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

Summary: Escape and dealing with the most pressing issues first.

Date: Jan. 1st - 10.30 pm, between Fortitude and Rainbow (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)

Edited: 17.12.10

22. Mother Nature

His pants kept slipping.

Maybe that wasn't the most important thing to focus on between the fact that he had blood sticking to his hands, he was running barefeet through the falling snow, he had just killed a man [but was that really anything new?] and he was depending on an infamous assassin to get them both out of here alive. But at least it kept him from panicking too badly.

He tugged his pants back up. It was really annoying how they kept slipping down. He had already almost face-planted four times, his still kinda precarious hold on his sense of balance not helping the situation at all, and each stumble put Yassen further ahead of him. He was getting hard to see through the darkness and the snow blowing in his face. Today even nature seemed to be against him.

Just when he started to get really worried about being left behind, the Russian stopped by one of the cars parked at the side of the street. Alex would have sighed in relief if he'd had any breath left for that and slowed down a little, only jogging now.

When he caught up with the assassin, the man had already picked the lock on the passenger- wait, no, they were in Germany, he'd picked the lock on the driver's side. Whatever. In any case, he'd gotten the car open and was throwing his bag onto the backseat. Alex found it amusing in a darkly ironic kind of way that the other had first gone to pick up his clothes and laptop before going to get the teen. Though to be fair the man probably just wanted to get his weapons back as quickly as possible before he kept moving through enemy territory.

"Get in," Yassen ordered the second Alex came to a stop next to him and the young spy obeyed, grateful to get his naked feet out of the snow. If he hadn't already been sick he sure as hell would be now.

The assassin did something to the ignition; probably short-circuiting it. The teen couldn't pay it any attention just then. Instead he was busy shaking the snow out of his hair and from his clothes, after which he curled his frozen feet underneath him and turned the heat up to the highest setting before the engine was even running. Once that was done though he caught sight of his hands again, the smeared blotches of blood he hadn't managed to get off. He slumped back in his seat and tried to breathe evenly. It was a lot harder not to panic when he couldn't distract himself with running or slipping clothes anymore.

The car started and they pulled out onto the street.

"Change and get cleaned up. There are clothes in my bag." Yassen was alternately staring at the street ahead of them or checking the mirrors, but Alex nodded anyway.

It was a little awkward to twist around and get the bag, but he managed. Before opening it he threw the assassin a questioning look, but as he got no reaction, he shrugged and went ahead. A short search revealed a few clothes, the laptop, two handguns, a silencer for one of said guns and several fresh magazine clips. The teen carefully avoided the weapons and got out a black sweater and grey sweatpants.

He cringed as his torn wrist brushed against the cloth of the bag, leaving behind a bloody stain. Great, just... great. That probably wouldn't wash out. He put the bag back onto the seat behind him and then looked at the clothes on his lap, hesitating. He needed to change. But Yassen was right there next to him.

He bit his lip, rubbing the hem of his shirt between slightly trembling fingers. It shouldn't be a big deal. Yassen wouldn't... it didn't matter if he saw. He wouldn't say anything. And it wasn't like Frank got far enough to... He shook the thought off, his hands clenching into fists. It didn't matter that Yassen was there and would see. He had already changed Alex's clothes when the teen was sick. It was no big deal.

And still his pulse fluttered madly when he began to peel his shirt off carefully, the cloth sticking to his skin in a few places. His wrist and shoulder protested the move, but after everything that had happened lately even that didn't really register. He let the shirt drop into the space at his feet, taking a moment to look at himself.

The interior light of the car wasn't all that bright, but enough to make out the dark blotches of freshly blooming bruises scattered over his chest, interspersed with reddish smears of slowly drying blood. On the side of his hip was the worst bruise, the clear shape of a handprint already going blackish-blue. He shuddered as he remembered Frank holding him down, strong fingers digging into his side.

He quickly shook out the sweater and pulled it over his head, not wanting to look at himself anymore. Out of he corner of his eye, he caught Yassen's gaze and froze, his heart skipping a beat. His hands' trembling worsened and he swallowed, a bitter taste in his mouth. Then the assassin turned back to the street and the teen exhaled shakily, his face burning with shame. God, he was such a mess.

Wrestling the pants off was more difficult, both because of the lack of space and because the wet fabric clung to his skin. Eventually he succeeded though and threw the jeans down to his feet, grimacing at the sight of his legs. There was more blood where it had soaked into the hem of his trousers, wet red streaks around his ankles and calves. He grabbed his discarded shirt and scrubbed at the smears, getting most of them off.

