Contact by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Classification: V, MSR, Scully POV, Post- Unnatural Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: Colony/End Game, ReduxII, Tithonus, The Unnatural Summary: The second part of Scully's birthday present. Distribution: Yes, go for it, just let me know where, okay? Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters used here are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. The others belong to me; if CC wants to use them, he'll hafta talk to me! Dedicated to my very own James, Richard, and Michael. In their immortal words - "Aunt Marsha, come watch me play T-ball this afternoon, okay?" Anytime, boys. Contact "Hey Scully?" "Yes?" "Wake me up when the next game is about to start, okay?" I turn my head and lazily lift my eyelids to glance at Mulder. He's laid out in a typical sprawl, taking up most of the ratty patchwork quilt we were *supposed* to be sharing. Poor baby. It's my fault he's dozing; guess I wore him out last night. "Sure, Mulder," I answer, reaching for his hand. "Go to sleep." He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and is snoring softly a few moments later. I take the opportunity to study him at my leisure. He's wearing the same gray jersey - sans black undershirt - sporting the name "Gibson" that looked so terrific on him in the bright wash of the diamond lights last night. Of course, he looks just as terrific in this diluted afternoon sunlight. I suppose it's also my fault that he had to wear the same thing again today. He didn't get much of a chance to go home and change. Shagging your partner all night leaves very little time for fashion etiquette. But I have to admit, Mulder's version of day wear or evening wear pales in comparison to the sight of him in nothing at all. Even now, I find it difficult to believe we did it. I feel like pinching myself every five minutes just to make sure it wasn't all a dream. Mulder and I made love. After seven years of stifling the frustration, I finally had enough and told him I wanted him in *that* way. Well, jumped him is more like it. The hour I spent wrapped in Mulder's arms taking distracted swings at mechanical pitches only served to fuel the fire that ignited when I heard his husky voice on my answering service. By the time he escorted me home I was an inferno of lust, dragging him into my bedroom and having my wicked way with him. We finally came up for air around eleven this morning, when we collapsed in a tangled heap on my living room rug. We never did make it to the kitchen for pop-tarts. Mulder raised his head from the pillow of my breasts and murmured, "So Scully - feel like catching a baseball game this afternoon?" "What?" I could barely breathe, much less think. "Come on," he said, groaning and creaking his way to a standing stretch. "We can't do this all day." "Who says we can't?" I replied, too exhausted to follow. "I do," he said, pulling me up into a hug. "Come on, Scully. I have something I want to show you." His arms tightened around me; whatever it was, it was important. I pulled back slightly and wiped the hesitancy from his brow with my fingertips. "Okay." With that simple word, I was plunged into a flurry of Mulder hustle. We showered - Mulder brushed aside my half-hearted attempt at diversion with a playful swat on my butt - and were in the car at 11:30. After stopping for burgers at McDonald's and beer at the local liquor shop, we were on our way to Camden Yards. It didn't once penetrate the sexual fog in my brain that you can't bring beer into a major league baseball park. But I was secretly thrilled at the prospect of dividing my afternoon between watching Mulder and Cal Ripken, Jr. Or so I thought, until we pulled up at the same ball park where I received my birthday present last night. Well, the first part of my present. We didn't join the sparse crowd of parents and kids filing into the stadium bleachers. Instead, Mulder directed me to a small hill overlooking right field, far enough away from the stadium to ensure privacy but still see the action. Hidden from full view by several huge oak trees, we settled in for a picnic lunch of salty french fries and sweet kisses. That's where we are now - satiated with fast food, alcohol, and all-night sex. This is the perfect spot to watch the kids play; yes, I was rather surprised to find that Mulder had brought me to watch a Little League game. Apparently Mulder is not as interested as I thought he was in the first game. He still hasn't showed me what he wants me to see, and refuses to give me even a hint. I think he fell asleep on purpose to avoid my curiosity. To tell the truth, I'm not that interested in the game either. I'd much rather snuggle up to my shade-dappled lover and watch the cottony clouds float by. Not a bad way to spend the afternoon after all. Just as I'm approaching that semi-aware state of almost sleep myself, I hear the stadium announcer. "Final score - Giants 6, Tigers 4." That's my cue. "Mulder." I nudge him with my free hand, but he doesn't respond. He's so peaceful, I hate to disturb him. But he told me to wake him for the next game, so I'd better. "Okay, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up," I whisper, then lower my mouth to his. After all the physical exploring we've done of each other in the last twelve hours, I would think by now I've experienced just about every Mulder kiss there is. Once again he proves me wrong. For a second or two I just enjoy the feel of his warm, dry, unresponsive lips. I play with their curves, mining the soft valley with my tongue. His breath hitches with the swift intake of air that signals fuzzy consciousness, and I feel his hand move to settle on the nape of my neck. "Mulder," I murmur quietly, but it falls from my mouth to his as a moan. Why am I speaking? No sense in ending his nap too quickly. I'm enjoying this far too much. "Hmmm?" he purrs from the depths of his chest, his eyelashes lifting ever so slightly. "Nothing. Go back to sleep," I say, trying to lull him into sleep again so I can continue my survey. He's awake, though, and ready to join in. "Mmmm, Scully," he groans, then deftly flips me onto my back in one move and plunders my mouth with abandon. Naturally, that pesky announcer pipes in again. "Next game - Indians versus Pirates." Damn. Just when things were getting interesting. I feel him tense above me, and he slowly moves away, his eyes lingering on my lips as if he'd like to devour me. Fine, I think. Go for it. I snake my arm around his neck and draw him to me, willing to forgo whatever surprise he has in store for me - if he doesn't stop what he's doing now. For an instant he surrenders; I feel his body relax and move toward me. But then he smiles and shakes his head, his hazel eyes silently promising me - Later, Scully. "Okay," I say, brushing the chestnut waves of hair with a finger-comb. "I'm gonna hold you to that, Mulder." "I'm sure you will," he chuckles, and sits on the other side of me, his perfect ass narrowly missing the remains of my Big Mac. I also rise to a sitting position and pull my Orioles t-shirt down over my bare midriff. In two shakes, he's retrieved the binoculars from his beat-up knapsack and is scanning the crowd in the bleachers. I squint foolishly at the casually dressed suburban families, but I really have no idea what or who he's searching for. He stops, adjusting the focus before handing over the binoculars. "There - to the left, behind home plate, first row." Tentatively I take the binoculars from him, examining his face for the answer to my unspoken question. He just moves behind me, shifting me a little to the right before settling in, his long legs stretched out to either side of mine. Okay, I think. Let's see what is so important in those bleachers. There is a woman, about my age, dressed in a pale pink tank top and white shorts. Her hair is drawn back in a ponytail and her face is shaded by the faded Pirates cap pulled over her brow. She is bending from her seat, arms reaching for the toddler playing in the dust by the batter's cage. He can't be more than three years old, and is thoroughly enjoying himself in the dirt. She's wiggling her fingers at him, obviously trying to cajole him into returning to her. Just when I think she's about to rise and chase him down, a tall, blond man looms behind the boy and swoops him up. The child squeals with delight, squirming like a sack of puppies in his father's arms. The woman takes the child from his dad and for the first time I get a good look at her face. Oh my God. I've only seen that face once before, on a darkened bridge in Virginia so long ago. I must be sure, however, so I lower the binoculars and turn my head to look at Mulder's profile. "Mulder? Is that - ?" "Samantha? Yeah," he says, a touch of melancholy sandpapering his voice. "Her husband's name is James Sillett - he's an accountant in Baltimore." He worries his lower lip with his teeth, waiting for my response. "And her son?" "Michael. He'll be three in September." I raise the binoculars again to find Samantha nuzzling Michael's sandy curls. James is patiently holding a dripping cone of chocolate ice cream for the child to eat when Mom is finished with the toddler's dust-off. "They're beautiful," I whisper, grasping Mulder's hand. He fits his palm to mine and brings our clasped hands to my chest. "I told you about the meeting in the cafe," he begins. "When you were...when I thought..." When he thought I was going to leave him forever. "Yes," I say, brushing my lips over his thumb. "You told me she wasn't ready for any kind of relationship with you." I could have cheerfully kicked her ass for hurting this wonderful man that way. "Well, I've respected her wishes. I stayed away. But I had to *know*, Scully. You understand, don't you?" I spin in his arms at the quiet despair in his voice. "Of course, Mulder," I say adamantly. "I'd have done the same."His eyes swim with unshed tears but his words are steady. "I had the Gunmen search for her. Actually, she seems to be leading a pretty normal, happy life." His lips curve in a watery smile. I can't resist the question. "She's okay, though, Mulder? Her family too?" "Yeah, they're *fine*, Scully," he assures me, arching an eyebrow. I ignore the jibe and place my hands on his thighs, moving closer. "Tell me more, Mulder. I want to know everything." He explains that he hasn't met her face to face since their reunion, but Samantha had initiated contact in the form of a birthday card last October. "I guess she got tired of waiting for me to turn up at her door," he says. "I was shocked, to say the least. But it was a start." "Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, slightly miffed at his keeping this from me. "I would have wanted to know." "Because...oh, hell, Scully - I don't know. Things weren't exactly *good* between Sam and me. They still aren't. And I didn't want to get your hopes up for nothing." He didn't want to get his hopes up either. My poor sweet Mulder. "So what happened?" I prod gently, soothing the creases out of his jeans with my fingers. "I returned the gesture at Christmas with a card. I also asked her to call me," he adds, brushing the hair from my face. "Did she?" "Yes. Unfortunately, I missed it. I was in New York with you." Fellig. Jesus, we can't get a break, can we? He continues. "She left a message on my machine, though. Since then I've spoken to her maybe a dozen times. When she called last week, she invited me to come see Richard play today." "Richard?" Now I'm confused. He returns me to his embrace, my back to his chest. Raising a tanned arm to point at right field, he says simply, "Richard." A young boy is standing in right field, absently chewing on his glove. The number "21" is emblazoned in black on his gold jersey, as is the name "Sillett". As if he senses our scrutiny, he looks in this direction. I draw in a ragged breath and Mulder responds by squeezing me gently and feathering a soft kiss on my neck. Richard Sillett could be Mulder at that age. He's thin, with long arms and legs. A mop of dark hair peeks out from under his cap, and the mouth pulling at the glove looks like it was made for sunflower seeds. I'll bet he's even got a smattering of freckles on that nose. "Poor kid's got my nose," Mulder says, reading my thoughts. I find my voice after a few moments. "Mulder, he's...he's you." "Well, not exactly. Sam assures me he's a much better baseball player than I was at nine." "She remembers you?" "She remembers a lot of our childhood together. All of the happier times, anyway." He pauses, unwilling to mar this glorious day with unpleasant memories. "She wants to meet me. She wants to meet you." "You've told her about me?" I ask, mildly surprised. "I told her about *us*," he replies. "There is no me without you, Scully." Now I'm really having a hard time holding back the tears. I blink them away, not wanting to spoil Mulder's day. He's given me his world in less than twenty-four hours, while I've not even spoken my true feelings to him in seven years. We watch the game in silence for a while. The top half of the first inning ends and Richard trots off in the direction of the first base dugout. He dons a batting helmet and picks up a bat. He must be pretty good - he's the lead-off batter. "Mulder?" I say quietly, watching Richard step into the batter's box. "Yeah?" he replies, clearly concentrating on the first pitch. "I love you." Crack! Richard makes contact, sending the ball sailing over the second baseman's head for a single. I jump to my feet, clapping my hands and screaming my fool head off. I'd forgotten how much I like baseball. "Mulder, did you see that? He's a natural!" I turn to find Mulder gaping, not at the action on the field, but at me. He's so stupefied I'm instantly worried. "Mulder, what's wrong?" I fall to my knees before him, sure he's been hit by a tranquilizer dart from the bushes behind us. "Nothing," he says with a brilliant smile. "Nothing at all." He grabs my face between his hands and gives me a breath-taking kiss. When we finally break apart, Richard is rounding third and heading home. "Slide!" Mulder yells, pulling me to stand with him. The tag is close, but the umpire flings his arms wide in the timeless call. "Safe!" It carries all the way to us. The home team crowd goes wild and Mulder hugs me close to his side. "Told you he was a better player than me. I'd have been out for sure." "Oh, I don't know, Mulder. You're a pretty good runner," I say, watching the team congratulate Richard. "Nah," he replies. "Never could keep my eyes off our little red-headed bat girl." Before I can snap a witty comeback, I catch the movement of three figures out of the corner of my eye. I glance around Mulder. Samantha, James, and Michael are walking toward us. Well, Sam and James are walking. Michael is bounding up the hill, his stubby legs wading through a patch of buttercups. Mulder freezes with a deathgrip on my hand. "Scully?" "Yes?" A peaceful calm settles over me. I raise my hand and wave at Samantha; she smiles broadly and waves back. "I love you too," he whispers fiercely, his eyes burning his happiness into my soul. I wipe a single tear from his cheek. "Thank you, Mulder. This was the best birthday present I ever had." We turn together to welcome Samantha home. END Yeah, I know, pure sap. But I felt like smiling today. If it made you smile or grimace, let me know at mish_rose@yahoo.com. I will be eternally grateful!