I'm sorry in advance. That's all I'm saying.
Medical examinations were followed by quarantine, which wasn't nearly as bad as Scott had been expecting. They were left alone in the interrogation room for a further fifteen minutes during which Virgil attempted to assess John's condition without the help of any of their usual tech, while Alan kept an eye on that third figure behind the two-way mirror who was still observing them.
"Are they GDF?" John queried, swatting Virgil's hands away. "Or another medical unit?"
Alan knitted his fingers together, dodging the question. For some reason, he seemed uneasy about the agent's identity, or perhaps the contacts were finally taking their toll. Neurological links were complicated and usually took a fortnight to fully adjust. Alan had been thrown in the deep end and Scott was as happy about it as Virgil was about John's condition – in other words, pretty dang concerned.
"GDF agent," Alan answered at last, sprawled flat on his stomach across the floor, chin propped in his hands and eyes half-lidded as he attempted to stay awake. Adrenaline was being to ebb, and the crash was not welcome. He twirled a hand vaguely in John's direction. "Just keeping an eye so we don't try anything dumb, I guess."
They were eventually joined by two new agents who led them to an elevator. Alan – never the biggest fan of elevators and even less so in a ratty metal contraption which appeared to shudder and shake, jolting up each rung as if it were about to plunge into hell at any second – pressed himself to the wall, eyes screwed shut. Virgil put an arm around his shoulders. Scott kept his focus split evenly between their GDF companions and John – who had seriously missed his calling in the acting profession based off his current performance.
The elevator stopped approximately five levels up. The corridor was long, lined with numbered doors – heavy, metal, air-tight, with deadbolts which could only be opened from the outside. Hell no. Scott didn't realise his steps had come to a halt until one of the guards nervously tapped him on the shoulder – better than pressing a gun to the small of his back like earlier's agent had done.
"Keep moving. Your room is down the end. Fifteen-A. Quarantine is typically twenty-four hours, unless you exhibit symptoms, at which point it can be extended to seventy-two hours. If you need anything, there's a comm inside. We'll deliver food and water too."
Scott was still caught up on the goddam deadbolts. He didn't need his instincts screaming at him to know how sketchy it all was. He understood the logic behind it but being trapped was not his idea of a fun time. Suddenly the idea of being prisoners here seemed a lot more plausible. He dragged his heels a little to delay being locked away. John was too out of it to be worth consulting, focussed entirely on putting one foot in front of the other, so Scott fell into step at Virgil's side, close enough to be able to play off his taps against his brother's wrist as accidental.
It took Virgil a moment to notice the pattern and a second longer to translate the morse code. His reply didn't take long at all. W.E. D.O.N.T H.A.V.E. A. C.H.O.I.C.E
Strictly speaking, not true – these guards were armed but weren't on edge and Scott was willing to bet he could get his hands on their weapons and turn the tables without too much trouble. Alan appeared to have enough control over the contacts to infiltrate the security system, possibly even get them back to Two. But then there was the problem of Gordon's whereabouts and the part where John looked as if a slight breeze would knock him off his feet.
Virgil read the thoughts off his face. G.O. A.L.O.N.G. W.I.T.H. I.T. He knocked their shoulders together with a reassuring look. O.N.L.Y. T.W.E.N.T.Y. F.O.U.R. H.O.U.R.S.
Fuck that. Scott didn't care if it was only two hours, he couldn't stand the idea of being trapped. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt thank-you-very-much, and it still haunted his nightmares. It was a thing. He didn't like being out of control in general, let alone being locked behind an air-tight door deep below ground with no way out. His skin was crawling. That tightness in his chest was back. He wiped sweaty palms against his trousers and inhaled deeply. This was fine. He could totally do this. Not a problem, no sir.
Virgil caught his wrist and squeezed for a split-second. Aka, you good?
Scott forced the anxiety back into its box. Repress. Assess. Yeah, he could do this. He tapped Y.E.S. and watched Virgil relax slightly.
Their allocated room was larger than he'd anticipated. The lighting was that same sickly yellow as everywhere else in the lower levels of the bunker, but there was a tiny en-suite attached – no shower, but a toilet and sink with proper soap and thank God, toilet paper because that stuff was like gold dust nowadays – and there were a set of four bunkbeds. The mattresses were thin and uncomfortable, the sheets were itchy and the top bunk creaked suspiciously when Alan squirreled his way up the ladder and bellyflopped across it, but it wasn't terrible. It was acceptable. Not exactly good, but… you know. Liveable. Scott could tolerate it without losing his mind completely, just so long as he didn't concentrate on the sound of the deadbolts sliding into place.
