Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

"Viiiiiirrrrrg."

The call came from somewhere behind him, a long, drawn-out whine of his name over-dramatised in that way only teenagers were truly capable of. Virgil ignored it.

"Viiiiiiiiirrrrrrgiiiilllll."

Nope. He was having none of it. Not at all. Not one, tiny bit. He didn't sigh, didn't lower his shoulders in despair. Give his brother an inch and he would take several miles, just because he could. The whining aquanaut – no, Gordon did not deserve to be regarded with any professionalism when he was trying to mimic a dog's pleading. The whining brat that happened to be unfortunately related to him could live without whatever it was he wanted.

"Virg, best brother, awesomest big brother in the entire wooooooorld..."

Flattery got you everywhere, except when your name was Gordon Cooper Tracy and both of you had been awake for thirty-eight hours and counting, and on the same mudslide rescue for thirty-six and a half of said hours. In that case, it got you absolutely nowhere, and if Virgil hadn't learnt from painful experience that any reaction at all would be treated as permission to continue, he'd tell Gordon to take it up with Scott.

He didn't usually throw Scott under the Gordon-bus, but Scott hadn't been on the rescue due to being grounded by an unfortunate incident involving some scaffolding, a jetpack running out of juice with terrible timing, and some ribs, and was therefore less tired.

"C'mon, Virg," Gordon wheedled. "It'll be worth your while, I promise."

That, Virgil very much doubted. Nothing was worth his while right now except coffee – and lots of it – a hot shower and his bed. Unfortunately, he was still an hour's flight away from that, and Gordon was not helping the time pass any faster.

"I'll even buy!"

"Buy what?" left his mouth before he could reign it in. Dammit, he really needed coffee. Or sleep.

He felt Gordon brighten up from behind him.

"Take out! Kebabs, pizza, burgers, the works!" Gordon jabbered excitedly. Virgil could feel the vibrations of his sudden bouncing through the cockpit floor. "All the coffee you can drink!"

He shouldn't. They shouldn't. They were muddy, exhausted, and Scott had been kicking up a fuss over the comms for the last day and wanted them home yesterday. Literally. But the lure of hot food, the lure of coffee…

They shouldn't. They really, really shouldn't. Scott would kill them; there was every chance John – who should be taking a well-deserved nap of his own after that rescue – would be ordered to take over Thunderbird Two remotely to ensure they didn't detour just because big brother was far too agitated by the long mission and his own inability to help.

Virgil sighed.

"Sit down, Gordon," he ordered. His brother, unfortunately, knew him too well and accompanied the obedient action with a triumphant fist bump. "Where did you have in mind?"

Ten minutes later, Thunderbird Two was nestled in the parking lot outside a well-lit diner – taking up too many spaces and the parking charges alone were enough for Virgil to remind Gordon he'd agreed to buy, and that if he didn't include the parking charges in that they were going straight home – and two exhausted, muddy IR operatives were half passed out over a table in the corner.

Both of them were nursing hot Styrofoam cups of caffeine. Even Gordon had opted for straight black, despite often nicknaming it 'tar coffee', a testament to how tired he was. Part of Virgil wondered how he was going to wake up enough to pilot the rest of the way home now that he'd stopped, but that was a problem for future-Virgil.

Now-Virgil had coffee, an order of pizza and donuts on the way, and the smug assurance that he wasn't going to be paying for any of it. Gordon, in a surprising show of foresight, had set up a tab immediately, waving his card at the waitress and telling her to charge everything they ordered to it plus a thirty percent tip. Looking at him now, eyes three-quarters lidded even after half a cup of coffee, it had been the right call; there was no way he'd be awake enough to remember to pay by the time they left.

There were whispers and stares; Virgil ignored them, too used to the attention IR blue attracted. No-one approached, though, aside from the waitress with their order of hot, deliciously greasy and not at all healthy food. Normally, Gordon would be the last Tracy to touch that; he'd never quite shaken the Olympic Champion Diet. Even Virgil steered clear of junk food most of the time, too aware that to be at his best he had to eat at least mostly healthily.

Today, both of them fell on the food, too delighted at it being hot and edible to care about the calorie count, or the fat, or whatever else was stuffed in it. After thirty-six and a half hours of mud and cold, living on ration bars to keep their strength up (good ration bars, but still ration bars), the food was heavenly.

In the face of two hungry Tracys, the plates cleared rapidly. Virgil was on his third, or maybe fifth, Styrofoam cup of coffee and Gordon fast asleep on the table, head cushioned on an arm dangerously close to a licked-clean plate, when his comm flashed.

"Virgil!" Scott materialised when he accepted the call, flashing a grateful smile at the waitress carefully extracting dirty plates from around the sleeping Gordon. "Where are you? Your ETA home was five minutes ago!"

"Sor-" Virgil was interrupted by a yawn. "Sorry, Scott. Taking a break."

Frantic worry faded to be replaced by a dawning understanding, and more than a little compassion.

"You should have let me know," Scott scolded, but there wasn't any bite to it. "Where are you?"

Face splitting in half from another yawn, Virgil told him, and Scott rolled his eyes. "Gordon's 'sleep," Virgil added. Scott shook his head fondly.

"Finish your coffee then head back to Two," he ordered gently. "I'll get EOS to pilot you home."

That sounded like a glorious idea. "F-" He yawned. "-A.B."

"See you soon." Scott vanished, and Virgil drained his coffee, unreasonably cheered at the prospect of not having to pilot the rest of the way home.

"C'mon, Gords," he mumbled, heaving his way to his feet and signalling to the waitress that they were finished. "Time to go home."

Short and lithe, even his swimmer's muscles didn't make Gordon difficult to pick up when he mumbled "five more minutes, Virg", and tried to roll over. It was quite frankly easier to haul him over his shoulder than try and get him to wake up enough to walk; he'd already paid for everything, anyway. Virgil swiped his own card to add a second tip, because he could and they'd traipsed far too much mud in.

Their departure drew as much attention as their entrance, if not more so with a sleeping Gordon slung over Virgil's shoulder, but Virgil paid them no heed, staggering his way back to his beautiful green 'bird and depositing Gordon on the stretcher so he could sleep without messing up his back.

He himself just slumped into his pilot's chair, kicking it back into a recline and closing his eyes as EOS appeared over the console. Behind him, the engines roared into life.

Time to go home.

Back for day seven of #fluffember and 'picnic'. More Virgil, surprisingly for me. This is unusual - where's all the Scott? Although I couldn't keep our favourite smother hen out completely...

This is FFN all caught up with my fluffember fics at last, so I'll stop spamming the emails of everyone who has me on author alert now! See you probably-tomorrow for the next instalment of fluffember.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari