Chapter Text
The days after the confrontation blurred together into a grey, formless mass. Alex existed in a state of careful numbness, each hour bleeding into the next with no distinction, no meaning. The medical bay had become both sanctuary and prison; it was a space where he could hide from the world but couldn't escape his own thoughts.
They'd removed most of the IV lines on day three. His wrists were healing, the bandages changed daily by silent nurses who'd learned not to make conversation. The bruises on his ribs had faded from purple to yellow–green. His body was mending with the efficiency of youth and training, following the predetermined path of cellular regeneration and tissue repair.
But something else was breaking.
Alex could feel it happening, a slow fracturing deep inside where no bandages could reach. It was like watching ice crack across a frozen lake, the fault lines spreading outward from a central point, spiderwebbing across the surface until the whole structure became unstable. He didn't know when exactly it had started. Maybe in Sabic's cell. Maybe earlier, during one of the dozens of missions before that. Maybe it had been breaking all along, and he'd just been too busy surviving to notice.
He spent most of his time staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, mapping the patterns in the acoustic panels. Two hundred and forty–three tiles. Thirty–six panels. One flickering fluorescent bulb in the far corner that buzzed at irregular intervals. He'd memorized every crack in the plaster, every water stain, every imperfection in the paint.
Anything to keep his mind occupied. Anything to avoid thinking about Wolf's face when he'd left the room. About the way Snake had looked at him like he was something broken beyond repair. About Fox's trembling hands and Eagle's averted gaze. About Sabic's voice, still whispering in his memory. They don't care about you.
K–Unit came by, of course. They tried. Fox was first, appearing in the doorway on the second day with a tentative smile and a deck of cards. "Thought maybe we could–"
"No." Alex didn't look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on ceiling tile number seventy–three. "I'm tired."
"Cub, I just–"
"Alex," he corrected, his voice flat and dead. "And I said I'm tired."
Fox stood there for a moment longer, the deck of cards hanging uselessly in his hands. Then he left, the soft click of the door somehow louder than any slam would have been.
Eagle tried next, bringing a tablet loaded with movies and games. "Figured you might be going stir–crazy in here," he said, his usual easy confidence strained at the edges. "Thought this might help pass the time."
Alex turned his head away, presenting Eagle with his profile. "I don't want it."
"It's just–"
"I said I don't want it." His voice was sharper now, gaining an edge. "Is that not clear enough? Do I need to spell it out for you?"
Eagle's jaw tightened. "You don't have to be like this."
"Like what?" Alex finally looked at him, and whatever Eagle saw in his eyes made him take a half–step back. "Honest? Direct? Not playing along with whatever fantasy you've constructed where we're all friends and everything's fine?"
"That's not what I–”
"Leave." Alex turned back to the ceiling. "Please." The "please" was what did it. Eagle left without another word.
Snake's approach was different. He didn't bring offerings or forced cheerfulness. He simply appeared, pulled up a chair, and sat in silence. For nearly an hour, he said nothing, just existed in the space beside Alex's bed like a monument to patience. Finally, Alex broke. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," Snake replied, his voice calm and even. "Just sitting."
"Why?"
"Because you shouldn't be alone."
Alex's hands fisted in the blanket. "Maybe I want to be alone."
"Maybe," Snake acknowledged. "But maybe what you want and what you need are different things."
"And you know what I need?" Alex's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's rich. None of you know anything about what I need. You proved that."
Snake absorbed the hit without flinching. "You're right. We don't. But we're trying to learn."
"Too late." Alex's voice cracked slightly despite his efforts to keep it level. "It's too late for that, Snake. The damage is done. You can't un–ring a bell."
"No," Snake agreed quietly. "But you can acknowledge the sound it made. You can accept responsibility for making it ring. And you can choose to do better."
Alex laughed, a bitter sound that scraped raw in his throat. "Do better? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that maybe, possibly, at some point in the future, you might choose differently?" He turned his head to look at Snake directly, and his eyes were hollow. "It doesn't change what already happened. It doesn't change what you did. What you all did."
Snake held his gaze, unflinching. "No. It doesn't."
The honest acknowledgment was somehow worse than an excuse would have been. Alex turned away again, his throat tight. "Get out."
"Alex–"
"Get. Out." He could hear his voice rising, feel the control slipping. "I don't want you here. I don't want any of you here. I want to be left alone. Why is that so hard to understand?"
Snake stood slowly, his chair scraping softly against the floor. "Because people who are okay don't need to ask to be left alone so desperately."
The door closed behind him, and Alex was alone again. But Snake's words lingered, burrowing under his skin like splinters.
Wolf didn't come at all. Alex told himself he didn't care. That it was better this way. That he'd meant what he said about not caring whether Wolf lived or died. But he found himself listening for footsteps anyway, his body tensing every time the door opened, some traitorous part of him still hoping– No. He crushed that hope ruthlessly, buried it deep where it couldn't hurt him anymore. Wolf had made his choice. They all had. And Alex had made his. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.
It was Fox who finally broke through, though not in the way anyone expected. He appeared on day five, looking haggard and worn, with circles under his eyes that suggested he hadn't been sleeping any better than Alex. But instead of the tentative friendliness of his previous visit, there was a hardness to him now, a determination that set Alex's nerves on edge.
"We need to talk," Fox said, closing the door behind him with a finality that suggested he wasn't leaving easily this time.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"That's fine. You can listen."
Alex's jaw tightened. "I can also ask you to leave."
"You can," Fox agreed, pulling up a chair and sitting down despite Alex's glare. "But I'm not going anywhere until I say what I came to say."
"Then say it and get out."
Fox studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You're falling apart."
Alex barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Brilliant observation. Is that why you came? To state the obvious?"
"No." Fox leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I came because someone needs to tell you that this–" he gestured at Alex, at the blank walls, at the carefully maintained distance between Alex and the rest of the world "–isn't sustainable. You can't keep going like this."
"Watch me."
"I am watching you," Fox said quietly. "We all are. And you know what we're seeing? Someone who's given up. Someone who's decided it's easier to shut down than to deal with what happened."
Alex's hands clenched into fists beneath the blanket. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Fox's voice gained an edge. "You think you're the only one who's been betrayed? The only one who's had to make impossible choices? You think you're the only one carrying scars?"
"This isn't about–"
"It's exactly about that." Fox cut him off, his voice rising slightly. "You're so busy wallowing in your own pain that you can't see anyone else's. You want to be angry? Fine. Be angry. You've earned that. But don't pretend that shutting everyone out is about protecting yourself. It's about punishing us."
Alex's chest tightened, his breathing becoming shallow. "Get out."
"No."
"I said get out!"
"And I said no!" Fox was on his feet now, his voice sharp enough to cut. "You want to push us away? You want to convince yourself that you're better off alone? Go ahead. But don't lie to yourself about why you're doing it. Don't pretend it's about self–preservation when it's really about revenge."
"You don't know anything about me!" Alex was shouting now, his control finally shattering. "You don't know what it was like in that cell! You don't know what Sabic–" He stopped abruptly, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his whole body trembling.
Fox's expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "Then tell me. Help me understand."
"Why?" Alex's voice cracked, the word coming out broken and raw. "So you can feel better about what you did? So you can assuage your guilt by pretending you care now?"
"No," Fox said quietly. "So you don't have to carry it alone."
The simple sincerity of the words hit Alex like a physical blow. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at Fox with something that might have been hope if he'd let himself name it.
Then reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving.
"I don't want your help," Alex said, his voice hollow. "I don't want anything from you. From any of you."
Fox held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, Cub. If that's really what you want."
He left, and Alex was alone again.
But this time, the silence felt different. Heavier. More final.
The breakdown came that night.
Alex had been staring at the ceiling for hours, his mind caught in the same circular loop of thoughts. Sabic's voice. The chains. Wolf's face. The way everyone had looked at him–with pity, with guilt, with a careful kind of concern that made his skin crawl.
You're so damaged. So broken. Look at what they've made of you.
The thoughts spiraled faster, gaining momentum, pulling him down into a darkness that felt bottomless. His breathing became ragged, his chest tight, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The walls were closing in, the room shrinking, the air growing thick and suffocating.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't–
His hands found the IV stand, gripping it hard enough that his knuckles went white. The metal was cool under his palms, solid, real. He focused on that, on the physical sensation, trying to use it as an anchor. But it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.
The sob that tore from his throat surprised him with its violence. It was followed by another, and another, each one ripping through him like a physical force. His hands came up to cover his face, fingers digging into his scalp, pulling at his hair with enough force to hurt.
The pain helped. It gave him something to focus on, something concrete and immediate. He pulled harder, welcoming the sharp sting, the way it cut through the chaos in his mind.
Weak. Pathetic. Broken.
The words weren't Sabic's anymore. They were his own, an internal monologue that had been building for days, for weeks, for months. Maybe for years. Every mission, every betrayal, every time he'd been forced to be someone he wasn't, something he wasn't–it had all been leading to this moment, this breaking point where everything finally gave way.
He was dimly aware of the alarm going off, the heart monitor screaming its warning into the night. Footsteps pounded in the hallway, voices shouting, but it all felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.
Hands grabbed at him, trying to pull his fingers from his hair, trying to hold him still. He fought them blindly, thrashing against their grip, incoherent sounds tearing from his throat. He didn't want to be touched. Didn't want to be restrained. Didn't want–
"Alex! Alex, stop! You're hurting yourself!"
The voice cut through the chaos, familiar and urgent. Snake. It was Snake's voice, Snake's hands on his wrists, carefully but firmly pulling them away from his head.
"Let go!" Alex's voice was raw, broken. "Let go of me!"
"Not until you stop," Snake said, his voice calm despite the struggle. "Not until you're safe."
"I'm not safe!" The words exploded out of him, desperate and anguished. "I'm never safe! Don't you understand? There's nowhere that's safe, no one who's safe, nothing–"
His voice broke completely, dissolving into sobs that shook his entire frame. Snake's grip on his wrists loosened but didn't release, ready to intervene if Alex hurt himself again.
"You're safe right now," Snake said quietly. "Right here, right now, you're safe."
"No." Alex shook his head violently. "No, I'm not. I can't–I can't do this anymore. I can't keep–" He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't articulate the weight of it all, the impossible burden of simply existing in a world that demanded so much and gave back so little.
Other voices joined Snake's now. Eagle, urgent and worried. Fox, gentle and coaxing. Medical staff, clinical and efficient. But no Wolf. Wolf's voice was conspicuously absent, and that absence hurt in ways Alex couldn't name.
They got him sedated eventually, a needle sliding into his arm with practiced ease. Alex fought it as long as he could, clinging to consciousness even as it slipped away, terrified of what waited in the darkness.
But exhaustion and chemistry won out in the end. The world faded to grey, then black, and Alex tumbled into a sleep filled with chains and darkness and voices whispering truths he didn't want to hear.
When he woke, it was to dim lighting and the quiet hum of medical equipment. Someone had turned down the fluorescent overheads, replacing them with softer lamps that didn't burn his eyes. The heart monitor was still there, still beeping, but the sound had been muted somehow.
And in the chair beside his bed, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed but clearly not sleeping, sat Snake.
Alex's throat was raw, his head pounding, his whole body aching with the aftermath of the breakdown. He tried to speak, but only a croak came out.
Snake's eyes opened immediately, focusing on him with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. "Water?" he offered, already reaching for the cup on the bedside table.
Alex nodded, not trusting his voice. Snake helped him sit up slightly, held the cup steady while Alex drank. The water was cool and soothing, easing the burn in his throat.
"How long?" Alex managed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Sixteen hours," Snake replied, settling back into his chair. "They wanted to keep you under longer, but I convinced them you'd be okay."
"Why?"
Snake studied him for a moment. "Because you needed to wake up and face this, not hide from it in medically induced sleep."
Alex wanted to argue, wanted to snap that he wasn't hiding, that he wasn't running, that he was fine. But the words died in his throat because they were all lies, and they both knew it.
"Where are the others?" he asked instead.
"Sent them away," Snake said simply. "You don't need a crowd right now."
Alex's hands fisted in the blanket, his eyes dropping to study the weave of the fabric. "Where's Wolf?"
The question surprised him even as it left his mouth. He shouldn't care. He'd made it clear he didn't want Wolf around. And yet–
"Training," Snake said, his voice carefully neutral. "He's been in the gym for the past twelve hours. I don't think he's stopped once."
Of course. Because that's what Wolf did when he couldn't fix something. He beat it out of himself in the gym, punishing his body for the failures of his mind. Alex knew that pattern. He'd seen it before, during previous missions when things had gone wrong.
But this time, the thing that had gone wrong was Alex. And apparently, Wolf had decided the best course of action was to avoid the problem entirely.
The realization should have felt like vindication. See? He doesn't care. He's just relieved he doesn't have to deal with you anymore. But instead, it felt like another loss, another confirmation of everything Sabic had whispered in that cell.
"He asked about you," Snake said quietly, watching Alex's face. "Multiple times. Wanted to know if you were okay."
"But he didn't come."
"No," Snake acknowledged. "He didn't."
Alex laughed bitterly, the sound scraping raw in his damaged throat. "Because he doesn't care. Not really. None of you do."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Alex looked up, meeting Snake's eyes. "You all made your choice. You chose the mission, chose following orders, chose MI6 over me. That tells me everything I need to know about how much I matter."
Snake was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, careful. "You're right that we made a choice. And you're right that it was the wrong one. But you're wrong about why."
"Enlighten me."
"We didn't choose the mission over you because you don't matter," Snake said. "We chose it because we're broken too. Because we've been trained so thoroughly to follow orders, to prioritize the mission, to sacrifice everything for the greater good, that we've forgotten how to do anything else. We've forgotten how to be human."
Alex's breath caught, the words hitting harder than he'd expected.
"You look at us and see people who betrayed you," Snake continued. "And you're right. But we look at ourselves and see people who've been betrayed too. By our training. By our commanders. By a system that takes children–because that's what we all were once, children–and molds them into weapons that don't question, don't hesitate, don't think about the cost until it's too late."
"That's not an excuse," Alex said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"No," Snake agreed. "It's not. It's an explanation. And maybe, if you let it be, it could be the beginning of understanding."
"I don't want to understand," Alex whispered, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall. "I don't want to empathize with you. I don't want to see your humanity. Because if I do that, if I let myself care again–" His voice broke. "It'll just hurt worse when you betray me next time."
"Maybe," Snake said quietly. "Or maybe it'll hurt less. Because you'll understand that it's not about you. It's about us. About our damage. About the ways we've been broken."
"I can't," Alex said, and the words came out desperate, anguished. "I can't do this anymore, Snake. I can't keep getting hurt. I can't keep hoping that things will be different and having that hope destroyed. I'm so tired. I'm so fucking tired of all of it."
Snake leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice gentle but firm. "Then rest. Stop fighting for a while. Stop trying to decide right now whether you can trust us, whether you can forgive us, whether you can be part of this team. Just rest. Let yourself heal."
"And then what?" Alex asked bitterly. "Then MI6 drags me into another mission and we do this all over again?"
"Maybe," Snake admitted. "Probably. But that's tomorrow's problem. Today's problem is getting through today. Can you do that?"
Alex closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity. Could he do that? Could he just... exist, for a while, without making decisions or plans or trying to figure out his next move?
"I don't know," he said finally, opening his eyes to meet Snake's steady gaze. "I honestly don't know."
"That's okay," Snake said. "Not knowing is okay. You don't have to have all the answers right now."
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the quiet beep of the heart monitor and the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. Alex felt hollowed out, empty in a way that was almost peaceful. Like he'd cried out all the rage and fear and pain, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and a kind of numb acceptance.
"Fox was right, you know," Snake said eventually. "About you falling apart. But he was wrong about why." Alex glanced at him, too tired to form a question.
"You're not falling apart because you're weak," Snake continued. "You're falling apart because you've been strong for too long. Because you've held yourself together through things that would have broken most people years ago. And now–" He paused, searching for the right words. "Now you've finally reached the point where you can't hold it anymore. Where the weight is too much and something has to give."
"So I'm what? Having a delayed breakdown?" Alex's voice was flat, emotionless.
"I'd call it a necessary one," Snake replied. "You can't heal around damage, Alex. You have to break it open first, let it bleed, clean out the infection. Only then can it start to mend properly."
"That's a terrible metaphor."
"It's accurate though."
Alex couldn't argue with that. He closed his eyes again, feeling the pull of exhaustion dragging him back under. "What if I don't want to mend?" he whispered. "What if I just want to stay broken?"
"Then you stay broken," Snake said simply. "But I don't think that's really what you want."
"What do I want then? Since you seem to know me so well."
Snake was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost sad. "I think you want someone to fight for you the way you've fought for everyone else. I think you want to matter to someone the way they matter to you. I think you want to be chosen first, for once, instead of always being the one who gets sacrificed for the greater good."
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing Alex's breath. Because Snake was right. God, he was so right it hurt.
"And I think," Snake continued, "that you're terrified of wanting those things. Because every time you've wanted them before, every time you've hoped for them, you've been disappointed. So you've decided it's safer not to want anything at all."
Alex's throat closed up, tears leaking from beneath his closed eyelids despite his best efforts to stop them. "I can't keep doing this," he choked out. "I can't keep wanting things I'll never have."
"Then don't," Snake said gently. "Stop wanting. Stop hoping. Stop trying. Just for now. Just until you're strong enough to decide what you actually want instead of what you think you should want."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Neither do I," Snake admitted. "But maybe we can figure it out together."
Alex opened his eyes, looking at Snake through the blur of tears. "Why? Why do you even care? I've been nothing but hostile to all of you. I've pushed you away at every opportunity. I told you I don't care if you live or die. So why are you still here?"
Snake met his gaze steadily, unflinching. "Because someone has to be. Because you deserve to have someone sit with you in the darkness, even when you're trying to convince them to leave. Because–" He paused, something flickering across his face. "Because I know what it's like to be where you are. And I know how much it hurts to go through it alone." The sincerity in his voice, the raw honesty of the admission, broke something in Alex. Not the violent shattering of his breakdown, but a gentler breaking – like ice thawing, like walls crumbling slowly instead of collapsing all at once.
"I'm so tired, Snake," he whispered, the words carrying the weight of months, maybe years, of exhaustion. "I'm so tired of being brave. Of being strong. Of pretending I'm okay when I'm not. I just want it to stop. All of it. I just want to rest."
"Then rest," Snake said softly. "I'll be here. You don't have to be brave right now. You don't have to be strong. You can just be tired. That's enough." And somehow, with Snake's steady presence beside him and permission to simply exist without expectation, Alex finally let himself surrender to the exhaustion. His eyes slipped closed, his breathing evening out, his body going limp against the pillows.
Just before sleep claimed him, he felt Snake's hand settle carefully on his arm–not restraining, not demanding, just present. A quiet reminder that he wasn't as alone as he felt. It should have made him angry. Should have made him pull away, reject the comfort, maintain his walls. But Alex was too tired to fight anymore. So he let himself accept it, just this once. And in the darkness behind his eyelids, for the first time in days, the chains weren't waiting.