Spring Recess

By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@adelphia.net)

Written especially for VS11’s Spring special event

Category: Just about everything here. MSR, humor,

MT . .

Rating: R for some rather lascivious thoughts on the

part of our favorite female agent

Spoilers: None that I can think of.

Summary: Spring, when young men’s fancy turns to

thoughts of . . . baseball. Oh, and don’t worry

about the love – Scully’s more than willing to take

care of that. Opening day at the ballpark, and it’s

the Yankees vs. the Orioles. Do you really think

that anything could keep Mulder from attending?

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner don’t belong

to me. Only the plot is mine. No infringement is

intended – this is just for fun.

Author’s Notes: Thanks to Vickie for poking me into

it, and Mindy for poking in general.

Feedback: Yes, please please please?

Spring Recess

By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@adelphia.net or Buc252@aol.com)

“C’mon, Scully. Why not? It’s a beautiful spring

day!”

“Mulder,” I sighed, exasperated. “We have a backlog

of reports big enough to choke a horse, and Skinner’s

going to have our heads if we don’t make a huge dent

in them by ‘the end of the week’. And in case you

didn’t notice, Mulder, that’s today.”

“How often do the Yankees play the Orioles on opeing day?

And you didn’t notice that I finished most of them

last night, just so we <could> leave today.” I still

looked at him skeptically, but I’m not sure whether it

was more that I didn’t believe he could have finished

so many the previous night or whether he really wanted

to go that badly.

“Look, why don’t you just go, and I’ll take care of

the reports,” I offered.

“No, the point is to go together, Scully,” he almost

whined.

“Well, as usual, it’s time for compromise. “Okay,

what time does it start?”

“One o’clock.”

“Okay, how about this? We work on reports until

eleven, then close the office for the day and we

<both> have some lunch and then go to the game.”

“It’s a deal,” Mulder smiled happily, sitting down at

his desk to get to work. Sometimes, it takes so

little to make him so happy.

**

Opening day at the ballpark. What bigger example of

Americanism is there on a warm spring day? I can’t

think of any.

Mulder called ahead for will-call tickets because we

weren’t sure just how crowded it was going to be.

Fortunately, they had two in the twelfth row slightly

to the left behind home plate that we grabbed before

anybody else could snare them. I guess mostly

families come today, so two seats together weren’t so

tough to do.

Based on the parking lot, it was going to be a packed

house, despite the fact that it was during a work

day. How did this many people get away from their

jobs for something so mundane as a baseball game?

I’ve come to accept that I’ll never understand

Mulder’s fascination with sports. But then, I don’t

really need to, I just have to share in it, and enjoy

his presence. That’s not such a tough thing to do.

Once we enter the gates, Mulder is like a kid in a

candy store. His exuberance is sexy beyond belief,

and I realize that I can’t wait to get him home again

for a much different type of physical activity.

“Great seats, huh?” he asks as we settle down into

them. “From here, we can see the scoreboard and all

the action.”

That’s nothing compared to the action there’ll be

after the game, I think to myself. I always get this

way in the spring, but until now, I’ve managed to

bury it so he doesn’t know. He’s going to find out,

though.

Anyway, back to baseball. I’ve never been that

interested in the sport per se, not beyond the few

times Mulder’s gotten it into his head to give me

batting lessons. Not that I’m complaining, of course

– those were great times. It just had more to do

with spending time with Mulder than with the game

itself.

“Scully, stand up!” Mulder stage-whispers, and I

realize that, while I’ve been lost in thought, a

young woman has come onto the field to begin the

national anthem.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, scrambling to my feet.

On our first foray to a baseball game together, he

surprises me by singing along with the crowd. His

talents never cease to amaze me – he’s much better at

it than I am, that’s for sure.

“Sing, Scully,” he slips in between phrases.

Rather than argue with him about it, I join him in

moving my lips, but silently so nobody else has to

suffer. Finally, the audio torture comes to an end,

and we all take our seats for the opening pitch,

which is performed with great aplomb by the Speaker

of the House. It’s probably the biggest effort he’s

put forth in years.

“Hey, I’m going for food,” Mulder says, not taking

his eyes from the game.

“We just ate!” I can’t believe it.

“I know,” he responds, looking at me as if I’m

demented. “Food at the ballpark, Scully, is not

about being hungry. Don’t you realize that?”

“You mean you’re going to eat for the social aspects

of it?”

“You’d better believe it,” he answers me. “So, what

do you want?”

I know he’s not going to let it rest until I join him

in a traditional feast, but that doesn’t mean I have

to gorge myself. “How about a salad?”

As expected, he looks shocked. “Scully, you can’t

come to a ball park on opening day and eat a salad!

It’s just not done, and I’m not even sure you can

<find> one. Try again.”

“Okay, how about a chicken fajita with mild sauce?”

What the heck. Lettuce, tomatoes, chicken . . .

that’s nearly a salad, right? It’s just swapping the

croutons for a wrap.

“I think we can handle that,” he said with a smile.

I’m blessed with a kiss on the cheek before he leaves

our seats to go in search of unneeded sustenance.

Left on my own, sitting here is a new experience. At

least three men wink at me, and I find it interesting

that they feel the freedom to do this just as soon as

the man I came with has stepped away. If the place

wasn’t so crowded, I might be inclined to teach them

a lesson about women, but for now, I settle for

giving them a dirty look. They get the message and

turn back to the game, just as a redneck with the

biggest beer belly I’ve ever seen dares to put his

hand on my knee.

“Excuse me.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Could you please remove that?” I say as politely as

I can, despite my furor. I didn’t come here to be

groped. Well, at least not by a stranger.

“What’s’a matter, sweet cheeks. Been too long since

you had a <real> man?”

“I know a lot of real men, and you’re not one of

them. Now remove it or . . .”

“Or what, babe? You gonna hurt me?”

“If she doesn’t – and she could – I will,” comes from

Mulder, standing at the end of the aisle. I wonder

how long he’s been there. . .

“Why don’t you just concentrate on your food and I’ll

concentrate on the lady,” the jerk says, his breath

in my face wreaking of alcohol as the hand on my knee

suddenly grips it tighter. There’ll be bruises there

tomorrow, I think.

Suddenly, his hand is moving further up my leg,

nearing forbidden territory, and I see red. Instinct

kicks in, and before I know it, I’m standing with his

arm twisted, ready to break his thumb.

“Is there a problem here, folks?” A security guard

who doesn’t look much older than my Godson is here,

ready to calm the action.

Before I can respond, Mulder’s got his badge out.

“This gentlemen has been assaulting my partner, she

gave him several warnings, but he wouldn’t let up.”

The kid looks a bit confused, unsure of what to do.

“I recommend,” Mulder says, “that you remove him from

the stadium, Officer.”

I feel my blood pressure leveling off, and when the

officer takes the offender by the arm, I have the

presence of mind to release him. We watch as the

jerk is led out.

“Sorry about that, Scully,” Mulder says as he takes

his seat beside me, juggling his purchases. “Your

fajita is the striped box.”

I take it from him and am surprised to realize that I

am hungry after all.

“I hope, given this experience, that you didn’t get

us beer,” I say around a mouthful of chicken,

lettuce, and tomato. “That guy wreaked of it.”

“Diet cola?” he says, offering me a cup.

I take it gratefully, sipping a bit through the

straw. “Thank you. What did you get?”

I swear I see a slight blush on his face, but he

squares his shoulders. “A couple hot dogs. . . some

popcorn . . . peanuts. . . the soda, of course.”

“Oh, my God, Mulder. You are going to be <so> sick.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Something in the fresh air makes

a person hungry. Besides,” he says with a grin. “I

think you’ll be helping me finish some of it before

long. Trust me.”

“We’ll see,,” I respond warily before the person

behind us has finally had enough of our talking over

the announcer and shushes us.

“Sorry,” I say to him, embarrassed.

Like our neighbor, I listen to the loudspeaker. They

are announcing, in between plays, some contest that’s

coming up in between the third and fourth inning. It

would be a pleasant surprise to come away with some

little prize like a weekend at the nicest hotel in

the city or some new furniture, but I realize that

the chances of them drawing mine or Mulder’s seat

number are very small. Still, a girl can dream,

right?

