Warnings: so I've double checked this chapter and my list of warnings so far, and apparently this chapter seems kid-friendly, besides one or two swears and Alex being Alex...

Chapter Seven: Monday and its Flu

8.49pm, 7th of June, Saturday: The house was frozen in the sense that you could cut the air with a knife in its silence.

Sabina had walked out of Alex's room to give him space, planning to speak with her parents (discussing what, she wasn't sure) and perhaps prepare dinner for him. When she had confronted the evacuating boy, something inside her freaked. Then, watching his retreating back, she felt guilty for practically yelling at him- yet she couldn't find the motivation in her body to move and stop him. She was tempted to go back into his bedroom and check if anything had happened, but she just followed in Alex's footsteps, going back into the lounge room, disgruntled when she hadn't heard the front door. Spies, she thought.

9.10pm, 7th of June, Saturday: It seemed as though both of her parents finally accepted what was going on in defeat, returning to the lounge room, turning the TV on. Ready for their questions, Sabina informed them. There was no point in asking where Alex was going, because he obviously hadn't wanted them to know. 'It's cold this night, though,' Elizabeth had stated. Sabina didn't bother commenting that she doubted the legend of The Alex Rider would let himself just stay sitting on a side walk for hours in the dark.

12:14am, 8th of June, Sunday: Sabina eventually fell asleep soon after she heard her dad tell mum to go back to bed. She could hear the sounds of him watching tv, letting her drift unconscious. When she woke up hours later, she suspected Alex had no idea, or was denying- the amount of care that the Pleasures had towards him.

9.50am, 8th of June, Sunday: It was blurriness that Sabina woke up to- she was positive she had put an alarm, but somehow she had slept in. On the kitchen table, she noticed a letter from her parents explaining something about grocery shopping...

Two hours later, she was still deciding on what to do with her day when the answer was presented to her, in the hallway. She was about to walk into her bedroom, in an attempt to start some homework due tomorrow, when she heard something. It took longer than she'd admit, to realise it was the sound of the creaky doorknob they had in the bathroom. She merely watched it turn and present an even darker-shade-of-bags-under-eyes and hair-wind-swept Alex Rider.

They stood there staring at each other for a good minute before Alex cleared his throat awkwardly, and said, "ah... I hoped you wouldn't catch me after finally urinating..."

"You..." Alex provided his adopted sister with a slow smile, small, but Sabina couldn't see the familiar wild look in his tired eyes, so she let herself believe it was genuine. "Wait, you were here the whole night? Alex-"

"No, no," Alex shook his head. "I only got here like ten minutes ago."

"The front door? I didn't hear you!"

"No..." It was when Alex tried to laugh when Sabina noticed something was up. She heard this croak in his throat, and apparently he felt it too, because he tried averting it by coughing.

When Sabina offered the suggestion of cough lollies (much to the creased brows of Alex), they wandered into the lounge room. Alex seemed content to return, but with the ill look on his face, Sabina was questioning if he should return to school in 8 days. This theory didn't go past Alex, who within the next ten minutes of greeting Sabina as if nothing had happened that night, voiced his concerns on Science. The only elective Sabina had chosen that related to Science, was Biology- and that was her regret of Senior Decisions.

Later, Sabina had a great lack of understanding in what happened, so quickly. Leaning over Biology textbook with frustration steaming out of her cheeks, she was greeted by her parents; 1pm. She suspected that Alex heard the car, because she was the one who had to answer the awkward 'no I don't know where he was-', as he had hurried off to get 'a juice box' or some drink.

Much to Alex's vague 'amusement', it took them another two hours to 'decode' the first two syllabuses he had for Science.

"I used to be really good at Science."

"If you could find a way to make that a benefit for now, that'd be helpful," to which made Alex promptly rolled his eyes at Sabina's reply.

He was anxious about studying, of course it hadn't ever calmed down in his mind- but after the night he had, he spent most of Sunday watching the Pleasures. He wasn't sure what reaction he'd get out of them, but he felt that familiar warmth he was acknowledging in the early stages of the adoption. They care, Alex thought to himself, with something akin to intrigue.


The light shimmered somewhere off in the distance; but it was the informal irritation it brought to his eye lids that woke him up. Stretching his limbs under the blanket in a rather unceremonious way, it slowly dawned on him that he somehow managed to get into bed and sleep. At least, he thought he'd been asleep; because he wasn't shaking from any nightmare.

The fact that he wasn't shivering into himself from some torture he could envision mentally, from the source of nightmares, made him sigh. He wasn't completely sure if it was from relief or some form of apprehension.

