A/N: Hey guys. This is a bit of a change from what I've been writing lately. It's a loose follow-on to On the Road, and it's dually dedicated to Angel-Sue76 who's a bit ill at the moment, and to Sam1, who sort-of-accidentally gave me the idea from her fic…

You don't need to have read the previous story, but it probably helps. Cheers all!

Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.

"Barp, barp, barp, barp, barp…"

I groan as the relentless buzzing of the alarm wakes me with a start.

Clearly I didn't get enough sleep, because my head is throbbing fit to burst. I can't recall being very restless though, and that is the only explanation that my sleep muddled mind can come up with. I'd been in bed before ten because I'd been tired from driving the car home from our trip to Hutchinson, and I was also rather tetchy after hours stuck in a car with an overactive seven-year-old.

Glaring at the clock radio perched haphazardly on the edge of the bedside table, I half expect the heat of my slit-eyed stare to burn it to a crisp. It merely sits there, mockingly proving me otherwise, proclaiming the time in luminous green numbers that seem obscenely bright in the darkened room.

Swiping blindly as I bury my head back in the mattress, my pillow shoved off the bed sometime during the night, I sigh as the annoyance stops upon contact with my hand.

Five more minutes, and then I'll get up. I tell myself firmly, and close my eyes again, wriggling back down to the other end of the bed, my feet tucked down at the foot.

##

"Scott." There is shaking, it is too cold to get up, and I want to tell whoever the hell it is to go away. I grab the blanket blindly and pull it over my head, trying to muffle the pounding that is making me feel queasy. "Scott." The voice is persistent, and rather loud. "You've overslept. Your alarm went off thirty minutes ago; we'll be late if you don't hurry."

That registers. I only have ten minutes to dress and eat before I need to get my brothers ready to go to up to the school. I need to get up or I'll miss breakfast. Then I deflate, moving my face to peer at my younger brother as he lifts the comforter from where it rests against the back of my head. Let's forget breakfast; I'm really not hungry right now. I'll just tackle getting dressed for the moment.

Virgil frowns as it takes a moment for me to focus on his face; his hair gelled up in his usual spikes.

Why is it so hot all of a sudden? Forget that; why does my head feel so stuffy? Oh, no. Please no. Not today.

"Virgil?" I croak. Damn. When did my throat get set on fire? For the moment, I ignore it. I'll figure that out in a minute. If Virgil has given me the cold he got from Gordon though… John was right.

Virge nods and I make up my mind. I have to get up. Damn.

Leaving my blankets with the greatest reluctance, I swing my legs to the edge of my bed and blink wearily at my brother, shivering through the cotton wool in my brain as goose-pimples erupt on my exposed arms.

Whoa. That was a little fast. The room spins; my brother appearing to turn sideways despite the fact his feet are still planted on the floor.

I'm not sick. Nope. I have errands to run while Dad is working, and John and I am going to the bookstore, and then I promised Gordon I'll take him to the pool after school. I can't be sick.

Sadly, it doesn't appear to be so. I groan again as the aching in my head intensifies, and then I jump out of my skin as a barking cough tears from my throat, wet, choking, and heavy.

I find my limbs going as wobbly as overcooked noodles, and Virgil grabs me by the arms, pressing me backwards onto the bed. I find that I am too busy trying to catch my breath to argue. Everything aches.

I find a cool place on the pillow-that-I-hadn't-actually-lost, and push my forehead against it, closing my eyes.

"Scott."

Huh? I have the funny feeling we've done this before, what was it, thirty seconds ago? The voice is different though, and as I open my heavy eyes to investigate, I feel myself being propped awkwardly into a seated position. The world twists alarmingly and I cough again, the movement making me breathless.

I have an impression of blue eyes and blonde hair, and then there is a huff that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. "So they got you too, huh?"

My eyes open (when did they close again?) tiredly to see my immediate younger brother leaning wearily against my bed, his expression pinched and his face decidedly pale but for his flushed cheeks. Crap.

"Virgil." I hiss mutinously. Younger brothers suck. Why, against my better judgement, did I not tell Dad that Gordon and Virgil were sick before we went on that trip? Why did I agree to have Virgil in the car with me and John on the way home, rather than put him with Dad and let him and Gordon tear each other's heads off? Why?

Yes. I know I am eighteen years old. I know I have four younger brothers to behave responsibly in front of; to set a good example. I know that tolerance is a good thing. But I refuse to say that my actions are immature, especially seeing the look on Virgil's face as my pillow goes soaring into it.

Bullseye.

I might be sick, but I never, ever miss a target. Even one moving faster than my brain can currently keep up.

Ow.

