A Hollow Man

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men.
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

A prince of darkness.

The son of the devil.

He had heard the soft whispers behind his back, felt the wary eyes follow him and he knew that most men were certain that sooner or later he would prove himself his father's son.

If he had still been able to smile he would have done so. The word father conjured up images of love, of warmth and caring. He had had neither from the man whose DNA he had inherited and who once had shared his mother's bed; the man who had given him life and taken everything else from him in return.

Jeffrey Spender strode through high-ceilinged, enormous rooms, his steps echoing against the parquet and the priceless paneling of the walls.

Steps muffled by the thick red carpet, he crossed the vast expanse of the library. Like every other room it was a place of beauty and serenity where priceless art by Van Gogh and Monet framed the leather-bound first editions on the shelves.

Reaching up to take out a collection of Thomas Paine's essays, the rich scent of leather and aged paper wafted from the opened book. It fell open naturally, as if the previous owner had turned often to that particular page. "Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated."

Jeffrey Spender slowly closed the page, the fiery immortal words of defiance burning like salt in an open wound. He was not the stuff of which heroes were made and he had accepted that a long time ago. All he'd ever wanted was law and order - and the sanity of his mother. He had been given his wish, yet, like an ancient curse, the price paid had been too high. The world, like his mother, dying in shrieking agony and madness, sacrificed by his father in his insane quest for power.

Unable to read any more of the shabby brilliant, angry man who had defied his own people and country to defend his ideals, Jeffrey Spender left the house, crossing the immaculate lawn with the exquisite flowerbeds that surrounded the mansion he inhabited. A soft breeze bore on its cool wings the slow musical whisper of water, and the soft melodious hum of wind chimes moving in the air. Everywhere around him there was beauty and harmony. Here, he had created his own small corner of paradise. Here, he could close his eyes and dream.

Here he could pretend for a few moments that the world was still as it should be and that he was still Special Agent Jeffrey Spender. A smile whispered across his lips for a moment as he relished the thought - just another FBI agent, sharing bad coffee and worse jokes with his colleagues - a nobody, and quite content with being one. He had never felt the need or desire to set the world on fire or to blaze across the skies with the brightness of a comet. All he had ever asked for, or wanted, was a quiet purpose in life, that, and the knowledge that what he did was good and right.

Alone in his garden, he could delude himself that his paradise did not float in hell. Or that outside the walls, hidden by the flowering wisteria, there was nothing but darkness and despair.

"Jeffrey."

The voice was an intrusion in the silence that enveloped and protected him. Only one man would dare to trespass so rudely.

Slowly he stood up. "I am here, father," he said calmly.

He trod heavily towards his son, uncaring feet crushing the delicate flowers beneath them. An old man, ancient in evil. "Where have you been, boy?" The voice was irritated, curt, subtly accusing the son of all his failings.

Once, that would have troubled the son. Once, he had striven to please the man watching him with irritation and contempt.

"I have been here," he replied in his soft, dead voice. "Won't you sit down? Can I get you anything? Perhaps you would like a cold drink?" The offer was made with an empty, meaningless politeness.

An irritated wave of a wrinkled hand was the reply. "I want nothing. You were supposed to attend the Assembly. Instead I find you here, doing god knows what."

"I was contemplating the flowers, Father." He turned his face to the sun, searching again for that place inside where there were no feelings, no memories only frozen darkness. Yet, he could not completely repress a tiny flicker of pleasure at the flash of anger, the heavy sigh of disgust this man who had sired him could not hide.

"You always were weak, boy!" the old man muttered. "Just like your mother."

"Leave her out of this," a soft voice edging into steel warned.

A grunt. "Well, at least you have some spine."

"Not the kind that is of any use to you."

He tilted a slender neck, and empty brown met cold blue. "We are of one blood, you and I," Jeffrey Spender thought. "And I would give anything I possess to deny it."

He knew what the older man saw - a slim, pale-skinned man, a failure, a useless weakling. For a moment he wanted to cry out; "I am what you made me."

"You're a fool, boy." The old man's rough voice grated against the fragile beauty of their surroundings. "You spend your life dreaming, doing nothing! There are still things to do, decisions to be made, and you're my son."

"That wasn't my choice," was the quiet reply. "Leave me alone, father. I want nothing to do with your New Order."

His father stared at him for a moment. There was anger, and derision, even dislike in the pale eyes. But for a moment there was also a flicker of something close to bewilderment. "Why not, Jeffrey?" he asked with seemingly genuine curiosity. "You can have anything you want, you know. We are discussing the formation of a new world, and I find you here digging in the earth."

Jeffrey Spender looked up and in his eyes there was nothing but cold, tired hatred. "Can you give me my mother back? Can you turn the clock back, make the aliens disappear?" He ignored his father's answer, standing up and turning his back he knelt down to examine a rose bush. "Go away," he spoke over his shoulder. "I don't want to talk to you any more."

There was a moment's silence and then a harsh order; "Be at the Assembly next week when it reconvenes."

He wanted to ask; "what if I don't?" But when he turned around his father was already gone. Bending forward he closed his eyes, letting the heady sweet smell of earth and grass and roses warmed by the sun, surround and soothe him.

He knew his father was right. All the others who had survived to rise to power were busy building up their territories, consolidating, allying and intriguing. He alone of them was content to simply drift silently through life, occupied with nothing more important than collecting exotic plants and flowers and laying out his gardens. He simply existed as a still, remote shade, living but not alive.

After a lonely dinner, perfectly cooked and flawlessly served by silent, well-trained slaves, he stood for a long time by the window in his library, watching the last rays of the setting sun. There were times, like tonight when the need to be alone with his memories drove him to reject all human company, even those of his slaves.

He felt curiously diminished by the opulence of his surroundings, the priceless paintings on the walls, the heavy silk and brocade of the curtains. Hands behind his back, he lost himself in memories, oblivious to the lengthening shadows and falling darkness.

Later, in his sleep, the dreams came again.

They always began the same; a white house, the leaves of autumn carpeting the grass, himself on the swing, laughing in delight as his mother pushed it higher and higher.... Then she was gone, and his mouth opened in a soundless scream as his vision filled with his father, a lined face and icy eyes... the barrel of a gun, trained at him... his father's face without expression, without mercy... his world exploded in dark pain.

"No, no, no!" he moaned, sweat dampening the fine linen sheets. He knew what was coming next, and yet he was helpless to prevent the horror.

His mother, screaming, screaming until her throat was raw and her voice nothing but a harsh sob, himself on his knees beside her, helpless to do anything but watch in horror as she writhed in insane agony and begged him again and again to kill her, to let her die....

Tears streaming down his face, Jeffrey Spender blindly reached into his pocket, fingers tightening around smooth metal. When he pulled it out, the light reflected off the smooth surface and he was reminded of the night he had first seen the strange instrument, of the night when a man in black had showed him how to kill with it. It was the night when his world fell apart and he realized that everything he had ever believed in was a lie.

At the first touch of the cold metal against her skin, Cassandra Spender stilled. There was, far too late, sanity in the brown eyes that met his. Sanity and the mother who bandaged his knees when he fell, who read him bed-time stories, who held him when he cried and sent him to his room without dinner when he'd been naughty.

"I love you Jeff," she whispered.

"I love you too, Mom," he said steadily, closed his eyes and pressed the small catch. The jerk reverberated through both of them, and when she slackened in his grip, her hand suddenly limp, her spirit fled, it took with it his sanity.

They found him on the floor, rocking his mother, singing an old nursery song, eyes blank and empty; His father's men, sent to protect his father's flesh. They brought him *somewhere.* A place of dark gray rooms, and men in white coats who whispered to each other over his head.

In the end he regained his sanity, or at least he was judged no longer insane. He emerged into the world, he walked, he talked, he felt the sun on his face, but inside he was nothing but a gaping void. Everything that had once made him Jeffrey Spender was gone. All the little fears, hopes, joys and sorrows that make a man human.

He looked at the man who was his father and felt none of the former dread, no awe, just... indifference.

By the time he had recovered enough to become aware of what had happened, it was too late. The Day had come and gone. The world was re-made in his father's mold.

With returning sanity came the knowledge that by the simple fact of being his father's son he had betrayed all he had ever believed in. The men and women, who had been his friends, whom he had laughed with, argued with, played with were all gone. He never tried to discover if anyone he had known in his old life had survived. It was enough to see the bent and broken remains of humanity groveling in the dirt before his father and his allies. It was enough to know that his father had betrayed his humanity to gift the earth to his alien masters.

He had been told that as a reward for his treason, his father now ruled a good portion of the earth. That he, himself, would be called Lord Spender, Master, that he owned other people. He, who had once cried at the words on the Declaration of Independence; 'rule by the people, for the people, of the people...' Who still could not read the Constitution without a shiver of awe. Who had *believed* as deeply in the law as Fox Mulder believed in conspiracy theories and aliens.

It was true irony that Mulder had been proved right and he wrong. That the man whom he had long thought insane had, in the end, proved to be the sanest of them all.

If he had still had feelings, he would have been terrified by the ease and speed with which he had adjusted. How swiftly it became natural to command where once he had asked. To see the men and women he owned, not as humans, but as numbers and living machines.

Once or twice he had felt a stir of something: watching Dana Scully on the television. She was caught by a surveillance camera commanding a raid, the grainy black and white film showed her holding a gun, firing, eyes blazing with icy hatred.

The only other time he felt even the resemblance of emotion was the day he was told he had a brother. The fact that Fox Mulder, his old nemesis and enemy was his half-brother sparked a small ember of interest.

He had a brother.

He had always thought he was alone, yet here was the beginnings of a new family. Unfortunately, Fox Mulder was one of the most prominent members of the Human Resistance fighting desperately against everything that Jeffrey Spender represented. He knew that Mulder was far more likely to greet him with a bullet in the head than an embrace of brotherly love.

