Drabble number two. :) As always, I'd love to hear what you thought about it, and feel free to suggest any prompts/song lyrics/ideas you'd like to see me try.

Prompts: at the tone - flowers - rug - couch potato

"You have reached the voicemail of 07823 61332. Please leave a message at the tone."

Alex scowled and hung up again, sliding the phone back into his jeans. In the rear view mirror he could see the taxi driver smirk, half twisting in the seat to peer back at his teenage passenger.

"Girlfriend not picking up?"

"Something like that," Alex muttered miserably, glancing down at his hands, at the bouquet of brightly coloured tulips he'd paid far too much for at the airport gift shop. They looked garish against the black of the cab and he had a sudden urge to roll down the window and throw them out, unsure why he'd bought them in the first place. He didn't know how to do this, had no idea how to act in a relationship that wasn't, but he'd needed something to show how sorry he was.

"Well, we're here anyway. Good luck with the girl, mate."

Alex slid out of the car, peeling forty quid from his wallet. "Keep the change," he told the driver, shouldering the duffel bag and reluctantly picking up the flowers. Took a deep breath to steady himself as he looked up at the block of run-down flats.

He refused to think too much about it as he entered and called the lift, jaw clenched and eyes resolutely set on the door in front of him as he ignored the numbers flashing on his right. His stomach dropped as the doors jerked open and he forced himself to get out and walk the fifty metres to the flat, knocking before he lost his nerve. His gaze settled on a strip of peeling wallpaper by the door frame as he waited to be let in, the flowers brandished like a weapon in front of him.

Knocked again, louder, after a few minutes passed with no response. He bit his lip as he considered the implications, tried to convince himself that the assassin was probably just out. He wouldn't have moved on without saying anything, right? His right hand scrabbled desperately in his pocket for the key he'd been given only weeks ago as he wondered whether it would still even fit the lock. There was a sigh of relief as it turned easily and he braced himself as he pushed the door open, still half expecting to discover a different family had moved in.

No, it was still the same. He recognised the sparse furniture in the hallway, the jacket hung up on the hooks to his left, and his eyes closed briefly as he realised that he hadn't been abandoned. The thought bolstered him and he closed the door behind him, dropping his bag by Yassen's jacket as he moved further into the flat, intending to find a vase or something for the flowers and paper to scribble an apology on. After that he could only pray that he'd get a phone call back.

His breath caught as he realised the assassin wasn't out. Was, in fact, lying on the sofa across from him, languidly spread out with one arm tucked behind his head. The blue eyes that met his were emotionless and Alex fought to keep from simply turning and bolting.

The air between them was heavy with the memory of their last encounter, the accusations and insults that Alex had spat in the Russian's face before storming out. He'd felt ignored and taken advantage of, convinced that the assassin was just playing with him, and he'd been on a plane to his next mission before he'd had a chance to calm down and realise what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he muttered finally, though he kept the distance between them. "I didn't mean it. I was angry and upset and I didn't think you cared about me." His eyes were bright with tears he was struggling not to shed, desperate to make this right again but agonisingly aware that he didn't know what to say to put it right. "Please, I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't. I, just, this scares me sometimes. I've not done this before. It scares me how much I want you."

Yassen continued to just look at him and Alex dropped his head uncomfortably, staring at his feet, tasting blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten it too harshly. "Please just say something," he finished weakly, unable to take this any longer.

The sofa groaned and Alex looked up as Yassen pushed himself to his feet, unable to keep from admiring the man even now, the play of muscles under the fitted t-shirt drawing his attention. He'd taken half a step back before he realised and forced himself to stay still, eyes wide as Yassen moved slowly towards him. Would the Russian hurt him? Even if he did, Alex probably deserved it.

"I can't believe you brought me flowers," he murmured silkily, face close enough to Alex's now that the spy could feel his breath on his cheeks.

Alex flushed brightly and thrust his hand forward, wanting nothing more to be rid of the damned things. He felt stupid and childish, knowing that it was own insecurities that had landed him in this position, and Yassen was just making fun of him again. Coming here had been a stupid idea; he should have realised that he'd blown it.

But the assassin's hand reached out to grab Alex's wrist, twisting it awkwardly so the boy was forced to drop the bouquet onto the rug at his feet. The sharp exclamation of pain was muffled by Yassen's lips, pressing hungrily at the other's as he pushed Alex back towards the wall. "I missed you," he admitted as they finally broke for air.

It was enough for Alex. It had to be; he knew he'd be fooling himself to hold out for anything else, that this could never be a normal relationship. Whether he was actually forgiven was another story, but for now he could pretend that everything was right again. It was enough.