A/N: Once more, warnings for Alex's strong opinions about hunting. Also way overdue, but thank you so much to Ahuuda, who has made the fic far better than it would have been. The next chapter is about finished, too, so there should be another update next week.

Alex and Yassen returned from Russia in mid-May. Alex was quieter and more serious than before, and Helen wasn't surprised. It hurt her heart, those moments when she could see maturity take over – when the child she was used to faded and he seemed years older than he was – but it wasn't surprising.

They had always known Alex and Matilda would need to learn the truth one day. They had just hoped that Alex would have been a little older. He had John's tenacity, though, and would never have left the puzzle alone, and … it had been better to at least have some measure of control over what he learned and when. It didn't make it easier when she saw her eight-year-old son worry about things no adult should have to deal with, much less a child, but … it was at least a reason.

Matilda was happy to have her brother back, and the house was alive in a different way with two kids home instead of just one, and Helen slept easier again.

Life settled. Carried on, in the same relentless way it had since they had left London what felt like a lifetime ago.

With Alex at least a little familiar with the truth, his lessons expanded as well. It was another thing Helen wished they could have done when he was older but – things changed. They wanted him to be safe, him and Matilda both, and the knowledge that he wasn't helpless did more to ease his nightmares and restless nights than any reassurances could.

John, the teacher at heart, took the practical approach to things. He adapted lessons they had planned for later to suit an eight-year-old and then expanded further. Alex already knew how to shoot and he had learned close combat since he was old enough to grasp the idea. More lessons, Helen knew, would not only keep him busy but help him sleep much better as well. If they couldn't prevent those nightmares, they could at least address them in the best way they could.

The attackers in Geneva had most likely planned a kidnapping, and Alex knew it, too – John, in turn, taught him how to handle a hostage situation. Alex had been forced to learn how to adapt to a whole new identity with no warning – John expanded those lessons in disguises now; close to a decade worth of advice and experience from a man whose survival depended on not being recognised. Next time they had to move, Alex would be much better prepared.

Yassen and Helen supplemented those lessons in their own ways.

Alex had already learned how to pickpocket from Yassen, but that wasn't the only lesson Yassen had learned on the streets. Escape, evade, hide, survive. How to use his age to his advantage like Yassen himself had done when he was no more than a young teenager.

Helen dug deep for childhood memories of her own and taught Alex what she herself had learned the hard way. How to hide money and other valuables, how to move quiet and unseen, how to tell someone's exact location in the house by sound alone. Alex already knew first aid but those lessons would slowly get expanded, too. Anything to help keep their children safe.

Life settled down again. The world kept moving. Alex's nightmares slowly eased. That was all Helen could ask for.

"He adapts well."

It was quiet. It was also well into the evening but this far north and in early June, the sun had yet to set. The last bit of sunlight still illuminated the living room and Helen had yet to turn on a reading light for her book.

Hunter was away. Yassen would be soon as well; one last job to handle before he spent three weeks in Russia with Alex again.

There was no need to specify who 'he' was. Helen knew it just as well as Yassen did.

"Necessity." Helen was silent for a second. "He inherited it from both of us. Fortunately, he did not inherit John's emotional detachment to go with it."

It would have been harsh words from most others regarding a spouse. From Hunter's wife, it was simple realism. She loved him but she wasn't blind to his nature. Charming, handsome, utterly ruthless. A born survivor. Yassen wondered what he had been like as a child.

"Perhaps it would have been easier if he had."

Matilda was still too young to be able to tell if she had inherited that trait from Hunter. As for Alex, Yassen trusted Helen's instincts.

"And have him grow up like John?" Clinical. Pragmatic. A little weary, beneath it all. "I want them to have at least the chance for some semblance of a normal life one day. I love John dearly, but his family had more skeletons in their closets than most, and not all of them were figurative. John has built a career on emotional detachment. We both want something else for Alex and Matilda."

Something better, she didn't say and didn't need to.

Silence. Outside, the sun continued its slow descent. The shadows grew longer and stretched into grotesque shapes.

Yassen did not mention what Alex's likely reaction to actually killing a living creature would be. He didn't need to, and Helen's thoughts had undoubtedly drifted to the same.

