Warning for suicidal thoughts


The next few days passed in a constant blur. He was alive without existing, a mere observer. He floated somewhere in the ether, tied to his body by a very thin thread stretched to breaking point. It was quiet. It was empty. He didn't have to think or feel.

His physical form did all of the work – circulating air, pumping blood, accepting whatever was given to him: tepid water, some highly nutritious mush which tasted of nothing – and that was enough. One moment stretched into the next in a relentless loop with nothing to distinguish any hour from the rest.

Details caught his attention but drifted away again. They were unimportant. Nothing mattered. He was in a bed with harshly starched sheets and clinical white walls. There was a cardiac monitor to his left. An IV was hooked up to his right arm and it varied from red to clear. His left arm remained untouched, presumably because his skin was mottled with bruises from needle marks.

Nothing made sense anymore. He was aware that he was in some sort of medical ward. He didn't have to do anything. People told him what to do when – drink this, eat this, take these – and he just let it happen. Sometimes he'd experience a burst of panic so sharp that it nearly cut through the shroud of numbness, but it was quickly washed away by a perpetual flat fog.

Virgil was with him most of the time. Maybe they talked, but if they did then Scott couldn't remember the details. At one point, when the lights were dimmed to mimic night and the ward stood still and silent, he became aware of John's presence, sat at the bedside, head lowered to the mattress, cradling Scott's hand, one thumb stroking his knuckles.

"I know it's selfish of me," John was whispering. "I know it would be kinder to let go. But I'm begging you not to give up. Please stay. The doctors can't do anything more, so it's all up to you now. This is your choice. But please, Scott, please – come home to us."

Gordon and Alan remained conspicuously absent.

His senses returned slowly over several days. With them came a new sense of awareness, conscious of his own body but in a dazed, almost concussed way, as if it didn't fully belong to him. There were thick bandages immobilising his hands. He was informed that this was to protect the healing cuts from broken glass, that they'd been deep enough to warrant stitches and he'd been very lucky not to sustain nerve damage. He should probably have been worried by that, but he couldn't feel anything.

The numbness was a worse fate than death in his books. He hated it as much as he could feel any negative emotion to begin with. He felt nothing. He was emotionally flat. It was as if some greater force had drained the life out of him, leaving him breathing but only barely.

He didn't know how to react to that discovery. He mentioned it at some point, voice rough from disuse. He couldn't recall his exact phrasing, but it was clearly enough to raise some concerns because he wasn't left alone after that.

He questioned it after a couple of days. "Am I on suicide watch?"

Virgil looked up sharply. He hesitated, then opted for the diplomatic strategy of answering with another question.

"Do you think you need to be?"

Scott dropped his head against the cushions. He was curled on his side, back to the IV pouch although whenever he glanced down he was met with the sight of that needle disappearing beneath his skin. It made him queasy, introducing a flutter of panic in his stomach, mind recoiling away from memories which were out of reach but close enough to remain a threat.

"I think," he began slowly, voice cracking. His eyes were burning. He squeezed them shut, trying to breathe evenly. He could feel the weight of Virgil's searching gaze. "I think that I want-" He intended to say John, but the word slipped out accidentally. "-Dad."

Virgil's inhale stuttered. "You…" He took a moment to steady his voice. "I know."

His hand landed on Scott's wrist - gentle yet Scott flinched instinctively. Virgil pulled away, murmuring apologies.

"I know you want Dad. I want him too. But you've got me, Scott. And John. It's us against the world. We're not going to let anyone hurt you again." The words became a murmur. "Not even yourself."

There was a whispered argument during the early hours. John versus Virgil. Voices low but pitched in fearful anger, laced with denial, cracking into layers of emotions which Scott wished he could feel.

He found the edge of the blanket amid the darkness and counted the bumps of thread, tracing the needlework with his fingertips to ground himself. The numbness was a gaping void in his chest, gradually expanding. Eventually it would swallow him whole, but he couldn't bring himself to be scared. He wanted to sleep because that was better than this, but sleep left him jolting awake, gasping for air, shivering and soaked in sweat, unable to recall what he'd been dreaming about.

"I'm not suggesting that he'd take them forever," John was saying, terse with barely restrained emotion. He was a dark silhouette in the doorway. "Just long enough to get him functioning again."

"We're not drugging him," Virgil snapped, practically bristling. "He's not in his right mind. That means he can't consent to taking it. I'm not doing that to him."

"You had no issues slipping sleeping pills into his drinks in the past."

"That's not fair." His voice wobbled. "That's not fair, John. You don't get to throw that in my face, not now. That- That was to keep him from working himself to death. It was to prevent him from accidentally killing himself. It was different."

John was quiet for a moment.

"Virgil," he murmured, "The only difference is that this would be to keep him from actively killing himself. It's really not so different. And you know what? I don't care how he feels about it. If it gets him back to a headspace where he can begin to recover, then… I can live with him hating me if it means he's still around to do so."

