Alex was in fact dreading going into a clinic, even as a voluntary patient, but he had to get himself sorted out. He wanted to keep his promise to Jon, to go to university, to drink, chase girls or boys, whatever, which were Jon's own words and only to do the bare minimum of work. Your post graduate degree was for brilliance, undergrad was just for enjoying yourself, making friends and becoming an adult, the easy way. In the past year he'd had his hopes of rejoining his team at Loughborough quashed, his ideas about himself attacked and been shown that Yassen was as duplicitous as any spook.
"Tony, Papa.. I hope this is rock bottom because I feel drained. I thought i was in a good place after Richard, but what do I know. Everything I touch turns to shit. You made everything so perfect when we were a family and now I seem to be doing everything in my power to fuck it all up. I want so bad to be good, but my hopes and dreams are like dust running through my fingers. Every door seems to close in my face." Alex let out a long breath and hugged himself. "Why do you even bother with me?"
"I love you beautiful boy. I know you find that hard to believe, but I will be here to get you through this. To tell you the truth I've been expecting you to break since... since the incident in France." Even now, Tony Fletcher could not bring himself to say that bastard Russian's name.
Mrs. Tremayne approached the private room on the fourth floor of St. Stephen's Hospital. Her morning had been trying, but uncovering a series mistakes by your workforce always caused problems. The concerns of one of her agents over Alex's mental well being during the interrogation had been misfiled. The flag on Alex's file stated his psychological assessment were to be done by Dr. Graves had been ignored, and the basic procedure for a two day cooling off period after any stressful situation for an agent had been sidestepped as Alex Fletcher Smith was an intern not an agent. Of greater concern was the failure to link the files for Alexander John Rider and Alexander John Fletcher Smith. All this drama and upset could have been avoided but for those mistakes.
She knocked and entered a room filled with tension as Alex avoided eye contact with his father.
"Good Morning, Mr Fletcher, Alex. I just wanted to apologise in person for several oversights over Alex's working conditions. I fear his upset last week could have and should have been avoided. We work in a high stress environment and we try to ensure the physical and psychological well being of our entire workforce in all departments."
"Umm, papa. This is M, you know the chief spook at spook central." Alex then moved to look at this woman closely. "I guess I should tender my resignation, I never expected to fit in and I guess I don't. At this point, university seems a long shot, never mind working."
Tony watched this woman, whose platitudes were spoken with an emotionless voice and a face which was impossible to read. Even her body language gave nothing away. The actor cleared his throat for dramatic effect, "I'm sure you can contact either me or Alex in California if you need to. If you have any problems, my agent Dylan Michaels can always get a message to me. I have arranged for Alex to stay at a nice clinic in LA. He needs rest." Tony was damn sure the woman knew where Tony was living, as he had recently moved in with his lover's Bel Air home. Gerard Marshall was rich and dabbled as a film producer with over forty years as a maverick in the land of the studios. Tony worried about Alex's reaction to this new revelation, a piece of news Tony had been sitting on, not wanting to alienate his son any further.
...
It was early September, Alex had dug deep to evaluate his actions, feelings and motivations. He had a working plan for going to James Sprintz's birthday party the next week, he was off to Cambridge. The young amputee was being realistic thinking one term was as long as Alex expected to last. He was going into halls, fully supervised in the unit for disabled students. Therapy was no longer to be seen as a reason to fight but time to assess his hopes, fears, worries. Dr, Warren had spoken to the medical practice at college and group therapy with his fellow students was a fact he had to undertake to matriculate.
Alex had borrowed a bike and cycled to sit and watch the early morning surf at Topanga beach. The clinic had an open door policy. As a patient Alex had lost the attitude and had enjoyed the meditation classes, the yoga as well as his new medication regime, therapy session and actually talking in group. He had written a series of carefully worded letters to friends and family explaining his actions and their consequences in detail. Alex had kept to his internal promise of no apologies but it was cathartic to explain just how fast his carefully constructed walls and defenses had crumbled under pressure. The longest letter had been to Tony, all the small details of his realization that an Alex who worked for MI6 was not someone he ever wanted to be, rather dead than that. It had lead to the pair writing long letters back and forth, putting down on paper all the deatils i real life was left unsaid. At the first family session Alex had practically bowled Tony over with the hug wanting contact, love and reassurance from his Papa that they were still good, not all had been lost in silence and avoidance. Tony had felt the worry of the past nine months dissipate. His son was here and needed him, loved him and had dismantled the guarded distrust that had grown between them.
The morning sun was warm, the sun was pleasant on Alex's face. He had enjoyed the freedom of the bike ride. He was in the process of rereading the various replies he had received to his recent communications. Becka, Tom, James and Sabina had each exclaimed shock and concern over his mental health. His letter to Nigel at Loughborough had led to a long hand written reply, detailing that the fact if Alex was unable to train, it did not mean he had to think all sports were out of the question, maybe Alex could try coaching. A list of other avenues were suggested. His former team at Sub Basement 3 had sent him a humerous get well card; as had several of the staff at Credenhill. Alex had even written to Richard, who had written back to both Alex and to Tony.
Alex had heard a car pull up, and stole a look at the new arrival and immediately recognised the careful, precise moves of this birth father's apprentice as the driver walked over.
"Good morning Yassen. I have a letter in my pocket for you." Alex had kept it with him, pages of text, an essay on his hatred of all he had become and what Alex wanted for his future. The eighteen year old placed the missive on the bench seat. Never looking at Yassen or touching him.
"A letter? How last century?" Yassen commented as he picked up the envelope.
"Would you prefer text speak, Yashka?" Alex knew letters were very personal, private and in some ways easier than speaking.
Yassen opened the plain unaddressed envelope.
"Sorry, I had no address, and I did not want to ask my former employers to forward it. Its contents are too personal for that."
Alex sat and meditated. If Yassen got angry, Alex did not care. The future was Alex and Tony, no spooks, no cloak and dagger and no further episodes. The young blond watched as real emotion played on Yassen's face. The russian carefully folded the sheets of paper and placed them back in their envelope and pocketed the letter. "It was never my intention for you to be pushed to the edge. I thought your friends in London would have looked after you better, but they have always treated you poorly. You are right to take control of your life. Anyway, I came in person to tell you my good news. I am retiring, well, I have been offered an opportunity of employment in my native Russia, a training position. A school for bodyguards for all those new fat billionaires. I am too old for constantly looking over my shoulder. I am going to Brazil first to visit a plastic surgeon. A new face, a new life."
The entire conversation had taken without eye contact. Alex had suffered from emotions too close to the surface since his intentional overdose. A sob escaped his lips, he could not stop the cauldron of turmoil. Yassen moved closer and comforted his closest friend and lover. "I don't blame you, Yashka. I never have. We are both so alike. You could not stop what happened in Cuba. I felt betrayed by you selling me out to MI6, but I guess you did not know my internship just encompassed making tea in Q section. Smithers was great to work for. Of any of the people from my past, he was cool, never a shit to me. Not as cool as you, but then who is." Alex did not break contact, revealing in the familiar smell of the russian. "We were always opposites, I do not regret our time together but I will now take the advice you gave me in London many moons ago, I will go back to my school and forget about you and your world. I lied back then, I was angry about Ian's death only because Blunt was blackmailing me, threatening to send Jack home and force me into boarding school unless I did everything he said. I was a fool to try and keep what little happiness I had to myself. She did not really love me. Cared but not like Tony does. I like having family."
"Your letter is beautiful. Your russian is excellent. Become a scholar, Little Alex. Be happy, find true love. We may meet again. I will keep in touch. Such things are possible with computers and mobile phones, not paper and ink." Yassen was smirking, but Alex could sense his letter had cleared the air between them. Past Present Future. Yassen represented all to Alex and he was happy with that.