He's freezing cold, but he hasn't got any good reason to push himself up so he can pull the blanket lying at his feet over him, or to even walk the ten steps - no, that must be more, twenty? Nah, that's too many, fifteen, maybe, although that's probably not correct either - anyway, walk to the closet in the bedroom and put on a sweater. Why keep someone warm who's superfluous? Warmth is life, and he doesn't know why he's still alive after everything that has happened to him, and everything that has happened to others because of him.
He's a failure and a danger to both them and to himself, and there's no place for him in this world anymore. Terror and conspiracies are everywhere, they're part of the news cycle. No one needs spooky old Mulder to tell them what's coming, because it's already here.
He imagines seeing himself from the outside, an unshaven, middle-aged man lying on the sofa in the wan afternoon light filtering in through the windows, still in the t-shirt he would have slept in if he could sleep at night. The house is silent, silent like a grave. As long as he doesn't move, he can pretend the oblivion he's yearning for has already claimed him. The peaceful calmness in his mind he's dreaming about seems as impossible to him as one of the Seven Wonders of the World - the constant flurry of old case information and memories and guilt would have to settle down at the bottom of his psyche, where they would be composted to become part of his soul.
Only there would be no soul anymore, and the calmness he's envisioning turns into eerie silence.
The sofa that he has buried his nose in doesn't smell like much of anything, so he drags his nails across the cover to ensure that this is the world of the living. The rustling waxes and wanes as he speeds up the movement of his hand and slows it back down. He's in control of something, but only of something small and irrelevant and not one of the things he should be in control of - cleanliness, eating, taking care of his surroundings and the woman he shares them with. But he can't move. His thoughts are disconnected from his limbs, so he watches his hand rest on the sofa, only a few inches from his nose. It doesn't seem like his.
The cold has crept up along his legs, and he can't feel his toes anymore. If he wiggled them around, he might, but it's too much effort.
Mulder, move your toes. Don't be an idiot wallowing in self-pity.
But it's so much effort.
Do. It.
The joints in his toes feel like they're giving off a soundless creaking when he wiggles them. Cool air brushes along the soles of his feet with the movement. He should really get up, put on a sweater, and start attacking this mess that his life has become.
Isn't it odd that all the stress and never-ending work and the threats to his and Scully's life didn't bring him down, but the lack of all that does? He's got nowhere to be, no one to help or save, no one to tell anything they don't already know. He could as well not exist, and in a way, he doesn't. Nobody sees him, because he doesn't leave the house anymore - what for? - And Scully has become blind to him too. He's part of the inventory now, something that's always there but never moves.
The light blue blanket hanging from the armrest is supple and warm between his toes. Pulling his knee up is a Herculean undertaking, but he grabs the corner of the soft fleece, drapes it over his back and tucks it in under his feet.
He'll be here when Scully comes home, as always.