Based upon an Irish song called "Fil a rún ó" - I've posted an English translation at the bottom of the story (sorry that the Irish version is incredibly odd looking for those who don't speak the language!). Oneshot.

"Fill fill a rún ó
Fill a rún ó
is ná h'imigh uaim
Fill orm achuisle 's a stóir."

He knew every word of that ruddy song. Every last sodding line had been ingrained into his memory, thanks to his ex wife playing it from the scratched, battered vinyl on the record player. He knew the translation, too - not that he particularly wanted to know it, but it was one of those things that he couldn't quite forget.

He imagined that she, too, knew every single word. He'd never uttered her name to anyone else; not Sam, not Ray or Chris - hell, not even Alex. Maybe it was because he'd lost the argument as to what she was to be named, but he knew that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was that it broke his heart every time he so much as thought of her.

She was born Saiorse Ciara, after many heated arguments, on 23rd March 1960 at some ungodly hour of the morning, in St Mary's Hospital. Her eyes had been a bizarre steely blue - deep as an ocean - which he'd never seen in any other person, before or since. He hadn't seen her until the middle of the day, because he'd been working, as usual - but when he saw her, he knew that she was the most perfect little thing that he ever would be blessed enough to know. But he'd never told her that - perhaps it was one of his greatest regrets. That, along with never really saying goodbye.

Now, she probably wouldn't recognise him if she passed him in the street - nor would he recognise her, he thought. He wondered if she was tall like him or short like her mam; if her hair was still his dark blonde or had darkened to her mother's near black; if she had his temper or a remarkable aura of calm. To these questions, he had no answers, and it was assumed that he never would get them.

Last he'd heard, she'd just finished her O-Levels at the girls' grammar school, passing with the flying colours even he, in his limited capacity as her father, had been aware she was fully capable of, and continuing as the first in her family to study past the age of sixteen. He didn't know what she'd wanted to be - a doctor, perhaps, or a lawyer. All he really knew was that it broke his heart that he would never see her become this.

He'd left them on a cold Wednesday morning in January, at some point in the mid '70s - he wasn't entirely sure of the date, because everything seemed to pass so bloody quickly nowadays - without a backward glance, moving to the other side of the city, and later to London, without so much as a word to either Saiorse or her mother, but for the divorce papers. Now that, he regretted.

It was as they drove round the corner by the old Irish pub near Fenchurch East that he heard that song, and in the moment, the brief years when he'd known his own flesh and blood flashed before his eyes, as he ignored Alex's complaints about the way he was skidding round the bends in the road. It was like his heart had been ripped out of his chest for a few seconds as he remembered the little girl he'd left fatherless. And when it was placed back, as the sound of the music quickly faded, he remembered that without her, it would never be whole again.

This was one of the parts of the job that he most detested. He hated court - it bored him witless, waiting to be told to speak (and, according to Alex, the fact that he was unable to curse freely), sitting in silence and being unable to speak up when some jumped-up defence lawyer was spouting shit. Alex had already testified against the bastards who'd raped, beaten up and murdered women across the city - and now it was his turn. He strolled into the court room, coming to a halt at the stand, his usual pout resting upon his features. He surveyed the room; the jury, the judge, the defendants - his eyes lingering on the latter for a long, withering moment, before the judge spoke.

"DCI Hunt; the police officer responsible for the investigation into this case. Again, lawyers for the defence; if you'd like to begin your questioning."

He became increasingly annoyed by the mundane questions he was being asked; the lawyers attempting to trip him up on anything they could. He was convinced this case was watertight - even Alex had said so, having looked over the paperwork which, for once, he'd bothered to fill in, because he was so pissed off by the prospect of these scumbags getting off.

"And lawyers for the prosecution; Mr. Oliver Smythe, Mrs. Ellen Fenton-Jones and Miss Saoirse Hunt."

He froze at the name, staring blankly at the judge before turning his head slowly to look at the owner of the name. And he knew, as soon as she did, that it was her.

She still had his dirty blonde hair, though it was under the wig she wore, the roots were just about visible. Her eyes were large and feline, defined by thick black eyeliner and long lashes which contrasted with her pale skin and vivid irises - just the same colour as they'd been when she was a day old. She was tall - five eight or nine, perhaps - and dressed elegantly beneath her gown, a black pencil skirt and white blouse, with black suede court shoes to elongate her slender legs. She was beautiful, and he felt his heart swell with something which could have been pride, emotion, or perhaps Luigi's feeble attempt at a curry. He'd never know.

He was distracted, of course, all the way through the interrogation - she barely looked at him, and when she did, there wasn't even a glimmer of recognition in her steely eyes. He wondered if she knew, and was pretending she didn't, or if she remained blissfully ignorant. He didn't know which was best, really. She never spoke to him, only talking to her colleagues who would then proceed to question him as he pretended to be focused on what they were saying. He felt like his heart had stopped for however long they quizzed him for, almost falling over his own feet as he stumbled out of the courtroom upon his dismissal.

He didn't know how long he leant against the wall for, one hand on his head, the other bringing his hipflask up to his mouth, the sharp taste of his whiskey still failing to bring him back to his senses. Almost without thinking, he made his way to the public gallery, sitting down silently and watching the proceedings unfold in front of him; all the time watching her out of the corner of his eye. God alone knew where Alex, Chris and Ray were, and God alone cared - he was too focused on watching Saoirse's every move, every word, every breath. Normally, he'd have told himself to stop being a bloody poofter, but he couldn't take his eyes off her, nor remove her from his every thought. Maybe now he understood how Alex felt about Molly.

He sat there in silence for what must have been hours, until eventually the court was dismissed for the night, and it was just the lawyers there, packing up their papers and whatever else it was that they carried in those sodding enormous briefcases. He listened to the conversation between her and them, her Hyde accent two classes below their private school ones; the way she articulated every word. They said goodbye to each other, the two older colleagues nodding at her as they left the room. She clearly didn't realise that there was anyone sat in the room with her any more, never mind her own father, as she removed her wig and unpinned her long, curly hair from its tight bun, the waves bouncing as she ran her hands through them. He stood up, unsure of exactly what he was doing as he took silent steps down to her level, watching her silently for a few moments, or perhaps minutes, until she turned around, jumping slightly at the realisation that she had company.

"Saoirse Ciara Jeanne." he said, not entirely in control of his own voice as he spoke. A look of confusion crossed her face at the mention of her middle and Confirmation names, her head turned to the side just as her mother had always done when questioning anyone.

"How do you..." she started, her eyes narrowed, running a hand through her thick hair, before she stopped dead, and the silence between the two lone people in the large courtroom became completely deafening, "Oh my Christ."

"Yeah," he responded, nodding slightly, running a hair in a mirror of the way she had just a second or so ago, "Yeah."

English translation:
"Return, return oh love,
Return, oh love,
And do not leave me
Return to me oh heart and treasure."