Catie.html

Catie

by Amperage
Amperage@aol.com

Disclaimer: The usual, you know the drill. The X-files and all related
characters and props are property of Chris Carter, 10-13 productions
and Fox Broadcasting. No one has authorized me to borrow these
characters. Catie is my own creation.

This material is rated somewhere between NC-17 and R, so read at
your own peril; do not complain to me if you're offended by anything
in it because I just warned you and SciNut should have warned you
too.

"And now for something completely different."

Catie (part 1)
by Amperage@aol.com
Written between 1/24/95 and 2/28/95

     My bike is old and sometimes slips its chain when I take a hill and
decide to change to a lower gear. Sometimes I manage to get out of
traffic before becoming hopelessly entangled, sometimes not. Today
is a not day. I find myself on a median in busy traffic, crying as I
slide the chain back onto a gear and extract the laces of my keds from
it. Luckily I didn't scrape myself. Pete always says something snide
when I do that.
     "Need any help?" I recognize the voice. He lives across the hall.
He's driving a car that screams "motor pool."
     I turn around, suddenly tired of the physical fitness train. "Only if
you've got room for a ten-speed." I reply, trying to smile, teasingly.
     But he sees my tears. "I'll pull into the side street. Taurus's have
huge trunks."
     Well, they do, we find out after I brave four lanes of traffic and a
breaking lane to get to his side street, but not quite big enough for a
bicycle. My neighbor considers this, takes the front wheel off my
cycle, shoves the body of the bike in the back seat then tosses the
wheel in the trunk. "There." He says, smiling.
     I know it is time to stop crying, but I can't. He is too nice. Too
terribly nice. I should go to a gym. I really should. I hate gyms.
Dressed up in little spandex outfits, guys watching your every move.
When I dress in little spandex outfits with strings running up my butt
I expect to get paid for the indignity.
     He pats my back awkwardly. Wrong thing. Suddenly I start
sobbing and he starts holding me. I don't even know the name of my
next door neighbor, but here he is, holding me, rocking me back and
forth, while I'm sending his grey wool suit almost certainly to the
cleaners. He's very good at this.
     When I'm done, he gives me a hankie. A guy who actually still
carries hankies? Will wonders never cease. I ignore his snot and wipe
my eyes.
     "I'm Fox Mulder." He tells me. "People call me Mulder."
     "Catie Ellender. With a C. I'm sorry. My chain came off and
ate my shoe string, and it was just the last straw."
     "Oh." He accepts his damp handkerchief.
     "What do you do? You're very good at comforting distraught
women. I had a shrink boyfriend who was good that way."
     At this Fox Mulder laughs. Oh lord. He is a shrink. David was
bad enough. Not another one.
     I must have a peculiar expression on my face.
     "Umm. . .I have a PhD in psych." He says. "But I'm an agent
for the FBI."
     "Well, then, I won't move or have some guy named Guido come
over and knock you off Mr. FBI." I reply, relaxing. "I'm a topless
dancer at a gentleman's club."
     His eyes widen. Men's eyes usually widen. I don't look like a
topless dancer. I look like an English teacher. Straight dishwater
blonde hair cut into a careful bob, little round metal glasses that
continually slide down my nose and have to be pushed up. Loose,
old, khaki coloured clothes. I only sparkle on the dance floor, my
hair up in a french twist, when I wear uncomfortable contacts and put
on gobs of make up.
     "Wow." He says. "I hear they make good money."
     At least he doesn't give me the standard speech about topless
dancing demeaning women. I would have left him standing there,
bike and all if he'd said that. I am not in a good mood. "Yeah. Why
do you think I do it? I make 40,000 a year and I only work 25
hours a week."
     I spill my guts. Perenial college student. Coursework junkie,
working towards a PhD in psych. He smiles. "And you were going
to get all hostile at me?"
     "I don't have to be logical. I'm a crying topless dancer. We're
supposed to be bimbettes."
     "Why were you crying?" He asks suddenly, opening the car door
for me.
     I slide in, wait for him to come around to his side while I compose
my answer. The truth requires the least energy.
     "My father died last week. They buried him today and my mother
didn't want me coming out to see the funeral. She's hated me since I
slid out of her womb. My father at least cared about me, even if he
didn't agree with my chosen occupation." I tell him, making a long
story short.
     He nods. "Any brothers or sisters?"
     "Two brothers. One's a minister, they're both fundamentalists,
don't acknowledge me." I reply.
     "Any friends?"
     I suddenly know where this is going. "Nope. None. Real
borderline personality type." I travel light.
     He smiles.
     "No. I do have some friends. But everybody's always moving
and going different ways and I have a hard time making friends now,
because of what I do."
     He nods.
     "Okay, my turn." I say, brightening. "Fox Mulder. Unmarried
but I've seen someone female at your apartment."
     "My partner."
     "You like porn."
     He glances in my direction, shocked.
     I shrug, not about to tell where I got this piece of information.
     "What do you do for the FBI, Mr. Secret Agent Man?"
     He smiles, shrugs. "I work in a little department of Violent
Crimes. . ."
     "Not good enough." I reply. "I work at Moriarty's and if you tell
the henchman at the door that Cathleen with a C said she wanted you
to teach her croquet they'll let you back to my dressing room."
     He smiles again.
     "I work with cases involving unexplained phenomenon."
     "Ah." We ride in silence a bit.
     "Where is your PhD from?"
     He pauses before answering. "Oxford." He tells me.
     "England?"
     "That's where it's generally considered to be located."
     "Wow, I've always wanted to go to England. Never quite had the
guts. I mean, I know they must have some nice clubs, but I wouldn't
know where and all."
     He glances over as we stop at a red light.
     "I do not go to places as a tourist. If I go I go to live." I tell him
sternly. "I have a friend who does sex shows in Tokyo. She's making
scads of money and getting to see all of Japan."
     "Oh. Want me to write and get some names?"
     I smile sarcastically.
     "Seriously." He replies. The light changes.
     "Seriously? Okay."

     He helps me get my bike up the stairs, into my apartment. His
eyes widen at my interior. A futon, a long coffee table, bookcases,
a computer desk, and the requisite t.v. and stereo.
     I hang my bike up on its hooks.
     "I don't need much." I tell him. "I'm almost never home and
when I am. . .this is easy to clean up."
     He shrugs. "Ce la Vive." He says.

His partner is outside his door as I come up the steps, the tail ends
of stage make-up still on my face; it is nearly five in the morning, I'm
exhausted and sore. She has a key in her hands, is contemplating
using it. She beats the door one last time, considers me. I shrug, open
my own lock. I hear her open his door as I let myself in.
The ambulance comes a few minutes later. He fights being
strapped to the gurney, but he isn't very strong now.

     "Hey." It's been over a month since he's been in his apartment.
     "Hey." He smiles awkwardly. "I heard I. . .um. . ."
     "What'd you do? O.D?"
     "No." He blushes. "I mean, not intentionally. Oh God." He
stands in his doorway, leans against the frame, and puts his head in his
hands. "I don't do drugs okay? I didn't take the drugs. Someone
slipped them into my food."
     I nod. "Dangerous line of work you're in."
     "You could say that."
     "Where you been?"
     "Umm. . .I was at the hospital a while. Then Scully made me stay
with her. It was that or a psych ward so I said yes." He looks really
embarrassed.
     "Hey, no problem. Like, why would you have to impress me?"
I ask, leaning against a door.
     He smiles at this, the red fades a little. "I still have a couple of
days off. I was wondering. . .oh hell." He waves his hand, starts to
go back into his apartment.
     The male ego. It is as big as all outdoors but about as strong as
a puff of smoke.
     "Would you like to go to El Mesero's for lunch?" I ask.
     He smiles.

     El Mesero's is a cheap little dive, but the food is wonderful, real
Tex-Mex, not this microwave crap they try to feed you at most places
in D.C..
     We talk about stupid things, skirt the issues. Okay, I'll admit it:
we flirt like hell. He's cute, has a good job, is intelligent and gentle.
I'm adorable, have a great job, and am intelligent and sweet. In the
great mating game of life, two people like us, once we've met, have
got to have at least one date to see whether or not it might be possible
to spend a few years rolling around trying to decide who gets to be the
one top for the current round of hanky-panky.
     "My partner wanted to know what you do." He says after we've
eaten some of our dinners.
     "What did you tell her?"
     He smiles. "The truth. You're a topless dancer. I also told her
how much money you make. She got this mercenary gleam in her eye
for a few minutes. But Scully's weight yo-yo's."
     "Join the club. Mine used to. Can't let it anymore. People don't
pay to see big thighs. Of course, I have an advantage."
     He looks questioningly at me.
     "My breasts are real."
     He smiles, glances down at the bodice of my denim dress.
"And that's important?"
     "Hell yes." I reply and grin devilishly. "Texture, look, feel, and
size of aureole. They sag after a while, but surgery can prop them
back up."
     He smiles, shakes his head.
     "I'm also a real blonde. No peroxide." I smile. "And even
though I still keep my panties on--trust me, it matters."
     "So you're a real blonde with big tits, intelligent, witty,
educated. . .making good money. Why don't I just get out the
engagement ring right here and now?" He smiles shrewdly.
     I wrinkle my nose. "You? Make an honest woman of me?
In your dreams Eliot Ness."
     He continues to smile. "How long have you been a dancer?"
     "Five year. . .six years now, I guess." I shrug. "It's okay, you
just. . .don't think about it straight and it's okay."
     He nods.
     "Why did you join the FBI?"
     "Ummm. . .They recruited me. I did my dissertation on
behavioral motivations in satanic slayings." He shrugs.
     "You scream sometimes. Does your work give you nightmares?"
It is a dangerous question. It is not light-hearted. It does not flirt.
     He looks at me, clearly surprised. "I didn't know anyone could
hear it."
     "I don't think anyone else can. The walls are thick, the doors
aren't."
     He nods at this. "Yeah. Sometimes I do have nightmares."
     It does not answer my question and we both know it. Okay.
Time to move on. "Did they raise your rent?"
     "Yeah." He acknowledges. "We were due. It's been a while."
     "Yeah, true. But still. But at least we don't have to pay for hot
water. I can shower until I look like the critter on Tales from the
Crypt."
     "Is that your worst vice?"
     "What? Showering too long? Nah. But its in the top five,
I'd say. Did you know we can get pets now?"
     "I got some fish." He acknowledges.
     "I was thinking of going for something a little more companionable
if I plop down my 400 bucks for a deposit."
     "What? Cat or Dog?"
     "Cat, I think."
     "You could get a snake and use it when you dance."
     I shiver. "Don't even mention the s-word herr shrink. I have a
massively huge phobia about those. . .minions of Satan disguised as
animals." I shiver again. "Definitely a cat. Maybe a Maine Coon.
Or a big old used-to-be-tom."
     He smiles. "What are you going to do with your PhD.?"
     "Insurance. When I can't dance anymore I'll get a real life. I don't
know. I'm doing Clinical. I start my internship in the fall."
     He shakes his head. "I can't see you as a Clinical Psychologist."
     "Oh well. That's what I'm doing." I shrug helplessly.
     "What made you go into that direction?"
     "Something I enjoyed. I didn't want to do ordinary counselling.
And Clinical--I mean, I can relate to that. My father was proud of my
degrees. He came up to see me get my master's and even went to the
bar I was working at. Even though he spent the whole night
backstage."
     Mulder nods understandingly.
     "What drugs were you given that so totally screwed you over?"
     "Well. . .some Heroin. . .but there were other factors. . .I don't
really want to go into it."
     "You scared the living shit out of your partner."
     "Yeah, she mentioned seeing you." He considers his plate.
     I decide to change the subject. We start discussing his work.
I mean, not what he does now. He doesn't want to talk about that.
We talk about the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. I couldn't get
in, not just with a PhD in Clinical Psychology. I'd have to work in
Violent Crimes for a while first, get some street experience. Or be a
cop for a while, or something like that.
     "Yeah right. Me in the FBI? Only as an undercover agent if I
was promised a condo in Key West as the payoff." I tell him, eyes
crinkling with a smile, something I only allow myself to do when I'm
really comfortable.   It's usually smile with the mouth, keep the big
green eyes wide and pretty, that's what people want to see, that's
what's cute. "A schizophrenic or two is one thing. No serial killers.
No spree killers. I already hate to go into the post office."
     He laughs at this. "It isn't for everyone."
     "Well. . .I kind of like the idea that you carry a gun." I slip
off my leather flat, run a foot up his leg.
     He looks shocked.
     Oh lord. It's been so long. Am I doing something wrong?
Misinterpreting signals? I'm making a fool of myself right? Okay.
I'll stop. Right. Yeah. Okay.
     My hand lies on the table, loose and easy. His hand suddenly
covers it.
     Oh. I didn't screw up. Okay. I smile. He smiles. Well, so we
may get to argue about who's on top. I signal for the check.

