Jeff had always loved his sons fiercely and equally. When you were raising five children on your own though, it could be hard to find the time to spend really getting to know them as well as you liked. Especially as they all grew and changed, boys turning into men.

John had always been an especially tough case. He was a listener, the one to sit quietly in a group while the others talked, only speaking when he felt he had something important to say. As a child, he'd been withdrawn, often with his nose in a book and his head far above the clouds. Jeff and Lucy had usually been able to reach him there though, figuring out how to speak the same language. They'd taken him on trips to the science center and planetarium and bookstore, bought him a telescope and sat outside with him as he got to know the heavens they both already loved, delighting in the way John's own private world would open up to include them.

But after Lucy died…maybe Jeff had stopped working to reach John. For while Alan had turned out to be the most like Lucy in temperament, with her boundless enthusiasm for life, her shamelessly goofy sense of humor, her indomitable spirit, it was John who'd inherited her looks. He had his mother's fiery hair, her piercing eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green, her willowy frame, her smile. With each year that went by, he'd come to resemble her more. For a long time, far too long a time, it had hurt to look at him.

John had always been more sensitive than people gave him credit for. He knew. Neither he nor Jeff said anything about it, but it wasn't long before John started to withdraw further than ever before, shutting himself away physically and mentally, throwing himself into facts and science and paper worlds. And Jeff, God help him, had just let him.

By the time he'd gotten his act together, looked up from his own grief long enough to notice the damage he was doing (a revelation helped along by Scott flat-out yelling at him for the first and only time in his life), John had retreated into a shell that Jeff didn't know how to breach. It hadn't been long before John was headed off to Harvard, the youngest in his class by far. A tremendous honor, yes, but yet another isolation.

But Jeff had started trying again. It had taken time and effort, but he'd begun to break through. He'd called John every weekend even though the conversations had often been awkward and stilted, established a branch of Tracy Industries in Boston so that he had an excuse to visit every few months, donated generously to Harvard's physics and astronomy department so that John would always have access to the best equipment for his studies. When it became clear that John had his heart set on following his father to NASA, Jeff had guided him through the application process, although John had insisted that he not pull any strings.

Privately though, Jeff had been a little worried about him making it through NASA's rigorous training. John was brilliant and capable, but no one had ever accused him of being particularly tough. But John had revealed a steel spine, and he hadn't just made it through, he'd excelled. He'd turned out to thrive under pressure, doing his best work at the point where most others started getting overwhelmed. He'd shot up through NASA's ranks on his own merit, not his father's legacy, and he'd gone on to become the youngest astronaut to be placed in command of a mission.

After all that, Jeff thought he'd sufficiently corrected his impression of his middle son, had gotten to know and understand the young man his quiet little boy had become. He'd designed Thunderbird 5 and John's role on it accordingly, and had instituted nightly check-ins with the space monitor, determined not to let him drift away again.

If the last three weeks had shown him anything though, it was that he'd underestimated his son once again. He watched in pained awe every day as John was brought back to him, wrecked and drained and hurting, only to don a brave smile, or tell a story from the time that Jeff had missed (although Jeff still wasn't entirely sure he believed the one about Gordon and Alan discovering alien life on reality TV). He was facing the impossible, the unbearable, and he was holding his own; better even than his father perhaps, who felt as if each day tore a fresh piece of him away, opened up a new wound inside him.

It was the cruelest twist of irony: Jeff finally had all the time he could possibly need to get to know John, and this had been the cost.

Alan wasn't quite sure what he was doing at Dad's desk. There was nothing waiting for him here, none of the steady reassurance, the gentle teasing, the fond warmth that he'd always found in Dad himself. He just knew that his family seemed to be cracking apart, and he didn't know what to do.

It had been two days now, since Colonel Casey's devastating call. Gordon had spent most of that time in his room, recovering from his aquatic ordeal. ("Forget about getting hit by a planet," he'd groaned when Alan went to check on him the next day. "I feel like I got hit by an entire solar system.") In contrast, Virgil had been almost overwhelmingly present after the first night, as if trying to bury his grief by being there for the rest of the family. Scott seemed to be doing his best to act normally, putting on a brave face for the others, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Kayo had taken to spending more time on perimeter patrol around the island, and Brains rarely surfaced from his workshop. Even Grandma Tracy's spirit seemed to be wavering.

