A Broken Fox

8) Autopsy

Sitting on his couch, blatantly ignoring the mess, Mulder picks up his phone and dials an all-too-familiar number.
"What now, Mulder?"
He smiles as he hears Scully answer the phone. Why did he call? It doesn't matter. He needs to have fun.
"What now, Mulder?" he mimics, copying her irritated time. He bites his finger as he hears her sigh, holding back his urge to laugh.
"Mulder, do I need to come over and entertain you?" Scully asks.
"Ooh, Scully," he says playfully. "A little direct, don't you think?"
"Mulder, please, I'm in the middle of something important here," she says, lowering her voice slightly.
"Really? What?" Mulder asks, folding his free arm behind his head.
"I'm performing an autopsy," she says calmly.
"A dead man comes before me? That's a little harsh, don't you think?" he asks. "So what'd this guy do that made me look so bad?"
"I'm in the middle of a demonstration, Mulder," she says. "I'll call you back later."
She hangs up before he can get out another word, and he tosses the phone onto the coffee table. He takes one look at the mess in his apartment, then looks out the window. It's dark enough; he could sleep if he wanted to.
Which he does, obviously.
What else is he going to do? Work? Clean up the remnants of his tantrum?
He should probably clean that up, actually.
Or not.
He lies down on his side and closes his eyes, determined to fall asleep even if he has to lie there awake all night. But only fifteen minutes later, his phone rings. He reaches out and grabs his phone, pressing the answer button.
"Hey, Scully," he says. "What's up?"
"I'm coming down to your apartment right now, Mulder," she answers.
"You don't need to do that," he says. "I'll be fine."
"Are you sure, Mulder?" she asks. She's still worried about last night.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he replies. "Thanks."
She sighs, but this time, it's not out of irritation. "All right, Mulder. If you're sure."
"Oh, and Scully?"
"Yes, Mulder?"
"Thanks for the thought."
There's a short pause before she answers, "No problem, Mulder."
Then he hangs up, tossing the phone back onto his coffee table. No stomach-dialing tonight, no matter what happens. He's not going to suffer that humiliation again.
He closes his eyes once more and takes in a deep breath, focusing his thoughts on something, anything, other than Samantha. Other than those nine days.
Scully's irritated face. Scully's glare. Her cross necklace. Her perfect composure when she's performing an autopsy, even though he can barely keep his stomach inside of him.
Okay, maybe not that.
Anything except for the bad things.