Some of these characters on the X-Files belong to 1013 Productions 
and Chris Carter.  Some of these characters on Sports Night belong 
to ABC and Aaron Sorkin.  You all should know which is which.  

No infringement is intended.  I just want to play with the boys 
for a while before I let them go back to the lives they don't 
have on the show.  This is just for fun, no money is being made 
from this.  

This story involves sex between two men, aka: slash.  If that is 
*not* your cup of tea, sweet as it is, then don't read it!
(simple, ain't it??)

Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always answered.  Flames 
will be passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :)

Eighteenth in the Tapestry Series.  You might want to read the 
others first, just so we're all on the same page, here.  Previous 
stories can be found at:

http://members.tripod.com/~AiR_WSW/Amirin4.html

This has nothing to do with my Sports Night 'City Of Death' series. 
But, if you're interested, you can find it here:

http://members.tripod.com/~AiR_WSW/Amirin5.html

This one's for Richel, whose fault this is.  BIG TIME.  And, as 
usual, for Sickleweed, who wanted a story with a happy ending for 
the boys.  This will be about as close as I can get.  And for 
Desiree, who wanted a story where Krycek doesn't die.  And for 
Toddie, for every other reason.

More to come...

Warp - Practice  by Amirin <groh@iquest.net>  #150


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


Well, now.  That could possibly have gone better.  But I honestly 
don't see how.

I knew it.  No, really, I did.  I knew Mulder would be like this.  

I *knew* it.

He's practically unconscious at the moment.  It's a good look for 
him.  He collapsed at my side when I started laughing right after 
we'd fucked.  I couldn't help it.  Oh, I wasn't laughing at him.  
Hell, no.  I've got no reason to laugh at him.

Things just strike me as funny, sometimes.  Maybe one of these 
days I'll tell him about some of them.  But not today.

Damn.

I've got him.

I have really *got* him.

Shit, look at that grin.  Sleepy, hazy, blissful, slightly smug. 
Hey, I can let him be smug.  No skin off my nose.  Besides, it's 
good for him.

A soft kiss on my shoulder and he's down for the count.  Oh, the 
things I could do to him, right now.  Staggering.

Don't go there, Alex.

Damn, I need a shower.

Maybe later, when he's awake.  I don't want to disturb him.  Not 
right now.

It's not too bad, you know.  The post-coital lassitude, I mean.  Not
entirely uncomfortable, this vulnerable, naked feeling.  Still, it's
not like I don't know where every weapon in the room is, or anything. 
Christ, I'm not stupid.

About earlier...You know, I liked the way he looked at me.  No pity. 
Which was good, 'cause I really fucking hate that.  Lust was real 
good.  Want was even better.  I still can't believe he admitted to 
it in a public park, though.

Jesus, Mulder.

I also liked the way he acted like he hadn't been touched in half 
of forever, which kind of precluded anything naked and nasty happening
between him and Bald Mountain.  I just might have to do something 
nice for Skinner.  Especially since I came so close to offing the 
bastard.

It was necessary to bring him into it, to watch Fox's back, but 
that didn't mean I was just going to sit by and let him poach.

It started at the hockey game.  All that fucking sympathy.  Yeah, 
I noticed when Mulder lost it.  I was up in the booth, watching 
the action.  What a view.  I owe Danny for that, too.

Danny.  Christ, that's a whole 'nother story.  One that could be
chalked up to vanity, maybe.  Or something pathetic like 
insecurity.  Pick one.  I really don't give a shit which.

I was actually on my way out of the arena, when he ran right into 
me.  Literally.  Startled both of us, plus the guy behind him who 
took one look at me and narrowed his eyes like he knew exactly who 
and what I was.  I was about to answer that challenge, when the 
man in front of me spoke.  And I looked at him.

Leather jacket.  Large nose.  Dark hair.  Nice eyes.  Not hazel, 
but still.  Young.  Too fucking young.  God, I've never been that 
young.

And he was apologizing, steadying me, hand on my arm.  Kind of funny
when his eyes grew a little big the second he realized how hard it 
was.

I told him there'd been no harm done and he blurted out something 
like 'Yeah, I guess there wouldn't be' then turned about six shades 
of scarlet.  I managed to get in a chuckle of sorts before he 
launched into more apologies and I shrugged off a 'Don't worry 
about it' of my own.

