Chapter Text
Heathrow Airport
The frigid January wind whipped Alex in the face as he disembarked from the plane. A small reprieve after being cramped with impatient passengers desperately fighting to get off the plane.
He slowed to the back of the pack, not wanting to aggravate his knee. He was so close to finally being home and able to crash. This had not been a pleasant mission. Then again, none of them were.
His scarf unravelled in the wind and his fingers shot up quick to re-adjust it to cover his neck once more. Despite the majority of the bruises being covered he had still received an uncomfortable amount of stares. He hoped they thought it was an array of hickeys from a night of fun and passion. The reality wasn’t quite as tantalising. Though, he supposed, some people did like to be choked.
Once he was past security, he spotted the car exactly where MI6 said it would be. A dark BMW idling by the curb. An older woman sat in the driver’s seat, tapping at her phone. No signs, no uniform. Discreet.
Getting into the back of the car was glorious. His body sank into the soft interior as he relaxed back against the headrest. At least MI6 had arranged for a nice car to pick him up. They had certainly not arranged for a good seat on the plane.
A bottle of water waited in the door pocket, unopened and icy cold. He grabbed it without hesitation, downing half of it in seconds. It was, somehow, the best thing he’d had in days.
“Where to?” the woman asked, turning her head slightly to look at him. Alex capped the bottle.
‘Bristol’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated. He really didn’t need his flat mates seeing him in this state. It would only fuel the ridiculous theories about what he did in his spare time. Besides, university wouldn’t start back up again for another few days, and he was already in London…
“Chelsea, please,” he said, leaning back in the seat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, finally allowing himself to relax further.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that the thought even occurred to him.
Would Yassen be there?
It wasn’t like he kept in regular contact with the man. Sure, they exchanged some basic texts over futile things like the water bill or if there was a buildup of post with Alex’s name on it, but they’d never discussed Yassen’s work schedule or when he’d be staying at the house.
One night a month? Twenty-nine nights a month? Who knew. Alex hadn’t been back since November and didn’t make a habit of thinking about it too often.
Perhaps he should have just braved his flat mates in Bristol.
He swallowed, the thought of dozing in the car now a distant memory.
The answer to the question bouncing around his mind was no, Yassen wasn’t here.
It was impossible to tell if the man had ever been here given how everything looked exactly the same as he had left it. Then again, Yassen was meticulous and Alex should have expected nothing less.
He suddenly wondered where Yassen was in the world. And who was dying or dead as a result of that visit.
He shook his head, forcing the thought away, then pushed open the door to his bedroom.
Nothing had changed.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it in. The bed was made, the furniture untouched. The room felt hollow somehow, like a hotel room waiting to be checked into. Everything that mattered to him now, anything of any importance, was now in Bristol. This was just a shell.
He let his bag slide from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. His shower gel and deodorant were still lined up neatly on the desk, where he’d moved them from the bathroom after Yassen had moved in. A quiet decision, made months ago, to keep some distance.
Speaking of the bathroom, Alex decided to check it too. The counter was bare, the mirror smudge-free. No razor, no toothbrush, no sign that anyone used it at all.
He glanced at the spare bedroom, now Yassen’s room, and decided against pushing the door open. Who knew if it was rigged with explosives.
On his way back downstairs to the kitchen, he ran a finger along the edge of a cabinet as he passed the hallway. His finger came back clean.
Back in the kitchen, the house seemed secure. The light outside had shifted to that rich, burnt orange of early evening, casting long shadows across the floor. The low sun kissed the edges of the counter and glinted off the handles of the cupboards.
He frowned, eyes drifting to the fridge on the far side of the kitchen. He decided to open it and check the contents.
Empty. Not even milk for a cup of tea.
Which settled it. No one could be that psychotic, not even Yassen.
He let out a quiet breath, then turned to the cupboard he’d claimed as his own, curious what was left behind. Inside, he found the grand feast of a single Pot Noodle and a lonely tin of beans.
Food would have been a smart move, but his aching body refused to cooperate. Especially knowing it would be a relatively dire meal. He told himself he might cook in a few minutes, but for now, the stool at the kitchen counter won the argument. His mind drifted, and he couldn’t help but feel relieved Yassen wasn’t here. He didn’t need the man to see him like this.
Bruised, exhausted, weak.
Not when he had tried so hard to lose the school boy persona and juvenile appearance.
He leaned forward, his posture now fully slumped as he rested his forehead against the cool counter top and closed his eyes. It would be so easy to fall asleep right then, a little too easy.
The overwhelming exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave, tremendous and all-encompassing. He teetered on the edge of sleep as the waves lazily lapped at the shore, pulling him under.
When he woke later, the sky was pitch black. Gone was the simmering sun and in its place was a stark, borderline sinister, darkness.
Although his brain was muddled by the aftereffects of sleep, he couldn’t ignore the deep, primal instinct that blared like an alarm in his head.
Something was off.
Had something woken him?
He sat up slowly and looked around, goosebumps prickling his skin as he scanned the dark room. The faintest trace of moonlight filtered through the sliding glass doors at the back of the open-plan kitchen and living room.
There was no movement and no noise, but a change in the air had him reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He stood slowly, careful to stay quiet as he slid off the stool. The tiredness was gone, replaced by a shot of adrenaline coursing through him.
