Anamorphosis 7/28
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net or agentm119@yahoo.com

-7-
	
	She came to in pain.  It radiated from the center of her forehead, she
thought.  The pain was too intense for her to be sure.
	A bright light in her eye was blinding her as a hand - not her own -
pulled at her eyelids.  Not gentle.  She tried to protest, but the light
was too bright and painful.
	That smell....
	"Concussion.  No skull fracture."
	"Mulder?"  The spots dancing before her eyes were growing transparent
now that the light had been taken away.
	"I'm here."  His hand closed over hers.  Reassuring.  She felt better
already.
	She was sitting on a cement floor surrounded by garbage.  She could
taste blood - old blood.  Paramedics milled around and a camera flash
kept firing.  Crime scene.  "What happened?"
	"I was hoping you'd tell me," Mulder answered, looking grim.
	It was all blank.
	"What's the last thing you remember?" he prodded gently.
	"My car...wouldn't start."
	"You called me more than an hour ago."
	"I was unconscious for an hour?"  Her tone betrayed her alarm.
	"You were lucky," he told her.  She discovered it hurt like hell to try
to raise her eyebrows at him.  She lifted her hand and felt a knot
thickening on her forehead.  It was sticky, too, with blood.  Ouch. 
This was lucky?
	"There's a girl dead up the hallway."
	"What?" she cried.
	"She worked in the mall. It's our killer," Mulder told her.  "You must
have found him."
	"Why didn't he kill me?"
	Mulder shook his head.
	"I hit my head and he just walked away?" Scully demanded, her voice
rising.
	"There's blood on both sides of the door.  We suspect he hit you with
it."  Mulder reported.
	Feeling wild and more than a little sick, she got to her feet.  Her
knees were really weak.  "Why didn't he..." she began again.  Her shirt
was stiff with blood and she noticed a large circle of it on the floor
where she had been lying.  "He thought I was dead," she realized.
	"You lost a lot of blood."  When had Mulder taken her hand again?  It
was like watching a very strange movie, she was missing every other
frame, the action jumping ahead in fits and starts.
	"I saw him and don't remember."
	"He saw you," Mulder agreed.
	"I felt like someone was watching me," she remembered.
	"Damn it!" Mulder cried and she looked at him.  "This wasn't
coincidence.  He's been trailing you, like Strader followed me.  Waiting
and watching."
	"No," she said, but at the same time, she believed him.  His arm was
around her shoulders, possessive and protective.  She didn't like it. 
Pulling away, she walked over to the paramedics.  "Am I done?" she
asked, and they nodded, still staring down at the dead girl.
	She'd been strangled.  The killer was improvising.  No blunt objects or
obvious sexual trauma, either.  Scully looked away.
	"Do you have the gas for my car?" she asked  Mulder.
	"You're coming home with me."
	"I'm fine.  He thinks I'm dead.  I can defend myself.  I'm an FBI
agent," she informed him.
	"He surprised you once."
	"Only once."  She could see Mulder growing angry with her, but she
couldn't help that.
	"I need to question you," Mulder tried.
	"You're off the case!" she reminded him.
	"Not anymore."  He shook his head.
	She didn't want to argue.  She didn't want him to be like this, even
though Mulder was always like this and it was one of the things she
liked about him.  "I'm going home," she informed him, walking away.  And
this time he let her go.
	The first thing she did when she got in the car was look in the
rearview mirror.  With the blood washed away, the bump on her head
wouldn't look bad at all.  A little swelling and a bit of bruising.  She
was fine.  She thought she was fine.
	If he'd touched her...
	She didn't think he had.
	Why hadn't he?
	The bags in the front seat jerked her memory.  The dress she'd bought. 
The ring...
	It wasn't on her finger.  Why had she ever thought to put it there, she
thought.  Frantically, she checked the box and her pockets.  No ring. 
The murder and the pain in her head weren't enough to make her cry, but
this was.  Maybe the paramedics had picked it up. Or Mulder.  Her tears
gave way to fury.  Her head hurt and she wanted to go to work. She
wanted to get this bastard.  Murder him.
	Mulder had put gas in her tank and she went home to sit and not sleep. 
Concussion.  She knew better than to sleep.  Although she supposed she
could set her alarm to wake her every two hours, but then who would take
her to the hospital if she didn't wake up?
	Part of her didn't care if she died.  That part bothered the rest of
her a lot.  She saw down with a mug of coffee and debated whether it
would make her head feel better.
	It would if she drank it with aspirin.  In the bathroom, she discovered
there was still a Tylenol-4 in the prescription bottle.  She'd written
it for Mulder.  Somehow the bottle had ended up back in her possession. 
She'd probably taken it away from him at one time or another.
	She swallowed the pill as the phone began to ring.  "Yeah?"  She picked
it up.
	"Scully?"  Mulder sounded shocked by her lack of formality.  "How's
your head?"
	"Okay.  I just took a pain killer."
	"Do you remember anything else?  About the man who attacked you?" he
questioned.
	"It's gone.  The memories are not there.  That happens sometimes with
head injuries."
	"Memories don't just disappear," he told her.
	"No," she said instantly, answering the question she knew he was about
to ask.
	"Scully, we can catch this guy."
	"No!"
	He talked right over her protest.  "And we know that you're susceptible
to hypnosis."
	"It doesn't work!" she cried.  "It's an unproven, unreliable method!"
	"Don't you want him caught?"  Was it his voice that seductive or the
words?  She did want him caught, so badly she could feel the anger
bubbling up inside her.  "Don't you want him in prison where he'll get
what's coming to him?"  They both knew what happened to child molesters
and child murderers in prison.
	She didn't say anything, but her silence was agreement enough.  "I'll
pick you up in thirty minutes."
	"Tonight?" she cried.
	"Skinner arranged it," Mulder said before he hung up.  Mulder and
Skinner had discussed her?  She didn't like it.  But she washed her face
again and straightened her hair anyway. Mulder was a steamroller when he
had an idea.
	She didn't want to be hypnotized.  The two times she had been before,
she was left more unsettled than before the hypnosis.  People shouldn't
be forced to remember things they aren't ready for, she thought.  She
wasn't feeling emotionally well even with the medicine she'd taken
making her head feel physically better.  She sat, tense, in front of the
TV watching a newsmagazine until the knock came at the door.
	No one was standing there.  A blast of cold wind hit her hard.  This
wasn't Mulder playing a joke on her.  The wind howled through the barren
trees as she stared out, willing herself to see something in the dark.
	Nothing.
	Except the glint that caught her eye as she turned to go back in.
Gold.  Scully stooped down to look closer at the snow and found the ring
she'd purchased to give to Mulder.  It burned her hand with cold and
evil intent.  Someone had knocked on her door and dropped it on the
step, hurrying away.
	He knew where she lived.
	They had to catch him.  All the same, she went back inside and bolted
the door,  putting on her holster and checking her gun.  Its weight in
her hand made her feel safe.  She'd never depended on a weapon to make
her feel safe before.  The jacket she slid on to hide the gun warmed
her.  This time, she was ready for the knock at the door.
	"Who is it?"
	"Mulder."
	She opened the door.  "He knows where I live," she said.
	"He was here?  You saw him?"  Mulder was furious.
	She shook her head.  "I dropped something at the mall, when he knocked
me out. It was just left on my doorstep."  Her tone gave nothing away,
but the set of her mouth was hard. "Let's do this."
	If he was surprised by the change in her attitude, he didn't say so.

	The office was small and decorated in dark colors that made it look
even smaller.  It wouldn't be bright in there even at noon. "Hi."  Wade
Tomlinson was a certified hypnotist the Bureau used occasionally to
improve or verify testimony.  He had a wide-open face and white teeth. 
His hand was warm when he shook hers.
	She hated this.  It came from giving up control, she knew, and at that
moment her control was waning badly enough even without entrusting
herself to someone else.  She felt vulnerable, ugly and uncomfortable as
she put up her feet and closed her eyes under Mulder's watchful gaze.
	Tomlinson began to walk her through the relaxation process.  She
concentrated on her breathing and her inner mind, but she felt like she
did on nights when she couldn't sleep.  Her mind wouldn't let go.
	"This isn't -"  She didn't even get the words out to say she didn't
think it was working before her mind detached.
	It was dark. She was confined in a small space.  All she was aware of
was her mind.  Trapped.  She didn't like it, but they wouldn't let her
out.
	Sunlight.  She blinked in the brightness after the dark. It hurt her
eyes.  She was upset but felt a new calm.  Blood stained a homespun
uniform.  The smell of death was upon her.
	His death.
	His eyes were different.  Blue.  But always the same.  She knew him
with her soul. Except it was too late.  Those eyes were unseeing now.  A
musket ball had ripped a hole in his chest.  The heart he hadn't loved
her with was exposed, stopped. Forever.
	Sarah was crying like an idiot, sobbing uncontrollably as though it
would bring him back, as though she were the younger sister.
	Other men needed them more than he did.  Men who were still alive, who
would stay alive if the two nurses got to work.  If they remained calm
and saved their grief for another, more private time.  She walked away,
leaving Sarah to her hysteria.  Sarah was like that.  People who got
what they wanted could be.
	She never let what she felt show.  Especially not when she came to the
front to work and fell in love with her sister's fiance.  Who was dead
now on this field in Apison, Tennessee.
	Dirty jeans.  Dirty shirt.  Flannel, red and black.  Quilted lining. 
Oil underneath his fingernails.  Smells like excitement and sweat.  An
evil glint in his eyes.  Blood on white canvas tennis shoes.  No lines
in his forty year old face.  A hint of curl in blond hair.
	Yes, it was Joe Wilder and yes he had shoved a door into her face. 
Funny how it didn't hurt now, remembering it.
	A scratch on his face.  From the sharp edge of her bitten down
fingernails.  A faint line from eyebrow to hairline.
	Dana wanted to come out, but they wouldn't let her. A bump on the head
told the darkness to come, and it did.

	Her eyes opened.  "I told you it wouldn't work," she said, except she
didn't feel relaxed.  Her stomach was wrenched, sick and upset from
emotion or its suppression.
	"What?" she asked. Mulder had the weirdest look on his face.  Bemused
and unhappy.  She had gone under.  "What did I say?"
	"You identified him.  The school bus driver," Mulder answered, still
staring hard at her face.  She could feel her skin flushing under his
scrutiny.  What could she have said to make him look that way?
	"Is it enough to go on?"
	"You don't remember," he said, "even now?"
	Tomlinson intervened.  "These are memories Dana has tried hard to
forget."
	She wished he wouldn't call her Dana.
	It was a second before Mulder answered her question.  He said, "You
scratched him.  It's probable cause.  We'll find evidence when we search
his house. It's over."
	The way he got up and walked out of the room, she wondered if they were
over, too.
	"What did I say?" she asked Tomlinson. Her nerves were fluttery because
she didn't know. How could her unconscious mind know things that she
didn't?  And now these men knew more about her than she did.
	"Fascinating," said Tomlinson, handing her one of the two identical
cassettes he'd recorded the session on. She accepted it, wanting him to
tell her.
	Mulder still looked freaked out. He was pacing up and down the hall. 
His expression didn't change when he saw her.  "What did I say?" she
asked. He shook his head.  "Did I say something about us?"
	"Sort of," he admitted uncomfortably.
	"Mulder, I love you," she said, because she thought he needed to hear
it.  He nodded uneasily.  What had she done?  "Are we still getting
married?"  Her voice came out worried.
	"Yes," he replied immediately, pouring a world of passion into his
tone.  She nodded solemnly.  He looked like he wanted to touch her, but
he didn't.  His denial only made her worry more.
	The drive back to her place was silent and cold.  She was beginning to
feel the thwack on her head again and the lateness of the hour.  "Call
me after you've listened to the tape," Mulder said.  He didn't offer to
come in and he didn't kiss her goodnight.
	She didn't want to listen to the tape.  It felt cold and alien in her
hand.  It even looked weird as she stared at it.  She didn't want to,
but she had to.
	She put it into the cassette player and pressed play, sitting down
before her voice flooded from the speakers.
	She hated the sound of her voice on tape.  Too high, too flat and did
she really breathe that loudly and slur her S's so badly?
	"It's dark and it's cold. I'm trapped.  It's just me and they won't let
me out. I can't....do...anything about it.  I'm powerless against
them..."
	She had to turn it off.  Her breathing had become so rapid she couldn't
pull in any oxygen.  Pure, supreme terror, the nerves that had plagued
her magnified millions of times.
	Her abduction? she thought, but it wasn't like the other half memories
she'd gained previously. Those were like hospitals, with an antiseptic
odor and bright lights.
	She had to listen to the rest.  But what if it was more like this?  The
darkness and the fear?  No wonder Mulder had wanted to get away from
her.
	She couldn't bear it.  Her head was throbbing and sleep had never
seemed to inviting.  She set her alarm and turned out the light.

	They didn't discuss the tape.  Scully saw Wilder's apprehension on the
news.  It was just the right amount of distance, she thought.  He wasn't
going to hurt anyone else.  Unfortunately, she knew there hundreds of
men out there just like him, who didn't kill but fed on the terror and
innocence of their students, their daughters, their sisters.
	They didn't discuss much.  Thursday morning they went to get the
license.   A judge Mulder knew agreed to perform the ceremony for them
on Friday. Skinner had asked to attend, as had the Lone Gunmen.  Scully
hadn't realized those guys actually liked her.
	"Frohike wanted to give you a bridal shower," Mulder offered, and she'd
laughed.  It felt good to smile.
	She had to give Mulder the license to hold because she couldn't stop
staring at it.  Her name and his name joined in fancy type on a piece of
paper for as long as paper lasted.
	"I'll see you tomorrow," he said with a light in his eyes.
	"I love you," she replied, wanting to cling.
	He nodded and hugged her quickly.  She smiled and hugged him back.
	"Sweet dreams tonight." He kissed her on the forehead where makeup
covered her fading bruise, and she watched him walk away, hail a cab,
and then he was gone.
	Instantly she felt alone.  But it was the last time she would be
alone.  She turned and walked the other way, heading home to perform her
rituals.  Her lonely-life rituals.
	The bath with rose scented bath oil.
	The shaving and plucking and trimming.  She was too chicken to trim her
hair, though, and her nails were ragged, but she painted them with pale
pink.  Her toenails matched.  She doubted Mulder would notice.
	She eyed herself critically in the mirror both nude and in the dress. 
She still loved the dress.
	She went to bed early for a full night of sleep.  No puffy eyes or dark
circles for one day of her life.  The bruise on her forehead was easily
covered.  She managed to shut off her thoughts and sleep.
	She would be a different person before she slept again.

	When she woke up, she realized she had a thousand things to do, all of
them mundane.  She realized they hadn't even discussed a honeymoon,
although it was probably impossible to get away on short notice with the
holiday looming over them.
	She washed dishes and changed the sheets.  They hadn't even discussed
whose apartment they were going to afterward.  They had chosen a cozy
restaurant instead of a champagne reception.
	She decided the white sheets were ugly and changed the bed again,
trying to decide if she had time to purchase a new set of sheets.  She
knew in her heart she was worrying about nothing.
	A new problem set in: her hair.  It wouldn't go up, and when it did go
up, it wouldn't stay up and when it did stay, she thought the bruise on
her forehead showed too much.  The flowers looked pretty, though, and
she put on her makeup.
	That left her with an entire hour to kill, in her pajamas since she
didn't want to wrinkle her dress.  She was going to go mad with an hour
to fill, sitting and thinking about the thing she was about to do. 
Anticipation was a killer.
	The door bell rang.  She frowned slightly, walking to the door. 
"Mulder?"
	"No," came a flat male voice.  She pulled the door open.  A delivery
man stood there with a bouquet.  It was understated and beautiful.  She
hurried to get the man a tip, reassured that she was doing the right
thing. Mulder was sending her flowers on their wedding day.
	Closing the door, she sat down on the couch to smell them.  Springtime,
she thought happily.  It seemed like such a long time since spring. 
There was a card tucked into the bouquet and she savored the moment,
wondering what words Mulder would've for her.
	"Don't ruin your life."
	The flowers weren't from Mulder.  They dropped from her hand, tumbling
onto the floor.  The phone began to ring and she grabbed it, feeling
trapped in a horrible movie that couldn't possibly be her life.
	"Scully," she said, pulling herself back together.
	"Dana, please don't do this."
	"Bill, you asshole! You sent the flowers, didn't you!"  Furious, she
picked them up and hurled them against the wall.  "How could you do
this?  How could you!" she screamed.
	"How can you do this, Dana?"  Bill demanded.
	"I love him.  He loves me.   Why..."  She felt bereft.  Why couldn't he
just leave her alone?
	"He killed our sister!  He tried to kill you! He is the reason you
can't have kids, Dana," Bill listed.
	"What's that got to do with you?" she snapped.
	"I care about you," Bill whispered.  "You're my family.  You're my
sister."  His voice fell into a soothing note and she felt the same
panic she'd felt in the basement.
	She'd hidden the rabbit because she was mad at Bill.
	"Don't tell. I'll hurt the bunny if you tell, Dana."
	If he'd kill the bunny, he might kill her.  Wasn't that what he was
really saying?
	Tell what?
	"Bill, what  - how did I get locked in the basement when I was little?"
she asked.
	"You didn't." He was lying.
	"You were going to kill the bunny if I told."
	"*You* killed the bunny, Dana!" Bill shouted at her, as though she were
being unreasonable.
	"What was I going to tell, Bill?  Why are you still scared?"
	"Don't marry him, Dana."
	"You can't tell me what to do," she said, feeling sick.  Her head ached
and she let the phone slide into the cradle.  She pressed both hands
against the pain in her head, trying to make it stop, then picked up the
bouquet and dropped it into the trash.  She thoroughly pounded it with
the broom until the delicate flowers were in shreds.  She didn't feel
rage.  She felt a little sad, but mostly she felt nothing.
	Things she didn't want to remember, said the hypnotist.
	Trapped.  _Was_ it her abduction?
	She had to start over with her hair and makeup. It didn't take long and
turned out perfectly this time.  All but the empty, longing look in her
eyes.
	Scully was nothing but a cold and empty vessel.  Mulder wouldn't want
to marry her. He wanted Dana. Dana who was warm and loving and gone so
far away.
	Had she ever been Dana?
	The dress slid over her head and she stared into the mirror.  Her last
moments as a single woman.  She smiled.  She would smile for Mulder.
	She vacuumed up the flower petals and picked one up.  She didn't need
flowers to get married.
	She didn't need Bill's approval.
	She was going to get married and live happily ever after.
	So why couldn't she get it out of her mind?  The cab ride was strange,
sitting in the back of well beaten car, overdressed for it.  The driver
wasn't making much conversation.  Or if he was, she didn't notice. The
cab smelled like bananas.
	The images of the dead girls were floating through her mind, with their
blue lips and unseeing eyes.  The blood, the mortis and the lividity. 
Their butchered parts.
	"Here we are, lady."
	She was beginning to hear screams in her head.  Whose screams?  She
didn't know. Had she witnessed the murder of the victim in the mall? 
Had she stood by, listening to her scream as she was being tortured?
	Or were they someone else's screams?
	Her own?
	She was scared.  Down into the core of her being, she was scared.
Mulder was waiting for her in the hallway outside the judges' chambers
with a brilliant grin and an entourage.  He kissed her cheek and she
couldn't say anything, just grin happily back. He filled her with
happiness and warmth and courage.
	Frohike also kissed her on the cheek.  He was wearing his weird '60s
style tuxedo.  She suspected he had Kevlar on under it.  Was he scared
of her, or did he always wear it?  Byers shook her hand and managed to
smile.  He'd also, apparently, managed to lend a suit to Langly, who
looked like he was waiting for a flood.
	Mulder was still staring at her with an enraptured expression.  She was
too shy to look at him, and too nervous.  A movement caught the corner
of her eye and she turned her head.  Skinner.  She smiled and he took
her hands. "Congratulations."  She'd never seen him smile like that.
	"Thank you, sir," she said, turning to Mulder. He nodded, and then they
all went into the judge's office.
	The tile floor seemed cold and the wooden chairs forbidding, but for a
second it was the most beautiful place she'd ever been. It would be a
new life.  Her thoughts wouldn't slow down, and at the same time, they
seemed to stop.  She shed her coat and Frohike took it like a dutiful
bridesmaid.
	The air was cool on her bare arms.  They weren't marrying in the
tropics, or a church.  His mother should have come.  Her sister should
have seen her married.  She should have signed Charlie out to attend. 
Her mother should have tried harder.
	There was much sadness on this day of new beginnings.
	Mulder held her hand as the judge spoke.  His eyes were earnest on hers
as he repeated the traditional vows.  Would he really obey her, she
wondered.
	Her voice sounded strong as she repeated the same words, but it didn't
seem to come from her.  Did everyone have this strangely disembodied
feeling when important things happened to them?
	She felt like she was hiding from something she'd already realized and
didn't want to acknowledge.  She was losing control of herself, giving
it to someone else.  Was that what marriage was about?
	Or another self? He called her Dana. "I, Fox, take you, Dana..."  Was
this what being Dana felt like?  Was this how she had longed to feel?
	"I now pronounce you man and wife."
	The kiss was celebratory.  They'd snapped the tape at the end of the
race. Her head tipped back and Mulder kissed her.  It was the first time
he'd kissed her in public.  They were going to be lovers very, very
soon.
	A delicious ache started in her belly as she saw the ring on his
finger.   The grin on her face felt wonderfully, freely ridiculous.  The
ring on her own finger was beautiful.
	"Let's party!" Langly cried, pulling loose his tie and shaking free his
ponytail.
	"I'll drink to that!" Frohike agreed and even Skinner smiled.  The
judge waved good bye as they trooped out the door.
	Mulder's friends were kinder than her family.
	Rain had began to fall outside and everything smelled damp as the snow
had begun to melt.  A dead flower petal fell from the folds of her coat
and she paused for a second.
	It was from the bouquet Bill sent to her.
	The pale pink petal was caught on a stream of water rushing against the
curb to the gutter.  Washing away, washing away.
	Like innocence.
	She knew she should grab it, but only stared as the whirlpool snagged
it and finally, the petal disappeared.
	She knew what happened in the basement.
	Everything faded dreadfully away.

end of 7/28

Anamorphosis 8/28
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

-----
PART II

-8-

	She'd been quiet since the ceremony.  This worried Mulder a lot.  He
kept looking over at her, trying to catch her eye, but she didn't really
look back.  Every once in a while she'd squint or move her head
slightly, the way people did when they were lost in thought.
	He wanted to know what she was thinking about.
	There was laughter and  talking all around him - who'd have ever
guessed Skinner and the Lone Gunmen would get along so well? Maybe they
could have an effect on each other, he thought, but he knew the Gunmen
would never be able to trust someone so high up in government.  They
preferred anarchy to order and rules.
	He didn't want this.   Neither did Scully from the way she'd completely
zoned out.  "It's time for us to go, I think," he said, getting up. He
had to grab Scully's arm to get her attention and her eyes were blank. 
The Gunmen yukked it up but Mulder couldn't take his eyes off his wife.
	His *wife.*
	He'd seen that glassy stare before.
	Not in her eyes, though.  On patients.  In the ward where he'd interned
in college.  His stomach was churning. Maybe he was imagining things. 
Nerves?
	"Scully?"
	She blinked and her eyes focused for a second.  "I'm okay," she said in
a quiet voice and managed a tight smile.
	He was too scared to ask.  It was him, he knew, she was having doubts
and regrets about marrying him.  She could do better.  She deserved
better.  Why hadn't she realized this before the wedding?  He was almost
resolved to this. He'd barely been able to believe it that she'd
agreed.  It had felt like humoring him when they looked at houses, but
he'd wanted to hard to believe.
	Wanting to believe things that were ridiculous or impossible had long
been one of his strengths.
	He could feel the tension building in the silence as the ride home
stretched long in front of them.  He opened his mouth to relieve the
pain in his clenched jaw and it popped painfully.  In the passenger
seat, Scully seemed oblivious.  Even that made him feel worse.
	"Did I do something wrong?"  His knuckles were white on the steering
wheel, but his words didn't break through her fog.  Expressions still
crossed her face, but  none of them took hold.  She was ignoring him, he
thought.  What had he done, or was marrying her enough? He stole another
glance at her noble profile, her eyes fixed out the window.
	Once in her apartment, she sat down on the couch. Maybe it was always
this awkward after weddings.  He didn't know. Maybe that was the purpose
of receptions and parties and expensive trips.  To avoid this moment,
where things settled quietly at home, when he felt he should do anything
other than what he desperately wanted to do.
	He sat down on the couch and her eyes darted up to his face.  "Did I do
something wrong?" he asked quietly.
	Her eyes turned away and she put her head down.  This time she heard
him at least, even if it made her go inward more than she had been.  Her
mumble was so low and almost unintelligible.  He had to strain to
understand.  "He hurt me."
	"Scully?"  Her words struck his body like lightning.
	"Why're you calling me that?"  Her face drew up, in a childish frown.
	"What should I call you?" he asked carefully, adding to her tone and
expression her slumped posture and legs that drew together at the knees
and then splayed out, toes pointing in.
	"Starbuck."
	Oh, shit.
	"Who hurt you?" he asked, finding it difficult to draw air into his
lungs.  Something was very wrong.  This didn't happen after weddings, he
knew.  This was not normal.  Why the fuck couldn't things ever be
normal? he asked himself, just once?
	"Billy," she said in a teeny, tiny voice.
	Mulder could only stare at her in horror.  "How?" he asked.
	She shook her head again, more turning her face away from him than
actually shaking it to indicate "no."  "Didn't happen yet."
	"When did it happen?" he asked.  She didn't respond. "Scully?"  What
the hell was going on here?  He was scared, as scared as he had ever
been.  His stomach was pure acid in the middle of his body.  He could
face aliens or killers, but this...he had an inkling what this was, and
that frightened him all the more.  "Starbuck?" he prompted gently.
	The look on her face made him jerk away involuntarily.  "It didn't
happen yet," she mumbled. Scully, who never mumbled.
	Horror was beginning to blossom into realization.  This was not
Scully.  This wasn't Scully! "How old are you?"
	She looked at him as though he was silly.  "Four."
	He bolted up from the couch and paced around the room in a loopy
circle. This could not be.  Her eyes followed him with interest as he
returned to her side.  This could not be happening!  He wouldn't let
it.  He couldn't let it.  She was stronger than this.  She flinched at
the gentle hand he placed on her shoulder. "You're not playing a game
with me?"  He searched her eyes with his, flicking from one eye to the
other. He didn't find any merriment in her irises, which seemed to have
turned a darker blue than he'd ever seen them.  She didn't even look
like Scully any more.  There was no hiding the desperation in his tone. 
He already knew Scully wouldn't joke around, not like this.  Scully
didn't joke.  She didn't scare him on purpose. This was not funny, not
in the least.
	"What kinda game do you wanna play?" she asked, eyes bright.
	Oh, shit.
	"Do you know who I am?" he asked slowly.
	She nodded after a second of thinking.  "You're married to Dana."
	He couldn't deal with this.   He wanted to shout at her, knock some
sense into her.  Most of all, he wanted to wake up from this, go back to
the morning and start again.  She couldn't be referring to herself as a
child and talking about herself in the third person.  Talking about them
in the third person when they were both right there.  Either she didn't
know what was real or he didn't.  He didn't care which.  "Where is
Dana?"
	"Dana doesn't know.  But she's scared anyway."
	He knelt in front of her. "Could I speak to Dana?"  Please, please, oh
god, please.
	She shook her head vigorously.
	"Is there anybody else..."  It sounded so incredibly crazy.  Anyone
else he could talk to?  What was this, the phone company?  A customer
service line? Phone sex?  This was a woman, this was his wife and
something terrible had happened between their wedding vows and their
arrival in the apartment.  Something to make her flinch and turn away
from everything she knew.
	She shook her head and put her thumb in her mouth and he died a little,
trying not to show it to her.  A second later she removed it, making
excuses to him.  "Mama says not to. She says it'll ruin my teeth."
	"I don't think it matters now," he told her, walking away again.  He
couldn't deal with this.  "Scully?" he asked again, and she seemed to
ignore him.  She didn't put her thumb back in her mouth. He could feel 
her eyes on him as he tried to figure out what to do. What was going on.
	He knew what it looked like.
	But it was too impossible.
	It was pretty damned ridiculous, in fact.  He'd rather hear about her
meticulously made up under hypnosis past life with him and Melissa
Ephesian where she'd been in *love* with him and he'd never noticed. 
How much more telling could that scenario had been?  Her unconscious
mind knew he was listening.  Even though they were engaged and about to
get married, how many insecurities about their relationship had that
revealed? How many of her worries about being his soul mate, his lover,
his friend and lifetime partner?
	He was not worthy of her.
	But this was too ridiculous.  And yet, what if the reference to that
damaged, troubled woman had been some kind of a warning from her inner
mind.
	Inner mind, what a load of crap.
	But he was standing in front of a different facet of his partner - his
wife - than he had ever seen before.  A different personality.  One he
certainly would have noticed before this.
	Maybe she there was no before this. Maybe the stress of marrying _him_
made her crack.
	His fault.  His fault.
	He didn't know what to do. Unfortunately he knew more about this from
watching "Sybil" than from school.  Dissociative identity disorder was
virtually unheard of in Europe.  None of his teachers had believed in
it, except as another hysterical phenomena born of American soap opera
plots. He knew this was what Scully herself would say if she were there
to have this conversation.
	But he only had to remember Melissa Ephesian to know how this could
ruin a life.
	He shuddered.
	Not to mention that he only had coursework in psychology.  Okay, he'd
been a good student, but being a good student was easy.  He could have
mastered anything he'd been interested in.  He had a degree in
psychology, and even though he had a knack for uncanny jumps of logic
and a track record as a profiler, that didn't make him right.
	Multiple personalities?  There had to be a logical explanation.
	"Mister?"
	He jerked around.  She looked at him.  "It's past my bedtime."
	He nodded, expecting her to go to bed.  Maybe this would be over in the
morning. Maybe it was temporary, maybe he would wake up.
	"My daddy would read to me and my mommy would tuck me in," she told
him. He couldn't say anything.  "Why are you here instead of my mommy?"
	Maybe he should give her mommy a call.
	"Your mom's on a trip."
	She looked doubtful.  "You'll take care of me?"
	He nodded.   A promise he'd already made.  Sickness or health. It was
funny because he'd always been sure he was the  one who would lose his
mind.
	Not lost, he thought furiously. Not lost. He would get her back. 
Somehow.
	This could not be happening.
	She slipped off to bed and he put his head in his hands, allowing
himself a moment of fatigue.  Two moments and he would have burst into
tears.  
	This couldn't be happening.
	He needed information.
	He thought about what had happened in the few weeks that predicated
this strange turn of events..  The case overwhelming her.  The attack
and the hypnosis.
	Which had been his idea.
	It went beyond that, though.  She'd seemed exhausted and headachy since
her visit to San Diego.
	Not cancer, he prayed.  What if she had another brain tumor because of
what they'd done to her?  What if it was pressing on some vital area of
her brain, relieving her of blood pressure and memory?  What if four
years old was all there was left?
	Oh, god.
	It didn't explain what she'd said about her brother hurting her.  He
assumed it was her brother; while her father had the same name, she'd
called him Ahab.  Especially if she was thinking of herself as
Starbuck.  She wouldn't have called her father Bill.  She didn't call
her mother Margaret.  Her parents wouldn't have stood for it, just as
his wouldn't have.
	He still didn't know what to do.  His empty hands sought something to
munch on, drawing him into the kitchen.  A bag of fresh popcorn would
do.  Scully didn't have any sunflower seeds, his favorite food for
thinking difficult thoughts.  He picked up the bag of pre-popped corn
and noticed something odd in the trash.
	A mangled, ruined bouquet.
	Why would she...?
	He found the card under the couch in the living room.  "Don't ruin your
life."  Signed by Bill.  Her brother.
	Why did Bill hate him so much?
	"He hurt me," the four year old aspect of his wife had whispered.
	Virtually all cases of multiple personality disorder hinged on brutal
childhood sexual abuse.
	Rage blurred his vision. He was going to kill the fucking bastard if it
was true.  And while he had no proof, he had no reason to doubt her. 
She was his wife and she had never lied to him.
	He wanted to be wrong, but he knew that he wasn't.  He could feel it. 
He didn't know who to call or who to trust.  He knew he could trust
her.  Cautiously, he slipped into her darkened bedroom.  "Are you still
awake?" he asked softly, not wanting to use that name so foreign to him.
	"Uh-huh."  The utterance trembled.  When he turned on the light, she
sighed.  
	He remained in the doorway.  "Are you afraid of the dark?"
	"Maybe a little."
	He nodded.  "I used to be scared of the dark," he admitted, crossing
the distance to the bed.  She was looking up at him with eyes wide and
round.  She looked like a little girl, tucked up tight in the bed, the
buttons on her pajama top fastened wrong.  Her arms lay limp over the
covers.  This was not the wedding night he'd dreamt of.  Not by a long
shot.  "Why do you think the dark is scary?"
	She didn't answer for a long time, staring past him at the wall like
she'd turned herself off, like some kind of a robot or something. 
"Cause it's dark," she answered, as though that summed it all up for
him.
	Maybe it did.
	"You said Bill hurt you."
	She glared at him instantly.
	"Bill your brother Bill?"
	"What other Bill?" she asked, her lips drawing tight, almost a pout,
but not quite. Angry, but scared too.  She was a tough little kid.  Or,
um, whatever.  Sitting here, talking to her, *seeing* her, was too
convincing.  It scared him.  He accepted this because it was real.  This
wasn't like talking to Scully.  This wasn't like talking to someone who
was pretending.  This was like talking to a very smart, scared little
girl.
	Who happened to inhabit the body of a beautiful thirty five year old
woman, that was the confusing part.
	"How did he hurt you?" Mulder asked, dredging up every aspect he could
remember of those torturous visits to clinics and patient wards.  He'd
detested them.  The goal might not have been to convince him against
becoming a psychiatrist, but that had been the desired effect.  He'd
chosen to be the one who locked up the insane, the disturbed, not the
one who tried to heal them.  Sometimes without any encouragement or
success.
	She wasn't talking.
	"Did he hit you?"
	A limp shouldered shrug.
	"Did he say mean things to you?"
	No response.
	"Did he pretend to be a big purple dinosaur?"
	She didn't laugh.  There was no response.  He was learning.  No
response meant it hadn't happened.  So he'd hit her? Maybe. Mulder
pressed on.  "Did he touch you somewhere you didn't want to be touched?"
	That was too much for her.  "Go away, I want to sleep," she demanded,
flopping over in the bed.  But she didn't close her eyes and she didn't
turn her back on him.  She didn't trust him.
	"What did he do?" Mulder asked.
	"Nothing yet."
	"When did he do it?"
	"Leave me alone!"
	He was getting at something here, but he didn't want to push her.  She
was going to cry and he didn't want to see her in pain.  Whatever this
was, it was a reaction to pain, to try to drive it away.  He had no idea
what he could do to her psyche if he forced this.  Obviously she
remembered.  But she wasn't ready to tell it.
	"I'm here, Scully," he said, and she lay rigid in the bed, breathing
shallowly.  He felt rage coming off of her body, controlled ultimately. 
That was Scully, he thought, but he walked out of the room, leaving the
light on.
	How could that have not been real?
	He still didn't want to believe it.
	But something had happened.  And that wasn't Scully in there.  He
wanted to ask her more questions, but he was too afraid.  He knew that
Dissociative Identity Disorder didn't have a cure. Years of intensive
therapy could still leave a person splintered.
	Pretty bleak.
	Mulder slammed his fist against the wall.  He didn't want to believe
it.  They'd lived through so much. This was ridiculous.
	He felt angry and betrayed. He didn't want to feel that way about 
Scully.  He loved her.  But he couldn't help feeling she'd abandoned him
to this.
	He fell asleep in the chair, his fists angry and his jaw tight.
	Only a few hours later, the sun was up and so was his wife.  He opened
his eyes to find her staring at him eerily and he just stared back,
praying she *was* his wife and that whole weird experience was over  He
hadn't even considered the scarier possibilities - what if she was
possessed by the devil?  He didn't believe in the devil, but he did
believe in the purity of evil because he'd seen it too many times. What
if that had invaded her soul?
	There was a darkness in her soul, but he had a feeling the evil beings
responsible were mere mortals.
	"Scully?" he tried hopefully.
	"I want my mother."
	Starbuck again. He sighed. "How -" he faltered.  What could he ask
her?  "Do you remember Skinner?" he tried. 
	"I want my mother," she repeated stubbornly.
	"Scully -"
	"I want my mother!" she screamed at him.  Her face started to turn red.
"Where's my mother, I want my mother!"
	"Ssh," he suggested.  What did he know about little kids? Adults who
thought they were little kids?
	"Mommy," she cried, sinking into tears.  He could only stare at her. 
It was bizarre that he was feeling happy to have averted a temper
tantrum.  She could have thrown herself on the floor and thrashed and
screamed like he saw a little boy do once in the Safeway when his mom
wouldn't buy him a squirt gun.  At the time Mulder had felt a certain
envy for the ease with which the child relieved frustration.  Maybe he'd
been wrong to stop Scully. Maybe she needed that childish release, maybe
that was what this was about.
	"I'll - ah - call your mom," he said, inching away form her toward the
phone.  It was morning and this wasn't better.  It was a game he'd
played with himself often as a boy - was he too sick to go to school the
next day?  Most of his symptoms were psychological, but he hadn't wanted
to see a doctor.  So he waited until the next morning.  If he still felt
bad in the morning, he could tell his mother.  This was still bad and it
was morning.  She wanted her mother and he'd be damned if he wouldn't
give that to her.  She deserved anything in this world he could give,
and he wanted her better.  Maybe her mother could provide some comfort
that he couldn't. Maybe her mother could get Scully back. Scully had run
to her mom before when she'd felt threatened.  Did he threaten her?  The
smile at  seeing he was #1 on her speed dial faded quickly. He didn't
want to think about her crying.  He pressed the keys to get #3.
	"Yeah."
	It was Bill.  Mulder's knuckles cracked with the force of his anger. 
She said Bill had hurt her. Even though she hadn't been able to give
details, Mulder believed her.  He knew the power of repressed memories,
having been haunted by them most of his life.  Not remembering didn't
make it not real. "Margaret Scully, please."
	"She's asleep, who's calling?" Bill's anger was thinly veiled.  A
glance at the clock told Mulder it was 5:30 in California.
	"Fox Mulder.  Wake her up," he ordered.
	"Fuck you," Bill told him.
	"If I ever get my hands on you, I'll break your fucking neck. Let me to
talk to your mother."
	"You think I'm going to let you talk to her that way, you goddamned
psychopath?"
	"I'm going to tell her what you did to your sister, you fucker." 
Mulder's voice was quiet with sinister fury, playing his hunch that
Scully was telling him the truth, even through whatever dementia she was
suffering.
	There was a frightening silence from the other end of the line. "I
didn't do anything."  Bill's voice had changed to ice.  A coldness
Mulder had heard in the tones of murderers denying conclusive evidence. 
For Mulder, it was only more proof.  Mulder waited for the dial tone,
but he heard the phone gently click against the surface of a table.
Mulder waited. He'd scared himself with his outburst.
	"Fox, what is it?  What's the matter with Dana?" Mrs. Scully's voice
was frantic and sleepy.
	"She needs you." He couldn't keep the desolation out of his tone and he
watched the crying child of a woman he loved while listening to her
mother cry 2,000 miles away. He had no words for either of them.

	The woman who couldn't get a flight for her daughter's wedding arrived
almost immediately.  Mulder was exhausted when he got her at the airport
and his mother-in-law seemed to have aged twenty years. He'd never seen
the gray in her hair or the lines in her face before.  "Did you marry
her?"
	He picked up her suitcase and saw her eyes track down to his ring.
"Yes," he answered.
	"When?"  Mrs. Scully's eyes were filled with fire.
	"Yesterday."  He led her through the holiday crowds to the meter where
he'd left the car parked.
	"When all this began."  She didn't accuse him.  She didn't  have to.
"Bill was right."
	Bill was never right. Mulder wanted to scream it at her.  He was angry
with Bill and angry that Mrs. Scully would chose Bill over him.  True,
Bill was her son so Mrs. Scully probably couldn't see the truth, but
Mulder knew he was good for Scully.  He loved her with his entire
being.  So he spoke with ill-considered words, unable to stop once he'd
begun.  "I have some bad news about your son, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said,
trying to contain his anger for her sake, but at the same time wanting
to hurt her because she hadn't been there for Scully.  "I think he
abused your daughter."
	Mrs. Scully didn't say another word the rest of the drive.  He saw her
face turn white and wondered if he'd done the right thing in telling her
that. Maybe not, he thought, pulling out onto the expressway, hurrying
back to Scully.

