Howdy, this chapter features descriptions of a panic attack, so keep yourself safe :) Also: this is your official invitation to come yell at me in the comments because I suspect many of you will want to by the end.


"Well, I can safely say this is the weirdest family meeting we've ever had."

For someone who'd spent the majority of the return flight stunned into a shocked silence with intermittent murmurs of disbelief/horror, mixed with a dash of self-loathing just for additional flair, Gordon certainly seemed chipper. He stretched his legs across the floor, accidentally kicking Alan's shins in the process, and Virgil had to step in to prevent the pair's squabble turning violent.

"We should hold all family meetings in the bathroom," Gordon continued, ignoring Alan's glower from the opposite side of the room. "It's got a certain…" He flailed a hand, seeking the correct word, glancing to John for help.

"Ambience?" Virgil suggested.

"Yes!"

"Oh my god," John sighed, in that exhausted flavour of exasperation. "Can that shower go any louder? Forget the GDF overhearing, I just want to drown out Gordon's idiocy."

"Ouch," Gordon stage-whispered, and slid down the wall to sprawl across the tiles, one hand clasped to his chest as if he'd been shot. John ignored him, which was probably the safest course of action but wasn't going to get them very far. This was a family meeting for a reason, after all.

Aforementioned family meeting had been unofficially called as soon as they'd all reconvened in the cafeteria following their various days. Virgil had – unsurprisingly – been allocated a role in the medical bay, although he'd been kept well away from anything relating to the parasite or a vaccine or genetic modification experiments. Society may have collapsed, but people were still suffering from everyday health problems. In that regard, Virgil probably had the most rewarding job of all and had relayed various stories from his day over dinner rations, describing different patients from a little girl with asthma to the engineer who clearly hadn't been paying attention to safety regs during welding lessons.

Alan had been late back from class. The tests were 'embarrassingly easy' and he'd been thrown into courses alongside seniors, skipping a grade as he was too far ahead of his actual peers. This was a fact he had been boasting about for the past hour and was determined to rub in Gordon's face for as long as humanly possible. Scott had told him to cut it out at least five times and was beginning to consider the merits of just letting the Terrible Two fight it out.

At least Alan seemed to be calming down, that elated high of being not only the best and brightest but popular too beginning to ebb in the face of the cold dose of reality he'd just been served in the form of remembering exactly why it was necessary to hold a meeting in the goddam bathroom with the shower running in the first place. The bunker was impressive, but the GDF were not their friends, no matter how much shiny lab equipment they offered Virgil or cool lesson plans they waved under Alan's nose.

John's daily events remained a mystery. It was impossible to tell whether this was because he had gone looking for trouble and fallen too far off the deep end or if he was simply trying to maintain an air of mystery to irritate the hell outta everyone. Either option was equally likely. Scott settled for studying his brother's body language and trying to pick out those familiar tells. If all else failed, he'd attempt to interrogate John in the early hours when insomnia held them both captive and boredom made the idea of confessing tempting enough for John to give in.

The shower had varying degrees of pressure. It was currently set at a healthy medium where the thundering water was loud enough to drown out their voices should the room actually be bugged, like Gordon suspected it was, but not so deafening that they wouldn't be able to hear one another. This was helped by the tiny size of the room – they were crammed in like tinned sardines. Even though Virgil was whispering on the opposite side, Scott could hear him as clearly as if they were sat right next to each other.

Of course, this proximity had its downsides too. Fratricide looked to be an ever-tempting option, particularly from John's perspective, as he smacked Gordon's ankles when the family fish attempted to rest his feet in John's lap. Alan sniggered. Virgil closed his eyes, clearly considering why he always ended up in the middle of the youngest pair. Scott was probably having the best time out of anyone, taking comfort in their presence. It was difficult to be dragged into a pit of unwanted memories when he had Alan's bony elbow jabbing into his ribs every five seconds, or John at his side, close enough to bump shoulders, or even Gordon rolling around on the floor as if he'd been electrocuted, drawing more laughter from Alan.

"So," John began cautiously, softly enough to pass as a whisper, so that only Scott could hear him above the water. "Any…" He chose the words carefully. "…issues?"

"Shockingly, no. Nothing I couldn't handle, anyway."

John just looked at him.

Scott frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't try that with me."

"Really, it's nothing. I'm just…" John leant back against the wall. "Just thinking," he finished, with a weary sigh. He offered a tired smile. "Dangerous, huh?" He fiddled with his iD tag, turning it over and over in his hands, carving an orbit around his thumb with the metal pin. "It's not… Look, I'm just worried. Because you seem fine."

