It wasn't often, if ever, that Gordon had that kick the other talked about—'the older sibling' drive, that need to protect and shelter and fix. He was the second youngest, he only had Alan below him, and the others tended to bundle them together, so Alan looked to the others, Scott and John in particular, while Gordon tended to turn to Scott and Virgil. He and Alan would joke about sharing Scott. Moments like this, though, when for whatever reason Alan was lost and had no one to turn to, that drive would kick in and he could understand his brothers so much easier. This time something else was causing this to kick in, though.
The hospital had called—Virgil was in critical condition. He didn't understand a lot of it, if he was honest—a sudden adrenaline surge had caused his body to swing into overdrive, which, in turn, had caused a whole slew of problems. What he had understood, and was thankful Alan had missed, was the fear that Virgil had been purposefully poisoned.
Someone had attempted to murder his brother.
Alan was currently curled up against him, using him as a pillow. He hadn't wanted to but Gordon had given him little choice, pulling his brother into the contact he needed whether he knew it or not. He had been crying on and off since the call and Gordon's shorts were horribly damp, but it seemed he had finally run out of tears, and as he was beginning to drift off, Alan stirred, the familiar sniff and gentle tugging as he tried to bury himself away from the world, and Gordon was more than willing to oblige, pulling his legs up and nudging his brother into him, wrapping his arms about him and shielding him away from the world that seemed out to hurt them.
These tears weren't just about what had happened. He sighed, resting his head against his arm, and looked down at his brother. 'What's wrong, Ali? Talk to me.' It was hard to keep the desperate edge from his voice, but he hoped he had managed it, watching and waiting at his brother turned the words over in his head.
'I did it.' The words small and muffled but unmistakable, and honestly not what he had expected to hear.
'Did what?' Alan sniffed and after a long wait blurted it out.
'I did it, I killed them, it was me, I didn't mean to, I didn't!' He couldn't stop now, he was just a flurry of words and tears and regrets.
They had told him not to touch it, but it was old, really old, and he hadn't seen anything like it before. Virgil was worried it was unstable, given how fragile age would have made it, and Scott just didn't like the look of the prehistoric pile of trash, but Alan was curious. He scrubbed at the grim, trying to find some identification on the thing—honestly, he wasn't even sure what it was, some kind of unmanned aerial vehicle he figured. He leaned against it and the thing groaned, sounding almost demented, and he leapt away, checking for his siblings. They didn't know, so he had pretended nothing had happened.
It was him, he had upset the thing, he had dislodged whatever had kept it stable.
He had killed them.
Gordon pulled Alan close, wrapping his arms around him and holding on tight as his brother spilt his heart. He had been crushing himself over this and Gordon knew there was nothing he could say that would make a difference.
Especially if Virgil didn't make it.