fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2021-02-10 02:20 pm
fredbassett) wrote2021-02-10 02:20 pm
Entry tags:
Fic, Complicated, Part 8 of 8, Alex/Yassen, 15
Title : Complicated, Part 8 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex/Yassen
Word Count: 24,400
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Against his better judgement, Alex agrees to do a job for MI6. A nice, simple job that doesn’t include power-crazed billionaires. Just righting a wrong that affects tens of thousands of teenagers. What could possibly go wrong? Then things get complicated. They always do where Alex is concerned.
Putting one foot in front of the other was getting increasingly difficult.
Yassen was limping heavily by the time he reached the middle of Albert Bridge, wishing he’d not been too stubborn – and too proud – to take the neoprene knee support with him when he’d left the house. He was already shivering, soaked to the skin, and had been since he’d reached the end of Alex’s quiet, residential road. A cold east wind sent dark clouds scudding across the night sky and raised gooseflesh on his skin as soon as he set foot on the bridge, but that wasn’t the only reason for the cold fist squeezing his heart.
He’d seen this bridge countless times on the surveillance footage held in Scorpia’s archives. The same scene had played out countless more times in his imagination and in the rare times he’d dreamed. He’d believed for many years that MI6 had doubted John Rider’s true loyalties and had simply decided to take no chances. The truth, when he’d finally learned it, had made little difference. Hunter, the only man that Yassen had allowed himself to care about was still dead. Still a double agent. Still the man who’d taught Yassen so much of what he knew, whilst simultaneously trying to turn him away from a life with Scorpia.
Yassen leaned on the painted ironwork of the bridge and stared down at the water. With the state of his ribs and lungs, it would be a quick end, but he’d spent too long staying alive against all the odds to relinquish his hold on life now, simply because he’d lost something – someone – he’d barely even allowed himself to consider getting close to. Attachments were a weakness that anyone in his line of work needed to avoid. Hunter had taught him that.
He stared down at the water and shook his head. Not here, not like this.
He limped on, steadying himself on the bridge, pausing when the need to cough became too great to hold back. The constant dull ache in his ribs turned to sharp spikes of red fire every time a cough burst out of his lungs. Shivering violently, he clutched the rail to prevent his injured knee buckling under him. He wasn’t going to get far like this. He needed shelter and somewhere to rest. He’d had no clear destination in mind when he’d left the house in Chelsea, other than the need to put as much distance between him and Alex Rider as possible. He should have known that the brief interlude of happiness couldn’t last, but he hadn’t expected a simple phone call to bring it all crashing down around them.
His hopes of finding a bus stop soon evaporated. There was nothing in sight along the road.
Yassen cursed the absurd impulse that had taken him to see the site of Hunter’s faked death. He should have checked the transport options first. The walk across Albert Bridge had been a bad decision prompted by sentiment rather than analytical reasoning and sentiment was a dangerous luxury. He needed to get to St Pancras station. From there he could catch the Eurostar to Paris. That’s what he should have done as soon as he’d left the house in Chelsea. That was actually what he should have done as soon as he’d done the job he’d been paid to do, instead of letting himself be pulled into Alex Rider’s seductively dangerous orbit.
Yassen pulled out his phone and summoned an Uber, trying to ignore how badly his hand was shaking.
The cab took 15 minutes to arrive. The driver promptly took one look at him and shook his head, driving off quickly even before Yassen could even get a hand on the door. With that driver likely to come up as the closest to his position, Yassen turned to traditional taxi companies. After the third one had turned him down due to his inability to hold even a brief conversation without coughing, he was forced to admit that he was going to have to get to St Pancras by tube. At least that way he wouldn’t have to actually speak to anyone. The other possibility was to steal a car, but that idea could all too easily backfire badly.
But before he could walk any further, he needed to rest.
The park offered his best chance of finding shelter. According to the website he called up on his phone, there were various structures in the large open space, including a band stand, although that was likely to be too open, too obvious, it was also further than he felt capable of walking without a rest but there were trees that might provide some respite from the teeming rain and he could then start to make his way slowly across the park to the nearest tube station.
Negotiating the low iron fence surrounding the park proved absurdly difficult and drew a disapproving look from a lone dog walker dragging a disconsolate spaniel along the footpath. Yassen kept his face turned away from the man and once in the park, he limped over to the closest patch of dense trees and leaned against a spreading chestnut to catch his breath. He was lightheaded from exertion, too tired to think clearly, but as he sank down onto the damp earth, he knew with sickening certainty that he had vastly overestimated his capabilities.
