Title: "Sixty-One Home Runs"
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Spoilers: Unnatural. That's it.
Rating: G (Oh, don't look so shocked.)
Category: V, mega-UST
Archive: Yes, please. Just drop me a line and let me know where.
Summary: After the camera panned away.
Author's Note: Loved it, loved it, loved it. I think TV needs more writers who actually
know how to write. You know, like people with degrees in literature.
XXXXXX
"Hips, then hands." A gentle touch on her hip. "Hips, then hands." A soft murmur in
her ear.
"Hips, then hands." The tip of a pink tongue passes over her lips in concentration. "I
think I'm getting it."
"Hey, Mister! After nine my rates shoot up to twenty!"
A cluck of the tongue. "Kids today. Give me three more, Poor Boy!" A bend of the
head, lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, stirring the strands of hair that had slipped
out of place during their oddly graceful swinging. "Three more."
"Ready."
The thunk of the machine, the swoosh of an awkward swing that moves her closer into
his embrace, the clank of the ball hitting the fence behind them. "Hm. That's one."
Again. Thunk, swoosh, clank. "Damn."
"Come on, Scully, this one's for the game. Bases are loaded, two up and two down.
Bring 'em home."
A wiggle of her small hips against his thighs as she firms her stance. "Okay. This one's
going over the wall."
Thunk of the machine, delicate grunt of effort, and the satisfying crack of the bat. A low
whistle of approval in her ear, a surprised laugh from the pitcher's mound, a distant clank
as the ball connects with the outfield fence.
"Look, Mulder, I AM playing baseball!"
"Agent Scully wins the game. Mulder crosses home, Exley and Dales are right behind
him. The crowd goes wild." Muffled imitations of crowd noises in her ear, her soft
giggle as she ducks her head, pleased.
He extracts himself from around her reluctantly as Poor Boy saunters over to them. With
a broad grin and a tip of his hat, he takes Mulder's twenty and disappears into the quiet
night. She finds herself staring after him as Mulder wanders off to find her home run,
trying to convince herself that he didn't really look like a little boy from the 1940s.
The wood is heavy and solid in her grasp, and she takes a few experimental, solo swings.
She chokes up on the bat, swings, taps the end into the dirt, twirls it in her hands.
"So how did you like your birthday present?" His voice reaches her ears as he
approaches. He holds the ball reverently, like a beloved childhood memory.
She watches his long fingers cup the small, hard sphere and wonders who it was that
taught him to love the game. She hopes it was his father, and smiles as she pictures a
young Fox Mulder playing catch under the tutelage of a proud father.
But she knows Fox Mulder, and her smile fades slightly when she realizes that her vision
is most likely fantasy.
She sighs and raises an eyebrow. "Mulder, my birthday was in February."
"Well yeah, but you wouldn't have been surprised by getting a present then, would you?"
"Actually, I would have been very surprised."
He pretends to pout, and she hands him the bat. He looks at it in his hands, sliding his
palm along its shaft in a loving caress. "My mom taught me to play baseball." She is
surprised, and fails to hide that fact. He smiles, stepping away from her and swinging at
the air heartily. "She was a fan. I can remember listening to the games with her on hot
summer nights. I would lay in bed and listen to the radio playing in the living room,
crickets chirping from outside, the sound of Sam's snoring in the other room." He rests
the bat against his shoulder, looking off into right field. "She used to throw me fly balls
and grounders. Couldn't do the line drives, though." He laughs softly, genuinely, at the
memory. "She tried to teach Sam, too, real gentle pitches, but she always ran from the
ball."
She waits for the light moment to pass, for her partner's thoughts to turn towards the sad,
but he turns to her with a smile. "Come on, Scully, I do believe I owe you an ice cream
cone."
Her answering smile is lovely. "I'll even let you buy me real ice cream."
He slings a gentle arm over her shoulders, bat swinging from his free hand as they return
to their cars. "You know," he begins casually, "Someone once told me that all the greats
were actually aliens."
The sound of her gentle laughter and the crunch of gravel under their feet fade into the
night as sixty-one home runs twinkle above in the peaceful night sky.
XXX
That's it! My first post-episode vignette. Feedback makes me burst into loud song. Oh,
wait. No, I don't need any encouragement to burst into loud song. But please, send me
feedback anyway. Spartcus1@msn.com
"They're posting something to the door of the cathedral! I've created Lutherans!"
--Lisa Simpson
Oh, one more thing, in the spirit of the evening: Go Brewers!
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Spoilers: Unnatural. That's it.
Rating: G (Oh, don't look so shocked.)
Category: V, mega-UST
Archive: Yes, please. Just drop me a line and let me know where.
Summary: After the camera panned away.
Author's Note: Loved it, loved it, loved it. I think TV needs more writers who actually
know how to write. You know, like people with degrees in literature.
XXXXXX
"Hips, then hands." A gentle touch on her hip. "Hips, then hands." A soft murmur in
her ear.
"Hips, then hands." The tip of a pink tongue passes over her lips in concentration. "I
think I'm getting it."
"Hey, Mister! After nine my rates shoot up to twenty!"
A cluck of the tongue. "Kids today. Give me three more, Poor Boy!" A bend of the
head, lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, stirring the strands of hair that had slipped
out of place during their oddly graceful swinging. "Three more."
"Ready."
The thunk of the machine, the swoosh of an awkward swing that moves her closer into
his embrace, the clank of the ball hitting the fence behind them. "Hm. That's one."
Again. Thunk, swoosh, clank. "Damn."
"Come on, Scully, this one's for the game. Bases are loaded, two up and two down.
Bring 'em home."
A wiggle of her small hips against his thighs as she firms her stance. "Okay. This one's
going over the wall."
Thunk of the machine, delicate grunt of effort, and the satisfying crack of the bat. A low
whistle of approval in her ear, a surprised laugh from the pitcher's mound, a distant clank
as the ball connects with the outfield fence.
"Look, Mulder, I AM playing baseball!"
"Agent Scully wins the game. Mulder crosses home, Exley and Dales are right behind
him. The crowd goes wild." Muffled imitations of crowd noises in her ear, her soft
giggle as she ducks her head, pleased.
He extracts himself from around her reluctantly as Poor Boy saunters over to them. With
a broad grin and a tip of his hat, he takes Mulder's twenty and disappears into the quiet
night. She finds herself staring after him as Mulder wanders off to find her home run,
trying to convince herself that he didn't really look like a little boy from the 1940s.
The wood is heavy and solid in her grasp, and she takes a few experimental, solo swings.
She chokes up on the bat, swings, taps the end into the dirt, twirls it in her hands.
"So how did you like your birthday present?" His voice reaches her ears as he
approaches. He holds the ball reverently, like a beloved childhood memory.
She watches his long fingers cup the small, hard sphere and wonders who it was that
taught him to love the game. She hopes it was his father, and smiles as she pictures a
young Fox Mulder playing catch under the tutelage of a proud father.
But she knows Fox Mulder, and her smile fades slightly when she realizes that her vision
is most likely fantasy.
She sighs and raises an eyebrow. "Mulder, my birthday was in February."
"Well yeah, but you wouldn't have been surprised by getting a present then, would you?"
"Actually, I would have been very surprised."
He pretends to pout, and she hands him the bat. He looks at it in his hands, sliding his
palm along its shaft in a loving caress. "My mom taught me to play baseball." She is
surprised, and fails to hide that fact. He smiles, stepping away from her and swinging at
the air heartily. "She was a fan. I can remember listening to the games with her on hot
summer nights. I would lay in bed and listen to the radio playing in the living room,
crickets chirping from outside, the sound of Sam's snoring in the other room." He rests
the bat against his shoulder, looking off into right field. "She used to throw me fly balls
and grounders. Couldn't do the line drives, though." He laughs softly, genuinely, at the
memory. "She tried to teach Sam, too, real gentle pitches, but she always ran from the
ball."
She waits for the light moment to pass, for her partner's thoughts to turn towards the sad,
but he turns to her with a smile. "Come on, Scully, I do believe I owe you an ice cream
cone."
Her answering smile is lovely. "I'll even let you buy me real ice cream."
He slings a gentle arm over her shoulders, bat swinging from his free hand as they return
to their cars. "You know," he begins casually, "Someone once told me that all the greats
were actually aliens."
The sound of her gentle laughter and the crunch of gravel under their feet fade into the
night as sixty-one home runs twinkle above in the peaceful night sky.
XXX
That's it! My first post-episode vignette. Feedback makes me burst into loud song. Oh,
wait. No, I don't need any encouragement to burst into loud song. But please, send me
feedback anyway. Spartcus1@msn.com
"They're posting something to the door of the cathedral! I've created Lutherans!"
--Lisa Simpson
Oh, one more thing, in the spirit of the evening: Go Brewers!