The wind bit into his face in small icy chunks as the snow fell hard and fast against his skin. But it wasn't enough to break through the daydream he seemed to be stuck in. His mind relived over and over again the hour-long therapy session he'd just spent. For the unholy price of $90 he'd sat in a room and stared at a painting.
Bloody Guggenheim is cheaper than that, he mused bitterly. And it's got better art.
So many thoughts fighting for supremacy, battling to control him he was sick of it. The fear, anger, the hatred, even the apathy. He couldn't do it anymore and decided it would be better if he felt nothing at all.
Mulder passed slowly by the thick wooden door then did a quick turn about, grabbing the heavy handle. It slid open with more ease then he expected and he stepped into the thick smoky bar. He was surprised to see most of the tables taken at this early hour but he managed to spot one empty in the back. Ordering a double whiskey at the bar, Mulder paid for it and carried his drink over to the corner.
He dumped his coat on the other seat to ward off any unwanted visitors and hunched over the table, covering his drink like it was a national secret. The other patrons barely offered him a glance as he sullenly sipped the burning liquor, sinking deeper into himself, oblivious to his surroundings.
When his glass was empty he caught the bartender's eye and ordered another. A buxom waitress with a New Orleans drawl delivered it to his table but he didn't even acknowledge her. Dropping a fifty-dollar bill onto the table he let her take it and bring back his change.
It was only just bordering on noon and already he was most of the way through a bottle of whiskey.
His face felt hot with shame. He looked around the room expecting to see them all staring, pointing, laughing but no one even seemed to notice him. It felt good not to be noticed he realized.
Idly he unbuttoned the left cuff of his sleeve and pulled it up a bit. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking he clenched his fist and looked down at the underside of his arm. The thin scar that marred his skin was about three inches long. He rubbed his index finger along it and curled his lip in disgust at his own weakness.
The memory bounded through his drunken haze with such clarity it scared him. Ordering another drink he tried to fight it off but it was no use. It controlled his senses so much he could smell the blood. The tangy copper stench that invaded his senses and overpowered him. Suddenly the room started to move and sway around him, his eyes swirled and moved about the room and suddenly he wasn't sitting in the bar anymore.
Mulder felt the cold sea air on his skin, tasted the salty tang in his lungs and listened to the waves crashing on the rocks twenty feet below. His legs felt numb with the cold as they dangled over the cliff edge but he was gone beyond the point of caring.
Moonlight glistened off the straight blade in his hand as he angled it between his fingers absent-mindedly. Decisions were made already and only action needed to be taken now, he muttered to himself opening the blade fully and grasping the leather handle. With his left hand resting along his leg he pressed the razor to his skin, watching numbly as the small smattering of blood oozed out of his skin. He dragged the blade up his arm, not feeling the pain he expected or even the regret.
The blood was warm on his skin and quickly covered his arm, pooling in the palm of his hand and trickling through his fingers, falling to the rocks below. Suddenly awash with drowsiness Mulder looked to his other arm but his mind couldn't focus and his limbs refused to co-operate. Instead he fell back onto the wet grass behind him and sank into darkness.
Mulder opened his eyes and looked into the ample chest of his waitress. Somehow he had fallen onto the floor from the chair and fainted. He felt a pair of strong hands pulling his arms, pulling him off the ground and gruffly dropping him onto a seat. He wanted to lift his head to see who had helped him but his neck felt like rubber. The scar on his arm was red and raw where he had been scraping it, mimicking the motion over and over. He must have knocked over his drink as it was soaking his shirt, sticking it to his chest.
"I'll call you a cab buddy."
Mulder watched helplessly as two boot clad feet walked away from him. His mind seemed to be frozen, with his body caught in a drunken paralysis. Before he managed to collect himself, he was deposited into a waiting cab.
"Where to?" he heard the driver asking but his lips were unwilling to co-operate. "Hey! Buddy! Where you wanna get to?"