What the former 'agent' was aware of, was that something was wrong. All the muscles in his body tensed up as he slowly turned his head to get full view of his bedroom, thoughts immediately escalating. Something about the room felt wrong, and it seemed like his body wasn't coping with the environment of it. Logically, he remembered the feeling associated with the 'flight or fight' senses he gets during his panic attacks, but this one felt more like a groggy adrenaline.

I just woke up, he dimly whined to himself, lifting a heavy arm and rubbed the side of his face, what could possibly be out of place whilst I've just been lying on this bloody bed?

With his body aching, he didn't have any motivation to move and investigate. Time seemed to pass very slowly as he attempted to listen for any sounds to indicate what the Pleasures were doing- to get a sense of what the time was, without needing to reach over his bedside table and check his mobile. The more he stared at the ceiling, the faster his mind was waking up, and he realised that something was happening to him.

Ceasing eyebrows saw Alex's mind spin into possibilities of why: had he violated his nutrient intake, dehydrated, sleep deprivation... God, wait, Alex moaned, am I about to actually have a panic attack? He moved over his bed in distress at wondering why he was 'set off' when it didn't make any sense- he had just woken up from sleep. In fact, it was sustainable sleep, without any nightmares to set off adrenaline in his veins.

With his mobile in clear view, he froze. It was almost mocking: sitting there in arm's length. It was the movement that was all wrong- the heaviness, the aching: his body hurt and it wasn't logical because he hadn't just come from a mission. He thought about the awkward cough he produced in front of Sabina yesterday, and the weariness that consumed his actions... His behaviour the past few days abruptly came together into a standstill, and it made sense.

Sighing again (awake enough to be aware of the irritation in his throat this time), he reached out quickly for his mobile and then curled into the fetal position, leaning his mobile on his knee.

Apparently the last thing he had open on Google Chrome was: Same words different meanings around the world by interestingthings. Alex noted that at the top of the list was Tapas: if you request it in Spain, you'd get small appetizers; but in Brazil you'd get a slap. Whilst waiting for Google to load results for cold and flu symptoms, it slowly dawned on him that yesterday was Sunday, proving that it could be late morning now. The Pleasures were probably at work/school...

Another Monday.

Something started pulling at the back of his memory, but he refused to over-think into a spiral of doom like it was 'the norm' these days. Not when he felt like he should celebrate that the night wasn't bad- it offered him some sleep without any hauntings. The fact that he had to feel relief from something as mundane as that; celebrating no horrific nightmares, dampened his peace a bit.

According to the table comparisons on page two, WebMD kindly informed the fifteen year old that he seemed to have the symptoms of the flu, not a common cold. He just barely resisted the temptation to groan in self pity when he remembered it could spark his sore throat, and probably make him cough.

Everything out of his bedroom seemed a little too bright. Vaguely he felt himself begin to wonder why some of his senses were amplified or messed up, when he realised he just self diagnosed himself with the flu. If Sabina was home, she would insist that he took a day off from studying, and then she would proceed to make him some form of breakfast as best as she could. Alex wouldn't admit it to her, but in that moment he would've gladly returned to curl in his bed and let himself get taken care of, as if he had no responsibilities in the world.

It sort of felt like this Monday was a different Monday. He felt like he was trotting on the world heavily, and the day was heavy- like it provided so much freedom and opportunities. However, whilst other people his age was sitting in a boring classroom- pretending they weren't coping each other's homework for the following class, he had no idea what to do. Sabina had helped him with Science yesterday, so he felt he had grasped the main points of that topic well enough. Though he was mildly concerned that he was just convincing himself of that because he didn't feel like studying.

Anything but study...

Alex was still in a semi-groggy state when like a bucket of ice, the brand new day's reminders tumbled on him. Hesitantly, he glanced at the clock. 9:24am. He intended to groan or cry 'no' but stiffened when it came out like a croak.

I'm already late for the session, would she really want me to come in, with the flu?

He was halfway through his contact list on his mobile when he remembered that he had texted Ms. Young before, right? Alex really didn't feel like testing his voice to his therapist, whilst standing in the middle of the Pleasure's kitchen. So instead he opened Messages and started typing an apology to her. He hoped it sounded more genuine than he felt.

She must've been waiting for him, already calculated his actions and behaviour- or she was about to ring him and lecture him, because he saw the sign that she was typing back.

Somehow, twenty minutes later (what happened to the usual traffic?) he was on the bus returning to her office. It was when he finally sat down in the familiar couch and watched her stand behind the desk with a cord phone at her ear, that the guilt started returning to his tight chest. Ms. Young was informing an 'Ashley' that 'something has come up' and her appointment needed to be pushed from 10am to 1pm.

By the time Ms. Young placed the phone back onto the cable, all the 'peace' he awoke with splattered from whatever skyscraper he was drifting on, onto a freeway. Guilt was an emotion Alex couldn't handle. It seemed like the more missions he arrived from, the more emotions he added to the list that he couldn't control. Not quite subtle reminders to how fucked up I am...

"Good morning, Alex," she exhaled, whilst sitting back into her seat in front of Alex's couch.

"Morning," he replied after clearing his throat.

Ms. Young attempted a small laugh, "I was going to ask you how you're feeling today, but I think I could evaluate that."

Alex rolled his eyes (quickly aware to the pain that move provided), "isn't that sort of your job?"

Ms. Young pretended to be nonchalant as she reached behind her chair and grabbed her notebook. "A therapist has many roles; is there a significance to why you feel I'm more inclined to analyse your emotions first?"

The first question, and Alex was already drained. "What do you mean?"

At least he appreciated that Ms. Young pretended not to hear the croak of his voice. Even to himself his voice sounded weird, strained. Somehow, it reminded him of crying.

"Your view of my job seems to be to judge your emotions. That you have this idea I analyse your every thought through reading your emotions. Are you concerned about what you are perceiving yourself to be?"

Alex resisted the urge to crawl into a fetal position. After spending the first five minutes trying to direct the 'self image' conversation away from him, Ms. Young began explaining (on his curious request) what was happening to him. She took the initiative to describing his physical appearance, as he obviously neglected to admire from reflections before just barely getting out of his pyjamas and leaving the house that morning.

He understood that she was being professional, but she might as well have said 'you look like you're coming down from a substance abuse.'

The greasy, messy hair was the first thing she mentioned. She didn't ask when the last time he had a shower was, which probably would've been inappropriate- but he had a shower no more than two days ago. He figured it was the running around nonsense from Saturday night when he left the Pleasures that wasn't helping: he planned to have one before bed last night, but somehow he'd fallen asleep.

Suddenly, he was self conscious.

Pale face with bloodshot red eyes, a bit of swelling under... She mentioned something about how you can tell how healthy a person is by how white their sclera is, but he wasn't sure if that was a joke or not. Apparently it looked like he lost weight since their first sessions, and that he developed a bit of a twitchy right hand (which she added, could be a psychosomatic factor).

He could tell Ms. Young was capable to continue 'deducing' him, but he stopped her, feeling a heavy weight on his chest the more she blinked at him. "I get it, but... I don't do drugs," he said carefully, just in case. There seemed to be a tone of bitterness, as he remembered classmates 'bullying' him because they assumed he was in the 'drug business' from his absentees. After everything he's done and been through, he's gained a stronger distaste for using drugs than he did two years ago. It felt like a slap in the face that he had to go on missions and subsequently, 'just ignore' the drama his classmates created. Now the irony hit that Alex actually was physically ill, like he had lied about after every mission.

"Alex, it's okay, I believe you."

If she could carry on describing how shit he looked, he figured she could figure out herself that he had the flu without him needing to speak it.

Calmly, she glanced up from her notepad again. "But for me to understand, explain to me what you think you're feeling."

Alex shook his head, trying to clear his throat.

"Do you still feel some distrust?"

Do not sigh, he reminded himself. "Mostly I've... gathered I'm overwhelmed."

At least she didn't nod. She asked him about what he was overwhelmed about. His first thought was about school. She wondered if he believed he was ready to go back into being a student. He tried not to get offended, and he explained his progress of studying. She asked him if he studied everyday. He told her yes, he hadn't been sleeping well. Then, she suggested that he was using studying to prevent memories/reliving events of his past.

"No," Alex coughed. "I need to study, I've missed so much work-"

"If I'm to be fair, you're not being cautious of your own health," Ms. Young smiled as if to lighten the interruption. "You're knowingly restraining from sleep, causing visible side effects to your health. Is that because you're studying constantly?"

Alex opened his mouth, when he froze. Wait. The teenager was functionally aware of the aftermath of what happened, he already assumed he gained mental illnesses- most likely PTSD- before he even landed off the plane ride. So why was he getting defensive once his therapist was starting to piece it together? "Do you still feel some distrust?"

He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts fumble over every sign the past few weeks that increased exposure of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Somehow, he wasn't okay with it coming into the light, somehow he felt even more vulnerable than the shivers down his back accompanying his flu.

After a moment of silence, whilst Alex considered testing his voice again, Ms. Young wrote something down on the notepad. He thought it could be the first time she used her pen this session, but he felt like his head was swimming, so that could have been an illusion, on his part. Finally, she spoke, "quickly answer me: do you believe that physical pain is more significant to focus on than mental?"

Disappointingly or not for the adult, Alex merely shook his head and dumped it into his hands. He didn't want to get into a debate about physical vs. mental: he wasn't oblivious to the ranges he suffered in both attributes. He felt like it'd be ignorant to belittle one experience he had over another. However, Ms. Young interpreted his action differently and asked, "are you stressed right now? Is emotions such as stress keeping you from sleep?"

"Yes- no- maybe," Alex mumbled from his hands. The pressure hanging on his neck was already starting to give him a pounding in his head. He wasn't sure why the verge of a headache triggered an irritation from his throat, but he knew he couldn't explain his answer without coughing.

"I've... Been getting nightmares," the blond admitted after his coughing fit. "I mean," again he cleared his throat, "not many- but..."

"Do you mean, you've not been experiencing many nightmares because you've been suppressing them?"

"W-what?" Alex lifted his head up to see Ms. Young writing.

"Alex, have you been avoiding sleep to prevent nightmares?"

That's when the teenager shut down.

Quickly he gave up on using his voice, and gratefully, Ms. Young took the hint. He decided it was probably due to him having the flu that she started wrapping the session up more than half way earlier than usual. He watched her as she circled a few words on her notepad, and then clicked the lid on the pen. In fact, he practically saw her posture change into 'delicate confrontation' as she clasped her hands together and leaned off from the back of her seat.

It seemed like time had slowed down and sped up as he watched her lips create words that informed him that she's officially diagnosed him with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, along side his early diagnosis of Major Depression. For a second, whilst she stood up with him, he wondered why she hadn't prescribed him medication for the Major Depression. But he decided she was probably trying to gain trust from him and he hadn't been very open (so she wasn't led to believe he was at harm to himself).

The vague confusion and epiphany stopped him from realising Ms. Young was scribbling on paper, clearly not finished with the discussion. He went and turned the knob of the door, a love/hate relationship with the cool air that flushed from it...

"Oh, Alex, wait, for a moment. Is that okay?"

He turned away from the door but kept his hand on the knob. He furrowed his eyebrows and wondered if he was acting weird: had he even said goodbye? Regardless, he nodded at her, which she didn't seem to notice because she went back to whatever she was doing.

Eventually she stood up straight again and walked over to him with one piece of paper. He heard her explain that he was the youngest recruit (he tried not to react to that label) she's had to counsel, and whilst she approves of the advantages of medication: her method was to get to know him and his capabilities, before referring to the treatment of medication. His grip on the doorknob tightened as she continued saying that she depends on face-to-face verbal therapy because she's seen it become a form of inspiration for her own patients. He didn't know how to abruptly state that he didn't feel therapy was 'inspiring' him as such after the amount of sessions they had, when clearly she was concluding this session, and resorting to medication.

"There's a pharmacy downstairs, they'll be able to explain the times and dosages for what I've recommended. You'll be placed on a higher dosage for your Major Depression than the PTSD, because both drugs are classified under the antidepressants..."

In all honesty, he tried to let her words sink in but all he could think about was how quickly everything had spiralled to this moment, in parallel to a year ago, or two. He already understood the process of antidepressants and how they balance out chemicals, and how they should be able to help him. That was the excuse he used for his delayed response, after his therapist apparently had described it all and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Alex? I'm sorry, but you will be fine, we'll just have to work on you trusting that I can help. Then we'll work from there."


Author's Note:

*sigh* so I'm not sure when you guys expect me to update, but I had been planning to upload this two weeks ago so I feel frustrated with myself. It's only been a few weeks since my last update and I underestimated the amount of things that could happen: assignments (ones I apparently stopped having time to procrastinate- which meant I couldn't write chapters for this fic at like 3 in the morning), the exam period then happened - and then after that, finally holidays: but oh no, they were not peaceful rests where I had time to write this chapter. I don't even know what happened, like I was so motivated to reach a chapter with Alex in school whilst my holidays were still here, and suddenly everything got out of control... legitimately, it's difficult to find the motivation to type Alex-Rider-personality-cogent-paragraphs when you're experiencing another existential crisis. Somehow it manages to numbs all ability to function coherently. I'd be writing about three sentences and then crumble into a ball on my bed with my hands on my head, before I get the strength to get up and keep typing. That means that writing this chapter was drastically prolonged and I really hope that it's stable enough to be one piece...

I did re-read it, but after so much editing and reading, all the words just get so familiar and jumbled, I don't know how to explain it. To add on top of that, whilst I'm even writing this sentence, I can feel bile rising up my stomach or throat, and I feel like I'm going to vomit... This is not how I wanted to start the first weeks back into my second semester of university.