"Lullaby" 
by Juliettt@aol.com (July 16, 1995)

This one is a brief vignette that is yet another attempt to get a 
glimpse into Mulder's and Scully's personal lives.  Like so many
other X-Philes I often think that the events that take place *between*
the cases are far more interesting (wouldn't you like to have been a
fly on the wall when Scully told her friend, as we discover in "Jersey
Devil," that Mulder was "cute"?  Or when Mulder and Scully 
witnessed one another's living wills?  Or when Scully told her friend
and ex-student from "Soft Light" "a lot about" Mulder?).  With that
in mind I wrote this.  It takes place Thanksgiving 1995 and assumes
Mulder's safe return from the boxcar (we all know he's gonna do it;
it's just a matter of *how* and *when*, right?  RIGHT?).  Before you
pull out your flamethrowers, yes, I know there is no evidence that
Mulder has ever spent a holiday at the Scullys or that he will in the
immediate future.  Then again, remember that last Christmas Scully
*had* just been returned. . . . And besides, this is fanfic!  Here we
may go where no episode has gone before!  And it *is* a little 
X-Filey. . . (cue theme).

And once again, _The X-Files_ and the characters of Dana Scully
and Fox Mulder and Bill, Margaret, Melissa and Bill Jr. Scully 
belong to Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions and FOX
Broadcasting, or some amalgamation of the three (and Gillian 
Anderson, David Duchovny, Sheila Larken, etc., etc.), and they are
used very lovingly but without permission.  I arbitrarily chose the
name "Brian" for the younger Scully brother and assigned names
to other characters at random.  No, really, I *did* put some thought
into it.  Really.  I don't know who owns the songs.  This story,
however, belongs to me.

And awaaaay we go. . . .

***************************
"Lullaby"
by Juliettt@aol.com
***************************

	"Where's Scully?"  Mulder felt he was in danger of 
overstaying his welcome at the annual Scully family Thanksgiving 
feast.  This year he had agreed to join them, ostensibly to celebrate 
his own safe return after the fiasco in New Mexico.  In reality he was 
still rejoicing over Scully's return and the fact that she was here at 
all to celebrate this, the first Thanksgiving since her abduction.  A 
thousand Thanksgivings would never be enough rejoicing, he thought.

	But he still felt a little out of place.  Melissa was there, of 
course, and he had gradually grown actually to *like* the woman 
he had found so annoying in the first days of Scully's illness.  But 
then her two brothers were there with their wives and children, and 
Captain Scully's sister and brother and their families from Michigan, 
and Margaret's brother from Maine.  The "extended family" were 
staying in hotels, but Mrs. Scully had insisted on his spending the 
night and had given him Brian's old room where he had stayed last 
Christmas.  
	
	Now, however, he was having second thoughts.  This really 
*wasn't* his family, after all.  Of course, had it not been for the 
Scullys he would have spent this holiday as he had spent so many 
others, alone, with just the television and his fish for company.  
Better that than winding up with another Kristen Kilar, he told 
himself yet again.  But then, almost anything was better than that.

	And so Scully had wheedled and threatened him and so 
instead of watching the Macy's Day Parade from the relative 
discomfort of his own couch he had stuffed himself with homemade 
everything and argued football with the Scully siblings (including 
Scully herself; once again he had been surprised at the depth of her 
knowledge and passion about something in which he had had no
idea she had any interest at all) and wrestled with the little Scully 
nieces and nephews that just seemed to gravitate to him as if to
one of their own.  Now he was tired (whether from the turkey 
triptophans or the winding down of five small children or some 
combination of the two, he had no idea) and beginning to feel in the 
way again.  Maybe he'd be better off just saying his goodbyes and 
thank-yous and heading back home.  Hah.  Some home -- an empty 
apartment and a few fish. . . .

	Margaret looked up from the leftovers she was packing 
away.  "Oh, Fox.  I think she went in to put Krista to bed."  He 
nodded and went in search of his partner.  Mrs. Scully looked after 
him and smiled.

	One of the redheaded men directed him down the hallway 
toward the bedrooms where the children were being put down for 
naps.  Mulder considered waiting for Scully to reappear but had no 
idea how long it took to get a rambunctious four-year-old to sleep, 
and he really felt he should leave.  He wondered how he would find 
the right room without causing quite a stir.

	He needn't have worried.  When he entered the hall he 
thought he heard the sweet, low sound of a woman singing.  As he 
neared a half-open door toward the end of the hall the voice became 
clearer.  It was Scully.  Her voice was a pure, sweet alto, and he 
stood transfixed listening to the simple Irish air she was singing to 
her niece:

	There was a fishmonger and sure, 'twas no wonder,
	For so were her mother and father before.
	She wheeled a wheelbarrow through streets dark and narrow
	Crying, "Cockles and mussels!  Alive, alive-oh!"
	"Alive, alive-oh, alive, alive-oh,"
	Crying, "Cockles and mussels!  Alive, alive-oh!"
	She died of a fever and nothing could save her
	And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
	Her ghost wheels a barrow through streets dark and narrow
	Crying "Cockles and mussels!  Alive, alive-oh!"
	"Alive, alive-oh, alive, alive-oh,"
	Crying "Cockles and mussels!"
	"Alive, alive-oh. . . ."

	He had never heard Scully sing before -- had not even known 
she *could* sing.  Well, of course *everyone* could sing, at least 
until about the third grade when their music teachers convinced them 
they couldn't.  But this -- this was beautiful.  He stood spellbound, 
listening as her voice softened and she sang the sad song of a lover 
leaving his sweetheart behind:

	Kathleen Mavourneen! the grey dawn is breaking,
	The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.
	The lark from her white wing the bright dew is shaking
	But Kathleen Mavourneen is slumbering still.
	O have you forgotten this day we must sever?
	O have you forgotten this day we must part?
	It may be for years and it may be forever --
	Then why are you silent, O voice of my heart?
	It may be for years and it may be forever --
	Then why are you silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

	Her voice held the low, clear note for a moment, then was 
silent.  He leaned toward the door, waiting for more, but heard 
nothing.  Tentatively, he peeked around the doorway.  Scully was 
stroking the sleeping girl's back with a small smile on her face.  He 
ducked back before she could see him.  Then there was the soft 
sound of cloth against cloth and he realized she was getting up.  
He turned to go but was still in the hallway when she slipped out, 
closing the door quietly behind her.  She looked up and froze when 
she saw him, then gave him a slightly embarrassed smile.  He 
smiled back and waited for her at the hall door.

	"Scully . . ." he didn't know quite what to say.  "That was 
beautiful."

	She blushed slightly.  "Thanks -- my father used to sing us 
to sleep when we were really little.  Before he advanced in rank and 
the Navy started sending him away on tours of duty."  She paused.  
"Even then when he was home on leave he would slip into our rooms 
at night to check on us.  If he found us awake he would sing old 
ballads to us.  Melissa was usually asleep."

	Mulder looked at her.  "But you stayed awake," he said 
softly.

	Scully nodded.  "It was the one time I had him all to myself.  
I grew to miss that -- even years later when we had grown apart a 
little.  Even after we fought about my joining the FBI.  He couldn't 
understand -- I don't know if he ever really understood.  I was always 
the 'good' one, you know?  Melissa was the rebel.  So when I went 
against Mom and Dad's advice to go into surgery and decided to join 
the Bureau it really hurt them.  Dad especially.  I think he thought I 
was rebelling against them.  Maybe I was, just a little.  But only 
because I *knew* this was right, for me."  She sighed unhappily.  
"I just wish I hadn't hurt him."

	Mulder reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder.  "He 
would have been proud of you, Scully."

	She shook her head.  "That's just it, Mulder.  I wanted him 
to be proud of me no matter what.  I spent my entire life trying to 
prove myself to them -- to him.  Bill was the oldest, and Melissa was 
the oldest girl.  Brian was the baby."  She grinned.  "I guess what 
they say about the middle child being the rebel isn't always true."

	"You're a good daughter, Dana Scully.  He loved you -- he 
was your father."

	She nodded.  "I know -- it's just that. . . ."  She sighed 
again.  "You know, Mulder, the last time I was home before he died, 
for my birthday, Daddy came into my room to say good night.  We 
had been calling each other 'Ahab' and 'Starbuck' for years, but that 
night I. . . . I guess it's silly, but. . . ."  

	Mulder saw her eyes fill.  "Whatever it is, it's not silly, 
Scully."

	She blinked and the tears hung on her lashes.  "Well, that 
night I called him 'Daddy' and asked him to sing this song to me 
. . . I hadn't heard it in years.  He looked at me kind of funny like he 
thought I was making fun of him or something -- I don't know if he 
ever knew how much the songs meant to me -- if I ever told him. . . ."

	Seeing that she was on the verge of tears, Mulder 
squeezed her shoulder encouragingly.  "Go on."

	She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  "He looked 
at me for a long time and then he said, 'Okay, Dana.'  But Brian 
was home from graduate school and he came in and asked Dad 
something.  He got up and left and didn't come back.  We never 
talked about it."  She paused, biting her lip.  Her next words came 
in a rush.  "I just wish he'd been able to sing to me one more 
time. . . ."

	Mulder started to reach for Scully but stopped himself.  
What could he say?  That she should remember the times the 
Captain *had* sung to her?  That sometimes things didn't go just as 
we planned them but we had to go on anyway?  That her father had 
loved her?  That he *had* been proud of her even though he had not
lived to see her succeed in her chosen profession, the last thing
about which they had disagreed?  They were all true sentiments, but 
none of them was the right one.  He knew something about regrets.  
His own father had died in the midst of a long-overdue reconciliation, 
and he still felt the pain of the things left unsaid.  And, if he had to do 
it over again, he would have let Sam watch that movie instead of 
insisting on the rerun of "The Magician". . . .

	So he simply nodded and smiled and squeezed her 
shoulder again.

	"Were you looking for me for some special reason?" she 
asked.

	He shook his head.  "No.  It was nothing.  Nothing at all."

*****

	That night Mulder was awakened by a low, soft sound he 
could not identify.  He sat up in bed, his heart racing.  There it was 
again -- it didn't sound threatening, but still. . . .

	He slid out of bed and padded to the door, eased it open 
and peeked out.  Nothing in the hallway.  He slipped out and stood 
silently, listening.

	It seemed to be coming from Scully's room across the hall.

	He tiptoed over.  Her door was open a crack, and he 
peeked in.

	She was sound asleep, curled up on one side of the bed
facing the doorway.

	But from the room there issued the unmistakable sound of 
a deep baritone voice singing softly:

	Over in Killarney, many a year ago,
	My mother sang a song to me, in tone so sweet and low.
	Just a simple little ditty, in her dear old Irish way,
	Yet I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me today.
	Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, too-ra-loo-ra-li
	Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, hush now, don't you cry.
	Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, too-ra-loo-ra-li
	Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, hush, 'tis an Irish lullaby. . . .

	Scully was smiling in her sleep.  He closed the door gently 
and went back to bed and dreamed of Samantha.

*END*


*************************************************************************************
Dedicated to my father, who really did sing these songs, and 
others, to my brother and me when we were little (and even 
when we were no longer so little).  I love you, Dad. . . .

				-30-