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

Summary: When you are desperate for comfort you take pretty much anything you can get.

Author's Notes: Thanks to the people who left me those awesome reviews, I love reading what you guys have to say. Oh, and after this things are going to get better for Alex. This is pretty much his lowest point in this story arch.

Date: Jan. 2nd - 4.40 pm, between No Time and Sorrow (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)

Edited: 23.12.10

26. Tears

After Alex had taken care of his injuries and swallowed something against the fever he curled up under the blanket. He was getting cold again and as long as there was a bed it'd be a shame not to make use of it, right?

His shoulder was twinging, a persistent, deep-seated ache. He couldn't remember if his last graze shot had hurt like this too and hoped that it wasn't getting infected. He'd ask Yassen about what he thought later, when he helped him to bandage the wound again. Alex could try to do it himself, but he couldn't reach it properly and his right wrist felt stiff and numb. He'd do himself more harm than good right now.

The sound of the running shower was soothing and soon he was dozing off, turning onto his left side to get more comfortable. The blanket was thick and heavy, keeping him warm despite the fact that he was only half-dressed. The last time he'd been lying down the stone floor beneath his back had been so cold it made his skin burn. [Frank's hands had been warm.]

Suddenly the blanket was suffocating him and he scrambled to sit up against the headboard, kicking the covers off. He was panting as if he'd run a marathon.

"Fuck." He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, feeling the burn returning. Why couldn't he just forget about this shit already? It wasn't a big deal, nothing had happened! Lots of people had hurt him in the past and the memory of them had never followed him out of his nightmares. There was no reason why Frank should be any different. And he had showered! All the blood was off! There was no reason to still feel like...

He swallowed thickly, his stomach churning dangerously. "This is so messed up," he whispered to himself. This whole situation was just one huge mess. He was one huge mess. He didn't know what to do.

He tried to blink the tears away, but instead they started running down his face. Didn't matter, he wasn't really crying, he had no reason to cry. He was fine. Frank hadn't gotten to do what he had wanted to. Alex had stopped him. There was no reason to be freaking out about this. Frank was dead. He couldn't touch him again.

He curled up tightly and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to keep any noise from escaping. His chest hurt. He wanted... He wanted to be home, in his bed. He wanted Jack to hug him and tell him everything would be fine, then start telling him about her day. Normal, everyday stuff. Who knew, maybe she'd met a new guy since he had left last week? [Was it really only a week?] And Sabina was going back to America in a few days. Alex had hoped that he'd be able to see her at least once more before she had to leave again.

But here he was, in some random motel room somewhere near the German-French border, cowering in a someone else's bed. He felt incredibly alone.

It was cool in the room and his hair was still wet from showering, so it was no surprise that he could soon add shivering to the long list of things that were making him miserable at the moment. His head was pounding and his throat felt sore, his flushed face just about the only warm body-part he had left. That was why he hated crying. People always said that it was a way to let the pain out, but really, it only made you more miserable and let everyone around you know that you were weak to boot.

Suddenly angry, he scrubbed at his face and tried to force his breath under control. The way he was letting himself go was pathetic. What would Ian think of him? Here he was, crying his eyes out just because some bastard had tried to... to ra...

Fuck, he couldn't even think it.

He pressed a hand against his mouth, muffling another sob that tried to break free. Okay, so maybe it wasn't nothing, maybe he wasn't okay, maybe he wasn't- couldn't...

...but he wanted to so badly.

He felt so small just then, so helpless. What if next time he wouldn't be able to stop the one attacking him? He remembered the hands roving over his chest, holding him down, pawing at his naked skin. What if next time it wouldn't stop at that? Frank had been so heavy on top of him, so much stronger. The memory of feeling the man's hard arousal against his leg crowded in, making him gag, his stomach clenching. Oh god, he was going to throw up again.

He scrambled off the bed and staggered towards the bathroom, not pausing to think as he hammered against the thin wood. It only took seconds for the door to open and he pushed past Yassen, not hearing a word the other said as he reached the toilet and retched, throwing up what little food hadn't gone the first time. His stomach hurt and his throat burned, his mouth tasting like acid, and he heaved again, though nothing more would come up. He waited, coughing and gasping for breath, but slowly his stomach settled and with the tension all strength left him too, his knees simply giving out beneath him.

He clenched his eyes shut, prepared for the painful landing, but instead he was caught beneath the arms and carefully lowered to the floor, large hands radiating warmth against his chilled skin. His already unsteady breath hitched and he flinched, remembering the last time he had felt warm hands on cold skin and he was right back where he had started, with burning eyes and tears threatening to spill. He desperately hoped that Yassen would just leave him alone, he wasn't strong enough to pull himself together right then and he didn't want the Russian to see him being so pathetic.

The hands vanished and he heard the man get something from the other room, but he just didn't have the energy to move or even look what the other was doing. He'd be perfectly happy to curl up in the corner and sleep for the next three days, cold floor or not.

The other touched his shoulder and a bottle of water was presented to him. He blinked slowly, feeling dazed and muzzy, his thoughts moving sluggishly around the pounding in his head. God, he hated crying.

He grasped the bottle and rinsed his mouth out before drinking a bit, still careful not to look up. He didn't want to see whatever expression Yassen had on his face, be it scorn, annoyance, disgust, or maybe even pity. Though that would still be better than nothing at all, and so he didn't look, choosing instead to stare at the trembling hands in his lap and concentrate on breathing.

The hand was still on his shoulder. It was warm and just... there. No pressure, no reason or special motivation behind it. Not like Frank had touched him. He tried to relax his tense muscles.

"You are freezing. You should go back to bed."

The Russian sounded strange and Alex didn't know what to make of it. What was he thinking? Was he annoyed that the teen was being so pathetic? He didn't answer and let the man help him to his feet, grateful for the hands that steadied him when he stumbled. It didn't feel bad. He had been afraid that he would keep flinching whenever someone touched him, but this was okay. The man had no reason to hurt him. It was okay, and he just had to keep reminding himself of that.

He let Yassen half guide, half drag him to the bed and sank down on the edge, wondering when he had last been so sick as to need help getting from one room to the next. He hoped he'd get over this soon. Then the Russian stepped away, his hands slipping off the teen's shoulders and Alex startled himself when he reacted, reaching out and catching the assassin's wrist with his right.

He felt the man go stock-still, the muscles beneath his fingertips taut and normally this would have been enough to make him search for cover before things got violent, but this was Yassen and he just really wanted... he didn't even know what. He hesitated for a moment, then bit his lip and looked up.

The Russian was staring down at him, an unreadable look on his face.

Alex swallowed dryly, a 'please' on the tip of his tongue. He had no idea what he wanted to ask for.

Then the other surprised him by placing his free hand on the teen's forehead, making the younger one's eyes slip closed on their own accord. Yassen's skin felt so good on his, his warmth making shivers run down Alex's spine. He leaned into the touch.

"Your fever has risen again." He could hear the frown in the assassin's voice. The spy didn't react, not really surprised by the announcement. He had slept in the car, but that could hardly be counted as real rest. If he went on like this he'd end up in hospital again, this time from sheer exhaustion.

The hand on his forehead moved, slowly combing through his hair and the teen's heart did a weird flip-flop in his chest, a new flush rising to his face. What the...? He hissed when Yassen's fingertips brushed over the bump at the back of his head, carefully feeling at the scabs. The Russian started to lift his still captured limb and Alex let go automatically, holding still when the assassin slipped the second hand into his hair as well, feather-light touches examining the place where he'd practically been punched into the floor.

"It would have been better to stitch this," the contract killer said, his voice startling Alex out of the daze he'd started to fall into. He was leaning forward more and more, exhaustion bowing his shoulders.

"Sorry," he murmured, frustrated that he had fucked up yet again. At this point Yassen had to be wondering how the spy was even still alive with all the stupid mistakes he kept making.

"There is no reason to apologize. The necessary supplies weren't available anyway. Your injuries can be addressed properly once we have reached our destination."

"When's that?" he asked, the words coming out half-slurred. His eyes fell fully closed again, the darkness helping to keep his headache at bay. The fingers kept combing through his hair.

"About six more hours."

Six more hours of driving and then tomorrow they'd go their separate ways again. In not even another 24 hours he'd be home. The thought didn't make him as happy as he thought it should. [What's wrong with me?]

Yassen's hands slipped from his hair, down his neck and to his shoulders, coming to rest just at the edge of his wound. He got goosebumps all up his arms and over his back, his skin tingling where the other had brushed over it. It felt weird and embarrassing and Alex kind of wanted the man to do it again, but he refused to think about that fact just then.

"We have to leave in less than an hour. Do you need help with your shoulder?"

He nodded, forcing himself to sit up straighter, the man stepping away from him at the same moment. A little more and he'd have ended up leaning against Yassen's chest. He cleared his throat, suddenly managing to be embarrassed again. "Uh, yeah. I can't reach it right."

The assassin nodded as if nothing unusual had happened in the last few minutes and picked up the first aid kid, rising an eyebrow at Alex when the teen didn't move right away. The spy flushed at the look and quickly turned around to present his back, head swimming with confusion.

He held still while the Russian went through the motions of patching him up, feeling off balance and out of his depth. He couldn't remember the last time he'd let anyone besides Jack [or Ian] touch him like this, and yet it was unlike anything he knew. He and Yassen weren't close, but he did kind of trust the man, not to forget that they had some history. They couldn't be called friends, they weren't on the same side by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't enemies either. He shook his head, bewildered by the whole mess.

The assassin sprayed some kind of disinfectant onto what by now looked like a wide but shallow cut and the spy hissed, instinctively flinching away. Yassen didn't apologize, but he did wait until the teen sat straight again before continuing. Alex bit his lip as the other cleaned the rest of the wound, breathing through the pain. Was it meant to burn like that if it was healing cleanly? He remembered wanting to ask the Russian about that. He turned his head so that he could watch the other out of the corner of his eye. "Is it getting worse?"

The assassin didn't pause in his work, though he did frown slightly. "Part of the scab has torn. It's not healing cleanly."

Just what he'd wanted to hear. It had probably happened during his struggle to throw that bastard off. The hands stopped moving for a moment before continuing noticeably slower. "Are there any other injuries that need to be addressed?"

The teen frowned. "I'm fine. I think my wrist is sprained, but I already bandaged it."

The Russian hummed non-committally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Alex was puzzled. He didn't think that Yassen was the type to repeat questions needlessly, the man wasn't exactly talkative after all. So why did he ask again? There was no reason to suspect that the teen would keep quiet about an injury.

[Unless...] Alex felt himself go tense. Did Yassen think that Frank...? The spy had assumed that the situation had been obvious when the Russian had entered the room, but now that he thought about it... He had been dishevelled, disoriented and beaten up. The button of his pants had been ripped off and there had been blood everywhere. Yassen couldn't know for sure that it had all belonged to Frank, and they had been separated for hours. From what the assassin knew it could have happened. Alex shivered, torn between relief and dread as he thought about what he had managed to avoid.

The Russian finished taping a piece of that weird slick gauze over the wound - to keep the skin from growing together with the cloth or something - and started rewrapping the bandage. The teen hadn't paid attention to it before, but it did seem like the man was making an effort not to touch him while reaching around his chest repeatedly. He didn't know how to feel about that.

Alex shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "He didn't... you know." Yassen didn't react, just kept wrapping the bandage around him carefully. It unsettled the spy and he tried to explain, "I mean, he tried, but I - he... He had a knife. On his belt. And he let go of - of my hand when he - he let go of my hand. So I... He didn't-" He stopped and exhaled shakily, forcing himself to calm down. He wasn't making any sense. "I stopped him. Nothing happened."

The Russian finished tying the bandage without answering and stepped back. Alex convinced himself to turn around, wanting to see the other's face. Yassen wasn't looking at him, busying himself with packing up the medkit, but there was an undeniable sense of relief about him. The spy quickly looked away again.

After a few seconds, the man stated, "We have about half an hour left. Try to get some rest."

The teen made a non-committal noise and slipped his shirt on... only that it was Yassen's shirt as evidenced by the light scent that lingered. He still couldn't tell what it reminded him of and he was tempted to sniff at the cloth, but that would have been seriously weird. He didn't even want to imagine how the assassin would look at him then.

He shook his head, hoping to shake these strange thoughts off as well. "Can we just leave now? I mean, if you want to. Half an hour isn't going to do much and I'd rather just get to wherever it is we're going."

The Russian gave him an inscrutable look, then nodded. "Don't let the receptionist see your face again."

Alex muttered his agreement, remembering her shocked, angry look. It was nice to see that some people genuinely cared about others, but in this case it'd really be better if the woman just forgot about the unfriendly foreign man with the beat up kid in tow.