	When he opened the door to Scully's apartment, it was like entering the
monkey house at the zoo. The TV blared a live action cartoon.  Scully's
face was smeared with makeup and her hair was tied into two ponytails. 
Langly was almost a mirror of her and the two of them scrambled across
the hard wood floor with die cast metal cars.  Byers was uncomfortable
as he maneuvered a plastic police helicopter above them. Frohike was at
the kitchen table considering the measurements of an unclothed Barbie
doll.
	Mulder closed the door and waited for Mrs. Scully to fall apart.  He'd
underestimated her strength because she walked over to Scully.  Byers
and Langly backed off, leaving Scully looking confused.  "Dana, honey?"
said Mrs. Scully.
	Scully bit her lip and started at her mother for a long time.  Then she
seemed to close off, clutching the shiny purple car in her hand.  "Dana
says you're my mommy."  Mrs. Scully managed a forced, faltering smile. 
"You're too old to be my mommy."  She pouted and turned her full
attention to vrooming the car.
	Mrs. Scully looked crushed.  She shot at look at Mulder.  "She talked
to these 'others'?"
	"Just Dana," Frohike spoke up.  He didn't raise his eyes from Barbie's
rack.
	No one said anything and Mulder sat down in a chair, exhausted.  He
didn't want this. It couldn't be real. He would wake up. He had to. 
Something jolted his foot and he opened his eyes.  Scully, on the floor
with her toy car.  "Sorry mister."  His look must have been harsh
because she crawled away from him quickly.
	Mrs. Scully looked as lost as he felt.
	Frohike got to his feet.  "Mulder, come on."  Mulder looked at him, not
moving.  "Come on."
	"I can't leave -" Mulder's voice cracked.
	"She's in good hands," Frohike informed him, pushing him out the door. 
The drive to  Mulder's apartment in  Frohike's ancient VW was silent but
for the put-put of the motor.
	"So talk," Frohike ordered once they were at Mulder's. He took the
couch and Mulder paced the floor, needing to get back to Scully.
	"This can't be real," Mulder stated, raking his hands back through his
hair. It was dirty. He needed to shave, shower.  "It can't be happening.
It's a dream, a nightmare -"
	Frohike's face as he absorbed was what broke Mulder.  He sat down on
the coffee table and put his head in his hands, crying unashamedly.  "I
can't do this. I can't help her. She's always been the strong one.  For
this to happen to her - after everything - why do I have to lose
everyone?  Why can't someone just love me?  Shit, this isn't about me,"
he stopped himself.  "It's about her. How can this be real?"
	Frohike patted him on the back.  "What can you do to help her?"
	Mulder shook his head. Nothing, there was nothing...
	"You can take care of yourself," Frohike said. "You can find her the
best doctors, you can read the literature and you can support her."
	Eventually Mulder nodded. He had to stand by her.  He owed her his
life. He loved her, he was nothing without her.  He raised his head and
looked at Frohike. The man was amazing.  "So who are the best doctors?"
he asked.
	They went back to Scully's.  "Where is she?" Mulder demanded when he
walked in to find Mrs. Scully reading a magazine while Byers and Langly
played Old Maid.
	"She's asleep," Mrs. Scully said without looking up.
	"She didn't...change?"  He wanted Scully back.  Now. He wanted Scully
back now. Mulder wasn't patient, especially where she was concerned. 
He'd thought her mother could magically cure her.
	All three sadly shook their heads in unison. Mulder felt his shoulders
slump.  "How did this happen, Fox?" Mrs. Scully sounded like his own
mother as she folded away her Better Homes and Gardens and waited for an
answer.
	Mulder took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.  "It's possible this
is a spontaneous regression and she'll naturally get over it.  But the
way she talks about Dana as someone separate from herself...I think
she's dissociated.  She meets the criteria for multiple personality." 
Clinical was the only way he could get through this.  It was too
laughable and painful otherwise.
	"Have you called a doctor?" she asked, doubtful.  Like her daughter.
	"I called you first."
	"Call if you need us." Langly offered, seizing the first opportunity to
escape.  Mulder nodded and waved his thanks to the guys.
	"Odd friends of yours," Scully's mother commented.
	"Scully's friends too," he insisted.  "They gave me a list of local
doctors."
	"I want to take her back with me to San Diego," Mrs. Scully said as he
went to get the cordless phone from its base.  The remainder of her
words were unspoken. Away from this, way from you.  She thought he was
causing this.
	"No," he said, staring at her.  She had the same stubborn look he'd
seen Scully get. "No," he said again.
	"She needs to be with family."
	"I am her family!"
	"It was marrying you that did this to her!" Mrs. Scully shouted back.
	Mulder had no response to that. It was very likely true, he thought,
just as he'd caused her cancer and her sister's death.  He blamed
himself.  He picked up the phone and dialed the first doctor on the
list, aware of Scully's mother watching him, waiting for him to fail.
	"I don't deal with that."
	"I don't have time."
	"We would love to have her come to our facility, but we don't deal with
multiples. Entirely too disruptive.  You do understand..."
	"We can't..."
	"No, sorry..."  The doctors had a million excuses.
	There was only one name left on the list. Mrs. Scully was looking over
his shoulder.  Waiting to take Scully away from him, for good, back to
Bill where she would never get better.
	"Dr. Callaway, you're my only hope."
	The light female voice on the other end of the line laughed
pleasantly.  "I am?"
	"I didn't mean to say that," Mulder blurted.
	"What did you mean to say?"
	He liked her.  "I think my wife has dissociative identity disorder. 
She's taken on the characteristics of a small child.  I mean, I don't
want to believe that, but something's wrong.  Something's terribly
wrong."  He stopped. He was letting his fear show. He couldn't give in
to that.
	"May I ask a few questions?"  He heard her rattling for paper and
pencil.
	"Of course," he said, feeling relieved.  She hadn't turned him down.
Yet.
	"Good," she said, "Can you be here by five?"
	"Tonight?"
	"Yes," said Dr. Callaway. "I need to meet her if she is to be my
patient."
	"We'll be there," Mulder promised, ignoring the look Mrs. Scully gave
him. He went to the bedroom, struck by sudden caution at the door.  What
would he find when he awakened her? After a second, he walked into the
room.
	She was lying in bed with her eyes open as though she'd been waiting
for him.  "Scully?" he asked, almost daring to hope.  
	"Starbuck," she reminded him.  She sat up and he saw the fear in her
eyes. "Were you and Mommy fighting?"
	He couldn't lie to her, although he wanted to.  "Yes."
	"It was about me.  You hate me.  You want me to go away.  So does
Mommy."  Her mouth pursed, upset, but she didn't cry.
	"That's not true," he said, calmly lying. He did want Starbuck to go
away if it meant it would return Scully to him.  "We want you to come
with us to see someone. A doctor."
	"I'm not sick," she told him.
	"I know.  We just want to make sure.  Come on," Mulder said and waited
for her to get up. She did, finally, struggling to put on Scully's
sneakers.   She looked at the soles several times before putting them on
the wrong feet.
	"Are your shoes on right?"  Mulder asked her.
	"They're fine," she drawled, sounding like a miniature version of
Scully. Except it already was Scully.
	He decided not to think about that.  "I'm going with you," Mrs. Scully
informed him. There was nothing he could say about that.

end of 8/28 comment appreciated: eponine119@att.net

Anamorphosis 9/28
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

-9-

	At five o'clock they sat in Dr. Callaway's office.  Starbuck swung her
feet and looked uncomfortable.  She knew she was the focus here.  Mrs.
Scully looked drawn and tired.  Dr. Leslie Callaway was lovely - tall
and slim with her hair gathered into a clip at the top of her head.  She
smiled at Mulder and at Mrs. Scully, but most importantly, at Starbuck,
introducing herself.
	Scully said nothing.
	Dr. Callaway turned to Mulder with her questions.
	"Has she complained of frequent headaches?"  She looked at Scully, who
wasn't acknowledging her.
	Mulder nodded.  "She's had a lot of stress recently."
	The doctor nodded and made a note on a purple legal pad.  "Has she ever
experienced what's known as 'missing time' - a period of time that she
blacked out, that she could not later recall?"
	Mulder didn't need that explained to him.  He felt Mrs. Scully's eyes
hard on his face.  Like he'd been lying to her.  "Yes," he said, "But
it's always been associated with alien abduction missing time."
	Dr. Callaway's eyebrows went up and Mulder wished he could disappear. 
"She believes she's been abducted by aliens?  From space?"
	No, little brown men from beyond the border, Mulder thought
sarcastically.  Or worse yet, Canadians.  He knew sarcasm was a defense
mechanism and he was only trying to live through this very abnormal
situation.
	"Mulder believes she's been abducted by aliens.  Dana doesn't believe
in them," Mrs. Scully spoke up harshly.
	"You don't believe this then?"  the doctor turned to her.  
	At least she's getting a good idea of the family conflict pulling at
Scully, Mulder thought.
	"Something happened to my daughter," Margaret stated.  "I don't know
what.  Neither does she, as far as I know."
	"How long to these alien episodes last?"
	"The longest was three months," Mulder replied.
	"That's unusually long for an alien abduction, isn't it?"  Dr. Callaway
asked evenly, sounding as though she'd been informed on the subject. 
Maybe she too read the Weekly World News, Mulder thought.
	"Yes," he had to admit, feeling like he'd been nailed by his own lawyer
while on the stand.
	"Was she abused as a child?"  Just as smoothly as the alien question.
	"Never!" Margaret cried.
	"She may have been," Mulder said.
	"No she was not," Margaret insisted strongly.
	"She said, to me, last night, that her brother hurt her." Mulder knew
he should drop this.  Mrs. Scully looked furious.
	"Okay," Dr. Callaway interrupted.  "Does she behave in strange, bizarre
or unpredictable ways?"
	Neither of them said anything.
	"Maybe a little," replied Mulder.  "Since Thanksgiving."
	"Does she have any sexually related disorders?"
	"She may," Mulder mumbled.
	Dr. Callaway gave him a direct look.  "You said you're her husband. 
Don't you know?"
	"We didn't...get a chance..."  How red was his face?
	"The marriage is unconsummated."
	"Uh, yeah."
	"I know this is difficult," Dr. Callaway said.  "We can stop here. 
There's a couple more questions, but we can stop."  She put the notepad
aside.  "I'd like to talk to Dana."
	"Starbuck."  Terribly, they'd forgotten she was listening.  Mulder had
hated that as a kid, and as an adult, when people talked around him as
though he couldn't hear or understand what they were saying.
	"Starbuck."  Dr. Callaway smiled at Scully, then included Mulder and
Margaret in the expression.  "There's a coffee place downstairs if you'd
like to come back in half an hour."
	Mulder shook his head.  He wasn't leave her there.  Dr. Callaway
escorted them to the office door.  He spent the next thirty minutes
staring at the paintings in the lobby.  So did Mrs. Scully.  They didn't
speak to each other.
	It was the longest thirty two minutes and five seconds of Mulder's
entire life.

	The door creaked open a moment before it opened - the handle needed
grease, and so Mulder and Mrs. Scully were both on their feet by the
time Dr. Callaway appeared in the doorway.   Her face was wonderfully
neutral.  Mulder hadn't really considered utilizing his psych degree in
a practicing capacity, but he hoped that if he had, he would have been a
doctor like this one. Calm.  Cool.
	"Well?" Mrs. Scully was anxious.
	"This is very delicate ethical ground," Dr. Callaway said.  "Even
though my patient believes she is four years old and depends on the care
of others, she has the right to privacy."
	Mulder's gaze didn't relent and neither did Mrs. Scully's.  But Dr.
Callaway didn't speak. It was their turn to talk.
	"What's the next step?" Mrs. Scully asked finally.
	"I'd like to use hypnosis.  If this is a regression to a time when she
felt safe, we may be able to bring her back to her current age."
	"If not?"
	"Dissociated personalities usually emerge under hypnosis," Dr. Callaway
answered gravely.
	Mulder's stomach became a hard, sick knot.  "She was recently
hypnotized - could that have brought this on?"  He could barely get the
words out.  She hadn't wanted to go under.  He'd pushed her, so she
would remember. What if she'd remembered other things, too?  What if
this was all his fault?  Of course it was.
	"Hypnosis can't cause anything," Dr. Callaway answered.  "This probably
would have emerged anyway."
	"Can you do it now?"  Mulder couldn't keep still, rubbing his hands
together, moving from foot to foot.  He wanted this over.
	"She's been through a lot," replied Dr. Callaway.  Mulder's eyes slid
to the figure huddled on the floor in the corner, drawn into herself. 
She seemed to be physically shrinking until she would finally be as
large as a four year old child.  "Tomorrow morning is soon enough."
	Mulder nodded and they prepared to go. He didn't want Starbuck for
another day. He wanted Scully.  He wanted his wife.  Dr. Callaway's hand
caught his arm.  "It's going to be a long road back," she cautioned.
	He couldn't take a breath.  "I know," he said quietly, wishing it
wasn't true. He was working to accept it as best he could.  He had hoped
the doctor would cure her, or prove that he was wrong.  Her serious
manner only confirmed his worst fears.
	Mrs. Scully insisted on sitting next to her daughter on the drive
home.  This meant Mulder spent most of the drive glancing in the
rearview mirror to look at them.
	Scully - or what seemed to remain of her - had her feet up on the
seat.  Knees drawn up under her chin.   Her cheek rested on her crossed
arms and her eyes sought comfort from the passing scenery.  Her
expression never changed from its fixed look of dreamy and sad.
	Mrs. Scully kept trying.  She toyed at fixing Scully's hair.  He'd
never seen her as a fussy mother before this. Maybe she hadn't been.
Maybe she felt some compulsion to make up for it now.  Scully made
little jerks with her head, away, wanting to be left alone.
	"There's not a lot of space..."  Mulder said to Mrs. Scully back at his
wife's apartment.  Scully went off automatically to prepare for bed. 
Neither of them coaxed a word about the session from her.  What she had
discussed with Dr. Callaway was a complete mystery.
	"I'll take the couch," Mrs. Scully replied.
	"That's where I'm sleeping." He was willing to be territorial when it
came to Scully.  He knew what was best for her. He was not going to
leave her.
	Mrs. Scully gave him an authoritative look.  "You have your own
apartment, Fox."
	"I'm her husband."
	"I'm her mother!"
	"And I'm not sure that's what she needs right now," Mulder stated as
calmly as possible.
	"I'm not sure _you're_ what she needs right now."
	He glared and his tongue ached from his teeth biting in to keep back
the angry words.  He wanted to vent, to rage at her.  She glared right
back.  Margaret Scully was a force to be reckoned with, as was her
daughter.  Finally he managed to say, "You have your house in
Baltimore."
	He went into Scully's room.  She was kneeling by the side of her bed,
her hands pressed together and her face turned up to god.  He paused a
moment at the sight of her.  She was beautiful.  An innocent.  He loved
her so much.
	She sensed him and lumbered clumsily to her feet, then got into bed. 
He pulled her covered up to her chin.  "Did you like meeting Dr.
Callaway?" he asked.
	"She's not like a regular doctor." It was almost a question.  Mulder
nodded.  "We drew pictures and played with dolls."
	Mulder nodded again. Play therapy was an effective tool in learning
from children as they acted out their problems.  "Did you remember
anything?"
	"How can I remember what didn't happen yet?" she asked.  "I just want
to play."  Her eyes closed for a second.  It seemed a profound and
important statement.
	"What do you like best about being four, Starbuck?" he asked her.
	"No one hurts little girls when they're just four," she said quietly. 
More insight from the future, he thought.  He had to wonder if that was
normal, or if she was trying not to remember.
	He almost made himself laugh. Was any of this "normal"?
	Mrs. Scully had gone while he was in with Scully.  He felt guilty
relief.  He knew she would be back.  He lay down on the couch, fully
clothed, dreading what the morning might bring. No longer did he believe
a night's sleep would bring his Scully back to him.
	He couldn't sleep for remembering her words.  All little girls should
always be safe.

