Chapter Text
Alex had been having trouble keeping down food the entire week. Yassen’s deadline was tomorrow. Heh, dead-line. And then Yassen would be quite literally dead.
He resolved to call MI6 again tomorrow. He couldn’t bring himself to call another time today. If it still didn’t go through, he’d bang on the car windows until the agents sitting inside stepped out just to stop him from causing a scene, he’d stroll down to the bank headquarters and throw them all on MI6’s nonexistent mercy. But tomorrow. Today, he was going to heat up some soup.
Jack had made him promise that he would at least eat something, anything, for dinner, while she was at a mandatory appointment with her thesis advisor.
Alex had agreed, the weight of her new degree path sunk like a ship full of treasure in his stomach. Her unambiguous care, a leash tugging him into the kitchen. She was trying her best for him. He had to do the same.
He drew the blinds on autopilot, aware of the extra eyes across the street. They’d moved the car down the block a few houses.
He could reach the cabinet where they kept all the cans without a step stool now. Ian used to mark his height milestones in pencil behind the pantry door. He was taller now than Ian would have ever seen him. He wondered again why he was so determined to preserve his uncle’s killer’s life.
The cans were at the very back of the cabinet, they needed to restock on groceries soon, and Alex cursed as he overreached and toppled over the counter, sending the mail sitting on the counter into a flutter all over the kitchen.
His eyes, suddenly sore, caught Ian’s name on the envelope that had dropped into the sink - it’d been half a year already and the utility company still hadn’t gotten around to changing the name to Jack’s.
With the thought of bills, his headache returned with a vengeance. But he put the soup on the stove and dutifully gathered up the mail, sorting it into piles while waiting for his soup to heat. Jack might need to inform the companies still billing Ian of the change.
He startled when he saw his own name printed stark across one of the envelopes. There was the crest of an unfamiliar law firm stamped on the corner. He hardly ever got mail and he felt compelled to open it immediately.
It probably wasn’t anything, he told himself, but just because his instincts usually got him in trouble, it didn’t necessarily mean that they were wrong.
Still, he’d only opened it thinking it might have something to do with Ian.
He’d never received any letters after Ian’s death; MI6 had stepped in to handle everything before he even knew to expect anything.
It wasn’t about Ian.
There was a printed letter, all formal legalese that swam across his suddenly blurry vision. It had an itemized list of accounts and properties and who knew what else.
The words sole beneficiary wrapped themselves around his throat and choked.
There was a handwritten note in another sealed envelope as well. It ripped open reluctantly in inelegant jags and Alex regretted not fetching Ian’s old letter opener.
The note trembled on the kitchen table as Alex sunk into the nearest chair.
Name after name of people who’d owed Yassen favors spilled out in a nondescript cursive. Annotations on affiliation and temperament. Comments on how they could be safely and anonymously contacted or whether they should be left strictly as a last resort.
A postscript that he hoped Alex would never find the need for them and a reminder to thoroughly destroy the paper after he’d memorized the information.
The name on the document might not have been Yassen’s, but there was no one else that it could be from. No one else had ever called him Little Alex. And no one else would think that a fourteen year old boy might like to inherit a lifetime of bloody debts.
He counted his lucky stars that MI6 hadn’t been snooping through his mail at least. Although maybe it had arrived before they’d had the chance.
The soup had been burning for a while and Alex turned the stove off. Halfway through tossing the soup out and scraping clean the pot, the landline started ringing.
His first thought was absurdly that the law firm must have slipped some gadget into the envelope to alert them when he opened their letter. It had been good of them to give him a few minutes (seventeen) to collect himself after.
“Hello Alex,” Mrs Jones’ cool voice slid into the kitchen like a knife. “This is a secure line. We noticed your call this morning and just wanted to check in on how you were doing.”
Even after everything, Alex was still glad to hear her voice. He assumed that was also why she’d been the one to call. “Hello Mrs Jones.” His throat sounded a little hoarse, but he surprised himself with how steady his words came out. His hand holding the phone was steady as well.
This morning seemed a long time ago.
He didn’t need MI6 anymore.
“Do you have people watching me?” He asked instead.
“You noticed, I’m glad.” And oh, did the faint hint of pride in her voice burn. “We apprehended a Scorpia operative outside the bank on the day of your debriefing and have reason to believe that she was waiting for you to exit the building. With a sniper rifle. It seems you got very lucky that day.”
“Oh.” Alex was at the limits of his emotional capacity today. The news of his narrowly averted assassination barely made a dent. Alex almost died on a monthly basis, this was hardly new. “That’s nice.”
Mrs Jones seemed slightly taken aback. “We don’t believe that you are still being targeted, but we’ve assigned a security detail to your house and school, just in case. If you could lie low for another week, we’ll have wrapped up the last of the Scorpia clean-up operation by then.”
Alex’s noncommittal agreement was met with a considering hum. “Are you quite alright, Alex?”
Alex was not alright. But he certainly wasn’t going to get into that with Mrs Jones. Better to turn it back on her.
“How are you alright, Mrs Jones? I just tried to kill you last week!”
Mrs Jones seemed almost relieved at Alex’s outburst. “I’m very glad you didn’t.” And then mildly teasing, “I was once a field agent too, near death experiences are hardly exclusive to you.” Alex guessed you didn’t make it to deputy director of MI6 without a spine of steel.
“It was a rash, ill-advised thing to do,” she continued, “but under the circumstances, it was understandable that you were confused and upset. Scorpia management has always been very well versed in using that to their advantage. If you need to hear it, Alex, I forgive you for trying to kill me. Although I do hope that you refrain from any future attempts.”