Covid-19 was proving to be the worst enemy Yassen had ever gone up against.
****
Alex steadily pounded down Albert Bridge Road, hoping to see someone he could stop and ask, but the street was deserted. He reached the junction with Prince of Wales Drive on the south side of the road without seeing a single person.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
Smithers.
“An Uber driver reports refusing a pick-up on Albert Bridge Road at 3.04am. Two taxi firms also refused fares a few minutes later. There may be others, but I suspect Mr Gregorovich was running out of options at that point. The last person I spoke to said she advised him to call an ambulance.”
“Did he?”
“When is life ever that simple, dear boy? And yes, I have checked.”
“What do you think is his best option?”
“Eurostar, if he can get to St Pancras. We are not aware of him having any safe houses in London. During his arrangement with MI6 he preferred low-cost hotels and never used the same one twice.”
As Alex started to run through the available transport option in his mind, Smithers added, “The nearest station to his last known position is Battersea Park and the first train from there is 6.20am. Other than that, there are buses from Battersea Bridge Road. Your Mr Gregorovich has always been a difficult man to predict, Alex. I will keep checking CCTV and monitoring relevant feeds.”
“Thanks, Smithers.”
Alex pushed the anorak hood back and allowed the rain to plaster his hair to his head. He needed to think, not dash around the streets in the vain hope of finding Yassen that way. The contract killer was ill and would have exhausted himself even getting across the bridge. He’d failed to organise transport and in the early hours of the morning there were few people standing around waiting for buses, so someone in Yassen’s condition couldn’t guarantee being allowed to board. His best chance would be to wait for a busier time. And if Yassen intended to rely on public transport, he’d need somewhere to shelter while he waited.
Alex glanced speculatively at the park on his left. Sick and injured, Yassen have been operating mainly on instinct by then. He would do what any sick animal would do; he’d find somewhere to go to ground, even if it was only temporary. Alex abruptly realised he’d be better off checking the park, not the surrounding roads.
He found a gap in the shrubs, vaulted the low fence and started walking quickly, not running. He needed to listen carefully now. The coughing would give Yassen away.
If he was still capable of coughing.
Alex knew Battersea Park like the back of his hand. He’d played there as a child, running first Ian and then Jack ragged around the paths and tracks. He’d climbed trees, spent hours rowing around the boating lake and even got into trouble for swimming out to the islands in the lake a few times until he’d learnt that the best time for a swim was midnight when the park was closed. Ian had turned a blind eye to his nocturnal activities, but Jack had been harder to fool.
The park had been the first place Ian had taken Alex to train his observations skills under the of playing guessing games about the occupations of the various walkers, runners and dog owners. When he got old enough to play out by himself, he’d even taken to following some of the people to their places of work to check the accuracy of his guesses. His surveillance techniques had improved over time, so had his observation skills.
He also practiced his lock-picking skills on the buildings in the park. That hadn’t been something he’d admitted to either Ian or Jack. Speaking of buildings …
Alex started a sweep of the buildings, from the cricket pavilion to the bandstand via the public toilets, then the Pump House Gallery, the boat house, the café and the Peace Pagoda. Even with Smithers’ very effective lock picks, the checks still took longer than he was comfortable with, but at least he didn’t have to go into any of the buildings once he’d got the doors open. The lack of wet footprints told him all he needed to know.
The search was taking too fucking long. If Yassen wasn’t in any of the buildings or sheltering in any of the open structures in the park, then he had to be somewhere in the trees.
The rain had finally started to slacken off and the sky was gradually lightening. Alex could see people on the pavements outside the park, and a couple of runners had also vaulted the gates and were taking shortcuts, despite the park not officially opening for a couple of hours. Smithers hadn’t rung back, which must mean Yassen hadn’t been picked up on CCTV anywhere, which also made the park the most like place to find him, unless he had managed to catch a bus and was already at St Pancras.
Sod it, he’d just have to keep looking.
By 7.30am the park was already busy even though the gates wouldn’t open for another half an hour. He’d always felt that if the council were serious about keeping people out, they’d have higher fences.
Alex knew he was missing something obvious. He had to be. He’d tried the buildings with no success. He’d checked all the shelters. He’d walked through the thickest shrubberies and trees. He hadn’t heard a single bloody cough …
And he was a complete fucking idiot!
