In the suddenness of the relative silence and stillness the exertion catches up to him. Scott gets caught for a few precious seconds, on his knees and breathing hard, his limbs tremoring slightly with unspent adrenaline. The inside of his helmet grows abruptly claustrophobic and he pulls it off, feels the impact in his kneecaps as bounces off the floor in front of him. Without it, the next breath he takes fills his lungs with the choking scent of electrical smoke, burnt metal, spent fuel. The things Brains designs are less likely than most to burst into flame, even when badly damaged, but it's still better safe than sorry. Scott stumbles a little getting to his feet, scrambling for a can of fire retardant, nearly tripping over John as he goes for it.

Considering the concerns he has about the current status of his brother's spine subsequent to being tackled in midair by a hostile drone nearly twice his size—tripping over him would probably sbe bad and unhelpful. John hasn't so much as twitched since they got back aboard, crumpled on his side where Scott let him drop.

The reasons he's got to be concerned about his brother's spine are starting to catch up with him, a brewing storm of fear and anger and anxiety, with the faintest silver lining of relief that it hadn't been worse, like lightning at the edges of thunder clouds. He still doesn't know that John isn't just dead. He hasn't checked. Scott's just been acting like he isn't, like that's impossible; something that just couldn't have happened on what was supposed to be a simple, straightforward run, a basic rescue, practically a stone's throw from the island. It's not optimism as much as it is the simple, staunch refusal to believe the worst, that today could've gone so wrong, so suddenly.

The first thing he does is douse the smoking, sparking place at the back of the exosuit, stifling it with fire retardant foam that hisses out of the can he'd grabbed. This immediately snuffs out the smoke, neutralizes any leaking fuel. He sets the cannister aside and kneels down, leans over to get a proper look at his brother, carefully shifting the bulk of the exosuit so that John's no longer lying twisted on his side.

And he's rewarded with a (blank, slightly unfocused) stare from a pair of bright green eyes, even as he reaches for John's wrist in search of a pulse. He ends up grabbing his brother's hand and squeezing instead, gets a feeble twitch of his fingers in response.

Scott hadn't quite realized how potent the relief would be, but it floods into him like oxygen. Real relief is like a proper strike of lightning, instead of just the faint silver edges of hope. He feels the tension in his jaw finally relax as he breaks into a grin, smiling down at his brother, though the first thing he can think to say is, "You absolute fucking moron."

John can't hear him, with his radio off and his helmet still on, but he seems to recognize that Scott's said something and he blinks, confused. Scott just sighs and shakes his head, starts to move through basic triage. The exosuit is bulky and ungainly and awkward and very much in Scott's way, but it does prevent John from moving too much, as Scott continues a quick assessment. He puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezes gently, hoping John takes this as an indication to hold still, but his eyes have fallen closed again, and there's no response. Scott doesn't like that, and he frowns to himself as he toggles his HUD for a basic medical overview.

A preliminary scan reveals no broken bones, no evidence of severe internal trauma, beyond some minor bruising. Scott chalks up the exosuit as another miracle of Brains' engineering, because after the impact his brother had suffered, Scott had expected to see all manner of damage; broken bones and bruised organs. But the suit had clearly taken the bulk of the force from the impact, absorbed and distributed, just the same way as John's blues have absorbed and diffused the drone's final electric discharge. Scott sighs again and raps his knuckles lightly on the clear perspex face of John's helmet. "C'mon," he mutters, and there's another little burst of relief as John blinks up at him again. Scott raps a little harder, this time on the exosuit. "Hold still," he says, loud and clear so his brother gets the message. "Gonna get you outta this thing."

John just closes his eyes again, but he also lifts a hand, flashes a quick thumbs-up. Scott takes this to mean About damn time, and obligingly gets to work.

