Dear readers, I return - not with a new fic of my own, but with this one.

No, I'm not 'posting this fic for my friend who doesn't have an account' - it's a translation I did of the lovely Isil's fic in French, 'Detournement de Majeur'. Those of you who speak/read French, I can't recommend strongly enough that you read the original, it's absolutely brilliant!! Seriously. I love it.

(Side-note: Isildoes have some fantastic fics up in English, for anyone who's interested; check them out! Love 'em. :D)

Before anyone asks, yes, this is done with Isil's consent, and she has approved the translation I sent her before posting, so my conscience is squeaky-clean in that respect. (grin)

But of course, I take no credit for the situation, or even the words, because often it was just a case of doing an almost-direct translation. Honestly, the fic in French is brilliant, and once again, I really, seriously reccommend you read it. Fantastic story. :D

It is slash - SLASH SLASH SLASH-ITTY SLASH. Man-on-man; Alex/Wolf, in fact, and the first person who flames will be taken out, set alight with their own flame and used to roast marshmallows. Do I make myself clear?

It's not explicit, but it's still very definitely there, and before anyone gets in a flap about Wolf's doubts over Alex's age, I have it from the original author herself that Alex IS eighteen in this story, and therefore well over the age of consent for a British citizen. It's all good.

And the standard DISCLAIMER: I don't own the situation - that particular copyright belongs to the lovely and fragrant Isil. And I don't own Alex Rider - that copyright belongs to the lovely-but-slightly-less-fragrant Anthony Horowitz.

We all good? Fantastic. Onwards.

The man who stood by the window of the upmarket New York hotel would never have called himself 'religious'. After all, he'd killed his fair share of men – some who'd deserved it more than others – and if he hadn't exactly sold his soul to the devil, he had certainly sold it to his country.

He didn't really have a name; in his profession, a name, even just a first name, was all too often the ticket to a death which was normally painful and frequently slow. In Her Majesty's Special Forces, he was called Wolf. He was one of the best; his superiors had no criticisms to make, apart from his slight fear of heights. But even that was nothing insurmountable, especially when a boy of fourteen had helped him to face up to it, by kicking him out of a plane. Hanging in midair had certainly helped him get to grips with it.

Long live parachutes.

So Wolf had never been a 'believer' – but at that moment he was genuinely ready to sell his soul to the Horned Bastard, if it meant this torment of his would end. To all intents and purposes, he was already condemned to end up on Lucifer's pitchfork anyway.

With his back to the room, ignoring the little voice which screamed of 'unprofessionalism' in his head, he forced himself not to think about the person behind him, nor about the temptations of his own personal little demon… a kid of less than twenty, wheat-blond, and as dangerous as a match in a petrol station. And unfortunately for Wolf, this 'demon' wasn't just dangerous with a knife, or even just with his hands (though he was, the evil little brat – Wolf had seen him 'at work'). All you had to do was look at him to understand how dangerous he really was; he presented a picture which would move a saint to sin. A real weapon of mass destruction…

And Wolf knew it. Knew that this kid wasn't just dangerous to him personally because of the slight – problem – he had with him, but also why the boy was here. He was a spy. MI6. Like James Bond, in fact. Sure, he was a little young, but no one in 'the service' was going to say anything, because, after all, the kid had been doing this since the tender age of fourteen, the simple face that he was alive proved that he was talented.

When Wolf had met him the first time, the kid was nothing more than 'Cub', or 'the kid', or 'Double-o-Nothing', or some other such nickname. He'd grown up a lot since then, little Cub, even though he was still called Cub whenever he worked with Special Forces. With his lithe, lightly muscled figure, carefully messed blond hair and his mischievous grin, Cub turned more than his fair share of heads, and Wolf found himself itching to assert himself over the cocky little brat – to decide, once and for all, which of them was 'Alpha' here.

If he had been a little less professional, he could have justified this desire as a side effect of their mission – he was there acting as a bodyguard while Cub was undercover; the son of a Lord, this time, according to the report, and Wolf had to admit that he was practically perfect in the haughty, disdainful role – but to hide behind his assignment would be lying, because Wolf's thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with his job.

…Especially when Cub came out of the bathroom, hair still damp, the shirt under his tux still open at the collar, showing a little of that lightly-muscled chest…

Damned. He was damned for all eternity. And, judging by his air of deep self-satisfaction, the kid knew it.

It was unbearable. Wolf didn't know the kid's exact age, but had to be underage – or, at least, that was what Wolf had to keep repeating to himself. And even if he was legal, it wasn't right, not while he was on a mission, not while… not while he was… what had he been saying, again?

Without turning round, Wolf watched in the window's reflection as his young partner approached him with an almost feline grace. He was young, too young, far, far too young! But there was something in that walk, and those eyes, which spoke of experience, of self-confidence… Oh, yes, Cub definitely knew what he was doing.

And whilst Wolf repeated the punishments for statutory rape over and over in his head, Cub was getting closer and closer, until he was pressing that slim frame of his against that of his long-suffering partner. In the glass, he watched as Cub went up on tiptoes, and he felt the words the boy whispered in his ear before he heard them… such innocent words, accompanied by a wicked little lick which had absolutely no business there!

Wolf stopped his internal litany in favour of some of the most disgusting images he could come up with, to keep control of himself. He turned to the boy with an incredulous expression, and Cub nodded to give some weight to his words. Of course the kid was lying, but Wolf could hardly demand to see his ID card. After all, it was almost certainly fake.

And then… then Cub, the little monster, looked at his watch and took a step away from him. Mission first, of course, but Wolf was going to have to take a few moments to 'relax' before going downstairs to escort his partner to the restaurant where he would properly start his assignment. And Cub's promise not to stay forever at the table – accompanied by that same wicked smile – was doing nothing to help him regain his control.

Shaking his head and taking a deep breath, Wolf turned away and, without too much difficulty, returned to the role of the overprotective bodyguard he was supposed to be playing.

Did the head of MI6 have even the slightest idea of the monster he had created? As far as Wolf knew, the older man was totally clueless as to the boy's true nature. After all, there was no way he could have had this type of problem with the kid… And in Wolf's eyes, so much the better.

And there it is. Like it? Tell me, and I'll pass it on to Isil.

Thanks,

-amitai