From: "SMURF" <krums@qis.net>
Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2000 11:49:13 -0500
Subject: The Path of Thorns
Source: direct

The Path of Thorns
Part 13

* * * *
Life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try...
 
* * * *

Mulder didn't return that night, nor did I hear from him the next
morning. I can't say I
blame him.  I seemed to have passed the point of no return.  The waves
had pulled me too
far out to sea, the sharks were circling, and no one could rescue me
from drowning in my
own self-hate.

I was always trying to escape the world, and myself. I didn't hate the
world, more like I
was tired of it. I was sick of how I was viewed in society, I was sick
of what I had
become.  The blow to my soul as well as my body had weakened me.  And it
seemed as
though the wounds would never heal. Reality, as I knew it, was slowly
slipping out of my
grasp. Remember how I said before that I felt like I was beginning to
spin out of control?
Well, by then it didn't just feel like I was, I really was on a downward
spiral to an
inevitable breakdown.

Around noon that next day, I found myself at church. No, not *my*
church, that one was
too far and there was no one to drive me.  There are two churches not
far from my
building, in opposite directions on a jogging trail.  Both were Catholic
churches, with
remarkable architectural designs and stained glass artwork and beautiful
paintings. I
never went to either to worship, but to admire the sheer beauty.  After
the happenings
with Philip Padgett, I never returned to the one.   The one I went all
the way to was Saint Mary's.  

I had been doing a lot of thinking since the argument Mulder and I had
the night before.
Because of my strong roots in faith, I got to thinking about God. I
figured the best place
to get some answers would be a place of worship.   So I wheeled myself
the near half
mile to the church, in the cold.  It gave me a little extra time to do
some thinking.

When I got there, the place was deserted.  There wasn't a single patron
to be seen, nor
was the priest.  The large hall was still and quiet. It was almost
unnerving.  White
sunlight shone into the large stained glass window depicting the
followers of Jesus
weeping over their king's demise as they took him down from the cross.
The window
illuminated most of the hall, aside from the white candles on and near
the organ and altar.

I went to the front of the hall and to the handicapped area where the
end of the pew
reaches to the aisle before the rest, leaving an open area that was
wheelchair accessible.  I
sat there for a while, just staring at the flickering candles and the
window.  After a few
minutes, I let my eyes drop to my hands. My hands were on my lap, palm
up. Quite
distinguishable in the light, were the scars crisscrossing my palms.
Upon closer
inspection, it was clear the scars were in the shape of a number. That
number was one
that haunted me every day.  Every time I looked at my hands, I saw a
grim reminder that I was victim number forty.

I looked up again, at the other picture of Jesus Christ, the picture of
Him holding the
hands of his meek and poor followers. It was the picture of Him bringing
the love and
hope of God to the innocent and pure.

"Why?" I asked out loud.  "Why me?" I swallowed the lump in my throat
and blinked
back my tears. "I know it's been a long time since I prayed, but why do
I deserve all of
this? Is there a reason why you think you need to punish me? You have to
take away my
family, and send me through hell and back?  What is it that I have done
to deserve it?"

By then the tears began to spill. I messily swiped them away with the
back of my hand. I
had done a lot of thinking, about God. I couldn't understand why He felt
the need to
punish me. I didn't know what I had done. And if everything I had
suffered through was
punishment, why did I have to suffer? Why didn't he just strike me dead
where I was?

"Is there something you want me to do to atone for whatever sins I have
committed?" I
asked, my voice slightly more choked.

I have always been raised by the belief that God does things for a
reason, whether it was
to teach us a lesson, or punish us for a sin. But that was where I was
confused, I didn't
know what the lesson I was being taught was, or what the sin I had
committed.  There
was no one I could talk to about it either. My mother, my priest,
everyone who would
know anything would all say the same thing; perhaps I wasn't supposed to
know what I
was being taught yet. I needed to know though, I needed to know because
that was the
last stable thing I had; everything else was slipping away.  I didn't
get any answers.

I sat in the church for another half an hour I think.  I went home in
more confusion than I
had come in.  I found my apartment empty. Mulder hadn't returned yet.
There was no
message from him on the machine, no voice mail through my cell phone.  

I was truly beginning to believe he had given up on me. The thing is, I
was starting to
give up on myself. There was no one left for me to turn to for help.
Mulder was gone.
God seemed to have turned His back as well. My mother and brothers were
out of the
question. I wanted to get away.

I went into the bathroom, all rational thoughts blocked by something I
can't quite
describe. Fear, I think it was, fear and chaos.  Sitting in front of the
sink, I observed
myself in the mirror.  My face was red and tear-streaked, and dark half
moons hung under
my eyes from a lack of sleep.  My eyes seemed distant, even to myself.
My mouth, that
hadn't smiled in who knew how long.  I couldn't stand what I had become.
What Deuce
had done to me to become like this.  There was only one solution that
came into my
mind.

I opened the mirror to the medicine cabinet. There were various colors
and shapes of
bottles of antibiotics, prescription drugs, cold medicines, painkillers,
everything you
could think of.  After a moment of pondering, I pulled out an orange
bottle of fast-acting
prescription sleeping pills and a bottle of aspirin.

I slammed the cabinet shut and began fumbling with the lid on the
sleeping pills. My
hands were shaking by then, and I couldn't get a good grip to twist off
the cap. Finally,
the bottle clicked open and the white cap toppled to the floor.  The
prescription was for
the long, sleepless nights I sometimes had. The pills were highly
concentrated, for
someone my body weigh, half a pill and I could sleep the night through,
a whole one and
I could sleep for a day.  I dumped the contents into my hand; what
didn't land in my palm
poured into the sink where the bottle had also fallen.  After a moment's
pause, I downed
the pills, over a half dozen of them, dry.

I repeated the procedure with the aspirin, swallowing about a half dozen
of them dry.  
Then I sat, staring into my reflection and the eyes of a woman with a
broken spirit.  Two
minutes passed, two more, and then another five.  My mind was cloudy
with fear and
pain, and I was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. The end wasn't
far.

Suddenly, a single though shattered through the fog covering my
rationality:

What have I done?

Oh my god, I'm going to die. I thought. I've just committed suicide. But
this isn't me. I have to stop this.

In a surge of motion, I lunged out of the wheelchair and onto the floor
in front of the
toilet.  I gripped the toilet rim and gagged. My stomach lurched and
emptied its toxic contents into the toilet basin.

I fell backwards and lie sprawled on the bathroom floor, the foul taste
of bile still in my
mouth.  Dark spots began exploding in my vision, gathering into a pool
in my head.  My
vision blurred, and I tried to focus it.  It was too late.  The pills
had quickly dissolved into
my bloodstream.  It was then, as I lie on the brink of unconsciousness,
that I had a
revelation I should have had long before. I needed help.  But none would
come. My eyes slipped shut and the world went dark.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of part 13

Remember, the worse the conflict (like it can get any worse at this
point) the sweeter the
resolution (not to mention MSR). ;)

The Path of Thorns
Part 14

* * * *
What do you say in a moment like this
When you can't find the words to tell it like it is
Just close your eyes and let your heart lead the way
What do you say...

* * * *

They say that people who survive attempted suicide come back with a new
leash on life.
You always hear the sappy stories about some pathetic soul who tried to
kill his or
herself, and now have hopelessly devoted his or her time to helping
others. They take
nothing for granted, and live their lives to the fullest.  They claim
God wanted them to
live, and gave them a second chance.

This may be so, but it's never as sweet and good as it seems. You do not
just wake up
after attempted suicide and see the light. You do not just immediately
think, hey, that was wrong. I'm going to start over!

You wake up feeling like hell. Then you see the faces of your loved ones
as they pity you
more, and try to figure out why you tried to leave them. They become
angry with you for
not thinking about them. They tell you suicide is selfish.  None of them
ever realize that
is them who made you try and kill yourself in the first place.  This is
why so many people who attempt suicide and fail, continue to try.  

But this is not exactly how it happened to me.  I know it sounds
cliche, but I got the good
ending. A long and hard path would fill it, but I got the good ending.
And it started with seeing the light. The light was Mulder.

I realized I was still alive when I felt the sharp throbbing in my head.
 As I slowly
regained consciousness, I could hear the faint beeping of a heart
monitor. Other than that,
the room was quiet. I was in a hospital, I knew.  How I had gotten
there, I didn't know.  
The last thing I could remember was thinking that I was going to die.  

I gradually allowed my eyes to open. When they were fully open, I could
see dark, blurry
spots before me.  I blinked a few times, and cringed against the wave of
pain in my
temples.  It felt like I had been hit upside the head with a sledgehammer.

I heard the small rustling of clothing and looked to my right.  It was
Mulder. He was
sitting in a chair against the wall, his head resting on the wall behind
him.  His face was
solemn, almost completely devoid of emotion.  There was something in his
eyes, they were too darkened and cast to the floor for me to tell what.  

After a few moments, his eyes flicked up from the floor to me.  I could
see now that his
eyes were filled with something I had never seen in him before.
Disbelief. He sat there,
still and quiet, knowing I was awake, but making no acknowledgments
about it.  He just
watched me, trying to make heads or tails of what was going on.

"Mulder," I said. My voice was barely audible, almost not even a
whisper. My throat was
incredibly dry and sore.  I swallowed, trying to moisten the walls of my
mouth.

He exhaled and leaned forward.  He handed me a paper cup brimming with
water, which
I drank slowly, my stomach suddenly feeling upset again. They had
probably pumped my
stomach in hopes of getting any remaining drugs out of my systems.  My
headache was
probably a side effect of leftover drugs in my bloodstream.  

"How did I get here?" I inquired, finding my voice a little stronger.  

He scrubbed his chin with his left hand. "I came back to your apartment
and found you
on the bathroom floor.  I found the pills in the sink, too." He paused
and looked away. "I
was so scared you were already dead." He continued quietly.  When he
looked back at
me, his eyes were drowning in sorrow. "Why?" He asked.   

I knew what he meant. I know it sounds funny, but I was always the
stronger one in the
partnership. I was always there when he needed someone to talk to about
his sister, or
what he was going through. He tried to do the same for me, but I never
opened up. Now
he couldn't understand why I was suddenly so weak, and wouldn't let
anyone help.

"I was tired." I said, staring straight forward at the wall. "I was
tired of all the stares and
the whisper's behind my back. Everyone's pity..." I stopped and looked
at him. "I was
tired of my mother's pity and my brother's hate..." I paused again and
let my eyes drop
from his gaze. When I spoke again, my voice was nothing but a whisper.
"I was tired of life."

Mulder was quiet.  After a few moments he moved from the chair to the
edge of my bed.  
He looked at my hand, and then took it in his own.  "Listen to me," He
said, moving his
eyes back to mine. "I know what you've been going through.  You may not
think so but I
understand. Granted, I've never been through something like this, but I
know what
depression is like.  And I also know that you are a very strong woman,
and if you don't
want to do something, you won't do it. That includes wanting to live.
So I know I can't
make you learn to love your life again.  I can't make you stop feeling
the way you do. I can't *make* you do anything."

He paused and broke the gaze for a moment, but brought it back just as
quickly.  His grip
on my hand tightened, and by the soft, delicate tone in his voice when
he resumed
speaking, I knew what he was saying was something utterly important.  "I
can *ask* you to stop though...for me...because I love you."

Those had to be the most beautiful words I had ever heard.  I was so
stunned by them I
almost didn't know what to do.  I heard those words from him before, but
never, ever
with so much emotion behind them. How could I ever deny them as anything
but genuine?

I sat up (a task that had become easier in the past weeks) and embraced
him.  I was
already beginning to cry, something I was hardly able to help anymore.
My emotions
finally came forth in words. I suddenly found it easy to tell him
everything I couldn't say before.  

