#when your wife’s is a crack of dawn riser and you’re more of a mid morning person

[peoneys]

Morning routine

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Arranged Chapter II

Pairing: Poe Dameron x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: None for this chapter (series: E)

Word Count: 4,261

Summary: Prince and Princess of your respective planets you both agree to wed, not for love, but for advantage. Now married, it’s your wedding night. You and Poe come to an agreement, while you grow suspicious about how much the prince actually knows. 

A/N: okay this chapter contains one of my favorite scenes i’ve ever written. I hope you guys enjoy!!

[ PREVIOUS ] | [ MASTERLIST ]

“Please,” you break the quiet of the room, turning to face him, “I don’t wish to be touched tonight.” Poe blinks at the sound of your voice. 

The walk to the bridal suite was painfully silent. 

But not for Poe. His heartbeat thumped in his ears in synchrony with the ringing that pervaded his mind. The door clicking behind you and the lights switching on revealed a flower laden bed - the only sound now the clink of your bracelets as you crossed the room towards the refresher. 

Even now, as you speak, ringing your fingers before him, as you blink up at him, “I won’t. I promise,” he bites his lip, before swallowing the lump in his throat, and wracking his brain for something, anything, to say, “I’m Poe.” 

Maybe not that. 

You wrinkle your brow, but say your name for him in a half-murmur, arms crossed against your chest, “I don’t know how we are supposed to-” 

“Do this?” Poe leaned against the wall by the door, “I was hoping you would have more answers that I did.” 

You give a small scoff, “How so?” 

“Your culture does this—” 

You cross your arms, “Well this is my first time getting married,” 

“What a coincidence, mine too,” he smiles mournfully, his eyes flickering to the ever so nearly imperceptible pull of a smile, “look-” 

“No, you look,” you hold up your hands, his eyes catching sight of the intricate designs on them, he hadn’t realized that when he had held your hand, he was far too distracted by how your fingers intertwined with his and the reality of the weight of your hand in his, “I’m not interested in doing this.” you gesture between him and you. 

He tilts his head, “But you realize this,” he does the same gesture, “is already happening.” 

“You need an army, we need your technology,” you chuckle darkly at his raised brows, “Am I wrong? This is a business transaction, and it doesn’t need to be more than that.” 

Poe keeps his expression neutral, was he okay with that? Was he okay spending his life with a perfect stranger who remained that? Nothing more than a person on his arm, a name written next to his? “We still need to know each other, at least for the press and for the people — we're supposed to be in love. Hard to explain being in love without knowing a single thing about each other." 

Your eyes shy away, teeth chewing your lip, “Yes, that’s true," before you add, "it’s also true the press is naive and they can be fooled by something as simple as pet names and public displays of affection." 

"What if they ask-" 

"You know my name, you know my lineage, what else is there more to know?" 

He grits his teeth at your hands off approach to the rest of your lives, "What is your dream?" 

You turn towards the refresher door, the door whirring open, "my only dream is to serve my people — our people —" you glance at him over your shoulder, eyes unmistakably sad, "the sooner you learn that the better, darling." 

He approaches the door, leaning against its side, "Sweetheart, the quicker you learn it takes more than that to get me to give up — the better."  

——— 

You shake your head from behind the door, squeezing your eyes shut. The more difficult the chase, the more enticing it was to him — it was bait in a well laid trap and he had walked into it, into the maw of the monster, without hesitation. 

Easy. Too easy. This needed to take time — draw the line in too quickly and it could slip away just as fast. You push the bracelets from your wrists, letting them clink against the counter, as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You needed to be trusted by everyone — not just a lovestruck prince. No, but his friends, his family, and the Queen herself.  This needed to be done carefully with delicate precision until you gained their confidence and carved yourself a place in their family. 

You untie the veil from your head, letting the flowers fall to the ground, petals scattering. Then, and only then, will you be able to destroy it. 

—— 

Morning comes slowly — light taking it's dear sweet time to stretch over the horizon. Or maybe that is just how it felt. Morning always came early on Shar, lingering for far too long, until the sun finally sunk in complete exhaustion. You're awake far before dawn breaks — lying on the bed, free from flowers after you had cleaned the bedspread off last night — though you could still feel a few stragglers between the soft sheets and blankets. 

The prince had taken the couch with great insistence. It was all the same to you. You could fall asleep in the middle of a desert, skin against the scorching dust, or in the middle of your own wedding for that matter — so a couch was a non-issue. But, laying back on the plush pillows, you had to admit you preferred this result. 

