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fredbassettTitle : Sea of Tranquillity
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : In the dark of the night, dreams and moonlight bring Alex some comfort and there are some worlds in which dream come true.
Written as a sequel to The Dark Side of the Moon with kind permission of the immensely talented hjbender. This fic is dedicated to her. I just couldn’t get their story out of my head and this is the end result. The verse is from the poem The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
“Will it be today?” Alex asked.
Wreathed in pale moonlight, Yassen smiled and extended his hand.
Alex reached out, feeling the welcome touch of cool, strong fingers pulling him gently to his feet.
Darkness slid into day, sunlight streaming in through the small, barred window high in the wall of the cell that had been his entire world for the last two years.
A world of torment, with no reprieve other than in his own dreams.
Dreams that even they had been unable to strip from him.
Alex smiled.
Yassen smiled back and squeezed his hand.
****
“Come, Alex, it’s time to leave.”
Alex blinked in the daylight, still holding tightly to Yassen’s hand.
Yassen wheeled him carefully down the ramp next to the steps at the front of the Brookwood Institute of Mental Health, moving smoothly past its director, a stick-thin man in a grey suit with a face like a polecat sucking a piss-soaked lemon.
“This is highly irregular. Mr Rider is suffering from paranoid delusions. He still needs treatment.”
Alex’s unfocussed eyes hardened for a moment and he pushed his limp hair back from his thin face with his free hand. “Go fuck yourself.” The words were slurred but recognisable, his voice rough from lack of use.
Yassen stared unblinkingly at the man and had the satisfaction of watching him go pale and step back a pace.
He turned and fixed the woman at the director’s side with a cold stare. “We are both dead. I trust you will remember that.”
She nodded.
Yassen flung the bag containing the medication that had been used to ensure Alex Rider remained in a drug-induced haze into the back of the hire car and helped Alex into the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt around the young man’s emaciated body. Alex was trembling, his eyes wide with fear.
“This is not a dream,” Yassen murmured. “I came for you as soon as I could.”
Alex held his hand tightly, tears spilling from frightened brown eyes to fall unchecked over high cheekbones in a face that had not seen the sun in two years. His speech was slurred, and Yassen had to bend down to hear him properly. “Don’t leave me, Y… Yasha ...” Alex struggled to pronounce his name. He couldn’t have known that he’d inadvertently used Yassen’s given name, one he hadn’t heard for many years. He clamped down hard on the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I’ll never leave you.”
*****
Mrs Jones watched the black car pull away in a spray of gravel and released a pent-up breath.
She had not expected to live beyond what she fervently hoped was her final encounter with the Russian assassin.
As Yassen’s car turned out of the gates, three police cars drove in, bringing with them the realisation that she might have survived, but the same couldn’t be said for her career.
*****
Alex stared at the white painted building, fear flooding his veins with ice. “No.”
“You’ll be safe here.”
He clung tightly to Yassen’s hand. “No.”
As Yassen started to push the wheelchair towards the steps, Alex lost control of his bladder, feeling the rush of warm fluid down his legs.
“No, p … please, no. N … not again.”
*****
Yassen stroked Alex’s hair and steered him back to the car. He drove them away from the discreet private clinic in the Swiss mountains, talking softly, reassuringly, not even sure if his words were registering, simply continuing to talk until the litany of desperate pleas fell silent.
In a small parking area in a forest, he cleaned Alex and dressed him in fresh clothes.
Four hours later, they flew out Geneva airport on the first leg of a journey that would take Alex a very long way from the clutches of MI6.
In the first-class lounge in the airport he’d held Yassen’s hand the whole time without saying a word.
He’d eaten the food Yassen held to his mouth and drunk the water he’d been given.
He’d taken the tablets he was handed unquestioningly. It was clear Alex had long since learnt that some things were not worth fighting.
*****
Alex liked this dream better than most of the other ones.
It hadn’t ended when the moonbeams faded.
*****
Yassen draped the airline blanket around Alex’s thin shoulders, holding his emotions firmly in check as he tried to thrust away thoughts of the hell the child had endured.
Alex was lying curled into a defensive ball on his side on the bed in an eye-wateringly expensive first-class suite on Singapore Airlines Flight number SQ 967. From the rigid line of his spine, Yassen knew Alex wasn’t yet asleep.
He poured a large measure of ice-cold vodka into a glass and threw it down his throat, feeling the familiar burn. He poured another and drank it more slowly. He had never come so close to killing someone and yet walked away than he had done outside the Brookwood Institute. He consoled himself with the thought that the careers of both the medical director and Mrs Jones of MI6 would now be in tatters.
The Chief Constable of Surrey was a man who took a keen interest in mental health issues and when presented with irrefutable evidence of systematic abuse of vulnerable patients he had not hesitated to act. It had taken Yassen three months to build an unshakeable dossier that would bring down everyone who had been responsible for destroying Alex Rider’s life and that of countless others who had passed through the doors of the Brookwood Institute. Copies of the same dossier had been presented to the editors of several national newspapers.
Alex’s name would never be mentioned. As far as the world was concerned, Alex Rider had died two years ago,
Yassen Gregorovitch had predeceased him by two years. His survival at the hands of MI6 had not been something he’d sought or even been aware of. When he’d closed his eyes after baring his soul to Alex in a way he’d never done to any living person, he had not expected to open them again, but unknown to him, he’d been hauled out of the wreckage of Air Force One and taken to a secure medical facility. The operation to save his life had taken six hours and he had died twice on the operating table. There had been several times over the following two years that Yassen had hoped to make it third time lucky. MI6 had not been gentle captors and when it finally became clear that Yassen was well practised in withholding information, they had resorted to what their transatlantic allies euphemistically referred to as enhanced interrogation techniques.
To the frustration of Blunt and Jones, Yassen held out longer than anyone believed was possible. He considered himself fortunate that they had never made the acquaintance of Dr Three. Under his ministrations, Yassen would not have lasted two weeks, let alone two years. Loyalty to Scorpia wasn’t what motivated him. If MI6 had simply agreed to his price, they could have reached an accommodation sooner, but they had been unwilling to sacrifice what they regarded as a major asset.
The major asset known as Alex Rider.
Yassen poured himself another vodka and lowered the lights in the well-appointed suite.
When Alex cried out in his sleep, restless and terrified, Yassen held him in his arms and murmured soft reassurance until Alex finally quietened and was still again.
Yassen reached out to draw back the curtain from the window next to the bed.
Silvery moonlight streamed in through the window highlighting the tears on Alex’s cheeks.
In the soft light, Alex smiled and was at peace for a while.
*****
Alex blinked in the sunlight, tightening his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair.
His mouth worked to form words, but no sound emerged.
The confusion and frustration in the once-warm brown eyes made Yassen wish he had been considerably less restrained during his last meeting with Mrs Jones.
He laid a gentle hand on Alex’s shoulder.
Alex blinked again, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The words, when they finally came, were barely louder than the soft sea breeze that ruffled the palm trees that ringed the private airfield on an island in the South China sea.
“Are … are we there yet?” The slight quirk at the corner of Alex’s mouth sent a sharp bolt of hope through Yassen’s gut for the first time since he’d learnt the true horror of what had been done to the reluctant young spy.
“I suppose you’ll want an ice cream when we get there,” Yassen said, keeping his tone light and hoping that his well-stocked freezer at their destination did indeed contain ice cream.
Alex nodded, then mumbled, “N … need a pee …”
Yassen cursed his own inattention to basic details. Alex had been kept straightjacketed for so long that he had mostly lost control of basic bodily functions.
He turned to wheel Alex back into the small building when a single quiet word brought him to a halt. “Joking.”
Yassen blinked hard and tried to blame the moisture in his eyes on the sunlight.
Two hours later, he brought the helicopter down on a landing pad on the most secluded and secure bolthole he had ever owned. He’d bought the island with the proceeds of his ninth major hit. He’d built the house ten years ago from the money he’d earned from a series of untraceable killings for one of the richest men in the world. The money to pay for the building work and the project management had been routed through so many cut offs and offshore accounts that Yassen was satisfied his connection to the island was well beyond the intelligence resources of MI6. To the rest of the world, Yassen Gregorovitch was long dead and unmourned.
To his relief, there was ice cream in the freezer.
Yassen spooned some into Alex’s mouth as they watched the sun sink into a crimson sea and later, he cradled Alex in his arms as a hunter’s moon rode high in a black velvet sky shedding silver light onto white sand.
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
*****
Alex’s withdrawal from the drugs was even harder than Yassen had expected.
The team of doctors and psychiatrists from the Swiss clinic that he had engaged did their best remotely but eventually all they could advise was to let everything clear from Alex’s abused system so that the resulting damage could be assessed as best they could without recourse to new scans. They had studied the records of every experimental procedure that Alex had been subjected to and had pronounced that some areas of his brain had been irretrievably damaged by the electro-convulsive therapy, but despite that they still held out hope that other areas of Alex’s brain would eventually find ways to compensate. They told him this was common in stroke victims.
At Yassen’s request, they provided a raft of medical papers for him to study.
That helped, although it also fuelled his desire to contrive a slow and painful death for numerous people.
The knowledge that the director and staff at the Brooklands Institute would never again be able to abuse vulnerable patients was scant consolation. The knowledge that the Special Operations Division of MI6 had been disbanded also did little to assuage a desire for vengeance, as legal justice seemed inadequate recompense for the years that had been stolen from Alex. He didn’t rule out taking more direct revenge at a later date, but for now he had other priorities.
When the worst of the withdrawal appeared to be over, Alex began to learn how to look after himself again, starting with re-learning how to use the toilet, then progressing to his first unsteady steps away from the wheelchair. Yassen had been schooled in physiotherapy techniques by the Swiss doctors and his research into the effects of the electro-convulsive therapy and its parallels with stroke victims helped him with an understanding of the challenges Alex faced.
His muscles were weak after two years of no exercise beyond pacing a padded cell. The portions of his brain most severely affected by the so-called treatments he’d undergone controlled both his speech and his mobility. His first tentative steps were taken with Yassen practically holding him upright with the aid of a broad medical belt securely fastened around his painfully thin waist. Ten days later, he was able to walk unaided across the main room of the house. The smile on Alex’s face was as bright as the sun on the white sand that stretched down to the sea. They celebrated with ice cream.
Some days were better than others. Yassen learnt to ride out the black moods, gently cajoling Alex to work on his speech therapy and spend time in the well-appointed gym at the back of the house. Gradually both his speech and mobility improved, but for the most part he remained locked in the prison of his own mind, watching Yassen out of dark eyes that had stared into hell and seen its legions smile mockingly back at him.
The depths of a cloudy or wet night were the worst time for Alex. If he could sleep with moonlight on his face he would be relaxed and quiet, but if the sky was obscured, he would be restive, crying out helplessly and twisting in sweat-soaked sheets. The only way to quieten him was for Yassen to slip into the bed with him and cradle Alex in his arms, stroking his head and murmuring soft words and gentle endearments until eventually he would fall asleep with his head pillowed on Yassen’s shoulder or with his back pressed against Yassen’s chest.
After two weeks of interrupted nights followed by long days when Alex would be tired and irritable, refusing any therapy, pushing food away uneaten, and generally behaving like the moody teenager he’d never had a chance to be, Yassen took the line of least resistance and slept in the same bed as Alex every night. The bad nights didn’t wholly come to an end, but they did decrease, and as the drugs gradually cleared from Alex’s system, his understanding of his surroundings increased, as did his concentration, but apart from the occasional word and even more occasional sentence, he rarely spoke outside his therapy sessions over Zoom with Dr Munro, his speech and language therapist at the Swiss medical institute.
But Yassen Gregorovitch was a patient man.
*****
Rain streamed down the huge window as the light gradually faded to a uniform grey.
Alex stared out at the fast-moving clouds, hoping to see through a break in their massed ranks to clear skies beyond, but he knew that was unlikely to happen. He’d become skilled in reading the signs, noting the direction of the wind and the way the atmospheric pressure affected his balance in subtle but noticeable ways.
He was still re-learning to walk, his steps tentative but gradually increasing in confidence. He could now make it to the bathroom unaided and even stand up to pee. As an achievement, that ranked up there with surviving two years in the hands of people determined to take his brain apart piece by piece and put it back together again in a mould chosen by them. He’d been pretty pleased when he got to the stage of being able to wipe his own arse, too.
Alex knew what the so-called mental health practitioners had done to him had caused irreversible damage, but the medical professionals who now treated him on a daily basis were relentless in their belief that he could – and would – continue to improve.
Yassen was equally sure of him, and that was what kept Alex going.
He had been used – and abused – his whole life, trained for a job he didn’t want then sent into high-risk situations with a few clever toys and fuck all by way of reliable back up. When he’d finally cracked and refused a mission, he’d been treated as a security risk and locked away.
Yassen Gregorovitch was possibly the only person in his life who had bever lied to him, either directly or by omission, even though the assassin had killed Ian Rider.
Alex’s memories were still patchy – maybe they always would be – but he remembered Yassen’s death on Air Force One. Remembered Yassen telling him he’d loved his father and loved him.
Remembered Yassen dying.
Or not.
Alex would talk when he was ready. For now, the words remained mostly locked away in his head, the way he’d been locked away in a padded white box with nothing more than moonlight and an illusion of companionship to bring comfort.