"Mulder I don't know what to do anymore." I whimpered into his shoulder.
 I felt his
hand move up my back to my neck to hold me closer as I talked and cried
at the same
time. "I feel so lost.  I feel like everything I do is wrong..." I
paused for a moment, so
comforted sitting there with his arms around me, and his scent
enveloping me.  "But no
matter how far I wander away from the path, you are always there to lead
me back. Even
when I don't want you to...I still always know you will be there for me.
Thank you."

Yes, I thanked him. But what you have to understand is that the thank
you was one of the
most heartfelt things I had ever said. I have told this before; I'm not
very good at talking
about my emotions. Mulder took it the right way. No, I didn't tell him I
loved him.  I
didn't because it wasn't the right time for me to confess those
feelings. It was the right
time for him to tell me, but not for me to tell him. That time would
come soon, but it wasn't then and there.  

*

They released me from the hospital after speaking to a doctor from the
psych ward.  He
did his song and dance about how important it was for me to talk to a
psychiatrist.  This
time though, I actually listened.  I assured him I would talk to one as
soon as possible.
Little did he know I had my own psychologist: one who I felt more
comfortable talking to now than ever before.  

With a little persuasion from Mulder, the doctor's signed me fit to go
home.  He
explained to them that the hospital wasn't the best place for me to be.
I needed stability
and familiarity to heal. I needed to feel comfortable to be able to talk
about my feelings.  
It may have been true, but at the time I complimented him on his
bullshitting techniques.  
I was released within four days of my arrival.

I had another dream the first night I was back at my apartment.  It
wasn't a nightmare like
before, but a good dream. The first I had since before the whole
incident with Deuce Stein.

In my dream, my sister came to me.  I remember I was sitting in my
bedroom, looking
out the window like I had the day before I tried to end it all.  I was
just staring out at
window at nothing, until I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I looked up and
saw the face of
my deceased sister.  I turned around in the wheelchair and hugged her.
She was smiling.
Her eyes shimmered with an inner beauty, and her hair hung to her
shoulders in curly red
tendrils.  Her face seemed to glow with an angelic light.  She was
dressed all in white to
match.  

"Dana," she said.  Her voice was sweet, and almost seemed to echo like
she wasn't there
at all. "Dana, you know that you've got to stop." She told me.  "He
loves you so much,
can't you see?  You don't know what would happen to him if you left.
You're not
supposed to die yet.  You know that.  You are supposed to get up and
walk. For him and
for yourself." She paused and smiled again.  "God loves you, Dana, and I
love you.  But I
don't want you here with me.  I want you to stop doing everything you
are and take a
good, hard look at your life. I want you to make things right. Do you
understand?"  

I nodded.  She bent over to hug me again, and I closed my eyes so I
could remember
everything she told me, and the feeling of her hug. When I opened them,
she was gone.

I awoke the next morning with another revelation.  I was going to stop
feeling sorry for
myself.  I was going to stop letting what other people thought about me
break my spirit. I
was going to smile and laugh and love. I was going to run and dance.
Most of all, I was going to walk.  

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 14

Short and sweet, like I said. Part 15 coming soon...

The Path of Thorns
Part 15

I'm going to make a huge time jump here, from the beginning of January
to the middle of
February. It's just that not much happened during that time that can't
be summarized.  I'm
finding that I need to write about the important events, and not the
obscure little details.
Ten years from now, if and when anybody reads this, they are going to
want to know the
major events, not what I ate for dinner every single day.

It was during those weeks that tiny, but noticeable, progression began
happening towards
my healing.  Physically healing I mean, not psychologically.
Psychological healing would
take a lot longer; in fact I'm still not fully healed.

 The healing of one's body after a spinal injury is so slow and
progressive, you truly aren't
even aware it's happening until someone makes you aware. It started when
I had muscle
spasms after being under some kind of physical stress.  This was usually
during or after
my physical therapy.  Because I was spending so much time not caring, I
hadn't realized
my legs had been doing this since the beginning of January.  

The next step was the actually *feeling* in my legs.  The touch
sensation started at my
toes and slowly crept up my legs.  You have no idea what it's like to
actually *feel* your
foot being tickled after months of no touch at all. It's amazing, pure
and simple.  By the
first week of February, I could actually *move* my legs to some degree.


Into the beginning of February, Annie was very confident that I would be
walking again
by summer.  I can clearly remember the first day Annie said I was ready
to start
relearning how to walk.  

She had me going through the exercises, lifting my legs, bending them,
exercising them
with different weight machines.  My legs still felt a little heavy, and
numb at times, and
my reflexes were slightly on the sluggish side.

"It's never really too soon to start bearing weight on them.  The basic
motor functions are
some of the hardest things you'll have to relearn. Coordination,
balance, endurance;
they're all things that have to be learned again." She told me. "But I
think you're ready to
give it a try."  

"If you think so." I said. I still can't believe it, but I was
reluctant.  It was because I
scared. I don't know what I scared of, but I was. I think it was a fear
of the unknown, or a
fear that I would fail myself.  

Annie offered me an encouraging smile.  "Follow me," she said.  She
started to the room
adjoining the examination room where we had been working.  The adjoining
room was
the exercise room; it half resembled a gym like at the Four Seasons,
with weight lifting
equipment and such.  The equipment that didn't fit looked like things
taken from a school
gymnasium or playground.

I followed Annie to a piece of equipment similar to the parallel bars of
a gym. Actually
they were just that, bars running parallel to each other coming straight
up from the
ground to about waist height on an average adult, and then running
parallel to the ground
before going back downwards.  These were wrapped in blue foam padding to
prevent
injury. Foam mats padded the floor beneath as well.  

Annie stood between the bars and motioned for me to position the
wheelchair just at the
beginning of them, so I could stand up between them.  

"Now, get a good grip on the bars and use them to stand yourself up."
She instructed,
standing a few feet away to allow me some space.

I leaned forward and gripped into the foam.  Just as she had said, my
arms had become
considerably strong, and I was able to lift my own body weight.  I
relied heavily on the
strength then to lift myself up.  Once I was "standing" I moved forward
using a
combination of arm and leg movement, so I could be more centered on the
bars.  I was
putting most of my weight on my arms, and they were beginning to feel
sore and strained.

"Don't use your arms so much, try and put some weight on your legs."
Annie said,
watching my movements closely.

I did as I was told and relaxed some of the weight off my arms.  As soon
as the weight
shifted from predominantly my arms to my legs, they buckled from
underneath me.  They
were still too weak to hold the weight.  I caught myself before I
tumbled to the ground
and held again with my arms.  I looked up at Annie sheepishly.

She smiled. "It's all right, Dana, it'll get easier. Trust me. Keep
working at it."

For three more weeks I kept working at it. My progression seemed to slow
down.  
Nearing the end of February, I still couldn't stand without holding onto
something.  Hope
was subsequently beginning to fade again, but not in the dramatic degree
it had been
before.

One night, Mulder and I were sitting in the living room watching TV.
Well, Mulder was
flipping channels, I was watching.  He stopped momentarily at a football
game. Nope, his
team was losing, moving on.  A couple of clicks more and a crude movie
involving two
people rolling around in bed and grunting, a pause here.  No, he had
probably seen that
one as he kept flipping.  Further on were all the children's channels,
cartoons and such.
This was where Mulder stopped and put down the remote.  

"Cartoons!" He exclaimed childishly. He then stretched on his side in
front of the couch,
propping his head in his hand. For some reason, he seems to favor the
floor rather than
the furniture.

"Mulder, how can you watch this?" I asked after seeing the opening
credits of a show called 'Two Stupid Dogs'.

He turned and looked up at me. "Hey, I don't ridicule the shows you
watch. That dumb
'The Practice' crap." He cracked a grin and then turned his attention
back to the television.

That earned him a bashing from the pillow I was leaning against.  Along
with my
physical progression, and air of altered normalcy had returned to our
lives. We found it
easier to joke around like we had before.  Though I still didn't all out
laugh at his little
comments, I found myself able to retort them again. It felt good.

Once the show cut back to a commercial after the first scene, Mulder
turned back to me
again.  "So," he began casually. "How goes the physical therapy? Other
than the sore part, I mean."

The sore part: that was a good one.  Because of the increased amount of
strain exerted on
my arms when I tried to stand, my shoulders were left more stiff and
sore than ever.  
Shoulder and back rubs became a frequent evening activity. Not that I'm
complaining or
anything. Mulder gives a very good massage.

"I don't know," I sighed. "I try, and I try, and I try; but I just can't
do it.  It's like my legs
don't want to walk.  I'm starting to wonder if this is the most I'll
even be able to do.  What
if I just don't heal enough to walk?" I said, pouring out my entire
reserved thoughts in a
few sentences. Something else that had become easier was talking to
Mulder.

Mulder cocked his head.  I could tell he was planning something.  He
switched off the
TV, and then got up.  Then he stood before me and took both of my hands.

"Come on," he said, tugging them and beckoning for me to stand.

I sat still on the sofa. "Mulder, I can't." I told him.

He looked at me confidently, still holding onto my hands. "Yes, you
can." He said firmly.
"You can, and you will."

I shook my head slowly. "I've tried." I whispered.

He leaned forward, his face a straight expression of courage. "I want
you to close your eyes," he said softly.

"Mulder," I said skeptically. I felt ridiculous.

"Close them," he commanded.

I did.

"Stop thinking with your mind, think with your heart. Let your heart
lead the way." He
said.  "Now take a deep breath and say, I can walk."

I opened my eyes and shot him another skeptical look. I still didn't
believe it.

"Say it," he said firmly.

I shut my eyes again and sighed. "I can walk." I said robotically.

"Good, now say it like you believe it."

I heaved a deep breath into my lungs and spoke again, more convincingly
this time. "I can walk."

"Do you believe?" He whispered into my ear.

"Yes," I whispered back.

He gripped my hands harder and tugged me up to a standing position.  My
eyes flashed
open. I was relying on his support, but I was standing more on my own
than before.  
Mulder was smiling with pride when I looked up at his face.

"Try taking a step." He encouraged.

I lifted my right foot and moved it forward, landing it just ahead of
the left. My balance
was incredibly off, so the step was very careful and well placed. That
foot down, I
repeated the procedure with the left foot. I continued on, using Mulder
as a crutch as he
held onto my hands to keep me from falling.  

"Look, Scully, you're walking." Mulder whispered.  

I was. I really was walking. Slow baby step by baby step, I was
progressing across the
room.  I again looked up at him; he was still smiling ear to ear.  With
such an
overwhelming feeling of accomplishment and happiness, I began to cry. I
had achieved
what for so long I thought to be the impossible. I did what they at one
time told me I may
never do again.  I walked.

"Don't cry," Mulder cooed. He released on of my hands and wiped away my
tears with
his thumb. "No more crying."  

I smiled. For one of the first times in months I smiled.  I realized I
could never have done
any of it without Mulder.  He gave me the strength that I needed to
stand up and walk
again.  With all we had been through together, our bond had become
unbreakable. We
had been subjected to every test of strength and faith and had passed.
We had been to hell
and back.  I was always there for him when he needed me. And now more
than ever, he
was there for me. We were there for each other, as someone to lean on,
as someone to cry
with. And I loved him with every bone in my body.  

I let go of his hand, now carrying the confidence that I could stand
without help, and
threw my arms around him.    

"Mulder, I know I've never told you...but I just want you to know...that
I do love you." I
whispered softly to his ear.  

He pulled out of the embrace a little so I could see his eyes, and he
could see mine.  What
I saw in those hazel eyes (and I still don't know why I never saw it
before) was love.  His
eyes were filled with limitless love and caring.  I heard that love when
he spoke those
words to me in the hospital, and I felt that love in what he did next.

He hooked his finger under my chin and tipped my face up.  Without
hesitation, he
dipped his head down and captured my lips in his own.  After only a few
seconds of timid
kissing, we gained more boldness.  I opened my mouth more and leaned
closer, allowing
him to deepen the kiss.  Our tongues found each other for blissful
moments of dancing.  
His arm snaked around my lower back to pull me in closer and support me
should I fall in
the midst of it.  My arms remained around his neck, my fingers
entangling in his hair.  
The kiss probably would have lasted forever had it not been for the lack
of oxygen.

I kept my eyes closed for longer than needed after the kiss was broken,
wanting to
remember every detail about it.  The taste of him, the feel of his lips
against mine, that
indiscriminate warm feeling deep in my belly.  All things I hadn't felt
forever, for one
reason or another. I didn't want to forget any of it.

I moved my arms down to his waist and rested my head against his chest.
His arms
stayed entwined around my back and his chin resting against my head.  I
cannot describe
what I was feeling then. The only word that comes to mind is peace.
That had been the
first kiss we ever shared. In seven years of partnership and
ever-increasing sexual tension
we had never shared something as innocent as a kiss until then. Because
we knew that a
kiss would be far from innocent when it happened between us.  And if it
happened,
neither would ever be able to deny the true feelings we had for each
other. So it would
have to happen once we were sure of those feelings. It was at that time,
we both knew.
Even now, I cannot think of better circumstances under which I would
have kissed
Mulder. There have been times I wanted to, and times we almost did, but
I'm very glad
we didn't. If we had, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 15

Like? Thought you would... Now, I'm kinda stuck as to what happens next,
so it'll be a little longer before that one comes out.

The Path of Thorns
Part 16

* * * *
I need some distraction
Oh a beautiful release
Memory seeps from my veins
Let me be empty and weightless
And maybe I'll find some peace tonight
In the arms of an angel
Fly away from here...

You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of an angel
May you find some comfort there...

* * * *

Possibly the largest obstacle I had to face after the shooting and the
serial murders of
Deuce Stein, was the court hearing.  Yes, relearning how to walk was
number one on
hard things to do, but nothing measures up to facing the fear that had
buried itself in my
soul all those months.  Memories of that night were terrible, and the
dreams were worse.
Most of all, they were ceaseless.  Any number of things could send me
shaking, stricken
by the memory of Deuce's eyes on me, the feel of the blade cutting
through my flesh, the
gruff sound of his voice before he left me to die.  White roses were
perhaps the worst
things that could bring back those flashes.  The sound of a gunshot as
well, even though I
didn't hear a shot when the bullet brought me down.  I still couldn't
bring myself to talk
about it either. I could talk about what I was feeling, but my
nightmares and my
forbidden memories were out of the question.  

Mulder and I were flown back to Chicago on March first for the trial of
Stein versus the
state of Illinois.  Now, I'm not going to bore anyone, namely, myself
with the details of
the exact court proceedings.  In all truth, I can't even remember
everything that was said
and done.  On the first day of trial, the District Attorney (William
Dorsey) and Deuce's
lawyer made their opening statements. Also, the first two state's
witnesses were sworn in.  
I was not one of these witnesses. Detective Lucy Pacelli and the county
Medical
Examiner were the first two.  The roles both Mulder and I played that
day were to sit in
the audience directly behind the DA and look like the high and mighty
Federal Agents we were.

The day itself was all in all pretty boring.  Aside from the rush to the
hearing from the
airport after the hour snow delay, the hours dragged by slowly.  The
most interesting
surprise was when we got to the hotel.  Our normal places to sleep when
in the field were
at cheap, roach eaten, road-side motels; courtesy of the US Government.
This time
however, it was Illinois that paid for our room and board, and they
graciously gave us a
fine hotel in which to rest.  Does the name Ramada ring a bell? No?
Well, let's just say it
is a much better place to stay than the Econo Lodge or the Davy Crockett
Motor Court.
All right, Sam Houston Motor Lodge...whatever.  My theory is that any
place we stay that
has the words "motel" "road" or "lodge" in it, bites.

It was actually a rather pleasant surprise to both Mulder and myself.
Once we entered the
lobby to the hotel, with its fine fire-placed lounge, dry bar,
restaurant, and indoor pool,
the first thing either of us thought was "Wow".  We checked in at the
front desk, and a
bellhop carted our bags and took them up to the rooms.  

Even though it had been a month since I took my first steps back into
the world of the
walking, I had to be in the wheelchair.  Slowly but surely, my natural
sense of balance
and coordination was returning to me.  Yet I still couldn't walk long
distances by myself,
without some kind of crutch or cane.  The wheelchair was actually easier
to get around in
than the using old man's cane with the constant fatigue and soreness
that followed.  I
knew I had to work my legs as much as possible, but in places where I
knew I would be
moving around a lot, the chair was just better. Besides, I think I hated
that cane more than the wheelchair.

After a brief elevator ride to the fifth floor, we found rooms 519 and
520.  Just before I
jammed my plastic-tagged key into room 519, the door opened and the
bellhop appeared.  
He was pimply-faced young man, probably a local teenager. He looked at
us nervously
and scratched the back of his head, further tousling his already unruly
dirty blonde hair.

"I uh...I didn't which room was which so I just put the bags in here."
He explained,
holding the door to what was deemed my room open.

"That's fine," I said dismissively. I began to move carefully around him
and through the
door but paused half way in. I dug into my purse after pulling it out of
the knapsack and
pulled out a ten-dollar bill.  I had never tipped a bellhop before, so I
wasn't quite sure at
how much to give him.  I handed him the bill and watched him nod a
hurried thank you
and then turn to walk away.  

Mulder shrugged and followed me into the room.  "I would have tipped
him." He said,
picking up his single bag from where it rested on the queen-sized bed.  

"I know," I replied, stretching my legs and standing, albeit a little
shakily. "But your
tipping skills are a little less than desirable."  I sat down on the bed
and dropped my
suitcase and vanity to the floor.  Then I flopped down and toed off my
shoes, letting them
be discarded to the floor as my bags had been.

I craned my neck back to my right and saw Mulder looking around my hotel
room;
opening the bathroom door and having a look inside, picking up the TV
remote and
inspecting the various channels printed on the back, things like that.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" I asked him as he picked up the room
service menu from
the bedside table after replacing the remote control.  

"Nothing," he replied.  He dropped his bag by the open adjoining door to
his room
(unlocked by his request) and came back around to my bed to flop down
beside me.  No
matter how boring the day had been, it had still been a long one, long
and exhausting.  

"I can't remember the last time I was ever in a hotel this nice." He
remarked, staring at the
stiletto plastered ceiling above the bed.  

"I don't think I've ever been in one this nice." I said, letting my eyes
slip shut in a long blink.  

"Wanna go check out the restaurant for some chow?" He asked, sitting up.
 

I sighed. "No, I think I'm going to call it a night." I told him,
sitting up as well.

"You're going to bed?" He looked at me disappointedly. "It's only six
o'clock."

I stood up slowly, finding the ease I could use sometimes to do so
remarkable.  "Yup," I
replied simply, replacing my suitcase on the bed.

Mulder stood. "All right," He sighed reluctantly.  "I'll just eat room
service all by
myself." He shuffled glumly across the room and picked up his bag.

I shook my head and smiled to myself.  He was just trying to make me
feel sorry for him,
a boyish quality I actually always found quite charming.  But a quality
I almost never fell
for. "Good-night, Mulder." I called as he closed the adjoining door. I
heard a grumbled
response and then the sound of the TV in his room turning on.

I took a shower (another difficult task I had relearned how to do in the
past few weeks)
and settled into the enormous bed for a good night's sleep. Yeah, right.
 I would sleep
well until the nightmares came, and then I would sleep lightly, any tiny
sound or motion
waking me from my doze. And that would be considered a good night. A bad
night would
be one where I woke up screaming again, my body shocked and my mind
confused.  I
would cry and shiver through the night, no hopes of any sleep returning.
 That's where
Mulder usually came in, on the bad nights.  Before, he would join me in
my bed at home
after the nightmare had awoken me (and him).  But since I began to walk,
and the kiss we
shared, and the confessions we spoke, he never even bothered to start
the night on the
sofa.  Of course, we had separate rooms at the hotel, to keep
appearances for one reason
or another.

Being in a strange hotel room was no escape from the demons that haunted
me.  I had a
particularly bad nightmare that first night.  It's not that it was
*worse* so to say...it's that
I remembered it.

It is very hard for me, even now, to explain what was in the dream.  In
the nightmare, I
was Deuce.  I was Deuce when he killed all those women. I could feel
their hot blood as
it soaked his hands when he sliced their palms.  I could see the fear in
their eyes when he
asked them if they were afraid of dying.  He talked to some of the other
victims more
than he spoke to me.  He whispered to them, holding the gun to the back
of their heads,
watching their tears stream down their cheeks.  He told them they had to
pay for the sins
of the past, and that they should pray, they should pray for redemption.
 The thing he kept
asking them was why. Why? Why? Why?

I didn't understand at first. Why what? I looked on through his eyes in
horror as he pulled
the trigger, and then watched the woman's eyes as she died.  He liked to
see the life
slowly seep out of their blue eyes, just as the tears had.  He liked to
watch people die.
And when he was fairly certain they were dead, he thanked them.  He
closed their eyes
and kissed their lifeless eyelids, said a German *prayer* for their
souls, and then opened
their cold blue eyes again, to stare towards the heavens above.  

I'm not squeamish.  I can't afford to be, not with my job.  Yet when I
was finally jolted
back to reality, I had to really fight with my body to keep my stomach
from wringing out
its contents.  I was so nauseated by my more than disturbing dream that
I nearly lost it all
over that nice big hotel bed. But I didn't, I managed to keep it down,
even between
racking sobs.

The words I have written above about the nightmare do not portray the
feelings justly.  
Words can only go so far to describe fear and pain...and evil.  I
understood everything as
I sat awake in the hotel bedroom, trying to slow my breathing and heart
rate, trying to
stop shivering uncontrollably.  

Deuce killed because he liked it. But it was more than that; it was in
his blood to kill.  
Something had happened. Something in 1909 that scarred the Stein
bloodline forever. I
wasn't sure what just yet, but it was something terrible, something that
could be carried
on from father to son. It was like a disease.

When I couldn't handle my thoughts of the nightmare anymore, I threw off
the comforter
and slid out of the big lonely bed.  Using the wall as a support for my
weak legs, I made
it to the adjoining door and found Mulder's still unlocked.  I turned
the door handle and
carefully opened the door.  Mulder's room was dark, and the sound of his
soft breathing
greeted me.  Creeping across his room in the dark, I felt like a lost
and lonely child,
seeking refuge from the bitter world.  

I made my way to the head of the bed, one similar to my room, and
climbed beneath the
covers on the opposite side of Mulder.  The bed springs shifted with my
body weight and
it wasn't long before Mulder stirred.  He rolled over, groaning, and
then opened his eyes.
Once he realized that it was I who had disturbed his sleep, he sat up a
little.

"Nightmare?" He asked as if he didn't know.

I nodded meekly.

He lay back down and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer to
him.  I accepted
the gesture and rested my head against his collarbone.

"Jesus, Scully, you're in shock." He said almost as soon as he had me in
the tight embrace.

He was right. I had not even realized my body was still trembling
harshly.  Mulder pulled the blankets up higher and rubbed my arms,
trying to regenerate my body heat.    

"That was a bad one, huh?" he said, settling down with his arms
entwining around me.
"You wanna tell me about it?" he inquired gently after a few seconds.

I shook my head, unable to speak.  I could feel the lump rising in my
throat and the tears
stinging my eyes. The dream was still fresh in my mind, traumatizing my
emotions and
thoughts.  My lower lip trembled and I let the tears and the first
pained cry come forth.  I
couldn't help but to weep over those nine other women, all victims to
one man's sick
desire.  And I had to cry for myself as well, also a victim. Not even I
was able to escape the evil of the world.

Mulder sat up and held me close against his chest while I cried.  He
knew that he couldn't
cease my sobs, for they were too powerful and beyond even my control.
It was better
that I just cry it out. The most he could do for me was hold me close
and try and comfort
me through the raging storm of my nightmares.  

