Gordon entered the hospital room, looking towards the bed with a nod.

"Hey, Virgil. It's me again. Gordon."

Virgil didn't answer. Still, Gordon felt it extremely inconsiderate to not talk to him just because he couldn't talk back. It rarely stops him in any scenario.

He made his way over to the chair he'd used earlier when he was first allowed to visit. It had been a few hours ago, when the police were finally done questioning Scott and himself over the death of the junior doctor. They were all too baffled and exhausted to handle anything more after that. Scott returned to Base on their father's instruction, despite being conflicted. He confided that he really didn't want to leave Virgil, but Alan needed him more. He was also reluctant to leave his 'Bird out on display for any more demolition attempts.

When he saw Virgil, to say goodbye, he emerged from the private room looking resolute. Gordon wasn't fooled and could see he was a shade paler, the departing handshake he gave him a bit too firm.

Gordon assigned himself guard duty, promising to be as committed as Scott would be. They'd already lost John, now Alan. Virgil needed somebody to make sure nobody came back to finish the job. Sure, there were guards outside the door. Safety precautions had done a lot of good so far.

He studied his brother on the bed, knowing how much he would hate how he looked right now, so far from his usual pristine appearence. They had removed the ventilator and stopped the steady dose of barbiturates that had been keeping him deeply unconscious. The doctors had done all they could to prevent any further brain damage from the cardiac arrest. Now Virgil had to meet them half way.

Shuddering from tiredness, Gordon leaned forward to prop his elbows on Virgil's bed and pick up one of his hands in both his own. Just like in the helicopter. This time the hand felt warm and alive, the fingers heavy and lax. There was still patches of dirt and blood in the wrinkles of his knuckles, under his fingernails.

Gordon had never had a habit of taking people's hands, especially his brothers. He supposed it was another echo of what happened with his own brush with death, when his only tether to sanity was a soothing voice and the reassurance of another human being by his side. Sometimes John, sometimes Father, often Scott. Mostly Virgil. He was prone to a sensitive touch, only when nobody was looking. Never Alan. He always hated hospitals. He hated hopelessness even more.

Gordon studied Virgil's face, that was so much like their Mom's. Gordon had been too young to remember their mother. Grandma once discovered a few home videos one year, of a summer's barbeque in their back garden in Kansas. Jeff explained that the whole neighbourhood would visit for Grandma's food. The brothers, huddled around the screen, found it hard to tell which boy was who as they charged over the grass. The one year old redhead toddler was unmistakable, pulling along a pregnant woman by the hand. Both Gordon and Alan did not expect to see that Virgil had had their Mom's facial structure. The same eyes. In a lot of ways, it was the only way Gordon had ever truly seen her. Through Virgil.

Gordon suddenly realised he had been quiet too long, but wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm glad you listened," he said eventually, sincerely, "I'm glad you stayed. I'll ignore the 1000 volts of extra encouragement you needed. I'll pretend it was my words that did their magic."

Virgil continued sleeping. There was no signs of consciousness. His breathing was good and steady.

"You're a miracle, Virg. You know that? I guess that makes two of us, now. Let's hope Alan's inherited some luck of his own."

Gordon squeezed Virgil's hand tighter, the thoughts that had sent him spiralling into a faint earlier pressing dangerously heavy on his shoulders.

"I wanted to tell you earlier. Before I left this morning, Rachael found out she was pregnant. She showed me the test. Can you believe it? There's gonna be another baby on the island. Well, it's early days, so... You won't tell anyone, will you?"

He waited politely for a response that didn't come.

"No, of course you won't."

The private room was warm and dark. Gordon ended up falling asleep, half leaning on the bed. A nurse on her night shift took pity on him and brought around a reclining chair for him to sleep on. Gordon wheeled it as close to Virgil's side as he could, taking his vigil seriously. He was bombarded by awful flashbacks to the last time he held a watch like this, when his charge was John, slowly dying of a virus in an isolation room.

Thoughts of John sent him into feverish dreams that were far from restful.

He wasn't sure what woke him some time later, but he knew someone else was present and aware in the room. He squinted into the dark, at Virgil's silhouetted form. Sure enough, his big brother's dark eyes were open and blinking slowly, gazing up at the ceiling.

Gordon was at his side instantly, half laughing and half crying. Laughing because, for once in his life, his prayers had been answered. Crying because he had no idea how he was going to tell Virgil that they'd lost Thunderbird Two and their little brother.

His gaze, blurry with tears, flicked down to the end of the bed. Virgil's legs were both in casts. One of them, the left, no longer had a foot.

An amputation below the knee had been the least of Virgil's concerns a few hours ago, but now...

Virgil looked up at him, his face a confused grimace. It was a heartbreaking thing to see on someone who did not deserve any of this.

"Welcome back," Gordon managed, preparing himself for the literal uphill struggle that was to come.