A/N: Hello there! Survivor Guilt and White Lies are finally done...you have no idea how relieved I am. Rewrites are a pain to write, even though they are sometimes a must. They are also mostly crap, which is why the response is so little, but well. Oh well. At least I get to start on a new fic! In a different style than usual, too. *beams*

This is a late gift for ObsessivelyOdd, who has been nothing short of awesome. ;)

Disclaimer: Oh come on, if I owned this series, would I be here? :P

Radio Silence: an absence of or abstention from radio transmission

Oxford Dictionary

Chapter 1

"Mr. Rider?" There is a soft hand in his, a warm presence gently coaxing him to consciousness. "Mr. Rider? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

He tries, tries so hard, because he doesn't want to fail that persuasive voice.

"That's it! That's it. You're doing great. Now I need you to do me a favour. Can you open your eyes for me? Just a little. Let me see those beautiful baby blues, Mr. Rider."

He tries. But it is as if there's lead on his eyelids, and he needs so much more than herculean effort to open his eyes. Something like a groan escapes his lips and the deep, surly voice of his father rings in his ears, berating him about men and shows of weakness.

He flinches.

The voice detaches itself from the noisy buzz surrounding him and returns, concern and assurances colouring layers and layers over professionalism.

"It's alright. You can rest for a bit, Mr. Rider. It's okay. You've been great."

The next time he surfaces to consciousness, there is no one touching his arm, encouraging him to open his eyes. It's all of his own volition, though the snap second he catches sight of flickering lights-too bright, too warm, too glaring-sends him spiralling back into darkness, waves of nausea in pursue.

But he is not quite ready to leave, yet. He starts most violently as he discovers something in his throat, preventing him from the essential act of breathing. For every breath he draws in, more air is being forcefully pushed into his lungs and he can't breathe-

"Mr. Rider!" This voice is sharp and authoritative, unyielding. "Relax. Let us help you. Stop fighting the vent."

Hands are on both his arms and it is now he belatedly realizes that his arms had been in the air and moving towards the obstruction in the throat.

"Now cough."

Something in him compels him to obey, even though he shouldn't so readily trust an unknown source. It is too late to regret, now. The tube exits his mouth and he takes his first breath of unaided air in with a giddy sense of triumph. It isn't long before his throat protests and causes an explosion of coughs.

The voice raps off a string of instructions but he lies back and sinks blissfully back into oblivion.

The third time he wakes up in such confounding circumstances, he finds a woman sitting by his bed. A nurse offers him ice chips which he accepts gratefully and it takes a few minutes too long to remember the woman sitting before him.

"Mr. Rider, how are you feeling?" Her face is the usual blank mask she dons, the strange balance between apathy and cruelty and she is meticulously sweeping peppermint wrappers off the table and into her hand in the silence that hangs between them.

"Tulip J-Jones." He swallows.

She tosses the wrappers into the bin lightly and returns to her seat, not appearing to take affront at his impetuousness.

"It has been some time since we last met," she looks him in the eye directly, and he is surprised to find the stones she has for eyes aged when they should be unmarked by time.

How long, he dare not ask.

She answers, anyway.

"In the time you were gone, Mr. Rider, a lot have happened. These are things you will find out when I debrief you." She says primly, and there is no colour in her tone, "Our intel sources led us to finding you in a mental institution in America. Investigations are still underway, though the records at the institution reveal significant memory loss on your part, up to as much as a few years lost. Doctor Johnson has advised that it is probable that it is a defence mechanism to protect your sanity. That is a matter you will have to discuss with him."

He nods, silent as he watches her expression.

"This is the year 2012. You have been missing, presumed dead for five years. I only have one question for you, Mr. Rider. Do you wish to remain in active service?"

It isn't a question.

"Yes," Ian Rider says quietly, "Yes, Madam."

The world as he knew it hasn't changed.

Sure, there are new technological advancements and the companies battling it out for top positions in the various industries have reshuffled somewhat, but when hasn't that been the case?

The world looks too ordinary to be the one he left five years ago. Or as much as he was made to leave.

He counts the years in the memories, the gaps and starts taking stock. For a moment he cannot remember how his brother looked like, how his sweet sister-in-law used to chase the two men in her house with a broomstick, hollering about taking off their shoes, and he cannot remember how their precious little boy would stare up at him with adoring eyes. His nephew. Alex, his heart.

His breath hitches and catches in his throat and he gasps helplessly and flounders, grasping at wisps and mists of smiling faces, and he sees him.

Alex.

He sees the little boy clearly now. The fluffy head of blonde, the liquid brown eyes, the way they used to enrapture you with their wide innocence, the warm little tangle of arms and legs that he so often wished he could cuddle for a moment longer. Then the stern reprimands, the little tantrums only a child like him can throw, those that has the propensity to brew into storms, and the redhead who throws him dirty looks, suspicious looks, and kneels down to comfort the sobbing child.

The child he couldn't coddle, because the enemies are still out there, the ones who killed his brother and his sweet sister-in-law. He had been so afraid, Ian recalls, and he wonders why he isn't, now.

He rubs the edge of the tattered photograph with careful, caressing fingers, eyes lingering on the boy beaming at the camera.

Alex couldn't have been more than eight years old. He was missing a tooth or two in the front row, but he also had the brightest smile Ian had ever seen.

The sudden longing that grips him resolves into a throbbing ache in his heart and he continues to brush careful fingers over the familiar face. The photograph was with him when he was brought in, the medical personnel had said.

Ian can't for the world imagine why. To have any personal belongings, anything that might be used as leverage against you on any mission is not only unprofessional, but dangerous. He is certain that he would not have knowingly went against this unspoken protocol. Not even as he was dying.

This is an unnerving discovery: he gave in to his human side after all. And who knows what else he might have jeopardised in the process?

Eight-year-old Alex is bright and clear in his mind, but fourteen-year-old Alex is blurred and a ghost of the memories that refuse to return. Nineteen-year-old Alex is an unknown.

It makes him tremble; the thought that he might run into his nephew, the boy he might well regard as half a son on the streets and neither of them may recognize each other.

What is he doing now, he wonders.

Is he already in college, pursuing a prestigious degree? Alex has always been such a bright child.

Ian spends the next few moments revelling in fantasies of his nephew, his boy wearing a doctor's coat, a barrister's wig, or even a football player's jersey.

Million and one possibilities; all that could come to take place.

Ian finally resigns himself to looking in the mirror, and he sighs as his eyes light on the thick line of scarring that has disfigured his face. It was from a whip, he was told.

There is a multitude of other smaller marks, dents and scarring on his face, though none beat the white line across his face like someone had attempted to slash his face into half.

He wonders if his nephew will recognise him now.

Ian knows that his initial assessment is wrong. The world has changed, and is leaving him behind.

After his long absence from the field, Ian isn't surprised at the amount of re-training that the agency is insisting he is to go through.

It is not startling in the least, that he finds that he barely scrapped his physical test. He is older than the man he remembers himself to be, and much, much weaker than the operative he knew he had been. (He didn't expect to pass at all. Not yet.)

Ian not quite shuffles in with the other agents who were here collectively for a humbling session, training with a fresh batch of recruits who are less than a month in.

He knows that there is more to he being here, subject to the occasional odd glance as a former (current, he corrects hastily) colleague discovers his presence. It is not hard to guess what is at stake here, in this test that is set out for him, for the men he had once served with.

It turns out that the disfigurement does the trick, because no one even greets a bloody, Hey Rider!

Ian knows that this is supposed to be a good thing, since this means by default that chances of him going unrecognised by people still gunning for him increases significantly, but a fellow is allowed to feel lonely and sorry for himself once in a while.

Or not.

He really isn't balking at having to share the training ground with the new recruits, or even that the instructor is nowhere to be found a good half an hour into the session. The warm-up jog, one recruit shared with him. (The fellow is still too wet behind his ears to know that that was typically how MI6 operated. And no one is required to wait on you or expected to do anything for you. Not at this stage, anyway.)

None of it all. It's more of the fact that he's looking left and right and seeing young faces. Younger and younger than he thinks he should see. Several of the operatives look like they shouldn't be here, at all. He has no idea how they even passed Selection.

Or maybe he's just an old coot, much too world-weary to be commenting on the young'uns these days.

Maybe he isn't the only one, he thinks.

He sighs as he approaches the obstacle course to see an older agent talking down to one of the recruits, equal amounts of contempt and concern in his tone, strange as it sounds.

Ian finds that he can sympathise with both parties.

The recruit-a boy (from what he can tell in the distance) who looks fresh out of high school, somewhere around Alex's nineteen, perhaps slightly younger-is the very epitome of what is getting on all the experienced agents' nerves here on the training ground.

He is definitely still too green, and certainly gotten the 'for Queen and Country' part down.

Hell.

The underlying concern that such a young lad is going to be out there getting sacrificed in the first wave of missions-It's a fucking battlefield and God knows how long these bright eyed fellows will last - for the fuckingbig picture is not doing wonders for the older agent's fraying temper, Ian bets.

"Aren't you a little young to be here?" The snarl is the first thing Ian hears when he gets even remotely within hearing distance.

It is a fair question and there isn't any other way about it than honest, in this situation. The other recruits don't have to be giving the poor man those weird and speculative looks.

The boy stares at the agent-in-question intently, before smiling at him pleasantly.

"I don't know, aren't you a little old to be here?" His voice is unexpectedly dry and mild, though not unpleasant.

He is referring to the man training with the new recruits, and appearing more than a little tired after the warm-up, Ian knows. Although it must be fairly obvious that he is not a new recruit, when he is not even in the same uniform.

This clearly strikes the poor agent dumb for a second, though it shouldn't. The older man sputters and fumbles about for a painful moment or so, his face flushing a dull red.

"Like you would know, boy. My experience speaks for itself." He sneered, his tone just short of defensive, especially when the boy has an eyebrow raised that is beginning to suggest a fair amount of scepticism.

"If it wasn't for the sake of allowing you new recruits to see how the obstacle course is supposed to be done, I wouldn't even be here training with you brats."

"Is that so?" The boy's voice is cool, "That explains why I haven't seen you around here before, then."

By now, there is a small crowd of recruits gathered about to watch the spectacle and someone sniggers.

Abruptly the pleasant demeanour falls off the boy's face like a badly constructed mask. He turns, and immediately zones in on the source.

"Did you enjoy the show, Henderson?" The question is phrased sharply, and the recruit in question visibly winces, "Well, now that you have had the entertainment, kindly proceed to your next station. Run the obstacle course on your knees. I don't want to see you until you're entirely plastered with mud."

"Sir!" Henderson pales and protests immediately. "With all due respect-" "Two rounds," the boy says and waves a hand in dismissal.

Glancing around and pleased that there seems to be no signs of mutiny from the other recruits, the boy-the instructor, Ian mentally corrects- steps off from the track, not bothering with the poor agent any further.

"Imagine what Specialist Evans will say when she comes back from leave and see the whole lot of you, nothing better than a group of gossipmongers! Report to torture techniques after this session while Mr. Henderson complete his two rounds. I expect to see you within the stipulated time." He graces them with his very pleasant smile.

"If I discover that any of you have decided to take a short cut, passing selection will be the least of your worries. Understood?"

Here the boy includes the still somewhat dumbfounded man in his sweeping glance. A curt jerk of the fair head in his direction is all he gets, and Ian hides a rueful smile as he watches the man scramble away, muttering. He mustn't have been the first to comment on the lad's youth and he's sure that the agent is due for some strict grading after for the obstacle course.

Ian only wants to contemplate what the world was coming to.

A mere lad, slender and at the age where he should be starry-eyed chasing after dreams, instructing MI6 recruits on torture techniques?

Ian can't help but wonder how his nephew is, fitting in such a world. Maybe he should try badgering Mrs. Jones for the number again and speak to the dear boy himself.

To be continued.

A/N: And that's it for today!XD This was originally supposed to end here and stay a oneshot, but a scene in the next chapter begged to be written. So this has morphed into something like a multi-chaptered fic, I suppose. Not that I already have chapter 2 down, but it's in the works.

In chapter 2, they have the real reunion where nephew and uncle acknowledge each other, readers get to find out exactly which member of K unit Alex is staying with, and...the rest is in progress. :D

I would like to know what you think, even if it is just to scold me for tackling an old cliche. And reviews would make chapter 2 come faster, I promise!XD (I am currently also working on a time travel fic for this fandom-something you wouldn't expect, trust me. :P)