************************************************************************** This author's e-mail address has changed to: damienma@netroenterprises.com ************************************************************************** From: Jori Date: Mon, 26 Apr 1999 21:26:13 GMT Subject: NEW: Racked 1/1 by Jori (Post UnNatural) Title: Racked 1/1 Author: Jori Rating: PG-13 Summary: Scully picks the next game Category: SR Keywords: UST? MSR? Post episode for The UnNatural. Pure mind candy? Spoilers: The UnNatural, Lazarus e-mail: damienma@bellsouth.net Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to lots of people, but I'm not one of them. Archive: Yes Author's note: Not part of any of my series. Just for fun! ********************************** The room is dimly lit, and one could take a knife and scrape off all the years of nicotine collected on the mirrors. The place is filled with these mirrors, reflecting the neon beer signs back and forth and back again. An older gentlemen behind the bar nods at me once, and tips his head to the right, silently telling me to go further into the depths of this establishment. He's the only one here, at this late hour. Or is it early? I slip between the cheap curtains that separates this room from the larger, smokier one to find Scully leaning against a large pool table, cue in hand. She's wearing her normal business attire, even though it is 2:30 in the morning. Monday morning. We both have to be back to work in a couple of hours. "This time, I got a message from 'Minnesota' Scully saying I was to meet her here and it was urgent," I joke, and she smiles at me. "You are always picking the games you're good at, Mulder. You ask me to go one on one in basketball, knowing full well that I 'probably' couldn't sink a basket unless I stood on your shoulders. You then invite me out to a baseball diamond in the middle of the night and ask me if I know how to play. You know, the only reason I don't know how to play baseball is because Bill and Charlie both had dreams of playing football for Navy. But do you have ask me to play any tackle football? No," Scully says to me, as she winds the blue chalk cube slowly around the felt tip of the cue. "You wanna play tackle football, Scully?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the slow, deliberate movements of her fingers. "No. I want to play pool. Having brothers did teach me a thing or two. Like never play tackle football with men who are bigger than you unless you are serious about being tackled," Scully says, her hands still working on that chalk. "You'd rather have me sink a ball into your corner pocket than tackle you?" I ask, smiling at her. "I'd rather pick a sport that we are both physically matched at. Pool came to mind first," she says, as she places the chalk back on a little shelf hanging next to a blackboard. The last people in here have the board covered in little chicken scratches that must have meant something to them. "Pool?" I say, incredulously. I've played plenty of pool in my life. I can probably show her a thing or two. Or else I'm getting hustled here. "Rack them up, Mulder," Scully orders. ***************************** I watch Scully, as she examines her next move carefully. She then slowly leans over the table, cue in hand, and with the precision of a surgeon, makes each shot with exacting deliberation. There is something inherently sexy about a woman playing pool. Perhaps it is the attention they give to each ball they strike. Maybe it is that gentle lean into the table, sometimes revealing more than they know. Or perhaps it is the image of the pool cue, long and lean, sliding ever so gracefully between their fingers. I watch as the tip of that stick makes contact with the white ball, sending it out across the field of green felt. It makes a connecting clink with the ball she called, releasing its forward energy into another object. That other ball makes it way over to the corner pocket, and slips in, rattling all the way down. Scully stands up straight again, pondering her next move. She hasn't missed a shot yet. "What do we have lined up for next weekend, Scully? NASCAR racing?" I ask. I'm answered only with her calling the eight ball in the side pocket. So far this has been pretty easy on me. "I thought next week we'd go to Vegas and see how you do at the craps table," she says, after sinking the black ball exactly as she intended. "You'll never get to see how I do at pool if you keep this up," I say. I watch as her fingers handle each one of the balls, racking them back up with speed. "Your break," she says, as she steps back from the table. "How did you learn to play pool, Scully?" I ask her, as I send the cue ball careening towards the triangle of balls at the far end. It makes a sharp crack as it sends them flying out in all directions. I choose to not give the advantage over to her. "The man out front . . . Ed. He's an old family friend. Navy buddy of my father's. He taught us how to play," Scully says. "Oh," is all I answer. "And then there was Willis. We played a lot of pool. He was good," she says, drawing out the word good. Unfortunately it coincides with me missing the first ball. "So Willis was good? But could he drive Formula One?" I say, as I stand up. I turn to her, looking every bit the threatened male, I'm sure. I hold my pool cue as is if it a spear, as if I'm some Masai warrior proving myself, my other hand on my hip. "I thought it was NASCAR, Mulder?" Scully answers back, as she hops down off her barstool and walks back to the table. I watch her lean over the table again, and in some perverse way, I'm glad my partner gave up wearing those blouses that buttoned up to her neck for these more casual, much lower tops. I wonder if I said that, would she have me fired for harassment? I mean, I've already seen everything underneath . . . She sinks the next several balls with that Scully precision, looking at me in between each shot. Finally she misses one, and I'm certain she did it on purpose. Moving back to the table, I mimic her, pondering my next shot with the same examination she performs. I bend and strike the ball, and finally I make shot. "Pool is representational of life, Mulder," Scully starts to say, "You hit the right target, you end up in the right place. You make a wrong move, and you are left wandering around forever." "Mmm hmm," I mumble at her, as I set up to sink another ball. "And while that cue is in your hand, you don't have to think about anything else. Just the angle of how you are going to get that ball where you want it," she continues. I try not to let her soft, sweet voice distract me too much as I successfully make the next several shots. Finally, I'm faced with the most difficult shot I have yet to see. "You want help?" Scully asks, after I give it far too much consideration. "Why not?" I say, as she comes over to me. ************************************ My body is wrapped around hers again, and I can't believe this is happening so soon after last night. I would prefer to space our rare, full body contacts out over a longer space of time. I feel as if I used up my yearly allotment of 'magic tickets' to hold Scully in two days. But as she leans under me and my body follows her, I don't care so much. I can live with the memories of this weekend for a while. "I didn't know pool was a full contact sport," I say, as I try to memorize the feel of her leaning into me. "Shut up, Mulder. I'm trying to teach you how to play pool the right way," she says. "Lately, you've been telling me to shut up an awful lot, Scully," I whisper into her ear. "I should have started that years ago," she says back. I'm sure it represents a certain degree of comfort in our relationship. We can say most anything to each other, without fear of repercussion. "I'm waiting for my lesson, Agent Scully," I say lasciviously, enjoying this far more than I should be. She takes careful aim of the cue ball, my hands behind hers on her pool stick. The movements are so much slower than they are in baseball. It isn't the power behind the strike that is needed here, but the consideration of where it is going. Baseball has that to a degree, but without the power, it isn't going anywhere in the first place. As much as I enjoyed the feel of her body next to mine last night, I think I could possible entertain the notion that this is better. It is oh so slow. "Do you see what I'm doing, Mulder," Scully asks me, before she strikes the ball. "I'm not really sure what you are doing, Scully," I say to her, letting all of its double meanings flow through the room. "I'm teaching you how to get one object to slip effortlessly into a certain pocket. All on a table," she says before we both make the shot, sending the eight ball right where she wants it to go. "Did you feel how I did that?" All too sudden I realize the disadvantage of pool over baseball. She slides her body out of under mine, and moves around the table to rack the balls again. Our little lesson is apparently over. "I didn't know you were such a hustler, Scully," I say, my eyes drawn to her every move. "I didn't know you knew any other kind of 'Hustler' besides the ones piled up in your bedroom . . ." "Funny. See if you get a birthday present next year," I say, laughing. She laughs, too. I love her laugh. I could get used to her laugh, and maybe I would even give up everything just to hear it more. "Come here," she says, waving me over. "Lesson's not done." I am over her again, her body moving ever so slightly under mine. I feel her stroke the cue, and watch as she sends the cue ball towards the other balls again, sending them scattering once more. We have to move. Shit. I would have hired that kid again to put the cue ball in front of us if I had known this is what she was up to. "Going to teach me any tricks?" I ask, curiously. "I don't do tricks, Mulder," Scully says, and then she offers me the next shot. I hit the cue ball, which sends two balls careening towards the side pocket. They both get stuck there, neither dropping down into the pocket. "Now what?" I ask, hoping she is going to show me personally what to do. "That is called jawed balls," she says, as she looks down at them. "Can you say that again?" I say. She gives them a gentle tap, sending them both spiraling down the pocket. I line up my next shot, and feel her place her hand gently on my arm. "Slower, Mulder. Consider each step carefully. Make sure of your next move," she says, her voice like a drop of honey in a tall glass of summer lemonade. "It's not baseball. You just can't let it fly." "Shut up, Scully. I'm playing pool." The End. feedback adored at damienma@bellsouth.net visit me at: http://www.freeyellow.com/members7/darrenr114/stories Author's notes: I'm sorry if I got any pool terminology or rules wrong.... it's been a long time. Also, I'm sending a congrats into cyber heaven for DD and TL on their baby girl. Good luck on your toughest, yet most fulfilling roles ever -- mommy and daddy. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Okay, well not at 3 a.m., but every other time.... .