Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Gordon didn't remember much of the swim. He remembered the start, desperation propelling him as he hauled Scott through the water, big brother obligingly limp and malleable – they all knew the basics of water rescue, all knew that a 'helping' rescuee was nothing but trouble – as he found his pace. It was a balance between speed and endurance; the distance was long, but they were also completely exposed and it only needed one of their pursuers to spot them and there'd be crafts flocking to scoop them up.

He had to set a punishing pace. His muscles screamed, vocally displeased about the situation, but there was no choice. They had to get to safety, he had to save Scott. All he needed to do was get them to the next island. If their comms were down, John probably already had Virgil on his way to their last known location; all they had to do was get out of range of the jammer and then Virgil and his beautiful green girl could come pick them up.

They just had to get there. He just had to get them there.

It wasn't a choice.

His world narrowed, focus purely on three things. The ocean, not hindering him but not helping, either. The island, a blur on the horizon that barely seemed to be getting any bigger. His brother, limp in his hold.

And then it narrowed further, awareness seeping away and a mantra the only thing circling in his mind.

Get to the island. Get to the island. Get to the island.

Nothing else mattered. Not the burning of his lungs, nor the screaming of his muscles. Not the salt water peppering his face from the spray.

Just. Get to the island.

His limbs were like lead, already weighted down from carrying Scott across the land even before they'd hit the water. It didn't matter. Couldn't matter.

Oxygen came in gasps, instinctive training kicking in to keep going even though it felt like his lungs were going to burst.

The contact point between his arm and Scott's body was searing hot, couldn't be ignored if he tried. That was why he was doing this, that was why he had to do this. It wasn't just his life at stake, and none of them could afford to lose Scott. Gordon couldn't afford to lose Scott.

It urged him on, pushed him forwards even after his vision faded to nothing, an abstract landscape of get to the island interwoven with Scott and the roaring of his own breath in his ears. He couldn't hear the ocean, the rush of water deafening in its absence. Until it wasn't.

Until Gordon wasn't a human, brother held securely as he ploughed through the waves, but just a concept, a slaved need to get to the island and Scott. Even the concepts couldn't hold their own identity, merging into get Scott to the island and reducing down to the barest bones of Scott-island.

The gravel scraping at his bare skin didn't register at first. Sharp stones bit into his skin, scratched his face and arms, and ground him to a halt. He struggled, Scott-island bouncing around in a panic, but he had no energy left to fight.

"Gords." The voice was weak. The hand that touched him wasn't much better. "Gords, you did it." There was awe, reverence almost, and pride. Pain. But no disbelief.

The touch brought with it awareness, the fog fading enough to show him where they were, reengage his senses. Scott was still in his hold, both of them more in the water than out, but the gravel wasn't an obstacle blocking their way. It was a beach.

The beach. The island.

He'd made it.

The sound that erupted from his mouth could have been a laugh, but it was too raw, too exhausted to classify.

Gravel shifted, scraping together under pressure, and under his arm Scott was moving. Muffled gasps and groans reminded him – no, he hadn't forgotten, just faded it from hyperawareness – that his brother was seriously injured, and it gave him just a little more energy.

They were still half in the water. A rogue wave could wash them back out at any moment, Scott needed to get clear. Scott needed treatment, warmth against the shock until Virgil found them with the full compliment.

His arm burned, muscles pushed beyond their limits, but he had to get Scott safe. Balling his hand in his brother's shirt, protests shooting down the tendons of his hand at the motion, he tensed his shoulder and hauled.

Scrabbles echoed his movement, Scott working with him to pull himself clear of the water. His brother knew the score, too, knew it was too dangerous to stay there.

It was a herculean effort, his arm trembling with exertion and for all that he hadn't done any of the swimming, Scott's strength was drastically waned by pain. Their gasps, effort and pain, combined until Scott's feet were clear, somewhere around Gordon's head.

With one last gasp, he let go of his brother, arm flopping weakly to the gravel. He was still half in the water, could feel the gentle caress of the waves, but that wasn't important. Scott was clear, Scott was safe, and Gordon's eyelids fluttered shut.

Only for a hand to rudely fist itself in his collar and yank.

"Come on, Gords," Scott insisted, pain interlacing through every word. "You, too."

Gordon groaned weakly, a protest at the idea of trying to move any more, but Scott was insistent – and strong. His strength may have been waned by the whole experience, the fist in his collar might have been trembling with strain, but he was still Gordon's big brother, and Gordon was well aware by now that that meant something when it came to situations like this.

He was also well aware that if he didn't help Scott, his brother would no doubt worsen his injuries pulling him clear, so he dug deep, finding that core of never give up that had got him this far in life despite everything, and dragged out a last dredge of strength to push when Scott tugged. Scott was trembling but he was, too, burning energy he just didn't have as he forced his beyond reluctant body to move, just a little bit.

Just enough to get clear. Just enough to collapse on the drier gravel, up beyond the momentary reach of the tide. Just enough to reach for Scott and find him close enough he could almost be a pillow.

Would be a fantastic pillow, if his ribs weren't busted. Gordon directed his too-tired, too-heavy, head to land on the gravel, uncaring as it rolled into his hair and promptly tangled.

"Gordon?" He heard the gravel crunch against each other as Scott, too, gave in to exhaustion and let his own head hit the gravel. His face was white, taut with a pain Gordon could do nothing about, and bright blue eyes were half-lidded.

"Got you out," he mumbled, the urge to touch welling even though he could barely move. Barely was a generous descriptor, too casual to encapsulate the agonisingly slow inching of his hand as it desperately dragged itself to Scott, fingertips so light he barely felt the skin of Scott's jaw when it could move no more.

Scott swallowed at the touch, eyelids drooping further until a flash of determination had then snapping open again.

"You did," he agreed, breathy as wet, clammy fingertips brushed the back of Gordon's hand. "You're amazing, Gords."

The words were heartfelt, genuine and wrapping Gordon in a haze of contentment. Still, he felt his lip twitch, the closest he could get to a smug smile. "'Course I am," he murmured to the gravel, feeling cool, wave-smoothed stone against his lips. "I'm me."

"That you are." There was a smile in Scott's voice, the pride of a big brother. "Get some rest."

"Virg," he mumbled, and Scott's sigh was exasperated fondness.

"I'll call him," he said, the promise washing over Gordon. "You've done more than your fair share, Gordon. I can handle the rest."

"Keep you safe," Gordon mumbled. The light touch of fingers on the back of his hand grew slightly stronger, twitched from side to side in what could almost be a reassuring caress.

"Yeah." There was something melancholy about his agreement, Scott never liking it when he had to rely on one of them for his own well-being. He hated it when it came with a cost, but Gordon would take the exhaustion over whatever fate would have been in store for his brother if he'd obeyed his desperate command to leave him.

Gordon's eyes slipped closed, reassured by his big brother's words despite knowing his injuries were bad and Scott was trying to pretend they weren't. He was just too tired, exhausted down to his bones, to be able to do anything about it. He'd tackle Scott once he'd got some rest, if Virgil hadn't already arrived by then to deal with their stubborn eldest brother.

The crunch of boots on gravel jolted him back to awareness just as he edged to the cusp of sleep and his eyes flew open to meet Scott's. Blue eyes, filled with a panic that hadn't been there a moment earlier, flickered to something behind Gordon, where he couldn't see.

"Run," Scott rasped, voice barely a whisper, when he noticed him looking.

He was still white, still cool to the touch and washed out from pain. Gordon knew his brother couldn't move, but this time, he couldn't move him, either. His muscles were still trembling from the over-exertion of swimming so far, from getting Scott here. Getting Scott safe but if Scott was looking like that, telling him to get away, then Scott still wasn't safe and Gordon's job wasn't done. The gravel kept crunching, multiple footprints.

