By RocketMan
lebontrager@iname.com
 

Date: Tue, 29 Jun 1999
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is
intended.
Summary: This is going to be a series of stories in which each flower's
symbol will be explored. They'll seem to be random moments, but they'll
eventually connect and tie in to a bigger picture.
 

======
C  O  L  L  E  C  T  I  O  N
======

Part I:  Anemone -- Abandonment

====

Scully licked her lips and waited for the light to change, tapping her
foot restlessly against the mat.

She couldn't believe it.

She had thought they were past this. Past it.

Green already. Cars honked.

She cursed and peeled out of the intersection, shifting into fifth as
quickly as possible, saying a muffled prayer as she sped through the
next yellow light.

Past this, Mulder. We're past this.

His apartment had been empty too, devoid of life, no fish even.

Just gone for a weekend, and already his apartment smelled closed up and
unused. He had probably left on Friday night, possibly even after he'd
dropped her off at her own apartment.

Her now racing car had sputtered to a stop Friday morning; a small oil
leak had turned nasty, draining the engine completely. Thank goodness
she'd been using this Penzoil stuff that had cost fifty dollars extra.
It calimed to coat the inside and be able to run for days.

She grimaced to herself and shook her head.

Once she'd made it into a car repair shop at a dealer down the street,
he had promised to have the car ready in about a day. They needed to
check the engine to make sure no damage was done, plus add oil, and they
had a long waiting list already.

Mulder had driven her home Friday, promising to come back in the morning
and take her to the dealer.

He hadn't been there Saturday morning.

Scully bit the inside of her lip and did 85 on the interstate, checking
her mirror for cops and zipping around the slowpokes.

He hadn't been there Saturday and she had called and called and called,
then phoned her mother and they had driven to the dealer's together.

She remembered her mother's surprise that afternoon, and then her light
wave as they backed out and went separate ways.

That was about an hour ago.

She'd gotten lost on the way back.

She was furious.

Sighing, she admitted to more than just anger.

Desperation, maybe. And fear.

Mostly she felt betrayed, abandoned.

She shivered and careened into her exit lane, waving her hand in apology
to the old woman in a silver Miada that creeped behind her.

To her surprise, the old crone gave her the bird and tailgated her off
the ramp and into the street.

Abandoned came back to haunt her again.

It was a nasty word, abandoned. Left. Forsaken.

Dumped.

She frowned and turned the car onto her street, ignoring the vengeful
hag behind her, going past her own place to throw the woman off.

Executing a few swift turns and some not-too-smart lane changes, she was
back on her street minus the old woman.

Was that to be her somewhere down the line?

Pissed off and paranoid?

She had to admit that was probable, likely even.

Abandoned.

Scully dragged herself from the car and pulled out her cellular, hitting
the third speed dial to ring her mom.

Ironic. Her mother was third. Mulder first, the lab second, out of
neccesity. Her own mother third. Maybe she ought to change that.

After assurances that she'd made it home safely, Scully was allowed to
hang up, and only then did she recognize her figner poised over the
speed dial.

First speed dial.

Call Mulder's cell, it whispered to her.

She did and hated him for it when she received the out-of-range
operator.

Climbing the stairs to vent some of her energy, Scully thought about the
word that just wouldn't leave her alone.

Abandoned.

Like a puppy dumped on the side of a country road and left to starve or
scrounge around as a ribbed mongrel.

She sighed again and wondered how he could have left again.

Left again.

They were past this. They were so past this.

Maybe not. Guess not.

Definitely not.

She jumped as the door swung open on her floor.

A neighbor, one she had not had the time to meet, smiled politely and
stilled his mewling cat.

She smiled back, but her heart wasn't in it.

Her heart was on some country road, scrounging.

The man stopped for a minute and looked at her for a long time.

"Hey," he said, then paused, as if he had no idea what to say next.

She waited.

"Do you want a cat?"

Scully blinked.

"What?"

The man rubbed his chin and sighed. "My kid's allergic. Didn't know till
we brought it home and-"

He shrugged and handed it over to her, then retreated to the safety of
the floor again, leaving her on the stairwell with a skinny, sleek
kitten.

She gaped after her unknown neighbor, feeling indignant for herself and
for the cat.

Scully ran to catch up with him, intending to bang down his door and
thrust the cat in his arms.

She stopped in her tracks as the man sheepishly turned around in the
hallway.

"Sorry. . .I just don't want to see her put in the pound. . ."

He moved to take the kitten back, face properly ashamed.

She pulled away.

"What's her name?"

The man blinked and stared at her as if she were not really there.

"Her name?"

"The cat's name."

"Oh. Anemone. We call her Any for short."

"Any?"

"Yeah. Like *any*body want a cat?" he said, with a strangled chuckle.

She shook her head. "Why a flower?"

"Oh. Cause we found her at the apartment door, looking abandoned. That's
what an anemone is the symbol for. Abandonment. It's Victorian.
Literature."

She glanced warily to the cat, watching it's dark eyes regard her.

"Abandonment?"

"I'm an English prof down at Georgetown U. I got a bit excited. But Jess
is allergic. I didn't know."

"Is she healthy?"

"Jess? Well, yes-"

Scully shook her head impatiently. "No. Any. Is Any healthy?"

The man relaxed and leaned against the wall separating his apartment
from the hall.

"Oh, yeah. I took her to the vet. All her shots. Everything's okay."

Scully nodded and stroked the animal between the ears, trying to decide
between kitten and cat, knowing it had an old, wise look to its eyes,
but too small a bone structure to be full grown.

"Are you going to keep her?"

"I think so," she replied and turned her back on the man.

She closed her own door and leaned against the smooth wood, sighing.

The neighbor. . .she didn't even know his name.

"Any?"

The cat's eyes shifted to gaze calmly and serenely at her, as if she had
known all along that Scully could not refuse her.

Scully had a weak spot for abandoned, lost things.

She had a drawer filled with unmatched socks that pained her too much to
throw away.

She used to have a dog that had bit at her ankles and run away once
she'd gotten him all soaped up for a bath, but he'd been all alone
except for her.

She had two candles that had been placed in the Sale bin at the craft
shop, one a pukey yellow and the other a deep turquoise; they sat in her
bathroom, out of place.

She had a partner that never found the time to let her know what was
going on, but could charm her out of her moods.

And now she had a cat.

"Let's go buy you some food, Any, and forget about Mulder. He'll call."

======

Part II: White Rose -- Silence

======

He remembered being cold for a long time, so long that the hair on his
skin stopped prickling and his lips and eyelids glued shut. His breath
was sharp and slow, and everytime he tried to move, heaviness weighed
him down.

A high pitched whine filled his ears, the thrum of engines and
propellers, the rush of air across a tiny Cessna Caravan, the feel of
the wind tossing the plane back and forth.

He wondered if he would die.

