Fun fact - in my original notes for this fic, it was supposed to be Gordon who gets stranded on Earth with Scott, not Alan, but then the plot evolved into this instead. Fear not - I have evil plans for the others too - so I suppose you should be afraid, really...


Escape pods weren't the most comfortable mode of transport on any day of the week, but this one particularly stung. There were no seats – presumably removed so that the Hood could use it as his own personal interrogation chamber before Maya had turned him into a prisoner too – and more attention had been given to décor over design. Sleek panels and glossy paint may have looked appealing, but it did precious little to support those inside from the forces of entering Earth's atmosphere several times past the regulated velocity. By the time the pod made impact, Scott was ninety-percent certain he had a minor concussion. There were some suspicious groans and retching sounds from the other side of the pod, where the Hood had braced himself against the wall. Good, Scott thought venomously, I hope he chokes.

Fortune decided to favour them. The pod splashed down a short distance off the coast – a thin line of molten umber littered with protruding grey skyscrapers dipped in and out of view as the pod bobbed on the waves. Scott observed the sea through the scorched window, inspecting white horses for any decomposing limbs or wild eyes. Other than a thick film of spilled oil, the ocean remained empty, but he knew all too well that appearances could be deceiving. There could easily have been more infected to the left or right or behind the pod, out of view. Unfortunately, the current was carrying them further out to sea the longer they waited – they were going to have to make a break for it and hope for the best.

"EOS?" he queried quietly, probing the comm in his ear. There was a short snap of static followed by empty silence. Yeah. No such luck.

The Hood staggered to the hatch on shaky legs. Scott instinctively retreated to block Alan from view, but the Hood's focus was entirely on the control panel, searching for the release valve. The hatch unsealed with a high-pitched hiss followed by a terrific splash as several tonnes of metal collapsed outwards and sank beneath the surface in a torrent of bubbles. The Hood, crouched on the edge of the open hatch, observed the door vanish into the darkness with an unreadable expression.

Alan was beginning to come to his senses, attempting to prop himself up on an elbow. Memories trickled back slowly, then in a rush. One hand flew to his throat whilst the other lashed out at the closest figure to him, not having quite taken in all the details around him yet. Scott ducked and shifted further into Alan's line of sight.

"Just me."

"N-not-" Alan's voice sounded painful and from his wince, it felt that way too. He swallowed, blinked back stinging tears, and resorted to sign language. "Not just you. What's he doing here? What happened?"

"Maya trapped him in here with us and launched the pod. We're somewhere off the coast."

"Which coast?"

"That's the million-dollar question." Scott offered a hand and hauled his brother to his feet. "I need you to run a scan, see if you can pick up on anything in the water."

Alan's wrist console flickered into life without too much protest. There were a series of error messages flashing in holographic form, warning that he was disconnected from Thunderbird Five's servers and therefore was lacking significant levels of data, but the basic abilities were still online. Scott observed the readouts over Alan's shoulder. There was a collection of debris on the seabed and the wreckage of two downed planes mixing across the waves, but there were no apparent signs of any infected ploughing towards them. He put a hand on Alan's shoulder, stepping to block the Hood from view.

"Are you up to swimming?"

Alan took a deep breath experimentally and immediately broke into a coughing fit. "How far?"

"Not too far. You can hold onto me if you need a break."

Alan levelled him with a deadpan stare. "You're not in best shape yourself."

Scott chose to ignore that comment. He shouldered the Hood aside to make room at the hatch. Alan lowered himself into a crouch, dipping a hand into the water to test the temperature and withdrawing it with gritted teeth. He inspected the city on the horizon, head tilted, calculating, assessing the odds.

"That place is gonna be full of zombies," he pointed out.

Scott ran a thumb over the handle of the knife concealed in his pocket. "I know," he admitted. "But we can't stay here. We'll make it to shore, find a way out of the city and hole up somewhere until we can either fix a radio or John and EOS manage to locate us via Five's scanners."

Alan rocked back on his heels. "I would feel a lot better about this if I were immune."

"You and me both."

The sky was beginning to darken at the edges, brimming with the promise of oncoming night. If it was bad enough making the swim in the daytime, Scott didn't want to think about how it would be in the dark. Alan was clearly thinking the same thing as he stood up, cracked his knuckles, and offered an optimistic grin that didn't match his eyes.

"Wanna bet we can beat Gordon's record?"

"If you can swim that fast, I will be very impressed."

"Challenge accepted."

The Hood's shoe squeaked on the metal brim of the hatch. Scott raised a brow.

"Oh, are you coming too?"

Yellow eyes glowered. "Watch yourself, Tracy."

"When we reach the shore," Scott told him, hand ghosting over the pocket where the Hood knew the knife was concealed, "we'll go one way, and you'll go the other. Understand?"

The Hood's smirk showed teeth. "FAB," he drawled.

Alan bristled. "Can't we just feed him to the infected?"

Scott observed the Hood's smarmy confidence, so sure that he was going to make it out of this situation alive and a winner. "Not yet," he muttered, biting back further insults. "But maybe later."


One of the many things that always struck Scott upon returning to Earth after time spent in Space was how very real everything was. The sights, the smells, the sounds – all so vibrant and undeniably enveloping him in life. The sting of the sea in raw gashes, cold water soothing bruises, the taste of salt and rush of the waves tugging at his clothes. The roar of the surf, distant thunderstorms stalking the horizon, dust fogging the view ahead – each detail so very vivid in his mind's eye. The ache of exhaustion was a constant weight in his bones, but he pushed onwards.

Land was only about twenty minutes away by Scott's best estimations when Alan's swimming shifted from smooth strokes to uneven splashes. He slowed to a halt, treading water, and Alan joined him, pawing at his sleeve until Scott held out an arm. Alan gripped on like a drowning cat, spluttering on water-logged inhales, spitting salt back into the waves as he struggled to catch his breath. He was shivering violently, proper teeth-chattering shudders, lips tinged faintly blue.

"You okay?" Scott pressed a hand to the kid's forehead and recoiled. "Jesus, Al. You're freezing."

"I'm okay. Just…" Alan paused, hands shaking too badly to sign as he tried to regain control. "I need a minute," he finished.

"Have you activated the heater in the suit?"

"Won't work while it's wet." Alan clung on tighter as a precocious wave doubled over and sent them spiralling in the aftershock. He tapped his console to show Scott the error message. "Water got inside when it couldn't seal properly because I'm not wearing my helmet." He trailed off, frowning, and nearly knocked them both off balance as he lashed out. "Did you feel that?"

Scott twisted in a frantic circle, searching the water. "Feel what? I didn't feel anything."

"Something just touched my ankle!"

Scott gripped Alan's shoulders. "Stay here," he ordered, and dove under the surface before Alan could protest. The sea was murky and it stung too badly to keep his eyes open for long, but it was enough to make out vague shapes, twisting and turning and spiralling in the current, thick and dark and leathery. The blade sliced through it as easily as melted butter. He returned to the open air and draped the offending object over Alan's head, trying not to laugh at the kid's outraged shriek.

"There's your zombie, Al."

Alan peeled the seaweed away from his face, nose wrinkled in disgust. "I hate kelp. It's creepy. It's always been creepy."

"It's just seaweed." Scott tousled Alan's damp hair, leaving it to dry in spikes. "Ready to carry on?"

Alan exhaled slowly. The sky – dripping in amber, one of the most vibrant sunsets that Scott had ever seen – turned the water to paint. Alan cupped it in a hand and let it trickle between his fingers, shooting an exhausted look towards the coast.

"Okay."

"Atta boy."


They made landfall just as the sun slipped beneath the waves and the world was swallowed up by the night. Shadows plagued the sand. Buildings beyond the beach stood tall and lonely, echoing with strange sounds and whispers that could have been the wind but may have been something far deadlier. With no friendly lights to guide them through the streets, the place seemed sinister and eerie. Scott dragged Alan free of the waves before his own legs gave out too. He collapsed onto the sand in a heap and made no immediate move to get up. A short distance away, the Hood draped himself over a rock and brought up lungfuls of seawater in strained retches. He sensed eyes on him and looked up, glowering at Scott.

"What?"

Scott rolled over to put his back to the man. The sand was harsh, tiny grains scratching against his skin, finding their way under his shirt and into his mouth. He wiped a hand down his face, blinking salty droplets from lashes until he could see the hazy moon clearly. The beach was illuminated in a pale silver glow. He heaved himself into a sitting position and examined the shore for any movement, but beyond the waves everything stood still and silent.

Alan curled onto his side, arms wrapped around his ribs protectively. The shivering had eased off slightly, but Scott wasn't sure if that was due to an increase in temperature or whether he was simply so cold that his body was shutting down. He wasn't about to wait around to test the theory. He stumbled onto his knees, gripping Alan's biceps.

"Hey. Look at me."

Alan gave a complaining whimper, but obediently peeled open both eyes. He raised a hand, trembling from exhaustion, to sign, "What?"

Scott looped an arm around the kid's back and helped him to his feet. "We've gotta get moving. Find some dry clothes and blankets. You need to eat something."

Alan leaned heavily against him. "Not sure I can," he signed, with a single touch to his throat.

"We'll find something that'll go down easily." A distant crack echoed around the bay. Something wet slithered across the sand, unseen. Scott tightened his grip around Alan's shoulders. "Come on, kiddo," he murmured. "Let's get outta here."

Alan hesitated. "What about him?"

Scott didn't spare the Hood another glance. "He can find his own way."

As they picked their way up blood-slick steps, onto the empty boardwalk, Scott couldn't resist a final look back. The Hood remained stony still on his rock, watching them with cold, expressionless features. He didn't say a word or move a muscle. He just stared with empty eyes until their steps carried them out of view.


Scott wasn't entirely sure where they were. Most street-signs were too dilapidated to read and the buildings were destroyed. Landmarks had collapsed into rubble. If he had to guess, he'd put them somewhere along the west coast of the States, probably California, but he couldn't be certain and it wasn't a top priority yet. He'd figure it out in the morning. Hopefully Alan's console might have reconnected and would be able to pin down their coordinates. But for now, he simply kept his senses focussed on the world around them.

The city was still. Too still. Scott rolled his shoulders, the phantom pain of a long-healed scar across his arm from his New York adventure flaring up for the first time in weeks. He kept a tight grip on the knife. The blade gleamed in the moonlight. Alan kept an eye on it, footsteps faltering, clearly uneasy as old ash crunched under his boots.

"Doesn't it seem too quiet to you?"

Scott slowed for a moment, taking in the empty street. "Yes," he admitted, signing to keep from attracting unwanted attention by speaking, "but I'm not going to complain."

The majority of stores had been looted during the first forty-eight hours of the apocalypse but there were a few places still standing. Metal shutters had been peeled back on one of the few unshattered shop fronts. Scott reached for Alan's wrist, motioning to the torch function on his console. Alan crouched down, unwilling to put his back to the street but trusting Scott to watch out for him, and illuminated the space. Old footsteps broke lines in the ash. Shards of glass smothered the floor. There was precious little of use but there, at the back of the drinks cabinet, were unopened bottles of water.

Alan gave a small smile. "Jackpot."

The bottles were warm – electricity had long since failed in this part of the city and probably across much of the world – but the seals were unbroken. A discarded rucksack lay under a thick fur coat of dust. Scott shook it out, brushed flakes of dried blood off the straps, and stashed the bottles in it, looping it over his shoulder.

Alan was investigating a broken cabinet of various snacks. It was encased in mould and was only edible for rats. He nudged a crumpled packet of what had once been bread with his boot and grimaced, yanking his suit higher to cover his mouth and nose in a feeble attempt to hide from the smell. Scott checked out the rest of the store for anything else of use, added a couple of bottles of Coke and a flashlight to his bag, and motioned to Alan.

"Check for batteries."

Alan gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared around the end of the shelving unit on light feet, steps barely audible even in heavy-soled boots. Scott crept closer to the front of the store, pressed so close to the shutter that he could feel the cold metal even through the layers of his wet suit. The street remained abandoned. He sensed Alan approach and didn't jump when his brother silently tapped his wrist in greeting before stowing batteries in the rucksack. They waited a heartbeat longer but the shadows remained in their corners, so they slipped back into the night and continued down the lonely road.

There may not have been any sightings of the infected, but there were signs of them everywhere. All over the city were the remains of their feasts, trails of gore and violence and burnt-out husks of vehicles and buildings. One of the sidewalks was littered with empty gun shells. A trace of tacky green oozed from a scorched car. Scott caught Alan's hand and tugged his brother down a different road, as far away from the parasite as they could get.

It was well after midnight when Scott accepted they couldn't keep going. Alan hadn't complained yet, but he was following Scott blindly, not checking for any danger himself, and it would be all too easy for a sudden sneak attack from the shadows to snatch him away before Scott could react. He slowed to a halt in the light of one of the few streetlamps still lit up – solar-powered and running entirely on its own circuit. Alan collided with Scott's back, too out of it to register anything.

"Why did you stop?" He signed, cutting himself off as he lifted a hand to conceal a yawn. In the dim glow, his features were just about visible – eyes bloodshot, earlier's injuries blossoming in all their vengeance, dark bruising wrapping around his throat in the perfect shape of a handprint. Scott silently wished that he'd stabbed the Hood while he'd had the chance.

"We both need some sleep," he said instead, filing all murderous thoughts away for later. "I want to take a look at that bruising too."

Alan flinched instinctively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," Scott agreed quietly, certain that he'd just seen movement out of the corner of his eye but unable to pin it down. He turned back to Alan. "But all the same, we need rest." He lifted his voice into the realm of teasing in the hopes of invoking a smile from his brother. "I'm tired, even if you're not. That's what you get for being a nocturnal gamer."

"I'm not nocturnal."

"Neither am I," Scott retorted. "That's the problem." He directed the flashlight onto one of the more decent-looking houses towards the end of the road. It had survived the riots intact and didn't appear to have undergone any infected-related redecorating. "What d'you reckon, Al?"

Alan hid another yawn in his sleeve. "It's not a five-star hotel, but it'll do."

Scott sat Alan on the porch with the rucksack and the knife while he scouted out the house. There were no signs of forced entry anywhere and all the windows were intact. He rubbed a porthole in the grime clinging to the glass and peered inside. Everything appeared untouched, as if the entire house had become stuck in time. He returned to the porch and took the knife back from Alan.

"Looks like we're in luck," he explained as he set about picking the lock. "There might even be supplies we can use. Medicine and food etc."

Alan scrambled to his feet and stared as the lock clicked. The door swung open. Scott caught it before the hinges could squeal and bring every infected in the area running. He caught Alan's astonished look and frowned.

"What?"

Alan gestured wildly at the door. "Since when can you do that?"

"Do what?" Scott tucked the knife back into his pocket. "Oh, pick locks?" He winked. "Old trick. Don't tell Grandma."

Alan's eyes grew wide. "Badass."


Scott barricaded the downstairs windows with chairs from the kitchen and pushed a bookcase in front of the door for good measure. He searched the second floor twice to ease his paranoia, even double-checking closets and under beds, before finally allowing himself to relax. The house was safe, and nothing was getting in without enough effort and noise to wake him first.

He tried the tap in the bathroom, expectations low, and was pleasantly surprised. Fate had smiled on them a second time it seemed. That put him on edge – the universe was never this kind to him. Something awful had to be just around the corner. But for now – well, he was willing to make the best of things. He tracked down some fresh towels and coaxed Alan into taking a shower.

"My suit's still soaked," Alan pointed out, already peeling off the top layer. It prised away from his skin with a strange sucking sound as if it had glued itself to his body like an octopus. He rubbed a forming bruise on his chest, gaze clouded with memory.

Scott cleared his throat. Alan looked up.

