.  She blushed
and he jerked his hand back.
     "I...I didn't read it," she stammered, embarrassed by the
physical contact.  "My mom said she wouldn't let it in the
house."
     "Your mother sounds pretty strict," Fox said.  "I'm
surprised she let you come out with me."
     It slipped out before he knew it, the old bitterness and
resentment welling up.  How often had the parents of Chilmark
refused to let their children have anything to do with the
Mulders?  Fox felt a tightness in his chest and took a deep
breath.
     "Normally, she's not that hard on us kids, but lately she's
been real upset," Carolyn said.  "I...we had some trouble with my
brother.  She's not...she's not herself."
     "Is your brother older or younger?"
     "Older," she said, clearing her throat.  "I'm the baby of
the family.  Zack is 23.  He was in 'Nam."
     "Oh.  I hope he wasn't hurt or anything," Fox said inanely.
He sounded like an idiot.
     "Not...not that you could see.  He just...he sat around a
lot when he came home.  Dad was mad at him and yelled at him all
the time.  I think Zack was drinking, too, but I didn't know for
sure..."  Her voice trailed off.
     "Was?  What happened to him?"
     "He...he disappeared one night."
     Fox felt his face drain of blood, felt the shock go through
him like a sudden ice shower.  "Disappeared?  Disappeared how?"
     "Why are you looking at me like that?"  Carolyn's eyes were
frightened.
     Fox realized he was holding her shoulder in an iron grip and
forced his fingers to relax.  "I'm sorry.  I just--"
     "Hey, will you get a move on up there?  It's cold out here!"
     The shout jolted Fox into awareness of his surroundings.
Ahead of them the line for movie tickets had moved, opening up a
space.  Fox and Carolyn moved into the gap, but now an uneasy
quiet had descended between them.
     He felt the tension ease between them as he followed her
through the doors, into the lobby smelling of popcorn and floor
wax.  They bought drinks and popcorn, and then filed into the
crowded theatre.  It took them a while to find two seats
together, and Carolyn dropped her drink.  Just as they sat down,
the lights went down and the movie started.
     And Fox's nightmare began.
     At first, he was too aware of Carolyn sitting so close to
him in the darkness to pay much attention to the screen.  Their
arms rested next to one another on the narrow armrest; he could
feel her body heat through the sleeve of his jacket.  She was
wearing some kind of perfume, or was it shampoo?
     But gradually the images and the music began to absorb more
and more of his attention.  And as the plot developed, a feeling
of dread gripped him.  He felt betrayed--wasn't this supposed to
be a space movie?  Like the old "Star Trek" series he used to
watch with Samantha?  He felt panic rising in him as the menacing
skies closed down over the lonely farmhouse, on the woman and the
child so unaware of the peril coming down on them.  The hairs on
the back of his neck prickled, and he felt a chill go through
him.
     And then there was a bright light, and a door slowly
opening, and a child standing in the blinding glare...
     Fox bolted from his seat into the aisle, stepping recklessly
on feet, elbowing an entwined and oblivious couple.  Blindly, he
fumbled his way into the lobby, and made it to the men's room
just in time.  Shaking, he vomited his dinner, popcorn, and most
of his innards, it seemed, into the toilet.  He sagged weakly
against the door, cold sweat popping out on his brow.  His heart
was racing.  What on earth?  Why was he so scared?  He thought
back, and the memory of that scene, the child standing in the
strange light, took him to his knees in a feverish sweat.
Something about that scene...he couldn't think about it,
something in him didn't want to think about it...he felt his body
shake.
     It took him twenty minutes to calm down and clean up enough
to leave the restroom.  Outside, Carolyn sat tensely on a bench
in the lobby.  As soon as she saw him she jumped up and ran over
to him.
     "Fox!  Are you okay?"
     Her eyes were anxious, deep blue in her fair face.  Suddenly
he was swept with a wave of longing so strong he nearly choked.
Oh, God, how he wanted to hold her.  To be held.
     Instead, he straightened up and smiled weakly.  "Bad
popcorn, I guess," he said.  "I'm sorry I ruined the movie for
you.  You want to go back in?"
     She dismissed the movie with a wave of her hand.  "No.  It's
stupid.  I mean, come on, UFOs from outer space?  I can miss it.
But are you sure you're okay?  Maybe we'd better get some air?"
     Fox nodded and followed her out into the night.  Under the
clear sky, under the burning stars, the air was crisp and cold
and invigorating.  He buttoned his jacket and led Carolyn to the
parking lot.
     He opened the door of his father's car for Carolyn and then
walked around to his side. He sat with his hands on the steering
wheel, angry and feeling helpless.  The evening was ruined.  She
would never speak to him again, much less go out with him, unless
he could somehow make her understand and forgive him.
     "I'm sorry, Carolyn," he said in a low voice.  He couldn't
look at her.  "It wasn't...it wasn't the popcorn.  There was
something in that movie...it made  me think, for some reason, of
what happened to my...to my sister."  It was an effort to get the
words past the block in his throat, but he felt better after he'd
said them.
     Carolyn nodded cautiously.  "Marie Aliger...she told me
something happened to your sister."
     Fox shuddered.  Leave it to Marie, he thought.  He set his
jaw.  "Yes," he said.
     "Tell me?"
     Fox drew a deep breath.  This would hurt.
     "I don't know what happened," he began.  "We were home alone
one night, and something happened.  She disappeared, and we...we
haven't ever seen her again.  She was only eight years old.  I
was twelve."
     And he told her what little he remembered from that night in
November, 1973--about the bright light, the cold breeze in a
house that was shut tight,  the walls that shook, and his sister
screaming his name.  Fox felt the sweat running down his
forehead, despite the cold.  "I don't know what happened," he
whispered, and grief went through him like a knife.  "I just
can't remember.  I've tried and tried, but I just can't.  I...I
know it sounds crazy.  I can remember so much--my second
birthday, the day my sister was born.  I can even remember my
first test in school.  But I can't remember what ha-happened.  I
don't know why that movie made me think of it.  Maybe the light,
or the little boy being taken away and his mother....crying..."
     He was shaking, fighting tears, trying to block it out of
his mind.  A weak, sick feeling went through him.  His head
ached.  The old hurt threatened to well up in him again....
     Her hand on his cheek brought him back into focus.  It was
warm and comforting.  "It's okay," she said.  "I guess maybe me
talking about my brother to you before the movie brought it all
back."
     And suddenly he felt better.  She wasn't angry or afraid.
She accepted it, all the mystery and the confusion, all the holes
and patches in his memory.  It was all right with her.  Suddenly,
overwhelmingly, Fox wanted to kiss her.  He felt his cheeks grow
warm.  She was so near, so alive, so vibrant...so beautiful.
There was a flutter deep in his chest, a breathless anticipation
as he glimpsed something, something just out of reach in her
eyes.  She leaned closer, and then bowed her head.
     "Look, there's something you have to know," she said.  "No,
don't interrupt.  Let me say this.  The reason...the reason I go
to Chilmark and not to the base school--in fact, the reason we
moved here from Lake Pryor--is because of my brother.  I wanted
to tell you before you heard it from anyone else."
     The flutter was gone, replaced by apprehension.  "What about
him?"
     "I said he disappeared.  Well, some people say he robbed a
liquor store back in Lake Pryor.  The night he disappeared, he
had gone to the store for Mom.  He was only supposed to be gone
an hour, but we waited and waited and waited.  Dad called the
police, and they started asking questions."
     Fox felt the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead again.
Oh, God, he thought.  Don't let her talk about this.  It will
hurt.  It will hurt very bad.  But he knotted his hands together
and forced himself to listen.  He sensed that it was very
important that he listen to her.
     "They said... they said somebody robbed the liquor store
down the street from the grocery.  The people at the grocery
didn't remember my brother.  No one knew where his car was or
where he was..."
     Fox was remembering the men in the plain black suits,
expressionless, asking questions over and over again in quiet
voices and writing down the answers.  The lights of the sheriff's
squad cars outside his house, red-blue-red-blue reflected on the
ceiling of his bedroom where he had run, crying.  He remembered
his mother weeping, the sob stuck in his father's throat, the
terror and the guilt.  And most of all, the mystery.
     What had really happened to Samantha?
     Carolyn was silent now, looking down at her hands.  "I guess
people thought we were hiding him," she said in a low voice.  "We
waited and waited for Zack to come home, but he never did.
Nobody knows where he is.  They never caught that robber, either.
So everybody just assumed...." she trailed off, and he heard the
tears caught in her voice.
     Without thinking, he reached over and hugged her, wrapping
his long arms around her the way he might have hugged Samantha.
She made no sound, but leaned against him.  He felt her shoulders
shaking, and realized she was crying.  He stared past her at the
fogged windows, helpless.
     "I know how you feel," he said.
     He drove her home and walked her to her door.  Any anxiety
he might have had about what to do at that point was resolved by
her father jerking the door open as soon as they set foot on the
porch.  Fox smiled at him uncertainly, as Captain Mueller gave
him a curt nod and shepherded his daughter into the house.
     That night Fox woke up sweating from a dream about Carolyn.
In the dream, she had been naked, up against him, moving.  His
whole body jerked with the force of the image; he felt the
wetness on his thighs and felt himself blushing.  His mother had
explained it to him once, but he couldn't talk to her about this.
He couldn't tell his dad.  He had stopped telling his parents
much of anything any more.  He especially didn't tell them about
his dreams.  And this feeling he had toward Carolyn was too
precious, too new, too fragile to bring to his wounded, silent
parents.
     It had been good, talking to Carolyn about Samantha's
disappearance.  He had never talked to anyone in school about it,
except for Jack Dean, who never mentioned it.  He had thought it
would be terrible, telling her, but he felt very good about it
now.  It was surprising to him, that talking about something so
painful lessened the pain.
     He thought about Carolyn and the front seat of the car and
what it had felt like to hug her, and felt his body getting hot
again.  He would not be getting much sleep tonight, he knew.
   
August, 1994
Washington DC

     The flophouse smelled like they always do:  sour stench of
wine and urine and despair.  Mulder placed his feet carefully on
the rickety stairs, searching for room 102.  Not that this
fleabag rejoiced in as many as ten rooms, much less one hundred,
he thought.  Seemed like the less some people had to offer, the
more they had to lie.
     Room 102 was at the end of the hall, next to a grimy window
that hadn't been washed since the Ford Administration.  Mulder
knocked perfunctorily, and was not surprised when the flimsy door
shuddered and swung open on the musty room.
     Of course it had been ransacked.  As soon as word reached
the derelicts who lived here, they would have torn the place
apart for any valuables.  Clothes lay scattered across the room,
a lamp had overturned and broken.  Mulder walked desultorily
through the wreckage.   A number of empty wine bottles were
stacked next to the disordered and smelly bed.  Someone had
broken open the nightstand drawer; Mulder picked up the papers
left behind and shuffled through them.  Check stubs from the VA,
welfare check stubs, bill collection letters, a postcard from
someone named Mike in Florida, dated two years previously.
Nothing in the room hinted at the once-vigorous man who was now
cold meat on Dana Scully's autopsy table.
     "Who are you?"
     Mulder turned quickly and found himself the object of a very
old man's scrutiny.
     He reached into his inner jacket for his ID but halted when
the old man jerked out of sight with an amazing speed.
     "It's okay," called Mulder.  "I'm a Federal agent."
     After a moment, the antique face reappeared, peering around
the door frame.
     "You with the VA?"  Mulder had to guess at some of his
speech; the old man had maybe five teeth left.
     "No, sir.  Fox Mulder, FBI.  Did you know Zack Mueller?"
     The old man eased into the room, his eyes darting around.
Slowly, he nodded.  "Yeah.  Him and me, we hung out some.  He's
dead, ain't he?"
     "Yes," Mulder said somberly.  "I'm looking for his personal
effects.  I'd like to inform the family as soon as possible.  Do
you know if he kept in touch with them?"
     The old man squinted, considering.  Apparently he made some
kind of decision, because he beckoned Mulder over.
     "It ain't like he kept in touch with her," the old man said
hoarsely.
     Her?  A strange thrill went through Mulder.
     "More like she kept in touch with him.  He didn't want
nothing to do with them no more.  He threw all their letters
away.  But I kept one."
     Mulder raised one eyebrow.
     Defensively, the old man said, "Well, he mighta needed that
address some day.  I kept it for that."
     Sure you did, thought Mulder.  The possibility of money in
that envelope never occurred to you.  But all he said was, "May I
see it?"
     He followed the old man's shuffle out into the fetid hallway
and down the corridor.  Near the stairs, he pushed open the door
to the most claustrophobic room Mulder had ever seen:  newspapers
were stacked chest-high around every wall, and cardboard boxes
tied with string blocked all but a narrow passage way.  The old
man went to a cupboard and started pulling out shoe boxes.
     "I never throw nothing away," he said proudly.
     I believe it, thought Mulder.
     "Here it is," the old man said, handing Mulder the faded
envelope.
     Mulder took it with a little thrill of excitement.  It was
an ordinary business envelope, creased and dirtied.  But the
address in the top left hand corner was legible.
     "Chilmark, Massachusetts," he read to himself.  "Mrs. Roger
Quade."
     Chilmark, he thought.  He closed his eyes.
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:19:27 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 3/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:41:58 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 332
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102038.AA01497@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

February, 1977
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     The opposing guard glared at Fox and faked left, but Fox had
seen and correctly read the tensing muscles of the other boy's
leg.  When he dove right, Fox was there to intercept the
basketball and spin around, holding it in both hands.  A cheer
went up from the crowd; he searched for an opening.  He could see
Coach Adams waving frantically from the sidelines but couldn't
hear what he was saying.
     Where to pass?  He was supposed to pass to Coughlin, but the
blond kid in the torn jersey was in front of him.  Besides,
Coughlin had been smoking pot at half time with McCandless and
Fox knew his reflexes would be shot by now.  There--he bounced
the ball, turned on his heel,  and rocketed it over the head of
the guard in front of him, straight into McCandless' hands.
     Who promptly dropped it.
     McCandless' startled face froze for a second as he realized
his mistake, then he scowled and dove after the ball.  Too late.
The St. Duncan's guard had it and was already turning down court,
searching for an opening.  Fox saw McCandless' hand shoot out,
knew what was coming but was helpless to stop it.  McCandless
tripped the opposing player, who went down on top of him in a
tangled heap of elbows and knees.
     "Foul!" the referee cried, just as Coach Adams yelled time
out.
     McCandless was furious.  "Mulder, what the hell were you
doing, passing that piece of shit to me?  You knew I was
covered!"
     "You were open," Fox replied calmly.  "Coughlin was
covered."
     "That's not the plan, dammit," McCandless yelled.  "You're
supposed to follow the plan!"
     Dispassionately, Fox realized that for McCandless, life
would always require a script.  A detailed script.  Improvisation
was simply too much for him.
     "Sorry," he said.  "It was you or nobody.  Too bad you
dropped it."
     "I did not drop it, dammit.  That asshole swiped it!  You
saw--"
     "Shut up, McCandless," said Coach Adams wearily.  "Mulder
was right.  You were the only one open.  Nice shot, by the way,
Mulder.  Too bad McCandless couldn't hang onto it.  Now when we
get back out there, I want Dean in the middle and a swing around
the center--"
     "That's my spot," cried McCandless.
     "It used to be," said Adams.  "Before you fouled out.  Now
shut up and listen.   Coughlin, quit coughing and listen.  I want
you to fake the pass to Dean, but give it to Mulder.  Mulder, go
for the two-shot..."
     It was pointless.  Fox listened with only half of his mind.
Something out of the corner of his eye had caught his attention.
There, four rows up from the court, sat Carolyn Mueller.  She was
looking at him.  When she saw him  looking at her, she smiled.
     Fox lost the thread of the play and had to get the coach to
repeat it.
     It didn't work.  Just as Fox had suspected, Coughlin was too
uncoordinated by now to follow through, and missed the pass to
Fox.  St. Duncan's intercepted, made two baskets in five minutes,
and the game was over.
     So was the season.
     It had been a rough year anyway, with their star Jack
Spinner laid up with a broken ankle early in the season.  It had
forced Adams to put McCandless in at power forward where he
didn't belong, just because McCandless was the biggest player on
the team.  That left a hole at left guard, and Adams brought Fox
in from the B team to fill it.  No one was more surprised than
Fox Mulder to find that he did pretty decently at it.  He wasn't
great, and his brand new height and weight sometimes made him
trip over his own rather large feet, but all in all he acquitted
himself well.  Not that it made any difference; they lost 7 of
their 10 games and finished bottom of the district.
     Fox lingered in the shower, prolonging the feel of hot water
on his aching muscles.  He flipped his hair back out of his eyes,
hoping his father wasn't going to start ragging on him again to
cut his hair.
     McCandless was waiting for him as he left the shower.
     "Listen, Mulder.  I don't care what Coach says, you fucked
up that pass to me," he snarled, backing Fox up against the wall.
"If you ever screw me up that way again, I'll kick your ass all
the way to Boston.  You got that?"
     "Chuck, lighten up.  I didn't--"
     McCandless' fist caught him squarely in the midriff, and Fox
saw stars.
     "I mean it, Mulder.  Don't ever make me look like shit out
there again."
     Fox slid down against the cold steel lockers as McCandless
stalked out.  There was no point in reminding McCandless that the
season was over and there would be no further opportunities for
either of them to screw up, he decided.  McCandless would find
another reason to hit him.
     Someday maybe Fox would figure out why McCandless hated him
so much.
     Fox knew better than to expect his parents to be waiting for
him outside the locker room; they probably hadn't even come to
the game.  He was the last one out, having deliberately lingered
to make sure McCandless was gone.  He didn't want to be ambushed
at the door.  He was glad to find Carolyn waiting for him.
     "Hi."
     "Hi."  She was wearing a pink fluffy sweater.  How could
something so ridiculous look so wonderful on a girl?  He wondered
where he had found the courage to ask her to the post-game party.
He almost never went to parties himself.  "You ready to go?"
     She nodded shyly and followed him to the car.  Beside him on
the front seat, Carolyn sat quietly with her hands folded.  Jack
Dean's parents were out of town, a perfect excuse to party.  Jack
had found someone to buy him a keg of beer and had it iced down
in the kitchen.  The other kids stood around it, trying to act
nonchalant and sipping at beer as though they did it every day of
their lives.  Fox waved away Dean's offer of a beer and got a
Coke for himself and Carolyn.
     Downstairs in the basement, Jack and Lerner and a few others
were playing pool.  Carolyn sat in a corner and sipped at her
Coke while Fox shot a few rounds with Jack, desperately wishing
he had the courage to ask Carolyn to dance.  But the very thought
sent cold sweat over his body.  He had never  danced with a girl.
He only knew he wanted to see her body moving, turning, her arms
lifted...his shot ricocheted off the far bank and completely
missed his target.  He threw down the pool cue and looked over in
the corner for Carolyn.
     "She went upstairs," Dean said without looking at him.
"Better keep an eye on her, Fox.  McCandless was talking about
her yesterday in gym."
     "What did he say?"
     "That she looked easy."
     Fox scowled, but Dean was  carefully chalking his cue, not
looking at him.  "Yeah, I don't believe it either," Dean said.
"Just McCandless being an asshole.  But you know how talk gets
around."
     Fox swung on his heel and went upstairs.  Carolyn  was
sitting outside  in the garden near the back door.
     "You okay?" he asked.  "It's pretty cold."
     She smiled up at him.  "Yeah.  I guess.  I don't know many
people here."
     He smiled back and immediately felt better, more comfortable
with her.  For once, he was the insider, the one in the know.  He
sat beside her on the bench.  The party was getting louder .
Everyone else had gone into the living room to dance and they
were alone, lit only by the light from the kitchen.
     "Would you like to dance?"  he asked suddenly, not believing
himself.
     She shook her head.  "I...I'm not very good at it," she said
in a small voice.  "I keep tripping.  I don't know the moves.  I
look like a geek!" Her voice was suddenly strong, he could hear
the anger in it.
     "No, you don't," he said.  "I don't think you look like a
geek."
     He stood up and offered her a hand.  When she took it he
pulled her up and suddenly she was standing right up against him.
     "You're very tall, do you know that?"  she said.
     Suddenly Fox felt hot all over.  She leaned forward, and he
was suddenly acutely aware of the pink fuzzy sweater and what was
under it.  Fox's senses rocked at the feel of her body next to
him.  His breath was coming short.  What on earth should he do?
     She slid her hands around him tentatively.  He hesitated,
then gently put his hands on her waist.  She was so soft, so
soft.  How could anyone be so soft?
     The music from the house was slower, fainter.  She swayed
slowly, her hips swinging up against him.  He turned, and she
came with him, and they moved together to the music, slowly.  Fox
wasn't sure what kind of dance it was, but he was happy with it.
They moved together, step for step, glide for glide.  He felt
happiness like a small balloon in his chest, straining to be
free.
     The music ended and she giggled.  "That was great.  I didn't
trip even once."
     "You worry about that a lot," he said.
     She nodded.  "I'm...I'm kind of a klutz, my dad says.  I
drop things a lot, and fall down steps.  I guess maybe I don't
look where I'm going."
     More likely, Fox thought, she had grown several inches
taller in a short time and was still getting used to it.  He
understood the feeling.
     He realized that the music had started again but they had
not.  He was standing under the trees, in the dark, with Carolyn
still in his arms and pressed up against him.  She turned her
face up to him, a dreamy smile on her face.
     Stunned, he suddenly realized that she wanted him to kiss
her.  Kiss her?  He was terrified.  He'd never kissed a girl in
his life, he didn't know how.  What if he did it wrong?  What if
she didn't like it?  What if she laughed at him?  His palms
against her waist were sweaty.
     Her eyes opened and she looked into his.  "Fox?"  she said
in a very small voice.
     So he bent his head, feeling his heart pound in his ears,
and put his lips on top of hers.  Softness again, and a sweet
warmth and yielding that went right through him like a blade.
Her lips moved under his, gentle and alive, and goose bumps rose
along his arms.  Other things were happening, lower down, in his
stomach--and below.
     Oh, God, he thought.  Oh, no!  Embarrassed, he jerked back
suddenly, startling her.
     "Oh!  Didn't you like that?"  she said,  her face going
pink.
     "Yes!  Oh, yes..." he stammered, looking away from her and
praying she didn't look down.  "But...maybe we'd...better not."
     "Why not?"
     A cool breeze flowed between their bodies; Fox suddenly
missed the warmth of her against him.  Her hand was on his cheek,
so soft, so warm.  He wanted desperately to hold her closer, to
kiss her again and feel her surrender against him.  He shuddered
with the power of that wanting, not clearly aware of what was
going through him, what his body was feeling, but knowing the
force of it could sweep him away, sweep past all his carefully
constructed barriers.  Oh, God, how he wanted it...whatever it
was.
     "Fox?"  Her voice sounded sad.
     He put his hand over hers and drew her hand away from his
face very gently.  "We shouldn't...I can't..." he said awkwardly.
"Not...right now."
     One small tear rolled out of her eye as she turned away,
face flaming.   "I'm sorry.  I thought you would like it," she
said angrily, hurt.  Her shoulders were rigid, defensive.
     Fox stood with his hands at his sides, helpless.  What could
he say?  He would rather die than hurt her, but he didn't know
how to avoid it.  He wanted her, he was afraid of her, of
himself...so much he didn't understand.
     "I'll...I'll walk you back inside," he said in a low voice.
     At least she held his hand on the way back in.