	The next morning, Dr. Callaway prepared to hypnotize Starbuck to see
what would come out.  "Is she easily hypnotized?" she asked Mulder,
turning away from her patient, who sat in her chair with her eyes
closed, feet swinging back and forth in casual circles.
	"Yes, very," he replied, thinking of the times before.  But she doesn't
believe in hypnosis, he thought.
	Dr. Callaway nodded.  "They usually are," she said and he wondered what
she meant by that.  "You should go," she suggested.
	"I'm staying here," Mulder insisted. He wasn't leaving her alone. Not
with anyone.  Not while vulnerable under hypnosis, especially.  She was
too fragile, too open to being hurt.
	Besides, he needed to know.
	"I'm staying too," Mrs. Scully declared.  Mulder glanced at her.  Did
she need to know as badly as he did?  Or did she need to know more, to
be told of what had gone on in her own house?  Why hadn't she noticed? 
But he couldn't blame her, he knew.  That was unfair.
	He didn't know how he felt.  But he knew he shouldn't blame her.
	"I want you to breathe deeply," Dr. Callaway said to Scully, turning
her back on the observers to focus fully on her patient.  "And then
think of a time and a place -"
	"I don't need this crap," Scully informed her coldly, opening her eyes.
	Mulder's shoulders tensed painfully, ready to snap.  Starbuck was gone
instantly, replaced by someone he didn't know at all, someone who seemed
not at home in her own skin. And angry.
	"And neither does she.  The kid doesn't know anything, it didn't happen
to her."  Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Mrs. Scully.  "Don't you
understand anything?"
	Mrs. Scully's face was frozen with horror and shock.  Scully-but-not
slumped down in her chair, her feet hitting the floor.  One hand
casually strayed up to wind a strand of her hair between her fingers.
	"What should we call you?"  Dr. Callaway asked carefully, but there was
an aura of excitement radiating from her that Mulder reacted badly to
her.  This would be exciting to a therapist, he thought, but not to the
people who were living it.  This was hell and he was not pleased about
it at all.  He just wanted Scully back.
	"DK," Margaret breathed while Scully sulked in the chair.  "I'd
forgotten."
	"Yeah. DK."  She confirmed, sounding for all the world like a sarcastic
teenager.  Her eyes found Mulder and he tried to gaze back while his
stomach snarled into knots that felt irreparable.  "So you're here," she
said to him as though she didn't care at all.  "Scully's been worried
about you."
	Scully?  Did she know what was going on in her own body and mind?  If
she was so worried about him, why was she doing this?
	Mulder was instantly ashamed of himself and it didn't do anything for
his stomach.  Scully was the victim in this, and no matter how abandoned
he felt by her...this was not her fault.  He was so tired of trying to
be strong; he'd spent his entire life dealing with blow after blow.
	This wasn't about him.
	He was terrified now that Scully was just another personality, one that
had been out when she was with him.  What would he do if he learned he
loved a woman that only partially existed?  A fragment of a whole
person?  And if that was true, what would happen if she became
integrated, as he'd read was the goal of therapy in cases like this
one.  Would she still love him when she came through this?
	"Does Scully want to talk to us?" Dr. Callaway asked.  It annoyed
Mulder that she sounded like a medium calling on spirits from somewhere
beyond.  Everything was annoying Mulder.  He got this way when he hadn't
slept.
	DK jerked her head back and forth.  "She's scared.  That's why she let
Starbuck out. Selfish brat. I didn't think I'd ever break through."
	Dr. Callaway waited for more.
	DK went on.  "She's had her chance.  Like that Scully.  Man, what a
number.  Never has any fun.  You know this." DK's eyes found Mulder, to
his surprise.
	"Is that what you want to do, DK?  Have fun?"  Dr. Callaway's guidance
was firm.
	"Well yeah," DK shrugged.  "I never really got my chance, y'know.  By
high school, she was starting to forget.  Deal with it.  Cope."
	"Who would you say is the strongest of you?" the doctor inquired.  "The
best able to cope?"
	Another careless shrug peeled off DK's shoulders.  "It's kind of open
to discussion now," she reported.  "Dana's been gone for a while. 
Scared.  Scully can't deal with this right now. She's too shocked.  They
want to come out, but they don't know it yet.  Scully was in charge for
the longest time..."  She shrugged again.
	He couldn't accept them as separate entities.  There had never been
anything wrong with Scully. Not the Scully that he knew.  She had been
whole, he thought.  A little damaged, maybe a lot damaged, but she was
what was real.  He was clinging to that, praying to get her back.  And
if the reality turned out to be different...he didn't know what he would
do.
	"Do you remember everything that happened?"
	DK shrugged again.
	"Okay," Dr. Callaway said.  "I guess that's enough for today, Dana."
	She grinned.  But it was a sneaky grin.  "It's still DK," she informed
them, springing up from the chair, ready to leave instantly.  
	"Please wait for us in the lobby," Dr. Callaway suggested and DK
slouched out.  Mulder watched her go, amazed at the physical
transformation between this woman and Starbuck and Scully.  
	"Well?"  He turned anxiously to the doctor, searching her face for
answers.  He found few and only felt his frustration grow.
	"The personalities don't seem to be completely dissociated," Dr.
Callaway responded.  "Most multiples have different names and different
histories and don't know about each other.  The way she speaks..."
	"She's faking," Maggie said and sounded almost hopeful.
	"No," said Dr. Callaway.  Mulder didn't know which answer he had been
hoping for.  Either would have been bad news.  If she wasn't faking, she
was really sick.  If she was, she was really sick to pretend such a
thing.  But Mulder knew with dread that what he'd seen was real.  "It
may be a good sign.  The final break may be recent and incomplete.  So
we may have a better chance to cure her."
	Mulder wondered if he dared to hope for that.  For a cure.  What if he
was lost in the reassembly?
	He could not think of her in that way. She was not broken.  
	"It's fascinating," the doctor said, putting a sour look on Maggie's
face.
	Mulder knew she was trying.

	DK and Maggie fought all the way home.  "I want a nose ring," DK said,
flipping through the magazine she'd stolen from the lobby of the
doctor's office.  She'd found a terrible picture of a heroin-waif model
with too much eyeshadow and a ring in her nose.
	"No," snapped Maggie, who'd chosen to sit in the front seat next to
Mulder, leaving DK in the back like a child.  He jumped at the force of
her word.
	"Why not? It's sexy," DK said, tilting her head to consider the photo
from another angle.  She aimed this appeal at him and he knew it.
	"Ick," he contributed, hoping there weren't any eyebrow, tongue or
nipple rings in the magazine.
	"It's not your body," Maggie argued.
	"It's mine as much as hers," DK snarled.  "She doesn't even know what
to use it for.  You think she hasn't done -"
	"Shut up!" Maggie screamed, her face a scary shade of white. Mulder
could see she couldn't take this any more.
	DK pouted in the back seat. Mulder watched her in the rearview mirror
because Mrs. Scully had begun to cry and he couldn't look at her. He
didn't know what to do with either of them.  He felt responsible. He
felt he should be doing something.  There was nothing he could do and he
felt helpless.  " I just want my daughter back," Mrs. Scully sniffled.
	"You got her," DK muttered with a cold gleam in her eye.  The look of
the unloved. Mulder recognized it from his own teenage self.  Maggie
jumped out of the car as soon as they reached Scully's apartment,
hurrying for her own car, not even offering to come inside.  DK was not
someone she wanted to spend time with.
	Mulder knew it was hard for her.
	It was hard for him.
	DK flopped down on the couch when they went inside. She propped her
feet up on the back of the couch, splaying her jean-covered legs wide. 
Mulder tried not to notice her pose, which thrust her breasts purposely
out and angled her hips provocatively at him.  
	"Wanna fuck?" DK asked, moistening her lips with her tongue.
	Mulder was reviled.  "How old are you, DK?" he asked, reminding himself
that this was *not* Scully.
	"Fourteen."
	She acted it, with her less than subtle or effective attempts at
seduction.  "Let's watch TV," he suggested, intrigued by the easy
sexuality of this not-Scully.  He wondered if she had ever openly
behaved this way when she was fourteen.  He couldn't imagine it.  He
figured DK was some hidden away fantasy she'd had.
	"You have a tattoo," he said to impress her when he caught DK looking
covetously at a navel ring on MTV.
	"Where?" she jumped, sounding genuinely excited.  She looked down at
herself, unfamiliar with her own body, her arms and legs moving in
different directions at once in a very young-seeming way.
	"Here." He got up and curiously she followed as he led her into the
bathroom. She looked into the mirror with impossibly earnest eyes.  He
lifted her shirt with a finger and touched the ink painted flesh he
found there. Pointing it out to her.
	When she turned to peer over her shoulder in the mirror, she was
practically in his arms. He tried hard to think of other things  The
coldness in her eyes as she judged the painting on her skin.
	A girl in a woman's body. This is sick, Mulder, he told himself.
	But she looked just like the woman he loved.  Was, in some oddly
connected way, the woman that he loved.
	She realized their positions and lost interest in the tattoo instantly,
moving to press up against him, rubbing her body against his like a cat.
	He couldn't do this.  His heart was pounding, scared, and he took a
step away.
	"You liked it when I sucked you off the other night," DK said coyly,
her finger reaching threateningly for the buttons on his jeans.
	He took another step back, blood fighting its way through his ears with
a loud sound. "That wasn't -"
	She grinned.  "Dana thought I should."  It occurred to him she could be
lying. "You liked it. More even than the boys at school.  You're my
first real man."  She lowered her eyes in an imitation of flirting.
	She was lying.  "Stop it!" Mulder ordered. "I don't like it when you do
this."
	"It scares you," she murmured and he realized that was what she
wanted.  To scare him. How much must she hurt inside to behave this
way?  If only he could touch that.
	"No. It scares you.  So badly you have to lie," he told her firmly.
	Her face changed and something ugly came into her expression.  "I hate
you!" she screamed, ran to her room and slammed the door.
	He sighed and leaned against the wall.
	She did scare the hell out of him.  He sat down in the living room,
staring blindly at the TV, knowing he had caused this.  It was all
entirely his fault.  He would give anything to get Scully back.
	He had to do something.
	Finally, reluctantly, he gave in and knocked softly on the door to
Scully's room.  When there was no answer, he swallowed back panic - what
if she'd done something to herself? - and pushed the door open.  Scully
was sprawled on the bed, her eyes open, red but dry.  She'd been crying
and stopped.  Because of him.
	"Hey," he said gently.
	"I'm not her. Go away."
	"You don't have to be her."
	"It's her you want," DK said roughly, wiping her nose on her hand. 
"Nobody ever wanted me."  She said the words to herself.  Reminding
herself of past injustices, perhaps.
	He sighed. This was so hard.  Talking to a fourteen year old when he
only knew the wonderful, bright adult she had become.  "I know it feels
that way at your age," he said carefully.
	She looked down at her bitten fingernails, feigning indifference.
	"Maybe if you talk about it..."  he tried.  Wanting her to open up.
	She looked at him.  "I know you're a shrink, too. Dana told me."
	"Dana talks to you?"
	DK shrugged.
	"Does Scully?"
	It was the wrong thing to ask. She rolled her eyes and made an angry
noise in the back of her throat.  "What is it with you and _Scully_? 
She's a cold, angry, unemotional, unfeeling bitch."
	"That's not true," Mulder said.
	DK looked him in the eye.  "We all are.  Remember that."
	"Thanks for the warning."  He descended into sarcasm himself. 
Protection.  There was no point in trying to talk to her, he thought,
but questioned his own motives as he returned to the living room.  Did
he really want to talk to DK, to understand her - or was she right, was
he merely looking for Scully?
	He missed her. He missed her so much.  Talking to her.  Her
skepticism.  Her manner, her way.  He loved her so much it hurt.  And he
was terrified that by helping her, he might be losing her permanently.
	Which was the only thing scarier than the notion he'd already lost her.

end of 9/28

Anamorphosis 10/28
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

-10-

	Morning brought another session with Dr. Callaway.  Mrs. Scully
attended, too, looking as though she hadn't slept.  Mulder could
understand that, but wondered if she had resumed her life.  What did she
do all day?  As far as he knew, she didn't work. Or had she sat home all
night, watching and wondering the way he did?
	"Is there any one of you who remembers everything?" Dr. Callaway asked.
	"No," DK said, even as she was transforming.  Mulder had seen a man
shape-shift - a man who had assumed his own form - and this was almost
more disconcerting.  The process was similar, a series of subtle, almost
unnoticeable changes that left an entirely different person behind.
	Dr. Callaway knew it, too.  She leaned forward.  "What's your name?"
	Scully didn't speak.  Her body seemed heavier, more deeply tied to the
earth.  Her eyes didn't quite focus.  But she heard.
	"Is there a name I can call you?" the doctor pressed, her eyes darting
across Scully's face in an almost nervous way that made Mulder's stomach
ache.  This woman had to know what she was doing.  She had to.  The
alternative was too frightening to contemplate.
	Scully shook her head.  "I don't like being out here," she said
slowly.  Her voice sounded huskier.
	"You'd rather be inside?  Where it's safe?"  Dr. Callaway zoomed in,
but Scully didn't respond, sinking into that deep, troubling silence
again.  "What have you seen?"
	An even, weighted shrug.
	"You need to face this."  The doctor sounded so convincing.  "So you
can help.  The others accept it.  Do the others know?"
	What the hell is she talking about?  Mulder asked himself, but he knew
he was angry because he  felt like he should be doing something, or
protecting her from these questions, and there was nothing that he could
do.  If he spoke up, the doctor would make him sit outside and he wanted
to stay.  He wanted to know.  He wanted to believe his mere presence
could be a comfort to Scully.
	"Scully.  Dana.  It scares them," Scully-but-not admitted.  "So they're
hiding.  Don't want to face it."
	"Yet you're able to accept it."
	She didn't say anything.  Mulder wondered if this was another
personality.  If maybe these personalities went deeper than they seemed
to.  They seemed almost superficial, aspect-oriented.  Starbuck was the
child; DK the teenager; Scully the adult.  He'd studied Freud in
college.  Now he had to think of the id, the ego, and the superego.  He
looked at Scully again, wondering if this -person- speaking now was some
embodiment of her inner mind.
	It gave him chills and made him sick.  His mind felt it had to bend to
get around the concept.  He was uncomfortable with it.
	She sat back silent for many minutes, completely blank, almost
catatonic.  She didn't move, didn't blink.  She didn't even seem to be
breathing.
	Mulder could hear the clock ticking, beating like thunder in time with
his heart.  What if no one came out?  What if she slipped away from them
for good this way?  What if no one could reach her?  He wanted to shake
her, to force her eyes to focus. He wanted her to look at him and yell
at him for doing so. But he could only sit back and wait, like a game
show contestant who didn't know the answer as he waited for the time to
run down.
	"Is there anyone else who knows what happened to Dana, who can help her
to understand?"  the doctor asked.
	"Mom?"  Scully's change was instant.  Her body convulsed and she was in
tears, her voice coated with their moisture.
	The change in Mrs. Scully was almost as strong.  She'd been doing her
best to remain calm, clenching the arms of the chair she was sitting
in.  But no mother could keep from reacting to a daughter who cried out
for her.
	"Mom, I'm sick."
	"We're here to help you, Dana," Mrs. Scully's tone was even, strong. 
More so than Mulder would have been able to manage if she had called for
him.  But she never called for him, did she?
	"Are you going to put me away...like you did Charlie?"  Scully looked
small and afraid.  Her voice was reedy, high, almost painful to Mulder's
ears.  He looked at Mrs. Scully.  This was the first he'd heard of
anything like this concerning Scully's younger brother.
	Mrs. Scully drew back as though she'd been struck.  "No," she whispered
fiercely.
	Mulder stared at the older woman, trying to come up with any kind of an
answer until he heard Scully say his name.  Had it really been so long
since she had?  She sounded surprised, like someone in a dream. 
"Mulder.  You're here too."  Was she happy to see him? He couldn't tell.
	"Yes," he said and his throat was impossibly tight.
	"It's been a while."  Her smile was embarrassed.  Sweet.  She was happy
to see him.  His heart lightened a little.
	"How long has it been?" he asked.
	"Since they took me...since Duane Barry."  She whispered his name and
shook her head slightly, fighting against something in her head
associated with that man.  "I...couldn't..."  She shook her head,
pressing her lips together in a vain attempt to hold back the tears.
	"What happened to you, Dana?" Dr. Callaway's voice was low. 
Unobtrusive.
	"I don't know." Her face crumpled with pain and distress.  "It's all so
weird...I called but no one came.  And it was so dark...so very dark." 
Her brows pulled together and her voice rose.  "I woke up in the
hospital.  But I didn't want to...I wasn't strong enough...no one knew I
was there at first. It's all mixed up."
	She looked at Mulder, her gaze bold enough to make him shift positions
in his chair.  "You wanted me to be Scully," she said.
	He didn't know what to say to that.  He didn't know if it was true, or
even, really, what it meant.  Maybe it was something he should apologize
for.  "Scully, I -"
	"Mulder?"  It was her panicked voice, her wide-eyed panicked face. 
"What's going on?  _Mom_?  How did I -?"  She looked around frantically,
moving tensely to the edge of her chair.  "I don't know how I got
here."  She saw the psychiatrist and seemed to recognize her as a mental
health professional.  "Oh," she said, sounding ashamed.
	"Do you know what's  been happening?" Dr. Callaway asked.
	"I was...was I -?"  The words were too hard for her to say.  A hand
went to the back of her neck, touching the microchip she knew was
implanted under the skin there. "Did I -?"
	"Scully, what's the earliest memory you have?" Dr. Callaway asked,
before Scully could get her bearings or put up any defensive walls.
	She frowned, working hard. Scully tried to please people.  "I don't
remember a lot of my childhood.  Sorry."  She said the words as though
they were ordinary.  Did other people remember?
	The doctor didn't let her off so easily. Mulder cringed, knowing where
this would lead.  He wanted to stop this, to let Scully gather herself
together into the poised woman he knew.  "Why do you think that is?" Dr.
Callaway continued.
	Rather than answer the more difficult question, Scully replied to the
first.  "My father.  Reading to me before bedtime.  Leaving the night
light on."  She frowned again, then looked at Mulder.  "I forgot I was
afraid of the dark."
	"Why were you afraid?"
	"Aren't all kids?"  she asked, but didn't look like she believed it. 
And Mulder knew that to Scully, belief was everything.  If she didn't
have faith in her own words...it scared him.  "I think I got locked in
the basement when I was five."
	"Scully," Dr. Callaway began gently, "You've given a specific age for
something you only think happened.  Why is that?"
	"I did get locked in the basement when I was five," she said more
firmly, but she was staring down at her hand.  The wedding ring.  She
touched it like she couldn't believe what she was seeing was real.  She
raised her head and looked at Mulder.  "Why don't I remember?"
	"You've been having blackouts and missing time." Mulder hated that Dr.
Callaway answered for him.  He was having his heart ripped out.  He
wanted to pull Scully away and keep her safe, but he couldn't.  That
wouldn't help her.  "Do you know why?"
	"There are some things you just don't ask yourself."  Her voice was
iron and it gave Mulder chills.
	"Have you ever heard of dissociative identity disorder?" Dr. Callaway
pressed onward.
	Scully looked at Mulder.   "Like Melissa Ephesian."  He didn't know
what he heard in her tone.  Sadness?  Pity for that woman?  For
herself?  Acceptance, so easily?  Not Scully.
	He could only sadly nod.  Just like Melissa Ephesian, a woman he'd once
believed to be his soulmate.  His regression to a former life had been a
load of crap, he knew, because Scully had proved it to him.  But now his
real soul mate, his other half, the woman who made him whole again, had
that same disorder.
	For once Dr. Callaway looked confused.  She didn't understand the
shorthand between them.  "When did the split occur?" she asked.
	"Only a couple of days ago."  DK announced her presence by beginning
her incessant hair twirling again.  "When Scully started to remember. 
Before that, we were different but all the same."
	"Why don't you tell Scully what you've remembered?" Dr. Callaway
suggested.
	"Here?"  DK shook her head and retreated inside.  Again, it seemed
there was no soul inside Scully's body for several agonizing seconds and
Mulder felt himself growing tense.  DK finally returned to report, "She
won't listen. She's scared."
	"Scully, what happened in the basement?" Dr. Callaway asked.
	The frown lines cut deep into her face.  She was straining - but to
remember or to forget?  Mulder pressed his hands together to keep from
reaching for her.  "The rabbit died.  Like Grandma did.  I thought I
could keep her safe.  He said he'd kill me if  I told," she babbled.
	"Who would."
	"Bill."  Starbuck bit her lip and looked pleadingly at Mulder.  "I
don't want to..."
	Dr. Callaway once again responded for him, controlling the session. 
"Keep trying," she said, but sat back in her chair.  "You must keep
trying." It was a suggestion, to end the session with. The look she shot
toward Mulder and Maggie dismissed them.
	Mulder's knees were weak as he got to his feet.  He felt oddly
exhausted by the session.  How must Scully feel?   She was the one who
had been through a realm of experiences and emotions in the last hour.
He rushed to her side, wishing he had more to comfort her with that his
hand on her arm.
	He felt her flinch and saw her force her smile.  She was making herself
endure his touch.  That hurt him deep in a place that he didn't want
exposed to pain. He liked touching her and he liked to be touched. 
Touch was a vital sense in bonding and loving and living.  Now she was
denying that. He didn't want to lose her.  He released her arm.  "How
are you feeling?" Such a formal question.  He hated it.  It was
something you could ask a stranger.
	"I'm fine."
	At least there was no doubt to her identity, he thought.  Scully was
back. But for how long?
	"Mom, why are you here?"  She turned to the older woman. "I thought -
you didn't make the wedding."  Mulder looked at his wife.  Did she or
didn't she remember the ceremony? Did she consider herself bound to him?
He hated himself for wondering.
	"I'll never forgive myself for that," Mrs. Scully told her daughter. 
"I should have been here.  For you."
	"No, it's fine," Scully said, but Mulder could read her eyes.  She was
scared and desperately trying to hide it.  What was wrong with her was
serious enough to make her mother come to her side.
	Scully was oddly quiet for most of the afternoon, but Mulder was
relieved that she remained Scully without any maddeningly sudden leaps
into DK or Starbuck.  She even went into the bedroom to lie down for a
nap, exhausted.  Mulder could have used one himself.  The tension
between Scully and her mother was unbearable and filled the air.  It
barely decreased when Scully left the living room to lie down in her
bedroom.
	"Do you need to talk?" Mulder asked Margaret.
	"It's all so hard to accept," Maggie told him. "She's always been the
strong one.  For her to act like this now..."
	"She's not crazy.  She's not acting.  She's hurting," Mulder told her.
	"I know that, Fox," she snapped.
	"It's Mulder," he retorted.
	Mrs. Scully gave him a long, hard look that reminded him of his own
mother.  Then she rose from the couch.  "Tell her to call me, Mulder." 
Her tone said it all.  He'd now severed whatever tenuous crisis-built
friendship they'd once had.  The door closed and he turned on the
television, waiting for Scully to wake up.
	He'd been the one to call her mother from Allentown, Pennsylvania when
Scully's cancer had been diagnosed.  She'd asked him to call and he'd
done so without question.  He'd had his feet knocked out from under him,
but he knew he had to do whatever he could to help her.  Scully'd been
so complacent, so calmly accepting, as though she had already known of
the cancer attacking her body.
	Margaret Scully had been furious.  Not only because her daughter was
ill and she was terrified, but because it was Mulder who told her.  He
supposed that perhaps it was because he'd scared her more.  She'd
probably waited years for this call to come, the one from Mulder to tell
her she'd lost her other daughter.
	He knew she'd been angry with Scully when she arrived.  He didn't know
what passed between them then, didn't want to know. But he knew it had
been angry and blameful.  Just as they had remained at odds throughout
Scully's cancer.  When Scully didn't want treatment, Mrs. Scully tried
to thrust religion on her as some sort of a miracle cure.
	Mulder knew Mrs. Scully blamed him.  She'd never said it, but he felt
it radiating from her.  He'd seen it in her eyes before.  Once, he'd
retrieved Scully from her home, delusional and wild.  He'd thought she
was dead, raped by the side of the road, and all the while Mrs. Scully
had been hiding her daughter from him. Thinking he was to blame.  Which
he probably was.
	Water under the bridge, he thought, wiping his hands down his face to
try to clear it from his mind.  He wasn't going to think about the sad
family reunion when Scully had been cured.  He'd sat in a hard plastic
chair in the hallway, unwelcome. Unwanted.  Not a part of any family
Scully would ever have.
	Shut out.
	To blame.
	One sorry son of a bitch.
	This *was* all his fault.  
	Thank god Scully wandered back into the living room at that moment,
sheepishly smiling at him, her hair flattened on one side.  "I couldn't
sleep," she admitted.
	He smiled back at her as she plopped down on the other end of the
couch. Scully.  He'd never been so happy to see her.  She glanced at the
television and changed the channel casually, at ease in her own home. 
She found a channel she liked and looked at it for a few seconds,
ignoring the way he was staring at her.  He loved that she could ignore
him when he couldn't take his eyes off of her.
	"Pizza?" she asked, rising to phone in the order.  They didn't speak
while they waited, just companionably watched a repeat of an ancient
Tic-Tac-Dough episode until the pizza arrived.  Scully paid the delivery
boy and doled out portions on milk white china, handing one to him.  "
What's really happened to me?" she asked as casually as she would have
asked him what program was on next.
	"Only you know that for sure," he answered.  He knew it was lame. He
wanted to tell her, to help her, to give her the answers she sought, but
he was tired of talking about it.  But mostly he knew that this was her
journey and if she didn't make it herself she would not be able to
recover.  Now that she was back, he wanted their life to return to
normal.
	He wanted to believe she wouldn't go away again.
	It would be so easy to forget.
	"I don't have to go back," she told him.  Obviously having the same
thought he was having.  He stared at her, knowing he should tell her she
had to continue to see Dr. Callaway.  "I'm fine now, aren't I?" she
asked.
	Her eyes searched his, looking for answered and keeping him from
looking away.  There was still an edge of panic to her, held carefully
at bay but making her wiry muscles taut.
	"Yeah," he whispered, damnably agreeing with her.  He wanted so badly
to forget.
	"Where are we going on our honeymoon?" she asked him.
	His heart started going again, fast, in a crazy fit. Uneven beats. 
Could he be so lucky?  She was his wife and she was safe again. He
pushed away doubts he rationally knew he should hold on to.  She was
his. Finally.  "Where do you want to go?" he asked.
	"Up the coast," she said decisively.  She'd thought about it.  "A
little bed and breakfast.  I don't care where. Just be with you."
	"You don't care?" he teased lightly, feeling joyous.  Pure, amazing,
light as air joy.  He wasn't sure he'd ever felt it before.  This was
Scully and she was better.  His mind told him he was having a stress
reaction, but it didn't prevent him from kissing her lightly on the lips
- wishing to linger but not allowing himself to because it was a testing
kiss.  She passed - or was it he who passed?  He ordered her to go and
pack.
	He dialed the Lone Gunmen from her phone.  They weren't travel agents,
but they were the next best thing.  His best resource.  Sometimes he
would swear they were magicians.  Having Scully safe and in love with
him made him believe there was magic in the world.
	"How is she?" Frohike sounded desperate for news.
	"You promised to keep us updated," Langly reminded him, his voice tinny
through the speakerphone.
	"I'm hoping you don't need a babysitter." Byers' remark was telling.
	"She's better," Mulder said.  Did he dare to believe it? He had no
choice.  He had to believe it. "We're going on our honeymoon.  That's
where you guys come in."
	Frohike's "We do?" drown out Langly's "Uh, Mulder?"
	"Know of any bed and breakfasts snowy and perfect -"
	"I don't think you should do this," Frohike said seriously.
	"What?" Mulder asked in a low voice.
	At that moment, Scully walked into the room, carrying just a tiny
purse.  "Packed," she said with a smug smile, sitting down to wait for
him.
	"I've been doing some reading," Frohike said.  "This could push her
past the brink, Mulder.  She has a lot to deal with and this can't -"
	Mulder was silent.
	"Are you still there?" Frohike asked.
	"Yes," Mulder said, looking at Scully.
	Frohike sighed.  "Just don't push her," he advised and hung up.
	"Looks like we're on our own," Mulder said, feeling unsettled.  He
wanted to think that she was better. That she wanted this.  Wanted him. 
He had to think everything would be all right.
	He also knew, in his heart, that Frohike was right.

