Scott landed with a grunt on the ledge, almost immediately throwing himself on his side to land on an elbow. He took a breath, trying to restart his lungs. He had sweated through his shirt but right now with the adrenaline of the drop pumping, he shivered. He rolled his shoulders and carefully unpeeled his fingers from the rope that had saved him. His outstretched foot nudged the frayed rope as far back on the ledge as he could and he rolled onto his back. With one barely moving hand he undid the frayed rope from his carabiners and inserted the new, hopefully more stable, rope from where it lay limp beside his face.
And when all that was done, he let out a groan.
"Scott?"
Scott glanced up. A familiar face grimaced down at him through the gap in the crevice. He blinked.
"Dad?"
"Yup," said Jeff Tracy. "Rope snapped."
"Yeah, no kidding," muttered Scott under his breath. He went to push himself up on his elbows only to gasp and roll back onto his back.
"We've got hold of the new one at this end but hold onto the other, it might be useful for Virgil."
"Is Alan okay?"
"He's fine, he's sitting in the shade for a bit–"
"Are you okay?" The youngest Tracy's voice was two octaves higher than it usually would be.
"Alan, I am not going to tell you again. Get back under those trees and sit down. I am not carrying you up to the house at the end of this as well."
Scott let out a quiet chuckle. Alan and their father butted heads like nobody else, but it was only because they were too similar. Both loudly stubborn and self-sacrificing and ready to disregard authority for their family's sake. In fact, most of the Tracys were like that – with the exception of John and Gordon, both the two odd peas in a pod, but nonetheless both carrying their own particular brand of the Tracy traits.
"I'm fine, Alan," called Scott to his family back up the cliff, "it didn't drop me too far. I'm just … sore."
Scott catalogued. His right forearm and hip had been scraped raw but there were no profusely bleeding gashes. His left elbow where he had landed ached fiercely as he kept it still, but when he had put his weight on it a cold fire had run up his arm. Broken. Possibly.
"How sore?" The suspicion in his father's voice was bred from spending twenty-plus years raising five boys.
"Possible broken elbow. Scrapes." He paused. "Nothing else, I promise." It would not stop the worry but hopefully it would lessen it somewhat.
"I'm sending some supplies down. Strap that arm up and do what you can for the grazes. We'll get you some water too."
"Thanks dad," said Scott quietly. His brothers looked to him for leadership, and he gave it willingly. But who led the leader? Who took care of the carer? Jeff Tracy was Scott's role model and hero – a flawed one, every Tracy would admit, just as much as any other human being was – and it took a great deal of weight off Scott's shoulders to have his father standing at the top of the cliff telling him what to do.
A rope came flying down with a bundle tied at the end. Scott dutifully strapped up his arm, with the frayed rope between his teeth as he did so to give him something to bite down on instead of cracking his teeth. His youngest brother did not need to hear the sounds of his pain, and he'd be damned if Virgil did either, unconscious as he was. He poured some water over the grazes, washing off some of the blood and small rocks, but it would take someone picking them out with tweezers before he would be able to sterilise and cover them properly. At this rate, John was looking to be the only one available. In fact, at this rate, John was looking to be the only member of International Rescue able to move without constrictions and sit in a cockpit chair without wincing.
"Dad, I'm going to check on Virgil," Scott called up once he was finished.
"Be careful."
Scott moved to the edge of the ledge and peered over carefully.
Virgil lay unconscious wedged into the rock gully just below the ledge. He had been smart enough – and conscious enough – to seek some form of shade, though that had clearly faded with the moving sun.
Scott's gaze searched his brother's chest, head, anything he could see. Virgil was breathing, that much he was sure of, and he did not appear to be bleeding from anywhere, but Scott still itched to be able to touch him and make sure for himself that his brother was alive. And there was the added issue of the heat. Virgil's shirt appeared dry. He had stopped sweating.
"He's alive," he passed back to his father. "Unconscious, stopped sweating."
With his father's help, and Alan calling encouragement from further away than the cliff edge, Scott manoeuvred himself to the edge and lay on his stomach until he was bent over looking underneath. The rocks sloped enough from the ledge and under it to allow for some movement – enough movement at least to hold Virgil still and hopefully enough movement to allow Scott to climb down one-handed.
Blood pulsed in Scott's face as he hung upside down and he wiggled himself back onto the ledge so he could breathe deeply. The heat made everything so much worse.
"I'm going to climb down."
"'Cos that worked so well last time."
"Alan."
"Will this rope hold me?" asked Scott. There was no hesitation when Jeff answered.
"Yes."
Well, that was good enough for him.
Scott found footholds, handholds, and skidded down the last of the distance until he was finally face to face with his brother.
"Virgil," he murmured, reaching out a bare hand only to see the split skin and specks of red dotting his knuckles, and his palms glowing pink. He drew his hand back.
Virgil looked … red. For lack of a better word. He had left with a hat on at least and, while his chin was tucked to his chest in a position that was likely not helping his breathing, it kept his face shaded and out of the sun. But his arms all the way to the tops of his shoulders, and his legs between the bottom of his shorts and his socks, were glowing. Even where his t-shirt had pulled up slightly was red. And yet when Scott did put a hand to Virgil's face, it was dry and salty.
Scott's eyes scanned and his one working hand made its way down the body of his brother, checking for breaks, checking for dislocations or swelling or bleeding or impalement or any number of other things, but his hands came away clean and he exhaled in relief and closed his eyes for a moment.
"He's okay," he whispered before repeating the sentiment loud enough that his father and Alan could hear. "The sunburn looks bad but not serious. Maybe a few weeks of careful treatment at most. No injuries that I could discern, nothing bleeding or broken. He doesn't seem to have hit his head and his position is more resting and curled up than if he had fallen." Scott let out a short laugh, bowing his head, resting a shaking hand on Virgil's cap. "He's okay."
They all sat in silence for a second and Scott thought he could almost hear the breathing of those above him slow a little.
"Scott?" came his father's voice. "What do you think?"
Scott knew what his father meant. There was a balance at play here. Virgil, for all that he could recover from his sunburn, was seriously dehydrated and suffering from what Scott suspected was severe heatstroke. He needed his body temperature lowered and fast. But to climb up the cliff again – with one arm on Scott's part – would risk further injuries, and the sudden rope jolts to Virgil's body as he was pulled up the cliff may cause more damage. Scott eyed the surf at the bottom of the cliff. They would have to wait at least another three hours before they could get a rescue boat in, and even then it would require some careful handling. Or else they could wait the six or so hours for the next low tide and carry him out via a stretcher.
Scott turned back to his brother. Virgil did not have that time.
"We're taking him up the cliff," he decided. "I need a tarpaulin and ropes, and something like a backboard. And a C-collar if you've got one."
While he had checked Virgil briefly for injuries, there was no telling what was hidden beneath the skin. And as much as Alan suspected Virgil had walked to this secluded area, Scott could not silence the quiet concern that Virgil had tripped or fallen somewhere along the way.
"Supplies coming soon," came the call from above.
The next few minutes were a blur. Arguing from the cliff top. Running feet disappearing into the distance. Scott kept a hand on Virgil's hat, doing his best to swing so he was blocking his brother from the sun. It was not much but it helped him think he was doing something at least.
"Alan's fetching John now." Jeff sounded as though he were on the edge of deciding to join Scott in the rocks.
"Stay up there, dad," called Scott pre-emptively. "I can handle this."
"I know you can. I know." The sound of the waves far below muffled the small sigh that came from the top of the cliff but Scott knew his father well enough to know it was there. "Doesn't make it any easier."
"I thought you had a business meeting?" Scott reached out and put two fingers under Virgil's lower lip. The warm air around them both did not stop the feel of a breath on Scott's skin.
"I was on my way back anyway," called Jeff, "but the call made my trip a little faster."
"Call?"
"John called me."
"John?" Scott's eyes moved from Virgil to the top of the cliff. He had forgotten, for just a moment, that this brother in front of him was not the only one currently suffering. "Is Gordon okay?"
"He's fine. A bit sunburnt and he'll be a little out of sorts for a while. Last I heard, John managed to slip a sedative into the IV." Scott could imagine his father sighing. "We're going to have some trouble keeping him down for a while." A pause. "Mind you, you're in enough trouble as it is."
"What?"
"Did you tell John you had found Virgil alive?"
Scott froze.
"Oh. I thought Alan had."