He turned and started to sprint back towards the first gate. There was no way Yassen could have gone far in his state. Alex had fallen into the trap of overestimating what the man was capable of. He should have concentrated his search much closer to the fence. There was one tree he’d always played in as a kid. A gnarled, double trunked chestnut with widely spreading branches. He’d once eaten a picnic under it in the rain with Jack.
He jumped the low fence by the path, his running shoes squelching on the wet grass as he pushed through the shrubs to get to the chestnut.
“Yassen!”
Alex dropped to his knees on the wet grass. Yassen was curled up on his side at the base of the tree, silent and unmoving. Beneath the dark stubble on his cheeks, the man’s skin was white and cold. Alex pulled him up, feeling for a pulse, relief flooding through him when he felt a soft beat under his fingertips.
“You fucking idiot!”
Yassen’s eyelashes fluttered on his pale cheeks and a wet cough bubbled up in this throat.
“I’m going to call an ambulance. Hold on …”
“No hospitals …” Yassen rasped.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Alex, no, please … “
Alex cursed fluently in three languages, ending with, “You complete fucking arsehole, I thought I’d lost you!” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Smithers, who answered immediately. “I’ve found him. Can you get a car to Battersea Park? Nearest entrance to the bridge, the one with the car park.”
“I’ll text an ETA, dear boy.”
Alex shrugged off his anorak and unzipped his dry fleece. Hauling the wet sweater over Yassen’s head wasn’t easy, neither was dressing him from the waist up, either, but he managed to get his own dry hoodie and fleece onto the man, with the anorak over the top. He sure as hell wasn’t going to take up a career dressing shop window mannequins. He pulled on Yassen’s wet clothes. Fair exchange, and all that crap.
His phone buzzed with an incoming message. 15 minutes.
It would take him that bloody long to get Yassen to the carpark.
“If I can’t get you upright, I’m calling a fucking ambulance whether you like it or not.”
All that elicited was a grunt.
Alex rolled his eyes. He stood up, braced himself against the tree and hauled Yassen to his feet. The man’s injured knee promptly gave way.
With one arm around Yassen’s waist, he texted: Forget the carpark find us on the road
Alex half-carried, half-dragged Yassen towards the road. Every step was hard won, and the hacking coughs ensured that no one stopped to help, although a woman walking a whippet did offer to call an ambulance. Alex thanked her and said one was on its way.
Three other people muttered about bloody druggies and gave them a wide berth.
As Alex manoeuvred Yassen onto a bench to give them both a moment’s rest, a smartly dressed man stopped and held out a takeaway mug. “Hot chocolate. It might help. He looks frozen.”
Alex smiled gratefully and fumbled in his pocket for some cash.
The man waved the money away. “Don’t worry. Can I help?”
“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” Alex said. “Thanks a lot.” He held the cardboard cup to Yassen’s lips and was relieved when he managed to take a sip.
“Best of luck.” The man smiled and carried on walking. He fished a business card out of his pocket and held it out. “If you change your mind, phone me. I was down on my luck once and someone helped me. Happy to pay that back if you need it.”
Alex took the card. “Thanks. That’s good of you.”
With Alex’s arm around his shoulders, Yassen managed to drink the hot chocolate. By the time he’d finished, Alex could see Smithers waiting for them on the footpath. He waved off an offer of help from the man and managed to get Yassen to the waiting car, a sleek black Merc with a bulletproof screen between the front and back seats. MI6 pool cars had gone up in the world.
Just beside the pedestrian entrance, a man setting up one of London’s numerous tat stalls stepped aside to give them a wide berth as Alex decanted a coughing Yassen into the back seat and pulled a seatbelt over his chest. As Alex stepped back, he saw a small teddy bear knitted in an improbable combination of purple and yellow stripes roll off the stall into a muddy puddle. The stallholder grimaced and kicked the toy into the gutter.
Alex bent down and picked it up. “May I?”
The man shrugged. “Be my guest, mate.”
Alex shoved the bear into Yassen’s hands. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”
Yassen’s white fingers tightened around the toy as his eyes fell shut.
****
“If you die of pneumonia or hypothermia or something in my bath, I’m going to be really fucking annoyed.”
Alex perched on the side of the bath, holding the grubby, damp teddy bear that he’d finally managed to prise out of Yassen’s fingers just before bundling him into the bath.
“Alex …”
“What the fuck were you thinking of?”
“I killed your uncle.”
“Yes, I know.”
Alex pulled the plug up and let some water out so he could run more hot water into the bath. He’d had to deal with his own borderline hypothermia on several occasions and knew he had to bring Yassen’s core temperature back up gradually. He also needed to get plenty of fluid into him.
An hour later, Yassen was dry, warm, rehydrated and in bed with a hot water bottle on his stomach and the ridiculous teddy bear tucked up in the crook of his arm.
“What are you going to call him?”
Yassen looked up at him, confused.
Alex nodded at the knitted bear.
Yassen looked even more confused. “You name toys?”
“You’ve really never had one before, have you?”
“Why would I lie about the ownership of teddy bears?”
“You can throw him away, if you want.” Alex stood up. “Forget it. Get some sleep, and don’t even fucking think of running out on me again, not while you’re in this state.” He was about to turn away then realised Yassen’s hold on the knitted toy had tightened.
“I don’t want to throw it – him – away. I’ll call him Misha.” Yassen’s normally flawless English had taken on more than a hint of his country of origin. He held out his hand. “Alex. I have no idea why you came looking for me but thank you.”
Alex squeezed his hand briefly. “You’re an idiot and I’m probably a bigger one. Now shut up and cuddle Misha.”
Exhaustion, illness and pain had once again stripped Yassen of his carefully cultivated defences, leaving behind lacerated nerves and raw, shredded emotion.
“You said you loved me.” The words were out before Alex could stop them. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for the inevitable deflection, doing his best to force down a sharp sting of disappointment that he couldn’t even begin to explain.
“I did,” Yassen said quietly. He reached out and caught Alex’s hand in his again and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. “And I still do. I always have.”
Alex’s phone made a noise like a quacking duck.
He sat down heavily on the bed, with Yassen still holding his hand.
Jack. Alex’s lips twitched into a smile. Her timing seriously sucked. “Hi Jack.”
“Alex, how’re you doing?”
“I’m … I need to tell you something, Jack.”
“I know. So what’ve you done?”
He tightened his grip on Yassen’s hand. “Promise you won’t be mad at me …?”
“Alexxx …”
Alex sighed. “It’s complicated …”
And he could have sworn that a ridiculous teddy bear called Misha was grinning at him.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex/Yassen
Word Count: 24,400
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Against his better judgement, Alex agrees to do a job for MI6. A nice, simple job that doesn’t include power-crazed billionaires. Just righting a wrong that affects tens of thousands of teenagers. What could possibly go wrong? Then things get complicated. They always do where Alex is concerned.
Putting one foot in front of the other was getting increasingly difficult.
Yassen was limping heavily by the time he reached the middle of Albert Bridge, wishing he’d not been too stubborn – and too proud – to take the neoprene knee support with him when he’d left the house. He was already shivering, soaked to the skin, and had been since he’d reached the end of Alex’s quiet, residential road. A cold east wind sent dark clouds scudding across the night sky and raised gooseflesh on his skin as soon as he set foot on the bridge, but that wasn’t the only reason for the cold fist squeezing his heart.
He’d seen this bridge countless times on the surveillance footage held in Scorpia’s archives. The same scene had played out countless more times in his imagination and in the rare times he’d dreamed. He’d believed for many years that MI6 had doubted John Rider’s true loyalties and had simply decided to take no chances. The truth, when he’d finally learned it, had made little difference. Hunter, the only man that Yassen had allowed himself to care about was still dead. Still a double agent. Still the man who’d taught Yassen so much of what he knew, whilst simultaneously trying to turn him away from a life with Scorpia.
Yassen leaned on the painted ironwork of the bridge and stared down at the water. With the state of his ribs and lungs, it would be a quick end, but he’d spent too long staying alive against all the odds to relinquish his hold on life now, simply because he’d lost something – someone – he’d barely even allowed himself to consider getting close to. Attachments were a weakness that anyone in his line of work needed to avoid. Hunter had taught him that.
He stared down at the water and shook his head. Not here, not like this.
He limped on, steadying himself on the bridge, pausing when the need to cough became too great to hold back. The constant dull ache in his ribs turned to sharp spikes of red fire every time a cough burst out of his lungs. Shivering violently, he clutched the rail to prevent his injured knee buckling under him. He wasn’t going to get far like this. He needed shelter and somewhere to rest. He’d had no clear destination in mind when he’d left the house in Chelsea, other than the need to put as much distance between him and Alex Rider as possible. He should have known that the brief interlude of happiness couldn’t last, but he hadn’t expected a simple phone call to bring it all crashing down around them.
