From: AHaynes33 Date: 18 Nov 1999 02:01:10 GMT Subject: NEW: SONNET: "Fortune and Men's Eyes" by Anne Haynes DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters seen and mentioned in this story. Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network do. I mean no infringement of copyright. CATEGORY: VA RATING: PG SPOILERS: "Amor Fati" and anything before is game KEYWORDS: MSR-ish, SONNET series SUMMARY: Two touchstones and a beach SONNET: "Fortune and Men's Eyes" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. --William Shakespeare, Sonnet XXIX The beach was nearly deserted, even the hardiest of Maryland natives driven indoors by the chilly breeze coming off the Atlantic. The rock-strewn sand of Assateague stretched out like an alien landscape in front of Dana Scully as she stepped out of the driver's seat of her car. The wind tossed her hair into her eyes, nearly obscuring the sight of Fox Mulder emerging from the other side of the car. She pushed her hair back and studied him through narrowed eyes, looking for signs of frailty. Under his ever-present Yankees cap, his face looked remarkably seamless and healthy for a man who'd undergone brain surgery. His eyes were a shimmery gray today, mirroring the gunmetal sea. He turned his head and pinned her with a serene gaze that made her insides twist. Tendrils of short-cropped brown hair danced along the edges of his head bandage. "This must be the place," he said. She closed the driver's door and walked around the car toward him. "Shouldn't we have found a place to stay first?" "It's off season. We'll sweet-talk somebody into finding us a place to stay in Ocean City. No problem." His placid gaze never wavered. "You know, maybe we should have talked to your doctors first--" He shushed her with one long finger against her lips. The touch was warm, spreading through her in spirals of heat. A strange sort of calm followed in the wake of the warmth. Mulder slipped his arm over her shoulder, the move casual and unthreatening. She relaxed against his side, letting him support her for once. "This is a great place, Scully--ever been here before?" "When we lived in Annapolis--I was in high school by then--we'd come down here sometimes to see the ponies. Mostly just mom and Charlie and me, but Dad would come when he was home. Bill and Missy were grown by then, doing their own thing--" She fell silent, already tired of the sound of her own voice. Saying everything but what she wanted to say. They had been through so much, processed so much over the last few days that Scully wasn't sure what side was up. Diana's funeral this morning, Mulder's sudden but implacable decision to get out of D.C. for the weekend--she hadn't had time to think in hours. All her time had been spent packing a bag and driving herself and Mulder three hours east to the Maryland shore. "Take off your shoes and let's go for a walk." Mulder slipped his arm from around her, already kicking off his running shoes. He bent and started to pull off his socks. "Mulder, it's too cold--and you're still recuperating." He shot her a look. "Do you know what kind of germs you can pick up on a beach? Step on a sandspur or--" "Shut up, Scully, and take off your shoes." He said the words kindly, but there was steel behind them. She pressed her lips together and tried one more time. "Mulder, I'm serious." Now barefooted, he rose and looked at her. "I'm not sick, Scully. I've never felt better in my life. Let me enjoy it, okay? Enjoy it with me." He held out his hand to her. She looked at the long fingers, the upturned palm, and remembered closing her fingers around that hand, squeezing it, begging him to hold on long enough for her to find a way to save him. Kicking off her sneakers and the thick wool socks warming her feet, she took his hand. The path to the beach was gently sloping, the cold sand loose and shifting beneath her bare feet, slowing their walk. Halfway there, her calves began to protest; she glanced at Mulder to see if the extra effort was taking a toll on his weakened condition. But he looked well. Content, even. He stopped a few yards from the ocean's edge and spread the thin wool blanket he'd carried down from the car, gesturing to her to sit. She took the left side of the blanket and tucked her toes under her, shivering slightly as a gust of cold wind lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. He took his seat next to her, not quite touching but close enough for her to feel a wall of warmth radiating from his body. "I've never been here during the off season," she commented, looking down the stretch of undeveloped beach. There were few visitors; stragglers spotted the beach here and there, hardy hikers dressed for the cool, damp weather. "I think the horses only hang around the beaches during the summer." "Do you remember what they looked like? From your other visits here?" Mulder leaned her way, stretching out almost across her lap to retrieve something from the sand near the edge of the blanket. "The horses?" Her voice shook a little as his shoulder brushed across her breast on his way back up. He'd fetched a slender piece of driftwood from the sand, she saw; he began to run the stick through the sand, leaving a wavery trail in its wake. "Yeah." "Well, they're--they're smaller than normal horses. Shorter-- pony size. Um--they seem a little fatter than your average horse--rounder." "Do you know why?" "Overfeeding from tourists?" she ventured. He shook his head slightly. "No--tourists are strongly warned against feeding the horses. Didn't you see the signs when we stopped at the park entrance?" She hadn't. She'd been too busy watching him for any sign of pain or illness. "The Assateague feral horses eat a high-salt diet. Sometimes they even drink salt water. So they have to drink twice as much fresh water as domestic horses. That's what makes them look so round." The lines Mulder was drawing began to form a shape. Vaguely triangular. Scully watched the tendons ripple on the back of his hand as he sketched. "That can't be good for them," she murmured. "You might think that," he conceded. "But after so many years adapting to their environment, the Assateague horses can't properly digest 'normal' food. The diet of a common domestic horse would be detrimental to the digestive system of an Assateague horse. It could even have grave effects on his overall health." Scully licked her lips, her gaze locked on the back of Mulder's hand, where she noticed a pin-prick of red caused by the I.V. needle from his hospital stay. "Moral of the story--please don't feed the horses?" Her voice came out raspy and raw. He made a soft chuffing sound. "Something like that." Beneath the efforts of his hand, the triangle in the sand was taking on details: a circle in the center, a series of etched patterns along the edges. It took a moment for the patterns to register. When they did, she pulled back slightly, staring. Mulder withdrew the makeshift stylus and looked at her. "The Assateague ponies are really pretty happy, Scully. They run, they play, they fight. They love. They mate. It's a different life--but it's a good life." The cold wind pricked her eyes, drawing tears. She blinked them away, looking down at the triangular shape Mulder had fashioned in the sand. I don't know what to believe. She'd said those words to Mulder only a couple of days ago, in the doorway of his apartment. They were still true--with the exception of Mulder. She believed in Mulder. In his goodness and integrity, in his constancy in her life. But her science and her God.... "This is the ship you saw in Africa." It wasn't a question; Mulder's voice was calm and sure. She nodded, blinking away another wave of tears. "I saw it, too." "Where?" Mulder reached out and pressed his fingertips against her forehead. "In here." For a second, panic shot through her. She'd known-- intellectually, at least--what was happening to Mulder when he fell ill. She even believed him when he'd told her what he'd sensed from Skinner's mind, the guilt and fear and shame. But fear or denial or just plain mortification had kept her from contemplating what Mulder might have seen in her own mind. "I don't remember every detail--the world was noisy and mad when you came to me in the hospital. But I heard you. And I felt you--your fears and your questions about what you'd seen." She looked down at the triangle etched in sand--lines and circles, shapes as simple and essential as building blocks. But they represented something complex and mysterious. Maybe even unknowable. Like the truth. Like the future. "There's something else about Assateague horses, Scully." She looked away from the sand sketch and met his gaze. She fished around her brain for a clever remark, something to deflect him from whatever it was he was about to tell her. But nothing came to mind. "Nobody really knows how they got here." Mulder reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertip lingering a moment on the curve of cartilage before his hand dropped to his side. "The romantic version is that they struggled ashore from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon. Most experts think they were simply brought here by settlers and allowed to roam free, with the bay and the ocean as their corral." He gave a little smile. "There are probably other stories, don't you think?" She nodded, understanding. "There always are." His smile widened. Just a bit. "But they got here somehow. Whether by accident or design--they got here. And this place wouldn't be nearly as special without them, would it?" Her eyes stung again, and this time she didn't bother to blame the wind. "No, it wouldn't." His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer. Then he gave an exaggerated shiver. "Brr--it's freezing out here, Scully. And you let me come out here barefooted?" She made a face. "You said you were fine." "I just had my head cracked open, Scully--you're going to listen to a man who just had his head cracked open?" He pushed up from the blanket and towered over her, stamping his feet as if to work some sensation back into the frozen appendages. He tucked his hands beneath his arms to warm them. "What kind of doctor are you?" She stood as well. "A pathologist." She grabbed up the sand-crusted blanket and gave it a shake in his direction, grinning at his howl of indignation. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she started running toward the car. Beneath her running feet, the sand shifted and churned. The salt-sweet tang of sea air filled her pumping lungs. Cold wind scraped her cheeks and sent her short hair flying out, mane-like, behind her. She felt lighter, somehow, than when she'd arrived in this place. More alive. Mulder was behind her, jogging just hard enough to keep up. She slowed, not wanting him to over-do, about to turn and call out an admonition when she saw them: a small band of horses moving along at a slow trot about two hundred yards away from the beach road. Mulder jogged up beside her. "Run out of gas?" She shushed him, pointing at the horses. They kept moving, sparing the two humans only a brief glance. Places to go. People to see. Lives to live. Mulder's hand slid over the small of her back, coming to rest in a spot that she sometimes thought belonged to him alone. "Beautiful," he murmured. She nodded, watching in silence until the horses disappeared from sight. The End Anne Haynes My XF Fanfic is stored at http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm