***

Negative Utopia: Part II
Mulder:
  
She's safe.  

She's better off.

It's better this way.

This is what I planned.

Keep walking.

Don't listen, just keep walking.

I have to concentrate to keep my feet moving.  Scully's just on 
the other side of that hill, soft and warm and asleep in my bed.  
Her bed - it's not mine.  It's Scully's now and I won't go back.  
I won't risk hurting her.

It's better this way.

Keep walking. 
               
She can't love me.  Not if she really knew what I've become.  She
had sex with me because she didn't have a choice.  

But she kissed me.  I didn't make her do that.  I didn't make her
put on that nightgown last night.

No!  She's just trying to survive.  She loves who I was, not who
I've become.  She'll be glad I'm gone.

Keep walking.  Sleep, eat, walk away from Scully.

Don't listen.

It's more of an effort not to listen than to do it.  It took me 
about three days to figure out how once my brain got switched 
back on, but it's second nature now.  Just like tuning onto a 
radio station and turning up the volume if I want to hear better.  
It's also easier now that there are less people to listen to.

I could hear Scully so easy.  I could listen and see of she is 
relieved that I'm gone or if she wants me to come back.

I can actually hear everyone all the time - that was what drove 
me half-crazy Before.  Now I know how to fine tune and turn down 
the volume, so I'll have to find something else to blame my 
insanity on.  It didn't make Gibson or the boy insane, and they 
can hear as well as I can.

I heard three billion people die.  Almost five billion if you 
count the ones that died instantly in nuclear fireballs.  Three 
billion that I watched the Grays murder one drop of black oil at 
a time, while I stood by and did nothing.          

That's not true.  I didn't do nothing.  I answered every question 
the Grays asked me and I told them how the human mind worked so
they could capture and process as many "specimens" as possible.  
It was my voice on the intercom blasting again and again "Remain
calm.  You will not be harmed," as humans waited to be infected
with certain death.  I did whatever they wanted as long as they 
left that bunker in West Virginia alone.  

No, Scully can't love what I've become. 

She's safe now - keep walking.  Sleep, eat, walk away.

Don't listen.

Did I tell her there is extra diesel in the storage building?  
That she has enough power on cloudy days for one hot bath and the 
radio and lights, or a load of laundry, but not both?  There's a 
wire basket in the stream if she wants to keep anything cold - 
did I tell her that?  

I should go back and tell her that.

No!  I'm just looking for an excuse.  Keep walking.

I love her.  I told her that.  She thinks she loves me.

How can she love me?  She can't read my mind.  She doesn't know
the things I've done - not all of them.  I've killed people that 
I had no quarrel with because I wanted something they had.  I've 
killed for gain and I've tortured for revenge.  I've betrayed 
Scully with other women and I've burdened her with my child.
               
Scully knows that.  She still loves me.
                       
I did it to survive.  Survive, no questions - that was what I 
told her.  I did what I had to do.

I didn't have to make her have sex with Skinner.  I didn't have 
to have sex with Marita or those other women.  Somehow I can
forgive myself for murder easier than I can forgive myself for 
that.  

I heard her question whether or not I was with Marita at the same
time she was with Skinner.  I should have told her "no."  I 
should go back and tell her that.

No!  Keep walking.  Sleep, eat, walk away.

I did it because I thought I was going to die.  Because I was 
laying in a ditch alone and bleeding in the middle of Kansas and 
I thought it was my last chance to touch you.  

I was trying to get back to you, Scully.  The Grays left me in 
the middle of fucking India.  Oh God - India right After.  That 
still gives me nightmares.  You can't imagine how awful that was.

But I didn't have one nightmare while you slept with me.

Anyway, being on the other side of the planet isn't a big deal if 
you have a spaceship, but it's a problem when there aren't any
connecting Delta flights anymore.  One boat that I puked on for
days, a couple of motorcycles and a Dodge truck I really liked 
and I was almost back to you, Scully - I was almost there and 
these guys jumped me for my truck.  I would have just let them 
have it; there were vehicles sitting all over the place for the 
taking.  That wasn't all they wanted, Scully.  I can't tell you 
about it - not ever - but it was bad and I was alone; bleeding 
from so many places I couldn't even count them.  I laid there for 
two days and I thought I was going to die.

I wanted to feel what you were feeling like before, but I was 
afraid, Scully.  I was afraid Skinner was hurting you.  You're so 
tiny and fragile, even though you hate people thinking that.  So 
I listened to Skinner - very carefully because I couldn't stand 
to listen to his thoughts, only his sensations.  Did you know he 
thinks he loves you, Scully?  

Loved you.  Past tense.  He's very dead now.  He can't love
anymore.   He can't trick you into his bed, either.  That made 
him easier for me to kill, at least if I didn't think too hard.

The next morning I was making my peace with Death when
Marita's face appeared over me.  Actually, at that moment, I 
would rather have died.

