DEEP PLAY, Part I:  OUT OF BOUNDS
by Jeylan

Part 8
See part 0 for header information.


"Lube," Skyler breathed roughly.  "I'm gonna fuck you, make love 
to you, have you done this before?"

Mulder's throat tightened, and a heat came up in his chest, his 
body, his balls.  He was on fire just hearing the words.  "No," 
he forced out tightly, and his head bucked away, baring his 
throat even more to Skyler's marauding tongue and teeth and the 
suction of his mouth.  

"Are you scared?"

He tossed his head the other way, denying it.  He wasn't scared, 
though it did cross his mind, only very, very dimly, that maybe 
he should have been a little -- apprehensive -- but right now he 
was too hot to care.  Much too turned on.

When he felt Skyler's deliberate hand begin to massage his ass, 
slipping in purposefully between the cheeks, Mulder gasped, and 
when Skyler found the place he was searching for his body 
abruptly left off its restless squirming, and went still, like a 
fly in a spider's web, stunned.  He shifted his legs a little 
farther apart, kept his eyes closed, and panted through his 
mouth.  His own hands were relaxed now, making loose fists 
resting lightly on Skyler's shoulders.  Concentrating on the 
sensation of Skyler's fingers, he waited for whatever would 
happen next.  

Skyler moved awkwardly sideways, fumbled, and Mulder let his arms 
fall back, fists resting submissively on either side of his head, 
waiting helplessly while Skyler got the cap off the lube, and 
settled in place again.  

"This is gonna feel so *good,* I'm gonna make you feel so *good,* 
you're gonna *love* this, now, just relax, relax, it'll be so 
much better if you relax, oh god, Fox, you're so beautiful to me, 
you turn me on so much, I wanna make you feel so *good,* so 
*good,* just *relax,* *relax,* baby, *relax.*"  

He knew what Skyler was doing, let himself ride with it, mellowed 
into the crooning hypnotic suggestion of his voice, and felt his 
muscles respond.  Then it happened. 

Penetration.

Mulder pulled in a fast breath.  Skyler kept up with his 
ceaseless, melodic reassurances, words like a caress.  And the 
finger probing gently inside him felt weird, but not bad.  He 
concentrated on Skyler's voice.  "You're amazing, you know that?  
You're so wonderful, so beautiful, you're gonna feel so good, 
that's right, Fox, you're doing everything right, oh god, Fox, 
god, do you have any idea how much I -- I--" Skyler's voice 
broke-- "--how beautiful you are to me, I want you so much, oh 
Fox!  Good, good, just stay relaxed, just like that, that's 
right, like that..."

And there was a moment that didn't feel so good, but he didn't 
let himself think about it, he just listened to Skyler's voice.  
And then a sensation that was -- new.  Rationally he knew it must 
be --

A deep, strange moan broke free from his throat, and he heard 
Skyler chuckle breathlessly.  And then Skyler's mouth was on his 
ear, and there was too much electricity racing through his body 
to be very sure what was going on, or what was happening to him.  

Mulder's arms came around Skyler again, pulling him closer, and 
he moaned, and his head tossed to the other side.

And it was starting to feel OK.  It felt kind of ... good.  But 
his body was still mostly frozen, as if afraid to move, afraid to 
respond, waiting for something.  

"Do you remember the first time we kissed?  I thought about it 
for weeks, I planned, and hoped, and laid awake nights worrying 
what you were going to think, and then when you let me kiss you I 
felt -- I felt -- like hot gold -- magic -- like nothing bad 
could ever happen again.  Oh, god, Fox, I've wanted you for so 
long, wanted you like this for so long."

And he wasn't really Fox anymore, that was the sad thing, so much 
water under the bridge -- for both of them -- very sad, because 
he would have liked to be Fox for Skyler, but Skyler didn't seem 
to mind.  Mulder could feel his body's resistance acquiescing, 
finally, could feel the sensual capacity for motion beginning to 
return, maybe, as he listened to his friend unbare his heart.

And it was feeling better, really a lot better, until the 
pressure started to build and--

He made a garbled sound, miserable, and felt himself beginning to 
resist, trying to get away.  

"Ssh, ssh, easy," Skyler said.

"I have to--"

"No, you don't.  You're fine.  Everything's fine."

"I--"  Mulder was feeling panicky, and a sweat broke out.

"It always feels like that.  It's not what you think.  Just trust 
me, all right?  Just relax, ssh, baby, relax.  Go with it just 
one more minute, all right?  And then if you still want me to 
stop, I'll stop."

Mulder bit his lip, clenched his eyes closed tight, and nodded.  

And then in one more minute the wish to make Skyler stop was the 
very furthest thing from Mulder's consciousness.

Pulsing, every cell of his body *on,* throbbing with sensation, 
blood laced with candlelight, surgingly *alive,* life force 
flowing through him/them/flame/stars/window breeze in a 
flickering room filled with whimpers, moans, threaded with 
remembered music in his head, hot, pulsing, pulsing -- Mulder was 
lost.  

Out of his head.  Ecstatic. 

No longer Mulder, no longer Fox, only in love.  Only riding on 
this wave of something like orgasm, better than orgasm, something 
he never imagined, and it just went on, and on, and Skyler's 
voice with it, gasping now, laughing, whispering endearments and 
love and filthy joyous tributes to all the gods of sex and the 
minor deities of cocks, and gorgeous men, and feeling tremblingly 
alive.  He couldn't have stopped it if he tried, he was helpless, 
loving it, and it was Skyler with him, Skyler doing it to him, 
Skyler staring half-lidded into his eyes as he shuddered, writhed 
and cried out, and that made it best of all.

Mulder's head tossed, his fists clenched and unclenched, and the 
humid air was thick with the whimpers and moans that spilled from 
his own throat.  This wasn't what he ever thought sex was, but he 
*loved* it.  He couldn't get enough, except -- it wasn't stopping 
-- it just kept going on -- and he was beginning to feel 
desperate, lost, like he might never touch back to earth -- and 
then Skyler was kissing him, eating the moans and whimpers out of 
his mouth, sharing his breath, and whispering so that the 
question vibrated on his own lips, "Ready?"

Mulder was ready.

And, incredibly, it got better.  Heavier, deeper, more helpless.  
Skyler pressed into him slowly, pinning him with his eyes.  
"Hello," he murmured, smiling, when he was in.

"Hello," Mulder whispered back.  And he smiled too.  Smiled and 
then cried out, screamed.  "Oh, god, yes."

It was like everything he ever wanted and nothing he ever 
suspected, and it was irresistible, relentless, overwhelming, 
sweaty, and gorgeously, soulfully, satisfyingly intense.  His 
knees were folded up against his sholders and he was out of 
control completely, and somehow this was getting through to some 
part of his heart, some part of his psyche, some part of his 
soul, that almost never got touched at all because everyone was 
too afraid, but Mulder needed it, needed this, desperately, this 
contact, and he sobbed, clutched Skyler, sucked his skin, 
consumed the sweat off his throat, gnawed at the stubbled 
roughness of his jaw, cried into his mouth.  

And nothing made a lot of sense, but that was absolutely fine.  
Because that's the way life is -- the way life *really* is.

When it was over, he could barely move.  Every muscle in his body 
was totally relaxed, drained of tension he hadn't been aware of 
holding.  And all Mulder wanted to do was snuggle and fall 
asleep.  

"God, Skyler, that was--  You're--  God, Skyler!"

"I'm god?"

"You're god," he agreed.  "That was -- god."  Mulder sighed, long 
and deep, and nuzzled closer, kissing Skyler's mouth, deeply, 
languorously.  He'd never felt so sated in his life.  "*Thank 
you,*" he whispered, and cuddled deeper.  And he loved the way 
Skyler held him, and mumured 'baby,' and didn't let go.
 

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

They didn't, as so often happens, roll away from each other in 
their sleep, but slept nestled together in each others arms, 
slept like a secret conspiracy of bodies, of souls, either one 
drawing the other back close if they started to stray anywhere in 
the long, peaceful dream of the night.  

Mulder woke up early in the cold light with Skyler in his arms, 
feeling very, very happy.  

And weird. 

Happy and weird.

And knowing in his gut that it wasn't going to work.  

God help him he loved this man, but it wasn't going to work.  He 
squinted at the fragment of grey sky through the crack of the 
curtains, and knew it, knew -- deep down -- that it just didn't 
make sense.  

But damn it was fun while it lasted.

Gently, carefully, he eased himself away, breaking free of 
Skyler's loose, trusting, dreaming embrace.  Quietly he gathered 
up his clothes, dressed in the living room without washing, and 
found a pen and notepad beside the phone.

"Dear Skyler--" he wrote, and then sat thinking for a long time.  
He folded that one, put it in his pocket, and tried again:  
"Skyler--"  

He jotted it down quickly before he could change his mind, tucked 
the note so that it stuck up prominently from the top pages of 
_Fahrenheit 451_ and stood that up on end on top of a teetering 
stack of cushions on the couch.  There.  That should catch 
Skyler's eye. 

Mulder made sure of his gun, slapped his pocket to check for the 
disk, and then let himself out and closed the door softly behind 
him. 

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

Outside in the eucalyptus, damp-sweet early-grey air Mulder felt 
too wired, walked too fast, jogged a little, and walked again, 
enjoying the slap of cold, drizzle-filled San Francisco morning 
against the persistent heat in his cheeks.  And it was good.  
Funny how in prospect and now in retrospect the idea of making it 
with another man seemed so ... *daring* ... But while it was 
happening it had just been... 

He stopped at a corner for no reason.  With his hands on his 
hips, he breathed in deep and raised his face to the imminent 
sky.  And closed his eyes.  

It had just been *Skyler.*  And it had been intimate, soul-
bendingly intimate, and vulnerable, and...  

Mulder opened his eyes.  A girl in sweats had come up beside him, 
jogging in place and pretending to wait for the light even though 
there was no traffic.  She was sliding glances.  Mulder smiled at 
her, and she sprinted quickly away.  He felt flushed, sure that 
he reeked of sex.  He watched her cute little ass jogging away 
from him and thought, //baby, I could do things for you that ... 
put you right out of your head ... I could make you wild, play 
with you ... I could ...// 

Without waiting for the light, Mulder cut crosswise down the 
empty side street, feeling mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

At the end of the next block he came unawares onto a row of 
bright gingerbread Victorians -- very San Francisco.  A waifish 
kitten mewed at him from an open window, defending or inviting, 
and he was hit with a smell like fresh baked bagels.

All at once he wondered if the jogging girl knew what ecstasy 
was.  

'Ecstasy' - 'out of place.' 

Sniffing down the source of the good smell to a little shop on 
the corner, open early, Mulder fumbled for his cell.

It took almost four rings before he heard Skyler's sleepy voice.  
"Hey, you," Mulder found himself grinning like an idiot, 
"whaddaya want on your bagel?"  ...  "Yeah, yeah, just forget the 
note.  Toss it.  I had a momentary attack of reason, but I'm OK 
now.  Lox?  Cream cheese?  Any preferences or shall I just bring 
some of everything?"  ...  "A man after my own heart," Mulder 
laughed.  "Listen, I've got three days before I gotta get back to 
D.C.  Think you can put up with me that long?"

He beamed at the girl behind the counter, starting to point 
things out while he was still on the phone, and aware that he was 
flirting outrageously.    

When he retraced his steps back to Skyler's apartment it was with 
an armful of warm bagels and a light heart--

And *still* feeling mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

=================================================
...end of Deep Play, part I

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

VERY LONG END NOTES:

QUOTES:
The Oracle quote at the top is *probably* Dick Alpert (The Oracle 
being The Oracle, I couldn't quite figure out where that article 
started and ended).  The Juan Ramon Jimenez quote is borrowed 
from Bradbury, from the chapter heading for Part One of F451. 

RUSSIAN LANGUAGE:  I don't speak Russian.  All Krycek's Russian 
is drawn from a "Foreign Dirty Words" website.  Transliteration/ 
translation is as I found it on the site.  I had to make some 
guesses about usage and context.  With apologies for any errors, 
here's what I *think* (hope) Krycek is saying: 

Ebat'-kopat' - an exclamation, like "oh shit"
   Opesdol - "dumbass," "motherfucker" (stresses mental sickness)
   E'b tvoju mat' - "fuck you", literally "I fucked your mother"
   Pososi moyu konfetku - "suck my candy"

TO NEW READERS:  If you're specifically into slash, my MSR story, 
"Just Say Yes," is slash-friendly.  If, however, part of what 
attracts you to slash is that, like me, you've had it up to your 
eyeballs with MSR Scully and MSR sensibilities, you might give my 
MSR a try just for the hell of it.  It's all set very early in 
the series, back when there still seemed to be hope for Scully.  
In the past I've usually settled for Scully the way she *should* 
be, but I've always tried to write Mulder the way he *is.*

FOR THE RECORD:  
In my final post of MSR I said I'd never yield to the temptation 
to write another fic, so I guess I've got some explaining to do.  
Here it is in a nutshell: I made a huge mistake in taking the 
Scullyist-dominated sub-genre of MSR to be representative of fic 
in general.  For whatever reasons, mainstream MSR appears to be 
synonymous with Scullyism, and Scullyists are in de facto control 
of its dream-territory.  Even "bothists," therefore, cannot avoid 
being steeped in Scullyist dogma, which begins from the premise 
that in order to elevate Scully one must first belittle Mulder.  
But, believe it or not, there is fic after MSR.  My actual (non-
negotiable) resignation was from MSR, Scully, and Scullyists.
Also, there seems to be a general misconception that I felt 
somehow pressured or harassed by Scullyists while I was writing 
MSR, whereas the fact is that as a writer of fic I have 
absolutely no complaints.  *None.*  My objections -- my very 
strong objections -- to the Scullyist perspective were/are as a 
*reader* of fic, as a strong woman in my own right, and as a 
thinking member of this community.  Never as a writer.

SCULLY REFERENCES FOR MSR READERS:
  Because fic inhabits dream-territory, because characterizations 
are at the heart of that dream, and because the Scully in this 
story is very, very different from any Scully I have previously 
written, I feel that I owe my existing readership an explanation.  
Fiction always has something of magic about it -- enchantment -- 
necromancy.  Fiction touches directly on the emotions, and in 
that sense is "below the belt."  My hope is that by revealing the 
reasons behind the (thematically important) choices I made in 
writing this Scully, perhaps some readers will be more empowered 
to agree, disagree, or agree *to* disagree -- and thereby perhaps 
might trust me enough to follow along into the story itself.
   SPECIFIC SOURCES for Scully characterization include allusions 
to "all things," "Arcadia," "Jersey Devil," and "Small Potatoes." 
   FOR EVIDENCE OF SCULLY'S TEMPERAMENT I relied most heavily on 
"all things."  GA wrote it, so this is as canon as it gets.  In 
"all things" we see Scully not listening to Mulder, not valuing 
or crediting his investigations, and feeling that she herself is 
"drifting with eyes closed" while the moments of her life rush 
past; we see her profoundly dissatisfied with the direction and 
momentum of her life (i.e. life on Mulder's X-files), and just in 
general needing to slow things down.  However on the couch, when 
Mulder is actively listening and trying to understand and connect 
with *her* and her experiences, while he muses on destiny and the 
infinite, open-ended choices, paths and possibilities of life, 
Scully -- talking in terms of "only one choice" and all the other 
possible choices being "wrong" -- *closes her eyes* and goes to 
sleep.  (This says a lot, a lot, a lot about Scully.)
   ADDITIONAL SUPPORTING EVIDENCE:  
   In "Never Again," we see Scully switching between extremes, 
from tightly controlled to rashly rebellious.  We learn that she 
views Mulder as a controlling authority figure, and resents him 
for it, but we also know that Scully has a track record of sexual 
liaisons with authority figures.  We see her using sex as a way 
of 'getting even' with life and making herself feel powerful 
(which could well explain the authority figures), and we learn 
that she sees herself trapped in a vicious circle.  (Unlike 
Mulder, who, according to Scully, goes in "an endless line, two 
steps forward and three steps back."  It is also worth noting 
that, in sharp contrast to Mulder's broad spectrum of quirky 
friends, shadowy informants, ex-girlfriends, online friends, work 
connections, flirtations, sultry phone messages, and basketball 
buddies, virtually the *ONLY* time we see Scully having a 'life' 
after season 1 is with Ed Jerse.)
   In "Bad Blood" there is one key point on which Mulder's 
perception and Scully's perception coincide: they both agree that 
Scully is disdainful of Mulder and his ideas.  The difference is 
that Scully doesn't try to look beyond Mulder's joking bravado, 
whereas Mulder in is watching Scully very closely, hanging on her 
every word, hoping for her acceptance and approval. 
   In "The End" we learn from Gibson Praise that Scully doesn't 
care what other people think "except for her, that other one" 
(i.e. Diana Fowley).  Gibson is clearly over-generalizing, 
however.  Aside from the (lower ranking) technicians who put 
Gibson in the machine when Scully took him for the neurological 
scan to map his brain functions, Gibson has only been in a 
position to observe Scully interacting with two people -- Diana, 
and Mulder.  The one conclusion we can safely draw is that Scully 
(as supported by the evidence of "Bad Blood") doesn't care what 
*Mulder* thinks.
   In "Elegy" Scully is so deeply in denial about her own role as 
witness to the paranormal -- she wants so much not to believe -- 
that she withholds crucial case information from Mulder.  This 
particular example is noteworthy because it is one of the very 
few times in the whole series when Mulder calls her on her crap.  
Put on the spot, Scully's first defense is to blame Mulder by 
suggesting that he is somehow trying to manipulate her into 
"saying you're right," and "pretending to believe it."  (One of 
many examples of Scully as martyr, perceiving herself as a long-
suffering victim who is overwhelmed by Mulder's worldview and 
obsessions.)  This scene also provides evidence of Mulder's 
awareness of the kind of game Scully plays.  He points out that 
if she is not honest with him, if she hides the truth from him, 
then she is working against him and against herself.  That was 
season 4.  
   Five and a half years later, in "The Truth," when it comes to 
going north or going south, Scully's knee-jerk instinct is still 
to trust *Kersh* (another authority figure) over Mulder.
   CONCLUSION:  Scully doesn't actually *like* Mulder very much.  
She may not want anyone else to have him, but nevertheless she is 
ambivalent and often resentful of Mulder's role in her life.  No 
wonder Scullyist writers don't respect Mulder -- Scully herself 
doesn't respect him.  Because I *do* respect and value Mulder, I 
strongly believe that Mulder deserves better than Scully. 
   And that, folks, is absolutely my final word on Scully.       

SOME REMARKS ON SLASH:  
   I've lately been overjoyed to discover what a wealth of really 
good writing exists on the slash side of the fence.  There's even 
some slash with smart, strong, believable Mulder -- which comes 
as welcome air after a year of drowning in the type of distorted 
Mulder characterizations most favored by MSR. 
   This story was originally intended to be a one-off, just a 
little PWP that had been tenaciously hanging on to a back corner 
of my imagination since last fall.  Then somehow it got out of 
hand.  Its roots go deep into my earliest experiences of fanfic, 
back all the way to the days of Star Trek print 'zines with their 
fresh-inky smell of dangerous questions, back, in fact, to the 
days of Kirk/Spock -- slash before it got called "slash."  Right 
from the beginning slash fiction was impertinent, sexy, perverse, 
and at the same time idealistic ... even, in its own quiet way, 
revolutionary.  At its best slash is a lot more than just getting 
"two hot guys together"; it's about questioning the origins, the 
poetics and metaphysics of Love, and re-envisioning sex as Love's 
most soulfully deliberate physical expression, rather than merely 
the predictable product of hard-wiring and chemical programming. 
I couldn't resist taking that trip with Mulder, just once...  
   Or maybe twice...  

### The End ###