![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Friends or Enemies
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Ian Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : When Ian gets an unexpected visitor at his home in Chelsea, he’s injured and too tired to play games, but his visitor has never believed in playing by any rules.
Ian Rider opened the door of his Chelsea home and limped into the dark hall, reaching for the light switch …
Before his fingers made contact with it, light abruptly burst around him to reveal a slim figure lounging against the wall, looking entirely at ease, hand resting on the switch by the kitchen door.
The lack of visible weaponry on his uninvited visitor came as no particular surprise. Yassen Gregorovich was almost certainly the most lethal man Ian had ever had the misfortune to go up against, armed or unarmed, but at a quick guess the relaxed posture and casual clothing quite probably hid several knives, at least two handguns and a garrotte wire.
“Yas.”
“Ian.”
“What brings you here?”
“London hotel prices?”
“At half a million a job, I imagine you can afford any hotel you want.”
“Half a million?” Yassen looked affronted. “I’d be selling myself short at that. Even your tight-fisted employers have been known to go higher for something they really want.”
Ian toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. “I’m too tired for games, Yas. If you’re here to kill me, just get on with it.”
The contract killer held up his hands, palms outward. “Would I kill you?” A slight smile curved his lips. “No, don’t answer that. Let’s play like nice puppies instead. I was in London, I thought you might like some company as Alex is on summer camp and your housekeeper has gone to stay with her parents for three weeks. I heard your last job became somewhat problematic.”
Ian snorted humourlessly. “That’s one way of putting it. If you want to play like a nice puppy, put the kettle on. The milk’s probably off by now, but coffee or tea without will be fine.”
“I bought some milk and I’ve put in an order for food for tonight. If you don’t turn me in to your employers, it’ll be delivered in an hour.”
“What part of ‘I’m too tired for games’ didn’t you get?”
“I saved your life in Prague. I pulled your sorry arse out of that clusterfuck in Helsinki and I put a bullet through the head of a sniper in the docklands this afternoon, thereby preventing your numerous life insurance policies maturing early.”
Ian failed to slam his poker face on quickly enough and the words, “What sniper?” were out before he could stop himself.
Yassen’s smile widened and amusement sparkled in his vivid blue eyes. “You failed to notice the glint of sunshine off the idiot’s aviator shades. His death is being widely reported in the press as a gangland incident.”
“What the fuck were you doing in the docklands?”
“Making sure you stayed alive. Your employers don’t seem to give a flying fuck for your welfare. You are exhausted, injured and badly in need of some decent food and a week’s rest. And the bullet wound in your thigh needs medical attention and you need a long, therapeutic massage on your left shoulder. You dislocated it three days ago and put it back yourself. Commendable, but it needs work.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“No.”
Ian gave up. He badly needed a shower and a drink. “Christ, you can be annoying when you put your mind to it. Stop winding me up and put the fucking kettle on.”
He limped up the stairs and discarded his clothes on the bedroom floor. The graze on his thigh courtesy of a 9mm bullet delivered – fortunately with commendable inaccuracy – by the bodyguard of a Russian oligarch that MI6 were keeping under close surveillance, was red and inflamed, with some puss forming at one end.
The hot water in the shower stung like his thigh had encountered a swarm of angry wasps, but Ian didn’t care. A shower was his way of switching off and leaving his work behind. He scrubbed the sweat and grime from his body, quickly washed his hair then switched the smaller shower head on and directed the thin jets at his thigh. His breath hissed through his teeth as pain lanced through his leg, but at least it washed away the yellow pus.
As he stepped out and reached for the towel, realising that someone – Yassen – had turned on the heated rail.
“Tea,” his visitor announced, standing in the doorway, a mug in each hand.
Ian didn’t even bother to wonder how Yassen knew which was his favourite mug. He took the tea with a nod of thanks, not bothering to cover his naked body.
Yassen’s appraising glance took in the yellowing bruises liberally splattered over his torso and stomach like a bad Picasso imitator in a yellow phase and the cigarette burns on his upper arms. His back wasn’t much better.
“You let someone get too close,” the assassin commented.
Ian sniffed the tea. The heady smell of whisky was extremely welcome. “Yes. I was busy trying to maintain my cover and not kill too many people.”
“Did it work?”
“Not as well as I’d hoped.”
Yassen put his own tea down on the edge of the bath. “Antiseptic spray and a wound dressing?”
“Top cupboard.”
While Ian sat in the bathroom chair and towelled his wet hair, Yassen quickly and efficiently cleaned and dressed the wound then stepped back to survey his handiwork. “Check it tomorrow. If it’s still red, take antibiotics.”
“Where did you get your EMT training from?”
“Dr Three at Malagosto.” At Ian’s wince, Yassen added, “He has a wealth of medical knowledge.”
“Shame he employs it to maim and torture.”
“He’s a senior board member of a terrorist organisation not known for possessing the milk of human kindness. He is, however, an extremely competent medical practitioner. Your brother taught me not to pick and choose who I learnt from. And students at Malagosto don’t get the opportunity play hooky from class.”
“Looks like you learnt how to make an after-action mug of tea from John, too.”
For a fraction of a second, Yassen’s expression softened, then the mask of cool indifference was back in place. “He liked to have a good whisky after a kill.”
“Do you?”
“I avoid habits. Your brother taught me that.”
“So why do you make a habit of saving my life?”
Yassen reached out to trail one finger over Ian’s damp chest. “I don’t know. Perhaps because your brother saved my life. Perhaps because I think yours is worth saving.” His fingers tracked up to Ian’s painful shoulder. He’d been able to pop it back after the dislocation, but the muscles had been stretched almost to snapping point and it still felt like he’d taken a kick from an angry mule.
The strong fingers gently massaged his shoulder, seeking out the painful knots in the abused muscles and working to loosen them. Ian closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of long, narrow fingers digging into his flesh. He knew how much death Yassen’s hands had dealt but he was too tired to wrestle with thoughts like that. He’d come home so he could rest, not play mind games with his dead brother’s murderous apprentice.
While Yassen worked on his shoulder, Ian drank the tea, letting the liberal dose of whisky start to push away the worst of the exhaustion, leaving him feeling pleasantly high.
“You need food,” Yassen said, stepping back.
“I need to sleep.”
“Food first, sleep later.”
“Have I told you how annoying you are?”
“Yes. Frequently. I learnt from the best. I ordered Chinese. It’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“I’d better put something on.”
Ten minutes later, Ian limped down the stairs in a comfortable old blue dressing gown, his feet encased in an even more battered pair of slippers, to find Yassen setting out the takeaway on the kitchen table. He’d ordered a selection of dishes, all of which looked and smelt delicious. Ian’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.
They ate in companionable silence, Ian’s comfortable lethargy increasing exponentially with the consumption of good food accompanied by two bottles of strong Belgian beer.
When there was nothing left in any of the cartons, he leaned back and gave Yassen a slight smile. “I take it back. You’re not annoying all the time.”
“Just most of the time?”
“That depends on whether you’re trying to kill me or not.”
“I’ve never tried to kill you. If I had, you wouldn’t just have eaten your way through a sizeable portion of the menu of the best Chinese restaurant in London.”
“Scorpia must pay well.”
“They do. But I paid off my exclusive contract with them last year. I’m freelance now.”
Ian kept his expression strictly neutral. That piece of information hadn’t yet found its way onto Yassen’s MI6 file.
“If your employers are interested in my services, I’ll send them my standard terms and conditions. Unless of course they prefer to handle such matters in house now.”
“I doubt they could afford you any more. We don’t even get biscuits in meetings.”
“If you’d worked for Scorpia, you wouldn’t want biscuits in meetings.”
“Risk of poisoning too high?”
“You could never rule it out.”
Ian watched as Yassen put the plates in the dishwasher and tidied up with a high degree of unexpected domesticity. He’d never associated the contract killer with anything as mundane as clearing up after a meal. Their past dealings had hardly prepared him for anything quite like this. But he had to admit that Yassen Gregorovich, who’d had the dubious distinction of topping Interpol’s most wanted list for the past five years, had excellent taste when it came to Chinese takeaways. He was also very good at delivering a shoulder massage.
“Have you got any heat packs?” The question startled Ian out of his reverie.
“I had, but I think the last one suffered from one of Alex’s experiments. So did the microwave.”
“Have you got a hot water bottle?” In response to Ian’s vague look, Yassen rolled his eyes. “Go to bed. I’ll improvise if necessary. Your shoulder needs heat or it’ll stiffen up.”
Ian rotated his shoulder gingerly and had to agree with that assessment when his muscle promptly twinged. He was going to need physio on it – if MI6 every gave him enough time off. He’d been away almost constantly for the past three months and had barely seen Alex. He’d felt a twinge of disappointment that his nephew hadn’t been there to welcome him home with his usual excited stories about his exploits on the football pitch but was glad he hadn’t had to trot out another round of lies to cover up why he was limping badly and could barely use one arm.
“I said go to bed.” Yassen sounded like a parent talking to a toddler, equal parts amused and indulgent.
“I loathe hot milk, by the way..”
“Good. I wasn’t going to make you any.”
“Wouldn’t object to a hot whisky, though.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Rider.”
Ian grinned. “Hey, providing you with a bed for the night, remember?” And quite probably somewhere to stay where neither MI6 nor the Met’s anti-terrorist squad would think to look for him. He was under no illusions about his houseguest. Someone either had met – or was about to meet – an untimely death, and he didn’t just mean the sniper in the docklands.
“You’re not complicit in anyone’s death by harbouring a wanted criminal tonight,” Yassen said quietly. “I’m in London for a different reason. Saving your skin was purely a spur of the moment think. And your poker face needs some work, by the way. Now for the third time of telling, go to bed, or I’ll force feed you hot milk with the skin on.”
Limping up the stairs, Ian was too close to the point of mental and physical collapse to care what would happen to his employment prospects if Blunt got wind of his occasional meetings with Gregorovich. So far he’d been able to gloss over the part the contract killer had played in his last few jobs. And by gloss over, he meant lie through his teeth.
Chucking his dressing gown over the bedroom chair, Ian cleaned his teeth then manoeuvred himself carefully into bed, a pillow supporting his bad shoulder. The warmth of the duvet and the excellent meal left him feeling uncharacteristically mellow and more than willing to ignore the numerous clauses in his contract of employment that he was busily driving a tank through.
Sudden warmth on his shoulder brought him out of a light doze. He glanced down to find himself seeing eye to eye with a grinning green turtle wearing a red bandana. After a moment of confusion, he recognised the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle hot water bottle he’d bought several years ago when Alex had been laid up in bed with a stinking cold.
“Raphael,” Ian muttered. “Where on earth did you find him?”
“Your linen cupboard.” Yassen held out a steaming mug that smelt like heaven. “Rum, honey and sugar. I used the last of your ordinary whisky in your tea and the rest is too good to adulterate. This will serve just as well. As will the painkillers and anti-inflammatories you’re about to take.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, or I will demonstrate my famed ability to get pills down cats without the need to wear welding gloves.”
Ian blinked in surprise.
“A neighbour who waters the plants in one of my safe houses has a cat that holds strong views on the subject of pills.”
Ian sipped the hot rum while trying – and mostly failing – to process the information that Yassen Gregorovich had a neighbour who watered his plants. The knowledge that the assassin had house plants was possibly even stranger than the mental image of him stuffing pills down a recalcitrant cat.
Not seeing the value in unnecessary stubbornness, Ian swallowed the pills with good grace.
