Spring Recess
By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@adelphia.net)

Written especially for VS11's Spring special event

Category:  Just about everything here.  MSR, humor, 
MT . . 
Rating:  R for some rather lascivious thoughts on the 
part of our favorite female agent
Spoilers:  None that I can think of.
Summary:  Spring, when young men's fancy turns to 
thoughts of . . . baseball.  Oh, and don't worry 
about the love – Scully's more than willing to take 
care of that.  Opening day at the ballpark, and it's 
the Yankees vs. the Orioles.  Do you really think 
that anything could keep Mulder from attending?
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner don't belong 
to me.  Only the plot is mine.  No infringement is 
intended – this is just for fun.  
Author's Notes:  Thanks to Vickie for poking me into 
it, and Mindy for poking in general.
Feedback:  Yes, please please please?

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

"C'mon, Scully.  Why not?  It's a beautiful spring 
day!"

"Mulder," I sighed, exasperated.  "We have a backlog 
of reports big enough to choke a horse, and Skinner's 
going to have our heads if we don't make a huge dent 
in them by 'the end of the week'.   And in case you 
didn't notice, Mulder, that's today."

"How often do the Yankees play the Orioles on opeing day?  
And you didn't notice that I finished most of them 
last night, just so we <could> leave today."  I still 
looked at him skeptically, but I'm not sure whether it 
was more that I didn't believe he could have finished 
so many the previous night or whether he really wanted 
to go that badly.

"Look, why don't you just go, and I'll take care of 
the reports," I offered.  

"No, the point is to go together, Scully," he almost 
whined.  

"Well, as usual, it's time for compromise.  "Okay, 
what time does it start?"

"One o'clock."

"Okay, how about this?  We work on reports until 
eleven, then close the office for the day and we 
<both> have some lunch and then go to the game."

"It's a deal," Mulder smiled happily, sitting down at 
his desk to get to work.  Sometimes, it takes so 
little to make him so happy.

**

Opening day at the ballpark.  What bigger example of 
Americanism is there on a warm spring day?  I can't 
think of any.

Mulder called ahead for will-call tickets because we 
weren't sure just how crowded it was going to be.  
Fortunately, they had two in the twelfth row slightly 
to the left behind home plate that we grabbed before 
anybody else could snare them.  I guess mostly 
families come today, so two seats together weren't so 
tough to do.  

Based on the parking lot, it was going to be a packed 
house, despite the fact that it was during a work 
day.  How did this many people get away from their 
jobs for something so mundane as a baseball game?

I've come to accept that I'll never understand 
Mulder's fascination with sports.  But then, I don't 
really need to, I just have to share in it, and enjoy 
his presence.  That's not such a tough thing to do.

Once we enter the gates, Mulder is like a kid in a 
candy store.  His exuberance is sexy beyond belief, 
and I realize that I can't wait to get him home again 
for a much different type of physical activity.

"Great seats, huh?" he asks as we settle down into 
them.  "From here, we can see the scoreboard and all 
the action." 

That's nothing compared to the action there'll be 
after the game, I think to myself.  I always get this 
way in the spring, but until now, I've managed to 
bury it so he doesn't know.  He's going to find out, 
though.

Anyway, back to baseball.  I've never been that 
interested in the sport per se, not beyond the few 
times Mulder's gotten it into his head to give me 
batting lessons.  Not that I'm complaining, of course 
– those were great times.  It just had more to do 
with spending time with Mulder than with the game 
itself.

"Scully, stand up!" Mulder stage-whispers, and I 
realize that, while I've been lost in thought, a 
young woman has come onto the field to begin the 
national anthem.  

"Oh, sorry," I say, scrambling to my feet.  

On our first foray to a baseball game together, he 
surprises me by singing along with the crowd.  His 
talents never cease to amaze me – he's much better at 
it than I am, that's for sure.

"Sing, Scully," he slips in between phrases.

Rather than argue with him about it, I join him in 
moving my lips, but silently so nobody else has to 
suffer.  Finally, the audio torture comes to an end, 
and we all take our seats for the opening pitch, 
which is performed with great aplomb by the Speaker 
of the House.  It's probably the biggest effort he's 
put forth in years.

"Hey, I'm going for food," Mulder says, not taking 
his eyes from the game.  

"We just ate!"  I can't believe it.

