Just a small drabble set after Small Potatoes. Lots of angst. I’m sick in bed with a cold. It’s raining out. This is the result. It’s been a while since I’ve written, so be kind. Tagging @today-in-fic !
He almost feels like laughing. Almost feels like scoffing at Eddie’s meager attempts at poking fun at him, at the life he lives. It’s not the first time he’s ever been called a loser– at least not in so many words.
Spooky. Obsessed. Loner. Weirdo.
These epithets he wears proudly on his skin like battle scars, each one cutting to the core of who he is, challenging him to prove them wrong, to rise above all the petty name-calling. His skin has become so thick, an armor against those who think him nothing but a joke with a badge and a gun, that he half expects Eddie’s words to bounce off him and fall flat to the ground.
Instead, they penetrate his usually infallible armor– that impregnable wall he so judiciously throws up in the face of those who aim to ridicule him, to belittle and mock him– that he scarcely has time to mount a proper defense.
He wasn’t expecting this when he decided, against his better judgement, to come here today. Not from that perverted man-child sitting across from him, behind a wall of protective glass, wearing that ridiculous ‘Superstar!’ cap.
Maybe it’s the fact that these words are coming from someone who’s lived in his shoes. Someone who, by all accounts, is the epitome of being a ‘loser,’ yet still has the audacity to throw that title back in his face.
‘Eddie Van Blundht thinks I’M the loser?’
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been almost a month since he barged in on his partner and Eddie getting a little too close for comfort, or the strain it’s put on their relationship ever since.
Whatever it is, though, a fog of uneasiness settles in the air around him. He leaves before he does or says something he’ll inevitably regret. He knows Scully is in the hallway, carefully watching their interaction through the tiny, black and white monitor.
He crosses the threshold into the hallway, but he can’t meet her eyes. He’s afraid of what he’ll find in them if he does. Pity, maybe.
They walk in uncomfortable silence, the squeak of their shoes echoing off the cold, brick walls the only sounds heard between them. The harsh smell of disinfectant and dirty mop water circulates through the stale air, and Mulder feels as though he might suffocate if he doesn’t get out of here and fast.
He fiddles anxiously with the buttons on his sleeves, before he hears Scully’s calm voice anchor him back to reality.
“I don’t imagine you need to be told this, Mulder, but you’re not a loser.” He can practically hear the amusement in her tone. She means well. She’s trying to keep things light between them.
It doesn’t work.
Instantly, a bitter response forms in his head, and he attempts to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth before he realizes it’s too late.
“Yeah, but I’m no Eddie Van Blundht, either. Am I?”
Finally, he chances a look at her. His vulnerability laid out bare for her to see. It’s the most honest thing he’s said in a month. She’s mulling his words over in her head, her brow crinkled, formulating a calculated and precise reply– like she always does– and something in him snaps.
‘She doesn’t get the luxury of responding with her well thought-out, emotionally detached answers,’ he thinks. ‘Not today.’
He picks up the pace, spotting the large, metal, double doors at the end of the hall, and he’s drawn to the light filtering through the tiny windows like a moth to flame. His partner’s stride speeds up in an attempt to match his pace as he reaches the doors, and barges through to freedom. They swing open dramatically, and slam against the brick wall with a loud bang.