They were trying, everyone was trying, but that would never change the fact that an unimaginable loss had altered their lives forever. Again.

Alan ran his index finger over the dark surface of his father's desk. He'd thought Dad was nigh on invincible, once. He'd always seemed so strong, so confident. He was the one with the answers, the game plan, the words of encouragement on the hard days. And he'd still been taken from them in a single horrible instant, without so much as a word of warning or goodbye.

As he sat there, Alan found his eyes drawn once again to the row of portraits ringing the wall of the lounge. To be perfectly honest, Alan had always found the pictures to be a little creepy. His brothers kept a sharp enough eye on him as it was; he didn't need all four of them, plus Kayo, staring at him, larger than life, whenever he was in the living room. It made napping a thoroughly unsettling affair. Of course, that hadn't stopped his chest from puffing up with pride when his own picture joined the array.

Looking at it now, though, he couldn't help noticing how much younger than his brothers he looked; a pretender in the uniform he wore so proudly. Not like the others beside him. Not like John.

It should've been me.

The words had been bubbling up inside him for weeks, insistent and growing. He hadn't been aware of them first, too caught up in his shock and grief, but they'd crept up on him slowly, unconsciously, until quite suddenly they were all he could think about. It should've been him, rushing to the aid of that satellite. It should've-

The comm unit on the desk let out a shrill, persistent beep, and Alan jumped out of the chair, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Flustered, he automatically waved a hand to accept the incoming call.

"Hello, is this Jeff Tracy?"

Despite the years that had passed since Dad's death, the question still made Alan wince. There had been no public announcement about the incident, as none of them had been quite ready to take that final step in acknowledging the impossibility of their father's return. Instead, they'd put out a quiet announcement that Jeff Tracy was retiring, and management of his company would be overtaken by his eldest son. It meant that every once in a while, they had to field questions like this about him, and it hurt every time.

"This is his son, Alan," he said. "What's this about?"

"Alan? You're the youngest kid, right?" The male voice didn't give him time to answer. "Alan, is it true that your brother John is dead?"

Alan froze, his body going numb. He sat down heavily in Dad's chair.

"What?" he heard himself ask, breathless.

"There are reports that John Tracy was recently killed; can you confirm that? How are you and your family coping?"

"I- I don't-"

"Was your brother's death an accident, or was there foul play? Is your father seeking vengeance for his son's murder? Do authorities suspect the same people who kidnapped John when he was a child?"

The rapid-fire questions hit Alan like blows, giving him no time to think in between.

"Wait, I- murder? That's-"

"Who is this?"

Alan jumped violently at the sound of the new voice. But it was just Scott, standing behind his chair now and giving the comm a murderous look. One of his large hands settled protectively on Alan's shoulder.

"Lee Heinz, of the Afternoon Globe. Is-?"

"Mr. Heinz, this is Scott Tracy. I want you to listen to me very carefully. If and when my family ever has news to share with the public, we will be the ones to reach out, and believe me when I say that it will never be to the Afternoon Globe. Now, if you ever call this number or otherwise try to make contact with my family, I will have you arrested for harassment. Are we clear?" Scott didn't wait for Heinz to answer. He just jabbed a finger into the end call button with decisive force.

Ringing silence prevailed for a moment as Scott braced himself against the edge of Dad's desk, his head bowing. Alan could see the veins standing out on the backs of his hands, the tension in his shoulders. But after a second, Scott let out a heavy breath and turned to Alan, his expression shifting from anger to concern.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice gentle now.

"I…I don't know."

Alan wasn't an idiot. He knew that his family had been famous before International Rescue. Jeff Tracy had been a well-known and beloved astronaut for years, a public hero, and had gone on to found a multi-billion dollar technology company. Lucille Tracy had been a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon, known for pulling off the kinds of operations that most other doctors were too scared to even attempt. The media loved them, especially when they began producing bright, charming kids.

It hadn't been without its consequences. In the early years, Alan had been raised to constantly be cautious of others, to question motives and learn quickly how to spot those who just wanted a brush with money and fame. None of that caution had been unfounded, he knew. Virgil and John had been kidnapped when they were just six years old, held for a ten million dollar ransom by perpetrators that had never been caught. Only a well-placed kick and a scream that could've woken the dead had saved Gordon from a similar fate a few years later.

