Alive and Well and Living in Arizona
by Laura Castellano
laurita_castellano@yahoo.com

Rated PG

Spoilers: The Truth, the Pilot, Jump the Shark

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be

Archive: Sure, g'head

Feedback is always appreciated.

Summary: Mulder reminisces on a life once lived.



He stared out the window across their backyard, at the miles and miles
of nothingness, and felt a pain so sharp it nearly dropped him.  It
didn't, however; it was familiar.  He dealt with it as he'd always
done--by allowing himself a brief remembrance of the life they used to
know, then shutting a door on the memories.

There was no going back.

Life beneath the radar was difficult, troubling, and always a trial,
but it was life, at least.  Given a choice between this life and that
cold, gray time that had been his death, he would choose life any day.
 At least the sun shone here.  The only question was for how long.

The day was burned into his mind, imprinted on his brain like a stamp
marked with indelible ink--December 22, 2012.  The day it all came to
pass...the day it all came to an end.  Or at least the beginning of
the end.  He thought about the date frequently, pondered it even, but
in the end he was left with no more solutions than he'd had when he
spoke to her of hope. He did not know what he could do to fight what
would not be the future, but the cessation of their future.

He'd even tried to conjure up the ghosts of Deep Throat, X, even
Alex Krycek if possible, to ask them for help, but they only met
him with an otherworldly silence.

It was maddening, and there were days, moments, when he felt mad.

But as always, in spite of what might come to pass, the hardest thing
was the memories.

He thought of his son, whom he had never had a chance to know, and of
her mother, hidden away somewhere even her daughter did not know.  The
brief message they'd gotten from Skinner had confirmed that Maggie
would be protected, but beyond that, they knew nothing.  It was as if
all their past was disappearing.

He had a flash of a memory, a fragment really, of the two of them
standing in the rain in a graveyard, laughing, and for a moment he
wanted to cry.

He'd never realized how sweet life had been then.

She did cry, frequently, and it was something he wasn't yet able to
accept.  That this woman, who had been his rock, his strength and his
salvation for so long, had finally succumbed to the agony of the years
and begun to cry shook him to his core.  He loved her still, and could
admit to it freely now, but he was saddened at the change in her.  She
would never again be the carefree woman he had fallen in love with. He
would never be the driven man he had once been.

Those people had felt hope, the hope of which he had spoken, but in
spite of his brave words, he didn't feel it now.  All he felt was
sorrow for their losses and despair for their future.  And
helplessness, wicked, grinding helplessness. He didn't like her tears,
but he understood them.

Once more shoving aside the remnants of a life once lived and scarcely
loved, he dropped the shade over the window and turned away.  It was
time to prepare a lunch for them-- noon had arrived and so they would
eat.  It was what one did.

It wasn't the life he would have chosen, but it was a life, and surely
that was better than nothing.  He had to believe that.  Because life
didn't ask their opinion.  It just went on and on and on...


End

--
One cat just leads to another. - Ernest Hemingway