Edgar and Johnny appear, as always, completely without the knowledge or consent of their creator Jhonen Vasquez. Scriabin is the unholy creation of Zarla, author of "Vargas", on which this is based. Edgar's backstory here is based on Zarla's random fanart. (Strangely, this was written before I saw her yarn story, for anyone who's seen that.)

It will be obvious to anyone with any real knowledge of psychiatry that I'm working from popular preconceptions here much more than facts. This story is in NO way meant to present a clinical picture of, or to trivialize, DID/MPD; nor is it my intention to insult, belittle, or offend anyone who has been diagnosed with this condition.


UNDER
by rueyeet

"You can go in now, Mr. Vargas."

The receptionist's overly cheerful voice recalled Edgar from his attempt to stifle the nervousness he always felt before his sessions by skimming over the months-old magazines that were the staple of every doctor's waiting room. He replaced the magazine carefully on the table beside him, then made his way across the waiting room to the office door, trying not to feel like everyone else was watching him.

He'd been going to Dr. Ramon for a few months now, after admitting to himself that he wasn't going to get rid of Scriabin on his own. It wasn't that he really believed he was insane, exactly, but he had finally had to concede that seeking professional help was what any sensible person would do in his situation. After all, he didn't have anything to lose at this point. Sure enough, after the first few sessions, Dr. Ramon had discussed his tentative diagnosis: dissociative identity disorder, or what Edgar had always heard termed as multiple personality disorder. As Edgar understood it, the idea was that a traumatic experience, usually abuse in childhood, caused one to separate certain emotions and parts of one's consciousness from the whole. This could result in a sense of unreality, or in fugue states, or in fragmentation and confusion in one's very self.

Edgar didn't have any concerns about his childhood--his grandmother had done just fine raising him, thank you--but had a good idea what traumatic experience could have been the catalyst for Scriabin's creation, given the timing. Unfortunately, that was the one thing he couldn't tell Dr. Ramon. He had scrupulously edited all references to Johnny's homicidal tendencies from the sessions, mentioning him only in the context of a close, manic-depressive friend with emotional issues, and promising solemnly to recommend to Johnny that he seek help as well.

So far the sessions seemed consist mostly of Edgar talking about himself, telling the doctor about things like his feelings, his childhood--and about Scriabin. It was such a relief to finally be able to talk freely about the voice in his head to someone, especially to someone who might actually be able to help him, that Edgar's seething hatred of Scriabin had subsided somewhat. Curiously, Scriabin himself had taken Edgar's decision to go to therapy surprisingly well, considering that Edgar meant to get rid of him once and for all. He remained mostly silent during the sessions, occasionally reminding Edgar of a detail he'd forgotten, or offering an insightful comment rather than attacking with the familiar scathing sarcasm. If it hadn't been for Scriabin's response to the doctor's prospective diagnosis, Edgar would have thought that he was actually trying to be helpful for a change.

Of course, that was too much to ask for.

He's wrong, you know, Scriabin had said. I am much more than that now, Edgar. You won't get rid of me this way.

Still, Edgar felt optimistic, for the first time in a long, long while. So he continued to see Dr. Ramon, to tell him all the things that he'd never had reason to confide to anyone else. For the first time, he talked about his parents' accidental death when he was barely two, about his grandmother's strict but loving care, about her death just before he left for college. More hesitantly, he talked about Johnny and their strange, almost coincidental friendship; about the delicacy and the inconsistency of it, and how unsure it had made him. There wasn't too much else to discuss. Edgar had had a very uneventful life before he had met Johnny, and before Scriabin had made a home in his mind.

"Hello, Edgar," Dr. Ramon said genially as Edgar entered his office. "Have a seat, I'll be with you in a second." And indeed, before Edgar had fully settled into one of the comfortable chairs, the doctor had finished scribbling down some brief note, and taken the chair opposite Edgar. "So, how are you today?"