Even when it wasn't quite so dangerous, the Tracy family fame had permeated their lives. When Virgil came out publicly, paparazzi set up camp at the edge of their property and hounded the rest of the family for a month. When Scott got run off the road on his motorcycle by a drunk driver, Dad found out about it on the news. When John got into Harvard, one news outlet actually brought in a panel to discuss whether it was on his own merit or because of Dad's influence.

But Dad had moved them to Tracy Island when Alan was eight, and he'd been relatively sheltered from the media since then. He hadn't had to be constantly looking over his shoulder for paparazzi, hadn't been followed after school for a soundbite or a candid shot.

He hadn't been prepared for an ambush.

"I'm sorry you had to take that," Scott told him now, spinning his chair away from the desk so that Alan was facing him properly. "That man should never have been able to get hold of Dad's number, but reporters are tenacious."

"But how did he know about…about John?" Alan asked.

Scott's expression hardened again.

"It probably means there's a leak at the GDF," he said. "They're the only other ones besides Lady Penelope and Parker who know about what happened. Well, except for-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "No, it has to be the GDF."

"What about the Hood?" Alan suggested, deep-rooted hatred surging to the surface. "He knows about John too, and he'd love to make us miserable."

Guilt flickered in Scott's eyes for a moment, but then he shook his head again.

"The Hood doesn't know for sure that John is…is dead. Only the GDF does. I'll take care of it."

He stood back to let Alan get up, but Alan just frowned up at him, replaying the conversation with the reporter in his head.

"He asked me if someone did this," he said. "I know we haven't really talked about it since…but do you think it's possible?"

Scott frowned, his expression becoming hard to read.

"Colonel Casey said that all evidence points to it being an accident," he said at last.

Yeah, Alan had been listening to that conversation, the one that Gordon had bailed on so prematurely. Colonel Casey had told them about the second set of remains that had been found, what was left of the astronaut that John had been trying to save in the first place. She'd told them about the lack of any indication of foul play, citing damage to oxygen lines and electrical systems as the source of the explosion. And yet…

"But what about Stelair?" Alan asked. "We still haven't been able to find-"

"I know," Scott interrupted. "I've been thinking the same thing. But the truth is…the truth is that even if this wasn't an accident, it's not our job to deal with it anymore. That's for the GDF."

Alan gaped at Scott, incredulous.

"So, what, now that John's officially dead, he's not our problem anymore?" he demanded. Scott winced, but Alan couldn't bring himself to regret the harsh words.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "We're not cops, Alan. I've had this conversation with Kayo more than once, but I didn't follow my own advice when we thought John was missing. I almost got Virgil killed going after the Hood, trying to find someone to blame. I don't want anything like that happening again. Not when there's nothing we can do anymore."

That sapped the strength of Alan's sudden anger. He remembered the fear of that hurried flight to Antarctica, terrified of the possibility of losing more family. Kayo had told him, later, just how close she'd come to being too late to save Scott and Virgil. Their family had already lost so much; they couldn't survive another blow like that. Alan couldn't blame Scott for being worried about his little brothers seeking revenge on their own.

"If it does turn out that someone did this on purpose, I'll be the first person in the courtroom at their trial," Scott went on when Alan said nothing. "If there's justice to be had, we'll get it, for John and for the rest of us. But we've got to be smart about it. Okay?"

He looked searchingly at Alan, who dropped his gaze but nodded. There was a beat of heavy silence.

"It's not fair," Alan said. He hadn't meant to sound so petulant, so childish, but he couldn't help it.

"No, it isn't," Scott sighed, leaning in to pull Alan into a hug. "It really, really isn't."

Alan tried to let himself take comfort in the embrace, but there was still little peace to be had.

It should've been me.

"Don't watch, Dad. Please don't watch."

Those words echoed in Jeff's head every single time his son was taken from him. John had first said the words to him on the morning Barrett's three-day ultimatum expired. Neither of them had slept that night, both haunted by the horrors of the coming day. They'd both fallen silent though, John sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest and his dull gaze fixed on the floor, Jeff mirroring his position on the other side of the force field. They both knew what every second that ticked by was bringing John closer to.

"Don't watch, Dad," John had said out of nowhere, his gaze never lifting from the white tile. "Please don't watch. No matter what you think they're doing to me, I…Just, it'll be worse if I know you can see it."

He'd made Jeff promise, although it was the last thing he wanted to do. All of this was happening to John because of him, for him. To spare himself the agony of watching would feel like a betrayal, like he was abandoning his son, turning a blind eye to the torment he'd caused.

But that was what John was asking of him.

So although it took everything he had, every day he turned away from the projected feed when it appeared, sat down on the bench facing the wall. There was nothing he could do about the sound though. So every day, for hours, he had to listen to John's choking gasps, his involuntary whimpers. Each one tore into him like shrapnel, pierced his very soul.

Today, though, those sounds didn't come. Instead, Jeff was startled by the sound of the door. Before he could even start to hope that John was being returned early that day, Barrett appeared and quashed it.

"Good morning, Jeff," he said, as pleasant as if they were old acquaintances meeting for coffee. "I thought I'd drop by to say hello."

Jeff said nothing. He'd thought he'd loathed the man before, after his own personal torment. But weeks of his son's torture had taught him that there were whole new levels of hatred he hadn't even explored yet.

"I also wanted to show you something," Barrett went on, unfazed by his silence. "And I wanted to make sure you saw it, despite John's noble little attempts to protect you from what you're doing to him."

Jeff couldn't quite hide his flinch. Barrett bared his teeth in a sharklike smile, but made no further comment. He just pulled a remote from his pocket, and keyed something into it.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the cell, but this time it wasn't an image of John that appeared. Despite knowing that something bad was coming, Jeff couldn't help feeling the briefest flash of joy. For Scott and Virgil were recreated before him in blue-tinted light, his first glimpse of his eldest sons in two years.

They looked healthy, if tired and somber. Both boys were dressed in dark suits, and Virgil had even combed his hair flat. They were standing at a podium, Scott at the microphone and Virgil at his shoulder. Jeff had given enough press conferences to know one when he saw it.

He shot a glance at Barrett.

"What is this?" he asked, suspicious.

"Why don't you watch and see?"

So Jeff refocused on the image as what looked like a recording began to play.

"It has come to our attention that rumors have begun to circulate about our brother, John Tracy. Virgil and I are here today to put those rumors to rest, because John deserves better than wild speculation." Jeff watched his eldest take a deep breath, unbearable weight slumping his shoulders. Virgil shifted, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. Scott looked directly into the camera. "Four weeks ago, John was attempting to provide assistance to a man experiencing vehicle trouble. There was a terrible accident, and my brother lost his life."

Flashes of light began to dance over his and Virgil's faces, and Jeff knew that dozens of cameras were going off, documenting their pain for the consumption of the masses. He felt his hands clenching into fists. Protecting his sons from this kind of thing was one of the reasons he'd moved his family to a private island.

"This is a very difficult time for our family," Virgil said, leaning toward the microphone. "And we ask that you respect our privacy as we mourn the man who was a hero to us and to the rest of the world. Thank you."

Barrett swiped a hand through the image, freezing it.

"Did you hear that, Jeff?" he said. "They've already written him off. All it took was a little replicated tissue and a scrap of spacesuit. Your sons aren't looking for their brother, and they haven't been looking for you for quite some time. No rescue is coming."

It shouldn't have come as such a blow. It wasn't as if Jeff was surprised; Barrett would have planned John's capture so that no one would be looking for him. But perhaps a part of him had hoped…

"John doesn't need to go through all of this," Barrett went on, drawing closer to the force field that separated him from Jeff. "We both know that I'll break you eventually. You're a strong man, but you've got a messiah complex bigger than this facility, and your heart is soft. You won't be able to stand this forever. Why not spare your son the pain before the inevitable?"

Maybe he was right. Jeff had weathered his fair share of trials, but none of them had been quite like this. He was strong, and principled, and resolved, but he was a father before those things, and that part of him was dying inside.

But then Jeff thought about John himself, about Don't watch, Dad, about the young man who'd given up everything to watch over others. He looked once more at the image of Scott and Virgil, wondering if it would be the last time he ever saw them, doing his best to make peace with the fact that it might well be. And then he looked at Barrett.

"Because my boys are stronger than me," he said.

Virgil was sitting at his piano, trying to remember what the will to play felt like, when the call came in.

"International Rescue, we have a situation."

The voice was all wrong, but the words still went straight to Virgil's heart like a jolt of electricity. He stood and looked to the central comm unit, which had hummed to life. He froze, staring in surprised bafflement.

