Warnings: Slash, age gap, sickness, gangs.

Rated: T

*Takes place the morning after the previous chapter, Late Night Trouble.

Alex groaned. He was in so much trouble.

His body was aching, every muscle yelling out at him from the abuse they'd been through. His head was pounding. He had chills. His stomach hurt. His heart racing.

"Alex?" A voice spoke softly from behind him, the noise pierced his aching brain in a way that was only slightly unpleasant, but also warmed him with familiarity, "Are you awake?"

Alex moaned - the single noise carrying an incomprehensible level of despair.

"I'll take that as a yes," Yassen laughed. "And how are you feeling?"

He repeated the noise, even louder than before.

"I'll take that as a 'like shit'." Alex wasn't sure he was a fan of the assassins snark - he certainly didn't think it was the time for it - but he supposed that you weren't able to spell 'assassin' without 'sass'.

Alex rolled over, his head throbbing with the movement. He tried to sit up, but stopped when he was assaulted with the abrupt urge to throw up. He covered his mouth with one hand.

"Am I sick?" It came out as a pained croak.

Yassen nodded, he lay on his side, fully clothed and on top of the covers. The man looked eons better than Alex felt (though that wasn't a difficult feat considering Alex felt like he'd lost a three round fight with a hurricane). "You're running a high fever. Probably from the rain. And I'm sure the hangover isn't helping much. Plus, I think you may have a concussion." Alex made a pained noise in agreement, his head was pounding in a way that was familiar but entirely unwelcome.

Through the drums and cymbals reverberating around his skull, a thought occured. He had no idea how long it had been, and he hadn't sent word to MI6. They had no clue what had happened to him.

"I need to get back," he said, without much conviction. "MI6 will be in a right state, they don't know where I am."

Yassen smiled indulgently, shaking his head slightly. "You're not going anywhere."

Yassen tilted Alex's chin up, placing the back of a hand against his forehead to test his temperature. The assassin frowned slightly - not good, then.

"Sleep, hopefully the fever breaks soon." Yassen's time of voice wasn't instilling Alex with much confidence, but he lay back down anyway.

/Yassen/

He watched Alex slowly drift off to a fitful sleep. The boy had woken up twice during the day- both times asking if he was sick, then saying that he needed to get back to MI6 - then Yassen would coax him back to sleep. It worried him that Alex didn't seem to recall waking up and conversing with him.

He tugged the duvet back up to Alex's chin. Alex was sweating, his skin hot, but he was trembling with chills. Shivering as if he was still out in the rain.

Yassen shuddered out of sympathy. Finding Alex early that morning - pale white and soaked to the bone in a dirty, dark downtown bus stop - had been scary to say the least. But he'd gotten the spy back to his hotel, warmed him and Alex had woken up shortly. Yassen had wrongly thought that Alex had lucked out.

He had been woken in the morning by Alex's delusional muttering - his fever high. Alex's temperature had fluctuated throughout the morning. Sometimes low enough to let Alex break through to consciousness. Other times so high that Yassen worried his brain would short circuit and melt.

Just now, as night approached, was the most coherent Alex had been, and Yassen was worried the lucidity wouldn't last.

With a creak of the bed springs, he rolled to his feet. He picked up the few medical supplies that he'd left on the bed, and put them on the side table. Also on the table was the cellphone he had found on Alex. A message from the 'bank' and several from other coded names; people like 'mum' or with the funny names you would expect on a teenagers phone.

Yassen opened the phone (he had watched Alex type the passcode in one night a few months ago and had, naturally, memorized it). He had originally replied to MI6, to the bank, pretending to be Alex. He'd said that Alex had had his cover blown and was lying low, but that only held the wolves at bay for so long.

A few more messages had appeared, asking when he would be coming in. Yassen thought about replying - Alex could well be with him for a while yet, until his fever breaks - but he decided that Alex could come up with a suitable lie when he was a little more with it. Anyway, he didn't know if Alex and MI6 had any code words, and he really didn't want to risk it more than he already had. He closed the phone again, putting it down.

After fetching a few more supplies, he settled down on on the edge of the bed. He easily fell into a rhythm; cooling Alex's forehead and wetting his lips with a cloth, rearranging the covers each time the boy tossed about, running a soothing hand over Alex's arm when he mumbled from nightmares. It wasn't an ideal situation, but Yassen was feeling cautiously optimistic.

Yassen should have been more cautious with his optimism. He found himself quite disappointed when everything, naturally, fell apart at the seams.

It started off slowly; in fact, for a while, he thought things were looking up. Alex's fever had broken faster than he had expected, hopefully meaning the worse had passed, and he was beginning to come to. Yassen had begun to relax, ready to call this a win. Fatal mistake. Well, maybe not so dramatic.

His first warning that things were going to shit was when he looked out the window. He hadn't taken Alex to the hotel that was their usual point of rendezvous; Alex had been in a rather rough side of town that couldn't have been farther from the posh, upper class hotel. Instead, Yassen had chosen one of his older safehouses that he hadn't used in years. In fact, it had been one of the first places he had bought after joining Scorpia, and it reflected the low budget he had been on.

It was the basement level of a low apartment building. It was about the size of a large walk-in closet (or a prison cell), and had one, tiny window, level with the ground outside.

He was looking out the window, starting to feel a bit drowsy, when a pair of boot clad legs strode past. Except, the person wasn't 'strolling', more like 'lurking'. Walking far too slowly for someone in this particular neighborhood. Another thing that clued Yassen to the impending problem was the knife strapped to the person's ankle, visible through the black not-quite skinny jeans.

Taking a closer look, Yassen couldn't say he recognized the boy outside, but he certainly recognized his type. From a gang, surely.

Now, Alex hadn't said much about his mission, but Yassen had drawn a few deductions. By the way the spy was dressed, and the part of town he was in, Yassen had supposed it was gang related. He only knew of two gangs in the area (that were apparently having a bit of a turf war at the moment) but he knew that either gang looking around for them was bad news.

The gang member walked slowly away, but Yassen could see that their safe house had been marked. He had been as careful and discreet as possible when coming here, but gangs ruled the area. Not to mention that stumbling around with an unconscious blond boy wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

He looked back at Alex, who was mumbling lightly in Russian. He was trying to decide what to do, but then the decision was made for him.

A flurry of movement attracted his attention back to the window, and the gang member was back. Not alone either. Several other people - he couldn't tell age or gender with their hoods on - had joined. And they were approaching the safe house.

/Alex/

His body shook. No wait, something shook his body. Alex scowled with annoyance and batted them away; he was too sick for such nonsense.

"Alex," it was as if the words were coming through a thick wall or a layer of water, "wake up, please, we need to go."

"Go?" He asked, confused. Yassen did realized that he was literally dying. Sort of.

"Yes," Yassen answered. Alex managed to pull himself from the depths of his blankets. Yassen looked worried - not an emotion he associated with the man. That alone gave him a jolt of adrenaline.

"Why?" He asked, but the answer came with the sound of a door caving in. He looked towards the only door in the room, but the noise had come from the floor above. This was also the moment that Alex realized he was not at his and Yassen's typical hotel. He was in something closer to a… hovel, he supposed. A ghoulish basement from a horror show. Not that he was complaining; he'd been in plenty worse places than this. Anyway, the state of the room wasn't the most pressing issue at the moment.

The approaching noise of footsteps were a bigger concern.

Alex tried to push himself up, but failed miserably. Blood rushed to his head and spots danced past his eyes. He paused for a moment, hoping to recover, but Yassen wasn't having it. The assassin grabbed him round the waist and pulled him free of the covers.

One of his arms was slung around Yassens shoulders, and he was being dragged to his feet; held firmly against Yassen's side. He let Yassen do what he wanted, aware that he had lost control of the situation like a child watching a helium balloon float away into the sky.

He decided to let Yassen worry about getting them out of whatever situation alive, he would just worry about not puking on Yassens jacket. Just as important a task, he thought.

He was towed along to the door. Yassen hesitated (another thing he'd never seen the assassin do) but plowed onwards.

They made it into a skinny corridor, and Alex's first, muddled thought was: 'we're fucked'.

He recognized the people in the hallway, of course. All members of the gang he had infiltrated, and a good many of them had been there last night - attempting to beat him to death.

They must have gotten the memo that he'd survived.

Yassen acted a lot faster than he managed; before Alex even had a chance to blink, Yassen had disappeared from his side and tossed two gang members bodily down the hallway.

Alex caught himself on the edge of the doorway to prevent himself from falling. He considered giving Yassen a hand, but…

The assassin slammed the head of one boy into a wall (Alex winced in sympathy) while simultaneously kicking another in the stomach. The target fell down wheezing, then started coughing up blood.

It didn't look like Yassen needed his help. He guessed that the gang members hadn't counted on a top tier assassin waiting for them.

But of course, the universe couldn't possibly let Alex sit idly by. No, that would be too easy.

He was just trying to blink the black dots from his eyes, when one of the gang members picked himself off the floor. Instead of going for Yassen (who was clearly the most imminent threat) he lunged at Alex.

Clinging to the wooden door frame, Alex had the brief thought that if he let go, he would fall. Not the best defence.

Then a fist was being thrown at his face; Alex lashed out with one hand, yanking his assailant towards him. Usually, this move would be accompanied by a fist or palm strike to the face, or at the very least a blades hand to the throat.

Instead, Alex did the next best thing he could think of. Lent forward and smashed his forehead into the other guy's nose.

There was a sharp cracking noise, then Alex's headache started beating double time.

Seconds later, a hand fell on his shoulders. Alex was prepared to give 'the old one two', but when he looked up it was just Yassen.

Blue eyes stared at him - almost laughing, but more concerned - light fingers brushed his forehead.

"You have nice header," Yassen said.

"Football." He didn't think he could handle more than a one word reply, unless he wanted to throw up then and there.

"Probably didn't help the concussion," Yassen observed. He spoke in a way that was almost scolding.

Alex shrugged and nodded. "No, probably not."

Yassen tilted his chin up - worried blue eyes boring in to his for a second. The world seemed to slowly blur around him, which he found both annoying and inconvenient. Then Yassen was wrapping him in strong arms and leading him out of the hallway, through the minefield of unconsciousness bodies.

They got into a car that he didn't recognize, and Yassen buckled him up. When they drove off, Yassen steered with one hand on the wheel and one hand intertwined with Alex's.

He focused on the feel of Yassen's hands; smooth and soft on some parts, but calloused and scarred on others. Ridges and indentations left from holding a gun. Alex found he liked the feel of Yassen's rough skin over the smooth - it felt more real, more human, and helped ground him to reality.

Alex traced the white scars that dotted the backs of Yassen's hands until they came to a stop. Looking up, he was relieved to recognize the hotel.

He was forced to release Yassen's hand as the man got out of the car, but quickly claimed it prisoner when they joined up again.

Yassen led him along, and they soon found themselves in an elevator. Alex almost felt like he was losing bits of time, maybe he was just distracted.

The next clear memory he had was of collapsing in a familiar bed. Hand still clamped around Yassen's. The assassin had followed him without complaint, curling around him.

Looking out the tall windows, Alex was lulled by the sight. London didn't go long without rain, and indeed a storm had rolled in. Within seconds - or maybe minutes, he wasn't sure - the raindrops were pounding against the glass. As night rose steadily, Alex remembered looking up at a sky just like this less than twenty four hours ago.

He'd been lying in a gutter - wet and cold and tired and frustrated. Now, he was dry and warm and content, ready for a proper night's rest encased in warm arms.

Yassen shifted closer, and Alex closed his eyes.

AN:

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