Hey, me again! Watching Children in Need while writing this, 18 million pounds raised so far!! Anyway, here's the next chapter; it's not got any action in (sorry) but hey, it's an update :) Please R&R!! Oh, and for those who are wondering, this ISN'T going to be slash.

Wolf watched as Yassen walked back into the sitting room, weighing his gun in his hand. He slid it into the waistband of his jeans and followed Yassen, still unsure about why he had given his gun back. He fingered the safety catch, half tempted to shoot the Russian. MI6 would be overjoyed to have Yassen killed. But, though he hated to admit it, he would almost certainly be dead if it wasn't for the Russian. He lifted his hand away.

"You're using the computer?" he asked, making his tone light and more casual than usual. Yassen nodded shortly, leaning against the wall to plug in the charger cable. "Ok, but it'll be harder to find him if I can't use the internet,"

"Use the other one in the kitchen, it's under the table." Yassen replied brusquely, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice again. Wolf backed away quickly and went to find the second laptop.

It was lying on a shelf under the table, the cable coiled on top of it. Wolf pulled it out as quickly as he could with only one useable arm and opened it; it was only a few months old, but clearly hadn't been used for a while, a thin layer of dust coated the keys. Wolf plugged it in, sure that the battery would have died while it was left on the shelf. It loaded quickly and within minutes Wolf was on the internet, frantically trying to find his contact's number.

Meanwhile, Yassen was working with astonishing swiftness. His fingers flashed over the keyboard as he hacked in to the database of the Barcelona Hotel in Exeter. It came up with nothing, as did his searches of other hotels in the area. He hadn't really expected anything, Skinner was panicking but he wasn't stupid.

So it was back to square one on the 'finding Skinner' front. Yassen turned his chair to watch Wolf. The SAS soldier was leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table. Watching him made Yassen extremely grateful that he didn't live in this flat permanently, Wolf was dangerous; it was in his body language, the relaxed tension in his body. It wasn't surprising that MI6 had head hunted him from the ranks of the SAS. He had accepted straight away, but still worked for the SAS when he wasn't on a mission for MI6.

Yassen tore his thoughts away from MI6 and the government, only to push them back, trying to rediscover the flicker of an idea that had flashed briefly in his mind. After a few minutes, he found it again.

Skinner might not be using his real name, but Yassen knew almost all of his aliases and whichever one his credit cards were registered to, he would almost certainly find them. Spinning quickly back to face his laptop, he started typing again, his fingers dancing over the keys.

Wolf glanced around at the sudden flurry of taps. It looked like Yassen was having a bit of luck, which was more than he was having. MI6 had changed the passwords on all of their sites and he couldn't get into any of them, so he was reduced to sending emails in the hope that someone would pick them up. No one had so far, but Wolf knew that they would check their mail frequently; he just hoped that it would be frequently enough.

A few moments later a message flashed up on the screen and Wolf opened it eagerly. It was short, eleven numbers, and the word "Blunt" written in capitals beneath them. Wolf's eyes widened, he hadn't expected Alan Blunt himself to answer. Glancing guiltily towards Yassen, realising suddenly that MI6 would be able to track him through the computers internet connection, Wolf scribbled the number onto the back of his hand and closed the connection.

"I've got his number," he called through to the other room. Yassen was at his side instantly, peering over his shoulder.

"Good, I might have found a hit on his credit card, or one of them at least. He was in Exeter last night at eight," said Yassen, straightening.

Wolf copied the number out onto a folded sheet of paper and slid it into his pocket.

"What are you doing?" He asked, watching as Yassen seized a suitcase from a cupboard.

"I'm going to Exeter," He said.

"You're not leaving me," said Wolf. It was a statement, not a question.

"If you want to come, fine, but don't get in my way,"

"I won't," Wolf replied, bristling. He hid his emotions, though his body tensed with the effort of holding himself in check. He cursed himself for letting his emotions get the better of him, but the Russian got on his nerves like no one else.

"I don't expect you've got any money?" Yassen said suddenly, poking his head back round the door of his room. Wolf started, but shook his head quickly. "I'll get you some clothes; you can't wear that any more, it's covered in blood."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Wolf replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. Yassen shot him a superbly disdainful look before vanishing back behind the door frame.

Wolf smirked a little, but Yassen had reminded him of his shoulder and he winced as he focused his mind on it, feeling the pain fully for the first time in over an hour. It was just as bad as it had been when he had first been shot, if not worse, for now a bone-deep ache was setting in, surrounding the wound with a patch of tender, bruised flesh.

Cursing Yassen, he walked into the sitting room and slumped onto the sofa. He glanced sideways and saw a dark stain on the arm. He looked closer and saw that it was blood, his blood. He hadn't realised he had been bleeding overnight.

"Are you coming?" Yassen snapped. Wolf nodded quickly and followed as the Russian as he led the way out of the flat, a heavy bag slung over one shoulder.

"Where are we going?" He asked as they slid into the Aston Martin. Yassen fixed him with a cold, disbelieving stare. "Stupid question," he said, sitting back.

"Just a bit," Yassen replied, but his voice held the barest hint of amusement.

Wolf turned his head away and admired the car. Yassen smiled at the respectful look on Wolf's face, and started the engine. It jolted to life with a dull, powerful roar and a large smile spread over Wolf's face. It was unethical and went against all his principles, but Wolf couldn't deny that being an assassin had certain benefits.

"It was my pay for my last mission," Yassen said, interpreting the look on Wolf's face correctly.

The younger man nodded, glancing sideways at Yassen.

"Button your jacket up, I don't want anyone to see that you're covered in blood when we stop at traffic lights." Yassen said suddenly, keeping his voice low.

Wolf obeyed instantly, pulling the jacket tightly over the finely sculpted muscles of his chest and zipping it up to his chin. Yassen nodded shortly to show he was satisfied, and then pressed his foot onto the accelerator, speeding smoothly past all the other cars and out onto the motorway. Yassen manoeuvred the Aston straight into the outside lane.

Wolf lay his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache that suddenly pushed out from his shoulder as soon as he let his mind relax. All the same, he couldn't suppress a wince as he moved his arm slightly, sending a flare of pain across his shoulder and chest, as well as pushing a dreadful feeling of numbness down his arm. The wound was going to be more trouble than he had thought, not that he'd admit it to Yassen.

Sighing, he let his head fall back again and drifted into an uneasy sleep as Yassen drove them steadily southwards.