Title: Lessons VI: Double Down
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 shows Scully how to go *double down* in darts.
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 sixth
installment of the Jori Remington and MoJo series, "Lessons," following "On the
Fly."  

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

Spread Eagle Tavern
11:30 p.m.


"Is Sly Fox here?" I ask the short man behind the bar, tongue tripping over
Mulder's first name.  It was so rare I spoke it aloud.

"You must be Red Raven," he replies with a British accent, stepping out to walk
around.  "Follow me."

I walk behind this short, stout man as he winds us through the darkened
shadows.  I take each step with measured anticipation.  Mulder is here. 
Waiting for me. My heart races a bit, wondering what he could *teach* me at
this hour, in a British Tavern and Inn in northern Baltimore.   

But this is no longer about learning some new game, even though that's how it
got started.  One night, out on the baseball diamond.  It has evolved into a
strategy match.  We are both guilty as hell of using the selected sports to
gain knowledge of the other's limits. Testing the boundaries, trying to figure
out who would forfeit first.  

And it isn't going to be me. Quite the contrary, I have come to up the ante.
Especially after all the innuendo he threw at me during my fly-fishing
instruction. It was so hard to stay focused on the rod. The fishing rod, that
is.  

I had lead him to a bar for a pool lesson at an even later hour than this. But
this place has a different atmosphere altogether. This is a pub. Full of rich
cherry woodwork, carved booths and stained glass. Instead of cigarettes, it
smells like cigars. An atmosphere of class and distinction.  

What game is he really playing now?

The bartender winds me around to a small area in the back. I immediately notice
how quiet it is. I hear light thuds and turn the corner to find the source.
Along the back wall is a row of dart boards. Standing at the last one in the
back is Mulder, my eyes drawn immediately to his tall form. If there is anyone
else around, I really don't notice.  

This time, he isn't dressed for golfing or volleyball or fly-fishing. He is
wearing a t-shirt and jeans.   Maybe he feels my eyes on him, because he throws
a dart then turns to meet my gaze.

"Scully?" he asks, eyes running up and down my body. I smile to myself. I chose
my weapon well. I hope it gives me an edge.

"Or Red Raven," I say, moving past the small table to meet him. My dress swirls
around my legs as I walk. It's a cream-colored sun dress, held by thin straps
and buttons all down the front. With the top two conveniently unbuttoned. "I
wasn't sure I'd heard you right on my voice mail. Spread Eagle Inn, before
midnight. Sly Fox vs. Red Raven. Double down?"

His eyes come back up, a thin smile plays on his lips. "Arrows, Scully."

"I already taught you that one," I say, looking at the tiny arrow in his
fingers. He was rolling it slowly between his forefinger and thumb.  

"The British call them arrows. We Yanks call them darts," he says, sliding his
hand behind me. I feel his fingers trace down my spine to the small of my back.
Guiding me to where he was playing.

I set my purse down in the booth that occupies the corner. There's a glass of
dark ale sitting on a coaster, presumably Mulder's. I pick it up, all the while
knowing he's watching me. I take a sip slowly, tasting his drink. I wince
slightly at its sharp flavor.

"Guinness," he says, watching me take another sip. "Do you want one?"

"It's strong, Mulder. I'd rather just share yours," I say, folding my arms
around me. I take a deep breath. I'm not the one who's supposed to be unnerved
here. There's a basket of freshly fried chips by the beer, they appear soaked
in something.

"Salt and vinegar chips," he says, answering my unspoken question. He held one
out to me. "Lived on them at Oxford. Try one."

"No thanks," I say, smiling as he brings the chip to his mouth. Pausing to lick
the salt off it first. I watch his tongue flicker across it. Must be salty like
those damn sunflower seeds he eats. It doesn't take a psychologist to know what
he is really thinking about when he caresses them in his mouth.

"I know you can kick my ass at archery," he says, after finishing the chip. He
reaches over into a velvet-lined box. "But how good are you at arrows this
size?"

He hands me a set of three darts. They look like they've been around a while.
The paint is worn a bit, the feathers are not perfect. I touch the steel-tip
with my finger, pulling back as it pricks me. 

"Careful," he advises, as I bring the tiny wound to my lips. He watches
intently as I close my mouth around it. "I don't want to have to reschedule
this lesson. I've been looking forward to it all week."

I look down at the dart, more to avoid his eyes. Truth be told, I had been
looking forward to it too. Mulder picks different sports than I do. Ones of
leisure and play.   And it was getting harder to find sports to teach him. I
was using all my best skills up. I was already trying to think of something
else to show him. Maybe something simple and fun. I did not want this to end.  
 

"I guess I'm safe here," I say, watching as he takes the dart from my fingers
and lays it on his open palm. "I was afraid you might be planning some revenge
after getting you wet in the river."

"Who says I'm not?" he counters, with a smile.  

"Let's play, Mulder," I say, challenging him. I set two of the darts down and
keep one in my hand.

"Darts are similar to arrows in their design. The feathers keep it flying
straight. The amount of surface area the flights have is in direct proportion
to how much stability they add. The shaft come in many lengths and styles. But
you already know all about shafts and tips," Mulder says, letting the words
sound as suggestive as I had.

"I know what I like," I reply.

"Really, the dart itself isn't as important as the person throwing it. Darts is
unique because anybody can become an expert, regardless of size, age or sex. It
develops hand/eye coordination, patience and is extremely relaxing," he says,
holding the dart up and pretending to throw it.

"Relieves stress?" I ask, mimicking his posture.

"Yes," he continues, gently reaching for my free hand. His index and middle
finger lace with mine, tugging me gently to the board.

"I presume you've done this before," he says.

"Many times," I nod, clutching his fingers tighter so not to break contact.
"Never with such thorough instruction."

"Let's examine the board. Do you know how to score?" he asks, emphasizing the
last word.

"I can't really remember," I reply, my body brushing his accidentally when he
stops just shy of the wall. Standing in front of the board. "It's been a
while."

"The bull's eye is worth fifty. The outer ring is twenty-five," he says. I
watch as his finger traces the center circle wire. Slowly. Delicately. He bites
his lower lip. Eyes intently staring at it, giving it his undivided attention.
"This next one triples the value assigned here on the outermost ring."

I'm transfixed by his touch, gentle yet firm. Precise and oh so knowledgeable.

"And this one doubles the value," he says, voice fading away as I wonder what
else he'd give such undivided attention to.

"Down," I whisper, imagining those fingers in other circular places.

"Down?" he asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Uh, double down," I say, suddenly. "You mentioned something called double
down?"

Mulder smiles from ear to ear. Damn it. I must be turning red. I feel my face
and chest growing hotter. I shift slightly, moving pressure off that other
place.

"Yeah. What do you think it means?" he asks, voice dripping with innuendo.

"It's a game," I answer, leaning back on the wall by the board. I exhale
slowly, trying to focus. Darts, Dana. Darts.  

"Very good," he says, reaching for a piece of chalk dangling from a string.

He writes our names on the board. Sly Fox and Red Raven. Then a series of
numbers in the middle. 15, 16, D, 17, 18, T, 19, 20, B.  Then he writes the
number 40 below our names.

"40 is the starting score, Scully. We take turns throwing three darts at the
target number. First one is 15. The total darts is added to this score. Only
the current target number counts," he says, sauntering back to the line drawn
on the floor.

"And D, T and B?" I ask, watching his backside.  

"Double ring, triple ring and bulls eye," he says, positioning himself behind
the faded line on the floor. "Anything that lands anywhere else is zero."

"Three shots per number," I clarify, moving to join him. Luckily, it's a closed
space. I stand in front, with my back against him.

"And, if you miss the target number with all three darts, no points are scored
that round and the player's previous score is cut in half," he says, face
leaning to my ear.  

"What's the strategy then?" I ask, feeling his breath on my ear.

"That's the beauty. There is none." His hands touch my bare skin, thumbs
kneading into my tense shoulders. "Just take your time and make sure you don't
miss all three darts."

I close my eyes at the touch. This instruction really doesn't require any
physical contact. He works in small circles, releasing only the physical
tension. I lean back into his ministrations, trying not to moan. Suddenly, he
stops. And I turn around.

"What do I get if I win?" I asked softly, his mouth now dangerously close to
mine. 

"Think you're going to win?" he counters. It was like this in the river. Right
before I threw him in. I could have then. Like I can right now. And there is no
water this time.  

"If I win, you have to try the salt and vinegar chips," he finishes. "And if
you win?"

"Another," I whisper, licking my lips. "Taste of your beer."

"I'm warning you," he says, moving in closer. His mouth just inches from mine.
"I'm very good at this, Scully. Especially at double down. It's meant to be a
fast game, but I like to take my time."

"We're good at taking things slow, Mulder," I answer, pulling back. I turn back
around, to face the board. What am I thinking? This is Mulder. My partner. Stop
fooling yourself, Dana. You know exactly what you're thinking.

"Keep your toes behind the oche," he says, hands on my waist and moving me
backwards. Reminding me of his little hips and hand instruction. I look down at
the faded line on the floor.

"The hockey?" I repeat.

"Oche," he corrects. "Like hockey without the *h*. First we have to throw the
cork. Try to hit is as close to the bulls eye as possible."

Mulder digs in his pocket for a coin, flipping it in the air. "Call it,
Scully."

"Tails," I breathe, watching him catch it. He raises an eyebrow at me as he
lifts his hand. It's heads.

"Should have called heads," he grins. "I'm up."

I try very hard to keep my eyes from venturing lower, to see if that's true or
not. Mulder steps to the oche and throws a dart. It lands in the outer ring
around the bulls eye. 

"Twenty-five," he announces, running forward to retrieve it. "Now you."

I raise the arrow, keeping my arm steady. My brother Charlie once taught me
that the only thing that should move is your elbow. We used to play for hours
in the basement, when it was just the two of us. I stay frozen still,
concentrating on the board. I release it and it lands with a thud on the inner
ring of seven.  

"I go first," he says, pulling my dart. 

My spirit of competition flares up, knowing that there is a small wager on this
game. I side step a bit behind Mulder as he positions himself to throw. He
holds two darts in his left and raises on with the right. Taking aim.

"There is a science to this," I start, beginning instructions of my own. If I
can focus on the mechanics or equipment of the sport, my mind doesn't wander so
much to the other things. "The dart flies along a parabolic curve, similar to a
shotgun bullet. The line arcing slightly upwards until..."

"Scully," Mulder says, turning to me. He drops the dart into his palm and
extends his index finger. Laying it over my moving lips to silence me. His
finger lingers much longer that it has to, almost tracing the curve of my
bottom lip. "No distractions while I'm throwing. I'm having trouble
concentrating as it is."

I feel a shiver go through me as he moves his hand away. I stop and catch my
breath. How can one touch be so powerful? Perhaps because it is rare we touch
each other just to touch. And when we do, it's like an electric charge.  

The first number is 15. And Mulder sinks two of his three darts in the tiny
square. He is good at this and I wonder who taught him this game. Was it that
Phoebe Green? Jealously flares briefly in me. Did she really know what she had
when she was with Mulder? Six years later, and I'm still learning about what I
have with him. Our complicated relationship has so many levels. Still, there
was one that eluded us.

"Scully," he says, nudging my arm. "You're up."

I smile at him. Maybe it wouldn't elude us for long.

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

I know why they call it double down. Because if you miss all three of your
darts, like I just did, your score is cut in half. I groan as my final dart
misses the bulls eye completely. Cutting my already losing score down even
more.

"Ha," Mulder says playfully, retrieving all the darts. "Sly Fox wins!"

"This round," I say, hands on hips. It isn't even midnight yet. "I'm just
getting warmed up."

"Little fore play before you get *double down* and dirty," he replies, guiding
us over to the table. "I like that. But now you have to try the chips."

I watch as Mulder takes a chip and lays in his mouth again, doing that same
thing with his tongue. Even slower this time. Deliberate.

"I have to taste a chip, right?" I say, taking a step closer. "Just a bite. Any
chip?"

He nods as I approach even closer, moving his hand away so the chip is half-in
and half-out of his mouth. A wicked idea suddenly surfaces in my head.

"I only want a taste," I say, laying my hands on his shoulders as I raise up on
my toes.

Before he can react, I lean forward, teeth gripping the other side of the chip.
Our lips touch briefly as I tug it from his mouth, devouring it in my own. My
tongue flickers out, licking one last bit of salt from his lower lip. All the
while my heart is beating fast in my head. What did I just do?  

The sharpness of the vinegar spreads inside my mouth and I swallow it, all
aware of his hazel eyes fixed on me. He is standing perfectly still, as if I
stunned him. I notice his breathing is shallow. Just like mine.

"How was it?" he finally says, his tongue licking his lower lip where mine was.

"Salty," I whisper, exhaling.  

"Do you want to try another?" he asks, lips turning up in a slight grin.

"Another what?" I counter, taking another sip of his beer anyway. It's bitter
taste knocks me right back into reality. Oh God, I wish he wouldn't stare at me
like that. My entire body is tensing for something. Something that is building
with us both.  

"Game," he answers, taking another chip. "Let's go for two out of three,
Scully."

"Do you have the stamina?" I ask, reaching for my three darts. I step behind
the line, getting into position again.  

"I can play all night," he says, devouring another chip. There's only about
three left in the basket.

"Order more chips and beer," I say, throwing the cork again. This time I hit
that inner ring. I turn and smile at him. "Red Raven is ready to play."


The End


And...to you my darling Jori....what's up next?  *grin*

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