Rated: T
Summary: Maybe Alex was never meant to be a spy, maybe he didn't even want to be one; that didn't mean he wasn't damn good at it. Good enough, Yassen thought, to lend a much needed hand. Written for SpyFest 2018 Week 3.
Prompt: Just because you're good at tiptoeing doesn't mean you're meant to be a spy.
Disclaimer: All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.
Alex stood stock still on the other side of the glass, one hand pressed against the cool surface. He had stepped forward, upon entering the room, and placed a hand on the clear sheet in uninhibited shock.
He can't see you, he had been told. Agent Crawley calmly watched him, examining and picking apart every emotion that crossed his face. Alex hated it. He had turned fully to the glass - the one way mirror, he now assumed - in order to hide his face. He shut his emotions down, expression turning as blank as the one he saw through the glass.
The man sitting on the other side was stoic, calm, completely unruffled by his desolate circumstances. He was looking at the mirror - directly at Alex as it happened, but the man could hardly be aware of the fact.
Most importantly, the man was dead.
Blue eyes and red blood. Alex remembered vividly, the bright colours so at odds with each other. Blue ice chips, always so cold in life, melting to perpetual darkness. Vital blood, spilled from him, rippling out in a near perfect circle, edges smooth.
Yassen Gregorovitch had died two years ago on Air Force One. Alex had seen it with his own two eyes.
It would seem he couldn't even trust himself in these scenarios. Certainly, he couldn't trust MI6.
He glanced at Crawley out of the corner of his eye, the man was still blatantly staring at him. Alex looked away, feeling like he'd been caught at something. Then he felt annoyed with how uncomfortable he was around the agent.
It had been a while since Alex had been in proximity with an agent, with MI6 at all. He had been in America - for months. Nearly a year now. He had left MI6 firmly in his rear view mirror, but it would seem that all roads lead to the same place.
It was summer vacation. Him and the Pleasures planned on visiting England. Alex wanted to see Tom. His mate was planning on moving to Italy with his brother, and Alex wanted to be there for support.
It hadn't taken MI6 a day to sink their claws in and drag him, kicking and screaming, to the abyss.
Kidding. It was nothing so dramatic. They had called and left a polite message (full of apologies and pleas.) They had told them they had recently made an acquisition that he might be interested in.
They failed to mention that it was Yassen Gregorovich they acquired.
"We just need you to talk to him," Crawley said, monotone. "He refuses to speak with anyone else."
Apparently, MI6 had been drilling the assassin for months, and the only words they had managed to get out of the man was 'I want to speak to Alex Rider'.
"I-" Alex hesitated, a lump in his throat, "I can't…"
Alex had been out of the game for so long, too long, and standing here a few feet from the assassin that started it all… it felt far too close to getting involved. He'd promised himself - his family - that he was out for good.
Not to mention he was out of practice. He didn't even know how to feel, what to think, looking at Yassen Gregorovich. Didn't know how he would react if he was in the same room as him. The assassin had refrained from mentioning why he wanted to see Alex.
It was just as likely that Yassen wanted to kill him as it was that he just wanted to talk.
Crawley frowned - disappointment clear on his face. Then the agent leaned forward, running his fingers over an unlabelled keypad.
Alex didn't know what he did exactly, but he could guess.
Yassen, staring vacantly at his own reflection, suddenly sat up straighter. Eyes widening slightly, head cocking to the side. Fair hair - longer than Alex ever remembered seeing it - flicked off his forehead. Alex swallowed nervously as blue eyes bore into his own. Really looking at him, this time.
Alex couldn't read the man's expression. Something changed, but Alex was too distracted by the blood rushing in his ears and the adrenaline pumping through his system.
Yassen leaned forward on the metal table he sat at, chains that were manacled to his wrists clanking.
Alex dragged his hand down the now-window, letting rest on a small ledge. His breath heightened.
Yassen leaned back again, keeping eye contact. He nodded, beckoning him. Alex looked at Crawley, who was picking apart their every move.
"Go ahead, Alex."
He wondered for a moment if he could turn around and walk out. Would Crawley stop him? The door was probably locked anyway…
In the end, he made the choice he always had, and likely always would. He walked right into danger.
He sat across from the man that had single handedly derailed his life. Somehow, he couldn't conjure up any anger. Couldn't put a name to any of the emotions he was feeling, as mixed up and stuffed together as they were. Alex could almost see the neon flashing sign: emotions at full capacity.
"Alexander…" the man's voice was softer than Alex remembered. Less ice, more snow. Sunshine peaking through the storm clouds.
Alex nodded jerkily, saying nothing, he didn't trust his own voice. He waited for Yassen to speak again, but the assassin seemed content just to look at him. He seemed to be searching for something, Alex didn't know what he would find.
They sat in silence for a moment. Alex was trying to control his breathing, it took more focus than it should.
Eventually, he steadied himself. He glanced up, seeing Yassen considering him calmly. Waiting. Giving Alex a chance to collect himself. It worked. Alex hadn't been sure how he would feel seeing Yassen again. Now he knew: he felt sorry. Remorse. Regret. Guilt.
"I'm sorry," Alex said quietly, finally able to put words to how he was feeling. He realized that - out of everyone Alex had met through MI6 - he owed Yassen the most.
The man had saved his life, almost at the cost of his own.
And yes, things were more complicated than that. Yassen had killed his uncle, tried to kill Edward, kidnaped Sabina, and put Alex himself though more than a few terrors. But he had always given Alex a fighting chance. Never been more cruel than was necessary.
That was more than Alex could say for most.
In return, Alex had kept Yassen's secrets from MI6. Had refrained from killing the man - for whatever reasons - despite having more than one opportunity. Then of course, there was everything that Yassen felt he owed John...
Anyway, Alex wasn't keeping a running tally. Maybe they were even, maybe they weren't. It didn't matter as long as he felt like he owed the assassin something.
"I don't regret it, Alex," the assassin told him calmly. That surprised Alex: how could you not regret events that led to you being shot and captured by the enemy?
He didn't know how to answer, lapsing back into silence. The back of his neck burned where he knew Crawley was staring. He did his best to ignore it.
Again, Yassen took the lead in breaking the silence.
"I hear that you are living in America now, with your Pleasures."
Alex nodded slightly. How Yassen managed to hear such information when he was stuck in an MI6 prison cell, Alex had no idea. He couldn't bring himself to feel surprised, though.
"You got out of espionage," Yassen continued, "I didn't think you would."
Alex glanced up for a second. The last thing the man had told him was to seek out a terrorist group. Likely, Yassen had though Alex would be a good little assassin by now. Or, more likely, dead. But, surprise surprise, no dice. Alex was alive and well and a schoolboy again.
"I was never meant for this kind of life." He said 'this' referring to sitting in MI6's secret underground prison across from an internationally known, presumed dead assassin - which was just bloody typical of his time as a spy.
"You'll excuse me if I disagree."
This time when Alex looked up, he held the assassins eyes for a moment longer. Was almost entranced by those endless blues; like how a snake paralyzes its prey before striking.
"You're the one that told me to get out," Alex argued. Way back on that rooftop with Sayle.
Of course, Yassen was also the one that sent him to Scorpia. However, Alex knew which advice had been better.
Yassen sighed and - was Alex mistaken, or was that a ghost of a smile? "Even I am wrong on occasion, though I don't make a habit of it. You are an excellent spy, Alex."
Alex was already shaking his head. He didn't know why he was arguing this with the man - didn't know why it mattered. Surely idle chit chat wasn't the reason Yassen had wanted to speak to him.
"Just because I was good at tiptoeing around," Alex said, a little heat entering his voice, "does not mean I was meant to be a spy."
"You were more than good, Alex-"
"Not good enough," Alex finally snapped, interrupting. "Not when it really mattered."
Not good enough to save Jack.
Yassen tilted his head, a brief expression passing over his usually blank face. Pity? No, more like… sympathy. Empathy. Yassen had lost people too, the look said. He understood. Alex had yet to meet someone that truly understood.
Alex leaned back against his cold metal chair. He was really glad that the window was behind him - he didn't want Crawley to see him blinking back tears.
He closed his eyes - thankfully, Yassen didn't comment. In fact, the man said nothing. Maybe hoping that Alex would break the silence this time.
He did, suddenly wanting to get this conversation over with.
"What are you trying to accomplish here, Yassen?" He asked. "I doubt that you just wanted a stroll down memory lane."
"No?" If Alex didn't know better, he would think that the assassin was teasing him now. "What am I doing here then?"
Alex thought for a moment. Most adults in this world were only ever trying to do one thing: "Manipulating me."
"To what end?" Yassen asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious.
"To your end."
"I don't want anything from you but your time, Alex."
He frowned at that. It sounded innocent enough, but Alex had been in this world long enough to know that time was a currency like anything else. The assassin wanted something, Alex was sure. He didn't understand why the man wouldn't just say.
Alex glared at the man across from him. For once able to hold his gaze steadily. Yassen sighed, relenting.
"Perhaps I just missed you, Alexander." Yassen leaned back, regarding him with raised eyebrows. "The company here is subpar to say the least."
Alex's frown deepened. There was something off about this conversation: Yassen wasn't one to joke, wasn't one to waste time on sentimentality.
It occurred to Alex that whatever Yassen wanted to say to him probably couldn't be said in front of MI6. In front of Crawley. Not openly. The assassin probably expected Alex to figure it out, fill in the gaps. Work that super spy magic.
Alex was out of practice. Still, he might have a hunch. After all, what with the situation Yassen was in now, there were few things the man could want.
"Yeah," Alex answered. "MI6 were never the best company. Lucky for me… I got out."
This time Yassen really did smile. It clicked. Alex realized exactly what it was Yassen wanted. Yassen knew he knew as well.
"Yes indeed, I could use a little luck right about now."
Yes, Alex felt that he still owed Yassen a debt; Alex realized that Yassen knew this. More than that, the man was relying on it. Was counting on this routine they had developed of saving each other. It was Alex's turn.
But what could he really do? He had promised his family - had promised himself - that he was out for good. Alex was out of practice, which equated to Yassen being out of luck.
Alex wasn't a professional. Maybe he had been a natural, but he didn't think that would be enough. Just because he had been lucky in the past didn't mean he would be so fortunate in the future. Alex wasn't a spy anymore, and never really had been.
Not to mention that after his last mission, Alex's confidence in his own abilities was shattered. He had left the world of espionage and hadn't looked back. Yassen knew this. Had been trying to build his confidence back up.
All because Yassen needed him. Scorpia wasn't coming for him - they were a shadow of what they used to be, and even if they were still at full power, they had never made a habit of rescuing people that failed them. Furthermore, Alex guessed that being an assassin meant Yassen had few other friends to call on.
No. All he had was Alex. Not a spy, not even a child-spy. Just a child.
Still, better than nothing.
Coming to this conclusion, Alex broke eye contact with the assassin once again. His fists clenched on the table top, and he rose to his feet.
"Unfortunately," Alex said, voice rough, "Luck can't solve everything."
He didn't wait for a reply, didn't even look to see what expression - if any - the assassin might be displaying. He just turned his back, caught the briefest glance of himself in the once-again mirror, and he left.
He bypassed Crawley without a word, walking down the hallway. The entire way - even though he knew Yassen couldn't see him anymore - he could feel the assassins eyes on him. Could feel them all the way up the elevator, through the lobby, and out to the street.
He ignored the feeling. Ignored Crawley's 'request' that he come for a debriefing. Ignored the agents in the lobby and the clueless pedestrians on the street.
He hailed a taxi and left.
Two weeks later Alex stood at his terminal, carry-on in hand, surrounded by his adoptive family. Tom had flown out to Italy yesterday, and now it was time for him and the Pleasures to head back home.
Alex gripped his ticket and passport as their section was called over the P.A. - an almost indistinguishable medley filled with static. Just as they were turning, Alex caught sight of a familiar face.
"Agent Rider," Crawley drawled. "A word please?"
Edward glared at the Agent, sliding his eyes to Alex with a clear message. Alex just shrugged.
"It's fine, get on the plane," Alex told his family. "I'll only be a minute."
Reluctantly, they shuffled off. Sabina leaned up to whisper in his ear a quick warning: be careful. When the three of them disappeared from sight, he turned to Crawley, raising an eyebrow and trying not to glare too severely.
Crawley wasted no time getting to the point. "Yassen Gregorovich escaped custody yesterday. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"Should I?"
Crawley was annoyed - Alex could tell, even though the man's expression remained neutral. "Given the nature of your discussion, we thought you may have acted impulsively. On some… misguided feeling of loyalty."
Alex bit his tongue, controlling his emotions before telling Crawley plainly: "Even if I wanted to help Yassen escape - and let me remind you that this is the man that killed my uncle along with who knows how many others, and who sent me off to a bunch of terrorists - how could I? You really think I'm capable of coordinating a break out from MI6?"
"In all honesty, Alex, I have no idea what you're capable of."
Alex sighed. "Well, let me clear it up for you. A year ago, I was a spy. I was mediocrely talented. I relied on luck, hid behind my age, and survived only because people underestimated me."
He paused, breathed in through his nose. Locked eyes with Crawley, just to be sure the message was driven home. "I was decent at tiptoeing around and being in the right place at the right time," or wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you looked at it, "doesn't mean I was meant for that kind of life, and that doesn't mean I had anything to do with Gregorovich."
Crawley regarded him a moment longer. Anger, annoyance, and finally, acceptance.
"You're free to go, Agent Rider."
Alex turned, resisting the urge to snap that he wasn't an agent. Hitching his carry-on over his shoulder, he trudged to the desk. The last call for boarding was called out over the P.A.
He handed over his passport and boarding pass. The lady at the desk scanned it, smiled, and said, "Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Rider."
Alex smiled back, finding that he preferred the sound of 'mister' to the sound of 'agent'. He felt Crawley's eyes on him all the way onto the plane.
He made his way down the aisle, a stewardess waving him through. The seats were practically all full now, the many passengers making themselves comfy for the long flight to America. He passed Edward and Liz with a smile and a nod, they leaned back, reassured. Sabina was sat in the row behind them, stuck between a mom and her angsty looking teenage kid and not looking happy about it. Alex smirked and kept going, scanning for his seat.
He saw it five rows farther. He stuffed his carry-on in the overhead carriage, pulling out a book and his headphones. He glanced down at the man in the middle seat, absorbed in a thick novel.
"Sorry," Alex said. "Would you excuse me? That's my seat." He pointed to the window spot.
"Of course," the man stood, allowing Alex to pass. Alex shuffled through.
They both sat, the other man returning to his book. The writing was in bold Russian, Alex understood little of it. "Thank you," Alex said, opening his own book.
"No," Yassen Gregorovich replied. "Thank you."
Alex smiled, shifting to get comfortable in his seat. He glanced once more at the man next to him - a ghost of a smile tugged at the assassins lips.
So maybe Alex wasn't meant to be a spy. That didn't mean he wasn't damn good at it.
Opia: the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.
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