Summary: I hate writing summaries, so how about you just read it, mkay? You know you want to...

Disclaimer: Not mine. I just felt like playing around in AH's sandbox a bit. ^_^

Warnings: None

Word Count: 964

Status: Complete


Alex couldn’t remember what it had been like when Jack had started living with him and Ian. He should remember; it had only been nine years ago. He should remember every little detail.

But he didn’t. And, really, it didn’t surprise him much. He couldn’t even remember what she had looked like before she was lying in this hospital bed.

He couldn’t remember her smile, or how she’d looked when she wasn’t completely terrified, like she had been the last time that Alex had seen her awake.

He remembered the look of terror when they pulled the bag off of her head, and she saw Alex tied to the chair in the middle of the room, blood dripping from his various cuts. Or maybe the terror had been more for the gun pointed at her head.

Alex didn’t remember much about what had happened after they had brought Jack in. He had let his composure and cool. If he had kept it together better, Jack wouldn’t be lying here today.

If he hadn’t been so goddamned stupid, Jack wouldn’t be lying here today.

If he hadn’t been so good at his job that MI6 had kept blackmailing him, and he wouldn’t have gotten so many, many enemies. If it hadn’t been for that, Jack wouldn’t have been lying here today.

But if it hadn’t been for MI6, the same people that he blamed all of his enemies and injuries on, Jack wouldn’t be alive at all.

For once, MI6 had come when he called them, and they saved Jack. But not before they made her scream to get to Alex. By the time MI6 had arrived, Jack’s wrist was snapped, her leg was broken in three places from well-placed kicks, and she was all cut up by their large collection of knives.

Tommy Carver, the man running the whole show (of course Alex got the vague sadistic humor in the man’s choice of “professional” name) had hit Jack hard in the head with the hilt of one of his knives. He’d said that her incessant screaming was getting on his nerves.

Or, at least, that’s what Alex was pretty sure that he’d been going to say. The man had been shot by an MI6 agent before he could finish speaking.

Jack had fallen unconscious then, and now, two months later, she still hadn’t woken up.

Alex had watched the shallow cuts and bruises on her face disappear. He’d watched as the bandages on his own wrists, which had been torn to shreds by the handcuffs that they’d fastened him to the chair with, had been removed, and the scars began the slow process of fading.

He’d watched her body slowly healing, but she still wouldn’t wake up.

The doctors all said that it could be any day. She could wake up at any time. But Alex gathered from the surreptitious sympathetic glances that both he and Jack received from the nurses and doctors that she might very well never wake up.

He sat and stared at Jack, willing her to wake up.

An apologetic nurse quietly walked in sometime later and told Alex that he had to leave; visiting hours were over for the morning.

Alex did so, albeit very unwillingly.


When he returned that afternoon for the second round of visiting hours, he brought the huge pile of schoolwork that had been mercilessly, ruthlessly piling up.

He began methodically working his way through each subject. His eyes started blurring slightly during his maths. By geography, they would hardly stay open. Finally, they shut completely somewhere between science and French.

He startled awake at the slight rustle of sheets. Years of “learning the hard way” had taught him how to be instantly awake.

She wasn’t sitting up, but Alex could see the beautiful gray of her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn’t seen her eyes open for a long, long time.

“Jack,” he whispered quietly, standing up slowly so that he wouldn’t startle her. Wasted effort on the quiet front, though, as his textbooks made a loud bang when they fell out of his lap.

Alex froze when Jack flinched at the loud noise.

“Jack,” he said again, louder this time. She looked over at him, seeing him there for the first time.

Then she was smiling at him, and he suddenly remembered. Jack had been wearing a brown band T-shirt the first time he saw her. And dark jeans with brand-new, bright white trainers.

The first thing that she’d done was kneel so that she was on the same level as Alex.

“Hey, Alex,” she’d said cheerfully. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Alex smiled at Jack, lying on the white bed. Earlier, the constant barrage of white had seemed cold and unwelcoming. Now it seemed warm, relaxing, comfortable.

The doctors had told Alex that once Jack woke up, it would take a while for her to regain motor skills, like talking. They were right; Jack couldn’t talk yet.

But that was alright, because Alex knew exactly what she’d say. He saw it in her cheerful smile, in her warm gray eyes.

“Hey, Alex. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”


A/N: I seem to be breaking my own pattern. This one doesn’t have a song either. lol.

Anyway, sorry about the ending. I couldn’t think of anything less stupid-sounding, so… yeah. But, hey, at least it’s a bit happier than what I’ve been writing recently, right? It’s warm now, and sunny, so I just couldn’t bring myself to write suicidal!Alex. But be warned, when I get sick of the summer heat, I’ll start emo-ing again. ^_^

Until next time, fair reviewers!!

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