Disclaimer: I don't own any of the regulars and appreciate the loan.

Gordon's story; some will consider it OoCy – so don't go there if you can't cope with my AU.

Rating is a firm T. Not suitable for younger kids.

…

For the falling.

Desert sand, rippling like the waves of the sea.

There should be some resemblance, but there isn't. The smell is different, it's grit in the eyes, not salt spray, and the sea doesn't reflect a hundred degrees of heat right back at you.

Elemental it may be, but it sure ain't my element. But looks like I'm stuck here for a while, so might as well make the best of it.

Not even here on a rescue…well, not yet; who knows what's round the corner? Just riding shotgun on emergency aid and medical supplies…fifteen border raids last month, and the government worse than useless; people starving and dying needlessly while the hired guns and the fat cats in the big city line their pockets with other people's misery.

Well not this time.

We talked about this long and hard. It isn't our usual line of work. We're supposed to be life-savers, not mercenaries. But, bottom line, people are dying out here and the people who spend their lives trying to help are getting their asses busted for no good reason. We can't just stand by.

Not our own Aid people, but we're not fussy. They call for help, they get it, for now at least, until there's a 'genuine' call-out, till we get back in our air-conditioned machines and head off to the acute emergency, then to the solace of an island paradise leaving the real heroes to do the chronic rescuing, day in, day out, fighting the stinking poverty till the day the world ends.

We loaded up Two in addition to the usual transport so their people can get in and out in one go, and we helped with the unloading; might as well do something useful while we sit here waiting for something to happen or not to happen. It's grueling in the heat but the regular crew did it without complaining, under the watchful auspices of the female doctor who seems to be persona numera una around this tiny way station. The big transport's taken off now. One more stop further south and it's done for the month, so it's just the Aid people now; the doctor and her three sidekicks, the young guy, the woman, and the kid - plus the patients. Patients. Some of them have walked eighty miles across the dunes and dustbowls to get here.

Wander into the office, pass the paperwork to the young guy who smiles at me. A flash of brilliant white teeth. The accent sounds local. Educated, nice manners. Despite the hardships they're a people with a sense of humor and a generosity of spirit.

Wondering. Where does a guy get a little action around here?

Watching as he bends over the ancient photocopier; nice ass. He swings around suddenly; eyes up, Tracy.

"Here you go," he says brightly and I shoot him the signals but no flicker of anything beyond friendliness in return.

Non-starter. "Thanks, man." He nods in acknowledgment, heads off to one of those dingy back rooms – what do they do in there?

Watch after him wistfully, turn to see the lady doctor in the doorway, curious Mona Lisa half-smile on her face.

"Come on in – I've got five minutes."

It's been weeks since I've seen any action of this sort. What can we do in five minutes?

Hell, stop wondering! I can work fast if I have to.

She gestures to the couch. "Hop on there. Take your shirt off."

"Sure thing, honey." Whoa. Guess she likes to be in charge. It's been a while since I've gone down this route. Not truly my scene.

"What's your problem?" she demands.

"Problem? What? I mean…"

She rolls her eyes impatiently. "Your shoulder – or is it your back? I can see you're in pain."

Whoops.

But she's not wrong; it's been giving me jip for hours now. Too much heavy lifting. Perch on her couch, ease off my shirt as she skirts round behind me.

Still, there's hope, I guess.

Follow her in the mirror - not bad-looking, slim, boyish, my type, a little on the old side, sure – twenty-seven, twenty-eight? I prefer 'em younger than me, younger the better – s'long as they're legal, I'm not that stupid - but hey, running out of options here. She prods my shoulder cautiously, the way doctors do, as if it's going to blurt out its secrets under her touch; I don't think it achieves anything, but I guess they think it makes them look like they know what they're doing.

"What did you do to it?" she asks incuriously. Get that English accent.

"Speedboat accident. There are three pins in there." They look crazy on the X-rays, like someone just looked for the softest spots they could find and hammered them in any which way.

She fiddles around some more. "I don't think any of them have shifted. But the muscles are in spasm. You could do with regular physio."

"You offering me a massage?"

"In your dreams."

It's repartee. She knows. I know. Heads for a tray of syringes. Oh, man. I hate freaking injections. Even now.

Watch as the brightness of the light plays with her hair; the mousy-brown replaced by yellows and greens and purples.

"It'll take the edge off, but you should get it checked out properly. There's a lot of scar tissue. It must have been some accident."

"It was pretty impressive," I swing around, best grin. "There are lots of things about me that are impressive when you get to know me." Real impressive. I consider asset-stripping. Do they arrest you for that over here? Feels like the rules should be different. Hell, this is not, by any stretch of imagination, a civilized country.