"Georgetown," he managed to mumble although he was sure it wasn't as clear as he hoped.
"Anything more specific?" The driver gunned the engine impatiently.
Gathering up all his strength Mulder took a breath and blurted out Scully's address. The effort overwhelmed him and he let his head slump backwards pulling him into sleep.
Scully woke up slowly and looked around the darkened room. It was just past five in the afternoon and already the evening was dull and gloomy. She noticed, disappointedly, that there was no sign of Mulder. Wherever he'd gone he hadn't returned yet. Then the blast of a car horn on the street reminded her what had woken her. Rushing to the window she looked outside to see a taxi driver standing over Mulder's fallen form.
She rushed out of the apartment and crouched over him. The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of whiskey that seemed to be stuck to his clothes, hair, breath… everything.
"Mulder?" she said checking his pulse and finding it slow but steady.
"He just passed out," the cabbie said in annoyance. "And he hasn't paid his fare yet."
"Here!" Scully thrust a few bills into his hand and tossed him an angry glare. "Help me get him inside."
She forced the driver to clutch Mulder's arms, propping him up and she led him into her apartment. The driver dropped him onto the couch and Scully handed him some more money from Mulder's wallet.
When he'd gone she got him a glass of water from the kitchen. It took a few moments but she managed to pull his coat off and out from under him. His shirt was rumpled and wet from the drink he'd spilled so she pulled that off too.
"Mulder," she gently slapped his cheeks to revive him. "C'mon Mulder. Wake up for me. Take a drink of this."
His head lolled to the side and he tried to turn away from her but she was too strong for him. His eyes scrunched closed in protest of her intrusion and his lips parted with a soft moan.
"Mulder," she said sternly this time, shaking his shoulder.
Finally he managed to battle through the drunken darkness towards the sound of her voice even though that grated on his ears, piercing his head painfully. His eyes opened to mere slits and he rolled his head over to see her sitting beside him. Her face was a mask of concern and he tried to smile but it was no use. Everything hurt. His eyes stung and watered, his mouth felt like he had eaten a clod of dirt and even his hair roots tingled painfully.
"Scully," he croaked out, his lips barely moving. "I think I'm drunk."
"Drink this." She helped him lift his head and forced him to take a few sips. "Want to go to bed for a while?"
"Not if it involves moving." His head felt like it was a sponge, expanding and moving, soggy and heavy as lead. Thoughts felt foreign to him and uncontrollable but at least they were unrecognizable to the usual terror that flashed in his mind. The engulfing bliss of his momentary ignorance was worth the pain. No images forcing themselves on him, no sounds, smells or fears could penetrate the whiskey barrier.
He slept.
For the first time since he had appeared on her doorstep on Christmas Eve, Scully saw him sleeping peacefully. He didn't wake up sweaty and screaming, he didn't toss and turn restlessly. He just slept.
Scully got to her feet and crouched over to pick up the glass from the floor. Her eyes strayed to his bare chest. The red marks on him from being lifted out of the cab, and into it, she could see now, she didn't have to imagine. She ran her finger over them gently and froze as her eyes gazed over the top of his arm.
It had been scratched red raw. His nails had cut his skin in small crimson crescents but it wasn't the scratching that pulled her heart into her throat. The thin red line beneath it was unmistakable. Knowing he was asleep but glancing at him anyway, she dropped the glass and knelt beside him. Taking his arm and turning it towards her she ran the pad of her thumb over it, feeling its uneven ridge in horror.
"Oh Mulder," she gasped. The repair work had been the best she had ever seen. No stitch marks or jagged scars remained. Her medical mind recognized the butterfly stitching that must have been used but the rest of her only saw the despair etched in those telltale scars, and their implications.
He murmured something unintelligible and tried to roll away from her, dragging his arm with him. She watched him curl protectively into the back of the couch for a moment before draping a heavy blanket over him and finally leaving him in peace.