Summer Days
The crack the bat in the clear, hot summer afternoon, the roar of the crowd as the white speck rose, higher, faster, longer, clearing the outfield wall, the cheers that filled the bright, robin egg blue summer sky, these were all the markings of a day out at the ball park. It was not the typical haunt Scully found herself on an August afternoon with Mulder. Usually, if they were outside of the office, it was up to their elbows in some sort of viscous fluid, chasing down some sort of paranormal anomaly. But today he had surprised her as she walked in the office with two baseball tickets and a promise for lunch on him.
“As long as you like hotdogs and peanuts,” he clarified, of course, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of the door.
“Why the sudden interest in playing hooky,” she wondered suspiciously as he lead the way to the elevators, grinning like a schoolboy as he unknotted his tie.
“What? Haven’t you yelled at me for years to get a life?”
“Yeah, but I meant one that didn’t involve drunken, beer swilling fat men with body paint on their bellies.”
“Scully, the wire is off, I can chew food normally once again, and the Orioles are playing my beloved Yankees in Camden Yards. Sounds like a celebration to me.”
And so they had driven to Baltimore to catch the game, Mulder gleefully donning his Yankees hat in order to earn boos and hisses as they wandered into the ballpark. Scully could only snicker at him as he cheerfully tried to manage an armload of junk food, enough to feed an army with, and finally settled down with him to beers and garlic fries and listened quietly as Mulder attempted to break down the events on the field for her in a way she assumed he thought was explanatory.
“So Jeter, he plays short stop. Do you know what that is?”
“Something you do at a crosswalk when the light suddenly turns red?” She blinked at him innocently as she crunched on a handful of roasted peanuts. She only managed to earn an exasperated sigh out of her partner as he pointed between second and third base.
“No, he covers the gap right there, because most batters are right handed. Balls have a tendency of going out towards left field rather than right.”
“I see,” she nodded solemnly, stifling a giggle at his exasperation.
“Anyway, so he covers that gap, tries to prevent the plays that go out that way.”
“And I assume he’s good at it?”
Another exasperated sigh. “Scully, Jeter’s won three World Series, perhaps a fourth this year, what do you think?”
“That’s sort of like the Super Bowl, right?”
Now he knew she was doing it on purpose. “I should take that beer away from you.”
“What? You were having so much fun explaining it all to me,” she teased, giggling as he glowered at the field. “Besides, how would I know what a catcher does if you didn’t tell me.”
His scowl only deepened. She laughed out loud, leaning over to place a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re too easy, Mulder.”
“Here I am trying to share something I treasure with you…”
“And you are doing a good job,” she replied happily.
“And you are mocking me.”
“Well, yeah,” she admitted, unapologetic as she watched the action on the field. “But you are such a…guy!”
That earned a deep and amused snort from her partner. “I’d have hoped at this juncture in our relationship you would have caught onto that, Scully.”
She returned his sarcasm with a slap on his knee.
“Not what I meant, Mulder,” she rolled her eyes at him. “I mean that this is a guy thing. Sitting at the ball game, listing off statistics, debating on who is better, Jeter or Rivera.”
“Well, Rivera is a pitcher…”
“See, that’s what I mean!” Scully held up an accusing finger. “I didn’t know that! I just saw his name on a jersey. You know that.”
“Lots of people know that.”
“Yeah, lots of people who are guys!”
“What do you want out of me, Scully, I am male, I like boobs, beer, and baseball. I can’t think of anything more red-blooded, American male than that.”
He was right. You couldn’t get more normal, average, American male than this moment right there. And that was why it was so strange for Mulder. “I guess it’s the first time I’ve gotten to see this side of you.”
“No it isn’t,” he replied, eyes flickering to the game as a bat cracked hard, sending a baseball into the outfield, where it was neatly plucked out of the air, earning a small cheer out of him.
“Mulder, what is a Reticulan?”
“A what?” He blinked, green eyes unfocused as he turned to frown at her. She smiled in triumph.
“I mention aliens and you are too preoccupied by a ball game to notice?”
“You know I love baseball. How many times have you complained because I had the game on and, ‘Mulder, why aren’t you paying attention to my autopsy notes"?” His voice pitched up in a very non-flattering way, earning yet another slap.
“Funny. This coming from a man who lived, ate, and breathed nothing but paranormal cases for the last ten years of his life.”
“Well, who says that was all of my life?”
“You did,” she pointed out, earning a mildly abashed look. “Mulder, if I didn’t know better, I would have said you were a cave troll. All you ever did was work. Remember how I begged you to take a day, just one, to live the slow life?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, slouching in his seat as he turned to gaze over the lush, green field of Camden Yards. She felt him stiffen beside her. Clearly uncomfortable as he avoided her pointed comment.
“What? No comment on why all the sudden you have the urge to play hooky?”
“A man can’t celebrate having his jaw unwired?”
“I suppose he could,” she conceded. “It’s just…strange for you. Seeing you, being normal, enjoying a ball game, for no reason at all.”
He was quiet a long moment, before a deep sighed pulled from him. “There are reasons.”
Really? She had only been speaking philosophically, surprised he sounded so pensive. “I was joking, Mulder.”
“I know,” he replied, somewhat wistfully. “I just think…you know, you had a point, all those times you yelled at me for not taking time, for not slowing down and seeing what I was missing.”
“What brought this on?” She glanced down at the beer in his hand and wondered just how much he had been drinking to make him this maudlin.
“Nothing,” he replied, shoulders lifting as he adjusted the Yankees cap on his head. “Just, thinking about the what ifs, I guess.”
Strange thing to be thinking about when watching his favorite pastime, she thought. “Maybe you should lay off the beer?”
He smiled, reaching a hand to lace through her fingers. “Sorry, it’s a lovely day. I’m with a beautiful woman. And I’m at a baseball game. Got no right to be sad.”
Maybe. She returned his smile, but couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this all on. “I’m glad you are finally deciding to live life a little, Mulder.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you have to pick up the habit sometime.”
“I’d like to think it was my influence on you that got you to see reason,” she replied smugly.
“Me too,” he nodded, fingers tightening on hers. Whatever had been bothering him, she left well enough alone. It was a good day. And she didn’t want to mess that up.
“So tell me, what’s the difference between a screw ball and a spit ball?”
“One’s legal and one’s not.” He didn’t miss a beat, eyes on the game. “Screw ball just is a ball that breaks in the opposite direction that the pitcher’s arm is in, right breaks left, left breaks right. A spit bawl is a bawl that’s been tampered with, usually with spit, hence the name, sometimes Vaseline, hair gel, snot…”
“Lovely!” Scully scrunched her nose in mild disgust.
“It changes the trajectory and speed, it’s a bitch to hit and usually nasty, so the banned them because the substances are considered an unfair advantage. Now, that doesn’t mean you can’t tamper with the ball, ‘on accident’, let it get a bit wet with sweat you wipe off, or maybe you let your hands get damp and it sort of changes the way things get thrown.”
And thus was Mulder off on one of his glorious rabbit trails, explain to Scully the entire history of pitches and pitchers, and names like Christy Mathewson, Carl Hubbell, Fernando Valenzuela, and Tug McGraw. Scully only mildly listened, remembering her father and brothers waxing poetically about baseball in a similar fashion. Mulder was happy just talking, sharing with her something that was so special to him. And Scully for the moment was simply happy to be enjoying something so normal with him. The act of just being like everyone else, out enjoying a baseball game.
“As long as you like hotdogs and peanuts,” he clarified, of course, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of the door.
“Why the sudden interest in playing hooky,” she wondered suspiciously as he lead the way to the elevators, grinning like a schoolboy as he unknotted his tie.
“What? Haven’t you yelled at me for years to get a life?”
“Yeah, but I meant one that didn’t involve drunken, beer swilling fat men with body paint on their bellies.”
“Scully, the wire is off, I can chew food normally once again, and the Orioles are playing my beloved Yankees in Camden Yards. Sounds like a celebration to me.”
And so they had driven to Baltimore to catch the game, Mulder gleefully donning his Yankees hat in order to earn boos and hisses as they wandered into the ballpark. Scully could only snicker at him as he cheerfully tried to manage an armload of junk food, enough to feed an army with, and finally settled down with him to beers and garlic fries and listened quietly as Mulder attempted to break down the events on the field for her in a way she assumed he thought was explanatory.
“So Jeter, he plays short stop. Do you know what that is?”
“Something you do at a crosswalk when the light suddenly turns red?” She blinked at him innocently as she crunched on a handful of roasted peanuts. She only managed to earn an exasperated sigh out of her partner as he pointed between second and third base.
“No, he covers the gap right there, because most batters are right handed. Balls have a tendency of going out towards left field rather than right.”
“I see,” she nodded solemnly, stifling a giggle at his exasperation.
“Anyway, so he covers that gap, tries to prevent the plays that go out that way.”
“And I assume he’s good at it?”
Another exasperated sigh. “Scully, Jeter’s won three World Series, perhaps a fourth this year, what do you think?”
“That’s sort of like the Super Bowl, right?”
Now he knew she was doing it on purpose. “I should take that beer away from you.”
“What? You were having so much fun explaining it all to me,” she teased, giggling as he glowered at the field. “Besides, how would I know what a catcher does if you didn’t tell me.”
His scowl only deepened. She laughed out loud, leaning over to place a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re too easy, Mulder.”
“Here I am trying to share something I treasure with you…”
“And you are doing a good job,” she replied happily.
“And you are mocking me.”
“Well, yeah,” she admitted, unapologetic as she watched the action on the field. “But you are such a…guy!”
That earned a deep and amused snort from her partner. “I’d have hoped at this juncture in our relationship you would have caught onto that, Scully.”
She returned his sarcasm with a slap on his knee.
“Not what I meant, Mulder,” she rolled her eyes at him. “I mean that this is a guy thing. Sitting at the ball game, listing off statistics, debating on who is better, Jeter or Rivera.”
“Well, Rivera is a pitcher…”
“See, that’s what I mean!” Scully held up an accusing finger. “I didn’t know that! I just saw his name on a jersey. You know that.”
“Lots of people know that.”
“Yeah, lots of people who are guys!”
“What do you want out of me, Scully, I am male, I like boobs, beer, and baseball. I can’t think of anything more red-blooded, American male than that.”
He was right. You couldn’t get more normal, average, American male than this moment right there. And that was why it was so strange for Mulder. “I guess it’s the first time I’ve gotten to see this side of you.”
“No it isn’t,” he replied, eyes flickering to the game as a bat cracked hard, sending a baseball into the outfield, where it was neatly plucked out of the air, earning a small cheer out of him.
“Mulder, what is a Reticulan?”
“A what?” He blinked, green eyes unfocused as he turned to frown at her. She smiled in triumph.
“I mention aliens and you are too preoccupied by a ball game to notice?”
“You know I love baseball. How many times have you complained because I had the game on and, ‘Mulder, why aren’t you paying attention to my autopsy notes"?” His voice pitched up in a very non-flattering way, earning yet another slap.
“Funny. This coming from a man who lived, ate, and breathed nothing but paranormal cases for the last ten years of his life.”
“Well, who says that was all of my life?”
“You did,” she pointed out, earning a mildly abashed look. “Mulder, if I didn’t know better, I would have said you were a cave troll. All you ever did was work. Remember how I begged you to take a day, just one, to live the slow life?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, slouching in his seat as he turned to gaze over the lush, green field of Camden Yards. She felt him stiffen beside her. Clearly uncomfortable as he avoided her pointed comment.
“What? No comment on why all the sudden you have the urge to play hooky?”
“A man can’t celebrate having his jaw unwired?”
“I suppose he could,” she conceded. “It’s just…strange for you. Seeing you, being normal, enjoying a ball game, for no reason at all.”
He was quiet a long moment, before a deep sighed pulled from him. “There are reasons.”
Really? She had only been speaking philosophically, surprised he sounded so pensive. “I was joking, Mulder.”
“I know,” he replied, somewhat wistfully. “I just think…you know, you had a point, all those times you yelled at me for not taking time, for not slowing down and seeing what I was missing.”
“What brought this on?” She glanced down at the beer in his hand and wondered just how much he had been drinking to make him this maudlin.
“Nothing,” he replied, shoulders lifting as he adjusted the Yankees cap on his head. “Just, thinking about the what ifs, I guess.”
Strange thing to be thinking about when watching his favorite pastime, she thought. “Maybe you should lay off the beer?”
He smiled, reaching a hand to lace through her fingers. “Sorry, it’s a lovely day. I’m with a beautiful woman. And I’m at a baseball game. Got no right to be sad.”
Maybe. She returned his smile, but couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this all on. “I’m glad you are finally deciding to live life a little, Mulder.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you have to pick up the habit sometime.”
“I’d like to think it was my influence on you that got you to see reason,” she replied smugly.
“Me too,” he nodded, fingers tightening on hers. Whatever had been bothering him, she left well enough alone. It was a good day. And she didn’t want to mess that up.
“So tell me, what’s the difference between a screw ball and a spit ball?”
“One’s legal and one’s not.” He didn’t miss a beat, eyes on the game. “Screw ball just is a ball that breaks in the opposite direction that the pitcher’s arm is in, right breaks left, left breaks right. A spit bawl is a bawl that’s been tampered with, usually with spit, hence the name, sometimes Vaseline, hair gel, snot…”
“Lovely!” Scully scrunched her nose in mild disgust.
“It changes the trajectory and speed, it’s a bitch to hit and usually nasty, so the banned them because the substances are considered an unfair advantage. Now, that doesn’t mean you can’t tamper with the ball, ‘on accident’, let it get a bit wet with sweat you wipe off, or maybe you let your hands get damp and it sort of changes the way things get thrown.”
And thus was Mulder off on one of his glorious rabbit trails, explain to Scully the entire history of pitches and pitchers, and names like Christy Mathewson, Carl Hubbell, Fernando Valenzuela, and Tug McGraw. Scully only mildly listened, remembering her father and brothers waxing poetically about baseball in a similar fashion. Mulder was happy just talking, sharing with her something that was so special to him. And Scully for the moment was simply happy to be enjoying something so normal with him. The act of just being like everyone else, out enjoying a baseball game.