Alex sat there, still smiling while holding Yassen's wrist, feeling the man's pulse throb against his fingers. All Yassen could do was stare at those thin, arching lips, those intelligent brown eyes—so much like John's—and be amazed that this boy had survived two years and nine missions under MI6. That Alex could even remember how to smile was nothing short of a miracle. Yassen might have saved him from becoming another notch on the belt of Military Intelligence, but it was really just the lesser of two evils; Interpol had their own share of danger and disaster, and were by no means immune to scandal.

Alex's grin began to fade as he sensed something wrong, his grip on Yassen's wrist slowly loosening.

"No," Yassen said suddenly, taking hold of Alex's departing hand. "It's all right." He smiled slightly, showing Alex that it was. "I can be your prisoner for a little while."

The grin came back to Alex's mouth—the only thing Yassen really cared about—and he looked down at the wrist he held, just the few inches of bare skin peeking between glove and sleeve: pale, sprinkled with ginger hair, a tiny white scar on the side, old by the looks of it. Alex thumbed over it, wondering how Yassen had gotten it, if it had been received while on mission, or if one of the assassin's targets had tried to fight back.

"How do I get into Interpol?" he asked distantly, staring at the scar.

"It's too early to worry about that yet," said Yassen. "Focus on school for now. Take advantage of every opportunity. Study hard. Don't allow others to distract you."

Alex smiled crookedly. "You sound like a dad."

Yassen stared in silence for a few moments, then reached out and brushed a few locks of blond hair from Alex's forehead. "Maybe in another life," he murmured.

"Why not this one?" Alex raised his head, gazing up at Yassen, who sat completely still, not even appearing to breathe. "It's not too late. Everyone should be . . . We all deserve second chance, don't we?"

Wintry blue eyes met warm brown ones, and Yassen drew in a measured breath. "People like us rarely get second chances, Alex. Keep your heart inside"—he tapped the boy's chest— "where it belongs. It has ways of leading us astray if we don't."

Alex let go of Yassen's wrist and sat back, his face once again adopting its blank, muted expression. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't realize it was a crime to love someone."

For a few seconds, the world seemed to stand still. The Thames froze, its waves silent and motionless. Pigeons hovered in the air, their wings halted by the weight of this heavy moment. Then Yassen blinked, swallowed, and pulled Alex into his arms, embracing him tightly. Time resumed its normal pace, gradually emerging from its standstill until the hands of all clocks were finally ticking as they should.

Yassen pressed his cheek against the side of Alex's head, trying not to think about how badly he would miss this moment, this feeling—this boy—once they parted paths. "I love you too, Alex," he said gently, "and I always will. But I can never replace John, no matter how . . ."—his voice cracked and he looked up at the gray sky—"how badly I want to be something more than just a stranger to you." He closed his eyes. "I would have been a terrible father."

"So don't be my father," Alex said, his voice muffled in the folds of Yassen's coat. "Be my friend. I'm already yours."

For the first time in sixteen years, ever since a small plane had exploded over a nameless airport an hour outside of London, Yassen Gregorovich's eyes began to fill with tears.

"All right," he said, blinking. A single tear rolled down his cheek and ended up somewhere in Alex's hair. "I can do that."