She didn't let me die, though.  When I woke up again, I was in a
barn somewhere.  She'd taken my knife and gun to keep me from
killing myself and done the worst job of patching up my wounds 
I'd ever seen.  She even had her own method for making sure I 
stayed prone so my ankle would heal.  

I could have told her "no," but the thought never crossed my 
mind.  All I wanted was to be numb; to hide the way you hid that 
night in the bunker.  In those first few months, I hid a lot.
     
I learned so much about you in that one night, Scully.  Every man
should feel that at least once.  Actually, once does it.  I'd 
been listening to you before, but not feeling what your body was 
feeling.  When we made love, I learned what sex felt like for a 
woman – for you.  It's invasive; pleasure involved allowing your 
body to be penetrated.  Yea, I knew that, but I didn't realize 
how personal it was.  How very vulnerable women can feel.  I 
swore I wouldn't hurt you that night and I tried not to, but you 
seemed all the more fragile to me after that; something I had to 
protect at any cost.

I tried to protect your mom, Scully.  I never saw Bill or anyone 
that might have been Charles on the ship I was on, but I tried to 
save your mother.  She was one of the last specimens to be 
processed and I thought they might let her go if I asked.  
Actually, if I begged.  No.  No losing a specimen, even one that 
was basically my mother-in-law.  It was like arguing with the 
Borg from Star Trek - all cold reason and amazing technology.  
Fixing a generator is nothing once you've seen Gray engineering.  

Anyway, Mrs. Scully wasn't part of my original deal to cooperate,
so she was going to die.  I held her hand after they gave her 
Purity and swore to her that you were safe and that you would 
stay that way.  The tube was already in her throat, but her eyes 
told me she believed me.  I wanted to shoot her before she 
realized what was happening, but my gun wouldn't work.  I 
couldn't bring myself to choke her to death, so I just sat there 
and held her hand.  It's exactly the same size as yours is, 
Scully.  

Finally, I listened to her thinking and I told her every answer 
she wanted to hear: her children were fine, the Grays were going 
to let her go.  Hell, I even told her you and I were going to get 
married and give her lots of grandchildren.  Eventually, she ran 
out of questions and I ran out of lies, so I just sat there.  
They put me off the ship and left with her before she could give 
birth to another gray bastard.

Do you remember watching Star Trek together, Scully?  Eating
popcorn we bought at a 7-11, sitting on the floor against the 
foot of a motel bed and watching an old TV together Before.  
Before it all was gone?   Before I was gone?

I'm not gone.  I remember who I was.  I remember a man who
spent Saturday mornings shooting hoops while the laundry didn't
get done and dishes didn't get washed.  I remember the endless
quest to prove something existed that showed up for all the world
to see on Labor Day.  I remember an FBI agent who was
desperately in love with his partner and had no idea how to tell 
her that.  No idea if she wanted him because he didn't want 
himself.  
     
I guess some things stay the same.

I still love her and I still don't know if she really loves me.

Keep walking.

Marita and I basically spent about three months fucking each 
other silly and I spent almost a year after that killing anything 
that moved for sport.  Anything that kept me from having to 
think.  When I was finally healed enough to get around, we found 
the farmhouse I took you to - it was more isolated - and lived 
there.  I could even sit on the front porch and pick off anyone 
that came up the road with my rifle.  Very convenient, but it 
didn't stop the nightmares.  Or the flashbacks.

Saucers in the sky.  Feeling you flinch when I penetrated, making
love to you because it was what I needed, not what you really
wanted.  Your face when I left you in the bunker.  Skinner's face
when I told him to do whatever he wanted to you, just keep you
safe.   The sound of that bunker blast door closing behind me as 
I walked out to the spaceship.  My voice over the intercom, lying 
to people waiting to die.  Black oil crawling under your mother's 
skin and into her eyes.  Thousands of starving toddlers.  That 
gang of men in Kansas.  Getting off as Skinner fucked you.  
Waking up to find Marita fucking me.  The sound my finger makes 
as it pulls a trigger and the wet sound a bullet or a knife makes 
when it penetrates blood and bone.

Pick one.

I knew she was pregnant when I left, but I didn't really care.  I
came back from foraging one day to find her in bed with some guy
in exchange for a deer he'd shot.  I had just brought her a deer 
– we weren't starving.  She was just a whore.  

I slapped her without thinking and walked out.  Then I sat in my
Jeep shaking and told myself that she deserved it.  That I'd 
snapped and that I wasn't a monster.  I'd seen my father hit my 
mother and I wasn't going to become him anymore than I already 
had.  It was never going to happen again.  I was never going to 
hit another woman.  

I actually haven't, but I don't trust myself not to.
     
I came for you.  It took me a while to work up the nerve, but I 
did, Scully.  I stood outside that chain-link fence and yelled 
and cussed at Skinner to let me have you.  I shot one of the 
guards before they started shooting back.  Anything - I offered 
anything I could think of, but there was no deal.  They wouldn't 
let me in and they wouldn't let you out.  

