The morning seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye. Gordon had to pull himself out of bed, somehow feeling more exhausted than he had been when he had fallen into it hours ago. Rachael's jaw would've dropped, had she been present. She frequently, openly cursed him for his superhuman ability to smack his alarm off and leap out of bed as happy as a kid on Christmas morning. Such criticisms were normally followed by her draping an arm over her eyes and resuming her snoring, her messy brown hair a halo on her pillow.

Gordon's thoughts were only for her as he headed down to the hotel restaurant to order a coffee. Black. Loads of sugar. No breakfast. He couldn't stomach it since the attack. The buffet table, laden with eggs and bacon would normally be irresistible. Instead he just sat there, sipping determindly, just to have something warm in his belly. He fought an impulse to give Rachael a call, just to check she was ok. He was more homesick than concerned. His girl was a tough cookie and didn't need his protection, but she got it anyway. Especially now... Now there was a baby on the way.

A baby. His baby. He thought about what size it would be right now, picturing a little peanut with arms and legs. He'd pondered since the explosion what life would have been like for his wife, his child, if he had been aboard Thunderbird Two when it happened. If he had been the one maimed, kidnapped or killed, what would have become of them? After all this, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to answer an emergency call again. Yet he would. All of them would answer a call for help, a thousand times over.

He was leaving the hotel when his telecomm beeped. Scott must have been reading his thoughts, as his first words were "we're getting you home." He quickly informed him that he had not only collected Robert from Thunderbird Five but that he would also be sending him to Virgil's hospital within the hour. A plane had been arranged for Gordon to return back to Base later on that afternoon.

The information was essentially dumped in his ear by Scott. The comms were then shut down before Gordon could so much as twitch, let alone verbally respond.

"That was it? No 'Hi'? 'How's Virgil?' 'Just checking you're not dead yet?'" Gordon muttered to himself as he slumped into the taxi he'd called for.

He leaned back into the seat, the thick coat he had bought yesterday wrapped tightly around him. It didn't prevent him from shivering. The cold of London was cutting right through him. Even cranking up the heaters in the hotel room hadn't helped. He woke up having dreamt he was drowning in a frozen lake, trapped under a layer of ice. Then as he woke, his perspective flipped and he was looking into the water to see Alan's dead face staring up at him, shriveled and gray. The image stayed with him all the way to the hospital as the taxi inched through the rush hour traffic.

He now knew two things with absolute certainty. One - he was being kept out of the loop. Two - Scott was in a heap of trouble. He could tie his brain in knots trying to figure out why or he could focus on the task at hand.

The dream seemed to prepare him for what he would find when he finally reached Virgil's private room. He stood outside the door for a moment, hearing muffled noises inside. It was 10am and the doctors (or the 'top numpties', as Virgil had called them in Rob speak) would have carried out one of their daily checks on him hours ago.

Gordon pushed the door open, knowing in his gut something bad was waiting for him in there.

Virgil wasn't back on a ventilator, like he had feared.

He wasn't even in his bed, the abandoned blankets in disarray. His gaze tracked along the floor. To the drops of blood. A discarded dressing gown. A broken plaster cast, cracked open like an eggshell.

Gordon could hear the shower running. The blood trail led to the walk-in bathroom, facilitated for the disabled. For a moment, he thought that Virgil was gone. That somehow he had been kidnapped, too... Or worse.

That was when he found Virgil, in the bathroom. He was sprawled on the tiled floor, stark naked, the water from the shower cascading over him. The water was so hot that plumes of steam curled off his gleaming skin, but he was shaking and crying silently, his eyes tightly closed.

Gordon's mind whirled for a moment, unsure of what to do. Luckily he hadn't visited the ward alone.

Robert had walked in moments after him. Gordon was alerted to his presence after he had dropped his suitcase. It fell to the ground behind him with a surprisingly loud thunk. It rang out over the rushing of the shower and the whimpers coming from Virgil.

Before he could turn around, Robert barged past him instantly. He was so tall and broad that Gordon had no choice but to be roughly pushed into the doorframe.

He watched as Robert fell down on his knees in front of Virgil, placing his hands on his soaked shoulders. The drizzle from the shower soaked into the fabric of his shirt and into his hair. He wasn't gentle, his fingers digging into his husband's upper arms. Virgil opened his eyes and almost flinched away, confused. Robert continued holding him down against the wall.

"Virgil. It's me," he said, his voice wavering with concern.

Robert cradled Virgil's face with his hands, lifting it in an effort to force eye contact.

"Virg? Look at me... Can you talk to me?"

Virgil obeyed, finally going still and looking at him properly. He blinked. Water dripped from his lashes.

"Rob?" he whispered, incredulous.

"Yeah," said Robert, clearly relieved as he smiled at him.

"You're here?"

"Of course."

