The Path of Thorns

By Smurf
KRUMS@worldnet.att.net


Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence, language, and sexual content
Spoilers: Season six and seven up to The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati.

Category: S, R, & X
Keywords: Angst, MSR-UST, and RST
Summary: Through a tragic experience, Scully learns that the path of
thorns cannot be walked alone.

Disclaimer: They belong to Surfer Boy and crew. 'Sides, you actually
think *I* am intelligent enough to have come up with these characters? 
Hardly, ask Briehan...

Archive: In the immortal words of Scully, "Sure, fine, whatever." Just
keep my name attached.

Notes: Oh dear, Smurfy's at her angst again.  Good thing though, no
character death in this one. Other than that, just hang on for the ride.

* * * *
In the terms of endearment
In the terms of the life that you love
In the terms of the years that pass you by
In the terms of all the reasons why

* * * *

Part 1/?

I should have known the case would be unusual before I opened the
folder. By the goofy grin on my partner's face, I knew it had to be
something.  It was mostly my uncontrollable curiosity that made me
even open the report.  The first few official forms were barely filled
out.  Aside from the names of the special agents assigned to the case,
there was really no information given on it.  

I stopped after the second page, tired of seeing only blank documents.
I clasped my hands on the cool surface of my desk and looked up at
Mulder.  He was leaning against his own desk in a classic thinker pose,
with his chin resting in the crook of his palm.  The fingers cupping his
chin concealed the flagrant grin on his face.

I heaved out a slightly irritated sigh.  "What is this Mulder?"  I asked
him, bracing myself for the full synopsis of the case. I prayed that it
would not involve Mulder's two favorite words: 'cattle' and 'mutilations'.

Mulder let his hands drop to his sides and sauntered over to my desk.
"This is," he said extravagantly. "A murder case, serial murders actually." 
His tone was the normal hint of contained exuberance. His mood was
characterized with the same thrill a new case brought to him every time.
If there is one thing I can say absolutely about Mulder, it's that
he loves his job.

This information immediately sparked my interests.  We had been given a
murder case, an actual run-of-the mill mainstream FBI murder case? 
"Mulder, are you feeling okay?"  
I questioned, arching my eyebrow at him.  

He chuckled, knowing exactly what I meant by this case not seeming like
our normal brand of X-file.  "I know that's what I thought too, it looks like it
lost its way to Violent Crimes.  Apparently, VCS is stumped too. They can't
make heads or tails of it.  The murders aren't really that bizarre, but it's what's
occurred around them, and the history of the victims that makes it so odd."

I leaned back in my chair; he had his introduction and now the synopsis
would begin. "So what occurred around these victims?" I urged.

"First, all of the victims were female.  They were all the same age,
give or take a few years, and all had relatively the same social statuses. 
Other than that, they were all different, by looks, jobs, everything."

I nodded, absorbing the information.

"Here's where the bizarre part comes in." he began, reaching for the
opened folder on my desk.  He picked it up and began leafing through it,
searching.  "All the victims were killed at precisely the same hour, on
nearly consecutive nights.  Just out of curiosity, I went digging in the records,
and found similar murders in 1969, 1939, and sketchy records of murders in
1909. The victims were the same, the hour was the same, and style
was the same.  So far, thirty-eight people have been killed."  

He found what he was looking for and held out to me.  I kept my eyes
locked on his, trying to drain any bullshit out of him that he might be trying
to drop on me.  What he handed me was a black-and-what crime scene photograph. 
It showed the close-up of a slender woman's hand, palm up.  In the center
of the palm, barely discernable under a pool of blood was the number 38.  

"This is the most recent murder.  According to the autopsy, it was
carved into her hand by a sharp instrument before she was killed." Mulder
said, his voice suddenly losing its urgent, exuberant tone.  Now he sounded
like someone willing to take on a serious murder case.  He thrust another picture
in front of me.   The print was older, and the cut number was smaller, 23.
"This one's from '69," Another picture fluttered to my desk,
"'39," and finally, an ancient photo, "1909."  He paused again, allowing
me time to study the photos. "Each year ten murders were committed. No
suspects were prosecuted or even named."

I breathed out heavily, looking again at the most recent photo.  The
blood on the woman's hand had trickled down her fingers, covering a gold
wedding band.  I thought about the woman.  Who was she? What
had she done to deserve being killed? Or was she just a random victim,
never to be thought of again except as a number, a statistic?  The picture
imprinted itself in my mind.

"We have a flight for this afternoon at 3:30.  We're meeting with
Detective Lucy Pacelli of the Chicago police at the latest crime scene."
Mulder dropped the rest of the folder back onto my desk to look at. 
He went around to his desk and gathered his things, and
then began moving towards the door.  "I'm going home to pack.  I'll pick
you up around...2:30."

I nodded, too involved to say a word.  I didn't notice when he left.  By
then, I had opened the autopsy report and was looking it over. It was all very interesting.
 Apparently, a shot by a standard thirty-eight millimeter handgun delivered the killing
blow.  The victim was shot in the head, and the bullet's trajectory suggested an execution
style killing.  This woman, had her palms sliced, probably before her conscious eyes, and
then was forced to a kneeling position before her attacker, to be killed in a most
undignified way.

Flipping further through the case folder, I found a full-color crime
photo of the murder victim.  She had dirty blonde hair that must have hung long past her
shoulders when she was standing.  It was fanned about her head like a halo when she lay on
the floor.  Spreading like fine lace on the thick Oriental rug she was sprawled on
was a puddle of crimson.  It rimmed and seeped though her hair.  Her icy blue eyes were
open wide in an eternal look of fright.  

I'm still not sure why, but it was that picture that really singed its
image into my brain.  Her eyes, oh, her eyes; I have seen some frightening things in my time,
but those eyes had to be something of the worst. I closed up the folder and stuffed it
into my briefcase, still seeing the haunting vision of those eyes before me.  I locked the
office and headed toward the parking garage.  I saw the reflection of the eyes again as I
looked into my rear-view mirror pulling out of my parking space.  Those unseeing,
crystal eyes; eyes that hadn't seen all they wanted to see. They held a brilliant color, sky
blue with an inner color of something like aquamarine, but not quite.  Expressive eyes, pained
eyes, dead eyes...my eyes.

        *        *        *        *

End Part 1/?

Feedback please! I hang praise and constructive criticism on my
refrigerator; flames will be devoured for breakfast.


The Path of Thorns   
Part 2/?


Not being one easily bothered by simple things like blood or other
spilled bodily fluids, I wasn't at all sure why the photographs had agitated me.  Normally, I'm
very able to control my emotions, not only on cases but also in my life.  Clinical
detachment was a skill so drilled into my sub consciousness during medical school it had
become a way of life. If something makes me uncomfortable, I find it very easy to detach
myself.  And usually, I don't even allow myself to get uncomfortable.  But for some
reason, this case and those pictures seem to be able to break down my defensive walls like
harsh erosion and rotting decay.  I immediately tried to remove myself and chalked it
up to stress. I napped well on the plane ride, and felt refreshed and renewed by the
time we arrived in windy, cold Chicago.

The most recent victim lived in a town house just outside of downtown
Chicago.  Her neighbor reportedly never heard a thing.  Which struck me as odd
considering the normally explosive sound of a gun, especially in a confined space.  A
gun silencer was added to the list of weapons.  

When Mulder and I arrived at the late Jessica Sloan's residence,
Detective Lucy Pacelli was waiting for us.  Momentarily breaking away from a small congregation
of police officers, Pacelli found a moment to speak to us.

"Detective Lucy Pacelli, Chicago PD." She introduced, flashing her
leather-bound badge and extending her right hand.  Pacelli had shoulder length, ashen blonde
hair.  Her eyes were a dark, striking green.  She was tall; well, taller than me at
least.  Which doesn't seem to take much.  Still, she almost matched Mulder's six feet, so I'm
guess she was about five-ten, five-eleven. When she spoke, there was a noticeable
Brooklyn accent hiding in her voice, but it had been worn out over the years.  My first
impression of her was that she was smart, quick, and pushy.  She liked to get things done,
when she wanted, and how she wanted.  She talked like a cop, walked like a cop, and
thought like a detective.  

"You must be Agent Mulder," She said, shaking Mulder's hand.  She gave
him the quick once-over, twice.  I could tell by the look on her face that he wasn't
at all her type.  Her type was probably the burly, pro-wrestler,
watch-what-you-say-or-I'll-kick-your-ass-in-a-heartbeat type.  But you can't judge a
book by its cover.

A wry grin tugged at Mulder's lips.  "Yeah, that would be me."  He poked
a thumb out at me. "This is Agent Scully."

Pacelli nodded at me briefly, and turned back towards the crime scene.
Over her heightened shoulder, I could see camera flashes going off as one officer
took some last minute crime scene photos.  The body had been removed from the scene,
probably even already transported and autopsied.  I couldn't breathe a sigh of relief
about that yet, knowing I would probably end up doing an autopsy on this trip anyway.
Where the body had been strewn was the infamous chalk outline in the silhouette of the
body's position.

The puddle of blood fringing the carpet had soaked into the fibers,
leaving a stain that couldn't be cut out.  The rug would probably end up meeting the
incinerator.  Poor Mr. Sloan would probably throw it in himself, once the forensics team was
through.  Down by the rough outlines of the body's hands, there were smears of blood
streaking the carpet.  Jessica Sloan must have streaked the blood from her hands to
the rug when she collapsed. The forensic pathologist in me made a mental note to ask the
local forensics team to ask if they had scoured that spot with a fine-tooth comb.  It
could hold some valuable hair and fiber particles. I shook my head and looked away from
the body imprint, uninterested with my specialty at the present moment.

While Mulder busied himself by listening intently to Pacelli as she went
over the case details with him, I took a look around the room.  About two feet from
where the body had been strewn, was a heavy, very expensive-looking, oak coffee table.  As
a stab in the dark, I guessed that either Mr. or Mrs. Sloan earned quite a pretty
penny at whatever job they held.  I hadn't bothered to read the victim's profile.  Mulder had
probably read it front and back, more than once.  He was an expert on each and every
victim, as part of his criminal profiler training taught him.  He would fill me in on any
important details about Sloan's life when necessary.

Anyway, I nonchalantly looked through some of the things on the table.
But first, I tugged on a pair of sterile gloves before I touched anything.  Anything
lying around this mildly cluttered room could be a clue to Jessica Sloan's murder.  On top
of a small stack of living room magazines, was a framed photograph of Mrs. Sloan, and her
husband.  They appeared to happy together, arms holding each other for all
eternity, gazing at the camera while smiling widely.   

Letting my detaching barrier falter for just a second was all it took to
get Mr. Sloan in my mind.  If he and his wife were as inseparable as the picture portrayed,
I could only imagine what he must be going through.  His wife was dead, murdered in
her own home, while he was away and unable to protect her.  No one knew right now who
had killed her or why, so there would be no peace for him.  Even when they caught the
criminal, and Mr. Sloan got his vengeance by seeing him convicted, it still would not
bring back his soul mate.  An involuntary shudder passed through my body.  

When the weight of a hand settled onto my shoulder, I nearly jumped and
dropped the picture from surprise.  I gathered myself and looked up at Mulder, who
must have either noticed my enthrallment with the picture, or the shudder.  His eyes
asked if I was all right.  I could have said I was. I even thought I was.  But in all
honesty, I wasn't.  Of course I refused to admit that to him or even myself.  

I averted my eyes from his and turned my shoulder towards him,
dismissing the protective look he had suddenly achieved to give me.  Looking back at
the body outline, I decided to change the subject and ask him what he had learned.

"So, what's the deal with Mrs. Sloan?" I asked half-heartedly, trying to
sound interested in the case at hand.

"Well--" He began, taking in a long breath for a lengthy narrative.  

"Yo, Pacelli!" Was called from down the hall from the living room,
interrupting Mulder's beginning interpretation and endless stream of early theories.

