Part One

The house wasn't what he expected it to be.

Not that he had expected anything specific. It was...just a house. Not particularly large. Probably a simple living room, kitchen-dining area downstairs, two maybe three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.

A plain white wooden structure with a covered porch that ran the front and one of the sides. The side that faced the cemetery.

He took a moment to appreciate the irony in that view.

The street was one that could be found in any small town. Utilitarian construction that probably dated from just after the war—World War Two, that was—to house returning soldiers. Built so that the houses on one side of the street faced the yards of the other, extending the notion of privacy. Over the years, people had added to them, planted trees that now canopied the area, gardens that showed particular care and which added colour to the neighbourhood.

To this dead-end street and its last house next to the final resting place of so many of the town's inhabitants.

Walter S. Skinner sat back in his car seat and let the atmosphere of the area waft over him. It was pleasant, friendly, unobtrusive. Back in D.C., the weather was barely cooler than it had been all summer, though the calendar said September. Here, the leaves were already turning colour.

Just what the hell was he doing here? Why did he have this overwhelming need to close this particular chapter in his life? Were the questions he thought he needed answered really so important? He stared at the front door, wondering how he would react if it suddenly opened. Would he scrunch down in his seat, hoping he wouldn't be spotted?

He snorted. Fat chance of that happening, he mocked himself. He'd been brought up in a small town similar to this one, as all small towns are similar. The curtains in the front windows didn't need to twitch to tell him he was under observation.

After some minutes, he got out of his car, walked up the pathway and up the four steps that took him to the glass-paneled front door. Before he rang the doorbell, he looked around to see what kind of security might have been set up. Either it was camouflaged well, or there was none. Skinner doubted the latter.

He pressed the black button, heard the buzzer and waited.

Nothing.

He pressed it again. A little longer this time.

The steady footsteps told him that he had finally caught someone's attention. He glanced quickly around once more to see if he could find the camera eye he was certain was on him. With miniaturization, it could well be the fly that was caught in the spider web at the corner of the doorjamb.

The door opened smoothly.

Alex Krycek looked neither surprised nor worried at finding Skinner on his doorstep, thereby confirming Skinner's suspicions about the camera. What Krycek also wasn't was particularly welcoming.

"What do you want, Skinner?"

Skinner took his time looking over the ex-assassin. He was wearing a dark charcoal cotton sweater with jeans, black boots. His hair was longer than it had been the last time Skinner had seen him, in Mulder's hospital room. The face less tense. The eyes...amused?

"Let me guess. You're the new Avon lady."

The humour took Skinner by surprise so he responded, stonefaced, with a raised eyebrow.

If anything, the eyes grew more amused. With a sigh that let him know Krycek wasn't even going to challenge his appearance, the man stepped back and indicated—with a side gesture of his head — that Skinner should come in.

The door closed behind him as Skinner stepped into a hallway of bathed gold. The floor, walls, and staircase to the second level were all of oak. A beautifully burnished golden oak lit by the sunlight coming from the back of the house.

To the left, through the wide open archway, Skinner spied the living room. Walls a cool white, the better to display the large colourful artwork that adorned its space. He craned his neck a little and saw an extra-long couch, upholstered in bronze leather. It faced a mantled, brown-brick fireplace.

Krycek stepped around Skinner and led the way to the back of the house. The entire back of the house was kitchen. More oak here as well, in the floor, in the table and chairs. The kitchen cabinets were glass-doored and the appliances were stainless steel.

Krycek gestured to a chair as he set about making coffee. "You timed this well. I usually stop for coffee about now."

The kitchen wall that faced the cemetery was windowed. Skinner counted five maples that shaded the property line. One window faced the back yard—which was surprisingly deep—and the small creek that Skinner had driven over twice on his way to this house.

Skinner looked at his host. "From the outside, the house looks like nothing special."

Krycek dipped his head in recognition of the compliment. "Can't take much credit for the inside. The man who used to own the house did most of the work years ago. He taught at the high school. Latin, Classical History."

"I didn't know they still taught those," Skinner pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat down. He found Krycek's 'friendly' manner a bit bewildering, considering who the man was.

"They don't. Talmadge was 92 when he died."

"I have a cousin who lives near here," said Skinner, trying for the same nonchalant tone. "I wonder if she had him as a teacher?"

Krycek shrugged. "You still take your coffee black?"

Skinner was surprised that Krycek remembered. He nodded. Krycek opened a cupboard, took down two large mugs, filled each and brought Skinner's over. He took his own and pulled out a chair facing his visitor.

They sipped in silence.

Skinner sent an appreciative look at the contents of his mug. Top quality coffee, well made. Nothing like the urns-full of what passed for the stuff back at the Hoover Building.

The problem with good coffee was that it mellowed him. And he really didn't want to feel mellow in Krycek's presence. What he wanted were answers. Looking at Krycek whose eyes were fixed coolly on him, their expression unreadable, Skinner knew that the chances of Krycek supplying them were pretty remote.

"I would have thought that you'd be living on a crag somewhere."

"Or in an armed fortress?"

Skinner was taken aback by the tease in Krycek's voice.

Krycek shook his head. "Hiding in plain sight, Skinner. Who'd think of looking for me here?"

"I did." Krycek's less than serious responses to him were beginning to irritate Skinner.

Krycek smiled. "Took you three years."

"Mulder's Lone Gunmen found you two years ago." And had the pleasure of seeing that mocking gleam leave those eyes. But only for a moment, and then it was back.

"So what took you so long?"

Skinner allowed his voice to mock. "There were more important things to deal with first."

Krycek nodded. "I'm your retirement gift. It's been what? Four months?"

"How..."

That barely hidden smile was back. "Mulder's Gunmen." Then it was no longer hidden, if a little rueful. "Guess the boys like playing both sides."

That, thought Skinner, was what came from doing business with nut-cases! "I'm surprised they 'play' with you at all."

"I send them some work now and then. In return, they do little jobs for me."

Skinner's mouth tightened. "Did you know I was coming today?"

Krycek set the mug down on the table. "Today? No, not today. But I figured that sooner or later you might show up."

"And you're still here?"

Krycek shrugged. "There comes a time when the running has to stop, Skinner. Besides, what are you going to do to me? Arrest me? There are no outstanding warrants of any kind with my name—any of my names—on them."

Skinner already knew that. Now he wondered if that was some of the work the Gunmen had done for Krycek.

"I know you'd like to beat the shit out of me."

Skinner found the casualness of that comment annoying.

Krycek seemed to know what Skinner was thinking: that mouth of his twitched as though trying to force back a smile. "Back then, if you'd tried, I would have gotten up and returned the favour. But now? What would it accomplish? I doubt that it would give you a sense of satisfaction."

Skinner made a small snorting sound. Krycek was less successful in keeping back the smile.

"Well, okay, it might. But it wouldn't accomplish anything. It wouldn't give you answers." Krycek suddenly turned serious. "Cause that's what you're looking for, isn't it, Skinner? Answers?"

Skinner placed his mug on the table. "What's wrong with answers, Krycek?"

Krycek shrugged. "Nothing. Except that I doubt you haven't worked out most of those for yourself. You're just looking for confirmation. Frankly, what use would that be?"

Krycek looked directly at Skinner, eyes assessing his reactions.

"No matter what I say to you, the facts remain the same. I betrayed you. I beat you up. I killed you. I used the nanos to control you. I had my reasons. No matter what they were, knowing them isn't going to change anything."

Krycek stood up, went to get the coffee pot. He refilled both their mugs and took his place again.

"No excuses? No explanations?" Skinner challenged. "No chance at redeeming yourself?"

Krycek snorted. "Get real, Skinner. It was war. I was an inside man. Unlike the antihero of Hollywood movies, of romantic fiction, I was dirty. I killed. I cheated. I used people. I destroyed people. Some of them were good people but that didn't stop me. Only two things mattered to me. Winning and surviving. I did both."

"No matter the body count?" Skinner couldn't hold back his bitterness.

"No matter the body count."

"Did you enjoy all that?"

"All what? The killing, the cheating, the destroying?" Krycek took a mouthful of coffee, giving it serious thought. "Yeah. I did. Mainly because it meant that I was playing the game better than they were. Because I made it."

"And they didn't."

Krycek shrugged again. "Not my problem. It was up to them to either play—and play well—or get the hell out of the way. The only thing that happens to people who fence sit is that they make great targets.

"Besides," Krycek's voice challenged, "what's your problem, Skinner? You too survived when others didn't."

Skinner felt his face grow even colder.

Krycek slouched back in his chair, stretched his legs out, crossed one booted foot over the other. "So, let me guess. You'd like to kill me."

Skinner placed his mug carefully on the table top. He kept his voice neutral. It would not do to lose control of himself, not with this man. "Let me guess. You're armed."

Krycek nodded.

Skinner leaned over to the left, reached—very slowly—for his weapon, his eyes never leaving Krycek's. Carefully he placed the Glock on the table, butt pointing toward Krycek. "Well, I'm not."

Krycek cocked an eyebrow. "So, why are you here?"

Skinner settled back in his chair, struck a pose similar to Krycek's. He smiled. It was not a warm smile. Krycek recognized it and went on internal alert.

"You're right about one thing. You do owe me. For the killing if nothing else."

"So?"

"So, to even things up, I want one thing from you." Skinner's smile grew. He could see the killer in Krycek preparing.

"I want to fuck you."

And had the supreme pleasure of knowing that he had taken Alex Krycek by surprise.

"You want to..."

"To fuck you." Skinner crossed his arms over his chest, feeling something tight loosen in his gut. He had no idea where that plan had come from. He'd certainly not come here with it in mind, but once he'd heard himself say it, it sounded pretty good to him. And now he was enjoying himself. "Come on, Krycek, you can't tell me you've never been fucked by a man. That's too useful a tool and you've just told me you did anything to survive."

"Yeah, but that's me. You're as straight-laced as any Puritan."

Skinner snorted. "You're thinking of me as an AD, not as an eighteen year old kid out of the jungles of Vietnam and into a little Saigon R&R. Far from home. No neighbours to report to the family what little Wally's been up to, where he's been sticking his dick."