The semi-darkness of the bedroom softened the hard planes of Yassen’s face making him look younger than his late 20s. After his lengthy road trip in the Russian’s company, he’d given up trying to fathom the other man’s motives. The memory of the all too brief kiss had lingered in his mind, despite his attempt to dismiss it as simply another mind-game from someone who’d learned at the knee of a master of that dark art. Manipulation had always been John’s strong suit.
The demands of Ian’s job and the need to look after his orphaned nephew left no time for anything as mundane as dating. Lying to Alex and Jack was bad enough. Adding anyone else to that mix wasn’t something he was prepared to even contemplate. If he needed release, he had his own hand, although he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d taken that route.
The hot rum coupled with the warmth on his shoulder did even more than the painkillers to dull his various aches and pains and Ian could feel himself slipping comfortably into sleep.
As Yassen turned to leave, Ian reached out with his good arm and caught the man’s long-fingered hand, holding him back. “Thank you.”
Yassen bent down and brushed his lips lightly over Ian’s. “You’re welcome.”
Ian kept hold of Yassen’s hand and swept his tongue over the man’s lips, inviting a deeper kiss. Yassen obliged, his mouth working gently against Ian’s, soft and surprisingly gentle. When he drew back, Ian murmured, “Stay?”
“If I do, will you go to sleep? The correct answer, by the way, is yes.”
“I suspect that’ll happen whether I want to or not.”
Yassen deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against Ian’s, holding a world of illicit promise. “Good.”
Ian watched as Yassen stripped quickly and efficiently. His eyes widened in surprise as he realised his initial estimate of the man’s concealed weaponry had been woefully inadequate. Yassen set everything down beside the other side of the bed, clothes first, weapons next, then slipped under the duvet to lie beside him.
“Go to sleep, Ian.”
Ian rested his head against Yassen’s shoulder. He knew the man would be gone by morning, and he had no idea what was growing between them. Maybe just an occasional cessation of hostilities. Maybe more.
And to hell with MI6, they didn’t need to know everything.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Ian Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : When Ian gets an unexpected visitor at his home in Chelsea, he’s injured and too tired to play games, but his visitor has never believed in playing by any rules.
Ian Rider opened the door of his Chelsea home and limped into the dark hall, reaching for the light switch …
Before his fingers made contact with it, light abruptly burst around him to reveal a slim figure lounging against the wall, looking entirely at ease, hand resting on the switch by the kitchen door.
The lack of visible weaponry on his uninvited visitor came as no particular surprise. Yassen Gregorovich was almost certainly the most lethal man Ian had ever had the misfortune to go up against, armed or unarmed, but at a quick guess the relaxed posture and casual clothing quite probably hid several knives, at least two handguns and a garrotte wire.
“Yas.”
“Ian.”
“What brings you here?”
“London hotel prices?”
“At half a million a job, I imagine you can afford any hotel you want.”
“Half a million?” Yassen looked affronted. “I’d be selling myself short at that. Even your tight-fisted employers have been known to go higher for something they really want.”
Ian toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. “I’m too tired for games, Yas. If you’re here to kill me, just get on with it.”
The contract killer held up his hands, palms outward. “Would I kill you?” A slight smile curved his lips. “No, don’t answer that. Let’s play like nice puppies instead. I was in London, I thought you might like some company as Alex is on summer camp and your housekeeper has gone to stay with her parents for three weeks. I heard your last job became somewhat problematic.”
Ian snorted humourlessly. “That’s one way of putting it. If you want to play like a nice puppy, put the kettle on. The milk’s probably off by now, but coffee or tea without will be fine.”
“I bought some milk and I’ve put in an order for food for tonight. If you don’t turn me in to your employers, it’ll be delivered in an hour.”
“What part of ‘I’m too tired for games’ didn’t you get?”
“I saved your life in Prague. I pulled your sorry arse out of that clusterfuck in Helsinki and I put a bullet through the head of a sniper in the docklands this afternoon, thereby preventing your numerous life insurance policies maturing early.”
Ian failed to slam his poker face on quickly enough and the words, “What sniper?” were out before he could stop himself.
Yassen’s smile widened and amusement sparkled in his vivid blue eyes. “You failed to notice the glint of sunshine off the idiot’s aviator shades. His death is being widely reported in the press as a gangland incident.”
“What the fuck were you doing in the docklands?”
“Making sure you stayed alive. Your employers don’t seem to give a flying fuck for your welfare. You are exhausted, injured and badly in need of some decent food and a week’s rest. And the bullet wound in your thigh needs medical attention and you need a long, therapeutic massage on your left shoulder. You dislocated it three days ago and put it back yourself. Commendable, but it needs work.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“No.”
Ian gave up. He badly needed a shower and a drink. “Christ, you can be annoying when you put your mind to it. Stop winding me up and put the fucking kettle on.”
He limped up the stairs and discarded his clothes on the bedroom floor. The graze on his thigh courtesy of a 9mm bullet delivered – fortunately with commendable inaccuracy – by the bodyguard of a Russian oligarch that MI6 were keeping under close surveillance, was red and inflamed, with some puss forming at one end.
The hot water in the shower stung like his thigh had encountered a swarm of angry wasps, but Ian didn’t care. A shower was his way of switching off and leaving his work behind. He scrubbed the sweat and grime from his body, quickly washed his hair then switched the smaller shower head on and directed the thin jets at his thigh. His breath hissed through his teeth as pain lanced through his leg, but at least it washed away the yellow pus.
As he stepped out and reached for the towel, realising that someone – Yassen – had turned on the heated rail.
“Tea,” his visitor announced, standing in the doorway, a mug in each hand.
Ian didn’t even bother to wonder how Yassen knew which was his favourite mug. He took the tea with a nod of thanks, not bothering to cover his naked body.
Yassen’s appraising glance took in the yellowing bruises liberally splattered over his torso and stomach like a bad Picasso imitator in a yellow phase and the cigarette burns on his upper arms. His back wasn’t much better.
“You let someone get too close,” the assassin commented.
Ian sniffed the tea. The heady smell of whisky was extremely welcome. “Yes. I was busy trying to maintain my cover and not kill too many people.”
“Did it work?”
“Not as well as I’d hoped.”
Yassen put his own tea down on the edge of the bath. “Antiseptic spray and a wound dressing?”
“Top cupboard.”
While Ian sat in the bathroom chair and towelled his wet hair, Yassen quickly and efficiently cleaned and dressed the wound then stepped back to survey his handiwork. “Check it tomorrow. If it’s still red, take antibiotics.”
“Where did you get your EMT training from?”
“Dr Three at Malagosto.” At Ian’s wince, Yassen added, “He has a wealth of medical knowledge.”
“Shame he employs it to maim and torture.”
“He’s a senior board member of a terrorist organisation not known for possessing the milk of human kindness. He is, however, an extremely competent medical practitioner. Your brother taught me not to pick and choose who I learnt from. And students at Malagosto don’t get the opportunity play hooky from class.”
“Looks like you learnt how to make an after-action mug of tea from John, too.”
For a fraction of a second, Yassen’s expression softened, then the mask of cool indifference was back in place. “He liked to have a good whisky after a kill.”
“Do you?”
“I avoid habits. Your brother taught me that.”
“So why do you make a habit of saving my life?”
Yassen reached out to trail one finger over Ian’s damp chest. “I don’t know. Perhaps because your brother saved my life. Perhaps because I think yours is worth saving.” His fingers tracked up to Ian’s painful shoulder. He’d been able to pop it back after the dislocation, but the muscles had been stretched almost to snapping point and it still felt like he’d taken a kick from an angry mule.
The strong fingers gently massaged his shoulder, seeking out the painful knots in the abused muscles and working to loosen them. Ian closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of long, narrow fingers digging into his flesh. He knew how much death Yassen’s hands had dealt but he was too tired to wrestle with thoughts like that. He’d come home so he could rest, not play mind games with his dead brother’s murderous apprentice.
While Yassen worked on his shoulder, Ian drank the tea, letting the liberal dose of whisky start to push away the worst of the exhaustion, leaving him feeling pleasantly high.
“You need food,” Yassen said, stepping back.
“I need to sleep.”
“Food first, sleep later.”
“Have I told you how annoying you are?”
“Yes. Frequently. I learnt from the best. I ordered Chinese. It’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“I’d better put something on.”
Ten minutes later, Ian limped down the stairs in a comfortable old blue dressing gown, his feet encased in an even more battered pair of slippers, to find Yassen setting out the takeaway on the kitchen table. He’d ordered a selection of dishes, all of which looked and smelt delicious. Ian’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.
They ate in companionable silence, Ian’s comfortable lethargy increasing exponentially with the consumption of good food accompanied by two bottles of strong Belgian beer.
When there was nothing left in any of the cartons, he leaned back and gave Yassen a slight smile. “I take it back. You’re not annoying all the time.”
“Just most of the time?”
“That depends on whether you’re trying to kill me or not.”
“I’ve never tried to kill you. If I had, you wouldn’t just have eaten your way through a sizeable portion of the menu of the best Chinese restaurant in London.”
“Scorpia must pay well.”
“They do. But I paid off my exclusive contract with them last year. I’m freelance now.”
Ian kept his expression strictly neutral. That piece of information hadn’t yet found its way onto Yassen’s MI6 file.
“If your employers are interested in my services, I’ll send them my standard terms and conditions. Unless of course they prefer to handle such matters in house now.”
“I doubt they could afford you any more. We don’t even get biscuits in meetings.”
“If you’d worked for Scorpia, you wouldn’t want biscuits in meetings.”
“Risk of poisoning too high?”
“You could never rule it out.”
Ian watched as Yassen put the plates in the dishwasher and tidied up with a high degree of unexpected domesticity. He’d never associated the contract killer with anything as mundane as clearing up after a meal. Their past dealings had hardly prepared him for anything quite like this. But he had to admit that Yassen Gregorovich, who’d had the dubious distinction of topping Interpol’s most wanted list for the past five years, had excellent taste when it came to Chinese takeaways. He was also very good at delivering a shoulder massage.
“Have you got any heat packs?” The question startled Ian out of his reverie.
“I had, but I think the last one suffered from one of Alex’s experiments. So did the microwave.”
“Have you got a hot water bottle?” In response to Ian’s vague look, Yassen rolled his eyes. “Go to bed. I’ll improvise if necessary. Your shoulder needs heat or it’ll stiffen up.”
Ian rotated his shoulder gingerly and had to agree with that assessment when his muscle promptly twinged. He was going to need physio on it – if MI6 every gave him enough time off. He’d been away almost constantly for the past three months and had barely seen Alex. He’d felt a twinge of disappointment that his nephew hadn’t been there to welcome him home with his usual excited stories about his exploits on the football pitch but was glad he hadn’t had to trot out another round of lies to cover up why he was limping badly and could barely use one arm.
“I said go to bed.” Yassen sounded like a parent talking to a toddler, equal parts amused and indulgent.
“I loathe hot milk, by the way..”
“Good. I wasn’t going to make you any.”
“Wouldn’t object to a hot whisky, though.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Rider.”
Ian grinned. “Hey, providing you with a bed for the night, remember?” And quite probably somewhere to stay where neither MI6 nor the Met’s anti-terrorist squad would think to look for him. He was under no illusions about his houseguest. Someone either had met – or was about to meet – an untimely death, and he didn’t just mean the sniper in the docklands.
“You’re not complicit in anyone’s death by harbouring a wanted criminal tonight,” Yassen said quietly. “I’m in London for a different reason. Saving your skin was purely a spur of the moment think. And your poker face needs some work, by the way. Now for the third time of telling, go to bed, or I’ll force feed you hot milk with the skin on.”
Limping up the stairs, Ian was too close to the point of mental and physical collapse to care what would happen to his employment prospects if Blunt got wind of his occasional meetings with Gregorovich. So far he’d been able to gloss over the part the contract killer had played in his last few jobs. And by gloss over, he meant lie through his teeth.
Chucking his dressing gown over the bedroom chair, Ian cleaned his teeth then manoeuvred himself carefully into bed, a pillow supporting his bad shoulder. The warmth of the duvet and the excellent meal left him feeling uncharacteristically mellow and more than willing to ignore the numerous clauses in his contract of employment that he was busily driving a tank through.
Sudden warmth on his shoulder brought him out of a light doze. He glanced down to find himself seeing eye to eye with a grinning green turtle wearing a red bandana. After a moment of confusion, he recognised the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle hot water bottle he’d bought several years ago when Alex had been laid up in bed with a stinking cold.
“Raphael,” Ian muttered. “Where on earth did you find him?”
“Your linen cupboard.” Yassen held out a steaming mug that smelt like heaven. “Rum, honey and sugar. I used the last of your ordinary whisky in your tea and the rest is too good to adulterate. This will serve just as well. As will the painkillers and anti-inflammatories you’re about to take.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, or I will demonstrate my famed ability to get pills down cats without the need to wear welding gloves.”
Ian blinked in surprise.
“A neighbour who waters the plants in one of my safe houses has a cat that holds strong views on the subject of pills.”
Ian sipped the hot rum while trying – and mostly failing – to process the information that Yassen Gregorovich had a neighbour who watered his plants. The knowledge that the assassin had house plants was possibly even stranger than the mental image of him stuffing pills down a recalcitrant cat.
Not seeing the value in unnecessary stubbornness, Ian swallowed the pills with good grace.
The semi-darkness of the bedroom softened the hard planes of Yassen’s face making him look younger than his late 20s. After his lengthy road trip in the Russian’s company, he’d given up trying to fathom the other man’s motives. The memory of the all too brief kiss had lingered in his mind, despite his attempt to dismiss it as simply another mind-game from someone who’d learned at the knee of a master of that dark art. Manipulation had always been John’s strong suit.
The demands of Ian’s job and the need to look after his orphaned nephew left no time for anything as mundane as dating. Lying to Alex and Jack was bad enough. Adding anyone else to that mix wasn’t something he was prepared to even contemplate. If he needed release, he had his own hand, although he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d taken that route.
The hot rum coupled with the warmth on his shoulder did even more than the painkillers to dull his various aches and pains and Ian could feel himself slipping comfortably into sleep.
As Yassen turned to leave, Ian reached out with his good arm and caught the man’s long-fingered hand, holding him back. “Thank you.”
Yassen bent down and brushed his lips lightly over Ian’s. “You’re welcome.”
Ian kept hold of Yassen’s hand and swept his tongue over the man’s lips, inviting a deeper kiss. Yassen obliged, his mouth working gently against Ian’s, soft and surprisingly gentle. When he drew back, Ian murmured, “Stay?”
“If I do, will you go to sleep? The correct answer, by the way, is yes.”
“I suspect that’ll happen whether I want to or not.”
Yassen deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against Ian’s, holding a world of illicit promise. “Good.”
Ian watched as Yassen stripped quickly and efficiently. His eyes widened in surprise as he realised his initial estimate of the man’s concealed weaponry had been woefully inadequate. Yassen set everything down beside the other side of the bed, clothes first, weapons next, then slipped under the duvet to lie beside him.
“Go to sleep, Ian.”
Ian rested his head against Yassen’s shoulder. He knew the man would be gone by morning, and he had no idea what was growing between them. Maybe just an occasional cessation of hostilities. Maybe more.
And to hell with MI6, they didn’t need to know everything.