Did someone call for a ridiculously long chapter?


Time stretched into a listless expanse of rain and grief, broken only by the faint thrum of electricity from the bio-monitors hooked up to John and the metallic taps as Virgil sat surrounded by disembodied machinery and tried to put it all into some semblance of a working order. Alan helped out for the first hour but retreated back to bed, curling close to Finch to find warmth in her soft fur. He looked noticeably pale, as if some force of nature had leached the colour from his skin, leaving only freckles scattered across white canvas.

Scott sank onto the edge of the bed, cautiously running his fingers through Alan's hair to find it dark with sweat. Faint heat radiated from the kid, the sickly sort which whispered of low-grade fever and left him shivering, pressing his forehead into Scott's palm to seek warmth or comfort or perhaps both.

As the rain dissipated it grew easier to hear the hitch to his breathing. Scott wrestled with dread at the sound of that godawful rattling in his kid's lungs. He coaxed Alan into leaning against his chest which helped ease the wheezing but did nothing to calm his own rattled nerves.

Gordon materialised shortly before the two-hour mark at which Scott and Virgil had agreed one of them would have to go looking for him. He didn't say anything – not where he had been or any encounters with the infected or enquiries about Alan or John – but unloaded a rucksack full of medical supplies onto a lopsided table in the corner. It included what had to be an entire storage cabinet worth of asthma medication.

Virgil delicately set aside the equipment and moved to examine the meds.

Gordon paused halfway through untangling the strap of an oxygen tank he'd stolen from a lower floor. "What?"

Virgil lifted one of the cases. "Steroids?"

"Yeah." Gordon yanked the tank free entirely and neatly coiled the attached mask and tubing around the base. "Of the two inhalers he was using before, the Ventolin was less effective. Probably because he's not actually asthmatic. But the Budesonide actually seemed to have an impact. Makes me wonder if he's inhaled something that's now causing inflammation." He paused, sensing both Scott and Virgil staring at him. "What? I know some stuff."

Virgil examined the cartridge, slow-dawning suspicion triggering new theories. He pressed the budesonide into Gordon's hands and elbowed him aside to get better access to the table.

"Idea?" Gordon guessed.

"Idea," Virgil confirmed without looking up. "But I'm gonna need to take several blood tests to confirm."

"Okay." Scott tried to keep his voice hushed to avoid waking Alan. "We can do that, right?"

"Blood tests? Sure, not a problem." Virgil turned to face him. "But I need to take a CT scan, probably an X-ray too, and that? That might be an issue."

Gordon retrieved the now very crumpled map from his pocket and dropped to his knees to flatten it over the floor, smoothing creases away from marked pencil lines. There were multiple x-ray rooms throughout the hospital, but the closest was still three floors down and an entire ward away. Based off Gordon's grimace, it would not be an easy trip. The infected were beginning to learn that there were new survivors in the building, and it would only be so long until they tracked them down. When that happened, they would officially be out of the time and there would no hope whatsoever of reaching that x-ray room. If they were going to do this, it would have to be soon.

"One of us has to stay here with John," Gordon remarked, his shadow thrown across the map so that it was impossible to see the tiny room he was studying in such intense detail. "Virg, you obviously have to come. So. Scott? Want to toss a coin?"

Scott tried to glare at him, but it was difficult to muster much anger when he not only knew that Gordon was secretly falling apart but could see the evidence too, in form of jumpiness and bloodshot eyes and tangled hair where he'd been running his hands through it.

"You'd better be joking," he settled for saying.

Gordon traced a corridor along the map with his thumb.

"About tossing a coin? Yeah. But really, one of us has to stay." He drew blood from his bitten lip and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth with an irritated hiss. "Okay." He rocked back on his heels, craning his neck to catch Virgil's eye where his brother was still stood by the table. "Virg? What's our game plan here? Do we have a time frame?"

Virgil lowered something fragile. It glinted in the dull light, suggested it was something metallic. A needle, Scott guessed, vaguely queasy at the thought, which struck him as somewhat ironic – he'd seen human-beings ripped apart by the parasite, but it took only a mere needle to make him dizzy.

"Let me take blood samples and then we'll head down. Any idea how many infected are in our way?"

"Not many by the time I'm done with them," Gordon muttered.

Something about his tone was chilling. Perhaps it was the way he sounded deadly serious. There was more dark intent in his voice than had existed when he was taking out bandits all those weeks ago. It was wrong, as if some unwritten rule of the universe had suddenly shifted and now everything was in turmoil.

He pushed himself off the floor and hovered by John's bedside. "How's he doing?"

Scott found himself dreading the answer. Stable does not equate healthy rang on repeat in his mind like a goddamn siren and every time he thought about those implications he wanted to scream. He was living in a reality in which there was genuine possibility that he might lose both Alan and John. How the hell was he supposed to survive that?

"Vitals are steady," Virgil supplied in a deliberately neutral choice of words.

Gordon narrowed his eyes. "Don't give me that bullshit." He crossed his arms. "If the truth is that bad then we'll find out eventually anyway. I can guarantee you that the facts aren't gonna be anywhere near as horrific as what we've been imagining. I've run through so many worst-case scenarios in my head that I don't think I'm capable of being shocked anymore."

Virgil winced. "I wouldn't bet on that if I were you."

"Really?" Gordon's tone grew icy. "'Cos for a good few hours, I genuinely thought he was gonna turn. That this thing had somehow overcome his immunity, dragged him into its creepy hive mind, whatever the fuck, I don't know, but I wasn't expecting him to make it through the night. So whatever you tell me… I don't think it can be any worse than that. And if it is? Well, I'm already losing my mind over Alan, so let's just add to the insanity."

"That's enough," Scott cut in before he'd even finished processing Gordon's little rant. He didn't mention the part where he'd been thinking along a similar line. Their initial reunion with John had been fraught with panic and urgency, too chaotic for any clear observations, but the mental image stained into his psyche was frighteningly similar to the scene Gordon had just described. Even now, faced with John in that hospital bed, it didn't seem too far beyond the realm of possibility. But the stats suggested otherwise and there was so much else going wrong that Scott was unwilling to contemplate that worst-case scenario.