A week later, as his father had instructed and too apathetic to resist the order, he attended the Assembly, watching in weary silence as the current speaker droned on endlessly.

It had been another of those ironies he wished he could smile over, that the New Order had decided to set up its government on the ruins of the old. That the buildings that had once housed the representatives of the greatest democracy on earth, were now the property of the human renegades who had replaced them. The buildings had been re-built, added to and torn down as needed. The Assembly convened on Capitol Hill, and his father's house had once been the home of the man they'd called 'the most powerful man in the world.'

Every time he walked up the stairs inside the building, which was still white, he saw the faded patches where the portraits had hung. He wondered at times, if the men who had once hung there, knew what had happened to the land they had fought and bled and died for. He could only hope not.

Looking around now, he saw the bored, distracted faces of the men surrounding him. Men like himself, who had sprung from obscurity into power and command. He hardly knew any of them, nor did he have any wish to. He assumed they were former members of the Consortium. This was what they had worked and killed for all those years. He also knew they regarded him with thinly disguised contempt. He was here, not because of what he'd done or sacrificed, but because of who he was. Or, more accurately, who his father was.

Finally, his patience stretched thin, he rose abruptly, and left. No eyes watched him go. He was, as he had always been, a cipher.

He was blind to the beauty of the magnificent gardens newly laid out and created as he walked briskly down an immaculate path the smooth gravel crunching beneath his heels. He was so deep in thought he never noticed the old gardener, crawling on his knees, weeding one of the flowerbeds until he stumbled over him. He only saved himself at the last minute, but not without inadvertedly digging his shoe into the ribs of the kneeling man. A soft, involuntary cry of pain had him looking down.

"What are you doing, you idiot?!" he exclaimed, annoyed.

"Forgive me, master," the man pleaded softly, head bent. "I did not mean to be in your way." The straw hat he'd been wearing as protection against the sun, slipped and fell, revealing thinning white hair and wrinkled skin stained with liver spots.

Pathetically thin hands, trembling uncontrollably, scrabbled at the hat. "Please, do not tell the overseer," the man begged and, greatly daring, lifted deep-set brown eyes to look at the young man who, with a single word, could have him killed.

"Yes, yes, all right," Spender agreed impatiently, irritated at the interruption and the pathetic imploring. "Just, go about your work."

It wasn't until he'd gone some way that he finally realized where he'd seen the man before. Professor Jonathan Branson, the world renowned Dean of Harvard Law, expert in human rights and a man as famous for his compassion and the pro bono work he did, as for his intellect and knowledge.

Heart pounding, he felt a rush of unaccustomed emotion. Useless though it was, he wanted to go back, to apologize to a man who was his superior in everything bar the accident of blood. There was something close to shame at seeing a once good, no, great, man degraded and humiliated. But, when he had finally gathered the courage to turn around, the old man was gone.

Jeffrey Spender bent his head and closed his eyes. When had he become what he hated? When had he lost his last shred of humanity? Moving again, he walked faster and faster in a futile attempt to out-pace his memories.

Once again he did not see the dark man, sitting on the bench, hidden from view by the lush foliage of the arbor, until he was almost on top of him. This time however, it was not just another sorry slave, this was a man to respect, perhaps even fear.

"I'm sorry," he said, startled, "I didn't realize you were here. Do you want me to leave?"

Alex Krycek shook his head briefly. Jeffrey Spender realized a little ruefully that he had been seen, assessed and dismissed by the other man in the swiftness of a single moment.

"No, stay if you want, I don't mind." There was no inflection in the husky voice as he returned to his silent contemplating.

Spender hesitated briefly. He had never liked Alex Krycek, not when the man had been an assassin and thief, not when he'd emerged as one of the most powerful and enigmatic of all the new rulers. As always, there was a creeping, cold, unease at the sight of those shuttered green eyes and the boyishly pretty face.

He himself was cursed with looking younger than he was. And the slight, somewhat awkward body did not help. Not one of Krycek's problems, he thought rather sourly recalling the deadly grace with which the former assassin moved.

What he did feel was that no one who had done what Krycek had, who had killed as many as he was sure the man had done, had the right to look as untouched by his life. Perhaps Alex Krycek, like Dorian Gray had a portrait hidden somewhere; a hideous scarred monstrosity that showed the true face of a fiend. The errant thought was almost enough to make him smile.

An uncomfortable strained silence fell between them. They had never been easy together. Two men, bound unwillingly by secrets, lies and treason.

The silence lengthened until, increasingly restless, Spender broke it. "I haven't seen you for a long time. Keeping busy?" He cursed himself for the ingratiating, unctuous tone. Then for one horrified moment, he thought Krycek would ignore him completely.

The other man only said calmly, "No, I've been visiting Europe, that's why you haven't seen me around."

"Oh, I see," Spender felt a thin trickle of sweat dampen his shirt. He didn't know why he should feel intimidated by this, this, *killer* he thought resentfully.

Krycek was eyeing him with mild curiosity. "I could say the same, Spender. One doesn't often see you at the Assembly."

"No, well, I'm not very interested in what they're doing here," he mumbled, looking down at his hands.

A hint of a smile, curled one corner of Krycek's mouth. "You're not interested in much, kid."

Spender swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly. "And don't call me kid," he added, hating the sullen tone he could hear in his voice. "You're not that much older than I am."

Krycek only lifted an eyebrow. "Youth isn't a matter of age alone." He suddenly laughed softly, "poor little Spender. You never believed in the aliens, or in any of Mulder's crazy theories. Must have been a brutal awakening." He pulled up a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket, lighting it with careless flick of a gold cigarette lighter, and slowly blew out a cloud of smoke.

Spender bit his lip. The smell of the smoke brought with it unwelcome associations. "I didn't know you smoked," he blurted out.

Krycek contemplated the glowing tip of his cigarette for a moment. "No reason you should."

Well, that put him in his place, Jeffrey thought ruefully. As he stared in silence at the other man, he found himself more than a little curious. It had been so long since he'd felt anything at all that he couldn't place the emotion at first. Krycek, as always, presented a smooth, impenetrable facade that no one, not even his father, had ever really managed to crack. That fact alone was enough to pique his interest.

Then too, this was the first time they had ever met alone. Usually, all he did was catch a glimpse of Krycek as he stood in the shadows, watching the never-ending ebb and flow of New Order society, malicious, ironic amusement shading enigmatic, green eyes. Krycek did not attend any more society functions than he had to, neither did Jeffrey Spender.

He wondered if he should leave, yet, something kept him there. A slowly unfurling need to share a moment with a man who would understand. Who shared his memories. Someone who would comprehend what he would say. Suddenly, instinctively, he knew the one thing that would penetrate Krycek's armor.

"Sometimes I feel, it wasn't about the colonizers, it wasn't even about the truth, it was all about Dana Scully," he said softly. "She was what bound us all together."

Krycek gave him a long look, eyes a degree sharper. "Did you - ?"

He broke off, and Spender finished. "... Have a thing for her? We all did, you know. Me, Pendrell, even Skinner."

"Walter Skinner?" There was genuine surprise.

"Oh yes, even our stony AD had it real bad. Of course, he would never do anything about it. Didn't you ever see him follow her with his eyes as she walked the corridors?" The look he gave Krycek was more than a little mocking. "Or were you too occupied following Mulder around like a puppy?"

For a moment, rage glittered. "Your brother you mean?"

Spender jerked and Krycek smiled in cold satisfaction.

"You bastard," but there was no heat in the words. "Never miss a chance to bury a knife in the back, do you?"

"Best way to stay alive. Learned that from your old man."

This time there was no anger. "Oh? I wouldn't have thought you'd need to learn it from mine, considering who your own is."

"Touché." Krycek stubbed out his cigarette and lit up another one.

But when he spoke again there was nothing but a faint amusement, as he asked, "What are you doing out here?"

Spender said drily. "They're inside discussing next month's festival. It's going to be a week of balls and receptions and parades." He saw Krycek's answering grimace.

"Oh joy."

"You said it." Spender finally sat down, folding his lanky body into the hardness of the stone. "I can't believe the time and trouble they spend discussing details."

"Small minds, seeking relief in small things."

"Is that a quote?"

"Yeah, Krycek, Alex."

They both smiled. The silence that fell between them this time was more comfortable.

"You ever think we'd end here?" Spender finally asked.

"You mean, masters of the world? Or servants to alien black goo?"

He glanced around nervously hearing Krycek's bland insouciance. "I would have put it a little more discreetly, but basically yes."

"Nope, I didn't."

Softly, Spender asked, "If you had known, would you still have made the same choices?" For some reason, Krycek had allowed him inside for a brief moment. This enigmatic, deadly killer, who everyone walked warily around. The one man lonelier than himself.

"Don't know. Maybe. Depends, really."

"On what?"

A moment's silence. "On Dana, I guess."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh indeed."

"I never could figure that out, why did you give her up?"

It had after all been a minor scandal, when it became known at FBI HQ that Dana 'ice queen' Scully, 'Mrs. Spooky', was living with Alex Krycek. There were numerous confused rumors flying about. One was that Krycek had gone under-cover, and the whole story of his betrayal and the warrant for his arrest was all a fake. He was even seen wandering around the halls of FBI wearing, not the cheap polyester suits and geeky hair, but black leather -- and an ever-present superior smirk.

Jeffrey Spender had avoided him. Their antipathy was as deep as it was mutual. They were two men who knew just a little too much about each other. Secrets neither could afford to reveal. Then it had finished as suddenly as it'd begun. Scully wearing a pair of shades, and more make-up than usual, lips even straighter than usual, would say nothing. Spender, like everyone else, had wondered what the hell had happened.

The quiet lengthened until he was sure Krycek wouldn't answer. Finally, the soft voice floated towards him through the falling dusk. "It wasn't a matter of choice. I thought it was the one way I could save her and myself."

