A/N: Yeah, okay, I decided to post. Mostly because the last chapter was more of an insight chapter rather than a "fun things happen" chapter. Plus, I really think you guys will get a kick out of this one.
As always, comments make my life. Seriously. As soon as I get a notification in my inbox that someone commented, I stop everything I'm doing to read it.
O
Alex was wide awake when Yassen reentered the cabin. The dark circles under his eyes were practically black and his fever had clearly made a comeback. His wrists had chafed red where he'd yanked against the woven cotton laces, but they hadn't broken or bled. Small mercies. He didn't try to speak, but then again, he barely seemed to have the energy to hold his head up.
Yassen set the bag down on the bedside table and sat down next to Alex, studying him. "Is Julius gone?" At Alex's nod, he pulled out the rag from his mouth and swiftly untied him. "Good."
Alex's head lolled as he slumped more comfortably on his bed. He didn't try to reposition himself though. "Why are you doing this?"
"You were making too much noise," Yassen told him, digging around in the bag. "And you can't be seen hallucinating by anyone else on the ship. I brought more cherry pop-tarts."
"But why are you doing all this?"
Yassen paused. "What do you mean?"
Alex rolled over to look at him. "Taking care of me. Putting up with all this. Why?"
"Eat your pop-tart, Alex," Yassen sighed and threw the small package at him. "There's Milky Ways and a few Twixs too."
"Don't dodge the question," Alex snapped. "I need to know. Why are you doing this?"
"Don't worry about it." Yassen stood and stared fuzzily at his own bed. When was the last time he had slept again? He didn't want to know. It sounded like a fantastic idea, but one glance at Alex told him that it was a lost cause. It'd probably be hours before the miserable child settled down. As sensitive to sound and paranoid as Yassen was, shouldn't there still be a theoretical point at which he fell involuntarily unconscious even for a little bit?
He wished he were so lucky.
"But why?"
"Why does it matter?" he snapped, kicking the bed hard enough that it rocked on its hinges. It was like sprinkling gasoline over a frie: his temper only continued to flare. It was bad enough that Alex actively prevented him from sleeping, had been doing so for days, but to demand answers about something he really, really didn't want to think about was too much. "I just am! Now shut up and either eat or go to sleep."
Alex tensed and pushed himself onto his knees, shoulders hunched. "I need to know," he insisted, voice rising. "It matters. Why-?"
"Why?" Yassen folded his arms, patience snapping. "Why can't you be quiet? Why can't you sleep for more than a fucking hour at a time? You make so much noise all-" Clenching his fists, he forced himself to shut his mouth before he could say anything else.
The boy's eyes blazed. "So answer the fucking question and I'll shut up! Why are you taking care of me?"
"I don't know why! I don't know!" Yassen ripped the cigarettes out of the bag and grabbed the bottle of vodka. He yanked open the balcony door, slamming it shut before Alex could respond.
O
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? There had to be a fucking reason Yassen was bothering to stick around. Alex felt like he was at death's door, but that didn't mean he was blind to the fact that Yassen was essentially having a nervous breakdown just being near him. Something powerful must motivate him. His "I don't know" had sounded honest, but Yassen had tried to dodge the question at first so Alex wasn't entirely sure how much to trust his eventual answer.
And since when did Yassen smoke?
Alex glared at the shut door before collapsing back on the bed. Thinking was too hard. He was so, so tired. His entire body ached and burned and he couldn't fucking fall asleep. Turning the pop-tart over in his hands, he let it fall from his fingers as his stomach threatened to rebel at the mere thought of eating. Everything was awful.
He wished, not for the first time, that he was dead. Like, actually dead.
Slumping on his side, he shut his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep. It refused to come; instead, he found himself even more hyper-aware of how much his muscles hurt, how grainy his eyes felt, the uncomfortable roll of his stomach, the burning and smarting of the skin of his wrists. He groaned, unable to muster the energy to punch his pillow.
Distantly, he knew this had to be about as bad for Yassen, but he couldn't quite connect to that thought. He just wanted to sleep, knew that Yassen wanted him to sleep, but he couldn't. He tried so hard, but he just couldn't drift off no matter what he tried: counting sheep, meditating, fucking sleeping pills. Next on the list was slamming his head against the wall to see if he could knock himself unconscious, but he supposed Yassen might take issue with that method. If he lay still and quiet for long enough, Alex could pass out, sort of, but only for a few hours at a time and not nearly deep enough to dream.
Laying on his back, he shut his eyes.
Come on, sleep, sleep, sleep…. Just lie still, don't move, don't' think, don't…..
Had he fallen asleep? How long had he been out? Alex's brows furrowed, a distant sensation prodding at his shoulder and stealing his strength.
Oh, that's right. He'd been shot.
Laying on the pavement seemed nice, even as it rushed up to meet him. Did he really see the pavement move or did he dream it, since his eyes were already closed? And he was on a bed. Or was it a memory of lying in a bed? Of being shot? The lady would scream next if it was.
It was hard to tell. He wasn't sure he cared.
He reluctantly opened his eyes, craning his neck to peer at his shoulder. Bright red blood seeped through the white t-shirt he'd been wearing for the last two days, spreading like wine through the fibers of a carpet. Should he try to rinse the stain out of the cotton? He didn't want to look dirty, though perhaps that was a lost cause. Had he even showered this morning? It wasn't important. Nothing was important anymore, not even the growing pool of liquid life spilling out of him. A wry chuckle tore itself from his throat.
Distantly, he heard a sliding door push itself open, but he didn't look over. The distant sound of waves crashing, half muted. "Alex?"
He was dying. For some reason he thought it would hurt less. His whole body ached, as though the bullet had hurled him down a flight of stairs before burying itself in his chest. Wasn't shock supposed to cushion him, help him drift off into the great unknown? He hoped it would kick in soon.
They were going to help him, he realized with a sudden surge of anticipation. They'd come for him that time, or was that this time? Time was strange and difficult to tell apart. Surely he'd done this whole getting shot thing before. It felt so familiar. He couldn't really remember- maybe he'd only been shot once and it only felt like eternity had collapsed it into a second time. Either way, they'd be there for him, sitting with him on the pavement in front of the Royal and General Bank while nature ran its course.
She would be, anyway. He knew she'd come for him.
Glancing up excitedly, he saw the flash of fair hair and reached out, offering his hand. His vision had doubled or tripled or gotten fuzzy somehow. Had he even really opened his eyes at all? Soon it wouldn't matter. "Mum!"
Words, distant words, spoken by a familiar voice but he could barely hear them. "What? Alex-"
He reached out harder, straining his arm. He'd wanted to take her hand then (now?) but hadn't had the strength, but now his good, uninjured shoulder was working fine (had it always?) and so he reached, fingers desperately seeking the warmth of hers. If she took his hand, everything would be okay. He was certain. She would help him make it okay, she'd help take him to the place where he could sleep and where everything stopped hurting. "Mum!"
"Chert poberi- I'm not your mum, Alex," the voice sighed.
Alex couldn't bother to concern himself with anyone else, no matter how familiar that voice was. And nearby. If he'd had the energy to care, he'd have told that other voice to shut up while he talked to his mum. Why did she smell like cigarettes and cheap liquor?
Nevermind. That didn't matter right now.
She loved him, she came for him, and she'd make things better somehow. He knew she would. "Mum," he insisted, refusing to stop reaching.
"Alex-"
The bullet wound still didn't quite hurt, not the way he expected it to, but when he tried to lift his shoulders from the bed he failed. He tried again. Failed. He pressed his reaching hand against it briefly to staunch the flow, but it didn't seem to do anything to help. Whatever. If she hadn't taken his hand already, that meant he needed to meet her halfway. He'd just have to try harder.
He reached again, gasping with the effort, still unable to lift himself up off his bed. Dejected, he threw his head back in frustration. Helplessness tasted both bitter and familiar. Alex growled before trying to grab her hand again.
A soft groan and something that might have been a muttered curse. Some kind of metal lid unscrewed and after a quick swallowing sound, his bed dipped. More cheap liquor smell. "Five minutes," said the exhausted, naggingly familiar voice. "I'll be your mum for five minutes."
Alex would have paid more attention to the words if it wasn't for the warm hand that finally took his. Relief coursed through him. Smiling up at her, he shut his eyes and slept.