He could tell that was a new idea for Krycek, that he was quickly analyzing the information from all possible sides. Skinner decided to add to the download.

"Then there's the fact that your ass has always appealed to me. From the first time I saw it."

"From the first time?" Krycek looked as though he didn't believe any of this.

Skinner nodded. "At Quantico. I was heading to the gym to meet with one of the instructors who was involved along with me in a community project, giving boxing lessons to 'troubled youth'. I came around the corner by the water fountain and saw this ass, dressed in the usual gym shorts that Quantico provides. Except that since the owner of said ass was bent over to drink, those shorts were very nicely filled out. Then someone called out 'Krycek!' and that great ass walked away. Imagine my surprise when I saw that ass making its way down the halls of Headquarters. Pity you hid it in those god-awful suits."

For some reason, Krycek found himself believing Skinner.

"Even after you betrayed us, I often had fantasies about your ass. Mainly about what I was going to do to it when I got my hands on it."

"Kick it to hell?" offered Krycek, subtly less tense than a minute ago.

Skinner smiled, eyes looking at a picture only he could see. "Among other things." He gave a little nod.

"But now you want to fuck it?"

Skinner looked Krycek straight in the eyes. "Yes. Why not?"

"And then we'll be even?"

Krycek's tone made it obvious to Skinner that Krycek thought he wasn't being serious. So he sipped his coffee, giving himself time to ask himself if it would be enough. His cock twitched, answering that for him.

He nodded.

"Your word on that?" Krycek sounded slightly incredulous.

Skinner's smile warmed a degree or two. "Yes. My word on that. As a Marine. Is that going to be enough for you?"

Krycek rose, picked up the mugs, placed them in the sink. "You're not me, Skinner. If you give your word—especially as a Marine—you'll stand by it." He turned, rested a hip against the counter. "Okay. On two conditions."

"You're making conditions?" Shit! This was his game, not Krycek's. Still, Skinner was curious. "What are they and maybe I'll consider them."

"One: that you use lube and condoms."

"That," said Skinner, a little coldly, "goes without saying."

Krycek nodded. "Yes, well. Best to know where we stand before we begin. Which brings up the second condition. Is there a time limit on this fuck of yours?"

Skinner shrugged. "I have to be back in D.C. tomorrow afternoon. So, let's say between now and dawn tomorrow morning."

Krycek's eyebrows rose. "Why so much time? It's only a fuck."

"Depends on your definition of a fuck, Krycek." Skinner found himself really enjoying this little conversation.

Krycek's eyes hardened. "Then I guess I need to know your definition."

Skinner stood up, went over to the man who had once killed him. "I'll know that you've been well and truly fucked when you beg me for it."

Krycek looked stunned then, slowly, he began laughing. "Oh, god! Skinner! I can't remember the last time I begged to be fucked!"

Walter Skinner raised both eyebrows over the top of his glasses. "Well, then, this should prove interesting, for both of us."

Skinner followed that ass up the stairs. In spite of the passage of time, it was still a good ass. Maybe not quite as great as it had been a decade ago, but something he still wanted to get his hands on.

Now the face, thought Skinner, was better than it had been then. Back when Krycek had played at being a new agent, it had been too beautiful, too feminine. Too baby. Now the face had matured through some rough years. It had character. It still had a beauty to it—couldn't be helped with that bone structure— but it had an interesting quality to it as well.

The second floor had a hallway down the middle, with the staircase at one end, a window for light at the other. The two bedrooms ran the length of the house rather than the width as did the rooms on the first level. It made Skinner wonder if there hadn't been walls removed at some time to make all the rooms in the house larger.

The smaller room on the right had been converted to an office. Skinner spied at least three computers, walls filled with shelving, packed tight with books.

The bathroom was almost as large as the office. Skinner decided that someone, probably Krycek, had had the bathroom enlarged for the modern shower stall but keeping the deep claw-footed tub. Krycek rummaged around in the linen closet for a box of condoms, a bath towel, a couple of small hand towels. He pulled out a bath sheet, laid it on the counter, obviously for Skinner's use.

The perfect host, thought Skinner but said nothing, only following Krycek into the bedroom that took up one entire side of the house.

The room was a cool green, with a lovely Aubusson carpet in shades of pale to dark green. Skinner looked around, grinning.

"The only thing that's new in this room is the mattress," said Krycek, knowing what Skinner was thinking. "Talmadge's wife liked green. She died fifteen years before he did. He kept the room as she had decorated it."

"And you're continuing that tradition?"

Krycek shrugged. "No reason to change. Besides, I'm not much into decorating. Most of the places I've stayed in before were grey. This is nicer."

Then he went to the night table, pushed aside a book and dropped the pile of necessities on the top. He opened the small drawer, pulled out a fairly new bottle of lube, dropped it next to the condoms. Without saying anything more, he folded back the forest green bedspread, pulled it off the bed and dropped it onto the green leather chair near the foot of the bed. The blanket was also a dark green, the sheets white.

As Krycek prepared the bed, folding the top bedclothes out of the way, Skinner walked around the room, wondering why Krycek had agreed to play this game.

There was a set of French doors at the far side of the room that opened onto a small porch. The view of the cemetery was strangely appealing, thought Skinner. Not at all creepy or off-putting.

"How do you want me?"

Skinner shut the doors, turned to see Krycek, hand clutching the hem of his sweater, about to remove it. "Stop that."

Krycek hesitated, then obeyed. "Okay. It's your show, Skinner."

Skinner left Krycek standing there, hands by his sides while he took his time taking off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Eyes on the man waiting for him, he removed his tie, placed it neatly on the chair, began to unbutton his shirt.

Krycek said nothing when Skinner came over to him. With the back of a finger, he traced Krycek's jaw line, using it to tilt up the chin. Cocking his head to one side then to the other, Skinner made a production of examining Krycek's face.

"What is it that Mulder always called you?"

"Mulder? Rat. He called me Rat-Bastard."

Skinner nodded slightly, as though thinking that over. The eyes which looked so much greener in this room were patient for his next move. Whatever game he was going to play, he would have to be careful. The Rat was still alive while so many others who had also played were dead. A tribute to the Rat's skill.

Skinner let go of the face, dropped his hands down to Krycek's fly. Their eyes never lost contact as Skinner undid the button, lowered the zipper, slipped his hand into the pocket to feel around, pull out Krycek's cock. It was warm, filled his hand. He squeezed, gave a bit of a pull, released until he felt the first twitch, the first hardening. With a hint of a smile, Skinner used both hands to shove Krycek's jeans and shorts down to below his hips. Reaching for the lube, he spread some on his hands and went back to work on Krycek's cock.

It was a contest, Skinner found himself concluding. Yes, with careful manipulation, Krycek was erect but, apart from breathing through his partially-opened mouth, there had been no change in his face. It was, thought Skinner, as though mind and body were two separate entities.

This would, he realized, be more of a challenge than he'd thought.

If he got Krycek to beg, it would have to be because he played the game better than the Rat. That success would, he decided, make up for a hell of a lot.

It was hard for a man to come with his eyes open. Krycek managed it, barely. Apart from that and a quickening breath, there was no other response to the come that spotted both their clothes.

"I take it," said Krycek, voice as calm as it had been in the kitchen, "that this is part of the preliminaries."

Skinner looked at the lines of come on his hand and smiled. He reached over to the night table and snagged one of the hand towels. "Well, I didn't fuck you, so it must be." He looked down at himself, mouth tight at the sight of the other man's come on his pants. He was about to say something about dry cleaning when he noticed that Krycek, who should have looked foolish with his jeans partially down and his cock hanging out, instead looked almost erotic.

Hobbled by his jeans, the uncut head of his cock peering from the hem of his sweater, his eyes darker, mouth still slightly open, Krycek exuded sex. Skinner's cock twitched in appreciation. It wasn't just the ass that was good.

And with that, Skinner realized Krycek had noticed his reaction and the light of battle appeared in those watchful eyes.

No way! he thought.

He moved quickly to counter the slight loss of footing. Taking the hem of the sweater in both hands, he pulled it up and over, tossing it to the chair.

The last time he had seen Krycek's torso, at the drinking fountain, it had been smooth and scarless. At the instructor's shout, Krycek had quickly covered it with the sodden t-shirt he had been using to wipe the fountain water off his face.

Now, besides the marks worn into his skin by the harness for the prosthesis, there were other signs that the Rat had escaped his fate only by the skin of his teeth. There was a long scar that decorated the left side along the ribs. A pockmark that had to be the result of a bullet wound marred the fleshy part of the right arm. The knobs on the collar-bones indicated at least a couple of fractures. There was a neat incision where the spleen would have been removed and several other thin, raised lines that were definitely not surgical in nature.

Skinner got his first real response from Krycek when he went to remove the harness. A start, then Krycek's hand coming up to grip his wrist. Krycek didn't try to pull Skinner's hand away but neither did he allow Skinner to continue.

In the silent battle that followed, Skinner refused to give ground but also understood that Krycek needed time to get used to the idea that someone other than himself was going to remove the arm that had replaced his own. He patiently waited while Krycek fought that battle with himself.

When Krycek finally understood that Skinner would not give in on this, his eyes gradually accepted and he loosened, but did not release, his grip on Skinner's wrist. Skinner made certain that his face did not show his sense of victory: it was not the moment to gloat.

Krycek kept his hand on Skinner's wrist as he unfastened the harness, letting go only when Skinner had the arm in both of his, careful with it. A slight nod of Krycek's head told him that the arm went on the cleared top of the dresser.

The truncation of an arm was hard to ignore at the best of time. Skinner allowed that Krycek was sensitive about it. Hell, he remembered his fear when the doctors had talked about amputating both of his arms when the nanos had first struck. He'd often wondered what his life would have been like if Scully hadn't arrived in time to stop them.

He reached out to touch the stump only to have Krycek pull back slightly. Skinner met Krycek's stare. He could force the issue, but somehow, he didn't think it was a battle worth winning. He'd made his point.

Instead he placed both hands, palm open on Krycek's pecs. Slowly he moved them up to the shoulders and back down again, using the heel of his hands to stroke circles around the nipples. He repeated the gesture until the nipples hardened, then he bent his head and casually licked one. His reward was a barely audible gasp. Skinner looked at the other nipple and licked it as well. So, Krycek's body liked that, did it? He began a list of things he could use to help him win.

"I think," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as if he were conducting a department meeting, "it's time to move to the bed." He crouched and tapped Krycek's left leg. Krycek raised it, held himself steady as Skinner worked the short boot off, unsnapped the small ankle holster with its Beretta, dragged the clothes down. He did the same with the right leg, making no comment on the knife sheathed in the right boot.

The orderly side of Skinner insisted that he fold the jeans and sweater neatly before placing them on the chair, that he stow the boots under it, the gun and its holster on the dresser. He turned to find Krycek on the bed, bath towel under him, chest down, legs spread apart, ass high in the air. Condoms and lube were by his feet, ready for Skinner's use.

The ass, revised Skinner as he finished undressing, adding his clothes to the pile on the chair, his glasses next to the arm, was still great. A little fleshier than ten years ago, but it was obvious that the Rat had kept in shape. His cock twitched again, harder this time. And it was obvious that Krycek expected Skinner to fuck him now. It would be a pity, thought Skinner, to disappoint him.

He sat on the side of the bed, placed a hand on one of those lovely globes that he'd thought about for years and squeezed, tightly enough so that when he pulled his hand away, the skin where his fingers had dug in was white. Krycek made no sound. No protest. So Skinner did it again. Only to find that Krycek's passivity irritated him.

He knelt on the bed, made his way over, settling between Krycek's legs. He passed his hands over the man's ass, enjoying the feel of muscle under the smooth pale skin. Enjoying the reaction in his cock.

All right, so once he had had dreams about marking that lovely white skin. Now, as Krycek had said, what difference did the past make? All that mattered was that they had survived. Still, he did want something from the Rat. His ego demanded it.

As he passed his hands over more of that smooth skin, stroking the open thighs, he realized, looking the body over, that Krycek was relatively hairless for a man. Especially compared with himself.

"Mind you," he said aloud, "you have a hell of a lot more hair on your head."

Krycek lifted his head, looked over his shoulder. Not at all taken aback by the comment, he quirked an eyebrow. "I thought all that baldness meant more testosterone."

Skinner snorted as his hands slipped to between Krycek's legs, the tips of his fingers skimming the perineum, teasing his balls. Krycek made a small gasping sound. Ah, finally, something the Rat couldn't control. "Would the corollary of that be the more hair a man has on his head, the less of a sex drive?"

Krycek managed a shrug.

Skinner greased his hands once more and concentrated on Krycek's balls, slowing rolling them, lightly squeezing, playing with them. Krycek's breath became rougher. He spread his legs wider, allowing Skinner more room to play. His hips began rocking, only slightly at first.

"What's your sex drive like, Krycek?" Skinner jerked his hips forward so that his erection rested in the crack of Krycek's ass, rubbing against the sensitive skin as Krycek began rocking more and more.

"What do you really want to know, Skinner?"

Again the tone was so conversational that Skinner wondered if the small physical reactions weren't being acted.

"What I really want to know?" Skinner grabbed Krycek's hips, brought them closer to his aching cock. He leaned forward and rocked in counter time to Krycek's moves. "You get laid often, Krycek?"

Krycek lowered his forehead to his arm, arched his back to push harder against Skinner's cock, sighed loudly when Skinner's hands caught his cock, gasped when they found his balls again. "Been a while," he admitted.

"Yeah," Skinner pulled away, reached for the condoms, "been a while for me, too." Far too long. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd used more than his hand.

He slipped a greased finger into Krycek's hole, moved it around as Krycek rocked back again. With a smile, he pulled his finger out, added some more lube, carefully inserted two fingers this time. The rocking grew. So he added a third, keeping in mind Krycek's admission that it had been a while for him, carefully loosening Krycek up.

It did cross Skinner's mind from the little hip movement that Krycek had added to the rocking that the Rat was once more trying to take charge of the situation.

For a man seeking revenge, Skinner thoughtfully took his time entering Krycek. He even allowed him a few moments to get used to having Skinner's cock in his ass. He was big at rest: erect, he didn't lengthen much, but he did widen considerably. Krycek might have been a rat, but this wasn't about pain.

Krycek was the one who decided it was time to move on. He pulled sharply forward and then rolled his hips back. Skinner grinned through gritted teeth. That couldn't be counted as a "beg", but it sure as hell looked like an "ask" to him.

Still, the Rat couldn't be allowed to run the show. Hands solidly gripping hips, Skinner kept Krycek from moving. This fuck was for him, not the Rat. With first one knee then the other, Skinner pushed Krycek's legs further apart, making it easier for him to prevent Krycek from moving much, allowing him more control over the situation.

He began to regret having taken the edge off the man by making him come once already. It became a matter of pride that the Rat should come before the Marine. He shifted his hips, pulled almost out and then back in again at just the right angle. Krycek's gasp told him he'd hit the right spot.

Problem was, it had been a long time for him as well. And even if Krycek acted as though this was no great happening, the arousing smell of sex was permeating the room, at least around the bed. Skinner gritted his teeth. He was not going to come first! That's all there was to it!

Reaching down and under, Skinner took hold of Krycek's cock, doubled the speed of his thrusts. Mentally reciting the Book of Rules, he stroked away until he could tell that Krycek couldn't hold back any longer. With a couple of hip movements, some killing strokes, Skinner felt the anal muscles tighten on him, heard Krycek grunt and moan. Thank god! Only then did he allow himself the pleasure of release.

After he'd pulled out, Krycek bundled up the towel, tossed it to one side and collapsed on the bed. They lay side by side. Skinner caught his breath, removed the condom, knotted it and looked over the side of the bed for a waste basket. Found none so, after a moment's hesitation, shrugged and tossed it onto the towel.

Krycek stretched out his legs, rolled onto his left side, facing Skinner who lay on his back, arm over his eyes.

"I didn't beg for it."

Skinner thought before answering the words which should have been challenging, boastful. Instead, he listened to the tone: it was more of a comment tinged with, unless his ears deceived him, slight disappointment.

"That," said Skinner, "is the problem with all you youngsters."

Krycek scoffed.

Skinner continued. "Instant gratification. You want everything immediately. I wonder if you'll ever learn that slow and steady wins the race." He turned his head, uncovered his eyes. "I'm not done with you, Krycek. Just getting the lay of the land, so to speak. And you will beg."

Krycek smirked. "Promises, promises."

Skinner rolled over quickly, taking Krycek by surprise. He rested his weight on the man, holding Krycek's arm above his head. "I don't make promises easily, Krycek. But I do promise you this. You will beg."

He rolled off Krycek and the bed. "I need a shower. And I missed lunch. Is there some place that delivers around here?"

Krycek propped himself up on his stump. He looked bemused, thought Skinner.

"I've got some cold chicken. We can have sandwiches, if you like?"

He also liked, thought Skinner, the look he'd caught on Krycek's face after orgasm. As though he'd been slightly surprised. It was, Skinner pulled on the jeans that he found on the toilet seat lid, a look that he intended to use against the Rat.

The jeans were a little loose on him. Krycek was a size wider than he was at the hips and ass. He put on his shirt, but left it hanging open, went down to see if Krycek was putting poison in his sandwich.

"So what are you doing to keep out of trouble these days, Krycek?" Skinner took another mouthful of a sandwich filled with tender chicken, accented with a spicy honey mustard on what was obviously bakery bread. Besides having a great ass, making great coffee, it seemed Krycek could cook as well.

Krycek put down the beer he was drinking. "I'm surprised that you're asking. Haven't the Gunmen been keeping you up to date on my activities?"

Skinner shook his head. Around a mouthful of chicken, he mumbled, "All I was interested in was being able to find you if I wanted."

Krycek didn't bother asking why Skinner had thought now was that moment. Which was good as the only answer Skinner would have had for him was that he'd had this feeling.

"Translation. English to Russian, Polish, some of the other Slavic languages."

"There's money in that?"

Krycek smiled that half-smile of his. "Well, not much," he admitted. "But I do it more to keep busy than anything else."

"Ahh, feathered your nest, did you?"

Krycek shrugged, a lopsided motion as he hadn't put the arm back on. He was wearing a loose misshapen t-shirt whose sleeve effectively hid his stump. "Well, you know how it is when your bosses don't provide you with a pension plan. You have to take care of yourself."

He got up, went to the fridge, a massive stainless steel appliance. He opened one side and peered in. "I can offer you chocolate ice cream or raspberry gelato for dessert."

Skinner pushed his empty plate and beer to one side, sat back in his chair. "Come here."

Krycek looked over his shoulder. With a sigh and a raised eyebrow, he closed the door, went to stand beside Skinner.

There was, thought Skinner, something annoying about Krycek's behaviour. He followed orders far too readily. Skinner had already noted that mind and body seemed to be two separate entities. Well, he knew he could get the body to respond, but now he wanted the mind as well. It would be the only way he would win this game.

So he decided it was time to start fucking with Krycek's brain.

He pushed back his chair, tugged at Krycek's hips until the man leaned back against the edge of the table, between Skinner's legs. "I'm not much into sweets after a meal," he explained.

He lowered Krycek's jeans to find bare skin, that lovely long cock waiting for attention. He held it in his hand, took some time to examine it. It did twitch a little, but other than that, it lay there, waiting for whatever Skinner would decide to do to it.

Skinner looked up. Krycek was watching him as though only observing. That was going to change.

Skinner bent forward, took the covered glans in his mouth and gave it a little suck. Then he slipped his hand to lightly grip the root and went down, tasting first the skin, the slight salty flavour of a man's cock. Krycek, he noted, had also showered. There was not a trace of the taste of lube. So he sucked a little harder.

When he pulled back, the cock in his hand was filling out nicely. He looked up at Krycek who was watching him, eyelids half-dropped to hide his eyes, face now carefully blank.

