Title : Lesson Number Two
Author : Shawne
E-Mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
URL : http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com
Rating : PG-13
Category: SRH
Spoilers : The Unnatural
Keywords : post-ep fic, P?WP!, MSR
Archive : Sure, but tell me where.
Disclaimers : Repeat after me, class, and *do* learn this by heart...
"Definition - of - CHRIS - CARTER : he - who - owns - the - X-Files - and -
makes - much - money." Good enough? :)
Summary : pre-requisite post-ep fluff for a beautifully shippy episode...

Author's notes at the end.

======================================================

"I'm not done with you yet, Ms. Scully," I call to her, a smile in my voice
and eyes. Dropping the bat easily onto the ground, I flop down next to her
in the dusty grass.

She is lying down, breathing hard, her eyes closed. "Mmmm," she mutters
dreamily in response. Her arm drapes itself lazily across her forehead, and
she shifts into a more comfortable position in the dirt. "You're not?"

"Nope." I shake my head, not that she can see me, and poke her gently in
the side. "Hey, come on, wake up."

Her brow furrows, and her eyes slide open slowly.

Damn. I knew it was too good to be true.

As usual, I've gone and screwed up, went one step too far over the line,
and her defenses are right back where they belong.

Between us. Again.

We've had too much fun tonight. More fun than we're entitled to. We laughed
too much, played like children together, really enjoyed ourselves for
once... and that's just not allowed.

This is us, after all. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully - professional losers,
socially inept, geeks forevermore. If we have too much fun, the world comes
to an end.

I can feel my face molding itself into a frown, and it feels so bad after
the amount of smiling we did tonight. So unnatural. It's like someone just
shoved a clothes hanger into my mouth, upside down.

She looks up at me, her large blue eyes enigmatic and calm. Then she bursts
into laughter. It's the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

"You look like you've lost the phone numbers to all your triple-X hotlines,
Mulder!" she teases me, pushing herself up into a sitting position. "Hitting
about a hundred balls with a stick isn't enough for you? There's more?"

It takes about a second to register in my brain, but I soon realise that
she's not angry, or defensive, or annoyed. And that's amazing. She's not
closed to me tonight, and for obvious reasons, that feels... wonderful.
Perfect. I can't prevent the childish grin of joy from spreading across my
mouth any more than I can hide it.

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, and bounce to my feet energetically. If I can make
her laugh the way she just did for the rest of the night, I don't think I'll
ever need to sleep again. Don't believe scientists when they say the body
creates its own adrenaline. Dana Scully is the best brand of that on the
market.

"So now I've learnt how to hit home runs, what's next?" She picks her hands
up off the ground and dusts them forcefully against each other. "The major
leagues? You going to get me into the Yankees by my next birthday?"

God, I love it when she jokes with me, when she stops thinking and
analysing and just enjoys herself. I personally believe that Scully stopped
laughing the day she realised what working with me involved. So even though
she has a razor sharp wit, her sense of humour is the F.B.I's best-kept
secret. It's probably safe to assume that I'm the only person in the J.
Edgar Hoover building who even remembers what her laugh sounds like.

More's the pity to the rest of the population.

"Oh no, that's going to be your Christmas gift," I tell her in response,
reaching my hand out for hers and pulling her to her feet. "My very special
very early or very late birthday present... I'm not done with that yet."

Her eyebrow threatens to lift in its usual skeptical, slightly suspicious,
'what is my insane partner doing now?' look, the one I have helped her turn
into a reflex action over the past six years. But this time, she controls
herself. Dusting her clothes off liberally, she smothers a sneeze, then
looks at me expectantly. "And what else is there for us to do?"

"Well..." I send a silent prayer to Arthur Dales' baseball gods. Please
keep her mind open to the extreme possibility of us having more fun
together. And please make sure that doesn't violate some intergalactic
convenant and end up destroying the world.

"Lesson Number One," I say, and hold up my index finger. "I taught you how
to play baseball just now, Scully."

"That's debatable," she interjects, and folds her arms across her chest.
There's a hint of a smile in her eyes though, so I let that crack at my
teaching abilities slide.

"And now I'm going to teach you how to eat ice cream."

Leaving the bat and balls in a messy heap on the field, I decide to come
back here tomorrow and apologise to whoever has to clean up after us.
Grabbing her hand, I pull her out through the door cut into the chain link
fence.

"Excuse me?" she protests loudly, even as her fingers instinctively lace
themselves through mine, with mine, and she squeezes my hand.

Hot damn.

"I'm going to teach you how to eat ice cream," I repeat patiently, breaking
into a run. She hurries to keep up with me, and I can tell she's either
puzzled, offended, or starting to get really angry. I don't look back,
pulling her after me as I head for the car park.