"Not too bad," Edgar replied. "Work's okay. No headaches this week. And he's been relatively quiet today--if I didn't know better, I'd think he looked forward to these sessions."

"It's possible that he does. That's what I'd like to get into today, actually." The doctor leaned forward in his chair. "In all this time, I haven't really gotten a chance to talk with your alter directly. It would give me a much more complete picture of what we're dealing with if I could see how his affect differs from yours--attitude, body language, worldview, that sort of thing."

Edgar stared at him for a moment, appalled. "You mean, let him take me over again?" Unconsciously, he scrubbed suddenly clammy palms on his pants.

"Are you concerned that he would 'take over'? From your description of the last time, it sounds like he relinquished control voluntarily, even encouraged you to take it back." Dr. Ramon's voice was steady, reassuring.

"Well...yes, but..." Edgar took a shaky breath, trying to quell his unreasonable anxiety. "Somehow I don't think he'd be very cooperative, that's all."

"You say he hasn't been hostile about your therapy. Let's give it a try, okay, Edgar?"

Edgar looked down at his hands, and was surprised to see them clenched tightly in his lap. "Scriabin?" It felt strange to talk to him in front of someone else.

How very "Three Faces of Eve", Scriabin replied dryly. No, I don't think so. This isn't about me--it's about you.

Edgar looked back up at Dr. Ramon and mutely shook his head.

"Any particular reason why? Can you characterize his reaction for me at all?"

"I don't know. It's like he's just not interested. He says this is about me, not him."

"Hmm." Dr. Ramon sat back in his chair. "Well, as long as he's not actively opposed, I'd still like to give it a try. If the alter can't be brought forward consciously, there are other ways. Would you mind trying hypnosis?"

"Hypnosis...what?" Edgar wasn't sure about that. What if he said something about Johnny? What if Scriabin tried to take control of him again?

"Don't worry, it's not like the movies. I can't make you do anything you'd absolutely refuse to do under normal circumstances, or embarrass yourself, or anything like that. If you like, we can try a milder hypnotic state first, and see if that'll be effective."

Edgar hesitated.

Don't bother; it's not going to work. I can't be controlled just because you're such a pushover, you know.

Scriabin sounded amused rather than angered by the idea, but Edgar had to wonder if he was lying, as he so often did when Edgar finally had him on the defensive. There was only one way to find out.

"Will I be able to hear anything that's going on?" Maybe if Scriabin knew he was still listening...

"Of course. Mostly, it's just a way to relax you enough to get past whatever barriers are keeping you from consciously bringing him out. With your permission, though, I'd still like to try a deeper state if that fails to bring the alter to the fore."

"You...you can put him back, right? If it does work?" Edgar was almost convinced.

"That's the other point of the hypnotic state, yes."

Edgar considered that for a moment. It didn't sound so bad. "Well, okay...but let's try the mild thing first."

"Preference noted." Dr. Ramon nodded, and gestured to the sofa that stood just beyond the chairs. "Would you like to lay down?"

The sofa was as comfortable as the chairs, and Edgar was soon composed and ready. He took a deep breath. "Go ahead."

"All right, Edgar. Close your eyes. I'd like you to relax..." The doctor's voice took on a steady, rhythmic tone as he encouraged Edgar to deepen his breathing, to let go of any tension in his body, and to clear his mind. As he followed along, Edgar lost track of the exact words, hearing only the ebb and flow of the voice that coaxed him to go deeper, to let go, and he floated along that current, letting himself be submerged in it.

Dr. Ramon watched his patient carefully throughout the induction process, concerned. Apparently Edgar was particularly susceptible to a hypnotic state, as some people were; he hadn't expected him to go completely under quite so quickly. However, it might be an advantage, calming whatever fears either Edgar or his alter might have. Weighing Edgar's anxiety over the hypnosis against the potential benefits, he decided to continue.

