Title: Lessons II: "Head's Up" 
Author: MoJo
Email: MoJoBer@aol.com
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After The UnNatural and Lessons I: Racked, Mulder decides to teach
Scully a new game.
Category: SR
Author's note: Jori, you are the goddess of the present tense...thank you for
letting me play along!  Another series...*grin*


**************

Virginia Beach
11:45 a.m.
Saturday 


"Hey, you're late!" Mulder says, smiling up at me.

I'm standing on a small hill, overlooking Virigina Beach.  The sun is
strong as it beats down on me.  I get out of my car, stretching my
legs from the long drive from Georgetown.

"I'm sorry," I say, walking down the hill onto the sand.  "I wasn't
sure it was really you on the service.  I thought it was the Gunmen
again."

Mulder laughs.  "I can understand that, Frohike would give anything to
see you in a swimsuit on the beach."

I feel my face flush a bit.  I am wearing a swimsuit, but it has a
tank top.  Shorts cover the rest modestly.  I can feel Mulder's eyes
looking at me from behind his sunglass.

"I was suspicious when the message told me how to dress," I reply.
"Wear your swimsuit, loose clothing over it.  Bring sunglasses."

He is holding a volleyball under one arm.  A whistle is hanging from
his neck.  And all he is wearing are bermuda shorts.

"Ready for some fun in the sun?" he asks, twirling the volleyball on
his finger.

I survey the beach, it is beautiful with white sand stretching out to
the Atlantic.  Waves lap against the shore.  The air smells wonderful,
after being cooped up in DC all week.

"Another lesson?" I ask, motioning to the ball.  His skin looks tan
already.

He nods.

I smile slightly.  He started this game.  First with basketball, then
with that late-night baseball session.  I decided turnabout was fair
play and taught him a thing or two about pool.  How to shoot and sink
the ball it in.  I was gone last weekend in Vegas with the Gunmen.  I
could have been here on a beach with Mulder learning....

"Volleyball.  Ever play volleyball?" he asks, turning around.  He
starts walking down the beach, motioning for me to follow.

"Of course," I reply, matching his steps.  The sand squishes into my
shoes, making my feet sandy and gritty.  "I went to catholic school a
few times.  Nuns are big into girls volleyball."

Mulder stops and stares at me.  "You went to catholic school?"

"Off and on, it was hard with moving around so much," I reply, but he
keeps staring.  "What?"

"Did you wear a plaid skirt?" he asks, as if I'm fufilling some kind
of deep rooted fantasy.  Scully in a plaid skirt.  The virginal
catholic school girl, ready to learn the virtue of sin.

"Knee socks, too," I add, watching his reaction.

"Oooh, keeps getting better and better.  Ever do it on a beach?"
Mulder inquires, as he walks on.

"What?"

"Volleyball.  What do you think I meant?" he asks, all innocent and
sweet.

"Yes," I say, pausing for effect.  "Oh, you meant volleball!  No, I
haven't.  I suppose you have."

"No," he replies, tossing the ball up in the air a few times.  "Oh,
you meant volleyball!  Yes, I have.  I'm quite good at it.  Are you?"

I suppose I can blame the flush on my cheeks to the sun, not to his
double meaning.  "I'm a little rusty."

"We'll work on that," he says, climbing up a hill.  He reaches down
for my hand, it's hard to climb in sand.  I take it, smiling as he
pulls me up.  It's a friendly contact, like all our lessons have been
so far.  Just two old friends learning something new.  Right?

Below is a sand volleyball court, brushed clean and flat for us.

"On the Vineyard, we played a lot in the summer," he says, heading for
it.  "Samantha and I were a team.  She was great.  For a girl."

"Those are fighting words, Mulder," I say, walking behind him.

"Let's see how you do, Scully," he says, taking the whistle into his
mouth.  His tounge holds it into place.  "TWEET!"

"You don't have to do that," I say, slipping out of my shoes.  The
sand is hot at first, but I adjust quickly.  It feels good between my
toes.

"There are a few differences to beach volleyball," Mulder starts,
walking the perimeter.  "The surface should be level sand, flat and
uniform as you see.  The service zone is behind the end line and
between the extension of the sidelines.  The height of the net should
be about 7' 11" for men, which this is set at.  Not to high for you?"

"No," I say, stretching my arms from side to side.  "Size shouldn't
matter, as long as I can get it over."

"I'll remember that," he counters, coming closer.  "Now, the balls."

"What about them?" I try not to smile, thinking of a dozen comments I
can make to that.  Mulder is smiling that lopsided grin of his, it's
good to see him smile.  I hope he is having as much fun as I am,
playing these games.

"The ball should be spherical, made of flexible leather or
water-resistant leather-like cover.  It's weight should be between 260
to 280 grams," he says, tossing it to me.  "Does that feel about
right?"

"Hmm mmm," I say, rocking it between my palms.  "Firm."

Mulder exhales.  "Let's see what you got.  Serve it."

I pause for a minute.  I was never very good at serving.  I hold the
ball out in my left hand and make a fist with my right.  I draw my
hand back, only to have Mulder catch it.

"TWEET!"

"What?" I ask, looking back at him.

"Back here," he says, tugging my arm gently.  "This is the service
area."

It took me farther away from the net.  I exhale, trying to loosen up.  
I shake my arm and neck.  "Okay."

Again, I hold it out with my left hand, balancing it on my fingertips.  
I swing my right hand back, making a fist with my wrist facing up.  I
hit the volleyball....right into the net.

"TWEET!"

"I told you I was rusty," I say, leaning into him.  My bare shoulder
brushing his naked chest.  His skin is so warm.

"Who the hell taught you how to serve like that?" he asks playfully.

