Title: "Sixty-One Home Runs" Author: Alicia K. Email: Spartcus@execpc.com Spoilers: Unnatural. That's it. Rating: G (Oh, don't look so shocked.) Category: V, mega-UST Archive: Yes, please. Just drop me a line and let me know where. Summary: After the camera panned away ... Author's Note: Loved it, loved it, loved it! I think TV needs more writers who actually know how to write. You know, like people with degrees in literature. Disclaimer: All characters and situations referred to belong to Chris Carter, 1013 productions, and 20th Century Fox. I'm not getting any money from this, and no infringement is intended. XXXXXX "Hips, then hands." A gentle touch on her hip. "Hips, then hands." A soft murmur in her ear. "Hips, then hands." The tip of a pink tongue passes over her lips in concentration. "I think I'm getting it." "Hey, Mister! After nine my rates shoot up to twenty!" A cluck of the tongue. "Kids today. Give me three more, Poor Boy!" A bend of the head, lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, stirring the strands of hair that had slipped out of place during their oddly graceful swinging. "Three more." "Ready." The thunk of the machine, the swoosh of an awkward swing that moves her closer into his embrace, the clank of the ball hitting the fence behind them. "Hm. That's one." Again. Thunk, swoosh, clank. "Damn." "Come on, Scully, this one's for the game. Bases are loaded, two up and two down. Bring `em home." A wiggle of her small hips against his thighs as she firms her stance. "Okay. This one's going over the wall." Thunk of the machine, delicate grunt of effort, and the satisfying crack of the bat. A low whistle of approval in her ear, a surprised laugh from the pitcher's mound, a distant clank as the ball connects with the outfield fence. "Look, Mulder, I AM playing baseball!" "Agent Scully wins the game. Mulder crosses home, Exley and Dales are right behind him. The crowd goes wild." Muffled imitations of crowd noises in her ear, her soft giggle as she ducks her head, pleased. He extracts himself from around her reluctantly as Poor Boy saunters over to them. With a broad grin and a tip of his hat, he takes Mulder's twenty and disappears into the quiet night. She finds herself staring after him as Mulder wanders off to find her home run, trying to convince herself that he didn't really look like a little boy from the 1940s. The wood is heavy and solid in her grasp, and she takes a few experimental, solo swings. She chokes up on the bat, swings, taps the end into the dirt, twirls it in her hands. "So how did you like your birthday present?" His voice reaches her ears as he approaches. He holds the ball reverently, like a beloved childhood memory. She watches his long fingers cup the small, hard sphere and wonders who it was that taught him to love the game. She hopes it was his father, and smiles as she pictures a young Fox Mulder playing catch under the tutelage of a proud father. But she knows Fox Mulder, and her smile fades slightly when she realizes that her vision is most likely fantasy. She sighs and raises an eyebrow. "Mulder, my birthday was in February." "Well yeah, but you wouldn't have been surprised by getting a present then, would you?" "Actually, I would have been very surprised." He pretends to pout, and she hands him the bat. He looks at it in his hands, sliding his palm along its shaft in a loving caress. "My mom taught me to play baseball." She is surprised, and fails to hide that fact. He smiles, stepping away from her and swinging at the air heartily. "She was a fan. I can remember listening to the games with her on hot summer nights. I would lie in bed and listen to the radio playing in the living room, crickets chirping from outside, the sound of Sam's snoring in the other room." He rests the bat against his shoulder, looking off into right field. "She used to throw me fly balls and grounders. Couldn't do the line drives, though." He laughs softly, genuinely, at the memory. "She tried to teach Sam, too, real gentle pitches, but she always ran from the ball." She waits for the light moment to pass, for her partner's thoughts to turn towards the sad, but he turns to her with a smile. "Come on, Scully, I do believe I owe you an ice cream cone." Her answering smile is lovely. "I'll even let you buy me real ice cream." He slings a gentle arm over her shoulders, bat swinging from his free hand as they return to their cars. "You know," he begins casually, "Someone once told me that all the greats were actually aliens." The sound of her gentle laughter and the crunch of gravel under their feet fade into the night as sixty-one home runs twinkle above in the peaceful night sky. XXX That's it! My first post-episode vignette. Feedback makes me burst into loud song. Oh, wait. No, I don't need any encouragement to burst into loud song. But please, send me feedback anyway. "They're posting something to the door of the cathedral! I've created Lutherans!" --Lisa Simpson Oh, one more thing, in the spirit of the evening: Go Brewers!