Six months ago, John would have broken down before Robin was even out of the room. But now, six months on, they made it as far as the hotel lobby before Scott realized John wasn't keeping it together. He should have seen it. There were a hundred little things to let him know: John had stopped talking, steps quick, gaze rigid, fixed on the next exit. From the door, out of the anteroom where they'd played poker, through the ballroom where they'd attended a party in their father's stead, into the hallway, down the hallway, into the elevator—Scott should have known in the elevator from the way John paced the perimeter.
They reached the ground floor. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open and John slipped through the gap in the doors before Scott could react. "John! Stop!"
But John was already sprinting across the polished marble floor of the lobby, and he didn't hear him or couldn't. He reached the glass doors of the lobby and pushed them open because he had the flight to his big brother's fight, and because six months on, recovering, with Gordon keeping a sharp eye on his health and fitness, John could run.
Scott tore after him, bursting through the lobby doors to the courtyard outside, crowded with limos and driverless taxis and luxury cars. It was Thursday night, but this was LA, and there were people everywhere—valets and guests and guards and tourists and—
A car horn went off, a sharp blast. "Get out of the way, kid!"
John was in the middle of the traffic, lost, erratic, drawing attention, and Scott went after him before anyone said anything else. He darted into the fray and snagged John by the elbow, the collar of his suit jacket, and hauled him back to the sidewalk in front of the hotel doors.
John tripped on the slight step or his legs gave out, and he collapsed on the pavement. Scott followed him down, and John doubled over, gasping painfully, clinging to the front of Scott's jacket, hands twisting desperately around a fistful of fabric. Scott gently eased John's hold, readjusted, one arm wrapped around John's shoulders and a hand to his chest.
"Easy, Johnny. I'm here. It's me, it's just Scott." And then, though it didn't count for much, he squeezed John's shoulder and added a little helplessly, "I've got you."
It took a few more gasping breaths before John managed, "Scott—can't…can't breathe. Can't—I can't, I—" His voice was swallowed in the next desperate bid for breath.
"You can," Scott corrected gently. "You've gotta breathe through it, J."
John did try. But he broke off halfway, choking on another sob. He was starting to hyperventilate, and Scott resisted the impulse to hold him tighter, eased off but remained sitting, turning towards the sound of footsteps behind him.
They were drawing attention. One of the porters approached, trailed by a neatly uniformed security guard. Maybe this wasn't their first time to have a guest lose it on the hotel curb. Maybe the breakdowns of the rich and famous were run of the mill, but at least the men had the decency to be cautious.
"Do you need an ambulance, sir?" said the porter.
When John heard that he let out a moan in protest and let go of Scott's jacket, bowing so low his forehead nearly scraped the pavement, and wrapped his arms around his chest, fingers digging so deep into his arms they'd leave a bruise in the morning.
"No," said Scott with the kind of definitive weight he used with people accustomed to taking orders. "He's my brother. This is a panic attack. It'll pass. I'll handle him. Right now I need not to be crowded, or he'll get worse." He almost didn't need to say it; the security guard had already shooed away the threatening cluster of curious bystanders, directing traffic away from this end of the sidewalk. But Scott felt better for saying it because it felt like the only thing he could do to help.
The guard summoned a dark, low-slung luxury car over. It pulled obediently to the curb, angling itself in such a way that it blocked off the rest of the courtyard and its prying eyes. This accomplished, he discretely squared himself up a respectful distance away to keep the crowds away, murmuring something into the radio clipped to his collar.
The porter too seemed genuinely concerned one of his patrons was sobbing on the pavement. "Can I do anything to help, sir?"
Scott had a fondness for people who made themselves useful. He put a hand to the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone, thumb plying across the slot in the back. The business card slid out, matte grey like the winter sky, with his TI contact information embossed into the surface. He extended it to the porter. "Call this number. You'll get my personal secretary. Tell her to send a driver to this address—Jasper, if he's available —along with someone to collect the car we came in."
"Of course, sir."
Scott nodded, turning back to John, tight and worried that John was still breathing hard and shallow, mumbling something incoherent. Scott was uneasy, a tightness spreading across his chest because John wasn't breathing right, and Scott wasn't good at this. But at least he knew someone who was. He flipped his phone in his hand and unlocked the screen, scrolling to find Gordon, and sent a quick text:
[Scott: john vs panic attack? help?]
It was late, past midnight, and even if he was in the same time zone, Gordon was still an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type of person. Scott had already figured this for a long shot, but his phone vibrated sharply in his hand, only a few seconds later.
[Gordon: ahh fuck really? goddammit hes been doing so well]
[Gordon: is he actually in the middle of an attack right now?]
[Scott: y]
[Gordon: shit. there's a pillbox on his keychain. get it out or actually tell him to get it out and there's one pill inside.]
[Gordon: make him take it but tell him he's gotta bite it in half before he swallows.]
Scott probably should have known that, but at this point he was just thankful for a clear directive. "John. Hey, Johnny—you hearing me?" Scott dropped his phone back into his pocket and moved his hand to John's shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. "John, I need you to work with me. Where's your pill case?"
John didn't seem to hear him.
"Johnny, your case. John."
John sat up a little, fumbling in his pocket for his keys and keychain, a little brass case about an inch across with a J monogrammed into the black enameled top. The task seemed to help, and by the time the porter returned with a bottle of water and the news that the driver was on his way, John was better. He'd taken the pill, and the attack seemed to be ebbing. Scott let out a deep breath. It had only been about ten minutes but it had felt like an hour, and if he was worn down, John had to be wrung out and exhausted.
"Thanks." Scott accepted the bottle of water from the porter and twisted the cap off before handing it to his brother. John's hand were shaking and he had to take small sips, but it seemed to help.
Everything Scott could think to do seemed like too much to ask, so they stayed where they were, seated side by side on the pavement, until one of the company cars arrived, sleek and silver, sliding in to take the place of the low black sedan. The door opened and Jasper got out, dapper in his black suit and cap. They had always had a driver. It was part of Dad's philosophy—part of TI's philosophy—to hire people to positions that could be automated. Technically, Jasper could have been replaced: half the cars in the courtyard were driverless, and the half that had drivers had hardcoded AI. But in this particular moment, watching Jasper jog around the front of the car and pull open the rear passenger door, Scott had never been so glad their father had a preference for the personal touch. Jasper was John's driver, at least informally, and he'd been shuttling him all over LA for the duration of his 'internship' at Tracy Industries.
Scott stood up, brushing off the seat of his three thousand dollar pants. John didn't move. Whatever he'd taken had smoothed out the ragged edges of his anxiety into a mild disconnect. Valium, Scott guessed. Maybe Xanax. Probably should have asked, but it didn't seem to matter now.
"John, we gotta head home." Scott gently nudged his brother in the hip with the toe of a shiny black oxford. "Our ride's here."
John unfolded stiffly, and Scott helped him up, and Jasper bounded forward with the practiced ease of a professional, catching John's elbow when he staggered slightly, waving Scott off. There was a protectiveness there as he helped John to the car, getting him safely settled in the back seat.
Scott turned to the porter, still waiting anxiously nearby. "Thank you," Scott said again, and it didn't feel like enough. He held out his hand to shake and pretended not to see when the man first wiped his palm on his pant leg before taking his hand. The man was nervous now, after he'd seen the business card. The Tracy name had a certain kind of pull in LA. Had a certain kind of pull anywhere, really.
"Of course, Mr. Tracy." The porter very nearly bowed. "I hope your brother recovers quickly."
The formality of the exchange was a little foreign to Scott, and he tried to take the edge off with a brief nod and a smile, "Already on the mend, seems like. He's a little high-strung and we had a long night. He'll be fine after he gets some sleep. I'll thank you again for your discretion. If you'd be so kind as to leave me your manager's name, I'd like to put in a good word, Mr.—?"
"Little, sir."
There was a joke to be made about that, but Scott didn't make it. He only nodded, saluting him informally, two fingers off the top of his non-existent cap. "Thank you, Mr. Little," he said and climbed into the car next to John. Jasper closed the door behind him, and Scott reached for a control panel and tinted the windows into opacity.
The car pulled away from the hotel, and everything was suddenly quiet, the noise of the traffic and the people and the party already far away and long ago. Jasper, as if sensing the need, turned the radio on, the soft, soothing jazz a comforting ripple in the stillness.
Just as Scott eased himself back into the seat, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. Gordon again.
[Gordon: how's he doing?]
Scott glanced at John. He was watching the streetlights passing, humming something not even remotely in tune with the music.
[Scott: better. calmed down, kinda spacey.]
[Gordon: well, valium.]
[Scott: Yeah. We're going home, he's going to bed.]
[Gordon: roger dodger. tell him to call me tomorrow]
[Scott: will do. thanks for the assist.]
[Gordon: anytime, chief.]
"You think Dad'll let me go home?" John's voice was quiet.
Scott looked up. He didn't think John had been paying attention, fixated as he was on lights outside the window.
"Dad?" Scott echoed. John must have misunderstood something. "Dad's at home, waiting for us. We've got that, you know, the thing? The presentation or whatever. Tomorrow morning. Gotta go home and get some racktime, brother."
John tore his gaze away from the window to give Scott a puzzled stare. "No, I meant—I mean—home. Before it all goes to hell, I should…I should get a flight out tonight. Take T-1 if there's nothing commercial. Get out of LA. Go home."
"Back to Kansas?" Scott frowned. "Why?"
"Because everyone knows I'm a drug addict."
Scott had to take a breath and let it out slowly. Robin Locke could go fuck himself. "Nobody knows anything, John."
"But Robin said—"
"He was drunk. No one's going to believe anything he says. What they heard—if they heard anything at all—was Robin getting pissy because he lost at poker. Shouldn't be news to anyone that he's an idiot. If it's your word against his, who do you think would win?"
John turned back to the window. "But how did he know?"
Scott was glad John couldn't see him wince. "It doesn't matter," he said, even if it wasn't true. "Robin Locke doesn't matter."