"Uh huh. You're in big trouble, buster." Scott could hear the amusement in his voice all the way from where he currently crouched. And Jeff wondered where Gordon got it from.
"In my defence, I am currently half way down a cliff face."
"Tell that to the judge." Scott glanced up at John's voice. It appeared both blond Tracys had been running – one to the house and one from it. Or perhaps John had been waiting already. "Alan's staying back at the house, I made him sit in the sickbay and watch Gordon for a bit – it should keep him occupied long enough to cool down. Here."
Another rope was lowered, this time with a C-collar tied to the end.
"How's Gordon?" asked Scott.
"Still sedated. How's Virgil?"
"Still unconscious."
"And you?"
"Bruised."
"Broken," corrected Jeff.
"How broken?"
"Minor."
"An elbow," said Jeff. "It's strapped up at the moment."
"We're dropping like flies." Scott knew, from that tone of voice, what was coming next. He opened his mouth but John beat him to it. "I'm coming down to join you."
There were a lot of things Scott could say in response – that they did not need another Tracy injured, that John needed to be there to help their father get both him and Virgil back up, that John was probably the only one able to run without wheezing between the house and the rescue site. But Scott knew, from his current struggles to put the C-collar on one-handed and his growing appreciation for how much he would have to physically lift during this manoeuvre, that it would be best if John were down here with him.
"Okay," he said, "but be careful."
"Somehow," came the response, "I think that applies more to you."
John arrived in quick form with a tarpaulin in tow, which he and Scott tied it to the bottom of the ledge as a half-hearted cover from the sun. Only Virgil's head was still exposed as the tarpaulin would not stretch so far, but Scott figured Virgil's cap would have to make do for now.
The bag John carried down with him also held a water bottle, and Scott took a long pull before gently pouring some of the rest over Virgil's arms and legs. John, with his own water bottle, pulled out a rag and wet it to wipe Virgil's face with careful dabs.
Virgil moaned.
"Hey," said Scott, more out of surprise than anything else before his brain clicked into gear. "Hey, hey Virge, hey," he put a hand to Virgil's cheek, "you're okay, you're safe. Don't you go moving there, okay?" He gave an awkward chuckle. It did not look like Virgil would be moving much, wedged as he was in the rocks, but Scott could not help but tell him otherwise nonetheless.
Virgil rolled his head back and moved his feet, tucking his knees closer. Scott felt something within him uncurl that he had not realised until now was tight. No neck injury. No back injury. Further movement from his brother disrupted the hat and it tipped off his head. Scott tugged it off gently and examined the inside, putting out a hand to prevent Virgil's head from impacting the rocks.
"No blood, no bumps to the head," he told John in a low voice, and he heard his brother's quiet whistle.
"Try wake him up," said John, handing over the rest of his water.
"Virgil," began Scott, "hey, I need you to drink something, okay? Just a little bit, we've got to get you cooled down." One hand on the drink bottle, one hand behind Virgil's head, and he began to slowly pour the remaining water drip by drip into Virgil's dry mouth.
-000-
He could feel something on his face.
It was all-encompassing.
It was burned.
And it was bright.
He moaned and turned his head to the side.
"Hey, hey now," something stopped but he did not know what it was, something changed, "you're okay, you're okay, Virgil."
Something touched his face. Now it was not just bright but it hurt as well. He flinched and tried to roll his head back the other way but the something kept him trapped.
He tried to tell the something to stop, to stop touching him, to do … something. He needed something done. He did not know what it was.
He opened his mouth. A mumble emerged.
"Virgil?"
His brain jolted into gear.
"Tell Gordon …"
"Gordon's not here right now. It's just me, it's Scott, and John. And dad's at the top of the cliff. We're going to get you back to the house."
No. The something was more urgent than that. The thought. He had it. It was right there.
"Tell Gordon … turn the … light off." His eyes scrunched tighter against the brightness. The skin on his face tugged and pulled, stretched over bone. He winced. Everything felt … taut. "Where'm I?"
"You're on the cliffs. You went for a walk in ninety-five degree heat with no supplies."
Annoyed? Angry? No. Relieved. The voice was relieved. And tired.
"Gordon?"
"Gordon's back at the house."
He turned his face from the brightness again, struggling to keep it from his eyes. It seemed the person with him realised and the brightness disappeared a second later to be replaced by cool shade. He screwed his face up again, smacked his lips, and opened his eyes the smallest amount.
