Written for SpyFest Week 2

Prompt: Self-preservation: the first law of intelligence

In the messed up world of espionage, secrets, and half-truths-half-lies, Alex liked Yassen. They were friends, of course, but only after Yassen faked his death on Air Force One to drag Alex down the hellhole of what the assassin thought was the truth, which Alex paid back by leaking Yassen's location—Room 206 of the docking ship Monticello—to MI6 hours before Yassen lined his scope up to his next victim. Needless to say, the man faded into the shadows just as agents rushed to the docks.

Yes, they were amid what teenagers and childish adults called the Prank War, except the stakes, were much higher: a single misstep, and they might just be the next body stored up in a nice cool cell down at the morgue awaiting dissections. It wasn't Alex's idea, and if there was anyone to blame, it was Yassen. If only Yassen hadn't done all his little 'your destiny lies in Scorpia' before-death talk, Alex wouldn't have told MI6 his location when he accidentally stumbled upon the man's hiding spot (he was searching for the restroom).

When Alex wasn't being shot at, chased after, gagged, bounded, and all the fun stuff, he went to school, which was where it really began. His Russian instructor assigned each one of them a Russian pen pal with whom they would interact on a daily to weekly basis with to brush up on their Russian whilst they learn. Somehow Yassen made it his business to insert himself into the system as Alex's pen pal under the name Anna Mikhailovsky, a supposed-fifteen-year-old Russian girl doing the same pen pal business back in motherland Russia. Alex's Russian was horrible, and he knew it fazed the stoic assassin every time he spelled with English letters instead those of Russian.

"Mr. Rider," The Russian teacher's saccharine tone pulled him away from his letter, "Time to put that pen to paper and return your pen pal's letter. Words don't appear on paper by staring at it."

"Yes professor."

Yassen's paper had a certain texture to it. It wasn't those of printer, or fancy business invitations, but soft, almost cotton-like, but it would still tear and smudge like the one pence paper they purchased for school. Though if it was Yassen, the paper probably belonged to someone else only days ago.

I heard you're looking for some people, the Assassin had written in his typical cursive English, try Maddy's Tea House at 4 o'clock. You might find a businessman by the window. He knows the men you're looking for, and more. He's a distant friend of mine, ask him about me. You would not be disappointed.

Perhaps he hadn't been so discrete as he had thought when he was going around asking for information after school. But just how in the world did Yassen—probably from the other end of the world at the moment—know? Yassen knew everything.

The chance of Yassen falsifying the information, again, was high, and Alex could almost imagine the assassin's pale features twisting into a half-grin at whatever mishaps Alex might find himself in. He went anyways.

"I'll have the special, please," He slid into the seat before the counter, his knuckles knocking against the smooth marble in his actions.

The gruff bartender grunted before swiftly moving aside to complete his order. Alex took the chance to glance around for Mr. Four-O'clock-Businessman. Yassen knew the importance of him getting the information regarding the men he was looking for, and he was using it against Alex.

His eyes finally settled on a vaguely-matching guy sitting alone at a table near the window. His table was devoid of beverage and food and the waiters and waitresses made it abundantly clear that the man was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Alex being Alex, ruled himself as a circumstance not included in 'any circumstances', and after taking his drink from the bartender, he slid into the seat opposite of the man.

"Hey," Alex said.

"Fuck off, kid."

Someone's not in a good mood.

"I'm looking for some information," Taking a sip of the ice tea from the plastic container, Alex leaned forward, "A friend of mine said you know the gossips."

An eyebrow quirked his way then gaze flickered to the door for a quick moment. His next movements were sudden and without hint—in the blink of an eye, the man's large hand had grabbed hold of his beverage cup and then the next moment the liquid shot through the lid and splattered everywhere like an early new year confetti.

"Listen, kid, this isn't your truth-or-dare talk to the bloke next to the window seat, I mean it when I say fuck off."

Oh for heaven's sake, Yassen. The assassin was definitely trying to kill him. But the sailor did know something, and it could have purely been the goodness of his heart that he hadn't put a knife through Alex yet.

"Do you know a man named James Halsey?" Alex reached into his pockets and spread the photos out like a dealer across the smooth table, "Or Timothy Kenhite? If it's money you ask for, I'll spare whatever I can."

Which was approximately a measly two pence after paying for the beverage. A fake two pence nonetheless that he hadn't returned to Smithers after his latest mission.

It drew reactions from the man. The occupant in front of him leaned back with an interested'oh?', his arms slung across the seat adjacent and his shirt dragged up with his movement, "Never heard of them."

"Okay," Alex decided to humor his lies, "What about Yassen Gregorovich?"

That name was two seemingly-normal words combined to form something sinister and anyone near the pool of espionage would know the man associated with the name, gossip pool or not. Mr. Four-O'clock-Businessman humphed, finally acknowledge that Alex wasn't sitting in front of him—soaked with milk tea—due to a truth-or-dare gone wrong.

"Funny you should ask," Mr. Businessman said, almost courteous when he reached over and handed Alex a few napkins from the dispenser to wipe away up the spilled liquid on the table, "I do know him. And I believe he's our mutual friend."

Mutual friend? Ha. Funny, because Yassen didn't have any friends.

"I don't think so."

"Well, he certainly did think of you as one. Seeing that you came at his letter."

At his letter…Oh. Alex shut his eyes, unable to rein back the groan that escaped him. Oh bloody hell, Yassen, not again. That dratted assassin had played him again.

Mr. Businessman reached over and hauled him to his feet, "Come on then, your friend is right this way."

He was frog-marched to the back storage room, on his way the servants seemed all too eager to make way for them. With each step, wariness and dread settled in unison at the bottom of his stomach. People Yassen couldn't deal with was definitely people Alex couldn't deal with. The assassin probably wanted someone to die together with him.

The darkness that engulfed the room he entered was sudden but he had learned to easily adjust, just in time to see the three men around the knelt familiar figure of his pen pal, and the hand descending toward his neck. Alex dropped onto the ground before it could take away his air supply, rolled over, and tried to loop a feet around Mr. Businessman. It was all done in one smooth motion, but his shoes found empty air and, only seconds later, he narrowly missed the sharp blade of the knife thudding into the ground where his head was moments ago.

The three men remained immobile in their spot and as his eyes adjusted fully, Alex took note of the dry glint in Yassen's eyes expressing his full disappointment at Alex's incapability to take out the man. Yeah, be disappointed at your only chance of survival.

Alex reached over and plucked the knife from where it had stood shivering, blade first, in between the wooden planks, and it held Mr. Businessman at bay, "Wow, big fella, let's talk."

"Why don't you sit down first?"

"I prefer to stand."

"Mr. Gregorovich here said you can provide us some information regarding a man we're looking for. That's all we want. You and your friend can go free."

Yeah, that was about as likely as him agreeing to come to Yassen's aid if the assassin had asked outright.

Alex relaxed his stance for a quick moment before lashing out, sending the man onto the floor with a sharp kick to the knee—first time testing the jutted sharp edge in the shoes Smithers altered for him. A pained grunt was all that was needed to summon his dark minions to come rushing at him, and with skills fit for an internal football player, Alex skidded the knife across the floor with his foot to Yassen. It flew between the thundering feet of the captors.

The assassin stepped down on the hilt and began sawing away at the ropes that bounded his wrists, keeping half an eye on Alex, who, on the other hand, was trying very hard to survive. He was caught between the random sharp edges of the furniture and the maniacs currently thinking it would be fun to shoot his soul out with their gun.

Did he mention how much he hated Yassen?

He probably did.

Shaking his shoulder in annoyance and flexing to make sure he wouldn't pull a muscle, Alex charged toward the nearest of the three and tackled him straight to the ground just as a gunshot rung out. He thought he was shot. It reverberated in his mind for a lone second. The pain didn't kick in, and a flash of recognition had him quickly rolling off the unmoving body.

Three more gunshots. Alex shut his eyes from where he laid. Then the darkness behind his lids was illuminated by faint red. The light was turned on. Soft footsteps made their way to where Alex was and as the young spy cracked open his eyes, he was met with the ugly sight of Yassen staring down at him.

"How many times have I saved your life, Alex?"

"You, saved my life?" Alex snorted as he blindly grabbed at the tissue box on the floor and began wiping his face from where he laid. The sickening smell of blood barely came off as he rubbed at his forehead, "Might I remind you just exactly who had his hands bounded and mouth gagged like a pathetic hostage seconds ago?"

"I thought you knew it would be a trap. I apologize for the overestimation. Then again, I'm the last one standing."

"Hey, I'm still alive!" Alex protested as he pushed himself up to his feet, "And god, will you please stop shooting them in front of me?"

Yassen watched him impassively before sardonically reached for a tissue and dabbed gently at Alex's eyelids, "There. Have I wiped away your childhood trauma?"

"Oh God you're annoying," He tried to swat away the man's hand but Yassen was quicker, dropping the bloodied tissue in his hand before walking out the door with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he had simply walked home after a hard day on a construction site.

Alex glanced down at himself. And he looked as if he had been buried somewhere and had called Yassen to help with the excavation. That man was a cat. He could fall from the top of the Shard, land on his feet, and calmly reply the wait for the elevator was too long.

Somewhere outside, a seagull screeched past in its typical nonsense fashion. Somewhere inside, Wolf shifted in annoyance. Again. "You took the only piece of paper I have to send for help. Where is this so-called help, Cub?"

Alex just shook his head and grinned, "Oh no worries, Wolf. He's coming."

"He? Will you at least give a name to this one-man army?"

"It's not Eagle, or Snake, or Fox. Or really, anyone you know, but you definitely know of him."

"It's a miracle how you can keep up that happy facade while you were just puking your guts out hours ago."

The thought of that brought the bile back up to his throat and he held his breath for a moment. It settled back down, "That's why I'm lying down, so I don't puke."

Wolf awkwardly shifted again. The movement brought him closer to Alex, and a rough hand settled on his forehead, like it had done so for every hour now, to make sure Alex's brain wasn't being fried away, "My team will find us first."

"I'd love to bet on that, but the only thing I have left to…" A rough cough interrupted his rather withering proclamation, "The only thing I have left to bet is the blood I'm going to puke up."

"I swear if you—"

"If I get your dirtied shirt even dirtier with my internal blood? Wolf, that's a little too late."

"Can't you be a little more upbeat?" The soldier grunted, his ribs protesting at his further movements so he decided to put on hold his plan to check Alex's pulse, "The cell's gloomy enough as it is."

They settled into a moment of silence. What if his letter had failed to lure him into the trap? The sound of gunfire, however, announced the presence of what was undoubtedly their rescue party and, from somewhere slightly above him, Wolf heaved a sigh of relief, "I bet that's Fox and his cavalry."

"Or maybe it's my guy."

The whole ship rocked as footsteps thundered the meet the attack taking place atop the deck, and Wolf ignored his screaming ribs to steady themself—one hand on the bar and the other on Alex's equally-protesting shoulder.

"You'd think it's an alien attack," Alex lifted his head up just a little to see the few security from the cargo floor rushed by their cell, "Definitely not Fox, huh."

"Fox can be brutal."

"I don't hear yelling."

"We're not preschool kids, Cub. We're trained. And be quiet for just a moment."

Then there was silence. It was over, a sudden as fast as it had come. The eerie calm after the storm held the most negative connotation Alex had ever felt as he let his eyes roamed the limited space they could see into the hallway. It was dark, and the sound of waves crashing into the side of the cargo ship muffled any commotions above deck. Any time now, Alex could almost imagine him amid an episode of Pirates of the Caribbean: the ship would suddenly twist and turn upside down, humongous octopus reaching up to snatch the sailors off the ship like popcorn from the coffee table.

Then the light was flickered on and Alex, unable to shield his eyes with a hand, decided to shut it all together. Two pairs of footsteps, one stumbling every few paces, and the other stoic and steady. A grin slowly lit his face as he recognized the second set of footfalls.

"They're here," A trembling voice announced, this time closer.

The gaits stopped before their cell and Wolf's reaction was a tighter grip on Alex's shoulder as he pulled his hands away from the bars, "What the bloody hell…"

"Really, Alex?" Yassen's mildly amused tone was accompanied by a shake of his head, "Something your father left specifically for me. You could've done better."

"Well, you came because you fell for it," The young spy snorted, or half-choked half-snorted he wasn't sure, "Payback's a bitch."

"The moment I saw the ship, I knew it wasn't going to be anything worth retrieving."

"I'm that thing my father left for you, in case you still don't get it."

"I did. Hence, nothing worth retrieving."

Alex snorted at the mock humor. The captain standing before Yassen had the assassin's gun to his back, and his eyes were wide, frightened, and he looked as if he was going to pee his pants. It wasn't his fault, "You should let that man go."

The suggestion was futile, he knew. The assassin never left anyone alive when they were better served dead. It was a liability issue.

"He broke my fucking ribs, Cub," Wolf growled.

"He was under orders."

Strangely, Yassen eased his gun away from the small of the back of the captain. Just as the man was about to relax, turn, and apologize all at the same time, the assassin clocked the man down with the hilt of his gun. The figure slumped onto the ground with a loud thud and a clang, definitely would be nursing a pounding headache come morning light.

"Unlocking the cell will be great," Alex dryly remarked.

The assassin swiped the key off of the man's belt and painstakingly slowly unlocked the metal bars. The lock fell away with an echoed thud on the wooden floor and Wolf rose unsteadily to regard their savior—who was clearly not Fox. On the bright side, he won the game with Wolf.

"I…I know you," Wolf frowned, a hand flying to his stomach, "You're the Scorpia assassin."

Sensing that the weakened soldier was no priority, Yassen crouched down next to Alex, and as the latter lazily pried his eyes open, he was met—again—with Yassen's face peering down upon him, "How many times have I saved your life, Alex?"

"How many times have you felled for my trap?"

"And you?" Yassen didn't miss a beat.

"Fine," Alex huffed, feeling a migraine storming up, "You win. Will you give me a hand?"

With a lack of affirmation, The man stood up briefly, "The guards have been disabled, but some might be stirring—I ran out of ammunition halfway—You don't have long."

Yassen then stood waiting.

"I'm not saying thanks."

"No worries, I caught your unspoken gratitude through your words."

"How's your leg?"

"It hurts like someone put a bullet through it," Alex gritted his teeth in exasperation, "Oh wait, they did. Yassen, you're an idiot."

"I didn't get you shot. It was of your own accord. Besides, you fell into a trap by assuming that I wrote the letter."

"And so did you, and it turns out both were fake. And I thought we agreed we never plea so pathetically for help."

"You wrote," Yassen pitched his tone in annoyance with an over-the-shoulder glance at the young spy bound behind him, "'Yassen, I need help'. How do I know it wasn't you?"

"Well, you said the same thing. How do I know it wasn't you?"

"Do you ever recall my tone being so utterly, as you put it, pathetic?"

"People change," Alex roughly tugged their bonded wrists to shake out the fatigue in his shoulders. It earned a sharp jerk from Yassen in reprimand, jostling his leg further and he bit back a hiss of pain.

White mist surrounded them as they exhaled softly, trying to retain their body heat but neither were willing to lean any closer than necessary and Alex felt as if his skin was going to fuse with the cold metal chair any time soon.

"Can you…?"

"Be quiet."

Footsteps clicked outside the closed freezer room and they both tensed, their painful vulnerability reflected on both of their postures. Unconsciously, they inched their chair a little closer with the thought of either they both get out of this alive or, if push came to shove, they both die so neither of them could claim the title of last one standing.

"Well well well," Her high heels stopped before the door as it slid open, and a rush of warm air entered but the momentum was only enough to brush by their cold arms, "If it isn't the infamous assassin and the spy."

"Can I have your coat?" Alex couldn't help but ask.

"Of course, as soon as you answer a few questions," The woman wrapped her fur coat tighter around herself as she walked inside, stopping before their chairs, "Who wants to go first?"

"Do I get the coat if I go first?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm going first."

Yassen snorted in amusement at Alex's eagerness and turned slightly to watch the drama unfold. The woman moved a little closer so that she was close enough to be heard clearly but far enough that if Alex got violent, she would be the first out of the room.

"What is your friend's current assignment target?"

"What?"

"Who is Yassen Gregorovich's target?"

"He's not my friend."

"That doesn't matter," She dismissed his statement, "You are the one person whom Yassen calls a friend."

"He's not my friend," Yassen inserted.

"See?"

"But you do know who his target is."

Alex humphed, "I actually don't. We don't call each other to give updates. But I can tell you that Yassen is—" His sardonic speech ended midway as he jerked forward, her gloved hands gripping the entry wound tightly. His sight turned black for a painful moment as if the world decided to dim the light from the edge of his vision and working inward. Except it hurt. Oh god—

"Alex?"

She released her hold and her bloodied hand patted him gently on the cheek. His blood trailed across his face, and his vision blurred in and out with blackness like out of control light switches as he regained his breath.

"There. Now, are we willing to talk?"

She gave him a few graceful seconds to contain his bursting heart until he finally squeezed out, "He was sent to kill me."

The woman straightened, "Why?"

"Because…" Alex paused, a subtle warning shake of the head from Yassen was promptly ignored by him, "I am the King of Underworld. If I die, he will be next in succession."

The pain came back. If he had thought it had hurt before, he was changing his mind. Her thumb wa—Goddammit, he probably shouldn't have said the underworld part. Harshly, he struggled and tugged back, trying to kick away the hand but his numb limbs refused to listen to his commands.

"Stop! I'll tell you!" Alex shut his eyes with a curt yell. Anything to stop the pain for a few moments. Anything, "He wasn't sent to kill me."

"Then who is it?" Thank Goodness gracious she pulled away.

Honor amongst thieves. A grin lit up his face as he shut his eyes. He didn't get to see the flash of fury in her eyes as he said, "That crazy spider who keeps spinning webs in—"

This time, thankfully, he lost consciousness somewhere along the way of his mumbled gibberish accompanied by the pain. If he had given out Yassen's pet peeves, he blamed it on the woman. He felt himself slumping back in the chair. And somehow, he dreamed. He dreamed about a freezer. He and Yassen were busy throwing paper airplanes of messages to each over two frozen slabs of meat between them. There was no message in the airplanes jetted across the room but somehow, they knew what each other were talking about. The paper at Alex's feet began to pile up. Then they were bodily hauled out of the room, human and chair, by soldiers. Yassen, however, disappeared into a poof of smoke.

At some point, he woke up. Wolf's gruff face loomed above him and the soldier arched an eyebrow, "Close your eyes. We still have a few hours to go."

He fell asleep again. This time, he dreamed of he and Wolf free-falling down a helicopter high up from the ground—which was funny, since Wolf was god-awful scared of height. He fell into a lake as if he was some sort of Olympic diver, and the moment he hit the water, Wolf disappeared into millions of water droplets.

"Your wound is infected and you have a high fever. We're giving you an ice bath."

The harsh temperature of ice was rough and caught between the heat and the cold, he fell comfortably back into the land of unconsciousness and dreams that he had no idea the meaning. The smell of fresh laundry covered his nose before sharp antiseptic breezed through. Between his fits of wakefulness, he caught glaring white lights between his eyelids and then someone turned it off. Or perhaps he did because he swore he was soaring through the air only moments ago.

When he finally woke, he was in a hospital. And oddly enough, Yassen was there. And that man was with his typical coat and impassive scowl, "You're awake."

"And you're Sherlock, congratulation," Alex croaked out dryly, "Am I late to my funeral?"

"It was too expensive."

"They canceled my funeral?"

At being humored, Yassen's lips quirked up just the smallest bit. The assassin reached over and finally decided to grab a seat. It was dark, and the thin thing they called curtain was tainted by the city lights through the reflected glass. He felt as if he was going to drift away anytime.

"Let's make one thing very clear," Yassen's solid tone grabbed his attention again.

"What."

"I always end up saving your life—let me finish, Alex, for once—so it's utterly impossible for me to ever ask for your help."

"Oh yeah? Remember that certain incident at Maddy's Tea House?" Alex raised his voice to cover the start of Yassen's protest, "If I wasn't there, you'd be dead. So it was a mutual thing: I saved yours, you kind of saved mine."

"You missed my point.".

"And that is…?"

"The probability of me actually asking you for help, as pathetic as 'Alex, I need help', is none."

"Slim to none, or just none?"

The assassin shifted in his seat and brushed past his question, "The next time you fall into the trap, I'm not coming to get you out of it."

"But you came this time," A slow smile spread across his face.

"Good night, Alex."

Amid their chaotic espionage life, Alex believed he and Yassen were friends. The secret was all in the word.

FIN

A.N.: The prompt was Self-preservation: the first law of intelligence. It might not have been very obvious from the fic, so I just wanna quickly explain the gist of it.

To Alex and Yassen, their rule of self-preservation is to do anything to stay alive. They were too prideful to ask for help from each other so, instead of asking for help outright, they trick the other to help them out: Yassen knew Alex needed the information, so he tricked Alex into believing the man had information; likewise, Alex knew Yassen couldn't resist anything that connects the assassin and Alex's father, so he tricked Yassen into thinking that his father had left something for him to come to his rescue.

I hope that made sense heh.