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“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Alex muttered to an empty house as he toed off his trainers, threw his jacket at the hook in the hall – missed – and was just too dog-tired to even think about picking it up. There was no one there to care, anyway.
Four months infiltrating a Bolivian drugs cartel supplying badly cut coke to an Albanian gang flooding the Home Counties had been bad enough, but the 24-hour debrief with Jones and Crawley that had followed his return to the UK had been the brown, smelly icing on a spectacularly shitty cake. Actually, scrub that thought. There hadn’t been cake of any sort, not even shit flavoured cake. There hadn’t even been any biscuits. And the tea they’d given him after four hours had come from the drinks machine on the fifth floor. The one you had to kick to get it dispense anything, and even then, when it did deign to vomit some tepid liquid out, it all tasted like soggy cardboard with a splash of milk a decade past its use by date and strychnine masquerading as sugar.
The mission had left him several kilos lighter (not that Jones had noticed), more sun-tanned than he’d ever been (Crawley had looked faintly jealous and muttered about time spent on beaches) and with more facial hair than usual (which had drawn disapproving looks from the pair of them, not that Alex had any fucks left to give for their disapproval) plus an even deeper hatred of drugs (if that was even possible).
Blowing up a warehouse full of the stuff might have been unsubtle (Jones’ words) but it had been effective (Crawley’s comment). And he’d fucking enjoyed it (his verbal report). Alex had then pointed out, somewhat acerbically, that he’d had very little choice of how to deal with the problem as he’d been trying rather hard to stay alive, and there hadn’t been a handy canal barge to drop on the place.
Eventually, he’d just got fed up with the relentless questioning and had fallen asleep on Jones’ desk. They’d got the hint at that point, but the tight-fisted bastards hadn’t even bothered to book him a taxi home.
Once there, a quick glance at the contents of his fridge made Alex feel mildly nostalgic for the roach-infested basement flat in Bolivia he’d shared with eight others in the cartel. He made a mug of black tea (the milk had taken on a life of its own, whilst remaining mostly green and solid) sweetened it with honey (he’d even run out of sugar) and chucked in a large splash of whisky. That improved his mood (as well as the flavour of the drink), and by the time he stumbled up the stairs to bed, he was ready to sleep for a lifetime.
****
When he finally stumbled downstairs after nearly 36 hours of dreamless sleep (thanks to total exhaustion that started with a kid screaming in his ear on the flight back to the UK and ended with the disapproving smell of peppermints), Alex was desperate for something to drink, even if it was only water.
Finding his fridge door open and the contents now residing in a black plastic bin liner in the middle of the floor came as something of a surprise.
He was even more surprised to find a Russian assassin dressed in a tatty teeshirt and faded jeans doing the washing up whilst wearing a pair of bright pink rubber gloves. To be precise, doing the washing Alex had left in the sink four months ago when he’d run out of dishwasher tablets (and washing up liquid).
Alex wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of bleach.
“Have you bought shares in a bleach factory?”
“No, but I might do after today. Your standards of hygiene are deplorable.”
“I do have a dishwasher, you know.”
“Then why don’t you use it?”
Alex had an uncomfortable feeling he was already losing on points in that exchange, so decided to abandon that conversational gambit before he was taken to task on the lack of dishwasher tablets, but at least they could now dispense with the usual (un)pleasantries.
Alex sighed. “Hello, Yas.”
Yassen never did anything as uncool as sigh. “Hello, Alex.”
The contract killer’s appraising blue eyes (the colour of pale sapphires, if Alex was feeling poetic, which he most certainly wasn’t) made him uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing the same ragged teeshirt and grubby boxers that had he’d worn on the flight home. He’d been too fucking tired to shower and change when he’d stumbled upstairs to bed.
“Yeah, I’d better have a shower. And …er … thanks …” Alex waved his hand in the direction of the fridge, the sink and the pulsating mess on the floor determined to make a bit for freedom (for once, he found himself hoping that Yassen was armed with something more lethal than a hard stare).
“I’ve kept a sample of the green sludge from the milk container,” Yassen remarked. Alex had forgotten the bastard’s superpower was mind-reading. “I imagine Porton Down will be grateful for it. Yes, Alex, I think a shower and a change of clothes would be beneficial.” Yassen handed him a mug of steaming hot tea made with fresh milk (rather than the now-sentient life form presumably listening in from the depths of the black bag on the floor whilst plotting its revenge). “Once you look more like a human being, we’ll go out for breakfast and then re-stock your fridge. In the meantime, I’ll finishing bleaching your kitchen.”
Alex took the mug and gulped down half the tea. It tasted like liquid heaven. “Yassen Gregorovich, you’re an angel. Have I ever told you that?”
“No, Alex, you have not. You normally tell me I’m a murdering fucker with the morals of a syphilitic stoat.”
“I only said that once, that time in Budapest.”
“And in Panama City.”
Alex swigged the rest of the tea. “I take it all back. I’m clearly no judge of character.”
“Bathroom, Alex, now. You stink like a polecat.”
Alex grimaced. That assessment was entirely unarguable (even by him). He pulled off his teeshirt, pushed his boxers down over his hips and threw both items of clothing into the washing machine. Clearly glad of his pink rubber gloves, Yassen promptly fished them out (after giving a lump of green slime that might once have been an iceberg lettuce an extremely lethal look) and dropped them into the bin bag. Alex couldn’t really argue with that, either. (The green slime promptly retreated to the depths of the bin bag.)
The cool blue eyes conducted a thorough assessment of the injuries he’d had collected in his usual self-extraction from the operation: numerous cuts and bruises, a long scrape down his left thigh, two deep whip weals across his back that would probably scar, and rope burns on his wrists and ankles.
“We’ll visit a pharmacy, as well. Your first aid kit is lamentably understocked.”
“Any chance of another cuppa?”
“Yes, Alex, I will make you another drink. Now get in the bloody shower before I have to fumigate the house, as well as bleach it.”
Alex grinned. He always counted it as a victory when he drove Yassen to swearing.
He was back on the leader board and intended to stay there.
****
A hot shower, clean clothes and another mug of tea contrived to make him feel vaguely human.
“Breakfast,” Yassen said firmly, propelling him towards the front door.
“Yas, I hate to point this out, but you’re still very high on Interpol’s most wanted list and MI5 aren’t exactly sending you Jacqui Lawson cards on your birthday. There’s also a hell of a lot of CCTV in London.”
“Temporary amnesty,” Yassen said airily and steadfastly refused to elaborate, despite Alex’s best attempts at wheedling.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in café on Fulham Road, having ordered a full English breakfast (with several extras) for Alex and a more moderate scrambled eggs on toast for Yassen. There was something so preposterously normal about the experience that Alex was beginning to wonder if he’d woken up in some sort of alternative reality. But if he had, he’d quite like to stay there. Yassen watched with amused tolerance while he demolished two sausages, three slices of bacon, two slices of black pudding, two fried eggs, a large dollop of baked beans, four hash browns, a portion of mushrooms and two slices of thick white toast positively dripping with butter.
“You are taking two weeks holiday, starting today,” Yassen announced, as Alex’s third mug of tea was set down on the table and his now empty plate was whisked away, probably to stop him embarrassing Yassen by licking it.
“I am?”
“You are. I submitted the holiday request form, backdated by six weeks in accordance with office protocol and your Mr Smithers hacked into Jones’ computer to authorise it. Apparently he has the photographs of her at one of the Downing Street office parties during lockdown, so she is in no position to complain. You are officially on holiday. I have confiscated your work phone and blocked all MI6 related numbers from your personal phone.”
“They’ll turn up in person if they want me,” Alex said gloomily.
Yassen’s smile would have stopped a charging rhino in its tracks. “I think you’ll find they won’t, little Alex.” As an afterthought, he added, “You are also banned from answering the door for the next two weeks and I will be screening incoming calls on your house phone.”
“Thorough, aren’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.” Yassen reached out pushed Alex’s hair behind his ears. “You have an appointment for a haircut in half an hour.” Long fingers trailed over Alex’s cheek and down the heavy stubble that had probably just crossed the line into being a short beard. “This can stay, no?”
Alex quickly caught Yassen’s hand and pressed a light kiss to his knuckles. “Fine by me.” He was still too tired for their usual games (and being looked after for once was actually pretty nice).
The Turkish barber five doors down from the café quickly tamed Alex’s unruly hair and then he was whisked off to the nearest pharmacy where Yassen proceed to fill a basket with what he considered to be the bare essentials for a first aid kit. To a casual observer it might have looked like he was preparing for a minor war (which, knowing Yassen, he probably was). He even managed to obtain more than the usual two packets of paracetamols, but the expertly forged prescription probably had something to do with that.
Alex tried not to squirm with embarrassment when Yassen ostentatiously threw in an assortment of condoms and lubricant, much to the amusement of the pharmacist and her assistant.
Alex dutifully carried the shopping bag and trailed after Yassen like an obedient puppy.
Their next stop was Sainsburys where Yassen’s methodical assault closely resembled that of a column of soldier ants stripping the shelves bare. If an item was healthy, Yassen decided Alex needed it, but he also turned a blind eye when Alex chucked in beefburgers, hot dogs, oven chips, onion rings, frozen peas, pizza and assorted other items of junk food. They argued over Alex’s choice of carbonated drink, but the Coke stayed in the basket. Alex counted that another victory (even though Yassen hadn’t resorted to profanity – yet).
They squabbled amicably down every aisle, much to the amusement of staff and customers. By the time they reached the checkout, Alex was absolutely certain he’d fallen through a rift in the space-time continuum and ended up in a parallel universe, one where the world’s foremost assassin willingly cleaned his kitchen, bleached his fridge, bought him breakfast and went food shopping with him. Before Alex even had time to get out his credit card, Yassen had paid for the mega-shop and arranged delivery for that afternoon. Alex didn’t even know they did deliveries. Mind you, he rarely did more than nip in to buy a frozen pizza, although he did that often enough that he wasn’t entirely surprised when Gina on the till leaned over and whispered how nice his boyfriend was.
Yassen pretended not to hear, but he did favour Gina with one of his genuinely pleasant smiles. Not the one he used when he wanted to make it clear that disagreeing with him would result in a short but extremely painful existence. Alex knew that smile all too well.
“Are we going shopping for cushions next?” Alex enquired, throwing every bit of sarcasm he could muster into the words.
“Yes.”
A firm arm around Alex’s waist steered him into one of those frou-frou shops full of white painted wooden stuff that had been attacked by an electric sander and left half-finished. There were also scented candles that stunk the place out (and gave Alex a sneezing fit), over-priced cards, tasteless ornaments (although the large plastic frog wearing a pair of blue dungarees was bizarrely cute) and cushions. Way too many cushions.
Yassen waved his hand at the ones piled together on an extremely ugly mustard coloured sofa. “Choose whichever ones you want, darling.”
A hot flush mounted Alex’s cheeks and he decided that maybe he didn’t like this alternative universe after all (although the breakfast had been very good).
Yassen nuzzled his ear and murmured, “You are delightfully easy to wind up, little Alex. Now choose four cushions or I’ll choose them for you, starting with that green and yellow spotted monstrosity over there…”
Alex grimaced. “It looks like someone’s eaten too much lettuce and sweetcorn and then thrown it up again.”
Five minutes later, Alex retreated to the pavement lugging a large carrier bag containing five vastly expensive cushions decorated with various animal. He’d gone for a hare, an otter, a badger, a fox and a stag. Based on what MI6 estimated to be Yassen’s usual price for a contract, he decided the bastard could afford the extra one and – shoot him now – they were actually quite nice. Yassen followed him a few moments later with a bag of equal size.
“Throws,” Yassen said. “We can’t act the part of Chelsea’s most stereotypical gay couple without luxurious throws.”
“Yas, I hate to break this to you, but we are not a couple.”
Yassen’s eyes were alight with mischief. “Of course we aren’t. I did say act, didn’t I?”
Trying to ignore the unexpected pang of disappointment and the wave of tiredness that swept inexorably over him, Alex plastered on his brightest smile on the walk home. The food delivery arrived ten minutes after they did, leaving him wondering who the hell Yassen had bribed or threatened to achieve that.
“Go to bed, Alex.” The softly spoken words took him by surprise. “You’re staring at those shopping bags like someone who has just been told to climb the north face of the Eiger after their first attempt at bouldering. I’ll deal with this and bring you some tea.”
For once, Alex felt too tired to argue. “Promise you won’t pour my Coke down the drain or feed the beefburgers to the foxes?”
Yassen looked pained. “I shall certainly do no such thing. I like foxes and, as far as I know, your drains do not need unblocking. Go. To. Bed.”
Alex pulled Yassen into a quick hug. “Thanks, Yas.”
Strong arms slid around his waist and returned the hug. A heartbeat later, warm lips closed over his and Alex lost himself in the delicious sensation of being thoroughly and expertly kissed. The kiss was more tender than passionate and was a world away from their normal quick and dirty adrenaline fuelled shags after (and sometimes during) a mission (usually when they were on opposite sides).
Alex clung to Yassen like a limpet, his mouth opening to a gentle tongue that softly touched his lips asking (not demanding) to be allowed entry. The kiss offered more than Alex had ever expected and the familiar blue eyes held unaccustomed warmth.
When they finally drew apart, Yassen said softly, “If I don’t put the shopping away, your beefburgers will defrost.”
“Then we can have them for tea tonight,” Alex declared, tightening his grip on Yassen’s waist. “Will you kiss me like that again, please?”
Yassen smiled and warmth spread through Alex’s body like the most luxurious hot chocolate imaginable, laced with a large splash of expensive booze. “All you ever had to do was ask, Alex.”
Alex savoured the words before locking them away in a velvet lined box in his mind where he kept nice things. “All you ever had to do was offer, Yas.”
“For two grown adults, our communication skills are somewhat lacking,” Yassen acknowledged. “Both of us wanting the same thing, neither of us able to ask.”
Alex grinned. “Speak for yourself. I just asked, didn’t I? I win at adulting. Anyway you’ve bought me cushions now, so we must be a couple, right? It’s a rule.”
“Yes, Alex, we’re a couple.” And for once, the shutters had gone from Yassen’s eyes leaving them sparkling like sunlight on a warm pool.
In English law, a contract is formed when there is an offer, acceptance of that offer, intention to create legal relations and consideration between the parties.
Alex was pretty damn sure that five cushions, assorted throws and six bags of shopping would count as consideration (and Yassen had been bloody considerate all morning, although that might not be quite the same thing).
He’d always hoped that his time in the classroom at Malagosto studying law would come in useful for something other than negotiating assassination contracts (and arguing over holiday pay and pension benefits with MIfucking6). He’d clearly not wasted his time there.
Then he lost himself in a world of soft lips and warm endearments.
And cushions. Lots of really nice cushions.
The throws weren’t bad, either.