THE LOST BOY

Well, I finally got around to watching the episode that shall remain forever nameless and henceforth forever unacknowledged except for the contract I'm contemplating taking out on Chris Carter, the bastard!

 I wish I hadn't watched it! (sob) It made me feel some very uncharitable thoughts towards my darling Skinner and I felt the need to slap his sanctimonious, murdering ass and teach him the error of his ways 

( Just so that he could earn my forgiveness, of course!)

So, after I picked my sobbing self off the floor, I wrote this as a form of catharsis 

S/K 

+++

"He has to remember *something*," Mulder growled. 

"You're a psychologist, Agent Mulder. You *must* understand the implication of his injuries. I agree that the memories he's lost as a result of the shooting are likely to gradually come back over time, but because Mikhail has no frame of reference to judge them by, he'll struggle to understand what those memories mean and by the time they do make sense to him, he'll be a completely different person than the man who had those experiences. What I'm saying is that even if he recalls every moment of his life as Alex Krycek, he still won't *be* Krycek," Adams replied. "No court in the land would see him as anything except a victim, even if he *wasn't* the son of Governor Pryslata."

Mulder sighed heavily. He'd never met John Adams before but he knew his reputation. Blazszczyn was right, after all. If such an eminent neurologist as Adams believed Krycek's memory-loss was genuine, he was almost certainly right.

+++

"You're the man who shot me, aren't you?" Alex asked, his face shadowed with fear.

Skinner watched the way the younger man's eyes were flickering to the emergency button on his bed-side table and felt an unfamiliar lurching of guilt. He opened his arms wide in a clear gesture of peace and sat down in one of the visitor's chairs, careful to keep his empty hands in Alex's view.

"I am," he agreed quietly.

"You tried to kill me," Alex said, his eyes wide with confused hurt. "My mom said you shot me three times."

'My mom'. The two words reverberated around Skinner's head like slaps. It wasn't just the innocent way Alex said the words, or the almost child-like reproach in his expression that twinged Skinner's conscience. It was the realization that even if Alex *hadn't* really been Mikhail Pryslata, he still presumably *would* have had a mother, a father, perhaps even a whole family to mourn him. Why hadn't that occurred to him in the car park? What had given him the right to attempt to steal the life of any mother's son?

'Don't admit anything and, for god's sake, don't apologize.'

The advice of the FBI lawyers had sounded more than reasonable at the time, considering the size of the lawsuit that Blazszczyn had slapped at their door, but sitting in Alex's hospital room, seeing the scar that marred the over-pale forehead like a third eye and the stubbled ruin of Alex's skull where the surgeons had battled to save his life, it was harder to stay objective.  Then again, the lawyers had also forbidden him to visit Alex and yet he had come. Since he was suspended without pay and had little doubt that the hearing into the shooting would cost him his job *and* his pension, it hardly seemed worth worrying about the consequences of uttering a few words.

"I'm sorry, Alex."

"My name's not Alex," the younger man protested, then bit his lower lip uncertainly at the strange expression that flickered over Skinner's face at his denial.

Skinner rubbed his hands over his face wearily and surreptitiously wiped at the treacherous tears that were stinging his eyes.

"I know, but it's hard to look at you and remember that."

Alex shrugged, then winced in  pain at the movement.

"It's okay. I guess you really must hate me."

"Not you."

"But Alex. You hated Alex."

"I had good reason to, Misha, but that's not *your* fault."

"Why did you hate him...me...wow, this is weird. You hate me and I don't even remember who you are, let alone *why* you'd want to kill me."

"There were a lot of reasons, Misha. Good reasons, but they aren't anything to do with you. That's all I wanted to say, really. Whatever happens, whatever you end up remembering, I...I just wanted to reassure you that you're safe now. I won't hurt you again. It's over. Even if it had been Alex who survived, it would have been over. I...I couldn't shoot you again."

"I want to know, Mr. Skinner. I need to know what I did to make you hate me so much."

Skinner shook his head.

"Leave it alone. It's over."

"It's not over. I've lost 14 fucking years of my life, you bastard. One day I'm in High School with all my life in front of me and...and the next day I wake up, I'm thirty-years old with a missing arm and a bullet hole in my forehead. I've lost my *life* and...and I want to know *why*."

"I can't help you. I never understood Alex myself."

"I want my file."

"What?"

"You're the FBI. I'm supposed to be a criminal, right? So there has to be a file. Some record of what I did. I'm offering you a  deal, Mr. Skinner. I want to know everything you know. What I did, why I did it, anything, everything."

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

"I get my parents to drop the lawsuit. Shit, it's not like they need the money, is it?"

Skinner shook his head, not so much in denial as in indecision.

"And I'll get my dad to make sure you aren't fired for shooting me."

Skinner couldn't help laughing at that comment.

"Your father is a very rich and powerful man, but not even he has that kind of influence."

"You wanna bet?" Alex asked, with the confident cockiness of a teenager.

+++

"It's out of the question," Skinner snapped.

"It's a good offer, Walter. The best you're going to get," the Director replied.

"I know...but that's not the point. What about the boy?"

"He's not a boy, Walter. He's a man. A man *you* were perfectly happy to execute six weeks ago and, between you and me, I think you were doing the world a favor. Take the offer."

"I get re-instated and then I resign? What's the point of that?" Skinner asked bitterly.

"The *point*, you stubborn fool, is that you get twenty years of pension benefits, a reference and a decent cash settlement. It's a hell of a lot better than an ignominious firing."

"And all I have to do in return is destroy that boy?"

"It's what he wants, Walter. It's what he's insisting on and since the Governor will do *anything* for his long-lost son you may as well take advantage of the offer. You're not the only one who can tell Mikhail Pryslata about Alex Krycek, but for some reason he wants *you* to do it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. He's going to find out anyway, maybe the knowledge will 'destroy' him but there's no reason you have to go down with him. I don't understand your hesitation. You were prepared to kill him but you can't spend a few weeks explaining why?"

"He's not Krycek. He's an innocent boy in a man's body who doesn't even seem capable of imagining the things Krycek did, let alone emulating them. Like he says himself, half his life has been stolen from him. He's missed out on his childhood, he's lost any chance to ever have a normal life but at least he's got a fresh slate, a chance to start again. You want me to wipe that chance away and give him memories that will haunt him  for the rest of his life?"

"It's not what I want, Walter. It's what he wants and he *will* get what he wants. Mulder has already expressed his willingness to educate Mikhail on the life and times of Alex Krycek."

"I can imagine," Skinner replied dryly.

"So, as you can see, your acceptance of the offer would be advisable in all respects."

Skinner nodded glumly.

+++

"So you were my supervisor in the FBI?"

"For a short time," Skinner agreed, staring out at the reddened sky that cast a golden hue over the ebbing tide. It seemed anomalous to be dealing with such ugly memories in such a beautiful setting but it was Misha who had insisted that his 'education' took place in this remote beach-house. He'd explained it had been his favorite of his parents' houses as he grew up. The Pryslatas owned the whole cove which ensured the privacy of their location. It was one-story house that made few physical demands on Mikhail's still healing body, and his doctors had agreed that the sea air and the sunny beach would benefit his recovery.

Blazszczyn had explained to Skinner that although Mikhail's parents had strenuously objected to the idea of their son staying with the man who had tried to murder him, Mikhail's doctors had convinced them that the level of stress their son was suffering over his missing memories was far more potentially dangerous than Skinner might be. So, once Skinner had signed on the dotted line and had collected all the files Mulder had compiled on Krycek, he'd found himself driven to a remote beach property on the West Coast. They weren't alone in the house. There was a full-time nurse in attendance and a live-in housekeeper, but both women were discrete enough that he *felt* as though he was alone with Mikhail and that sparked feelings and memories that Skinner wasn't yet prepared to face.

Mikhail threw down his FBI personnel file in disgust. "This is all crap," he announced.

"They created a complete false identity for you," Skinner agreed. "It was flawless enough for you to get into Quantico, and there's still a lot of people who are panicking about how easily they circumvented all of the FBI's background checks."

"I can imagine," Mikhail laughed. Then he frowned thoughtfully. "Surely the only way it could have been done is if people *inside* the FBI were involved?"

"Hence the level of panic," Skinner agreed. "It didn't help that the files about *you* reappeared on our computer immediately after I shot you. You were still in the ambulance on the way to the ER when suddenly all the whistles and klaxons blew in the Hoover as the computer suddenly made the connection between Krycek's fingerprints and Mikhail Pryslata's."

"So someone deliberately had buried *my* file up until then?"

"Yes."

"And what? They suddenly felt guilty about it?"

Skinner swallowed heavily and stared at the ebbing tide until he couldn't put off answering any longer.

