Mulder pressed the blade against the soft flesh of his forearm, feeling the pressure of the steal and the tantalizing potential for broken skin. It was the first believable sensation he'd experienced that night. The bubbling fish tank was the only noise in his apartment as he sat on the edge of the couch with his sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Not even his swimming friends seemed real.
He closed his eyes. His stomach churned when he imagined the smell of metal and blood mingling together, and the warm, red tears that trickled down his arm and pooled above his palm. He remembered how the heated stings would distract him from the pain of losing his sister, and they would remind him that it should've been him.
Mulder hadn't cut himself in over three years. He hadn't felt this empty in some time either; not since Scully joined the X Files. As a doctor and a friend, she would probably be pissed to discover this old, shameful habit. She'd be disgusted with his behavior, he thought, giving him a lecture on infections and proper coping mechanisms. Slowly, he lifted the razor from his skin, pondered it with shaking hands, then tossed it onto the table. It landed with a cold "clank" against the surface, winking in the lamplight. The only evidence on his skin was a white dent where the blade had rested.
You need a distraction.
Fox decided on the best diversion an agent could have. Fishing into the depths of his discarded trench coat, he retrieved his cell phone and dialed his partner's number before the numbness consumed his sensibilities.