The softness of the tone initially fooled him into thinking that he'd been mistaken, that Krycek didn't care. Abruptly, he saw that the very understatement screamed of emotion too heavy to bear. It spoke of a pain he had not thought Krycek capable of. He had believed that the other was like him; even in the old days Krycek had been ice cold, an efficient killing machine, without mercy or feeling. Now, he realized just how wrong he had been. For a moment, it was as if in discovering Krycek's passion, he was also re-discovering his own, a small piece of the wall he had built around himself cracking and fading.

Speaking so quietly, Spender had to lean forward to hear, Krycek said to himself. "I only wish that she would understand. I know she won't forgive."

Looking at him, Spender suddenly knew. "You still meet with her." It wasn't a question as some things suddenly began to fall into place. "And you feed the Resistance with information."

Krycek went still. His eyes suddenly shards of emerald, wary and guarded, but no sign of emotion crossed his face. "That's a pretty serious accusation, Lord Spender," he said pleasantly.

"I'm not going to say anything." He felt admiration, tinged with faint envy. He had thought that Alex Krycek like himself had given up, surrendered to the inevitable darkness. Yet, the assassin he had despised and disdained had surprised him. "Still keep a foot in each camp, eh, Krycek?"

The only response was a slight shrug. Answer enough, he supposed. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

An enigmatic expression flowed across the tanned, fine-boned face. "Fine. Alive." The smile was in his voice. "Angry as hell. At you, me, Mulder, the world. Take your pick."

"I've seen her on the broadcasts."

"Yeah, she's moving up the list fast. But then I never expected anything else." There was pain and pride in the quiet voice. "No half-measures for Dana."

"If she's caught, are you going to be able to protect her?"

Again there was a slightly startled silence, as if the other man hadn't been prepared for the question, and the emotion behind it. All he said however, was, "I don't know. I hope so. It depends on what she's caught doing. If it's just an ordinary raid I won't have any problems."

"I'm glad," he said simply, and he meant it. Abruptly he knew that it mattered, more than he would ever have suspected. That he honestly wanted Dana Scully to survive.

"You really wanted Dana?" Krycek asked suddenly.

"I more than wanted her, I think I loved her." Spender almost shrugged. "I guess a part of me still does."

"She's an easy woman to love and a hard woman to forget," the darker man said, a strange tone rippling through his voice.

"But at least you have some memories, all I have is..." his voice faded away as he felt a stab of unexpected hurt. The kind of wound that comes from impossible, never fulfilled dreams and hopes. "Nothing."

"Better than memories at times," Krycek said quietly. He threw away his half-smoked cigarette and lit a third one.

"Want to trade?" Spender asked with a small smile.

There was an answering glimmer of amusement, and then Krycek said, as if the memory of Dana Scully inevitably invoked the image of her partner. "You know, ever since he was captured, your father's been working on him. He is hoping to turn Mulder."

"The fact hasn't passed unnoticed, no," Spender said sardonically. "The old bastard may be many things, but subtle is not one of them. The question of course is, what will Mulder do." He glanced at Krycek.

"Don't look at me. I stopped trying to figure Mulder out ages ago. The man is a walking, talking disaster zone. God only knows how he stayed alive for as long as he has."

"God or the devil, you mean," Spender murmured with a dry irony.

"I take it this means no fatted calf for the prodigal brother, hmm?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't actually think I'd mind if Mulder became heir."

"You always did lack ambition, Jeffrey." But there was no mockery, just a calm observation.

"Yeah. I'm like Ferdinand."

"Who?"

"You know, Ferdinand the bull, the Walt Disney character? The one who just wants to be left in peace to smell the flowers." He tugged absently at his hair. "I never asked for this. I never asked to be born his son, or to be a lord of whatever remains of the world. I never wanted power, this," his hands swept out across their surroundings. "All I wanted was an ordinary, boring, life." A slight smile twisted his lips. "Well, as boring as it gets, working for the FBI."

"You must have been a sad disappointment to your father," Krycek murmured.

"Why are you so hung up about him, Alex?" Spender asked with genuine curiosity. The intimacy of the name startled both of them.

Yet Krycek seemed to take the question seriously. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe because of the number of times he's tried to kill me," a faint ironic smile curled his mouth, "maybe because of the number of times I've tried to kill him. Maybe so I won't have to think too much about my own family."

He studied Krycek for a moment. "I've heard the rumors and the questions. Why do you persist in staying here, in North America? Your power base is in Russia and Europe. There really is nothing here for you." He paused. "Apart for a former FBI agent that is."

"Apart from that, yes," Krycek agreed calmly.

"Jesus," Spender shook his head. "That's fucking amazing."

"What is?"

"Scully. Mulder would sacrifice his life, and you a world, for her." There was envy, not at the two men who held her heart, but at the depth of their emotion, at something that would always be beyond him.

Amusement glittered in dark-green eyes. "Ask yourself. What would you do if she loved you?"

That silenced him. "I don't know," he finally said slowly, "whatever it took to keep her safe and alive."

Humor turned into something darker. "If you did, she'd soon start hating you. That's the price you pay, Spender, for Dana's love. You have to open your hands and let her go free. Even if it means her death. Mulder knows that, so do I. Doesn't mean we like it. But," the sudden smile was soft - tender, he hadn't known that Krycek could be gentle. "Believe me, it's worth it."

Accepting he wouldn't be able to go home soon, Spender resigned himself to another long night of speeches and discussions. At least it was better than the endless round of parties and dinners which made up the social life, and which he hated with a passion.

This night however, things seemed different, more serious for one. Standing at the back of the chamber, not eager to take his place, he listened absently with half an ear to ever more speakers, when he felt someone coming up behind him.

"They're discussing carving up the world into feudal fiefdoms," Krycek said in his ear.

He turned his head, faintly surprised to see the other man so soon again and, from the raised eyebrows of the men around him, he wasn't the only one who noticed.

Alex Krycek walked alone, as solitary as a wolf lost from his pack. He neither asked for nor ever gave friendship. Yet, here he was, by Jeffrey Spender's side. More than one man took note and wondered at the odd alliance. More than one man coldly assessed the potential power of such an affiliation.

"They're what?" Spender asked.

Sardonic amusement glimmered, as Krycek glanced at the men debating. "You haven't studied your history, Spender. After the glory of the Roman Empire and Greek civilization, Europe descended into darkness. Otherwise known as the middle ages." His voice took on a mock-lecturing tone, "Although feudalism was an enormous social and political catastrophe, and a hell of an effective impediment to technological progress in Europe, we still romanticize it more than almost any other period in history. Fair damsels in distress and brave knights fighting monsters. Didn't you ever play Dungeons&Dragons?"

A slight flush stained the pale face. "Once or twice," the younger man admitted. "So, what exactly does this mean?"

Krycek leaned against one of the stone pillars, crossing his arms. "Basically, that we all," another sardonic smile, "receive very large grants of land, including towns, and people, over which we have absolute rule. High justice, Spender, the power of life and death. Doesn't it turn you on?"

"Not as much as it does you," Spender returned coolly.

Krycek stared at him for a moment, and then chuckled softly. "Ah, I think the kitten is growing claws." He shrugged. "No, it doesn't do anything for me, although I think some of our distinguished colleagues may go a little crazy. And above us will be the big poobah himself, your esteemed sire. Or whatever title he wants to give himself. He'll rule here, hold court, and we'll all come and bow now and then. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it?"

"It sounds like a disaster," Spender said bluntly. "My God Krycek, this is going to - "

"Destroy civilization? Set mankind back thousands of years? Leave us defenseless against the aliens? I think that's the whole point of it, Spender."

Even dressed as he was in an elegant suit, hair neatly and carefully cut and tousled, Krycek looked dangerous, hidden in shadows. Only that sarcastic amusement lightened him. "You'll be some sort of duke or prince at least," he added. "Hmm... Prince Spender? Nah, doesn't sound right."

"Just as right as Duke Krycek," Spender responded dryly. They stared at each other, and suddenly smiles were tugging at the corners of their mouths.

The grins grew wider, and their shoulders began to shake. Finally, Krycek grasped his arm and firmly pulled him outside, ignoring the curious looks following their abrupt departure.

Once outside, on the wide terrace surrounding the building, they both collapsed. Helpless with laughter, bent double, Spender felt another piece of ice crack deep inside him. Finally, leaning helplessly against an ornamental pot, he panted, "and they're all sitting inside debating it all so seriously!"

Krycek's laugh gradually died down to soft chuckles. "Unfortunately for us all, it *is* serious. They'll do it too. Our beloved masters have already approved, so it doesn't really matter what they decide in there. It'll happen."

That sobered him at last. "Jesus."

"Stopped believing in him a long time ago," Krycek was back to his normal, mocking self. The only remaining trace was the lingering amusement in his eyes. "I'll say this, we're all facing some rather interesting times."

"To say the least," Spender abruptly sat down. "Who's gone mad, is it me or the world?"

"Both, Spender." Krycek stretched sinuously, then said casually, "I'm going home tonight, want to keep me company?"

Spender shook his head, brown hair flying. "No, I need to talk to," he hesitated, "father. I also want to see if I can visit Mulder. You know they've moved him here?"

Krycek nodded, "I know. Last week. I'd go see him myself but I doubt I'd be very welcome and I wouldn't want Mulder to die of apoplexy when he couldn't slam me through the nearest wall." He stood up. "Tell him I said hello." And for some reason, Spender was sure that the casual words hid a more serious purpose.

He kept his answer as light. "I will." Then watched as Alex Krycek melted into the night.

His father belonged in dark, cramped, smoky rooms. He belonged to the shadows and nights, to conspiracy and lies whispered into the dark. To see him here, in a gilded Louis XVI chair, with the red velvet and Meissen porcelain was... incongruous.

