A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! School starts Thursday *sirens blare*

I fell into Merlin feels and I can't get up.

Ah, Danielle. Poor girl just can't catch a break.

Mrs. Jones didn't seem all that surprised to see a very angry and very pale Alex Rider flinging open the door to her office, which only irked his ire further. She knew, she bloody knew that Danielle was working with him, and because she couldn't get to him, Danielle was the next best thing.

"Alex," she said, gesturing to a chair while snapping shut a manila file. "What brings you here?"

"Don't pretend you didn't do this," he growled, not sitting down. "Fix Ms. Du Nuit's credit and bank statements."

"Please sit."

"I'll pass."

She sighed. "As you wish. I'm afraid that Ms. Du Nuit's payments are long overdue -"

"Spare me." Alex clenched his fists. "What do you want me to do?" Oh, God, he hated himself for going back - for being forced to take one step into that office - but there wasn't any other choice, was there? Not now. Resisting them was just a sham.

"Intercept the assassins at the Prime Minister's reception in the Palace Theater. I believe he will attend a concert before hand - the one that you and your colleague are performing. More than one hit man have been put in place. You will be there anyways, yes?"

Alex refused to answer.

"You are the only agent-"

"I don't work for you."

Mrs. Jones didn't contradict. She knew she had him, whether he wanted to or not, and Alex hated her for it. "Agent Daniels is your partner for this assignment. You have an intimate knowledge of the theater. Use our resources for surveillance. The rest," she slid the folder across the desk. "You can decide how to proceed."

Alex thought for a long moment, scowling at the damning file. If he agreed, then the last four years were meaningless and he'd only been left alone because MI6 chose to do so. But if he didn't. . . well, that was even more selfish than not sending Danielle packing when he had the chance. "I have conditions," Alex decided, knowing full well that he teetered on a dangerous edge.

Mrs. Jones pursed her lips around the peppermint in her mouth. He took her silence as permission to continue.

"I will work for you - and that means I get paid. The same salary as Agent Daniels. You will fix my colleague's accounts immediately."

"Or?"

"Someone would love to write a book about me - my real history." He shook his head even as his vision blurred again. "I don't care about your reputation."

She believed him, if the thin line of her lips was any indication. "Agent Daniels' salary includes SAS pension from his service there. I can't include that in yours."

"Fine. Deduct that, and give me the rest. Half now. I need a new tux for the concert - one that will fit over a vest."

Without replying, Mrs. Jones picked up the phone and dialed three numbers. The short exchange she had with the other end amounted to fixing Danielle's accounts and transferring a sizeable sum into Alex's.

"Ms. Du Nuit's accounts are fixed."

Alex picked up the folder and jammed it inside his jacket before leaving the room, nearly smacking into Ben when he reached the lobby.

"Alex. What happened?"

"You're stuck with me."
"I can talk to Jones-"

"Don't bother. I'm not worth losing your job over, and she'll say no anyways."

Ben held out his hand. "Can I see the folder?"

Alex wordlessly handed it over, and the agent quickly skimmed through the overview and subject files. "Ten months. Damn."

"The concert's December 24th."

"Your studio is the best option for us to set up at. I've already made other arrangements for you to practice."

Rehearse. Alex didn't correct him. He'd decided to say as little as possible, only partly out of belligerence - his side was beginning to hurt, and the thought of conversation was tiring.

"Let's get coffee and decide where to go from there."

"And morphine," Alex muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Danielle sniffed hard and drew her sleeve across her eyes. The strange boy - Tim? Toby? - awkwardly sat beside her, his face screwed up like this was the last place he wanted to be.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Are there paper towels or something?"

He sprang into action, launching off the couch and hurrying into the kitchen, almost tripping over the rug. Muffled cursing lingered after a loud thud, but he emerged victoriously holding a roll of paper towels and rubbing his head.

"Those cabinets are like Scylla and Charybdis. Always go for the head."

She shook her head. "I could've gotten them."

"No!" he sighed and held out the roll. "I don't know what's going on. Alex called me over because he was hurt, and then you showed up and he runs out, the bastard, knowing that I never know what to do with crying women. Ever since Rome."

"I'm not crying," she muttered, taking a shaky breath. "What - what happened in Rome?" Please say something. I don't want to think.

"A long story involving champagne, my best shirt, and a massive dry cleaning bill."

"When was this?"

He twisted his watch around his wrist. "Last year."

"What's your name? Sorry, Alex said it, but he was mumbling-"

"Tom. Tom Harris."

"I'm Danielle."

"No last name?"

"Du Nuit."

"Ah. French."

"Yes." she made a face. "Everyone always says that."

He shrugged.

They fell into a slightly less awkward silence than Alex had left them in. Danielle quietly used most of the roll to sop up some of the water in her hair and clothes, not wanting to completely flood Alex's flat, and stood up with stiff movements throw them away. Her throat ached from holding back tears, but she knew that if she started crying, she'd never stop.

"Does Alex have gauze or band-aids?"

Tom glanced at the front for a moment. "I'll go check. It would probably be better if you stayed out here. . ." he disappeared into the hallway opposite the kitchen door.

The floorboards creaked as Tom reappeared with a roll of gauze. "Is this good enough?"

"Yes." Danielle swiftly bundled the four fingers on her left hand together to set overnight, just to keep them still. Her wrist twinged too, but it always hurt.

"What'd you do to your hand?" Tom asked.

"A piano lid fell on it ."

He sucked in a breath. "Ouch."

"Eh. Could be worse. What happened to Alex? He looks like death."

"You should probably ask him."

"So."

"So?"

"I'm going to go change into something dry." Danielle took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Would you - would you come down with me? I just. . . I'm nervous." Truthfully, her skin had been crawling ever since she left the pharmacy.

"Sure," Tom said, apprehension coloring his voice.

Danielle decided to ignore that. She just wanted someone to walk with her, if only as reassurance that any other creatures lived in her mind and there alone.

When the lift opened on her floor, Danielle scurried down the hall to her door and-

The lock was busted.

Half the bolt stuck out of the splintered wood. Through the gaping hole, Danielle saw that her flat, her home, was a wreck.

Tom muttered something under his breath. "I'm guessing your flat isn't always like this?"

"No," she growled, despite her shaking hands, and shoved open the door. The TV was on the floor, screen shattered. The table was overturned, university papers shredded into pieces, textbooks open and scattered around the floor. Slashes in her couch made it bleed stuffing in white, puffy scars, and she didn't want to look in the kitchen.

Tom pushed past and strode towards the kitchen, leaning in, then hurried through. She heard a horrible crunching noise, probably his shoes stomping on broken glass.

"There's no one here," he called, voice muffled, from her bedroom.

She crossed her arms, grabbing her shirt sleeves, and forced herself to walk through the galley kitchen. Drawers hung out of the cabinets, glasses and plates sat in pieces on the floor and counters. She stepped into her bedroom.

A red X marred her sheets, painted in a color that looked disturbingly like blood.

White bags slashed with red paint, sitting on the counter like fallen soldiers - his mark, his calling card. His property. For some the X meant salvation; for others it was their doom, but all who saw it became slaves in some way or another. Danielle never looked too closely, not if she could help it. The only reason she stepped through his door was for her mother - for all she needed to stay happy, for the foolish hope that maybe this week her mother would love her.

She screamed.

"So, what did you to do get stuck with long-term surveillance?" Alex asked as he waited by the bar for his coffee. The small coffee shop was filled to the rafters with people and noise, and he had to shout to be heard.

Ben gave him a slightly insulted look. "It's a fairly high profile case."

"Uh huh. For ten months."

"There was an incident abroad."

Alex glanced at him, interested despite his irritation. "Really?"

"Yeah. Look, Alex - about Brecon -"

"Doesn't matter. It was years ago."

"I heard about Point Blanc from Luke. How many other missions did you go on?"

Alex shrugged. "Six or seven."

Ben's eyebrows went up. "That's incredibly illegal."

"Never stopped them before." Alex took the steaming mug that the barista slid across the counter and leaned against the edge.

"We'll need monitors - audio, visual - and cameras to install in buildings near the theater." Ben thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the counter. "I should warn you now - K Unit is in on this one, too."

Alex felt his stomach drop into his toes. "What?"

"And they'll probably set up with the monitors-"

"Those grunts are not coming into my studio. Over my rotting corpse."

"Whatever means necessary, remember?"

"No."

"Sorry, Alex. It's not just for the assignment. There's been. . . a leak."

"And?"

"There's a possibility that someone found your file. . ."

Alex swore with enough force that the barista shot him a scandalized look that did nothing to tame his vocabulary.

"Yassen Gregorovitch wasn't a popular person," Ben continued, deciding to ignore Alex's language. "But there are those who stand to gain from avenging him."

"I didn't kill him."

"Do they know that?"

