Update again!

Warnings on this one: There's a small flash-back to some torture here. Nothing hardcore (although it's certainly not something I imagine anyone wanting) but I wanted to warn people just in case.

Hope you guys all like this; and once again I apologise hugely for being so slow – I don't deserve how many of you put up with me :D Love you all!

God, how had it even got to this? How had he ended up here in the middle of a Godforsaken mountain range, dying in his brother's arms?

How had it got to this?!

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Confusion. A jumble of voices and sounds.

Virgil couldn't understand what was going on around him, the bursts of light and voices shrouded by mist. The only thing that he knew for certain was that his eldest brother was right beside him, and that was at least some comfort.

Was he dead? Probably not if he could still feel the horrendous pain that drummed through his body. There was a pressure against his back where Scott's hand was pressing against the entry wound of the bullet, trying desperately to prevent the younger man from bleeding out there and then. He could taste blood in his mouth.

Time passed. He couldn't tell how much. Minutes, or maybe it was years. From the pain it felt like it could easily have been years but logic said that that was very unlikely.

There were loud voices nearby, a vehicle engine, feet crunching on the rocky ground. Virgil was sure he recognised his youngest brother shouting something but the sounds were beginning to blur into a haze of noise. And then there was an unfamiliar voice, someone leaning over him, Scott was questioning them frantically.

There was a sharp prick of a needle in his upper arm, barely noticeable over the pain emanating from his back and then slowly the blur of light around him began to fade. The last thing he was really aware of was his eldest brother repeating over and over that it was going to be okay.

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Alan sat outside one of the large tents in the British army camp, his back resting against the taut tarpaulin as he balanced his iPad on his knees. He'd set up a video-call to Thunderbird Five to update John on the situation, aware that Scott was elsewhere in the camp having the same conversation with their father.

"They still won't tell us anything." He was saying quietly. "Apparently he'll be in surgery for another hour or so."

"Were they at least hopeful for a good outcome?" John looked as desperate as he sounded.

"Fifty-fifty at the moment. The bullet didn't fragment, but it lodged in his lung after tearing through his liver. And you know how badly liver wounds bleed."

The older Tracy nodded silently. Blood-loss, possible shock and two vital organs punctured. It didn't take a medical degree to know that it didn't look good.

"Tell me it's going to be okay…" Alan's whisper was almost involuntary. "Tell me that after all this he's going to be alright." He looked away, trying to sniff back tears.

"Alan…"

"I know, I know." The young man managed a watery smile. "Think positive, huh?"

John's returning smile was just as strained and false. "Exactly. Everything is going to be fine."

Neither brother dared to think about what it would mean if everything wasn't fine. Three long months of having to watch grainy films of their sibling being tortured and abused and now when they finally had him back, it looked like all their efforts had been in vain anyway. A single gunshot that shouldn't have been possible.

"How's the Brit doing?" John asked.

"They're still trying to stabilise him." The youngest Tracy was looking physically sick at the thought. "Apparently he's been missing for two years; they'd all thought him dead."

His brother nodded. "He's safe now. They both are. And Virgil will be okay!"

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Elsewhere on the base, Scott had pulled the laptop from the Mobile Control unit and had taken up a seat in the corner of the empty soldiers mess. The two Thunderbirds had been moved to just outside the base perimeters and he could see the gleaming hulk of Thunderbird One through the flap of the tent. On the screen infront of him there was a small weather read-out to monitor any potential storms that could come over, and a large diagnostic program.

He had set up a graphic representation of the scenario that was currently playing over and over in his head. Two prisoners at gun point, five hostiles, a negotiator and two friendlies with immense fire-power. The computer software had originally be created by Brains to evaluate rescues that had gone wrong, and was a highly sophisticated piece of programming that could take into account the multiple factors of a complex situation.

Scott was now trying to see if there had been any way he could have tackled the situation that wouldn't have resulted in both prisoners being shot. The guilt eating away at him was beyond anything he'd experienced before. They had failed rescues in the past which had resulted in casualties and deaths, and he'd always been of the opinion that it was his own decisions that caused the failures. The guilt that such events caused was a feeling he'd had to learn to live with, and the faces of the dead that they couldn't save were burnt into his memory.

It had never occurred to the young man – considering how terrible he felt after a failed rescue – that he could ever feel worse. But now he was sitting on a dusty wind-swept plateau, in the middle of no-where with his brother critically – maybe fatally – injured. And it was all his fault. He'd made a terribly bad judgement call and now it was his brother paying the price.

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Hours passed.

The sun had dipped down behind the mountains, so that the base was in the deep shadow and the two Thunderbird machines gleamed gently in the lights emanating from the camp. The International Rescue operatives had been given the use of a small tent near to the field-hospital and had piled their kit bags in a corner of it.

There were camp beds set up for them, but no-one felt like trying to get any sleep. Any attempt at conversation had dwindled long ago and now they waited in tense silence.

Gordon was pacing the length of the tent with a deep scowl written across his face. The rest of the small group – Brains and Tintin included – had taken up seats on the fold-up beds as they waited for any news of their comrade. They had been offered food but despite having not eaten since setting out no-one could bring themselves to touch the plates. Worry took all appetites away.

There were footsteps outside, military boots crunching on the rocky ground. The person halted by the closed entry to the large tent and cleared their throat politely before ducking under the tent flap.

"News?" Scott rose to his feet, resisting the urge to salute as his gaze caught the sergeants' stripes on the new-comers shoulder.

"He's out of surgery,"

"And…?"

The small smile on the woman's face told them the outcome and it was physically possible to see the tension begin to dissipate. The sergeant included them all as she swept her gaze around the tent.

"He's not out of the danger zone yet, but the surgeons have stabilized him. We're currently preparing a medical convoy to take both your colleague and the soldier to a hospital."

Scott nodded, almost in a daze. He truly hadn't appreciated the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins until that moment. The effects as it began to drain away were already noticeable.

"The other guy? Is he alright?"

"The surgeons did what they could, but had to amputate his foot to save the rest of his leg."

The elation slowly sweeping through the tent was dimmed at that news. It was unsurprising that such a drastic decision had had to be made, considering the damage a close-range bullet could do, but it still came as a shock to hear it. A guilty shock at that – no one there had spared much of a thought for the young soldier, being too worried about Virgil. Understandable given the circumstances, but it still made each of them feel ashamed that they hadn't really given a thought for the poor man.

The sergeant seemed to sense the change in atmosphere and tactfully brought the subject back to one that the family really needed to hear.

"Your colleague is currently still sedated, but you can go and see him whilst we prepare to move them to the nearby airbase for transport."

Scott's relieved smile morphed into a small frown. "Where is the hospital?"

"England. The Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham – it's one of our top facilities."

The group exchanged uneasy glances. As an organisation, International Rescue depended on both anonymity and discretion and whilst they could probably trust the medics on the small base, it was risky to go to a big city. But there was no way in hell that they would compromise Virgil's health for the sake of security. The middle Tracy had been unrecognisable from the little they'd seen before he was rushed into surgery, so there was little worry even if photos were leaked from any of the people here. However, should he spend any significant amount of time in hospital, no matter how hard they tried his identity would be out. And if he was recognised, then the rest of the family would be implemented soon enough.

"W-w-would I be able t-t-to speak with th-th-the surgeons at all, Ma'am?" Brains had the pensive look on his face that usually meant a Grand Plan was forming.

"Of course, they can help with any queries you have about his health."

The small scientist turned too Scott. "T-t-team leader, if you go with the s-s-sergeant to see our c-c-colleague, I'll discuss h-h-his condition with the d-d-doctors. It m-m-may be that our own f-f-facilities are adequate."

The eldest Tracy's expression cleared somewhat. That was a possible answer to the dilemma. Hopefully Virgil was in a condition that they could monitor back on the island. Brains – being a certified genius – had a medical degree alongside the PhDs of his engineering and physics, and was capable of at least monitoring someone's recovery.

Knowing that Brains would be able to understand the ins and outs of the medical jargon better than he ever could, Scott felt confident in leaving the scientists to it as he followed the sergeant to the medical tent.

"Through there." She pointed towards a curtained-off area inside. "He won't be awake for a while yet, but you can keep him company."

Scott appreciated that the woman then left and that there weren't any doctors in sight; this was one visit he needed to make without being observed. The curtain was heavy as he pushed through it – a thick tarpaulin like the rest of the tent – and it meant that the area had to be lit by fluorescent strips hanging from the ceiling. They produced a harsh and unnatural light that highlighted everything and left sharp shadows.

It meant that every single cut and bruise on Virgil's pale face stood out with startling clarity.

There was an IV line feeding into his arm that was hooked up to a blood-bag, and a heart monitor showing a steady EKG across it. Those were the only things that Scott could really recognise and understand. Beyond that there were other tubes, one protruding from the unconscious man's mouth, another snaking out from under the blanket. A clip was on Virgil's thumb, monitoring yet another variable that was causing a machine next to the bed to beep quietly. Scott didn't have a clue what it was doing, but the light on the display was green, so he assumed that it meant whatever it was keeping an eye on was okay.

Once he got past the medical paraphernalia surrounding his brother it was possible to see just how different Virgil now looked.

The young man was pale, although that was expected after the trauma. He'd lost a noticeable amount of weight and the straggling beard he sported did not suit him in the least. Nor did the long hair that had over-grown past his ears and was threatening to reach his thin shoulders. Virgil had never really had any spare weight to lose as it was – his bulk had been muscle-mass – but whatever had been there was now gone.

Scott slumped into the chair next to his brother's bed.

Was this real? He'd dreamt this so many times now.

Well, in his dreams Virgil had been less injured, less broken. Or in the nightmares Virgil had been dead. This was certainly preferable to dead but was still heart-rending.

Gingerly the young man raised his arm up to curl his fingers around his brother's unresponsive hand. The limb was warm in his grasp, a strong pulse beating through it. Reassuring.

"Virgil…?" There was a quaver to Scott's voice, something very rarely heard from the eldest Tracy. It usually warned of the threat of tears.

He didn't expect a response and therefore wasn't surprised to not receive one. Virgil's breath, directed by the intubation line down his throat, remained steady and the gentle beep of the EKG showed no sign that he had heard his older brother. Scott had known this would be the case but after so long there was a part of his brain that still foolishly believed his voice would rouse the younger man – medically-induced coma or no.

Even so, he felt the need to fill the silence – insofar as the constant humming of the medical machinery could be called silence. He felt like things had to be said and yet at the same time simply couldn't put all of his emotions into words.

Relief, grief, guilt, anger, fear. Some were what he expected to feel, others came as a surprise, but shouldn't have since in such situations every emotion is invariably felt one way or another.

"I don't what to say." He finally managed. "After all this, I don't know what to say." He heard the break in his voice as his breath suddenly hitched. "I don't know what to say…"

And then there were just tears.

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Brains agreed with the doctors that it was okay to transport Virgil in Thunderbird Two's medical unit back to Tracy Island. He had radioed ahead to Jeff and explained the situation. The Tracy patriarch had been more relieved than Brains had ever heard him and he was glad it was not a video call since he was pretty sure the older man had been crying.

It didn't take long to transport Virgil from the medical tent to Thunderbird Two and hook him up to the small on-board life support system. Scott desperately wanted to stay with him, but he was needed to fly his own bird, and since Gordon was the best suited to flying Two it meant that Alan was the one to sit beside their injured brother. There had been a brief discussion on what – if anything – they should do about Virgil's companion; whether or not to take him with them too since he and their brother had obviously grown close if Virgil's reaction to the shooting had been any indication. However the doctors had ruled that Robbie was in too critical a condition to be moved just yet and that he would need to be transported in one of the C-17 Globemaster's that specialised in aeromed evacuations. A giant of an aircraft, the Boeing plane was only slightly shorter than Thunderbird Two and had nearly the same wing-span. Scott had initially stated that if they couldn't help him themselves, International Rescue would at least pay the medical costs Robbie's recovery would incur. The gesture was obviously appreciated but he was quickly informed that the British healthcare system didn't work in the same way as the one he was used to, so he made a mental note to donate a large sum to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital instead.

They cleared their take-off with the air-traffic-control and were given a quick warning about staying out of the airspace on the other side of the mountain range – it appeared that the rest of the terrorist cell had turned tail and fled and were currently being hunted down by the Danish force stationed there. Scott charted the route back to avoid the hot-spot and the two large craft gracefully took to the air, the army base quickly dwindling to a small speck below them.

Turning to face home the Thunderbirds roared off, ferrying the most precious cargo they'd ever carried back to where he belonged.

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It was raining back on the island. This was usual for the time of year – probably the very edge of a tropical storm – and the wind was driving the leaves from the palm-trees. Jeff didn't care.

He stood at the end of Thunderbird Two's runway, his back to the open hanger. His thick grey hair had been plastered to his head in the deluge, the shirt he wore soaked through.

He didn't care.

The wind was howling but the Tracy patriarch strained his hearing to pick out the first signs of his boys returning, pushed his sight to the limits as he stared out into the roiling black clouds and begging them to morph into the two craft. Kyrano was standing beside him, equally uncaring about the weather and with a tarpaulin-covered gurney at his side ready and waiting.

