A/N: I don't own Alex Rider. Anthony Horowitz does.

Last chapter for this update. Read and enjoy!

"I want in on the Scorpia investigation."

Neither Blunt nor Jones' expression changed, but when he looked at Mrs. Jones, Ian was reminded of the way the nurse at Eton would raise an eyebrow and purse her lips when he came in bruised after yet another fight with the school bullies. She had always been singularly unimpressed with his exploits, lecturing him repeatedly about not getting himself killed before he graduated.

And, as he had when he was thirteen and scrappy, he set his jaw and bulldozed on.

"Agent Rider -"

"I have brought you more actionable intel on Scorpia than we have had in years," Ian insisted, "I deserve the chance to see this through."

"You are also malnourished, significantly injured, and of unknown psychological fitness. You are a liability," Blunt replied without missing a beat.

Ian narrowed his eyes and considered retorting that he was managing a several-hour-long high-stakes negotiation on his "unknown psychological fitness," but considering the outcome of the latest phase of negotiations, that probably wouldn't be a point in his favour.

"Sir, I have done more for you under worse circumstances."

Mrs. Jones unwrapped another mint, and Blunt stared at Ian impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

"Prague, weaponised anthrax. The average life expectancy with that strain was less than fifteen hours, even with ciproflaxin. The antidote wasn't even ready until fourteen and a half. The aphasia had set in before that, and I still took down the madmen responsible before they could detonate the capsules on the subway."

Mrs. Jones had a pinched look about her eyes; she had been coordinating the op on the ground. Come to think of it, she had been against his involvement then, too.

"Prague is not something we consider the standard for our operations, Agent Rider," the woman replied in a tone approaching stern.

"Prague was also one of our most successful strikes against al Qaeda."

Anthrax-induced temporary brain damage aside, Ian remembered Prague with great clarity. He had been there on an interagency information security conference, when the Ministry of Health had sent out a highest-priority alert: several patients exhibiting symptoms of anthrax had been admitted to local hospitals. The BIS - Czech national intelligence agency - was rather useless at the time, more content to point fingers at every other Schengen nation than provide any actionable intel. Ian had harangued the Agent in charge to put together a decent task force and essentially spearheaded the entire operation - he wasn't an Elite for nothing.

They'd pulled every available operative from every agency in the city, Czech or not, and sifted through God only knew how much chatter. Terrorist cells, hospitals, biotech firms… all while the victims were dropping like flies. The French had sent over some of their best from Paris Polytechnic to help the Ministry of Health synthesise an antidote, but it was Ian and his men who were the boots on the ground, searching for the people responsible.

They'd succeeded of course, found out that a scientist spurned from the intelligence and national security community for his radical ideas was working with a terrorist group to unleash the attack he had predicted would come, to galvanise Europe into turning to him for aid. They'd found his home, and Ian being the leader, had taken point and been the first one to enter through the back.

Thirty seconds later, there was a crash and a gunshot, and Ian had slammed the door shut in his second-in-command's face. Sharing the back room - by appearances, a laboratory - with him was a man, Middle Eastern in appearance, with a bullet hole through his shoulder. On the floor between them was a broken vial and a dusting of white powder. A fan was whirring merrily in the corner.

They'd expected terrorists, but they hadn't expected the scientist to be quite so insane as to synthesise weaponised anthrax in his own house.

If Ian had his way, he would have been quietly decontaminated and returned to work, since they knew the strain wasn't communicable. Unfortunately, his subordinates didn't share his views, and word made it back to Mrs. Jones. She'd flown in immediately and taken over control of the operation, while banishing him to the hospital.

Ian had respectfully disagreed and returned to the field as soon as he was able. They had the lab; the scientists were more than capable of making an antidote without him laying about not being useful.

He remembered the fever, remembered constantly checking his own temperature to see it creeping up towards 105ºF, remembered the coughs and the trouble breathing, the muscle fatigue, all while running across the city tracking down terrorists at full health. He remembered fighting through the blind terror when he lost his words, when he resorted crude gestures to warn the other Agents they were walking into an ambush.