"I know," he whispered against my head, stroking my hair and rocking
back and forth in
a soothing motion.  "I know, Scully, I know." He kissed my forehead just
at my hairline
and continued to ease my pain in the best way he knew how, with his love
and his
understanding. And that was what always worked; his mere touch could
calm my fears to
some degree.  

Our relationship had changed since our kiss and my own words of love
towards him.  I
guess I always knew a simple kiss could do that. But in a way, our
relationship was
different even before then.  Ever since he first told me I was paralyzed
things were
different.  If our friendship itself could have gotten any deeper and
more affectionate
without crossing the boundaries to something more, it did. After the
kiss, we took another
step towards the dive that would convert us from mere friends, to
lovers.

We had not yet taken that dive though.  I didn't know when it would
happen, but I knew
eventually it would. Just as we eventually experimented with a kiss, we
would eventually
make love. It was just bound to happen.  That night, we were still just
friends, if you want
to call us that.  We always had a bond beyond friendship; beyond even
any
comprehendible, non-physical relationship anyone had ever seen.  

The coming days would not only test that bond, they would strengthen it.
As I have
learned many times, both painfully and easily, nothing ever stays simple
for long. Nothing.

*

The next day at court, Pacelli and the ME were cross-examined.  The DA
said he would
probably put me on the stands either the next day, or the day after. He
wanted to make
sure the case was presented in full, and the criminal and medical
perspectives had been
covered before the introduction of FBI agents.  

Deuce was pleading innocent by temporary insanity, and no plea bargain
could be met.
He didn't want to go to jail, plain and simple.  That was something else
that was still an
enigma. Why had Deuce actively confessed, even turned himself in, if he
was going to do
anything in his power to keep from going to prison?  We were still in
the dark where
Deuce and his lawyer were going to do with the case.  We had little
argument on the
aspects of his so-called insanity without knowing his motive.

Somehow, I needed to do some digging on Deuce's history.  With the
addition of my
nightmare, I knew his murders had something to do with his father, his
grandfather, and
his great-grandfather.  But given no suspects to the previous murders
thirty, sixty, and
ninety years before, there was little I could go on.  

The first place I thought to go was the Chicago Hall of Records. I went
after court
recessed for the day at 3:30.  I told Mulder what I was going to do, and
he offered to go.  
I agreed because I could use another pair of hands to sift through the
mountains of dusty
files bound to be awaiting us.  

Most of the more recent files were on computer; the birth certificate,
graduation
certificate, marriage licenses and such could be found. We found
numerous amounts of
unneeded information on both Deuce and his father. But all files before
1960 were still in
the basement, yet to be converted to the hard drives.

In the basement, we found the files on Deuce's grandfather and
great-grandfather.  I read
pretty much the entire file on his great-grandfather in full, certain it
was where all the
trouble originated.  What I found was just disturbing:

Deuce's great-grandfather, Peter Walsh Stein Senior, was an immigrant
from Germany in
(guess what year) 1909.  That same year, a merchant's wife murdered
Stein's wife, Leida.  
The merchant's wife, described as being blue-eyed, thin, with ashy
blonde hair,
apparently had an affair with Mr. Stein.  Stein Sr. had dumped her to
reconcile his
marriage and his lover had been infuriated.  She kill Stein's wife in a
fit of rage.  Two
days later, she herself was found murdered before she could be put under
arrest. No suspect was captured.

It sounded to me like a story of revenge and jealousy.  With the death
of Stein's lover, it
should have stopped there.  But it didn't.  Every night afterwards, at
the same hour his
lover was presumably murdered, another woman was murdered in the same
way.  Each
woman was between the ages of twenty and forty, with blue eyes, just
like the dead
girlfriend.  No suspect could ever be placed at the scene of the crime
at that time.  Stein
always had an alibi, his then five-year-old son Peter Jr.  After the
tenth woman had been
killed in that manner, Stein Sr. was found dead in his Chicago home as
well, apparently
by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Peter Jr. went to live
with his uncle, who
also lived in Chicago.

I told all of this aloud to Mulder.  He sat at the table across from me,
pictures and police
reports spread before him, thinking.  He scratched his chin and then
pinched the bridge of
his nose in a frustrated gesture.  

"Where does Stein Jr. and the his son and Deuce fit into all of this?"
He asked finally.

"I don't know..." I groaned. I dropped Stein Sr.'s file and reached for
Stein Jr. 's.

I read it silently while Mulder sat and chewed on a sunflower seed.  I
was scanning the
blurb about Stein Jr. 's family when Mulder had his break-through.

He dropped his feet from the table corner with a thud, slapped the
papers in top of the
table and leaned forward. "I got it!" he said triumphantly. "I know the
connection."

"What connection?" A voice said from down the corridor towards the
stairs. A few
moments later, Bill Dorsey the DA came out of the shadows and joined us
at the cluttered
table where we had been slaving for the past few hours.  

"The connection between Deuce and the other murders in sixty-nine,
thirty-nine,
etcetera." Mulder answered.

Dorsey's curiosity was sparked as he raised his eyebrows and pulled up a
chair.  Bill
Dorsey was an older man with silvery gray hair, hazel eyes a few shades
darker than
Mulder's, a pointed nose, and a sardonic sense of humor.  He started out
as a civil
attorney and was promoted to District Attorney where he soon made a
reputation of being
good at putting the bad guys behind bars. He could talk fast and think
faster. All in all, he
was very good at his job.

"All right," he said, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Let's hear it."

"How old was Stein Jr. when the murders were committed?" Mulder asked
me.

"Five," I replied, unable to see where this was going.

"At five years old, Stein Jr. had a hell of a life. His mother was
murdered, his father was
having an affair, and then his father committed suicide." Mulder said.
"On top of all that,
before his dad died, he killed ten women, including his lover--"

Dorsey raised his hand to stop Mulder mid-speech. "It hasn't been proven
that Stein Sr.
killed those girls, that wouldn't hold up in court." He explained.

Mulder nodded. "Let's just say for the sake of argument that he *did*
kill them.  All of
that can be very scarring for a five-year-old, right?"

Dorsey and I nodded, already interested in where Mulder was taking this.


Mulder seemed pleased that he had nabbed our interest. "How old was
Stein Sr. when he
killed those women?"

I picked up Sr.'s file and flipped quickly to the birth certificate.
"Thirty-five." I told him.

"Okay, so Jr. was five when his old man of thirty-five killed ten women.
 Thirty years
later, Jr. would be thirty-five, the same age his father was. Ten women
are killed that
year.  I know it hasn't been proven he killed those women either, but
doesn't that seem a
little more than coincidental?"

I shook my head. "That's just what anyone could say, it was a
coincidence that those
women were killed when Jr. was thirty-five."

"Ten women were killed the year Jr. turned thirty-five. When his father
was thirty-five,
he also killed ten women in the same manner. It doesn't seem
coincidental to me. Not
after you add this," Mulder tossed another file towards me. "Jr. had a
son, Deuce's father.
How old was that son when the 1939 murders were committed? Five. How old
was
Deuce when the 1969 murders were committed? Five. They were all the same
age when
their fathers killed those women."

Dorsey shot him a look.

"For the sake of argument," Mulder added to his last statement.

I moistened my upper lip with my tongue and drummed my fingers on the
papers. "So,
what you're saying is that these men all killed ten women at the age of
thirty-five because
their fathers before them did?"

Mulder nodded. "And it all goes back to a jealous merchant's wife."

Dorsey looked at me, and then at Mulder. "Let me get this straight: In
1909 Stein Sr. had
a little affair. He chose his wife over his girlfriend in the end. His
girlfriend got mad and
killed Stein's wife to get back at him for ditching her.  In revenge for
that, Stein killed his
girlfriend. Then something snapped in his mind and he killed ten other
women just
because they were the same age and eye color of his wife's murderer.
After that work
was done, he ended his misery by killing himself.  His five-year-old
boy, very
traumatized by these events, then killed ten women in the same way when
he was thirty-
five because his father did. This bloodline of revenge killings
continued up to Deuce.
And that is where we stand."

Mulder nodded, a sly grin of victory crossing his face. Mulder loves it
when he solves a
case, even if no one else believes his theory as the truth. As long as
he thinks it's right, it is.

"I'm sorry to say this, but it sounds a little bizarre. I think we'd
just confuse the jury, and
then Deuce's asshole lawyer would have a field day with us." Dorsey
said.

"Which is why we have to get Deuce to say something about it." Mulder
said.

"He won't talk, we've tried." Dorsey argued. "His lawyer is always
present, and won't let him answer anything."

Mulder stood up. "I happen to have it on good authority that I can get
Deuce's lawyer
away from him." He said matter-of-factly.

Dorsey looked at me after Mulder had disappeared down the corridor
towards the stairs.
"How's he gonna do that?" He asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said, "Mulder has his ways." I collected
up the files that I
still needed, shoved them into my briefcase, and started towards the
stairs myself.  

*

An hour later, I found myself at the police station, staring beyond the
one-way mirror to
the prison conference room.  At opposite ends of a short rectangular
table sat Deuce and
Mulder. They had not really begun talking yet, Mulder had just gotten
Deuce's lawyer
(Arnold, I think his name was) out of the room.  Mulder bargained with
Deuce to get him
to dismiss his lawyer by bribing him with cigarettes.  Mulder somehow
knew that Arnold
wouldn't let Deuce smoke, and neither would the guards.  Being the
chain-smoker he
was, Deuce was broken by the cigarettes Mulder slid down the table.  He
was granted
permission to record the conversation by sliding a couple matches along
with it.  Some
people can be bought very easily.

I stood behind the glass watching their conversation, and listening over
the intercom.  I
didn't want to go in there with Mulder, and have to know Deuce could see
me.  

"We know about your father." Mulder began calmly, watching as Deuce
puffed on his
first cigarette. "We know he killed those ten women."

"Yeah, so did my grandfather and my great-grandfather. But you can't
prove that." Deuce
said gruffly. "I'm not stupid, Agent Mulder."

Deuce may not have been stupid, but he sure had a short memory.  Our
first proof was on
the tape, he telling us his grandfather and great-grandfather had both
murdered ten
women.

"Well then maybe you can tell me why you all killed those women?" Mulder
said
professionally.

Deuce laughed.  "Fear." He said. "An Irish philosopher, Edmund Burke,
said that 'no
passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and
reasoning than fear'.  
Fear is mysterious, it's...fascinating."

Mulder exhaled in a short sigh. "Thank you, for the history lesson." He
said sarcastically.
"But you still didn't answer my question. Why did you kill those women?"

Deuce took a drag on his cigarette and then exhaled the puff of gray
smoke. The smoke
hung before his face for a brief moment like fog, and then faded away.
"When you can
figure that out, Mulder, then you'll know everything."

Mulder crossed his arms. This had turned out to be a lot harder than he
thought. "Why
don't you help me to figure this out?" He said invitingly.

Deuce didn't answer, he just continued to stare at Mulder.  Eventually,
he took his
finished cigarette from his mouth, and snuffed it out on the bare table,
leaving a black
singe mark in the surface. "Are you afraid of dying, Agent Mulder?" He
asked quietly,
his eyes intense on Mulder.

Mulder was staring straight back at Deuce.  It was like he was
captivated, or hypnotized.
"I suppose we're all afraid of death in some way." He answered.

"You're afraid." Deuce told him. "I can see the fear in your eyes, just
like I saw it in all
the other women's, like I saw it in Scully's.  That fear just before I
killed those women,
and shot your pretty little partner."

"Are you gonna kill me?" Mulder asked, still locked by Deuce's stare.

This is when I realized something was wrong. Mulder was going in too
deep. And Deuce
was pulling him. Deuce knew he could lead Mulder on, and he was using it
to his
advantage.  

"Get him out of there," I said relatively calmly, continuing to watch.

A few seconds later, Deuce looked over at the mirror. It appeared as
though he was
looking straight through the mirror at me. He had a look in his eyes
that I can only
describe as pleasure. An evil smirk crossed his face that said, "Watch
this."

