Chapter Text
When Alex rolls over to find a splitting headache sprouting in his head, he curses the last few shots the Tom had all but poured down his throat. He had known they weren’t a good idea, not that Jameson was ever a good idea in Alex’s book.
When he fights the back the rolling nausea in his stomach to crack open his eyes, it’s not his disheveled room he sees. There’s thick metal bars where his door should be, and a thin sleeping pad instead of a bed. At least he’s not ruining his carpet when he suddenly heaves the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor.
After he finishes, his stomach has settled some and the layer of fuzz is slowly lifting from his brain. As much as he would rather be hungover as hell in London, he remembers he’s on a mission in the remote mountains of Peru to investigate a drug operation that has been genuinely dumping laced coke into the greedy hands of English college students. Alex had all but stepped foot into the country when the authorities had picked him up. A mole then, and a bad information leak. Sounds like it should’ve been literally anyone else’s problem besides him.
God, he had only read the file and got off the plane before being so rudely shackled up and dumped in this hellhole. That wasn’t even a fair fight.
He tries to overcome the feelings of self-despair by doing something useful. Feeling along the walls, he finds they are thick cement that would heed any escape attempt but does nothing to cool down the sweltering heat. There is a small window, which is barred similarly to the door and reveals no clues to his surroundings. As far as he can see there is only thick green vegetation. It must be an unofficial prison, either run by the drug ring itself or the corrupted officials that they control.
Frankly, it’s not a pretty picture. Given that he was only supposed to be gathering some intel on the drug operation sites, he has none of Smither’s gadgets on his body, which had saved him so many times before. In his sweat-wicking t-shirt and cargos, he is as vulnerable as he looks for once.
His sulking is interrupted by the sound of boots thudding rhythmically down the hall. Alex cringes at the thought of having to use his slow, accented Spanish. No pretending to be a native now. He was never as witty in foreign languages anyways.
Once he is close, Alex starts “Ah, gracias, amable señor de inteligencia meramente promedio, por….” but the words got stuck in his throat when the face of Yassen Gregorvich appears through the bars. And no, it definitely is NOT because of that tight army green uniform and combat boots combo. He is just surprised, that’s all.
“Not happy to see me?” Yassen asks with a smirk.
“Oh, trust me, I’m delighted to. Even happier to go for a little walk, maybe meander past the prison gates, hand in hand.”
Yassen considers him calmly for a minute, letting the silence stretch on just long enough for Alex to squirm under his unrelenting gaze. “I think what you describe is for good little spies, who don’t get caught like a rabbit in a snare,” he says at last.
Alex all but snarls, jumping to his feet so they were at eye level. Or near eye level, at least, Alex was still only 16 after all. He tries to reach out and grab Yassen, he’s itching for a fight, but Yassen smoothly steps back. In his wake, Alex’s hands swipe through the air. “You ratted me out! How did you know?”
“Oh, little Alex. You really think that M16 would keep the whereabouts of their secret little spy a little more carefully, don’t you? Maybe they wanted you to get caught this time.” Alex growls low in his throat, feeling feral. His anger is hot on his skin, and he’s not sure if it’s directed towards Yassen or Alan Blunt.
In the distance, Alex can hear some sort of commotion. It sounds like there are many, many more guards and prisoners in this complex, despite Alex not being close enough to discern what any of them are saying. He wonders why anyone would’ve thought it necessary to place him of all people in solitary confinement.
“Alex,” Yassen continues more seriously. “You do not have many friends here. It is… in my interest, to keep you here, safe and locked away until I have gathered the intel I need. But if you share my identity with others, I will not protect you. Do you understand?”
Still simmering, Alex only jerks his head in agreement. He may not want to play nice with the assassin who got him stuck in this mess, but he knows an olive branch when he sees one.
As if to reward Alex for playing nice, he removes the canteen of water strapped to his thigh, and offers it towards the younger man. Without hesitating, Alex hand lashes out, latching onto the extended wrist and pulling him towards the bars on instinct.
Yassen has the decency to look impressed, before aiming a precise kick towards Alex’s knee that sends him sprawling. He returns the canteen to the sheath, and Alex immediately feels the dryness in his mouth mournfully while his leg throbs.
“You will learn.”