A.N. This was written for the Spyfest December Fic Exchange, for the prompt: "He was running out of time".

Disclaimer: I haven't been nice enough for Santa to have given me the rights to Alex Rider. Then again, as the Grinch, maybe I should... steal them? *evil cackle*

Alex had lost count of the number of times he was running out of time.

A few stuck in his mind more clearly than others - racing to the Stormbreaker launch was memorable for being his first mission and being strapped to the grinder… well, he still had a nightmare about that one from time to time. Frankly he was sick of it, but the trouble was that he was never given much of a choice.

What did one life matter, even (especially) his own, when it came to the greater good?

This time he was in London. His home turf, one could say, except that outside of his bike rides to and from school or going to the park to play football with Tom, the city was far too big to learn every alley way, every route.

But there was no missing his destination; it appeared on the postcards, the souvenirs, the travel photos online, standing proudly by the Thames, where it wouldn't get lost among the ever-increasing number of skyscrapers. Big Ben. The most famous clock tower in the UK and probably in the world.

And now it had become a huge bomb timer, with explosions set to go off all across London after the final chime of midnight, while he had barely ten minutes to stop it.

He had been inside the tower once before, but it was a long time ago, when he was only eight or nine - Jack had spent her first couple of years with the Riders dragging Alex around all the tourist attractions on weekends when Ian was away. He had a vague impression of stairs and cogs and the enormous bell, but that was it. Nothing that might help. Oh well, he was used to having to improvise.

But there was one more factor to make matters worse - it was New Year's Eve, and the streets were crowded as people flooded the streets to watch the fireworks. The capital promised the best display in the country, and the magic of the live show was a hundred times that of seeing it through a cold television screen, drawing people in from all over the country for a night out.

He had to elbow his way through as he raced across Westminster Bridge, ignoring the annoyed, drunken yells and with no spare breath to apologise, before vaulting over the railings around the abbey. He heard a shout and, glancing behind him, could see a policeman waving for him to stop. The police were out in full force during the festivities and, as though he didn't already have enough to worry about, they had seen him and a small group had gathered and was pointing in his direction. He turned back to the tower and put on an extra burst of speed.

The clock tower was locked, but he had an actual lock pick gun this time since it was a short operation where he hadn't had to go undercover - he grimaced at the thought of having to use exploding chewing gum on such a historical building. His hands were trembling with stress and he struggled to steady them as he fitted the snap gun over the lock and pulled the trigger. He could feel the stares on his back as more people noticed him and was glad to slip inside before he could become the next internet sensation.

Inside the thick walls it was easy to forget the chaos outside. The noise was no more than a dull rumbling and the stairwell wasn't lit. He had to take the first few flights in pitch black darkness until his eyes adjusted now he was away from the streetlamps and the fairy lights left up after Christmas, bounding up the stairs two at a time. He didn't know what exactly he was going to do in the eight minutes he had left, but the only thing he could think of was getting to the top of Big Ben and improvising from there. He was putting a lot of blind faith in his instincts but then, what else could he do?

There were 334 steps up to the belfry and he had to sprint up every flight. He was in good shape but was a wreck when he reached the top, gasping for air and legs burning with lactic acid. He pushed his hair back from his face and staggered onwards, to the first clock face he came to, squinting against the harsh light of the bulbs set opposite, lighting it up from the inside.

The face was made of glass and he could see out over London. There were thousands of lights illuminating the city, but most worrying were the blue and red flashes below by the abbey. He had to act quickly - the police were here to arrest him, not assist in defusing a bomb (or several) and he had a feeling they would act first, ask questions later.

He pushed himself away again, a fresh surge of adrenaline kicking in. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the time and panicked for a moment, thinking it was already past midnight, before remembering that the face was reversed.

Not that it was much better - worse even, as going past midnight would mean that the bombs hadn't worked.

Two minutes to midnight.

What was he meant to do in that time? It wasn't enough. Alex had never failed a mission before, but this might just be his first.

He could see nothing here (what had he expected to find? A giant off switch?) and so he pressed on, through the narrow corridors between the clocks and the walls holding the lightbulbs, reaching the bell that gave Big Ben its name with little over a minute to spare.

He cursed repeatedly under his breath as he looked around. No switch, no red and blue wires, so much machinery he had no idea where to start and -

"Hello, Alex Rider."

He found the lack of suspenseful music disappointing as a figure moved in the shadows, drawing his eye although he still couldn't make out his face. The voice tugged at some distant memory but he didn't have the time to stop and examine it.

"If you're here to stop me, there's really no need," Alex said, "There's nothing I can do anyway."

"I never knew you to be so defeatist, Alex."

"Who are you?" he demanded angrily. Not only was this person about to blow up half of London, but they were mocking him now, too?

"You know who I am Alex," the man said, stepping forward, "although I can't blame you if it takes you a moment to recognise me. I doubt you ever expected to see me again.

Yassen freaking Gregorovich. He wasn't sure if he should be surprised or not. The man had always seemed like he would have more lives than a damn cat, but there had been no mistaking the events in the plane - right?

He spluttered for a few seconds but decided in the end that it really wasn't important right now.

"Why are you doing this? The bombs? Stop it and I'll do whatever you want."

"That," Yassen said silkily, raising an eyebrow, "is a dangerous promise to make, but entirely unnecessary."

Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted as the hammer fell on the bell and the chimes started. Alex clapped his hands over his ears marginally too late, deafened and disorientated. He shut his eyes on reflex, trying to cope with the attack on his senses, and went along with it when he felt a tug on his elbow.

He followed the assassin up some more stairs, reaching the top as the last chime faded into reverberations, coming out by the Ayrton light, a huge lantern that was lit when one of Parliament's Houses was sitting after dark. It was off right now, affording them a brilliant view over the city. His ears were still ringing, but there was no mistaking the sound of explosions breaking out.

He stumbled to the railing, blinking back tears, not wanting to see the destruction caused but unable to stay away. He was too late, he should have tried harder to stop it-

"Relax," Yassen said casually, coming to lean against the railing next to him. "There weren't any bombs."

He pointed off to the left. Alex followed the railing round to the next side, where he had could see over the Thames to the London Eye. There, colourful explosions reached level with him - fireworks. Just fireworks.

"Happy New Year, Alex," Yassen said.

"Why are you here?" Alex said. "Why did you lure me here?"

"I suppose that faking my death gave me a taste for dramatics," he said. "I couldn't resist such a location, such timing. And if I were to play the part of the supervillain to your heroics, well, you are used to those with plans much too complex to be practical. All in a day's work for you. I knew you would take the bait."

"You still haven't answered the question," Alex said. "I'm sick of people playing games with me."

But Yassen was already walking away to the other side. Alex started to storm after him when he heard the hollow ringing of combat boots on the metal stairs and turned to face the opening as police began to fan out from it, raising his hands.

He heard a few mutters about it being "just a kid" before the woman in charge took the lead.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked.

"I thought…" Alex trailed off, glancing behind him.

Yassen Gregorovich had already disappeared, even though they were hundreds of feet above the ground.

But Alex knew with absolute certainty that that wouldn't be the last time they saw each other.

A.N. There you go! I hope that lived up to expectations. Sorry about Yassen. He shows up everywhere and demands at gunpoint to be included. It's not that unrealistic, though, right? None of us really believe that he actually died? *weak chuckle*

The title was inspired by the Doomsday clock, metaphorically ticking down the time to a global man-made catastrophe, which is actually at two minutes to midnight now in 2018. I was weirded out by that when I found - until the bomb actually goes off, it's easy to think it'll never happen. What do y'all think of that? Will it be reversed next year?

Well, Happy Holidays. Review? Even if you hated it. But, like, constructive hate. Merci beaucoup xx