Happy Birthday, ScribeOfRED! In honor of your special day, I beat up your favorite character and turned your other favorite into an angsty mess. Hope that's okay.

I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.

I stand in the doorway and lean against the frame as I watch Gordon talk to Virgil. Gordon had dropped into the chair by the bed as soon as he arrived two hours ago, and he's been talking this entire time – he said something about how, after the hydrofoil accident, hearing people talking to him was the only thing that got him out of his coma, and therefore, he's not going to stop talking until Virgil wakes up.

Sadly, I suspect that his voice will give out before that happens.

Dad is standing by the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders uncomfortably straight as he looks out across the city. He hasn't moved in an hour, except for a slight twitch every time his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Alan is sitting in the corner. He's quietly playing a video game, but I've noticed that he's been stuck on one level this whole time, and that he frequently glances over at the still figure in the bed.

I haven't bothered to ask how they all got into the hospital without blowing our cover wide open. Actually, for all I know, maybe they did blow our cover, and the whole world now knows that International Rescue is run by the Tracy family. Of course, that would mean the end of the Thunderbirds.

I watch Gordon slip his lean, tan fingers into Virgil's hand, and as I hear his voice falter a little when Virgil's fingers don't tighten around his, I decide that I don't care.

You heard me right – at this moment, if I found out that we were done with International Rescue, I would not care. In fact, I think I'd be happy about it.

Haven't we done enough? Haven't we given enough?

Let someone else take a turn risking their lives to save people.

I'm so tired.

I'm tired of standing in the hospital rooms of injured brothers. Tired of watching the people I love risk everything for people I don't love. Tired of thinking.

But I can't stop thinking.

I can't stop thinking, because Virgil came within a hair's breadth of paying the ultimate price two days ago.

And I can't stop thinking, because he did it for me.

Virgil's life hangs in the balance because of me.

This is the thought that keeps rolling around in my mind, the words a constant, insidious whisper in my ear.

For me.

My watch beeps. Despite the continuous rhythm of Gordon's voice, the hospital room is oddly quiet, so I jump slightly. I straighten up and notice the others shifting too, stretching and moving around a little, as if the sudden noise has given them permission to change position.

I look down at my watch – it's John calling.

I hesitate a moment, and then step out into the hall to answer the call. I've been avoiding talking to him – really, I've been avoiding everyone as much as possible – but right now I could use the distraction. I'll just give him a quick update, and be done with it.

I leave it on audio, though – no video. I know from past experience that those blue eyes are far too piercing.

"John," I say. There should be something after that, I know – some sort of greeting or platitude, but my mind can't conjure up anything even remotely suitable for the situation, so I leave the single word hanging there, awkward and incomplete.

Thankfully, John's never really been one for platitudes. He probably doesn't even notice the empty space after his name.

"Scott," he says. "How's Virgil?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "No change."

John echoes my sigh, and I can picture him pushing his fingers through his hair too – it's a gesture we have in common. "Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know. The doctors seem hesitant to lean one way or the other."

"Well, at least he's not declining. From what I heard, it sounds like it could have been a lot worse."

My shoulders tense involuntarily. I know now where this conversation is going, which means that it's time to end it. "Yeah," I say flatly. "Well, thanks for the call, John. We'll let you know as soon as there's any change."

"Hey, wait!" John exclaims. "Scott, do not hang up on me! We're not done talking yet!"

I grit my teeth. "Oh? And what else is there to talk about? As far as I'm concerned, the only important topic right now is Virgil, and we've already discussed him."

John sounds annoyed. "That's not true, Scott. Virgil is important, but so are you. You've been dealing with intense worry and frustration for two days now. I know you've got to be about ready to punch through every wall in the hospital at this point. Maybe if you just talked to me about the accident–"

"I'm fine," I say quickly, interrupting him. "You should be worried about Virgil right now, not me."

"All right, Scott, let me rephrase that," John says sternly. "You need to talk about this. Just because I can't see you doesn't mean I can't tell how tense you are; if you don't let off some steam, you're just going to end up hurting yourself or someone around you. Talk to me, Scott. Tell me what happened."

"You know what happened."

"I want to hear it from you," John snaps. Then he sighs, and his tone goes flat. "Actually, I really don't want to hear it, but I think I need to…it was so disjointed, listening in over the comm. systems, and for the longest time no one could tell me what was going on – if he was even alive." His voice breaks on the last word, and he clears his throat self-consciously.

I let out a long, weary sigh and sink slowly into a chair, my breath hitching involuntarily as pain flashes across my ribs. I rub my hands over my face. I'm so tired, and I really don't want to think about it – much less talk about it – but when he puts it like that, I can hardly refuse him.

This isn't the first time he's made such a request of me, and I know that it won't be the last. He often finds it frustrating to be so distant from everything that's going on. After one of our early rescues, when John was on his first-ever shift on Five, he called me late that night, red-eyed and frazzled, and declared that he couldn't sleep until he heard every detail that he'd missed by not being able to see what was going on at the danger zone. We had talked for two hours. At the end of it, John was finally able to relax, and I was surprised to discover that I felt a lot better too.

For a while, our own personal debriefing became something of a tradition. Sure, we do a full team debrief after every rescue, but sometimes, when it's been a really tough day, I've found that I can't truly unwind until I've talked things over with John.

He still calls me for a play-by-play account every once in a while, but John being…well, John, he's gradually cobbled together lots of ways to be more present at rescue scenes – using the Birds' cameras, for example, or tapping into on-site security cameras. He's also modified our watches so that he can listen in any time he wants to, and not just when we make transmissions.

So we don't talk as often as we used to…but every once in a while, he just needs to hear the nitty-gritty details from someone who was there.

And in this case, he really does deserve to know the whole story, I tell myself again. He's a part of this family, even though he lives in a sort of exile much of the time. It doesn't mean that he's any less involved, or that he cares less when a brother is hurt.

So I sigh one more time and reluctantly push the words out. "It happened so fast," I say, "but every time it plays back in my head, I see it in slow motion..."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Two days earlier…

Virgil and I are standing on the side of a California freeway. We had rescued two people whose car ended up halfway down a cliff, and have just handed our victims over to the ambulance crew. Rescue crews are dispersing, and the police officers directing traffic are starting to open closed lanes back up.

Our job is done, and it's time for us to go home.

"All right, I guess I'll take off now," Virgil says. He glances casually toward the road, but then his gaze suddenly locks onto something and his eyes widen.

I start to turn to see what he's looking at, but even as I begin to move, Virgil's hand shoots toward me, fingers up and palm out.

His hand lands in the center of my chest, and we're standing close enough together that with just a little twist of his upper body, he's able to get plenty of force behind the shove – enough to send me stumbling backward.

I step on the edge of the pavement, and my ankle snaps to the side, sending a lightning bolt of pain jolting up my leg and making me fall sideways – but I hardly notice any of this because there is suddenly a car flashing past me, just a foot in front of my eyes. Its tires are screeching as the driver attempts to slow down, but I can tell that it won't stop in time – and I know where the vehicle's trajectory is carrying it.

"Virgil!"

The cry is ripped from my throat, but the harsh, desperate sound does nothing to cover up the solid, fleshy thump as the car strikes my younger brother.

The force of the blow snaps Virgil's legs out from under him and slams him down onto the hood of the car with a crunch of crumpling metal. The car finally skids to a complete halt then, shooting Virgil off the front of the hood. For a moment, my brother is tumbling through the air three feet above the California freeway.

I never see Virgil hit the pavement, though, because all this happens in the split second that I'm falling backward, and then it's the next split second and I crash against the guard rail. The impact of ribs against solid metal pushes all the air from my lungs and sends bursts of fireworks flashing in front of my vision.

The next thing I know, I'm face down in the dirt, watching cigarette butts, glass shards, and a crushed beer can slowly come into crystal-clear focus a few inches away from my eyes. My lungs are gulping in convulsive little gasps of air, and I have no strength to move. Breathing is my whole world.

I gradually become aware of shouts cutting through the hot air all around me, and their urgency reminds me that I need to be up and helping someone.

But who?

It's someone important. I know it is.

Virgil.

The adrenaline surges, and I fight against all of my body's attempts to keep me down, grabbing the guard rail and pulling myself to my feet. I have to wait a second for the dizziness to subside enough for me to let go, but then I'm breaking into a limping, gasping run toward the crumpled figure in the roadway.

He's thirty feet down the road from where we had been standing, and I try not to think about how far that means he rolled once he hit the ground.

I push through the crowd that's beginning to gather around Virgil, and my vision tunnels as I see blood – lots of blood.

I drop down at his side with an impact that I don't feel; later, I'll discover huge bruises on both of my knees. My fingers tremble as I reach down and grasp Virgil's wrist – and all of my hard-won air rushes right back out of my lungs as I feel the pulse beating beneath my fingertips. Virgil is alive.

The surge of relief only lasts a matter of seconds, though. I glance around, orders on the tip of my tongue, but there's a flurry of activity all around us, and I realize that someone is already doing everything that I would have asked them to. The couple of ambulance crews that hadn't already left the scene have jumped in and are already quickly working to assess and stabilize Virgil. Police officers are talking to the shaken driver of the car. Someone is coming with a backboard, a cervical collar, and a gurney.

A police officer pulls me to my feet and moves me back so that the paramedics have room to work on Virgil.

The next couple hours pass by in a blur, punctuated by the wail of sirens, the sharp, urgent words of the Emergency Room doctors, and the clamor for answers radiating from my watch. At some point, someone puts me in a little-used office so I can have some privacy from the gawking crowds in the E.R. waiting area. I finally speak with my family then, even though I don't have much to tell them.

Eventually, a doctor comes and talks to me. His bright, cheery tone sets my teeth on edge as he skims over the minor things like a broken fibula, a bruised hip, a dislocated shoulder, and lots of other scrapes and bruises. He points out good things, like the fact that Virgil's hip and pelvis didn't break, and that there should be no permanent damage from any of the aforementioned injuries.

Then he hesitates.

I shiver slightly as I watch him think about how to phrase what he's going to say next.

I like him just a little bit better when he looks me steadily in the eyes as he gives me the bad news.

"My greatest concern for Virgil at this point is his head injury," the doctor says. "It appears that he hit his head once on the car, and then he probably hit it again on the pavement."

I wince. Yes, I had seen his head bounce off the hood of the car. I hadn't seen the second impact, and I admit that I'm rather glad not to have that image imprinted on my brain too.

"Virgil has a severe concussion," the doctor continues. "He is stable at the moment, but we are keeping a close watch on him, and we are ready to act quickly if there are any signs of elevated intracranial pressure. Due to the severity of his head injury, I anticipate that he will remain in a comatose state for a time."

The doctor says a few more things, but I know the drill, and my mind has pretty much decided to stop listening to him and start chewing over what he's already told me. I'm caught on the knife-edge line between being relieved and being far more worried than I was before – not exactly my favorite place to be. Unfortunately, I've felt this way more often than I care to think about, and I know there's only one thing that will help.

"I need to see him," I say, interrupting the doctor.

The doctor's mouth is still open because he had been speaking; he snaps it shut and looks me up and down. Some sort of understanding flashes across his face, and he says, "Very well. ICU room number two."

I nod. "Thank you." I hurry from the room.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

"And you know the rest," I say to John. "Dad arrived yesterday, and then Gordon and Alan showed up today. It's been forty-eight hours since the accident."

John is silent for a long minute, and then he lets out a long, slow breath. "Has anyone checked on you?" he asks. "Sounds like your ankle might be messed up – not to mention your ribs. And when's the last time you ate anything? Or slept?"

"I've caught a few naps here and there," I hedge. "And Dad's brought me food a couple times. You don't need to worry about me, Johnny."

"Yeah, sure," he says dryly. "Because you're invincible, right?"

I wince. "No, definitely not. But I'll be okay." I hesitate, then add, "And John? Talking about it did help. So…thanks."

He lets out a long sigh. "Any time. Hey, keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Will do. Take care, John."

"You too, Scott."

I feel even more tired…but somehow, just a tiny bit lighter than I had before the talk. I shake my head ruefully – John's always been good at turning a chat into a mini counseling session.

I slowly push myself back up to my feet and hesitate, glancing down the hall toward Virgil's room. Then I turn the other way and trudge over to a vending machine, where I get myself a bottle of water. I can leave Virgil with my other family members for a few minutes. I wander around the halls for a while, stretching my legs.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

It's late Wednesday night now, and I'm sitting by Virgil's bed. There was a whisper-argument a few minutes earlier, as Dad, Gordon and Alan tried to talk me into going to a hotel to get a solid night's sleep.

Needless to say, I won the argument.

As they left, Gordon told me to keep talking to Virgil while he was gone, but I pointed out that it's night time, and even comatose patients probably don't want to be talked to 24/7.

Still, though…as I look down into my brother's bruised face, words keep bubbling up, and it's hard to stop them from coming out.

"Virg," I whisper. Even that sounds too loud in the quiet room, and I glance self-consciously toward the door to make sure it's shut.

I sigh and gently take his hand, sitting in silence for a while. I find myself studying the differences between our hands – not something I normally have the time to think about. His hand and fingers are a bit bigger and broader than mine, and if you didn't know him, it'd be hard to imagine those long, blunt fingers holding a narrow paintbrush, or delicately coaxing a pianissimo chord from the piano…or carefully wielding tweezers to extract a tiny splinter from a brother's hand.

There are trace amounts of grease darkening the edges of his cuticles and the little lines of his fingers, testifying to the amount of time he spends working on his beloved Bird.

He has white marks on several of his nails, and his middle fingernail is black and misshapen – he must've really smacked it with something. Now that I think about it, it occurs to me that I haven't heard him playing the piano in a little while; that finger must be sore.

I turn his hand over and notice the calluses. I study them, trying to figure out what they could be from. There's a whole set of them trailing down the inside of each finger, as if he's spent a lot of time holding onto something narrow…something like the semicircular steering wheel in Thunderbird Two. I smile a little as I make the connection, and I glance down, noticing similar marks on my own fingers.

I've never really thought about it before, but it makes sense. Just as our pilot's seats in our Birds have become molded to the shape of our bodies, our fingers are becoming molded to the shapes of our Birds' controls.

And then I frown, glancing toward Virgil's closed eyes. That's the sort of thing that Virgil tends to notice and point out, not me.

"Virg," I say again, then stop. Suddenly there's only one thing I want to say, but I can't get it out. I clear my throat and try one more time. "Virgil, I need you," I whisper. "Please wake up soon."

There's no response. Not that I was really expecting one, but it's still disappointing, somehow.

Exhaustion is pushing down on me like a ton of bricks, and I decide that maybe I'll try to catch a nap. I scoot my chair around so that I can lay my head down on the edge of Virgil's bed, using one arm for a pillow. I figure it'll take me a while to fall asleep, but I go out like a light.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

I wake up slowly, and wince as I shift in my chair – I have a major crick in my neck, and my shoulder is stiff from the way I've been holding my arm.

The room is beginning to grow light with the cool, gray glow of early morning, and as I sit up and look at the bedside clock, I see that it's a little after five. My sluggish mind tries to orient itself, and after a moment, I put all the pieces together. It's Thursday, April 28th, which means it's been three days since the accident.

I grimace as my right arm starts to tingle – it had fallen asleep under me. I wiggle the fingers of my left hand to see if that arm is asleep too…and I blink as I realize that I'm still holding Virgil's hand, and that at some point during the night, I had apparently slipped my fingers between his.

I squeeze his hand briefly and start to pull my fingers free, but then I freeze – was it my imagination, or had I just felt a little twitch of motion? I quickly glance toward Virgil's face, but it looks as still as it had the night before.

"Virg?" I say hopefully.

A minute passes, and nothing else happens. Disappointed, I start to move my hand again.

This time it's obvious. Virgil is flexing his fingers.

I sit bolt upright, grabbing his hand with both of mine and trying to breathe around the lump that's suddenly filling my throat.

The sheets rustle ever so slightly as Virgil's chest expands. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, as if he's mustering his strength. His grip tightens a little, and my gaze travels back up to his face.

His eyelids are twitching, and there's a faint line between his brows as he struggles to open his eyes.

"You can do it, Virg," I say. In this moment, there's nothing in the world that I want more than to see my brother's warm brown eyes, looking at me.

I get my wish. A second later, Virgil's eyes flutter slowly open. He blinks a few times, experimentally, and then he cautiously turns his head in my direction. The tiniest of smiles lights his face as we make eye contact.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and rusty.

The dawn sun chooses that moment to peek over the horizon, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow.

And suddenly, my world is perfect again.