Alex glared at his coffee. "Probably not. If I get bulletproof glass, will you leave me alone?"

"Nope," Ben said, much too cheerfully, and dug his keys out of his pockets. "Speaking of that, let me show you your new studio."

It was only because they were in public that Alex didn't dunk his steaming drink onto the other man. Anywhere else, he would have done so - with pleasure.

"You're kidding." Alex turned in a circle, examining the wide room. "This is where my class is."

"Violin class?"

"Masterclass."

"Who's the teacher?"

"Me."

Ben snorted. "No way."

"I do have to earn money between gigs," Alex said, shooting him a dark look, but added reluctantly, "It's not horrible. I'd expect worse from you."

The Royal Academy of Music was a conglomerate of buildings, and this room was on the third floor of the largest one, with wide windows overlooking the street below. It was already equipped with sound-absorbing panels, a plethora of music stands, and an old upright piano.

"What should I tell Danielle?" Alex asked. "She'll want to know why we're moving studios."

"Yours is being renovated," Ben said. "Not exactly a lie."

"It would be easy enough to get an office here, too. Bring in a cot, a microwave."

"No."

"Don't tell me where to live."

Ben scowled, and Alex was suddenly reminded that he was only six years younger than the other Agent. Is this what he would become when he was twenty-five? God forbid. "Technically, I'm point. Which means you have to follow my instruction."

"And technically, I am a student here, and have other obligations."

"You're nineteen."

"I've lived alone for two years."

"Alex. You can't avoid surveillance forever."

Alex shot him a humorless grin. "That's not what I'm avoiding."

Ben winced.

Alex instantly regretted lashing out and wished, for a traitorous moment, that he'd never bothered to go to MI6. Danielle could surely find paying employment elsewhere, he wasn't responsible for her; he'd known her for exactly two days. They were hardly friends, and her problems weren't his.

But she came to him, all kinds of panicked, and asked for help in far less words because he was the closest person around, which made it his problem. He'd learned enough from Jack to know not to break people's trust, especially for selfish reasons. Even if that made him easily manipulated.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Ben slowly reached out and clasped his shoulder, saying, with the most understanding Alex had ever heard from anyone, "It's not your fault."

Alex tried to smile his thanks and, before his eyes could start stinging, said, "Do you want to survey the venue now or tomorrow?"

"Let's go now. Tomorrow my wife is dragging me to an opera."

"You're married?"

"Yes." The happy smile on Ben's face looked, frankly, ridiculous, and Alex forced himself not to comment on it.

"Does that happen to have anything to do with the incident you mentioned earlier?"

The color drained out of Ben's face, and he shot Alex an incredulous stare as they walked towards the stairwell. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, I just guessed. Weird, isn't it?"

"Just a little," Ben said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "And no, I'm not telling you what happened."

Alex held his hands up. "Wasn't asking." Yet.

"Are you sure this is for ten months?"

"Already reconsidering?"

"Don't tempt me. I'm also giving you a ride because you look like something that's been hit by a truck."

Alex grimaced at the memory of what occurred earlier. "Not too far off from that."

"What happened?"

"It had to be a fluke. No one can punch through glass that thick."

"Alex-"

"And they had to have followed me - but why didn't I see them?" Alex was only half-trying to irritate Ben, now that his mind latched onto that thought. "Usually I'm better than that." Or, I was.

"Al - Cub!"

The words died in Alex's mouth, dry and tasteless like sand. Brecon Beacons - no, another training facility, an island where the only mercy came as death. Cold metal that fit in his palm like it was custom tailored to his hand. Human silhouettes, hanging from rigging, perforated with holes, one through the head and one through the heart.

". . . Alex?" Ben's voice was suddenly softer.

Alex jerked away from him, suddenly, and balled his hands into fists. "It doesn't matter. I'm not dead. Can you take me home?"

"Yeah." Ben didn't press any further, but Alex was too lost in his thoughts to thank him.

He was a monster.

Just like Ash.

Just like Gregorovitch.

"Drop me here," Alex said. Ben pulled over on the side of the road, and Alex flung his door open.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime."

Alex pulled the collar of his jacket up against the biting chill and ducked into the bookstore on the corner of the intersection until Ben drove off.

Then he hurried inside the bar next door and shouldered his way to the counter. It was almost empty. He ordered a pint, and the drink blistered his throat as he forced it down in large gulps.

"Thanks," he rasped, sliding the glass across the counter, then left.

This time, his blurry vision wasn't from blood loss.

That was probably a mistake, he thought, and debated calling Ben for a ride.

That was his last coherent thought.

Two hours later, Danielle stepped out of the spare bathroom and repacked her possessions in a small suitcase.

Tom was waiting in her living room. He'd managed to set the TV upright and fix her dresser drawers, which she thanked him for. Before showering, she had made a point to pull a quilt over her bedsheets and sweep up most of the glass from the kitchen floor.

"Thanks for staying, too."

He looked insulted. "I wouldn't leave anyone alone in a place like this. It's a health hazard."

She tried not to shudder again. "I'll go to campus and see about other places to rent."

"Do you want a ride?"

"I should probably wait until Alex comes back. He might have some ideas."

Tom scoffed. "He'll probably be suddenly unavailable for the next few months."

"What makes you say that?"

"Ask him."

"Is that your answer for everything?" she heaved her suitcase into her arms. "Can you get the door - or should I ask Alex for that, too?"

Smirking, Tom made an elaborate show of prying open the dented door and holding it open with his foot. "After you, m'lady."

Danielle rolled her eyes and brushed past him. She couldn't shake the tingling from her skin. It crawled over her shoulders, her arms, her legs, for the trip up to Alex's flat. She felt like invisible eyes were tracking her every breath, and kept glancing around to reassure herself that yes, she was alone except for Tom.

"Do you know who did this?" he asked once they were back in Alex's flat.

Alex was still gone. Danielle felt a small surge of relief - she wouldn't have to explain anything yet, or face the humiliation of having almost cried in front of him. There was a punishment for crying, she remembered it searing into her skin where no one could see.
"Probably the Mafia," she muttered, failing to sound sarcastic.

"Do you need any, like, help?" Tom's voice stilted awkwardly, and he looked away. "Like, from the police?"
"No," she said. "Not the police."

"Generally this kind of thing is reported -"

"No." Danielle dropped the suitcase in front of the door and walked around to the couch, sitting in her previous spot and curling her legs up to her chest. "I don't want to talk about it."

Usually that made people drop the matter, but Tom sat next to her and stared at the TV. "If you were in trouble, you'd tell someone. Right?"

Danielle bit down hard on her lip. She couldn't answer that. "What makes you think I'd say anything to a stranger?" She tried to hurt him, to make him leave her alone before Alex came back and kicked them both out.

"For one, I'm studying domestic law."

"That doesn't mean you know anything."

"You're probably right," he admitted, then fixed her with a steely spare-me-the-crap stare. "But I've a guess -"

"Look, I have other friends. It's fine. Everything's fine, okay? If -if something did happen, and it didn't. . .it would have been a long time ago." Danielle wished that she didn't sound like she was convincing herself, too.

Tom began to say something, but was cut off when the door swung open and Alex stepped in, warily glancing at them.

"Well, you're both alive," he said. "Guess that's good to see."

"What happened?" Tom asked, getting to his feet. "I thought you went to the bank."

"Yes. Yes, I did. Danielle, your accounts should be fixed now - sorry about that, my fault. Like ev-ery-thing else." Alex managed to take off his jacket and make it all the way across the kitchen before Danielle or Tom could get a word in edgewise - which, she realized, was exactly what he wanted.

"How's that your fault?" she blurted before he could make his escape to his room.

"My old employer... She does have a long reach."

"What are you doing in return?" Tom asked sharply. Danielle glanced at him - he looked suspiciously calm, like this was nothing new, yet his voice said otherwise.

"She gets my services at the Prime Minister's concert on the 24th."

A cryptic look passed between them. Danielle didn't ask.

"Tell me you're getting paid this time."

"That would be a yes."

Tom hmphed. "At least you're doing something right."

Danielle blinked. "What's going on?"

"She gets the credit for our concert this winter. Nice publicity deal." Alex jerked his hand to his side suddenly, almost wincing. His eyes were dull. The grey fabric of his t-shirt darkened, not quite like water. . .

"Are you bleeding?" Danielle asked.

"Yes," Tom said before Alex had a chance to deny it. "He ran into the wrong end of a knife."

"I was mugged coming home. S'all."

"Oh, yeah, no big deal. I'm sure you get stabbed all the time." the pitch of her voice nearly squeaked. She tried not to panic. "Do you need to go to the doctor?"

"I'm good. I do get stabbed all the time."

Tom, for some reason, found that immensely amusing. The whole time he was there, it was like he and Alex were having some private joke between them.