You turned to look over at said prince, whose quiet snores filled the endless silence of the room. The next eight days could not proceed like this — not when you had him to yourself. Another Sharian tradition — the bride and groom spend eight days together in bliss. 

Some bliss — to spend a vacation with a perfect stranger. 

“Early riser?” a deep voice thick with sleep breaks the silence of the morning. Your gaze snapping back to the couch where you see hooded eyes through a few stray black curls, he stretches, muscles taut against his shirt, before sinking back against the couch. 

You slip yourself from underneath the covers, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, tracing over the soft material of your meridian sleep clothes, “You won’t find a Sharian that isn’t,” fingers running through the tangles in your hair, before commenting drily, “I see you’re not.” 

“I always sleep when I get the chance, and I usually don’t,” he yawns, drawing out the last syllables of his sentence, “Far too many meetings, far too many briefings.” 

“Yes, poor us, stuck behind a desk while others die for a cause,” you feel irritation prick at your nerves. 

He seems to perk up at your engagement, “I rather die for a cause then sit on the sidelines.” 

You look unimpressed, smooth brow wrinkled with tight lines, “But would you have anything to contribute? Especially if you sleep so late. You know what they say, an early bird catches the space slug.” 

“Would you really want to catch one of those?” Humor dances in his eyes, “Well, maybe I’ll have to give it a try,” he hums, before his gaze grows sharp, “if not for me, just so I can figure out what you’re hiding,” your heart stutters in your chest, but you quickly even your breath, brow furrowed in obvious confusion and lips pursed. 

You resisted the urge to look at your bag, the bag where you knew your weapon was buried deep under a false bottom, “I’m not hiding anything from you, darling,” your voice light and lilting, but it fails to persuade him. He sits, sunlight beginning to stream in, caressing the curve of his jaw and the sharp edges of his face. You cannot deny that he is unfairly beautiful, even your traitorous heart squeezes as he smiles. 

“Aren’t you though, sweetheart?” And your heart sinks at the implication. 

“Your first check in is not until the end of the week,” You are only able to get away from the prying eyes of the palace after retiring to the refresher, smuggling in the com-link in your change of clothes. The Empress is not pleased, clear even over the crackling static of this ancient com-link, “what-” 

“The Prince may know of our plans,” you hissed, uncaring that you had just cut off the Queen of Shar mid-sentence. What did it matter? You may very well be dead either way. 

~~~

Poe had been unable to get you to crack. He punched the wall.

“Kriff!” but at least he was handling it well. 

  He knew more of strangers’ lives than his own wife’s. And he knew that you knew just as little about his life. He spent the night before, your arm wrapped around his as he paraded you around to a room of virtual strangers. Maker, he had kissed you before he had even introduced himself. Tradition and its audience demanded a kiss, and he was all too reluctant to oblige. As his gaze found yours again, your eyes only seemed to dare him to do so — flickering to his lips and back, until finally he did. 

Lips pressed against yours as the audience watched, a voyeuristic act he would rather not repeat, but had to, several times throughout the night. Your lips were soft and kissable, and your soft gasp made him smile in spite of himself, swallowing it without another thought. 

But that was the problem wasn't it? He had no other thoughts — not about you. Pain radiates from his fingers, but he pays it no mind, gritting his teeth instead. 

How did he let himself conned into this? A marriage of convenience. His eyes drifted to the refresher door, where you had just rushed off to take a bath. Would this be every day? Forced to touch each other in public, but so utterly alone when together behind closed doors? 

He sighed, sitting on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. He wished he was flying right now, navigating through clouds and formations, instead of marriage. He had known this was coming — especially when his Queen transferred him from the guard to royal diplomacy missions. He knew he was being shaped - shoved into a mold and forced to conform. And now, he was married, he glances at the band around his finger, before tugging the necklace from around his neck. Fingering his mother’s ring, he took comfort in the familiar shape and grooves of the metal that had rested against his chest for so long. 

He tugged at the metal. He told you he didn’t give up right? 

You emerged from the refresher, no expression on your face — it was weird. He couldn’t read you, other people’s emotions slipped from their faces and bodies with ease, most did without a second thought. But you were different.  Everyone else left footprints in the sand, but you didn’t leave even a single step to be found, erasing them as you walked. Why was it that he wanted to figure you out? Maybe it was because it was a challenge. Maybe it was because he found you interesting. Maybe it was because he was tired of being alone. 

Or maybe it was none of those. But he still wanted to. 

“I have an idea,” he says, and your eyes narrow — you certainly weren’t shy with your skepticism, “a deal.” 

~~~

“Is this even allowed?” The prince snorts in response. Why had you agreed to this again? A day for a day — his choice of activity and then yours — and of course his was first. Oh yes, because it would allow you to do the one thing you were supposed to do — get closer to the prince. And yet, why was that the last thing you wanted to do?

“Well, he hasn’t killed you yet has he?” The Empress’s voice crackles over the com, “that either means the fool has no idea or that he’s foolish enough to think he can outwit you himself.” your silence is far too telling, “there’s a reason I chose you for this, amira,” You nearly scoffed. ‘Princess’ she called you, when you were as far from a princess as you could be. “it was the way you slit throats without another thought. The way you followed orders without hesitation. Don’t grow a heart now. It only breeds weakness, amira — it doesn’t suit you.” 

Yes, you did kill others without a thought, but that’s because it required no thought. No input. It was simple. Easy. Cleancut. There was no need for mind games. You didn’t have to think about the consequences of your actions because you didn’t stay long enough to see them, you didn’t even stay long enough to see the blood sink into the ground. But — your eyes shift to him as his hand tugs you, all too firm and all too real — this was different. 

“I’m the prince — isn’t everything I do allowed?” you feel a migraine bit at the corners of your mind, as he pulls you against the wall as a guard rounds the corner, firm hands holding you there, until his footsteps echo no longer against the stone floor. 

“Then why are we sneaking around like escaped heathens?” 

“Because, technically we are supposed to be spending our time together inside our shared bedroom,” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, as you brush away his hands, reluctantly continuing to follow him, “besides,” he gives you an easy grin that dulls the edge of your annoyance ever so slightly, “isn’t it more fun this way?” 

This man would be the end of you, “Where are we even going?” 

“We’re going to see my best buddy,” and you furrow your brow, as he leads you toward a second story window, disabling the lock on it, the panel lifting out of sight.

“We aren’t supposed to be seeing any person besides—” You whisper, affronted, but only to hide the jittery fear of being outside the palace, away from everyone, where he could easily explain away your death as a lovers escapade gone awry, finding your body at the bottom of some ravine. 

“He’s not any person,” He sticks his head out, looking around, one knee perched unsteadily on the edge of the windowsill, “just follow my lead.” Mouth agape, you watch him climb out. 

"What are you doing?" You hiss, head snapping around to see if anyone else could see the crown prince climbing out of the window like a damn kowakian monkey-lizard. 

"Leaving?" He grunts, as you lean out carefully to see him clinging onto a lattice trellis, knuckles white against the wood, “how else were we going to leave, sweetheart?” The nickname is followed by a  loud creak of the wood. 

You cross your arms, watching him maneuver his way down, using each diamond like a rung of a ladder, until he reaches the bottom, dusting himself off, “Very impressive,” you say drily, lifting your dress to demonstrate your predicament,  “And how do you suppose I’m going to get down?” you crossed your arms, as he held out his arms, and you scoff, “no.” 

“I won’t drop you—” 

“No, more likely you’ll break your arms and then you’ll drop me,” 

“So you agree I’m taking the much bigger risk here, Princess,” you roll your eyes at the title, glaring at his still awaiting arms, “what other choice did you have?” 

You had a lot of choices. You could go back to your room. You could wait for the Prince to sulk and eventually return. You could sit in your room and slowly seduce him until he’s in the palm of your hand. It would be a lot easier — but would it work? He wishes to know you — to see you for who you are — but he would only see a smokescreen of a false princess, your hands clasped behind you so he wouldn’t see the scarlet that marred them. 

But maybe, you looked down at the relatively plain dress you chose to wear today — you could allow him a peek at the monster behind the mask. 

You hoist the dress above your knees, bunching it in front of you before pulling it between your legs. You separated the fabric in half, pulling it around your waist, before tying it off in a bow. 

You followed his path out the window, “Whoa, sweetheart—” 

You bit back a chuckle at his concern, you had climbed far higher things than this, and in far worse outfits. But he didn’t know that. And you didn’t plan on telling him. You made a show of it — fingers slipping, rattling the lattice against the wall, a squeal or two. You had to stop yourself from shaking your head at his tenseness, the feeling rolling off in waves from his locked gaze, even now, when you were almost to the ground. A few more steps and you were done — you glanced at him, finding him readying himself to catch you. You had stop yourself from rolling your eyes, a fall from here wouldn’t even kill you — 

The panel you grasped onto snapped, and you lost your balance, stumbling off the lattice, ��Maker-”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but there was no impact. Instead, softness enveloped you. And your eyes snapped open, breath caught in your throat as you found his face an inch from yours. His arms curled around you, fingers brushing your bare legs and bunched dress and your heart stuttered. Warmth bloomed on your face, and another feeling gripped your chest, as he set you down. 

You refused to let your legs even wobble, but no words would leave your mouth, and instead, you found yourself staring at him. You wouldn’t shy away from his gaze like some embarrassed child — you clasped your hands tightly in front of you. 

But he said nothing, as he brushed past you, “We have to keep moving,” and you blinked at his haste.

“Thank—” 

He shook his head, glancing back at you. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “I told you I’d catch you, sweetheart.” 

 And your mouth only hung open, wordless. You had never fallen before.  You glanced back at the trellis, the splintered plank had fallen to the ground beside it. But you suppose, looking at his retreating back, there was a first time for everything. 

~~~

“This is my buddy,” you raised a single eyebrow, arms crossed against your chest. 

“You failed to mention your best friend is a droid,” he kneels next to an orange and white droid, who rolls up next to him, “this is why you said he wasn’t just any person? Because he isn’t a person?” 

He shrugs, “He’s better than most people,” he speaks to his droid, “I know, I haven’t been able to get out to see you, buddy. I left as soon as I could.” 

You glance around as they chat. Yes, left the comforts of the palace to roam a relatively empty x-wing hanger. The air was cold — as it was in the early morning — but light streamed throughout the large space, exposing the dust that clung everywhere — even the air itself. The hanger had fallen into disuse, the panels of the ceiling loose and decrepit, the metal walls red with rust. A single x-wing occupied the far corner of the hanger, you wrinkle your brow, “Your droid lives in this x-wing?” 

“Sort of,” he rises to his feet, “he’s my last bit of home.” 

You tilt your head, gesturing around, “This planet is your home.” 

It was his turn to tilt his head, “Don’t you know home is a person not a place?” he glances at the x-wing, “or a feeling,” You open your mouth to ask another question, but he holds a hand up, teeth brushing his bottom lip, “Do you trust me?” You raise a single brow, and he shakes his head, “Better question, do you trust me to catch you if you fall? Because I think I’ve proven myself.” 

You look from him to the x-wing and back. You needed to get close to him somehow, and maybe this was just the way to do it. You needed to know what he knew. So you sighed, “Who’s flying? You or the droid?” 

BB-8 chirps, and he scoffs, before shifting his eyes to yours with a glint in his eyes, “Which answer would make you more comfortable?” 

~~~

Maker. Poe had missed flying. A clear understatement — it doesn’t account for the flurry of excitement that thrums through his body nor the thrill he feels as his fingers fiddle with the controls. And it doesn’t capture how it feels to sit in his mother's seat — peace. For once in his life. 

You shift in your seat, eyes flickering around the controls, fingers drumming against the armrests, and it’s the first time he feels that he can actually see you,  “You comfortable?” 

You blink, your fingers stop tapping, “As comfortable as I can be,” 

“Usually, x-wings don’t come with two seats,” he remarks, readying the ship to fly, “I modified this ship a few weeks back,” he grins at you, “otherwise you would have been sitting on my lap.” 

You do your best to bear no reaction to his words, but he sees the slight twitch in your jaw,  raising your brows, “But there are two seats now,” 

He turns back to the controls, “Yeah, there are,” he reaches over above your head, and his eyes can’t help but see your chest flutter with your breath, “Buddy, you all set?” he hears the affirmative beep, “Get ready sweetheart,” he flicks the final switches, as the x-wing began to lift off the ground, “we’re taking off.” 

The x-wing shot off the ground, zooming higher and higher, as he was careful to avoid any structures or pillars with a wide berth (he didn’t need another lecture about exaggerated near death experiences). He watched you from the corner of his eye, your knuckles white against the seat, teeth baring down on your bottom lip. 

“Do you not fly often?” He pulled the x-wing into a steady pace, gliding across the atmosphere of the planet, “I thought you would because of all the diplomatic missions—” 

You shook your head, “Most of those took place on Shar — the Empress is not one for travel, and she’s not one for giving others a potential advantage, no offense,” you add. 

He says nothing, filing away to never get on the Empress’s bad side, before tilting his head, “So, the amount of times you’ve flown?” 

“This is my first,” you whisper reverently, eyes turn to the glass, now filled with stars, “it’s beautiful.” 

He watches your fingers press to the glass, lips parted and eyes wide, and the hint of a smile pulls on the corners of your mouth, "Yeah, it is." 

You lean back in the chair, gaze shifting back to him, "How long have you been flying?" 

"Since I can remember," you raise a single brow. 

"I'm supposed to believe you were flying since birth?" He laughs, shaking his head. 

"I didn't know you had that much faith in my abilities," he flips another switch, allowing the ship to drift, leaning back, "my mother taught me." 

"The Queen flies?" Unlike yours, his expression gives away too much, and he shakes his head again. 

"My birth mother," he says, he could still remember the warmth of his mother's arms around him, her much too big for him helmet slinking down his head, and her soft voice lulling him to sleep, "she passed away when I was young." 

He was expecting questions — how, why, what happened — the same questions everyone asked. The same things everyone had whispered around him his entire life, but you didn't. Instead, a frown twisted your lips, fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. 

 "I'm sorry," your words small and quiet, "I know what it's like to lose someone important." 

“I’m sorry too,” He bites back the questions that burned on his tongue — you would tell him when you were ready, “I think that’s the first real thing you’ve told me about yourself.” 

Your brow furrows, “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve been a mystery to me the moment you’ve stepped through the door,” he sighs, head falling back against the seat, “And even now, I don’t know what’s running through that pretty head of yours, sweetheart.” 

Your teeth run over your bottom lip, “I’ve been told that’s part of my charm,” 

“What are you so afraid of anyway? Afraid someone will figure out all your secrets?” his fingers flex over the controls, before shooting you a wicked grin, and he hopes he didn’t imagine your shiver, “because I told you I already would.” 

For a moment, something dances across your expression, a certain tenseness leaves your body, but as quickly as he nearly finds your footprints, they are erased by crashing waves, or rather, your appropriately wide eyes, “Is that what the point of this little trip was? To find out all my secrets?” you echo his words, eyes falling to the stars again, “You’ll find it that it’s more difficult than a simple flight.” 

“But it’s a start right?” his thumb runs over the length of your knuckles resting on the arm rest, and he feels your fingers twitch under his touch. Your hands slide into your lap. And he wonders, why were you just so afraid? "How about we stop talking and we start flying?"

And surprisingly you smile, your lips curled wide and his heart squeezes, until it feels like it could burst, "And where are we going to go?" 

He returns it, a distinct feeling blooming in his chest, "Anywhere you want, sweetheart." 

~~~~

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[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part Three, Chapter Four

Part One: One | Two | Three | Four Part Two: One | Two | Three | Four | Five Part Three: One | Two | Three 

(Illustration by @morewinepls)

SEPTEMBER 1863 NEAR FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

The nights and the mornings begin to grow cool as the year passes from August into September, though the afternoons remain fairly warm. There's a structure to their days, as they wait for the commanders from either side to make a move, and the predictability of the schedule helps the time to move along much more quickly than it would were they left to do nothing but sit around from dawn until dusk.

Mornings begin with as much of the soldiers' breakfasts as they're able to stomach, which varies from day to day, depending on how old the bacon is, and how many weevils can be found in the bread. At the cooking fire one morning, Private Jorgensen shares a trick with Scully and Mulder that he's learned during picket line duty with men from another regiment. He drops his square of hardtack into his cup of coffee and allows it to soak until it breaks into pieces, which he then retrieves, scalding his fingers slightly in the process. The weevils fall out of the broken pieces of bread, which has softened enough by that point to be easily chewed. Then he skims the weevils off of the surface of the coffee and drinks it.

The first time Mulder watches Jorgensen demonstrate this process, he balks, though Scully copies him without hesitation. After a solid week of insect-infested bread, however, he cracks and tries it. He's relieved to discover that Jorgensen and Scully are right: the weevils leave no other flavor behind in the coffee, or if they do, the potent, bitter brew is more than strong enough to conceal it.

"I think that this is payback," comments Jorgensen, fishing a broken piece of hardtack out of his coffee.

"For what?" asks Scully.

"For every time I ever complained about my wife's cooking," Jorgensen replies. "It wouldn't surprise me if we found out she was paying someone to make sure the bread with the most bugs was sent my way." Mulder and Scully laugh.

"So this is all your fault, then," says Mulder. "I should assign you to do the cooking for the entire regiment for the rest of the war. Maybe then you'll return home to your wife with a renewed appreciation of what goes into preparing a meal."

Out in the field, beyond the edge of the encampment, men from a different regiment are choosing up sides for a game of baseball. Mulder watches them longingly. Jorgensen eyes him, grinning.

"Ought to get a game of our own going," he comments.

"We'll be drilling soon," Mulder counters.

"After, then?" asks Jorgensen. "Or are colonels too high and mighty to play in the dirt with the rest of us low-lifes?" Mulder laughs in spite of himself.

"I would pound you into the dust, Jorgensen," he says.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Jorgensen retorts. "Do they teach baseball at Harvard, Professor?"

"That's Colonel Professor to you, Private," Mulder says mildly. Jorgensen chuckles and turns to Scully.

"What about you?" he asks. Scully shrugs.

"I've never played baseball," she says, and Jorgensen's mouth drops open.

"Never? Not even when you was a kid?" he asks. Scully shakes her head. "What'd you do when you finished your chores, then?"

"Read books, mostly," says Scully with a shrug. Jorgensen looks positively scandalized.

"What the hell kind of childhood did you have?" he asks.

"The kind that ended with me being the best-educated person in the history of my family," Scully retorts, glaring. Jorgensen is not impressed by this. Downing the rest of his coffee, he climbs to his feet, shaking his head in disgust as he walks away. Mulder turns to Scully.

"You've never played baseball?" he asks. "Really?" She glares at him, then glances around to make sure that they're completely alone.

"Were there a lot of girls who played baseball in Culpeper or in Fredericksburg, Mulder?" she asks, in a voice that's barely above a whisper.

"No, there weren't," he admits, keeping his voice low as well. "But you're not exactly like the girls I grew up with, Scully." She narrows her eyes at him. "I mean that as a compliment, I promise." She continues to look skeptical a moment longer, before sighing and drinking deeply from her cup of coffee.

"I would have liked to have played," she says. "I tried to, once, but my brother Bill wouldn't let me join in with him and his friends, even though my brother Charlie was all for letting me. I went to my mother to try and get her to intercede, but she, of course, took Bill's side."

"And your father?" asks Mulder.

"He was away at sea," Scully says. "Which was true for a good deal of my childhood." They sit in silence for a time, finishing their breakfast and watching the early risers across the field beginning their game. An idea begins to form in Mulder's mind, taking shape slowly, and a smile slowly spreads over his face.

"How would you like to learn how to play, Scully?" Mulder asks, hoping his voice doesn't betray his excitement. Scully cocks an eyebrow at him.

"You're going to teach me how to play baseball?" she asks.

"Well, some of it," Mulder says. "I've seen you throw rocks, so I know I don't need to teach you how to throw. And I've seen you catch your daily ration of hardtack when the quartermaster is being lazy and tossing it at the men instead of making the soldiers line up to receive it, so I know that's not a problem. So really... the only thing that leaves is the right way to swing a bat." Scully frowns.

"I wasn't aware that there was an incorrect way to swing a stick of wood," she says, and Mulder feigns offense.

"Scully, you have no idea what goes into it," he tells her. "There's proper form, proper timing, follow-through... it's a hell of a lot more than just 'swinging a stick of wood,' as you so condescendingly put it."

"So you want to teach me how to swing a bat, then?" she asks.

"That's right," says Mulder. Scully mulls this over for a moment as she rinses her empty coffee cup with water from her canteen.

"All right," she agrees, "but I can't right now. I'm posted down on the riverbank until supper tonight."

"That's fine," Mulder says. "Better for us to wait until after it's dark outside, anyway." Scully frowns at him, confused. "You'll understand when I show you, I promise."

The day, for Mulder, seems interminable, now that his plans for the evening have been made. He feels a tiny twinge of guilt over what he's plotting, but he tells himself that really, it's perfectly innocent. He'll be teaching Scully how to swing a baseball bat the same way a father might teach his son.

Well... maybe it won't be exactly the same.

The regiment drills, takes a break in the heat of mid-day (though it's not as oppressively hot as it's been; autumn is definitely on its way), and then drill again in the afternoon. Just after Mulder gives the order for the regiment to fall in, as the sun is dipping below the horizon, he sees the daytime pickets making their way back into the regiment's camp, Scully among them. As she's digging out the remainder of her day's rations, preparing to cook her bacon over one of the fires, Mulder goes in search a soldier from what had, until two months ago, been his company, who is finishing his meal by a different fire.

"Private Pendrell," he says, and the slight young man leaps to his feet, saluting so enthusiastically that he knocks his uniform cap right off of his head.

"Yes, Sir, Colonel! Sir!" he barks, and Mulder smiles. Pendrell, who cannot possibly be older than eighteen at the absolute most, was always a good friend of Scully's, before she and Mulder had both received their promotions. He knows that Scully still makes a point to share meals with him, when she can.

"At ease, Private," Mulder says, but Pendrell remains stiff as a board. "I was wondering... do you think I could borrow your baseball bat?" Pendrell is disproportionately excited to be of service.

"Of course, Sir!" he says. "It's in my tent, I'll go and get it right now." He whirls on his heel and takes off, dashing through the rows of tents as though the fate of the Union depends on how quickly he can retrieve a baseball bat for his colonel. The other men sitting around the fire chuckle in amusement, shaking their heads.

Scant minutes later, Pendrell reappears, out of breath and clutching a roughly-hewn wooden bat, which he places in Mulder's hands before stepping back and standing at attention. Mulder examines the bat closely. It's carved from raw rood, unfinished, with no varnish, the handle darkened from contact with many sweaty palms.

"Did you bring this from home, Private?" Mulder asks.

"No, Sir," says Pendrell, shaking his head. "I carved it out of a fallen tree back in June." He looks sheepish. "It's not perfectly round, Sir. I haven't got the tools with me to get it nice and smooth. I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be sorry, Pendrell," Mulder reassures him. "I'll bring it back before lights out tonight. That all right with you?"

"Of course, Sir!" says Pendrell. "Keep it as long as you like!"

Carrying the homemade bat, Mulder returns to where he had last seen Scully and finds her just finishing up her evening meal. With a jerk of his head, Mulder indicates that she should get up and follow him, which she does, jogging to catch up.

"Where'd you get that?" she asks Mulder, tilting her chin at the bat.

"Borrowed it from Private Pendrell," he says. "I'm gonna teach you how to play baseball, Scully." She grins and walks on eagerly by his side, into the gathering darkness of the evening.

"Shouldn't you have a ball, too, then?" she asks. "I was led to understand that the ball is sort of a central part of the game."

"We'd just lose it in the dark," Mulder says. "We're only going to work on your batting form for now." Scully nods, and they continue on, until they're under the eaves of the trees that border the field in which the regiment is encamped. Glancing back towards the flickering campfires, Mulder gauges the distance between them and the rest of the men and decides that, in the near-total darkness out here away from the fires, nobody will be able to see them. He turns to Scully and smiles.

"Get over here, Scully," he says, surprising himself with how husky his voice suddenly is. Scully looks a bit apprehensive, but she obeys, stopping when she's so close that Mulder can see the moonlight glinting in her eyes. He takes her by the shoulders and turns her so that they're facing the same direction; then, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he steps closer, puts one arm on either side of her, and holds the bat in front of her.

If Scully finds his proximity to be too forward, she doesn't say anything; instead, she reaches out and takes the bat, carefully positioning her hands in between his. "Now, don't strangle it," he tells her. "You just want to shake hands with it. 'Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' 'Oh, no, no, Lieutenant Scully. The pleasure's all mine.'" Scully lets out a giggle- probably the first giggle that Mulder has ever heard from her- and he feels his stomach drop to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

"If anyone were to see us right now, it would raise some eyebrows," she chuckles.

"Why do you think I took you all the way out here?" Mulder asks. He draws the bat back, so that it's over her shoulder, and her hands follow along. He lets go, briefly, to raise her right elbow a tiny bit higher, then returns his hands to bracket hers on the bat. "Now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, all right?" Scully nods. "We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right?

"All right," she agrees. He drops his left hand, cautiously, until his fingers are just barely grazing her hip through her uniform. Pressing gently against her from behind, expecting her to turn and sock him in the jaw at any second, he turns his hips into the hit, taking hers along for the ride, and brings the bat forward in a slow-motion swing.

"Good, just like that," Mulder says approvingly. "Again, all right? Hips before hands." His hand on her hip is firmer this time, and the space between their bodies- already minimal- becomes nonexistent. This close, he's aware of how rapid Scully's breathing is, and he suspects that if the world were not washed colorless in the moonlight, her cheeks would be flushed red. Still, she doesn't pull away.

In fact, she presses closer to him.

"Again," she says, and the husky tone of her voice fully ignites something inside of him that, until now, had only smoldered. His fingers tighten on her hip, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, bringing his mouth down to the very edge of her ear.

"Right," he says, and he's amazed that he's retained the power of speech. "We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?" She shivers as his breath dances over the shell of her ear.

"Mmm-hmm." Mulder looks out to their left, imagining the pitcher winding up, getting ready to throw.

"Ready?" he asks, and Scully nods. They step into the swing together, rotating their hips in perfect concert without breaking contact, swinging the bat and turning into the imaginary pitch. Mulder can almost hear the crack of the ball on the bat in his mind. He and Scully hold the position a moment longer... and then Scully lets go of the bat and turns to face him. His left hand skates along the curve of her waist until it comes to rest at her right hip, and too late, he realizes that there's no longer even a pretense of an appropriate reason for him to be touching her.

And yet... he can't seem to let go.

Scully looks up at him, biting her lip adorably, and Mulder acts without thinking. The hand on her hip slides around to her back and he pulls her to him, bending his head and pressing his mouth to hers. She inhales sharply, surprised, but she doesn't pull away. There's a muffled thunk as the bat drops to the ground, and Scully's arms are around his neck, and she's leaning into him, giving back as good as she's getting as they kiss.

It's overwhelming, the passion that suddenly courses through him. Mulder had certainly never thought of himself as an expert in the art of kissing, but until this moment, he had not realized that it was possible for one woman's kiss to be so much more intense than another's. Never, never in his life, has he felt anything even close to this.

Scully pulls back suddenly, eyes wide in the moonlight, realization of what they've just done dawning on her face.

"Mulder, we can't," she says, as she works at getting her breathing back under control. "You're my commander. And you... you're already promised to someone. You're engaged, Mulder."

"It's only a presumed engagement," he protests weakly. "Nothing is official. I haven't asked her to marry me... hell, Scully, I haven't even asked her father for his permission."

"But still," Scully insists, "you're courting someone. And even if you weren't... Mulder, is this the time or place for any of this?" She gestures back across the field, to the legions of soldiers settling into their tents for the night. "Neither of us can afford a distraction like this- especially not you. You have an entire regiment looking to you to lead them, and you can't spend your time thinking about me."

"It's too late for that, Scully," Mulder says. "I already do." She closes her eyes against his confession.

"Mulder, I'm the only woman within twenty miles of you right now," she says. "And that's not likely to change, as long as the war continues. How do you know you're not feeling this way- or convincing yourself that you feel this way- just because there aren't any other options readily available?"

"That's not why," he says. "You could put me in a city peopled entirely by women, Scully, and I would still feel this way." Scully drops her face into her hands.

"I can't... I can't listen to this right now," she says. "Mulder, please, think about what you're saying. We're in the middle of a war, I am trying desperately not to draw attention to myself to avoid being forced to return to a life I don't want, and you have someone else who loves you and is waiting for you to come home again." She shakes her head sadly. "It could be an absolute disaster, Mulder," she says. "It could destroy both of our lives." She turns and begins to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Mulder asks, disliking the trembling in his voice.

"Back to camp," says Scully, not turning around. "To sleep. I've been on guard duty all day and I'm exhausted." She strides off across the field, her head hanging down, without waiting for him to answer.

Mulder swears under his breath. "So stupid," he tells himself angrily. "So incredibly stupid. Well done, Mulder, you may have just ruined the best thing in your sorry excuse for a life." He bends down and picks up Private Pendrell's bat, resisting the urge to swing it angrily at the closest tree. Instead, he trudges back towards camp, following Scully's path, hating himself a little more with every step.

He finds Pendrell's tent and ducks his head inside just long enough to see that all four occupants, Pendrell included, are already asleep. He places the bat just inside and allows the flap to fall back. He makes his way through the lines of tents, stopping occasionally to return a salute or to speak with one of his captains, doing everything he can to put off the moment of returning to his tent, terrified that Scully will not be there, that she'll have staked a claim in some other tent, amongst soldiers who hadn't just done their best to make her extremely uncomfortable.

At last, he can delay no longer, and, feet dragging, he makes his way slowly to his own tent, the regimental colors staked in the ground outside, flapping lazily in the soft night breeze. He takes a deep breath... and enters to find Scully lying curled up on the ground. Mulder sighs in relief. Scully stirs slightly, but does not look up. He resists the urge to insist that she get up and take the cot- it's his turn to have it tonight, but he would readily surrender it to her- because he knows, intuitively, that such a gesture would not be well-received tonight, after the scene in the woods. Instead, he contents himself with the knowledge that she is at least amenable to the idea of trying to maintain the status quo, to keep things as they were before he had been so impetuous and presumptive.

Mulder strips off his jacket, vest, and shirt, and stretches out on the cot, lying on his back and listening to the flags fluttering outside the tent. Scully's breathing is light, and he's relatively certain she's not asleep yet, but she doesn't say anything, and Mulder is too nervous to speak. Even if he wasn't, he has no idea what he could possibly say.

He's convinced he'll never get to sleep, but he regulates his breathing, times it with hers, and eventually, his eyelids begin to grow heavy. He rolls onto his side, ready to drop off, and his arm flops over the side of the cot, his hand landing on the grassy ground, next to Scully's sleeping roll.

Mulder is just beginning to doze off when he feels small, warm fingers creeping across his. Scully takes his hand in her own, squeezing reassuringly. A tremendous weight is lifted off of Mulder's chest, and he squeezes back, smiling. Scully's head is tucked into her arm, and he can't see her face, but somehow, he knows she's smiling, as well.

He finally falls asleep knowing that, one way or another, they're going to be all right.