"I know," he responds, looking at me as if I'm 
demented.  "Food at the ballpark, Scully, is not 
about being hungry.  Don't you realize that?"

"You mean you're going to eat for the social aspects 
of it?"

"You'd better believe it," he answers me.  "So, what 
do you want?"

I know he's not going to let it rest until I join him 
in a traditional feast, but that doesn't mean I have 
to gorge myself.  "How about a salad?"  

As expected, he looks shocked. "Scully, you can't 
come to a ball park on opening day and eat a salad!  
It's just not done, and I'm not even sure you can 
<find> one.  Try again."

"Okay, how about a chicken fajita with mild sauce?"  
What the heck.  Lettuce, tomatoes,  chicken . . . 
that's nearly a salad, right?  It's just swapping the 
croutons for a wrap.

"I think we can handle that," he said with a smile.  
I'm blessed with a kiss on the cheek before he leaves 
our seats to go in search of unneeded sustenance.

Left on my own, sitting here is a new experience.  At 
least three men wink at me, and I find it interesting 
that they feel the freedom to do this just as soon as 
the man I came with has stepped away.  If the place 
wasn't so crowded, I might be inclined to teach them 
a lesson about women, but for now, I settle for 
giving them a dirty look.  They get the message and 
turn back to the game, just as a redneck with the 
biggest beer belly I've ever seen dares to put his 
hand on my knee.  

"Excuse me."

"Yeah, honey?"

"Could you please remove that?" I say as politely as 
I can, despite my furor.  I didn't come here to be 
groped.  Well, at least not by a stranger.

"What's'a matter, sweet cheeks.  Been too long since 
you had a <real> man?"

"I know a lot of real men, and you're not one of 
them.  Now remove it or . . ."

"Or what, babe?  You gonna hurt me?"

"If she doesn't – and she could – I will," comes from 
Mulder, standing at the end of the aisle.  I wonder 
how long he's been there. . .

"Why don't you just concentrate on your food and I'll 
concentrate on the lady," the jerk says, his breath 
in my face wreaking of alcohol as the hand on my knee 
suddenly grips it tighter.  There'll be bruises there 
tomorrow, I think.

Suddenly, his hand is moving further up my leg, 
nearing forbidden territory, and I see red.  Instinct 
kicks in, and before I know it, I'm standing with his 
arm twisted, ready to break his thumb.  

"Is there a problem here, folks?" A security guard 
who doesn't look much older than my Godson is here, 
ready to calm the action.

Before I can respond, Mulder's got his badge out.  
"This gentlemen has been assaulting my partner, she 
gave him several warnings, but he wouldn't let up."

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

"I recommend," Mulder says, "that you remove him from 
the stadium, Officer."

I feel my blood pressure leveling off, and when the 
officer takes the offender by the arm, I have the 
presence of mind to release him.  We watch as the 
jerk is led out.

"Sorry about that, Scully," Mulder says as he takes 
his seat beside me, juggling his purchases.  "Your 
fajita is the striped box."

I take it from him and am surprised to realize that I 
am hungry after all.  

"I hope, given this experience, that you didn't get 
us beer," I say around a mouthful of chicken, 
lettuce, and tomato.  "That guy wreaked of it."

"Diet cola?" he says, offering me a cup.

I take it gratefully, sipping a bit through the 
straw.  "Thank you.  What did you get?"

I swear I see a slight blush on his face, but he 
squares  his shoulders.  "A couple hot dogs. . . some 
popcorn . . . peanuts. . . the soda, of course."

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

"Nah, I'll be fine.  Something in the fresh air makes 
a person hungry.  Besides," he says with a grin.  "I 
think you'll be helping me finish some of it before 
long.  Trust me."

"We'll see,," I respond warily before the person 
behind us has finally had enough of our talking over 
the announcer and shushes us.

"Sorry," I say to him, embarrassed.

Like our neighbor, I listen to the loudspeaker.  They 
are announcing, in between plays, some contest that's 
coming up in between the third and fourth inning.  It 
would be a pleasant surprise to come away with some 
little prize like a weekend at the nicest hotel in 
the city or some new furniture, but I realize that 
the chances of them drawing mine or Mulder's seat 
number are very small.  Still, a girl can dream, 
right?

