Tim walked out of the bathroom wearing nought but his black leather jeans, his hair wet and spiky, brought up short as a cross bow bolt flew past his chest and embedded itself deeply in the foam target beside him. Tim reacted with on of his more arch po faced looks. "Sorry," Mosley flustered slightly, lowering his crossbow. "I didn't hear you. I was just indulging in a bit of target practice. " "So I see." Tim took note of the collection of holes clustered around and inside the black centre. He'd have never have guessed Mos was a crack shot. But Mos always surprised him. That's what he liked about him. "Sorry," Mosley apologised again. "It's okay, Mos. I trust you." "Really?" Mosley's innocent happiness morphed into sly challenge. "How much do you trust me." "What do you mean?" Tim asked, throwing his damp towel on to the back of a nearby chair. Mosley picked up an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and tossed it to him. Tim caught it and stared at it. "Prove it."