Rating: PG13

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me and I make no money with it.

Spoilers: Up to and including Snakehead.

Summary: Alex stared. Yassen stared back. The situation was going nowhere fast.

A/N: Yassen is difficult to write.

Date: Dec. 29th - 5 pm, between Dark and Drive (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)

Edited: 02.12.10

6. Break Away

Alex was in a bind.

On the one hand, it would be incredibly stupid and reckless to go searching for Yassen. No matter the kind of relationship the assassin had had with Alex's father, he was still dangerous and ruthless. He hadn't had a problem with leaving the teen to fight off a bull. He hadn't had a problem with subjecting him to Cray's horribly real game.

On the other hand, he did have a problem with shooting Alex. And children in general. He had tried to give Alex a chance to escape, to go home and forget this whole spy business. He had... he had said he was glad that Alex was with him, when he thought he was about to die. And that wasn't a confession anyone made lightly.

And what had that business with sending him to Venice and Scorpia been about? Was that Yassen's last underhanded attempt to kill him or had he been serious? After all, he couldn't honestly believe that Scorpia would take in the son of a trai-

...oh.

Oh god.

Oh fucking purple squirrel on a stick!

Yassen didn't know. Yassen didn't know. He didn't know that it had all been a setup. He didn't know that Alex's father hadn't really died that day on the bridge.

He didn't know that John Rider had essentially betrayed him.

Alex swallowed. Suddenly he felt much less inclined to face the assassin. He didn't want to tell Yassen the truth, but he also didn't think that the man deserved to believe a lie. He didn't- he had as good as died for Alex, for the son of a man he had loved... for the son of a man who had betrayed him.

And Alex didn't want to let it stand like that. It wasn't fair.

Unsure of what to do, he wandered along the edge of the room towards the huge set of doors leading onto the terrace and down into the garden. The other guests ignored him, just another spoiled little heir wandering around, probably bored with the grown-ups and searching for some entertainment. Needless to say, his thoughts were as far from finding entertainment as they could possibly be right now.

He slipped through the doors, past a guard and into the cool evening air. The sun had almost set, painting the sky and the few clouds a blazing red. It hadn't snowed here in a few days, so the terrace was clear, but he still shivered and slipped his hands into his pockets. He wouldn't be surprised to find out that the temperatures were below the freezing point.

No on else was outside and he walked up to the stone railing and rested his hands on it. He could feel the coldness seeping into his skin and his breath was visible in little clouds of vapour.

He sighed and leaned forwards, supporting himself on his hands. He still didn't know what he was supposed to do. The easiest and most logical course of action was to simply wait the evening out, not confront Yassen, let Barner, the other agent, do his job, and then go home and file this as the one mission he didn't get shot at for once.

Still, it sat wrong with him to not make Yassen aware of what had really happened almost fifteen years ago. If only he could somehow talk to the man and still have preferably at least one ocean between them at the same time. He wasn't particularly eager to find out whether the assassin had a temper or not.

Suddenly he tensed up, something inside him telling him that he was not alone anymore. He hadn't heard anything, but his strange ability to know when he was in danger hadn't mislead him before and it wasn't likely to start now. He took a deep breath, readying himself to spring into action -

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He jumped in surprise and started to pivot around on his foot, using his grip on the railing for leverage, but in a lightning fast move his other shoulder was seized as well and he found himself held in an iron grip, trapped between the railing and the body behind him. He tried to twist sideways, only for the large hand to slip down from his shoulder to his right wrist and twist his arm behind his back painfully, making him gasp quietly.

He froze, mind racing. He was well and truly trapped - but then again, he never stood a chance against the man behind him anyway. He hadn't expected their confrontation to sneak up on him quite so soon.

"Did they not teach you that separating yourself from the crowd makes you a target?"

It was strange. He had only heard that voice a few times in his life and still it already felt unbelievably familiar. He swallowed.

"In my case, staying with the crowd just makes the crowd a target."

Yassen sighed and Alex thought it was half exasperation and half amusement. Then the man let go of him and Alex turned around quickly, unwilling to leave his back to the... well, not enemy really, but possibly hostile assassin.

It felt incredibly surreal to look a dead man in the eyes.

And it didn't help that Yassen looked just as cold and stony as the last times they had met. Even when he was about to die - had thought he was about to die, there had been almost no change in his expression. It was a little eery. And impressive. But mostly eery.

"What are you doing here, Alex?"

Direct and to the point, huh? Well, he could do that.

"Attending a party, it seems." Or not. God, what was wrong with him that he couldn't keep his smart remarks to himself for once?

If he hadn't been looking at the other so closely Alex would have missed how the Russian's eyes narrowed for a split second. Instinctively the teen backed away until he was flat against the railing. Note to self: If he survived this evening he'd put some serious effort into thinking before insulting his opponents.

"I'm not here to snoop around or investigate anyone, okay?" he muttered and crossed his arms uncomfortably. It was steadily getting colder out there on the terrace and he was also extremely tense with a man who killed people for a living barely two feet away from him.

"I was under the impression that you had gone back to being a normal school boy after the last time we met," the Russian stated, though the expectant air around him made it more into a demand for answers than anything else.

Alex was torn between laughing hysterically and cursing violently, so instead he concentrated on answering. "I'd have loved to do so, but other parties disagreed. And," he hesitated for a moment, "I was told you died that day. What happened?"

Yassen raised an eyebrow as if in thought, then - and Alex couldn't quite believe he was really seeing that - the corner of his mouth turned up a little. "I got better," he deadpanned.

Alex stared. Yassen stared back. The situation was going nowhere fast.

Finally, the teen sighed. "Look, I need to talk to you."

Once again, the man raised an eyebrow. Alex had to bite back an annoyed growl.

"But not now, okay? It's... there's some stuff you should know and I wanted to ask about-" He paused, swallowed. About his father. With Ash dead, Yassen was the last person alive who had really known his father. "About some other things nobody else can tell me."

This seemed to finally catch the man's attention and he cocked his head to the side lightly. "What if I already know whatever you want to tell me?"

Alex stared blankly at the man and tried to imagine that possibility. Somehow, he thought if that were true then this meeting would have involved a lot more violence. "I'm pretty sure you don't." He bit his lip and carefully scanned the other's face for any hint of what he was thinking, but as always, Yassen presented a perfectly blank facade. The teen felt like throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Please," he ground out, "Is there any way we can talk over the phone or something? Or the internet? It's important."

Finally, the assassin seemed to consider his request. Maybe he had seen how serious Alex was about this. Or he had simply decided that it was too clumsy to be one of MI6's ploys.

For a few long seconds Yassen seemed to seize him up, then he nodded. "I will give you my current number. It is untraceable. After the first of January it will be out of order. You have time to call until then."

He slowly breathed out in relief, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a bit. After this, he and Yassen would be even. He wouldn't owe the assassin for saving his life and Yassen wouldn't feel like he owed the Riders anything either - neither John nor Alex. And maybe... maybe he'd even get to hear a bit about his father.

Alex would have three days. It was the night of the 29th, tomorrow afternoon they'd fly back to England, and then Alex had two days to call Yassen. Two days in which Alex could hand the number over to MI6. Be a good little boy and do what Jones and Blunt would expect of him.

Well, they could forget about that.

"Give me your arm."

He jumped a little and quickly looked back up at the other's face, but aside from an amused glimmer in his dark eyes, the man didn't seem particularly threatening. Confused, Alex glanced down at the hand Yassen held out expectantly - and saw a pen. Oh, okay. The number, right.

Rather hesitantly, he presented the Russian with his right arm and had to stop himself from jumping again when Yassen quickly grabbed his wrist and pushed back the sleeve, exposing his skin to the cool night air. He shivered as he felt the warmth radiating from Yassen's body, goosebumps breaking out over his skin, and stubbornly stared at the pen while the other straightened out his arm and started to write, his surprisingly warm hand completely enclosing Alex' wrist.

It was surreal. Completey stark-raving mad. This whole situation. Getting coerced into yet another mission by MI6. Running into a dead man. Talking to said dead man. And then asking for that man's phone number and getting it written on his arm like they're kids in school crushing on each other. Absolutely crazy. Alex almost started laughing.

Yassen finished writing what looked like a twenty-digit number and released Alex' arm, the warm fingers brushing over the teen's freezing skin forcing another shiver from him. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't find any words.

"Wash it off after you have memorized it," Yassen ordered, suddenly several steps away, and Alex nodded silently.

He watched as the man left, still rooted to his spot by the railing.