Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
This was a ventfic. Warnings for lots of blood, background character death, cults and human sacrifice.
Blood.
So much blood.
It painted the walls, the floor, splattered onto the ceiling, and Gordon's heart was somewhere in his mouth as he ran through it towards the unmoving figure in the centre of it all.
Scott was face-down, sprawled with his limbs spread akimbo as though his unconscious – please just be unconscious – body had been dropped there.
The concentric splatters of crimson supported that theory.
"Scott!"
Blood stained his own clothes, gunshot residue stained his hands. The additional splashes as his knees hit the liquid didn't make a difference.
Getting this far hadn't been easy. Gordon tried not to think about the trail of corpses behind him.
He tried not to think about the pile in the corner, either. White, drained, discarded like cattle.
There was too much blood to belong to a single person. Far too much.
The area was finally – finally – secured. Gordon could take his time as he reached for his limp, unmoving brother, and carefully rolled him onto his back.
His throat was unmarked. Out of everything, that was the first thing Gordon noticed. There was no jagged gash, matching those on the bodies in the corner. His wrists were similarly unblemished, and when his bloodied, gunshot-smeared fingertips found the slow, sluggish pulse snug below his jaw, a sob of relief left him.
Scott was covered in the crimson, even if it wasn't his. Gordon tried to wipe it from his face with his sleeve, but that was dirty, too, and only smeared it.
"Scott," he whispered hoarsely, his brother's name like a prayer of thanks, gathering the limp body close to him. Cradling his torso close, stained hand in sticky dark hair as he pressed their foreheads together.
Scott didn't respond, but Gordon hadn't expected him to.
The cult might not have got as far as the sacrifice, but they'd had to subdue their victims. The puncture mark in Scott's arm wasn't fully hidden by red.
"I'm getting you out of here," he promised, and he knew Scott's face wasn't just blurred because it was so close to his own. "Out of here and home, but we'll both need a bath first otherwise everyone's going to have a heart attack."
As far as attempts at levity went, it wasn't his best. He hadn't even managed to lighten his tone, but it didn't matter because Scott couldn't hear him anyway.
"They won't hurt you," he promised. The still-warm gun in its holster at his hip promised. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
There was no point staying there, in the room of blood with humans piled like slaughtered cattle in the corner. Gordon would grieve for them, for the lives he was too late to save, later.
"Come on," he murmured to his brother. "Let's move."
Carrying Scott was never easy. Physically, it was the awkward logistics of his height combined with the weight that and his muscles gave him. Emotionally, carrying Scott meant their strong, ever-present leader had fallen and the hierarchy had shifted.
But it was also a reassurance. If Gordon was carrying him – staggering under the weight and feeling the carved soles of his feet biting into the ground to keep him from slipping – then he was safe. He was alive; the slow, even if shallow exhales of air from his mouth and nose tickled the sensitive skin of Gordon's throat as he held him close and dared the world to even try and take his brother away from him.
The world didn't.
His grip was tight, blood making his hands slip on the equally blood-covered body in his arms, and it was determination that had him crossing the room again, finding the doorway and leaving the crimson-splashed walls for something almost startlingly plain.
Almost because there was some blood there, too. Spatters from gunshots. Bodies slumped against the walls. Trails on the floor where they'd been dragged.
Gordon hadn't brought his family, but he hadn't come alone.
His boots made an awkward sound, damp but not quite a squelch, as he walked. If he turned his head, if he looked away from the brother in his arms, there would be red prints declaring his path for all to see.
He didn't.
He kept walking forwards, through stained corridors until there was fresh air and the only copper tang was coming from the mess smearing him and his brother. Death was behind him. Ahead of them was life, the GDF bustling around as they finished securing the area. Many horrified looks landed his way. They were ignored.
Not even Colonel Casey was spared acknowledgement as he strode straight towards the nearest flyer and boarded it.
No-one stopped him.
Scott was too big to sit in his lap, but Gordon ignored logistics and kicked enough jump seats down that his long legs could sprawl across them instead of trailing onto the floor.
