A/N – Yay, an Alex ficlet…that Alex isn't in (laugh). Nah, this is Yassen-centric. Focuses on his emo-side…a bit angsty. I'm not gonna say out of character, because I tend to romanticise him a bit, I like to think he has a soft side. Uh, yeah, this is Yassen/John…it's set a week after John Rider's death.
It was the dead of night. The moonlight shone through a rough woolen curtain hung over a small window. The room was drab. It was also small, with bare wooden floorboards and a narrow, creaky bed. Every room in the hotel was exactly the same, but then it was a drab, poor hotel. Not many people stayed there, apart from drab, poor people.
And, of course, those who didn't want to be noticed.
Yassen was one of those people who didn't want to be noticed. He never stayed in the same hotel for more than a week, and never gave his real name to the receptionists. Nor did he give the same made-up name. Each name he used was different. And there wasn't much chance of being caught on CCTV, not in these places. He was safe from those who wanted to find him, but couldn't be bothered to look hard or far.
And now, there he was. Yassen stared up at the ceiling, trying to sleep. He had a long day ahead of him and it was vital he got his sleep. But he couldn't. He turned over, lying on his side.
The memories came flooding back to him. He couldn't believe that John was dead. He'd died a week ago, in some plane crash, and Yassen still hadn't recovered. How could he have gone, like that? So nonchalantly, so quietly. For some reason, Yassen had always thought they'd die together, in some brave fight against MI6, a last revolt. He'd never dreamed they'd be parted so simply. He'd never even got a chance to say goodbye.
He could feel that lump in his throat again. The tears came, and he sat up, resting his head against the wall next to his bed.
And there were so many other things he'd never got a chance to say. Yassen had thought it over for a long time, and though he had found it hard to admit to himself at first, he knew that he'd loved the older man dearly. There was that admiration he'd felt when he'd first met John Rider, not so long ago, when the man had begun to teach him, not unlike the training staff at Malagosto had. As they had begun to work together, that admiration grew and blossomed into something that could be called love.
But, of course, Yassen could never be happy. It was as if every time he got a chance at happiness, fate decided that he wasn't allowed to be happy and took that chance away.
The tears were turning into sobs, slowly. He allowed himself to cry, then, aware that he hadn't had a chance since the accident.
He wished that he'd at least got a chance to confess his feelings. But then, maybe it was better this way. This way, he didn't know how John would've reacted. Maybe he would've hated him…? Or maybe…
Maybe they would've grown closer. Maybe. If only he hadn't died.
Yassen cried himself to sleep that night, something he hadn't done since he was a child.
The next day, he was a contract killer again. A ruthless assassin…at least until the night fell again.
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