Had they ever really believed that this day would happen?

Sure, everyone had hoped, pleaded, prayed that they would get Virgil back, but had anyone honestly, deep down believed that it was possible? Maybe – Jeff found his mind whispering – maybe they had only ever truly thought that the only way they'd see Virgil again was in a pine-wood box, if at all.

He almost didn't dare believe that that now wasn't the case. Didn't dare to dream that he was going to have his family whole again. John had played them all the recording of Virgil's brief conversation and after the thrill of just hearing his voice again had died down a little Jeff had been able to let pride flood through him at how resourceful the young man had been. Despite everything that had happened Virgil had not broken and had managed to find a way to contact them, to find a way to save both himself and his companion.

He had had the strength to continue as a rescuer long after he was the one that needed rescuing and Jeff had never felt so proud of his middle son and had never felt such self-loathing for allowing the situation to have arisen.

As always the now-familiar guilt rose in a wave of flame and bile: If only I hadn't sent them out there in the first place, this would never have happened…

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Salt water strung his eyes, harsh and unforgiving as it saturated the cuts and lacerations on his face. The strong hold on the back of his neck forced his head under the icy water and as much as common sense screamed for him not to panic and to just simply hold his breath panic was setting in. He kicked back desperately and was rewarded with a sharp spike of agony laid across his shoulders. The cause of the pain was unknown, but that hardly mattered when it caused him to gasp in shock.

Briny water flooded his mouth and pushed to the back of his throat, filling his lungs. His body's natural reflexes kicked in to desperately bring it back up and someone wrenched his head up out of the water just long enough for him to retch and cough until he could draw a single breath. Then he was forced back down, still struggling as much as being down on his knees would allow.

Someone kicked him hard in the lower back, he guessed somewhere in the region of his kidneys and once again the air was knocked out of him.

Water filled his lungs and this time no-one bothered to haul him up to let him hack it out. Horror and panic coursed through his body in equal measure as he twisted and struggled to no avail, desperately aware that there was no fight left in him. No fight, no air. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe…

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He couldn't breathe!

The first thing he could think of, the first thing that crossed his mind was that he couldn't breathe. For a very long moment all his mind could focus on was the abnormal pressure on the back of his throat that completely blocked off his airways. What was going on? What new torture was this?

There was a dream hovering on the edge of his mind; Scott leaning over him, telling that it would all be okay, pleading with him to hold on. Just a dream. Another Godforsaken dream like he had every night, which tormented him with visions of his family until he could almost believe that it was real and that he was safe. Maybe, maybe this time once he lost consciousness from whatever hell they were devising for him, this time he might not wake up at all.

There was a hand on his head, gently smoothing back his hair.

The gesture was gentle, calming and he wondered if it was Robbie. Who else? The thought that his friend was possibly with him took a slight edge off of the panic, enough for him to realise that as much as he had no control over his breath at all, he was not yet gasping for air. This brought a whole new level of confusion to the situation.

Slowly, Virgil tried to open his eyes, surprised at how heavy they felt and how difficult the action was. He was met with a bright blur - which confused him since the tunnels were always dark - and slowly he became aware of the dull throbbing of engines.

Engines that he knew inside out, back to front and every other which way round that there was. He had built those engines, from scratch, with his own two hands. He knew every little shift in their frequency, could understand every nuance of the language they spoke. These were his engines, his ship, his… The thought was too much and he felt the unconscious flood of adrenaline and sudden pressure as his lungs trued to respond but were held in check by the device that he now sluggishly realised was breathing for him.

And then all thoughts vanished as the hazy blur of the ceiling was eclipsed by a mop of blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

Alan.

He wanted to speak, wanted to shout the name to the heavens as he saw his baby brother above him, but the intubation tube in his throat meant that all he could do was stare. There was no way he could tell if this was real or just another dream, but in the here and now it didn't matter. For as long as it lasted he would just treasure the feeling of utmost relief that built up in him like a fire. It was so fierce and so intense that all he wanted to do was cry.

As it was, the effort to stay awake even this long was taking too much of a toll on him and he could feel his leaden eyelids closing without his permission. However, before he could fully slip back into deep unconsciousness he felt Alan's fingers brushing through his hair again and his little brother's voice – sounding like it was coming from the other side of the world.

"It's okay, Virg, we've got you. You're nearly home, we've got you."

And then, most importantly as he fully lost his hold on awareness:

"You're safe now."

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