A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Extra long chapter today. Enjoy. :D

Yassen fought the urge to throttle him. Questions answered with another question meant that he was onto something: contagion was close to the truth as Smithers knew it, but not quite. "Because, for just a moment after I gave him blood, I saw his chest covered in anthrax sores. They faded quickly. I wasn't so tired that I hallucinated it, so what did I see?"

Smithers rubbed his hand on his chin. "Well, I'm not a medical doctor, so I can't say for sure. I can say that it's extremely unlikely that you're carrying live anthrax, though. Otherwise, so much of this is uncertain, considering all the odd qualities of your sample, though I'm speaking more about the antibodies themselves. It is difficult to speak conclusively."

Summoning his patience took a beat. "Anthrax isn't exactly the sort of thing you get a regular booster shot for. Of course my samples were unusual."

"Perhaps. They just get more nebulous the longer you examine them." Smither hesitated. "It probably won't be noticed, not if the SVR is just looking to confirm the DNA of the anthrax bacteria, but those antibodies you have are a lot more complex than they first appear. Only the Australians caught onto it, and only through one small sample, at least as far as I know- my backdoor into their files closed a few weeks ago. At any rate, with all that's going on, I imagine it's best not to mention it to anyone, especially in conjunction with giving blood to Alex."

Yassen's eyes narrowed. "Why are these antibodies important at all?"

"It's quite complicated. I don't want to sound definitive-"

"Yes, yes, you've thoroughly disclaimed your lack of knowledge. Give me your speculation."

Smithers waved a hand. "They just behave oddly. I mean, they shouldn't even be in your blood at this age. Anthrax vaccinations aren't good more than a year after injection- the Russians wouldn't have dreamt of considering them to prove your connection to Estrov if it hadn't shown up in the CIA's stolen blood samples from your arrest. These antibodies function differently than most associated only with anthrax. Possibly even permanently altered your immune system. It could be nothing, it could be a modern medicine holy grail. After all- and this is rampant speculation so please don't put much stock in it- it sounds like this long lasting immunity might have transferred to Alex. Direct blood transfusions like what you did are rare, so this isn't terribly well studied. I'm guessing."

Yassen considered that. "But you think it's just been passed on to him through my blood? The immunity, not the anthrax."

Smithers hesitated. "I suppose the closest comparison is when a baby is born, it often has passive immunities inherited from its mother for a few months. It's not a perfect equivalent, but I wouldn't necessarily worry. If it were live anthrax, he'd most certainly be dead already."

Yassen inclined his head. Contagion seemed unlikely now, though it weighed on his mind from time to time in absence of a proper explanation. Foolish of him. Anthrax moved fast; he'd seen it himself. If Alex or Yassen could infect anyone, the surgeons on the plane would have dropped like canaries in a coal mine. "And the need for secrecy?"

"I've no doubt that with the interest in your blood, the SVR will take an interest in the effect it has had on Alex if the Australians get chatty about their findings. I think we can both agree he does not need that scrutiny right now. At any rate, in about a hundred more days, it won't matter. His body will have processed and removed everything you passed to him. Just keep your mouth shut."

"Fine."

Smithers cleared his throat and glanced around the silent banya. Shifted on his feet slightly. "Now, I know this is your meeting, but I'm taking advantage. Alex very much needs to testify, for all of our best interests."

Yassen set his jaw, tucking the iPod into his pocket. As tempted as he still was to just shoot the man in the head for pulling that Hunter-accusation stunt in the first place, he had to admit that Smithers hadn't been actually trying to elicit the humiliating response he'd gotten. At least nothing he'd said had any real tactical value, not in most people's hands. Not compared to the information he'd received in return.

By this point, Yassen was fast on his way to becoming too burnt out to be capable of embarrassment much longer. He hoped. "I still won't make him."

Smithers snorted. "No one can make that boy do anything. Not for long. No, I just think it best to explain some other developments."

"Go on then."

"Well, first of all, I'm sure you're wondering why I insisted we meet in person. Especially given your, ah, shall we say, 'leave no witnesses' approach to intelligence agents?"

Denial would gain him nothing. Yassen inclined his head.

"Well, the truth is that MI6 has not remained idle since you and Alex left prison. I don't have nearly the same access that I once had to their backend, but I have managed to worm my way into the CIA's. Since much of your time on the run was spent on their home soil, the cooperation required between the two agencies has given me insight." Smithers grimaced. "They're compiling evidence against you."

