Fic: Я Судья, Жертва и Убийца (Alex/Yassen, NC-17)

[hollywood_r_bin]

Title: Я Судья, Жертва и Убийца (I am Judge, Victim and Murderer)
Fandom: Alex Rider
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Yassen
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Sex and violence, at the same time... gay sex and violence actually, kinda twisted BDSM stuff, and of course cross-generation but no underage since Alex is 21.
Summary: AU Inspired by After the End of the World by Silver Queen. Alex failed his mission at Skeleton Key. Seven years later, the world is a vastly different place. The New Soviet Union was one of the most powerful countries in the world, Britain was uninhabitable and Alex Rider was dead. All that was left was Lieutenant Alexander Alexeievich Sarov, General Sarov's adopted son and a few weary ghosts.
Word: 5863
Spoiler: Skeleton Key
Disclaimer:  I own absolutely nothing.

A/N: Thank you so much laurakyna and miss_darkmoon for beta-reading. Mistakes are of course, my own.

I hope y'all like it :)



Я Судья, Жертва и Убийца (I am Judge, Victim and Murderer)
By Hollywood Recycle Bin

Atop the Kremlin, the red star glowed dimly against the darkened purple sky like hope gone weary through years of pain and disappointment. It had been a long time since 1917, when Russia’s hope was new, when people had dreams of a better future, dreams they thought were so close they could taste it on dry lips, imagine it filling their empty stomachs.

Sasha wasn't not sure he wanted to know what Lenin would think of them all now, of what happened to his beloved Russia. A lot had happened since 1917 but none of it had ever compared to what had happened 7 years ago.

What he let happen 7 years ago.

It had looked a lot like the end of the world from the television screen inside his room, that nuclear blast that ate up Kola Peninsula and poisoned Europe. Of course, his room was large and warm with a comfortable bed. During the worst of it, he’d been there, in that room, watching the unrolling disaster like it was a movie. Nobody had let him out.

Not that he could really do anything even if they did. After all, where would he go? Where could he go when everything that he knew was destroyed, and the people who sent him into the loving arms of a monster along with it?

Some of them could have survived of course, all the important people, tucked away in safe places while the rest of the country suffered and died. But they’d probably be a little too busy to worry about one lost little agent.

One failed little agent. Because he was the only one there. The one who knew what was happening; the only one with a chance to stop it. He always thought he should have done better. He should have tried harder. He should have given his own life.

He shouldn’t have survived. But then, in a way, he really didn’t.

Alex Rider was long dead; buried somewhere, nameless amongst the million casualties of the nuclear fallout. He, on the other hand, was someone else entirely.

He was Alexander Alexeievich Sarov, son of the most powerful man in Russia, and eventually, the world.

The general had been forgiving of Alex in the end. Despite his escape attempts, the man didn’t leave him to die. He took Alex away before he could stop the bomb, and kept him close. There’d been many more acts of rebellion after that, all of them fruitless. Sarov had easily forgiven him for those too, even with the beatings and those long cold nights in the dungeon; Sarov had killed for a lot less but he could never kill his only son.

He still remembered that night, after one of his minor acts of disobedience. He had knocked out his guards, accidentally setting one of them on fire in his attempt to get away.

***

“What did you think you were trying to accomplish?” The general asked. He’d seemed so calm then, calmer than Alex had ever seen him.

Alex fought then, raged against the binds that held him to that chair, anger boiling inside him. “I’m going to escape. And then I’m going to tell the whole world what you did. I’m going to bring you down if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Is that what you really think you were doing?” the man countered, still with that same strange calmness. “You know this place Alex; you know how hard it is to get in or out without my authorization. You also know how hard it is now to get out of this country, and the odds of you finding someone, anyone who will listen to your story. Your previous employers are either dead or have gone underground; you have no way of contacting them and no way of returning to England now that the place is completely uninhabitable. You already know all of this Alex. And you’ve always been a very practical boy. If you were really trying to escape you would have waited longer after your last attempt. You would have planned it better. This seems like child’s play.”

“Well I’m sorry my escape attempt wasn’t up to standards,” Alex threw back sarcastically.

“Or were you perhaps trying to punish yourself by angering me” Sarov concluded, voice turning grim. “Maybe you were hoping that one day you might even anger me enough to kill you.”

Silence followed. Alex stopped thrashing against the chair he was bound to and avoided the general’s eyes.

“That’s not what I was doing,” he said. He wasn’t convincing, even to his own ears.

“Poor boy,” The general he walked over to him. A hand gently brushed against his hair. Sarov bent down and kissed his adopted son on the forehead. Alex hadn’t been treated that gently in a long time and the touch made something inside him ache.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said firmly. His hands were on Alex’s face now, forcing him to look right into those cold blue eyes. The fact that it was Sarov who was saying this to him made something unpleasant twist inside him.

“You couldn’t have outmatched me, Alex. What happened had to happen. The world needed to change. You’ll see that someday. I know things look awful right now, but some day, things will get better. I will make a better world Alex. I will make a better world for you.”

The acts of rebellion lessened after that. Until eventually they died away, along with everything that was Alex Rider.

***

The thing that got Sasha the most was that the general was right. Not about the world being a better place after the nuclear explosion, but things did eventually get better, at least it was that way in Russia. General Sarov may have been mad and homicidal but he was nothing if not competent.

As a leader he was ruthless, but he was also effective. The people didn't have freedom of speech anymore; they didn't have as many rights as they used to and many who stood against Sarov died or disappeared rather quickly. But most of the people had food in their stomachs. They had jobs and clothes and things to keep them warm. The elder had pensions that were worth something and no longer had to roam the streets. The young had schools and books their parents can afford. Medicine and healthcare was still a little short with all the radiation poisoning, but even on that front Russia seems to be doing better than some of the other affected countries.

For a lot of people, that seemed to be enough. For some of them, it was even more than they had before.

He stared at the bronze statue of Sarov before him. It made him sick just looking at it. The people’s hero. If only they knew what a monster he truly was. But Sarov was a monster that loved him; a monster that cared if he lived or died, which was a lot more than the supposed ‘heroes’ at MI6 could say. He wasn't sure if that made anything better or worse; only knew that it was the truth.

The street before him was deserted, the snow, slow in its descent, the only movement in sight, covering the dull grey and dark red bricks. It was after curfew now. Most people were indoors, locked more or less safely away as soldiers roamed the streets, supposedly for the people's safety.

But there were no other soldiers on this little road. No people pressed up against their windows in curiosity at the lone young officer who had ventured into this wasteland. Only broken glass, cracked bricks and concrete; archways that cast ominous shadows on an already dark alley. The place had been abandoned. Or at least made to seem that way.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow flew by. His hand went to the pistol on his waist on instinct and followed. It could have been a ghost from his past come to haunt him, but if it wasn’t, then whoever it was wasn’t supposed to be here.

A more juvenile part of him smirked at that irony. After all, it used to be his job to be in places he wasn’t supposed to be.

The shadow turned out to be real after all. He caught up to the back of the billowing black coat, gun pointed, steady. The person kept walking.

-“Останoвитес!” He shouted at the shadow. It stopped as he commanded but made no move to turn around.

-“Мне жаль. Я не знала, что ходьба счутается преступлением”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know walking was a crime.”

Sasha smiled at the woman’s cheekiness. He didn’t know anyone who still had that kind of spunk in them after the years they’d had. Any other soldier would have had her arrested immediately; probably even beaten her up too but for being so blatantly disrespectful. But there was no mockery in her voice; in fact it was strangely calm... and unnervingly familiar.

Sasha supposed he should have this woman arrested, if not for anything else, then for breaking the curfew and being in a restricted area, but he didn’t. Instead he threw back an equally cheeky reply.

-"Это зависит от того, куда вы идёте"

“It depends on where you’re walking to.”

He almost swore he could hear her slight laugh.

The figure finally turned around, hood coming down to reveal a familiar potato shaped head.  Her haircut was as bad as it always was and yet despite that, completely immaculate. That part of her hadn’t changed at all. the only difference in the woman in front of him was the extra wrinkles and tiredness in her eyes.

“Hello Alex,” Mrs. Jones said finally.

Sasha stiffened. His hand tightened around the gun even as he lowered it. He felt breathless all of a sudden, but tried not to show it.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he told her. Knowing it wouldn’t matter. He wondered if she thought he was a traitor. Did she think he let what happen happened?

Was she here to kill him?

But no, that would be ridiculous. If she wanted him dead she would have sent someone else. Coming here herself was highly impractical. In fact, if this was just another mission, sending her here would also be impractical. No, whatever this was, it was more important than that. They wouldn’t send Mrs. Jones for just anything.

“What are you doing here?” he asked instead.

“I’m here to see you of course,” she answered. He wasn’t expecting such a straight answer. “We’ve been watching you Alex.”

Of course they had. How else would they know he’d be here?

“Don’t call me that,” he told her. Knowing that he may have let slip a weakness he shouldn’t have. Only he gets to call him Alex now.

“Of course, you prefer to be called Sasha now,” she noted casually. “Well, Sasha, I think you know perfectly well why we're here.”

“To bring down Sarov.”

The woman nodded.

“And you need my help.” It wasn’t a question.

“You are the only one who can get close to him. And you know exactly what he did. I know you want to see him brought to justice, Sasha.”

The young soldier gave a bitter smile. Seven years and MI6 still think they can use and manipulate him.

“And what happens to Russia, Mrs. Jones?” he threw back, keeping his voice steady. “Without Sarov holding everything together, there will be a major power vacuum. Every fraction would be fighting each other for power. Former Soviet Union countries Sarov has regained will go back to war. Millions of people would die.”

“Millions have already died because of that man,” Mrs. Jones pointed out. “And many more have died and will die for standing up to him.”

“And you honourably want to avenge those poor souls? Please, I’m not fourteen anymore. I know what’s left of Britain is still allied with the Americans. And I know Russia becoming powerful again after all this time is making them nervous. The United States don’t care what happens to the Russian people so long as the country’s been weakened, and killing Sarov is just the way to do that. It would throw the whole region into chaos.”

Mrs. Jones gave him a sardonic smile. “I didn’t realise you cared so much about Russia.”

“I care about keeping as many people alive and well as possible. Enough people have died already. I don’t want more to die over a fourteen year-old’s sense of morality.”

“Fair enough,” the woman said, but far from giving up she continued. “And what happens if we let Sarov stay in power Alex? Sure, now he’s all about getting his own country back up on its feet, but what happens after that? In the previous cold war, the US and USSR had thawed out, by the end it had become a game, neither side had any real intention of expanding or going to war with each other. Do you really think someone like Sarov would settle for that?”

She let the question hang in the air; the question they both knew the answer to.

“You know Sasha,” she started just as she turned to leave. “If you’re so worried about the fate of Russia, maybe you should consider taking power.”

He laughed at that. Its bitter edge could cut glass.

“Why not?” Mrs. Jones continued, looking at the badges on his uniform. “Isn’t that what he’s been grooming you for with your military training? You’re his son; you’ve proved yourself to be intelligent, resourceful; a good strategist. You’ve learnt a lot from him despite everything. You have a lot of his good points, and none of his insanity, and with Sarov’s reputation as ‘the people’s leader’; it’d be easy to use that to your advantage and gain the people’s trust.”

“Thanks but I think I’ve had enough of being your puppet to last a life time as it is.”

“Who said anything about being a puppet?” She retorted. “At this point I think the Americans would settle for anyone who’s at least halfway sane and marginally negotiable.”

“Just think about it,” she said before putting her hood back on. “Да свиданя, Саша”

She disappeared into the shadows she came from.

Heart heavy, Sasha turned away- back to the direction he'd been going in the first place. He kept his chin up, head straight even as the urge to look down and avoid everything tugged at him. He was a soldier, and soldiers didn’t sulk in public, and even if they did they certainly didn’t do it while in uniform.

