Author's Note: Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing this story. Your kind words of encouragement and constructive criticism always brightens my day. Here's a chapter that I really wasn't too excited about writing, but knew I had to to make the story complete. It gets into touchy-feely talking in group therapy. Gag. But, I wrote a mirror scene, from which I got the chapter title, which I'm really proud of. Pati, you will notice that I essentially sampled myself for it from OWiM. I have no original ideas. "Man in the Mirror" is my favorite MJ song. That makes me think of a quote from college. My room-mates Jr. year loved Michael Jackson, but I didn't really know any of his music, to which I commented "Michael Jackson must have been big before I got my hearing aids, because I don't remember him at all." Idiot Savant. We had a wall of quotes and the majority of them were from me saying stupidly cute things: "I'm Catholic, that means no sex before marriage" "What about foreplay, Ealer" "Well, I guess that's okay. . ." ANnnnnnd so on. Oh how I miss the apartment F 102. Also, Tweet of the Week, after last chapter, several people asked me what Jules' Twitter name was so they could follow her. I said just follow Amy Jo Johnson, to which MollyLyn replied: "That's not the same, Eals, and you know it. Amy Jo would never tweet: Date with Mr. Chuckles tonight, not nearly as cute as Sam." I'm still laughing.

I don't own or have rights to Flashpoint, MJ songs, Maxwell House coffee, Chock Full o'Nuts Coffee, Dollhouse, or Titanic.

Metaphysical Marathon

Chapter 11: The (Wo)man in the Mirror

This place REALLY needed to get rid of all of their not only glass, but metal objects.

Two days since Sam's and Sarge's visits and the revelation that she was essentially a ward of the crown with no free will to make medical decisions for herself at all, she had been roaming the cafeteria looking for something that didn't resemble the regurgitations of a goat or a middle school Home Ec. classe's failed attempt at a soufflé, when someone knocked over a stack of metal bowls. The sound of the resonating clatter had caused Jules to hit the deck and seek cover from oncoming fire or an explosion. Her heart raced and pounded through her chest as maladaptive stress chemicals flooded her brain. She fought to keep herself from mentally returning to the lab, but still began to feel the inexplicable fear and anxiety that so often stole her mind, brain, and self lately. So overwhelmed was she that she ran to the nearest restroom and threw-up the entirety of her stomach contents. She retched for what seemed like hours until she gained control of her mind and emotions, subsequently regaining control of her bodily behaviors.

What the Hell was that? she thought as she slid down the side of the bathroom wall to rest for a moment while she pulled herself together. This had been a new occurrence. She was used to the lightning, haze, panic, but the visceral reaction that triggers the expulsion of all that she had eaten in the past couple of days had been new. She wondered if this was what happened when the mind could no longer take the full-brunt of suffering and farmed it out to the rest of the body to more evenly disperse the agony. That metallic sound of stainless steel crashing to the floor had sounded much too eerily reminiscent of the sound of the metal shelf, a piece of which pierced through her flesh and severed an artery, clattering to the ground after the explosion in the lab. Now, what felt like an interminable time later, Jules reflexively clutched her left arm at the mere thought of that shelf exploding into shrapnel.

Figuring she'd spent enough time wallowing in the ladies' room after freaking out at the sound of kitchen ware tumbling, Jules rose to walk to the sink to wash her face and mouth. While the water flowed through her hands, she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the mirrored image of her visage, but she was sure it had been completely different from what stared back at her now. There were dark circles under her sunken looking eyes. Her face looked longer, slightly aged and weather beaten although it was only the beginning of Fall and not the bleak mid-Winter. Natural blush was missing from her cheeks.

But somehow, she was sure that the face she was seeing was more human than what she might have seen only two weeks ago when she was dancing in the in-between of living and simply existing. There was a fire, a life in her eyes that she somehow knew had been missing for far too long. She realized the long, tired, weathered face in the glass, the one with an unmistakable glint of life, determination, and hope was that of not a victim or wounded soldier, but of a survivor. When she looked in the mirror she saw evidence of her own strength and ability to survive her own personal traipse through Hell. She had been through the fire and come out scathed, but not defeated.

She arranged her features into a slight grin and saw not worry, but laugh lines on her face, a semblance of a return to normality. She took this exercise in external examination as an encouraging sign that although she was still being transported in time through flashbacks, being mentally and physically incapacitated by panic, and wandering through a constant landscape of nightmares in her sleep, she was on the up-swing, close to finding her way back to her own normal state of being and existence in reality. There were just a few certain strides she had to take in baby steps to reach some semblance of her ultimate goal.

Breaking the staring contest she was having with herself after slightly smirking at her visually induced epiphany, she turned on her heel, raised her chin higher than she had been allowing it to hang lately, and strode out of the washroom that had somehow become a temporary haven for her. She was prepared to face the (although highly artificial in this rehab facility) world and leave the confines of a self-imposed exile induced by mental captivation.

Exiting the room, she nearly ran into one of the Gospel name-sake orderlies who was walking beside and presumably monitoring: "Sean!" Jules excitedly exclaimed.

She nearly barreled over Mark the orderly and threw her arms around her friend in greeting. Words could not express how delighted she was to see her strong ally in the witticism front back at the rehab center. Pulling away from the tall, lanky, yet surprisingly muscular man of Gaelic decent, she signaled Mark to give them some space with a reassuring look in her eyes.

"Jules!" Sean responded to the entire sequence of events in surprise. "What are you still do'n here Callaghan? I thought you only paid for a two week stay in paradise."

"Well, ya know, the commanders in the department graciously offered (and by 'offered,' I mean 'ordered') to let me stay here for a n indefinite period of time." She shrugged. "If I was to indulge in a cynical nature I'd'a assumed it had something to do with the up-coming election season, but I actually think they caught wind of how much I love the prison-pancakes and Nut-well House coffee they serve here, soooo much better than Maxwell House."

"Yeah, I did always hove how it tastes like the chicory root coffee they made in the Confederate Army when they had starvation rations at the end of the US Civil War, but," Sean returned Jules' shrug, "I always wondered why they didn't serve 'Chock Full o'Nuts' brand coffee just for the irony."

Jules snorted. "Because that would involve having the staff here getting personality transplants or at least a sense of humor." Jules leaned in to give the appearance of whispering a confidence to Sean. "I think S of H is on the contraband substance list."

"Don't worry," Sean whispered back. "I've developed a tapestry messaging system by which we can communicate without the Gestapo catching on to us."

"Okay, I'll trade my cigarette and chocolate ration for more thread," Jules replied before falling into companionable laughter with Sean. "It's good to see you back in the Dollhouse, by the way."

Sean farrowed his brow. "Yes, I have had the curious desire to 'be my best' since I passed through the threshold." He smiled at their shared avoidant joking references and continued on another track, continuing to avoid any conversation related to the reason for his business week long absence. "Anything fun and happen'n go on here while I was out?" He paused and placed a faux frown on his face. "Please don't tell me I missed the semi-annual sock-hop!"

"Nah, cowboy. That's not until after the Sadie Hawkins dance, which is next week, by the way; get your permission slip signed and I'll let you barrow a dress," Jules joked back, continuing the avoidance dance. "Really, the only big thing was that Mr. Chuckles has gone missing. Big scandal."

Sean smiled at the mention of their familiar reference before frowning in mock concern. "Such a tragedy. Although," he paused to display a look of thoughtfulness, "it's probably just in some 5-year-old's sock drawer."

"Darn kids stealing our imaginary sock puppets," Jules grumbled allowing the evasive humor to last just a little while longer before she directed the conversation towards a more serious matter that she had been rehearsing to discuss with Sean. "Sooo, you're back."

Fantastic. That's a transition that'll set the world on fire (!).

"This fact has been established," Sean said as he tilted his head and widened his eyes as if he was speaking to someone with limited mental capacities. His eyes flashed to a look of horror. "Oh, no! Don't tell me they added short-term memory loss to your diagnosis! Ya know, extreme stress can burn out your hippocampuseseseses."

Jules creased her eyebrows as she smacked him in the arm and frowned with a 'don't be a dumb-ass' look, garnering a stern grunt form Mark across the hallway. "I was attempting to start a deep and epiphanic conversation. And it's hippocampi, by the way," she corrected his intentionally mispronounced piece of brain anatomy. She smiled softly at him before beginning her intended speech.

Before she could begin, a look of actual dread lined Sean's face. It was obvious he didn't like where this conversation might go.

"Just say'n, you're back here for the same reasons as before. Nothing's really changed except the fact that I am no longer gonna aid and abet are mutual reluctance to do what we need to to get outta here with some semblance of sanity."

"Jules," Sean began in a pleading voice.

"Shut-it, O'Brian, I'm talk'n and I have to get this out before the allotment of my emotion sharing courage runs out." She paused to step closer to him and adjust her tone from that of a drill Sargent to one of friendly concern. "You're back here for the same reasons as before. We both are. And if there's one thing I've learned from loving Sam Braddock, it's that things don't just go away."

Sean got a slightly disconcerted look on his face. "Did you just feed me piece of information generally reserved for 'girl talk'?"

Jules shrugged at the realization that she had just initiated an avenue of discussion about how in love she was with Sam as if she was talking to a close girlfriend. "Well, Steve and Spike aren't here, so you get information by default." She lightly patted him on the shoulder and smirked at the confused look on his face before explaining the point she had been trying to make. "My point is, our problems aren't just gonna dissipate through reverse osmosis. You need to start talking; we both do."

Sean's face fell even as he realized the validity of her argument. He began to shake his head. "I don't think I can. Can't open that door and willingly live through that again."

Jules grabbed the wrist that Sean had slashed that fateful day of just a short time ago and forced him to look at her. "We've been through this. You're stronger than you think. And I don't want to talk as much as you don't, but I know I'm not gonna get anywhere if I just let the PTSD dictate when I think about my troubles." She paused to shake her head and raise his wrist to just below his eye level. "And Lord knows I'm not gonna risk letting you go any further into the dark."

Sean briefly closed his eyes and smiled in acquiescence. "You jump, I jump, Jack," he quoted Titanic.

Jules rolled her eyes. "Probably not the best lame movie to quote given the circumstances."

Sean grinned as he threw his arm around Jules' shoulders and began to walk in the direction of the lounge and his shadow, Mark. "Don't get linear on me now, Jules."

XXXXX

Later that day, Sean and Jules sat in their mutual first group therapy session since the day prior to Sean's attempt to take his own life. They had formed a pact to both at least try to talk about the events that had precipitated their respective cases of PTSD. In an effort to set a good example, Jules had sworn to take the initiative and speak first. There would be no verbal Kung Fu in this session.

After the mediator had taken the time to embrace Sean by giving a long winded welcome back speech, Jules raised her had to signal she had something to say.

Carly, ever on the verge of opening her giant mouth, looked surprised and askance at Jules' action. Jules thought how she was probably just pissed that she wouldn't be able to completely monopolize this conversation.

"Ah, Jules," the group therapist began in surprise. "Something you'd like to share? Maybe a little about your past, where you grew-up. Sometimes that helps ease people into these discussions."

Jules refrained (using all of her might) from rolling her eyes, but began as promised. "Nah, that's okay. I don't really talk about my past, because it's immaterial; I'm not nearly the person I used to be, and it doesn't define who I am now."

Carly looked even more disappointed from across the room. Jules smirked minutely from the guilty pleasure of not making the obnoxious woman's day.

Jules took a deep breath before continuing and taking the plunge into submerging herself in the memory of the day that still haunted her on her own free will. "But I can talk about my recent past. I can talk about what it felt like to be dying while I felt like I was deserting, failing, my team." There were several audible deep intakes of breath from around the room at the revelation that she had recently nearly died while on the job. Undeterred by the physical reactions she was causing with her story, Jules continued. "I can talk about how I often go back to that day and see my best friends' dejected faces in my head as they watched me bleed to death, hear my Sargent's voice pleading in my ear for me to hold on." A haunted look non-consciously rose to her face. "I can especially see Sam's face." Jules shuddered just thinking about the pain that had been in his eyes. She continued with her tail, not caring if people were lost about what she was talking about. She was in too deep now. There was no turning back. "I stared at him, warning him with my eyes not to take a step near me until he had cleared the room of the civilians. I saw the dead look in his eyes staring back. I was killing him, again."

As eyes began to water at the misery of this story, the therapist cut-in to seek clarification. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

Jules jerked out of her painful reverie to answer this question, but she would have to reveal one of her deepest flaws and fears to do so. "I put myself in the line of fire a lot. I have this natural instinct to try to help people, save people, even if it's unnecessarily dangerous. Sometimes I scare people. People I love. They think I go too far, have an Atlas complex." The entire room was captivated by her story now. "Sometimes it just puts me in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes I try to play my cards right and utterly fail. Like in the lab." Jules had willingly dragged herself back to that dark place in an effort to face her demons. "I had the guy; he was about to fold before he got some disappointing information. I maybe could'a talked him down again, but I couldn't handle the woman who just happened to pick-up a gun. . ." Jules was transported back to those few moments before the gun went off, her life began to shatter. She shook her head, not able to go farther on with this. "So much can happen when you lose control, aren't perfect," she concluded, raising her eyes to Sean to signal his tag-team turn to talk.

Sean took his cue and began before anyone could enquire more about Jules' story. "My story starts in the desert, but I didn't get to ride through it on a horse with no name. . ."

Additional Author's Note: The thing about Mr. Chuckles going missing was inspired by the fact that I gave Justicerocks permission to use him in Anything I'm Not. If he's busy existing in that story, he must be imaginarily missing in this one. Also, if anyone gets the BtVS quote I inserted in here, you deserve a cookie. Hint: Restless.

Please leave a review and let me know how this chapter went. If you thought it was crap, that's okay. The really cool stuff I've been jumping out of my pants to write it coming up soon!

Thanks for reading!

Later,

Eals