The Session by Danielle Leigh oldviolin7@aol.com Spoilers: None. Timeline: Takes place in sixth season. Summary: Take a few psychology classes, add a disgruntled FBI agent and stir. When I was a little girl (a very little girl) I used to sit down on my mother's kitchen floor in protest when I was convinced the world was mistreating me. Eventually my mother would notice me. After sewing a Halloween costume for Melissa or finding Charlie's soccer cleats or finishing dinner. And it was then, after she found me and picked me the up, the universe turned in my favor. My problems, whether they were a missing doll or being the target of a cruel sibling came to the forefront of our lives. How passive-aggressive is *that*. Sometimes when I haven't found the right evidence in an autopsy or my partner is about to go off half-cocked (if you'll excuse the expression) to do something incredibly, ridiculously stupid that I still have this urge to plant myself on the floor, cross my 'little' legs, and wait for someone to notice me. Okay. I see that look. Wait for *him* to notice me. Sometimes though I get this impulse in those 'want to slit my throat, just for a little entertainment, my God, I'm bored' FBI meetings. Just to make Skinner's eyes widen a little, watch his throat contract and his tie tighten like a noose around his neck. Just to make sure the man is breathing. Skinner? He is my boss. Mine and Mulder's. Now there are two men who could benefit from a little Therapy. Capital T. "Would you like to invite them sometime to listen in?" you ask, your expression so serious and inviting. That is your ten-cent shrink expression. I live in fear of seeing the ten-dollar version. I shudder. God no. What do you take me for, buddy? Besides, Mulder got his psychology degree from *Oxford*. He could run rings around you, *buddy*. He can actually finish the damn track before you've even tied your damn shoes. "I notice you keep calling me 'buddy'." I just stare at you, unblinking for a long moment. You quickly clear your throat and take a sip of coffee. "Is that a way of keeping me at a distance? So I don't get too close?" No, I say to you. I just don't remember your name. Make of *that* what you will. "I think it is quite obvious you don't want to learn my name." Brilliant. You are so fucking brilliant I don't know if I can stand it, Sigmund. "But, getting back to this defense mechanism of yours," oh kill me now, I pray, "do you often get this impulse around your partner? Muldoon, is it?" Hah, bloody, hah. You're funny. You, my good man, are a fucking *laugh riot*. You, Sir - You hold up your hands in surrender. "All right, all right," you say. You sigh and rub your eyes tiredly. Great. I can't even get the man I'm *paying* to like me. "Dana," you say with great patience that sets my teeth on edge, "why did you enter therapy?" Is this a trick question? I ask suspiciously. "NO!" We both look at each other. Wow, I'm impressed, buddy. I didn't think you had it in you. You set your shoulders and start speaking in a very reasonable, but tight tone. "I think it would *behoove* us to restate your goals as a patient." Shrinks. Gotta love 'em. Okay. What the hell. Go for broke. Take it to the bank. Slam dunk it. Hit that bad boy out of the ball park - "Dana." Oh, right. Okay. I'm thirty-five. I'm not particularly happy. And I haven't got a clue how to get there. "Do you see happiness as this unattainable state that others can achieve but not you?" I shrug. You just sigh. Fine. I'll embellish, all right? Geez, don't be such a baby. When I first saw my partner happy (and this has been a very recent development, by the way. He isn't usually.) I really thought he was on drugs. Seriously. He had this really strange expression on his face, like really bizarre. All moony and child-like. How was I to know? You blink. "You didn't have him *tested*, did you?" Ah, Buddy. You are so easy to shock. It's kind of cute in a way. Well, I didn't let him *know*. God, what do you think I am. I just took a little blood when he fell asleep during a stake-out. Turns out he was clean as a whistle. "Wasn't that overreacting, just a *little*," you plead with me. Not if you knew this son of a bitch, Buddy. He is the most moping, whining, self-guilt-tripping sob you have ever seen in your life. When someone like *that* gets happy its either drugs or - Actually I can't think of what else would make someone like that happy. You smile oh-so-wisely. "You can't? Because I could." Whatever. "But back to this sitting on the floor thing," you say with the interest of a pathologist about to rip into a corpse who died of causes still undetermined. I groan. Are you going to hold that little revelation of mine against me forever? "You told me that fifteen minutes ago!" Sure. Fine. As my sister would have said during adolescence: Don't have a hissy-fit. You ignore me and plunge back into the 'healing'. "You told me that you would do this to get your mother's attention. What about your father?" I don't know. Things were always so busy when he was home. I didn't really have time to mope about my problems. You had to enjoy Ahab when he was there. "You told me your father read to you often as a little girl. Is that why you didn't feel the need for attention...because you knew eventually you would get some from him?" Maybe. "What would your mom do when she eventually noticed you?" Picked me up. Talked to me about whatever until I told her what was bothering me. Held me. You nod, smiling slightly. Christ, there is nothing worse than a smiling psychiatrist, except maybe a smiling FBI Agent. Okay, big shot. Enlighten me, why don't you. "Is it possible that you get this impulse when you want to be held? Be comforted a little? Which would explain why you didn't get it with your father. You didn't need to, you knew he would always do those things without you asking him to. Unlike your partner." I *knew* this was going to happen. I knew you would say I was in love with Mulder - "Who said anything about love," you say softly. I just glare at you and shut my mouth. "All I said was that you wanted comfort from him." Fuck. I swallow and glare at you. "Okay," you sigh. "Let us return to the issue of happiness. You mentioned your partner has been in this 'elusive' state lately --" assholes. I'm surrounded by assholes. "Tell me. How has been acting that is different from what you perceive to be his normal state?" I don't know. He smiles more. He doesn't get as upset as he used to, 'bout the stupid things that happen to us. He doesn't antagonize others. He doesn't antagonize me, really anymore. I mean he is still annoying, but it lacks his old bite. Now it's - I don't know - nice, or whatever. Playful. You smile. "Like foreplay?" I just stare at you like a stone. I'm the sphinx over here. But suddenly I'm reminded of something. You know, Buddy. That is how it used to be. The first year we were working together...he used to tease me a lot. Not, you know, meanly but just like a little sister or something. Poor choice of words. He teased me the way my biology lab partner would have when I was fifteen. Um. Except Mulder probably wouldn't throw a frog leg in my direction to get my attention. I said *probably*. "So what changed the quality of your interactions?" Oh for god's sake. 'Quality of your interactions'? Where do you come up with this shit? You just stare at me, bringing out the penetrating gaze'. The one I'm sure they won't let you get your degree without learning, along with 'Mr. Understanding' and 'Tough-love!Shrink.' After I was - taken - he got gentle for a while. It was really hard for him sometimes, because I could tell he just wanted to throw me in a closet like a little girl until the danger passed. I really hated (as you can imagine) that reaction in him. "But it also must have been flattering, right?" What are you babbling about now? "That he wanted to protect you that much. That he was so afraid for your safety." Please. That is only like a *tenth* of why he was like that. He was afraid if I got hurt it would be his fault. Than he would do the Mulder version of the blame-game (which he loves, by the way. I mean he *lives* for it) and then. I don't know what then. "So what changed?" you ask. He stopped trying to protect me. He realized I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. "Ah." God save me from shrinks. What? "That must have hurt a little, right? When he stopped worrying so much? Tell me during this period did you miss the attention he had given you after you had returned?" I just rolled my eyes. Dependent, meet your cousin Co-dependent. *Please*. What do you take me for? "I take you for a strong, intelligent woman who wouldn't know happiness if it bit her in the ass..." Well you've got me there. We are silent for a moment and I can tell you want to reach back for those words and swallow them with your coffee. Can't be done, Buddy. I've tried and failed. Time for a new subject. What I don't get, I say to you, is how *I'm* the one from the warm, loving family and yet Mulder is the one who is so comfortable about emotions and touching. At least lately. Relieved you snatch that nugget of information up. "So, physically the relationship has changed?" I don't know. He is definitely more friendly. Than he used to be. "How does that make you feel?" I just give him a look. It isn't *The* Look, because I don't think this guy could take it. "Yes," he rolls his eyes, "cliche, I know. Please, just go on." I shrug. Of all the people to have found happiness, I can't imagine a more unlikely suspect than Mulder. It's a non-sequitur really, but you smile at my use of the word 'suspect'. As if happiness is a punishable crime. I'm not as hopeless at introspection as you think, Buddy, because I caught that too. "Except you, maybe?" I squirm. I don't know. Maybe. "Is it possible that he is happy because of *you*?" Anything's possible, right? Don't smile, I was being sarcastic. That is what Mulder thinks. To him the universe has an infinite number of possibilities that he is just waiting to bring forth from his crack-addled brain to piss me off. "It's not quite fair of him, is it? The way he is achieving happiness through someone who isn't able to do it alone." Dead silence. Alone? Isn't Mulder also alone? "I don't know, is he?" Answering a question with a question is really low, Buddy. "Then answer the question, Dana. Is he alone or isn't he? Or you alone or aren't you? Are you the person getting of the way of your happiness or is it another? Mulder doesn't need your permission to be happy, do you need his?" Of course not. I'm a grown woman, I don't need anybody's permission for *anything*. "Then why are you sitting on the floor, silent, in this relationship? Instead of talking to him --" This is really rich. Look, Buddy, maybe you don't realize this but not all women *need* a man. A man is not the be-all and end-all of this universe. Maybe my problems have nothing to do with my partner. Maybe I just like blaming him because I'm afraid of facing up to certain realities. You look at me, eyes full of pity. "You're full of shit, Dana." My oh my. The gloves are off, aren't they Buddy? "We just spent the past half-hour discussing three things - happiness or lack thereof, your inability to reach out to others and your partner. The gap between those subjects is you and *you* alone." I'm sorry...your point is? You hide a groan. "My point it...my point is..." your voice trials off and you look a little lost. I take pity on you. Is it time to go yet, I ask. "Yes. Yes I think it is," you say. So, next week...same time, same bat channel? You nod slightly. I wonder if you have something in your eyes - they look very shiny. You just laugh a little. "Have you considered yoga," you ask hopefully as I leave. I think I've considered everything at least once in my lifetime. Even therapy with a guy like you. The End.