Skinner wouldn't even come out to face me.

I listened to you.  No, Scully, don't masturbate - tell me where 
you are.  Get your hand out from between your legs and tell me 
what you see.  Are you inside or outside?  In the bunker or in 
one of the cabins they'd built?  Stop touching yourself and go 
outside for a walk.  Walk two miles and look at the damn fence.  
Please, Scully.  Okay - just touch yourself.  

Oh yes - just like that.

Oh God.

I waited and listened to everyone for months outside the fence, 
but I couldn't make sense of what I heard.  I can only hear what 
people are thinking - not scan their memories for a glimpse of 
one small redhead.  

This listening thing doesn't work the way you think it does, 
Scully. It's not like the Stupendous Yappi.  I think what I hear 
is the midbrain directing mental traffic, because I get a 
gibberish of sensations, thoughts, and lots and lots of crap that 
people ignore.  Since my brain isn't used to tuning out someone 
else's familiar sounds and feelings - a generator humming, shoes 
pinching - I get a jumble until I get used to it.  And it takes a 
while every time I listen to someone new to learn what to ignore.  
And then I can't see what people see or hear what they hear - I 
can perceive what they -think- they perceive.  It all boils down 
to not that helpful after all.
 
Finally, I caught Frohike in the woods one day on firewood detail 
- someone must have screwed up and not realized I knew him.  He
told me you were gone, but he didn't know where - traded to
another colony like chattel.  He told me Skinner had shot Byers 
and that no one in that colony, including Skinner, knew exactly 
where you were.  All that time I'd spent at the fence watching 
for her, she was never on the other side.       

I sacrificed several bottles of Jim Beam to Venus or whichever 
God was most appropriate for post-apocalyptic angst and Frohike 
and I got good and drunk.  We extolled your virtues and discussed 
the many ways to mutilate Walter Skinner.  I favored red hot 
razors, but that's a personal choice.  It took about half the 
first bottle before Frohike was willing to tell me you and 
Skinner had become lovers after that one time.  I asked him if he 
was certain - I hadn't heard you think about that.  You wouldn't 
do that to me, Scully.  

Just like I would never pay for a blow job from a prostitute.  
Just like I didn't have a baby with some slut in Kansas.

He was certain.  Byers had seen the two of you.

I gave one of the bottles of whiskey to Frohike - it was a 
favorite of the little whore outside Alpha colony that I liked 
occasionally – and downed the third bottle myself.  When I woke 
up, Frohike was gone and it was the next day in never-never land. 

I have never felt so alone in my life.  It was like tracking the 
mists; I could hear you all the time, but I couldn't find you - I 
couldn't get to you.  I thought I'd lose my mind.  

Maybe I did.

I roamed.  I roamed the country, killing and taking whatever I
needed with the excuse that it was necessary in my search for 
you.  I didn't think, I didn't feel - because it hurt to bad.  I 
just survived - no questions.  

I was so happy to find Gibson safe in North Carolina, looking 
like a pubescent Tarzan with glasses on the beach.  I thought I 
had finally found someone who would understand.  He survived the 
same way I did - by helping the Grays - and he seemed to be okay.  
Maybe he knew the secret.  

No.  There's no secret.  Just days of numbness and nights of 
terrors for the rest of my life.  Gibson had just learned to live 
with it and I hadn't.  I had found a friend, though.

When Gibson discovered that Indian girl in New Mexico, he
suddenly wanted to play house all the time, so I left them to 
their love nest and went back to my lonely prowling. She was 
about twelve then, by the way, and I didn't give it a second 
thought. 

There were a few other side trips, but mostly I spent the next 
year looking for you.  I stopped in Kansas to check on Marita and 
saw the boy.  My boy.  Krycek was with her by then, but that boy 
was unquestionably mine, whether I wanted him or not.  I gave her 
a ton of stuff over the years in exchange for taking care of him.  
You can buy just about anything from a whore.  

Not love, though.  I know how you feel, kid.  Maybe someday we
can do therapy together and talk about our mothers.

I always had this fantasy that he and I could be together instead 
of just listening to each other.  I wanted to take him with me 
every time I saw him, but I couldn't - I couldn't risk it.  And 
Marita wouldn't have let me take him - having my son gave her and
endless source of whiskey, smokes, and whatever else she wanted
from me.  I heard him cry when Krycek hit him - again - and that
was enough.  I was taking him or I was killing Krycek.  I had him
almost two days before I slapped him for thinking the same thing
that I was.

I swore to myself that wouldn't happen again, either.  
                    
I could listen to the boy.  I could listen and see what Scully is
doing.

I have to find him first, but that's not hard.  Once I know the
station, it's just a matter of finding it again.  I find a nice 
tree to sit under, close my eyes and listen.

Water.  

He's in the water and he's upset.

Oh God - he's drowning.  I have to get to him.

No - I can feel his butt against something.  It's okay.

A bath.  Scully's giving him a bath.  Oh!  She's doing his ears.  
I always hated it when my mother did that.

