Chapter Text
don't mind me
Chapter 1
I swirled the dregs in my 5th coffee mug slowly, trying to wake up. The rain pattered on the room and it was 3 a.m. in the morning. I’d been up all night just waiting for a kid to show up. The gun on my rough table glinted in the dim light. The rain poured down as wind whipped at the windows.
My flat was tiny. It had slights in the walls that barely illuminated anything. There were three rooms. The bedroom, the bathroom and a kitchen. I was currently sitting at the rough table debating on whether or not another cup of coffee was a good idea.
I’d been waiting since the afternoon for a kid to show up. According to my “boss”, I was supposed to teach an innocent sixteen year-old to kill with cold precision. It was one of those “do it or die” things. And if I didn’t then, the last three years of undercover work for MI6 would be blown. Honestly, I think the government needs to stop blackmailing people into dangerous situations when they can’t even drink. I’m twenty and am one of the best hired killers in the world. I think that my life is completely fucked up on five different levels.
I grabbed another coffee, mentally ignoring several doctors advice on the consumption of caffeine products. The truth was I wasn’t going to live long enough for that to become a major problem.
A series of hard nocks on my door showed signaled that somebody had finally shown. I let out groan and stood up. It took me a minute to unbolt the the door while holding a basic handgun. The six deadbolts and two chains only added to the paranoid fun.
“Yeah?” I asked, moving the door an inch open.
“John Rider?” It was asked with a Russian accent. Those words came from a guy with brilliant red hair and ice cold eyes. His face had been punched several times recently. The kid was drenched to the bone and was barely preventing his body from shivering.
“Yeah.” I said, hoping this wasn’t another “Let’s Kill Rider” day.
“Yassen Gregorovich. SCORPIA sent me here to train.”
“Right, where’s your stuff?” I’d noticed that Yassen didn’t have a bag or nothing.
“Left it in the truck.” Yassen didn’t meet my eyes. He was probably embarrassed to have to little. Hell, the kid was was shivering in a New Yorker winter in jeans that fell two inches short of his converse, proving that he didn’t have socks. Yassen only had a large t-shirt that he was swimming in. I added “Get clothes for Yassen” to my shopping list mentally. Walmart was open 24 hours.
“Give me the keys and get inside and get warm.” I said easily, as if I took strays in everyday.
Yassen gave me the keys reluctantly and hurried into my apartment. I jogged down the apartment building’s steps. I was on the second floor. Yassen mode of transportation was a rusty blue chevy truck that wasn’t going to last the next mile. The engine was still running. Yassen had planned an escape in case something went south. I grabbed his military black bag and locked up the truck. I ran the stairs up to the second floor and into my apartment, shaking off the rain. I bolted and chained the door back up. Yassen was standing in the kitchen, dripping water onto the wood.
“So I set up a couple of twin beds in the bedroom.” I said gesturing toward the room. Yassen shifted his feet slightly, leaning away from me. I’d already had noticed him leaping slightly, trying to hide his injuries from me. We’d deal with that when we both were calmer.
“Okay.” Yassen was looking slightly, about two centimeters, to the lift of my eyes.
“How about you get a shower and unpack? I’ll cook something up.” I said handing his bag to him, making sure to appear relaxed and easy. I’d given the kid an out. He didn’t need me pushing him or following him around like a shadow. Yassen nodded again and did his best to walk without a limp to the bedroom. Honestly, I wouldn’t have even noticed if I didn’t do the same thing when I’m hurt or sick. Yep, I totally didn’t notice that about myself. I cooked up some pasta. After my time with the SAS, I learned to cook. I refuse to serve any “Surprise Sludge”. That plate of something is reserved for the deepest depths of Hell. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting down to a meal that would have done America proud at promoting the image of not gunning down people in public places.
“Walmart is open 24/7.” I said offhandedly as Yassen took a bite of Alfredo sauce, mushrooms and penne pasta.
“So?” My subtlety is dying fast.
“You need cloths.” Yassen looked up with a hard, blank expression. Stonewalling. I think emotion came soon after, right? I think emotion is more healthy, right?
“How’d do you know?”
“T-shirt in December.” First rule of teenagers: don’t show fear on engagement.
“How do you know that I wasn’t mugged?”
“I don’t. I’m not making fun of you, dude. I just thought that I’d make the offer.”
“I can get my own cloths.”
“Again, I just thought that I’d make the offer. Also, if you got cloths, bring out your bag and show them.” I would love parachuting into a hostile war zone instead of playing vocal chess with a sixteen year-old.
“I don’t have cloths.” Yassen dropped his eyes and kept them down. I had my work cut out on the trust level thingy.
You have to understand, I’m not one of those “take charge alpha males”. MI6 stuck me in this game of cat and mouse for the reason that I blend in. Out in the field, its like I’m a different person. No, that’s wrong, because my skills still work the same in my home. I guess the fact is that I’m not your family kind of person. I’m protective, but I don’t have the social skills. I had them, before I met SCORPIA. Now, it seems that I need to suck them out of Yassen and find my deep, deep, very deep buried social skills. Darn it!
“We’ll get you some after you finish eating.” Yassen didn’t respond, except to quickly finish his plate. We ditched our dishes in the sink.
“Normally the cook doesn’t clean, but tonight’s the exception. We’ll take turns cooking, is that alright with you?” I remember a friend saying that you accommodate foster kids as long as they’re doing good. However, you can’t treat them like a baby or they’ll be out the door before you can say”have a cookie.”
“Yeah.”
Sorry, I need to write more.