Hey, everyone. This fic is officially a year old tomorrow and I'm holding a little Q&A over on my Tumblr to celebrate, so if you have any questions pop over there (silverstarfics) and say hi! My ask box is open and I'll be answering everything tomorrow, along with a few little extra things like behind the scenes facts and mood-boards I made when bored at work and maybe even a couple of minor sneak peeks at future chapters (but I'll give a warning so you can skip those if you want). Anyway, it should be a fun time and I hope to see you there :)
With that out the way, welcome to a depressing chapter. Sorry!
Rain. Familiar. Steady. A constant element in ecological equations. Cursed for grey, heavy skies which were an inescapable part of its existence. Rain brought life and yet was berated, while people sought the sun with all of its poisonous rays and soaked in the venom. The sun scorched where the rain soothed. Right now, there was no trace of the sun, only rain, consistent and reassuring, rivulets of water rushing over smooth rock, glistening in the dull light. Droplets, tip-tapping like tiny faerie feet. The steady rumble of water formed faint thunder to drown out thoughts, lost ideas, a safety blanket in which nothing mattered other than each raindrop and every breath.
It wasn't really raining, of course. Perhaps it was above ground, but it would be a poisonous, acidic sort of rain, eating away at the very life it had once enabled. Down here, the rain was a projection, a series of holograms bouncing off the walls and transforming the TV screen into a fake window. That wonderful petrichor scent was missing. The faint chill and mist curling around leaves as the sun returned – all gone. But at least the sounds and the sights were there.
Time was an illusion which didn't apply to him. All that existed was the rain – although even that was a lie – and gravity, which seemed impossibly heavy, threatening to drag him even further below ground until the soil that currently weighed down above him seemed like a mere drop in the ocean. Down, to where the darkness was soul-consuming, until the sun was a lost dream and even the rain couldn't reach him.
None of these thoughts played out in full. They were hazy, vague, lacking any distinct edges. He stared at the fake rain until his vision blurred. Blinking stung. He wasn't sure how long he'd been awake, only that there had been quiet voices in the background at some point and a rush of noise from a distant corridor. Details were important, he was sure, but he couldn't latch onto any one of them, no matter how desperately a part of him – buried deep – was screaming.
There were a few things he knew for sure. One, he was exhausted. Heavy, too, so that he couldn't even lift his head from the couch cushions and the idea of sitting up was impossible. Two, every time he closed his eyes, he saw memories and he couldn't tell when he was awake or when he was dreaming or whether maybe he'd never left that moment drowned in hellfire from all those years ago, so instead he kept his eyes open until it burnt too badly and he was forced to blink, staring at the rain until it melted into unknown shapes. Three, he wasn't alone. That was different. He wasn't used to that one, not during these sorts of moments. These instances were spent in the dark, hidden away from the world like a wounded animal, don't let them see.
The rain was blurring in front of him again. He blinked and winced at the burn. Water twisted into silvery ribbons. The speakers stuttered as the sounds of tropical rain were interrupted by a report call for all engineers in Sectors Echo and Delta to report to the arrivals hangar. Whatever. He just wanted his white noise back. How the hell was he supposed to zone outta reality and drift in the numbness if there were sharp commands barked in his ear every five seconds? It wasn't helping with the entire stuck-in-the-past issue that kept constricting his memories in a vice.
He blinked away spots and stared at the rain. Breathed. Turned his head so that he could feel the brush of harsh cotton fibres against his cheek. Inhale. Watch the rain. Exhale. Real, not real. What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Everything died, in the end, some sooner than others – it was the only certain ending in any story. Maybe fate was pre-decided. He was just so goddam tired of hurting all the time.
The rain sounds shifted into an actual thunderstorm.
"Nope. Not happening, no thank you, sir." Gordon snatched up the projector and switched it back to the standard rain sounds from the Amazon. He was on the floor, half-sprawled against the couch, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling, steadily working his way through the different faces of a fidget cube. "Hey, is anyone else cold?"
"Perpetually," John muttered, a trace distracted. He'd taken the place by the armrest, squashed into the corner so that he could fit on the couch as well as Scott. "Turn the aircon down."
Gordon frowned. "Wait, we can do that? I thought it was a set temperature throughout the bunker. Colder around this time because people get tired after lunch and this is supposed to 'wake them up'." He made finger quotes with an exaggerated eyeroll for good measure. "It sucks." He tossed the fidget cube from one hand to the other and twisted to face Scott.
"Gordon," John said, like a warning, finally glancing up from the console he'd been given to work on. While Virgil and Alan had been given no choice other than attending their allocated duties, Gordon had a rest day (which, thankfully, so did Scott) and John himself had been allowed to stay in their rooms, using the console. No one was entirely clear as to his job. Some sort of coding, presumably, helping the bunker to run smoothly. Now, he set the console down, repressing a yawn, and paid attention to the rest of the room again.
Gordon tipped back to lean on his hands. "What?" He discarded the fidget cube and it skidded under the couch where Alan would doubtlessly retrieve it later. "I'm just…"
"Being annoying?"
"I'm not being annoying."
"Get outta his face. Personal space, Gords, c'mon, we've talked about this." John reached for the spare blanket draped over the back of the couch, a ratty yellowish thing which had clearly seen better days but retained warmth better than thermal socks. "You're right though. It is cold."
"Hang on, can we just-" Gordon held up a hand, trying not to grin. "-rewind. What did you just say? You're right though. You just admitted-"
"I did not-"
"-that I was right about something-"
"-it was a mistake-"
"Nuh-uh, Johnny, I'm quoting you on that for the rest of time."
"Not long left, so go ahead."
Gordon faltered. "Dude." His gaze flickered to Scott. "Way to bring the mood down."
John didn't answer. Scott eyed his brother's reflection in the television screen. John busied himself with unfolding the blanket, smoothing creases, draping it across the couch carefully, no sudden movements, wrapping himself up in the warmth but ensuring Scott was a part of it too. He felt a rush of gratitude for his younger brother. He didn't need to verbalise it – not that he'd said anything really since drifting into a vague awareness that was no longer sleep but certainly didn't fully qualify as being awake – because John already knew. John always knew. Just like right now, when he caught Scott's gaze and offered a tiny smile.
Gordon shuffled closer, staring at the rain, young and lost and in pain. "I'm sorry."
Don't be, Scott thought, as if Gordon could somehow read his mind.
John studied the bedraggled edge of the blanket. "I warned you," he said eventually. "I warned both of you. This… You live in ignorance, or you go searching for answers, but the price of knowing is…"
"…is this," Gordon finished. He bit a ragged thumbnail. Bright beads of blood crept to the surface in a red crescent moon. "It's… I didn't know just how far the corruption went. I didn't know the scale or how many people are in on it, or what they're willing to do to keep their power. And I kinda feel like I should have known." He observed a thin trail of blood snake down his thumb. "They recruited me into the scouts without a psych eval. And I thought, huh, weird, but the scouting unit isn't technically military, so maybe… But then… Jenkins said he has Scott's file, but they still put him in that jet without a second of hesitation so what if-"
Scott fixed his sights on the holographic rain and let his vision fade at the edges. There was nothing other than those raindrops racing one another down the projection. He coiled a thin piece of blanket around his thumb until the skin was flushed and released it again. Just breathe. Don't think.
"Maybe this was his plan all along," Gordon murmured. He tipped his head back against the couch cushions, so close that his hair tickled Scott's chin. "To break us."
John inhaled sharply. "Don't."
He reached over to wave a hand at the projector. The rain cut out. Scott made a small sound of protest, sorta pained.
"Don't say that," John whispered.
Gordon didn't reply. He lifted a hand and fumbled until he caught Scott's wrist, curling his fingers around Scott's pulse, reassuring himself, easing that jagged fear which he hadn't fully shed since he'd walked through the door around five-AM to discover Alan and Scott asleep on the couch, John sat on the floor as close as possible, and Virgil pacing. Everything had seemed so, so desperately wrong and it still hadn't righted itself.
Scott tapped a thumb against his brother's wrist. Gordon didn't look up, shoulders rigid, trying not to make anything worse, not entirely sure how to act, what to do – because what could he do other than sit and wait and hold on tightly for as long as possible?
"When did you last drink something?" he asked after a moment.
Scott couldn't recall. Speaking was mostly off the cards anyway. A logical voice in the back of his head was whispering about missed debriefings and training sessions tomorrow and a mission lurking at some point within the hazardous paths of the next forty-eight hours. He turned over to bury his face in a cushion.
Gordon's voice rose slightly, pitched with fear. "Scott?"
There was a slight rustle as John moved from his seat. "Take a walk. I've got this."
"Have you?" Gordon's grip tightened. Scott resisted the instinct to yank his wrist away, only right now he could feel Gordon's pulse – elevated but strong – and there was something desperately human about that which he longed to hold onto. He drew a deep breath through the cushion and tried not to cough. A featherlight touch alighted on his back, cautious, anticipating being rebuffed, and stayed there, waiting, before tracing delicate patterns. Not too much contact for it to be overwhelming, but a reminder. An anchor.
"I'm not leaving," Gordon stated in that grim, stubborn tone. It sounded more like an accusation than a promise. He traced the outline of a dolphin. Scott shivered. "Not this time. Do you know- I never knew the details. You guys have secrets. I get that. But with what I figured out… Either this passes or it spirals into exactly what I'm terrified of. I can't walk away. Don't do that to me. Don't ask me to leave again, John, because last time you did that… I can't walk away if there's a chance it's the last time I ever see someone."
"M'not going anywhere," Scott told him, croaky and rough from last night's panic and dehydration and lack of use throughout the day. "S'okay."
"It'll pass," Gordon whispered, echoing Scott's thoughts so perhaps he was a mind-reader after all. He flattened his hand and Scott melted against the cushions, because suddenly everything seemed very vivid and undeniably real and that meant he had to deal with all of it.
"It'll pass," Gordon repeated, quietly, scarcely even a whisper.
Of course it would pass. There was no other option. Scott already knew that. In fact, he was excruciatingly aware of it. He'd already been vegetating on this couch for nearly an entire day but if he didn't drag himself out of the funk soon, the GDF would be tossing him into the surface world. It didn't matter how great his piloting skills were – he wasn't of use to anyone unless he was actually in the sky, or anywhere really which wasn't this couch.
If only it were that easy – that motivation, encouragement, any of those niceties could coax him into a miraculous recovery. Because the problem was – he'd been here before. He knew exactly how long these bouts could last. It just never normally got this bad because he kept running from the problem. And, like John had pointed out, it got worse each time, which was probably why he was now fusing with the couch cushions, unable to feel human, slowly suffocating under the weight of the world and his memories.
How was it that he'd slept for hours on end – far more than his usual four – and yet still felt exhausted, as if he'd just dropped outta the sky post-rescue? It didn't make sense. Then again, nothing did. Why did he feel as though gravity had been turned up ten times past its regular setting and yet no one else was affected? Why had Gordon walked into yesterday's mission and returned with nothing more than a few trauma points and additional fuel for nightmares whereas Scott had proceeded to spiral into… well, into this.
A hand swatted his ankles. John was eyeing him with a knowing look of disapproval. "Quit berating yourself. I know you're finding some way to blame yourself. Your brain lies to you, remember?"
In actuality, his brain wasn't doing very much at all. It was more of a quagmire – thoughts turned to mush, blending into grey gloop where emotions ruled the roost only he wasn't even feeling very much of those either. Like the rain, he was a grey sky. It didn't matter if he had any good qualities to offer because the gloom was his greatest contribution to the world at current. No one liked a grey sky. Neither did he, actually, or maybe he just didn't like himself. Whatever. He wasn't a wordsmith. He just… was. Existence was a prison. He didn't like the sound of the key very much, either, especially when freedom was an unknown quantity.
Drifting. That was the word he'd been looking for. He was drifting.
Dammit, snap outta this.
He could still feel Gordon's pulse, flush against his inner wrist where his brother was holding his hand as if scared to let go. Fearful, rapid, like the wings of a snared butterfly. He was making short work of that bleeding thumbnail again and Scott didn't know whether Gordon had picked up that habit from Alan or whether Alan had learnt it from Gordon. He wanted to reach out, snag his brother's hand before Gordon could do any more damage, but moving was a foreign concept. Instead, he stared at the ceiling and wondered whether his vision was blurring with tears from a lack of blinking or thanks to unwanted emotions.
Just stop this.
He drifted again. He was watching everything play out from behind a glass screen in his head, safe within the confines of his own mind where the only thing which could hurt were his memories, but he'd been running from those long enough to know which shadows to flinch from. He wasn't in control. Autopilot took over. There were hands on his upper back and biceps at one point, encouraging him to sit up, a familiar voice encouraging him to drink water, to eat, although that last one was a step too far and he rolled over to hide his face in the darkness of the couch cushions.
"Scott?" Virgil was asking, in a small, desperate sort of voice, more like a plea than a simple question, and then John was speaking, something calm and reassuring like a flat ocean concealing the true darkness beneath, but Virgil didn't question, didn't want to see how deep those waters ran, so slipped out of the room and headed back to work, lunch hours over. When the world was falling apart, no one wanted to test the boundaries of just how badly everything could shatter.
Time slipped past like the rain.
Uncontrollable.
Inevitable.
Another fact of life which passed unnoticed until it became a problem.
I don't want to be tired anymore.
Tired was a kinder phrasing. And it was hardly a lie. It just wasn't a true, directly translated thought. It was the palatable version. The original was uglier, sharper, and couldn't be spoken aloud. He knew that. He kept it close to his chest like playing cards so that the only person those harsh edges could hurt was himself.
(I don't want to be broken anymore).
There was too much of everything, anything, it was just a lot. And he couldn't-
Fear subsided into numbness. Just breathe. Feeling nothing was safe. How could anyone hurt him if he didn't feel pain?
Those other people hadn't had a choice. Kids, snatched from loved ones. Survivors who happened to be blessed with immunity, stolen and used as lab rats. Innocent people who had survived the brutality of the parasite only to fall victim to the GDF's attempt at playing God, dividing the land with poison which would wrap its way around the world before too long. All of them had been hurt. All of them were in pain. And yet here he was, with his family around him, unable to even get off the fucking couch- Your fault, your fault, your fault-
Alan crashed through the door in a whirlwind of chaos – undone laces, untucked shirt, blond hair wild and seemingly on end with static – and nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the couch, kicking each shoe off as he went. He kicked Gordon out the way to drop onto the edge of the cushions, catching the armrest to haul himself to safety, promptly flopping over Scott's chest like some sort of bizarre housecat.
"Hi," he announced breathlessly, with a bright smile which didn't quite reach his eyes but ignited something warm in Scott's chest all the same. "How ya doing? Still hibernating, Scotty? Coolio. I'm gonna join you."
"Alan," John began, fondly exasperated, but trailed off before he could finish his sentence. He had barely moved from the couch – or, technically, from Scott's side – all day and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the console for hours on end. He lifted Scott's feet from his lap and staggered upright.
Gordon caught him with a hand to the shoulder. "Gravity?"
"Headrush," John corrected through gritted teeth. "Al, you good to stay here? I've got a meeting."
"Not like this you haven't." Gordon retracted his hand and levelled John with a pointed stare as his brother wavered on the spot and nearly plummeted to the floor. "Yeah, I didn't think so. I'll come with you. Gimme a sec to grab my shoes. Alan, you're not going anywhere?"
Alan lazily waved a hand in their vague direction. "I live on this couch now. Me and this weird musty looking cushion are besties." He flung the offending object onto the floor and rested his chin in the crook of Scott's shoulder. "'kay, we're good. Begone, humans."
Gordon snorted. "Dude. Are you and Scott not human?"
"I am a god," Alan deadpanned.
Gordon looked distinctly unimpressed. "Yeah? What about Scott?"
"Oh, he's just too cool to hang out with you. Wait, John, I'm not including you in this. You're also cool. Gordon's the anomaly here. We are very cool except for you."
"Gee, thanks."
"You're welcome."
"You're adopted," Gordon hissed at him.
Alan sniggered. "Get outta here."
Gordon cuffed him 'round the head on his way past. John shoved him out the room before the violence could escalate. The door closed behind them leaving a comfortable silence in its wake.
Alan lifted his chin a fraction to examine Scott's face. "If you want me to move, tell me. Or… I don't know how this works. If speaking's not on the cards, then… some sorta sign. If not, I'm gonna stay right here."
Scott nearly smiled at that. "You're good."
Alan winced. "Dude, you need a drink. You sound like you've been smoking for… I dunno. Years. Your whole life. A very long time, anyway."
That smile was edging ever closer to the surface. "Don't call me dude."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Alan yawned. When he moved his hand, accidentally brushing against the cleaning bot on the floor, there was an audible snap of static electricity. "Oh, sonuvabitch."
"Language."
"I'm feeling very attacked right now. First you order me not to call you dude, now you're telling me off. Rude. I'm gonna tell you about every tiny detail of my day as a punishment."
That… really, really wasn't a punishment. If anything, it was helping. Perhaps that was the point. Maybe Alan knew exactly what he was doing, recounting the results of his chemistry experiments, how he'd shown up an asshole in Physics by solving an equation relating to the fuel consumption of a rocket launch from the moon versus Earth. He described the weird, gloopy soup served at lunch and the suspicious grey hue of the bread, how he'd made friends with one of the GDF guards in the elevator – Hannah, forties, claimed Alan was the spitting image of her nephew – and had drawn a dragon on the cast of a little girl who'd tripped, landed awkwardly and fractured her arm.
"She really loves that dragon," Alan mused, expression soft with recollection. "It was a bit lopsided, 'cos it's hard drawing on casts, but I guess I did an okay job. Anyway. It made her smile. So that made me smile. Do you want me to be quiet? No? Okay. So, after I finished the dragon-"
It was a miracle that Alan didn't run out of words. Scott had to admit – he stopped paying attention after a certain point, content to simply listen to the kid's voice. Alan probably knew his brother wasn't focussing on the story but didn't complain. He got up after a while to grab another bottle of water which they shared and then he picked at a sandwich he'd saved from breakfast, guilt-tripping Scott into eating some too with a single worried puppy-dog look. Then, curling back up against Scott's side, he yanked the blanket over their heads so that they were safe in the dark.
"It's easier to speak when you can't see the other person," Alan explained, as if sensing Scott's confusion. "That's what I find, anyway. Not that I'm expecting you to talk to me. I kinda figured you wouldn't. But if you want to, I'm here and I'll listen. I'm actually pretty good at that, which is weird because no one expects me to be."
Scott closed his eyes and breathed. "Okay," he said, after a slight pause suggested Alan was waiting for a response. He lifted an arm to pull the kid closer. "Okay."
"Is this…?" Alan began hesitantly, seeking the correct phrasing. He flung an arm across Scott's middle, tapping drumbeats against the couch cushions. "I don't know exactly what this- I did some research once… I don't want to mess up by saying the wrong thing. But is this- Is this a zombie apocalypse thing or this a… a pre-existing thing?"
Scott ignored the instinct to lock down the words. Alan was freaked out badly enough as it was, he may as well actually provide the kid with some answers. Just… not the details.
"Pre-existing."
"Like… Okay, tell me to shut up if I'm asking bad questions, but is this… um… experience-based, or is it a Scott Tracy thing?"
Look. Scott liked to think he knew his brothers pretty well. But he had no clue what the hell Alan had just asked.
"Huh?"
"So… I didn't develop anxiety overnight. I mean, everything that's happened since forever didn't help, but I was born with that natural disposition because my genes suck. So that's just an Alan Tracy thing. Whereas Gordon wasn't born scared of hydrofoils, that's an experience-based thing. But they can both trigger this state of being overwhelmed and kinda shutting down as a result."
In another life, Alan would have been a great psych major. It was also fairly impressive just how careful he'd been to avoid the word PTSD. Scott appreciated it.
"Experience-based," he admitted.
"Okay," Alan replied quickly. "Thanks for telling me."
He let the silence settle for a while.
"This is probably dumb because you already know this but I'm gonna say it anyway. Um. Yeah, this is definitely dumb, but… so, I got the anxiety diagnosis and then I was able to find specific ways to help, and it got easier to manage, but it's not… like… cured, y'know? It's under control. But it can sometimes get the better of me. And I hate that. But it's not my fault and I know that. So this, what you're going through… it knocked you down today and that sucks but it's not your fault. And I know you already know that, but I just wanted to be sure you know that."
Holy. Shit.
This kid.
"Jesus, Al."
"What?" Alan jolted upright. "Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry, sorry, I was just trying to help-"
"You did. You helped a lot. I just- God, I love you so much, you know that?"
Alan flopped back down. "Love you too," he murmured, voice suspiciously damp. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Just… stay with me? Unless you've got homework, or something else, I don't know if you were planning on hanging out with friends or anything."
"Actually, no, the popularity of being The Alan Tracy of International Rescue kinda collapsed after they found out I'm secretly a massive nerd."
"Really?"
"Uh huh. They've all fought zombies and have cool stories to tell and I'm out here like, uh, sorry folks, I barely survived two weeks in the wastelands and I cried pretty much all the time."
"I thought you did very well."
"You have to say that."
Scott hid his grin in the darkness. "It's true."
"Eh. Debatable." Alan shook his head. "Anyway, I'd much rather chill here with you than put up with those assholes in my class." His smile was audible in his voice. "Y'know, come to think of it, that might be another reason why they don't think I'm cool – 'cos I'd rather hangout with my da-brother, than listen to them talk about top kills and all that BS."
This wasn't Scott's first rodeo with the grey skies. However, it was the first time that he didn't want to be completely alone, when he actually wanted someone to stay. Everyone else outside that door could stay the hell away, but Alan? Alan could stay.
Alan's presence seemed to break down that blockade which had been repressing any and all emotions. Talking grew easier. Everything still seemed impossibly exhausting and the world at large outside the tiny space of their cramped lounge was a no-go zone. Heading down to the cafeteria for dinner was not an option, no matter how concerned Virgil was about Scott actually eating a proper meal. Gordon volunteered to sweet-talk the guards into letting him bring their shares of rations up to their quarters, which wasn't usually allowed but on this occasion the guards agreed to turn a blind eye and Gordon returned triumphant, plates balanced delicately across his arms as if he'd been a trained waiter in a previous life.
Scott and John got custody of the couch and Alan managed to squash himself into the tiny space between them, looking immensely pleased while Gordon and Virgil grumbled among themselves and reached for cushions and the motheaten blanket to turn the floor into something marginally more comfortable. The TV was turned away from any depressing GDF broadcasts and left on a 24-hour recording of a coral reef. Gordon occasionally pointed out species in their scientific names to make himself sound clever.
"Ah," he announced in a faux-serious voice, "look." He pointed to the screen. "It's an amphiprioninae."
Alan squinted at the orange creature flitting between the coral. "Dude. It's a clownfish."
"Exactly." Gordon beamed. "Like I said, amphiprioninae."
Alan tossed up his hands. "Just call it a clownfish like a normal person!"
Gordon tipped his head back to glimpse his brother. "Man, just wait 'til that paracanthurus hepatus comes back on screen."
"Nerd," Alan muttered, followed shortly by, "wait, what?"
Gordon gestured to the blue tang nosing about the bottom left of the screen.
Alan narrowed his eyes. "That's fucking Dory."
"Language," Virgil chided.
Alan spluttered. "But he can't… para-whatever-the-heck, it's not- That's Dory, dude! You can't call those fish anything other than Dory. I'll let the clownfish slide although you should be calling those Nemo too."
"Clownfish?" Gordon deadpanned. "What are clownfish? I only know amphiprioninae."
Alan glowered at him. "You suck."
"I'm awesome."
"Eat shit."
"Whatever, kid."
Alan made to fling himself from the couch into battle. Virgil put out an arm to separate the pair with an exasperated sigh which had Gordon ducking his head and looking suitably sheepish. Scott couldn't help but smile, which, of course, Gordon then noticed and proceeded to pretend his antics had all been an elaborate scheme to put said smile back on Scott's face. Alan, sensing a way to get back in Virgil's good books after nearly murdering Gordon ten seconds earlier, played along.
Virgil gathered up empty plates and shoved them in Gordon's lap. "Take those back to the cafeteria. Alan, go with him. Don't murder anyone, not even each other. Don't get into any fights. And for all that's good and holy, do not commit arson, no matter how 'accidental' you claim it is."
"A guy accidentally explodes his school's chemistry lab one time," Gordon sighed dramatically, clutching the plates to his chest with one arm and holding out a hand for Alan to heave him upright. Alan considered the merits of leaving him on the floor but gave in. Their bickering started up again before they'd even gotten out of the door.
"Was that a smart move?" John queried. "Sending them together?"
Virgil shrugged. "They're both a little in their own heads after the past few days. It'll do them good to spend some time together. They might actually confide in each other if we're lucky." He observed the coral reef scene tiredly. "This place is seriously lacking in therapists."
The fish were actually better than the rain. They were bright and colourful, and their movements were ever-changing and unpredictable and so took more concentration to watch. Scott observed the little creatures darting amid the coral. They were relaxing and yet kept him in the moment, which was the perfect scenario, really. He zoned out of the conversation, fixated on one particular clownfish which he had very originally called Nemo in his head. Alan would be proud.
Virgil's hand landed on his shoulder. He tried not to jump outta his skin. He hadn't even noticed his brother move around to this side of the couch. "Sorry, what?"
There was a brief silence in which Virgil exchanged a silent look with John.
"I'm fine," Scott volunteered. "I'm just watching Nemo."
John shook his head, smile undeniably fond. "Nemo."
"What? It's a clownfish."
"Nothing." John sat back, seemingly satisfied with whatever telepathic discussion he'd been having with Virgil. "Would you like to continue watching your little fish friends, or are you open to talking now?"
"No pressure," Virgil hurriedly added. "Just… you know, it would be nice. Helpful. But if you say no, we'll respect that."
John's expression suggested he didn't necessarily agree, which was fair enough given he had far more experience with dealing with Scott in one of these lows, and so knew all too well that his elder brother tended to repress, repress, repress and pretend nothing had ever happened as soon as he was more-or-less functional again. If you gave Scott an out in regard to talking about his own well-being, he'd take it and run ten miles. Sometimes it genuinely was a case of sitting down in a locked room and demanding answers. But Virgil had always taken a softer approach when it came to dealing with familial situations, the good cop to John's bad cop, and this was no different. There was something comforting in that, Scott thought, trying not to get distracted by the fish again. His mind was still sluggish. Processing multiple stimuli at once was a struggle.
"We can talk," he said at last, if only because he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't going to slip back under the surface again and it wasn't fair on John to expect him to be the only one really understanding how and why, but also because… Well. He'd promised Virgil he'd speak to him when it got bad and this kinda constituted as really fucking bad, didn't it?
Virgil sat back down on the floor like a little kid and deliberately arranged his body language into something open and welcoming, as if he'd studied a guide to therapizing his dumbass big brother who hated these sorts of conversations. Actually, knowing Virgil, that was more likely to be the truth than a mere joke.
"I… don't know how to start this," he confessed. "Can I just ask questions?"
John had no such qualms. "Scott. Look at me."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Scott looked at him.
John studied him as if he were a rare museum artefact. "Okay, you're not ready for this conversation. Go take a shower, it'll help. Put on clean clothes. Then we'll try this again."
"You got all that from just a look?" Scott tried to phrase it nicely, when in reality his question was more along the lines of, what the fuck, Johnny? Sometimes he forgot just how well John knew him but then moments like this happened and he was reminded that, oh yeah, there were only two years between them and so John had known him for basically his entire life.
John gestured to the bathroom door. "You gonna be okay in there?"
"Well, I'm gonna have to be, 'cos you're sure as hell not coming in to hold my hand."
John cracked a grin. "Thank God for that."
"I am so confused right now," Virgil announced. "What's happening?"
"Scott's not actually comfortable with talking about any of this yet," John explained.
"But he said…?"
"Yeah, he lied because he's an idiot. Let me guess – hello guilt complex."
"You scare me," Scott told him.
John gave a little nod, as if in agreement. "Take a goddam shower."
"You're not my boss."
John raised a brow. "You really feel like testing me right now?"
And that-
Yeah.
Fair enough.
John was scary as hell when he put his mind to it, especially when he was worried, and while he might have been putting on a good show, he was very obviously concerned.
So.
Scott went and took his shower.
It did help. Not that he was about to admit as much, but he felt an acceptable level of human and functional afterwards, so while John's little smug smile was insufferable, Scott looped an arm around his brother's shoulders anyway. It was good to be wearing clothes which weren't partially fused to his skin with dried sweat from nightmares and panic attacks and the general batshit insanity which life had driven him to – he didn't voice this aloud because Virgil and John would immediately criticise his poor choice of phrasing.
The conversation shifted between topics like a yoyo – back and forth, sometimes hovering longer on one line of thought than another, bouncing back to a subject they'd already covered just for additional clarification. It was a lot. Scott answered a few of the questions without truly thinking about it and only realised he was being slightly more honest than he'd intended when he felt John wince and glimpsed Virgil's horrified expression.
"I mean, uh-" Oh God, what had he said? Backtrack, rewind, fuck. "Ignore that. Me. Ignore me. I'm just gonna stop talking now." He shot John an accusatory look, because frankly his brother was a traitor for not warning him about just how honest he'd been getting. John gave him the look.
"Scott," Virgil whispered in a very small, sad sort of voice, sounding awfully close to tears.
Scott gave a nervous chuckle. "Well, this has been fun, but-"
John caught his wrist before he could flee. "Sit your ass back down. We're not done here. No running, not this time." He softened his tone. "You promised me you'd talk, remember? Back at the ranch?"
"That was a mistake."
John narrowed his eyes. "Alright, fine, have it your way." He let go. "Run from your problems if you want. I just didn't think you were the type to give up on something just because it's difficult and possibly even scary."
"Is that a challenge?"
"It's simply an observation," John replied, with that snarky little edge to his voice which suggested yes, it absolutely was a challenge. Scott sat back down because he hadn't backed away from a challenge in his life which was what had led to several interesting incidents and the reason why he had been banned from participating in truth-or-dare for the entirety of his college life. John shot him a smug look. Scott glared at him.
"I'm pretty certain you're not supposed to bully someone into a vulnerable conversation," Virgil pointed out, "but fair play."
"Hey John," Scott announced before he could chicken out, still hyped on that spark of indignation at the suggestion that he would run away from a challenge, but also very, very scared to hear the answer to a question that had been festering in his head for nearly twenty-four hours. "Last night. One to ten. Explain."
Virgil tensed. "Isn't that…?"
John sat upright with a half-smile. "Yeah, I figured that was coming." He leant forwards, braced against his knees, observing those fish. "It's not… I should have clarified. But I didn't want to lie to you. I can tell you it's not like that."
"How is it?" Scott asked, not about to let the matter drop.
John glanced at him briefly. "It's different. I don't want to… It's uh- It's possible to think you deserve something but not want that at the same time. Does that make sense? I don't want this thing to happen but I kinda feel like maybe I deserve it." He wrung his hands. "Look, this isn't my conversation. It's not about me. Don't use my issues as a scapegoat."
"Don't use my issues as a scapegoat."
John sank back against the couch with a groan. "We're getting nowhere here. Look, it's not a… I'm not going to say it isn't a big deal because that sets a certain precedence, but it is manageable. If I didn't feel guilty about the things I've done, we'd have a bigger problem on our hands. And yes, if I can figure out a way to get through the next two weeks, then it's something I'm going to have to address but right now… It doesn't exactly look like my feelings are going to be problem in the near future, so it's not a priority."
"Can you-" Scott gestured vaguely. "-not talk like that?"
"It's facts," John pointed out, which wasn't a lie but-
"And I get that, but thinking about you not being here makes me feel like I'm dying, so can we not do this?" Scott took a breath. "Please?"
John went to speak, hesitated, then clearly thought better of it. Instead, he looked impossibly tired. Sad, too. There was a certain irony in the way that they both individually believed they deserved hell but thought each other deserved an entire universe of beautiful things and happiness.
"I'm sorry," John said at last.
"It's okay," Scott murmured.
"No." John stared at the fish without truly seeing them. "No," he repeated, softly. "It's not. It's really, really not."
"None of this is okay," Virgil spoke up. His voice wavered. "And maybe- maybe it never will be. But we've got to try."
If only trying wasn't so hard. It shouldn't have been. Because really- When it came down to it, if they set aside all these ideas which had been drummed into their heads for years, of saving the world, of taking responsibility when it wasn't necessary and probably wasn't even their place, if they forgot all of that and simply existed, survived, as a family – be that staying in the bunker, or finding a way back to Five or somehow reaching Mars – then it was really rather painfully easy. Just keep breathing. Look after one another. Don't take unnecessary risks. Just live their lives in this new normality without worrying about trying to fix anything. But that idea of that was just as suffocating as the thought of trying to keep fighting and- how the hell did anyone win anymore?
There were people dying every day. There were kids suffocating. Lost, scared, suffering, lonely. And yet- Scott couldn't even find it within himself to fake a smile anymore. The bar set for him was so much lower than it was set for so many others. Hell, John was out here literally fucking dying and yet Scott had his health but hadn't gotten off the goddam couch all day, for what?
"What if we can't?" he choked out before he could help himself. "What if it's too much? Because I can't- We have no idea what we're doing. There's too much wrong with the world. We passed the tipping point already. It's irreversible. All we're doing is putting ourselves through more pain trying to change it and sometimes it seems like it's worth it but what's the point in fighting a war we can't win? I don't want that for you guys. Every decision I've made has hurt people."
"That's not true," Virgil protested.
"Isn't it? Joanna's survival group. Those kids. Lily, with the rabbit. You wanted to take them with us, Virgil, we could've brought them here, and we didn't know it at the time but we could've tried, and now- they're dead, you know that, right? There's no way they're- not with the state of the world up there, with the radiation and the infected and-"
For the first time in a long while, John didn't know how to answer. "Are you saying… What are you saying? That we should give up?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know. It's all getting worse and it doesn't stop, not even for a minute. Every time I think maybe we're getting somewhere, there's a new problem and it is exhausting, fighting all the goddam time, every second of every day, for nothing. And now- Christ, I thought I hated myself before this – I had no idea. Now there are kids' blood on my hands and maybe you're right about the infected, John, maybe they're monsters, but they sure as hell seem human sometimes, and I've killed them like they mean nothing, and now I'm back in a fucking fighter jet and it's all overlapping – the past and the present – so you want to know about this? About today? I am tired. That's what it comes down to. I'm tired and I can't do this and I could barely do any of it before the apocalypse. Dad thought I could but he was wrong about me. A lot of people were."
"You're wrong about you," Virgil whispered.
"I can't do this, Vee, I can't do it- Please, don't ask me to- I can't- I c-can't…"
"Okay, okay." Virgil reached up and caught Scott's wrist before he could claw at his temples. "Okay," he repeated, gently, linking their hands together and squeezing. "You don't have to do anything. No one's going to ask you to do anything." He leant their foreheads together, voice soft. "All you have to do is breathe. If you don't want to get off this couch, if you just want to sit here and maybe watch the fish or the rain, or just sleep, then that's okay. All you have to do is stay with us. Let us take care of you. You've got us this far, and that's a miracle in my books. I can take it from here. We've got you, I promise. We love you. I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry, but it's okay."
"I don't want to- It's the same fucking feeling, over and over, and I can never outrun it and I can't- What if this is it? What if this is my entire life now? I can't do this, I can't, it's-"
"Just breathe," Virgil reminded him. "One step at a time. Get through this second. Then the next ten seconds. Then the next minute. We'll do it together, okay?"
John looked faintly sick. "One to ten?"
It was the first time in years his voice had shaken on the words.
"You don't have to answer," Virgil whispered, still gripping his hands. He ran a thumb over Scott's knuckles, impossibly gentle, and Scott wanted to flinch, because he hadn't earnt that level of comfort.
Past sins and present crimes.
God, he was tired.
"Eight."
John went to correct him, then stopped short. It was the first time Scott had ever been honest with him.
"Eight's…" John trailed off. "It's pretty high."
"Yeah," Scott replied, the words strangled somewhere between a sob and the mess of emotions coiling around his lungs. "I know it is."
"Just stay in this moment." Virgil moved to join them on the couch, which wasn't really designed for three grown men to fit comfortably, but whatever. He wrapped an arm around Scott and probably wasn't expecting Scott to basically collapse against him but didn't react. "One second at a time. Can you do that?"
"Y-yeah."
John was watching them with something unidentifiable in his eyes. "Virgil," he began, practically a whisper, aching with grief. "If…"
"I know." Virgil nodded, blinking back tears. "Just in case, right?"
"Well. Gordon has some good ideas."
"Just in case," Virgil repeated, grip tightening protectively.
John observed them a moment longer. "Thank you."
You didn't have to be a mind-reader to understand the silent agreement there.
If I'm not around-
I know. I'll look after him.
Thank you.
The fish were blurred colour. Was he crying? Perhaps.
One second at a time.
It was a very long night.