His hopes of finding a bus stop soon evaporated. There was nothing in sight along the road.
Yassen cursed the absurd impulse that had taken him to see the site of Hunter’s faked death. He should have checked the transport options first. The walk across Albert Bridge had been a bad decision prompted by sentiment rather than analytical reasoning and sentiment was a dangerous luxury. He needed to get to St Pancras station. From there he could catch the Eurostar to Paris. That’s what he should have done as soon as he’d left the house in Chelsea. That was actually what he should have done as soon as he’d done the job he’d been paid to do, instead of letting himself be pulled into Alex Rider’s seductively dangerous orbit.
Yassen pulled out his phone and summoned an Uber, trying to ignore how badly his hand was shaking.
The cab took 15 minutes to arrive. The driver promptly took one look at him and shook his head, driving off quickly even before Yassen could even get a hand on the door. With that driver likely to come up as the closest to his position, Yassen turned to traditional taxi companies. After the third one had turned him down due to his inability to hold even a brief conversation without coughing, he was forced to admit that he was going to have to get to St Pancras by tube. At least that way he wouldn’t have to actually speak to anyone. The other possibility was to steal a car, but that idea could all too easily backfire badly.
But before he could walk any further, he needed to rest.
The park offered his best chance of finding shelter. According to the website he called up on his phone, there were various structures in the large open space, including a band stand, although that was likely to be too open, too obvious, it was also further than he felt capable of walking without a rest but there were trees that might provide some respite from the teeming rain and he could then start to make his way slowly across the park to the nearest tube station.
Negotiating the low iron fence surrounding the park proved absurdly difficult and drew a disapproving look from a lone dog walker dragging a disconsolate spaniel along the footpath. Yassen kept his face turned away from the man and once in the park, he limped over to the closest patch of dense trees and leaned against a spreading chestnut to catch his breath. He was lightheaded from exertion, too tired to think clearly, but as he sank down onto the damp earth, he knew with sickening certainty that he had vastly overestimated his capabilities.
Covid-19 was proving to be the worst enemy Yassen had ever gone up against.
****
Alex steadily pounded down Albert Bridge Road, hoping to see someone he could stop and ask, but the street was deserted. He reached the junction with Prince of Wales Drive on the south side of the road without seeing a single person.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
Smithers.
“An Uber driver reports refusing a pick-up on Albert Bridge Road at 3.04am. Two taxi firms also refused fares a few minutes later. There may be others, but I suspect Mr Gregorovich was running out of options at that point. The last person I spoke to said she advised him to call an ambulance.”
“Did he?”
“When is life ever that simple, dear boy? And yes, I have checked.”
“What do you think is his best option?”
“Eurostar, if he can get to St Pancras. We are not aware of him having any safe houses in London. During his arrangement with MI6 he preferred low-cost hotels and never used the same one twice.”
As Alex started to run through the available transport option in his mind, Smithers added, “The nearest station to his last known position is Battersea Park and the first train from there is 6.20am. Other than that, there are buses from Battersea Bridge Road. Your Mr Gregorovich has always been a difficult man to predict, Alex. I will keep checking CCTV and monitoring relevant feeds.”
“Thanks, Smithers.”
Alex pushed the anorak hood back and allowed the rain to plaster his hair to his head. He needed to think, not dash around the streets in the vain hope of finding Yassen that way. The contract killer was ill and would have exhausted himself even getting across the bridge. He’d failed to organise transport and in the early hours of the morning there were few people standing around waiting for buses, so someone in Yassen’s condition couldn’t guarantee being allowed to board. His best chance would be to wait for a busier time. And if Yassen intended to rely on public transport, he’d need somewhere to shelter while he waited.
Alex glanced speculatively at the park on his left. Sick and injured, Yassen have been operating mainly on instinct by then. He would do what any sick animal would do; he’d find somewhere to go to ground, even if it was only temporary. Alex abruptly realised he’d be better off checking the park, not the surrounding roads.
He found a gap in the shrubs, vaulted the low fence and started walking quickly, not running. He needed to listen carefully now. The coughing would give Yassen away.
If he was still capable of coughing.
Alex knew Battersea Park like the back of his hand. He’d played there as a child, running first Ian and then Jack ragged around the paths and tracks. He’d climbed trees, spent hours rowing around the boating lake and even got into trouble for swimming out to the islands in the lake a few times until he’d learnt that the best time for a swim was midnight when the park was closed. Ian had turned a blind eye to his nocturnal activities, but Jack had been harder to fool.
The park had been the first place Ian had taken Alex to train his observations skills under the of playing guessing games about the occupations of the various walkers, runners and dog owners. When he got old enough to play out by himself, he’d even taken to following some of the people to their places of work to check the accuracy of his guesses. His surveillance techniques had improved over time, so had his observation skills.
He also practiced his lock-picking skills on the buildings in the park. That hadn’t been something he’d admitted to either Ian or Jack. Speaking of buildings …
Alex started a sweep of the buildings, from the cricket pavilion to the bandstand via the public toilets, then the Pump House Gallery, the boat house, the café and the Peace Pagoda. Even with Smithers’ very effective lock picks, the checks still took longer than he was comfortable with, but at least he didn’t have to go into any of the buildings once he’d got the doors open. The lack of wet footprints told him all he needed to know.
The search was taking too fucking long. If Yassen wasn’t in any of the buildings or sheltering in any of the open structures in the park, then he had to be somewhere in the trees.
The rain had finally started to slacken off and the sky was gradually lightening. Alex could see people on the pavements outside the park, and a couple of runners had also vaulted the gates and were taking shortcuts, despite the park not officially opening for a couple of hours. Smithers hadn’t rung back, which must mean Yassen hadn’t been picked up on CCTV anywhere, which also made the park the most like place to find him, unless he had managed to catch a bus and was already at St Pancras.
Sod it, he’d just have to keep looking.
By 7.30am the park was already busy even though the gates wouldn’t open for another half an hour. He’d always felt that if the council were serious about keeping people out, they’d have higher fences.
Alex knew he was missing something obvious. He had to be. He’d tried the buildings with no success. He’d checked all the shelters. He’d walked through the thickest shrubberies and trees. He hadn’t heard a single bloody cough …
And he was a complete fucking idiot!
He turned and started to sprint back towards the first gate. There was no way Yassen could have gone far in his state. Alex had fallen into the trap of overestimating what the man was capable of. He should have concentrated his search much closer to the fence. There was one tree he’d always played in as a kid. A gnarled, double trunked chestnut with widely spreading branches. He’d once eaten a picnic under it in the rain with Jack.
He jumped the low fence by the path, his running shoes squelching on the wet grass as he pushed through the shrubs to get to the chestnut.
“Yassen!”
Alex dropped to his knees on the wet grass. Yassen was curled up on his side at the base of the tree, silent and unmoving. Beneath the dark stubble on his cheeks, the man’s skin was white and cold. Alex pulled him up, feeling for a pulse, relief flooding through him when he felt a soft beat under his fingertips.
“You fucking idiot!”
Yassen’s eyelashes fluttered on his pale cheeks and a wet cough bubbled up in this throat.
“I’m going to call an ambulance. Hold on …”
“No hospitals …” Yassen rasped.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Alex, no, please … “
Alex cursed fluently in three languages, ending with, “You complete fucking arsehole, I thought I’d lost you!” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Smithers, who answered immediately. “I’ve found him. Can you get a car to Battersea Park? Nearest entrance to the bridge, the one with the car park.”
“I’ll text an ETA, dear boy.”
Alex shrugged off his anorak and unzipped his dry fleece. Hauling the wet sweater over Yassen’s head wasn’t easy, neither was dressing him from the waist up, either, but he managed to get his own dry hoodie and fleece onto the man, with the anorak over the top. He sure as hell wasn’t going to take up a career dressing shop window mannequins. He pulled on Yassen’s wet clothes. Fair exchange, and all that crap.
His phone buzzed with an incoming message. 15 minutes.
It would take him that bloody long to get Yassen to the carpark.
“If I can’t get you upright, I’m calling a fucking ambulance whether you like it or not.”
All that elicited was a grunt.
Alex rolled his eyes. He stood up, braced himself against the tree and hauled Yassen to his feet. The man’s injured knee promptly gave way.
With one arm around Yassen’s waist, he texted: Forget the carpark find us on the road
Alex half-carried, half-dragged Yassen towards the road. Every step was hard won, and the hacking coughs ensured that no one stopped to help, although a woman walking a whippet did offer to call an ambulance. Alex thanked her and said one was on its way.
Three other people muttered about bloody druggies and gave them a wide berth.
As Alex manoeuvred Yassen onto a bench to give them both a moment’s rest, a smartly dressed man stopped and held out a takeaway mug. “Hot chocolate. It might help. He looks frozen.”
Alex smiled gratefully and fumbled in his pocket for some cash.
The man waved the money away. “Don’t worry. Can I help?”
“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” Alex said. “Thanks a lot.” He held the cardboard cup to Yassen’s lips and was relieved when he managed to take a sip.
“Best of luck.” The man smiled and carried on walking. He fished a business card out of his pocket and held it out. “If you change your mind, phone me. I was down on my luck once and someone helped me. Happy to pay that back if you need it.”
Alex took the card. “Thanks. That’s good of you.”
With Alex’s arm around his shoulders, Yassen managed to drink the hot chocolate. By the time he’d finished, Alex could see Smithers waiting for them on the footpath. He waved off an offer of help from the man and managed to get Yassen to the waiting car, a sleek black Merc with a bulletproof screen between the front and back seats. MI6 pool cars had gone up in the world.
Just beside the pedestrian entrance, a man setting up one of London’s numerous tat stalls stepped aside to give them a wide berth as Alex decanted a coughing Yassen into the back seat and pulled a seatbelt over his chest. As Alex stepped back, he saw a small teddy bear knitted in an improbable combination of purple and yellow stripes roll off the stall into a muddy puddle. The stallholder grimaced and kicked the toy into the gutter.
Alex bent down and picked it up. “May I?”
The man shrugged. “Be my guest, mate.”
Alex shoved the bear into Yassen’s hands. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”
Yassen’s white fingers tightened around the toy as his eyes fell shut.
****
“If you die of pneumonia or hypothermia or something in my bath, I’m going to be really fucking annoyed.”
Alex perched on the side of the bath, holding the grubby, damp teddy bear that he’d finally managed to prise out of Yassen’s fingers just before bundling him into the bath.
“Alex …”
“What the fuck were you thinking of?”
“I killed your uncle.”
“Yes, I know.”
Alex pulled the plug up and let some water out so he could run more hot water into the bath. He’d had to deal with his own borderline hypothermia on several occasions and knew he had to bring Yassen’s core temperature back up gradually. He also needed to get plenty of fluid into him.
An hour later, Yassen was dry, warm, rehydrated and in bed with a hot water bottle on his stomach and the ridiculous teddy bear tucked up in the crook of his arm.
“What are you going to call him?”
Yassen looked up at him, confused.
Alex nodded at the knitted bear.
Yassen looked even more confused. “You name toys?”
“You’ve really never had one before, have you?”
“Why would I lie about the ownership of teddy bears?”
“You can throw him away, if you want.” Alex stood up. “Forget it. Get some sleep, and don’t even fucking think of running out on me again, not while you’re in this state.” He was about to turn away then realised Yassen’s hold on the knitted toy had tightened.
“I don’t want to throw it – him – away. I’ll call him Misha.” Yassen’s normally flawless English had taken on more than a hint of his country of origin. He held out his hand. “Alex. I have no idea why you came looking for me but thank you.”
Alex squeezed his hand briefly. “You’re an idiot and I’m probably a bigger one. Now shut up and cuddle Misha.”
Exhaustion, illness and pain had once again stripped Yassen of his carefully cultivated defences, leaving behind lacerated nerves and raw, shredded emotion.
“You said you loved me.” The words were out before Alex could stop them. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for the inevitable deflection, doing his best to force down a sharp sting of disappointment that he couldn’t even begin to explain.
“I did,” Yassen said quietly. He reached out and caught Alex’s hand in his again and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. “And I still do. I always have.”
Alex’s phone made a noise like a quacking duck.
He sat down heavily on the bed, with Yassen still holding his hand.
Jack. Alex’s lips twitched into a smile. Her timing seriously sucked. “Hi Jack.”
“Alex, how’re you doing?”
“I’m … I need to tell you something, Jack.”
“I know. So what’ve you done?”
He tightened his grip on Yassen’s hand. “Promise you won’t be mad at me …?”
“Alexxx …”
Alex sighed. “It’s complicated …”
And he could have sworn that a ridiculous teddy bear called Misha was grinning at him.