Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Characters: Scott, Grandma. Rating: T. Warnings: None

Drabble challenge from Anonymous: "I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can barely fucking breathe because they're gone and it's my fault. And god knows what they're doing to them right now and I'm just sitting here doing nothing!" with Scott

Look after your brothers, Scott.

The words were engraved in his heart, his bones, his very being. Mom, Dad, Grandma, they'd all said them. Time and time again, varying contexts, differing deliveries depending on the situation, but the same core words, over and over again.

Look after your brothers, Scott.

And he tried. Hell, he tried. They didn't always make it easy for him, rebelling against his attempts to keep them safe because his 'smothering' was embarrassing, Scott!, or you're not Mom/Dad so stop acting like it! or just purely to be contrary little brothers, but Scott tried, because he was their big brother and he was never, ever, going to let that responsibility slip through his fingers.

Until he did.

It didn't matter that they were outnumbered. It didn't matter that he was just a teenager and they were grown adults. It didn't matter that he'd fought and fought and fought until the butt of a gun slammed into the back of his head and all he saw were stars and space.

It mattered that John and Alan were gone.

It mattered that Virgil and Gordon were scared and he was stuck in the hospital with a nasty concussion that meant he couldn't see straight.

It mattered that the ransom video took three day to arrive, and that Alan's face was blotchy with tears and John was curled around him, skin black and blue, like he'd do anything to keep their youngest brother safe.

That should have been Scott's job. It was Scott's job. Not John's, the brother who would rather stay inside all day with screens than do anything remotely dangerous.

He needed to hold it together. Needed to get the money wired, needed to get their godmother involved without the GDF flaring up because they'd told him they didn't care if they got the money for one brother or two, and if they got a sniff of authorities, he'd get the choice which one got the bullet through the skull.

Attempts to eat were rejected fiercely by his body. Doctors told him it was the concussion. He knew better. Sleep just gave him a front-row seat at another funeral, only this time it was John or Alan pale and waxy, rather than his memories of Mom. He didn't dare close his eyes.

"I can't eat!" he snapped at Grandma when she swept in and prodded him with something entirely bland and supposedly edible. "I can't sleep!" He didn't mean to open the floodgates, but Virgil and Gordon were curled up in a chair together fast asleep and there was too much for Scott to handle alone. "I can barely fucking breathe because they're gone and it's my fault!" If he'd been stronger, faster, better- "And god knows what they're doing to them right now and I'm just sitting here doing nothing!"

Grandma let him rant until he couldn't form words, lost coherency and collapsed into a pile of hysteric tears in her strong, warm, arms.

"We'll get them back, Scotty," she promised, holding him close and carding her fingers through the tufts of hair sticking up around the bandages like he was just a child again. "Trust me, trust your godmother. We'll handle this." There was enough conviction in her voice, the Tracy determination passed down through the generations and matched by their spouses, that Scott couldn't help but try and believe her.

Familiar prompt, but I needed to find another angle so I wasn't just using the same plot (which would be very easy to do but I refused). And of course, it's Scott this time! (Why be nice when I can be mean instead?)

Thanks for reading!
Tsari