Author: ArtisticRainey
Rating: K
Genre: Drama/Family
Notes: Probably the last story from this arc. You don't need to be out on a rescue to be a hero.
"Come on. Up and at 'em. Let's try this again."
Sweat poured from John's brow as he slumped in his chair. This particular training session in the gym felt like it had lasted an eternity.
"Give me a minute," he said, wiping his forehead.
Scott clapped his hands. The lightning strike made John flinch.
"No, I've been giving you a minute for weeks. You don't need a minute any more. So, up and at 'em."
Had there been a rock nearby, John surely would have hurled it at his brother. Instead he merely threw him a deathly glare and shook his head.
"I need a minute," he said.
It was true. His triceps were burning, his pectorals were throbbing, and he was fairly certain that his deltoids were on the verge of splitting. John pushed out a long breath and shook his head. The only benefit that had come from his accident was his upper body strength. Soon he would give even Virgil a run for his money.
Scott folded his arms and tapped his foot, giving John that one-raised-eyebrow look that signalled he was not going to concede.
"I'm waiting," he said.
John sighed again and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling together all of the strength left in his bones. Here goes.
The parallel bars were warm to the touch, a sign of how long they had been training. The brushed metal was smooth against his fingers. Deltoids screaming, John began to heave himself upwards.
Scott hovered nearby, hands fluttering around but never touching. At first he had been hands on, gently correcting and supporting as his brother tried to force his legs to work again. Now he was holding back. John knew what that meant; it was time to man up.
"Breathe, Johnny. Don't hold it in."
John allowed his lungs to exhale a breath he had not realised he was holding through his gritted teeth. Fire burned along his shoulders and chest as they took his weight. Breathe in, breathe out… Come on, Johnny-boy. Take a step. It felt as if he was trying to move a mountain. His legs had been replaced by concrete columns and sweat broke out across his brow again.
"I don't – I'm not sure I can…"
Words became too much. Scott slipped under the bars and stood in front of him, his face a carving of steely determination.
"You know what Dad always said: 'Never give up at any cost.' Well, I'm not giving up and neither are you."
Lips jammed together, John nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. I have to do this. I have to do this… Gathering as much strength as he could, he started to allow his legs to bear his weight.
Then the emergency klaxon sounded.
His eyes snapped open. His weight was back on his arms. Scott had never looked irritated at an emergency call before and John gave him a smile.
"Time to go," John said.
"Apparently so," Scott replied.
He ducked the bar again and came up behind his brother, hooking his arms under John's armpits to help support his weight as he lowered himself into the chair.
"You good?" he asked.
"I'm good," John said, though his body was burning. "Go on ahead. I'll keep you back."
Scott hesitated, his hands hovering again, but nodded and turned on his heel.
"Don't think you're off the hook!" he said as he disappeared, leaving the gym door open behind him.
John shook his head.
"You won't let me off the hook until I'm a prima ballerina!" he called.
Scott's guffaw echoed down the stairwell. John smiled. He was lucky to have a family that surrounded him with so much love and support – sometimes too much. But, he figured as he stripped off his soaking t-shirt, it was better to have too much than too little.
John turned himself around and wheeled over to his kit bag. He grabbed a few moist wipes and tore them from their packets, giving himself a quick wash before donning his new shirt. The cooling moisture was heaven on his aching muscles. Later, a hot bath would feel even better. He hooked his bag on the back of his chair and glided across to the door and out to the lift.
When he arrived in the lounge there was no one there but Grandma. Their absence stung. It must have been a big one. Grandma gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She knew.
"There was an explosion at a toxic waste reprocessing plant in Belgium," she said. "Brains said they would need all hands on deck.
"Yeah. Sounds like it."
He tried to keep the taint of emotion from his voice. Had he been in Five, he would have known everything that was going on. He would have been in the thick of things, co-ordinating and communicating and doing his bit for International Rescue. Now, he didn't even feel like he could call Brains for an update. He would only be a nuisance to the man. Brains was a genius, yes, but his multitasking skills were nothing compared to John's. Best to just stay out of it, he thought. They'll contact me if they need me… Not that I can think of any circumstance in which they would.
"Oh, honey," Grandma said, coming to his side and running her hands down his hair. "I feel the same way. I always wish that I could do something to help but I just can't. I'm not a hero or a genius or a daredevil."
A shadow passed over her face and John reached up to take her hand.
"You're a different kind of hero," he said. "You've always been there for us, especially after Mom died." He paused for a moment, not knowing whether to add the second thought. "And since Dad disappeared."
Grandma squeezed his hand and shook her head.
