Work Text:
Yassen Gregorovich preferred to avoid the UK wherever possible. Going off grid in the the wretched county was not easy. The country was covered by an absurd amount of surveillance of one type or another. Anyone would think its inhabitants – or rather their lords and masters – were paranoid. Although, as the instructors at Malagosto had been fond of pointing out, it wasn’t paranoia when people really were out to get you, and the UK had made very few friends on the international stage in recent years.
In addition to cameras, cameras everywhere, MI6 – or rather one particular operative – had an unfortunate habit of interfering with even his best laid plans and he had no wish to cede victory to the little shit in the game they’d been playing for more years than Yassen now cared to remember. Even if that same little shit was now his sort-of boyfriend, occasional bedmate, and self-confessed (by which he meant self-confessed by the self-same little shit) soulmate. Not that Yassen believed in soulmates. But what he did believe in was Alex Rider’s ability to wreak havoc in his life usually accompanied by absurd puns and an exploding earring, or something similarly destructive.
The ground rules of their cat and mouse interplay had been established early on. Yassen was prepared to put Alex in peril, but not to kill or seriously injure him. He extended those rules to his employers, whether they liked it or not. Often to their cost – and sometimes his own. The scar on his chest bore witness to that. The identical scar on Alex’s chest bore witness to his ability to irritate dangerous people who bore grudges.
When Yassen had recovered from the injury he’d sustained on Airforce One and extricated himself from MI6’s outrageously substandard accommodation on Gibraltar, the first thing he did was leave a scathing review of MI6’s hospitality on TripAdvisor and then set up several bots to keep posting a variation of the same review in 15 different languages from a wide range of hacked accounts on a daily basis for 28 days. By day four, someone – probably Smithers – had taken to replying on behalf of the host, thanking him for his constructive review and offering him a further stay, free of change, for an unlimited time. Smithers also denied that there had been cockroaches in the gruel. A denial that Yassen strenuously challenged. He then proceeded to leave similar reviews for as many of MI6’s safe houses as he’d been able to identify. The second thing, he did – and that took slightly more effort – was to ensure SCORPIA did not arise like a morally bankrupt phoenix from the ashes.
While he was occupied with them, to his amusement all MI6 had been able to retaliate with in what Yassen thought of as the Accommodation Offensive was a highly irritated review on a rented flat in a three-story building about to be demolished in Barcelona. Unfortunately for the veracity of their review, Yassen had – quite literally – burned that temporary safe house the previous week. The flat had possessed all the charm of an outdoor privy with breezeblock walls, leaky tin roof, equally leaky pipes and rotting floorboards. He’d done the owner a favour by blowing it up. At least that way the owner had been able to claim on the insurance. As the other tenants had long-since moved out, no one was injured, apart from MI6’s pride when TripAdvisor banned them for leaving fake reviews.
Yassen liked to remain unpredictable so far as his safe houses were concerned. The one he was on his way to now was a three-hundred-year-old gatehouse by the side of the A697 in Northumberland, an hour north of Newcastle International Airport. Yassen wasn’t sure if that proximity was enough to enable an estate agent to describe the property as ‘close to all amenities and transport links’, but it certainly qualified from his perspective. Good road and air links were important. As were the extensive and extremely discreet security systems he’d installed.
The same extensive and extremely discreet security systems that had fallen victim to one Alex Rider two hours ago in an impressive 14 minutes and eight seconds. Yassen knew he only had himself to blame for that. In a moment of unaccustomed weakness, he’d sent Alex a heavily encrypted set of map coordinates during a four hour lay over in Dubai, accompanied by the message: Your turn to cook dinner.