He would watch the rain, hoping for a break in the clouds but knowing that if the moonlight did not come, Yassen would be there to hold him until dawn. That was no longer a figment of his demented imagination.
And even if it was, he preferred this version of reality to the other one.
*****
Yassen watched the fat, heavy raindrops hit the window burst like water-filled balloons then slide down the glass to pool on the wide, stone flagged veranda at the front of the house.
The sky was a mass of heavy cloud, a mix of every colour of grey imaginable: gunmetal, slate, ash, battleship, nickel, charcoal, stone and more. He’d become fascinated by the variation, learning when the colours had acquired their various names and why. The acquisition of knowledge was always useful and he had learnt to use it as a distraction for Alex when the weight of the bad weather bore down on him, preventing him seeing the blue skies that sometimes banished the storm from his eyes and the silvery moonlight that calmed his restlessness and brought peace to his mind.
Alex had been in a cranky mood since the rain clouds had rolled in three days ago, driven on by a fierce wind that lashed the palm trees surrounding the house, whipping their supple trunks from side to side. Yassen liked the way the trees would bend but not break, an observation that he kept to himself. Maybe in time Alex would be ready for that analogy, but not now. Not when he was still relearning control over his own body. In Alex’s eyes, his mind – and, in consequence, his body – had already been broken. Yassen knew that in Alex’s more rational moments he recognised some improvement in himself, but he wanted more than just a metaphorical gold star for managing to hold his own cock straight to piss and another for successfully wiping his own arse clean then having the coordination and energy to press the flush.
They both recognised those milestones, and Yassen had seen the occasional flash of satisfaction in Alex’s guarded eyes, but Alex perfectly reasonably wanted more. He was mostly strict in his adherence to the physical and mental exercises he’d been set, but when the rain came, Alex’s mood was correspondingly lower, making Yassen sometimes regret his choice of this particular safe house for the boy’s recovery.
The soft thump of Alex’s bare feet on the warm tiles warned Yassen of his approach long before his young charge arrived in the kitchen. Alex had dispensed with his wheelchair on the advice of the physical therapist and progressed to a walking frame, but in a bad mood, Alex often cast that aside as well, forcing himself to make unsteady progress through the house from his bedroom to the kitchen in search of the tea and toast he liked at the start of every day.
The simple Britishness of his dietary habits amused Yassen and he didn’t trouble to hide that. He’d seen the occasional flash of the sharp humour and sarcasm that had got the teen into trouble on numerous missions – super-villains tended not to like having fun poked at them, and the common or garden variety were much the same in that regard, but usually didn’t have their finger on the trigger of a weapon of mass destruction, so at least the consequences of antagonising them were generally far less.
“Battleship grey,” Yassen remarked, gesturing to the storm clouds. “Named for the micaceous haematite paint used for rustproofing iron and steel battleships.”
Yassen thought he caught an almost subliminal fuck off by way of greeting as Alex made his way to the bread maker and went through the complex series of movements that consisted of lifting the lid, picking up the warm loaf and transferring it to the large wooden breadboard. The physical therapist, a cheerful Frenchman called Jean-Paul who insisted on speaking French to Alex on the advice of the speech and language expert at the institute, had made it clear that Alex had to take responsibility now for his own basic needs and that if he could deal with his excretions, he was ready to take some control of what fuelled those bodily waste products.
So tea and toast it was. And although Yassen would have preferred him to eat wholemeal bread rather than white, he kept that thought to himself.
“Micaceous haematite comes from the mica group of sheet silicate minerals which include several closely related materials having nearly perfect basal cleavage. The nearly perfect cleavage, which is the most prominent characteristic of mica, is explained by the hexagonal sheet-like arrangement of its atoms.”
This time the fuck off was slightly louder. Alex clearly objected to the weather conditions being turned into a geology lesson before he’d even had his breakfast.
“Mica is used in a variety of products ranging from drywalls, paints, fillers, especially in parts for automobiles, roofing and shingles and electronics. The word mica is derived from the Latin word meaning a crumb, and probably influenced by micare, to glitter.” Yassen had developed something of a fondness for Wikipedia.
Alex clearly hadn’t.
The breadknife missed Yassen by ten centimetres. There had been no need for him to move to avoid the inaccurately thrown blade, but he made the gesture anyway as a peace-offering and walked over to the worksurface to turn on the coffee machine.
“Very good. Jean-Paul will be delighted with your improved coordination. Have you been practising?”
He hadn’t, and Yassen knew it.
A slight shake of the head and an apologetic look greeted the question. Alex started to make his way slowly and carefully across the large kitchen to retrieve the breadknife.
“I think it’s time we moved some of your physical therapy to the weapons range.”
Delight flared in Alex’s eyes, cutting through the storm clouds to reveal the vivid, vital boy that Yassen had first encountered. He’d thought of offering sessions on the practice area he’d had built at vast expense during the original construction, but the therapists had decided that reminders of Alex’s violent past could hinder his recovery.
It seemed they’d been wrong.
Alex bent to pick up the knife, swaying like one of the trees outside the window, then straightening up with thin-lipped concentration. “Sorry.” The word was perfectly understandable, the s only slightly slurred. “Brattish.”
“Brattish is forgivable. Inaccurate can be improved.”
“Toast?”
Yassen nodded.
Alex shuffled back to the worksurface and carefully cut four thick slices of bread and dropped them into the toaster.
Yassen glanced at the clouds scudding past, driven by a wind that was increasing to the intensity of a full storm. “Gunmetal may refer to a colour of grey that has a bluish purple tinge.” He’d avoided mentioning guns until now. “What do you remember of guns? Don’t answer if the memories pain you.”
“MP-43 Grach, Russian standard military-issue sidearm. Vladimir Alexandrovich Yarygin led the development.” The words came out haltingly, pulled from a part of Alex’s brain that had been honed to perfection under the harsh tutelage of Malagosto, Skorpia’s renowned academy of murder. Alex’s recitation picked up speed as the details started to flow like water bursting from a dam. “Developed under the designation Grach in Russian military trials, starting in 1993. Adopted in 2003 as a standard sidearm for all branches of Russian military and law enforcement, along with the Makarov PM, GSh-18, and SPS.”
Despite the slightly slurred delivery and some mispronunciation, the look Alex gave Yassen held both triumph and a confidence that hadn’t been there even five minutes ago. His smile was more tentative but Yassen was now surer than ever before that MI6 and their minions hadn’t succeeded in breaking the boy’s mind beyond repair.
Yassen closed the distance between them in two quick strides, taking Alex in his arms the way he did when the night terrors shook his slight frame in bed. Alex clung to him like a limpet, burying his face in Yessen’s neck as silent tears flowed. Yassen stroked his hair and held him while he cried.
The ping of the toaster interrupted the emotional storm. Alex looked up and gave Yassen a lop-sided but happy grin. “Jam?”
“As much jam as you can eat.”
*****
The Grach seemed as good a weapon as any to start with.
While Alex recited from memory what he’d learnt while at Malagosto, he started to strip the weapon down to clean and oil every working part. His fingers sometimes fumbled with the smaller parts of the weapon’s mechanism the same way his tongue would stumble over some of the words, but for each slip, Alex would patiently correct himself and start again.
“The manual safety is ambidextrous, safety catches on both sides of the weapon. The safety catch is mounted on the frame, below the rear slide grooves, directly behind the slide stop lever.” Alex reached for a clean rag, checking his handiwork, then he carefully thumbed the catch on and off with first his right hand then his left.
Yassen had noted that Alex’s left hand was more dextrous than his right. The physical therapists had treated him to a long explanation of exactly which parts of Alex’s brain had been damaged by the electro-convulsive treatments he’d been subjected to. They also still seemed convinced that with practice, his brain stood a good chance of forging new neural pathways to counteract the effects of the damage. The training he’d received might well prove to be the key to unlocking those possible pathways that they’d so far been missing.
The irony of that wasn’t wasted on Yassen.
“The hammer is partially concealed at the sides to prevent catching on clothes and equipment. The magazine release catch is in the base of the trigger guard on the left side. It can be manipulated with the thumb by right-handed users or the index or middle finger for left-handed users.” Alex shifted the weapon from hand to hand, frowning in concentration.
He had to repeat the explanation twice, adding in the small linking words like ‘it’ that he missed on his first, more halting delivery. When he spoke to Jean-Paul in French, he had to do the same with pronouns, despite his fluency in other respects. Jean-Paul teased him good-naturedly about the English and their habit of shunning such small parts of the language. Alex had taken to equally good-naturedly flipping him the finger in reply, while repeating the offending sentence.
“Describe the sights,” Yassen prompted, when Alex’s gaze became unfocussed and his words faltered and dried up.
Alex drew in a long, slow breath, the way Jean-Paul had taught him, holding it for four seconds then exhaling for the same length of time. After repeating this five times, he continued his halting recitation: “The front sight is formed as a fixed part of the slide and is non-adjustable. The back sight is drift adjustable for windage if you have the right tool. There are white contrast elements for aiming in low-light conditions.”
“Good. Magazine capacity?”
Alex picked up an empty magazine and pressed it home until he heard it engage. “Standard magazine capacity is 17 rounds, from a double-column, two position feed magazine. Magazines with an 18-round capacity were produced after 2004.” He looked up at Yassen, clearly hoping for approval, but afraid of falling short.
“Very good. Now dry fire at the target. I want to assess your stance.”
Alex stood up, the Grach in his left hand, safety on. He limped over to the firing position; his gait still unsteady but definitely improving. Alex swept up his arm in the instinctive firing technique favoured by his Malagosto instructors, ignoring the unsteadiness of his muscles, and dry-fired at the target set up at the 20 metre mark. The movement of the slide threw his aim out for the second shot and his hand and arm wobbled like a jelly after a hard poke. He swung the muzzle back on target a third time and squeezed the trigger again. If there’s been a bullet in the chamber, he would just have clipped the righthand edge of the target.
“Good. Right hand now,” Yassen instructed, not giving Alex’s muscles the chance to tire too much,
With his right hand, Alex’s movements were less sure and he would have missed the target altogether, but for a first attempt, it was very creditable.
“Well done. Now strip the weapon down, clean it again, reassemble and return it to the gun safe.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex responded automatically, the words coming fluently to his lips, but Yassen didn’t miss the grin on his face.
Alex placed the Grach down on the shelf in front of him and turned to Yassen, the grin sliding into a wide smile.
Yassen smiled back.
*****
Alex drifted out of sleep, feeling warm and comfortable, conscious of Yassen’s arm draped around his waist, the legacy of the night terrors that still plagued him. Yassen told him they were diminishing, but he found that hard to believe when he was in the grip of blind panic, struggling to escape from the madman of the week and whatever security goons happened to be pursuing him.
The problem – one of the problems - was that he could always remember the dreams when he woke up properly. He’d talked about that with Dr Feldmann. She’d done her best to teach him mindfulness techniques to banish the thoughts from his waking mind but unless it involved watching the moonlight, Alex was rubbish at mindfulness. There weren’t too many happy places he could escape to in his head. MI6 had seen to that.
He opened his eyes to pale moonlight. Despite a nocturnal altercation with Major Yu and a crazed pursuit involving crocodiles he’d finally fallen back into an uneasy sleep clinging to Yassen, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder, inhaling the warm smell of lemon shower gel and the faint, sharp tang of sweat.
Yassen’s arms remained around him and Alex could feel warm breath ruffling his sweat-soaked hair. At some point in the night, Yassen had open the floor to ceiling window, letting a cool breeze into the bedroom along with the soft sound of waves rolling over the pale sand, drawn back with a swooshing sound.
Alex stirred in Yassen’s arms, and sat up, swinging his legs over the site of the bed. He stood up, unsteadily, waiting until he could control his balance before taking a step towards the open window, enjoying the caress of the light breeze on his skin. The storm had finally broken, the heavy atmosphere gone, leaving behind a clear, black velvet sky studded with myriad bright diamonds.
For the first time since he’d come to the island with Yassen, Alex wanted to leave the safe confines of the house and feel the sand between his toes and the water on his skin. He was finally ready to step outside the prison of his own mind.
He looked questioningly at Yassen and received an approving nod in return.
Walking to the paved area outside the window was easy but stepping onto the yielding sand was harder. He wobbled, throwing his arms out for balance. Yassen was beside him in an instant, but made no attempt to help, simply waiting for Alex to take his next unsteady step, and the next, making his way slowly to the water’s edge.
The sensation of the warm water lapping over his bare feet brought a smile to Alex’s face. He’d always enjoyed swimming but he’d spent so long in confinement that he’d come to associate four walls with security but now, with the breeze in his hair and the sea at his feet, Alex was starting to remember what freedom felt like.
He walked into the water, feeling its warmth on his skin, until he could finally launch himself into an ungainly breaststroke, ducking his head beneath the waves and then bouncing up to shake his hair like a dog in a pond.
Laughter bubbled up inside him sweeping away the tears that threatened to fall again and Alex Rider finally knew peace.
*****
Yassen Gregorovich smiled and followed him into the warm sea, holding his hand out to Alex.
Alex took it, a wide smile on his face and trust in his eyes.
Whatever road lay before them, they would walk it together.
*****
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : In the dark of the night, dreams and moonlight bring Alex some comfort and there are some worlds in which dream come true.
Written as a sequel to The Dark Side of the Moon with kind permission of the immensely talented hjbender. This fic is dedicated to her. I just couldn’t get their story out of my head and this is the end result. The verse is from the poem The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
“Will it be today?” Alex asked.
Wreathed in pale moonlight, Yassen smiled and extended his hand.
Alex reached out, feeling the welcome touch of cool, strong fingers pulling him gently to his feet.
Darkness slid into day, sunlight streaming in through the small, barred window high in the wall of the cell that had been his entire world for the last two years.
A world of torment, with no reprieve other than in his own dreams.
Dreams that even they had been unable to strip from him.
Alex smiled.
Yassen smiled back and squeezed his hand.
****
“Come, Alex, it’s time to leave.”
Alex blinked in the daylight, still holding tightly to Yassen’s hand.
Yassen wheeled him carefully down the ramp next to the steps at the front of the Brookwood Institute of Mental Health, moving smoothly past its director, a stick-thin man in a grey suit with a face like a polecat sucking a piss-soaked lemon.
“This is highly irregular. Mr Rider is suffering from paranoid delusions. He still needs treatment.”
Alex’s unfocussed eyes hardened for a moment and he pushed his limp hair back from his thin face with his free hand. “Go fuck yourself.” The words were slurred but recognisable, his voice rough from lack of use.
Yassen stared unblinkingly at the man and had the satisfaction of watching him go pale and step back a pace.
He turned and fixed the woman at the director’s side with a cold stare. “We are both dead. I trust you will remember that.”
She nodded.
Yassen flung the bag containing the medication that had been used to ensure Alex Rider remained in a drug-induced haze into the back of the hire car and helped Alex into the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt around the young man’s emaciated body. Alex was trembling, his eyes wide with fear.
“This is not a dream,” Yassen murmured. “I came for you as soon as I could.”
Alex held his hand tightly, tears spilling from frightened brown eyes to fall unchecked over high cheekbones in a face that had not seen the sun in two years. His speech was slurred, and Yassen had to bend down to hear him properly. “Don’t leave me, Y… Yasha ...” Alex struggled to pronounce his name. He couldn’t have known that he’d inadvertently used Yassen’s given name, one he hadn’t heard for many years. He clamped down hard on the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I’ll never leave you.”
*****
Mrs Jones watched the black car pull away in a spray of gravel and released a pent-up breath.
She had not expected to live beyond what she fervently hoped was her final encounter with the Russian assassin.
As Yassen’s car turned out of the gates, three police cars drove in, bringing with them the realisation that she might have survived, but the same couldn’t be said for her career.
*****
Alex stared at the white painted building, fear flooding his veins with ice. “No.”
“You’ll be safe here.”
He clung tightly to Yassen’s hand. “No.”
As Yassen started to push the wheelchair towards the steps, Alex lost control of his bladder, feeling the rush of warm fluid down his legs.
“No, p … please, no. N … not again.”
*****
Yassen stroked Alex’s hair and steered him back to the car. He drove them away from the discreet private clinic in the Swiss mountains, talking softly, reassuringly, not even sure if his words were registering, simply continuing to talk until the litany of desperate pleas fell silent.
In a small parking area in a forest, he cleaned Alex and dressed him in fresh clothes.
Four hours later, they flew out Geneva airport on the first leg of a journey that would take Alex a very long way from the clutches of MI6.
In the first-class lounge in the airport he’d held Yassen’s hand the whole time without saying a word.
He’d eaten the food Yassen held to his mouth and drunk the water he’d been given.
He’d taken the tablets he was handed unquestioningly. It was clear Alex had long since learnt that some things were not worth fighting.
*****
Alex liked this dream better than most of the other ones.
It hadn’t ended when the moonbeams faded.
*****
Yassen draped the airline blanket around Alex’s thin shoulders, holding his emotions firmly in check as he tried to thrust away thoughts of the hell the child had endured.
Alex was lying curled into a defensive ball on his side on the bed in an eye-wateringly expensive first-class suite on Singapore Airlines Flight number SQ 967. From the rigid line of his spine, Yassen knew Alex wasn’t yet asleep.
He poured a large measure of ice-cold vodka into a glass and threw it down his throat, feeling the familiar burn. He poured another and drank it more slowly. He had never come so close to killing someone and yet walked away than he had done outside the Brookwood Institute. He consoled himself with the thought that the careers of both the medical director and Mrs Jones of MI6 would now be in tatters.
The Chief Constable of Surrey was a man who took a keen interest in mental health issues and when presented with irrefutable evidence of systematic abuse of vulnerable patients he had not hesitated to act. It had taken Yassen three months to build an unshakeable dossier that would bring down everyone who had been responsible for destroying Alex Rider’s life and that of countless others who had passed through the doors of the Brookwood Institute. Copies of the same dossier had been presented to the editors of several national newspapers.
Alex’s name would never be mentioned. As far as the world was concerned, Alex Rider had died two years ago,
Yassen Gregorovitch had predeceased him by two years. His survival at the hands of MI6 had not been something he’d sought or even been aware of. When he’d closed his eyes after baring his soul to Alex in a way he’d never done to any living person, he had not expected to open them again, but unknown to him, he’d been hauled out of the wreckage of Air Force One and taken to a secure medical facility. The operation to save his life had taken six hours and he had died twice on the operating table. There had been several times over the following two years that Yassen had hoped to make it third time lucky. MI6 had not been gentle captors and when it finally became clear that Yassen was well practised in withholding information, they had resorted to what their transatlantic allies euphemistically referred to as enhanced interrogation techniques.
To the frustration of Blunt and Jones, Yassen held out longer than anyone believed was possible. He considered himself fortunate that they had never made the acquaintance of Dr Three. Under his ministrations, Yassen would not have lasted two weeks, let alone two years. Loyalty to Scorpia wasn’t what motivated him. If MI6 had simply agreed to his price, they could have reached an accommodation sooner, but they had been unwilling to sacrifice what they regarded as a major asset.
The major asset known as Alex Rider.
Yassen poured himself another vodka and lowered the lights in the well-appointed suite.
When Alex cried out in his sleep, restless and terrified, Yassen held him in his arms and murmured soft reassurance until Alex finally quietened and was still again.
Yassen reached out to draw back the curtain from the window next to the bed.
Silvery moonlight streamed in through the window highlighting the tears on Alex’s cheeks.
In the soft light, Alex smiled and was at peace for a while.
*****
Alex blinked in the sunlight, tightening his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair.
His mouth worked to form words, but no sound emerged.