Gordon backed down without further comment. This in itself was a miracle.

"You should go."

Scott wasn't about to argue. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Gordon gingerly perched on the edge of John's bed. "I'll keep an eye on him, don't worry. Just… look after Al. He's more scared than he'll ever admit. He needs you."

The thought hurt, worse than the pain caused by dust inhalation or zombie bites. Scott didn't realise he'd tightened his hold until Alan stirred from the feverish slumber he'd fallen into – not quite sleeping but something close – and patted at his wrist clumsily with a questioning mumble. It was impossible to distinguish the words. Finch snuffled closer, tail flopped over Alan's chest as if she could detect the source of the sickness and was trying to tell them in her own way how to fix it.

"Okay," Scott agreed, quietly, so that only Gordon caught the word and read the underlying meanings – of which there were a lot, more than Scott was even consciously aware of himself – while Alan hauled himself back towards full awareness, struggling to catch his breath as a yawn triggered a coughing fit.

"Jesus," Gordon whispered, slipping off John's bed to join them. He curled a hand around Alan's bicep, squeezing slightly. "That didn't sound pretty."

Alan fake-glowered at him. "Aw, man." He spat into a tissue, grimacing, before mustering a mischievous smile. "Are you saying I'll get turned down if I ask out one of the zombies?"

"Looking like that?" Gordon teased, making a show of swatting away dust as if that were the reason for the tears in his eyes. "Absolutely."

"Rude," Alan grumbled, smile slightly more genuine now although his voice had grown hoarser. He crumpled the tissue and aimed for the trash can in the corner, falling short by several embarrassing metres. "Eh. Close enough."

Gordon made a face. "Dude. No."

"Shut up. Not everyone has your creepy Hawkeye skills."

"It's chill," Gordon humoured him, looping an arm around Alan's neck to drag the kid close, cackling as Alan elbowed him with an indignant squawk. "You can still kick my ass on pretty much any videogame ever." He tousled Alan's hair, although he was notably gentler than usual, and it hurt to witness.

Alan shoved him away, scrubbing his hair out of his eyes with an irritated huff. "You suck."

"It's just one of my many charms."

"I love you."

"Thanks, I hate you too- Hold on, wait, wait, wait, what the fuck?" Gordon blinked at him owlishly, tilting back on the heels of his hands to examine Alan's expression. "Yo, Allie, what? That's not your usual line. You can't just say that. You've knocked our whole thing off kilter now. I might pass out from shock. Look at this shit." He lifted a hand, exaggerating the tremors. "See?"

Across the room, Virgil looked up slowly, as if disbelieving his own ears. He caught Scott's eye without a word, but said as much with a single glance as if he'd written an entire monologue, mostly summarised by a simple phrase – did that really just happen?

Yes, Scott thought back, as if Virgil could actually read his mind. Yes, it did.

He was terrified of the implications, unwilling to accept the suggestion behind the words – the idea that Alan had accepted a fate that was unthinkable to the rest of them. He longed to hug his kid and just hold on, forever if necessary - as long as took for death to grow bored and search for a different victim elsewhere.

Alan waited until Gordon finished rambling. It was nearly three entire minutes of nonsensical babbling before Gordon finally trailed off, not because he had run out of words but because his voice was growing rough with the threat of tears. He kicked off his boots and lifted his feet onto the bed to sit cross-legged, staring at Alan intently without saying anything for several long seconds. The two of them held eye contact, exchanging a silent conversation in an unspoken language carefully developed over years of team-ups.

"Virgil's gonna run some tests," Gordon explained, not breaking the gaze. "It's in a room three floors down. I'm staying with John, but Scott will go with you. I'll be right here waiting for you, so we can talk when you get back."

"Gords," Alan whispered.

"And it'll be fine. Ew, bad word. Everything- Everything's going to be okay." Gordon jolted upright as if he'd been electrocuted. "Ooh, wait, I nearly forgot. I've got something to give you. Hold on…"

"Gordon," Alan tried again.

Gordon slid off the bed and nearly slipped on damp tiles where his wet boots had trailed rainwater in from the lower floors. He stole his rucksack from under the table and retrieved a battered but much-loved stuffed toy – Lily's rabbit, their unofficial family mascot at this point.

Scott pressed his knuckles against his eyes and reminded himself to breathe even as the ache in his heart spread further to dig into his ribs too. Life felt so impossibly heavy in that moment. He wanted to give into the weight and allow it to drag him down, sinking through the floor and beneath the foundations to burn up in the Earth's core. It probably wouldn't hurt as badly as this.

"It's a good luck charm," Gordon explained, clambering heavily back onto the bed and nearly dislodging Finch in the process. He held out the rabbit to Alan. One ear drooped. Soot stained a once-white tail grey. A loose thread dangled from one paw. Marks of life but marks of love too, in the form of grubby fingerprints and a ribbon tied around the rabbit's neck.

Gordon brushed away a stray bit of ash. "You don't get to keep this by the way, just so we're clear. I'm gonna want it back at some point. But you can hold onto it for me, as long as you need it. Not need it. You don't need it – you're brave enough without it – but as long as you want it."

"Gordon," Alan said, small enough to be lost within a world of chaos, but Gordon fell silent instantly, clenching his jaw with an audible snap. Alan drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them – and he looked so young in that instant that Scott wanted to shout at the universe, hey, do you see this? He's just a kid. You can't take him yet, it's not fair, I won't let you – turning the words over in his mind only to simply repeat, tiredly, "Gordon. Stop."

Gordon flattened his hands against his knees, unmoving, as tense as a taut string. He didn't tap, didn't even appear to breathe. "We're not having this conversation. We don't need to, because it's not- Everything's going to be okay, so…"

"Right…" Alan reached for the rabbit, cradling it in his hands like something precious, biting down on his lip to stifle tears. "But, um, it's like IR. You had your just in case messages. I want to have a just in case conversation."

There was a pause.

Gordon flicked one of the rabbit's ears absently. "I can't exactly say no, can I?"

Alan grinned. "Not without being an asshole."

He dropped the teasing tone, tightening his grip on the rabbit, tucking it under his chin so that it left faint smoke smudges on his throat. The dust in its fur made him sneeze, resulting in several seconds of strangled wheezes which nearly gave Scott a heart attack and knocked Gordon into anxious floundering, unsure of how to help but unable to simply sit and watch. Alan batted their hands away – Gordon looking suitably chastised while Scott sent Virgil a panicked stare.

"Stop freaking out."

Scott was convinced he was running purely on anxiety and the remnants of all the pain meds in his system. "Not sure I'm capable of doing anything else."

Alan patted his shoulder. "It's chill. I just inhaled dust." He narrowed his eyes. "Virg, I swear, if you come anywhere near me with that oxygen I will jump out the window."

Virgil set the tank by the side of the bed. "The next time you have a coughing fit, I'm putting you on it, no arguments."

"Fine." Alan flapped a hand. "But let me talk first."

Virgil stepped away, repressing a sigh.

"Five minutes," he murmured to Gordon, brushing a hand over his brother's shoulder on his way past.

Gordon tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Okay." He tipped forwards, leaning over his knees, and untangled Alan's grip on the rabbit until it sat between them on the crumpled bedsheet, catching Alan's hands to hold them captive in his own. For a long minute neither of them said anything. Gordon shifted his thumb over Alan's wrist to count his pulse.

Alan didn't call him out on it, but remarked quietly, "This is a bit weird."

"This…" Gordon cut himself off with a hysterical laugh. "I guess it is."

"Just a little bit." Alan shrugged. "But you're a weird guy, so that makes sense."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Gordon tightened his hold as Alan went to pull away. "I love you."

Alan fell silent.

"Don't make it sappy," he tried to joke, head bowed to stare at their linked hands, observing the rabbit laying on its side between their knees and the contrast between Gordon's black GDF suit and his own IR blues – the only one of them still wearing an IR uniform, bearing that emblem of hope which now threatened to be lost forever. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Stealing my Guardians of the Galaxy comics when we were kids? Taking the last slice of apple pie and then blaming me when Scott got back from rescue and asked what happened to it? Putting a fake lizard in my bed because you know I hate them? You might want to be more specific."

Alan raised his chin to reveal the glimmers of a damp smile. "Oh, hell no, I'm never apologising for the fake lizard incident. That was iconic." He took a deep breath and summoned the courage to meet Gordon's searching look. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you over the past few weeks."

Gordon tensed. "That's- uh- Shit." He sighed. "I guess we're finally talking about it, huh?"

Scott tried not to look too curious, but come on, he'd been wanting to know the root cause of the unaddressed tension between the Terrible Two ever since their argument in the basement nearly two weeks ago. He sat back against the wall and noted the flash of nerves across Gordon's face, similar to the anxiety John had begun wearing as of late – the fear of being seen as the sum of broken parts as opposed to the courage which had founded those sharp edges, defending others at the expense of their own souls.

Alan noticed the faint fear too – glimpsed snatches of it in the tension locking Gordon's spine ramrod straight and the tightening of his grip before he forced himself to relax, jittery under the weight of anxiety – but it was entirely unnecessary.

"I got scared," Alan explained in strung-out beats, hesitant, feeling each phrase before vocalising it and waiting to witness the impact before moving onto the next part. "I got scared because so much has changed and I didn't want you to change too. I can't see the infected without seeing people, so it freaked me out when you started killing them without hesitation. You didn't seem to feel any remorse, but now I know that's a lie, because it's been tearing you apart, no matter how much you try to hide it. So, I'm sorry for treating you like the bad guy when all you've been trying to do is keep us safe and prevent anyone else from having to shoulder that guilt."

Gordon sucked in a strangled breath. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." Alan squeezed their joined hands until Gordon met his searching look, holding on for dear life because maybe this was the last time they'd have the chance. "I know you think you've had to sacrifice the part of you that's good, that killing the infected makes you a monster, but you're wrong. Okay? Listen to me – everything you've done is to protect people, because you've always been and always will be a good person and I am proud to call you my brother and my friend."

Gordon stopped just short of fully tackling him onto the mattress, remembering at the last second that Alan was sort of fragile and vulnerable right now, so instead pulled him close and wrapped him up in a fierce hug.

"I love you so fucking much, do you hear me? You're a weird little nerd-"

Alan snorted. "Thanks."

"-but I wouldn't choose anyone else to be my partner in crime. I love you. I don't tell you that enough. I should have learnt to say it more after we lost Dad, but I took it for granted that we'd have more time... So. I love you and I'm proud of you and if anyone's going to take this shitty world and make it into something brighter, something good, then it's going to be you, because you're the best of us. You always have been."

Virgil was silently crying. He was doing a good job of hiding it – and that in itself was cause for further grief because how had he grown so accustomed to concealing his pain without anyone noticing? – but Scott could read the tears in the slight tremors across his shoulders and the way he was crouched over the equipment to hide his face. It's okay to cry applied to everyone but himself it seemed. Scott longed to give him a hug, only that would mean leaving Alan. The kid was leaning heavily against his side whilst hoping Gordon wouldn't notice that Scott was the only thing keeping him upright.

"What if," Alan began.

"Nope," Gordon interjected with a fond smile. "We're not playing that game. You know better than to think in what ifs."

Alan tugged a hand free to wipe the tears from his face. "Okay. Then just in case, promise me something." He stared at Gordon, holding his gaze until Gordon's expression cleared with understanding.

"Alan…"

"Promise me."

Promise him what? Scott wondered, glancing between the two with a dawning sense of utter bewilderment. Now he understood why everyone got so irritated by his own silent communication with Virgil – it was upsetting to be left outta the loop. But he couldn't begrudge Alan secrets, not when they were clearly important enough to be kept unknown even when none of them had much left to lose.

Gordon exhaled in a rush. "I promise." He lifted a hand to Alan's forehead and winced. "Jeez, Al. You're burning up."

