Cream colored walls. A poster of a blue-lit mountain scape, with a distinct lack of motivational quotes. A waist high potted plant that was either very alive, or very realistically flawed. Its thin green leaves are crinkled and tinged brown at the ends.
Dr. Pamela is behind the desk, looking at Alex steadily.
He continues to look at the plant, steadily.
She's the kind of woman that Alex could imagine asking to see the manager at a Belk's—complete with dyed blonde bob and overlarge handbag—had she also not been one of the most wonderfully terrifying people he's met.
It was his third session before he decided that yes, he did like Dr. Pamela and her magazine print office. Incidentally, that was also the session he had bawled about Jack for a good half of their session time.
But Dr. Pamela believed him. She believed him. Or, at least, she's able to pretend for the sake of the whole being his therapist thing. He's willing to take what he can get.
He picks up on of the objects on her desk—the same one as last time, Dr. Pamela notes, just a smooth piece of driftwood, a paperweight, and fidgets with it. It's a good thing to see, these little reminders of improvement. When the young boy had first sat in that chair across from her, he'd been far too tense, too anxious and still.
"It just bothers me. It should be getting better—at least, not getting worse, right?" he says.
Dr. Pamela snorts.
"Sorry?"
"We talked about that last time. That's not what's on your mind, is it, Alex?" She looks at him across her black rimmed glasses, across the desk.
There's a recording device that sits on the left side of the desk. Easier than taking notes, Dr. Pamela had explained, though, she'd also said, it's not a requirement, if it would make you more comfortable. It's black, with a small bulb that would flash red if the machine was on. Though it's never once been on while Alex has been in the room, he always watches the bulb for a few seconds when he first sits down. He watches it again now.
"I miss it," he says with all the bravo he can muster.
She raises her eyebrows and makes that 'yeah, no shit, now please explain more' hand gesture that he's become very familiar with.
"There's no fucking way you knew that."
"Alex." He read something about addressing people by name in one of Edward's morning papers (written by a bullshit pencil pusher, Edward's words) that it made them feel valued. He wonders if Dr. Pamela does it intentionally, or if maybe therapists are just like that. "Do you think you're the first person to come in here after being trapped in a traumatic situation and tell me there's a piece of it they miss? People aren't built to experience the world only negatively. They adapt. You adapted. They learn to appreciate what we can. Awareness of that is helpful. Tell me, Alex, what do you miss?"
He shouldn't have been surprised, really. This is why she's here. "Adrenaline is a drug, right?" A shrug. "It can be addictive." Nod. "And … the clarity of it. The missions and blackmail and—and everything that happened—that, that I don't miss but, in the moment, it's just live or die, right? All I had to do was survive and, and get the fucking flashdrive or whatever shit. Just live."
Dr. Pamela sits back in her chair. "And now you're in a very different environment."
"Exactly. The things I have to do, they're so different now. Then, it was a few moments and then it was gone. But now I have to wake up every day and do it again and again. I try, I really do, so hard, to make this work and to be what I need to be. And there's no—no end in sight."
By the end of it, he's slightly hunched over, looking down at the paperweight clenched in both his hands.
"Like homework."
"What?"
"Like homework. It's not going to kill you, but it's going to make things shitty for a long time."
He finally looks back up at her with a fraction of a smile. "Yeah, like homework. I can't just murder it by launching a snowmobile at it and calling it a day."
" … perhaps we've found our topic for our next session."
He laughs. "Yeah, maybe. I forget I haven't told you that story. I did get hit by a train, but life's just like that sometimes."
"Usually it isn't in my experience, but I see what you mean." She let the silence hang for a careful moment, and then: "Do you want to return to MI6?"
His dismissal is immediate, laughing in a much more sardonic way than before. Dr. Pamela wonders if he notices that he again glances at the recorder. "Fuck, no, god. I know I come in here and complain every time, but I'd never go back. There are things I wish I could change, but no."
"Like Jack."
" … like Jack."
The silence gently settles in again.
It takes Sabrina thirty two minutes, six pieces of tape, and a lot of wasted wrapping paper to figure out she had no idea what she was doing. She signs and rocks back onto her heels. She could've just bought a gift bag or something. Or forgone the fancy presentation—Alex probably wouldn't even like the gift, much less care if the bow was done well. She stabs the scissors through a sheet of crumpled paper, just because she can.
The gift in question was just a cheap, faux leather notebook sort of thing. Blue lined pages and a thin gold line running down the side. It'd been on the shelf next to some binders she'd purchased for her upcoming college semester, and she'd just decided to throw it in the cart.
She'd tried to ask Alex about what had happened, in Cairo, what had happened? What had happened since they'd last since each other? And he did try to explain, but the more the story went on, the more convoluted it became, the more he hesitated. She understood most of it, Operation Horseman and the Razim's pain scale, but by the end of the story, it was clear he was leaving things out. She knows the end—Jack's death, Alex going back, Alex getting sent to them, Alex standing in their doorway with a suitcase and a backpack.
When he'd ended the story, clearly at a place that wasn't the end, she'd said, "We signed everything. You can tell me."
