Oceans Irate

Sat Nov 23 1996
*Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris
Carter, 10-13 Productions and Fox Broadcasting Corporation.
No serious infringements intended.

Special thanks and big hugs to Pat Bates and Vanessa Len
for their encouragement. To Megan Reilly for editing and
the kick in the pants that she inadvertently gave me.

This story is for Dean and Barb, with all my heart.

*Summary: Mulder is severly injured when a drug bust takes
a deadly turn. Alone and isolated on an island, who will
save him now?

*Category: XA

T h e X - F i l e s
Oceans Irate
Part One / Two
by Char Hall
drakkar@bconnex.net

----------

Cold water rose around the rocks, splashing high and spraying
tendrils of salty liquid in every direction. The waves were
oblivious to the dark form of an unconscious man who was
lying in the sand of a tiny island, deserted by fate.
They did know, however, the joys of toying with a
conscious soul in their midst. They'd at first twirl and
toss her, before slamming their weight down on her. She
usually managed to surface, bobbing up and down, gasping for
air.
Their ancient enemy, Undercurrent, eventually took its
hold on the woman, dragging her away from their toying grip.
Undercurrent deposited the woman on the sand, taunting the
waves because they could not get a hold on the woman again.
Waves watched as the woman, almost too weak to move,
closed her blue eyes and slipped into oblivion.

----------

Unknown Location
Atlantic Ocean

The first thing the woman was aware of was the pounding of
the surf on the rocks. Further awareness was collected only
after she managed to drown out that unnerving sound. Her
sense of smell returned first, filling her nostrils with the
scent of wet sand and salt, mixing with dead plant life.
Next came her sense of touch. Her cheek was pressed against
the wet sand that she had at first smelled. Her hands were
covered in the same grainy sand. One hand had something
slimy draped over it, but she was too exhausted to care what
it was. Maybe, if she was lucky, it would move on.
The last thing she gained was her sight. She cracked
her eyes open a bit to find herself staring at her own hand,
which was lazily draped beside her head. Beyond it, she
could make out the blurry landscape of rocks and a sandy
beach. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what had
happened. So far, everything was eluding her. Time would
help with that, she decided.
Exhaustion slipped over her, pulling her back to the
comfort of unconsciousness.

----------

It was dark when she came awake again. Dark and damned cold.
Unfortunately, half of the woman's clothing was torn, her
shirt hung off her in pieces. It used to be white, but now
it seemed to be red and brown. Red from the blood of her
scrapes, significant reminders of her painful journey through
the water, and brown from caked dirt and sand. Her head
stung, a long gash running across her forehead.
She had little more energy now than she had before, but
she was sure that if she didn't move and find somewhere drier
to stay, she'd freeze to death.
If she didn't freeze to death, she'd surely drown. The
water was now lapping at her feet, attempting to suck her
back into the dark depths. She wouldn't go if she had
anything to say about it. Besides, something more important
was nagging at her. Damned if she could remember what. It
felt like the presence of another human. Almost as though a
part of her were missing.
If she could remember certain things, then why couldn't
she remember her occupation, name, or what she'd been doing
to end up in this predicament? Selective amnesia? Weird,
she thought.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, now aware that
the slimy thing was still on her hand, but realizing that it
was only a piece of seaweed uprooted from its underwater
home. Shaking her hand free, she brought her arms up and
hoisted her belly away from the sand. Her arms, weak from
her fight with the waves, buckled and she landed again. She
took a moment to breathe deeply before trying once more.
This time her arms held, allowing her to draw her knees up.
The woman wasn't sure if she could trust her legs to
hold her up, but she had to try. The cold was taking more of
a hold on, the sand acting as an insulator had helped to
conserve her body heat. Carefully, she pushed her palms into
the sand, willing her legs to lift her.
It came as a surprise to her, but she was standing--if
a little shakily. The first steps were the most trying,
allowing her legs to get used to being on land and walking
again. She staggered a few steps more, then stopped and
waited for the nausea that had suddenly crept up on her to
pass.
Scanning the beach, the woman tried to decipher where
the hell she was. It was too dark to make out much of
anything, although she did see the dark trunks of trees a
little ways in the distance. Sheltering as those trees might
be, the woman decided that she'd rather not take the chance.
Never know what's in there, she thought.
Thinking was becoming much more difficult as her body
heat level continued to drop. She wasn't sure if she'd be
able to rest at all tonight, if she didn't stop shivering.
Shivering, she knew, was a sure way to drain any of the
energy reserves she had left. Finally, the woman looked down
at the inviting sand that had been keeping her at least semi-
warm. There's a place to start, she thought as she hunkered
down again.
Now that she was further away from the shore, she
should be all right to spend the night. Digging into the
dirt with her fingers, she dug a shallow hollow in the sand.
After it was finished, she lowered herself into it and began
to cover her body with sand. Preserving her body heat was
the only way she could think of keeping herself warm. At
least until daylight when the sun heated her up and she was
able to explore. She closed her eyes, completely exhausted,
and fell into a fitful sleep.

