"Look, mister, I gotta go. My mom's gonna freak."

Mulder tightened his grip on the bat, tightening his grip
on Scully by proxy. It was, he realized, getting to be
pretty damn late. Kid probably should have been in bed
by now. "Okay, you get out of here, poor boy," he called.
"I give you enough money?"

"Yeah, you gave me enough money," the kid said, surprisingly.
Thank god; Mulder didn't think he had anything left in his
wallet, and asking Scully for a loan would have been just a
bit embarrassing under the circumstances. "Night, lady," the
kid said as he scampered off, tipping his newsboy's cap like a
miniature gentleman.

"Night," came Scully's throaty response. They watched him
go, still wrapped in their pseudo-embrace, breathing hard,
sweaty and exhilarated.

There were no more baseballs to hit. And yet neither one of
them moved to break free.

Finally, the bat drooped; Mulder pressed his nose to her hair,
fighting the urge to kiss the crook of her neck. "Game's over,
Scully."

"I guess so," she said. He hated not being able to see her face,
to read her expression, look into her eyes. Then again, he was
enjoying the feel of her body pressed up against his so much
that it didn't really matter.

Her hands lifted from the bat, but he kept his in place, unwilling
to end the game just yet, loath to lose the giddiness that coursed
through his veins, making him lightheaded. He waited for her to
protest or try to squirm away, but instead she surprised him by
shifting in his embrace, turning around so that she faced him at
last. His hands remained on the bat, however, bringing it up so
that the piece of ash rested at the small of her back, holding
her firmly in place against him. She reached back and placed her
hands over his to use the bat for leverage as she leaned in even
closer.

She smiled up at him, with a light in her eyes that he couldn't
remember seeing since...since...well, since ever. "The game's not
really over, Mulder," she whispered. "This is just the seventh
inning stretch."

It was the most inevitable of things, then, drawing together until
their lips touched, their mouths fusing like molten steel, then
opening against each other with a lazy hunger. She tasted tangy
and minty, like sweat and Certs. When she wrapped her arms around
him, splaying her fingers over the span of his back, he imagined
he could actually feel her heartbeat quicken through the thick suede
of her jacket. The kiss deepened, intensified, tongues dueling and
questing until he let the bat fall to the ground, narrowly missing
their feet with a heavy thunk, so that he could bring his hands up
to her hair, her face, her soft, soft skin.

Without conscious thought he started pushing her forward, her
tiny feet stumbling as she backpedaled with him, until he was
crushing her against the chain links of the batting cage, their bodies
bouncing lightly back and forth as the linking gave beneath their
weight. Hands slipped under jackets and shirts to caress sweaty
skin as they kissed for a long time, drowning in each other, falling
into the abyss.

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" he whispered when
their lips finally parted. He pulled her away from the batting cage
and wrapped his arms around her waist, locked his fingers where
he had held the bat, at the small of her back.

"What's that," she murmured faintly, still lost in the kiss.

He rested his chin on the top of her head. "Make out in the bleachers
at a baseball game," he said.

A pause, then a soft chuckle. "Lead the way, Mr. Live-It-Up," she
said into his chest.

He grinned down at her, then eased out of her embrace and took her
hand almost shyly. His fingers interlaced with his partner's like the
stitching on a baseball, he led her to the seats above the home team's
dugout, where they sat together beneath the twinkling diamond stars,
whispering secrets and trading dreams and necking like love-starved
teenagers for hours and hours until the dark of night transmuted into
the soft reds and pinks of dawn, streaking the sky with the colors of
the heart.

end.