August, 1994
Chilmark, Massachusetts

     "Has it changed in twenty years?"
     Fox Mulder looked over at Dana Scully as they passed the
mill on the outskirts of town.  It had been shut down since the
Eighties, superseded by newer technology in Germany and Japan.
The base had closed three years ago.
     "Hard to tell," he said shortly.  He was still regretting
letting her come along, but she had insisted.  Whether she came
to provide moral support for him or for the next of kin, he
wasn't sure.  But in the end he had let her talk him into it.
     "Doesn't look too prosperous," she commented.
     "Never was," he grunted.
     Building after building on the main highway through town was
closed and had For Lease signs in the window:  Carter's Drug
Store, the newsstand, the hardware store.  Mulder passed the
veterinarian's office, which was now a locksmith's, and wondered
what had happened to Jack Dean.  The town looked hot, dusty, and
tired.
     He nodded at an empty storefront as he turned off the main
street.  "My uncle used to sell refrigerators and washing
machines there."
     Birch Street.  He turned, swinging wide around the oddly
shaped curb with the habit of years gone by, and began looking
for the distinctive red brick house.
     He didn't recognize it at first, and realized what it was
only when he recognized the Jeffersons' lawn statue next door.
He pulled up to the curb and idled the engine.
     "Is this her house?"  Dana asked, puzzled.
     "No," Mulder said quietly.  "Mine."
     She looked at him, then the house.  "This is where it
happened," she said.  It wasn't a question.
     "Yes."
     "Are you going to go inside?"
     Mulder shook his head.   "It's not our family's any more.
My dad sold it in 1985.  It used to be red brick, but I guess the
aluminum siding salesmen got to them.  I like the shutters,
though.  And the roses are new."
     He could still see the gable window over the porch, the high
attic window where Samantha and he had sat to watch for Santa on
Christmas Eve until their parents nagged them into bed.
     "My dog Alex is buried in the back yard," he said quietly.
Dana looked at him, her grey eyes deep and intense.  Startled by
this uncharacteristic mood of Mulder's, she sat very still,
listening.
     "He got hit by a car, New Year's Day, 1971.  Samantha cried
and cried.  My friend Jack Dean's father was a vet.  He put Alex
to sleep.  I wrapped him in his favorite blanket and buried him.
My mom was mad; it was a blanket her mother, my grandmother, had
knitted.  But Alex loved it and we figured it was his."
     Dana looked at the bare trees, the straggle of lawn, the
sagging roof line.  The house had seen better days.  "I'm trying
to imagine you as a boy," she said.  "I'm not having any luck."
     She looked back and Mulder grinned at her.  "I was a real
nerd," he said cheerfully.
     "Not like you are now," Dana said, straight faced.  "The
dashing sophisticate."
     He just grinned at her, put the car in gear and drove on.
He could remember so much now.  It had been years since the
hypnotherapy that had broken through the denial and the shame--
and maybe the alien conditioning--that had blocked his memory.
He was not sure, perhaps would never be sure, what had happened
to Samantha.  He still got that feeling in his chest when he
thought of her.  Sometimes he still dreamed of her--never the
same dream, yet always the same.  Bright lights, a door that
opened by itself, Samantha calling his name, a feeling of
paralysis and utter weakness....
     Dana pulled the folder from her briefcase.
     "Carolyn Mueller Quade, age 36," she read aloud.  "3220
Vanguard Street."
     "Vanguard,"  Mulder repeated.  "I don't remember a Vanguard
Street."
     Dana was turning a map around and around.  She looked up and
pointed left.  "Turn here."
      It was a white stucco house on the edge of town.  Mulder
searched his memory, but couldn't remember who had lived here
years ago.  It must be a new subdivision.  If memory served, this
had been a miniature golf course once.  According to the Army's
records and the records at the VA hospital, Carolyn was divorced
and working part time, a small income that left little in the way
of luxuries.  But the house was neat, clean, and well taken care
of.
     Mulder pulled up and shut off the engine.  He was torn
between wanting to see Carolyn again, and wanting to turn around
and run from this place.  Chilmark was his past, the past he
could never escape as long as his sister's disappearance burned
in him.  This is where his whole life had been formed and shaped,
like a sword in a forge, and the memory of it burned too
bitterly.  He wished he hadn't come.
     "Better get this over with," he said grimly, reaching for
the door handle.
     Dana's hand on his arm stopped him.  "Mulder, if you want
to, I can do this.  I know it must be hard, knowing the family as
you do.  I'm a stranger here, I can tell them."
     He shook his head.  "No," he said.  "I...owe her this much."
     She looked at him curiously, but said nothing.  They got out
and walked up to the porch.  Mulder noted the raked leaves, the
sound of a television.  On the front porch a skateboard rolled
away from his foot.  He felt sweat breaking out, his heart
speeding up.  What would she look like after all these years?
Would she remember him?
     Did she still hate him?
     Mulder hung back while Dana pushed the doorbell.  They heard
footsteps, and the door was jerked open.  Fox Mulder stared.
     She was about sixteen, red haired, with blue eyes and clear
ivory skin.  She was wearing an oversized fuzzy pink sweater.
She looked up into Fox Mulder's eyes, and memory swept over him.
He felt oddly dislocated, as though he had stepped through a door
and found himself in another land.
     "Carolyn?"
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:19:40 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, Part 4/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:41:56 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 236
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102039.AA01516@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

March, 1977
Chilmark, Massachusetts

     On their sixth date, Fox Mulder got to second base.  He had
asked Carolyn to come to the baseball game against Richardson
High, and she sat in the stands and cheered for him.  So when he
got a hit to centerfield late in the seventh inning and the
fielder missed the catch, he listened for her voice among the
others cheering as he rounded first and slid easily into second.
     Then Thompson came up to bat and struck out, and the inning
was over.  Fox never even got another chance to bat, and the game
ended with Richardson winning 5-4.
     "I could have tied the game if Thompson had batted me in,"
he grumbled as they walked home.  It was nice walking with her.
He was getting used to the idea that she didn't mind being with
him, liked his company.  He found himself talking more easily to
her now.
     "Tough luck," she said cheerfully.  "Maybe next time."
     "Girls do not understand baseball," he said gloomily.
     "Sure I do.  What I don't understand is why you have to take
it so seriously.  I mean, it's just a game!"
     He scowled at her.  "Just a game?  They've beaten us every
year I've played ball here.  Once, just once, I'd like to win
one!"
     She put her hand through his arm.  "I don't care," she said.
"I had a good time anyway."
     He smiled down at her.  Spring was warming the afternoons
now, and she no longer wore the knitted cap that had covered her
hair all winter.  It was radiantly copper colored, framing her
face, her eyes, her mouth.  Fox felt the familiar rush of warmth
in his lower middle as he remembered kissing her.  He had done it
several times now, and was getting pretty good at it, he thought.
He liked it very much.
     Carolyn saw his smile, cocked her head knowingly toward the
park.  "Come on," she said.  "We don't have to go home right
away, do we?  Can we look for the ducks?"
     She had found a nest of ducklings the week before, and
although Fox thought looking for baby ducks was too lame for
words, he went with her.  He would even have picked daisies with
her if she wanted.
     The nest was hidden in some bushes on the bank of the lake,
tucked in among rocks and leaves.  The two edged their way
carefully into the tangle, aware of the steep bank below them.
There were eggshells in the nest, but no birds.
     "All gone," Carolyn said.  She crouched over the nest.  "I
guess their mother took them swimming."
     Fox was not looking at the nest.  He was looking at her, at
her jeans stretched tight over the curve of her hip, at the rise
and fall of her breasts under the blue T-shirt.  With amazement,
he realized that she was not wearing a bra.  Her breasts swung
heavily under the thin cotton as she turned towards him.
     Dizzy with sudden lust, unthinking, he stumbled backwards
out of her way, trying not to look at her breasts, her waist, the
fall of red hair.  He tripped and fell heavily into the
underbrush.
     "Fox!" She fell to her knees beside him.  "Hey, are you all
right?"
     "You always seem to be asking me that," he said, easing
himself up on his elbows.
     "Well, I'm the klutz," she laughed.  "I'm supposed to be the
one who falls down all the time."  She  stood and held out her
hand to haul him up.
     Where the impulse came from, Fox never knew, but before he
knew it he was pulling her down on him, her soft weight driving
the air out of him, and his mouth was on hers and the day was
very warm indeed.  After her first little grunt of surprise, she
closed her eyes and kissed him  back.  Somehow she slipped and he
rolled and he was lying on top of her, feeling her warm and
living under him.
     He stopped thinking.  He had no referents for what was
happening to him, his keen analytical mind just shut completely
down.  Every nerve end in his body was dancing for joy.  He put
his hand on her waist.  She put her hand on his waist; he would
have felt that touch through armor.
     Fox slid both hands around her waist, feeling the taut,
smooth roundness of her body, the warmth of her skin under the T-
shirt.  He rolled them over in the tall grass that hid them, and
she smiled up at him.  Her lips moved softly, and then he felt
them open against his.  Holding his breath, he opened his lips.
     Oh. God. Her mouth was....her tongue... wet...hot...slippery...
     Her body blazed against his; he was absolutely consumed.  He
could hardly hear for the blood pounding in  his ears.
     He realized her breasts were against him.  Warm.  Round.
Soft.  Heavy.
     Her shirt had ridden up out of her jeans, and his hands met
naked skin at her waist.  He stopped, expecting her to protest,
but she closed her eyes and smiled.  Slowly, very slowly, he slid
his hand under her shirt.  Her belly was soft and warm, so soft.
He felt himself getting hard and feared she would laugh at him,
would be disgusted with him, but her expression did not change.
He slid his hand higher, higher...and felt a round, soft weight
pressing against his hand.
     Soft, so soft.  He had never touched a woman's breast, had
thought maybe they were stiff and rigid--the new knowledge surged
through him like a drug.  He waited for her to  push him away, to
say something hurtful, to make him stop.  But she made a little
sound in her throat and moved against him.  Curious, he pulled
her shirt up, baring her breasts.
     They were beautiful.  White and pink and delicate, with a
faint scattering of goosebumps where the air touched her.  She
moaned, eyes closed, and moved against him.  He kissed her mouth,
her soft yielding mouth, with his hands on her  breasts and
gladness all through him.  He felt as though the afternoon was
holding its breath.  Around them rose the green smell of crushed
grass.  He kissed her with his tongue, feeling the sensations
pouring through him like wine.
     "Mmmm," she said, and smiled.  "More."
     So he put his arms around her and kissed her, and again her
tongue touched his slowly, wet and hungry and sweet, and he let
the sounds in the back of his throat out, and felt himself rise
up strong and eager for her.  There was no way to hide his
reaction from her:  he was incredibly hard, she surely felt it
against her stomach and thighs.  His hands were everywhere on her-
-he felt her flat nipples rise into peaks under his hand and knew
exactly what to do.  He put his mouth to her breast, letting his
tongue taste the silken texture of her nipple, her warm salty
girl-skin, marveling at the sensation.  Gently, he stroked her
other breast with his hand, carefully, wonderingly.  So soft, so
incredibly tender in his hand, under his mouth, against his lips.
     He moved his mouth to her other breast, feeling the soft
nipple harden as his tongue touched it.  She put her hands behind
his head and pulled him closer, so that their bodies were pressed
together and his head was cradled between her breasts.  He could
hear her heart beating under his ear, and it was like music to
him.
     Then she moaned, and he nearly lost it entirely.  He slid
his arms around her, pulling her in so tight he nearly smothered
himself, kissing her and kissing her and kissing her everywhere
he could reach.  Her smell was warm and human and female; he
wanted to lose himself in it.  He wanted....he wanted...he could
hardly name it, but his body knew.
     "Carolyn," he whispered.
     "Mmmm?"
     "I...I want you," he whispered, so softly he could hardly
hear himself.  He felt himself flush but other, older imperatives
were driving him now.  He felt wild and drunk and hot.
"Please..."
     Her hands were tangled in his hair.  "Ah," she breathed.  "I
don't think...I mean, we better not."
     He squeezed his eyes shut.  His cock was so hard it hurt.
It had never felt like that at home, in bed, alone.  He pressed
himself against her, as if he could melt right through their
clothes, touch her skin to skin and hip to thigh.
     "Fox," she protested breathlessly.
     Sighing, he relaxed his grip.  "Sorry," he mumbled, rolling
off of her.  He was overcome with a sudden wave of fear and
disgust.  What would she do?  Would she call the police?  But
uppermost in him now was the agony of frustration, the yearning
for her, for her skin, her breast, her hair...for what lay
between her thighs.
     Alarm  bells were going off in his head.  That corner of his
mind  that analyzed and rationalized and judged was warning him
against this overwhelming need, this desperate urging.  It
clouded his thinking and made him dizzy.
     He pushed his hands through his mop of hair and sat up
carefully, mindful of the bulge in his jeans.  His mind was
reeling, his hands tingling with the memory of her.
     "Fox?"  Her voice was soft, tentative.
     He couldn't look at her.  "What?"
     "Are you mad?"
     He shook his head.  "Are you?"
     "No.  I like it when you touch me," she said.  He could hear
a quiver in her voice.  "I like it when you kiss me.  I
just...just please don't rush me."
     He took a deep breath.  "I won't.  I'm sorry."
     He felt her hand in his.  "Don't be.  Just be patient."
     He looked up at her, his eyes hungry and luminous.  He could
think of nothing to say.

