AN: Thank-you all for all the reviews. :D You have no idea how happy they make me, as it shows that somebody's actually reading/enjoying this story. This is the first time I've tried to write a serious, multichaptered fanfiction so receiving feedback is really important - if you don't like something, feel free to tell me (though I'd appreciate you telling me why, so that I know what I need to fix). So yaaaay, reviewers. 3 Seeing I have a lot of reviews makes me want to update faster.
That said, sorry that this is slightly late. I had a last minute trip to Paris planned so I ended up having ten days with no access to a computer.
This couldn't be happening. His mind supplied the image of Yassen on Air Force One, a memory that had haunted him for years, and he swallowed tightly as he recalled the moment when the assassin's eyes had finally closed. He hadn't believed there was any possible way the man could have survived the shot, and it had been painfully clear that Yassen had shared his opinion. The Russian's survival was nothing short of a miracle.
Emotion threatened to overwhelm him and he reacted instinctively, pushing it down and locking it away as he retreated into the new persona he'd created for himself, allowing Alex Rider to stay buried. The fists that had tightened automatically loosened and the tense expression on his face melted into a mixture of curiosity and polite interest. He studied the man instead, noting the subtle signs of tension, realising that the man was as surprised to see Alex here as Alex was to see him alive. It was satisfying to realise that he wasn't the only one affected.
He smiled darkly, wondering how anything managed to surprise him anymore, and watched Yassen in silence for a few more moments. "Nice to meet you, Mr Gregorovich."
The Russian merely inclined his head, pale blue eyes never leaving Alex's face, but Alex had no desire to play this game. He needed time to sort everything out in his head, space to accustom himself to the man's survival and allow him to work with the Russian without personal feelings getting in the way and putting them both in danger.
He turned back towards the front and withdrew the pistol from his waistband, comforted by the security offered by the cold steel. He turned it over in his hands as he studied the weapon that had become a constant, though now it seemed a wasteful piece of sentimentality. There were certainly better pistols than the TT-30, though he'd become accustomed to the simple gun. The names and faces of those he'd killed with it were starting to blur but he couldn't find it in himself to care; whatever he felt when he killed, guilt had never featured. Everybody died at some point.
His fingers automatically ejected the magazine and replaced the used shots, sliding the cartridges in with effortless ease. The simple action gave him something else to concentrate on as he attempted to ignore the man sitting behind him. His shoulder ached but he remained silent, knowing there was little to be done until they landed.
"Take care of that. You have ten minutes." The handler gestured at Alex's shoulder before turning his back, fishing in his pocket for the packet of cigarettes and lighting one as he waited. "Your flight leaves soon."
Alex nodded, retrieving the first aid kit from the 'copter and laying out the required items on the square of blanket provided. Removing the shirt would likely cause the wound to start bleeding again and he had no desire to be searching for anything once that happened. Salt solution, cotton pads, needle and thread, gauze pad and adhesive tape torn into suitable pieces. It would do. He debated taking some of the painkillers also provided but decided against it, emptying the water bottle over the cloth tied around the wound instead. Unbranded and unknown, he had no idea what effect they would have.
Fingers carefully pulled at the hastily tied knot, wishing that he could use both hands for the job. He steeled himself and tugged it off, feeling the newly formed scabs come away with the cloth. As expected, the action prompted the wound to begin bleeding again, though he needed it open in order to clean it properly. He began to remove the bulletproof vest awkwardly, twisting painfully to reach the more irritatingly placed straps, but stiffened as he felt a second pair of hands aiding him.
Lips tightened momentarily as he realised he hadn't heard the assassin approach and berated himself for the carelessness, though he permitted the Russian to continue helping him, remaining still as the man tugged the garment over his head. He nodded briefly, thanking Yassen for his assistance, and reached for the bottle of salt solution and a few of the cotton pads, tipping the bottle up until the first was soaked. The fact that he couldn't see the other man, who he deduced must be on his knees behind Alex, made him nervous, especially with his chest bare. At least the Russian was similarly unable to see Alex's face.
He pressed the pad against the wound and hissed as it stung painfully, though continued sweeping it across the skin and down, mercilessly pressing it into the gash itself even as his body protested the action, replacing the pad as needed. He knew that this was nothing compared to the pain he'd feel if he allowed it to get infected.
Yassen still hadn't moved and Alex resisted the urge to confront him, uncomfortable in having all his scars out on display for the Russian's pleasure. The man's intention was clear when he picked up the needle and threaded it and Alex hesitated, wondering if he should let Yassen do the job.