"The car park was under surveillance. Whoever released the information saw me shoot you and assumed you were dead. They didn't release your identity to help you. They did it to bury me."

"Oh," Mikhail whispered, his face paling. "I see."

"But then you survived, so it didn't go quite as they planned, did it?" Skinner said briskly, unable to look at the misery in the younger man's face.

"It's weird," Mikhail whispered. "You trying to kill me. Someone seeing my death as nothing more than a convenient way to destroy *you*. I don't understand any of this."

"Neither do I, Misha. Neither do I."

"So what happened? Why did you realize I was this double-agent?"

"I didn't. It was Mulder who discovered you were a plant. He found cigarette butts in your car."

"And that's illegal now? Shit. I've woken up in hell."

Skinner couldn't help laughing at the outraged confusion on Mikhail's face.

"Smoking isn't illegal but *you* didn't smoke," he explained. "Besides, they were Morleys and that was the brand the smoker always used."

"The smoker?"

"Someone very high up in the consortium, which was a...well, a shadow-government I suppose you'd call it. You can read about them in the files."

"Seems to me that's a huge leap," Mikhail complained. "I mean if it's a *brand*, millions of people presumably smoke them. Anyway, how did Mulder *know* this guy smoked Morleys?"

Skinner frowned.

"What?" Mikhail demanded.

"He's seen the same butts in my office," Skinner muttered.

"Hang on a minute. You knew this smoker guy?"

"He was very well placed in our own government and had an enviable ability to keep himself untouchable. I was under orders to obey him. I never trusted him but it took me a long time to prove he was dirty."

"So at the time Mulder found out *I* was possibly working for this smoker, *you* were also working for him?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"So how come *I* was a bad guy, huh? I mean I worked for you. You worked for him. But somehow I was dirty and you weren't?" Mikhail demanded.

"It's more complicated than that."

"It must be, 'cos the way I see it you sold me out."

"What?"

But Mikhail rose and walked out of the room. After a few minutes, Skinner followed him but the younger man had locked himself in his bedroom and refused to come out.

+++

The next morning, when Skinner knocked tentatively at Mikhail's door it swung open to reveal an empty room. He looked all around the house, then finally looked down the beach and saw the younger man was sitting by the water's edge, staring out at the horizon. He snatched a blanket from a cupboard, walked down the sand and wrapped the blanket around the thin shoulders.

"Thanks," Mikhail mumbled, without turning his head away from the waves.

"You okay?"

"You care?"

Skinner shrugged. "If you die of pneumonia, that bastard Blazszczyn will have me charged with Man2."

"If you're lucky," Mikhail sniggered. "I reckon he'd demand MurderOne. Opportunity, intent..."

"Pneumonia doesn't fit the criteria for murder by a deadly weapon," Skinner replied.

"It does if it's a typical MO."

"What do you mean?"

"You once handcuffed me all night on a freezing balcony, Mr. Skinner. I'd say that establishes a pattern of behavior, wouldn't you?"

Skinner spun around, grasped Mikhail's shoulder and shook him violently.

"That isn't in any fucking file, you bastard!"

"Fuck," Mikhail wailed, his right hand leaping up to press against his forehead as the shaking sent a wave of agony his still bruised brain. Seeing the obvious pain in the younger man's eyes, Skinner released him and pulled back, guilt now warring with his anger.

"You hurt me," Mikhail whimpered. "You promised my parents you wouldn't hurt me."

For a moment the child-like statement disarmed Skinner, then his doubts flooded back in to drown his feelings of guilt.

"How the hell do you know about the balcony. What else do you remember, *Alex*?" he growled.

"I don't remember it," Mikhail spat, rubbing his pounding forehead fretfully. "Agent Mulder told me about it."

"He did? Why? When?"

"He...he came to see me in the hospital. He seemed, well he seemed pissed off that you were going to be coming here with me. Said I was still a 'manipulative, blackmailing little bastard' and that it would serve me right if you finished the job you'd started. Then...then he told me that the last time I'd stayed with you under a truce you'd punched me in the gut and chained me outside all night like a dog."

"I did," Skinner admitted. "I...I was angry with you."

"No, shit," Mikhail spat. "Is that how the FBI deal with informants these days?"

"You weren't there as an informant. You were setting Mulder up. It was all a double-blind."

"And you knew that when you hit me?" Mikhail challenged.

Skinner flushed. "I suspected it."

"Fucking fascist!"

"What?"

"Unless a hell of a lot changed while I was 'away', aren't I supposed to be assumed innocent until 'proven' guilty?"

"You don't understand."

"So make me."

"Look, Mikhail. I don't know what you're hoping to prove by all this. You *were* a spy. You *were* an assassin. It wasn't your fault and no-one, including me, is blaming you for what happened, so what's the point of all this?"

Mikhail struggled to his feet and threw the blanket in Skinner's face.

"I'll tell you the 'point'. I'm lying there in this hospital bed, being told some guy put three bullets in me, and all I can think of is why? Why would someone hate me that much. Why would someone feel they had to put me down like a dog? And all I can figure is that I must have been evil, you know? And it doesn't matter how many people say it's not *my* fault. It was *me*. This body. This fucked up, mutilated body that I've got to live inside for the rest of my fucking life and I want to know WHY. 

"But you know something? I don't get it. I've read the files about 'me'. I've read all the suspicions, all the doubts about what I did. I even accept that no-one invented Alex Krycek for any *good* reasons, so maybe I *did* do some of that stuff. Maybe I *did* kill Mulder's father. Maybe I did set him up. Maybe, just maybe, I did everything you *think* I did. Only, that wasn't all I did, was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I fed you stuff, didn't I? I helped you, both of you. I even saved that Agent Scully when that, that replicant thing came after her, 'cept I don't believe *that* crap, but still, I did, didn't I?"

"You did," Skinner admitted.

"And even though I don't know why I did it, I screwed the same consortium that you said I was working for, didn't I? I sold 'em out to you. Seems to me I *tried* several times to come over to your side."

"Perhaps," Skinner allowed.

"And that X guy was offing people like it was going out of fashion, but Mulder never smacked him round the face, did he? And Mulder's dad...the guy I supposedly shot...turns out he was one of *them* too, so excuse me for being stupid but was offing him such a fucking *bad* thing?"

"'Offing' anyone, as you so quaintly put it, is always a bad thing," Skinner snarled.

"Like you offing me?" Mikhail spat, then turned and began to walk up the beach towards the house.

Skinner surged to his feet, raced after the younger man and spun him around to face him.

"You killed *me*, you little punk."

"What?" Mikhail gasped, blinking uncertainly at the all too alive man glowering in his face.

Instead of answering, Skinner took a tighter grip on his arm and half-pulled, half-dragged him up to the house. He manhandled him down on the couch, then he strode over to where his locked briefcase was resting by the wall and retrieved a sheaf of papers.

"You wont find this in the files and I don't care to discuss it with you. Just read the damn thing, *then* tell me Alex Krycek didn't deserve to die," Skinner spat, throwing the papers in Mikhail's lap, grabbing a bottle of scotch from the bar and then storming out of the room towards the porch.

+++

His plan was to get drunk but, for some reason, his body wouldn't co-operate. Every time he took a sip of the amber liquid, his eyes would sting in reaction and then he'd find his eyes watering so hard that the next attempt to swallow made him choke.

The sun slowly  began to set, until he was shivering in the evening breeze that blew off the sea but feeling too tired and miserable to rise and enter the warmth of the house. He could hear the far off chattering of the housekeeper and the nurse as they prepared supper, the lashing rhythm of the waves and the occasional sound of some wind chimes catching in the breeze, but it was only when the veranda door opened behind him that he realized the only sound he'd been waiting for was Alex.

Mikhail, he reminded himself furiously. It's Mikhail, not Alex. Alex is dead. You killed him.

For a long time all he could hear was Mikhail's soft breathing and then, in Alex's husky voice, Mikhail finally spoke.

"I read the file. I know about the nanocytes, about what I did to you. I'm sorry."

"Sorry," Skinner spat bitterly, taking another gulp of whisky.

"In answer to your question, though. No, Alex Krycek *didn't* deserve to die," Mikhail announced.

"What?" Skinner roared, jumping to his feet.

Mikhail flinched but held his head up proudly, his green eyes glinting defiantly.

"I hurt you. I'm sorry for that. I killed you. I'm sorry for that too. But I brought you back to life, didn't I? Why did I do that, Mr. Skinner? "

"I don't know. Maybe because you wanted to torture me some more? Maybe because you enjoyed killing me so much you decided you'd like to do it again sometime?" Skinner asked, his voice bitter.

