A/N: Bond's relationship, and subsequent marriage to Tracy (played by the absolutely beautiful and iconic Diana Rigg) can be found in 'On Her Majesty's Secret Service'. Excellent Bond film – shame about George Lazenbury. Watch, enjoy the story, and then imagine just how superb it could have been with either Connery, Brosnan or even Dalton in the role.

And yes. The ending makes me cry. I just have to hear the opening strains of 'We Have All the Time in the World' for the sniffles to start.


As Bond was making good on his promise to have a drink in his lonely hotel room, Alec was watching as his wife's brown eyes slowly closed. She lay in the vast softness of their bed, the covers tucked up to her chin watching him as he fussed in the room.

The pill was taking hold quickly, dragging Ashleigh into the embrace of sleep, but she was fighting hard, trying to remember all that had been said that day.

'Do you think she's ok?' she whispered.

Alec paused, as the now familiar stab of pain went straight through his heart. How could he say all that he feared when Ashleigh was so confident that their daughter would be found?

'I imagine so,' he snapped shortly.

She stared at him, hurt, and with a pointed gesture, she turned over, facing away from him.

He sat next to her, trying to find a way to comfort her, but failing. 'Just sleep, Ash.'

'Why should I? It's not like I'm going to wake up and find her back home.'

No. That was highly unlikely. No matter how much it tore at him. He bent his head, brushing his lips against hers. 'Just sleep.'

The pill obediently took her then, her breathing deepened and she slipped over the edge into sleep.

He slid into the bed, and wished that he could sleep so easily. Finally he did.

Alec dreamt.

His skin was blistered, he could feel the rawness of the damage skin with every expression, could feel it crack and break under the pressure of shifting position. Each scowl, each frown, each word he spoke brought new flashes of pain. It was easier to keep silent than to speak, to keep his face void of emotion.

The snow was falling more thickly than he had seen it in all his time here, and he marched outside, determined to feel the cold flakes settle onto his burning skin. His appearance was menacing, and no one stood in his way as he slammed the compound door open.

Fumbling in his pocket he found a battered packet of cigarettes and a heavy silver lighter. Since the explosion his desire for them had faded, the sight of the burning tip flaring with each inhale bringing unwelcome flashbacks to that day, the flames rising higher and higher, before streaking down the corridor towards him, devouring all that stood in the way, the air forcibly dragged from his lungs as the fire stole the oxygen from him...

No, he wouldn't think of that. He wouldn't think of the fire, or of the betrayal by the English bastard... his friend... now his enemy...

No.

He pushed the memories away and drew heavily on the cigarette, letting the nicotine creep into his lungs, warming him.

He would never complain about the cold again, not after the feel of fire on his skin.

Laughter drew his attention, and he watched as two armed guards strolled past. They saw the dark faced man, and saluted briskly, despite the fact he wore no sign of rank. He didn't need to; they all knew who he was. He didn't bother returning the salute, he merely turned his attention back to the falling snow, tucking his chin further into the fur lined jacket he wore.

But he was listening, listening to what they would say as they walked away, thinking they were out of earshot. He had always had exceptional hearing, and he used it now. Let them talk, let them laugh, he knew what they would be saying.

His burned face, his hair only just growing back after being singed away, or if they weren't focusing on his appearance, they would be discussing his defection, it was common knowledge that he had been a British Secret Agent. Even his native Russian was tinged with the cut glass English accent developed after his adoption to the small, proud island.

'English spy.'

The words caught his attention, and for a moment he thought they were discussing him. No, it wasn't him, they had caught and killed two British agents that afternoon, one shot in action, another executed.

As a lesson to England and her Queen.

A snarling smile broke his face in two, and for once he ignored the pain this action caused. Viciously he stubbed the half smoked cigarette out under his heel and headed towards the East Wing of the compound – an old prison used to house the unfortunate that had been sent to work on the icy tundra of Siberia. The courtyard was used as a punishment area, floggings were still common and used as a form of discipline. He thought it a crude method, and only reluctantly could he be forced to watch such basic brutality.

There were better ways to break a man than by whipping him, and Trevelyan knew too many.

The men were as lazy as ever, he noticed as he rounded a corner, his thick heavy boots driving the powdery snow to slush on the flagstones.

A single body lay where it had fallen, and he smirked to see it. It would be dragged away, and if they were lucky, it would be buried later. An unmarked grave for an unmarked hero. Such a poignant end, he thought mockingly to himself.

The black cloth was a stark contrast to the white snow, as was the dark hair that was being gently ruffled by the ice filled wind.

Alec's heart stopped. Too many feelings assaulted him at once for him to truly know what he felt, but rage seemed to grow, and make itself known above all others.

His revenge had been taken from him.

This death should have been on his hands.

He should have pulled the trigger.

From here he could see the entry wound of the bullet, blasted into the top of the skull. A single bullet, close range and death would have been swift, perhaps even painless. There would be no exit wound; the bullet would remain lodged inside the skull, slowed by the thick brain matter. The men knew how to do the job as cleanly as possible.

It should have been his task. It was his goddamn right, his goddamn revenge.

Bond should have died at his hand.

Bond was dead.

James was dead, his old friend, and a part of Alec grieved. He was sweating despite the chill temperatures, but there was a sense of triumph growing within him, and suddenly he needed confirmation, he needed to see those blue eyes finally dulled by death.

He lodged his toe beneath the dead man's ribs and with a vicious kick, rolled them over.

He gagged.

Horror rose like bile in his throat, and then the bile was real, and he was on his knees, choking, spitting the vile liquid into the snow beside the already cold body.

Not James. It wasn't James.

James had betrayed him, James was gone to him, but there had been a friend that Alec had regretted, regretted not saying goodbye to, and regretted leaving behind.

David would have been too loyal to even consider Alec's offer, and Alec had known it. So he had never offered, and David had never known.

Never known of his friend's defection.

The dark hair was the same, but sticky with blood, the snow beneath his head was stained the colour of poppies.

David Kain was dead.

Frantically, Alec scrambled towards his friend's body, cradling its dull weight in his arms. He stared down at the still features, the strong jaw, the mouth that had just been slightly too full, the thick heavy brows that would knit together when something puzzled him.

David was dead.

Alec closed his eyes against the horror. He felt dizzy, disorientated, and more alone than he had ever been in his life. Tears stung his scorched skin.

He opened his eyes again, and the horror increased tenfold.

David's daughter lay in his arms; her dark hair matted with blood, her skin as white as snow, and her usually pink lips coloured now only by the blood that dried there.

'Ashleigh,' he tried to gasp, but she was dead, dead and gone from him, as dead as her father had been.

Her eyes opened.

They weren't their usual deep brown, the colour she had inherited from her father, no; they were the same cold grey green as his, his daughter's eyes.

He had come full circle.

David had died, and he had married David's daughter. But she would die now, and he would cradle her lifeless body, and after that it would be his daughter's turn... It was to be his punishment, to lose all that he gained, to have the good taken out of his world. Already Natasha had been taken...

In his dream, Alec began to scream.

He woke in a cold sweat, and fumbling for water, his hand shaking so badly he managed to spill most of it before he could get it to his mouth, but finally he was able to drink the cool liquid. Wiping his hand across his face he felt the sweat there.

Ashleigh still slept soundly, knocked out by the earlier tablet. Even in sleep she didn't relax, there was a deep crease between her eyebrows as she frowned. Her hands were tucked under her jaw, clenching at something he couldn't see.

He loved her. The realisation had been a slow and difficult one, but gradually he had come to accept it.

He had never told her about the dreams. He didn't think she'd understand. In his own way, perhaps he was protecting her.

It didn't matter anyway, because it hadn't happened like that.

But it was easier to think of it that way.

It was easier to push everything aside than to worry about what was happening now. He felt... his hands clutched at the sheets... he felt so damned helpless, and somewhere out there somebody had his daughter, and he was doing nothing. He had to do something. It was useless to just lie there and pretend, trying to convince Ash that everything would be ok. He would kill every single one of them... he would tear them to pieces with his bare hands when he found them.

The futility of the situation washed over him again. He could do nothing!

It was still dark outside, and so Alec turned over, blocking out all thoughts, and forced himself back into sleep.

He didn't dream again.

Bond glared at the half drunk bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to him. He would have infinitely preferred vodka, but he had a distinct aversion to anything Russian at that moment in time. Alec had given him vodka, and the taste had been sour in his mouth.

He was beginning to recover from the shock of discovering the happy family.

There had always been a rivalry between Alec and James. At first it had been a subconscious contest, who could bed the prettiest girl, who could drink the most without suffering a raging hangover the next morning, who could complete the most dangerous mission, who had the best scar...

Everything, it had all been a contest but they had always been friends. Until the Goldeneye incident. The rivalry between the two of them had been out in the open, James against Alec, 007 against Janus and Bond had won. Alec, Janus had died, beaten at long last.

Alec had cheated death, and it had been his assistance that had led to success on that frozen December day in the cold icy water when Ashleigh and Bond had retrieved the Hermes virus. And Bond would never forget that. The bitterness seethed through his veins.

Now it seemed that Alec had won again. He had what Bond had never had. He had a wife, a child, a happy life, a peaceful life. Bond had once wanted those things, and in Tracy he thought he had found them.

Tracy had been killed before they had even made it to their honeymoon. From that moment on Bond swore he would remain alone forever. He would never allow someone that close to him again, because it only ever came to pain.

Alec and Ashleigh were learning that now. They had dared to flout the rules and now they were paying the price.

A daughter. Alec was a father. A strangled laugh escaped Bond before he could stop it. Alec who had always detested the idea of fatherhood, Alec who's biggest fear had been discovering one of his many girlfriends was pregnant was now embracing being father with all his strength.

He had a sudden urge to share the joke. When things went wrong, he always knew who he could turn to. And who would appreciate the twisted humour of the situation. He fumbled in his case until he found the slim silver communications device, pressing a few buttons he waited for connection.

'Moneypenny,' he purred.

'Negative, 007,' a smooth, slightly accented voice replied. 'Moneypenny is not available.'

'Who is this?' he snapped.

There was a pause. 'I'm requesting a secure connection, please wait 007.'

There was another long pause during which Bond frowned, wondering why on earth Moneypenny was absent. Finally, there was a click, and Bond knew the line was secure.

'Connection confirmed, 007, how may I assist you?'

The voice was female, rich, low, but with a slight accent that Bond couldn't place over the line.

'Who is this?' he snapped, feeling irked that Moneypenny was for once not at his beck and call.

'Agent Van Dien.'

Van Dien. He couldn't place the name, but if she was privy to open communication with 00 agents, she must be a high ranking agent.

'Requesting visual connection,' he ordered.

The small screen blinked, and then expanded. The background was the same as ever, familiar and comforting, the interior of Moneypenny's office. There was a brief glimpse of a dark coloured suit jacket as someone sat down, and then, he saw her.

A mane of dark curls tumbled down to the shoulders of her severely cut suit. Hazel eyes were trapped behind dark framed glasses, and a wide, generous mouth smiled shyly.

Bond sat up, wishing he wasn't quite so slouched, or rumpled. His tie had been discarded a long time ago, his shirt collar was undone, his jaw was dark with stubble, and he was only glad she couldn't smell the Irish whiskey fumes that must surround him.

'So what can I do for you, 007?' she asked in that husky voice. With an unconscious gesture, she threw her chestnut curls over her shoulder.

Bond could think of several things that she could have done for him at that moment in time, glancing at the olive skin, and the layer of satin over well defined curves. But there were more important things at that moment.

'You're aware of the assignment I'm working on?'

'Yes, 007.'

'Good. I need information. I need a list of all high ranking KGB agents known to be operating seventeen years ago. Can you do that for me?'

'I can do almost anything, 007,' Van Dien smiled, and in that smile, there was a hint of a promise.

He flipped the communicator shut with a satisfied click. Leaning back on the pillows, he reached for the bottle and poured another shot.

This time though it was in celebration.