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Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Scott studied the controls in front of him. Mobile Control blurred for a moment, and it took a few rapid blinks to bring it back into focus. Biting the inside of his cheek, he forced himself to pay attention. He wasn't the only tired person out here; he certainly wasn't the only one feeling the heat. While he was on the outskirts, making sure people didn't get too close to the flames, his brother was in the middle of them.

Admittedly, Virgil was in the Firefly, surrounded by impenetrable shielding and dousing any fire in his path foolish enough to stay lit. Scott tried to concentrate on the job at hand: he had no grounds for complaints.

"Only sector five to go now," he reported. His voice was hoarse, but he assumed everyone currently sounded like that. The fires had raged through the forest for hours before International Rescue had been called; it felt like there was no air left. Scott licked his dry lips and longed for water. Then he stopped. Wishing wouldn't get him anywhere.

"What's wrong with you?" Virgil's voice sounded fine, cheerful in fact. Scott remembered the cool ventilation and air conditioning in the Firefly.

"I'm standing by a fire?" He could've sworn he heard Virgil's eye roll.

"You don't say. How close are you? You sound like hell."

"I've got an idea: you concentrate on what you're doing, and I'll monitor the situation without burning myself to a crisp? Head towards sector five – sending co-ordinates now. The locals seem to have the others under control."

"F.A.B."

Virgil disconnected. Scott knew his brother was humouring him, though. Double-checking the readings, making sure he hadn't missed anything, he secured Mobile Control.

While Virgil was in the Firefly, he couldn't do anything other than roll his eyes. Scott had no intention of sounding this hoarse when his brother arrived back: he'd never hear the end of it. If Gordon and Alan found out, their teasing would be harder to quench than the fires had been.

A comforting beep told him Mobile Control was locked down. Scott walked away, breathing a sigh of relief when he ducked into the shade of a makeshift shelter. A drink would get rid of his headache, and he was thankful Virgil hadn't called him out on it. He only hoped his brother hadn't figured it out.

"Here." A young man appeared next to him. He looked how Scott felt: streaked with dirt, uniform half-off in the heat, and exhaustion lining his face. He tossed Scott a bottle of water, and Scott grinned in gratitude. He snapped the top, downing half before taking a breath. He finished the rest in two gulps.

"Thanks," he said.

He took a moment to survey the scene, glad it appeared to be under control. It had been an inferno when they'd arrived. Scott had taken point, helping local authorities tackle the blaze while Virgil created a firebreak before combating the outbreaks too big to approach on foot. When his brother had run into awkward terrain, Scott had returned to Mobile Control to guide him through it.

Even as he watched, another few flames spluttered and died. A familiar rumble made the ground tremble and Scott watched Virgil roll slowly into view.

He grimaced as he combed his fingers through his hair, regretting it as soon as he did it. The drink and the shade hadn't really helped, but getting home and a shower would. His voice had eased; it would be enough to hide anything else from Virgil. And if his brother noticed, well, it was hardly the first time he'd felt the pressure of guiding his team through rough terrain from the side-lines.

Ducking out from the shade, Scott moved back to Mobile Control as the Firefly trundled to a stop. The hatch opened and Virgil jumped down. It was Scott's turn to roll his eyes.

"You were in a truck, and you're filthier than I am. Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not." Virgil sounded relaxed as he walked over, and Scott felt some of the tension ease. "Are we done here?"

Checking his readings, Scott nodded. "I think so. They've stopped spreading, most are out and the authorities are tackling the final few."

"Time to go home?"

"Yeah." Hands on his hips, Scott looked around again. The last thing he wanted was to be called back. But their machines and expertise weren't required. It was better to head home, refuel and rest, then stay for hours with the clean-up. There was always work to be done with a job like this. "Let's go home."

They didn't need to speak after that. Both knew the best way to get the machinery away in the quickest time possible. They were used to being out on the field, just the two of them: voicing their actions out loud took more effort than doing the job. Their brothers were good, but it wasn't as natural with them in the field as it was for the two of them.

Despite tackling fires for hours, they had everything cleaned up and ready to go within thirty minutes. Virgil headed for Two while Scott checked in one last time with the authorities.

"Call us if you've can't get these ones out, or they spread again," he instructed as he moved towards One. "It's never a wasted call."

The only fire he wanted to see in the near future was one he could cook sausages on. But he'd rather come straight back and stop the situation spiralling out of control than repeat what they'd just gone through.

Once he'd reached his craft and shut the door behind him, however, Scott flagged. He slipped into his seat, but started neither the engines nor the pre-flight procedures.