Futons are great for sex.

     The song is "Mexican Radio," it came out in the eighties and Pete
wants me to dance to it. It isn't a good topless dancer song, but I'll do
my best. I'm in the middle of a split, fixing to come around into a
prone, then that quick little move up and then I'm in a crouch, coming
up swaying, hair tossing with movement when I feel prickles.
     "Stupid?" I ask, stopping to look back over my shoulder.
     "No. You look very seductive. Everytime I hear that song I'll
think about sex."
     "Good." The song fades. 99 Luftballons. I've done this one
before. A couple of years ago. I start dancing. Of course I'm
already naked. I hate my g-string. Always riding up into my butt
no matter what I do. Okay. Arms out. keep the feet moving. Stop.
Move the hips. Rythym. Rythym. Turn the head one way. Now
another. The little mask thing with the hands. Now go back into the
simple dance that keeps your breasts bobbing, the classic move.
Dance Dance Dance.. Dance back. Kick legs out. Stop. Look at
audience. The slow part. Some nice things with the hands, legs apart.
Hands across the body, moving slowly upwards.
     Mulder applauds as I turn my stereo off.
     "Yeah, well that's why I have so much money." I tell him. "That
and all the dollar bills stuffed down my panties."
     "I'll stuff something down your panties." He replies, grabbing me
around the waist. It's been sooooo long since I've been with a naked
man. It feels so good. I like the way they feel when your back's to
their front and they're all happy about having you around, the way
their erection feels pressing hard against your back.
     His mouth seeks out my neck. I shiver with electric chills, soft
wetness, warm against my skin in unfamiliar places. Moving, across
my neck, sucking and nibbling and. . .
       He stops suddenly. Oh shit. Bloody Mary marks. I forgot.
I got a new set last week.
     "What's this?" He asks, touching the place on my shoulder.
     "Hmm?" I keep it casual. "Oh that? Vampire marks. I'm really
Elvira, mistress of the dark. Make love with me twice and Lestat will
come suck you dry."
     He continues looking at it carefully. "No. Really. Where did you
get this?"
     I sigh, pull away. "It's just a funny little scar. I get them lots of
times. Now are you going to enjoy sleeping with a real live wet dream
or are you going to argue about some left over mosquito scars?"
     "Mosquito scars?"
     "I like the great outdoors. Okay?"
     He considers a moment. They don't look anything like mosquito
scars. They don't look anything like mosquito scars or needle tracks
or even fang marks. Well maybe a very funny needle track,
maybe. . .no. . .there's a puncture spot, but they're not needle tracks.
I've seen those on other girls.
     "Skeeter bites." I reply, swinging around, dropping to my knees.
Men can't think about anything else when they've got a woman in that
position. He succumbs to the moment, to the ecstacy of a woman who
believes in doing things right.

     My hand reaches across the single mattress. No Mulder. Snot.
Went back to his own apartment. I shrug. Oh well. Maybe he can't
sleep in other people's beds. I get up, put on a t-shirt and sweatpants.
I'm searching through the tiny little fridge' for a diet coke. I gotta
clean this out: I don't know what most of the things in the take-out
boxes are. Just as I snag a diet drink, my door bangs open.
     Mulder is in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. How macho.
He doesn't look like he wants more sex. "Hey." I say, opening a
diet Dr. Pepper.
     "Hey." He hands me a manilla folder. "Do you ever lose time?"
     "Huh?"
     "Those are photos of people with marks similar to yours."
     "Huh?" I consider his face. Yep. Another round of
toss-the-blanket is definitely out of the picture. "Listen. I gotta
go to work in about an hour."
     "Just look at the photos."
     Black and whites, the kind of thing you take as evidence. Little
scars like mine.
     "Are those the first marks you've ever had?" he asks. This
is important to him for some reason.
     "Hell, no." I tell him. "What is this? Some sort of parasite?"
     "No. Not exactly. Listen, just try to answer this as openly as
you can. Do you ever lose time?"
     "I don't know. . .maybe once in a while. Everybody does.
I mean, you know, I get caught up in something, forget the time.
Sometimes I get really drunk and lose time. I think everybody does
at some point."
     He nods. "Do you ever have bad dreams?"
     "Sometimes. I guess." I shrug.
     "Do you have any odd memories that don't seem to fit into the
normal schemata of reality?"
     "Oh I've got plenty of those from my childhood. I'm an odd
duck. Didn't understand reality until I was six or seven."
     He considers this remark curiously.
     "I mean, what I remember and what must have happened can't
be the same." I tell him about getting lost in the woods behind the
football field with my nanny when I was four, and for some reason
from then on thinking that the people in caps and gowns, especially
the girls in their white gowns were some kind of evil critter that they
kept locked away above the Scoreboard and only let out to scare little
kids. I tell him about walking into rooms of my house that didn't exist
and getting presents--a packet of gum, a little teddy bear, a flashlight.
     "Do you remember any people in those rooms?"
     "People? Maybe. No." I think back. "Lights maybe."
     He nods. Then it hits me. All the pieces finally jigsaw together.
     I hand him back his folder. "You're a UFO hunter, aren't you?"
     "I believe in the existence of . . ."
     "Way back when my bike broke you said your cases involved
unexplained phenomonon." I narrow my eyes. "I am not a UFO
abductee. I'm a topless dancer with some funny scars and an
over-active imagination. UFO's are. . .about as possible as
Jean-Luc Picard turning up in my living room with a sign on his
butt that says `Willing submissive ready for spanking'. You are,"
I count out on my fingers, "A. incredibly cute. B. great fun in
the sack. C. at least as intelligent as I am, maybe more so. Now,
don't toss all that away and tell me you go totally nutso in the alien
department."
     "Catie, I go completely nutso in the alien department."
     I close my eyes, shake my head. But he's so cute! I put my fingers
to the corners of my forehead, thumbs on the bottoms of my cheek,
close my eyes, sit on my desk chair, and think.
     "Okay. I can handle this. Most guys have one area of their
life they don't have under control. Some it's cars, some it's fishing
or hunting or building models. With you it just happens to be aliens.
I can deal." I open my eyes. "Look. Just one thing and when I
get off work I'll gladly hop on your dick and ride you into paradise.
Just, if I'm an abductee I don't want to know. So like you keep
doing your alien thing, but I don't want to know, okay?"
     He stares at me. "What?"
     "Look. I won't tell you how I bite my toenails and how it feels
to get a bikini wax. I won't give you all the gory details about how
I make my nipples stand out when I dance. You keep the aliens to
yourself. Come over and we'll talk psychology or sex or books
we've read. No aliens. No UFO's."
     He considers this. "Catie, this is my life."
     "Fine. Then leave your life at the door. Now, this isn't a brush
off or anything, 'kay? I have got to take a shower and get ready for
work. Got to. I'm already late. If you want to play with me, you
have to leave the Aliens out of the picture. So trot on over to your
apartment and let me get ready for work." He does, but he's hurt.
He's got that spanked-with-the-newspaper-puppy-dog-look that men
get when they're feeling sorry for themselves. Tough.

