Hey, have a new chapter. I hope you're having a good day. Personally, I'm trying to convince myself not to quit my job, because I hate it. Like, a lot. Unfortunately for me, uni halls of residence cost a lot of money, so I guess I'm not gonna quit, and instead I'm going to write my feelings into vent fics and eat a ton of Ben and Jerry's.
Warnings for this chapter: strong language, dissociation/derealisation, implied self-harm (biting nails etc, I'm tagging it anyway because I want you to be safe).
Shock was a fickle creature. It crept up on him, set in quietly and then wrapped him tightly in a blanket of warm numbness. He could view it as a relief: a saviour from all those terrible things he had yet to accept. It let him take a backseat from the world for a little while and took control. But when it lifted, everything came crashing back, even worse than before. Shock wasn't a friend. It was just another enemy.
The world was full of enemies.
Humans were simply used to being the predators.
It was learning that we are the prey that brought the shock.
Scott was good at pretending. He was also good at recognising when he was pushing past his limits: he just chose to ignore this whenever it happened. The slight tremors in his hands, the icy feeling seeping into his chest, the lack of pain; all of it was classic symptoms of shock.
He shoved it away, forced himself to take a seat, because he wasn't the only one, because Alan was scared too and yes, he was far more experienced in the world of death and loss than any sixteen-year-old had the right to be, but this was too much for anyone. Alan needed someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright. Mom and Dad couldn't tell him that, so it was down to Scott. It was his job. Looking out for the others always had been, even before International Rescue had tossed them in the jaws of death several times over.
And so he kept it together. Looked John's hologram form in the eye and offered the paparazzi smile. Let Alan's questions wash over him in a frantic blur of words and emotion and gave the suitable answers. Wrapped his arm up with a makeshift tourniquet from the bandages he stored in the first aid kit in One's lockers. Then, after Tracy Island soared into sight, with dry land under his feet, he made a beeline for his room and didn't stop until the door had closed.
He didn't usually lock his door. He had once, during his Air Force days. When he'd joined International Rescue undoing a lock took precious seconds that he often didn't have to spare, and then after Dad's disappearance he'd taken to leaving it unlocked so that a certain little brother could creep in following nightmares. It had simply become habit after a while; Scott didn't lock his door and the others had enough self-control not to abuse that fact (most of the time, anyway).
Not this time. This time he locked the door and then double-locked it, using the key as well as the electronic pad. Everything was too bright. Too pristine. Too normal. He yanked the curtains shut only to glimpse his hands, bruised and bloodied and filthy.
He came back to his senses after a shower. His skin was flushed red from both the heat of the water and the vigour with which he'd scrubbed the grime away. Gone was the stench of blood and soot, replaced with… whatever blue shower gel smelt like. He wasn't really sure. His nose stung too much to pick out individual scents and it was yet another fact that had seemed irrelevant before. It seemed all too important now.
The mirror was steamed up. He wiped a little circle in the glass and stared into the eyes of his reflection. It was ironic, really. He always ended up here. In a room, staring into a mirror, wondering if he'd changed from the man he'd been before. The situations always seemed worse, each time. First following Mom's death, then the funeral, then the Air Force, followed by International Rescue (that first rescue that went wrong) and another funeral that he still refused to admit had been a funeral at all… and now this. The end of the world. He bit back a dark laugh at that because what was the world coming to? Death and decay, apparently.
He left the towels on the bathroom floor. Towelled his hair dry and rifled through his drawers for clean sweatpants and an old band-tee from college that miraculously still fit. There was a small fruit fly bobbing around the corners, weaving in and out of the photo frames. For once, he didn't bother herding it out. It was dim, thanks to the curtains, and quiet. He sank down on the bed. His arm was stinging. He glanced down to discover that the wound was still angry and open, weeping a thin trail of blood across his skin. He swiped a thumb across his arm, stopping any drips from hitting his clothes.
It definitely needed stiches.
He grabbed an old workout top destined for the wash and wrapped his arm, tying it as tightly as he could manage one-handed. The hologram projector on the desk was blinking with an incoming video-call request. He ignored it and collapsed back on the bed.
The next thing he knew it was dark outside and someone was knocking on the door. Everything was crystal clear and the memories came rushing back with horrifying clarity. Nausea flooded up. He took a deep breath, rubbing at his eyes until all he could see were black spots.
"Scott. Let me in."
He only got around to turning the key before the door was barging open.
"That was double-locked," he mused.
Virgil rubbed the back of his neck, looking surprisingly sheepish beneath the mess of concern and anxiety. "I got John to bypass the electronic lock," he admitted with a little shrug. "Sorry." He lifted his arms to reveal the first-aid box from the infirmary. "A little birdie mentioned you could use a hand. Or… you know…" His gaze drifted to the shirt tied around Scott's forearm, now stained a paralysing red. "Stitches."
Scott turned his back on him. "Lock the door," he finally said, sinking back onto the bed. The mattress seemed too soft. The sheets too fresh. He splayed his fingers across the cotton and winced as tiny fibres caught at his fingers. He'd almost forgotten the rope burn.
Virgil didn't question him. There was the soft snicker of the electronic lock sliding into place and then the light padding of feet against carpet. A pair of fluffy socks came into view. Scott couldn't help but smile at that. Some things would never change, it seemed, not even during the apocalypse.
"This would be far easier in the infirmary."
"Not a chance."
Virgil shook his head. "Worth a try," he replied, smile audible in his voice. He settled himself into a neat pile on the floor, first aid kit spilling across his lap as he made short work of the wrapping on a new bottle of antiseptic. "You need anything to take the edge off?" His tone was conversational, as if they weren't discussing stitching up a wound inflicted by a hot-off-the-streets zombified plague victim.
Life was insane. Scott had accepted this a long time ago. Usually this referred to the fact that he was simultaneously able to run a billion-dollar company, fly a hypersonic aircraft around the globe and be back in time for a spot of surfing before dinner. He wondered absently if that would ever happen again. Not the surfing, that was a given, and so was One, but Tracy Industries? Was society gone altogether? He was suddenly struck with the realisation that while he'd been battling it out on the streets of New York, he had no idea what else had been going on. All he had to go off was the exhaustion on Alan's face and the calm-terror in John's voice over the radio, quietly informing him that this thing was worldwide. Damn. And Scott had thought he'd been having a bad morning when he couldn't find his work shirt…
"Hey."
He blinked. Virgil's hand was on his wrist, grip just tight enough to draw him back to his senses. His forearm was lightly throbbing now, as he took in the bandages pillowed on Virgil's knees and the dribble of discarded plastic where the wrappers lay on the floor.
"Scott," Virgil said softly, brows drawn with a concern that suggested this was not the first time he had spoken. He tapped his thumb against Scott's wrist. "You with me?"
Personally, Scott was overwhelmingly tempted to just fall back and sink into the mattress. Hide in the darkness for a little while longer. Maybe turn the aircon up until he could stop feeling the heat of flames and blood on his skin. Still, if he always gave into what he wanted rather than what was needed, then he probably would never have made it out of college. Hell, not even high school.
So. He flexed the hand of his uninjured arm against the duvet. "Yeah," he admitted grudgingly, "I'm with you."
Virgil gave a little smile at that. There was far too much relief in his eyes for it to be healthy. Scott had to question exactly how out of it he was for his brother to be this worried, but Virgil always had been the bleeding-heart of the family and oh, hey, zombies. He chuckled darkly.
"What?" Virgil queried without looking up from his task. There was a note of suspicion in his voice usually reserved for Gordon.
Scott tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Zombies," he whispered, and laughed again, more openly this time. Virgil eyed him with distrust and a hint of horror. "God, I need a drink."
"You and me both," Virgil muttered, reaching for the antiseptic. "This is gonna sting."
Scott stared at him, deadpan. "Virg. C'mon. Not exactly my first rodeo."
"Eh." Virgil shrugged one shoulder. "First zombie scratch though." He clapped his hands to his knees, scrubbing excess antiseptic onto his jeans. "All done. Find me before you go to bed tonight though, and I'll check it again. I don't want to risk a chance of infection."