His stomach was churning uncomfortably when he was finished, but he didn't even remember the last time he had eaten something and so there was nothing for him to throw up at least. He only gave his thighs a quick inspection, but beyond the expected bruises and a few scrapes there was nothing too bad. The worst of it was the large, rapidly-darkening bruise on his left inner thigh, though he couldn't even remember when that had happened, and the already puple-blue handprint on his hip. Beyond that, only his wrists and his head seemed to have suffered.

He quickly slipped into the too big but comfy sweatpants and curled up on his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Throughout it all, Yassen hadn't said a word, and Alex didn't want to know whether the other had taken another look at him. He'd be quite happy to never mention these bruises again until they had all gone away and he could forget about them.

He curled up tighter, shivering from the cold, and looked around, searching for something to occupy his thoughts.

They were speeding down some random country road, and judging by how fast the shadows of the trees whizzed past, the teen preferred not to know exactly how fast they were going. He wouldn't have minded normally, but it was night, it was snowing, the street was covered in ice and he had really had enough for one day. He quickly looked away before he could snap at the Russian to slow the fuck down.

He closed his eyes and carefully felt along the back of his head, giving a low hiss as he found the wound. The assassin glanced at him. "How bad is it?"

Alex's fingers came away with a few flecks of blood, but it didn't feel like it would need stitching or anything. "It's not bleeding anymore. Probably just a bump."

"Concussion?" Another look out of the corner of the other's eye. The teen wanted to fidget.

"No. I'm fine." Only that he was so very obviously not. Luckily, the man didn't say anything, choosing instead to return his attention to the street.

Alex fingered the cloth of the long-sleeved shirt between his fingers, absently noticing that it smelled like the Russian. His jeans had been the last of his own clothes he had owned. Now even those were completely trashed. Alex felt a hysterical giggle bubble up and bit the inside of his cheek to suppress it. He was not going to do this now. If he had any say in the matter he would never do this. And especially not in front of Yassen.

Something about his jeans kept nagging at him. But they had taken his phone from him and he had no idea what had happened to his wallet and passport. He wasn't carrying around anything else, was he? Frowning, he picked up the trousers and checked the pockets. No, they were empty. But there was something...

He stopped short, the memory coming back in a flash. The inner pockets of the jeans were very small and tight, but the white, non-descript keycard had fit into the right one perfectly. He slipped it out and held it up to the light, giving it a considering look.

The numbers on the front side still didn't tell him anything. Aside from the magnetic stripe the back was blank. He'd need a card reader to find out anything about this thing and with his luck, it'd turn out to be either the access card to an atomic bomb or Barner's health insurance.

Suddenly Yassen hit the brake and Alex squeaked, bringing his hands up just in time to catch himself on the dashboard. His wrist sent a painful jolt all the way up into his shoulder.

"What the hell?" he snapped at the assassin.

Yassen didn't answer and instead pulled over to the side, bringing the car to a stop.

"What's wrong?" he tried again. He was starting to feel uneasy. Did he miss something? What was going on?

In answer, the Russian snatched the card out of his hand and examined it intently. Yeah, Alex definitely had a bad feeling about this.

"Where did you get this?" the man asked sharply.

The teen felt like banging his head against the window. "Don't tell me it's the activation card to an atomic bomb or something." The look the assassin gave him was more than a little acidic and he relented, explaining, "My partner had it. I accidentally took his coat. Why? What is it?"

Yassen gave him a long, unreadable look. Then he leaned back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up. "This card is the reason Weller is hunting us down." The Russian flipped the card into Alex's lap. "It's got the access codes to his private server. All the information about his business transactions and partners is saved there. Your agency would love to get their hands on this."

The teen looked down at the white card lying innocently in his lap and blinked. "Oh."

The assassin nodded and pulled back onto the street, a strange expression on his face. He seemed to be torn between amusement and exasperation. Alex picked the card up and gave it another look. So this was the reason for everything that had happened since the moment MI6 had practically kidnapped him off the street. This was the reason he had been chased through the city, shot at, almost drowned, died of exposure and then nearly got... otherwise attacked.

He was extremely tempted to throw the goddamned thing out of the window.

He bit his lip and seriously considered just getting rid of the card and then pretending that he'd never had it in the first place, but in the end he sighed and slipped it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

This thing better be worth all the shit he was going through.