Leaning back against the soft mossy rock and letting the premises of a sunrise little by little wash the darkness away, Mulder was waiting for his resolve to overpass his pain —as an effect of the leaves or the newborn day.
Still, Mulder's curse had insidiously crept in, for being alone with his own thoughts when in a state of suffering and powerlessness was never good for his mental state.
As much as he wanted to be reunited with Scully then to be wrapped in her arms and warmth and care and love, his most blue ruminations had resurfaced and hit him with all their rawness and certainties.
What was the point of being injured, seriously but not fatally, as he was right now? Why didn't he die from his hazardous fall? It would have been brutal but neat, his death having a real and discernible cause; a fatal slip in his course of life, an unpreventable accident that Scully could and would make peace with.
Mulder cautiously put spread fingers over his left temple —there was still fresh blood here— and closed his eyes, as to connect with his insidious disease.
What was the point of trying to come back to Scully and letting her heal his superficial injuries when his inner brain was dying? Why make her believe they were the luckiest in the world and would continue their blissless relationship forever? This whole case, their difficult and bizarre journey to come into Shit Valley, there must be a reason for it. His death.
Mulder let his fingers slide along his head, neck, then chest. He opened his eyes; soon, he would discern his immediate surroundings with accuracy, if not his future.
Of course, he knew he was a total dick to let her in the dark about his brain disease. But he didn't want this darkness to creep between us and taint their relationship; he wanted to live every second in her presence as if they were an heavenly eternity; he wanted to make her genuinely happy each day and night without any second thoughts —whatever the bitter costs when the truth would emerge. Of course, the road to hell, the good fucking intentions; yeah, he was well aware, but she would understand his choices. Eventually.
So, what were his options, now?
Finding her, or being found. But, then, would his resolve to hide the truth of his disease remain?
Finishing his near-deadly fall, somehow; disappearing into a hole leading to the Styx River; slowly dying by starvation or dehydration —his backpack and his bottle of water were nowhere to be seen; or, maybe, neatly putting a bullet in his head —his gun was still on his waist. This was a hell of a temptation, too.
He closed his eyes, stopping his negative invading thoughts; breathe in, breathe out.
The constant pain had weakened, becoming more bearable.
Listen.
There's water, ahead and down. I can hear the murmur of the flow. I can… smell it?
I'm thirsty. Very thirsty. I crave for water.
I crave comfort and love.
I ache for Scully.