end of 10/28

Anamorphosis 11/28
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

-11-

	In the end, they didn't go far.  They traveled up the highway a ways to
a little inn Mulder remembered from his wilder, younger days.  Not that
he'd had all that many of them.  The inn was suitably quiet and
romantic, with soft decor and equally soft upholstery.
	Scully sat down on the bed, looking nervous but trying not to.  She
didn't want to let it show. "Nice," she said, the word almost
meaningless.  She took in the bounce of the mattress and the silkiness
of good cotton sheets.  A floral picture hung on the wall over the
dresser.  There was no television.
	There was only one reason why anyone would be in this rented room.  And
it wasn't to sleep, though it involved the bed.
	Mulder sat down next to her.  "This is awkward," he said, ruffling her
hair.  He thought it best to get their feelings out into the open.  The
same weird feeling he'd had on their wedding day, of not knowing what to
do or how to proceed.  Now that their goal was fixed, it seemed so
strange to be focused wholly upon it.
	Their relationship had never, really, been a sexual one before.
	Maybe they should have dated before marrying, he thought.
	She nodded, unable to say anything.  Her stomach unfolded as his
fingers threaded through her hair.  This felt safe.  Mulder was a gentle
man with her. He always had been.  He would never do anything to hurt
her.  "I trust you, Mulder," she said.  The words surprised her. She'd
meant to say love.  She loved him.
	He nodded seriously.  Her trust was a large responsibility.  "If you
don't want -" he offered.
	"I do," she said quickly.
	They sat on the bed and waited.  For what?  She realized the first move
was hers.   She turned her head and met his eyes.  Their color and
expression changed under her gaze.  Communicating.  At that moment, she
felt she could feel his thoughts inside her body.  She gave in, threw
the last vestige of caution away, and pressed her lips against his.
	He let her explore slowly before he returned the kiss.  He didn't touch
her with his hands, just teased her with his tongue and his lips and his
teeth.  She could feel the inner core of steel that she relied on for
strength melting deep inside.  She didn't need it any more.  She didn't
need to be strong to be in love with him.
	She let it go and allowed him to lay her gently against the bed beneath
his body.  He touched her face as he kissed her, a touch that meant
something to her. He'd stroked her face before with the same look in his
eyes.  He released her lips and drew back, memorizing her face.
	His eyes were dark with desire and his breath was fast.  So fast.  She
could feel it resonating through her body.  Her breath was just as fast,
rushing through her ears.  He slipped his hand under the shirt she was
wearing, watching her.
	His fingers were cold against her stomach.  Or was her skin that hot? 
She could feel her face reddening and his hand slipped around her breast
inside the soft cup of her bra.
	She felt the shock all the way through her when he began to unbutton
her blouse.
	The lower button was okay.  The next higher was fine.  Her shirt was
still closed.  He was looking at her body now and she lay there. 
Waiting for what he would do.  Not participating.  Another button and
there wasn't enough air reaching her brain.  In, out, she had to remind
herself but all she could manage was the in-in-in of panic.  Didn't he
see? She didn't know why she was so terrified suddenly, why her blood
was pounding through her head.  Something about having her clothes
removed for her.  When she closed her eyes, the memory almost came to
her.  This had happened to her before.  The last button opened and he
pushed her blouse apart.
	There was nothing pushy in his hands or his movements, but she was
unable to control her reaction.  A dark, animal place in her mind
remembered *before* when someone hadn't been so gentle as Mulder.  She
couldn't see the face, didn't want to.  Something terrible had
followed.  Something that wasn't love at all.  Ripping her shirt off,
exposing her...it had been a violation.  Only a small fraction of a
violation yet to come.
	She couldn't handle this.  The terror was too much.  It threatened to
suck her under and she knew there were others, much more capable,
begging to take over.  To take her control from her.  She couldn't lose
this experience and she couldn't lose her control.  To have either lost
into the darkness, the missed time, would be terrible.
	She flailed up, scurrying away from him like a startled spider.  Her
knee coming up whacked him in the jaw, but she didn't notice as she
curled into the corner.  Where it was safe.
	Where it was safe?
	This was Mulder and she trusted him so why on earth was she acting so
crazy?  She wanted to stop, wanted to kiss him.  She desperately wanted
to make love with him.  But she *couldn't*.  Like when she'd been
younger, a small child, dealing with the frustrations of the adult
world, the things she couldn't reach, the skills she didn't yet have. 
The same kind of couldn't.
	There was pain in Mulder's eyes, and tears, she saw after she pulled
her blouse closed and looked at him, aware that she was acting crazy,
aware that there was no reason for her to behave this way.  She was
shaking again.  "Mulder?" What was happening to her, why couldn't she
control herself?  Why was so she terrified?  Even scarier was the
realization that it wasn't rational and it didn't make any sense.
	"I'm sorry," he said.  A few flecks of blood appeared on his lips.
	"You're bleeding."  She didn't understand.  Where had the blood come
from?  She hadn't hit him...she realized she had, accidentally, in her
need to separate her body from what her brain told her was danger.
	"I bit my tongue."
	Blood in her mouth. She could taste blood, feel its coppery bitterness
on her tongue. Not now, but sometime in the past.  When? She didn't
know.  It scared her not to know.
	"I -"  She didn't know what to say.  It didn't make sense to her, and
there were no words.  "I don't know why -"
	"It's okay," Mulder said.  He seemed sad but resigned.  "I'll take you
home."
	"No," she said.  "I want to -"
	He shook his head.  Why was he shaking his head?  Why did he know more
than she did?  Her stomach was weak and trembly, still recovering from
desire as well as fear.  "It's okay," he said, trying to convince her. 
His hand reached out to her, and stopped.
	He didn't want to touch her.
	She looked down, ashamed, absorbing herself in buttoning her blouse.
Once before she had done so.  Mulder hadn't unbuttoned it then.  A
suspect, a creep.  Another man who exerted power over her sexually. He'd
used her for his own needs.
	Mulder had rescued her then because she hadn't been able to fight for
herself.
	She loved him so much.
	"Come on," he said, waiting for her at the door of the wasted, rented
room.
	She wanted to cry in the car on the way back, but she couldn't.  It
would have been a release and she was too afraid.  Too afraid of losing
her hard-won control.  She'd wrapped its iron fingers more tightly
around herself and was determined not to let it go.

	"Your mother's here," Mulder said, recognizing the car as he parked on
the street in front of Scully's red brick building.  He had planned to
drop her off and go home. He couldn't take this.  Not right now.  But
seeing her mother's car, something told him to go inside with her.
	Bill and her mother were sitting in the living room, grim and silent. 
Mulder felt his blood boil that they would be lying in wait for her this
way.  Before Bill could even rise from the chair, Mulder attacked him,
throwing the first hard, satisfying punch.
	Bill Jr. was bigger and stronger than Mulder and fought back, but
Mulder had blind fury on his side.    He threw more punches, but Bill's
solid blow to his jaw made his ears ring.  Bill glared and Mulder's rage
faded.  Violence felt good but it wasn't the way.  Mrs. Scully was
yelling.  But what penetrated his red fog was Scully's quiet voice
saying one word: "Stop."
	"What did you do to her, you sick bastard!" Mulder shouted. Bill had
punched him where Scully's knee had struck him earlier.  He could feel
his jaw begin to swell.
	"Mulder, stop," Scully's voice was calm and strong.  Mulder took two
steps back away and watched as Scully walked over to her brother and
extended a hand to him to pull him up.  He couldn't believe she was
doing that.  Unwary, Bill accepted her offer of assistance.  "I know
what you did," she said to him in an icy voice.
	Bill looked stunned.  Scared.  He looked at his mother to see her
reaction and recovered.  "I didn't do anything," he said.  "This is
false memory syndrome.  Don't you see that, sis?"
	Scully was watching him, alert, as he moved in closer to her.  "He's
been filling your head with crap and lies," Bill continued.  "First
little green men and now this?"
	Scully didn't look at Mulder.  She continued to stare at her brother. 
If she watched him, he wouldn't be able to surprise her.   Her look was
ice.  There was fire in rage, but this was much more powerful.
	"There are doctors who can help you recover from this," her mother
said.  "You can help you to see the truth again."
	Her mother believed Bill over her.  The realization was a blow and for
a second, she lost her breath.  If her father was alive, he would hate
her for this.  For breaking apart the family.  Because it hurt, she held
it deeper inside, unwilling to respond to the pain.
	"I think you'd better go now," she said in an ugly strong voice.  After
a second, Bill nodded and looked to her mother to leave.  Mulder made a
movement toward the door.  "Mulder," Scully said. Her mouth trembled
with the effort it took not to cry.  She held out her hand to him. 
"Please stay."  He couldn't leave her now.   She needed him.  Mulder
took her hand and she clung to him until the door closed behind her
family.
	"I can't believe -"  Mulder began.  Scully sank into the chair and
covered her eyes. His words stopped.  She didn't need to hear this right
now. "I'm sorry."  It couldn't convey how sorry he was.
	She had to do something to stop the voices in her head.  The ones that
told her she was stupid and weak and most of all, wrong.  She was
already beginning to pick apart every detail, every action of the
evening.  The one she kept coming back to was the one where she jerked
away from Mulder's touch when she had wanted him to touch her.  She
needed to know that someone loved her right now.  She needed to cancel
the negative experiences with positive ones.  She had, in her life,
turned her back on too many things due to fear.  If she walked away from
this now, she would not be able to return.  Her sexuality was something
she needed to reclaim for herself.  She wanted it for herself.  To prove
it hadn't been taken from her along with her innocence and her trust and
her faith. She wanted to be Mulder's wife.
	She needed to be.
	"Mulder," she said, raising her head.  "I'm ready now."  He didn't know
what she meant until she led him into the bedroom.
	She didn't turn on the light, but a streetlamp leaking in around the
blinds and provided all the mood lighting they needed.  She began to
remove her clothing, purpose in her every movement.  _She_ undressed
herself, _she_ chose what she would do with her body.
	When she faced him, she was naked and unafraid.  He had stripped down
to his shorts and gave her a questioning look.  He didn't understand the
difference between this time and what had happened in the motel.  She
couldn't explain it to him in words.  There had been too many words. 
She helped him to take off his shorts, measuring him with her hand and
helping him spring to arousal.  She was not afraid.  She knew what she
was doing.  She knew that he loved her.
	She looked into his eyes, eyes that had seen and experienced so much. 
He would never hurt her or humiliate her or make her do anything she
didn't want to do.  Her love for him filled her chest so much it hurt to
try to breathe.
	"Are you sure about this?" he asked, pulling away from her slightly. 
His chest heaved with rapid respiration and she could see him trying to
calm himself.  In case she wasn't sure.
	"I'm sure."  There was no doubt in her voice or in her mind.
	"What's changed?" he asked, gruff.
	"Nothing," she answered.  "There's nothing to be afraid of."  And she
touched him so he would know she meant her words.
	She was ready for him.  The satin sheets were still on the bed, as they
had been since their wedding day. Waiting for them.  The fabric was cool
and slippery against their skin.  Her hips slid a little when he entered
her.  She bit her lip at first, feeling the pain of time and residual
fear.  But he was impossible not to open up to.
	He wasn't a particularly great lover, but he was tenacious and tender. 
His love for her made his hands gentle and his touch sweet.  He knew
what to do to drive her to a place she'd rarely been, a red hot place
deep inside that turned to an icy white heat.
	She didn't make a sound as he moaned sensually above her.  His voice
was rough, involuntary.  She could feel it resonating in her skin.  Her
mouth was open as she strained for air and sensation and release.
	Release.
	She turned her head away from Mulder's cries as the convulsions came,
shaking her unexpectedly from the safety of her world into
uncontrollable sobs.
	Breathless, shattering sobs she could not control.  She shouldn't be
crying like this.  Another thing she couldn't explain, couldn't stop,
could only submit to. Sometimes even her own body betrayed her.  Mulder
was staring at her and she felt him limp within her before he withdrew. 
"Scully -?"  She could hear it in his tone that he was afraid, again, to
touch her.
	"I'm okay," she said, covering her teary eyes with her hands.
	"Did I hurt you?"  his voice was so careful.
	"No."  She only cried harder.  Now he thought she hated him.  "I don't
know why... I don't know why..."  She hiccuped.  "I love you."
	He looked at her, unsure, for a long second, before wrapping her in his
arms and petting her hair, murmuring soothingly to her.  Her skin was
still fever hot and sensitive.
	"I love you," she said quietly, again, so that he would know it.  She
loved him.  He was asleep before she wiped the final tears away.  A line
between his eyebrows spoiled the perfect bliss on his face.  She tucked
back the hair from his forehead and kissed him. He was too good for her,
she thought as she went into the bathroom to clean up.

	Something had changed.
	She was different.
	Men, she thought, walking nude from the bathroom and looking casually
at the one who was sleeping in the bed.  She didn't recognize him
immediately, but she judged his bedroom as too feminine. She picked up
his T-shirt from the floor.  It was stretched out and smelled like him,
but she slipped it over her head anyway.  If she'd opened any of the
drawers she would have found it was not his bedroom but hers.  But she
didn't open any of the drawers.  There was still a tingle of excitement
in her body as she drew up her panties and trousers across her thighs. 
There was a jacket on the chair.
	She had to get out of there.  It was the only driving thought in her
brain. She had to get away.  She didn't know what had happened. 
Couldn't remember.  Damn.  This had happened before.  She frowned, but
tried not to let it trouble her.  The past was all darkness.
	The jacket was big and smelled deliciously of old leather.  She looked
into the mirror, barely recognizing herself.  She looked into her own
dark eyes.  No answers came to her.
	She had to get out of there and fast.  There was something acid burning
in her stomach; a terror, a warning of danger. She knew she'd fucked him
and didn't know why.  She knew it had been consensual, could feel with
her body that she'd enjoyed it, but didn't remember the act. Didn't
remember anything. Damn.
	She slipped out the door, not hearing the latch catch behind her.
	Outside, it was night and cold and she didn't know where she was.  That
had happened to her before.  The last time she opened her eyes to
darkness and silence, not only in the present but in the past.  She
turned her head and saw a bus lumbering in the distance bore the
destination of Georgia St.  She knew an address on Georgia Street.  The
memory jumped into her mind.  Not her address.  She didn't know where
she was, but Georgia St. was address that would do. She could get help
there.  An old friend.  One who'd helped her before.  When the past was
darkness.  He'd been kind to her. Taken care of her.  An old,
grandfatherly figure.  They had taken care of each other for a time. 
Before the darkness intervened.  Thankful to find money in her pockets,
she flagged down the bus and paid the driver, sinking into one of the
seats.
	Her thoughts couldn't help lingering on the man she'd just left.  She
knew his name, but couldn't recall ever having met him before.  Mulder. 
She was surprised she had been in his bed.  But she knew it had to
relate to the reasons why she couldn't remember.
	Watching the scenery carefully, she pulled on the bell cord.  A light
at the front of the bus flashed, indicating it would stop at the next
exit.  It smelled musty, humid and gassy.  She felt dirty just sitting
on the seat.  She rose and walked to the front of the bus, pausing
before she started down the steps, indicating her wrist and getting the
driver to show her his watch.  Midnight.  She smiled her thanks and gave
a jaunty wave.  She thought she heard him say something, a deep mottled
sound oozing through the silence of the world that surrounded her.  She
didn't know what it was.	
	Only midnight, she thought, walking along the deserted street until she
reached a familiar rundown brownstone.  She didn't know why he didn't
clean it up.  The key was still on the ledge above the door but she
knocked and stood back, jamming her hands into her pockets as she waited
for him.
	He was dressed, but he'd been sleeping.  He looked grumpy and then he
looked at her.  He opened his mouth and she could see his lips moving
and shook her head vigorously, holding up both of her hands in a motion
to indicate he should stop.  Frustration filled her.  If she had ever
known sign language, it had disappeared into the void of her past.  She
gave him an eager look and a smile, raising her eyebrows.  "Remember
me?" her expression intended to say.  There was no notepad in the jacket
pockets. Maybe it wasn't hers after all.
	Realization dawned slowly over his face. Had it been so long?  Had he
been able to forget about her so quickly and completely?  He seemed to
be straining to remember the fingerspelling of her name.  But he managed
it with fingers grown clumsy and she grinned, nodding.
	He motioned her inside and they went together.
	It hadn't changed at all.  She took in the beaten doctors waiting room
style couch and the desk with the now-antique typewriter on it.  No
manuscript by its side and she tweaked an eyebrow at him.
	He tapped his watch and shook his head.  No time to write.  She made
her hand look like she was holding an invisible pen and wrote on an
invisible sheet of paper.  He jumped into motion from where he had
stood, watching her, finding her several sheets of typing paper - the
top sheet coated with dust - and a ballpoint pen. She looked at it. 
He'd stolen it from the United Nations.  Wow.	
	Then he took the pen from her and scribbled on the paper:  "It is good
to see you again, Diana. It is Diana, isn't it?"  He looked anxious,
almost scared, as he examined her face.
	Why wouldn't it be Diana? she wondered, sitting down on the couch and
stretching out her legs.
	"AMNESIA," she scribbled.  She always wrote in capital letters.  Once
she'd read a book about graphology and it told her that indicated she
wanted to be heard.  She'd found it to be ironic.  
	Will nodded, lighting a cigarette.  He offered her one and she took it,
but didn't light it, just rolled it between her fingers.  There weren't
any nicotine stains.  She hadn't smoked in a while.  How long had she
been gone?
	She nodded seriously.  "YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I'VE BEEN?" she asked him.
	He shook his head.
	"THERE WAS A MAN IN MY BED.  BEFORE I CAME AWARE.  BUT IT'S OK THIS
TIME."  Not like last time.  Last time she'd been put into the trunk of
a car and awakened later, raw and hurting.  Will had been there.  He'd
recognized something in her.  She didn't know what.  She couldn't even
hear.  Being smart was her only real value to the world.  She had the
notion Will was the first person who had ever recognized that in her. 
She looked up at him through strands of tumbled red hair.
	He was puffing on his cigarette almost nervously.
	"HOW LONG?" she asked, a little afraid to know.  It had been a long
time.  She could feel that.
	He held up four fingers.
	She nodded, feeling cold.  "YEARS?"  She already knew.  He nodded and
she looked down at the tattered couch.  He patted the couch and mimed
sleep, walking to the cabinet and withdrawing a flattened pillow and a
worn gray blanket.  Looked army issue.  She wasn't concerned with
comfort.
	She had to look up to see him nod his head in approval.  He walked
into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly. 
	That was what she got for showing up unannounced.   She lay down on the
couch, feeling much too lost to sleep.
	She wasn't sure how she'd come to know Will in the time before,
either.  Something had just...clicked.  She thought she reminded him of
someone.  Maybe she looked like a girl he'd known before his face had
become lined and his expression sour. She didn't know, and had no real
way to ask.  It was too personal a question to write on a piece of paper
and expect an answer to be written for all the world to see.  When
people made noise with their mouths, it faded, but papers could be
folded and put into pockets and saved forever.  There were so many
things she could not ask.
	She remembered the amnesia.  The terror of the black hole opened in her
memory, extending all the way back as though someone had turned a
spotlight on her.  She knew how to read but didn't know her name.
	Will told her the amnesia had been brought on by the rape, which she
did remember.  A man at the window in the rain.  She remembered the
feeling of the screams scraping against her throat, but maybe no one had
been able to hear them. No one had helped her.  Sometimes she thought
she heard the screams in her nightmares, but knew it was impossible. 
The bad man smelled - schizophrenic, she learned later, though she knew
he was crazy at the time. Crazy and savage.  A handful of her hair had
been ripped out of her head.  And the blood on her thighs...
	He'd hurt her again in the woods after he'd thrown her in the trunk of
his car.
	Will told her the man had been killed. She'd been glad to hear it, but
at the same time, sorry she hadn't killed him herself.  Will helped her
pick the name Diana for herself - it was the name of a strong woman in
mythology, a huntress.  Will knew about mythology.  It was in a book,
with stories and beautiful pictures.  One of the few things Will
treasured; one of the few nice things in his apartment.  Hidden behind a
dingy stained cloth cover were such magnificent tales and drawings. 
Will was like that.
	All Diana knew about was science.
	Will let her stay with him and work on his top secret government
project.  She'd taken to the work as though she'd been born for it. 
After all, she couldn't tell anyone about it.
	She wondered about the project's progress and decided it was time to
sleep.

	Mulder woke and she was gone.  Her clothes were gone and his T shirt
and jacket.  her purse was still there.  "Oh, god," he said, immediately
alert and remembering Frohike's cautionary words.
	It had been too soon.
	Her sobs rang in his ears.
	He had hurt her.
	He was such a despicable bastard.
	He had to find her.

	She made Will breakfast in the morning.  Of course, it didn't take that
much effort to pour our a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, which was all Will had. 
She held off on the milk since she didn't know when he'd be up.
	Not much had changed in his apartment.  The walls were more yellow,
tinged with more smoke.  She went through his drawers.  A couple more
obituaries in the scrapbook.  Edward, gone in a car bomb over the
summer.  Damn.  He would have hated that.  He'd always been so prissy
and well manicured.  Being blown into a thousand bits would have pissed
him off.
	She felt sadness though.
	A new picture of Mulder in the drawer.  The frame was cracked and the
glass gone.  Mulder was related to Will in some way. Diana didn't  know
how.  Will pretended not to be obsessed with Mulder.  In the photo, he
looked maybe 15 with a girl who looked twelve.  Probably his sister -
Susanna, Cynthia - whatever her name was.
	A touch on her shoulder.  A smile.  Will was up.  He appreciated the
breakfast.  She put the photo back in the drawer and sat down at the
table with him.
	She motioned to her belly and he stared at her. When she realized there
was no way to make him understand, she wrote the words down.  "CAN I
STILL NOT GET PREGNANT?"	
	He looked surprised.  It was hard to surprise him.
	"LIKE BEFORE."
	"I don't remember saying that."
	He was lying.  She thought back. It didn't seem like four years ago to
her.  "Wouldn't," she recalled.  She could see the writing in her mind's
eye.  He'd told her, after the devastating rape, that she would not get
pregnant.
	"Why?" he scrawled on the paper, frowning at her.
	"THE MAN LAST NIGHT.  NOT CAREFUL." She thought she could still feel
his semen burning inside her like acid.  It was disconcerting not to
remember the act.  "YOUR FRIEND MULDER."
	Now he was very surprised.
	She nodded vigorously.
	He didn't say anything more.  She suspected he knew more than he was
saying.

	"Call Skinner," said Byers.
	"You were right, Frohike," Mulder said.  His head ached and he was
scared.  "This is my fault."
	"What was she wearing?" Langly asked, hacking.
	"Call Skinner," Byers said again.
	"Black pants.  White T shirt. My leather jacket."
	"Shoes?"
	"I assume so. I've got to find her."  Mulder couldn't sit still.  This
wasn't helping.
	"Call Skinner."
	"She could be anywhere," Frohike said.
	"Damn straight she could be anywhere," Byers said irritably.  "A couple
of days ago, she thought she was five years old and now she's missing?
You have got to call Skinner."
	"If I call Skinner, her career is over," Mulder shouted.  "As a mental
health risk she'd be kicked out of the Bureau and she doesn't deserve
that! This is not her fault!"
	"He'll find out anyway," Byers said.
	"No," Mulder insisted.  "She's getting better.  She's fine.  She's
going to be fine!  I just have to find her!"
	Byers and Frohike exchanged a look. Mulder was almost hysterical.
	"No trace."  Langly pushed back from the computer.
	Mulder walked out.
	The other two looked at Langly like they blamed him.