"Mulder doesn't want you to give me a bath!"  I hear him say. 
Good try, Boy.  He hears Scully laugh and there's a washcloth
rough on his back.   

She's laughing.  She's happy without me.

Keep walking.

Get up and keep walking.

No, I'll just sit here for a while and listen.  Just a little 
while.

I hear the boy hear Scully's voice as she talks to him.  She 
wants to know if I'm coming back.  I feel him listen to me - now 
that's an interesting sensation - and tell her that I still don't 
know.  I hear him hear her cry.  And cry.

Get up, Mulder.  You can't make them happy.

Get up and keep walking.  

She'll get over it and she'll be happier.

I found you, Scully - it took me a while but I found a colony 
with a female doctor.  Actually, I found three, but the last one 
was the right one.  It took me forever to figure out who the 
women in each colony were since they wouldn't let me in.  Then a 
whore came back with tales about the nice lady doctor with red 
hair that gave be back some of the jewelry I'd given her to pay 
for her abortion.  Yes, that was my watch.  No, not my child.  I 
already had one and I wasn't risking another.  Besides, Scully - 
she was nasty.  Gives good head, though.

Again, I offered anything, but there was no trade.  They wouldn't
even let me see you - kept you barricaded in your house so I
couldn't just take you.  I listened to you and you didn't know 
any of that, which made it even worse.

You thought I'd paid that whore with my watch and that you'd let
my baby die.  I had no way to tell you how wrong you were.  I had
no way to even tell you I was there.

I stayed right there at that fence - all colonies were fenced by 
then, like it was some sort of zoning law or something.  I left 
to find food and shoot a few people that annoyed me or could 
profit me, but mostly I waited and listened.  Yes, I cut the 
man's hands off – there were enough prostitutes for him to touch 
without him putting his nasty hands on you.  Not that my hands 
were much cleaner.
          
One day, the leader came to me with a deal he was willing to 
make.  You for Skinner.  You alive, Skinner dead.

Deal.  I could care less why he wanted it.  Payment on delivery.

I stocked my cabin in California - it was one of the Y2K panic
shelters, so it was already pretty self-sufficient.  There were a 
few days that I dreamed about living there with you, but I knew I
couldn't.  I made a few modifications and gathered supplies for 
you and the boy, if you wanted him.  I cleared out anyone that 
might have threatened you - you noticed they left me alone when 
we drove past.  On my way to get you, I stopped to see my son 
told him I would be coming for him soon.  Then I drove off in 
search of Skinner.

You pretty much know the rest, Scully.  You don't know that I
killed him yet, but the boy will tell you that eventually.  

I never meant to have sex with you again.  It kind of - just
happened.  I could hear, actually hear, Gibson with his girl and 
you were right there beside me and...

And I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for it to happen, even the way it 
did.

After that I tried to make amends to you with every cuddling,
foreplay technique I'd ever learned, but I knew it wasn't enough.  
I wasn't who you remembered and it was better if I just left you
alone. 

But I let it happen again - I forced you.  God, Scully - I should
swallow a bullet for that, if nothing else.  

You wouldn't say that - you'll say you wanted me, but it's not 
like you had much of a choice except to do what I wanted.  You
thought I would hold you down and rape you - I heard how scared
you were.  I wanted to hear you tell me "yes," and I kind of lost 
it when you did.  I didn't realize I was being that rough and 
that you would think your only choices were consenting or being 
raped.  I thought you'd tell me if I was hurting you.  

I wouldn't have, Scully.  I would never hurt you.

I want to tell her that.  

I need her to know that.

No.  I did hurt her.  And making her give me permission to do it
doesn't make it any less a sin. 

I can't walk anymore and it's getting dark.  I'll sleep here 
and...

And what will I do tomorrow?  Go or stay?  

Go.

I'll go tomorrow.

No.  I'll stay one more day.  Stay and listen to my son.

I have this thing about feeding him, Scully.  About making sure 
he's fed.  If he ate all I wanted him to, he'd be as big as a 
house.  I've brought Marita so much food over the years that she 
finally asked me to stick with booze and smokes.  She can't cook 
and I'd hear him being hungry - I was scared he was going to 
starve like those kids in India.  

You don't know about that, do you Scully?  You didn't come out
of the bunker until after they all died and I guess none of the 
other men ever told you or let you see the bodies.  You've never 
even given it a second thought that a grown alien can't gestate 
inside a very small child.

I'm so glad.

You see, there's a minimum amount of human tissue the Grays
need to form, and it works out to about thirty-five pounds of 
child or more.  They took everyone else they could easily find, 
but no one under three or so.

Those they left to die.  And there were lots and lots of kids in 
India. 
          
Were.

I woke up in India - with a sprained ankle since the Greys kindly
dropped me off about seven feet above the ground - to the smell 
of thousands of little bodies rotting in the heat.  Everywhere.  
In their beds, on the sidewalks, in cars - wherever their parents 
left them, they died.  