Multiple people.

"I'm not leaving you," he reminded him, equally quietly, feeling his energy levels starting to rise as the adrenaline started pumping.

"Gordon-"

He moved his hand, fingers that had been tickling Scott's jaw questing further, until they cradled the back of his head in a mimicry of earlier, when he'd promised Scott he'd get him out of there. The movement was enough to silence his brother, although piercing blue eyes made Scott's frustration and disapproval clear.

Besides. They were surrounded.

Dammit, if Gordon had been a little more aware, if he hadn't relaxed so quickly. If he hadn't let down his guard-

"That was an impressive feat." The owner of the voice seemed to be the one whose boots were closest to Gordon's head, barely visible in his periphery. "Not many people could make that swim."

Gordon turned his head to look at the speaker, face rearranged into a scowl. He felt Scott grip his arm tightly, a warning and a plea not to do anything stupid. The sun was directly behind the asshole's head, rendering his features entirely in shadow.

"Unfortunately, while it was a good effort, I'm afraid it wasn't good enough," he continued, and snapped his fingers.

Hands grasped Gordon, yanking him backwards, away from Scott until the only contact he had was the constrictor-tight grip Scott had on his arm.

A boot, studded and closely resembling something military-issue, slammed into Scott's wrist. Gordon hissed as the impact forced Scott to yank his arm hard. It didn't break his grip, although Gordon wasn't confident the same wasn't true for Scott's wrist. Another blow, equally as hard, sent vibrations all along his arm until it jarred his shoulder.

It was the third that forced Scott's grip to give, a crack snapping through the air and telling Gordon another bone or few had been added to the fatality list. Gordon was yanked further back, out of his brother's reach, and snarled.

"You're a stubborn man," the same bastard spoke again, stepping past Gordon to stand next to Scott, looking down at his brother. His face was still in shadow, but that didn't stop Scott glaring up at him defiantly. "Hard to pin down, and harder to keep there."

Scott didn't say anything, but his jaw was set and there was defiance in his eyes.

"But not impossible." Without warning, he lashed out with his boot, a hard strike straight to Scott's broken leg.

The swallowed whimper it elicited from Scott cut Gordon deeper than any scream, and the rage that had been slowly bubbling up – at the assholes surrounding them, the bastard standing over his brother, himself for letting his guard down too damn soon – flooded him. He'd promised Scott they wouldn't hurt him again. But they had and he couldn't just sit back and watch.

Bone deep exhaustion was overpowered in a flash, rage-fuelled adrenaline tearing through him and throwing off the hands holding him effortlessly. They hadn't been expecting resistance. Nor was Bastard, as Gordon slammed him out of his way, into the gravel with all of his strength.

It was a fight he couldn't win; he knew that. They outnumbered him beyond any odds he could handle unarmed, especially with Scott an obvious target. But he could put himself between them and his brother, be a shield if nothing else. They would not hurt Scott again.

Bastard pulled himself back to his feet slowly, deliberately. Behind him, Scott was hissing his name, demanding that he stop being an idiot and run. But Gordon couldn't do that. Call him an idiot, call it the move with the least strategic advantage, but he couldn't leave Scott to handle the assholes alone.

"You know," Bastard said, pulling himself back up to his full height. Blue eyes – cold, nothing like Scott's – flashed as he spat out a small stone. "Our intel was wrong."

Intel. The word by itself was enough to churn Gordon's stomach. Their security was tight; always had been, always would be. Kayo expected no less. It had seemed too neat for a random encounter, but the blatant admittance… Gordon didn't like the implications. Not one bit.

"The eldest and the youngest," Bastard continued as though he hadn't just soured Gordon's insides. "That's what we were told." Those blue eyes bore straight into him. "But you're not the youngest, are you?"

