Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me and I make no money with it.

Summary: The consequences of going swimming in December.

Date: Dec. 31st, between Memory and Insanity (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)

Edited: 13.12.10

14. Smile

He hurts. That's the first thing he becomes aware of. His head, his chest, his whole body. The last time he had felt this bad was... he isn't sure when that was. With his luck probably not too long ago.

It doesn't smell like hospital, though, which is good. He isn't a big fan of hospitals. Most of the nurses there never seem to have heard of that thing called personal space. He has some issues with people just walking up to him and touching him without at least asking.

He tries to move and immediately regrets it. He's seriously sore. Did he get beat up again? Wait, no, wasn't there someone shooting at him? He's got some issues with people shooting at him too. But then again, are there people who don't have an issue with that? How would that even work? 'No, no, go ahead and shoot at me, I don't mind.' What kind of crazy people would say that? Would they have a pain fetish or something?

...wait, what the hell is he even thinking about?

Someone puts a hand on his forehead. He should probably be startled or offended or something, but he can't quite dredge up the energy for any of that. Instead he leans into the touch. It feels nice, all warm and smooth and soothing. His pounding headache doesn't seem quite so bad.

"Are you awake?"

The voice is male and low and he's certain he knows it, though he can't quite remember the person it belongs to right now. The only man who has ever been at his bedside like this is Ian, but Ian is dead. He's not sure of a lot of things right now, but he definitely does remember that. A closed casket and spots of dried blood on the driver's seat.

A loud exhale and the hand starts combing through his hair. Again, he's startled by how good it feels. He doesn't like people touching him. He lets Jack or Sabina hug him sometimes because, well, he knows them and trusts them and they wouldn't ever hurt him. But this... he likes it. It makes the need to know who's taking care of him nearly unbearable and he opens his eyes, slowly, because he just knows it will hurt.

"Alex?"

The pounding in his head gets infinitely worse and he squints against the bright light blinding him. Why does nobody ever turn down the lights when someone is obviously sick and needs rest? It's like some universal rule that if you are sick or have been unconscious, upon opening your eyes you first have to be blinded by a bright light. It sucks.

"Turn th' ligh'off," he whispers, his sore throat not allowing anything louder. At least he still has a bit of a voice. He hates being unable to speak. He especially hates being gagged or having his mouth taped shut. Those are both exceedingly uncomfortable and make calling for help rather difficult. Also - there is no good way to remove duct tape.

Suddenly the lights dim and he blinks, only now realizing that the hand in his hair has vanished. What is up with that? Wasn't it there just a second ago? He's really quite sure it was. This is confusing.

"Here, drink something."

His mind tells him he should jump in surprise but all his body manages is a pathetic little twitch and he blinks owlishly at the man sitting in a chair next to his bed. That was- "Yass'n?"

In response a cup with a white-red-blue striped straw in it is held in front of his face. Right. Drinking. But what is that stuff? He also doesn't particularly like drinking something other people give him, even though most of the time he doesn't have much of a choice about that. But he's been drugged that way once, and undressed and apparently photographed and measured to the last tiniest detail, something he had learned about only weeks after the fact. He tries to avoid thinking about it too often.

"It's tea."

There's more owlish blinking on his part as the assassin answers a question he hasn't even asked yet. Almost like mind-reading. That would be neat. If he could read minds then he wouldn't always get surprised by supposedly nice people turning out to be murderous bastards. Or by murderous bastards turning out to be pretty nice people; people who offer him tea. He manages three sips before he has to stop. He feels silly drinking throug a straw. It's just as silly as imagining Yassen standing in a store and buying white-red-blue striped straws. Swallowing hurts.

"Thanks," Alex whispers and watches as Yassen puts the cup on the nightstand next to the bed. Why is the assassin helping him? For that matter, why is Alex even here? He can't remember what happened before he woke up. Something to do with shooting and running and cold and...

"You saved me." He's surprised at the words spilling out of his own mouth. But it's true, isn't it? "Why?"

The man looks at him and Alex notices that he's taken out the brown contact lenses; his eyes are as blue and unreadable as they ever were. "You asked me to."

Alex would laugh if it didn't take so much effort. Instead he grins tiredly. "Nobody ever helps me just because I ask them to."

There's no answer though, only another question. "Why did you call me?"

He's too tired to be stubborn about getting a real explanation, so he shrugs. "Nobody else would've believed me." And that's true. He's tried calling the police before and MI6 and ASIS. Help only ever comes after it's already all over and done with.

Again there's no answer and giving up the fight against his pounding head he closes his eyes. There are coloured spots dancing behind his eyes and he thinks that if he ignores the fact that they are a sign of just how sick and exhausted he is they are actually quite pretty. Like confetti. Glittery, multi-coloured confetti. Sabina would like it.

Yassen lays his hand on his forehead again and even though Alex knows now who it is it still feels nice. Comforting. Maybe there is something to this whole letting-people-touch-you thing after all. Something else besides potential pain, that is.

"Your fever is getting worse. Go back to sleep."

Sleep sounds like a good idea, only that the hand is being taken away and he's so not on board with that. Without thinking about it any further he catches the assassin's wrist, pulling the Russian's cool hand back to rest on his burning skin.

"Keep it there," he mumbles sleepily, looking at the man from beneath heavy lashes.

Yassen doesn't move, surprise for once plain on his face and Alex smiles. He likes seeing some kind of expression there. He'll have to try to make that happen more often. For now though he closes his eyes again, sleep pulling hard at him, and soon his arm grows too heavy to hold up and falls back onto the bed.

The Russian's hand stays on his forehead.