A struggle.
But there. There was a person. A brother? A … Scott. It was a Scott.
"Scott," he mumbled. He closed his eyes. Much easier.
A chuckle.
"That's right, it's me, you incorrigible frustration." Affection.
"You're … frustrating."
He scowled sightlessly. Something wet touched his mouth, seemingly sizzling in the warmth. He tried to turn away, raising an arm part way before dropping it. It was heavy. And he was tired. So tired.
"Hold still there, buddy." Another voice, softer than the first, and less demanding. A sigh.
"Just rest, Virgil. You're okay."
Scott would ask him later if he remembered anything of the trip back up the cliff. He loved Scott, truly, but it was because of that love that Virgil blatantly lied to his face.
No, Scott, he did not remember being put into the harness on the side of the cliff.
No, Scott, he did not remember nearly getting dropped when the rope got caught.
No, Scott, he did not remember being squeezed through the narrow gap and Scott alternating between muttered prayers and fierce cursing.
And no, he definitely did not remember the feeling of the sun on his burning body the whole way until it felt like he was aflame.
"It's okay, Virgil," came a voice. He frowned. That voice was unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, mixed together in away and home, danger and safety.
"Dad?"
"That's right, I got back early." Something touched his hair, gentle as a breeze. "We're going to get you back to the house now. You just rest."
"Okay, dad," he breathed, and everything disappeared.
-000-
"Oh my god," breathed Alan as they brought Virgil into the sickbay.
Alan had run back in an attempt to get more rescue equipment but John had made him sit down and put his head between his legs in front of the fan before disappearing to the cliffs himself, and Alan hated every minute of it. Yes, it was cooler in here, yes, Gordon needed constant monitoring at the moment, and yes, Alan might be seeing a couple of stars every time he stood up. But they did not need three patients with heatstroke, John had said as he had left, let alone the trouble you both would cause towards the end of any convalescence if you're stuck in the sickbay together.
The watch connection fritzed in and out as much as it had when Alan had been at the cliffs, but through the static both John and Scott had given sitreps on Virgil's condition.
Virgil was not injured but he was sunburnt. Badly. And also severely dehydrated and unconscious and suffering from severe heatstroke, and could Alan please get an IV ready?
But the neutral information had not prepared him for the sight of his older brother on a stretcher as red as a lobster. Alan did not know whether the lack of broken bones and blood made it better or worse. They, at least, could be acknowledged and fixed as best they could. Alan could be doing something, fixing something. Here, there was nothing he could do but help set up the IV and watch as his father and his two older brothers tried to treat the burns as best he could.
Eventually, the wincing got to Jeff and Scott was made to sit down, but he continued to lean this way and that in the plastic chair to see around John as the two continued to work.
"That's a bit worse than a couple of scrapes," said Alan, coming up beside his eldest brother.
"It wasn't your fault," replied Scott, distracted momentarily from John applying the burn cream to face Alan.
"I never said it was."
It was a quick response. Too quick. Alan could only see his haste to get out of the house and get to the rescue site through a haze of yellow. He watched himself in his mind's eye grabbing at the ropes John handed him, barely listening to the warnings, and then taking off running. He remembered pushing Scott to reconsider, but not hard enough.
"I know that look," said Scott with a small smile. "This family has an overactive guilt complex, and unfortunately you're not exempt."
Alan watched him for a moment. There was no anger or bitterness in Scott's eyes. They were tight in the way of someone who had been in the sun too long, but they were clear – worried, but clear. Scott, being the worst offender for blaming himself, did not blame himself here. Therefore Alan supposed he had nothing to worry about.
"D'you want me to remove the gravel or d'you prefer to keep it?"
"With this much," said Scott twisting to look at his hip and wincing at what was no doubt biting pain through his left arm, "I could make myself a maraca out of it."
Alan snorted and got the tweezers.
-000-
Night hit and the temperature dropped enough that windows could be opened on the main level if anyone had wanted a fresh breeze. But no one noticed.
The Tracy boys all sat or lay in the sickbay down below, the lights on and the machines gently beeping as Virgil and Gordon slept. All of them that were conscious wanting to put a hand in or fetch something or sit, just sit, at Virgil's bedside and hope and pray that the heat had not damaged anything further than a layer of skin. Jeff took a call in the hall to a doctor friend they knew well, and they could hear occasional words filtering through the opening and closing sickbay doors as he paced outside the room.
