Skinner was tired—bone-weary, wrung-out.
     It had been two weeks since Mulder's meeting with Krycek. When he'd asked Fox about the meeting, he got only the most meager of answers: "Yes, the meeting had gone well. Yes, he'd told Krycek that there was no chance of their being together." Fox did not tell him, however, of the nude beach; did not speak of Krycek's state of arousal at the time; he certainly didn't tell Skinner of his own feelings of arousal while he was around Krycek. There was no way that he'd tell Skinner exactly how he felt as he watched Alex speed out of his life. When Skinner pushed Fox further for answers, all he'd got were mere monosyllables in return. So he'd stopped asking.
     Something had definitely happened between Mulder and Krycek; Skinner knew that. For two weeks now Mulder had been jumping his bones, at any opportunity, at least twice a day. The sex between them was brutal, ferocious and all consuming. Mulder was like a man possessed; a man needing to work out some inner demon by slamming his flesh into Skinner or having Skinner slam his flesh into him. Yes, Walter knew something had happened during that meeting.

The AD closed his final dossier of the day with some force. He sighed audibly with relief that his day's work was done. He was slightly surprised when he looked at his watch and noticed that it was only five p.m. He couldn't remember, for sure, the last time that he completed his day on time. He removed his glasses and put them on top of the file on his desk; massaging his temples, he worked the tension of the day away.
     Mulder was out of town for the weekend on a case and Skinner looked forward to a few days of peace and quiet. He thought he might do a little cooking, putter around the apartment, or maybe even read some of those novels he hadn't been able to find the time for.
     With a satisfied smile on his face, he put his glasses on again, put on his coat and left his office.
     "Caroline, you're still here?"
     "Yes, sir, just finishing up."
     Kim was on vacation and a temp from the secretarial pool had replaced her. Skinner had been very surprised by her efficiency: he'd only had to show her the workings of his office once. For the week she'd been here, she hadn't asked one other additional question, and the office ran like a well-oiled machine. Skinner always anticipated Kim's vacation with a certain sense of dread, but this time he was more than pleased with her replacement.
     "Good night Caroline. Have a good week-end."
     "I will, sir, thank you."
     Walter had almost made it out the door when he heard Caroline shout his name. "Sir," the woman said, "don't forget your dinner meeting tonight."
     "Dinner meeting? What dinner meeting?" Skinner's plans for a quiet evening at home just went up in smoke.
     Caroline looked at her boss and clearly saw the look of confusion on his face. "It's at The Inn at Little Washington," she said. "It's a long drive—about seventy miles—and quite posh for a dinner meeting," she clicked her tongue against her teeth as if to emphasize the luxury of the restaurant. "My husband and I celebrated our 15th anniversary there; it was the best meal I've ever had."
     Skinner still looked terribly confused.
     She took out his day planner. "Look, sir, the entry is in your handwriting."
     He crossed the short distance to her desk quickly. He looked at the entry in his day-planner and when he saw the handwriting, so similar to his own, all the colour drained from his face and he had to clutch on to Caroline's desk for support. He'd been wondering when the sword would fall—it had been two weeks since Mulder's meeting with Krycek. He wasn't naive enough to believe that his disobedience would go unpunished; after all, Krycek had told him to drop Mulder. Instead, he had had Mulder meet with Krycek to tell him that Mulder was taken. Surely, Krycek realized that that meeting was Walter's idea.
     "Are you all right, sir," Caroline asked with concern.
     "Yes! I'm fine."
     Skinner stood slowly and looked around the office that had been his home away from home for so many years now. He committed every detail of the room into his memory as though this was the very last time that he would see it.
     "Good night, Caroline." He said.
     "Good night, Sir, enjoy your meal."
     Walter smiled weakly at her. "I'm sure I will."

Walter didn't hurry home from the office. When he got there, he dressed in his best conservative gray suit, chose a fresh white shirt from the dozens in his closet, and he picked out a light, non-descript tie to complete the outfit. In a bizarre parody of getting ready for a date, he even carefully combed his remaining hair.
     The night was a wet and balmy one—the type of rainfall that his mother used to refer to as a 'crying day'. Odd, he thought, the things that come into your mind at times like these.
     When he was first infected with Krycek's toys, like a man diagnosed with a terminal illness, he went through the stages of grief. First came anger—white, hot, blazing anger. Anger that Krycek would do this to him, anger that Krycek would use this to play him like a marionette, pulling his strings this way and that; anger that Krycek would strip him of his dignity and integrity in this, the worst possible way. His denial of his condition arrived next. His mind unable to fathom the ways in which Krycek would use this device to force him do god only knew what. Then came the feeling of helplessness in the face of his infection. The younger man's demands were small at first, but with time they became more intense and demeaning. And now Skinner feared that Krycek would force him to betray his lover in more and more debilitating ways. When Walter realized Krycek had used him basically as an accessory to cold-blooded murder, he'd come to the realisation that he wasn't living; he was merely existing.
     Tonight, however, in the pit of his belly, acceptance came. He felt at peace with his fate. The windshield wipers moving across his field of vision in a methodic and predictable fashion lulled him into a sense of calm. Incongruous as it might seem with the fate that he was sure awaited him, he felt at one with the world. His only regret now was Fox. The love they could have shared; the life they might have built together. Too late now to cry over spilled milk. Maybe it was for the better, in a way, to let Fox get on with his life; to find someone who might just be able to help him instead of being tied to one who would only be forced to stymie him in his efforts in still unimaginable ways.
     Skinner caught himself dozing off twice during the long drive to the restaurant. Finally he took the detour off US Highway 211 and in no time he saw the building. Skinner had to smile at the hubris of the owners for not having a sign on the building announcing its presence. But then, if the reputation of this world-class restaurant was true, maybe it wasn't hubris at all. With the small army of workers and visitors gathered around the entrance of the building, Skinner was sure he'd found the right place.
     Even before he had the door of his car closed, he was approached by what appeared to be an employee of the Inn.
     "Are you checking in, sir?"
     With the rapid attention that his arrival had prompted, Skinner felt somewhat like the prodigal son returning.
     "No," he said, rather too quickly, "I'm here to meet Mr. Charles for dinner."
     The man smiled at him in welcome and beckoned another employee standing not too far away. He came over to join them quickly.
     "Good evening Mr. Skinner. My name is Duane and welcome to the Inn at Little Washington. I hope you enjoy your visit with us. Mr. Charles is expecting you. Please follow me." He held out his hand for Walter to take and Walter shook it firmly. Skinner followed closely behind him and when he entered the building, he was struck by the Victorian opulence of the place, its dedication to historical detail, and the impressive and costly materials used to reproduce an architectural style long since gone out of fashion. It was a little too bourgeois for the AD's personal taste for understatement, but nonetheless, it was certainly impressive.
     Entering the dining room, Walter got his first glimpse of Krycek, who was dressed in an expensive-looking, green suit; designer, of course. The younger man wore a pale green shirt with a darker green tie. The green satin glove covering his faux hand was the exact shade of his suit. The green motif was completed by the small peridot stud Krycek wore in his left ear. The result of all this was to make Krycek's eyes a striking shade of green—eyes, which seemed to be lit from within. Alex was seemingly oblivious to everything around him, but Skinner knew this was an act. He was eating some kind of finger food that looked, to Walter, like puff pastry filled with a meaty substance.
     As Alex saw them approach his table, he stood up and smiled genuinely at Walter. "Uncle Walter, I'm so glad you could join me!" He held out his hand but Skinner refused to take it.
     Krycek turned to the waiter and mouthed a thank you and he left.
     "Kry...Alex, what's this all about?" Skinner asked with a slight snarl in his voice.
     Alex motioned for him to sit and he did. "Can't two friends meet for dinner, Walter?"
     "We're not friends, Krycek." Skinner growled as he moved to sit.
     "Yes, well, there is that," Alex said with a little smirk on his face that showed Walter that he was besting him already. "But Walt, in a place a long time ago and far, far away, we were. We were something more than friends, weren't we?"
     "So," Skinner asked again, "what's this all about."
     "Patience, Walter, just slow down and smell the foi gras. You work too hard for a man of your age. One of these days," Krycek tapped at his temple for emphasis; "you're going to fall down dead with a stroke."
     "Is that a threat, Alex?"