Virgil drew a shaky breath. "I just think we should give him a little more time. He might pull himself out of it. I mean, he did back at the GDF bunker."

"That was only twenty-four hours. This has been eight days and he's shown no signs of snapping out of it. And that's not including the time he was with the Hood. That's another four days we can't account for. We have no idea what happened then. The only thing we have to go on is the hivemind link."

"I know, I know, but- Just another forty-eight hours?"

"Virgil."

"Where's the harm in trying?"

"Because the longer he spends trapped in his own head, the harder it's gonna be for him to find his way back again. I've seen this before. I can remember, okay? I remember how he was fading right in front of us that first spring break after his crash, but he kept pretending that everything was fine, that he was handling it, and I knew something was wrong. So I called and I called and his damn phone just went to voicemail. I was only two hours away from getting on the next flight out and checking on him in person when he rang me, and you don't know what it's like to be in that position.

You've never spent five hours feeling utterly helpless because you're miles away and all you can do is keep talking, terrified every second that it would be the last time you'd hear his voice. I've been there. I've done this before. He's my responsibility, Virgil. This is my fuck up. I knew he was spiralling. I saw all the signs and I still left it too late. I don't know how much of that is due to this monster in my head manipulating my actions or if maybe I was in denial because I never wanted to him to ever feel this way again, but this happened on my watch and if doping him with antidepressants is how I fix it then that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"John," Virgil said quietly, without a hint of doubt, "This was not your fault. You are not to blame. Neither am I. Believe me, I've spent hours going over the past few months in my head, trying to find more reasons to feel guilty, but the truth is that there was no single moment which led to this. It was a lot of things. Scott wouldn't want you blaming yourself. You can love someone more than life itself, but it won't cure them. You can't love away trauma."

John melted into Virgil's arms like a collapsing house of cards. It was difficult to pick out details when the pair were framed against the light from the corridor, but John looked to be clinging on as if terrified to let go, fingers coiled in Virgil's shirt.

"I wish Grandma was here," he whispered, voice damp.

Virgil buried his face in John's shoulder. "I wish Mom and Dad were here."


They were in a small, squarish room. There was a stainless-steel medicine cabinet with a heavy-duty padlock on the door. A series of brightly coloured diagrams of the human brain were tacked onto the wall. There was a plain metal table with two chairs. The door was closed behind them.

Scott was trying to convince his brain to calm down because it wasn't a trap. He knew it wasn't because Virgil was the one who had encouraged him to come here.

For the first time in days, he was in different clothes - plain grey sweats with a black hoodie which once would have been a snug fit but now swamped him. The cuffs were pulled low over his hands, and he kept tugging them over his knuckles. He was sat on the table like a little kid and whenever he glanced down he spied the thick woollen socks which Virgil had made him wear.

He wasn't paying attention. Words swept over his head. They were unimportant. Nothing mattered. It just was. Virgil sat in one of the chairs to his left, discussing various terminology with a brunette woman wearing a necklace decorated in cheerful yellow beads. Scott's gaze kept being drawn back to it for no apparent reason. It was pretty. Bright. The same shade as Thunderbird Four.

"Acute stress reaction," the woman was saying. Her necklace glimmered. She seemed nice enough, but Scott wanted her to shut the hell up already. He tuned back into the conversation in time to hear, "Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Oh, hey, he'd heard that one before.

Wait.

Was Virgil crying?

Not noticeably. Not enough for the doctor to realise. But his eyes were overly shiny and he'd knitted his fingers together in attempt to keep his hands from trembling. His shoulders were slightly hunched as if trying to hide from the world.

Scott was still mostly caught up in the fog, but he was aware that he did not like it when Virgil was upset. He shuffled sideways a little to knock his socked foot against Virgil's knee. His brother glanced over at him, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears as he tried to force a reassuring smile.

"I'm sorry," Scott whispered as soon as they were alone again. And he was. Truly, utterly, with his entire aching soul. He wanted to fix everything so that no one had to hurt anymore, but he was too exhausted to even fake a smile.

Virgil made a strangled sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a sob. Maybe he was experiencing all of Scott's missing emotions on top of his own and couldn't pin down only one feeling to express.

"No," he choked out. "Don't. You have nothing to apologise for."

Scott slid off the table and wavered as his vision swam. He spared a second to hope that he wouldn't collapse as he closed the space between them and pulled Virgil into a fierce hug, guiding his brother's head to his shoulder. Virgil seemed oddly small as if he were a little kid again, grip tightening in the loose fabric of Scott's hoodie.

"It's okay," Scott murmured, holding him close. "Whatever happens, Virg, it's gonna be okay. You're strong, you'll get through this. I love you. You know I love you, right? None of this is a reflection on you. I love you and I'm so, so grateful for you."

Virgil knew him too well not to hear the missing phrase. "But?"

Scott tightened his grip as Virgil tried to pull away. He didn't want his brother seeing his face right then.

