Author's note: I once swore I'd never write Spenderfic, I believe.
Then I saw AD Kersh, and knew that THAT was the depth to which
I wouldn't sink, that "even Spender" was slashworthy,
maybe. Then I saw "Two Fathers." I am now a K/Sp convert.
And I thank Chris Carter (this may be the only time you hear that
from ME) for giving me cause twice now to believe that Krycek
could be a semi-good guy.
For Drovar, who deserves it. Thanks to Wicked Zoot for beta.
"Troubled the Land"
"Then said Jonathan, My father hath troubled the land; see,
I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted
a little of this honey." I Samuel 14:29
I shove the chair underneath the doorknob. I've already locked
it and bolted it, but you can't be too careful these days. I checked
for bugs and video feeds earlier.
All to keep my own people away from me. Just to get privacy for
a couple of hours.
I was glad the bug sweep didn't turn anything up. I've normally
been safe, but since the Brit died and I've been working for that
old asshole Spender, I've realized that anything could happen.
The Brit trusted me, and I respected him, but I'm now personal
assistant, gofer, chauffeur, and trigger finger for the bastard
of the century. I don't owe Spender shit. He's tried to kill me.
But I've been in this shit up to my neck as long as I can remember;
I don't know anything else to do. So I work for the smoker, I
wear suits and sound like an authority until he tells me to shut
the fuck up.
Jeff tells me that the bastard told him he's not the man Fox Mulder
is. Well, he may be Mulder's natural father, but he's not the
one who raised him, and for all of Bill Mulder's problems, Spender
isn't half the man Bill Mulder was. Spender turned his own wife
into a genetic experiment, blackmailed Bill Mulder into sacrificing
one of his kids - hell, you want to know why Bill Mulder drank?
You'd drink too if you'd spent your career doing what you thought
was the right thing and got rewarded by being forced to sell one
of your children into biomedical slavery. With a father like Spender
and a mother who's been experimented into mania, you'd have problems
And trying to turn a guy who was a sensitive, bookish kid into
a guy like me doesn't cut it. My father trained me to shoot. My
mother taught me a few tricks I'm not going to mention. The Consortium
gave me the rest. I was raised for this kind of work. Jeff was
raised to get good grades, go to college, win a law school scholarship,
and get a good job. He doesn't know the strings that were pulled
to make his professors steer him towards Quantico. He still believes
in free will. I only wish I could. His whole life's been one of
two sets of manipulations - either by a whining, neurotic mother
or by the man who made her that, deliberately.
I'd never liked Jeff. I'd only heard about him, seen him from
a distance, but I saw and heard nerdy straight arrow. Not my type,
or I didn't think so. Then the smoker sent me to take his kid
to kill that fucking alien. He knew Jeff couldn't do it, knew
Jeff didn't understand killing. Knew Jeff was soft, knew he was
a mama's boy. I had to get my own spike, plug the damn thing myself.
But then, Spender had never told Jeff about anything even close
to the truth. Hid himself from his son until he thought it was
expedient, then told him pretty, sugarcoated lies about how he
could get his son ahead in the Bureau. Then wanted his son to
be the Anti-Mulder. It doesn't work that way.
I'd loved Fox Mulder, missed my chance at him. I'd thought Jeff
was a weak, squirming idiot. I didn't get to see what Jeff was
about until the killing in Silver Spring. Jeff wasn't weak, but
he didn't know that thing was an alien, couldn't find a reason
to kill other than his father's unexplained orders. He could kill
if he had to, I could see, but he wasn't an order-taking assassin.
That's my department. His mother had taught him that life was
worth something; my parents had taught me to measure life in what
it was worth my while to take it. He was a little closer to Mulder's
type than I thought. And - up close - he was pretty. Mulder was
pretty, but so was Jeff, in a different kind of way.
And then, while we were watching the alien dissolve, I got to
tell him the truth. Nothing that I could be called on the carpet
for by the smoker, just a brief explanation of what was going
on, and who his father really was. Oh, and what his father had
done to his mother. There was Jeff's weak spot.
I knew he'd come back.
He came back, pale, sweating, flustered. Trying to understand,
wanting more information, having trouble processing it. Needing
comfort, desperately. I gave it to him. I'm not unselfish; I wanted
him now, and I had my chance. A better body than I expected, under
the clothing. Slim, hard, firm legs - a runner, not a swimmer
like Mulder. A cock you could do paintings of. You could frame
it and hang it in a gallery - I prefer it attached to its owner,
however. He didn't resist - at first I thought it was because
he wasn't in shape to resist; then I realized that he wanted it
as badly as I did, but he was too shell-shocked and scared of
everything to know what to do. And he was vaguely afraid I'd tell
his father about it.
As if. There are things - plenty of them - that son of a bitch
doesn't need to know, has no need to know. That his tame pet killer's
fucking his precious little son is one of them. Don't take me
wrong. That sounds like an insult to Jeff. It's not. That's just
how the smoker would see it. And then he'd probably take it into
his head to kill both of us. He gets that way, and to Spender,
no human is inexpendible. Even Jeff, and especially me. No one
except for Spender himself, and maybe Fox Mulder, because everyone
needs an enemy.
My grandfather studied the Bible, an activity my parents found
foolish. He would sit in the corner by the fire and tell Bible
stories, which my parents told me to ignore. But I remember one
he told, about a king named Saul, who had a son, Jonathan, and
a general named David. Jonathan loved David, but Saul wanted him
to die. Jonathan begged Saul not to kill David, though he'd already
tried to. Saul said he'd stop, because of Jonathan, but he kept
on trying to kill David anyway. Spender's already tried to kill
me once in my life, and I not only don't think Jeff could stop
him, I think he'd only find it better reason to try again. After
all, nothing's stopped him from trying to kill Jeff, eitherÖ
and both of us together would only be to him the same threat against
him that Jonathan and David together were to King Saul. I don't
flatter myself that I'm Spender's best general, but I'm something
he seems to find useful and occasionally needed, and Jeff is the
son he would have groomed. Maybe my grandfather had a point to
telling those stories.
Jeff is something Spender can't imagine - a human being. Flawed,
oversensitive, tied to the memory of who his mother was before
Spender turned her into a Thing. He still sees the world in terms
of people, not of grand plans. In terms of relationships, not
of interplanetary negotiations. In terms of right and wrong, not
of expediency. Conscience - that's the word I'm looking for. He
may be, has been, misguided about right and wrong sometimes, but
he's believed. That's the thing - he can still believe in something,
the same as Mulder. They might not believe in the same things,
but, like Mulder, like my grandfather, he believes in something,
and he has a cause. My grandfather believed in God. Mulder believes
in Truth. Jeff believes in Justice, in Right and Wrong, the way
he used to believe in consensus reality before the alien. He could
play Spender's games with Mulder because he believed that Mulder
was wrong. Now he knows what's going on. He's a fast learner,
AndÖ I love him. He's not Mulder, he'll never be Mulder,
but I'll never have Fox Mulder. I have Jeff. He's solid, he's
real, he's not a fantasy or a failed dream. He makes me feel connected
to things I've lost. Things like belief, things like other human
beings who don't want to be made into alien drones. Things like
love. We hardly get to see each other, and sometimes when we do,
like today, it's only for a few hours at best. I can't afford
to take chances, and neither can he. It's worth it anyway to be
with him, to undress that racehorse body of his, to take him to
bed, to make love with him for the brief time we've got together.
Is this really too much to ask for? Apparently, it is. That cancerous
old bastard really wants everyone else to be as miserable as he
is - and make no mistake, whether everything goes his way or not,
he is miserable. Talk about someone who needs a good fuck. He
doesn't know what the word "happy" means, and he'd just
as soon make sure no one else does, either. He's ground everyone
else who works for him into the ground, and the only reason he's
never done it to me is that I'm just too damn tough; I'm not one
of those corporate or government pussies he's used to intimidating.
And I know about being happy. I've been there. When my father
and I would hunt together, I was happy. When I killed my first
man and realized I'd never be taken for it, I was happy. When
I thought I had a chance with Fox Mulder, I was happy. And I'm
there again. I'm there when I slide down that beautiful, smooth
skin of Jeff's and I take him in my mouth and I make him scream.
When he kisses me, when he tells me he loves me, and I feel like
my damned arm doesn't matter, because it doesn't matter to him.
They say politics makes strange bedfellows. That's about as literal
as it can get in our case. I'm college-educated, as far as that
goes, but I'm a streetwise, school-of-hard knocks graduate, killer.
Jeff's a mama's boy with a graduate degree and a badge. He couldn't
survive five minutes if he lived in my real world full time, and
I don't want his white-bread, cable-TV life; I'd die of boredom.
But his asshole father's fucking interplanetary political intrigue
brought us together, and it brings us together for a few hours,
a day, a weekend here or there when we can both get the hell out
of those worlds, drop the masks, let ourselves go. We order food
in, from places where I know the delivery guys; we can't even
afford to be seen together either by the Bureau or by my handlers.
We'll probably get sick of the shit someday, make a wrong move.
If I've been happy for five more minutes because Jeff was with
me, I'll take that risk. The old bastard won't live forever; if
we just get past that point, I figure we'll be okay. Maybe I can
help speed things along a little; it's been a while since I tried
that, and he won't expect it from me right now.
The door. It's Jeff. Faded jeans, turtleneck, leather jacket -
on me they look sinister; on him, they scream "college boy."
Soft lips, beautifully shaped, hard against mine; tongues dancing
with each other as we wrestle with clothing. My cock hard, his
even harder, up against his stomach. I'm not all that old, and
I can't manage that. My prosthetic off, me on my knees, my arm
around the curve of that ass, my mouth on that erection I could
keep with me forever. Next time, plaster casting, Jeff. I want
him inside me, if we can make it to the bedroom, where I've got
Jeff bends down himself, an arm around me, helping me up. Missing
an arm fucks up your balance. I hate it when I look needy. A killer
doesn't need help to get around. Jeff doesn't care about that
rule; he helps me anyway. I don't complain; it just makes it that
much easier for me to grab him myself.
Try telling me Jeff's not the man Fox Mulder is, Spender. See
what I do if you even try. You fucking think you run the whole
damn world, but you're a miserable bastard in a tiny apartment,
with old clothes, no money, no love, no one even knows who you
are. Does your life have a point? Jeff's got something he believes,
a job he doesn't need to hide from the universe, his memories
of his mother, and - for what it's worth - me. Try telling me
you're half the man your son is. You may even get to see me laugh
before you die.