The game goes on, and if I find it less than 
enthralling to watch, I find my partner and the crowd 
around him equally entertaining.  It's not the most 
popular thing to be, a Yankees fan in Orioles 
stadium, and every time he cheers his team, those 
around him grumble, moan, or just plain tell him to 
shut up, yet he sticks to his guns.  Nothing is going 
to stop him from cheering, to the point that I fear 
there will be a dozen Orioles fans lying in wait in 
the parking lot for us upon completion of the game.  

"Mulder?"

"Yes!!!!!" he exclaims, and I somehow know it's not a 
reaction to me.  Then he proves it.  "Did you see 
that, Scully?  A triple!"

"Yes, I saw it.  Mulder, you know all that food you 
bought?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, why don't you stick some of it in your mouth."

"But then I won't be able to cheer," he notes in 
confusion.

"Exactly," I answer.  "I'd like to get out of here in 
one piece, if you don't mind."

"We will, but we'll have a good time, too."

"Yeah, whatever," I mumble, trying harder to restrain 
my laugh than to really be heard.

I hear the crack of a bat, and before I can capture 
the ball with my eyes, it's in one of the fielder's 
gloves, signaling the end of an inning.  While 
various announcements are made and the "field" team 
comes into the dugout, Mulder is explaining to me the 
differences between this ball park and that of his 
beloved Yankees.

"And, of course, the Yankee's scoreboard is so much 
clearer . . ."

My attention is drawn to the object of his 
discussion, but his voice fades to the background as 
I take in the image there.  A very clear image of us!

"What the . . ."

"And the winner is," a voice resounds over the 
speaker system, "Section 3, seat 12A.  Will the 
person sitting in that seat please report to the 
nearest courtesy desk.  You are today's 'bat off' 
winner."

"Mulder, it's you!" I can't help but exclaim.  "You 
won!"  I take a minute to gather myself.  "Uh . . . 
what did you win?"

He seems shocked for a moment, but those around him, 
who were shouting at him not all that long ago, were 
now calling out encouragements, even patting him on 
the back.

Rising, he grabs me by the hand in what seems like 
stunned silence, pulling me out of my seat and into 
the aisle.  In the relative quiet, while we try to 
find the booth we need, he explains.

"They have a contest every game," he says, unusually 
nervously.  "One person is chosen from the crowd to 
come down and bat against the home team's pitcher.  
If you get a hit, you win a prize."

"Well, here's your chance, Fox Mantle," I laugh, 
squeezing his arm.  "Let's show 'em what you got."

In a blink, I'm standing in a dugout watching my 
partner, my best friend and then some, walking out 
onto the field.  I've known him for so many years, 
and yet I've never seen him as nervous as he is right 
now.  I fear it's going to affect his performance, 
and say a prayer that he can at least save face and 
get some kind of hit.

He looks back to me, and, on an impulse, I blow him a 
kiss.  The nervous look is replaced with a wide smile 
and a wink.  Go get 'em, I think to myself as silence 
falls over the stadium.  All eyes are on Mulder and 
the man who climbs onto the pitcher's mound.  

On the way down to the field, the team's public 
relations person had explained that he'll get three 
strikes or four balls to get a hit, just like a real 
time at bat.  Three strikes sends him home with 
nothing, and four balls with a respectable prize.

Mulder takes longer than I would have expected to 
choose his weapon of choice before finally stepping 
into the batter's box.  I wish I could be in his arms 
again, like I was during our all-too-brief batting 
lesson all those years ago, but this is a dream of 
his, and I pray he gets to enjoy it.

The pitcher winds up, and Mulder watches carefully as 
the ball approaches.  Even from where I stand, I can 
see it's way out of the strike zone, and he wisely 
lets it pass by him. I know he's got to be dying to 
swing at it, but he's no fool.

A second pitch heads his way, this time better 
directed.  For a fraction of a second, I don't know 
what Mulder is going to do, but then the bat is in 
motion, and I hear the tick of wood on leather.  
Disappointingly, the ball flies off to the side, out 
of bounds, and the umpire calls for his first strike.

"C'mon, Mulder!" I shout out, encouraging him.  He 
looks to me for a second, and then his eyes are back 
on the ball.  

I realize my eyes are closed and I'm wishing for 
everything I'm worth that he could succeed at this. 
He's lost so much in his life, and this tiny thing 
could make him so very happy.