Yassen didn't so much as blink. "I'd have never guessed."

Smithers gave him a wry look. "Video evidence, specifically. The CIA hasn't found much, apart from a handful of quick glimpses at the odd bus stop here or there, but that's not what concerns me." The gadget man sighed and crossed his arms. "His iPod's signal interrupter leaves quite the distinctive calling card, even if it took them a while to catch on. They've managed to find several files that match it from police reports by private businesses. A clinic. A pharmacy."

"Why does it matter?" Yassen crossed his arms over his torso. "If the cameras didn't pick up anything, it should be irrelevant."

Smithers winced. "That's not how this works. It doesn't deactivate the recording functions of other devices, it simply…" he waved a hand in the air as he searched for the right word. "...complicates them with it's own signal. Rather than preventing the cameras from picking up the images, it simply adds to it until the data is a useless white noise. Like mixing paint to form a new but useless color. Encryption. However, buried underneath all the algorithms, the original data still remains."

"So it's hackable," Yassen said coldly. "They can reverse engineer the added 'paint color', so to speak, and view the original videos."

"Not easily, even with a super computer, but possible. Given enough time." Smithers gave him a considering look. "I imagine if Alex was using the device, he was concealing something he didn't want any of the intelligence agencies to see. Since he said you provided him with drugs after Scottsdale, I take it that it wasn't his own actions he was trying to cover."

Yassen spread his hands. "It will hardly be the first shred of evidence they have against me."

"But it will create a legitimate reason for them to cast doubts on Alex's safety. Maybe not enough to extradite him back to England, but to at least insist he be removed from living with you. Even if our new friends in the SVR ignore those accusations, it will weaken their position if anyone asks why they failed to put him in a state facility rather than with the main suspect in his uncle's murder. My evidence that he's a former child spy won't look strong if it only comes from the SVR under those conditions. If Alex testifies before MI6 can make anything useful out of the video files, there's little for you or the SVR to lose. Any evidence MI6 can produce of your criminal activity that late in the game will look heavily manufactured and impossibly convenient in the face of their charges."

"It won't prevent them from bringing it forward anyway."

"If they can get it, no. But it will weaken its impact if they do."

"Won't they claim that Alex is unsafe with me anyway?" Yassen snorted. "Committing crimes in America only changes the scenery, compared to the rest of my suspected record."

Smithers lips thinned. "They can't necessarily prove you are Yassen Gregorovich from afar, nor can they risk tying you to any serious crimes before your incarceration. Not legally, without hurting themselves. From what I've gleaned, several intelligence agencies received news of your death, but only the CIA knew it was a lie. Unless MI6 wishes to admit to concealing your incarceration and answer questions about their human rights violation of a secret prison in Gibraltar, which undoubtedly still holds inmates of great importance, they can't afford to accuse you of being Yassen Gregorovitch, top Scorpia contractor." Smithers held up a hand. "But if they can prove that you are a dangerous criminal, it won't matter who you really are. It would be enough to cast powerful doubts on his safety, not to mention make you both highly visible on an international scale."

Yassen set his jaw. "Doubts are inconsequential. They will not extradite."

"But the SVR will be asked to explain. Due to the Hague Convention, refusing the extradition of kidnapped children is illegal unless they can justify why. Since the bank technically is his guardian now, MI6 likely won't draw attention to any issues of his custody, but it doesn't matter. Even if they half-heartedly attempt to extradite him, your friends in the SVR still have to explain why they refused to comply, not just to the international community, but to their own internal enemies."

Damn. "Explain."

Smithers folded his arms, shifting on his feet slightly. "Certain members of the Russian government may begin asking why Alex Rider and Yassen Gregorovich are under such staunch SVR protection together. Your presence can be chalked up to the mafia and Scorpia playing nicely with the government, as they often do, but how does an ex-child spy with dangerous ties to two of the three organizations come in? The SVR doesn't need that kind of attention from their own government, not in the middle of preparing a coup. Alex testifying makes quite the convenient excuse for the agency, you see; ignore a slew of crimes that you committed in exchange for taking potshots at an intelligence rival on a world stage. Without such a smoke screen, the Estrov case risks early exposure if everyone begins asking what the SVR is up to. Alex is certainly not worth that risk to Abramoff even if he loses you."

Yassen scowled. As much as he hated it, the gadget man's position made sense. Too much sense.

Alone, Yassen could be recognized in Russia by anyone in the government with little ill effect: he was still assumed to be under Scorpia's employ and the SVR had contracted through them before, certainly. His mafia ties would only add more credence to the appearance that he was here on standard criminal business. It only looked strange compared to the rumors he'd left the organization, but anyone curious enough to dig wouldn't be inclined to look anywhere as far-fetched as his childhood.

But with Alex in tow….

It would be obvious that the boy was being sheltered if MI6 made an issue over Alex being in Russia at all. All they really had to do was draw attention to him. If they located him, basic observation alone would quickly tie the boy to Yassen, and then back to the SVR should anyone ask for their cover names and find it among the 'repatriated spies' list. Moles were inevitable. Yes, MI6 would undoubtedly risk making themselves look bad if the SVR fired back with child-blackmail accusations, but their plays were increasingly desperate and they could inflict a lot of pain without even meaning to. Increased attention towards them would necessitate any interested parties going over both his and Alex's pasts with a fine tooth comb for their connection.

No one so far had been remotely satisfied with Yassen's explanation of a debt to his father, including Yassen himself. Since Ash had found a mention of Estrov in MI6's files on Yassen, no doubt provided by John, who was linked to him in at least a dozen old files...

The coup would be blown wide open. Abramoff would never risk it.

Smithers was right: prosecuting MI6 for Alex's exploitation made a great explanation as to what they were doing here. If the SVR hadn't gotten wind of Smither's impending charges yet, they would undoubtedly soon and when they did, Yassen had no doubt Alex would face the same pressure from them to testify once they realized just how viable of an excuse it made. Gridlocking them into safety with the mafia contract had protected them, yes, but it had also made them highly visible in a way that made the SVR nervous. Yassen's name was already connected to Estrov in MI6's files, so who knew how many other countries might have that critical link buried in their information too, just waiting for the right operative to ask the right question at the wrong time.

It could kill the entire case. Yassen had no doubt the SVR would drop him like a compromised rock before they would allow their political enemies to be aware of their ambitions. Maybe eliminate Alex and him both in the interest of being thorough, if they decided to scrap the Estrov idea altogether and move on to some plan B. His relationships with Scorpia and the mafia were both too new to rely on to shelter them so extensively, and even if the SVR abandoned them without fanfare or violence, it would leave Alex vulnerable to the legal machinations of MI6.

It was unavoidable. Alex had to testify.

Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. Took a slow deep breath. "He stays in Russia. His involvement is minimal. No in person court appearances."

Smithers opened his mouth, eyebrows drawn.

Yassen held up a finger. "Video conferencing, maybe. Interviews, certainly. But no pulling him out of school, to shove him on a plane, to sit in a strange courtroom, to then be interrogated by bureaucrats who want to use him for their own agendas. Not if I can't join him without being whisked off myself to face prosecution."

Smithers nodded heavily. "Agreed. As little disruption as possible. Please believe me, this wasn't my first choice. Well, rather, it wasn't my second or third. I'd love for him to never think about this again, but Jones is well on her way to becoming Alan Blunt."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Child spy recruitments. She's been examining students, from what I understand. Youngest was twelve." Smithers stared at him, eyes a little dull and the crows feet beneath them seeming to deepen. "Once was bad enough. I can't let it keep happening. Not if there's anything I can do."

"Just don't burn up what's left of Alex's life to save those of nameless others."

Smithers gave him a grim smile. "No, of course not. You won't let me."

Yassen stepped forward to retrieve his items in a clear signal that this meeting was over. He was so sick of having his internal self and his motivations be so exposed, for what felt like no good reason. Perhaps it could be used to his advantage.

Complaining to Dr. Wood had felt a bit similar, yet had earned him her trust and assistance. Perhaps his embarrassing ramble could earn him some of Smithers'. His mind turned to the little iPod now tucked in his pocket. The man was certainly a valuable ally, if one with radically different goals.

Chert. If he'd known in advance that this gridlock would require him to share so much personal information and form relationships, he'd have reconsidered.

He eyed the gadget man out of the corner of his eye. "What do you think it really is?"

"What?" the man said, starting.

"The reason I'm looking after Alex," Yassen said, keeping his voice smooth and conversational as he grabbed his thrings from the locker. "Everyone has a guess and yours isn't nostalgia. What is it then?"

Smithers raised an eyebrow as Yassen stepped away to let him retrieve his own items. "Oh, I think you're just fond of him. He's very likeable, if besieged by problems. I think you wanted to help him, so you did, and now you've gone and gotten attached. It's rather mundane, of course. I can see why everyone is looking for a more exciting answer." With a rueful smile, he gently tapped one of the small lockers to his right before he turned to go. "A few more gifts for Alex. He'll know what they do. Good luck, Mr. Gregorovich. I think you're going to need it as much as I do."

Thirty minutes later, Alex dropped his bags on the counter and scowled at them while he rubbed warmth back into his frosty nose and cheeks. Winter in Moscow was awful. Period. Nothing else. There were no redeeming qualities that he could see, apart from the occasional festive light display and ice sculptures.

He stomped over to adjust the thermostat.

With no more reason to delay, Alex fished out his little tincture and knocked back a few drops beneath his tongue. If he was going to spend his afternoon on something as dull as cleaning, he was going to be high. Sure, it'd probably take twice as long if he kept getting distracted by the telly or how funny his hands looked but it wasn't as though he really had anything better to do.

Fortunately, he'd planned ahead: the final bag included his motivation for completing the work.

The tincture turned out to be a good choice. Despite the monotony, he found himself growing thoroughly entertained as he gathered up the various bits of trash sprinkled across the apartment as though a windstorm had wound its way through a cheap food court. A rhythm formed to the gathering. Wrapper, wrapper, napkin. He chuckled to himself, only half annoyed to find another one on the floor beside his own bed. How did napkins migrate so voraciously? He crumpled it and tossed it in the bin. It must be seasonal. They were quite the intrepid travelers, spreading into every room in the house despite having no real business invading. He stuffed them all into the first of several large trash bags, cheerfully bid them good luck on their next grand adventure down the garbage chute before returning to the counter.

Now that he could see the actual surfaces of the flat, he realized this cleaning spree was long overdue. Every spill of sauce and dusting of crumbs had chronicled themselves on the countertops, coffee table, and seats like some kind of gross culinary history of whatever they'd ordered over the last week and a half. One or two bits even looked moldy.

He wrinkled his nose, twisted up his hair, and set to work.

It took a few attempts on his iPod's shuffle mode to figure it out, but soon enough Alex had settled on his new favorite High Cleaning genre. 'Space Rock' was the official listed description that Alex double checked twice but happily steered into as he made his way through the flat, spraying down surfaces and scrubbing with the beat as he went. Dusting took about as long, though Alex mentally kicked himself for forgetting to do it first: cleaning from top to bottom had been one of the first rules he'd learned. Now that he'd knocked loose a bunch of dust, Alex had to wipe off all the counters again, grumbling as he did it.

He took a small peek into the final bag as he passed. Soon. He patted it and got back to work.

By the time he'd moved on to floors, Alex had gotten decidedly lazier. The tincture had definitely hit his system by now. He flicked a longing glance at the couch. Hardwood floors could be vacuumed, right? He swept out the corners with the broom at as much of a run as he could manage without irritating his hip, making soft whooshing noises under his breath. The vacuum got the worst of the pile, even though he had to finish it with the broom and pan to get all the bits. Alex realized with a jolt that they'd have to buy a mop if the floors were going to get more than a passing clean.

Eh. Nothing he could do about it now.

The flat looked far better already, but Alex knew if he let himself stop he'd sink into the couch for the rest of the night. Hopefully, he was close to done. What else had gotten bad?

He groaned, realizing he'd completely forgotten about the bathrooms and bedrooms. Damn. Laundry was the inevitable, easy next step. Gathering the ever growing piles spilling around his hamper, he dumped his clothes and bath towels into the machine and poured in a guess-timated amount of soap. It occurred to him that they had measurements for that sort of thing on the lid. Oops. Extra soap meant extra clean, probably.

Once the hiss of water started up, Alex realized with another start that he'd done things a little out of order. Again.

He'd already run the trash out, but he'd forgotten to empty the actual bins scattered about the flat. That was probably a wise idea, since he knew for a fact that some of them were overflowing. The kitchen one had, hence the litter's spread onto every other nearby surface as both occupants of the apartment had switched to piling it nearby in lieu of solving the actual problem. At least it was a fast job.

