Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. It is purely for enjoyment/ saving-me-from-insanity-and-too-much-exam-prep purposes.

AN: I don't know where this one came from. Really, I don't. I haven't written like this in a while, and I'm not too sure I like the ending, so any thoughts on this would be most appreciated. Otherwise, enjoy :)

Heartbeat

A snippet of a rescue. The quietest Tracy needs a quiet reassurance.

Oh, God.

This isn't meant to be happening.

Not like this.

Never like this.

I watch helplessly as he crumples to the ground, legs folding under him, a papier-mâché sculpture left out in the rain for too long. I don't know why he's gone down, but the paramount thing is that he has, and no one's helping him. Amidst the chaos at the rescue scene – a secondary explosion no one was expecting – I doubt anyone, except me, has noticed.

Mom, I think, help me. If you're up there. Somewhere.

I leave what I'm doing – hang anyone else in favour of my brother – and sprint to his side. I feel the sweat trickle down my back, coat the surface of my palms, all cold and clammy. I feel the blood rushing through my ears, deaf to anything else but that. I can taste the rain on the tip of my tongue, taste fear that is enclosed within every raindrop. But a heartbeat, I can't hear his heartbeat. I can feel mine, slamming against my ribcage, threatening to break free.

There is a piece of shrapnel, a sharp, serrated sliver of metal jutting out from his chest, just left off centre. So close to his heart, dangerously close. I can paint a portrait with the red colour in this man; that's how much blood he's lost, how fast his life fuel's dripping out of him. But a heartbeat, a pulse point, even shallow breathing, I can't feel that.

My mind switches to autopilot.

Don't think about who this is. Don't make this personal. Just do. Do what needs to be done.

I pull the shirt of my uniform over my head and shiver in the cold. Drenched with water, it's not much use, but I use it to stem the flow of blood. I push past the bone chilling damp, the wind howling across my bare torso now. I push through because he needs me more now than I need him.

Not making it personal is one of the hardest things to do. I move to his head, use my fingers to clamp his nose closed and all I can see is my big brother. All I can see is the person who's looked out for me for most of my life. All I can see are flashbacks of the time we've spent together, happy memories, sad memories, even stupid, pointless ones. I see him as a sixteen year old, being the soft shoulder for me to lean on after I discovered that my first girlfriend had cheated on me. I see him as the eighteen year old that encouraged me to keep going when I felt like dropping out of college because I had trouble finding my niche there. I see him as the person I've never known life without.

If only we had listened to him when he joked about forming an International Rescue Union to campaign for safer working conditions.

This has been happening far too much for our liking lately.

Alan's up on Five, coordinating us from space. Virgil and Gordon are elsewhere, unaware that this has happened. It's just me and Scott now.

It's just us and a sea of people. I've never felt more alone than I do right now.

Airway, breathing, circulation. All these steps need to be covered, and I can't even get myself through the first part. What use am I, in this condition?

"C'mon," I mutter, although I'm not sure if this is directed at him or me. "C'mon, stay with it. Hold it together."

I take a deep breath and force air down his windpipe. His chest rises and then collapses. I do it again.

I move down to his chest, compress down on his heart. Blood seeps through the shirt during the compression. Briefly, I wonder if I'm doing more harm than good, but that thought flies out of the window when I cannot detect his pulse.

I want… no, I need to get his heart started again.

I'll do whatever it takes.

Another breath.

Another compression.

Another breath.

Another compression.

I am not letting him go without a fight.

"Breathe, dammit, breathe. Give me a sign."

Another breath.

I move to the compression, but there's a paramedic already there. It's a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it's one less thing I have to worry about. A curse because I won't know when he's out of the woods. I won't be able to get first-hand information that he's helping me fight the fight to keep him alive.

I turn to breathe for Scott again, but I stop. I can hear a whisper of wind from him. I place my hand under his nose. That's air, right there.

Thanks, Mom.

The paramedics dance around Scott like butterflies, hooking him up to IVs, placing an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. They slice their way through his blue shirt – a hot knife sliding through chocolate cake – and connect him to a heart monitor. I'm somewhat redundant in this tango.

Somewhat redundant; instead, I grasp his lax hand. My fingers move of their own accord towards his wrist.

And there is it.

His pulse.

Feeble, but still there.

My other hand moves to his chest, hovering over his ribcage. Gently, I press down.

My heart rate speeds up and slows down simultaneously. My body is a walking, talking paradox.

His heart pushes back against me. Slow, weak, but steady. It's the sign I've wanted for the past five minutes. It's the quiet reassurance I've been waiting for.

Amongst the chaos, the panic, the disorder that surrounds us, even as the paramedics load him into a waiting ambulance, I can feel a constant.

I can feel his heartbeat.