Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Whumptober Day 12 "Torture" and "Made To Watch". Warnings for torture.

Whatever Bastard had had in mind for Alan, it clearly hadn't been bringing him along for the ride alongside Scott. Gordon wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing – it entirely depended on whether or not the intent had been to leave his little brother alive.

The brig he and Scott were thrown into was small, no room to swing a cat with both of them in it. A single bucket sat in one corner, its purpose clear, while something that could, very generously, be labelled a cot – more accurately a crate pallet with one, threadbare and near enough useless blanket – took up most of the remaining space. Gordon was certain that if they'd intended on capturing two Tracys, they'd have come up with slightly different accommodations for them, starting with separate cells.

Untying their hands clearly wasn't a priority, either, and it was Gordon's shoulder that took the brunt of the fall onto the solid, cool metal flooring. Beside him, Scott's grunt of pain as he, too, was unable to break his fall, promised that his big brother was still conscious.

That was a single point of relief in the otherwise rather bleak and awful situation they'd ended up in.

The door slammed shut behind them, not far from Gordon's trailing foot and even closer to Scott's, plunging them into near-darkness. For several long moments all he could hear was the hum of familiar, aquanautical machinery and his brother's slightly unsteady, pain-filled breathing.

Then Scott broke the silence.

"I told you to run," he rasped, voice weaker than Gordon would have preferred. "You could have got away."

He was right, at least in theory. In practice, Gordon wasn't entirely sure he could have outrun their assailants after the swim, not with the lead of exhaustion weighting down his bones, much in the same way it was trying to do again, kept at bay only by the trail of his adrenaline rush. But there was one important factor that Scott was failing to consider.

"And abandon you?" he wheezed back, starting to shift around experimentally. Having his arms bound behind his back was not helpful in the slightest, but the major limitation was his own exhaustion.

"It would have been the smart choice," Scott insisted, his voice sounding strained.

Gordon sighed and continued his attempts to move. His limbs felt like lead, and his head was heavier than it ought to be, too, but he was stubborn enough to keep pushing anyway. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the half-light, he could just about make out the outline of his brother, far too still for his liking, crumpled over the edge of the pallet.

"Well, I'm here now," he said, managing to drag himself into something resembling a sitting position and pulling himself closer to Scott with trembling, exhausted legs. "No point focusing on the what-ifs."

The noise his brother let out wasn't reassuring, nor was the pained gasp that followed. Gordon was certain that his injuries must have been worsened by the over-the-shoulder carry and successive throw to the floor, and that didn't bode well when he'd been pretty badly injured already.

"Scott," he started, cursing the bound wrists keeping him from properly reaching and checking over his brother. "How-"

"Get on the bed and sleep," his brother cut in, voice threaded with steel despite its frailty. "You need to rest. I'll keep watch." The final word broke into two syllables as Scott's voice faltered.

"You're worse off," Gordon disagreed. "You need-"

"I know," Scott rasped, still too much of a big brother to let him get a word in edgeways, apparently. "You just need sleep."

"I can last a little longer," Gordon insisted, even if the mere suggestion was seemingly enough to add weights to his eyelids. "You're hurt bad, Scott."

So much for protecting his brother.

"Precisely," Scott agreed, nonsensically and throwing Gordon off of his mental train as it screeched to an abrupt halt. "Gordon, if a chance appears, one- one of us needs to be fit to take it."

With his broken leg, there was already no chance that Scott would be able to get them out if the opportunity presented itself.

The argument made a frustrating amount of sense, even though Gordon's heart rebelled furiously at the idea. His head, however, acquiesced reluctantly.

"Don't let me sleep too long," he demanded, dragging himself the final few inches across the floor until he was successfully in contact with his brother's shaking, pain-wracked body.

"I'll wake you if someone comes," Scott promised. A heavy head shifted until it was resting against his stomach, and Gordon really wished one or both of them had their hands free. Maybe once he'd got some shut-eye and restored some energy he could try and do something about that, but for the moment it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

"And when someone comes," Scott continued after a moment, voice still faint and weak, "don't draw attention to yourself." When, not if. They both knew that they wouldn't have the luxury of being left alone for long.

They also both knew what was going to happen once they did get visitors.

Gordon did not like Scott's implications. "That'll put you on their radar," he yawned in complaint. "Scott-"

"I was their original target," Scott croaked. The uneven breathing betrayed that Scott wasn't overly enamoured with his own words, either. "They prepared for me. They'll go for me first."

He was probably right, but, "then we should throw them off." Ruin their plans, not let them get their way. Not let them hurt Scott any more.

Scott chuckled humourlessly and his hands balled into fists behind his back. "One of us has to be able to move," he repeated, and Gordon's protests ground to a halt, because Scott was right, no matter how much he hated it.

No matter how much he wanted to stand in front of his brother, destroying anyone who even thought about hurting him. No matter that he'd promised he wouldn't let them hurt Scott again.

The temptation to scream in frustration was strong, but considering their situation that would be a very bad idea, so Gordon swallowed it down and shifted so that Scott's head was pressed more firmly against his abdomen.

