There was blood on his fingers. His jeans were dark, and in the dim, pulsing lights of the nightclub, almost black. He wiped his hands casually, then brought the glass of whisky up to his closed mouth, to check. Under his fingernails too, and that was the downside of a garotte. Effective and easier than a gun to hide through a body-search, but messy. He smelt of blood and sweat, cordite under cigarette smoke.

He checked his watch. Twenty minutes maybe, before the idiots outside the door realized their boss wasn't breathing. Then they'd move down through the club, spread out through the alleyways searching for him. They'd figure on him heading out of town, maybe spending the suitcase of cash he lifted. The suitcase that he shoved into a desk drawer to buy himself time instead.

He put the glass back down on the bar. Ate a handful of nuts. Moved a little to the music. Some remix, turned up so loud everything - the floor, the stool he was balanced on, the bartop - vibrated. Too loud to hear anything quieter than a scream.

Fifteen minutes. Time to think, Alex. Two exits, one with bouncers, the other through the back rooms and probably guarded as well.

He sipped the whiskey. Set the glass down as he stood, slipping with careless grace so it splashed over his hand. An accident. Pulled off his jacket that stunk now of watered-down drink, tucked it behind the stool. His belt was on the floor upstairs, so he pulled his t-shirt out. Then it was short work to the back door, an open door with a stocky man leaning against it, smoking. His cigarette burnt out on the ground next to his slumped body.

Alex went back into the nightclub. Stood at the edge of the dance floor for a moment, looking, moving to the beat. Five minutes. The lights flashed and the music changed. The crowd roared, parted a little for an entourage to move in. Three men, five bodyguards. No-one Alex knew, and their guards were watching the crowd, glances flickering over faces, not checking exits. Good enough, he thought, and cut his way through to them.

There was one in leather, short and drunk. His eyes glittered and his hands were curled into fists, even as he danced. The youngest one, someone with a face Alex thought might be familiar, should be, like a B-list actor, danced while he argued with one of the bodyguards. Alex could hear snatches of it - "hotel's fucking dull -- Chris wants -- don't care".

The third one danced alone. Eyes closed, head tilted back. There were people around him, hands reaching out, almost shyly, to touch him, but he didn't seem to notice. His face was taut, intent. As if the dance he was doing - a shimmy, a sway, hips grinding against the air, against a woman who laid her hand lightly, gently on his waist - was of desperate importance. He stepped back from her, eyes opening to blink in surprise at the people round him, a small smile and then he closed his eyes again and danced.

Alex let him dance. It had been awhile since he did this. He wasn't used to nightclubs. Dingy bars in crappy hotels, the occasional geek he had to locate at a rave. Places he went when he needed to get off, places that didn't bother with dance floors.

He lifted his head - three men at the back door. Hands lowered and together - a gun, maybe two between them. He stepped up, let his fingers rest on the boy's arms. Ran them lightly up and down. Kid was glistening, breathing hard and shivering this close up. When he opened his eyes and stared at Alex, his pupils weren't dilated, so it wasn't drugs that had him strung so tight. Trembling the way Mulder did, that night, and this was work, work. Concentrate, Alex snapped at himself.

Music was too loud to speak. Alex settled for body language. Slipped his fingers through the kid's, let go and danced just a little out of reach. The kid smiled, danced with him. They turned, a clear line of sight to the back of the club. Two of the men were moving into the club, spreading out. Alex danced closer. One foot between his, thighs brushing and the kid leaned in. Close enough to whisper, "Not on the dance floor."

And it was a good day for Alex Krycek, today. Because of all the cheap dates he could've picked, he'd gotten one with a way out. Bodyguard cleared the way through the crowd. People looked, but they were watching the kid. Not the guy trailing after.

Bathrooms, and the bodyguard ducked in first, scoped it out. Didn't look at Alex, just nodded and headed for the door to wait. They went in.

Bathroom lights were harsh. Mirror above the sink, and three empty stalls. A small window near the back, barred and locked. One door out.

The kid stood by the sinks, still swaying to the music which was loud enough even here that Alex could make out the lyrics. Something stupid about mirror balls. Tipped his head back, a long pale throat, and Alex had to swallow and look away a moment. Kid was a wasp, some pretty rich boy who'd look good in a rumpled suit. Slumming tonight in his studded jeans, a mesh vest. Glitter sprayed over his skin and wild, streaked hair. Everything expensive, and no fear in his eyes when Alex stepped up. Even though the bodyguard was on the other side of a locked door.

Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five. "What's your name?"

Kid blinked and smiled hesitantly. "Jay."

"Alex." They could talk, but he was on a schedule, and the kid' had big blue eyes, batting his lashes at Alex and his breath coming in sharp gasps when Alex's hand traced down his throat. A leather cord around his neck, and when Alex slipped his hand under it, twisted a little, his eyes closed and Alex was back on familiar ground.

"Like that?" he murmured, and the kid - Jay - nodded. Shifted a little, so one thigh came up between Alex's, leaned back against the sink so he was suddenly one long smooth arch under him. Rising when Alex leaned down and tongued his throat. Salt and the bitter tang of perfume. Alex wondered if he'd have glitter on his mouth, like the goth woman who left black lip prints across his thighs. He kissed the hollow of Jay's throat, pulse fluttering, trapped under his tongue. Bit and the music was annoying the fuck out of him, there was that moment where the day's restraint fled - a day of carefully phrased threats, withheld violence - and the kid was bucking under him, clean shaven throat sweet and paper-thin under Alex's teeth. He could just let go. Sink his teeth in and *tear*.

A hand on his shoulder, butterfly-light, and the boy whispered, "Could you kiss me?" Alex straightened up and the boy's hand stayed on his shoulder. His fingers were on the back of Alex's neck, brushing the close-shaven hair there. Shivers ran down his back and Alex looked away from Jay's eyes, blue, bright clear blue like hers, the same steady gaze without the hate.

He looked away and saw himself in the mirror. Face flushed, his hair rumpled, and his eyes were dead. The bathroom looked like every bathroom he'd ever been in, and his knees buckled automatically.

The dead hand unzipping and tugging Jay's pants down. The living hand palm-flat against the stretch of waist, the first crinkled hairs. Human warmth and he leant in and breathed. Human scent. The taste of salt and musk and heat. Silk, velvet - nothing like the skin here, nothing like the way Jay slid into his mouth. Alex closed his eyes and the world narrowed down to the cleft at the tip, the skin pulling back, along his tongue, against the roof of his mouth, and he could eat this boy alive, he really could. The sounds Jay made, choked gasps, words that came from nowhere - "twilight, fuck. Quinze, soixante, huit - je crois, nova, nova, oh just like that." Alex didn't pay attention. Mulder would talk about crop circles and rebel activity, inbetween dirty whispers, and remember what he had said later on, the fucker.

The floor was cold and wet, soaking through his jeans, and the thought of Mulder jolted him enough that he heard the shuffle behind the door. Heard and tilted his head, mouth open, Jay sliding out, resting against his lips. Tiny little shudders, the boy's shoulders shaking and his hips making desperate thrusts. Eyes shut, and Jay looked like he was about to sing, about to scream. Alex flicked his tongue across the head, listened thoughtfully. Two steps closer. No knocking on the door. Voices arguing. Footsteps leaving, someone leaning against the door, the bodyguard. No-one was coming in.

He slid the gun back down again into the small of his back. Closed his eyes and swallowed Jay up. Hands on the kid's hips and he dug his fingers in. Tugged him closer, pushed him out. Faster. Faster. Then hands covered his, nails scratching down the backs of his hands, tightening around his wrists as the kid moved, finally moved. Alex opened up, mouth over teeth, the perfect, sweet angle where Jay could thrust and there was friction. Like being brutally kissed, like being fucked, and it was good, good to be raw, to be lost in someone else's blind need.

The boy came and Alex spat. He dropped down to the floor next to him, pants left undone, rucked around his knees. Alex wiped his mouth on the hem of his t-shirt and the kid didn't smile, didn't say anything. They were both breathing hard.

Fifteen minutes. Another five and he could go. Three roads over to a movie theatre, somewhere he could slip inside for an hour or two. Catch a cab and be out of here.

Jay kissed Alex's cheek. High up, near his eyes. Another kiss a little lower. One on the edge of his jaw. A kiss on his forehead and Alex's eyes fluttered closed. He was tired. His mouth was tender, and he was hungry. His clothes were wet and he thought he could lie down on this floor, lie down and sleep. More soft kisses, hesitant because Alex was utterly still under them, the boy about to let go, except his hand clung to Alex desperately, tugging on his t-shirt like a small child.

He had another five minutes to pay for, so he opened his mouth and the boy hesitated a second, then fit his mouth against Alex's, kissed him tenderly for a long, sweet minute.

Jay sat back. One hand was left on the top of Alex's thigh, fingers running along the empty belt loops, brushing Alex's skin just above. Switchblade in that pocket and Alex could probably bust the window at the back open. Make a run for it. Knock the kid out, or something.

"I'm staying at the Hilton," Jay said. "Would you like to come back with me?"

Alex nodded. Jay stood up, zipped his pants and glanced at the mirror. Ran a hand through his hair, muttering "Ana's gonna kill me," and then flashed a grin at Alex. Broad and fake and it settled into a quiet private smile a second later. He held out a hand. "Limo's parked behind."

Behind which had a fire-escape staircase that went to the roof. Two blocks to the warehouse where Alex's associates were working. He stood up, ignored the ache in his knees, the fact that when the kid leaned over to wash his hands, the pants clung tight, the mesh shirt falling up, smooth skin left bare. Alex could step forward. Run his hands across that skin, push the kid down on his knees. Spend the night in a hotel, wake up in a real bed.

Staircase. They weren't bright enough to post lookouts, and he had the security codes for the cryo-facility. There'd be a cot he could bunk down on, secured phone lines. Places to go, people to kill.

At the door, he stopped and kissed the boy, quickly. They followed the bodyguard out, everyone watching the boy, and the bouncer's eyes sliding over Alex who walked next to the bodyguard, another piece of muscle.

He lingered in the shadows up on the roof a moment, watching the boy walk in circles, quietly calling his name, and then disappear into the club again.

Then Alex was running, the boy forgotten.

Thirty-seven hours later, he was in a suit, briefcase in one hand, Starbucks espresso in the other. Twenty minutes till his flight got called, and he was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Times like this, he made prank calls to Skinner, but he liked to think he'd outgrown that phase. He'd send a postcard instead.

The postcards were racked up next to the magazines. He flipped through them, found one tacky enough, and decided on a newspaper too. Maybe a copy of Fortean Times. It's not like he got an office subscription.

"Excuse me," he said to the teenage girl standing in the aisle. She glared at him and slouched forward so he could step by. He looked over her shoulder and froze. The boy. His hair was different, and there were men around him - the other two from the nightclub, a pale kid with bleached hair and one with red hair. They were all dressed badly and grinning at the camera.

Alex scanned the magazines on the rack. They were pink and purple, neon headlines and a hundred white smiles. Bop, J17, Tiger Beat. Teen People, Teen Vogue. He grabbed one each, paid with cash. He didn't buy the postcard.

On the plane to LA, he discovered that Jay's favourite colour was black, and he loved chinese food and girls with a sense of humor.

He left the magazines on the plane.

