"Lullaby For a New Generation"
by Juliettt@aol.com (September 26, 1995)

Another kinder, gentler X-Files story.  This one is part of my Marriage
series and takes place sometime after "Life Changes" but before 
"Room Service."  There are several references in it to my earlier story,
simply called "Lullaby."  RaEnright wrote a sequel to that one called
"Another Lullaby" that really isn't necessary for the understanding of
this story, but she's a good writer and I recommend it anyway.

And, of course, Dana Scully (Mulder), Fox Mulder, and everybody
else you recognize here from _The X-Files_ belong to Chris Carter
and Ten-Thirteen Productions and FOX Broadcasting, not to mention
the marvellously talented actors Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny.
I am simply borrowing them for the purpose of these -- and other --
stories.  I have no permission, but neither do I intend any offense, 
only a lot of respect and love.  Any other characters are mine, as is 
this story.

Special thanks go to Sheryl and Mary Anne for their always-helpful
comments.


****************************************
"Lullaby For a New Generation"
by Juliettt@aol.com 
****************************************

	The sharp cry cut through the night, waking them both.  
There was a momentary surge of panic and adrenaline, the result
of years of law enforcement work.  Then, as their surroundings
registered on sleep-benumbed brains,  they slowly breathed a sigh 
of relief, their heart rates settling back to normal.  Scully struggled 
upright in bed, her eyes blinking in an attempt to draw in what little 
moonlight shone into the room through the blinds.  She did *not* 
want to turn on the lamp and fully awaken Mulder.  When she 
reached to throw back the covers, however, she felt his hand, warm 
and strong, on her wrist.

	"I'll go."

	She chuckled softly.  "Mulder, as wonderful as you are, 
there are just some things you can *not* do."

	He laughed in response.  "Stay put.  I'll be right back."  And 
before she could protest he was out of bed and padding across the 
room.  She sat back against the headboard and watched him go, 
saw him for that brief instant that his tall form passed through a silver 
moonbeam that struck the floor halfway between the bed and the 
door.  The light caught in the fine hairs on his back and illuminated 
them.  She also saw in that all-too-short moment that his hair was 
messy from sleep and that he was yawning silently.

	She smiled.  What a dear, dear man.

	He wasn't romantic -- at least, not in the ways that
traditionally defined romance.  But he was thoughtful.  

	He might not -- and never had -- surprise her with flowers.  
<Yet>, she reminded herself, for he *was* unpredictable, and might, 
just when she had begun to count on the fact that he never would, do 
just that.  

	He had never hired a strolling violinist when they were out 
to dinner.  Of course, they were usually too busy debating the merits 
of one paranormal theory or another to listen to the music, anyway.  

	There *had* been several rather memorable late night picnics, 
but they usually doubled as UFO sightings.

	No, Mulder showed his affections in rather more unique and 
creative ways.  Up until a few months ago he had routinely 
accompanied her in to work for early morning autopsy calls just so 
she would not have to go alone, and then he would slip out and buy 
her an extra large mocha and a croissant to be consumed after she 
was finished.  He'd make certain the car was always full of fuel when 
he knew she would need it.  Or he would sneak home during lunch 
when he knew she was going to be in meetings or the lab all 
afternoon and put a pot of spaghetti sauce or a casserole on to cook 
so that when they arrived home, hungry and exhausted, there would 
be a hot meal waiting.  And then, if she were especially tired, he 
would insist on doing all the dishes instead of simply drying them as 
he usually did, and maybe even run her a hot bath and leave her to 
soak the stress of the day away.  And then, too, he gave a mean 
backrub. . . .

	So what if he didn't give her flowers and candy and soft 
music?  He gave her his love and respect and time and gratefully 
accepted the same from her.  She supposed she should not have
been surprised; even during the early days of their partnership she
had been struck by his consideration.  For a long time she had 
thought of it as simple overprotectiveness, but now she knew
better.

	And, of course, this thoughtfulness was not one-sided; Dana
herself was fully as capable of giving as receiving.  But she had never
met another man who was so capable of both strength and 
tenderness as was her husband.

	And on nights like tonight he would willingly climb out of their
warm bed to fetch their squalling son and bring him to his mother to 
be fed, knowing that he could not fall back asleep because he would 
have to take the little boy back again once he was sated. . . .

	There was a soft shuffling noise and then her eyes, now 
accustomed to the darkness, could just barely make out his shadow 
in the doorway.  Then he crossed the room, and when he hit that shaft
of moonglow she saw, in his arms, the tiny bundle snuggled close and 
warm against his upper chest, the baby's fine hair the deep brown of his 
father's.  The picture filed itself in her mind almost without conscious
thought, adding to the many mental snapshots she had taken and put
away over the past few months.  She smiled again.  When William was 
born Fox had been so disappointed -- delighted, of course, in their son, 
but disappointed that he had not had Dana's flaming red hair.  He had, 
however, been gleeful when the baby opened his eyes and regarded his 
daddy with his mother's deep, clear blue gaze.

	The bedsprings creaked as Fox carefully sat down and swung 
his legs up onto the bed, cradling his precious burden as though it were 
the most valuable thing in the world.  He waited until she was ready and 
then almost reluctantly laid the baby in her arms.  She accepted him 
and smiled down at him although she knew William could not see her 
face, and began to nurse him.

	"Hey, little one," she whispered, and bent to kiss his head.  
Her son, of course, ignored her, intent on getting what he wanted.  
She laughed a little.  In that he was *definitely* like his daddy.

	Mulder put his hand behind her back and pushed slightly and 
she scooted forward, knowing what he wanted.  He carefully slid 
behind her, pulling her back against his chest so that he could hold 
them both, his wife and their son, in a strong embrace.  She settled 
back against him with a contented sigh, and for a long time the room 
was filled with a silence broken only by the sounds of soft breathing 
and the baby suckling and swallowing.

	She closed her eyes, surrounded by the two men she loved -- 
her "boys," as she called them.  Her fingers stroked the baby's head, 
curling strands of his thick, silky hair around her forefinger.

	William Fox.  Mulder had *not* wanted to pass on his name 
to the baby, but she had insisted.  

	"I want to name him after both of our fathers and *his*, Mulder."

	"Scully. . . ."

	"We can make it his middle name, then.  Please, Fox.  This 
is really important to me."

	As always he could not resist her.  And a part of him was 
flattered, really, and proud that he had a son, that his beloved wife 
wanted to name their first child after him.  And, too, perhaps this 
would help to heal that old wound, the one that had made the sound 
of his own name so unbearable to him for so many years.  Every time 
he had heard it he had heard in his mind his sister calling him for help.  
His parents had refused to call him anything else, of course, and 
Scully's mother had always called him "Fox."

	And, after they were married, Dana had begun calling him 
"Fox," too -- but only on occasion.  Usually only when they were 
alone, and in their husband-and-wife roles rather than in their FBI-
partner roles.  Funny, though -- when they were at their *most* intimate 
they typically reverted to "Mulder" and "Scully."  It made sense, really 
-- when he had first begun to love her sshe had been "Scully," not 
"Dana". . . .  But her occasional use of his first name was healing, too.

	Slowly she became aware that William had stopped nursing.  
She felt his soft, slight baby breath warm against her skin, its echo 
on the back of her neck where Fox had evidently fallen asleep.  She 
smiled again, then frowned slightly.  She really did not want to wake 
him, but his arms were wrapped around her.

	Suddenly she felt soft lips brushing the side of her neck just 
below her ear, and shivered.

	"I'm not asleep," he whispered.  She smiled.  "Junior tanked 
up again for the night?"

	She snorted.  "Fox, you have *such* a way with words."

	He chuckled.  "I'll take him back."

