Title: Lessons IV: "Fore Play"
Author: MoJo
Email: MoJoBer@aol.com
Rating: PG-13 for what could be suggestive language
Category: SR
Keywords: UST
Archive: Sure, just slap the MoJo on it.
Disclaimer: Aren't mine at all.  Belong to CC, 1013 and Fox.
Summary: Mulder engages in a little action on the fairway with Scully.
Spoilers: Up to season six (prior to the season finale).  Our logic is: if
Biogenesis Part II happens in November...then Part I must happen in November,
too.  So, there should be about a five month gap between that and Field Trip. 
And just what have Mulder and Scully been doing all summer?  This is the fourth
installment of the Jori Remington and MoJo series, "Lessons," following
"Quiver."  To get caught up in the lesson plan:


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

Whitmoor Golf Course
3:30 p.m.


"I got paged," I say, leaning against the fence to the driving range.  "Tiger
wanted to see me?"

"Yep," Mulder says, taking a swing at the golf ball balanced on a tee on the
ground between his legs.  It flies straight out, going long and deep into the
fairway ahead.  "After your little archery lesson, I thought I'd show you some
cocks and stances of my own."

I smile, feeling my skin rise in temperature.  It is a humid afternoon.  I had
thrown the archery terminology around freely during our last lesson, all the
while knowing it had double meanings.  But Mulder refused to back down, rising
to the occassion and listening attentively to my instructions on "erect, but
not stiff" posture and the direction of the "cock" feather.  He proved to be a
natural marksman, with an ability to nail the target.  I secretly wonder what
else he was good at nailing...

"Where's your golf clubs?" he asks, looking me over.  I am wearing just a tank
top and shorts.  I carried nothing with me except my carkeys.

"I didn't know this was BYOC.  I don't have a set."

Mulder laughs and saunters over to me, swinging the club around.  "What! 
You're a doctor and you don't have a set of golf clubs?"

"That was an elective at my med school," I say, smiling back at him.  "Not
required on the curriculum."

Mulder is wearing shorts and a t-shirt, too.  With a pair of running shoes. 
Offering me another look at those legs.  He needs a shave.  A five o'clock
shadow is creeping across his face.  There's no trace of the FBI agent I
usually work with here.  Just a man.  Who is smiling at me and twirling his
club.

"Well," he replies.  "Wanna make up for lost time?"

"That's going back a few years, Mulder," I say, picking a golf ball out of the
bucket on the ground.  I bounce it casually on the concrete. "Don't think it's
too late, do you?"

He shakes his head.  "No, not at all.  It's never too late to learn how to sink
a hole in one."

"Is this a private lesson?" I ask, amazed there isn't anyone else here right
now on the driving range at this hour.  Just Mulder and I.  Alone.  Like most
of our lessons have been.  I know you can rent these cages out.  Did he rent
them all out?  For us?

"I find it easier to learn one-on-one, don't you?" he counters.

I nod, gazing up at his hazel eyes.  "It can be.  No reason not to concentrate
on the important things."

"Like technique," he says, smiling again.

"And where did you learn to play golf?" I ask, reaching for his club.  I grip
the handle, trying to get a feel for it.

"On the Vineyard," Mulder says, watching my hands intently.  "As a kid for two
summers I worked at a course.  Picking up balls, stray shots, cutting grass."

"Sounds like fun," I reply, getting an image of a younger Mulder doing those
things.  I set the ball on the tee and lean over it, trying to line up a shot. 
"Was the pay good?"

"Occassionally, when I got to caddy," he replies.  I can feel his eyes on me. 
On my backside.  I am smiling at that...

"I learned a lot my first summer and not just about golf," he says in a funny
tone.  It makes me curious for him to continue.

"Oh?" I ask, taking a shot at the ball.  It flies off center and deadens out. 
Golf always looks so damn easy.  How can hitting one tiny ball be so damn hard?

"I learned about the birds and the bees that summer.  First hand," he replies. 
Mulder walks around to study my golf form.  Or lack thereof.  I take another
shot.  "Some of the older kids would come out at night right after we closed
and would make out on the course.  I remember the ninth hole being
especially...educational."

I take another shot, only this time I miss entirely.

"You're gripping it wrong," he says, reaching for the club.  "This is my
niblick you're strangling."

"Nib-lick?" I repeat, annunciating each syllable.  I wonder if he just made
that up.  It sounds so...

"My nine-iron," he corrects.  "If you're going to be using my lucky club, you
better show him a little more respect.  I've had him for years and he's used to
a gentle touch."

"Got him broke in, huh?  The way he likes to be touched," I say, feeling my
heart race as he comes closer.

"He's special.   He has a loft of 45 degrees, a lie of 62 degrees and a
length..." he pauses, watching my face.  "...of 35 inches."

"Oooh," I say, pursing my lips together.  "Impressive."

"He gives a good distance of 105-140 yards," Mulder finishes.

"Keeps the ball in play," I say, touching the club.

"This," he says, taking my hand and running it along the club. "Is the shaft. 
The long, thin part by which it is yielded.  Enclosed by the grip at the top
and fixed to the neck and socket."

I wonder if he had trouble concentrating on my description of arrows last week.
 I am having trouble here.

"This," he says, moving my hand to the head.  I flatten my fingers and rub them
over the surface.  It's grooved slightly, worn in spots.  He rests them on one
particular spot.  "Right here, Scully.  Know what that's called?"

"No," I say, finding it difficult to breathe.  Must be the humidity.

"That's the sweet spot," Mulder finishes.  "The perfect hitting spot.  That's
where I'm aiming for."

"I'll remember that," I say.

Mulder exhales, sliding the club out of my hands.  

"Now, let's work on your form.  It's a lot like archery, stance is very
important.  Since you were so thorough with your instructions, let me return
the favor."

He moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my body.  It feels familiar now,
having him behind me like this.  Instructing.  We fit well together.

"Go ahead and get a grip," he says, into my right ear.

I reach down and take the handle of the club.  He rests his hands over mine. 
Mulder has wonderful hands.  Long, lean fingers.  Strong and supple.  Why
didn't I ever notice them before?

"Now the ball is teed and ready.  It's playable."

I look down at the tiny white ball perched and ready.  I inhale, smelling the
scent of Mulder's skin.  He smells like Irish Spring soap.  Masculine.  He must
be sweating slightly because of this humidity.

Sure is a sweltering day for golf.

"Move your legs apart.  You want your weight evenly distributed."

I part them, as instructed.  Feeling his breath on my ear again.

"Little farther," he coaxes.  "Now, lean forward."

I exhale slowly. Imagining this same voice saying these same things somewhere
else where did that thought come from I don't really know and I don't really
care because his body is wrapped around mine again.

This is just another friendly lesson, right?

I inhale deeply and look down.  At the golf ball. What I'm really supposed to
be focusing on.

"This is a waggle," he says, moving the club behind and over the ball. "I find
it helps me warm up, prior to making a stroke."

"Let me try," I say, elbowing him slightly and I regain control of the club.  I
move it to and fro, like he did.  "Am I warming him up?"

"Oh yeah," Mulder laughs.  "He likes a good waggle."

"I want him to get used to me," I reply playfully.

"Then, watch that grip," he says, moving his hands over mine again.  He
readjusts them, putting my left above my right on the handle. "Have a relaxed,
but firm grip.  You need control, but it needs to be a natural motion. 
Smooth."

I allow my hands to relax, then grip the handle again.

"Like in baseball, your hips are important.  You have to know when to pivot,"
Mulder says, hands leaving mine.  They travel to my hips, moving them into
position.  "You're going to have to find your own groove, Scully.  But this is
what works for me."

My heart is beating harder.  I wipe a beat of sweat off my forehead.  Damn
humidity.

"Rotate your shoulders, trunk and pelvis during the swing," he says, touching
each part gently.  "Let me see your backstroke."

He steps away and I feel disappointment as our bodies separate.  I swing back
slowly, holding position for his critique.

"Cock your wrists," he says.  "Bend them backwards on your backswing.  Uncock
them, straighten them on your downswing."

"Cock," I say, letting the word roll off my tongue.  I backswing.  Then
downswing. "Uncock."

"Again," Mulders says, rewarding me by pressing his body against mine. 
Adjusting my body position slightly. 

"Cock.  Uncock."

"Smoother," he says, hands on my shoulders.  "Relax more.  Your body is too
tense.  Golf is a game of leisure and you should be enjoying this."

"I am," I say, turning into his arms.  I feel the stubble of that five o'clock
shadow on my cheek.  Rough and masculine.

"Good," he replies.  "Let's see it again."

I repeat the motion.  "How's my form, Tiger?"

"Looks good from here," he says.  "Take a shot, Scully. I think you're ready."

"I won't damage your niblick, will I?  I don't want him suffering at the hands
of some amateur," I reply, smiling at him.

"You're no amateur.  You know how to stroke him," Mulder says, laughing
huskily.

I take a shot, sending the ball flying out into the driving range.

"Fore!" I shout, watching it go.

Mulder claps and bows slightly to me, reaching for the club.  But he doesn't
take it.  He just brushes his fingers on the handle.  

"He likes playing with you.  You're a natural."

"Thank you," I say, leaning against Mulder.  "So, when do we play?"

"We could try a pairing right now.  Nine holes.  A quick stroke competition,"
he says, raising his eyebrows at me.

"I didn't bring any clubs," I say, biting my lip.  "I'll have to use your
niblick."

Mulder smiles as his eyes travel down my body, resting on either my legs or the
golf club.

"I'll get some balls," he says, reaching for the bucket.

"Looks like you've got enough right there," I say, taking another swing.  But
I'm not picturing that stupid bucket.

*********

We play a mock game of nine holes, my technique is terrible.  But we are having
fun.  It's much harder than it looks, golf.  There is a lot of set up. 
Planning.  Waiting for that perfect moment.

We're on the sixth hole, Mulder is waggling his club over the ball, which is
just about three yards from the hole.  A clear shot.  He swings and the ball
heads right for the cup.  But it doesn't go in.  Instead it travels the
perimeter of the hole, stopping before falling inside.

"Shit," Mulder says, walking over to the hole.  He leans down, studying the
ball in it's precarious state.  "Know what that's called, Scully?"

"No," I say, eyes traveling down his backside then to the hole.  Do I really
care?

"It's called rimming.  I rimmed the cup and failed to hole," he says, looking
up at me.  

"It is?" I ask, innocently.  There's a smile I can't control spreading across
my face.

"Yep.  The ball circles the lip, but loses momentum.  So close and it makes the
ensuing shot unmissable.  Is it unmissable, Scully?  Can I nail this shot?"

I lean over him, draping my body over his to "study" the shot.  My breasts
graze his back slightly.  He's sweating in the late afternoon sun, so am I. 
Must be this humidity.

"You can sink this one," I say into his ear.

Mulder gets up and positions himself.  "Touch shot, Scully.  Just a gentle
tap."

CLINK.  

"Score," he says, smiling up at me.  "Takes me a few strokes, but I always
hole.  Eventually."

The sun is disappearing down the fairway.  I smile back at him.  The seventh
hole is up ahead.  Can we finish the game today before the sun sets?

"C'mon, Tiger," I say, grabbing the club from him.  "I'd like to finish this
game tonight.  Or see how close we can come to finishing."

"Think we'll make it to the ninth hole?" he asks, nudging me as we walk ahead.

"We'll see," I say, setting the ball down on the tee.  I hit it, long and hard
out into the fairway.

"Fore!"



THE END


Lesson's over!  Jori...what's next on the curriculum? 

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