The guy behind him clapped a hand on his shoulder and said something
about getting back to the booth, eyes never getting much bigger 
than slits as he glared at me.  I couldn't help wondering what the 
hell I'd ever done to this fuck, anyway, but the one who'd crashed 
into me stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

Danny Rydell.

Fine, we can be civilized.  You want civilized, I'll fucking give 
you civilized.

Alex Krycek.

Yeah, now we're buddies, right?

Shit.

And then he was asking if I wanted to come with them, up to the 
booth.  I'd 'have to be quiet, they were broadcasting'.  And 'could 
I do quiet'?

Where do I find these people?  

I shrugged and said I thought I could handle quiet, said it wasn't
necessary, really, and paused just long enough for him to insist, 
right on cue, good boy.

I admit, part of me accepted the invite just to see the look on the
other guy's face.  Casey...something or other.  Too fucking hilarious.

I followed Danny, Casey followed me, and I made several deliberate
passes over Danny's ass with my eyes, making sure that Casey saw 
me doing it.  Sweet, too fucking sweet.  After a while, I quit 
baiting Casey.  Danny's ass was nice in its own right, I've got 
to tell you.

The booth was this amazing scene of crowded, controlled chaos,
everything and everyone working like sixty, and making no goddamned 
sense whatsoever to anyone watching who didn't speak the language.  

Kind of like the inside of Mulder's head, I'm willing to bet.

Danny introduced me to a few of the people there, Jeremy somebody, 
who was a lot happier about getting this call than the last one, 
whatever the hell that meant, a few of the guys running the boards 
and equipment, nice gear, and then Casey got into my space.

And all I could think was please don't make me hurt you.  Danny 
seems to like you, and he's a decent sort, please don't make me 
hurt you. 

I'll admit it, I got a little pissed.  Opened up the jacket, 
resituated the gun at my back, propped my foot up on a chair to 
check the ankle holster, moved one of the knives to an inside 
pocket and flicked open the switchpick, just to make sure it 
still worked, of course.  Nothing more.  Then, I went to the 
window and asked Danny over my shoulder if I'd be in the way where 
I was.

Silence.

Beautiful, stunned silence.  Broken only by Jeremy's faint 'Oookay'. 
And Casey's not-so-faint 'Who the fuck *is* this guy?'.  And Danny's 
hand on my shoulder.  I turned to face him with a huge smile, one 
of my personal best, if his reaction was anything to go by.

And he told me I was fine.

Thanks for the vote, kid.

I paid attention to the little light that told people when to 
observe strict silence and watched the game and the big goodbye 
and then dug out my own set of binocs and saw Skinner with his 
hand on Mulder's shoulder, and those big hazel eyes full of tears, 
and growled quietly to myself.

Prick.  

God, I wanted Skinner dead.  Really dead.  Non-resurrectible, go 
toward the light, taking the dirt-nap dead.

And decided to settle for making Casey go quietly insane, instead.

Which was its own reward, let me tell you.

The guys were packing the gear, and Danny was getting out of his 
mike and earphone, and I waited til he seemed mostly done, and 
moved near him, soundlessly even in boots, and asked if I could 
buy him dinner.  To say thank you for a hell of a night.

Deer in the headlights, I kid you not.

Shock, not fear.  Which was good.  Especially since Casey had
apparently cornered the market on fear.

I asked Danny if he liked Russian, he suggested Italian, and we 
settled on Greek.

And I steered him out of the room while he tossed a 'See ya later,
Case' at the man sitting poleaxed behind the anchordesk.

We headed out of the arena, avoided the crowds by walking down
corridors Danny knew about, went through some doors, then popped 
out onto the street.  

I'd deliberately parked some ways away.  I hate being trapped 
anywhere, regardless, but in a crowd?  After a hockey game?  
Especially Gretzky's last?  Please, I'm not insane.  These people 
can be worse than soccer fans.

Anyway, the night was fair and the walk was pleasant.  We were 
heading past Tiffany's, and I always look, can't help it, and saw 
the watches in the window.  The usual glitz and glamour, flash and 
ostentation.  Ugh.  And Danny caught the sneer of total contempt 
on my face, touched my shoulder, and pointed to the end.  Okay, 
now *that* was the watch of a man who didn't have a goddamned 
thing to prove.  Subtle.  Classy.  Expensive.  Perfect.

I grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, laughing, lost him over 
by the cufflinks and tie tacks, and bought the watch, intending to 
give it to Mulder, just to mess with his head.  And looked over 
at Danny.  And grinned.  And bought another.  Just in case.  If 
things went badly, I could always keep it myself.  Matching 
watches - how fucking cute was that?

Anyway, we headed out, I thanked him for seeing it, he grinned, 
and I led us down the street.

And then Danny caught sight of the Auburn, which I'd been driving 
since I'd gotten it out of storage, making sure it was good to go 
for Mulder.

It was fun watching all the wheels in his head try to add this to 
the equation, the closer we got to it.

All he said was 'Sweet', but the grin on his face said a whole lot
more.  He navigated to the restaurant, talking quietly but not 
alot, which was sincerely appreciated because I really hate 
chatter.  Turns out we're both from Connecticut and he's got to be
one of about three people who have actually heard of Riverview.  
Danny pointed out where to park, we got out, and he patted the 
hood of the car when he came around to my side.

I knew I liked him.

The wait was short, the people knew him, talked with him, and looked
curiously at me while I ignored them and pretended to study the matted
prints on the walls.

His hand was on my back, leading me into a quiet corner, letting me
take the seat I wanted, no surprise when I took the gunfighter seat, 
keeping everything and everyone in view.

I let him order and he didn't disappoint me.  Food we could play with,
food we could share, food we could get each other hot over just by 
licking our fingers.

Mulder would call it normal.

I'd call it a fucking revelation.

Two guys, having dinner.

Sounds simple enough, you'd think, right?  

Wrong.

It was just a dry run.  I had no feelings for Danny, really.  It 
wasn't like it mattered.  But if I could fake my way through it, 
then I could probably bring myself to do it with Fox.

And I don't mean dinner.

I'm talking about sex.

About letting another man see me, really see me, and not having him
cringe.  Or flinch.  Or look at me with sorrow or pity or all those 
other fucking feelings I hate so much, in his eyes.

It was practice.  And Danny was a nice guy.  And if Casey was 
somewhere grinding his perfectly capped-for-TV teeth over it, well, 
so much the better.

So, yes, I caught, and thoroughly enjoyed, the look on Danny's face
when I tongued humous off my fingers.  And he grinned back at me 
when I arched a silent eyebrow after feeling the side of his foot 
stroke my leg.

Pistachio-and-rice pudding, complete with plenty of spoon-licking,
finished dinner, but I wouldn't have called it dessert.

Danny was dessert.

Danny was also staying in The Plaza.  And guess who was staying in 
the adjoining room next to him?

Casey.

Sometimes, it's wonderful to be me.

I paid for dinner with cash and Danny didn't so much as blink when 
he saw the roll of money I was still carrying, even after getting 
the watches.  Good boy.

We headed back to the car, got in, and he leaned over and kissed me. 
With some care and caution, yes, but no hesitation at all.

Christ, the man was thorough.  I pulled away carefully with a 'hold
that thought' and got us back to the hotel.

He didn't even check his messages.  

I knew I liked him.

We made it to the room in record time, which was two floors below
Mulder's.  Convenient.

I unloaded just about everything potentially lethal onto the dresser,
caught his look of bemusement, and grinned.  He grinned back and
wondered aloud 'Do I even want to ask you what you do for a living?'. 
I answered 'No' and he seemed content to let it slide.

Trusting fool.

Nice guy.

Shit.

He got mostly-naked damned quickly, then seemed to freeze, not wanting
to help me if I didn't welcome it.  I didn't need the help, true enough,
but I sure as hell needed the practice.  Letting another man undress me
without any flinching of my own was pretty fucking necessary.  And he 
was careful, even with the arm.  His eyes only got a little wide when 
it came off and he looked at me with those eyebrows which seemed to 
form natural question marks all by themselves.  

He grinned when I winked, reassured, and asked the question with his
eyes when he saw the scarring.  I said nothing.  He was smart enough 
not to push it.  Good boy.  

And the look on his face...not pity.  Not grief.  Anger.  Seriously. 
It surprised the hell out of me.  I had to look twice to make sure 
it wasn't revulsion.  He looked at me and sighed.  And shrugged.  
And spoke.  And floored me.

Not 'I'm sorry'.

Not 'What a shame'.

No, not Danny.

You know what he said?

'I know people'.

And I thought, Jesus H. Christ, kid, so do I.  Believe me, you 
*don't* want to meet them.

'In medicine' he said, perfectly serious.  And explained. 

