I proofread this on a train so if I've missed any obvious errors blame the screaming child who was sat behind me.


Insomnia was, shockingly, a problem he had never struggled with. If he so wanted, he could roll into bed – or a sofa or across a row of plastic chairs in a hospital waiting room and wow, he had issues, didn't he? – and be out like a light. Sleep deprivation was a struggle of his own causing. His body wanted sleep; he just refused to provide it. Being awake at inhuman hours of the night for several days running was a conscious choice, not a by-product of an unwanted problem.

Once upon a time he'd been burning the candle at both ends for fun, because there weren't enough hours in the day in which to fly and flirt his way into yet more trouble. Flash forward a few years and he still didn't have enough hours in the day, only then he was trying to juggle more responsibilities than he knew what to do with and was genuinely considering the merits of taking a tech detox and escaping to Hawaii for a week of surfing and no work. Of course, he didn't, because it was a thought only ever entertained when mildly hysterical because oh hey, there's more paperwork and a backlog of calls in the inbox, but someone has to fly that rescue on the other side of the goddamn planet and-

Anyway. The point was that Scott was not and never had been an insomniac – just an idiot who liked to push his own limits until he nearly ended up blacking out in One's hangar but shh, that was another story about which Virgil was sworn to secrecy. Until now, of course, when there were too many thoughts buzzing around his brain like a swarm of flies and he couldn't make any of them shut the hell up. Seriously. He had simultaneously never been so exhausted or so alert in his life. It was like being a live wire without any charge – a paradox that was messy and just a general nuisance.

So. He rolled over for what seemed like the hundredth time and stared angrily at the stars as if they were personally responsible for his brain's shitty overthinking. Yay, fun times.

"I thought they taught you how to fall asleep."

First off, what the fuck, Johnny? Scott lurched upright, heart pounding like a sledgehammer, feeling faintly as though he'd just smacked into a wall at top speed, sporting a dizzying adrenaline rush followed by an immediate crash as his mind caught up with his reflexes and realised there was in fact no threat. There was just his younger brother being creepy, speaking suddenly out of the pitch black when he was supposed to be asleep, not giving Scott a heart attack.

"What?"

John leant back against the railing, eyes gleaming in the dull moonlight. "Isn't that one of the tricks you were taught?" he repeated, vaguely amused. "The military method of falling asleep?"

"No." Yes. "Maybe." Definitely. "It was a long time ago, I can't remember." Bullshit, you're just trying to avoid nightmares. "Why are you watching me sleep like a creep?"

"Was that an intentional rhyme?"

"Fuck off."

"Also," John corrected, "I wasn't watching you sleep because you were never asleep to begin with."

Okay, let it be known that when Gordon and Alan acted like smug lil shits Scott couldn't really hold it against them given he'd played such a major role in their upbringing. But when John played the role of irritating smart ass, Scott absolutely could hold it against him. There was never any point in trying to think of a witty remark because John would immediately invent a better comeback and Scott's poor pride had taken enough of a beating earlier after slipping partway down the ladder and landing on his ass while Gordon had cackled like a witch from above. He elected to sit in silence and hope John caught the general air of sometimes I want to drown you being sent in his direction.

"Do you-"

"No," Scott interjected.

John sounded distinctly unimpressed. "I didn't even finish my sentence."

"You were going to ask if I want to talk about whatever-" Scott waved a hand vaguely, as if that cleared anything up in the slightest. "-this is. And I'm saying no, I don't want to talk about it."

There was a brief silence.

"Maybe I was going to ask if you wanted to share one of the ration bars," John said sulkily.

"Were you?"

"…no."

"Well then." Scott offered him a sarcastic thumbs-up. "Great talk, thanks Jay."

There was another pause, promptly followed by a stifled croak of laughter. John clapped a hand to his mouth, trying to remain silent.

"Are you having a psychotic break?" Scott queried, only half joking.

John let out an undignified snort. "Y-yup. This is- uh- Jesus. Gimme a minute. This isn't even funny, I don't know why I'm laughing."

"It's not as bad as that time you laughed at… what's-his-name's funeral?"

"Oh, shoot. That old guy Grandma was friendly with when we were kids?"

"Yeah, him. Always used to shout at us for climbing on the roof. Man, you had a full-on laughing fit at his funeral. I mean, you were about five, so you were immediately forgiven, but it was still inappropriate."

"Do you not want to laugh at inappropriate events?"

"Pretty much every corporate event ever. Also, whenever Dad made a speech. That used to crack me up big time. He always had the same phrases. I nearly got kicked outta that convention in Denver."

John assessed that particular memory as if he'd actually been present rather than hearing the highlights from Scott over text later that evening. "Weren't you drunk? Or embarrassing yourself trying to hit on some CEO's daughter?"

The answer was both. In his defence, Scott had made it through two hours of corporate bullshit - which was not his idea of a fun-time when state-side for the first time in months – before slinking over to the open bar where he had met Guinevere, who had seemed like she was being charmed – and eventually had been given they'd woken up in the same bed the following morning but not before she had very publicly thrown a drink over him.

"You're an idiot," John announced cheerfully, as if he hadn't nearly been arrested for climbing on top of a freaking bank to get better lighting to read a book during his college days. "But hey, the uh- The offer of talking still stands."

Okay, here was the thing: that offer probably didn't apply to spiralling thoughts – or it did, but it wasn't the intended topic of conversation right now anyway – and Scott was very conscious that there was a high chance they would be overheard because Gordon was a scarily light sleeper and no one was entirely convinced Alan had fallen asleep to begin with.

They'd taken up residence on top of the water tower, spreading out sleeping mats and bundling hoodies into pillows – although Alan had propped his head against Finch's side and still looked more comfortable than anyone else despite this. It had taken a couple of trips to transport everything up the ladder – including Virgil struggling to carry a fully grown dog on his shoulders – and had almost certainly burnt more calories than they could afford to lose but hey, the brief sense of safety at being out of reach of the infected was worth it.

This was the first conversation Scott could recall having with John in the past couple of weeks which had remained within the realms of normality - he didn't want to ruin it with something as inane as feelings.

Or maybe, the little voice in the back of his head whispered, you're just scared to hear the answers. Which was also true so he stamped out the embers of irritation because he may want to avoid this conversation for whatever time they had left but he also knew John had probably spent most of the night trying to psyche himself up to broach the subject. Oh, and then there was the part where Scott didn't exactly have anywhere to run given they were camping on top of a water tower with a very long and tiring climb back down and no jetpack for a quick getaway. So. Talking it was.

"You know when they say guilt eats you up inside?" John ventured, studying the worn leather of his jacket intently so as to avoid eye contact. "It's like a fire, isn't it? A tiny spark suddenly results in an inferno, destroying everything from the inside out. Sometimes the exterior is left intact, but it's not- The ship's just a shell. Everything that made it whole is gone. There's nothing left worth saving. It's just another piece for the scrap pile."

There was definitely some sort of metaphorical bullshit going on here and Scott was both too tired and too caught up in undying concern to make head nor tail of it. John tended to hide the truth behind fancy words and lengthy anecdotes so that he couldn't be accused of lying but equally never outright confessed to anything. Or: Johnny was a pain in the ass, but Scott knew him well enough to read between the lines – he just needed a couple of minutes for his brain to catch up and translate first.

So. Guilt – a complex struggle with which Scott was uncomfortably familiar. You could repress it, but it would still find a way to haunt you; turn away from a mirror and find your own unwanted reflection in the bottom of a bottle. He shuffled over to sit against the railing, silent in contemplation and observation as John switched from studying the jacket to counting the spaces between the stars.

The question was the source of the guilt – and wasn't that worrying in itself? That there were so many possible origins that Scott could pick any of them and the story would still make sense. He'd been woken often enough by nightmares at the bunker to know that the bandit's death was still a present haunting and he highly doubted John had suddenly come to terms with killing people/monsters overnight. He hadn't been aware of any further bad dreams over the past couple of weeks, but then again he hadn't actually seen John sleep save for the night of Gordon's belated birthday. So, there was possible guilt over all the violence, but then there was also that unaddressed awkwardness between them, knocking their dynamic off-kilter, stemming back to you froze.

Different people had different ways of coping when they were hurting. Scott tended to find his limits and then proceed to push beyond them until the pain was lost underneath an adrenaline rush. Well, that or pretend he was absolutely fine, mostly trying to convince himself more than anyone else whilst avoiding mirrors and all reflective surfaces wherever possible. John, on the other hand, put up walls, pushing everyone away – although Mom had been the exception – ever since they were kids.

"You're gonna have to talk to me." Scott tried to gauge John's reaction in his peripheral vision, but Little Brother seemed laser-focussed on the stars – nothing new there at least. "John. C'mon. You know this doesn't work unless we're on the same page."

This being any number of things from basic survival to open communication to overall family dynamics, or even all of those at once. This also being fixing whatever was broken between them because apologies hadn't worked and maybe it was just one of those time is the best healer situations which would be fine if it weren't for the fact they didn't have enough goddam time left.

"You know I'm shit at talking to people," John replied eventually, still refusing to lift his gaze away from the stars. "Confiding in them, I mean."