He could barely hold up a gun when he tackled one of the terrorists carrying the anthrax capsules, wrenching the bag away as agents and military police stormed the scene.

He'd survived that, he could handle Scorpia while recuperating with access to the best medical care England had to offer.

"Prague was a special case," Blunt dismissed, "This office has no use for an Agent who continually drains our resources by landing himself in the hospital every five minutes because he keeps aggravating his injuries."

"Agent Rider, I'm aware you tend to operate under the assumption that you're invincible," Mrs. Jones continued, and this time, her voice actually was stern, "But rest assured, you will be of no use to anyone, in any capacity, if you don't stop thinking of yourself as James Bond."

Ian felt a faint stirring of amusement. Oh yes, quite like the nurse at Eton. "I'm not asking to take point, I just want to be kept in the loop. This is my intel, I deserve at least that."

Ian leaned forward lips tilted up in a smirk. "And, let's be honest here - I may not have been willing to go to those 'outside sources' for Alex's safety, but we all know I have no problems going to them to get in on an operation."

That much was true, and the irritation in Blunt's eyes sealed it. It was an exercise in futility keeping Ian out of an op he wanted in on, he'd find out about it through other channels and manage to wind up integral to its success anyway. One of the perks of being an Elite was that people stopped blocking his access on the missions he was interested in.

Though that could also just have been because of him.

"Look, you've already made it clear that I'd be a "drain on resources" if I go out into the field and land myself back in the hospital - not that I would, mind. But I'm just as useful to you off the field as I am on it. I haven't succeeded all these years just by being really good at shooting and hitting things."

Mrs. Jones' teeth clacked against her mint, an unusual occurrence. "If," she replied, and Ian knew he'd won, "If, after a thorough review of your status, you are deemed fit to be anywhere near an active operation, then someone from the Elites or Agent Daniels will contact you with more information."

And if he happened to access the information he wanted covertly from the other Elites, or even Daniels, well, then, no one would be any the wiser.

Ian's lips quirked up. "Careful, Mrs. Jones. With those kinds of provisions, someone might get the idea you actually like me."

Mrs. Jones stared him down flatly and Blunt took over. "I suggest we wrap this up, Agent Rider."

Ben looked up from the file he was reading as the door to Director Blunt's office swung open, and Ian Rider hobbled out. He was leaning more heavily on his crutches than he had this morning, but otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

"Up and at 'em, Daniels, what use are you to anyone lounging about like that?"

Ben rolled his eyes, the phrase 'crotchety abusive old man' running through his mind, but he didn't bite back in light of the teasing glint in Ian's eyes. Bodyguard duty was definitely both a promotion and a demotion.

"So," he began, falling into step beside Ian.

"So?"

"You had a five-hour meeting with Blunt. The last Agent to have a five-hour meeting with Director Blunt ate his gun two weeks later."

Ian snorted. "That is a filthy rumour. I would know, I was there when Colin started it."

Ben shook his head. "Somehow, I'm less surprised than I should be."

"You know what they say, Daniels - never meet your heroes."

Ben scoffed, pushing a door open for the veteran Agent. "Don't flatter yourself. The others are holding court in the cafeteria, you up for it?"

Ian grunted faintly, adjusting his hold on his crutches. "Think they'll have any shepherd's pie at this hour?"

Ben nodded eyeing Ian carefully. "Should do."

"Stop looking at me as if I'm about to drop dead, Daniels."

"Well, you might."

"I'm a bit surprised you haven't carted me back to St. Dominic's already."

Ben's lips twisted wryly. "Bennet wanted to, but Farnesworth and White convinced her to wait until you'd had some food in you."

"Smart of them, I'm starving."

Back in his office, Director Alan Blunt watched as his Deputy Director gathered files together with a pointed sort of primness. There were very few times she did this, and they all ended with the closest things to arguments the two of them had.

"Is something bothering you, Mrs. Jones?"

The dark-haired woman stilled and swallowed her mint. "I have stood by you for a lot over the years, but that was badly done, Alan."

Blunt stared at her coolly. "Giving in to sentiment, are we?"

"This isn't sentiment, this is loyalty!"

Alan Blunt may have been the one who oversaw their division's missions, but Tulip Jones was the one who oversaw their operatives. She was the one who worked alongside the men and women they sent out into the field, assessing them, preparing them. She learned their stories, of families and lovers and futures. She heard the words they lived by, about allies and assets and debt and loyalty.

And maybe, after seventeen years, it wasn't just the desk she sat behind that shaped her.

"Ian Rider is a subordinate," Blunt reminded her, "Just as much as Daniels and Williams and Croyden."

Tulip Jones wasn't the only one who knew the names of every Agent in the building.

"I don't think this has anything to do with Agent Rider being a subordinate." Mrs. Jones retorted, "I think it has everything to do with the fact that you never quite forgave him for not being his brother."

Blunt's eyes widened fractionally. It was entirely unlike Mrs. Jones to make such an emotionally charged statement.

"Mrs. Jones, I don't think it's really your place to say -"

"Thirteen months," the woman replied, cutting through Blunt's admonishment, "Scorpia had him for thirteen months. We could have found him, we could have brought him home."

"We could have," Blunt allowed blandly, "We could also have wasted months of manpower and resources and lost several Agents' lives had Scorpia ever found out, Agents who could have otherwise run successful operations across the world and stopped other threats. We certainly wouldn't have the kind of intelligence we have now, to take them out for good. We're not just one step ahead, we have the potential to be many steps ahead."

"So the ends justify the means."

Blunt looked at Jones levelly. "They always do, in our business. You might want to stop worrying so much about the past and focus on the present. Agent Rider endured an incredibly high-pressure debriefing for five hours, that's sure to have taken a toll on him."

In the lobby of the Bank, Ian proved his superior right as he stopped abruptly in the midst of a conversation with his colleagues. He frowned slightly, his jaw working as he tried to speak.

"Rider?"

"I…"

Ian's crutches cluttered to the floor.

"Ian!"

Colin swore as Ian's knees buckled, his eyes sliding out of focus. As his arm slid under Ian's shoulders, he felt more than heard Ian's breath stutter in his chest, air never making it past his throat.

"Callum -"

"I got him," the younger man said, kicking the crutches away and bracing Ian on his other side. "Someone get a medic!"

"This is Royal and General, not Vauxhall Cross," Taylor muttered, as Liz started snapping at the gathering employees. "We don't even have an infirmary."

"Calling an ambulance," Ben reported.

"Pulse is high and thready," Callum reported, his fingers at Ian's neck and wrist. "He's heading for tachycardia."

"Rider, you arse," Taylor grumbled, "After all that trouble we went to get you back, you're going to die on us inside SO walls?"

"How far out is the ambulance, Daniels?"

"ETA minute-twenty."

"Clear the area," Liz ordered, "This is MI6, not a circus! You there - Mark's rookie, go notify Blunt and Jones."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

There was a flurry of activity, and Callum caught the tail end of someone commenting that 'Riders had bad luck with the lobby of Royal and General.'

"So it's true Alex got shot right outside the building?"

"That was Alex?" Ben asked distractedly.

"According to his files, it was," Taylor replied. "Can we move him?"

Colin was about to reply, when the shrill cry of an ambulance made it to their ears.

"No need, " Colin said as the paramedics burst in, "I'm going to ride down with him. Liz, Callum, follow us. Taylor, Daniels, go pick up Alex."

"On it."

A/N: The incident in Prague was inspired by the Criminal Minds episode 'Amplification' (S4E24). And biology definitely doesn't work that way, but we'll pretend it does for the sake plot ;)

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Thanks for reading!