Skinner shoved the chair back a little, free hand on Krycek's hip—some surprise at seeing the bruising on it: he was certain Krycek's skin had been unblemished—to hold them both steady, held the cock out of the way and slowly cat-licked the wrinkled scrotum. When he was satisfied that he had attended to every square millimetre—accompanied by slightly louder, sharper breaths from above his head, Skinner opened his mouth wide and slowly sucked in one of the egg-sized testes. Krycek's hips jerked once. The cock in hand reacted even more strongly.

Skinner chuckled to himself, went to work on the other testicle. And while his mouth concentrated on Krycek's balls, his thumb played with the head of his cock. He waited until he felt the body brace itself, the cock began leaking satiny pre-come.

And then he stopped.

He released his hold on both hip and cock, stood up. "You know, I think raspberry gelato sounds pretty good."

Krycek, he was very pleased to see, looked sex-stupid. Though, after a deep breath, a small shake of his head, the eyes unglazed and he watched Skinner fill a bowl.

"You want some?" offered Skinner.

"Prefer the chocolate."

Skinner nodded, went to get the ice cream, very pleased that Krycek had had to clear his throat before speaking.

Skinner brought the bowls to the table, placed them down. With a pleasant smile, he took Krycek's cock, tucked it into his jeans and carefully pulled up the zipper.

Krycek closed his eyes, gave a short sighing chortle and shook his head. "I suppose I'm not allowed to deal with this thing you've left me with?"

"That thing I've left you with, Krycek, is foreplay." Skinner sat back in his chair, crossed one ankle over a knee and took a mouthful of gelato. He examined the man who hadn't moved. "Looks good on you."

Krycek laughed—a bit ruefully, thought Skinner—and went back to his place to eat his ice cream.

"You going to keep on doing this to me?"

Skinner looked around from rinsing his bowl. "Why?"

"Well, I have a deadline on a translation. I was going to be working on that today."

Skinner turned around, rested a hip on the counter, crossed his arms over his chest. "How long?"

"Couple of hours."

Skinner nodded. "Sure. In your office?"

He knew Krycek was now expecting Skinner to do something to arouse him. Instead, Skinner browsed through the bookshelves, found a Shelby Foote he had read when Ken Burns had been filling the airways with his history of the Civil War. He made himself comfortable in the armchair by the window, turned on the floor lamp and read while Krycek worked on his translation.

The reason for the three computers soon became clear. One had a regular keyboard, another a Cyrillic. The third was linked to Krycek's security system. From the outside views that filled the monitor, Skinner realized that there was not an inch of the exterior of the house that could not be watched from this room. The Rat might have been hiding in the open, but he certainly didn't take chances.

At one point, Skinner set the book down and just watched Krycek as he worked. The face was fully concentrated on the Cyrillic screen in front of him as he typed surprisingly quickly with his one hand. Now and then, he would look over to the second screen, focus on it before returning to the first. Skinner did not doubt that any sudden move on his part and Krycek would be equally focused on him.

He waited until Krycek typed the last period, closed the Latinized screen, saved the Cyrillic document and efficiently sent it on its way. Only then did Skinner stand, going over to Krycek. He placed his hands on the man's shoulders and gently began to massage the muscles that had tensed at his touch.

"Bend your head."

Krycek didn't immediately comply. Skinner didn't insist. He merely widened the area of his attention to include the base of Krycek's neck. Only then he did follow instructions. Skinner smiled at the soft moan of pleasure as he hit the spot that always tensed up on him when he spent too much time at his computer.

"Are we moving this back into the bedroom?"

Skinner grinned. "You're doing that instant gratification thing again, Krycek."

Krycek moaned more loudly as Skinner worked on a tight spot in his right shoulder.

"That feel good?"

Krycek sighed.

Skinner suddenly realized that it would be hard for a man with only one hand to work out the kinks on that arm. He moved both hands to the right shoulder and upper arm.

"You do have a time limit, you know, Skinner. Isn't this just using it up?"

"There's more than enough time."

Krycek looked up. "You say that like you're sure you're going to win."

Skinner grinned. "Oh, that's because I am, Krycek. I am."

Krycek moved so that Skinner's hands weren't on him. He hit some keys on the third computer and the monitor showed a rotation of the house, then a view of the street, the areas to the back, sides of the house.

"Well, what do you want to do now?"

Skinner looked at his watch. "You got a TV somewhere?"

The living room was cool leather with an entertainment corner that made Skinner wonder if he could afford to replicate it.

The television was one of those flat screen Japanese things that hung from the wall: just another piece of modern art like the ones, all primary and jewel colours, that decorated the other walls. The cabinet under it held all the gizmos and gimmicks as well as an extensive video collection. The Rat, thought Skinner, had eclectic tastes. Another cabinet held the sound system, with the electronics for vinyl, cassette, CD.

Skinner nodded appreciatively. "Nice toys, Krycek."

Krycek shrugged. "I don't go out much. What do you want me to put on the set? I've got some porn, but..."

"Porn?" Skinner laughed. "Krycek, it's football season. Tune in your sports channel."

Skinner looked around the room as Krycek played with the controls. The room was painted a white with just enough grey in it to take the shine off the colour. The carpet was a medium grey, good for not having to worry about any dirt footwear might track in. The leather chairs were in bronze, oversized so that a tall man would be comfortable.

Skinner pushed the coffee table nearer to one end of the couch, went and got a couple of beers from the fridge. He rummaged in Krycek's cupboards and found a bag of pretzels, opened it and dumped the contents into a deep blue bowl.

"Make yourself at home."

Skinner grinned at the man who slouched in the doorway of the kitchen. He handed him the bowl, took the beer, and steered Krycek back into the living room.

Skinner made certain that beer and snacks were easily at hand, toed off his shoes, made himself comfortable, stretched out on the couch. "Remote?"

Krycek looked far more reluctant about handing over control of that than he had his body, but Skinner merely held his hand out until, with a grimace, Krycek handed it over. Before he had time to move away, Skinner also grabbed his hand. He tugged until Krycek was on the couch, back to Skinner's chest.

The game was good but it was obvious that football was not Krycek's sport of choice. Skinner used the times he wasn't watching the action to examine the man in his arms, to think about his reactions to the game they were playing.

Which weren't exactly what he had expected. He had guessed, when he'd made the crazy challenge, that if he took him up, Krycek would try to beat him at his own game. Instead, apart from the occasional reaction, Krycek stood still for pretty much whatever Skinner did to him. No protest, no demur. That first grope, Krycek had barely moved while Skinner had jerked him off. In the bedroom, Krycek had positioned himself immediately for penetration. Again, in the kitchen, he'd allowed Skinner to do whatever he wanted to him.

Why?

Could it be that Krycek was waiting to be punished?

Skinner rejected that immediately. Too Catholic, and he doubted that Krycek cared much about penance.

Whatever the reason, he was discovering he wanted more from this game.

He brought his hand up and began touching the head that rested on his shoulder. Krycek tensed slightly, then relaxed, even more slightly. What the hell was going through the Rat's mind? He wished he could read him better, but Krycek was an expert at hiding his thoughts. He would have to be, to survive all the sides he played so successfully.

So Skinner kept his eyes on the screen as his fingers carded hair, occasionally skimming across a rough cheek, stroking a tensed neck. Always gentle, never threatening. Krycek shifted, not pulling away from the touch, but as if uncomfortable with it.

Skinner muttered his opinion of the coach as his team played increasingly badly, noticing that Krycek no longer reached for the pretzels, nor drank his beer though the bottle was at least half-full. That he seemed less stiff as the game went on. As Skinner's hand steadily travelled over more territory.

The t-shirt Krycek wore was stretched at the neck. Skinner slipped his hand in, found a nipple and teased it hard with the tip of a finger. When his quarterback finally passed well, he used the flat of his hand to caress the entire upper chest, using the moment to pull Krycek closer to him.

It was, thought Skinner, actually quite pleasant to be sitting here, watching football, someone lying against him. It had been a while.

His mind skirted around the fact that the someone was a man and that the man was Alex Krycek.

By half time, when he nudged Krycek up so he could go to the bathroom, there was a definite bulge in the man's jeans. And an uneasy look in his eyes.

The second half of the game, Skinner made sure that he could use both hands on Krycek. One arm was draped across his chest, fingers teasing through the thin material, stroking the soft skin at the base of his neck. The other hand found its way under the shirt, fingers and palm lightly stroking the skin of Krycek's stomach until Skinner felt the muscles flutter, dipping under the loosened waistband to card through the rough pubes, careful to avoid the hardening cock.

Ignoring the bulge in his own jeans.

Skinner waited until the cheers of the victors to pull his hand out of Krycek's jeans, bring it up over his body to grasp his chin. He tilted Krycek's face up to him, the first time that evening they actually looked at each other. Then, Skinner bent and, teasing, kissed Krycek on the nose.

Not what Krycek was expecting.

He pulled himself out of Skinner's arms, off the couch and stood staring at the far wall.

Skinner made no comment, just waited—though he did wonder at what he considered to be an overreaction on Krycek's part.

Krycek finally turned his head enough so that Skinner could hear him clearly. "You want supper?"

Skinner began gathering the bottles, the bowl. "What were you going to have?"

Krycek shrugged that lopsided shrug of his. "I'm not really hungry."

"Then shall we move this back upstairs?"

Skinner expected Krycek to follow him into the kitchen but when he turned, he was alone. The sound of a door closing upstairs told him Krycek was in the bathroom, followed by the sounds of the shower being turned on.

Skinner wanted to smile at his small victory. Krycek had finally been less removed from his touch. He should have been pleased. Instead all he could think of was the look of hunger in Krycek's eyes as he had pulled away.

Skinner was waiting for Krycek when he came out of the bathroom, hair slicked back, droplets of water streaking down his shoulders, his back. He was naked, his cock softly hanging as if it hadn't been hard less than ten minutes ago.

Skinner himself was naked, propped up on the pile of pillows he had set up against the middle of the headboard. He patted the bed besides him.

Krycek hesitated, then sat. Slowly, he allowed himself to be gently tugged onto the bed and into Skinner's arms.