According to Alan, there were no cameras or any monitoring equipment within the room. They'd finally been allowed some privacy. Of course, it was plausible that the GDF had developed tech which could evade the scans sent out by the contacts, but what was the likelihood? Sometimes you had to hope for the best because believing the worst would shatter you.
There was a grate on the top half of the door which could be covered with a shutter or opened completely in order to deliver supplies such as food or drinks or toiletries. At current it was slid shut, leaving them entirely cut off from the outside world. It was both a blessing and a curse: it allowed John the chance to let the mask drop while Virgil slipped into medic mode, but it also reinforced that sense of being trapped. Scott dropped onto the bottom bunk and leant back on his hands. Just keep breathing.
"Twenty-four hours isn't too bad," Alan mused, sticking a foot between the railings of his bunk. His boots were already discarded across the floor, one by the door and the other on its side at the base of the ladder – eternally untidy, even during the apocalypse. "Do you think we could ask for a TV? Or a projector? Something to watch Netflix on."
"Al," John ground out through gritted teeth, trying to force a smile but too lost in the sheer shittyness of his health for it to bear much weight. "I really don't think Netflix is online anymore."
Alan stuck his head over the railing. "Dude. Don't depress me." He slid down the ladder, landing with a muted thud, socks sliding down his ankles where they were slightly too big. His eyes were somewhat bloodshot, a painful contrast against the green. "Can I take these out for a while? They're kinda screwing with my balance."
John didn't answer. Virgil was running through mental checklists.
Scott lifted a hand in acknowledgement as Alan hesitated in the doorway to the en-suite. "Go ahead. I don't think we're expecting visitors."
"Man, really? I never would've guessed," Alan called over his shoulder, hooking a foot around the door to pull it shut behind him.
As soon as the latch clicked, the mood in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop. On the opposite bunk, the mattress squeaked in protest as John gave up on fighting gravity and curled up on his side. Virgil caught John's wrist, trying to count his pulse.
Scott moved to join them, crouching at the bedside. "What can I do?"
"Teleport over to Two and grab the meds?" Virgil shot back, voice laced with sarcasm. Scott knew better than to take it personally. "I don't know. We can't ask for anything without the GDF getting suspicious." He frowned, adjusting his hold on John's wrist. "Why'd your heartrate jump?"
"Room's spinning. Thought I was gonna… yep, shit- anyone got a bucket?"
There was that saying, wasn't there? It gets worse before it gets better. But come on, this was just one thing after another. The blows just kept coming. Being dealt a few shitty cards by life sucked but hey, everyone experienced that at some point in their life. But this? This was beyond a joke. This was- There weren't the words. And the worst part? Scott was utterly powerless. It wasn't a feeling he cared for.
Time became an illusion. The room was small and with only four whitewashed walls with suspicious stains in the top right corner to look at, the mind started playing tricks. Alan rolled into his top bunk and finally managed to get reasonably comfortable, only to wake up shivering an hour later as the aircon began to malfunction. He scrambled upright, trying to catch his breath, still being plagued by that wracking cough he'd picked up at some point between the coast and the ranch, presumably from all the dust he'd inhaled. It sounded painful – sort of rasping and raw – and Scott left Virgil with John while he moved to sit with his youngest brother.
"Is that getting worse?" he asked quietly, once Alan had caught his breath, slightly shaky from the force of the coughing fit.
Alan shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe a little." He slumped against Scott's side, gaze fixed on John and Virgil below. "Is John…?"
"He needs some more meds, but he'll be alright."
Alan didn't call him out on the lie.
An hour later, there came a knock at the door. Scott catapulted himself over the railing, not bothering with the ladder – and immediately regretted this as his knee reminded him of the perpetual weakness in the joint – motioning for Alan to stay back when the kid lifted his head with a questioning mumble. Virgil, sat on the floor by John's side, glanced up sharply. John himself was – mercifully – asleep for once, although it could hardly be called a restful state, not with the way fever held him in his clutches, luring demons from memories which had been carefully locked away for a reason.
That metal slide covering the slot in the door withdrew with an ugly screech. The woman on the other side – GDF gear but standard issue, not the high-level biohazard suits that the agents in the lower levels had been dressed in – greeted Scott with a friendly smile. She certainly seemed pleasant enough – mid-thirties, blonde, a fine scar running over the bridge of her nose – and either hadn't been informed of their identities or simply didn't care.
"Sorry about the delay," she announced cheerfully. "I've brought food and water. Oh, and don't tell anyone, but I snuck you a few painkillers. I know the lights down here always give me a headache."
"You're a lifesaver," Virgil proclaimed, entirely genuine, clambering to his feet to join Scott at the door. He directed a blinding smile at the woman. "Thank you."
And hello Tracy charm. Virgil didn't even realise the effect he was having. The woman ducked her head, a faint blush ghosting her neck. Scott was hard-pressed not to laugh, because sorry honey, you're barking up the wrong tree with that one.
With the supplies carefully transported through the hatch and stowed on Scott's bunk for temporary storage, the slot was once again sealed. Alan stifled a cough in the crook of his elbow, eyeing one of the water bottles as if it were a miracle cure. Scott passed one up to him and then focussed on the immediate problem at hand.
"Will painkillers help?"
Virgil examined the box. "It'll make him more comfortable. Might help a little with the fever. My main concern is getting him hydrated, so if these ease the nausea enough for him to have a drink and actually keep it down, then that's a win in my book."
Alan worried the edge of the blanket draped around his shoulders. He was sat criss-cross-applesauce, still bleary-eyed from sleep and hair sticking on end as if he'd run through a hedge backwards, gaze fixed on John. He chewed a raw thumbnail, anxiety stark on his pale features.
"Can I help?"
Virgil tore open the painkillers. "Not really." He cast an assessing look over the supplies. "Eat something. Make sure you drink at least one full bottle." He popped two of the pills out of their packet and held them up to Alan. "Take those and let me know if that headache of yours starts threatening migraine territory."
Alan blinked. "How do you always know?"
Virgil lowered the painkillers to flash him a grin. "Magic."
Or, in other words, he was just that observant. It wasn't too difficult to notice the tell-tale signs now that Scott had been alerted to them. The squinting, the slight flinch whenever the light flickered, hunched shoulders, short, sharp movements, rigid with tension, clenched jaw and the slight tremble of fingers as they knotted the edge of the blanket – all classic symptoms. He silently cursed himself for not noticing before. He passed up a bottle of water and set about examining their supplies until he found a bread roll and some strange substitute for butter. Alan devoured the food like a starving animal, not caring about getting crumbs on the sheets whereas he usually would have cringed and brushed them all away until there wasn't even a trace left behind.
Painkillers always knocked Alan out. Sure enough, within a matter of minutes, the kid was conked out, flaked across the mattress with the blanket tangled around his ankles. Scott tugged it free, smoothed it out, and tucked it back over his brother. Alan opened his eyes a slither, peering at him with an unspoken question, and Scott shook his head.
"Go to sleep. We've got everything under control."
That was a bold-faced lie. Behind him, Virgil was on the verge of minor panic. But Alan didn't need to know about that. The kid had enough on his plate already, even when it came to sleeping because whispers in the throes of nightmares had revealed thoughts of that corpse they'd discovered in the house, of the infected, of radiation poisoning them from the inside out, of everything impossible made real until even the light-hearted moments in life were tainted with fear. So no, Scott wasn't going to let on just how dire their current situation was. He carded a hand through Alan's hair until he was certain his brother was fully asleep, then ducked down next to Virgil.
John's fever was spiking again. In hindsight, this had been inevitable, given everything they'd gone through in the past few days. He'd been pushing his luck big time and now it was finally catching up with him, which would have been bad enough had they had access to Two's med-bay, only they didn't, and all they had available were some measly paracetamols. Not that Virgil was having much luck coaxing John to take even those. The fever had blended nightmares with reality and telling which was the truth and which was a mind-trick had become impossible.
Virgil had gotten so far as getting him sitting up. Perhaps that was kind phrasing – they were sat on the bed and Virgil was the only thing keeping his brother upright. John was point-blank refusing to take the pills, shivering and shaking so violently that his teeth were chattering, fever chills sinking their claws into him. He dropped his head onto Virgil's shoulder, instinctively seeking warmth despite the fact his core temperature was through the roof.
"Update?" Scott requested quietly, sinking onto the bed on John's other side.
He could feel the heat radiating off his brother in waves, worse even than that night on board Five. For the first time, he felt horror begin to rise that maybe this wasn't going to end well, especially when he glimpsed Virgil's slightly panicked expression, because Virgil just didn't panic, not when it came to medical situations. He was IR's Field Medic – panicking wasn't in the job description. So for him to be openly showing as much – yeah, Scott felt he was well within his rights to begin freaking the fuck out.
Virgil clamped a hand to John's bicep. "I don't know what he's seeing right now, but it sure as hell isn't us."
Which-
Hell.
Scott was no stranger to that thousand-yard stare, but he was never supposed to see it on John. He swallowed down nausea and grounded himself in the present. Okay. Think. He shifted slightly to place himself with John's line of sight. Virgil carefully extracted himself from John's limpet grip, openly surprised when John immediately latched onto Scott instead, because this was unheard of. John didn't always mind physical contact but he sure as hell didn't openly seek it. Then again, he'd never admitted to needing comfort before either, with a couple of obvious exceptions. It knocked alarm bells ringing.
"John?" Scott let his brother grab his hand. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
He sent a startled look Virgil's way as he felt John's pulse against his skin – rapid, uneven and noticeably weaker than usual. Virgil mirrored that same horror back at him. John simply collapsed entirely against Scott's side, knocking his chin painfully against Scott's shoulder, gaze unfocussed and fixed on something no one else could see. Scott cautiously lifted his other hand, hesitating as he waited for John to flinch or perhaps even lash out, but his brother remained motionless, so he continued until he could smooth sweaty hair back from John's forehead. Something in his heart physically hurt when John leant into the touch.
Virgil observed with sudden interest. "You might have better luck."
"Come again?"
"He's responding to you."
"He's completely outta it, Virgil."
"I know, but he's still… Instinctively, he trusts you." That packet of painkillers sat in the space between them. Virgil reached out to nudge it closer. "Give it a go," he urged. "We don't have anything to lose. If it doesn't work, we'll just have to rethink."
Scott tipped two painkillers into his hand. They looked innocent, perfectly innocuous, but that was only to his eyes. He had no idea what John was seeing.
"Give me the water," he whispered, noting the way John kept flinching at every noise. "I've got another idea."
He crushed the pills as best he could, tipping the powder into the bottle. Virgil tipped forwards to rest his head against the bed with a heavy sigh.
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're tired and stressed as hell."
John jolted away from the water as if Scott had offered him cyanide. It took a great deal of encouragement and gentle reassurance to coax him into taking a sip, and then another, until finally he drained the entire thing. Scott held him upright and tried to keep the panic locked away. He'd never seen John this ill, which was saying a lot. Even during October, it had never been like this. He didn't know how to help.
Virgil shuffled to sit against the wall, silently counting down the minutes until the painkillers should start taking effect. Alan rolled onto his side, faintly snoring into the bundled thermal he was using as a second pillow.
Scott knocked his head against the wooden strut supporting the upper bunk. Pain pooled around the base of his skull from the impact. He focussed on it like an anchor, connecting him to the present so that he couldn't get lost in unwelcome thoughts. John pitched away from him to lie back down, curling in on himself like a wounded animal, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. There were fine shivers running the length of his spine. Scott put a hand to his brother's back, between his shoulder blades, ignoring the way his shirt was drenched in sweat. John flinched.
Virgil closed his eyes, unable to watch any longer. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, repressing a yawn, fiddling with the wrapper of a cereal bar they'd been given. Scott knew how he felt – it was difficult to experience hunger in the face of fear.
A few more minutes passed. Scott couldn't tell if the tablets were genuinely having an effect or whether it was simply his own imagination. He lay down, gaze fixed on John as if looking away for even a split-second could tip the scales in the wrong direction. His own heartrate was elevated, eyes burning, and that ever constant anxiety tightly wound in his chest.
The lights dimmed automatically, presumably in accordance with the time above ground. It was easier to breathe in the semi-darkness. He moved closer until he could keep a hand on John's back, monitoring his brother's breathing and finding comfort in each inhale. Exhaustion dragged him into a dazed state, half-conscious, half-not, until he lurched awake again to a faint whimper.
Virgil jolted awake. "Shit. I didn't mean to- How long was I out?"
"About as long as I was." Scott rose onto an elbow, pressing a hand to John's neck to feel for his temperature. The fever was still concerningly high, but it appeared to have fallen ever-so-slightly. He breathed a silent prayer to whoever was listening.
Virgil was watching with wide eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion. "Any change?"
"Not sure, if I'm brutally honest. Maybe a little better but I wouldn't bet my life on it."
There came that strangled cry again, muted, a frightened, primal sound, accompanied by a violent flinch. Scott placed a hand on John's shoulder, but there was no reaction other than curling even tighter in on himself.
"John?" he murmured cautiously.
And then- Undeniable. Painful. Stuttering and quiet, but most definitely a sob.
"Scott," Virgil whispered, sounding lost and frightened.
"Johnny? C'mon, you're okay."
It was like he was speaking in an unknown language. Either that, or John simply wasn't hearing him. Scott wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, tightening his hold when John didn't protest or react other than to twist slightly to bury his face in Scott's shoulder. He was still crying but silently, the sort of frightened tears that came with confusion when everything was just too overwhelming. Scott traced circles across his brother's back.
"You're okay," he murmured, repeating the words over and over when he noticed John relaxing at the sound of his voice. "You're okay, Johnny, I've gotcha."
The fever didn't break. The universe took mercy on them, however, as it didn't rise any further either. Scott drifted into an uneasy sleep for an unknown length of time. When he woke briefly to the sound of voices in the corridor, Alan was still out for the count, Virgil had taken up residence in the other bunk, and John was entirely unresponsive again.
As it turned out, that was better than the alternative.
It was feverish delusions, Scott told himself sternly, and it meant nothing. But when your little brother was convinced he was burning in Hell like he deserved in his own words, it was hard to remain rational.
Virgil, at a complete loss, soaked his shirt under the faucet and used it like a cold compress in a last-ditch attempt to bring down the fever. Scott caught John's hands and kept his brother from lashing out wildly. Virgil flinched at being accused of torturing him but didn't back down. John eventually stopped fighting them, which was arguably worse, because he just lay there, pleading for mercy, apologising over and over for everything, for the satellite, for that bandit. The fever spiked again, bringing fresh sobs and then, when Virgil refreshed the shirt with cold water, a choked scream.
Alan startled awake as if the entire bunker was collapsing around him. He tripped down the ladder, skidding on the split water on the floor, eyes wide and breathing frantic, stumbling over his own words as the scene registered.
"What's wrong with him?" His voice rose to a panicked shout. "Is he dying?"
Instinct – and years of parenting his brother – had Scott wanting to comfort him, because there was no world in which Alan should ever sound that scared, but his priority was John right now, so he trusted Virgil to take the lead on that one. He dunked his hands in the spilt water to cool them and let John seize his wrist, catching his gaze with wide tear-filled eyes, not truly seeing him at all.
"Please."
"John-" Scott began, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Please, please, stop."
And it just kept going. There was no respite. No instances of relief. Just constant pain and panic. At one point Scott caught Virgil's eye and immediately wished he hadn't because he knew Virgil too well, knew what his brother was thinking, and refused to let it become the truth. He's not going to die.
Alan sat as still as a statue on the floor, gaze fixed on John, tapping breathing rhythms against his own knees in an effort to keep from spiralling into a fully-fledged panic attack. Virgil gave up on holding back tears. There was no clock, no way to keep track of time, but it seemed as if they'd been stuck in this hell for years.
The fever delusions died down after several painful hours. Alan drifted off again, exhausted by anxiety, and Virgil couldn't stay awake any longer either. Scott held John close and counted the seconds, just taking one breath after the other, finding a sense of peace in the dark and in the familiarity of John's presence.
The next time John came to, he was still caught up in the fever, unaware of reality but finally able to recognise Scott. The words were a mismatch, a constant confusion of feverish fear and pleas.
"It hurts."
"I know."
"It hurts so bad, please, Scott."
"If I could make it stop, I would." He carded a hand through John's hair, let his brother cling to him like a lifeline. "I wish I could take your place."
"It's never gonna end- I can't- God, please, just make it stop."
"I can't do that."
"Yeah," John gasped out, sorta shaky with tears. "Yeah, you can. You can make it stop. Just- fuck, please, I am begging you, I don't care anymore- just- I can't- if you have to- just kill me, fuck, please, just do it, please-"
Scott choked on his own inhale. "That's not-" His voice broke. "Please stop talking, Johnny, please, don't say that shit."
"You know- I know- there's twenty-five ways to kill someone with just hands- and I- I know you know how to do at least eleven of them and-"
"Stop talking, John."
"I'm begging you- I can't do this, it's too- Please, Scotty, please."
"John. Stop this."
"If you love me, you'll do it."
Scott didn't answer that. He twisted to pin John against his chest and held him tightly while he cussed him out and writhed and finally broke into sobs, and the entire time he didn't let go.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, Johnny."
The sound of deadbolts withdrawing was jarring. Scott lifted his head just enough to glimpse a very familiar figure darting inside and closing the door behind him. Virgil scrambled upright, catching himself against the wall as headrush stole his balance. John was unresponsive again, burning up so that Scott was sweating through his own shirt just from proximity.
"Sorry," Gordon was saying, yanking his GDF mask over his head. "Shit, sorry, I'm sorry, I tried to get here hours ago, but there are eyes and ears everywhere here and it's fucking impossible to sneak around. I've got- Here." He upended his pockets onto the floor, revealing almost the entire contents of what was left in Two's med-bay. "I didn't know what to bring so I grabbed everything. Virg, any of this any good?"
"Gordon," Virgil breathed, dropping to his knees to grab a series of meds. "You're… I love you so much, do you know that?"
Gordon faltered. "I know," he murmured at last. "Even when you're angry 'cos I keep screwing up, I still know. I'm sorry."
Virgil shook his head. "Later. I promise. We'll talk, okay? But later. Right now, I need your help, because if we don't do this quickly…"
Gordon tossed his mask aside and joined him on the floor. "Tell me what to do."
Scott didn't question any of it – Gordon's sudden appearance or the way their brother had somehow snuck supplies into a high-security facility. All that mattered was John. It was easier this time to dose him with the meds – although admittedly most of that was simply because he was too tired to fight them – but they seemed to take an age to kick in.
Alan sat at the bedside with the contacts back in and ran scan after scan, reporting every half-degree his brother's temperature fell. Gordon crawled onto the end of the mattress and gripped John's ankle, looking sick with concern. Virgil joined Scott at the top of the bed. All that was left to do was wait.
The Waiting Game was no stranger to any of them. It never got any easier. If possible, each time seemed worse than the last – it was probably concerning that they had tallied so many hospital stays between them that they could order the visits from acceptable to horrific. This definitely scored on the latter end of the scale. It was made worse by the lack of available information, especially when there were only four off-grey walls to stare at with exactly zero distractions other than the occasional hum of elevator doors echoing along the corridor outside.
"I should have been here." Gordon was almost always the one to break the silence, but never like this. He drew his knees up to his chest like a little kid and hunched over them.
"Technically," Alan began hesitantly, leaning just close enough to bump their shoulders, "technically, you kinda were here."
Gordon looked up sharply, voice edged with a defensive note. "What are you talking about?"
"You were doing your creepy stalker stuff." Alan tilted his head, confused. "Dude. I saw you." He gestured vaguely to his contacts. "You were the third person in the observation room when we were going through medical checks, right? I lost track of you after that, but… you didn't completely ditch us for the super-secret spy life."
And- Huh. That actually explained a lot, including why Alan had been so sketchy about revealing the third agent's identity. Scott tried to catch Virgil's eye, but his brother was still fixated on John's vitals.
"I tried to stick with you guys, but…" Gordon tipped back against the wall, twirling a hand as if anyone could possibly translate that meaning. He tangled his fingers together and cracked his knuckles one by one, a vague glint of amusement in his eyes as Virgil cringed. "I had to take care of some stuff," he finished at last, with a heavy sigh to match, and actually, now that Scott looked at him – properly looked, not just a quick glance – it was easy to see just how exhausted Gordon actually was. Not just tired, but the painful weariness that you couldn't help but empathise with.
"What stuff?" Alan asked, pillowing his chin on the edge of the mattress to peer up at Gordon. The puppy dog look seemed strange in green. "Don't try to be mysterious – that's Kayo's thing. C'mon, tell me already. You know I'll figure it out anyway, so you might as well speed things up."
On an ordinary day in ordinary times in what could've sorta passed for an ordinary life (except that Gordon was both himself and a Tracy and neither of those equalled ordinary at any point in time or reality) Gordon would have played the mystery card, strung Alan along and found some fun in dropping too few hints to reveal the big picture but just enough to be tantalising. But this version of life wasn't ordinary. It wasn't even predictable. It was exhausting and painful and very little else. And so he didn't bother with games, just came out with the truth.
"The GDF gave me equipment to deal with bandits but that wasn't the mission they sent me out there to complete. The weapons I had were to defend myself, not others. There are scouts who go out looking for specific items. I'm one of them. If I came across bandits, I took 'em out as my own personal side mission. The GDF don't know about that."
What the GDF didn't know couldn't hurt them, but if they did happen to find out, Scott was willing to bet that they could hurt Gordon. There had to be a reason why his brother was so jumpy in this place and despite the new information, he was certain they were still only getting half the story. He wanted to dig his heels in, insist on all the details, but stubbornness never worked as a tactic with Gordon. Once again, it came down to a waiting game, which particularly sucked given Scott had never been described as patient at any point in his life, ever.
He closed his eyes to the sounds of quiet murmurs and even breathing, trying to let thoughts drift past without latching onto anything in particular – a meditative state of sorts – when one of those unmentioned but unhidden details occurred to him. He propped himself up on an elbow to examine the floor, to spy those packets of various meds and treatments which were sorted into a vague sense of order across the floor. It matched the recollection of the med-bay inventory which he had in his memory, with the exception of one particular item.
"Hey Gords," he asked casually, as if enquiring after the weather. "Is that everything from Two's med-bay?"
"Yup," Gordon replied without hesitation. He was partway through sliding down the wall to flop along the edge of the mattress, but froze, apparently reading something in Scott's expression. He sat back up, all that tension returning in an instant. "…Why?"
"Absolutely everything?"
"I cleared the drawers, the cupboards, shelves – I'm not the medical man, I didn't know what you'd need."
"Huh."
Gordon narrowed his eyes. "Huh, what, exactly?"
"Just… thinking."
Virgil caught onto Scott's train of thought within ten seconds of examining the floor. "If that's everything, then where's the vaccine?"
Gordon shrugged. "Must've left it behind. Maybe it rolled under a cabinet or something, I dunno."
The thing was, while the words weren't particularly convincing, his body language and facial expressions were. Gordon had missed a trick with not going into the acting world, because he was a fantastic liar. The only person usually capable of calling him out on it was John, whose current state of unconsciousness made this task rather challenging. Had it been down to himself and Virgil, Scott wasn't entirely sure they'd have recognised the lie – hey, Gordon had been insanely stressed recently, it wouldn't be a surprise for him to have missed the tiny vial amid the chaos – but there was a wild card in the room which Gordon hadn't accounted for.
Alan stared at him, then announced in a deadly calm voice, "You're lying."
Gordon tipped sideways and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. "I fucking hate those contacts," he mumbled into the sheet. "It's like having a walking lie detector in the room."
"Yeah, pretty much," Alan agreed without skipping a beat, circling back around to the topic at hand before Gordon could talk his way out of it. "Why are you lying? What's the deal with this vaccine, vial, whatever-the-hell thing? Do the GDF want it?"
"No comment. I plead the fifth."
Alan smacked him on the back just enough to be painful. "Screw you. You don't get to keep secrets anymore. Start talking or I start walking."
Gordon raised his head to shoot him a deadpan stare. "Where're ya gonna go? You're in a locked room, dipshit. Did you learn how to teleport?"
"Gordon," Scott muttered, distracted by the change in John's breathing but trying to keep track of their conversation all the same. "Quit being an asshole."
"Jeezus," Gordon snapped. "Fine, yes, the GDF want the goddam vaccine. What's it to you? It's not a big deal."
He flung out an arm. It wasn't a violent gesture, but it was a sudden, sharp movement, and Alan instinctively flinched.
An icy silence descended.
Gordon bolted upright, searching for words and coming up empty-handed. "Alan." He swallowed, voice choked. "Allie. Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be an asshole. I'm just… I am so, so tired. And I know that's not an excuse but I'm… I'm trying my best here. And yeah, I get it, my best isn't good enough, but it's just- One step at a time, right?" He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhaled shakily. "The more you know, the more danger you're in. I walked in and wouldn't stop asking questions. And it's- I'm sorry. I'm real' fucking sorry."
Alan looked at him for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, he lifted a hand, palm-up, just waiting, a silent offer – perhaps even an olive branch. Gordon shook his head with a damp smile, then reached across and caught his hand. Alan caught his gaze and nodded. Gordon flopped back onto the bed but didn't let go, and they sat there, holding onto one another as if it were the only thing keeping them from falling apart.