Instead, he slumped, eyes closed as he leant back against the cool leather of his chair. The air was cool too and, for what felt like the first time in days, Scott could actually breathe without feeling he was inhaling ash, soot and half a burnt-down forest.

"We good to go?" Virgil still sounded happy as his voice crackled over the radio. Scott glanced out of the window. Two's engines were running, her gigantic form quivering as if anticipating her pilot's need to get home.

Scott sighed, reaching forward and flicking controls without sitting up properly. Virgil couldn't see him; no one could judge his lack of posture or the slump of his shoulders.

"We're set." The engines roared at his command and the vibrations running through his 'bird were comforting. It was his reassurance another rescue was over and they were safely on their way home.

"F.A.B. Meet you back at Base – and save me some hot water."

"Copy that." Despite how he was feeling, Scott grinned. No matter how bad a rescue, one thing was a guaranteed balm: a hot shower. It wasn't just the grime he washed off, but his responsibilities and the burden of being a Field Commander in one of the most challenging jobs in the world. His cares and worries got washed down the drain too, even if just for a few moments.

Scott sat up properly, cracking his neck as he tightened his grip on the controls. He didn't need conscious thought to bring his 'bird into the air. As he angled for home, he exhaled in relief. Once he was back on the island, it wouldn't matter. Lives wouldn't be at stake if he wasn't entirely focused.

"Hey, Scott?"

Virgil's voice made him jump.

"Yes?"

"When we're home, take something for that headache, okay?"

The line went dead before Scott could respond. He hovered for a moment, staring at his radio. How had Virgil known? He'd tried so hard to hide it, convinced himself he'd got away with it…

Shaking his head, Scott flexed his hands, adjusted his controls and shot for home. He should've known better than to think he could hide things from Virgil, especially on a rescue.

He comforted himself with the thought that he'd be home first. A shower and a coffee later, and his brother wouldn't have any grounds to follow him around.

Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. He cut the shower short after being forced to turn the temperature down more than once, the hot water making him light-headed. The coffee no longer appealed and, by the time Virgil returned, Scott was slouched on the sofa.

His father had noticed – it was hard not to. But he didn't say anything. First, he'd hear their report, eliminating that as the reason for Scott's behaviour. Then he'd skirt around the topic until his son incriminated himself by accident.

Virgil, however, wasn't known for tact.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded. Scott looked up. Virgil was standing over him, hands on his hips. Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Grandma would be impressed."

"Shut up. What's wrong?"

Scott deliberated winding his brother up further over whether he was supposed to be quiet or not, then shrugged. He didn't have the energy.

"Nothing. I'm tired."

"Sure? I know you've got a headache and you didn't sound well out there." The familiar note of concern in his brother's voice made Scott sit up and force a grin.

"I'm fine. Honest." He knew it was a lie, though.

He was too hot and his head had got worse. He also couldn't ignore his churning stomach. But it had been a long and draining rescue and dehydration was certainly high on his list of problems right now. Scooting over, he gave his brother space to sit down.

Virgil did – in slow motion. Despite knowing what was coming, Scott still wasn't fast enough to dodge the hand now resting on his forehead.

"Give it a rest," he complained, "I'm tired, that's all."

"You're warm," Virgil said. He was biting his lip and Scott groaned. He knew that look: Virgil wasn't going to let it go.

But two could play that game.

"And you're favouring one leg over the other and I didn't call you up on it," he retorted, watching Virgil's mouth fall open in shock. "So, drop it."

"How did you even see that?" Virgil demanded, looking affronted. "I wasn't with you!"

Scott shot him a withering look. He couldn't believe his brother even needed to ask. Virgil scowled, unable to think of a comeback, and folded his arms instead.

"Debriefing, boys." The warning note in their father's voice put an end to their point-scoring. Scott didn't see how any of it was his fault this time: Virgil had been the one insisting on bringing it up. He'd been quite content to let his brother's injury go, knowing it wasn't serious.

Neither injury nor illness were brought up again. Both avoided mentioning the other to stop the tables being turned. Scott didn't wait for his usual dismissal, though. As soon as he realised debriefing was winding down, he was up and halfway to the door, muttering about potential damage to Thunderbird One as he fled. He wasn't fast enough to avoid Virgil's stare burning the back of his neck, though, and he sped up. He wasn't running away from his brother: it was a tactical retreat.

He sighed in relief when he reached the coolness of the silos. He didn't enter his 'bird, but headed for the small platform overlooking the craft, leaning against the railings. But as he sagged, feeling the sweat from that simple movement, he forced himself to truly think about how he was feeling.

Admitting it was the last thing he wanted to do. But this was bigger than him and his Tracy pride. Lives could be at stake if he wasn't honest with himself.

Head hurting? Check.

Stomach still churning? Check.

Temperature beyond what it should be? Check.

Scott sighed. He turned so the inside of his wrists were against the cool railing, feeling his pulse point hammering. Virgil wouldn't leave him alone for long, even if their father was running interference and giving Scott a few moments of breathing space. The man knew it would turn into an argument if neither backed down.

It wasn't just Virgil, though. Once the others realised…

He shook off the thought. He had meant what he'd said to Virgil. He was tired. The fires had been hot, the rescue long, the air heavy with ash and he certainly hadn't drunk enough. But he could rectify that: some water and a rest, and he was certain that he would feel a lot better.

He also was painfully aware that he couldn't hide down here forever: it would be the first place his brother came looking for him. He wanted at least a drink before Virgil found him again.

He only made it as far as the elevator. It opened as he reached it, and for a wild moment, Scott considered making an about-turn and hiding in the silos. But Virgil had already seen him and fleeing wouldn't help his cause.

"Thought you were checking One?" Virgil's look and tone were both suspicious.

"Got a bit of a headache," Scott shrugged. That was the only thing he'd admit to, just because Virgil was already aware of it.

"Knew it." Virgil didn't look as if he knew whether to be triumphant or concerned.

"It's just a headache, Virg." Scott put a hand on his brother's shoulder, gripping it lightly. "It was hot out there and I didn't drink enough. I'm going to get some water now. Come with me if you want. Just let it go."

Virgil bit his lip. Scott could see the indecision playing across his face. On one hand, Scott had admitted to something being wrong. That instantly threw Virgil off: it never happened. But on the other, he'd also said he was going to do something about it.

Virgil sighed, and Scott knew he'd won. He stepped into the elevator, and wasn't surprised when Virgil didn't get out. Neither of them said anything as they headed towards the kitchen.

Scott was glad it was empty. He poured himself a glass of water, then another for his brother. Virgil perched on a stool while Scott leant against the counter. Neither of them said anything while they quenched their thirst, but then Scott lowered his glass.

"What did you do to your leg, then?"

"Nothing."

"You're limping."

"Not."

Scott stared at him, unrelenting, and Virgil sighed. "Fine. I caught it when we were tackling the fires by hand."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Virgil, I've dealt with my headache. Let me see your leg, or I'm dragging you to the infirmary and getting Brains to check you out, quoting your own protocols at you the entire way."

Virgil glared at him, but Scott stared back, one eyebrow arched.

He was telling the truth this time; the second drink had eased his headache. It must have shown in his expression because Virgil didn't say anything. He put his glass down and stared sullenly in the opposite direction. It was as close as he was going to get to giving in. Scott put his own glass down and moved forward.

Virgil rolled up his trouser leg. Scott bent forward for a closer look, and winced at the burn on his brother's leg.

"Why didn't you treat that?"

"I didn't feel it," Virgil said. Scott nodded, understanding. Adrenaline often masked their pain until they got home. He crossed the kitchen, opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of peas before wrapping them in a towel.

"Seriously? You're not dragging me to the infirmary?"

"If Brains logs this, you'll overtake Gordon's record. It's the only thing I've got over him right now."

Scott placed the bag on Virgil's leg. The artist hissed and jerked, then caught himself.

"Thanks."

Scott knew genuine gratitude when he heard it. Whenever any of them were subjected to the infirmary, the rest of the family made it a big deal. Scott could tell that, although painful, it was a minor burn. Virgil didn't need the fuss of everyone over-reacting.

At least, that's what he'd say if asked. It also meant Virgil would owe him one, giving Scott some leeway if the headache came back.

"Scott?"

Scott was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the bag against Virgil's leg. He glanced up, uncertain what his brother was about to say.

"Yeah?"

"I'd have only drawn level with Gordon. Brains logged that time he kicked a doorframe and broke his toe."

"It wasn't on a rescue though."

"Maybe not. But it was Four's door, so Brains thought it counted."

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. It was Virgil's way of saying that he would let the matter drop for now.

"I bet Gordon loved that." He pressed the bag into Virgil's hand, making his brother grip it as he stood up off the floor. A wave of light-headedness washed over him, making him grab the counter in order to stay upright.

"Scott?"

"I'm good. Pins and needles," he lied. He had more of a chance of fooling Virgil with his back turned. When Virgil didn't say anything, he knew he'd got away with it - for now. Making a show of stretching out his legs, Scott grabbed them both another drink. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he didn't think he had drunk enough.

He was fit and healthy. Injuries landed him in bed; not illness. The headache was just dehydration from the stress of an intense rescue.

Scott wondered how many times he'd have to tell himself that before he believed it.