Stuffy air filled the office, stiff and uncomfortable. A rigid-lined desk sitting in the back of the room, interrupting the façade of comfort it tried to offer. A soft couch, warm colors, a chest of toys and other things in the corner, they felt more like props.
Across from him sat a man. His chair appeared to offer comfort, with big baby blue cushions, but was structured in a way that whoever sat in it had to sit up straight or lean forward. The man himself, a Dr. Michaels (but you can just call me Mikey), had all the physical qualities one would expect from you're a-typical priest - A nice smile, a consistently worried expression, soft hands and graying hair.
He leaned forward. "Fox-" he started.
"It's Mulder." The boy's voice was indignant, muffled behind a throw pillow he grasped in his arms.
"Okay," Dr. Michaels said patiently, "Mulder. Do you know why you're here?"
The boy looked away, a frown creasing his young face. He knew why. That didn't mean he wanted to talk about it. At least not to some stranger, not when his own parents refused to. He fixed his eyes on the base of a standing lamp in the corner. "Because of Samantha," he muttered. He squeezed the pillow a little tighter.
He had been through this before. His parents, the kids at school, the police, even the FBI had come to pick his brain and make him relive the waking nightmare over and over again.
"How about," the doctor paused, looked to the skinny end table to his right for a moment and continued, "we talk about school?"
Mulder looked up at him. "I'm doing fine in all my classes."
"Mr. Grant says you've quit coming to basketball practice." The boy shifted in his seat. What did it matter than he wasn't going, middle school teams didn't mean anything anyway. "Why is that?"
It was a question, but Mulder could hear in his voice that the man believed he already knew the answer. He was just trying to make him say it. "I don't want to go." Boys he once thought were his friends, used to greet him on the court and play with him without a care in the world other than a steel determination to get better at the thing they loved and win. Ever since what happened, they kept their distance, they whispered, interactions with him were forced. They didn't know how to deal with it.
Neither did he.
"Why don't you want to go?"
It was a no win situation. If he told Dr. Michaels that the other kids were treating him differently, then the coach would have to talk to them, then things would be more forced and strained. If he didn't he wouldn't get to play again. Mulder bit back a frown and shrugged.
The doctor looked back at his notepad again. "Do you have any other hobbies?"
"I like monster movies," he answered tentatively, "and Star Trek." He scratched the side of his face before adding, "and magicians." Mulder liked school a lot better when the other kids would poke fun at him for liking magic and trying to show off some tricks.
"What did you and your sister do for fun?"
Mulder swallowed hard. He shrugged. Samantha used to try to stay up with him to watch his favorite movies, but would cower behind him or under a blanket when the monsters came out. He remembered her not being able to sleep because of them and how hot his ears felt when he said don't be such a scaredy-cat, if a monster came I wouldn't let it get you!
Or running around the basement dressed as Mr. Spock and Samantha insisting that she gets to be Kirk because, when he asked why not Uhura or one of the other girls, she said because Kirk's the leader, so I get to be the boss of you!
Or arguing about what to watch on TV, or playing board games, or besting her at shooting hoops in the driveway.
He shrugged again. "All sorts of things."
They went on, back and forth for the full hour. Then Mulder and his mom traded places, and the two likely talked about whatever had been said for a few minutes. After that time was up, she ushered him from his seat in the waiting room and they hurried out of the office.
It always felt like she didn't want him to be there, even though she was the one who had signed him up for the sessions without asking. Sometimes he felt she only cared what happened because people talked, because their perfect family wasn't so perfect anymore.
They sat at the dinner table, his father glowering at the two of them. He made it clear he didn't like his son going to see some shrink. Even still, like a dagger thrown in his direction she would ask, "Fox, how was Dr. Michaels?" like he was a weapon to be used in their game. It didn't take a psychiatrist to see his parents' marriage moved quickly to its breaking point.
He pushed his lips together trying to find the least wounding response to either of them. "Same as always. He asks a lot of questions he already knows the answers to."
His parents exchanged looks, they'd talk about it later. His father wasn't going to wait. "So you think it helps?" He asked. It wasn't a question. It was a statement you don't think it helps.
Mulder looked at his plate, barely touched. He pushed around a carrot with his fork. "I don't know."
"When you're older Fox," his mother said, you will think it helped, "You'll understand."
That night he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. What once were hushed whispers rose to low voices and in a sudden crescendo became shouting. Their words seeped under the doorway.
I don't need my son to be-!
Our son! Our son! Like our daughter who-!
Our son? Saying that now? After-!
Mulder pushed his eyelids shut as hard as he could, willing it to go away. The nights piled up, sleepless for the three members of the Mulder family still living under their roof. On occasion he heard them apologizing over and over. More often than not he heard the slams of his father storming out or saw his mother crying.
Some nights he'd come downstairs and sit next to her. He didn't expect to be able to help her but he hated sitting up in his room, hearing her and not doing anything. Some nights he'd come downstairs and talk a late night walk with his father.
One night, as they crossed under the last streetlamp before reaching the baseball fields, he said "You don't need to see any shrink." His voice was gruff, always talking at him rather than to him. "You're sister. Well, you'll understand when you're older."
Mulder kicked a stone, watching as it made quick, clunky rolls ahead of them.
His father huffed, digging his hands into his pockets. "Looks like a goddamn child molester. Don't know what she's thinking. Once she gets an idea – can't let go. Most goddamn stubborn person I ever met."
"Dad?" His father grunted a response. "Can we not talk about mom?"
"We're not talking," He asserted, "I'm just…venting a little. Letting off steam."
Silence fell between them as they ringed back around the fields, heading towards home.
Finally he spoke again, "well. Then, what do you want to talk about?"
Mulder looked up at him. "Samantha, why was she taken? Why not me?"
Alarm sounded in his father's voice, "I thought you said you didn't remember what happened."
"I don't." Mulder watched his dad's face calming as he spoke. "But I don't think she ran away. She'd be back by now, and I don't think she would have."
"Sometimes Fox," He chose his words carefully, "things happen the way they do."
Being isolated at school was one thing but being kept at arm's length from his parents was another. He couldn't tell Dr. Michaels about it, he would probably give him some bull answer. Your parents are dealing with what happened in their own way. But they weren't dealing with it, they were imploding.
At arm's length. He bet they'd tell him he'd understand that when he was older too.
Mulder did, and didn't. The downfall of becoming a behavioral analyst was knowing exactly why someone did what they did, even if what they did hurt others. Two decades of not having anyone to talk to, of being faced with dishonesty when all he needed was someone to stand by him reassure him make him feel safe, save one girlfriend who forgot about him as soon as she transferred to a different office. He didn't blame her for it, it was what he'd come to expect.
The last thing Mulder expected was this brilliant redhead to stick with him to find those answers that hung about, what felt by that point, his whole life. For someone so small she filled entire rooms, or shrunk them down so only they fit even when others were around. Not all the answers were there, not yet, but with her by his side for the first time he truly believed he would find them, rather than simply shouting aimlessly at the void.
After decades of distance, he felt uncertain. Doubt stayed in his mind. She was keeping him at a healthy distance, she had to be. Just like everyone else.
But there she was, encouraging him to continue searching when he had been shut down and they were separated. Getting back out there with him even after her life had been threatened in the process. Questioning him, but pushing him forward.
Once again he was a boy, believing when he was older, or maybe even a few years, he could understand.
A/N: I liked writing young!Mulder.