Yassen's intention was to start Alex on fishing as a gentler introduction to things, but Alex knew why he had to learn to hunt just as well as the rest of them did. Yassen had no plans to force those lessons. He would encourage and otherwise take things at Alex's pace, but that didn't change the fact that Alex did not take well to waiting. Eventually the dread would be outweighed by the need to get it over with so it would stop taking up his every waking moment.

It was not a lesson Yassen would have wanted at eight years old. It was not a kind thing to do to a child. Based on Hunter's words, it would have been a much easier lesson for someone with his – more muted capacity for emotion.

Alex would grow up with far stronger emotional bonds. The trauma of necessary lessons would also be much harsher on the psyche of a normal child than it would ever have been on Hunter at the same age.

Yassen had research to finish. Old articles to read through. Maps to examine and intel to organize before his next job. Between growing shadows and memories of his own childhood and the ever-present ghost of necessity, he couldn't find the focus.

Based on the stillness of Helen's book, neither could she.

Their tutor in Finnish was Marjatta, a retired school teacher who came by four hours every day Monday through Friday and left several additional hours of homework behind every time. They treated it much like school for Alex and he worked for all four hours. Helen, who also had Matilda to look after, joined in as much as she could.

Alex's homework was frequently supplemented by documentaries for children in Finnish that Marjatta brought along. Helen settled for whatever homework she had time for when the house was silent and Alex and Matilda were asleep.

Marjatta was a patient teacher who understood Helen's limitations and knew to encourage Alex. Alex in turn thrived and while he plainly didn't consider Finnish fun to learn, he worked hard nonetheless. Helen suspected he missed school. Not the homework but the other children. There were other families nearby, but any other children Alex's age would be in school during the day. He had Matilda and Helen herself, but Matilda was young and parents weren't playmates the way children his own age would be.

"He is a diligent student," Marjatta said one afternoon in late June as they packed up for the day. John was home for a little while and Matilda and Alex were both with him, fleeting moments before he had to leave again. They still kept up their lessons, and John spent the hours training his own skills elsewhere, but for a little while they were a family again.

"He has a gift for languages as well, but he's a hard worker and focused on his task," Marjatta continued. "If he continues with this sort of progress, he will be able to manage in a regular class by the start of the school year."

Helen herself hadn't made anywhere near as much progress and she was all right with that. She didn't need to be fluent. She just needed to be good enough to manage as needed and to seem like someone who had lived in the country for longer than they actually had. The Greaves couldn't possibly be new arrivals, after all. Not when both Ryan and his mother spoke the language so well.

"Thomas is the same," Helen admitted. "Give him the right incentive, and he'll pick up a language in no time. I've always envied that skill."

"Two children and a husband who travels leaves little time for studies." Marjatta was also a pragmatic woman, and Helen appreciated that. "The international school in Helsinki has a perfectly good reputation."

"I want Ryan to have at least a little stability," Helen replied to the unspoken question, "and Finland's schools have an exceptional reputation. His previous school was an international one. Friends came and went as their families arrived or moved, and some children had the firm belief that they could get away with anything because their parents were important people. Perhaps we will only be here for a few years, but the stability will be good for him and … I'm hoping we can return eventually. Further north, maybe. Ryan and Madison love the snow."

They hadn't needed to learn Finnish. They could all have managed perfectly fine with English for a few years. Alex would likely have done fine in the international school, too.

Another layer of security. Another bit of cover. Another way to make the Greaves completely different from the Morrisons.

Helen wasn't even lying. Finland wasn't home but it wasn't a bad place, either. She wasn't even sure she really preferred to retire on a tropical island in the first place for all that they joked about it

People were both less social and less nosy than their neighbours had been in Geneva. In a lot of ways Helen appreciated that. In others, it was one more acute loss she still felt; the memory of the home she had come to love. It was a relief to not have the same curiosity, the same constant focus, the same fine-tuned gossip machine that might work against them at any moment. On the other hand was the potential loneliness; the harder work it took to get close to people, to find potential friends or acquaintances or even just the slightest bit of social interaction beyond her own family.

Their life in Geneva had been a lie but she had still had friends, even if she had always had to be careful with her words. Now she was slowly building up a social circle again. Fellow parents, neighbours, a few other stay-at-home mothers in the area.

