The Wait
He is sitting by the kitchen table, on one of those hard, cold metal chairs that she loves, gazing down into a cup of tea. It would be stupid to think that it would yield any answers or even give him any suggestions.
It is just a cup of tea.
He could make himself a new cup of tea using tea leaves and then read it, but he never really had any faith in prophesising. The only reason he even knows anything about it is because one of his 'business trips' ended up involving a so-called seer. It is amazing what you are willing to learn and practice once your life is at stake. Immersing yourself into a culture the way he once did always leaves a mark. That is proven by the fact that his mind even dared to suggest reading the leaves, as it is called.
Alex Rider, now grown, does not believe in faith.
It would be a stupid thing to do in his profession. Faith is useless. All he ever has is himself, unless he scores jack-pot and actually receives back-up. And then there is her...
But it is just a cup of tea. Granted, it is her favourite tea, but still just tea. His lips have not even touched the rim of the cup as of yet. He has no real intention of even tasting the tea, it is merely there to remind him, with its scent, of a woman whom he knows and is waiting for.
From his cold, hard metal chair –which he was all for not buying- he easily sees the entrance hall door. It is locked. It will be like that until she comes back to the apartment, until she returns from the cruel world outside.
The fragrance of the tea is a bit like nature. Bitter, natural, fresh, green. It is like a freshly-mown grass lawn after the rain. It reminds him of laughing in the rain, a warm cup of cocoa in front of the fire and skin touching skin. The tea is her.
Sometimes he wishes that he had never met her.
Sometimes he wishes that he never had to endure this.
Sometimes he wishes that he was as ignorant today as he was as a child.
It is in these moments that he understands Jack's anger in the early days the most. He never feels more like apologizing to her than in these moments; for the worry, for the tears and the truth. And his own decisions; made even knowing that she would hate them, despise them.
There is a reason, he thinks, why we rarely speak anymore.
And then there is her.
She still has the innocence that he lost so early, even with the profession that matches his own closely. Too closely. And yet she is not at all like he is. He remembers the first time he saw it, saw how different he was from her. He had already known but that incident had shown it so clearly.
There is a royal blue carpet on the kitchen floor. It is supposed to cover up, hide or disguise a stain. Alex can still see it, clear as day, even if the carpet tries to hide it. There is no way that he cannot see it, even when it is covered. He put it there.
The stain is a mix of brown and black. It is not old yet, and that is partly the problem.
There was a knife, a wound on his arm and dead man on the kitchen floor.
A spy is not a killer.
Her words, not his.
A spy is not a killer.
Alex knows that inside of him there is an Alex the spy, an Alex the soldier and an Alex the assassin. There is also an Alex the civilian, but he is rarely in use. The Alex she sees is a mix between them all, though softened slightly for her sake.
A spy is not a killer.
He is not so innocent as to believe that.
He remembers the look of horror and surprise and that is why they are moving by the end of next month. That and the sobbing during the night. He cannot stand to see her like that.
What she will hopefully never understand is that Alex Rider does whatever is needed to complete his missions. If he had not, would the kitchen even be here? Would she be here?
Alex Rider does what he needs to do and somehow he is less affected by it than he perhaps should be. The concept of guilt does not always work for him. Sometimes the word necessary makes it right.
He knows that he would not be alive today if he had hesitated at those times.
Sometimes he feels that he understands Yassen Gregorovich a bit too well. At other times he feels that he could do to understand the man a bit better.
There is a reason why that man stayed alive for so long and why he was so successful. Alex wants to be able to do that too, on the other side of the made-up line between the good and the bad.
A spy might not be a killer, but Alex Rider certainly is. When needed. When necessary. When asked to.
Alex Rider is a survivor and he cannot simply stand by when someone is threatened. Especially not in his own home.
The man who left that stain on the floor, so artfully hidden by a simple blue carpet, is dead.
He can see the stain.
She remembers it.
That is why they are moving at the end of next month.
Alex is just happy that it is they who are moving and not just her.
She is not at home right now. Just as he has his 'business trips', so does she. And they rarely coincide. Even when he knows that what he does is ten times as dangerous as whatever she gets up to, he still worries.
And so he waits and revisits his memories and stares into a cup of tea that has yet to be tasted.
It is her favourite.
Alex looks over to the other side of the table, where a lone cup of tea stands waiting, and glances down at the one in his hands.
She will be home soon, he tells himself forcefully. There is no reason to worry.
He takes a sip of the now cold tea and shudders a bit when the bitter liquid makes its way down his throat. He takes in a deep breath and both tastes and smells the unique odour of her tea.
He stares at the locked door and pictures her on her way home.
He sits there and does what he hates the most: waits.