"What is *this*?" Ice in the old man's voice, and Alex schooled his face to calm curiosity. Their limo was being rushed, a horde of young girls with hearts painted on their faces and sequined halter tops pounding the tinted glass and screaming frantically. Cops waded in and pulled them back so a harried-looking man with a nametag could open the car door.

Alex stepped out first, just in case. The crowd surged forward for a moment, then fell back in disappointment when he slipped his shades back into his pocket. He scanned the crowd, read the signs they were waving, counted all the ones with JC on them.

"Mr Johnston, dreadfully sorry, we are -"

He interrupted. "Are our reservations still in place?"

"Of course, of course. We've cleared the staff entrance in the car park, would you prefer to -"

He nodded and climbed back into the limo, shut the door on the manager. "We'll use the entrance in the staff car park."

"Alex?"

He allowed himself one small smile. "Apparently, a boyband's booked into the same hotel. Those are the fans. It's probably not a security risk, although -" It would be an ingenious way of stretching security resources. All that noise would make good cover. "I'll check it out."

"Change the rooms, and call Roderick in." He nodded, and the old man sank back into silence. You didn't survive three car-bombings, he supposed, without being a little paranoid.

Once Roderick's people were stationed along the floor, the network set up, and the old man tucked in for his nap, he headed down to the lobby. Half the road outside was cordoned off and inside, guests milled about, most of them with fresh make-up and blouses missing a button.

The manager hurried over. "Everything is under control, Mr Johnston. A local DJ leaked that the music group, NSYNC, were booked in here."

"Are they?"

"The floor below yours. If that's alright with you."

Alex shrugged. "We have our own security arrangements. I'll need access cards to all the laundry and cleaning facilities, as we discussed earlier."

Maybe it was boredom, another city he'd never see in daylight, another week trading lives for secrets and the constant background hum of Mulder in his head, of looking for a way out, a chink in the Consortium's armor. Balancing a dozen different identities and he hadn't touched another person without violence since that night. Apartment 42's gone unlisted again, pissed off at the detour he was fed last week, never mind that it saved his life, again.

Alex was restless, and the manager waited, all eagerness. Anything not to loose a regular, lucrative customer.

"What's a good club in the area?" Alex asked.

The manager reeled off half-a-dozen names, and Alex caught his breath, told himself he was an idiot, that this was what got him stuck in a cheap suit with a gallon of hair-gel and asked anyway. "Which one would the band be going to?"

"Del'ware. It's an old barn, Amish style. Industrial techno music and a loose dress code." The manager opened his mouth and then shut it. Blank, polite face and Alex switched on smile #72, the one with the switchblade a sharp stab away, and left.

The bouncer had suspenders and a fake beard that reached down to his belt. Alex didn't cut the line, let them stamp his hand with a glow-in-the-dark D, and handed over a $20 cover charge. The music could be heard on the street, electronic beeps and voices remixed past coherence. Inside, it was just deafening. Alex ignored it.

The boy was at the center of the dance floor again. Bodyguards on the perimeter, watching the crowd. All muscle, probably one gun between the five of them. Alex dismissed them. He bought a beer and settled down near the wall with a clear line of sight to the boy. He was patient. Years of stake-outs with bad coffee, lurking in stairwells and the like had taught him to live in the moment. Zen for thugs.

It took twenty minutes for the boy to spot him. Alex raised his half-empty bottle in greeting, and waited. Another few minutes for him to wend his way through the crowd. Sweat trickling down his face, his shirt plastered to him, and his hair was even wilder tonight. Behind him, one of the other boys - the one that liked cherry apple red, Alex's brain whispered - watched, a smirk on his face. Two bodyguards lumbered up.

Alex ignored them. "Hey," he said quietly.

Jay, or JC, smiled. "Hey. You live here? I tried to - at the nightclub - ask who you were." The smile faltered for a moment, and the kid ducked his head, bashful. "They didn't know who you were, and the club was closed the next day, anyway. Police." For a moment, the boy looked directly at him, a steady, careful gaze.

