Title: Meeting
Rating: K+
Summary: Their first meeting as 'normal' people is not what he expects. WC: 581
Warnings: Slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.
a/n: This will be a series of drabbles and ficlets loosely connected to each other. I have only been to San Francisco once... And that was when I was what? Seven? Maybe eight.
Three years was not a long time. Time was just an illusion, and one could make it seem like an eternity.
Alex was fairly used to America by now. His accent was barely noticeable, a soft lilt under his tongue. It had been three years since he had actually gone on a mission. He was too old for it now, too old to pose as a child. MI6 respected his wishes for a normal, uncomplicated life, but it just made him wonder - would they be training another boy to kill for them?
To bring another criminal organization down?
To ruin any hopes of a normal life?
Yet, he still longed for the adrenaline rush. Old habits die hard, it seems. The Pleasures, though very kind, were worried when he insisted they have a gun - just in case. But the very thought of Jack, his caretaker, pain and regret lanced through his chest. He didn't have the heart to pick up a gun in years.
Until now. Even after three years, the gun held such a familiarity to it that almost scared him. The shiny metal glinted in the dull lights of his slightly run down apartment kitchen. It fit securely in his palm, like it belonged there. It almost scared him, but he cherished the feeling. It completed him, even if he would never want to kill another human being in cold blood. The gun proved to him that he would never be normal, no matter what he wanted. He had seen so much in such a short time.
Alex tapped it against his temple. He wondered how Julius Grief must have felt for those last few moments before he shot him. The very face he had been tormented with, staring at him as he was -
"Who would think Alex Rider, of all people, could commit suicide?" A familiar voice spoke behind him, ghostly.
Ghostly because, in fact, the owner of the voice should be dead. Alex gently set the gun down on the counter top in front of him and slowly turned. Yassen Gregorovich. A jolt of surprise ran through him. Yassen looked exactly as Alex remembered, scar and all.
"I watched you die."
"Who's to say that I didn't die? Maybe I'm alive. Maybe I'm just a ghost." The man casually leaned against the doorway. "Maybe I'm just a figment of your imagination, and you're just going crazy."
"Why are you here?" Alex asked. He was aware of the cold, calculating eyes examining him, pulling him apart. Yassen was the same yet not. His stance had changed. His posture. Alex couldn't get over the tiny feeling that there was more. There was always more. Why did you come back? He opened his mouth to ask, but in two strides, the Russian man was right in front of him. Alex breathed in a lungful of air in shock, not expecting the move. His mind vaguely noted the smell of pine and deodorant.
Leaning forward so that his lips were right by Alex's ear, Yassen whispered: "There's a new cafe downtown by that old bookstore. Meet me a week from today. Noon." Warm breath ghosted down Alex's neck, and he barely repressed a shiver. It was a while before the shock wore off and he noticed that the man had slipped away into the busy streets of San Francisco.
On the table beside the gun was a single piece of paper, with only three words.
See you soon.