"Sister Mary Paul," I reply.

"Here," he says, reaching for another volleyball.  "Try it again."

I take it in my hands and try again.  Nothing but net.  Which isn't
good in volleyball.

"TWEET!"

"Should I lower the net?" he asks, whistle danging out of his mouth.

I reach up for the string, pulling it out.  I take it in my mouth, it
was still wet from his.  I run it along my lower lip, all the while
aware of Mulder's close proximity and his intense stare behind those
sunglasses.  I can see my reflection in them, teasing him.

"TWEET!" I blow into it loudly right on his ear, he winces at the
sound.

"Blow this again and you're in big trouble," I warn, winking at him.

"How about I show you a better way?"

"To blow?" I ask, still holding it on my lips.

"To serve," he says, yanking it away.  He reaches for another
volleyball.  "May I?"

I know what he is asking.  He was asking to touch me.  Getting
permission.  After six years, after all we'd been through, you'd think
a touch wouldn't have so much...potential.  But this was how I learned
baseball, how he learned pool.

By touch and example.

Why should this be any different?

I nod and Mulder shifts behind me.

Oh...this was different.  The tank top exposes a good part of my back,
which is touching the bare skin of his chest.  I feel his breath on
the nape of my neck. He is warm, so warm already.

"Now," he says, snaking his left arm underneath mine, holding the
ball.  "You don't hold it down here, you hold it up here."

Mulder extends the ball up, my fingers touching it lightly, allowing
him to instruct.  I inadvertantly lean my head back on his right
shoulder as I look up.

"This hand," he says, taking my right arm.  "Loosen it up."

I shake it, trying to release the tension.

"Make a fist, like you had before.  You want it to make contact here,
with the base of your palm," Mulder continues, touching my hand.  
"Right here.  Got it?"

"I got it," I breathe.  He smells like suntan lotion and sweat.

"This is all about timing, Scully," he says in my ear.  "You gotta get
the timing right."

"Timing," I repeat.

"Are you with me?" he asks, voice low and raspy.

"I'm with you," I say, trying to stay focused on this damn 260 gram,
leather ball.

"You toss the ball slightly in the air....then...hit it!" Mulder says,
swinging his right up, volleying the ball well over the net.  "Now, if
the other team was here, the ball would be *in service*.  Now you."

This was much more fun than Sister Mary Paul's lame instructions.

I grab another ball off the side and stand in position.  Remembering
the feel of his arms underneath mine.  I hold it up in my left hand,
fingers balancing the ball.  One.  Two.  Three!

I spike it over the net, clearing it.

"Not bad," Mulder says, watching my chest rise and fall with my
breathing.  "Not bad at all."

Mulder walks across the court, to retrieve the balls.  He has long,
lean legs.  Runner's legs.  Well conditioned.  I hardly get a chance
to see them underneath his suits.

"Head's up!" he shouts, volleying one ball over.

I scramble to return it, clasping my hands together and hitting it up.  
It clears the net, landing over his head.

"Good reflexes," he mutters.  "Reactive."

"Think so?" I ask, leaning into the net.  My fingers lacing on it.

"You're not supposed to touch it," Mulder says, meeting me in the
middle.  His fingers reach over mine, through the netting.  "The net,
I mean.  Player's fault."

"Oh," I say, moving my hand away slowly.  Mulder's smile fades a bit.

"We're not really playing right now, this is just a warm up," he says,
moving backwards.  "For the big game, when we're ready..."

*********

We practiced more shots throughout the afternoon.  Returning, spikes,
more serving techniques.  My skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat
from running, the water ahead was looking better and better.

I lunge forward, returning one of Mulder's serves.  You only get three
chances to return the ball, and he was way off.  He tumbles into the
sand and just lays there.

"Mulder?" I ask, walking under the net.

"Whoa, Scully...I can see sunspots," he says with a smile.

"Don't look up at the sun," I say, leaning down.  I extend my hand to
him, to help him to his feet.

"Good game," he says, patting me on the back.

"OUCH!" I wince at the contact.

"Scully!" he exclaims, grabbing me by the shoulders from behind.  
"Didn't you wear sunscreen?"

His hands are on my shoulders, gingerly touching me.  All over.  It
would feel so good if it didn't already feel so bad from the burn.

"No," I reply.  "I forgot to."

"I've got some," he says, tugging my hand.  "Always be prepared."

I collapse in the shade by Mulder, he rummages in the small backpack
he'd brought.  The once smooth court is now covered in our footprints,
dents where we'd fallen, rough and uneven.  His footprints mixed with
mine. Maybe we should smooth it out...before we start over...

"Ahhh," I breathe as the cold lotion makes contact with my burning
back.

"Better?" he asks, smoothing it gently around in small circles.  "You
really should take care of your skin better."

"Curse of a redhead," I reply, easing back into his touch.  Slow and
gentle.  "So how was I?"

Mulder scoots closer.  He squeezes more lotion onto his palms, rubbing
them together.  Then, he smoothes it down my shoulders and arms.

"Good," he says, drawing the word out.  "Gave me a good workout."

I smile, looking back at him.

"Hey!" calls a voice ahead.  We turn to see two college kids standing
by the net.  "Wanna play doubles?"

Mulder smiles at me, nudging my shoulder.  "Wanna show these kids what
we've got?"

"Am I ready for doubles, Coach?" I ask, taking the whistle from his
neck and putting it in his mouth.

"I'd say you are," he replies, tongue caressing the whistle.  "Head's
up!"


"TWEET!"



To Be Continued....Jori?  *grin*



Feedback to MoJoBer@aol.com or Jori at Damienma@bellsouth.net