My eyes snap open at the crack of the bat, loud 
enough to assault my eardrums this close, and I 
search the skies, hoping to spy the small object.  
Gloriously, I'm not disappointed.

When my ears begin to work again, I hear the crowd 
cheering. They're on their feet, watching as the ball 
goes up, up, and up even more until . . . 

"And it's over the left field fence!" The scream over 
the loudspeaker reflects the excitement of the crowd 
at Mulder's accomplishment.  A home run!  

I'm not sure if he's supposed to, but regardless, he 
takes his laps, touching each base before returning 
to home base.  I'm out of the dugout and he sweeps me 
into his arms, spinning me around like my father used 
to when I was three.

A man comes out to shake Mulder's hand, introducing 
himself as the team's owner.  He presents us with an 
envelope, which we open to find a pair of all-
expense-paid tickets for a two-week vacation in the 
Bahamas, even including food vouchers.  

I'm entranced by the tickets, the idea of Mulder in 
his Speedos on a white beach distracting me, until 
the owner waves a second hand to the scoreboard.  On 
it, a 2004 Corvette convertible is depicted, 
apparently also part of this incredible prize.

I hug Mulder in front of many thousand people without 
a second thought, jumping into his arms in our joy.  
It's apparent that it hasn't fully sunk in yet, but 
now that the prizes have been presented, we're being 
nudged off the field.  I guess it's time for the game 
to resume, Mulder's fifteen minutes of fame passing 
quickly.

Before we're allowed to return to our seats, the 
team's representatives make sure to get all of my 
partner's vital information and give him paperwork 
that will let him pick up his new car at the 
dealership.  I can't believe this is happening!

As we're finally left alone, I can't get over how 
quiet he's being.  He hasn't said a word since the 
prizes were awarded, and nothing directly to me.

"Mulder, are  you okay?"

He swallows deeply, looking shell shocked.  "A bit 
stunned, I guess," he smiles.  "I won a car!"

"Not just any car.   And then there's the trip, don't 
forget about that."

His eyes sparkle.  "I'm not likely to.  Y'know," he 
says, suddenly shy.  "It would make the perfect 
honeymoon."

Now I'm the one stunned speechless.  "Mulder, I . . 
."

"Agents?"

That voice.  I know that voice, I think to myself as 
I turn toward it, praying I'm wrong.  We're not that 
lucky.

"AD Skinner?" I say, knowing that I'm blushing to 
beat the band after having gotten caught playing 
hooky.  Mulder doesn't seem to mind that much, but he 
is definitely more formal now.

"Imagine seeing you two here, when there are reports 
due," Skinner says.  It doesn't seem as harsh, 
however, coming from a man in an Orioles t-shirt, a 
baseball cap, and jeans.  It's a casual look to which 
we're not accustomed.

"They'll be in on time, Sir," Mulder says.  "First 
thing Monday morning, even if I have to work all 
weekend."

"That's good, Mulder."  His disposition calms and he 
becomes less businesslike.  "You could have told me, 
you know.  Imagine my shock when I looked up and 
<you> were on the scoreboard!"

"Sorry about that, Sir," he responds, but I'm still 
too embarrassed to speak.  Did hear Mulder's 
honeymoon comment?  I hope not.

"If you'll excuse me, agents," Skinner says finally.  
"I'm going to get back to my seat."  For the first 
time, I notice that his hands are full of ballpark 
fare: hotdogs, peanuts, and popcorn.  Great.  My boss 
and my partner can suffer from food poisoning 
together.

"Yes, sir," I say finally.  "We should be getting to 
ours, too."

There are nods all around, but as I watch Skinner's 
receding back, I hear him add, "let me know when you 
plan that honeymoon."

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

"Careful, Scully.  You look like you're having a 
stroke!"

"I'm not sure I'm not," I say, feeling weak in the 
knees.  Despite our many years together, I've never 
quite caught onto Mulder's ability to flagrantly 
disregard the opinions of my superiors.  I've always 
been the type of person who wanted approval.

Well, now that I think about it, Skinner's tone 
wasn't entirely disapproving.

"C'mon, Scully.  We're going to miss the rest of the 
game."  I realize that Mulder's moved on several feet 
before realizing that I was still riveted in place, 
deep in thought.

"Coming," I say, joining him.  On the way to our 
seats, he stops a vendor and buys a bag of peanuts.  
Not usually his nut of choice – and most definitely 
not mine, my libido reminds me – he, regardless, 
cracks a shell, tosses it aside, and chews happily on 
the insides.  

We follow the steps down to our row, and, despite 
their earlier animosity, the people whose seats 
surround us cheer him on as if he were Babe Ruth.  

And yes, he's eating it up.  He lets me into the row 
first to regain my seat, but rather than sit beside 
me, he's standing in front of his seat, facing 
backward, with his hands raised above his head in 
victory.  What a ham!

It's true what they say about things moving in slow 
motion when something momentous happens.  The next 
five seconds pass more like ten minutes, unraveling 
before my eyes.

I hear the crack of the bat, see the ball as it 
arches up, higher and higher, over the protective 
fencing, and then begin to fall back to earth.  

"Mulder!" I scream, but before I can move fast enough 
to interfere, the ball impacts the back of my 
partner's head, sending him crashing to the ground.

Half an hour and a great deal of commotion later, I 
find myself sitting in the waiting room of the 
nearest hospital.  Despite the velocity of the foul 
ball, Mulder never lost consciousness on the way 
here, but it was perilously close and I feel safe in 
saying that there's no way he could have walked.  
Hence the ambulance, which he hated, but at least 
believed he needed.

A doctor sticks his head out of a curtained cubicle 
and, when he catches my attention, waves me in.  
Mulder lies quietly, but his eyes are open.

"How is he?" I ask.

"He's going to be fine," I'm assured, "but he took 
quite a blow to the head, and has a moderate 
concussion.  I'd like to keep him overnight, just to 
be sure that everything is under control."

I nod, counting myself lucky that it'll only be one 
night, but Mulder groans from the bed.  "Can't I go 
home?  Scully's a doctor – she can look after me."

"No offense to your skills, Dr. Scully," he says with 
a nod and a smile.  "But I'd rather have you where a 
specialist is at hand, should anything go wrong."

A sigh from the bed tells me that Mulder realizes 
that his argument never really had the chance, and I 
agree that this is the best place for him for the 
moment.

"I'll call an orderly, and he'll take you up to your 
room," he says, addressing Mulder, who closes his 
eyes with a sigh.

Walking by his side as the gurney rolls from floor to 
floor, I take his hand in mine, and he smiles up at 
me.  

"Tired?" I ask him.

"Surprisingly, no," he answers honestly.  I can see 
it in his eyes.  "This concussion must be nothing for 
me to be feeling this awake."

"How's the headache?"

"Just keep talking to me – it's the best painkiller," 
he smiles.

"Here we are, Agent Mulder," an orderly says as he 
and his partner move to lift Mulder from one bed to 
another.  

"I can do it," my partner states, sitting up on the 
bed and pushing them away.

"We're really not supposed to let you . . ."

"Then just give me a hand."  Mulder reaches out, and 
with an orderly on each arm, he's escorted to the 
bed.  Once in, they tuck the covers around his body 
and leave, taking the gurney with them.

"Finally," I say, glad to be alone with him.  "Think 
you can sleep now?"  I know what the answer is going 
to be even before he utters it.

"I'm not tired," he repeats, lying back nonetheless.  
"If I was home, I'd be ready to run a few miles."

"Wow, Mulder.  You've got more energy than I 
expected.  A lot more."  The devil on my shoulder is 
poking me again.

"Yeah, it's really not that bad.  It's an income-tax-
sized headache, not a Skinner-chewed-my-ass sized."  
He watches as I take his phone, wallet, keys, and the 
envelope with his prize certificates in it and place 
them all in the bedside drawer.

"Don't forget those when we leave tomorrow," I remind 
him, and he's looking adorably wistful.

"I guess the honeymoon will have to wait," he said, 
looking at me with a glint in his eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," I say, throwing the latch on the 
door before climbing aboard the hospital bed, 
straddling his ever-so-masculine body.  "The Bahamas 
may have to wait, but there's nothing to say we can't 
practice."

Moving beneath me, he gives me a broad smile.  "Well, 
you know what they say, Agent Scully.  Practice makes 
perfect."

And to think that, just this morning, I was 
disappointed that opening day of the baseball season 
was upon us.  Despite Mulder's accident, this is 
going to be the most memorable day of spring.

The End