Alan. They'd been expecting Alan, and Gordon seethed at the idea they'd been planning on attacking him. Except there was no disappointment in Bastard's voice. He sounded amused, almost cat got the cream.

"That impressive swim. Your combat training." Lips curved themselves into something satisfied, and Gordon got the sinking feeling Bastard preferred that it was him. "WASP, wasn't it, Gordon Tracy?"

Gordon bared his teeth. Behind him, Scott was hissing, words too quiet to be heard, but Gordon knew his brother well enough to know it was an incessant demand for him to run.

He would have done, if he'd thought it would do any good. If he thought he could get Scott out, too. The clues were slotting together, the same clues he knew had snapped in place for Scott. From the outfits, these assholes were some sort of private militia. Illegal, because since the World Government had been founded and the last of the resistance squashed, there was only the GDF for the land and sky, and WASP for the seas. Scott had been their primary target. Scott had been in the Air Force, just before the final dregs were enfolded into the GDF; Scott was Commander of IR and had corresponding high clearance with the GDF out of necessity. The sheer delight in the way the man had said WASP.

These assholes wanted intel. Even out of date intel was worth something, especially for WASP and their ever-expanding research.

A hand signal flashed, unfamiliar to Gordon but of course they wouldn't have one the legal forces would be able to comprehend, and the assholes descended upon him.

"Gordon!"

It wasn't a fight he could win. He knew that, Scott knew that, Bastard and his infuriatingly smug grin knew that. There was no way to escape right then, and the more of a fight he put up now, they more they'd beat him down so he couldn't fight back later.

And he was still exhausted. Adrenaline could only do so much to push his battered muscles on.

When the hands grabbed him, he let them, keeping a strict eye on where Scott was and how many men were on his brother. Scott looked anguished, and he knew it wasn't the pain that was causing it. Gordon sent him a grin, before snarling at the asshole that yanked his brother up by the freshly-broken wrist.

He got a backhand across his face for that, and turned his glower on the asshole responsible for a moment before looking back at Scott. His brother was fighting, as much as a man with as many broken bones as Scott could fight, but it was an exercise in futility. Gordon lunged forwards with a cry as one of the assholes kicked the broken leg again, tearing another muffled yet pained noise from his brother, but they'd learnt their lesson from last time and the waning adrenaline wasn't enough to tear him free.

Metallic cuffs clinked shut around his wrists, wrenching them behind his back, and he saw the same happen to Scott, before both their communicators were torn from their wrists and thrown down to the gravel.

The sight of them reminded Gordon of Virgil, no doubt on route and completely clueless what he was going to be flying into.

If he and Scott hadn't stood a chance, Virgil would be completely helpless.

But if Virgil found just their communicators…

"Walk!" one of the assholes holding him barked, kicking at the back of his knee. Reflexes had him stumbling, and he sent a baleful glare their way. Another asshole had Scott thrown over his shoulder, and Gordon hoped to hell his brother's ribs weren't as bad as he'd feared, otherwise there was probably some bone making contact with something soft and squishy it was supposed to be protecting right about now.

Scott wasn't moving, seemed to have given up fighting. Gordon hoped he'd given up, otherwise the limp body told a very different story – and not one Gordon was fond of.

There was a submarine sitting in the water, and as Gordon half-stumbled onto it, dragged along by assholes with no care that their unwilling companion had technically hit his physical limit long ago and was running on pure adrenaline and spite, he heard a distant whine of an all too familiar engine.

A green speck, barely visible, appeared on the horizon, and then he was shoved through the airlock, replacing the blues and green with a boring uniform grey. It slammed shut behind them, and humming machinery as familiar to him as breathing ran through the corridor. Instinct had Gordon adjusting his footing as the floor below him slanted.

They were diving.

Oh, hell. That wasn't good.

So much for being a oneshot. This has decided it wants to be a full blown fic and who am I to deny it? I don't think it's going to be overly long, although I do know there's a minimum of three more chapters after this, so who knows.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari