It began with a note.

A small, neatly folded but very crumpled piece of paper, promptly dumped on top of the rest of the mail in his mailbox.

Alex could not fathom why exactly it made shivers run down his spine - maybe because it was out of the ordinary?

His name - Mr. Rider - written in unfamiliar handwriting.

The note was short, but it held more than the words themselves.

I've heard you've been looking for a way out.

I may have one.

If you want me to contact you further, do not remove the extra key under the flowerpot. If it's still there within two days, you'll have company sooner or later.

- Y.G.

Alex knew only of one Y.G.

And of course, over the time he'd spent since Air Force One, it had popped into his head that the Russian may still be alive. He'd dismissed it as wishful thinking - after all, why would MI6 lie to him about a potential enemy's death?

Now, he realized that trusting MI6 on even the one little detail had been foolish.

Oh well.

Now, Alex supposed, there was two options.

No, three.

Either he would go to MI6, explain this to them, and let them deal with it. He might find it was a fake, or real, but that wouldn't matter. MI6 would still control everything connected to Yassen.

The other options were to remove the key - to be content with not knowing - or to leave it there, and accept the offer, whoever it might have came from.

And Alex was desperately looking for a way out.

There was no question. He had but one option.

He woke up with a scream.

Nightmares wouldn't let him be. They haunted him, brought up things better left alone.

Some days, Alex wondered why he even bothered with sleeping in the first place. There was no peaceful rest for him.

At night, Alex wandered around the house, restless.

It was empty. Ian was long gone, only those false, created memories of him, of happiness, remaining.

Jack was gone too. Her death still played like a loop in his thoughts, memories, nightmares. He couldn't escape that. Neither could he deal with it.

So he let it be.

School the next morning was a miserable affair, like always.

With no friendly faces around him, Alex returned to the classrooms only for one reason. He needed education. It was his only hope of ever freeing himself from MI6's clutches.

"Hey, Rider!"

Alex didn't bother turning his head to acknowledge the boy shouting his name. It was useless. He knew what was coming.

"Such a loser, aren't you, Rider? No friends, no family!"

"Yeah, where's your uncle, Rider?"

"Oops, sorry, forgot - he's dead!"

"Ignoring us, Rider?"

"Think you're better than us–"

"–sadly mistaken–"

"–on drugs, Rider?"

"–your gang, Rider, if–"

"–Rider–"

Rider, Rider, Rider.

It was probably the worst surname Alex could have. Cursed by his classmates, hunted by his enemies, classed as a troublemaker by teachers and society, seen as an asset by MI6...

Was there anyone who knew him who didn't think negative thoughts when his name was mentioned?

Maybe. In that case, Alex hadn't found them yet.

His house was quiet and dark as Alex parked his bike on the lawn that afternoon. Leaving the bike there for a moment, he approached the front door, and proceeded to fumble with his keys, only to promptly drop them.

Cursing, as much for the benefit of others, potentially watching, as for his own - the keys had not dropped quite far enough - he crouched down, pretending to search for his wayward posession.

Instead, hidden from view, he took out the key from under the flower pot, and replaced it with a note.

Reclaiming his own keys and unlocking the door, he threw his schoolbag inside and went back out to put his bike into the shed for the night.

Y.G.

I appreciate your offer, but if you wish to speak, do knock on the door.

Let's at least pretend to be normal, decent human beings, shall we?

I'm sure you know when I'm home. No late night visits.

A.R.

The next morning Alex woke up four hours before the alarm he'd set. With plenty of time before school, he showered, and decided to pack something extra into his schoolbag today. He had a sneaking suspicion that Yassen - if it was him - would not willingly come to a house where an MI6 agent lived. Not without checking that it really was only Alex who was living there.

A small gun slid easily into an ankle holder Smithers had designed, and Alex strapped a knife to his arm.

As long as he was careful, no one at school needed to know. But today Alex felt like he should take precautions.

Alex was right.

At lunch, he ate inside rather than being out, exposed. Looking out the window, though, he could see the café on the other side of the road.

At a table by the café's window sat a blonde man, graceful body relaxed, but face expressionless. As Alex watched him, he turned his head to observe Brooklands, and seemed to instantly meet Alex's eyes.

Through two windows and over a road, Alex and a contract killer scanned each other, and after several minutes of statue-like stillness, Yassen gestured vaguely to the seat opposite him, and then jerked his head to Alex.

An invitation.

Anyone else would have instantly refused the offer to share a coffee with a killer, but Alex didn't. After a few seconds, he nodded.

Yassen nodded slightly back, and tapped a silver watch on his left wrist.

Alex nodded again, knowing what the assassin meant.

Then he broke eye-contact and rose.

Slipping quietly into the café, Alex navigated calmly around the tables to the corner where Yassen sat.

When they had last met, Alex was still unused to the cruelties of their world, still an innocent in a sense. He was not innocent any longer, and he knew it. He may not be Yassen's equal, yet, but he was closer. No child resided permanently in Alex now.

Approaching without hesitation, Alex sat down at the table, body tense but still not afraid.

It was scary, how much Alex could trust a murderer not to kill him, but Yassen didn't work like this.

He was cold, effective, and did not make personal contact with the victims. Heck, Scorpia trained them to not even see the targets as human - merly as something to dispose off.

And also, Yassen wouldn't be foolish enough to kill Alex here without being forced to. It would make a scene. The Russian didn't do that kind of thing - and definitely not if he wanted to stay under MI6's radar.

Which Alex hoped Yassen did want to do. Flaunting their meeting could only lead to worse and worse things happening.

Sitting still, watching each other in silence, was what the next few minutes consisted of.

Yassen had not changed much. The close-cropped blonde hair, the expressionless face, the agile and well toned body. He was wearing a simple but tight shirt - dark grey, worn but not that old - and a pair of jeans. He could be anyone.

But he was not. Alex had seen the man from the side through the window, and was quite sure Yassen carried a gun, and also that there was a knife strapped to his leg.

Not so different from himself, Alex realized, feeling the gun resting against his leg.

Small details had changed, though.

There was a small scar on Yassen's temple Alex was sure hadn't been there before. Those blue eyes - like piercing ice - still framed by almost feminine eyelashes, were somewhat softer as he watched Alex closely.

Almost... Gentle. Concerned?

But no. Alex could not look that bad. And besides, Yassen should not care enough to be concerned.

He once said he loved you, like he loved your father, a part of him gladly reminded him. He cares for you like he cared for John. He wants to protect you the way he failed to protect John.

Shaking that thought from his mind was not that easy.

"You've changed," Yassen noted quietly.

"It's been a while," Alex answered, almost surprised at how he knew what to say.

"That it has." The Russian tilted his head slightly. "And you're still with MI6."

Something in that flippant way Yassen said it angered Alex. It was not an accusing tone, but still judging.

"Not by choice," he answered coldly.

A shake of a blonde head. The corners of a mouth slightly upturned.

"Stupid boy. Approach them once, and they'll never let you go willingly. You should have known better than let it start in the first place."

Alex went rigid as he realized Yassen had the right to mock him. After all, the assassin didn't know about the blackmail Blunt had used.

Suddenly, he very much wanted the man to know.

"What makes you think I had a choice in the first place?"

Hard, cutting. Alex couldn't remember when his voice shifted permanently from delivering jokes to delivering threats, lies and ugly truths. Maybe after Jack. Or before that, even, after Scorpia. Yassen frowned - so little that it was almost unnoticable, just a small shifting of his eyebrows.

"I mean, it's not as if I wanted to be what I am. I've never done it only because I wanted to."

"What are you trying to say, Alex?" Slight confusion colored Yassen's voice, even if he was back to a normal expression which gave nothing away.

"I say blackmail. I say bribery, family matters, lies, threats... Whatever they thought would work the best on me at that exact point of time."

A shadow of anger swept over Yassen's stony face, so quickly Alex wondered if he hadn't been wrong about even seeing it. But then the assassin spoke, and anger was an undertone in his voice.

"Well, that changes things."

Alex wanted to ask, but kept quiet. The Russian suddenly looked more dangerous, and it was like the scene had shifted somehow.

After minutes of silence when Yassen and Alex stared each other down, Alex sighed.

"You came here for a reason, Yassen."

The Russian watched him calmly. "I did. Is your house safe for me?"

Thinking quickly, Alex nodded.

"MI6 has a camera on the other side of the road, but not much more. They aren't so concerned. I have a security system of my own."

"Can you loop the footage?" Yassen's eyes were stern, inquiring. "Or, the question is, are you willing to?"

"I don't have a death wish. I loop for when you arrive and when you leave. I need no blind minutes when others can sneak in," Alex concluded, voice firm. "I don't trust you, but if this comes to you attacking me, I'd rather the odds be more even."

"Even, little Alex?" Yassen looked slightly amused, but there was also a slight tenseness around his eyes. "I have some more experience."

"And we're on my home turf," Alex shot back. He couldn't budge an inch in front of this man. "I don't expect you to come weaponless. That would not be something you'd agree on. But know that I'm not that inexperienced with a gun."

"Today, or tomo–"

"Today," Alex decided. "No point in wasting time. At seven. Exactly at seven."

"We have reached an agreement?" The Russian asked. There was grudging respect in his eyes now as Alex rose and looked back at the older man with a smirk.

He couldn't resist.

"Yeah. It's a date, by the way."

As Alex turned and walked away, deciding the Russian would not shoot him from behind, he missed the way Yassen's features loosened up.

The blonde man rolled his eyes and grinned slightly. Teenagers.

Alex returned to school. Hours passed, and he found himself feeling something proper for the first time since he closed off after Jack's death.

Joy. He was alive. Adrenaline was pumping through his body, his instincts awake.

It had really been Yassen in the flesh. The assassin was indeed breathing and going strong. It made Alex's pulse flutter, and he did not know why, but he enjoyed it. Maybe it was the thrill of meeting someone who at least was honest with being a part of the darker side of the world.

Yassen was dangerous, and did not bother hiding it.

It had woken the dangerous side in Alex.

At seven, exactly, they completed a complicated dance of looping footage and entering unseen.

Yassen looked much the same as he had earlier in the day, Alex concluded, as they settled in what had been Ian's old study. The clothes were still form-fitting and neutral, only darker colors, and a beanie pulled down over his head disguised any blonde hair.

"This is cozy," Yassen remarked as he pulled off his beanie and settled effortlessly in an armchair close to the window.

"Don't go all sarcastic on me now," Alex muttered, checking that the window blinds still restricted view into the room. It was sparesly decorated, merely a desk, a few chairs and a table. The old bookshelf gaped almost empty, only some of Alex's school books were dumped in a pile on one of its shelves.

The room had potential escape routes though - not that Alex would reveal them to Yassen - and it had only one window, which made it less vulnerable to spying from the outside.

The Russian barely reacted to Alex's statement, sharp eyes following him as he settled in a vacant chair. He was still giving off a dangerous vibe, but it was somehow toned down by the setting: the two of them in a private room. There was less need for tension now.

But no less need for answers, Alex thought.

"What is going on?" He asked. "Why are you contacting me out of the blue?"

When I thought you were dead? was hanging unsaid in the air.

"I have gained my footing after the... Accident," Yassen said stiffly. "And I had heard troubling reports, so I wished to check on you."

"Well, here I am," Alex said, spreading his arms in indication. "Alive and well."

Yassen tilted his head a bit, one eyebrow rising slightly. "You are well, indeed." It was dry and sarcastic and Alex suddenly wished he had looked in the mirror before this meeting. "Have you slept at all, little Alex?"

