It was almost three o'clock in the morning when he got through customs, too late to achieve much but a night's sleep.

Outside the airport, heavy rain had settled in and the row of cabs seemed to be floating on a black lake. Assistant Director Skinner requested a ride to the Kowloon hotel, where he checked in, ordered a selection of sandwiches and left his valuables with the desk clerk. He'd already handed in his gun at the airport.

The hotel room overlooked Hong Kong harbour, just as he'd requested. Skinner poured himself scotch on the rocks and loosened his tie. He bit into a sandwich, stood watching the lights of countless small boats on the water, savouring the moment as the start of his vacation. Six days to do as he pleased.

He'd no particular plans in mind, apart from visiting old friends he'd made in the Tsimshatsui district during his days in the Marines. As to how he'd spend the rest of his time, he had some vague notions of night clubs and slant eyed beauty, sleeping in late and eating adventurously. It was enough. Making plans was part of Skinner's job and he considered it a luxury to be without any.

Back home in DC, Sharon Skinner was busy making plans and none of them involved him. That was the way she wanted it now and he had to live with that. Cold fish, she'd called him. Cold fish, watching the lights on the water.

When his drink was finished, Skinner unpacked and took a shower. He tried to remember a time when showers weren't functional, part of the day's routine. There'd been a time in his life when showers had quickened his blood, when they'd been a prelude, a finale or an accompaniment to love making. It was hard to conjure up those memories, even though the hotel had left him enough tablets of soap to see him through an entire harem for the night. He checked halfheartedly through the selection. Midnight Musk...Taboo...Ylang Ylang...Exotic Rose...Surrender...

He chose Taboo but in spite of the soap's promise, the shower was still a routine affair. He slipped between cool cotton sheets and lay eyes closed with harbour lights dancing vaguely in his head. Sleeping alone was something else he had to live with now. He found that the worst part of it and as a consequence slept badly. And being back East again triggered memories of friends who had died in Vietnam, and those who had lived through it but died inside.

When Skinner finally gave in to sleep, it was fitful and nightmarish so that waking to find himself in a combat situation came as no particular surprise.

He was no longer alone in the hotel room. He smelt sweat, leather and musk. Before he could react, a gun was pushed hard into his temple, and the idea of a holiday melted like butter on a hot stove. Skinner recognised several things about the owner of the gun: judging from the acetone level in his breath, he was extremely hungry; he'd been drinking beer and a third rate beer at that; and he was scared and desperate as hell. In a city where they were forbidden, you didn't carry a gun without meaning every word it said.

"Lay your hands above your head." The voice was only a rasp but all the same it was unpleasantly familiar. An image occurred to Skinner of black leather and tight blue jeans, and his stomach contracted as he remembered that three vicious punches completed the picture.

"Krycek?"

There was no acknowledgement, only a brief but imaginative curse. Skinner lifted his arms and lay them on the pillow above his head. He'd have to wait for the right moment to hit out and he'd make sure there was one. He found himself secured to the bed head and sensed rather than heard Krycek give out a sigh of relief. No matter. Skinner still had his legs free. Diverting Krycek's attention away from that fact became a major priority. Marine combat had taught him to use legs and feet as skilfully as hands.

The bedside lamp was switched on. Krycek straightened up and wiped the back of his free hand over his mouth.

It was good to see that life hadn't been treating his ex-agent well. Skinner had known young men in that state before, living on nothing but their nerve ends. Lost weight, lost youth, lost hope. Wild red eyes that couldn't rest on anything.

"Jesus, Krycek, you look like hell."

"How'd you know it was me?" He sounded like a child dealing with an intractable parent. It was probably the way Krycek interacted with the world most of the time.

"It was pretty obvious."

"Fuck you, Skinner!" Krycek shouted, lunging out with his foot, sending a shock wave through the bed. "If you're so damn clever, how come you're not the one holding the gun?"

Krycek's logic was impeccable, which was more than could be said for the man himself. He looked as if he slept rough. Filthy jeans and t-shirt, shabby leather jacket, matted urchin-style hair.

"What the hell are you doing in Hong Kong of all places?"

"Trying to keep alive." Krycek began searching through Skinner's bags and the unpacked clothes that were hanging in the wardrobe. "Worked well for a while. It's been weeks and none of you thought to look for me here. I checked all the inflights every day to make sure. Then I saw your name come up. You didn't even try to fool me with an alias." He pocketed Skinner's cellphone and wallet.

"I'm here on vacation."

Another kick at the bed. "Don't give me that shit, Skinner! How stupid do you think I am? The old man's got you right where he wants you. He finds out I'm here so he sends you. Doesn't use a bomb this time, he just sends you."

Skinner sighed impatiently. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here on vacation. Check with the bureau if you don't believe me. I'm on six days leave."

Krycek began pacing the room. He still held onto the gun but it hung loosely by his side. "Oh sure, of course. I'll check with the bureau." He mimed holding a phone to his ear. "Hi Mulder, remember me, it's Alex Krycek. Oh I'm fine thanks, and you? Tell me, I have your boss tied up in..."

"Okay, okay, I get the message, no need to overdo it." But he'd lost Krycek's attention. He'd discovered Skinner's uneaten sandwiches which he fell on with the intensity of a panther. It was unsettling to watch. Skinner could feel teeth digging into his own neck and tearing away the flesh. He cleared his throat. "I meant, why don't you phone FBI switchboard and check with them."

Krycek crammed another sandwich into his mouth. "Oh sure," he said indistinctly, sending out a small shower of crumbs. "And walk straight into a trap? That's probably some prearranged signal, right?"

"It's funny but I know someone back in Washington who thinks the way you do." If Krycek had planned to kill him, Skinner wondered why he was still alive. There'd been the best of opportunities, gun pressed into the head, a pillow available as silencer, a quick exit round the back of the hotel. Skinner recalled the hand that had trembled while it held the gun. Perhaps Krycek wasn't the cold blooded killer that Mulder liked to think he was. An opportunist, certainly. Someone who'd got in deeper than he'd intended, perhaps, forgetting that he hadn't finished swimming lessons.

All the same, if some peculiar delicacy in Krycek made him hesitate at killing Skinner, clearly he would have to do something with his prisoner to safeguard his position, if only to gain a few days' head start.

It seemed Krycek was stalling for time. Having finished the sandwiches, he was turning his attention to the bar, fingering through the bottles, finally settling on a Budweiser. He stood drinking by the window, as Skinner had done earlier, looking out at the bay.

Skinner watched with a kind of fascination, trying to reconcile this Hong Kong version of Krycek with the slick rookie FBI agent he used to know. He tried to imagine what had brought Krycek this low. Wondered whether he had the DAT tape and could be persuaded somehow to hand it over. Whether he was totally alone in Hong Kong and if so, what gave him the will to keep going. Wondered what thoughts were in Krycek's mind as he looked out of the window.

"Listen, have you come here solely to take advantage of the hotel facilities or do you have anything else in mind?"

Draining back the last of the Budweiser, Krycek gave him the kind of sneering smile that made a man want to shoot him immediately. "What's the matter, Skinner, nerves troubling you?" He turned to look out of the window again. Having a full stomach appeared to have calmed him. "I'm waiting for someone. You're about to have another visitor."

At least Skinner now had an answer to one of his questions. "We heard you had a contact here," he bluffed. "Someone you could pass the DAT tape onto. Someone who'd know how to decode it."

"Get your facts right before you try and fuck with my mind!" Krycek turned away from the window, eyes blazing. "I don't have the damned tape! I don't have it! But that doesn't stop the old man from sending people like you to kill me for it. Tell him to check his information!"

"No one buys me! I told you I'm not here to kill you!" He was shouting now. Somewhere along the way, Krycek had managed to get under his skin. "But how much did he buy you for? Look at yourself now and tell me if it was really worth it!"

The hotel extension phone began to ring but the sound didn't register immediately with Krycek. He was moving nearer to the bed and Skinner could see that he was shaking. "Yeah, it's worth it! When you've seen your father being tortured—when you've seen your mother starve to death! I'd say it's worth it! I may be low at the moment but I've got plans! I'm not without resources! I'm not going to end up just another victim!" He broke off, as if he'd heard the phone for the first time. He answered it in the same rasp that he'd used for Skinner. "Okay. Let him come up."

If it was intended as an impersonation of his own voice, Skinner decided it would pass muster to someone who didn't know him well, like the hotel desk clerk, someone who would assume he'd been woken from sleep. Skinner wondered again what Krycek had in store for him and who his visitor would be. He could safely eliminate Cancerman which provided some comfort, but that left the picture wide open for any Hong Kong thug to walk into his hotel room. Krycek was in no position to chose friends carefully.

"I hope your friend won't object to my informality," Skinner muttered testily.

Krycek had moved over to the door. He said nothing, staring across at Skinner with unsettling intensity. One shoulder against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, gun hanging loosely from one hand, he was a picture of brooding insolence.

That stare brought Skinner back to the time when Krycek had partnered Mulder. He'd occasionally stared that way then, sitting opposite Skinner's desk, notebook on his lap, pen in hand. Staring in an appraising kind of way that, now Skinner looked at it with benefit of hindsight, hadn't been entirely appropriate for the raw recruit persona. But it had been so transient, so subtle, and the willing puppydog look back in place again so quickly, that Skinner had given it no consideration. One of the many mistakes he'd made with regard to Krycek. And it seemed he was still making them.

A heavy knock on the door brought Skinner back to the present. He braced himself for whoever might walk in, reminding himself that he still had his legs free as weapons, still had some hope of defending himself.

Krycek flashed him a smile full of sadistic pleasure. "Your visitor's arrived."

With a mixture of relief and confusion, Skinner watched him open the door to a slender Chinese boy who looked no more than twelve years old.

"Alex!" The boy ran into Krycek's arms, making him stagger backwards, wrapping his legs around Krycek's waist, kissing him hard. Krycek kicked the door closed and folding his arms around the boy, kissed him back with equal enthusiasm.

Skinner lay watching helplessly, calculating where this new development might be leading him. No longer in danger from the attentions of a Hong Kong thug, his current predicament appeared to be an overwhelming sense of nausea. The experience of witnessing under age sex held no appeal for him at the best of times and with Krycek as one of the protagonists, the idea was intolerable. "For God's sake," he complained irritably. "That's just a child you've got there!"

The couple broke contact to turn and stare at him with wet swollen lips. Krycek giggled and let the boy down to the floor. He indicated Skinner and spoke in fluent Chinese. Krycek's young friend laughed. Skinner sensed that the boy was being given some sort of instruction but it was impossible to be certain. The two of them were talking and studying him with all the animation of surgeons about to perform a challenging operation. Skinner had the feeling dawn might find him at the bottom of Hong Kong bay with a heavy weight around his waist.

"Allow me to introduce you to a very good friend of mine." Krycek guided the boy forward.

"Guess what, I worked out that much all on my own."

"This is the Assistant Director of the FBI and he thinks he has a sense of humour. Skinner, meet Lam."

Skinner lifted his head from the pillow. "Wish I could say it's a pleasure." The boy was dressed in jeans and t-shirt, the anonymous uniform of most 12 year olds in summer. He looked in far better shape than Krycek, as if he had more than a nodding acquaintance with the necessities of life. Apparently Krycek held an irresistible appeal. Lam stood pressed up against him, touching him, smiling up at him happily and Krycek was making the most of it, touching the boy back, running his hands suggestively over his body.

"Well," Skinner said, "I can see the two of you want to be on your own, don't let me detain you here any longer."

Lam looked up at Krycek, frowning, requesting a translation. Abruptly, he patted Lam on the backside, releasing him. "You're a real entertainer, Skinner, and I'd love to hear more of those one-liners but business calls." He spoke again in Chinese to the boy. He was like a chameleon that blends effortlessly into its surroundings. If Krycek was dropped somewhere in the arctic, he'd probably build himself an igloo, converse happily with the local Eskimo tribe and be certain to make himself indispensable to them.

Lam took the foot of the bed while Krycek stood at Skinner's side, holding the gun with more purpose. "Don't try any marine-type heroics, Skinner. Lam's going to tie down those feet of yours because I know how dangerous those legs can be."

Krycek had researched his victim. It was almost flattering that it required the attentions of both of them to render Skinner defenceless but also puzzling. There was no reason for restraint if he was about to be killed.

Lam tied his ankles to each of the bedposts, making Skinner feel uncomfortably vulnerable. Then the bedsheet was thrown off entirely and Skinner regretted his habit of sleeping naked. His stomach clenched as Krycek let out a little whistle.

"Nicely hung. Very impressive."

Skinner maintained a cool dignity. "I don't normally expose myself to guests. I'll make sure I'm dressed appropriately next time."

Krycek grinned across at Lam. "Cute, isn't he? Didn't I tell you he was cute?" He reholstered his gun and pulled out a miniature camera from his jacket pocket. "Okay, Lam, go ahead, do your thing."

The boy undressed, climbed up onto the bed and straddled Skinner's waist. The puzzle was solved. Skinner had been neatly and effectively framed.

The hotel desk clerk would confirm what the photos suggested. That Lam, no doubt a well known local prostitute, had been invited up to Skinner's room at about 5 o'clock that morning. And the photos would confirm the desk clerk's evidence. Assistant Director Walter Skinner had had sex with a 12 year old boy.

Not that he'd responded in any way to Lam. He didn't have to. Lam had responded to him which was all that had been required. Krycek and his camera did the rest. Neat, very neat. Skinner had seen blackmail photos before as part of his job, on the outside looking in. He knew how selective the camera was and how easily it could be made to lie. It had been unimaginable that he could ever be involved in a similar experience.

Lam was paid with bills from Skinner's own wallet. It was heartwarming to witness Krycek's generosity. There were more kisses and cuddles and then the two of them parted with a stream of incomprehensible Chinese. Krycek shoved the camera into his inside jacket pocket. Then he strolled into the bathroom, apparently making a detailed inspection of the facilities. Skinner could hear him going through the selection of soaps and wondered if Krycek was checking for bugs.

"Skinner?"

"Yeah?"

"Which soap did you go for?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Krycek strolled back into the bedroom. "I said, which soap did you—"

"I heard exactly what you said. What the hell do you want to know for?"

"Well." He shrugged. "You smell kind of nice and I thought I might use the same."

Skinner raised himself up awkwardly on one shoulder. "Are you totally out of your mind? Are you completely insane?"

"People have mentioned it—"

"Do you really think this is the time and place to discuss soap perfume?"

Krycek stared at Skinner in surprise. "Well excuse the hell out of me," he said. He began to undress and Skinner watched him warily. The sight of anyone removing their clothes was beginning to make him anxious.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to take a damn shower before I leave!" He flung his jeans onto the floor. The child was back, sulky and tired. "Tell me I don't need one!" he challenged.

It was Skinner's turn to stare in surprise. Aside from his teenage daughter, it was a long time since he'd dealt with anyone so utterly irrational. "Do you have any idea what's going on here, Krycek? You've threatened me at gun point, tied me to my bed, and taken incriminating photographs of me with a young boy! And now you want to use my shower, like you're an old buddy of mine who's just turned up after so many years!"

Krycek walked up to the bed, angry and menacing, with nothing on but a t-shirt that struggled to maintain his modesty. His legs were long and slender, reminding Skinner of a skittish colt that needed breaking in. "I'll tell you what's going on, Assistant Director, and you'd better listen hard! You whisper a word to anyone that I'm here and those photographs'll find their way straight to the Director's desk and the front page of the Washington Post. And in case you think you might get to me first, I'm giving copies to Lam so he'll know what to do if anything happens to me. Is that clear enough for you?"

It was. However much Skinner might protest his innocence, the photographs were irrefutable. If enough mud was thrown at him, it would take more than a clean reputation to wipe him clean. Had he been alone in the matter, Skinner might have protested against the charges but there was his daughter to consider—and, of course, the X-Files. Without him, Mulder and Scully would be quietly destroyed by Cancerman and his friends. Skinner's only chance lay in getting to Krycek before the photos could be developed. A very small window of opportunity. He glared up into Krycek's eyes. "You smell like hell, Krycek. Go and have your damn shower before I throw up."

Krycek backed off, smiling victoriously. He returned to the bathroom. There was more rustling—another check through the soap selection—and then the shower was in progress. Skinner tested the efficacy of Lam's handiwork. He tried relaxing his ankle muscles and then tensing them, in an attempt to loosen the knots. He tried quiet but sustained force. He even tried a Zen relaxation, then sneaking up on them all at once. Nothing worked. He was too well secured.

The bed head was made up of wooden slats. With enough time and force, Skinner thought he might be able to break it apart and free himself but that would bring Krycek running. He would have to wait until he was finally alone.

He listened to the sound of the shower water and considered the fact that Krycek had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him alive when a bullet in the head would have been so much easier. He wondered for an irrational moment which soap Krycek had decided on and whether anyone had ever called him a cold fish. It was highly unlikely. There was too much passion behind that fury.

"It didn't work for Lady Macbeth and it probably won't work for you!" Skinner called out but Krycek appeared not to hear him. He was having a thorough, businesslike shower. Perhaps he was getting ready for a date, or an important appointment. Perhaps he spent all his nights moving from hotel to hotel, setting up blackmail situations with Lam, taking showers and helping himself to other people's food as he went along. Dial-A-Porn-Shoot. Blackmail Is Us.

When you've seen your father being tortured....Could there have been any truth behind it? Skinner wasn't interested in the details so much as the emotional intensity behind them. For some reason, Krycek was furious at his parents, perceiving them as weak or stupid. Cancerman had probably sensed that fury, tapped into it and manipulated it to suit his own agenda.

"Mind if I take one of your t-shirts? This one of mine is gross." Krycek had padded back into the bedroom, not properly dry and shamelessly naked. Again he managed that curious mix of deviant and well-bred college boy. His skin was pink and glowing from the shower, the muscles underneath well toned from weeks of being on the run. For some reason, Skinner couldn't think up a suitable reply.

"You know," Krycek said, head on one side, "something told me you wouldn't mind." He turned to check through the wardrobe. Skinner lay silently watching muscles work along Krycek's back, the pert curves of two shapely buttocks, long coltish legs. Damn.

"Think I'll go for the mid-blue one," Krycek was saying. "Mid-blue is definitely my colour, don't you think?" He turned round, holding the t-shirt against his chest for Skinner to judge. His gaze travelled almost at once to Skinner's groin. Krycek let out a long appreciative whistle. "Well, I'm flattered, I really am. What a beauty!" A throaty giggle. "I mean, you couldn't even manage a twitch for Lam. And now look at that! I thought you were Mr Straight Guy, you know?" He gave a coy flutter of his eyelids. "Is that really all for me?"

Skinner scowled at him murderously, conjuring up images of pestilence, plague and fire—anything to make Krycek drop dead and leave him alone. Most of all, he was furious with himself. He'd thought he had those feelings well under control. He was sure he'd worked through them in the marine days, in the Vietnam days, in the days when his genitals appeared to have a mind of their own. During the moments of greatest temptation—in the showers, at night, skinny dipping in rivers—he'd taught himself to overcome the absurd alien cravings. Why should they resurface now after all that time and with Krycek, of all people? "Don't kid yourself," Skinner snarled. "I need to go to the john. That's all."

"If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that one." Another giggle. "It's in the same league as boy was I drunk last night. You'll have to do better than that." Krycek put down the t-shirt and moved towards the bed.

"Just stay where you are!" It had been an impressively emphatic order. A pity his voice had cracked on the last syllable. He could see Krycek was growing erect, moving in on him like a hungry animal. It was nothing short of a catastrophic nightmare.

"A long time since I've seen anything to match that for size..."

"I said stay where you are, Krycek!"

Kneeling down beside the bed, Krycek looked as if he was going to offer up a prayer of thanks. "Beautiful," he said.

"Look, you've got what you came for, now just get out of here!"

A pair of green eyes settled on his. They looked glazed and unfocussed. "How do you know?"

Skinner bristled with furious impatience. "How do I know what?"

"That I've got what I came for? Maybe my whole agenda's just turned around." Krycek's voice had softened, taking on an edge of huskiness that travelled down Skinner's body like a rough, probing tongue.

"To hell with your agenda! You just turn around and go!"

Krycek lay a hand gently on Skinner's stomach, with the kind of stroking motion he might have used on a frightened animal. Skinner jumped several inches in the air and cursed. "Those jangled nerves. This isn't going to hurt, you know. My God, how long is it since you had sex?"

"None of your damned business!" Skinner snarled through gritted teeth.

The stroke became a reassuring pat. "That long, eh? Well, don't worry, we'll put that right in no time at all."

"Oh no we—" The words developed into a groan. A loud, urgent groan that had no business coming from a cold fish. Krycek's mouth had enveloped him with an odd caring gentleness and a tongue was exploring his shape and texture and the length of his erection.

Skinner groaned again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised why he'd been so afraid of those early alien desires. The showers and the sticky warmth of army sleeping bags had all hinted at this—illicit, searing pleasure, lifting him so far above his previous experiences of sex that he could only look down and wonder what they'd been about. Skinner knew that he could never be the same again. No more cold fish. Only hot, salty fish. A ravenous, predatory fish that twisted and bucked and groaned and, with enormous satisfaction, made Krycek choke on the volume of his release.

While he watched Krycek cling on, swallowing what he could and letting the remainder trickle down his chin, Skinner finally understood why the rookie agent used to stare the way he did. He'd merely been responding to the longing stares of his superior officer, who should have known a lot better and owned up to what he was and the feelings that he had.

"Krycek—" Thick and replete, it hardly sounded like his own voice. His body didn't feel like his either, all the tension and fear drained away. And though Skinner was tied down to a bed, he tasted freedom for the first time in his life.

Krycek moved up the bed and pressed his lips to Skinner's impulsively before either of them could think about what was happening. From sheer force of habit, Skinner took immediate control of the kiss. He thrust his tongue hard against Krycek's, taking him bluntly, without finesse or gentleness, the way Skinner had always wanted to kiss. The way his wife had hated, pulling away from him whenever he'd attempted it.

The response he got from Krycek was very different. Instead of being pushed away, Skinner was clutched hard and fast, clung to as if he could make the difference between life and death. An odd vibration started up between them and Skinner realised that Krycek was moaning and trembling with need. A muscular body pressing down on him, a burning erection grinding insistently over his leg, Skinner found it wonderful and strange.

Tied as he was, there was little he could do to help Krycek but he could lift his thigh a little, press it up between the other man's legs for him to ride against. Krycek broke the kiss, gasping for air, and let out a groan of approval. He started jerking crazily over Skinner's thigh, his breath ragged and painful, until his body seemed to go into spasm and he was choking with sobs of pleasure. Skinner's thigh burned hot and wet. He buried his face in Krycek's neck and closed his eyes. The scent was very familiar. Taboo.

Krycek's sobs began to turn into something else, as if pain had replaced pleasure, a rawness exposed that he needed to keep covered. He still clung to Skinner but turned his face away, burying it deep in the pillow. Skinner ached to put his arms round Krycek. He lay under the hot warmth of Krycek's body, liquid trickling down his thigh, maintaining an uneasy silence, unsure of what to say. Waiting. As if there was anything else he could do. And after several minutes Krycek calmed and lay still, occasionally letting out a long ragged sigh.

Skinner must have drifted into sleep somehow, the warmth and intimacy taking their toll. He hadn't dreamt of violence. He'd dreamt of green eyes, long thick lashes, wicked lips and hot salty tears. He woke to sunshine and soft harbour noises, feeling cold and hungry. Inevitably Krycek had gone. When Skinner gave an experimental tug at the handcuffs, he discovered they were gone too.

He stared at the bed head where they'd been and wondered why he wanted them back.

It was almost one o'clock in the morning when he got through customs, too late to achieve much but a night's sleep.

Outside Moscow airport, a light falling of snow had settled in. There were only two taxis to choose from and one of them wouldn't start because of a frozen engine, so the choice was a simple one. Assistant Director Skinner requested a ride to the Nebresky Hotel, where he checked in and ordered a selection of sandwiches. The desk clerk was apologetic. At this hour of the night, there were no kitchen staff. In fact, he explained, he was lucky to have any kitchen staff at all, at any time of the day. Skinner didn't leave his valuables at the hotel desk. The security there looked as dismal as the prospect of being able to eat. Nobody asked for his gun. It was likely that no-one could afford bullets so that guns weren't much of a problem.

The hotel room overlooked the empty kitchens and a row of garbage bins. Skinner had requested a view of the river but he didn't care. He didn't care about not being able to eat either. He poured himself some of the scotch which he'd had the foresight to bring with him and loosened his tie. He stood watching the play of snowflakes in front of his window, savouring the moment as the start of his vacation. Ten days to do as he pleased.

Skinner had no particular plans in mind. If he was entertaining any hopes of repeating the previous vacation's experience, he didn't let them surface, feeling them only as a vague humming excitement at the back of his mind, an odd certainty that as long as he was on a passenger list to somewhere or other, Krycek would find him if he wanted to. Though Skinner had stayed on for his six day break in Hong Kong, he hadn't seen Krycek again. Occasionally he'd caught sight of black leather and urchin cut hair and given chase but there were always too many people around, too many mysterious doorways and hidden alleys.

Back in Washington, he'd told no-one that he'd seen Krycek. He told himself that it didn't matter, that it wasn't worth reporting and wished he could believe it. And he knew withholding information about Krycek had nothing to do with disclosure of photographs.

When his drink was finished, Skinner unpacked and took a shower. The water was tepid and dribbled intermittently. Before getting into bed, he put on a sweatshirt and boxers for warmth. Perhaps the heating system only worked during the day like the kitchen staff. He didn't care about being cold either because it would help him keep awake. He was determined that if he had a visit, he wouldn't be caught out like before.

Somewhere out in the city, he heard a clock chime two o'clock, muffled by snow. And then three o'clock. He missed four o'clock, dreaming about green eyes and snowflakes. He woke to the soft sound of a footstep on carpet, sensed someone close by, bending over him.

Skinner reached out, using a combat hold to pin his visitor to the floor. "Drop the gun, Krycek, or I'll break your arm."

"Fuck you, Skinner!"

"I said, drop it!" Skinner twisted a little harder. There was a howl of pain and Krycek let go of the gun. Skinner snatched it away and, keeping the hold in place, fumbled for the bedside light. With a little persuasion it came on, flickering uncertainly for a while so that the kneeling Krycek looked like a figure in a silent movie, and then switched off again. Skinner gave it a thump. It came back on obediently, without flickering.

"What do you want this time, Krycek? What agenda are you working to now?"

"I don't have any agenda!"

"Who sent you? Who are you working for?"

"Jesus, you sound just like Mulder!" He struggled against Skinner's hold. "You'll want to know if I killed your father next!"

"Just answer my question!"

"Which one! You've given me four!"

"Stop being a smart ass, answering any one of them would be nice!"Again, Skinner twisted harder.

Krycek's head was almost touching the floor. "Okay, okay! No-one sent me and I'm not working for anyone! I don't know what I want, I don't know what I'm doing here, it's dangerous and it's insane and I think I'm going nuts!"

"Sounds reasonable," Skinner said and let Krycek go, keeping the gun aimed at chest level.

Krycek stood up angrily. He pulled off the heavy coat he was wearing and threw it over an armchair. He rubbed his wrist, staring over at Skinner accusingly. "You didn't have to be so rough," he complained.

He looked fitter than he had in Hong Kong. A shorter, crisper haircut had replaced the urchin style, making his eyes seem larger, the lashes even longer. Black leather pants clung to his legs. Skinner presumed they were worn more for warmth than effect because an ill-fitting sweater completed the picture, several sizes too large for him, the kind a well meaning aunt might send at Christmas time.

The lamp started flickering again and Skinner gave it another encouraging thump.

Krycek sniggered. "Nothing in this fucking country works properly."

"The kitchen staff don't, that's for sure." Skinner leaned back on the bedhead, maintaining a casual aim, drinking in the sight of Krycek. Heat flooded his groin. Hot, hot fish. He'd waited over 6 months for this. "I've had to go without dinner."

A look of concern clouded Krycek's features for a moment. He stopped rubbing his wrist. "You haven't eaten?" Then he checked himself and sniffed dismissively. "Why should I care?"

"No reason. Just thought I'd mention it." Skinner shifted position. "What the hell are you doing in Russia, Krycek?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I'm on leave."

Krycek glanced briefly round the room. "Not that tired old chestnut again. Why would you bring a gun with you on leave? This time you're really going to carry it through, aren't you?"

Skinner sighed. "Not that tired old chestnut again. You haven't answered my question."

"I don't intend to."

"I see. Been reading any good flight lists lately?"

Krycek coloured briefly. "Fuck you, Skinner."

"No." Skinner sat up, hardening his gaze, devouring Krycek with his eyes. "Fuck you. And it's going to be a real pleasure."

Krycek's mouth opened in surprise.

Skinner levelled his aim. "Take off your sweater."

Krycek hesitated. Then he broke into a slow sneering smile. This time, shooting him wasn't the first thing to come to Skinner's mind.

"I still have those photographs. I don't think you're in a position to—"

"And I have the gun. Shut up and do as you're told."

The sneer faded, replaced by an insolent shrug. Slowly Krycek pulled the sweater over his head. Underneath he wore another, closer knit, more fashionable.

"Jesus, boy, how many of those damn things are you wearing?"

"I feel the cold. Okay?" Krycek removed the other testily, chucking it across the room. There was yet another layer, this time a serviceable white t-shirt.

Skinner pulled back the sheets and climbed out of bed. "How can you be a Russian who feels the cold? It's tantamount to being an anteater who hates ants."

"You're so damn funny," Krycek snapped. "Hold on a minute while I split my sides."

"Off with the vest. And boots and socks."

Again Krycek hesitated. Skinner wondered why. The reluctance was unlikely to come from a sense of modesty. Skinner was ashamed to find himself wishing that fear might play a part in it somewhere. A fear, similar to his own, at being made to give everything up. Finally, Krycek stripped down to his leather pants.

Watching Krycek half naked and vulnerable, shivering slightly in the cold room, Skinner felt as crazed as if he was on a massive trip. He moved nearer, near enough to touch. Krycek's eyes widened as Skinner put out a hand and ran it lightly over the front of his leather pants. Soft animal skin. Worn and creased in the right places but expensive. Possibly a present from an admirer.

"What did you do to earn these?" His eyes burned into Krycek's.

"How do you mean?"

"Doesn't matter." And it didn't. It was unlikely that he'd ever know Krycek well enough to get the answer and Skinner could weave an intricate fantasy around the question to keep warm on a lonely night.

He closed his fingers around the bulge behind the leather and squeezed. Krycek gasped and closed his eyes briefly. Nice. Skinner repeated the action. A soft moan. Even better.

"Say, 'I want you'," Skinner ordered.

"You've been watching too many reruns of Blade Runner. What do you think I am, a damn android?"

"Say it."

Krycek swallowed. Skinner increased the pressure of his hand.

"I want you." It was more of a moan than a statement.

Clamping his mouth over the other man's, Skinner took possession hungrily, using his tongue like a weapon with obscene penetrating strokes. Krycek melted against him, merging chest to chest, hip against hip, and gave as good as he got. Skinner carried on relentlessly until they had to break for air. Breathless, eyes unfocussed, Krycek looked like a man who was dangerously lost and needed a compass. Turning him around, Skinner ran his hands along Krycek's thighs, drawing him in so that they were pressed together, Skinner's erection throbbing purposefully against the pert behind.

Taking his time, he explored the body he hadn't been able to touch before, squeezing hard nipples, running fingernails across skin, making a deliciously sensual meal out of undoing the zip, letting Krycek's erection thrust out, teasing it, touching all around, making Krycek wait for it.

"Bastard..." Krycek moaned, laying his head back on Skinner's shoulder in a gesture of surrender, grinding his hips voluptuously so that he was in effect massaging Skinner's erection, goading him on. Skinner bit Krycek's earlobe, forced his tongue inside and then whispered, "Over the armchair." He dug the gun into Krycek's ribs.

Krycek broke away, breathlessly outraged. "What?" he snapped.

"You heard what I said. Lie over the arms. Butt in the air."

Krycek gave Skinner an appraising glare. "You know, I've met men like you before. Mostly heterosexual. They find—they find it hard to come to terms with their dirty little desires. So they make them into some kind of power thing."

"Thanks for the psychological profile." Krycek was probably right. Certainly Skinner hardly recognised himself. He hadn't needed control over Sharon, or any other lover. Not like this. Lust was burning him up, like a virulent disease. "But I think you're enjoying this as much as I am." Skinner threw the gun down on the bed so that it was equidistant from them both." Prove me wrong. If I'm doing something you don't want, get your gun back. Claim your power back."

Krycek glanced quickly from the gun to Skinner. "I don't stand a chance," he complained. "You'd beat me in a fight any day."

Skinner shrugged. "It'd be worth trying, wouldn't it? If you really didn't want this." He watched Krycek carefully. The fact that they wanted each other was painfully obvious but a little face saving might be required along the way.

Krycek settled for his usual litany of "Fuck you, Skinner" and with bad grace, threw his clothes from the armchair onto the floor. He pulled his leather pants halfway down his thighs and lay himself over the armchair, buttocks high in the air. The sight alone was almost enough to bring Skinner to orgasm.

The armchair was a tall, old fashioned affair and Krycek was arranged at a near perfect height for penetration. Skinner took a tube of lubricant from his suitcase and reenacted the past months' fantasies, using it as foreplay, working his fingers in deeply, taking up an exploratory rhythm.

"Oh yes!" Krycek was almost gurgling with pleasure, his body arching up in delight.

"You like that?"

"Do it some more."

Skinner drove deeper and harder, excited by the novelty of being encouraged. He couldn't remember the last time Sharon had done so, wondered distantly whether she ever had.

"Ah, Skinner, that's so damn sexy!" Krycek was clinging onto the chair, gasping, knuckles white. He was joyously responsive. Skinner felt his erection curve and buck inside his boxers with anticipation. Impossible to wait any longer, to even take the time to remove his clothes. He arranged himself at Krycek's muscled entrance and pushed gingerly.

Krycek took him by surprise, lifting his body to meet Skinner halfway, impaling himself greedily with a loud groan of hunger. Lost in a heaven of heat and tightness, Skinner plunged into Krycek blindly. With punishing thrusts, grunting in pleasure, he drove into Krycek over and over again until they were slick with one another's sweat. The armchair creaked and complained under their combined weight.

It was a full-scale rut, no finesse or romance, a grinding, sweating tour de force of need, the wildest kind of wrestling match imaginable. This was what Skinner had dreamed about—someone who would meet him thrust for thrust, who could take as hard as he could give, who'd respond as happily to bites and bruises as he would kisses. This was the answer he'd give to his ghosts, those memories of clean living, wholesome young soldiers who might demand to know why he'd chosen such an unsatisfactory example of manhood. How could he have shared this with them and tainted them with his needs? And Sharon, who'd only wanted romance and sweetness, how could he have shocked her with demands like these?

It was Krycek who came first, his body suddenly spectacularly rigid, stifling screams into the arm of the chair.

"Jesus Christ!" Clamped by Krycek's muscles, orgasm hit Skinner harder than he'd experienced before, more intense than in his craziest fantasies. He spasmed copiously, groaning with the bliss of uninhibited release, the freedom of vocalising his ecstasy.

He was only vaguely aware that Krycek was sobbing out something in Russian, too lost in the intensity of his own experience. Finally, it came home to Skinner that the body under him was trembling furiously.

"Are you okay?"

"This damn chair," Krycek muttered shakily. "I think I've broken one of my ribs on it."

Skinner got to his feet, standing uncertainly on legs that shook, and helped Krycek off the chair. The other man pulled away from him and walked unsteadily into the bathroom. Leaning on the armchair, Skinner steadied himself and waited. He heard the sound of splashing water and then a silence that was both eloquent and ominous. He discovered Krycek leaning on the washbasin, staring gloomily at his own reflection, face dripping with water. Skinner stood beside him, addressing his reflection.

"What's up? Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"You didn't like the power thing?"

Krycek sniffed. "The power thing was fine."

"What then?"

A smile twisted one corner of Krycek's mouth but didn't extend to the other. "This is a little inconvenient for me, you understand. I mean, this is twice in six months. I can't afford to become so heavily involved with anyone."

Skinner sighed impatiently. "Cut the crap, Krycek, and tell me what's wrong."

More silence. Outside, ghosts of snowflakes tapped on the bathroom window and melted against the dark pane. Insubstantial as fantasy. Skinner felt more like a father than lover. He was back home, trying to understand how he'd upset his daughter. Again. "Well, I don't know about you but I'm getting cold. I'm going back to bed."

"Sure. You go ahead." Krycek hung his head down, staring into the depths of the sink. He could have been contemplating suicide or checking on the efficiency of the room cleaner.

Baffled and uncertain, Skinner moved to the door, gripped the handle and stopped. "Look," he said, "I'm going to be in Russia for 10 days. My first visit. It'd be nice to have a guide. Maybe you could show me around, maybe you have other things to do. I leave it to you."

He went back to bed and considered the irony of finding that Krycek—so deeply flawed in all other aspects of life—was the perfect lover. It was hilarious, a real comedy of errors. Where did he go from here, when what he wanted was in the next door bathroom, possibly deep in some unimaginable Russian introspection, or perhaps plotting the moves for his next assassination. And the target could of course be a Bureau VIP.

But if it was possible to take a leap of imagination, how might things look to Krycek? Not perhaps so very easy either. Awkward to discover a taste for such high flying respectability, a pillar of the law enforcement establishment. A dangerous, uncomfortable secret that would have to be kept from both friends and enemies.

Now there was a thought—did Krycek have any friends, in the true sense of the word? Or did he live for his work and whatever it was that he believed in? Like Skinner himself.

He could have been looking at pieces of an unsolved puzzle. Potentially everything fitted into place but loose in the box they were jangled and inharmonious.

Wary and catlike, Krycek moved back into the room, his hair sticking up here and there in damp unruly clumps. He glanced across at Skinner with a measuring, feline look, uncertain of his territory. He pulled off the leather pants and climbed into bed, shivering with cold. They lay apart, not touching, two jangled pieces.

"We..." Krycek's voice caught. He cleared his throat and began again. "We'd have to keep to the countryside. Too risky in towns and cities." The risk wasn't specified and neither did Krycek suggest which one of them it applied to.

"Fine by me," Skinner agreed.

"There's Kizhi island. If it's your first visit, you should see that. The Church of the Resurrection of Lazurus is there. That's the oldest building in Russia. And I could show you around Pavolvsk and Yasnaya Polyana. They're beautiful this time of year."

"Sounds good," Skinner said. "When do we start?"

"After you've had some breakfast. If you left now, it'd look suspicious. Just act like a regular tourist."

"I am a regular tourist."

"Yeah." There was a note of ambivalence in the word, as if making even a straightforward affirmation wasn't possible for him. Was this how he lived all the time? Just act like a regular FBI agent. Just act like a partner and friend. Like an entrepreneur living in Hong Kong. Like a lover...

Krycek moved closer, a block of ice against Skinner's warm skin. "Jesus, you're cold." He drew the shivering body close and was rewarded with an arm on his stomach that was so cold it took his breath away.

The conversation, it seemed, was over. The little that could be settled between them was settled and the silence they shared was not without comfort. Krycek's head lay on Skinner's chest in an attitude of trust and intimacy. This time, there was no aroma of Taboo about him. He smelt of sex and dried sweat and his own particular brand of musk.

A smell as damn near perfect as made no difference.

If Skinner damped down the promptings of his conscience, he could admit to a feeling of happiness. He closed his eyes, listened to the clock chime six o'clock and the snow tap against the window.

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