A large cop lumbered into the living room, carrying a plastic evidence
bag.  Perhaps I should reiterate when I say large.  The word makes him sound fat or
poky.  No, this cop was the opposite.  By large, I mean strong.  He didn't fit the
donut-eater description of a cop at all, but more like the wife-beater description of a
criminal.  He had a bushy mustache covering his stout upper lip, and a dark mess of curly hair
under his policemen's cap. When he spoke, the thick Chicago accent on his voice
was almost rebarbative.  

Pacelli took a few steps towards the officer, meeting him halfway as he
entered the bustling living room.  "What have you got for me, Deuce?" Pacelli
queried, holding out her hand in gesture to hand over the bag. He dropped the bag in her
hand, letting her inspect it.

"The bullets from the last two victims.  They all match." He told her
gruffly.

Pacelli nodded, thinking.  Mulder and I began walking towards her,
interested in the new information.  She looked up when Mulder got her attention, absently
waving her introduction.  "Oh, Agents, this is Lieutenant Peter Stein, err...Deuce,
as we all call him." She motioned at him, and then explained who we were.  

I watched Pacelli inspecting the gold colored slugs in the bag, until I
felt eyes on me.  Thinking nothing immediately of it, I looked up at "Deuce".  He was
staring intently at me.  I have always known I am able to draw a man's eye, but am usually
able to ignore it.  This time however, I could tell by Deuce's look that it wasn't my body
he was interested in, but something else.  His eyes were cold, not emotionless, but cold.
There were a thousand emotions there, but none that I could visibly discern.  All I
knew, was that his slate colored eyes scared me, and I had to get the hell out of there
before I lost it.  

Ignoring the inquisitive looks from the officers in the hallway, I
walked briskly (actually on the brink of running) out of the house.  A young cop narrowly
tottered to the side of the concrete front porch to let me pass.  I went down
the cement steps and across the wet, post-shower lawn to Mulder's and my
rental car.  With the bitter November air nipping at my cheeks and nose, I
let a huge sigh escape my lungs.  Some relief was breathed back
into me with the Chicago wind, but not much.  Leaning against the
driver's door of our gray Taurus, I let my eyes slip closed for a minute,
trying to recompose myself.

Reopening my eyes, I saw Mulder standing before me.  The knowing look in
his eyes jarred me to immediate professionalism.  Until I understood what had
frightened me about Deuce Stein, I couldn't let Mulder know anything was wrong.
Mulder's face showed concern, and I knew I wasn't going to get out of this one
without a fight.

"Are you okay?" he asked first, his eyes beginning soft and worried.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I told him, trying my best to avoid his intense gaze.

He didn't speak again, only continuing to burn into my soul with his
eyes.  His hunt for the truth was more than just in his life's work of finding his sister,
it was in everything else hidden from him.  God help the soul who tried to keep
something from him.  Unfortunately that soul was usually me.  

I was powerless to do nothing but raise my voice and try to verbally
discourage him from pushing me.  I wouldn't do anything physically harmfully to
him, because that would only raise his determination.  I'm not one to lash out
violently, and if I were to shove him away, he would know something was
wrong.  

"I just had to get out, it was a little stuffy in there, it was getting
to me."  I said, using my first defensive tactic, turning my shoulder to him
and my face away.

Mulder stood his ground. "It didn't seem very stuffy to me." he said
casually, refusing to give up. I remained silent for a few moments, still turned away until I
felt the warmth of his hand gripping my upper arm. I looked him in the face again, still
not speaking. "I think you needed to get out for a different reason." He said more softly
than before.

I shook my head stubbornly, continuing to defend my pride by avoiding
his eyes.  "I just needed some fresh air!" I exclaimed, shaking his hand off my arm.

Finished with the conversation, I turned to walk around to the passenger
side of the car.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Deuce climbing into a patrol car
behind our car.  He was continuing to watch me with a fixed stare, even from inside the car.
 I avoided his eyes as well, thankful for the change in direction when I climbed into
the car.  

A few seconds later, Mulder joined me.  At first, he said nothing.  He
just buckled his seatbelt and placed his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.  I
heard a shallow breath escape him, but his eyes never wandered from a focal point
outside the windshield.  
"Is something bothering you about this case?" he asked quietly, gently.

I pursed my lips.  I knew by then that, yes, something was bothering me.
 I knew not what, but I knew something about the whole situation rubbed me the wrong
way.  It was an irrational feeling though, it had to be; I'd seen far worse things
than this. And as for Deuce, I could hold my own around men like him.  I still could never
admit this to Mulder. I didn't want his protection, although I knew it was what he
wanted to offer. "No, Mulder," I finally conceded.  "Nothing's bothering me. I just needed
some fresh air, some room to think."

Thankfully, he let it go from there, and we drove to the hotel in
silence.  I wish I could have told him then.  I hate learning from mistakes.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 2/?

You know the drill. Get that feedback comin'!

Part 3/?

There was another murder the first night we were in Chicago.  Mulder
told me that very night that there would be one, at the exact hour of eight
o'clock, just like the others.  Forgetting about the little tiff we had at the
Sloan scene, we dined on Chinese take-out in my room rather than going
out to eat.  Neither of us really felt like going out, it had dropped to fifteen
degrees and they were calling for snow.

Did I mention how much I hate Chicago? In Chicago, there are two types
of weather, hot and windy, and cold and windy. In the winter it's freezing
and it snows a lot. In the summer it can be scorching. Write it down. Chicago
in November is not the place I want to be on a case. I wish we could once
get a crackpot insurance fraud case in Maui. It may be a boring assignment,
but at least the weather would be good.  

Like I was saying, Mulder proclaimed that there would be another one of
the murders that night. He didn't have a hunch yet on where, or who a probable
victim would be, but he knew this murderer was flawless and very consecutive. 
It would take a lot to interrupt this killing spree.  

And Mulder was right. I hate to admit it when he is, but he was.  At
five o'clock in the morning, he received a call from Pacelli saying they'd
found another body.  Mulder woke me up, his face alive and bright, an evil
all-knowing grin spread across his mouth.  It's a good thing we didn't make
a bet; I would have had to shoot him before I would fork money over to that
smart face.

Myself bleary-eyes and tired, and Mulder upbeat and awake, we drove to
uptown Chicago.  The neighborhoods were refined, the people were relatively
friendly, and the streets were paved with proverbial gold.  This was not the part of town
someone would expect to find a murder victim's body in.  I knew what would be on the
front-page news tomorrow, providing the press got a whiff.  By the vans parked in front
of the Jane Austin Condominium Building, I knew that they had gotten a great big whiff.
People around here probably couldn't keep their mouths shut to save their souls.

The victim's name was Marie Truesdell.  She was an attorney who worked
for the firm Bachman and Wilson.  She was thirty-four years old, single, and no
children.  Her immediate boyfriend Jason Coffey had found her.  Apparently he was
returning late from a delayed flight out of New York.  He was being questioned when Mulder
and I arrived in Truesdell's apartment.  From what I saw, he looked shaken and afraid,
answering Pacelli's and another officer's questions to the best of his ability.
He had a mug of coffee in one hand, trying to control his emotional jitters before he spilled
the hot liquid all down the front of his business suit.  Relying on his looks alone, I
concluded that he was most likely not a suspect.  Pacelli's expression seemed to be saying the
same thing.  Coffey seemed too near an emotional breakdown to have just murdered nine
people, his girlfriend included.

The body was just being removed from the scene as we arrived. Mulder and
I stood over it, inspecting what we could by the naked eye.  Similar to Sloan,
Truesdell had been shot in the back of the head, and her hands had been slashed. 
Not concurring with the murder style, Truesdell was lying on her back, suggesting
she had been turned over after being murdered.  Surprisingly, no fingerprints or
fiber had been lifted from the bodies as of yet.  Her eyes remained open too,
unseeing and glazed over.  I didn't have to look at those eyes for long.  The
harsh ripping sound of a heavy-duty zipper filled the room, and the black
body bag was sealed. Two officers lifted the body easily and placed her
on a mobile gurney.  She was wheeled out to the coroner's truck.

Mulder busied himself with his evidence kit, scouring the area where the
body had been for any tidbits of evidence. With the lack of forensic recoveries from
the previous scenes, it was doubtful he would find anything useful.  Allowing
him to do that, I took a look around the room.

Truesdell's apartment, for some reason, reminded me of mine.  I don't
know why, her apartment was not only larger, but it was decorated in a style very
different from my own.  She had more of a modern style, with a weird looking
black sofa, white carpeting, snake-neck lamps, and abstract art on the walls. 
The kitchen was clean and white.  It looked nearly unused, save for the few
dirty dishes in the sink.  

From what I saw,  Marie Truesdell must have been attacked right when she
got into her apartment.  There was still a pile of mail haphazardly thrown on the
counter beside chain of keys.  I sifted through the mail, searching for any opened
letters, or anything suspicious that someone might want her killed for. Nothing. But as I
looked through her mail, something else did catch my eye.  Lying near the inner edge of the
counter, on the opposite side of the serving counter from where I was standing, was a
single rose.  I reached across the counter and picked it up.  It was dried out nearly
completely from sitting in the air all night.  The once pure white petals had turned a
sickly yellow. One of them broke free from the browning stem and fluttered to the floor.  I
suddenly remembered something from the Sloan scene.  Beside all of the magazines
and the picture on the coffee table, there was a white rose much like this one.


"Hey, Mulder." I beckoned, turning away from the counter and in the
direction of my partner. I didn't know if it meant anything at all, but in my
experiences, even the tiniest overlooked details could mean something that
would blow the whole casewide open.  The words 'chantilly lace' came to mind.

Mulder stood up and walked over to me. "What is it?" He asked.

I held up the rose to show him. "I'm not sure what it could mean, but I
saw a rose exactly like this at the Sloan place." I told him, rolling the rose
between my thumb and forefinger.  

Mulder's brow creased as his considered it.  "Could be that the murderer
likes to leave gifts for his victims?" He mumbled, I think mostly to his own self.  He
scrubbed his chin with his gloved hand. "Or they all just have very thoughtful men in
their lives." He cracked.

I wasn't amused.  I never gave him the pleasure of outright laughing at
his little innuendoes, although inside I always did.

He sighed. "This is definitely our murderer though.  Ms. Truesdell is
number thirty-nine. I wonder who lucky number forty will be." He said.

"Hopefully we can catch whoever it is before there is a number forty." I
added.  

Meanwhile, Pacelli and the officer she was with, who I now recognized as
Deuce, finished up with Jason Coffey.  He was lead out of the apartment, crying
and shaking badly.  They began walking over to us.

"Find anything interesting?" Pacelli questioned.  She looked at both of
us I presume, but I didn't see it. I was too busy trying to avoid Deuce's
once again glittering stare.  I absently tried to switch hands the rose was
being held in to show Pacelli, and brought my finger down onto one of the
many sharp thorns.

"Ow, shit!" I exclaimed, dropping the withering flower and proceeding to
pull off my glove. Just as I thought, the thorn poked through my glove. A bead of
blood seeped out of my skin.  

Pacelli stooped to pick up the rose, very carefully I might add, to
avoid the same injury I had just received.  Mulder grabbed my hand, not
violently but quickly and gently enough to keep me from pulling it away.
He knew how much I hated him fussing over me, and even something simple
like looking at the cut on my finger would set me off, especially
in my present state.  I let him take my hand and inspect it.  He made a
slightly concerned face, but passed it when my eyes hardened on him. It
still amazes me the conversations we can have using nothing but our eyes.
A lot of people notice the bond we share, some are offended by it (I don't
know why) and some take it totally the wrong way. If I had a nickel for every
person that has mistaken us as a couple, married or otherwise, I would
have more money than Bill Gates.  After he let go of my hand, I stuck my
finger in my mouth, noticing another drop of crimson slowly trailing its way
down my index finger.  The salty taste of blood settled on my tongue for a
moment, leaving a sour aftertaste when I swallowed.  

Pacelli handed Deuce the rose. "Deuce, have Arnie over there put this in
an evidence bag." She instructed.  He took the rose, and began to turn away.  "Oh,
and have him gimme a call when forensics are finished." She prompted. Deuce nodded
and grunted his reply and walked away.


Although I succeeded in totally hiding my relief at the departure of
creepy Deuce, I couldn't stop from feeling the wave of relief. I wanted
more than anything to breath a long sigh of that relief and wipe my forehead
with a satisfactory"Whew!" Of course I couldn't do that. That would definitely
lead on to my agitation.  If Mulder knew more about my unease than he already
did, he would demand to know *why* I was bothered, then insist I go back to
DC, and go after Deuce on nothing more than the grounds of his
partner's irrational worry. He overreacts sometimes.

*

After much running around, chasing Mulder's dead-end theories,
interviewing Mr. Coffey, and talking to witness and potential suspects,
I went to the morgue in the basement of Cook County General Hospital,
where the body of Marie Truesdell had been processed.  Mulder made it
certain that the body was not to be touched until I could look
at it. As if I would be able to pull any more forensic data than the
other trained employees. Oh yes, I forgot, Mulder believes I find it *fun* to dig
through dead people.

I was surprisingly edgy about performing the autopsy on Ms. Truesdell,
even though it would prove to be easy.  Considering the entire back of her head had
been blow away, it couldn't be too difficult to determine the cause of death.  Still, I
found myself shaking as I pulled on gloves and stepped up to the side of
the steel gurney, sharpened scalpel in hand.  

In a swift motion, I pulled the sheet away from the body, letting it
fall loosely around the corpse's feet. I sucked in a tiny gasp when I saw
her face. Her eyes were still open, just as they had been at the crime scene,
just as the murderer had left them.  I wanted to reach out and close those eyes,
but I knew I couldn't. Until I was finished with that area of the
corpse, it had to remain in the same condition it had been found in.

But it was so hard not to become lost. Lost in the empty abyss that was
those two deep brown pools.  They were once full of life and inquisition,
once able to display emotions and thoughts. Now they were dead, nothing
but lifeless pools of color and nerve tissue.  

I had to clear my thoughts. I had a task at hand, and it needed to be
completed, my emotions couldn't stand in my way. I leaned back on my
heels, closed my eyes, and let a long ragged breath escape my lungs. 
When I opened my eyes, I saw blood.
 

It was droplets of blood that had splattered onto the grayish skin of
Marie's body.  I watched in horror as another drop fell to the metal gurney
and beaded to a tiny bubble.  The blood was bright red, and fresh.  Immediately
thinking the worst, my deepest nightmares of relapsed cancer brought to
the surface, I dropped the scalpel and began to bring my hand to my nose. 
The scalpel clattered to the gurney, filling the silent autopsy
bay with its metal clang.  The crosshatched handle of the instrument was
covered in blood.  As I was bringing my hand to wipe my nose, thinking
that was the source of the bleeding, I noticed the crimson on the palm of
my hand. I turned my hand palm up and looked. I could see blood filling
the inside of the glove and squirting out of the center, but
oddly enough I felt no pain.  In a flash, I stripped the gloves of both
hands and looked at my palms in mortal horror.  

There were cuts in my palms, and as I swiped some of the blood away with
my finger, I saw the shape the slashes took. 40.  

Fighting the urge to faint, I swallowed through a very dry throat, and
continued to stare in disbelief.  My rational mind was telling me to get
something to stop the bleeding, and not to panic, but fear was screaming
over the voice of rationality. I could do nothing but stand in frozen bewilderment. 
My eyes slipped shut in an eternal blink, and when I
opened them, it was gone.

All the blood was gone. There were no deep scarlet drops on the corpse
or on the gurney.  The scalpel lay on the edge of the gurney, still clean and sterile. I
looked at my hands and saw that they too were bloodless, with no signs
of there ever being any injury.  It had all been my imagination.  It still
terrified me beyond belief.  I saw that I was victim number
forty, I thought of it as an intuitional peek into the future. A cold
sweat drenched my body and I couldn't seem to stop trembling.  

Without hesitation, I turned and practically ran from the metal gurney,
and those staring eyes.  Those eyes that had sparked in me thoughts that
in turn led to my deepest fears invoked.  Bringing everything forward
in a surge of visual imagery that was just enough
to send me into a state of animalistic terror.  

I rushed out of the double swinging doors to the corridor of the
hospital basement, nearly running headlong into my partner.  I was
so surprised by his presence, I nearly screamed.  
He caught my arms to stop me from falling into him, and held me
balanced, staring into my frightened eyes.

Luckily, he didn't seem to notice the fear there at first.  "Did you
finish the autopsy?" He asked blindly.

I swallowed, blinked, and shook my head.  "No," I began shakily. Then I
wriggled out of his grasp and stood firmer ground.  "No, I didn't finish it."

He cocked his head a little, now detecting the hint of agitation in my
eyes.  "What's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing," I said, avoiding his eyes. My mind was now telling me to quit
the bullshit, and just tell him something was wrong. Unfortunately my pride
was still in my way. But not too much, that it couldn't be partially whipped
into submission.  "I can't finish the autopsy, Mulder." I told him, quieter this time.

He didn't speak, but the communication in his gaze asked me why.

"I just...I need to distance myself from this case for a little while."
I managed to hesitantly explain. That was probably the most I've ever told him
straightforward before. Well, that is an exaggeration, but like I said before,
I never liked displaying my emotions.

Meeting his eyes with my own, I spoke again. "I'm letting it get to me."
I said.  As best I could, I held up my rock solid faade, never once allowing
Mulder to see my very vulnerable inner core. I knew that he knew just how
to look into my eyes to see my emotions, which is why I wouldn't give him
my full gaze. Mulder and I have learned over the years that our eyes truly
are the windows to our souls.  No matter what one may display with simple
body language and speech on the outside, it is usually the eyes that
betray what the mind wants the other to see. We have learned how to find
cracks in the outer shell and see the true emotions through the eyes. I cursed that
ability then, so I did not let his eyes rest on mine for more than a brief moment.

The building tension that had formed before he reacted snapped when he
spoke. "Okay," He simply said.

I had to exert all my force to keep from breathing that relieving sigh
again. "I should be fine in the morning." I mumbled.

"Better to clear your mind now than let it get too bad." He said in a
tone I mistook for genuineness.  If had been able to bring myself to
look into his eyes, I would've seen the strain he was using. He was
trying his very best to let me pass with that.  I thanked him
for it then, cursed him for it later, and blame myself today.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 3

Allrighty. I know it's been awhile, thanx for stickin' with me here
people.  Betcha all can't wait till the next part, huh?  :o)


The Path of Thorns
Part 4

I drove back to the hotel alone. Mulder explained to me on the way out
of the hospital that he was going with Pacelli to question their potential
suspect, a local florist of all people.  By the time I pulled into the parking
space just outside of my room's door, it was dark.  

I had pulled my keys out of my purse, the room key ready to be jammed
into the lock. Plans of a long, hot shower and a good night's sleep were
crossing my mind when I felt something underfoot. I lifted my foot from
where I had stepped on the mat.  There was a single white rose lying on
the thin mat.  I stooped down and picked it up, only vaguely
thinking of the roses at the victim's residences.  This rose was fresh
and new, only slightly bloomed. The stem and thorns were crisp and green,
and a drop of water slipped out from between the petals as I lifted it up. 
It was really a beautiful flower, I wondered who had left it.  

Thinking of where the rose had come from, and what it meant, I opened
the door to my room and entered. I never even noticed that the door was
unlocked and I hadn't gotten as far as that.

Slowly, I began to put two and two together. One of these roses had been
found at each of the nine crime scenes, so had Pacelli confirmed.  The murderer
was trying to communicate something to us in these toying little calling cards.
Calling cards were precisely what they were, mementos of who this person
was and what he had done.  Was he waving it under our noses? That was
what I couldn't understand, why there was one on *my* hotel room mat. 
I was so blind.

My first thought was to call Mulder. I was convinced it was because I
needed to tell him of my "break through" but it was really because I
needed to hear the sound of another human voice.  More specifically,
I needed to hear *his* voice as something a comfort and reassurance.  

I dropped my briefcase on the bed and shrugged my trench coat off. After
tossing that onto the chair beside the little round table, I pulled my cell phone
from my jacket pocket.  

One or two rings went by and Mulder answered with his usual,
less-than-exuberant, "Mulder," I don't know why I think of this now, but
in all the years I have known him, I don't think he's ever answered on the
first ring, or with anything other than his last name.

"Mulder, it's me." I said. Since I have known him, saying who I was, or
greeting with 'Hello' had been stricken from my vocabulary as well.
"Where are you?" I asked him. Just another normal conversation beginning
for the two of us; last name greeting, and then a query as to where the other is.

"I'm with Pacelli, questioning Mr. Morrison, the florist." He answered.
I could tell by the background words and noises that he was most likely
in the florist's shop, and moving away from the central conversations. 
Following up with that conversation outline he asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm at the hotel, I found something very interesting." I began, pacing
towards the window and parting the blinds to peer into the inky darkness
beyond.

"Really? I thought you were distancing yourself from the case." He said
in an off-handed accusatory tone.  

I pursed my lips and shook my head a little. "I am, this found me. I
arrived at my room to find a long-stemmed white rose on the doormat. 
Now, either I have a secret admirer, or our murderer is waving evidence
under our noses." I said.

Apparently Mulder had found out a lot more about those roses than I had,
because he went quiet for a long couple of minutes.  When he did speak again, his
tone was hissed and nearly whispered. "Scully, you have got to get out of there.
The rose is what--"
Mulder continued speaking, but I stopped listening right there.

Making a lazy turn away from the window, and listening to Mulder, I
hadn't noticed the other person crouching behind the bedside table. 
The dim lamplight cast eerie shadows everywhere, making it easy to
conceal himself.  When I was still listening to Mulder, and
talking myself, I didn't hear him come out of the shadows.  I didn't
know he was even there until I felt two strong arms of sinewy,
bulky muscles wrap around my face and knock the phone from my
gentle grasp.  

I watched as the phone slid across the shallow carpet and underneath the
table. I slapped and clawed at the hands and arms holding me hostage. 
But my attacker was too strong.  With one arm, he managed to bring
down my arms to stop my relentless nails from digging into his shirt. 
Using his other hand, he kept the scream building in my throat
from escaping.  The instinct for self-preservation was strong. I had had
to get away so I did the only thing I could, I bit down on the latex-gloved
hand covering my lips.  He didn't pull his hand away, but I did feel it flinch. 
I heard him mutter a word under his breath. "Bitch" I think it was.  

With incredibly strong arms and hands like vices, he pushed me down onto
my knees.  My breath was coming in short, harsh spurts and my heart
pounded inside my chest. I could fear tears trailing down my cheeks,
more out of fear than sadness. He held his grip on my face still, and now
I knew his face was near mine, because I could feel his hot,
stagnant breath against my skin.  

"You scream, and I kill you." He said in a gruff, grunting voice I
recognized.  

As soon as he released the gag that was his hand, I jerked my head to
the right to look at him as he stooped slightly beside and behind me. 
The room was dimly lit, but I could make out some characteristics of
his face.  He had a square jaw, and a bushy mustache.  When he looked
up from whatever he was doing, I could clearly see his eyes.  His eyes
were cold, gray, and heartless.  After one look at those eyes I
recognized him.  It was Deuce.  Before I could say anything, I felt the
cold metal rings of handcuffs being slipped around my wrists, and the
click-click-click of them being adjusted and locked.  They felt
loose, but I wouldn't draw attention to that.

"Why are you doing this?" I managed to choke out.  

"Shut-up." He grumbled.  He stood up and shuffled with something in his
pocket.  A small, pen-shaped object was brought out.  It wasn't until the light
caught its tip that I realized it was a sharp, scalpel blade.  He looked down at my face
again. "Face forward," he said.

I knew that I was in a hostage situation, although I had little hope for
survival. I didn't know I had no chance then, I thought I might be able to get of this
alive.  Survival being my first priority, I was willing to do whatever he said,
provided it may open an opportunity for escape.

I did as I was told, and Deuce knelt behind me once again.  Taking my
right hand in a rough grip, he brought the blade down to it.  I felt no pain as the act
was performed, only the slipping sensation as it moved through my skin. 
After a few seconds, I began to feel blood trickling down the soft flesh
of my palm.  One hand done, he repeated the procedure in a few swift
strokes on the other hand.     

I needed to get away; I knew the end was drawing near.  Please Mulder,
please figure out what's going on, was all I could think.  Deuce stood up
again, and took a few steps back from where I knelt.  I heard him digging
in his coat again, pulling out something else.  A few seconds later was the
click of a hammer cocking on a handgun.  It is an unmistakable
sound if you've heard it as often as I have.  

"F=FCr die S=FCnden der Vegangenheit." He said in a perfect German
accent.  

Years of college German classes clicked in my brain.  What the hell was
this man talking about? There was something about 'sins of the past'? 
Who cared though, I needed to buy some time. He didn't know I knew
German perhaps I could get him in aconversation.  
"S=FCnden? Welche sunden der Vergangenheit?" I asked, trying to lead him
in.  Besides that, I was working on my physical escape.  The blood was flowing freely
from my hands, and they throbbed in pain. I ignored the pain, but used the blood
to my advantage.  As inconspicuously as I could, I worked my wrists around in the cuffs,
smearing the crimson moisture all around the inside.  

Stein must have been surprised. I heard the shuffle as he shifted his
weight from foot to foot, I guess trying to think of what to say. He had
never had a victim respond to his ritualistic words before me.

Nearly out of the cuffs, using the blood as a lubrication to slip my
hands free, I needed him distracted for a moment longer.  "Ich verstehe nicht."
I told him I didn't understand. My hope, a dim one, was that he would lapse
into explaining what his ritual was. Hopefully he would do it in English, my
German was a little rusty.  He didn't speak, but I didn't really care.  By then,
I had freed my hand, but held it close to the other one, waiting
now for the perfect moment to spring.

All of a sudden, interrupting my concentration, the digital chirruping
of my cell phone rang into the room.  I jumped a little, and looked
over to my far left, where it had skittered off to.  It had flipped shut
in one of its bounces to the floor, hanging up on Mulder.  That was
probably him calling again.

I don't know how, but I knew that it distracted Stein.  It was a minute
chance, but it was one I had to jump on.  In a surge of adrenaline I
was off my knees and onto my feet.  But Deuce was quicker than I,
at least in this instance.  He whirled back, gun in hand.  I never
even had a chance to turn around.

I do not remember the sound of an actual gunshot, just the sharp
whipping sound of a silencer.  I do remember the feeling of the bullet
hitting my lower back.  There was no immediate pain, just a burn and
the shocked blow that caused me to collapse.  A bullet wound, feels like
having a long, hot rod shoved into your flesh, leaving a hot piece of
lead lodged somewhere in your gut.  Of course I had never felt the rod
thing, I was just making a comparison. There was no lead lodged in my
gut though, the bullet entered in my back, and exited through my belly. 
I landed in a heap on the floor, not losing consciousness just yet.

The pain came when I landed on the carpet.  The sharp throbbing,
stinging, and burning pain I would come to think my friend before the
harrowing psychological pain that would torture me later.  I placed my
hand on the growing dark spot on my blazer, knowing the
hot blood was spreading too quickly.  There was the coppery taste of
blood in my mouth; the bullet had hit my stomach.  Deuce loomed over me.  

If he thought I would live, he would have put a bullet through my head
then and there.  Later I would think it would have been better that way,
but now I know different.  He must have seen the condition I was in and
thought it was over. He knelt down beside me as I began to lose grip with
reality.  He closed my eyes with his thumb and forefinger,
and then placed chaste kisses on my eyelids, all the while muttering
something in German.  The he got up and left, never giving a look back.  

I stayed awake as long as I could, trying to keep the pressure on my
abdomen.  I even tried to reach the phone, but that was useless.  I was bleeding
out of my stomach and back, my hands were throbbing twists of pain, my
body didn't want to go on.  I saw a white flash, and then it faded away
to darkness.  My final thought was that the abyss would swallow me forever.
I prayed it wouldn't.

        *        *        *        *        *        

End of Part 4   

C'mon now, feeeeeddddback. I know ya'll wanna tell me bout this one...



The Path of Thorns
Part 5

* * * *

I knew you wanted to tell me
In your voice there was something wrong
But if you would turn your face away from me
You cannot tell me you're so strong

* * * *

I woke up in a hospital bed. I had no idea how long I was out, or even
how I had survived.  I was aware I was in the hospital before I even opened my
eyes.  When consciousness returned, I could hear the bleeping of the heart monitor,
and droning voices around me.  One voice I recognized as Mulder's.  I didn't try to
open my eyes when the voices were still speaking; I wanted it to be quiet when I woke
up. I guess I'm just that way.  As soon as the sound of the voices died away, I felt a
hand larger than mine slip around my left hand.  I could only feel the rough flesh at my
fingertips because something was over my hands.  Though the skin of the hand was rough and
the hand was strong, the touch was gentle.  I thought it was Mulder, and I knew for
sure when he spoke:

"Hey, Scully." He said softly.  "Are you gonna wake up so I can see
those pretty eyes of yours?"

You have got to love Mulder for working the charm whenever humanly
possible.  Of course under normal circumstances I would have given that remark a cold
eye and a hasty retort, quickly changing the subject.  But that was not a normal
circumstance, and I welcomed his sweet voice and poor attempt at humor.

I felt his thumb run over my knuckles and then settle on the back of my
hand.  I responded by squeezing his fingers.

"Scully," He said more urgently. "Scully, can you hear me?"

I tried to open my eyes at this point.  Seeing only darkness for who
knew how many hours, the light was considerably harsh.  I opened my eyes a
tiny bit, and then closed them.  Again, I opened them a little more, letting the light slowly
filter, and the pain ease away.  When I opened them fully, and my vision focused, I turned my head
a little and looked at Mulder.

He smiled and reached toward my face to tuck a lock of my auburn hair
behind my ear.  I have never told anybody how much I love that.  I especially never told
him.  It's just a simple little act that to an outsider would mean nothing.  But to us,
it's something more, an act of intimacy far beyond the realms of a normal relationship.
Relationship? Ha. We technically had no relationship beyond work and beyond friendship.  And
that friendship is probably the one thing I never denied, the fact that Mulder was my
best friend.  Other than that, there was nothing.  Not that I didn't want there to be
nothing, it's just...well, I'll get to that later.

He moved his hand back to mine and spoke quietly. "Morning, Sunshine."

I brought my hand to my face and rubbed my eyes. I noticed the bandage
on my hand, on both hands.  As if I had forgotten before, a flood of memories regarding
what had happened returned to my conscience.

 "Morning?" I questioned, immediately confused.  The last time I was
awake, it was eight o'clock at night.

"Yeah," Mulder said, looking towards the window. "Actually, afternoon."

I turned my head and looked.  Sure enough, it was daylight.  I couldn't
exactly say the sun was shining and the birds were chirping, because that wasn't the case.
The sky was cloudy and gray, promising either more snow or cold rain.  I was
momentarily glad I didn't have to be out there.

When I looked back to Mulder, his eyes were cast to the floor.  He
flicked them up to me, trying to convey some form of calmness. 
"How are you feeling?" He asked robotically.

I had a sense he was hiding something from me.  Perhaps it was nothing.
"Um..." I muttered.  "I'm okay." I said.  That wasn't the truth. I was still
waking up, and not fully aware of what really was wrong yet. "What's
my damage count for this trip?"

Mulder tried to pass off a small smile.  "You broke my record." He said.
 He let the silence hang for a moment, making it easier for me to realize something
was wrong. "The doctors said you lost a lot of blood, and had some internal bleeding,
but they stopped it.  Nothing they couldn't fix with a blood transfusion."

I again stopped hearing what he was saying halfway through.  More awake
then, I realized something was indeed wrong. Something was terribly wrong.  I
moved my hand and touched my thigh.  I couldn't feel the warmth of my hand on my leg.

"Mulder," I began shakily. "I...I can't feel my legs."  It was like they
weren't even there.  Panic was beginning to rise in my mind.

Mulder turned his eyes away from me and swallowed hard.  He knew what
was going on.  The doctor probably told him when I was asleep.  Then the
doctor left Mulder to break whatever news there was to me.  They never
even stop to think how hard that might be on him. I could tell it was eating
him up inside. And that whatever it was, he couldn't bear to
tell, or think about it.  

"Mulder, what happened?" I asked more firmly.

He let out a ragged breath and gripped my hand a little harder.  Not so
that it was uncomfortable, but more snug, to set precedence for what he
was about to say.  "The bullet..." He began, then stopped and swallowed,
trying to steady his voice, and then started again. "The bullet shattered
your lower two lumbar vertebrae. The doctors said the bullet and the bone
fragments cut up your spinal cord..." He paused and looked at
me.  I remained in a frozen numbness.  "They saved what they could of
internal organ function, but they couldn't save your legs..."  

Numb is the only word I can find to accurately describe my feelings
then.  I just half-sat in the adjustable hospital bed and stared at the wall
and the ceiling. Mulder must have thought I was insane.  I honestly
didn't know what to feel. I had just been told I was indefinitely paralyzed. 
I wouldn't walk, run, swim, or do anything I had normally done
again.  

"They don't know if it's permanent or not." He explained, breaking the
silence.  

I nodded slowly, not really aware of his presence anymore.  So this was
my fate. I would be bound to a wheelchair for the rest of my life.  Never
again to go on a morning jog, or walk in the rain, or dance.  I was paraplegic. 
Another statistic of an officer wounded on the job.  I wouldn't be a field agent
anymore.  They would break Mulder and I up.  Then they would either make
me a fucking piece of office furniture, or release me to be
forgotten.  They would never have to worry about Dana Scully anymore.  I
refused to accept that as my fate.  

"Scully," Mulder said warily. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" I asked coldly.  I was only now coming to
grips with a discernable emotion.  An emotion I had learned to control but was
rapidly growing beyond my barriers.  Anger.  

I was handed evidence that I was paralyzed.  But I refused to accept it.
I refused to believe that I would never walk again, that I would never be *normal*.
It just couldn't be what it seemed.

"I wanna walk." I said, ignoring the choked sound to my voice.  I
grabbed a handful of blanket and sheet and pulled it away from my body. 
I was going to walk, no matter what anyone said. I was blinded by my
own determination, and made ignorant by my own stubbornness.  

I tried to move myself off the bed.  My legs of course didn't budge.  So
I tried to roll off the bed.  I know that seems totally stupid now, but at
the time it was a good idea.  Like I said, I was being stupid.  I was in
shock and in denial.  

"Don't do this Scully," Mulder said.  He watched my antics at first,
thinking I would stop on my own.  When I didn't and I slid off the bed,
he caught me.  

I pounded out the anger in bandaged fists against Mulder's chest as he
lifted me back to the bed. He never once told me to stop. I could not hit
him hard, and I guess he realized I needed to let the rage out.  The anger
dissipated quickly, giving way to another emotion
that I could normally learned to oppress.  Fear.

Fear came as tears began to trail down my cheeks.  I let a lingering,
weakened blow fall against Mulder's chest, and then began to cry.  By
the time he got me back into the bed, and the blankets covering me,
I was racked with sobs.  I buried my face in my hands and
wept.  Mulder sat beside me and put his arms around me, to hold me
tightly against the rage and the pain.  I gave up any hopes of hiding
emotions long before then, and wrapped my arms around his back. 
I smothered my face in his shoulder, letting my falling tears
soak the blue fabric.  

Never before had I released so many emotions at once.  I was never one
to cry over anything, and just meet my fate with an iron will.  But I couldn't do it
this time. I couldn't do it alone.  Mulder held me for the longest time;
rubbing my back and rocking me like a child.  He spoke in soft tones
and tried to comfort my cries. I tried to lose myself in him,
to receive the comfort he offered.  The comfort and the courage I would
come to know and rely on in the coming weeks.  I needed Mulder around me.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 5

I know this was a short one, but tell me what you thought.  Like Briehan
says, "Feedback
makes me write faster!"


The Path of Thorns
Part 6

The doctor came in to see me a little after two in the afternoon.
Mulder sat in protective vigilance at my bedside, no matter how many
times I told him to go back to the hotel and get some sleep after he'd
been up all night.  He said he couldn't go back there...not after
what happened.  He'd go get our stuff later and check into a different
hotel.  I didn't argue with him, I was in no mood to argue.  

Mulder was dozing at his bedside post when the doctor came in.  I knew
it had to be the doctor because he was dressed in green surgical scrubs
with a white lab coat and a clipboard tucked under his arm.  He wasn't
bad to look at with dark eyes, and light chocolate skin.  He had well
trimmed black hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and kindness
reflected in his eyes.  I guessed him to be in his early forties, a few
years older than Mulder, but still shy of fifty.  

He approached my bed and stuck out his hand.  "I'm Dr. Williams." He
said, shaking my hand carefully.  By that time Mulder was awake, sort
of.  He sat up in the chair and stifled a yawn with the back of his fist. 
He didn't shake the doctor's hand, instead regarding him with a nod.
Obviously they had met earlier.  

"How are you feeling?" He asked, checking my vitals and then jotting
them down on the clipboard.  

Why is it that doctors always ask this, even when they know perfectly
well what is wrong? As a doctor myself, I know this is because they
need to find out if there is anything wrong that they overlooked.  But
it still seems odd to me.  It just sort of offended me then. I was ready
to snap at him with something like, 'How do I feel? Oh,
fine, fine. I can't walk, I can't feel my legs, I have a hole through my
torso, but I'm just feeling dandy.'

I didn't say that, although I did say something a little coldly. "I
don't feel any pain, of course I can't feel anything below my waist right
about now." I cringed a little afterward.

Dr. Williams nodded and looked crossed his face like he knew just how I
took the news. No doubt he'd seen it before.  "What about your hands?"
He asked without missing a beat.

"A little sore." I said more softly.  

"Some painkillers should take care of that. I'll have the nurse bring
some in." He told me, scribbling again on the charts. When he was
finished he sat halfway on the edge of the bed with a serious look in
his eyes. I had a feeling he was going to be explaining some
things to me. Some things I may not exactly like.

 "Ms. Scully, there are some things I need to talk to you about,
regarding your injury and your condition." He began. "You may
want to hear them alone, and consider them."  

I looked at Mulder. He sat forward in his chair, resting his chin in his
hand, attentive as ever.  "No..." I said, returning my eyes to Williams.
"I think Mulder should hear it, too."  

Williams nodded.  He set the chart aside and clasped his hands in his
lap.  I suppose he was thinking of how to begin his speech, or remembering
the speech he had delivered before.  "Your injury is unique." He stated. 
"The spinal cord was not cut cleanly through, but it was torn by the entry
of the bullet and sharp fragments of the spinal column.  Given
these characteristics, we're not exactly sure what 'works' and what
doesn't. Just because you can't feel or move your legs now, doesn't
mean it's permanent..."

I drew in a sharp breath.  A seed of hope was planted.

"But," He continued, "It doesn't mean it's not.  We've already found
that bladder and rectal operations are functional, but we don't know
what else.  Provided that the feeling returns to your legs, you will
have to relearn how to stand, how to walk, run,
dance...whatever.  However, there are no guarantees."

I swallowed hard, finding my throat dry and sore.  No guarantees.  But
it might not be permanent! That was something to lean on, right? It
was, unless he was sugar coating it.

"Because of the extensive damage to the vertebrae, we've inserted
something of synthetic vertebrae.  Flexible metal plates that connect
the remaining pieces of bone tissue and act in the same way natural
vertebrae would." He explained.  "The next few weeks will be
increasingly difficult.  When you return home, you should have daily
physical therapy sessions to help strengthen the muscles to help with
rehab in the event you have the chance to walk.  You'll probably have
live with caretaker until you're able to do things on
your own.  You'll be taught how to get around well in a wheelchair,
etcetera."  

I sat in the bed; nodding blindly and listening to the doctor speak
about physical therapy and wheelchairs.  Reality was slowly sinking in. 
This was really happening.  It wasn't a totally temporary injury that
would have me back on my feet in a few days. This could
very well be how I lived the rest of my life.  I couldn't handle it. I
didn't want to be like that.  A live in nurse to care for me was
something of a nightmare.  I was way too independent and
self-controlling for that.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek.  I tried to speak to the doctor, but
my voice came out croaky and high-pitched with sobs that hadn't
come yet.  "What are my chances of walking? Please tell me honestly."

Williams looked at me solemnly. I could tell he didn't want to be
honest. He wanted to dance around the subject and try to raise my
hopes as high as possible.  It would make him feel fulfilled and
keep the guilt off his chest.  He knew I was a doctor though, he had
read my file and knew I was too smart for that.  "Slim." He said
finally. "It's all going to rely on how your body heals.  There's simply
nothing else we can do."

More tears trekked their way down my cheeks. I swiped them away with the
back of my hand.  I wouldn't give up hope so easily, but things were not looking
too good. I was suddenly very homesick. I wanted to see my mother,
and to have her hold me like she did when I was young and got sick. 
To have her soothing voice tell me things were going to
be all right, and that every cloud had a silver lining, because this one
certainly didn't seem to hold any hope.  

"I'll leave you alone to think about this, okay?" Dr. Williams said,
rising from his seat.  "The nurse should be in later with painkillers
and to change your bandages." He took a lingering look back at me;
a once stolid, professional federal agent with protective
emotional armor no one could penetrate; reduced to a weeping, crippled
woman with little hopes for her life back.  It must have been sad for him. It was
beyond sad for me.

Mulder moved from the chair in the corner to the side of the bed.  "Are
you okay?" He asked gently.

I frowned, choosing to ignore the tears on my cheeks.  "I want to go
home." I said sadly.  
"I want to leave here."

He took my hand and gently ran his fingers over my knuckles.  I made no
motion back. I just turned my face away and looked out the window.  I
wanted my life back.   

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 6

I know this was a short one. Blame Briehan. Feedback anyway... :o)


The Path of Thorns
Part 7

The next day, Pacelli visited to talk to me.  I wasn't exactly in the
mood to talk, but I cooperated anyway.  Hell, I wasn't in the mood to
do anything but lie in bed and feel sorry for myself, but that seemed
to come with the territory.  

She came in as dignified as ever, but there was unmistakable sympathy in
her eyes.  Alongside her entered a young officer, thankfully not Deuce.
They didn't know who committed the crimes and I did. But after this
meeting, that man would be in jail, provided they could catch him. For
all I knew, he could have left town or even the
country. He wasn't even remotely considered a suspect.

Pacelli sat in the chair Mulder had recently vacated; Mulder was turning
to lean against the wall.  Pacelli looked at me, then gave a backwards
glance to her amateur companion, and then flicked her eyes back to me. 
After letting a silence hang over the room for a few minutes, she began
with her song and dance about how sorry she was and how she
offered her condolences.  It just didn't seem genuine though.  How could
she possibly offer sympathy when she had no idea what it was like?

"You know what we're here for." She began after the greeting card
introduction.  "We need to ask you a few things about what happened
Tuesday night."

I nodded.  I hoped that perhaps that was all I had have to do, just
answer with a yes or no movement of my head.  Even if I answered
her questions that way, I knew of a certain Assistant Director who had
flown in that morning who would have questions of his own.  
Mulder delivered the news to me that Skinner had flown in along with a
handful of VCS agents.  Sorry Detective Pacelli, federal employees
would overtake the case.  

"Do you remember who shot you?" She asked blatantly.  Her words seemed
purposely emphasized, as if she were talking to a child.  I don't know, perhaps
she thought a bullet in the back would affect my comprehension of the
English language.

I nodded again. I knew that I couldn't leave them hanging with that, so
I had to name someone.  The moment of truth had arrived and justice
would be served.
Not.  Justice may be served, but I know vengeance is sweeter.  But even
that wouldn't settle me.  Even watching the public execution of Deuce
Stein wouldn't bring back what he had taken.  These thoughts rummaged
in my head as I opened my mouth to speak.

"Deuce." I said quietly.

I could see the instant confusion on both Pacelli and the officer's
faces.  Deuce? They were thinking. But he's a cop he's on our side for Christ
sake.  At first it even seemed that Pacelli didn't believe me.

"Are you sure?" She even dared to ask.

"Positive." I snapped.

She stared at me a moment longer, her green eyes locking on my blue
ones.  I didn't care if *she* believed it or not, as long as someone caught the
son-of-a-bitch.  

Even if she didn't believe it, Mulder now knew who committed the crime
and he would be happy to cuff and bag the bastard himself. I saw the glitter
of anger in his eyes when I spoke to Pacelli.  If Mulder had anything to
do with it he would have Deuce's balls in a jar by the end of the week. 
Provided the bastard had any.  Vengeance maybe a sweet fruit I have never
tasted, but to Mulder it was like one of his many life's goals.      

Almost reluctantly, she turned to the officer. "Get Deuce on the phone.
Tell him to drag his fat ass down to the station; he has some questions to
answer. If he doesn't answer, you get Tommy and John and go to his
apartment."

They wouldn't catch him.  And if they did, they couldn't hold him.  The
only evidence they had against him was the naming by a crippled FBI
agent.  Even I knew that wasn't enough.  There was no MO, no hard
evidence, not even a tiny accusation. Other than my own, that is.  And
any idiot lawyer could use the defense that I was"not in a stable state
of mind."

Pacelli stared at me for a long while after the rookie left.  I couldn't
tell if she was trying to think of more questions for me to answer, or if
she was angry because I named a man who was presumably one of her
friends.  She probably never thought in her wildest dreams that Deuce
would be the murderer of nine women and the gunmen to one FBI
agent.

She rose from her seat after a few minutes and stuffed her notepad into
her trench coat.  She didn't utter a word as she headed towards the open
door of the room. As if a final thought suddenly came to mind, she turned
back to me and asked another question: "Did you know before?  Did you
know it was him?"

I couldn't answer at first.  I was so off-struck I really didn't know
what to answer.  I suppose I always knew it was he in a way, from
the moment I looked into his eyes.  They were the eyes of a heartless
serial killer, but I just couldn't name it then.  Guilt was overwhelming
when I realized that I could've prevented all of this if Ihad just voiced my
trepidation from the start.  If I had simply told Mulder I was a little
apprehensive about Deuce, none of this would have happened.   I know it.

"I had a clue." I said in a choked voice that was barely above a
whisper.  

Pacelli left without so much as a gesture of understanding.  I don't
know what she was feeling then, nor do I think I really want to know. 
I had way too much of my own problems to think about.  None of which
I seemed to be able to handle alone.  Even though I tried.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 7


The Path of Thorns
Part 8

It wasn't until the end of the week that I was able to check out of the
hospital if I wanted to.  There was so much paperwork to be filled out
heaven forbid the Bureau let me go anywhere.  Dr. Williams continuously
urged me to stay, claiming that the wound in my abdomen still needed time
to heal.  He also thought I might want to talk to a counselor of
some type.  I scoffed at the idea of that.  

I suppose Williams was right about the wound.  I could at least think of
that rationally.  I stayed more willingly until Friday.  But I was restless.  Actually I
don't think restless is the word I should use to describe it.  I felt like a prisoner.  I was
trapped in this place meant to be for healing, but only feeling like it
was a place of gloom. Everywhere I looked, all I could see were the
pitying looks and sympathetic lies. The thing I didn't know then was
that the world around my home would be far worse.

Thankfully Mulder was on my side.  He realized that the best thing for
me would be to be in my home, around familiar surroundings to help
me heal mentally. Williams didn't buy it.  He didn't think that I was
ready to be out of the hospital. Obviously he knew something was
psychologically wrong with me that neither Mulder nor I
could see.  

I left Saturday against the doctor's orders.  The Bureau paid in full
for all medical accommodations and supplies, including the manual
wheelchair I was already beginning to think of as my "portable prison".  
They also paid to have my seat changed on the flight
so I could sit in the handicapped section.  What fun that was.

Once I got into my apartment again, I felt a little better.  More at
ease I suppose, like the whole world was no longer watching me,
no longer staring.  

Mulder carried my single overnight bag and vanity case up, and held open
the front door to the apartment, stuff like that.  Normal, polite things he just does,
he doesn't even realize he does them; but they are the things that don't
bother me. They actually make it feel like nothing has changed.  If there's
one thing I hate the most, it's when Mulder doesn't treat me normally,
when he feels the need to be more considerate of me, when he
wants to do everything for me, just doesn't want to leave me alone.  He
did it terribly with my cancer, and he did it worse then.  When I had cancer,
it was obvious I could still do things for myself.  I guess Mulder could fake
himself out about it then, pretending it wasn't real. But every time he looked
at me in that wheelchair, he knew it was very real,
and he would do anything to make me happy.  

When attempted to push me through the crowd at the airport, I went off
on him.  I told him I didn't need his help and that I could get through an
airport by myself.  I added a few more curse words in there, and yelled it
pretty loud.  Needless to say he didn't try it again,
and we didn't speak the rest of the trip home either.

Mulder got a call on his cell phone as soon as he dropped my bags on my
bed for me.  I just sat on the living room sofa, listening to his half of the
conversation.  The only thing I had learned how to do so far was move
myself from a chair or the floor to the wheelchair and back.  And that still
wasn't easy.  My upper body strength wasn't great enough to
move my weight that easily.  The nurse in Chicago said it would get
easier with time. I had a feeling the physical therapist was going to tell
me the same thing when I saw her the next day.

When Mulder's call was finished, he came over and sat beside me on the
sofa.  "That was Skinner." He said with a sigh.  "He said they just got
Deuce in custody.  He turned himself in."

I nodded slowly.  Like I had predicted, the police didn't catch Deuce
right away.  They talked to everyone he knew, and began to fear that
he had crossed the state line.  I still can't believe to this day that he turned
himself in, and I still don't know why he did it.  

"Skinner also said he would like my written report by Monday, but you
can have as long as you need.  But he does want you to come in at least
once next week for a meeting.  And he said that the Bureau is working
on hiring a live in nurse, someone to just help you out around here until
you..." He paused as if he didn't know how to continue the sentence.

"Until I get back on my feet." I finished coldly.  I was against the
idea of a nurse from the very beginning.  I was way too independent to
have someone live with me and do everything for me.  I was bent on the
idea that I could still do everything on my own, when I knew deep inside
that I couldn't.  

I looked over at Mulder.  He was staring at his hands in his lap. I felt
bad for the way I'd been treating him, but I just couldn't handle the
way he treated *me*.  

"I don't want a nurse, Mulder." I said after a few eternal silent
minutes.

I heard a long breath escape him.  This was the exact argument we had
had many times over the past few days.  He knew I needed someone
here to help me out until I was able to live on my own, but I refused
to see it.  He had to be near wit's end by then, but God bless Mulder
for his relentless persistence.  "You should have someone here." He urged.

"I don't need anyone here! I'm perfectly capable of living by myself,
I've only been doing it for seventeen years!" Thoroughly fed up with
the conversation as a whole, I moved myself from the sofa to the wheelchair. 
I seem to keep writing "the"wheelchair.  I guess even now I refuse to
think of it as "my" wheelchair, even though it was. The FBI bought
it for my use, as sort of a federal gift.  Happy Birthday and Merry
Christmas, the government only buys you stuff to shut you up when
you get hurt on their time.

Mulder didn't say anything while I moved into the wheelchair.  There is
no way I can ever know what was on his mind then.  Or how it must
have felt to see his partner of six years now confined to a wheelchair. 
I don't know how he viewed me before, but I know he viewed me differently
then.  And I also knew he contained the same pity I always tried
to escape.  I could see it in his eyes.

Once I was settled into the wheelchair, I maneuvered myself out to the
kitchen, never saying a word to Mulder.

He stood up and grabbed his jacket.  Moving towards the door, he broke
the silence. "I guess this is where I go," he said sullenly.  He almost sounded
reluctant to leave me, but I guess he was using the excuse that he didn't
want to be around me when I was so snappy.  
I don't blame him. I didn't want to be around me either.

He watched me a moment longer as I mused over how to get a glass from
the high cabinet above me.  I could open the cabinet, but I couldn't reach the
glasses, which were stored on the middle shelf, just out of my reach.  

"Unless you want me to stay." He said subtly.  

"Just go." I said, trying to figure out how to get a glass.  All I want
was a glass of water.  There were none clean in the dishwasher, I made
sure to put them away before I left for Chicago.  

"Okay," He conceded.  "Call me if you need anything."

But he didn't go.  I didn't notice it right away, but he remained in my
doorway.  

The futility of trying to get the taunting glass from the cabinet hurt.
It hurt that I couldn't do something as simple as getting myself a glass
of water.  Perhaps I wasn't as independent as I was before.  The reality
of this was jarring to me. Thinking Mulder had left, I didn't try and stop
the flood of tears.  

Seeing my pain, Mulder couldn't just stand in the doorway and watch
anymore.  He walked back into the room a little, not even trying to make up an
excuse.  "Scully," He said.  It sounded at first like a question, as if he was
asking if I was okay.  Now I know he was saying my name more to himself,
he too realizing what this was all about.  

I looked up, startled by his presence, and began to wipe the tears from
my cheeks.  I couldn't get myself out of this one.  "Mulder, could you get that glass
for me?" I asked, sniffing back my tears. "I-I can't reach it."

'I can't', was something that was very hard for me to admit, mostly to
myself. Little did I know, "I can't" would become "I won't'" and things
would begin to dip downhill more than they already were.

"Sure," Mulder answered quietly, replacing his jacket and coat on the
chair by the door and approaching the kitchen.  He got a glass down and
gave it to me.  I thanked him and filled it with water.

And so Mulder stayed.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 8  

The Path of Thorns
Part 9

My first physical therapy session wasn't so bad.  It was mostly meeting
the therapists, my individual therapist, and some of the other patients. 
They claimed groups of patients with similar disabilities helped each
other heal psychologically.  I wasn't sure if I bought it at first. And I
wasn't willing to give it a try.  

My therapist's name was Dr. Annie Chase.  She was a well-built, thin
woman with cropped brunette hair and kind brown eyes.  Her first
greeting was surprisingly with a lack of pity.  I liked her immediately. 
I hoped she always stayed as clinically detached, I didn't want to see
that same lying empathy in her eyes that I did in everyone else's.   

Annie may have been clinically detached in those aspects, but she did
act as though she tried to make friends with her patients. She told me
that I could call her Annie, if she could call me Dana.  I agreed.  It was
a way to ensure a comfortable bond a little beyond patient-doctor.  The
one thing different about her was she saw no sorrow.  She only saw
what could happen, and what she hoped to happen.  She was well trained
in the aspects of looking past the sadness and pain her patients carried. 
If only I could have looked past my pain as well.

She explained that the coming sessions would become increasingly
difficult.  Strict physical therapy consisted of rigorous exercise, both
to strengthen my upper body, and keep my unused muscles strong in
the event that I could relearn to walk.  Along with the exercise, there
was hydrotherapy for my legs and massages to ease pain and tension, also
both in the muscles I felt and the ones I didn't.  She knew I worked out
before, but she still assured me that exercises would be difficult to get
accustomed too.  They would leave me stiff and sore for the first few
weeks, and then everything would get easier.  I had been hearing that a
lot.  I braced myself for the worst.  Three days a week I would have
physical therapy, and I had a feeling I would be dreading it by the end
of the first week.

Mulder picked me up after the session and drove me back to my apartment.
 After the first night, it became unspoken that he was welcome to stay with me
whenever he wanted.  I claimed out loud that I didn't want him there, but I truly
needed him to stay.   He had no problem with sleeping on my couch,
insisting that he was used to it.  He even refused the guest bedroom. 
I stopped arguing with him about it after two rounds.  

The truth was, I liked having him around.  Not as someone to care for
me; when he acted like that I hated him; but as someone to talk to, someone to keep the
place from being lonely.  But being with or without a companion was never
my problem. My problem was always myself.

*

As Skinner had requested, I went into work on the second Wednesday after
returning to DC.  The date was December first.

 I forgot to mention, it had been another Thanksgiving I spent out of
town. In fact, a Thanksgiving spent in the hospital.  But it's not like Thanksgiving is
my favorite holiday anyway.

I didn't look forward to going into work.  I hadn't a clue what Skinner
wanted the meeting for, and I didn't know what to expect.  My fear was that
he was going to let me go, not that it would have mattered then.  

Mulder parked in his normal spot on the third floor of the parking
garage.   He got out the folded wheelchair, which I was getting more
used to seeing but not using, and unfolded it for me.  In a good ten-minute
process, I got myself out of the car and into the chair.  I grabbed my briefcase
and purse from the car and put them in the canvas bag hanging
from the handles.  Mulder stood and watched wordlessly, he was slowly
learning not to offer help unless I asked for it.  

I lifted the brake and in a hefty push to get the wheels moving, was on
my way into the building.  Mulder walked beside me casually, but I could
feel his eyes on me, trying to interpret my feelings.  He opened the door
leading into the hallway and stepped aside so I could get through.  Keeping
my eyes locked straight ahead, I swallowed hardly and wheeled myself in.

After passing through security, we made a left down the hall towards the
Assistant Director's offices.  As usual, the hall was milling with people.
Agents, secretaries, and a tour group crossed back and forth between the
offices and the elevators.  Normally, I would storm confidently down these
halls, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mulder, ignoring everyone's looks. 
It was so different that time.  

I kept myself focused on the destination as I maneuvered carefully down
the hall. Though no one said anything outright to me, I could feel their stares
and hear their whispers behind my back.  Agents I had never seen or spoke
to before watched me with unbelievable enthrallment.  The composed empathy
they displayed was simply masking the shaking heads.  I bet they were all
thinking along the same lines: Poor Agent Scully, crippled off on one of
her partner's alien chases.

Finally, three offices from the door and we were at Skinner's.  Again,
Mulder stepped forward to open the door and then guided me in with a
gentle hand on my shoulder.  It was comforting and odd both at the same time. 
Normally that hand would be at its place on the small of my back.  It was
weird to feel his hand on my shoulder that way, yet the simple contact was
a comfort.

Skinner's secretary was on the phone, when she saw us enter she told the
caller to hold please and then replaced the phone on the cradle.  

"Agents, Mr. Skinner is waiting for you." She told us.

Mulder nodded and headed towards the side door of AD Skinner's office.
I followed behind him; barely able to ignore the stare Skinner's secretary was
giving me.  Skinner rose from behind his desk as we entered, making a
motion to step away from it, but not following through.   

"Have a seat," he gestured to Mulder.  I could tell by his face that he
was trying not to say anything that might offend me.  I didn't know
what was worse, people worried about putting their foot in their mouth
around me, or the pity they tried to offer me.  I moved up in between the
two chairs close enough to the spot I would normally occupy.  

"Can I get you anything?" Skinner asked.  He didn't specify a name, but
I knew he was talking to me.  Should have known, he was no better than
anyone else, certainly no more professional.  

I looked uncomfortably at the floor.  "No thank you, sir.  I'm fine," I
said, straightening the front of my navy blue jacket.  

Suddenly realizing his impertinence, he resumed his seat behind his
large pine desk.  He nervously shuffled some of the papers on his desk
and tidied the piles. Then he cleared his throat and looked up at the two of
us.  "I called you in for this meeting to tie up some loose ends involving
the crimes committed by Deuce Stein as well as some medical paperwork
for Agent Scully's condition."

My *condition*, whoa.  That, surprisingly, was a new one.  I heard them
before, my handicap, my disability...everything.  Usually people got up to the "my"
but stopped when they couldn't come up with a suitable noun.  

"Agent Scully, I asked for your report if you could complete it."
Skinner said, looking to me again.

"Yes, sir." I replied turning back for my briefcase tucked safely in the
black canvas bag.  I pulled out the brown leather-bound case in a hefty
tug and placed it on my lap to flip open the top.   After a few moments
of sifting to find the right folder, I pulled it out and handed it to Skinner.   

He looked at it briefly and then laid it on the desktop before him.  He
clasped his hands on top of the folder and looked at Mulder and I. 
"I received word from the two agents now heading the case in Chicago
that forensics found some hard evidence against Lieutenant Peter Stein
of the Chicago Police.  On the rose that was found in your hotel
room was a small amount of blood where Deuce had apparently cut himself.
 Also, some hair and fiber was found on your clothes.  Blood matching yours was
found on his handcuffs and the gun he tried to get rid of was the one that killed
those nine women and shot you."

Finally, some justice would be served.  Now Deuce would be convicted and
sent to jail for a long, long, long time. Maybe they would even fry the bastard.
Like I said, vengeance is sweet and it can get the best of people.  But even if Deuce
did die for his crimes, it wouldn't bring back my ability to walk.  It wouldn't even
bring peace of mind.  I think that's what hurt the most.

"He's to be indicted on December first with court proceedings beginning
on the tentative date of January tenth.  As far as I know, you both will be called to
testify as witnesses."  Skinner continued.  He opened his mouth to say something
else, but was cut off by Mulder.

"Excuse me, sir," Mulder said, "Have they found out was his MO was?"

Skinner sighed.  "No, he hasn't talked to anyone but his lawyer since he
confessed and his lawyer isn't saying anything to anybody.  He keeps throwing
that lawyer-client confidentiality bullshit at us.  At this point we may never know."

Mulder and I shared a glance.  Although it didn't seem like an X-file
from the outside, Mulder had his theories about Deuce Stein.  

"Scully said something before about him performing some kind of ritual
in German. Could that have anything to do with it?" He asked.

Skinner was growing impatient.  As far as he was concerned, this case
was over and done with.  Justice was served, the women's killers and
my assailant was in jail, end of story.  "I wouldn't know. But I can pass
that information to our people in Chicago, maybe they can get him to
spill." he said tersely.

Honestly, I couldn't care less at that point. I wasn't driven by that
truth like Mulder. He wouldn't rest until he knew why Deuce killed. 
I was happy if I never heard that man's name again.  Well, not happy,
better off.  

Mulder nodded reluctantly.  He wasn't satisfied there.  Personally it
wouldn't have surprised me if he went back to Chicago in search of
answers. They wouldn't let him investigate the case anymore though,
as he would learn the hard way.

"As far as medical leave and such goes," Skinner pressed on, changing
the subject and looking to me.  "You'll have the six months paid leave and full
compensation for medical expenses because you were injured on duty. 
In the event that your condition changes for the better and you are able
to fulfill your duties as a field agent, you'll stay with Agent
Mulder.  If not, I can talk to a few people and perhaps get you a job in
forensics where I'm certain your expertise will be appreciated." he explained.

I didn't reply. I knew that was what he was going to tell me.  I would
be bound to that wheelchair and behind a desk for the rest of my life.
I didn't want to be that way.  I couldn't stand the thought of a desk job. 
And even if I quit the FBI, a desk job would be my only option.  I couldn't
be a doctor now, not in a hospital environment where I wanted
to be.  The world had no room for those who couldn't walk.  

The rest of the meeting was discussion about the case.  Mostly about
what I saw and the autopsy I couldn't finish.  It was extremely difficult to give a
rational explanation and not appear weak.  There was no real explanation
for why I left the autopsy, or even what I saw. I was scared. My
subconscious was playing tricks on me.  I didn't exactly believe in
that type of intuition, so I was unable to explain myself. I told them
it was because I was getting myself too emotionally involved, and felt
bothered by the autopsy.  Skinner gave me the third degree on how I
should have returned to DC if I couldn't investigate.  It was all very
stressful...and upsetting.  

He dismissed us around noon.  I told Mulder to go ahead to the car
without me, I would be there in a minute, had to use the restroom.  I
didn't really I just needed an excuse to get away. I was slowly losing
grip with my emotions and needed a moment to get control.  I
went into the third floor ladies' room, and all the way down to the end
stall, the wheelchair accessible one.  The bathroom was empty, thank god. 
I locked the stall door and sat in silence, trying to hold back my tears
and whatever other emotions might come forth.  It was so hard.  

A few minutes after I went in, I heard the sound of the door opening and
two pairs of high heals step onto the tile.  The two women were chattering a little,
nothing I was worried about.  But I remained silent.   I would wait until they left
before I did.  Then I heard my name in the conversation.
 
"Did you see Agent Scully?" One of the women asked the other. I still
have no idea who the two women were.  They were probably a couple of
secretaries.  Even now, I don't know many of the agents, especially none
of the women. Partly because I wasn't like them, I wasn't one of their two types. 
Type one being the flirty, giggly, trying-to-nail-herself-a-G-man; type two
being the married mother trying to make a name for herself.  I
was single, and my partner and I shared a bond none of them had.  They
saw me as cold, hard, and unfriendly.  Different.

"Yeah, I did." The other replied.  "It's a shame.  I can't believe she
was shot like that."

"Pity." The other said simply. "I feel sorry for her."  

After a few more minutes, they both left.  

It sounded like a simple conversation anyone would have in that
situation.  But it hurt badly.  They felt sorry for me. That was great. 
They didn't know what it was like, how it felt.  Their pity was blind,
a simple human reaction to someone else's poor life.  More than that,
they were the same people that stared when I went down the hall.  The same
people that whispered rumors and sympathies behind my back.  The same
goddamn people who really couldn't care less.  And I didn't want them to care.
I didn't want to be the subject of their rumors.  

Everyone says they want to be individual, that's why we all have our own
distinct personalities.  But none of us are so different, that we stand out in a
crowd unless that's what we *want*.  In the event of persecution, any
person can conform to the crowd.  We want to be different, but we
don't want to be singled out.  That wasn't me anymore.  I was
different, and I didn't want to be. Before, I could be one of them if I
needed to. Normally I wouldn't care because I was proud of who I
was, and I knew that I could be one of them, but didn't want to.  Now
it was like being on the outside looking in.  I wanted to be
one of them, but couldn't.  I was singled out in the crowd. I couldn't
conform.  And all I wanted was to be one of those people again. 
I wanted to be normal.  

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 9

The Path of Thorns
Part 10

* * * *
And I wonder where these dreams go
When the world gets in your way
What's the point in all this screaming
No one's listening anyway

Your voice is small and fading
And you hide in here unknown...

* * * *

Rather than feeling as if a stressful weight had been lifted from my
shoulders after going
into work, I felt more burdened.  For some foolish reason of mine, I
hadn't thought the
world would be the way it was.  I thought the pity in the hospital was
bad, but the stares
in the office were worse.  I was no longer normal and it hurt.

People are so blind to how much looks can hurt.  You know that saying
about how "if
looks could kill"?  Well, I happen to know first hand that they can.  If
you let the little
stares and the whispers get under your skin, they can kill you.  And
once they're under
there, they take a long time to get out.

I went home and then had to go back out, after changing, to physical
therapy.  I was there
until Mulder got off and could give me a ride home.  I hated having to
rely on someone
else to get me places; it was almost like being fourteen again.  When I
got home, I got in
the tub to relax.  Like Annie said, the therapy left me sore and stiff
beyond belief.  I
would commonly go home and soak in a hot bathtub to get rid of the ache.
 Sometimes
even that didn't work.

One of the first things I learned in therapy and the "independent
living" classes, was how
to get in and out of the tub on my own.  I have one of those huge white
tubs with the big
lion's paw feet, so that made it a little easier.  I couldn't get in and
out on my own at first,
Mulder had to help me. He didn't seem to have a problem with it, but it
made me slightly
uncomfortable at first.  I got used to it, and then I didn't need help
after I learned the technique behind it.  

That night after work and therapy, I was soaking in my bubbles fragrant
of jasmine and
lavender, letting myself slip away from my thoughts and reality.  I was
nearly into an
exhausted state of half sleep when a soft knock sounded on the door.

"Hey, Scully," Mulder called from behind the closed door.

Normally I would have been irritated by his interruption, but I was in
need of human
contact after that day.  Especially Mulder's presence, now that he was
getting over the
pity, he began to pretend everything was normal, which is how I wanted
him to act.  Yes,
I wanted him to lie, for me.  Lie about the fact that things were not
fine and dandy, but I
wanted them to be.  That was my stability.  

"Yeah, come in." I called.  

Mulder opened the door slowly and peeked his head in.  I shook my head.
Men.  Once he
saw that bubbles safely covered me to the neck he approached the side of
the tub and sat
on the floor.  He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his
eyes.  

After a few silent minutes, I began to wonder what he wanted in the
first place, or if he was like me, just seeking company.  "What did you
want?" I finally asked.

He sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers and thumb.
"Something's bothering
me about the case." He said.

I knew this was going to come up eventually, I just prayed I would be
ready to talk about
it then.  But I wasn't, and I never really would be. "I don't wanna talk
about the case, Mulder." I told him straightforward.

"I know, but...never mind." He was silent again.

He knew just as well that my curiosity would get the best of me. "What's
bothering you?"
I finally inquired.

"How he targeted his victims." He stated blatantly.  "I just don't get
it..." He looked up at
me. I was staring at the mounds of white bubbles floating about the tub.
 "Sorry," he apologized.

"I'm okay." I said in a voice slightly on the shaky side. "It's just
difficult to talk about the case."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry." He said again.  There he went, blaming
himself.

"It's okay, Mulder, you didn't know." I assured him.  He wouldn't buy
that, but he stopped apologizing.  

We were silent again for a few longer moments.  I leaned forward a
little and arched my
shoulders into my back, listening to the satisfying crack of my shoulder
blades and upper
spine. Then I rolled my head and heard my neck crackle.  Relieved with
that, I leaned
back against the tub.  That was one of those nights where even a hot
bath wouldn't relieve
the tension in my shoulders and arms. They felt like the weighed a ton
each.  

"Does your back hurt?"  Mulder asked.  He's the observant one.  

"Little bit." I said, letting my eyes slip shut again, content in the
fact that he would
probably get up and go watch TV, bored with my lack of conversation.

I heard him shuffle around, and then felt the weight of his hands on my
sore shoulders.  I
opened my eyes and looked up at him.  He didn't meet my eyes, studying
the skin of my
shoulders and neck.  He swept aside a few awry strands of red hair that
had fallen from
the clip gathering my hair to the top of my head.  I felt his thumb move
gently over the
scar and barely noticeable bump on the base of my neck, the chip that
had probably saved
my life.  If only a chip could let me walk... But then, we didn't know a
chip could cure
cancer either.  Stop it...I told myself when my thoughts wandered to
that impossibility, just stop it.

Mulder's right hand returned to my shoulder and he applied a little
pressure forward.  I
leaned away from the side of the tub again.  In firm yet gentle motions
he began to
massage the bunched muscles of my shoulders.  As his fingers moved in
tight circles, I
closed my eyes and relaxed.  His hands moved lower down my back to the
base of my
shoulder blades. He seemed to know just where the pain was located
without me uttering
a single word. Not that I could say any words at that point.  This was
how I was able to
forget the demons I carried for a moment.  It was the first time I truly
lost myself, and I
hoped it wouldn't be the last.

*

That night was when the nightmares began.  I hadn't suffered a single
nightmare, or
dream for that matter, since the shooting.  I don't know what exactly
brought them on,
whether it was work or the fact that I wasn't able to talk about the
case with Mulder, but they began.