"But I don't know if I can do this again. It was hard enough last time and that was before the world was broken. So, I- I'm sorry. And I'm gonna be real' selfish right now and ask you for a favour." He took a deep breath. "Forgive me if I don't make it. Please. Don't hate me for it because that'll tear you apart eventually."

"Scott, stop."

"N-no, I just- I need you to know that I tried. I swear to you, Virgil, I tried so fucking hard, but I haven't got anything left to give. I've got nothing left to fight with. But you're stronger than me. You always have been. You're still kind in a world like this – that takes greater strength than I can even imagine. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, so I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Then don't hurt me. Stay. We can figure it out together. You and me, we make a great team, we always have done. We can overcome this, the two of us." Virgil finally pulled free but didn't let go, rocking back on his heels in order to see Scott's face. "It's just one more fight."

Scott tried to hold back tears, but he couldn't keep them from falling.

"Life's not supposed to be a fight," he whispered.

All of the feeling was beginning to break through the carefully constructed wall in his head. Self-loathing tasted bitter as Virgil flinched upon hearing his own words thrown back at him in the worst possible context.

"I've given everything, Virg. I've done everything that was ever asked of me. Just this once, I want to be selfish. Please let me have that. Please. I- I'll try if you ask me to, I'll try for you, but I'm so tired. This place is safe. It's secure. You can make a life here, fix up a comm link to Mars, and- There's- The vaccine should work because I gave them- I let him-"

"I know," Virgil murmured, gaze impossibly soft.

He tipped forwards to lean their foreheads together, cupping the nape of Scott's neck. Scott flinched, momentarily thrown back to that moment at the Hood's mercy, but then he blinked and Virgil was right there in front of him again.

"Please, Virg," he choked out, a sob catching in his throat, feeling everything all at once and unable to bear it. "Please."

"Please…?" Virgil ventured, fear stark on his face as realisation struck before Scott had even voiced the words. "No. No, I can't do that."

"Let me go," Scott breathed. "Please."

Virgil's tiny sob went unheard in the rustle of fabric as a third person joined their hug, holding onto them so tightly that it was borderline painful. A hand cupped Scott's jaw and tilted his chin upwards to meet searching blue eyes.

"One to ten?" John whispered, already knowing the answer.

Scott closed his eyes. "Ten."


Here was Scott's very official opinion: rock bottom fucking sucked.

He'd been here before. He vaguely recalled that. He'd crawled his way out before. Unfortunately, he didn't remember how because he could seriously do with some pointers. Rock bottom wasn't just his single worst moment, but a long, dragged-out experience. There was a fleeting sense of comfort in the knowledge that he couldn't get any lower, but that didn't necessarily mean anything would get any better either.

Mostly, he didn't feel anything much, interspersed with the moments when he felt everything so strongly that he swore it would drive him insane. His mind alternated between too loud and too quiet – filled with his own silent screams or empty of any thoughts at all.

The latter was the closest he could get to peace. He lost time in that strange, void-like state; utterly detached from his body and his surroundings. Everything was so incredibly distant. He was an observer of his own life. The last few days of his stay in the medical wing seemed to pass in a mere blink.

He was briefly brought back to reality upon walking into their designated quarters for the first time in over two weeks. The olive tree was more alive than he was. It stared him down like a challenge, dropping leaves as an ancient knight would have thrown down a gauntlet. Scott didn't pick it up, following Virgil on autopilot to a room where he'd only slept once.

The quarters had been humanised. Less clinical, more homely, with splashes of colour in the form of tossed aside clothes and dogeared books and half-empty water glasses decorated with multicoloured dots. The bedroom was in a similar state – plain duvet overloaded with additional blankets of various patterns.

Scott dropped onto the bed facedown, slowly suffocating himself with a pillow until Virgil yanked it out from under him and encouraged him to actually crawl underneath the duvet rather than sprawling on top of it. He didn't have any shoes to take off – having worn those dumb grippy socks all the way up from Medical – and the idea of stripping out of his sweats and t-shirt was too exhausting to bear consideration. He was out like a light within seconds.

The exhaustion was a constant drain. He could never escape it. It came and went in waves but never left entirely. Sometimes he was able to sit up – nothing more strenuous, just leaning against Virgil or John's side and finding some semblance of comfort in their presence – but other times even blinking was a struggle. Apparently it was due to a combination of factors – recovering from blood loss, trauma and a side-effect of whatever the fuck was going on in his head: some sort of breakdown? He didn't know anymore and didn't care, either.

He didn't like switching the lights on but hated the darkness too. He settled for a middle ground where he permitted Virgil to leave on the bedside lamp but refused the overhead LEDs which drilled into his skull as if he'd been taken in for some kind of cranial surgery.

There was no difference between day and night, night and day. Sometimes, when he had the strength to focus his eyes on the clock, he became aware that another twenty-four hours had passed. It should have scared him. Maybe he'd just waste away eventually, hide under the duvet forever until the universe finally took pity and let him rest.

Virgil and John refused to let that happen. They had very different approaches. Virgil was all softness, gentle comfort and warmth. John was sharper, merciless as he forced Scott to actually drink water and choke down food which tasted like ash. Any insults or accusations that Scott threw at him were ineffectual like water rolling off a duck's back.

"Fuck you," Scott snarled at some early, dark hour when Virgil was somewhere, leaving him alone with John who turned on the overhead lights and yanked the duvet away. "It's my life. I get to decide what happens to it."

John grabbed him by the ankles and tried to haul him off the mattress to no avail.

"It might be yours, but it doesn't belong entirely to you. You're sure as hell not gonna miss it if you're dead, but we will."

"You'd get over it," Scott muttered, mostly muffled by the pillow that he was burying his face in.

The mattress dipped as John sank onto it, somewhere towards the end. For a fleeting moment, there was utter silence.

"You don't really believe that," John said at last, sounding almost as exhausted as Scott felt.

"You don't know shit about what I believe."

"Then explain it to me."

The brief burst of anger dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. The lit match in his soul was extinguished again, leaving him with relentless darkness. Scott rolled over to put his back to John, unwilling to face his brother's searching gaze. He hugged the pillow to his chest to give himself something to hold onto as the white noise in his head ticked upwards in volume again. His eyes were burning, but no tears fell. He wasn't sad. He was just tired.

"Why do you put up with me?" he asked quietly.

"Because that's what family does," John replied without hesitation. "They pick you up and carry you until you can walk by yourself, and they'll do it again and again no matter how many times you fall down because they'll never give up on you, not even when you've given up on yourself."

The words took a moment to sink in. Scott turned them over in his head, unable to consider the implications, mostly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love behind them.

John gripped his ankle again and squeezed. "C'mon. Get up, just for a minute so I can change these sheets. It might help, you never know."

Scott reluctantly clambered off the bed. It took a moment to remember how standing worked and he nearly crashed back to the floor. John steadied him as he wavered on the spot, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as it darkened at the corners. The room spun and he rested his head on John's shoulder for a second, fighting dizziness.

"Sorry," he mumbled and sensed John wince, which prompted him to apologise again.

"Okay, stop. Just… stop." John took a step back but kept holding his shoulders, tightening his grip until Scott dared to look up at him. "No more apologies. This?" He gestured between them. "This is not a chore. You are not a burden. You are allowed to let people look after you."

Scott didn't have a response to that. He propped himself against the wall while John switched stale sheets with clean ones and somehow ended up sliding down to sit on the carpet. It was slightly more real than the soft mattress, so perhaps Alan had a point about the floor being good for grounding.

He tipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Memories fizzed at the back of his mind. He shook his head to clear them.

"Scott?" John stood over him until it became obvious that he wasn't getting up anytime soon, and so crouched beside him. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not Alan's age anymore. Your back won't thank you if you stay down here. The bed's a lot more comfortable."

Words were elusive. They remained obstinately out of reach, laughing at him as he tried to catch them. Exhaustion crept in to weigh him down as if gravity had been dialled up. The idea of even lifting his head from the carpet was too much.

He blinked once, twice. Breathed. A wave of utter hopelessness sapped the final remnants of strength from his body. He wanted John to stay yet longed to tell him to leave, to run, save himself before he got dragged down too.

"Okay," John said quietly, not resigned but accepting – there was a distinct difference between those two - and stole a pillow from the bed, one of the large, cotton ones which were fluffy like clouds.

Scott shivered at the momentary feeling of fingers in his hair as John raised his head from the carpet to slide the pillow underneath. He vanished again to snatch one of the spare blankets, but then he was back, lying down on the floor beside Scott, spreading the blanket over them both. Then: silence.

Hopelessness, exhaustion and pain: all neatly summarised by a sense of pure desolation. Scott stared at the ceiling until it faded in front of him. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. Everything was drifting away again. He tried to focus on John: pressed close to his side as if he could transfer some of that love to Scott through sheer force of will. He was wearing multiple layers, but it couldn't fully hide those sharp edges, nor the perpetual worry he carried around with him.

"John," Scott murmured, his voice a ghost, words as numb as the lead weight in his chest. A hand slipped into his own and he held on tightly. "You wouldn't lie to me, right?"

"No," John replied slowly. "Why?"

Just wondering, Scott intended to say, but the heaviness threatened to suffocate him, so he had to focus on breathing for a minute. The lacerations on his hands were healing up nicely but they still ached. Sometimes memories would flit across his conscious mind and he couldn't help but notice them despite his desperate attempt to ignore them until they retreated back into his nightmares.

His experience with the Hood seemed as if it had lasted a lifetime. The Hood had tried to convince him that it had only been eight hours, deliberately adjusting clocks and using the contacts to manipulate holo-projectors (and also to block all access to his quarters). Scott had since been informed that it had been four days, closer to five, but in his head it had been years and it still wasn't truly over, haunting him even when he wasn't consciously aware of it. It never stopped. He'd signed himself up for that trip to Hell and it had been a one-way ticket. Maybe he'd never truly escape.

"Did I- Do I deserve it?"

John went very still. "Elaborate."

"Just… all of it. Everything."

"No, absolutely not. You didn't deserve any of the terrible things you've been through. Christ, I wish- If you could see yourself in the same way I see you – even a fraction of the way any of us see you – then you'd realise." John took a steadying breath. His voice was damp and sort of twisted. "You are not a bad person. You're a very good person who bad things have happened to."

"Why can't-" Scott tried to keep his voice from breaking. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and just disappear, let the wind carry him wherever it fancied on one last grand adventure. "Why can't I believe you?"

He wasn't seeking an actual answer. His own heartbeat was too loud and it hurt. He couldn't stop feeling as if it were all an illusion and that he would wake up back on that table with poison in his veins and the Hood draining the only value he left. It was entirely his own fault and he was so tired. Hating himself was exhausting but he didn't know how else to exist.

They were side by side on the carpet miles below ground. The pillow was stuffed with real feathers. The blanket was green with leaves threaded in gold. His face was hot with silent tears that he prayed John wouldn't notice. He was shackled by the unbearable burden of existence, but he wanted to be free so badly that it threatened to rip him apart.

He couldn't recall the last time he hadn't been in pain. He didn't truly believe that anyone was born bad, but that child was long gone. He missed who he used to be. Every scrap of shiny, silver potential had rusted so that it was unrecognisable. He hadn't just let everyone else down, but his younger self too.

John's voice was soft but determined, breaking the silence to promise, "You are still deserving of love even if you aren't able to love yourself."


The next day was worse.

The one after that wasn't much better.

He was lost for a full twenty-six hours at one point. Just drifting. Not even fully aware of it.

Virgil returned from wherever he'd been for the past day and didn't leave Scott's side. His hair was still damp from the shower, too anxious to delay any further by actually using a hairdryer. He sat on the edge of the bed scrubbing a towel through it, talking about one thing or another.

Scott heard the words distantly as if they were on opposite sides of Two's hangar, too indistinct to make out the meaning. It was mostly just nice to hear a voice. It was a welcome change from the thunder in his head. Feelings were muted too: both emotional and physical. He was aware that he was cold without truly experiencing it.

Virgil had either run out of things to say or was reluctant to continue a one-sided conversation. He was, essentially, talking to himself. He dropped the damp towel onto the floor and stared at it for a long minute as if it would somehow gain sentience and offer some advice. The clock reported that it was roughly eleven-twenty at night and he hadn't come back the previous evening, so whatever he'd been up to had taken over a full twenty-four hours. He had to be exhausted.

Scott wasn't sure if he'd slept. He'd blink and time would pass, but all that did was increase his heartrate. Losing time was scary because it reinforced the belief that he couldn't trust his own sanity. Either way – sleep or no sleep – it made no difference to him.

"Scott," Virgil began cautiously, then trailed off again. He pushed his hands through his hair with a tired sigh. The rest of his sentence remained unspoken. He lifted the duvet to crawl underneath, knocking the lamp into darkness with one hand.

Scott was momentarily thrown by the lack of sensory input. Not that he'd been experiencing much to begin with. It was more of an observation, like passing a window and noticing that the sky had changed from sunny to overcast. Then Virgil pulled him into a fierce hug and didn't let go. It was the sort of embrace which threatened to crack ribs, tainted with the fear of loss.

Scott didn't have the energy to properly reciprocate. He curled his fingers in Virgil's shirt. It was strange to feel surrounded by warmth when he'd been cold for so long. Despite being taller, he ended up with his head tucked under his brother's chin. He closed his eyes, listening to Virgil's steady heartbeat, matching his breathing.

"I love you," Virgil whispered, voice betraying that he was silently crying. He ran a hand down Scott's spine, biting back a sob. "God, I love you so much."

Scott didn't have words but buried his face in Virgil's shoulder, hoping his brother would get the message: I love you too and I'm sorry.

Time drifted.

He must have slept at some point, but he didn't think Virgil had done. He woke to find himself still being held like a frightened child after a nightmare. He could hear Virgil's heartbeat. There were fingers carding through his hair. Someone with cold hands was tracing soothing circles across his upper back. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt this safe. It kept the nightmares at bay and quietened his head.

"He's in so much pain." Virgil's voice broke on the final word. "And we can't do anything to help him. I thought we'd be through the worst of it by now, but he doesn't seem to be getting any better."

"These things take time," John replied quietly.

"I don't want him to be in pain, John. He's hurting so badly and none of this is his fault. He doesn't deserve this."

"I know." John sounded drained. He lowered his hand, instead pressing his forehead to the space between Scott's shoulders. "God, I know."


Everything was cloudy, Scott decided. It was the only description he could come up with. He knew logically that the rest of the world existed, but he couldn't see past the fog which had consumed his body and soul and now threatened to engulf his life too.

