Yassen stared at his lit cigarette, unable to really muster the willpower to take another drag on it. The first puff was usually heaven. Despite feeling the nicotine hit his system in a cool rush, it quickly became lost in the growing noise of… well everything. His eyes locked on the carpet, heart hammering as though a hydraulic jack was trying to breach his breastbone from within.

He'd already drawn the shades on the small window in the corner of his room and done another security sweep of his room. Twice, actually. It all came up clean, but that didn't help him much. The persistent feeling of forgetting something critical was on the tip of his mind, real or imagined. On some level he knew he couldn't trust himself right now, but he had no other choice even if his odds of successfully navigating the situation were terrible. There were just so many pieces to track and he had so much less attention to give them than normal.

Was this even the first time he'd thought this exact thought since coming in the room?

Yassen pressed his palm to his forehead and dug his fingers into his skin, hoping that the pain would clear his thoughts. It didn't help.

Every instinct within him screamed at him that they were coming, that everything was about to crash and catch fire. There had to be a way to strike first. Actually, Yassen kept realizing, again and again and again, there was no one here to fight. No one to pummel for intel. No informant to shoot and plug a leak.

Just a night of awful decisions.

His iPhone was in his pocket. Just sitting there. He felt it's weight pulling against the fabric. He could easily pull it out and call someone to handle the situation for him.

A fantasy, really. He had so few viable moves at the moment, not that he was confident he could make any. There was a difference between knowing his carefully constructed life in Moscow was about to come crashing down around them and being aware that his current state would allow him to do anything about it. Not that he was confident that there was anything to do. He'd barricaded them in, maybe bought them some time (time was still so strange, shrinking and inflating and-), but there was no other support he could summon. Vankin was being called right this second as it was, and as much as Yassen wanted to be on the call and make sure all of the relevant details were conveyed and manage the dissemination of less beneficial information about their night, he knew Alex was right- there was no way he could make that call on his own.

Not only was Yassen physically cringing at the mere idea that Vankin would know that he was high (it must be so obvious to anyone who even saw his face, his stupid, blabbermouth face-), a more rational part of his brain was well aware that the man was only so trustworthy anyway. Vankin needed Yassen to give blood, intel, and testimony. Sure, the blood was the most important factor, but Yassen had to still present well on the stand and offer as much reliable information as he could. Vankin would prioritize assisting them with their bizarre personal problems only so much, provided it didn't cost the agency more than they could discreetly give. If Yassen was identifiably high on a call, that could easily fracture what marginal faith the SVR had in his cooperation being worth what they had already invested.

Nothing inspired emergency contingency moves than the sense that your asset was erratic and unstable. The Scorpia assassin had eliminated key assets mid-operation for less. Yassen had already pressurized his relationship with Vankin in so many ways with his own demands, so how much more would it take before they decided they'd had enough with him and decided to switch tracks to another embarrassment for Kiriyenko's administration?

High as he was, Yassen immediately discounted the possibility of calling Scorpia. That would not only be a spectacular waste of time, since the SVR was far better positioned to manage the video security of private and public buildings in Moscow, but it would reveal even more potential weakness to them. Yes, they had a vested interest in maintaining Yassen's protected status in Moscow and ensuring his demands that Alex remain with him be met, but if there was so much as a hint of an opening, they'd come flooding in to take advantage. To lock down their wayward operative and ensure that this deal with the mafia could not fail. Shackall was playing ball with him because Yassen had a history of being reliable and business-like- his betrayal so far had been a signal of changed priorities, not of capability. Suddenly getting high and going on a public-facing rampage would very quickly eliminate the remaining risk-tolerance of the current board.

When had his breathing changed? He tried to force it to still, compel it to adhere to the count of four. It worked, somewhat.

Calling Dima was out. Yes, he'd probably laugh off the high-on-accident part and yes he'd probably help him, but really there was little the man could do that the SVR couldn't. Less, even. Besides, then not only would he know that Yassen was high (a bolt of embarrassment flooded him every time he contemplated it and he groaned aloud), but he would remember it every time he asked him for help. Yassen was relying on what collateral remained from their old relationship combined with the reputation of his skills to slowly but surely earn him a trusted place in the man's inner circle. He absolutely had to not only understand the heart of the mafiya drama that could potentially overturn his armistice with Scorpia, but also be able to influence it should the need arise.

No, he couldn't call anyone. Alex was just going to have to handle tonight on his own.