Before I realized what he was doing, Deuce had leapt out of his chair
and was running at
Mulder. No one had locked the ankle shackles to the bolt on the floor.
Even though a
longer chain shackled his wrists and ankles together, he could still run
in a lumbering
way.   He had been trained in how to still be mobile and dangerous in
handcuffs as a
police officer.  

Mulder hadn't anticipated the attack, and he couldn't process a reflex
in the split second it
took for Deuce to be out of his chair and across the room. He was thrown
to the floor
when Deuce's fist contacted his cheek.  When Mulder hit the floor, Deuce
landed a hard
kick to his upper back and one to his upper arm. And then Deuce was on
him, pinning
him down and using his cuffs as a means to strangle Mulder.  

"Get him out of there!" I yelled, moving towards the door of the viewing
room as quickly
as I could. Two officers burst into the interrogation room ahead on me.
They were armed
with nightsticks with one officer used to bash Deuce over the head with.
 

I got past the hysteria and to Mulder's side.  He was attempting to sit
up when I crouched
beside him.  His right cheek was red going on purple and a small drop of
blood dribbled
from the sliver of a cut in the center.  The entire front of his throat
was red and bruised.
After the two officers had dragged away Deuce's unconscious body, I
helped Mulder into
the chair he had previously vacated.

He touched his fingers to the red line across his neck, making a pained
hiss through his
teeth.  "Am I bleeding?" He asked me as I visually inspected his cheek.

"A little," I said. I reached out and touched the outside of the bruise
on his cheek. He
winced and recoiled from my touch.

He brought his hand to his cheek and wiped away the blood. "Bastard," he
muttered
under his breath. "He was planning on doing that the whole time. For all
we know,
everything he just said could be a damn lie."

This was not as easy as he thought at all.

*

That night we both sat in my hotel room, just relaxing. The TV was on,
but neither of us
were really watching it, it was just on as noise mostly.  Mulder was
stretched out across
the foot of the bed, nursing his bruised arm with an ice pack.  I was
leaning against the
bed headboard, my feet barely stretching out far enough to touch Mulder.
 I had been
sorting through the files in my briefcase a little, trying to find
something that could help
us. Bored with that, I put the files away and just sat and watched
Mulder. Every time he
moved a little bit, he cringed from the pain in his left arm and back.

"Mulder, come over here and let me look at that bruise on your face." I
said, patting the
bed beside me.  

Mulder rolled over and sat up, wincing in the process. He scooted back
towards the head
of the bed and I reached over to the bed stand where I had left my
portable medical kit.  I
opened it and took out an antiseptic cream and a cotton swab.  The
bruise on Mulder's
right cheek was just below his eye and slightly behind his jaw.  The
swelling had gone
down and the bruise was about the size of an American half-dollar coin.
The cut was
deep, now the dark maroon of dried blood.  

"You're lucky you don't have to get stitches." I remarked, squeezing
some of the whitish
cream onto the end of the cotton swab.  I brought it towards his face.
"This might sting a little." I warned.

He held still, only flinching a little as I swabbed the ointment onto
the cut.  

"It's been a long time since I've had to do this, huh?" I said, meaning
about doctoring his
wounds. It hadn't been since before the shooting that I had to doctor
him. He hadn't been
injured too badly since getting out of the hospital in early November.

He smiled a little.  "Damn bastard really did a number on me, didn't
he?"

I returned the grin. "It's not too bad, you'll survive."  I told him,
fixing a butterfly bandage
over the center of the cut.  I reached up again to make sure the bandage
was on right,
gently brushing my fingers against the bruise.  

Mulder caught my hand gently and brought them to his lips.  He kissed my
index and
middle fingertips lightly, teasingly. His eyes locked on mine, he
released my hand and
then brought his own around to my neck. He moved my head up towards his
and kissed
my lips.  The kiss, although brief, still managed to stir the sexual
tension between us until
it was electrified.  

A few seconds later, the tension shattered and the moment became awkward
and
uncomfortable.  I looked away from him innocently and then leaned back
against the
headboard.  I inspected my fingernails like they were the most
interesting things I had
ever seen while Mulder laid stretched out on the bed again, his head
resting on my pillow.

He sighed, letting the awkwardness pass as if it hadn't even been there.
 Then he turned
his head and looked up at me. "Scully, when I was in there with Deuce,
did you know
that he was going to pull something?" He asked cryptically.

I continued to look down at my hands.  "You can never let your guard
down on a man
like Deuce Stein." I said finally, as an indirect answer to his
question.

Mulder looked away, not pleased with my evasiveness. He scratched his
left cheek where
his five o'clock shadow had formed.  "When I looked into that man's eyes
when we were
talking," he began, "I saw something I don't think I've ever seen in
anyone. It was almost
like he could control me with his eyes. I knew he could see the fear in
my eyes, and he
liked it." He looked back at me to see the effect his story may have
taken. "Did you see
that in his eyes when he looked at you?" He asked me.

That was exactly what I saw. Seeing someone else's fear gave Deuce
pleasure. I knew it
made him feel like he was superior that he could intimidate people so.  

"Deuce kills when he sees the fear of dying." Mulder said definitively.

"Deuce kills because he likes it." I said very quietly, finally meeting
his gaze. "He likes to
see the look on people's faces as they die."   

Mulder sat up again, knowing he had found out what he wanted from me so
he could
push me further.  "I think you know more about Deuce than you're letting
on.  I think you
know from your dreams, don't you? That's how you knew to look up his
great-grandfather." He said gently.

I looked at my hands in my lap again. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze
me, Mulder." I
whispered, remarking about his words sounding too distant and fabricated.

He continued to persist nonetheless. He reached out and cupped my chin
to turn my face
towards his so he could capture my gaze again. He holds the most power
over me if he
can see into my eyes, if he can look into my soul.  "Tell me about your
dream." He said softly.

"I can't." I said straight to him, tears beginning to fill my eyes.  I
just couldn't do it. It hurt
too much to talk about. It was just easier to bury it deep within me and
try to forget about it. It was safer that way.

Mulder moved his hand from my chin to cheek and brushed away the first
trailing tear
with his thumb.  "You have to tell me about it, Scully. No matter how
hard it is you have to talk about it." He said earnestly.

I shook my head slowly, moving my face away from his hand. It hurt just
to think about it, that's how bad the nightmares were.  

Mulder put his hand back in his lap and leaned against the faux wood
headboard. He sighed like he had given up trying.

I know I hate to admit it, but he was right. I did have to tell him what
was in the dream; I
had to get it out.  It was easier to keep it in, but it was healthier to
tell someone.
Especially him.

I looked at my hands again, this time at those whitish scars on my
palms.  "I was him," I began. "I could see through his eyes when he
killed those women."

Mulder looked at me again, his eyes urging me to go on.

"He killed them because he is fascinated by their fear of dying.  He
liked to watch them
as they died.  And then when they were dead, he thanked them.  It was so
horrible. He
likes to see pain and suffering on people's faces. He likes to cut open
their hands and
watch the blood flow." By then, I was wringing my own hands until my
knuckles were
white. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks, but I continued, my voice
unwavering.  
"He likes to see them cry and ask them questions about what it's like to
know they're
going to die.  But he always says they all have to pay for the sins of
the past, he says they
need to pray for atonement.  And he asks them why they did it. He thinks
they're all the murderer of his great-grandmother."  

Mulder reached over and placed his hand on mine, relaxing them. He
offered condolence in his eyes.

"There was so much pain." I said, barely able to speak past the want to
cry.  

Mulder didn't say anything.  He just took me into an embrace again, and
held me against the fear.  All I could do was cry.

        *        *        *        *        *

End of Part 16

That was a long one, I know. Expect for the next part to be
<cough>...NC-17...if you
know what I mean...Just a little foreshadowing to tease you
there...--Evil Me

 The Path of Thorns
Part 17

* * * *
Sweet surrender is all I have to give
You take me in
No questions asked
You strip away the ugliness that surrounds me
You are an angel

* * * *

Dorsey informed us the next morning that I would testify that day.  He
felt I was ready,
and so was the jury.  He had great confidence we would get a conviction,
but he wasn't so
sure about how long Deuce would serve for his crime. He also wasn't
positive if Deuce's
lawyer was trying to get him off completely, or with temporary insanity.
After what
Deuce did to Mulder, it was assured we would at the very least get an
assault charge, if it
could not be proven he committed the other murders.

It didn't take long for Dorsey to call me to the stands.  I was nervous.
No, I was beyond
nervous; I was on the verge of a breakdown.  Sure, I had been to court
and testified
before, but those times had never held such importance to me. I watched
men put into jail
that would never see the light of day again. I helped to convict some of
the sickest dirt
bags to ever walk the face of the planet.  None of them; not Gerry
Schnauz, not Tooms,
not even Donnie Pfaster the god awful fetishist had hurt me as bad as
Deuce Stein.  If it
was my testimony that allowed this man to walk, I would never be able to
live with
myself.  So, I think I had a right to be nervous.

"Please raise your right hand," The bailiff said as I stood before him,
placing my palm on
the leather cover of the bible he held out. I did as I was told.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth, so
help you God?" He asked mechanically.

"I do," I replied just as unemotionally.

"Please take a seat on the bench," he instructed, stepping back to the
wall in the front of the courtroom.

I sat down and gripped into the plastic armrests on the bench chair.
The bailiff stepped
forward again to adjust the microphone so it would record my voice
better.  I shot a quick
glance at Mulder while Dorsey stood and made a flagrant act of walking
towards the
bench.  Mulder's comforting gaze told me to calm down. I took a deep
breath and blinked.

"Ms. Scully, you are an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
correct?" Dorsey asked simply.

We had rehearsed all of his questions and probable cross-examination
questions, as well
as my answers, before. He hoped it would help me if I got too nervous
and my speech stumbled to just remember what we had practiced.  

"Yes," I answered.

"How long have you worked for the FBI, Agent Scully?" Dorsey asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but was cut off by a loud pounding on a
wood table.

"Objection!" Moe Arnold, Deuce's defense attorney barked, "Your honor,
it is completely irrelevant how long she's worked for the FBI."

"Sustained," The judge, John Caplan, said. He looked at Dorsey over his
bifocal glasses.
"Feel free to get to the point, Mr. Dorsey."

Dorsey nodded, "Your honor, I'm just trying to introduce my witness
properly," he looked back to me, "Please answer the question."

"Almost eight years." I replied after a moment's hesitation.

Dorsey turned away from the stands and faced the audience. "The point
is, Ms. Scully is
not an average citizen, or victim. She has been trained to make quick,
visual interpretations of suspects she may have only caught a glimpse of."

The courtroom was silent, save for a few lingering clicks as the court
reporter typed away
the events.  Surprisingly, Arnold made no arguments.

"Now, Agent Scully, could you please state for the court why you were in
Chicago on the date of November 15, 1999?" Dorsey questioned next.

"Yes, I can," I replied, "My partner was sent the case file for the
eight serial murders
committed here in Chicago. The Chicago Police were unable to solve the
case, as were
the Violent Crimes agents. Detective Pacelli then called my partner and
asked for his
help. We flew to Chicago that Monday to assist the police in their
investigation."

Dorsey nodded and tapped a rolled paper he had in his hand on the edge
of the witness bench. "And what did you find in Chicago?"

"Eight murders had already been committed. No suspect had been charged
as of then." I answered, my confidence slowly growing.  

"Was a connection plausible between the victims?" Dorsey asked.

"Yes, all of the victims were female, between the ages of twenty and
forty years old.
They all had the same relative social statuses ranging mostly in the
upper-middle class." I said.

"Were the victims connected in any other way?"

I shook my head, "As far as we could tell, no, they were complete
strangers to each other."

"So, there was no obvious motive for murder?"

"Not at that time," I said.

Dorsey paced back and forth, all the while tapping his paper on his
hand. "Another murder was committed that night--" Dorsey started to say.

Arnold stood again. "Objection, your honor, he's leading the witness."
He said calmly.

Judge Caplan nodded. "Sustained," he said, "Watch yourself, Mr. Dorsey."

Dorsey looked up at the judge, presiding high over everyone else. "I'll
rephrase my
question." He said, waving his hand in a processing gesture. He looked
at me again.
"What happened that night, the fifteenth?" He asked.

I cleared my throat, finding it much easier to answer the questions as
my nerves died
down. "Another murder was committed at eight o'clock, the same as the
other murders."

Dorsey turned toward the judge. "Your honor, permission to reference
Exhibit C?" He
asked of Caplan.

Caplan nodded, "Permission granted. Bailiff, please bring forth Exhibit
C."

The bailiff that swore me in pushed forward a cart with a slide
projector atop it. Then he
pulled down a white screen on the opposite wall to the jury.  Dorsey
approached the
projector and turned it on. It projected a blurry image onto the screen.
The judge called
for the lights to be turned out and the picture was clearer.

It was of a woman's body strewn on gray carpeting. A puddle of blood
surrounded her
head. Her hands were covered with blood as well.  I recognized her
immediately as Marie
Truesdell.

"This is the ninth victim, correct?"

I swallowed hardly, again confronted by the fear that had shaken me when
we were
investigating all those months ago. "Yes," I said firmly.

"Can you identify her?" He asked.

"Yes," I said, "Marie Truesdell."

Dorsey pushed a button on the projector remote and flipped the slide to
an evidence
photograph of one of the white roses.

"Can you tell me what this is?" Dorsey asked next.

I sighed a little. "It's a long-stemmed white rose. One was found at
both Marie Truesdell's
apartment and the previous victim's residence." I explained.

"Was there any connection between the roses and the murders?"

"We thought so, yes. At first we weren't sure what though."

Dorsey nodded again. "I'm going to change the subject a little bit
here." He proclaimed.
He turned off the slide projector and thanked the bailiff as he came to
retrieve it. Then he
walked back to the bench in front of me.  "When did you meet the
defendant, Lieutenant
Peter Stein?" He asked, gesturing towards Deuce who sat slumped in his
chair, cuffed
and chained, sticking out like a sore thumb in his neon orange prison
suit.

"At the Sloan crime scene," I said confidently, "He was investigating
with Detective Pacelli."

"And did you notice anything odd about Mr. Stein?"

Arnold pounded the table again in that familiar way. "Objection! Your
honor, he's leading
the witness again!" He yelled.

"Overruled." Caplan said calmly. "Please answer the question Agent
Scully." He said to me.

I nodded slightly and swallowed. We had rehearsed this question before.
I knew what to say. "Not right away," I said.

"Not right away," Dorsey repeated as if he was letting it sink into his
own mind. He
scratched his chin, as he often did when he was about to talk about
something important.
"What happened that night? What was it that you found in your hotel?"

I shifted in my seat a little. It would be explaining these events that
would be the most
difficult. "I returned to my hotel room to find a white rose on the door
stoop. Just like at all the crime scenes."

"And what did you think about this rose?"

"Well, I finally figured out that it was a calling card for the
murderer. I thought that he
was waving the evidence in front of us." I explained.  

"What did you do with this new information?"

"I called my partner and told him what I thought." I replied.

Dorsey faced me again, rather than the audience. "But something
happened?" He asked.

Once again, Arnold objected. "Leading again, your honor!" He stated.

Caplan pulled his glasses off. "Overruled!" He barked, "Let the man do
his job! One more time and I'll hold you in contempt!"

Arnold sat back down, his fists tightened at his side.

"Thank you, your honor." Dorsey said. "Please, answer, Agent Scully." He
told me.

"Yes, something happened. I was attacked while I was still speaking to
my partner." I said steadily.

"Describe for the jury what the exact events were." Dorsey instructed.

I took a deep breath. "I guessed my attacker to be large male." I began.
"He forced me to
my knees and then proceeded to lock my hands behind my back with
handcuffs."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Yes, he said that if I screamed, he would kill me."  

"Why did you listen to what he said?"

I breathed heavily again. My agitation was returning and I knew that I
had to calm down.
"In the FBI, we are trained to do what we are told in a hostage
situation. At the time, I
thought I may be able to get away by listening to my assailant until I
could gain power
over him." I said with as much firmness as I could muster.  

"What happened after he cuffed your hands?" Dorsey asked, now standing
right beside
the witness booth and gripping the wood-paneled edging.

"He used a medical scalpel to cut my palms into a number, like on the
other murder
victims." I explained, my voice considerably softer. I began
unconsciously wringing my hands on my lap.

"Then what?" Dorsey pressed.

I hesitated, taking a few breaths to regain my nerve. I stopped wringing
my hands and
replaced them on the armrests.  "He started speaking in German. He was
talking about
paying for the sins of the past. I tried to ask him what he meant, but
he wouldn't say anything."

"What happened after he started rambling in German?"

"My phone rang.  I knew it had startled him for a second, so I jumped
up." I said, and
then paused, knowing I had forgotten a detail. "I had gotten one of my
hands out of the
cuffs after they started to bleed. The blood...made the cuffs slippery
so I could get my hand out."

"What did he do when you jumped up?" Dorsey asked, using a particular
hint of carefulness in his voice.  

I didn't speak right away. I looked at my lap, trying to find my
confidence.  I hadn't
realized it would be so hard to bring these details to the light after
being settled in the
dark recesses of my memory for so long.  I looked to Mulder and his face
was
encouraging. "He shot me." I said finally, my voice just barely above a
whisper.

"He shot you." Dorsey proclaimed loudly, making sure the jury heard it.
"He shot you, and the what did he do?"

"He left me for dead." I said not quite as quietly as before. Dorsey had
told me to leave out the part about the German prayer, for that question
at least.

"He shot you and left you for dead." Dorsey said again, staring at the
jury. "Now, Agent Scully, do you know who it was that shot you?"
He asked.

"Yes," I said confidently.

"Is he sitting in this room today?" Dorsey asked, sounding very much
like a motivational speaker, with an unwavering, powerful voice.

"Yes," I said again.

"Would you please name him for the jury?"

"Yes," I nodded. "Lieutenant Peter Stein."

Dorsey turned back to me, not saying a word. His eyes congratulated me
on a job done
well.  It was good to know one of us had some confidence.   He looked up
at Judge Caplan after a few minutes.  

"No further questions your honor." He said, returning to his seat behind
the table.

"The court will now take a twenty minute recess before the
cross-examination." Caplan said, pounding his gavel.

The silence of the courtroom was broken by the voices and sound of
people standing and
filing out of the courtroom.  I stepped down from the witness stand,
still feeling very
weak.  Half of the hell I would have to endure that day was over, but
the hard half was
still to come. The cross-examination was where my testimony would either
prevail or be
roasted. It all depended on how I answered the defense's questions.

Mulder got up and came straight over to me.  He looked a little
concerned at the way I
was still hanging on the edge of the witness bench instead of walking
towards the door.  

"Are you okay?" he asked. He reached out and put his hand on my back.  

"Yeah," I said, straightening and shaking off lingering feelings of
agitation.

"You did good, Agent Scully." Dorsey said after collecting his papers
and filing them
away in his expensive leather briefcase.  "You just do that when Arnold
gets up there, and you'll be fine."

I rolled my eyes, disbelieving that it would actually be as easy as he
liked to make it sound.  

"Let's go get some coffee, agents, my treat." Dorsey invited, turning
and heading for the door without waiting for argument or consent.

"Come on," said Mulder, "It's not often a lawyer's gonna want to treat
us to this much
stuff in a week." He offered a comforting smile and a tiny hug around my
shoulders
before letting his hand settle on the small of my back, where it was
very missed I might add.

I attempted to return the smile.  Only Mulder can ease my fears with
nothing more than a touch and a grin.

We caught up with Dorsey just across the street at a coffee house, where
most of the
courtroom has also dispersed. Whoever had the brilliant idea of building
a coffee shop
across the street from a district courtroom, was a genius.

Dorsey scored us a table simply by showing his face.  Twenty minutes
really was not
enough time to relax and nurse a quiet cup, but it would be enough time
to down a quick
caffeine fix and update our pre-existing game plan.  

I sat across from Dorsey and ordered my normal double cream, no sugar,
plain coffee.
Mulder settled in beside me and ordered his coffee black.  Then we were
both silent,
anticipating that there must have been something Dorsey needed to talk
about.

Dorsey took a sip of his own coffee and leaned forward over the table.
He took great
lengths to make sure his tone could not be overheard. "All right, the
easy part is pretty
much over," he told us. "We've run through basically what will happen
with the cross-ex.  
After the cross-ex, we may have a rebuttal if needed. After that, I'll
call Mulder to the
stands, probably tomorrow, and the process will repeat. That will be the
end of our
witnesses.  Arnold will call his witnesses to the stands, most likely
including Deuce.
We'll nail him with some of the information we discovered in the
cross-ex. After Arnold
is finished with his witnesses, we'll have closing arguments and the
jury will make their
decision.  Hopefully, they will be on our side and see that Deuce is not
only a murderer,
but a very sane one."  

Dorsey paused, taking a moment to sip his coffee. Mulder and I continued
to sit in silence.  

"Now," Dorsey continued, "The questions Arnold will ask will most likely
revolve
around how you could have known for certain it was Deuce, and your
emotional
involvement.  He's going to try and break you, make it look like you
aren't certain.  You
just have to bite your tongue, look him straight in the eye, and tell
him what we rehearsed."

I nodded slowly, unsurely, drinking my coffee that had died down to
lukewarm. This was going to be fun.

Less than ten minutes later, I was back in the witness booth, trying to
remember what to
answer and control my nervous jitters that were in part related to the
coffee. Perhaps
coffee wasn't the best thing for Dorsey to treat me to after all.

"Ms. Scully," Moe Arnold began his first question with. There was an
unmistakable
southern accent in his voice, and the way he carried himself also
suggested he was one of
those infamous patronizing rich southern lawyers. "You have a doctorate
in medicine, correct?" He asked.

"That's right," I answered, confused as to the relevance of the
question.

"So you are a doctor. You possess a doctor's knowledge. Is that what
you're saying?" He asked.

I shot a look towards Dorsey, who also looked as confused as I was. He
stood up calmly.
"Objection, your honor, this is totally irrelevant."

"Sustained, Mr. Arnold, where are you going with this?" Caplan asked.

"What I'm getting at, your honor and the jury, is that some doctors
think they are superior
over other people." Arnold said. "Do you believe yourself superior to
some people
because you are a doctor, Agent Scully?" He asked me.

These were definitely not questions we had anticipated.  I continued to
watch Dorsey's
actions, hoping he could toss out another objection that could save me.
"No..." I
answered hesitantly after seeing no immediate motion from the good DA.

"Just what are you implying here, Mr. Arnold?" Caplan asked.

Arnold grinned eerily and turned towards the audience. His balding head
glinted in the
fluorescent lights of the courtroom like a glass ball. "What I am
implying here, is that
Agent Scully's judgment on her attacker may have been clouded by
personal issues." He said.  

He turned around and looked at me. His eyes were almost as evil as
Deuce's, but not evil
in a heartless way, evil in a cynical, lying way.  "Is it not true that
you felt the need to
separate yourself from this case the second night of investigation due
to personal reasons?"

Oh damn, I thought. I glanced at Dorsey and Mulder; their expressions
said the same.
These were definitely not questions we had anticipated.  I wasn't even
sure how Arnold
had gotten the information. As far as I knew, Mulder was the only person
who knew I
was going to distance myself from the case, and that was only for the
evening.

"Yes, it's true." I answered with a little sigh.

"And isn't it also true the quote-un-quote 'personal reasons' were the
fact that you were
bothered by the aspects of the murders?" Arnold questioned.

"Yes,"

"Did Peter Stein also bother you? Something about his presence or
personality?
Something that bothered you before he was even a suspect?"

I looked again to Dorsey as he jumped up from his seat, throwing his
hand into the air.
"Objection!" He yelled. "Your honor, he is badgering my witness!"

"Sustained," Caplan replied. "I suggest you be careful what you ask, Mr.
Arnold."

"Sorry, your honor," Arnold sighed, shoving his hands into his trouser
pockets. "Please
answer the question, Ms. Scully." He dared to request.

I hesitated.  I hadn't a clue what to say. If I said I was bothered, he
would hang us with
the next couple of questions.  But if I lied, and said I wasn't, he
would nail Mulder with
the truth, find out I did lie, and I would be charged with perjury.  It
was a lose-lose
situation.  I opened my mouth to begin to speak, but then shut it again,
unsure.

"Please remember you are under oath, Ms. Scully." Arnold said, pacing
back and forth, fully enjoying his roast of a federal agent.

I looked at the floor. "Yes, I was agitated by his presence." I said
quietly, almost whispering.   

"You were agitated by his presence." Arnold repeated loudly.

I blinked, disbelieving this was happening.  My eyes fell to Mulder. He
was slumped in
his seat, watching me, a worried frown creasing his face.  Only one
phrase could describe the situation: Crash and burn.

"You were bothered by the case and you were bothered by Peter Stein."
Arnold said,
rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "What could keep you from putting the two
together, and thinking your attacker was Mr. Stein?"

I didn't answer.  I didn't know. There was nothing. The only way I knew
it was Deuce
was by the look in his eyes.  I recognized some of the facial features,
sure, but I knew it
was he by that unforgiving glare.  "I recognized his physical features."
I said finally.  

"Did you?" Arnold questioned mockingly. "How well lit was your hotel
room that night?"

"It wasn't dark." I said. "There was one light, by the door."

"A single lamp." Arnold reiterated. "So that little lamp probably cast a
lot of shadows.  
Therefore, how could you be certain it was my client that attacked you?
How can you be
sure it wasn't another man with a mustache like Mr. Stein, and that you
said it was Mr.
Stein simply because you were afraid of him?"

I shook my head. Dorsey was subtly drawing an imaginary line across his
throat with the
capped tip of his pen. He was trying to get me off the stands as quick
as possible. "I just knew," I muttered.

"You just knew." He said aloud. What is it with that man and repeating
whatever I said?
"You just knew, how could you 'just know'?" He let the pressuring
silence hang for a
moment. "Do you believe in psychic abilities, Agent Scully?"

Dorsey objected. "This, again, your honor, is irrelevant."

"Sustained," Caplan said for the hundredth time that day. "Mr. Arnold, I
don't have all day, get to the point."

"I'm doing that, your honor," Arnold said apologetically (if he was
capable of a tone such
as that). "If Agent Scully would answer the question, please."

I sighed. "In some instances, yes, I guess I do believe in the theory of
psychic abilities." I said.

Arnold placed his hand on the corner of the witness stand and leaned
against it, looking at
my scornfully. "Do you believe you are psychic, Agent Scully?"

"No..." I said.

Arnold straightened. "So if you're not psychic, and you couldn't really
see Mr. Stein, how
do you know it was he?"   He asked.

It was getting hopeless. Dorsey said he was trying to break me, and he
was succeeding. "I
don't know! I just knew it was him, by his voice, by his face, by
everything!" I exclaimed.
I just couldn't think of anything to help me remember.

"So you didn't really know it was him, you just guessed it was! You used
your fear, your
agitation of him," Arnold approached me, clenching his fist in front of
him to represent
the fear. "And named him as the man that shot you."

"Objection, your honor," Dorsey was standing again. "He is continuously
badgering my witness!"

"Sustained, Mr. Arnold, I'm warning you, one more outburst like that and
you will be held in contempt!"

"I apologize, your honor." Arnold said. He looked at me, and then at the
jury. "No further
questions, your honor." He said dismissively, returning to his seat.  

"Your rebuttal, Mr. Dorsey." Caplan said to Dorsey.

"No further questions for this witness, you honor." He said, standing
slightly.

"Very well," Caplan said, nodding and looking to me. "You may step
down."

I stood up, walked off the bench, and back to my seat beside Mulder.
His eyes followed
me as I sat down, trying to give me some comfort and reassurance. It had
all gone to hell.

*

It seemed like after my testimony, the days of the trial flew by.  After
the fact that I had
been roasted because my emotional stability while on the case came back
to bite us in the
ass, it appeared to go downhill to me.  Basically what Arnold wanted to
prove to the jury
with his cross-examination, was that I was not psychologically fit to
make an accurate
accusation.  His goal in his cross-examination of both Mulder and myself
was to say that
I used my dislike of Deuce and the physical attributes of my attacker,
and put them
together so that I believed it was Deuce who attacked me, even though he
was innocent. I
have to admit I almost began to believe that was what happened.  Almost.
Until I caught
Deuce looking at me, and remembered his eyes the night I was shot, or
suffered through another nightmare.

Mulder's testimony was almost an alteration of my own.  He was asked
what happened,
his theories over the murders, and what happened to me.  Arnold's
cross-ex was also
frighteningly similar.  He was asked about my emotional stability, what
happened after I
left the unfinished autopsy of Marie Truesdell, and my fear of Deuce.
It turned out a
little better than my cross-ex had, because Mulder could hold his
confidence better.  

The defense had three, and only three, witnesses. Dorsey guessed that
Arnold hoped to
gain his point in the cross-ex's, and he did.  Arnold's witnesses were
Deuce, of course,
Deuce's psychiatrist who had diagnosed him as mentally unstable, and
Deuce's wife who
claimed he had not been acting like himself then.  To me, they didn't
present a very
believable case.  Dorsey managed to back Mrs. Stein and the psychiatrist
into a corner,
but there was little he could do with Deuce.  After giving it some
thought, he deemed that
the information on Deuce's family was just too bizarre and sketchy for
the jury to believe.
We would just have to rely on the little physical evidence we had and
that the jury did the
right thing. Of course, that is what they said about a man named O.J.
Simpson
and...well...we won't go there.

The last day of witness examination was a little over a week after the
trial began. It was a
relatively short trial so far as some criminal hearings go.  The date
set for closing
arguments and a verdict was March tenth.  The evening of March ninth
started out being
one of the most unnerving nights I ever had, and ended up being the best
night of my life.

Mulder and I decided to stay in at the hotel after the court was called
to recess for the
evening, it would be better for the stress and to keep the press off our
backs. I was doing
anything to try and keep my mind off the trial; reading, watching TV,
going over an old
case report I found in my briefcase, surfing the Internet on my laptop,
anything to keep
me busy. Nothing seemed to gain my attention longer than fifteen
minutes. A good part
of the evening was spent turning the what-ifs over and over in my head.
At least I had
Mulder to talk to, until he got up and went to his room to take a
shower.  Then I was
alone with my nerves and boredom.

I left my room and wandered down the hallway. I found the more I walked,
the less I
needed a crutch.  Of course I still had the wheelchair with me, but I
only used it once or
twice on the whole trip.  

I was just across the hall getting a bucket of ice (to drown myself in)
and a small bag of
chips from the vending machine when Mulder appeared at his door.  His
hair was still
wet and disheveled and a damp towel still hung about his shoulders, but
his face was
clean-shaven.  He wore a gray cotton tee shirt and faded blue jeans that
fit his lean thighs
just right.   Hey, that was something the take my mind off the goddamn
trial.

"There you are," he said, leaning against the doorframe to his room, "I
was wondering where you went."

I straightened after retrieving my snack from the opening in the vending
machine.  "I'm
still here," I sighed, holding my chips and ice bucket in one hand and
smoothing my hair
away from my face with the other.

"What's the ice for?" Mulder asked as he followed me into my room.

"It's for the tequila I'm going to drown myself in." I answered.  I
placed the bucket and
bag of chips on the table and flopped down on the bed.  

Mulder turned and shut the door. "I hate to cramp your plans but you
don't drink tequila
with ice." He informed me. He discarded the towel on a chair and sat
down on the bed next to me.

"Who said anything about drinking it?" I joked suggestively, crossing my
arms behind my head.  

Mulder grinned and snickered.  He ran his hand through his hair and
stood up again.  
"You know what," He looked at me where I lay stretched on my side across
the bed, my
head now propped in my hand.  "I have a better use for this ice."  He
started across the
room to the adjoining door. "Wait here," he said, giving me a 'stay'
hand gesture.

I rolled to my back again.  I used to wonder sometimes what the little
suggestive jokes
Mulder and I had really meant.  It was always Mulder that made the
sexual innuendoes at
some inappropriate time to ease the tension.  My response to these jokes
was usually to
just brush it off, sometimes with a little smirk.  It was rare that I
ever made a joke myself.  
I never really knew, and still don't know, if the jokes were suggestive
remarks about
Mulder's wants or if they were just meaningless sarcasm targeting at
nothing more than a laugh.

By the time I was bored with contemplating the meaning of flirty jokes,
Mulder had
returned from his room.  In one hand, he carried a dark bottle of wine
and a corkscrew--in
the other he held two wine glasses.  He set the glasses on the table as
well as the bottle
and proceeded to unscrew the cork.

"When did you get this?" I sat up and asked him as he worked on pulling
the cork out of
the top of the bottle.  

"Well," He began, finally freeing the cork with a muffled popping sound.
"I picked it up
the other day while you and Dorsey were going over some of the case
reports." He held
the glasses like an expert, filling them a little over halfway with the
crimson liquid.  He
handed one glass to me and then sat beside me again.

"I figured we could have some tomorrow to celebrate, but it would be of
better use to
relax tonight.  Now, what shall we toast to?" He asked casually, easily
slipping past
conversation about the trial.

I shrugged. It didn't seem like there was anything worth toasting to
then.  After a second I
held up my glass and looked at Mulder. "To...us." I said finally.
Anything else that was
going on just wasn't at all worth toasting.  There was only one thing
that was actually
getting better and never worse in our lives, our relationship. Us.  

Mulder let a small smile spread across his face. "To us." He repeated,
touching his glass to mine.

I sipped a little of the wine, letting my eyes wander to nothing in
particular.  The taste of
the wine lingered on my tongue, sweet and satisfying. It was a good
wine.  It even
surprised me for a moment that Mulder would have such good taste. Well,
growing up in
the Vineyard with the fine etiquette they practiced you would have to be
a total idiot to
not know a thing or two about wine.  Out of curiosity, I reached over
and picked up the
bottle to look at the label.

"Merlot, Mulder? This stuff isn't cheap." I said, surprised.

Mulder shrugged sheepishly and took another drink.  "I know.  Like I
said, it was to
celebrate but it seemed more fitting to open it tonight.  Especially
considering how nerve-
racking this is with how well the trial has gone."  Mulder bit his lip,
realizing he had just
let slip the subject we had been trying to avoid if at all possible.

I placed my glass on the bed stand and lied back down, remembering what
I had
momentarily forgotten.  I covered my face with my hand and rubbed my
temples, a
headache I had also forgotten was beginning to return.  

I heard Mulder put his glass on the table, and then felt the bed shift
as he lay down beside
me. "I'm sorry, Scully." He said guiltily.

"It's okay," I said. My voice was muffled through my hand as it rested
over my face and my closed eyes.  

"You don't have to be worried about this verdict, Scully." Mulder said,
trying to be as
reassuring as always.  "Even if the murder charge doesn't go through,
he's going to get
aggravated assault and assault and battery of a federal agent. Half a
dozen cops, including
you and his lawyer, saw him attack me in broad daylight. There's no way
that couldn't
have gotten to the jury and influence their decision. He'll be in prison
or some mental
hospital for five, maybe even ten years."

I moved my hand from my face. "You don't understand." I said hopelessly.
 "Wh...What
happens when he gets out of jail?" I stuttered. I looked over at Mulder.