"Allow me. It will be neater." The Russian moved around to his side and Alex found his eyes meeting the man's again, though it gave him no help. Eventually he nodded, knowing the other was right. He couldn't afford the time needed to numb the whole area, and he suspected the pain would cause his hand to shake.
He braced himself as the needle pushed through his skin, gritting his teeth as he watched Yassen draw the wound closed. It was clear that he'd done this many times before and Alex was thankful for that, at least. He watched as the redhead worked, head dipped in concentration as nimble fingers pushed the edges of the torn flesh together, focusing on the man's appearance as a distraction from the pain.
Alex calculated that Yassen must be close to forty, though only the subtle hint of silver in red hair gave his age away; at a first glance, the Russian did not look much past thirty, beautifully in shape and face unmarred by wrinkles, high cheekbones giving it an ageless appeal. He wondered if anyone had ever told the man in front of him that he was pretty.
As Yassen busied himself with tying off the thread, Alex allowed himself to relax. The stitches were perfectly neat and seemed secure as he rotated his shoulder, though the Russian gave him a cold look. "Do not pull. You will end up with an ugly scar."
Glancing down at his chest, another ugly scar hardly seemed to matter, but Alex nodded anyway. They'd had to stitch him up so many other times before that he was adept in caring for the injuries, and the gauze pads that were currently being taped across would cushion it from further damage. He'd have to change them later, though it would probably be healed enough to chance antiseptic cream on the coverings.
"Thank you." Yassen said nothing in reply, simply staring back at Alex, though the younger man pushed himself to his feet and approached the handler. They didn't have much time left and Alex couldn't board a plane in his current attire.
The man anticipated his question. "Clothes are in a bag under the seat. Hurry up. If you miss this flight, you'll be waiting six hours for the next."
He took the bag out and shook out the clothing, stripping quickly and piling the ruined garments up on the other side. He noted darkly that Yassen had not bothered to turn away and still stood there looking at him, making Alex feel vulnerable in his nudity. He pulled the jeans on roughly over his bare hips, his old boxers bloody from earlier events, and buttoned up the grey shirt quickly. "Let's go."
The car was parked exactly where he'd been told it would, the keys hidden underneath the tire, and the map on the passenger seat had clearly indicated their destination. He'd driven; Yassen hadn't made any attempt to take the keys from him, and he preferred being in control.
The key to the flat was on the ring with the car key and he studied it absently as he subconsciously counted the number of stairs and locations of the other doors they passed, calculating the best exits and possible ambush sites. The wallpaper on the walls was peeling and stained yellow by the warmth of the overhead lights and the carpet was almost bare from overuse, but Alex didn't care. He'd spent time in far worse places than this.
The lock turned easily and he let himself into the room, flicking the light switch before pausing, glancing about the room carefully before he took a few steps inside. It was small and overfilled with furniture but perfectly adequate, and a quick sweep revealed a single bedroom and a bathroom.
Returning to the main room, Alex brushed past Yassen as he headed towards the fridge, suddenly ravenous. While he expected to find it empty, it couldn't hurt to look.
But the Russian had other ideas. A pale hand shot out and grabbed Alex's shoulder, forcing him back against the wall as Yassen watched him impassively. But two could play at that game, and Alex's expression stayed neutral as he waited for the man to act.
"What are you playing at, little Alex?" Despite the almost kindly phrased question, Yassen looked at Alex flatly, clearly unamused by the turn of events. "This is not your world."
Irritated that the man still seemed to think him a child, though slightly thrilled that he'd finally managed to unsettle his composure, Alex simply smirked, lounging back against the wall as if he'd chosen to be there. As Yassen's face darkened he struck, capturing the assassin's wrists and switching their positions, cracking the man's head on the wall harder than necessary as he did so, and used his thigh to pin the slighter man down.
"Alex Rider is dead. I'm sure you've seen the paperwork." It had been the CIA that had drawn up official documents and held a mock funeral for him, unwilling to have a fifteen year old on record as working for them, and Eric Kesteren had emerged from the ashes, birth certificate conveniently proclaiming him to be eighteen. He'd since dropped that identity too, of course, but the CIA had been careful to keep MI5's suspicions to a minimum. There had been certain promises made by the agency that they wouldn't try and use him.
"What I am is your new partner. If you can't work with me, you'll have to tell them. If you treat me as a child, we'll both be at risk." His words were flat, monotonous, and he refused to let any emotion creep into the exchange. This was just business. "I'm going for groceries."
Releasing the Russian, he turned fluidly, retrieved the pistol from the compartment he'd used to fool airport security and slid it back into its customary position in his waistband before he grabbed the keys from the counter and left.