     "Did it sound like one? I'm just concerned for your health, Walter. You represent a considerable investment to me." Krycek's voice sounded sincere to Skinner, but his eyes told another story.
     Krycek tracked the path of the waiter making his way to their table. The man placed a plate in front of Skinner containing the same delicacies that were in front of the younger man.
     "Eat Walter, they're delicious." He pointed to the sesame-crusted puff pastry on Walter's plate. Alex picked the same item from his own and popped it into his mouth, closing his eyes in epicurean delight; he made a little moan of pleasure.
     Walter looked at him as if he were some strange, exotic creature that he'd never seen before. This aspect of the younger man's personality was one that he'd never seen or suspected; the immaculately dressed sensualist sitting across the table from him only made Walter's sense of nervousness greater.
     "Come on, Walter, eat. You know you want to."
     Skinner felt like a lamb being fattened up for the slaughter. "Okay, Krycek, what's this all about?" He asked again.
     Alex stared directly into his eyes and smiled. "Patience is a virtue, Walter. Come on, just let your hair down...figuratively speaking, of course...and enjoy yourself. Eat, it's worth it. I remember when I was a kid and my birthday rolled around. Excited, as all children are on their birthdays, I'd get up in the morning and all I'd get out of my mother was 'Happy Birthday, Alex' and she'd set my breakfast before me. No festivities at all, no presents, no nothing. She had this idea in her head that all birthdays were to be celebrated at the family's evening meal. So there I was on a tenterhooks all day just waiting for the evening to come."
     "Touching story, Alex."
     "I thought you'd like it, Walt."
     "But," Walter said, "I'd like to point out that it's not my birthday."
     Before Krycek could reply, a different waiter appeared and placed a selection of breads on their table. Alex looked at the strange and delectable foodstuffs and licked his lips. "Are you sure," he said, "about the birthday thing, I mean?"
     "I'm fairly sure, yes."
     "Well, we'll just have to see about that," Alex said as he reached for a currant and nut studded piece of rye bread. He looked at Skinner and smirked at him.
     Within seconds the wine waiter approached their table. Skinner glanced at the man and thought that it wouldn't quite be fair to call the man eccentric—he'd be an eccentric in a nation of eccentrics. The older man fully expected the waiter to click his heels together and make a popping sound by bringing his hand to his mouth; but he didn't. He looked directly at Krycek. "Bonsoir, M'seur," he said.
     "Bonsoir, Gaetian," Krycek said. And as the waiter was trying to pass the extensive wine list to him he said: "Non! Le vin ordinaire est la specialite de la maison, n'est pas?"
     "Oui, M'seur."
     "Eh bien!" Krycek said. "Rouge..." and Alex held his hands apart showing the man what he wanted and mouthed the word 'gross' before the man could leave.
     "Bien sur, M'seur," the waiter said as he left.
     "Alex, I didn't know you could speak French—it isn't in your file."
     "Lots of things aren't in my file, Walter. I spent a few years in Paris. And then there was that unexpected and totally unsatisfactory trip to Quebec." Alex smiled as Skinner realized immediately what he was talking about. "When in Rome, Walter...I've found that it's always helpful to speak as the natiaves do—it makes things easier and raises fewer questions.
     Skinner nibbled absentmindedly on a piece of fruit encrusted bread seemingly mesmerized by the forest green of his dinner companion's eyes and the lullaby quality of his voice. He put his bread back on the plate as though he were burned.
     "You're still working for them aren't you, Alex?" Skinner grew angrier and angrier with the situation by the minute.
     The patrons at the next table would have enjoyed the melodious sound of Krycek's laughter, thinking him a very happy man. But Skinner heard nothing but the underlying bitterness betrayed by the laughter, which never really reached Alex's eyes. The AD had known the younger man long enough to know that Krycek's eyes were the windows of his soul and that if he didn't want you to know what he was thinking at any given moment, he simply refused to look at you. But this time, he stared at Skinner with defiance.
     "You and Mulder," Alex spit at him, "you're cut from the same bolt! I don't work for them, Walter, I work through them. If you have to give me a name, then think of me as an agent provocateur. I have one little piece of advice for the both of you, stop looking a gift horse in the mouth."
     Skinner snickered as though nothing this man ever had to say held any value.
     The wine waiter returned and with great ceremony placed a wineglass in front of Alex and poured a small amount out of the large carafe of wine he carried. Alex took it to his mouth, sipped, swirled the heady liquid around his tongue and through his teeth bringing it back to wash over his taste buds once again. He sniffed deeply of the ambrosia and smiled.
     "A votre gout, M'seur?" The waiter asked?
     Oui. Tres bon, merci."
     Life, Skinner thought, was just an endless series of rituals.
     A waitress come by and placed small bowls of soup before them. "Eat, Walter!" Krycek instructed him.
     Skinner brought his spoon to his mouth but put it down immediately. Again he asked, "What's this all about, Krycek?"
     "Do you really have to ask, Walter?"
     "Yeah!" Walter replied. "I really do?"
     "Do you feel like the condemned man, who's just had his last meal placed before him?"
     "What do you mean, Krycek?" Walter's anger reached his face, and he turned a bright red.
     "I've mentioned before about the secrets you and Mulder keep from each other. The last time we met, I gave you an order, Walter. I told you to drop Mulder or there would be serious consequences. You didn't do what you were told. You know, don't you, that Mulder told me it was you who made him meet with me two weeks ago when he gave me the kiss-off. He knows about those little buggers in your blood stream; I don't know what you were thinking of, Walter."
     Skinner shook his head in reluctant agreement but without any contrition.
     "Not only," Krycek continued with a surprised look on his face, "didn't you have the guts to tell me yourself, you sent Mulder instead to do your dirty work. Is this how lovers act, Walter?"
     Skinner just stared sheepishly at his food. "You're not planning on killing me here?"
     The young Russian smiled malevolently at him.
     "Why here?" Skinner asked.
     Alex slipped his hand down to his lap and pressed a button on his machine. Immediately the veins in Skinner's temple turned blue and he let out a low groan of pain and had to rest his head on his arms. A waitress passing by was so startled that she stopped, placed a hand on his shoulder and asked him if he was ill. Krycek took his finger from the button and Skinner recovered almost immediately.
     "No, thank you, I'm fine." He told her.
     Krycek smiled. "Why here? Can you think of a better place? I'm here with my uncle—an older man—who's just had some kind of episode. The waitress noticed it. You'll fall dead in your soup; I'll scream and moan...'call 911, quick; my uncle's sick.'" Krycek gave Skinner his most effective don't-fuck-with-me look. "Oh god, I'll be so upset, insisting that I go with you in the ambulance. Such a dutiful nephew, you know, so concerned over his favourite uncle. You know me, Walter, I'll disappear as soon as they wheel you into the ER on the gurney. Do you think that Mulder is going to recognize me when he interviews the staff here and they remember someone dressed as I am? Do you really think he's going to figure out that it's me?"
    Skinner glared at him and his chocolate brown eyes were filled with the fatalism of his situation. With Krycek's finger on the button, as it was, Walter couldn't even get his gun out fast enough to shoot him—he'd be dead before he got it un-holstered.
     "So shut up and eat, Skinner. This will be your last chance. I wouldn't worry about heart-smart choices if I were you; it won't make a damned bit of difference. I hope you don't mind, but I ordered medallions of lamb for us. So eat and enjoy your last meal."
      Almost before Alex had finished speaking, a waiter arrived and cleared away their untouched soup. Another waiter placed their entree in front of them. Skinner looked at the meal set before him; he didn't have much of an appetite at the moment, but he refused to let Krycek see that. With his fork and knife in hand, Skinner got up from his chair, leaned over the table and slowly and methodically began to cut up Krycek's meat for him. He was undeterred by the daggers in Krycek's eyes or the snarl on his lips.
     "Just trying to be helpful," he said caustically. "It must be difficult eating with only one arm."
     "Cute, Walter, but not funny. You'd be surprised the things I can do with only one arm."
     "I'm sure." Skinner replied as he started to slice and eat his own meal.
     They ate in absolute silence, and both men waved away the dessert tray at the same time.
     "Well, Alex, why don't you get it over with? Kill me now and finish it."
     Alex smiled at him. He lifted the machine up to his chest, and pressed it to his heart where Skinner could see it. "A marvelous little toy, this, don't you think, Walter? The things I could have done with it but...happy birthday, old man." He passed the small machine over to Walter and placed it in his hand. The look of astonishment on Skinner's face was priceless.
     "Why are you doing this, Alex?"
     Alex looked wistful as he answered. "I could have made you do so many things, betray so many people; I could have made you ruin your career if I wanted. But don't get any big ideas in your head. I'm doing this for Jarod, not for you. He wouldn't want you forced into helping us. He's funny like that...moral...good...just...he'd want it to be your choice...and I care about him so..."
     "You mean there's someone besides yourself that you care about?" Skinner said with a touch of malice in his voice.
     "Strange, isn't it, Walter? If you live long enough, you learn."
     Skinner turned the small machine around in one hand and looked at the cause of his distress for so long now, examining it, studying it, as though it were the Holy Grail. "What makes you think I just won't take out my gun and kill you now, Krycek?"
     The younger man chuckled at this. "Maybe I know you won't because of the gun I have trained on your cock and balls. Believe me, Mulder doesn't like his lovers mutilated."
     "Checkmate," Walter said.
      "Checkmate," Krycek agreed.
      The waiter came by and Alex asked him for the check, which he quickly signed, and got up to leave the restaurant. Skinner left his chair immediately afterwards.

Outside the night was warm and balmy; the rain had stopped, and the world smelled fresh and clean. Skinner realized that there could be another reason besides the meteorological for his feeling this way. Against all reason, both men walked side by side at an even pace, neither trying to out step the other as they made for their cars. Characteristically, Krycek had parked his car away from the glare of the streetlights, in a small alleyway where no one could see it. Skinner followed him and roughly turned him around. He looked directly into Krycek's eyes as he unbuckled the younger man's belt and slipped his hand down the loose-fitting trousers and inside the silk boxers that Alex wore. He took Alex's cock in his hand and squeezed it lightly.
     "It feels just like I remember, " Skinner said, with a smile on his face.
     "What do you think you're doing?" Krycek demanded.
     "I don't know," Skinner whispered close to Alex's ear, "maybe I enjoy danger." He took the younger man's earlobe into his mouth and gently sucked on it, running his tongue over the small jewel-encrusted earring that Alex wore. He gave Alex's cock a few hard, quick pumps.
     Alex groaned in response; he was hard, rock-hard already.
     Skinner licked a path down to Alex's mouth and gently traced the pouty lips of the younger man with his tongue. "Maybe," Skinner moaned, "I like rough trade." Alex opened his legs a bit wider to give Skinner more access and Skinner took it, jacking him faster and harder with each pump of his fist. He noticed that Alex's legs were getting a bit weaker with each jerk of his hand on the younger man's cock. To keep Alex in this helpless position, Skinner supported him with his hip.
     "Maybe," Skinner mumbled as his hand pumped Krycek's cock almost to the point of no return, "I like bad boys." Skinner forced his tongue between Alex's lips and delved inside. He met no resistance as Alex welcomed him, and sucked Walter's tongue into his mouth. Alex groaned louder with each movement of Skinner's hand.
     Skinner moved away from the kiss and licked at Alex's jaw, lapping down to his throat, like a kitten, and began suck on him in earnest.
     Skinner felt the blood so close to the surface of the skin he was sucking and knew that Krycek would have a world-class hickey in the morning. Alex's pelvis mimicked Skinner's hand, pistoning back and forth in unison with Walter's movements. With a howl and a jolt he splashed his fluids all over Skinners hand and his own silk boxers. Skinner took his mouth from Krycek's neck and stared into his eyes. He rubbed the younger man's dick head against his boxers to clean him and saw Alex shiver. Walter removed his hand from Krycek's underwear and wiped the rest of the semen on the younger man's pants.
     As he patted the outline of Krycek's still erect cock through his trousers he smiled. "Or maybe, Alex, I just don't want you to forget me."
     Krycek's jaw dropped in astonishment as he watched Skinner walk away from him. He put himself back together while still watching the older man's retreating form.
     "Oh! Believe me, there's no chance of that." He said, but Skinner never heard him. 

Continued in Zion hoert die Waechter singen

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