I cannot begin to describe what I saw in these nightmares. Once I woke
up, they faded
from my conscious memory like sand in the wind.  I know that there was
unimaginable
horror, and monsters, and pain.  Nothing like any of the nightmares I'd
ever had before.  
Every time I had one of these dreams, it was like I was dying over and
over. It was like I
was all of Deuce's other victims, the ones that hadn't been so "lucky".
I knew it was bad
that first night when I woke up screaming.

I don't even know what it was that pulled me from the dream.  I guess it
just reached the
point where my subconscious was no longer able to handle it, and
awakening was my
escape.  When I say I woke up screaming, I mean it literally.  Most of
the time, when I
wake up crying, I may have tears running down my cheeks and that lump in
my throat
associated with weeping. But this time I woke up mid-scream.  Even after
my eyes
flashed open, another strangled scream managed to escape my throat
before I realized
what happened.  After that, I was gasping for air and my body was
racking with sobs. It
was like I had been drowning and had just been pulled to the surface by
a life-saving
hand.  

Only there was no one who had saved me when I broke through, I had saved
myself,
alone.  Using my arms as levers, I pushed myself up to a sitting
position.  No matter what
I did, it was beyond my control to stop my cries.  My body was covered
in a clammy
sweat. I shivered with cold, but my skin was hot to the touch.  The only
thing I can think
is that my body had been reacting to a terrible fright, but my mind
couldn't remember
what had scared it so.

The next thing I heard was footsteps thumping down the hall towards my
room.  Mulder
opened the door without hesitation and came over to my bedside.  He was
clad in a faded
white Knicks t-shirt and dark cotton drawstring pants, his hair tousled
with sleep.  I
wasn't surprised that I woke him and he came to see what was the matter
after I was
screaming bloody murder at two in the morning.  He switched on the light
and sat down
on the bed beside me.

"Scully, what's wrong?" He asked in a caring manner.  He had a hunch,
but wanted me to
tell him first.

I couldn't speak.  I just threw my arms around his shoulders and kept
sobbing.  Although
they were beginning to subside, I still couldn't stop.

He pulled me in tight, trying to comfort me.  "You had a nightmare." He
said, not as a
question but as a statement that he now understood. I don't know anyone
more familiar
with nightmares than Mulder.  His still plague him to this very day, and
he has had to
face most of his alone.

"I'm so scared, Mulder...I'm so scared." I finally managed to whimper
into his shoulder.  

He rubbed my back a little.  "What was the dream about?" He asked
gently.

"I don't know." I sobbed. "I'm not scared because of the dream, I'm
scared because of everything else."

He didn't reply but nodded to show he was listening.

"I'm scared of what's happened to me." I said. I couldn't think of how
to explain it.  The
nightmare had brought me to a harsh and sudden reality.  My life was no
longer in my
control and it terrified me.  I was afraid that I couldn't control what
happened to me, what
happened in my life, and myself.  I had some control before.  I made
decisions that
affected my life like anyone else, and I could control what happened to
some degree.  But
now I was spinning out of that control.  And I was overwhelmed by the
fear that I would
end up doing something to myself, without giving it a second thought.
Rational thought
was a thing quickly erased by a mortal trauma.  I had known so when I
had cancer, only
learning the hard way that drowning pain in deviance was not the way to
go.   

The thing is, Mulder understood all of this.  He knew just what I was
going through, not
because he had that degree in psychology, but because he had been
through it all before.  
He had lived with the nightmares ever since the night his sister was
taken.  He knew what
it was like to lose complete control of life, and veer onto the
dangerous path of a mental
breakdown.

 He pulled away from the embrace and looked me full in the eyes.  He
acted like he was
going to say something, and then changed his mind.  Instead he passed
his thumb over
my cheek, wiping away a trailing tear.  

"I'm going to stay here until you fall back asleep, okay?" He said,
peeling back the corner of the comforter and sheet.  

I agreed with a meek nod. How could I refuse?  I wasn't myself.  The
truth is, I felt
vulnerable and all I wanted was the warmth and comfort of a kindred
spirit.  Mulder
seemed to understand what I was experiencing, at least with the
nightmare, and knew that
the only condolence he could provide would be in human contact.

He slid beneath the covers of the bed after I moved over a little.  Then
he pulled the warm
blanket back up against the chilly night air and switched off the light.
 Shutting down all
remaining rational thoughts of professional distance, I leaned into him
and rested my
head on his shoulder.  He wrapped his strong arms around my petite body
and held me
tight.  At the time it was a mutual comfort between two very close
friends in a time of
hurt and desperation.  But it would amount to so much more in coming
weeks.

"Don't be afraid." He whispered against my head just before sleep
managed to reclaim
me.  Then he pressed his lips to my hair and rested his cheek where the
kiss had lain.   

Even with Mulder's welcomed presence, the nightmares didn't cease.  No
one could fend
away my fears or stop my suffering. Not even I could do it.  The
nightmares weren't only
dreams. I lived with them day in and day out.  I screamed through them
at night, and
cried because of them in the day.  Terror and pain were slowly becoming
the only two things I knew.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 10

Okay, so what did you guys think? Good? Bad? In-between? Anything I need
to fix?

The Path of Thorns
Part 11

The passing nights were very much like that one.  I had at least one
nightmare every
night.  Some nights were worse than others.  A noticeable pattern even
developed; with
every dream I could remember a little tiny more, for a little bit
longer.  But they never
lost any of their terrifying calibers.  In fact, since I could remember
more, they even gained some.  

Mulder began staying at my apartment every night.  He would begin the
night on the
couch, moving to the bed when he heard the telltale signs of another
nightmare rearing its
ugly head.  Skinner agreed to let him have a few days off to collect
himself and deal with
what happened to me.  He was just afraid of leaving me alone when he
left to investigate
a case.  He didn't tell me that, but I knew it was true.  

By the second week of December, four weeks after the shooting, I was
settling into
something of a stable, rhythmic way of life.  That actually makes it
sound like something
comfortable and calm.  It was actually the exact opposite.  I hated it.
Every day, every
week, was the same thing.  Three days of physical therapy, then four
days thrown in
between of being either sore, bored, or both.  It was, in a word,
redundant.  

When Mulder went back to work, I could at least provide my normal
theories and logical
arguments against his unorthodox explanations.  Normalcy like that would
make me feel
a little better, a little.  That is, I helped him when I was up to it.
And that was rare.  Some
days I just wanted to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.  I was slowly
sinking into a deep
depression, only not quite realizing it yet.  

But I did try because I felt an obligation to be there for Mulder.  He
was never away for
more than a night tops, always flying back if the case kept him longer.
I always told him
to stay, but he never listened.  He always knew I could no longer get
through a night
without him, no matter what I told myself.  We kept contact when he was
on the field
mostly via email.  The problem was I had a laptop, and he didn't.
However, he managed
to talk to a few people, and get one through the FBI.  More expenses
chalked up to Agent
Mulder.  He would send me medical reports, case photos, autopsy reports,
forensic
reports and such; the things I usually handled anyway.  I told him my
opinion on his case,
and he didn't listen.  He explained his theory, and I didn't believe it.
 Just like normal,
right?

Then why was it everything still felt so different, so *alien*?  Nice
choice of words, I just
told myself as I wrote that.  But it fits exactly.  Everything was
alien. It wasn't really
right, no matter how much it seemed so. It was just a thinly veiled
illusion of my beloved
normalcy.  

In my dissolving into a life of mediocrity, I had realized that there
was something I had
yet to do.  With the arousing pressures from an upcoming major holiday,
Christmas, and
the fact that I wasn't comfortable with keeping this secret any longer,
I had to tell my
mother what had happened.  I know I should have called her when I was
still in the
hospital, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  I was so
distraught, I couldn't talk to her
about it, much less have her drive to my apartment to fuss over me.
There would be hell
to pay when I told her how long ago it happened, but I didn't care.
This was something I
needed to do on my own, taking the time I needed to do it.  

There's just something with me breaking serious news to people,
especially when it
comes to the subject of my health.  You see, I was raised a military
child by military
standards.  We didn't cry if we fell off our two-wheeler, we got up and
tried again.  We
didn't talk about our problems. We got up and solved them. Sounds like a
good
philosophy doesn't it? Too bad I seem to have taken it the wrong way.  

Now I knew with Christmas approaching, I would have to tell my mother.
It would be
easier to break it to her first and she could prepare my brothers for
when I showed up
Christmas day for dinner.  Charlie would probably handle it okay, but
Bill would be
another story all together.  I didn't even want to think about that.  

I thought about what I would say to my mother all day.  I even called
her once or twice
but hung up just when she answered.  It's a good thing she doesn't
believe in caller ID or
Star 69.  I chewed my nails to the skin trying to think of what to say,
and how to say it.  
Finally, I just decided to wing it.  I picked up the phone, and dialed
her number.

"Hello," She answered sweetly.  My mother is the kind of woman who is
portrayed as the
all-American mother.  She married a naval captain and raised a
rough-and-tumble bunch
of four children, two boys, and two girls.  Home, for us, really was
where we hung our
hats.  We moved so often from base to base, sometimes unpacking seemed a
waste of
time.  Many times she had to explain to us kids why we had to move all
of the time.  She
wiped the spilled tears over missed friends, and was always the wall
that we leaned
against.  I have actually seen more of her strength in the past few
years than in most of
my childhood. Between losing Dad, my sister Melissa, and my near fatal
cancer, she had
always remained strong and fervent in her beliefs.  She renewed my
strength with the
faith I had thought I lost. I have always had a tremendous amount of
respect and
admiration for her.

"Hi, Mom." I managed to say in a constricted voice.  

"Dana!" She exclaimed like she was surprised it was I.  Now that I think
about it, she
probably was. "It's been so long since you've called me.  How are you?"
She asked
casually.

The only thing I could think to say was, "Um..." How was I supposed to
reply to that? I
wasn't fine, far from it.  And if I told her "not so good" she would
have been all over me
trying to find out what was wrong.

"Actually, I've got something to tell you." I began carefully.

"What is it?" She asked promptly. Then, more of as a side note, "You
sound troubled."

"Well, um...four weeks ago I was involved in an accident." I explained.

"What kind of accident?"  The previous glee in her voice when she
greeted me had
drained away, replaced by a frightened wariness.

"I was on a case with Mulder in Chicago, and I was...I was shot." I
stumbled.

This didn't come as a surprise to her. She understood well the risks I
was involved in
every day, and was very familiar with handling them.  Besides, it wasn't
like I hadn't been
shot before. "Are you all right?" She asked finally.

Again, another question I just couldn't meet with an honest answer.
"Mom..." I took a
long, deep breath. "I'm...paralyzed." I blurted. There, it was out. I
let out the breath I
held, and waited for her response.

It was without missing a beat. "What?!"  She exclaimed, sounding almost
frantic. "You're
paralyzed?"

My breaths began to come in more shallow gasps by then.  "The bullet
shattered two of
the bones in my lower back and cut my spinal cord. The doctors don't
know...if I'll ever
walk again."  It was like telling myself the news all over again. There
was just something
different about saying it in your head, as opposed to saying it out
loud. It was just harder
to accept. I was near tears by then.

She was silent for a long time. I suppose she was trying to let it sink
in, and then trying to
think of what to say.  "Oh my god." She said in a breathy, stunned
voice.  "I don't know
what to say.  Why didn't you tell me before?" She asked, not angrily
though.  She was too
stunned to be angry.  That wouldn't last long though, and then she would
be mad at me
for keeping this a secret from her.  The same thing, again, happened
with my cancer.

"I don't know." I said, barely able to maintain a steady voice.  It was
so hard to tell this to
people. I hated it, especially when I saw the faces of my loved ones.
It made them sad,
and sadness brought pity, and pity brought depression...

"I'm going to come down there." She said quickly, jumping into an action
other than
sitting still with her jaw o