Alex meet it blandly. "I travel. Corporate insurance. Want a drink?"

JC shook his head. He'd remembered him as a tall, skinny boy, big nose and blue eyes. Bad clothes and a buck-toothed grin in the magazines.

He was tall and skinny. Muscles taut on a body that couldn't stop moving. Lazy swing of hips, hands tapping on the side of his jeans, and above that, the kind of face that Alex used to have, back when he was living on ramen noodles and student debt. Before he knew how to use a gun.

Pretty, pretty face. JC put his hands on his hips, raised his chin a little and the strobe lights flashed, a halo around him, the beads of sweat turned to sparkling diamonds. Galatea's brother come to life.

"Want to dance?"

"Want to fuck?"

JC paused for fraction of a second, and then he nodded. "I have to -" he waved vaguely at the knot of people behind him. Alex shrugged and tipped his beer bottle up, drained it.

"I'll wait outside," he shouted over the noise.

Then JC was gone and the crowd surged around him, a little gap because he was a celebrity and where they stood, people's hands fluttered to brush the air, to almost touch, but then didn't dare. JC and the other one danced with each other, women floating in and out of the circle they'd made. Alex watched for a while, then slipped back into the shadows, made his way out.

Two limos parked along the curb, but when JC emerged, he headed to the Camry on the other side. Blue with local license plates, and Alex rode shotgun, one of the bodyguards in the back. JC flipped the radio on, hummed along to the music. He drove too fast.

Alex wound the window down, leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He wasn't drunk, but he felt like it. Buzzed and happy, waiting to see what happened and not thinking beyond the night breeze in his face, the sound of JC singing.

The lights in the lobby were dimmed, voices hushed. Alex walked a few paces behind, hurrying to catch the lift that the other guests had. He nodded politely at JC and punched in a number four floors above his own. Just in case.

Another mile of soft pink hotel carpet. JC slid his card through the door and held it open for Alex.

The lights were off. JC stood just inside the closed door, the keycard a square of bright white in his hands. Still moving, rocking back and forth on his heels. The air was warm, the a.c. switched off, and there was grey-ghost light from the city below, curtains pulled back and a waning moon throwing half the room into shadow.

Enough light to see each other. Not enough for colour.

I wanted this, Alex thought, as JC leaned in. Three weeks and he'd forgotten about the kisses. He didn't kiss. You didn't kiss strangers, you didn't kiss unless you had your eyes open, a knife in your hand. You didn't let someone trail kisses across your face.

JC brushed Alex's fringe back. Too long, and he'd been meaning to cut it, but it pissed the old man off. JC's fingers combed through his hair, sent shivers down his back. He cupped his head to tilt him down so he could kiss him, soft firm kisses on his mouth, and Alex was strumming, strumming with unnamed tension, aware that if he leaned into the warm, strong hand behind him, opened to the wide, warm mouth under his, that some part of him would come undone in more time than he could afford.

Wake instantly. Clothes on at all times. A weapon within reach, preferably several. Listen, Alexei. You get careless, you'll get ambushed. Maybe not the first time, but the fourth or fifth, you'll slip up. Never let your guard down. Talk and think, look and think. Always think.

JC kissed him again, and Alex could not bear the softness, the unasked for tenderness. The way JC stroked his face and murmurs something like "sugar, honey, sweet, I thought of you, wondered -" as he nuzzled Alex's throat.

Kid's hair was too long. Alex made a mental note to get a buzzcut again, screw Mulder, as he knocked the boy down. One sharp smack to his side and he was breathless, pliable with shock. The bed was close enough that Alex swung him up, an armful of drunk, trembling boy and the dead hand wound through his hair, yanking enough that the boy's throat was bared.

This time, Alex bit. He'd leave bruises, torn clothes and a lesson the kid seemed to need. Don't trust strangers.

Turned him over, straddled him. Switchblade slid into place like another part of the dead hand. He thought about that sometimes, getting them to put blades under his nails or something beyond fingers that could touch and hold but not really feel. He sometimes strangled where he meant to choke, and he didn't trust himself with a gun under his skin, so he never asked.

Thirteen slices to remove the kid's shirt. Leather pants and he rested the blade on the boy's back, the smooth curve near his waist. Considered cutting the leather off, but that would blunt the blade badly. The boy was shivering, whimpering and Alex thought of other things. Marita, Mulder. Hard and fast, cruel but wanted. He did not think of the boy's smile, unguarded and wide when he had seen Alex in the club.

He picked the knife back up and the boy bucked, one long slow roll of his hips, the pinned wrists flexing under Alex's grip. Lifted his head, hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, lips wet. Said "Alex," and laid his head back down, the throaty whisper hanging in the air. Rolled his hips again, sliding back and forth under Alex's thighs.

He meant to turn him over, let the boy see Alex wasn't playing. Turn him over and use the knife, one hand over the kid's mouth. But then - hot breath on his palm, and when he laid the blade flat on the kid's stomach, a flick of tongue.

His thumb rubbed the line of JC's jaw. Another lick, slower this time. He kept his hand on the kid's mouth, those big eyes staring at him, nothing moving except a tongue working at his palm, leaving soft kisses, a line of wet heat that jolted straight to his crotch.

JC kept moving. Almost dancing under him. Hips swaying, rising as much as he could pinned to the bed. Rising to grind for a painful-pleasure second against Krycek. Flick of tongue, and Alex leaned from his waist down so they were almost chest to chest, his ankles still hooked over JC's thighs, his weight still holding him down. Hand on JC's wrists, pulse rapid fire against his fingers. The other hand covering that face, muting the gasps JC made when Alex began to move.

Some part of him wanted to count - "One mississippi, two mississippi", the waves of pleasure, a spike, a shudder when JC ground against him, when they rose and fell with each other, steady rhythm and the sound of leather on denim, of his own quickening breaths. Count, he thought as he moved faster and faster, losing the rhythm in the way JC bucked and thrashed under him, struggling to free his arms, hungrily mouthing Alex's palm, and he wanted to keep his hand there, to silence the sounds of the boy, but he could feel his name whispered against his own live hand and when he gave in and let go, the boy's mouth was wet and open, his arms reached to hold Alex, and his eyes were the most brilliant blue.

He shuddered and he came, and JC kissed him softly, kissed Alex's eyes closed. Took his hand, the spit-slick hand and led it down his chest to the cold metal of the knife. He picked it up and JC turned his head to the curve of Alex's neck. Breathed in the hollows there, human warmth, fingers tight on the fabric of Alex's t-shirt.

He folded the knife and slid it back into his pocket. Stroked the lines of JC's face. Kissed him and when JC stretched and ran his hands up Alex's back and hesitated at the holster straps, Alex sat up and pulled the t-shirt over his head, unbuckled it. He lay his gun down next to the bedside phone. He undid his belt, unzipped his pants and when he was naked, he lay down next to JC, and when JC was naked, they curled up together and Alex whispered "Jay, Jay" and fell asleep with his face in tangled, sweaty hair that smelled of apples.

He woke up with his hand under the pillow, fingers curled around a missing knife. Someone had pulled the sheets up over him, the hotel blanket a warm, comfortable weight over his body. The sheets smelt of sex and sweat, expensive shampoo and underneath, the scorched linen scent of fresh laundry.

He knew where he was. His other hand rested on the boy's hip, a sharp jut of bone, warm like marble held for a long time. Their legs scissored together, and when he opened his eyes, the morning light was painfully bright, and the boy's face was still and quiet, carved except for the slight parting of his mouth with each soft breath.

Alex went back to sleep again.