"He'll be back," she said. For a moment it was clear why Jeff Tracy was her son. The same tenacity and determination shone in her eyes. "I would know if he was truly gone." She let go of his hand and ruffled his hair again. "Now, how about a cup of tea to settle our nerves?"
"Okay," John said, smoothing his quiff back into place. "I'll be down in a minute."
John watched her go. His grandmother had been a constant figure in their lives since the loss of their mother and grandfather in an accident so many years before. He had been young when the avalanche that took away Mom and Grandpa happened but not so young that he couldn't remember his mother's broad smile, the gentle tinkle of her piano playing, the endless energy that she had for her five sons. He could also remember with such clarity his grandfather's broad grin, the strong arms that hefted grandson after grandson onto his shoulders, and the ever-present leather hat that the Kansas farmer had worn. John absently reached up to touch his head. How many times had that hat been affectionately placed on his head? It had been recovered from the avalanche but spirited away, now buried somewhere in a box. He would have to try to find it.
"Aaaaaah!"
John wrenched himself around, knuckles white on the push rings of his chair.
"Grandma! What's wrong?"
He propelled himself towards the stairs as the sound of his grandmother's yelps increased.
"Grandma!"
"I-I'm alright, John," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm such a fool. I toppled the kettle and –" there was a sharp hiss "–I've burned myself. My hands are scalded."
"I'll be right down," John said. "Get them under cold water if you can."
John wheeled over to the elevator and pressed the call button. The mechanism started to whirr but after a moment there was a clunking crunch and everything stopped.
"What the?" He jabbed the call button but nothing happened. "Oh, come on! Seriously? You're going to break down right now?"
No matter how many times he pressed the button, the lift would not come. From the kitchen, Grandma's whimpers and exclamations grew more frustrated as she struggled with the tap.
"Land's sakes!" she exclaimed.
Then there was a braying shout followed by a sob. John knew what he had to do.
He wheeled over to the staircase and surveyed the situation, formulating his strategy. Then, shoulders throbbing, he threw on the brakes of his chair, placed his feet on the floor and grabbed onto the arm rests. Channelling Scott's obstinacy with a little of Gordon's impetuousness, he started to rise.
Agony was not the word; it was more like torture. However, his legs managed to take his weight for the split second he needed. Even though they collapsed underneath him, he was ready for the fall and took the brunt of the impact on his hands. Sparks of pain flashed behind his eyelids and he snarled. Then he pulled himself to the stairs.
He took them the same way he had done as a child: step by step, sliding on his backside. This time, though, he was holding onto the rails for dear life, for his feet were of no use.
"I'm coming, Grandma!" he called out, his voice catching as he bumped down another stair.
When he reached the bottom, John manoeuvred himself onto his belly and started to pull himself forwards, making sure he avoided the large pool of lukewarm water from his grandmother's spillage.
"What on earth are you doing, child?" Grandma asked.
She was slumped over one of the kitchen counters. Her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were pink and puffy. As yet, John couldn't see her hands.
"Coming to your rescue?" John asked.
"You boys!" Grandma said. This time there was a sliver of mirth in her tone.
"I'm going to try to climb the counter and turn the water on. Then I'll get the first aid kit."
"John, you don't need to –"
"Yes, I do, Grandma," he said as he slid ever-closer. He chuckled. "At least you won't need to brush this part of the floor for a while."
By the time John reached the counter, he felt as though his arms were about to dislocate. Still he continued with his mission. His grandmother looked down; her face was a picture of misery. Determination burned inside him. He needed to do this. He needed to prove that he could still be useful, still have value.
"Grandma, can you stand right beside the drawers?" he asked. "Keep your weight on them so they don't open. I'm going to use the handles to climb up to the countertop."
"John, you –"
"Grandma! Do as I say, okay? I know what I'm doing."
The sharpness in his tone was not from irritation but rather from concern. He hoped she could tell. Grandma did as she was told and, when her body weight was steeled against the drawer fronts, John began to haul himself up.
I'll be ready for Everest after this, he thought. Pain shot down his arms and in circles around his torso as he scaled the counter. The polished granite worktops were slippery but he managed to pull his arms up so they were supporting his weight. By the time he reached over and turned on the cold tap, he felt as if he had run a marathon.
"Hands under," he said.
Grandma Tracy did as she was told, hissing at the pain. After a few moments, her face relaxed.
"Thank you, John," she said.
"I'm not done yet," he said, shifting himself a little closer. "Let me see your hands."
He let out a low whistle as his grandmother took her hands from the running water. They were red raw and the skin had blistered in places already.
"Oh, man. That's bad. Second degree, most likely. Where is the first aid kit kept?"
Grandma placed her hands back under the water and gestured to a cupboard over to the right.
"Over there, John. In one of the upper cupboards."
"Of course it is."
He shook his head. Never mind Everest. After this I'll just climb to the moon!
Summoning every last morsel of strength, John shuffled along the countertops, keeping his weight on his arms and elbows. Just making his legs co-operate enough to slide along the floor was making him sweat like he had a one hundred degree fever.
"John, you don't –"
"Yes, I do," he said, his jaw clenched.
When he made it to the cupboard, he knew it was definitely time to man up. Scott's voice echoed in his head. "You know what Dad always said: 'Never give up at any cost.' Well, I'm not giving up and neither are you."
I'm not giving up, Scott. I never will.
His plan was meticulous. Everything was considered, calculated. I'll only have a few seconds before my legs give out. If I can just reach up and grab the box, I should be okay. Should be. There would only be one chance at this. If the box wasn't at the front of the shelf or if his fingertips managed to push it instead of grab, the plan would go to pot. He took a deep breath.
"Well, here goes."
In one moment, three things happened. Grandma Tracy gasped. John screamed in pain. But, most importantly, his legs bore him for the first time in nearly a year. It only lasted for a second before John felt himself toppling, kitchen ceiling above him just as the sky had been on the fateful day his spinal cord had been severed. He managed to stop his head from striking the tiled floor as medical supplies rained down around him, but nothing could stop his smile.
"John! You - That's –"
John's smiles turned into laughter as his grandmother's voice dissolved into tears. Despite the new throb at the crown of his head and the old pain that made him feel as if he was being torn apart from the inside out, he had done it. He had done it.
"Next stop, prima ballerina," he choked out.
Moonlight sparkled on the gentle ripples of the pool water. John sipped his soda and snuggled back in the recliner. The hazy daytime sound of insects had been replaced by the chirping of crickets and the far-off lapping of waves on the shoreline. He heard Scott's footsteps long before he arrived.
"Heard you had a rough time out there," John said, turning to watch as his brother flopped down in the recliner beside him.
Scott's hair was freshly washed and fluffy and, even in the dim light, John could see the pink tinge of his freshly scrubbed skin.
"Heard you had a rough time back here, too," Scott said.
"Grandma had the worst of it," John said. "I think we might need to take her to the mainland to have those hands looked at. The burns aren't that deep but they're pretty extensive."
Scott said nothing for a moment. Then when he did speak, John's throat tightened.
"Dad would be so proud of you."
John turned away to hide his glistening eyes and didn't look back until he was sure he wasn't going to lose it.
"He'd be proud of all of us," he said.
"Don't be obtuse," Scott said. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I just… I don't want to make too big a deal out of it, y'know? Not when there are so many steps still to be taken – pun most definitely intended."
Scott reached over and snagged John's soda can and took a swig. John didn't even protest.
"Well, I'm proud of you," he said.
"Has Virgil managed to repair the elevator yet?" John asked. "Because if not, your pride might need to carry me to bed later. I've had enough of stairs for one day."
Scott cast John a sidelong glance and shook his head.
"He couldn't find a problem with it. It worked for him first time."
There was a pause. John opened his mouth to speak but snapped it closed again. He tried once more. No words came out.
"Who knows why it happened, Johnny," Scott said, "but I'm glad it did. For whatever reason, fate decided that today would be the day you stood on your own two feet again."
John swallowed against the rage and confusion that rose in his throat like bile. Eventually, he nodded.
"I guess I should look at it that way," he said, "even if it does make me feel so angry I could scream."
"Scream away, bro," Scott said. "You aren't going to annoy anyone out here."
"Nah," John replied. "I've had enough excitement for one day." He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Truthfully, all I want to do is go to bed – even though I'm not sure if I'll be able to get up tomorrow. My back and arms are ruined."
"So you'll have a day in bed. I think I'll join you." Scott's eyes widened for a moment as he contemplated what he had said. "I don't mean in the same bed. My own bed in a totally different room. That would be weird."
"Yes it would," John said, shaking his head. "Very, very weird. Now come on, wheel me home. I don't think my arms can take any more abuse today."
Scott rose.
"Only because you were Grandma's hero today. Otherwise I'd push you into the pool for asking."
"Love you too, dear brother," John said in a sing-song tone.
Scott grabbed the handles of his brother's wheelchair and made a beeline for the pool.
"Scott!" John screeched.
"Joking, joking," Scott said.
Their laughter mingled in the balmy night air and above them, the stars winked.