Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
Characters: Scott, Virgil, Gordon. Rating: T. Warnings: None
Drabble challenge from gumnut-logic: "Wound Care and Back of a Vehicle".
"Scott, that's the wrong size."
There was another lurch, and Scott grabbed at the stretcher to keep his feet as he frowned down at his brother.
"You have an entire oxygen tank in shards buried in your leg and you're worried about me using the wrong size dressing?" he demanded.
"It's too small," Virgil argued. "You know-"
"It's the largest one in the kit," Scott snapped back, because he knew Virgil was right, but he also had to do something to stop all the bleeding between their current location and the hospital.
Another lurch and he staggered, one hand hitting the wall above the stretcher to stop him face-planting his brother. "Gordon!"
"Sorry, bro, but the currents aren't our friends today," the aquanaut called back from the cockpit. "This is as smooth as it's getting."
Thunderbird Four proved his point by jolting again, and Scott grit his teeth in frustration. Virgil, at least, was strapped in tight. He'd protested, of course, saying it was only his leg and he didn't need to be lying down, but the combined efforts of Scott and Gordon had overridden him. Scott just needed to make sure he didn't end up falling over and hurting himself while doing the first aid.
It wasn't often any of them went with Gordon underwater, and even rarer that they both did, but this rescue had needed as many hands as possible, and John was more than capable of remote piloting both their 'birds if helping cables were needed, so they'd joined him in the deep. From a rescue standpoint, it was a good thing they had done.
From his personal standpoint, Scott hated that it had resulted in Virgil getting injured when an oxygen tank's pressurisation settings had malfunctioned and turned it into flying shrapnel right next to his leg. The saltwater swim back to Thunderbird Four with multiple open wounds and invasive objects had him worried.
"Scott."
"I'm using more than one," he promised, tearing open the sealed wrapping on the gauze and taping them together with medical tape as best he could with the Thunderbird bucking and rolling beneath his braced feet. He stumbled backwards at a particularly vigorous lurch, only for a strong hand to wrap around his wrist and yank him forwards, against the stretcher.
Brown eyes, filled with pain despite the local anaesthetic Scott had already jabbed into the leg, regarded him.
He ignored them, barring a muttered thanks that slipped out as he extracted his wrist and returned to the task at hand.
With Thunderbird Four tossed about by currents despite Gordon's best efforts as they headed for the surface, there was little more Scott could do beyond covering the wounds. Virgil could, but Virgil was their medic. Scott was trained, but not to that level, and didn't trust himself in the unstable environment not to make things worse. He couldn't remove the shrapnel - that would invite even more blood loss - and without removing the shrapnel he couldn't properly wash and close the wounds. All he could do was cover them with a hasty quilt of gauze - not perfectly taped together when he was being tossed around like a rag doll - and hope they made it to Thunderbird Two soon.
"Scott."
"How long until we surface, Gordon?" he asked, ignoring his other brother. He knew what Virgil was trying to say, trying to do, and he didn't want it.
"Scott."
"Another six minutes, Scott. Once you're done patching Virgil up, strap yourself in. It'll only get rougher as we get closer."
"F.A.B."
He was done, could do no more despite desperately wishing otherwise, but he couldn't bring himself to take those two short steps to the fold down seat.
A warm hand grabbed his wrist again, tight enough to be restraining. Too tight to be ignored.
"Scott, it's fine," Virgil insisted.
"Weren't you the one telling me it was too small?" he asked, focusing on the bloodied shin as it slowly dyed the gauze. "Now it's fine?"
"It's the best you can do," his brother assured him, as though he was the one injured and bleeding. "It'll do what it needs to do."
Another particularly aggressive lurch had him bracing his hand on the wall above the stretcher again, his other wrist still firmly ensconced in his brother's grip.
The locker door swung, reminding him it was still open. Medical supplies taunted him, reminded him that no matter what he did it wouldn't be good enough, and he reached out to slam it shut.
"That had better not have been you falling over!" Gordon called back as the noise reverberated around the submarine. "Scott, are you done yet?"
Scott swallowed, his gaze drawn back to the loosely-wrapped leg. He didn't want to admit there was nothing else he could do, but Virgil's hand was warm on his wrist and it was the truth.
"Yeah, I've done what I can," he replied. "He needs more help than I can do here."
"Copy that," his brother acknowledged. "Strap in tight, Scott. We're going for a ride."
They'd already been going for a ride, the Thunderbird jolting and lurching awkwardly against the currents, but Scott recognised the saying all the same.
Virgil recognised it too, because he let go in a clear silent message, reinforced with a single word.
"Sit."
Scott didn't want to leave his side, but Gordon's warning meant they'd be going faster, which meant a rougher ride, and if he wasn't strapped in he'd be joining Virgil in Two's medical bay as a patient with a concussion, no doubt.
Begrudgingly, he double-checked the straps holding Virgil safely in place before crossing to the other side of the small space and perching in one of the fold-down seats. The harness engaged, and a moment later he felt Thunderbird Four's turbines kick into a higher gear as Gordon registered the alert on his dashboard, jolting them forwards suddenly enough that if it wasn't for the harness, Scott would have been thrown out of the seat.
White-knuckled fingers gripped the harness for something to do, the firm material digging in through his gloves, and he could do nothing but wait as Gordon raced them towards the surface.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari