Dad had left orders–and Virgil enforced them–that he get checked out by the ER doctors. Still protesting, Gordon had acquiesced only after he was assured by all parties that John was already in surgery. Even then, he'd had barely enough patience to sit through the examination.
Like everyone else so far, the staff had been momentarily freaked by the blood on his uniform, until they realized it wasn't his. Well, most of it, anyway. He watched the examination remotely, feeling more and more distant as it proceeded. As if it were happening to someone else.
Beyond the small lacerations, as well as assorted bruises and a shiner to match John's, the ER staff had found nothing worth keeping him overnight for. They'd bandaged the cuts to his neck and hand, and released him, theoretically to Dad's custody.
But Dad was up on the surgical wing, waiting on John. Virgil and Alan, however, were more than willing substitutes, hassling him through a cleanup and into civilian clothes before accompanying him–like a transferred prisoner–to the surgical waiting room. He let them, even Alan, whom he'd never taken orders from before. It was easier. Their voices were like shutters, closing out the hospital goings-on and leaving him alone with himself.
Once they'd gotten to the waiting room, Dad had looked him over a second time, reassessing both injuries and treatment. He said little else, but Gordon knew that was only a temporary reprieve. Mission analysis would come later, and he dreaded that. The four of them settled on the couches.
And waited.
Alan couldn't sit still. His concern expressed itself in constant motion, squirming in the chair, and frequent trips to bank of vending machines down the hall. The half-hearted admonitions from his father stilled him momentarily, then he was in motion again.
Virgil flipped through ancient mechanic's magazines. From time to time he glanced at the waiting room's clock, having forgotten his watch. Occasionally, he sparred with Alan, and attempted to do the same with Gordon. But he gave up on latter, due to the lack of response from that brother.
Like his father, Gordon remained still, an unusual feat for him. But where Jeff would caution Alan, or offer a comment to Virgil or to him, Gordon was silent–unless directly addressed. The whole situation seemed surreal, as though he was watching from a distance. A distance that continued to increase.
He sprawled across the control room deck, wondering why such a small handgun had such a big kick. Not even in his brief flirtation with WASP, could he remember any weapon recoiling that way. Moments passed, slow and agonizing, before he realized that it had not been the weapon's recoil, but the tackle from the other guy–Rob?–that had knocked him over. And in the process, he'd lost possession of the handgun. But at least he'd given John the chance to break free from his captor, because they'd been wrestling for the weapon seconds later.
Hadn't he?
His arm abruptly shifted, jolting his body off balance, and wrenching him back to the present.
"Hey, Gord, wake up." Alan stood over him, bouncing impatiently. He jerked his head toward the waiting room door, where the surgeon was in deep discussion with their father and Virgil. "C'mon." He pulled at Gordon, nearly dragging him from the chair.
Gordon allowed himself to be drawn into the group. Through the miasma of his thoughts, he caught a few salient phrases, and understood that John had made it through the surgery without serious complications. He saw the smiles of relief from his brothers, the relaxation of his father's grim expression. But that knowledge brought him no relief, evoked no reaction whatsoever.
"I'll tell Scott," he volunteered, knowing that it would get him away from the others.
Jeff looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment. Gordon met that gaze, without the least inclination to fidget, before his father finally nodded acknowledgment. He'd turned his attention back to the surgeon, questioning some point with him, as Gordon slipped away.
break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
There was no swimming pool to work off his feelings. And the ocean was just far enough away that his absence would worry the others. But the fourth floor ICU gardens looked close enough to home, that he felt–if not better–at least, less worse.
Gordon found a spot, semi-sheltered by plants, and settled his back against a fairly hefty pot. Drawing his knees up against his chest, he wrapped his arms around them, holding himself as though he'd shatter in an instance. He blinked rapidly, willing the emotions battling within him to stay there, and tried to quell the shaking within.
Staggering as he cradled his brother, easing the inert body to the deck. The small hole–Oh, shit, no! Please!–and the red on that field of white. There shouldn't be red there. The jumpsuit and the shirt both resisting his frantic tugs.
He had to call Scott yet, he'd said that he would. It was his excuse for getting away from the others. But at the moment, the last twenty-four hours were catching up to him with a vengeance. I aimed at the other guy–Brad? Not John. But the demons in his brain taunted him. The bullet was in John, not Brad. That's why John needed surgery. Remember?
He wished he were still a kid–like Alan–and back on the island, where he could run to Ohana and have her take care of the pain. The last thing he wanted to deal with was his family, especially when they found out who had actually shot John. I wasn't trying to. I didn't aim at him
But you succeeded. John is the one going through surgery. Not Brad. John is the one fighting an infection from a bullet that went through someone else first.
Gordon didn't know how long he'd sat there in the gardens, wrestling himself, before he stirred from his hiding spot. He debated about moving outside to call Scott, then decided against it. This late at night, the gardens were still empty, and the chances of his being overheard were slim.
He flicked on the wrist communicator, adjusting the setting for Five's frequency. Scott's image formed quickly on the small screen, and the expression on his brother's face sent additional stabs of guilt on Gordon's already tormented conscience.
"Gordy." Scott spoke without preamble. "How is he?"
It was an effort to keep his voice pitched normally, for he'd felt as though he'd left all his emotions up on Five. "He made through the surgery all right," Gordon said, carefully, "They're still concerned about infection, though."
Scott sighed in relief. "That's not unexpected," he said. "God knows what that jackass was carrying. Let alone what was on the bullet to begin with." He smiled, assuming Gordon's impassive expression indicated puzzlement. "John didn't like the idea of a gun up on Five," he continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd dumped it in the trash compactor. 'Accidently,' of course," He shook his head ruefully. "I'm the one who cleaned it, and made sure it worked."
Gordon remained silent. Scott was also the one who had made sure he'd known that the gun was aboard, and where John was likely to have stowed it. His conscience stabbed him again. Given the chance then to vote the way he felt now, he would have agreed with John.
The door to the gardens opened. Gordon stiffened, then said softly into the communicator, "Someone's coming."
"Gordon?" Alan's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Gordon, you in here?"
Gordon winced, and muttered something that Scott didn't quite catch. He glanced up, watching Alan search for him, and missed the disquieted frown forming on his eldest brother.
"Gor-don." The volume increased slightly.
He could tell Alan was getting impatient, what with breaking his name in two like that, and stressing the first syllable. Accenting the second syllable usually meant you were in deep shit. It was a habit they'd picked up from Dad, but it only worked decently with the younger three. Unless you stuck two "oh" sounds in the middle, it was hard to break Scott or John into two syllables properly.
John. Gordon felt as if an invisible fist had just punched him.
Scott was looking at him–via the view screen–with a troubled expression on his face. Gordon knew he was acting, well, flaky, but he couldn't help it. It was almost as if he wanted to get caught, wanted Scott or someone to pound the crap out of him. And any minute now, Alan was going to. . . .
"There you are," Alan said. He looked annoyed. "Geez, Gordon, why're you hiding up here? Virgil's waiting for us. Dad says. . . ."
"Alan, shut up, will you?"
Alan gawked at his brother, then realized that the words had not come from Gordon, but rather the communicator. Still, the abruptness of the command irritated him, since he'd done nothing to deserve it. He scowled, and moved behind Gordon, peering over his brother's shoulder at the communicator, vexing his brother in turn.
"Gord, what the hell is bugging you?" Exasperation finally prodded Scott into asking. He would rather have asked the question when Alan wasn't hanging over Gordon, but Gordon was acting a bit too off to let it go. And he couldn't ensure that Alan would leave if he were told to.
"Nothing," said Gordon.
Identical expressions reflected from Scott and Alan. It would have been funny, otherwise, but Gordon wasn't seeing the humor at the moment. The look on his own face did nothing do deflect his brothers' concern though, and Alan sought to reassure his brother. "It's not like it's your fault," Alan said, "They shot John, you didn't."
"No," Gordon's voice was flat and lifeless. "They didn't."
Although his youngest brother didn't catch it, that lack of emotion sent icicles down Scott's spine. They collected into a cold ball of suspicion, and he just knew Alan was about to put his foot in his mouth. "Alan. . ."
"Of course they did," Alan said, giving Gordon a puzzled look. "Who else could have . . . oh." His eyes widened, as he digested the information. "Oh," he repeated, lamely.
Scott sucked in his breath, and hesitated. This was definitely eggshell-territory. "Dear Abby" he wasn't, and what Gordon needed was neither his nor Alan's to give. Not, he recognized ruefully, that he could do anything anyway, up here on Thunderbird Five. He sighed, wishing he could've had a couple of minutes with Dad prior to this being dumped on him. Psych 101 was not his strong point.
"John made it through surgery all right," he finally said, trying to pick his words carefully, "You said so yourself. For cryin' out loud, Gord, it was an accident. It's not like you were trying to shoot him." He scrubbed both hands through his hair in exasperation, seriously considering some means of beating sense into Gordon. Literally. He briefly wondered if Alan would, then quickly dismissed the idea.
"It was sheer, dumb luck," he continued, "Look, Gordy, if you had shot the guy like you'd intended, this whole thing might not've even happened." The stricken look on his brother's face told him he'd managed to do exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. Way to go, Scott, he scolded, now who's got foot-in-mouth disease. "Oh, shit," he growled, "Alan, will you just kick him, or something?"
"Try it, "Gordon muttered mutinously.
For once, Alan didn't respond, and Scott was grateful for that. And for the fact that Gordon was fighting back, albeit half-heartedly. He'd seen enough of this in his short tour with the Air Force, but there'd always been someone better equipped than him to deal with it. What he didn't need was a complete breakdown, with only Alan physically there to handle it. This was John's forte, damn it.
Scott shook that thought off, unwilling to jinx John's recovery in any way, and briefly considered calling Dad. The hospital had policies against cell phone use in certain areas, but he wasn't sure if that extended to other communicators. Especially if Dad was where he'd bet he was. But that wasn't possible, not while he was talking with Gordon.
He sighed again. "You're staying at the Hawaiian Village tonight, right?" Barely catching Alan's nod of assent, he added, "Look, why don't you give me a call when you get there?" He wished he could say something to Alan, to pass on some warning to Virgil. But with Gordon right there–and it was his communicator–he couldn't chance setting off a chain of events that he would regret.
"Yeah, maybe we should go," Alan said, "Virgil's looking for us. Dad said there was no sense in us waiting around for John . . . " he choked slightly, at Gordon's look, then finished, ". . . for John to get out of recovery."
"Go," said Scott, "Before somebody comes in there." He looked at Gordon, not sure how much expression would carry over the communicator, and scowled. "Gord, call me when you get there." He paused, trying to look as forbidding as possible. "I mean it."
There was no response, not even an F.A.B. His brothers' images were replaced, briefly by static, then by data regarding a solar flare he'd been monitoring. Not that he was all that interested in solar flares, but John had mentioned something about them a couple weeks ago, and he'd lay dollar to doughnuts that it was one of the reasons John had elected to stay on Five.
Scott walked across the control room, past the airlock of the docking arm, and toward the small room that served as the control center for John's telescope. He'd already shifted Five's position within her orbit, in order to get maximum visibility. Now all he had to do was put the
filter–the hydrogen-whatchamacallit filter–on the telescope and set the computer to record.
He found what he thought was the right filter–and if it wasn't, well, John would probably make him buy a new one, as well asa new telescope–and fitted it in place. A glance at his hastily scribbled notes, a few keystrokes at the terminal in that room, and he'd bet he'd gotten enough to keep John busy for a while.
He returned to the control room, drumming his fingers impatiently where John's man-in-the-ball use to sit. They should've gotten to the hotel by now. Unless Virg went and dumped him in the pool. They all had their ways of working off mission stress, and swimming was Gordon's. Though Scott had his doubts that swimming–unless Gordon pushed himself to complete exhaustion–would work off what his little brother was dealing with.
Scott walked across the control center, lightly running his hand over the star globe as he moved past. Unlike the man-in-the-ball, it had been replaced after . . . he pushed that thought away.
He stopped in the galley, rooting the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he downed a hefty slug before belatedly realizing who had been most recently stationed on Five. Luckily, this bottle was clean. He carelessly recapped the bottle.
He paused by the stateroom shared by John and Gordon. It had been John's alone, by tacit agreement, until Gordon joined the rotations and had to move in somewhere. He and Virgil used the other stateroom. Jeez, we're gonna have to put Alan somewhere, he thought absently, followed immediately by, Not my bunk!
The bunks themselves were rumpled–John's more so than Gordon's–and looked as if their occupants had just left them. Both pillows were on John's bunk. The portable first-aid kit's contents spilled across the small set of drawers between the bunks, the minute carnage continuing onto Gordon's bunk.
A stray blue wrapper–missed when its companions had been scooped into the nearby wastebasket–lay on the floor, along with a small piece of paper. The air circulation system kicked in, causing them to eddy across the deck. The wrapper danced into the corridor, but the other curled over his shoe, clinging as for dear life.
The fans stopped, and the paper rolled back onto the floor, displaying a sinuous column of six numbers and two words. Recognizing Gordon's handwriting, Scott reached for the white rectangle, puzzled by the odd arrangement. Only when he read the words-haphazardly spelled–did he realize what the paper represented.
Scott swore, and straightened up, leaving the paper on the floor. He'd never understood that thing about straws and camel's backs until now, and he badly needed to hit something. One hand connected forcibly with the bulkhead, causing the forgotten bottle to cave in. Its loose cap popped off and rolled down the corridor. A small wave of water splashed at him, lightly soaking his sleeve and spattering the front of the jumpsuit.
Don't wait for Gordon. Call Dad. Scott tossed the bottle into the galley's sink. Ignoring his abused hand, he headed back to the control room.