Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me and I make no money with it.
Summary: Today's lesson: Startling contract killers is a bad idea.
Date: Jan. 3rd - 3.20 am, after Under the Rain (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
Edited: 28.12.10
32. Night
His own trembling woke him up.
He groaned quietly and shifted closer to the source of warmth at his side, drowsily wondering why Jack had bunched up the heating blanket beside him instead of throwing it over him. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat and another shiver wracked his body, making him curl up tighter. God, he hated being sick. Where was Jack? What time was it?
He shifted once more and his cheek came to rest against warm skin, someone's upper arm, broad and muscled. He exhaled shakily and relaxed, grateful for the heat seeping into him. When had Ian gotten home? He couldn't remember. It'd been so long since his uncle had last taken care of him when he was sick. In fact, the man hadn't been home since... since...
[March.]
He jerked upright, inhaling sharply, and three things happened at once.
Number one, his sore throat didn't deal well with the sudden influx of air and he started coughing. Number two, his right wrist was not ready to support his weight and gave out beneath him with a painful stab. Number three, he was slammed into the mattress and a hand closed around his neck, a crushing grip capturing his wrists.
He yelped, but the sound was lost between his coughing and the hold on his neck tightening, cutting off his air. Oh god, he was going to die, there was somebody in his bed and they were going to kill him, he couldn't get away and they were so heavy, he couldn't breathe, no way to throw them off, just like Frank- Frank.
The escape.
Yassen.
He stilled his struggles and forced his body to go limp, his memories finally catching up with him. Oh god, what had he done? He blinked against the darkness, trying to see something beyond the shadowed silhouette on top of him, his chest feeling tighter and tighter, and caught a glint of ice blue eyes.
The hand on his throat vanished and Yassen rolled off of him. Alex made a small sound of relief and frantically scrambled to get away, not caring in the slightest when he fell off the bed with a thud, continuing to put distance between them until there was a wall at his back and he couldn't go any further. Then he couldn't do anything besides coughing and gasping, the burn in his throat making his eyes water. His heart was pounding like mad.
There was a low curse he didn't understand from the other side of the room and the light clicked on. Alex looked up and felt his stomach drop. The Russian was scowling darkly, looking both dishevelled and ready to murder someone.
[Oh shit.]
"S-sor-" the teen tried to say, but the words felt like sandpaper on his throat and he was coughing again, unable to get the apology out.
The dark expression changed slightly, becoming more grim than angry, and Yassen circled around the bed, coming to a stop in front of Alex with only a few quick strides and crouching down. The teen flinched back and the assassin hesitated for a moment, then reached for the younger blond's shoulders and made him straighten up.
Alex wasn't entirely sure what to think of the fact that he was once again pinned, this time against the wall, but at least the upright position helped to ease off his cough. When his breathing had mostly returned to normal he finally made himself look up, not all that eager to have to face Yassen's glare once more.
To his surprise, the usual blank expression had returned as if the man had never been angry in the first place. Huh. Now what was he supposed to say to that?
The Russian looked him over appraisingly before asking, "Did I hurt you?"
His wrist was one continuous pounding ache and his throat was on fire every time he breathed too deeply, but he'd brought that upon himself. He shook his head.
Another moment of the man staring at him, then he seemed to make up his mind and stood up. "Sit on the bed. I'll be right back."
Alex waited until Yassen was out of the room before exhaling shakily and fixing his eyes on the bed. The sheets were a mess, one pillow closer to the foot of the bed than the headboard and the blanket halfway on the floor. Figures that where everyone else would think it looked like someone just had great fun there all he could think of was the hand around his neck and the heavy weight on top of him.
His knees felt dangerously wobbly beneath him when he got up and stumbled over to the bed, sinking down on the edge. He was shaking again, the cold sinking its teeth into him even worse now that he didn't have the blanket anymore, and his clothes stuck to his skin uncomfortably. Changing would be smart, but a glance at the clock told him that it was just half past three in the morning and he doubted that his other clothes were dry already. He leaned over and dragged the blanket to his side, wrapping it around his waist. After this whole thing was over he was going to go on a vacation to the Caribbean, seriously.
Yassen came back carrying the med kit and a bottle of water. The man had to be getting pretty sick of fixing Alex up all the time.
"Take off your shirt."
As often as the Russian had seen him topless over the last few days it shouldn't have fazed him anymore; naturally, he felt his face go beet red. He ducked his head and quickly got the shirt off, wanting to just get the whole thing over with and go back to sleep. He'd had what, two hours of rest? And now that the adrenaline was wearing off his body was crashing.
The assassin crouched down in front of him so that they were at the same height. "Does your chest hurt?"
Alex shook his head, feeling a little weird at having to look down to meet the Russian's gaze. "No."
Nevertheless, Yassen started to feel along the teen's collarbones, carefully pressing down. The spy made himself hold very, very still, hoping the other wouldn't look up at his face and notice the faint redness still lingering. The man's hands smoothed along the sides of his neck, up to his shoulders, and Alex's breath hitched, the other's rough fingertips leaving a trail of tingling electricity in their wake. He swallowed, the sting from his sore throat a welcome distraction. "I- Really, I'm fine," he croaked.
Ice blue eyes glanced up at him for a second, then focused back on his body. "This is going to bruise." The man's right hand rested at the juncture of the teen's neck and shoulder, his thumb pressing into the boy's throat, slowly following the forming marks in a line up to just beneath his jaw.
Alex couldn't help but tip his head to the side ever so slightly and he knew that Yassen could feel his racing pulse. His lids felt heavy and he licked his dry lips, a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach. "That's okay," he murmured huskily.
