Title: Eclipse

Summary: Evelyn wakes up in a hospital, married to a stranger and four months pregnant. Can she resurrect her shadowy past before deadly ancient secrets come to light?

Note: Am aware of numerous amnesia fics, but I wrote this one a loooooong time ago and felt it was too cool to give up. Tried to make it twisty and romantic and angsty enough to suit you all :)

Disclaimer: Not mine, with the exception of the legend.

1. She's Come Undone

Spanning my field of vision is white, newly-painted white, so bright I have to squint at its brilliance. All the lights in the room blaze with misguided intensity, adding to the vividness of the whitewashed room. Even the sheets are white, and so crisp that they rustle underneath me as I shift in the bed. A soupcon of color is provided by a vase of pink and yellow flowers that sits by itself on the nightstand, but other than that the room appears mostly empty. It is depressing. The brightness of the room only exacerbates the throbbing that has taken up residence on the right side of my head.

I attempt to shift again, but this is difficult, as my left hand is attached to something. My eyes, still adjusting, follow my arm until I realize another hand is holding onto mine. It belongs to a man. He is sitting in a folding chair at my bedside, sleeping. I think he must be tall, an imposing figure, very strong. He is probably handsome but looks exhausted; dark circles mar his skin underneath his eyes, and he is slumped in the chair as if he hasn't slept in days. How it is possible to sleep in such an uncomfortable-looking chair is beyond me.

It is also quite confusing as to what exactly the man is doing here. I assume I am in a hospital; I've figured that out from the bed and the walls and the flowers, although why I am here is yet another puzzle. He can't be a doctor, can he? I know of no doctors who take such a personal interest in their patients that they sleep by their bedside, holding their hands. And yet I have never seen this man before in my life. A long-lost relative come to care for me in my time of sickness? (Whatever that is; I haven't gotten that far yet.) In the back of my mind I hope we're not related, for after studying him for a moment I've decided that he is, indeed, rather good-looking.

Speaking of relations, where is Jonathan? His only sister in the hospital and he doesn't have the decency to be here? Maybe he doesn't even know. I haven't seen him in a few months; last I heard he was visiting people back in London. Maybe nobody knows I am here. Only this handsome stranger, keeping vigil over my bedside at God knows what hour. Maybe he can tell me what is going on.

Careful not to wake the sleeping man, I concentrate on finding out exactly what's wrong with me. My head still hurts a little, though the pain has mostly subsided. Something feels off, something not normal, though I can find no injuries of any sort. It's more like something deep inside me. Something has changed; my body feels different, as if it is not quite my own. My hand moves over my abdomen, as if this is the source of my quandary, though I cannot for the life of me figure out why this would be so.

Without meaning to, I sigh, and the sleeping man snaps awake. He looks no more familiar with his eyes open, though I notice they are blue. His mouth falls open before he speaks, like he can't believe he's seeing what he's seeing. "Evy?" he says, his voice dry as if he hasn't used it in a while. I haven't been called that in a while, either, only by Jonathan. After a moment of staring I suddenly find myself crushed inside a hug. "Jesus, you scared us," he says, his words muffled because he is speaking them into my hair. I remain silent as he lets me go, kisses me on the forehead, sits on the bed. He just keeps looking at me, and his hands clutch mine as if they have every right to. "Evy? Are you okay? Are you going to answer me?"

"I'm fine." I'm surprised at how hoarse I myself sound, and it takes a few more sentences to work the kinks out of my throat. "I think. I mean, I...I don't know."

"God, Evy." The American kisses my forehead again, plays with some stray locks around my face. I tell myself I should be scared at how easily this stranger takes such intimacies with me, but his actions seem comfortable, familiar somehow, though his face does not. "Jonathan went back to his apartment to sleep, he should be back any minute."

Relief washes over me. Maybe my brother can give me some answers. "Jonathan's in town?"

A strange look crosses his face, but it is quickly replaced by a smile. "Well...yeah. He's hardly left this room for the past..." His face fades again, as if he was about to say something he shouldn't. "I should get the doctor," he says instead. He raises my hands to his mouth, kisses the left, then the right.

"You're not a doctor?"

He smiles again, almost laughs. "How astute of you, Mrs. O'Connell. I'll be right back."

"I'm not Mrs. O'Connell..." I try to say, but he's gone from the room before I can finish my sentence. Is it possible he has me confused with someone else? How could you do that? Do I have an identical twin running around the very same hospital where I am staying? And by the way, what am I doing here? I'll have to ask him when he comes back, right after I clear up his misperception about my identity. Mrs. O'Connell, indeed...

If it weren't for the feeling growing deep inside my stomach with each passing second, I might even be able to convince myself.

Almost immediately he comes back with a nurse in tow, who busies herself checking my head, my pulse, et cetera, before patting my hand and leaving the room with an encouraging smile. She doesn't say a word.

"I want some answers," I say, the moment the nurse leaves, before the man can say anything. "What am I doing here?"

He takes his seat on the bed next to me again before answering, though I've tucked my hands underneath the sheets so he can't get to them. "They called Dr. Thorne, he's on his way."

"What am I doing here?"

"Actually, we've sort of been hoping you could tell us that." He's decided to place a hand on my stomach, massaging it with ever-so-slight pressure. The gesture unsettles me, and I shimmy a bit in the bed to get away from him.

"Would you help me sit up?" I say, attempting to get his attention on something besides me. "And I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here."

"You know I don't like you being alone in the Museum at night," he says, helping to fluff the pillows behind my back. "It isn't safe."

Actually, sir, I've never seen you before in my life, but thank you for the sentiment. "I think I can decide for myself what's safe and what's not." Who is this stranger to tell me what to do? "It's never been a problem before."

"Well, it's obviously a problem now." He seems upset, as if he is entitled to know everything about me, including where I work. "You were incredibly lucky, Evelyn. We don't even know what that guy was after, and he's still on the loose."

"Who?" I ask, exasperated. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

His expression softens, and he cradles the right side of my head gently. "You don't remember what happened? Are you sure you're okay? Does your head hurt?"

"I'm fine, for the last time. Now just tell me what happened."

Somehow he's found my hands again. He stares up at the white ceiling for a moment before answering. "They said it was about eight o'clock. You were outside the office, probably locking up."

"The Museum closes at seven."

"Yeah. You said you had some paperwork that needed doing. I was supposed to pick you up, I was waiting outside."

"Why?"

He laughs again, but it is half-hearted. He thinks I'm being funny. "I've said it a million times, it's not safe for you to be out there at night. Something..." He looks at the ceiling again. "Something like this could happen."

"What...did happen?"

He looks at me again, and his eyes are a little teary. "If you can't tell us, we're not entirely sure. The detective said you probably interrupted a burglary. That probably he snuck up on you."

"Who?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. Nothing is missing. I waited until about 8:10, and then I tried knocking on the doors. Didn't see anyone, but..." He clears his throat. "I saw someone's shadow. It looked like someone was in there, and it wasn't you."

"How did you get in?"

"Broke a window."

I can't help but smile, for even though I have no idea who this man is, no one's ever broken a window in order to get to me. It's sort of sweet.

"You were on the floor outside your office," he continues, "unconscious. He hit you over the side of the head. Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"Nothing," I reply, entirely truthfully. "The last thing I remember is getting up this morning and going to work. Well, maybe not this morning. What day is it?"

I wonder if it's his habit to pause before he ever says anything, for he certainly seems to be doing a lot of pausing in this conversation. If I didn't know better I'd think it was painful for him to talk about this, but why would it be? Who is he? "It's Wednesday," he says. "You've been in a coma for six days."

I suddenly feel very cold, as if ice has frozen my veins. Six days. Is that why I feel as though a huge chunk of my life is missing, as though I've lost something? Is that why I feel another presence inside me, something intuitive, but utterly impossible? And what of the rest of it, the space between this morning, when I woke, and the events of the story this man is telling me? That is missing, too, and I cannot help but feel there is something more than a coma.

Because when I woke up 'this morning,' it was Tuesday. Six days later should be Monday. Have I lost even more than I think? Is that why this man seems to know me so well?

It is time to ask the question I have somehow instinctively dreaded asking. "And...what are you doing here?"

He tilts his head, not comprehending. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...how long have you been here?"

"Six days." He feels my forehead as if checking for signs of illness. "Honey, are you sure you feel okay?"

"No. Why are you here?"

He seems to be at a loss for a legitimate answer to what is to me an entirely straightforward question. "Evy, I don't understand what you're asking. Why shouldn't I be here? My wife is attacked and goes into a coma for six days, I think it's a given that I'm going to be here."

Wife. No. This isn't right. "Would you leave, now, please? I think you need to leave."

"Evelyn." When I won't look at him he takes my face and raises my chin until I meet his eyes. They're sad, confused. No anger. "Evelyn... Do you know my name?"

I swallow the inexplicable lump in my throat and pull my face away from him. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"If this is a joke, you need to stop it now."

"It isn't a joke! Would you just leave? Please, just leave." I find the courage to look at him again and for some reason my heart almost breaks at what I see in his face. "Please," I repeat. "I'm tired. Would you please just go away?"

Finally, someone I recognize appears in the doorway. Dr. Thorne has been treating me since childhood. Maybe he can give me some answers. "Ah, Evelyn," he says, making his way across the room. "You're awake. We were beginning to think you weren't going to come back to us. How are you feeling?"

"Strange," I say softly. "I don't know what's going on."

"Perfectly normal. You'll be fine, don't worry." He takes my wrist, counts the beats of my heart with his watch. "I assume Rick's filled you in a bit?"

Rick. Is that his name? He's backed away from the bed but he hasn't left the room. Rick. The name sets off a little flutter somewhere in my brain. Rick. Rick. Rick....

"How's the head, Evelyn?" Dr. Thorne asks, dropping my wrist.

I tear my attention away from Rick, though I can still feel his eyes on me, boring little holes into my soul. "It hurts a little."

"I'd give you a painkiller, but we really shouldn't. How's the baby feeling?"

Impossible. What I've been telling myself is impossible has suddenly been voiced, out loud, by someone who should know what they're talking about. Impossible.

Rick....

"Dr. Thorne?" he says, quietly. "Could I talk to you outside for a minute?"

"Of course. Evelyn, you need to get some rest, all right? Don't try to get up. You're still recovering. All right?"

I nod my head dumbly, attempting to shut my brain down because the thoughts that are bouncing around it torture me with their ludicrousness and their certainty. I close my eyes, not able to bear seeing the stranger for another moment. As soon as I can sense that I am alone, I can feel oblivion pulling on my senses, and I welcome the slumber as it dulls the brilliance of my little white hospital room.

~*~*~*~