John saw Alan sidle up to him out of the corner of his eye where he stood leaning against the wall with his arms folded beside Gordon's bed. The sedation had worn off a couple of hours before but Gordon was too exhausted to do anything but glance over at where Virgil lay and then close his eyes, still facing his brother. They would need to keep an eye on that, John mused to himself. An overabundance of self-recrimination ran in the family.
"Is Virgil gonna be okay?" came the low voice from beside him.
John glanced over, surprised out of his thoughts.
"He'll be fine, sprout."
John wrapped an arm around Alan's shoulders, laying his own blond hair against his brother's bleach-blond streaks. Though the youngest Tracy was a competent member of International Rescue, and held his own easily in some of the most dangerous situations out there, he was still young. Younger than John had been when he had started with IR. And he was a youngest child too, looking to his older siblings with something alternating between hero worship and sheer irritation at their mother-henning ways. Such trouble as this was always hard.
"What if he doesn't wake up?" It was the darkness allowing a voice to be given to such quiet uncertainty, giving sight to insecurity.
"He'll wake up," said John as confidently as he could. "Just you wait. He'll be itching to get out of the sickbay as soon as Scott turns his back."
They both looked at the oldest Tracy son, who was still sitting at Virgil's bedside and silently staring at the man lying there. His arm was now in a cast and the grazes down his arm, leg, and – they found out later – his back were cleaned and bandaged where necessary. He had swallowed some painkillers under the watchful gaze of their father, but refused to sleep.
"He'll dry out his eyes if he keeps that up."
"Maybe he's hoping it will wake Virgil up enough to tell him to get lost."
Alan gave a tired giggle.
"Get some rest, sprout. You've been running around far too much today."
"I don't need rest."
"Look," said John as seriously as he could manage. "Here's the deal. There's only one bed left in sickbay and if you're not careful, someone's going to take it and then if you want to stay down here you'll have to share. Dad snores. And you know how much of an octopus Scott is." Camping trips as children meant they both knew full well. Scott was a sleep-clinger and ran like a furnace, guaranteeing whoever unwarily stepped into his grasp would be both sweaty and trapped.
"But," continued John, "you're clearly the cutest Tracy, which means if you get the bed first, no one is going to be mean enough to move you – or to force you to share. And then you get a bed to yourself and you get to stay watching over these two lazy lumps."
"Three," said Alan with a grin. John glanced at Scott and returned the grin.
"You're right, three lumps, my mistake." His voice was loud enough to be heard from the other end of the sickbay, but Scott did not even twitch. "So what do you say, sprout? Ready to work the system?"
Alan groaned to the ceiling and scuffed his way over to the furthest bed, flopping face first onto it. Within minutes, John could hear the muffled sounds of slow breaths and grinned to himself.
"Guess it's me watching all four of these lumps," he murmured to himself, shifting so he was as comfortable as he could get against the wall.
-000-
"Are you actually awake this time?"
As first words to wake up to, these seemed a little … obscure. Not to mention rude.
"Are you talking to me?" he mumbled back, blinking his eyes open. Red hair, freckles, wide eyes. Virgil let out a huff of breath and closed his eyes again. "What'd'you want, Gordon?"
"Scott! Scott, he's actually awake!" The voice faded a little as if Gordon were moving away, and Virgil sighed. Always running around, always causing trouble.
"That'd be you, actually." Virgil opened his eyes. John stood next to the bed, grinning. "You're talking out loud. Have been for a while."
"In my sleep?"
John made a face.
"It wasn't exactly sleep. You've been in and out of consciousness for the past two days."
That … was a surprise. Honest. Virgil was a little foggy on the details but he was fairly sure he remembered being out at the cliffs, watching the waves come in and trying to ignore the sun on his back.
"What happened?"
"You disappeared. It took us a while to find you, but when we did you were unconscious half way down a cliff."
"Oh. I fell?"
John pressed his lips together.
"No, it looks like you climbed up voluntarily."
"That sounds like a very stupid idea."
"It most definitely was that." John gave a small cough and Virgil narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Sorry, it's just," John turned away for a moment, but Virgil caught the grin that was being rapidly suppressed, "it's been so long since I've seen you on pain medication."