A hologram was projecting, but the image floating in the air didn't belong to anyone Virgil knew. There was a girl staring back at him, and she couldn't have been older than eight or nine. She was wearing a blue spacesuit, one that looked too much like John's to be a coincidence. And though Virgil was certain that he'd never seen her before, there was something familiar about her, and her voice, when she'd spoken, had been even more so.

"Eos?" he said, hesitant. "Is, uh, is that you?"

The girl nodded.

"I thought that a human interface would make communication more comfortable," she said.

"You look…" Virgil trailed off, still effectively speechless.

"I created my avatar based on composite images of human girls."

"And John," Virgil guessed. "You used his features too, didn't you?"

She looked too much like him for it not to be true. She had his luminous eyes, his narrow face, his graceful cheekbones, even his fiery hair, although hers was longer and pulled into pigtails. Virgil couldn't help wondering if she also had his smile. Mom's smile.

Eos suddenly seemed a little uncertain.

"Do you think he'd mind?"

She looked so young. Virgil was reminded sharply that while Eos was a brilliant AI, unparalleled in humanity or technology, she was still new to this world, new to life, such as it was. John had been her mentor, her guardian, the person who helped her make sense of everything. She had to be struggling a little in the wake of his loss.

"No, Eos," Virgil said gently. "I think he'd be flattered."

Which was true, but it didn't make it any easier for Virgil to see echoes of his lost brother. Especially when Eos gave him a small, shy smile that did turn out to be painfully similar to her creator's.

"I'm glad," she said, and it was odd to think of an artificial intelligence being glad about anything, but she seemed genuine. "Now, about that situation. I've been running Thunderbird 5 in John's absence, and I just communicated with a scientific submarine conducting deep ocean research. They suffered mechanical failure, and can't return to the surface. They're leaking air and sinking at a slow but steady rate. Within four hours, their vessel will either have been crushed by the pressure, or the 37 man crew will have run out of oxygen."

It was a rescue. She was trying to dispatch them.

"We're not…" Virgil swallowed hard, his heart twisting in his chest. "Eos, you might not understand this, but we're not ready to start running rescues yet. The local authorities will just have to handle whatever's wrong."

"I've been directing the proper authorities to incidents, but there are some situations in which only the specialized equipment of International Rescue is capable of saving lives. Eight of those situations have come and gone since John died, because I calculated that the risks posed by your states of mind outweighed the chances of positive outcomes."

Virgil blinked. Eight possible rescues? That meant a minimum of eight people they could have saved, eight…eight families mourning like his was now. What was it Scott had reminded him of? It made a difference to that one.

"I miss him too, Virgil," Eos went on. "He was my friend, my…father. Which is why I wish to continue my existence in a way that would make him proud. I believe he'd want you to do the same."

Virgil closed his eyes briefly. She was right, this bizarre brainchild of his brother's. John would be devastated to know that International Rescue had shut down in his absence, that innocent people were going unsaved because of his death. The idea of his disappointment was quite suddenly unbearable.

"Call the others," he decided. "It's time for International Rescue to start living up to its name again."

When he explained the situation to his brothers a minute later, he saw his own sadness, relief, and determination mirrored in them. They were ready.

"A damaged sub sounds like a job for Thunderbird 4, so I'll take Gordon out to the site in Thunderbird 2," Virgil said.

"Good idea," said Scott. "I'll head out ahead of you guys in Thunderbird 1, just to see if there's anything I can do before you get there."

Virgil blinked at him. The submarine was already thousands of feet below the surface, far out of reach of any of Thunderbird 1's equipment. There wouldn't be a single thing that Scott could do.

…Except be there to keep an eye on them.

"It's not because I don't trust you guys," Scott said more quietly when he saw that he'd been figured out.

Of course it wasn't. It was because the last time Scott had hung behind on a mission, he'd lost a brother.

"We know," Gordon said for all of them. No one seemed willing to give voice to the real reason. "We'll meet you there."

Scott gave them a tight smile and started moving towards his launch station.

"Should…should we send Alan up to Thunderbird 5?" Gordon asked with a touch of hesitation. "To run ops and support?"

They all looked to Alan, who had blanched just a little. He glanced up at the sky, as if he could see all the way to the space station orbiting far overhead. He swallowed hard, and then looked back down at the others.

"I can go," he said, grim determination setting his features.

"Eos can handle it," Scott said gently. "John designed her, after all."

"I still want to help," Alan said, although he failed to mask his relief at not having to go up by himself to John's untouched domain.

"You can help Brains and me from down here." That was Grandma Tracy, who none of them had noticed come in. She drew closer, putting her hands on Alan's shoulders. "We need you ready to dispatch if something else comes up, after all."

Alan was appeased at having his own responsibility. Grandma Tracy looked past him to the rest of them. There was worry in her eyes, but she gave them a small smile.

"You boys are doing the right thing," she told them. "I'm proud of every single one of you. Be safe." A glint of mischief lit her eyes. "I'll get started on some celebratory cookies for when you get back."

They all groaned theatrically and headed for their various loading stations.

Even as Virgil's body took him through the familiar motions of suiting up and getting ready to launch, his heart was heavier than it had ever been before a rescue. Part of him was glad for that, though. It would have felt like a betrayal if it were easy.

Soon, he and Gordon were strapped into their usual seats, and Virgil's hands were on the familiar controls of his ship. And there it was at last, the thrill of a rescue, the surge of excitement at the prospect of saving lives. Fainter than usual, and mixed with a deep, untouchable sadness, but there nonetheless.

He leaned on the thrusters, sent them rocketing up the ramp and into the sky. Thunderbird 1 flew overhead, carving an arc of exhaust through the clear blue sky.

Someone had to say it. Virgil looked at Gordon, waited for Scott, but neither of them seemed willing. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

"Thunderbirds are go."

The coughing fit drew Jeff from his usual fitful sleep. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence; after what John went through every day, it was more unusual for him not to cough a few times, and Jeff, who had been attuned to sounds of distress from his children since the day Scott was born, woke every time. He'd heard that cough so many times now that he'd memorized the exact sound and quality of it.

Which was why he could instantly hear the difference now. It was wet and crackling, sounds of trouble that came from somewhere deep inside. And it didn't stop.

"John?" Jeff strode to the barrier and knelt to get a better look at his son. His breath caught.

Jeff had met Lucy Taylor when she was in her first year of medical school in Houston. With her constantly in class or hitting the books, and him in his own demanding training for NASA, the early years of their relationship had consisted of them trying to figure out ways to spend time with each other without causing both of them to fail out of their respective programs. It meant Jeff had spent quite a lot of time helping Lucy study. He'd read up on all kinds of diseases and conditions so that he could act as her patient, feigning symptoms and answering questions (his prolapsed uterus had been an interesting experience). Some of that knowledge, those lists of illnesses and their signs, had stuck with him, information that had helped him more than once over the course of his various careers.

So while Jeff would never have the medical expertise of his wife, he knew enough to see that their son was in bad shape. John's skin was ashen, and his eyes, when he managed to get them open, were unfocused and too bright.

"Does your chest hurt when you breathe?" Jeff asked him.

John had to cough again before he answered.

"I'm fine, Dad-"

"That's not what I asked." Jeff gave his son a hard stare. "John. Does breathing make your chest hurt?"

John hesitated for a beat, and then nodded.

"And are you hotter or colder than usual? Any chills, sweating?"

"Chills," John said reluctantly.

Jeff could see for himself the answer to the sweating question. He took a breath.

"C'mere," he said. "Get as close to me as you can."

John made a face but still complied, hauling himself closer. He looked even worse from this distance.

"Okay, now press your back against the force field, and take a deep breath when I tell you to."

Jeff crouched low, ignoring his body's protests at the abuse. He cupped his hands against the force field over John's back and pressed his ear to the other end of the short cavity formed. As he'd been hoping, the barrier conducted sound better than the air, and his makeshift echo chamber amplified it. Not perfectly - not even well - but enough. He could hear the steady thump of his son's heart, the faint whoosh of his breath.

"All right, deep breath."

John complied, and Jeff closed his eyes. There it was; that tell-tale crackle and labored wheeze. He flinched and pulled away as the deep breath triggered a coughing fit in John.

"Dad?" John twisted to face him again once he'd caught his breath. He took in his father's expression. "What's wrong?"

What wasn't wrong probably would have been a simpler question to answer, but all of Jeff's earlier worries had quite suddenly taken a backseat to this new one, immediate and terrifying.

John had pneumonia.

A/N: ...sorry?

We're getting there, folks, although I'm afraid it's gonna be a bit of a rough ride from here on out...*evil grin*

As always, thank you so very much to all those who have left reviews. You guys make this such an incredibly rewarding endeavor.