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?
By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@adelphia.net or Buc252@aol.com)
“C’mon, Scully. Why not? It’s a beautiful spring
“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
“Well, as usual, it’s time for compromise. “Okay,
what time does it start?”
“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
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,
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
“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
“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
“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.
“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,
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.
“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
“Well, why don’t you stick some of it in your mouth.”
“But then I won’t be able to cheer,” he notes in
“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
“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’
“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
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
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
Now I’m the one stunned speechless. “Mulder, I . .
That voice. I know that voice, I think to myself as
I turn toward it, praying I’m wrong. We’re not that
“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
“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
“Yes, sir,” I say finally. “We should be getting to
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
“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
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
“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
“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,”
“Here we are, Agent Mulder,” an orderly says as he
and his partner move to lift Mulder from one bed to
“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
Moving beneath me, he gives me a broad smile. “Well,
you know what they say, Agent Scully. Practice makes
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.