Title: The Language of Flowers

Author: mimic117

Email: mimic1172@gmail.com

Rating: Big ol' fluffy G

Category: S

Setting: Let's say end of Season 7 or so, just to pin it down a 
bit.

Spoilers: Not a one.

Keywords: Implied MSR

Summary: When the flowers have something to say, it's a 
good idea to listen.

Disclaimer: Mulder is not mine, alas. I'm just playing with him.

Beta Thanks: To Jake, for taking time away from the 
destruction of mankind to give this her special type of 
shredding. I 'preciate it, Twinsy.

Archive: If you ask "Mother may I?" and let me know where, I 
don't see why not. I'll do Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, 
thanks.

Author's Notes at the end so they're easier to ignore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Language of Flowers
by mimic117

Roses are trite.
Violets aren't new.
Carnations smell like a funeral ...

~sigh~ I don't know what to do. 

I've felt this need recently to do something special for Scully. 
She's so essential to every aspect of my life, the least I can do 
is to show my appreciation once in a while. Flowers wouldn't 
be my first choice, but she likes them, so I thought I'd buy her 
some flowers today. Something unusual. Something different. 
Something as unique as Scully herself. 

Thornton's Garden Center doesn't look like the right place, 
though. It's more of a plant store than a florist's shop but it's 
my last hope. None of the other shops I've tried had what I'm 
looking for. 

I suppose it would help if I knew what I wanted. 

The clerk at the last store just threw her hands in the air and 
told me to come back when I figured it out. Not good for repeat 
business, but she was right. Now it's nearly closing time, and 
I'm no nearer to my goal than when I started. 

Maybe this was a mistake. I should just sneak out while no one 
is -- 

"How might I be helpin' you, young man?"

Oops. Busted. And by the tiny matriarch of the Thornton clan 
if my guess is right. She looks like she must be eighty-five at 
the very least. Probably older, judging by the appearance of 
her hands and the way she moves, but she's got bright, sharp 
eyes. She's not going to let me off the hook until she gets a 
crack at me.

"Um, I'm looking for something to give a friend, but I don't know 
if you have what I want." 

"And what would you be lookin' for, may I ask?"

Cute brogue. She's probably been here for decades and it 
hasn't completely disappeared. I'll bet Scully would get a kick 
out of her.

"Well, that's part of the problem. I'm not exactly sure what I 
want."

"Ah. That's a puzzle, 'tis. Let's see if we can puzzle it out 
together, shall we?"

She lifts an eyebrow at me and I'm hit with a sense of deja vu. 
I wonder if the Scully's have any Thornton blood in their family 
tree? 

The elderly woman smiles at me after I nod in agreement, then 
she heads toward the greenhouse at a bug's pace.

"First, who would you be buyin' this for?" She looks over her 
shoulder and arches that eyebrow again. "A sick friend in the 
hospital, p'rhaps?" 

"No, she's not sick."

"A lady friend, then. For her birthday, is it?"

"Well, no."

"Ah. Some other special occasion?"

"No special occasion."

"But you'll be wantin' something different, won't you?"

She glances over her shoulder again, a hint of exasperation on 
her face if not in her voice.

That's a familiar look, too. 

We've finally made it inside the greenhouse. All around us, 
people in red aprons sporting the garden center's logo are 
bustling back and forth with other customers, gathering the 
plants they need and sending them out to the registers with 
their purchases. 

Not us. A few employees stop and ask "Mum" or "Gran" if she 
needs help, but she waves off every one of them. At the rate 
we're moving, I'll probably be here until well after closing and 
I'm sure they all know it, too. I just can't bring myself to be 
impolite to this determined little woman. It would be like bad-
mouthing Scully's grandmother and I can't do it. 

We stop at a table where my escort picks up a small plant. 
There are rows and rows of tables full of flowers in every color 
imaginable. But they're all in square, green mini-pots, not the 
large, round ones you find in the grocery store houseplant 
section... 

I wonder what Mrs. Thornton is planning to do with that one?

She checks the plant over and nods her head. The flower on it 
looks sort of like a clover, but it's purplish in color. She 
points toward the floor, but doesn't say anything. It takes me 
a minute to realize that she wants one of the plastic trays 
under the table. When I hold one out to her, she sets the plant 
into the tray and starts walking again.

Does this mean I've been hired?

"So tell me about this lady love of yours, my dear." 

We've been silent for so long, her voice startles me. I try not 
to sound paranoid or defensive when I ask, "Why do you need to 
know about her?" 

There's that exasperated expression again. I wonder if this is 
how Scully will look in another fifty or sixty years? The idea 
tickles me.

Mum Thornton puts another plant into the tray I'm holding -- a 
white one this time.

"How else will I know what you'll be lookin' for, I'm askin'?"

Okay. She has a point. And I don't have to give out anything 
intimate. I guess there's nothing wrong with being polite and 
playing along.

"Well, she's beautiful."

"I'd be knowin' that already, but thank you for it. Is she just 
beautiful on the outside, like one o' them modelin' girlies?"

"No, not at all. She *looks* beautiful, but it goes way beyond 
appearance. She can out-think most people and always keeps 
me guessing. She's caring, and funny, and the strongest 
person I know."

"So she'll be liftin' weights, then? Like that Arnold Schwartz-
somethin' from them movies?"

I can't help but chuckle. I'm really getting into her game. Mrs. 
Thornton would make one mean interrogator. 

"No, she doesn't lift weights. I mean she's emotionally and 
mentally strong. She keeps us both sane and has saved me 
from myself I don't know how many times. I don't know what I'd 
do without her."

"So you're friends, too, then."

It's not a question. I think I've told her more than I was 
planning to, but that's okay. I don't even need to answer this 
time. She already knows. 

We've made it more than halfway through the greenhouse, 
picking up potted flowers as we go, and the other customers 
have just about disappeared. It looks like we're not done yet, 
but I'm having a good time, so I don't mind. 

Two more plants go into the tray -- a tiny, green wisp and some 
little white bells on stalks. They let off a sweet smell when she 
puts them down. Another purple plant is added to the 
collection, then another white one. We seem to be working on 
a color scheme here. I wish I knew where she's going with this. 
I'm intrigued in spite of myself.

We stop next to another table, but this one is mostly empty of 
plants. Mum takes the tray from my hands and sets it on the 
table, then points toward the floor again. This time I know what 
she means. There aren't any trays underneath, but there are 
some big, plastic flower pots. I pick one up and hand it to her. 
It's like the pots I'm used to seeing in the grocery store, only 
fancier.

Our silence is companionable, which is strange, considering we 
just met about twenty minutes ago. She scoops soft, black dirt 
into the pot from a bucket sitting next to the table. Once the 
flowerpot is mostly full, she starts putting the plants I've been 
carrying into the dirt. Her fingers gently work the soil around 
the roots of each seedling as she places one after the other 
into the arrangement. She's almost done before she speaks 
again.

"You're bein' together how long now?"

We're back to that, huh? 

"Well, we've worked together for years. I'm not sure I can give 
you an answer beyond that. But she's been the most important 
person in my life for a long time."

"She makes you happy, does she?"

"Constantly."

I get a different look this time. Very much a mother's "don't lie 
to me" glare.

"You'll be thankin' the good Lord for her, I hope."

"Every time I breathe."

I know it sounds hokey, but it's true. She seems to accept my 
words at face value and nods.

I feel a tap on the back of my hand and realize that my mind 
has wandered for a minute. Mrs. Thornton points a soil-stained 
finger at the finished flower arrangement and taps my hand 
again.

"Now pay attention, boyo. These flowers tell a story you'll be 
wantin' to remember later."

If I'd known there was going to be a quiz, I would have studied.

She touches the purple, clover-like flower.

"Everlasting globe amaranth, for unfadin' love. When that 
Achilles person died, them Greeks covered him with these to 
show he was immortal."

Next, she caresses two of the white flowers -- one looks almost 
like a star, the other is a mat of tiny dots and sprawls over the 
side of the container.

"Stock, the flower of lastin' beauty. And trailing sweet alyssum, 
for worth beyond beauty. 'Twas once thought its lovely smell 
calmed anger and cured madness. A handy plant to keep 
around, I'm thinkin'."

She arches an eyebrow to see if I agree with her. I nod and 
she continues with the lesson by pointing to a plant that doesn't 
have any flowers at all.