The confusion and frustration in the once-warm brown eyes made Yassen wish he had been considerably less restrained during his last meeting with Mrs Jones.
He laid a gentle hand on Alex’s shoulder.
Alex blinked again, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The words, when they finally came, were barely louder than the soft sea breeze that ruffled the palm trees that ringed the private airfield on an island in the South China sea.
“Are … are we there yet?” The slight quirk at the corner of Alex’s mouth sent a sharp bolt of hope through Yassen’s gut for the first time since he’d learnt the true horror of what had been done to the reluctant young spy.
“I suppose you’ll want an ice cream when we get there,” Yassen said, keeping his tone light and hoping that his well-stocked freezer at their destination did indeed contain ice cream.
Alex nodded, then mumbled, “N … need a pee …”
Yassen cursed his own inattention to basic details. Alex had been kept straightjacketed for so long that he had mostly lost control of basic bodily functions.
He turned to wheel Alex back into the small building when a single quiet word brought him to a halt. “Joking.”
Yassen blinked hard and tried to blame the moisture in his eyes on the sunlight.
Two hours later, he brought the helicopter down on a landing pad on the most secluded and secure bolthole he had ever owned. He’d bought the island with the proceeds of his ninth major hit. He’d built the house ten years ago from the money he’d earned from a series of untraceable killings for one of the richest men in the world. The money to pay for the building work and the project management had been routed through so many cut offs and offshore accounts that Yassen was satisfied his connection to the island was well beyond the intelligence resources of MI6. To the rest of the world, Yassen Gregorovitch was long dead and unmourned.
To his relief, there was ice cream in the freezer.
Yassen spooned some into Alex’s mouth as they watched the sun sink into a crimson sea and later, he cradled Alex in his arms as a hunter’s moon rode high in a black velvet sky shedding silver light onto white sand.
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
*****
Alex’s withdrawal from the drugs was even harder than Yassen had expected.
The team of doctors and psychiatrists from the Swiss clinic that he had engaged did their best remotely but eventually all they could advise was to let everything clear from Alex’s abused system so that the resulting damage could be assessed as best they could without recourse to new scans. They had studied the records of every experimental procedure that Alex had been subjected to and had pronounced that some areas of his brain had been irretrievably damaged by the electro-convulsive therapy, but despite that they still held out hope that other areas of Alex’s brain would eventually find ways to compensate. They told him this was common in stroke victims.
At Yassen’s request, they provided a raft of medical papers for him to study.
That helped, although it also fuelled his desire to contrive a slow and painful death for numerous people.
The knowledge that the director and staff at the Brooklands Institute would never again be able to abuse vulnerable patients was scant consolation. The knowledge that the Special Operations Division of MI6 had been disbanded also did little to assuage a desire for vengeance, as legal justice seemed inadequate recompense for the years that had been stolen from Alex. He didn’t rule out taking more direct revenge at a later date, but for now he had other priorities.
When the worst of the withdrawal appeared to be over, Alex began to learn how to look after himself again, starting with re-learning how to use the toilet, then progressing to his first unsteady steps away from the wheelchair. Yassen had been schooled in physiotherapy techniques by the Swiss doctors and his research into the effects of the electro-convulsive therapy and its parallels with stroke victims helped him with an understanding of the challenges Alex faced.
His muscles were weak after two years of no exercise beyond pacing a padded cell. The portions of his brain most severely affected by the so-called treatments he’d undergone controlled both his speech and his mobility. His first tentative steps were taken with Yassen practically holding him upright with the aid of a broad medical belt securely fastened around his painfully thin waist. Ten days later, he was able to walk unaided across the main room of the house. The smile on Alex’s face was as bright as the sun on the white sand that stretched down to the sea. They celebrated with ice cream.
Some days were better than others. Yassen learnt to ride out the black moods, gently cajoling Alex to work on his speech therapy and spend time in the well-appointed gym at the back of the house. Gradually both his speech and mobility improved, but for the most part he remained locked in the prison of his own mind, watching Yassen out of dark eyes that had stared into hell and seen its legions smile mockingly back at him.
The depths of a cloudy or wet night were the worst time for Alex. If he could sleep with moonlight on his face he would be relaxed and quiet, but if the sky was obscured, he would be restive, crying out helplessly and twisting in sweat-soaked sheets. The only way to quieten him was for Yassen to slip into the bed with him and cradle Alex in his arms, stroking his head and murmuring soft words and gentle endearments until eventually he would fall asleep with his head pillowed on Yassen’s shoulder or with his back pressed against Yassen’s chest.
After two weeks of interrupted nights followed by long days when Alex would be tired and irritable, refusing any therapy, pushing food away uneaten, and generally behaving like the moody teenager he’d never had a chance to be, Yassen took the line of least resistance and slept in the same bed as Alex every night. The bad nights didn’t wholly come to an end, but they did decrease, and as the drugs gradually cleared from Alex’s system, his understanding of his surroundings increased, as did his concentration, but apart from the occasional word and even more occasional sentence, he rarely spoke outside his therapy sessions over Zoom with Dr Munro, his speech and language therapist at the Swiss medical institute.
But Yassen Gregorovitch was a patient man.
*****
Rain streamed down the huge window as the light gradually faded to a uniform grey.
Alex stared out at the fast-moving clouds, hoping to see through a break in their massed ranks to clear skies beyond, but he knew that was unlikely to happen. He’d become skilled in reading the signs, noting the direction of the wind and the way the atmospheric pressure affected his balance in subtle but noticeable ways.
He was still re-learning to walk, his steps tentative but gradually increasing in confidence. He could now make it to the bathroom unaided and even stand up to pee. As an achievement, that ranked up there with surviving two years in the hands of people determined to take his brain apart piece by piece and put it back together again in a mould chosen by them. He’d been pretty pleased when he got to the stage of being able to wipe his own arse, too.
Alex knew what the so-called mental health practitioners had done to him had caused irreversible damage, but the medical professionals who now treated him on a daily basis were relentless in their belief that he could – and would – continue to improve.
Yassen was equally sure of him, and that was what kept Alex going.
He had been used – and abused – his whole life, trained for a job he didn’t want then sent into high-risk situations with a few clever toys and fuck all by way of reliable back up. When he’d finally cracked and refused a mission, he’d been treated as a security risk and locked away.
Yassen Gregorovitch was possibly the only person in his life who had bever lied to him, either directly or by omission, even though the assassin had killed Ian Rider.
Alex’s memories were still patchy – maybe they always would be – but he remembered Yassen’s death on Air Force One. Remembered Yassen telling him he’d loved his father and loved him.
Remembered Yassen dying.
Or not.
Alex would talk when he was ready. For now, the words remained mostly locked away in his head, the way he’d been locked away in a padded white box with nothing more than moonlight and an illusion of companionship to bring comfort.
He would watch the rain, hoping for a break in the clouds but knowing that if the moonlight did not come, Yassen would be there to hold him until dawn. That was no longer a figment of his demented imagination.
And even if it was, he preferred this version of reality to the other one.
*****
Yassen watched the fat, heavy raindrops hit the window burst like water-filled balloons then slide down the glass to pool on the wide, stone flagged veranda at the front of the house.
The sky was a mass of heavy cloud, a mix of every colour of grey imaginable: gunmetal, slate, ash, battleship, nickel, charcoal, stone and more. He’d become fascinated by the variation, learning when the colours had acquired their various names and why. The acquisition of knowledge was always useful and he had learnt to use it as a distraction for Alex when the weight of the bad weather bore down on him, preventing him seeing the blue skies that sometimes banished the storm from his eyes and the silvery moonlight that calmed his restlessness and brought peace to his mind.
Alex had been in a cranky mood since the rain clouds had rolled in three days ago, driven on by a fierce wind that lashed the palm trees surrounding the house, whipping their supple trunks from side to side. Yassen liked the way the trees would bend but not break, an observation that he kept to himself. Maybe in time Alex would be ready for that analogy, but not now. Not when he was still relearning control over his own body. In Alex’s eyes, his mind – and, in consequence, his body – had already been broken. Yassen knew that in Alex’s more rational moments he recognised some improvement in himself, but he wanted more than just a metaphorical gold star for managing to hold his own cock straight to piss and another for successfully wiping his own arse clean then having the coordination and energy to press the flush.
They both recognised those milestones, and Yassen had seen the occasional flash of satisfaction in Alex’s guarded eyes, but Alex perfectly reasonably wanted more. He was mostly strict in his adherence to the physical and mental exercises he’d been set, but when the rain came, Alex’s mood was correspondingly lower, making Yassen sometimes regret his choice of this particular safe house for the boy’s recovery.
The soft thump of Alex’s bare feet on the warm tiles warned Yassen of his approach long before his young charge arrived in the kitchen. Alex had dispensed with his wheelchair on the advice of the physical therapist and progressed to a walking frame, but in a bad mood, Alex often cast that aside as well, forcing himself to make unsteady progress through the house from his bedroom to the kitchen in search of the tea and toast he liked at the start of every day.
The simple Britishness of his dietary habits amused Yassen and he didn’t trouble to hide that. He’d seen the occasional flash of the sharp humour and sarcasm that had got the teen into trouble on numerous missions – super-villains tended not to like having fun poked at them, and the common or garden variety were much the same in that regard, but usually didn’t have their finger on the trigger of a weapon of mass destruction, so at least the consequences of antagonising them were generally far less.
“Battleship grey,” Yassen remarked, gesturing to the storm clouds. “Named for the micaceous haematite paint used for rustproofing iron and steel battleships.”
Yassen thought he caught an almost subliminal fuck off by way of greeting as Alex made his way to the bread maker and went through the complex series of movements that consisted of lifting the lid, picking up the warm loaf and transferring it to the large wooden breadboard. The physical therapist, a cheerful Frenchman called Jean-Paul who insisted on speaking French to Alex on the advice of the speech and language expert at the institute, had made it clear that Alex had to take responsibility now for his own basic needs and that if he could deal with his excretions, he was ready to take some control of what fuelled those bodily waste products.
So tea and toast it was. And although Yassen would have preferred him to eat wholemeal bread rather than white, he kept that thought to himself.
“Micaceous haematite comes from the mica group of sheet silicate minerals which include several closely related materials having nearly perfect basal cleavage. The nearly perfect cleavage, which is the most prominent characteristic of mica, is explained by the hexagonal sheet-like arrangement of its atoms.”
This time the fuck off was slightly louder. Alex clearly objected to the weather conditions being turned into a geology lesson before he’d even had his breakfast.
“Mica is used in a variety of products ranging from drywalls, paints, fillers, especially in parts for automobiles, roofing and shingles and electronics. The word mica is derived from the Latin word meaning a crumb, and probably influenced by micare, to glitter.” Yassen had developed something of a fondness for Wikipedia.
Alex clearly hadn’t.
The breadknife missed Yassen by ten centimetres. There had been no need for him to move to avoid the inaccurately thrown blade, but he made the gesture anyway as a peace-offering and walked over to the worksurface to turn on the coffee machine.
“Very good. Jean-Paul will be delighted with your improved coordination. Have you been practising?”
He hadn’t, and Yassen knew it.
A slight shake of the head and an apologetic look greeted the question. Alex started to make his way slowly and carefully across the large kitchen to retrieve the breadknife.
“I think it’s time we moved some of your physical therapy to the weapons range.”
Delight flared in Alex’s eyes, cutting through the storm clouds to reveal the vivid, vital boy that Yassen had first encountered. He’d thought of offering sessions on the practice area he’d had built at vast expense during the original construction, but the therapists had decided that reminders of Alex’s violent past could hinder his recovery.
It seemed they’d been wrong.
Alex bent to pick up the knife, swaying like one of the trees outside the window, then straightening up with thin-lipped concentration. “Sorry.” The word was perfectly understandable, the s only slightly slurred. “Brattish.”
“Brattish is forgivable. Inaccurate can be improved.”
“Toast?”
Yassen nodded.
Alex shuffled back to the worksurface and carefully cut four thick slices of bread and dropped them into the toaster.
Yassen glanced at the clouds scudding past, driven by a wind that was increasing to the intensity of a full storm. “Gunmetal may refer to a colour of grey that has a bluish purple tinge.” He’d avoided mentioning guns until now. “What do you remember of guns? Don’t answer if the memories pain you.”
“MP-43 Grach, Russian standard military-issue sidearm. Vladimir Alexandrovich Yarygin led the development.” The words came out haltingly, pulled from a part of Alex’s brain that had been honed to perfection under the harsh tutelage of Malagosto, Skorpia’s renowned academy of murder. Alex’s recitation picked up speed as the details started to flow like water bursting from a dam. “Developed under the designation Grach in Russian military trials, starting in 1993. Adopted in 2003 as a standard sidearm for all branches of Russian military and law enforcement, along with the Makarov PM, GSh-18, and SPS.”
Despite the slightly slurred delivery and some mispronunciation, the look Alex gave Yassen held both triumph and a confidence that hadn’t been there even five minutes ago. His smile was more tentative but Yassen was now surer than ever before that MI6 and their minions hadn’t succeeded in breaking the boy’s mind beyond repair.
Yassen closed the distance between them in two quick strides, taking Alex in his arms the way he did when the night terrors shook his slight frame in bed. Alex clung to him like a limpet, burying his face in Yessen’s neck as silent tears flowed. Yassen stroked his hair and held him while he cried.
The ping of the toaster interrupted the emotional storm. Alex looked up and gave Yassen a lop-sided but happy grin. “Jam?”
“As much jam as you can eat.”
*****
The Grach seemed as good a weapon as any to start with.
While Alex recited from memory what he’d learnt while at Malagosto, he started to strip the weapon down to clean and oil every working part. His fingers sometimes fumbled with the smaller parts of the weapon’s mechanism the same way his tongue would stumble over some of the words, but for each slip, Alex would patiently correct himself and start again.
“The manual safety is ambidextrous, safety catches on both sides of the weapon. The safety catch is mounted on the frame, below the rear slide grooves, directly behind the slide stop lever.” Alex reached for a clean rag, checking his handiwork, then he carefully thumbed the catch on and off with first his right hand then his left.
Yassen had noted that Alex’s left hand was more dextrous than his right. The physical therapists had treated him to a long explanation of exactly which parts of Alex’s brain had been damaged by the electro-convulsive treatments he’d been subjected to. They also still seemed convinced that with practice, his brain stood a good chance of forging new neural pathways to counteract the effects of the damage. The training he’d received might well prove to be the key to unlocking those possible pathways that they’d so far been missing.
The irony of that wasn’t wasted on Yassen.
“The hammer is partially concealed at the sides to prevent catching on clothes and equipment. The magazine release catch is in the base of the trigger guard on the left side. It can be manipulated with the thumb by right-handed users or the index or middle finger for left-handed users.” Alex shifted the weapon from hand to hand, frowning in concentration.
He had to repeat the explanation twice, adding in the small linking words like ‘it’ that he missed on his first, more halting delivery. When he spoke to Jean-Paul in French, he had to do the same with pronouns, despite his fluency in other respects. Jean-Paul teased him good-naturedly about the English and their habit of shunning such small parts of the language. Alex had taken to equally good-naturedly flipping him the finger in reply, while repeating the offending sentence.
“Describe the sights,” Yassen prompted, when Alex’s gaze became unfocussed and his words faltered and dried up.
Alex drew in a long, slow breath, the way Jean-Paul had taught him, holding it for four seconds then exhaling for the same length of time. After repeating this five times, he continued his halting recitation: “The front sight is formed as a fixed part of the slide and is non-adjustable. The back sight is drift adjustable for windage if you have the right tool. There are white contrast elements for aiming in low-light conditions.”
“Good. Magazine capacity?”
Alex picked up an empty magazine and pressed it home until he heard it engage. “Standard magazine capacity is 17 rounds, from a double-column, two position feed magazine. Magazines with an 18-round capacity were produced after 2004.” He looked up at Yassen, clearly hoping for approval, but afraid of falling short.
“Very good. Now dry fire at the target. I want to assess your stance.”
Alex stood up, the Grach in his left hand, safety on. He limped over to the firing position; his gait still unsteady but definitely improving. Alex swept up his arm in the instinctive firing technique favoured by his Malagosto instructors, ignoring the unsteadiness of his muscles, and dry-fired at the target set up at the 20 metre mark. The movement of the slide threw his aim out for the second shot and his hand and arm wobbled like a jelly after a hard poke. He swung the muzzle back on target a third time and squeezed the trigger again. If there’s been a bullet in the chamber, he would just have clipped the righthand edge of the target.
“Good. Right hand now,” Yassen instructed, not giving Alex’s muscles the chance to tire too much,
With his right hand, Alex’s movements were less sure and he would have missed the target altogether, but for a first attempt, it was very creditable.
“Well done. Now strip the weapon down, clean it again, reassemble and return it to the gun safe.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex responded automatically, the words coming fluently to his lips, but Yassen didn’t miss the grin on his face.
Alex placed the Grach down on the shelf in front of him and turned to Yassen, the grin sliding into a wide smile.
Yassen smiled back.
*****
Alex drifted out of sleep, feeling warm and comfortable, conscious of Yassen’s arm draped around his waist, the legacy of the night terrors that still plagued him. Yassen told him they were diminishing, but he found that hard to believe when he was in the grip of blind panic, struggling to escape from the madman of the week and whatever security goons happened to be pursuing him.
The problem – one of the problems - was that he could always remember the dreams when he woke up properly. He’d talked about that with Dr Feldmann. She’d done her best to teach him mindfulness techniques to banish the thoughts from his waking mind but unless it involved watching the moonlight, Alex was rubbish at mindfulness. There weren’t too many happy places he could escape to in his head. MI6 had seen to that.
He opened his eyes to pale moonlight. Despite a nocturnal altercation with Major Yu and a crazed pursuit involving crocodiles he’d finally fallen back into an uneasy sleep clinging to Yassen, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder, inhaling the warm smell of lemon shower gel and the faint, sharp tang of sweat.
Yassen’s arms remained around him and Alex could feel warm breath ruffling his sweat-soaked hair. At some point in the night, Yassen had open the floor to ceiling window, letting a cool breeze into the bedroom along with the soft sound of waves rolling over the pale sand, drawn back with a swooshing sound.
Alex stirred in Yassen’s arms, and sat up, swinging his legs over the site of the bed. He stood up, unsteadily, waiting until he could control his balance before taking a step towards the open window, enjoying the caress of the light breeze on his skin. The storm had finally broken, the heavy atmosphere gone, leaving behind a clear, black velvet sky studded with myriad bright diamonds.
For the first time since he’d come to the island with Yassen, Alex wanted to leave the safe confines of the house and feel the sand between his toes and the water on his skin. He was finally ready to step outside the prison of his own mind.
He looked questioningly at Yassen and received an approving nod in return.
Walking to the paved area outside the window was easy but stepping onto the yielding sand was harder. He wobbled, throwing his arms out for balance. Yassen was beside him in an instant, but made no attempt to help, simply waiting for Alex to take his next unsteady step, and the next, making his way slowly to the water’s edge.
The sensation of the warm water lapping over his bare feet brought a smile to Alex’s face. He’d always enjoyed swimming but he’d spent so long in confinement that he’d come to associate four walls with security but now, with the breeze in his hair and the sea at his feet, Alex was starting to remember what freedom felt like.
He walked into the water, feeling its warmth on his skin, until he could finally launch himself into an ungainly breaststroke, ducking his head beneath the waves and then bouncing up to shake his hair like a dog in a pond.
Laughter bubbled up inside him sweeping away the tears that threatened to fall again and Alex Rider finally knew peace.
*****
Yassen Gregorovich smiled and followed him into the warm sea, holding his hand out to Alex.
Alex took it, a wide smile on his face and trust in his eyes.
Whatever road lay before them, they would walk it together.
*****
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.