The hums and faint clicks of the monitors were an welcome distraction, even though they were the wrong sort of machinery. Accustom to–no, comfortable–as Jeff was with machine shop and engine noises, as well as multiple computer systems running simultaneously, the near-silence of the hospital's recovery room was almost unbearable. Then again, hospitals just were.
The nurse made her rounds every fifteen minutes. Sometimes, after her assessment and documentation were finished, she'd ask if he needed anything. Aware of the pressure he'd created with his insistence on being in the recovery room, he usually declined. Only once had he requested a glass of water. It was not the hospital's policy to allow family members there. His presence was only by the grace of the surgeon, and his own reputation, and he knew it.
He'd sent the younger boys to the hotel–the one used regularly by Tracy Industries. There was no need for them to wait here, and they needed the break. The last twenty-fours hours had been hard on them, especially Gordon. But he'd done a damn good job, considering. They all had.
It wasn't often that he waited in a hospital proper. There was an infirmary on the island, and Ohana, Kyrano, and Brains could usually handle most medical emergencies between them. Bruises, lacerations, even broken bones–albeit simple fractures, so far–were taken care of there, whether incurred in line-of-duty, or by virtue of the existence of five very active boys. He was eternally grateful that the Belagants had agreed to come work for him. But Ohana had always known when a situation was beyond her ken, and he had trusted her judgement. And surgery requiring anesthesia was one of those areas in which she drew her line.
Time dragged as he watched his son, the lithe body unnaturally still from residual anesthesia and pain medication. He saw his concern reflected in the nurse's expression each time she checked on John. That narcotic-produced inertia was something Jeff had never gotten used to, in either of the boys it affected. Conveniently, he ignored the fact that he also possessed those same symptoms.
Lulled by inactivity, he'd drifted into an almost meditative state. He'd also slumped down in the chair, far enough to crack his head on the back of the chair if he wasn't careful–or awake. Jeff pushed himself up, and glanced around, wincing as his back protested the move. A fresh glass of water stood next to him, and he realized that he had missed the most recent visit of the nurse.
John was still unconscious. But the equipment in the room continued to hum comfortingly, until it was interrupted by an insistent beeping. Jeff looked at the monitors, searching each one carefully for the source of the sound.
It took him a few seconds to recognize that it was his communicator. He stood, and moved into the hallway, unwilling to disturb John or the other patients. After a quick check that no one was in the immediate vicinity, he flicked the setting to "Receive."
His eldest son's image flickered into view. "Dad," Scott said, sounding both relieved and restive.
"Didn't Gordon call you?" Jeff couldn't help the hint of annoyance that crept into his voice as he glanced back at John. The last thing he needed, after arguing his way into recovery, was to be evicted because of communicator use within the hospital. But then, Scott had never been one to keep his emotions bottled up. Jeff knew–as protective as Scott was about his brothers–that the last twenty-four hours had been hard on his volatile firstborn. And given those parameters, Thunderbird Five was not exactly the best place for Scott right now.
"Yeah, but. . . ."
"But?"
Scott hedged. "He was acting kinda weird, when he called about John." He knew he should reveal Gordon's confession, for the potential repercussions were definitely out of his league. But sibling solidarity abruptly kicked in, and he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. "He, uh. . . ."
After twenty-odd years, those signs were easily recognizable to Jeff–especially in the older boys. Scott's hesitance was a major red flag. Steeling himself, he asked pointedly, "Scott?"
Scott sighed. "Dad, he . . ." An insistent beeping interrupted him, and he scowled. "Aw, shit." His image disappeared briefly.
Jeff frowned, thoughts of parental delinquency unexpectedly flooding him. Gordon's injuries had seemed minor, based on Jeff's own assessment and the fact that the emergency room had released him. He'd been unusually quiet since arriving at the hospital, but Jeff had chalked that up to stress from the situation and worry about John. Now, he felt the doubts–like corbies to a corpse–begin to gather.
Scott's image reappeared. "Bridge collapse," he said succinctly, "Busload of kids, caught on a canyon wall."
Jeff glanced at his unconscious son, briefly indecisive. Then the consummate rescue professional kicked in, pushing all other concerns from his mind. He turned back to the communicator. "Call Virgil. Tell him and Gordon . . ." he hesitated. But with John down, and Scott on Five, there was little choice. ". . . and Alan to meet me at Thunderbird One. You can give us details once we're airborne."
Something suspiciously like guilt flashed across Scott's face at one name, and he said dubiously, "But, Dad. . . ."
"It'll have to wait," Jeff said decisively, his parental worries buried in logistical concerns about the mission. This was going to be tight as is, with having to take the boys back to the island for Thunderbird Two.
Still looking doubtful, Scott responded, "F.A.B." The tiny screen went blank.
Remorse surfaced briefly, and Jeff moved back to the bed, debating whether to speak with the nurse before he left. He held onto the bed rail with one hand, watching his son. The other hand dropped to the blond hair, stroking it absently in a outgrown gesture. "John," Jeff said softly.
There was no reaction. "John, I gotta go." Jeff's hand moved to his son's uninjured shoulder, and lightly–regretfully–rested there.
John's eyes opened briefly, disoriented and distant. Void of recognition, they closed without further response. But then, anesthesia had never been kind to John. Jeff deeply regretted having to leave, for he knew too well what lay ahead in his son's return to consciousness.
"I'll be back," he promised. He stood there a moment longer, gathering professionalism around him like a cloak. Then he turned and left the recovery room.
Author's note: I apologize (again!) for the gaposis between chapters. New job, plus last semester of school, plus real life with family doesn't leave much time for writing. It's been like herding cats–and I've got two of them, too!