"I know," he'd replied, decidedly not telling her. She let the pause hang; maybe it would encourage him to say more. But no, whatever had happened, whatever lied beyond what he'd been willing to say, existed only in his memory and, presumably, in MI6 documents somewhere. And he had no interest in changing that.
So, the journal.
"Hey, Sab. What're you doing?"
She spins around fast to send the scissors sailing toward the door. "Shit!"
Alex watches them clatter into the wall with questioning look. He leans on the doorway to look past her and tilts his head a little. "Are you trying to … uh. Make a paper collage? What are you trying to do?"
"No, no. It's—damn it, it was going to be a surprise, but—" She picks up the journal and chunks it toward him with all the force she can muster. "You can just have it now."
He catches it easily, and then holds it away from him with a thumb and forefinger. "A diary."
"A diary. For your feelings."
"For my feelings," he repeats, expression twisted mock confusion and amusement.
"Yep. You could call it a journal if your ego can't survive a diary, but I thought it could help."
Sabrina can see the moment when Alex gets what she's implying. He takes the journal in both hands and examines it more thoughtfully. "Looks cheap."
"'Cause it is. Cheapest I could find. Still, I think it's easier to think when you can see the words on paper."
"Wow, thanks. I feel so loved."
"Mhm, because you are, idiot."
He glances up from the journal (diary) to smile at her.
"But since you ruined your own surprise you're obligated to help me clean up," she waves her arms grandly over the mess. He sighs, and kneels down to start.
Edward Pleasure does not consider himself an exhausted man. There are journalists, ones he's witnessed himself, who've burned themselves down to autonomous machines who crank out sad, empty articles about the newest endangered animal or whatever Elon Musk is doing now.
And Edward Pleasure is not one of them. He is almost fifty, and he's not afraid of that. He limps into work, but confidently. He writes with a call to action and a purpose, and he enjoys it. He goes home to his family and helps cook, and by now he's leaning on the cane, and it's good. He talks to Liz, just the two of them, and he's thankful. He eats dinner with them, listens to Sabrina's stories of school, and appreciates that he can sit down. Sometimes he takes an Advil at dinner, and he watches Alex watch him, but they talk as a family and it's good. It's a good life.
Edward Pleasure does not consider himself an exhausted man, but he rarely remembers a moment past saying goodnight to Liz and taking his painkillers. He presses the snooze button only once. He does not dream and he does not wake before his alarm.
Then the third stair started creaking. Always from one to three am, never more than once a week. It's the only sound quieter than a fog horn that will wake him up. But he's trying to be a good father. So he pulls himself upright, stretches his leg, and grabs his cane. Alex is sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of tea and only the pantry light to see.
Tonight it's two am and green tea. Sometimes Edward has to remind himself that Alex is only fifteen, but right now he has the fluffy blue blanket from the living room wrapped snuggly around his shoulders, with his feet swinging back and forth like a little kid. When he sees Edward, he closes that journal he carries everywhere and lets the pen rest on the table. He passes a mug across the table. Illumined only by the one light, Alex doesn't look like he was shaken out of sleep. He looks young and awake and tired. Edward has been worrying if he needs to address the nightmares more directly soon, but it doesn't look like tonight is that night.
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Just thinking." He tilts his head away from Edward, with something that's almost shame. They don't often talk on these nights, and even rarer do they talk about things that matter, so Edward can't shake his surprise when Alex continues. "I heard you and Mrs. Pleasure talking."
Edward allows himself a moment of panic before he scrambles to formulate a response. There are a thousand times he and Liz had talked this week, but there's only a few that Alex could be referring to. Midterms at Alex's school brought grade reports and teacher meetings. "Hard working, but painfully quiet" and "intelligent, but struggles to work with other students" do not sound like ways you would describe a traumatized but improving boy. They sound like how the news might describe a school shooter after the event. He didn't go out, he didn't bring home friends. He slept through the afternoon on weekends. And his grades.
So yes, Edward and Liz talked. Behind closed doors, when Alex was sleeping and Sabrina was out of the house, they talked and they worried and they feared. They understood this was not just the usual teenager angst, though maybe that was a part as well. When the spiral first started, they'd been delighted when Alex had asked to see a therapist, and chastised themselves for not sending him sooner. Now, they didn't know what to do. But they were going to figure it out.
Of course Alex and heard them. Teenage spy and all.
The truth, then. "We're worried about you."
Alex takes a sip of the tea. Swings his feet more aggressively. "You're going to send me back if I mess up again."
"What? No, Al—" Edward's reaching across the table as if to comfort him (or grab him) and Alex jerks back.
"No, I heard you. You could've told me, you know."
"That wasn't what we meant."
"Hm, I really wonder what else 'maybe right place for him isn't with us' couldmean." He slams the mug onto the table carelessly and throws up air quotes. Like a teenager having a goddamn tantrum. This is not what Edward needs or wants at two thirty am.