Arms full of bags a minute later, he paused beside Yassen's ajar door. Should he go in and gather the trash?

His eyes had passed over both bedrooms before now, but now that it was time to actually clean them, he found himself reluctant to go into Yassen's. Why? He and Yassen had shared dozens of rooms, so it wasn't like they weren't used to being in each other's space. It just felt strange. Maybe it was because he'd never gone in or even really thought about the room. Yassen slept far less than any sane person (lending credence to Alex's speculation that the man was secretly a robot) so he hadn't actually seen the man retire to bed or get up in the morning. Hell, for all Alex knew, Yassen slept in the pantry, hanging upside down from the rafters.

His room might as well be the Twilight Zone.

He snorted. Now that he thought about it, he'd never really made a habit of going into anyone else's room… ever. Ian's rooms and office had been strictly off limits whilst Jack's had been a foreign territory full of scented candles and pointless, decorative throw pillows; Alex conducted his business (usually fetching something) and left quickly. Privacy was certainly something Alex respected, but he knew with a sudden clarity that Yassen wouldn't care or even consider his bedroom… his. The man was oddly literal in some ways: he probably just saw it as the room containing the bed he used, not some refuge of personal space distinct from the rest of the flat. Texting him for permission to enter would be weird for the both of them.

Ah, well. At least he'd gotten to the root of the weird feeling. Alex pushed open the door. He'd just grab the trash and go, not stick around to rifle through his possessions or anything like that. Yassen's hypothetical privacy would be protected in Alex's mind and the trash would go out. Win-win.

He froze in the doorway, blinking furiously. "What?" he muttered aloud.

The room itself was mostly tidy to the point of looking uninhabited: the king sized bed was half unmade in an obvious signal of use, but the small entertainment center, dresser, and desk seemed wholly untouched. Alex was unsurprised by that bit- Yassen didn't watch much TV on his own and Alex had the big one in the living room turned on almost constantly. No. What really startled him was the small wire bin set beside the man's immaculate dresser, now overflowing with clothes. It half blocked the door to his private bathroom; no doubt, Yassen had to step over it to shave and shower in the morning.

Brows knitted, Alex contemplated the pile as his brain struggled to parse what he was seeing. He actually removed his earbuds as though reducing audio interference would help his neurons work better.

It was just so uncharacteristically slobbish.

No… not slobbish. More like incongruously practical?

On the run, they had simply tossed their clothes as they'd gotten dirty and bought new ones. Most motels didn't come with washers and dryers in their rooms anyway, not that they would have used them since they'd constantly changed appearances. Alex hadn't questioned Yassen's continued trips from the flat to buy more clothes for them in Moscow. It just hadn't struck him as odd. He'd simply noted the growing pile on his own bedroom floor with the intent to toss them in the washer eventually.

He turned back towards the hallway, visually confirming that the pantry's washer was less than six feet from Yassen's door. It wasn't hidden. There was even a small dryer beside it, so it couldn't be laziness or the absence of a drying line that deterred the man. He hadn't even tossed the trash to get rid of the problem.

What? Why? How-?

It struck Alex suddenly. Had it really been so long since Yassen had lived anywhere with permanence that he'd just forgotten these things? That garbage had to go out, that bathrooms had to be cleaned, and that laundry could be washed instead of discarded?

Yassen had said that he'd worked for the last decade and a half without any real breaks between jobs. At the prison, the cleaning staff had taken care of their rooms too. It made as much sense as it broke Alex's brain. Despite the man's ruthless competence and seeming capability to do anything, he'd somehow lost what Alex considered the inherently mundane and adult-defining ability to keep house.

It was a little bit sad, unintentionally funny, and quite a bit strange. Very Yassen.

Alex upturned the little garbage basket with a sigh and gathered up all the clothes. Luckily for him, Yassen hadn't attempted to discard anything else in the same bin so it was easy enough to put them in a large pile on the man's bed. He checked the bathroom quickly and had to give a disbelieving laugh. Dragging an actual empty wicker laundry hamper into the other room, Alex filled it and set it in the hallway, next in line for the machine.

With a grumble, he returned to the kitchen for his cleaning solutions and gloves. Toilets were never fun.