Ian Rider Is Dead

Summary: "Ian Rider is dead." At first, the words mean nothing. You've heard Ian say the word "dead" himself plenty of times. But then, as Alex appears to ask what's wrong, it all comes crashing down because, for the first time, the words are true. . .

Rating: K

Genre: angst (emotional) ; friendship

Canon Character(s): Ian Rider ; Alex Rider ; Jack Starbright

OC Character(s): none

Set During: before Stormbreaker and then during Ian's funeral

Note: This is the first time I'm trying this is second person, but I can't imagine it as anything else. The speaker is Jack Starbright.

The doorbell rings, followed by two short raps on the door.

You jerk awake, only just realizing that you've fallen asleep while studying your latest slog of a class reading. For a moment, you're extremely disoriented, and it's not just because you just woke up. After all, Ian was supposed to come home . . . soon, as Alex had said, but surely you would have heard Ian come in and why is he not coming down the stairs to answer the door?

You turn your gaze towards the door, and as you do so, you happen to glance at the old grandfather clock.

And yelp.

Ian was supposed to be home hours ago.

There are three more knocks on the door, insistent knocks, rapid knocks, urgent knocks.

You jump at least four feet in the air at the sounds, scramble to fix the blanket that your feet and legs now tangled in, seize the gigantic textbook and slap it on to the couch (you'll finish later, you promise yourself), and stumble your dizzy, tilting, fumbling way to the door, wondering who on earth is calling this late at night – or is it really early in the morning?

Perhaps Ian forgot his keys, you tell yourself . . . even though that sinking pit in your stomach is suddenly deepening and hollowing, because deep down inside you know that Ian never forgets things. Especially and even things as trivial as the house keys.

As you reach the door, there are footsteps on the stairs.

"Jack?" Alex calls. Somehow, his voice only carries a tinge of the sleepiness you know yours will.

"Right here, Alex," you shout back.

You flail around until you find and turn on the lights, unlock the various locks on the door, and finally open the door. "Really, Ian, I – "

The words die in your mouth.

It is not Ian.

It isn't even anyone you know, or vaguely recognize, for that matter.

You scrub futility at your eyes, and suddenly become all too aware of how messy and disorganized your appearance is for the only adult in the house and the one answering the door, because the person who was ringing the doorbell and knocking wasn't just the neighbor down the street – it's a police officer.

"Um, officer, uh, hi," you say, and wince inwardly at home lame and sleepy you sound.

The officer makes a crisp salute. "Is this the residence of Ian Rider?"

The tone is formal and clean and cool, and for a second you can almost believe that this person comes from the "bank" where Ian works, because you've heard that kind of cool tone before from Ian himself.

"Yes," you answer slowly.

Something in building in your chest – not a black hole, just a tiny pinprick, really. But slowly cold is starting to gather and grow in that pinprick, dripping against your heart, which frantically beats faster in an attempt to stay warm and ward off the ice and the cold that is starting to form. And it all started with the appearance of the police officer, and something about the tone of that question.

There is silence behind you, but you know Alex is at the top of the stairs, out of sight and just barely out of earshot – for the officer, anyways.

It relieves you, a little, for the boy is a black belt, and if for some reason this officer is a fake and wants to rob the house, you know that Alex can handle that in his sleep. Of course, if Ian were here, there'd be no doubt about it . . . but for some reason, something in you knows that there is connection between the fact that Ian hasn't turned up yet and the fact that there is now a police officer on your – his doorstep so early in the morning with a somber expression and formal tone.

"And you are?"

Ah, it is suspicious time.

"I'm Jack Starbright, the housekeeper," you reply.

The officer's face changes just a little, and you almost flush, knowing the thoughts that must be appearing now. After all, even after all these years you've never managed to get rid of that tell-tale American accent, and everyone can hear it.

But living with Ian and Alex has taught you a bit about poker faces and staying calm.

So you don't flush.

You simply stare calmly at the officer as impassively as you can with your messy blonde hair and rumpled clothing and sleepy traces on your face.

"And – " the officer consults something on the notebook " – is his nephew, Alex Rider, here?"

Your response comes the slowest of the three this time. Alex is not your son, but you love him like one, and despite the fact that he could knock you out in three seconds with his martial arts, you can't dispense of your maternal instincts, which tell you that, since Ian is not here, you are the only defense right now between this officer and Alex.

The officer's face clouds with sorrow. "Keep the boy away," comes the soft whisper.

Confused, you tilt your head in the vague indication of upstairs, communicating a silent message of, The boy is upstairs; he can't hear.

It's a lie, of course. But only partially – Alex is too far away to hear.

For now, anyways.

The officer sighs and straightens, expression clouding further with sadness.

"Miss Starbright, I am very sorry to inform you that the body of Ian Rider was found this morning."

For a second, your mind can't understand the words.

"What?" is your numb response.

The officer nods sympathetically. "I know it must be a shock." Now the tone has shed its formality, replaced by gentle sympathy. "And I am very sorry to disturb you with such tragic news. Ian Rider is dead."

Even though it's the second time it's been said, for some reason your mind cannot comprehend it. Some part of you keeps holding your breath, keeps watching for Ian's fair-haired, bright-blue-eyed, casually handsome figure to pop out from the random place, for him to clap the officer on the back and laugh and say, Just kidding, Jack. And even now, you are already beginning to have half-formed retorts in your mind to that ongoing argument.

After all, Ian himself has said the word "dead" so many times. . .

I'll be dead before you know.

The first time he said it was the first time you finally plucked up the guts to speak up after yet another last minute dash to a conference but six days after the last conference. Perhaps he knew, from when he saw the stormy yet restrained expression on your face, for he somehow managed to ensure that the two of you were never alone, not even when you finally resorted to "encouraging" Alex to go to bed because he was clearly tired from all the excitement of his uncle's return.

It wasn't until 11:00 PM until you finally caught Ian alone.

"Ian – "

He stands abruptly at your voice, turning as he stands so that he faces you with his arms crossed and his expression exasperated, catching you off guard – as he most likely intended.

"Jack, I really do think that we have run through this argument more than enough," he had interrupts smoothly.

You scowl. "Apparently not enough, or you wouldn't be still doing it."

Ian sighs, the picture of melancholy and suffering. "What do you want me to do, Jack? Quit my job? It's the only income supporting this fa – house right now."

For a second, you are thrown off guard yet again. "Did you just . . . Never mind."

For you're quite sure that he had been about to say "family" – and yet, he didn't. On one hand, you're the tiniest bit flattered that he considers you a member of his family. On the other, it disturbs you, for what on earth could possibly drag him away from his family so often then? So perhaps it was a good thing he changed it to "house".

"No, Ian. I don't want you to quit."

You know it's the unfortunate surrender you must give him, as he's just so bloody good at reverse psychology, but –

"But I still think you should make some time for Alex, all the same. He barely had you for five days after Cairo before you ran back out to Tokyo."

"Six," Ian corrects gently.

You wave a dismissive hand; you don't want to be suckered into another battle of semantics with him. "Ian, you left at, like, 1:00 in the morning," you remind him. "Alex didn't even have time to say good-bye. That does not count as day six."

"Fine, it was five." Ian, you hear, moves out of the long-suffering phase into the impatient phase. "Do you think I don't wish I could have more time with Alex?"

You snort. "You've a great way of showing it."

Ian spreads his hands, a gesture of helplessness mixed with impatience – a gesture that once charmed you before you wised up. "Jack, I have no control. As Alex's guardian, I need to support him somehow. And this is my job; I told you, from the start, that I was going to vanish at odd hours. I am an overseas finance manager for a reason."

"And I'm an overseas babysitter, but I still make time for family!"

"Oh?" Ian arches an eyebrow.

You fight the tell-tale blush that he's seeking. He knows. Damn his intuition. "But I still contact them regularly!" you retort. "And go see them and spend time with them! I don't run off to the other side of the world within six days."

"No," he agrees placidly. "You stay seven days and then leave and don't come back for twelve months."

Your shoulders sag. He's won this round. Heck, he's on his way to winning the war. Ian's a master of every linguistic trick there is, and you can't beat him no matter where you turn. The man's gotten perhaps three hours of sleep on the flight back from Tokyo, and he's still kicking your butt.

"Jack."

You look up and Ian's face is tinged, for the first time, with something you might be willing to categorize as regret.

"I know . . . I'm not the best . . . father figure," he admits softly. "I never was meant to be. That's one reason I advertised for a housekeeper – for Alex. I can't be the father figure he needs. But you – you're what he needs, and perhaps more." He chuckles tiredly. "I must admit, I never expected you to become so protective of him. It's not a bad thing at all. I'm rather glad. But we are getting nowhere with this discussion, and I really do think it is time we bid good night."

"But – "

"Good night, Jack," he says with a hint of finality you cannot ignore.

You sigh. But you're not completely beaten yet. "So if you know you're not the father figure because of your job, why can't you get a new one?"

It's a stupid question, and you know that. But you can't just sit around and do nothing. You have to contribute somehow, even if it's in the tiniest and stupidest way possible. But it's all you can think of.

And the wrong thing to say.

Ian's back stiffens, his arms tense, and his eyes turn cold and steely.

You flinch.

And Ian relaxes, but you can see that it's only an outward side. Clearly, you have touched a nerve somehow or somewhere.

He sighs, and presses a hand to his forehead. "Jack, please. Let us continue this . . . discussion when we're both in a better condition. I'll warrant you haven't had more than a few hours of sleep."

"Neither have you."

He favors you with another raised eyebrow. "But I'm not the one getting up ridiculously early to cook a ten-minute breakfast for Alex."

Scowling, you give in. But for some reason, you're not angry at Ian. You know that you struck a nerve, and you don't understand why, and you actually feel slightly . . . guilty about it. But his logic is sound, and Ian is a master at linguistics, debate, and manipulation. You can't argue with it. Not if you want to actually get some sleep tonight.

Not yet, anyways.

So, for now, you give in.

"Good night, Ian."

He smiles gently. "Good night, Jack."

But as you head up the stairs, you know that he did not intend for you to hear his whispered words of cutting pain:

"I'll be dead before you know."

I know, I know – your common refrain: "Ian, you look dead".

The second time he says it, he takes you off guard yet again. Just not for the same reason.

Alex is already asleep when he gets back this time from a conference for the first time, as far as you can recall, that takes place in the United States. In New York, in fact. Exactly where, you aren't certain, but you don't think he's lying when he told you he was heading towards the USA.

So the last thing you expect is for him to walk in the door with one arm in a sling, limping on his left foot, and one black eye.

At first, you don't notice.

You hear the keys in the lock, and then hear the footsteps into the corridor, and then the familiar sound of the briefcase and travel bag he always takes being set down against the wall, and you know immediately who it is.

You flash a glance at the clock.

"You're late, Ian," you say dryly, continuing to wash the dishes.

By now, you're quite used to Ian's late and very odd hours of vanishing and reappearing. You can handle the mornings when you wake up to find a scribbled post-it note of farewell on the table; you can deal with the nights when the door clicks open and he staggers, limps, or strides in the door; you can even go through with the conferences that stretch from days into weeks into months at a time. You can live with it.

But every time, whenever he turns up with an injury, you realize, chagrined, that you're not that used to it as you thought.

Like right now, when he slumps into a chair with an exhausted sigh and says, "I was not aware that I dictated I would have certain business hours when I hired you, Jack."

You turn around, wiping your hands on a towel, a retort ready on your lips –

And it dies.

You gasp, and your hand flies to your mouth.

"Ian – !"

His eyes snap open, and he almost seems ready to bolt and fight off an attacker before he realizes it's just his injuries, shrugs, and slumps back against the chair. "Come on, it's not that bad," he says, a trace of defensiveness clear in his tone.

You drop the towel and march to his side, hands on your hips. "Excuse me!" you bark. You level a finger at his face. "Ian Rider, this is ridiculous!"

"Hmm," he mumbles, clearly at ease and slightly amused despite his exhaustion. "That's what you said after Saudi Arabia too."

"You can't just disappear for two months in the middle of the night – "

"That would be Rome."

" – and come back in an even worse condition than you set out! Ian, you – "

"And that came from Sydney, I believe."

You stop, flustered, thrown as you almost always are by his calm wit and sarcasm. It is true, you usually give him the same scolding each time he returns because your pent up anger has to go somewhere – but Ian is in a far worse condition this time than any of those other times.

You plop down in the chair next to him, feeling suddenly as drained as he looks.

For a few minutes, silence reigns.

Then, finally, when you can't bear it anymore, you start to softly say, "Ian – "

He straightens abruptly, his blue eyes flashing open to lock on to your face with an intensity that reminds you of why, for the first week when he hired you, you crept around on eggshells and ice around him. Ian can be very scary when he wishes, and sometimes even more so when you know he's not trying to be scary.

"I know, I know – your common refrain: 'Ian, you look dead'," he interrupts, the corner of his lips twitching.

You cross your arms, tempted to pout. For the entirety of this conversation, Ian's been about three steps ahead of you. It's very annoying, but, you know, typical Ian when he wants to hide something.

"Well, you do," is all you can retort back.

"Perhaps."

He stands, clearly intending to end the conversation.

Not so fast.

"Ian . . . has anyone ever taught you the proper way to, uh, cover up bruises with make-up?"

For the first time, you've caught him off guard.

You can tell you have, because for a second that impassive, cool mask slips and his blue eyes widen ever so slightly and he actually tenses. And for the first time, he doesn't have a snappy, sarcastic comment on hand designed to keep up his image and fluster you . . . again.

"I'm guessing that's a 'no'," you decide after a second of the staring contest.

Ian slowly slides back into his seat. His blue eyes are unreadable, but now there is a hint of chilliness in them, as if he's ready to run you out the house.

That's certainly . . . not a good sign.

You keep your hands on the table. "Ian . . . I think I've given up trying to figure out what you do for a job. But if you still want to cover up those injuries, well . . . I think you should learn how first. That way Alex doesn't start thinking it's normal for you to walk around wearing a really bad make-up job."

Ian's lips twitch, and you can see that his shoulders are starting to relax.

"And do I want to know how you know?" he asks.

You shrug, stand, and go to the cabinets, rummaging for the make-up purse you have but never use; after all, it's just Alex, and sometimes Ian. What need have you for make-up? But, hey, you have it and now it's useful.

"I may be a lawyer, but I did learn how to put on make-up. I did my fair share of soccer and baseball when I was young."

You catch sight of his raised eyebrow in the reflection on the stove.

"Shut it," you warn him as he opens his mouth, knowing the sarcastic comment is coming and not wanting to deal with it now. He's caught you off guard enough tonight as it is. No more than usual, but the usual is already headache-inducing on its own, of course.

He shuts his mouth, but his eyes are dancing with amusement and you can tell that it's more for his own surrender than your request that he didn't say anything.

You feel like childishly sticking your tongue out at him; but, of course, you know that'll only make him laugh. Ian's the only one who can make you feel like a child, though, because playing chess with him is ridiculously exhausting. He somehow always manages to stay at least three moves ahead of you, and it's irritating as anything. So you finally decide to give up and settle for a strategic retreat – and hope, in the mean time, that Ian finally stumbles or makes a mistake and you can figure out what the heck is going on.

You clean up the powdered mess around his eye and reapply the make-up correctly, noting each wince and grimace that flashes across his face. It takes a supreme amount of effort to prevent yourself for saying anything.

Finally, you're done.

"Next time you walk in with a bruise," you tell him, "either let me do the make-up or just have the bruise. Alex won't ask."

Ian stands and stretches casually, as if nothing's happened, and you know he's studiously ignoring your comment. Then he turns to you, crosses his arm, and flashes you a smile that's halfway sarcastic and halfway a smirk, blue eyes twinkling under the electric lights.

"So, Jack, do I still look dead now?"

You stomp up the stairs, scowling, but you can't hide the smile that shines within you.

"You're right, I'm dead too, but you'll die first and I'll get away with a bruise."

The third time he said it, it was with the strangest expression he'd ever worn – a mix of solemn seriousness, flattering charm, icy coldness, heaps of amusement, and dead certainty. It was during a vacation of sorts, during the summer months, when Ian hadn't had an assignment for three weeks straight, a very rare occasion indeed. Of course, he had spent it . . . questionably, but you can't deny that having the whole . . . family . . . here is gratifying, in its own way. Alex certainly is happier.

You sip at your lemonade and lounge on the porch, watching the two beat the crap out of each other.

They are sparring, and it's no joke, no playful fighting, no amusing comedy.

It's deadly serious.

You wince as one of Ian's jabs connects with Alex's leg. The boy will have a bruise there for at least a week or two; Ian doesn't pull his blows anymore, especially now that Alex is a black belt. And Ian follows it up with an elbow jab, a roundhouse blow, and a wheeling wheel kick.

Ian gets his fair share in return, though. Alex didn't earn his black belt just because he went to every session.

So, for the elbow jab, Ian gets a roundhouse kick that knocks the wind out of him and a sweeping kick that sends him to his knees.

They continue the exchange of blows for some time. They're pretty well matched – Ian has experience and strength and height, but Alex has youth and stamina and swiftness. Neither can gain the advantage for more than a few minutes, and that if he's lucky; usually, the advantage is because the other has a trick up their sleeve and will employ it about two seconds later and take back the advantage.

You shake your head with a rueful sigh. How they think is fun is far beyond you.

But then again, even Alex has always been able to mystify you. He's not the spitting image of Ian in terms of looks, but when you look at sarcasm, wit, even martial arts . . . Alex is Ian all over again.

It finally ends when Alex whirls into a complex sequence of blows that leaves Ian knocked to the ground and Alex standing triumphantly over him, a knee in Ian's gut.

Surprised, you stand and trot closer. It's rare that their sparring bouts ever end with such a clear winner.

But then again . . .

When you're off the porch and only a few feet away, Ian's hand shoots up to enclose Alex's throat.

Alex starts, choking slightly, but manages to spit out, "You're dead."

Ian's face is, from what you can see, quite calm despite Alex's words – almost as if he's faced this situation more than once and has gotten out of it alive and unscathed. As if nothing in the world can trouble him because getting out of this is a piece of cake. As if for some reason the fact that he's flat on his back with a knee in his gut and a fist right above his sternum, where a blow would do some serious damage, means nothing to him at all.

"You're right," Ian says calmly, "I'm dead too, but you'll die first and I'll get away with a bruise."

Alex fidgets.

From where you're standing, Ian suddenly seems to be the one in control. It's his hands around Alex's throat after all – a few seconds and Alex would be knocked out; a few minutes and he'd be dead. Maybe he'd get his blow in, but as Ian said, all it would leave would be a bruise.

Finally, Alex sighs and yields.

He gets off his uncle and they get to their feet, brushing at the dirt and dust as if suddenly they're fashion conscious.

You snort at the thought.

Alex's head snaps up, and he grins. "Did you see that, Jack?" His voice is young, and eager, and in it you hear absolutely nothing of the fearful menace he can be when he's sparring. "Did you?"

"Yeah, I did. Now get yourself inside and clean up." You soften your voice as he trudges towards you, and you reach out and ruffle his hair. Conspiratorially, you whisper, "I left some lemonade for you on the counter."

The boy's serious brown eyes lit up, and he dashes inside with a "Thanks, Jack!"

Chuckling, you shake your head. Ian doesn't approve of the boy's sweet tooth, but, hey, you're the babysitter, not the parent. You indulge him while you can, because Ian's too busy beating the crap out of him to do that himself.

"Leftover lemonade, yes?"

You jump at Ian's voice, and then jump again when he circles to stand him in front of you with a disapproving frown.

"No. . ."

Ian raises an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Ian shakes his head with a sigh. "He's going to get a cavity," he warns.

"Ian, you've drilled him in everything from how to play hide-and-seek to buckling his seat belt to what to do if an intruder drops from the ceiling," you remind him. "I think Alex is good on brushing his teeth after that."

"Maybe," he relents.

Together, you stroll back to the porch, and on impulse you toss your now empty glass at Ian.

He starts, but his hands flash from his pockets to catch it easily.

"Darn," you mutter.

Ian raises another eyebrow at you. "Trying to kill me with my own cup?" he questions, leaning against the railing as he juggles the glass up and down in one hand, the other tucked away in his pocket again.

Damn his dexterity too. You could never do that. Not if you wanted the cup in one piece afterwards, anyways.

"No. Trying to catch you off guard."

Ian chuckles. Then, suddenly, he tosses it back at you – or pretends to, anyways.

You yelp and duck.

Ian laughs.

"Not funny, Ian," you fume.

"What's not funny?"

Alex pokes his head back out, his brown eyes curious and his lips still licking away what's left of the lemonade he probably just chugged down.

"Jack can't catch a cup," Ian answered amiably, eyes twinkling as he tosses the cup to Alex, who catches it with barely a blink.

You glare at the both of them. Damn both of their dexterity.

Alex backs up a step at you glare. "Um . . . I'm going. Like . . . now." And he turns and high-tails it out and up the stairs. Ian laughs very weakly – and then darts right after him as you charge right at the spot where he was.

"Alex, get back here!" you shout.

As you charge up the stairs, you barely hear the soft, frantic whisper from Alex.

"Ian?"

"Move over. I'm dead too, you know."

"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you all right?"

The voice of the police officer jolts you out of your memories with an abrupt and quite unwelcome venture. You shake your head and straighten again from where you just realize you've sagged against the doorframe, drained as ever. You just can't picture Ian – sarcastic Ian, amused Ian, deadly Ian – dead. You can't. You just can't.

And yet . . .

And yet you knew, somehow, deep down, that something was wrong the second the doorbell rang. You knew that someday Ian's injuries would catch up to him. You knew that Ian wasn't bulletproof and invincible as he seemed.

Ian Rider is dead.

You taste the words on your tongue as they roll around in your head.

They taste bitter. They taste sad. They taste salty, like bitter, salty tears shed when something has gone terribly wrong.

And so something has.

"Jack?"

Alex hops down from the last three steps and goes to your side. For once, you can't think to reprimand him. You can barely even register his presence.

The numbness is setting in. The sadness. The cold.

"Jack, what's wrong?" Alex asks, a trace of urgency building in his tone. For all his sarcasm and martial arts knowledge and youthful maturity, Alex is still a teenager – and one who cares quite deeply for the uncle who's not quite his father figure yet is the model he has looked up to and is becoming, slowly but surely.

Slowly, you close your eyes and open them. Then you take a deep breath. Then you release your death grip on the doorframe.

One step at a time, Jack.

It's the only thing your numbed, pain-shot mind can handle right now.

One step at a time.

You turn to face Alex, and you see the warring emotions in his brown eyes, and you hate yourself for having to say the words that will shatter his world as it shattered yours. And you will know that together, you'll suffer in silence, because there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can possibly begin to take Ian's absent yet powerful presence in this family. In your family.

"Alex. . . I have some bad news."

"What's happened to Ian?" Alex demands, somehow understanding the root of the problem without being prompted.

On a normal day, you would have flinched at the icy coldness in his tone, so reminiscent of Ian that it wasn't even funny. On a normal day, you would have joked with him. On a normal day, you would have reassured him that nothing was wrong, that Ian was fine, that Ian would come back safely.

You can't do that now.

This is not, in any way, a normal day.

The sun's first light comes over the horizon and strikes Alex in the face, illuminating his youthful features, such a contrast to his seriousness and mature brown eyes. But Alex takes the blow without flinching.

"Jack, what's happened to Ian?"

"Alex, I . . ."

And suddenly, you find you're done. You can't keep up with the lies, and the deceptions, and the manipulations. You're done. After all, look where they left Ian.

"Alex, Ian is dead."

There.

It's done.

You've said it.

And in your heart, those words will burn forever because, for the first time, they are true, and Ian Rider is dead.