Hairs rose on Alex's neck in warning - one shouldn't show weakness in front of this man - but he knew the dark circles under his eyes would give him away.

"Occasionally," he said, trying to keep the tone flippant and failing miserably.

Yassen considered him for a few moments, as if contemplating what to say, and then he seemed to make up his mind.

"I have an offer for you, which I want you to consider carefully. Will you listen?"

An offer from a contract killer.

"Yes," Alex answered without hesitation, surprising himself as much as Yassen, who was clearly expecting resistance.

"From what I've heard, they are treating you badly," Yassen started, and there was no need to clarify who he referred to as them. "You are too recognizable, too involved in this, to disappear quietly on your own, especially since you are still a minor. They will use you, and when you are eighteen you will still not be free, they will find a way to either trap you or end you. They can't risk you falling into another's hands, or spilling what you know."

Alex sighed, and rubbed his temple, where a headache was forming. All Yassen had said so far was true. He fully expected MI6 to give him only two options: to serve or to die.

The Russian glanced around the bare room and continued.

"If you are willing to leave most of what you have behind, I can help you with a fresh start. It will not be completely on the right side of the law, but I think it would fit you. You are, after all, still young, and I think someone will need to grow and fill a role as moderator of the underbelly of this world. I am setting up my own organisation, and you could grow in relative peace behind security and code names, and choose your path."

Alex sighed. This was big. This was leaving his house, any people who still mattered to him. This was trusting Yassen. This was the out he'd been looking for.

"I do not expect you to follow me mindlessly, Alex," Yassen added, in a softer tone. It was unexpected, since the man had always seemed very unyielding. "Ask me questions. Suggest compromises."

And Alex did.

He asked about what he'd do, about the security, about where they'd be travelling, about how Yassen felt about maybe teaching him some things, about how he'd assure his own safety.

They discussed networks, existing contacts, transportation, means of communication to finish the plan. Yassen described the freedom he wanted Alex to have, but also the companionship.

"We are very much alike, you and I," he said, eyes intense and captivating. "Were we to live under the same roof, I am sure we would both benefit."

"And it doesn't hurt for you to relive the old days?" Alex joked half-heartedly, a bit put out about the thought that this was still Yassens favor to his long dead teacher and mentor.

"No, Alex," Yassen said, his voice insistent. "This is not about me and your father, this is about me and you."

Taken aback by the strength with which the Russian made the distinction, Alex only uttered a meek Okay before taking a deep breath.

"I'll take your offer," he said, and saw Yassens eyes glint with pleasure, "but only after I've taken my GCSE's."

After a moment of consideration, during which Alex studied the shadows on the assassin face caused by Yassen's high cheekbones, the man nodded. "That is a managable timeframe," he decided.

A weight lifted off Alex's shoulders.

He would be free.

If Yassen saw the relief in the teenager's eyes, he didn't mention it. He only pulled his beanie on, and flashed Alex a small teasing smile.

"I think we will have to cover the subject of "a date" sometime, little Alex," he said, smoothly rising. "I had expected some more entertainment, and maybe a kiss."

"Lessons at a later time then," Alex answered, not at all bothered.

"Yes," Yassen said, a curious look in his eyes. "With a bit of practice, you will be able to woo anyone."

Then he stepped away, and Alex went to his computer to get the looping going, and they didn't see each other for many months.

It ended with a note.

The day the Alex was handed his GCSE results, he found a slip of paper with an address, and a See you soon, Y.G under his pillow.

He was not surprised, since the spare key had disappeared from the drawer in Ian's study the day Yassen had visited.

His bag, already packed by the door, was all he needed as he stepped out, ready to loose his tail and head to the address to meet Yassen and see where they ended up.

He sent a last glance towards the empty house - already sold without MI6's knowledge, the work of a helpful Smithers - and said a silent goodbye.

It was time to start anew.