"I want to visit Mulder," he said abruptly. Social niceties, civility had no place here. "And I've been told I need your personal approval."

The old man carefully signed the last three documents and handed them to his pale, subdued secretary. "Make sure they are ready for public proclamation tomorrow." He sent the man on his way with another nod. Then, he leaned back in his chair and cold, serpent eyes swept over the tall, slender man sitting opposite him. "Why?"

Jeffrey Spender stared back. "Why what?"

"Why this sudden desire to see Fox Mulder? The two of you have never been friends."

"You don't think it's natural to be curious about your new-found brother?"

Lighting a cigarette, the old man studied him through narrowed pale eyes. "If that's what it is."

"What else would it be?" He was genuinely puzzled.

His father continued to scrutinize him. "Ambition, perhaps?"

"Amb - ?" he broke off and a humorless laugh cracked from his lips. "My God, you think I'd harm Mulder because of the rumors?" His laugh gained strength, turned into real amusement. "Fuck, father, when will you get it through your head that I don't *want* your power. I have never wanted it!"

"So you say," was the cold reply. "But things change when you feel your position threatened."

The humor died swiftly. "What position? The position as your heir? Mulder is more than welcome to that. The position as your son? " Bitterness boiled over. "Trust me, if I could, I would have renounced *that* long ago."

The expression in the frozen eyes watching him never changed. "Very well, I'll give clearance that you can visit Mulder whenever you want."

"Thank you," he said, rising. Walking away he felt his father's eyes bore into his back the time it took to walk to the door, and he had to bite his lip to keep from running or turning around.

He stood for a long time outside the door, ignoring and ignored by the two guards who, still as statues, safeguarded the treasure inside. Finally he took a deep breath. "Open."

Silently they obeyed and stepping through the heavy door he listened to the clang of iron close behind him. For a moment he stared in mingled amazement and distaste at the sight before him. It reminded him of nothing so much as a ant farm he'd owned once as a child, or an insane version of a doll's house. There were no windows. There was a bathroom, with a shower, although it lacked a shower curtain, a smaller bedroom, and a larger living room with a sofa, a TV, a desk and a small table. But every room lacked one solid wall, replaced instead with armored glass. Mulder could do nothing. Not sleep, not go to the toilet or shower, not eat or read without an observer on the other side of the glass seeing every detail. For an intensely private man like his brother it must be pure torture.

"Hello, Mulder," he said quietly.

The man was on the sofa, obviously lost in thought and brooding. He had ignored the opening and the closing of the door, lost in his own little world. It had always fascinated Spender; Mulder's ability to simply ignore the world around him and focus on what the other man believed was important.

Mulder's head jerked up at the soft voice, and he spun around. "You?!"

Spender almost smiled. Amazing how much loathing and contempt could be compressed into a single word. "Nice to see you too, Mulder."

However, the long years on the run, the years underground, had taught Fox Mulder patience at last. Patience and cunning. Slowly he stood up, unfolding a tall wiry body. He paced forward, each movement smooth as a cat's. Surprise past, he had himself under control once again. Watching the man on the other side of the glass, the ice of Mulder's voice matched the frozen hazel of his eyes. "What do you want?"

Spender sat down in the comfortable chair by the microphone. "What do you think?"

Mulder glared at him. "To gloat? Isn't that what you do best? That and whine."

Spender smiled wryly, "Well, at least you haven't lost your sense of humor... brother."

Mulder flinched, the ice leaving his eyes for a moment. "You son of a bitch," he said softly.

"Wrong gender."

"What?" the older man looked confused for a moment.

"Wrong gender, Mulder. Father, our father, is a dog, but he's not a bitch."

For a moment he thought he'd won, that Mulder would smile, but his brother caught himself just in time. Sitting down on the other side of the glass, he leaned his elbows on the smooth wooden panel. "Did you always know? About us?"

Jeffrey Spender shook his head. "No, it was as much a surprise for me as for everyone else. If you mean, did I know he was unfaithful to mom, I always knew there were other women." He smiled without humor. "Who knows, we may have a whole cadre of mini-smokers running around out there." For a moment their eyes met in perfect understanding. The understanding that comes of shared betrayal.

Softly, but with an honesty that even Mulder believed, Jeffrey Spender added, "Believe me, if that's all he'd done to her, I'd have blessed him." His face hardened. "At least he didn't deliver your mother to the aliens for medical experimentation."

Pain, so ancient it had become an integral part of him, shadowed Mulder's eyes. "No, just my sister. Spender, do you know anything about Samantha?"

For some reason it hurt to shake his head, to see the hope die from this man who he should hate but didn't. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I could check around, but Krycek would be a better bet to ask." He watched in fascination as the mercurial emotion shifted once again.

"I wouldn't ask Krycek for water if I was dying of thirst," Mulder said flatly.

"Do you really hate him so much?" Spender asked softly. He found himself drawn irresistibly to the passion, the dark fire of Mulder's enmity.

"Yes."

"Why?" He wasn't just asking out of spurious curiosity, but because he genuinely wanted to know. Strangely enough, Mulder seemed to understand.

"I've had people betray me before, but I trusted Krycek," Mulder said finally, slowly. "I don't trust easily." The smile given and accepted was an echo of a time before insanity, the memory of a time when they had worked for law and order and argued furiously. "But Krycek made me trust him. Even more importantly, Scully trusted him. He betrayed both of us."

He wondered if Mulder knew that they still met, Krycek and Scully, but he didn't ask. Not only because he was certain there were hidden cameras recording them right now, but because he didn't want to hurt his brother even further.

Fox Mulder sprang up from his chair and began to pace, too restless to sit still. As if the emotions conjured up by the mention of Krycek's name were too great to contain while sitting still. He suddenly knew what he envied about this man, this brother.

Not Mulder's brilliant intellect, his near-genius IQ, nor even the love of Dana Scully but the fact that after all that had happened he still felt as deeply, as intensely. Perhaps it was what fascinated Krycek as well, that internal incandescence burning brightly enough to engulf.

A cold man. A man of ice will always be drawn, like a moth to the light, to the heat of passion and emotion.

When he left, Mulder was still pacing and cursing his fate and the men who had imprisoned him. And deep inside Spender knew the best thing would be to return home and never see the other man again.

That night he spent alone in bed. Alone, because he was unable to stand even the lightest the touch of a human hand. Trying, and failing to sleep he tossed and turned, the fine linen sheets of his bed wrinkled and damp from his restless movements. He dreamed of a flame melting the ice inside him. A flame kindled by the proximity to the blaze of Mulder's emotions.

The fire of Mulder's pain and passion was a drug he craved and feared simultaneously. He knew, even in his dream that it was a drug he was already hopelessly addicted to.

In the end, instead of going back to his estate, he remained in Washington, and the next evening he came back again. He still wasn't sure why he returned, he just knew that he could not stay away from Mulder, from the emotions his brother evoked in him.

It was raining, an autumn storm coming out of nowhere and hitting him halfway to the house where Mulder was held. Toweling his wet hair, he walked in and sat down. He could have gone the whole way in the warm comfort of his car, but he'd preferred walking the few hundred yards. It made him feel, for a moment at least, as if he lived not merely existed.

Mulder rose from his desk where he'd been writing. There was none of the overt hostility of the previous night. Instead, it was as if the intervening time had given Mulder the time to think, reflect. His voice held only mild curiosity when he said, "Your hair is wet. Is it raining outside?"

Spender finished wiping his damp hair. "Cats and dogs, it's a real humdinger of a storm."

Golden-brown eyes shaded into yearning. "I haven't seen the sky since they first captured me." He rubbed his face, "Fuck, how long has it been? It's too easy to lose count of the days in here."

Compassion, and something even more dangerous, tugged at Spender's heart in response to the wistful desire in the other man. He changed the subject quickly, "What are you doing?" he asked, seeing the papers spilling over the desk.

Mulder followed his glance, and shrugged with a hint of sheepishness. "I'm writing up some old cases, finally catching up on my paperwork, I guess. I had to do something, or go mad."

"Why don't you do what he wants?" Spender asked with distant interest. "All you have to do is say yes."

"Yes, to what? Becoming a traitor? To accepting the slaughter and extinction of the human race?" The abrupt icy contempt in Mulder was enough to sting.

"Why not? You've lost already, can't you see that?"

The contempt transformed into pity. "No, you're the one who can't see Spender. We can never lose; we can't afford to. Besides, I'd rather go down fighting than surrender to the aliens."

"You know, if you changed sides, you'd be able to do a lot for the Resistance. Father might even consider making you his heir."

Mulder laughed without humor. "How very tempting, but no thanks." He stretched with a loose- knitted grace. "I'm not you, Spender. I had a father, not much of one, I'll admit, but still a better one than yours, I'm betting. I don't need another one. Never have, never will."

It was disconcerting to realize just how well Mulder read him. How accurately he zeroed in and analyzed motives and reasons.

"But you know, if you don't agree, you'll either spend the rest of your life in this cage, or he'll lose patience and have you, umm, adjusted."

Mulder turned his head, but not before Spender had seen the flash of real fear in the brown depths. "I know."

"Is it really worth it then?" Again he probed, trying to understand the passion, the pain that seemed to fill Mulder.

"Hell yes!" From the strength of the rage, he knew how tempted the other man, his brother, had been. "Yes, Spender, it's worth it. You know the old Chinese saying? A trip of a thousand miles, starts with a single step? Well, you could just as well say that betrayal starts with a single act. I could say yes, but that wouldn't be the end. And I'd rather die than turn - " he broke off abruptly.

"Into me, you mean?" He dug deep for anger but found only an aloof melancholy. "You're the one who talks about choices, Mulder. I never had one. You chose to be what you were, to hunt the truth. I never wanted any of this shit."