"I'll find you something to wear. Your suit can dry off overnight. I'll hang it over a chair or something to air."

Alan offered a tiny smile. "Thanks."

The house had clearly once belonged to a family. Scott wandered into one of the bedrooms. Based off the photographs and awards stapled to the walls, he gathered the room had belonged to a boy probably around Alan's age – another stroke of good luck… suspicious. He eyed the ceiling as though the universe were about to manifest there and explain itself. All he saw was plain paint. He raked a hand through his hair, stifled another yawn, and hunted through the closet, coming up with sweatpants and a hoodie that looked around the right size. The shower was still running so he knocked briefly, pried the door open a crack, and slid the clothes inside before heading downstairs.

The fridge had been out for weeks. He raided the cupboards and discovered a collection of tins and jars and long-life goods. There were boxed foods and sachets that needing mixing with water, including Jello. He made up a bowl and left it to set, figuring that it would go down easily with a bruised throat. He wasn't expecting Alan to be able to choke down any of the tinned supplies but Jello and mashed up fruit which he'd found in a jar? That could work. It would be better than nothing at any rate.

He scoured a few more cupboards – and came up with painkillers, cream that purported to reduce swelling, and a couple of spare toothbrushes still in packets – before retreating to the main bedroom where he sank onto the edge of the mattress and buried his head in his hands.

He couldn't allow himself to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking was – Alan almost died, the Hood is alive, Alan isn't immune but he's in a city full of these things, there are bunkers somewhere, limited supplies, no contact with Thunderbird Five, Penelope and Parker are stuck on that satellite, everything needs to stop – very dangerous.

A distant bird squawked. Scott flopped onto his back and let the mattress embrace him.

Oh god, he thought with a trace of hysteria, I'm back on Earth. He clasped a hand over his mouth as a strange fluttering in his chest threatened to emerge as laughter or tears when neither was welcome. I'm on Earth. The thought sort of buzzed, repeating over and over. He draped an arm over his face. I'm on Earth.

Or, more to the point: I'm back in Hell.


Anxiety wouldn't let him sleep, but sheer exhaustion had him drifting into a strange half-conscious state where he wasn't fully awake but wasn't asleep either. He was vaguely aware of the bathroom door creaking open and feet pattering along the landing. Heels brushed against carpet, the steps uncertain as they faded to a halt by the bedside. A hand prodded his shoulder tentatively.

"Scotty?" Alan whispered – attempted to whisper. It came out as a raw croak, scraping bruised vocal chords, and he clamped his mouth shut, eyes watering. Scott sat up and fixed his sights on his little brother so that Alan could return to signing. "What do I do with this?"

The zombie-rated suit dangled from his arms, draped over his wrists, dripping onto the carpet in a steady drumbeat. Scott took it from him and made the trek downstairs where he draped it over one of the chairs. It was a warm night and there was a pleasant airflow drifting through the house, so he doubted it would take too long to dry out. He turned back. Alan was hovering in the doorway, arms wrapped around himself, hair still dark with water and jaw tense with pain. The sweatpants were too long so he'd rolled them up at the ankles. The hoodie sleeves tucked over his hands. He was chewing on a drawstring, eyes watery and bloodshot as he watched Scott, young and fearful and seeking assurance.

Scott led the way into the kitchen. "Here." He set a bottle of water down on the tabletop alongside a crushed tablet and mixed the two together in a glass.

Alan peered at the powder dubiously. "What is it?"

"Painkillers. I figured it would be easier to take them like this." He tousled Alan's hair, amused at the way it was already drying in curls in the humid atmosphere. "I'm gonna take a quick shower, then we'll eat, alright?"

Alan nodded, focussed on the glass, steeling himself for the overly chemical tang of the pain-meds. Scott left him to it.

There were a pair of jeans he'd found that fitted him alongside a clean t-shirt which he took into the bathroom with him. It was steamy and he couldn't make out his reflection in the mirror – a small mercy.