August, 1994
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     "Carolyn?"  Mulder repeated.
     The girl looked puzzled.  "That's my mom.  Did you want to
see her?"
     Mulder closed his eyes.  Of course.  How stupid of him.  He
felt in his inner jacket pocket for his ID.  "I'm Special Agent
Mulder of the FBI.  May we speak to Mrs. Quade?"  His voice
sounded strained even to his own ears.
     Beside him, Dana was looking at him strangely.  He knew she
was wondering at his reaction, but would say nothing.
     "I'll call her."  The girl closed the door and left them
standing on the porch.
     Mulder felt a tremor go through him.  What would she look
like?  Would she recognize him after all these years?  Would he
recognize her?  But at the back of his mind, a question was
forming that he could not even put into words.
     How old was Carolyn's daughter?
     Was is possible?  Could it be...if the girl was
seventeen...Mulder felt the shock go through him, and knew he was
losing control of his face.  He spun around and stared up the
leaf-shadowed street, trying to think.   He was still trying to
regain his composure when he heard the door open behind him.  He
froze, facing the yard.  What would she say?  What did she look
like?
     "Mrs. Quade?" Dana Scully was asking.  "I'm Special Agent
Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  May we
speak to you a moment?"
     Mulder heard the sharp intake of breath and a pang went
through him.  All these years, and still his presence would bring
her only pain.  He turned around slowly.
     She had cut her hair.  It had once hung to her waist, an
auburn waterfall that tickled his hand when he held her.  He
remembered how it had spread out under her...Now it was above her
shoulders, curled under slightly.  She looked, oddly enough, a
little like an older Dana Scully, an observation that took Mulder
aback.  Her figure was stouter, and her hands looked nothing like
the slender hands that had once driven him crazy.  But the eyes
were the same, and the alert, lively face.
     Her eyes flew from Dana to Mulder and back with no sign of
recognition.  "What's this about?"  Her voice shook with fear.
     He was used to the panic his presence so often invoked; his
appearance on their doorstep usually meant tragedy for most
people.
     "May we come in?"  Dana was asking.  "We won't be long."
     Carolyn Quade held the door for them to enter and Mulder
brushed past her as he entered behind Scully.  The red-headed
girl was standing in the doorway of the living room, looking at
them curiously and holding a can of soda.  The living room itself
was comfortably furnished, and a little overwarm for Mulder's
taste.  The smell of cooking drifted in from the kitchen.  There
was an upright piano against one wall, with framed photographs
scattered across the top.  The television murmuring in the
corner, the curtains in the windows, the well worn but clean
furniture spoke of peace and contentment and home.  This looked
like a happy household; Mulder bitterly regretted being the
bearer of bad tidings to it.
     "Please sit down," Carolyn was saying with automatic
courtesy.  "May I get you something?  Rachel, get some sodas--"
     "No, thank you, Mrs. Quade," Dana said quickly.
     Mulder felt Dana's touch on his hand and turned reluctantly.
He couldn't put this off any longer.  Slowly, he took out his ID,
unfolded it and extended it so that Carolyn Mueller Quade could
see it.
     "Hello, Carolyn," he said quietly.
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:19:59 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 5/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:43:20 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 444
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102039.AA01526@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

May, 1977
Chilmark, Massachusetts

     Fox had never had a girlfriend before, didn't know what to
do.  But it was clear that the other students were beginning to
think of them as a couple.  Knowing looks and smart remarks to
the contrary, it didn't seem that they disapproved.  To their
narrow way of thinking, it only made sense that the outsiders
should wind up together.
     How Carolyn felt about the idea was unclear.  Whenever he
thought of that afternoon after the game, Fox felt hot all over.
They hadn't spoken of it, but the look in her eyes when he caught
her watching him made him feel light-headed.  He asked her out
again, but she turned it into a double date with Jack Dean and
Paula Hendricks.  He got the feeling she was holding him at arm's
length, and it puzzled him.  Still, she let him walk her home
every day.  It was hard to know where he stood.
     Especially, he didn't know whether he should ask her to Go
To The Lake on Saturday night.
     The trip to the lake was an annual end-of-school rite, a
midnight dip in the freezing lake that signaled the beginning of
summer.  And sometimes, rumor had it, some other, older rites of
adolescence took place in the bushes and deserted meadows around
the lake.  Fox had been to the lake last year with  Jack Dean and
his friends, and when Jack asked him again this year--their last
year--he'd said yes automatically.
     "And you'll bring Carolyn?" Dean asked casually.
     Fox felt his face flush as the implications--the
possibilities--struck him.  "I...I'll ask her."
     Dean grinned at him.  "Well, you'd better.  Paula says she's
dying to go but afraid you won't ask."
     Fox didn't believe this, knowing how Paula exaggerated, but
when he was walking Carolyn to her home on that Friday afternoon
he dared it anyway.  After all, what did he have to lose?
     They were almost to her house when he stopped and shuffled
his feet.  "Carolyn, I want to ask you something."
     She turned and looked up at him; the wind blew a strand of
hair across her face and he resisted the urge to lift it off her
forehead.  It was still  a marvel to him, to touch a girl as if
he had a right to.
     "What?"
     He swallowed.  "Doyouwannagotothelakewithmetomorrownight?"
He blurted it out all in one word.
     She blinked. "Sure.  What time?"
     He felt a glow start in him.  "About midnight.  Jack Dean
will give us a ride."
     She bit her lip.  "My dad doesn't let me stay out that
late."
     "But you're eighteen!"
     She looked up the street to her house.  "I know.  But he's
real strict about it."
     He felt emboldened by her obvious disappointment.  "So sneak
out.  I do it all the time."
     Her eyes widened.  "Well...."
     "I'll help you.  I'll meet you outside your window at ten
o'clock."  Too late, he realized that he'd given himself away.
How did he know which window was hers?  He held his breath,
hoping she wouldn't ask.  He couldn't lie to her, but could he
dare tell her about the nights when he sneaked out just to stand
outside her house, watching and longing?  But she didn't seem to
notice, frowning up the street.
     "I don't know, Fox... I could get in a lot of trouble."
     He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  Swallowing
his disappointment, he nodded.  "Okay.  I understand."  Maybe he
could skip it this year, Fox thought.  He would rather spend an
evening watching TV with Carolyn than at the lake without her.
     But she was smiling mischievously up at him.  "It would be a
lot of fun..."
     He smiled down at her.  "Yeah.  Meet you at ten?"
     Fox felt the tension between them, a sense of shared
anticipation and expectation.  More was being decided here than
just a date.
     "I'll be ready,"
     At ten o'clock the following night, Fox slipped over her
back fence and into her yard.  The black square that was
Carolyn's window was dark, and from her parent's open window came
the sound of snoring mixed with the sound of a canned laugh track
>from the TV.  As he made his way carefully across her  yard, he
heard her window go up and saw her leg come over the windowsill.
Without speaking, he helped her through the window and reached
for the rolled up towel she was carrying.
     At the lake, Dean pulled the car into a remote camping area
parking lot, next to several other cars.
     "Oh, great," said Dean as he set the hand brake.
"McCandless is here.  Damn.  I thought he was going to Melton
tonight."
     "His dad must have taken his car keys," said Paula.  "Old
man McCandless said if he caught Chuck drinking again he was
gonna ground him."
     "Doesn't look grounded to me," said Fox, looking out the
back window.  Against the black void that was the lake in
darkness, a tiny fire glowed.  Even from here, they could see
McCandless' silhouette, waving a bottle overhead.
     Carolyn was opening her door.  "Come on, Fox."
     They joined the others around the campfire. There was a fire
and beer and silly games, and finally they got up the courage for
the Rite.  It was a fixed ritual, as old as the high school
itself.  The boys went left, the girls went right.  Both groups
disrobed in the bushes, and at a signal ran naked, screaming,
into the icy waters of the lake.  Whoever could stay longest in
the water won.
     Fox gasped as the shock of the water hit his bare skin.
He'd forgotten the bone-deep cold of a Massachusetts lake in
spring.  Even in late August it would be chilly, but here in May
it was frigid.  His teeth chattered as he made himself go further
in, hoping his body would adjust to the temperature quickly.
Already some of the girls were squealing and racing out; Fox did
not look at their naked rumps as they bobbed whitely in the
firelight.  The girls stood shivering, wrapped in towels, around
the fire, giggling and calling to the boys.
     One by one, even McCandless and Lerner and Thompson gave it
up and climbed out of the water.  Dean had left after about
twenty minutes, and was already dressed and sitting by the fire,
fiddling with a portable radio.  Fox had decided that he was the
last one left, and therefore the winner, when he heard a swishing
noise to his right.  He looked over his shoulder and wanted to
sink through the bottom of the lake.
     Carolyn was approaching.  She was naked.
     Fox Mulder could not have moved if his life depended on it.
He stood there and watched her approach.  She was knee-deep in
water, sloshing towards him, her long hair down to her waist.  He
could see everything:  her breasts bobbing as she walked, the way
her arms swayed, the dark patch between her legs.  Fox felt
faint.  He stepped backward in the water, going deeper into it.
     "Go back," he said.  His voice came out as a croak.
"Carolyn, go back."
     "Why?"
     She was at arm's length.  If he reached out, he could touch
her.  He could touch her.  He would die if he did.  He would die
if he didn't.
     "Fox," she said, and came closer.  Her blue eyes were
innocent, open.
     She couldn't possibly know what she was doing to him, Fox
thought.  She couldn't have any idea.  And if she knew... Fox was
glad for the night, knowing his face was as red as a beet.
     "I'll be out...in a minute," he whispered.  "You'll catch
cold."
     She smiled.  "You've been in longer than I have.  Come to
the fire and get warm."
     Warm?  He was on fire.  But all he said was, "I'll be there
in a minute."
     Whoops and yells from the bank drew his attention.  The
others were chasing each other, jumping around the fire, pursuing
Dean.  Then Dean laughed and charged off towards the parking lot,
the others following merrily behind.
     Suddenly Fox and Carolyn were alone and the night was very
quiet.
     She was still there, still looking at him.
     "Carolyn?"  he whispered.
     She stepped up, and her whole front came up against him.  He
opened his mouth in a gasp at the sudden sensory overload, but
her hand was on his mouth.
     She was warm, even in the cool water, and her skin was so
soft.  She pressed against him everywhere, his chest, his belly--
and his cock.  She moved against him, and his cock, caught
between them, rubbed in the slick, enclosed space between them.
     She leaned up to him and kissed him deliberately, slowly.
He felt his heart speed up, felt her breasts moving against his
chest as their tongues tangled together.  The points of her
nipples were hot against his cold skin.  Despite the freezing
water of the lake, he felt himself rising, straining against her.
This time he didn't care if she felt it.
     Carolyn broke the kiss and they stood, arms around one
another, looking into one another's eyes.  Fox felt different--
older, more adult.  In the last five minutes he seemed to have
emerged into a new awareness of himself.  Something important,
very mature hung between them in the night.  She took his hand
and pulled.  He had forgotten he had feet and stumbled against
her.  The shock of her skin brought him awake fast.
     "Come on," she said firmly, and led him up the shallow beach
to the fire.
     As they came into the light, his brain started working again
and he hunched over.  Oh, God, he couldn't let her see...He
didn't want to be so obvious as to cover himself with his hands,
he was smart enough to know that would only draw attention to his
erection.  But he could not, he could not, be casual about it.
Especially not with her.
     But Carolyn did not turn around.  Snatching up a blanket as
she passed the fire, she tossed it to him and led him towards the
woods beyond.
     "Carry that."
     "What--"
     "Shhh," she said peremptorily.  Faintly he could hear
raucous laughter from the parking lot, and a car horn.
     He clutched the blanket to cover himself; she still held his
hand and pulled him along, so he had to fight to keep his balance
in the dark.  Then they were beyond the edge of the wood and into
it and all sounds except the night fell away.  She kept going,
feeling ahead of her with one hand and holding his hand with the
other.  Sticks snapped painfully under Fox's feet and he stubbed
his toes several times, but he kept going.  Finally she reached a
small stream, and the forest widened out into a tiny clearing.
She stopped, turned, faced him.
     "Here," she said firmly.
     He looked around.  They were completely alone, with the moon
shining down.  He shivered in the light breeze.  He couldn't
think, couldn't focus, he was so intent on her naked form in
front of him.
     "I don't understand, Carolyn," he said, his voice trying to
crack.
     She stepped up next to him again, and this time looked very
deliberately down at his groin.
     His face flamed; he thought his hair would surely catch
fire.  "Carolyn, don't---"
     "Hush, Fox.  I know you want this."
     Oh, yes, his body sang, knowing what she was offering while
his mind still struggled to understand.  Oh, yes.  Objections,
questions, fears tumbled through his mind and were swept away.
     Carolyn took the blanket from him and turned away.  With a
deft flick of her wrist, she opened the blanket and bent to lay
it straight on the ground.  The moonlight painted her in silver
and shadow; the curves of her body sang to him.   When she turned
around he stepped up to her so that their bodies touched.
     She touched his shoulders and he shivered.  He felt her
exploring touch, hesitant yet hungry.  Her touch was light,
almost ticklish.  Her hands drifted down his shoulders, across
his chest.  She stroked a nipple and he twitched.  Carolyn pulled
him down on the blanket, and his head reeled.  Time stopped for
him, the world stopped for him, everything stopped as he kissed
her and she kissed him back, smiling.  He could not think.  He
could not stop.  His hands were exquisitely sensitive right now,
feeling her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach, the smooth
round incredibly sweet buttocks below his hands.
     Under him her body was so eager, so luxuriant, so wonderful
to touch and smell and taste.  The feel of her body pressed all
up against his sang through his blood.  He kissed her neck, her
shoulders, her breasts...delight filled him.  She moaned under
him and moved against him in a way he'd never heard of, never
thought of.  Her hands were on him, he was intensely aware of
every touch.  She stroked his chest, his stomach--and strayed
lower.  He flinched away, not ready for that contact yet.  No one
had ever touched him...there.  What if she thought he was ugly?
Oh, God, what if she laughed at him?
     Fox looked up from her breast into Carolyn's face and found
no laughter there, only something he had never seen, something
hungry and wild and glorious.  He held himself very still while
her hand crept down, her eyes on his.  When she touched his cock,
he nearly went off like a comet.  His whole body was one strung
bow, taut, straining, poised on the edge.  He bit the inside of
his lip and made himself look at her when part of him wanted to
jump up and run away....
     Carolyn smiled.  It was not mockery.  It was delight.  She
liked what she had found!  He felt dizzy with relief.  Her hand
left him and went to his waist, pulling him closer.  She wanted
more.
     He wanted more.  He wanted all of it.  And from the sounds
she was making, she did, too.  With great trepidation he slid his
hand down her body, down her soft belly to her hips, to her
thighs.  He felt soft hair brush his hand.  There he let his hand
rest, desire burning through him.
     What if she said no?  What if she laughed at him? What if
she didn't like it?  What if he hurt her? What if she--got
pregnant?  The thought that he could do that, could start another
life in her, brought him up cold with sudden wonder.
     "Fox?"
     She was looking up at him expectantly.
     He could barely hold himself in check.  He was on the edge
of wonder and no longer thinking very clearly.  "I don't...I
don't want to...to get you pregnant," he finished lamely.  "I
didn't expect..."
     He could hardly believe  the words he was saying.  He'd
never said any words like this in his life, never even allowed
himself to think them.  And here he was saying them to a girl, of
all creatures...
      "Don't worry about it, Fox."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Yes, I'm sure.  It's not...it's not the right time of the
month."
     Fox felt his whole body turn red with embarrassment.  No one
in his whole life had ever spoken so intimately to him.  He
didn't know what to think, what to say.
     Her lips brushed across his, he felt a tingle spark down his
spine.
     "Please, Fox...." she was whispering.  "Don't you want me?"
     What a question, he thought.  He knew what the male praying
mantis felt like, knowing that what it was about to do would get
it killed, and not caring, not caring at all, glad to die if he
had this first.
     But he didn't know what to do.  Oh, he knew the basic idea,
knew his biology text inside and out, but actual, personal
knowledge...
     "Show me," he said helplessly.
     She took his  hand from her thigh and guided it down, down,
between...
     Oh, God.
     Slick.  Hot.  Tight.  Wet.
     She spread her thighs and he almost fell between them.  So
much heat, so much sensation pouring through him.  Her hips rose
against his hand and he moved without thinking.  He felt the head
of his cock against her labia, so hot and wet, and he pushed a
little and she parted for him, arching against him, and he pushed
more and suddenly he was engulfed in her
               sinking
                    down
                         drowning
                              buried alive
irrevocably in her warm, soft flesh, and it was like nothing he
had read about or imagined.  He moved, and she moved, too.  He
slid further in, and she wiggled and made the sweetest sound he
had ever heard in his life, deep in her throat, a sound made out
of desire and pleasure and need.
     And then the power gathered at the base of his loins rose in
him and he thrust with a different rhythm:  harder, longer,
slower, holding back deliberately to prolong the incredible,
unspeakable feeling.  He could hardly hear Carolyn crying his
name in his ear.  The universe itself was reaching through him,
urging him deeper, faster--
     Joy exploded through him.  He gasped as the orgasm blasted
through him like a rocket through foam.  He had no words for it,
for the wondrous eruption that went through him and over him and
out of him into her softness, her wet hot body moving under his.
He cried out softly, choked with the enormity of it.
     Not in dreams or fantasy or the privacy of his shower had he
felt anything remotely like it.
     His face fell forward onto Carolyn's shoulder and he felt
her damp skin, sweaty.  His heart hammered in his chest as he
froze, not moving, unable to speak or breathe or think. Then he
shuddered and let out a long, shaky breath, stunned.
     After a moment, she moved, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Fox?  Are you...are you okay?"
     He smiled against her shoulder.  "Okay? Oh, yes.  I'm
wonderful."
     He had never felt so close to another human being in his
life.  He didn't know what to make of it.  He was exhausted, his
muscles were cramping, and he was beginning to feel the cold
again.  But he felt ten feet tall and covered with hair.  He
could take on McCandless and Lerner and Mohammed Ali with one
hand.  Slowly, he eased his weight off of her and lay against her
side with one long leg thrown over hers, looking at her body
silvered in the moonlight.
     He turned his head and caught Carolyn looking at him
apprehensively.  He found that his shyness was gone;  he smiled
and reached to touch her cheek.
     "Were you...was that your first time?"  she asked quietly.
     He nodded.    "And you?"  he asked.
     "It's only the second time I ever...did that," she said
shyly.  "It was nice."
     "Nice?"  he laughed.  "Yeah, nice is one word you could
use."
     She looked away.  "You're laughing at me."
     "No.  No, I'm not." He kissed her again, feeling a deep
tenderness inside himself he had never felt before.  He reached
across her and pulled the blanket up over them both, wrapping
them up together.  In that close, warm, dark space he could smell
the delicious girl-smell of her.  It was a heady smell; it made
him feel older, more mature than he had ever felt before.
     "Carolyn...I..."  he felt suddenly shy.  The feelings inside
him were so powerful:  joy, triumph, and a deep, deep
contentment.  How could he tell her how he felt?  All the words
had already been used for lesser things.
     "You're so quiet," Carolyn said.  "I don't know what you're
thinking."
     "I'm saying my prayers," he laughed softly.  "I feel very,
very religious right now."
     "Religious?"
     "Thanking God," he said, pulling her head against him,
smelling her hair against his face.  "Thanking God for you, for
this."
     She snuggled closer, and he felt spent and peaceful and
happy.
     "I love you, Carolyn," he whispered.  After all the
rehearsing he'd done, the hesitation, the shyness he'd fought, it
sailed out of him now as effortlessly as breath.  "I love you."
     It didn't even matter that she didn't say it back.  He lay
with the girl cradled in his arms, a drowsy contentment warring
with a vibrant, jubilant energy deep inside him.  The moon
crawled lower in the sky and he stroked her hair over and over.
After a while she stirred against him and he clutched her
tighter, not wanting to let her go.
     His fingers found her mouth, so soft, and he used them as a
guide to bring her mouth to his in the dark.  Her lips were so
incredible:  warm, inviting, sweet. So close, wrapped in the
blanket, he felt that he was absorbing her, melding with her.
Her breath was gentle on his cheek, her breasts shifted as he
rolled with her.  Suddenly she was above him, her weight
delicious and heavy.  He opened his mouth under hers and that
remarkable luscious feeling went through him again, heightened
now because he knew where he was going, knew what he wanted and
where the feeling would take him.
     "Fox...." She was saying his name quietly.  "Oh, yes,
Fox..."
     He slid down her body, tasting the sweat on her, tasting the
wonderful taste of female on her skin.  Her breasts filled his
hands with a delightful soft mass; he had to refrain from
squeezing them.  They were amazing:  soft, round, voluptuous.
Her nipples were hard; he put his mouth against one and she
gasped.  Her reaction flamed through him like fire hitting
gasoline.  He liked it when she made that sound.  He wanted to
make her make that sound again.  He wanted to make her feel as
good as he did.  He wanted to do...that...with her again, deep
and long, make it last, oh god it was sweet.  But he held back,
wishing he knew more about this, wanting to please her.
     Well, when in doubt, experiment, he thought.  He rolled
until they were lying face to face on their sides, and slid his
hand down between their bodies. She gasped in his ear again, and
moaned faintly when his fingers slid between her thighs.
     So alien.  So strange.  So wonderful.
     He could see nothing, but his hand was alive to every nuance
as he explored this very different territory.
     "Fox!" she choked.  "Oh, God, Fox!"
     She was shuddering.  Had he done that?  What had he done?
Should he do it again?  He moved his fingers again, feeling soft
folds and creases, feeling a slippery heat and there it was, the
passage opening for him, his hand sliding against her again and
again, his fingers inside.  She was wet, and there was a new
stickiness--Fox suddenly realized it was him in there, his own
come inside her body, the two of them commingled in a way he'd
never thought of.  A terrific, potent feeling came over him.  He
pressed up against her, his mouth seeking her breast again, his
fingers sliding into her again and again as his own erection
returned.
     Then there was a liquid softening against him, a flutter and
a wonderful sense of surrender in her body.  She was holding him
tighter now, whimpering against his neck, breathing fast.
Understanding flashed in him.  She was coming!  He was doing to
her what she had done to him!  He felt shudders going through her
whole body under him.  Some deep part of him knew exactly what
was happening and responded powerfully.  He was beyond shyness,
and while she was still panting rolled over on top of her and
guided himself into her open body.
     Again the clinging, wet soft warmth pulling at him....but
this time it was different.  The tight passage was throbbing
around him, squeezing him as she  orgasmed again with his entry.
He thrust once, twice, and was coming again in a soft flood of
release.
     Ah, God....
     He shuddered with the force of it, feeling his whole body
suddenly freed like a butterfly from a cocoon, experiencing an
overwhelming climax.  Even after he ejaculated (for what seemed
hours) the feeling was on him and in him and through him.  He
felt so open, so exposed to her, as though he might break down
into his constituent atoms and flow together with hers to make
one being.
     He held her tightly, feeling the tears starting behind his
eyes, feeling himself softening and not wanting to leave her,
ever, ever.  He felt her lips against his chest, tentative,
exploring.  Her hand slid down his side, to his waist, slipped
around him to pull him closer and he went with it, wanting to be
together here with her in this narrow space forever.
     "Carolyn..." he sighed.  She was a miracle.  What could he
say to her?
     It was the holiest moment of his life.
     And then he heard the giggling behind them.


From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:20:06 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 6/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:43:19 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 140
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102040.AA01543@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

     McCandless. Lerner.  Thompson.  They were all there, with
their girl friends.  They were fully dressed, and most of the
boys were holding beer bottles.  Chuck McCandless stood with his
arm around Marie Aliger, fondling her and waving the beer around.
     "Whoa!  Looks like Fox got hisself a little tail!" he
cackled, and the others giggled madly.
     Fox felt himself go cold, then hot, then cold.  Oddly, his
first flush of embarrassment drained away as suddenly as it had
come.  It was replaced by a deep, cold, implacable anger, a
deeper anger than any he had felt since the night of his sister's
disappearance.
     With no thought for his own state of undress, he stood up
and let the blanket fall on Carolyn, blocking her from their
sight.
     "Get lost, McCandless," he said.
     The girls shrieked and giggled and pointed at his crotch,
but he ignored them.  He understood that their reaction was
calculated to  humiliate, and knowing that took some of the sting
out of it.
     McCandless waved his beer bottle in the air.  "Ooo!  The
cock crows!"
     At this witticism the girls sniggered.  Fox heard a small
sob from the blanket behind him and walked forward quietly,
deliberately.  The group fell silent.  He stepped up to
McCandless and looked him in the eye.
     "McCandless, you are one ugly little shit.  Now take
your...your harem and get the hell out of here."  He said it
quietly, with no obvious threat, but McCandless looked away.
     "Who you got under the blanket?"  chanted Marla Thorpe.
     "Shut up, Marla," Fox said without looking at her.  The
brainless idiot just giggled and stood closer to her date.
     Fox looked from one to another of them.  For a moment it
looked as though they would resume their taunting, but then
McCandless hurled his bottle at Fox's feet and grabbed Marie.
     "Come on.  If Mulder wants to screw some dog he tied up, let
him.  I want another beer.  Anybody else?"
     Unanimous agreement, and a feeling of relief went through
the group.  They drifted away quickly, leaving Fox and Carolyn
alone again.  Fox waited until they were all gone, and then the
reaction took him.  He shivered violently, and not from the cold.
He felt the tension ease in his shoulders and looked at his
hands.  He had not realized they were balled into fists, but his
fingernails had left marks in his palms.  He took a deep breath
and turned to Carolyn.
     She was sitting up, the blanket wrapped around her to hide
everything but her face.  She looked so forlorn and small, his
heart turned over.  At the same time, his shyness had returned.
He had had no trouble standing up to McCandless and his crowd,
but before Carolyn he was tongue tied.
     "Um. I guess you want to go home?" he said.
     She nodded, sniffling, and the moon showed tear tracks
shining on her face.  He reached down and pulled her to her feet,
the blanket coming with her.  Knowing what was under it, memory
and desire returned together.  He pulled her close and wrapped
his arm around her, the rough blanket separating him from her.
     "I'll take you home," he whispered.  "Where did you leave
your stuff?  I'll go get it and bring it back, okay?  You won't
have to see them.  They won't even know you were here."
     "They'll know," she said in a small voice.  "They can count.
And they'll tell everyone.  Especially that McCandless.  He'll
make sure my parents know about...what we did."
     He turned silently and headed back for the campsite.  Jack
Dean met him  halfway.  He was carrying Fox and Carolyn's
clothing.
     "I heard," he said quietly.  "I'm sorry, man. I thought
McCandless was with us in the parking lot.  I didn't realize you
and Carolyn were gone until Marie Aliger pointed it out."
     Fox flushed and looked away, pulling on his jeans.  "Forget
it.  There wasn't anything you could have done."
     There was an awkward silence, while Dean shifted back and
forth on the path.  Fox heard him take a deep breath.
     "So, uh, did you and she really, uh...?"
     A sudden warm rush from deep inside him made Fox want to
sing and dance and shout for pure joy, but he turned his face
away.  "I have to get these clothes back to her.  Can you give us
a ride?"
     "Sure.  I'll meet you at the side road.  You guys won't have
to see McCandless or that crowd."
     "Thanks."
     Back in the clearing, Carolyn  would not look at him.  She
made him turn around as she struggled into her clothes.  The
night was getting old, and chillier than ever.  Fox shivered and
wished he had brought a jacket.  He thought of being with Carolyn
under the blanket and felt hot all over again, but it didn't
last.
     He tried to embrace her but she turned her head away from
him and an enormous pain went through Fox.  A sense of loss and
emptiness opened up inside of him.  They'd found something
together, something deep and warm and important--and now disaster
struck at them.  Would she still love him?  Did she love him at
all?
     Once, just once, he would like to be loved.
     "Carolyn, look at me," he said softly.
     Slowly, she looked up at him.  In the thin moonlight, her
eyes were silver.
     He reached out but didn't quite touch her face.
     "I'm sorry about McCandless and the others."  He took a deep
breath.  "But I'm not sorry about...about what we did.  Are you?"
     She shook her head.
     "Well, I liked it," he said, and smiled at the magnitude of
that understatement.  "And I'm not going to talk about it to
anybody."
     "It won't matter," she said dully.
     "If they say anything, just ignore them.  I'll stand by you,
if you need me.  I'm used to them laughing at me, but I...I don't
want anyone to laugh at you.  I won't let them.  I meant what I
said."
     Carefully, he put his arms around her, kissed her, and
tasted salt on her lips.  She was inert in his arms, and he let
her go.
     Dean met them at the side road, and they drove back to
Chilmark in silence.  At Carolyn's house, Fox got out and walked
her around to her bedroom window.  He tried to kiss her, but she
turned away.  His heart sank.
     Back home, he slipped into his bedroom as quietly as he had
left.  He undressed, got into bed and lay thinking about this
miraculous, extraordinary night.  He didn't feel any different.
He still felt like himself.  But his body knew now, with a deep
certainty he could never have gotten from a book, what a woman
felt and tasted and smelled like.  He didn't think he would ever
forget it.
     Fox turned the incident over in his mind, examining it from
all angles.  His whole body flushed as he remembered deep in his
cells the sound of Carolyn's  moans, her breath on his skin, the
wonderful joy of her body.  But even as his body roused at the
memory, a cold and analytical corner of his mind sounded a
warning signal.
     To surrender to this feeling, to seek it out the way his
peers did, to spend all his waking hours thinking and dreaming
and wondering and wanting--it would enslave him.  He had read not
only his biology text but everything he could get his hands on
about sex.  The more he read, the more he was fascinated not only
by the physical act but by its impact on the mind.  He had often
wondered how it would change him.
     But then he remembered how Carolyn had turned her head away
when he tried to kiss her, to comfort her.  An intense pang went
through him.
     How could his body feel so good when his heart hurt so much?
   
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:20:12 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 7/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:43:17 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 251
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102040.AA01551@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

August, 1994
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     Carolyn Quade squinted at the small rectangle, at the
writing.  She fumbled in her sweater pocket and brought out a
pair of glasses.  Mulder felt his hand trembling as he held the
badge out for her inspection.  She jerked back to stare up at
him.
     "Fox?  Fox?"
     The way she said his name brought back a rush of memories.
He saw, not the graying, matronly woman in front of him, with her
glasses and her sagging sweater and her thickened waist, but the
red-headed nymph whose pain had made his last months in Chilmark
unbearable.
     "Hello again," he said.  He glanced at the doorway, where
the daughter stood with her eyes practically bugging out.  "May
we speak privately?"
     Her eyes were boring into him, and they were the same deep
blue he remembered.  Without looking away from him, she called to
her daughter, "Rachel, go to your room."
     "Mom!"
     "Do as I say." Carolyn's voice held the authority of
motherhood in it, that brooked no argument, and the girl turned
and went sullenly.
     "Why are you here, Fox?"  Carolyn asked sharply as soon as
she was gone.  "This isn't....this isn't a social call, is it?"
     "I have...bad news for you, Carolyn.  I'm sorry.  Can we sit
down?"
     She nodded silently at the couch and Mulder sat down facing
her.  Silently, Dana sat in the armchair across the coffee table
>from them.  Mulder felt himself getting a little warm and looked
away from her, deliberately folding and putting away his ID case.
     "Oh, God," Carolyn whispered, twisting her hands together.
"It's not...it's not Adam, is it?  Oh, God, has something
happened?  Tell me!"
     "Adam?"
     "My son.  He's on a church field trip.  He's only twelve.
God, has something happened? The bus--"
     Mulder reached out and took her cold hand in his.  "No.
It's Zack.  I'm sorry, Carolyn.  He's....he's dead."  His voice
was quiet, but in the sudden silence between them, he could hear
her suck in her breath, the way you do when the needle hurts more
than the doctor warned.
     "When?  How?..."  Her voice trembled, and Mulder could see
tears starting in those angelic eyes.  Suddenly he was seventeen
years old again, and wanted to hold her, to take away the pain.
But they weren't teenagers any more, and he was a stranger to her
again.
     "I was too late," he said grimly.  "Your brother was...he
was murdered.  The man who did it is deranged.  I caught him, and
he'll go down for the rest of his life, but that's no
consolation.  Dana, here, tried to save Zack:  she's a doctor.
But it was too little, too late.  I'm sorry, Carolyn, I'm so, so
sorry."
     The woman bowed her head over their hands, and Mulder felt
the wet warm tears on his wrist.  With his other hand, he reached
into his breast pocket and gave her his handkerchief.
     "Zack, oh, Zack.  I can't believe it, I just can't believe
it," she said in a choked voice.  "He had so little, so little.
He wouldn't see me or take money from me, but I tried to keep in
touch.  I was the only family he had left."
     Mulder sat mutely holding her hand while she cried quietly,
and while she struggled to compose herself.  After a few minutes,
she straightened and looked at him.
     "Tell me, Fox."
     He saw lines around her eyes, and the traces laughter had
left around her mouth.  She had laughed more often than she had
cried, he estimated.  Age had dealt gently with her, giving her
maturity and poise she had lacked at eighteen.  He hoped the
years had given her steel as well.  She would need it.
     "Mrs. Quade, maybe when you've had a little time..." Dana
said.
     Carolyn shook her head, her eyes still on Mulder.  "Tell
me," she repeated.
     "I was tracking a serial killer.  It's something I'm good
at, the Bureau assigned me to Violent Crimes.  He---he preyed on
vagrants and homeless people. I did a profile--that's a
psychological portrait of a suspect--and based on his past
history we staked out a couple of places.   I just picked the
wrong ones.  When we finally caught up with him, it was too late
for Zack.  God, if I'd--"
     She was shaking her head.  "No, Fox.  I'm sure you did what
you could.  Zack--well, I always kind of thought Zack might end
up--badly.  You know he came home, after a few years?  He
was...he was in trouble a lot."
     Mulder nodded.  Zack Mueller's record as a petty criminal
and small time thief, starting with that first liquor store
robbery, was something he'd hoped to spare Carolyn.  In later
years, Mueller's drinking and his record had forced him lower and
lower on society's ladder, until his life was reduced to a filthy
flophouse room and possessions so poor even the bums around him
didn't want them.
     Mulder pulled a manila envelope from his coat pocket.  "I
brought you his things.  There wasn't much.  Mostly photographs,
letters, that kind of thing.  He had a couple of books and a
coffee pot. I'll have them shipped to you."  He didn't mention
the debts Mueller had left behind, which Mulder had quietly paid.
He had resolved to tell her as little as possible of the
circumstances of her brother's miserable life.
     Carolyn waved away the books and the coffee pot with a
gesture Mulder remembered. "Give them to charity. I don't want
them."  She leafed carefully through the contents of the
envelope.  A tear rolled unnoticed down her cheek and Mulder
fought the urge to wipe it away.  One of her hands clutched his
handkerchief convulsively.
       Seventeen years, he thought, and all I can bring her is a
handkerchief for her tears.