"I will bring the curriculum Ryan will be expected to know," Marjatta said. "I suspect he'll do just fine but let's make sure. We can contact the school afterwards and arrange for things"

The school would probably like to know, too, just as much as Helen did. Alex was young. There was still time to catch up with anything important he had missed during his time away.

Marjatta was not a woman given to small-talk in her retirement, but Helen had grown used to it. It was different and people were harder to get close to but it was not unwelcome. Different but – just something to adapt to. Geneva had been different from London. Helsinki was different from Geneva.

Helen Rider accepted it as the way life would have to be.

Alex went to Kamchatka for three weeks with Jamie in July.

He knew it was supposed to be about fishing and hunting, Jamie had already told him that, but Alex still looked forward to it. Vacation with Jamie was fun, and most of the travel would be by helicopter.

There were no dead animals in their hunting cabin this time. It was a much smaller, cosier place and reminded Alex a little of the cabin they had stayed in in Germany. It also clearly wasn't used often, and everything they would need, they had to bring themselves.

Jamie brought rations and other things that wouldn't go bad, but lunch and dinner would be either fish or bird of some sort that they had killed themselves.

Fishing was interesting for about half an hour that first day. That was how long it took Alex to get bored of just waiting for some stupid fish to bite so they could go do something else. Jamie didn't seem to mind, but Alex was also pretty sure that Jamie was physically incapable of being bored, so that didn't count.

An hour after that, when Jamie finally caught a decent-sized trout, Alex had resorted to wood carving while Jamie told him about fishing. Sometimes it had been more hacking than carving, and the stick looked mostly like firewood leftovers by the end of it, but if that was how fishing was going to go every single time, Alex figured he would get lots of practice.

Why did anyone do that sort of thing? For a hobby? Was it an adult thing like coffee and boring TV shows where all anyone did was talk? Was it some other way to get dead animals to decorate a house with? Did people get dead fish stuffed and mounted on the walls, too? Who wanted a dead trout to stare at them while they slept?

At least the fish was easy to clean and left the rest of the day to go exploring. The tall grass and the forest and the area around the cabin … and several dead trees that Jamie marked for target practice.

Alex didn't particularly like the hunting rifles or shotguns Jamie had brought along, mostly because he knew why there were two of them. They were different than the guns Alex was used to but he learned fast and Jamie's approval made it made it easy to forget why they were there and pretend it was just normal.

He had to learn. Not just shooting but – killing things. Because one day someone might attack them again and his mum might not be there and Matilda would have no one else to protect her. Because all the awful things didn't go away just because he pretended that they didn't exist and Jamie – Jamie just wanted them to be safe.

He had to learn and they both knew it, but Jamie never said it out loud and that made it a little easier. Alex knew. He didn't want the reminder, too.

The second day they went duck hunting, and Alex was brought right back to that awful boredom of waiting. Carefully hidden in a bird hide made with camouflage netting so the ducks wouldn't see them, with nothing to do and clouds that looked like they would turn into rain at any moment, and Alex was bored.

Jamie was patient. All Alex could focus on was the slow crawl of clouds across the sky. Jamie was a good hunter so it wasn't a long wait but it was long enough, and Alex also knew exactly how long it would take to pluck those two, small ducks.

That afternoon, with the ducks handled, Jamie brought out a heavy box of what looked like clay saucers for plants. Or maybe really small, ugly plates.

"Clay pigeons," Jamie said before Alex could ask.

"They don't look like pigeons."

"They're used as targets for certain types of shooting sports. The targets used to be live pigeons."

Alex wished he could say he was surprised but not after Jamie took him hunting. Not after all the nights they had slept in a cabin surrounded by dead animals. The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"So what, they would put them in a box, drag them somewhere, and let them out to be shot?"

"I assume so."

Trapped, terrified, probably locked away in total darkness with just enough air to breathe, and when someone finally released them, they would have been frantic and confused and shot before they had a chance to escape. It was enough to make Alex feel sick.

"That's awful."

Jamie didn't seem bothered. Jamie had also picked the cabin last time, so that really didn't say much. "Times were different. Humanity has done far worse in the name of fleeting entertainment."

Alex knew it was true. It didn't make the clay pigeons any easier to look at when he knew why Jamie had brought them along.

Jamie handed him one and Alex reluctantly took it. It was heavy but he wasn't surprised. Not when it was made of clay and had made it all the way to their cabin in that box without breaking. It had to be solid enough to throw, too. Launch? Alex had a vague recollection that clay pigeons were launched from something.

"These are useful for training with a shotgun on a moving target," Jamie said. "It will not move like a bird would but it will allow you to gain a sense of your weapon and aim. I will throw the targets. All I want you to do is focus on hitting them."

Alex looked down at the clay disk in his hand.

He had been six when he learned how to shoot. He almost didn't remember a time when he couldn't shoot, but he vividly remembered the first time he had held a gun and felt the recoil and listened to his dad talk about safety and parts of the gun and how to handle it right.

The range in Geneva had always used paper targets. They were larger than the clay pigeons but … they weren't really that different. This was just a clay plate. A moving one, and heavy and ugly but just – clay.

The shotgun was different. Different size, different ammunition, but it was still just a gun. Alex could handle that. And a part of him, a very small part, wanted to see if he could even learn to hit them. He knew his mum and dad and Jamie were probably good enough to manage. It sounded impossible to him.

Alex handed back the clay pigeon. Took a slow breath and remembered Geneva and – he had to learn.

"… Okay."

Jamie ruffled his hair. He didn't say he was proud but Alex knew it, anyway.

In one world, Alex Rider spent July of ninety-five on the French Riviera. Ian taught him to scuba dive and spoke only in French, and Alex returned to London with a French accent to match Jack's American one.

In another, Alex Rider learned to use a shotgun under the skies of Kamchatka and the watchful eye of Yassen Gregorovich. He wasn't held to Cossack's own standards, he was eight years old and had never held a shotgun before, but the potential and necessity was there. It was enough to build a solid foundation.

Yassen knew it would take time to convince Alex to actually participate in their hunts. They had time, though, and Yassen was a patient man. It was no surprise. Alex understood the need for it but he was also a stubborn child and hated the thought of hunting.

In another world, it should not have been necessary, but there was little point in lingering on what could have been. Yassen doubted that he himself would have taken much better to the idea of killing an animal at that age but Alex had little choice. He knew that just as well as Yassen did.

Carefully planned days would help to wear down his resistance. Training with the rifles and shotguns would become normal. They would spend most of the days outside, hiking and exploring as Yassen told Alex about Russia and resumed his language lessons. Alex had his father's gift for languages and learned fast. It would be a valuable skill as he grew older.

Alex at eight was always moving, always active, always restless – except when they hunted. The times when Alex had to be quiet and simply wait, and Yassen knew the toll it demanded on Alex's limited ability to sit still.

Alex understood necessity better than most children his age but in the face of boredom, Yassen knew that his reluctance would weaken further. They had brought no entertainment along for their hunts. No comics, no games, no books. Yassen did not mind the wait – he appreciated it, even, for the silence and tranquillity. Alex did not agree.

"How aren't you bored, too?" he demanded the third day.

Yassen had expected the question and lowered his binoculars. Their bird hide was small and offered little chance to move. Alex could be active while they fished. In the stillness of the bird hide, waiting for suitable prey, he was far more restricted.

"It's different when you have something to focus on. I did bring binoculars for you as well."

Good quality, durable and good for hunting – Alex had refused them so far and Yassen understood. Like with the weapons, accepting them would make it far more real than he was prepared for, but Alex was also bored and they still had another two and a half weeks left. The lure was considerable.

"It's simply binoculars," Yassen continued. "Nothing else. I will tell you what to look for. Hunting is but a small part of it. There are many things out there that you would never get close enough to see otherwise."

Alex hesitated but took them.

They weren't a permanent solution, of course. He would still grow bored but it did offer some additional entertainment and based the amount of time Alex spent watching the world through them, it was a welcome distraction.

They fished on the fourth day. Alex's wood carvings were still little better than his first attempts but his skills with the knife had improved. Practice and dexterity that would do him good.

On the fifth day, watching from their bird hide, Yassen kept up a quiet commentary on the world around them as Alex watched. It was a good distraction from the wait. It was also good experience in communicating with a spotter, even if they all hoped he would never need those skills.

"Four o'clock." Yassen murmured, "about two hundred metres off. The top of the alder tree."

Alex got the binoculars into position just in time to see a golden eagle settle on one of the sturdier branches. Yassen had seen its approach. It had been large at a distance. Closer and magnified, it was easy to imagine one could simply reach out and touch it. Perhaps it had been lured in by the decoy ducks in the small pond, but considering that it had settled down in the tree, most likely not.

"A golden eagle. They have been used in falconry for centuries," he continued. Memories of a jungle and spiders and dozens of memorised bird names as part of a long-discarded cover gnawed at the edge of his awareness. He pushed them away again.

Alex lowered the binoculars.

"It's huge."

"Eagles generally are." Yassen paused and couldn't quite keep the amusement out of his voice. "Of course, its arrival also scared any potential prey."

Alex didn't have the experience to pay attention to such a thing but Yassen did. Observation skills came with training and experience, and Alex was still just eight.

Another child might have complained at the knowledge that their wait had just been prolonged. Alex was bored but he didn't voice his annoyance. Just stayed silent as Yassen watched him consider the situation.

"… It got quiet," Alex finally said. "The birds and everything. And there were a couple of squirrels I'd been watching that ran up a tree right before you told me to look."

A heartbeat. Two. Alex still watched the eagle and looked lost in thought, and Yassen didn't interrupt.

"… They did the same thing in Germany. The cabin we stayed in. Sometimes, it would get completely silent, I guess because we scared the animals a lot. It was … kind of creepy when it happened when we were inside."

"Numerous predators are nocturnal," Yassen said, but he understood the sentiment. On edge from Geneva, unsure of who had targeted them, in a foreign place, and knowing that something was outside. Most likely a fox but the thought would have lingered. The knowledge of what else it could have been.

Up ahead, the eagle stretched its wings and took off from the alder tree. It was gone again within seconds, out of sight behind the dense wall of leaves.

The forest was silent. Then, cautiously, a blue robin broke the stillness and life slowly returned.

Their wait resumed.

It took a week for Alex to say the words. A week with the awful knowledge of why they were there and why he had to learn and why it was necessary. Sometimes he almost forgot. When they had fun and were exploring the place or Jamie told him stories while they fished or taught him Russian or wilderness survival, it was easy to forget what else he was supposed to learn. And then they would go hunting or Alex would be reminded and it would all come back.

He had to learn. He had to learn how to hunt and kill things because if everything went bad again, their mum might not be there to protect them next time.

Matilda wasn't even three yet. If something happened, she only had Alex to protect her, and that thought never went away.

It took him a week. He almost said something several times but something stopped him every time or the words would get stuck and – he'd waited a little longer, pretended that maybe it would be okay then, until finally the words had stumbled out on their own.

"… I want to try. Hunting," he clarified, though it wasn't like it could be much else. "I want to try."

Alex had been anxious before he told Jamie, like sitting on a roller coaster and you knew it was too late to get off again. He had hoped it would go away when he told Jamie but the anxiety just shifted and adrenaline made everything feel sharper and Alex could feel his heartbeat in his chest.

It was too late to take it back now. He didn't want to but he had to and he was going to do this and – he had said the words now. That made it real.

Alex wasn't sure what he had expected but Jamie just nodded.

"We'll do it together and I'll walk you through it, one step at a time."

He didn't look satisfied or like he was about to grab a shotgun and make Alex go hunting immediately but maybe that wasn't a surprise. Jamie never pushed. He encouraged and praised Alex when he did something right and tried to make Alex comfortable but he never pushed.

The first time Alex had managed to hit a clay pigeon, he had watched the heavy plate blow to pieces and imagined the same sort of thing happen to a real bird and felt sick. Five days and a lot of clay pigeons later, it had become more of a competition. Not that Alex ever won against Jamie but he could hit them consistently now and the shotgun had grown familiar in the same way normal guns had, and Jamie had never once told Alex to do better or learn faster or not be a baby about it.

Alex could handle the shotgun and the rifle, he knew the practical parts from Jamie's patient explanations and … now he was out of excuses.

He had to learn, and the wait was almost worse than he imagined actually shooting something would be. The knowledge never went away and the thoughts never stopped when he tried to fall asleep, and the guilt got heavier and heavier and -

- He was tired. He just … wanted it over with.

"You're proficient with a shotgun," Jamie said and it was probably meant to be reassuring. "You will manage just fine."

Alex didn't feel particularly reassured. Not by the comment and not by the shotgun that somehow felt heavier and not by the weather; a solid, uniform wall of grey clouds. It didn't rain but the air felt wet, anyway, and Alex thought it fit his mood. Dark and depressing.

Hunting felt familiar but different. Alex had followed while Jamie hunted before. He had worn the waders so much, they had stopped feeling weird. The bird hide was familiar. So were the binoculars and the decoy ducks and the wait. It still felt – very, very different now that Alex knew he would be the one to pull the trigger.

He had used those binoculars to watch the animals and the landscape and everything else. Now they felt heavy in a way they never had before and the shotgun was large and awkward and seemed to take up all the room in their bird hide and -

"Calm," Jamie murmured.

"I'm trying." Alex tried not to snap. He didn't completely manage.

Jamie didn't answer, just ruffled his hair a little and the touch helped steady Alex's nerves.

Time slowed down. The grey clouds didn't seen to move but just went on forever. The tall grass and pink flowers shifted in the breeze and Alex could see the wind move across them like waves on a sea. Out in the pond, a handful of decoy ducks bobbed up and down with the small waves.

Alex got barely any warning. He spotted the duck the instant before Jamie's words broke the silence -

"Eleven o'clock, one target -"

- And Alex didn't even think. Instincts acted before he could make the decision himself; sudden fear that he would miss his chance somehow, and the intent focus that came with weeks and weeks of worry and the daily practice with the clay pigeons -

- and a single, sharp shot broke the silence.

The duck seemed to just … drop from the sky. It landed in the water and didn't move and Alex felt his hands tremble as adrenaline took over. Anxiety and awful, overwhelming relief that he had done it, and all he wanted to do was throw up.

Jamie's hand was warm and steady on his shoulder as he helped him up, and at least Alex didn't stumble.

The pond was shallow. The water didn't even reach Alex's hips and Jamie easily brought the duck back to dry land.

It was very obviously dead and looked like … well. A dead duck, Alex supposed, though he wasn't sure what else he had expected. It looked like any other of the ducks that Jamie had killed. It made it easier to forget he'd been the one to shoot it.

Jamie looked it over. Alex wasn't sure what he was looking for, and the duck hung limp and dead from his hand and didn't offer any answers.

"You have good aim," Jamie finally said. "It looks like it died almost instantly."

It sounded like approval. Alex didn't feel very proud.

Died. Killed, his mind added, and he shoved the thought aside. At least he hadn't messed up the shot and made it suffer.

He knew the duck was dead because of him. The way it looked now, with glassy, unseeing eyes, it reminded him of the other cabin they had stayed at and the dead animals and he took a deep breath and tried to make the image go away.

This … this was hunting, too. But he wasn't doing it to keep a dead duck in his room. This was for food. Food and – learning how to kill things. Because he had to learn. Because there were people after them, and Geneva had been supposed to be safe, too, and -

"Alex." Jamie's fingers ran through his hair, gentle and soothing, and Alex hugged him, tight and fierce and desperate and never wanted to let go.

Eventually he still did. The waders were awkward and Jamie had the dead duck in his hand and Alex still felt like he wanted to cry, but he could handle it. He wasn't a kid.

Jamie brushed his thumb against Alex's cheek and if it came away a little wet, he didn't say anything about it. Just raised Alex's head to look him in the eyes.

"I'm proud of you. You managed very well. You remembered your lessons and did everything right."

That was more praise at one time than Alex could remember from Jamie ever before and something about it made the importance settle that much heavier. It had mattered. It wasn't just Alex being stupid and emotional about it.

He didn't say thank you. He didn't want to and Jamie didn't look like he expected it, either.

Alex was sure he would have nightmares but he could deal with those, too. And hunting would get easier. Like shooting had. Paper targets and the rifle and clay pigeons. He just … had to get used to it. For his mum and Matilda.

He wouldn't be helpless again.