"Scully, the odds of you ever having to look at his ugly face again are
slim.  If he serves
ten years, he'll probably die in jail, he'll have a heart attack or
something. I mean he's not
healthy guy. He's not going to live that long in prison." Mulder argued.

I sat up again. "It won't end." I said definitively. "If he gets out of
prison, if he walks, he will kill me."

"How do you know that?" Mulder inquired strongly, propping his head on
his hand.

I stood and crossed my arms, pacing across the room. I didn't answer; I
just shook my head stubbornly.

Mulder took his turn to sit up. "There's something else you know, don't
you? Why do you
keep hiding these things from me? If you know there's a reason Deuce
would come after
you again, just tell me." He urged.

I clenched my jaw as a burning tear slid down my cheek.  "The cycle says
that the guy
kills ten women, branding all of them with a number." I turned back
toward Mulder.
"After he kills them all, he kills himself. Whatever guilt or misery or
pain he had to deal
with after he murdered them, dies when he ends it." I came closer to
Mulder and held out
my hands, palms up, so he could see them. "I'm number forty. Deuce has
only killed nine
women. He can't end it until he kills one more. And he won't just go for
anyone. He
wants the one he didn't finish, the one that got away.  I've already
been branded. Don't
you see, Mulder?" I sat on the bed, fully ignoring the tears streaming
down my face.  

Mulder took my hands, massaging my palms with his thumbs like his touch
would make the scars vanish.  

"We play by his rules." I murmured.  

Mulder shook his head slowly, still holding onto my hands. "We play by
no one's rules."
He said. "You've got nothing to worry about.  If you never ever, ever
believe me again,
believe me on that." He cracked a comforting smile.  

My lips turned up in a tiny smile.  Since I couldn't think of anything
to say, I just leaned
over and rested my head against Mulder's shoulder.  He put his arm
around my back and
squeezed me in closer.  

"You've gotta learn how to relax." He told me after releasing the
embrace.

"Do I?" I said. I reached over and picked up my wine glass as Mulder
moved his legs
onto the bed and leaned against the backboard.  I knocked back a heavier
drink than my
previous little tasting sips, emptying half the remaining contents.
Noticing this, and
remembering the long and most likely sleepless night that lay before me,
I grabbed the
bottle and topped off my glass.

"Isn't there a rule about male and female FBI agents knocking back
merlot in the same
hotel room?"  Mulder joked quizzically.

"If there is, I don't care." I said, taking a smaller drink than before,
after jamming the
bottle back into the bucket of ice. "I'm not on duty and I'm not
driving.  As far as I'm
concerned, this is just a shitty vacation that I didn't have to pay
for."

Mulder laughed.  It amazed me how quickly we could go from worrying
about the trial,
back to playful joking.  "Hear, hear." He agreed, chinking his glass
against mine.  

Then he replaced his glass to the bed stand, and took mine and placed it
beside his.  I
looked at him with a confused eyebrow raised.  He grabbed my shoulder
and tugged on it,
adding a "C'mere," in gesture for me to move from the edge of the bed
closer to him. He
tugged on both of my arms again, pulling me between his outstretched
legs, so that my
back would be to him.

Without questioning him at all, I relaxed when his hands rested on my
shoulders and then
began to move slowly in tight, massaging circles. I allowed my eyes to
slip shut to enjoy
the backrub fully.  Mulder's skilled hands easily worked the tense
muscles in my back
and neck, relieving the stress from a hard day with a mere touch.  I
reached back for my
wine glass without opening my eyes and Mulder's rhythm with one hand was
interrupted
as he handed it to me.  I took another drink of the sweet wine, letting
it swirl around my
tongue.  I reveled in the intoxicating mixture of the calming alcohol
and the relieving
back rub.  A few long sips later, the glass was empty, but I was unaware
of it.   

Mulder again let up with one of his hands, continuing to massage the
center of my back
with the lingering hand.  With the other hand, he lightly swept the hair
away from my
neck, in turn moving me to roll my head to the side, exposing the pale
tender flesh of my
neck.  His hand stopped moving and slid to my shoulder.  The bed shifted
as he leaned
forward and I could feel his warm breath on my neck.  He hesitated for a
moment, and
then brought his lips to the soft curve of my shoulder and neck.  His
kisses moved in a
line up to the sensitive skin below my earlobe.  My hand went lax with
the sensation of
his mouth on my skin and the empty glass tumbled unnoticed to the bed.
After a minute,
he stopped kissing my neck and sat back, exhaling deeply.

I turned around from my cross-legged seat to my hands and knees so I
could face Mulder.  
Normally the moment would have snapped when the kisses were broken, we
would enter
a few seconds of awkward silence over what had just occurred, and then
continue on as if
nothing had ever happened.  And yet, something was different that time.
It could have
been the alcohol, or it could have been the high amount of stress we
were both
experiencing.  I don't know what it was, but there was this low, deep
desire burning
inside of me.  As I gazed into Mulder's eyes I saw a similar hunger
there.  Without taking
any time for second thoughts, I wrapped my arms around his neck and
kissed him full on
the mouth.

As the kiss deepened, Mulder's hands moved around my back, pulling my
body closer to
his.  The kiss was momentarily broken after a few long minutes.  Mulder
folded his legs
under him and then brought his lips back to mine.  Gracefully, and using
little power to
move my light body, Mulder turned us both around and dipped me down so
that I would
come to rest on the bed.  The kissing remained steamy for a few lost
moments, and then
we pulled apart to breathe.

Mulder brushed my cheek gently with his fingertips; his eyes never once
leaving mine.  
"Before we go on," he whispered, his index finger tracing a path down
the delicate ridge
of my jawbone.  "I have to know if this is what you want. I--"

I ceased the words coming from his mouth with two fingers pressed
against his lips.  
Mulder has a tendency to 'ruin the moment' by talking.  His words can
sometimes be like
poetry, soft and sweet at just the right moment. But other times, he can
shatter that
moment by saying too much.  

"This is what I want." I whispered reassuringly into the silence that
was only torn by our
breathing.  I moved my fingers, brushing his soft lower lip.

Happiness reflected in his eyes.  He descended again and placed a long
kiss on my
forehead, than a much quicker one on the tip of my nose, and then a kiss
swelling with
passion placed on my lips.  The kissing again heated up, our tongues
resuming their
sensual tango.  

My hands passed around Mulder's jaw and cheeks to his soft, clean hair,
running my
fingers through it and further mussing its already awry nature.  I
arched my back against
the cushions of the bed, bringing my body closer to his.  I brought my
leg up around his
lower torso, my thigh momentarily grazing the hardened form of his sex
outlined in his fit
jeans.  This only increased my own arousal with the knowledge that I
caused his
excitement, and that it was for me and me only.  It must have done the
same for him
because an involuntary pleasured groan escaped him. His hand slipped
down my back
and over the gentle curvature of my ass and down my formed thighs. He
pressed my body
against his, bringing us closer still, even with the barriers of our
clothes separating us.  

As leisurely and methodically as he had before, Mulder passed his hand
back up the side
of my waist to my chest. He hesitated, and then delicately brushed his
hand over my
breast.  Even through my clothing, the touch made me shiver with
delight.  I released his
lips from kissing and relaxed my body away from his.  His eyes; dilated
and burning
green with arousal; focused on mine for a second, and then traveled down
to the buttons
of my white blouse that I had left on after court.  I reached down to
the bottom button of
my shirt and freed it from the hole easily.  Leaning on his knees to
free his hands, Mulder
gently moved my hands out of the way and began fumbling with the second
button.  The
adrenaline coursing his veins brought his hands to shaking, making
tedious work like
undoing buttons difficult, but he proceeded to do it anyway.  

He worked through each button carefully, slowly parting my shirt to
expose the cream-
colored skin of my belly beneath.  I watched his eyes as he parted the
buttons closer to
my neck; they remained focused on the forbidden flesh slowly being
revealed to him,
only sometimes flicking to my attention to gauge my reactions.  I sat up
slightly and
slipped my arms from the sleeves, exposing more of my body to the light.
 My blouse
was tossed to the floor, becoming a discarded heap of fabric as the
empty wine glass that
had also tumbled to the floor became forgotten.  

Mulder moved down and began kissing the line of my collarbone, his
tongue sliding
down into the dip at my throat.  His hands found the intricate black
lace of my bra, and
his fingers traced the flowery patterns around the edging to the swell
of my breasts.  I was
lost in the ecstasy his mouth brought my bare skin and was barely aware
when his right
palm rested on my breast more confidently, testing the weight inside its
lacy cups.  

I brought my lips to his again when they left my neck.  In a strong
kiss, I leaned forward
even more so that I was half sitting and Mulder was back on his knees.
His hands left my
chest and traveled slowly around to my back, following the path that the
bra strap made.  
But I interrupted his movement, reaching down to his waist and pulling
his shirt up and
over his head.  I wanted to indulge in the feeling of his bare skin
against mine, to touch
and caress and memorize every nuance and scar on his body, just as he
was doing with
me.  

His gray shirt off and discarded as mine had been, he continued around
my back,
unhooking my bra like any expert.  He removed it from my body slowly,
letting his eyes
slowly wander from my eyes down to my naked breasts, which he had in all
honesty seen
before, but never like this.  We had actually both seen each other
completely nude, but
never in a situation where we could affectionately touch and caress, or
if you prefer, explore.

My chest was heaving with shallow, rapid breaths.  When Mulder touched
me again, ever
so lightly, I trembled a little, more out of anticipation than fear.
His eyes met mine
briefly; they were reassuringly calm yet dancing and lively all at the
same time.  His right
hand came back more confidently, his fingers brushing the sensitive
nipple that hardened
and tingled in response.  I relaxed back down against the bed, Mulder
leaning down on
top of me, our bodies never once losing contact.  He moved his head down
to take the
nipple between his lips, his tongue making light, teasing circles around
it.  My arms went
around his neck and my fingers splayed against the bunched muscles if
his shoulder
blades.  He dragged his teeth across the tip of my nipple, now so
livened by touch it
wasn't painful, but it drove me crazy.  I sighed and tightened my hands
against his back,
nearly unable to keep from digging into his skin.  My eyes slipped shut
as his mouth
moved from my breast, back up my throat to my lips.  

He passed his hand quickly over my cheek and through my hair that was
fanned out on
the pillow.  He sat back on his knees again, straddling my legs.  His
warm hands moved
lightly down my waist, causing me to take in a sharp breath.  He smiled
as his fingers
reached the button and zipper of my jeans; they were undone and freed
easily.  He slid
my jeans down over my hips and thighs slowly, leaving my panties behind.
 I kicked off
my pants at the calves, sending them over the foot of the bed.

Mulder trailed his hands back up the sides of my thighs, to the last
small article of silk
and lace that covered me.  His fingers moved lightly around the bottom
edging, never
hesitating to pass around the apex of my legs, tenderly brushing the
aroused flesh.  He
went so far as to slowly slide his finger up the center of the silk,
causing another shiver to
creep up my spine and another glorified wave of moisture to rush from my
body.  He
repeated the pass and I moaned wordlessly.  Pleased with the control he
had over me, he did it again.

"Mulder..." I mumbled, responding to the pleasure his fingers continued
to bring. I could
hardly control myself.  I needed to feel his hands and lips everywhere
on my body. I
needed to feel him where I had never felt him before, where for so long
I could feel
nothing at all. My body was alive, and cried out for his touch.  

He fell down to the bed beside me and I turned over on my side.  My lips
captured his,
beckoning him to go on and not stop.  His hands returned to my hips, now
gently sliding
down my panties. Once they too were off and thrown to the side, his
hands traveled
methodically back up my legs.  He took his time touching my skin,
memorizing every
detail.  There would be other times to explore and move about each
other's bodies, but
this first time would come but once, and had to be taken slowly and
cherished
completely.  Not to mention the fact that he knew it was driving me mad
with anticipation.                     
       
I was naked for him then.  Every touch was electrified and made my body
tingle.  I had
never been touched the same before. No other man could