DEEP PLAY, Part I:  OUT OF BOUNDS
by Jeylan

Part 5
See part 0 for header information.


"Is that a line?" Skyler shouted back, and happened to brush his 
lips against Mulder's ear.

Mulder laughed.  "Sorry.  I just wondered, you know, where you 
go.  Your life."  He shook his head helplessly, and looked out 
across the dance-floor.  At the near edge of the floor a guy in a 
leather vest and chaps was pulling another man toward him, by -- 
oh, he was pulling him by a chain threaded between pierced 
nipples.  The man smiled an ugly smile, pointed to his feet, and 
his partner went down willingly onto his knees to lick the man's 
shiny, heavy, shit-kicker boots.  Mulder swallowed, frowned, and 
looked back at Skyler.

Skyler was watching him.  He edged in closer, nuzzling into 
Mulder's space without quite touching.  "It's not all like that," 
he shouted.  "In case you're wondering."

Mulder nodded.  "Are you, uh, are you into...?"

Skyler shook his head.  "Too conservative."  And when Mulder's 
brows went up he added, "I like my sex ecstatic, not formulaic."

Mulder felt a wordless welling up of something inside him that 
made him want to kiss Skyler, pull him off-balance, close, dance 
with him.  Instead he just stared, and what was happening between 
their eyes was the only reality in the room. 

"Formula is always inextricably bound to the physical," Skyler 
continued, his face tipping nearer.  "It welds the soul to the 
body.  Whereas ecstasy is--"

Mulder started bobbing his head up and down very fast, grinning 
and almost laughing out loud.  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he agreed.  
"That--" he gestured haphazardly at the dance floor, sloshing a 
few unnoticed drops of his drink-- "That's only lizard brain 
level--"

"Exactly!  Hardwired--"

"--purely somatic, mimicking the sensation of depth-experience by 
undercutting the self-referential higher processes of 
consciousness--"  

"--turning off, not tuning in--"  Skyler was grinning too, 
breathless, eyes flashing-- 

All at once they were both laughing for no reason, getting as 
close as they could, standing much nearer together than they 
needed to stand, but not quite touching.  Not yet.  The energy 
between them sizzled, practically striking sparks.  It was like 
breathing air when he didn't know he'd been smothered, waking up 
when he didn't know he'd been asleep.  It went right to his head, 
catalyzing the sensation that had been building inside him all 
evening, this wild, bizarre, all but unprecedented thrill of 
shared perception -- of knowing together -- this intoxicating, 
unlooked-for liberty to play around with language, ideas, 
philosophies, speculate freely about intangibles and truths 
without fear of being forced repeatedly back to ground on the 
short tether of evidence, proof and the cumbrous impossibility of 
exhaustive explanation of everything, which was the hellish sense 
he often had that this and the next forever might be consumed in 
talking circles around koans that utterly resisted the confines 
of language.  It was like flying, when he'd half forgotten he 
could. 

Mulder felt tinglingly alive.

Unnoticed by either of them, they were being watched.  Not just 
by Lenny and Squiggy, who lounged awkwardly near the wall, but 
also by another man, a dark, pretty, dangerous looking man, with 
hot eyes and roses of anger in his cheeks.
 
Alex Krycek looked venom at the back of Mulder's head, and swore 
under his breath in Russian.  *Ebat'-kopat'*!  What was that 
*opesdol* doing following him, anyway?  Krycek flipped quickly 
through his mental file of current offenses, and came up clean.  
Nothing Mulder should possibly know about, or care if he did 
know.  But the mother-fucker was insane.  Maybe this was some 
past-due vendetta left over from who-knew-when, or maybe Mulder 
had taken it into his head to peg something on Krycek that Krycek 
wasn't even responsible for; it wouldn't be the first time.  The 
thought didn't cross Krycek's mind that Mulder might have somehow 
happened to blunder into this particular gay bar thousands of 
miles distant from D.C. just purely by coincidence.  Mulder 
wasn't even gay, worse luck.  This had to be about him.  There 
was no other explanation.  Krycek swore again, and ducked back 
further into a dark corner, with the wall at his back.  His brain 
was racing madly.

He watched Mulder carefully for several minutes, circling around 
slowly to get a better view of the side of his face.  Weird that 
neither Mulder nor his friend seemed to be looking around the 
room very much.  //Getting sloppy on the job, are we sweetie?// 
Krycek thought acidly, catching a glimpse of Mulder's drink.  

And then Mulder laughed, and, incredibly, he saw the color come 
up in Mulder's cheeks and the other man's eyes flashed -- almost 
as if--  No, it wasn't possible.  Both men looked flushed, on, 
but they weren't actually touching or anything.  Maybe they were 
talking about girls?  No.  The other guy actually looked 
familiar, now that Krycek spared him a glance.  Probably a 
regular.  He had no idea what the fuck Mulder thought he was 
doing, and that alone was enough to give Krycek the jitters, but, 
unlikely as it seemed, it really didn't look like Mulder had 
spotted him yet.  Abandoning his drink, Krycek began to make his 
way casually towards the back exit.  

And then he glanced over his shoulder, and his suspicions were 
confirmed.  Mulder was following him.  For some reason he had a 
weird little smile on his face, and he was doing a good job of 
looking innocent and preoccupied, but he was following Krycek 
nevertheless.  Krycek slipped quickly into the restroom hallway, 
and waited. 

When Mulder stepped through the door he was ready.  He slammed 
him hard, pivoted, and launched them both against the door marked 
"WIMMIN," which popped open.  Clutching each other they fell 
through, and Mulder came up fighting. 

Krycek was instantly on fire, blood burning in his veins, unable 
to see anything but Mulder -- Mulder, flushed, wild-eyed, ready, 
coming at him, sexy as hell -- shit! -- how was he ever going win 
a fight with this guy if he couldn't keep his mind on business?  
Making a last, half-hearted effort, too little too late, he let 
Mulder slam him up against the wall and tried not to think about 
liking it.  Mulder had forgotten about the prosthesis, and was 
twisting it the wrong way as if it were a real arm.

"Hey!  Hey!  It doesn't turn that way!" he panted, and Mulder 
relaxed his grip on that arm and settled his forearm against 
Krycek's throat instead.  Krycek's one good wrist was pinned to 
the wall above his head, and Mulder's feet were between his feet 
to guard against a knee to the groin.  Mulder was hot against 
him, physically hot, but seemingly not in a blood rage.  In fact, 
he appeared to be mostly baffled, as if he really hadn't been 
expecting this.  Krycek's instincts told him that real danger was 
not imminent, and he relaxed marginally.  Might as well enjoy it.  
The less he fought back now, the better chance he'd have of 
taking Mulder by surprise later on.  Working to catch his breath, 
he smiled.

Mulder just stared at him like he was out of his mind.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Krycek?" he gasped. 

"Trying to get laid, do you mind?  What are *you* doing here?"

To his surprise, Mulder flinched as if the lame remark had hit 
home.  Shit, was the man blushing?  What the fuck was going on?  
Amused and confused, Krycek pushed his luck.  "I saw that sweet 
little piece of ass you were with back there; is he your 
boyfriend, Mulder?"

"Shut up!" Mulder growled.  And, weirdly, his blush deepened.  "I 
want to know why you're following me, Krycek."

"*Me* following *you?*"  Krycek was actually starting to enjoy 
this.  "Gee, Mulder, I'm sorry, but when what I need is a *man* 
to fuck me till I can't breathe and my eyes roll back, the first 
name to come to mind usually isn't 'Fox Mulder.'  Should it be?"

"Goddamn it, stop playing games!  Don't try to tell me it's a 
coincidence that you just happened to decide -- for no reason -- 
to attack me in the ladies room of -- of--"  

Krycek laughed so hard he almost cried.  "Oh come on, *play* with 
me, Mulder!  It'll be fun, I promise!"  He moved suggestively 
against Mulder's grip, and was gratified to feel Mulder leaning 
in closer, instinctively using his body to pin his opponent more 
firmly to the wall.  He didn't seem to know what to do about 
Krycek's laughing, though.  

"You son of a bitch!" Mulder yelled, and he could feel the heat 
of his breath on his face.  

"*E'b tvoju mat',*" Krycek answered mildly.  "Never figured you 
for a whisky drinker, Mulder.  And don't tell me you're going to 
miss out on yet another golden opportunity to lecture me about my 
moral dipstick."

"I'm not interested in your dipstick, you asshole, just tell me 
what the fuck--"

"How 'bout a Russian lesson, then?  *Pososi moyu konfetku.*"  He 
crooned the words like a caress.  "You know what that means?"

"I don't give a shit what it means, I want you to tell me--"

"Means 'suck my candy.'  Sounds better in Russian for some 
reason, doesn't it?  You wanna suck my candy, Mulder, huh?  Would 
you like that?"  Krycek was starting to get very turned on, 
watching the unfamiliar vulnerabilities and arousal that warred 
with each other across Mulder's face.  He'd never seen this man 
in quite this condition before -- not in the flesh, at any rate.  

"Just tell me why you're here," Mulder said flatly, after a long 
minute.

Krycek took his time answering, letting himself enjoy the close 
proximity, the sweaty strength of Mulder's presence.  How ironic 
that Mulder, who hated his guts, was probably the only guy in the 
world who would not only believe the truth if it bit him, but 
might actually be willing to help Krycek do something about it 
... if only they could find a way to trust each other.  "How'd we 
get on opposite sides, huh?" Krycek whispered.  "Don't answer 
that.  You want to search me for concealed weapons?  I'd let you, 
you know."  

Mulder gritted his teeth and pressed in even closer, hot, rough, 
just the way Krycek liked it.  "Cut the crap," he said.

//No fast comeback?  You're slipping, Mulder,// Krycek thought.  
But the truth was he didn't feel much like making wisecracks 
himself.  "Christ," he said very quietly, "why didn't you tell me 
you pitched for both teams.  We've been missing out."  And god 
help him, when he said it he meant it.  He was looking at 
Mulder's mouth and he could feel Mulder's bewilderment, but 
suddenly he didn't care.  Mulder's grip had eased a little, and 
Krycek moved without warning, without any thought of freeing 
himself.  He pressed his mouth into Mulder's mouth and took him 
in a kiss by surprise, molding himself against Mulder's body, 
pressing his hips into Mulder's hips--

Incredibly, unbelievably, Mulder's mouth came open, and then he 
heard him groan -- and then several things happened at once.  The 
door opened; a towering queen breezed in cooing in a resonant 
baritone, "Oh, excuse me boys, don't mind me;" and Mulder let go 
of him, stopped kissing him, and cold-cocked him -- not very 
hard, considering.  Krycek caught his breath, coughed out a 
breathless barking laugh, and made a grab for Mulder's nuts.  

//Hard!  He's hard!//  

"I won't forget this, Mulder!" he snarled, copping a good fast 
squeeze.  And then he made his break for the door while the queen 
was still saying, "Ooh-la-la!  Rough trade, boys?  *So* sorry to 
interrupt.  Just pretend I'm not even here.  Little ol' me won't 
be in the way at all, I just need to take a very fast whiz and 
fix my face and--"

Krycek was already out the back way, out into the ally and the 
cold air, gasping.  The taste of Mulder's mouth was in his mouth.  
He ran, but with the uncomfortable feeling that he was not being 
followed.  Fuck, now he *really* needed to get laid.  The city 
seemed darker and brighter and more sharply beautiful than he 
remembered, or maybe it was his life that had an extra edge to it 
now, because no matter who he went home with tonight or how hot 
it got Krycek was absolutely certain that nothing and nobody 
could never be half so good as those few stolen moments pinned up 
against a women's room wall by Fox Mulder.

Mulder let the door slam behind Krycek, and didn't try to go 
after him.  One hand checked instinctively for his gun, and the 
other patted at the unauthorized disk, still safe in his pocket.  

What the hell was Krycek doing grabbing him like that?  Mulder 
splashed cold water on his face while he waited for the queen to 
get out of the toilet stall, and for his traitorous dick to be 
soft enough to pee with.  Adrenaline and humiliation were pumping 
through his blood, and he shut his eyes very tight and 
concentrated on just breathing long, deep, regular breaths. 

Exiting the women's room, he brushed past Squiggy in the hallway 
with barely a glance, went back out into the pulsing waves of 
sound, and found Skyler.  Skyler looked good to him, so he didn't 
really let himself look.  His control was too shaky.  He just 
glanced, smiled tightly, and turned his face away.  Grabbed for 
his drink.  

"You wanna dance?" Skyler shouted.  

Mulder considered with disinterest the frantic undulations of the 
dancers.  "No," he said, just shaping the word with his mouth and 
not bothering to put sound to it.  He still couldn't look at 
Skyler.  His blood was racing.  He shook his head.

Skyler nodded once and edged back a little, giving him space.  
But Mulder didn't want space.  What he wanted, what in fact he 
*needed* -- desperately -- was contact, yet he had no clear idea 
what the next step was going to feel like.  The few, random 
sensory images available to him -- lips, tongue, beard stubble, 
hard chest, male sweat -- formed only half-asked questions in his 
mind, to which theoretical knowledge offered no answers.  An 
eidetic memory and wealth of library information was as useless 
to him now as it had been when he was 14 and anticipating his 
first time with a girl.  

Theory only takes you where you already know how to go.  Formula 
may map the road, the quantifiable, observable, replicable, 
heart-rate/respiratory-rate/pupil-dilation/rhythm/position/insert
-tab-"A"-into-slot-"B" *physicality* of sex, but sex itself, the 
internal experience and self-referential feedback loop 
intertwined double-*soul-ness* of sex, eludes analysis.  What is 
most deeply true is also most deeply resistant to measurement and 
programming.

Some things you can only know by knowing, and Mulder didn't know 
-- not yet.  God, it was as miserable and awkward as being a 
virgin all over again.  So, swallowing against the painful lump 
in his throat, he just threw himself into the void -- reached a 
shaky hand for Skyler, grabbed him awkwardly by the nape of his 
neck and pulled him close.  "I wanna dance slow," he stammered 
into his friend's ear, and then sucked the earlobe into his 
mouth.  

Skyler gasped, tensed.  His arms slipped around Mulder's waist, 
and one hand slid down over his ass.  "Public or private?" 

Mulder didn't answer.  Just kissed him, deep and hard, and meant 
it.  His head was spinning.

"We'll take a taxi," Skyler shouted, grasping his arm and 
dragging him towards the door.     

=================================================

He'd always said he would, someday, back when someday had seemed 
indistinct and far removed.  Because he had imagined the 
possibility he recognized himself doing this, holding Skyler's 
hand in the backseat of a cab with lustful intent, and yet 
simultaneously he didn't know himself at all.  Remembering 
himself to himself, he felt connected to some overarching 
continuity as if lifted up out of the habitual tracks of life 
into a voluntary dreamscape, yet at the same time he was just a 
little sorry to have one less someday ahead.  And mostly, god, 
mostly he was just turned on, because there was a hand in his 
hand that was soon going to touch him -- touch him in ways he 
could only guess -- and there was a warm, willing body beside him 
which he would learn to know in intimate detail, experience with 
all his senses, and he would see and be seen, and Skyler's hand 
would -- god, Skyler's hand would unbutton his jeans, and--  

Mulder bit his lip and turned his face resolutely to the window.

It wasn't until he found himself following Skyler up the stairs 
in his apartment building that the hot fog cleared from Mulder's 
mind and left him feeling exposed, shaken, irresolute.  Skyler's 
ass was at eye level, going up the stairs, and everything that 
was *Skyler* about Skyler was hidden from him, replaced by this 
purely physical view.  He'd followed other asses up other stairs 
on the way to other beds, and none of those asses had looked 
anything like this one.  Mulder swallowed thickly, trying not to 
panic.

And then they were there, at the door.  Skyler was turning the 
key with shaking hands, glancing at him, his eyes were dark, 
dilated.  Eyes you could fall into--

And then the door was closing behind them--

With a now-or-never urgency Mulder launched himself against 
Skyler, afraid he was fooling himself and afraid he wasn't, and 
pinned Skyler to the wall, kissed him savagely, felt Skyler's 
hands on his ass and Skyler's erection pressing against his -- oh 
god! -- against his own erection--  Mulder growled helplessly, 
and rubbed his hips into Skyler's hips.

This was right -- wrong -- right.  This was ... very, very 
intense.  Whatever it was.  

Skyler's hands had found their way under his shirt, hot and 
demanding against his bare skin, and they had lurched off-balance 
away from the steadying wall, Mulder was clutching Skyler's hard 
muscled back, pressing himself to the unyielding linear angles of 
Skyler's body, and it felt -- really weird.

The kiss broke.  Something in Mulder wanted to stop this now.  
Get away.  But he could feel himself gasping like he'd just run a 
race, he was hard as hell, and the blood was thrumming in his 
ears -- so something must be right.  Skyler was staring at him.

"Wow, I guess you're serious, OK--" he muttered, tugging Mulder 
off-balance again, deeper into the dark apartment.

"I'm scared--" Mulder whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.

"Scared?"  Skyler's eyes lit and he smiled, leveraging Mulder 
ungently against the wall.  "You're scared?"  He got his hand on 
the bulge in Mulder's jeans, and gripped it firmly with a sure 
grip like Krycek's grip had been sure.  But Skyler took his time, 
massaging rhythmically and rough.  "Tell me that again, Fox.  
Tell me you want me to stop."  His other hand found a nipple and 
gave it a sharp pinch.  Mulder drew a hiss of air through his 
teeth.  He shook his head, his eyes half-closed.  

"Don't stop," he said gruffly, and Skyler laughed.

"C'mon."

And then they were stumbling into the bedroom.  Skyler was smart 
enough to strip Mulder of his clothes before he had another 
chance to balk, and then, still half-dressed himself, he went 
down on his knees on the floor to take Mulder into his mouth, 
deep-throating him with an easy, casual voraciousness no woman in 
Mulder's experience had ever mastered, feeling out Mulder's balls 
and between his legs with one hand, and his ass with the other, 
and Mulder's fingers were locked into Skyler's longish hair and 
he just didn't care anymore about whether or not anything made 
sense--

But it was happening too fast, too-- the sensations were coming 
too strong--  And then the rising tide slipped back before he 
could work up the will to protest.  Unsatisfied, his cock was 
throbbing.  He stared at Skyler almost uncomprehendingly as 
Skyler laughed, and tried to pull him the rest of the way to the 
bed.  

(Continued in part 6)