AN: Written for the prompt accusation, this started out small and kept growing. As you will soon see, the end result has very little to do with the prompt, but it was what started me off. (This is multichaptered, by the way. The next one should be posted by tomorrow at the latest, and after that I'm thinking two more.) Sorry about the delay, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

The accusation hung in the air like a suffocating fog. All of the air in the room had vanished, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

It's all your fault.

Her eyes stayed on him, hardened by loss and anger. She was the only thing he could see; the background of his brother's kitchen faded, unimportant. Her form seemed outlined by despair and lost hope, with the hard shell of fury protecting her. Her unwavering stare was unapologetic; daring him to contradict.

"Helen..." his voice cracked, and he had to stop and swallow before he could continue. "Helen, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry fixes nothing, John." She spat the words out like a poison. Hair unkempt and without makeup, her anger made her look half-deranged. He barely recognized her. "Our son is dead and it's all your fault!"

John flinched back from the blow. "I'm so sorry," he echoed, desperately. "I'm sorry." He choked out the words.

"I can't be around you right now." His heart sped up, imagining the worst. But she just turned around, pausing with her hand lingering on the doorjamb. "Good night, John."

She was gone before he could say anything more. John remained at his brother's kitchen table, hands folded. He heard the creak that meant his wife was going up the stairs; the click as she closed the door to Ian's guestroom. John stared at the grain on the table, the cheap wooden thing that his brother had found in someone else's junk. In the echoing silence of his brother's nearly-empty house, he could hear the creaking of the mattress as Helen rolled over again and again.

He didn't rise until the springs stopped squeaking. His ascent of the stairs was quieter than a ghost's. Pausing outside the room that Helen slept in, he imagined that he could hear her light breathing. After a moment he let out a sigh and continued through the hallway. Ian wouldn't mind if he borrowed his bed for a night.

The next morning, Helen was gone before he even woke up. She had the morning shift, he knew. A part of him was thankful, and he was ashamed.

He flipped his eggs half-heartedly, wondering if this was what it felt like, being in a dying marriage. He had always pitied those poor sods. Now he was one of them, a member of an exclusive club to which no one wanted to belong.

His eggs were rubbery and tasteless, but he didn't notice. Even the routine of eating them brought the memories flooding in, though Ian's house had no toys scattered about, no burp cloths, no empty milk bottles that lay resting on the counter. John saw them anyway, ghosts in his own memory.

He and Alex usually shared breakfast before he had to run to the bank; before the nanny arrived. It had been one of John's favourite times of day. Now it was all he could do not to be sick.

Alex's memory was everywhere. Even with his eyes wide open, he could see spectres of his son gurgling and laughing on the floor, Helen above him, teasing him with a squeaking toy. Or just her hair. Alex loved his mother's hair.

Had loved.

The thought made John's stomach turn, and suddenly the rubbery eggs were on their way up again. He barely made it to the sink before he was sick.

His son was gone and it was all his fault. John clutched the countertop with his eyes squeezed shut. Alex was dead. A lifetime full of opportunity, snuffed out just like that. He would never see Alex's first day of school; never see Alex play football. And it was all his fault. Because John had betrayed Scorpia.

He stiffened, struck by a sprout of an idea struggling to break free. Scorpia had killed his son. Slowly, he straightened his back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He absentmindedly turned on the sink, rinsing away the evidence of his shame.

Scorpia had killed his son. He was going to make them pay.

Cossack shifted on his stomach, uneasy. This was the first time he had been on assignment without Hunter there. He wasn't nervous, exactly, but something about this mission was not sitting well in his stomach. His mind flashed back to a piece of advice Hunter had bestowed on him during training.

If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your gut.

Cossack's conviction in that particular piece of advice was strong. His instincts had served him well in the past—saved his life, even. Still, he bit his tongue. It was probably nothing, he told himself. Just needless worrying over his first solo assignment.

He had not been given a photo of the target. Mrs Rothman had apologized for the inconvenience with her big eyes and low-cut blouse, telling him that the client wanted the target dead as soon as possible and that Scorpia reconnaissance had not yet had the opportunity to photograph him. But she had given him a description—early 30s male, blonde hair, well-built—and an address before sending him off. Cossack had no doubts that he would succeed.

Suddenly, there was movement through the window. Cossack peered through the binoculars and watched a man—presumably his target—bend over the sink and vomit. The corner of Cossack's mouth turned down in distaste. So the man was weak. His apprehension seemed to evaporate as the cold calm he always associated with missions washed over him.

The target hovered over the sink a moment more before straightening. Cossack watched him clean up his mess, waiting for the best angle. He cocked his rifle and adjusted his scope. It would be an easy kill.

His target stepped away from the sink, and Cossack's finger tightened around the trigger. Just one...more...second...

He took the shot the instant the man turned. He imagined he could see the bullet as it spiralled toward the target, making a direct line for the heart. He heard the crack of the glass as the bullet punched its way through, moving with enough velocity to emerge on the other side of the supposedly bulletproof glass. He watched the man jerk with the force of the impact; saw the red of his blood blossoming on his chest.

Cossack felt a modicum of satisfaction. His first solo kill—it had been executed perfectly. But then again, he was not one to make errors.

It took three more seconds for the target's face to register. Cossack stood in a haze, disassembling and bagging his rifle. The blood vanished from his face; his heart was in his throat. The scene played before him again and again, like a movie on his eyelids. He watched the target fall, surprise evident on his familiar face. Cossack—no, Yassen—felt ill.

He had just killed John Rider.

John felt as if he'd been punched by Superman. His chest ached something awful, and blood was gurgling in his throat. He coughed, once, and winced when he saw the blood all over his hands.

He knew he was dying.

Nevertheless, he dragged himself across the floor. If he could just...get to the...phone...

He slumped against the wall, feeling his blood pump out of him at an alarming rate. It was getting harder to breathe—every time he breathed out, no air seemed to want to re-enter his lungs. He didn't dial 999. Instead, he pushed one, hoping that Ian's phone had the same emergency connection that his did.

It only rang once.

"MI6, what is your emergency?"

"Rider." The blood was seeping out of his mouth, making it nearly impossible to speak. Every breath he took seemed to be one of a limited few. "Been shot...at my b-brother's house."

"Where is the injury located?" The operator's voice was coldly efficient.

"C-chest. T-think it might've g-gotten my t-throat too."

"Agent Rider, help is on the way. Stay put; keep breathing as long as you can."

John grunted in affirmation. He barely registered the door opening. He could feel himself slipping away. He didn't fight it. "T-tell Helen I love her. A-and that I'm s-sorry. F-for everything."

He could see a dark shadow hovering above him, coming closer. The phone slipped out of his bloody hands, the plastic casing bouncing on the linoleum tile. He let his head slump to the side and felt his eyes shudder closed.

At least it didn't hurt.