The second time he woke, the boy was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a hotel dressing gown. His hair was wet, curls plastered to his forehead, and he was biting his lower lip, staring at his hands. Turning Alex's gun over and over. A loud schnick as he flicked the safety catch on and off. The sound had woken him instantly.

He had long, delicate fingers, like Mulder's. The gun was Mulder's too. A Sig Sauer P 228 he'd lifted from Mulder's coatpocket the last time they'd met. Sometimes he returned them, sometimes he gave Mulder other things in exchange.

He was used to Sigs, used to firing them one-handed, running. Knew how to clean them, where to file them down, the smart kick they gave and just how to brace his wrist. FBI standard issue, and he'd seen better guns. Bigger, faster, but what was familiar worked, gave you the half second you needed. If you knew guns.

The boy frowned and turned the gun upside down, running his fingers over the muzzle as though he could trace something written there. Alex sat up slowly. The safety catch was still off.

"Can I have my gun back?" he said. He kept his hands flat on the mattress between them. Alex pitched his voice low, but he still jumped and fumbled the gun. JC reached out automatically for it, but Alex was faster, and the gun was cradled loosely in his live hand again. He stayed still. He had a gun but no silencer except the pillows, and too many people had seen him follow the kid back to this room.

The room had been cleaned - a silver pot of coffee on a table, the clothes he'd kicked off the bed onto the floor, folded neatly on a chair. Someone else had come in, with fresh towels and flowers and the newspaper, someone had walked into the room while he slept, naked under a thin sheet.

And afterwards, the boy had thanked them and closed the door and pulled the sheet down to look at Alex. Taken his gun from the half-open drawer where he'd hidden it first. Had a shower and sat down on the bed, next to a sleeping stranger and examined his gun.

Alex had slept through it all. The boy blinked and his eyes were still brilliant blue. He looked tired, and very young and when he yawned, he covered his mouth automatically, moving with unconscious grace, perfect manners. Hands folded on his lap, legs crossed, back straight.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Alex swung his legs over the side of the bed. He ran his hand through his hair, remembering for some reason he couldn't quite remember, that he needed to cut it. His clothes smelt of smoke from the club, sex from last night. He pulled them on, tucked the gun back in the holster. Sat down to pull his boots on, and said quietly, "Yeah, sure. Black."

They drank coffee and JC tore the last croissant in half and shared it with Alex. They read the newspapers, passing one section back and forth. He read the news, automatically translating as he went. A small spike down south - Brazil was the easiest to work in, but the drug lords couldn't get round the idea that it wasn't just money. He'd be flying down next week, he thought, re-reading a piece on missing rainforest activists. The Red Sox had lost again. No wonder he liked Mulder so much.

Which reminded him. "Can I use your phone?"

"My cellphone?" JC held it out, a tiny glittery cellular with nsync stickers all over it, the kind with tiny hearts.

Alex smiled but shook his head and pointed to the hotel phone. "I'm staying here," he said, and JC's nervous small smile widened into a brilliant grin for the space it took Alex to add, "Upstairs. I'm checked into this hotel."

"Oh," he said. "You're with the Cunzos." Alex took his hand off the receiver and looked at JC who shrugged and said, "Lonnie told us in the security briefing. We get fans trying to sneak in. He was pretty happy about it, said no-one would be coming in from upstairs."

Alex tried to consider it seriously, another problem to add to this week's roster. Hormone-crazed teenagers trying to break into a Consortium office. He'd have to warn Roderick not to shoot on sight, and frisk them for "I LOVE JUSTIN" signs. The old man didn't have scruples like that, but children often had families and were harder to dispose of. There were plenty of arguments Alex could find.

"Johnston," he said into the phone and switched to clipped Russian, mostly sharp "Nyets" to Roderick's stupider ideas. Then the old man came on and inquired politely whether Alex would attend the afternoon meeting. "Yes, sir."

"Wonderful. Your new friend might have to wait in the lobby."

"Yes, sir."

Click, and he held the phone for a moment, looking up at the ceiling - overhead lights and plenty of places to check. Not that it mattered. Too late, and he'd been on guard. Hadn't said anything, done anything he didn't want. Oh, no.

He glanced at his watch. Just past noon. Time to go back, explain what "gentle" meant to Roderick, and run through the numbers again on the vaccine production, update the old man on Scully's little breakthrough with the chips and how he was going to de-rail her. Maybe call round and start getting ready for Brazil.

"Do you want to -" he paused and tried to think. Steal secret government files? Track mutilated space cows? Watch a movie?

"There's an exhibit on, I'd like to see," JC said. He opened the backpack on the floor next to his chair, poked around and pulled out a crumpled stack of brochures. "There's um, an aviation museum, and a small zoo. Botanic gardens, but that's kind of a drive out. Two of the art galleries look good, but their museum -" He smoothed out the brochure and stared at it for a moment, then held it out for Alex to take. "Travelling exhibit. It was in Dallas, but Chris was sick, so I had to cover for his interviews and, well, I mean. If it's not your thing, that's cool. We could go to the mall. Or a movie, maybe. Or just stay here."

Alex looked at the brochure. The cuckoo egg, gleaming black and rich gold, photographed on stark white. He'd handled a replica once, heard it tick when Dorian showed him the mechanism, the little bird beating its wings in time to the clock as it rose. This might be one of Dorian's replicas, the real eggs smashed or sitting on a shelf in someone's study. A nice little scheme, they'd cooked up, the two of them, and a steady pile of cash still flowing through to the Resistance while museums around the world received perfect, if not genuine, artifacts at bargain prices.

Everybody was happy. That was really Alex's job. Making people happy. Mostly certain rich alien-possessed people, but hey. And wasn't it time for him to be happy? He'd read that somewhere, in one of those crappy business books Skinner kept by his bedside table. He'd quite liked the 7 Habits, that'd inspired him to buy a Palm Pilot. He should make a note to thank Skinner next time they ran into each other. Anyway, there was something in the dead mouse book about making time for yourself. To de-stress. Get a hobby.

The book had suggested golf, but looking at the blushing boy fiddling with his dressing gown ties in a way that showed long, lean legs and a flash of dark hair - well. Beat Scully's crochet.

"Do you smoke?" he asked abruptly.

JC blinked. "No. It's bad for my voice."

Alex shrugged. "The museum sounds good."

They never made it. One of the boy's friends came knocking at the door and JC let him in. The short, dark one with the glittering eyes. He smiled at Alex who nodded and leaned against the table, while JC chattered and tried on shirts, throwing the ones he didn't like into a soft, rainbow pile.

"Sound check's been moved up. Helen wants to speak to you, by the way." The other boy's eyes slid for a moment to Alex then his hand touched JC's wrist lightly. "She's not flying in. Phone call." JC shivered and nodded. The boy's hand lingered a moment, thumb rubbing the back of JC's hand, and then he said softly, "Okay?"

JC looked puzzled for a moment then suddenly he ducked his head, smiling and looking back at Alex who was smiling, slightly because it was difficult to stay grim and silent when the boy glowed with light, simply because Alex was there.

"I'm fine," he said and the other boy left the room, and JC closed the door a moment before Alex was on him, kissing desperately at that shining mouth, taking off the peacock-blue shirt, letting it drift to the ground and pulling him down, too giddy to reach the bed, and somehow, as they made love on a pile of coloured silk, JC arching above him, whispering his name in a sweet, throaty voice, Alex thought he'd gone mad, the whole thing a dream.

He'd dreamt before. Handcuffed on the ship, dreamt of sewing the child's mouth shut, dreamt it was Mulder under him, bleeding as the needle went in and out, those hazel eyes clouding over black. A long, vivid dream and when he woke, he'd not been sure for days of it was true, whether he was still dreaming.

Let him dream this then. He kissed JC back, and closed his eyes.