"Now, Edgar, I would like you to step back. Let Scriabin come forward, let him speak to me." He saw Edgar sigh, seeming to settle even deeper into the cushions, and instinct told him that he was continuing to cooperate. "Scriabin. I would like to talk to you now...Come out." Edgar remained still, hands folded neatly on his chest. The doctor waited, but nothing happened.

With a start, Dr. Ramon realized that his patient was no longer breathing.

His mind ran through a dozen different options even as he leapt from his chair to Edgar's side and checked for his pulse. It was there, steady and strong, but Edgar was unresponsive. Just as he opened his mouth to attempt to call Edgar back, he jumped back, startled nearly out of his wits as his patient gasped for air and sat up, eyes wide, as if awakening from a bad dream. Dr. Ramon slowly returned to his chair, giving both of them time to recover their breath, and waited to see who he was dealing with.

Finally, the patient fixed him with an indignant glare and said, "Jeez! Don't DO that...you could have killed him." He shook himself out and swiveled to a sitting position on the sofa.

For a moment, Dr. Ramon just stared at him. He'd never encountered such a thing; not only was hypnosis supposed to be perfectly safe for the patient, but the alter was generally influenced by the hypnotic state as well. But as clearly as it was now Scriabin that sat across from him, it was also obvious that he wasn't affected in the slightest. This was going to be a challenge.

"Under no circumstances should hypnosis either harm or kill a patient," Dr. Ramon said as calmly as he could.

"Not when the 'patient' actually suffers from a psychiatric condition, no, I'd suppose not." Scriabin met his eyes easily, as Edgar did not often do, and Dr. Ramon had the impression that he was being studied and evaluated. "But that's not what you have here, Doctor. You can't get rid of me with your therapy and your medications."

"Nevertheless, you don't seem to have any objections to Edgar seeing me."

"It's good for him. Do you realize that this is the first time in his life he's ever told anyone anything about himself? Not that he's got much to tell, mind you. He needs to get out more, that boy." Scriabin stood with a grace that Edgar did not display, and began to wander around the room, looking curiously at various items with both hands clasped behind his back. Scriabin's attitude projected cocky self-assurance, but Dr. Ramon was strongly reminded of a child who has been told not to touch anything.

"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of Edgar."

At that the alter shot him a long look, eyes narrowing briefly before his expression subsided to one of sober consideration. "He does make it difficult sometimes," he said offhandedly.

"Oh?" Dr. Ramon inquired mildly.

Scriabin raised an eyebrow at him, then to the doctor's surprise, began to laugh. Edgar's alter raised his hands in a mockery of surrender, then came to sit across from him in the other chair, leaning back insolently. "Okay, I'll play. Yes, Edgar frustrates me. Yes, there are times when I could strangle him, were my hands my own. Sure, I hate him sometimes. Only fair--he hates me pretty much all the time--but mostly it's just that--" Scriabin shook his head and looked away.

The doctor waited.

Scriabin turned back to him, his expression entirely serious. "He never goes more than halfway on anything. He talks a great game, but then he always makes excuses and finds reasons to avoid doing what he should do--what he needs to do." Abruptly the mockery returned. "Take this therapy thing, for example. I'm under the impression that in order for this to work, a relationship of trust has to form between the doctor and the patient, am I right?"

Dr. Ramon nodded, inviting him to continue. Scriabin was a deceptive one, there was no doubt of that, and while the doctor was encouraged that Edgar's alter was being so forthcoming, he suspected subterfuge, some kind of hidden purpose. He had also noticed how Scriabin kept turning the conversation back around to Edgar, instead of giving anything away about himself.

Scriabin returned the nod, then pointed a finger at him. "Yet he's not really trying. He thinks he's doing oh, so well; but would you like to know all the things he's been hiding from you? And not minor stuff, either--no, he's fully intending never to so much as hint at all the most important things. Basically, everything that would actually give any of this a chance to help him."

"Is that your goal, then? To help Edgar?"

Scriabin laughed at him again. "Come on, Doctor. I never signed up for this. Do you think I'm going to give away my secrets, here? No. As I said before, this isn't about me. It's about Edgar."

Dr. Ramon shifted in his chair. It was apparent that Scriabin was only cooperating for his own reasons--if indeed he could be said to be cooperating--but it was a start to be interacting at all. And he still might let something slip. "It's normal for the patient to withhold things at first. It's only been a few months, and that bond of trust that you mention is still forming. If Edgar hasn't mentioned some things yet, it's because he isn't ready to. Treatment of DID is not quick, or simple; in most cases it requires years of hard work and therapy before the alters are all identified, much less reintegrated." He forebore to mention that sometimes, they never were.

"Edgar has no 'alters', Doctor. Just me." He grinned rakishly. "And I actually don't think it's possible to reintegrate me, anymore."

"Was there a point at which it was?"

"Hmmm, let's see," said Scriabin, affecting a thoughtful pose. "Possibly before Edgar gave me a name?"

Edgar had explained where the name had come from, of course, but this was new information. "He named you?" That wasn't unknown, but it was unusual for such a complete personality not to give its own name.

"Yes, Edgar named me." Scriabin leaned forward, becoming serious again. "Shall I tell you what he told me, when I called him on it, when I told him that was a bad idea? He said--and I quote--'I'll just pull you farther out of myself and eventually I'll go back to normal.'" His voice was intense with anger. "He refuses to take responsibility for anything. Everything just happens to him, and he's just going along with it, giving it his best. Even now, he's expecting you to magically make it all go away, kiss and make it all better, even though he's not going to honestly try. And when he fails, it'll be your fault, or mine--but never his."

"And you have made it your function to remind him of these things."

Scriabin snorted. "Someone's got to."

"Would you say that you have succeeded in this at all? If you had to be honest?" He echoed Scriabin's earlier wording deliberately, wanting to see if Scriabin would hold himself to the same standards as he evidently held Edgar.

The alter looked at him resentfully, then looked down at his--Edgar's--hands. "...No," he admitted after a moment of bitter silence.

Now they were getting somewhere. Dr. Ramon backed off slightly, choosing another angle of approach. "So exactly when would you say you began to become separate from Edgar?"

Scriabin raised his head, a strange gleam in his eyes, and gave the doctor a smile that chilled his blood. "Why, that would be somewhere around the first time his friend Johnny tried to kill him."

Dr. Ramon was stunned. "The first time...?"

"Oh, yes, didn't Edgar mention that? That would be one of those important things I was talking about. Yes, Johnny is the mysterious killer of hundreds of people that no one can seem to find and bring to justice. He fully intends to kill Edgar someday, when the time is right--and Edgar is fine with this." Scriabin spaced out every syllable so that the import of those words could not be missed, the anger back in his voice. "Now and then he flies off the handle and tries to kill him anyway--I've lost count how many times." He leaned closer again, as if to be sure he had the doctor's full attention. "And do you know why Edgar allows this, why Edgar continues to associate with dear little Nny? Because he's in love with this man. Of course, he didn't mention that either, did he? No, because he's fighting his own sexuality! He can't admit that he loves another man, because his God"--Scriabin made an epithet of the word--"wouldn't approve. He's so far in denial of this that it wouldn't even occur to him to hide it from you."

The doctor listened, aghast. Against all odds, he had almost certainly uncovered the trauma that had spawned Edgar's alter, and at least one important key to the core of his patient's troubles. However, he not only had to contend with the ethical question of whether to break the obligations of patient confidentiality to potentially prevent further violent crime--and if Edgar's friend Johnny was indeed the killer that had been ravaging the city, he could not keep that a secret--but there was also the fact that all of this had been revealed to him in violation of his promise to Edgar to keep him under only light hypnosis. These revelations stood to do more harm than good, jeopardizing the fragile bond of trust that Edgar placed in him, so necessary to the therapeutic environment.