First, no matter how much he loathed it, he needed sleep. The bone deep exhaustion from his desperate swim was etched into his core, and there was nothing he could do until his mind and body were sharp again.

The instant he relaxed his guard against the sandman, sleep struck, sucking him down into an inky blackness. Too exhausted to even dream, the next thing he knew there was a moving weight on his stomach and his name was being rasped by a weak, frail voice over and over again.

"-don. Gordon. Gordon."

There was a hopeful thought that perhaps he'd dreamed the whole thing and that they were actually safe and sound at home, but it was regrettably dashed the moment he peeled open his eyes to see the same gloom, and the same crumpled body of his eldest brother.

Scott looked even worse than he remembered, face devoid of all colour and beads of sweat trickling down his skin. His eyes were half-lidded and dark like stormy skies. Gordon hadn't even known they were capable of such a dramatic colour shift.

"I'm awake," he promised, stifling a yawn and interrupting the mantra of his name. Scott fell silent, not even offering a sitrep, but as Gordon's ears readjusted to their current surroundings, he realised he didn't need one.

Footsteps, heavy and almost certainly the same military issue boots as Bastard had been wearing, echoed dully through their room.

Company was coming.

There was no point even entertaining the idea that they'd be after anything other than information. Information that neither of them could provide. Scott was so tense he was trembling against Gordon's stomach, and Gordon wasn't much better. Being trained for situations like this didn't make them any less awful.

Knock, knock rang out mockingly against the door, before there was the sound of a bolt sliding and the slab of metal gradually moved out of the way, letting in light.

Gordon's eyes reacted automatically, squinting shut against the visual assault as his retinas burned. The weight against his stomach moved sharply – too sharply to be his injured brother's doing – and a grunt of pain reached his ears.

A moment later, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground echoed through the room, and Gordon forced his eyes open against the brightness, ignoring the moisture beading in them and blurring his vision, to see a tall shape standing illuminated by the source of the light.

There was no question that that was Bastard, even before the man leaned down and grabbed something by his feet, hauling it up.

It was Scott, a meaty fist in his hair as the rest of his body weight tried to drag him back down to the floor. His brother's breathing was louder, rasping uncomfortably in a way that said his airways weren't as unrestricted as they'd like to be.

Gordon's instinct was to snipe at Bastard, dragging his attention away from Scott and protecting his weak, already injured big brother. He still didn't know if his ribs were damaged, but something told him that by the time Bastard was done, they would be even if they weren't already. Scott was in no condition to endure an interrogation, while Gordon was physically unharmed – barring a few scrapes and bruises – and refreshed enough after his nap to be mentally sharp again.

But then, that was the entire reason Scott had told him not to draw attention to himself. Unless the submarine resurfaced, it was going to be extremely difficult for their family to find and rescue them, and with Kayo the only combat-trained family member not currently in a brig, even then it would be messy. As well as being mostly physically and mentally sound, Gordon knew submarines.

If they were getting out of there, it was going to be down to him. In the long term, it was by far the best course of action to stay back and let Scott provide the distraction.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt to lay half on the uncomfortable pallet and stifle his reactions as Bastard stamped down on one of Scott's already broken limbs – in the harsh lighting, Gordon couldn't tell if it was his leg or wrist – and his brother let out a choked-off sound that cut deeper than a scream because Scott was so clearly trying to hide the pain.

It was failing miserably; Gordon knew Scott too well not to hear the agony in every short, sharp sound he let out. Bastard – an apt a nickname as Gordon had ever bestowed – kept his own voice deep and steady as he repeated questions again and again with seemingly endless patience.

There was a part of Gordon – a deep, vindictive part that he didn't let see the light of day – that couldn't wait to turn the tables on Bastard and put him in shackles while busting all his major bones. There was a larger part of him that was screaming that he should be protecting Scott, like he'd promised he would do.

Why did it always seem to end up with his big brother being the protector?

He clenched his teeth, keeping his breathing firmly even, as Scott failed to stifle a scream and his brother's voice reverberated all through the brig. There was nothing he could do. Nothing that would do anything except make things worse.

Bastard was ignoring him completely, and he was somewhat insulted at that even though it worked in their – not favour, because there was nothing favourable about their position. Worked with their plan. Being underestimated was good. Underestimation meant sloppiness, carelessness. Mistakes.

The fastest way to break Scott would be to use him. Gordon hoped that idea didn't occur to Bastard.

Another scream tore itself from Scott's throat, high pitched and wrong, and he saw the shape of his brother go limp. He prayed it was the pain, and not the injuries, that had caused it.

"Is that it?" Bastard asked after a moment, a vicious kick rolling Scott's limp body awkwardly over. His head caught the edge of the pallet, but he didn't stir.

Cold blue eyes glittered in the lighting as they landed on Gordon, and he tensed.

"That was boring," Bastard said conversationally, as though Scott wasn't a broken rag doll at his feet. "You, on the other hand, look like you still have some life in you." He took a step forwards, militia style boots carelessly resting their partial weight on his unconscious brother.

Gordon loathed him just a little bit more.

"What information do you have for me?" the asshole continued, still in the same conversational, faux-friendly tone. "It's been a while since you were in service, but you must remember something useful."

Go to hell, Gordon wanted to spit, but with Scott beneath the man's boot he didn't dare antagonise him.

"I'll be back," Bastard said, as though he could be any more cliché. "Next time, it's your turn."

He turned around and left, shutting the door being him and slamming the bolt home. Plunged back into near-darkness, Gordon could barely make out the shape of his brother. Relying on memory as much as sight, he dragged himself over until he could feel the warmth of his brother's skin.

Scott was still breathing, at least. Moving him was entirely out of the question; after Bastard's onslaught, there was no way of knowing if any of the broken fragments were in life-threatening locations, and if moving him would turn it from life-threatening to life-ending. Not until Gordon could find a way out of his cuffs and assess him properly.

With the threat of his own upcoming torture hanging over his head, Gordon was acutely aware that he was going to need to do that sooner rather than later. If he ended up in a similar condition, then they could kiss any chance of getting themselves out goodbye.

The most obvious route was dislocating a thumb, but that would then put him at an even greater disadvantage if things came to a fight. Considering his only chance of getting them out of there was subduing the entire crew, or at least gaining control of the control room and barring everyone else out, he was going to have to fight – and protect Scott at the same time.

Something as simple as a dislocated thumb could turn his odds from impossibly slim to plain impossible.

A choked-up noise, high enough to be classified as a whimper, brought his attention back to his brother.

"Hey, Scott," he murmured, "you with me?"

The next noise could have been acknowledgement or completely unrelated. Gordon chose to hope it was the former. "You need to stay still, bro. That guy seriously did a number on you."

"-don?" If he'd thought Scott's voice was weak earlier, it was nothing compared to the fractured attempt at his name now.

"I'm here, Scott," he promised. "I'm not hurt." Yet.

"G'd."

"Any thoughts on getting out of shackles without trashing my thumbs in the process?" he asked, more rhetorical than not; he seriously doubted that even Scott could be up for complex problem solving in his condition – or much of anything, really.

"P'kt," came an unexpected and quick response, although Gordon's powers of translation failed him on what it was supposed to be.

"Come again?"

Scott's next breath was deep enough to rattle alarmingly. "P'k 't," he sounded out, slowly and deliberately. "Ic'n."

To Gordon's alarm, his brother tried to move.

"Woah, no!" he protested, resting an elbow lightly on the nearest part of his brother and praying it wasn't one of the areas Bastard had brutalised. "No moving, Scott."

His brother let out a sound that was clearly frustration. "Uh… c'n… p'k… 't," he repeated. "C'mrrr." Scott's fingers wriggled awkwardly, and comprehension dawned over Gordon.

"In your state?" he asked, vaguely incredulous, although he hauled himself upright and obediently moved until his bound hands were in reach of Scott's.

"Nh'chsssss," his brother slurred, a familiar tone of determination slipping into his words. He wasn't wrong; they didn't have a choice.

That didn't mean Gordon liked the sounds of pain coming out in hisses from between his brother's clenched fists as swollen and trembling fingers fumbled against his wrists for several minutes, sharp intakes of breath invading for variety. How Scott was even moving his fingers at all, he didn't really want to contemplate.

It must have been nigh on ten minutes before a click echoed resoundingly through the brig and Gordon's wrists fell apart. The cuff was still hooked around one of them, but he had independent use of his hands again, and that was all that mattered.

"Okay," he said, pulling his hands out of Scott's feeble reach. "That's good enough, Scott. Now you."

He plucked the thin strip of metal Scott had seemingly magicked out of nowhere from his brother's bruised fingers and with a few jiggles in the lock, got him freed. The arms instantly slumped to Scott's sides, and Gordon wasted no time in checking his brother over.

Scott couldn't hold back the pained gasps that his investigation elicited, each one stabbing through Gordon as a reminder of the promise he'd broken. Twice. All he could do now was do everything in his power to get them both out without any further injury.

The already broken leg was now shattered. There would be no weight-bearing on that one at all now, and the other ankle wasn't exactly intact, although in a worst-case scenario Scott could potentially stand on it for a few heartbeats. Both wrists were also broken, as well as his hands and fingers. How he'd picked a lock, Gordon honestly had no idea.

The good news was that his ribs hadn't taken any more obvious damage, although now that Gordon had an opportunity to investigate them at last, there were several cracked ribs that he would need to be cautious of while carrying his brother around. Pain, for all that was a woefully inadequate word to describe what Scott had to be feeling, was the main cause of his breathlessness and inability to talk.

It could have been so much worse.

Gordon clung to that observation as he determined that Scott was safe to move and gently picked up his brother, settling him on the pallet as far from the door as he could manage.

"Your turn to rest, Scotty," he told him quietly, placing a light hand over his brother's mouth when he looked like he was going to protest. "You bought me the time to get back in the game. I'm getting us out of here now."

And he wasn't breaking that promise a third time. This time, they really wouldn't hurt his brother again.

As soon as I saw this whumptober prompt I knew it was time to dust off this fic again, because this fits so nicely with the story's direction.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari