Sec30Row6
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Rating: R, to be on the safe side
Category: M/S UST, MSR, slight M/O and S/O
Spoilers: FtF, the beginning of Season 6
Distribution: Just let me know.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Baseball, a long hot summer with no X-files,
and nothing to do but hang out at the park and talk. 
Perfect, right?

This was written in response to the Haven's "Take Me
Out to the Ballgame" July challenge.  Notes and
challenge elements at end.



July 9
Red Sox



"We couldn't get club seats?"

"There is no 'we', Mulder.  Not for a couple of weeks
now."  She gave the newspaper in which he'd hidden his
face a scathing look.  "And would you mind putting
that away?  You're blocking the view of the people
behind us."

"No way anyone will believe this is the Incredible
Hulk's baby, Scully," he replied from behind the folds
of the tabloid.  "Looks like one of those fake alien
babies with a pair of Hulk Smash hands glued on."  He
folded the paper and angled his head in her direction. 
"And there's no one behind us.  Yeah, I said *us*.
*We're* not only two weeks late, *we're* two hours
early."

She noted the sarcasm dripping from his voice and slid
a bit lower, adjusting the crease in her linen slacks
as she realized how much she missed the excitement of
playing naysayer to Mulder's believer.  God, Mulder
must be going crazy, she thought.  At least they
technically still worked on the X-Files, albeit more
like fellow inmates on roadside trash detail.

She'd have to make him see that things were different
now.  Trapped behind a desk for the time being, Mulder
spent his days trying to re-create their files while
she loaned herself out to whoever had the need.  It
wasn't charity on her part; she did it mostly to keep
from being the target of Mulder's perpetual foul mood. 
His temper these days had all the razor sharp edge of
his new haircut, with half the length and twice the
honed finesse.  Barbs zinged like arrows sometimes,
when he deigned to even speak.  Most of the time, he
fumed.

Rumor had it that their working in this limbo was just
temporary, with a final hearing on the events in
Dallas due in August.  She sincerely hoped so, if only
for the sake of her partner's sanity and her whipping
boy existence.  If something didn't give soon, she was
going to take his growling indifference and shove it
right up his ass.

It was only the desperate look on his face as he
painstakingly reconstructed charred paper that held
back the bite of her tongue.  Those files were his
life and he worked to revive them with the grim
determination of the ever hopeful.  She couldn't stand
to point out that they might not end up back in the
basement.  The future wasn't set, as far as she was
concerned.

For now, this summer respite was welcome.  To her
anyway, for one very obvious reason who had yet to
make an appearance.  She tried to keep the excitement
from her voice with a soft, "I like to watch batting
drills."  Dragging her gaze from the stretching
players on the field, she mirrored Mulder's pose,
letting her chin jerk to the right.  "Hulk Smash
hands?"

"Field drills, batting practice.  Don't know much
about the game, do you Scully?" He shoved the latest
edition of the Lone Gunmen in her face, one finger
pointing out the alien baby's huge paws.  "They say
'Hulk smash!' when you hit something with 'em."

"I know baseball, Mulder."  Scully resisted the urge
to slam her own hand over the paper that blocked her
view.  Instead she delicately pulled on the edge with
thumb and forefinger, giving the curious elderly
couple one row down a wan smile.  From the corner of
her mouth she gritted out, "Let me guess.  Frohike's
latest scheme to become a millionaire."

Mulder snatched the paper away, huffing, "Wrong. 
Langly's.  He heard there was a new movie in the works
- a remake of the old Incredible Hulk TV show. 
Figures he can pitch the Hulk Hands idea to the
marketing guys... and you -" His voice trailed off
into the black hole she put Mulder's words into when
the situation warranted.

Like now.

A tall, beautiful man caught her eye; she watched him
stroll out onto the field, glove on his right hand,
cap pulled low.  God, he was six foot four of raw
muscle, his sandy hair long on his neck, his jaw
square like it was hewn from Georgia bedrock.  When he
stepped onto the pitcher's mound in the bullpen, he
looked up.

She answered his grin and nod with a smile.  As he
began throwing the ball in tandem with tonight's
starter, she looked at Mulder.  "You were saying?"

Her partner's jaw tensed under the black lenses of his
sunglasses.

"Sorry," she quickly apologized.  "So, Frohike thinks
he can sell the Hulk hands idea to the producers of
the film?  Nice."

"*Langly* will never make a penny.  More likely,
they'll steal his idea and run with it."  Mulder faced
forward, jerking his chin at the object of her lust. 
Well, not lust really.  Not yet.  "And I said you
don't know a thing about baseball."

"That's nice."  She knew her vacuous tone irked him. 
There was quite a bit out on that field of emerald
green to drool over, but it was more fun to rile
Mulder.  Pity she couldn't keep a straight face.  Her
smile gave her away.  "Very nice."

Mulder reacted in kind, shaking his head at her
playfulness.  "What's nice is the way he set us up
here.  Field box ain't club, but it ain't bad."

What was nice was his smile.  Rare these days, indeed. 
In her good mood, she basked in its glory for a few
seconds, until he lost the simple gesture in his quest
for comfort.  Shifting one way then another, he
finally settled in, draping his long legs over the
back of the seat in front of him.

Steepling his hands over the hole in his t-shirt, he
looked at Jeff without looking at him.  She knew the
eyes behind those sunglasses took in every detail of
the park and its inhabitants.  "You say you met this
guy where?"

"At the um..." she waved a hand, impatient with
explanations, "art gallery in the Warehouse there last
Saturday morning."

"Art gallery?  What is he, gay?"

Mulder wasn't homophobic; he expected a rise out of
her with his question, but he wasn't going to get it.

"The Orioles' offices are in the Warehouse, Mulder."

He spoke into the sunshine above but delivered the
soft probing especially to her.  "And you... suddenly
developed a taste for Leroy Neiman, is that it?"

"I did a bit of exploring.  I had no idea there were
works of art in there.  Norman Rockwell, actually. 
Among others."

Actually, she'd met Jeff long before the disastrous
trip to Antarctica via Texas, but it wasn't until her
forced two-week suspension she'd really had time to
talk to him.  Jeff was a nice guy who just moved into
her neighborhood.  A bit lonely, having been traded to
the Orioles from the Reds.  He'd offered her his
complimentary seats with a shy smile, saying it would
be nice to look up from the field and see a friendly
face now and then.  At first she'd declined, insisting
he would most probably meet someone before long,
someone more his age - someone he'd want to impress.

It hadn't taken long for her to accept the gift; he'd
looked at her with an interest she'd not seen in a
man's eyes in years, saying he was tired of groupies. 
He liked his friends to know the difference between
Johann Sebastian Bach and Shiner Bock.

Even now, she remembered the conversation at the
Warehouse with melting fondness.  Despite her
trepidation at becoming involved with a man she
wouldn't look twice at in other circumstances, she'd
succumbed to his southern wit and easy charm.  The
sheer expanse of muscles underneath his clinging
shirts helped make the decision for her as well.

Looked like her only mistake had been offering Mulder
the use of the other seat.

"Kind of young for you, isn't he?"

Oh yeah.  Definite mistake.

Icy anger bled into her rebuke.  So much for a
fleeting smile.  "Mulder, please put your feet down."

He complied, hunching over to scan the field.  "Of
course, you can do the jailbait thing all you want -
if it means we get to take in a few games."

"He's twenty-seven, Mulder.  Hardly jailbait."  She
shifted to her left, as far away from Mulder as
possible.  "And there *is* no we.  Remember that."

"And you don't know jack shit about the kind of
baseball jocks like to play, Scully.  Takes years of
study, if you know what I mean."

Behind her sunglasses, she gave Mulder a fuming glare. 
What did he think she was, some kind of naive virgin? 
"I'm a fast learner, Mulder.  All it takes is a bit of
practice.  Besides, who says I'm after anything but a
bit of fun shagging moths?"

Mulder mumbled, "Shagging flies," as she gave Jeff
another wave.  "And it's the shagging part that
worries me."

He thought she didn't hear him, but she did.  Her
smile wasn't only for Jeff.


**********


July 25
Mariners


"Gotta love a homestand, even if it is a short one."

He had to admit, he really enjoyed the games.  The
summer had proven to be hot and long, with little at
work to occupy his mind but the frustration of burnt
paper and even less at home to satisfy his body but
the same old videotapes.  He'd flirted a bit with the
new girl in Property Control - much to Scully's
acrimony - and had missed last night's game to take
her out to dinner.  After this afternoon's game, he
was planning on seeing her again.  Maybe he could talk
Scully into giving him her ticket for tomorrow's game. 
Then again, Stephanie didn't seem to be the baseball
type.  Actually, he never figured Scully had a thing
for the crack of the bat.  But go figure.  As far as
he knew, she hadn't missed a home game yet.  And he
knew, because he hadn't either, with the exception of
last night's.

"Hmm."

Okay.  Scully didn't usually make small talk, but the
absent humming to his every comment piqued his
curiosity.

"Late night?"

"Huh?" At last, she faced him.  The clouds had cut
into the brilliance of the sun and she'd removed her
sunglasses.  Her eyes, though now focused on his face,
still had the glassy look of thoughts elsewhere.

He took off his own shades, giving her elbow a nudge. 
"Did the kid there hit the ball out of the park last
night?"

"He's a relief pitcher, Mulder.  He doesn't bat."  At
the curl of his lips, she colored, a shade lighter
than the cotton candy hawked on the concourse.  "Oh."

"Yes, oh."

Scully faced forward, twirling her sunglasses in
perfectly manicured fingers.  "Did you know the man
who invented Bromo-Seltzer built that clock tower over
there?  Used to have a big blue bottle on top, but it
became too unsafe so they removed it back in the
thirties.  Still lights up blue at night, though."

To have Scully avoid a topic was like a red flag to
Mulder the bull.

"Did you know Babe Ruth's father owned a cafe'‚ right
about where centerfield is today?  And you're avoiding
the question."

"Fascinating."  One of her sandaled feet came up to
press against the back of the seat in front of her. 
Her toenails were painted a wicked shade of red and he
gulped at the twinkle of jewelry.  Scully had a toe
ring.  God, how had he missed that?  "Not that it's
any of your business Mulder, but no.  Jeff and I are
friends."  At the pissy look from the man in front of
her, she dropped her foot.  "Sorry."

Dragging his burning eyes from the little ring of
silver that disappeared in the shadows of the floor,
he managed a flip reply.  "Friends?  Yeah right."

"Are you saying a man and woman can't be just
friends?"

The interruption resounded through the stadium.  "And
now, to honor America, please rise and join in 
for the singing of our National Anthem."

She rose, as he did, at the bark of the loudspeaker. 
Her hand, like his, pocketed her sunglasses, then
settled over her heart.

The musical introduction almost drowned out his
answer.  "You're saying you enjoy the same friendly
relationship with Jeff that you do with me?  I don't
believe it."

"O -" Scully raised an eyebrow, her mouth a
perfect circle as she began the Star Spangled Banner.
Her lips were the same color as her toenails, and
he pictured them doing delicious things to - 
"say can you see?  By the dawn's early light -"

Mulder winced, the tempting vision distorted by her
off-key delivery.  "Jesus, Scully.  Tone it down a
bit."

Out of spite, she turned up the volume, leaning over
to scream in his ear, "The bombs bursting in air! 
Gave proof through the night -"

He knew she was doing this on purpose; though she
wasn't Beverly Sills, she was passable as a singer. 
He still remembered the sultry low purr of her voice
as she'd cradled him back in the Florida forest last
year.  A few verses, and she'd gotten downright sexy
with it.  Too bad he hadn't been in any shape to
respond, except in his vivid imagination.

"O-o-o-o-0's say does that star spangled banner yet 
wa-ave..." God, the emphasis on the Orioles version
of the 'O' about killed him.

"O'er the la-and of the freeee!"

Enough O's.  His hand, sticky from sneaking her chocolate-
covered raisins, clamped over her mouth.  Mirth filled
her eyes as she muffled her way through "and the home
of the brave."

He smiled, joining in her soft laughter.  His fingers
shifted, wiping a bit of chocolate from the corner of
her mouth.  Suddenly, the world tilted.  Back in time
just a few short weeks ago, to a moment when her eyes
sparkled just as they did now, though with tears.  He
saw his hands cup her face as they did now, felt his
head lower as did her eyelashes.  Felt desperation
suffuse his chest as it did now, though for a very
different reason...

"Did you know Francis Scott Key watched the 'bombs
bursting in air' from the Inner Harbor, right around
the corner?" she breathed, licking her lips.

"That's nice."  He still remembered the smell of her
lipstick; he'd been close enough for the exotic,
fruity scent to tickle his nose.  If he leaned closer,
would he be able to pick it up above the scent of
popcorn and summer sweat?

Scully's mouth hovered millimeters below his.  "Did
you also know that the Warehouse is the longest
building on the East Coast, at 1,116 feet?"

"Fascinating."  Yep, he could almost taste that
lipstick now.

"Hey!  Take it to the concourse, buddy!"

The shout came from several rows back and Mulder
started, silently cursing the patron behind them, the
inappropriateness of the venue, and hell, just life in
general.  By the time he got his wits about him,
Scully was already seated and digging into her pocket
for her shades.  Flopping into his seat, he donned his
sunglasses as well, pretending interest in the first
pitch.

"The least you could do is answer the question," he
grumbled, though he wasn't certain he wanted to know.
Already, his body ached with pain at the possibility
that Jeff probably knew what her lips tasted like.  He
could argue with himself that he'd had the first sip. 
But CPR in Antarctica didn't count; no way was he
concentrating on anything other than getting them both
out of there alive.

Hell, Jeff most certainly knew what every inch of
Scully's skin tasted like.  Butterscotch on top of
vanilla ice cream.  Cool and sweet.

Damn.  He had to stop thinking about that.

Scully always recovered better than he did, in any
situation.  Looking at her, one would never think just
seconds ago they'd been a hair's breadth away from
sampling each other's stadium snacks via mouth-to-
mouth mastication.

"If you must know -"

"I didn't say I *had* to know, Scully."

She ignored his pouty comeback as she continued,
"We're both on the road a lot, Mulder.  Our schedules
aren't exactly conducive to a deeper relationship."

"He's gay."

"Will you *stop* it with that?  He's not gay."

A jock who liked art galleries and had a chance to
nail a beautiful, sophisticated, older woman and
didn't?  He was either gay or impotent, in Mulder's
opinion.  But that was too much of a 'guy' thing to
say aloud and Scully wasn't the person to make those
opinions known to, anyway.

The only other reason he could possibly see for a
celibate relationship between Jeff and Scully was that
the guy was a gentleman.  One who wanted the sex, but
was intelligent enough to see that Scully needed
wooing of her mind as well as the physical touches and
kisses.  It didn't matter if it took weeks or months,
or even years.  Scully would be worth the wait.

God, if that were true, then Jeff the gentleman was perfect for her.

The thought stunned him.  It was a miracle he found
his voice.

"Besides, I didn't ask about the *depth* of your
relationship.  I wanted to know if -" He broke off,
stopping himself short of asking if she'd had sex with
Jeff.  What the hell was wrong with him?  Despite
their close friendship, he had no right to pry into
her life that way.  She would never do the same to
him.

"If we've been shagging?"  At his shocked look she
added, "Flies, that is.  I've been studying."

"That wasn't what I meant when I said you needed to
study baseball," he said under his breath, knowing the
lie as soon as it spilled from his lips.

Had she been studying the other form of baseball?  The
one involving the metaphorical first base, second
base, and eventually gettin' jiggy with it?  Had his
keen sense of human behavior failed him in this
instance, when he needed it most?

Laughing, she applauded the Mariners' second out of
the first inning.  "Have *you*?"  The challenge thrown
down, she glared at him over the rim of her glasses.

"Have I what?"  Suddenly uncomfortable, he twisted in
his seat.  Next time, he was bringing one of those
blasted foam pads.  Funny how the older you got, the
harder the seats got on the ass.  Besides, they still
had half the season to go.

He had no idea what she was doing these days.  It
scared him.

"Been shagging flies with Sally."

"Stephanie," he corrected her, then realized she'd
crossed that imaginary line with no compunction at
all.  To hell with that.  If she could be mysterious,
so could he. "A gentleman doesn't talk about those
things."

"Oh, I see.  It's okay to ask me, but I can't ask you. 
Fine."

He knew it was provoking the instant before he said
it.  "Women gossip.  Men don't."

"I'm not going to dignify that remark with a reply,
Mulder."  She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and
cheered a strikeout with relish.  His or the
Mariners', he wasn't quite sure.  "Sounds like you
haven't made it past first base."

"Scully."  He hadn't, but he wasn't about to tell her
the details.

"Guess they don't call her Stiff Steffie for nothing,
do they?"  Scully patted his hand, her demeanor
pitying and her grin irritating.  "You'll get lucky
eventually, I'm sure of it.  There are lots of women
out there."

"That's *Stiffie* Steffie, Scully."  He took great
pleasure in watching her mouth pinch, as yet another
lie bolstered his pride.  "Her tongue has the most
wicked little curl -"

"Watch the game, Mulder.  Before I decide to react to
the gossip remark after all."


**********


August 21
Indians


Beer was okay, she decided at her second glass.  It
wasn't her preferred poison, but it went down slick
and cold, erasing the day's thunderclouds and the
night's humidity, replacing it with giddy good humor. 
She had to have *something* to smile about after that
fiasco in Phoenix.  Losing Gibson, watching Mulder
kiss Diana's ass - the only good thing about the whole
business was the satisfaction she received when she
handed him the final report on the DNA before leaving
for the day.  Thank goodness the O's were back home
this glorious Friday night.  Not that she expected
Mulder to join her this time; it was already the
fourth inning and the seat beside her remained empty.

So what if he didn't come?  So what if he was spending
the evening sandwiched between Stiffie Steffie and
Dirtbag Diana?  Since they'd been waiting on pins and
needles only to find out they'd been relegated to
Domestic Terrorism hell, the only times they'd really
connected had been at the ballpark.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised Mulder had
missed that connection.  For a man who could leap from
"plam" written by a stroke-stricken mother to Jeremiah
Smith and alien clones with amazing accuracy, he sure
was clueless about personal issues.  She sighed,
leaving her seat to seek the restroom.

On the return trip, she got another beer.  Beer was
nice.  She stopped at the top of the steps, peering
over the growing crowd in search of Jeff.  The middle
innings were in full swing, and judging from the O's
poor performance on the mound, he was most likely
warming up in the bullpen.

Her thoughts brought a knowing curl to her lips.  And
Mulder thought she didn't know baseball.  There was a
lot Mulder didn't know about her.  Sipping at the cold
brew, she spied Jeff leaving the dugout.  As usual, he
spared a moment to give her a smile and a wink before
sauntering to the bullpen.  The uniform fit him like a
second skin and he tugged at the belt in the back,
stretching his long legs.

Leaning against the railing, she sighed again.  God,
he had a fine ass.  Tonight, she thought.  She'd get
to inspect it up close and personal.  Damn it all, it
was time.

"Scully!"

A shorts clad, beaming lighthouse stuck out from the
sea of heads, his smile entirely too happy for the way
they'd parted earlier.

"Over here!  I got Boog's!"

"What?"  Slowly, she made her way to her seat,
mumbling apologies along the way.  Mulder greeted her
with a wrapped wad of stained paper.  The greasy smell
was tantalizing.

"Boog's BBQ," he muttered around a mouthful of food. 
"Best pork sandwich in the park."

"Pork?  Mulder, you shouldn't have," she remarked
dryly, taking the dripping mess from his outstretched
hand.  "What is this?  A peace offering?"

"Peace offering?"  His befuddled look was good, she
had to give him that.  "Boog Powell, Scully.  Even got
his autograph, see?"  He held up a crumpled napkin,
the barbecue sauce smudge transforming the name into
'Boo Pow'.  "Well, I *had* his autograph."

"Boog Powell.  Sorry, never heard of him."  She took a
bite of the sub sandwich, closing her eyes in sinful
appreciation.  So, she'd eat yogurt and salads all
next week.  Or live on lust the rest of the weekend;
that sounded immensely better.

"Never heard of him?"  Mulder's voice carried over the
lull in crowd noise; the fourth inning had ended.

"Nope."  Suddenly, the titter of the crowd swelled and
Tom Jones' seductive voice blared over the
loudspeakers.

"Best first baseman the O's ever had."  Like her,
Mulder stayed in his seat, his face a portrait of
baseball awe.  "AL MVP, 1970."

Pussycat, pussycat, I love you... yes I do...

"Like that means anything to me."  She ate the sub
like she'd spent the summer starving, gulped the beer
like Camden was an oasis in a desert of paperwork and
red tape.  Noticing the drink carrier at Mulder's
feet, she drank some more, emptying the small cup in
moments as she spied the foamy brew below.

Ah.  He got beer.  Mulder smiled at her look of
genuine pleasure.

"Okay then.  Miller Lite.  Tastes great, less
filling..."

The vague tickling of remembrance, of Bill and Charlie
mimicking Bob Uecker's stadium troubles, made her sit
up straighter, as if a bolt of lightning skipped down
her spine.

"Boog!"

Reaching down, Mulder handed her the cup she'd been
eyeing.  "Give the lady another beer."

"Yay me!" she laughed, over a tipsy hiccup.

"You go, girl."  She was feeling a bit woozy, but not
enough that she didn't notice the appreciative way
Mulder's gaze slid over her Orioles tank top and
shorts.  "How many have you had, Scully?"

He didn't look all that sober himself.  "How many have
*you* had, Mulder?"

"Two or three.  I'd have gotten here earlier, but I
took the MARC in and the line was long at Boog's.  Did
you know there's a beer stand not twenty feet away
from his place?"

The ruckus on the field caught her eye, veering it
from its perusal of Mulder's hairy thigh.  "Did you
know there's a cat loose on the field?"
 
She felt Mulder's gaze still on her, heard him murmur,
"Did you know Boog Powell once said, 'You make one
Lite commercial, it's like everyone forgets you played
ball for 20 years?'  I'm sorry, Scully."

The crowd stood around them, but it was as if the
world had narrowed to Camden Yards, Section 30, Row 6,
Seats 4 and 5.

Amidst the hoots and laughter, she faced Mulder, her
bare thigh brushing his.  "What did you say?"

His nervous exhale smelled of barbecue sauce and beer. 
"Boog Powell.  Poor guy's remembered more for a beer
commercial than -"

"Not that," she interrupted, searching his flushed
face with feverish impatience.  "After that."

He swallowed, his gaze never wavering from hers.  "I
said I'm sorry."  With a loud rush equal to the
cacophony around them he added, "I'm sorry I've been
such a bear lately.  I'm sorry I left you with Gibson
by yourself to chase phantoms with Diana.  I'm sorry I
treated you like shit today and every day and I'm
just... sorry."

By the time he finished, she was standing, her beer
dripping from a limp wrist.  He followed and they both
swayed there, jostled by elbows and shifting feet.  A
burst of tears clogged her throat and she pushed them
down, regret of her own making her say, "I'm sorry
too."

Mulder leaned down, his face clearing of guilty
clouds.  "For what?"

"For not being more open.  For being afraid to believe
sometimes.  For thinking there is no more 'we' when
'we' is all there is.  All that we'll ever need."

In an instant, she was in his arms.  She hugged him
back, laughing against his sweaty t-shirt as she felt
him smile in the curve of her shoulder.  How long they
stayed that way she had no idea, but it was long
enough for her to feel a distinct change in his body. 
He tensed.  So did she.  Her laughter faded and she
brought her face up, feeling the rasp of his evening
beard scrape her nose, just as it scraped her neck
where he inhaled sharply.

This is it, she thought.  Slight fear mixed with
exhilaration suffused her and her knees trembled;
Mulder's arm tightened, the rough texture of his skin
against her neck replaced with the soft touch of his
lips.

"Geez, I gotta spell it out for you? C-O-N-C-O-R-S-E."

Mulder pulled away first, gingerly handling his beer
and sandwich with a gruff clearing of his throat.  He
was in his seat before Scully could blink.  Facing the
barrel of a man three rows back, she lifted her beer
with a smile, ignoring the misspelled request for them
to take it outside.  "Got it.  Thanks."

"Did I get any on you?" They spoke at the same time as
Scully slowly sat.  "I don't think so."

"Pete and Repeat," she said softly, crumpling the
remains of her sub to stuff it in the drink holder. 
Her beer was suddenly warm, and she grimaced at it
before downing the rest.  The empty cup joined the
trash on the concrete floor and she sat back with a
slow exhale, eyeing Mulder from the corner of her eye.

On the field below, Jeff gave the crowd a beaming
smile, the tabby in his arms a skittish recipient of
his slow scratching.  He was a hero.  Mr. Baseball. 
Young, handsome, the rescuer of cats and the ideal
lover of many a fair maiden's dreams.  A subtle,
swooning sigh rose from the female fans, but Scully
couldn't manage to join in.  The man beside her had
captured her full attention with his sloppy apology. 

Mulder's face was blank, though his high color
betrayed his still riotous emotions.  Nodding at Jeff
he murmured, "He's perfect for you."

There were a dozen responses ready and waiting, all of
which seemed appropriate and none of which were truly
apropos.  This was Mulder.  A sometime hero.  Her
friend, her partner.  Not an athlete or a rescuer of
cats.  Just her.  A man who'd shrugged off a bullet to
the head and braved sub-zero temperatures to save her
sorry ass.

A man who had another life that didn't involve her. 
One with busty women named Steffie.  Something she'd
never be.

"He is," she agreed absently.

<But he's not you> she added silently.

It was the right time.  With Jeff, of course.  There
was no right time with Mulder.  Never would be.

"I think I've had enough beer," she blurted out after
a moment of silence.

That brought his head around.  "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine."

Mulder's eyes narrowed, scanning the field.  "I hate
when you say that."

"Why?  Most of the time, I am fine."  Oops.  "I mean,
I am fine when I say it."

"Sure."  A dubious, drawn out word that suited him
perfectly.  "And now?"

Looking at him, all scruffy and shiny with sweat,
remembering how utterly male he smelled and felt a
moment ago, she let a slow smile blossom.  "Oh yeah. 
I'm fine. *We're* fine."

Nudging her with his knee, he answered with a
grinning, "After five beers, you should be feeling
pretty good."

"It wasn't five."  Or was it?  Nah.  This intoxication
had less to do with alcohol and more to do with
Mulder.

"Can you drive?"

Unblinking, she gave him a steady glare, her words
speaking volumes of her night to come.  "I rode in
with Jeff.  He's taking me home after the game." 
Seeing him look away, she recalled his earlier
statement about taking the train into Baltimore.  Had
he purposely come alone so they could leave together? 
While sharing company during the games, they'd never
gone so far as to share rides.  Georgetown and
Alexandria weren't exactly side by side.  "Do you need
a ride?  We can -"

"Nah.  I meant to tell you, but I can't stay." 
Sparing a glance at his watch he added, "In fact, I'd
better get going if I wanna catch the train back. 
Stephanie's meeting me at the station."  He avoided
her eyes and she wished she could turn back the clock
a minute.  One minute.

But it wasn't to be.  Mulder was as distant now as
he'd ever been.  It was a trial to keep the
disappointment from her voice.  "Oh.  Well, guess I'll
see you Sunday afternoon then."

"Sunday afternoon?"

"I don't expect to make tomorrow's game."  Her terse
reply hinted at extended play in her apartment, not in
the stadium.  She nodded at the field, where Jeff had
taken the mound.  "Pitchers can't pitch two days in a
row.  Thought you knew baseball, Mulder."

Mulder stood, grabbing their half-eaten sandwiches and
empty cups.  "He's middle relief, Scully.  Not a
starter.  Thought *you* knew baseball, Scully."  As he
stepped over her tensed knees, he threw over his
shoulder, "See you Sunday."

Fuming, she wondered where their easy friendship of
moments ago had disappeared to.  Then she told herself
to let it go, knowing Jeff would indeed be relief. 
From the dead-end job, from a lackluster sex life, but
most of all, from Mulder's bewildering behavior of
late.

But her body betrayed her, curling up from her seat to
watch him go.  The first step to follow him landed on
the foot of the woman beside her.  "Sorry."

The *crack* of pine hitting leather-covered twine
reached her ears, but she wasn't deterred from trying
to reach the end of the row and Mulder's departing
form.

A unified "Oooh!" rose from the crowd and she found
herself enclosed in a forest of standing bodies.  Heat
stifled her and she quickly shuffled along the row,
excuses flying from her mouth.  She didn't care what
was going on on the field, or that her lame excuses
garnered more curses than yielding.

By the time she made it to the steps and looked up,
Mulder was gone.


August 23
Indians... again


"So... how was it?"

Scully faced the teasing, handsome face to her right
and feigned ignorance.  She should have kept her mouth
shut, should have forgone the apologies for her
behavior Friday night.  "How was what?"

"C'mon.  You can tell me.  Think of it as locker room
gossip."

"This isn't a locker room.  And how do you know what
happened, anyway?"