The Russian's gaze snapped up, a flash of surprise breaking the blank mask. "What?"
The teen watched in fascination as the question was immediately followed by the beginnings of a dismayed frown before smoothing back into nothingness. The assassin's self-control was amazing; even looking directly into those piercing eyes it was impossible to guess at what the other was thinking.
"I..." God, he couldn't get a word past his tight throat. The hand on his shoulder was a heavy weight, making him want to lean in. Only a little. Only close enough to...
His shoulders seized and he twisted to the side, a harsh cough forcing its way out of him. He pressed a fist against his mouth, his eyes watering as he felt as if someone was dragging a cheese grater down his throat and all the way into his lungs. It couldn't have lasted longer than ten seconds but by the time he could breathe again he was ready to pass out, the sudden coughing fit having completely sapped him of all strength.
Yassen was standing again, sorting through the first aid box, taking out a blue bottle of pills. He held it out for Alex. "Take those. Two at a time."
The teen nodded, hand still pressed against his lips in case he had to cough again, and reached blindly for the bottle of water. While he choked down two of the pills with a sip of water - the cool liquid felt wonderful on his sore throat - the Russian went over to the wardrobe and got out a fresh shirt and sweatpants. Alex figured that if he kept going through clothes like this the man would be forced to go shopping soon.
"Thanks," he rasped when Yassen handed him the clothes.
The man gave a short nod. "They will be too big but yours are still wet."
Well, when hadn't his clothes been too big lately? The teen just shrugged and slipped into the dark blue sweatshirt. He had to fold back the sleeves several times before his hands were visible. When he looked up again the Russian was standing by the foot of the bed, watching him.
"What?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"You should go back to sleep."
It sounded more like an order than a suggestion, but it wasn't like Alex felt the slightest bit inclined to protest. He shook out the pants, then paused as a thought occurred to him. "What are you going to do?"
Yassen had already half-turned to leave, but he stopped at the teen's question. "I am sufficiently rested."
Alex gave the other a sceptical look, taking in the pale skin, the dark shadows under the man's eyes, the sharply - almost unhealthily - defined cheekbones. The man looked so exhausted, the only thing still keeping him upright must have been pure force of will. Suddenly his chest felt too tight, as if something was pressing down on it. "I can sleep on the floor."
The Russian quirked an eyebrow. "As I said, I do not require more rest. You can stay in the bed."
Biting his lip, the teen hesitated, trying to find the right way to phrase his thoughts. Finally, he gave up and just blurted out, "You look dead on your feet. If you don't want to sleep anymore 'cause I'm in the bed then you can have it. I already slept in the car all day."
They looked at each other and Alex wished the other's face wasn't so goddamn unreadable. Ice blue eyes, sharp and yet blank, the perfectly even mouth giving no indication whatsoever about the man's mood... He wondered what it would take to change that expression, to force a smile onto that stoic face, a flush into those pale cheeks.
"You are sick. Sleep now." Yassen ordered calmly, ignoring the teen's words completely, and turned away, going for the door.
"No!" Alex jumped up quickly, the world tilting dangerously around him and he grabbed onto the bedpost, swaying on his feet. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment and shook his head, opening them again when he was reasonably sure he wasn't going to fall over.
Yassen had frozen halfway to the door and was watching the spy warily.
Alex swallowed thickly, wishing the burn in his throat would let up. "Please don't- Can..." He leaned more heavily on the bedpost, his knuckles turning white, and fixed his gaze on a spot just left of the assassin's legs. His voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper when he finally managed to speak again. "Can you stay?"
The Russian merely stared at him, faintly surprised and appraising, but at least he was still there. The teen went on, his words tripping over each other in his haste to get them out. "I just- I don't... want to be alone here."
And wasn't that embarrassing to admit? His face felt a little hot and he bit his lip, daring a quick glance at the other's face, unable to stand the silence. Yassen seemed undecided, but when their eyes met the man came to a conclusion, his shoulders slumping slightly as he gave the spy a curt nod.
Alex smiled, surprising himself with how relieved he was. "Thank you."
The assassin inclined his head in reply before saying, "Go to bed. I will be back in a moment."
The teen nodded and quickly went about changing his pants before settling himself back under the blanket, grateful for the lingering warmth. Hopefully he'd be able to stay on his half of the bed this time; there had been more than enough drama for one night already. His limbs felt heavy with exhaustion and he closed his eyes, trying to ignore all the little aches and bruises clamouring for his attention. His neck ached dully and he wondered how bad the marks were going to be. Probably not as dark as the ones Conrad had left on him when he'd tried to strangle him, but he wouldn't be surprised if the imprint of Yassen's fingers lingered for a few days.
The light in the hallway was switched off and the assassin came back, turning the light in the bedroom off as well. Alex watched the dark silhouette cross the room, wondering how it was possible for anyone to move so incredibly silently; no swish of clothes, no footsteps, no sound of breathing. If he hadn't seen the man's shadow against the little light the curtains allowed in from the street he would have thought that he was alone.
The bed dipped and Alex held his breath, not moving a muscle while the Russian slipped under the blanket next to him. Okay. So he hadn't actually thought this all through before, but somehow he was now sharing a bed with a contract killer. Oh god, what if he rolled onto the other half of the bed again? Or if he started coughing in his sleep and woke the man up a second time? Well, Yassen wouldn't kill him, but...
Alex sighed and burrowed deeper under the blanket. It was a little late to start worrying now. "Night."
The Russian finished settling in and let out a deep breath. "Night."