Scott recalled that state map curling at the edges, a car bonnet still warm as the engine cooled beneath them, too salty fries and an empty road matched by an open sky, confessions made in the late hours of a road trip without any set destination.

"It's me."

"That's the only reason I'm trying."

Distant thunder had returned to the horizon, grumbling in the remains of the forest now several miles behind them. Brief lightning ignited a too-dark sky – dangerous flight conditions which had Scott wanting to find the nearest set of wings and dare himself to defy death yet another time. He tipped his head back until the cold railing behind met his neck and tried to focus on the sensation. The electricity under his skin was still present, inviting impulsivities and daredevil stunts to put the adrenaline to actual use and to feel so wholly alive that nothing else mattered. It was late enough for the night air to have some bite to it, so he blamed the ache in his chest on that.

"Why," he began, changing the question halfway through. The words tasted bitter. "What are you afraid of? My reaction?"

"No." John's reply was fast enough to make it a known certainty and Scott was relieved that his brother hadn't needed to think about it. "No, not that. It's more… If you talk about something, admit it aloud, that makes it real."

"Is this to do with the parasite?"

"Ironically enough, no. Don't get me wrong, that situation still sucks, and I am very aware that I either need to pull another walking through fire stunt or find some more meds because it's getting stronger again."

"Do not throw yourself into a fire again."

"Uh huh."

"I'm serious. Last time might have been a fluke."

John didn't answer, which normally meant he was going to ignore everything Scott had just said. More thunder growled. A desolate screech echoed from the city in the distance. The infected were all around, they just couldn't be seen. Threats lurked everywhere. If you spent your life thinking about all the dangers, you'd never sleep again. Not that Scott was doing much sleeping in the first place, but you know. He was trying his best not to push, because that would just make matters worse and he wouldn't get anywhere with John, but goddamn did he want to ask.

Let it be known that he wasn't completely oblivious. He also happened to be pretty dang great at reading his family. There were a few puzzle pieces on the table by now and he could make a fairly decent guess as to the end picture. It wasn't a welcome sight. Guilt, fearing something being real, those words from the farmhouse cellar after sheltering from that dust storm – I think I'm losing my mind – yeah, that wasn't leading up to anything good. Guilt fucked with your head – God knew Scott was personally acquainted with that knowledge. If you tried to logic it out, you could sometimes end up spiralling further. He had a horrible suspicion as to where John was going with all of this.

"If you're not ready to talk about it," he said quietly, "then we don't have to. Tell me about anything else. Hell, everything else."

John was silent for a long moment. Scott glanced sideways just in time to spy an evil grin.

"Aw, shit. What have you done?"

"Left a gift for Jenkins."

"I really, really want to ask."

"Hey, people call me an evil genius for a reason. I've gotta live up to my title."

"You didn't murder him, did you?"

"Murder? No. Permanently maim? Possibly."

"John."

"What? He deserves it. It's the only thing I don't feel guilty about."

"This is the exact sorta trick which got you onto a GDF watchlist in the first place."

John looked distinctly proud of himself. Scott was torn between exasperation and the desire to drag his brother into a hug. He settled for both – a friendly elbow to the ribs followed by an arm around the shoulders. John grumbled but didn't shove him away.

"You've gotta let the freeze thing go," Scott told him quietly, mostly whispered because he would swear blind that Gordon was now awake. "I'm over it."

"Bullshit."

"I've said some fucked up stuff to you over the years."

"Nothing like that."

Scott let further protests die before ever voicing them, because really, what was the point? If John didn't want to hear something, you'd have better luck at getting through to a brick wall.

"What else are you afraid of?"

John tensed. "I can sense it, right? What if it can return the favour? Think about it – the infected are tracking us and we don't know how. What if I'm somehow connected to the hive mind now?"

"…well, that's terrifying."

"Tell me about it. I could be leading them right to us without even knowing it."

"I'm telling you right here and now – if you try to go rogue and leave without saying goodbye, I will be hunting you down and dragging your ass right back here. We're a family. We deal with our problems as a team."

"Bit hypocritical."

"Hey, I'm doing better at confiding in people."

"So why haven't you told anyone that you feel like shit right now?"

"We all feel like shit right now."

"I'm not talking about- You know damn well what I'm talking about."

Sometimes John deflected attention away from his own issues by directing the limelight onto someone else's struggles. It was a pretty dumb avoidance tactic to use now however, given Scott had been the one to inadvertently teach him it to begin with.

Yeah, no way in hell was Scott about to let that slide. There was also no universe in which he'd willingly discuss this, because the entire wanting to crawl out of his own skin dilemma was the one side-effect of delightful trauma he'd never explained to John, meaning it was also the one area in which Johnny couldn't be a damn mind-reader. Coincidentally, Scott had never mentioned it to anyone, not even to a mandatory therapist or, God forbid, Dad. Dissociation was one thing but whatever the hell this was? This was an entirely new level of screwed up which he was unwilling to admit for fear of discovering just how fucked his psyche was.