Skinner settled Krycek's cool, almost cold body against him, head on his shoulder. He only held him, his hand stroking soothing movements along the long back, until he felt Krycek warm up, slowly relaxing against him. He rested his cheek on the wet hair. Funny, when he'd thought of this 'revenge' of his, he never figured that he would find himself on a quiet autumn night, in bed with the man who had killed him, uneasy about his feelings.

The pain Krycek had inflicted on him had been physical. He'd recovered from it. That didn't mean that he didn't sometimes have nightmares of that time he had lain on a bed, his blood threatening to explode his veins. But he had recovered.

Krycek moved his head slightly, as though his cheek was settling on Skinner's shoulder.

Skinner looked down, not able to see the man's face. When the hell had the game changed on him? He had expected to have Krycek howling for release before he left this house. Now, he discovered he wanted to hear Krycek moan with pleasure. It crossed his mind to wonder, as he pressed his lips to that wet head, if Krycek only thought of sex as a tool to be used in the war they both had survived.

Not really understanding the reason why, not willing to go down that path, Skinner decided to move the game from the realm of challenge into that of seduction.

He tilted Krycek's face up to play on it with his mouth. From the small start, he knew he had taken Krycek by surprise. Again.

He took his time, passing his lips across skin, using his tongue to lick dry the thin line of water that still dripped from Krycek's hair across cheek and jaw. He waited until Krycek's lips parted before moving the action to Krycek's mouth.

Response was hesitant, as though Krycek wasn't certain what was expected of him. Skinner played in and around his mouth, learning the sweet tartness of the man. It was an appealing flavour, so Skinner stayed until Krycek's tongue finally woke and joined the play.

Despite the brief wariness in Krycek's manoeuvres, Skinner tried to remember the last time he had engaged in such an intense necking session. The one that came to mind dated back to Thompson Junior High and Cynthia Poole, the Queen of Necking.

While Krycek gasped for breath, Skinner moved his mouth down to attack Krycek's throat, the soft part of the underjaw. Which didn't do much for Krycek's breathing. Skinner had found another spot to add to his list.

He rolled Krycek over so that he lay on his back and focused his next attack on a nipple that, in his opinion, was crying out for attention. He sucked, lightly bit, teased the hard point. Krycek's chest jerked up. Yes, thought Skinner, that too was a success.

But when he went to move to the second nipple, Krycek got his arm under Skinner's chest and shoved, hard enough to force Skinner back. Upper body supported on his arms to either side of Krycek's body, Skinner looked down at the man caught under him.

"What's the matter, Krycek?"

Though still fighting to control his breathing, Krycek's face had gotten hard, his voice almost confrontational. "You said you were going to fuck me. This isn't fucking, Skinner."

Skinner let an eyebrow rise in mock surprise, felt the challenge rise in him again in response to Krycek's tone. "No? Then what is it?"

"Whatever it is," he bit out, "it isn't fucking. I agreed to let you fuck me, Skinner. Only fuck." Though Krycek sounded angry, his eyes wore more confusion than anger.

Skinner moved his body off Krycek, propped himself up on elbow, rested his head on his hand. Realizing he was losing something, but not sure what it was, he kept in contact with Krycek's body, rubbing small circles over Krycek's torso in a manner that he hoped would be soothing. "I don't know what your experience is, Krycek, but this is fucking."

Krycek shook his head. "What we did before was fucking."

"True, but this is fucking, too, Krycek. Maybe a bit more involved, but still fucking."

Krycek stared at the ceiling, avoiding Skinner's gaze. Skinner could tell the exact moment Krycek's decision was made; his eyes lost that puzzled look and went cold.

"All right. You win. I'm begging you to fuck me, like we did earlier." He turned his head, his voice as cold as his stare. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Me begging to be fucked? Well, you're got it." The blankness of the voice belied the words. "Please, Skinner, fuck me. Please, I want you to fuck me, please, please." The voice hardened. "Now fuck me and let's get this over." He turned, presenting his back to Skinner, began raising his hips.

Now angry himself, Skinner rolled forward so that he lay on top of the man. As Krycek tried to buck him off, Skinner grabbed Krycek's wrist, held it tightly against the pillow above his head. "My game, Krycek. I decide when you're begging. All you're giving me are the words. I want your body to beg as well."

Using the fact that he outweighed Krycek by a good thirty pounds, he kept Krycek from either bucking him off or from slipping out from under him. The friction of skin against skin made Skinner hard, but he waited until Krycek had accepted he wasn't moving, until he lay perfectly still under him. Then he brought his mouth once more into play, on the nape, the side of the jaw, the top of the tensed shoulders.

Calmer now, Skinner kept his hand on Krycek's wrist, but eased his body to one side, leaning against the man to hold him down.

"Krycek? I'm not into rape. I'm use to my bed partners participating along with me when we have sex."

Krycek moved his head so that he faced away from Skinner. "My lack of participation didn't bother you this morning."

"Yes, I know." Skinner had a momentary twinge of conscience. "I apologize for that."

There was a long silence, during which Skinner wished he could see Krycek's face. Then he got his wish. Krycek raised his head, looked around at Skinner. It was the face of the man he had last seen in a hospital room, offering him Mulder's life in return for Scully's child. "You want to fuck me. You want me to beg. Now you want me to participate. Why?"

Skinner moved his body so that Krycek could turn his to look at him. He still held Krycek's wrist, but now he brought it to his mouth. He passed his mouth along the back of Krycek's clenched hand.

"Because you're a beautiful man and I would like to get some pleasure out of having you. And I think I also want you to get some pleasure out of it."

"Jesus! Skinner." Now Krycek was exasperated. "The purpose of revenge is for the revenger to get pleasure out of the act, not to include the revengee."

"Yes, I know. Normally I would agree with you, but this is sex, Krycek. And as I said, I'm not into rape."

"This afternoon was not rape."

Skinner shrugged, refusing to acknowledge that he had changed the rules. For some reason, what he wanted now was Krycek's cooperation. "This afternoon was the kind of sex you get in a bar. A quickie in one of the toilet stalls. When you all you want is a body."

"I'm still only a body..."

"No. That's the problem, Krycek. You're anything but a body. I already knew that you'd had the good sense to pull out of the war with your skin intact. Now I know that you've sanely made a life for yourself.

"On top of that, I also know that you cook well, that you have decent taste in beers." Skinner sounded as though he were evaluating one of his agents. "That you're a considerate host, that you read a lot of the same books I do, that you need to keep busy, that you are not paranoid...well, not abnormally so. Your house is protected but not a fortress.

"That," Skinner lowered the tone of his voice, purposefully moving it from analytical to bedroom, "you not only have a great ass, but that you taste good. That your eyes are the one thing about you that change constantly. That I've seen them cold, hard, dangerous, amused, sex-stupid. That now I want to see how they change when you're really aroused, when you come not just because a hand is pumping your cock."

"Well, that takes care of you. So," Krycek's voice was dry, "what reason should I have for wanting to participate?"

Skinner smiled, used the tip of a finger to trace the length of Krycek's nose which wriggled, though Krycek himself didn't seem to be aware of it. "It would be more fun, Krycek. I mean, you said it yourself, it's been a while since you've been laid. And how long has it been since you've been properly laid?"

Krycek ignored the seduction. "And does the time limit also hold, or is that something else that's fallen by the wayside?"

"No." Skinner spoke softly, not responding to the sarcasm in Krycek's tone. "Dawn tomorrow. I really do have to be back in D.C. by mid afternoon. What do you say, Krycek? It's just sex."

Krycek's answer was to lean over and take Skinner's mouth. Skinner could taste the anger, though he couldn't quite figure out why Krycek was so pissed. He met Krycek's anger and forced it back. Krycek capitulated almost immediately.

Skinner led the way and Krycek followed. It was sex with exploratory touches, a few more discoveries for Skinner of what made Krycek tick. Skinner already knew Krycek liked having his nipples played with. That his cock responded to direct stimulation. That his balls were probably the most sensitive part of his body.

Any play on his balls made Krycek hiss, arch. Moan.

Skinner didn't hurry anything, in spite of the fact that his cock ached. Krycek's mouth traced a pathway from Skinner's collarbone to the tip of his dripping cock, swallowed him whole, making Skinner cry out. Skinner let his cock rule for a breath or two but had the presence of mind to pull away, to move the focus of attention from his cock to Krycek's.

His hands slipped under that ass, gripping the clenching muscles with his hands, lifted, his mouth descending to tease the silky hardness of cock, the darkening scrotum, the tensed thighs. Krycek screamed, cursed in English, in Russian, in another language Skinner didn't recognize.

Krycek pulled up his feet, raising his hips, splaying his knees so that Skinner would have more room to play in, all the while continuing his litany.

Skinner sat back on his heels, placed his hands on Krycek's thighs and pushed hard, bringing up that ass that had so attracted him. He grabbed the pillows and shoved them under Krycek's back and hips for support. Then, with a long lick of his tongue, he traced the crack from where it began at the spine, played over and around Krycek's hole with the tip, licked along the perineum back to his balls. And then did it again. And again.

"Jesus! Skinner! Fuck me! What the hell are you waiting for? Fuck me, damn you!"

Skinner grinned as he reached for condom and lube. He prepared both of them quickly, replaced his fingers with his slicked cock and, once he had passed the ring of muscle, shoved those long legs back up and pushed his way to the root with one thrust of his hips.

Krycek screamed, covered his mouth with his fist.

Skinner grimaced, loving the image of Alex Krycek on his back, legs high in the air, hips rising to meet him, body shiny with sweat, face openly feral.

"Krycek! Look at me! I want to see your eyes."

They were dark, almost black, with arousal.

Skinner dropped his grip to Krycek's knees, holding those legs apart as he thrust to a rhythm only he could hear. Krycek's hand dropped to his cock, kept time with that silent song.

"God, Krycek! You are so fucking beautiful."

Not that Krycek heard him. His body arched and his muscles tightened down as he screamed, white strings of come streaming over him.

Skinner watched as Krycek found the ability to breath once more and then, shouting hoarsely, rocked himself to his own completion.

They lay once more side by side on the bed, panting, listening to the blood coursing through their bodies.

After a while, Skinner found the energy to sit up. Krycek was on his back, arm over his face. Unmoving.

