AN: This unlikely little story came from the following prompt, on Pinterest:

You are allowed to have him.

You love each other, you do,

And here's the tragedy: It's not enough.

You are allowed to watch the sun swallow him whole

And burn him up

To stain your fingers to the bone holding him together

To count the constellations in his eyes as they blink out

You are not allowed to save him.

When he comes to, the first thing he sees is her face.

Her hair is hanging in her face, smudges of soot decorate her porcelain cheeks. Her eyes, those perfect pools of blue, are swimming in tears. Her mascara has run into dirty gray streaks.

She's talking to him, her mouth is moving, but the only sound he can hear is that of his own breathing, ragged and with a disturbing liquid rattle on the exhale. Everything feels like it's underwater.

He coughs; oh God, that hurts. He really mustn't do that again. Her eyes go wider and her cheeks go pale under their smudges. She glances back over her shoulder, yells something at someone. She gently pulls his hands into hers and instantly her hands are stained with his blood.

It's all wrong. He wants to tell her to stop, that she shouldn't, she mustn't. She needs to flee, and not to stay here beside him. The words won't come, somehow; his brain feels fuzzy and he's beginning to get lightheaded.

He catches a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but he can't gather himself enough to look beyond her lovely, lovely face. Then the blue congeals into Scott Tracy, helmeted and fully geared up. He feels a smile spread across his face even as the young man's eyebrows draw together, worry in his eyes.

It's all right, he muses. He knows exactly what Scott sees; he'd probably look the same if it was the other way around. He closes his eyes, shutting out the sight of his would-be rescuer. Tired, that's what he is. Tired.

His eyes pop open, though, when sound suddenly breaks in, like someone connecting a speaker cable in the middle of a movie. "-him to a hospital," Scott is saying. He looks up and touches the iR logo on his silver baldric. "Virgil, where are you?"

The answer must be satisfactory, because Scott nods. "FAB," he replies, and then perhaps time skips just a little, because the ground is shaking and Scott is bending to shield both him and Penelope as the fierce wind of a jet blast washes over them.

The next thing he knows, Virgil Tracy is standing over him, green baldric standing out in high relief over his blue uniform. The young man's amber eyes are just as worried as his brother's blue ones were.

"It's all right, Parker," he says, his voice calm and sure. "You're going to be okay."

Virgil must see the question in his eyes because he smiles gently. "Lady Penelope's here. She's all right." Virgil swallows and tries to keep his smile, but it trembles a bit at the edge. "You saved her life."

Parker smiles and allows his eyes to drift shut. It's all he's ever wanted to hear.

After attaching all the sensors and starting Parker on some O2, Virgil hurries to the command chair and drops into the seat beside Penelope. He busies himself with preflight checks for a moment, avoiding her eyes.

"How is he?" she asks.

Instead of replying, Virgil asks: "Are you strapped in?" He glances over at her to confirm that she is, then lights Thunderbird 2's twin candles and pushes the throttle forward.

Her words snap at him with all the weight of her position and title behind them. "Virgil. How. Is. He?"

"We'll be lucky if he doesn't bleed out on the way," Virgil grits, banking his craft into a turn.

"Fucking bloody hell," she swears, her voice cracking on the last word.

To Parker's unending surprise, he wakes up in hospital.

Penelope is not here, but it's clear that she's just stepped out for a moment. Sherbet is curled up at the foot of his bed, snoring gently. Her purse sits on the table beside his bed, her comm perched within what would be easy reach of her chair.

He does a quick mental inventory, as he was taught so many years ago, and how he's taught her to do after suffering an injury or a shock. He can feel his legs, can wiggle his toes. His fingers twitch. There is an awful, sickening pain in the back of his head, and he can taste blood, but for the most part, he feels like he's got the important bits of himself still intact. He feels a bit numb from waist to hip, but maybe that's for the best at the moment.

He blinks-maybe he slept, he's not sure-because there she is, looking whole and lovely and very pink in her oversized sweater and white jeans. Her hair is caught up in a messy chignon, and her face bears a few small bruises and abrasions, but other than being a little pale, she's whole. The warm satisfaction he felt aboard Thunderbird 2 comes rolling back. He did his job. She's safe.

He wants to say her name, but there's something in his throat that prevents him from doing so. Instead, the word comes out as a strangled sort of noise, and immediately her eyes go to him. Her smile is like the sun, and he feels his own eyes crinkle. Will there ever be another sight so wonderful as her smile? He really doesn't think so.

"Welcome back, you darling, crazy, stubborn-" Her eyes fill with tears. "I'm quite cross with you," she quavers, tears falling like tiny stars from her lashes. "I must insist that you never, ever do that again."

He will, though, and they both know it. He lets his eyes smile at her, and she breaks, falling forward to rest her cheek on the bed. "Oh, God, Parker," she breathes. "I thought I was going to lose you."

In answer, he slowly raises his hand and rests it on the back of her blonde head. He gently strokes the fine golden strands while she allows herself a rare moment to just be a badly frightened child.

-End-