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

Summary: Back home, back to school, back in trouble. Why is it that he can't even visit his uncle's grave without something happening?

Author's Notes: I've decided that I won't try to rewrite the whole eight book, that'd be too much trouble and besides, I like it just the way ahorz wrote it. Instead I'm going to work around the events of the book, adding some snapshots here and there and telling you exactly where in the book they happen. I'll try to keep things as general as possible so that those who haven't read Crocodile Tears yet won't be spoiled too badly, but here's the official warning: From here on out there will be an increasing amount of Crocodile Tears references and spoilers.

Date: Jan. 7th, 15.55 pm (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)

Edited: 7.12.10

31. Flowers

"Hey, Ian. How are you doing?"

There were some old, mostly wilted flowers before the stone. He brushed them aside, clearing the grave.

"I know I haven't visited in a while, but I was out of the country again."

He crouched down and braced his elbows on his thighs. Jack was waiting at home and further up on the main path a few kids from his school were cutting through the cemetery on their way home, their voices blending in with the distant sounds of traffic.

He stared at the gray stone for a while, silent. Someone from MI6 had picked it out; they hadn't asked him or Jack, not even about the inscription.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out again.

"You know, you got me into a lot of trouble. If you hadn't taught me so much I'd already be dead twice over. I hope my parents have given you a good smack for that." He smiled.

"Jack and I are doing okay. I'm catching up in school again, so I probably won't have to repeat the year. Tom's still my friend, and the others I didn't know all that well anyway. But yeah. At least they aren't asking me questions, right?"

He shifted a little and tugged his sleeves over his hands. He'd been back home for a couple of days now, but sometimes it felt like the cold would never leave his bones.

"Jack's been going out with a new guy these last couple of weeks. Peter something. Not sure how serious they are, but he seems pretty nice." And pretty strange judging by the one time he'd seen him, Alex thought with a grin. He had had no idea that Jack liked dreadlocks, but it was rather obvious that she had it bad for the barkeeper.

"Other than that I finally went to Australia. You were right, I didn't like it much." He leaned forward and trailed his hand over the dark earth, wishing he could touch something [someone] else. "Should have listened to you, huh?"

"I met Ash there," he continued. "He told me a bit about my parents. How come you never did that? Or were you waiting for me to ask?" He snorted. "'Cause if you were then we were both stupid. I always thought you didn't like talking about dad, so I kept my mouth shut."

"Did you know that dad had a student? And partner too, I guess. His name's Yassen Gregorovich. He's the one who killed you." He fell silent for a while.

"I've met him a few times," he confided quietly. "He saved my life. And he was shot when he refused to kill me. I thought he died that day."

[A red stain spreading over a thin shirt, a quiet voice whispering secrets to him, breath stuttering in the other's chest]

"I... I don't know what to do, Ian." His throat felt tight. "I know he killed you. I know. I can't ever forget. But... " He swallowed thickly. "He was... he was doing his job, you know? And... and I know what that's like. Doing your job. I've done the same." His voice dropped to a whisper, "There are people who won't ever come home again because of me."

He looked away from the stone and busied his hands with picking at a few blades of grass that were starting to grow at the edge of the grave. They were hard and sharp-edged between his fingers. He tore them to pieces.

"I don't know what to do, Ian," he repeated quietly and crossed his arms on his knees, letting his forehead sink onto them as he fought to keep his breathing under control. "I just don't know. I want to hate him and I want to forgive him. I don't know what's wrong with me." He sniffled quietly, rubbing his damp cheek against his jacket. "I wish you were here."

There was the sound of boots crunching over gravel and he looked up. Three guys, Asian, maybe in their twenties; they were looking at him. A jolt of adrenaline shot through his body.

He swallowed again and looked back at the grave. "I hope you're not mad at me. I miss you."

Then he stood up and turned to the men that had formed a circle around him. He could feel his heart-beat picking up, his muscles tensing in preparation for fight or flight.

"Alex Rider?"

He cocked his head to the side, locked away anything and everything that would distract him from surviving this moment, and turned his eyes to the man who had spoken.

"I'm sorry, my name is James Hale. You've got the wrong person."

From here on out, events proceed as in Crocodile Tears, British version, page 102.