May, 1977
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     By Monday morning, everyone in school knew that Carolyn
Mueller and Fox Mulder had been caught doing the bumpback.  Fox
braced himself for a merciless onslaught of teasing, but was
surprised to find that it actually slacked off.  Somehow, the
episode had increased his esteem among the boys, who now knew at
least one male their age who had actually had sex, as opposed to
merely bragging about it.
     And the girls...as he walked up the steps Monday morning,
Fox was surprised to see more than one smile from girls who had
looked through him the week before.  He did not understand it.
He did not like it.  He especially did not like what it implied.
But he could shrug it off.  In a few short weeks they would all
have graduated, and he would, with any luck, never see most of
them again.
     Then he heard the chanting.
     "Fox and Carolyn
     Sitting in a tree.
     K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."
     He hadn't heard that schoolyard taunt since the fifth grade.
He hurried round the corner, and saw Carolyn, her books at her
feet, standing with her head down and her hair covering her face.
Three girls stood around her, jeering.  Others stood further
back, watching with silent approval.
     "First comes--"
     "Knock it off!" Fox snarled, dropping his books and striding
up to the girls.  They were younger than Carolyn, he noted.
Probably fifteen or so, put up to this by their older sisters.
One of them shrieked and ran away; the other two stared at him
open-mouthed.
     "Don't ever say that to her again, do you hear me?  I don't
want to--"
     "Fox, please," came Carolyn's soft voice.  "Forget it.
It'll just make it worse."
     He looked awkwardly at Carolyn.  He was aware of every eye
in the yard on them. He had not seen her since The Night, and
wasn't sure how to act.  But he'd be damned if he let her take
this alone.
     Fox bent and picked up her books.  "I'll walk you to class,"
he said.  "They won't say anything in Wilkins' class."
     She shook her head, her red hair still in her face, not
meeting his eyes.  "It'll just make it worse," she repeated.
     And she was right.
     By lunch time it had become unbearable.  The whispers, the
giggles, the stares were getting to him.  He found obscene
drawings stuck in his textbook.  Spitwads bounced off the back of
his head with monotonous regularity.  He knew better than to open
his locker.
     Worst of all, he could see what it was doing to Carolyn.  It
had been bad enough being the "new kid" in such a tightly knit
group; it was becoming apparent that she was now, irredeemably,
the pariah.  Fox hated the hypocrisy of it, the double standard
that made Carolyn the target of every jibe, innuendo and dirty
joke one hundred and fifty adolescent males could think up in one
interminable morning.
     In trig class, sitting behind her as usual, his pencil
snapped in his hand when girls whispered and giggled
ostentatiously around them.  He fought the urge to flatten the
boy  who sat in front of Carolyn making surreptitious kissing
noises.
     But it all came to a head when he rounded a corner in the
hallway after lunch, and found that McCandless and Lerner had
backed Carolyn into a corner.  The hallway was crowded with
student returning to class from lunch--but suddenly a deathly
silence descended as all eyes turned to watch.  McCandless
grabbed the top of Carolyn's sweater and yanked downward.  The
tops of her breasts were exposed, and while Lerner stared,
McCandless shoved a small package between them.  Fox recognized
the bright tinsel sparkle of a condom packet and felt the blood
drain from his face.
     "You're gonna need that, slut," McCandless hissed.  "Who
knows where Mulder's dick has been, huh?  You might catch
rabies."
     Lerner hee-hawed at this, and leaned forward just as Fox's
furious charge slammed into him from the side.  Fox heard the
other boy's breath whoosh out of him as they hit the floor, then
he rolled and was on his feet again as McCandless lumbered toward
him.
     "You little prick!"
     Instantly a crowd three deep surrounded the boys, yelling
encouragement.  Lerner picked himself up and lunged for Fox, but
Jack Dean was there, catching him from behind and pinning his
arms.  He swung Lerner around and slammed him against the
lockers.
      Fox's eyes met his friend's.  "Take him apart, Mulder!"
said Dean.
     McCandless swung and Fox ducked nimbly.  He drove under
McCandless' guard to smash into the other boy's stomach with the
weight of his whole body behind the blow.  McCandless staggered
and might have fallen, but Thompson caught him from behind and
shoved him back at Fox.  Fox's second blow caught McCandless
squarely on the nose and pulped it.
     "Son..of a...bitch..." panted McCandless, breathing
raggedly.  "I'm gonna stuff...your  skinny prick...down your
throat for that."
     "Sure," said Fox coldly.  "Right after you pass
kindergarten.  Any year now."
     White faced, McCandless dove for him.  Fox jumped aside, but
McCandless' long arm caught him and brought them both down into a
sprawling heap.  Fox's elbow slammed against the bottom lockers
and pain registered dimly in a corner of his mind.
     In his seventeen years, Fox had never been this murderously
angry.   In the white heat of his anger he found a part of
himself dispassionately dissecting McCandless's moves the way he
scrutinized an opposing team's offense:  looking for weakness, an
opening, an opportunity, fighting a holding action until the
right moment opened.  He didn't have much experience with
fighting, but he was quick and keen and cool, and in the last
year he had put on nearly thirty pounds.  When McCandless slowed,
having expended what energy he had in the first few furious
minutes, Fox Mulder settled down to disassemble his tormentor.
It was payback time.
     He had McCandless backed against a wall and was wondering
how to convince the stupid fool to call it quits, when a sudden
hush fell over the crowd.  Fox looked up in time to see Grady
aiming a blow at his head that would have flattened him if he
hadn't ducked.
     "I told you kids to knock off that crap at school," he
snarled.  "Take it outside if you gotta do it, Mulder."
     "What is this?  Let me through.  You students get back to
your classes right now!"  Yelvers pressed through the crowd,
scowling.  "Who--Mulder?"
     The vice-principal stood open-mouthed in wonder at the sight
of a bloodied McCandless sagging against the wall, while Fox
Mulder stood, bruised, with eyes blazing, in front of him.
"What's going on here? Mulder, you know better than this!"
     Grady pulled McCandless away from the wall.  "I'll get this
one down to the gym and stick his head under a shower."
     "You will not.  Take him to the school nurse immediately."
     The shop teacher ignored Yelvers and started off in the
direction of the gym, supporting the wobbling, bleeding
McCandless.  The crowd reluctantly dispersed; Fox looked around
for Carolyn but didn't see her anywhere.  Yelvers took his elbow
and Fox gasped at the pain that shot up his arm.
     "You're hurt, Mulder.  Come into my office."
     It was cool and quiet and dim in Yelvers' office, and had
the slightly dusty, slightly sweet smell of old textbooks.
Outside, the afternoon was lengthening and a breeze floated in
through the window.  Fox sat holding an ice pack to his elbow and
wondering what to tell Yelvers.  He wondered where Carolyn was.
   

From faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com Fri Nov 11 11:20:39 1994
Path: udel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail
From: faa!sfsfs@openlink.openlink.com (Sarah Stegall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Next of Kin, part 8/8, NC-17
Date: 10 Nov 1994 14:44:07 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 340
Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9411102041.AA01560@engr.fail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu

August, 1994
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     "Mom?"
     The redhead stood in the doorway again, her whole body
evocative of fear.  Carolyn held out an arm and the girl flew to
her mother.   Mulder stood up and let the daughter crowd in
against her mother.
     "It's all right, baby.  These folks just gave me some bad
news about Uncle Zack."
     "Is he dead?"
     Carolyn blinked, but Mulder hid a smile.  The unsentimental
young, he thought, who still disbelieved in their own mortality,
sometimes seemed callous.
     Mulder turned away, giving them privacy while Carolyn
murmured to her daughter.  He stood with his back to the room,
looking out the window.  In the back yard a basketball hoop and a
bicycle threw long shadows across the dying day.  A small brown
and white dog snuffled along the base of a chainlink fence.
     He felt a movement at his elbow and turned.  Scully stood
there, looking out at the back yard.  Without looking at him, her
voice very low, she said, "The girl was born in 1979.  She's
fifteen, not seventeen."
     He felt a ripple of relief go through him.  "Was I that
obvious?"
     She did look up at him then, amusement in her hazel eyes.
"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do. You've been
staring at the girl.  I can see you almost counting on your
fingers."
     "It was a possibility.  I wasn't just imagining things."
     She nodded.  "No, but you weren't paying attention.  Carolyn
Mueller married Roger Quade in 1978, and their daughter was born
a year later.  It's in the file."  Her eyes crinkled at the
corner.  "But the question does give me a whole new slant on you,
Mulder."
     "Fox?"
     He turned and saw that Carolyn was standing, her arm around
her daughter.  "Thank you for coming to tell us this in person.
It was...it was kind of you."
     Dana walked to the door.  "I'll be in the car, Mulder.  Mrs.
Quade, I'm very, very sorry for your loss.  Please accept my
condolences."
     Carolyn nodded, a polite smile struggling on her face.
"Thank you, Ms. Dana."
     "Scully," corrected Mulder as his partner closed the door
behind her.  "Dana Scully."
     "Mom, can I go?"  The girl looked uncomfortable.  "I...I
wanna go call Margaret."
     Carolyn hugged her child to her and kissed the top of her
head, ignoring the teenager's squirming.  "Go on.  We'll have
supper soon.   I'll call you."
     Mulder watched the girl leave the room, memory stirring in
him.  Finally, when he could put it off no longer, he looked at
Carolyn.
     There was a long moment of silence between them.  Her eyes
searched his face, took in his suit and the long trench coat.  He
made himself return her look.  Why should he feel guilty?  he
wondered.  But he felt guilty nevertheless, an echo of the chaos
he had felt so long ago, blaming himself, fearing the worst,
knowing nothing.
     "You don't look that much different," she said.  "I didn't
think you could get much taller, but you have.  I liked your hair
longer, though."
     Mulder winced.  His haircut was a sore point with him.
"Carolyn, I..."  He stopped.  This was ridiculous.  How could he
still be so tongue tied with her?  She wasn't the Carolyn he had
known, only a stranger with Carolyn's eyes.  "I'm glad I got to
see you again."
     She nodded.  "You, too.  Are you well?  I would never have
thought you'd become an FBI agent."
     Mulder shrugged.  "It lets me pursue my interests.  I have
my troubles with the job.  In fact, I don't even know that I will
stay with the Bureau."
     "Do you think you'll come back here?"
     Was there hope or fear in that question? he wondered.  "No.
I don't think so."
     He stepped closer to her, and caught a familiar smell.  Was
she still using the same shampoo after all these years?  Or maybe
it was just the smell of Carolyn, caught in his memory.
     "There's one thing I have to know," he said softly.  Mulder
felt his heartbeat speed up.  He wanted, and he didn't want, this
question between them settled.
     "What?"  Her eyes were wary.
     "Why did you go away?"

Summer, 1977
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     Carolyn Mueller left his life as suddenly as she had entered
it.  On Tuesday he saw her climbing the stairs ahead of him at
school, and hurried to catch her.  But she ducked into the girl's
bathroom and would not come out.  He waited until the giggles and
jeers made it more embarrassing for her to come out than for him
to remain, and went away.  The next day her mother called the
school to say she was sick.  Fox tried to call her on the phone,
but her father tersely told him not to call again.  Fox flushed
as he put down the phone, certain from the man's tone that
Captain Mueller knew about the night at the lake.  How could he
explain to that hard voice the feelings he had, even more than
before, for Carolyn?  For the rest of the week he waited for her
to reappear in school, resolved to bridge this sudden distance
between them, to repair the damage done.  He didn't know how he
was going to do it, especially with graduation only two weeks
away, but he would force his peers to leave her alone.  Fox never
got the chance.
     The following Monday in home room, Mrs. Renfrew announced
that Carolyn Mueller had transferred to the base school and would
not be graduating with the Chilmark students.  Stunned, Fox felt
his bones turn to lead as the whispers grew to giggles around
him.  That week the rumors flew fast and thick, the nastier and
juicier the better, but he could hardly pay attention to them.
He walked around in a fog of guilt and despair and pain.  Crying
through his heart over and over again was one question:  why?
     At night he would slip out and walk to her house in the
darkness, watching her window until the early morning hours.  The
shades were always closed and dark.  He wished he dared go to her
window.  Once he slipped over the fence  but he heard a dog next
door begin to bark furiously.  The light in her parent's bedroom
went on and Fox hurried back over the fence, remembering her
father's glare.  He cursed his own cowardice and impotence.  He
left notes in her mailbox, wrote bad poetry in his journal at
night, and lost ten pounds.  He slept badly and flunked an
English final, which cost him his valedictorian status.  Nothing
could have mattered less to him.
     Jack Dean was little comfort.  When Fox tried to talk about
Carolyn, Dean cleared his throat and looked away, uncomfortable.
Fox realized that his friend was embarrassed by him and was
distancing himself from the scandal.  And Fox knew better than to
take his broken heart to his parents, crushed under their own
greater grief.
     Graduation came and went.  Dull-eyed, Fox sleepwalked
through the ceremony, grateful he would not have to make a
speech.  He searched the crowd ceaselessly, hoping against hope
she had showed up for this event, was sitting somewhere at the
back of the crowd.  If he could only reach her, could only talk
to her...
     Jack Dean's father hired Fox for the summer, and he spent
most of it feeding sick animals.  It gave him some comfort to
take care of their simple needs, to sit for hours with a lonely
puppy or a sick cat.  People were no consolation to him now.  As
the weeks wore on, he grew sad-eyed and silent, even as the pain
receded to a dull ache.  His acceptance letters to three colleges
came back, and without enthusiasm he sorted through them.  The
prospect of going away from Chilmark, leaving Carolyn and all
these unanswered questions behind, tore at him.
     One day he was locking up the veterinary clinic with Jack
Dean.
     "You picked a college yet, Fox?"  Dean asked jauntily.
     "No."
     Ignoring Fox's sepulchral tone, Dean continued.  "I got a
letter last night  from the University of Georgia.  I'm in!  Dad
says he'll pay for me to pledge a fraternity.  How about you?
You think you'll pledge?  Maybe we can pledge the same one?"
     Fox looked at his friend.  Why did he feel so much older
than his peers, despite being younger than most of them?  "I
don't think I'm going to college," he said.  It slipped out
before he knew it, surprising him.  He hadn't really thought
about it, but hearing himself say it, it sounded so right he was
surprised he'd hesitated.
     Dean was astonished.  "Not going...you can't be serious.
Why, that's all you've talked about for three years!  Don't tell
me they all turned you down?"
     Fox shook his head.  "I'm not going this year.  I think I'll
go to New York."
     "New York?  Why?"
     "My aunt lives there.  She invited me to come stay with them
once.  I'm going to live with her and Uncle Max, I think.  Maybe
I can get a job, think of what I want to do.  I can always get
into college later if I want."
     Dean looked at him with bafflement.
     His aunt and uncle were glad to have him, they said.  It
didn't take much to persuade his father to let him go to New
York.  His mother was another matter, tearful and angry by turns.
Finally Fox called on the pastor of his church for help, and
after a week of intense prayer his mother grudgingly relented.
     Fox packed his bags that night.
     Jack Dean picked him up to drive him to the train station.
Fox met him on the porch of his house, after a painful farewell
with his parents.  Behind him in that shuttered house lay his
past;  ahead of him lay his future.  It was wrenching to leave
one for the other; it could never be a clean break.  It was a
long, silent ride, with Dean trying to make conversation and Fox
staring moodily out the window.
     He didn't understand.  That night had been so sweet, so
intense.  Had he hurt Carolyn?  What had he said or done or been
to drive her away?  Why wouldn't she talk to him?  Why?  Why?
Why?  Fox wondered if he would ever understand people.  Sometimes
it seemed to him that understanding other people, how they
thought and why they acted the way they did, was the most
important thing in the world.
     It was time to make a change, Fox thought.  Time for major
changes.  He didn't understand the things that had shaped his
world:  Samantha's disappearance, his parents' silence and
withdrawal, the enmity of so many of the residents of Chilmark.
But these were problems he could solve by leaving.  The larger
questions--who he was, what he wanted to become--he was taking
with him.  And he could only answer them away from the stifling
town of Chilmark.
     Dean pulled into a parking space and got out to help Fox
with his bags.  After they were checked onto the train and his
ticket was bought, Fox held out a hand.
     "Jack, you've been a friend.  Keep in touch."
     Dean slapped him awkwardly on the shoulder.  "Sure, Fox.
Anytime."
     A hard look came into Fox Mulder's eyes.  "Please don't call
me that, Jack," he said softly but firmly.
     Dean was startled.  "Come again?"
     Fox thought of Carolyn on the blanket, her head thrown back,
calling his name.  Calling his name.
     "Don't call me Fox," he said.  "I don't want anyone to call
me that ever again."
     Dean blinked.  "Uh, okay.  What do you want me to call you?"
     The loudspeaker blared with an unintelligible announcement.
It was time to leave.
     Fox looked off past Dean's shoulder, to Chilmark,
Massachusetts outside the window.
     "Mulder," he said.  "Call me Mulder."  He picked up his bag
and turned away.
   

August, 1994
Chilmark, Massachusetts
   
     "Why didn't you answer my letter?"
     They stood and stared at each other, with understanding
dawning on them at the same time.
     "Damn him!" Carolyn scowled.  "Daddy!  He intercepted the
letter!  He was always doing that.  Damn him!  He wouldn't let me
talk on the phone, or go into town.  Not that I wanted to.  But I
thought....I thought you didn't care..."
     Mulder reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, feeling
the delicate bones under his hand.  He no longer remembered the
feel of her skin.  "I just about went crazy wondering what had
happened to you.  I beat the hell out of McCandless, broke his
nose.  And then you were gone.  I didn't know why.  I knew they
were humiliating you, but when you wouldn't even talk to me... I
guess I had thought we could kind of back each other up."  He
stopped, realizing that he sounded accusatory, not wanting to.
     She looked down, twisting his handkerchief in her hands.  "I
guess I was... a coward.  There had been all the whispers about
Zack, and then after that night at the lake.... It was starting
all over again, only worse.  I hadn't thought it could get worse,
but it was.  I just...couldn't take it."  She looked up at him,
her mouth twisted in a bitter smile.  "Do you know, I think
Rachel sleeps with her boyfriend?  She's almost sixteen, and I've
tried to talk to her, but it's no big deal with kids these days.
But back then... they never let up.  They just kept on and on and
on at me."
     "I know," he whispered.  "Carolyn, I'm so sorry.  I'm so, so
sorry.  I never wanted to hurt you."
       "Some things never change.  You were always one of the
nicest guys, Fox," she said, and he heard the relief in her
voice.  "You proved it today, coming here to tell me about Zack
in person.  You didn't have to do that.  You could have let a
stranger do it.  And I'm glad you caught the guy.  Whatever went
wrong in Zack's life, it's over and finished now."  She blew her
nose.  "I've ruined your handkerchief.  I'll send it back--"
     "Keep it.  It's standard Bureau issue for visits like
these," he said.  He saw the shadow come back into her eyes but
she kept her composure.  "I owe you a lot more than that."
     There was a silence between them, and she looked away.  "No,
Fox. You don't 'owe' me anything.  Things happen, and you don't
always know how they'll turn out.  You never lied to me, and you
were good to me.  I was just...very young.  Too young, maybe."
     "Youth is wasted on the young," he agreed.
     She smiled at this and straightened.  "I have to get dinner
on.  I have to call Reverend Wright and arrange for a memorial
service for Zack.  I need to call my sister and break the news to
her."
     Mulder glanced at the window; it was almost full dark and it
was a long drive back to Boston.  And Scully was waiting.  He
suddenly felt very, very tired.
     "I have to go," he said.  After a moment, he held out his
arms.
     She hesitated, then suddenly was hugging him as tightly as
he held her. She leaned against him, and he took her weight
against his chest gladly.  For a moment, a moment only, he
remembered the warmth and the feel of her, a long time ago.
     "Goodbye, Fox"  he heard her say, muffled in his chest.  And
after a moment, she whispered into his shirt, "I'm sorry..."
     He dropped a kiss on her hair, seeing gray there.  Gently he
stepped back and suddenly they were strangers again.  He dug out
a card and handed it to her.  "If there's anything I can do for
you, if there's trouble with the Bureau over releasing Zack's
body after the hearing, call me."
     She turned it over.  Suddenly she looked up at him.  "Fox,
did you ever find out what happened to your sister?"
     "Not yet.  I'm still looking."
     She looked back at his card, with FBI below his name.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder.  Yeah, I guess you're still looking.
I hope you find her."
     He reached out and tucked a stray strand of red hair back
into place.  "I will.  Goodbye, Carolyn."
     "Let me get the porch light for you..."
     Then the door was closing behind him and the night was
cooling down after the hot day and stars were coming out.  He
could see Scully, sitting with the map light on in the car,
looking at a file and sipping from a thermos.  He stood on the
porch and inhaled deeply, the cool air clearing his head.
     Carolyn was okay.  She was well and alive and--except for
the temporary grief the loss of her ne'er-do-well estranged
brother would bring her--happy.  She had children and a life and
a dog and a home and a community and friends.  Carolyn had gone
on, had survived not only the painful end of her innocence but
the shame of her black sheep brother, had survived a divorce and
the deaths of her parents.  She still lived in Chilmark, even.
     Mulder thought of his apartment back in Maryland--he had a
television and a fish tank.  No friends, no wife, no children, no
lovers, no life.  No one to mourn him if he died tomorrow. And no
one to blame but himself.  His whole life had narrowed to the
pursuit of his broken family, to the impossible repair of
something forever lost.  Even if--no, when--he found Samantha,
nothing would bring back those lost years, the lost closeness,
would erase or drown the long and silent years between him and
his parents.  Nothing from his past could cure his present.
     Not for the first time, Fox Mulder wondered how high a price
he'd paid for his independence, for the detachment that let him
pursue murderers and sadists and little green men.  Was he
objective, or just numb?  Was the passionate pursuit of a truth
"out there" just an attempt to escape the pain "in here"?
     What you need, Mulder, is a good shrink, he thought to
himself.
     He stuck his hands in his pockets and started down the steps
to the car.
   
                               
                             THE END
                               
 In memory of Tom Turner (1955-1974), and a night at White Rock
                              Lake.



-----------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------

1    Rush, "Closer to the Heart", Copyright 1977, Rush.