Title: And Even in Our Sleep

Author: Anne Phoenix
Pairing(s): Alex/?
Rating: R
Word Count: 900
Summary: "Tom must never know about such things. About Alex on his knees, begging for his life, pleading and crying as the gun was pressed against his head."
Warning(s): Sexual violence
Author's Notes: Written for the Flash Rider community's seventh challenge prompt, "And even in our sleep". Thanks to kennahijja for beta reading!

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended.

And Even in Our Sleep

Plump raindrops, ripe with the promise of spring, ran down the window.

One raindrop, two ... the shower seemed to be easing off ... three raindrops, four. Alex only counted the ones between the fleck of bird poo and the dusty smudge on the glass. Those markers were his goalposts.

Five, six, seven. He leaned back, twisting his neck with a satisfying crack before turning back to listen to the geography teacher's droning monologue. Something, something, French Revolution, something, something. It was mind-numbingly boring and a far cry from where Alex had been this exact time last week, chasing a drug lord through the streets of Manchester on a stolen—no, requisitioned BMW F650.

Alex yawned. The room was warm. Too warm. The teacher's voice was lulling, just like the drone of the engine of the small plane he'd had to hijack to follow a fleeing terrorist across the Wiltshire countryside only a few days ago.

Eight, nine, ten, hundred, thousand ... He yawned again. Beside him, Tom had long given up and had laid his head down on folded arms. While he wasn't quite snoring, his breathing had evened and deepened in sleep. Alex smiled fondly.

One thousand, two thousand, fourteenth of July, Bastille, seventeen hundred something something. Oh yes, prison. Alex had been in prison. Sort of. He'd been imprisoned. Quite a few times. And not long ago, he'd been on his knees, sitting back on tingling legs, freedom stolen by biting metal cuffs, defiance stolen by a beating that had left him black and blue for weeks. That had been in a prison. Three thousand, four thousand ... Alex glanced at Tom and was relieved to find him still sleeping, still peaceful.

Tom must never know about such things. About Alex on his knees, begging for his life, pleading and crying as the gun was pressed against his head. Cold metal, making him lose his mind, stroking his face like the icy fingers of death. Tears like fat raindrops that just kept coming and coming, burning as they fell like acid from his eyes. The barrel of the Grach tracing the contour of his lips while fingers clawed at him from behind, twisted in his hair, yanked him back with unforgiveable force ...

A halfway press of the trigger engaged the automatic cocking mechanism as the iron dug into his throat, resting on his pulse as though it took comfort in the terror of its young victim. He couldn't see his attacker, couldn't see anything but a greyed-out false ceiling and the shadow of the man gripping his hair, maybe the only thing still holding him upright. He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe; couldn't feel anything but the steel touch of death on his skin. He'd gone quiet, not because he accepted his fate, but because begging had only made him weaker and now he was too weak to even try.

One, two ... At three, the deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the room. Ears ringing, pulse jumping, pain ...

No.

No, pain. He hadn't been shot.

As his heart dared to start beating again he heard a laugh. He was just prey they were playing with, teasing until they were bored. He opened eyes he'd not realised he'd closed and tried to fight the sob that threatened to choke him from the inside out. And then gun was back, hot now, and carrying a faint smell that was reminiscent of a hospital or laboratory, touching his face, evaporating his tears.

Open up, open your mouth, you will open your mouth, do it or else ... Bruised body too battered to resist as the Grach slid between his lips, in and out, the hot metal rough against his lips, hard and unyielding. He tried to pull away as a deep thrust almost triggered his gag reflex, but there was nowhere to go. The hands in his hair were too tight, holding him steady as the gun went further down his throat. He knew he was trembling. He could hardly breathe and it felt like the gun was searing him from the inside.

And then it was gone and the hands were gone and he was cast aside like a lifeless doll, twisted and discarded on the threadbare carpet. His neck was stiff and the pain radiated all the way down his spine from being arched for so long. His mouth felt raw, skinned, and he knew the worst was yet to come.

If they had grown bored of him, they would kill him now.

If not, he knew they were going to tou—

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch and curl up on himself, his heart beating a painful tattoo – I can't do this, I can't survive this! But the hand would not stop, would not give up. He was being shaken, violently, urgently.

"Alex!" a familiar voice hissed. Tom!

Blinking against the rapidly dissipating memory of his dream, Alex raised his head and turned his attention back to the French Revolution. It looked like the rain had finally stopped.

The End
7th July 2010