Skinner got rid of the condom, went to the bathroom, came back with a wet cloth to wipe the come and lube off Krycek's body. Feeling the overwhelming need for postcoital sleep, he dropped onto the bed, managed to pull the sheet and blanket from the bottom of the bed over the two of them so that they wouldn't chill in the cooler air. He pulled Krycek into his arms and settled his head on his shoulder. Then he stopped fighting off sleep.

He was alone when he woke. The sky was that violet grey that preceded dawn. He reached over to the place where Krycek should have been only to find the sheets cool. He'd been alone for some time.

Skinner went to the bathroom, took a quick shower. He dressed in his own clothes, went downstairs. There was no sign of Krycek other than a carafe of coffee, still hot, on the counter. Skinner poured himself a mug, drank. It was only when he looked out one of the side windows that he spotted Krycek in the pale morning light. He was in the cemetery, sitting crossed-legged under one of the large trees.

He looked, thought Skinner, as though he were meditating. Except, as he approached, he noted that Krycek's face was tight, not the relaxed state Skinner associated with meditation.

"Krycek? You okay?"

Skinner crouched by the side of the man who ignored him. He had to have been out here for a while: his hair and sweat suit sparkled with dew.

"Krycek?"

Without opening his eyes, Krycek spoke, his voice expressionless. "You got what you wanted, Skinner. Go away."

Skinner looked at Krycek, wondered exactly when he had left the bed. Had he had any sleep? "Yes," he agreed, "I got what I wanted. But you can't tell me you didn't get any pleasure out of it as well, Krycek. I was there. I heard you scream." He paused, tried for a lighter tone. "Funny, I never would have pegged you for a screamer."

"Neither would I. Another bit of revenge for you, Skinner. Now go away."

Skinner reached for Krycek's chin, drew it to him. The eyes that so fascinated him flew open. Skinner was taken aback by the pain he found in them.

"I know," said Krycek, his toneless voice making the pain in his eyes all that more intense, "what I am. Where I belong. That I have no place in any decent person's life. I accept all that. I've made a small place for myself here. I don't annoy my neighbours, not these," he gestured stiffly with his hand to the gravestones, "not the ones on the other side of me. Until you came, there was nothing in my house to remind me of what could have been if I had been a different man. I have to live with that now. Your revenge should be all the sweeter for it, Skinner. Now go away. There's nothing left for you to take."

Krycek closed his eyes, pulling his chin out of Skinner's hand.

He kept them closed as Skinner walked away.

Part Two

The house next to his had been on the market for some time. It had been far less well maintained than his own and was in need of extensive repairs. The first Krycek knew of its sale was the day in early May the Murphys moved out and the contractors moved in.

For the next few weeks, he awoke to the sound of hammers and saws. It seemed, as he watched from his office window, that the entire inside of the house was being gutted. The roof was redone. The outside was patched, repaired, painted a soft grey with black shutters. The back yard was cleaned up, the trees trimmed, part of the yard prepared for planting.

Whoever was moving in had money, was interested in gardening.

He was working away on a translation of some historical fiction destined for the Russian market when the doorbell rang. He leaned over, punched a code and watched as his security cameras focused on the front door. Well, the person waiting there was certainly dressed for the weather. It had been raining heavily these last few days and the man was dressed in yellow rain gear with a black Stetson, of all things, on his head.

Krycek stood, looked out of the window and noticed the moving van that had arrived that morning was now pulling away from the house next door. He took another look at the screen as the man pushed the doorbell once more. He sighed. Might as well go and meet his new neighbour. Probably who that was.

The man's back was to the door when he opened it. "Can I help you?"

The man stopped mid-way down the steps. "The telephone was supposed to have been turned on today and I can't find my cell in all the mess," said Walter Skinner as he turned around. "I was wondering if I could use yours to call the Utility?"

Krycek slammed the door shut, making the glass partition rattle.

"No, I guess not," said Skinner.

Krycek stood in the hallway, eyes staring blankly at the walls. He had, he admitted to himself, given Skinner all the ammunition he needed to make him pay for the past. Why was he surprised to find that Skinner had taken it?

The next day, Krycek saw his new neighbour again. He was coming home from the Post Office after mailing some work back to the publisher. Standing in his front garden was Skinner with a tall, slim, elegant woman in her thirties. Skinner was smiling at her as she casually brushed something off the shoulder of his shirt.

"Krycek! Come on over," Skinner invited. "I'd like you to meet..."

But Krycek only hastened into his house and slammed the door behind him.

He almost expected Skinner to come knocking, ready to ream him out for his rudeness but Skinner didn't knock on his door again. Didn't matter. Over the next couple of weeks, no matter where Krycek went, he seemed to be forever bumping into his new neighbour.

At the grocery store. "Krycek, are these tomatoes really local this early in the year?"

At the bookstore. "Ah, the newest Rankin. I just finished it. Gotta be one of his best yet. You'll like it."

At the bank. "Does the ATM crash like that often?"

At the Post Office. "Hey, I think this letter is for you. I guess that must happen often with our two mail boxes side by side like that."

Then there was the day Krycek found a small pup digging happily away in his front garden.

"Hey! Killer! Get over here. Krycek is not going to appreciate finding that hole in his tulips."

Krycek watched through the living room window as Skinner lifted what was basically a ball of white and brown fluff into his hands as his boots filled in the hole the pup had dug. The pup wriggled enthusiastically, licking Skinner's face, shoving his glasses up as Skinner carried him home.

Enough was enough.

Not stopping to think, Krycek went out of his house, his refuge, jumped over the small hedge that separated the two properties, charged up to the door and pounded on it with his fist.

After a moment or two, Skinner opened the door. "Yes, Krycek. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"What," shouted Krycek, "the fuck are you doing here?"

Skinner looked shocked. "Krycek! Your language! This is a nice neighbourhood. If you're going to yell at me, have the courtesy of doing it inside the house, not outside."

Krycek stomped in, almost tripping over the pup who was thrilled to have a visitor to smell.

"Why the fuck did you name this...this thing Killer? Does it add to your revenge," he bit out, "to think of yourself, outside, calling him that while I'm listening? You going to get another one just to call him Whore or Slut?"

"Jesus! Krycek!" Skinner sounded sincerely shocked. "That's not his name. For god's sake, it's just something I called him after he destroyed some of your tulips."

Skinner took a deep breath as Krycek tried to get the churning in his stomach to settle. Coming here had been such a fucking stupid idea! Whatever had possessed him to act without thinking? He wanted to leave but Skinner stood between him and the door.

Skinner's tone turned conciliatory. "His name is Charlie. Actually Charles 'The Dog' Skinner, the Fourth."

Krycek wanted out but here the man was, introducing him to his dog. He looked down at the pup sniffing his boots.

"We always had dogs as kids," Skinner continued, his voice calm. "They were always called Charlie. He's the fourth one, so...Would you like some coffee?"

Krycek shook his head, wondering why the whole scene struck him as suddenly surreal. He got himself in hand. "No, thank you," he spoke politely. "No, I would just like to know why you've done this?"

"This?"

"Yeah, this. Moving here next door to me."

Skinner slipped his hands into his pockets, cocked his head, a gentle smile on his face. "Well, long-distance courting never seemed very logical to me."

Krycek closed his eyes. He felt so incredibly numb all of a sudden. He had to get out of here before he did something even more stupid.

"I wish you the best." Krycek found a way around Skinner and made for the door.

"Thanks." He could hear the start of laughter in Skinner's voice. "Aren't you interested in whom I'm courting?"

"No." And he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

He had lost it, Krycek thought, that ability to step back from any situation, even one that included him, and examine it objectively. He sat in his office, the room with the least memories, and admitted that he'd gone stupid the day Walter Skinner had shown up at his door.

He looked around the room that he used to feel so secure in and knew that living here and watching Skinner court—the cousin he'd said lived nearby?—possibly marry and live happily ever after next door was too masochistic even for him.

"Fuck!" Why the hell did it matter? Weren't people like him supposed to be permanently cold-blooded? Not supposed to have any emotions, never mind the "softer" variety?

Well, his trainers had certainly done their best to eliminate whatever feelings he may have had out of him long before he had been allowed out in the field.

He'd spent years playing people off against each other. Hell, he'd even played the game with alien species. And he'd been smart...no, lucky. He'd chosen the right people, the right aliens to side with.

And he'd done whatever needed to be done for that side to win. And he'd accepted the consequences. The silo. His arm. Tunisia. In the long run, all that had mattered was that he survive, no matter who else didn't.

He ran his hand through his hair, scoffed at himself.

Shit, he should have realized that Skinner was different the day in the stairwell when he stopped Cardinale from garrotting him. And the fact that he never did really retaliate for that slug to his gut. He'd had orders never to lay a hand on Mulder, but no one had protected Skinner that way.

And then there was the day he'd put his life on the line, disobeying orders to use the nanos to kill the man. Well, technically he had killed him, though Spender hadn't quite seen it that way. Tunisia was an experience he could have done without. He might not have lasted much longer if the old bastard hadn't needed him so badly.

But he'd made it. He'd survived. He would survive again.

Just not here.

Skinner's car wasn't around the morning the realtor came and put the For Sale sign up on Krycek's lawn.

Krycek was working on an assignment when he heard the car pull up, heard the pup bark excitedly. It didn't take more than a few minutes before the pounding began on his door.

He reached over, punched in the code for the front door and watched, listened as Skinner alternated between pounding and leaning against the buzzer.

"Damn it, Krycek, I know you're in there! Open up!"

Krycek was tempted to respond with the same words Skinner had tossed at him when he'd gone pounding at his door. But his neighbours weren't going to complain about the noise. And he didn't want to invite the man in just to be told that he was ruining Skinner's fun.

He turned off the sound and went back to work. The next time he looked, there was no one at his door.

Charlie was the one who finally broke through Krycek's walls.

The pup, who had quickly outgrown the fluffy stage, had snuck out the door when Skinner hadn't been watching and had disappeared. The first Krycek knew of it, Skinner was at his door, ringing the doorbell.

"Krycek. I know you're watching. I just want to know if you've seen Charlie. He got out and I can't find him anywhere."

Skinner didn't wait. He dropped over the porch railing and went into the cemetery next door, calling for his dog.

Krycek stared at the screen for a moment then moved, not really knowing why he did. The pup was cute, he admitted. He often watched when Skinner took him into the lane-ways of the cemetery to try to train him to a leash.

The pup, thought Krycek as he went out, got away with murder. No agent of AD "Stoneface" Skinner would have dared try to get around him—and succeeded—like that damn pup did.

"Have you tried the people up the street?"

Skinner stopped calling. He kept his eyes fixed on the trees and gravestones, searching for his dog. "Yes. No one has seen him. They said if they did, they'd try and catch him."

Krycek went to stand next to him. "What kind of dog is he anyway?"

Skinner shrugged. "Part border collie, part Australian shepherd, part whatever was carousing that night."

"Have you tried the farm?"

"Farm?" Skinner looked at Krycek. "What farm?"

"The cemetery backs onto a farm property. Your Charlie is a herder. The man who owns the place raises llamas."

"Llamas?" Skinner's eyebrows rose over his glasses.

Krycek started for the far end of the cemetery, Skinner kept in step with him.

"Yeah. Used to have sheep," Krycek found he was babbling yet unable to stop himself, "but they got to be too much for him. His kids aren't interested in taking over the farm but he's got a couple of grand-kids who are. They talked him into llamas. Easier to take care of. Not so stupid as sheep."

"How far?"

Krycek thought about it. "Well, by road, about five miles. Over hill, less than one. If he's part border collie, he's got a fine nose, your Charlie. Llamas don't smell like sheep, but they do have a particular odour. He's probably gotten a whiff and gone tracking it down."

They walked in silence through the plots, into the back area which had not yet been developed. There was a beaten path in the roughage that indicated people still used this area as a shortcut. It was wide enough for the two men to walk side by side.

Krycek needed to ask, "Skinner?"

"Yeah."

"Why isn't the person you're courting helping you find Charlie? Doesn't she like him?"

Skinner said nothing.

"Sorry," Krycek let his voice harden. "None of my business."

Skinner sighed loudly. "Yes, it is. Your business, that is." He came to a standstill. "Shit, Krycek, how the hell did you ever survive when others didn't?"

Krycek faced him. He wasn't in the mood for abuse. "Look..." his voice cold.

AD finger pointing at Krycek, Skinner snapped, "No, you jerk, you look! The person I am trying to court is helping me find Charlie. He happens to be you, you fucking idiot!" With that, Skinner stomped down the path, leaving an open mouthed Krycek behind. "Well, come on. I don't know where this farm of yours is."

Neither of them spoke again until they reached the farm. Krycek jumped the wooden fence, waited for Skinner to join him. The adult llamas in the field were quietly munching away while the young were running about, chasing something. They both watched as Skinner's pup stubbornly tried to herd the three young uncooperative llamas—who thought this was all a game.

Krycek shook his head. "You'd better go get your dog before they wear him out."

Skinner let out the shrill whistle that Krycek had heard often in the last few days. Charlie heard it, too. With great enthusiasm he bounded over, yipping and yapping about his adventures. Skinner eventually managed to catch him. He pulled out a leash from his pocket and attached it to the pup's collar.

They were making their way back when Krycek successfully dared himself into asking, "Why would you want to court me, Skinner?"

Skinner scooped up his dog, tucked him under an arm. With his free hand, he grabbed Krycek's head and pulled him close. Before Krycek could react, Skinner's mouth was on his, possessive, demanding. Hungry. When he finally pulled away, Skinner rested his forehead on Krycek's and gasped, "That's one reason."

Then he walked away, leaving a stunned Krycek staring after him.

Krycek sat in his darkened kitchen, staring out into the night. There was just enough moon for the light to reflect on the white marble, reminding him of the reason he had purchased this house. Not many people wanted to live next to a cemetery but he had been attracted to the calm peace of the site.

After those last few years, he had needed the calmness to get himself in hand. When he'd moved here...

Krycek gave a soft laugh.

...after Talmadge had personally vetted him. The old man wasn't going to sell his home to just anyone. Bad enough he had had to accept that he couldn't take care of himself any longer, but he wasn't going to sell to anyone who didn't appreciate its special character. For some reason, he'd taken one look at Krycek, wiped his rheumy eyes, and nodded to the cemetery. "You're not frightened of Death, are you, lad?" And he'd allowed Krycek to buy the house.

He'd been drawn to the old man. He'd gone to the Seniors' Home and played chess with him once a week until he'd died two years ago. The old man never asked him about his life before he'd come to this small town. Instead, Talmadge questioned him about the books he'd read, his interest in history.

Strange that he who had avoided getting personal with people unless so ordered would feel...lost...when the old prof had died.

The grave by the tree he sat under was that of Talmadge and his wife.

Talmadge and the house had helped him recover from what had been done to him and what he'd done to others. Skinner would find it funny to know that the calm acceptance of his past actions had taken him some time to acquire. Weeks of pacing the floor at night, afraid to sleep for the nightmares. Some of which he still had. Days when he'd jumped at the slightest noises.

He'd tried drink to calm his nerves, to find the courage to face sleep. Talmadge hadn't put up with that particularly long. A couple of games where Krycek was soundly trounced. "If that's all the effort you intend putting into this, boy, best you not come play. I may be old but I will not be condescended to. If you do care to continue then, the next time you come, come ready to play and play hard. Or don't bother coming at all."

So he'd begun running. Hours and hours of running through the night streets—to the bewilderment of the local constabulary who soon got used to the sight of a one-armed man running as though chased by ghosts. Which he was. Eventually limiting his runs to the cemetery lanes, finding peace surrounded by Death.

Because, as he'd told Skinner, there was nothing to do about the past but accept it. And move on.

And he had. Until Skinner had shown up with his quest for revenge and that fucking game Krycek had agreed to.

Only to discover just how fragile his hard-won peace had been.

Krycek stood up, went to stand in front of the window. Awkwardly, he passed his hand through his hair.

All right. So he'd wanted Walter Skinner.

He had been ordered to make a play for Mulder who, if it wasn't on a video, could care less about sex.

Skinner may have been attracted to his ass, but he'd been attracted, too. To the man.

He sometimes—rarely, because he never knew who could be watching, ready to report back to the Smoker—would hang around the gym late at night. If he was lucky, Skinner would show up, stripped to shorts and tank top, expending all his pent up energy on the machines.

He'd wondered what it would be like to have those arms around him. To lay his head on that chest. To have those legs wrapped around his.

So when Skinner had offered a way for him to know, he'd accepted.

He knew his body had been trained to respond to touch. He was certain that he could win that little battle with Skinner, without giving up...what? His soul?

Shit, did people like him have souls?

If only Skinner had stuck to the rules.

But no, he'd had to go do something that was a long-hidden fantasy of his. He'd had to hold him, offering gentleness.

Krycek knew that it would be a long time before he forgot that evening of watching football on the couch.

He laughed out loud, mocking himself. He rested his forehead against the glass of the window, surprised at how cool it felt. How nice against the heat of his skin.

Once, he never would have noticed anything that affected him personally unless it had to do with survival.

Hell, maybe this too was survival.

Once, Talmadge had told him this was a good house for love. That he and his wife had been married, in love, for the near 60 years of their marriage. That he still loved her as he did no one else, except maybe God.

Maybe, thought Krycek, the house had corrupted him.

All he knew was that evening, lying in Skinner's arms, his hands holding him, touching him, caressing him, he had allowed himself the illusion of being...cared for. He, who had never had anyone care for him, who had never allowed himself to care for anyone, had pretended that this man wanted him, cared for him.

As he did Skinner.

He had known it wasn't real. Had known then that Skinner was only doing it to win his revenge.

Still...while it had lasted...

And then, to compound his stupidity, he'd allowed himself—for a scant few minutes—to pretend in bed, too, that night.

Skinner had wanted him to beg, had promised him that he would.

And he had.

And, with that, the fantasy had died.

Krycek watched as one of the neighbourhood cats suddenly dropped to his stomach. Death, he thought, truly lived in the cemetery.

The next day, when Skinner rang the doorbell, Krycek opened the door.

Skinner used his AD voice. "Supper tonight at my place, around seven. Be there." And he went back to his house.

Krycek looked at the clothes he was wearing and decided that he had no idea what the hell he was doing. He should just tell Skinner to fuck off, that he didn't want to be "courted".

Yeah. Right.

So instead, why was he now trying to decide between jeans and slacks, sweater and shirt?

Fuck, the whole thing was a joke. It had to be. And he was more of a masochist than he cared to admit. He pulled on jeans and a dark green sweater that—though he refused to acknowledge it, even to himself—made his eyes look greener.

He picked up the bottle of red wine he'd gotten out of his cellar and, bracing himself for anything from Skinner yelling April Fool at him, to being told that the whole thing was a mistake, he knocked on Skinner's door.

The pup barked, Skinner told him to be quiet, and the door opened. Skinner was dressed in khakis and a dark blue shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. "Thank you for coming."

Krycek grunted, not certain what to say.

Charlie demanded attention and Krycek was relieved to be able to give it to him.

"I hope," said Skinner, sounding a bit wary, "that you like lamb."

Krycek looked up from the pup. "Yeah, I do."

They were both incredibly stiff with each other. Skinner politely offered wine, Krycek politely accepted. Skinner offered a tour of the house, Krycek followed him around.

This house was a bit larger than Krycek's, some past owner having extended it to incorporate the space that was Krycek's porch. The living room shared the area with a dining room that housed what Skinner called his family heirlooms, a mahogany set of table, chairs, sideboard and china cabinet. To compensate for the darkness of the furniture, the room was painted a soft, pale honey to match the stripped down flooring.

"It turns out that it was oak, too," said Skinner, "but it was too damaged as it was."

"They did a nice job on it," said Krycek, pretending interest.

What, he thought, were they doing here, going through the Martha Stewart routine?

The rest of the tour went pretty much that way. Skinner pointed out something that had been done and Krycek politely found something to say.

The upstairs contained three bedrooms instead of Krycek's two, though none was as large as his. Still, Skinner's had space for an oversized king, with an open archway that led to the smaller room which he used as a dressing area/sitting room.

"Good idea," said Krycek, sipping on his wine, trying hard not to look at the big bed.

"Office," said Skinner. Krycek nodded approvingly, not needing to pretend interest in the computer set up. "I'm doing some evaluation on the training manuals they're using at Quantico. They want me to put together some of the newer documentation to update what they have."

Krycek nodded. So Skinner needed to keep busy, too.

Skinner checked his watch. "Time to take the roast out of the oven."

The awkwardness did not lessen through the meal. Both men made polite noises about the food, the weather. Charlie lay quietly under the table, muzzle resting on front paws, as even he was affected by the undercurrents.

"I remembered that you like chocolate. I picked up this cheesecake that...."

"Skinner."

Skinner settled back down in his chair.

Krycek had had enough of the pussyfooting. Someone had to get things out into the open, before they polited each other to death.

"Why did you do all this? Buy the house, move down here? If what you wanted was sex, all you had to do was ask. I...I wouldn't have denied you."

Skinner pushed the dishes to one side. He sat straight, back away from the chair, his hands flat on the table top. He knew he had to explain, but which words would affect the man watching him without sending him away? Damn! He had never been all that good with words where emotions were involved.

"When I left here last fall, I did a lot of thinking, Kry...Alex. About the fact that I was attracted to more than your ass. That...for some reason, considering our past...I liked you."

Krycek scoffed, but softly. He didn't allow himself to believe the words, but they were nice to hear.

"When we worked together right after Mulder left, I have to admit that I was fascinated by the way your mind worked. That you could straddle so many truths and accept each."

"You mean," said Krycek, almost challenging, "my lack of morals."

Skinner shook his head. "Alex. I'm complimenting you. Accept it, will you? And that there are other things I like about you."

"Really, like what?" Krycek tried hard to make himself believe he was being set up for something.

Skinner stood up and started clearing the table. "Apart from compliments, you accept what life brings you and move on. You don't spend your time whining about things you can't change. You're strongly pragmatic."

Krycek picked up the rest of the dishes and followed Skinner into the kitchen. Curious, he asked, "Really?"

"Really. Take the fact that the only way you could help us was from the other side. Even knowing that you wouldn't get any thanks, you still did your best to help us."

"I think," Krycek pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat, "you're forgetting that I killed you."

"Yeah, but you also brought me back. Why did you do that, Alex?"

Krycek wriggled, a little uncomfortably, on his chair.

Skinner continued. "As you once said, I probably have figured out the answers to certain questions by myself."

"Maybe," countered Krycek, even more uncomfortable with where this conversation might be headed, "you're attributing too much to me."

Skinner looked over his shoulder as he put coffee together. "Maybe, but you could also have just walked away from us, left us to deal with the situations without the information you slipped us."

"Maybe," offered Krycek, "I was just looking out for myself. Covering my ass."

Skinner leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest. "There was some of that, you're no saint." There was a hint of smile in his voice before it turned serious once more. "Alex, why can't you accept that some of what you did was good for us?"

Krycek shrugged. Maybe because he had expected a bullet long before a thank-you.

"Anyway, back in D.C., I suddenly found myself wondering how you would react to some of the stuff that's going down there these days. I realized that I liked that dry, sarcastic wit of yours. Your point of view may be different, but it is perceptive. I missed that. I found myself thinking of you often. And not just at night when I was jerking off."

Yeah, thought Krycek. He'd spent a couple of weeks running at night, just to avoid the memories in his bedroom and on his couch.

"A couple of months later, I came back here one day. I wanted to talk to you. I didn't like the way I left you. It...it bothered me to think that I had...hurt you. Maybe the game had started as a way of my getting my own back on you, but by that last time..." He passed his hand nervously over his scalp.

"Once I did get here, I couldn't get out of the car." Skinner shrugged again. "I didn't know what to say to you. I mean, other than to say...I'm sorry, Alex. Maybe it would have been better all round if we had just met in a boxing ring somewhere and slugged it out."

Krycek gave that half-smile of his.

"Then I saw the For Sale sign on the house next door."

Skinner opened a cupboard, took out the cheesecake; another, and mugs, plates. "I take it we're eating this in here."

Krycek waited until they were both staring at plates with the dessert before he spoke again. "So what did you think moving next door to me would accomplish?"

Skinner swallowed his mouthful, took a sip of hot coffee to clear his mouth of the heavy chocolate taste. He really did prefer something less sweet at the end of a meal. "Thought we might take a chance to see how things might go."

"Courting?"

Skinner nodded. "Alex, why were you so surprised to find out that it was you I wanted to court?"

Krycek found himself shrugging again. "Told you once I never thought of you as swinging both ways. I mean, you've been married. You'd mentioned your cousin."

"Mildred. I would have introduced you to her daughter that day. Joanie and her husband are delighted to have family move into the area."

They shared a small smile.

"Besides," Krycek looked at his plate, "who 'courts' another man?"

Skinner's smile was gentle. "I guess I do. And I guess I thought it was pretty obvious whom I was courting. Guess I assumed too much."

Krycek flushed. "Guess I never thought of myself as someone who'd be courted. So...out of curiosity...how would this work?"

"Well, we already know we can get along in bed." Then some of the insecurity Skinner was feeling slipped out. "Don't we?"

Krycek thought back to that last time, memories he hadn't allowed himself to examine too closely because of the hunger they brought back. "Yeah. There, it seems we can."

"And maybe I was fooling myself, but when I thought about what happened the next morning, what you said, I came away with the feeling that I was...important to you."

Krycek didn't confirm that. But he didn't deny it either.

Skinner gave a small smile. "And I thought it might be worth seeing if we can get along doing regular things together."

"Regular?"

"Hmmm. Like seeing a movie, going to a restaurant. Talking about things that have nothing to do with the past." Skinner looked over the edge of his mug. "Developing a relationship."

Krycek sat back. A fucking buddy was one thing. He had no objections to that. But..."A relationship? Hell, Walter, I haven't the faintest idea how to develop a relationship."

Skinner looked up from his coffee. "But would you be interested in trying?"

Krycek lowered his eyes. Was he interested? Dreams, fantasies were one thing, but reality? He closed his eyes. Come on, Krycek, take a chance. You've taken chances before. Yeah, he answered himself, but then only my life was forfeit if something went wrong.

He raised his head. He knew his face wasn't wearing its usual mask. But he needed to know. "Can you swear this isn't another game you're playing?"

Skinner met his fear straight on. "I swear it's not." Then he added. "My word, as a Marine."

Krycek felt a strange warmth in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the coffee.

"Well, then," still hesitant, then deciding. "Yes, it's..." he sighed. "I don't have any idea as to the hows and wherefores."

Skinner breathed a sigh of relief. "That's okay. Part of a relationship is working those out for ourselves."

Krycek looked at the man smiling at him. "Besides the fact that it's next door, is there a reason why you bought this house? Surely you could have just rented something."

"I didn't do this lightly, Alex. I did think it through. I mean, it would have been a pretty fool idea to spend all this money on a whim. But I decided it was worth a chance. That," Skinner cleared his throat, "that you were worth the chance."

Their eyes shied away, each not daring to look at the other.

Krycek spoke softly, suddenly very interested in his plate.

"Hope you don't regret it."

They both looked up, met each other's eyes, suddenly shy with each other.

Charlie decided he'd been ignored too long. He butted his head against Skinner's leg, demanding attention.

Both men were pleased to give him some, relieved at the break in the tension.

Then Skinner grinned. "Besides, Alex, neither of us is a teenager. We're both solitary men who are used to having our own space. Let's face it, neither house is large enough for the two of us. The way I figure it, when the day comes and we decide we're ready, we can build an addition to connect the two houses. They're not really that far apart."

"When, not if?"

"Do you want this, Alex, a life together?"

Krycek consulted his stomach then nodded, a bit wary.

"So do I. So when, not if."

Skinner got up from his chair. Alex had got them talking; it was up to him to move them on to the next step. He reached out his hand to Krycek. Slowly, Krycek placed his in Skinner's.

Skinner tugged a little, a sappy smile on his face. Krycek stood.

The kiss was different than any they had shared. Hesitant. Slightly awkward. Gentle. No power games involved.

Krycek took a step forward, felt Skinner's arms go around him, pull him closer. He wrapped his own arm around Skinner, holding tightly. Their mouths broke apart. Krycek rested his cheek against this man's who said he wanted him. Skinner's mouth found one of those spots under his ear. He made a soft moaning sound.

"Alex?" Whispered in his ear.

"Hmmmm?"

"Will you let me make love to you tonight?"

The part of himself that he had kept safe, hidden away from his trainers, from his life, slowly woke. But that didn't stop the fear. God! He'd never been this afraid, even in Tunisia.

"Walter, I've never made love to anyone in my life."

Skinner pulled back. With one arm still holding him, he used a hand to smooth the hair off Krycek's forehead, to gently caress the confession off his face.

"It's a little more involved than what we've done. More caring. Would you like to try? You can say no, Alex. I won't go away if you do. I do understand it may take some time to get used to the idea."

The sheets on Skinner's bed were cool against his skin. Nice contrast to the heat his lover... He smiled. That was something he'd have to get use to...his lover's mouth was stoking up in him.

He had been trained to use his body differently. To use, to get results. Not to feel the wonderful sensation of Walter's hands touching him with gentleness. With want. With care.

Before, on that other day, he had allowed Skinner to manipulate him to orgasm while he had only accepted. Now, he satisfied his need to taste this man, to learn the differences in textures over Walter's body, to listen to the gasps, the moans that meant more than that he was pushing the right buttons. He began a list of what pleased his lover, willing to bet—from the way Walter touched him—that his lover already had a list of his own.

They went slowly, savouring each moment, sharing their pleasure with each other.

He didn't beg this time. Didn't need to. Face to face, hips grinding together, he came as did his lover, with a soft laugh.

With the strange sensation that took him some months to recognize and accept as happiness.

The End

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