A/N: So. Here we are, a year after my last chapter and that horrible cliffhanger... Let's just start with an apology, shall we?
I honestly did not intend to allow the gap between chapters to get this long, I think the old deal I made with myself for bi-monthly updates means I owe you guys at least six installments, but in my defence, I really haven't had a whole lot of time to deal with a reluctant, grumpy Mr. John Tracy, what with full-time uni, work and personal issues, as well as the crossover fanfiction I am currently affiliated with. I'm really going to try my best to get some sort of update schedule going again shortly, but rest assured that I am not abandoning this story in any way, shape or form. I have two sequel series and at least three preceding ones planned for this universe (nope, no spoilers there, people, I promise!), so I have absolutely no intention of giving it up as a bad job.
Thank you for all your incredible reviews, once again; I always appreciate them more than you know. I love you all, and treasure every one, and sometimes I am brought to tears with how supportive you all are, and these two lovely people stood out over my absence for that.
First I must heartily thank xbullet-to-the-heartx for the review that I got back in May. It was lovely to meet you, and I do hope you've not given up on me. I certainly do my best as a writer, and I'm flattered that you think that about my works! Thank you again!
Secondly, a shout-out to an anonymous reviewer, Alex for not one, but two incredible reviews over the past two months. If not for those rather flattering messages to me, this chapter would definitely not have been updated today. I had been having so much trouble with John that I was panicking to some extent, thinking that I wouldn't be able to meet my self-imposed deadline of 365 days, but then I received your second one and I finally got the inspiration to finish it. Thank you. Welcome to my crazy world, Alex, this chapter is dedicated to you. 'Never give up at any cost' is the motto of International Rescue, my friend, so never fear that this story will be abandoned, I love you all far too much for all your support to give up on Johnny now.
My last special thank-you, as always, must go to LexietFive, who has been my partner in crime, beta-reader and a sounding-board for technical aspects of this chapter. Lexie has been a pillar of unwavering support in my personal life when I've needed it most; this year very much in particular, and I just want to acknowledge that. Love you, parabatai! X
Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to write in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds. I am not a medical professional of any sort, and any technical/medical information depicted within must therefore be taken with a grain of salt.
After an almost year-long wait, please read and enjoy. Xx
I wake suddenly and forcefully, a scream tearing its way through my hoarse throat. I feel the arms from before still gripped firmly around my upper torso, and I register that there's something over my nose, pinching it gently as nausea rolls in a constant loop, feeling soggy and hot.
Wrenching my eyes open, meeting darkness and dim shapes, I sob sharply as there is sound suddenly filtering into my left ear, the voice making it low and soothing and calm. I can breathe, sort of, through the choking, searing gasps, but terror still roars through me. My ears ring and my head pounds painfully, and I frown deeply, confused. I'm okay, it seems, but how...? How did I...?
"Shh, Johnny... I've got you..." Virgil murmurs, interrupting my train of thought, his voice trembling slightly. "It was just a dream, you're okay, I've got you. Dad's coming, big brother. It was only a dream..."
"Oh my God..." I croak, as cognizance crashes into me, my head splitting, choking on the taste of blood and vomit that still clogs my throat. "Oh my God..." I screw my eyes more tightly closed, riding out the nausea, and my brother's voice continues it's soothing roll around me.
It was just a dream. A nightmare, more like. Jesus. What a mess...
Slowly, the vividness of the bathroom scene begins to retreat, leaving me shuddering painfully in Virgil's overly-warm grip. He's crammed his body in behind mine, half propped up against the headboard, my head against his chest, and I can feel his chin resting lightly on my shoulder; his tousled, dark sandy hair brushing my cheek. I breathe out in a shuddering motion, hands scrabbling for stability in the blankets as I will my heartbeat to slow.
"Alright?" My brother breathes softly, rubbing my good shoulder carefully, and I feel a rush of gratitude for him for being so damn gentle in his probable panic just now. It's my head that's more painful than anything else.
Nodding it tentatively, I feel the sticky wetness of the fluids from my nose and stomach over my mouth and chin, and I raise my hand clumsily, clamping my lips closed as I use my sleeve to wipe it away somewhat. Eew. Slightly calmer now that reality has re-emerged, I push myself upright into a seated position, and open my eyes into slits as Virgil continues to rub my back. I can just see the bed in my lower vision, staring at the wall as my tipped-back head allows, darkness painting the folds of the blankets in shadow; the moonlight on the ceiling and the hunched silhouettes of my telescope and the boxes of old astronomy gear soothing me with their presence.
