He had done this. John had done his best but Alan knew better. When someone felt guilty you told them it wasn't their fault, it was just how things had played out or a coincidence. He had been on enough rescues, he had used that line himself enough times on people who felt they had caused an accident; difference was he wasn't some naive little rescuee who didn't know better. He was a rescuer who knew exactly what he had done, and what he had done had resulted in this. He had crippled his brothers. He had done this because he couldn't listen, because he was a child, and childishness had resulted in this.
His brothers where small. The heroes of International rescue, his heroes. The men that had raised him and shaped him, who he had looked up to his entire life sat here, small and broken. Like a shattered mirror, you could piece it back together, glue it so it worked, but it won't be the same and it won't work the same.
Scott is trapped, blind and confined. The man who thrived on freedom locked in place, clinging to his brother, fingers wrapped in the coarse material of the shirt and living in fear. Of what Alan didn't know but it oozed from Scott and he was worried it would suffocate him.
Virgil seemed immune to this fear though, as he looked drained and absent, he was hard to believe it the was the same man to be honest, and the way he stretched his right arm, the motion Alan had seen several times over in his life made him feel sick. He rolled the shoulder stretched it out the muscle taught under the skin, curling down to his elbow where it stopped in a mass of padding and bandages, the motion should have been mirrored but instead the small amount that remained of is left arm was instead strapped this his torso. Driving home this was his fault.
He had done this.
The nurse arrived eventually and told them to leave. Alan had to make a physical effort not to run out that door. To run and never come back.