I'm late but it's still Friday! I didn't completely lose track of time, I promise!

Keep yourself safe - mentions of panic attacks


FOURTEEN

When Alan stepped off the bus, the air was thick with fog. It wrapped around him like a woollen jumper, soft shades of grey and pearl darkening to a lonely heather of the clouds above. It was impossible to tell where the land ended and the sky began; the horizon was lost to a sea of dappled cotton. Alan held up a hand and grinned as his fingers were hidden from view by the mist.

This was the final stop. It also seemed to be the most desolate one. The only other remaining passenger – a man with a stack of fishing rods protruding from his duffle bag – muttered a gruff farewell and vanished into the fog. As the coach pulled away, Alan was suddenly struck with a fierce sense of peacefulness – he didn't have the slightest clue where they were or what their next move would be, but as he stood wrapped up in the clouds he felt as free as the eagle that soared above, ducking from one bank to another.

"It's this way," Brains reported, glancing up from intently studying his electronic map. There was a grim determination on his face as he squinted into the fog. "About a fifteen-minute walk down to the waterfront."

Alan lifted his rucksack onto his shoulders. "We're staying next to the sea?"

"Yes."

He grinned. "Great."

The road was long and winding, slippery underfoot as it snaked its way downwards. Painted markings were worn and faded so that signage was essentially unreadable; Alan really hoped that Brains's map was correct because if they'd gone the wrong way it would be a difficult climb back up again. His breath was hot and steaming in the air with each exhale, and every inhale was sharp with cold. He could taste the salt on his lips from the sea air and the scent of the ocean was thick in the clouds. There was no wind – it was so still that Alan wondered whether he was even awake. All sounds were muffled so that Brains's footsteps, mere inches ahead of him, were muted.

The cottage sprang out of the headland – a speck of white against a roar of violent greens and dove-clouds. Alan dumped his bags by the gate and ran around to the front where the beach stretched out, seemingly forever. A vast expanse of white sand spread out in front of him, bordered by a line of raging grey waves, each one rearing its head higher than the last. The growl of the ocean was familiar from stormy nights at home and he closed his eyes, drinking in the sound.

"Alan!" Brains had managed to enter the house. His head was stuck out of the front window as he called down. "It's starting to r-rain."

Alan tore himself away from the views and wandered back to the cottage. Above them, the road slithered back around the hill like an oily eel, slick with water as it faded into the low clouds. He imagined it would be easy to hide away here forever; to lose any concept of time in the face of the true wilderness. It didn't seem to be such an unappealing idea.

"Hungry?" Brains asked as Alan kicked off his trainers under the warming radiator and knocked the door shut behind him with his heel. It had been a good six hours since their stop at the service station, if not more, and when he started thinking about food, Alan registered that he was starving. His stomach gave a loud grumble of protest. Brains tried to hide his smile. "There's f-food in the fridge."

"What kind?" Alan hopped up onto the counter as Brains opened the fridge to show him. "The kind we have to actually cook, or the kind we can pop in the microwave and have done with?" Brains pulled out a bag brimming with fresh vegetables and a packet of sausages with a shrug. Alan yawned and leapt down to help him. "A little bit of both, I guess."

Alan wasn't a bad chef. He was unorganised and often ended up with more of the food over himself than on the plates, but if you handed him a recipe then he could follow it step-by-step and produce an edible and surprisingly tasty dish by the end of it. Brains was obsessive over the tiny details – he was used to checking everything right down to the smallest molecule and when he joined the culinary world, it was under rigorous testing in his lab with MAX at hand to help when necessary. As such, they had to compromise and after some dirty looks from a certain scientist and laughing protests from a particular teenager, they ended up eating at the table by the window which overlooked the sea.

"Should I a-ask you about the…"

"Nightmares?" Alan finished for him. "No."

Rain lashed against the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance, like engines. Alan stabbed a piece of carrot with his fork with more aggression than strictly necessary. Brains looked contemplative.

"Will you talk to your brothers?"

Alan stared out the window, silent. "Maybe," he admitted after a pause. "Alright, definitely. I'll talk to Virg if it doesn't get any better."

"It will."

He scooped potato onto his fork. "I hope so."


"Hey." Gordon glanced up at the sound of John's voice, just in time to catch the packet of cookies flying towards him.

"What is with you and throwing things at my head?" He complained loudly, tearing the end off with his teeth and shoving two cookies into his mouth at once – this was not his record. He definitely had great manners John, what are you talking about?

John, looking a lot more refreshed since making use of the GDF facilities – namely a bed and a shower – he was actually paying attention to his human needs now that the evidence had been passed off to the GDF's capable hands – shrugged. "It's a big target."

"Are you insulting me?"

John shot him a side-ways look. "What do you think?"

"I think you're the one who needs to learn some manners. Also," Gordon offered him a cookie and John accepted it with a suspicious stare, "you need some practise because that throw was way off target."

"Shut it, Hawkeye."

Gordon clasped a hand to his chest in shock and almost tumbled off the bonnet of the car he was perched on. "Was that a Marvel reference?" He flailed his arms to add to the drama of the moment, just in case John wasn't appreciating the extra high pitch he'd used for effect. "Johnny, are you finally appreciating pop-culture?"

"No," John growled. "And don't call me Johnny."

Gordon shrugged and returned to his cookies. He preferred gingersnaps or sugar-cookies, but hey, chocolate-chip would do, even if it was off-brand from the GDF cafeteria.

They were preparing to set off into the damp depths of the UK – no, really, Gordon had seen the weather-forecast and yeesh. Someone should bring a rain-mac. Their plane wasn't due to take off for another twenty minutes or so but the idea of lounging around a terminal didn't appeal to either of them, especially when this was the last spot of sunshine they were likely to see for a couple of days, and given that they owned this hanger – and therefore the land in front of it for a few metres of parking space – it made sense to stay out in the open air for a little while longer. John had headed inside to check in and grab a few snacks and a coffee – and also a toothbrush because Gordon promptly announced that his hospital-issued one had gone walkabout – while Gordon had crawled onto the bonnet and flaked out in the sunshine.

"Who are you texting?" John queried, taking a sip of his iced coffee – this was a rarity, but it was too hot for ordinary caffeine – besides, in Gordon's opinion iced drinks were far superior anyway.

He hid his phone from John's view. There was no reason why – it was only Scott – but mysteries bugged John, and always had. "No-one." As if on cue, his phone chimed.

John feigned nonchalance, but his gaze kept sliding over. Gordon felt sort of bad for him and tilted the screen so his brother could see.

"Well at least we know the mods took," John commented. He stirred the ice-cubes in his drink until the liquid was a dilute caramel. "He seems as overprotective as ever."

"Pot, kettle."

"Sorry, did you mean Virgil?"

"Alright Google, my bad."

John laughed – honest-to-god proper laughter. Gordon hadn't even been trying that hard. He lay back against the windscreen and smiled. John deserved to take a break. Hell, they all did. But jeez, he didn't think he'd seen his brother sleep in days and if the truth be known, this was why neither of them was acting pilot – Gordon wasn't medically cleared yet, and John knew deep down that he was too sleep-deprived – reflexes, who?

"It's weird."

John was frowning as he rubbed at a chip in the sleek paintwork of the car. "What is?"

"I spent a week constantly checking on them, and now…I can't even contact Alan."

"You'll see him in a couple of hours. We're flying direct to Scotland."

Gordon traced the contrails streaking across the sky and picked out the little red specks of aircraft descending and soaring back and forth. "Still weird."

"I get it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh." John sounded distracted but Gordon knew him well enough to know otherwise. "It'll be strange when I head up to Five again."

This was actually fair point. Gordon hadn't ever considered it in that way before. John wasn't the overbearing in-your-face protective figure that Scott definitely was, and Virgil could be; he was the quiet one lurking in the background and threatening to destroy your life with a single tap of a button if you so much as thought about hurting someone he cared about. It was easy to forget that John went from being surrounded by the constant array of people on Tracy Island to remaining alone on Thunderbird Five for weeks on end – or even years, if you counted that one godforsaken time that Gordon refused to think about because hello, Dad's gone and oof, he had issues – even for someone in the running for the world's-largest-introvert-prize, it was a bit much.

"You should come down more."

John didn't react. He took another long swig of his coffee. "Probably," he acknowledged at last. Gordon offered him another cookie and he took it. "What's Scott saying now?"

Gordon checked his phone. "Asking about you, actually."

"Shocker." John hid his grin. "Tell him I'm plotting to take over France again."

"Again?"

"Oh, the first time was an accident. Besides, it wasn't a takeover – just a mild break-in to their codes and therefore... you know what? That's it. You don't get to know anymore."

"You took over a country?"

John slid off the bonnet. "College got boring."

Gordon was left gaping after him. "John?" He crawled down and half-hopped half-limped – his bad leg was cramping again – after his brother. "John! You can't just drop that into a conversation and walk off! What d'you mean you took over France? John? John!"


Grandpa Grant (Jeff's father) had never been interested in a swimmer's life, but Grandad (Lucille's father who they hadn't actually had all that much to do with, especially since he'd died when they were all still too little to form strong, lasting memories) had spent much of his life amongst the waves, having been an avid surfer; a trait which had skipped their mom but had been inherited by Scott, with Gordon sticking to the actual swimming side of things. Consequently, he'd always drummed into his little girl (who had then passed this information on to her own children; all five of them) the lessons he'd learnt over the years. There was the obvious the ocean is to be respected and feared, never allow yourself to grow so arrogant as to believe you are the one in control because the sea is always, always, stronger, which was mostly common sense, but there was also another warning which their grandfather had first heard during one of his volunteering trips to the Caribbean during his college days, which was never go into the ocean at night. Alan had been too young, barely six months old when Grandad had first been diagnosed, but Scott, floundering through the first years of Middle School with as much enthusiasm as a fish out of water, had asked more questions, to which the answers had been extraordinarily vague and had raised more mysteries than they had solved. Things come in. It's warmer at the shore at night. None of us know what's really out there, in the depths.

"Things come in," Alan repeated aloud, and shifted a little further towards the edge of the large rock he was perched on. It was one of the many boulders locked into the sand at the water's fingertips, lost from the cliffs a dozen landslips ago, tall enough and broad enough for a lanky teenage boy (growth spurts were still overpowering gym sessions, although it was a guarantee at this point that no matter how hard he tried, Alan was going to take after John rather than Virgil) to sit on the top with the waves splashing just high enough to catch his ankles in their spittle. "Things come in." He ducked his feet into the water, hissing as the icy chill chased his toes even as he yanked them back up and shoved them under his thighs to try and ignite any warmth in his veins. There didn't seem to be anything beyond the murky flow of sandstorms within the ripples of waves and the frost of the moonshine against the sea drops left on his skin.

There was a feeling that came with flying a rocket or with any trip into space that there was something more out there. Human nature was filled with curiosity; it was what led the Wright Brothers into the clouds (even if they didn't make it quite that high) and the first submarines beneath the waves; what brought explorers to the rocky peaks of mountains and lush jungles of tiger stripes and amber casts; what directed future sights to the sky and beyond; what would eventually lead to a successful Eden project, carrying humans to distant homes among the bright stars and planets up there.

Aside from the natural waves brought by currents, the sea was still and flat, laying like an expanse of silk from Alan's rock to the horizon and beyond. It was so calm that it was turned silver by the moon and dusted with the reflections of stars. He shivered.

"This is getting ridiculous."

A gull cawed in the distance. It sounded lonely. The entire place seemed lonely. Peaceful, but lonely.

"I just want to sleep. I need to sleep."

No. It wasn't happening. He was still as wide awake as Virgil after five cups of coffee and an adrenaline high heading out on a rescue.

He remained flung across the rock for a little while longer. It wasn't immensely comfortable - snags of stone were digging into the curve of his spine and caught at the fabric of his jumper around his shoulders – but it was a great view. Somehow, despite flying amongst them and having a brother who literally lived off-planet, Alan had never stopped being fascinated by the stars. They were entrancing, a miracle. Not the miracle he needed – that belonged to sleep and a promise that his family would be alright – but a miracle all the same.

The first vibrations were barely skitters; tiny shivers that raced through the water and trembled against his fingertips where he had one arm dangling over the edge. Then, the distant thunder echoed across the bay; the rumble of engines. The distinctive whine of FAB1 cut through the empty air. Alan bolted upright, searching for headlights. There were none, but he slid off the rock, angry scratches searing across his feet from the sharp stones cut by the sea at its base, and darted up the beach to the cottage. It was dark inside – only the dim embers of the fire still lit the living-room, the bulk of the sofa and kitchen island looming like strange creatures out of the darkness – and Alan almost tripped over the frayed edge of the rug in front of the fire place on his way to the staircase.

At home, he knew which stairs on which staircases squeaked and which ones had traces of glitter-glue on them that still remained despite multiple cleaning attempts. Here, everything was new, even after two days. Alan took them two, sometimes three at a time. Stairs screeched beneath his bare feet, grains of sand skidding across the floorboards. He flung open the door to the master bedroom – which, despite its grand title, was actually closer to the size of an average bathroom with just enough room for a double-bed and a single-drawer dresser with a lone lamp on the top.

"Brains! Wake up!"

"If I w-wasn't awake before," Brains muttered, fumbling for the lamp switch, "I s-sure am now."

"Huh?"

"You threw the backdoor o-open. It s-slammed shut...loudly."

"Oh." Alan didn't waste too much time on this, but the socially acceptable thing to do was to apologise and there was a voice that sounded a bit too much like Grandma for his liking in his head. "Sorry. Anyway, I can hear FAB1."

Lamp switch finally found, Brains sat up. Rubbing at his eyes and slotting his trademark glasses into place, he reached for the coat draped over the end of the bed and followed Alan back down the stairs.

"That didn't take them long," he murmured, and gingerly lay a hand on Alan's shoulder to stop Alan from bouncing up and down like a dog that had just heard its owner pronounce walkies.

Alan took a breath and tried to hold himself still. This was harder to do than it seemed. Around him the little cottage that had grown to be a familiar place of peace and solitude over the past couple of days loomed out of the shadows that sprung from the lamps and soft night. He was holding his breath. And then the door opened.

He'd spent so long away from home now that the idea of stopping, and simply being, had been beyond the grasp of his comprehension. As John opened the door and was promptly barged past by Gordon, Penelope and Parker politely waiting behind in order to give the brothers some space, it suddenly hit him that this was it. It was over. His brothers were here. Brains was in the clear. They could go back to normality.

He couldn't quite remember what normality felt like.

"Hey." He twisted his hands together. His palms were sweaty. He didn't really know what to do. Instinctively he wanted to go in for a hug, but the days and lack of sleep and everything had blurred into a confusing mess.

Gordon gave an incredulous laugh. "Is that all you've got to say?" He surged forwards and flung his arms around Alan, pulling him close so that the air was knocked clean out of Alan's lungs. "Who was better company? Me for a week or Brains for three days?"

Alan buried his face in Gordon's shoulder and closed his eyes. Gordon was keeping his weight on one side to avoid straining his injured leg and there was that faint chemical smell about him that was indicative of hospitals and medicine, but he was also home in a foreign place. Alan would never admit it in a million years because his brother was a little shit and as soon as they were all back on their feet he wouldn't let it go, but Gordon was that feeling of safety, an assurance that everything was going to be okay.

John had deposited a bag on the table next to the window and was quietly conversing with Brains. It seemed surreal – all of them packed into this one tiny room in the middle of nowhere in the depths of the night – but here they were.

"Alright Gordon," he called across as Alan struggled to free himself and Gordon merely cackled and held on tighter like a deranged sloth, "let him go."

Gordon pouted but relinquished his grip. Alan elbowed him and ducked out of range as his brother went to retaliate. Penelope, nursing a cup of tea between perfectly manicured fingers, watched in amusement, a soft smile caressing her features. Parker was stood by the door as if on guard, his shoulders rigid. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

They had drinks. John and Brains made for the coffee, Penelope and Parker stood by their faithful tea and Alan and Gordon were greedy for the hot chocolate that John finally gave in and made for them. There were no marshmallows, but Alan had a leftover packet of biscuits in his backpack and they sat curled up on one of the patched couches, dipping cookies into the cocoa and licking stray crumbs from their fingers. Conversation was quick-paced and eager but dim with tiredness and Alan found himself listing to the side until he could pillow his head against Gordon's shoulder. The lack of sleep was creeping in, dulling his senses until he could barely keep his eyes open. It was peaceful. Someone was tucking a blanket around him and an arm was wrapped around his shoulders, tugging him closer until he could lay flat, resting his head in someone's lap and draping his feet off the end of the sofa.

He was warm.

He was safe.

He slept.


Alan couldn't quite pinpoint the exact feeling of walking into the villa on Tracy Island. The closest comparison he could make was as if he'd strolled into an old friend's house – everything was familiar and there was a warmth in his chest of contentment, but it didn't seem as though he completely belonged. The first thing that he did was make a beeline for his room, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed where he stayed for a good sixteen hours. By the time he emerged and took a shower, the island was bustling with activity.

Gordon was battling against an armada of alien ships in the living-room, his bad leg propped up on a mound of pillows. Bright light shone from the kitchen and Alan wandered in, met by the smell of roasting chicken and simmering vegetables in a rich sauce. He lifted the lid, wondering whether he could sneak a bite, before John smacked his hand with a spoon and sent him back to the sofas to join Gordon, with a packet of popcorn to tide him over.

It was strange being home. It was even stranger with only the three of them, although Brains was doubtlessly hidden in his lab. Alan wondered about the Thunderbirds, safely concealed in their hangars below. There was a part of him that itched to go and see Three. He tipped some popcorn onto his hand and munched on it contemplatively.

Gordon held out a hand. "Gimme."

"Get your own."

He hissed. "Bitch."

Alan crunched on more popcorn with a smirk. "Jerk."

Dinner was a relaxed affair. With Grandma off-island there was no-one to tell them off for not eating up to the table, so they gathered in the Den with their plates on their laps and ate in silence, too hungry to bother with conversation.

"Everyone else gets back around eight tomorrow," John reported as Gordon scraped his fork around the rim of his plate with an obnoxious screech. He snatched the fork away and Gordon instantly used the distraction to steal the last slice of garlic bread.

Alan propped his chin in his hand. "AM or PM?"

"AM." John gave a long-suffering sigh as Gordon sprayed crumbs in his direction. "Would you quit that?"

"Quit what?" Gordon widened his eyes. "I'm the picture of innocence. Whoever could blame this sweet face?"

"Me, quite easily."

Despite sleeping most of the day away, Alan was surprised to find he was just as tired by the time night rolled around as he had been before. He guessed it was the stress of the past couple of weeks finally catching up with him. MAX came and joined him, and Alan fell asleep to the glow of a miscellaneous action movie. He woke up around two-AM to find someone had pulled the duvet over him and switched off the holo-projector. There was a glass of water on his cabinet and he drained it before rolling back over and falling straight back to sleep again.

This same heavy fatigue would plague him for the next few days. Grandma arrived a couple of hours before Scott and Virgil, accompanied by Kayo, and promptly began fussing. Alan, for once, was more than willing to let this happen, accepting her hugs and plates of charred something happily. Scott and Virgil landed around midday, greeted with cheers and streamers – courtesy of Gordon – on the runway. Scott – still obviously out-of-sorts and relying on pain meds every few hours – insisted on mothering his youngest two brothers, despite protests otherwise.

Lunch was had. John somehow forced Grandma out of the kitchen and took over the cooking himself, as the table was covered in a variety of edible dishes. Evidently the hospital had done nothing to curb Scott's appetite as he remained the black hole that he'd always been.

No-one asked about International Rescue. Alan wondered, but didn't speak. He guessed that John had been liaising with the GDF about that one. Kayo threw a strawberry at his head as he zoned out and he let the thought go.


Several things happened in the days after they came home.

For starters, John was struck down with a nasty cold that he'd been battling for days and now, finally relaxing, gave into. He huddled in his room miserably and sneezed so violently that Alan could hear it through their shared wall.

Virgil started flying rescues again, with Kayo as his co-pilot, Penelope helping as best she could and EOS acting as coordinator from Thunderbird Five. Scott began physio under Brains's watch, with Gordon taking control as often as he was allowed until the threat of fratricide on both sides grew too great to be ignored.

And Alan… well, he slept. There was a constant tightness in his chest whenever he woke that refused to leave. He ran, he swam, he ate, he took the vitamins and drank the vividly green smoothies that Virgil forced on him, but nothing could shift the feeling of being hunted. He wandered down to the hangars and sat in Three's cockpit for a while, running his hands over the controls and crooning to his rocket, but ultimately wound up back in bed again. At least Gordon had the excuse of resting his leg. What reasons did Alan have?

On Thursday, he went outside. John was lounging in a hammock, plastered in sun-lotion with a paperback in his hands. A small heap of tissues was collected around him. A palm tree wafted its fronds in the delicate breeze. Alan dipped a toe in the edge of the swimming pool and headed over to his brother.

"Good book?" John lifted it and Alan peered at the title. "Haven't read it," he confessed.

"You can have it after me."

"Won't it be contaminated?"

John heaved a sigh. "I have a common cold, Alan, not the Bubonic Plague." This statement was diminished by the violent sneeze that racked his entire body in shivers a second later. He blinked back tears from sheer force of it and growled, snatching at a new tissue. "God, I hate being ill. This is so inconvenient."

"Uh huh." Alan folded his arms and tried not to laugh. "Well that's what happens when you run yourself into the ground with work."

"Excuse me." John dropped his tissue in outrage. "The work that I ran myself into the ground with was saving your scrawny ass." He blew his nose and glared. "Don't make me regret it."

Alan sniggered. "Damn, I forgot how sarcastic you can be when you're sick."

John lifted his book higher, a silent demand to be left alone. Alan could get that – John was a complete introvert when he was well let alone when he was battling a bug.