Not all of them, though.  A few of the oldest ones had managed to
find water and a little food for three weeks and were still 
barely alive, little bellies grossly swollen.  I kept hearing 
weak cries and I would limp into some merchant's stall to find a 
three-year-old dying of God-only-knows- what.  It happened again 
and again and again - finding a child too far gone for me to 
help.

I tried to help them, but I'm not the doctor, Scully.  My 
training only helped if I needed to help them resolve their 
feelings about being abandoned.  I didn't even know what was 
wrong with some of them.  Some were just starving, but they were 
too sick to eat.  Some typhoid - or something - from drinking 
dirty water.  Some hadn't had their diapers changed and were so 
raw they had maggots...

No, I can't think about it.

I couldn't save even one of them.  Eventually, I stopped hearing 
the weak cries.  Whether they stopped or I just stopped hearing 
them, I don't know.  I was just glad they stopped.

And I'm glad you never heard them, Scully.  And I'm glad you'll
always make sure my son isn't ever hungry.  If he survived 
Marita's cooking, he can live on yours.

I want to hear you and him happy together and then I'll go.   

No, just one more day.

I should make sure she's okay.  Maybe she needs something; maybe
I forgot something she will need.  I'll go back and watch her, 
but I won't listen.

Just one more day - I'll stay and watch her for one more day.  
Then I'll go and never come back.  I won't listen.  She won't 
know I'm here.  

No, she'll think three dead rabbits committed suicide on her 
front steps.  Brilliant, Mulder.

I wonder if I should have cleaned them?

She's a doctor, brilliance.  Scully can probably gut a few 
bunnies.

God, I should just leave.

After this morning.  I'll watch Scully drink her coffee and John 
Boy - what a name - play one last time and then I'll go.  

She looks so sad.  What are you thinking, Scully?  Are you 
lonely?   Are you worried?  Do you need anything?  Is something 
wrong?  Are you not happy here?

I can take you anywhere you want to go - just tell me.  No, you
won't tell me.  You'll say "I'm fine," just like you always do.  
The world has turned into a Mad Max movie and you're still 
"fine."  You've been sold, almost raped three times - once by me, 
- and seen your best friend and lover - I guess - murder two 
children and slap his son and you're still "fine."  You've been 
forced into sex with Skinner and me and burdened with my child 
and have no control over your life.

You're not "fine," damn it!  None of us are fucking fine!
                       
I shouldn't be listening to her.  She'll know I'm doing it.  No, 
she can't tell where I am - I could be miles away for all she 
knows.

Sad - she is sad.  Lonely.  Tepid coffee.  Love Mulder. Should 
have told him.  Need to brush teeth.  Miss him.  Is he okay?  
Where is he?  John's going to need another bath.  Why did he 
leave me?  Love him.

STOP!

I stop listening, jerking down my mental volume knob.  

You do not love me, Scully!  

Suddenly, John Boy turns around and points right at the tree I'm
sitting in.  Traitor!  Scully looks and raises her hand at me 
before she steps off the porch, noticing the suicidal bunnies.  I 
drop the few feet to the ground to run and feel my ankle give way 
again.  

Damn it!

I can't get away now.

God - don't touch me, Scully!  Leave me alone. 

Just leave me alone.     

She doesn't leave me alone, though.  I get half-dragged into my
cabin - her cabin - so she can check my ankle.  It's sprained; I 
could tell her that.  I got dropped out of a UFO and then tossed 
into a ditch by the gay pride motorcycle gang from Hell about 
five and a half years ago and my right ankle broke the fall both 
times.  It was sprained then and it's sprained now.  Leave me 
alone!

Oh, thank you, Scully.  That shot must have been something for
pain.  It doesn't actually hurt that bad, but I think you're 
afraid I'll hobble off.  

I will.  Just as soon as I can, I'm gone.

Not right now, though.  Right now I'm going to lie here in a bed
that smells like you and doze and dream about what could have
been.

I always wanted to marry you, Scully.  Bet you never would have
guessed that.  Not a civil ceremony - the whole nine yards.  The
white dress, the tux - hell, you might have even dragged me into 
a church.  Fox Mulder, the eternal bachelor, wanted to marry Dana
Scully.  First woman I ever wanted to marry.  I wanted to take 
you someplace warm and sunny with lots of beaches for our 
honeymoon to make love to you for the first time and then adopt 
as many children as possible.  I wanted the house in the 'burbs 
and the picket fence.  I even have a ring somewhere.  Not 
somewhere – my left front jacket pocket, actually.

God - that seems so stupid now.

I also wanted to keep chasing my little gray men all over the
country and screwing around as I saw fit.  Keep living like a 
frat boy and shaking my fist at the sky.  Keep idolizing my 
schoolboy version of my partner - gazing at you in awe during the 
day and jerking off to those memories at night.  

Even Before, I was a bastard.

OH GOD THAT HURTS, SCULLY!

What in Hell are you doing to me?

Whatever it is, I'm certain I deserve it.  I'll try to stay 
conscious so I can suffer.

Isn't working.  Sorry, Scully.

I must have fallen asleep in Scully's motel room or at her 
apartment again.  She hates it when I do that. Sometimes if I lie 
real still, I can listen to her breathing for a while before she 
realizes I'm awake and kicks me out.  It's pitiful for a grown 
man to do that, but it's about as intimate as I ever get with 
Scully, thanks to that damn bee.

I hear Scully moving around, doing something that smells good -
breakfast.  Must be room service.  Ouch!  Burned herself.  I like 
the way her breasts bounce against her chest with she jumps back. 
Guys don't ever have that sensation.  Most guys.  That nice 
jiggling weight and nipples brushing against her shirt.  Very 
nice.  

Why can I feel that?

Apocalypse.  Colonization.  Grays.  Civilization collapses and 
chaos reigns.  I sold my soul to the devil in exchange for 
Scully's life and am now basically a psychic, half-crazed killing 
machine.

And my ankle hurts and I have to pee.

Life sucks.

Why am I naked?  Naked, clean, and shaved?

"Your clothes are almost dry, Mulder.  You were nasty.  Stop
faking it and open your eyes," a female voice informs me.  I 
guess I'm going to have to open my eyes.

She is so beautiful.  How old is she now - 40, 41?  Doesn't show. 
Maybe I've aged enough for both of us.  I'm trying to decide 
which part of her I like best this morning.  The conventional 
favorites aside, I think it's the front of her waist.  It's flat.  
Flat as a pancake.  I'm sick of seeing women with huge bellies 
about to bring forth life - a life that is usually short, ugly, 
and resented.  Give me a waist I can almost span with my hands 
and attach it to Scully.  Next, of course, is the small of her 
back - an old favorite.  That tattoo standing out in sharp 
contrast to her pale skin.  I guess.  I've never actually gotten 
a good look at it.      

It is first thing in the morning and I do have to pee.  

And I love whatever it is she just gave me in that syringe.  

Food.  Scully's bringing me something that smells delicious and
trying to spoon feed me.  No, I don't need to be spoon fed, thank
you.  It's my ankle that's hurt, not my arms.  Just give me the 
plate and get the hell away from me.

Now she's across the room pouting.  Good - pout.  Get good and
mad and hate me because I'm going to leave as soon as I can. 
Better if you hate me instead of keeping up this delusion that 
you love me.  The boy crawls up beside me and I offer him a bite 
of oatmeal.  He only takes one bite, since it smells a lot better 
than it tastes.  Only Scully could screw up oatmeal.  Food aside, 
he cuddles up beside me like I'm a good father and he's supposed 
to be there.  I've never spent much time with him before I got 
Scully, although we listened to each other a lot.  I told Scully 
the truth; he's a good kid.  Amazing that he's mine.  
                       
Eventually I get a layer of my clothes back and helped to the
bathroom before Scully offers me another pain shot.  She's got my
ankle wrapped up and it really doesn't hurt as long as I stay off 
of it, so I shake my head "no."  She insists it's broken and 
gives me the shot anyway. 

Why did you even bother to ask me if there wasn't a choice, 
Scully?

Same reason I asked you if you wanted to have sex with me.  Even
a lie sounds good if it's what you wanted to hear.  

I hope I didn't say that out loud.

That must have been a booster dose of Demerol, because I am
suddenly such a happy FBI agent.  I love Demerol.  I love my
Scully, my son, my cabin.  Hell, I love this blanket and the 
wall.  Just give me enough of this stuff and I'll stay forever, 
Scully.  Demerol seems to be able to beat back the darkness 
inside me.  

Just keep me drugged up and in bed as your love slave, baby.

I think that was a B-52's song.
     
Love slave, baaaaby.

Come here and love me, Scully.  Let's make like spoons or sleepy
kittens or suicidal bunnies.  No, not like bunnies.  You're not
coming and loving me, Scully.  Damn.  Fine, I'll just lay here 
and grin at you.  My little snuggle bunny.

What?

She's such a good mom - I knew she would be.  She's reading the
now-clean Boy "Goodnight Moon" - he loves that story.  I found
the book and I used to sit around the camps that bordered Colony
451 and read it to him beside the fire while he listened in my 
head.  Yes, Mulder the Murder likes to read kid's books- tease me 
about it and I'll blow your head off.  The other men didn't tease 
me, though.  A couple of them even asked me to read it out loud, 
which I did not do.  I got other books for him, too.  "Dr. 
Seuss," and "The Little Prince," and "The Giving Tree" - nice, 
normal memories.  I even picked up a Barney book somewhere in a 
nod to my role as the anti-Christ.  Scully must have found them 
in my backpack.  The boy's heard them a thousand times, but he's 
never actually seen the books before.
 
I lose the battle against my heavy eyelids and leave this world 
for the evening, missing the sweet family tableaux on the couch.

