Alright, so I'm not exactly sure where this came from. It's a ton of fun to write, though, so expect updates on it pretty often.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had seen some beautiful women. Exotic women, dangerous women, none of them could compare to the angel he was seeing now. None held one millionth of the appeal she had on him, not for all of them put together would he trade her.
Helen Rider. It still felt a little strange to say it, even though they'd been married almost a year now.
He propped his head on his hand and reached over to push a strand of hair off of her face. She smiled slightly in her sleep, and he smiled with her. Her hair was mussed and he could see the tiniest bit of drool on her chin (not that he would ever mention it to her), but a more beautiful sight he had never seen.
Helen groaned and rolled over. "Why're you staring at me, John?" she asked, curling up on her side. John grinned and reached to tickle her, but she swatted him away before he even got close.
"What else is there to look at on a dismal November morning?" he asked, playfully.
"Breakfast," she replied, her voice muffled by blankets. "With jam. And eggs."
"Jam and eggs it is, then!" he said, with more enthusiasm than was probably normal for seven o' clock in the morning. He threw the covers off his side of the bed, careful not to disturb Helen's nest and asked, "How would you like them?"
"Do you even have to ask?"
"Scrambled it is, then, Your Highness. Come down when you smell them."
She grumbled her response, and John smiled, knowing from experience that she wouldn't be fully awake until after at least two cups of tea (Earl Grey, with a dash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar). He was the opposite—he needed very little sleep, and once he was awake, that was it. Coffee and tea were, as Ian had put it once, "dangerous weapons" in his hands. Armed with caffeine he was jumpy and annoying to the point that Helen had once threatened to castrate him if he continued his antics. (By whose definition was singing Madonna at the top of his lungs at a much higher register than usual annoying?)
He had just put the kettle on and popped the toast in the toaster when the doorbell rang. He stiffened for a moment, knowing exactly who it was, before he sighed, all prospects of a relaxing Sunday gone. He looked down at his clothes—a pair of flannel pants, a concert shirt and the robe his mum had given him the Christmas before—and decided that MI6 could deal with it. It was, after all, really bloody early.
He answered the door with a blank face. "Hello?" he asked, playing his part. "What can I do you for?"
The man at the door—John thought he might have recognized him, but all MI6 henchmen looked the same: a nondescript black suit with a slight bulge at the waist—nodded grimly. "You're mother is very ill," he said. "May I come in?"
Shit. They only used the mother line when there was some serious stuff going on. The only ones he'd ever gotten before were the niece and cousins ones. He wondered briefly what the neighbours would think had any of them actually been listening to the greetings at the door—they must have though he had some damn unlucky family. Come to think of it, maybe that was why Mrs. Parker always looked at him like he was some lost puppy.
John didn't respond, but he did open the door a touch wider. The agent brushed past him without saying much else. John glanced outside—nothing unusual—and closed the door. He led the man into the kitchen, where the tea was boiling. He picked up the kettle experimentally. There seemed to be enough for both the agent and Helen, so he figured it was safe to offer tea.
"No, thank you," the man responded, sitting rigidly in his chair. Instead, he took the case he was carrying and laid it out on the table. John kept his back to him.
"I'm going to run upstairs," he said. "I'll be back."
The agent nodded, looking faintly disapproving. Well, fuck that. He would at least take care of his wife—if he was leaving for as long as he thought he might be; it was the very least he could do. So he ignored the man and poured the now boiling water into Helen's favourite mug, before putting the kettle down and heading to the refrigerator for cream. He took his sweet time with the sugar and cream, mostly because the man had pissed him off.
Helen was sitting up in their bed when he reached the upstairs, still looking adorably sleepy. He put the mug on the nightstand next to her and gave her a peck on the forehead.
"Breakfast in bed, then?" she asked, looking hopefully back at her pillow.
John sighed. "I wish. Someone from MI6 just arrived. I'll bring it up when he leaves, if you'd like."
She pursed her lips. "No," she said, "I may as well get up and ready. I've got some paperwork to fill out anyway."
"Okay," John said, leaning in for another kiss. "I'll still let you know when he leaves."
"Mmm," she mumbled, picking up her tea. "Don't let them send you anywhere too crazy."
He sighed again. "You know I can't control that. Maybe in a few years, when I'm higher ranked."
Helen took a sip of her tea. "I know," she said, sighing. "But a girl can hope, can't she?"
"Never stop hoping," he said heading to the door. "Be back soon."
The agent's briefcase was back on the floor when he arrived downstairs, but on the table sat a large pile of folders that hadn't been there before. His cover, presumably. He eyed it with distaste. It looked much too thick for his liking.
John pulled out the chair opposite the agent. "Alright," he said. "Hit me."
The man didn't roll his eyes, but he did shoot John a dry look. "You've been chosen for an extremely important and difficult assignment. Normally Mr. Blunt would brief you for something of this magnitude, but he is quite busy at the moment."
"The Triads again?" John asked, leaning forward on his kitchen table. He laughed when the man looked surprised. "Don't look so shocked, I'm not a spy for nothing."
His lips thinned. "Yes, the Triads. Now, if you'll let me continue, I was talking about this assignment—this very dangerous assignment, if you remember correctly."
John mimed zipping his lips, but despite the clownish exterior, a sense of dread was coursing through him. This was looking worse and worse. It was looking like deep cover. Deep cover was both a blessing and a curse in his job—do it right and you were on the fast track to the top. Screw it up and you were dead.
He knew people who had ended up both ways.
"After the Cold War ended, spies from every side found themselves out of work. So, as far as we can tell, they banded together and formed an organization they call Scorpia: sabotage, corruption, intelligence and assassination. They are not in it for ideological reasons—just for the money. They will help to overthrow one government one week and assassinate the leader they put into power the next. But that is all we know about them. We don't know where they're located, or how clients get in touch with them. We know far less about them then we are comfortable with.
"And that's where you come in."
"I don't have a choice in this, do I?" John asked with his heart up in his throat.
The agent shook his head. "No. Mr. Blunt has chosen you personally. He believes that you have all of the correct characteristics, and your record speaks for itself."
John swallowed and nodded slowly. "How deep, exactly, would this cover be?"
"Complete," the agent said, pulling a file open. "Next Saturday night you will be seen at a bar. You will be seen accidentally killing a man. You will spend an undetermined amount of time in prison until your hearing. Scorpia will approach you. You will accept their proposal and you will train with them, sending us as much information as you can get away with."
He handed John a newspaper clipping with his SAS photo printed. It already had next Sunday's date at the top of it. It went into detail about his military service, his life, why he would be in the bar, exactly what would happen in that bar. It mentioned Helen by name.
He felt ill.
"I can't," he said, pushing it away. "Can't you find someone without family—without a wife? I can't even imagine what this will do to Helen." He could imagine it, actually. He could imagine it very well. It would destroy her. She would insist on supporting him, and her colleagues would slowly start to shun her, and her friends begin to cancel plans...
The agent didn't pause. "No," he said. "You have been chosen—you will complete the assignment. The fact that you have a wife only serves to make your cover more believable."
"I can't," John repeated, desperately. "What about Ash? What about Bourne, or Hollbrook? There are plenty of other agents..."
"Agent Howell has yet to prove himself; the other two you mentioned are already on assignment. There is one other that Mr. Blunt thinks could pull this off, but for some reason he seemed to think you would be reluctant to have him do it."
"What?! No! If there's anyone else that can do this; let them! I can't!"
The agent gathered his papers. "Very well then. Your brother lives just a few streets down, does he not?"
John blinked incredulously. "What are you saying?" he asked in a low whisper. "Ian isn't... Ian couldn't... I would know..."
The agent paused in his paper gathering. "Your brother has been in our service for nearly a year now. He hasn't told you?" He sounded artificially surprised.
"A year?" John breathed, training his gaze on the other man. "It's... not possible!"
"You have been a bit occupied," the agent allowed, allowing his eyes to drift upward, to where he could hear the shower running. To where Helen was.
He and Helen had been married almost a year—it was their anniversary in a month. Their honeymoon hadn't been long, but he supposed he could've lost himself in life with her. When had been the last time he had actually spoken with Ian? Really spoken, not just exchanged meaningless platitudes?
It pained him that he couldn't remember. But he did remember one thing: he had never told Ian that he worked for MI6. He assumed that his brother still thought he was SAS. John tried to remember where Ian worked.
And then it clicked. The overseas manager of a bank. They had had a party, with a few of Ian's university friends and Ash and Helen. It had seemed so sudden. John suddenly felt very stupid. A bank! It should've been obvious when Ian had never let the name of the bank slip. It should've been obvious when he came back from a trip in Hong Kong with a black eye that he claimed was from an overenthusiastic bank manager who had accidentally clipped him with a briefcase.
John knew the signs. Why hadn't he looked for them in his own brother?
The agent was still staring at him. He stood. "I'll go to inform your brother of his new assignment. He will accept. It's just the opportunity he's been looking for. Your brother is quite the ambitious man."
That got him. Ian was bloody ambitious—he always had been. He had once sabotaged his own girlfriend for a scholarship. John grabbed his forearm. "I'll do it," he said hoarsely. "I have to."
The agent sat back down. "I thought you would say that. Here are your folders. Study them. Burn them when you're through."
"I know the drill," John said, glaring at them morosely.
"Call the bank if you have any questions. Ask for Crawley."
"Goodbye, Agent Crawley," John said, his voice rough. The man seemed to recognize the dismissal, for he rose without speaking.
"Goodbye, Agent Rider. And good luck."