"No..." said Virgil, squeezing his eyes shut again, "I'm dreaming again. I dreamt... The nurses died. No... The nurses said I died..."

"Well, clearly you haven't," Robert said, a forced chuckle escaping him, "What are you doing here on the floor?"

Robert kept his tone light, as if they had last seen each other only moments ago, not as if he was being united with a man he almost lost. It seemed to be helping to calm Virgil down, tension leaving his body. His head lolled sideways before dropped forward onto his chest, as if it was too exhausting to look up. Gordon could see his brother's lips moving, but couldn't discern any words.

"He's in a lot of pain. He was trying to reach the alarm cord, I think. He's pulled his cast off," Gordon spoke aloud, not realising he was doing it at first. He was just saying what he saw. He didn't talk about the grizzly sight of Virgil's leg, where it now ended on the calf. It was now a swollen lump of stitched flesh that could have been a slab of meat from an animal. Blood was oozing from the stitches, mixing with the water from the shower.

Gordon turned his back, wiping his eyes. He hoped that Robert didn't see his face.

At the same moment, the shower stopped as Robert reached up and switched it off.

"I can get some nurses? Wherever the hell they are..." suggested Gordon to the empty bed in front in him.

"No. Give him a chance," hissed Robert at him from the floor, "Let us get him back to bed."

Gordon, having sufficiently composed himself, turned around to look Robert in the eye.

"We'll need to get someone to redress his stump"-

"Later," ordered Robert, not unkindly.

"No... No more hospital..." Virgil said feebly, "Let me clean up... Please... I need to go home..."

"And you thought it would be a good idea to just walk in here and have a shower?" chastised Robert, "Must've been rough. Have you seen what you've done to your leg?"

He casually grabbed some towels from the bathroom shelf, laying two over Virgil to cover his nakedness.

"I forgot. Sometimes it feels like my foot's still there..." said Virgil tiredly, "I can't... I had to crawl... It's... It looks like it was blown off."

"It wasn't, you know that," said Gordon softly, squatting down to meet his gaze, "We spoke about this. They had to take it off. To save you."

"It's not even that bad," said Robert, "You're not the first person in the world to lose a leg. I'll take the other one off myself if you keep behaving like a knob."

Gordon was relieved to see Virgil's expression change into one of amusement.

"Knob... That's a new one."

"I've got more," grinned Robert, "A glaikit knob with a gammie leg."

Robert was drying Virgil with the towels as best he could, quickly but tenderly. He was clearly doing his best to avoid the worst of Virgil's plentiful cuts and bruises. Blood continued to ooze from the stump, congealing on the tiles.

"Rob?" asked Virgil.

"Yes?"

"They took Alan," he said, defeated, as if he'd only just remembered that fact.

"I know. I was there. I heard it all happening."

"They took him..."

"Yes, they did. I know. They took him. We'll get him back."

"But Rob..." Virgil swallowed, his voice suddenly becoming thick from tears, "He's so young. A daddy... They should have taken me. Why didn't they take me?"

"Don't say things like that," said Robert, his tone dropping almost sternly, "You don't say things like that to me, you idiot. Come on, Gordon. Let's get him up."

Between them they managed to haul Virgil up and half carry him back into his bed. Moving his stocky deadweight was no easy feat and Gordon could feel sweat running down his back when they were done. They didn't dress him as there was only a bloodied hospital gown on hand. He continued to protest and mutter as they covered him with thin blankets, making sure not to let them touch his painful stump. Robert glanced at Virgil's notes before reattaching his IV tubes back into the catheter on his arm. He upped the morphine dose slightly for good measure, as Virgil was almost writhing from the pain. As the drugs hit his system, he calmed down almost instantly. Within minutes, his body sank into the bed as he was pulled down into a deep sleep.

As Robert pulled up a chair at his bedside, he pondered aloud if the medication was causing hallucinations and would ask the doctors about changing it. He reached out to interlock his fingers with one of Virgil's hands before gently kissing each knuckle, tracing his own fingers over the scarred and bruised skin. He gave an almost embrassed smile up at Gordon, as if he had forgotten he was there.

"It's funny, when you told me about his foot, I was glad," whispered Robert, into the skin of Virgil's palm, "I was glad it wasn't a hand. He told me once that he's terrified of losing his hands. More than losing his sight, or his hearing. He couldn't stand the thought of not being able to paint, to play piano... To fly his machine..."

Robert's eyes filled with tears and he couldn't talk any more. Gordon nodded his understanding and knew it was time for him to depart. The changing of the guard had occured and his brother couldn't be safer.

He returned an hour later to say goodbye, not wanting to be late for his flight. He peeped into Virgil's room and saw that Robert had begun to weep. He was leaning forward to plant a kiss on Virgil's forehead. His brother half-opened his eyes at the contact, the bliss at being pain free plain in their warmth. When he saw who it was sitting beside him, a corner of his mouth twitched into a tiny smile. He squeezed Robert's hand before he slipped back into sleep.

Gordon didn't dare disturb them. He walked away, a sudden lightness in his step. He realised he was feeling relief, feeling for the first time that at least one of his brothers truly would survive this.

THREE MONTHS LATER

"Come home."

The words were spoken softly. A plea. It wasn't the first time this evening that he'd begged like this. The sun was beginning to set outside, the heat in the lounge still intense. The radio crackled, giving away a presence on the other end of the comms. He waited, murmuring Mississippi's to himself to try and summon some patience. No reply was forthcoming.

He pressed the black button on the desk again, a low and ugly note of desperation in his voice.

"Scott, turn around and come home."

There was still no reply. Eventually he gave a defeated sigh and hauled himself out of the chair, rubbing the back of his neck. He was about to abandon the desk in a temper but stopped, losing heart. He backtracked to the button and savagely depressed it one more time.

"I'm going to bed," he announced into the microphone, hoping Scott would be jarred by his anger. Not all of it was feigned.

He was three slow steps away when he finally heard the voice he'd been longing to hear, trembling uncharacteristically.

"It's not your call, Virgil," mumbled Scott, stating the only fact that was in his favour.

Virgil hobbled back to the desk, half sitting on it to reply into the comms.

"No," he admitted begrudgingly, "But I know when enough is enough."

Scott had been gone for days chasing a ghost of a lead, jumping at every useless clue that Brains uncovered. The whole island didn't dare to get their hopes up anymore.

"It's my fault," said Scott.

"Yes," agreed Virgil, "And it's my fault for getting myself blown up. It's Gordon's fault for dragging him out into the open instead of letting him set his ass on fire. Heck, it's all John's fault! If the bastard hadn't have died we'd all be in this lounge together right now having a beer."

"Virg-"

"I'm not finished. Didn't you learn the first time a rescue killed someone we love? Blaming yourself won't bring him back. You've done all you can."

"He's not dead, Virgil," snapped Scott, "I know you all think I'm insane, but I can't ignore that feeling. I won't."

Virgil lowered his head. Arguing with Scott about this had become a daily occurrence.

A few weeks ago, Lady Penelope and Parker had managed to track down the vehicle that took Alan. It was sighted near the south west coast of England, abandoned on a country road. A couple of agents traced it's route and had discovered a bunker that had long been cleared out. They discovered empty prison-like cells, cluttered and reeking of bleach. The rooms had been cleaned, but well enough to remove traces of blood, bone and hair. Brains had the unpleasant task of confirming everybody's worst fears. Some of it belonged to Alan L.

Virgil himself had stood in that cold, gray room where his brother had been murdered. His new lower leg, one of the best prosthetics money could buy, was aching abominably. He could still feel his goddamn toes from his long-dead foot and they hurt.

His imagination got out of control, conjuring all the horror and pain that his brother must have felt in his final moments. He felt himself physically reel from such tormenting thoughts and realised his father was beside him, offering him an arm to hold him steady. He stared unflinchingly at the room, his dark eyes alight with anger.

Scott never stepped into the room. He and Gordon were doing all they could when International Rescue was called, but Scott would always circuit above the west coast of England before returning home. It was driving everybody crazy.

Virgil felt like the only person that was confronting his big brother's inability to let go. Back in the lounge, his thoughts were interrupted by Scott's voice ringing through the speaker on Father's desk.

"Virgil?"

"Yes?"

Virgil heard Scott take a steadying breath through at the other end of the comms before he spoke again.

"Do you remember the night John died?"

"How could I forget..."

"I know, I know... Just listen to me. You know I hate talking about things like this."

Virgil knew it all too well. They had both bared their souls to each other that night, animalistic and howling in their grief, almost embarrassing. Yet neither of them had spoken about it since.

"That night..." continued Scott, "I must have slept. I don't how, but I did. I wasn't due to see John for another five hours or so, but... I lay down for a just a minute. Then I got that feeling. Like a jolt. You know when you're about to fall asleep, sometimes you get that feeling like you're gonna fall? Only this was... Like a warning. Like someone shouted me awake. I swear I had just heard John's voice, I couldn't have. He was in a coma..."

Scott paused to gather himself, struggling through the emotions being dredged.

"Before I went into the sick room," he continued determinedly, "I knew he was..."

Virgil sniffed and let a lone tear track down his face.

"With Alan," said Scott, "It's different. I keep expecting him to come racing out of his bedroom every day because he's slept in. Virgil?"

There was a long pause as Virgil forgot that his brother was waiting for a response. He had been too busy concentrating on trying not to break the spell of Scott actually opening up for a change. He pressed the radio button and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, Scott?"

"What the hell is wrong with me?"