"Sex ran in him like the sea" - John Masefield
x.
One day Richard returns to his room in the hotel to find the bathroom door closed and Alex beyond it, screaming. Her sobs are ripped from her, loud and horrified, drowning out the reassuring whip of the fan, the roar of the shower. He looks ahead blankly for a minute, trying to decipher the problem, then something catches his eye and he understands. The gun lies on the bed, hot and somehow sullied even from his vantage point ten feet away. It has been used. He could not tell anyone how he knows this, but he knows. The Polaroid from Ben lies beside it, now crumpled. Alex's white blouse is balled up on the floor, smeared with drying crimson - not her own, Richard already knows this too. The pencil skirt is by the bathroom door where she stepped out of it, her kittenish heels - the ones she struggled to learn to walk in after all the years of practical hiking boots and going barefoot - have been kicked off and carelessly discarded. He has an instant to wonder how she got in without his key despite all his precautions, before remembering she is Benjamin Linus' daughter.
"Alex?" Richard raps his knuckles lightly on the bathroom door. Fear washes over him in a dark wave. Was she seen? Was she hurt? What has she done? What has been done to her? He does not ask if she is okay, knowing the answer to that one already. He doubts she is coherent enough to understand or answer him. Instead, he remains as calm as possible. She does not reply when he speaks. "Alex, I'm going to open the door now."
She is sitting in the corner of the wide shower stall as scalding water from the shower sprays across her arms and shoulders. Legs drawn in, arms wrapped tight around her knees, she looks towards the wall, crying open-mouthed. Richard's eyes trail over her body, not lustful, but drawn to the marks. A bruise unfurls across Alex's cheek, another bracelets her wrist: he can see finger marks where she was grabbed. There is a thin, shallow cut on her face. Someone put their hands on her, either in self-defence or for some nefarious purpose that turns Richard's blood to ice. Her position is such that he cannot see if there was any other damage. Blood swirls in the tub, not yet washed away by the shower's flow. It isn't hers.
"I killed three people," she tells him slowly, choking each word out painfully. Her face crumples as she dissolves once more into tears.
He twists the dial, turning off the water, and takes one of the big fluffy towels from the rack. The steam between them smells like rain, salt tears and vanilla. "Come on," he instructs, taking Alex's hand and pulling her up to her feet. He wraps the towel around her the moment she stands, then pulls her close, holding onto her for balance as she steps out of the tub. Even free of the hot water, cooled by the rotations of the fan, her skin burns. She falls against him lightly, her chin resting on his shoulder, eyes closed. Her brow smoothes as she slumbers against him, mercifully unconscious, though whether from sickness or shock or exhaustion or the safety of his presence, Richard does not know. He stands there for a half hour, not moving, barely breathing, afraid to jostle her lest she wake back up out of light sleep. Only when he is certain she is fully out does he pick her up.
She wakes up three hours later, opens her eyes and finds him there, sitting on a chair beside the bed where he laid her down. Her eyes burn fever bright, glassine as she looks at him. "What...." she begins, perplexed, and then comprehension dawns. The corners of her mouth downturn slightly. "Oh," she says softly.
Richard does not really want to ask, but needs to know. "What happened?"
"I went after him," she tells him, placing emphasis on the pronoun. "From the picture. Brookwood, the man Ben told me to kill. It would have been easy. I didn't have to get anywhere near him, I could see him from the car, except when I got the gun out -" she swallows heavily, wincing. Richard has a minute to wonder where she got a car in the first place, this island girl whose driving experience is limited to rusty vans lumbering through the clearing. His hands clench, wondering which of their people has been working with her, in secret, without his knowledge. None of them take care of her as well as he does.
Alex draws a panicky breath. "One of his people came around the other side of the car. Then another one came. They all had guns."
He pictures her like that, a gun pressed against her head, her own knuckles white as her fingertip trembled on the trigger, debating about the risk to her life. Alex is too out of it to notice as he pales and sets his jaw, more determined to win Ben's war than he has been thus far. She looks straight up at the ceiling, seeing into another place and time.
"They told me to get out of the car, so I did. Then they said to drop the gun. I knew if I did, they'd kill me anyway. One of them knew who I was, he told the others I was Ben's daughter. There wasn't a choice. I just closed my eyes and fired, and kept pulling the trigger until the clip was spent. I only opened my eyes when one of them hit me. He tried to grab the gun away. Somehow, I got his. I don't remember..." she trails off for a moment. "I - I shot him in the head. It was an accident. He pulled my hand, I couldn't stop." She sighs, looks blearily at Richard. "There was blood everywhere."
"It's gone now," he assures her, brushing back her hair from her forehead. Alex closes her eyes. Under Richard's palm, her skin is way too hot and fever-damp. "You're okay now. It's all over." Richard purses his lips, considering. Then he prepares to rise, but Alex catches his hand.
"Don't leave."
"I'm not going out. I was going to go to your room, and get some work done. You can stay here and sleep, Alex, it's fine. Just get some rest."
Her eyes open, then narrow. Irises the colour of lilacs and seashores bore into him before exhaustion makes her close them again. Her skin looks translucent in the lamplight, a picture of fragility, but she has a strong grip as she intertwines her fingers with his. "Just stay." She slides over, pulling back the blanket and sheet to let him in. "Sleep here with me."
It does not take much coercion. "Okay," Richard agrees. "Let me go check in with Tom, I need him to meet with Theresa for us. I'll be right back." He releases her hand with a bit of regret, then goes to the room next door. Tom is in just as much a hurry to part as he is; he has reunited with a friend he met on a business trip prior, or so goes the excuse. Richard pretends not to understand that the man is Tom's lover. He knows about wanting privacy, after all. After a few minutes of forced small talk, Richard gives Tom the file for Theresa, then waves a hasty goodbye to Tom's guest.
When he comes back into the room, Alex is still. For a moment he thinks she has already fallen asleep, and debates resuming his post at the chair, watching over her. It is not that he does not wish to lie down beside her; quite the opposite, in fact. But she is sick and sad and scared, ruminating on memories she never should have experienced. He shouldn't want to turn that sorrow into something carnal, take advantage of the vulnerability, though he does. He may not be a typical mortal, but he is not a god, and he is hardly infallible, after all.
"Are you coming to bed?" she asks, opening her eyes slightly. He stands frozen another moment, and Alex pulls the blankets back, smoothing the sheet with her palm where he should lay. There is fear in her bright eyes, but desire too, and Richard nods, giving up the restraint.
He strips out of the creased dark trousers, the suit-coat, the button up collared shirt - the things that make him Mr Alpert to the outside world, the props of his external identities. Richard stands for a moment, nude, letting her half-lidded eyes study him. He is not entirely sure if Alex has ever seen a naked man before, and the arousal grows even as he considers this. Then he looks at Alex questioningly and slips into the bed when she smiles, pulling her tight against him. Her lips are hot pressed against the hollow of his throat, and her teeth are sharp as they nip him gently on the earlobe and on the neck. In the humid darkness beneath the blanket, his hands cautiously rise, exploring the bare curve of her hip, cupping her breasts. Alex's cheeks flame, not with shame but with fever, as she curls her leg around his, her hands roving his body. He explores her back, running his palm up the inside of one thigh, hearing her gasp as his fingers find the dampness beneath her legs. She is uncharted territory, for all the short skirts. He slides a finger in cautiously, then another, ruminating on the tightness of her body as she whimpers against him.
There is guilt, but not very much, when he nudges her legs apart with his knee. Part of him understands that Alex is needy and vulnerable and broken and sad, and that he is a very bad man for feeding off of that, comforting her in physical ways that will do nothing for her emotionally, but the majority of Richard is simply grateful for the opportunity to be with her. It is more complex than a normal partnership. He has ever been a shadowy thing, an advisor whose lips are even less trustworthy than those of Judas. He is constant thing, drawing new leaders up, sending their pedestals crashing back down when they inevitably fail him, speaking mostly of the sanctity of the island, which much be protected at all costs. His was the midnight whisper that assured Charles Widmore the deaths of eighteen young, scared American soldiers were entirely necessary. He was the one who gave the instruction to don gas masks and head out to the Tempest, the reason Ben Linus went with his father on his birthday to personally say goodbye. He is the dark guide behind the scenes of a hundred tragedies, and still, like anyone fallible, capable of brief moments of shimmering decency. It is a testament to the way Richard feels about Alex, that he feels a bit sorry for doing this before she is ready, when she is still in such a state. It is a testament to what Richard is that he does it anyway.