He needs to stop this before it starts. He needs his fucking leg to stop aching and he needs to sleep. "Let me explain. Please." He keeps his voice quiet and his hands by his sides. Alex doesn't say anything. Where did this come from, this anger? "When Liz and I decided to take you in, we didn't just do it because you helped us. You're a good kid, Al. And the world's been cruel to you. We want to help you. Give you the family you didn't get."
He messed up. The last sentence, maybe the whole thing, but god that last sentence, Edward messed up. He knows, Alex knows, and Edward watches Alex very, very deliberately, pick up his mug. Very, very deliberately take a sip. Carefully. He grabs the journal. He stands up. Before Edward can speak, Alex is walking jerkily to the sink. He's rinsing the mug and the water is running and Edward is suddenly aware of how loud the night is. The humming of insects, someone's dog far away, a quiet tire screech.
Alex turns off the water.
"Goodnight, Edward. Thanks for being there," he says stiffly until the last words. Scathing. He turns and begins to go up the stairs, the blanket still hanging from his shoulders like a cape and his hair is sticking up everywhere. He deliberately steps over the third stair. It's ridiculous. The whole thing is. All of it.
Shit. How did Edward get to this point in his life?
He finishes his tea while trying to figure out if he needs to apologize. How to apologize. He wonders if Alex went back to sleep, or if he's staring at the ceiling with his earbuds in like he's so prone to doing.
Edward takes an Advil then heads back to bed.
Something's different about Alex's room.
Something's wrong.
The door was shut, just like he left it. Drawers are all still shut. A small pile of clothes, with a pair of jeans on top, just the same. Closet door just as ajar as it had been. The bed is in the same state of unmaking—with the covers thrown back, rumpled sheets and sweat stained pillow. It's a Saturday, and Alex has been out all day with the soccer team for once, but he can't think of a reason that one of the Pleasures would've entered his room and changed anything. He'd asked for his privacy, and they'd respected it so far. He keeps his room clean, something Ian had always insisted on, it's doubtful anyone had felt the need to straighten anything up.
But something is off. He sweeps his gaze over the room again. He feels a phantom crawl up the back of his neck, someone watching him from behind. Likely just someone about to walk up the stairs, pausing when they saw Alex in his own doorway, so he turns and—
The hallway is empty. No one is there.
Of course, he would have heard them if someone had approached. Of course. There is no one around and there is no one watching him and he doesn't need to be worried. He's getting worked up about nothing.
Maybe it was that sock next to the bed. Had it been more to the left this morning? It's possible. He doesn't memorize the room like some sort of paranoid freak each morning. His neck itches. Burns. Someone is staring at him.
The sock is definitely in a different place. Someone moved it. Why would you move a sock. That's stupid. He needs to get a grip. Unless? Unless unless unless? The sock is only a foot from the bed. He's on his knees in an instant, reaching under the bed, reaching between the fitted sheet and the mattress. Unless someone knew where his journal was. Unless they wanted to take it from him.
It seems to be where it was, where he put it in the early hours of the morning. He thinks. Shit. He can't tell. It seems like it's too close to the edge of the sheet. Did he put it here? Did it change? He doesn't think he would put it here, it's too exposed, too open.
He untucks it from the sheet, takes it out of its hiding place. Looks at the cover. Would he be able to tell if someone had touched it? If someone had opened it and read it all? Read every word? Would he be able to tell? Would a person be able to tell when their thoughts are ripped out and exposed to the world? Would he know? Did they know? Did someone know? Did someone know every word, every bit of coherence he'd carefully taken from his panicking mind? Did they know? Did they know?
Some part of him becomes aware that he's still kneeing on the floor, hyperventilating with a goddamn diary in his hands.
Pull it together. Breathe like a normal human being. Slowly and not shuddering. Put the journal back. Think. Think think think and stop panicking. He knots his hands in the sheets. Sit on the bed and think. Stay grounded.
He doesn't know, he can't know for sure, if it happened. If one of the Pleasures knows him, everything he knows about himself. But there's no reason they would, right? There's no good reason that they would do this to him, right? Right? For everything, despite everything, surely they wouldn't take this from him.
Does he ask? Does he admit his fears? If he admits, they'll know another.
He lays back on the bed and just listens. The covers are soft and comfortable, and he closes his eyes. Someone's in the kitchen, maybe Mr. Pleasure making tea or a snack. Someone else opens the front door. Sabrina and Mrs. Pleasure, coming back home from somewhere Alex didn't pay attention to. Nothing abnormal. Nothing odd. Nothing to suggest they've seen him.
These people care about him. He knows that. They've shown it these past months. They've given him shelter and company and companionship. He thinks about being alone and how much worse that would be. He needs to keep this. He needs to show them he can keep this.
Alex moves the journal somewhere else, more hidden. Then he goes downstairs and tries to be a good son.
In a general sense, things do get worse.
Alex is holding together in front of the Pleasures pretty well now, necessity is the mother of repression and all, but things get harder. He finds himself jumping at the little things. The door to the garage will close more loudly than usual, and Alex's knee will jerk into the table, and an intense rapid-beat fear knocks at the back of his mind for minutes afterwards. Another student will move their hand toward a stapler or pen, and Alex's brain feels like it should show him exactly how this student could swing that hand down and send the nearest sharp object into his eye. While he might appreciate these incredibly detailed predictions of exactly he could be bodily injured in certain situations, it makes it very difficult to continue taking his history quizzes.
"This didn't used to happen. Not when I first got here."
"Overgeneralization," Dr. Pamela says easily. "How often did you begin missions?"
"I … didn't really keep track. Usually I only got a few weeks of downtime before another started. Before Cairo, it was a few months. That was the longest."
"So you had short rest periods, with intermittent missions. During the missions, how did you feel, compared to what you feel now? As far as these feelings of anxiety go."
Alex takes a moment to think. "There are—aspects that are the same. I had to be on guard, basically all the time. But when I got home, I could actually rest, you know? Now it feels like I can't turn it off anymore."
"There was a pattern to the timing of your missions. That's one thing our bodies can understand easily."
" … do you think not having missions made it worse?"
"I think this was inevitable that the change of routine would affect you, given what you've been through. It's very possible that leaving MI6 behind, combined with the particular stress of your last mission, has blurred the lines of when you, subconsciously or not, feel like you need to be on guard."
Dr. Pamela has a terrible habit of making an incredible amount of sense.
"Have you heard of hypervigilance?"
He has not. Not in detail. She writes something down on a sheet of paper and slides it to him. "I wrote the name of a book. It discusses some of the things we've talked about today. Could you scan through some chapters that interest you? Given how useful journaling has been for you, perhaps reading could be helpful as well. I think it could be good for you to have some outsider's perspective on these things."
The book is dense looking just from the title. The Body Keeps the Score: Mind, Brain and Body in the Transformation of Trauma. There's a certain amount of trepidation, he's having enough problems getting off his ass to do the basics of living, and he's never been much of a reader. But if Dr. Pamela thinks there may be answers, or at least information that could help him—
He tucks it into his pocket. "Thank you, Dr. Pamela. I'll try to have some read by next session."
She smiles back at him. "Of course, Alex. I'll see you soon."
Alex stands to one side of the high school hallway, heart pounding, one hand on his open locker, the other a pill package.
Ativan
(Lorazepam)
1 mg
At Brookland Contemporary, this would've kicked up a dozen rumors about drugs, crime, and various other mildly illegal activities the unimaginative students could've come up with. But so far, none of the students pushing down the crowded all even seem to notice. No one is looking. He tries to remind himself, there's nothing here. Just the walls he's walked dozens of times, just the familiar sound of high school chatter. There's nothing that should've started this. His hands feel numb against the cold metal, and already he can feel the pressure against his chest. In a few minutes it'll become a burn, a terrible wracking pain deep inside of his heart, he knows.
He has a quiz in his next class and three minutes to decide. How long will this one last? Ten minutes? Thirty? He's done it before, he can get through it. He can. He'll be fine. He'll be dying in the back row of math, body tense and shaky, dizzy and so, so convinced this is it, he's going to die while trying to do trigonometry, but he'll be okay eventually.
"Just because you can endure something," Dr. Pamela said, hands crossed evenly on the table, "Doesn't mean you need to, or that you need to prove that you can."
Alex presses his thumb to the top of the package, and breaks the foil. The tablet is circular and white against his hand, but he doesn't feel any weight. The tardy bell rings and he takes it dry.
There's some random guy in the living room. This is not a problem.
This is definitely a problem. Alex was rather enjoying laying face down on the couch. Mrs. and Mr. Pleasure weren't home yet, and Alex was working on homework for the first time in a while. Because he's going to Fix Everything. He's going to prove he can handle it all.
He's just taking a break. Calculus is hell.
Laying face down on the couch and ignoring the world is a completely rational break. This is a thing people do. He'd done that for a bit, then gotten up and used the restroom. And when he came back there was some random guy in the living room.
Correction: some random guy, who is probably Sabrina's new boyfriend, is in the living room. She's there too, holding on to the guy's arm. He looks like a dweeb. He puts his hand out for a handshake. "Hey, dude, you must be Alex. I'm Anil."
Sabrina looks nervous. It seems like everyone is nervous around Alex right now. He gets it but he doesn't and right now he's going to fix everything and then he won't have to go back to England and everything will be fine.
So he introduces himself. He shakes Anil's hand and smiles and says it's great to meet you. Anil seems to be a decent enough guy. He and Sabrina met at a karaoke night, and Alex honestly does smile when they tell the story, talking over each other and laughing. They're cute together. The tension in the room is gone. That's not fixing everything, but it is one thing. Success.
Anil seems relaxed around the Pleasures, despite the whole 'meeting his girlfriend's parents' thing. Liz asks him to help with dinner as an excuse to interrogate him in the kitchen, and Sabrina lets him go.
The living room is a lot more awkward without a third person. Alex feels like he should say something. It's rare that it gets like this—they don't often cross paths at school, Sabrina leaves early and is back late. At home, there's usually the buffer of Mrs. and Mr. Pleasure around. There's a few moments where Sabrina fake-reads texts on her phone, and Alex fake-pretends to sit back down and work on maths. Maybe the moment will pass. Maybe they won't need to say anything.