	She remained motionless for a moment longer, just enjoying 
the feeling of this night, the velvet darkness of the room enfolding 
them, the mingled scents of sweet baby skin and musky adult male 
and shampoo and fabric softener, and sighed.  "I wish we could just 
stay like this," she whispered.

	"Me, too," he whispered back, his arms tightening around 
her.  But they couldn't, and they knew that.  Morning and a return to 
the outside world was only a few hours away, and there would, in all
probability, be a new case awaiting them.  Once again she was 
grateful for the fact that as division heads they had less field work to 
do, and that back in the nineties the Bureau had implemented a 
daycare system that placed children in nurseries in the same 
buildings in which their parents worked.  They were especially 
blessed in this respect because the daycare center was on the third 
floor, just down the hall and around the corner from their offices.  And 
once again she wondered whether Skinner had . . . no.  He couldn't 
know for certain when had split the X-Files divison and given them
those offices that they would get married, much less that they would 
have children. . . . Could he?

	She smiled softly, thinking of all the times she or Mulder
had stepped out of the office for one thing or another.  Eventually
they no longer even bothered explaining, just sheepishly walked out
the door for a quick trip to the nursery.  Mulder in particular had
made quite a nuisance of himself, even going so far as to take files
in with him and sit in a chair next to the crib.  Except the workers
never complained.  But then, she thought with a grin, the workers
were all women, and most women had a soft spot for a good-
looking -- make that a *very* good-looking -- man who quite 
obviously adored his infant son.

	She stifled a snicker.  Once she had returned to the office
from one meeting or another and had encountered Mulder seated 
at his desk, eyeing her half-sheepishly, half-defiantly over the file 
whose pages he turned with his left hand.  His right was occupied 
with gently rocking William, who lay sound asleep in his car seat 
on his daddy's desk.  Next to the seat sat a large styrofoam cup 
half-full of coffee, and it looked for all the world like their son had 
drunk his way through half a cup of mocha and then fallen asleep.  
She remembered shaking her head at Mulder, who ducked his
head back into the file.

	"Mulder. . . ."

	"Hey, he's not interfering with my work."

	"And you're not interfering with his sleep, either, I notice."
She couldn't help but smile.  How could she rebuke him, especially
when he looked at her like that with those eyes of his?  No wonder 
the women down in daycare had let him sneak William, of whom they
were excessively fond, out of the nursery.  It was probably a very 
good thing that the baby had her eyes instead of his, because a 
little boy who looked exactly like her *big* boy would likely get by 
with almost anything.  And she knew she would have to be the 
disciplinarian in the family, because Fox was absolutely besotted.  
Just look at him sitting there, trying so hard to convince her he had 
his mind fully engaged with the case while his right hand, his large 
hands capable of such gentle tenderness both with her and with 
their son, slowly rocked the car seat, one long index finger clutched 
in William's tiny hand.

	It was the finger that did it.  She melted.

	"Fox."  He looked up from his folder.  "It's lunchtime.  And
it's nice outside -- let's go for a walk -- *with* William."  He flashed
her a radiant grin and dropped the file.  Minutes later they were
walking by the reflecting pool.  She sank to "their" bench and
Mulder sat down beside her, placing the baby carrier between them
on the seat.

	This bench had seen a lot of changes in their lives -- Deep
Throat, Mr. X . . . the painful separation when they had closed the
X-Files. . . . Sorrowful conversations with Margaret Scully during
Dana's abduction . . . more late-night meetings than either of them
cared to admit . . . and, finally, Mulder's proposal and her own
acceptance on the day the X-Files division had been split.

	They sat there in relative silence, quietly munching on
sandwiches and watching the gentle breeze play through their son's 
hair.  Finally Scully sighed and stood.

	"Guess he has to go back, huh," Mulder smiled wryly.

	She reached out and tousled his hair playfully.  "'Fraid so.
It's hard on me, too, Mulder. . . ."

	He nodded.  "I know."  But they could not be together
otherwise.  He wouldn't dream of asking Scully to quit working.  It
had never seemed fair to him that simply because it was the
woman's body that carried the child she should have to make all
the sacrifices.  And this, really, was better than most families could
do: William did not have them all the time, but he had *both* of his
parents nearby and involved and loving him -- and each other.  

	They walked back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building slowly,
and Mulder returned William to daycare without a word of protest.
But somehow she knew that would not be their son's last trip to
his parents' office. . . . And maybe next time it would be his 
mother who would wheedle the workers. . . .

	Her mind snapped back to the present.  She had no idea
how long she had been sitting there thinking, but her back was 
beginning to cramp.  She sighed again and sat forward, allowing 
Mulder to slip out from behind her.  He stood beside the bed and held 
out his arms for the sleeping baby, cradling him high against his 
shoulder in case their son awoke and felt the need to burp.  She 
reached up and traced a single index finger down the tiny back and 
smiled up into her husband's eyes.  He smiled back down at her 
through the nearly opaque darkness and slowly crossed the room 
and went down the hallway to the nursery.

	Dana slid back down against the pillows and waited, following 
in her mind's eye their progress through the silent house.  Now he 
would be passing the spare bathroom, now turning into the doorway of 
the corner room that had been the library until the baby was born.  At 
first they had kept the cradle in their room but now William was 
sleeping in a crib and they had decided they needed to get some part
of their pre-baby life back.  And their son was smart, as was to be 
expected with parents like his.  He knew instinctively when they were 
in the room, even if he could not see them, and would keep them 
awake with his cooing and babbling and whimpering.  They had a baby 
monitor that a more experienced Melissa had given them as a shower 
gift, and they used it.

	It had been hard, especially the first few nights with the monitor.
One or the other -- or both -- of them had hopped up every half hour just 
to run down and check on the baby.  There was the sound of creaking 
wood; he had simply turned over onto his back.  He whimpered a little; 
he was dreaming, his lips making a soft sucking motion that made 
Mulder stifle a laugh in his palm.  <Greedy, boy.  You're just greedy.>  
The monitor was too quiet -- was he all right?  That was when they had 
discovered that their son "performed" for an audience.  After that they --
and he -- had slept much better.

	Now, she realized other merits of the baby monitor.  She 
could identify the exact moment Mulder entered the room and 
crossed to the crib.  She listened for the sounds of his putting the 
baby down but instead heard a faint creaking.  He was settling down 
into the big rocker that sat in the corner.  <Oh, Mulder,> she thought 
with a smile.  She knew William was sound asleep and thus didn't 
need any "settling down" for the night.  But evidently Mulder *did*.

	And then a quiet, musical sound.  She furrowed her brow and 
reached for the volume knob.

	Mulder was singing, crooning softly to their son. 

	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. . . .

	She sat in the darkness, stunned. 
		
	Her father's lullaby.

	<How did he know?>

	The song went on and on, Mulder simply repeating the old 
air until his voice, growing softer and softer, finally trailed off halfway 
through the chorus.  She listened carefully but heard nothing.  Even 
the creaking of the big rocking chair had stopped.

	Curious, she slipped out of bed and padded across the 
hardwood floor, down the hall, and into the corner nursery.

	Fox Mulder was sitting in the chair, his son held securely 
against his chest, and both were sound asleep.  Another ray of 
moonlight cast his face in profile and illuminated the faint smile on his 
lips.  

	She stood watching them for a moment with a smile of her
own, then shook her head and sighed.

	She leaned over them.  "Mulder," she said softly.

	"Hmm?"  He stirred and opened eyes like hazel stars and 
smiled at her.  "Guess I fell asleep."

	She reached for their son and settled him in the crib, then 
turned back to Mulder, offering a hand to help him up.  Instead he 
surprised her by pulling her down into his lap.  The chair creaked as 
he began slowly rocking again.

	"Fox. . . ."