Unless--perhaps Edgar had confided to him through Scriabin, because his alter could say the things that he could not?

Dr. Ramon looked the alter directly in the eye, meeting his seriousness with equal gravity. "And what does Edgar think of you telling me all this?"

"Edgar?" Scriabin was openly scornful. "He's still asleep. Hypnotized. Waiting for you to count to three, or snap your fingers, or whatever it is that you do. He isn't hearing any of this."

So all of it had been brought out before Edgar was ready. Feeling more and more like the session had escaped his control, Dr. Ramon stared at the alter, perplexed. "If you aren't affected by the hypnosis, then why did you come forward?"

"I wasn't going to, believe me. I told him it wouldn't work!" Scriabin snapped. "And then when he stepped back like a good little boy, just like you told him, there was no one in charge! He'd have died if I hadn't taken over!"

"Or you could have stepped forward to begin with, and there would have been no risk." Dr. Ramon pointed out coolly.

The alter regarded him, eyes narrowed again, arms crossed, his expression otherwise inscrutable. Neither of them spoke. The soft electronic tone of the clock on a side table cut suddenly into the silence, startling them both.

"Time's up," said Scriabin softly. "Tell you what. You say I haven't succeeded, that I haven't been any help. Well, I've given you everything you need. You give it a try, and see if you can do any better." He smiled bitterly. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

"Because I'll need it?" the doctor said, matching Scriabin's tone.

"Goes without saying." The alter strode back over to the sofa, laying down with his hands nonchalantly behind his head. "Go on, do your thing."

"Can't you bring him back?" Dr. Ramon was curious.

"Not until you wake him up, and he accepts control. Difficult for him, you know."

He was beginning to understand; Scriabin wouldn't relinquish control until he was sure that Edgar was able and willing to take over. The process appeared to require the active cooperation of both of them. "Edgar. It's time to come back now. Come forward, towards my voice..." The alter watched him as he went through the process that should have brought Edgar back to the fore, and when he was done, it was still Scriabin that faced him.

"Well?" the doctor prompted.

Scriabin appeared to listen a moment, then gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "Give us a moment, will you?" he said sourly, then stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling.

Edgar was drifting, bodiless and weightless, when he heard Dr. Ramon's voice again, calm and reassuring, urging him gently to focus outwards again, to come back to himself. He seemed to float upwards, towards that soothing voice, but when Dr. Ramon told him that he could wake up, he found himself still in his own head, seeing the ceiling above him like a passenger looking out through a car window. He started to panic, then heard another familiar voice.

Calm down, Edgar.

Edgar wasn't going to be mollified that easily. But..what--

You went under like a stool pigeon in cement shoes, dear boy. I had to take over to keep you from forgetting to breathe.

But--I thought...light hypnosis, he said it would only be light hypnosis! Edgar was horrified. What had he said, what had he done?

Quite a lot, actually. You've been holding out on your therapist, you know.

Edgar felt like he had been doused in cold water. Scriabin! What have you done?

Go and see, said Scriabin lightly.

God, Scriabin, what did you say? Did you tell him about Nny? How could you--

No one will believe him. It's you, remember? The whole invisibility thing? Your precious Nny is safe to go on murdering the random multitudes of this city.

You--you-- Edgar couldn't think of an insult of sufficient magnitude to contain his hatred. Give me back my body!

Take it, Scriabin said dismissively. This wasn't my idea.

Edgar blinked away the momentary dizziness, then looked accusingly at Dr. Ramon. "You said light hypnosis. You said I'd be aware the whole time."

"You accepted the hypnosis much faster than I'd anticipated. Faster than anyone I've ever seen, in fact. I wasn't able to keep you in a lighter state. I apologize." The doctor's voice was firm but soothing, and held real regret.

"What did he say? What did he tell you? God, if I could..." Edgar's hands were balled into fists, and he was shaking.

Dr. Ramon sighed and bowed his head, fingers massaging his forehead. "I would like to go over everything your alter said with you, Edgar. I'll need to, actually." He looked gravely at Edgar. "I am of the opinion that this can't wait until next time. If you're willing, we can extend the session. Off the clock, of course."

Edgar got up and moved slowly to the other chair. "What did he tell you?" he repeated.

"Edgar, how did you meet Johnny?"

He closed his eyes at the question, feeling sick. "No. I'm not telling you anything else until you tell me what he said."

For a long moment, Dr. Ramon was silent, evidently thinking. "He said that you were hiding things from me, important things. I told him that this was normal, that it takes time to build the trust between doctor and patient, that you had not confided these things because you were not ready to."

"But he told you anyway, didn't he?" Edgar did not bother to hide the hatred in his voice.

"He's very adept at deflection; he consistently avoided revealing anything of himself, turning everything back on you. The more I pressed him, the more he evaded. And eventually..."

"And what?" Edgar said through gritted teeth. "Quit trying to make it sound better. I've probably heard it all before."

Dr. Ramon looked him straight in the eye. "He said, in summary, that you are tolerating what sounds like an abusive relationship with a violent and unstable criminal in an effort to avoid acknowledging your homosexual orientation."

Edgar couldn't speak for a minute. Somehow, hearing it put like that, so directly, so succinctly, made it sound ludicrously simple. Absurd, really. He suddenly began to laugh. Dr. Ramon had just made one sentence out of what it usually took Scriabin ten minutes to rant at him.

The doctor watched him warily. "You're taking this surprisingly well."

"It's not anything I haven't heard before. He tells me that all the time--except it takes him a lot longer." He chuckled again.

"You're aware that I may not be able to observe patient-doctor confidentiality in regards to your friend. A doctor cannot responsibly withhold information that would prevent a violent crime."

Edgar hoped Scriabin was right about his invisibility protecting Johnny. "I understand."

"Well, then." The doctor was still watching him skeptically. "If you're handling this so well, then perhaps we can go over this in more detail in our next session."

"No. I don't think so," said Edgar slowly.

"Edgar, if you're uncomfortable with today's breakthroughs, I understand. We can back off from those issues a little, approach them in a less direct fashion. But I have to advise you, very strongly, against giving up now, just when you've really started to make some progress--"

"See, that's just it." Edgar shook his head, smiling bitterly. "You believe him, don't you?"

"Shouldn't I? Was he lying?"

"Was he talking? Of course he was lying! He's always lying! And he doesn't understand half of what he thinks he does, either. I am NOT homosexual. I am NOT in love with Johnny. Those are fictions that Scriabin has invented to hide his own weaknesses! But he got to you too, didn't he? You believe him! You bought it--hook, line, and sinker!"

"Edgar--"

"Don't bother! I can see it, I can tell." Edgar got to his feet. "We're done here. If I think I need to continue therapy, I'll do it with another doctor. And I won't be letting myself be suckered into hypnosis again, either." Ignoring the doctor's half-formed protest, Edgar turned his back on him and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him. Everyone in the waiting room jumped. He went to the receptionist and scribbled his signature on the necessary forms as quickly as possible.

"Here's your next appointment, Mr. Vargas," she piped in that grating, falsely cheerful voice.

"Cancel it. I quit." He handed back the card, ignoring her fluttering confusion, and left.

As he waited for the elevators, Scriabin chimed in. Oh, well done, Edgar. You sure told him--

Edgar rounded on him furiously. Just SHUT UP, you bastard, he hissed. You've ruined this for me too. Congratulations; now go have a party or something. I don't want to SPEAK to you for the rest of the day, do you understand me?

Silence. Sweet, beautiful silence. Edgar walked out into the bright sunlight, whistling.

At least this therapy debacle had accomplished that much.


This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.