A/N - Written because there are not enough Ian Rider fics out there. This can be seen as a oneshot. It's really short and I'd like to continue it somehow but my ideas don't seem to fit. Any pointers will be accepted gratefully. It's my first Rider fic, so I hope its ok.

Disclaimer - I own nothing. Except for Ian's slightly annoyed attitude. lol.


They'd found him somehow. He wondered briefly how it was possible; but then he checked himself. Of course it was possible. This was MI6. He couldn't find it in himself to be grateful. It was their fault this had happened. He was supposed to be on holiday. Another thing for Alex to resent him for. He'd been promised the week off. But inevitably he was called back. They thought he should be flattered. He was 'the best'.

The mission had felt wrong from the start. But he did his duty. Loyal to the last as his brother would say. Were he alive. It had been a trap. Scorpia had been waiting. He'd barely gotten out alive. He winced as he was manhandled into Liverpool Street. The over helpful agents causing him more pain than ease.

'Ian!' Something akin to concern flooded Mrs. Jones' eyes for the briefest of moments. She almost touched him, before pulling back. 'You look terrible.'

He shrugged. The cut above his eye bled slowly, trailing red down the side of his face. 'I've been worse.'

They 'helped' him to his office, Alan Blunt was waiting. 'Rider. Dreadful business. Seems we made a mistake. Another agent's clearing up the mess. Bold move by Scorpia. Didn't see it coming.'

Ian's blood began to boil. He hugged himself, barely able to stand. Cracked ribs would do that for you. 'If that's an apology, sir. It isn't a very good one.'

Mr Blunt glared. Mrs Jones, as always, stepped in. 'You should go home Ian. Get some rest.'

'Yes.' Blunt cut in. 'Get yourself checked out though first Rider. We'll be in touch.'

Ian's lip curled slightly, and he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. 'Don't forget the grapes.'

He loved his job. He really did. But sometimes, times such as this, when he faced his own mortality and he realised that his life was in their hands; he hated it. Because he knew that a twelve-year-old boy would be left alone in a world that harboured such evil. And that thought killed him.