CHAPTER 46

Alistair's ears were ringing.

His body was crunched over in a tight, weeping ball. Alistair Fergus Kirkland was not afraid to cry, contrary to what a lot of people thought about him. The "shock blanket" that had been haphazardly tossed on him when they reached the ER laid on the floor in a forgotten hump. He was in London, now, far away from that bastard's sick playground. But still, he shivered. Alistair lifted his head. The waiting room was empty. Patty, Willy, and Dylan were just now getting treated, but it was only a couple of scratches, so it wouldn't be long. Not long before he had to break the news to them.

Alistair had talked to the doctor earlier. There was no way to save Alice. She not only suffered from a concussion, torn open fairly fresh bullet wounds (which he had no fucking knowledge to, damn it, Bunny), but that motherfucker had stabbed Alice from behind before the bakery had erupted in flames. It was amazing that she was still alive, though barely.

Alice had always been weak, physically.

Alistair still felt chills of fear spring up his spine every time she just coughed or sneezed. He could still remember how just one little bug circling around could send her down into a downward spiral that would more often than not send her to the hospital. He'd always been protective of her, because of that. He treated her different from their siblings. Alistair watched her more carefully, worried more intensely, and was generally harsher to her. But what did that matter now? Alice was dying and he couldn't do anything about it. No, he was worse than useless, he had dragged her down.

He had been responsible for kicking her out of their home, no one else was. He had helped drive her to insanity. And all because of what? A stupid grudge? It went deeper than the fact that she had done a little vanishing act on them some ten years ago. Alice acted like the older sibling, and quite frankly, she did a better job at it. She paid all the bills, he knew that, and it killed him that he was so damn fucking useless that he couldn't even help to pay them. Maybe that was what drove him to alcoholism. God, he was so pathetic.

The Scot heard footsteps. He looked up, expecting to see his siblings. It wasn't.

It was that blonde Frenchman, Francis-Something. He looked down at Alistair with weary indigo eyes and an utterly haggard expression. His eyes were dull and he didn't seem to give a rat's ass about the fact that he was caked in mud and splats of blood.

"…Aye?" He managed to croak out as Francis sat down next to him.

Francis shook his head and it looked like he was holding in tears. "…Ze doctor told me about Alice…"

"Why?" He frowned, looking up and down at the seemingly delicate man beside him. "That's confidential information."

"Oui, I am one of her emergency contacts, like Alfred." He stuck his hand out to shake Alistair's. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy, your sister's assistant." It was quiet for a moment before Francis said, "She loves you, you know. All of you. She doesn't realize it, but she talks about you and your siblings. Alice went mad trying to find you when…"

He didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. Alistair gave a humorous less laugh. "Funny how that works, aen' it? Hate 'em, until they're gone."

"She never hated you." Francis said automatically. "I've known Alice for only about a year, but…Zink about it this way, if she truly hated you, why did she ever come back from Europe? Why did she check up on you after ze bastard kidnapped you? She loves you more zan you'll ever be able to comprehend; I promise you zat." And then he left, leaving Alistair to his own thoughts.

The Scotsman stood and made his way across the hospital to Alice's room. It was empty, amazingly. The American git, Alfred, had stayed in here and bawled and prayed for hours upon hours. Like a real brother would. The redhead sat down in a chair by the bed, eyes not leaving his sister's face. "Ye look so much like Ma, ye ken?" His rough, calloused hand brushed across her face.

A real brother never would've let this happen. A real brother would've protected his family from a psycho serial killer, even if it meant losing his life. "I'm so, so sorry, Bunny." The tears continued to dribble down from his face, even when the rest of the Kirkland family came marching in.

"…How is she?" Dylan broke the tense silence, noticing the tears running down his face.

Alistair looked up pitifully. "She's…she's nae gonnae mak' it. Doctor said that awfy much tissue wis torn fae th' claymore, nae ta mention a' ta ither fuckin' injuries. Thay don't hae ta technology tae save her 'n' movin` her fae this room wull murdurr her in a maiter o' minutes."

"Uimh! Bhfuil tú ag magadh. Is é seo roinnt joke breoite... Le do thoil, Alistair, le do thoil... Inis dom go bhfuil tú ag magadh díreach." Wilma's bright clover eyes glistened. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't bear to see the pain that seemed to glow from her eyes. He hated to see his sister reduced to a bleeding body on the edge of death, waiting for the one last string holding her there to snap. He hated to see Wilma look so broken, so helpless.

He hated that he could see his crumpled reflection in her eyes.

He was worthless. Alistair was supposed to protect his family after Fergus died! He was the one that was going to support the family, not Alice! Alice shouldn't have gone through that. She was just a baby! But she did. And their baby was dying. And there was no way they could save her. This was where they ended. Where Alice left.

Alistair's body moved on its own as he stood and pulled Wilma into his arms.

They stood sobbing and clutching onto each other as Wilma's cries filled the room. Dylan and Patrick made their way to Alice, neither crying. Dylan took Alice, small, oh so small, hand into his own. He traced the little callouses over her abnormally pale hand. They were frigid. So cold. He lightly breathed hot air on the hand, like he used to when they were children playing in the snow. Their father couldn't afford gloves, so it was common for them to use their breath to warm up each other's hands whenever they were cold. It stung that the habit had carried on with him, even though those days had since long gone. Still, he didn't cry.

Alice wouldn't want him to cry. She wouldn't want anyone to cry. She was always like that. So quiet. So selfless. He remembered her trembling lip and wide, wet eyes as she turned around to say her last words. He had watched as her bright green eyes wobbled, shinning with fear and determination.

The tears were falling from his eyes before he noticed them.

"NO!" Patrick's voice erupted. They stared at him in a stunned silence. "No. No, no, no, no, no. No. She can't die! She's…She's…She's not like that." His speech was interrupted by a hiccupping sob. He turned to Alice. "She won't gie up, she's feckin Alice. Alice never gives up. we jist – we jist got 'er back!" His voice cracked, and he collapsed into the chair, sobbing.

Wilma broke away from Alistair and threw her arms around Patrick, sobbing harder.

And then, the door opened.

Heads shot to the man in the doorway. He was petite, or at least, not nearly as robust as any of the Kirkland brothers. He wore a fancy, tanned suit and dark shaded glasses. The mystery man's posture screamed power and he looked just like that other man that was in the cell with them. The small, cowardly one with brown hair.

He closed the door behind him and strutted forward. The man took off his glasses and revealed a pair of deadly, amber eyes. "Ciao."

"Who the fuck are you?" Surprisingly, it was Dylan that spoke up, glaring fiercely. "Can't you see we're a little busy?"

The man simply raised an eyebrow. "Accidenti rude people britannico ..." He muttered, fiercely. "My name is Lovino Vargas. You may have heard of my father." His words gave him the satisfying, shocked reaction that he'd hoped to invoke.

"You -!"

"I'm not here to kill anyone." Lovino said, strutting towards the bed.

Alistair's hand reached out and clasped around Lovino's wrist. Tightly. "You're not going anywhere near them." He may not have been able to protect Alice, but he'd be fucked if he let this short motherfucker come near his family.

Damn. The Italian Mafia boss thought, glancing down at Alistair's hand. The moron's got a grip. "I'm not here to hurt any of you. I could, of course, but I'm-a not really-a wanting a bitch of a ghost chasing after me for the rest of my-a life." He gave a quick glare in Alice's direction. "And besides, I-a owe your sister too much-a to-a kill you."

"What did ye say?" Patrick nearly snarled out at him.

"Alice and I often did business with each other. She even saved my brother and his-a stupid lover's life-a. Twice." He sighed, yanking his hand out of the Scotsman's hold and went over to the foot of Alice's bed. "We've known each other a while, that's all. So, let's cut the unpleasant chit-chat and get down to business." He turned around to face the siblings.

"Your sister is dying."

"Kind of grasped that ourselves, thank you very much." Wilma hissed at him, eyes narrowed and sneer deadly. She looked so much like Alice at that point that it nearly made Lovino gape. It was his first time meeting the siblings, though he had had people stalk watch over them for a good deal of years.

"I help you." Lovino said. "The doctors here don't have the technology. I do. Let me bring my guys in here. I can help Alice."

"How do we know yer nae lyin'?" Alistair snarled at him. There was no way he was going to let some Vargas scum hurt his sister.

Lovino took another look at Alice's deadly pale face. "What have you got to lose?"

Translations:

Uimh! Bhfuil tú ag magadh. Is é seo roinnt joke breoite... Le do thoil, Alistair, le do thoil... Inis dom go bhfuil tú ag magadh díreach. = No! You're joking. This is some sick joke ... Please, Alistair, please ... Tell me you're just joking.

Accidenti rude people britannico… = Damn rude British people…