Scott couldn't help himself. "Like… a normal, bacterial infection, or the cannibalistic zombie kind?"
Virgil heaved himself to his feet, first aid kit tucked under his arm. "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. Besides… the data shows… you would know by now. You're in the clear." He paused at the door. "Everyone's in the lounge. You should come and join us."
"Everyone?"
"John's still on Five, if that's what you're wondering." The keypad flickered green as the lock slid open. Virgil hesitated in the doorway and turned back. "You really should come and join us, you know. We were worried about you."
"I take offense to that. You didn't think I could take care of myself?"
Virgil fixed him with a searching stare. "You have a track record of being reckless, you can hardly blame me."
"Shoo." Scott flapped a hand at him. "I'm done listening to you."
"Because I'm right?"
"Because you're infuriating."
"And because I'm right."
Scott propped himself up with one elbow. "If I agree to come and join you, will you stop bothering me?"
Virgil cracked a sheepish grin. "Maybe."
"Fine." Scott flopped back on the bed with a groan. "You're manipulative."
"I can live with that. I'll see you in a bit. Don't be too long. I'll make something for dinner, you need to eat." There was a little pause, then, "I'm glad you're back."
The door clicked shut. Scott stared at the ceiling. There was a funny little splodge of blue from a fourteen-year-old Gordon's brilliant prank involving powder paint that had gone wrong. Spectacularly wrong, in fact. It was funny really: Scott had always planned to repaint the ceiling white. Now he was probably stuck with it, blue splatters and all, for the rest of eternity.
A glance at the clock revealed that he'd wasted ten minutes zoning out. It was all too easy to lose time like this, still faintly treading boundary between shock and exhaustion. He peeled himself off the bed and changed shirts into one that wasn't stained with fresh blood, before coaxing himself out of the room.
Everything seemed normal. If Scott ignored the dull ache in his arm and focussed entirely on the scene in front of him, then it would be all too easy to imagine that there was nothing wrong in the world. This was just an ordinary day. But there was an undertone to all the chatter, a quiet, nervous tension, and the sense that the slightest sudden movement would send everyone scattering.
Someone had drawn the curtains. The shutters, usually reserved for when a Thunderbird was taking off, were closed, and locked into place. With rigid metal running the length of the sliding doors to protect from an engine blast that would never come, it was as if they were in their own private bunker. That thought somehow seemed scarier than anything else. Perhaps it was the connotations that came with it: that suggestion that the world was lost forever.
Scott clenched his fist behind his back, dug his nails into his palm, and took a breath. There was the smell of oregano, onion and tomatoes simmering away on the stove. Virgil, wooden spoon in hand, was leant against the counter, occasionally turning back to his saucepan. Grandma stood at his side, flicking through an old recipe book. Usually this would strike fear into the hearts of all who knew her, but this time Scott was merely struck with a warm fondness.
Gordon was the first to notice his presence. Scott nearly made it down the stairs and across to the kitchen counter when his brother looked up and promptly flung himself face-first off the couch. Alan, who'd been half-asleep, dozing with his feet hooked over the arm of the sofa and his head pillowed between the rise of the couch-cushions and Gordon's shoulder, found himself free-falling onto the carpet too. Miraculously, this indignity was pushed aside in favour of a slip-n-slide across the kitchen tiles to Scott's side.
A chorus of raised voices blended into one. Scott slid onto one of the barstools and grimaced at the raucous. There was a faint tension constricting about his temples, indicative of a forming headache. Still, with the memories of crimson-splashed streets and drool-drenched snarls at the forefront of his mind, he was more than happy to let Alan scramble up onto the countertop in front of him and allowed Gordon to sling an arm around his shoulders.
"Hey." Grandma's voice was warm, but stern. "Bring the volume down a notch. Your brother's been through a lot, I'm sure he doesn't want you jabbering in his ear like a pair of kookaburras."
Gordon sniggered at that. "Eh, you don't mind us, do ya Scotty?"
His voice was notably quieter all the same, and Scott hid his grin in his arms, pillowing his chin on the countertop. Alan's socked feet were dangerously close to his nose and he flexed one hand in warning. The most ticklish member of the family squawked and immediately shifted his feet safely out of reach.
Silence settled, broken only by the bubbling of the sauce on the stove and a mechanical humming as MAX flitted back and forth, loaded high with Brains's books. The scientist himself was perched on the end of the far sofa, glasses tilted and hair a bird's nest of stress. He looked up, sensing eyes on him, and offered Scott a warm smile. Scott flipped his hand in a half-wave. Brains nodded and returned to his work. At some point over the years, they'd reached this easy communication without a need for actual words.
A thumb ran along the edge of his bandage. Scott returned his attention to his brothers. Alan, cross-legged on the counter, hair tangled and wearing an old Batman top frayed at the hem, frowned, gnawing his lower lip.
"I thought you said you weren't hurt?" he accused, eyes dark with something fearful and worried.
"I'm not," Scott assured him, slumping a little further onto the counter. Gordon's arm was weighing too heavily on his bruised shoulder, but he wasn't about to shove him away. Gordon showed a lot of emotion through touch, probably the most tactile after Virgil, and besides, Scott wasn't above admitting that he could do with a little bit of grounding.
Alan's touch was feather light across the bandage. "Kinda looks like you are."
"It's barely a scratch."
Virgil dunked the spoon back into the sauce and crossed to join them. "Relax Al," he said, ruffling Alan's hair before the teen could duck away. "I've already checked it. He's okay."
Alan withdrew his hand. "If you turn into a zombie," he threatened, all narrowed eyes and growled words, "then I'll say I told you so for the rest of time."
"If he's a zombie, would he even care?" Gordon wondered aloud. He'd shifted a little closer, barstool creaking against the tiles, so that he was pressed to Scott's side, and now he hooked his chin over his brother's shoulder, yawning.
Scott reached up and flicked him, bullseye in the centre of the forehead. Gordon yelped, going cross-eyed to spy his brother's hand. "Meanie."
"Tragic," Scott agreed, smiling. From the other side of the counter, Virgil watched with a warm gaze, and finally returned to the saucepan after the simmering shifted from low heat to a near boil. Grandma relinquished control of the spoon, which was a good thing too as her hand had been shifting dangerously close to the spice rack.
Alan tilted back, threatening to tip off the sideboard entirely. Scott had already seen more than enough brains splattering the floor for one day and shot out a hand to steady him. Gordon, dislodged by the sudden movement, slid off his perch with a low whine.
God. These guys were idiots. Scott loved them.
"So do we have to set the table or…?" Alan widened his eyes, all wounded puppy as Grandma tutted at him. "What? We're acting as if everything's normal even though the world's gone to shit-"
"Language," Scott found himself saying automatically.
Alan rolled his eyes and continued. "So, are we gonna continue ignoring the apocalypse happening right outside our door, or…?"
There was an awkward silence. Gordon pranced around the counter and yanked open a cupboard, already passing plates to his brother. "Dude," he sighed as Alan merely stood there like an unemployed waiter, "are you gonna put those on the table or what?"
"Or what," Alan replied with a jab of his elbow to Gordon's ribs, easily bouncing out of the way and over to the table before his brother could retaliate.
Observing the proceedings with a waning smile, Scott laid his cheek against the counter. There was a brief clutter and then a yelp as the youngest two tackled each other onto the sofa.
"And so the prodigal son returns." Scott lifted his head at the sound of Grandma's voice. She was watching him with clear relief and affection and opened her arms as he made eye contact. "C'mon, get in here kid. Give your old grandma a hug."
"Not that old," Scott protested, already rounding the counter. He had to bend down and Grandma was reaching up, but somehow she still had the ability to make him feel like a little kid again, when the world could be fixed with something as simple as a hug and a dash of extra custard with dessert. He closed his eyes, tucking his face into her shoulder and focussed simply on breathing.
"You doing okay, fly-boy?"
Aged hands rubbed circles into his back, somehow knowing to avoid the thundercloud bruises blossoming over his shoulder. Scott relaxed into her hold a moment longer before Virgil tapped his arm on his way past, a silent signal that Alan and Gordon were on their way back. He blinked back the burning behind his eyes and forced a smile.