He enters her with a deep breath and contrite prayers, murmuring her name as he takes her. For Alex it hurts, but only a little; Richard knows what he is doing. His hands cup her from behind, lifting her off the mattress a fraction of an inch, tilting her to a slight angle against his body, to make it easier on her. His lips against her mouth silence any cries. Slowly, slowly, her arms go around his neck. Richard kisses her, his tongue curved as he licks her bottom lip, coaxing a faint moan as she parts her lips for him. He pulls out, slides back in, presses a hand over her heart to feel the percussive rhythm. Alex's breath catches. Richard bends, pressing himself into her as he strokes her hair and lowers his head to flick his tongue over her nipple. His mouth moves over her, trailing downward across her chest, suckling her breast as Alex arches to meet him, the first strains of pleasure making her muscles sing.
Thrusts quickening but still controlled, Richard hisses sharply as Alex drags her fingernails down his back. Maybe she learned it from the television, maybe from a magazine, but regardless, the effect is welcome. Richard groans softly with pleasure, then takes her hands and presses them down against the mattress for a moment, to remind her who is in charge here. He opens his eyes, watching her face as he thrusts into her hard and quick, an erotic shudder going up his spine as Alex sucks in her breath sharply, grinding against him. He runs one hand over her breasts, licks a circle around her areolas, lets the edge of his teeth graze her nipples, then kisses her, claiming her mouth so roughly she cannot breathe properly when he finally lets go, but gasps for oxygen, uttering small murmurs of desire.
Sliding her thighs further apart, Richard drags Alex forward slightly by her hips, thrusting into her to the hilt. Alex breathes his name and draws one leg up, bending her knee. She wraps her leg around his waist and Richard runs his hand down her thigh. She has, he knows, forgotten about what she has done. The reality of his presence, the undeniable physicality, has begun chasing away the memories of terror and dark deeds. He tells himself that makes it okay. He cannot quite convince himself of this, what with Alex the way she is: still tearstained, bruises from another man's fingers marking a purple brand across her wrist and cheek, but Richard has lived a long time, a very long time, and adding one more lie to the pile can hardly exacerbate his guilt. Mostly what he feels is adoration, coupled with possessiveness as he looks down at Alex's rapturous face.
Alex draws him closer as the friction grows. Their bodies move in a unified chorus. Richard, experienced, takes her to orgasm once, then twice, muffling the sound of thin ecstatic cries with his lips. She kisses him desperately as he carries her over the brink a third time; they come in unison, Richard's body overwhelmed by the feel of her: tight, slick, heaving, hot. He presses kisses to her feverish forehead and cheeks, his warm breath cool to Alex's perceptions, and slides in deep, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from Alex's body. She shudders, muscles clenching then relaxing, secure in his arms. With a final thrust, Richard collapses against her, breathless and heaving, as wrung out with exhaustion and lingering pleasure as she is, though he recovers far faster, as is his nature. He nuzzles against her neck, breathing in the usual scent of Alex mixed with his own, mingled in a residue of pheromones, and then kisses her wet lips.
"Alex," Richard speaks as he rolls onto his side, unable to find the right words. He cannot very well tell her he want to worship at the temple of her body, or that she has aroused something unfamiliar in him, almost devotion. This is not the way he speaks. The words he wants to use hearken back to a forgotten age. All the vows and promises he imagines are in languages she does not know. He reaches out, clasps her fingers with one hand, while the other hand trails over her stomach, then lightly touches her hair.
"I love you," he tells her finally, and thinks he might mean it, but Alex is already fast asleep, one hand holding his, eyes closed, her brow smooth and worriless.