     Four days later I get a call on my answering machine. A very
weird little call. From a Dana Scully. Oh right. His partner. She's
maybe 5' 2", red hair, cute face. "Please call me at 479-2238. If I'm
not there, don't leave a message. I'll call if we miss each other." A
second message, this time with a cellular number.
     I call the first number. She picks up. We exchange the usual
pleasantries.
     "Listen, I'm calling about Mulder. He. . .he hasn't talked about it
or anything, but what's going on?"
     This woman is his partner, not his mommy or his dating service or
his shrink. "I'm not sure it's any of your business. Mulder's a big
boy."
     A sigh. "Catie, there are some things about Mulder that you need
to know if you're going to date him."
     "I'm not sure we're dating."
     A pause. "Can you tell me what that means or is it none of my
business?"
     "You guys hunt UFO's, right?"
     "That's part of our work." She allows cautiously.
     "I told your partner that if he wanted to see me he had to leave
the UFO's and little green men outside my door."
     "Ahh." She replies, as thought lights have suddenly been
turned on. "Catie, Mulder can't do that."
     "Why not?"
     "I can't. . .that's his business. . .look, I can tell you that he
suffers from PTSD delayed onset."
     Oh.   "And just on a wild guess: he believes the event was
related to Aliens?"
     "Yes."
     Deep breath. Okay. So he can't leave it at the door. "He
found some of my scars--I get these odd little marks, they don't
look like anything I can explain--and he thinks I'm a abductee."
     "Are you?"
     I'm stunned by her soft, rational little `Are you?' So I stand
a moment, just holding the phone.
     "I don't know." I reply honestly. "I don't like to think about it.
I don't ever plan on thinking about it."
     A second "Ahh." Then a pause. "I think I understand now.
Listen, if you really want to see Mulder, you're going to have to
accept that part of him. If you want I'll talk to him and see if I can
get him to understand why you wouldn't want to see all the mysteries
of the universe."
     I want to say no. What business is it of hers? But it is her
business. He's her partner. "Yeah. Listen, tell him to come over
around two tomorrow. Can you explain our meeting off as a case?"
     A chuckle. "I think so."
     "Okay. I'll be out of classes by then, and we'll have a few hours."
     "All right. If he doesn't come, Catie, I want you to know he really
does like you. And it's hard for Mulder. . .to really like anyone."
     "Thanks." I hang up the dressing room phone, consider myself
in a mirror. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. Secret Agent Man.
     He stands on my doorstep, not sure how to look. "Hi." He
says, finally, embarrassed. "I'm sorry Scully called."
     "I'm not. Come on in." I step back. "Aliens welcome this time."
     He smiles, but it is a sheepish little smile.
     We sit on my futon with coffee, and we talk. He tells me why
he cannot put it down. About his sister. That he's dealt with cases
that have lead him to believe conclusively in the existence of EBE's.

Cyclic pots and bright red stars against the violet skies. Rough skin
touch against the fingertip. Soft skin, tremble at the gentle touch.
Shiver with delight at the feel of water dripping along skin.
     Bright eyes coloured in the pale blues of mid day. Sing songs
and play. Run until you cannot breathe, run with Maddie in the
darkness of falling evening cloaks. In the games there is no reality
and the bad things cannot ever happen. The adults only stand on the
edges of what is and dare not step across.
     Lights. Lights. And the lady in the room with the ferns.
Creatures look at me from the buildings when they are empty.
Through the grey screening. They look at me.
     Blink great eyes. I will scream and scream when they touch me.
     At night lights around my bed and Bloody Mary marks on my
skin.
     Scared. Scared. Shiver in tight flesh and nakedness. The stars are
too bright against the organza sky. Feel the metal against my skin.
Pain opening inside with their blossomming touch.
     Fire skies and Fire touch. Fire songs. Fire sweat. Pure cold
pain. Ice touch.   Smell the grass, smell late summer overripe fruit.
     Running. Harvest Fest.   Running. Earth moves and I hear their
sounds. Arien, in his lap. Lost ones. Lost ones. Remembered here.
Calico black and blue. Maddie? Maddie?