He followed instructions as some part of his brain leftover from his USAF days was trained to automatically obey orders. He sat on the shower floor and let the spray wash over him, too tired to stand. Virgil didn't allow him to close the door, occasionally calling out to check that he hadn't dissociated to the point of being completely unresponsive again.

The soap was some gentle scent which reminded him of the tropical flowers on Tracy Island. He sat there for a moment, breathing in the memories of everything he had lost until he broke down into sobs. He had just enough time to fumble for a towel before Virgil burst into the room in a panic.

"The soap smells like home," he whispered in a raw voice a little while later, back in bed, sat against the headboard with his arms wrapped around himself. "It's- I didn't- You didn't need to worry. I wasn't gonna, um, you know. Do anything."

Virgil seemed somewhat comforted by this. John, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. Scott could read the disbelief in his brother's eyes. He didn't know whether to be irritated or thankful, because being treated like an untrustworthy child stung but he was scared to admit to himself that maybe it was necessary.

John had gone a little overboard though, removing every sharp object and replacing water glasses with plastic cups and only allowing Scott to wear t-shirts or thermals because hoodies had drawstrings and it was completely fucking unnecessary. But hey. John was scared. If their roles had been reversed, Scott would have done the exact same thing. In fact, he'd probably have wrapped his brother in cotton wool just for good measure. So. You know.

He couldn't tell if anything was getting better. He was fairly certain that it wasn't getting any worse. All of his days blended into one relentless loop. He slept, he didn't sleep, he thought nothing, he thought everything. He took his pills without protest and ate whatever was given to him because it had upset Virgil when he'd stopped eating for those first thirty-six hours and he wanted to avoid causing his brothers any more pain than he already had done.

Sometimes the numbness was pushed aside by a sudden flare of anger. He tried to avoid snapping at Virgil, but John ended up being a target. Thankfully, Johnny knew not to take it personally, especially not when Scott inevitably ending up hyperventilating and gasping out apologies less than an hour later. But still. It sucked.

He should have been grateful to his brothers.

And yet.

"Don't tell me it's gonna get better."

His hands were shaking. The anger was a living, evil thing under his skin and he hated it, hated that he was yelling at John, hated that John wouldn't shout in return. Hate me, Johnny, come on, but no, John was all platitudes and unconditional love.

"Everyone tells me that it'll get better, that life will get easier, but every fucking time I just end up in a new circle of Hell."

"Scott…"

"I don't want to do this anymore."

"I know."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Then I hate myself."

"That one might be true," John conceded, "But I really wish it wasn't."

It was a mess. Scott found it confusing, because for a while after the swimming pool incident he'd genuinely believed that he wanted to live and he was fairly certain that it hadn't been a lie, so how had he ended up here again? Back at rock bottom? Was he always destined to return to this point, because if you fly high enough for long enough then the fall becomes inevitable, Icarus.

Nothing made sense anymore. He spent hours underneath the duvet trying to find peace in the absence of everything only to walk into the traps laid by his own mind. The only difference between nightmares and the waking world was that he was alone in one of them. They both hurt.

The best outcome was jolting awake, but too often he was torn from sleep by his own screams. Virgil held him close, whispering assurances, reminding him how to breathe while he blinked away overlapping memories twisted into one torturous nightmare: swimming pool, hospital, guns, the Hood and on and on. If John was around, he would join them and, bracketed between his brothers, Scott could just about convince himself that it was real, that he was safe and not back there.

The fog slowly receded. It left an unbearable emptiness in its wake that he could no longer escape by drifting. It never seemed to get any easier. There was something fundamentally wrong with him. He couldn't pin down exactly what, but he longed to tear it out of himself, to carve out the hollow chamber where his heart was supposed to be and fill it with light and warmth. His hands were healing but his mind wasn't, and it terrified him because what if this was it? What if he was too badly broken this time?

"You're not made of glass," John answered softly when he raised this question. "Humans don't break. We can be hurt and changed from who we were, but that doesn't make us broken, it makes us different."

They were side-by-side – on a bed this time, not the floor. They were both cold and Scott was having one of those days were the world was too much and he couldn't bear to face it, so they had the duvet pulled over their heads. He could just about glimpse John amid the darkness but only if he squinted.

"This isn't a good different," he protested.

John reached across the tiny space between them until his knuckles ghosted the fabric above Scott's heart. He lifted the duvet a fraction to allow enough light to enter for Scott to spy his expression, earnest and softened by fondness.

"Frankly, Scott, even on your worst days you are a much better person than most of the population. And yes, I know I'm biased, but I don't think that makes it any less true. The point is that it doesn't matter how much you've changed, you are still valued and worthy of being loved."

Scott studied him for a long minute.

"I don't really want to die, John," he whispered at last, closing his eyes against the words and willing them to be true.

There was a contemplative silence while the words sank into the fabric around them.

"That's reassuring," John said quietly, "But Scott… Look me in the eyes and tell me that you want to live. Because there's a difference between not wanting to die and actually wanting to live."