"Isn't that the best scenario?"

"You're too fine. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd had an ordinary day. It doesn't seem to have impacted you at all. Which, if that's genuinely the case, then great, that's fantastic, and I'm relieved, but the problem is that I don't believe it. I think you're repressing everything again."

"Pot meet kettle."

"You've got the rest of your life to deal with the consequences, and you know they'll keep coming back to kick your ass unless you confront the main problem."

Scott watched the steam fogging the strange light concealed within the grout between tiles where he suspected a mic was hidden. "I could say the same to you."

"I've got two weeks. You've got years."

"We're not doing this. Not right now. Certainly not here."

John held the iD tag up to the light and watched the reflection carve rainbows through the water vapour in the air. "I'd ask you for one to ten, but I don't think you'd even know the answer."

"Christ, it's not a big deal. Drop it."

John directed the pin at him in warning. "Later. We're talking. You're not getting out of it."

"Whatever."

"I'm serious."

"You always are."

John tucked the pin back into his shirt pocket and clapped his hands to draw attention back to the real reason for this meeting. "This is already going to look incredibly dodgy to whoever's monitoring our rooms, so let's get this over with, shall we? Who's going first? Virg, Alan, I'm guessing neither of you have anything of importance to contribute, so Scott, start talking."

"Thanks, John," Virgil deadpanned. "You really know how to make a guy feel important."

"Your job is irrelevant. Unless you've discovered Jenkins' prescription so I can lace it with cyanide, I don't care. Kids with asthma are sweet, I'm sure, and bumbling idiots burning themselves on hot metal is endlessly entertaining, but it's not useful and we don't have time to keep getting side-tracked. And Alan, I'm very proud that you're a genius but we already knew that. So. Scott?"

Alan blinked owlishly. The contacts were glowing as the lighting was partly obscured by the steam milling around the ceiling. "You have access to cyanide?"

John didn't reply, simply watching Scott expectantly. It dawned on Scott that he probably should have been more concerned by his brother's apparent casual willingness to murder someone, but then again John was unpredictable and had already proven just how far he was prepared to go to protect his family. That knife was still imprinted on Scott's mind and, based off the nightmares he'd pretended not to hear, followed by quick steps and dry heaving over a toilet in the middle of the night, John was still haunted by the memory too.

Gordon gave a meaningful cough.

Scott cleared his throat. "Flight conditions are crap. There's more radiation up there than exists in old uranium mines. In terms of getting the hell outta here, we're going to be cutting it close. We need to leave soon, because if we wait much longer, conditions are going to be too toxic even if we can get access to our old IR gear."

"Well…" Virgil sought the silver lining and came up empty handed. He shook his head. "Shit."

Alan shoved Gordon's legs aside so he could flop down across the tiles. "We've got Two, haven't we? What's the problem? She's shielded."

Virgil made a non-committal sound. "Yes. But only to a certain extent. And we still don't have a clue how we're going to fly her out of here. The GDF aren't going to let us walk away without a fight. We're too useful."

"That's…" Alan propped his chin in his hands and huffed. "That's a bit shit then."

Gordon snorted. "Just a bit." He reached over to flick Scott's knee. "C'mon, Scooter, hit 'em with the big truth bomb." He sprawled on his back with a dark laugh. "Wait 'til you hear this one, guys, it's a real doozy."

Virgil read something in his brother's voice which everyone else missed. He looked up sharply, catching Scott's eye, all traces of good humour evaporating from his tone in an instant.

"What happened?" he demanded, deadly serious, leaving no room for fancy elaborations or deflection.

Scott studied that blinking light behind the tiles for a brief moment. John, an eternal mind-reader, reached across and ramped up the shower setting. The sudden influx of noise was rattling, and it took a moment to collect his thoughts once more. In the brief interlude between thunder and thought there was simply fear – a sharp, violent thing, made of panic and steel - striking deep between his ribs so that his breath caught. Back on track with reality, he pasted the neutral serious expression on his face and pretended the terror wasn't still there, beneath the surface, waiting to strike in the night when he was too tired to keep pretending.

John was watching him with a knowing light in his eyes. He tilted his head, not speaking, but somehow translating everything that needed to be said into a look alone. Oh, you're 'fine' are you?

Fuck you, Scott thought back at him, confident that John would somehow understand. He shifted his attention back to the room, to Alan's confused expression, Gordon's nervous tapping – raw nails leaving tiny smears of blood against white tiles where he'd bitten them down to the beds – and Virgil's apprehensive acceptance.

"The bandits are working for the GDF."

In the brief silence, the shower seemed to stutter. Scott eyed that hidden mic. Alan followed his gaze, eyes flaring vivid green followed by a full-body wince.

Gordon put a hand to his younger brother's shoulder. "Al? You good?"

"Stop trying to run before you can walk," John remarked evenly. "If I thought you could use the contacts to block the bugs, I'd have told you. Now quit trying to be clever and listen before you land yourself with a migraine."

"Better yet," Virgil interjected, "take the damn things out."

Alan pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a growl. "I'm fine." He swiped a hand across his mouth and nose, grimacing, then jolted upright so sharply that he narrowly avoided smashing his head into Gordon's chin.

Gordon scrambled backwards. "Holy hell, Alan. Give a guy some warning, would you?"

Alan was mostly doubled over his knees with painful coughs – raw and wet and sorta grating as if he'd been inhaling sharp grit – but still managed to raise his middle finger. Gordon, mercifully, let it slide, concern taking priority, because he may only have Alan to look out for but that still made him an older brother, complete with all the eagle-eyed instincts, and right now those instincts were blaring warning sirens, just like Scott and John and Virgil's instincts were too.

"That's uh…" Gordon shot a worried glance at Virgil, who mirrored the look back at him. He turned to Alan again, reaching out to place a tentative hand on the kid's shoulder, shuffling closer to loop an arm around Alan's shoulders when the touch wasn't rebuffed. "That's quite a cough you've got there."

Alan took a shuddering breath. "Yeah. Tell me about it."

"How long have you had that?" Virgil asked, and Scott experienced another stab of that underlying panic again because he knew that hidden tone in his brother's voice and if Virgil was not only worried but scared then he probably had a good reason.

"'Bout a week." Alan leant heavily into Gordon's side. "Dunno really. Haven't kept track." He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, still out of breath, eyes watery from the force of coughing. "It started around the time we reached the ranch. Maybe a day before that, I can't remember. Everything's been…" He trailed into a small whisper. "It's been a lot. Anyway. It's just a cough, Virg, I'm good."

Gordon tousled his brother's hair. "What, did you think we were worried or something?" he teased, although the concern hadn't dimmed in his eyes in the slightest, especially when Alan didn't even try to bat him away.

Alan shrugged. "It's whatever."

"Alan," John began, glancing to Scott in question.

Alan shot him a warning glare. "I said it's fine." He forced an overly bright smile, which didn't match his voice, still run ragged from coughs. "Anyway, what were you gonna say about the GDF and the bandits and this entire mess?"

Scott was reluctant to let the matter drop but sometimes Alan put up walls and you wouldn't get anywhere with him. Besides, they did have to wrap up this meeting before they ran out of their water allowance and/or the GDF's suspicion piqued and resulted in a knock on the door. He reluctantly dragged his attention back to the day's revelations but kept an eye on Alan. The kid looked paler than usual, rubbing his chest slightly, curling into Gordon's side as if seeking heat, which made sense given Gordon was like a walking furnace but remained concerning given it was warm in the bathroom to the point where even John was stripped down to a short-sleeved shirt.

"Bandits take supplies from areas scouts can't reach," Scott continued. "And presumably also when they raid survival camps – the GDF believe they have priority over those groups, that they need supplies more urgently because they're not simply surviving here but carrying out research too and so on. Technically, that part's supposition, but this next bit I heard from a guy with fairly high clearance so I'm willing to bet it's genuine. Bandits take infected, the immune, and kids. They chain 'em in set locations for collection. When the GDF arrive, it seems like a rescue rather than a pre-planned event. The infected and immune are used for research. And kids? Without kids, you don't have a future."

Silence was interrupted by the rushing water and Alan's stifled cough in the crook of his elbow which left him faintly shaky. Gordon tugged him closer. Virgil tipped his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling without truly seeing anything.

"It uh…" Gordon studied the floor, that sharp contrast between the dark fabric of Alan's socks versus the overly white tiles. He ducked his head, voice uneven. "It gets worse. I think… It's- Scouts go in. Take supplies. Leave. Bandits run a final sweep of the area once we're out the way. Then air support wipes it off the map. The strikes follow a pattern… I plotted them on a map on the return flight. Radiation kills the parasite, right? So, by nuking a line across the states, you're creating a barrier. It's a fucking stupid idea but apparently the GDF are into that these days. The first known cases over here were on the Mexico border, right? They're blocking off the south. From LA towards the east coast… The infected then flee towards the north, where the cold will slow them enough for the GDF to take 'em out the old-fashioned way."

"That is quite possibly the stupidest idea I have ever heard," John stated simply. "That's some Fischler-level idiocy."

"Do you know what doesn't make sense?" Alan mused. "I thought there was only one original sample. So… did they split into smaller fragments, or does the parasite have a way of reproducing?"

"Thank you for that terrifying thought, Al," Gordon muttered.

"No, no, he's got a point." Virgil sat up, still looking nauseous from everything. "Patient Zero was in India."

"Somewhere in Gujarat," Scott clarified.

"Okay. Well that's one containment breach. But how the fuck did it travel all the way across the ocean to Mexico without any other cases becoming publicly known in the meantime? And then there's the ship, which is another breach."

Gordon was quiet for a moment. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know exactly," Virgil replied, slowly, turning over the thoughts in an attempt to fit them together. "That's the problem. But… Okay, say they split the original specimen into smaller samples to reduce the potency. You've still got the question of how the parasite became active in those different locations at the same time. When the coincidence is that big, I tend to think it's no longer a coincidence."

John landed upon the answer with a start. "Oh, fuck me. You think-"

"That it thinks, communicates, possibly even has some sort of hive mind, yeah, that's exactly what I'm theorizing."

"No wonder the Hood wanted it," Scott realised aloud. "Imagine cracking the hive mind, just how useful that would be to him."

"If the Hood was after the original sample," Alan pointed out, "then wouldn't he know more about it?"

Another pause.

"No. This is a shitty plan." Gordon tossed up his hands. "I know we're all thinking it though."

"The Hood is a maniac," John began. "But… we need answers."

"So even if the GDF complete their batshit plan to create a radiation barrier, it won't stop the damn thing, because it's a hive mind so it can think and evolve simultaneously across the globe." Scott waited for Virgil to disagree, but his brother simply nodded. "Great. Fantastic. This just gets worse. What's the next bombshell? Anyone want to share?"

"I'm outta meds." John caught Scott's hand before Scott had even recognised himself that he was digging his nails into his palms. "Don't freak out. It's fine. It just- Virgil, you've got access, right?"

"They count everything," Virgil admitted.

Alan gestured to his contacts. "I'll edit the records. No biggie."

"Can we-" Gordon didn't wait to finish his sentence, scrambling to his feet and rocketing out of the door as if the bathroom were suddenly caving in. He shook each hand, pacing back-and-forth across the short space between the two bedrooms, alive with nervous energy.

"This is a real shit show," John commented from the doorway.

"Yeah," Scott sighed, grateful for Virgil's reassuring hand on his shoulder. "And somehow we've gotta fix all of it."


The drones were back. Those alien lights spiralled around the cafeteria, slinking into each residential corridor, scouring windows for movement, feeding back every scrap of data from a single curtain twitch to a timid face peering through the glass. The strange hum of their propellers blended with the distant thunder of tests from the engineering bay, reverberating through the vents so that it could be heard even this many floors up.

At first, this was what Scott attributed his sudden awakening to – that constant thrum and the bright lights glaring through the window. He'd always been a light sleeper and the constant anxiety – which had racked up several notches after the day's events and was yet to subside – made it worse, so the theory made sense for roughly five seconds until he was met with the real reason he'd woken up.

Right. Nightmares.

That had been the one benefit of being so stressed for the past twenty-four hours – he'd been so tired that he'd crashed as soon as he'd hit the mattress – apparently that same exhaustion had applied to his subconscious mind too, leaving him mercifully nightmare-free for the first night in as long as he could remember. Unfortunately, this didn't apply to John.

"John," he hissed. There was no immediate reply. He propped himself on an elbow and squinted to spy the opposite bed amid the gloom. John was turned towards the wall, back to the room, making it impossible to gauge his expression. "Johnny."

Virgil's change in breathing pattern proved that he was also now awake. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Fuck."

"Eloquent," Scott shot back, just to be a little shit. He tossed aside his blanket with a heavy sigh and tried not to yelp as his bare feet met cold tiles. "Jeezus. I hate this place." He hopped across the short distance to avoid catching frostbite.

Virgil observed him, still groggy and half-asleep. "You got 'im?"

"Uh huh. Go back to sleep."

"M'kay."

A standard translation meant that Virgil would either actually do as he was told and be out like a light within a few minutes or would stay awake for the rest of the night. Scott wasn't willing to place bets on which way his brother would go. Tonight was proving unpredictable, in nearly every way.

