All for the Best

Mer.: Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.
Rom.: I thought all for the best.

The worst thing about jerking off isn't that it's lonely. I mean, I'm used to that. So I'm lying here on a plywood mattress in a motel in West Fuckall, Nevada, and if I'm lucky there isn't a soul within two hundred miles who knows my name. What the hell, I've been in worse places. Recently.

My shoulder itches. I'm not going to scratch it, though. I've got better things to do with my hand. Besides, it's still not healed up right. You'd think a bunch of people with connections to outer space could get some decent penicillin to the guys who do their dirty work. Dirty, hell; damn near septic by the time I got out of there.

I mean, sex is always lonely. Boffing somebody into the mattress, it's not like we care about each other. I hate it when they grab at me, when they want me to kiss them while I'm coming. Fuck off, buddy, I'm busy here. I'm getting mine. It's not like it's any different for them, anyway; I've seen their eyes roll up in their heads. They wanted something from me, and then when they get it they don't even know I'm there. But there's something starkly clean about this: my dick, my hand. Nobody dragging on me. Fuck sixty-nine, this is the perfect circle.

At least, it would be.

I remember jerking off with--what was his name, anyway. Billy. I was ten, God. Up in the treehouse in the back yard. It's so weird to think that I had that life once, with the family and the jungle gym and, Christ help us, the dog. But I remember Billy and me, up in the treehouse with our pants around our ankles, holding hands and playing with ourselves. Me all giggling and wide-eyed. Sun slanting in through the cracks between the boards, pile of cookies we'd swiped for later. My mother could cook, I'll give her that much. There you go, Mom. Think that's enough to get you into heaven?

I guess it wasn't lonely then, even if it was basically the same thing I'm doing now. Or trying to do, anyway. Hell, I was a kid, I liked it. Liked the way he squeezed my fingers when I touched him once; liked watching our hands on matching little-boy boners. It felt good. For most of that summer, I guess, until Pop came out to call me for dinner one night and caught us. Too bad you couldn't cook, Pop. I know where using your belt like that probably got you, and I hope you're there a long, long time.

'Course, you'll have some company when they find me. I'd be there with you already if they hadn't finally gotten some decent drugs into me. I was half raving by the time they brought me in; I can't remember much of it. Just flashes, and the stench of rot from my shoulder. I suppose I should be glad they still had enough use for me to think it was worth patching me up again. Should be grateful.

Hell, I am grateful. Just not enough to do any more of their dirty work. So there's two sets of fake ID in the glovebox of a torched car on an empty lot outside San Francisco, and if I'm really, really lucky it might take them a week to track me here. And what a place for a last stand. W. C. Fields said that the only good thing about Philadelphia was that it beat being dead, but I'm not sure this dump does. I'll probably have a chance to find out, though.

Speaking of beating being dead, I'm beating something pretty dead here, looks like. Come on, come on. So to speak. Christ, you know you're terrible in bed when you can't even get yourself up.

The worst thing about jerking off isn't that if you can't get off you don't have anybody to blame but yourself. That's not the worst thing either.

The problem with being in Philadelphia, of course, is that there'd definitely be somebody within two hundred miles who knows my name. Several somebodies. Some body, too; don't think I never noticed, Mulder. Christ, the way you flash it around. But it'd be a race to see which side killed me first, I think. Of the two, I'd rather it was you; at least I'd be being offed for what I did do, instead of for what I didn't. There's a certain clarity in that. But if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon it was neither of you.

I don't know why I keep coming back to you--to him. Yeah, it was my first assignment, but let's move on from there, okay? Lot of water under that bridge. Lot of blood. But he's so damn reliable sometimes. That's the weird thing. When I have no idea what I'm going to do, no fucking idea in the world, I know what he'll do. Show him a mystery, a hidden truth, a cosmic injustice, and he's in there like Batman. Citizens are in danger!

I use that, of course. Send him those receipts. Curse him out in Russian. Pull the string and he dances, nice and pretty. So how did it happen that it was my string that got cut? How does it happen that one minute I'm his only guide and interpreter, and the next I'm screaming and sobbing while Oleg the Unwashed grinds a knee into my chest and disjoints me like a chicken? And meanwhile he's eating peanuts in some cushy airplane seat. Yes, I'd like a pair of headphones, stewardess, I'll be watching the movie. Christ.

But I do. I keep coming back. Some Boy Wonder. Bit of a clipped wing there, Robin. Asshole.

The worst thing about jerking off isn't that I have to do it all myself. Yeah, sure it's nice to have somebody else doing the work sometimes, teeth on my tits, that's pretty hard for a guy alone. But then you've got to do something back. Suck, get fucked, whatever it is they've got you there for. And I don't like sucking cock. You taught me so much, Pop, but you never taught me to like it. Getting off alone's not a problem. If I could only do it.

I wonder if he'll find me first. If I'll still be here when he figures out the letter. Not that I've sent it yet. Not that I've written it. The email, the phone call, the telegram. Here I am, Mulder, come and get me. I haven't learned my lesson yet. And I'd rather you killed me than they did. Then you could watch my eyes roll up, Mulder, what do you say? Bet you'd like that. Only I wouldn't look away like that. I'd watch your face as you brought the gun up, watch your finger tighten and squeeze. Bet you'd be standing close to me when you did it. Real close.

The worst thing about jerking off is that I can touch Mulder any time I want to, just reach out and squeeze his fingers in mine. With my left hand.