By the time he’d reached Amsterdam, a smiling emoji was enough for him to know he didn’t have to stop to buy food when he reached the UK. From Yassen’s point of view, that was fortunate. He was bone weary from a three-month contract running security for a paranoid politician in Peru, and the alliteration had been the only entertaining part of a job that had contrived to be both unpleasantly stressful as well as also being mind-numbingly boring, despite the frequent bursts of adrenaline. He’d been hired to ensure both the man and his family survived a hotly fought election. He’d had to deal with four assassination attempts, three botched kidnappings, two successful ones and a fucking machine-gun toting partridge in a booby-trapped pear tree. The bonus he’d received for retrieving the man’s excessively obstinate wife and his wholly objectionable daughter had failed to make up for two weeks with almost no sleep and a running battle against a remarkably persistent drug cartel. On balance, he’d decided the boredom had been preferable.
Yassen was fast reaching the conclusion that there were easier ways to earn a dishonest living. He was now actively considering retirement from field jobs. At 44, he was positively geriatric in the world of killers for hire and sooner or later, no matter how much he kept in condition, he was going to lose his number one status. He already had more money that he could possibly spend in a lifetime – unless he developed a penchant for private jets and purchasing football clubs – so had little need to continue in a demanding job.
To Yassen’s irritation – and amusement – Alex had disabled the camera feeds from the property, preventing him from checking on his visitor from his phone, leaving him with two choices: park some distance away and then spend time watching the property to ensure that it really was Alex Rider who had circumvented his defences with consummate ease or walk straight in through the door and take his chances.
Out of habit more than anything else, Yassen had visited one of his weapons’ caches near the airport and was now armed with a Glock 17 and enough ammunition to make any uninvited visitors see the error of their way. He was also carrying several knives and assorted other items of lethal weaponry.
As Alex would no doubt say, it was all a bit of a no brainer.
Yassen continued on the A697 through the small market town of Wooler, its grey stone buildings softened by the yellow glow of the streetlamps, past the Tankerville Arms, and up the long sweep of road that lay in the shadow of the Northumberland’s Cheviot Hills.
Choice made, Yassen flicked on his indicator, despite the lack of other traffic on the road, and pulled in through the open five-barred gate onto a gravel driveway in front of the squat gatehouse he’d purchased almost ten years ago as a bolthole in England that gave him good links to the continent, if needed.
Warm yellow light spilled out of the narrow windows into a darkness untouched by any streetlamps and with none of England’s ever-present light pollution.
Akeld Lodge, the only surviving gatehouse to a long-gone manor house, had held few modern conveniences when Yassen had taken it on. It had been one of his first safe houses, in a location so improbable that he’d been right in thinking it would never come to the notice of the security services. Here he was simply someone who did a boring job in Birmingham and used the cottage as an occasional bolthole when he needed a break, enjoying the DIY project it had posed.
When he’d bought the lodge, it had neither mains water nor electricity, relying instead on a private water supply from a nearby farm, with bottled gas for lighting and cooking. A woodburning stove gave out all the heat the building needed, as its thick stone walls provided excellent insulation. He’d rebuilt a small, dilapidated kitchen extension at the back and fitted a new bathroom. He’d eventually had electricity and mains water connected, but had kept the gas lighting, enjoying the soft, warm glow on the occasional winter evenings he was able to spend there. The last thing to be installed was broadband and, out of habit more than anything, Yassen had equipped the lodge with a state-of-the-art security system.
Feeling some of the bone deep exhaustion start to slip away, Yassen walked calmly up to the side door, pushed it open and called, “Hi, honey, I’m home!”
A splutter of amused laughter from the kitchen told him all he needed to know. “You’re late! Dinner’s in the cat.”
“No I’m not, and we haven’t got a cat.”
“We could get one…”
“We are not getting a cat. You’re too irresponsible and I’m too murdery.”
Alex stepped away from the stove and enveloped him in a hug. “You wouldn’t murder an ickle kitty cat, would you?”
“Most certainly not. I rarely get irritated by animals. Apart from that cockapoo near the Coliseum that kept trying to shag my left leg.”
“Be fair, you were mainly annoyed by anything being called a cockapoo.” Alex lightly kissed the tip of his nose. “Yas, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really look like shit. Can I get you a gin?”
Yassen smiled and rested his forehead against Alex’s for a moment. “Tact has never been your middle name. And yes, I know it’s part of your charm. Or so you keep insisting. No, I haven’t taken it the wrong way and yes, I would very much like a gin.”
“One of my famous gins coming up. Supper will take about ten minutes to finish off whenever you’re ready.”
“Domesticity has rarely been more appealing.”
Alex’s arms tightened around him and Yassen allowed himself to relax into the embrace, knowing that Alex would be wholly unbothered by the various items of concealed weaponry that he could no doubt feel. A rare luxury in a bed partner. Equally rare was the opportunity to relax in the company of someone capable of circumventing his security systems with quite such ease. He wondered what gadgets had aided Alex’s breaking and entering. Security had become something of a game between him and the young Irishman who insisted on wearing the ridiculous fat suit. Yassen was still slightly ahead on points, but that might have changed …
“Smithers sends his regards, by the way.”
“Congratulations. Your telepathy practice is clearly paying off.”
“You can’t hide things from your soulmate. Smithers said to tell you that if it took me less than 15 minutes from getting to the grid square you gave me to full deactivation and entry, then it’s now a score draw.”
“Remind Smithers that I can still put a bullet through his eye at 2,000 metres, despite whatever protection he has built into his absurd workwear.”
“He said to tell you that threat got old years ago.”
Yassen rolled his eyes. “I’m clearly getting predictable in my senility. Tell him I’ll think up a more creative promise. Perhaps I’ll take up keeping tropical fish. I’m told it’s a relaxing hobby. There are some decorative piranhas to be had…”
“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you? I can tell.” Alex smiled smugly. “The tip of your nose twitches ever so slightly when you’re sarky.”
“It most certainly does not. I do not have physical tells.”
Alex nuzzled his nose. “It’s a very cute twitchy nose. Makes you look like a gerbil that we had at school. Mr Snookums had a very wibbly-wobbly nose. Tom used to say it was because Miss Piggy farted a lot.”
“You had school gerbils called Mr Snookums and Miss Piggy?” There were aspects of the English school system that Yassen still found hard to fathom.
“No, the other gerbil was called Colin Fluffy Arse. Miss Piggy taught maths and English. I’ve told you about her before.”
Alex’s absurd reminiscences chased away some of the bone deep weariness that had settled on him during the interminable journey halfway around the globe. Yassen quickly unpacked his small carry-on case and found a soft pair of black fleece trousers and a long sleeved black teeshirt, laying them out in the bed for later, noting with a smile that Alex hadn’t yet moved any of his own things into the bedroom.
“I’m not going to make you sleep in the spare room,” he commented, as Alex handed him a drink.
“I didn’t like to presume.”
Yassen didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement.
Alex promptly grabbed his rucksack and started making himself at home in the bedroom while Yassen stripped off his weapons, then his clothes and declared himself to be unavailable to anyone wanting to hire him for any purpose whatsoever.
The hot water in the shower cascading over his body started to drive out some of the weariness and Alex’s industrial strength gin and tonic – Tanqueray Seville with ice and a slice of blood orange – saw off the last of his lingering irritation with his former employer and the man’s thoroughly undeserving family.
A pair of slippers warming by the fire brought another smile to his face. Alex was clearly aiming for maximum domesticity. Yassen pulled on his clothes and settled down on the sofa, gin in hand.
Alex slid onto the soft cushions next to him and held out a plate of small roasted green bell peppers filled with goat’s cheese and drizzled with honey. “Hard day at the office, sweetheart?” he asked solicitously.
Yassen ate one of the peppers. It was delicious. “The commuting can be somewhat tiring, my darling, but I’m all the better for seeing you.”
Alex fluttered his eyelashes, trying – and failing – to look both demure and flattered.
“Are we role-playing a 1950s magazine piece on how to look after your husband?”
“Bugger, busted.” Alex grinned, and the demure look fell away, replaced by the usual intoxicating blend of mischief and amusement.
Yassen settled himself comfortably against the cushions. Alex’s stuffed peppers really were excellent. As was the second gin that appeared at his elbow, unasked for.
Half an hour later, Ales dished up an excellent shepherd’s pie with a crisp green salad and a tangy balsamic vinegar dressing.
“You’re not going to knit me a 1950s string vest as well, are you?” Yassen said, when Alex whisked his plate away and refused any help with the washing up.
Alex pouted. “Hush, darling, I was keeping that secret for Christmas. I’m actually crocheting you a bathing costume at the moment. One with legs that come down to your thighs and a cute little vest top.”
“For a bracing swim off the beach at Bamburgh tomorrow?”
The Little Wives act vanished again. “Can we really go for a swim?”
“You can if you like,” Yassen said, heavily emphasising the word you.
“You’re from Russia, you should be used to cold water.”
“I’m from Russia. I know when to avoid cold water.”
Alex nestled down on the sofa next to him and pulled a fleece blanket over their legs. The evening passed mostly in companionable silence, with Alex reading a guidebook to Northumberland and Yassen content just to watch the red lick of flames in the stove and enjoy the warmth of the lithe young man cured up next to him. Alex gradually shifted position until he was lying with his head in Yassen’s lap, reading out occasional extracts from the guidebook and making small, disappointed noises in his throat like a grumpy cat whenever Yassen stopped stroking his hair.
“Will you start scratching the furniture if I stop petting you, brat?”
Large, long-lashed brown eyes stared up at him. “I think you definitely want a cat …”
“I think I’ve already got one. You shed hair, demand attention, and refuse to take pills when you need them.”
“I don’t scratch the furniture or hawk up furballs.”
“Not yet, but I never put anything past you.”
Alex tugged Yassen’s teeshirt up and nuzzled the trail of hair that led from his navel to his groin, doing a very credible job of purring in a distinctly feline manner.
Yassen took the hint and resumed the stroking and petting. All evening, he’d found himself relaxing as he rarely did in anyone else’s company. A rare luxury and one he prized.
Alex was equally tactile in bed, pulling Yassen gently into a hug but keeping his touches and kisses light and comforting rather than overtly sexual, making it clear without words that he knew Yassen was tired and that he wasn’t angling for anything more than a cuddle.
With Alex, he no longer felt the need to maintain his ice-cold exterior. Alex had seen him at his worst and had never rejected him. The years with MI6 had stripped the young man of any naivety and despite clinging to some occasionally inconvenient morals, Alex had developed into an excellent field operative: inventive, tough and very, very determined. He was proficient in several styles of unarmed combat and, as Yassen had discovered during their occasional sparring sessions, his slender body was whip-cord strong and he was as fast and deadly as a pit viper when the occasion demanded. Long practice with a variety of weapons had honed to perfection the skills he’d first learned in Malagosto. Yassen had seen him in combat often enough to judge and had come away from each action admiring the fluid, lethal dance of death that Alex was capable of weaving around his opponents.
Yassen thought of him as an equal in all the ways that mattered.
“You’re thinking murdery thoughts” Alex murmured, his breath warm on Yassen’s neck.
“Guilty as charged. Does it bother you?”
In the pitch dark of the bedroom, Yassen felt, rather than saw, Alex’s rueful smile. “Not any more. I know how hard it is to wind down after a job. I got another black mark for excessive destruction on my last op.”
Yassen combed his fingers through Alex’s tousled hair again. “It was a wholly proportionate response but you could probably have accomplished the same end for less financial outlay. Slightly better placement of the shaped charges in that monstrously ostentatious home cinema would have helped. I refused that job for the Belgian secret service on the grounds that the décor would have given me a migraine.”
“They were also paying peanuts, so I heard on the grapevine. I imagine that was another reason for turning them down.” Alex snuggled up to him like an overgrown kitten. “I nicked the explosives from the bastard’s own store, so I didn’t give a toss how much I used.”
Yassen’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Ever the opportunist, little one. I might have known your employers wouldn’t have equipped you with that much of anything that might be useful.”
Alex trailed feather-light kisses along Yassen’s jaw. “Go to sleep, darling. No more shop talk. You’ve had a tiring day in the office.”
“I’ve had a tiring three months in the bloody office,” Yassen murmured, turning Alex’s face to him and kissing him softly on the lips. “Good night, Alex.”
The kiss Alex gave him in response held a world of promise, and Yassen allowed the soft lips to claim him.
“Good night, Yas.”
****
The wind whipped Alex’s hair back from his face as he quickly shed his clothes onto the rippled damp sand of Bamburgh beach.
“Are you really going to do this?” Yassen said, already knowing the answer, but feeling the need to go through the motions, just so he could say ‘I told you so’ if Alex ended up with hypothermia or more something prosaic but equally incapacitating, such as the common cold.
Alex took a quick look up and down the beach, making sure it was still empty, and pushed his underwear down over his slim hips, revealing a smoothly muscled body, with wide shoulders, a slender waist and long legs. He’d grown out of the awkward, coltish stage by the time he was 17 and was now sporting the body of a natural athlete, with the perfect poise and balance of someone who’d spent a long time in his teens practising parkour.
The beach was deserted, with the early morning dog-walkers having come and gone and the lunchtime shift yet to arrive, rendering it unlikely that Alex would have to talk his way out of a charge of outraging public decency.
Alex sprinted across the sand until he was up to his waist in the choppy grey-brown water then launched himself into a shallow dive, coming up spluttering and laughing before striking out to sea in a fast front crawl.
Yassen watched as he turned and tumbled exuberantly in the waves, bobbing like a seal, and as equally at home in the water. After ten minutes, Alex turned and made his way back to shore, taking in the dramatic view of the castle on the skyline as he swam back using a leisurely breaststroke. He emerged from the water as sleek as an otter then proceeded to shake himself like a dog, flicking his hair from side to side and showering water drops everywhere.
The wind whipped across the beach, sending spray flying up from the white topped waves. Alex shivered and grabbed his sweatshirt to scrub the water from his body and his hair before pulling on the rest of the clothes as quickly as he could. Yassen watched, amused, as he teetered unsteadily on first one foot then the other, trying to pull socks onto uncooperative feet followed by shoes that appeared to have taken on a life of their own. With one hand on Yassen’s shoulder, he eventually succeeded without falling flat on his arse.
Alex held up the wet sweatshirt, a rueful expression on his face. “I didn’t entirely think this through, did I?”
Yassen didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “No, little Alex. You didn’t think this through.”
Alex grimaced and shivered theatrically, looking like a wet puppy.
“Are you cold, Alex?” Yassen enquired solicitously, trying not to stare at the pebbled nipples.
“Just a tad…” Alex looked at him hopefully. The puppy was now begging for a biscuit.
“Then you should have remembered to bring a towel.”
“Harsh.”
Yassen ostentatiously raised his eyes to the cloudless blue sky before pulling his elderly but extremely warm cashmere sweater over his head and handing it to Alex, who promptly dived into it and emerged looking considerably more cheerful, before he took in Yassen’s thin shirt and had the grace to look guilty.
“Sorry, you’ll get cold now.” He held the sweatshirt up in the breeze. “This’ll soon dry out.”
“Unlikely, but don’t let it worry you. While I’m waiting for you to crochet me a string vest and a suitably demure bathing costume, I remembered to wear the thermal ski vest I keep at the cottage for winter walking. As your military friends like to say. prior planning…”
“…and preparation prevents piss poor performance. Yeah, they drilled that one into me in the Brecon bloody Beacons. I’ll remember a towel tomorrow. Now can we have an ice cream? It’s not a day out at the seaside if you don’t have an ice cream.”
“Is that before or after we have fish and chips in Seahouses and you attempt to bankrupt me on the arcade games?”
Yassen promptly found himself in possession of an excited and still somewhat damp boyfriend.
“Soulmates!” Alex declared. “And don’t deny it!”
Yassen lost himself in the sunlight sparkling in Alex’s eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”