Post-flight checks complete, refueling started, the automated systems of the hanger cleaning and restocking the module and Two's hull ticking and clicking as she cooled, Virgil could finally prise himself out of his seat and make his way to bed. Gordon and Alan had already raced ahead into the villa after restocking Two's various onboard cabinets, their post-flight duties much shorter than his.

It had been a very long, very draining day. An old tailings dam at a gold mine in the Andes had collapsed, threatening to poison the river in the valley below and every community downstream with the poisonous sludge it contained.

He, Alan and Gordon had all decontaminated, showered on board and changed into fresh uniforms before flying home but he fancied he could still smell the thick, chemical slop that had made every step like wading through concrete. He'd been very, very glad that once the rescue part was done and the immediate threat contained they could leave the clean up of the site to the GDF and local authorities.

The worst part of it all had been said local authorities, more specifically the local mayor. He was a man very impressed with himself who had insisted on attempting to take charge of the situation and had turned increasingly shrill when his efforts to do so had been met by many and varied versions of 'No'. Managing him as well as the crisis added a whole new depth of complexity to the phrase 'a trying situation'. To top it all off the terrible twosome, somehow still full of energy, had started debating some weird meme or something off the internet, making a discordant background chatter that overlaid the normally soothing music of his 'bird's engines carrying them home.

But now it was over and he could get changed, eat something and at some point soon climb into a nice hot bath and park his brain in neutral while he soaked the day away. 'Nothing' as a general state of being sounded like an excellent state of affairs to Virgil right now.

Well, that was the plan anyway, but then his head had started swimming and he sat down on a convenient crate halfway to the locker room with the intention of taking a short rest before continuing into the house. He was still there when Scott came looking for him when he hadn't appeared about an hour after landing. "Virgil?" He asked, eyes flicking over his slumped brother and relieved to not see any red stains on the green and blue uniform.

"...can't get up." Virgil mumbled, looking up at him blankly.

Scott took the medical scanner from Virgil's baldric and ran it over him. A couple of alerts flickering into life to highlight dehydration and low blood sugar, but nothing a meal and a drink wouldn't fix and certainly nothing that would produce a state like this. "Spoons?" Scott asked next.

Virgil considered the question for a minute and shook his head. "All out."

'Spoon theory' was something John had come across on the internet years ago when he was trying to find a way to explain to the other Tracys why he had to go hide for a bit sometimes, especially if social activity was involved. It had actually been purloined from chronic illness sufferers but the illustration was remarkably 'cross-cultural'. Simply put, everyone started their day with a certain amount of energy/executive function/ability to do things, measured in spoons. Different tasks cost different amounts of spoons, and the cost for tasks was different for everyone depending on their physical, emotional and mental condition- what might cost one person a single spoon to accomplish might cost someone else five spoons. When you ran out of spoons, you ran out of your ability to cope/function/process/do at a normal level.

Scott sighed with some measure of relief as he stowed the medical scanner. Virgil had quite simply run out of executive function. It didn't happen often, he was usually pretty good at self monitoring, but today had evidently taken a lot out of him. "Come on Virg, let's get you upstairs." He sat beside him, slung Virgil's left arm over his shoulders and looped his right around Virgil's back to grab his belt at the right hip as a hand hold. "Stand on three, ready? One, two, three." He pulled Virgil up with a grunt and stood with him for a moment, letting him adjust to standing before walking his brother over to the elevator, still holding his belt in case he lost his balance along the way. They'd learned a long time ago that belts and baldrics made for excellent handles.

Once upstairs he continued steering Virgil towards his room, kicking the door shut after them and helping Virgil to sit in the chair parked beside his drafting desk. "Can you get out of your uniform yourself?" Scott asked. Virgil mutely shook his head and held out his arms to let Scott get at the catches for his bracer and gloves. With ease born of lots of practice, Scott helped Virgil get out of his uniform and down to his underwear, tossed the uniform into the washing basket to deal with later, and nudged him in the direction of the bathroom. "Go have a shower Virgil."

That was something else that had cropped up in John's research- sometimes a hot shower was a way to trigger a sensory reset when things became a bit much.

"Mm, good idea." Virgil nodded plodded into the bathroom, having scraped together sufficient functioning brain cells to take care of that for himself. He emerged a few minutes later, a towel around his waist and hair sticking every which way, but his eyes were clearer and he'd perked up considerably.

"Food or nap?" Was Scott's next question, looking fondly at his brother. It wasn't often their medic needed fussing over.

"Nap." Virgil answered as he shuffled towards his unmade bed. " 'm okay from here Scott. Wake me for dinner."

"F.A.B. Good night Virg." Scott made his way to the door, knowing if Virgil was talking in full sentences again he'd recovered at least a little.

"G'night." Virgil had flopped onto the bedcovers by this point, face down in the pillows.

The eldest sibling smiled as he shut the door and went downstairs, intending on searching out the other two and getting started on dinner.