Warnings: N/A

Rated: T

Summary: For Alex's Christmas wish, he is finally free. He walks away from MI6 - walks so far, he finds himself wandering down memory lane.

Disclaimer: All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

(Just a little one shot I wrote, trying to get back into my writing groove. Enjoy!)

People had told him, time and time again they had told him. Just walk away. Walk away, like it was the easiest thing in the world. As if it was possible to take more than a step in the wrong direction before the leash was pulled taut and he was yanked back in line.

Just walk away, they would say. Jack, Tom, Yassen. Agents, soldiers, therapists, everyone. Walk away. Like it was that simple.

It wasn't.

It was hard. And painful. It hurt. It pulled at his heart and tied his gut into the most complicated sailors knots Ian had ever taught him. It brought tears to his eyes. Every step was like being hit by a train (and Alex knew exactly what that was like).

Yet, he did it anyway. He walked away. More literally than anyone probably meant, he was sure. He walked straight down the stairs, across the lobby, past the agents with sharp eyes and calculating looks. Left the building into the snow billowing outdoors. He walked across the street - past the place he had been shot and left bleeding. His heart beating faster with every step.

He walked down a street, and then another, let his feet lead the way. Up and down random back alleyways. Taking switchbacks and retreating each time he found a deadens. Going nowhere in particular, just away.

He walked - trudging through snow and slush - until his heart rate dipped to something resembling normal.

It was nearly Christmas - for those that celebrated that kind of thing. For the first seven years of his life, he had barely known what Christmas (or any holiday) was. Aside from getting time off school, there was little difference between the holidays and any other time of year. Ian was either there or he wasn't, either had a present or he didn't. The first time he could remember hearing the words 'Happy Christmas' or 'Father Christmas' was in kindergarten. Or maybe from one of the nanny's.

Not that it bothered Alex.

With Christmas on the brain, Alex found himself down a side alley filled with stores with hanging signs out front. He spotted one, a little, anonymous bookshop sitting on the corner.

His heart stuttered again. His breath caught. Alex stood for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe; when he finally did, it came in a big, lung expanding gasp.

Snowflakes rushed down his throat, throwing him into a coughing fit. Alex covered his mouth with a hand, rubbing his chilled face in hopes of restoring circulation.

The bookshop… Alex didn't even know the name, the sign didn't market it. It was just a tiny wooden sign, a carving of a stack of books.

He went there for the first time when he was seven. His first Christmas with Jack. Ian had left the week before, and Alex had taken some of the emergency money that his uncle kept in the cookie jar, and he had sneaked towards the shops when he had told Jack he was going to Tom's.

He had quickly realized that the money he had grabbed - that had looked like a lot to a seven year old - did not measure up to the price tags lining London's streets. He had walked for hours trying to find a gift within his price range. Then he had passed this little store. Perched in the window had been a book, a silly looking romance novel that he had seen Jack reading.

He'd looked closer, through the frosted window. Something had drawn him inside.

It was musty and dim inside, not at all like the classy boutiques on Bond Street or King's Road. Books lined shelves, and sat in stacks against walls and in the middle of aisles.

A closer inspection showed to Alex's young eyes how unique each book was. Some looked brand new, fresh off the press. Others were so old and wilted the pages were yellow and crinkling.

Someone had clearly tried to arrange them alphabetically by author, but even at seven years of age, Alex could tell they hadn't fully managed it. He also noticed that some of the books - marked with numbers, indicating that they were a part of a series - were missing their counterparts.

A used bookshop.

The brass bell on the door rung overhead as Alex pushed his way in. It was pleasantly warm inside, and a welcome escape from the weak snow and harsh wind outside. Alex blinked twice to adjust his eyes to the change in lighting.

"Evening!" The call came from amidst the pillars of novels. Alex craned his neck towards the source, and a head popped up to greet him. "What brings you by?"

