From: Jori <damienma@bellsouth.net>
Date: Mon, 23 Aug 1999 18:42:50 -0400
Subject: NEW: Lessons IX: Swing Time 1/1 by Jori MSR

Title: Lessons IX: Swing Time
Author: Jori 
E-mail: damienma@bellsouth.net for Jori or Mojober@aol.com for MoJo
Rating: R
Category: SRH
Keywords: MSR UST
Spoilers: The Unnatural
Archive: yes
Summary: After their previous 'accident', Scully and Mulder hit the
bargain basement for their next lesson.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to CC, 1013, FOX, DD and GA

All previous instructions can be found at either my site at
http://www.netroenterprises.com/stories or at MoJo's site at
http://members.aol.com/mojober/Weekend.html

*************

Off in the distance, the insistent chirping of crickets and a high
pitched intermittent squeaking are the only sounds greeting me.
Crossing the grass of center field, every step I take sends into the
air water droplets from a late afternoon summer downpour. Every
*exhilarated* step I should stay. Just being on this ball field
reminds me of how it all began. This is where the challenge started.
This is where walls started to crash down and we began testing each
other's limits only to find that what we could be is limitless.

One could say that this is my own 'field of dreams.'

And somewhere past this field, beyond the dugout and the stands, is
the person I've been waiting all week to 'play' with. My pace quickens
as I reach the wet clay of the pitcher's mound, matching the quick
step of my heart.

I walk around the cage behind the home plate and head towards the
playground constructed so the kids would have somewhere to go while
dad or mom played ball. It contains all that new plastic play
equipment designed to prevent broken arms, but it also contains the
source of that rhythmical squeaking. The swing set.

So this is what the note meant. Written in Scully's graceful scrawl,
it read 'Come swing with me. Sunday at 11:00 p.m. Meet me at the place
where you like to play the field -- right field that is. You don't
need a helmet for this one.'

And here she is. Swinging high. Like a little girl. In the August
heat, Scully is wearing a light summer sweater and white shorts that
show off her legs as she kicks to gain more momentum and more height.
Her hands hold on tight to the chain and she tips her head back on the
next downswing, finally noticing me staring at her.

"The last time I was invited to swing was nothing like this," I joke
as she begins to slow down.

"I'm sure it wasn't," she says, and then the smile that was missing
all week lights up her face. She drags her feet across the ground to
bring herself to a complete stop. That is when I notice she is wearing
sandals. Summer sandals with little straps. She is dressed so
differently than her usual wardrobe of somber black she wears to work.

"Scully, I know how to use a swing set," I say, pointing at the empty
plastic seat next to her. She twists around a few times and lets go,
twirling as the chains unravel. Finally she stares back at me.

"Boys don't really know how to use swing sets," she says as she stops
moving.

"*Boys?*" I ask.

"Yes. Boys. Sure, they know how to lie on their tummies . . ."

"Tummies?"

". . . across the seat and act like little airplanes," she says, and I
must admit I remember doing that. "Or else they all climb on one swing
and twist the chain around so tight that it almost breaks. Finally
they let go and spin around like whirling dervishes until they fly off
one by one."

"Girls do that too . . ." I start to say.

"Or else they see from how high they can jump without breaking a limb.
Then when they are tired of the whole affair, they flip the seats up
and over the bar a few times to prevent anyone else, mainly the
*girls,* from using it," she says, waiting for me to say something.
What can I say? I used to do that to Samantha all the time. She would
run crying to Mom and I would have to go get them down for her.

"So, we are here so you can teach me the right way to swing?" I ask,
trying to suppress an urge to laugh. She is trying just as hard as I
am.

"Well, that. And then there's the fact that we are now in debt up to
our eyeballs due to one badly damaged Harley, this is all I could
afford this week," she says, and we both laugh at the memory of that
spill. Of course, we weren't laughing then, especially after I had to
take the bike back to Byers. I have never seen him get that emotional.
Good thing Frohike was there or I think there would be one less FBI
agent walking this earth today.

"Well, Agent Scully, how does a *boy* like me go about learning the
right way to swing?" I ask. I stand by the empty swing and hold on to
the chains. Something in me makes me want to lie across the seat and
act like a little airplane, but that would just prove her point.

"First, one must learn by pushing someone else on a swing. You know,
so they can get the rhythm just right. The tempo of the movements is
extremely important. You have to know when to push up. You have to
know when to back down. You have to discover how fast . . . or how
slow that person likes it," she says, as she licks the corner of her
lips.

"How fast do you like to swing, Scully?" I ask, and she closes her
eyes for just a moment. She opens them and they burn with something
more than the reflection of the flickering street lamps trying hard to
illuminate this place.

"I like to try a variety of speeds . . . until we can find one we can
both agree on," she says. I move from the empty swing until I'm
standing behind her. It is then that I realize I just might get one
hell of an opportunity to touch her if I play my cards right.

I grab hold of the chains and get her started. It is jerky at best and
she looks back over her shoulder with an 'I told you so' glare.

"Sometimes I like it a little rough," I say with a smile before
managing to get her going in a nice even pace.

And I do get to touch her. If even for a second, I get to place my
hands on her hips as I hold her and then let her go, flying again.
This doesn't seem like much. We have kissed already. Several times.
Several *magnificant* times. But after a week of 'hands off' this is
good.

She giggles *yes, giggles* as I get her going so high I have to step
out of the way for fear of getting kicked in the head. After all we've
seen and all we've been through, this is nice. This establishes an
innocence that has been taken away by the work we do. We are truly
jaded. But every activity we've done on the weekends has had a certain
remedial quality to it, almost therapeutic in nature. Almost as if we
can be kids in each other's presence.

"Stop!" she cries, still laughing and I grab her around the waist and
we drag to a stop with me ending up on my knees behind her. Good thing
I wore jeans. I'd hate to have to explain to anyone that I scraped my
knees on the playground.

"How was my rhythm?" I ask, while my hands edge up from her waist. She
allowed it on the bike. Let's see if she will go for it again.

"Exhilarating," she says softly.

I am behind her, and we slowly rock to and fro, her body pressing
against mine. I press my cheek against hers as I rest my chin on her
shoulder. Her breathing is uneven, but I'm not sure if that is from
the swinging or because of our contact. As my hands move higher, I
realize that all she is wearing on top under this soft sweater is some
kind of camisole. The underwires that I know are normally there, well,
they just aren't. All I feel is smooth cotton over top of something
silky.

My fingers rest under her breasts, as my thumbs move up the sides. She
is so round and soft and this is so much better when it isn't
experienced through a jacket. She settles in closer to me, and she
sighs. It was slight, but it was there. Scully likes this.

Before I can get too comfortable, Scully pulls away and stands up,
leaving me on my knees in the dirt. Of course, she isn't the first
women to do this to me. She is in front of me, her face flushed from
just that minimal contact, and she smiles.

"You haven't finished the proper swinging curriculum," she announces
as I stand up with a creak and a groan. People my age do not belong on
playgrounds unless they are standing to the side watching their kids
frolic around.

"What's next, Scully? You want to see who can take it higher?" I ask
with a wink, daring her on. She considers it for a second, but goes on
with her lesson plan.

"Not yet. See that swing over there?" she says pointing at some
contraption. The chains from two swings are connected to a single
board, and then the board is connected to the main frame. "That
particular swing requires perfect cooperation to get it going.
Partners must work together. Can we work together, Mulder?"

"It all depends on whether you do it my way or not," I tell her and
that raises an eyebrow. "You know I always do everything the right
way."

"Yes. After doing it the wrong way first," she says, as she grabs my
hand and leads me to the other swing.

"Some things I never get wrong," I whisper, pulling her body next to
mine and wrapping her in my arms. I love this new level of intimacy we
have moved to. We are going slow, but at least we are going somewhere.
Slow is fine. After all these years, we are actually racing now as
compared to the snail's pace this relationship traveled at before.

Her lips brush across mine briefly before she pulls away and sits on
one side of the swing. I sit on the other side, and immediately we try
to go in two different directions and end up laughing. Who would
expect anything different? We are always moving in opposite directions
seeking a common goal. That is what we are and we will never be
anything else.

Soon we synchronize our movements and get the swing going right, both
of us sailing through the wet summer air like a couple of kids. And
then the conversation begins. I knew it was inevitable. We couldn't
just keep going on like this without it.

"Where is this going, Mulder?" Scully asks, her voice hushed. She
drags her feet across the sand, bringing us to a halt. I hope she
isn't bringing this whole thing to a halt.

"Where would you like it to go?" I ask. I didn't intend to answer her
question with a question, but I want to know where she wants it to go
as much as she is curious about my feelings.

"We still have work. A lot of work. And it isn't always the safest
work. We can't forget that," she says. Scully turns to look at me. We
are only inches apart and I want to reach out and hold her. I want to
protect her like I tried to do on the motorcycle. But I know Scully is
capable of protecting herself when it comes right down to it. Right
now I'm afraid she is trying to protect her heart.

"Yes, the job is still there. And what we have yet to do, the
questions we have yet to answer, are daunting. As I see it, we only
have two options. Put a halt to all of this until we reach the end of
this . . . quest," I say, looking away from her. Her eyes go from
childlike to so serious in a matter of seconds. "If we do that, we may
never find the end. We might give up a lot for something that could
keep eluding us."

"I doubt you will let it elude you, Mulder. It is your life," she
says, as she works to kick some wet sand from her sandals. "And the
second thing?"

"The second thing is to just go along with it, let it take its course
the way it has been the last few weeks. Because there is more to my
life than just work now, Scully," I say, finally meeting her eyes
again. "As I see it, *we* are a lot like these swings. We go forwards,
we go backwards, but we are always moving. And now we are moving
together."

Scully looks at me for the longest time, her tongue flicking out to
touch the corner of her mouth. I know it didn't make much sense and
usually she doesn't say anything. She just does that thing with her
tongue and raises an eyebrow at me.

"Mulder, what is that supposed to mean?" she asks.

"That is supposed to be my roundabout way of asking if you ever went
swinging with a boy on the same swing," I say and she laughs.

"In second grade, I was caught on a swing with Eric McMullen after
school. Sister Mary Margaret was none too happy. I was banned from the
swings for the remainder of the year and in that time I became an
excellent hopscotch player," she says, her eyes leaving mine as she
remembers her childhood.

"So, then you know how it is done?" I ask, secretly hoping she isn't
planning to give me lessons in hopscotch next. Then again, it would
require for her to jump around and bend over . . .

"Oh, I was really young then. I think I know how to do it better now,"
she says, as she gets off her side of the double swing, allowing my
side to sink down before I stand. I follow her, all the while
wondering how far this will go. I have fond memories of making out
with girls at the playground when I was a lot younger. They are as
fond as the memories of my nights on the golf course. But this is
Scully, not some adolescent summer tourist staying on the Vineyard.

I sit down on another swing, and she maneuvers onto my lap. The old
swing set creaks under the weight of two adults occupying the same
swing, but I don't care. Within moments, all discussion of where this
can and cannot go is forgotten as her mouth meets mine. Our tongues
come together and dance around each other's mouth, seeking more and
more. She is so warm and close and her arms wrap around my neck,
holding on tight.

Is this what she was caught doing in the second grade? I hope not.

I release my grip from the metal chains, and move my hands under her
sweater, feeling the silky texture of her undergarment. She has it
tucked into her shorts and I don't make a move to untuck it just yet.
Instead, my fingers roam over her breasts, and I feel her nipples
harden under the material. Her mouth breaks from mine and I expect her
to object, but she simply leans back and pulls the camisole out of her
shorts herself before moving back against my hands. She grabs on to
the chains on either side of me as she offers this open invitation to
touch places I've never touched before. Our eyes are locked the
other's, and hers are begging me to go on.

My hands slide up inside of the material, and I feel the warm skin of
her breasts against the tips of my fingers. They are as smooth and
silky as the material covering them, and I seek out her nipples. They
are hard and I brush over them lightly, and circle them with my
thumbs. Scully closes her eyes and tightens her grip around my neck. I
have to dig my heels into the ground to keep us on this swing seat. It
would be so easy to topple to the ground with her. It would be so very
easy to start falling with her and never be able to stop.

Without much difficulty at all, she manages to straddle me on this
small swing and for some reason I'm no longer content just to feel her
breasts. I want to see them. I know I've seen them before, but not
aroused like this simply because of my touch. Scully must sense what I
want because she leans back slightly, and I tug up her sweater and
camisole just enough to see. We are at a  public park and I don't want
to have her totally uncovered. Well, yes I do. But I know better.

Looking isn't enough and I dip my head towards her and my tongue
flicks at one nipple before moving to the other, drawing slow circles
around and around. Scully grinds slightly against my lap and it
surprises me. And what surprises me the most is that she is as in to
this as I am, allowing me to continue what I'm doing.

Her hands move from the chains to my back and downward. She continues
to grind against me ever so lightly, teasing me through all this
fabric between us. I pull my mouth away from her breast and I pull her
sweater back into place. Her hands tug my t-shirt out of my jeans and
travel back up the length of my back before slowly making their way
back down.

There isn't much room to maneuver here on this little strip of
plastic, but she manages to lick a line across my jawline and down my
neck and that sends lively shivers up and down my spine. Her motion on
my lap has also made something else lively and I know she has got to
feel it. I know she must really feel it when her hands come around in
between us and touch the button on the waist of my jeans. She pauses
there, as if she is thinking about what to do next. I can feel her
hand so near and I can sense that it is trembling. And still she
deliberates.

And then one hell of a light hits my eyes and the two of us freeze in
mid-deliberation. Good thing Scully is so damn deliberate.

"Excuse me, folks. Can I ask you what you are doing?" a gruff male
voice asks. I cannot see his face with his Mag Light in my eyes, but I
can tell he is a local police officer. Scully doesn't move but rather
tucks her face into the crook of my shoulder and sighs.

"I'm sorry, sir," I say, as I try to shield my eyes from the blinding
light. I actually manipulate my body out of under Scully's so she is
still facing away from him as I stand and face him. All of a sudden I
am thankful I thought to bring my ID with. I pull it out of my pocket
and show it to him. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. And
this is Special Agent Dana Scully. We are here . . . staking out a
suspect."

My mind tries desperately to make up a better story than that. I
should be able to pull something out of our past that would fit in
this particular situation. In a park. In the middle of the night. On a
stakeout.

"Really? Would you mind telling me how that is possible from that
position?" he asks. I can tell he wants to laugh at my suggestion that
we are trying to 'stake out' anything but each other.

"Sir, we are following a man who likes to stalk couples at various
parks and playgrounds around Virginia and Maryland," Scully says, as
she twists the swing around to face him. Her voice is as serious as
can be and she looks very composed considering she and I were pawing
at each other just a few second ago. Good thing we have some
experience at lying.

"Is that so?" he asks, finally dropping the flashlight from our eyes.
"I've never heard about that one."

"Yes. It just started a few weeks ago. He follows couples to various
places . . ." I start to say.

"Kind of a Son of Sam thing," he says, adding to my tale.

"Yes. But he doesn't kill. Or at least not yet," I say, and he looks
like he might believe us.

"Well, please let me know if there is anything I can do to help. And
please try to keep your clothes on while staking out subjects in our
park," he says with a smirk, as he points the beam of light at Scully.
Her sweater is twisted around and the camisole is hanging out of the
bottom.

"Thank you. We will," she says and he turns to walk away. Neither of
us says anything for a few moments. I have the feeling that I'm going
to get a speech from her about how careless we've been lately. First
the kites, then the bike and now we've been stopped by police.

"Maybe next time we will do something indoors," I say as she begins to
swing again. "Something that requires different kinds of balls than
those needed to make out on a park swing."

"Indoors is fine," she says and I sit down on the swing next to her.
"I like a lot of indoor sports."

"Scully?" I ask.

"Hmmm?" she asks back as she swings by me.

"I'll make you a deal. If I can swing higher than you, you have to
wear that Harley t-shirt to one of our sporting events," I say,
picturing her in that tight, form fitting shirt I picked out for her.
"Plus the leather Harley cap."

"And if I swing higher than you?" she asks.

"I don't know. Come up with something," I say, knowing that I can beat
her.

"If I swing higher than you, we go one on one at water polo. And you
know what you get to wear," she says with a laugh.

With that, I start pumping like hell.

The End

********

So what's rolling at us next, Mojo?

Author's Notes: It has been a long hard road to make it this far.
Thanks for all the lovely feedback I've received from people urging me
on. Thanks to MoJo for being patient and accepting the fact that this
lesson really has no lesson, just a lot of UST.