Scott couldn't bring himself to lie. John would only see through him anyway.

"I'm not there yet."

"That's okay. We can work on it together."


The anger evaporated one day to be replaced by unbearable grief. It was as if everything good and worthwhile – if there had ever been anything of the sort – had been hollowed out of him. The Hood had been right – he was just an empty husk and sooner or later everyone was going to realise and then he'd finally be alone. He couldn't help but think that it would be better that way. He couldn't hurt anyone if there was no one around.

The self-loathing was so strong that he almost choked on it. It was his own fault – he'd made the mistake of meeting the gaze of his reflection in the mirror – and now he was here, gripping the edge of the basin with shaking hands, gagging so violently that it brought tears to his eyes, but he hadn't eaten anything much so all he brought up was bile.

"Shit, Scott," Virgil was saying, materialising from seemingly nowhere. His hands were warm as he rubbed circles across Scott's upper back, momentarily banishing the cold. "It's okay, just breathe. It'll pass."

The nausea dissipated but exhaustion swept in to replace it. It was only Virgil's quick reflexes which saved Scott from accidentally smashing his chin against the basin as his legs buckled. They ended up on the floor. The cold from the tiles seeped through his clothes quicker than the spilt water. He wasn't sure if he was crying, but the pressure behind his eyes and in his chest was so strong that he could barely breathe.

"It's okay," Virgil whispered. He'd pinned Scott against his chest to keep him from trying to stagger back to his feet or something equally as idiotic, but now that hold became a hug as he tucked his chin over Scott's shoulder, still murmuring reassurances. "I promise it's okay."

"No, it's not. It's not okay."

Scott curled his fingers around Virgil's wrist. He wasn't sure if he was clinging onto his brother as a lifeline for himself or in a feeble attempt to reassure Virgil in return, I'm sorry, I'm scaring you, I'm sorry-

"None of this is okay." A humiliating keening sound escaped his gritted teeth. "I hate this, I hate this so fucking much."

"I know." Virgil's voice was tiny. "I know you do and I'm so, so sorry. If I could make it better, I would. Tell me how to help."

Scott gave up. He slumped against Virgil's chest with a faintly hysterical laugh.

"I don't know if you can. I don't know if anyone can help me. Last night I dreamt of dying and you know what? That was the best sleep I've had in weeks."

Virgil flinched, voice soft as he whispered, plaintively, "Scott."

Except Virgil wasn't really calling for him, was he? He was searching for a past version, a better version, less broken, easier to love because Scott was too much now. Too much work, too much effort, too difficult, too scarred-

He only realised that he was speaking aloud when Virgil was unable to hold back tears any longer, holding him closer even as he crumbled. He curled in on himself, fighting back a sob as he felt a kiss pressed to his temple.

"I don't know who I am anymore. I'm still back there. I don't think I ever left."

"With… him?"

"Not just him. All of them."

Every demon in every hell he'd ever lived through.

It would be so easy to give up on him. He wouldn't blame his brothers in the slightest. But this was Virgil. Virgil, who would follow him anywhere without hesitation and bring him home again when he got lost. Virgil, who never picked the easy option in any scenario, so why would this time be any different?

"None of this is your fault," Virgil told him fiercely.

"I murdered a child."

"No. You didn't. It wasn't a kid anymore. And I was wrong with how I reacted back then, but it was an impossible situation. You didn't have a choice, Scott. How can you be blamed for your actions when you didn't have any other option? What else could you have done? Nothing. It wasn't your fault."

"But-"

"It was not your fault, Scott."

He was falling apart again but Virgil didn't let him go, not even once.


The question did occur to him at one point, but he didn't want to consider it in too much depth for fear of the spiral which the answer might induce. But it was pretty difficult not to notice that both Gordon and Alan had been missing. He hadn't seen either of them once, not even a movement in the doorway or a soft whisper in the middle of the night.

Theoretically, John and Virgil could have been keeping them away, which, being brutally honest, Scott was grateful for because he didn't want the youngest pair seeing him like this. But there was also the creeping fear that maybe they didn't want to see him. Maybe they were horrified by the way he'd handed himself over to the Hood. Maybe their opinions of him had been irreversibly damaged.

Alternatively, the idea of seeing Scott in such a state could have been too scary for Alan to face. It was plausible. But that theory didn't make sense when it was applied to Gordon. It didn't fit. And so Scott was once again hit by the possibility that Gordon was staying away on purpose.

He raised the question on one of his better days, which were steadily becoming more frequent. He'd actually showered and changed clothes and was now sitting on the edge of the bed, working his way through a bowl of cereal. In an ideal world, he'd be eating it in the kitchen, but leaving the room filled him with panic, so here he was with a weighted blanket around his shoulders and Virgil at his side.

"Are Gordon and Alan avoiding me?"

Virgil blinked. "I… What?"

"Are they, uh… I don't know." It was safer to let Virgil read between the lines than to vocalise the real description which had been bouncing around his head. "I haven't seen them, that's all."

