April Showers 2009
By Simply Shelby

Reaper

Riders and Reapers aren't exactly enemies.

Reapers don't necessarily target the Rider family or anyone close. No matter how much it might seem to be that way, it simply isn't. When a person's time is up, it's up. It's the way life is. And it's not as though Reapers scour the earth for Riders to off.

Reapers are like door to door salesmen. They work off a list, going from loction to location and collecting. Only they have nothing to give in return for a life. Perhaps, they are more like door to door burglars. Except, they aren't in charge. They have no say about who they take and who they don't. They don't have the power to manipulate Fate or change Fate's mind. Only Death can make decisions.

But Reapers and Riders aren't exactly friends, either.

And it doesn't matter how many times Alex cheats death or sends another life in his place, one truth remains constant.

Death will always win.

Alex is simply waiting his turn.

Snowflake

Jack's first Christmas at the Rider house was not what she would call pleasant.

First, she'd decided to bake cookies. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, how could it be Christmas if there weren't sugar cookies cut in little Christmas tree and star and reindeer and ribbon shapes? But, Alex had asked her what on earth a 'cookie' was Jack had explained and Alex had told her that it was a 'biscuit'. She shook her head and explained that a 'biscuit' wasn't sweet and it was like fluffy bread you were supposed to eat with butter and jelly.

And then she'd had to explain just what 'jelly' was.

Suffice to say, the cookies had been forgotten and the fire department had been called.

Secondly, she'd mentioned to the police officer that they'd been making the cookies for Santa. Alex had stared at her with a blank, slightly confused look, but--thankfully--he'd had enough common sense to wait until later to ask. By that time, Jack was getting slightly fed up with questions she couldn't answer. Or questions, that even when she did answer, she was met with blank stares that made her feel like she was speaking another language.

And then she had tried explaining in a different language. Several, actually.

So, when Ian Rider drove up to his Chelsea home late Christmas Eve and began asking more questions she couldn't answer, it was little surprise that she burst into tears. The story came out in between sobs and apologies and Alex chirped in a a comment or two. Then, amidst the chaos of Jack's tears, the flashing lights of the fire trucks, the smoke from his burning house, and the flurry of snowflakes, Ian had simply laughed.

Aut-O-matic

If there was one thing Jack had learned in all her life experience, it was that most men were completely hopeless when it came to doing laundry. Ian Rider, more often than not, opted for the simple, albeit more expensive, solution. He sent it out. Jack, on the other hand, didn't like the idea of complete strangers handling her undergarments.

It was a rather dreary Sunday afternoon. The sky was too grey and the wind was too cold and it was days like these that reminded her of home. She'd spent the afternoon shopping. Ian was home, spending time with Alex, and she was free to do as she wished. After about three hours, she'd decided she wished to go home and do nothing but relax.

And, okay, maybe watch Ian and Alex interact a bit. The two could be so entertaining when they were together. Moments of complete cluelessness overlapped with moments of them being scarily on the same brainwave. They were so very much the same and so very different that Jack found the result amazing to witness. It made her believe that Rider men were capable of just about anything.

She turned the key and opened the door and suddenly knew that something wasn't right.

"Ian!" she heard the nine-year-old's voice screeching in exasperation, "I told you we should've just waited for Jack."

It was this day that Jack learned something new. Walking into the laundry room and glimpsing Ian and Alex under tonnes of soap suds and puddles of water, she came to a conclusion.

There's nothing Rider men can't do. Except, perhaps, laundry.

History

Alex's first word was not a word Ian ever wanted to be associated with.

Ian Rider never had any intentions of ever being a father. With his career, a wife and a family would be stupid and irrational. And would leave him with a weak spot in his flawless armour, a broken link in a strong chain, leverage against his career. And Ian Rider was awful fond of his career.

However, when he'd gotten word of his brother's and sister-in-law's deaths, he'd hastened to find their son. Then he'd rushed through all the legal hoops to gain custody of the boy. From then on Ian Rider had become the sole guardian of one Alexander Rider.

Guardian? Absolutely. Caretaker? Sure. Uncle? Not that he'd ever let Alex call him that. Father? Never.

"Da."

Ian glanced up slowly from his paperwok and met his nephew's eyes. The infant was resting on a blanket spread out across the study carpet, and though his tiny hands kept grasping at air, his meaning was pretty damn clear.

Ian's eyes narrowed at the boy. "I am not your father, Alex."

Apparently the kid wasn't having any of it. His fingers closed and opened in Ian's general direction and he repeated, louder, "Da. Da. Da. Dada!"

Ian stood, abruptly, pushing his chair back in a flurry of anger. Looming over Alex, he boomed, "I am not your father, Alex!"

His nephew's eyes widened at the loud voice full of rage and he seemed to ask in a confused tone, "Da?"

Stalking to the side drawers, Ian jerked the bottom one open and pulled out a box. It landed heavily on the blanket beside Alex. The boy flinched at the sound, but kept staring at his uncle. The man in question settled down on the rug and opened the box.

"Dada?"

A photo was extracted--a photo of John and Helen's wedding. The two of them beaming brightly at the camera, Ian and Ash with their arms slung around the couple. "That's your father." His index finger stabbed the 2-D John in the face. Curious, Alex's grabby fingers smeared across the photo. Ian let him take it. He had an entire album full, after all. John and Helen's things... personal effects. He shook away the though and continued pointing people out. People Alex would never know. "And that's your mum, Helen. They both loved you very much."

He had to pause. Alex was staring at the now crumpled and damp photo with intense concentration. Ian wasn't so sure he could do this now. Wasn't so sure he could ever do it. But, someone someday would have to explain everything to Alex. And, God, he never wanted that someone to be him. He picked the infant up, placing Alex safely in his lap, and brushed a hand over the boy's hair.

They both stared at the photo.

"You see, it all started when..."

AN: Forgive me for being late, I've been out of the country (my current country, anyways) for the better part of April. Enjoy!