Despair nearly swept him away. Of all the times to lose control of the delicate juggling act that made their lives here possible, Yassen just had to do it in such a way that meant Alex had to pick up all of his slack. Instead of coming home and starting on his school work, Alex had spent the night keeping MI6 off of both of their arses and burning through as many of his Smithers gadgets as that took. Not only had the boy been required to make sure Yassen could find his way home in the first place, but he'd also had to run interference almost constantly and manage Yassen's behavior the entire night.

Unfit didn't even cover it. Dangerously negligent barely scratched the surface.

Yesterday, Yassen would have said he was the only available option for Alex to have a decent life, but now he realized that there was no hope. No one could do it, and as it turned out, that count also included Yassen.

Alex was just doomed. Only instead of focusing his efforts on at least attempting to save himself, now he got to scramble trying to futilely save Yassen on the way down.

There was no way anyone could see him, but Yassen crouched anyway and buried his face in his hands.

Yassen was supposed to be the one looking after him, for god's sake. Now, instead of assisting Alex in whatever way was required to have a hope of him turning out normal and happy and well adjusted, he was actively creating impediments for him. This very moment, Alex should be studying or watching tv or thinking about his school friends and what he wanted to do with his university studies, not relaying Yassen's stupidity to his handler because Yassen couldn't even handle a fucking phone call.

How did these things keep happening to them? Chaos lurked around every fucking corner. If Yassen couldn't give him a stable life eventually, what was the point? There'd be no happy future for the boy, no average days of shopping and boring school lessons and meetups with friends or dates with a girlfriend. No general feeling of safety or the ability to truly let go of worry. There'd be no exam jitters and relieved delight opening school acceptance letters, no first day on the job. No pretty wedding to a nice spouse, no family with kids, no weekend house in the country or apartment in St. Petersburg, no career in search and rescue helicoptering-

The contract killer squinted at his hands and groaned. Wrong dream? This was about Alex.

He was such an idiot for stealing that stupid brownie in the first place. He should have never gotten himself into this situation.

Only problem was, he couldn't really see a way out of it either.

Alex skittered around the apartment, collecting half empty jars and packages and shoving them back into the large grocery bag (Shroedinger's grocery bag, he'd started calling it in his head: theoretically impervious to any and all misfortune despite also encountering it constantly). Dropping his load off in the office, he doubled back for blankets and pillows before tossing them on to the small couch inside. Finally, he grabbed the phone from where he'd left it on the counter before knocking on Yassen's door.

No answer, though he did here a sharp series of soft gasps.

Alex shoved open the door, spotting Yassen crouching on the floor, clutching a lit cigarette while he pressed his free palm against his forehead as though he could forcefully compel his brain to still. Ash, a thick line of it that had to have been about half the damn cigarette, had already tumbled to the pale carpet and smoldered out. Something about the way he sucked in air seemed to make it whistle in his throat, adding a strange quality to it that made it seem worse than it was. He wasn't struggling to breathe, Alex realized, just gasping slightly.

Okay, probably not the wisest idea to send him to smoke during a panic attack. In retrospect.

Alex turned on a lamp and crouched down next to him. "How's the smoke break coming along?"

Face pinched, Yassen shook his head wordlessly. His breathing smoothed a touch. Perhaps because Alex was there to witness it.

God, they made such a stubborn pair.

"Does it still seem like you've just felt the warning rumbles of an avalanche that no one else can sense?" Alex asked him, studying his face carefully.

A reluctant nod.

Alex sighed. "Yeah, that's the worst of it. I know it's really shitty, but I promise this is the hardest part of having a panic attack. It'll pass eventually." He paused, half hoping Yassen had something to say to that and knowing perfectly well he wouldn't. There was nothing he could really do to stop the panic attack for the man, just sort of help him through it. He nudged him gently after a few minutes. "What is it your brain wants you to do right now to feel better? Climb into the ceiling tiles and escape? Hide under a bed? Lash out at your evil twin? Hm?"

Yassen shrugged. "All of the above," he said in a low voice.

"Well, I can help with one of those," Alex said, straightening and plucking the dead cigarette from Yassen's hand. He stepped into the man's adjoining bathroom and tossed the butt at the sink. Maybe he missed- the majority of the wall was tiled so he didn't particularly care. He was the one who was going to have to clean it up later. Returning, he reached out his hand to offer to pull him up but Yassen just stared at him. With an eye roll, Alex grabbed Yassen around the shoulders and tried to drag him to his feet. The man was too damn heavy. Alex grunted and yanked, unable to do more than make the man rock on his heels.

"Stop that." The man glanced back at the door, then to Alex. He shook him off. "Just go. Watch tv. Study. I have to think."

Alex frowned and crossed his arms, straightening to glare down at him. "Don't you dare. I've come up with a new rule for the night."

Yassen hissed through his teeth softly and looked away.

"The most important rule of the night is that you don't get to think about anything." Alex sighed and knelt down next to him on the carpet. "Seriously. Don't. Don't make any decisions. Don't do anything, don't think about what you're going to do tomorrow. You can't trust your brain right now. This is the worst time to." Alex took a deep breath. Yassen was looking away from him, but Alex had to get him to understand. He'd played this game too many times to just sit here and watch Yassen lose it too. "Trust me, I know. This is basically how everything felt when I ran away in Texas and that was objectively the dumbest fucking thing I could have done. Lucky for you, you just have to wait to sober up for it to go away."

Yassen opened his mouth, obviously intending to argue.

Alex grabbed his hand, unable to conceal the pleading note in his voice. Hopefully Yassen wouldn't really notice. "Please don't. Panic-brain is an asshole. It takes real things and makes them a hundred times bigger and uncertain than they are, which shouldn't matter because it also tells you you're doomed no matter what you do. It should mean you're allowed to give up, but somehow it just keeps making it worse and even more your fault. This feeling you've got now? It bleeds into everything you think about. Everything, even the things you know are fine or make you happy normally. That should be the first clue that it's not right, that you can't measure things properly at all right now, but it's sneakier than that and it convinces you that you're thinking more clearly than ever before so the only thing you can do to fight this is to not think about stuff until it passes. Think about everything all you want tomorrow, make loads of decisions then, but please, please, don't let yourself do any of that now. You will drown and it will be for nothing."

Yassen stared at him, eyes riveted to his face. Alex expected him to tell him to fuck off any second now, but he didn't, hand still warm in Alex's. "Fine. What else?"

Alex exhaled slowly, still searching Yassen's face. There was no hint of active deceit, just anxiety and dread and worry and that blankness that meant he was trying to handle things without upsetting Alex any more than he absolutely had to.

Close enough.

"Just keep your mind off it whenever you can. Come on, Assassin Batman," Alex said, pulling him towards the door, monumentally relieved when Yassen stood with him. "Let's retreat to the Batcave and watch the security cameras and eat snacks. That'll help, yeah? Unless you really did install a trap door that leads to lava pits, at which point this evening is going to get a lot more exciting. Now is the time to confess if you have."

A tiny flicker of amusement flitted across the other man's face. Alex decided to count it as another victory.

Yassen blinked as Alex shoved him gently towards the small couch set off to the side of the desk. The blinds had already been drawn, of course, though the warm artificial light of the office was more than enough to show the mounds of blankets and pillows Alex had precariously stacked atop it. He shoved them aside to make room to sit, using the motion to conceal his swallow as Alex set about locking them in.

The urgent, persistent sense of doom wrapped around him like a strangler's embrace, but for Alex's sake, Yassen was determined to at least appear fine. The boy would likely still pick up on something, though Yassen was resigned to that so long as he didn't cause the boy any additional stress if he could help it. Obviously, he was too inebriated to conceal his inner state- and here Yassen had to suppress another flood of shame, because why did he have to get so expressive instead of violent or incoherent or literally any other acceptable drunk state- so he'd just have to minimize it as much as possible.

Alex had managed to impress upon him one thing that Yassen could remember- remembering was still hard and his thoughts kept getting interrupted- and that was that to not do anything tonight. It seemed fitting, because Yassen was currently pretty helpless(- don't think about that, you've got to plan and adapt and find some hidden advantage). There just wasn't that much he could do, even if he wanted to. The endless miasma of tonight had to end eventually- yes?- and when he could focus, he could set about performing triage on his situation.

He hadn't failed- probably hadn't ruined everything, though the thought flooded him with dread, because it remained to be seen- he'd just lost the chance to handle things in the same manner he had for the last few years. Preemptively, mostly. He'd gotten very good at avoiding problems, especially as he'd had to take on a lot more logistical aspects for Scorpia's clients (it was different than just doing the killing, but the novelty wore off fast because so many criminals were idiots or unreliable or just plain annoying to talk to). Dealing with Alex had been somewhat similar, since a decent number of predictable problems could be outright avoided if Yassen just blindly memorized his signals (like puppies and blankets and strawberry milkshakes), though not with complete accuracy. (Especially if Alex was moody, unexpectedly energetic, or dear god, suffering from low blood sugar) Adapting now was still possible, he'd just have to fall back on the strategies he'd used to rely on more heavily in the past.

Namely, twisting arms, destroying evidence, and removing witnesses. It wasn't a failure, per se (even if it one hundred percent felt like a failure and he wanted to smash something), it was more like a temporary breach. Unfortunate, but salvageable.

He just had to be patient and he hated it.

Alex flicked his nose, ignoring his scowl. "You've got your thinking face on. Stop it."

Yassen swatted at him. "I can't."

"Well, try." Alex swiveled the monitor so that they could see it from the vantage point of the couch, before stretching the mouse and the keyboard cables to their limits to drag it over as he sat. The screen showed their entryway, both inside and out. Apart from Yassen's slap-dash barricade, it was empty- Yassen's eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for some sort of threat to emerge but it remained stressfully empty.

Turning from his little set up, Alex glanced at Yassen consideringly before grabbing a blanket from the pile and throwing it around the assassin.

Yassen blinked, feeling the scratchy white afghan from the couch slide across his arms and head, but didn't argue. The world was just this strange stage full of things but rather than feeling like the magician preparing for the act, he was quite certain he was just a flummoxed audience member called up under the spotlight for the next trick.

(He wasn't sure he liked it, but he hated other things more so it was probably fine.)

With a small hum, the boy nodded, burying himself in his own comforter before pulling the snack bag out from beside the couch. "It looks like we're still out of strawberry ice cream, but we'll just have to make do. Let's see what Mr. Doesn't Have Preferences picked out today. First up is..." Alex pulled out the half eaten jar and studied the label. "Salty fruit?"

Yassen only allowed his eyes to leave the video feed for a split second. "Pickled watermelon. Won't eating make things worse again?"

Alex shrugged. "Panic attacks are the worst thing I know of that can happen on weed and you're already there. You might as well have something tasty. I'm quite sold on your snacks for dinner idea." He unscrewed the lid and plucked one of the darkened fruit pieces out of the juice. Sniffed it dubiously. "Is that cayenne?"

"It's better spicy."

Alex took a nibble of the pink fruit, nose wrinkling the more time it spent in his mouth. He gagged. "It tricks you into thinking it will be sweet and then hits you with spicy vinegar. I don't like food that misleads me."

Yassen took the jar from him, adjusting the blanket so he could use his arms without impediment. "You just have an unrefined palette."

"Take your deceit fruit," the boy grumbled, offering him the rest of his piece and digging through the bag while Yassen popped the remaining chunk in his mouth, rind and all. Flavor spread across his tongue. It was underappreciated perfection, as expected. The boy held up a red tin. "Kippers? Really, Yassen. This is not a snack."

"It is," the assassin insisted, digging another chunk of fruit out of the jar on his lap. "And they're even good for you. Lots of vitamins-"

"That's why you have to mix them with other foods," Alex countered. "They're too nutritious to stand on their own and be good, that's why you have to put them on toast or something."

Actually, that sounded amazing. Yassen turned to him. "Do we have toast?"

"You didn't buy bread," Alex pointed out, gesturing to the bag. He paused, then plucked out a plastic wrapped bag that had been awkwardly compressed. "I mean, I don't think you bought bread…"

Yassen started, staring at the smashed bag in dismay. "When did that happen?"

Alex rolled his eyes. "I'm astounded none of the jars shattered. What is this?"

The contract killer took the bag and turned it over in his hands. "Plyushka. It's a pastry. A bit like a sugared donut." He sighed, then glanced at the tinned fish. Glanced back at the flattened bag. A new possibility emerged. "Maybe they can be toast?"

The boy's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Toasted donuts with kippers? I think you've made it back to fun high, Yassen. Shall we test this theory?"

Yassen felt his lips thin as he considered the reinforced, heavy door and the double set of deadbolts. He set the plyushka aside. "Perhaps later." Spotting the now empty jar, he pressed his lips to the rim and swallowed the syrup in a steady stream of gulps.

Alex choked. "That has to be so salty."

"It's perfect. And good for you."

"You are going to pickle that brownie," Alex muttered, before taking a sharp inhale and resuming his digging. "Pickled tomatoes? Kvass?"

Yassen just barely managed to hold back a snicker. "Try the kvass. You'll love it."

Alex scowled and thrust the plastic bottle at him. "I'm not drinking your gross fermented bread water, Yassen. Timofey already tricked me with that one at school. Never again." Setting aside the bag, he grabbed the mouse and keyboard, splitting the screen so that the video feed only took up half. It was still clearly visible, even as Alex pulled up a second window and began typing. "If I can't have snacks, I'm demanding YouTube."