Work Text:
i.
His mother bounces him on her hip as his family sings “Happy Birthday”. She sets him down in what they almost exclusively refer to as a “big boy chair” while everyone claps. William reaches for the slab of chocolate cake, and smears icing along the surface of the table. He giggles as he stuffs a chunk in his mouth. “What a messy boy,” his mother says affectionately as she wipes a brown stain off the tip of his nose.
“I am messy,” he agrees. He holds up three fingers to display how many he is.
“How do you know his real birthday?” his grandmother wants to know. Secretly, William hates her presents - mostly uncomfortable clothes. He doesn’t her voice, either - she sounds like his mom when he does something bad, right before he’s put in time-out.
“It was on his birth certificate,” his father says uncomfortably, brushing a hand over his son’s hair.
His grandmother scoffs with disapproval. “He’s so cute. I just don’t understand why anyone would want to give him up.”
“Mom!” his mother says, appalled.
William climbs out of his chair and runs out into the living room. He doesn’t like it when they talk about this things he doesn’t understand, especially involving what his parents call his “birth parents”, and that foreign word, adoption. He doesn’t understand it, or why his grandmother talks about him being given up. Given up is like when his mother sits on his train rug, and goes through his big box of toys, and says, “You need to pick some toys to give up to charity, Will. Remember that some people aren’t as lucky as you.” He imagines being taken away like those toys, in a brown box. He doesn’t like it.
ii.
Being seven years old means that you can read books about ghosts and haunted houses under the covers. Will turns the pages of the scotch-taped library book, flashlight jammed under his chin, having noted the date on the calendar. “You’re too young for that,” Mommy had said when he’d brought it home, but now he’s older, a whole year older.
When he hears the footsteps of his daddy out in the hall, a creaking sound that he is about 60% sure is not ghosts, he grabs the book and the flashlight and hides in his closet, knees biting into his rib-cage. He starts to open the book again, but stops when he sees the source of the pain in his back. Will’s closet is small, almost too small for the lanky kid he’s grown into (you’re growing so fast,Mommy says), and so the box set in the back of it is poking him. Will turns on his knees, shines his flashlight on the top of the box. William, 2002-2003 it says on the top.
He pulls at the scotch tape on the top, curiosity already captured. The adhesive edges strips the first layer of the cardboard. He opens the flaps, and groans a little in disappointment when it’s mostly pictures and baby things. Still, he digs through to the bottom, setting aside a onesie with UFOs on it (which is weird, because his parents hate that stuff) before coming across the last item in the box. A manila folder, which he opens to reveal some foreign document, a birth certificate, he thinks. May 20, 2001, it reads. William Mulder Scully.
Is that him? Will breathes like he’s just run the entire length of the gym as he lifts the document. Is that him? Was that his birth name? He thinks very rarely about his adoption, if at all. He had to get up in front of the class and say things about himself in kindergarten. He’d rambled on about trains and the solar system book he read every day and his favorite flavor of ice cream and his favorite pizza toppings. And I’m adopted, he’d thrown in, an afterthought. Was this his name Before? Mommy never talks about it. William Mulder Scully. Mulder must be his middle name - what a weird name - so Scully must be his last name. Like the baseball guy Daddy talks about. He wonders if he’s related.
He climbs out of his closet, carpet-burning his knee, and runs downstairs to the kitchen. He’s going to ask Mommy about the birth certificate, but he stops when he sees the cake on the table. “Hi, honey,” Mommy says, smoothing down a cowlick. “How would you like to have cake for breakfast, hmm?”
At school later, Will gets a worksheet with ten math problems. He goes to write his name in neat letters in the corner of the paper, but something stops him. Will Scully, he writes, just to see what it looks like. It’s unfamiliar and makes his stomach twist, even if it’s about a million times easier to spell than Will Van de Kamp. He erases it too hard, and tears a hole in his paper.
iii.
Wrapping paper is balled up in the corner of the room, and his dad is leaned back in his chair, cup of coffee in hand. Will decides that now might be a good time to ask the question he’s been wondering about. My Family he’d typed in the word document before stopping and staring at the word like it was foreign. The Van de Kamps were Dutch, but he isn’t Dutch, maybe. What was he? He wants to know, even though the idea scares him. Today is fitting. It’s his birthday. “Hey, Mom?” he starts warily.
“What is it, honey?” His mom piles dirty dishes in the sink, not looking over at him, humming to herself.
“What do you know about my birth parents?”
She drops a plate, and there is a familiar screech of porcelain on porcelain. “Why do you want to know about that?” she says, her voice cool.
“Well,” Will says carefully. “I’m ten years old now. And I just… wanted to know where I came from. You know?”
His dad is looking over at him. His mom turns off the water, and enters the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “All I know is that she was a single mother,” she says. “You were nearly a year old when you were brought to us.”
A year old. So his mother kept him for an entire year before giving him away. She watched him get big. What had happened to make her change her mind? Had there been something wrong with him? Or something wrong with her?
“Do you know her name?”
“No.” She wrenches the dish towel harshly between her palms. “William, why do you care?”
“I’m curious,” he snaps. “I’m allowed to be curious, aren’t I?”
His dad sets his coffee mug down carefully. “William, don’t talk to your mother that way,” he says calmly. “You do have a right to ask questions about your birth parents, of course, and we’ll be glad to help you find out whatever you want, but you have to understand how we feel about it.”
His mom sniffs loudly. She is going to cry.
Will stares down at the laptop. He loves his parents, and he wouldn’t trade them for anything. But he wants to know more about his birth parents. It’s like a scratchy feeling in his stomach that won’t go away. Who, what am I. “I understand,” he says. “I’m sorry. I love you guys.”
His mom smooths his hair, and kisses his head. “It’s okay, baby,” she sniffs into his hair. “I love you, too.”
That night, Will takes his father’s laptop up to his room and pulls out the box from his closet. He studies his birth certificate. William Mulder Scully. He Googles those names on a whim. Mulder Scully.
To his surprise, old news articles pop up. The most recent is from 2008. Ex-FBI agent and wanted fugitive Fox Mulder has had his name cleared after his assistance in rescuing Special Agent Monica Bannan and another young woman from a deadly medical procedure. Also assisting in the rescue were Mulder’s old partner, Dr. Dana Scully, and Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Mulder and Scully were well known around the country for their work on paranormal cases in the FBI…
Will suppresses a gasp. That has to be it, doesn’t it? He clicks on the images accompanying the article, captioned Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, 1999. I look like them, he thinks. This has to be it.
“My parents were FBI agents?” he mutters out loud.
iv.
He’s out with friends as soon as school lets out, but he has a series of texts from his mom asking him to be home in time for dinner. They probably have something corny planned. Will kicks a soccer ball around, pretends to be annoyed, like he’s secretly not looking forward to having his parents to himself. His mom’s been busy with work; his dad’s been babysitting his two-year-old cousin constantly. He thinks they want to have another baby. He runs home with grass stained sneakers.
They take him to dinner, and tell him he can order whatever he wants. He orders a steak. “You really go all out, don’t you, son?” his dad says, tousling his hair. His mom leans over him and sings Happy Birthday.
“You have a good voice,” his dad says, kissing his wife’s cheek. “Unlike some people.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I made all the dogs in the neighborhood go deaf,” he says. “Are you sure Mom’s always been that good? I remember her singing badly when I was really little. Fu - I mean freaking tone deaf,” he says, catching himself. Now that he’s learned to cuss, it’s hard to remember to stop around his parents.
“I’ve always had a beautiful voice,” his mom says dramatically, making a face.
“You sure? Jeremiah was a bullfrog, Mom.”
“The title of that song is Joy to the World, son,” his dad says, stealing a bite of his cake.
“And I never sang that to you, I hate that song,” his mother says. “I sang Michael Row Your Boat Ashore.” She smiles, remembering. “Oh, you were so cute in your UFO pajamas!”
“Hmmph,” his dad says with a laugh. “Who the hell puts their kid in UFO pajamas? UFOs, the whole thing is ridiculous.”
Yeah, well, that’s probably because my birth parents were UFO nuts, Will thinks. He still hasn’t told his parents about the folded-up printouts that have been stashed in his desk for three years now. He eats cake with his parents, and tries to forget about the fact that he’s adopted.
v.
“I’m sorry about this,” he tells his dad. “Curiosity killed the cat, right?”
“It’s okay,” his dad says, rising up to kiss his head. He’s managed to outgrow his dad, go figure. “I love you no matter what, okay? Your mom, too. You need to do this. We understand.”
“Thanks,” William says. “I love you too,” he says, and goes.
The bald man, Walter Skinner, is waiting for him outside the hotel. “You must be William Van de Kamp,” he says, shaking his hand.
He almost says call me Will, but they will know him as William. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” he says, climbing into the passenger seat of the car.
They drive. He receives four texts from his mom: you can do this!, don’t be scared baby, they must’ve been good people if they could make you, i love you. His mom is trying to be nice about this, and he can tell. Positivity, that’s her speciality, and she told him fairly early on about his adoption in an attempt to avoid a dramatic reveal, he’s read the adoption parenting books, but she’s not okay with him meeting his birth parents. He can tell, she wants her baby all to herself and who can blame her? But she’s trying a little too hard. Who even fucking know if they’re good people. All he knows about them is from articles from the Internet, and an old Cops episode on Hulu. “What are my parents like?” he asks.
The man, Skinner, scoffs. “Crazy,” he says.
He gives Skinner a look. Seriously, you’re gonna tell some kid who’s never met his parents that they’re crazy?
“Okay, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “They’re hardened. They’ve been through a lot. But they really love each other, and they really love you. They regret giving you up.” Skinner turns to face him. “How long did you say you’ve been digging into this?”
“Five years.”
He laughs. “Okay, yeah, you take after them for sure.”
They drive up a long driveway to this little country house not unlike the one he grew up in. Unremarkable. William climbs out of the car, and finds that his legs are shaky. He’s a little scared. He wonders if they know what day it is. He imagines birthdays with these people instead of his parents, imagines a tone deaf birthday song. He images playing here, sitting on this porch, living here. He can’t picture life with Fox Mulder and Dana Scully because he doesn’t even know what they’re like. He hums Happy Birthday under his breath, still tasting the leftover chocolate cake from breakfast.
Skinner mounts the porch, knocking on the door. “Hey, Mulder, Scully,” he calls out. “There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”
William climbs the steps, heading for the screen door tentatively. Happy birthday, dear William, happy birthday to you…
Skinner holds the door, and he enters. “Hi,” he says. “I’m William.”