The game goes on, and if I find it less than

enthralling to watch, I find my partner and the crowd

around him equally entertaining. It’s not the most

popular thing to be, a Yankees fan in Orioles

stadium, and every time he cheers his team, those

around him grumble, moan, or just plain tell him to

shut up, yet he sticks to his guns. Nothing is going

to stop him from cheering, to the point that I fear

there will be a dozen Orioles fans lying in wait in

the parking lot for us upon completion of the game.

“Mulder?”

“Yes!!!!!” he exclaims, and I somehow know it’s not a

reaction to me. Then he proves it. “Did you see

that, Scully? A triple!”

“Yes, I saw it. Mulder, you know all that food you

bought?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, why don’t you stick some of it in your mouth.”

“But then I won’t be able to cheer,” he notes in

confusion.

“Exactly,” I answer. “I’d like to get out of here in

one piece, if you don’t mind.”

“We will, but we’ll have a good time, too.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble, trying harder to restrain

my laugh than to really be heard.

I hear the crack of a bat, and before I can capture

the ball with my eyes, it’s in one of the fielder’s

gloves, signaling the end of an inning. While

various announcements are made and the “field” team

comes into the dugout, Mulder is explaining to me the

differences between this ball park and that of his

beloved Yankees.

“And, of course, the Yankee’s scoreboard is so much

clearer . . .”

My attention is drawn to the object of his

discussion, but his voice fades to the background as

I take in the image there. A very clear image of us!

“What the . . .”

“And the winner is,” a voice resounds over the

speaker system, “Section 3, seat 12A. Will the

person sitting in that seat please report to the

nearest courtesy desk. You are today’s ‘bat off’

winner.”

“Mulder, it’s you!” I can’t help but exclaim. “You

won!” I take a minute to gather myself. “Uh . . .

what did you win?”

He seems shocked for a moment, but those around him,

who were shouting at him not all that long ago, were

now calling out encouragements, even patting him on

the back.

Rising, he grabs me by the hand in what seems like

stunned silence, pulling me out of my seat and into

the aisle. In the relative quiet, while we try to

find the booth we need, he explains.

“They have a contest every game,” he says, unusually

nervously. “One person is chosen from the crowd to

come down and bat against the home team’s pitcher.

If you get a hit, you win a prize.”

“Well, here’s your chance, Fox Mantle,” I laugh,

squeezing his arm. “Let’s show ’em what you got.”

In a blink, I’m standing in a dugout watching my

partner, my best friend and then some, walking out

onto the field. I’ve known him for so many years,

and yet I’ve never seen him as nervous as he is right

now. I fear it’s going to affect his performance,

and say a prayer that he can at least save face and

get some kind of hit.

He looks back to me, and, on an impulse, I blow him a

kiss. The nervous look is replaced with a wide smile

and a wink. Go get ’em, I think to myself as silence

falls over the stadium. All eyes are on Mulder and

the man who climbs onto the pitcher’s mound.

On the way down to the field, the team’s public

relations person had explained that he’ll get three

strikes or four balls to get a hit, just like a real

time at bat. Three strikes sends him home with

nothing, and four balls with a respectable prize.

Mulder takes longer than I would have expected to

choose his weapon of choice before finally stepping

into the batter’s box. I wish I could be in his arms

again, like I was during our all-too-brief batting

lesson all those years ago, but this is a dream of

his, and I pray he gets to enjoy it.

The pitcher winds up, and Mulder watches carefully as

the ball approaches. Even from where I stand, I can

see it’s way out of the strike zone, and he wisely

lets it pass by him. I know he’s got to be dying to

swing at it, but he’s no fool.

A second pitch heads his way, this time better

directed. For a fraction of a second, I don’t know

what Mulder is going to do, but then the bat is in

motion, and I hear the tick of wood on leather.

Disappointingly, the ball flies off to the side, out

of bounds, and the umpire calls for his first strike.

“C’mon, Mulder!” I shout out, encouraging him. He

looks to me for a second, and then his eyes are back

on the ball.

I realize my eyes are closed and I’m wishing for

everything I’m worth that he could succeed at this.

He’s lost so much in his life, and this tiny thing

could make him so very happy.

My eyes snap open at the crack of the bat, loud

enough to assault my eardrums this close, and I

search the skies, hoping to spy the small object.

Gloriously, I’m not disappointed.

When my ears begin to work again, I hear the crowd

cheering. They’re on their feet, watching as the ball

goes up, up, and up even more until . . .

“And it’s over the left field fence!” The scream over

the loudspeaker reflects the excitement of the crowd

at Mulder’s accomplishment. A home run!

I’m not sure if he’s supposed to, but regardless, he

takes his laps, touching each base before returning

to home base. I’m out of the dugout and he sweeps me

into his arms, spinning me around like my father used

to when I was three.

A man comes out to shake Mulder’s hand, introducing

himself as the team’s owner. He presents us with an

envelope, which we open to find a pair of all-

expense-paid tickets for a two-week vacation in the

Bahamas, even including food vouchers.

I’m entranced by the tickets, the idea of Mulder in

his Speedos on a white beach distracting me, until

the owner waves a second hand to the scoreboard. On

it, a 2004 Corvette convertible is depicted,

apparently also part of this incredible prize.

I hug Mulder in front of many thousand people without

a second thought, jumping into his arms in our joy.

It’s apparent that it hasn’t fully sunk in yet, but

now that the prizes have been presented, we’re being

nudged off the field. I guess it’s time for the game

to resume, Mulder’s fifteen minutes of fame passing

quickly.

Before we’re allowed to return to our seats, the

team’s representatives make sure to get all of my

partner’s vital information and give him paperwork

that will let him pick up his new car at the

dealership. I can’t believe this is happening!

As we’re finally left alone, I can’t get over how

quiet he’s being. He hasn’t said a word since the

prizes were awarded, and nothing directly to me.

“Mulder, are you okay?”

He swallows deeply, looking shell shocked. “A bit

stunned, I guess,” he smiles. “I won a car!”

“Not just any car. And then there’s the trip, don’t

forget about that.”

His eyes sparkle. “I’m not likely to. Y’know,” he

says, suddenly shy. “It would make the perfect

honeymoon.”

Now I’m the one stunned speechless. “Mulder, I . .

.”

“Agents?”

That voice. I know that voice, I think to myself as

I turn toward it, praying I’m wrong. We’re not that

lucky.

“AD Skinner?” I say, knowing that I’m blushing to

beat the band after having gotten caught playing

hooky. Mulder doesn’t seem to mind that much, but he

is definitely more formal now.

“Imagine seeing you two here, when there are reports

due,” Skinner says. It doesn’t seem as harsh,

however, coming from a man in an Orioles t-shirt, a

baseball cap, and jeans. It’s a casual look to which

we’re not accustomed.

“They’ll be in on time, Sir,” Mulder says. “First

thing Monday morning, even if I have to work all

weekend.”

“That’s good, Mulder.” His disposition calms and he

becomes less businesslike. “You could have told me,

you know. Imagine my shock when I looked up and

<you> were on the scoreboard!”

“Sorry about that, Sir,” he responds, but I’m still

too embarrassed to speak. Did hear Mulder’s

honeymoon comment? I hope not.

“If you’ll excuse me, agents,” Skinner says finally.

“I’m going to get back to my seat.” For the first

time, I notice that his hands are full of ballpark

fare: hotdogs, peanuts, and popcorn. Great. My boss

and my partner can suffer from food poisoning

together.

“Yes, sir,” I say finally. “We should be getting to

ours, too.”

There are nods all around, but as I watch Skinner’s

receding back, I hear him add, “let me know when you

plan that honeymoon.”

I can feel my face flame – I can’t believe he . . .

“Careful, Scully. You look like you’re having a

stroke!”

“I’m not sure I’m not,” I say, feeling weak in the

knees. Despite our many years together, I’ve never

quite caught onto Mulder’s ability to flagrantly

disregard the opinions of my superiors. I’ve always

been the type of person who wanted approval.

Well, now that I think about it, Skinner’s tone

wasn’t entirely disapproving.

“C’mon, Scully. We’re going to miss the rest of the

game.” I realize that Mulder’s moved on several feet

before realizing that I was still riveted in place,

deep in thought.

“Coming,” I say, joining him. On the way to our

seats, he stops a vendor and buys a bag of peanuts.

Not usually his nut of choice – and most definitely

not mine, my libido reminds me – he, regardless,

cracks a shell, tosses it aside, and chews happily on

the insides.

We follow the steps down to our row, and, despite

their earlier animosity, the people whose seats

surround us cheer him on as if he were Babe Ruth.

And yes, he’s eating it up. He lets me into the row

first to regain my seat, but rather than sit beside

me, he’s standing in front of his seat, facing

backward, with his hands raised above his head in

victory. What a ham!

It’s true what they say about things moving in slow

motion when something momentous happens. The next

five seconds pass more like ten minutes, unraveling

before my eyes.

I hear the crack of the bat, see the ball as it

arches up, higher and higher, over the protective

fencing, and then begin to fall back to earth.

“Mulder!” I scream, but before I can move fast enough

to interfere, the ball impacts the back of my

partner’s head, sending him crashing to the ground.

Half an hour and a great deal of commotion later, I

find myself sitting in the waiting room of the

nearest hospital. Despite the velocity of the foul

ball, Mulder never lost consciousness on the way

here, but it was perilously close and I feel safe in

saying that there’s no way he could have walked.

Hence the ambulance, which he hated, but at least

believed he needed.

A doctor sticks his head out of a curtained cubicle

and, when he catches my attention, waves me in.

Mulder lies quietly, but his eyes are open.

“How is he?” I ask.

“He’s going to be fine,” I’m assured, “but he took

quite a blow to the head, and has a moderate

concussion. I’d like to keep him overnight, just to

be sure that everything is under control.”

I nod, counting myself lucky that it’ll only be one

night, but Mulder groans from the bed. “Can’t I go

home? Scully’s a doctor – she can look after me.”

“No offense to your skills, Dr. Scully,” he says with

a nod and a smile. “But I’d rather have you where a

specialist is at hand, should anything go wrong.”

A sigh from the bed tells me that Mulder realizes

that his argument never really had the chance, and I

agree that this is the best place for him for the

moment.

“I’ll call an orderly, and he’ll take you up to your

room,” he says, addressing Mulder, who closes his

eyes with a sigh.

Walking by his side as the gurney rolls from floor to

floor, I take his hand in mine, and he smiles up at

me.

“Tired?” I ask him.

“Surprisingly, no,” he answers honestly. I can see

it in his eyes. “This concussion must be nothing for

me to be feeling this awake.”

“How’s the headache?”

“Just keep talking to me – it’s the best painkiller,”

he smiles.

“Here we are, Agent Mulder,” an orderly says as he

and his partner move to lift Mulder from one bed to

another.

“I can do it,” my partner states, sitting up on the

bed and pushing them away.

“We’re really not supposed to let you . . .”

“Then just give me a hand.” Mulder reaches out, and

with an orderly on each arm, he’s escorted to the

bed. Once in, they tuck the covers around his body

and leave, taking the gurney with them.

“Finally,” I say, glad to be alone with him. “Think

you can sleep now?” I know what the answer is going

to be even before he utters it.

“I’m not tired,” he repeats, lying back nonetheless.

“If I was home, I’d be ready to run a few miles.”

“Wow, Mulder. You’ve got more energy than I

expected. A lot more.” The devil on my shoulder is

poking me again.

“Yeah, it’s really not that bad. It’s an income-tax-

sized headache, not a Skinner-chewed-my-ass sized.”

He watches as I take his phone, wallet, keys, and the

envelope with his prize certificates in it and place

them all in the bedside drawer.

“Don’t forget those when we leave tomorrow,” I remind

him, and he’s looking adorably wistful.

“I guess the honeymoon will have to wait,” he said,

looking at me with a glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, throwing the latch on the

door before climbing aboard the hospital bed,

straddling his ever-so-masculine body. “The Bahamas

may have to wait, but there’s nothing to say we can’t

practice.”

Moving beneath me, he gives me a broad smile. “Well,

you know what they say, Agent Scully. Practice makes

perfect.”

And to think that, just this morning, I was

disappointed that opening day of the baseball season

was upon us. Despite Mulder’s accident, this is

going to be the most memorable day of spring.

The End