It was a fairly humid day as far as the dry season on Tracy Island went. The sea was glittering, turned a soft dove where the sun was so bright that the blue was dazzled. Alan pattered around the patio, ducking his feet into the water when the tiles grew too hot to walk upon barefoot. This was home. He knew logically that he was safe. He'd grown up here; he knew every inch of this place like the back of his hand. If you blind-folded him and dumped him on one of the craggy peaks, then he could quite easily work his way back down to this very spot without too much trouble.

And yet.

The heat was eerily similar to that of the island. If he tilted his head back so far that all he could see were palm fronds and sky, the villa and roundhouse vanishing out of his vision, then he was back there. The trickle of sweat down his spine tickled, and he took a breath only to taste phantom coconut and then he was running, away from the sun and into the air-con of the villa. He was briefly aware of John calling after him, but he didn't catch the words.

The good thing about being home was that he didn't have to think about where he was running. He was sprinting, jumping over the couches to reach the corridor, the door of the bathroom slamming shut behind him. He yanked at the curtain cord with trembling hands, plunging the room into merciful darkness. His legs gave way under him and he collapsed to his knees, retching over the toilet. It seemed too hot and cold at once. His shirt was drenched in sweat, but he was shivering violently. He heaved again, spitting stringy bile into the pan and taking a shuddering breath.

He could still faintly taste coconut. He'd already brought up everything he'd eaten, but apparently his stomach was not satisfied, and he lunged for the toilet again. His heart was pounding in his chest and he tugged a hand through his hair. His fingers were shaking. He choked on saliva, fighting back a trembling sob.

What the hell was that? Some kind of flashback? If he was getting triggered by fucking palm trees and the sun, then shit. He literally lived on a tropical island.

"Shit," he gasped into his arms, propping himself up against the cool porcelain. "I might have a problem."

Apparently his mad dash to the bathroom had not gone unnoticed, and John raising the alarm meant that it was only minutes until there was a soft knock on the door. Alan shifted himself back until he was pressed into the space between the toilet and the wall, drawing his knees close to his chest.

"Alan?" There was another rap on the door, quieter. "Can I come in?"

Alan wrung his hands in the tangled hair at the back of his head. It was damp with sweat. "Yeah, okay."

Virgil pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it behind him. "John said you ran back inside like a bat out of hell." His expression softened. "What gives?"

"Uh…" Alan sniffed. "I don't know…there's so much, Virg. We're home but it's still not over. It's like I'm still dreaming."

"Okay." Virgil's face was shadowed with concern. "Can I sit?"

Alan shrugged. "It's a free country."

Virgil sat down against the wall. Alan shuffled out from his position in the corner to sit next to him. He could just about glimpse his face in the mirror above the sink; flushed and tearstained. He grimaced. It was not a good look.

"Talk to me?"

Alan shook his head. "About what?"

Virgil gave him a knowing look. "This. What you're dealing with. I don't know what you went through, but it was a traumatic experience. No one's assuming that you're okay and it would be unfair to expect you to be. It's going to take time, but, and don't hold me to this because I'm no expert," he smiled, "it tends to help if you talk to someone."

"When we were there, it was terrifying, all the time. Just this constant panic…that we were gonna lose Scott and then Gordon's leg got infected and I was faced with this reality of being stuck there forever completely alone and it's that feeling that I can't get rid of."

Virgil didn't say anything, despite obviously wanting to. Alan appreciated that. Virgil always had been a good listener.

"Did Brains tell you about the coach trip?"

"He suggested that I should talk to you. I figured it was better to let you come to me."

"I threw up in a restaurant bathroom and had a panic attack on a bus."

Virgil looked horrified. "What?"

"To be fair, I had just had a really bad nightmare. And just now, when I ran in here? Certain things just remind me of the island and then it's like I'm actually back there, feeling it all over again." Alan huffed a humourless laugh. "Fucking coconuts, man. I keep tasting them. I'm never gonna have a pina colada again and Kayo's gonna be well disappointed in me."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that Kayo's apparently been giving you alcohol and focus on the other part." Virgil's voice grew softer with worry. "You've been having panic attacks?"

"Uh…kind of?" Now that he said it aloud, he felt a little ridiculous. Maybe he was blowing this whole thing way out of proportion? "But that's not…I know how to…it's not a big deal. I just want to be able to go outside without freaking out."

"How is it not a big deal?"

"Because I know how to deal with them?" Virgil opened his mouth to speak and Alan shook his head. "Nope. Nuh-uh. We're not talking about that right now." He stretched his legs out across the tiles. "I keep seeing it. The island. All the time. Every time I try to sleep, whenever I go outside. And it wasn't the experience itself that was the problem, it's that feeling."

