Hey, everybody,

I was surprised to see the amount of visitors I've got. My other story in a different fandom had reached this amount in about two weeks... Weird. I was happy to get reviews, it helped a lot and motivated me to write another chapter for you.

Well, my grammar is quite awful, I know, but I've been learning English for two years... Yes, my work is detailed and 'descriptive' - don't hesitate to say you want some action after the millionth boring chapter in which nothing is really happening. I need a beta, I guess, so if anybody has the time (two-three chapters a week), and (unfortunately required) is in my timezone of Middle Europe = is British, pm me.

I was actually surprised that you found the previous chapter humorous... I guess when I write such I don't really realize, so... I'm not sure if there'll be more like that. Sorry.

And, much more important - let me know when this gets ridiculous. I'm daydreaming.

Disclaimer: He's not mine. (But, if we consider this carefully, she is.)

Chapter 2 – "This is Rosalie"

Nine days earlier

He woke with a start. At first he didn't know where he was – the bedroom he was lying in and the bed he was lying on were unfamiliar, not the usual white walls with deep purple curtains and sheets. Then he remembered: this was his bedroom, he was at home. Yet it felt more like a stranger's house, not his. The place he was used to calling home was far behind him now, several hours of flight away.

He didn't know what had woken him at first, but then he realized he was hungry. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table: it was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had slept more than eighteen hours. How weird.

He sat up with a fluid movement – feeling a stab of pain at the sight of the empty bed next to him – and went into the bathroom, trying to plan out the day ahead. He had to go to the supermarket: there was no food in the fridge, so he'd have to eat out for breakfast… and then he'd call on Jack. He bet MI6 hadn't told her he was back: she would still be at her parents, and fearing for his life. He would visit her as soon as possible: but only after he had eaten something, he decided, skipping showering.

He splashed some water onto his face and froze in front of the mirror. He braced his hands against the basin and sighed. The bruises he had got were going to fade – they had already started to during the two weeks he had spent in hospital – but his face was simply not the same one he had examined last time he had been in this house.

His features had changed as he had grown to a man during the eight months he had spent away. He needed to shave, but that was not the largest change. His features had lost their childishness and had become prominent, his jaw had become squared, his eyes… better not to examine his eyes too carefully.

He was four months from his sixteenth birthday, and he looked at least twenty-three. To be honest, he also felt twenty-three. He shook his head and searched for a T-shirt from his suitcase. All of his clothes had been washed in the hospital, and he grimaced at the overpowering scent of disinfectant on them. He quickly pulled on the jeans from yesterday, then, after a moment of thought, a denim jacket as well - London was colder than the country he had gotten used to during the past months. He rushed down the stairs.

He grabbed the house's key from the table he had dropped it on when he had arrived, and headed towards the door – before realizing that he had no money whatsoever. Yesterday, he had been clever enough not to leave the money MI6 had given him lying on the table with the keys. He opened the envelope hidden behind the toaster and, pulling out some banknotes, left the house. He entered the first restaurant he could find.

He hardly paid attention to what he was eating, until he realized that he was still in work-mode: not tasting the meal, but scanning the people around him. He sighed and forced himself to stop and taste his lunch. But he still couldn't help being alert, and noticing the interested looks from the waitresses working in the restaurant.

He didn't really mind, nor felt it wrong. But it was only half an hour later, when he stepped out of the restaurant, that he actually realized how strange it really was. He was being treated as a grown man, and even more: he was considered an attractive, young but strong man. Alex stood there silently, knowing that the long time without the chance to relax and be a teenager had destroyed his last chance of a normal childhood.

Why didn't he go to a McDonald's or buy some fast food? How on earth could he feel normal with the flirting of three waitress in their twenties – with their lingering glances extending an open invitation to him. Why did this twisted world suddenly feel right? Simply pulling out banknotes of his payment, buying food for his own flat, doing whatever he wanted to?

He shook his head and tried to find the path he had been following last time he had been here, but… the feeling of normality remained with him. It told him everything was right, that, at the age of fifteen, it was perfectly normal to have complete freedom and control over his daily life. Walking aimlessly, he realized his mistake, far too late: he let his other world, his work change him, his life, his self. He was not Alex Rider anymore, but somebody between two worlds, stuck between his own self, the one he had been months ago and the one he had had as a cover story, somebody else. It was a frightening situation.

He tried to hate himself, to hate the man he had become so hastily, but he couldn't. He knew that somewhere deep in his heart, he had already suspected it, preparing himself subconsciously for the time when he realized it. He closed his eyes and tried to accept it, because everything had to be accepted, otherwise it killed you – he had learned the truth of this on his missions.

So, accept that he was a man. Emotionally, mentally, physically – completely. It was a surprisingly easy task: he just had to continue his life from his mission, only without the cover, without the danger.

He smiled at how much she had changed him, and knew she would have liked the decision he had made.

When he reopened his eyes, he realized that his feet had followed his train of thought and led him to his school. To his ex-school, to be correct.

He glanced at his watch: it was already three o'clock, the students were free and everybody would be headed out. For a moment, he considered escaping, but then he remembered his face from the mirror and knew almost none of his former peers would be able to recognise him. He watched them babble and laugh and talk and he knew that, this time, he had lost that innocence forever.

He leant against a wall and waited for some sadness, some anger to fill him as he watched the life he could never again have – but neither of them came, just numbness and a dull ache around his heart. "You have to work with whatever you get," she had said, and he knew how true that was.

As he stood there, his instincts began to warn him that somebody was watching him. This sixth sense was not something you could study, but an intuition acquired after years of practice and constant alertness. He slowly turned, and saw a short boy watching him with curious eyes. He smiled sadly at Tom Harris.