"Really?" Alan curled in on himself, listing heavily against Scott. "I feel freezing."

Scott lifted an arm to tuck his kid carefully against his side, biting back a worried exclamation as he felt the shivers running down Alan's spine. The fever chills had him in their clutches and the hitch to his breathing was growing worse again.

"Virgil," Gordon murmured, reaching behind to fumble for the oxygen tank without taking his eyes off of Alan. "What do we do?"

Alan batted away the mask with a feeble protest. His eyes were bright with fever. Scott smoothed matted hair back from Alan's forehead and took the mask from Gordon, encouraging him to accept it. The flow of pure oxygen had an immediate effect. Alan offered a feeble thumbs up and Virgil summoned a weak smile in return, turning away to hide the devastation on his face that they had reached this point.

Scott tightened his hold subconsciously. Worry was a pit in his stomach making him nauseous, although that might have been the meds wearing off. How many hours had it been now? He couldn't bring himself to count. All he could focus on was Alan's warm weight in his arms and the reassuring steadiness of John's stats on the bio-monitors. He nearly jumped out of his skin when movement suddenly swept in front of him.

"Just me." Gordon held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." He draped his GDF dog-tags around Scott's neck. "You might need something to fiddle with." His gaze flickered to the fine scars on Scott's knuckles. "A distraction."

Scott cleared his throat. "Thanks."

Gordon gave a tiny shrug. "Virg? How are we looking?"

"Ten minutes, then I'll do a blood test and we'll head down."

"FAB. Scott, are you good to provide cover or do you want me to go ahead and clear the path?"

Gordon sounded deadly serious. Scott blinked, testing his situational awareness by taking stock of the fine details of the room around him, from the lone bolt discarded beneath a dusty chair in the corner to the sickly heat driving off Alan's skin in waves. He lowered his chin to Alan's mess of blond hair and willed himself to hold everything together.

"Give me a weapon," he replied under his breath. "I'll cover us. You need to stay with John."

Gordon held his gaze for a long moment, searching for some unknown factor.

"Alright." He slid off the bed and padded around to Scott's side. "I'll sit with Alan for a little bit. You should check on Johnny while you have the chance." He held up a hand as Scott made to protest. "Here's my prediction: you sit downstairs worrying over Alan but also freaking the fuck out wondering what if something happens to John while you're gone. So, for your sake and my sanity, check his stats for yourself now."

Virgil hid a smile. "He's got you there, Scott."

"You're like an open book," Gordon remarked, faintly smug although it failed to make much of an impact given his eyes were still red-rimmed. "C'mon." He shoved Scott's shoulder. "Move yo ass."

Ordinarily Scott would have made some joking jab about respect and Gordon would have teased him about being an old man, earning a kid comment in return. Today Scott didn't have the energy nor the mental capacity to reach for their familiar taunts. He eased Alan into sitting upright long enough for Gordon to slip into his vacated space and wrap his arms around his younger brother. Alan was mostly out of it again, strung out on a taut rope of fatigue and fever, flinging an arm over Gordon's waist as if he were some sort of human teddy-bear. That toy rabbit was lost somewhere halfway down the mattress. Gordon made a soft sound of reassurance, instinctively falling into the protective big brother role that he rarely had to play but was more than capable of fulfilling.

Scott forced himself to step away.

Gordon looked up, seeking his gaze. "I've got him, Scott."

It was an unofficial promise. Hidden amid the words lay the phrase trust me. Scott recalled vague memories blurred by fever and pain from the previous night, reassuring whispers and gentle hands on his biceps, a light touch encouraging him to take a drink and then, later, when he was too exhausted to do anything other than simply breathe, fingers in his hair, lulling him into sleep. He turned towards John without looking back because of course he trusted Gordon.


Sometimes, Scott was struck by a sense of déjà vu so strong that it would have an ordinary person seriously questioning their interpretation of reality. In this case, however, there was no need – Scott had just spent a concerning amount of time sat at John's side in a hospital over the years. The familiarity about the scene was because it had only been a few months since he last gripped his brother's hand and willed him to wake up.

There were many similarities between their current situation and the aftermath of the October Incident. He could tally them in his head or run down a check list if he really wanted to torture himself with the details. Much like back then, John was icy to touch, paler than a ghost, scarily so, and completely unresponsive. But there was a distinct difference this time around. A case in point was that the frost in his brother's bones was not due to any lowered room temperatures. John was borderline hypothermic for no reason.

Scott fought back a shiver as he slid his hand into John's. It literally felt as if he had dipped his fingers into cold water. Virgil had treated John for hypothermia, but his core temperature remained obstinately low. The blankets made little difference. The strangest part was that the cold seemed to have almost no effect on his vitals, although Scott could feel how sluggish his pulse was.

"John?" he murmured, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. It was difficult to tell if his own fever was returning or if his body was trying to warm itself in contrast to the chill where he clutched John's hand to his chest. "I don't know if you can hear me, but Alan's…"

His words snagged in his throat. He was nearly overwhelmed by the crushing weight of everything. The sinking feeling had returned, seeping into his bones so that it was all he could do not to curl up on the bed with John and let the ice steal them both.

"Alan's not doing so good," he finished in a rush before his voice could let him down again. "So I'm gonna go with him for a little while. Get him fixed up. You just… you hold on until I get back, okay? Promise me. Or even better, wake up already and…" He lowered his voice to a whisper so that no eavesdroppers could overhear. "…Tell me it's going to be okay. Please." His chest physically ached with the effort of holding back tears. "I need you to tell me everything's going to work out."

Because John didn't lie, not in situations like this. If you wanted platitudes you went to Virgil who would bend the truth to offer comfort, but if you wanted to hear realities you went to John, because he would dish out bitter facts even if it was painful, so if John said everything would be okay then it would be.

"You made me promise to live for you," Scott hissed, accusatory, like living was a curse. "But how the hell am I supposed to live if he doesn't? If you don't?"