Then his ears popped and his head exploded and the former blackness of
closed eyes gave way to the complete abyss of nothingness.

~~~~

The rippling, stifling heat was eventually what brought him back.

The sun screamed into his head from an angry light blue sky, and his
back was pressed hard into the sand. His fingers flexed and grabbed
handfuls of the white white beach, pricking his skin with coral and
shell fragments.

Mulder felt a tiny blind moment of panic, then opened his eyes.

He was nowhere.

Pictures burst from behind his eyes, lights with sound and color and
substance.

Scully walked slowly down the beach with her hands pressed to her
thighs, her mouth set into a frown, her eyes puckered into that
concerned set, and he wondered where he was supposed to be right then.

He pushed his body up to reach out to her, but he collapsed back into
the soft sand and ended up with a mouthful of salt water.

Mulder glanced toward the beach and saw high tide pushing its way up the
shore, high winds driving it further. A sudden water spout formed over
the ocean, and Mulder scrambled away from the edge, tunneling himself
backward.

When he glanced back to the beach for Scully, she wasn't there.

He shook his head and licked his dry, chapped lips, aching for water.

Mulder tried his legs again and found them to be pretty steady.

The beach stretched before him, and the blueness of the water was met
with a sudden stripe of green, then another of blue. He could probably
wade a good hundred yards into the ocean at low tide, without the water
even swirling above his calves.

But all this still did not tell him where he was.

Squinting in the failing light, Mulder made out the white capped waves
far off, and guessed that a reef of some kind prevented this little
piece of land from being developed by the known world, and kept him
stranded.

Mulder turned his eyes away from the deadly beauty of the sea and looked
back to the setting sun.

West was inland. That could be important.

The thick tangle of jungle and vine, the riot of greens and browns that
met his eyes was disheartening, and he wished for a little clearing to
tuck himself away in.

Catching himself, Mulder shook his head.

As long as he was wishing, he was going to wish himself right back home.

Right back to Scully.

He crept closer to the rain forest and saw bright orange flares of
flowers, pointy and spikey things that shot suddenly from green stalks.

His eyes narrowed. Bird of paradise flowers. He knew that.

Rain forest.

Somewhere in South America? Was there any other place in the world that
had rain forests?

He wasn't sure. Africa probably had some. Yes, near the Congo.

The sand gave way to thicker soil, mostly a mixture of sand and age-old
minerals and dirts that might have told him where he was. . .if he knew
anything about rocks.

He glanced back to the blue of the ocean and ruled out Africa.

Great Barrier Reef?

He tried to picture the Reef in his mind, but he'd never studied the
area much and he wasn't sure exactly what it was like.

It was summer at home, and pretty hot here too.

But he couldn't even assume the same side of the world, either. Maybe
the Great Barrier Reef was this hot in the winter.

Mulder gave a frustrated groan and shook his head.

What good would knowing do him? Nothing could be done if he had any more
information.

He was stranded. Abandoned to the silence of this place.

A sudden wind brought goose bumps to his skin and he felt the first
sting of a mosquito.

Slapping his foot in irritation, Mulder recognized that he had to first
take care of himself.

Food. Shelter. Water.

Maybe shelter first, since the sun was going down and the bugs were
probably blood thirsty and carrying all kinds of diseases. Malaria,
yellow fever, bubonic plague. . .

Mulder shivered and reached his hands into his back jeans pocket.

His Army knife was gone.

He started down the beach looking for a good sharp shell, maybe a broken
piece of conch or clam.

A pile of debris was floating back and forth along the shoreline, coming
in with each wave, then going back out again.

Mulder picked through the pile and found only rotten wood.

His toe was sliced open on a piece of sharp shell, and he dug around in
the water looking for it, letting his foot bleed into the ocean.

Each movement of his hands made puffs of silt and sand cloud the water,
and he ended up scraping his knuckles on coral and wading farther out
than he meant to.

Looking back, he was thirty feet from shore, with the waves pushing hard
against his thighs and his feet scraped and bleeding from sharp, live
coral.

Mulder began to wade back, sloshing through the mud and sand, carefully
avoiding the shells that littered the ocean floor, and stepping
gratefully onto the sea grass that cushioned his sore feet.

He dropped exhausted to the beach, his toes pointing to the sky and his
chest heaving with the heat and the water's pull.

He gripped a sharp edge of a shell in one hand, and it's very presence
gave him a kind of excitement he hadn't felt since waking.

Struggling back to his feet, he trooped along the sand to the edge of
the rain forest, peering in at the darkness already engulfing the inner
depths of the jungle. It was a frightening place, with the hiss of
insects and creatures that snaked and crawled and creeped. The huge palm
leaves hung in a curtain over one possible entrance, and he pushed them
aside to stand in the midst of underbrush and vines and all kinds of
thorny plants he'd never knew existed.

An irrational fear chilled his heart, but Mulder grabbed at one of the
dead palm leaves and yanked hard, hoping to pull it down. The shell
clutched in his hand bit deep into his skin, but he ignored the sting of
salt in his wound and dragged the palm to the ground.

In the twilight of night, Mulder managed to pull a few dead palm
branches to the beach and prop them against a lone palm tree.

He went back into the darker void of the forest, hacking ineptly at
vines that twisted deep into the ground and tight around tree trunks,
managing to produce a length of the thick weed.

Mulder fumbled in the dark, then emerged on the beach again, finding the
light of the moon like a glowing school of plankton in a dark sea of
sky. It lit the sand and reflected bright into his eyes.

He wrapped the vine once around the palm trunk and then tied the ends of
the palm branches together, making a sort of lean-to that leaned more
than sheltered.

But he was exhausted and the sounds of the little beach had come alive
with creatures and things, and Mulder was too afraid to leave the little
nest he'd created.

His little sagging hut cramped his long legs and caused an odd crick in
his neck, but he curled up and closed his eyes.

He swatted at a pain in his foot, then a sharper bite into his ankle.
Mulder slapped at his exposed skin, but he didn't manage to kill any of
the bugs biting him.

They hurt too, like gnawing through his skin, some kind of leech
sucking. . .

Shivering, Mulder jerked up, rubbing his hands along his legs and arms
and head, checking over every part of his body.

No leech. No strange bugs.

He put one hand to the sand and closed his eyes to the dark.

There had to be control. He had to keep himself under control or he
wasn't going to make it off this beach alive.

Tomorrow he'd think about building a better shelter, finding water, and
food, then maybe figure out where he was.

It would make him feel better.

Make him feel alive again, not so very lonely.

He never knew just how largely unexplored some parts of the world were.
For all he knew, he was twenty miles from civilization and in a part of
the beach that no one ever came to.

Or on an island in the Pacific next door to a tribe of cannibals.
~~~~

She was walking down the beach toward him, the sun bright along her hair
and blinding him.

Mulder shielded his eyes and waited for her, then held out his hand when
she reached him.

Her fingers squeezed his tightly and her body pressed into his and she
whispered something --

--i thought i'd never find you--

-- and then she was solid and thick and real before him and he was so
glad he had decided to wait right here for her.

Mulder woke and found his head cradled into the palm trunk, his hands
tight around its rough scaley bark, and his mouth filled with sand.

Choking and sputtering up, Mulder blinked in the bright sunlight
spilling around him.

No Scully.

Only absolute silence.

All around him was the white white white of the beach and the bright
blinding blue of the sea and the silence of a deadly jungle just a few
steps from his exhausted body.

Mulder buried his head into his sunburned hands and squeezed his fists
into his eyes to keep the tears from salting his face.

Giving a low keening growl, he curled his bare toes in the hot sand and
chewed the inside of his lip.

He was alone.

Stranded.

With only silence and a deadly beach reaching out to claim him.

======

Part III: Wisteria -- I Cling to Thee

======

The cat stalked through Mulder's apartment and Scully had the sudden
silly thought that Any could pick up her partner's scent and tell her
exactly what had happened to him.

Any turned her head back to Scully and peered disdainfully over her thin
nose, dispelling Scully's wild thoughts with that one glance.

She had been here four times now, searching for something, some kind of
clue.

More and more she had the feeling that this wasn't right. It wasn't just
Mulder ditching her, and it wasn't his impetuousness that had gotten him
missing.

There was more to his absence than a budding mystery.

That Monday had been rather uneventful, even Skinner had taken Mulder's
absence as merely an annoyance. When he came back, Mulder would be
relieved of duty for not taking proper channels for his little excursion, but the
AD didn't seem to be worried.

Scully was worried.

Usually Mulder would have called, asked her to cover for him, explained
tantalizingly little about where he was, then left her hanging.

She hadn't heard a word. No anonymous email, no two a.m. phone call, no
letter mailed to her conveniently after he was already gone.

She was furious at him and yet, she was afraid.

Scully picked her way through his apartment again, going over the desk
she'd searched millions of times already, running her hands along the
drawers, pausing again to flip through his photo album, blinking back
the tears of frustration.

"Mulder."

She said his name out of discouraged anger and niggling worry, his name
sounding foreign to her ears and tasting strange on her lips. She
couldn't quite wrap her tongue over the 'ld' in his name and the
rustiness of the speaking made her shiver with fear.

Was her voice already forgetting him?

She closed her eyes and tried to conjure a picture of him in her head
but she only found blankness and panicked, running back through his
apartment and to his bedside drawers.

Pulling the top drawer open roughly, she pawed through the junk until
her fingers snagged on the picture frame.

She took it carefully into her hands and gazed at it for a long time,
realizing that her fingers were shaking.

She traced his features with her eyes, over and over to memeorize every
curve and angle, ignoring her own form next to him in the photo and
focusing every bit of attention on his form.

How could she have already forgotten?

She clutched the framed picture in her hands and glanced to the ceiling
for help, squeezing her eyes tight to gain control.

Any's thick fur slid across her ankles and made her jump before she
recognized the cat's presence. Sighing with relief, she sank to the
floor and gathered the cat into her arms, placing the photo on the bed
so she could look at it.

She wondered what the picture was doing lying facedown in his bedside
drawer, the frame looking old and worn. She remembered a picture of
Samantha being in this frame, so he must have changed it recently.

Changed.

Mulder had changed priorities years ago, and she had known and felt it
shockingly one night on a bridge when he had bartered his sister for her
life.

Scully sank her face into the bed as she remembered the cold clutch of
fear around her belly and the impossibilities that still refused to
unhook their claws from her mind.

If Mulder had asked her that night if she believed him, if she believed
in aliens and a huge plot by the government, she would have said yes.

Yes.

She had seen Mulder's very image standing before her, heard his voice in
her motel room, and then, strangely on the phone. She had pulled her
weapon on the imposter and ended up smashed into a glass table and then
held roughly on the wall by a face that was Mulder and then was not.

A man she would later see again, chasing after Jeremiah Smith as once
again, Mulder ditched her.

She had seen that and the image of Mulder's face morphing still had not
left her.

It was frightening to know that only moments ago she could not remember
anything of Mulder's features, but now, she could so clearly recall
every pore of the bounty hunter's craggy face.

She wiped her face free of the tears that had unknowingly fallen, and
gathered herself together, pulling the cat and the picture with her.

It was Thursday and she had asked for all of next week off, in order to
concentrate on finding Mulder, and she had to get started looking.

Anything. A clue, a not-very-likely lead, anything.

She closed her eyes and calmed her fast beating heart and stroked the cat.

Calm again, Scully thought about forensics.

She pulled out her rubber gloves, knowing that by now it was really
useless, and walked back to the front door.

She pulled a little toolbox from the floor and popped it open.

She took two packages of powdered cloths from the top tray, then a tiny
handheld Dustbuster from the bottom tray. She dusted very carefully for
fingerprints in all of the obvious places, easily picking out the
multitudes that swarmed like flies over carrion on the knobs and
shelves.

Then she wiped down the couch and coffee table with the square cloths,
and set them in a solution she had poured into a sterilized container.

They came up negative for known narcotics and she repeated the test for
other traces.

She found the first fruits of her labor when the solution turned bright
pink.

Morphine based drug.

The swatch of cloth had been wiped over the arm of the couch, meaning
Mulder had been there when he was taken.

Scully shivered.

Was she really going to believe this?

Mulder had been taken from his couch Friday night? Given some kind of
morphine to incapacitate him, then taken far away. . .

She rested her chin in her hands, perched away from the couch to not
mess up any more evidence, trying to solve this puzzle through the only
methods available to her.

Science.

Logic.

They told her that Mulder frequently left without saying, and had even
been gone for weeks at a time without calling her. Logic said she should
wait a bit until something concrete was discovered, and Science
whispered that the chances of Mulder being outright taken were very low,
almost inconsequential.

But her gut told her that this tiny speck of morphine on Mulder's couch
and his absence from her life was more than a wild goose chase.

She couldn't so easily let go of him.

Something was wrong.

The cat nudged her foot and Scully turned to it, realizing with
annoyance that she should not have allowed the animal inside until she
was finished with the forensic investigation. She'd been too distracted
to do her job right, and that wasn't going to help Mulder.

As she reached for the cat, her arm bumped the Dustbuster and she looked
at it for a long moment.

Vacuum.

She pushed the cat away and eagerly began running the handheld vac over
the carpet and wooden floors, feeling that strange excitment that came
when she was on to something.

Four hours later, two vacuum bags were filled and the results of her
tests were carefully recorded and copied, sent on Mulder's own fax
machine to the office and to Skinner, and her own things packed back
inside the tool box.

Any was twining in and out of her legs, and she stood in Mulder's
doorway, still worried about him, but feeling relieved that she was
actually doing something.

As she shut and locked the door behind her, she had an overwhelming
sense of grief wash over her like a tsunami crashing into Japan's
harbors.

She sank against his door and closed her eyes fighting the desperation
and the sorrow.

He couldn't be dead.

He just couldn't be dead.

======

Part IV:  Iris -- message of sorrow

======

He woke to a grunting at his ear, sharp and grumbling.

Jerking from a dreamless sleep and into a nightmare, Mulder glanced up
into the hairy face of a monster.

He yelled and backed away, causing the wild boar to echo with its own
screams, and Mulder found himself pushed into the palm trunk.

As the boar lumbered off, squealing and grunting, his tusks dirty brown
and raking the air, Mulder grabbed his chest and tried to control his
panic.

"A pig," he whispered. "Just a pig."

He licked his lips and leaned heavily against the palm tree, feeling the
thud of his heart under his fingertips. The air was already sticky with
heat and humidity, and the sweat trickled between his shoulder blades
and at his temples.

Stiff and hot, Mulder shucked his shirt and laid it on the sand to dry
as much as possible. He stretched to rid himself of the kinks and wished
for a knife to cut his jeans off.

Maybe a sharp rock would do.

He walked to the beach and looked around, really at a loss.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" he yelled, throwing his hands
up in disgust.

They were just going to leave him out here to die? That's it? Somehow,
when he envisioned his death, he always thought it would be dramatically
glorious, where he would charge Scully to continue on in his name and
forget him.

He never thought he'd waste away on a stupid deserted island, with only
the pigs and the toucans for company.

Toucans.

He glanced to the trees and saw the colored birds pointing their long
beaks at the ocean, eyes wide set and glancing back and forth, back and
forth.

Mulder licked his lips again and realized that he would have to find
fresh water, if he wanted to last long in this place.

He looked once again to the rain forest muscling onto the beach, and
felt a shiver go through him.

Wild boars, he could deal with.

Maybe. Those tusks looked wicked, though. . .

But what else was out there?
~~~~

He looked at the slow moving river in shock.

Somehow, he thought it would be easier than this, that everything would
fall into place like the movies.

He was supposed to find a spring that bubbled forth pure, clean water,
not this muddy hole of slow moving sewage.

Cursing the sludge frothing past like Coke and ice cream, he put his
hands on his hips and watched it in disbelief.

What was he supposed to do now?

Think, Agent Mulder.

Maybe it would go faster a ways down, if the river narrowed a bit. He
could walk downriver and see what happened.

Mulder started to head forward, then decided against it, glancing back
with apprehension.

He needed to be able to find his way back, so that he could get to his
makeshift shelter and his T-shirt.

How could he make this place stand out from all the other rain forest
trees and vines and jungle stuff? He had to mark this area so that he
could get back through the six feet of jungle to the beach he had woken
up on.

Biting his lip, Mulder stripped off his jeans and tied them to the tree
branch beside the path he had cleared earlier.

He was too hot in the sweltering humidity, and who was here to see him
in his boxers anyway?
~~~~

He found a small shallow pool where the river narrowed considerably, and
here, the water was clear and tumbling over the stones with speed and
strength.

Mulder waded out into the middle, struggling to keep his footing, and
knelt down to cup the water in his hands. He brought it to his mouth and
tried not to think about the germs and diseases wriggling around in the
brown tinted river.

He gulped eagerly, making up for the fluid lost through his sweat, and
sat in the middle of the river, head in his hands as his stomach jumped
and jolted.

A sudden surge in his belly had him up and running for the shore, where
he vomitted heavily into the underbrush and gagged on his own spit as he
heaved.

Mulder crouched on all fours for a long five minutes, swallowing to keep
his stomach settled, and breathing in shallow gasps.

When everything seemed to be balanced again, he pulled himself back to
the river and washed out his mouth. Then he drank very slowly again,
realizing that he had to have *some* liquid in him, or he was going to
dehydrate.

This time his poor stomach was too worn out to reject the river, so he
laid right there in the four inches of water, feeling the wash of the
current over his chest and arms and swirl around his ears like a muffled
version of the lullabye his mother used to sing to Samantha.

Mulder realized he was in trouble when his eyes slipped close and his
hands fell from his thighs and into the rushing water.

He just couldn't find the energy to move.

He sputtered on a wash of wave that swelled over him and into his mouth,
then managed to stand up, dragging his limbs into use with the panic of
drowning.

Pulling forward with both his arms and legs, Mulder waded back to the
shore, placing his sneakered feet back on the dry land with a sense of
relief.

Now, to make it back to his shelter.
~~~~

When Mulder collapsed at the palm tree, he was hot and thirsty again,
and he wished he had some kind of container to fill up with water. He
wasn't sure he could make it, walking miles every day for a drink, then
using up his body's reserves as he walked back.

His back hit the palm tree with a rough slap and he winced in pain,
biting his lip and jerking away from the bark of the trunk.

He craned his neck and saw only red, flaming skin, on fire to the touch
and angry with sunburn.

His stupidity dawned on him in a great wave, just as the nausea had
earlier, and he glanced out at his now dry T-shirt.

Shaking his head, he pulled it back on slowly, then laid flat on his
stomach in the sand, groaning as his flesh was scratched and flayed by
his cottom shirt.

His jeans were hanging on one of the palm branches outside, but he left
them out there, finding enough shade to keep his feet and legs from
being just as burned as his torso.

Mulder closed his eyes and began to think that maybe he really didn't
care to make it out alive after all.

Maybe he could just sleep away the rest of his time here.
~~~~

This time he woke to a fever and a full moon.

His face streamed with sweat and he gagged on the bitter taste in his
mouth, licking his lips as he squinted in the dark.

The beach was oddly luminous in the moonlight, but the rain forest
behind him was dark and foreboding. He tried not to look at it too long.

Turning his head back to the ocean, Mulder felt the soft white sand
stick to his soaked forehead, coating his skin with a layer of the
white, infinitely-crushed shells.

Dragging his body to a squatting position took all of his energy, and he
rested like that for a moment, gazing with hypnotized eyes to the ocean.

Cool water lapped the beach gently, caressing like a mother's hand, and
he could see a blur as the wave's touched the shore.

He stumbled to his feet and saw that it was Scully, sitting calmly as
the water washed over her calves and bubbled around her waist.

Mulder felt concerned that she was so deep in the water, sitting
unmoving and vulnerable to the force of the tide.

If he could get out there, then he could make her come back to his
little shelter, where she would be safe.

Mulder pushed himself forward and dragged his heavy feet through the
thick sand like a drunk pushing away from a bar, trying to see in the
haze of his fever and his sunburn.

He licked his lips and collapsed beside her, his knees pushing into the
hard wet sand and scratched roughly by unweathered conch shells.

She held out a hand to his forehead and felt the burn beneath his skin,
shaking her head at him.

"Lay down, Mulder," she said and pulled him down toward her.

At first, he didn't think it was such a good idea, laying down as the
waves washed up over them, but as soon as his head hit her lap, he felt
better, cooler, less achey.

"Sleep, Mulder."

He closed his eyes and drifted off as the gentle water lapped his
feverish body with healing salt, the sea caressing his body and shifting
the sand beneath him. He felt her hand trace the lines of his face and
settle on his collarbone, then start again at his forehead.

He had the suspicion she was checking his fever each time she drifted
back to his hairline, but he felt comforted by her maternal touch.

Mulder let his mind drift in the tides of the fever and his body float
in the embrace of his partner.
~~~~

When Mulder came to, he cast a panicked look for Scully, then realized
he had been dreaming.

Then a trickle of water reached his toes and he sat up holding his head.

The sand around him was still damp, but low tide had come and the water
had retreated about four feet. The moon was bathing him in gentle light
that seemed to echo across the sand.

Mulder felt better, cooler, and he wondered if his Scully had been a
dream or a vision.

He looked around for a long moment, then recognized what had woken him
up.

Debris had been washed onto the beach during high tide, and now, just
the very edges of the water could reach out and give the pile a push in
his direction.

Mulder looked at the various pieces of wood and broken civilization that
nudged his toes, and thought again of Scully.

He reached forward and snagged a weathered, partly broken beer bottle,
the label sticking to the edges where it had been glued on, and the
green reflecting the moon.

If he had a piece of paper, he could write down important things and
send it back over the ocean, to where it had originally come from, and
hopefully, someone would get his message in the bottle.

If.

Mulder closed his eyes and could see it all, the bottle tossed by the
wind and riding high on the waves, and then, in a fit of fantasy, he saw
Scully reach forward from the prow of a ship and snag the green bottle,
her hand clutching it like a prize. She would put two small fingers down
the neck and fish around until her nail caught on the edge of the paper,
then she would slowly extract the bottle's precious cargo.

She would read it and it would tell her exactly where he was, and she
would run to the captain and threaten to sink the whole ship unless he
turned around and came after her partner. . .

Mulder felt it coming, but couldn't stop the sob from clawing out of his
throat and into the air.

It sounded pitiful and depressing, and he stopped any more from
escaping.

He rubbed his weary, sunburned eyes, wincing at the pain of it, and lay
back down on the beach.

The water tickled his feet and the moon smiled on him, but he was not in
the mood to let nature cheer him up.

He closed his eyes and tried to dream about Scully.

Scully and rescue.

======

Part V:  Chrysanthemum -- hope

======

No longer a search for survivors, but a search for death.

She didn't want to be watching the news, but it was everywhere, and it
screamed the horror and the curse of the Kennedy family.

It seemed so small compared the hole gaping in her.

Mulder's hole.

Tragedy after tragedy assailed the world, and this one small thing was
what caused hers to crumble.

She flicked through the channels, waiting for news, waiting for that
phone call in much the same way she imagined the Kennedys waiting, with
a certain amount of hope, despite all the death forecasted at them.

Maybe John-John was all right, maybe his wife was clutching onto a
floating suitcase out there, her sister held up next to her, the plane
in the ocean below them.

Maybe Mulder had not been taken far away, maybe he was very close and
reaching out for her.

She wanted to cry but there was no liquid, no movement left inside her.

She waited.
~~~~

The ring of the phone was sharp and painful, but she grabbed it quickly,
breathless with her hello.

"We have some things for you, Agent Scully."

Her heart fluttered with that deathly emotion labeled hope and she
listened to his words as if he offered a ransom for her partner.

"The drug was morphine, 25% per part, enough to knock out a man Mulder's
size for roughly 24 hours. Enough also, I have to admit, to kill him if
he wasn't watched carefully. There's not much I can do with it, since
every hospital and pharmacy carries morhpine. The vacuum samples came up
with a bit more though."

Scully didn't dare breathe and break the tenuous connection she had with
these small clues.

"Sand."

She blinked and waited, her mind scrambling to process, process.

"Sand?"

"Yeah. We identified the components:  conch, clam, specific kinds of
coral. Its so distinctive that we're cross-typing it."

"Does the Bureau have samples of sand?"

The Bureau, the CIA, and the NSA all had a cooperative effort going with
local law enforcement: a massive computer database that catalogued every
type of evidence ever presented and allowed forensics a chance to match,
therefore probing much further into the mysteries that confronted them.

"You'd be surprised what our little identification program has in it.
Sand, different kinds of grass, light bulb filaments, animal oils. . .we
keep getting cases where strange stuff appears, something we haven't
thought of, so we add it in. We just recently added a whole program
concerning various diaper fibers."

In spite of her pressing fear for Mulder, her curiousity was intrigued.

"Diaper fibers?"

"Don't ask. Nasty stuff. Something that the boys at VCS had to deal
with."

She shuddered. He was right. She didn't want or need to know.

"Call me when you've got a match for the sand, right?"

He nodded, but she couldn't see that. "Sure thing, Agent Scully. Yours
is on a rush. Everyone knows now that Agent Mulder was taken."

She sighed as she hung up the phone.

They were taking this seriously, finally.

Skinner wasn't grumping into her phone any longer, and management had
offered her the week leave with pay and benefits.

Wherever that sand was from, that's where she was going.

Either to find Mulder, or to cofront his captors.

She would eventually get to him.

She had to believe that.
~~~~

Belize.

Strange, foreign sounding.

The place with all that bright, shell-filled sand.

That was as narrow as it got. The Belize Cayes.

She'd never even heard of it before. Never thought about his prison
being a beautiful beach with palm trees and a reef.

She had read a lot about Belize ever since Danny had called her back,
read and read and found all kinds of scary things, all kinds of
beautiful things.

Toucans and mountain cows, which most people thought were anteaters.
Spider monkeys and howler monkeys and bird of paradise. Mosquitos and
beef worm-flies, malaria and fevers and hepatitis.

Once a British Colony, had gained independence and orange groves.
Mangoes and bananas that tasted better than Florida grown.

Rain forests that were protected to the hilt and thousands of bills and
legislature to ensure that companies couldn't get ahold of one acre if
they didn't have billions of dollars to bribe the entire Parliment with.

Belize.

She shivered and called in her favors, obtaining her passport quickly,
since it had only just expired the year before. Things were moving and
she was spending the hours waiting for phone calls and planning things.

And then she had a flight on Continental to Memphis, then to Houston,
and from there, Belize City.

After that, she had a twin engine Cessna to the Ambergris Cayes, landing
in San Pedro, a resort spot and biggest tourist attraction, the one
place closest to the Cayes where kidnappers could get supplies, and
might have landed.

If. . .if they had Mulder. If that was truly the place they had gone to.

Scully stood up from her desk and packed her bag quickly, pulling on
shorts and a T-shirt, remembering what the National Web site had said
about the weather.

Hot.

Hotter.

Hottest.

Her sandals felt strange, so she changed into socks and hiking boots,
but put the sandals into her carryon bag, licking her lips nervously.

She was about to head off into the complete uknown, despite all her
research, all her knowledge about this place, she still knew nothing.

She was still unprepared.
~~~~

The plane from Houston to Belize City was presently on the runway, and
she was amazed at the difference between the Memphis Airport and the
Houston epicenter.

Houston was huge, with subway cars to take the passengers to their
terminal, each ending in a large wheel spoke, where the gates lined up
and flashed information.

Her gate was in the International section, with a gate leaving for
Tegucigalpa, then one for Mexico City, and next to that, Sao Paulo,
Brazil.

She sat in one of the hard plastic chairs and tucked the carryon beneath
her. A large group of college kids and some teenagers were clustered in
a loud group by the rows of moniters, laughing and playing card games
and drinking Cokes.

Scully watched them for awhile, counting 15 girls and 5 guys, and
wondered where they were going and why. They all had on blue T-shirts
with some kind of logo on the pocket. They looked excited and happy.

She felt out of place sitting so close to them.

When her flight was called, the group began standing up, gathering their
things and chattering to each other, calling instructions to their friends.

This group was on her plane.

Sighing, Scully gave her ticket to the lady at the counter and a section
was ripped off, leaving her with the boarding ticket and the feeling
that she was going to see a movie in the theatre.

The gate led to a battered metal staircase that led to the actual
tarmac, and she walked between the yellow lines under the watchful glare
of the ground crew. The huge plane sat before her like a pregnant snake,
thick in the middle and ungraceful seeming.

It was a 727, with the engine placement giving away its nature. The
Continental logo was scrawled along the tail and the steps leading up
were steep. She wondered why they hadn't been placed in an umbilical
that connected straight to the plane.

Too easy, she guessed.

The group was right behind her, and she sat down in her own seat to let
them shuffle pass, each of them with a bulging carryon and a smile. They
constantly teased each other, but it was all in fun, and their group was
all around Scully.

She felt trapped.

The seatbelt sign was on, and she clicked hers into place, pulling it
tight and trying to ignore the girl and guy next to her, with those blue
T-shirts and smiles.

Scully wondered briefly if she had ever been that content with life as a
teenager. She didn't think so.

She had a flash of Mulder's face before hers and shame covered her
wonderings.

Mulder was stuck somewhere, hurt and drugged, afraid.

She shook her head and watched the group leader trudge down the aisle,
ruddy cheeks flaming and blue eyes bright with more excitement than the
kids themselves had.

Scully leaned back far into her seat and closed her eyes, hoping to
block out all the talking and smiles and different world that sat around
her.

She had to get to Mulder.

======

Part VI:  Dahlia -- instability

======

He woke gasping for breath, sweat bathing him in rivers of dirt and
salt, and his muscles contracting painfully.

Mulder struggled to rise, then dry heaved on the beach until he could
control his stomach.

He crawled from his makeshift shelter as the heat of his sunburned flesh
seared into him, and grabbed his T-shirt from the palm leaf, pulling it
gingerly over his torso. The material scratched and clawed at his
sensitive skin, but he grimaced and left it on.

He knew he had sun posioning. He could feel it all over him, that hiss
of pain that accompanied every movement, and the little tremors of agony
that ran through him for no reason at all.

He needed water, needed to just bathe in the coolness of it for the rest
of the day.

Mulder glanced out at the ocean and blinked in the glare of the sun
beaming clear and bright and harsh along the waves.

If he went out there, he'd get fried all over.

No choice but to try for the river again. He could walk, so far, and he
needed the fresh water anyway.

Mulder pulled himself to his feet and gripped the tree trunk for support
before stumbling off into the depths of the rain forest.

He made sure to watch precisely where he put his feet and hands; he was
wary of snakes and other creatures. The forest floor was thick with
leafy plants that looked like posion ivy but he hoped weren't. The dead
limbs had green wet moss growing in broad clumps, and the trees were
massive, larger than the width of his hands, or small, like his pinky
finger.

A song kept running through his head, but all he could hear was the tune
of the chorus, up and down, the notes scaling through his foggy mind.

When he came to the slow moving river, it looked browner and more
disgusting than he first had thought. It looked like sewage and he
wondered if there was some kind of population of humans further upriver,
or if this was natural, with all the mud and animal wastes.

Mulder began trudging along its banks, wiping his forehead every other
minute, keeping the sweat from stinging his eyes, and wiping his nose
and chin with his T-shirt.

The song was right there, on the tip of his tongue, trying to escape his
confused mind, and his inability to remember it was grating on his
nerves.

<oh where oh where can my baby be. . .>

A tree snapped back in his face and lashed his forehead. Blood
immediately dripped from his face and he rubbed it away as best he
could.

The snatch of lyric was gone though.

His jeans were sticking to his legs like wet sackcloth, and he yanked on
the fabric, needing a breeze. The wind was kept far from the inside of
the rain forest, leaving it muggy and sticky. While the thick
conflagration kept out the wind, it also blocked the sun, so it could
have been worse.

It was still pretty bad.

He grew more and more dehydrated, and his eyesight dimmed and wavered as
he forced himself forward.

None of the song remained.

Bugs attacked him fiercely, and he swatted at all the itching and
burning places, trying not to think of all the diseases he could get
from mosquitos. There were probably just as many potential
life-threatening things in that river too.

He was feeling ready to collapse when the rushing of the water met his
ears and he found the spot.

The clear bubbling of the water was so completely different from the
slow chugging of the brown river that he almost wondered if he had not
stumbled onto a *different* river, with an entirely new channel.

This just couldn't be clean.

It looked good enough for him, panting at the riverbank and riddled with
heat and sunburn.

The sound of the water was almost in the same rhythm of the song
tantilizing his mind with a faint memory, and he hummed absently as he
stood there.

He stepped in, dismissing his wandering thoughts, and waded through the
small rocks that the water churned and frothed over. It was like walking
while someone hung on to your ankles, dragging you back and down.

Mulder got tired of trying to beat the tide and simply sat down, soaking
his jeans and the rest of him in the coolness. The sun managed to reach
in at this point, but if he stayed close enough to the shore, then the
shadows of a huge tree blocked out the worst of the heat.

He let his head lay on a rock to keep it out of the water, and his back
was soothed by the current's constant movement, the cool water bubbling
through him.

He let his eyes close, his mind drift away.

Mulder knew that even if he wanted to, he could not move.

He felt feverish again, sick to his stomach.

He'd been granted a small window of time, just enough to get to the
river.

He couldn't stop sweating.
~~~~

<Where oh where could my baby be?
The Lord took her away from me
She's gone to heaven, so I've got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave. . .
this world.>

The words exploded through his head as he came back to consciousness,
the tune clear and ringing in his mind, the chorus high and throaty, a
version sung by Pearl Jam just weeks before he'd ended up on the beach.

The Last Kiss.

It seemed so shiveringly appropriate.

Where, oh where could my baby be?

Mulder opened his eyes and watched the blue sky so still and infinite
before him, like stretched canvas that no artist had yet begun to paint.
No masterpiece in the skies yet. Simply the absolute blue and the very
tops of the trees.

His neck was sore and stiff from lying on the rock, and his body was
chilled in the water, making him shiver and his muscles jump. He
painfully rose to his feet, shaking the river from his sleep and
stripping his jeans off.

The sun couldn't burn him if he was in the shade, so he didn't feel too
concerned.

HIs back was still on fire, but it seemed soothed, and his fever didn't
rage as it had before. He felt better, clearer in the head, evidenced by
his remembering the song's words.

Mulder waded out of the river and thought about the narrow escape he'd
had that morning.

What if he hadn't been able to make it to this river? He could be on
that beach, panting and thirsting right now, without a hint of respite.

He needed to have the fresh water right beside him, and he needed to be
on the beach in case a ship went by or an airplane was searching. . .

He ignored the niggling fact that Scully had no idea where he was, and
probably would not even come looking for him, considering his history
with her.

He glanced down at his jeans, thick and wet, and wondered if he could
somehow get water back to his little shelter.

Shrugging, he tied the legs of his jeans in knots, tight and hard, and
then dipped the resulting sack into the river.

Water flowed through and around and filled it up slowly, ballooning his
pants out and making them look strange, like the body of a drowning
victim after it had been in the water awhile. . .swollen and grotesque.

He shook his head and brought his jeans out of the water, watching the
river literally pour from the wet cloth, hearing the splash of water
hitting water.

But most if it stayed. He felt thrilled.

Quickly, Mulder made his way to the bank, slogging through the muddier
parts and slipping up the bank. His jeans dripped constantly, but he
thought he might get some of it back, at least.

He tried not to think about what he would do once he got to his lean-to
of palm branches.
~~~~

"Where, oh where could my *baby* be? The Lord took her away from me. .
."

Mulder sang loudly as he trudged back to his little river, because
somehow, it had become very important that he know this song, that all
the words were there.

It was a link to his life. Strangely enough, to forget the words would
be to give up.

He lifted the jeans high to step over a fallen tree trunk, whistling the
melody, then breaking out into the chorus. He had never known all of the
words to the verses, but he struggled to remember those as well, making
it up when memory left him.

He had two cocconuts hollowed into drinking cups, and he'd fashioned a
jug from a large, dead fruit that looked like a cocconut, bt he couldn't
be sure.

This was his third trip to and from the river, and his last. He was
starting to feel the fever again, and his mind skittered along subjects
like a water spider on a lake.

Mulder saw his shelter in the heat of the day and strode forward
eagerly, his jeans leaving a trail of water from the river to the sand,
wet and dark against the white of the beach.

He let it drip into his bigger jug, filling slowly as the river water
leaked from his pant legs, and he felt good for thinking of this. The
jeans acted as a kind of filter, and he had layered the insides with
sand, to help in this process.

His water looked fairly clean, clear and drinkable. He had tasted it
already, enjoying the tang of fish it left.

Finished now, Mulder left his jeans hanging over a palm branch to dry,
then crawled beneath his shelter, feeling exhausted and heat-battled.
His fever was creeping back, and it made him unsteady.

He wasn't sure what was reality anymore, the life he used to live, or
the one he had now, with his cups of river water and his back hot and
gritty from sun and sweat.

Scully seemed far away, a different place and time.

A past life.

"The Lord took her away from me. . .she's gone to heaven so I've got to
be good. . .so I can see my baby when I leave. . .this world."

His throat was too sore to sing anymore and Mulder closed his eyes.

Where, oh where. . .

======

Part VII:  Poppy -- dreams

======

Hotel Playador was directly on the San Pedro beach, with the blue waves
trickling into its courtyard like salty bathwater. She watched the boats
ripping through the tide, carrying tourists to dive holes or snorkeling
spots.

Her room was the lefthand upstairs bungalow, with a wall unit air
conditioner that jetted cold air directly onto the bed and caused her to
shiver at night.

The kitchen area was warm and stuffy, but she kept the sliding glass
doors open to let the wind whisper across the muggy couch and butcher's
block table. A narrow staircase led to an even hotter loft, with two
cots set up and a bureau.

She wished she could enjoy it, but Mulder's poignant absence made her
jumpy and nervous, and her body ached all over.

When she slept, the cold blow of the air conditioner disappeared and she
felt the heat of the sun, and the burn of fever. She would lift her hand
to wipe the sweat from her forehead and wake up to the chill and the
blankets tangled around her knees.

There were no pictures, no images, just feelings. Heat and fever. The
exhaustion of dehydration and starvation.

The feelings stayed with her all day, as she peered out over the blue
and green water to the stillness of the sun, or when she sat down to
another maccaroni and cheese dinner.

The manager of the hotel knew people, knew pilots and divers, and Scully
had plenty of American money for them. They took her everywhere, in
single engine planes or sailboats, fishing trawlers and taxi vans. She
went around San Pedro with some Americans who worked their summers in
the tourist shops, and knew the streets inside and out.

Scully eventually met the owners of Eva's Silver Shop, a husband and
wife that also owned a helicopter. After buying fifty dollars worth of
silver, Scully had gotten their permission to send it out every day, and
she had a complimentary pair of unfinished pearl earrings.

The days were slipping past her though, and the week was ending quickly.

She wouldn't leave without him, but would she still have a job?
~~~~

Their accents sounded Jamacian in a way, and the words were rich and
fast, like sped-up  molasses on the tongue. When they talked to each
other, she liked to just listen, sit back with the wind in her hair
tangling the ends that sneaked out of her pony tail, and the shallow
blue of the sea below them.

'De bird', as Mr. Badillo, silver shop owner, liked to call the copter,
was flying low over the southern tip of the Caye, the wind high and
choppy along the sea and the controls hard to handle. Badillo's pilot
wanted to go back, but she just had this feeling that Mulder was close
by.

Bernabe Badillo made the man keep going, promising him extra money,
money that would come from Scully of course.

She had a backpack stuffed with medical supplies and vitamin
supplements, plus the sterilization tablets for water, and some clothes.
She was trying to be prepared for anything.

She could feel him.

Suddenly they turned around.

"Where are we going?!" she shouted, jerking up in the seat, yanking hard
on the harness catching her in.

"Day-nah?"

She was frustrated at his calm look and Badillo could tell.

Her name came out with the inflection on the last syllable, sounding
like a question, and the softness of it made her relax unconsciously.

"Day-nah? You understand? De. . .de wind is so hard, it blows right
across. We will be dead-uh and dat will do your Mulder no-ah good."

Scully sighed and glanced back at the island just out of their reach
now, shimmering on the horizon.

But she could feel the pull of the wind, and she remembered JFK, Jr.'s
plane and the horror of the news coverage, the speed of his spiral down.

She let them turn around, making them promise to take her early
tomorrow.

As they slipped away, she tried not to feel bereft, but the darkening
sky and the fading connection to Mulder made her want to cry.

Would they ever find him?
~~~~

"Mr. Badillo!" she said, pulling open the door.

His thick, boxer-like face was swollen and bruised, and he limped in
heavily, his wife coming in behind him anxiously.

She slid the glass doors closed and pulled the slatted curtains so that
no one could see inside. Her medical bag was on the counter next to the
sink, so she sat him down at the small kitchen table, trying to ignore
Betty's frantic babbling.

She slathered iodine onto the large slit over his eyebrow, then grabbed
a baggie and filled it with ice, pressing it to the side of his face.

"What happened, Bernabe?" she said, smoothing Betty's ruffled feathers
with a smile and a chair.

"Men come. I can't take you in de bird."

Scully stopped dead still, her hands pausing at his pulse, her mouth
hanging open.

"What?"

"Dey tell me no-ah. I can't."

"Who? Who told you that?"

"Policia says no-ah. . .dey tell me you are in big trouble. I know dat
is not true, but I cannot take you up, Day-nah."

She leaned back, shaking her head. "No. Once more, Bernabe. . . please."

"I have a friend wit' a boat, Day-nah. She will take you. Dey will nevah
know it was me, and dey nevah said I could not take you in a boat."

Mr. Badillo gave her a wicked grin that was spoiled by the huge welts
across his cheek.

"Thank you, Mr. Badillo. I'm so sorry this happened to you."

He shrugged and licked his lips gingerly. "San Pedro is not all American
tourists wit' money. Der is crime and Der is poverty. Dat will always
lead to bad tings."

She nodded and frowned, pushing her chin into her knees, her feet pulled
under her on the kitchen chair, wishing this place could be untouched.

San Pedro was a place away from time, where everything was slow and the
language was peppered with British overtones and Carribean rhythms.

She pursed her lips and was suddenly anxious to leave, even with the
darkness and the winds that seemed to howl in the night.

"When do we leave?"

"Dat is why I come, Day-nah? You need to leave now. Dey come for you
next, right?"

She didn't think they would harm her personally, just threaten the
people helping her until no one would anymore and she would have to go
home.

"Yes, we'll leave now. Thank you, Bernabe."
~~~~

The boat was small, with two long bench seats along the sides, and a
large mast and boom raising above them, marring the dark starry sky with
a slash of void where it blocked the light.

Scully felt the boat rock beneath her feet and she calmly handed over
the fifty dollars Belize to the man standing on the side of the
sailboat, his bare feet gripping the taut ropes.

Only 25 American dollars. Not bad.

The darkness was absolute; it spilled across the water like an oil
slick, making the ocean seem like liquid night, and the boat creaked in
the wind as it bobbed.

She stepped under the boom and sat down on the remarkably dry bench,
watching the two men scurry across the ropes and prow, hoisting the main
sail up the mast as quickly as possible. A woman called directions in
that quick Cajun that Scully had still not managed to understand, and
smiled a flash of white teeth in the dark.

When the boat was well on its way, and Scully could no longer see the
Badillos waving good-bye, the woman came up to her with a quick scuttle,
like a crab.

When she talked, her accent was so thick that it took Scully a while to
understand what she was saying.

"Yes, it's on the map," she said pointing to the spot they had marked
earlier that day.

At least, Scully assumed that was what the woman had asked.

The woman nodded and yanked on her thick, dark black hair, a grin on her
face.

"George!" she yelled, and pointed out to sea, then to a star that was
especially bright.

Scully had a sudden pang, knowing that if Mulder where there, he would
know if that was the North Star or not.

George smiled and the boat shifted beneath them, cutting the surface of
the night water like a stone skipped over the lake, with the wake
drifting away from them and the plankton glowing brightly.

"What's your name?" Scully asked, smiling still.

Everyone smiled in San Pedro. Smile for the Americans. Scully wondered
if they ever got sick of it.

"Like yours. Day-la."

"Dala?"

The woman nodded and her teeth flashed again, like a light house in the
darkness of the rocky shore.

There was nothing more to do but wait for the boat to make the hour long
trip south, and so Scully hoped to make friends with these people. She
would need them if the police came for them too.

"How long have you lived in San Pedro, Dala?"

The woman smiled, and she stood suddenly, grabbing a rope and winding it
around a cross piece. Scully wasn't quite sure what she was doing, but
she had to trust the woman.

"I 'ave lived 'ere for tree years."

"Three? Where else have you lived?"

"I was raised in Independence Village. I'm making money to go bock der."

"Do you have family there?"

"Some. My parents are at de church der. Der fait is what keep dem going
now."

"Their faith?" Scully said, really just trying to repeat the information
so that she was getting it right.

Dala nodded and smiled again, patting Scully on the shoulder, then
moving her thick, calloused hand to the gold cross gleaming red in the
boat's running lights.

"You 'ave a fait, too-ah?"

Scully nodded and clutched the cross in her cold fingers, the sting of
the salty wind causing tears to bleed from her eyes.

Her faith was the only thing keeping her going, too.

======

Snapdragon -- impetuous

======

Night was dark.

It was the time where he wasn't certain whether it was night *still* or
night *again* and the thought that he couldn't follow time made him
frustrated with himself.

It had to be night again, because he had spent one restless darkness
wrestling with fever, and then gone to the river in the morning to fall
asleep.

And now it was night again. Or maybe night for the third time.

Fourth time. Yes, night for the fourth time.

He was smiling as he pulled himself up this night, understanding the way
of the world now, finding his truth here in the sand sparkling before
him. There were ocean waves and sun rays and palm trees and his hand
flashing in front of his face.

Mulder blinked and saw that he was now in the sand, sprawled, and that
maybe, he had fainted to get that way.

He moved to sit up, and brushed the sand from his chest, then winced at
the pain of his sunburn.

His mind clicked back inside and he recognized the need to put his shirt
on so that there was no more burning along his skin. And get out of the
sun.

No.

The moon.

Mulder felt a dizzying wave of fear slap over him as he realized that he
was *loosing his mind* and he could do nothing about it.

And then the fear was gone and he was swimming in the shallow pools of
the ocean, touching and scraping the sand below with his chest as he
moved farther and farther out.

The moon left silver surprises along the waves and he would swim out to
one only to have it disappear before his very eyes. He splashed happily
in the water and gulped the salty concoction down his throat, laughing
and choking on the raw scratch of it.

He watched stingrays glide like planes in a sky of water, and felt their
smooth skin brush his legs. The water reached above his head now and he
could not touch the bottom even when he held his breath and tried.

It was darker now, and the water was not the blue he could see through,
but the blue of night skies and storms and thunder. It was like looking
out across one vast oil slick, but without the pretty rainbows to make
it less awful. He couldn't tell what it was brushing against him
anymore, but he told himself it was only a stingray. And those devilfish
didn't sting unless you grabbed their tails.

He reached down to pull up his sagging jeans, then decided differently
and took them off completely. They weighed him down too much and it was
night and no one could see him at night, not even with the moon
sprinkling gifts along the sea.

He slowly swam back to the beach and crawled out, looking for his palm
tree hut, then scratched his head, unsure of where he was.

His boxers dripped cold trickles onto his legs, matting his hair with
sand and water, and his feet tripped on the shells littering the beach.

When he couldn't find the palm shelter, nor his shirt, which he thought
he had left right outside, Mulder simply tossed his jeans on the nearest
tree and waded back out to the ocean.

The gentle pull of the tide felt smooth and cool to his hot hot flesh,
and he ducked beneath the waves to be surrounded by its soothing touch.

He closed his eyes, then opened them, then closed them again, trying to
keep the image of the moon fresh in his mind without spoiling the
sparkle of the waves or the dark blurs of the trees.

Mudler felt himself growing tired, weary agains the steady pull of the
water, and was about to let himself slip away with it when he
remembered.

This was wrong.

He woke violently from the haze of fever and sun poisoning, splashing
and cursing and dragging his weak body back to the shore.

*Night again* he reminded himself. For the fourth time or more.

He slogged through the thick sand, going two tiny steps when he felt
like he was taking giangantic leaps, but the grasping nature of the
beach stuck to him and kept him from moving very much.

When the beach was still in his sights and the little shelter he had
made was not there, he began to panic.

The panic overrode the depth of numbness he had descended to, and the
sudden flash of fear pulled him back up to reality.

He had swum out and back into a separate part of the island, the
whatever the hell it was. . .

Where was the river in relation to this, would he be as lucky this time
and find fresh water? Was his shelter just a bit over that rise, or was
he walking further away from it?

Mulder clamped down on the burst of panic and quelled the irrationality
of being lost again, even though where he was now wasn't that much
different.

He would make another shelter here, and he would find another river and
everything would be all right again.
~~~~

Mulder woke, with the taste of her mouth on his and the heat of her body
pressed along his, and he felt embarrased for dreaming about her.

He couldn't remember what the dream was about, only that it felt like he
was flying, and then that the water was rocking beneath them in time to
their own motion.

Mulder pushed up from the sand, hot with the new humidity of the day,
and the lack of any shade. He licked his lips and thought about water,
while he slowly trudged to the thick rain forest pushing at the beach.

It was almost exactly the same, except that it was different, with new
fresh trees growing straight up and sideways, and the sand getting
choked out by thick underbrush.

It had the same stretches of immense dark tainted by the sudden snaps of
light that managed to fight between the trees reaching for the sky.

Mulder moved forward despite the sense of hopelessness settling in his
bones. The heat sucked the energy from his muscles, and the constant
buzzing of mosquitoes and flies annoyed and frightened him.

All he could think about was malaria, and how he really really didn't
want it.

He scratched absently at one of his legs, noting the knot there, the
swollen mass of his thigh. It had begun to grow puffy about two days
ago, but he wasn't sure, since it was hard to count the nights here, and
the days blurred by in sleep and heat.

It itched with a pulsing heat, and he assumed it was a mosquito bite.

"Don't scratch," he whispered to himself, sure that if Scully were
there, she'd say the same.

He choked on the thought and shook his head. Thank God Scully was not
here. Scully was out there looking for him. If she were here, they'd
have no hope of rescue.

Mulder was thinking too hard to notice where he was going, thinking
about Scully and the taste of her mouth in the dream, thinking about the
river and the taste of cold water in his mouth. When he walked through
the brush, he slid his feet along to keep from tripping over roots,
causing him to go much slower, but more carefully.

Then his foot crushed something rotten and it oozed like mud between his
toes.

He cursed and jumped back, his toes curling in disgust and his stomach
jumping as his imagination supplied graphic images of rotting corpses or
the sun-baked brains of monkeys.

Feeling sick, he wiped his foot on the tree trunk near him, watching
this thick orange-yellow paste slide from his heel to the bark.

He cautiously looked down and caught a whiff of citrus and ripeness.

A banana.

Sort of smashed and shaped funny, but a banana.

Mulder's stomach growled and twisted fiercely at the sight, and he tried
to remember the last time he'd eaten.

A mango the other night. Or maybe two nights ago. He'd been filling his
belly with water and falling asleep in the fever.

Bananas sounded good.

He glanced up, looking for the thick waxy leaves of the banana tree,
licking his lips in the heat of the sun, wiping his sweat off on his
forearm.

He scratched experimentally at his back, and hissed in pain at the burn,
praying it was not being burned again. Then his eyes found the tree and
the small bananas growing in clumps underneath the huge leaves.

They looked strange, like squash almost, with more of a reddish yellow
tint than the yellow and brown of the ripe ones at home.

But who cared? Food.

He yanked his body into the tree quite ungracefully, his mind supplying
him with all kinds of witty sayings for Scully if she were there.

Boyish agility had already been taken, but he thought of it anyway, and
wished he could say it again to her, climbing an exotic banana tree to
pick her a few delicate fruits.

If he imagined enough, they could be here on vacation, and his dream
could be reality, a vision of the night before, hot and sweaty because
of love and not the brutal sun.

He was climbing the tree for her and pulling down the thick soft bananas
just for her, and someone was telling him 'they're plantanes' and he
thought, what an unSpanish word for banana. Or a wannabe Spanish word.
Or a combination of Spanish and native.

He snickered at his own thoughts and put a few of the bananas in his
teeth, then climbed back down.

Mulder didn't wait for the river; he settled down beneath the tree and
ripped off the peels with his broken thumbnail, then chewed into the
bananas with a hunger he'd never felt before.

He felt weak with the taste of banana like baby food in his mouth, but
dry at times as if it weren't quite ripe. It mixed with his saliva and
turned his tongue pasty, but he didn't care, simply ate and ate and ate.

He stopped before he was full, tucking the rest of the bananas in an out
of the way spot to grab on the trip back, knowing he would be hungry
after a hike.

Feeling alive again, or at least not so half crazy, Mulder began walking
for the river, remembering that it had been running in a north-south
direction, and following the sun accordingly.

He felt new again. Better than before.

He felt like he had a chance.
~~~~

He retched once more before his stomach settled, then collapsed next to
his own vomit, panting like a dog and feeling weak.

This was wretched. He felt wretched. The bananas had all come up again,
and his stomach was tender like raw tissue. He wanted to crawl under a
tree and die.

God, he needed food!

Mulder sat up again, disgusted with his own throw-up, and moved away,
pushing on towards the river.

If he could just make it there, everything would be all right.

That's what he told himself anyway, and he kept going on the flimsy hope
that he was even on the same island or inlet he'd been on before.

His back felt like he'd been whipped and flogged, and his eyes squinted
in the sunlight. He was squinting so much it caused his head to pound
and his eyebrows to cramp. The muscles along his sockets were twitching
with the effort and he rubbed his hand hard into his forehead, screaming
with frustration.

Just let me get to the river. Just the river. Everything will be all
right if I can get to the river.
~~~~

Groaning, Mulder leaned against the tree trunk, the forest filled with
the smell of his waste. The bananas were wreaking havoc on his digestive
system; already he'd had to stop and go to the bathroom four times. He'd
thrown his boxers in the brush a while back.

Sweat poured from his pores and soaked his jeans with dirt and salt, and
his belly rioted every other step.

He glanced back the way he had come, only to find he could still hear
the ocean rocking against the shore and he could even see the white blur
of the sand.

Forget the river. Find the ocean. Find the cool waves that lapped across
the skin like Scully's soft hands.

Scully.

God please, I want Scully.

======

Part 9:  Magnolia -- dignity

======

Scully woke when the first light of the sun stretched timid hands across
the hull of the boat, reflecting off the metal buckets and into her eyes.

She blinked and sat up, finding that Dala, her brothers George and King,
were already up and moving around. She wondered which one had stayed
awake the entire night, but could not know, for she had fallen asleep at
about three that morning.

Dala was tugging on the ropes, checking them in the obsessive-compulsive
way that fishermen with a healthy respect of the sea did. Scully watched
her and felt a strange connection with the woman.

Both of them doing a job they loved despite the dangers, despite the
stereotypes.

George pointed to one of the islets of the caye, giving her a bright smile.

She felt a sudden burst of excitement at his hope and looked over,
seeing the smudge of white and brown in the distance.

"Is that where he is?"

Dala came forward and shook her head. "We don' know. But it's where you
wanted to go-ah the oder day."

"Yesterday?" she said, still watching the dark blur of land before them.
It seemed to be getting no closer, despite how fast they were going.

"A friend of ours took tree men out der a week ago. He said one man look
sick. Maybe dat is yours?"

Scully sighed. "Maybe."

It was such a far off hope. Such a doubtful lead to follow up on. A man
that looked sick on a boat heading out to nowhere.

"Did all three men come back with your friend?"

"No-ah. Dey said he had a 'ouse der."

Well. That sounded a bit more fishy.

Scully tapped her nails on the edge of the boat, then felt her stomach
grumble in frustration.

Dala laughed. "Food now."

Scully smiled at her and followed her to the back of the boat, where she
had laid out thin slices of what looked to be bananas, and cold rice
with bread.

"What is this?" she asked, poking the fruit.

"Plantane." Dala replied, pronouncing the last syllable as she took a
large bite of her rice.

Scully knew that 'platano' was banana in Spanish, but these people spoke
a combination of Creole and English, so no telling where the word came
from.

She ate the breakfast with careful bites, testing it out to make sure it
wouldn't upset her stomach, then managed to eat all of the bread and
most of the rice.

"Don' want the plantane?" she asked.

Scully offered the fruit wordlessly, not caring for bananas in the first
place.

When she glanced back to the smudge of horizon, she saw a huge expanse
of green and beach, the island growing closer and closer. She could
almost feel Mulder on her skin again.

He was here. She was sure of it.
~~~~

When the boat could go no further, they stripped down to their underwear
and placed their clothes in tarps, then swam for the shore with the
bundles on their heads. Dala carried Scully's too, so that the agent
could use her arms to swim against the tide.

King stayed on the boat, manning the ropes and keeping it anchored to
the ocean floor.

The feel of rough coral beneath her feet was welcome, but she slashed
the soles of her feet and bled in the ocean, the cuts stinging and
painful as salt was washed through them.

They stumbled to the beach and dried off as best they could with banana
leaves that George hacked off a tree with his machete.

Scully pulled her clothes back on, feeling slightly foolish and pretty
strange, being in her underwear on a beautiful beach, looking for
Mulder.

Dala stayed behind them as Scully walked along the beach, not sure what
she was looking for, but knowing that he was there, was waiting for her.

The sun was merciless on her head and she could feel her skin burning.
She pushed her feet over the sand, walking and walking even though it
felt like she was getting nowhere.

After an hour on the beach, Dala made a clucking noise from behind her.

Scully turned and saw a tattered grey shirt in her hands, holding it up
and away.

She ran back, twisting her ankles in the sand but making it to Dala's
side to snatch the clothing from her fingers.

Mulder's shirt.

She leaned forward and took a deep breath, smelling his body odor and
sweat and cologne all mixed into a grimy stink.

It smelled beautiful.

"It's his."

"Dala!" George shouted then, and they glanced up the beach to where her
brother was squatting over a bundle of palm branches.

They ran toward him, Scully's heart thudding painfully in her chest as
they came closer.

It looked like someone had propped the branches against a tree trunk and
lashed them together with leaves or something.

But it was a mess, trashed in a rage or in blind frustration, and she
had a horrible feeling that crashed through her heart.

"Grey fox," George whispered, nudging small pawprints.

Scully blanched. Fox. They didn't know his name.

"Grey fox?"

Dala nodded. "A native of Belize. National treasure. Dey usually live
closer inland, but somet'ing attracted it 'ere."

"Mulder was here. That's his shirt; he probably made this shelter before
the fox destoryed it."

George looked skeptical, but Scully was determined.

She began walking, but Dala took her arm, frowning.

"I tink we need to take de boat around to de oder side."

"But what if Mulder comes back?" she said, feeling frantic.

"He no come bock 'ere."

Scully looked at the crumpled shelter, the dirty T-shirt found
half-buried in the sand.

Mulder had left it for some reason. He had not come back.

Had he been fleeing for his life? He was smart enough to keep his shirt
on, right? Why had they found the grey shirt on the beach, left
abandoned?

"Okay, let's go around to the other side. But he's here. I can feel it."
~~~~

They saw him immediately, a dark blot on the white beach.

She splashed to shore, forgetting her underwear and the clothes bundled
up on Dala's head, her eyes only seeing the lifeless form before her.

It looked like he had dragged himself to the edge of the water to cool
off, and as she grew closer, she could *see* the furious pounding of his
overworked heart.

He had sunstroke, she could see the symptoms everywhere. Rash along his
chest and arms, his forehead and cheeks a bright Santa Claus red, and
his lungs laboring for breath.

When she touched him, he jerked violently, and his eyes opened to see
her.

His tongue came out to lick his lips, but she stopped him with a finger.

"Don't. You'll dry out your lips," she whispered.

He blinked again and sighed. "Nice welcoming . . ."

She glanced down to her white silk bra and cotton Hanes panties, laughing.

"Well, anything for you, Mulder."

His eyes slipped shut, and she put her hands to his chest, shocked at
the heat of his fever and the sweat coating his skin like water.

"George," she called over her shoulder, and the man was immediately
beside her.

"Can you help me get him to the boat?"

He shrugged and glanced to Dala, not understanding her fast, English
words. Dala gave him further instruction in Creole, and he nodded,
smiling.

He hoisted Mulder over his shoulders, surprised when the man groaned,
and then started wading for the water. When they got deep enough, he let
Mulder float, dragging his weight behind him.

Scully swam back to the boat, then pulled her clothes back on anxiously,
looking over to Mulder.

She got her medical bag from beneath the seat and calmly began to assess
his condition, trying hard to ignore the chill over her heart and the
sense that he was not saved yet.

At one point, his fevered hand came flush against her thight, igniting
her blood and sending it boiling through her body like a brand.

His eyes moved to hers and he spoke hoarsely, but she could not hear his
words, then his lids closed again.

She prayed they were not his last words.

Last words she had never heard.

======

Part 10:  Aster -- the tiny beginnings from which all great things proceed

======

Oh, his body.

His body ached with a soul deep pain.

He could not move. Dared not open his eyes.

A voice was calling for him, urging him from the liquid pain to the
solid pain, but he was not really ready for either.

He found that his eyes were opening anyway, and had been open for awhile
now, but had seen nothing.

Scully?

"Mulder. . ." she whispered, her hand coming to his forehead like the
sharp relief of cold ice along a fever.

He couldn't speak, could only watch her lean forward, her fingers
soothing his irritated, sunburned skin, and her lips pressing a kiss to
his nose.

Her thumb brushed his lips and he managed a sigh.

"Mulder?"

He nodded. "That's. . .right," he said gruffly, the feel of sand still
in his throat.

Her lips broke wide to allow beautifully white teeth to gleam at him in
a breath taking sight of a smile.

God, he lived for that smile.

"I should be abdandoned more often," he whispered, raising a hand to
brush her waist with affection.

"No, you most definitely should not. You were malnourished, dehydrated,
and had sun poisoning, not to mention a beef worm growing in your
thigh."

Mulder coughed and groaned. "What's that? Worm?"

"It's a fly that lays eggs under your skin and they grow there."

He cocked one eye at her, frowning. "Don't make me sick."

"I'm being perfectly serious, Mulder."

"I don't want to know. . .am I okay now?"

"On the way. . .you were sunburned pretty bad, Mulder."

He nodded. "Stupid. I got hot and took my shirt off."

He watched her lips twitch in amusement, one finger stroking her leg and
the other hand playing with her fingers. She held his grip loosely,
resting their hands on his chest, her eyes looking straight into his.

"Explain something to me," he said suddenly.

She narrowed her eyes. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"Just. . .why were you in a bra. . .?"

She just looked at him funny, as if he weren't speaking English and he
had the sudden panicked feeling that he'd been dreaming again and wasn't
that stupid anyway? for her to find him only in her bra?

"Sorry, sorry. I must have dreamed again-"

"No, you weren't dreaming. We had to swim in to the beach to get to you,
so we all stripped down-"

"Wait. I wasn't dreaming?"

She frowned. "Again? You dreamed me before? In just my underwear?"

He smiled devilishly at her, and she was suddenly conscious of his hand
on her hip, his thumb playing with the button of her shorts.

"It's hot out there, Scully," he whined, giving her a frown.

"You dreamed me. . .?"

He sighed again. "Yes, I'm sure I was delusional."

She fought hard not to smile, and leaned in close to his ear,
whispering.

"Better not do that again, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know. If you come for me in nothing but a bra again, I'd
gladly be abducted."

She rolled her eyes and moved to get his doctor, effectively ending the
conversation.

His hands reached out and hooked through her belt, pulling her back to
him with a strength she didn't know he could have.

"I told you once before, Scully, but I'm gonna say it again."

Her eyes grew wide and she froze in his grip, somehow knowing what he
meant.

He opened his mouth and she darted a hand to stop him, shaking her head.

His eyes grew stormy with anger.

"No, wait," she said, biting her lip.

His hands clenched around her belt.

"Let me say it," she said and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his
lips.

"I love you, Mulder."

The taste of his surprise was like salt and sun-bleached summer, and he
hovered there on the edge of shock and uncertainty before touching her
lips with his tongue.

"I knew you'd find me," he said, drawing her body flush into the bed
with his hands around her waist.

She forgot about the doctor, and lost herself in the feeling of being
found.

Found again.

Both Mulder and herself.
~~~~

"What's that?" he said, looking horrified.

"My cat."

"I thought you were allergic or something."

She shook her head and smiled at his disgust.

Any snaked around his ankles, then jumped into his lap, causing Mulder
to jump as well.

"What's its name?"

"Anemone. Any for short. I got her from a neighbor."

"What is it with you and strays?"

"I don't know, but aren't you glad I keep them?" she said, looking
pointedly at him.

He caught the reference and pouted.

"I'm no stray."

"No, you're a mutt, but I love you anyway."

The offhand remark made his breath falter and he looked hard into her
eyes, seeing only acceptance and amusement.

Her hand propped her head up on the back of the couch, and she was
turned to face him, her legs tucked under her body. She reached out with
one hand and petted Any calmly, carefully avoiding his eyes.

Mulder glanced back to the cat.

"Is she going to sleep on me all night?" he said.

He looked up in time to see her eyes burn right through him and he had
the sudden feeling she wasn't thinking about the cat.

"If you want her to."

His words stuck in his throat, and he tried to scream 'yes, please!' but
nothing came out.

She leaned in close to him and kissed his sunburned nose.

"I leave you two at it, then," she whispered.

When she had made it all the way to the hallway, she heard his groan.

"You're *so* not funny," he yelled.

"Go to sleep Mulder. You need rest."

She didn't turn around.
~~~~

She woke to a moonlit midnight when the cat jumped on her bed and shook
her from sleep.

Creeping up the bed, she felt Any settle in the crook of her knees, then
burrow in the sheet for comfort.

About two seconds later, Scully jerked into complete awareness when
something larger settled at the foot of her bed.

She glanced down and saw Mulder curling up, his hand reaching out for
her on the bed, but not touching.

"Mulder. . " she whispered.

He looked up and she saw that his eyes were sleepy like a child's.

"Come up here, Mulder."

He crawled up beside her, then slumped onto the extra pillow with a sigh.

"Do you want to get under the sheets?" she whispered, reaching for his
chin in the darkness.

"Too hot," he mumbled and nosed into her forehead to press a kiss there.

She stroked his chin and curled one arm around his side as he lay there.

"'Night, Scully," he whispered.

"I'm glad you're back, Mulder," she answered, but he had already drifted
into sleep.
~~~~

end 10
end all
adios
RM