From: Hilary Storm Date: 27 Oct 1999 21:07:13 -0700 Subject: NEW: The Love of the Game, by Hilary Storm From: "Hilary Storm" Title: The Love of the Game Author: Hilary Storm E-Mail: starbuck819@yahoo.com Category: MSR Key Words: UST Rating: PG at most Disclaimer: Chris Carter and more importantly David and Gillian own Mulder and Scully. They can have all the credit if I get to have some of the fun. Spoilers: Sixth Season - The Unnatural, Tithonus, general sixth season Distribution: Anywhere, just tell me so I can come visit =) Feedback: Please send all of your thoughts to starbuck819@yahoo.com. Thanx! ____________ ************************ * The Love of the Game * ************************ I remember playing baseball with my dad. Believe it or not, I did have a normal life for a time. We did family things. We went on vacations, picnics, and we played baseball. I was probably not much older than seven when I had my first experience of the game. I went with my dad on business in New York and caught a Yankees game. I had watched baseball many times at my friend's house, Dad wasn't a huge fan of the game, but I still couldn't capture the feeling of it until that night. I remember the next day distinctively. I can recollect details ranging from the t-shirt I wore to the smell of fresh cut grass making my oversensitive allergies flair up. A blue sky dotted with expertly formed clouds that tapered off to a horizon of trees and buildings. All of it was so big compared to me. Even being tall and strong for my age, I had difficulties lifting my new bat level. I needed to hold that heavy bat up while keeping my "elbows out, feet ready, eyes on the ball-" or so I can still hear my dad chant. Dad didn't really know how to play baseball. Even at the young age, I knew it. He repeated what he must have read somewhere, added the usual fatherly advice, and pitched me a few. Swing -miss. Pick up the ball throw. Elbows out, feet ready, eyes on the ball-swing -miss. Good job son, keep it up, swing -miss. I knew it frustrated him. It took me awhile to catch on. I was more interested in looking at the flowering in the hotel's lawn with Mom and Sam than learn the ins and outs of a sport. It didn't take me long to realize I wasn't performing up to my dad's standards. We had fun, but soon afterwards, the father and son outings stopped. He started taking Sam to dance class, piano lesions, and even hired a private tutor for her when she turned four. When I was child, I passed off all the extra attention Sam received to being the baby girl in the family. Now I see it as being the long term planning they didn't want to waste on a little boy that was going to disappear on his twelfth birthday anyway. Then, smack, Samantha was gone instead and that left them with me. It suddenly thrust me into the spotlight. It might as well been a prison searchlight. I was the scapegoat, the jealous older brother who took his frustrations out on his little kid sister. They said that or they said I just froze. I didn't try to help her because I secretly wished she would just go away. Anyway, they never found evidence to confirm that speculation. Sam was just gone. There I was, in the spotlight, in the line of fire, and unable to fill the void that was created in my family when she no longer was there. Dad signed me up for baseball that summer. I never went out for a sport before. I never wanted to. There was that part in me that thought I could avoid any more disgrace if I was good at it though. If I were the star of the team things would get better. Boy was I bad at baseball. I place my elbows out and support the bat, plant my feet in the balance I am comfortable with, signal Poorboy, and watch as the ball speeds towards me. It took me until high school to get a good rhythm going. I quit baseball in the middle of the season. I never regretted it. My responsibilities at home, taking care of Mom, and looking for Samantha were more than enough to keep a boy of my age occupied. I still played by myself at night, and when Mom became too much for me to handle. There was a batting cage at an arcade I frequented and gym class of course. I couldn't practice pitching or catching often, but I got my batting down. I had a rhythm. Eyes on the ball-swing -hit. I shift my bat back into position and signal Poorboy. Another ball comes whizzing towards me. In my mind, the ball slows down until I can see every revolution of it as it travels through the night air. I imagine the ball coming to a complete stop. Time itself coming to a stop, reversing, and me turning back into the timid little boy I was. Dad came to see a few of my baseball games. He wasn't often at home, but for awhile I always knew he would be at the games. He came to the first couple of games. I hit the ball on my first try and reached first base. I struck out the rest of the night, and then the rest of the three games as well. I still can remember the look on his face. He was looking at his watch while talking to one of his friends that came with him to the game. He was frowning. He wouldn't even look at me, and he left before the game was over. He missed the next game. I struck out. After the fifth night of cooking myself hotdogs for dinner and watching mom as she waited near the phone for dad to call, I quit baseball. I stopped showing up for practice. Mom needed me too much, and besides, Dad wasn't going to be there to see me anyway. I had no dignity left to rescue by then. Dad came home a month later, starting a pattern I would see until I left for college. I let the ball fly by home base; flinching as I hear it solidly hit the fence with a clang that I was so familiar to hearing as a boy. I signal another ball to come my way and knock it over into left field. If only I had hit so well when I was younger, things might have been different. But who am I kidding? The next ball catches the edge of my bat and flies into the fence behind me. I see the flash of car lights moving in the parking lot as I watch my foul tip settle to the ground a yard or two away from my feet. I focus on the bat again and direct my energy to the back of the field. Crack! I send the ball skyward, and it arches its way into the darkness. Another one follows its trajectory, and I hit a succession of fly balls as I hear the sound of high heels clicking on pavement. I take a peak over my shoulder, and I see my darkly clad partner follow along the fence until she finds the opening into the diamond. Despite her dark attire, there is an unmistakable radiance, like a moth attracted to the flame, which make me temporarily forget myself. Swing - foul tip. It figures. "So, uh, I get this message marked 'urgent' on my answering service from one Fox Mantle telling me to come down to the park for a very special very early or very late birthday present." She gathers her words together and I hit another foul. "And, Mulder - I don't see any nicely wrapped presents lying around. So, what gives?" Now that isn't quite the attitude I expect from my fun-loving-can't-wait-to-get-out-of-the-office-quick-enough-because-it-is-Saturday partner. So much for the homerun derby I planned playing tonight. I hide my fear under a smile and decide it is time, hoping against odds that I am not making the biggest mistake of my life. "You've never hit a baseball, have you, Scully?" I ask. I know she probably has. She knows she has. Which way will she go with this? "No, I guess I have, uh, more necessary things to do with my time than," Ouch, I swing and the ball flies off my bat in her direction. I watch its trajectory and catch her flinch back from the ball, "slap a piece of horsehide with a stick." I feel whatever hopes of having a good time crumble as I hit another pop fly into the air. Arthur Dales had a way of telling a good story. He wove and twisted his story until the feeling of baseball completely lodged itself into my head. But more than that, I was motivated. What he said woke me up, moved me along. It gave me direction that I denied myself until now. Now I look at her and can't believe I have waited to do this so long. She crosses her arms over her chest and a look of expectancy is on her face. I say the first thing that comes to mind. Something I want to say every time I look at her. "Get over here, Scully." She raises her chin at me, a sure sign she is going to be cautious, but still humor me. I turn around and hold the bat out, hoping she will take it. I feel her tentatively take the handle, and I get the feeling of now or never. To her surprise, I slip ever so cautiously around her and position her in my arms so both of us have a good grip on the bat. I feel her stiffen up, and she turns her head towards me, unsuccessfully getting a look at me in our current position. Her face gets perilously close to my own, and I am so close to breaking into a stuttering fool, so I keep my mouth shut. "This my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have." It is something I should have done sooner. That is the problem. This morning she made it quite clear she was ready, but I didn't notice. I was so enwrapped in my discovery of Arthur Dales that I didn't catch on, until hours later, that she was practically playing hopscotch over the boundary we set up between us. "This ain't cheap." I say, needing her to be on the same page as me - to understand me. "I'm paying that kid ten bucks an hour to shag balls." I can feel her giving me the 'look' again even as I get us settled into the batting position. I marvel at how small she can feel against me now when just an ago she almost overwhelmed me as I gathered courage to call her. She is tiny. Even more fit before her accident last January. She went through rigorous therapy for months, and still goes to the gym more than she ever did before. That is my Scully. She doesn't just overcome an obstacle, she makes herself all