From: lhoward388@aol.com Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 19:16:23 EDT Subject: xfc: The Journey Back (1 of 4) Source: xfc Title: The Journey Back Author: Agent L Classification: MT, MA, SA Rating: PG, I guess Archive: Sure! Just keep my name attached. Spoilers: Requiem, Amor Fati, Duane Barry/Ascension, minor reference to The Red and the Black Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox. Thanks for one more season. I know this all belongs to you. Summary: Scully has to bring Mulder the rest of the way back. Author Notes: Scully's pregnancy takes a big back seat in this story. Sometimes it *is* all about Mulder. I'm not a doctor and I don't even play one on TV, so all the medical stuff is from my own imagination and watching "ER." I apologize for any errors. Dedication: This is my first post to MTA and I dedicate this to all the authors who have given me hours of reading pleasure. Feedback: Praise and constructive criticism gratefully accepted. LHoward388@aol.com. The Journey Back "Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" -- Fox Mulder I have been in this place before, lulled into a rare state of contentment by the unceasing whisper of the waves, half hypnotized by the movement of the blue-green water, foaming white against the gray rocks. Like a heartbeat, like breathing...the endless rhythm should be monotonous and yet there is something new about each curl of water, a new pattern of spray in infinite varieties. Mother Ocean shushes my worries and fears, soothing my face with a breeze that tastes of salt, earth and rain. The sand is cold and damp on my bare feet, but not unpleasant. The water rushes in and out, sometimes tickling my toes, urging me to come play, to immerse myself in the ageless sea ... to breathe deep and drown, become one with the restless tide, forever. The first time I came here was to escape from the voices in my head, to find a quiet corner, to feel fresh air on my skin. To be alone. Yet I wasn't alone. The boy was here then, playing in the sand as boys will, patiently answering my questions about what he was doing. I helped him build the most beautiful sand sculpture...Then I woke up in the hospital, a bloody bandage wrapped around my head, with no recollection of how I got there, except for the woman who was with me. The woman with red hair....The woman.... I can't remember her name. This should frighten me, but it doesn't. I know the memory will return when I'm ready. The boy is here again, industriously shoveling sand into his bright yellow plastic bucket. I have no energy for even such a small task. I sit down to watch him, wondering what new construction he's planning, but even that is too strenuous on such a beautiful day, so I lie down in the sand. My makeshift bed is strangely warm and soft, almost embracing me, as if I were sinking down into feathers, or a woman's welcoming arms. The sky is so clear and blue that it hurts my eyes, yet I can't get my fill. I want to inhale it, to gather it inside me, to breathe in clouds. Something cool and damp suddenly falls on my feet, and I look down my body to see that the boy has walked over to me as I daydreamed, his face solemn. He has dumped the bucket full of sand over my feet, and I realize I'm his new project -- some kind of bizarre performance art, I suppose -- as he carefully molds and packs the sand up to my ankles, working in a silence broken only by the gentle lullaby of the waves. I rest my weary head back against the sand and listen to the song. hush... ....hush... ....hush.... ___________ "There's no activity on the monitor. Read it for yourself." Dr. Duncan had reached the edge of his limited patience with this bitch-on-wheels FBI agent who claimed she was a doctor, demanding 24-hour access to labs, x-ray, whatever the hell she thought she wanted. She'd flashed her badge at everybody from the receptionist to the janitor, barking out orders, demanding that tests be re-administered, even taking over when she thought someone was slow or incompetent -- which was frequently. All this fuss over a vegetable. He tossed the readout at her and left the room. He had patients with brain activity and relatives who turned to him as if he were the right hand of God. He didn't need this aggravation. Scully barely registered the doctor's departure, much less the angry set of his jaw, as she snatched the printout from mid-air. Her headache, nearly constant for the past several hours, began to throb more insistently. She gulped four aspirin, washing them down with lukewarm coffee, closing her eyes as the tiny lines in front of her began to waver and blur. Had it only been 12 hours? It felt like a lifetime -- She couldn't remember the last time she'd been more than a few feet away from this sterile room with hideous gray-green paint on the walls, a color that she supposed was meant to be neutral and soothing, yet had the opposite effect on her. The fluorescent lights shone harshly on the metal monitors, glared off the white table, the white sheets... the white face of her partner. Scully quickly returned her attention to the paper in front of her to study the thin black lines that stretched nearly straight for almost a dozen pages, except for a hiccup here and there. Those tiny spikes of activity were small enough for the doctor in her to doubt that the brain still functioned, but large enough to give hope to the woman in her who desperately wanted to believe. Mulder had been missing for three months before he had been found unconscious in an alley not far from his apartment, but no one could tell if he'd gotten there on his own or if someone had dumped him off. Scully had gotten the call from the Lone Gunmen, who were monitoring their police scanner and had been ordered to alert her at any discovery of a John Doe. She nearly beat the ambulance to the hospital, and crashed into the emergency room, shaking off two nurses who tried to hold her back. She stopped just inside the door and watched as the ER team worked on a man who looked amazingly like her partner. He'd lost weight, but otherwise was virtually unchanged from the day she'd last seen him, as if he were simply sleeping. At any moment he would wake up and ask for her, and she would go to his bedside and take his hand and ask how he was feeling. Any moment now.... The scene took on a nightmarish quality as she interpreted the medical team's shorthand as they shouted back and forth. They couldn't wake him up. Possible concussion...hematoma.... No physical signs of trauma to the head or body other than a few minor contusions. There was no gunshot wound, no bleeding to be stopped, no broken bones to set. No one knew what was wrong. Therefore, nothing could be wrong. Nothing was wrong. Mulder, wake up. "No intravenous drug use -- " "Order a tox screen - " Mulder. *Wake up.* "Take him up to X-ray, come on, let's move..." Twelve hours later, they were no closer to figuring out what had caused Mulder's comatose state. There seemed to be no organic reason for him to be unconscious. Psychological trauma was a possibility, but without any clue as to where he'd been for three months or what had happened to him, how did they even begin to treat him? It was almost as if he were somehow supressing his thoughts... or perhaps his memories, in some form of catatonia. Scully walked over to the bed, examining the monitors that showed a slightly weak but steady heartbeat, regular breathing. The IV was rehydrating him. Physically, she'd seen him in much worse shape. In fact, only a few months ago he'd shocked other doctors with more brain activity than they'd ever seen, hyperactivity that had almost killed him. And now, although apparently in good physical condition, that same brain barely registered on the scale. She grasped his hand and gently stroked the long fingers, then stared at his blank, silent face, willing him to open his eyes, even though she was araid of what she might see. Or not see. "Mulder...Where are you?" she whispered. ______________ White. White room. White light. White noise. A constant buzzing -- thousands of angry bees trying to get out of my brain. I want to get up, to escape. I can't move. Naked and helpless on this table. Thick metal clasps secure my wrists and ankles. Strong straps around my chest, neck, forehead. Electric shock rips through me at the slightest tug, the smallest motion. My eyes are open -- for hours, days. I've lost track of time, of night and day. Here there is only the light. Constantly. The light. The brightness sears my corneas, scorches my retinas. I can't blink. They will not allow it. My mouth is forced open and I would scream if I could, but I have no chance, gagging as something slips past my larynx to slither down my throat. The muscles spasm. I can't breathe. I can hear myself choking as they watch. They are my constant companions. As constant as the light. As eternal as the pain. I can only see silhouettes with my ruined eyes -- featureless, large heads on small, fragile-looking bodies. They do not speak. They do not touch me. They observe, impassive and silent, as their equipment performs the tests. Over and over. Blood. Saliva. Semen. An endless round of needles and probes, raping me mentally and physically. At first, long ago, I tried to escape into my head, to think of something else... Scully. Our last night together. They applied the current to my testicles. Now I try not to think at all. A primal, terrified scream suddenly rips through the suffocating silence, and for first time, I wonder if there are others here. Somehow, just thinking that I'm not alone gives me a flicker of hope ... even if the other person is as helpless as I am. Then I realize I'm the one screaming. From: lhoward388@aol.com Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 19:17:34 EDT Subject: xfc: The Journey Back (2 of 4) Source: xfc Disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 "There. Do you see that?" Scully pointed at the wavering line on the chart as hope blossomed within her for the first time in three months. "There's brain activity. That's when I held his hand." Dr. Duncan hesitated. "There's definitely something happening...But you know as well as I do that even coma victims sometimes show activity, and nobody knows why." He forced himself not to flinch as her laser-blue glare sliced through him, and fervently wished she'd go back to the FBI and use that toughness on some of the ten most wanted. But just as he thought her arrogant and emotionless, her gaze flickered to the man in the bed and a deep sorrow passed over her face. He turned his head to allow her a moment of privacy. At that moment, a tall, balding man with piercing dark eyes strode into the room, trenchcoat flapping. Dr. Duncan sighed. Another Fed. This Mulder guy must have been a pretty important member of the Bureau to get all the personal attention. The man ignored him and went right to Scully. Dr. Duncan noticed he didn't even glance at the patient. "Agent Scully. May I see you in the hall?" It wasn't a request. Scully stood up and walked outside with him. She followed Skinner to a small alcove that served as a waiting area, empty at the moment. He sat down. She did not -- anxious to get back to the room, to review Mulder's treatment. Perhaps there was some test that they had forgotten, some specialist they could consult...She didn't like to leave him alone. "Agent Scully." Skinner had to look up at her when he spoke, but his presence was no less commanding. "I understand your -- personal interest in what's going on here, but you have work at the Bureau that needs your attention. I've been asked to strongly advise you to let the doctors do their work and get back to doing yours." Scully stared at him, anger quickly replacing her distraction as his words sank in. "I *am* a doctor," she replied. "And this *is* my work. I was specifically assigned to investigate Mulder's disappearance -- " "But he's back. Your job is done." "No, sir. He's not back yet. And my job is just beginning." She started to walk away, then stopped and turned to him, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but her voice steady. "With all due respect, sir, considering that you were the last person to see Mulder ali-...before he disappeared, I'd appreciate your support right now." Skinner jerked as if she'd shot at him, his gaze swerving from hers, shoulders hunched as if expecting a physical blow. When he looked back up, she was gone. Scully returned to the room, Skinner already forgotten, to find Dr. Duncan had taken the opportunity to flee. She couldn't blame him, she knew he thought Mulder was a lost cause. And to his credit, he'd done everything she'd asked -- or rather, demanded -- but his constant questioning of her methods and challenges to her abilities irritated her. "Now I know how *you* feel," she joked to Mulder as she took up her ongoing vigil between tests. She sat by his bedside for nearly an hour, talking to him about anything that came into her head, until her voice grew hoarse -- all the while watching the monitors for the smallest irregularity. If only they had some clue to where he had been, what had happened. The last thing anyone knew was that he had vanished in the Oregon woods, as had several other multiple alien abductees. Skinner had witnessed a ship, or some kind of craft, but his description was vague. A few of the abductees had been returned, but they had no memory of what had happened to them. Mulder would know, Scully thought. Mulder would have memorized every detail, every moment, filing the experience away in that phenomenal memory of his. After all, this was the Truth. The encounter he'd been seeking, preparing for, all his life, even if he hadn't realized it. He had gone to Oregon to protect her, but she couldn't help thinking that perhaps he had been drawn there, as certainly as she had once been drawn to a bridge by the implant in her neck. But something or someone had frightened or hurt him so badly that he'd gone deep into himself, too far below the surface for her to reach. He had been close to the surface earlier, she had sensed it -- but he had retreated again, sinking down into the darkness where she couldn't find him. Unless... Scully fingered the small scar on the back of her neck. Maybe if she faced her own darkness, her own fears, she could help guide Mulder back. She stood up and pressed a gentle kiss to Mulder's forehead, apologizing for leaving him alone for a while. As she walked out of the room, she felt an almost physical pain at the separation -- a sudden terror that he would vanish again if she let him out of her sight. She called the Lone Gunmen on her cell phone and asked them to come sit with Mulder in shifts until she could get back. "Where are you going?" Byers asked, obviously surprised that she would leave Mulder's bedside, much less the hospital. "To find the truth," she replied. From: lhoward388@aol.com Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 19:18:52 EDT Subject: xfc: The Journey Back (3 of 4) Source: xfc Disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 The sand is surprisingly cool, despite the bright afternoon sun, a not unpleasant weight. The boy has buried me up to my waist now, for reasons only he knows, packing the sand firmly around my body, working with a single-minded concentration that reminds me of ... Her. Her name and face tease the edges of my consciousness like a half-remembered song lyric or grainy