Work Text:
Alex can’t see Hyde Park from Ian’s house, but he can certainly smell it.
He thinks, perhaps, the past few years have made him a bit morose. From his perch on the roof, the not-so-distant sounds of boosted bass speakers and endless cheers are easy to hear, the clouds of smoke rising from the green impossible to miss. He doesn’t join them. He’s made his home in splintered solitude—he raises a toast to their good times from afar.
The breeze, strong enough to carry acrid clouds of burnt flower, douses the flame of his lighter. A cheap thing, it doesn’t stand a chance against the elements. He grunts his frustration, failing to even singe the pipe.
“Need a light?” comes a voice from behind him, unmistakable, unasked for.
“What is with you and rooftops?”
Yassen stops next to him, not bothering to mask his contempt. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing up here?”
“Having tea. The Queen was just here, you must’ve passed her on your way up.”
“Mm. Well, I doubt she was also climbing the drain pipes.”
Huffing a laugh, Alex turns to face him. “She does seem more of a stairs person.”
It’s been…what, two years since he’s seen the assassin? Long enough that any other man might have changed; Yassen is, as always, untouched by time.
“You look terrible,” Yassen tells him. Hurtful. Unfortunately, still true.
“Charming.” Pivoting back towards the skyline, Alex watches trails of skunky smog waft up from Hyde Park, dancing in the death knell of the day. He sighs. See? Morose. “Listen, this has been lovely, but—” From the dusk, a single flame. Yassen’s face flickers in its shadows. “Um. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t,” Alex says, angling to sear the edge of his bowl. No one would believe him anyway. He puts his finger over the carb and breathes in—panic and pain and putrid nightmares of memories—chest fluttering, he holds his breath.
“You don’t strike me as a drug user.”
His breath puffs out on a giggle. “‘A drug user,’ what are you, a cop? Or, I dunno, like. Ninety?”
Yassen shrugs. “I am…concerned.”
“What a wonderful high you’re making this,” Alex mutters. “Have you been watching me?”
“Yes.”
“Scale of one to ten, how pathetic am I?”
Snapping the cap of his zippo closed, Yassen hands it over. “A solid five.”
J.R. is engraved on the metal; Alex smiles, folding it in his palm. Not so lonely after all.