Catie (part 2)
by Amperage@aol.com
Written between 1/24/95 and 2/28/95

     Eyes. I love a guy with big puppy dog eyes. Big eyes and a soft,
pliant mouth. "You left your door open." He accuses.
     I stare at him from my futon, mascara making my eyes burn and
itch. I came home and fell into bed, didn't take off my make up or
shower or anything. I missed school to be with him, so I've been
making up the things I lost. Gotta keep a 4.0. I haven't seen Mulder
in over 2 weeks. Too tired. <Too Scared.> But he knows how it is.
     "You were screaming." He tells me.
     "I haven't been getting enough sleep. So my mind's yelling at
me." I reply, sitting up. I sleep in the buff, but I really don't mind.
He's seen my tits before.
     He nods gently. "Who's Maddie?"
     Maddie?   I close my eyes. "This girl who used to take care of
me. Is that whose name I was screaming?"
     He nods. "Thin doors, remember?"
     "Maddie. . .well, she ran away or something when I was six.
They never found out what happened." I yawn. "Sorry I've been
so busy. No time for a life. I'm doing some research and helping
run a study."
     "I gathered." He gestures around my apartment. I've pulled all
my boxes of info out of what's supposed to be the bedroom, and have
files and printouts and different coloured highlighters and professional
journals spread all over the floor.
     "Don't step on anything." I warn him. "I just bought a laptop and
it's somewhere underneath some papers."
     He considers a moment. "Why do you need a laptop and a PC?"
     "I can take the laptop anywhere I go. How've you been?"
     "Pretty good. Listen, I'm sorry if I scare you Catie. I'm sure
I do." He smiles. A good, reassuring, shrink smile. I can't
smile like that. It makes me giggle hysterically.
     "Don't mention it. I'm just so busy. . ." I shrug. "You
want some coffee?" You want to wait until I've taken a shower
and we can screw for about an hour then it's out the door, Mr.
Paranormal?
     "No. That's okay."
     "Well. I stink, so sex is out."
     He laughs at this. I like his laugh.
     "What's your study on?"
     "Well, its not *my* study. But it's on the development of
schemta in young children and how that affects the early childhood
memories of adults. You know--little kids don't have fully formed
schematas, so they have to make things fit into what they do know.
And so that part of the memory becomes confused."
     "You can't run a simple experiment on that."
     I swallow. Get up. I need some water or something.
     "No. The whole thing's really two different studies. Um. . .we're
interviewing children between the ages of 2 and 4 and interviewing
their parents, trying to map out certain areas of their schematas. Then
looking at what seems incomplete--like one kid calls cats and dogs
*puppytats*--we show them things and ask them to remember it, or
we ask for their impressions of something in this uncomplete area.
This part's going to be going on long after I'm somewhere else,
doing something else." I tell him. "Because the plan is to wait a
year and ask about these memories. Then wait another year and
ask. Then wait another year and ask. Until the kids are all, like,
in middle school." I shrug.
     "Okay." He accepts as I return to the futon with a glass of water.
     "The other part, like I said, this is really two studies, but they're
closely interrelated. Well, the other part is to interview adults who
have PTSD delayed onset from incidents that occured in childhood--I
helped come up with this one about two weeks ago--and find out
what their memories are of the events that lead to the disorder.
Then we're going to interview persons who were older, or were
adults at the time and see what their memories of the same event are.
This one isn't going to be very qualitative, because of the perceptual
errors and the fact that the adults would be fitting things into their own
schematas--changing the facts, you know. I'm looking for some cases
that have police reports, because that's as close as we'll come to an
objective account.
     "I'm hoping I'll come up with some clear markers that differentiate
forgetting or changing memory caused by the need to make the
incident easier to accept and forgetting or changing memory because
the schemata isn't clearly defined enough to handle the new
information." I finish.
     "Sounds like you're going to be extremely busy."
     "Yeah."
     "You want my hypnotherapy tapes and the police and FBI
reports?" He asks casually.
     I nod. "What kind of perceptual errors did you make?"
     "I don't know. Everything dovetails perfectly into the offical
reports."
     "What about your parents? Can I interview them?"
     Mulder frowns. "It would upset my mother. . .and my father
won't talk about it. Besides, they weren't there. And they don't
believe."
     "What do they think happened?"
     "My mother thinks someone kidnapped Sam and overpowered
me."
     "What does your father think?"
     "That I didn't protect my sister. They weren't there."
     I nod.
     "Last summer I saw the aliens again."
     A frown crosses my forehead. I need to be taking notes. He
realizes this and reaches for a pen and some paper. I write everything
he's telling me down on the back of an article I got out of The Journal
of Psychiatry.    "Okay. You saw the aliens again." I repeat when I'm
up to speed.
     "I went down to Arecibo, Puerto Rico. There were some signals
that were supposed to be. . .possible contact. . ."
     "You're censoring me."
     "I know. I don't have much choice. Secret Agent Man."
     A sigh of frustration, but I keep copying.
     "And there were lights and sounds. . .a man who was at the station
with me. . .I think his name was Juan. . .was killed. But I saw the
lights and the sounds and I tried to keep it out. But it came in anyway.
The same ones. I was terrified. I got my gun and tried to shoot, but
it. . .it wasn't like it jammed. It wasn't jammed--I checked. But it
wouldn't fire. It just wouldn't fire." He stares straight ahead.
     "What happened?"
     "That's all I remember. My next memory is of Scully calling my
name. I was unconcscious on the floor when she came in. Everything
was. . .in disarray."
     "And that's it?"
     "That's it." He shrugs. "Now what do you dream about
Maddie?"
     Son-of-a-fucking-bitch. I can only stare, enraged. Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck. "You bastard." I tell him.
     "Okay. Don't talk. But you know why I scream at night."
He stands.
     I really want to get out of here. Move somewhere in the midwest.
But shit. I've got too much invested in DC. I hate being mad.
Decide I won't be.
     "Sit back down. Or take off your clothes and cuddle under the
covers. I don't care which." I tell him irritably, letting go of my
anger.
     He takes off his shoes and we curl up.
     "Maddie was 15 when I was born and she'd just been expelled
from school for smoking pot. Her parents kicked her out of the
house. Well, my father was the principal of the high school and he
didn't want Maddie to go to juvenile hall. He knew Momma wasn't
taking care of me. The doctors were calling it "failure to thrive."
I pause.
     "There was this little cottage at the edge of the family woods,
Daddy and Momma sometimes rented it out to people. Just a little
bedroom and a bath. A mini-fridge and stove--like what we've got.
So he let Maddie stay there and take care of me. Momma's trust fund
paid for a little salary for Maddie. Maddie couldn't do drugs
anymore, and after a while, Daddy said she didn't mind. She had me.
     "When I was one she went back to school, but that was okay,
because I went into a little day-care. It was horrible, but it was all
there was in our community. When I was four Maddie graduated high
school and started college. Daddy got me into kindergarten a year
early and Maddie commuted back and forth to school. When I was in
second grade she just dissappeared. I came home from school and she
wasn't there. Her car was in the carport, and there were groceries,
still in their sacks, on the little kitchen table. The ice cream was all
melty."
     "What happened to her?" He asks.
     "I don't know." I reply, with a shake of my head. We're lying
spooned. He puts his face in my hair.
     "Don't know or don't want to know?" He asks.
     I do not respond. "Every city I'm in I run an ad in the personals
for a few months. `Madeline Brooks. If you're here, Catie Ellender
has been looking for you. Call me please. I love you.'"
     "Ever gotten a response?"
     "A couple of kooks. Nothing real. I've checked phonebooks
for her."
     "I'd like for you to go into hypnotherapy. The guy's really good.
He won't force you or lead you."
     I stiffen in his arms. "We agreed on some ground rules a
couple of weeks ago."
     He sighs. "All right." But it's clear it's not all right. Still he
says nothing.

"Hi." It's Scully. I wave my fingers at her, pushing my bike into
the apartment.
     "Hi." She responds. Mulder's door opens.
     "Hi." He says, looking at each of us. He glances at me. "I got
your files if you want them."
     He's got a suit on, and so does Scully.
     "Yeah, sure." I put the kickstand down on my bike, go into his
apartment. The files and two tapes are on his desk.
     "Thanks." At Scully's look I explain about my study.
     She nods. "Always willing to further the rational cause of science,
right Mulder?" She asks with a small smile.
     "Always." He agrees. "What do you think your partners will say
to this?"
     "Oh, they'll love it. They'll want you to come in." I reply with
an evil grin.
     "I'm sure." He chuckles. "And whoever's in charge will
probably take me aside and reccommend I go into lots and lots of
intensive therapy."
     "Probably." I shrug. "A whole team of shrinks."
     Scully snorts. "And one of those nice rooms where you can't
hurt yourself."
     "Don't forget the pretty velcro bracelets and anklets attached to
the bed." I add, falling prey to laughter.
     "And the wonderful nurses with their winning ways." Mulder
tosses in for good measure.
     "I don't know." Scully says, straightfaced. "Some of the beefier
orderlies might be cute in a Hulk Hogan kind of way."
     Mulder groans. "Listen, when do you have some free time?"
He asks.
     "Me? Free time? You do need to be committed."
     "What about lunch? I can come down to the university, flash
my badge and get you out for a couple of hours."
     "Let your partner do it." I respond. "Knowing a lunatic is in
the FBI won't inspire their confidence in the justice system and some
of them aren't real keen on it to begin with."
     He nods. "Seriously. When can I see you?"
     "Um. . .I'm off on Tuesday and Wednesday this week. I'll be
in the apartment around five."
     "I'll pick you up for dinner around five thirty."
     "How fancy?"
     Mulder shrugs.
     "How about a double date?"
     He frowns.
     "With Scully?" I ask.
     Scully shrugs. "I'm not dating anyone. Sorry."
     "Okay. A menage a' tois?"
     Mulder lights up.
     "Down boy." Scully advises. "I'm not so sure I want to be
around two lovebirds."
     "Try `cats in heat'." I advise. "I want to get to know you. Don't
worry, you can invite yourself back home around eight thirty or nine
so that Mulder and I can do the horizontal lambada."
     Scully nods at this. "All right."
     "I know of a place that serves real cajun food. The guy's from
Johnson's Bayou."
     "This is a place?" Mulder asks.
     "Yes. It's a small town in Louisiana. About eighty miles from
where I grew up. Restraunt's not real expensive and the food is
divine."
     "All right. Five thirty. Sychronize watches." Mulder orders.

     Dinner is wonderful. Red Drum stuffed with Shrimp for main
course and a nice thick seafood gumbo for hors dourves. Praline
Cheesecake and Bread pudding with Sabayon. We only order two
desserts, because I can already tell you they're the best thing on the
menu, so two and we nibble all around.
     Scully's okay. She and Mulder have been through hell and back
together. I like her. We even get the same jokes. Mulder has never
watched Animaniacs.
     "`Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'" She intones.
     "`I think so, Brain. But me and Pippi Longstocking? I mean, how
would the children look?'"
     Scully takes another sip of her wine and smiles. "It's better than
the Power Rangers."
     "Oh lord. I hate the Power Rangers." I glance over at Mulder.
"Now there's a case involving Unexplained Phenomenon." I tell him.
"Why don't the UFO's beam the Power Rangers up to their ship and
disappear with them, leaving the world a far, far better place?"
     "Yeah, but can you imagine driving a million miles with five
teenagers who always wear the same colours?" Scully leans back in
her chair. "My godson asked for nothing but Power Ranger junk for
Christmas. I thought I was going to scream."
     Mulder shakes his head. "I never counted you for a closet
cartoon watcher, Scully."
     She shrugs. "I never thought you'd get up the nerve to ask
Catie out."
     "He didn't." I respond, sipping my tea. Mulder throws me
a dirty look.
     "What?" Scully sits up. "What? That's all he did when he was
staying with me. He met this really cute girl, lived across the hall in
43. Perfect for him. He was gonna' ask her out. . ."
     "He wimped at the last minute. I asked him out."
     Mulder groans, buries his face in his hands.
     "Fox Mulder, you are my very best friend." Scully tells her
partner softly. "But there are twelve year olds with more social
aptitude."
      Mulder groans. "I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it I knew it
I knew it. I have two women in my life and they're both ganging up
on me." He takes a swig of Dixie beer, which is all Dan's serves,
shaking his head.
     "Oh, poor dear." Scully smiles.
     "Yeah. Maybe you can talk about it in therapy with Dr. Song."
I decide to drop this tidbit in his lap now, when he's embarrassed
*and* buzzed.
     "Dr. who?"
     "Dr. Song; as part of the study, Dr. Song wants to talk to you
about your memories. He has promised not to be judgemental about
your beliefs. I can't interview you for this because I'm emotionally
involved."
     "I volunteered to be part of your study didn't I?" He asks.
     I nod.
     "Me and my big mouth."

     I'm designated driver because I'm the only one who didn't drink,
but before we go I introduce Dan to Mulder. And then Dan won't
charge us for supper. "First time you've ever come in here with
anybody." He tells me privately. "And I like this one. You stop
stripping, you go to work with your degrees. You marry this one.
Ok?"
     I stand on tiptoe and kiss Dan's forehead. "Dan Breaux, you're
just a 200 pound creampuff."
     "Yah. And you just a leel' gurl actin' beg." He responds.

Scully and I sing the Animanics theme song all the way back
to her place, much to Mulder's dismay and our merriment.

Mulder's apartment. The floor, lit in shadows. And his hand
up my skirt, smiling at my lack of panties. His mouth covers mine,
leaving no room for me to escape. And I get into his suit pants, into
the hardness of his round butt, the muscles tight from jogging. I push
him close against me, undo the pants, slide them down. He's ready
for me, but we'll wait a while, make this last. Slide to the floor in a
lump. His hand rides between my legs hard, thumb against my clit,
rubbing. I suck his neck carefully, my hand going under his boxers,
pulling on the loose skin of his scrotum. He unzips my dress, pulls it
down so that my arms are caught, stuck and his mouth, like that of a
newborn kitten's, seeks out my nipples, already erect with the
promise of pleasure.

Wednesday. I bring over my laptop and some interviews with
some children to qualitate. Mulder has his paperwork. We curl up,
me on the floor, him on the couch. I choose the tape. He smiles
when he realizes it's Lewd Tales of Canterbury. "Whan that Aprill
withe its shoores soote. . ." I begin watching a barmaid boff a
prilgrim.
". . .the droughte of March hath pierced to the roote." Mulder
continues, looking scholarly in his reading glasses. It's nice being
here. Feeling loved. His presence. The smell of soap on his skin.
The firmness of his mouth. I think I might be in love. This was
supposed to be just another tumble in the hay.

     I lean against the wall, staring at the door. Mulder and Dr. Song
should be finishing up about now. The door opens. Dr. Song.
"Catie. You look nice today." I've got makeup on, contacts in,
hair curled.
     "Thank you." I smile charmingly, swinging in my short,
form-fitting, slip dress.
     He moves on, still staring at the transformation.
     Mulder comes out, pale. "Well?" I ask.
     "Pretty bad." He says. We walk through the university halls.
     "What did Dr. Song think?"
     "He took me back over everything, step by step. That isn't
part of the usual procedure, is it?"
     "Not in a case where we've already got a tape of the retrieved
memory, no." I agree. "You knew it would be like this."
     He nods. "Song wants me to come back. I know this is
blackmail, but I'll go back if you see Verber."
     "Who's Verber?"
     "My shrink."
     "The hypnotherapist."
     He nods.
     He's right. This is blackmail.
     "Mulder." I take him into an empty conference room, sit down on
the table, stare at a cartoon taken from Peanuts. Lucy as the 5 cent
psychiatrist. "Mulder, I know it's important to you. But. . .this
scares the hell out of me."
     "Why? Because Maddie dissappeared?"
     "Yes. Because I like to control my life. I need to know that I'm
the one in charge."
     "And this would mean you aren't."
     "Exactly. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it."
     "You can know instead of hiding."
     "I'll tell Song you won't be coming back." I sigh.
     Mulder stares at me a while. "It means that much." He says.
     "I thought about. . .about running, when you saw those marks.
About just pulling up stakes and disappearing. Jake knows some
people who could get me a driver's license in another name and I'd
just be gone. You couldn't trace me; Jake's got Mafia connections."
     Mulder nods. "Catie, I tried to trace Maddie for you. I even
managed to get a copy of her fingerprints--she had a pot conviction
and they put the fingerprints on the missing report--and ran a trace
through that. She dissappeared off the face of the planet."
     "You didn't have to tell me that." I say, betrayed. "You could've
let me think that some day I'd see her again. You Son of a Bitch."
I close my eyes. Don't cry. Don't cry.
     "Catie. If you are an abductee, running from it, hiding from it.
That won't help you." He takes my hand in his face. "There are
other people out there. Other people who are going through this too."
     I jerk away. "I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I'm a
topless dancer and I'm a grad student. I*do*not*believe*in*UFOs."
And then I can't hold it in any longer. All the pent-up fears, all the
long years of wondering. All the nights, lying in bed scared. I start
crying. And Mulder holds me, rocks back and forth.

     Song's tape of his session with Mulder is in my box the next
afternoon. I listen to it as I drive across town to the bar. Mulder is
pretty calm, describes the scene exactly as I've heard it before. Song
keeps pressing for any breaks in the memory, any places Mulder
doesn't want to go that might be indicators of the true memory,
because Song doesn't believe this memory. Mulder never lets him
win. They press, battle back and forth over this issue. So Song
eventually stops, starts asking, as I did, about adults. But Song is
interested in something else, something I wasn't interested in. He
presses about Mulder's parents, about their responses to Mulder not
remembering, to Mulder being there when Samantha disappeared until
he finally gets what he thinks is hiding under the surface.
     ". . .it was all my fault.. It was all my fault. I should have
done something." His voice becomes ragged.
     "You just said there was nothing you could have done."
     "I. . .I could have done *something*. I was responsible for my
sister."
     "You were just a child."
     "I was older. I was the responsible one. It was *all*my*fault*."
A pause. I recognize the sounds of someone *not* crying when they
desperately want *to cry*.
     "Who made you believe that? I know you wouldn't think that
without someone making you think that. Is that what your mother
said?" Song's voice has become exceedingly gentle now.
     "No. God no. She never blamed me."
     "Is that what your father told you?"
     A pause, some movement. I begin to give up on Mulder
answering when I hear a soft "yes." I pop the tape out, stare at the
traffic from my Mustang's windshield. I think I understand now.
A little bit better anyway.

     "You're back." He's been gone on a case for over a week.
For two people so horny we rarely get to fuck. "How was Arizona?"
     He shrugs. "Hot. Dry."
     "What did you do to your cheek"
     "Bad guy go smack. Mulder fall down."
     "You have this tendency to get hurt, don't you?"
     "Yep."   He grins. "Don't worry, Scully gave me the standard
'do-I-have-a-death-wish-lecture' she gives me every time I get hurt
over something stupid or run off on my own without backup."
     "You think she'd record it and just play it back in the emergency
room."
     "Nah. She adds finishing touches to it every time. Refines and
edits. She's added this whole paragraph about my needing a leash."
     "Fisher price makes one. And I know a leatherworks shop that
makes harnesses for toddlers. They'd probably fit you out with
a grown-up version."
     "Don't give her any ideas." He warns.
     "How about one of those collars they use on hunting dogs. . ."
     "How's the study going?" He interupts.
     "Eh. You know. When will you be available?"
     "Tonight's fine, if you don't mind me being tired."
     "I got some work to do, but I don't dance tonight."
     "Which side of the hall?"
     "Mine. The futon's more comfortable and we can watch tv when
we're through screwing."
     He nods. "I'll get chinese."

     "I made an appointment with Verber." I tell him over Sweet and
Sour Pork.
     He glances up surprised.
     "We talked. He's really nice. He let me go from my end of the
bargain."
     Mulder stares hard at me.
     "Dr. Verber told me to wait until I'm ready to remember. No one
should be forced into remembering." I stretch on my futon. "Hah.
Hah. Hah."
     He frowns, pokes his chopsticks into my chest. "You *are* ready
to remember."
     "Your opinion. Not mine. And Verber agrees with *my*
opinion. But he thinks its a good idea for *you* to be in my little
study. I understand what Song was trying to do in his questioning."
     "Yeah. So do I. But I've already beaten him to the punch. And
the honest answer is no. I don't think I created the aliens to absolve
myself of the blame and guilt my father instilled in me." He shovels
fried rice into his mouth.
     "It's still an unresolved issue though."
     He grimmaces. "Obviously. Is this going to be your
dissertation?"
     "Yeah. Probably. Song wants me to do five or six profiles in
depth. He wants your profile in there, even though he'll do the
therapy."
     "Have you got any other cases?"
     "Yeah. Nine or ten. They were all younger than you were.
Mulder. . .I want permission to talk to Verber about your case."
     He glances at me. "Okay. You got it. Why?"
     "Dr. Song has some theories. . .even if I discount his
disbelief. . .they still have a great deal of validity." I nudge General
Tso's chicken into my mouth from the box, then lean over and kiss
him, food breath and all; he returns the kiss and food boxes fly.
Oh my.

     "Mulder!" The yell is becoming frantic. Mulder pulls away from
me, out of me, a frown creasing his brow. Scully. I kiss his nose.
"Get your clothes on!" She's yelling.
     Mulder tugs into a pair of sweatpants, I rifle for a long t-shirt.
Scully is getting frantic. She beats on my door.
     "Love your partner's choice of timing." I tell him, grabbing
some boxers.
     "Well, if she had a sex life I'd get her back some day. . .actually
I already have. . ." He muses.
     I raise a brow, scurry to the door.

"Catie. . .where's. . .Mulder." She grabs him by his sweatshirt,
pulls him into the hall, shuts my door. Well. I'm hurt. My punkin
feelings will never recover. They're in the hall discussing Secret
Agent Stuff and I'm in a dark apartment, boxer shorts getting wet at
the crotch, smelling like Storyville at Mardis Gras. Hmph. I wander
into my kitchenette to make some coffee.

     They come back in a few minutes later. "Catie, I've got to go."
He reports, trying to smooth down his hair.
     I nod. "All right. When will I see you again?"
     "I don't know. I'll try to call. This one's important."
     "It always is, right?"
     He smiles, but his mind isn't anywhere within a thousand miles
of me. It's on his obsession, on his work, on his mistress, and
honey, she ain't me.

Ellender, Catelyn A.
DOB: 10-21-70
SS: 552-33-2909

Axis I: 295.21 Schizophrenia, Catatonic Type
Axis II: V71.09 No diagnosis on Axis II

Axis III: None

Axis IV: Psychosocial Stressors: Graduate School; began new sexual
          relationship.
          Severity: 2--Mild (acute event and enduring circumstance)

Axis V:   Current GAF: 12
          Highest GAF past year: 85

     Mulder looked up from his perusal of the first page of the file, the
page insurance companies wanted to see.
     "There were no symptoms." Scully said coming into the office.
This was the first time he hadn't flinched and put the file away when
she came in. She decided to risk talking about it.
     "No." Mulder agreed. The little blonde lump sitting on a bed,
curled up fetal did not resemble his Catie. Catie was. . .vibrant and
stable. Catie was a million ideas every minute. Catie was a dancer.
     "She rarely comes out of her catatonic state." Scully commented.
     "Yes. And when she does, if she sees me, she goes ballistic."
He had been asked not to visit anymore.
     "It wasn't your fault."
     "I know."
     "What do you think happened?"
     "I think she was abducted again." Mulder looked up at his
partner, reading glasses masking whatever emotions he was feeling.
"I think while we were hunting government conspiracies in Florida
something swooped down and played with her and Catie finally said
to herself that she couldn't take any more of it. Or maybe *they* put
her in that state. I don't know. It doesn't really make any difference,
does it? Her average score on a Stanford Binet was 149. That's
above genius. That's one point higher than mine."
     "She can recover." Scully offered hopelessly.
     Mulder nodded. "Yeah. Maybe." It was clear from his tone that
he meant `No. She won't. I already know what the statistics are, how
most people get better, but we both know that this isn't the typical
Catatonic Schizophrenic state.' He stared at his partner a long time,
thinking things he couldn't, wouldn't, say. Catie was going to get old
in a state psych hospital.
     He was not sure what he felt. Despair. No. Something worse
than despair. He knew how despair felt. Despair was when Sam had
gone. Then something a little worse when Scully had gone. Now
Catie was gone. He looked up at his partner again. "It wasn't
you." He said.
     Scully did not pretend ignorance of what he meant. He'd only
known Catie a couple of months. He'd only slept with her, laughed
with her. They had not gotten into each other's souls yet, though
Scully had seen that they were learning those things about each other
which only close friends and close lovers know. If Scully had
suddenly gone catatonic, leaving Mulder again, he might not have
been able to handle it. Not this time.
     There was that. But that was nothing.
     He was trembling. Scully stood behind him, wrapped her arms
around his shoulders, where she could not see, but she could hold and
let him cry for all the things that were wrong in their lives, for all the
misery and the pain and the iniquities heaped upon them and upon
anyone their lives touched. She did not offer up hope, because she
knew it would be false. No platitudes because he would know them
for the untruths they were. There was only the pain and the loss and
the hurt. She couldn't do a damn thing about it, and neither could he.

End.

Writer's note: This one was hard to write. I sent the first draft to
SciNut, then told her to burn it: I thought it was awful. She wrote
back a nice, calming "there, there. I liked it" note. So I didn't
destroy it. On AOL DD FC chat she made mention of it, or I did, or
something, and Jenny was on-line so I offered to swap stories with her
(she's got a great story to follow up Dark Angel. Don't miss it!;->)
So we swapped and read and edited each other's work. She liked it,
so here it is. Sorry for the way it ends. That's life. I might follow
Catie up, simply because she's so easy to write. Then, again, I kind
of got rid of her didn't I. . .oh well.

Amp.

>From the words of a friend who is 24 and unmarried: "All I want is a
guy who's sweet and cute and caring."

Me: "But Kelli, guys like that already *have* boyfriends."