Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider or any of the related books/characters, excepting any OCs in this fanfic.
'You're okay, it's gonna be fine.' He fumbled desperately with her t-shirt, there was so much blood. 'Look at me. Sabina, look at me.'
There was a faraway haze in her eyes. Almost as if, as if – no! Alex pressed his hands into her stomach, wadding the soaking fabric up in an attempt to stop the steady flow – how was this much blood even possible? It was red and sticky between his fingers, already clotting around his knees as he leant over her, and -
'Alex.'
The voice yanked him from the memory and he blinked. Mrs Jones was watching him. There was something in her eyes. Sympathy. It made him want to throw things, and his fingers curled fiercely into the armrests.
The new Head of MI6 sighed and steepled her fingers. 'As I was saying, we could place you with a foster family. However, with your -' here she paused '- situation, security is paramount.'
She waited, as if for his input, and Alex fought back a wave of jet lag. When all he did was adjust the rucksack resting between his knees – all that was left to him in this sorry world – she took a breath and battled on.
'As such, we have decided upon a temporary decision. It is -' another hesitation, fingers subconsciously probing the air for a peppermint '- an immediate solution and perhaps not ideal.'
For a moment the room was thick with silence. Absently, Alex watched the dust motes drifting in the weak sunlight slanting between the blinds. Mrs Jones fiddled with an empty box of peppermints. Her nails were short, the quicks slightly ragged. He'd never imagined her as the chewing type. Then again, she was now responsible for the whole MI6 shitshow. He flicked a shred of something from his tracksuits and wondered who she'd chosen for Deputy Head.
'Well.' Was that resignation? Regret? Maybe she was just tired – god only knew he was. So tired the edge of Blunt's old desk had a double. 'The car should be outside.'
Alex nodded and stood. What else could he do, really? He swung his bag over his shoulder and moved towards the door. Mrs Jones followed him and reached to open it. In the corridor, two men dressed casually – an absurd attempt to mask the way their blank faces screamed 'agent' - waited to what, escort him? Were they supposed to make him feel safe? It was ridiculous, and maybe once he would have laughed.
'Alex,' Mrs Jones said, quickly. He turned and she was standing in the doorway, hands knotting together. Many things hung between them, and just then she might have voiced any of them. Just then she was a middle aged woman who liked the colour black and cried over photo albums when she was alone and he was her mistake. Then one of the agents shifted, and the window, if it had ever been, closed. The Head of MI6 gave Alex a perfunctory smile, and maybe there was a shadow behind it and maybe the lighting was a little harsh. 'I'll be in touch.'