His destination was at the very deep end of the restricted area. The building itself didn’t look any different from the other dreary old buildings that surrounded it, but really that was the whole point. Only a handful of high up government officials and military officers knew about this place. Being son of the Generallisimus of the New Soviet Union had its perks.

Inside, the place was lighted with a warm amber glow. It wasn’t overly spacious or elegantly decorated but there was a certain sense of class to it one often didn’t find in brothels. Unlike other brothels, there were also no scantily clad women loitering around. Instead, only a lone receptionist stood at her counter, polite but insincere smile on her face. She had a catalogue on hand for each night's available entertainment but she knew Sasha well enough from his frequent visits to know that none of them were of interest to him.

-“Добрый вечер, Лейтенант Саров” she greeted, expressionless as always as he handed her his weapons. He might have frequented this place often enough not to always need full ID check but even so, no one was going to let him in fully armed.

The part of the building he was going to was even less known. While many of the country’s VIPs were distracted, ensconced in the arms of some lovely waif (or whatever it was they preferred), there were others who knew this place was created for more than just sins of the flesh.

The basement level of the building could only be entered through a secret elevator behind the receptionist’s desk. No one, not even the highest levels of officials were allowed into these corridors unsupervised. The corridors themselves were lined with enforced steel doors that lock from the outside. There weren’t that many rooms here, but then, there was never a need for many, only a special few were fortunate and unfortunate enough to be allowed to occupy them.

This place was a five star prison. A place, hidden and unrecorded, known only by General Sarov’s most trusted men. It was a safe house, for those who needed to hide or made to temporarily disappear, but also a place where enemies came to stay; when they were too important to be eliminated but at the same time too dangerous to be let free; people with information too useful to be let out of their sight, who bargained their way inside these luxurious walls because a golden cage is better than any other kind.

There were others too. Old star crossed lovers and treacherous offspring of Generals and Ministers; people who were an enemy of the state, and yet too loved (by someone important) to be put out of their misery. Sasha was surprised by them initially; that someone like Sarov would let these people (however few of them) live rather than kill them on the spot. But then, it would be rather useful, to have someone’s most beloved in the palm of his hands, ready to be crushed at a moment’s notice, and to have them in such a way that it wasn’t even his cruelty that put them in that situation in the first place. It was a move that gave him unequivocal power over these men and an illusion of mercy at the same time.

Sasha had always suspected that this place had been built specifically for him; a place for Sarov to keep him, in case he couldn’t be moulded into the perfect son. The general never could kill him.

It was rather ironic that now he was the most frequent visitor of the place.

The receptionist stopped in front of the sixth door, swiped her key card and was gone before he even entered.

Sasha took a step into the large quiet room. Unlike the other cells in this place, it wasn’t lavishly decorated, with furniture that wouldn’t look out of place at Versailles. In fact, it looked just like an average studio apartment. A plain looking but large bed lay at the end of the room with books laid haphazardly on the night stand. Tables and chairs that were comfortable, but gave the room no sense of identity, and a television that wouldn’t show any news of the outside world.

Yassen Gregorovich quirked an eyebrow at him from the bed.

“Lieutenant Sarov,” he greeted and Sasha can feel the disdain coming off him, even if his voice (as usual) betrayed no emotion. Yassen always hated it when he showed up in his uniform, which was unfortunately all the time. Walking down the street after curfew in regular clothes would call unnecessary attention to him after all.

Slowly Sasha unbuttoned his coat, eyes never leaving the assassin as one after the other, he chucked off the offending articles. Yassen continue to laze on the bed, his robe lying open as reddish-blonde hair fell down over his shoulders. Sasha wondered if they offered a barber service here. Maybe Yassen just couldn’t be bothered cutting it.

He was also thinner than he used to be, and pale from years away from the touch of sunshine. His muscles still looked firm though; he kept himself fit, even within these walls, never letting himself go; never allowing himself to be weak in front of his captors even when the sharpness in his icy blue eyes dull more each time Sasha saw him, and the circles under his eyes grew deeper.

It had been four years since Yassen was hired to assassinate the good general. Four years since the first time he failed his assignment, costing him his freedom and the life he once knew. He never asked for little Alex to stand up on his behalf, to beg his father to spare his life. In fact Sasha knew he wished Alex hadn’t.

He did it anyway. Never quite knowing why, he only knew he had to. It had nothing to do with owing his life to the assassin and everything to do with his own sanity.

The assassin watched Sasha back with the same intensity, eyes unblinking as he finally got up. Prowling gracefully to him, the old predator awoken from slumber as Sasha stripped off pieces of his armour one by one, willing himself to become the prey.

Finally, all the clothes lay on the floor, like a second skin shredded from him. Idly, he thought of the outrage on his old sergeant’s face at the mess he’d left behind. Uniforms should never be discarded so carelessly, or so he was taught. An old and childish part of him was amused at the minor rebellion but then Yassen was in front of him, and he let all thoughts slip away.

“Alex” Yassen whispered, soft but commanding on his ears and suddenly he was more than just naked. He was laid bare, helpless as the wave of nostalgia hit him with full force. Sasha, the son of Generallisimus Sarov; Sasha, the lieutenant of the New-Soviet Army; Sasha who stood by and watched Sarov kill millions; Sasha who pulled the trigger on a rebel leader, Sasha with hands covered in blood because his father told him to; Sasha who did what had to be done ... Sasha melted away. He wasn’t Sasha anymore, not here, not in front of him.

“Alex” Yassen whispered again, and he broke as chapped lips crashed against him, body going pliant against that hard chest, hands gripping him, bruising and vice-like. There was a reason no one else was allowed to call him that. That boy was his weakness, and it was only here, hidden away from everyone that he can be allowed to breathe again, even if he wasn’t that boy anymore.

He tasted blood on his tongue; Yassen biting at his lower lips as blunt nails scraped over old battle wounds. Alex didn’t fight him; he was sick of fighting. Instead he closed his eyes and let Yassen violate him, hands roaming, mouth taking, body owning anything and everything he could.

He was breathless when he opened them again and caught the glimpse of softness in his predator’s eyes. There was a memory there, something cherished that Alex would never know. Something he thought might be like love before the hatred took over again.

He let Yassen throw him on the bed. They were roughly the same size now, but Yassen’s body still managed to cover him, rough hands pinning his arms up over his head.

He was a victim now. Helpless.

He savoured every minute of it, bucked up against the sensations assaulting his body, against teeth that gnawed against his nipples before the wet warmth of tongue slid soothingly over them. Yassen’s cock was pressing against him, long and hard, leaving wet lines of pre-cum on his thighs; his free hand still roamed over his bare skin- pinching and scratching.

Then Yassen moved his mouth to his neck, biting down and sucking, knowing exactly where to make Alex moan even louder. He knew Yassen loved leaving his mark on him; dark, ugly bruises that take days to fade, an inconvenience to Sasha but Alex never stopped him.

Alex moaned at the loss when Yassen got off him, eyes wide with passion before he felt the impact on his face. He felt the pain spread before Yassen's fist even left him and knew that there was a bruise blooming on his cheek. His eyes watered, visions blurred around the edges.

He didn’t see the hands that shoved him off the bed, only felt the pain as his shoulder hit the floor. His hand cradled it with one hand when he felt the Yassen’s tall shadow loom over him. He braced himself for the kicks he knew would follow.

“It’s a lot easier to be the victim, isn’t it Alex?”Yassen asked, voice dripping with cruelty as he his feet connected with Alex’s stomach.

He didn’t answer. Never had to. Yassen knew his answer to that question all too well.