"Or maybe because I was sorry?" Mikhail suggested. "Maybe because, whatever *they* did to me, to Alex, I wasn't ever a killer?"

"What?"

"You know something? I read this article in hospital. It was about hypnosis. My mom brought it in. She thought maybe I could get my memories back that way." He gave a low laugh. "At that point she wanted to try anything except letting me talk to *you*."

"I can imagine," Skinner replied dryly.

"Anyway, it turns out that people under hypnosis can't be made to do anything they wouldn't do by nature. I mean, if someone isn't a killer, you can't actually make them pull a trigger."

"Your point being?"

"I don't think Alex ever killed *anyone*. That tram operator, his body was never found was it?"

"No," Skinner admitted.

"And I never had the time or opportunity to get rid of him, so even if I *did* knock him out, someone else had to have been there too."

"An accomplice."

"Yeah, and you said yourself that this Cardinale guy shot Melissa Scully and it was *his* gun that killed Bill Mulder, so chances are I never killed *him* either."

"Agreed," Skinner nodded.

"In fact, considering Alex Krycek was supposed to be this great assassin, it seems weird to me that he always got sent on jobs with an accomplice. Assassins work alone, don't they?"

"As a rule."

"So, the way I see it, I was always being nursemaided, wasn't I? Like *they* knew I wasn't really a killer."

"Why? Why the hell use you if you were only there as window-dressing?" Skinner demanded.

Mikhail shrugged.

"I dunno, but maybe it was because of who I am. How many times did you or Agent Mulder nearly kill me or at least feel tempted to kill me? Or, even if you'd just arrested me, I might have died in a cell or something. Whatever the scenario, they always were ready to drop the bombshell that I was really Governor Pryslata's son. I was just bait, Mr. Skinner. That's all I ever was. A ticking bomb just waiting to blow you or Mulder up. I'd die, either at your hands or in your custody and the fall-out would take you *and* Mulder down."

"It's a pretty theory, Mikhail, but you *did* kill me, remember?"

"It doesn't count."

"It doesn't count?" Skinner roared, his face darkening with outrage.

Mikhail spread his arms in a gesture of appeasement.

"I don't mean it doesn't matter, just that it didn't count. If I *knew* I could bring you back to life, and let's face it I obviously did, then I wouldn't have had a problem obeying the order to kill you, would I? So it doesn't contradict my theory, does it?"

"Perhaps," Skinner allowed reluctantly. "Or perhaps this is just your way of being able to deal with the fact you were Alex.  I can live with that if you can. Like I said, it's over now. Alex is dead. You need to move on with your life."

"And you? How are you going to move on with *your* life, Mr. Skinner?"

"What do you mean?" Skinner demanded.

Mikhail moved forwards into Skinner's personal space. Skinner shivered and took a step backwards.

"What's the problem, Mr. Skinner?" Mikhail asked softly.

"Nothing," Skinner blurted, turning away.

"Then why won't you look at me?"

"It's late, Mikhail. Go to bed."

"I'm not a little boy, Mr. Skinner. Don't treat me like one."

"Yes you are. For all intents and purposes that's *exactly* what you are. Mentally you're sixteen years old, Mikhail."

"My body isn't sixteen, Mr. Skinner, and my head might be so fucked up I can't remember ever touching anyone but my body remembers."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's taken me a while and, at first, I kinda thought I just felt weird around you 'cos you were the guy who tried to kill me. So I figured that was why *you* never quite looked me in the eye. I *hoped* you were feeling guilty but sometimes I saw this look of intense regret in your eyes and it scared me. I assumed you wished you *had* killed me. I just...well, I just wanted to know *why* you hated me that much.

"But I was wrong, wasn't I? You don't even see me when you look at me that way. You see Alex. The regret is that you killed *him*, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Skinner grated, his voice rough.

"Of course it is. You loved him, didn't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You did," Mikhail insisted. "I know you did. It's the only thing that makes sense. Why the hell else did you pull the trigger that last time?"

Skinner glared at him, opened his mouth to deny the accusation, then span around and almost ran off the porch down to the beach below.

"You loved Alex Krycek, didn't you?" Mikhail screamed, chasing after Skinner and dragging at his arm to halt him.

"Get your hands off me," Skinner growled.

"Tell me."

"It's none of your damned business."

Mikhail gaped at him then uttered a bark of incredulous laughter.

"None of my business? How the hell can you say that? You blast a hole in my fucking head because of some lover's tiff and say it's not my business?"

"You're not Alex," Skinner roared. "You're no more Alex than a replicant would be."

"There never was an Alex," Mikhail whispered. "He never existed. He was just the creation of the same bastards who made replicants and clones and every other abomination of this crazy war I can't hardly believe even happened. Alex Krycek was just a weapon aimed against you."

"No," Skinner denied. "He was more than that...sometimes. It wasn't often, and in the end I lost the faith to believe that *any* of it had ever been real, but sometimes in the beginning Alex was different. Sometimes the mask fell off and he was sweet and kind and loving." Skinner shook himself. "But that Alex never really existed."

"So you killed him. Not because you hated him, but because you loved him."

Skinner took a deep breath.

"Sometimes, when you love someone, when you really, really love someone, you'd rather see them die than see them become something you loathe. When...when Billy Miles was coming after me, when Alex didn't hold the door of the lift, when he looked me straight in the eye and left me to die, *that's* when I knew the Alex I loved had gone forever. I couldn't bear it. I...I looked into his face, a face I loved, and all I saw was a monster."

"Or maybe you just saw Alex. Maybe that's all Alex *ever* was. Maybe when you saw beneath the mask, maybe when you saw the softness, maybe that was always me."

"You?"

"Why not? Doesn't that make more sense than anything else? Maybe it was always me you saw when you looked beneath his surface. Maybe I was always there, trapped inside, and only you could see me. Maybe it was always *me* who loved you."

"Loved me?"

Mikhail's hand slipped down Skinner's arm until he could grab his hand, then he pressed it against his groin.

"Feel me, Walter. Feel what you do to me. Just standing next to you, just looking at you, you make my body crazy. I can't remember you. I can't remember touching you, but I just have to step close to your body and my cock feels like it's going to explode."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it fucking means something. You aren't that fucking attractive, Walter Skinner, and you sure as hell don't look like any of the girls I used to have wet dreams about."

"Girls?"

"Yeah. I tell you, that was one weird wake-up call. One day I'm sixteen years old dreaming about getting my rocks off with Mary-Sue Straussman, the next day I wake up and I'm jerking off to the thought of some bald guy with glasses who apparently shot me in the fucking head. That's when I knew my brains had been scrambled. I'm lying there in my hospital bed trying to figure out what's more scary, waking up gay or the fact I had a hard-on for the guy who'd tried to kill me."

"Alex..." Skinner whispered, then jerked back, shaking his head in shock. "I'm sorry."

Mikhail shrugged and gave a crooked grin.

"It's okay. I was Alex Krycek for fourteen years and although I don't remember the guy I really don't have a problem with him. He did the best he could with the little he'd got. Besides, whatever he got wrong, he sure had good taste."

Skinner watched, wide-eyed, as Mikhail unzipped his jacket. He wasn't wearing anything underneath and his firmly muscled skin glistened, reflecting the golden rays of the setting sun.

"Ale...Mischa...I...I..can't do this," Skinner croaked, as Mikhail began to unsnap the buttons of his jeans to reveal the dark hair of his groin.

"Sure you can," he grinned, wriggling his hips so that his jeans began to slide lower. "You signed the deal, took the offer. It's too late to back out now."

"I came here to help you with your memory," Skinner growled, although the power of his protest was weakened by the all-too prominent bulge in his own trousers.

"Exactly," Mikhail smirked, as his jeans puddled around his ankles. He ran a finger along his own rigid cock, paused to touch it against the glistening head, then raised the finger to his lips and licked experimentally at his own taste. "Help me out here, big guy. I can't remember what to do next."

He cocked his head to one side, fluttering his lashes coyly at the older man, and smirked.

"Alex," Skinner breathed. "Is it really you?"

Mikhail's smile slipped and he chewed on his lower lip, his green eyes suddenly shadowed with uncertainty.

"I...I *want* to be your Alex. Can't that be enough?" he pleaded.

And something gave in Skinner at the sad, hopeful words. He stared at the younger man, at the strange mix of innocence and wantoness, at the beautiful face that was Alex and yet not Alex, and he closed his eyes and gave thanks to a God who'd given him another chance, who'd given Alex another chance and, as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms protectively around the younger man, he made a silent promise on the setting sun that he wouldn't ever allow Alex to be hurt again.

"More than enough," he breathed, leaning forward to kiss the dark scar on Mikhail's temple. "More than I ever dreamed of. More than I ever deserved."

The End.