Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Characters: Scott. Rating: T. Warnings: Blood

Drabble challenge from liseylou: "Stab Wound and Desert" with Scott.

Being stabbed was an odd sensation. Pain wasn't always the first thing to register. Sometimes it didn't register at all, just a weird thing digging in which couldn't be shifted no matter how hard you tried.

It was probably a bad thing that Scott had been on the receiving end of a knife enough times to know that. He didn't like knives, could stare down the barrel of a gun and more or less calmly try to work out how to disarm them, which way to move if the trigger finger twitched, who else was in the firing line, but when faced with a knife?

Something in his mind blanked out. Knives meant danger, meant pain, and he could handle being in a kitchen just fine, watching people cook, but as soon as those knives turned from passive to aggressive…

Scott couldn't handle knives. Not the same way he could handle guns, machines and any other ways mankind had come up with to hurt each other. It was one of his best-kept secrets, hidden behind snaps of don't play with knives in the direction of his youngest brothers whenever his heart rate got a little too fast and their flailing in the kitchen a little too over enthusiastic.

Knives meant Bereznik, and Bereznik meant-

No.

He didn't think about Bereznik. Couldn't think about Bereznik.

It was easier to think about the blood, dripping down onto pale, wind-lashed sands. Safer to watch the way the crimson swirled into yellow, congealing into a colour that wasn't either.

He curled his fingers, felt the coarse grains grind against his dirty fingers, smudge across the palm of his glove. The sensation reminded him of home, of the small beaches hiding in amongst the rocky crags of Tracy Island. He could almost pretend he was there, watching the waves lap against the rugged shore. Maybe some wildlife was there, small marine mammals investigating the human-habited rock in the middle of the ocean. A whale leaping through the air - Gordon knew what the term for that was, and Scott knew he should know but right then he didn't and thinking too hard threw off the illusion.

Because he wasn't at home. There were no gentle waves or inquisitive wildlife here, just the harsh and unforgiving sands of desert, as far as the eye could see.

Thunderbird One was out there, somewhere, but he couldn't see her silver glinting in the sunlight and everything looked the same. He didn't remember which way he'd come, which way the guides had led him, begging him for help.

Just remembered the betrayal, the knife, the feeling of something lodging uncomfortably inside his skin. He wasn't sure if it was still there, or if they'd taken it out when they'd left him behind. Left him for dead, and maybe he was dying.

He had water, had made sure to take canteens with him when he'd left his Thunderbird, but he didn't have the strength to reach them. Didn't have the strength to reach for his comms, his remote controls.

Couldn't do anything except lay there, grains plastered to his cheek, pressing past his lips where their corner just brushed the ground, and watch the crimson congeal in the sand. Couldn't do anything except wait, and hope his brothers realised something was wrong, came to find him.

Hope that they didn't come too late.

One of my long-running sneaky headcanons decided to come to the fore this time, apparently!

Thanks for reading!
Tsari