There's a path of least resistance, and there's closing your eyes and throwing yourself over the edge and hoping like mad that something(one) will catch you before you hit.

You're no good with making choices. You wouldn't know where to start.

But you've been putting it off so long ('after high school, after college, after october, after friday, after this drink, after the next') that you woke up one morning and you were twenty five years old and you didn't really know whose shirt you were wearing, and you didn't really know what you'd taken or where you'd been last night, and you didn't really know, but you had sort of a good idea, why Mark Mulder was in your bed, propped up on one elbow, looking at you like he was willing your heart to beat. You were flushed and sweating, and you had that really fucked up feeling like maybe you'd only been asleep for an hour and you were still in the middle of it, still stupid-tongued and all animal instinct, and god, you just wanted to sleep it off and wake up and feel better than this. And why the fuck was Mulder looking at you like you might turn to smoke and disappear?

"Bring me some fucking coffee or fucking go the fuck away," you ground out, trying to talk without letting your tongue rest anywhere because your mouth tasted like something scraped off the bottom of a toilet seat. The sharp click at the end of 'fuck' hurt your throat, but you couldn't stop saying it because the 'fff' felt so good, teeth digging hard into your lower lip, reopening a split that you can't remember acquiring. Everything before five minutes ago is a static hiss. Maybe if someone said to you, 'hey, i saw you at such-and-such last night, you were with so-and-so, it looked like a wild time' then you'd remember something about the last 12 hours; but then again, maybe you'd just be faking it, because you want so bad to be the kind of person who goes out and has fun and remembers what the fuck they did the next day.

Mulder's still staring at you. It's getting a little creepy.