There was no reply. Of course there wasn't. He hadn't been expecting one. All of a sudden the gravity of the situation just hit him as if he'd run into a brick wall at full sprint. He recalled standing alone on the road to nowhere beneath an endless sky all those weeks ago now, halfway through that impromptu trip with the Hood and Alan and remembered feeling both too much and impossibly small all at once, how he'd wondered whether he'd reached rock bottom.

He'd thought that nearly dying had granted him some perspective, kicked his survival instincts back into shape, ignited that will to live which he'd been dangerously lacking, only now he suspected that maybe it had all been an illusion. Maybe he had yet to reach rock bottom. Because right now, the truth which he couldn't bear to admit was that there was a good chance he would lose everyone.

Would the others ever know? Penelope and Kayo, presuming that they were still alive out there? Grandma and Parker and Brains? Everyone they had ever loved and called a friend?

"We should have gone to Mars," he whispered. "Or stayed on Five. We- I should have done this differently. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He knew what his father would say right now. He sounded painfully defeated even to his own ears and Jeff had never been able to stand quitters. The fight's not over yet so why are you acting as if you've already lost?

Because Dad, he thought bitterly, I am so tired in a way you could never understand.

One of these days he was going to plot out his life on a timeline and try to pinpoint the precise moments which had led him here. Figure out exactly when he'd screwed up, whether this could have been preventable, if it truly was his fault like his mind was telling him it was.

He was distantly aware of Gordon watching him, reading between the lines in that uncannily observant manner of his. In another life, Little Brother would probably have made a good therapist, provided he could drag himself away from the ocean long enough. Recently, Scott had taken to imagining those other universes. He wondered whether their alternate selves were happy. He'd settle for merely content. Happiness was a lie because it was only ever fleeting, but contentment? That was the true key to living.

"I'm a little envious of you right now," he confessed, squeezing onto the thin strip of mattress available at John's side. It was a precarious balancing act to keep from falling. "I wouldn't mind checking out from everything for a while. A coma sounds nice actually, although don't let Gordon hear me say that."

He repressed a sigh. The rain was still falling, trickling down the glass. The sky looked as if it would cry forever, an endless ocean of grey cloud. A small, childish part of him just wanted someone to hold him and promise that the world would one day be safe again and that the people he loved would be okay, that life wouldn't always be endless worrying and grieving and pain, that there were brighter days ahead worth hanging on for. But there was no one round to offer that, only himself to play that role for everyone else and he didn't have the energy to fake a smile. Not anymore.

"Don't make me keep that promise," he murmured, so low that he questioned whether it just existed within his own head. "I'll try, but I don't think… If I lose both of you, don't make me stay here."

If you kept enough grief in your heart without ever allowing yourself to truly feel it, would it eventually poison you? Take control? Consume every part of your soul until there was nothing left but a shell of the person you could have been? Maybe that was his problem. A mandatory therapist had suggested something along those lines once – the idea that he hadn't ever had chance to openly grieve the people he'd lost and so he'd repressed all those feelings unaware that they still escaped from the locked box in his subconscious to haunt him.

He ran a thumb over John's knuckles and closed his eyes because it was easier to hide from the truth when he wasn't visually confronted with it. And the truth was terrifying. The truth was that the bluish hue to John's skin was eerily similar to that of the newly infected and that he was underweight to the extent that he was all edges, seeming sorta sharp in Scott's arms, and he'd been slowly succumbing to the parasite even before he'd run headfirst into the heart of a horde for days on end. Maybe they'd both tripped over the edge of a very tall cliff and they were still falling. The only remaining question was who would hit the ground first.

"Wake up," Scott whispered, taken aback by the venom in his voice. "Wake up, dammit. You said you wanted to fix things. Well, I need you now, so wake the fuck up already."

Guilt slipped between his ribs, as sharp as a knife. It was countered only by the nauseating sense of shame. What right did he have to be angry? John might well have sacrificed everything. The fearful little voice in his head whispered, I never asked him to do that, hell, I never even wanted him to do that, but he squashed it under the weight of suffocating feelings. There were so many emotions battling for control that he wondered whether he might lose his mind completely. Surrendering to chaos was far easier than fighting against warring currents.

I just want you to be okay, he thought, desperation tightening in his chest. That's all I've ever wanted.

"Scott."

He startled so violently that he nearly tipped off the bed. It was only Virgil's quick reflexes which saved him from nose-diving onto the tiles. He pushed himself upright on an elbow, heart doing strange circus tricks in his chest as if it were beating for more than one person.

Virgil kept a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

"No." Scott was done with lying. He slid off the bed and staggered, suddenly grateful for Virgil's hand on his shoulder when his vision whited out. "Shit. Headrush."

Gordon gestured to the front pocket of his rucksack where he'd stashed the meds. "You need another dose."

Virgil guided him into sitting down on Alan's bed. "Stay. I'll fetch them."

Gordon's gaze was dark and unreadable, worry stamped on his face. "Are you sure you can do this? It wouldn't take me long. I don't think there's that many out there."

"It's fine." Scott chose not to mention the fire snaking around his ribs. The meds had definitely finished wearing off. "I'll be alright once the meds kick in again." He swallowed nausea. "We'll only be gone an hour anyway." I can hold it together for that long at least.

Gordon didn't look convinced but let the matter drop. Scott took the tablets dry and pointedly ignored the worried glances Virgil and Gordon exchanged over his head. Alan finally began to stir, picking some perfect timing as Virgil produced a wicked looking needle.

Alan forced a damp laugh. "Hey Scott, are you gonna pass out?"

"I just won't watch." Scott tried to inject light humour into his voice. "Do you want me to hold your hand?"

Alan grabbed his hand and clung on so tightly that his nails dug into Scott's palm.

"What?" His voice pitched defensively. "You offered."

It had been a joke, but Scott wasn't about to admit that. He squeezed Alan's hand in return and observed a little of the tension melt from the kid's shoulders.

"You've had blood tests before," Gordon pointed out, flailing a hand dramatically in an attempt to put a smile back on Alan's face. "This is a walk in the park for you."

Alan didn't say anything. There were only so many lies you could tell yourself, only so long you could keep running from the truth. Sooner or later, it would catch up with you - it was an unspoken rule of the world that life was immeasurably crueller than death.

Sometimes there were no silver linings. Not everything could be made beautiful by fancy words and kind actions. Living was painful and messy, but humans tried to cling onto it for as long as possible. Maybe that was why the best people always seemed to die young – because they were too good to suffer through all the pain of life.

Sacrifice and miracles – the unofficial currency of the universe. Scott didn't have any sacrifices he could make this time, so all he could do was pray for a miracle and hope that someone was listening. There was no point in bargaining with some greater power – he doesn't deserve this, he's just a kid – because no one ever got what they truly deserved.

Alan's grip on his hand remained deathly tight. Gordon sat on the kid's other side, bracketing him between them. He seemed such a big, bright presence all of a sudden and Alan seemed skittish and skinny in contrast. Scott silently questioned how he hadn't seen the signs before. Alan appeared to have sickened overnight, but that was impossible – he'd simply been that good at hiding it, at trying not worry them.

Ironically enough, the only person who flinched when that needle slipped under skin was Gordon. Scott averted his gaze and focussed on the feverish heat of Alan's hand in his own. Alan didn't say a word. He kept his eyes closed, breathing deliberately deep and regulated to keep himself calm. Virgil was trying to stay in Medic mode, refusing to let his judgement be clouded by emotion. Scott wished he could learn that trick too, because it was taking all of his effort not to cry.

"Told you," Gordon whispered, bumping his shoulder against Alan's. "Walk in the park, my dude."

He hooked one leg over the edge of the mattress as if he were about to get up and Alan shot out a hand, seizing his wrist to keep him from leaving. Gordon sank back down. Words seemed to escape everyone. Sadness was palpable. It drenched the room, seeping into the walls, dripping from the ceiling, casting out hope to make space for despair.

"Do you know what is most critical to survival?" Jeff had once asked, pre-IR but only by a few months, blueprints for One spread over the desk between them, fading sunlight warm through the windows of the office.

"Water," Scott replied automatically, before the rest of his brain caught onto that musing note in his father's voice and twigged that perhaps the question wasn't quite as literal as he'd first thought. He turned away from the windows to spy that amused smile before it vanished.

"You're not wrong," Jeff admitted, leaning back in his chair. He drummed a hand against the blueprints, gaze thoughtful. "But the answer is hope. Without hope, people lose their will to live, and without that? There have been studies done with surprising results. Without hope, without that desire to survive, the body gives up."

Scott directed a pointed look at the half-empty glass on the desk. "How many of those have you had?"

"Not enough, clearly." Jeff filed the blueprints back into their folder. "Let's call it a day."

Now, Scott considered the memory in greater depth. There was a serious lack of hope in the room, epitomised by the lack of colour anywhere, just endless grey skies.

"All problems have solutions," he remarked quietly, and Gordon looked up, listening as intently as he done as a little kid upon his first trip to an aquarium. "We just need to figure it out."

"Easier said than done," Alan mumbled.

"But not impossible," Gordon chimed in, catching onto Scott's wavelength in an instant. "Look at our track record – the odds don't exactly apply to us, do they? The solution exists, so we'll find it. We will. You've gotta believe in that, Al." He blinked away bad memories. "Trust me." His voice dipped to a whisper. "You've got to hold onto something. I would know."

Alan frowned. "I've already got something to hold onto. It's the believing part that I'm having trouble with."

Scott didn't catch on until he glimpsed the utter devastation behind Gordon's fractured mask, the sort of pain only ever forged from love and the subsequent grief of losing a person who was one of the critical pieces of your world. His palm ached where Alan's nails had left tiny crescents and then it dawned on him, tracking Gordon's gaze down the blanket to spy their joined hands. Something to hold onto – for once, Alan was taking their advice literally, holding onto them as if they were the manifestation of hope. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him in such a way and it was such a vivid throwback to their International Rescue days that it was physically jarring.

"Hey."

Virgil looked as if he wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. Language was a slippery thing, never seeming to exactly fit feelings, always just a little bit off. It was easier to convey everything you couldn't describe with music or art. Maybe that was why Virgil had always been the artist of the family – because he could pick apart what he was feeling and actually channel it, whereas Scott was perpetually floundering in a dark sea of unknowable emotions.

This time was no different. There were no words, and yet somehow Virgil still managed to get his point across without needing them. He planted both hands on Alan's shoulders and searched for something in the kid's expression, leaning over the bed to kiss Alan's forehead once he was satisfied that he'd found whatever he was looking for.

"We need to go." Virgil shouldered a rucksack and something about the steely determination in his eyes made the world stop spinning for a few seconds. "Gordon… Two hours, max."

Scott waited for the usual quip, something along the lines of I'm sure I can hold down the fort for just two hours, chill out, Virg, but Gordon only nodded, a small, lost gesture, grip tightening on Alan's wrist as he tried to commit his brother's heartbeat to memory. Scott got to hold on, but Gordon had to let go.

"Never goodbye," Gordon choked out, fighting for a smile even though it hurt and it looked as if it might tear him apart. He swallowed a sob and clung on fiercely. "Only ever see you later."

"Laters, gators," Alan whispered. He bonked his head against Gordon's shoulder like an affectionate housecat.

Gordon exhaled slowly.

"Laters, gators," he echoed, and forced himself to untangle his hand from Alan's before he lost the courage to let go.

Alan held his gaze for a long moment. "Catch you on the flip-side, Gordy."

Gordon hid his face in his hands.

"Go." His voice was muffled until he caught Virgil's wrist and dragged him close to whisper, "Bring him back. Whatever it takes, you bring him back."


The undeniable truth was this: Scott was a survivor. It was intrinsically coded into his DNA. No matter how many times he stared death in the face, he always came out on the other side. And sure, there was the matter of survivor's guilt, but there was something else too. It was more that he could distinguish the parts of him which enabled him to survive the impossible and he hated them. But right now, that didn't matter. Whatever it takes. And so he switched off, allowed autopilot to engage, let go so that everything he had spent so many years trying to deny could take control and get the job done.

