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As we all need a little fluff now and again... Enjoy!


There were no interesting patterns on his ceiling.

No intriguing shadows as the moonlight spilled through the open balcony door.

The breeze wasn't refreshing.

The night wasn't quiet.

Virgil groaned. He scrunched the pillow, trying to force some volume back into it before shoving it behind his head.

It didn't help. He was still uncomfortable. No amount of pillow fluffing was going to make a difference.

He'd been too hot, and the blankets were pushed to the end of the bed in a pile. Of course, now he'd cooled down, he couldn't reach them to pull them back up again. For a few moments, he lay there, eyes closed, counting his breaths as he tried to will himself to relax.

All it did was focus his attention on the reason why he wasn't asleep. The throbbing, itching weight of his left leg. His knee still felt hot – not just to touch – and his ankle ached from where he'd struggled to compensate.

It wasn't even the wrenched knee that was keeping him awake. Brains had given him enough painkillers that it had settled to a soft pulse rather than the hammer-hard pounding it had been earlier in the evening.

No. His current discomfort was the weight of the brace strapped around his leg. It was heavy and restrictive, and made sleeping curled up nigh-on-impossible. Virgil didn't sleep on his back, never had. He curled into the smallest ball he could and buried away from the world and all its problems, even when living on a tropical island. Now, though, he could barely roll over.

He also, it seemed, couldn't sleep. No amount of meditation was going to disguise the fact that he was cold, in pain, and irritable right now. He checked his watch: 2am. Even John wouldn't still be awake for a chat at this time, and Virgil huffed, feeling despondent more than tired.

There was no point lying there grumbling to himself. Pressing his palms against the mattress, he forced himself upright, scooting back until he could lean against the wall. He twisted half his body, then gripped his leg and swung it off the bed. It was a strange lurch to get himself to his feet, and it was only the hand on the wall that stopped him from falling flat on his face. It felt like a victory given his latest streak of bad luck, and Virgil took a breath, gaze fixed with determination on his bedroom door.

He'd had worse than a wrenched knee. He'd seen worse on his brothers and always come up with reasons why they were lucky the damage hadn't been more severe. A Tracy didn't let something like a strained…

Ow.

Pep talks only got so far. Even with the brace, shifting his weight hurt. By the time he reached his bedroom door, he certainly wasn't cold any longer.

When he got to the kitchen, he was breathless, sweating, and in more pain than he wanted to admit. He paused in the doorway, staring into the room, and wondering what exactly he was supposed to do next.

Hobbling across, he perched on one of the bar stools. But the angle was too severe for his knee, and he couldn't elevate it. Huffing, Virgil slid off again, leaning against the wall and looking around for ideas, but nothing came to mind.

Rather than face the trek back to his room, he let the wall take his weight and slipped down to the floor. It took some awkward manoeuvring to lower himself while keeping his leg straight, but he got there.

Resting back, Virgil stared across the kitchen blankly. He didn't know what he'd come down for, but now he was here, it all seemed pointless. He told himself it was better than staring at his ceiling, but had to admit the view hadn't improved that much.

He hadn't been there long when he heard footsteps. Virgil stayed quiet, hoping to pass unnoticed. When the light flicked on, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his watery eyes.

"Come on." The tone was a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

Virgil was out of sight: he was sitting on the floor, wedged into a corner on the opposite side to either the fridge or the cupboards. There was no reason for anyone to look this way. He somehow wasn't surprised when he looked up to find Scott standing over him, hand outstretched.

Virgil took it. His brother gripped his forearm, steadying him with the other hand as he pulled him upright. Hooking a chair with his foot, Scott spun it around and Virgil lowered himself into it. But like the bar stool, the angle was wrong, and he grimaced, making to rise.

"Wait."

He didn't have time to ask before Scott had pulled over another chair, found a cushion from who-knew-where, and helped Virgil rest his leg on it.

Virgil sagged. He suddenly felt it was two in the morning, and he was in the kitchen rather than bed.

"What're you doing up?" He asked his brother. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Scott moved. For a man completely out of his comfort zone, his movements were assured, soothing, and Virgil relaxed back.

Scott shrugged. "Couldn't sleep," he muttered, opening the fridge.

"Why?"

It wasn't uncommon for previous rescues to play on their minds, and the fact Virgil's leg was in a brace gave away the latest hadn't been a straight forward one.

"I was just restless," Scott said, "couldn't switch off."

He gave Virgil a pointed look, who flushed. It was hardly the first time Scott hadn't been able to sleep, only to find a brother was also awake for one reason or another.

"Freak," Virgil muttered.

Scott ignored the insult. "Do you need more meds?"

Virgil shook his head. "It's not the pain," he said, "it's just…" He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

"Can't get comfy?"

Virgil grimaced. "I know I'm the first to tell you guys rest is the best thing, but…" His flush deepened as he forced himself to meet his brother's eyes. "I got bored staring at the ceiling. We'd need a bigger island for the number of sheep I tried counting."

Scott's mouth twitched in a quick smile, but he didn't say anything. Instead, Virgil watched, intrigued, as he pulled down a couple of mugs.

It only took a few seconds before Virgil realised what Scott was doing.

"For a man whose main culinary skill is not burning the pizza, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Scott gave him a scathing look as he heated the milk and started measuring out chocolate powder.

"All those afternoons sitting at the kitchen table with Grandma," he reminisced, "this is the one thing I know how to do. Don't you remember who used to make it for you guys when you got home from school in winter?"

