Okay, here's another super-short mood piece.  Hey, I'm on vacation, and
it's boring.  At least I have something to show for the seven hours I spend
on my computer daily. (I'm not kidding.  My dad's afraid I'm turning into a
computer nerd.)  I didn't even bother to flesh this out on paper first.  I
actually based the entire story around a lullaby I like, and wanted to fit
into a story.
   Grrr... all characters belong to Fox and Chris Carter... no infringement
intended... I really hate these disclaimers...  Insert favorite
disclaimer.............. here: (No, here:...... )  Here goes... 

                     PRETTY LITTLE HORSES
                By Alyse Wax (AlyseW@aol.com)
                              (© 01/05/95)

     Scully glanced at her watch.  11:23 A.M.  Mulder was never this late
to work.  She tried calling his apartment, but if he was home, he wasn't
answering.  She should have expected something like this to happen.  Sam
disappeared 22 years ago today.  Mulder still hadn't given up hope.
     She tried calling Mulder once more.  That's it, she thought.  I better
go find him.  He shouldn't be alone today.
     Arriving at Mulder's apartment, she received no answer at the door. 
She yelled in to him, but still there was no response.  The logical,
scientific part of Dana Scully kicked in.  He would have opened the door to
her, no matter what. The next place would be a bar.     She went directly
to Mulder's favorite pub, which also happened to be across the street. 
There, in a dark corner, she saw Mulder's sad form slumped over the scarred
table, upon which were at least a dozen beer bottles.  Great, Scully
thought.
     She walked back to him, ignoring the rude remarks made by several of
the drunk patrons, and just stood there, looming over him, not sure what to
say.  Upon closer inspection, there appeared to be in the upwards of twenty
bottles on and around the table.
     "I miss her," Mulder finally said, his speech slurred almost beyond
recognition.  "God, I miss her." 
     "Mulder, the way to deal with it is not by trying to drown the
memories in booze, but to--,"
     "Talk about it,"  Mulder finished.  "I've talked about it, and it
hasn't helped.  NOT AT ALL!"  His sudden outburst caught the attention of
several other patrons, and startled Scully.
     "Come on, let's take you home," she coaxed gently, trying to pull him
to his feet.
     "Why?  To face that lonely apartment, alone?  I'm always alone," he
spat out bitterly.
     "No you're not.  You're not alone.  You have me."  She succeeded in
getting him to stand, and carefully led him out of the pub to his
apartment.
     Once there, she helped him out of his coat an shoes, then tucked him
into bed like she would a three-year-old.
     "Don't go.  I don't want to face the nightmares alone."
     "You're NOT alone, Mulder.  Don't EVER think that way again."
     "Don't want to sleep."
     "Ssh.  You'll feel better.  Just relax." 
     Scully sat in a chair by Mulder's bedside, holding his hand
comfortingly.  She began to sing a song her mother sang to her, when she
was sad or lonely or uncomfortable or came home with a scraped knee:
     Hush a bye
     Don't you cry
     Go to sleep my little baby
     When you wake, you will find
     All the pretty little horses
     Daples and Grays
     Pintos and Maize
     All the pretty little horses
     Hush a bye
     Don't you cry
     Go to sleep my little baby
     When you wake, you will find
     All the pretty little horses.

Finale.

This story is lovingly dedicated to the person who taught me this song.

What'd you think?  Hey, it was 1:30 A.M.