You should probably ask Alex.

He'll probably be suddenly unavailable for the next few months.

'Where are you going?'

'The bank.'

Tom didn't seem to remember that Danielle was suddenly out of a home, or care that Alex was bleeding - neither did Alex, for that matter - as they were both talking about something completely different.

"You really should get that looked at -"

"Danielle, it's fine. I can't go running to the doctor for every papercut."

She was taken aback. What was wrong with him?

"But -"

"Maybe you should go back to your flat," Alex drawled, sounding rather bored. "I don't need to rehearse with you today."

Now Tom looked unsettled like he was coming out of a fog and realizing just how odd his friend was acting. "Alex, you reek. Is that beer? Danielle, I'm sorry - he's an incredibly pathetic lightweight, and I don't know what he was thinking." the last part he said with a poisonous glare at Alex, who was leaning against the door frame with an innocent look on his face.

"Fine," Alex lazily shrugged. "I never wanted an accompanist anyways."

"Alex!" Tom snapped. He shrugged off his pullover and strode towards Alex, who suddenly looked like he was about to cry. Tom grabbed his shoulders and forced him to turn around, giving him a sharp shove in the back. "He needs to sleep. Danielle - he doesn't mean it. Any of it."

She gave Tom the best smile she could muster. "I understand."

A few seconds later, Tom returned to the kitchen looking harried. "Alex is worse off than I thought. I need you to go to the pharmacy again and get something called ferrous sulfate. Here's the prescription-" he jammed a plastic bottle into her hand. "In case they need it. I'll stay in case something else goes to bloody hell."

"Do you help him a lot?"

"Well." Tom heaved out a sigh, clasping his hands together behind his head. "It used to be worse when we were in high school. Not so much anymore."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He didn't always have music."

Danielle clenched the bottle in her fist and squared her shoulders. "I'll be back soon."

"Thanks."

The rain had stopped, replaced by an icy chill that clung to the last days of February like a second skin. She hunched her shoulders up against the cold and jammed her fists in her pockets, trying not to shiver as the cold wind caught her wet hair. The plastic bottle pressed against her leg, barely fitting in the pocket of her jeans.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone in a brown jacket cross the street and fall in a few paces back, slowly edging towards her. Her heartbeat sped up.

Probably nothing, she reassured herself, but turned onto a side street just to be sure.

The shadow followed her.

She walked a little faster.

Rapid footsteps crossed the street behind her, and she flung her suitcase backwards, breaking into a sprint down the street. She could feel him chasing her as she turned left, than right, then ducked into an alley and -

slam! she hit something warm and solid. Two hands grabbed her biceps and pulled her close. The scent of chestnuts filled the air, and she almost threw up.

"Danielle, Danielle." A deep, gravelly voice tainted by cigars.

Stupid, she was so stupid. She'd practically leapt into his arms.

Something sharp prodded her in the back. A switchblade.

"Let's go for a walk," the man suggested. The pressure on her spine increased, stinging her skin, and she felt a bead of blood trickle down her skin.

She never should've left Alex's flat.

"What did I say about running?" He continued, stepping out with her onto the street, his arm through hers like an escort.

The memory flashed behind her eyes.

"Promise! You'll not even touch another man, not 'till I come for you!"

A dense fist drove into her stomach. Danielle sobbed. He slapped her across the face.

"Swear it!"

"I-I swear," she mumbled through her split lip, voice trembling. "I-I won't. No one."

"If I suspect otherwise, girl, you'll wish you were never born."

Rough hands grabbed at her hair and yanked her head back. Her entire body shook as his eyes roved over her lips, her chest, her body. Her skin crawled.

"And don't you even think about running."

Stars sparked in front of her eyes as his fist landed on her jaw. She sagged back against the rough, peeling wall as he shoved a small bag of white powder into her hand.

Seconds later, hands were on her, horrible, groping hands that belonged to a man playing with a new toy as he shoved her out onto the street.

Danielle cast one last, desperate glance around the quiet street. Someone, anyone - this was London, she couldn't be alone, not even here.

There was no one.

Review Replies

Op-Fan - I'm glad you're enjoying this! Who has it in for Alex? Well, let's just say it's a little of both. . . as for any romance, all in good time, my friend.

Guest - Never fear :) At worst I'll end up updating once a week instead of twice. Writing is the only way I survive school .

Torchwood Cardiff - your username asdfghjkl YES. Desperate times do call for desperate measures, indeed

Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed so far, and please continue to do so!