He had matured as well since they'd last met, but not as prominently as Alex. Tom stepped closer, visibly not believing what he saw. Another boy tapped him on the shoulder, wanting him to move further with the group which Alex achingly recognized as his own group of friends from the time he had not been a spy. Tom half turned back to the others, giving an excuse, before beginning to walk, faster and faster, towards Alex.

At the end he almost ran. Alex could see the disbelief in his eyes and wondered what he was seeing. A short man in jeans and a jacket standing calmly in the crowd, with his hands in his pockets, his posture motionless, his face emotionless. Much like how an SAS soldier would look outside the camp, Alex thought.

Tom stopped in front of him and, gasping for air from his anger, punched him. Alex had seen his fist coming, he'd had time to react; but he just stood there motionless. He sighed and gently massaged his cheek: there was going to be a pretty green bruise there afterwards, but one more or less bruise didn't really matter at this point. He was more interested in why Tom had attacked him than in the outcome.

Unfortunately, a passing teacher had a different opinion and grabbed Tom's shoulder, yelling about school rules and the punishment he was going to get for this. They were attracting more and more attention, with many students stopping to watch the scene.

Alex placed his hand onto the teacher's shoulder, which made him fall silent. "I don't think we are in school any more," he said, his voice calm and even. The surprise on the teacher's face was fabulous. Alex nodded to Tom and they left, hurrying towards the next Tube station.

They didn't talk until the school was several corners behind. "I thought you were dead. I cannot believe… Is that really you, Alex?" Tom shook his head vehemently.

"I was away, Tom, overseas. I thought you knew I was… working." He frowned.

"I know you said so, but… you always came back after a few weeks, and after so many months I started to… to believe you were dead, I guess. Where were you?"

"I see," Alex muttered. "I was undercover, I couldn't just… ring you. I didn't think about…. about informing you."

"Your house was closed and locked up and everything. Jack moved as well," Tom said, beginning to get angry again; but then he recovered. "And now you're coming back to school? You've missed a lot…" Then he took in what Alex had said, and asked incredulously, "You were undercover all that time?"

Alex nodded, not meeting his gaze. "I'm not going back to school. It would be sort of weird."

"Yeah. You seem… so old." He thought for a moment. "What about going out with us tomorrow? The guys would be glad to meet you as well, mate."

"They don't seem to trust me too much," Alex said, glancing back at the little group following Tom. They obviously feared that Alex would lead him somewhere dark and beat him up, so they had followed from the school, to be at hand if Tom needed them.

Tom chuckled. "They must think you're dangerous."

"Actually, I'm not dangerous. I'm lethal," Alex replied sourly. "Look, I don't think it would do any good, me hanging out with you. I'm just too used to my cover at the moment."

"Tom," a red-haired boy said as the group finally approached. Alex half smiled at the boy, who was examining him carefully. "Who's your friend?"

Something caught Alex's attention on the street and suddenly he was on full alert. What was wrong now? He looked around, but most of the people had just finished work and were hurrying home. In the rush, it was almost impossible to spot anything suspicious – even if somebody had been watching them, as Alex suspected.

"My name's Alex."

Tom hurried to save the situation and ease on the tension between them. "I invited Alex to play football with us tomorrow."

Alex's mouth twitched. The boys looked disappointed or even angry, but the girls' eyes were rather interested. He shifted uncomfortably. When did he become such prey to the other sex? "Unfortunately, I cannot go with you…" This was true: his doctors would murder him if he tried to play football with a bullet wound in his thigh from only two weeks ago - and anyway, he suspected he wouldn't be much help, considering he was hardly able to even walk straight.

And suddenly, he caught it: a woman was standing on the other side of the street, pretending to read a journal at the newsagent's, but watching him in the mirror of the window. Normally, his eyes would have passed over her without a second glance – but he knew her.

He knew the way she was standing, her body slightly turned to the right, her right knee slightly bent. He knew, before she had done it, that she would take the journal and ask the price; that, having paid, she would turn to the side as though examining the street out of boredom while the newsagent counts out her change – and then her gaze would meet his. Only for a second – but in that second, he would communicate what he wanted her to do.

Her face was completely emotionless when their gaze met, but she pretended to smile back at him when Alex nodded slightly to her, deciding that Tom could meet her. The woman smiled at the newsagent, picked up the journal and crossed the street to Alex. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, waiting for him to indicate what role they played at the moment. Nobody else would have noticed it, even if they suspected something.

"Honey, what are you doing here?" he said, quickly kissing her lips.

"I was just looking around downtown, but I haven't found anything really." She smiled, looking around at the group's members. Her face didn't show any emotion at the jealous looks from girls nor the boys' stares and open mouths. Alex enjoyed the reactions inwardly and knew she did as well, at least as much as him.

She had got the dye out of her hair, returning it to its beloved original colour, a beautiful and fiery red to which a hairdresser had added some deeper and lighter shades of pink. Her complexion was pale, but in a healthy way, and whenever she flushed her cheeks played in adorable rosy pink. Her eyes, however, tended after her Chinese mother, with an almost smoky grey colour.

The sport which made her able to do such hard work also helped to form her body, and although she was even younger than Alex, her figure was far from a teenage girl's – her slim figure mirrored the mental maturity she had achieved the same way Alex did. She moved with a grace - the grace of a ballet dancer - Alex knew too well, the elegance he had hated in Yassen Gregorovich and his world, the elegance radiating from her despite the casual clothes she was wearing; the same elegance he knew he himself had around him attracting women's attention.

Alex waited until even the bravest guys had finished staring.

"Guys, this is Rosalie, my girlfriend."

To be continued…