the stronger in an effort to rub its black veiled face in the dust. It still hurts her sometimes. After a long hard day of work she stiffly gets out of her chair, taking special care of her midsection as if in pain. Just last week we chased a suspect down eight city blocks, and while she kept pace with my longer legs, tackling the suspect reminded both of us of we were not as young as we used to be. In any case, I make an effort not to cause her any discomfort. Still, I can't help leaning into her and sending her off balance with my words one more time. "Hey, it's not a bad piece of ash, huh?" That gets me another 'look' as she turns to check my eyes to see how serious I actually am. I look at her and feel her relax slightly when she finds in them whatever she needed. "The bat-talking about the bat." I get myself situated again and feel her leaning against me as we shift. It is the ego boost I need I guess, because words, in a strange voice I never use, issue forth. "Now don't strangle it." We do a quick little dance with our hands that make Scully sigh in the most agreeable of ways. I set my goal to try to hear that again and follow my instincts. "You just want to shake hands with it," I say in that weird voice again. It reminds me of the first time I met her. She was so green. Her science was the answer to all, and she was the ones that could find it. I thought she would run for the hills from my weird theories and strange behaviors. But she was just as attracted to my flame as I was to hers. We couldn't help but feed off each others intellect. "Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Oh, no, no, Ms. Scully. The pleasure's all mine." She leans back against me again in a way that suggests she thinks otherwise. And, in a totally unScully like move, she giggles. It isn't more than a few notes slipping from behind her guard, but it makes a grin tug at my checks that I know will last me for at least a few dreary months. "Okay, now we want to-" I hesitated a moment. The words that came so smoothly before scatter. I look down at the side of her face. She is in her listening mode now. She has an ability to turn off all outside stimuli and focus direction on something. She is focusing on me now, and I now know how serious this moment is. "We want to go hips before hands, okay?" Please don't pull away, Scully. I hover my hand over her waist, contemplating the risk. She could either jump away from me, after which I would feel like curling up in a little ball and finding a nice sized rock to call home, or the most incredible thing would happen. I have no idea what, and that leaves me a little jittery. I can't stay still. In the end, my new uncontrollable voice wins out against any caution. "We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips," I place my hand against her and she shivers, both of us looking down as the tremble is felt between us. It is only a gentle, guiding touch as we turn, but it is enough to make me forget completely about baseball, or anything else for that matter. All I can see is the smooth open expanse of her neck before me and the all too real feel of her pressing against me. I have to ignore caution. Just feel. She is wearing some soft fabric that can't possibly be warm enough in this chilly spring night. Neither are my clothes, but I was warm. "-before hands, all right?" "Okay." "One more time." I repeat the turn with more confidence. "Hips," I watch the side of her face for a reaction and, what I know is not going to be the last time that tonight, can't see beyond the side of her cheek, "before hands, all right?" "Yeah." "What is it?" "Hips before hands." Hearing her saying the words spurs me an inch closer over our disappearing line. She leans back the same time I lean forward and I bump her ear with my nose. Sure, it isn't particularly romantic, but I hear the Eskimo's like it. I like it. "Right." I whisper in her ear, she shivers again. "We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eyes on the ball." I pull my eyes off Scully long enough to look at the mound. "Then, we're just going to make contact." Shuffle - look, "We're not going to think." I adjust my arms around her again and turn my head around to see her reaction. I still have no way of seeing her face, but that chiming giggle of hers is escaping, and I know it is for only me to hear. She is happy, which in turn makes me happy, "We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?" "Mm-hmmm." She holds back another giggle, but I feel it against my cheek. "Ready?" I whisper. It is all I can manage to say. I adjust us to the plate, my hand tries to cover hers, but she squirms away too quickly. We blindly fumble in that fashion a moment before Scully stops us with a, "I'm in the middle," that makes me question if I actually have my partner in my arms and not some forest nymph. I can feel her smile. It lights up the whole field with warmth that shoots through me like X-Rays. We get our hands situated after following her suggestion, and I lift the bat into passion. "All right, fire away, Poorboy." A ball shoots at us, and I can't help forgetting everything my dad taught me to do a little dance on the side of the plate. Maybe that is why our first hit was a foul ball. Heck, in the beginning of our partnership we had a few stumbles. Why would baseball be any different? "Oh, oh! That's good. All right, what you may find is you concentrate on hitting that little ball - the rest of the world just fades away." Include baseball on that list, Mulderboy. At this rate, I won't be hitting anything. Concentrate. "All your everyday, nagging, concerns." That makes her giggle. The giggling begins to snowball and for a moment, she stops swinging altogether. I absently swing the bat and manage to hit the ball without trying. That make her giggle all the harder. "The ticking of your biological clock." Swing -hit. "How you probably couldn't afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-Woman's salary." Hit. "How you threw away a promising career in medicine," I direct the words close to her ear, and down to her heart, "-to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner." She tries to look me in the eye, and we end up only inches away from each other, "Getting into the heart of a global conspiracy. Your obscenely overdue triple-X bill. Oh, I-I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours." Hit. Just like with psychics. Hit. Miss. Hit. Miss. More misses than hits, but people keep coming back to them for answers from the cosmos. "Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball." She says. Maybe missing isn't that bad after all. Scully makes a noise in agreement. Swing - hit. Swing - miss. In the end, it didn't matter. For once, I wasn't feeling pressure. No matter what I did, she wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't really feeling anything but Scully as she laughed against my chest. I try hard to stop myself, but a chuckle slips passed my lips. "What's so funny?" I lean forward even more and rest my chin on her head, it startles her and the bat thuds its end on home plate. Scully lifts it up quickly and swings wildly at the incoming pitch. We both are off balance, and she steps on my foot making me unable to widen my stance when she falls against me. A second later I am laying on my side in the dirk, Scully dances expertly away from the scene of the crash as if she expects me to pull her down with as well. I think of doing just that, but as I lay there, my back decides it isn't going to work right. In fact, even in my immobile state it hurts like hell. That's saying it mildly. I deny my pain by pretending I am looking at the stars. Next to me, Scully stiffly sits down. She looks up, expecting a UFO at least. "It would be a lot more prettier if the light were off." I mumble. "Wait until the Millennium and we might find out." "You believe that Y2K thing, Scully?" I say in mock horror. Have the Lone Gunmen finally got to her? "All I know is I am not going to be on a plane in route to a case when the clock turns over." She says thoughtfully. "So where -do- you plan on being?" She looks down at me wild-eyed for a moment. Slowly she settles in beside me at home plate. She sighs when she finally is settled, and I know that I am not the only one with a pulled muscle. We lay there together a moment. I hear Poorboy's laugh somewhere in the left field fade away as he walks away, and I know that we are alone. We were silent a few more moments, both of us looking to the heavens for life's answers. "What do you want for your birthday, Mulder?" I risk my back to look at her. She is still looking unto the sky. All of her giggles are gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression. She is focusing on me again. "Are you afraid, Mulder?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand reach over and brush against her midsection, tracing her scar beneath her shirt. I know what she is asking and forget my own pain as I flip towards her on my side. I reach over and touch her hand, stilling it over her scar. "I don't want to be. I can't afford to be afraid of living anymore." I say truthfully. She half turns toward me, while, at the same time, propping her head with her freehand. I release her hand and occupy mine by drawing a smiley face in the dirt. "I think They have taken enough." Her words are steel. Over the years, our word 'them' spread to encompass more than the secret government rats we run into at every turn. It expands to cover petty bureaucrats, cereal killers, and even my dad. Everyone that stands in our way will fall into this ever-growing category. They have all taken enough. "I want this, Scully. I want to have this." ***The END*** Please send feedback to starbuck819@yahoo.com Hils Come visit my X-Files Fan Fiction site @... http://hilsxfiles.mainpage.net