During the early days of the apocalypse, he had promised himself that he would never kill without memorising the face of his victim first – because no matter how many counterarguments he had heard, he still couldn't see the infected as anything other innocent people who had suffered a fate worse than death. He discarded this oath now, vaguely aware that the cost to his soul was something he might not ever come back from but so be it.

The infected were not human. They weren't even monsters. They were simply an obstacle and he dispatched them robotically. He didn't take any pleasure in their deaths but equally he didn't feel any remorse. He just acted. Gave into the darkness which he had tried to repress for so long; ignoring the glimpses of it he witnessed in his reflection at times, pretending he was one of the good guys rather than a villain when the truth was that he was neither. Survivors were neither good nor bad. They were fighters and their morality depended on what it took to keep living.

He had spent the past few weeks criticising John for constantly resorting to violence only to behave in the exact same way. Go figure. He understood now – he had spent so long clinging onto his humanity, but it was holding him back: it was the obstacle between his family and survival. It was like Virgil had said – no one good survived this, not unless someone else took those moral hits on their behalf, and Scott was well-accustomed to being his family's shield.

So, he tore the knife through flesh and bone without hesitation. His hands were literally dripping in blood. He didn't dare look at Virgil until they'd made it to the x-ray room and the door was safely barricaded behind them, at which point their focus was on getting the equipment running.

There was a sink in an adjourning room. Unsurprisingly, there was no running water, but Scott upended a bottle of water, lathered his hands in soap and scrubbed the blood away until his knuckles wept. It was the exactly the sort of thing Gordon would have criticised him for, he thought absently, picking bits of dried crimson from under his nails as he examined the reopened scars across the backs of his hands. He was drifting, detached from all emotion, physically aware of the aftermath of his goddamn killing spree in the form of his racing pulse, the ringing in his ears, the bone-deep ache and pain blossoming across his ribs, vision dark at the edges. He was both desperate to feel and dreaded it all at once.

You're a killer, the voice at the back of his mind whispered from somewhere deep within his subconscious and he glanced up sharply to glimpse his reflection in the mirror. Before he'd been able to pretend otherwise - claimed some sort of cursed plausible deniability: he'd only killed when necessary – but not now, because he hadn't even tried to distract or lead away any of these infected. One of them had tried to run and he'd plunged the knife between her shoulder blades as if her life were meaningless.

"Killer," he murmured, testing the word aloud to try it on for size and finding it fit his reflection all too well. He curled his fists around porcelain and wondered at his own capacity for violence. Do you know what sacrifice is? It comes in many forms, such as becoming everything you have ever hated in order to keep the people you love alive.

The instinct to slam a fist into the mirror was almost overwhelming – to shatter his reflection into as many broken pieces as existed within his soul, to stop feeling as if he were teetering on the edge of falling and just let go entirely – only Gordon's GDF dog tags were knocking against his chest like a heartbeat. He grabbed them in a fist and tipped forward to rest his head against the mirror. The shock of cold glass and metal against his skin was jarring. He took a breath. His chest ached.

Existence was heavy and painful. He threatened to buckle under the pressure of it all. There was still blood on his skin which he could never wash away because it had stained his soul and no one could erase their past, no matter how badly they wanted to. He would never be able to take back all the pain he had caused. Life was a gift and he had stolen it from people who could potentially have been cured in the future. Who gave him the right? And now he was here, hiding, because he couldn't bear to face reality, couldn't walk back into that room if the truth was hopeless, even though he knew how incredibly fucking selfish he was being because this wasn't about him, this was about Alan and right now Alan needed him.

Actually, Alan needed someone stronger who wasn't liable to fall apart and slam a fist into random mirrors – someone better – but there weren't any other options, so he left the mirror unbroken and turned away to face reality, no matter how bitter and cruel it turned out to be.


The x-rays and scans weren't the worst part. No, the worst part was waiting for the results. It would take roughly an hour according to Virgil's predictions and in the meantime all they could was sit around and pray for the universe to be kind. For once in their goddamn lives, didn't they deserve a break? Out of everyone, didn't Alan deserve a happy ending?

Silence invited contemplation, which was dangerous. Thinking too much always lead to spirals. Scott could pinpoint the exact second it got too much for Virgil as he excused himself in a choked whisper and fled into that side room with the sink. It dawned on him a second later just how wrong it was for them to be sitting wordlessly because what if this was it? What if they were running out of time? And what were they doing with those precious hours they had left? Nothing.

He wanted to hit something again. Preferably himself. He was wrestling with two feelings which had managed to break through the numbness, one of which was nauseating dread and the other which was unbearable self-hatred.

The room was mostly empty, so they were sat on the floor with a blanket to keep the chill from seeping through their clothes. Time seemed to pass impossibly slowly – this was arguably the longest hour Scott had ever known. He needed to take a new dose of meds but was reluctant to add to the fog in his head, so kept them in his pocket and simply wrapped an arm around his stomach in a feeble attempt to prevent the pain from taking over. It was creeping up his spine like a lit match, the flame growing bigger and more overwhelming by the second, but it didn't even begin to compare to the emotional pain whenever he so much as glanced at Alan – which meant he could scarcely breathe, because he couldn't bear to take his eyes off his kid for even a second.

Alan drew his knees up to his chest, running a thumb along the lines of his IR suit.

"I wish I could fly Three again. Just one more time, you know? It's weird. We all do stuff for the last time without realising we'll never get that chance again. I had no idea it was the last time I'd see Earth from orbit. Or talk to Grandma or Brains or Penelope and Parker." He pressed his hands against his eyes. "I didn't get to tell them how much I love them."

"You can still tell them," Scott whispered, praying he wasn't jinxing them. He wrapped an arm around Alan's shoulders and pulled his kid close before he could second-guess himself. The additional pressure as Alan accidentally leant against the bite marks on his stomach stole his breath but he would happily bleed out completely if it meant he got to hold Alan for a little longer.

"You can't guarantee that." Alan's voice was choked. Small. Lost. "If I… Just in case… Do you think they know? I mean, Grandma does, but Brains and Penny and Parker? Do they know I love them?"

"Yes." Scott didn't even have to think about it. Alan had always loved so openly, so that it was impossible not to know when he cared about someone. "They know. Of course they know."

Alan didn't reply, which held worrying implications, but Scott couldn't focus on any single thought. He was caught on a mental treadmill and didn't know how to escape. He hadn't hit rock bottom yet and that terrified him, because just how far could he fall? He'd spent his whole life in the sky and it turned out that no one had ever taught him how to land. So, he clung onto Alan fiercely enough to feel warmth seep through his own bandages and silently prayed that his brother wouldn't notice the fresh blood.

Alan rested his head above Scott's heart and didn't say anything for a long minute. He was listening, Scott realised, lifting his free hand to card his fingers through Alan's hair.

"I'm sorry," Alan whispered in a painfully small voice. "For everything."

He spoke in a rush before Scott could interrupt which, come to think of it, was probably intentional.

"I'm sorry because this is going hurt you and I really, really wish I could stop it. I know you're already in pain and I never ever wanted to add to that. And I'm sorry for all the horrible stuff I've said to you over the years because all of it was lies. I'm sorry, Scotty."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"Alan. Hey, Al."

He shifted upright so that Alan was forced to sit up, tilting his brother's chin with two fingers so that they were eye-to-eye.

"It's okay. I love you. You're my kid. It doesn't matter what you say to me or what choices you make – be them good or bad, although I don't believe you've got a bad bone in your body – because I will always, always love you unconditionally. No matter what happens – if those results are what we want to hear or not – you will always have a home with me."

Alan wrapped his arms around his chest in a self-hug, eyes brimming with tears. His voice was tiny as he confessed, "I'm scared, Dad."

Oh, Alan.

"Come here."

Scott held him close and didn't let go even as Alan fell apart in his arms, mourning a future which he had assumed he would get to experience but now faced losing.

"It's going to be okay, Allie," he whispered, praying his voice didn't sound too choked as he repeated the words like a mantra into Alan's hair. "You don't have to be scared. No matter what happens, you'll be okay, I promise."

"I don't want to die," Alan choked out, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, his fingers digging into Scott's back as he clung on. He buried his face in the crook of Scott's neck and for a split-second time seemed to have reversed itself and he was that little lost kid wondering why Jeff wasn't home yet and confused when Scott explained that he never would be again.

Loving someone wasn't enough to save them. Scott knew that all too well. But why, why, couldn't it be enough just this once? He would do anything, without a care for the consequences – he would willingly, happily tear himself apart, condemn himself to hell if it meant Alan got a chance at a future. He wasn't even begging for guarantees anymore, just a single chance.

Please, please, God, whoever's listening, if anyone up there has any power, then please, I'm begging, let me take his place. It should be me.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was already dead and this was his hell. Or maybe this was his punishment for all the pain he had caused over the years.

I've lost Mom and I've lost Dad. I can't lose my kid too. I won't survive that.

And it hit him in that instant that it was true. He wouldn't survive losing Alan. That would be his rock bottom. He wouldn't come back from that. He hadn't ever faced the realisation of his own mortality with so much certainty before and it shocked him a little. Because yes, there had been 10s (the plurality of which he had spent years trying not to acknowledge) but this was different, as if something in his soul had shifted into place.

He was so, so tired.

"Scott," Alan was saying, still broken up by tears. "Are you- Scott? Are you crying?"

Nope.

(Yes).

Scott buried his face in Alan's hair and willed himself to hold it together, but he couldn't because falling apart wasn't graceful or controlled, it was an irreversible nosedive crashing towards the ground and all he could do was keep his sobs silent as if he weren't trembling enough to betray the truth anyway.

Virgil was suddenly right there, gripping his shoulders and coaxing him to look up, hands cupping his face to wipe away the tears. "Breathe. It'll be okay. Both of you, just take a breath."

"I can't do this." Scott closed his eyes because he couldn't face the concern on Virgil's face or Alan's fearful expression. "I can't- Why do I let everyone down? I let them down, Virg, the one thing they made me promise them both and I couldn't do it, I couldn't keep any of you safe. They'd be so disappointed."

Virgil caught on within a second. "Mom and Dad would be proud of you. There is no version of this story in which they'd be disappointed. They loved you. You are not worth any less than the rest of us. You are just as important. And if Dad never told you that or somehow led you to believe otherwise, then that was his fuck up and it is not a reflection on you."

"We love you," Alan murmured, eyes wide and tearful.

"I know." The exhaustion hit him like a goddamn asteroid. He nearly smashed his head back against the wall, but Virgil tugged him forwards so instead he collapsed into his brother's arms. "God, I know, so why- Why isn't that enough? Why can't that be enough to stop it all from hurting? And why are we doing this now? This isn't important. This isn't about me. It's- Fuck, I just- I need a second, just a second and I swear, I'll get it together-"

Virgil knocked their foreheads together. "Ow, shit, I didn't think that through… Look, let's take that second, but we'll use it to breathe, not to repress all feelings because that is not healthy. We have time. Results are back and they're negative – which is a good thing. It confirms my suspicions. Alan, you're going to need a full course of meds and we'll have to keep a close eye on your RBC, but you'll be okay. It's not life threatening. We caught it in time. You might have minor lung scarring, but you are going to be fine."

Holy. Shit.

Alan tackled them both to the floor, promptly remembered Scott was still recovering from the zombie bites and proceeded to apologise frantically until Scott pulled him into a hug.

"It's gonna be okay," Virgil repeated softly.

And for a moment, a single precious moment, Scott was able to fool himself into thinking the relief was here to stay, that the pain might have left for good. It was a lie and deep down he knew it, because love wasn't a cure, but rather a band-aid which was helpful to patch up the injuries but did nothing to actually heal the root cause. But for now, he simply clung onto his brothers.