(no subject)

Leaving your world entirely isn't as easy at it sounds. He tries, he really does, to convince himself that he's okay with it, that he can keep going without ever seeing Jack or Tom or his home ever again. And for a while, he can. Every time he thinks longingly of going home, he presses his hand against where the bullet exited, just under his arm, and remembers that he left so he wouldn't get killed.

But. It's not so easy. He stops feeling the physical pain so acutely and starts thinking about how much he misses going home. MI6 would be waiting for him, but so would Jack. Maybe he could convince her to go with him. Maybe they'd back off after he was shot. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

So finally, he slips through the door back to his world. It doesn't take long to gather up the few things he left behind in his room into a bag and head downstairs. It's the middle of the night, but that just means the night receptionist he used to talk to when he was restless and unable to sleep will be on. At the very least, he might help Alex call home and talk to Jack.

He arrives on the bottom floor just in time to see four men holding a gun to the receptionist's head. He can't breathe. We want the room number of Paul Drevin. If you don't give it to me in the next three seconds, I will pull the trigger and the only part of this hospital you'lt ever need again will be the morgue, one of them says. He wants to rush in, do something, but he's frozen to the floor, caught in some nightmare. The receptionist gives them Paul's room number in a panic, but it doesn't do him any good. He's dead less than a few seconds later.

"I told you he was in room eight," one of the men says.

"Then why did you ask?"

"I just wanted to be sure."

And just like that, Alex is back.