"Thanks."
Grandma watched him a moment longer, face drawn with concern. "I don't know what you saw out there, or even what you had to do, but just know that I'm proud of you and I love you." She patted his arm with a toothy grin. "Right. Off you go and sit yourself down now. Virgil, are you sure I can't help with anything?"
Scott left them to it, ignoring the sounds of Virgil's high-pitched protests and Grandma's amused reassurances. His usual seat was already half-tugged out ready for him, Gordon sauntering away with a lazy whistle as if he'd had nothing to with it. Scott sank into the chair with a groan. He was starting to feel the effects of fighting for his life against a horde of the undead, and his muscles were more than complaining.
The hologram projector blinked into life.
"Ah," John commented, unable to hide his smile. "I see Lazarus has risen."
Scott propped his chin in one hand. "So many jokes I could make right now, in relation to the dead rising." He tilted his head. "Hey, is dead and its many synonyms back in my vocabulary?"
"Just for that comment, no." John's voice softened. "How're you doing? I'd have come down but I'm of more use up here, and besides, I figured Virgil would be best to take this one."
"Good to know you're delegating me between the two of you."
John narrowed his eyes. "That's not what I meant. Stop being difficult."
There came a screech, then, horrified, "Grandma! Please get out of the kitchen!"
"Well," Scott drawled, "apparently zombies can't kill me, but Grandma's cooking may do."
"Would you look at that? You don't need my permission to add death back into your vocabulary, you've already done it yourself."
Scott opened his mouth, ready to voice the first of a multitude of questions, when Alan came and plonked himself down next to John's avatar. A moment later, apparently in disgrace as Virgil attempted to save the dinner, Grandma appeared.
"Go and fetch Kayo," she ordered, swatting Alan's arm.
Alan flopped back in his chair, all gangly limbs and pitiful groans. "Do I have to?"
"Absolutely."
"Fine." He paused, bouncing on his heels. "Wait, do I need to ask Penny and Parker too?"
"No. They said they weren't hungry." Grandma gave him a little shove. "Go on, before the food gets cold."
"I'm going, I'm going, jeez."
Grandma watched him go with a smug smile, before settling into her own seat. "So, where were we?"
John's gaze flitted to something off-screen. "If we're going to talk about everything, we should probably wait until we're all here, so we're all on the same page." He rubbed the brim of his nose with a tired sigh. "I don't see Penelope or Parker joining us any time before tomorrow morning, and besides, we're all on a bit of a high with Scott being back… I'm suggesting that we make the most of it and get a good night's sleep. God knows everything's going to get worse from here on out."
"Don't say that," Grandma chastised.
John ground his knuckles into his eyes with a yawn. "Sorry, Grandma. You know positivity isn't one of my strong suits."
"Not exactly one of mine either," Scott remarked, blinking rapidly at the realisation that he was slowly slumping onto the table.
"No, but you power through on sheer stubbornness alone."
"Is that a compliment?"
John yawned. "Take it however you please," he sighed, and grimaced as he went to rub his eyes again. "Okay, I'll be back in five minutes."
"Where are you going?" Virgil queried as he set a recovered pan of pasta onto the heatproof mat.
John blinked owlishly. "Gotta take my contacts out," he stated simply and vanished from view.
Scott wasn't sure if he zoned out again after that but all of a sudden there was a full plate in front of him and the chairs that had previously lain empty were in use. He jumped, almost jolting out of his chair as a hand laid on his shoulder.
Kayo held her hands up in surrender. "Sorry," she murmured as she slid into her usual spot. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, I'm sorry." He stared down at his plate as if it held the answers he sought. Sadly, the powers of spaghetti didn't stretch that far. "I'm just a bit on edge still."
Kayo offered a half-smile. "I think that's understandable," she pointed out, and reached across, squeezing his hand once before turning her attention to the opposite end of the table where Gordon and Alan were fighting over the bowl of shredded parmesan. "Give it here!"
A foot knocked his under the table. Scott looked up, catching Virgil's questioning stare.
"I'm good," he said under his breath.
Virgil nodded. "Okay. Then you should eat something."
Scott returned his gaze to the plate in front of him. It just seemed insane. His brain couldn't accept that this was real. How could it be? This morning he'd been sprinting through the streets of a burning New York, physically wrestling his way free of a flesh-craving monster and now he was here, eating spaghetti whilst his family made casual conversation.
He stabbed his fork into the pasta. Sometimes avoiding the elephant in the room was more stressful than simply approaching it head-on.
They made it through dinner without a hitch, although Scott ended up sliding his plate along to Virgil to finish as his mind provided a lovely display of the decomposing innards he'd seen smeared across the hotel lobby in place of the pasta sauce – he found he lost his appetite after that. Virgil, for once, seemed to accept that Scott wanted to be left alone, and so after hovering on the outside of the conversation for an hour longer, Scott retreated to his room.
He double locked it again. His head was pounding. The bed looked too normal, too soft, too everything that shouldn't exist anymore. He wasn't sure when he'd started sliding down the door but suddenly his tailbone was hitting the floor hard enough to send a jolt of pain up his spine. His scalp stung where he was tangling his hands in his hair. It still didn't feel real. He ran a hand down his face, only his palms were sweaty, and he was struck with the memory of his fingers dripping with blood.
There was a split second, peering in the bathroom mirror, where he saw smeared crimson across his face, trailing down like bloody tears, then he blinked, and it was gone. He yanked the tap on and stuck his head under the faucet until he was shivering. Water tricked down his chest and his hair dripped onto his back.
His arms were covered in goosebumps. Standing in the centre of his room, toes buried in the carpet, Scott came to the realisation that he was cold, shivering even. It took him a good ten minutes more to go through the process of moving, finding a towel, sitting down on the floor with his back against the bed.
Virgil let himself in, bypassing the locks for a second time.
"Hey." He hovered, unsure of himself.
Scott raised his chin to look up at him. "Hi?"
"Are you okay?"
He flapped a hand. "Peachy."
"Okay." Virgil sank down to sit next to him. There was a couple of inches of space between them, left intentionally, which Scott appreciated. He stretched his legs out, wincing as his muscles pulled, and dropped his head back onto the dip of the mattress. Virgil didn't say a word. He just sat there, breathing evenly, eyes closed, head tilted ever so slightly towards the door as if listening for a threat that wouldn't come.
Scott held out his arm. "You wanted to check. That's why you're here."
"It's not the only reason," Virgil murmured, but set about the unwrapping process, bandages stained a pale pink trailing to the floor in a ruined scarf. Scott closed his eyes again. "I don't know if we should talk about this, or…"
"Or...?"
"Last time you went through a traumatic experience and didn't talk about it, it didn't end so well."
"That's a bit of a low blow."
"Scott." Virgil sounded a tad frustrated. "Can you please just look at me?"
Scott opened one eye. "And say what?"
"I don't know." Virgil fastened the new bandage. "I genuinely don't know. Tell me about New York? Let me know what I can do to help?" He rubbed his temples.
Dammit. Scott shuffled further upright. "Are you okay?"
"I wasn't the one stuck in a whole goddam megacity of the things."
"Aren't you the one always telling me not to compare trauma?"
"Ah, so you do acknowledge that it was a traumatic experience?"
Scott dropped his hands back to his lap with a growl. "This is a traumatic experience."
Virgil moved to sit in front of him and waited, eternally patient. If the guy spontaneously started meditating for the next half an hour, Scott genuinely wouldn't be surprised. Hell, Virgil flew with Gordon on a regular basis – if that wasn't an infinite test of patience then he didn't know what was. Although he supposed that was a thing of the past now. After all, how could you have a rescue organisation without anyone to rescue?
Jesus. Every now and then it just hit him that the world was ending.
"Scott…" Virgil began, all soft tones and painfully concerned. It was written all over his face.
Scott tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I can't," he finally choked out. "I can't talk about it yet. It's not… I can't do that." Couldn't talk about the ones he'd shot, the ones that had been people, people with lives and people who loved them. Had it been the first infected or the second that had worn a wedding band? Or was it both? In his memories, there was that glint of gold before it was buried beneath a sea of red, all that love ruined by a bullet-hole that he had put there.
Virgil's voice was sort of fuzzy. Like listening to someone on the other end of a phone with poor reception. The hand on his chest was very real though, really warm and calloused from years of engineering.
Scott swallowed. "What?" he finally asked, voice recovering.
Virgil leaned back, lifting his hand. "You needed to take a breath."
"Right." If he looked at his hands in the right light, they were stained with red. He shoved them behind his head, tilted backwards against the bed, and tried not to think about bones and blood and battered bodies. A movement caught his eye as Virgil stood up. "Virg."
"Yeah?"
"I will talk to you. Just not now. It's too soon."
Virgil's frown melted away to understanding. "I know. I get it." He reached forwards and squeezed Scott's good shoulder. "A word of advice, if you'll take it?"
"Hit me."
"Leave your door unlocked tonight."
Scott inhaled, sharp, and let it go in a rush. "Yeah," he murmured after a beat, and offered Virgil a weak smile. "Alright."
He finally coaxed himself into bed about an hour later, much of which was spent in the shower again, scrubbing at his hands and the beds of his nails until they were raw and angry, but at least they were clean. He left the fanlight in the en-suite open a crack, just enough for the door to bob to-and-fro in the breeze and for the sounds of the waves to carry across the carpet. There was an entire ocean between Tracy Island and the infected, and yet still the knowledge of that unlocked door filled him with a surge of fear so strong that he couldn't catch his breath.
He drifted off somewhere between ten and eleven, jolting awake at two-forty-three-AM to the sound of the door brushing against the carpet as it opened. He shot up in bed instinctively, vision hazy with sleep and dull light. Yet, underneath the adrenaline rush, he already knew that the intruder wasn't a threat.
"Um…" Bare feet padded across the carpet. Blond hair turned silver by the moon stood in disarray, nails bitten down to bloodied stubs, the drawstring of sweatpants wound so tightly around a thumb that the skin stood swollen and pale. "Scotty?" a hushed voice whispered, rough as if the owner had been crying, or screaming. Scott wasn't sure which was worse.
He shuffled higher in bed, duvet pooling in his lap. Here, pressed to the wall so that he wasn't blocking out the path of the moonbeam through the curtain, he could glimpse his youngest brother better. "Hey, what's going on?" He leant forwards, concern thrumming in his chest, because he hadn't seen Alan look this wrecked in a long time.
"I… um…" Alan took a shuddering breath. His eyes were bright, welling with tears. He let the drawstring go in favour of clenching his hands into fists. "I sound like a fricking five-year-old, never mind…"
Scott looked at him for a long moment. Alan was shaking like a leaf, and the air-con wasn't even turned too high. "Well," he said softly, "I'm not having a good night, so if you want to keep me company, I'd really appreciate it."
Never let it be said that he didn't know his brothers. At least there was one certainty still left in the world. He lifted the duvet and Alan didn't hesitate, sliding underneath and curling up, drawing one knee to his chest. Scott let his arm settle around the top of the pillows and, a heartbeat later, Alan shuffled a little closer, resting his head on Scott's shoulder.
"I'm keeping you company, so…"
"Oh yeah, of course."
Alan tilted his head back to glimpse Scott's grin. "Don't laugh at me," he whined, voice already a little brighter than before.
Scott hid his smile. "Alright. I'm sorry."
It was quiet. The curtains shifted in the ocean breeze and let a little more moonlight soak into the carpet. Scott slid further down in bed, resting his chin on the top of Alan's head to avoid getting an ache in his neck.
"Is this the end of the world?" Alan whispered after a few minutes.
Scott closed his eyes. Alan was tucked against his side, and it was so quiet that Scott could hear the kid's heart beating. "I don't know," he admitted. "But if there's a way to fix this, we'll find it."
Alan's breathing hitched. "I don't want it to be the end of the world. I don't want anything to change. I want to keep flying Three and I want to graduate high-school and maybe go to college. I want to go to that festival Gordon got me tickets for, and take a trip to Tokyo and buy all the cool anime merch like Kayo said we would… and I… I want to fly with you guys. What if this is it now? We can't leave the island, other than to get supplies, or go into a GDF bunker… cos… that's not living. A lifetime of that… isn't… I don't…"
Scott let him trail off. "I know. I'm going to try my best to fix this, Alan, I promise. And… if worst comes to worst, I'll get you out of here."
"To go where?" Alan's voice was thick. There was a suspicious sniff.
Scott reached out and guided Alan's hand away from his mouth. "Stop biting your nails."
"Sorry."
Alan was shaking a little. Scott would forever, ever, have regrets about how young Alan saw too much, such as joining International Rescue to name one example, but right now… God. He couldn't do anything. He tugged Alan a little closer.
"Mars," he said after a moment. "I'll take you to Mars. You'd like it there, with all their science expeditions and the city they're building. You'd probably have a robot, like MAX."
"Yeah?"
That was the tone of voice that suggested Alan wanted him to go on but wasn't about to ask.
"Yeah. Uncle Lee's still out there, and he'd always be asking you to go on secret joyrides in Three."
"I could keep Three?"
"Damn right you're keeping Three. Three's yours."
Alan gave a damp laugh. "What else?"
"What else? Hmm… let me think… you'd graduate college on Mars, either online or in their academy and then I'd buy you a dog as a graduation gift… or you could adopt one. A puppy, that is. You'd be your nerdy lil self-"
"Hey!"
"And probably be a rocket scientist or something. You'd go out on trips to try and find alien life and then you'd come home and pretend to have actually found something, just to see the look on Gordon's face… It would be good."
"It sounds good."
"Yeah. And hey, if you get good at that guitar of yours, then you could put on shows. The first band on Mars."
Alan's laugh sounded more truthful that time. Scott let himself smile in the face of a job well done. There was a little rustle as Alan stuck one foot out of the duvet, like the strange little gremlin he was, and thoughts of corpses snapping and snarling had never seemed so far away.
"You'd come to Mars too, right?"
"Yep."
"Okay. Good. Just checking."
Scott was beginning to drift off when Alan spoke again, in a very small, unsteady voice. "I still don't want the world to end though." Then, even softer, so that Scott really had to fight to hear the words, he added, "can you promise me something?"
"Uh huh," Scott mumbled, blinking to try to keep himself awake.
"Promise… promise you won't let anything happen to you. Like… don't… leave. Please. I know that's a dumb thing to ask you to promise, but… Mom and Dad are gone and I think the world's gone too…"
"Hey. I promised I'd come back from New York, didn't I? And here I am."
"Yeah. I just… I… I can't lose you too. So…"
Scott draped his other arm over Alan's back, drawing him closer so that they were both tucked safely under the duvet. Alan ducked his head, knocking his forehead against Scott's collarbone, his breathing still a little hitched.
"Alan, I promise you won't be alone."
"That's not what I asked you to promise."
Scott bit back a laugh. God. This kid. Sometimes Alan really reminded him of their mother. "Yeah," he admitted, "I know. But I've gotta keep everyone safe, you know that."
"I don't want any of you to die. And yeah, I know, our jobs put our lives on the line every day, but this is different…"
"I know it is."
Alan was trembling. There was the muffled whimpers of someone crying but trying to stifle it. His elbow was digging into Scott's chest where he clasped his hands to his mouth to try to keep the tears in.
"Allie, you don't have to hide. It's okay."
A strangled sob was smothered by the pillow. "M'sorry."
"Don't be sorry for having emotions."
"I'm trying not to be scared, to be better."
Scott exhaled slowly. "Here's a secret – I'm really scared too."
"Oh."
Time passed in a vague state of drowsy dazedness.
"I love you."
Scott, partially asleep, half wanted to smile, half wanted to cry. God, he was so, so, sorry. Alan deserved better than this. The whole damn planet deserved better than this.
He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes to hide the tears. "I know," he whispered once he could trust his voice again. "I love you too."
I mean... am I forgiven for the last chapter's cliff-hanger?
If you feel like leaving a review it would make me very happy, but thank you so much for reading anyway!
Kat x
