Bill and Maggie Scully did the best they could. They helped her get into the best schools to teach her allthe things they thought she ought to know-- caring for people, and literature, and science. There was a great deal of science, from the details of the theory of relativity to why it was not possible that aliens were abducting humans. (Quantico still had an occasional problem with aliens.)
Scully found it all rather dull, but she pressed her lips together and learned it anyway. When she couldn't stand it any longer, she would go down and bully her brother Bill into giving her a shooting lesson. As she got older, she found her regular lessons more and more boring. Consequently, the visits to the shooting range become more and more frequent.
When she was twenty, her father found out.
"Riflery is not proper behavior for a young lady," he told her in he gentle-but-firm tone he had learned in command training.
Scully tilted her head to the side. "Why not?"
"It's . . . well, it's simply not done."
Scully considered. "Aren't I a young lady?"
"Yes, of course you are, my dear," said her father with relief. He had been bracing himself for a flood of angry words, which was how his other children reacted to reprimands.
"Well, I shoot," Scully said, with the air of one delivering an unshakeable argument. "So it is *too* done by a young lady."
"That doesn't make it proper, dear," put in her mother gently.
"Why not?"
"It simply doesn't," Maggie said firmly, and that was the end of the shooting lessons.
I don't know where you could have gotten the impression that I am. Because I'm *not*. Besides, I'm only reading LJ to avoid going back to rhymes, so you shouldn't encourage me, really.
no subject
Bill and Maggie Scully did the best they could. They helped her get into the best schools to teach her allthe things they thought she ought to know-- caring for people, and literature, and science. There was a great deal of science, from the details of the theory of relativity to why it was not possible that aliens were abducting humans. (Quantico still had an occasional problem with aliens.)
Scully found it all rather dull, but she pressed her lips together and learned it anyway. When she couldn't stand it any longer, she would go down and bully her brother Bill into giving her a shooting lesson. As she got older, she found her regular lessons more and more boring. Consequently, the visits to the shooting range become more and more frequent.
When she was twenty, her father found out.
"Riflery is not proper behavior for a young lady," he told her in he gentle-but-firm tone he had learned in command training.
Scully tilted her head to the side. "Why not?"
"It's . . . well, it's simply not done."
Scully considered. "Aren't I a young lady?"
"Yes, of course you are, my dear," said her father with relief. He had been bracing himself for a flood of angry words, which was how his other children reacted to reprimands.
"Well, I shoot," Scully said, with the air of one delivering an unshakeable argument. "So it is *too* done by a young lady."
"That doesn't make it proper, dear," put in her mother gently.
"Why not?"
"It simply doesn't," Maggie said firmly, and that was the end of the shooting lessons.
I don't know where you could have gotten the impression that I am. Because I'm *not*. Besides, I'm only reading LJ to avoid going back to rhymes, so you shouldn't encourage me, really.