old family photos of forgotten great-greats. Blue eyes -- or perhaps gray... changeable like the ocean, with her mood, from light to dark. Soft skin...the scent of some exotic flower, her perfume, drifts to me over the breeze, and I inhale deeply, remembering her bright hair, like the sunset, spilling over my hands... Her body tangled with mine, the sheets damp with sweat and tears... So why can't I remember her name? I close my eyes and try to recover the memory, to color in the blanks, even as I wonder why this has suddenly become so important. A sense of urgency overwhelms me, a growing anxiety, like an itch I can't quite scratch. Who is she? Where am I? How did I get here? A gull screams overhead and I flinch at the sound. The boy's steady, careful movements become furtive, sinister. The weight of the sand on my legs becomes thick and heavy, as if I'm being encased in cement. Everything is concentrated, exaggerated, and I can feel my heart hammer against my chest, trying to escape its prison of tissue and skin, even as I try to kick my way out of the sand. I can't move. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and I feel my muscles begin to tremble uncontrollably. A spark of terror ignites a full-blown panic attack as the adrenalin surges through my system, sends me reeling back in time.... They gather around me and observe, like children staring at an insect pierced by a pin. I can hear them speak to each other. Not in any recognizable language, not really a language at all. More like a low murmur, a hum of energy, monotonous, never-ending. It vibrates in my bones, shivers under my skin. I can't understand what they're saying. I don't care. I just want a minute. One minute without feeling as if my muscles are being stretched like rubber bands, my bones ready to snap from the strain. One minute without the sting of needles or probes invading my body. One minute when I can breathe freely, without the horrible moment between inhaling and exhaling when I can't remember what to do. One minute in the dark. I crave darkness like a drug addict craves heroin. But there is only light -- always the light -- bright, clear and cold. I can't turn away, can't blink, can't see anything else anymore. And I think about those stories of near-death experiences, people moving towards the light, voices calling them toward the light. They call the light heaven. The truth is, it's hell. Heaven is dark... impenetrable. Heaven is the bottom of the ocean, the winter sky just after midnight. The inside of a womb, the unexplored bowels of a cave. Heaven lurks behind the closed eyelids of the dead. I envy them, sealed in their thick wooden coffins, buried under the earth where no light can penetrate. The sound of the drill whines in my ear and I instinctively try to pull away, only to have an electric shock jolt through my arms and legs. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, running hot and sticky down the sides of my face as the scream reverberates through my head, trapped inside me. I envy the dead. ______________ "I don't see any improvement." Dr. Duncan stared over Scully's shoulder as she studied Mulder's charts from the last few hours during her absence. "Here," she said, pointing to a small disturbance in the straight black line. "And here." He stared intently, then shook his head. "Whatever." Scully gritted her teeth and continued to study the printout under his skeptical gaze. She wished she could figure out if Mulder had been responding to some external stimulus during those brief periods of activity, or whether some kind of dream or memory caused the blips. Either way, she chose to look at it as a positive sign. Mulder was in there somewhere, he just hadn't found the path back to her yet. And this afternoon she might have located a key... "Did you order the head and neck x-rays I asked for?" she said, grimacing as she took a sip of lukewarm decaf coffee. "Yes, I ordered *yet another* set of x-rays. Look, Agent Scully -" "Excuse me, I have to go." She knew he was about to launch into one of his frequent speeches, cloaked in a tone of concern, about how Agent Mulder might be better served at another facility that specialized in psychological illnesses, and she had to escape before she pulled her gun on the man. She was having more and more difficulty controlling her anger and frustration with the doctors, the hospital staff, Skinner... and God forgive her, occasionally even Mulder. After three agonizing months of searching, enduring the roller coaster of rising hopes and plunging despair, to be this close -- to be able to see and hold his body, but still be so far away from *him*, was almost worse than not having him there at all. And there were moments she hated him for his arrogance in thinking that in protecting her, nothing would happen to him...for his stubborn pursuit of the elusive truth at all costs. Yet she could not give up. If their situations were reversed, he would do everything in his power to save her; she could do no less for him. Scully sat down next to the bed and squeezed his hand tightly. "I'm here, Mulder. I'm not going anywhere." She paused, one eye on the monitors, then began to speak slowly and distinctly. "Mulder, I went to see someone today...someone who helped me find something I lost, a long time ago. I've been too afraid to search for it, but now I think it can help you. "The experience I had after Duane Barry -- when I was missing, like you were -- I recovered those memories today, Mulder. I know you've been to a frightening place, where you went through experiments and pain...." Scully closed her eyes for a moment as the new memories threatened to overwhelm her. Memories of another person, another life that she still couldn't quite believe was her own. The phantom fear that still clung to her like cobwebs. "What I'm trying to say, Mulder, is that I remember. I know." The solid green line on the monitor jumped. A minor, nearly imperceptible bubble, but more definite than anything had been up until now. Scully squeezed Mulder's hand and entwined her fingers with his. "Mulder, can you hear me? It's Scully." ____________ Scully. That was her name. Her last name, I think. Small and fragile-looking, the top of her head only came up to my chin...But tougher than a pit bull and just as dangerous when cornered. She was my friend. No ... more than a friend. My love. My life. I wonder where she is now, if she remembers me. *I remember. I know.* The words drift to me on the soft breeze with a tinge of sorrow, of hopelessness that touches me, as if what she remembers is unbearably sad...and what she knows is breaking her heart. I look around, but I can't see anyone except the boy, who glares at me, still angry that I broke out of my makeshift grave earlier. Artistic temperament. She does not speak again. I hear the gulls, the waves, the distant clang of a buoy, and think for a moment that maybe I was mistaken, maybe I didn't hear her voice. It's hard to tell what's real and what's not anymore. The truth isn't out there, Scully. I've been a fool, tilting at windmills, chasing dangerous illusions. The truth is inside each one of us, shaped through our experiences, strengthened in relationships and love, revealed in time. The beauty of truth is in its very elusiveness, the exploration of the spectrum of colors that lie between black and white. Truth is not the destination, but the journey. Truth is the essence of our existence. I'm just not sure that I exist anymore. The boy, bored with my introspection, has wandered down to the ocean's edge. He takes a step into the shallows, where the rising tide swallow his feet up to the ankles, then looks back at me. I stand up, thinking I should caution him to be careful, even as he moves farther out. He's never been in the water before that I can remember, and I don't know if he can swim or how strong the current is. The water is past his waist now, the waves brushing his chin, and I call out a warning, already running toward him. He glances back at me again and then disappears into the ocean. From: lhoward388@aol.com Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 19:20:16 EDT Subject: xfc: The Journey Back (4 of 4) Source: xfc Disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 Scully walked over to the window and arched her back, but it did little to ease the dull ache in her spine. She had spent the past twenty minutes trying to cajole, beg and command Mulder to wake up. There was definite movement on the monitors now, albeit still weak and erratic. Even Dr. Duncan had admitted that he was slightly more encouraged by the latest readout, yet Mulder showed no outward signs of waking. Scully was not a patient person under the best of circumstances, and she hated feeling useless. Thankfully, a technician delivered the head and neck x-rays she had requested earlier, which would give her at least a few minutes of work to do. They had taken x-rays when Mulder had been brought in, of course, to try to determine if a head injury was responsible for his condition, but Scully had some specific angles she wanted to see. She took the film and tacked up each picture to a lightbox on the other side of the room. There were no implants in his neck or nose. Scully sank into a chair, not realizing until that moment how worried she had been about losing him again. She fingered the scar on the back of her neck, wondering if she would be called once more -- compelled to travel to a bridge or a mountain somewhere, perhaps to disappear forever next time. She had remembered so much today -- the tests and the pain, the confusion of not knowing where she was or what was happening, the helplessness, and the fear -- the terrible fear that she would die. She did not want Mulder to go through that, did not want to think of him being afraid. The only time she had ever seen fear in his eyes was for someone else. For her. Never for himself. If she could take that from him, if she could go in his place, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make -- just as he had gone in her place three months ago. She wandered back over to the bed and sat down, taking his hand in the familiar ritual. "Mulder, are you there? I need some kind of sign, partner. You're starting to worry me." She glanced at the monitor. "I have so much to tell you -- " She stood up and put his hand on her lower abdomen. "Mulder...I'm pregnant. Believe it or not, you're going to be a father." Scully felt as if she should apologize to the neglected fetus. She had given the baby little thought since Mulder had reappeared, but now all her joy at this unexpected gift flooded back as she shared her secret. "It's a miracle." She sat down, tears filling her eyes, her carefully constructed defenses beginning to crumble under the weight of her worry and exhaustion. "And I'm being selfish to want another one, but if you'd just wake up --" He moved. Scully held her breath and tightened her grip on his hand. If she hadn't been attuned to the slightest change in position, the smallest noise, she probably wouldn't have noticed -- but he had turned his head, just a bit. She could see movement under his eyelids now, and the monitors began to show the jagged evidence of returning consciousness. "Mulder, can you hear me? It's Scully. You're in the hospital, you're safe. You're home." He moved again, this time a slight frown, the barest parting of his lips, as he turned his head away from her. "Oh no you don't," Scully said, raising her voice. "I'm not letting you go." ___________________ *I'm not letting you go.* I can hear her voice from above me, on the surface of the water. Her hand holds mine in a painful grip, the only thing keeping me from sinking farther into the depths. It's cold and dark down here and my lungs are close to bursting, but I can't let the boy go, so we are in a bizarre stand-off, he, she and I. My noble attempt at a rescue has been hampered by the fact that I don't seem to have the strength to pull us both back to shore. Once I grabbed for him, the boy became a dead weight -- an anchor dragging me down. He has made no effort to save himself, and I don't know whether that's because he trusts me with his life or because he just doesn't care. "Mulder, can you hear me? It's Scully." Her voice is clearer now and I need to tell her. I need to tell her I can hear her, and she has to help me save the boy. ___________ Mulder's lips moved soundlessly as his fingers curled weakly around Scully's. His eyelids fluttered, but he could not seem to awaken fully, as if something was holding him back. He made a choking noise, his throat working, and shifted restlessly as the monitors showed an increase in his pulse rate. His breathing was irregular, as if he were having respiratory problems, but there had been no indication of any previous injury or obstruction. "Mulder. It's all right. Take it easy. Don't struggle, just relax." _________ I'm drowning. Help me, Scully. I can see you now, I'm just below the surface and I can see you in front of me, beautiful and pale, strong and sure, but I can't get any air and the boy, I have to save the boy... But suddenly I see him beside you, and you put your hand in his, as you've done so often with me, pulling him close to your side. He smiles for the first time and says, "Don't struggle. Just relax." ___________ Mulder awoke suddenly, gasping for air as if he'd been under water, his eyes wide with terror, his hand clutching Scully's so hard that she would have bruises later. She had paged Dr. Duncan as Mulder began to wake, and he now helped hold Mulder down so he wouldn't pull out the IV. Scully put herself directly in Mulder's line of vision, as she often did when he woke up panicked and disoriented in some hospital room. The sight of her always calmed him almost immediately, and today was no exception. He locked his gaze on hers and relaxed against the pillow, but kept his grip on her hand as Dr. Duncan performed a cursory exam. The doctor shook his head. "He seems to be fine. Damnedest thing I've ever seen." "Not me." Scully smiled at him for the first time since she had arrived at the hospital more than 24 hours ago. She didn't notice when he left the room, having already returned her attention to Mulder, who hadn't taken his eyes off her since he awoke. He tried to speak, but she put her finger on his lips. "No talking yet. Just rest. You need to get your strength back so we can get you some of that hospital jello you like so much." He grimaced and she smiled. And, of course, being Mulder, he wouldn't listen to her, and attempted to speak again. The effort left him pale and exhausted, but he managed to get the words out, his voice halfway between a sigh and a whisper. "Truth... in you...." His hand slipped away from hers as she sat there stunned. He couldn't possibly know. She must have misunderstood. Scully flexed her aching fingers, then stood up and walked over to the window. Gazing out at the night sky, she breathed a prayer of gratitude for her two miracles. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder when she would be taken again, leaving him and her child behind. She only hoped that Mulder would make a full recovery and that the baby would be healthy... That perhaps she would be allowed to see her child learn to walk and talk before....But she had no right to ask for any more miracles in her life. Scully reached back to touch the scar. It was gone. The End Feedback? LHoward388@aol.com