The exosuit weighs about a hundred pounds and while this is impressively light considering its capabilities, it's still about a hundred pounds of dead weight. Scott slots open a panel on the chest piece and hunts down a bright red lever. He twists it to unlock the mechanism, then pulls it sharply, and the suit disengages at four major points of articulation, popping open at the shoulders and hips, the chest piece coming loose so that Scott can pull it off and put it aside. It's a little bit like shucking an oyster. Not for the first time, he's grateful for the fact that Brains thinks of everything.

He catches John's shoulder as his brother shifts, and then he's careful, patient, as he helps him ease up into a sitting position, and then lever himself off the shell of his exosuit to sit flat on the floor of TB1's cargo bay, ducking his head to pull off his helmet. This thuds hollowly on the floor as John drops it, but his shoulders stay bowed and he doesn't look up, one hand pressed against his forehead and the other leaning his weight against his knee. This all seems to bode well for the state of his neck and spine, though Scott's a little unsettled by the speed and the shallowness of his breathing. "John?" he prompts. "You with me?"

"Mm. Mmhm." Scott had been hoping for words, and after a few more deep breaths, John manages to pull himself together. The first thing he says is still dazed and disconnected, and an entirely stupid question besides, "…did…did I fall?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

"Oh." He falls silent for a few moments, and then sounds much younger than usual as he asks, "…did you catch me?"

Scott can't help a bit of a chuckle at that, and the hand he's rested on his brother's back reflexively offers a few comforting pats. "All part of the service," he jokes, though it very nearly wasn't funny, and the degree to which John's still disoriented with respect to what's happened is concerning.

"I fell, though?"

"A little."

"…a little?"

"Well. Freefall for maybe twenty seconds. About half a mile, by my reckoning. I can probably get the telemetry to tell you exactly—" John shudders bodily at the mere mention, so Scott quickly appends, "—but I think you probably don't need to know that."

John shakes his head. "Nn. No, I th-think—"

Scott doesn't get to find out whatever his brother thinks, as his back spasms beneath Scott's hand, and he gasps shakily, then throws up on the floor.

"…Okay." Scott's caught him reflexively as he pitched forward, braced an arm across his collarbone. His other hand rubs down the ridge of John's spine as he coughs a few times, retches once, and then shudders again. He doesn't try to sit back up, just hunches forward with his head bowed towards his knees, and his breathing grows shallow again. At least now Scott's got a better idea about why. "All right. Right. So. Is that just late onset motion sickness, or did you hit your head?"

John groans and doesn't catch the sarcasm. Scott catches the way his voice has gotten a little slurred, as he answers, "Depends. 's'Thunderbird One spinning clockwise or counter-clockwise right now?"

"Thunderbird One is cruising on autopilot, flying perfectly straight and level."

"…then I think probably I hit my head."

"Yeah, no shit."

Before he can upbraid his brother for his recklessness, to say nothing of the quality of his flying, there's a chime from the comm in his sash, and Kayo speaks up, "I'm here, just got a visual on Thunderbird One, and…and everything else. What the hell happened? You two made a mess."

Scott grimaces. "We had help."

"I'm tracking debris from multiple collisions, at least a dozen drones still in free fall, the cargo plane you were meant to be evaccing is in the ocean—and is that—did John lose a wing?"

"John also lost consciousness for a solid minute and a half."

"…Is he okay?"

John lifts his head slightly at this, blinks his eyes back open, turns his face towards Scott's open comm. "M'fine," he offers. "Hi. Kayo. Glad you made it. Let's go home."

This last sentence blurs into essentially one word, and Scott rolls his eyes, exasperated for some reason he can't quite put his finger on. "Disregard, Shadow. He is not fine and we're gonna head for the hospital and get him looked at. At least they're already expecting us."

"FAB." There's a note of guilt in Kayo's tone, palpable remorse. "I'm sorry I didn't get here faster. This was…god, Scott. I'm gonna need a full debrief once we've landed. This could've been bad."

Scott's aware. "We're both still in one piece," he assures her instead, deliberately refusing to think about just how bad things could've been. "John'll be okay once we get him checked out."

"Do you want an escort?"

Scott's still sitting beside his brother with an arm around his chest, halfway into the closest thing to a hug that John's tolerated in ages, at least where Scott's considered. This is probably less of a hug and more just the desire not to fall over. Scott's pretty sure the last confirmed instance of anyone getting a hug from John was Alan, on Alan's sixteenth birthday. There's photographic evidence, even. But between the nausea and the dizziness resulting from what's likely a mild concussion, John doesn't seem in a hurry to move, and Scott's not in a hurry to move him. He can fly from here, but there are easier options, and Kayo's presented one of the easiest.

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good, thanks. I'm gonna stay put and make sure John's okay. I'll set the autopilot to tail you. Just keep an eye on the skies, I think we'd both feel better if we were ready for any more surprises."

"You got it, Scott. I'll let you know when we're on approach."

"Thanks, Kayo. Thunderbird One, engage Protocol Shadow."

Scott's right arm is still pinned where John's leaned his weight against it, still slumped forward where he sits. Scott absently pats his back again, and then flicks his wrist just-so, just to double check his flight control. He watches as the control matrix switches over to tracking their sister's flight path, and feels the ship dip slightly beneath them, as TB1 adjusts to follow Shadow's flight pattern and then levels off again. John groans about this, too, protesting the sudden movement.

"Oh, you're okay, you big damn baby," Scott chides gently, but he rubs the heel of his hand up and down John's spine, then feels guilty when his brother shudders again, and hesitantly asks, "…You are okay, right?"

There's no immediate answer, and probably it's asking a little much to expect one, but eventually John gives him another thumbs up, and then continues not to say anything.

That's probably fair. Scott checks their ETA again—about another fifteen minutes out, travelling at near top speed, for the hospital in Brisbane where they'd planned to take their phantom pilot. They've already got flight clearance, it's just a shame they're going to have to use it. Scott sighs to himself, starts to mentally rearrange the rest of the month around the fact that John's going to need at least two weeks of downtime, someone to sub in for him up on TB5, a new exosuit. And this is to say nothing of the sobering reality that the Mechanic had laid a trap within spitting distance of Tracy Island, sudden and vicious, and with an apparently deadly intent.

He should probably say something about that, but one minute of silence becomes two, and two turn into three, and it's actually not so bad just to sit next to his brother, in the cargo bay of his Thunderbird, letting the adrenaline bleed off. It's a reminder of how rare John's presence actually is, and how lucky he'd been to have him today. There hadn't been time for hindsight during the course of the action, but the more Scott thinks about it, the more he comes to the same conclusion John had drawn, easily and immediately. He's been worrying about his brother ever since the situation first started going sideways, but it's pure luck that he wasn't killed himself. Solo, it's almost certain he would've been.

He should definitely say something about that.

It takes him another solid minute, but he finally clears his throat, and offers, "—You know, you're not a shitty pilot."

He probably could've come up with something better than that, but it still gets John to lift his head. He shifts slightly where he's sitting, so that Scott removes the arm he'd had around his shoulder, and then shakes his head. "No, I'm not," he agrees.

He sounds tired, rightfully so, and Scott winces, tries again, "I shouldn't have said that. Sorry."

John shrugs. "As a general rule, I disregard about ninety percent of the shit you feel the need to say."

Scott scoffs, and knows it isn't true. He knocks an elbow lightly into his brother's ribs. "Took that one pretty personally, though."

"Well, then there's that one time in ten."

"I'll take those odds."

"Yeah, well, you would."

That's more like it. Scott grins, and in deference to his brother's concussion, refrains from ruffling his hair. He punches John lightly in the shoulder instead, and then says the thing he should've said in the first place, "Thanks, John. Really."

"Oh, you're welcome." There's a pause, slightly self-conscious. And then it's with a credible absence of guile and a probable absence of memory that John cautiously inquires, "…uh, for what, though?"