Author's note: Uh. What am I supposed to write here. Dunno. 'Enjoy reading, and please review?' Yeah, that sounds good.
Disclaimer: Alex Rider and all characters from it are the intellectual property of Anthony Horowitz.
Alex Rider hadn't been in England for a long time, and so, it was only logical to wonder why he had decided to visit it again. He didn't understand his reasoning himself, let alone would he be able to explain it to anyone else.
If Mrs. Jones had been surprised by his question, she hadn't let on about it. She had simply answered it, despite the fact that they hadn't seen for four and a half year. She would, however, certainly have been surprised if she would see Alex right now (though one could rightfully assume that she had ordered someone to follow him. She was MI6, after all).
Only people who knew him would have noticed the slight tension in Alex' posture when he strode through the archway of the cemetery. The tombstone was located at the farthest end of the graveyard, and nobody ever stopped by there.
But Alex Rider did. Not only he stopped, but he knelt down and carefully arranged the flowers he had bought and ignited the grave lantern that stood right next to the tomb. The rain was soaking his clothes and mixed with his tears.
Sometimes, realisation took time. In Alex Rider's case, it had taken too much time for him to realise what he had missed out on. Friendship, he thought. In retrospect, he would have liked to be friends with him.
He faintly wondered what Fox might think of him if he knew what he was doing. Or, what his father might think. Would he be disappointed that his son brought flowers to his enemy's grave, or would he be happy that his son brought flowers to his friend's grave? Alex couldn't tell. The remnants of the person who now lay six feet below him hadn't lived long enough to wise him up about questions like this. They hadn't talked enough to touch this particular subject.
I wish it wouldn't have ended like this, Alex thought. If we wouldn't have been on opposite sides… we could have become friends. Could have exchanged stories. Spent rainy afternoons together.
Alex smiled at the last thought. He'd like this idea, but he highly doubted that he would have enjoyed this kind of pastime. He would have drunken his cup of coffee within an instant and than done something not-casual. Probably would have known all hiding spots and emergency exits within the time Alex would have needed to make the coffee.
Reluctantly, he got up. "Goodbye", he whispered before he walked away.
Behind him, rain ran down on the sides of the tombstone. The inscription glistened in the sunlight.
YASSEN GREGOROVICH
19xx–20xx