Virgil grew very quiet. The silence stretched onwards.

"Oh," Scott whispered.

"No, it's not- Sorry, I was just… thinking. They're not avoiding you. It's, um, complicated. Gordon's… busy. He'd be here if he could. He…" Virgil took a breath to steady his voice. For some reason, his eyes were shining with unshed tears which he ducked his head to hide. "He wants you to know that he loves you and he misses you, but he can't visit you in person, so, um, you get me instead."

"He's not angry?"

"What? No, of course not." Virgil reached for a corner of the weighted blanket to occupy his hands. "Alan's… He made a mistake and he's taking it pretty hard."

"What happened?"

"His anger got the better of him. It's- I don't know. I've been trying to get through to him, but I haven't had much luck. He won't even open the door to John. He hasn't visited you because he's convinced himself that you'll be upset with him, not because he's upset with you. I didn't push him because I figured you wouldn't want him seeing you like, uh, well, like this. But if you're feeling up to it, I can suggest a visit to him."

Scott was momentarily distracted by the fact that he'd actually finished the entire bowl of cereal. Over the past days – weeks? Month? – he'd only picked at food, but his appetite was slowly returning along with a newly regained sense of clarity. He glanced up at Virgil's suggestion, surprised by the genuine spark of hope which glimmered in his heart at the idea of seeing Alan again. He missed him.

"No pressure. Only if Alan feels like it. Don't push him."

Virgil's smile was faintly exasperated. "Somehow I don't think he'll take much convincing. Whenever John's not here, the kid sits outside your door."

"He does what?"

Virgil nodded towards the closed door. "I can guarantee he's on the other side right now. Although maybe not. He tends to sit out there during the night rather than in daytime. The second the door starts to open, he bolts."

"Aw shit, Allie."

"Yeah, I know. I'm dying to give him a hug, but he's fast."

Scott stashed the empty bowl on the bedside table and flopped back against the duvet. It had been a long night filled with nightmares and broken sleep and although he felt better in himself today, he was physically tired.

"Take a nap," Virgil advised.

Scott glared balefully up at him. "Don't say nap. I'm not a child. Or an old man."

"Okay," Virgil humoured him, "Then let's say you're a cat. Cats nap all the time, no matter what their age." He shook the weighted blanket out to its full size and draped it over Scott. "Now get some sleep."

"Hey, Virg?" That damn blanket invited sleep, Scott was sure of it. He was already halfway to drifting into dreams again. "Love you."

Virgil sank onto the edge of the bed.

"Oh, Scotty," he whispered sadly. "Why can't you save some of that love for yourself?"


When everything was too much and you'd forgotten how to live in a world which seemed intent on breaking you, it was necessary to focus purely on meeting your own basic needs. Humans had several fundamental requirements and Scott counted them in his head to form a mental tally chart.

It was easier to focus on those than the sheer magnitude of feeling contained within his body. Ticking each one off the list provided a strange sense of achievement, a little starburst of serotonin like a reward, hey, congrats, you did something productive, you're not entirely worthless.

He tried to explain it to Virgil, mumbling around a toothbrush instead of waiting until he was finished like a normal person.

Virgil, propped against the bathroom doorframe, tilted his head in consideration.

"I mean, I agree that you should be proud of yourself, but I'd prefer it if you used different phrasing. Try being kinder to yourself. Treat yourself with kid-gloves. I'm serious. We've all got our inner child hidden away somewhere and occasionally that part of us needs to be nurtured and looked after."

Scott splashed water over his face, then dared to glance up. His reflection didn't match the memory in his head. Fundamentally, yes, of course he was still recognisable, but different too. It went beyond physical changes. There were storms in his eyes.

He'd had a therapist who'd once told him, You have survived all of your worst moments; you are stronger than you give yourself credit for. He'd spent so long being strong for everyone else, but he'd forgotten to be strong for himself too and how could he support anyone without solid foundations of his own? He had to save himself before he could help anyone else.

Virgil moved to stand beside him.

"Breathe," he murmured.

"I know," Scott replied softly. He wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders and tugged him close impulsively. "Thank you."

Virgil rested their heads together for a moment. "I'm proud of you."

"Today's okay, but I can't promise anything about tomorrow." Scott exhaled slowly. "I just…" He caught Virgil's eye in the mirror. "I want to warn you, because I don't know if this feeling will ever completely go away. I can do everything to fight it, but it's probably gonna knock me down again in the future. I need you to be aware of that. It's going to be a case of managing it rather than fixing it, you know?"

"I know," Virgil agreed. "Recovery isn't linear. It would be unfair to expect any differently. Sometimes you take three steps forwards and two steps back again."

"Sometimes it's two steps forwards and three steps back."

"Occasionally, but that's okay. It'll take as long as it takes. There's no deadline."

"I can't do it alone, Virg."

"You don't have to."

"It's going to be a lot of work."

"Taking care of you isn't work, Scott. Not to me. Not to any of the people who love you."