Someone's sitting on the bed beside me.  Female.  Smells good. 
Breasts.  I like breasts.

Scully.  

Open eyes - maybe there will be naked Scully-breasts.

No - breasts are covered.  Ankle hurts like hell, though.
     
I open my eyes to see a needle going into my shoulder.  Christ,
what a lump, Scully.  Can I go pee before I pass out again?  

"You'll run out of that, eventually."  

"That was the last," she tells me, dumping me back onto the bed. 
"It wasn't even a whole dose and I'm not sure how potent it is
anymore.  Your ankle is set and your clothes are dry.  Get up and
leave if you want to, Mulder."

She's daring me!  I will leave, Scully!   Just as soon as I lay 
here for a little while.  Half-dose, my ass...
                       
She looks adorable swaddled in that big t-shirt I found for her 
in Bolder and sweat socks, like we're old lovers going to bed in 
our weekend cabin.   

Before.   

But this isn't Before.  And I am not the same person.  

I can't do this.  Not even with Demerol.

"Get away from me, Scully."

"Why?"  It's the same voice Samantha used to say: "You can't make
me, Fox!"

"Why?"  How the hell can she ask me that?  Why?  She wants a
fuckin' list?

"Yes, why?  Why, Mulder?  Why would you go to all the trouble to
get me and then abandon me?"

"Because I promised."  I haven't exchanged this many words out 
loud in one day in years.  Sometimes I forget that I even -can- 
speak out loud.

"You promised?  You think this is what you promised me?  Leaving
me alone in the middle of the wilderness while you go off to whip
yourself for surviving?  What happened to 'no questions?"   

I don't know what to say to that.  I am very, very out of 
practice at arguing - usually I just shoot anyone that disagrees 
with me.  There is safety in my silence, so I retreat and roll 
away from her and back into my drugged dreams. 

Scully doesn't let me escape.  Lips find my earlobe and small 
hands caress my hips, gaining an instant reaction through my 
analgesic stupor.  If I could run, I would.

"Stop that," I protest.  It's an empty protest - I'd trade the 
rest of my life for Scully to make love to me once of her own 
volition.

Scully doesn't even bother to respond.  I'm rolled on to my back
roughly and the front of my boxers are pulled down.  When I
realize what she plans to do, I push her away, harder than I
intended.  I will not let Scully do this.  Oral sex isn't sex, is 
it President Clinton?  It's not betraying Scully if I find the 
occasional whore willing to trade a blow job for whiskey or 
cigarettes, is it?  It's a service - like getting a hair cut or 
an oil change.  Even killers get lonely.  It's not betrayal if 
I'm standing up and just unfasten my Levi's.  And I don't ever 
want to think of Scully as one of those women - not when I'm 
going to leave her. 
     
Scully's sprawled on the floor beside the bed where I pushed her.  
I'm sorry, Scully - that was an accident. 

Sure it was.

Her hair is over her face, so I can't see what her expression is 
and I don't dare listen - she has both my guns.  Then I hear the 
sobs.  She pulls herself into an impossible tiny ball and just 
sobs.  I wait for her to stop, but she doesn't - just when I 
think she's about to dry up, the tap turns back on to full blast.  
This is how she cried in the bunker when her world was ending.  I 
can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her cry, but 
I never thought one of them would be because I wouldn't let her 
give me a blow job.

I will not reach out to her.  I will not reach out to her.
 
Thank God, she's finally stopping.  Now she's just sitting there, 
still hugging her knees to her chest.  Good - get up and go sleep
upstairs, Scully.  Get away from me before it's too late and I'll 
be gone in the morning.

"I know what PTSD is, Mulder.  And I know what survivor's guilt
is.  Why won't you let me help you?  What are you so afraid of?"

She deserves an answer.   It takes me a while to get the words 
out; my lips feel floppy:

"Scully, I know what those things are too.  I also know there's a
point when the frontal lobe can't process anymore shit and it 
just shuts down and lets the animal part of the brain take over.  
I'm there most of the time.   I can kill without feeling any 
remorse - God, Scully - I can kill and get off on it.  You don't 
know some of the things I've done, Scully."

John Boy brings her a bath towel to wipe her eyes, looking
concerned.  I'm telling him to find someplace else to be and he's
ignoring me.  Stubborn little snoop.

He's definitely mine.   

"I know the worst thing you've done, Mulder," she says, climbing
back into bed beside me, bringing John with her.  "And I still 
love you."

I don't get time to dwell on those magic words because my numb
mind reels - what does she know?  That I found her ovum before? 
Women - Diana?  Christine?  Marita?  One-night stands?  Whores? 
How selfish I was that night in the bunker?  How I helped the
Grays?  That I let her mother die?  India?  Kansas?  That I came
listening to Skinner fuck her?  That I hit Marita?  That I 
killed...  who?  Which of the hundreds?  Skinner?  She knows 
about the boy.  The two kids I killed this week.  Beating up 
Gibson.  Whoever's head she thinks was in the box.  The maybe it 
was rape and maybe it wasn't hate-fuck.  

Thank God she can't listen to me think.

"You never stopped trying to keep your promise to me.  You never
stopped trying to come for me.  And you know what, Mulder? 
Look at me, Mulder!" 

I'm looking.

"I never asked you to stop.  That makes me equally responsible 
for everything that has happened and you don't seem to hate -me- 
for that.  Do you, Mulder?  Do you realize that if it wasn't for 
me, you would have stayed safe in that bunker and lost your video 
collection playing poker for a month with Frohike?"

This is a good point.  I've never given it a second thought.  

She was worth it.

That's why I'm still leaving her.  

Tomorrow.

"I only prayed you would come.  How can I hate God for
answering my prayer or question the way he answered it?" 

Great - drag your God into this.  That's the wives obey your
husbands and the spare the rod guy - right, Scully?  

How appropriate.

"What if I hit you?  Or John? Or what if -"  

"Don't.  I'm not a martyr, Mulder - or a punching bag.  But 
you're not a wife-beater, either.  You're my best friend and I 
know you.  As a doctor, I know you'll do better here - away from 
other people and stress until you've worked through some of what 
you've seen.  As an FBI agent and - I guess - as a mom - you hurt 
either of us again and I'm kicking your ass.  I love you and I 
want you and I'll help you, but those are the terms, Mulder."

I heard what she said.

I also heard her say she loved me.  Wanted me. Wife.  Mom.
 
"Go get my jacket and look in the front left pocket."  

I must be totally stoned to say that.  Hell, I can't take it back 
now.
               
Scully does and pulls out the ring.  "Put it on," I tell her.  
"It was my grandmother's wedding ring and I always wanted my wife 
to have it."  

The platinum lace ring dusted with diamonds slides onto her left
hand, where is should have been all along.

Scully holds up her hand and examines the ring.  "It's beautiful. 
She must have been a small woman - it fits me."

"No, Scully - I had it resized.  About a decade ago."

Scully's face is soft, but I can't tell what she's thinking and I 
won't listen - that's not fair.

"I can't promise any more, Scully.  I promise that I'll never 
love another woman besides you.  That I'll never hurt you or the 
boy or let someone else hurt you.  But I can't promise I'll 
stay."
 
Scully lies down on the bed and I lay beside her, not touching 
her as I turn off the lamp.  John is already sound asleep against 
the wall behind me.

One more night.  Just one more night with her.
     
"I remember something Martin Luther King said, Mulder - that
sometimes it has to get really dark before you can see the 
stars."  Scully rolls over to look at me and continues: "We would 
both have given our lives to save the other Before without a 
second thought.  That's all you did After.  You gave up your... 
peace... in order to save me and I refuse to hate you for that.  
I love you, Mulder."
     
She said it again.  

"Scully, I have a hell of a lot of dark."

She takes my hand in hers.  "I know there are going to be times
when you have to disappear into the darkness.  But whenever you
look up and see the stars, I want you to come back for me - for 
us, just like you promised."

Just one more night, I tell myself, closing my eyes.

One more night that I can pretend I'm someone I'm not.

And then tomorrow -

Tomorrow, I'll see.

"You still don't believe in God, Mulder?" her soft voice asks me 
as she huddles closer to my chest.
  
"No."  This is an old debate.  "God is Henry Ford and Smith &
Wesson and the dark matter in the void of space.  Nothing else."   

There is no God that would allow this negative utopia to exist – 
not one I want to believe in.  I want to believe in a God that 
protects the weak and gives peace to the tormented.  One that 
saves innocent children and brings lovers together.

"Well, I do, Mulder.  And I believe He answers prayers.  It's 
just that sometimes He makes us work for our blessings so we'll
appreciate what we've got when we get it.  For better or for 
worse, and sometimes there's lots of worse, Mulder - that's the 
God I believe in."

For better or for worse, Scully.  For always wanting me.  For
keeping the faith.  For surviving.  For innocent children and 
peace for the tormented and lovers together.  For a God that 
protects the weak when I couldn't.  For appreciating our 
blessings.

Scully told me once that every decision we made in our lives 
leads up to one moment in time.  It's hard for me to accept that 
all the awful things I've seen and done have led up to me laying 
here with Scully and my son, listening to both of them breathe 
safely in the middle of a the end of the world.

But they have.  And there must be a reason for that.

"Hey, Scully?"  I'm getting sleepy again.  "Maybe."

"Maybe, what, Mulder?  Maybe there is a God or maybe you'll still
be here tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, Scully.  Maybe."
                     ***

My religion consists of the humble admiration of the illimitable
superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are 
able to perceive with our frail and feeble minds.  That deeply 
emotional conviction of the presence of a superior reasoning 
power, which is revealed in the incomprehensible universe, forms 
my idea of God.

-Albert Einstein

                     ***
End: Negative Utopia