"Medication?"
"Yeah, you got some wicked burns." That was a new voice. No, a familiar voice. Wasn't it just here? Had it disappeared? "Yeah, I did, I went to get Scott." A pause. "What's wrong with him?"
Virgil turned. Gordon appeared on his other side, arms folded, looking very shifty.
"He always looks shifty, Virge." A hand on his hair. Another voice. Virgil looked up. Scott stood above him grinning.
Virgil had a vague memory of Scott swearing.
"Well, it wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, trying to get you back up that cliff."
"I offered to help." Another person? Angry? Sulking? Virgil closed his eyes. There were too many people. Too many voices. Too many hands.
"I know you did, sprout. And I appreciated the offer. But you were far more useful back at the house."
"Not useful enough to stop the rope from breaking."
"Alan, we talked about this."
Virgil shifted on the bed and groaned.
"He's just grouchy because dad made him stay in here for heat exhaustion," said someone – John? "I actually helped Scott get you up the cliffs."
"Swear jar," said Virgil, interrupting insistently. He was stuck on this fact for some reason. It did not seem fitting to watch Scott swear. Especially when he caught Virgil the other day after he stubbed his toe. Other day? Maybe other week. Time had lost almost all meaning.
"Okay, Virge."
"It's the pain meds, Gordon, nothing more," came a low voice from his left. A huff. Virgil opened his eyes to see Gordon transform himself from concerned to gleeful.
"Hey, Virge, maybe once you get all the bandages off, we'll be able to peel you like a banana."
"Peel? What–" Virgil cut himself off, lifting up his arms. They were wrapped, from his shoulders to his fingertips, in gauze.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
"My hands – they're – my hands–"
"Hey, hey, Virge, it's okay–"
"–You need to calm down, deep breath now–"
"Gordon, sit down."
"But–"
"No, now."
Moving footsteps that echoed the breaths in Virgil's lungs, the breaths that would not come, that would halt in his throat. His hands. His livelihood. His painting, his piano, his way of life. He screwed his eyes shut.
"Virgil, they're going to be fine. You hear me? They will be fine. They're just burnt right now, so we put some burn cream on them and wrapped them. Can you hear me, son? You need to slow your breathing, you're hyperventilating."
Virgil looked up. His dad stood beside the bed, eyes in pain, hand reaching for Virgil before retracting. They both knew it would hurt more than it would help.
"There you are," said Jeff. A hand landed gently on Virgil's hair, not Jeff's, and Virgil glanced around. Scott stood behind him, face pressed against the hand in Virgil's hair, just breathing.
"Scott?"
"'M here," said Scott. The words were muffled through the hand and the hair and being so close to Virgil's ears. "I'm here."
"What … what will happen to my hands?"
"They need some time to recover. You'll be playing the piano again soon enough."
"They got burnt?"
"Yeah, Virge, they got burnt. All of you got burnt. You were in the sun too long."
"Oh," said Virgil. That seemed to make some sort of sense. And the memory of painburningstinging settled into his mind in a more appropriate box. That pain was lingering in the background, somewhere behind his eyes and sitting against his spine; he could feel it. His eyes felt watery for some reason and he sniffed. "Oh."
"What's–" There was a shushing noise and then the sound of a quiet argument. Virgil closed his eyes. He was tired, so tired, and sore.
"Back off, John!" Footsteps coming closer. "Virgil, I know something that could help distract you." Footsteps running away. "Gimme an hour!"
Virgil knew that voice, knew those footsteps. The names of these people kept slipping his mind but he knew that he knew them. Somehow. And concern came with the knowing.
"Is he okay?" His voice was crackly, like burning paper.
Another voice answered. Scott, he reminded himself, this one was Scott.
"Mild heatstroke. If such a thing can be mild. Mild compared to yours at least."
"Is … is John okay?"
"I'm just fine, Virge."
"And the other one? The … sulking one?" Laughter.
"Alan's fine too. He's gone to help Gordon." A hand stroking through his hair. "You get some rest now, okay? I'm sure whatever Gordon's coming back with will take all your energy."
There was muttering between two voices.
"You fucking bet it will," came a voice calling from somewhere very far away.
"Swear jar," murmured Virgil before he drifted off.