Oh, sweet irony – wasn't that the exact same reason why John was currently unwilling to confide in him? Jesus. They were way too similar for their own good sometimes. Scott tugged John a little closer to his side, unable to voice the thoughts spinning around his own skull like a particularly dizzying fairground ride, content to just hold onto one of the most important people in his life.

"We're still skirting around the issue," he commented, trying to keep his voice casual as if he couldn't hear how strangled he sounded. He cleared his throat, pretending the sting behind his eyes was due to the dust. "You don't want to talk and I get that, you know I do, but Johnny… It kinda seems like you need to. You're gonna keep tearing yourself apart and I can't let that happen."

Can't instead of won't. An intentional choice of words and one which he knew John had picked up on and was presumably now dissecting at a rate of knots that put even hypersonic speeds to shame.

Whatever. It was approaching four, maybe five in the morning, the shivers down his spine were more shudders and had nothing to do with the night skies and everything to do with nightmares he hadn't even gotten chance to experience yet. Truth was a bitter, ugly thing but it was unavoidable – he was definitely taking a not-so-fun trip down self-destructive paths again only this time John was attempting to follow him and he refused to let that happen.

So now they were here, at a stalemate in which Scott could technically set the ball rolling by confessing his own new variations of F.I.N.E. but still sat in silence while John picked a hole in the frayed knees of his jeans and considered the merits of pretending to fall asleep just to avoid this conversation for a few more hours.

"You know, when I used to say I'd kill for you, it was always a joke," John said at long last, examining the faint glimmers of a cold dawn. "Then suddenly it wasn't a joke anymore and I actually did." His laugh may have been dull, but the edges were sharp enough to counteract that. "I just never realised what the price would be."

That faint breeze had returned, picking up dust and twirling it across the sky to stain the horizon. John pulled his jacket tighter, listing slightly against Scott's side.

"We do what we have to in the name of survival, but it never gets any fucking easier in the aftermath. In the moment it's like I can shut off my brain. I just act. And it would be a lot better all around if I could stay in that state until all this is over, but every time I snap out of it and there's more blood on my hands. You think I don't know how you all look at me now, as if I left all my observational skills wherever I left my soul."

"No one looks at you like anything." Scott considered the point for a moment. "Do they?" he added as an afterthought, genuinely at a loss because yeah, okay, he'd noticed the distance Alan tended to put between himself and Gordon nowadays – that birthday had been the exception – but he hadn't noticed it extend to John.

John huffed another sharp laugh. "Virgil thinks he's capable of killing one. He's an idiot. If he can't look at me without flinching, how the hell does he think he's going to be able to get his hands dirty? He's going to get himself killed in the fight or, if a miracle happens and he actually goes ahead with it, he'll completely shutdown afterwards. I'm not going to let that happen. I've spent years trying to look after all of you from afar and that's not about to stop now I'm down here with you. So yes, you look at me differently now, like you don't know who I am anymore and maybe you're right because I sure as hell don't recognise my own reflection these days, but you know what? It still stings."

"I've killed them too," Scott reminded him cautiously, because there was something sorta brittle about John these days like the slightest wrong thing could tip him over the edge only the resulting crash would hurt everyone around him too.

"It's different – killing a human versus killing an infected."

"I know," Scott ground out, screwing his eyes shut and grinding the knuckles of his free hand against the metal buckle of the railing to anchor himself in the present as he added, "I've done that too."

John exhaled sharply. For a brief moment, there was nothing but heavy silence, accompanied by the darkness of closed eyes and the raw ache of broken skin. Scott flexed his hand experimentally and concluded he'd split his knuckles again.

John caught his wrist and didn't say anything for a long moment. Scott cracked open one eye and then the other, unnerved by the fact he couldn't read John's expression.

"What?" he finally asked, defensive and sharp-edged. "John, what?"

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Doing what?"

John pulled their joined hands into the rising sunlight and stared pointedly at bleeding knuckles.

"Ah," Scott said, like an idiot, because he didn't have any other words. "That." He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable under his brother's scrutiny. "Don't look at me like that. It's not like I punched a mirror this time."

"Not a healthy coping method."

"The mirror thing? Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

"No, not the fucking mirror thing. Scott, what the hell?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? You're not that stupid. You know exactly what."

"It's fine."

"It is not fine."

"Well, the alternative is dissociating in the middle of goddam Zombieland and getting us all killed in the process."