A hand offered him wipes. Their godmother's lips were pinched thin, so thin the line was barely visible. Gordon accepted in silence and pulled his brother close against his chest with one hand while the other started to wipe at the blood on his face.
It cut white streaks through the crimson, clearing away the smear his sleeve had caused earlier. Scott didn't stir at the ministrations, even as Gordon gently teased the blood from where it had congealed in his eyelashes and painted his lips.
The moment he finished, more blood dribbled down from his hairline, carving a single crimson line down his face. That was banished, too.
Wipes didn't work so well on hair, but he tried as brown strands flopped in clumps, occasionally prompting another slow dribble down Scott's face.
"Does he need a hospital?" Colonel Casey asked him. Gordon hadn't noticed that she hadn't left, but didn't let his eyes leave Scott.
"No," he said – croaked. He pressed two fingers to his brother's pulse again just to be sure, but it hadn't changed. Nothing they couldn't handle at home. "Just somewhere to clean up. And a change of clothes."
She didn't question further. He knew she understood.
"Strap in," she ordered instead. "We'll take off in ninety seconds."
GDF flyers weren't conducive to keeping his brother in his lap and safely strapping in. Gordon compromised, propping Scott up in the seat next to him and guiding him to flop on his shoulder as he kept his arms around him.
No-one tried to tell him to do anything different.
He continued wiping his brother's skin, the different angle giving him better access to his hands. Gordon paid close attention to his nails, making sure to get every last speck of red out from underneath them as the flyer ferried them away from the crimson-covered nightmare and into the cool greys of a GDF base.
Gordon didn't know which one. He didn't care, either.
The offered stretcher was ignored. His back was starting to murmur, early signs of protest, but it could take more before he needed to listen to it. The most important thing was that Scott was safe. With him. In his arms.
It was his godmother who led the way, not bothering to waste either of their times with idle conversation. Military facilities didn't offer luxury, but they offered the basics, and as long as it got them clean, it could be a bucket in the middle of a field.
"I called your brother," she told him as he kicked the water into flowing. "He's on his way."
No point asking which brother that was.
Gordon nodded to show he was listening.
"I'll keep him with me. Find us when you're ready."
He nodded again and she left.
Clear water ran red as it ran over them. Their clothes stuck to their skin, but that didn't matter. They were ruined, anyway. Spare GDF uniforms sat in the corner, clean and crisp and bland.
Scott still didn't stir, and Gordon curled around him underneath the showerhead. Water ran down his face; in the mirror it looked like tear tracks carving through red paint.
Gordon's eyes were dry.
He had his hands and a sponge someone had left in reach. He had an unconscious brother and crimson swirling down the drain. He had a gun with sodden gunpower.
He didn't move until the water ran clear from shower head to drain. Skin pruned, a hint of washerwoman's hands on both of them. Clothes were left in the tray, fit for nothing but incineration. Towels were hijacked, military issue familiar and grounding but uncomfortable, and GDF uniforms acquired.
The grey made Scott look washed out. Gordon didn't look in the mirror to see what it did to him.
Picking his brother up again was easier and harder that time. There was no blood, now. He was pale and still unconscious, but unharmed. No nightmare fuel to force feed their brothers. He didn't look like he needed protecting, needed to be kept safe from the world. But he did, because the slack face and the skin a shade too light was wrong.
"You're okay," Gordon whispered, voice cracking. He didn't know who he was talking to. Who he was reassuring. "You're okay. Let's go home."
Virgil would be waiting in Colonel Casey's office, brow furrowed far enough to swallow the scar on his nose whole. Gordon just had to get them there, now they didn't look like something out of a horror movie, and then his job was over.
He just had to reach Virgil.
So I got some bad news a while ago and this fic was the result. However, there is a lovely hurt/comfort sequel written by Gumnut called Take Me Home ([FFN]s/13861384/1/Take-me-home) which I recommend you read now :D
Thanks for reading!
Tsari