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He’s been in the cell for 11 days. Or, at least, Alex has estimated it to be eleven days. For each 24 hours that went by, he dragged one shaking, blood-coated finger down the wall, leaving a tally in its wake. But then time had stopped moving linearly; it now came down in crashing waves that pulled Alex under. It felt like he was drowning.
At first, the cold had been the worst. The hard, unforgiving nature of the cement floor had quickly sapped him off his energy, the frosty air leaving him a shivering mess. Curling into a tight ball, his body warmth did little to ease his shivering. The thin cotton t-shirt and jeans he wore did nothing to retain his heat.
Then it had been the starvation. Other than a water bottle tossed through the bars occasionally, he had not been provided any food. Or, he had not been provided food that came without cost. Guards purposefully brought takeaways down to the floor his cell was on, allowing the fragrant food to make Alex’s stomach rumble loudly.
Taunting, they had called out, “Want a bite, you whore? I could keep you satisfied.”
On one occasion, when their leering had become unbearable, Alex crawled to the bars that separated them. With arms tied behind his back, he had opened his mouth obediently, allowing his eyes to peer up the guards innocently. Surprised and pleased, the guard had spooned a bite of his food and brought it down to Alex’s mouth. Trying not to think too hard about the ever growing bulge in the pants in front of his face, Alex held himself perfectly still until the hand was inches from his face. Then, with the speed of a cobra, Alex's mouth snapped close on the man’s wrist, instantly drawing blood.
“Motherfucker!” The man had screamed, red in the face. He yanked his hand back, and with it the tempting food. “You freak!”
Alex flashed him a bloody smile, licking the blood away from his lips.
The guards didn’t bother him so much after that. Only one, who couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Alex, still visited. Amongst the rest of the guards, he looked like an out of place college student. Alex gave him the name Cambridge.
Cambridge never said much, merely gazed down at Alex with a look of pity and confusion.
Once, Alex had asked, “What do you want from me?” Lack of use had made him words scratchy and quiet, but distinguishable nevertheless.
The man didn’t hesitate. “To break you.”
Slow gears turned in Alex’s mind - the cold seemed to make everything slow. His body, his thoughts, time.
“You haven’t asked me any questions.” There’s a tinge of desperation that made its way into his tone.
“We don’t need to.” A look passed over the man’s face then, guilt or maybe disgust. It wasn’t clear who it was directed at. “All we need to do is break the hold that Scorpia had on you. Teach them a lesson. That they don’t get to have you.”
The words didn’t make sense to Alex. He had left Scorpia and rejoined M16 a year ago.
Still, a shudder involuntarily made its way through Alex’s body. When would that be? When the cold had reduced him to a shivering, unintelligible mess? Had settled into his lungs and infected the tissue there? When he had starved away to skin and bones?
That was the last conversation Alex remembered for a while. Really, it was the last time Alex was conscious and lucid enough to hold a conversation for a long time. Instead, he floated in and out as the cold wrapped around his bones and settled into his empty stomach.
Some indeterminable amount of time later, food was tossed into the cell. At the very sight, Alex’s stomach panged with horrible hunger and nausea, but at the very corner of the cell, the food was at least 8 ft away.
With shaking arms, Alex heaved himself onto his hands and knees. He managed to shuffle forward a few feet before collapsing, punching out a low groan as he hit the floor. Again, he tried to gain control of his weak limbs, but this time his collapse forced painful coughs to bark out of his chest, scratching at his throat relentlessly. Hot tears pricked at his eyes in recognition of his own inability.
He must have drifted off while laying there on the floor because he startled awake to the clang of the cell door. He tensed in anticipation of the pain of one of the guards laying in on him again. Instead, his shoulder was grabbed roughly, and he was manhandled into sitting against the brick wall of his cell. Alex noted with disgust how easily he could be pushed around now, his once strong body withered and light. He looked more childlike than ever now - if he ever were to escape, M16 would be thrilled with the development.
“Hold still.” An order, nothing more. It was not like Alex had anywhere to go.
With great surprise, Alex saw Cambridge standing before him once the swimmingness of his vision passed. He also had the bread that had been tossed inside, along with something that looked a lot like a thermos.
Alex didn’t dare to speak while Cambridge carefully kneeled down. Silently, small pieces of bread were torn off and handed to him. He chewed slowly and had to take pauses in between bites to allow his stomach to adjust. Although Cambridge seemed impatient, he didn’t voice it.
When it came time to the soup, Alex’s stomach was full. He only managed a few gulps before his gut turned horribly, sharp and painful. Tipping his head back against the wall, Alex let out a huff of breath. The small meal had thoroughly exhausted him.
Recognizing Alex’s dismissal, Cambridge scoffed and screwed the lid back on the thermos. He stood up and made a move towards the door. Almost as if he were thinking better of it, he turned back and delivered a swift kick to the ribs that left Alex sprawled across the floor. Then the cell door clanged shut again.