John glared at him which would have been more intimidating had it not been for the horrified concern behind the stare. "You can't fly shit if you mess up your hands."

"I barely broke the skin."

"Oh, fuck this. Gordon, get your ass over here. I know you're awake."

Gordon bolted upright like a live wire and practically skidded across cold metal to join them, dropping to his knees at Scott's other side. "Hi, yes, what the ever-loving shit?"

"Man," Scott joked flatly, "We should really start that swear jar again."

John cuffed him around the head. "Shut up. This is serious."

"How is this serious?"

"Because if it was me," Gordon interjected, scarily sombre, "You would be the first to tell me this isn't healthy."

Somehow the conversation had shifted from John's guilt complex to Scott's own multitude of issues, and he was not a fan. He yanked his hand free of John's and flattened his palms against metal plating, silently praying a black hole would appear and consume the entire universe at that exact second. Unfortunately, the universe was a) a bitch and b) didn't like him very much.

"Can we not do this?" he tried, trying not to cringe at how pathetically small his voice sounded. He wrestled with the urge to just throw himself over the railing and hope there would be enough bushes below to slow his fall. He swallowed. "Please?"

Gordon fixed wide eyes on him, seeming impossibly young and yet too mature for his age all at once, shuffling forwards until their knees brushed. "Sorry, no can do."

"I'm not messing around."

"Neither am I," Gordon replied quietly, gaze dropping to battered knuckles. He inhaled deeply, sorting through words and settling simply on, "Why?"

And fuck, if Scott wasn't so tired maybe he'd have lied, but honestly?

"Because I can't breathe."

"Okay," Gordon murmured with a tiny nod. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Okay. That's- Not okay, but we'll figure it out."

"There's nothing to figure out," Scott tried to protest, only to be reminded that John was still present, sensing an all-too familiar gaze on him, eerily similar to years ago, on that car bonnet in the middle of nowhere where the desert sky shouldered secrets too heavy to keep carrying alone, safe on American soil after weeks spent in literal Hell, still trying to remember how to be human after a week spent at a ten, at first spent coiled on the floor, then nearly a hospital only he'd somehow ended up on Dad's doorstep unable to remember the last time he'd seen his father that terrified. John knew because Scott had told him and maybe, just maybe, the fear of losing each other in such a way had never fully gone away and it had never been clearer than in this moment because John was looking at him in the same way as he had back then.

Gordon squared his shoulders, something fiercely determined in his eyes. "Uh, yeah, there really is. If you believe any of us are gonna sit back and let you hurt yourself, you clearly don't know us as well as you think you do."

Everything was very hastily spiralling outta control. Rewind, please. Scott was not okay with this conversation, thank-you-very-much and fuck John for getting Gordon involved, because Gordon was scarily good at reading people which meant even if Scott just kept his mouth shut for the next twenty-four hours, Gordon would still discover hidden truths based off body language alone.

"It doesn't matter."

John narrowed his eyes. "It doesn't, or you don't?"

"Why am I being interrogated right now?"

"Answer the question."

"It- Me- Jesus Christ, why can't you ever stop pushing? Why the hell does it matter what shitty coping methods I use? None of this is going to matter in a year's time and we both know that, so don't look at me like I'm some kinda ticking time bomb because you've known, John, you've known since the day everything fell apart, hell, before that, since we started IR, so don't pretend otherwise."

John honest-to-god flinched.

"John knows what?" Gordon whispered.

Scott pushed himself to his feet and stalked the length of the railing. John staggered upright, staring over the edge as if the drop were a calling card. Gordon stared between the two of them, utterly confused but sensing this was an ongoing argument which hadn't ever been resolved. It probably never would be, because Scott had been aware since Mom's death that stories only ever had one true ending, so either you kept losing people or you were the first to go and he knew damn well which one of those outcomes he preferred, so sue him. The issue was that John knew it too.

"You decided a long time ago that you're not making it out of this." John's voice was icy. He closed the distance between them, slamming a hand into the borrowed blues above Scott's heart, words a low hiss. "And fuck you so much for that."

For a moment, there was silence. John was on the verge of tears. Gordon looked shellshocked. And Scott? Scott made the fantastic decision to bolt for the ladder.


It was just close enough to sunrise to feel relatively confident on the ground – able to rely on his eyes as well as his ears to check for any unwanted aggressors of either the infected or bandit variety. He'd more slid down the ladder than actually climbed it and so consequently hit the base harder than intended, the after-effects of which were still making themselves known.

The water tower was a short distance from a collection of houses: classic, white-fenced things with tiled roofs slanted towards the rising sun so that gold reflected off the dilapidated trellis struggling to hold up a dying wisteria plant. One or two cars were parked haphazardly, partway beneath a shady overhang but mostly exposed to arid sun. Knowing that there was probably fuel left in the tanks made it even harder to walk away, but there was little point in hotwiring one when the roads this close to a major city were impassable and it would take too many miles to skirt around.

Officially, the general rule was that no one was to enter any abandoned building alone, especially without telling anyone where they were going. There were too many hiding holes where infected could be lurking and four walls made it easy to become cornered. If you absolutely had no other choice, you had to at least be sure to carry a weapon. In hindsight, Scott should have grabbed the axe before legging it from the water tower, but hey, here he was with only his own hands and wits to defend himself, so it was down to Tracy Luck to keep the tables from turning further against him.

In terms of bad ideas, this was up there. That being said, he needed something to act as an earth wire, to trigger the circuit breaker in his brain which would finally ease the electricity under his skin, because please, God, it was almost worse than an actual anxiety attack. At least that subsided after a while. This? This was constant. This was running on a single hour of sleep and yet somehow feeling as if he needed to run a marathon just to lower his adrenaline levels enough to allow him to sit down. Was it reckless? Yes, absolutely. But hey, whatever didn't kill him made him feel alive. Coming close enough to death to feel human was an old trick.

The houses had been evacuated early with enough warning for residents to clear out the majority of their possessions. Where they had gone from there remained a mystery as almost all survival camps had been overrun early-on and even in the beginning those had never allowed carloads of memorabilia within their gates – a single suitcase each at the max. The relics of human existence were scattered across the globe but everything which had once made up a working society had already burnt out.

He scouted the places for infected, but they were emptier than unsold new-builds – untouched furniture, all family photographs packed away and rescued during evacuations – so he contented himself with simply wandering and wondering. Empty houses felt a lot like gravestones these days and consequently visiting them felt like paying homage to all that had been lost. Of course, it also felt uncannily like trespassing, but he needed to tell himself a lie to offer as an excuse in place of the truth – that there was no way in hell he was ready to go back and face the music yet.

He wasn't hiding as such, except that he totally was. In his defence, this was the one subject matter he refused to face and fight, and after years of standing his ground when all he'd really wanted to do was flee, he felt he was justified in resorting to running just this once. There was such a thing as someone knowing you slightly too well.

So. Here he was, hiding out in the house of people who were undoubtedly dead, questioning what the hell he was doing with his life. Because there came a point when he couldn't run from this issue any longer and he was fast approaching that threshold. Which, come to think of it, was probably the reason why John was getting on his case so much. It also struck him that John had somehow wriggled out of explaining whatever the heck was going with him, and honestly Scott sorta had to admire that level of deflection even whilst cursing his brother at the same time.

The largest of the houses had one of those classic slanted roofs jutting out from a bedroom like their childhood home had boasted, on which John had spent most of his nights stargazing whilst also judging his brother's life choices whenever Scott had tried to sneak home in the early hours during his late teens, peering down from above like some sorta overlord with a superior comment to match that deadpan stare.

At the time Scott had replied with a middle finger and some variation of 'I hope you fall off and break something' which would then delve into the realms of thinking, 'oh my god, what if he actually does fall off and break something' once he'd sobered up enough to regain some degree of concern as to John's well-being. They'd meet in the kitchen where John would gift some painkillers and Scott would assess him for injury without being too obvious and then neither of them would mention it again until the next occurrence. So, really, they had a track record of showing concern through pushing one another's buttons and then not addressing the heart of the issue as soon as it was clear that they were both sort of okay in the aftermath.

Didn't that summarise family quite nicely though? Driving each other up the wall whilst also worrying the entire time but being unwilling to admit that concern to yourself let alone to the person in question. Either way, Scott ended up on the roof, trying not to knock any tiles askew as if anyone was left to care about them in the first place. The sun had risen high enough to not blind him but had yet to burn away the strange fog slinking across the land. There was smoke on the horizon again – behind them, in the opposite direction, so that was a stroke of good luck – and that distinct stench of rot seemed stronger today. He folded his arms beneath his head and stared at the sky instead, because it was safer to look at something he knew than to observe a world he was having to relearn.

"Hey."

Scott couldn't tell if he'd fallen asleep or drifted into some sort of meditative trance, but he jolted upright sharply enough to blur his own vision. Virgil eyed him like he was a wild animal set to bolt at the slightest wrong move, which was both completely understandable and absurd all at once, mainly because where was he going to go? There was nowhere left to run.

So.

He cleared his throat. "Hey."

"Can I join you?" Virgil gestured vaguely to the roof.

Scott briefly considered the merits of reverting to a sulky teenager, but then again this was Virgil, so… He examined his brother's earnest expression and mentally cursed himself.

"Yeah," he called back eventually. "Did you bring water?"

"Uh huh. Gimme a minute."

Virgil took slightly longer to clamber onto the roof because, unlike Scott, he actually nurtured a healthy sense of self-preservation and was unwilling to risk plunging over the edge. He took his place at Scott's side, ignoring all unwritten social rules about giving people space by immediately pressing their shoulders together, which was either a tactful attempt at support or a secret method of assessing Scott's physical state. In all likelihood it was both, but Scott didn't shove him away, because, once again, this was Virgil, which was probably the same reason why he had been sent to make peace.

"Did John send you?"

Virgil shot him an affronted look. "I'm my own person."

"So, you drew the short straw then?"

"Did it ever cross your mind that I volunteered to be the one to find you?"

Yes, but only because Virgil was a significantly better person than him and so traipsing through the dystopian countryside to fix the aftermath of a fight he hadn't even been a part of was exactly the kind of thing Scott expected from him.

With anyone else, the silence would have been awkward. With Virgil, it was more contemplative. Certainly less tense than it ought to have been given the subject matter which Scott was determined to avoid. He focussed intently on the water bottle as if it held the secrets to fixing everything.

"You only run," Virgil began.

"-I'm not running," Scott interrupted, earning the most disbelieving look he had ever seen from his brother. He shuffled his feet and a tile skittered dangerously close to the gutter. "What? This is- This is taking some time to think everything over. I'm not running."

"Okay," Virgil agreed easily, and then continued as if Scott had never spoken, which, honestly, was fair enough and Scott had to be impressed by his brother's patience. "As I was saying, you only run when you're faced with a truth about which you're in denial. Which means John was correct, but you don't want to admit it."

"John's an asshole who doesn't know when to stop pushing." Scott considered this. "He's also a hypocrite," he added for good measure, because hey, if he was going to try this sulking teenager thing then he might as well lay out all his cards on the table.

Virgil hmm-ed. "So are you. Anyway, I said he was correct, not that he was right to say it. There's a big difference there and trust me, Gordon made him very aware of it. I'm surprised you didn't hear the shouting."

"We're supposed to be quiet. Zombies, remember?"

"Shockingly enough, it's quite hard to forget the zombies."

Scott took another sip of the water, mostly to avoid saying something else vaguely idiotic and unhelpful.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," he said eventually.

Virgil side-eyed him, somehow toeing the line between judgemental and supportive. "Neither does only four hours of sleep, yet here I am."

Scott secretly wanted to laugh at that, because yeah, Virgil was here voluntarily but that did not mean the early-morning-grumpiness had worn off yet. He handed the water bottle back and shuffled upright so that they could have an actual conversation.

"Update?"

Virgil wiped dust away from the bottle. "Gordon and John got into their shouting match. I talked them down whilst trying to figure out why you were missing, now Gordon's still fuming and John's being that particular variety of defensive which means he probably knows he was in the wrong but refuses to admit it. Oh, and Alan's not talking to anybody."

"Like, in the non-verbal way or…?"

"No, he's just pissed off at us all. Except me. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Do you ever? You're weirdly well adjusted."

"I pay my therapist good money and actually engage with the sessions."

"You used to, you mean?"

"Quit being difficult."

"Yeah, alright." Was there a way to ask, what do you know, without actually asking someone what they knew? "So, uh…"

Virgil let him suffer for another ten seconds before finally taking pity on him.

"Yes, I know what was said. And it- John shouldn't have pushed, but you… You wouldn't have run if he hadn't been right, and that is what worries me." He pitched his voice softer. "You can't keep running from the truth, Scott. It's going to catch up to you sooner or later and it'll be a lot easier to face it with people by your side, believe me."

"I know."

And Scott did know – at least that part wasn't a lie. But there was a difference between a confession and a solution.

"I don't want to keep hurting anyone," he whispered. "That's not- It's never been my intention. And I get it – I get that I'm worrying you. That's why I never wanted anyone to know about… this, but I guess the cat's outta the bag now, so… I'm not actively seeking situations where I can put my life on the line, so if that's what John's thinking then he's wrong. But equally I'm not- I can't lose anyone else. And I mean I can't. So I'll take their place without hesitation. It just happens that the odds of all of us making it out of this in one piece are now drastically against us, which means the likelihood of me surviving this are also kinda… shitty."

Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have even tried to find the words. But with Virgil it was somewhat easier because whatever he couldn't phrase Virgil would read between the lines anyway. It eliminated the pressure to a certain extent. He picked at the dried grit lining the tiles and considered the remaining unspoken thoughts while Virgil waited in supportive silence.

"Prepare for the worst-case scenario and hope for the best," he continued after a short pause, crumbling grit between his fingertips so that it floated away to join the rest of the dust clouds gathering on the horizon. "Best-case: we all make it out of this. Worst-case: not all of us do, which means I don't. I've gotta prepare for that and part of preparing is coming to terms, right? Acceptance. Weren't you the one preaching about acceptance a couple of weeks back?"

"And Gordon was very quick to correct me on that one," Virgil reminded him. "Another form of giving up, isn't that what he said? Since when are you a quitter?"

"I'm not."

"Then prove it." Virgil took a moment to recollect his thoughts, as if that particular outburst had been unintentional. He exhaled slowly and tried again, softer this time. "Look, you've got to find something to believe in."

Scott tipped back against the heels of his hands. "Isn't the saying find something to fight for?"

"That's one saying," Virgil agreed. "But it's not what I'm talking about. You've already got something to fight for – keeping us alive and as safe as possible – which is great except fighting for something also means being willing to make sacrifices to meet that objective and that is the problem here, isn't it? You're overly willing to make the sacrifice play. You've been that way for years, so don't try to deny it. If no one else is going to call you out on it then I will. I can think of at least ten examples off the top of my head right now."

"That's an exaggeration."

"How about that time you told me to bury a uranium mine with you still inside without even attempting to ask me for another option? I could have had a Mole pod down there twenty minutes before we got to that point."

Okay, so maybe Scott didn't have a valid defence for that one. He flattened himself against the roof and flung an arm across his face to hide from the sunrays, totally not to also conceal his expression from Virgil's inspection.

"You need to find something to believe in," Virgil continued, almost observational but also treading the boundary of fearful pleading. "Because that's what you hold onto. It gives you a reason to stay. And right now you might have something to fight for but you've got nothing keeping you here after you've accomplished that. You don't believe we can fix any of this."

"Do you?"

"That's beside the point. You had IR to believe in before. It's that sense of purpose – you've got to rediscover that. And maybe we can't fix the entire planet, but we can still save people. We can find a way to stop the GDF going nuke-crazy, try to track down other survival groups. Other than John and Alan, you're the only one of us who still has a Thunderbird. That's gotta mean something."

Scott lifted his arm to study his brother. "Hey, what did happen to Four?"

He probably deserved the swift smack to his bicep.

"Don't deflect. You're channelling all of your focus and energy into the wrong things, going over what-ifs and the past and you know damn well why that's a bad idea. It tears you apart every time. We've got move forwards."

"Literally. That radiation storm is still on our heels."

"Scott."

Virgil sounded serious enough for him to sit up and take notice.

"Okay," he murmured after a moment. "Virg, c'mon, I just- I get what you're saying. And I get where John's coming from too. But it's not as simple as just changing a mindset. I'm not going to fight my shitty mental health with a daily positive quote."

Virgil looked at him for a long minute. "Do you want to get better?"

It felt similar to plunging into icy water. Scott floundered for a few seconds until it struck him that hesitating after that sentence probably wasn't a good idea.

"What?" he croaked out at last, which was not reassuring in the least and in all honesty he didn't know how Virgil was managing to maintain that calm demeanour because if the roles were reversed he would definitely have been freaking out.

"It sounds a helluva lot like you don't think you deserve to make it through this."

Ouch.

See, this was another moment in which he wanted to run.

Unfortunately, running was a) confirmation by default and b) not an option. He concentrated on the sun heating the tiles beneath his skin and an absence of clouds in the expanse of blue above.

"How do I find something to believe in?" he asked instead.

Virgil let out a shaky breath. "Um." He dragged a hand through his hair. "People."

Scott sent him a look, as in, are you fucking kidding me right now?

"People," he repeated dryly. "Right."

"No, not in-" Virgil elbowed him. "Just let me speak. People believed in us, as International Rescue, right? They need to believe in hope and that's what we represented. Nowadays they need that more than ever. And we can still be that. Gordon was legendary amongst those survival groups. If people believe we can save the world, it'll give them the motivation to try, and that's the first step towards fixing things, but we've got believe in ourselves first."

"You should try motivational speeches. You'd be good."

"Scott, I swear…"

"Okay, okay." He lifted his hands in surrender. "I hear you. I just need to think it over, alright?"

"All I'm saying is that you can inspire people. That's a pretty powerful thing." Virgil trailed off, examining two figures emerging from the line of dead trees at the end of the rolling driveway – IR blues and GDF ebony. "You don't have to save the entire world. Just giving a few people hope is a miracle in itself. And I know you're not going to believe me when I tell you this, but you don't actually have to save anyone to be worth something. Love is given, not earned, remember?" He knocked their shoulders together with a small smile. "Just something to think about."