He practically had to peel the suit off – it had fused to his skin from dried saltwater and blood and there was no saving it, but he made sure to retrieve the cufflinks before tossing the ruined clothes into a corner. His shower was brief. Tiny abrasions that he hadn't previously noticed stung under the fine spray. He scrubbed salt from his hair and scratched sand from his skin, inhaling the fresh smell of clean soap. Water drummed against his skull and drowned his thoughts. He leant back against cold tiles and pressed his hands to his face, closing his eyes, reminding himself how to breathe.

He had no idea how to do this. Any of it. It was all… so much. A crushing pressure as though someone had dialled up gravity ten times beyond its usual measures. He'd grown used to being safe. Returning to Earth… yes, he'd planned on it, but not like this. This was practically a death sentence. He remembered how Five's scanners had struggled to pick up life signs through all the interference. He knew the radio links were too weak to connect from down here. It would have been bad enough on his own, but he had Alan with him, and that upped the stakes astronomically.

Fuck.

He should never have let Alan fly Three. He should have flown himself, insisted his brother remain on Five. He should have trusted his instincts, too. He should have done anything – everything – better. He couldn't afford to keep making this many mistakes. Mistakes got people killed. Screwing up his own chances of survival was one thing – putting his family at risk? That was unacceptable. That was an entirely different form of Hell.

There were too many thoughts. Almost tangible. Fizzing under his skin like some sort of acidic popping candy. He gripped a wrist and squeezed until he could feel his pulse fluttering like a nervous butterfly under his fingertips. Thoughts swirled. So many. All mixed up. Like the winds of a hurricane colliding, too confusing, moving too fast for him to latch onto any single one so that all he could was bow down in the face of chaos and pray for it to grow quiet.

He reached out, blind in the torrent of water, and fumbled until the shower cut out. In the sudden silence, his own heartbeat was a thunderclap. He tipped forwards to press his forehead against the tiles and watched water droplets drip from his sodden hair onto the floor, spiralling away down the drain. There were still traces of sand between his toes. He sucked in a breath, held it, and let it go in a rush.

"I can still fix this," he whispered aloud. His breath ghosted the tiles. He reached for a towel and stepped out onto the mat of a stranger's bathroom in a stranger's house in a stranger's city and tried not to think. The towel was strangely soft and gentle, and he rubbed it vigorously over his skin until he was flushed and red and the sting anchored him to reality. A tiny voice of unease cried out somewhere in the back of his mind. He silenced it. He was fine. He was in control. That was all that mattered. Consequences could be handled later.

The jeans itched. They were unfamiliar and there was an old travel pass in the back pocket. Scott reached for the shirt and dragged a hand across the mirror before he could talk himself out of it. His reflection seemed just as much a stranger as the family in the photographs around the house. He brushed the heavy bruising on his face and observed his mirror-self copy the action. He could barely feel the ache anymore. The fabric of the shirt got caught up and he turned away from the mirror to focus on tugging it over his head. His hair left a damp patch on the back. He shivered faintly, the phantom chill of the ocean still clinging to his bones.

Alan was half-asleep in the kitchen, feet drawn up onto the chair, head resting in his folded arms on the table. The glass of dissolved medicine was empty. Scott moved it to the sink, replaced it with fresh water, and checked on the Jello. It was mostly set so he tracked down a spoon and another bowl, added some of the fruit, and slid it under Alan's nose.

"Allie. C'mon, naptime's over."

Alan yawned himself awake. "Jello?" he identified.

Scott slid into the chair opposite, poking dubiously at the leftover fruit he'd saved for himself with a fork. It wasn't the most appetising meal on the planet, he had to admit.

"Jello," he agreed with a forced smile. "Eat up, then you can crash in a proper bed."

Alan took a tentative bite of the food. "Bed sounds good."

The spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Scott tried not to cringe. He pillowed his chin on a palm and closed his eyes, listening intently to the street outside. There was the distant scratching of some sort of animal – too small to be anything untoward – probably a stray cat. He opened his eyes to see Alan waving a hand in front of him.

"What?"

Alan frowned. "Have you eaten enough?"

"You don't get to mother-hen me," Scott informed him. "That's a serious case of role reversal that I am not down for." He reached over to tap the rim of Alan's bowl. "How is it?"

Alan prodded the Jello. "Good. Just hurts to swallow." He tightened his grip on the spoon, repressing an involuntary shudder at the memory. "Pain-meds helped."

"Good." Scott observed Alan do that strange little head tilt again, ever-so-slightly, as if trying to shake free an ill-fitting hat. "What's wrong with your ears?"

Alan blinked. "Nothing. What are you on about?"

"You keep shaking your head, so either your sense of balance is seriously kaput, or your hearing is bothering you. Which is it?"

Alan slid down in his chair, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"I can't hear properly," he admitted at last. "My ears keep ringing. It's not…" He looked up sharply. "Don't freak out. I can hear, it's just ringing constantly. I think it's easing up a bit. I'll probably be fine by morning." He flicked a bit of fruit at Scott with a grin. "I'm fine, really. It's already getting better." He pushed back his chair and wobbled a little on shaky legs. "Can we sleep now?"

Scott, reluctantly, let the matter drop for now. If Alan's hearing was still bothering him in the morning then they'd reassess. As it was, Scott simply let him go.

"Go on. I'll join you in a minute."

Alan took the glass of water with him. Scott could hear his footsteps before the distant squeak of a mattress sounded and a thin beam of light was thrown from the bedroom down the stairs. He cleared the table, leaving the bowls in the sink, and paused by Alan's drying suit, activating the wrist-console. Even without access to Five's systems, it stored basic medical information.

He sat on the edge of the table, scrolling through the data. Ringing ears was a common consequence of strangulation, it transpired, and the effect would probably wear off before too long. Scott let the suit fall back over the chair, muffling a weary sigh in his hands. His anxiety was still on red alert. Logic stated that Alan would be fine, but his subconscious mind hadn't received the message yet. He doubted he'd get much sleep.

Alan was already asleep by the time Scott made it upstairs. The kid was sprawled on his front, one foot stuck over the edge of the bed, a pillow clasped to his chest and his hair an unruly mess of curls. One fist was tucked close to his throat in a subconscious attempt to defend himself against any further threats.

Scott kept as quiet as possible so as not to wake his brother as he struggled out of the jeans and folded them over the door. The ever-present restlessness was shifting under his skin, so he paced silently back and forth until the carpet burnt his feet. Alan rolled over, mumbling sleep talk. Scott drew the duvet higher and tucked it around the kid's shoulders. Alan buried his face in the pillows with another sleepy murmur but showed no signs of waking.

The street outside flickered in and out of sight as a feeble streetlamp struggled to keep the light on. A shadow flitted over the tarmac. The distant mew of a cat seemed as loud as a lion in the still air. Night seemed to last an infinity. Scott pressed a hand to the glass and studied the stars as they drifted into sight through cloud-studded skies. A familiar bright dot passed overhead. He closed his eyes, hoping beyond all possibility that that light had seen them, despite knowing that Thunderbird Five was as good as blind for the foreseeable future. He clenched a hand into a fist and observed the welts over his wrists, still weeping with rope burn despite the patch-up job he'd done on them.

"Scott?" Alan's whisper broke through the night haze. Scott twisted to glimpse his brother, propped up on one elbow, blinking owlishly in the dim light. The word obviously stung to speak, and Alan took a sip of water before continuing. "Sleep." He patted the bed and tilted his head, searching for some unknown quantity that Scott didn't know to provide. In the end he settled for signing, "Please?"

Scott slid under the duvet next to him. "Go to sleep, Al," he murmured.

Alan rolled over, shuffling just high enough to rest his head on Scott's shoulder. He reached up blindly, fumbling until he patted Scott's hair. "Night."

Scott listened for the threats, for the monsters under the bed, and came up empty-handed. Reluctantly, he let himself give into the taunts of sleep.

"Night." His whisper remained the loudest thing in the room and carried him all the way into the realms of dreams and nightmares and everything his conscious mind feared.


Review?

Kat x