My brother's face is a picture, but I can't focus on it enough to properly enjoy my triumph. All of John's weight is pressing down on me as he leans against my side, and my brain is disobeying my orders and is turning to overheated mush. I grab John's arm and use what strength I have to wriggle over on the mattress and bring him with me. He grunts as he lets out a breath, coughing slightly himself, before sleepily settling down and instantly falling asleep, his soft snores comforting near my ear, despite how nasal they sound through his blocked-up nose.

I lift my bleary eyes to my second brother, still hovering in the doorway, and sigh, taking in his neatly-pressed clothes and his untied laces, and figure that he's almost ready to leave for the summer program the middle school hosts every year. I wonder if Gordon is as organised. Probably not.

I swallow, trying to moisten my throat, even as my pulse thumps loud in my brain. "Is Dad still here, Virge? 'Cause I really don't think either of us are up to driving right now…" It annoys me to have to admit it, but even without John using me as a pillow, I'm not going anywhere. I doubt I'd be able to walk in a straight line right now, let alone drive.

I watch Virgil nod, even as I try and shift from beneath John's draped arm and lolling head. He's making me overheat even more than I already am, and it's unbearable.

"He's in his study. I should probably tell him…"

I sigh in exasperation, cursing my brother and his stupid fourteen-year-old humour. I am so not in the mood for this. "Yes. Tell him that I am going to sleep and I don't want little brothers waking me up. Scram!"

Seeing the imminent threat of Angry, Sick and Tired Older Brother getting mad at him, Virgil turns to leave and do my bidding, but not before picking up my pillow-turned projectile and placing it wordlessly on the bed. I take a weary breath and dredge up a smile for him, which he returns, even as he leaves me and my achy head and too-hot bed-mate in peace.

"Seriously John," I mutter woozily, sinking down on the pillow, as my heavy head decides it doesn't want to stay upright anymore. "Of all the times you choose to impersonate a space-heater…"

I close my eyes and let the weariness and fever carry me away.

##

I wake up to a disgusting hacking sound in the vicinity of my left ear, and it's clear that my head neither agrees with nor approves the unexpected noise.

The hiss and splat of something hitting the bottom of a container makes me cringe, and I roll away from the annoyance, only to fall off the edge of my bed.

I don't have the energy to get up again, despite the thud of impact still shocking through me, so I just lay there on the carpet and shiver as the air chills my sweaty skin. My pyjamas are wet with it, and I detest the stickiness that rubs against my back and legs. There are suddenly arms around my torso, and I find myself easily raised into a sitting position against the edge of the bed, as if I am eight rather than eighteen. My eyes flutter open and I see my father's concerned face as it swims lazily in front of mine.

"Hey, Flyboy." He murmurs. "The boys definitely got you two good, didn't they?" He lays his palm across the thin strip of forehead beneath my sweat-soaked hair, and I breathe in as the coolness makes me drift for a moment. A thought forces itself into my mind, and despite the feeling of ill-health and the need to go back to sleep, I ask the question anyway.

"Did the kids get to school alright? I'm sorry I couldn't take 'em, but I couldn't sit up, John fell asleep, and—"

"Whoa Scooter." Dad says, laying a hand on my shoulder. "It's fine. Your grandmother came and picked them up for me. I couldn't leave you two on your own anyway. John's not even coherent over there, and you're far from alright. I could hardly expect you to think let alone drive. Don't want a repeat of the Ford and the hedge, do we?"

Despite the fuzziness in my head from anything else that might have happened this morning, I clearly remember that event well. My first go at driving was not the most successful of escapades.

But despite my embarrassment, as is usually present when Dad plays the 'remember when you…' game, his reassurance does its job.

"C'mon Flyboy." My dad mutters, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. "Let's get you back into bed." He hauls me upright, before helping me fall backwards into my spot next to John, who I now assume was the one to make that awful coughing noise. At least I am not alone in my misery.

Dad pulls the blankets up over the two of us, and I find I don't care at all. The both of us are in our late teens; I am an adult by just about all rights and legalities, but when I am sick there is nothing I prefer more than to be tucked in by Dad.

It isn't usual for me to be even slightly approving of anything even remotely pertaining to coddling, but I am trying to convince myself that I am setting a good example for John. The truth is however, that I am too sick at the moment to protest, and anyway, it's only something that I have to admit in my own head.

I hate being sick, and I know that payback will soon be coming to the two brothers that have landed me in this predicament in the first place. I grin as I begin to drift off again, because I know that I have a very firm ally in the blonde-haired brother fast asleep beside me. Alone the two of us are pretty unimpressive when it comes to revenge, but our little brothers have not yet had the opportunity to see the two of us when we join forces. It is terrifying.

We have all the time until we recover to plan and scheme for our ultimate attack, and when we are, the Squirts had better run.

A/N: Please review?

Pyre Xx