"And why would I want to do that?" she murmurs sweetly. But she isn't sweet, she's all standards and playing by the book; hard as nails, this one.

"Aw, honey, don't be like that. Surely you could stand a change of conversation once in a while? Is there some place around here we can get coffee?"

Shakes her head. "I can get coffee. No 'we' about it."

One last try. She must be begging for it, too, surely? Or maybe she's got something going with nice-ass. "Why not 'we'? I'm a cool guy when you get to know me."

"You're a little young, soldier. And it didn't escape my notice that five minutes ago you were eying up my colleague exactly the same way you're looking at me now. Do you really think you're that cool?"

Fair cop.

Ow-eech!

Deep-seated burning sensation as she sticks in the needle, none too gently; give me a nurse any day of the week; no-one teaches doctors how to do this properly and they're all too freaking proud to ask. Tears to the eyes job; hard to look seductive when you've got a veritable pickaxe in your back and you're weeping like a baby, screw it, jeez, that hurts!

She's glancing out of the window, impervious to the near-death experience she's engendered. "I like your boss, though." She hesitates, some of the hardness evaporating. She isn't used to this. "Married?"

"Scott?" I'm startled.

She glances back sharply. "He said his name was Mike."

"Mi…?"

Shit! Not thinking through the red haze. The rest of us do the sensible thing; why does he have to make it so freaking complicated – why would you abandon a name only to adopt it again in public, just to confuse the hell out of everyone, Scott, man?

"Oh, that boss. Mike – yes, good old Michael. Married? – no. No wife, no kids. No mad fiancée locked in the attic. Well not as far as I know. Big attic. Definitely eligible. Nice guy. You two should…get coffee." Gabbling, Tracy.

She looks at me and then at the syringe as though she thinks she might have shot me full of idiot-juice instead of novocaine.

She likes him? Yeah, I can see it might work. She's cute in a self-important, self-righteous, serious sort of way. He'd hate to be loosened up, and face it, she may actually be more uptight than he is. I grab my shirt, head out.

"I'll have a word with him if you like…you know…thanks. For the injection, I mean." Politeness never hurt.

Pain easing now as the shot kicks in, just that strange fiery numbness. The relief takes an almost physical form, a comfortable furry little Sasquatch round my shoulders, as my back and neck begin to ease up too; wiggle my shoulders and fingers, crick my neck a little, cross to where Virgil's loading up.

He glances at me, frowning. "You okay?"

Sure, if being stuck like the proverbial pig counts.

"Fine. Here's the paperwork."

He stares at me a moment longer, all psychic and older brotherly on me.

"My shoulder seized, is all. Doc gave me something for it."

"You sure?"

You better believe it. "It'll be fine. Finished unloading?"

"All done. We're heading down to the next station in a few minutes. You sure you'll be okay here?"

I nod, but truth? I feel uneasy, like we're being watched. Place gives me the creeps. Too open, too dry. You'd think I'd be used to open spaces, given all the years in Kansas. Maybe I've just gotten too used to the island.

Virgil waves the paperwork over his head, a signal to BB. Give him an elbow as Scott approaches, raise my voice. "You might not want to be in such a hurry here, big fella. Maybe I should come with you to the next station and leave Scott here instead."

He glances at me in surprise.

"'pparently the lady doc thinks BB's kinda hot."

Virgil raises an eyebrow dubiously, doesn't look round at Scott. "She obviously doesn't get out much."

"Neither does he."

"Happened once before. I know it did. Some girl…somewhere…" clicks his fingers "…what was her name? Thought he was cute." His face falls comically. "Ah, no, I remember now; I'm mixing him up with John again."

Scott catches us up, gives us a pitying smile. "Stevie. Her name's Stevie."

"You got her name?" Impressive. For Scott, this is fast work.

"She went to school in Bristol, England. Has a brother, a married sister, two nieces and a little nephew. Graduated top of her class and could have had her pick of jobs but chose to come out here."

Real fast. Can't for the life of me figure whether the tone of voice denotes his deep admiration of her or just a general smugness at the level of detail he's able to divulge. Decide to push it. "Ah, but did you get her cell number?"

"No reception out here."

Aha! He is trying, then. This has to count as some sort of progress. Yeah – she really might be his type. "She sure is a tough cookie," I continue complainingly. "I tried to get her to go for coffee."

Virgil looks around. "I hear there's a Starbucks round here somewhere." He licks a finger, holds it up, turns. "Yeah – right over that sand-dune. Keep going straight, what, about a thousand miles, you can't miss it."

"I even got my shirt off," I continue, unabashed. "I thought – you know – quick flash of the pecs might impress her. She scarcely blinked. Nope – she has eyes only for BB."

Ha! I succeed in forcing a blush from Scott now. But he plays along. "Well, I guess I can't help the effect I have on 'em…"

Virgil snorts. "Must be your cologne." He winks at me. "What's it called? Hint of Desperation?"

"Take her out," I suggest suddenly.

"What?" The incredulity is actually quite funny.

"Take her out," I repeat quickly. "Boy likes girl, girl likes boy, it's what happens. They date, they eat a little face, they make babies…"

"How do they do that, Gordon?" Virgil asks innocently.

"I've got a book that shows you. Be good and I'll let you eyeball it later."

"If it's the one about fruit-bats, I've read it. Lot of stuff about chromosomes I didn't understand."

"How about it, BB?"

Scott starts to laugh. "You want me to read about fruit-bats?"

"Ask her out, idiot."

"And just where am I supposed to take her?"

"Starbucks. A thousand miles that-a-way. I have it on good authority. It'll take five minutes in One."

He stops, an odd look on his face. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You think I should take Thunderbird One – complete with passenger who's never flown in a jump-jet before - to Cairo - to get a cup of coffee?"

The funniest thing is that I think he's actually considering it seriously.

"Sure," I encourage him.

He breaks off, shaking his head and says mildly "Shall we maybe just get back to work instead?"

"Hell, this is so much more fun."

"Then let me rephrase it." His expression and tone change abruptly. "Get back to work!"

"Jeez!" I pretend to be hurt. "What a hard-ass."

Into Two, load up for the duration.

I retrieve my special case. You can never be too careful.

When I emerge, the lady doc is outside talking to my brothers. Scott has his back to me but immediately raises his voice for my benefit.

"If he gives you any trouble try planting him in sand. But don't forget to water him a couple of times a day."

I slap him less than lightly on the shoulder. "Isn't it time for you two to fly off in your little toy airplanes?"

His expression doesn't change but his tone does. "Will you be okay?"

"Just peachy."

"I'll be five minutes away."

She looks surprised. "I thought you were going all the way down to the southern border."

"That's right, ma'am."

"Just how fast are you in that thing?"

Virgil beats me to it by a whisker. "Just as fast as he is in everything else, ma'am," he says ultra-politely, and ignores the daggers BB shoots at him.

She looks at the big fella, not quite sure whether to laugh, and gets no cues at all. I swear the guy can keep a perfect straight face.

On that note, the two of them do leave, stirring up a couple of minor sandstorms as they go. What's that stuff about butterflies' wings? I guess we can kiss goodbye to what's left of the Antarctic.

Trudge back toward the huts with the lady doc.

This is going to be a heap of fun. What do they do for entertainment?

She nods towards the hospital wing.

"You can bed down in there if you like – we've got a couple of spare cots."

The day just goes on getting better. Wonder if any of the local honchos has anything infectious? Picture what the island will look like after we've all died of Lassa Fever. Mentally go through the list. Yellow fever, typhoid, typhus, rabies, you name it, I've had the shot, but I bet there are a few more little bugs lurking out here that you can't name.

She reads my thoughts. Or my expression maybe. "Are you up to date with all your inoculations?"

"Yes, ma'am. But if it's all the same to you I'd prefer just to hunker down in a corner of your office."

"Suit yourself."

Unpack a few essentials. Toothbrush, lucky rabbit's foot, some essential reading material, carefully disguised inside of something that looks like a technical manual - it's going to be a long night. Literally; we're not all that far from the equator and when night falls here it's like someone just switched off the celestial light switch.

Don't see the woman assistant – on the ward, maybe - but nice-ass is cooking, brings me a bowlful of something that looks indeterminate but smells pretty good, sits down close eyeing me a little warily.

"Good," I mumble with my mouth full, and gesture with my spoon.

Seems to please him; he relaxes and smiles. I wonder if I'm supposed to burp or something. Or is that Arabs?

"What is it?" I ask politely

He looks at me warily.

"You're American, aren't you?"

"Er, yes."

He gestures to my plate. "Then it's chicken."

I look down dubiously. No way is this chicken.

"No, really. What is it?"

"Chicken, America. Like Colonel Sanders, yes?" he insists, and grins.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Martin," he proffers.

"Martin?" Not what I was expecting. Don't they speak French or something here?

"And you?"

I hesitate. No harm, I guess. "Gordon," I tell him, and hold out a hand. He takes it. A cool, limp handshake. "How long have you been doing this, Martin?"

"What? Working at the station, you mean?" He shrugs. "Almost ten years now."

Older than he looks. I had him down as my age. But I've noticed that before with people from this part of Africa; the women, too, they look phenomenal right into middle and old age.

"You local?"

"I was born in the next village." He looks down, stirs his stew. "The agency paid for me to go to Switzerland to study. I was chosen out of many who wished to train." There is a note of pride in his voice.

"You a doctor, too?"

"A nurse."

"And a damn good one." Stevie, returned from her rounds. Her voice is warm. "Not to mention a great cook."

He looks a little uncomfortable under the praise. Guess she isn't exactly free with it.

She shovels some of the meal onto her plate and sits down to join us.

"How's the boa?"

"The what?"

"Sand boa. A local delicacy but a bit of an acquired taste."

I look at it and shovel a big chunk of meat into my mouth, staring all the while at Martin who just grins again.

"Real good. Just the three of you running this place?"

"And Esme." She gestures towards the kid. "She helps out with the domestic chores. In times of real crisis they send us extra hands, but most of the time it's just the four of us."

"Doesn't it get lonely out here?"

She shrugs. "There's always custom. Particularly now – we're starting to see traffic from across the border. But I'd rather it was lonely that have the wrong sort of company."

Her voice betrays anxiety. As the war in the neighboring country hots up there have been more than a dozen raids on posts like this in the last month. And the mercenaries have been ruthless, shooting up everyone who tries to stand up to them and quite a lot of those who don't. Soon as a drop is scheduled, they seem to know about it and they're in there like a bunch of hyenas around a carcass, baying for the spoils. The government turns a blind eye. Someone's being paid off. It's why we're here. Stake out enough posts and sooner or later we'll flush them. We've been playing cat and mouse off and on for a few days now. No-one else will help.

After supper, Martin finds a pack of dog-eared playing cards and we trade a few hands of gin. I find myself warming to him. He has a surprisingly evil sense of humor under the polite exterior. I delve into my overnight bag, find some European chocolate, the real deal. Martin shyly accepts a couple of squares, puts them beside him, doesn't eat. I don't know if he's saving it or just too polite to tell me he doesn't care for it.

Doc Stevie does her final rounds and returns, satisfied that all is well enough. She looks on, interested, in spite of herself. I pull up a chair, hoping she'll join us.

She half-shakes her head, then her eye lights on the candy. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Belgian."

She's suddenly surprisingly keen to be dealt in. She digs out some cold beer to add to the festivities. Martin joins her. I decline, tempting though it looks. I need a clear head.

"What are the stakes, gentlemen?" Her smile is a little sharkish. I should see what's coming.

"Cash. Candy if you prefer. Unless you want to switch to strip poker?" I offer hopefully. She declines. I deal her in. We play for cents. The chocolate in her case. She wins hands-down, hand after hand after hand until she's worked her way through the entire bar and has to switch to collecting coins.

At the finish I have to sit back in pure admiration. "Where'd you learn to play like that?"

"I have a very large extended family. Every summer Bank Holiday we used to get together – the women-folk would gather to gossip out in the garden, and the gents would go and play rummy indoors. I got bored with the gossip at a very early age. And with the women-folk."

"Aha! You like to be one of the guys. You see – we're made for each other." This isn't going anywhere, I know, but it's still fun to flirt. A fella has to keep his hand in. "You'd get on just great with my family." Who knows? She might have to. The thing with Scott just might go somewhere. "All boys. Five of us."

She shoots me a pitying look. "You're presumably the youngest."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well I imagine your father would have opted for the scissors if he thought he ran the risk of any more like you."

I shift uncomfortably. "Look, lady, I know we kinda got off on the wrong foot…"

She grins easily, and I realize it's me that's been wrong footed.

"Is she always like this?" I ask Martin. The prospect of her as a future sister-in-law definitely has limited appeal.

He smiles. "You must forgive Stevie. She has to be kind to people all day long. Sometimes it's fun not to be."

I sit back, retrieving my dignity. "As it happens, I have a younger brother."

"Anything like you?"

"Nothing like me. Worse. Much, much worse." I groan, to demonstrate. "You wouldn't believe how much worse."

She grins. "Tell us all about him."

Easily done. I have an infinite fund of Alan stories.

I guess I'm wrong about the lady doc. She's quite capable of letting her hair down once in a while.

We while away the time into the wee small hours, playing cards and exchanging stories. I'm down a dollar forty-five by two a.m. I figure I can stand the loss. It's worth it to watch them relax and have a little fun.

I bet they don't get much chance to unwind.

…