---------

Sunlight bathed the island with a soft glow, blanketing the
chills of the night before. As the rock began to heat, he
ruffled his feathers and finally settled them. The sun would
beat down and warm his avian body.
Although he could only see shades of gray, he could not
miss the scents in the air currents. Like any scavenger, he
knew when something was almost dead--could smell it in the
air. This particular treat, however, was not dead yet.
Given another day of exposure to extreme heat from the sun,
and then sudden drop of temperature at night, it would not
last for long.
He cocked his head to the side, observing the subject
with his keen eyesight. It might be black and white, but it
could hone in on the most critical of details.
And critical this one was. He could smell the blood--
coppery and somewhat salty, much too much lost for survival.
It was definitely that of a human male. He could tell that
too.
The subject of his intense scrutiny lay on his back in
the sand. His leg was bent in an inhuman position,
indicating broken bones. Most of the man's clothing was
missing, or torn to shreds. The man was bleeding from
multiple, unidentifiable wounds.
All around, he thought, ruffling his feathers again,
the human would make a delightful change from his usual meal
of mussels and fish.
His hopes were dashed. There was another human there.
This one a female and this one would not make a good meal.
She was moving, advancing towards the man with a look of
extreme caution on her face. Her posture revealed fright as
well as exhaustion.
He bobbed his head once more, unnoticed by either of
the humans. He took wing, planning to come back later when
the elements would have finished the job on the human male.

----------

The woman dropped to her knees beside the immobile man,
unsure of whether or not he was dead. She didn't recognize
the person, but she felt compelled to help.
She regarded him carefully, before attempting to find a
pulse. She guessed him to be perhaps six feet tall. He had
a tangled mop of dark brown hair that was cut short--almost
like the standard government length.
What made you think of that? she thought. She shrugged
at the absurd thought that this man's hair had been cut to a
specific regulation length. Do they even do that anymore?
She shook her head, attempting to clear the thoughts.
Focus. She noted that his leg was broken, twisted in
such an unnatural way that it had to be in several places.
He was wearing remnants of a light blue button-down shirt and
what looked like a pair of business casual pants. Along his
back were deep scrapes and slashes and bits of skin hung
loosely.
She couldn't stand staring at him any longer. She was
well aware that a similar fate could have befallen her.
Somehow she felt like he'd been with her--where ever she had
been.
She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the light
smell of fresh blood, and reached for his neck. She was
relieved to find a weak pulse. At least she would have
something to work with. Work with? Oh, that's real inhuman.
The man is half dead and you're treating him as though he
*is* dead. Like you want to dissect him or something.
She shivered at that thought, appalled that anyone
could cut into a dead human being. She wondered where to
start. Worry about cleaning him up? Move him out of the way
of the ocean? Leave him where he is and set his leg?
After several minutes of inner turmoil, she had decided
what she was going to do. She slowly pushed herself to her
feet, still feeling pain herself. She walked toward the
forest from which she had just emerged.
She had, in fact, been exploring around the place when
she had noticed the man lying on the beach. She had feared
that he was dead, but had somehow found the resolve required
to find out for sure. If she could help, her morals told
her, she should.
She managed to find enough large leaves to make a small
bed for the man. It would have to do, considering it would
be far worse to lay him in the sand with such open wounds.
She carried armload upon armload of leaves to a sheltered
place that she'd discovered between two huge inset rocks.
She laid them out carefully, covering a large patch of sand.
With that completed, she returned to the man's side.
She checked his leg--never questioning why she knew so much
about doctoring injured people--and determined whether it
would be worse to move him, or have his wounds infected by
sand and grit getting into them.
She would have to chance it. Moving him would be
difficult, but she would have to do it. She couldn't risk
making his wounds any worse. She heaved a sigh and grabbed a
hold of his underarms, gently pulling him towards her make-
shift shelter. She tried not to look at the leg that bent
again as she tried to move him.
It was hard work, but finally she managed to pull him
up onto the leaves. She heard the cry of a gull from far
above--it was probably as hungry as she was.
Exhausted from the exertion, she collapsed beside the
man, breathing deeply of the fresh oceanic air. Her body
throbbed with pain, and she wondered how she was going to
help the man if she couldn't help herself first.
Resting her cheek against the cool sand, she allowed
the sun to play over her body. She needed to rest if she was
going to survive at all. After a little rest, she would try
to clean the man up. If he lived that long.

-----------

Three men holding guns stood before her. She was cornered,
backed against the railing of the small fishing vessel. A
man stood beside her, several feet away. He kept calling out
a name, but she couldn't quite make it out. She was scared,
aware that her life was almost at an end.
She had no more time to think. The men seemed more
interested in the other man than in her, but she knew that
she had to do something. Swallowing her fears, she prepared
to jump.
But something was wrong. The man beside her had lunged
at one of the other men. A loud shot rang out and she saw
her companion fall. She watched in fear as two of the men
moved forward and grabbed the wounded man. Horror swelled
inside her as she watched them heft the body up and over the
railing, plunging it deep into the water below.
She was not willing to wait for the same fate to befall
her. She took a deep breath and climbed up and over the
railing before they had the chance to shoot her too. She
remembered screaming a man's name as she fell, before being
consumed by the unforgiving waves.

-----------

Cold sweat covered her body when she awoke. It was a full
minute before the entire effects of the dream washed away.
She breathed deeply, fear slowly settling into a feeling of
dread.
A moan broke through the haze that covered her senses.
She concentrated on clearing that haze before she looked over
at the source of the moan.
"Mulder," she whispered, remembering the name of the
man in her dream. She had the distinct feeling that he was
the same man. Only one way to find out, she decided. She
pulled herself together and crawled closer to him. Moving
bits of his shredded shirt aside, she saw what she had
expected to see. A bullet wound through the upper part of
his left shoulder. This was the same man she had been on
that boat with.
For some strange reason, she felt a strong sense of
relief wash over her, as though that missing part of her had
been found and replaced. What kind of connection did she
have with this man? Whatever it was, she knew it ran deeper
than any normal relationship between two human beings. Even
deeper than the bond between lovers.
Shivering, she tried to push the thoughts from her
mind. She'd determined that she had some kind of connection
to this man. Now she would have to do her best to help him
to heal. If she could help it, she would not let him die.
The name "Mulder" was going to have to stick, too. She
couldn't think of anything better to call him, and she would
drive herself insane if she had to constantly refer to him as
"the man". Beside that fact, she had a reasonable suspicion
that it was actually his name. Or at least a part of his
name.
As for her own name, that still eluded her. As
frightened as she was of another vivid dream like the
previous, she understood that it might be the only way to
glean details of the incident that had found them both
stranded on this tiny island--alone and isolated.
She climbed to her feet and took a few trembling steps
away from the man. He moaned again. She looked back to see
his lips moving, but she couldn't make out the words. She
knew it was probably just delusional ramblings and that it
meant nothing. She turned her back to him and moved away,
beginning the search for anything that might aid in her
mission to clean Mulder up.

----------

She dropped the load of make-shift supplies she had gathered
beside the man. He didn't appear any better or worse than
when she had left him. He had stopped his incoherent
babbling, his mouth hanging open and a small amount of saliva
trailing down.
The woman wrinkled her nose and seated herself in the
sand next to him. She had to do this right the first time,
or she could risk making things worse.
She had found a fairly large conch shell and had filled
it with the salty ocean water. Not the best solution to use
for cleaning wounds, but it was better than nothing. She
took a piece of her torn shirt and dipped it into the water,
squeezing out the excess.
Swathing his cuts, removing the bits of shirt that were
caked to his body, and all around cleansing the man took what
seemed like forever. When she was finished, his skin
glistened in the sunlight, fresh beads of blood seeped from
some of the wounds. At least that was a sign that they would
eventually heal again. And she was thankful to have been
able to clean most of the sand away.
She used the bits of his shirt, washing them as much as
possible in the ocean water, to double as bandages. His
gunshot wound presented a serious problem, requiring pressure
to stop the bleeding. She tackled everything to the best of
her ability, leaving the more minor things untouched, except
for a bit of washing. Finally, she was left with setting the
leg--the most dreaded part of the whole ordeal. Possibly the
most essential too, she reminded herself.
It took a long time to set the leg. She used two
pieces of wood that she had found near the tree line as a
splint. She hadn't wanted to venture too far in, for fear of
leaving the man on his own.
Exhaustion was beginning to creep up on her again. Now
that she had taken care of most of his injuries, she found
that she needed to rest. After she had rested, she would see
to dealing with another problem--her own survival.
Visions of a six course meal danced in her head as she
slowly lowered her tired body to the sand again, this time
staying closer to the man, feeling the semi-companionship
that his unconscious form gave her.