It does not pass and Alex does need to say something. And right as he begins—
"I know this is weird for you, Alex." She's still scrolling through Instagram, but she does at least look at him.
What Would Dr. Pamela Do. He should get one of those wristbands and change it to WWDPD. What would she say?
They'd talked about this exact situation. She'd say to be truthful (I do hope you know that I often know when you're lying to me, Alex), but to be kind. Address Sabrina's concerns and make sure she knows yours, Alex. And maybe add some humor. Lighten the mood. Easy.
"Don't worry about it, it's not weird," and he says with what he hopes is a reassuring voice.
She raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really. Now, I would appreciate it if I got a heads up before anyone decides to add another member to the disaster conglomeration that makes up this family, but as one of those members …" He adds an exaggerated shrug. For effect. She looks faintly amused. Goddamn he is nailing this. "But, Sab, seriously. It's not weird. The thing between us? Weird deprived teenage garbage. We're bros now." He puts out his hand for a fist bump.
She meets his hand, if someone hesitantly, but seems to accept the olive branch. She gives a big, honest smile. In a much sincerer voice, "Thanks."
"You shouldn't have to thank me. You should be playin' that field without any worries about your kid brother. Besides, looks like you got a good one. Future computer science degree, and a nice ass? You're set for life."
She tosses a pillow at him. "Way to make it weird again, Al."
"You're welcome."
He writes it all down that evening. Dr. Pamela is going to be so proud.
"Heads up, Alex!" Hayden shouts from across the field. The ball comes arcing his way a moment later.
Football, soccer, whatever, was one of the few activities Alex had managed to keep. He'd missed the initial tryout, but the coach had been kind enough to grant him one late, at the start of the new semester. It's a good feeling, to be back on a team. They're down a few people today, eight of their eleven, so the field is emptier than usual. The sky is overcast and heavy with rain, too, so Coach Hartman had given them the afternoon to just do what they wanted until it inevitably rained. They'd done some simple drills for a while, and then split up into groups for a mock scrimmage.
The moment the ball hits the ground, Alex starts to take off, kicking it along the way. He makes it half way across the makeshift field before passing it to drops with his hands on his knees immediately, and gasps in the autumns air. They've only been playing for a while now, but even at the half hour mark, Alex had been struggling to catch his breath. He'd fallen out of shape during the transition from England to San Francisco, and was still trying to get back to where he had been.
Hayden sees and jogs over. "You good, Rider?"
He doesn't look worried, but it's frustrating that he seems to feel like he needs to check on Alex. It's not just this. Hayden notices more than most people do, and even rarer than that, he's willing to speak up about it. There are a thousand things he could've seen, and Alex just wants to tell him that he's fine and to kindly fuck off. But he doesn't want to make a mess out of nothing, so Alex just nods. "Might get some water."
Hayden nods and looks off to where Emilio and Scott are fighting over the ball. At some point, they'd ditched the quintessential 'no hands' rule, and appeared to be laughing and trying to shove each other over. The sky had darkened more, too, and sheets of rain are visible in the distance.
"I think we might be almost done anyway," Hayden says, still looking up.
"Mm," says Alex, still trying to get his lungs to function properly. A rain drop hits his nose.
Coach Hartfield's shrill whistle interrupts. He's finally looked up from phone and stands from the lawn chair. "Alright, we're gonna done for the day, looks like the weather's only gonna get worse." The glare he gives the nearest cloud is full of hostility.
Hayden waits for Alex to finally straighten up, and they start making their way back to the school's locker room.
Lighting illuminates the horizon for a moment, and Alex jerks his head to the side. He could've sworn—
"Rider?" Now Hayden does look worried.
For a moment, Alex had been convinced. There'd been a figure where the field met the line of trees. With something slung over their back. A golf bag with golf clubs or maybe a rifle. It was gone but that didn't mean they were gone.
"Yeah, yeah I'm good," he says distractedly, voice not wavering yet, still scanning the tree line. He glances at Hayden to judge his reaction, and all he can see is the blood from Tom's bullet wound. Fuck. He starts walking faster. They need to get into the building, they need to get to shelter. "I just thought I saw something."
There's nothing there now. Thunder rolls through the sky. No figure, just the slow motion of the trees in the wind. Maybe he didn't see anything. Maybe it was a mistake. A gunshot goes off in his head and he winces. There's a darker bush about where the shape had been, had he just imagined it? Jumped to the worst possible conclusion? If he's wrong? If he's not wrong? If there's someone waiting?
Now Hayden is looking in the same direction, frowning. He almost stops walking, but Alex grabs his arm.
"Dude, the fuck?"
Alex tries to rationalize. He can't get the rest of the team indoors quickly without panic, but Hayden is closest to him, Hayden is in the most danger. "It's only going to start raining more, and we shouldn't be out during lightning."
Hayden is looking at him with even more concern now, frowning, with his bushy eyebrows scrunched together. But he follows Alex, and that's what matters right now.
They get inside before Alex remembers to release his grip on Hayden's arm. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. Hayden starts to say something, but then Scott and Emilio enter, and mercifully, he lets it drop. The rest of the team piles in a few moments later, and there's no chance that Hayden could say anything without it being overheard.
By now, in the relative safety of the locker room, Alex is almost sure that he was just being paranoid. He was in a situation similar to the day that Tom had been shot on his behalf, and so he'd interpreted an innocent bush, of all things, as something dangerous. That's what Dr. Pamela would say. She would make it sound so simple. It doesn't unclench the tendrils of fear that have wrapped his heart, but it makes sense. It's logical. He can believe it. He tries to breathe slowly and ignore the fact that Hayden is still eyeing him uncertainly.
Thankfully, the locker room isn't the catastrophe it could be. There'd been some gawking at the marbled burn scars on his shoulders the first day, but even the "sick" bullet wound had barely phased anyone. ("Oh, shit, man, that's gotta hurt. My girlfriend got shot once, and she still has the bullet in her arm," Scott had exclaimed, pointing to a place near his own wrist, and Alex's injury was almost immediately forgotten. "It's still magnetic, and she can stick stuff to it.") Alex really wondered if high schoolers were just more relaxed than he expected, or if this was an American thing. Probably an American thing.
And the team had learned quickly how uncomfortable Alex was about the scars. Truth be told, he hadn't examined them much himself. He knew they were there, and it was easy to recall exactly what had made the marks on his skin, but looking at them, looking in the mirror, was still difficult. He didn't want to see, but his skin crawled and shivered at the thought of someone being able to see what he wouldn't. Alex wasn't sure if one of them (likely Hayden) had noticed it and told the others, or if they'd just collectively understood. But they made a point not to bring it up, and to politely turn a few extra degrees to give Alex some semblance of privacy. Sometimes Alex wonders if Scott changed the conversation on purpose.
It's such a small act of kindness they've given him, but he's so grateful, especially now. A few moments with no one looking at him, and he can just focus on not freaking the fuck out. There was no figure and there is no danger and no one is going to get hurt. Not Hayden, not Tom, not Coach Hartfield, not any of his teammates. No causalities today.
Except everyone is changed and starting to leave, and Hayden is still leaning on the wall, not going anywhere, clearly waiting for his chance to talk to Alex. Alone.
He doesn't look upset, at least. But he does look determined. His arms are crossed, and he's standing right beside the door, as if posted guard.
Alex's stomach does an uncomfortable twist. He does not want to have this conversation. He can see a thousand ways it could go. The best half of them end in awkwardness. Some end with Hayden suspecting something, or seeing something more. In the worst ones, Hayden decides he doesn't want to deal with such a secretive friend, and then he's gone.
Alex tries to gather the tatters of his courage together. He wonders if Hayden will fall for the 'innocent ignorant teenager routine'. Worth a shot, because why the hell not? Multi-millionaire supervillains fell for it, their cronies fell for it, the entirety of Brookland's fell for it plenty of times.
"See you guys Thursday," Emilio says, with accompanying finger guns, as he walks backward out of the room, and then Alex and Hayden are alone. Hayden shifts, and starts to speak again, and Alex can't have that.
"Hayden, I am so sorry," he says. Be honest, Dr. Pamela says. But be kind. He does his best to look both sad and guilty, and he starts to walk to the parking lot. If he can get to the car the Pleasures let him drive, there will have to be a definite ending to their conversation. "I didn't mean to freak out back there. I just, I—listen, I'd rather you keep this to yourself and everything, it's pretty personal, and—"
"Of course, I swear I won't say anything. I just wanna make sure my teammate is okay. Can't have anyone missing any games," and he smiles weakly, but with sincerity. "You always seem so nervous, and if there's anything—"
"I came here for a reason. The Pleasures are my foster parents because things were bad, back there. My parents—" Alex inhales sharply. Technically he hasn't lied. He can see the car now. Almost there. "It was bad, Hayden. And sometimes I just get paranoid and I know no one is out to get me but—" Address his concerns. Not a lie. He hadn't lied at all. He can see the moment Hayden thinks that he understands. Alex can almost see Hayden's thought process. The heavy, overlapping scars, the irrational jumpiness. The reluctance to let anyone know. Alex gets out his keys.
Hayden seems at a lost for words. He blinks at the ground, looks back up. "I … I didn't know," he says, and Alex almost laughs. Maybe add some humor. But he doesn't. Because he's being sad and guilty. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you to tell me."
"It's fine. You were just worried. And hey, people have to know eventually, right?" Alex gives a (honest) weary shrug. They're standing only a few feet from the car now. "Are we good?"
"Yeah, we're good."
"Good." Alex opens the car door. He made it.
"Alex?"
Goddamn it. He's standing with the car door wide open, looking back at Hayden.
"Thanks for being honest with me."
Alex means to say 'welcome' but accidentally slams the car door shut instead, puts the key in the engine, and drives away.
Alex hasn't read any of the book by the next session, or the following one. To his credit, he does try. He asks Mrs. Pleasure to take him to the library on the ride back from the session, and she's delighted enough to take his that evening. Late at night, he stares at the book for a long while, telling himself to just pick it up and begin. He's just managed to do a few hours of schoolwork, and he thinks maybe he can ride that wave of motivation, but no. It's just a simple task, but looking at the book, all several hundred pages of it, his heart starts pounding again. Traitor. All he can think is how he's never going to get through this whole thing, or even a fraction of it, and rationally he knows Dr. Pamela won't be disappointed, but what if she is? He really likes her, and he knows she's a therapist and everything, but he honestly feels like she at least doesn't hate him as a person. And he doesn't want to mess that up.
He manages to start the introduction. Then he skips it and just starts the book. He wakes up the next morning with the book laid across his chest, propped open to page five.
He doesn't get any further in the next week, but Dr. Pamela doesn't seem upset. In fact, she seems pretty happy when he confesses that no, he hasn't a single chapter, but he did try to look up some websites on this phone during some spare time at school.
"Tell me some of what you learned."
"I didn't do what you asked." He should have been able to do it. This is a failure. He doesn't like confessing how much this bothers him but it does. It does. Guilt—unneeded guilt, he knows this—weighs heavy on his chest.
"You did some research and learned some on your own. That's really what the point was," she says with a shrug. "Is a book a better source? Probably. But you got the information."
Alex is suddenly aware of how tense he is, and tries to unclench his hands. There's nothing to worry about here. Dr. Pamela notices, he can tell, and undoubtedly she is aware that he has noticed her attention. It's such an elaborate game, this back and worth holding and sharing of knowledge. He likes it, though. He likes the puzzles between the two of them, and he likes that there's no threat hanging above him or pacing beneath him.
Dr. Pamela studies him for a moment, and he wonders how much she can see. But she lets him keep this to himself. She moves on, to another question, and Alex does his best to answer honestly.
Just before Alex's seventeenth birthday, there are budget cuts at Edward's work. He keeps his job, but his family doesn't get to keep their comfort. Alex's therapy sessions are one of the first things to go. He tries reading the book again.
Jealousy is something Alex had expected. He'd talked to Dr. Pamela about it. It followed logic. As easily as Alex and Sabrina had dismissed it, there had been something between the two of them. Even exempting that, they'd be close. Sabrina had been one of the few people who knew the truth and witnessed it firsthand. She had an insight no one else seemed to. She still did.
When Anil showed up, Alex was fully prepared. These were his feelings and he was ready to deal with them. This would not interfere with his relationship with Sabrina, this would not interfere with anything. He would cope.
And—it was easier than expected. Sabrina and Anil, held hands and kissed and spent a lot of time together and it was fine. It was more than fine, really, it was good. Alex stays up late with Sabrina listening to her talk about what they'd done that day, Alex and Anil swap semi-embarrassing stories about Sabrina, sometimes they both help him with his homework, and they generally, they all get along well. Alex is glad. The Pleasures are glad.
But in the weeks following Dr. Pamela's abrupt exit from his life, it surfaces. Not in the ways Alex expected, not when Sabrina leans over to take Anil's hand. But—the simple things. When they sit on the couch, shoulders pressed together, and watch The Office, Alex tries to focus on something else. He shoves down whatever dark thing starts stirring. But Mrs. Pleasure hugs Sabrina tight as she leaves in the morning, and just smiles at Alex, and it's there again, rising up, bitter and angry and upset and fucking desperate. He doesn't understand. He wants to see Dr. Pamela.
He thinks of Jack, of course he always thinks of Jack. He misses her with a deep ache, like there's the vicious gaping wound cutting him in two, and he can ignore it, he can get used to it, as long as he doesn't think of it, and then it's burning through him again.
He doesn't know what to do with this hurt. It's not there most of the time, it slumbers under his skin, and then Mr. Pleasure casually ruffles Anil's hair and Alex wonders: why does Anil get that kind of affection? What has he done? Alex has been here for months, trying and trying and burning himself to the ground trying to make sense of this, trying to make sure he's worth anything, and this jackass shows up and just gets it?
Alex manages. He takes the oversized blanket from the living room and curls up in bed. He wraps it around him as much as he can, and it's pleasant and warm and he tries to enjoy that and he's alright for a few minutes. He puts his earbuds in and listens to anything. He still writes it all down, letters a little cramped and hurried. Sometimes he's afraid he'll be stuck like this forever, angry at seeing other people for just interreacting with one another, and it helps to It helps to explain it to himself. To justify why this is happening to him. If he can explain it, maybe he can find the problem. Dr. Pamela is gone. No one can help him with that anymore. Maybe he can fix it alone, and maybe he won't want anyone anymore. And maybe he can't completely seat that cut, maybe he can only ease it. But that's enough. It hurts so fucking much but he can get better. He can figure out how to improve. He can be enough for himself.
Alex is on the floor of the bathroom again. Last night he was here, at first on the rug, then half-sprawled against the cool tile, far below the mirror. The cold relief was grounding when he couldn't catch his breath, and there was nowhere else to go. This morning, he can still feel the dregs of whatever fear that had scrabbled around in his dreams.
But that was hours ago. Now it's 7:33 am. He took an Ativan at 7:29. He has to be out of the house by 8:05.
The shower is on.
Alex is on the floor.
He took the Ativan too late to dodge this.
He wishes he could remember his dreams, as much of a curse that would be. He wants to see if there's a pattern. When he wakes up, exhausted and afraid and panicked and feeling like there's nothing in his lungs and there will never be, everything is spinning and he's nauseous and he barely makes it to the toilet in time and collapses huddled next to it, he wants something he can understandable. Something that makes sense.
He'd ached for someone, how desperately he'd wanted to go down and talk to Mr. Pleasure. Maybe he could sort it out. He wants to talk to Dr. Pamela. Maybe someone else who didn't have a fractured mind could see what was happening.
Not an option. That much had been made clear. It's 7:35. The shower has been on for nine minutes. Alex is on the floor. He needs to get up. He needs to shower. He needs to let the water strike his face without thinking of a car at the bottom of a lake in Edinborough and a cloth over his mouth in a cold room that doesn't exist on the CIA's official floorplan. He needs to get up and move on. He needs to get up and move on and stop being so fucking pathetic.
He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.
"None of this makes sense. There has to be more."
In McLean Virginia, at 8:05 pm, Joe Byrne sits in an uncomfortable chair in the office of Gina Morrow, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Director Morrow sits in a comfortable chair behind the desk, looking at Joe Byrne, her employee.
Byrne tosses the folder back onto the table with a weary sigh. Director Morrow looks at him with a raised eyebrow until he straightens it.
"This is what MI6 was willing to provide," she says easily. By 'willing', Director Morrow means, forced to hand over in the dangerous game of international chicken they'd been playing over the past two years.
Byrne takes a moment to rub his eyes. His exhaustion seeps through every movement he makes. The two of them have worked together for some time, and it's late. He's been in this same building for twelve hours. "Even on his later missions, there's isn't anything particularly extraordinary in these folders."
"He speaks many languages. He's certainly been trained in combat."
"So does every European. And sure, he can do a couple of martial art moves, but there has to be something we're missing. With this information, which I still believe we should take lightly, he shouldn't alive."
She shrugs. "We've had as much of this externally validated as possible."
"Clones, Director Morrow. Clones."
"Is it so unreasonable? Given the chance, people do plenty of things that seem illogical. They recruit teenage spies. They sit and argue with their boss about the validity of information that has been gathered by the world's best international intelligence agency." Her faces does not change, but her voice suggests a certain amusement. Maybe.
"The boy loses most of the fights he gets into. He relies on being underestimated. He trained with SCORPIA, and even then, his accuracy with a firearm is, well, you saw."
"Why are you still pushing this, Joe?"
"Alex Rider is not what we need. He's not good at this. The boy has incredible luck, I'll admit that, but he's as likely to be mortally wounded in a simple surveillance mission as he is to survive something impossible. MI6 barely escaped hell for what they've done. We shouldn't be following their footsteps."
Director Morrow regards him for a moment. "There are things that can't be shown well on paper," she says patiently, almost like explaining something to a child. "Don't you think it means nothing that he's never failed?"
"The boy used a crane to drop a boat on a police station. You've seen what we've gathered on him so far. He's not stable."
"You're changing your argument."
"My point still stands. There's nothing to show that Rider will continue to be useful."
Gina Morrow, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, known for her poise, scoffs. "I don't think you've been getting the same information that the rest of our agency has been. How do you measure the ability to think on your feet, Joe? How do you put it down on paper? I see a boy with some useful skills, yes, raised with an advantage, yes, but this goes beyond that. Alexander Rider is an idiot. An idiot with very little self-preservation. He succeeds in incredibly unorthodox ways, sometimes incredible destructive ways, but in situations he was never supposed to even survive to see. Doubtlessly, he is a loose cannon—he's proven that he is unwilling to leave these things alone. Even more of a reason we need to be ready. We will be taking action."
"We aren't going to treat him like Alan Blunt did."
"I don't think Alan Blunt ever oversaw a team of people who waterboarded him, but either way, I don't believe that's your choice to make," she holds up a hand when Joe tries to interrupt, "but we are not them. We'll approach this with more care. If anything, I think this conversation has brought some important things to light. You feel guilty."
"Of course."
"Good. We're going to use that. It'll be good for him to recognize a face, build some trust. Some sort of stability is important. We'll need to have review the information we've gathered on his adjustment to America, and probably get him—"
"No, no," Joe is shaking his head, "I don't want to be another person manipulating him."
"That works out splendidly, then. He can't think everyone is out to get him."
"Everyone is."
"And that includes us. This is your chance to repent, or whatever you feel you need to do. We are doing this, Joe. Now go home. I'm sure your family is waiting for you."
Joe thinks to think of something to say, something to do, but he has nothing. He obeys.