There are hurried footsteps, and the bedside lamp is switched on, warm yellow, and it helps in chasing away the terrors in some indefinable way. I flinch as it sends a blast of pain into both of my eyes, but they flicker toward the new arrival anyway, my arms reflexively grabbing for him.
Dad...
"John?" Dad's voice is hoarse with sleep, but reassuring, and his blue eyes bore into mine in worry as he tips his head to the side, bending down to meet my gaze.
Virgil checks the bleeding as I nod, acknowledging my father's words, my brother patting me on the shoulder as his fingers finally let go of my nose, allowing the muscles in my neck to ease.
"Are you okay?" Dad asks. "What on earth happened?" His eyes switch between Virgil and I as he speaks, but unfortunately, I'm not exactly in a place to answer. I've been distracted by something slightly more important than some stupid nightmare. This is worse. Much worse. Nausea rises slightly, but I ignore it, cringing. Just... Urgh.
More than vomiting, more than enduring splitting headaches that are so bad that you can barely function, more than putting your family through the pain of you declining, that it feels like the whole world is being ripped open beneath your feet; the loss of every shred of dignity you've ever possessed is in a way, a fate worse than death. I'm saying it now, and in all likelihood I will end up saying it again a thousand times before all of this comes to an end, in one way or another.
There is honestly nothing more humiliating than the lows you fall to as a cancer patient.
My logical brain hasn't yet caught up to the emotional center's rather unpleasant discovery, but that doesn't stop me from startling my brother and my father both, as I make a flame-cheeked bid to fight free of the blankets that feel like they have turned into manacles. I hate how much this disease of mine is robbing me of all my basic abilities, so it is of course, entirely realistic that I am able to have the one-up on both Virgil and Dad with my sudden, mortified lunge to the edge of the mattress. None of us, me least of all, expect me to be able to move so fast, especially considering my current physical condition, but I do, probably fueled by embarrassment and anger at myself, both. Don't do stuff by halves, do you Johnny? I curse vehemently. What fucking twenty-two-year-olds wet their beds? 'Course, that answer is obviously me, isn't it?
Naturally, it's only my father's quick arms around my waist that stop me face-planting on the floor, and his eyes are wide and concerned as he grips my arms, and my younger brother almost sprints around the bed.
'Course, now I've scared them, haven't I? Fucking brilliant.
"Oh, John..." Dad sighs and holds a hand up to Virgil as he sees my trousers and we both smell the stench, my cheeks flaming and furious tears springing unbidden to my eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck! "C'mon, let's get you to the bathroom, quiet now. Virgil, get him some clean things will you, and strip the bed?" My father looks at me, empathy and sympathy both in his dark eyes, and I swallow the burning lump in my throat as Virgil tactfully doesn't meet my eyes. Dad helps me sit up properly and move away from the mingled piss, vomit and congealing blood on what used to be a rather comfortable collection of bedclothes, and I grab the edge of the mattress with my right hand, my left arm wrapped around my side; twinging painfully from my sudden movement.
My head is spinning slightly from blood-loss vertigo and embarrassment both, my back is absolutely throbbing, and even though I can't bring myself to speak right now, a grunting, high whine of mingled pain and disgust emerges without my permission. I need a shower, a painkiller, and the ability to turn back time. Whichever order is preferable, I don't have the ability to care right now otherwise.
As Virgil busies himself at the bureau, I stare at the floor as Dad helps me to my feet, waiting for me to get them beneath me, wobbly as they are right now. He doesn't mention the dampness of my trousers and how they get stuck beneath my heels as we slowly reach the bedroom door. I notice absently that my shirtfront is absolutely covered in blood, much like the bedcovers, but I'm grimly hopeful that my physicians seem to have found the right dosage of coagulants to at least keep some sort of lid on any thrombocytopenic bleeding that occurs. It seems as though, unlike in my dream, the epistaxis, this episode - while heavier than any non-sufferer would endure - was lighter than they've been for a while.
Really, the fact that I had that considerably minor nosebleed just before I went to bed should've probably clued me into the suspicion that I might've had another one during the night, however we'd been told that was under control with the red-platelet transfusion I had early yesterday morning before I got released, raising my numbers to something measuring merely a couple thousand below the normal threshold, rather than several. They're tracking it, obviously (with the sheer number of blood-draw pinpricks in the elbow without the PICC in it, I should damn well hope so), but obviously this is going to continue to be a tricky balance to keep, what with everything else that's going on with my body right now. They experimented continuously with a number of dosages over the coherent portion of my hospital stay, but as I know from these last seven weeks or so, there's no guarantee that things are going to stay stable for any concentrated length of time.
Urgh, my brain's going in circles, meandering among the useless and obvious statements, my overtired brain running overtime and my hands and knees shaking with lingering shock and the effort of standing up in my current level of exhaustion. I push the technical thoughts away (I'm too damn tired right now to even think about any of that crap, let alone what my body is trying to do to itself this time), I'm just trying to concentrate in putting one foot in front of the other. Both literally and figuratively.
Dad guides me finally into the bathroom with the fresh clothes that Virgil hands him, and lowers me to sit on the closed toilet lid. I swallow my disgust as wet pyjama trousers rub my thighs uncomfortably, feeling sick to my stomach and kind of hot. I feel like I'm trying to think through fog, and I wonder vaguely if my thought processes have been affected by exhaustion, blood loss, shock, or just fear-instinct this time. However, Dad's hands are gently on my shoulders, and he's catching my attention. Like everything else, I'll deal with working that out later. Whenever later comes.
"I'm... okay." I mumble as Dad slides his rough fingers carefully beneath my chin, my ears barely registering his ever-more-concerned query as he lifts my head from my contemplation of my knobbly, too-thin legs. "Just... I'm sick of this." I meet his eyes reluctantly, biting my lip as I wave my arm slowly about, encompassing the entire bathroom. Like the bathroom is an accurate indicator of 'everything'... Great job John.
"I'm... I'm... flailing, Dad... I... I can't..." My voice breaks with no warning, and the tears come for real then. I can't stop myself from letting out a series of sobs, eyes screwing closed, heat rising in my already-flushed cheeks, a hard lump solidifying in my throat.
Dad instantly stands from where he's squatted at my eye level, and pulls me to his chest, heedless of the blood and urine on my clothes and the vomit on my breath. For a moment, I can't breathe with the panic that overwhelms me, and I grab the back of his shirt, clenching the material so hard that my sore, chapped hands creak. Oh God...
"Oh John..." Dad's breath is hot on the side of my neck, and his fingers run through my thin hair as he holds me upright, my shoulders shaking. I know it's mostly exhaustion and fear talking right now, drowning out what is my father's reassurance, but I feel like my whole soul is splitting apart at the seams, and I can't seem to get enough breath. Dad perches on the edge of the bathtub to my right, and I cling tighter to him as the pain eases slightly, but it's not long before I start to gasp with the discomfort I'm currently in. It all tumbles in on me.
My brothers, Dad, Grandma, Sherry, oh God, Sherry, how can I... It's too hard, why do I bother keeping on trying? I don't see the point in being in this much pain. I'm reduced to pissing myself, having bloody, hallucinatory dreams and bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, like someone close to kicking the bucket. Oh dear God, I'm so scared right now, and disgusted with myself. It's fucking sickening, how did I not know? How did that even happen? Is it something to do with the cancer, the treatment? Is it going to get worse, will it get so bad that I don't know my own family? Fuck!
"John," Dad's tipping my head back suddenly, and I can barely control my gasps as he brushes my hair from my face, hand cupping my jaw as his voice reaches my ears through the previous sound-block. It is stern, but sensitive and supportive, and it takes a lot of effort to do so, but I force myself to listen. Fuck. "John, just take a deep breath, just close your eyes and count for me alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth, five seconds each, it'll help. I've got you, Son, I've got you..."
I can hear the anguish, well-hidden though it is in my father's voice, but now I've latched onto his overlaid, probably-forced calm, I can recognise the Commander-level determination in his words; like Scott in Field Commander mode, or Virgil with his doctor-in-training persona. That's what steadies me, strangely enough, the comparisons to my father's and brothers' roles in an organisation that I might never be able to take active part in again. The reminder that I was - am - a member of International Rescue; an outfit dedicated to helping others out of impossible situations, shows me that I'm surrounded with people with the same mindset. Dad's taking control of it, but it doesn't necessarily mean that I have to.
It reminds me that I'm allowed to crumble, that he and the others can as well if they need to, that it's not only as an organisation of rescuers we are supported, but also as the family of the rescuers. We all take some measure of strength from one another. Double insulation. As I register that, probably for the thousandth time, I remember the ways that my brothers and I have interacted over the trying periods in our lives - the last few weeks more than any other time - and a part of me wonders why the hell I've let myself get so worked up over this considerably minor speed-hump. Pure, psychological stupidity most likely.
Dad doesn't ask if I'm okay, he knows I'm not; he knows me too well, has seen me in this state too many times to waste his breath, but he just continues to rub my back as I cry myself out.
That's not fair though. It's not that he'd be wasting his breath. I mean, there's something to said for the contradictory reassurance that is provided when you're told something is going to be alright when it most certainly isn't. Sometimes a person needs that temporary sense of security, the white lie; a defence against the real world, even if just for a short amount of time until it kicks back into gear.
Dad knows that I can't always handle that, and tonight; this is one of those unnecessary moments. He knows that the majority of the time, I need to slog it out on my own without the false assurances, because we can't be sure. Not this time. The way that I'm voluntarily clinging to him like this, in way that I haven't done for years now is proof enough of that.
##
It took me a good twenty minutes, given the fact that my balance is shot to crap, and my head is still aching, but finally, I'm clean and dry. Embarrassingly, Dad wouldn't leave the bathroom while I washed, for safety's sake, but I took the opportunity while I was in the shower to rid myself of the garish purple ink that had marked the areas from the radiation therapy session for yesterday; small and large circles traced on my throat, on the right side of my stomach, and in the right side of my chest respectively, where the white, pebble-like patches of the infected lymph nodes are clustered.
From the ...incident, and the slightly more elevated temperature I'm exhibiting, Dad thinks that I might be developing a urinary tract infection due to how long I was catheterised in the hospital, even though the foley was changed regularly for hygiene purposes. Dad's made a note to contact the hospital and Dr. Kingston in the morning, just in case it's some sort of accumulative side-effect from the medications I've been on since the surgery, but we won't know for sure until my latest round of pathology tests come back from the lab. Hopefully the 'walking drugstore' thing will hold it off it that is the case, but with my track record lately, I'm not in a state to say that I'm very confident.
I'm still kind of spooked by the nightmare, and my nerves are jangling like I've parked myself on a live-wire, even though the bathroom didn't become the scene that had scared me so badly. Therefore, rather than go back to bed, I shake my head when Dad offers to help me back to my room, as Virgil sticks his head through the door, reporting that the bedclothes have been changed over, and that he's got a granola bar for me to eat to help raise my blood sugar from the residual shock of fluctuating blood pressure.
"It's fine..." I say hoarsely as I lever myself slowly to my feet from my perch on the toilet seat again, accepting the snack with a nod of thanks and a quick smile to my brother. Looks like my body's reverting to its old fallback for when something's troubling me, at least in normal circumstances; Insomnia. "I'll catch up tomorrow, I'm just..." I shake my head wearily. "I just can't right now." I'm wide awake and though my body is damn worn out, my brain is jumping from place to place so that I'm literally vibrating with nervous energy.
Dad nods, his lips pursed. He understands where I'm coming from, but he doesn't like it. I don't much either, but I know that my bed isn't going to give me much comfort until I've put daylight hours between myself and the events of tonight, however much I need proper sleep.
"I'll grab your things." He tells me quietly, clapping his hand on my shoulder, meaning a blanket and my pillows on the off chance that having a change of scenery will help me drop off again. "Virgil, help your brother down the stairs this time, will you? I don't want a repeat of yesterday."
Dad's right on that note, my foot isn't bad to stand on, it's just a bit tender if I'm up on it for too long. My back's hurting badly though, aching up through the back my pelvis and my kidneys, and the remains of Thunderbird Five will hear about it if I jack my sciatica up again, I can tell you.
Virgil nods as he wraps an arm around my back and helps me to the hallway, and Dad splits off toward my bedroom to fetch my comforter. I'm happy to leave the bathroom behind me right now. It might be a bit childish and ridiculous to dislike a place so suddenly and intensely because something so petty and minor occurred there, but it's a sign of how bad this is getting overall that I feel entirely justified in indulging in stupid grudges with inanimate, inarticulable objects. I said I was intelligent, not that I had any common sense. And I have admitted I am mentally exhausted too, so I'm definitely cutting myself some slack here.
Shut up Brain.
I can feel Virgil's eyes on me and I let out a huff of annoyance as I make him wait at the bottom of the stairs for a moment so I can catch my breath. His gaze is conflicted as I meet it, and I wonder what he is thinking behind those hazel eyes of his. He's not said much at all since he woke me up, for which I'm grateful for, but in another way, I'm a bit concerned, because only a month or so ago, Virgil was well on the way to becoming a top graduate in the Scott Tracy School of Smothering, and he's barely focusing on anything nowadays. I wouldn't ever admit it to any of my brothers lest I get teased for eternity by the younger ones about how much of a great sap I'm turning into in my old age, but this is yet another thing that isn't like Virgil.
It might be because of his new illness, it could be just because of me, it's so hard to tell, but this twenty-year-old ghost looking at me is not my little brother. I glance at Virgil as I breathe in against the tightness of my chest, and I see that his mouth is twisted in concern. He's staring right back at me, and it might be a bit obvious, but for once, just looking closer at him like this allows me to see immediately that I was right on the second guess. Trouble is there's not a lot I can do about it.
"I'm fine John." Virgil says quietly, brushing my examination off with barely a heartbeat's consideration. Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't want attention drawn to themselves tonight. "Levels are too low right now, so I'm keeping you company, need to get them back up again and I can't sleep until then." He pats his robe pocket, pre-empting my query about snacks and his blood testing supplies. Looking up to meet my gaze properly as we make our slow way into the living room, Virgil cocks an eyebrow at me, a small grin lifting the edge of his mouth. "Okay?"
I nod, accepting his reasoning without question. Virgil might be new to Diabetes, but he knows what he's doing, and I'm grateful that he appears to have had the same idea as me. If he's awake and willing to keep me company, then that suits me perfectly. Two's company after all.
I know that Scott is dead asleep, because he hasn't woken even with all the racket I made earlier, which is a damned relief. Much like Gordon and Alan in the way that when he really does manage to fall deeply asleep, nothing short of tectonic disruption will wake him, Scott needs this. It doesn't happen often at all, probably once or twice every few months, which shows just how exhausted he really is at the moment, so I absolutely refuse to disturb him just so I can have a baby sitter. I hate the fact that it's necessary for me to have a minder, but it is. I can't get out of that one, but if that were true I wouldn't be like this, and everything would be absolutely peachy, which it's not. Blech.
Dad needs his sleep just as much as Scott, more really; needing the energy and clarity of mind to continue dealing with the company, as well as trying to coordinate with Brains and the Kyranos over International Rescue going ahead like I want it to, and of course then there's us, isn't there? Stretched thin, Jefferson Tracy is, and daft as it might be, I feel I need to do my bit to help him. Virgil and I are going to have to team up to convince him to go back and sleep, because even though our father is one of the most level-headed people I know, he has his less-so moments. He keeps his calm in all possible situations, but when it involves one of us boys, he tends to go a bit crazy, even if he doesn't mean it. I guess we all do.
I've settled on the sofa wearily as Virgil flicks through the channels on the almost-muted television set when Dad does turn up again, and he looks between the two of us as he stands in the doorway, his brow furrows as he realises what we're doing. To my bemusement though, his expression melts into amused resignation, and he shakes his head.
"What do I do with you two?" He sighs, eyeing us up.
Virgil's got a few bottles of water on the coffee table, and his testing kit is dumped on the floor on top of the folded quilt that normally hangs off the back, awaiting him to climb beneath it. He's hoarding all the cushions except for Grandma's memory-foam chiropractic one that I've commandeered for my glitchy spine, and I feel a flicker of amusement as I register the almost fort-like design of the nest he's made for himself. "I can tell when I'm not wanted..." Dad grins tiredly and hands me my comforter and pillow, for which I smirk back at him in thanks, my consumed granola bar feeling like a lead weight in my gut. "One of you shout if you need anything, right?"
His shadowed-purple eyes are stern, belying his cheerful tone, and my breath catches, reminding me of what happened before. Uh-uh, no, I was doing pretty well at ignoring that til now, go away... I push it back, but make a note for later, if I damn well remember this time. We need therapy, the lot of us, I just know it.
Virgil, having found something worth watching on the hard drive, chucks the remote control onto the sofa in the gap created by our socked feet, and tugs the quilt over himself, glancing at Dad with a promise in his face. "Sure, Dad." He says. "We'll be fine though. I swear."
I prop my chin on the rim of my recently-acquired mug of hot chocolate as Dad accepts the possibly-redundant promise with what looks like far too much knowledge of potential disaster. He looks like he might protest, but then leaves anyway with a last look over the two of us, for certainty's sake.
I sigh quietly to myself as the opening credits for Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country play softly from the television speakers. The moment is peaceful, though I'm trying to ignore that looming thing that keeps popping up without any warning, but it's not entirely working. There's a horrible ache in my chest, more emotional than physical this time, and it literally hurts to realise that I might very well lose these moments very quickly, very soon.
Biting my lip, I do my best to shove it away, but I come to the conclusion that there are often times that I envy my younger brothers their ability to always continue to rediscover that elusive thing called optimism.
The moment is great, but damn, I hate this.
A/N: Thanks again guys, please feel free to tell me what you thought! I can be reached on Twitter, Facebook, Livejournal, Youtube and of course via this site. Details are on my profile page. Looking forward to hearing from you all!
Pyre. Xx