It was an elderly man - and after the briefest moment, Alex remembered him as the same store owner from all those years ago.

He recalled the man helping a younger version of himself pick out a novel for an older female role model that he hadn't quite gotten to know yet. It had been a challenge, but the pair had been up to it. They must have read the spines of every book on the shelves.

The man had a few more lines on his forehead and crinkles by his eyes now. Alex wouldn't be shocked if the row of pearly teeth currently grinning at him turned out to be dentures.

"Just wandering about," Alex answered hesitantly. "A little last minute Christmas shopping."

"Quite the weather for it," the man remarked, looking out the windows at the snow and melt and mush. Alex smiled in return.

"Well," the man continued, "Have a good look around. Let me know if you need anything, ye hear?"

Alex nodded, amused. "Will do, sir."

He ducked down the nearest aisle. The bookshelves towered above him, brushing the ceiling. Fingers trailing the ensemble of books displayed on the nearest shelf, he walked slowly down the aisle.

He recognized some of the classics - the books you would expect to find in any bookstore. There were peeling novels stamped for a school library, obviously donated; a few were even marked from Brooklands.

Wandering along, feeling oddly in a daze, he let his eyes skim the shelves. Picking out titles he recognized, judging all the books by their covers.

At the back of the store, where the books were dusty and nearly never touched, Alex found a little trove of foreign language books. Some were dictionaries or thesaurus's, others stories.

A small stack resting on the floor were titled in Russian characters. Alex's own shoddy knowledge of the language barely let him translate more than a word or two.

With a quick glance around, Alex took a seat on the rough carpet. Crossed his legs under him. He drew the small stack closer, scrutinizing the titles and running his hands along the bindings. His attention was caught by a book on the bottom of the stack, and he carefully freed it, trying not to topple the entire tower.

He didn't recognize the title, nor the author, and a quick flip through the pages didn't give him any clues as to what the book was about. Still, something felt familiar. The weight in his palms, the coarse feeling of the ripped fabric cover, the brittle pages delicately bound by thread.

He sat there for a while, under the cover of the bookcases, guarded by the stacks all around him. In his own fortified castle of books. The dim lighting forced him to squint at the faded black ink before him.

Partway through the first paragraph, he was forced to admit defeat and used a nearby Russian to German dictionary. It took him ages to stumble his way past the first page.

From the introduction, it appeared to be the beginnings of an adventure novel. He flipped ahead a chapter or two, and it turned out to be something about a young orphan on the streets of Moscow, he thought.

He was just getting absorbed in the story, brow furrowed in concentration as he translated between the two books in his lap. Outside, the wind had picked up. A low, droning howl echoed in his ears.

"Find what you're looking for?"

Alex jerked his head up, startled. The dictionary tumbled from its resting point on his knee and flipped shut on the floor. The bookshop owner stood at the end of the shelf he was hiding behind, head cocked in question.

"Uh, yes," Alex stuttered, awkwardly pushing himself to his feet. His one ankle tingled with pins and needles. "I think I'll get this one, please."

He held up the Russian novel for inspection.

The bookkeep nodded once, a smile pulling at his cheeks. The man began to lead Alex through the maze of the store towards the cashier. "Russian? You learning that in school?" Was asked over the man's shoulder.

Alex hesitated before giving a brief half nod. "Independent study," he answered. Not quite a lie. He was studying it independently, just not for school.

"I don't sell too many of those," the bookkeeper continued conversationally. "Russian, that is. Had one other guy buy a similar one earlier this month, said it was a Christmas gift. But I think he was native Russian."

The man rambled on about past sales and the customers that came in and out of the small shop. Alex guessed that owning a used bookshop was a lonely business. He nodded along, humouring the man, as they found the front desk and completed the small transaction. Alex hadn't had any of his cards on him, but luckily the crumpled bill in his front pocket had covered it.

The little book was wrapped in brown paper, tied up in twine. Alex tucked it inside his jacket, covering his heart. Something about that made him feel safe. He gave a final friendly nod as the man handed him a few jingling coins as change.

"You have a happy Christmas now," The man said, fingers twiddling in a small wave.

"Happy Christmas," Alex replied. Then he turned to brave the snow.

The gust of wind outside nearly blew him off his feet. Alex turned his hood up, only for it to be blown right back to the nape of his neck. Lowering his eyes against the stirring snowflakes, he trudged on.

His stomach turned briefly. Alex knew it was ridiculous, but the further he got from that little used bookshop, the closer he got to home, the less at home he felt. Even as his childhood house came into view, Alex just felt lost.

Christmas rolled around, and Alex was exactly where he had been for the past few days. Sitting on the sofa of his living room, in a barren house. No twinkling Christmas lights adorning the front porch. No evergreen tree standing above a mound of presents. No star topper or angel. No garland or tinsel.

Just him, alone, book in hand. A fuzzy blanket wrapped around his waist. A cup of tea leaving a ring on his coffee table (Ian had always insisted on coasters, but Alex hadn't bothered with them in a while now.)

He had a pen, slowly dying as he scrawled notes between lines and in the margins. His phone, open to a translating app, had a dwindling battery. Christmas Day turned to Christmas night as the sun dropped below the horizon.

He scrawled the translation of the last line, dark blue pen running a light, watery sky blue as the ink ran out. The percentage of his phone dropped below double digits, and with it his energy level.

He plopped the book down next to his cooling tea, and shifted down the couch cushions, curling on his side. Blanket tucked under his chin, Alex let his eyelids droop. He watched the snowfall through the large living room window as Christmas came to a close - and pretty soon his eyes closed as well.

Only to open again at the sound of clatter, followed by a muffled thud. Alex sat up on the couch, eyes tracing the path to the origin of the sound.

Tossing his blanket aside, suppressing a shiver, he trod carefully towards the front door. The panels of bulletproof glass on either side of the door showed no one outside. Alex took a pace closer.

His foot nudged something, and he glanced down. A small package sat on the rug. Brown wrapping paper and a familiar twine tied off in a bow. Someone must have posted it through the letterbox.

Alex stooped to pick the package up, warily. He knew that - courtesy of Ian and Smithers - the house had all kinds of sensors, right down to the mail slot. If the package contained any kind of radiation or drug, if it was a bomb or biochemical attack, an alarm would have gone off. Still, Alex handled the package like one wrong move would set it off.

Tucked under the twine was a small card. Alex slipped it free, turning it over to find a message. Just two words: Merry Christmas. The handwriting wasn't a scrawl he recognized.

One tug unraveled the twine, and he dropped it to the ground. He ran his finger along the edge, where the wrapping was taped down, and broke the seal.

The light brown paper drifted slowly to his feet, and Alex was left in the hallway, holding a book. He stood there, solid as the ice outside, eyes running across the cover over and over again, trying to make sense of the Russian characters.

He had made some progress in his understanding of the Russian language, but evidently not enough.

With a final glance outside, Alex turned his back on the winter wonderland. He made a pit stop in the kitchen, and a detour upstairs to his bedroom, then found himself back in the couch. A new pen in hand, he made himself comfortable. He plugged his phone charger into the wall, and watched his battery slowly tick upwards.

Flipping the book open to the first page, Alex skimmed it, finding he recognized a few words. Doorbell, police, moonlight.

Alex settled in, taking a sip of the now cold tea. Something about the book felt familiar. Felt like home.

He scribbled a note at the top of the page, just under the chapter title.

He braced himself to ring in the new year.

Vellichor: the strange wistfulness of used bookshops

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Hope everyone has had a wonderful winter, whatever you celebrate, and that next year is kind to you!

(for those of you that follow any of my other stories - sorry I haven't updated in ages! School and writers block combined to kick my butt. But stay tuned, and I promise more is coming soon!)