"You're home."

"I'm aware of that," Alan deadpanned.

Virgil, ever-patient, ignored this comment. "Yes, but maybe we need to remind you of that a bit more. We can't just jump back into normality because things have changed. We're all different than we were before."

Alan sighed, wearily. His eyes were stinging slightly. "What if I don't want to be different?"

"It's not being different that's bothering you."

"True." He shivered in his damp shirt. "Hey, Virg? What if this doesn't go away? The nightmares and all of it?"

Virgil gave him a warm smile. "Aw Allie, c'mon." He offered an arm and Alan scrambled closer, slumping into the hug. "I know you don't believe that."

They sat there for a little while. Alan was still shivering, and Virgil forced him to strip off the shirt, flinging it straight into the wash. Bundled up in Virgil's old college sweatshirt and picking out patterns from the shadows across the floor, it was easier to feel safe.

"It'll be okay."

Alan felt very young, but he had to ask. "Promise?"

Virgil didn't hesitate. "I promise."


"Knock, knock."

Alan rolled over, crushing the empty packet of cookies in his wake, and peered at the figure leaning against the doorway. "You know that works better if you actually knock on the door, right?"

Scott chuckled. His crutches were shoved under his arms and there was a scrap of bandage visible from under the collar of his shirt, but he was definitely looking better. "We're having a family movie night. I said you could have first pick, but Gordon's already in the Den and he's edging towards Night at the Museum, so I'd hurry up if I were you."

Alan groaned. "We saw that last movie night. And the one before that."

"He's claiming it's a tradition." Scott frowned at him, suspicion calculating across his face. "Is that the last packet of cookies?"

"What?" Alan shoved a cushion in front of the evidence. "No!"

"Hmm." Scott didn't look too convinced, but clearly he was in a forgiving mood for he let it go in favour of holding the door open. Alan leapt off the bed, landing on all fours and bounding into the corridor, skidding on the floorboards.

It had been roughly three weeks since his chat with Virgil (and then another chat involving a family camp-out in his room) and things had been looking up. His sleep was still broken with nightmares and he spent much of the day napping – here, there and everywhere; John kept complaining that it was like having a cat – but he was safely able to sit out in the sun without becoming overwhelmed. He doubted that he would ever be able to taste coconut again, but to tell the truth he could live with that.

Virgil had set up a schedule to try and keep things regular, announcing that it would help them all to readjust to everyday life – although their lives had never been what one would consider everyday. John, still on Earth, now recovered and working in the field while International Rescue was still down three operatives, was in charge of the cooking with Grandma relinquishing control of the kitchen. Breakfast was at a set time every morning as was dinner, but lunch was more of a pick and mix throughout the day. There was designated family time in the evening, in which they'd sit and talk and laugh over old photos that John kept sneaking out of the history vaults – Virgil's emo days had been glorious – the internet never truly deleted anything. Alan had taken to helping Scott during physio, and wandered down to the beach with Kayo, who managed to coax him into the sea.

And then there was Four. Four, which Virgil had plucked from that beach, and now stood empty and alone in her pod. It had not escaped anyone's notice that Gordon didn't seem particularly eager to get back in the cockpit, and this was concerning. Alan took it upon himself to give the little sub a fresh lick of paint and ran a full systems' check, nursing her back into full health until she was well and truly shipshape. It felt good to have a new project to focus on. He was getting close to the point where he felt that he was ready to go back on active duty, but he didn't dare raise that suggestion to Virgil or Scott.

Gordon was slouched over the sofa, his head sticking off the end and a holograph of a movie cover held above his face. "I'm thinking Night at the Museum," he announced by way of greeting.

"I'm thinking you're predictable," Alan retorted, batting his brother's legs out the way so that he could sit down. His usual beanbag was undergoing cleaning following a certain person – ahem, John – accidentally spilling lasagne all over it.

Gordon sniffed dramatically. "I find that accusation highly offensive. Jury? Jury!"

John stuck his head round the door with a grin. "You called?" He caught sight of the movie in Gordon's hands and groaned. "Oh, come on, Night at the Museum, again? Way to be original, Gords."

"Ha!" Alan jabbed his brother with his foot. "Told you!"

"You are all heathens with no taste."

"Yes, well this heathen is making the snacks, so play nice," John told him, leaving them to battle it out. Alan eyed Gordon suspiciously. His brother was still banned from vigorous activity which left him with extra energy and weeks spent cooped up in the villa meant that he was bored; it was a well-known fact that a bored Gordon was a dangerous Gordon. Everyone lived in fear.

They compromised. Virgil was simply happy not to have a horror movie on, Scott had pleaded the case for Maverick too many times in the past couple of weeks, John was still in the kitchen so didn't get a say, and Alan and Gordon were both happy with Jurassic World. Grandma made a snarky comment about them not appreciating the originals, but she settled down to watch as eagerly as the rest of them. John arrived, glared at the screen and was promptly pushed into the nearest spare seat by Kayo, who leapt up onto the arm of the sofa and stretched out along the back like an affectionate housecat. She was in prime position to steal popcorn from Scott's bowl, who, with all that big brotherly exasperation, let her.

It was a nice evening. Nice wasn't the correct word, not really, but Alan was too busy leaning against Scott's legs and flinging stray popcorn at Gordon's head to care. Virgil was asleep – this was unsurprising given all the rescues he'd run earlier in the day.

"This is crap CGI," Gordon commented. Grandma, picking the icing off a cake, hissed at him and he blinked, partly shocked and partly scared. "Sorry?" She huffed. John passed her another cupcake.

"I like it," Alan announced, partially because it was true but mostly just to annoy Gordon. It was his sacred duty as the youngest sibling to be as irritating as humanly possible, and this was a role that he took very seriously. He was also on a slight sugar high. There was a warm buzz in his veins, like bubbles in lemonade and the sound of laughter and the smell of freshly cut grass and everything was alright. "We should do this more often. Make it a weekly thing."

Scott, somewhere up above him, make a humming noise of agreement. Kayo yawned and nodded; Alan could see her reflection in the TV screen.

An executive decision was made to keep it as a movie night rather than a movie marathon. Alan wasn't tired yet and helped John and Grandma in the kitchen with the washing-up. He got soap suds up to his elbows and narrowly avoided squirting washing-up liquid in his eyes, but they seemed to appreciate his help all the same.

"It's a good night for stars," he murmured, leaning against Dad's desk as he dried his hands off with a tea-towel. John glanced up from piling the last plate into a cupboard.

"Looks like it. New moon."

"Uh huh. I'm heading out for a bit. You coming?"

John stretched and grimaced as his shirt stuck to his skin. "I'll take a shower first, but if you're still up after that then yes."

Alan wandered out onto the patio, sitting down at the poolside and hooking his feet over the edge to dangle in the water. The lights cast an angelic glow across marble tiles, starshine settling about the palm trees that hung above him. He leant back until his arms protested with the strain and fixed his sights on the sky above. There were so many stars. They appeared infinite. He knew the truth.

He lay flat on his back, feet still in the water. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the stars stamped into his vision.

"Hey." John was suddenly right there, looking vaguely amused. "You fell asleep."

"What?" Alan bolted upright and narrowly avoided smacking their foreheads together. "Seriously?"

"Uh huh." John sat down next to him, dressed in that one ratty old t-shirt Gordon had gotten him as a gag present years ago. It had some sort of terrible physics pun on it and was the sort of thing that one could only really wear in bed. "Snoring like anything."

"I was not!"

"Not as bad as Virgil, sure, but snore you did."

Alan racked his brains for a comeback when something hit him. It was a little fact, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it was important and as vital as blood and water and oxygen and he stared at his brother in amazement.

John raised a brow. "Is there something on my face?"

"I slept."

"Yes… I thought we'd already covered that?"

"No, John, you don't get it. I slept." Alan seized his brother's arms and fixed him with an urgent stare, imploring him to listen because this was important. "I didn't have a nightmare."

John opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. This sort of thing was really more in Scott's or Virgil's territory. "You didn't?"

Alan shook his head gleefully. "I didn't." He leapt to his feet and laughed, spinning in a circle with his arms outspread. "I didn't have a nightmare! I slept and it was okay and I woke up and it's still okay and everyone's okay and you know what?"

"What?"

"That's more than okay."

John laughed to himself, quiet and fond. "You're a weird kid, Alan, but I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I'm…feeling better. You're right! Holy shit! This is awesome! This is a break-through. This is…oh my god. I can fly Three again."

"Pretty sure you were going to do that anyway."

"Not the point!" Alan flopped down next to him again, panting with laughter and excitement and thrumming with energy. "I'm okay."

John shook his head. "Al," he said softly, "you were always going to be okay. The difference is that you believe it now."

Alan knocked their shoulders together. Then he looked up at the stars and smiled. This was the truth. He knew it.


One chapter to go...

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Kat x.