Alex curled into a ball, his mind reeling. The unexpected kindness paired with violence seemed like a tactic to manipulate him. He couldn’t bring himself to feel truly wary though, overcome with the relief of having a meal in his stomach.
The next time someone was sent into the cell, it was for more sinister reasons. Hands grabbed at him, unrelenting, and yanked until he hung between two burly men. A third guard had to grab a fistful of hair to yank Alex’s bowed head up, forcing him to meet their eyes.
“Look at the state of you. A pity, really. You should’ve accepted our offers to take care of you. Now you’re just a waste of a pretty face.”
“At least I have a pretty face.” With all of the energy he could muster, Alex spat towards the man. Not his most creative or biting insult, but it would have to work given his circumstances. The quiet fury burning across his captor’s face made Alex both smug and anxious.
Still, his snark wasn’t met with a response. At least, not a verbal one. No questions were asked, not that Alex would have given any answers. Yet they hit him, again and again, the blows falling mostly on his face and chest. There were no pauses for questions to be asked to him. No snark to be thrown up as a shield to maintain his strength and dignity. Instead, the blows seemed to endlessly rain down onto his body from all sides.
Eventually, he must have blacked out, because when he opened his eyes next he had freshly broken fingers that throbbed to the same rhythm as heart. All Alex could manage was to lie still and try and mentally assess the damage his body had undergone.
Within only a few short minutes of him regaining consciousness. he heard the familiar sound of the door to his prison opening. At the sound, panic surged through his chest, quickening his heart rate. Thoughts raced through his mind - he couldn't survive another beating so soon. His face was swollen to all hell, he could only open his right eye, and his ribs felt terrible.
As footsteps neared him and panic set in, Alex’s breath hitched wildly, resulting in a new wave of agony as his chest heaved. Curled loosely on the floor, with his injured hand clutched protectively to his chest, Alex was completely and utterly defenseless. Fresh tears silently slipped down his face.
Tensed for a fresh onslaught of pain, the sudden gentle hand on his shoulder was startling. Slowly, but without hesitation, the hand started to rub circles against his back. The young spy did not need to turn around to know who it belonged to.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. You did so well today,” Cambridge comforted. Another hand appeared in Alex’s hair, playing with it like a sick imitation of Jack saying goodnight to him as a kid. Alex knew this was a part of their game. He knew it without a doubt. Yet, he couldn't deny that the tension slowly released from his body.
After a minute, Cambridge sat down against the wall and pulled Alex against him, like a little kid. When Alex whimpered at the movement, he carefully wiped the tear streaks from underneath his eyes and continued to hush him. It was the only physical contact he had felt in weeks, and the shared body heat was a comfort. Against his will, his heart rate slowed and his eyelids felt like lead. He simply didn’t have it in him to refuse this small comfort.
Days, maybe weeks went by. Cambridge was a constant, rarely speaking but offering food, medicine, and comfort on occasion. Other times he hurt Alex. Both were painful.
Alex spent most of his time unconscious. That probably was a bad sign, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to. In the void of dreamless sleep, the cold and pain finally couldn’t touch him.
It was during one of these times of rest, in between the constant beatings, that Alex awoke to gunshots. They were loud and rang in his ears, but they didn’t sound quite like a gun fight. The rounds fired were too rhythmic, too evenly spaced apart.
Alex had little energy and no means of defending himself. He couldn’t bring himself to feel hope, or fear, or even curiosity. The cold had sapped that from him. With his chest pressed to the floor, Alex stayed low - partially to avoid being caught in a crossfire of bullets, and mostly because he could no longer stand up.
After a few minutes, the confrontation had stopped. There was a pause, a long one, where Alex considered calling out for help. But he was relieved from making the decision when the door was opened, and M16 agents flooded into the room.
As the realization of his rescue dawned on him, Alex sagged to the ground. The adrenaline was too high to feel the weight of his injuries and his mind seemed to feel more clear than it had in ages. Where had all of the guards, who had been a constant presence outside his cell, gone? And why did none of the MI6 agents have their guns drawn?
As he was helped up to the gurney, he had a feeling that there were lots of people speaking to him but his exhausted brain couldn’t possibly process everything that was being said. Instead, his mind was still whirling. The words that Cambridge had said to him, so long ago, repeated in his head. How his captors had wanted to prove that he didn’t belong to Scorpia. Because he belonged to MI6.
When he is wheeled outside, he distinctly notices how there were no dead bodies littering the hallways. How there is no evidence of a shootout, no bullet holes or empty cases. And when they finally exit the doors that have barred him from freedom for weeks, there were paramedics calmly waiting for him.
As if they had been expecting him. As is if they had been certain they would find him here. As if they had planned this….
When Alex was put to sleep in the ambulance, he knew exactly what horrors would fuel his nightmare. Because although he couldn’t be sure, he was almost positive that rescue had been staged. And there was only one man evil enough to torture someone for the sake of proving a point, before hastily pretending to rescue them. Alan Blunt had always been willing to throw Alex to the wolves his whole life, but for the first time the man seemed to have gotten his hands dirty himself.