A/N: These are pretty short, but the end of the month kinda caught me by surprise. I've only posted three of the prompts, because the fourth one – Sleepwalking – tied in perfectly with my other oneshot titled "Six Days Alex Rider Never Died (And One That He Did)." If you want to read my response for that one, look under the heading "Tuesday"
Prompts
May, 2009
Accusation
Alex was used to accusations from his fellow students. After years of secretive MI6 missions, he had become virtually invulnerable to their insults and petty gossip. He could now successfully survive an entire week of school listening to the various illegal scenarios bandied about without having to grit his teeth. He didn't fume as one of his former friends joined the speculating masses and didn't flinch as a school bully, emboldened by his inconsistent appearances, shoved him into a locker. He had gone beyond ignoring, beyond acting tough; he simply didn't care.
Corruption
Mrs. Jones carefully dug a petite hand into her skirt pocket, cradling her last mint as she gently scooped it out. She tenderly unwrapped the sheer plastic, careful to leave it fully intact as one last memento. As the delicious aroma of peppermint flooded the immediate vicinity, Mrs. Jones popped the delicious treat into her mouth. She savored the flavor, committed every small detail to memory; tonight would be when she went to Scorpia and told them she quit, despite their tantalizing bribes. Peppermints or no peppermints, she could not betray Alex Rider.
Incomplete
Every time Ian left on a mission, he felt as if he was leaving something behind. He would stand on the doorway of his Chelsea house, tabbing through the mental list permanently engraved in his head from years of experience - Appropriate clothes? Check. Toothbrush? Check. Toothpaste? Check. Shampoo? Check. Soap? Check. Gun? Check. False ID? Check… the list went on as he rummaged through the hastily packed suitcase now spread open on the kitchen floor. Every time he would discover nothing necessary out of place, and it confused him more and more. What was this nagging feeling in his mind that kept on insisting that he had missed something? Eventually Ian would be forced to leave without discovering the source of that nagging itch. He would stride out, distracted, worried, ignoring the small boy curled up in a corner that peered over his toys as his uncle left without a word goodbye.