Title: Innocence

Rating: M

Pairing: Yassen/Alex

A/N: This is the first Alex Rider fic I've written, so I hope it seems somewhat plausible. Takes place in a universe where Yassen didn't really die and where Alex is both older and darker.

Warnings: Violence. Language. Boy sex. Torture.

"He's a contract killer, Alex. We believe it was he who killed Ian Rider."

His stomach lurched uncomfortably as he stared down at the photograph, wondering just how the black and white shot could unsettle him so much. His brain had recognised the danger immediately and he found he wasn't surprised by her admission, already aware that this was a man he didn't want to cross paths with.

But this man had killed his uncle. Hot anger bubbled up, burning his throat as he gazed down at the image, at the man who had stolen the last of his family and turned his world upside down. Fear turned to hate; it suddenly sickened him how the man could stand there so easily after all he'd done. How many other lives had he ruined? His mouth set in a grim line as he considered his options, unable to look away from the figure taunting him, confident and attractive and very much alive. His concentration was barely on the conversation, answering the questions automatically.

He stood up when Mrs. Jones reclaimed the photograph, frowning at the loss but able to bite back the sudden desire to demand she hand it over to him. He didn't want MI6 knowing just how much the man had affected him. He already knew that, despite their warning, he would not be informing them if he ever saw the assassin. It was the first time in his life that he'd ever wanted to kill someone and he knew he wouldn't be able to pass up the chance.

It was child's play to take the photo back. He waited until her head was turned and palmed the image, walking back across the hangar before she had the chance to realise it was missing.

He wasn't even hugely surprised when the taxi driver turned out to be Sayle. One mission and he had already been changed irrevocably, thrown into a world with no room for any sort of childish innocence. He'd survived purely on luck, his own skills no match for the situation he'd found himself in, and still couldn't believe that he wasn't dead.

Maybe that why he wasn't scared. He followed Sayle's instructions without complaint, discarding half-formed escape plans as he realised that there was no escape this time. It was comforting, in a way, to know that there was nothing he could do.

He was going to die. The realisation should have come as more of a shock and he wondered why he wasn't trying to beg for his life. Jack would be upset if he died. He didn't want to make her cry.

Alex glanced at the helicopter when prompted, wondering at the choice of garish red and yellow for a getaway vehicle, before turning his attention back to the man pointing a gun at him. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. He'd managed to foil Sayle's plans and save thousands of lives. And yet it seemed pointless; Sayle would escape, able to try again whenever he wished. All the teenager had managed to achieve was a bullet with his name on it.

He didn't even blink when the shots rang out. The pain he'd expected was missing and he allowed himself to relax, comforted by the fact that it was at least all over. It took a few more moments to realise that it hadn't been Sayle who'd pulled the trigger.

His eyes followed Sayle as the man staggered backwards and hit the floor, watching the red blossom on his chest with surreal fascination. Dead. Alex hadn't even noticed the helicopter had landed before the pilot was suddenly in view, walking across to the dead man and prodding the body emotionlessly with his foot. He didn't even seem to notice that Alex was there.

But Alex noticed him. The recognition pulled him sharply back into the real world and his eyes narrowed, fists clenching automatically at his sides. "You're Yassen Gregorovich."

A nod. Irritated by the lack of emotion, Alex questioned him again, receiving nothing but smoothly calculated responses in reply. The man even dared to smile when Alex told him that he was going to kill him one day, clearly not the slightest bit afraid, but it was the last line that really got him.

"Killing is for grown-ups and you're still a child." Apparently finished with him, Yassen turned his back on the teenaged spy and started back towards the helicopter.

Alex snarled. He leapt after the Russian, hand reaching up to grab the other's shoulder and turned him back to face him, surprised when the man offered no resistance. They stayed like that for a few moments, enraged brown eyes meeting calm blue ones, one of Yassen's eyebrows raised slightly in question.

He didn't know what to do next. He had no weapon and it was clear that the older man could push him off whenever he wanted to. Yassen was starting to brush him off when Alex reacted, using the hand on the assassin's shoulder to balance as he pressed his lips forcefully against the other's, eyes squeezing shut as he attempted to elicit some sort of response from the other. He couldn't bear this man ignoring him.

Yassen allowed it for almost a minute before pushing the boy off carefully, emotionless and unaffected by the sloppy kiss. He returned to the helicopter without a word or backwards glance, blades whirring as the engine was restarted. Alex watched it disappear into the darkness.

He was left alone, humiliated and angry, on the rooftop. His bottom lip was bleeding slightly from the rough activity.

One day Yassen would see that he wasn't just a child. One day Alex would beat him at his own game. Then he would kill him.

He still wasn't sure why he hadn't killed Yassen on the yacht. It would have been so easy to end his life; as good as Yassen was, there would have been no way to dodge a bullet from the gun held a centimetre from his forehead.

Instead he'd been distracted by the proximity of the man he'd decided was his enemy. The man's face had fascinated him and Alex had found himself studying it, committing every detail to memory; the feminine lashes framing those cold eyes, the chiselled lips that had proved so unyielding. There was a sort of androgynous beauty to him, something that almost took his breath away, but he knew exactly what that lithe, feline body was capable of and it terrified him.

It had irritated him that Yassen still hadn't been bothered by any of it. It was as if he'd automatically dismissed Alex and the threat that he posed, still unable to see anything but the child. It was embarrassing to admit that the Russian had played him like an expert, keeping him distracted until help had turned up.

He'd even saved his life for the second time – if throwing him to the bull could really be called saving him – and had walked out of his life without a backward glance.

It hurt to realise that Yassen still thought of him as nothing more than a child.

Yassen was dead. The thought was so unbelievable that Alex almost wanted to laugh. The man had seemed so untouchable, so utterly unbeatable, that it had seemed some sick pantomime when Damian Cray of all people had put a bullet through his chest.

The assassin's words had been totally unexpected. That Yassen, the perfect assassin, was unable to kill him. That he'd known his father. That his father had been a traitor and a murderer.

That Yassen loved him.

And yet it was only because of his father. Yassen had protected him because he was John Rider's child, because he'd reminded him of a man that the assassin had clearly admired. He didn't understand why it made him so angry.

Cray had stolen Yassen from him. The knowledge that he would someday kill the Russian had been one of the few constants in his life, but it was the realisation that he would never have a chance to prove himself that truly distressed him. He would never be anything but a child.

Confused, angry, and a little heartbroken, it had taken a long time for Alex to accept his death.

It seemed somehow appropriate that he'd killed Julius with a Russian gun. It was the only thing that was.

Pulling the trigger had been far too easy. He'd barely had to exert any pressure, flexing his finger the tiniest amount, and the bullet had been released with no resistance. He'd watched it punch through his twin's chest, watched identical eyes widen in shock and then close, watched him collapse into the flower bed. The rain washed away the blood that started to pool around his body.

He'd never understood why they hadn't wanted to give him a gun. He'd killed people before, he'd argued, and giving him a gun would just help him to protect himself.

He hadn't realised how different it would be to actually shoot someone. It had been so easy to do, so quick, and a life had been taken just like that.

But the scary thing was how close he had come to actually enjoying it. For a brief moment he'd felt alive, finally in control again.

The feeling hadn't lasted for long. Emptiness replaced it; everything had been taken from him. His parents. Ian. Jack. His friends. His future. His innocence.

Yassen...

Julius shouldn't have been his first kill. That bullet should have been meant for Yassen.

His life in America had not been the fairytale ending they'd hoped for. He knew how hard the Pleasures had worked to try and make him forget, to try and turn him back into a normal boy, but he was too broken for anyone to fix. He was still grateful that they'd tried.

It had been impossible to simply return to the routine of school and homework and hanging out with friends. Everything had seemed so pointless; lessons bored him, his peers were nothing more than children, and he found himself wishing that Julius had managed to shoot first. At least he wouldn't have had to endure this awful monotony.

He'd tried to kill himself and found himself unable. Still, there was pleasure to be found in sliding the knife across his skin, watching the blood come to the surface and escape in fat, heavy drops. The pain reminded him he was still alive, and a few more scars hardly mattered. He'd been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder and given a pharmacy of pills to take. They had helped, but it hadn't been enough.

He doubted anyone was surprised when he started drinking. He'd fallen in with a rough crowd at school and found himself attending parties most weekends, the alcohol and loud music allowing him to forget, if only for a few hours. Sex helped too. He looked older than he was, with a pretty face and perfectly toned body, and it wasn't hard to attract girls. It was alright but it wasn't enough. Boys were better, rougher and faster and harder, but he still wasn't satisfied.

He joined a gang but found himself easily outclassing all of his opponents. He started actively looking for trouble, getting into fights for the hell of it, facing groups of men older and larger than him. He found that he enjoyed the violence and didn't care about the blood covering his knuckles. Someone introduced him to a fight club; he found himself competing for money in arenas that stank of blood and sweat and beer. He donated the cash to charity, only seeking the thrill that came with victory.

It had been the drugs that had truly undone him. It hadn't taken long for him to become addicted to the release they offered, blissful hours of peace that he hadn't expected to find again. He suspected he'd been close to killing himself before he'd finally been rescued.

Rescued? It had been the CIA who had eventually swooped in and retrieved him – he'd always known that they were still keeping tabs on him – and had, to his amazement, offered him a job. Breaking his addiction had been hard but they'd been relentless.

He'd accepted, of course. He'd long since accepted that this was the only thing that was left to him, the only thing that kept him feeling human. At least they gave him a gun this time.

Mission after mission was completely dutifully, perfectly, even if he seemed a little too quick to kill. He was one of the top – and most experienced – field agents, daring and capable and innovative. Besides, he had the luck of the devil.

It probably didn't even come as a shock when he killed his partner and turned traitor just weeks before his eighteenth birthday.