That drone searchlight caught his shadow and flung it across the far wall. Scott flipped it off through the window and hoped thermal imaging would record the gesture and send it straight to Jenkins' desk for a nice awakening come morning. He crouched down at John's bedside, mentally cursing the frozen tiles and also his past self for choosing not to wear socks – and hesitated. Touch wasn't always on the cards, as he'd fast learnt over the past couple of nights.

There was a faint squeak of bedsprings followed by quiet steps. Virgil – having made the smart choice to wear not only socks but also a thermal – hovered at his side.

"Do we wake him up or try to let him ride it out?"

Scott waited. The pained cries which had woken him initially had quietened but that didn't necessarily mean they were out of the woods. He sank onto the floor properly and winced as the cold seeped through his sweats. And then - just as he was beginning to hope the nightmare had fled on its own volition – there it was. Another faint whimper, a little like a wounded animal, which would have been bad enough, but it wasn't merely fearful but tortured.

"Wake him up," he decided aloud, as Virgil drew a sharp breath. "That's- yeah. C'mon, Jay. Bedtime's over."

He reached out just shy of actually touching, trying to assess whether it was on the cards. John curled in on himself with another muffled sound which shifted into a broken sob. Scott threw caution to the wind and placed a hand on his brother's back.

"Johnny. Hey. Wake up." He traced soothing circles and caught John's bicep with his other hand, not too tight as to jolt him awake but firm enough to ease him out of whatever hellscape he was trapped in. "C'mon," he murmured, closing his eyes against the all-too-familiar promise from all those years ago. "Come back to me."

He could pinpoint the exact moment John fully woke up, not quite a jolt but damn near close, followed by a severe flinch and then tensing under Scott's hands.

"Hey," Virgil said softly, taking a step closer to block out the glare from the drones.

Scott retracted his hand. "Back with us?"

John didn't answer. He scrambled upright so violently that he nearly smashed his head against the wall, crumpling over his knees, one hand braced against the mattress. His breathing was still ragged – damp and dangerously close to panic – caught between shaking and shivering as the unnecessarily high air-con kicked in again.

Virgil stepped towards the door. "I'll get you some water."

Thank you, Scott mouthed at him. Virgil shot him a thumbs-up and slipped out of the door, closing it behind him again. There was a distant murmur of voices as he met whoever it was skulking around in the lounge. Faintly, through the wall, there came a pained cough, hastily muffled in a pillow.

"Shit," John muttered, finally lifting his chin. He raked a hand through sweaty hair, still breathing rapidly. "That… shit. Sorry."

"You know damn well not to apologise for this sorta thing."

John shot him a sideways glance. "You need sleep, not to be talking me out of…" He waved a hand vaguely. "Fuck. It's the same dream over and over. You'd think my subconscious would at least come up with fresh material once in a while."

Scott bit back a smile. "Don't make me laugh. It's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"John."

"Do you know-" John announced, shuffling until he hit the wall, folding himself into the corner and tipping his head back to examine the ceiling, ghostly in the searchlights. "-that technically…"

His breath caught in his throat. He curled one hand into a fist and inhaled deeply, voice too shaky and pained to be as emotionless as he was aiming for.

"…Technically, I'm officially a killer now. Legally, I'd be convicted of murder. It's-" He uncurled his fist and examined his hands detachedly. "It's a strange feeling. Not really a feeling at all. It's- I'd do it again, to keep you safe, but I've got to- Consequences. There are always- Every action has its consequences. A price. Guilt's only part of it, right? I can feel guilty as sin for however long I've got left, but it won't make anything right."

Okay. That was- Scott was about as familiar with guilt as John was with stars and yet somehow he still didn't have the right words. He rose to his feet and patted the bed with a questioning glance. John didn't reply but didn't shake his head either, so Scott sat beside him and buried his poor feet under the blanket before he could catch honest-to-god hypothermia. He shuffled a little closer, leaving a fine line of space between them. John didn't close the distance, folding his hands neatly in his lap, trying to remember how to breathe.

Nothing about this was okay. And now, knowing what they did, it was made worse in a way, because people committing evil acts without conscience was one thing, but knowing that the GDF were aiding and abetting – hell, possibly even ordering – said crimes… Those crimes which had backed John into a corner where physical violence was the only way out… Well, that sorta made this the GDF's fault, didn't it? And they'd trusted the GDF. Scott had trusted the GDF – to an extent, anyway.

"You didn't have a choice," he said quietly.

John's laugh was dark and broken, like shattered glass, sharp enough to slice your hands on whilst trying to piece him back together. He wiped a hand across his knees and inspected his sweats as if expecting to spy blood.

"I remember every detail right. How it felt. That his blood was warm on my hands, and it didn't feel wet like water, but more like… fuck, I don't know, thicker, like honey. And when he fell, he tried to grab me, and I don't know if he was going to return the favour or if… if in those final seconds he was just another scared person asking me for comfort."

He curled his hand into a claw, digging through thin fabric into the skin below. Scott caught his wrist and held his hand captive, feeling John's pulse faint but rapid against his palm.

"When we were kids," John whispered, "we used to joke that we'd rule the world. Because I had Space covered and you had the sky and then when Virgil and Gordon came along… we had the land and sea too. And then, obviously, we learnt that ruling the world… no one in their right mind wants that. But that's not- Feeling on top of the world, like nothing can stop you, unbeatable… God, we've been through so much shit and do you know-" Another broken laugh. "-I finally thought we'd made it. We lost too many people too soon, but you and I had TI under control and IR was running smoothly for once. Maybe I jinxed us by thinking that."

"That's illogical. I thought you were all about logic, Spock."

John ignored the joke. Which- Scott repressed a flinch. He squeezed his brother's hand.

The drones melted back into darkness.

"You know," John mused, sorta fondly, twisted with sadness, endless exhaustion weighing the words down, "I used to tell Alan stories when he was little. I don't know if you remember that."

Scott found his voice. "Yeah," he croaked. "I remember."

"Hmm." John closed his eyes against tears. "Once upon a time," he murmured, with a little half-smile which hurt to witness, "there was a kid who dreamt of living amongst the stars. He wanted to be an astronaut. And there were times along the way when he didn't think he'd ever achieve that dream and there were times when his mind was a mess but then he- I made it. And that dream didn't turn out exactly how that kid imagined, but that's okay, because I got to do something so much more worthwhile, and I got to do it with the people I love the most. But then- It all went to shit, seemingly overnight and- It kept getting worse. And now- Now I am everything I never wanted to be and I don't have time to fix any of it, because after everything, all the crap we've been through, getting knocked down and struggling back up over and over, I'm fucking dying and you know what? I am so tired that I don't even know if I'm scared anymore."

"Don't-" His voice cracked. "Don't say that. Please don't say that."

"How'd we end up here, Scott?"

Scott stared at their joined hands until his vision filled with spots. He exhaled slowly.

"I don't know."

"I'm sorry."

"We've been over this."

"No, not for waking you. I mean… yes, but that's not what I'm apologising for."

"Do I want to ask?"

"I'm sorry for not being the person you need."

He willed away nausea. "I've never needed you to be anyone other than yourself."

John gave him a look. "Not this version of myself, I'll bet."

Scott reached for words and realised he didn't have any, or at least none that fit. John gave him a sad smile as if to say, see?

There was another strangled cough from the next room. Quiet conversation in the lounge stuttered. In the dark, Scott was suddenly incredibly conscious of the weight of all that soil above them, bearing down, suffocating – the sky and the stars oh-so-very far away. He closed his eyes and reminded himself how to breathe, one-two-three-four-five, and tried not to focus on the tightness in his chest or the tangled mess of emotions that had him wanting to run as far as possible into the unknown until all that was left was the darkness where he could scream without consequence.

There was a burning fear at the back of his mind. He tilted his head to examine his brother, all sharp edges, ghost-like, gaunt, slumped against the wall as if he didn't have the energy to sit upright any longer, and that fear shifted into a raging inferno, so fierce that it nearly stole his breath away.

"Hey, John," he began slowly, unconsciously clutching John's hand tighter, trying to manipulate each word into something softer but there was no easy way of saying this and he wanted to be sick. "Can you-" He swallowed. His voice sounded strangled. "One to ten?"

For a moment, John didn't react. Then, gently, he tugged his hand free and lay back down, curled against the wall.

"John?" Scott whispered, because he'd been dreading the answer, but a complete lack of response was even scarier.

"Don't ask me that."

"I just-"

John drew the blanket over his head. "Go away, Scott."

"John-"

"Please."

Scott half-crawled off the bed and fled the room on shaky legs. Virgil was on the couch, Gordon at his side, eyes wide and bloodshot in a manner that suggested he hadn't slept a wink. Scott dropped onto the couch next to them, folding himself into the armrest, only registering that he was trembling when Virgil caught his hands in his own and reminded him quietly to take a breath.

Gordon slipped off his end of the couch. "I'll let you guys have one of your spooky psychic conversations. I need to head out now anyway."

Scott glanced to the projected time. "What? Now? Why? It's two in the morning."

"Yeah, well." Gordon shrugged and offered a tired grin. "Duty calls. I've gotta report in ten minutes. Save me some breakfast if I'm not back, yeah?" He pulled on a hoodie, seemingly lost in the oversized fabric, tugging the cuffs over his hands. "I'll see you both later." He ghosted a hand over Virgil's shoulder as he rounded the couch, and tousled Scott's hair on his way past. "Ah, man. It used to be way more fun screwing with your hair when you wore gel." He flipped a salute. "Laters, gators. Love y'all."

Scott wasn't an idiot and neither was Virgil. They both knew Gordon wasn't reporting for scouting duty. The time wasn't necessarily a deciding factor but the lack of GDF gear and the fact he was wearing civvies made it fairly obvious that he wasn't heading out of the bunker any time soon. If Scott had to guess, he'd say Gordon was headed down to the medical wing, possibly to a certain off-limits research unit. On any other day, he'd have been worried. He might even have tailed his brother just to be sure Gordon wasn't putting himself in too much danger. But the past twenty-four hours had been a rollercoaster and he was too tired to even consider moving from the couch, so he simply waved a hand and let Gordon go without protest.

Virgil tipped forwards to lean against his knees, twisting slightly to keep Scott within his sights. Concern was stamped on his face for all to see.

"Are you okay?" he asked cautiously, as if fearing that the slightest wrong move could pitch everything irreversibly off the deep end. The irony was they were already falling, Scott thought to himself, and stamped out a hysterical laugh before it could escape.

"I don't know," he said instead, because he couldn't describe the sheer scale of the overwhelming storm that was infecting every atom of his very being, couldn't voice the way it felt as if he were suffocating in open air, drowning in his own existence. He inhaled sharply. "Everything's-"

He pictured John flinching away from every scrap of kindness, recalled Gordon of all people sounding hopeless, listened to Alan's raw coughs that seemed to be scraping at his very soul, felt Virgil's hand tremble where he was holding Scott's wrist.

"Everything's…?" Virgil prompted gently.

Scott tugged his arm free and slumped against the cushions, grinding his knuckles against his eyes until he could see spots.

"Everything's a lot," he whispered. Not a confession. An observation. But from the look on Virgil's face, his brother was interpreting it differently.

"How are you feeling? In this… this precise moment?"

Scott lowered a hand to look at him. Virgil met his gaze without flinching, fear giving way to determination and love. If the world was burning, Virgil would still stand with him 'til the last ember stopped glowing. It would be an insult to betray that loyalty by lying.

"Like I'm drowning."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Is there anything John usually does?

"I don't know," Scott confessed. He couldn't get John's expression out of his head. He knew that look in brother's eyes, of course he did – he'd seen in the mirror in the past, in the reflection of windows in a therapist's office, in the windscreen of Dad's car and God, no. No, no, no.

"Hey."

Virgil moved to sit in front of him, crouched on the floor, and oh, hey, would ya look at that? Apparently he was doubled over his knees, hands fisted in his hair, pain a distant fog, chest aching while his heart tried to jump through hoops, skipping beats like he had once skipped Spanish class all those years ago. Anxiety was hissing, spitting venom in his veins, and breathing was a concept which belonged to history. He was drowning, or perhaps suffocating, which made sense given all that soil bearing down. The room was out of focus.

Flashes of memory were overlapping with what little he knew of his current reality. Dreams mixing with the waking world, nightmares whispering ideas to the future, the past haunting him, overlaying today's flight with one that had ended in smoke and fire and pain and guilt. This wasn't then. This was now. Perhaps the two weren't inherently separate.

Oh fuck, they weren't-

The past was here again, finally caught up with him, not just a ghost but a real devil right there in the form of his own hands at the controls of a goddam military jet and-

Virgil sounded as if he were underwater but that note of panic was distinct and it struck a chord right through the fog which Scott latched onto because Virgil should never sound that scared. None of his family should. He tried to take a breath, but he couldn't get the air into his lungs and his hands felt slippery – sweat, logic murmured – and he couldn't get them clean again – blood, memory hissed – and was it his own blood or was it from back then, had he never truly escaped that moment, or maybe it was John's because October had felt like the end of all things but now he knew it had only been the opening act.

"Jesus Christ, Scott, what the-"

Voices overlapped. Blurring, like waters, different shades of darkness. John wavered in and out of focus. Scott scrambled off the couch and smacked into the ground, hard, sending a jolt of pain up his spine like a lightning bolt. He splayed one hand against the frozen floor and clawed his chest with the other as if he could physically yank away the tightness holding his lungs shut. Logic was gone.

He'd never felt panic quite like this before, like he was drowning in it, like it was all the world consisted of, as if he were being buried alive and he couldn't stop thinking, as if he were actually back there and he couldn't escape to the present either because that was just as bad. From military to military. From possibly losing John to definitely losing John. From taking Dad's place and fucking it up to once again taking Dad's place and fucking it up.

"I don't know-"

"How long?"

"I-"

"Fuck, Virg, that's-"

"Why-"

"Shit, shit, Scott, you've got to-"

"Can you hear us?"

"-please, I-"

"-feel this."

Someone had hold of his hands. He could feel a heartbeat under his palms, elevated, fearful, but strong and real and accompanied by exaggerated breathing. There were hands cupping his face, cold but grounding, and a thumb wiped tears away.

"You're okay," John was whispering. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- I'm sorry, I'm here, I've got you." Fainter: "God fucking dammit, I knew he wouldn't walk away from earlier that easily. I should've seen this coming."

"Scott?" Virgil, painfully gentle, still breathing overly deeply so that Scott could copy. "Are you with me?"

He still couldn't- It was like breathing through a straw. He tried to knock his head against the armrest as if he could jolt himself back into reality, but a hand carded through his hair, easing him away from the impact, reassuring murmurs and pleas folding into the overwhelming haze of memories.

"-gonna pass out if we can't-"

"-ever been this bad?"

"-not in years. Apart from-"

"October."

"Exactly."

He was going to be sick. Except- he couldn't get enough air into his lungs, so he sorta collapsed into Virgil's arms – a logical, separate part of his brain trying to choke out apologies – and he nearly retched over the floor, but he couldn't breathe and there was nothing to hold onto, no anchor, no way to claw his way back from the brink.

"Easy, Scott," John murmured, rubbing his back as he tried to gasp out sorry. "Can you squeeze my hand? Yes, just like that. Squeeze if you need space."

No. No, no, no, no-

"We're not going anywhere, I promise," Virgil murmured, mind-reading apparently, and moved closer until their knees knocked. John shuffled sideways until he could bring an arm around Scott's shoulders and bracket him against his side.

There was a smaller voice, too, joining the mix, and-

Shit.

Alan ducked under Virgil's arm to slot into the space at Scott's other side.

"Alan," John began, like a warning, because this was either going to be a turning point or it was going to make everything a helluva lot worse.

Alan shook his head, a blond blur in Scott's peripheral vision. "Let me try."

He put a hand on Scott's chest, flat, slight pressure, and ducked in close so that he could keep his voice a level whisper, less jarring than sharply spoken words, counting inhales, hold, exhale. His hair was tickling Scott's chin and it was that slight sensation that seemed to act as anchor for some reason.

"Nice work, Al," John murmured. "Keep going like that."

Alan ignored him, focus entirely on Scott.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Stay in the moment.

Hold onto something. Focus on that one thing. Nothing else.

"Uh…" Alan glanced to John. "Is like… is touch bad? Or can I-?"

John nodded. "Go ahead."

And then Alan was right there, a blanketing hug, chin tucked over Scott's shoulder, holding on firmly but not too tight, still counting breaths aloud and tapping the patterns against Scott's back. Everything seemed quiet in a rush. He tried to breathe too quickly and it hurt.

"Not too fast," Alan murmured, exaggerating his own breathing so that Scott could match him, tightening his hold ever-so-slightly. "That's better. You've got it, Dad."

For some reason which Scott couldn't seem to register, John tensed against his side and Virgil seemed to inhale sharply, but Alan didn't notice anything, so Scott focussed on breathing and on his kid and finally, finally, the tightness in his chest was gone.

John sat back, braced against his hands. "That…" He shook his head. "Fuck, Scott."

Virgil reached for Scott's wrist, silent for a moment as he counted Scott's heartrate. "No talking yet," he said quietly. "Just keep breathing."

Alan disappeared momentarily and returned armed with a blanket.

"Panic attacks make me more tired than most rescues. Sleep is probably a good idea." He flopped down beside Scott and curled up close, resting his head on Scott's chest so that he could listen to his brother's heartbeat. "Might as well just stay here. We can use the couch cushions."

Scott tangled a hand in the kid's hair. Alan didn't protest for once.

"Go to sleep, Scotty," he murmured.

Scott didn't argue.