I'm still praying to the baseball gods, Mr. Dales. If they do exist, as you
seem to believe they do, make her amenable to the idea.

Please?

"What makes you think I don't know how to eat ice cream?" She stops
running, abruptly, and yanks her hand from mine. I stumble forward, losing
my pace, and land palms first on the ground.

Shit.

"Non-fat tofutti rice dreamsicles don't count as ice cream, Scully." I get
up and turn to face her. Her arms are crossed in front of her again, her
defenses ready to march back into place should I say the wrong thing.

Why the hell is it always so difficult for us to just have fun?

"I never said they did, Mulder," she replies, her eyebrow executing a
marvellous arch, one of the best I've seen of its kind.

"You asked me whether I've ever entertained the idea of trying to find life
on this planet," I hurry on, still hoping foolishly that I'm suddenly going
to turn into a world-class elocutionist. Maybe then I can talk myself out of
this, and win her heart into the bargain.

She looks at me blankly. My heart sinks.

"Today, in the office," I remind her, then continue, not wanting to find
out whether she has somehow forgotten about this morning. "Well, I'm trying
to find that life now."

"And how is eating ice cream going to...?"

Cutting her off halfway, I move so that I'm standing next to her. I don't
really know what I'm doing, or even why I'm doing this. It just feels...
natural. My head drops, so that my mouth is right next to her ear, and I
whisper, "I'm trying to find that life with you, Scully. A life where we can
eat ice cream, real ice cream, together, and you won't worry about getting
fat. And I won't be holed up indoors, defacing government property. We'd
just be enjoying this sweet life, this gorgeous Saturday..."

My lips are so close to her ear I can feel the warmth of my own breath, and
I smile. Gently, I graze the soft curve of her ear with my lips, then add in
a reverent murmur, "Grabbing Life by its very elusive testes."

She sucks in a deep breath, and I hasten to add, "Your words, Scully. Not
mine."

I can still feel her against my face, the slightest hint of poetry and
perfume, and I move reluctantly away from her. She seems to have stopped
breathing entirely.

"Hey." I nudge her again, and she exhales with a loud whoosh.

It's her call now. Either we go out for ice cream together, and this night
will go down in my mind as the best fucking non-date in the history of the
universe, civilisation, and Mickey Mantle... or she turns me down, and I
drive her home in uncomfortable silence. Another Mulder-moment to end an
otherwise flawless day.

She looks at me, and I shuffle my feet nervously, waiting for the verdict.
Her eyes flicker with indecision, and her mouth quirks at the edges,
uncertain of whether to form into a smile or a frown.

Finally, she shrugs, and spreads her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"OK, whatever." She sighs loudly, as if she's doing me the greatest favour
in the world. Actually, she probably doesn't know it, but she is. Smiling
mischievously, she adds in a low sultry voice, "Teach me how to eat ice
cream, oh great Guru of All Things Dairy."

Then she reaches over, and traps my hand in hers.

If any other living, breathing human being has had as many mini-coronaries
as I do in a day, I bet they'd be dead by now. I experience palpable heart
seizures every time she touches me, and I don't get sick. I get even
healthier, and stronger, and happier... if that were scientifically
possible.

Scully would, of course, say it wasn't.

"I'll edit that choice bit of sarcasm out when I write about today in my
journal, Scully," I warn her, and lead her over to my car. "Instead, I think
I'll write, 'Dear Diary: today Agent Scully and I grabbed Life by the
balls - no pun intended - and ate ice cream. How daring! How brave! How
cre-'..."

She punches me in the arm, quite effectively, and I swallow the rest of my
words. "Shut up, Mulder," she tells me, and I see shooting stars twinkling
in her deep blue eyes. "I'm going to eat ice cream."

And as she gets into the car, slamming the door behind her, I realise with
a start that baseball gods do, and must, exist... because so am I.

======================================================

Author's Notes : This story didn't quite turn out the way it was supposed
to. My original plan was to write about Mulder and Scully *actually* eating
ice cream together, after that beautiful baseball scene in The Unnatural. If
you've read this far, though, you'd have realised that didn't happen at all.
<g> What I have here is (essentially) a prelude to the event I'd initially
imagined. Oh well, that can only be good, right? It means there might be a
sequel to this. :)

Oh, of course, it might be bad too, depending on whether you liked this
story or not... so I'd love to hear from you at
shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com. Should I write the next scene? Should I stop
here? Am I delusional in any way? (Hang on, I think I already know the
answer to the last question...)

For those who beta-read this - thanks for letting me put you through all my
newest works. And anyone who's still reading at this point... thanks. I'm
not very sure why you're still here, but you have my gratitude nonetheless.

;)

Added August 2, 1999

- Archived at The MSR Library