	"Shhh," he shushed her.  "Don't want the boy to get any ideas 
about going back to bed with you.  Not that I blame him in the 
slightest," he finished with an audible, though sleepy, grin.

	She giggled into his chest.  "You're incorrigible."

	"Thank you."

	They rocked for a minute or two in silence, listening to their 
son's soft breathing.  Then, "Mulder?"

	"Hmmm?"

	"How did you know about that song?"

	He cuddled her closer.  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

	"After everything we've seen together, you really believe that?"

	He brushed a kiss against her forehead.  "Sorry.  But it 
definitely qualifies as an extreme possibility. . . ."

	"Try me."

	She felt his grin against her forehead and smiled, knowing 
what he was thinking.  "Mulder. . . ."
	"It was Thanksgiving 1995 -- the first one I spent with your 
family."

	She nodded.  "I remember."

	"Do you remember how I found you singing to Krista after 
dinner?"  She nodded again and he went on.  "And then you told me 
about your father singing to you when you were little."  

	Yes.  She remembered.  She had tearfully told him of her 
father's ballads and of how she regretted that she would never be 
able to thank him -- or to hear him again.

	He took a deep breath.  "That night -- something woke me 
up.  I heard -- a voice."

	"A voice?"

	"Mmm-hmmm.  A man's voice.  Coming from your room."  
He hugged her more tightly.  "I peeked in.  You were asleep -- and 
alone -- but I definitely heard this voice -- singing."  He whispered 
into her hair, "Scully, he was singing that song."

	She pulled back slightly to look at him.  His face, illuminated 
by moonlight, was serious.

	"You're kidding."

	He slowly shook his head.  "I told you it was extreme."  He 
reached out and touched her cheek.

	She was silent for a moment, remembering the dream she had
had that night of her father sitting beside her on the edge of the bed as
he had used to, singing to her.  She had had dreams of him before and
since, but that one had been so lucid as to seem . . . real.  Even had 
it not, if Fox said he had heard him. . . . She nodded.  "I believe you."

	His smile was brighter than the moonlight.

	"Someday we'll have to tell William."

	"Someday," he agreed, then hesitated.  "Dana -- I . . . I hope 
I didn't hurt you by singing that song."  When she shook her head he 
smiled again in relief.  "I -- know how close you and your father were.  
I want to be as good a father to our children as he was to you. . . ."

	She leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth.  "*You*
are a *wonderful* father, Fox."  He closed his eyes in a silent 
thank-you.  She knew how important it was for him to hear that.  He
had been so concerned that his own father's coldness might have
passed itself on to him.  Not for the first time, Scully marvelled --
Fox was more like Bill Scully than he was like his own father.  

	<You would have loved him, Ahab.>

	"Now come back to bed."

	"You don't have to ask me twice," he grinned.  She stood up 
and this time he took her hand in his and stood also, then stooped 
slightly and lifted her in his arms.

	"Mulder. . . ."

	"Hush.  Just let me enjoy this.  I couldn't do it for a long time."  
He held her for a moment, looking at the crib.  "And maybe 
someday. . . ."

	She smiled and kissed the top of his head.  "One at a time, 
Mulder. . . ."

	He smiled up at her and then walked back down the hall, still 
carrying her, and placed her on their bed.   He slid in beside her and 
she snuggled back into his arms.

	Their son would know and love his father.  And because of his 
father he would know both of his grandfathers as well.  Three 
generations of fathers and sons, bound by a love stronger than 
death. . . .

	They slept.


*End*

-- Dedicated to my grandfathers Victor aand Edwin, of blessed
memory --


Juliettt's Marriage Series:

"Epithalamion"
"Wonders Wrought" (2 parts)
"Waking"
"On the Road"
"Girls' Day Out"
"Watching the Storm"
"Life Changes" (2 parts)
"Success"
"Childhood Lullabies"
"Lullaby For a New Generation"
"Room Service"