His glittering gaze, framed by lifted eyebrows, probed
at her face until she was forced to give him her
profile.  Her avoidance didn't discourage him,
however.  "I called Saturday morning, remember? 
Unless you've hidden the fact you're really a man in
drag, it was him who answered the phone.  In a
decidedly breathless, angry voice, I might add.  He
likes gettin' some in the morning, does he?"

In the early evening, on the kitchen table at
midnight, and yes, in the morning... all warm and sexy
with a shadow of stubble tickling her senseless and a
slow, easy, half-asleep fucking that drove her wild. 
Even now, she squirmed in her seat at the memory.

"And I had to go and ruin it all with a phone call,
didn't I?"

"You know you can call me anytime," she murmured,
lowering her chin as fresh regret filled her chest.

"I know I've never met him, but from what you've told
me, he's perfect for you.  So what's the problem?"

"The problem is..." What *was* the problem, anyway? 
He was intelligent, handsome, funny, attentive in his
own special way.

And he was definitely not for her.  No way.

"It just wouldn't work, that's all," she finished
lamely.

"I see."

The huge scoreboard out in center began to flash; the
strains of 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy' began to echo
through the stadium as the seventh-inning stretch
commenced.  Together, they stood with the rest of the
sparse crowd.  The Orioles weren't destined for post-
season play and with every game, the fans dwindled. 
Scully rather liked the space; it made it easier to
breathe, especially as the summer drew out in heat-
laced weeks.

"So I suppose that's why he's not here today?"

She kept her eyes trained on the laughing, dancing
faces on the scoreboard as the camera panned the
crowd.  Keep it light, she told herself.  It wouldn't
do to dissolve into tears amidst the gaiety of the
park.

"He got traded away," she answered vaguely.  "We both
got traded."  To oblivion, to a place neither of them
wanted to be.

Shit.  Like a homing beacon, the camera zoomed in on
her and her companion.  He smiled and waved; she put
on a false front and let him give her a hug.

"Damn," he muttered, still smiling.  "That's too bad. 
But I think I can sympathize."

She looked up at him, realizing again just what a
prize this man was.  Too bad he wasn't her type, a
fact he'd made known to her as she'd tried to
apologize on the phone yesterday.  "Sympathize?  How
so?"

"Lots of deals going on these days.  Contenders are
willing to pay anything to get to the Series."  Jeff
waved his sprained wrist in front of her stunned face. 
"Even with a little setback, rumor has it I'm off to
the Red Sox soon.  Trading deadline for post-season is
August 31st."

Despite her Mulder troubles, instant sadness crept in. 
"No."

They sat down again, the camera having shown enough of
the injured favorite to satisfy their craving for a
glimpse of baseball fame.  "Yep."  Jeff smiled,
clipping her chin with his bandaged hand.  "Hey, don't
worry.  You can still use the seats through the end of
the season."

"God, Jeff... that's not important."  She felt bad
enough for abandoning him Friday night, only to get an
early morning call from him saying that he'd been hit
by a ball on his pitching hand.

She should have argued more when Mulder took the phone
off the hook.   Hell, she shouldn't have followed him
to the train station in the first place and thrown
herself at him like a sex-crazed floozy.  And she
definitely shouldn't have let him come in for coffee
when he'd taken her home, much less spend the night. 
God, had she really done all that and more?  It had
been bad enough the beer had worn off by the time her
tank top sailed over her head at Mulder's hands.  But
it had been even more difficult to think when those
same hands caressed her breasts and his mouth drew
delicious patterns on her navel on his way down to...

The worst part of it all?  Letting her common sense
put the phone back in its cradle in the wee hours of
the morning.  Letting her conscience grab it from
Mulder's hand when she realized who was on the other
end of the line.  Moaning with embarrassment while
Jeff explained exactly why she had nothing to be sorry
about.  Hearing the door click behind Mulder just as
she was hanging up....

"I think it is," he said softly, taking her hand. 
With a gentle squeeze he brought her eyes up,
hammering his point home as his voice remained steely
soft.  "Something happened in these seats this summer,
Dana.  I think you need to let the season run its
course."

She was going to miss him.  He'd always been easy to
talk to, much easier than Mulder ever was.  For a man
who made his living with his athletic ability, he had
the soul of a poet and the heart of a true friend. 
And the insight of a clairvoyant.  She sighed, hoping
he'd find someone down the line to share himself with,
someone who could love all that he was.  He didn't
deserve someone who would use him as she'd done - not
that he wanted her, anyway.

"What if he doesn't come back?" she whispered.  "I've
let him think that you and I..." She trailed off with
embarrassment.

"Really?  You mean I nailed a beautiful, smart, sexy
older woman in *his* mind?"

"I'm afraid so."

"No wonder he told me to 'fuck off, junior' when I
asked to speak to you yesterday morning.  Well, it
sounded more like 'ah, God... f-fuck the hell... ooh,
Scully... off... ya little dick.'" His moans
punctuated each of the latter; she had to admit, he
had Mulder down pat, though she wouldn't mind if he'd
lower his volume just a tad.

"Jesus, lady!" Scully whipped around in her seat;
thanks to the sparse crowd, Mr. C-O-N-C-O-R-S-E now
had a bird's-eye view and crystal clarity.  "New guy,
same old, same old, huh?  Take it to the -"

She stood, hands on hips.  "I know," she shouted back,
sick of the whole world knowing her business.  "It's
C-O-N-C-O-U-R-S-E, you idiot!  And I'll take it where
I damn well please, even if I shove it up your -"

"Now, Dana."  Jeff's presence at her side stilled her
tirade.  He waved to the patron, his words congenial
as she sat back down, her cheeks flaming.  The man,
who'd recognized Jeff, quickly changed from bear to
pussycat.  The two men exchanged pleasantries while
she sat there, dazed.

Good God, what had happened to her?  Not only was she
dressed in skimpy shorts and drinking beer, she was
fucking her best friend and telling the world about
it.  Baseball.  Had to be baseball.  Something about
the heat and the bat and the lazy summer, sensual mood
of it all.  Then again, maybe she'd just had enough of
doing without sex.

Apparently, so had Mulder.  Squeezing her eyes shut,
she moaned as she remembered Jeff's portrayal of the
now infamous phone call.  "Sorry about that.  I don't
usually -"

"I didn't think so."  Jeff laughed at her flushed face
and she let his good humor at the situation make her
grin.

Though she still took exception to having her personal
life broadcast like the boxscores.

"What is it with guys?  Do they have to let everyone
know when they're getting laid?"

"Of course.  Usually, they're more subtle.  In
Mulder's case, he had a point to make.  He'll tone it
down once he's getting it on a regular basis."

"You're just a fountain of information, aren't you?"
she asked sarcastically, lifting an eyebrow.  Jeff was
a fine one to talk, given his eloquent recitation of
Mulder's sex talk.  Though she supposed he did the guy
thing, too.  She didn't want to know.  "And who says
Mulder will 'get it' on a regular basis?  He's not
speaking to me at the moment, you realize."

"You're still working together, aren't you?"  Off her
nod, he added, "Then he'll have to speak to you again. 
Trust me.  I give him a week, two tops - then he'll be
willing to kiss your feet just to get in the door."

"This is Mulder, Jeff.  The man apologized last time
with a sandwich, not with flowers."  She sighed, the
real world intruding.  "Besides, we've been assigned
to Domestic Terrorism.  Shit work, literally.  I think
we're off to Idaho or God knows where Monday.  Two
weeks of chasing fertilizer purchases.  If anything,
it'll drive Mulder up the wall even more.  He's not
exactly in the mood for grunt work.  We are *so* going
to get into trouble, I can feel it."

"Good thing you have these seats to come back to,
isn't it?"  At her glare, he leaned back, wrapping an
arm around her shoulders to make her relax with him. 
"At the risk of channeling James Earl Jones, you can
solve anything with baseball, Dana."

Scully tucked her chin into Jeff's shoulder.  "We'll
see."  The waning sunlight made her eyes water; she
donned her sunglasses and watched the game.

Three's, sixes, and nines.  Near death from
hypothermia, reassignment to hell, and an unknown
future.  Baseball, beer and Mulder.  Around the horn,
a line drive and lazy pop-ups.

She didn't join Jeff in rising when old number 8
knocked it out of the park.  Iron Man, Schmiron Man.

Nobody did it like Seat number 5's usual occupant.


**********


September 20
Yankees


Seat number 5, as familiar as his couch, cupped his
ass like an old pair of jeans.  His usual place in
Camden Yards, though not of late.  Between a trip out
as far west as he could go and almost drowning in the
eastern reaches of U.S. territorial waters, he'd
managed to miss the White Sox, Angels and the Red Sox. 
Not to mention missing Scully.  Had she caught a few
of the games, sitting in number 4 waiting for his
cowardly ass to show up?

Last home game of the season.  He picked a fabulous
time to get his act together - a steady rain plastered
his jacket to his t-shirt, and there was a definite
chill in the air.  The few diehards huddled under
tarps and umbrellas, but most had abandoned the seats
for the sumptuous delights of the concourse, awaiting
the resumption of play.  Him?  He felt like a fool,
sitting there as if he was too stupid to check out the
weather report before game time.

After being beat up by Nazis and having his love
spurned by Scully, he felt a monster cold coming on. 
But he wouldn't leave.  Not yet.  The late afternoon
game was only in the third inning; even with a long
rain delay there was plenty of time to finish it. 
Plenty of time for Scully to show up.

"If you sit in number five, she will come."  His
muttered hope hung in the air.  He sighed.  It may
have worked for Kevin Costner, but no way in hell it
would work for him.

He was such a dipshit.  Despite his background, where
he had sufficient reason to wallow in guilt and self-
recrimination, he'd never really allowed himself the
satisfaction of a pity party.  He wasn't made that
way; why give in to morose retrospection when it made
no difference to the way he viewed the world.  To the
way the world viewed him.  The only person who really
mattered, the only one who cared enough to pull him
from the edge of despair time and again, had basically
sent him to hell.

Of course, the way he'd flown from her apartment that
Saturday morning hadn't helped.  The way he'd
distanced himself from her since then had left him far
removed from any attempt on her part to discuss
anything but fertilizer reports.

And the "Oh, brother" said it all, didn't it?  So why
the hell was he practically freezing his ass out here
alone when baseball season was over?  When, for all
intents and purposes, it was over a month ago?

The stands were almost empty.  If he had any sense at
all, he'd leave as well.  It didn't take long for his
legs to get the message; he stood, taking the rest of
the row in two long, unencumbered strides.

Hands in pockets, he stopped, shaking his head to
clear the raindrops from his eyes.

"Did you know the playing field is sixteen feet below
street level?"

She looked warm and dry in a forest green jacket over
a turtleneck the color of the misty gray sky, one hand
holding an umbrella and a canvas bag slung over her
shoulder.  Her eyes, half hidden by the huge umbrella,
seemed soft and guarded, though it was hard to tell at
this distance.  Some fifteen steps or more separated
them, and he held his breath, taking the first up.

She spoke again, stilling his upward movement with two
steps down.  Then three.  "I fear if this rain keeps
up, we'll be able to swim in the runoff from the
streets."

He swallowed, trying to summon enough spit to make his
voice work.  "Pumps," he croaked.

"Say again?"  She got closer all the while, gingerly
making her way down the steps.  He itched to scramble
up and meet her halfway, but held his ground, sensing
her need for the upper hand.

"Pumps.  Below the turf.  Gets rid of the water in
record time."

Scully stopped on the step above him.  Row seven
stretched empty in both directions, the old-fashioned
Orioles logos at each end seeming to perk up in her
presence.  Leaning forward, she covered his head with
her umbrella as they stood on even ground.

"That's nice," she murmured absently, her gaze
dropping to his mouth.  "Think we'll see the last game
after all?"

"God, I hope so, Scully."

She spared a glance at her bag, disconnecting the
sudden heat for a moment.  "Well, I've got Boog's,
beer and a waterproof blanket.  The umbrella's big
enough for both of us, I think, and -"

"Did you know I never slept with Stiffie Steffie?" he
blurted out, his words all thumbs, his heart all
clumsy.  "I mean, I couldn't.  I kept seeing that
damned toe ring you wear and all I wanted to do was
curl *my* tongue around it."

To see her blush warmed him more than eventual Boog's
and beer.  "I, um... I think you covered that
already."

He swallowed at the memory of the Friday night in her
bed.  In her kitchen.  On the couch.  Talk about
covering territory.  "I did, didn't I?"

"You did.  And did you know that Jeff was gay?"

"He is?" He would have let the revelation stagger him,
but that would mean moving too far away from her.

"Last to know, that's me.  He told me when I talked to
him on the phone that morning."

"About that Saturday, Scully."  He wanted to tell her
he was sorry for letting his jealousy get the better
of him, for leaving her in the middle of the greatest
sex of his life simply because he felt like he was
second best to Jeff the baseball player.  He ached to
tell her that he regretted it almost the second he was
out her door and he'd been the world's biggest asshole
to her since then.  That he meant it when he said he
loved her last week.  That he'd do anything for
another chance.

He saw the same regrets in her eyes.  Her mouth worked
to form words as his did, then with a gentle touch,
her hand came up to silence him before he could
stumble through them.  "Did you know that Cal Ripken,
Jr. broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive game record in this
park on September 6, 1995?"

Mulder relaxed at her tentative trivia.  They had
plenty of time to talk.  He nodded, never breaking eye
contact.

"A milestone in baseball history.  Did you know he
took himself out of the lineup before game time
tonight, officially ending his streak at 2,632 games
played?"  There were very few who realized before the
beginning of the game that Ryan Minor had taken Cal's
place at third; the kid warmed up with little notice.
Mulder had known, though.  He just knew Cal wasn't 
coming out on the field.  Like the passing of an old
friend, he'd miss the Iron man.  He still felt a twinge of 
melancholy at the thought.

"He did?"  Scully's face fell a bit.  "I missed it."

"I missed *you*," Mulder replied softly, eager to
prove to her just how much.

Her small smile beamed from under the umbrella as she
dodged his seeking mouth.  "One more bit of trivia...
and this one tops them all."

His trembling hands left his pockets to settle on her
waist.  "Okay, shoot."

"Dana Scully, who had loved her best friend long
before Cal sat out game number 2,633, actually fell
*in* love in Section 30, Row 6, Seat number 4, in the
summer of 1998.  With the guy in Seat number 5.  Did
you know that?"

God, now his lungs really worked to draw a breath. 
"Really?"

"Really."

He licked his lips, warming them in preparation for
the final pitch.  "That's nice."

"Isn't it?  Another milestone in baseball history."

Her lipstick tasted like cool summer berries.  Imagine
that.  He nipped a bit, saying, "Ranks right up there
with destiny, fate, and how to throw a curve ball, I'd
say," before stepping into the batter's box for good.

He swung at the pitch with all his might.  A home run, 
imagined in his mind as dropping alongside all the others
immortalized on Eutaw Street in gleaming, permanent
bronze.

It occurred to him about thirty seconds later that
she'd dropped the umbrella.  Of course, he *was* busy
kissing her.

Two hands slapped together, the dull, beefy sound of
huge paws and calloused fingers making a valiant
attempt at applause.  Once, then twice, then again and
again.  He dimly registered the familiar, gruff voice,
the only voice in a virtually empty stadium. 
Naturally.  Mr. C-O-N-C-O-R-S-E never missed a game.

"Stay right there, buddy.  For once, looks like I
gotta seat in the *front* row."

Not bad for a Uecker imitation, Mulder thought.  Then
all thought flew from his head... he draped Scully
over his arm, deepening the kiss as he rounded third
and headed home.




END

Haven's July "Take Me Out To the Ball Game" Challenge:

Could be someone's favorite sport, could be someone
teaching someone to play, could be going to a game,
could be a story of a sport, could be.... anything
sports like.

Any POV, any characters, any sport (shan wants
baseball ), any season, any rating and or any pairing.

Elements to be included:

Any character's favorite quote
A toe ring
A cat
Big green foam Hulk Hands
An alien baby
A crack (of any kind)

Author's Notes: As always, my deepest thanks to my
sisters at Musea for the awesome beta, and for just
being there.  You gals are the cat's meow!

To Sybil, another big 'thank you!'  I don't know what
I'd do without all your poking and prodding (and your
listening when I need to bitch.)  Love to you, hon.

Let's see... to Polly, NormaD and Michelle Kiefer at
the Haven, for the invaluable information on the
Baltimore Orioles and Camden Yards.  Most special
thanks to Noelle Leithe and TCS1121, aka Slammin'Shannon
and Corkin'Clarissa, for pointing out the subtleties of
Camden Yards and giving this story the flavor of the stadium
and the fans.  I had a fabulous time in my virtual
visit to the park, and you all made it come alive for
me.  Thanks and go O's!

To bcfan, for giving me the perfect quote to fit in
the final element.  I had them all in except for that
- talk about the bottom of the ninth!  Then again, 
that's the magic of baseball.

A bit of license with the baseball games: An injured
player would spend the game in the dugout in uniform,
but since I needed Jeff in the stands, there he was.
Also, he'd spend games in the bullpen, but when I 
needed him in the dugout, he miraculously stayed. 
Ain't creative license grand? <g>

Though the dates and teams played by the Orioles in the 1998
season are accurate as depicted in this story, I have
no idea if they were afternoon or evening games, nor
if the game of September 20, 1998 was delayed by rain.
But that game *was* the first time Cal Ripken, Jr.
took himself out of the lineup in 2,632 games, ending
his consecutive game streak.  The rain delay suited
the kiss, I think. <g>

Hope you enjoyed my version of the summer of 1998.

Mish
:)