Not your normal, shady-government-hybridizing-cloning-mad-scientist's-
laboratory type medicine, either, oh, no, not Danny.  Sports Medicine. 
Experimental stuff.  State-of-the-fucking-art medicine.

The kind of medicine that lets track stars with limbs lost to
accidents, run marathons again.  Archers with no more than three 
fingers, total, set records.  Swimmers with only one natural arm, 
break new times.  There's a whole fucking Olympic community for 
people like me, and he *knew* them.  And their doctors.  

I silently swore to myself that I would *never* hurt Casey, no matter
how tempting.  That was really the best I could offer in return.

He got a piece of hotel stationary, wrote down some names.  And places.
And just nodded when I said I had my own doctor, told me to have him
check these people out.  Folded it up and stuck it in my pocket.  
Right before he finished stripping me naked and tackling me to the 
bed.

He was all over me, everything, everywhere, god.  So fucking hard and
hot and perfect and all *over* me.  And part of me wanted to keep him. 
Really.  I mean, he was a public figure, a nationally-televised sports 
anchor for the love of Christ, and I wanted to keep him.  And thought 
that if it were half as good with Mulder as it was gearing up to be 
with Danny, I was in deep shit.

The kid was joyful, ecstatic, enthusiastic, didn't wait for me to
respond, or protest, didn't wait to see if anything wasn't good or 
right, just swept over me like a horned-out puppy dog and brought me 
screaming into the pillow in no time.  And laughed.  Not *at* me, 
either.  In delight.  Sheer, unadulterated delight.  Then, he just 
kicked back, relaxed, and let me ravish him.  Instant surrender, no 
fight, no contest of will or strength, just encouragement, more 
laughter, some loud, gleeful howls, and his hands fucking *everywhere*.
Then he pulled away, looked at me thoughtfully, and grinned.

'Hey, Alex?  Tonight, you don't have one hand.  You've got three, 
put 'em wherever the hell you want 'em.'

Okay, so it was as close to crying as I've come in the last couple 
of decades.

And I took him up on it.  It was almost like using him to masturbate,
but yet...not.  Things I hadn't been able to do to, with, or for 
myself in fucking *years* and he just let me...do them.  Use him.  
Gladly.

Shit.

I made some mildly sarcastic comment about how well he took direction
and he just burst into laughter and said something along the lines of
'Well, duh.  I work in television, you asshole'.

He let me use his hands as my own until we brought me to orgasm again,
then pounced.  Only fair.  After all, it was his turn.  

I really could've gotten used to it.  You know?

And so it went, until some obscene hour of the very early morning and 
I had to leave him.  Not that I wanted to, but I had to.

I left behind the watch and a note, which simply said thank you.  And
that he was a class act, which he sure as hell was.  And I got my 
stuff together quietly and left him, sleeping, sated, and snoring.  

I paused out in the hallway.  Stepped up and knocked on Casey's door. 
It opened far too quickly for the person on the other side to have 
been asleep and suddenly, there he was.  Angry.  Scared.  Hurt.  
Worried.

The worried got to me.

I told him that Danny was fine.  Was more than fine.  Danny was 
fucking incredible, all right?  And that he'd better take damned good 
care of him.

He just nodded and said, very softly, that he would.  I told him that
Danny was his.  *All* his.  And then I left to the sound of a door 
closing quietly.  And headed up to Mulder's suite.

I had to brace myself before going into the room I knew had to be
Skinner's.  Mulder never snored like a fucking buzz saw.  But god 
help Skinner if Mulder was in that bed with him.

Luckily for Skinner, he wasn't.

I went into Fox's room.  Unconscious, passed-out, almost-fully-clothed,
drunk.  I straightened things up, left what I needed to, tucked him 
in a little better, and fought an ugly battle with myself to keep 
from touching him anymore than necessary.  Let alone staying there 
with him.  Then, I took off.

I can look at Fox, now, here, with me, and I'm grateful.  To Danny.  
I don't know if this would've happened without him.  And I'm damned 
glad it worked out.  I wasn't at all sure it would, not with my track 
record.  And maybe, sometime, if I get a quiet moment, I'll ask Chae 
to check out Danny's list of names and places.  And get myself an 
arm that looks like it was put together in the last decade.

Maybe.

If.

Sometime.

You know, for a guy who used to measure his future in days, I find 
I'm suddenly optimistic.


~~~end