The last time Scully came down here, dripping with love-lies-bleeding and bittersweet, coughing up flower petals signifying solitude, she'd been thinking of him and trying not to think of him. Now she's searching.

Mulder is usually easy to find in a crowd; he's tall, he dresses like a fed, he carries himself with the unconscious confidence of his station in life, a fact she takes advantage of often, drafting behind him or letting him follow close behind to part the throngs on her behalf. It takes much longer this time; the paths are winding and, as she discovers, he's half-hidden among the thorny branches, looking like he's going to take root right there.

"Mulder," she calls, once she spots him. Is it just the morning light making him look-- she doesn't want to say more monstrous, but perhaps that's the only way to put it. Less himself than in the soft lamplight of her living room. Like when he loses himself on a particularly bad case.