A/N: Hey y'all! I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE OHMYVALAR IT'S BEEN A HECK OF A WEEK OKAY

Please please please review because it means a lot to me and I'm insecure and crave validation

And on another note, this is either the second or third to last chapter! (!) I AM writing a sequel - plot is already in the works!

In the following days, Danielle practiced piano until her fingers cramped with achy pains. Their concert was looming in the near future - four days, to be exact, or seventy-four hours and thirty-nine minutes to be even *more* exact, not that she was counting or anything -and she found herself worrying that she wouldn't be prepared.

To mitigate that, she practiced.

A lot.

Alex, bless him, had hauled the piano from his flat over to the safe house (which was almost superfluous at this point, Danielle thought, as no one had come looking for them). Her piano, he kept reminding her.

Pausing to stretch her fingers, Danielle slumped out of her straightened posture and plonked her elbows down on the keyboard, an egregious abuse of such a beautiful instrument, but she was tired.

Faint strains of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto echoed from upstairs, somewhat muffled by the carpeting.

Alex.

He was supposed to play that at the staff concert next month.

*If he survives that long,* her mind whispered traitorously.

Danielle shuffled her sheet music around until she found an old score of Chopin's waltz in E minor, the place she was playing in the cafe on the day she had met Alex.

She paused in her playing when something loud and wooden clonked against the stairwell, followed by a loud curse.

"Why," Clara began as she hauled her cello down the stairs. "Is this thing actually impossible to do any bloody thing with?"

"You know you love it," Danielle said in reply, slowly plunking out a passage with trills.

Clara humphed. "Whatever. I'm going to school."

"You must be Danielle."

Danielle's fingers stuttered over the keyboard as the voice - flat, American - cut through the delicate trills winding through the air, flowery melodies of a Chopin waltz. It was the same piece she had been playing in the cafe when she had met Alex for the first time.

She should get back to her job - or at least let her boss know why she had failed to show up for about two months.

She let her fingers trail off the keys as she swung her leg over the piano bench and turned halfways around, just enough to see who was talking to her.

Her blood ran cold and she barely gulped back a choked noise of absolute horror because here was the man from August's mansion. She would recognize him anywhere, with hair like bleached straw and such a strong American accent.

He had gotten out before Alex had gone to check.

"Any wires?"

"Not that I could see."

She willed her voice to remain steady. She'd done this before, she'd lied before. "I am."

His eyebrows jolted upwards for a split second before he seemed to focus again and glanced past her shoulder at the music on propped on the piano. "Whatcha playing?"

"Chopin." she bit her lip. "I have a concert in tomorrow."

"I heard. Alex playing with you?"

"Yes."

His eyes flicked back to her, making her shudder. Who was he?

Well. Might as well ask.

"Who are you?"

"I work for the U.S. Government." the man leaned against the wall. He pushed up the sleeves of his button down- nice, silk, maybe?- and tugged impatiently at the tie around his neck until it hung loose and disheveled, much like the rest of his appearance. "Right now I'm working with Luke."

Except he wasn't. Danielle knew that - this man had been with August, not Luke. If he was working with the SAS, why had he run?

Alex was upstairs. She could still hear him practicing what he was supposed to perform at the staff recital in a few weeks, the one she and Clara had tried to plan the reception for.

Danielle still had bruises from falling - no, from being shoved - against the hard tiles. Marble, it turned out, was very painful. Pretty, but painful.

"What's your name?" she asked, reaching up to smooth her hair back behind her ears.

"Troy."

Ben missed his wife.

She was working, in the middle of downtown London, as she had been for the last three years.

Gwen had returned to their flat after the mess with August to try and prepare some of the rooms. They had talked, once, about inviting Danielle to stay with them so she would be even farther removed from the events surrounding the prime minister's case.

Ben, of course, had to stay with his unit - or former unit, as he didn't really go out with them as a soldier.

His leg was almost functioning again, though, which was nice.

He stood from where he sat on the end of his bed and traversed the intimidating maze of discarded clothing and papers that had become his room. Alex was practicing next door and he was good - not just talented, but skilled.

No wonder he didn't want to work for MI6.

Ben was beginning to wish he had a similar out - but that wasn't an option, not after what she had told him last night.

He reluctantly headed down the carpeted hall towards the stairs. Troy, that git, was at the house for a status update with Luke. They were supposed to stay in the basement, but Ben could hear him talking to someone in the living room.

Ben was avoiding Troy, and thought he had done a pretty decent job.

Maybe he wouldn't have to look at him.

Just go straight through to the kitchen.

His leg barely twinged as he skipped the last stair and started across towards the kitchen until someone called his name.

"Ben!"

Danielle hurried over to him - Troy must have been talking to her -and grabbed his forearm, her fingers winding into the sleeve of his shirt to halt him.

"Yeah?" he asked, steadfastly refusing to look at Troy. There was something off about the American - Ben couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew.

"Quinn left something for you to look at." Danielle glanced towards the kitchen. "Let me show you." There was something nervous in her face, the way her eyes darted around the room and latched onto the kitchen door.

"Sure," Ben said, and she practically dragged him through the kitchen towards the table. She snatched a pile of manila folders off the table and shoved them into his hands, glancing back towards the living room.

"Is everything okay?" he asked softly.

She bit her lip. "No."

"What's wrong?"

"Troy -" her voice dropped to a whisper. She wound a strand of her hair around her fingers, her other hand nervously tapping out the ghost of a melody against the counter. All the nervous energy was making Ben anxious. "He was in August's mansion. I saw him with August. He asked about wires? If August had seen any? But when Alex came down and after - well, after, he was gone. Alex went to look."

Ben tucked the folders under his arm. "Are you sure?"

She nodded feverently.

His throat closed up - that was why she had pulled him aside, to get away.

What could he do? Luke was downstairs, Alex was busy, and the other two were God-knows-where.

Ben leaned against the counter as his leg twinged. "I want you to go to your school and hang out for a while, okay? Practice piano or see Clara or whatever else you do there. Just get out."

Her eyes darkened but she nodded again, slower this time, and walked briskly towards the stairs.

Ben could almost feel his bones melting with rage - Troy had known and tried to sabotage them. What could have happened to Danielle? The oddities in their plan - the closed gate, the barred windows- that was because of Troy, who had undoubtedly snitched on them to August. . . but why?

Besides, even if Troy could be confronted, there wasn't proof except for Danielle's claim . . . which, no matter how true, would probably be written off in military courts as unreliable due to inflicted trauma and stress.

"Where are you going?" he heard Troy ask.

Keys jangled together. "I'm going to practice at school. Alex is driving." Danielle spoke in a strained voice.

"Yeah," Alex agreed, his words muffled from the next room. Only then did Ben realize that the violin had stopped playing - of course it had, because Alex was downstairs now.

Ben waited until the door shut behind Alex and Danielle to return to the upstairs section of the house with only a sideways glance at Troy, who looked smug. Ben wanted to hit him.

And, as he stomped up the stairs, the same mantra that he told himself over and over thundered in his ears.

Alex was too young. Yes, he was nineteen - so what? He'd been living this life since he was in grade school.

Too young. Too young, too young, too young.

Ben kicked aside the clutter on his bedroom floor and sat down against the bed with his encrypted laptop balanced on his legs. Leaning over, he reached for a crinkled notebook and pencil over, left from earlier work, and began to research the specter of a man named Troy who lived in cases sealed away in the files of a town called Langley.

Danielle was acting weird. She was silent, completely silent, for the entire car ride to the Academy. As Alex drove, he could feel her gaze flicking on to him every now and then, practically sensing the anticipation of an unasked question.

"What's up?" he asked as he accelerated through a green light.

For a few seconds, the only noise was the humming of the engine.

"I saw that American in August's house," she said at length.

Alex turned to look at her in shock. The car almost clipped a fire hydrant and he swore, wrenching his gaze back to the road. "What?"

"He was the guy who left."

"Are you sure?"

With a sad, resigned sigh, she nodded. Her hair hung over her face, obscuring her expression from sight, but Alex was pretty sure she wasn't smiling.

"Danielle-"

"Stop." She spoke softly. "I think he wanted to screw you over. Trap you inside. He doesn't know who I am."

Alex gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, half-tempted to slam his head against it. This was why he didn't want Danielle involved - or Tom, or Clara, or anyone else. Innocent people became pawns in these types of game.

Espionage wasn't like chess, not anymore: it was war.

"Alex-"

"No, Danielle. This isn't a game. I'll pay - I'll pay anything, flight tickets, hotels - just get out. Go to Marseilles or Berlin, anywhere." Alex stomped on the brake, ignoring the jolt as the car jerked to a halt where his seatbelt scraped painfully against his neck.

Danielle smacked his arm. "Alex! Are you mad?"

"No. You need to get away from this."

"I do not - this isn't one of your paranoid conspiracies! It's not about me, it's about you - why aren't you more concerned, are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I am concerned!" he snapped. "You don't understand."

She pushed her hair back but said nothing.

Alex stared unblinkingly at the road riddled with traffic and potholes. The Academy loomed ahead with old brick and glass that somehow seemed more like a castle than Buckingham. Hundreds of people passed it each day, only a few truly understanding that they were walking on ground where passion lived and died.

He couldn't . . . take chances with Danielle. She didn't understand his work, and no matter what she thought she could do, she couldn't understand.

He snuck a glance at her.

Her eyes were fixed on the window and she sat tall in the car seat, rigid, like it was a piano bench.

She wasn't brave, Alex realized.

She was scared in the way that made people shut down and stop thinking.

She didn't think that -

No, she really didn't understand, did she?

Alex, against his better judgment, pulled the car over against the sidewalk. He opened the door and slid a few coins into the parking meter. He felt like he was staring at a chunk of concrete looming over his head, waiting for it to fall and crush him but powerless to stop it. Unfortunately, he couldn't reverse gravity - nor could he go back in time and catch Troy at the mansion.

"Coming?" he asked.

"What?"

"We're here."

Danielle exited the car, watching him with her lips furrowed into a small frown, and Alex swore that, for once, she actually looked seventeen.

He knew what he had to do.

Alex hid himself away in his studio and started packing. The extra sets of clothes in one of his cabinets- in case of emergencies- went into a rolling case that he usually took sheet music in when he traveled. He added a water bottle, filled up in the hall, and money from the secret compartment in his violin case.

Then he pushed the case against the wall and walked over to the far corner of his studio where the piano was. He rolled the instrument aside, crouching to the floor, and pressed on the tiles there, reaching around to dig his nails into the grout. One tile finally came loose with a wet pop, as the cement beneath it hadn't hardened - it wasn't supposed to, unless Alex shined a UV light on it.

He had put in the secret compartment when Danielle was in the hospital, just in case he needed to hide there one day, even though he wasn't hiding now.

The concert was tomorrow.

He would play it, catch whoever was assassinating the Prime Minister - he didn't even know who the bad guy was, and it was driving him crazy- and be out of England by the next morning. If Troy had really come for him. . .

He would tear away everyone Alex knew.

Alex had a feeling that Troy had gone to August's mansion to be sure Danielle stayed put.

What could happen to K Unit?

Leave, leave, leave.

He had to leave.

This was the same reason he left America nearly three years ago.

He didn't want to be a spy. He didn't want that to stain him anymore.

He had tried to start over with a career, something he loved, and now he knew some of the best people in the world: Clara, Danielle, countless others in his classes.

He was, for a few months, something dangerously approaching happy.

This was why he could never be happy.

He should never try again.

He swore this to himself as he dug up two more tiles and reached beneath the viscous layers of fake concrete until his hands brushed something hard and rectangular. Picking up the laptop, he pried it free and set it aside for a second to replace the tiles. Then Alex flipped open the lid and inserted a USB drive to run the decryption software on the hard drive. As meaningless text scrolled across the screen, he set the laptop on top of the piano and stood, unlatching the locks on his violin case.

His violin gleamed in the overhead lighting, the grain of the wood turning to molten gold as the light hit it, and he felt a pang in his chest for a life that was about to come to a close.

Did he hate himself?

Sure.

Would he regret leaving?

Definitely.

Would he stay?

No.

It wasn't safe - not for him, not for anyone he knew.

Alex set up his laptop to run an international search on Troy, then meandered over to one of his music stands, this one with an old copy of the theme from Schindler's List.

He tightened his bow and slathered the hairs with rosin, then started to play.

Danielle knew that Schindler's List wasn't on their program for tomorrow but she couldn't help but stop dead in her tracks outside Alex's studio as the music gripped her by the bones.

She closed her eyes, leaning up against the wall, and listened.

High strains, choked and aching, reverberating through the walls as the fifths rose and fell, Alex's shifts just sloppy enough to sound like his violin was sobbing.

She felt something stir inside her chest. It was always different hearing music than playing it. She put every piece of her soul into what she played, which made her think that every other musician was just as raw by the time they finished playing a piece.

Listening to Alex, the only way she could describe the sound was agony.

Trickling low notes, the bow scratching across the string in a diatonic run, ascending farther and farther to a note rising far above the harmonic E.

Danielle bit down hard on her lip.

She'd upset Alex when she told him about Troy, but he wouldn't talk to her. His only response was to tell her to leave - but why? What was he so afraid of?

Maybe, she reasoned, he was afraid of being used again.

She saw his eyes in the night when he came stumbling into the kitchen from nightmare-ridden dreams - because she was already awake, driven out by phantoms of August's hands and shattered glass.

His studio was unlocked; the door hung ajar.

She pushed it farther open and slid inside, the doorknob banging painfully against her stomach.

Alex stood near one of the old windows. He was using sheet music, but his fingers effortlessly changed positions with the remoteness of something habituated.

Danielle pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the piano - Steinbeck, baby grand, very nice - so she could listen to him play.

A laptop sat next to her with an internet window open. Scrolling text ran across the screen as a green bar scooted across the screen, measuring something. She looked closer - it wasn't an internet window, it was a database of some sort, and it was running a search.

Troy, Unknown

Central Intelligence Agency

The search box emblazoned with Troy's name caught her eye, and she realized Alex was trying to find information on him.

Alex was still playing - she could practically feel the music vibrating inside her chest. She took another glance around the room.

Boxes were shoved to the side, stuffed with music, exercise books, old programs, any of the artifacts that musicians accumulated. A rolling suitcase sat up against the door.

If Danielle didn't know any better, she would think that the studio was unoccupied, and hadn't been for a very long time.

As the last, mournful notes quavered into silence on the dense air, she kicked her foot against the piano leg with a dull thunk.

Alex's eyes were wet when he turned around and saw her.

He cleared his throat. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Alex -"

He knelt and began repacking his violin with slow, gentle movements that his shaking hands betrayed.

Danielle took a deep breath. "You can't leave."

"I have to," he said, voice thick. "You don't understand."

"You keep saying that, but you won't tell me anything."

He roughly ran his sleeve across his eyes. "I told you everything. In the hospital."

"No you didn't," she argued, panic making her bold. Alex couldn't leave. "You're living at a funeral, Alex. you haven't told anyone why."

He didn't reply.

"Come on." she tried for a soothing voice and slid down from the piano. "Let's go back to the house - we can talk to Ben, it'll be okay."

"No," he said, mumbling. "You'll be safer when I'm gone."

When I'm gone.

His words echoed in her ears with chilling finality.

"Alex-"

He slung his violin over his shoulder and trudged over to the door, catching up the handle of his suitcase.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't meet her eyes.

Danielle was really panicking now as she walked over to him, then paused, then started again, unsure of what to do or say that would make him listen. All she knew was that he was her friend - he was supposed to be her brother - and he was leaving.

He was leaving her.

She - she had to be defective. Her father had left. Now Alex was leaving. No one wanted to be around her. She was wrong.

"Alex-" her voice broke. Broke? No, she wasn't crying, she wouldn't cry, she refused. "Don't go."

He finally looked at her and his bright blue eyes fractured with tortured tears. His hair, somewhere between brown and golden, hung around his face. Normally he would have pushed it back by now. "I have to."

"No you don't!" she blinked hard, feeling her own eyes well up. "Please. Please don't leave. We have a concert - and your case -" Her hands balled into fists that she pressed into her pockets.

Shaking his head, he nudged open the door.

"Please don't leave me," she said, barely whispering.

He paused.

She thought she saw his shoulders shake.

"Alex -"

"Goodbye, Danielle."

She heard the door swing shut behind him.

Heard the lift chime as its doors slid open.

She waited for him.

And waited.

And waited.

She kept expecting him to walk in at any moment.

It wasn't until hours later, when Ben pushed open the doors, that it finally hit her: Alex wasn't coming back.

Ben took one look at her face and held his arms out, and she finally fell against him and cried, painfully sobbing and hating her weakness every second of it.

Because she understood now.

Alex Rider was gone.

Whew, a tad dramatic. Review, please! :)

REVIEW REPLIES

Guest - aw, thank you so much! And yes, yes it was (: