Gordon's the one who comes to get him, and Alan's glad it isn't Virgil or Scott. It's been hours and Alan's sunburnt and the tide's coming in and the sun's going down and the ankles of his pajama pants are soaked. Most of all he feels young and stupid and heartbroken, because he's ruined John's life and it seems very likely that his brother's just never going to forgive him.

Scott or Virgil would be all soft voices and kindness and gathering the baby of the family up to bundle him back into the house for warm milk and cookies that aren't Grandma's. Gordon's different, and Alan's always been grateful for the fact that Gordon's different. He knows what it's like to be babied, knows how Alan hates it sometimes. So there are footsteps on the creaky old set of stairs that lead down to the beach, from the cliff-side where the house sits. Then the soft sound of sand beneath bare feet, and then Gordon drops to sit on the beach next to his little brother.

Gordon's never without a bottle of water, and he nudges Alan in the elbow with it insistently, until it's finally accepted and Alan takes a long drink. Then another, and another, draining the bottle with a sigh. In retrospect he realizes it was ice cold and still damp with condensation, and probably Gordon brought it out specifically for him.

Gordon doesn't say anything, not at first, shuffling his feet on the dry sand, burying them up to the ankles as he settles down to recline on his elbows. The sun's starting to graze the horizon when Gordon seems to decide what to say. This is a carefully crafted illusion; Gordon's probably known exactly what he wanted to say the entire time, he's just added time to help add impact. "...if you like, Al, I'll go and smack him in the mouth for you. I don't care if he blew out one of his lungs, he's way outta line."

Well, that's definitely not what Virgil or Scott would've said. Alan sniffles, manages a weak fragment of a laugh. "Don't do that."

"Well, I wanna. He'd deserve it. God, that ass. Jeez, Alan." Gordon pauses, lightly headbutts his brother in the shoulder, the sort of weirdly affectionate gesture that's unique to Gordon. "Scott told me what he said," he adds as an afterthought, so it doesn't seem like the desire for aggression is unwarranted.

"It's not John's fault."

Gordon plainly disagrees with this, growling under his breath, "Like hell. "He would've been dead if it hadn't been for you, Allie. It's absolutely John's stupid fault, and he doesn't get away with being awful just because-"

Alan interrupts, "-because I tore his station to bits?" The youngest shrugs and hunches further down, hugging his knees and bowing his head. He's been playing it over and over again in his head, how easily the station had come apart. He's been plumbing the depths of his memory, remembering a very young version of his older brother, and all those months he'd spent constructing the station. He'd been thinking about how he would feel if he lost Thunderbird Three.

He's already convinced it wouldn't even compare, though Gordon's apparently had the same thought, and come to the opposite conclusion. "It's just a ship. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter."

"His whole life was up there, Gordon. He's lost everything."

This is maybe the wrong thing to say because it just sets Gordon off again. "No. No, not even close, Alan. He's got us, Al, c'mon. We nearly lost him, that's what we're talking about here. How d'you think we'd all be doing if John had died? It goes both ways. We all would've done exactly what you did, he can't be mad at you just 'cuz you're the one who had to do it."

"It's different," he insists stubbornly. "John's always been different about Five, you don't understand. I don't think he'll ever forgive me."

Gordon huffs. "Yeah, I guess maybe it is, because you're the only one who'd think he's got anything to forgive you for. Five's replaceable. John isn't. You made the right call."

"Well, what if he was right, though, and he had it under control, and I-"

Gordon sits up, puts an arm around Alan's shoulders, pulls him over. This stings, Alan's burnt his shoulders through his t-shirt, but he's still somehow glad for the contact. It's been lonely on the beach. It's not a hug as much as it is an insistent closing of the distance between them, so he's speaking right into his brother's ear, firm and convicted. "He could've blown another hole in our family. There's no excuse for that. He took a stupid risk for a stupider reason. If it'd been you or me or Virge pulling a stunt like that-putting ourselves in a position to be murdered-hell, Alan. If it'd been me, Scott would've torn me to shreds, and then sent John in to mop up what was left. Scott's going easy on him because he was in such damn rough shape when he landed, but he was having kittens down here when it looked like it might go the other way."

This doesn't make Alan feel any better. If anything, it makes him wonder why he's the only one with the inclination to believe that John's instincts might've been right. If Virgil and Gordon and Scott all thought John had been making a stupid call, why does Alan wish John had been the one allowed to make it? "I dunno, Gordon."

"Yeah, well, I do." And then, with the sort of genuine emotion that you only rarely get out of Gordon, "C'mon Alan, don't beat yourself up. Please, it just about kills me. You saved his damn life, you should be proud. Allie, everybody else is proud of you."

Everyone but the person who matters. "John's not." It seems melodramatic to say it, so he just thinks it instead, John hates me.

Alan hears the beat of silence marked by Gordon, refraining from groaning audibly. Instead there's a heavy sigh and a hand squeezing his stinging shoulder. "John'll come around. Just-give him time, I guess. Brains is already talking about a Mark Two, a replacement. Let the shock wear off, let him get over it, and leave him the hell alone until then. If he wants to go at somebody, he can take a run at me. I wasn't kidding. I'm just itching to slap him upside the head."

"Don't slap John."

"Someone ought to, and better me than Virgil. I'm mildly annoyed, Virgil's pissed." Gordon shrugs his shoulders, lets Alan go and gets to his feet. The sun's gone down and the stars are coming out, and neither of them even noticed. The wind over the water is growing chill and Alan's tired again. He hasn't done anything all day except sit in the sun and get crisp. He'll be freckles to the wrists by the end of the week and his hair will be another few sun-lightened shades blonder. "C'mon, Al. You got a sunburn and a half."

"Yeah." Alan refrains from saying the thing he's thinking, again. That's probably about the least I deserve.