"Fennel, for strength. Brewed in a tea, 'tis good for digestion." 

It's pretty puny looking for something that represents strength. 
She rubs a few of the spindly leaves in her fingers and then 
holds them up under my nose. Licorice! Maybe I was wrong. 
Anything with that kind of fragrance must be pretty hardy, no 
matter what it looks like.

Next, she fingers the little white bells I'd noticed earlier and I 
can smell their sweet aroma again. 

"Lily-of-the-valley, for return of happiness. For you more than 
her, p'rhaps?"

Am I that transparent? It's true that Scully has brought me 
more joy than I've had in a long time, but I like to think I've 
returned some of that happiness to her as well. Maybe that 
flower is more representative of me, though.

Mum has moved on to the next plant without waiting for an 
answer.

"For true friendship, the oak-leaved geranium." 

She strokes the small white flowers above the fuzzy-looking 
leaves, then cups the full, deep-purple bloom on the last plant 
in the pot. 

"The most important one of all -- heliotrope, for faithfulness and 
devotion. 'Twill bloom right up until frost without fail. Them 
Victorians in England liked the old kinds for perfume. But the 
color 'tis nice all by itself, I'm thinkin'."

We stand quietly for several seconds, until she cocks that 
eyebrow at me once more.

"Well? Pick it up, boyo. My old hands t'aint as strong as once 
upon a time. 'Tis yours, to give to your lady love."

I can't think of a thing to say. My throat is suddenly tight and 
I can feel my eyes tearing up. I pick up the heavy pot and study 
the lovely arrangement. With just a small expenditure of time 
and thought, this perceptive woman has created something 
unique. This particular combination of flowers and plants is a 
testament of all the things that are special about my 
relationship with Scully. It's exactly what I was looking for.

She must sense my emotional state, because she turns back to 
the potting table and starts cleaning up. She speaks to me 
over her shoulder as she works.

"Tell her to be puttin' the pot in a sunny window and turn it 
every day. Not too much water, now. In a month or so, they 
can all be planted outside if she likes. Lily-of-the-valley will 
come back every spring. Put that where you can be smellin' it 
as you walk by."  

I knew she was perceptive. Her mini lecture has given me 
enough time to regain control. I clear my throat and ask, "How 
long will they last?"

She pats my arm.

"A goodly while, but not nearly as long as your love for her, I'm 
thinkin'."

Her understanding smile is nearly my undoing again. On 
impulse, I lean over and kiss Mrs. Thornton's cheek.

"Thank you. It's perfect."

She blushes and lightly smacks my arm.

"G'won wit'cha. I know a saucy devil when I see one. My 
Albert was just such a one, Lord bless the darlin' rascal's soul."

I hope her Albert knew how lucky he was. 

She flaps her hands at me and shoos me toward the other end 
of the greenhouse.

"G'won, I say. Take your posies to your dearie. And mind! 
Make sure you remember what I said about the stories the 
flowers are tellin'." 

I look her in the eye and finally see that they're blue. Almost 
as blue as Scully's. The realization makes me smile. 

"I won't forget. I promise."

She smiles back and turns toward the rear of the garden 
center. I don't wait to see where she's going. It's not that 
I'm tired of her company, but now I'm anxious to pay for my 
purchase and take it to Scully.

There's a very special story I have to tell her. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END

Author's Notes: It's been raining, the snow is melting, and 
there's a slight feel of Spring in the air. I think I was feeling 
nostalgic for my garden when I sat down to write this. Garden 
centers are some of my favorite places to spend time, but not 
healthy for the checkbook or sense of perspective. I always 
over estimate the amount of space and gardening time I have. 
But the flowers are all so pretty. How could I pass up any of 
them? Especially the heliotrope.

The Language of Flowers was written and illustrated by Kate 
Greenaway in 1884. During the Victorian Era, flowers weren't 
just pretty plants -- individual ones had specific meanings to 
convey from the giver to the receiver. I've only used flowers 
with positive connotations in this story. There are others which 
have negative meanings as well. Check your local bookstore 
or library for a copy of the book, then give someone special a 
bouquet created with them in mind. And yes, roses do stand 
for love, but Mulder would never pick anything that easy, would 
he?

Feedback: mimic1172@gmail.com