Virgil smiled. He remembered their grandmother bustling around. But it was only now that he recalled Scott in the background, carefully measuring quantities and stirring hot milk while they demanded sprinkles, cream, marshmallows and various combinations of the above. Their grandmother handled the flourishes, but Scott made the drinks.

"Cream and marshmallows, right?" Scott said.

Virgil's smile was fond as he nodded, touched that Scott remembered his preferred mix. He was soon cradling a hot chocolate, swiping his finger through the cream before his brother handed him a spoon.

Scott had gone for the same, minus cream, and they both spent a few moments chasing gooey lumps around their drinks.

"D'you ever miss Kansas?" Virgil said.

Scott's eyes widened as he slurped some of his drink.

"Why?"

Virgil shrugged. "Dunno. Just having this-," he gestured at the mug -, "made me start thinking about it."

Scott sat down opposite him, drawing his knees to his chest. He looked young like that – the same way he'd sat as a boy, even if Virgil was impressed that he could fold his long limbs into the chair and hold the position.

"Sometimes," Scott admitted, surprising his brother. Virgil's eyebrows raised.

"You do?"

Scott nodded. "I'd never go back if that's what you're mean. What we do, who we are… it's in our blood."

Virgil agreed. Their father had done so much before starting International Rescue, and it wasn't only Scott and John who had followed his path. They all longed for something more.

Being out in the field, being active, making a difference… Scott was right: it was in their DNA, and none of them would give it up. Even when a bad rescue meant he couldn't sleep.

"But…" Scott took a deep breath. "I wonder who we could've been."

"Come again?" Virgil didn't follow, and the blank look on his face told his brother as much. Scott shrugged.

"Normal lives, day jobs, marriage, heck, even kids. Don't you ever think about who you'd be if it wasn't for IR?"

"No," Virgil said honestly. "We've got everything I ever dreamed of."

"Everything?" Scott's words were soft, but Virgil knew what he was asking this time. The whole operation had been set up because their father had been broken by the loss of their mother. Moving to the island, being part of a secret organisation, meant none of them had experienced falling in love.

"There's still a chance," Virgil said, "look at Alan."

It was different, and they knew it.

"And your degree? Everything you worked for?"

"Why do you think I chose engineering?" Virgil shrugged. It had been a tough call between that and art, but once his father had announced what he was working on, the decision had been easy.

"Maybe it's different for me because I never got a job," he mused. "You had your career, John his-,"

"No."

Virgil looked at his brother, astonished.

"No?"

"I had a job, not a career. I never would've got promoted."

"Scott-,"

"I would have turned them down. Could you ever imagine me with a desk job? I have to fly. That was why I joined, and how long would it have taken before I got annoyed with those who just sat behind a desk, risking lives?"

"And John?"

Scott's smile was small, but genuine. "For someone who is rarely on Earth," he said softly, "John's a home-boy. The lack of contact with the rest of us would have eventually driven him to some office somewhere where the only way he'd see his beloved stars was through his telescope."

"Gordon had already been discharged," Virgil said, thoughtfully. "If you don't dream about a decorated career, what do you think about?"

Scott shrugged. "You guys being safe."

"Urgh," Virgil pulled a face. "Do you really think I would have been safe fixing monorail lines or something just as boring? I'd be going out of my mind!"

Scott chuckled. "I know," he said. "None of us were ever meant for the quiet life, and heck knows where Gords would've ended up. IR gave him his purpose back."

"It gave us all our purpose."

"Even when things like that happen?" Scott asked, nodding towards his leg.

Virgil scowled – he'd managed not to think about it while they were talking, but drawing attention made him conscious of how much it still hurt.

"Even that," he said. "If that's the only way we get to have conversations like this."

He laughed at the expression on Scott's face.

"You can just tell me if you want to talk, you know," his big brother said. "Skidding down a mountain isn't the best way to get my attention."

Virgil managed a smile. The rockslide had caught him unaware; there had been no warning, and the only hint he'd got was John yelling in his ear that he needed to move. He hadn't made it very far before the debris overtook him. All it had taken was a stray boulder smashing into his leg and he'd gone down.

"Did I say thanks?" he muttered. Scott had been forced to pull him out, get him off the mountain, while Virgil had tried not to pass out.

"You don't have to," Scott said, then held up a hand, "but yes, you did. Numerous times. And in quite creative ways once the morphine had kicked in."

Virgil grinned. "What can I say? I'm a creative kind of guy."

"Like I said: there're other ways."

The two brothers smiled at each other. Virgil finished his drink and glanced at the kitchen door. Scott saw his look.

"Time for bed?" he asked. Virgil sighed.

"Can't I stay here?"

"You know what Grandma would say to that," Scott countered. He took Virgil's empty mug and put it in the sink along with his own before holding out his hand again.

Knowing Scott wasn't going to let him get away with it, Virgil huffed another sigh and once again let his brother draw him upright.

The journey back upstairs was far less effort when there was a big brother to lean on. It didn't take long before Scott had navigated him onto the bed. To his surprise, Virgil yawned even as Scott slipped a pillow under his leg and drew the covers over him.

The drink had warmed him through, comforted him in a way he hadn't realised he'd needed. Talking to Scott had reminded him that however much he wanted to grumble that he was sore and uncomfortable, he'd do it again. This was their life; he wouldn't go back, and he wouldn't change anything.

"Thanks," he murmured. The light dimmed, but Scott paused in the doorway.

"Anytime," he said. "Get some rest, Virg."

Even as Scott pulled his door closed on his way out, Virgil let his eyes shut.

That sounded like the best idea he'd heard all day.