Alex’s agreement came out shaky this time. Despite the subtle manipulation, the hint at future interactions, the sincerity of her forgiveness didn’t seem false. And he felt it unwind something in him, like a cramp he hadn’t even noticed, finally unknotting. “Yeah, thanks. Thanks Mrs Jones for telling me that. I’m sorry again.”
“It’s quite alright,” they were back to the prim and proper deputy director. “Now, I still have some work to finish tonight, you get some rest and we will contact you if we hear anything to indicate that Scorpia is planning to come after you. Good night, Alex.”
“Good night, Mrs Jones.”
He returned the phone gently to its cradle.
The mail was still half scattered on the floor and he scooped it all up to dump on the counter again.
The trembling came back to Alex in the shower. He’d torn the paper to shreds and flushed the pieces down the toilet. Even he knew that this was information that MI6, waiting right outside his house, would kill for. More valuable than what appeared to be a very lucrative asset portfolio, that Yassen had apparently left all to him.
Temporarily, Alex reminded himself. He’s not dead. They’re still his assets. He’ll wake up someday and need them back. Alex convinced himself that the sting in his eyes was only his many scrapes and bruises from the last mission reacting to the hot spray of the shower.
Alex had destroyed the note but he’d saved the postscript. Discreetly tucked it safe inside the photo frame of his parents that sat on his bedside table.
As he crawled under the covers he stared at his dad. And his mum. He hadn’t talked to them since longer than he could remember.
Their familiar faces had turned strange with all the secrets that had shaken out in the last few weeks. “Hey mum, love you.” He mouthed into his blankets, feeling foolishly young, but not foolish enough not to suspect that MI6 was capable of bugging his house. He’d run out of things to say to her long ago. “Hey dad, if you’re up there, can you lock the doors for me? Yassen isn’t allowed to come over yet. But maybe he got lost or something, so you’ll need to send him back. He’ll probably listen to you. Also, fuck you for getting mum killed. Love you too.”
He would visit Ian after school tomorrow.
Alex flopped onto his back. Closed his eyes to ward off the grief paddling across his eyelids. How lonely did a man have to be to leave all that he had in the world to a boy he’d known for less than a week in total days? He couldn’t stop trying to see in himself, whatever Yassen had seen to make him so invested in his future - he’d had a will drawn up just days after their first meeting for Christ’s sake.
Yassen had seemed so emotionally distant; all muted amusement and stoic calm even as he had bled out in Alex’s arms. No, Alex corrected himself. He didn’t bleed out. He’s not dead. Yet, his mind supplied. He’s not dead, yet. He might never wake up ever again.
Alex knew that Yassen wasn’t actually asleep, but nevertheless he wished they could swap for a minute. Yassen would wake up and Alex could sleep for a bit instead. Surely, Yassen would be a lot more useful in this situation than Alex was. And Alex felt like it wouldn’t be bad to just float away for a couple weeks.
His feet were still cold after the shower. Everything hurt. All the minor injuries jostled for his attention after the low level tide of tension that had never quite fully ebbed away after the hot air balloon, finally dropped off like it had found the edge of the map. A nasty bruise on his hip dug into the mattress as he curled onto his side to face his parents again, slotted his feet into his thighs to warm them up a bit.
The thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.
The envelope had been sitting on Alex’s kitchen counter for days.
What if he had ignored the envelope and been unable to afford Yassen’s life support?
What if he’d received it after letting the hospital pull the plug?
What if Alex had never found out about Yassen at all?
He reached out to touch the glass of the photo frame, right above where Yassen’s note was hidden. It felt like a blessing.
A safety net prepared anyway for a boy that he hoped would never have to jump.
His fingers were still trembling the next morning before school when he carefully followed the instructions to log into the first English bank account on the list at the only public library that was open before school.
It was a pity Alex had never gotten that computer that Sayle had promised. MI6 had taken Ian’s computer away with everything else in his home office. And he didn’t want to do this on Jack’s laptop, in case MI6 were monitoring it.
He carefully didn’t jump and look around when the account balance finally loaded. No one was paying attention to him. The library was deserted at six o’clock on a weekday.
He’d left a note for Jack, in case she woke up early, saying that he was going for a run and would head straight to school after. Hopefully she didn’t - Alex was going to have to duck back into the house to stop the MI6 detail from noticing that he’d snuck out.
Shaking out his hands, Alex stopped staring at the balance and clicked out of the home interface to set up a transfer to the hospital’s account. Held his breath until the transaction went through with no trouble. He supposed the bank must be used to Yassen making strange and large transactions at unexpected intervals.
Next, he set up a recurring monthly transaction for the rest of the payments, not wanting the heart attack that came with having to log in to such a conspicuous account in public every month. There was enough in that one account that he wouldn’t have to worry about the hospital payments for years. He hoped Yassen would wake up before months turned into years.
Alex carefully double checked that he’d entered the correct account and room number. He wondered what the name on Yassen’s medical chart read - he would have to check when he visited to confirm that the funds had been received - and whether the hospital knew who he was. They probably didn’t. Otherwise, with how financially motivated they seemed, Alex wouldn’t have been surprised if they had auctioned Yassen off to the intelligence agencies the minute Scorpia had stopped paying.
He’d have to watch out for that he supposed, feeling surprisingly cheerful as he logged out of the guest account. After all, Yassen was in no shape to take care of himself.
Alex was already evaluating breakfast options as he walked out of the library. When he pushed open the door, he discovered that his fingers had stopped shaking.
That was good.
He had school to get to and for the first time in a long time, he thought he might actually be able to pay attention to what his teachers were saying.