Alex didn’t fight the attack on his body. He didn’t move, or get up. Instead he let the sensations take over. Even without shoes on the kicks were still hard enough to leave him breathless. Yassen always knew exactly where to hit, all the soft vulnerable places on his body. It wasn’t too overwhelming, of course, pain had become something like an old friend to him over the years, but still, it was so different here with Yassen. With anyone else, he couldn’t let it wash over him like this, let the pain wash his mind blank.

Pain wasn’t something that turned Alex on, at least in the stricter sense of the word. He didn’t get a hard on from the strikes to his stomach, the feel of knuckles colliding with his cheekbones, but he had to admit, there was a lot about pain that was like pleasure. The way it made bodies writhe, the way it shut everything out and reduced the world to nothing but sensations. The way it made him pant, teeth gritted. The way it left him weak and vulnerable, but only if he let it.

He could never let that happen in front of anyone else. It wasn’t because Yassen wasn’t his enemy, because he was, now more than ever since he was put him in this prison. But he was Alex’s enemy, not Sasha’s. Somehow, that made Yassen his. It made him his in a way nothing else was, even now when he was beating the crap out of him.

He suspected Yassen knew it too. Knew that that was why he didn’t let him go, let the bullets rain into his body like the General wanted.

He was never letting Yassen go. No matter how much Yassen resented him for it.

The blows stopped and Alex coughed up blood. When he looked up, he stared into the assassin’s eyes again. There was fire burning in those eyes, fire burning just behind that icy blue. Yassen was a predator, captured and caged but he wasn’t broken. Weary, but not broken, not yet.

Unlike Alex.

Yassen didn’t take the time to prepare him, only slathered his dick in oil before plunging in, balls deep. He relished in the screams Alex didn’t bother hiding, watching Alex's face twist; muscles contorting. His balls tightened at the feel of the body writhing beneath him, hands gripping tanned hips, painfully tight like he owned it completely.

For a while Yassen stayed sheathed inside him, still as a sculpture, reintroducing Alex's body to the feel of him, burning inside while his hand found Alex’s length. It wasn’t hard to coax it to life; Alex was so used to this pain now and Yassen’s hand knew exactly what he liked, knew the exact shape of the vein that ran down the underside like a river, knew that the scrape of blunts nails made him shudder just the way he wanted him to.

Soon he started a rhythm, harsh, with a touch of hatred and desire, Yassen growling in his ears as he pulled out of him and slammed back in again, his hair brushing Alex’s face. His hands were moving; squeezing him to that same rhythm as his dick started pressing on his prostate. Alex left his own marks on him then, head thrown back as nails dug into skin. It hurt like hell but hurt so good. He pulled Yassen closer, bucked up and pushed himself down on it, fucking himself, desperate for that rhythm that was all they were and all that consumed them.

It didn’t take them long to reach the precipice. By then Alex’s whole body was throbbing and buzzing. Pain, pleasure, he couldn’t even tell them apart anymore, could only know the intensity that was building up in him, searing him in just the right way before it all exploded in that blinding, white hot glow.

When it was over Alex laid his head back on the floor, body spent. This was the part he hated the most, coming down from it all; the crash of reality on his wonderfully blank mind. It comes back to him, all the pieces, who he is, who he has to be, the world he’s in when steps outside this room, all so real, and so there, like the dull throbbing in his shoulder, and his face, and his stomach... and everywhere else.

The pain was always so different once the orgasm was over.

Despite his reluctance to move from this spot for the next century, Yassen somehow managed to get him onto the bed and checked him for any serious injuries. He was always so painfully gentle in the moments after. It made him wonder if Yassen had forgotten that he was a military officer now and not a fourteen year old boy who was in over his head.

But then, forgetting had always been the point of him coming here hadn’t it?

Moments of ceasefire followed after that. Alex let himself relax in the assassin’s bed. The hatred was still there, not lessened any, or tampered by the softer touches. But hatred was never all there was to them anyway, that much he knew. And in the end, the arms of a lover or the arms of an enemy, it didn’t really matter.

Not when they were both dead. Ghosts of their former selves, trapped together.

“You should have let me die when you had the chance,” Yassen said, now sitting on the bed next to him. His words were disconnected from the comforting warmth of his skin, brushing against Alex.

Alex smiled weakly; it wasn’t the first time Yassen had said that. “The feeling’s mutual, trust me,” he said, but it lacked its usual bite. Yassen must have heard the tiredness in his voice. He changed the subject.

“You were late today,” he noted; his hand grazed over the short spikes of Alex’s military cut. Alex pretended he didn’t want to lean into the touch.

“I ran into Mrs. Jones,” he answered.

“What did she want?” Yassen asked; voice still and emotionless as always though Alex knew him well enough to detect the contempt in it.

“For me to take over Russia,” he replied before laughing bitterly.  He felt the assassin’s eyes on him again and couldn’t help but look back.

He was surprised to find a look of mild interest.

“Not you too!” It was one thing for Mrs. Jones to want him as her puppet (didn’t she always?); it was another for Yassen to be entertaining similar ideas. He’d never known Yassen to be interested in political power before.

“It would have its benefits,” he said neutrally, which in Yassen was as close to “I’m deeply enthusiastic about the idea” as it was ever going to get.

Alex quirked an eyebrow at him as he searched the assassin’s carefully blank face, not entirely sure what he was looking for. He saw it anyway though, saw the way his eyes changed. There was a subtle shift like the sharp edges of ice melting at the corners when a warm thumb brushed against it.

It reminded him of that moment, just before the violence when Yassen looked at him with sharp eyes, softened by nostalgia.

Only it wasn’t nostalgia behind the look this time. It was something else, something that made it harder for him to breath.

He thinks it might have looked a little bit like hope. It was the last place he’d expected to see it, in eyes that had always been so completely guarded, written on someone whose entire survival had depended on being cold blooded.

And Alex was the one who sparked it.

It had been so long since Alex had seen hope, tasted it. Hope was something that had been lost to him for so long.  And yet here it was in front of him.

He’d forgotten how contagious it can be. Because, for the first time since his uncle died, since his youth was so carelessly ripped from him; he can feel it, small but building inside him, cautious and uncertain, but warm and almost unfamiliar.

He couldn’t stop the stream of thoughts from flowing through his mind, of possibilities, and plans. What he would need to do to achieve it, the connections and alliances he’d need to make, images he would need to build up with the people and chains of commands. He thought of enemies, people who would stand against him, people who could be persuaded and those that needed to be eliminated.

Seven years ago, this line of thought was unthinkable. Politicians had been just ‘those power hungry bastards’ to him then. He could never imagine himself as that sort of person, the kind that could play that twisted game.

But then he thought of the wars. Of millions more lives extinguished because of Sarov’s unstoppable need to build his ideal world that was more cruelty than utopia. Of what else it might cost the world if things were left as they are, or if anyone of his rabid followers took power after him.

Sasha had too much blood on his hands to cast himself as a martyr or anyone’s saviour, but Alex... Alex was apparently, not as much of a ghost as he thought he was. Now that Yassen had roused him from slumber, he was as stubborn as he remembered him to be. There was no way he could let Sarov go on, not if he can help it, not if there was even the smallest chance that he could change things, however hard they might be, however high the cost.

He also thought of Yassen. Free from these four walls. He knows he won’t let his only companion for the past 4 years go easily, but he’d never wanted to keep him caged like this either. For a moment he entertained the thought of the two of them together, him as the figure head of the country while Yassen worked behind the scenes, not as his puppet master, but maybe as his equal.

It was a strangely ironic thought and maybe a far-fetched one.

But then again, when it comes to hope, maybe nothing was too far-fetched.

After all, Alex Rider did just come back from the dead.

END

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Translations (for the ones that aren't already translated in the story of course)
Останoвитес!- Stop!
Да свиданя, Саша - Fair well Sasha
Добрый вечер, Лейтенант Саров - Good evening Lieutenant Sarov

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A/N 2: Title of the fic is taken from the song Небо(Sky) by Слот(Slot). The whole fic was inspired by the song, and the song can be downloaded here

Please comment!