----------

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
8:02 am

"Where the hell are they?" Assistant Director Walter Skinner
demanded. He was now standing in front of two seated agents,
his face red and angry. He felt like he was about to blow a
blood vessel.
"Sir, we were unable to determine their location, the
storm took our boat off course and left us in a situation,"
one agent answered.
"Left you in a situation? What about Agents Mulder and
Scully? They could very well be dead by now," Skinner said.
"I want as many men as you can spare out there combing the
islands nearest their last location. For FBI agents who are
supposed to be back-up, you guys sure as hell could take a
few lessons," Skinner said.
He was absolutely fuming. He always knew Mulder and
Scully would eventually get themselves killed, but this
definitely wasn't the way he'd been expecting it. After all,
this one hadn't even been an X-File. They'd been helping out
another department, the X-Files division having been in a
unconditional lull.
If he could help it, Skinner did not want to lose
those two agents. From the sounds of it, however, it was
much too late. He knew, all too well, that Mulder and Scully
were not as appreciated as they should be. These two idiots
in front of him only served to remind him of that fact.
"You have forty-eight hours to find them," he said. He
knew he was overdoing it, that they really didn't have a
choice. That storm had been a hell of a doozy, leaving many
casualties. It had crept up unexpectedly, scattering many
fishing boats and seriously jeopardizing the drug bust that
his two agents had been working months, undercover, to bring
down.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" the other agent
asked.
"Go ahead," Skinner barked.
"I didn't think anyone cared that much about the old
Spookster," the agent said.
That was the last straw for Skinner. He clenched his
jaw tightly, drawing himself to his full height. The ex-
marine could look menacing if need be, and that was exactly
how he looked now.
"I want that report on my desk in two hours, and when
you're done, get your ass out there and find those agents,"
Skinner said, his voice clipped, precise, and demanding.
Both agents rose, heading quickly for the door, like
two scared puppies.
"I want them alive!" Skinner called after them, making
them hurry that much more. "Son of a bitch," Skinner
mumbled, finally alone. He dropped back into his chair and
pressed his palms against his eyes. So much for having a
good week at work. If he wasn't worried about having to yell
at the X-Files agents, he was worried about having to find
them.

----------

End Part One

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
_ _
\ / For information on the XAngst Anonymous
\ / email fanfic list, please write:
X A N G S T Anonymous
/ \ & xangst@frii.com
/ \ The Myth Patrol Dean Warner--Founder and moderator
- -

**********************************************************************

From xangst@frii.com Sun Nov 24 06:42:50 1996
*Disclaimed in Part One.

T h e X - F i l e s
Oceans Irate
Part Two / Two
by Char Hall
drakkar@bconnex.net

----------

"Scul . . . must . . . Sc . . ."
The words pulled the woman out of her dreamless sleep.
The man was trying to move, his fingers digging into the sand
beneath his hands. While his eyes were partially open, he
didn't seem aware of her.
She pushed herself into a sitting position and scooted
across the sand so that she could reach out and touch him.
She put a hand on his forehead, feeling the excessive heat
there.
"Shhh," she said, pushing strands of brown hair away
from his face.
"N-No . . . pain . . . don't . . ."
Searching around, the woman was able to find her conch
shell. It was filled with a deep red-colored liquid--blood
from his wounds. Grabbing it from its seat in the sand, she
stood unsurely. She found her way back to the shore and
filled it with fresh water, rinsing the small rag she had
made.
She hurried back to his side, squeezing the remaining
water out of the rag and draping it across his forehead.
Taking a hold of his hand while she worked, the woman took
note of the current condition of his wounds. Most of the
bleeding had stopped, except the gunshot wound. She could
see that the blood had soaked through the material that
covered it.
Closing her eyes, she tried to decide what would be the
best thing to do. He had lost a lot of blood, judging by the
amount she had seen pooled in the sand before she had moved
him. She knew that much of his back had been flayed by some
unknown means, she had tried to fix those as well.
She was quickly running out of clothes to use as
bandage, afraid that if she tried to use her pants, or
blouse, that she'd get caught in the freezing night and end
up making herself sick.
"Tell . . . Dana . . . Sorry . . ." he mumbled.
"You're going to be fine," she whispered, leaning
forward to peer into his eyes. "You can tell her yourself."
His hazel orbs appeared slightly milky and almost like
a lost puppy. Pain barely registered in his eyes but she
knew it must be excruciating.
When the lids slipped over his eyes, she felt his hand
tighten around hers as though it took every ounce of strength
that he had to work his fingers. She closed her own eyes,
willing her strength to be added to his. They could only get
through this together.

----------

The night came quickly. The woman had little time to
prepare. Her thinking was seriously hindered by the painful
pangs of hunger deep in her belly. If she didn't find food
tomorrow morning, she feared that she, and the man, would not
survive much longer.
Looking overhead, the woman saw the clouds rolling in,
illuminated by the moonlight. They were dark and gray, and
scared her more than the thought of not having any food.
Huddled against the rock, she tried her best to forget
her hunger, and to ignore the dread she felt at the sight of
the menacing clouds. The darkness was not comforting, and
the warmth of the sun was slowly dying from the sand.
Refusing to cry, the woman wrapped her arms around her
knees, hugging herself tighter. Instead of thinking about it
she began to hum, drawing the tune from the back of her mind.
As she hummed, she heard the man's breathing. She
could feel that distinct feeling that they were somehow
bonded. She wished, not for the first time, that she could
remember the details about herself. A name, an occupation--
anything that would shed some light on who she was, what her
connection to the man was.
When he started to talk, babble again, she listened
carefully, hoping perhaps he would say something useful.
"C-cold . . . Scully . . . Dana . . . don't let--don't
let them . . . jump . . . jump!"
She heard him shift. The moon had been covered by the
clouds, leaving them in total darkness. She moved toward him
more, gently easing her body as close to his as she could.
His skin was like ice, and she feared hypothermia. If he
could just survive the night, she was certain she'd be able
to find some way of creating a signal--something she should
have thought of earlier. And maybe, just maybe, they could
find enough dry wood to start a fire.
"Son of a bitch . . ." he mumbled suddenly, arching
his back. The words were spoken in anger, as though he were
reliving something that was done to him. "If you hurt . . .
hurt her I'll--"
He moaned again. And then he began to cry, tears of
pain. She wished there was a way she could stop the fact
that he was reliving something in his mind--wished there was
a way she could help.
"P-please . . . let her go," he said, retreating
further into his own delusions, memories.
"It's okay," she said, taking hold of his hand again.
"It's all right, Mulder. Try to sleep." She had no way of
knowing if he could hear her, or if he was even listening.
When he suddenly stiffened, as though he'd recognized
her voice, she thought she'd gotten through.
"Dana?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
Afraid to answer, unsure of who this Dana was, she
remained silent, just holding his hand. He didn't speak
again, for which she was glad. Despite the cold that she
could feel all the way to her bones, she slowly slipped into
a state of sleep that was plagued by cruel dreams.

----------

Special Agent Michael Philips sat in the helicopter,
absolutely filled with dread. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully,
while definitely on the outside of the list of "Bureau
Favorites", had found their own form of protection. For some
reason, the assistant director wanted them found--as soon as
possible.
And Mike knew it had to be because of senatorial
pressures. Someone on the senate had taken a liking to Fox
Mulder--or on the more likely end of things, to Dana Scully--
and did not want to see the agents dead.
Not that Mike really cared either way it went. What he
cared about was his promotion. He was ASAC, looking at a
comfortable promotion to AC, if he was careful. This case,
he knew, could make him or break him.
"Sir?" The pilot's voice crackled over the microphone,
startling Philips.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice even and calm--not
showing any of the anger he felt inside.
"The wind factor is rising. This bird is going to go
down if we're not careful," the pilot said.
Philips thought for a moment. They were directly above
the last coordinates of the back-up team's boat. If he had
another couple of hours, at least one of the four helicopters
might be able to find them. There were a dozen islands
around. On a normal, calm day they would have found them no
problem. Of course, that was depending on if they had
actually washed up to shore. If they hadn't, it might take
the better part of a week. "How much time do we have?"
"I can stay pretty low for maybe two or three hours,
sir. But if the wind gets any worse, and from the look of
those clouds it will, we'll have to turn back," the pilot
answered.
Philips nodded. Great. At least he had a bit of time
to work. "Let's do as much as we can," he said.
As Philips turned to look out his window, he heard the
pilot switch channels to communicate with the other three
choppers. He stared at the great blue waters below them,
mesmerized by their vicious rolling. Meanwhile, he tried to
ignore the way the wind lifted the helicopter, and the clouds
that had darkened the sky since late last night.
They're dead, his inner voice told him. But as he
watched the first island quickly approaching, he had hope.
He had faith that they would be alive.

----------

She wearily lifted her head. The movement caused the
pounding pain to return. Her limbs were numb and stiff,
definite effects of the chilling cold of the night. She had
been utterly surprised to have slept through the entire
night.
She clenched her jaw shut as she felt a new pang of
hunger stab through her stomach. Suddenly she jerked as she
remembered the man beside her. His hand, stone cold, was
still wrapped loosely in hers. She feared that he was dead.
Forgetting her own aches and pains, she immediately
pushed herself to sit up. Her mind reeled at the thought
that he was dead--sudden dread filling her belly and making
her want to vomit.
The woman reached immediately for his neck, but as she
did so she saw the slightest rise and fall of his chest. He
was still alive--barely.
"Oh, thank God," she whispered, turning her gaze to the
sky above.
She immediately wished she hadn't. The dark clouds
loomed overhead like their impending doom.
She heard the distant rumble of thunder. She felt her
head begin to pound again; she felt anger; she felt hungry.
All of these feelings passed through her at an alarming
rate, surprising her. The last could not be dealt with.
Instead of worrying about her hunger, she turned toward her
anger--her rage. How could someone do this? How inhuman did
you have to be to shoot a man through the chest and then drop
him into the irate oceans below?
And she realized that this wasn't the first inhuman
thing she'd ever seen in her life. She had the distinct
feeling that she had dealt with these types of horrors
before--some even more severe.
"It's a start," she whispered to herself.
Suddenly, the fingers that clutched her hand tightened
slightly. She looked down at the man. He had not moved,
except his fingers.
"Why are you still alive? How can you hang on so
damned hard, when you should be dead?" she asked. "Where do
you draw your strength from?"
She knew the answers were not forthcoming. But
somehow, asking those questions made her feel better. The
skeptical part of her had been kept at bay--the part of her
that knew that they were going to die here, together on this
tiny deserted island.
The other part of her, the most prominent part, kept
faith. And it was that faith that saw her through the next
few hours. The last few hours that she would ever spend in
that dreadful place.

----------

"There! What is that?"
Michael Philips' head snapped up as he heard the
headset he was wearing crackle to life. "What?" he asked.
He looked to his left, at the pilot, and saw that the man was
pointing to a rock on one the islands to their left.
"It's a seagull," he said, straining to see past the
pilot.
"No, that," he insisted, pointing again.
"I can't see, swing us around," Mike ordered. He felt
a seed of hope planting itself in his stomach. He hoped to
God they had found their missing agents. Bonus if they were
alive.
The helicopter slowly made a wide arc through the sky,
and when they came back around he saw it--a dark
discoloration in the sand.
"Oh my God," he Philips said. He closed his eyes for
a moment. "Notify the other teams. Tell them we've got
something and are going down to look."
"Yes, sir," the pilot said.
Mike felt a kind of relief. Now all he had to do was
pray that they would be alive.
The helicopter took forever to land, the wind knocking
it side to side and making the navigation difficult. But
Mike had no fears, he was with an experienced pilot. The
pilot did a damned good job of getting them down. They
landed nearly five feet away from the discolored sand.
Mike quickly leapt from the huge mechanical bird, the
dying rounds of the rotors whipping his hair in every
direction, in addition to the wind. He scrambled to the
questionable area of sand, immediately getting down on his
knees to inspect it.
"What is it?" the pilot asked, coming up beside Mike,
carrying the medical kit.
Mike picked up a clump of sand, crumbling it between
his fingers. It was definitely a crimson colour--probably
blood.
"If I'm right, someone lost a hell of a lot of blood,"
Mike said, feeling his hopes dash again. "I'm going to go
have a look around, okay? I want you to go back to the
helicopter and tell the Med Evac team to stay alert. I have
a really bad feeling about this."
Michael Philips' gut feelings were rarely wrong.

----------

The woman heard the rumble of thunder again. It was oddly
different--lasting longer than any form of thunder she had
ever heard before. It sounded like it was getting closer, as
though it were traveling towards them. She thought that
perhaps God had sent the thunder and lightning to do away
with them, to put them out of their misery.
And to some degree, she was thankful.

----------

Philips knew a human had been lying in the sand, could tell
from the pattern that the blood had splayed out in. So,
using common logic, that meant that the person had been
moved. By whom--or by what--remained to be answered.
Mike looked carefully again. He saw that the sand had
blown in the wind, covering any possible footprints that
might have been left. That certainly made his job a little
more difficult, but he was up for a challenge. He'd always
enjoyed a little bit of good sleuthing.
He drew his gun, too wary of the possibility that the
drug lords might have washed up here and that the blood stain
had been left by one of their own.
All of his senses on max, Philips wandered toward a
rock that was jutted out of the sand. It made, in his
logical opinion, a perfect shelter from the most damning of
the elements. Especially, he thought, if I were alone with
an injured person.
He actually managed to make double time, his strides
long and determined. And as he rounded the large rock he
knew he was getting close to something--he could feel it in
his bones.
Of course, he never expected it to be so easy.
He ran around the rock, eager to find whatever had set
his senses off. He was surprised at what he found around the
other side.
"Agent Scully?" he asked tentatively.
The auburn haired woman was sitting with her back
pressed to the rock, holding Mulder's hand. Tears streaked
down her cheeks as she stared down at him.
When Philips called the name, she shifted her gaze to
land on him, but her eyes did not hold any recognition of it.
Philips clenched his teeth together and walked forward. He
knelt down beside Mulder, feeling for a pulse. It was there,
just barely.
He noted the crudeness of the bandages that seemingly
held Mulder together. Tattered and worn, bits of blood-
soaked clothing had been tied to the man's body. And it
quite possibly had saved his life.
"Agent Scully," Philips said, reaching out and laying
a hand gently on her shoulder, "I'm Agent Michael Philips. I
brought help. We're going to get you out of here."
Reassuring as he hoped his words would be, she still
did not respond. She simply stared silently at him, shocked.

----------

Washington Memorial Hospital
Intensive Care Unit
Washington, DC
6:22 pm

Margaret Scully bustled her way through the double doors of
the hospital's ICU. The first orderly to see her come
through those doors knew not to mess with her. It took the
second, a burly woman, to step in Margaret's way.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
"You can start," Margaret replied tersely, "by not
calling me ma'am."
The nurse looked a little shocked, but quickly
recovered. Margaret herself wished she hadn't been so curt.
"I'm sorry. I'm looking for my daughter, Dana Scully.
When they called they said that she--" Margaret paused to
take a sharp, agonized breath "--that she has amnesia."
"Oh yes," the nurse said. "I was instructed to bring
you to her room. A man by the name of Walter Skinner is
there with her now."
Walter? Margaret nodded to the nurse, following
absently behind. She knew that Walter Skinner was her
daughter's boss, but she was surprised that he would make a
personal call. She had the horrid feeling that something
more serious might be going on.
Margaret noted, as they entered the room, that two very
nondescript guards had been posted outside her daughter's
room. She couldn't say that she felt entirely relieved, but
she had the sense that the FBI was taking care to protect her
daughter.
"Thank you," Margaret said to the nurse, as her escort
disappeared out the door again.
And there she was--her beautiful baby girl--sitting
upright in the bed, looking completely perplexed.
"Oh honey," Margaret said, walking quickly to her
daughter's side. She glanced at Skinner, giving him an
appreciative nod. He smiled slightly before standing to
leave. As he passed, he squeezed Margaret's shoulder gently,
offering emotional support in a way that he could not express
in words.
Margaret knew that he was a good man. He would see to
it that her daughter had the best medical care. Walter
Skinner would not withhold a Bureau dime until Dana Scully
was completely healed.
If she ever could be completely healed.
And that thought broke Margaret. The tears began to
slide as she imagined her daughter living through life having
to learn her identity all over again.
Dana glanced up at her. "Mom?"
The word hurt more than anything because it was not
spoken with certainty.
"Dana, honey," Margaret said, reaching up to ruffle
her daughter's hair, just as she had when Dana had been a
little girl.
And what Dana said next surprised Margaret--not only
because the words were spoken with conviction, but because
they showed her daughter's true inner strength.
"I want to remember, mom."

----------

Washington Memorial Hospital
Intensive Care Unit
Five Days Later

She took a deep breath. It felt strange to know her identity
in such a detached way. All she had to go on was what they
told her. You are Dana Scully. You work for the FBI. The
man you were stranded with is your partner, Fox Mulder.
Fox? Who on earth had a name like that? she wondered,
her thoughts trailing lazily. Only a man who had the power
to survive what he had been through could be called 'Fox'.
Dana had spent the past week in the hospital healing.
To keep her company, Margaret had brought her a bunch of
books--most of which had reportedly been her favorites from
childhood.
"Maybe," her mother had said as she put the books on
her bedside table, "they'll help you to recover."
Dana smiled warmly at the fresh memory. She had begun
to feel a sign of familiarity every time she saw her mother.
The doctors regarded it as a good sign--one that meant she
was well on her way to healing.
Those who loved her would have to help. Things such as
childhood photos, cherished items from her life were shown to
her on a daily basis. She was trying to remember--dying to
remember.
But that one little book she remembered now, as she
stood outside of the hospital room that served as a temporary
home for her 'partner', had been about old Indian tales. And
Foxes carried an unbreakable spirit for survival, according
to the old myths.
The agents posted beside his door seemed to pay no
attention to her. She knew they were familiar with her and
perhaps did not wish to create trouble. She wondered if they
were her friends, but it bothered her to think that they
wouldn't say anything to her. Maybe they weren't exactly sure
how to express their feelings.
Dana had recently learned that Mulder was in a light
coma, but that the doctors could not be sure when he'd come
out of it. Since she had finally been allowed to roam the
hospital without the ever-watchful eye of her mother, she
wanted to make use of the time to visit him. She feared that
he might not be able to pull himself out of it, even with his
spirit for survival. And that fact made her heart ache.
Pushing on the door, she was greeted by the light bars
of sunlight that trailed through his hospital room's window.
It made light of the fact that he was swimming just beyond
consciousness, unable to enjoy the warmth of it on his skin.
She was surprised at the number of tubes attached to
him. One of them was an intravenous cord, vital to Mulder's
survival. The others were probably for various monitoring
functions.
Dana smiled as she pulled a seat up beside the bed.
She reached for his hand.
"Mulder," she said quietly. "I'm not sure why I came
to see you . . . I--I don't have any memories of what we have
shared, but I guess . . . I guess being at your side to see
if I can pull you through this would be just enough." She
paused, looking across his bed and out the window. There
were a lot of things she'd really like to know about her
relationship with this man--about her job. About
herself. But the answers weren't there. They were just
beyond the surface, waiting for her to reach in and bring
them home.
"A doctor," she started again, the words burning to be
told. "Can you believe it, Mulder? All the while I was
worried about how to save your ass and it was all right
there. I had it at my fingertips." She sighed. "If only I
had remembered. You wouldn't be in a coma right now."
"It is because of you that he is alive, Agent Scully."
His voice startled her, making her turn abruptly around to
see who had spoken.
Nearly bald, the thick-chested assistant director
reminded her of the kind of man who should be at home with
his family instead of hovering around a hospital, caring for
the well-being of his agents.
"I'm sorry," he said, taking a few steps towards her.
"I didn't mean to startle you."
Scully nodded. "It's all right . . ."
Her pause made Skinner smile.
"You'll have to forgive me, I'm not exactly sure how I
should be addressing you . . ." she said. A slight red
colored her cheeks and she looked down.
"Walter will be fine for now, Dana. I'm here as a
friend," Skinner was careful to make sure she knew that it
was not something she should get used to.
Scully didn't understand, but didn't press. Things
would become clear eventually. Her perspective would shift
and things would be much more difficult.
"Walter," Scully said and nodded. She turned back to
Mulder, looking upon him with saddened eyes. "He's been
through a lot. What if he turns out like me?"
"Like you?" Skinner questioned. He had walked over to
the other side of Mulder's bed and was now looking across it
at her.
"With amnesia."
"Ah," Skinner said. He shook his head. "It's not a
concern I share with you. I think he's going to come out of
this just fine--just like you will."
Scully nodded, lapsing into silence. Somehow what he
had said made her heart heavy. It seemed as though he had
only confirmed her fears, in a twisted way.
"I hadn't planned on stopping in, but I was in the
area. I might as well tell you now instead of later--" he
stopped, searching for the best way to say this to his agent.
An agent that didn't even know her own agency, or the things
she had done in her past . . . "The director has warned me
that you will have to be retested before you will be allowed
back into service," he said flatly. He couldn't help but
agree with his superior. There was still a very slight chance
that she may not recall all of her memory. While he hoped
that wouldn't be the case, they needed to be sure she could
handle her job--be able to take the mental stress that being
an agent could impress on a person. Especially a person who
dealt with the types of heinous crimes that she and Mulder
had witnessed in the past.
It was the only precaution they could take that would
ensure that the agent was completely in tune with her skills-
-both as a medical doctor and as a law enforcement official.
Of course, it all depended on how quickly the agent
recovered. It could be months.
"I understand," she said. She wasn't particularly
upset by that fact. Right now she couldn't have cared less.
What she *really* wanted was to find out about herself--to
*find* herself--to uncover the truth about her past, about
her family, about Mulder.
Skinner didn't say anything for a few moments. Only
the sound of Mulder's machinery and their breathing filled
the room. It was a moment that would only fade into the
backs of their memory, but would never be completely
forgotten.
After a few moments longer, Skinner cleared his throat
and looked down at Mulder. The normally flat-lipped ex-
marine allowed the smallest hint of emotion when his lips
curled slightly at the edges. He was relieved that his
agents were alive. Mulder and Scully deserved the chance.
Skinner finally began his exit, deciding that maybe
Scully needed to be alone to sort out the things she had
recently begun to unravel about herself.
Before he could get past her chair, Scully was on her
feet. She blocked his path with her diminutive body. Her
blue eyes were wide with curiosity, but he could see the
determination burning there. It was like having the old
Scully back.
She stared silently at him for a moment before pressing
her lips together and holding out her hand.
After an indecisive moment, Skinner reached out and
grasped her hand.
"Thank you, sir," she said.
Letting go of her hand, Skinner walked past and left
the room without another word.
Scully stood listening to the sounds of the machinery
for a long time afterwards. She didn't really think of
anything in those few minutes, not that she could recall.
She breathed deeply and smiled when she noticed a small
pigeon sitting on the outside ledge of Mulder's window. What
was it about life that made everything so complicated? A
bird, that small pigeon, had it easy. It could soar away
whenever it had to get out. Did it have to worry about
memory loss and human monsters who shoot people and then dump
them into unforgiving, black waters? She didn't think so.
Shifting her eyes away from the bird, she moved back to
Mulder's bedside. She reached out and placed her hand on his
forehead, slowly running it into his hair. Who was this
strange man that had apparently meant so much to her? What
was it about him that kept her by his bedside even when she
knew so very little about him?
She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice when
he clenched his fist. She did feel it, however, when he
moved his head ever so slightly.
He moaned. She gasped.
"Mulder?" she asked, looking down at his face. His
face scrunched into an almost humorous expression, before
relaxing. The lines smoothed out, making him appear almost
like an angel who had finally been freed from his own private
hell.
"Scully?" he asked, gently testing his voice. He
licked his lips and tried again, "Scully, that you?"
At the sound of his voice, she felt the butterflies in
her stomach take wing. Sheer excitement and happiness passed
through her. "It's me, Mulder," she said. "It's me," she
repeated, gently grasping his hand.
He was so motionless that for a few seconds she had the
irrational fear that he had slipped back into the dark waters
of the coma. But he surprised her by opening his round,
hazel eyes.
Her heart leapt. She recognized him suddenly. It was
in those pools of hazel heaven that she saw all the answers
to her questions about their relationship.
Theirs was a bond of the deepest sort that was shared
only by best friends who would do *anything* for one another.
Tears slipped from her eyes at the sight of those hazel eyes,
devoid of pain and fear. So full of awareness.
If he could pull through this, so could she. It might
take time, but with his help--*his friendship*--she knew she
could do it.
And finally she found the comfort she had sought since
awakening on the island. Comfort that being side by side
with her partner, through thick and thin, heaven and hell,
would only bring them closer in soul.
"Scully?"
She smiled down at him. "Mulder?"
"Come here for a second," he said weakly.
Puzzled, she moved closer to him, leaning down. She
was delighted when he slowly brought his arms up to envelope
her lightly in a hug.

----------

The End

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

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