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  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
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***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

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Fenway
by shannono
shannono@iname.com

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Vignette, Humor, Mulder/Scully Romance, a little angst

Rated R (for sex and language -- basically, it's smut)

No Spoilers

Summary: It's a beautiful day at the ballpark, folks ...

==========

Author's Notes: As fall moves in -- it's supposed to be 35
degrees in the morning here in Atlanta -- here's a nice,
warm -- uh, make that *hot* -- little vignette to take away
the chill. <g> This is the first story I've written in which
Mulder and Scully are already involved in a romantic (i.e.,
sexual) relationship. No, you don't get the whole gory
background of how it came to be, so get over it. <bg>

Thanks: To Stacey, for beta reading this one and not
laughing at me too much for all the baseball references.
Additional thanks follow the story.

Disclaimer: Fenway belongs to the Boston Red Sox, who belong to 
some high-powered owner with more money than he knows what to do
with. I'm not scared of any of them. The Yankees, however, are 
owned by George Steinbrenner, and you never know what he might 
do, so I was nice to them. Derek Jeter, Chuck Knoblauch, and Tino
Martinez take nice large chunks of Mr. Steinbrenner's money, but
despite that, they belong to themselves. And someone owns Ray-
Bans, and Frisbee, but it's not me. All I can lay claim to is
this story, which I'm going to go ahead and let you read now. <g>

==========

Fenway
by shannono


There is nothing more perfect than watching the Yankees pound
the Red Sox at Fenway on a gorgeous summery day.

Unless it's watching the spectacle with this woman pressed up
against my side.

Let me explain. You see, when our case wrapped up unexpectedly
yesterday afternoon, I promised to give her a tour of Boston
in return for a romantic, and very public, dinner. I thought
it was a good bribe, which is about what it takes to get Scully
to agree to any sort of public display of affection. She's still
getting used to the idea of us as a couple.

Okay, so we're *both* still getting used to it.

Unfortunately, the tour ended up getting a bit lost in the shuffle.
Two hours for dinner, several glasses of wine, a little footsie
under the table, and all we had in mind was getting back to the
room and getting horizontal as quickly as possible.

Although, come to think of it, it took us a while to actually
get *horizontal*. Luckily, we didn't leave any marks on the
wallpaper.

So, anyway, early this morning, I called the office and secured
three extra days off for us both. No problem; we certainly have
the time coming.

Then I called the front desk and extended our reservation.

For just the one room.

And then I slid under the covers and gave Scully one tremendous
wake-up call, if I do say so myself. She certainly did. I
imagine her throat was raw by the time I was done, and maybe
some other parts of her anatomy as well.

At any rate, we managed to drag ourselves up around ten and,
after an entirely too brief shared shower, we started out on our
planned walking tour of Boston. Breakfast was at a quaint little
diner around the corner from the hotel, and Scully grabbed a
newspaper from the dispenser before we walked in.

She should have known better.

I grabbed for the sports, naturally, and as soon as I saw the
Red Sox schedule, all bets were off.

We did have three full days, after all ...

"Hey, Scully," I said, trying to sound offhand about it. "You
ever been to Fenway?"

She shook her head absently, engrossed in the Health section
as she chewed her English muffin. "Uh-uh," she managed to say.

I grinned.

"Well, looks like today's your lucky day."

So here we are, sitting out beyond right field, basking in the
sun and the green of the ballpark. And boy, is this place ever
green. The left-field wall would be enough -- they don't call it
"the Green Monster" for nothing -- but all the seats and walls
in the place are painted the same shade, and of course the
grass is even brighter.

Did I ever mention that Scully looks great in green?

I'm getting some dirty looks from the Red Sox faithful which
surround us, sitting here wearing the Yankees cap I snared from
a sports shop on the way to the park. But I ignore them. Hey,
I'm armed, after all. And if anyone actually tried anything,
they'd end up with a Scully knee to the groin before I could
move a muscle, I'm sure.

Never thought I'd enjoy being with a woman who might actually
be able to kick my ass.

I lean back in my seat and stretch out my arm across Scully's
shoulders, rubbing the palm of my hand along her upper arm.
She's actually watching the game, to my amazement, although
she professes to be a bit undecided about who to cheer for. I
suspect she prefers the Yankees, but she's just cantankerous
enough to deny me the satisfaction of agreeing with me.

Hey, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Scully shifts in her seat, the movement serving to rub her knee
up against the side of my thigh, and my groin jumps to attention
immediately. Damn, I knew I should have worn the looser pair of
jeans today.

I manage to edge away an inch or so and try to will my body into
submission.

Oops, bad choice of words there. "Submission" starts a whole
other train of thought -- actually, that thought about Scully
kicking my ass started it -- and I'd better derail it pretty
damn fast.

Unless we want to give the fans a *real* show.

I force my mind back to the game, just in time for a crisp
Jeter-to-Knoblauch-to-Martinez double play to end the fifth.
"Way to go, guys," I yell, my concession to fandom, as I'm
certainly not about to clap.

My right hand's still occupied with exploring Scully's arm.

Scully sighs as she leans back in her seat, her eyes hidden
behind her Ray-Bans. I manage to peek behind the plastic from
the side and see she's closed her eyes, and a small smile plays
at the corners of her mouth.

God, I want to kiss her right now.

Her head turns in my direction just as I think that, and for one
brief moment I'm sure she's read my mind. Then she leans forward
until her mouth is a bare inch from mine, and, in the most
incredibly sexy, throaty whisper I've ever heard leave her
mouth, she says -- "I love baseball."

Uh, sorry, Scully, but that's not the kind of balls I'm thinking
about at this moment.