He tiptoed silently around the kitchen counter and reached out, feeling for the knife stand. After slowly pulling a knife from the holder, he edged closer to the kitchen door. The blade caught the faint moonlight and glinted.
Alex stopped, heart lurching, and moved to hold the knife behind his back instead.
This was a mistake. All of it. Coming here post-mission when he was already on edge. Falling asleep in a place where an assassin most likely resided. An assassin who almost certainly had a long list of enemies.
Alex stepped into the hallway, knife raised. His heart was beating so hard -
He was slammed into the wall before he even saw who was there.
The air left his lungs in a rush as the knife flew from his hand, clattering somewhere out of reach. Cold metal pressed against his temple a split second later, followed by a hand wrapping tight around his throat.
It slid beneath his scarf with surgical ease, cutting off both breath and sound in one brutal motion.
He clawed at the arm holding him, panic rising fast, but it was no use. The grip was unrelenting. Fingers dug into bruises already tender from the mission, and white-hot pain flared across his neck.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Why did it always go like this?
Why couldn’t he ever just be safe?
Alex parted his mouth, desperate for air and getting none. His head grew fuzzy, dazed, light-headed. His lungs screamed for oxygen as the world around him began to blur and spin, each breath harder to catch than the last.
Moments later, a car passed by the house, its dull headlights casting fleeting shadows through the window and along the corridor.
The hand vanished instantly, and Alex doubled over, gasping for air as retreating footsteps echoed into silence. Seconds later, the overhead lights in the hallway snapped on, flooding the space with harsh light.
Squinting up, he saw Yassen by the light switch. Of course. Of course. In Alex’s stupidly sleep-deprived mind, he hadn’t even considered that it might be Yassen. The only other person with a key.
“Thanks,” Alex croaked, and even he couldn’t tell if it was sarcastic or not.
He took a moment to compose himself and get his breathing under control. His throat now burnt and swallowing was beyond uncomfortable.
He looked over at Yassen. The man was eyeing him but didn’t step forward. For the briefest of moments, Alex felt like he was being treated like a spooked animal, and he hated it.
“Why is it dark?” Yassen eventually asked, tilting his head past Alex to peer into the pitch black kitchen.
“That’s what happens every night. There’s this thing called the sun-“
“Alex.”
“I fell asleep at the kitchen counter,” Alex admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t know if you were here at the moment, I don’t know your schedule…”
‘I can go’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he promptly pushed the thought away. It was his house, and there were enough bedrooms for them both to sleep here.
Yassen said nothing for a moment, simply watched him with that calm, unreadable gaze. It made Alex feel like he was the one intruding, even though it was his house. His space. And yet, somehow, Yassen’s presence seemed to take up all of it.
Wanting to avoid the awkward conversation, he started back towards the kitchen, moving slowly, trying not to give away how much pain he was in. He turned on the light and made his way to the sink.
Yassen followed, setting his briefcase down on the counter. He watched as Alex took a glass from the cupboard and walked to the tap. As he reached forward, the scarf loosened slightly, revealing the bruises littering his neck. Yassen frowned, a crease of confusion appearing across his brow before it vanished. The confrontation in the hallway, he thought, should not have resulted in such extensive damage.
Feeling eyes on him, Alex reached up instinctively to adjust his scarf again. Why was this so downright awkward? And not for the first time, he wished he lived alone in Bristol so he wouldn’t have to avoid the area after a mission.
“I’ll be here for a few days, then I’ll be out of your hair,” Alex said offhandedly, sipping slowly on the water.
Yassen's gaze remained fixed on the scarf wrapped around Alex's neck.
"Are you injured?" he asked, his eyes briefly scanning Alex up and down, as if evaluating for any additional signs of harm.
Unease settled in Alex’s stomach. It was safe to say he was not enjoying this conversation, or this whole encounter, really.
“I’m fine,” Alex said, turning away again to inspect the cupboard at the end of the kitchen, to stare at the sad can of baked beans once more. Anything to distract himself from a line of questioning he had no interest in answering.
“Where have you been?” Yassen asked.
Hell.
“Uni,” Alex said without missing a beat. “Drinking, partying, having fun,” he added, elaborating on the shameless lie.
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe Alex just had a death wish. Either way, he loosened the scarf, showing off the splatter of bruises with a smirk.
“By the looks of it, I’ve probably been having too much fun,” he said, with a gusto he certainly didn’t feel. From Yassen's expression, it was clear he wasn't buying it either.
Alex let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration and fatigue.
“Look, I’m fine,” he said, the last of his patience ebbing away as the tiredness crept back in full force now the adrenaline had worn off. “Like I said, I won’t be here long."
Alex set down the glass and started walking towards the hallway. “I’ll text you next time I plan on dropping in, so you don’t choke me again,” he said, before leaving the room, grabbing his bag, and heading upstairs to his room.
Minutes later, lying in bed, he wondered if he’d even be able to sleep a few rooms away from the man. The assassin.
Except, he’d reached the level of outrageous exhaustion, he found he simply didn’t care.
Yassen could have killed him at any point tonight if he’d wanted.
Hell, at one point, he nearly did.