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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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Lessons Learned: Curveball
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Mulder/Scully UST

Rated PG

Spoilers for "The Unnatural"

Summary: Mulder has an epiphany, of sorts. Continuation of the
series.

Author's notes: Yes, I finally wrote another one following "The
Unnatural." Sorry, I've been busy. <g> But I had to do it, both
for the obvious, baseball-related reasons, and for the other, 
more general reasons. Mainly this: The moral of this episode, 
folks, was that it's just a story. It doesn't have to have some
grand meaning in the scheme of things. Just relax and enjoy it
for what it is.

Thanks: To Robbie, for the beta read.

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Lessons Learned: Curveball
by shannono


I shouldn't have done it; I know that now. But I'd been so good
all week, and that little streak of Bad Boy Mulder just had to 
be let loose for a little while. It wasn't that bad; she was 
probably happy to be free of me for the rest of the day, happy
to have her Saturday back for herself.

Of course, in this case, my running off and leaving her behind
might have been the best thing to ever happen to either of us.

The previous four days had been precarious at best. Physically,
Scully was fine, only a bit sore for the first couple of days. 
We stayed in the office most of the week, wading through 
paperwork and trying to rebuild a few more of the old X-files.
Pretty much a normal week.

At least, at the office.

After hours was something brand-new for both of us. I spent five
straight nights sleeping in Scully's bed -- just sleeping -- 
with her soft, warm body curled up against mine.

Needless to say, I'm addicted now.

When I say I was good all week, I mean I was *really* good. I 
managed -- I think -- to get through all five nights without a 
noticeable erection. Well, other than the standard morning wakeup
calls, but I slipped out and headed for the bathroom each time 
before Scully stirred.

When we got to the office today, though, Scully threw me a real
curveball, if you'll pardon the expression. I expected her 
reaction to my Saturday plans. What I didn't expect was for her
to do her damnedest to distract me from it.

Holy shit.

I have never in my life seen a woman make love to an ice cream
cone before.

Okay, so it was nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle. Whatever. It was
frozen and in a cone, and she was running her mouth and tongue 
over it like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted in her 
life. It was a damn good thing I had that huge book in my lap,
let me tell you, and even then I had to get that thing away 
from her as soon as possible.

I just hope she thought it was because I had a sudden craving
for nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle.

Truth be told, I was insanely (don't say it) grateful for the
distraction provided by that fortuitous photograph. Arthur Dales
and that shapeshifting goon in the same picture? Just perfect. 
Great excuse to get me and my hard-on out of the office and away
from Scully before I did something entirely too rash for the 
moment.

It took me a while to understand what Dales was trying to tell 
me with his little tale. But I got it at last. Finally, 
something managed to seep through all those hardened layers of 
conspiracy and aliens and paranoia coating my brain and my soul.
It finally sunk in.

It's just a story. It doesn't have to mean anything in the long
run to be interesting and meaningful.

Just relax, and have a little fun.

Well, gee, now, ain't *that* a kick in the rear.

Dales thanked me, actually *thanked* me, for listening to his 
story -- although I think he was mainly grateful that I had 
stopped questioning him. But even if I hadn't figured out his
point, I don't think I could have interrogated him about it. Not
then.

It was impossible not to see what Josh Exley had meant to him, 
and how much it had hurt to lose such a friend.

And that's a feeling I understand all too well.

So I left, and I walked. Just left my car sitting in the surface
lot two blocks from Dales' rundown little place and walked. The 
neighborhood wasn't the greatest, but I was armed and avoided 
eye contact, so I wasn't too worried.

I walked for nearly an hour and a half, in circles, mainly, 
until I saw the field -- or, what once had been a field. A hole-
riddled chain link screen and a vaguely diamond-shaped dirt 
expanse with a slightly raised spot in the center were the only
real clues to show that this used to be a baseball park.

Before I even realized it, I was standing in the middle of the 
field, on the remnants of the pitcher's mound, staring in at 
where home plate would be if there had been a home plate. I 
could almost see Exley standing there, staring up at me from 
under the bill of his cap. Bat on his shoulder. Begging me to 
throw him a good one.

And I knew what I needed to do.

It was nearly dusk by then, and I had to hurry to take care of 
business. I started making phone calls on my way back to the 
car.

Three hours later, I was standing in front of the screen at a 
much nicer, well-lit field just a few blocks from my house,
wearing a crisp new jersey and holding a fresh bat. Dales' 
errand boy was feeding balls into the pitching machine, and I 
was letting it fly.

It felt good to just hit, and hit, and hit, and to watch the 
balls arc into the outfield one after another. Sure, I missed a
few; it had been years since I'd swung a bat. But there was just
something ... magical about it.

Someone once said that the hardest thing in the world to do is 
to swing a round bat at a round ball, and hit it square. It 
takes a combination of precision and talent, hand-eye 
coordination and chance, careful calculation and natural 
ability.

Science and luck.

And even *then* the best hitters only succeed three times out of
ten.

Makes my track record look a whole lot better.

So I let it all go. I just kept my mind as blank as I could as I
swung, and swung again, feeling the burn in muscles I hadn't 
used like this in longer than I cared to remember. Memories 
began to flow through me, of happier times. Thoughts of pickup
games at Chilmark, little league tournaments, even teaching 
Oxford teammates the ins and outs of America's national pastime. 

I may play a mean game of hoops, but somehow it's just not the
same thing. It doesn't have the same power.

I fell into a rhythm before very long, sending drive after drive
into the outfield, listening for the echo from each crack of the 
bat as it hit the sweet spot. I had just hit a monster, high and 
deep into the darkness, and was doing my best Ken Griffey Jr. 
impersonation, just standing there watching it go ... when I 
heard her footsteps behind me.

And I smiled.

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