Neither of us moves for about a half-minute, and some part of my
mind is obliquely aware that all those Red Sox fans around us
who've been giving me shit for five innings are now intently
watching to see what I'm gonna do next.

Hate to disappoint you, guys, but what I want to do is going to
require privacy.

Lots and lots of privacy.

And fast.

Before I even realize I've moved, I'm on my feet, Scully's hand
securely in mine as I push my way down the row to the aisle. I
don't even have to look at Scully; I can feel her amusement
radiating down her arm and into my fingers.

We're in the parking lot in record time, and I've got the keys
out before we're in sight of the car. Neither of us has said a
word, but our breathing is ragged by now, and not just from the
brisk pace we've taken.

I manage to get the passenger door open on the second try, and
I step aside to let Scully in. She's pulled off her sunglasses,
and she has one foot in the car when she looks up at me.

Holy shit.

Pure sex is radiating from her eyes. That's the only description
I can come up with on such short notice. If I wasn't already so
turned on I could barely walk, all she'd have to do would be
shoot that look at me from across the room, and I'd be in a
puddle of sensual goo on the floor.

Damn, she's good.

I'm in the driver's seat with no real recollection of how I got
there, and it takes me a full fifteen seconds to get the key
into the ignition. My hands are shaking so badly I'm not even
sure I'll be able to drive the mile to the hotel without weaving
all over the road.

I take one long, deep breath, trying to calm myself -- and the
smell hits me.

Scully, aroused.

Damn damn damn. I have to do something about this, fast, or else
I'm going to either embarrass myself or get us arrested.

Or both.

Desperate, I lunge for the air conditioning unit and turn it on
full-blast. Scully shoots me a look that says she thinks I've
completely lost my mind this time -- I should know; I've seen
that look often enough -- but I just ignore it as best I can
and pull out of the parking space.

I'm pretty damn sure that one-mile drive back to the hotel took
at least an hour and a half, even if the car readout showed only
fifteen minutes had passed. There must have been something in
Scully's senior thesis about the phenomenon involved, but my
desire-addled brain wouldn't wrap around it even if there was.

I yank the wheel as a parking space appears, careening in and
killing the engine almost before we stop rolling. I'm out of
the car in less than a second, and damned if Scully isn't
already there, grabbing my hand and sprinting for the elevator.

Thank goodness the back wall of the thing is all glass, because
that's all that keeps us from going for it right there. Public
decency laws? What public decency laws?

Our room is only twenty feet from the elevator, and I let Scully
handle the key card. There's no way I'd get it to work at this
point.

Then, finally, FINALLY, we're inside. Privacy at last.

My Yankees cap is the first to go, sailing across the room like
a Frisbee to bounce off the institutional print over the bed
before landing on the floor. Both t-shirts follow, and then
Scully kicks her shoes off, flipping them end-over-end through
the air to land somewhere in the vicinity of the hat.

At this point, I realize we still haven't said a word since
Scully started this at the ballpark, our language skills
apparently having degenerated into a quite spectacular range
of moans and groans. I think about attempting to say something,
but then Scully's hands to work on the button of my jeans, and
I settle for another moan.

Despite our vertical tango the night before, I decide I want
this one on the bed, so I manage to shuffle back in that
direction without slowing the task at hand -- that task being
getting Scully's clothes off as quickly as possible.

I stumble over my feet or Scully's, I've lost track, and then
bump against the mattress, just as Scully gets my jeans open
and wriggles her hand into my boxers. I jump clean off the floor
as she squeezes, almost too hard, then laughs huskily at my
reaction.

Well. Two can play at that game.

I've already gotten her bra unhooked -- unbelievable,
considering I left my manual dexterity somewhere in Section
42 -- so I shove the scrap of satin and lace off and go straight
for her breasts, grabbing each nipple between thumb and index
finger and rolling, a little roughly.

Her gasp is my reward, and I chuckle against her mouth as I lean
in to claim another searing kiss. Our hands get back down to
business almost immediately, and in less than a minute we're
naked as the day we were born and tumbling back onto the oh-so-
tidy bedspread. My mind registers that, yes, the maid's been in,
and no, the bed doesn't smell like sex any more.

Well, that's about to change. Although I don't think we'll be
making it down onto the sheets any time soon.

My hands and mouth proceed to take inventory of Scully's entire
body, seeking out the places I've visited before and the ones
just dying to be discovered. She returns the favor, of course;
never let it be said that this isn't a partnership of equals.

For a fleeting moment, I consider slowing this down, taking it
easy. But my libido quickly overrides my brain.

Okay, so frenzied it is.

And how.

The only thing slow about it is my recovery afterwards. Make
that *our* recovery. As we lie there, my hazy mind catalogues
the various aches and pains, from the sting of the nail marks
down my back to the bordering-on-raw skin around my groin, but
I don't move a muscle. Neither does Scully, who's still
collapsed across my chest in post-coital languor.

"Mmffpht," I finally force out, trying to gather enough wits
to form a word. "'M gonna be soooore ..."

Scully half-snorts a laugh against my skin but stays right
where she is. "Me too," she murmurs half-coherently, then
darts her tongue out to lick the closest spot she can reach.

Well, whattya know. Maybe my body's up for more after all.

Looks like I'm gonna be a lot more sore before we leave Boston.

==========END==========


SPECIAL THANKS: To Dasha K and Plausible Deniability, for 
writing the "Momentary Lapses" stories that inspired this
one. This is *not* part of that universe; it's a standalone.
However, when you get a chance, I highly recommend you stop by
Dasha's Fanfic-O-Rama (http://dasha.simplenet.com/) and read
"Lapses" -- and all of Dasha's other stuff while you're there,
too! <g> PD's other works are being archived by CiCi Lean (at
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Workshop/3293/pd/pden.html) and