"No, you preferred to close your eyes and pretend that if you didn't see it, then it didn't exist," Mulder said coldly.

Spender felt a tiny flicker of anger at the contempt. The flash of anger grew, fed by a sudden bitterness. "You're right, I never wanted to know about little green men, or alien black oil for that matter. I didn't want your damned x-files. I wanted the BSU or maybe the Investigative Support Unit. I wanted to make the streets safe from *human* scum. I wanted a career in the FBI, perhaps even becoming an AD. I wanted marriage, kids, a wife, a house in the suburbs, a mortgage. I wanted to play poker on Saturdays with my friends. Go on vacation to Disneyworld." He paused, taking a deep breath, surprising even himself by the intensity of his emotion, "and I sure as hell didn't want *you* or *him*!"

For the first time, Mulder's eyes deepened into an amused amber-brown. "Calm down, Spender." He sighed, "I guess, it wasn't your fault. He never told you anything did he?"

Crossing his hands and propping his chin on them, Spender closed his eyes. "No, you still don't understand. All my life, knowingly and unknowingly I've been compared to you and found lacking. You were older, brighter, stronger." He recalled all too clearly the constant cold dissatisfaction of his father no matter how hard he had striven to satisfy, the detached contempt no matter how good his grades or his performance.

He smiled without humor, "Even my own mother at the end wanted you, not me." He stared at Mulder with the hatred he'd been unable to feel earlier. "I'm not brilliant. I'm not a near-genius profiler with a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford and a Ph.D. I'm not gifted with enough wacky charisma to intrigue an extraordinary independent woman like Dana Scully and win her love forever." He ignored Mulder's start.

"I'm me, Jeffrey Spender. A solid, dependable, good investigative law enforcer. What the hell am I doing here?" He almost choked remembering Krycek's sarcastic, 'Prince Spender.' "I should have died with the other Feds when the aliens first struck. I should have..." he broke off at Mulder's smile. "What?"

"I hate to tell you, but you're whining again," a pause, "little brother." A slow, brilliant smile, far from his usual flip grins, lit Mulder's face. "Sitting here, I've had nothing to do but think. Think over my life, what I've done, the choices I've made." He paused, "You know, all my life I've been searching for Sam. Because, in a very real sense she was all I had. Dad wasn't exactly Walton material and neither was mom. Sam was mine, and I was hers. All my life I've wanted, searched for that closeness. When she left, I thought I was alone."

Unspoken was the thought that it was this fear of being abandoned again that had prevented him from ever getting close to another woman. "And all the time, I had a brother."

Spender pushed trembling fingers through his hair. "Christ, I hadn't thought about that." He stared at Mulder. "Fuck, we're brothers."

"That we are." Mulder slowly put his hand against the glass. "Brother."

Shaking, Spender brought up his hand, placing it against Mulder's. He thought he could feel the warmth of the skin through the thickness of the glass dividing them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he cursed. "Please, Mulder, get yourself out of this cage!"

Coming up the stairs late that same night, Spender suddenly recognized how exhausted he was. Pulling at his tie, he opened the door to his bedroom, yawning.

"Good evening, master," a soft voice greeted him.. His current favorite bowed low, small slender hands crossed over her chest, before she efficiently helped him out of his jacket. He looked her over with distant approval. She was small and curvy with dark hair that fell in a cloak of shimmering silk to her waist. A pale heart-shaped face set off dusky eyes shading into gold. Calm, impassive eyes that gave away nothing of her thoughts. His secretary had purchased her two months ago.

Passionate and willing in bed, intelligent and well trained, she was well worth the high price he'd paid for her, Spender thought fleetingly with a hint of satisfaction. He watched her serve the first dish, her every movement graceful and assured as she moved across the room. The silk of a long loose sleeve brushed against his face for a moment as she leaned down to pour the wine after removing his empty plate, and he felt his body tighten in response of the feather light touch, the light floral scent she wore providing even more sensory delights. Lazily he reached out and stroked her face with the back of his hand. In response she half-turned, nuzzling into his touch like a sleepy cat, her slender body melting against him with practiced skill.

One hand slowly stroking her hair, Jeffrey Spender shivered again as clever fingers teased and caressed before she bent her head and warm lips touched his skin knowing just anywhere to linger and press and suck. Leaning back in the chair, he groaned softly when satin heat enveloped his aching hardness. Hips moving, thrusting, he managed t to forget everything for a moment but the sensation coursing through his body. Lost in his body's needs, he forgot Mulder, his own frustration and anger. For a little time he could forget the misery of his life.

Later, he sat by the fire, listening to the hiss of the rain beating against the smooth glass, eating and not really noticing her serving him food, pouring his wine. His mind was still filled with Mulder. Why, why couldn't he bend just a little? Was there some way of getting Mulder out of that fucking ant farm without giving his word? There had to be a way, he refused to accept that he'd found a brother just to lose him again.

Spender yawned again as, finished with his dinner, he slid into bed, closing his eyes, too tired even to be aroused by the naked, warm body immediately curving around his.

He never knew what awakened him again. It was still dark outside, although the rain had stopped. Beside him the bed was empty and the sheets cool. Briefly, he wondered where she'd gone. Restless tension made him sit up, suddenly irritated that she wasn't where she was supposed to be. Unable to go back to sleep, on a sudden impulse he decided to go find something to read. Throwing aside the covers he got out of bed picking up a fine silk robe and belting it.

It was the narrow beam of light in his office that alerted him as he walked past it on the way to the library. Opening the door, he didn't see her at first but when he switched on the light he spied her leaning over his desk. At first he thought she was sick, the way she was crouched over the smooth oak surface.

"What are you doing?" He ran a hand through his tousled hair, smothering a yawn.

She whirled abruptly, straightening, one hand going to her throat. It wasn't until he saw her ashen face, fear darkening her golden eyes that he realized something was wrong.

"What are you doing?" he repeated, a little harsher. His eyes swept over the half-open drawer, the slender lock-pick lying on the desk and he knew, shock freezing him for a moment.

"You were spying." His voice was very loud in the absolute silence.

A single indrawn breath rattled in her throat, and then she whispered."Yes."

He frowned, knowing there was only one thing she could be. "You're Resistance?"

"Yes," she said automatically.

"My God, do you know what they'll do to you?" He demanded, suddenly appalled.

She straightened, abruptly, facing him squarely. "I know." Abruptly her mask slipped and he read the stark fear beneath it. "My lord Spender, I, if I've ever pleased you, will you kill me, here and now?"

He stared at her." Kill you? Why would I do that?"

Unconsciously she held out one hand in a gesture of mute pleading. "To spare me the interrogation of the alien enforcers. I don't want to betray my friends, but once I'm in *there*" They both knew what she meant; the torture chambers from which no one ever left. No one sane that is. "I'll tell them everything they want to know."

Pale skin shimmered in the dimness of the room as she pleaded softly, palms up. A fragile, slender woman, dressed in a cream-colored satin negligee. Her long dark hair spilled across her back, and over her outstretched arms, she looked exactly what she was; a delicate, prized, possession. "Please, my lord, kill me."

"Why don't you kill me?" he asked her. "I'm not armed. I'm sure the Resistance has taught you how. You could kill me and be miles away before anyone realized what had happened."

She stared at him for a moment, and then she laughed. A laugh bitter as death. "You ask me that?" For a moment, rage seemed to overwhelm her, before she managed to choke it back. "Do I have to tell you about the implants? The chip that makes us slaves to you, and your masters?!"

He flinched, dropping his eyes before the dark hatred in her eyes. He had indeed forgotten about the small metal chip, implanted in the heart of every slave. It could be easily scanned and updated, and it was programmed to explode if not within a set distance of the central transmitter. The only time it was temporarily de-activated was when a slave was sold to another estate. Then, if it had not been linked to another transmitter within the time set, it exploded. The resulting death was - messy and swift.

"I... I'm sorry," he said blankly. "I'd forgotten."

"Oh yes, such a small thing to remember," her soft voice dripped sarcasm. "Just another unimportant detail in the life of Lord Jeffrey Spender."

"Hey!" He grasped her arm. "It's not my fault you know. I didn't want this to happen." He was feeling vaguely angry that she was blaming him, when it wasn't his responsibility.

She stared at his hand until he slowly dropped it to his side, releasing her. "Of course not. You're just an innocent victim of society."

He wanted to shake her. "I mean it. I used to work for the FBI, I'm one of the good guys."

The loathing in her eyes acted like a bucket of cold water in his face.

Throat going dry Jeffrey Spender swayed on his feet, as his mind spun in chaos, before it - like a kaleidoscope - settled into new and ugly patterns.

Suddenly he saw himself through her eyes. He saw the picture he must make. Everything he, in his indifference, had never really contemplated; the wealth, the privileges, the slaves, the insane affluence while the rest of the world starved and suffered and died. Looking into her eyes and finding only fear and hatred, Jeffrey Spender, former FBI Special Agent finally comprehended how far he had fallen.

He could do nothing but look at her. This woman, he had bought with no more thought than you buy an ice cream on a warm summer's day. A human being who, he knew instinctively, was someone he would once have been proud to call a friend. A woman of beauty, brains, and character. A woman who had every right to hate him. His shoulders slumped,

Bleeding inside, he could only rage helplessly over what had happened to the man he once was. The Jeffrey Spender who had taken an oath to uphold the law, to protect the innocent, and who had believed with all his heart and soul in the simple words.

He didn't try and touch her again as he turned away. "I'm not going to say anything," he rasped tonelessly.

She stared at him, shock replacing hatred. "What?"

He suddenly smiled, the small flame his meeting with Mulder had generated warming him deep inside, soothing the wound his perception had brought with it. "I said, I'm not going to say anything."

"Why not?" her eyes were enormous pools of darkness.

"I think what you're doing is insane, but I don't have the right to judge you," he said honestly.

She stared at him for another moment before collapsing, limply, sliding to the carpet her legs unable to carry her any longer.

He knelt beside her suddenly uncertain. Tentatively he started to reach out, but as his fingers brushed her shoulder she flinched and his hand dropped to his side.

Helplessly he looked around and spied the crystal decanter standing on the small table by the desk. He rose and returned with a gracefully curved brandy glass. "Here," he mumbled brusquely.

She accepted automatically, her fingers cupping the glass before drinking down deeply. The rich, strong aged brandy made her cough for a moment, but he noted with approval that her hands were steadier and some color had returned to her cheeks.

Spender followed her example and as the brandy slid down his throat, hitting his stomach and settling there like a small living coal, the incongruity of the whole situation hit him, and he started laughing.

She flinched at the sound, giving him a wary, fearful glance.

He shook his head in reply of the unspoken question. "I am sorry- I this is just a little hard to take in."

Her eyes dropped, and the knuckles whitened from the force of her grip on the glass. "What are you going to do?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "I already told you - nothing."

She bit her lip, "I don't understand," a soft uncertain whisper.

He smiled strangely, "I know." In truth, he didn't understand himself. Despite his first easy assurance, the discovery of her treachery had left him stunned. Yet he had spoken nothing less than the truth. He could never betray her to the authorities as he should.

There was a long uncomfortable silence as she sat unmoving with her head bent, while he fiddled restlessly. Finally, knowing he must make the first move, he shifted and spoke awkwardly, "Do you want, umm," Spender hesitated, new and terrible blows of self-awareness striking him as he realized just how long it had been since he'd even thought about the female slaves who shared his bed as anything but a convenience, an anodyne for the pain of his memories. He knew he could never again watch their empty eyes and practiced movements. Even the memory of their writhing bodies made him than a little sick.

Once again, he tasted horror and sickness at who had he become. He, Jeffrey Spender who had been a believer in equal rights, equal pay, equal opportunities. A man who had got into fights during college when he argued for pro-choice with a bunch of degenerate jocks. Who had been pounded into minced meat for his stand, and who, when an exasperated friend had demanded to know why he'd persisted, had looked up at him through swollen eyes and broken lips, and said, "Because it's the *right* thing to do."

"Want to do what?" Her faltering voice reached him from far away, through the fog of memories.

He cleared his throat, "If you want to sleep anywhere somewhere else..." his voice died away uncomfortably.

She finally understood what he meant, and a faint smile softened pale lips. "It's all right, Lord Spender." She turned her head and they looked at each other.

In silence they studied the other's face as if it was the first time they had ever seen each other. In a way, he supposed it was. "If you don't mind, I will stay in your bed."

"No, I won't mind, I would be honored," he said softly with the grave courtesy that had once charmed more than one date. He stood up, hesitated, and then held out his hand.

She stared at it for a moment, before, lightly, she put her hand in his and rose. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he paused, uncertain of his next move.

It was she who said calmly, "Perhaps we should go to bed?"

Once in bed, he was careful not to touch her, leaving her more than enough space, grateful for the size of the mattress.

He had almost gone to sleep, when her soft voice reached him from the other side of the bed. "Thank you, Lord Spender."

He turned his head. "Jeffrey," he corrected a little gruffly. "My name is Jeffrey."

He felt rather than saw her smile. "Good night... Jeffrey."

The next morning, she was gone before he woke up. His first impulse was to search her out. There was so much he wanted to ask, he was desperate to nurture the small steady flame that had begun to burn deep inside him. But on second thought, he saw they both needed time to regroup and think over last night. So instead he spent the morning reading and working on the inevitable paperwork that always seemed to pile up.

He was glancing through yet another document, looking for the right place to sign his name, when, newly sensitized perhaps, a phrase caught his eye and he re-read it, heart beating loud enough to deafen, even as the bile rose in his throat.

In black ink they spelled out a holocaust, the reality somehow made worse by the dusty, factual terms of bureaucracies everywhere. There was a requisition of manpower from the department dealing with the environmental catastrophes that had resulted from the desperate actions of fallen government. The 'natural wastage' and 'necessary deployment of resources' the document spoke of, were all human. Men and women reduced to numbers on a report in a dusty filing cabinet.

Before he had had a chance to recover, he received an additional shock when Alex Krycek calmly walked into his office and sat down in the chair opposite the desk.

Krycek's lips curled in sardonic amusement. "Close your mouth, you're catching flies."

Spender's mouth snapped shut. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, too stunned for civility. "I thought you were going to New York?" He knew about the frequency with which Krycek visited the ruined remains of the city.

"Something came up," Krycek said curtly, cool green eyes studying the younger man intently before he smiled with practiced charm. "I was in the neighborhood and hoped you'd feed me some lunch."

"Lunch?" Spender glanced at his watch. "It's barely ten.

"Breakfast, brunch, a snack, then."

Spender contemplated the man lounging easily in the chair. "What is this, Krycek?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" the dark green-eyed man asked easily.

"With you, most definitely."

"You're growing as suspicious as your father," Krycek said blandly.

Spender tensed for a moment, "Bastard," he abruptly relaxed and murmured thoughtfully, "you know, I'm not surprised Mulder's burning desire is to pound you into ground meat."

The smile left Krycek's face. "As I said, you're your father's son."

Alex Krycek's entrance had momentarily driven the thought of what he'd read from his mind, but now it all came flooding back. "Come on," he said, rising. "Let's go." His glance around the office had Spender smiling wryly. He wondered if his father had indeed bugged his office. In the past it had been a matter of indifference to him.

Leading the way through the garden, Spender was only too glad to turn his back on the house and its riches, sickened at the cost of it.

"Did you know, Alex?" he asked quietly, not looking at the other man, "just how many people have died? How many are still dying?"

"I knew," Krycek said evenly.

"My God, Alex, what have we done." Spender asked softly.

"Survived."

"But at what cost?"

Krycek didn't answer at first. He slid on a pair of sunglasses, effectively hiding his face, his voice suddenly distant. "I'm not the best man to ask that, Spender. I'm a survivor, no matter what it takes."

They sat down in wicker chairs, standing in the shade of an enormous tree. Polite, attentive servants immediately brought them whatever they required. Looking up at the branches shading them from the sun, Spender recollected how he had insisted that the oak be brought from halfway across the country. Vaguely he remembered one of the men mentioning that transporting it had cost more than one life. At the time, he had just felt satisfaction that he'd had his tree. He wondered what the hell kind of monster sacrificed human lives for a fucking tree.

His eyes slid away and collided with dispassionate green. "Don't think about it Spender," Krycek advised him calmly. "If you let yourself, you'll go mad."

He laughed with little humor, "Didn't you know? I am mad, or so they say."

"I never listen to gossip." Krycek contemplated Spender in silence for a moment. "No, you're not insane, all that's happened is that you've woken up again," he said reflectively.

Spender didn't answer. "Krycek, Alex, can I ask you something?" he said impulsively. When the other man didn't say anything, he continued, "Lately, things have come into focus again. I, I never understood what had happened. The full implication of the alien colonization."

"What's changed?" Krycek crossed long legs, leaning back.

"There is a woman," he flushed slightly at the sudden amusement curling a corner of firm lips.

"Isn't there always?" Alex Krycek murmured although the mockery seemed to be directed at himself, as much at Spender.

"Yes, but this one is different." He broke off, "I mean it's not as if I haven't you know, slept with women before now, but this is - "

"All that's happened is that you're waking up to the difference between cotton candy and reality," Krycek said dryly.

"What?"

"Cotton candy. Sweet fluff, collapsing into nothing as soon as you eat it. Tempts you to eat more than you should and then leaves you feeling faintly sick afterwards. That's what screwing your slaves is like."

Wincing a little from the brutal simile, Spender had to acknowledge the truth in his explanation. "I see."

Krycek gave him a wry look. "Guess it must have been a shock to you. I bet you had regular girlfriends. College educated women, the kind you bring home to meet your mother. The kind you fall in love with, marry and have children."

Spender didn't answer and Krycek nodded slowly. "I'll give you this. I think you did go a little insane when you finally realized that everything Mulder had tried to tell you, every mad rant of your mother was nothing more than the literal truth." He picked up his drink, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. "Lots of people did go mad you know, once they understood what had happened. But of course, they all died. The rest," his mouth quirked sardonically, "adjusted and survived, just as humans always have. And naturally, those of us who were, ah, chosen, all knew the truth. You, however..."

Spender shook his head and said wryly, "You don't have to tell me. I know I had the reputation of being a narrow-minded 'by the book' straight arrow. The last guy to believe in UFOs and aliens. But, I liked being that." He suddenly laughed. "Years ago, I thought of becoming a lawyer, but I found that the law is too elastic. I like the easy answers. Right and wrong, Black and white - " he stopped abruptly.

"Good and evil?" Krycek suggested. "And now, you're suddenly finding out you're one of the bad guys. Get used to it, Spender."

Listening to Krycek's dry sarcasm, he knew that was the difference between them. Alex Krycek might be able to balance his inner demons with the necessity of being what he was. He might be able to run with both packs and keep himself detached. Jeffrey Spender could never do the same. As a child and then a young man, his problem had never been that he felt too little, but rather that he felt too much. The strength of his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It was survival instinct that had him grow a shell around himself, to create the correct, punctilious Special Agent, who followed the rules and never made a stir.

Like his brother -- there was instinctive warmth at the thought -- like Mulder, he knew what was right, and what was wrong. And this was wrong. What his father had created and he had, through his silence, condoned and supported was wrong.

Coming back into the house after saying good-bye to Krycek he spied her standing by a window, looking after the car. He came up behind her, and together they watched as the last flicker of the taillights disappeared.

"He's an extremely dangerous man, Lord Alex Krycek," she whispered without turning around.

"But not a completely bad one," he responded, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. She didn't try and shrug it off. Instead she reached up and placed her smaller white hand on top of his. They stood like that, silent, still, for a long time.

During dinner, he couldn't help sneaking little glances at her. She played her part to perfection, but that it was a part he had no doubts about now. Once, she caught him looking, and raised an eyebrow, a question in her eyes. His eyes fell, and he suddenly blushed a little.

There was a strange hesitancy, once they were alone in the bedroom. Things were at the same time too familiar and completely new. He undressed in silence, and she did the same, and then they slid between the clean, cool sheets. Again he hesitated, uncertain of what to do, what to say, but keeping on his side of the bed. He was on his back, arms behind his head. She was lying curled up on her side, watching, warily.

"Who are you?" he said suddenly, wanting to understand her. This woman whose body he knew so well, and whose soul and mind he knew not at all.

Her face closed, "Nobody."

He turned on his side, so they were face to face. "That's not true. I already know you've got brains, and guts and courage."

Some indefinable emotion rippled across her face. "Thank you." She hesitated, "If you mean, before the colonization. I was a lawyer." She smiled a little bitterly, "a fast rising star in a blue ribbon firm, sure to make partner. When the, the," her voice faltered slightly, "aliens attacked I'd just won my first case, and to celebrate Mark and I were going on a private vacation over the weekend, just the two of us. But, minutes before we were leaving, one of his friends called and asked if he could cover his shift."

"Who was Mark?" he asked softly.

"Mark Carson." The calm voice filled with pain. "My childhood sweetheart and fiancé. He was a doctor, a second year resident at Mount Sinai. He must have been among the first to die. At least I hope so."

Sudden tears shimmered in her eyes, "The last time we spoke, we argued. I yelled at him for being an idiot. The very last words I said were 'go to hell.'" She closed her eyes. "I was furious enough that I left town and drove to the hotel. Except, I'd forgotten to fill the car, and I ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. That's the only reason I survived." She curled into a small ball, arms around her waist. "God, I've wished so many times that I hadn't."

He reached out and gently touched her hair, ignoring the tiny flinch. "And then?"

She replied tonelessly, "For weeks I ran, and more by luck than anything else I avoided the sweeper patrols. Finally, I discovered the Resistance, and that's how I ended up here."

He raised himself on his elbow looking down at her. "You mean, you were free, and you chose to become a slave?"

She nodded, long sooty lashes spread like a fan over pale skin. when she opened her eyes and looked at him, the bleak resolve stunned him in its simple purpose. "What we need desperately, is information. Accurate, reliable information. The only people with access are the new elite. And the only way to gain access to them is by their slaves. We tried at first to convert some of the slaves, but," an infinite sadness softened her voice, "it was too late. They were too broken, too scared. I can't hate them for their betrayal, they've become something less than human by now." She shook her head as if to clear it of the memories, "So, the only solution was for some of us to go in. We discussed it, and finally we all agreed that the easiest route was for female slaves," her mouth quirked slightly, "pretty female slaves."

He lay down, stunned by her revelations. "You must have known that sooner or later you'd be caught."

"Of course I knew," she said with calm acceptance. "But I hoped that before it happened, I would have done what I came for."

He chuckled softly, startling her. "Poor," he paused frowning, "what is your name?"

She hesitated a moment, "Natasha."

"Poor Natasha, I must have been a sad disappointment to you."

She considered him for a moment, and then her lips softened and parted in an answering smile. "I'll admit, I was surprised at how little you seem to care about the New Order, especially considering whose son you are."

He stiffened. His father, always his father. "Don't..." he whispered, throat closing painfully over the words, and finding himself unable to finish the sentence. Wearily he turned on his side, closing his eyes, waiting for her to leave him as everyone else had.

So sure was he that she would leave and he would be alone once again, that he flinched in surprise, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "That was unfair."

He rolled over, staring at her. She met his eyes steadily. "I hate him," he said hollowly.

She slowly reached out and brushed back dark hair, flopping over his forehead. "He's a man you should hate."

On a sudden impulse, he curled into her touch. She hesitated and then continued to stroke his face, fingertips gentle against the beginning stubble shadowing his jaw.

"I'm so afraid," he whispered softly, and there was something of a lost child in the bewildered brown of his eyes.

Again she said, "I know," gently drawing him into her arms. And at that moment neither of them saw anything odd in the fact that she was comforting him.

Eyes closed, he breathed in the light flowery scent of her hair, his body reacting instinctively to her nearness, the silky soft texture of her skin. Startled, and a little ashamed, he started to shift away.

She shook her head, stopping him. "No, don't, Jeffrey." She smiled at him, not the trained, empty smile of a slave, but something real and tender. Her hands came up to frame his face, as she leaned close and kissed him gently on the lips. Instinctively he arched closer, hands sliding along her shoulders.

"Let me give you this," she murmured, kissing him again as her hands slowly slid down his throat, splayed across his chest. "Not because you own my body, or because you have given me my life. Because..."

"Because what?" He asked huskily, shuddering from need.

Her eyes darkened, as she looked up at him, enormous jewels glowing in the pale gold of her skin. "Because you're a man and I'm a woman and tonight," she reached up and kissed his shoulder, "tonight that's enough."

Later, if in the throes of passion, it wasn't his name she sobbed into the night, then that too was all right. A small gift he could give in return for all he had taken from her.

It was the beginning of Jeffrey Spender's recovery, or the dawning of his madness...

As the autumn weeks slid past in a golden, drowsy, bittersweet haze a formerly empty man began, slowly, to live again, to find joy in the simple act of the sun on his face, the wind in his hair. He re- discovered the joys of a lover, as opposed to the 'living inflatable dolls' as Krycek dubbed the slaves bought and used for a single purpose, sarcastically..

The son of High Lord Spender also began taking a greater interest in the Assembly, and even offered his services to one or two committees. If he was met with initial surprise, his father's influence soon saw him appointed to the right committees, meeting the right people. He knew people suspected that his newfound interest was due to Mulder's presence. They were welcomed to think so, and in a way they were not so wrong. He only wished he could tell Mulder of what he was doing but, as long as his brother was cooped up in his cage, it was impossible.

Although no words were ever exchanged between them, he would come home, carefully place his briefcase on his desk, and leave it there until the next day.

In the early hours of the morning when Natasha slid silently out of bed, he would wake instantly, but remain unmoving, eyes open, until she returned once again to curl back into his arms. Then he would give a tiny sigh of contentment, and pulling her body close to his, go back to sleep again.

Slowly, Jeffrey Spender came to comprehend just how lonely he'd been without anyone to talk to. During long, lazy nights, he re-discovered the simple joy of speaking his mind freely, easily.

Natasha brought warmth into his life. Together with her, he re-discovered a man he had thought gone forever: a man who felt pain and joy, who could laugh and smile.

Then there was Alex Krycek. For some impenetrable reason, Krycek began to make a habit of stopping by for a lunch, a dinner or a simple talk. The sarcastic, wry comments of the former Consortium assassin both amused and startled him with their perception.

Last but never least, there was Mulder. Although his brother seemed determined to hold out against the blandishments and threats of their mutual sire, his eyes would always light up when he saw Spender. Slowly, painfully, they were building a relationship that could with time turn into friendship, and perhaps something more.

At home there was Natasha waiting for him.

He knew she didn't love him. Whatever love she had been capable of had been buried with her lover. The emotion between them was real, nevertheless. There was caring, and tenderness, even passion. For now, it was more than enough.

He would lead her into memories of her lost love. In speaking of him, reliving all the special moments, the first kiss, the first time he told her, 'I love you', the first time they made love, helped her heal.

Then one night, just as they had finished laughing over the time when a sixteen year old Mark had just come home from a date and an intensely jealous thirteen year old Natasha had 'accidentally' dumped a gallon of whitewash over his new jeans and letter jacket, she asked softly, "What about you? Haven't you ever been in love?"

He shook his head, "Never, not like you. There was a woman I could have loved. Perhaps I did love her." The sudden searing pain surprised him. "But she never knew. And if she had known, she wouldn't have cared." He thought for a moment. "No, that's not right. She would have cared, she just wouldn't have loved me back. And the one thing I couldn't stand would be to see pity in her eyes."

The next day he had to leave for a reception and dinner, telling her he'd not be back until the morning. When he left she was working diligently at his computer. She had admitted that the inactivity was driving her crazy, and when he had asked if she could make sense of his paperwork, the offer had been eagerly accepted. He turned in the door, a smile softening his eyes, at the sight of her perching in his chair, frowning over the numbers on the screen.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning, Nat," he said coming out from the bedroom, and felt a flood of warmth at her genuine smile as she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, blinking sleepily.

"I'll look forward to hearing all the latest gossip," she murmured demurely.

He laughed and bent down to kiss her, feeling her unfeigned response and relishing it. "I will make sure I know exactly who is doing what to whom."

He laughed and left her after a last lingering, warm glance.

Returning the next morning, he thought with a silent smile of the choice morsels of gossip and rumors he would tease her with. Stepping out of the car, he told the driver holding the door open, "Be ready by seven. I have to be at Patterson's office by eight."

Not hearing the servile, "Yes sir," he walked up the stairs, tired and yet somehow refreshed. The doors flung open, but instead of the usual well-oiled machinery, he was met by a trembling housekeeper, and hovering behind her, his secretary.

"Has anything happened?" he raised an eyebrow.

The housekeeper, all but wringing her hands, cast one anguished look at the secretary who stepped forward. "Sir, my Lord, I'm afraid that the Security Forces have taken your favorite for questioning."

The blood drained from his face as the briefcase slipped from suddenly numb fingers. "Natasha? They arrested Natasha?"

"Yes, my Lord," the secretary said stonily.

"When did they take her away?" he demanded, heart pounding.

"Last night, my Lord, soon after you left for the reception,"

All he could think was, a whole night. One endless night when an hour was enough to break most. He wanted to scream at them for not contacting him but there was little purpose in doing so now. Nor was there time for recriminations. Fuck! Should he phone? No, he had to see his father for this. "Get the car! I'm going to Washington immediately!"

"Yes, my Lord." The housekeeper, scurried away clearly relieved to get out of his presence

He never remembered the nightmarish ride to Washington, the screaming tires and stench of burning rubber as his driver broke all speed limits. All he could think of was Natasha in the hands of the alien enforcers. He could almost hear her terrified screams as they extracted every ounce of information and sanity from her body and soul.

The car had not even stopped when he was out of it and running up the stairs to the White House. Bursting through the corridors, he ignored the frantic demands to stop and identify himself. Luckily all the guards knew who he was and no one shot him as he stormed up the stairs, not waiting for the elevator.

"My Lord, my Lord, you can't go in there!" Impatiently he shook off the restraining hand as he slammed the door open and burst into the room.

The old man was at his desk, calmly reading a report. He looked up at the intrusion. "Hello, Jeffrey."

Spender was across the room in seconds, slamming his hands down on the heavy oak desk. "How fucking dare you?!"

His father looked in dispassionate disapproval at his son, and Jeffrey Spender was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how he must look, the red and swollen eyes, the wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair.

"Really, Jeffrey, there is no need to be rude," the older Spender said with cool disapproval.

"Let her go father!" he banged the polished surface of the desk. "She's no danger to you or your damn world order!"

The old man leaned back, watching his son through narrowed pale eyes. "You're being ridiculous, Jeffrey. All this fuss over a slave?"

He leaned forward, pushing his face so close he could smell the foul stench of his father's breath. "She's a woman." He said between clenched teeth. "A human being." A damned better one than either you or I, he thought in silent rage.

He took a deep breath. "Hell! If she's guilty then so am I! I knew what she was doing!"

Not a muscle moved in his father's face. "I know, she told us," he said coldly.

Spender almost laughed wildly, before he caught himself. "Then why aren't I hanging beside her on the meat hooks, or whatever fucking torture you're inflicting on her?!"

"Don't be a fool, Jeffrey. The woman was obviously lying," he gave his son a cold look. "For which she received additional punishment, I may add." He blew out a cloud of smoke. "In any case, you're too late," he said impassively. "She was a confessed rebel and traitor. I had her executed this morning."

He stared at his father in a moment of stunned silence, and then without another word, turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Even through the thick panels of the wood, he could hear the echo of his father's mocking laughter.

He never even realized he was crying, blind to the odd looks as his aimless wanderings suddenly found him outside an iron door.

"Tell me Mulder!" he yelled, banging against the glass, not even feeling the pain as he bruised his hands against the unyielding surface. "How can you live with the pain?!"

Mulder had been working out and he wore nothing but a pair of sweats, pale skin reflecting in the hard, cold light. He ran a hand through brown disheveled hair, wiping his sweaty face on a towel he'd hung around his neck. "What's happened, Jeffrey?"

Jeffrey Spender couldn't answer for a moment, his throat too full of tears. Instead he leaned his head against the glass dividing them. "Dammit Mulder! Answer me! How can you live with the pain?! Is that what life is?"

"Yes," Fox Mulder whispered. "Yes, Jeffrey, life is pain. Some say," a slow rippling shrug, "that they live through joy, but for me, it's always been pain."

"No," he shook his head violently. "No, no, I refuse to accept that." He met his brother's eyes, and watched as a rare compassion softened them to the color of antique gold.

"You accept it Jeffrey, because it's better than the alternative. Because, in the end it's better than feeling nothing."

"What?" he stared at Mulder, his vision blurred by the tears that suddenly slid down his face. The tears that hurt, hurt until the pain became a blessing.

"I know what you are, Jeffrey," Mulder whispered, memories shadowing his face. "I know what you feel. The loneliness, the feeling of watching life go by. Of going so deep inside yourself, and then..." he spread his hands palms up, "discovering there is nothing there, just darkness and more loneliness. That's who we are," he almost smiled, "makes you wonder, doesn't it, about him."

"No!" Spender spat, with a sudden vicious bitterness. "I don't wonder about him. I've spent most of my life wondering about *him* trying to think of ways to make *him* like me, even love me. Well, I don't give a shit about him."

Mulder laughed, low, "Neither do I. But I do give a shit about you, Jeffrey."

He could not stay long. Even Mulder's quiet sympathy and understanding burned like acid dripping in an open wound.

Jeffrey Spender never went to bed that night. He found himself unable to stand the sight of the bed where they had slept. The bed where she had laughed and put her arms around his body. Where she had held him when the nightmares came. Where he had held her in wordless comfort when she woke up crying and shaking.

He spent the endless hours of the night in his dark office, a bottle of whisky by his side. Although the level steadily sank, he remained stone cold sober.

Sitting in the darkness, he saw clearly the two paths stretching before him. He could, once again, retreat from the pain into his former emptiness, the numbness of the void. Or he could embrace life, with all its pain and glory.

When the first pale rays of dawn lit the world outside his window, he knew, finally, what he had to do.

Moving stiffly, he called for his personal aide and smiled bitterly as he saw the quietly efficient man he was sure his father had set to spy on his son. "I want the car ready, I'm going for a drive." There was only one place he could go, one man he wanted to see.

For once he was grateful for his position as his curt order met with neither protests nor questions, just a silent obedience.

Entering Krycek's enormous palace he was immediately welcomed and led to the office.

Opening the door, he saw Krycek standing by the bookshelf, searching for a book, whistling softly to himself. In the background Vyshkin screamed his pain. Krycek turned his head and the smile on his face died swiftly at his first sight of the man facing him.

"Here, no, don't say a word," he pushed Spender down into a chair and, going to the bar, poured him a vodka. "Drink this down."

Automatically Spender took the glass and drank. As the first touch of liquid fire hit his throat and stomach he collapsed in paroxysm of coughing. Once he'd finally recovered, he stared through tear- filled eyes at the bottle. "Fucking hell Alex, are you trying to kill me?! What *is* that stuff?"

Krycek grinned. "Vodka, the water of life, my friend."

Spender looked up as Krycek sat down opposite him. He found himself the object of a silent intent study, and knew what he must look like to the other man; the red-shot eyes, the lank and untidy hair, the rumpled clothes.

However, his eyes when he met Krycek's were calm, even the intense probing did not disconcert him. He was filled, not with the emptiness that had shielded him before, but with a steady resolve.

A man facing a man.

"You've grown up, Spender," Krycek finally said, slowly with a new respect in his eyes. "Never saw that one coming."

"We all have to, sooner or later, it just took me a little longer," Spender said levelly. "Alex, I need your help. You don't have to admit anything, but I know you have contact with the Resistance. I want to help, to join."

A black eyebrow arched in surprise. "You want to give up your palaces and gardens and peace, to fight a war you can't win?"

He swallowed once. For a moment he saw the two lives: one, lived out in peace and serenity, the other, a life on the run, a life of danger, hardship and most likely, a violent, ugly death.

There was no choice.

"Yes," he said. And again, "yes."

"Because of the woman?"

He shouldn't have been surprised that Krycek knew, he supposed that it had made the rounds by now. Besides, Alex always knew. He shook his head. "No, she was merely... she made me see the truth." He couldn't put into words what Natasha had meant to him. Her calm courage, all her bleak determination channeled into a single purpose -- to make a difference before she died.

"Ah, yes, the truth. Mulder's grail." There was mockery and yet an odd kind of warmth in the husky voice.

Krycek stood up and paced away from the heavy desk, "Come on, let's go outside," he said abruptly, leading the way into the gardens. Although Spender didn't think anyone would dare bug Alex Krycek's home, no doubt old habits died hard.

They walked in silence, no sound but the lazy humming of bees and in the distance, a brisk trimming of a hedge. "I can give you a name, and a place to go," Krycek said abruptly. "And enough that they won't shoot you on sight. As for the rest, you'll have to convince them you're sincere." His mouth twisted wryly, "Not an easy thing to do. And then you'll have to convince them not to sell you back for a captured Resistance leader."

"I understand."

"It won't be easy," he repeated flatly. "You'll never be fully trusted. You'll be lonely as hell. You'll never be allowed to forget whose son you are."

"I know."

"So why do it?"

"Because," Spender spread his hands, trying to put into words his confusion, his certainty that this was his only choice. "Because, Alex, ever since it all began, I have been dead. I feel..." his voice faded away, "nothing. I eat, I sleep, I wake up, but I'm not *here*"

A peculiar expression flowed across Krycek's face. "I understand, Jeffrey, better than you know."

He glanced at Alex. Yes, perhaps he did understand. "So now, I can either continue to live, but dead, or I can risk death to feel alive." He suddenly laughed. "I know it sounds crazy."

"No it doesn't, my friend," Krycek said softly. And he gripped Spender's shoulder in a casual, friendly grasp. "On the contrary, in a world gone mad, it's the only thing that does make sense."

Krycek followed him out to the car. For a moment they looked at each other, uncertain of how to say good-bye. In the end, Krycek said simply, "Take care, Jeffery."

"Thank you, for everything," Spender said as simply. He hesitated for a moment and then on a sudden impulse he took a step forward and embraced Krycek. He felt the others' arms go around him, and he heard Alex's whisper in his ear. "Good luck, and da svedanja, my friend."

"Take care of Mulder for me," he murmured, and received a slight tightening of the arms, in mute agreement.

The embrace held for another moment and then they stepped apart. They needed no more words.

They knew.

Jeffrey Spender never looked back as he walked away from power and wealth. He walked into a future of violence, pain, torture, darkness and ultimately death. He walked with brisk, long strides. He walked with purpose.

He had never felt more alive.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas