Hey y'all, this is just going to be a one-shot. Maybe a two-shot, depending on the general reaction to it. Enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider.
He wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing the boy. In fact, he was dreading it. The idea of seeing Alex Rider again made his blood run cold with worry. The fears he had of seeing the young spy weren't rational- the reasons he fed himself that told him not to visit Alex were completely fabricated, lies he used to cover up his shame. What he was ashamed for, he didn't really know. He just knew that there was guilt doing the jitterbug in his nervous system. He knew regret when he felt it. He knew it's cold, suffocating drumbeat that grabbed your heart and squeezed until your heart was beating in time with a bee's wing, or someone's eyelashes when they try to blink back tears. He knew what it was to be afraid of yourself, because it used to be a common occurrence in his life.
He bit back his doubt as he trudged slowly down the road that lead to the Rider residence. He knew the place because he had been there once before- to see Ian Rider. Just to see, not to talk to and not to be seen. He only wanted evidence that the Riders still carried on, John and Helen alive, or not. Ice cold rain pattered softly on the wet sidewalk and slid in rivulets off the man's heavy trench coat, collar flipped up and buttoned to the throat.
He stopped and turned sharply. He walked briskly up the steps to the door of the Chelsea house, as if he were only going to a business meeting to clear up a business matter with a business associate. But this wasn't a business meeting, and he wasn't about to clear up a business matter, and the person who lived inside the house wasn't a business associate. The man's pale hand reached up to rap quickly on the door. The hand froze in midair. His eyes closed and he swallowed a large lump in his throat as he tried to battle down the nervousness that threatened to claw its way up and suffocate him.
The hand continued moving, and three knocks sounded into the cold, wet, empty night. The door opened immediately, and a puffy eyed young woman peered at the man from under swollen red eyelids.
"Yes? Can I help you?" she croaked quietly.
"American, then," he thought to himself. "This must be Jack."
He cleared his throat softly. "I'm looking for Alex Rider," he forced out from in between clenched teeth. A breathy hiss escaped him, and his proud shoulders sagged in relief and resignation. "I need to speak with him. Could you tell me where he is?"
Jack blinked, genuine surprise flitting across her features. She wasn't given time to be sad, or mad. "He passed on, didn't you hear?"
The reality of what had just been said took a moment to sink in- to both of them. The woman's eyes widened and new tears threatened to spill over.
"I'm sorry. Sorry," she murmured wretchedly.
The door closed, and the man was left alone, standing in the rain, droplets of water mixing in with his salty tears until the sky's sadness ran with his, and his face was just one large river of misery.